In which I list the names of the drug stores that I visited

I’ll warn you right now; this is going to be a boring one. It’s going to be one of those warbling, pointless entries where I talk about my favorite boring things, like shampoo brands and deodorant scents. I’m a creepily domestic person and I know it well.

So here’s the dealio: After an evening spent grubbing on enchiladas and house hunting, my live-in person and I went off to run a few errands. It was a fairly boring affair; we needed conditioner and deodorant and I was willing to spring for some face wash and a brand-spankin’ new loofah if the price was right. Despite our scant list and our pedestrian (oh, so pedestrian) taste in beauty products, we went to 3 different stores before we were able to find what we were looking for. I’m disappointed in Target, CVS, and Walgreens today.

As it turns out, both my husband’s deodorant and my conditioner are being phased out. Phased out! Replaced under a guise of “new and improved,” as though the science of hair-care and smell-reduction weren’t already fully formed sciences. I was finally able to find my conditioner at Wal-Mart in a new snazzy (aerodynamic?) bottle, but my best pal had to choose a new brand of deodorant. I won’t succumb to the terrible temptation and point out that having to pick a new deodorant is the pits.

Puns aside, I really sympathize with my main squeeze; I’ve been using the same brand of deodorant for years. (Hint: It’s the same brand as my shampoo and conditioner. As a smell-impaired person I like to think that means all of my fragrances “match.”) And getting a new brand is stressful. In fact, I might just come out and say that deodorant itself is pretty g.d. stressful.

I remember when I first started wearing deodorant, around the time that I turned 12. From the beginning it was a fetching symbol for the murky underside of the adolescence that I was trying like the dickens to suppress; I kept my stick in my bedroom and put it on before I changed from my pjs. (Disclaimer: I swear I’m not alone in this freakish preoccupation...When I was a teenager I had a friend who stored hers in a decorative wooden box to conceal it from her brothers.)

After a few years I got over this fear and started leaving my stick in the bathroom cabinet and putting it on after I changed, trading those awkward side-of-shirt deodorant smears for small white flecks on the collar of my crewnecks. I started to take a little pride in my deodorant and the glandular regularity that necessitated it. I consider myself an avid and enthusiastic deodorant user now, but that doesn’t mean I want to go switching brands willy-nilly. When I finally switched from the brightly colored Teen Spirit sticks to my current staunchly white and powdery stick the transition was difficult and I have no care to repeat the process.

There were benefits, though. For one, I no longer smell like a pack of sweaty Skittles.

Strolling

I think I am getting into the habit of writing these things right before I leave for work in the morning and therefore giving the impression that I am always either at work or thinking long, dreary thoughts about work. And that is not the case. I often think long dreary thought about a number of topics. Currently I am thinking a couple of long dreary thoughts about buying houses. (I don’t know if I have mentioned that we are considering buying a house on here yet; if not, surprise!) It’s a shocker to find that after years of looking at tiny one-storey houses that you feel oddly seduced by a two-storey house. Woe to the real estate agent that must conduct us to a 750 square-foot house and a 1,200 square-foot house in the same day.

But I am also thinking dreary thoughts about the feeling this morning when I opened my kitchen door to let the dog out. It was about 7:40 and cool out, but the coolness had a feeling of brevity – I could feel the insane hotness looming just beyond the shade. I felt it when I opened the bathroom window this morning and when I turned on the dusty fan last night. Summer is coming in all of its sweaty, grimy, glory. And when it gets here I’m going to take off my sneakers and be cranky until it retreats.

I was thinking about summer the other day when I was sitting in my car on my lunch break. It was windy outside, but warm enough in the car and after I’d eaten my lunch I felt like taking a nap. To distract myself I watched the cars and the people trouping past my windshield. First, there were a whole lot of them (both people and cars) and they all seemed so shiny in the sun – hubcaps and steel bumpers were reflecting the glare off of reflective plastic strollers, bug-eye sunglasses, and embellished flip-flops.

It wasn’t like the many lunch breaks that I spent in my car during the winter. Since I’ve been working retail the weather has been mostly daunting; people fled from their cars to the Baby Gap overhang with newspapers and purses held over their heads. Watches were checked, lunch hours were maximized and people kept their plump calves and boney feet concealed in weather-appropriate clothing.

