In light of several time-consuming events (vacation, FLYNN, NaNoWriMo, graphic novel, part-time job-hunting), I thought it prudent to have someone help contribute posts for me now and again. My good friend Tuesday Jones volunteered to submit posts once a week. We’re calling it “Tuesdays with Tuesday.” You’ll like Tuesday; she is just a scream.
I am Tuesday’s scribe. We met years ago when she needed someone to help tell the amazing stories of her life. Our first attempt involved the story of how she helped catch a killer who’d been working at her mom’s office for ten years. We then tried our hand at her amazing Halloween story, which involved an old mansion, faked deaths, a car chase that actually involved buses rather than cars, and a lot of boobie-traps.
I finally said “Tuesday, you have such a unique voice and a poignant sense of humor; you really ought to try writing yourself.” After some prodding, I talked her into contributions for the blog.
So I turn the spotlight over to her for the day. I don’t know what she will write about–she hasn’t told me–but I know that if it’s coming from Tuesday, it’s bound to be entertaining.
Hello to all you Up and Writing followers. My name is Tuesday. Tuesday Jones.
And before you ask–no, it’s not a pen name. My parents actually named me Tuesday. And no, it wasn’t some lame attempt to be cool like “Indiana Jones.” It was more the result of my mother wanting me to have a name that no other kid in my class would have. Well, they got that part right. What I don’t understand is why they didn’t name me Saturday. Saturday is unquestionably a more interesting day of the week. And Saturday Jones has such a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I’ve asked them about this, but my mother staunchly defends her choice of Tuesday.
Well, what can I tell you? Rachel expects me to churn out brilliant blog posts, but in truth, I can’t think of a single thing to talk about. She’s mentioned some of my crazy high school adventures already–and I assure you, college held even more adventure–but since graduation, I can’t think of anything to talk about but my mundane day-to-day existence. Perhaps that’s a good enough start.
Today I woke up in the same old bedroom in the same old upstairs apartment, went down the same old stairs of the same old two-story house, stepped onto the same old porch and surveyed the same old neighborhood I’ve lived in for about a year now. It’s so boring around here. Every morning I go outside and wave to Mr. Chicory, our retiree neighbor. This morning he was doing his boring old gardening–standing on his front porch with a huge shovel, covered in a layer of blackish mud up to his thighs. I think he’s planting a big garden in the backyard or something–I caught a glimpse over his fence and saw disturbed earth right by his patio. You’d think if he had done enough work to get mud up to his thighs he would’ve had more to show for it than a seven-by-three rectangular mound.
Mr. Chicory waved and said “Hey kiddo!” Like always. I gritted my teeth. At twenty-two-and-a-half, I don’t appreciate being called “kiddo” anymore. I didn’t appreciate it when I was a kid.
I lied and said good morning, though truly it wasn’t a good morning at all–the rain has come back. This year, October dumped as much rain on us as November usually does. So, to make up for it, November decided to behave like October, with sun and mild temperatures. But last night it came to its senses and unleashed a steady, cold shower.
Well. Fine. I can outlast it until spring.
The rain kept up all day–I watched it from the office window, though my watching was periodically interrupted by answering the telephone and telling people that yes, so-and-so was here, or no, so-and-so wasn’t here, but would you like to leave them a voice mail? And then, for the older set, a long explanation of what voice mail is and why they might want to leave one. Thanks so much, and do call again.
Between that, the rain and studying the toe tips of my black heels, the day passed quietly. Even Penny didn’t bother me too much. Penny sits closest to me in the front office. In truth I don’t remember her real name. I call her Penny in my head because she dresses like a JC Penney’s model–tans and grays, smart heels, white blouses, not a wrinkle in sight. Neutral. Proper. Adult. Everything I pretend to be while in this office, but am not in reality.
Anyway, Penny only bugged me once, to talk about her plans for hosting Thanksgiving. She’s in her early thirties, and very caught up in being a mature grown-up who does mature grown-up things. She asked if I myself would try my hand at entertaining now Jonah and I have a bigger place. I smiled politely, running through emergency scenarios in my head of a turkey catching fire in my oven, cranberries roiling from the stove top and engulfing the floor, boiling gravy spitting brown spots all over the kitchen and me–and told her that my mother is pretty insistent about keeping family gatherings at her house for now. Penny cooed how nice that was, that I didn’t have to worry about cooking for once. Yes, this is true. My microwave noodles can take a break for one day.
Our boss Misty–a beefy, forty-something pit bull of a woman–stormed in right about then demanding to know where Ike was, and cut the conversation short. Ike Cleavers hadn’t shown up for work, and Misty suspected Penny and I of receiving his call-in-sick and failing to tell her. We worked for about five minutes to convince her he hadn’t called, and after that Spanish Inquisition was over, I wondered briefly about Ike. He lives in my neighborhood. In a smallish town like this, you usually end up more interconnected with people than you’d like.
Sad to say, that was my entire day. I drove my clunking blue car home in the rain, and saw Mr. Chicory outside again. He had finally ditched that ridiculously huge shovel for a more appropriate garden-trowel, though for all his appearance of the diligent gardener the seven-by-three mound hadn’t grown in size since this morning. I asked Mr. Chicory if he’d noticed Ike out for his usual morning run lately, and he said not since Friday–which was the last time I saw Ike, too, at work. I determined that Ike must have come down with swine flu, and thought briefly about jumping into a Hazmat suit and taking him some soup or something. Then I realized that taking a sick neighbor some food would be the final step to becoming my mother, and abandoned the idea immediately.
Jonah came home. His honey-colored hair looks hottest when it’s wet and sticking up everywhere. We had microwave noodles for dinner.
I really wish something would happen around here. Hopefully these Tuesday appointments won’t just become the whine sessions of a bored, disillusioned college grad.
Tuesday M Jones