My jury duty is complete, and it was muy interesting. For two days, I sat in the jury pool waiting room; I read two books, I talked to two people, I wore two new sweaters, and I was called out on zero panels. Except for lunchtime on day one, when I went over to the Bank of America Tower and ate a Cobb Salad in the food court, I never left the room.
There were about 60 of us, and when a panel was needed, the clerks would use a randomizer on the list and send down 15 people, six of whom would be selected for the jury. I know there was at least one other person who was never empaneled; he and I bonded over the fact that even if we were sent down to the courtroom, we’d never get seated because he was a retired police officer and I used to handle criminal cases, so the whole exercise was a gross waste of time for everyone concerned, by which we mostly meant us. He also said he was going to buy Sarah Palin’s book as a gag gift for his brother for Christmas, which proves that police brutality is alive and well.
The only other person I talked to was an elderly man who looked like Lloyd Bridges. I was writing something, and my pen came apart in my hand. I put it back together, resumed writing, and then it came apart again, sending the cartridge and the spring flying over towards Lloyd Bridges, who was seated nearby. He tore a small piece of paper from his lunch bag and handed it to me, telling me to wrap it around the barrel before screwing the pen back together. I did, it did the trick, and I promptly decided that I was adopting Lloyd Bridges as my third grandpa. Later, after we’d all been sitting in the chairs for a couple of hours, he stood to walk around, then paused to massage his own buttocks for a good thirty seconds. Grandparents can be so embarrassing.
In general, people didn’t talk to each other much. Everyone sat quietly, reading, using their laptops, sleeping, or staring out the windows at downtown and Elliott Bay. Early on the first day, I looked around and named a few people using the Michael Scott method. There was Leona Helmsley, Bald Spot, Froggie, Synthetic Weave, Beavis, Veneers, Lazy Eye, Stink Eye, Wig, and Puffy Coat. I had been behind Puffy Coat at the security screening at the building entrance. To the amusement of everyone present, she put her bag on the x-ray machine loudly telling the guard that he could look inside if he wanted (prompting him to say, “yes, I know. That’s why we have x-ray.”), removed her wedding rings, took off her puffy coat, and began to unlace her shoes before one of the guards took pity and stopped her. I’m just glad no one ever told her that underwire bras can set off the metal detectors. That could have caused a spectacle. Other than Puffy Coat, Grandpa Lloyd, and that woman who couldn’t figure out how to work the microwave, no one else did anything remotely noteworthy, thus making my insulting nicknames for them utterly superfluous.
The main thing that happened over the last two days is that I now have a renewed commitment to avoid public transportation. Parking near the courts is expensive and scarce, so I elected to ride the bus, which I haven’t done for a while. It is mostly as I remember, except that now there is a pervasive and unexplained aroma of curry on all routes. Seriously, what is with the curry smell? The curry smell is worse than the crazy people, because at least the crazy people get off the bus before the Free Ride Zone ends.
Fortunately, I did not find myself sitting near the crazy woman who was asking people, “is that your hair?” presumably meaning the stuff on their heads, and then using that to segue into telling them that she’s 24 years old and has a boyfriend, both being items of information I’m going to guess are not strictly the truth.
Not so fortunately, I had an insane driver on one ride. At one stop, a woman got on and sat on the sideways bench next to the door. She appeared to be developmentally disabled; she was childlike and removed an assortment of bus transfers from various days from her pocket, displaying them proudly to the other passengers. So naturally, the driver told her to “watch the bus!” then exited, sprinting into the building we were stopped in front of, leaving the bus running and one passenger alarmed/seething (hint: it was me). A couple of minutes later, he returned, asked Transfers if anyone tried to take the bus, loudly stated that he used the bathroom (which: congratulations), and we resumed on our way. I guess having peed or whatever put him in an excellent mood; he began honking at every other car on the road in a friendly yet aggressive fashion and asking all boarding passengers if what they were carrying in their bags was for him, even reaching out and pretending to grab at purses on a couple of occasions. At one point he laughed and stated, “people are going to think I’m on crack!” Well, sure. Now. Eventually, we reached my stop without crashing, and I disembarked as he called after me, “Much love!” You are incorrect, sir.
I’d started to write three different posts this past week, but abandoned them all mid-sentence once I realized that I had no topic. I haven’t even checked my front page to make sure I didn’t hit “Publish” instead of “Save Draft,” as I normally do in a somewhat obsessive-compulsive fashion whenever I stop writing in the middle of a post. This is how little I care. For further evidence, I now present to you: a meme. Exciting, isn’t it? Wait, does it help if I say it’s the Vanity Fair Proust Meme? (Which: what?) No, I know. It didn’t help me, either.
I know which blog I saw this on, but I don’t know if I should link to it or not. It’s something I saw as I was was randomly clicking around from blogroll to blogroll, but I don’t know that blogger and she doesn’t know me. Some people are annoyed when strangers link to them and others are annoyed when they don’t get credit. The social fabric of blogging is complex, yet stupid. I think I won’t link. She’ll never know.
Anyway. Here we go. Oh, also I should say that Proust was one of the most boring writers ever, so I will also be boring, as a kind of homage.
