If this was AIM I would know what to title this.

I realized last night that I never sign into AIM anymore. The revelation came to me while I was chatting with an old friend – an old friend who I used to communicate with daily via AIM – using gmail chat. There is nothing wrong with gmail chat, of course, and we were chatting away as cheerfully and easily as we used to, but there was something sad about leaving AIM and that little yellow man who symbolized it behind. Sure, I don’t miss that obnoxious “door opening” noise, but there are other things.

AIM was a big chunk of my social life as an adolescent and young adult, as I wager it was for most people in my age bracket. It started in middle school when everyone had AOL as their internet provider (dating myself, again) and we all indulged in shy chat-room romances and petty instant message flirting. Instant messaging was revolutionary and liberating – crushes were discussed with reckless abandon without the threat of voices cracking and parents overhearing.

I was a little late to the party, as I am to most things, because my parents had an old computer and an even older phone line. When I finally got my own computer (purple I-Mac that I think that I’ve discussed here before – screw you I-Pad!) AIM was the first thing that I downloaded. Later, in college, AIM became a virtual lifeline. Those were the early days of my cell phone hatred – the pre-texting days – and I left my AIM up constantly. Because I lived in a series of small rooms and apartments, having my AIM window perpetually open meant that I was perpetually within hearing range of the little burble that announced a new message. I would eat dinner, study and nap with one ear open to my main social outlet.

I guess that feeling of social connectedness is the reason that I feel so nostalgic for AIM. Those were the days of constant chatting and bitchin’ away messages. (Really, I was a pro at away messages. I had hundreds of them and I often processed new information through an away message filter: what a hilarious fact or quote, perhaps a good away message? This is a level of creative preoccupation that I wish I could claim now.)

The beauty of AIM, at least for the antisocial masses, was its indirect quality. You could type something that you were afraid to say aloud; you could send someone a message without having to put on shoes. As an added bonus, you could usually tell if someone was around their computer (I used to have an away message that read “Working on a good idle”) and you could prep your message accordingly.

Sometimes you miss the glory days of the internet and on those days you can’t help but think that the only answer is posting something un-clever and biting on the FB profiles of people who profess a love for the medium. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be posting “*Unlike!*” under the photos of my enemies until AIM becomes retro-cool.

And have a nice day.

Because it is early and I’m still waking up, I’ll start off with some preliminary small-talk. The weather today is rainy, after weeks of sunshine, and I am pleased with the shift, excepting some small concern over my dog and the strawberry plants that some guy I live with planted in the backyard. I’m concerned over the dog because she is a demure old lady with no fondness for getting her feet wet but she will have to spend her day (dog-like) outside because I am off to work in a few minutes.

I worked the weekend but I didn’t work yesterday, so in some absurd way this is like the beginning of my week. That’s one of the hardest things for a schedule-oriented person like me to wrap their head around: when you aren’t working a 9-5, M-F job, the week is permeable. It’s virtual heartbreak to my little compulsory-schooled, office-job-since-17 heart.

The whole thing is a little weird, though, when you consider the frequency with which people who invariably work most of the weekends ask each other what their weekend plans are. I have even heard corny “TGIF” lines being exchanged by people who will report, sensible shoes in hand, at 10 a.m. the next morning for an 8-hour shift. I like to think that this is less about being delusional and more about relying on conversational scripts to get through the day. Referencing the weekend is like a “Nice weather we’re having” for the young and fast set.

As a generally awkward person, I love having these scripted conversations. I love asking people what their plans are, how their weekend was, what they are doing for lunch, and remarking with special casualness on how many hours of work remain in the day. I prefer to let other people introduce emotionally strenuous topics of conversation in the workplace; I don’t want to seem presumptuous. (I did break this rule to express, unprovoked, my distress at having to work during the Kentucky Derby and my intention to wear an oversized black hat in protest and mourning. No wonder people think that I’m so awesome.)

