Stupid instrumental music

I think that I have written before on the subject of my unerring promptness but I don’t mind repeating myself and besides, this time I have a new slant on the topic. My “slant” is that since I am unfailingly prompt I have exhausted my sleigh of Christmas related gripes and anecdotes prematurely and find myself with nothing to say about the holiday. (Further inspections shows that this is not a new slant on the topic, but actually a poor excuse for a lead-in to an entirely unrelated topic.)

The new and, I imagine, not particularly interesting topic is film trailers and more specifically, my overly emotional reaction to them. In order to justify the seeming left-fieldness of the topic I will begin with a small story about my day that ends with me getting teary over a YouTube clip and dribbling snot all over my brand new laptop (!!!).

So today I was doing what I generally do during the day. I wrote a little, screwed around on the internet a little, read all of the features sections of all of the hippest websites and completely ignored any of the pressing economic or political news, and then stared at a variety of blogs. One of these blogs (and I’m not a blog name dropper) discusses the Edwardian period, fashion and social trends of the 19th century and a whole slew of other literary nerd topics. Today the bloggist was on about the movie The Young Victoria, which I had never heard of. My ignorance is not startling as I rarely know about movies because I do not patronize the ugly younger brother of film, television, but I like to think that I keep abreast of high-budget period pieces.

Anyway, so I was watching the trailer that the blogger posted and the usual trailer dramatics unfolded: swelling music, cutaways to bold words on a black background, lovers staring at one another in ecstasy, someone walking purposefully with a pistol, ect. Exactly the sort of cookie-cutter antics that you would expect someone with the frightful disposition that I’ve got to get all disdainful about. But here’s the thing: I never get disdainful about movie trailers; I tear up, I giggle, and my heart throbs in time with the stupid instrumental music.

I honestly think that I have the exact susceptible disposition that they use to gauge the effects of images and sound on the rampant, impressionable masses. When the trailer director wants sympathy, he gets it from me by the bucketful; when he wants me to feel uplifted by the idea that Sandra Bullock is saving some impoverished future footballer, I feel uplifted. And when someone stares into the camera and yells something about how their lover is their whole life and how their fate belongs to their country and the music gets louder and hyperboles flash across the screen like an ugly, sentimental crack dream? Sometimes I get a little emotional.

Afterwards I might re-watch the trailer to recapture a little of that prosthetic emotion but I never want to watch these movies. The whole thing is very funky and definitely un-Christmasy.

I am way too topical

I am sometimes too frantic – being a mean spirited person who works from home is very time consuming – to remember that there are mildly pleasant people around who endeavor to be even more pleasant around the holidays. My neighbor just delivered a Christmas present for my dog and reminded me of this.

Don’t worry; I haven’t gone all sappy and cheerful. I could say a million things on the topic of courtesy gifts that would scorch the ears and blight the souls of blog passersby. I could list the many work events that I have attended in my (admittedly short lived) career, the different tins of crappy candy and cheap wine that I have brought to each, and the excuse that I made to duck out early. I could dream up recollections of roommates passed, gifts bought at random and short-notice and gift cards run rampant.

I could probably even talk about that Christmas when everyone in my extended family gave me flannel pants. (Two notes on this topic. First, there is no better way to imply that someone is frumpy and mysterious than to give them flannel pants. Secondly, I think that was the last year that we exchanged gifts with extended family. Coincidence?)

But I won’t go through the trouble of detailing these stories because I will still be a little touched by the fact that my neighbor brought over a present for my dog when I finish. Even though I know that my name was probably written on a holiday to-do list under the category of neighbor as “Kevin and ????” and even though I know that the other neighbors probably received baked goods, I still think it was a very nice thing to do.

I am going to make my neighbor a pie. And I will endeavor to make it attractive. As penance for my previous unpleasant association with courtesy gifts I will try to not make fun of people in Christmas sweaters today. But people with Christmas socks are still fair game.

The holidays make me cranky

I am starting off this particular post with a fair forewarning: I plan to be awfully negative so people sensitive to that sort of shenanigans would do well to shield their eyes. Actually they would do well to click along elsewhere; the internet is boundless. Go ahead and click that alluring “Next Blog” button at the top of the screen. We don’t need any positive people here, anyway.

I am full of writing rage today (not unrelated but not identical to my frequent bouts of retail rage) and I plan to make full use of it here. I am having a hard time getting anything done despite vast improvements in my internet dependency. (I lightly compressed the small internet button on my keyboard and disabled the whole scenario.) Also, what is with my apparent overwhelming love for parenthesis today? I could expand this to talk about how I am thinking in small asides instead of in strong narrative threads and therefore being unproductive, but since that would probably require several snide asides (detailing my extensive love of metaphor, undoubtedly) it seems absolutely counterproductive.

Without further (or parenthetical) ado, here is a list of things besides writing that are pissing me off this morning:

• People/media outlets making their list of “Best of _____” for 2009. I know this is the easy and obvious piece to write but I’m quite tired of reading lists of albums, movies, books, and celeb scandals. Let’s try, for the sake of reflection and variety, to limit these lists to every other year, or every other obvious category. *
• People in my neighborhood who have those huge inflatable Christmas things. What’s wrong with lights? Lights are classy. Snowmen on sailboats with Santa hats are just damn ridiculous. And ugly. And probably a phenomenal waste of electricity. (See I told you: I am pissed off AND I love parenthesis today.)
• Finally, I hate how people are so perplexed by the fact that a person might want a decaf coffee beverage. Some of us can’t handle the caffeine, you know. If we had caffeine we’d be twice as rowdy as I am being on this blog.

* I offer full amnesty to the Whitney-and-Kevin Best Person of 2009 contest. The current favorite to take the title is Lisa from Fun Cuts, the crazy masseuse who once charged me half price because I was short and can only identify me as part of “that cute couple.” The winner for 2008 was either PJ from the T-Mobile Store or the hostess at Applebee’s whose perfect first date ends with a platonic game of Twister…I can’t recall.

In which I use the word "adorable" in earnest

Yesterday while at work I attempted to help – and markedly failed to help – some guy that had an absolutely adorable Christmas problem. I know what you are thinking and it’s true: I can only be urged to use silly adjectives like “adorable” when something beyond heartwarming occurs. But this seemed to me very heartwarming. Further inspection reveals that it is probably par for the holiday course for a more seasoned retail worker, but I’m going to ignore that unfortunate logical tangent.

So there was this fellow at my place of work last night who wanted to buy a purse for his girl friend for Christmas. Since I was wandering around doing my “Are you finding everything alright?” shtick and because I possess the general appearance of a lady (though none of the purse-related instincts) he came to me asking for assistance. As we pondered the purses he gave me a short rundown of his girl. Apparently she rides horse but is no cowgirl, currently sports a canvas tote, wears black or grey converse sneakers at all times, and likes classic rock.

I was so ecstatic that someone would describe their girlfriend by saying that she liked classic rock that I forgot for a few moments that I have no working knowledge of purses.

“Which of these purses call out to you?” I said, trying to seem like I believed the purses had the personality and the metaphysical ability to call out. My charge replied that he liked them all exactly equally and I began a small private panic when he asked which models were most popular among young, white women.

This fellow obviously had money to spend and was eager to do so; when I gratefully relinquished him to my boss she persuaded him to get a purse, a few accessories and explained to him where he could get some good perfume.

