I feel like a very lucky ragamuffin with a bright future lit by the screen of my new hand me down smart phone, its gps maps leading the way to places I can deposit my new monies.

I received a bit of a promotion at work.  I don't start my new position for another month, but what a relief to see it there in the future. These days are like the last month of school, sans finals (er, I hope there's no metaphorical last test of patience) knowing that the troubles are all over. The pay increase --  though, if I may pour out the half empty cup here, I will still be making significantly less than I was making at the age of 22, fresh out of college -- is an entire dollar and some change more an hour, which feels like sweet, desperate progress. Of course all those extra dollars will go to paying off student loans, but there is victory in that too.

Eugenio bought the new iphone online when it was first released -- really, he got up at 3am to order it, waking me when he returned an hour later to share his ordeal -- and it finally arrived in the mail yesterday. This means I get his old iphone. I don't even know the proper spelling; I just looked it up: iPhone. iGot it! It's a bittersweet ending for me and my antique flip phone. I found its grainy confusion to pictures charming: a 1980s picture graphic of a question mark framed by triangles and rectangles, as if to say, "What are these modern pixels I cannot decipher nor display? But check out these rad pastel shapes."  I can now accept picture messages of your lunch and what not, y'all. But, one last sad point about crossing over into modernity: I have to give up my San Antonio area code for a number with my newest area code as I switch to Eugenio's plan. I can't even say the area code; it's stupidly upsetting. I don't want to let go of San Antonio, though I haven't lived there in over four years. EDIT: Eugenio sent me a text letting me know that he activated my new/his old phone for me. (He's the best; he'll do these things for me while I'm at work.) "You'll be excited. It's a 210 area code." He's right. I am excited. And stupidly relieved.

At any rate, my old phone was more of a clock and texting device. I didn't find it lacking, though clunky and unsophisticated it was. Now that my phone is so smart, we'll see what tasks I put it up to. For one thing, I no longer have to plan my doctor visits, interviews, or random shopping trips days ahead of time so that I can print and study the map at work. This might prove equally convenient and disastrous.

This is a post I didn't intend to write until it happened.

Sometimes I get intense cravings for books or movies, like one would crave a pizza or Indian food. It's something synesthetic -- a full body and mind longing conjured up by cross wired memories and feelings painted on my mind and heart. I assume everyone experiences this, but maybe without verbalizing it; you just read the book or watch the movie again and attribute it to the words "I want to..."

Anyhow, right now I have a craving for Tuck Everlasting. I don't even remember the full plot or any specifics like character names, but I feel a warmth.  "You want to be here," it seems to say, making me want to return -- to read that book, to find that place. It's a scene of a cozy house in the woods with endless stack of pancakes, the smell of butter and maple syrup, and a kindly, plump motherly figure. I remember reading the book in class when I was younger and being so enamored with the scenes, so much so that I wanted to stay in them forever and it made me almost desolate to realise it wasn't possible; which is ironic and perfect, now that I over think about it, because it's somewhat fitting with the books' themes of life and immortality.

So I need to rent or buy Tuck Everlasting again. I sincerely hope it's not like finally getting that greasy slice of pizza you're mouth has been watering for, only to find that it has disgusting pieces of sausage with thousands of fennel seeds smothered all over it . Or like when someone excessively promotes a movie, raising your expectations to an impossible level. I really want to fully experience that cozy, maple syrup spiked feeling I keep getting. I want to run away for awhile to the Tuck house in the woods where we can read books and newspapers and eat pancakes all day. Does anyone remember reading Tuck Everlasting? I think it was required elementary school/early middle school reading. Was it like that? I'm probably romanticising it.

Edit: I just read a plot summary. Winnie was kidnapped by the Tucks. Kidnapped, ran away, potato potato.

My desire to go to that seemingly safe and comfortable yet ephemeral place probably has a more profound meaning than merely quenching a craving. It probably has something to do with my mother and a desire to take a break -- escapism, yes -- and make things easy for myself for a second. I haven't mentioned it here, but Eugenio and I will be moving soon. He'll be finished with his fellowship in July, so he's in the process of interviewing for jobs. It overwhelms me to think about uprooting and moving again, now that I'm finally settled. I finally have friends and a stable job; I finally have the I Hate This Place stick out of my ass and I'm in no hurry to put it back in while starting over again, interviewing for more jobs, trying to get my foot in the door I'm not thrilled about fully entering. Despite that last sentence, I'm trying my best to stay open minded and involved in the process and avoid my tendency to check out and let things fall where they may, my input and opinions left aside or, rather, buried inside. To keep this short and the least whiny possible, San Antonio probably isn't going to happen. So I'm going to take a break from fretting about where we will live to read my elementary school book. Then I'll get on with life, in this city or that. C'est la vie.

Chaffed breasts, black and bloody toe nails, two sweat soaked shirts, and an ice bath later, I can cross another long run off my list. I signed up for another marathon. It was the Olympics. But that buzz wore off and I'm stuck with my choice and these painful lacerations from my double bras digging against my skin for 18 miles. Those lithe, seemingly prepubescent, elite athletes make it look so glamorous. I can do that. I'mma do that. Then I waddle awkwardly down the road, knees bent inward, legs kicking outward, breasts slapping me in the face, holes forming in the top of my shoes. Nike has me on their short list for the next 'find your greatness, you sad motherfucker' commercial.

A word about my toes. I hardly flinched when I saw Honey Boo Boo's Mom's forklift toe. I have my own forklift toes, plural. My toe nails never recovered from falling off the first time; compound that with more running induced bleeding and tearing. I showed Eugenio once and he was disgusted and I haven't seen him since.

"I have a hankering to watch Raise the Red Lantern."

"When?" he asked with a hint of trepidation.

"Tonight."

"Fine, if you really want to watch it, we can. But I'm going to need a lot of booze."

With that, I look forward to a cozy, boozy night on the couch watching one of my favorite movies.

A man in his 60s, a regular who is always making me laugh, came to question if anyone had turned in his red water jug. Half way through asking, he stopped himself, muttering, "Oh never mind, no one turned that thing in. Probably walking on the streets with it right now."

"Well you should check the lost and found. You really think someone would steal a water jug?"

"Oh people down here'll steal your drawers if you sit still long enough."

He's full of hilarious nuggets like that. A few weeks ago he approached me with, "I bet you have a lot of stories." He meant from work. "You could write a book with everything that happens here, all these nuts. Hell, I'm sure I'll make an appearance in a few chapters." He's right, but I'd prefer to read his book. He's full of stories. Many of them bawdy, which I have to cut him off from telling while I'm working.

Just sitting here drinking my morning coffee and soaking up the sweat that drips from my bosom. Some people wipe the sweat from their brow, I wipe the sweat from my knees.