The common and unfortunate side effect of these work-time scripts is that they start to be instinctive, especially when your workplace has a set of mandatory phrases for dealing with customers. In the past when I have worked in phone-heavy positions, I used to answer my cell phone with the whole spiel – giving my name and department and asking people if I could help them with something. (Again, no wonder people think I’m so awesome.)

Now that I work in a place where I largely thank people and greet them, I find myself compelled to shout a cheerful hello to any opening door. I almost bit my tongue trying to keep myself from bursting forth in my singsong voice at a coffee shop last week, as the doorbell there was reminiscent of the ding-dong of the door at my workplace. The whole thing was making me mighty nervous, but then maybe that was because I’d been too awkward to amend my coffee order to make it decaf.

Since we are on the topic of work-related humiliations, I’ve been meaning to discuss how I find myself responding to any “Thank you” with a swiftly executed “Thank you! Have a nice day!” and by looking around frantically for my copy of the receipt. This is a particularly embarrassing reaction when made to someone that you are going to be seeing regularly, as it tends to come off a bit…dismissive. Also it comes off a bit weird. And probably it makes me seem just a little bit awesome.

scantron sanity and misplaced quasi-political rants

I dreamed last night, or rather this morning sometime between 4:15 this morning when I woke up to use the bathroom and 6:35 when alarms started going off, that I was late to class. And this isn’t the first time that I’ve had this dream in the almost 2 years since I graduated from college. Oh, no. I have this dream a lot. And I think it’s pretty weird.

Well, I don’t think that it is ‘weird’ as in unusual, because I know plenty of ex-classmates who also experience this dream on a regular basis. I think that our brains were simply wired for so long to anticipate class-related stresses that when we don’t get that stimulus in the form of a sassy blue-and-white scantron form our brains get a little wonky. But when it comes to my specific dream, I tend to think that it’s a little weird.

First, I don’t like to think of myself as someone whose life stopped when I stopped being able to ride the campus buses for free. In fact, I’m starting to think that people put altogether too much emphasis on college, as both a requirement for future successes and as a transcendental epoch of total personal awesomeness. Obviously I think that going to college is a worthwhile educational experience and a must-have if you love school for the very schoolness of it, like I do. And a degree is, undoubtedly, something that you have for life. But it also sets you up for unrealistic expectations ($$$) and completely fails to set you up (in the liberal arts, particularly) for the harsh unfriendliness of a market flooded with young folks who can do a close-reading of Chaucer but are best suited for answering telephones and making schnazzy spreadsheets.

Don’t get me wrong. College = good. I might even go back to school. But especially with the fee increases (32% this year at my old stomping grounds) I think that it is becoming a very hard thing to justify without insuring a 32% increase in class availability, relevance, and (let’s face it) making it about 32% more challenging to get a B.A.. If it was me, I would want my money’s worth and in the case of college that means 32% more knowledge and 32% less sleep during finals. Somehow, especially in the candy-coated UC system, I don’t see that happening.

It may sound a little materialistic (yipes!) to note, but as the only member of my family with a B.A. I make far-and-away the least amount of money. And I don’t mean since I quit my corporate job; they made more than me when I was pushing paper all about.

Money isn’t the only measure of worth and it sure isn’t the best one, but I think that the UC system would do well to shift a little of the focus away from soul-bending experiences and educational enlightenment via sun-dappled Frisbee games and towards the real financial situation. For one thing, they are inflating the students’ ideas of how quickly they can pay off their loans and credit cards as easily as they are inflating the fees.

So, enough ranting brought on by watching footage of the student protests here in sunny California. My dream went like this: I was late for a class where I had to turn in a paper and my bike had two flat tires. While I was trying to borrow someone’s bike I realized that I hadn’t attended this class once all quarter (this is a common theme in these dreams) and I began to berate myself for my negligence. I finally took off running toward the building where I somehow knew that the class would be meeting, leaving my bike hidden behind a tree. Before I got there, I woke up in a mild panic.

