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Friday and Friday
May. 21st, 2005 04:55 amThis Friday: Gus-Gus had her first visit to the vet, for vaccinations and a check-up. She was piteous and squirmy for fifteen minutes or so, then permitted herself to be held and stroked, as long as she could watch the dogs in the waiting room. The poor thing was poked with needles (one went right through the scruff of her neck, accidentally, and got her wet when the vet depressed the plunger) and weighed and anally probed, but she was remarkably well-behaved throughout. She's also perfectly healthy, if a bit underweight. Tonight she's been subdued, even refusing the offer of tuna, but we were told the rabies vaccine might have that effect.
Last Friday: I forgot to write about it, but we drove up to say goodbye to Ann Arbor. It was fittingly gray and damp. I bought a couple of used books (and a handsome T-shirt) in Dawn Treader, stocked up on Japanese snacks at Wizzywig, ate at the Prickly Pear and Miki, nursed a mint cocoa in the overstuffed armchairs of Espresso Royale. Around 11:00, when everything was closing and K. was off at an English dance, I walked up to our old apartment in the rain, then down the little wooden stairs to West Park. I turned to look back at our old home, up on the rim of the park, the spotlights making it look like a beacon, and let the last plaintive chord of the B5 soundtrack die away on my iPod, then turned away and trudged back into town. I realized, walking that path, how narrow and severe my thoughts had become by the time I left Ann Arbor; remembering the state of mind I'd been in on that frequent walk, and comparing it to my current one, made me appreciate how good moving away has been for me.
It so happened that the State was putting on Rocky Horror that night, so I hung around there for a while, chatting with a few of my old co-workers and ogling the corset-wearing cast. (To whom I say: yowza!) The booth was still a mess, but they'd kept my farewell message up on the whiteboard, which made me smile. Nothing had changed, not really. New couches in the lobby. It's not my place anymore.
I left before the show started, and got lost walking back to the house where we were staying. Ninety minutes of wandering the unfamiliar byways of south Ann Arbor, through a twilight zone of drunken frat boys and identical side-streets, in the after-midnight rain. I finally found a pizza place that was able to guide me to the tiny street K.'s old professor lives on. By then, I was ready to leave.
Last Friday: I forgot to write about it, but we drove up to say goodbye to Ann Arbor. It was fittingly gray and damp. I bought a couple of used books (and a handsome T-shirt) in Dawn Treader, stocked up on Japanese snacks at Wizzywig, ate at the Prickly Pear and Miki, nursed a mint cocoa in the overstuffed armchairs of Espresso Royale. Around 11:00, when everything was closing and K. was off at an English dance, I walked up to our old apartment in the rain, then down the little wooden stairs to West Park. I turned to look back at our old home, up on the rim of the park, the spotlights making it look like a beacon, and let the last plaintive chord of the B5 soundtrack die away on my iPod, then turned away and trudged back into town. I realized, walking that path, how narrow and severe my thoughts had become by the time I left Ann Arbor; remembering the state of mind I'd been in on that frequent walk, and comparing it to my current one, made me appreciate how good moving away has been for me.
It so happened that the State was putting on Rocky Horror that night, so I hung around there for a while, chatting with a few of my old co-workers and ogling the corset-wearing cast. (To whom I say: yowza!) The booth was still a mess, but they'd kept my farewell message up on the whiteboard, which made me smile. Nothing had changed, not really. New couches in the lobby. It's not my place anymore.
I left before the show started, and got lost walking back to the house where we were staying. Ninety minutes of wandering the unfamiliar byways of south Ann Arbor, through a twilight zone of drunken frat boys and identical side-streets, in the after-midnight rain. I finally found a pizza place that was able to guide me to the tiny street K.'s old professor lives on. By then, I was ready to leave.