But last week people weren’t just shopping, they were making a g.d. day of it. They were strolling and worse yet, they were strolling with strollers. I remembered, idly, that when I was a young teenager my friends and I used to convince our parents to drop us off at the outlet mall for the sheer change of scenery. We would wander, penniless, from place to place admiring toe-socks and platform sandals. Sometimes we pooled our money and bought matching Sailor Moon shoelaces.

In light of this, I’m pretty sure that it is going to be a real ugly summer.

Heathens for Easter

I forgot to blog yesterday, thus marking the end of my most successful New Years resolution EVER. I might have slacked on a lot of other things (being neater, being more productive, and drinking more water) but I was totally on the ball where my blog was concerned. And the failure is all the more alarming because I had a totally classy topic picked out: cheese whiz.

I wanted to write about cheese whiz because I used to eat it a lot; it was the kind of thing that we never had laying around the house but that my mom always put in my Christmas stocking and care packages. Now, it’s no secret that I like cheese in general. And cheese that can be manipulated with one hand while reading is my favorite kind.

That said, I don’t eat cheese whiz too often anymore. I never made a conscious decision not to eat it; it just sort of turned out that way. I’d love to say it is because I married someone who doesn’t take kindly to eating preservatives and under his tutelage I have changed my food-sinner ways, however, in addition to making me seem like a quitter, that’s blatantly untrue. Mainly it’s just expensive and I’m cheap.

Anyway, I had some cheese whiz on Monday of this week because my mom put some in my Easter basket. (That’s right, my mom still makes me an Easter basket. Every holiday is fundamentally an excuse to give gifts in my family. Sometimes they involve beer. Heathens for Easter!) I’ve never been one for turning down some free ‘whiz, so I squirted it onto a couple crackers while scoping out my blogs. It was pretty damn amazing.

The more amazing thing, however, is the feeling of strange shame that comes from eating cheese whiz alone in your home. I’m sure that the feeling of shame would be more pronounced if you were eating it in public; however, the alone-eating shame was pretty profound. It sort of made me wish that I wasn’t reading the blog of some emotionally turbulent teenager who loves to make bland “Life is Nothing”-statements. In a certain light (a glaring artificial light that made the most of the bright orange cheesy goodness), I might have seemed creepy.

lax scandal

Today is my scheduled day for posting on my blog and even though I was torturously brief last time around I suspect that I am going to do the same today. In addition to predicting brevity, I am going to open with a confession: since I didn’t plot out a topic today and because my day has been oddly uneventful, or full of events that I don’t fancy discussing here, I am going to completely wing it with regard to topic and pacing. As you can guess from the convoluted sentence preceding this one, things are likely going to be quite ugly. And yet, onward we go.

I am writing this blog from my office, a room called such because it holds all of my old furniture from my alone-living days. Really, this place is practically a re-creation of the room I had two apartments ago: the bed is along one wall, the bookcase is in the corner and the bulletin board is balanced precariously above the same ugly desk. I am writing in here today because I am making an effort to use this room, having previously been distracted by the wonders of the front room and recently tethered in here in order to use the internet. It is a nice room, although it takes to be much colder than the rest of the house, and I should use the space. We are scandalously lax about using spacing, since we are only two people living in a three-bedroom house.

Between this paragraph and the above one there was a break of several minutes while I tried to figure out for to send a picture from my phone to the computer. Those are two devices that I use everyday that continue to elude me. I was going to upload a picture that I have been meaning to get off of my phone, one of my dog’s stuffed beaver wearing sunglasses, and put it on here to cap off this lackluster post. And since a Google search of "beaver in sunglasses" yielded nothing entertaining, it looks like we only get a lackluster description to cap this sucker off!

blog ain't blog

Back in the job search saddle again. [An aside (already!): Speaking of saddles, I wish that I could get a job as a cow poke or a sheep herder or something low key (provided there isn’t a stampede or a blizzard) and reflective like that.] Don’t fear careful readers, I am still employed. I’m just exploring my options as I delicately explore the empty terrain of my wallet.