I know that I could push it here, make some reference to dreams of the literal sense and the quickly evaporating possibility of the lower-middle class to achieve collegiate dreams, but I won’t. That would be way too liberal arts-ish.

Some American Shit

Dear guy-ahead-of-me-while-I-drove-to-work,

Hi. You don’t know me but I was behind you at about 1:15 this afternoon, headed south on Folsom avenue. You might have caught a glimpse of me in your rear-view mirror with the dice hanging from it, though perhaps not. I try to maintain a very polite distance from other cars. Hatchback and oversized sunglasses? Distinctly hunched driving posture? Yes, that would be me.

Well, sir (and I hesitate to apply this term because your age was so hard to determine from so far away and so strange an angle), I am sorry that I hurried past you as soon as the road opened up to two lanes. The moment that my car hurdled passed yours I realized the implied insult of my actions. When a person who has been following another takes the first opportunity to pass, the sideways glances exchanged are rarely pleasant ones.

I just wanted to clarify that I meant no disrespect. If you felt admonished by my haste, if the sight of my little green car puttering weakly past your window brought you any embarrassment, or if this last indignity was the straw that broke your Model-A’s back, I apologize.

I understand what you were trying to do, guy. You were out driving your classic car in the sunshine on a Sunday afternoon and you stuck your arm out of the window. You had dice on the rear-view, and I respect that. You were probably listening to some righteous jams and you felt no need to hurry. Hell, you were on a Sunday drive and that’s some American shit right there.

I’m sorry that some schmuck in a green hatchback had to pass you at the first opportunity; that I had to be the jerk-wad reminding you that your tranquility is as outdated as your vehicle and twice as likely to break down. I didn’t mean to be a jerk, but I was on my way to the outlet mall to slap on my lanyard and sell some sneakers. That also is some American shit, but with a difference emphasis.

Pack ratting

Today’s blog should be about hugging and the trials of hugging your extended family, because my own mother took the trouble to g-mail chat me about writing a “story about how you do the bob-and-weave when people try to hug you.” Everyone knows that I love shit-talking about family functions; however, it is with a heavy heart that I report that this blog post shall not be about hugging. When I started to think it out it sounded a little too much like a Seinfeld episode. And if I’m going to be sounding like any TV show from the late-90s it’s going to be News Radio, ya dig?

So, I’m going on a trip at the end of next week to an undisclosed location for an undisclosed amount of time. But it occurred to me as I was driving home that no matter how much I enjoy a vacation, there is something extremely fun about thinking about going on a trip. And I don’t mean the count-down crap that the girl in the cubicle next to you is practicing. No, I mean the hardcore thinking, like thinking about what you are going to pack and whether you have mini-sized toiletries. I wondered as I drove whether I would need to do laundry or go to the bank, and my brief outing is still a week away. I considered what to leave my domestic-person to eat and what book to bring for the plane. That sort of domestic planning really floats my boat.

But I think that I have mentioned on this blog before how I love packing. Putting everything that you imagine that you will need into a bag is very soothing for me. I like placing things carefully, knowing full-well that they will shift around and that I will end up stuffing dirty clothes in on top of them while away. Looking into a well-organized bag (you know, clothing folded, pajamas on top, toiletry bag tucked into a corner of the bag, extra sneaks set neatly at the never bottom of the bag) is like looking into a well-organized mind. I figure if I can’t have one, I might as well have the other.

Wasting my own time

This blog is an early one because I am having trouble getting started on some projects. My brain, it would seem, is reluctant to focus today. I’m not even motivated enough to waste my time scrolling through the internet. I am merely sitting, gazing at my word processing screen, yawning and fiddling. I would jump start my brain with a Pepsi, but I’m trying to avoid drinking soda in excess and, well, 9:13 in the morning seems a little excessive.