When I got home I excitedly explained this endearing scenario to my own grumpy boy-person, who was less impressed than I. He thinks that you shouldn’t spend money on whatever the sales people (however helpful) tell you to if you aren’t sure that the person you are buying for will like it. He advised taking the girl in question to the store, observing what she likes, and then returning to buy it. I argued that this was far less romantic. He argued that he did this with me all the time and that I never seem to mind.

Obviously, my life is far less romantic than that of some random classic rock loving girl who is getting a purse for Christmas.

I'm intimidated by all kinds of bikers

Please be amazed, devoted followers, I’m about to write something in (and about) a coffee shop. I know that I have harped on about this topic too often and that I have – on several occasions, I think – vowed to never do it again. But I can lie as often as I want; this is my blog and I do as I please here.

I’ve been writing for the last two days in the biker bar of all coffee shops…biker as in 10-speed. After months of Starbucks mothers and indignant hippies at the Coffee Republic, I have finally found a coffee shop frequented by mobile people, none of whom want to stick around inside the shop. That’s where I come in. It’s true, I am a little ashamed since I haven’t been on my bike in months and when I did bike it was in the stately commuter way, not the hardcore/spandex fashion.

Regardless, it is quiet here and although there is Christmas music playing it isn’t too loud and the employees seem annoyed by it as well. The chairs aren’t all that comfortable but the internet is free.

Mostly the people who frequent this place make me wish that I was more into nature than I am. They are all talking about how many miles they’ve ridden and they drink the regular drip coffee. Last night while at work I contemplated buying some hiking boots (they were a good deal and I was cold) and then I forced myself to stop and contemplate when I was likely to wear them.

Sure, I could wear them stomping around town, leaving large muddy tracks all around the grocery store. But it was unlikely that I would be out in nature with them, hiking around and getting them properly broken in. It is also not likely that I will ever ride a bike for several miles...but I don't mind stealing wifi like I will someday.

Remember I-Macs?

My new computer is coming in the mail tomorrow. If I can manage, I would like to say without any trace of the usual flippancy that adorns my discussion of my love/hate relationship with technology, that I am hellsa excited.

I haven’t had a computer of my own for a few years, ever since my old computer (a beautiful and faithful over-sized Toshiba laptop that I’d invested heavily in repairs to over three years) finally croaked. The manner of the croaking was thus: the wire between the computers “brain” and the computer’s “face” had frayed resulting in the “face” to display everything that should have been black in a searing red. For a person who already has radically bad vision, this was a death sentence.

From that time on I’ve been mooching heavily from my domestic companion. First I stole his old computer – blue, dell, chunky – for my use at home during the last stint of my academic phase. Later, when we moved in together and the pretense of domestic bliss allowed me to be so forward I began using his main laptop. And I’m using that very laptop to type this blog.

But my next blog entry will undoubtedly be typed from my new laptop.

I remember the first time that I had my “own” computer. It was a purple I-Mac and I was 13 years old. (Remember I-Macs?) The idea of possession thrilled me more than my computing abilities. I was more excited to pick a desktop background than anything else. The joy was only more pronounced because I had never used a Mac before and had absolutely no idea how to go about changing it.

I love desktop backgrounds in the same way I love car safety kits: both are the minor perks that make owning something important more palatable to the mind of a feeble sentimentalist.

Desktop background suggestions for my new computer are welcome. Until then I’m just hoping that the “fly fishing” default option is still available.

Contains the worst joke on THE INTERNET

My internet is acting strangely today, which seems irritating but is probably good for me. I find that the internet is the greatest media hurdle one encounters when working from home. That is probably because it encompasses all of those other media thingers; however, I’m going to keep saying it as though it wasn’t obvious.

My main complaint with my internet acting freakishly is that it seemed remarkably cold when I got up this morning and I wanted to know the temperature. Computer dependent as I am, my first instinct was to turn on my computer and pull up a weather site. My computer chose to respond to this (rather reasonable, I think) request by giving me some blank-screened nonsense about “resolving hosts.” As a result, I have no idea what the temperature was on 12-3-09 at 7:35 in Orangevale. And that bothered me.

Parsing out why exactly the weather was the upmost of my computer priorities this morning is harder to do. I wasn’t planning on changing my clothing or my plans to suit the weather. My daily agenda included writing, working (indoors), and writing; little opportunity in that tight schedule is allotted for weather sensitive hobbies like camping, swimming, or penguin hunting. (Oh man, that was probably the worst joke on all of THE INTERNET.)

I’m just neurotic and I like to know what the temperature is so that when I am outside I can think to myself, “This is what 45 degrees feels like.” Knowing the exact temperature also helps if you frequently get stuck in uncomfortable conversations. After you get done talking about the economy and what kind of fancy mattress you own (Sleep Number, suckers!), you can always talk about the weather. It’s not a conversational cliché when you come prepared with actual data.

As a matter of interest I thought that I might mention that there is one of those little outside thermometers on the porch of my house but I don’t trust it. It doesn’t tell me the exact hour of the day when it will rain like my computer will, provided that it gets all of its little hosts resolved.

Tales from the Cryptic

I'm ashamed to post two short entries in a row, but I'm a busy lady and blog posts are time consuming. (Or, at the very least, I pretend to be a busy lady and pretending to be too busy to blog is an important part of the illusion.)

Today I wanted to walk my dog and as it was a little chilly I went into the coat closet to grab a jacket. I couldn't find my usual chilly-but-not-cold jacket (blue, nylon/cloth, fake elbow patches of the same color and material) so I grabbed an old corduroy jacket that I used to wear quite often in college. I preceded to I walk my dog and we had various small adventures that were thrilling but not relevant to the story so shall be ignored.

When I got home I emptied the pockets of the corduroy jacket (so that I wouldn't end up with my keys hidden in the closet inside of a jacket that I rarely wear) and found a receipt dated 11/22/2008, which is exactly a year and a day ago.

The receipt is from Original Pete's Pizza. It lists 1 pint of Midtown Ale, 1 pint of Bud Light, and some tax, all equaling the sum of 7.50. I apparently paid with a 20, suggesting that I had more available cash at the time and received 12.50 in change. I pro'lly paid 3 dollars in tip.

All of these calculations are not important but I enjoyed writing them down so I'll keep them. The point is this: a year and a day ago I had more cash on hand. I also had just gotten engaged, lived in an apartment in a different city where I often walked to pizzerias and drank pints of Bud Light, and definitely never had to think of the consequences of putting my keys away in a coat closet because I didn't have a coat closet.

I didn't have a coat closet but I had a 20, a new car, and (apparently) a Bud Light. I had just landed the job that I quit two months ago.

Lots of things are crazy, but mainly time (the passage of and ect.).

In Bangkok

The following is an excerpt from the box of the weird insta-noodle thing that I just tried to eat:

"Trader Ming's Noodle Boxes were inspired by the noodle carts on the streets of Bangkok, Thailand. In Bangkok, people enjoy all kinds of wonderful foods from street vendors.

In a way, the streets are really just one big open air cafe. We have imported three great flavors from Thailand and now you have an easy way to ear these noodle dishes."