But this post isn’t about looking for jobs; it is about the things that we do to avoid looking for jobs. For me that includes the usual run of internet habits (instant messaging, looking at horses for sale on craigslist, blog reading), whining and recreational eating. But it also includes a giant time-suck that I don’t think that I have had occasion to mention yet on this here blogaroni. When I am procrastinating, I like to get on Etsy.com and search “prairie” without setting any parameters.

I could go on for hours about the sort of things that I consider buying in this procrasti-state but I don’t think you are interested in how I spent a few hours taking my dress measurements and wondering when one wears lace-and-calico arm sleeves. Instead I’ll just make this short and say that these fits of browsing assure me of several things.

First, they remind me how much I love the prairie, people of the prairie, and anything gingham. Secondly, they remind me that there are other people out there thinking about the prairie with a nostalgic glint in their eye and a sewing needle in their silly little hands. My new resolve is to meet these people. With any luck they won’t be some hardcore historical reenactors; they’ll just be a bunch of folks into drinking well water that comes in a bucket. And we’ll be best friends.

Prairie enthusiasts interested in forming a commune of houses that are not period-accurate but are crammed full of butter churns, enamel wash pans and tenement-style clotheslines can apply in the comment area below.

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.

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.

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:

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.

Old-town-of-work

Last week I went back to the town that I used to work in for the first time in over 6 months. Strange as it may seem, I felt oddly nostalgic for the surroundings of my old job, though not the actual building, my sentiments for which are recorded earlier in this very blog.

The creeping nostalgia began as I got on the I-5. After months of trolling up and down 50 and 80, I was struck by the recollection of crossing the causeway on foggy mornings, partially awake and very grumpy. Living in Midtown and working in Woodland was my first taste of commuting, and I hated it with every bicycle loving fiber of my being. And yet I caught myself thinking with near-fondness of my trial-and-error theories for selecting the best exits and routes.

I cruised into Woodland and observed the scenery during the long stop-lights at key intersections that I had resented so vehemently in bygone days. I was surprised to feel the first inklings of the strange exposed feeling that I get in my hometown Dixon, and to some degree, post-college era Davis. When I’ve lived somewhere and left it, I feel weirdly guilty, (or potentially just embarrassed) to be back there. Thus I shuffle with great stealth around the Safeway of my youth.

So I felt nostalgic about my old-town-of-work, and it was brought to my attention afterward that we might have lived there, if I had gotten that newspaper job back last September. (Remember kids, I didn’t get that job because my car alarm went off without cease in the parking lot for two hours, not because I was under-qualified). Probably in some raunchy duplex, making peanuts and writing Peanuts (the comic, because I think journalists in regional papers just write it themselves to save money).

What is the point of this tirade? Only that things are very strange, and I might have lived in a town that now makes me feel equal parts embarrassed and nostalgic.

Soda-Pop, minus Pony-Boy

Of all adolescent eating habits, I enjoy having a soda for breakfast most. On Saturday morning I popped open a Hansen's soda slightly before ten and settled with my laptop on the couch. My main squeeze, upon entering the living room, gave me a look to communicate his disapproval.

I held up my soda in defence and announced obtusely "Soda for breakfast."

My main squeeze, always more agile with the rejoiners in the morning than I, replied, "And diabetes for dinner."

And yet I still maintain that there is something awfully refreshing about drinking something cold, carbonated and distinctly sugary from an aluminum can before you are fully awake. But then I think a can of spray cheese and a Edwardian novel is the perfect evening.

Probably a dog calendar

My parents are coming to visit this weekend, and thus I have devoted no small amount of time to tidying my house. It's not like I have a spectacularly messy house (and I have lived in some spectacularly messy apartments, so I know the difference) but the house does seem to accumulate clutter very easily.

When I was younger I used to adore clutter, and would spend hours arranging my various clutter items on shelves. However, somewhere between here and there I got a bit more OCD about things, but because my clutter-gathering habits haven't changed, I now find myself with an alarming amount of crap stacked on every flat surface and an insatiable urge to tidy.

I will make this brief, because the vacuum is rebelling and I feel a little guilty pawing away at my computer while my indentured co-cleaner attempts

to fathom the mechanical innards, but I had a few random thoughts of note during the process.

