modified painting by, Joyce Geleynse

Time makes sense, says what it means.

One of the few things we can really know for certain.

No matter how much you feel it contract or expand.

A day’s 24 hours, guaranteed.

Even the flash of an electric, ecstatic minute;

It slips through the cracks between your mind’s fingers

like a raw egg white.

You would think the yolk of memory more satisfying.

But there’s relief to swaddle in, too.

A minute will pass in a minute,

even if it’s the most uncomfortable minute of your life.

It's always disconcerting to move, right? Eugene, Oregon is full of one-way streets and hippies biking down the them the wrong way (literally and figuratively). So I'm being patient with myself as I try to navigate, navigation not being my my skill of the mad skills variety; I tend to lose the car once I park it, I very much like the cardinal directions in theory, GPS probably had people like me in mind when all of this man with a British accent barking directions at you brouhaha got started.

After a crazy night's sleep (dreams of key moments in my life where people were speaking in bubbles, the kind you blow with a plastic wand--imagine if you knew someone was saying, "I love you" by the shape of the bubbles they uttered--rather than words were only interrupted by the drunk college boys shrieking at each other in the parking lot right below my window), I ambled over to Diamond Parking to obtain my permit for the year. There is only two-hour parking in Eugene, but at 9 am in this morning Diamond Parking insisted that my apartment building is alloted six permits and they were all taken. As far as they were concerned, I had to move my car every two hours between 7 am and 6 pm for the next two years. I repeated it back to them just like that, perhaps slightly obnoxious and coated with what little East Coast sass is still flowing in my veins. They nodded and continued typing (probably IMs about what I bitch I was being), so I abandoned operation park, downed more coffee, and commenced operation get USPS to hook me up with the boxes they tried to deliver yesterday.

I called the number that the mailperson left me on that little peach slip, which had a pared down offering of information (It might as well say, "Hey. I tried to bring you your shit and you weren't here. Holler at me: #"). I attempted to connect with my mail liason, but he/she left no area code with the phone number. I went with 541 (Eugene) first and found myself in the voicemail box of Sue: "Hi this is Sue. Leave me a message and I'll call you back (muffled giggles)."

Now I could have been wrong, but generally when I call the number on the back of one of those slips, I get an automated system that has a passive aggressive habit of mishearing my responses to its bullshit questions. But maybe Sue the mailwoman had left me her personal phone number. Perhaps out of the kindness of her heart she decided she would deliver my seven boxes when ever I was ready for them. Anyhow, the general USPS number that was also listed had 800 in front of it, so I thought I would give that a whirl. Don't do what I just described in the last sentence. You might end up with a moaning woman on the other end who greets you with, "Oh, your cock is so hard and my pussy is so wet."

Like I said, moving is disconcerting.

When that's how she answered, I decided against saying, "I wanted to schedule a redelivery for my seven large packages."

A minute later, I get the following text messages in tandem:

"Hot horny SLUT. 5 min FREE first call!"

"You know what I want. to chat. I'm a hot girl in need of some texting. Tell me you'll come text with me..."

I wanted to write back, "I can't wait to have text with you ;) "

"Hot horny SLUT" sounds like a wild beast. What's with all caps? Maybe I can copywrite pornographic texts if present MFA path swerves in unexpected directions. Does anyone know any pornographic emoticons? No I am not googling that right now...

I replied "END" to my girl (the specified way to cut off the deluge of pornographic messages) and it worked! My first success of the day.

From there, Eugene and I got to know each other and we're like totally getting along.

I got the parking permit. I found chairs for the very kitchen table I am sitting at right now (!!). I did like like a bajillion vinyasas at Eugene School of Yoga.

When I was wandering around looking stressed today, one of the eight Jerry Garcia look-a-likes that lives on my block (fairy godmother, what, what?) called to my rescue from across the street, "You lost honey?"

"Nah. I'm just a little flustered, you know?"

"But you got nothing to worry about, right?" he said with a huge smile, giving his beard a gentle tug. There was this perfect wink of sunlight reflecting off his round glasses.

"Right."

The apocalypse is nigh. On the same day that I discover Tom DeLay is going to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, I get whopped with a sucker punch: Archie "dumb ass" Andrews has picked Veronica.