Trader Ming is grossly mistaken. Those noodles (Best by: August 2009) tasted like burnt plastic and the the shoe leather of someone who works at Panda Express. Spend a little less time on the sweeping generalizations about Bangkok and a little more time on the noodle sauce, Trader Ming.

Peanut-butter toast it is.

Pretty g.d. gross

I’m sick but I don’t have the swine flu, because I’m not trendy enough to catch such a popular disease. I’ve got a cold.

I am probably the worst person ever at having a cold. I don’t like dripping things, I have a Victorian fear of making people aware of my bodily dysfunctions (i.e., sniffing, coughing), and I love whining. So my colds, while marvelously unpleasant for me, are also extremely unpleasant for others.

I pride myself on being a rather healthy person. Excepting a brief chunk of my college career when I barely ate, showered, or slept, I have an impressive track record of rebuffing illness. But I do occasionally get a cold and even though I generally recover swiftly I find the whole experience unpleasant and embarrassing.

You see, when I get a cold my eyes water constantly. This neat effect, combined with my sniffling, makes it seem as though I have just finished crying and creates opportunities for complete strangers to try to console me. I do not enjoy being consoled on a good day, but when I have got a weird twinge in my sinus cavity that is making my eye water – random consolers had better watch out. This is not the time for a back-pat and a sympathetic smile.

I think that the worst thing about a cold is that it is temperamental. You can be distracted from your cold by a pile of drugs and good conversation to the point if you wonder if you’ve just invented your cold to give yourself an interesting personality quirk.

But if you are at work or in a situation where you have to hang your head down (and I’ve never had a job that didn’t require or make me want to hang my head) there is nothing more uncomfortable. The dripping nose, dripping eyes and the way that the silence enhances each disgusting sniff is like a nightmare about taking a final. And also pretty g.d. gross.

Safe as houses

Today I had a Jamba Juice for the first time in approximately 6 months (see my previous posts about attempting to buy a J.J. in a shopping mall near a high school – worst idea ever) and it was still amazing. I justified the expense by reminding myself that an immunity boost is cheaper and probably more effective than a swine flu vaccine but mainly I was just craving some squashed fruit mixed with gallons of sugar water.

A slight aside on my favorite topic, “things that I used to order from restaurants all the time but are now no longer listed on the menu.” My favorite smoothie was called a Strawberry Tsunami, but a few years ago the word tsunami became too offensive and they changed the name to Strawberry Surf-rider. In the early days of this transition I would order the Strawberry Tsunami out of misplaced loyalty (just as I order the unlisted two cheese burger meal at McDonalds) but today I said it purely by accident. The girl behind the counter affected ignorance and I had to excuse, and then correct, myself.

Speaking of girls behind counters, I have some commentary about being one. On Sunday I suffered my first bout of retail rage, which considering how people love to throw tissue paper on the floor, took an awfully long time to sink in. The story is actually very short: I was supposed to be folding and straightening sweaters and people kept touching them with no intention of buying them. For some reason, though I touch all manner of crap that I have no intention of buying, this seemed unforgiveable.

I think this was one of those learning moments and I suddenly sympathized with people who always over-tip the waitress because they once worked in food service. I am never going to go rooting through a pile of sweaters that I don’t really want ever again. Nor will I ditch something on a random shelf that I’ve carried all the way around the store twice and am too lazy to return. Well, maybe in really big stores that you aren’t allowed to go backward in…like IKEA or a Walmart Super Center.

And in unrelated news, I would like to start using the abbreviation “g.d.” instead of “goddamn” when typing. I would also like to integrate the phrase “safe as houses” into my vocabulary.

2 o'clock block

The wall I hit at 2 p.m. is a hearty one. All progress halts as I consider unnecessary snacks and conpulsively check my email. Compulsive email checking for unpopular kids like me is a waste of time and ego; I could check that thing every ten minutes all day long and never get an email that wasn’t a misguided Facebook alert about someone who commented on a status that I also commented on.

Hitting this wall is very disheartening for me everyday, but especially so on Fridays. On Fridays I have a strange desire to earn my weekend through hard work and perseverance. It’s a freaky throwback trait to my 9-5 days and a real indicator that my brain hasn’t fully grasped the fact that I usually work on the weekends now.

Today started off well enough. I was productive from 8 a.m. to noon, and then I ate some food and then did a little more work. I was relatively pleased; I started a new story that might have eventual promise and then hacked away at some unpromising story for about an hour. But as 2 p.m. neared, the barking of the neighbor’s dog became more pronounced and I suddenly became aware that my own dog was licking the floor in the kitchen and producing rending tongue-scrape noises.

I figured that killing my neighbor’s dog would be slightly less PC than the time that I read aloud from the Wikipedia entry about skinheads with the windows open (and I’ve a very carrying voice, you know) so I satisfied my own angst by asking my dog if she wouldn’t mind not licking the floor anymore. My dog, of course, interpreted this request as an invitation to stand beside me and breathe laboriously. And that, perhaps, is why I am writing this blog.

I’m trying to recall if I had anything else of note to mention while I am on here. I haven’t read much lately that hasn't been pointedly instructive and my television (cough, internet, cough) time has been divided between a bad British miniseries about scullery maids and an unforgivably raunchy HBO show about kings.

Something weird that I learned today: In some states there is a wolf hunting season and Montana’s closed today after the 12 wolf quota was met. That brings a tear to my Julie of the Wolves lovin’ eye.

Almost as good as the Christmas episode

Last night when I was laying in bed trying in vain to recover from my Halloween hangover (I went as a person who had to work until 9 p.m. and then drank 4 beers) I realized that I love flashback episodes. And I mean episodes as in sitcoms, not as in episodes in my life (i.e., “episodes of derangement”).

I strongly dislike this facet of my television personality. First, one should not be so familiar with sitcoms that one is able to identify trends in sitcom material. Secondly, there should be nothing that you love about sitcoms unless you are a lady who lives alone and you love that there is something as mind-numbing and confidence building as Spin City on at 3 a.m. when you wake up and are afraid to go back to sleep. (Note: if I lived alone, this would be me. I’m massively afraid of prowlers. Michael J. Fox soothes me.)

Flashback episodes bring a smile to my heart and I wonder: is it the cheap thrill of period-dress and age-appropriate speech patterns that floats my boat? Is my taste in narratives really so slap-stick? It certainly seems that way.

I endeavor (with all of the snootiness of my degree in finding symbolic things) to see it more as an appreciation of the spectacle of transformation. Veteran readers are likely bracing themselves for some unfounded proclaiming, and they are correct; this is going to be one of my specious arguments with myself.

I think that the flashback aspect appeals to me in the same way that “make-over montages” in movies appeal to me. I tend to emotionally over-invest in media, and in the same way that I quail when a character is embarrassed I feel mild triumph when they are made over. I’m not immune to movie plot patterns, I know that these transformations frequently result in the character losing sight of their true values (Pocahontas 2, hello) but the montages are still charming. Anne Hathaway has built her career on the value of these scenes.

Judge me if you will, I also like opening scenes in high school movies where you are introduced to the characters by watching them don their stereotypical apparel and seeing them arrive at school. Jocks have cars, self-righteous nerds have skateboards or bikes. Surfer kids (why do they even include this mythical subculture?) are randomly carrying around surfboards.