Firstly I would like to voice my concern over buying furniture. Our house is filled with a variety of second hand and loaner items, the crown jewel of which is my rickety plaid loveseat. When I look around at the menagerie I wonder how a person could undertake the creative and fiscal responsibility of buying a set of furniture. I may be a lady, but charge me not with choosing a motif for my house.

My second point is in regards to photos on display. As any internet savvy procrastinator does, I rarely manage to print photos out physically. As a result of this coupled with an alarming lack of photogenic tendencies, our house is devoid of any pictures of the occupants together. And though I do think that pictures add to a certain quaintness, I think this might be nice. I don't want to look at me. Yetch. And I feel silly buying a frame to put myself in for my own looking enjoyment. So back to framing pictures ripped off of calendars.

Wasting paper on the internet

I think that there are few things worse than journals with the word “journal” on the spine. This in inexcusable, even when the cover itself is old and leathery looking and the clasp might be made from an authentic arrowhead from the French and Indian War.

I admit to being a little emotional about paper-goods at times. This derives partially from my overwhelming and completely groundless nostalgia, and partially from my own heady and youthful desires to be a writer.

In my mind (and this is the mind that seriously considered looking up butter churns on amazon earlier) writers wrote in stern leather-bound books with ribbons for bookmarks. And no writer of my imagination was very silly enough to want the word “journal” embossed sloppily on the spine in Century Schoolbook font and so I’ve felt compelled to disdain this idea myself.

This tirade might actually have a point. So lately I have been trying to write in a more serious sense, and failing very miserably. I feel drastically unmotivated after getting home from work, and then I just have fits over not accomplishing anything. Really, it’s quite a drag. And I weirdly (okay, hypocritically) despair over how I was so productive in college, when all day long I curse college kids and their term-paper style melodrama and their Snow-Hoes and Eskimos parties.

“If only they knew,” I think to myself sitting in traffic. “When you become a working person there is no such thing as a free newspaper.”

And so I find myself being falsely motivated by the sirens of the paper world. I think to myself that maybe if there was a journal that wasn’t totally obvious about being a journal that I would buy it and become instantly more motivated and prolific as hell and my handwriting would probably be improved by sheer proximity to the thing.

But I know that if I were to find the perfect journal I would still be flakey and my handwriting would still be sloppy and the lines would start curving down and wasting expensive paper space before long. Hardbound journals are the most depressing thing in the check-out aisle of Barnes and Noble.

Social network name dropping.

I divide my internet free time into three clean categories: stalking via blogs and social networking, reading liberal slant publications, and looking up horses to buy on craigslist. I have found, much to my utter disdain, that lately two of these have been overlapping beyond my level of comfort.

I won’t leave you guessing any longer than it takes to build a rudimentary level of suspense (A horse with a blog? Craiglist has a twitter?). I mean of course, that social networking sites have been gaining an alarming degree of legitimate mention in the press. I’ve been reading articles as of late that take great pains to praise Facebook as a serious and useful social networking source (the counter-argument being that it’s an unbelievable waste of time disguised in charming blue and white) to call out Facebook-outsiders as making a grave and damaging social statement. And when I happen to chance across an article that doesn’t list Facebook as subject matter, it often commits a more grievous crime by quoting a status-change or a twitter post as news.

To be clear: I love wasting time on the internet and when I’m not harping on about nothing on twitter I’m subduing my general angst with the calming blue-and-white of Facebook. But perhaps that’s why I find this sudden shift toward popular acceptance by what I would term “adult industries” like journalism so very disconcerting.

You see, in my prime Facebooking (I can verb it, I’m fb old school) years there was nothing legitimate in the least about social networking, beyond the sheer egotistical satisfaction of wracking up friends and drunken photo tags. In those days (let’s call it circa 2005) anyone over 25 on Facebook would have been branded an automatic creeper.

“Get back to myspace, you skeeze-bag,” the collegiate masses would have shouted metaphorically, rejecting this aged friend request with a practiced click.

Now, however, the actual news sites are covering the introspective quandaries of Facebook while I’ve got friend requests from three uncles sitting in my inbox. Man do I miss my youth.

