A self-conceptualization, concocted over the past coupla weeks

If self-conceptualization is the word I want...let me tell you a story, from oh, say, about thurs 14 avril.

Me: My grandmother and I both admire you. You're really an inspiration for women everywhere.
Queen Noor: How sweet - please thank her for me...(slight pause, still looking up) I really like your shirt!
Me: Why, thank you! (trying to sound suave)
Queen Noor: Where did you get it?
Me: Belgium. (slightly less suave; I can't believe that this person, who my grandmother and I have worshipped for years, is actually speaking to me)
Queen Noor: Oh, really! The beading is lovely - it looks Arab. (some other stuff about how pretty it is)
Me: Thank you so much! (by this point, far too excited, like when I met Kevin Spacey and my ankle got a weird tic) (and then, here with Queen Noor, I almost fell over. it was one of my finer moments.)

And I got free baklava! Thanks are in order to Kamal, who came along; Jeff, the doorman, and Kamal's old student, who let me slip in early; and the angry man, who showed up late and wasn't granted entry, but conned his way into the antechamber, where he proceeded to pitch a very loud fit. Fun!

The previous weekend, 9-10 avril, consisted of cherry blossoms and live music and loads of people, at Tidal Basins; and waterfalls, Great Falls, at national parks. The following weekend, 16-17 avril, was...well, I've forgotten what Saturday was, but Sunday was a different waterfall, Fallingwater, courtesy of Frank Lloyd Wright. Do I like Pennsylvania? Yes, but oh, how I miss Atlanta, Tennessee, anywhere with a lower latidudinal measurement, where they have good grub. Fried okra, grits, sweet tea...oh, the sweet tea. Spencer's aunt and uncle, from Marietta, understand. You can't add sugar after the fact; it doesn't do its job. Which is why, as anyone who goes to lunch with me knows, I must go through the litany: do you have: sweet tea (it's iced, with sugar added...never mind), lemonade, water (do you have any cucumber to go in that?), etc. Nouveau Southern cuisine is somewhat unexpectedly, yet bitterly, missed in my little household. Southern culture is more evident, and lovelier still, when removed from it after 23 years of near-constant immersion.

I was off my feed for a few days, most of this week, but I began a new workout regimen on Thursday evening, to the plaintive strains of Moby, which embiggened my hunger for Friday. So I'll call it a fast, and feel cleansed, rather than empty-stomached and sad. The reward system is ingenious. Timeliness, fitness, vocabulary memorization: reward! Whether it be the keys to a lovely speedy car, or a jetski, or a new indie rock cd, or something else entirely.

I shall consider cities: Tampa was warmer, though I don't mind the cold in DC as much as I expected to. Orlando inspires Thelma-and-Louise-type sensations. I'd thought of joining the French Foreign Legion, but if you'll refer back to the "about me" section, you'll note that I am a girl, and thus disqualified; also, it would seem that the seedier sort had a tendency to join, in the past, which could explain the no-females rule, though it could be a fun adventure. The Peace Corps, better men than I have warned me against, though it would certainly be fun. But would Home Depot, home of the cute orange aprons, ship a shower to North Africa? Johnson City is sweet, and Atlanta, while heavily suburbed, wasn't utterly horrific. Tampa could be the best yet, of cities I've officially lived in; DC has too much to do, and so you do less than you would elsewhere, say, in Tampa. I might give it all up and go teach English in some other country. France or Belgium might top the list.

I shall consider people: Who would qualify to be rated as "my boy _____," or "my girl _____"? PG Wodehouse, TS Eliot, Leo Kottke. Johnny Depp, and Erik Alfred Leslie Satie. Avedon, maybe? Magritte, clearly. Billy Corgan. Dali was kinda cute, his style, anyway. Rimbaud, es bien possible. Angelina, that's obvious. Jenny Lewis! Lauren Bacall, I think. Queen Noor, now. Rickie Lee Jones. Who is missing? I had that teacher, in high school, who refused to use contractions. It's not a bad idea, if you want to sound affected.

I shall consider names: If it weren't already taken, Tales of the Milk-Drinker, or I suppose, as is more factually accurate, Tales From the Milk Drinker, wouldn't be a bad name. Also, his haunts have lovely names: Second Cup, Snooty Fox. On the other hand, I'd appreciate it if everyone out there would remind me to never ever become a bodybuilder.

I shall consider.

My cupidon, my only friend,
I'm out of love; this is the end.