We could delve into the reasons for my fascination with these scenes, but after four (count ‘em four) bad pop culture shout-outs I think we’ve had enough personal revelation for today. I will chalk it up to the superficial; I’m bad at dressing myself and find joy in watching others liberated from the task.

Tailgating is the same as shoving

Here’s an odd compellation of thoughts for today.

The first is a compellation within a compellation: a combo of my classic sexism and passive aggressive driver’s rage. This week I have been driving over each morning to feed a dog that my beau and I are monitoring, and I mention this only as an excuse to say that I have been cooking a special meal of fried beef hearts daily for this dog-faced dog.

Anyway, so in my drives I have noticed a disproportionate number of aggressive tailgaters, which is not surprising since I think that I have blogged before about the mean drivers in the higher income neighborhoods and snooty shopping centers (fountains, so many fountains) in this area. What was surprising about this particular crop of tailgaters is that they were distinguished looking older men in fancy cars. I’m not so removed from the wonders of Hollywood that I don’t understand that 50 is the new 40 and that business men will behave as frat boys in spite of their silvery manes, especially when they have fancy foreign cars. But these old men were driving (lattes in hand, the sissies) as though they also ate beef hearts and greens for breakfast every morning.

Here’s where the sexism comes into this: I find this more offensive than when some girl with bug-eye sunglasses and a graduation tassel hanging on her rear-view mirror tailgates me. Tailgating is like shoving, only more cowardly because you tailgate people that you won’t dare shove in real life. I will continue to be sexist and offended when an old fellow who should know better goes around shoving people who are the lady-like two-door hatchbacks of humanity.

Other thoughts…I thought that I had other thoughts when I started typing this…

Okay, well, on then to reflections on the art of retail. That’s right, retail. I am doing it and I won’t suffer any flack from anyone about the supposed dignity of the college degree. Degrees, I wager, have slightly less dignity these days than old men. So, appeal to me with your questions about sensible shoes and not a damn thing else. My early prognostic is that retail is like working in an office, but with more bending.

Oh, now I remembered my other thought. It’s one that I’ve been having for a few days but since I had that weird rash of posts about coffee shops I decided to defer mentioning it until I had some variety. In my tour of local coffee shops I noticed that old ladies often have coffee dates with all of the whimsy and leisure of being retired.

These ladies meet up to talk about their families and their health, two topics that would annoy me in the mouths of the midday Starbucks mom’s but I find perfectly acceptable in this instance. The difference is that these old ladies speak quietly. So I guess that the theme for today is that old men are losing it, but old ladies are keeping it real.

Final thought, and then I’m done. I am, despite my high handed statements, back in a coffee shop. I can’t help it! At home I was tempted to try to give myself a Gibson girl hairstyle; I needed to get out of there if I was going to get anything done today.

And for punishment of my hypocrisy, the music in here is like a twang-y acoustic death-match between Dave Mathews and some lady-loser of the same genre. Ack.

Also, I think it might be in Spanish.

A whole pie and a pink lemonade

Have you ever left a restaurant during that tiny period of time after you’ve ordered your drinks but before the waitress has brought them? I have, plenty of times. I call it the soda-break-break and I actually feel pretty bad about it.

I remind myself frequently that it is not a case of the fabled “dining and dashing,” but instead a last minute choice to eat elsewhere. And I earnestly regret that the restaurant is out a few sodas (I won’t go into my theory about how soda is the best and cheapest liquid in the world here, because that won’t win my any sympathy points). But my real guilt comes from imagining the confusion of the waitress when she (yes, she, I’m being sexist today) returns. I also feel very sneaky rushing away from the table with my head down, shoulders slumped, giving a furtive “thanks” to the hostess, even though I am fairly certain that this practice is not illegal just in bad taste.

You might ask why I am doing this so frequently if I am aware that it is in bad taste. (On a side note, is eating out in bad taste these days? With all of those calorie lists on tables I’m not certain.) Last minute regret-driven decisions are just one of the many fantastic bad habits inherent in being indecisive.

Indecisive behavior is particularly cumbersome when dealing with restaurants and eating because it can be so easily shielded by a pretend politeness. No one wants to venture a food type and when the issue is decided, everyone wants to drive there. I am personally a master of the “I don’t care. What do you feel like eating?” line even when my soul earns for a burrito.

I suspect that you are thinking that while this is all well and good, repressing one’s desire for a burrito is not a crime equal to the soda-break-break. And I agree, the two are not equal. But the soda-break-break is an escalated version of the indecisive choosing conversation.

The break generally occurs on occasions when you have been seated and you know the moment that you sit down that you made the wrong choice. Anything could bring about this realization but my queries have revealed expensive food, loud kids, and a bitchy hostess with gauged ears as the main contenders.

For example, my personal-person and I were seated once in a Marie Calendar’s in some shopping mall somewhere. The moment that our asses hit the cold plastic booth it was as though a switch had been thrown. We suddenly saw the restaurant as it really was: cold, depressing, and filled with church-goers wanting the breakfast buffet at 2:20 in the afternoon. I stared in horror at an old man sitting alone a few booths away eating a whole pie and drinking pink lemonade. Not even cornbread could persuade me to stay.

We asked for two cokes, and when the waitress wasn’t looking, we made a soda-break-break.

My please-employ-me voice

The best parts of being unemployed:

- Shopping in an empty grocery store at midday.

- Never sitting in traffic.

- Not seeing other humans.

- Eating lunch at 10 a.m.

- Bonding with my dog.

- Getting to read the news in “full screen” windows.

The worst part of being unemployed is:

- Looking for work.

Seriously, it is the worst part. I could say that not making money is the worst part of not having a job as everyone knows that I’m a greedy miser, but I venture that currently, as my savings is not yet overly diminished by my activities, actually looking for a job is worse.

Take today for example. I went to the Safeway a few hours ago to get some mexi-cheese for taco salads. As I walked out I noticed that a nearby Pete’s Coffee had an abnormal number of colored leaflets in the window so, always vigilant, I sauntered in that direction. Sure enough the one of the leaflets was advertising seasonal hiring. I debated going inside for a few minutes because I was in a my usual slob attire but I rationalized that Pete’s pretends that it services the hippie demographic and so I just went inside.

I strode up to the counter and in the differential voice that I’ve acquired over the last few weeks said to the disinterested kid behind the counter, “I saw the advertisement in the window that you guys are hiring.”

He nodded. I smiled ingratiatingly. When he didn’t take the hint I asked with the same quiet tone for an application. He handed it over. I thanked him dramatically. We stared at one another for a moment.

“So,” he asked with an air of impatience. “What can I get you today?”

I bought a guilt-coffee because I couldn’t think of how to properly articulate that I’d only wanted the application and that my entire casual demeanor was an act.

Also, I just realized that the last three posts have revolved around coffee shops. What sort of puesdo-bohemian loser am I? Obviously I need to get a job, like, pronto.

PS, this post is dedicated to my favorite bro who is my only blog fan and is also seeing a doctor today (in the biblical sense).

Stay at home moms? Stay at home.

I have decided that I will stop coming to coffee shops to try to write. Currently I am sitting in my local (ahem) “Starbies” trying not to feel sad about this decision. Truthfully I’m not finding that very hard; midday Starbucks is enough to put anyone off of coffee shops.

