10-minute prep-time

Today didn’t start off very well. My alarm didn’t go off, there was traffic on the freeway, and through some acrobatic feat of rapid-tooth-brushing I managed to get a splodge of toothpaste on my jeans. But, on the other hand, the day didn’t start off too badly. My alarm didn’t go off, sure, but I got to work right on time, instead of doing like I usually do and getting there a few minutes early and driving the long way through the business park at 8 MPH. And a little splodge of toothpaste on your jeans is nowhere near as demoralizing as a splodge on your shirt. Yup, there was only way thing that could make or break this catastrophic but average day, and that was the investigation and evaluation of my alarm clock’s failure.

You see, today was the first day in the 12 years that I’ve had my alarm clock that it didn’t go off. It went off reliably through middle school when I had to get to the bus stop by 7:10, and in high school when I had a car and would set the alarm for 10 minutes before I had to leave. (A 10-minute prep time is perfectly possible for a teenaged girl. 1-2 minutes for pants and shirt, 1-2 minutes for teeth and hair, 3-4 minutes for finding shoes and agonizing over various zits, 1-2 for debating and deciding not to eat breakfast.) My alarm clock was a supremely reliable sort; it never failed me on early mornings when I had flights to catch, midterms to study for, or job interviews to be ever-so-slightly early for. It even indulged me for the many long years when I left the alarm on during the weekends for the pure joy of turning it off and going back to sleep.

I’m not exactly sure when I got the alarm clock, but I think it was around my 12th birthday. The clunky black plastic seems very 1998, and the sticky tape deck on the front panel matches that time period where CDs existed but cheap stereo companies were still trying to make the tape happen. Anyway, whenever it was, it was back in the time when buttons on electronics still stuck out of the main box of the item, before all of this touch-screen nonsense and the advent of inlaid, flush buttons. My alarm clock has a wire antenna that never works and an excellent sense of humor: I’ve started many hung-over mornings to the tune of Margaritaville.

I realize, in theory, that retiring an aging alarm clock might not be the worst thing. A person needs an alarm clock that can be relied upon to rouse them for work and most everyone I know has already switched to using their multi-purpose cell phone as an alarm. Finally, my alarm clock is old; the tape deck has to be pried open and there is dust between the buttons on that thing that isn’t ever coming off. It’s easy to believe that it might be giving out. Still, I feel bad getting rid of it – it was outdated practically before it came out of the box and I respect that.

Here’s to hoping that this morning was a fluke and that tomorrow will start off better --with a familiar screech from the black, dust-clogged speakers of an alarm clock that doesn’t come with a texting function.

I'm sure pretty I've never washed a window

I am trying to write and I find myself very distracted by the idea that we might be getting a house sometime soon. It’s not for certain; in all honesty it’s not even all that likely. But it is a possibility and I’m the kind of person who finds possibilities very distracting. (As an aside I’m also having trouble coming up with something to write about that doesn’t center on houses and nostalgia; I have a hunch that I should be reflecting more on the world at large instead of thinking about chickens and escrow.)

I was writing recently about how I never expected to be the kind of person who would buy a house. First and most dramatically, I never expected to be able to afford to buy a house and without the fortuitous (ha!) explosion of the market, I never would have in this sunny state. Secondly, I figured that house buying was for squares with, like, kids and Precious Moments figurines. As I’m light-years away from anything so domestic, I didn’t think that buying a house was in the cards.

But here’s the thing: I’ve always been obsessed with houses. I have that misguided impression that the coolness of your living situation rubs off on you and you must strive to find a home that expresses your personality. This is total crap, I know; the kind of emotional sloppiness that sends droves of post-collegiate scoundrels wandering towards the east coast each year. It’s shallow (and we’ve been over my profound shallowness before) to think that your house has a bearing on your personal worth and that there can’t be perfectly decent human beings living in luxury condos. That said, I’m not in favor of settling.

I’m of the opinion that people shouldn’t settle and they shouldn’t buy houses for their alarming re-sale value. Everyone should get really teary eyed over their house; they should covet it and clean it and not foreclose on it even when that seems sensible. Obviously I’m feeling a bit scattered and emotional at the moment and I do believe that housing decisions should be made with the purest clarity of mind and the driest pragmatism. But after you’ve coolly and cleanly assessed your personal worth and your dividends and your credit score, you should probably gush a little bit. If you are using the words “starter house” and not gushing, you probably should stick to the emotionally stagnant world of renting.

