Musings a la Monte Carlo

Things I was considering today while driving to work…

1) I should think that the very worst job would be to work in an airport restaurant. Just consider it. Everyday you would get up and put on your uniform and special no-grease shoes and head off to work. Your commute would consist of a daily battle against airport style traffic with no rewarding little peanut pack (or vacation, whatever) to sustain your goodwill. All of this followed by a whole day of dealing with grumpy travelers and skeezy business fellows, clipping your shins with their rolling suitcases and drinking whatever a “highball” is. [Note: Probably I will have this job soon, since I have proved to be hideously unemployable in the post-collegiate sense.]

2) I forgot my cell phone but remembered Brideshead Revisited, because I am a lady of impeccable priorities.

3) I really hate it when people in the work place refer to a certain f-starting explicative as the “f-bomb.” I’m relatively certain they aren’t aware of how silly this appears in the middle of an otherwise civilized situation. Since we’re all adult-sized people, I should like to see people either manning-up and just saying it, or thinking of an alternative phrase meaning “well, this situation has gone to all sorts of hell” that you aren’t too chicken to utter. I personally love to curse; it’s a shortcut when explaining your feelings.

4) Today I saw a personalized license plate holder that said “Janis Joplin: I Miss You.”

Rags to rich-ish

I went this weekend, being much overcome by issues pertaining to the search of employment and, having three days off of work with which to tarry as I pleased, with my boyfriend to the illustrious casinos in proximity to Lake Tahoe.

Our way was beset with many delays; our straining climb to the glorious summit that doth overlook the more minutiae mountains and less ambitious peaks was plagued by a determined stretch of road labor and we found ourselves often halted, having to content our eager feasting eyes upon the glossy rear bumpers of many a SUV. Finally, without a little labor, we reached the summit and descended with the grace of gravity so often gifted to weary travelers, our tumulus emotions soothed by the lilting tones of the Beach Boys.

Upon arriving in our destination we embarked immediately (though a trifle delayed by a whimsical pause on the sandy beach, standing fully dressed betwixt persons in various states of disrobe) upon a tour of the various residences in order to find the one most suiting to travelers of our station and means. One residence in particular, which I shall not stoop to grace with a mention by name, though most shall know it by reputation and sheer size of facilities, was dismissed on the grounds of a prevailing odor so offensive to our sensibilities and yet so common to facilities employed in the business of gambling in states beyond our own.

Following a prodigious debate we elected to patronize a residence of middling size but exemplary cleanliness and agreeably situated in relation to the casinos. The room possessed a television and charmed me with the delicately folded towels prominently displayed; however, my boyfriend heartily lamented the softness of the bed as detrimental to the alignment of the spine and various other maladies of the back. He was appeased only by the presence of a spa, which we concluded, when used in conjuncture with overly forgiving bedding, would do a suitable job in counteracting, or at the very least minimizing, pain procured by sleeping.

At the casino we were an admirable success. Having indulged overmuch at the buffet, not surprisingly considering my own indisputable fondness for pizza and potatoes, we entered the casino with our funds depleted shamefully to the effect of 3 dollars between us. Despite our humble store of cash we triumphed both in games of skill and by placing ourselves strategically to result in the receipt of beverages free of charge, and saw ourselves richer by 35 dollars when the Beatles tribute band of much renown heralded the end of the evening by conceding to be photographed with the humble likes of myself.

For sooth, in my experience I have found vacationing to be the cure for all ills incurred in daily existence of the mundane kind.

Lawn art, it's always ugly.

I know it must be tiring for me to always be puttering on about such-and-such book that I read to console myself for such-and-such mini-tragedy, but as your (you, they, them, Internet, ect) feelings mean squat to me, I'm going to do it yet again.

[Side note regarding my spell checker: when I neglected to capitalize Internet and lazily left clicked upon the red-lined word to view my correctly spelled options I was shocked to see the first one was “INTERNET.” We get it; the Internet is hellsa important and brought us life-altering amounts of free information, bloggity blogs and Neopets. I don't think there is any reason for a full CAPS option, however.]

So, to venture forth with my tirade. Yesterday was crappy as crappy days go and as I love to wallow I had set my sights on being self-indulgent when I got home from work. As I drove I toyed with the idea of spooning ice cream from the tub, passing it perilously over the DVD player to my mouth without removing my eyes from the television where a loop of MASH eps would be playing, but as I drew more disgruntled with traffic I knew that nothing less than James Herriot would do.