Were I to consult logic, frugality, and reason, I would likely find that there is very little reason for me to be in coffee shops at all. Firstly, though I do like coffee very much, I have forbidden myself the consumption of caffeine and so must imbibe sugar drinks with no caffeine payoff. Secondly, I have recently taken employment at a minimum wage and so should not but be wasting money (3.24, holy crap!) on small pumpkin lattes. Thirdly, the “pleasant” music is always a trifle too loud. Fourth and final: midday Starbucks moms are the worst.

Currently sitting to my left is a group of four middle aged ladies who are talking non-stop about their high school aged kiddies. These kids, who all seem to be called some variation on “Kaitlyn” or “Kalie,” just went to the prom en masse and some hi-jinx ensued involving one mother accusing another mother (not represented here) of allowing kids to drink alchy at her house. Rapt discussion of high school football follows. These moms are harried and concerned. They worry about “sexting” and MySpace (though they all have Facebook) and seem to know all of the romantic drama in the vaguest terms. They plan birthday gatherings at BJ’s. They have the Sex and the City theme as their collective ringtone. Mostly they just talk loudly.

I wonder if this is a daily meeting. Probably I should wonder why I am such a jerk.

The kind of face that I've got

My face is the kind of face that makes uncomfortable exchanges occur. It is the face of a sucker, the face of a bottom-layer pyramid schemer, the face of someone who is a little afraid of the homeless and so will give them money. In short, it’s a damn inconvenient sort of face to have if you ever plan on leaving your house.

I’m used to these sorts of interactions and generally I wouldn’t think twice about the thing that happened to me in a coffee shop this afternoon. But last night I was reading a short story that put an interesting idea into my head.

The story was a very modern thing that mentioned chat rooms and Sanrio. I can go both ways on pop-culture savvy short stories. On one hand I like to feel included in the narrative, like the author had me (or rather my demographic and our collective implied demographic intelligence) in mind when he/she penned the story and now we are sharing a great literary joke as was intended. On the other hand, the mention of specific websites in novels make me feel a bit snobbish and pukey, to say nothing of my noted and dramatic reactions to starlet name-dropping in literature. However, as usual, this is all beside the point.

The protagonist of this story, through various S/M exploits with a fellow called Satan, reveals that she is dissatisfied with men because she has the sort of face that make them want to worship her. She meets these men and wants nothing more than to have brutal sexual encounters involving duct tape and flogging, but they all too soon start professing love for her and she believes that it is because of the nature of her face.

So today, when the following occurred to me in my local coffee shop I thought to myself: “Well this is the sort of face that I’ve got.”

After a mildly uncomfortable job interview I headed down to a coffee shop to try to get some writing done. I was determined to earn my weekend or I promised myself punishment in the form of typing. Plus I hadn’t been out much this week and I was feeling a little detached from the world.

So I got a coffee bev, seated myself near an outlet and was soon puttered away. Before long, a middle aged woman (bright shirt, black pants, bangles, too much hair with too much blond in it) chose the seat nearest mine and asked to use my outlet. As someone who is always far too uncomfortable to ask this question but always needs an outlet, I readily complied (though I shifted my computer a little so that she couldn’t see my Seabiscuit desktop photo). At this point I consider us comrades in computer use, but certainly not chatty.

A few more minutes passed and the woman asked me if I would “be a sister” and watch her computer while she used the bathroom. Always the enabler, I agreed, though my radar for religious nuts was tripped with the word sister. Anxious to avoid questions of conversion (and on closer examination seeing a saint’s medallion around her neck) I didn’t make eye contact when she returned and promptly got on the phone. Between the phone chatter of my new friend and the loud world music in the ship I decided to call it a day.

I noticed my friend eying me as I packed up my gear and so in an effort to be friendly I announced that the outlet was in her possession now. I got a “Bless you” and a mumbled TGIF-style sentiment for my troubles. I exited the building feeling jaunty.

I had not gotten 6 feet, however, before the Saint Lady was calling “Hey girly!” after me from the doorway. I turned around, embarrassed that I answered to ‘girly’ and thinking that I must have forgotten my keys or wallet somewhere. She wasn’t holding anything so I halted awkwardly in the entryway.

“You are so darn cute,” she announced and maintained eye contact in that weird Life-Coach-y way. I ran a mental scan. I was wearing the casual version of my professional interview ensemble (remember this outfit, oh loyal blog followers?) which involved black Dockers, Midwestern housewife hair, thick white socks that I hoped people couldn’t see when I sat down, and some no-nonsense footwear. I can only hope to aspire to cute on my best days and a sweaty post-interview me is not cute.

“Oh,” I said convincingly.

Saint Lady said that she’d like to ask me something, and I said “Oh” again. She asked if I was a student. I informed her, with a dollop of pride that surprised me, that I was a college graduate but recently unemployed. Her eyes lit up. She asked me if I would be interested in a business opportunity.

This time, all I could manage was an “Um” before she held her cell phone, which was spouting up a recording about digital technology and millions upon millions to be made, up to my personal ear.

I squirmed. I thought about how when I was in France the beggars always knew that I was American and would beg in English. I thought about how I was going to rush home and blog about this freaky experience. The recording told me that I could be making money every time someone turned on their television. I thought about how I gave two dollars to a very suspect charity in front of Trader Joes last week because I didn’t know how to say that I didn’t care about football. I thought about the sort of face that I had.

Eventually I said that I had to get going. She told me to go on her website and let Donald Trump convince me, reasserting that I was too cute to not be playing for “the big money.” I considered telling her that cuteness of the face is not the issue here, the issue is the gullible nature of the face and the gullible nature of the brain housed in it, but I didn’t want her to bless me again, so I just scuffled away.

In which I sink to my lowest point and mock the elderly

I guess I have your regular string of fears for a quasi-[ex]professional young person. I can lay claim to the obvious ones, fear of economic demise, creative failure, getting the cubicle version of bedsores and the like. But I have a unique cultural paranoia to throw into the mix, one which occurred to me last night as I attempted to do yoga (!). I’m rather afraid of becoming a hippie.

And the real cincher is that I like hippies! I have plenty of friends who are, or who convincingly imitate, hippies. Your stereotypical hippie, in my estimation, believes in these things: peace, love, recreational use of the ‘softer’ drugs, and nature. What’s not to love about all that? As a nearly confirmed pacifist I can think of little in their ideology that is off-putting. Sure, there are some hippies that could use a shower, but the same can be said about most children and practically all of the elderly, regardless of whether they are metaphorical draft-dodgers.

To leave off making fun of the elderly (a level I thought that I would never sink to), I will return to the tale of my yoga experience. I have been considering yoga as a possible countermeasure to stress for some time, but was deterred by the mental image the practice provoked. Alarmingly, this image was not of some bare-chested hippie on a cleanly mowed lawn, but rather of your average soccer mom or Uggs-girl, clad in black work out pants and with a yoga mat swinging casually over their arm.

These yoga mats have the same alienating quality that portfolio folders give to art students; these items provide a sense of purpose and accomplishment that those of us without props can’t exude. But unlike art students, these yoga ladies did not impress me. Instead I began to see yoga mats as a yuppie identifier, a sort of hyper-visible fondness for Jack Johnson.

“Yuppies,” I would think, laughing to myself. “Yuppies and their silly fitness.”