A final thought on this topic and then I’ll leave it for the time being. I don’t think that I ever imagined that I would be old enough to buy a house. And believe me, I’m not old. I’m youthful and snooty bartenders in fancy restaurants card me to the point of rudeness. I suppose I’ve always thought of houses as a fixture of matriarchy – the family seat in the old South and all that nonsense. A home means legitimacy as an adult; it means buying a Christmas tree, cleaning out gutters and washing the windows. It means staying in one place for a long, long time.

It’s disconcerting to think that I might have my own family seat for my two-person-one-dog family. And by disconcerting I mean pleasant and absolutely terrifying.

Who in this co-op doesn't own Planet Earth on DVD?

Yesterday I was driving home after an admirable pesto-chicken sandwich and I saw a rainbow, the bright sort that elementary school teachers yearn after but is inevitably only visible from cars on freeways and office windows, stretched over a dilapidated drive-in movie screen. I was in the mood to be contemplative – it was a nice moment to be driving quietly with your radio off, with the freeway wet and the sun shining in that fashion which would be beautiful if it didn’t obscure the dotted lines between the lanes and remind you of all of the spilt oil.

“A rainbow over the drive-in,” I muttered to myself. I’m a huge fan of talking to myself when I’m alone; I react to things very verbally and it is easier on the ego to accept and cultivate my conversations with myself than to try and staunch every “Yikes!” or “Well, thanks” that pops out of my mouth.

Anyway, my mood was such that I wished that “rainbow” wasn’t such a horrifically corny word/natural phenomenon. “Rainbow over the Drive-in” has that special juxtaposition quality (natural/man-made, sensible/absurd, timeless/outdated) that would make a fine title for something, if referencing rainbows wasn’t practically as babyish as name-dropping baby rabbits and cupcakes. If the word rainbow is in your band’s name, you will probably end up dating some washed-up child star, like the youngest brother from Malcolm in the Middle. If your band title includes both “rainbow” and “drive-in,” expect to perform in poodle skirts and roller skates.

Thankfully, I don’t have a band to name. I only write things, and if the word rainbow is in your book/essay title, the light-water majesty is guaranteed to make its appearance just as hope is being restored. I’m not much for being hopeful, so that means “Rainbow over the Drive-in” is headed to the slush pile.

For the sake of curiosity and for the sake of giving me something to do as I finish my cereal, I will place before the jury the essay idea that I would cultivate if I wanted to make use of the corny lyricism of “Rainbow over the Drive-in.” I would write about how I have almost zero regard for nature and an overgrown sense of nostalgia, the elements of which, combined, make me far more moved by the sight of a dilapidated drive-in movie screen than by the rainbow stretched over it.

Having a hollow pit where my love of nature should be is nothing that I am proud of; I very much want to be the sort of person whose eyes well with tears over email forwards of picturesque sights; as things lay currently my eyes only well when there are cute animals doing unlikely things Photoshopped into these pictures, and that’s only because I’m laughing too hard.

Really, though, it’s not like I have absolutely no regard for nature. I believe in the soothing effects of a landscape and I’m going to the forest/coast next week because I think that the removal of a person to nature can be revitalizing. But even in that case I am valuing nature because it isn’t something (the mall) instead of for its innate attractiveness. Of course, I am also going because I enjoy camping for the ridiculous hot-dogs-beer-and-fresh-air aspects – I might want quiet but I won’t live a monkish existence with no condiments.

I was thinking about this indifference yesterday (pre-pesto) while I was chatting online with a friend who is planning a camping trip in the rainforest. (That’s right: I’m the kind of person who has friends that camp in the rainforest. Let me in your co-op.) I was clicking through pictures that she linked, thinking about Jurassic Park when I realized that I would probably never go to the rainforest, just like I’m never going to get stoned and watch the Planet Earth special on Animal Planet. I am pretty much a rotting corpse of a human being.

I was reading some blog the other day that listed something to the effect of “knowing that what is fun for others isn’t necessarily fun for you” as one of the secrets to happiness. There were lots of other things on the list (eat less and better, ect.) but that particular entry really appealed to me, as it would appeal to many other notoriously passive I-don’t-know-what-do-you-want-to-do folks, I’m sure. I guess knowing that some people get into a dither about rainbows and other people get into a spaz over drive-in screens is merely an extension of that.