7 Takes and a Sadness

Oh look it’s Friday! And I overslept!

One
I mean, I won’t lie, it was nice to wake up at 6 instead of 4:30. But now the day is ruined because it’s so late.

Two
I’ve gotten two robocalls from China, in what sounds to me, though I may be mistaken, one of those languages that’s spoken over there. I’m very curious to know what the messages are about. And how whoever it is got my number. But not so curious that I will do anything but play the messages over to myself, whenever I’m standing around gazing adoringly at my phone.

Three
The children, in a grip of some strange alien force, cleaned their rooms this week—even the boys. I’m not sure what happened. They started in and kept going until everything was put away. And then they swept and dusted. It was very strange. I feel uncomfortable, actually, and confused.

Four
So I guess I will face down my end of the year school reports. I mean, I’ll probably do a lot more cleaning myself—anything to put off the dreaded task—but eventually the sword will finally fall and I’ll have to do them.

Five
I know I’ve said this before but I am fascinated by the difference between French news reporters and American ones. On the rare occasions that I watch American news (like maybe in the airport or the doctor’s office) the shiny perfection of the anchor repels me. Not a hair out of place. Face made up to magazine quality. Outfit to the very moment of fashion. The people on the screen aren’t real, except when they say strange and probably untrue things.

The French, on the other hand, are ordinary human looking. The hair, though always nicely arranged, is definitely real and not airbrushed. The clothes do not recall any particular moment of fashion. It’s like the anchor gets to just wear what she likes and arrange her hair as she pleases (when it’s a she). And the makeup is subtle so that you don’t even notice it unless you remind yourself to look. More also, the people reading the news change by day and week. One person will be in the chair for two or three days, and then a different will sit there the last day. Then the next week it will be different again. There are about five or six of them and no one owns the chair. It’s very restful, very ordinary.

Six
Pretty sure that if my house were perfectly clean—like if I didn’t have the big pile in the attic mocking and jeering at me all the time—I would be a less anxious person. The house basically functions but there are these places, you must know what I’m talking about, those alcoves, nooks, cupboards that conveniently invite you to shove them full of junk you don’t know what to do with. They gradually fill and then step heavily on the back part of your unconscious mind. By you I mean me, obviously. Kon Mari, where art thou? Just kidding. I’d rather be constantly anxious than throw away all my stuff.

Seven
Just saw that Anthony Bourdain has died. What a terrible week this has been. Doesn’t modern life too often feel like a great tidal wave of grief? That the unrooted and lost seem to mount up to a number too immense to count? May God have mercy on this perishing world, may God have mercy.

Go check out more takes. I’m going to cry.