But recent discussions about yoga with various parties dissuaded me from this imagery so I decided to give it a go. I will spare you all of the gory details about my lack of balance, strength, and coordination, and get straight to the point of interest (should one indeed exist). Last night around eleven, alone in my front room, I was almost too embarrassed to try to sense any “energy” moving through my body. Because in my small and provincial mind, this was too hippie-like for a sensible, anti-spiritual person like myself.

Scope this dated reference out: In describing this, I feel like Robin Williams in Hook, when he can’t eat the imaginary food because he is a stodgy lawyer who doesn’t believe in imagination. This is, as a matter of pure trivia, my favorite scene from that movie owing to the complete ridiculousness of the food when it does appear. When dinner is left to the imagination, it would appear that the result is merely colored goo.

Blogette

Even though I delight in recording completely irrelevant thoughts on this here blog-tastic chunk of the internet, I must comment on something pressing and immediate in my daily life. Tomorrow is my last day of work at the only employment that I have ever quit for the pure jollies of it. Having previously always waited for the ghost of a sensible reason before giving notice, I must say this is an entirely new experience and an altogether uncomfortable one.

Just as the last of my collegiate companions are finally making good at respectable employments, I get the notion into my head that I must thwart the reasonable comforts of my salaried position and take to the fabled open road of unemployment to achieve Personal Content. To this ridiculous end I can only offer my own overly sensitive sense of god-awful romantic ideals as reasoning.

So see you later, career-oriented lifestyle. See you later also, success-induced shopping sprees and work-induced surly demeanor.

Ode to rapidly undulating checkered backgrounds

As a firm Beatles enthusiast, I feel secure in saying that I am quite tired of the (somewhat unnecessay, I should think) attempt at Beatles revival. The illusion is almost enough to make you forget that some of the best parts of Beatlemania (off of the top of my head I will offer go-go boots, a discrete outlet for socially and sexually repressed young women, the complete set of four living band members) are not part of this newfangled craze.

I am, of course, talking about the release of the Rock Band tribute/version devoted to The Beatles. The media frenzy surrounding the release of the game last week was not surprising, considering that if combined two of the essentials of pop culture: good music and video games that ape and misconstrue the process of creating that music.

A disclaimer is probably required to dissuade rumors about my general grumpiness and preaching. I am not remotely suggesting that the music of The Beatles is unworthy of the tribute, a claim that I can make with all of the assurance of a person wearing an oversized "Let it Be" sweatshirt.

My history with The Beatles is long, and fittingly, sappy. My high school years, dubbed by many as the best four years of their lives, would in my case be better branded the Fab Four years of my life. Every morning I climbed into my Chevy Blazer (color: faded black) armed with ample angst and five homemade CDs labeled in sloppy cursive, "Beatles, misc." Driving the two-lane country roads to school each morning I rocked out without abandon, belting out lyrics that I would have found sentimental coming from anyone else. My younger sister, an altogether hipper person than I, quailed before my boundless nostalgia.

As a teenager I liked to pretend that listening to The Beatles was something cutting edge and unique, conveniently forgetting the predominance of "classic rock" in my childhood and my mother's adolescent longing for Paul.

As an adult (albeit one who is required by her living situation to keep her gaudy Beatles alarm clock in the more remote areas of the house due to conflicting ideas of taste) I'm willing to acknowledge that The Beatles do not belong exclusively to me. I am not, however, quite ready to acknowledge Beatles Rock Band.

I know, I know; all people everywhere love Rock Band. And nearly as universally, people everywhere love The Beatles. And so it is fitting that the two worlds should collide. I'm just not sure that it should be as large a production as is being made of it.

There are several reasons for my unease. The first is a selfish and outlandish point, so I will tuck it away quickly and with as little fanfare as possible. In plain English it reads thus: I am so tired of people playing Rock Band in bars.

A few weeks ago, on the eve of the Beatles Rock Band release, my boyfriend and I were walking past a bar in a college town, one which I remembered as being rather hip (read: cover charge). That evening, however, we paused on the sidewalk not to watch well-dressed college students mingling on the patio, but to listen to the terrible rendition of "Tax Man" being belted out by two completely sloshed frat boys in graphic tees.

"Wow," my boyfriend deadpanned for the benefit of the crowd gathering on the street. "A Beatles concert."

While I'm ready to admit that drunken karaoke is an important part of bar culture, there is something that doesn't sit well with me about the growing presence of Rock Band terminals in drinking establishments. Perhaps it is that people are more desensistized by the familiar R.B. set up, and therefore encouraged to strut their stuff. Or perhaps it is that I associate bars with adult activities (drinking) and games that are either a little dangerous (darts), or lend themselves to phallic punning (billiards). Video games (for my most inflammatory statement yet) seem more fitting in places with lots of kiddies, like movie theater arcades or pizza parlor lobbies. But I promised little fanfare on this point, so I will move on.

My second protest with the chaos surrounding the release of Beatles Rock Band is the implication that the purchasing of the game with be in tribute to The Beatles, a new venue for appreciating those familiar tunes. Although this is probably true economically, I take some issue with the spirit of the statement. It seems to me that the very set-up of R.B. is not intended to encourage the individual appreciation of music for music's sake. Rock Band instead creates a realm (and a scoring system) in which people can quantify their ability to "appreciate" a song (at levels beginner, medium, or hard) and then compare their appreciation with that of their friends.

And, to extend my rising sense of drama, I would go as far to suggest that playing Rock Band is not a tribute to any band or artist lauded (as The Beatles are) as being revolutionary. Perhaps I am overly sentimental, but it seems to me a more fitting tribute to the creative process is a creative process, or rather, something more creative than following dashing colored lights that never change with repeated plays of the same song. Go on and buy the game; it's all the same to me. But just don't do dashing around feeling too noble about it.

My final point is a small one and takes issue with the much-anticipated graphics of the game. I've seen of some videos of footage on Youtube, and they do seem slick as hell. Maybe a little too slick. When I think The Beatles, I think line drawings, pastel colors and rapidly undulating checkered backgrounds. But perhaps that is just me.

Image provided below for those who have forgotten what pastels are like:

I use so many hyphens when I'm sleepy

Writing from the perch of sleeplessness at 5:30 on a Sunday morning, I am appalled at my lack of interesting commentary. If I ever had this scenario outlined to me (as people are apt to outline blogging scenarios in casual conversation) I would have assumed that I had a juicy, nerve-wracking reason for being awake at such an hour and would be thus amply supplied with blogging materials. Unfortunately, I just cannot sleep.

This is shocking to peeps of my acquaintance, surely, because I have never been one to have trouble sleeping. Usually I am far too fond of sleeping. Not that I am one of those marathon sleepers (I’m usually up around 9 on the weekends), but rather one of those people who is irreparably bitchy when I don’t get the daily recommended dosage of snoozes. But getting that sleep was never a problem for me before approx. 1.5 years ago, after which the cycle of job searching and (ironically) the subsequent employment encouraged my natural anxiousness to encroach upon my scheduled sleep-time.

And so I am awake. And I am thinking about Gossip Girl. And that’s rather depressing.

Why is a rational person like me thinking about Gossip Girl? It so happens that just before going to sleep last night I watched an episode of the show. (It was my first, but maybe a season finale? I don’t know; I streamed it online.) I watched the show out of a morbid curiosity provoked by my mother discussing over dinner how scary (actual death-scary, not just this-is-our-culture-scary) teen vampire shows can be.

