Sandal Season

It might be silly to write this while it’s raining, but I am willing to overlook present circumstances in my enthusiasm for the big picture. It is sandal season and I’ve got a giant blister on my right heel to prove it…a blister from the pair of brown faux-Pocahontas flats that I was wearing in protest of sandal season.

(Always a mistake to wear cheap, plastic flats when you plan on being sweaty. Not that anyone ever plans on being sweaty, but you know what I mean. )

Man, do I hate sandal season. I like the first part of spring alright, when the sun is just warm enough to make the sidewalk pleasant to stand on and during that 3-weeks of green before everything burns to a dull brown, but I hate the summer. I hate the heat and the way that the sun reflects off the stupidly clean bumpers of the other cars on the freeway. I also hate how I never got around to getting prescription sunglasses when I had eye coverage and how little kids giggle at the way I wear my over-sized sunglasses over my regular ones. There are few things about summer that I don’t hate, and for a long time I assumed that was why I hated sandals.

But recently when I fixed the compulsive gaze of my brain on the many sandals that fill my workplace, it occurred to me that my hate for sandals is an entirely different issue. I don’t like sandals because they are so god-awfully casual and because I have never been able to affix my affections to casual things. I don’t like sandals for the same reason that I don’t like shorts or plans that involve “texting you when I get there”: beneath my attempts at being a bra-burning liberal I have a rigid, propriety-loving soul.

I love people who are overly formal and things that are structured – maybe that’s why I suck so thoroughly at being self-employed. I like people who wear slips under lined dresses and own completely needless business cards. And thus, I hate sandals, the shoes that promote foot nudity.

Or maybe it’s just because I have such pale, fishy feet. Either way, it's going to be a long, blistery summer.

just-for-show guy

I know that I have been writing a lot about work lately but, regrettably, I haven’t been doing much else and I have no intention of straining my brain over possible topics. I have considered just joining some Twitter-list of handy daily free-write topics and just stealing the hell out of those, but I have something of a soul left in me. And to prove it I will delight you get again with a tail from my working days that I found v. amusing. (Other things I find amusing: using “v.” as a replacement for “very.”)

So a few nights ago I was working the evening shift at work and it was fairly dead. Because of this relative deadness, I was able to pay close and special attention to a couple that came in and caught my (admittedly roving) eye. The couple consisted of an older woman in her 50s, dressed snappily in a pants suit and a weird just-for-show kind of scarf, with her glasses dangling from a fake-gold chain around her neck, and Some Guy. This incredibly regular guy was in his late-20s or eary-30s, wore cargo shorts and a striped polo and had a slight comb-over and some douchey hemp bracelet.

I should note that this couple caught my eye for two reasons. The first is that I have began making a study of the way middle-aged ladies dress because my job requires me to cater to them in a clothing sense, and because I see a wide range of classiness. I’m a plain jane sort, but I have noticed that plain jane middle-aged ladies have a real haggard look about them – it’s a strange combo of no make up, yoga-pants-and-fleece-pullovers, and low ponytails. I worry that when I’m wandering an outlet mall in my 40s, sipping water from a Starbucks cup, I’m going to look just as weary. So I stare at them.

The second reason that I took to this couple was that their relationship was so ambiguous. The man seemed too old to be shopping with his mom (lie!) and too young to be romantically involved with her, but they were obviously very comfortable together. She was holding clothes up to his neck, which is familiar and gross in the extreme.

Anyway, the couple picked out a few things and eventually made their way to the register. I went to ring them up and the lady started chatting.

“It is his birthday,” she said, indicating the man beside her. “And if I don’t take him shopping then he won’t buy any new clothes.”

I knew from the way the man blanched, which was not in the oh-wife-you-are-so-chatty-with-sales-girls way but in acute embarrassment, that this must be his mom. Only a mom can bring so much distress to an individual with such a short statement. I took her credit card and nodded blandly to disguise my delight.

The receipts rolled out of the machine and the man refused to meet my eye as I gave the coupon spiel. His mom stopped for a moment and discussed them. Where, she wondered, could she pick up something nice for herself? I pointed out a likely store on a map.

“I’ve been shopping for this one all day,” she said pointing at her son and throwing an exaggerated wink over her shoulder. She made her way towards the door and the man followed slowly behind with the bags.

“You have a good birthday,” I called and watched him hunch further. This guy obviously wanted to sink straight into the multi-colored tile of the outlet mall courtyard. What an undignified way to go.

The whole thing made my g.d. day.

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.

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.