There! Now you know my deepest and darkest Scottish secret. [My deepest darkest Middle Eastern secret? I cried while reading The Kite Runner on a plane.] For those of you who either live in a box, or aren't interest in British word-smut, Mr. Herriot is a fellow who practiced veterinary medicine in Britain in the thirties and uses the word “boot” to describe his trunk in his many quasi-fictional memoirs. He was in the war. What war you ask? The Great War. Actually I'm kidding; it was WWII.

I just can't help but feel up-lifted by the haphazardness of veterinary practice before penicillin. These fellows are always dashing out at night and washing up in a bucket to birth a cow (which is then laid in a nice box-stall in a bed of Yorkshire clover while the JH goes on a rant about how a new birth is always magical.) And practically every other story is about a lonely old salt who wears a cloth cap and has no companionship beyond his querulous sheep dog. I eat that stuff up.

I first discovered these books when I was a sloppy little youth who wanted to be a vet when I grew up. This may comes as a shock for those who know me now as a easily panicked and nervous sort (and particularly shocking I'm sure to those who have to suffer through my squeamish shrieks during any suggestion of blood on the television) but I was sure that I was destined for a life of helping animals overcome colic. I even indulged in this Sterling North-esque fantasy where I had cured a friendly otter and built a small river in the back of my vet-house in which it swam playfully.

Since then I have thankfully recovered my sanity and want a nice indoor job that rarely (if ever) requires me to consider the complications to twin lambs in the birth-canal. Despite this, when my bike tire blew this morning I was certainly glad that I hadn't quite finished the story where JH is assigned to measuring ponies in the horse show and people try to swindle him with their rural trickeries.

Misplaced work ethic

This little sucker is both economic and inspirational around the workplace. I'm pretty much an artist, which would make me almost well-rounded.

Ps, I've been corrected. Apparently there is a drive-thru at the Dixon Subway, a real break through in deli accesability.

Optimism shmoptism.

I’m pretty awful at a lot of things, but using the drive-thru might take the cake. I can never seem to get close enough to the window to make the change and food transactions work smoothly. I once even had to open my door to receive the 1.35 that the disdainful burrito girl who was hanging out the window was attempting to hand to me. I get a minus ten at life skills that yield poor nutritional choices. It all leads me to wonder why there is never a drive-thru option when I want a deli sandwich.

Can't I combine my love for a nice ham sammy with my pointed avoidence of other humans?

Today I have been a massive complainer; it's very invigorating.

Have you ever noticed that I never post over the weekend?

Hyperbolisms

Worst thing I saw today:

A woman using the pants part of her overalls as pants, but disregarding the shirt-part and leaving it to trail behind.

Best thing that I heard today:

“I was forced to watch CNN; apparently the economy is bad. I will not be buying a jeep.”

Best thing ever:

Reading detailed descriptions of domestic tasks on the prairie. Reading about prairie cooking makes me hungry, even though I would probably never eat a slab of salt-pork from a barrel after some matronly lady grilled it up on a skittle greased up with a hunk of lard.

I would never go near the Amazon river.

Earlier today I was aimlessly surfing around in the interweb. Quickly I hit all of my compulsive checks: various comics, several email addresses, facebook, facebook, facebook, job trafficking sites, blogs of acquaintances, myspace, and finally the blogs of people I don’t really know. Finding myself with time still to kill, I settled before the soul-sucking abyss that is Amazon.

Generally, I am no huge fan of Amazon, a surprising occurrence considering my tendency to sink my spending money into books. I don’t know exactly what it is that I don’t like, maybe it just freaks me out that they have a “grocery” section (see previous post for additional rebellions against modern convenience).

However, I’m not too proud to browse the “Your Recommendation” section of Amazon when I am scraping the scummy bottom of my internet entertainment barrel. I was introduced to this phenomenon last December when my Older-Younger sister became obsessed with the function while creating a wish list. She called me up in a great tizzy and informed me that she wasn’t sure how, but Amazon had guessed very astutely that she would want to buy the Mighty Ducks trilogy on DVD. She then proceeded to fill her wish list with items that Amazon had troubled itself to identify quite correctly for her.

I’ve never been too amazed by the items recommended to me, but that certainly doesn’t stop me from looking. It’s rather like calling up Miss Cleo from someone else’s land-line; it’s free and it’s somewhat flattering to hear other people guess at your personality.

[Short delay, is it totally dating myself to reference Miss Cleo? Is that retro? Are her commercials only playing on Nick-at-Night between eps of Full House?]