As she spoke it occurred to me that I had never seen any of these supposedly over-sexed teen dramas. In the three years since I’ve had a TV, I have rarely had occasion to regret my sparse and selective internet streaming habits…except when I realize that I am missing something excruciatingly bad.

I hate to miss bad things: I relish bad movies, bad TV programs, bad haircuts, bad tattoos, and especially bad personal anecdotes. In light of this, I decided that I needed to investigate this new generation of crap TV. And because I am about 2 years behind the cultural learning curve, I decided to watch Gossip Girl.

With the exception of the voice-over, the show didn’t differ from the teen dramas of my youth enough to scandalize me. The conflicts and goals were fairly similar (poetic break-down of social castes, overemphasis on graduation as an epic event, sexual fraternization between shockingly attractive teenagers who are hella, hella, hella in love). But there was one similarity that I was surprised to see made the cut: parental subplots.

If I may wax indignant on the subject of hour-long teen dramas, I must say that this is their most abhorrent feature. While I am trying to focus on the boyfriend stealing and substance abuse of these rich and attractive teens, the action keeps being interrupted by the romantic and financial intrigues of their rich and far-less attractive parents. Is this done to fill in the hour? Or do people actually enjoy these plodding subplots about the parents of adolescent lovers becoming lovers (substitute becoming an alcoholic, going bankrupt, or getting the capital ‘D,’ Divorce) themselves?

Come on, the CW, I don’t care about these people. They aren’t in high school and thus their lives aren’t relevant to mine.

Some things would be better as Victorian flatware

My main purse-bag is starting to get an awfully funky smell and my tactic for procrastination (a clever combination of denial and hastily delving into its depths with breath held and eyes averted) is beginning to wear on even my supremely passive nerves. I will ascent that a small oddness of aroma can give something character (i.e., my dog), but the dread “mu-“s of the odor world (‘musty,’ and worse yet, ‘musky’) I make it my business to avoid.

A brief, and I assure you cranky, aside for those maternal eyes who in reading this take it upon themselves to question my commitment to hygiene and cleanliness. I have indeed subjected this bag (an oversized red-white cloth number with a pattern more suited to melodramatic Victorian flatware) to the rigors of my washing machine many times. And while at first this treatment restored my bag to its usual glory, recent washings have done little more than worry the seams.

Having defended my cleanliness, I must admit that I am not particularly surprised by the downward spiral of this particular bag. It is heavily abused daily as a receptacle of essential survival items: car keys, sandwiches, bedraggled wallet, mobile phone, S.S.S. (Small Softcover Salinger), thermos of tea in the winter and off-brand soda in the summer, snooty notebook bound in faux-leather, and several dozen pink pens lifted from my old job, each one advising women over 40 to get an annual mammogram. On top of stuffing the bag with the aforementioned smelly junk, I further debase it by chucking it unceremoniously into the back of my messy car or onto the shifty linoleum of restaurants and coffee shops. In short: If ever a satchel deserved to smell a little off, it is this one.

It does not escape me that the only logical, perhaps the only sanitary, solution here is to disregard the bag for another. But as my perception of logic is always hindered by a judgment-clouding excess of sentiment, I am somewhat disinclined to undertake this solution.

This bag and I have been through a lot together. I toured a few small corners of Europe carrying that bag stuffed to the seams with a nalgene, camera, umbrella, a couple of prairie-themed American novels, and everything that I deemed too valuable to leave in a hostel with the tagline “Hangovers Included”).

The bag has carried my lunches into two separate jobs and one ramshackle internship. Hundreds of sandwiches have been squashed within its generous embrace. The bag has seen me through my hummus in a Ziploc phase, my “white bread is practically wheat bread” phase, and, most recently, a misguided decaf Pepsi phase.

The longer I go on the more acutely aware I become of the strangeness of this post. And so I will close here, hoping to leave you with a feeling of suspense regarding the fate of my bag and my increasingly musty aroma.

Vic, of Vic's Market

I got out of work a couple of hours early today and so I am doing what any reasonable person would do. I am making brownies and thinking about food in a pensive way.

I know what this seems like, and it is true: I didn't eat lunch and I'm waiting for my co-habitator to return before I eat dinner. General hunger, however, is not the root on this pondering. Sadly, just as I often think about hairbrushes and linens, I have a tendency to over-think food, or more specifically, the food in the home and the implications of hospitality. (That last sentence could have been an essay title. Food in the Home and the Implications of Hospitality. I've still got it, alright.)

I suppose that my time would be better used explaining than tooting my own ex-literary horn. I'll explain, as best as I'm able, the origins of these excessive thoughts. You see, whenever I get the yen to eat some brownies (or other baked good of your choice), I have to actually make a trip to the store to get the supplies. Today's last minute trip to Vic's Market (11.00, Vic is such a scumbag) was for eggs and vegetable oil and, inevitably, brownie mix. And every time I have to make this fateful trip, I wonder to myself why I don't have these very mundane items at my house. Or better yet, why I can't prevail upon my miserly self to buy more than one brownie mix, or a slightly larger serving bottle of vegetable oil, to prevent this very trip in the future.

I guess I'm just not much of a preventative shopper. I make one weekly trip to Trader Joes (I hate people who plug TJ's almost as much as I hate how TJ's doesn't have any ketchup, so bear with me as I make a point) and gather the essential items for weekly eating: bread, lunch meat, strawberries, lettuce, cheese, pizza dough and sauce, milk and cleverly-named fibertastic cereal. I never venture into anything more adventurous.

All of this is very economic (again, Vic is a scumbag), but often leaves me with a sense of unease and no refried beans on the occasion of a spontaneous burrito. My unease derives from the fact that I was raised in a house where culinary hospitality was one the the cardinal virtues; the sort of place that never (ever) ran out of family-sized cans of refried beans. Thus my impulse a few months ago on the eve of a visit from my mom to buy two bottles of wine. Not just one to serve her with pretended aplomb but two, in case another wine drinking event ever occurred. (This is momentous, since we generally don't have an alchy around the house beyond a few stray Bud Lights in a box in the garage and a conspiciously aging and untouched bottle of whiskey in the freezer.) When I bought that extra bottle of wine, I felt prepared for any wine-related situation.

Whenever I get thinking about this sort of business I tend to recall this short story that I read a few years ago. A young couple is featured in this story and the wife is always purchasing fresh food and stockpiling/preserving it for the spontaneous guest or event. Over the course of the story the couple gets pregnant and the baby is still-born. Afterwards the wife never cooks anymore but they eat all of the stuff that she has stored up for a whole year until she leaves the husband. (Note: If this sounds like your short story, sorry about the smashing butcher job I did on the synopsis.)

I know that this story is probably about things that you can't prepare for (death) and can't preserve (certain ill-fate marriages) but I like to think about it when I think about food. What a nice and reassuring thing to be prepared at a moment's notice to turn out a bitchin' spread.

Woe is capitalism

I have become (quite freakishly) a consumer. And I tell you, becoming a consumer after years of skimping and hating consumers is a lot more stressful than becoming a consumer directly after entering adulthood as a natural result of a soulless capitalistic upbringing and the miracle of credit cards. It's more stressful because years of hating consumers now translates into years of mislead poverty and a desire to buy satchels that you imagine Sylvia Plath would buy.

