You’d think after nearly three days away from the writing world I’d have some news. But in reality, in the sad reality that is Waiting To Go Home, I have nothing more to report than a hangover that left me laid up in bed for sixteen hours on Saturday, and a bad case of insomnia.
On Friday, Mandy and I went out with her boyfriend to this great club called Clube Informal. It was maybe the coolest, most relaxed club I’ve ever been to, but that’s not saying much since I pretty much avoid clubs like pleather boots or people with halitosis. It was supposed to be jazz night there at the club, but as soon as we arrived, we realized it wasn’t jazz, but chill techno with some 80s mixed in. Whatever the case, it was fabulous. And made even more fabulous after the bottle of celebration champagne we drank over a dinner of salad and chicken strips. It was Friday, of course. And there’s nothing better to celebrate than Fridays. So we downed our drinks and headed to the club where we had more drinks and danced until the wee hours, which, according to most Brazilians are just the beginning of the night. We decided to leave just as the club was filling up, and then when I crawled into bed, my head decided it would hurt–ache, pound, split into a trajillion pieces–the next day. All day. I did not leave my bed until 6:30 Saturday night. I think there will be no more celebrations of days for quite some time.
And so it was that by late night on Saturday, I felt more human than I had all day. However, since I’d slept most of it away, with my head buried under pillows and my conscience cursing itself out, I was wide awake until past midnight. Which only carried over until the next day, Sunday, and thus, I woke up at 2:25 this morning, only hours before I needed to wake up to start my work week. I was wide awake, wandering around my bedroom, and cursing myself out even more for the entire weekend’s events, which, added up, amounted to little more than a couple cheap drinks and forty-eight hours of paying for them.
And now’s the time I’d like to give a gigantic foul-mouthed shout out to the world of technology, for today’s lesson plans have been centered around videos and PowerPoint presentations and whatnot and the computer and all of its programs have come through for absolutely jack. So most of my “teaching” day has been spent sitting and waiting for our fabulous tech help to come to our classroom, time after time, to trouble shoot iTunes and QuickTime and Office and CPU overheating issues. For once, I’d just adore one single day in which everything I needed worked flawlessly. I am feeling like my own CPU is overheating or burning out or flipping out or whatever else CPUs do. It seems like once my own computer gave in a week ago, so did everything else. It started a trend, and, like slap bracelets or skinny jeans, everyone’s following suit.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t be more ready to go home; but that’s old news. In the course of my two uneventful weekend days, and after some pretty serious mirror-talking (you know, and don’t even pretend you don’t. It’s when you carry on entire, often emotional, conversations with your reflection) I readied my apartment for the long farewell, and folded and arranged clothes that I imagine I’ll be taking home to the summer with me in the States. I tried on clothes I want to wear this summer, including the ye-olde bathing suits, which, in comparison to Brazilian bathing suits, are practically Victorian in the amount of fabric used to make them. My only hesitation about putting the suits on up north is the fact that since it’s been winter here for a solid month, there has been no need or opportunity to show skin anywhere, and in fact it’s been almost hazardous to do so at times. Yesterday, walking to the grocery store, I noticed the skin on my hands and arms was almost translucent pink. It is that cold, and I am that pale. So as comfortable as I will feel to be back in my normal US-style bathing suits again, I am whiter than an albino frog, and more than self-conscious. Tanning beds, here I come.
So we’re in the countdown to come home. Expect to hear a lot more of nothing from me in the coming days. Now, don’t get too excited. All that sitting on the edge of your seat has got to be bad for your circulation. Sit back, relax, and prepare not to be wowed at all. This, I know, I can follow through with.