The Mall of America is the worst part of Minn.

A few months ago I hastily proclaimed (I don't like to proclaim unless in haste, I make all of my well-meditated announcements discreetly) that I would forevermore buy all of my clothing on the internet.

Now, possessing the wisdom of two additional months and a few ill-fitting and downright strangely colored shirts, I am taking it back. I know I should pause here to denounce unfounded decision making and sudden personal policies, but I won't and for a single reason: it seemed like such a great idea at the time.

Buying things online means no more going to the mall. And I seriously abhor the mall. I mean, who would guess that a place smelling so heavenly of doughy over-sized pretzels could be so heinous? I suspect that my least favorite part of the mall (aside from the obvious high population of intimidating teenage mobs sulking about) is the way that a person's true personality will reveal itself during the exercise of walking the mall corridors. For some alpha personality types, walking the mall is like parting a sea of humanity with their double-wide stroller. For a squeamish sort like myself, the mall is all about false-start walking and dodging out of the way.

And so the internet seemed a perfect solution. Though by no means a spectacularly proportional specimen of humanity, I figured I was familiar enough with the S, M, L, XL system to wing it over the web. Having done more complicated things over the internet (e.g., banking, cellphone bill, buying bird feeders during the holiday season) I thought myself well qualified.

However, the other day I bought a shirt that I thought look cleverly like a sack, but when it arrived it looked like a simple non-ironical sack. And thus I may be heading back to the mall, that isolated hell dimension perched on the edge of an enormous parking lot.

Do people still send memos?

Memorandum to all rockabilly kids:

Stop putting cherries on everything that I want to buy. It's really freaking me out.

This space pod seats four.

I’m going to preface this entry by warning you (yes, you, oh boundless internet) that it might seem at first like I’m going somewhere meaningful and sentimental with all of this nonsense. I assure you, without the smallest shadow of a doubt, that I am not.

Somewhat deep people are always jawing on trying to define all manner of loaded, biblical-type words. Specifically I’m thinking of such arbitrary concepts as “right” and “wrong” or (to their friends) “good” or “evil.”

Lately I have been assaulted repeatedly with these terms over the pressing issue of wedding-reception-invitee-etiquette. [I feel by just typing that phrase my blog is going to get twice the hits. Internet fiends watching bootlegged anime are nothing compared to the sheer googling prowess of the prospective bridal class.]

Certain members of my family, being left nameless out of gaping obviousness, seem to feel that the rules of wedding attendance are so fundamental that they are completely warranted in using the cliché (and yet, so effective) guilting phrase: “Do the right thing.”

And to this I apply a basic theorem. There is nothing so serious in the implications of inviting to people to eat cake on your dime to provoke such severe language. I’m not perfecting the guest-list for the last space pod leaving earth as a fiery-hot comet draws increasingly near.

In my perception there are good things in the world (the BBC television series All Creatures Great and Small being available to stream online) and also bad (attentive salespeople).

So unless it’s about the crack-fiends at the mall, the BBC or the aforementioned space pod, I don’t want particularly wish to be saddled with the fate of personal morality.

Out of practice, in a hurry

If I ever got it into my head that I was going to write some scathing and hip-ish novel about the real suburban youth, I would have plenty of terrible scenes to pepper it with.

Not that I’m not tired of people trying to tell me (statistically, artistically, televistically) that the ‘burbs are about the roughest place to live. I recently fled my midtown apartment for the suburbs, and let me tell you: it’s not nearly as hard-core as the WB primetime teen line-up wants you to believe. Another lie from that stupid dancing frog with the top-hat (Am I dating myself a little much here? Viva Roswell. )

These people aren’t plotting and adulterous; these people have garages. And people with garages have plenty more to do than enable their druggy, inevitably promiscuous and so terribly jaded teenagers. They can stand in their garages. And I simply won’t believe that anyone who can wash their clothes without having to hike a few blocks could really be unhappy enough for any real wrong-doing.

To return to my point (and make a quick exit to more sociable waters), I have the perfect scene for my scathing hipster comedy. Within this scene the protagonists go down to the drug store and hang out, wandering down all of the aisles and feeling the shoe-inserts.

Whatever spazoid came up with Napoleon Dynamite wishes he’d thought of that one. And probably also wishes that his lasting legacy wasn’t a bunch of twenty-something’s in ski boots over emphasizing the word “Gosh.”

Does double-sided wrapping paper qualify as environmental?