I cannot help myself. I suppose it is disgusting (and probably just plain wrong) to imply that I am flush with dollars, but by my own very diminished standards am well set. Thus are the compensations for selling your soul to corporate America for the bounty of a cubicle and a salary. (To be clear, I am still most securely in the lower middle class bracket, it just so happens that I was whatever half of lower middle class is before.)

I conferred with my domestic-pal about this in a worried way. When we first started hanging around I was very broke, and dressed for most dates in my best (only) black sweater and the cloth Mary-Janes that I purchased online and realized too late smelled like the sweatshop they undoubtedly hailed from. I was concerned that he might think that I was being corrupted by relative success, and that maybe he liked when I only had 5 main shirts to rotate through.

Though he has assured me otherwise, I still worry about myself as a consumer. People might think that I am trying to be "fancy" a lifelong fear of mine.

Also I worry that I am mercenary for being so concerned over money. Last time I checked, mercenaries went out of style with pirates (aka whenever kiddies started loving whatever it is they love now).

Old ladies with studded belts are my peers

If it wasn't enough that I have many signs of old age in physical maladies (carpal tunnel) and disposition (tendency to yell at neighborhood kids for having their music too loud and driving recklessly), I seem to be developing some senility.

Para example: last weekend I was in a used bookstore (teeny aside that is too large for a mid-sentence parenthetical but I don't care: why can't I work in a used bookstore with middle aged ladies with untamed grey hair and studded black belts ala Good Charlotte?) and I was having trouble remembering whether I had read O Pioneers! by Willa Cather.

Once I slid the book out of the heavily populated Cather shelf and looked at the back-cover I remembered it as the story of the inventive sister amongst stagnant bohemian brothers. When pressed I could even recall the vaguest hint of a romantic subplot involving an equally forward-thinking neighbor boy. And though the plot took shape with concentration, I was still floored by my initial indecision. Through my entire academic career (one far more lengthy and arguably more successful than my career-career) I was known for having a good memory for texts. When talking about books I am more likely to name favorite descriptions than to outline actual plots. Don't get me started on my love of re-reading descriptions of milking pans, gin-based alcoholic beverages mixed before 1960, patent leather saddle shoes and medicine cabinets.

All of that nonsense washing around in my brain and I can't remember even remember if I have read a novel!? In a strange desperation I wanted to re-read Oh Pioneers! and also This Side of Paradise, the plot of which beyond prep school fraternities and poetry vaguely alludes me.

I suppose that the difference in my comprehension is logical and the reason two-fold. Primarily I have less time for reading than I once did and so must shove it into lunch hours and the customary time before bed when I have chatted Kevin into stupification/sleep. More than anything I am an endurance reader (less than anything I am an endurance runner). And so these disjointed and episodic reading binges make a novel stick with less cohesiveness than one read in a single, lemonade-y sitting.

Secondly I have been pushing myself to read things that I don't particularly fancy but that I imagine will further my "education." Thus I read Hardy's Far From the Maddening Crowd and Woolf's To the Lighthouse in recent months. I have yet to decide whether these things really further my understanding of anything. Mainly they further a tendency to gloss over descriptions of landscape (a feature that you will notice is consipucously missing from the list of things that I love to read).

So here's to re-reading the classics (term used with ample grain of salt) and never making mental progress.

Are you calling me Almanzo's mom?

Several points of minimal interest today.

The first of these points is cameras. Today I uploaded a photo album on facebook, the first in a long while. And while I'd like to claim that it has been awhile because I've realized that facebook is a silly and shallow venue, it's more likely because I never take any pictures.

I've had the same digital camera for several years (a techno-sin, I know) and I have never found a way to use it that did not seem completely obnoxious. In my more youthful days of enthusiastic alcohol consumption cameras were far more common. There is nothing drunk ladies love more than taking pictures together. But more subdued society does not lend itself well to photography. Enchanting candid photos are unlikely to be snapped while stuffing one's face over dinner. Or at least not of me (being a messy and enthusiastic eater). End camera segment of the show.

Today I was walking my dog in the park and there were several teenage girls sitting on the swings and looking sulky. When I wandered past, I recalled how I found young adults intimidating and awfully cool when I was in high school. (Notably, this phenomenon is entirely different than my usual fear of teenagers-at-dusk.) I thought to myself, "If I looked a little less like a high schooler myself, maybe I would intimidate and impress these teenagers and they would remark amongst themselves about my rad-ness." I suspected that this would be the ultimate embodiment of a cyclic life.

Unfortunately my dog took this opportunity to distract from our cool image by urinating straight onto the playground pavement and making an enormous puddle in the four-square area. I believe that no self-respecting dog would do this, when there is grass and bark all around. Needless to say, I did not conquer my fear of teenagers today.

Final point for the day: caffeine. I try to stay away from it, but it is so damn delightful. I was doing well for several months being off of it entirely, but the slow re-integration of soda has made me more susceptible to the threat of caffeinated tea and coffee beverages. If I get back on the coffee the world will soon see a friendlier, shakier, and sweatier me.

Longs probably isn't a place you think about a lot

Today I ate my first vegetarian burrito.

Actually I don't think that that is strictly accurate, since I used to only eat vegetarian burritos of the bean-and-cheese variety. But when I was about 18, after learning that chinese food is delicious despite the off-putting color of sweet and sour chicken, I decided to make more mature eating choices. To give you a general idea of my culinary sophistication, these mature eating choices included putting chicken in my burritos and putting fewer giant hamburgers into my mouth. What I am trying to say (so valiantly, I think you'll note) is that today I ordered a burrito that was specifically called a vegetarian burrito.

And this shouldn't be overly surprising, given that I am hardly carnivorous and live with someone who eats about 12 veggie burritos a week. Still I thought it was of note.

Also of note: today while eating our matching veggie burritos my boyfriend-person and I discussed nostalgia over businesses as ideas. He is nostalgic over banks and deposit slips. I'm sappy about department and drug stores (to say nothing of general stores, but that is another topic altogether).

I was thinking about drug stores today as I walked past one on my lunch break. I have been told repeatedly by people that I should buy my toiletries at Target (a mere stone's throw away from the Longs Drugs) but for some reason I keep going back to Longs. And it's not even really a big-box issue; Longs is hardly ma and pop status, and I've been known to buy my over-sized (I'll avoid say 'big' again) box of decaf tea at the dread Walmart. I just like the idea of Longs.

I'll offer two reasons for this particular nostalgia.

The first is that I used to live in a dormitory that was within walking distance to a Rite-Aid. Everyone I knew bought all of their needs (shampoo, razors and ect) and their un-needs (water guns, giant sodas) there. I recall feeling very accomplished in my senior year of college when I moved back into that same neighborhood and would ride my bike (oh beloved bike, side baskets and bell) down to the same Rite-Aid. I felt very mature and purposeful in returning there, because now I was a native with a bicycle bell, who knew the exact toiletry needs of a single person with a limited income.

The second reason for feeling affectionate towards drug stores is cold cream. I don't know what it is or when people use it, but I feel fondly towards it. And I bet people buy it exclusively at drug stores.