Since I’m not going to drink a soda and I am not, apparently, going to write anything productive, I guess I will discuss another form of drinking that has been weighing heavily on my mind. I am talking about the drinking of alcohol here, so if you are under 21 please do me a solid and avert your eyes.

I am an infrequent and lackluster drinker and as such I mostly drink beer. It doesn’t even matter what kind of beer, much to the chagrin of my main squeeze when we first started dating. (At the time I was in the habit of drinking Natural Lite while he drank Sapporo. Now he drinks PBR and I drink hard ciders that taste like juice.) But beer takes a lot of drinking and it’s heavy, grainy stuff that always makes my stomach upset the next day. Well, the upset stomach is debatable; there is a slight possibility that my stomach is always upset following a beer-binge because beer always encourages me to eat lots of things, like red meat or 14 mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce, that I wouldn’t usually eat. But I elect to blame the beer because if I had to choose between beer and cheese sticks, my vote would be heavily dairy.

But what does a casual drinker drink instead of beer? I have been ruminating on this for a few weeks and when the pressure is on (i.e. the waitress is staring straight into my panicked face) I always sissy out and go for a Blue Moon or a Pyramid. It doesn’t help that I panic easily in bars; I’m not the sort that a barkeep pays attention to. (I love parenthesis today! What follows is an aside on why I have a hard time ordering in bars. First, I am not very aggressive about standing at the bar and making eye contact. Second, I think I have that disheveled bookish look that says “I will pay in cash and buy one round all night.” Third, I’m not a hot babe or the hot-babe-equivalent of a tab-opening heavy tipper.)

I don’t mean to imply by all of this that I spend a lot of time worrying about what I should drink on the weekends. I just spend a lot of time thinking about pointless things in general and my official drink receives no more or no less thought than other silly ruminations like whether I am too old to continue wearing Converse sneaks or whether I should improve my mind by compulsively re-reading modern classics or by delving into the antiquities. This, to my eternal shame, is how my silly brain works.

So cocktails and my relationship with them. Mainly my interaction with hard alcohol has been the delightful days of college when everyone had a lukewarm handle of vodka under their bed and we chased it with blue PowerAid. I remember attending these parties in apartment-style dorms where the alcohol was laid out in the vanity area of the bathrooms – shot glasses and flavored vodkas arranged beside hair brushes and deodorants. The best part of these parties was that you had to pass through this vanity area to use the toilet, and so the hallways were always crowded with confused people, struggling to differentiate between the line for the toilet and the line to use that same dirty shot glass. Now that I think about it, maybe that explains why I always drink beer…

Anyway, that is the association that I have with hard alcohol. After that frenzied freshman year I never spent much time around people who drank cocktails (these were the days when beer pong reigned supreme…is that still happening in over-priced apartments around the world?). But I have an idea about cocktails that directly contradicts all of my experiences.

You know how I always get everywhere early? (I love being excessively conversational even more than I love parenthesis today.) Well I usually spend this extra time reading in my auto, slumping and sweating when it’s sunny, shivering and hunching when it’s cold. But whenever I pull up to a curb to meet a friend for dinner and realize that I have time to kill I always imagine myself going into the bar, settling myself with a drink and reading in the comfort of a booth and climate control. I am married, but now that I think about it this is how I would want to meet someone; a fellow loner in a depressing restaurant bar, drinking something with a two-part name and reading a book by someone with a three-part name.

To return to my point, in this bar/drink/book/waiting fantasy of mine I always order something that isn’t a beer, because when you are being as suave as imaginary me is being, you don’t order a beer. Whatever it is that I am ordering I hope it involves soda water because I want an excuse to buy a seltzer bottle and a bar cart. If I can’t have soda I sure as hell want soda water in a bitchin’ bottle. (Please see below.)

Yeah, I want this. Take note.

