the adams family!

comedy at the post office.

Every time I go to the Post Office something absurd happens. Last time a woman had a seizure and I called 911. I should write an entire blog about trips to the Post Office. There are three workers there: Joanne, Darius and this other guy at whose counter I never end up.

I am in the process of trying to procure an agent for the novel I spent the last year and a half writing. Some agents require e-mail submissions: a query letter pitching the story, a synopsis of the plot, a few chapters. It's all very simple by e-mail. About half of the agents, however, have remained in the old school and require hard copy submissions. I think I like this better, but it's complicated. In this case, you print and mail all of the elements, though it's a bit more tricky because they have to be precisely and perfectly printed with proper margins, spacing and pagination. I have recently acquired a printer (phew), but when it comes to sending out 50 pages of the book, I'd rather use a copy machine.

Today I went to the post office to mail out 4 query packages to various literary agents from California to New York City. The first two only required a query, synopsis and SASE, saying that they would let the writer know if they wanted to see more. Hmm. The other two required those first 50 pages. I printed one set and headed to the Post Office to make copies for the other query.

Joanne is a tall, formidable African American woman with these great big beautiful eyes and a laugh that carries down the hall, past the post office boxes, and out the front door. She makes fun of me each and every time I come, though it is she that wears purple nail polish and lip stick. I like her a lot. I had to purchase the envelopes for the large packet submissions, but didn't have cash for the very archaic copy machine (the kind that costs 15 cents a copy, only takes change or $1.00 bills, and allows you to lay one page on the screen at a time underneath of the folding top... can you picture it?) I paid to send a package to a friend and got $20 cash back, informing Joanne that I'd need ten $1 bills and one $10 bill. She gave me one of those "You've gotta be kidding me" looks.

"I don't have that kind of change! What do you take me for?"

"Joanne, look. I am trying to get a book published here. You've got to help me."

"You wrote a book?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Alright, here. Take five $1 bills. That's the best I can do."

Fine. One thing about Joanne--you can't be meek. You've got to be a bull dog.

Fifteen minutes later I get through 30 of the 50 pages and my dollars run out. Fantastic. I go back to Joanne, apologetically holding up the $5 bill.

"Please change this to ones for me."

"No!"

"Yes! Please, I need you to."

Dramatic roll of the eyes. "I'm not going to have ANY one dollar bills left, girl! What am I supposed to do."

I shrug with wide eyes.

Huge sigh. She gives me the ones. I finish the job, return to Joanne to check out and ship the parcels.

"You need a signature on these?"

"Nope."

"You sure?" She's concerned, knowing the value of my work.

"Yeah," I say. I'm too poor, I think.

"Alright. It's $5.97. Listen, you owe me for this."

"I know. Thanks," I reply.

"Bring me a smoothie or something. I'm parched. It's hot out."

"Mhmm."

I'll take her one, too. Later today.

birds.

I think birds are creepy. My mother-in-law adores them. She pores over hand-me-down bird watching handbooks with binoculars in hand and she'll sit for a long time on her front porch watching the way the blue jays swoop across the lawn, discussing her recent attempts to evict the wrenns from the bird house to make room for the jays. Though I have tried to see things her way, I cannot.

A few weeks ago this very sinister black bird, not a blackbird, but a bird that was black, wouldn't move from the brick edge of my porch. I "shooed" it, swatted at it, jumped around in front of it, shouted...nothing. That thing wouldn't budge. Kind of started to make me nervous, sitting so close. A friend who was over shoved it off the ledge with a broom, and it finally swooped over to the neighbor's yard. But then it started to walk back toward us. Like I said: Creepy. After a few bird steps, it jumped up and flew right over our heads through the porch pitch. We ran inside, screaming! Imagine being kicked off your own porch by a bird.

Two weeks after that I walked down the path at six in the morning to head out for a run. Sitting on the step by the street was another one, a teenager bird, not fully matured, still fuzzy around its head and neck, making this awful squawking sound. It rotated its little head up around in a distorted, disjointed way. I almost stepped on it, accidentally, but kind of hopped over it at the last second. For a moment I felt guilty, obligated. To help? Pick it up? No. I left. When I came back, it was gone but it bothered me at work all morning. When I got home a little after one o'clock it was gone. Relieved, I went to walk inside. A few minutes later when I walked outside to water the herb garden on the side of the house there it was again, marching down the walk. I ran inside. Again, chased away by a bird. On the phone I tried to explain to Mark my vexation, but he laughed. "It's a bird, Ginny."

It's been a few weeks. Just two days ago I returned home in the evening to that same bird, the one I'd almost stepped on/ran away from. It was sitting on the little porch table, now covered in purple bird droppings. Fabulous. It stared me down as I walked up the steps to the porch and the anxiety welled up in my stomach. I tried to stand my ground, almost approached it to swat it away but again, I bolted inside. By this time I was quite put out. I am queen of this castle! And you, little black bird, are merely a peon. And yet, I run from you every time I see you. Mark was forced to go outside and shoo it away. It moved for him. Maybe it can sense fear. Mark was laughing the whole time.

I've seen this bird several times since. Maybe once every other day. I'm pretty sure it's nesting somewhere in our gargantuan front yard pine tree. I'm pretty sure it's realized its power over me. The other day it sat on the outside ledge of the window where I look out from my writing desk chair. Taunting me, flicking its head in laughter. I'm going to have to learn to live with this bird, I guess.

summer vacation on a sailboat.

Today feels like October in Annapolis. The rain last night pressed the humidity into the ground and this morning it was windy and cool, the sun shimmying through the leaves of the great oak tree in the back yard that leans over lazily on the roof of the back house. It even smells like Annapolis, the wind smells like water. I am curious where this day came from, where it's headed.

After a week of sailing around the British Virgin Islands on a 47-foot catamaran last week, it's taken my brain several days to congeal to a point of operation and effectiveness again. The week nearly feels like a dream - the dream trip. 6 days. 1 boat. 7 passengers. 1 British Captain, Andy. 87 degrees. 2 storms. 5 pina coladas. 30 SPF. 2 novels. 10 o'clock bed time. 6 o'clock wake-up with the sun. 500 combustions of laughter and 2 perfect parents who took us on the trip. I could write a lot about it, but I'll just let you see...