Unfortunately, I didn’t want any of the books, DVDs, shoes, hardware or linens recommended to me today. Not that I would have purchased them, but it would be nice to know that my previous purchases [read: books] would have suggested something more flattering to the Amazon mastermind than a Nimbus 2000 lamp and three floral table clothes.

Aaaaaand, speaking of linens [stop here if you’ve already heard my spiel about linens; I’ve been dragging it all over the wider Sacramento area for a week] I’ve been having some thoughts. I was recently reading Moll Flanders by DeFoe, which is a novel that focuses in the early part a great deal on capturing rich husbands by pretending to have a totally bitchin dowry. At one point, after having cajoled her husband into accepting her diminished wealth, Moll rewards him for his loyalty by revealing an additional dowry of…linens.

Back in the early modern period having towels was like having a Hummer. As an individual with about 40 towels and at least two pairs of blue sheets, this has always been a very perplexing concept. It sort of makes me want to hoard my linens against the impending downward spiral of the economy. In like, wooden chests with sprigs of some fragrant plant and ladles stuck in between them.

Given the cheapness of my linens/ladles and complete distrust of fragrant plant, this would be completely unnecessary, but I suppose I’m just feeling dramatic today.

Can you make money on a Denny's franchise?

Today I managed to get peanut-butter on my shirt hours before I considered eating my sandwich. I suspect that it might have happened during the sandwich creation process, during which I was admittedly half awake and recklessly flinging sticky knives around, but all that I know for sure is that it’s ten-thirty on a Monday and I’ve got Jiffy crumbles on my shirt. Probably this augurs an exciting and stimulating day ahead. Or perhaps not.

While I’m in this vein of discourse, I might as well continue with more of the mundane. Being a determinedly disheveled sort, I’ve never thought too hard about the catalog-type sale of cosmetics. However, this morning an old bitty handed me an Avon catalog as I shuffled through the door to work and I can’t abide rebuking the elderly so I shoved it into my bag amongst the rest of my belongings. [Pop quiz: What are the other contents of my bulging bag? Answer: The Great Short Works of Willa Cather, the aforementioned peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, sparkling new Bluetooth ear piece,* a pack of Big Red gum, a stick of deodorant, keys, phone, woefully empty wallet, two rogue dimes, a teeny thinger of sunscreen, and one chilled can of Ruby Red Squirt.]

Up until today my thoughts regarding person-to-person cosmetics selling were confined to the stereotypes about Mary Kay that I gleaned from reading Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle-Stop Café about 47 times when I was 16. I suppose it’s not too shocking, considering that the novel was instructive in forming a whole passel of my youthful stances, such as my generous opinions about the homeless, my liberal views about same-sex marriage and my distrust of people name Dirty Bird burying fish-heads in the garden.

In short, F.G.T.a.t.W-S.C taught me that if you sell Mary-Kay, you can get a great career and a pink Cadillac that symbolizes your newfound joy in life/acceptance of your own personal appearance/womanhood/blah blah depression in the depression. With this cheerful image in mind I opened my Avon catalog expecting to gape at pricey cold creams and magical lip-glosses. Imagine my surprise at finding strange items intermixed with the cosmetics, like underwater digital cameras, BBQ lamps, braided Comfort Flip-Flops, and beach-towels emblazoned with the motto of every MLB team.

Strangely, I went directly from having zero expectations to being disappointed. I hate diversifying for my convenience. I’m of the mind that I’d like to buy meat from a butcher, and bread from a baker and sneakers from a very mod cobbler. How I covet inconvenience.

In other news, my boyfriend and I threw an inside-BBQ (turkey-burgers via stove top served on Wall-E plates) for the Fourth of July over the weekend, and it was a quite successful, though occasionally mildly disturbing, event. Regardless, in the spirit of the great American Revolution, I give you a picture of the pills just consumed by my esteemed co-worker.

A very patriotic apothocary at work.

*I don't wear my Bluetooth headset! I'm not a dork! I just don't want to be pulled over and have an officer realize that none of the lights on my dashboard work. Too awkward.

Is this the auto-mall?

Despite the fact that I hear about Marysville at the end of every city-list on every radio commercial, and despite the fact that I saw a freeway sign directing traffic toward Marysville today, I continue to disbelieve that it exists.

I've never seen it, and I've never had to account for the blank space in my geographical conception that surely must house Marysville.

Dumb name for a sub-city anyways.