Yo Amo NY

Today is the first day of my tentatively amped up blogging schedule and I would like to note that I am dressed in a way that completely undercuts any attempt to make that sound like an ambitious statement. I know that I don’t usually discuss my writing attire here (it only accents how I will never will my secret dream of being a photo-a-day blogger) but it’s Sunday and as mentioned previously, I am notoriously lazy on the weekends. So, space cadets, to my attire and beyond.

I am seated at my computer desk in a pair of flannel pants, an oversized shirt that reads “Yo Amo NY,” a robe and some slippies. This is not what I usually wear when I blog, or for that matter, what I am usually wearing at 6: 45 on a Sunday night. But tonight is a strange night because today was a strange day; I attended and overdressed for a livestock show today and this, coupled with having a hurried meal at an Applebee’s off of the freeway in Lodi, made me eager to shower.

I stand fully behind the logic of my fashion choice for the evening, but the fact that blogging in my slippies requires mention unearths an entirely different issue. Slippers and blogging go together like biskits and gravy, no? Perhaps for your normal well-adjusted blogger (haha….ha), pj-bloggin’ is a fact of life. That is not, however, the case for me.

I read an essay by Sarah Vowell earlier this week in which she defended her decision not to drive a car by saying that her joy as a journalist didn’t often require her to wear shoes, let alone drive. This passage stuck in my mind because it so keenly contradicted all of the self-help-y stuff that I have read about writing in the last six months – most of the Dear Abbys in the world instruct getting fully dressed everyday to secure productivity, and some of the more romantic suggest that you are getting dressed to honor the art form that you practice; thus I pull on my jeans, socks, and sneakers everyday to honor pounding in frustration at my keyboard. I brush my hair to honor peeks sneaked at my email and I iron my blouses because I don’t want these blog posts to know that they are hours stolen from the golden gauntlet of billable projects.

I am going to shore this sucker up because I have a lot of work to get done tonight, whatever my wardrobe might be suggesting about me. I just caught a glimpse of myself in the yellow-framed mirror hung opposite my desk; I was shuffling back into the office with a water bottle, hair wet and slippers fuzzy, the tails of my robe dragging on the carpet behind me. Although this is probably the last time that I will ever blog thus, I encourage you to picture me writing every blog in this exact fashion.

Why would you spell "biscuit" like 'biskit"?

Two points today, one is sort of somber and the other is the usual frivolous tomfoolery that I have convinced the internet to indulge me in. I should probably be devoting a greater part of this post to somber concerns since I spent the better chunk of the weekend at a memorial service, but that would smack of chronological relevance and I certain can’t have that.

One comment about memorial services though, before I forget and move along to equally irrelevant discussions. On the drive home my main squeeze and I stopped for dinner at a brew house and discussed our respective funerals. We both decided that people would be hard-pressed to think of nice things to say about us and that we didn’t want to put anyone to the trouble of fiction; ergo, we probably shouldn’t have funerals.

Admitting the attractiveness of not having a funeral is a funny thing when you take into account how popular the funeral fantasy is among teenaged girls. I know it seems crazy at first-glance, but it isn’t actually that morbid. I did this, and while I don’t paint myself as the model of mental health, most of my friends did this also. You merely imagine the reaction to your great tragedy and enjoy the professions of affection that are heaped on your coffin/hospital bed. If you can manage it, feel free to throw in a plot twist that means your death secures your revenge on that chick from second period.

Honestly, I’m not making this up. Most teenaged girls think more about what would happen at their funeral (or better yet, if they were hospitalized in some serious but attractive way) than they do about Twilight, and that’s saying something.

I am going to move along to discuss what I intended to discuss today, first the somber thing and then the cheerful thing so that everyone leaves on a high note. The somber discussion is a another reflection on the class that I’m taking. Yesterday we all had to rewrite a boring story and then read it aloud to the class so that we could understand how personal voice/detail make an essay. I liked this exercise in theory, but I hate reading aloud with a fiery passion, so the whole process made me glum.