Ok, it's not like you don't expect Archie to drop the ball every now and again. That's kind of his M.O. But even Archie knows better than to marry Veronica Lodge (dude, her last name is Lodge!!). What could Archie Comics possibly be thinking? I mean, Batman might toy with the idea of hooking up with Poison Ivy, but they don't procreate. I know Archie going for Betty is totally what everyone, including myself, wants, and is thus expected, predictable, not what's going to cause a buzz, but there are just some things you don't mess with...you don't add lime to Bud Light, you don't make macaroni and cheese flavored crackers, you don't wear assless pants unless you're Prince, you don't make a musical out of Massada, and you certainly don't hop into bed forever after with the bitch of the century. Veronica's the kind of woman who would have voted for George W. Bush twice!

I chalk this up to what some of guy friends have called "bitch appeal." Veronica seems more exciting, she's got some bite. But Betty's cool. She's into the outdoors, she'll definitely make a better mom, she equally hot, if not hotter, than Veronica. When Archie gets fired from his job as a marketing executive, Betty will have some wild sex with him, tell him he's still a rock star, float them both for a while on her salary, and help him find his appropriately colored parachute. If Veronica doesn't kick him out, she'll certainly throw down for a week-long bender with him, intermittently reminding him that she always knew he was a loser and why the crap did she marry him.

I shouldn't even be that upset. No one's talking about the pink elephant in the room: Archie's gay, people! Marrying a woman just wouldn't work out for him--and right now, he can only marry his real "The One" in certain states. I'm not sure how they feel about gay marriage in Riverdale. Anyhow, I read enough Double Digests in my time to know that he and Jughead were having more than a bromance, we all know that Moose wanted to take Archie to prom, not Midge, and don't tell me Archie didn't have a masochistic obsession with Reggie. Shame on you Archie Comics for not being transparent with us. In ten years, when Archie has his Shawshank Redemption crawl out of his marriage to Veronica, come talk to me.

According to Merriam-Webster online:

• Main Entry: ex·pi·ra·tion
• Pronunciation: \ˌek-spə-ˈrā-shən\
• Function: noun
• Date: 1526

1 a : the last emission of breath : death b (1) : the act or process of releasing air from the lungs through the nose or mouth : exhalation (2) : the escape of carbon dioxide from the body protoplasm (as through the blood and lungs or by diffusion)

2 : the fact of coming to an end or the point at which something ends : termination

Don't worry, I'm not launching into a musing on death (at least not in the no mas pulse sense). I started thinking about expiration dates as I was going through old crap to see if I wanted to bring it with me when I move. Apparently, I missed the window on the 200 One-A-Day Vitamins for Women I purchased a few years ago. They expired on March 20, 2007. Of the 200, I'd say I took about five. You gotta wonder about the woman I might be today if I had gotten to six before '08. My NyQuil and DayQuil are donezo, too. And the breakfast sandwich holy water that is my bottle of medium hottie salsa from the corner store is moldy.

All of these expiration dates in the face of moving, it makes me feel like my move is overdue, that my shit knew it was time to change before I did. But here's the thing:

I don't like expiration dates. It's like knowing when you're going to break up with someone before the relationship begins. It's a deadline you will probably miss. It expired? Fail! Sometimes, there's a cushion of relief; Thank Godddd! I have two weeks to make it happen with these eggs. And Tums? Those chalky babies have some shelf life. So this morning, I was digging on shelf life, although the things that are still full of potential are filling my boxes to lower-back-assaulting capacity.

What's the alternative to expiration? Preservatives? Not the way forward. Then I started thinking about permanence, baggage, letting go--oh fuck, where is my unemployed mind?! I bet Andy Goldsworthy doesn't pack expired vitamins when he moves. I watched a bit from Rivers and Tides, then I threw away these Levi bell-bottoms that I wore every day in high school (the crotch has seemingly evaporated and I've been storing them under my bed with the bunk Day and NyQuil). Writer's Market 2005, the bra with the exposed underwire that stabs me, and the psychedelic Chinese lantern lights also got the boot. Scorched shelf policy. But there's still a bunch of stuff that's not relevant to my day-to-day, even year-to-year, that I'm taking with me, the stuff that makes my stomach cartwheel at the thought of not having, like my diaries from elementary school, ex-boyfriend associated tchotchkes, hand-written letters, and socks with no mates. Indeed, expiration dates are relative.

Tunes to listen to when you're deciding whether you give a shit what the expiration date has to say:

The Watcher - Dr. Dre

Both Sides, Now - Joni Mitchell

You Can't Always Get What You Want - Rolling Stones

Time to Move on - Tom Petty

When I'm Sixty-Four - The Beatles

You're Just What I Needed - The Cars

I Saw the Light - Hank Williams

Yakety Yak - The Coasters