So here’s the clincher for me, Facebook is a subject for satire, not for actual news because it’s damn ridiculous. Maybe I’ve penned too many “Caterday: Drink on Saturday” Facebook invites and spent too many hours perfecting my “Buffy Fandom” score to respect anyone who can reference it with a straight face. And I hope any journalist quoting twitter winces every time they attempt to sign in and get the little cartoon birdie proclaiming “Opps, technical error!” in its cutesy font.

Ask yourself, ladies and gents, whether you’re really taking a suped-up chat-room with photos and a “Poke” option seriously. If you aren’t interested in being taken seriously, just contact me using the Build-Your-Vampire-Army application, because I'm always looking to pad out my friend list.

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.

Humbuggery

Again I will dabble delightedly in clichés.

Boy do I hate Christmas music on the radio while I am driving around. Which is not to say that I hate Christmas music all together; I don’t mind it in the least when I’m trying to listen to it. But I like to groove in my car, and oftentimes the Christmas jams are too sanctimonious for grooving.

All of this whining does have a point, albeit a stupid one. Last night I was driving home and I turned on the radio, only to hear I Want to Wish You a Merry Christmas done by some sappy oldie-goldie beboppers. For years my go-to Christmas song has been Little Drummer Boy (so sue me; I like repetition). But I found myself awfully uplifted by this Merry Christmas song.

I’m awash in confusion; I don’t even know what Christmas means to me anymore. Probably it means something about egg-nog, but I’ve never had any of that.

I'm pro procrastination

I thought of a really great idea for my return to the blog arena last night when I was falling asleep. I quite clearly recall reminding myself to remember the idea, and repeating it to myself to be sure. Quite obviously, since I am biding my time here typing away, I definitely forgot about it.

Shamefully, I didn’t forget about my blog. I wish that I could say that I had forgotten about it and had since been happily cured of my internet amnesia, but really I’ve just been madly avoiding writing. I’ve considered it many times. I have been reminded oh-so-gently by my admiral boy-companion. There have been many days that I’ve been at work, staring in wonder at the automatic spring-operated Post-it dispenser and considering bloggish thoughts.

But instead of laboriously opening up a Word document, I have elected to do a mess of other things. Like getting my wisdom teeth removed and surrendering my face to the dread swell disease for a week. Or failing at job interviews and sobbing into my pleated skirt. Also procuring matrimonial engagements.

I would consider going on here, and whining about the obnoxious sweats-wearing cell-phone obsessed families in the waiting room (why is this a common theme in all waiting rooms?) or about how I want to read some fluffy news stories that aren’t at all about Obama, but I just can’t find any, but I think I’m going to stop here.

I would very much rather read this Fitzgerald story I am in the middle of, and continue my homage to the alter of procrastination.

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.

The "OF" Complex

Moving makes me feel awfully weird. And I am fairly certain that it is not just a shock reaction to the strain of lifting things (being the sort who writes primarily in cursive to avoid excessive lifting of the hand) but is instead the product of a more intangible funkiness.

[Aside: Man, I just can’t believe that “funkiness” is a real word. As I was typing it I was steeling myself to ignore the red line of Word, so ironically wiggly for representing the rigidity of spelling within the oppressive Word-world. And yet, no red line. I guess there is no other way to say “funkiness.” I could have said “a more intangible thing with elements of funk included.” I'm getting quite out of control, I know. Maybe I miss school.]

But back to moving. It’s entirely probably that I always get a little unhinged about moving because I yearn for the epic imagery of cheese-ball novels. In my youth I saturated my brain with books from the vast field of novels featuring sprightly young women as heroines in a more moral provincial past. Think covers of a “grass in motion” motif.

You know the sort of books I am talking about. The female version of your epic boy-and-dog tale, which often boiled down to girl-and-horse because no child in their right mind wants to read a book about a kitten. I was never happier than if these whippersnappers occasioned upon a horse that was untamable to all hard-hearted men-folk and easily won over by the offer of an apple or the playing of a fiddle, or maybe just automatically because the horse cleverly realized that he and this chick were similarly misunderstood by society, horses being great sociologists. The horse theme in this kind of literature is optional, but that stuff is gold. I could watch The Notebook about 30 times and never cry as hard as I would reading My Friend Flicka.