Being full of humbuggery, I guess I will continue my previous (and oh so premature) railing against holiday specialty items. Don’t freak out, I promise that I won’t talk about the early appearance of Santa statues in the Walmart during September or rattle on about the quantification of the holiday season and the real meaning of Christmas.

Oh no, secularize away, holiday season. I‘ll be at home polishing my “Happy X-Mas” Hanson CD and watching the neighbors put up those massively hideous inflatable snowmen on their balmy arid-plant landscaped front yards. But despite the fact that I was raised in a home where every holiday is stripped down to its most base gift-giving manifestation, I can’t help but quail when confronted with grade-school kids selling wrapping paper out of catalogs.

A co-worker placed a catalog suggestively on my desk today while pitching the yearning desire of an offspring to be a classroom best seller. She knew, she claimed, that I was a bit young for buying expensive wrapping paper and probably hard up for cash. Helpfully, she suggested the multi-purpose gift bags.

Since my day has been very slow, I have had no choice but to browse the catalog and ponder. (It’s a widespread weakness for magazines and catalogs…I love the Skymall.) After all, I couldn’t take the chance that sandwiched between the Elegant Rhinestone Picture Frames and multi-level candle holders there was something that I might need.

Like a tote-bag that has clear pockets on the outside were I can arrange my photos for display.

To conclude, (and one must conclude so as to commence furious working) one question haunts me: will I ever evolve into such a domestic and well-adjusted adult that I will be comfortable buying something costing 10 dollars and labeled “Item: 0226. ‘Ready, Set, Snow!’ Snowman Roll”?

Machines: both laundry and vending.

Today I wasted the best handwriting of my life on the word “laundry.”

Usually my handwriting is terrible, with r-looking n’s and overly upright f’s and b’s. But today when I casually decided to make a list on the back of a window envelope with the company logo emblazoned on it, I spontaneously achieved flawlessly casual cursive.

And I am pissed (understandably, I warrant). If I had this one beautiful handwriting sample deep within the bowels of my fingers, why would I waste it on the word ‘laundry’? In my glee I tried to immediately continue my list with hopes to achieve the same penned majesty, but every other item came out in my typically spacey writing. I’m certain it’s gone forever.

Speaking of things that anger me unreasonably, I’m going to dabble in a little economic theory for a moment. I’ve always been one for chaffing my nose on the proverbial grindstone, and so I go to work everyday and make some small packet of monies. And with this money I buy goods and gas and lament like everyone else that prices are rising and especially that the job market is shitty, given my particular circumstance of job-searching.

“Yes,” I think to myself as I cruise along in my lumbering vehicle, listening to every moronic radio commercial blaring the word CRISIS into my ear. “Gas is hideously expensive.”

I absorb this daily and reaching back into the recesses of my brain I remind myself of what inflation means, and what a widget is, and how that the invisible hand is not just another creepy Kevin Bacon movie.

And yet, when I went yesterday to the vending machine at my work place to buy a Milky Way, I was enraged to find that it cost 90 cents. Vending machine inflation is the worst of all. I don’t want to hear any more pansies whining about gas prices; we should just thank our lucky stars that our cars don’t run on delightful caramel.

I would like to say that paying ninety cents for a Milky Way is the worst vending machine experience that I’ve ever had, but unfortunately I have a long history of ugly vending machine encounters. I’m thinking specifically of an instance in during last spring quarter when I was refused my Skittles by a vending machine in a crowded section of Wellman hall. [Characteristic comment on spell checking: Skittles is a word? Really?] I decided to forgo the generally futile and noisy attack on said vending machine, and consoled myself by muttering profanities and slinking away into a nearby lecture hall.

A few minutes later I was seated in the lecture and reading the newspaper (I miss you, free news-print and terrible comics), when a girl silently approached me with a package of Skittles held in front of her. In confusion, I reached out my hand to receive them, wondering frantically if I should have any idea who this chick was. And here is the most mysterious bit of all: after handing me the Skittles, she didn’t offer any explanation or even giggle nervously as I would have, but walked straight back out the door. Just like a guardian angel of artificial fruit flavoring.

That, my friends, is a truly freakish vending machine experience.
As a final point: I’ve been working my way through A Passage to India, (motivated by my love for A Room with a View) and feel a great suspense. It has morphed into one of those court-dramas that hinges on racism, and I always find those sorts of plots most distressing. A similar weakness hinders my reading of slave narratives and led to my refusal of all war tales and holocaust memoirs for cheeky comedies of manners.

I would never go near the Amazon river.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you make money on a Denny's franchise?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very patriotic apothocary at work.

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