For the first few minutes of the read-along I couldn’t listen because I was too busy being nervous and later I was distracted by my profound relief, but I eventually started listening to people reading their stories. I’m glad that I did because listening to other people read their work always reminds me that putting words into sentences isn’t a particularly difficult task – not nearly as difficult as I make it out to be. I putter and struggle with words and sentences and (above all) having the motivation to sit still and focus without succumbing to the many temptations of the internet. (Today I am doing fairly well. Or I was. I am running out of self control.)

Anyway, it is always humbling and motivating to know that putting ideas together is an easy thing.

So here is the joyful thing that I promised to bring this whole situation to a cheerful close. My question for people who make popsicles for a living: Why do you bother to put jokes on the sticks with the answer embedded in the frozen juice? Do you think that kids need more motivation for eating popsicles? You are just throwing away incentives on kids who love nothing more than a drippy dessert. Save your jokes for something that people hate, like the bottom of a box of Chicken in a Biskit.

Same goes for you, Mr. Cracker Jack.

As a point of interest I might be changing my blog quota to 3 X a week, throwing Sunday in the mix. I hate doing actual work on Sundays but I always find writing on Mondays so shocking that I figure that I shouldn't late my brain completely atrophy over the weekend anymore. I know what you are thinking and yes, I do think that this blog helps rather than accelerates the degradation of my brain. If not the writing then trying to remember how to keep this sucker for being double spaced and ragged-right....all ragged-right alignment is a blight on humanity.

A More Terrible Metaphorical Monstrosity

I know that it is silly for a person who usually only works five hours a day to make any claim of being rushed, but I felt distinctly rushed last night. I got off of work at 5 p.m. (after that arduous and aforementioned five hours of work) and after wasting a hefty chunk of the afternoon chatting, lanyard-free, in the foyer of my workplace, I made my way home. Once there I ate two hastily constructed burritos, slung my messenger bag over my shoulder and moseyed to class.

No one is surprised, I’m sure, at the length and detail that I employing in describing my evening, but those impatient sorts should be heartened because I am about to reach my point. When I got to class I dropped into my seat, brushed a few mysterious capsules (pills? breath mints?!) off of my desk and felt a very familiar feeling settle over me. The moment that my ass hit that spinning chair, an internal timer blinking “3 hours” instantly assumed the foreground of my mind; the count down to dismissal had begun.

This isn’t a particularly deep revelation, I know. The countdown mentality is no rarity in our society of mulitaskery and especially in my personal demographic of cubicle peons. Who hasn’t sat at their desk imagining the giant timer, ticking off seconds? (The timer, of course, never reflects actual time as we know it. It moves with terrible speed or deliberate slowness and probably reflects our eventual mortality.) When we have too much to do we race against a clock that seems to be ticking away minutes out of spite and we begrudge any task that can’t be completed in that allotted time; by contrast, when we want to go home every minute takes hours for the timer to shed.

So, okay, I’m rehashing all of the problems of the modern workplace and though I enjoy that topic immensely, I’m going to jump ship. My intent in writing this was not to open fire on society, but rather to discuss my reasons for voluntarily taking a class (and paying a hefty amount for the book) and waiting with bated breath for it to end. I don’t have any degree hanging in the balance and my mom is never going to find out if I skip.

I think that this might just be the way that I have learned to attend class. I was an enthusiastic student, an eager beaver in academic waters, but I was never afflicted with a desire for a class to go on longer than its allotted time. I liked learning, the chairs were pretty comfy and I didn’t have anywhere else to be but still I wanted to be dismissed. I sat and waited to leave, my senses dulled by the noisy air conditioned breezes universal to classrooms, in the exact same fashion that I did last night. Canceled classes are still beautiful things and I’m looking forward to having President’s Day off next week.

I don’t know if it is a strange manifestation of rebelliousness or some larger and more terrible metaphorical monstrosity, but the countdown to the end of class is back. Whether or not I have actually missed going to school is going to be measured by the pace of its imaginary ticking because there is no other constant where classes are concerned.