To return to my point (if I did indeed have one), these books warped my impressionable young mind and thus I suffer to this day from an “OF” complex. Oftentimes these books include the the name of the whimsical farm or region where the saucy young heroine lives in the title of the novel. Looking back, I guess it's possibly because these books frequently pushed a theme of ownership and home-making and the space that's being claimed is as important as anything else. And because it is important, it becomes important that you are “Of” there, to use the hokey phrasing. Hence the “OF"complex.

The prime Canadian example is the epic Anne of Green Gables series, featuring 8 whole books using the “Anne of whatever” title structure. But there is also American stuff like Rebecca of Sunnybook Farm. Or the Little House series, which doesn't state the OF so blatantly, but instead completely eradicates the main character Laura from the title and makes the House the constant [Farmer Boy excluded, ewww] and connects it with a series of “on” and “in”s. In short, the literature of my childhood taught me two things: tame a horse with some sugar cookies and a fiddle; and your home is a defining characteristic, or in some of the Wilder [ha..ha..] cases, more important than you altogether.

So moving makes me feel weird, because it deserves due consideration and weight. I spent many formative years (and long weekends in college) reading about people drawing their identity from their home and only conceding to leave their home in when sheer desperation left no other option or when dragged along by the cruel bitch of Manifest Destiny. Maybe I'm being too American today, but I can't help but want some sort of great gurgling reliance on my home. And although I adore my apartment to pieces, I wouldn't risk any sort of prairie fire to keep it, and I don't feel too bad leaving it.

Mostly I am nervous about my job interview tomorrow and rambling on insensibly.

Lucille Ball's secret, as told to me by a centipede.

It smelled today on campus like hot mud. That smell of mud that has been allowed to sit too long without nature's equivalent of refrigeration. That smell always reminds me of bees for some reason. Actually, not "some" reason, really two reasons.

Reason one is that when I was a sloppy barefooted youngster running amok (a-mud?) in my parent's orchard after a bout of irrigation, it always seemed that there were bees hovering near these particularly smelly, clear and shallow puddles. My solution to this was of course to stomp with great deliberation in the cool, clean mud in order to create a sole of mud on my foot to deter the bees from getting any ideas about stinging my under-foot. Hence hot mud smell = bees.

The second reason is a lot less down-homey. I recollect reading somewhere in my literary travels through the midwest that the solution to a painful bee sting is to slather it in clay. And since I got a flat B in geology way back in freshman year, clay is mud to me.

My day was relatively uneventful and glum, so I guess I will talk about what happened to me at school today. I suppose that I should have mentioned when undertaking my great blog revolution that I am absolutely shit at transitions, and so am likely to bellow on about school more than usual as good old card-board-hat-day approaches.

Today in my sociology class we were supposed to be talking about doing queer readings of straight texts, which mostly boils to reasoning out exactly why people were sure that Xena wanted to get with her sidekick, that chick who fought with a staff [non-phallic-ly]. What we actually did amounted to watching a centipede chase the professor around the room at a very slow clip. This devious centipede was prowling about the front space of the room, causing the professor to often stop her rant on why Lucy was in love with Ethel in order to shift slightly and place the podium between herself and those 100 legs of evil. This happened repeatedly throughout the hour and a half lecture until both the professor and the centipede had made several circuits of the podium. Noticeably no one offered to remove the offending bug. I certainly would have, if gloves and extra credit had been offered.

After some more education I tottered off to my internship where I amused myself for a long time color-coding my databases and pretending that the office was mine. I sometimes try to think of what my own office would be like. Would I go totally Spartan or would I display pictures of family and pals? Would I paste up comics torn from the newspaper and copied/enlarged? Or maybe particularly lol-ish forwarded emails where the punchline involves Hilary Clinton being somewhat harsh towards Bill Clinton in their domestic life?

These issues require greater consideration than I can now afford, since I should be reading a book about "Colonists, Christianity, and Community." The one thing that I know for sure is that when I have an office I will be 103% behind comedy mugs full of pens.