It's probably easy to tell that I've been away from Cien lately. I can honestly say that these past few months (three? four?) have been the most stressful of my life. I'm not at the point where I can say that it's worth it, though I am planning my new courses and easing into my new position. I wrote to Trixie about pulling out of this. I want to contribute all of my time to my academic work and focus. And perhaps relax a bit, too. It's been so fun. My best to all who read these one hundred words.

The artist’s daughter sat in the office with me while her parents loaded unsold paintings into their car. She was eight, and bored, so I let her put stamps on invitations to the next artist’s opening. She chattered about school and her mother’s soap operas and a story she’d heard about a babysitter poisoning an infant. She cocked her head, looked at me, and asked, “So, what do you like to do?” as if we were on a blind date. When they left, she rushed to me and kissed my cheek, and told me that I had a good heart.

I dreamed that a friend talked me into riding a school bus to the moon. I was frightened and not sure that it would work, but I didn’t want to offend her by refusing. I got on the bus, and talked to the woman in charge as we sped off. She was overweight, with sloppy hair and nicotine-stained teeth. I asked how they’d given the bus rocket power. She drawled, “They get a bus to jump over bridges in the movies all the time—the moon’s just a bigger jump.” I made them stop the bus and let me off.

I need a makeover. I’ve been looking at my wardrobe and feeling completely out of synch with the rest of the world. Ginny and Jamie always look so put together and stylish, and I’m usually wearing something that was probably “out” three seasons ago. I don’t know how my clothes manage to mutate, but it happens overnight. For example, the pair of jeans that I was so thrilled with and wore everywhere last Fall—a basic, classic pair, I thought—now looks hopelessly out of style. Not just out of style, it doesn’t even look at home on my body.

My grandmother broke her arm. She’s having surgery to repair it, which involves having pins and screws put in. I hope she does okay. Since I can’t be there, I put together a care package for her with flavored teas, snacks, a novel, and a magazine. I had such a hard time choosing a magazine for her. Most magazines focused on sex and fashion, which are two things she’s ignored for decades. I almost bought myself a “true confessions” magazine, which advertised a story entitled “Soccer Mom Hooker.” Finally, I put it down and found a crafts magazine for Grandma.

I have this fantasy where the Fab Five from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and I all live in a big mansion together and they are constantly decorating and redecorating the rooms and doing my hair and helping me pick out my clothes and together we cook fabulous meals and host fabulous parties and go dancing and drinking at fabulous clubs, and late at night we stay up chatting and chuckling by candlelight, sipping cocktails and giving each other manicures while we share stories of our favorite sexcapades and watch reruns of bad eighties sitcoms. Is that so wrong?

It’s bikini season: time to shave my bikini line. I went beyond the usual “sideburns” trimming, and ended up shaving everything off, wondering what it looked like under all that hair. While I’m not sure that I like the look of it, it’s been a very interesting experience. I’m far from unfamiliar with my pubic region, but somehow being temporarily hairless has increased my awareness of that area. My clothes touch me in a whole new way, sensations amplified. It’s nonsexual, but fascinating. I’m perpetually aware of my vulva, and it feels powerful somehow. Eve Ensler’s got nothing on me.