Lofty Aims (and not the messenger)

Today I was writing on the topic of romantic preoccupations and the way that they are used to shield us from actually getting any work done and I had a most unpleasant realization. I was typing cheerfully, tongue-in-cheek, brutalizing the foolish ideas that I held as a youngster about artistic work and it occurred to me that I had just finished a romantic shielding ritual of my own.

I was about to sit down at my computer (after several little procrastination techniques: g-chatting with the b.f., reading the news, orange juice) when I reached, almost subconsciously, to grab a book of essays that I had left on the table and quickly finished the one that I was reading. This was only a lapse of about 15 minutes but I find it very unnerving in hindsight and so will discuss the miniscule event at length. Here I am, writing about the way the way that I used to fixate on finished-product fantasies to avoid the terrible fear of getting started on anything, and I actually put off working on my essay by reading another essay – a finished essay by a skilled writer. That is a finished-product fixation if I’ve ever heard one.

So what is the point of this diatribe? Mostly I am writing it to blow off the steam accumulated as a resulting of finding that although I am writing about the foolish habits of myself in tones of haughty self realization, I am exhibiting the same unproductive behaviors. The problem with the finished-product fixation, of course, is that you never start anything and therefore you never realize the finished product that you have long fantasized about. It’s a technique for eluding the obnoxious parts of reality, the possibility of failure and ect.

I read an article on grit once (Is it a learned trait? All of the richest people in the world have grit in abundance!) and I’m pretty sure that I don’t have it. I’m an alright person; I have somewhat lofty aims and a good enough work ethic when I work for someone else but I’m not amazingly ambitious or driven. Because of this I have to be on my guard against unproductive habits like the finish-product fixation.

And to close, something entertaining, because I’m sure no one clicked on this link in hopes of seeing my personal procrastinator demons laid bare. My main squeeze and I hung up a clothesline in our kitchen because we want to feel like a early 20th century immigrant couple living in a tenement apartment. Lofty aims, indeed.

I fall into the bipedal train wreck category

Anyone who knows me is aware that I have certain masochistic tendencies when it comes to movies and television. I only like things that are either absolutely fantastic or incredibly, heart-wrenchingly bad. I am completely indifferent to things that are so-so; I could live without shows that are mildly touching or occasionally funny and movies that worldly but so boring that people actually notice the soundtrack. My tastes are suited for either a masterpiece or a train wreck and nothing in between. (As a personal note, I also apply this philosophy to my friends and associates. Now look within your heart and decide whether you fall into the category of sublime humanity or bipedal train accident.)

The above paragraph, like most of things that I say on this blog, is really just a fanciful disclaimer for what I am about to reveal. Over the last week I have watched – somewhat regularly but always while multitasking, I assure you – a time travel period piece that did a serious molestation job on Pride and Prejudice.

I know, I know. I take any chance that I can get to make jokes about Austen acolytes and here I am hypocritically streaming an off-brand miniseries. Give me a break, it’s not like I’m reading those saucy P&P continuation books, the main purpose of which is to explore the sexual inclinations of the dynamic duo. Actually, I just searched for some of these sequels on Amazon to make sure that I was right about the saucy thing and I discovered one called The Darcys and the Bingleys: The Tale of Two Gentlemen’s Marriages to Two Most Devoted Sisters in which Darcy gives Bingley a copy of The Kama Sutra. Win to me.

In spite of this saucy Austen gunk, no one with a fondness for awful period pieces could have turned down something listed as “Lost in Austen.” Add time travel complicated by the fact that the travel is transporting the character into a fictional realm (another favorite convention of mine) and I couldn’t stop myself.

I guess that’s enough quibbling. I watched the damn thing and it was a marvelous, horrible experience that touched the evilest parts of my soul. The main chick, let’s call her Present-day Austenite, is in love with the fictional Darcy and her strong emotional connection with the novel opens a portal in her bathroom into the world of the novel. (Yes, this is explanation that is given. No pseudo-science or mysticism. Just pure, icky, emotions.)

Things only got more awesome. Present-day chick and Elizabeth Bennet switch places and Present-day chick is able to live out her fantasy of being in love with Darcy. There is an erroneous marriage (resolved eventually through a mysterious lack of consummation) and the obligatory time-travel recovery scene, where the Present-day chick finally becomes acclimated to the time period and learns to use a fan properly. [Fans are the go-to social barrier for time travel movies. Is there a male equivalent for this? Is it sword fighting?] Darcy then travels to modern times, where he is confused by television and anyone who isn’t white!

I won’t gush anymore about the hideousness of the entire affair but I will spoil the ending. The Present-day chick stays with Darcy and the movie closes on a time travel make-out scene (exactly identical to her frequently-referenced fantasies) in front of a mansion. Bam! Time travel neatly concluded, with no discussion of how the alternate reality came to exist or whether she should return to her own time and family.

I can only think of one way that this miniseries could have ended better. If the make-out scene turned into a woodcut illustration and the camera zoomed out to reveal that the woodcut was actually a page in P&P, I would have wept with joy. You can just imagine the rest; the pages would flip in some imaginary breeze and the cover would slam closed on the greatest time travel/alternate reality, low budget period piece ever told.

Wishing that "drang" was a word

It may not come as a surprise, but I am definitely lame enough to make New Years resolutions. (I am realizing, belatedly, that I will be posting this directly above the “Best of” list, a sure indicator that I both think of, and geek out over, the end of a year.) My resolution this year was to be more productive, especially in my writing, but also in my overall lifestyle. And until today, I was doing alright.

I won’t jump out onto any limbs here and say that I was doing awesomely but I was doing alright. I was getting things done, waking up on time, and writing my required 1000 words a day. I was even endeavoring to read about grammar in the evenings. I wasn’t proud of myself, mainly because no one should be proud of themselves for achieving the basic thresholds of productivity, but I also didn’t want to punch myself in the face. And then I woke up this morning.

This morning I got out of bed, felt no usual fatigue or hunger and sat down at my computer with good intentions and the remainder of the burrito that I had for dinner last night. But despite my aforementioned good intentions, the words wouldn’t come out properly. This can be attributed in part to my lack of forethought; I like to know what I am going to write about the night before so that I can give it a good subconscious mulling over. But once I had settled on a mildly promising topic I couldn’t get more than 500 words down. My brain felt absolutely gluey and I conceded that today would be the day that I felt less-than-dandy about the results of my resolution. The words came slowly; the came sentences incompletely, and the corrections seemed insurmountable.

I know that these problems are always problems of perspective and not actually insurmountable, but it’s still a substantial drag. And like most drags (as in outmoded slang for “lame” not dressing in drag), this one stresses me out. Not accomplishing enough during the week stresses me out because without doing so I do not feel entitled to my weekend, and lacking that feeling of entitlement, I can’t relax outside of the burning glare of my own…um…glare. And stress makes me worry that I will soon get grey hair. (Really: I almost thought that I saw some the other day. Thankfully it was discovered to be stray sour cream.)

Moving away from melodramatic exclamations and toward our usual fare of uninteresting personal tidbits, I was considering whether I should write this post as a sort of grateful farewell to the holidays, which to my dismay having rather taken center stage around here lately, for yet another year. Of course I decided against that in my eagerness to air my discomfort regarding my New Years resolution, but it was a strong contender.

I suppose it makes me finally a full-fledged adult to admit that the holidays are stressful and not just a blur of fun and sticky peppermint fingers. But now they are over and we can retire our company smiles, our tinsel, and our special seasonal ulcers for another year.

As a note of general interest, I have written 532 words in the above paragraphs, only slight more than I would have needed to write earlier in order to fulfill my dream of being a semi-productive member of society. What, I repeat, a g.d. drag.

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.

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.