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Already, this meme is making me tired. Because, really, “perfect happiness”? Is regular happiness no longer sufficient? See, this is exactly the problem. Remember when you could just eat a cheeseburger? You could eat a cheeseburger and be fine. Then it had to be a double cheeseburger or it simply wasn’t good enough. Then it had to have bacon on it or it would leave you vaguely unsatisfied. People will be happy when they stop wanting everything to be more than it is. And they will be also be happy when they stop thinking that constant happiness is a normal state of being. Happiness is an outlying emotion, much like sadness. You shouldn’t be sad all the time and you shouldn’t be happy all the time. It’s okay to just be regular sometimes. Be the cheeseburger. Hell, be the hamburger.
What is your greatest fear?
I am a little bit afraid of everything all the time, so there’s not one thing that stands out. I can’t decide if this is better or worse than having one big fear of something that is statistically unlikely to happen. I tend to worry about things going wrong when there’s no reason to worry, but unlike the Greatest Fear people, I don’t, for example, get hysterical when I see a circus clown. He will not kill you, Greatest Fear Person; at worst, he will throw a bucket of confetti on you.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
I can procrastinate like nobody’s business. I sometimes put off doing the thing that I was going to do in order to put off doing something else. In my defense, Plants vs. Zombies isn’t going to play itself, you know.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
It’s hard to pick only one. There are a lot of things that are equally deplorable. Intolerance. Cruelty. Greed. Selfishness. And sometimes Aroma.
On what occasion do you lie?
NEVER!
Okay, that’s not true. I will lie to get out of social gatherings that I don’t want to attend, but only if the other person forces me to. Normally in that situation, I will simply decline with no reason, but if they want a reason, I go with the unspecified, “I have plans.” Which is true. I have plans not to participate in their plans. If they want more of an explanation, then I’m happy to make something up. I figure once they start getting pushy about it, I’m not obligated to tell the truth.
What is your greatest extravagance?
I assume this means financially, but I’m pretty conservative about money. The exceptions are for business suits — because there is no clothing sadder than a cheap suit — and shoes because cheap shoes are a bad idea all the way around. Otherwise, I don’t spend much on clothes. I get excited when Old Navy has a sale. I buy my jeans at the same store where I buy bananas. And since I work mostly at home, I don’t see why I shouldn’t wear a t-shirt with a picture of a donkey on it that says, “I lost my ass in Las Vegas.”
I will also overpay for papayas and sashimi, but the latter is just good thinking. Beware the discount fish.
What is your current state of mind?
I don’t understand the question, but other than that, I feel fine.
What is the quality you most like in a man?
Being Clooneyesque, I suppose. More realistically, kindness. Thrift is good. Common sense. Open-mindedness. Generosity of heart. Not having a bad smell.
What is the quality you most like in a woman?
See above, except for the part where she looks like George Clooney.
Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
When and where were you happiest?
Again with the happiness! Be the hamburger!
Who are your favorite writers?
I’ve answered this question at least twice in previous memes. One of my favorite writers will be the person who writes a meme that does not include this question.
Which talent would you most like to have?
I’d like to be able to draw cartoons. I often doodle little animals during boring meetings, but they usually come out disproportionately sized and generally ungainly. I have the idea, totally unjustified by the way, that I would be good at brush drawing and can picture in my head the things I would paint, mainly of various forest creatures having tea parties, but I’ve never tried it because I don’t want to be disappointed when it turns out to be disproportionately sized blobs having tea with ungainly smudges.
If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
My brother would stop giving me ski socks for Christmas. I went skiing once when I was twelve. I do not now need multiple pairs of ski socks.
If you died and came back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
I would just be a regular person. I hope I can draw next time.
What do you dislike most about your appearance?
Let’s not dwell, please.
Where would you like to live?
Somewhere warm, with yellow sand beaches and coconut palms. And I’m not saying that because a series of thunderstorms has been giving us near-constant rain for the last several days; I’m saying it because, to quote IB, “Jesus help us, we’ve got 9 months of this bullshit in front of us.”
What is your most treasured possession?
Cat. Even at 3:30 AM when I hear her yakking up a hairball, that’s still my answer.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Oh good, the emos are writing questions now. I guess it’s better than those sad little poems they put on their MySpace pages.
What do you most value in your friends?
I am trying to decide how this is different from what quality I like best in a man and what quality I like best in a woman.
What are your favorite names?
This is a stupid question.
What is it that you most dislike?
I don’t know if I dislike it more than any other thing that’s ever existed in the history of forever, which is apparently what I’m being asked here, but I’m starting to have negative feelings about this meme, if that helps.
What is your greatest regret?
It’s not something I talk about because I regret it. I swear, these questions are getting dumber by the minute.
How would you like to die?
What the hell kind of question is this? Don’t be morbid.
What is your motto?
I’m ignoring you now, Meme.
Or at least it was when I wrote that title. I completed one paragraph of this post yesterday then got distracted by a dull object, and before I knew it, it was the second day of the rest of the month. I had big plans for November! But it’s too late now.
I love the first of the month the way some people love the new year or springtime. The first of the month feels like possibility to me, as though I finally have the opportunity to accomplish every single thing that I failed to accomplish in my previous four plus decades of life. Clean closets, one lasting and vital contribution to society, and the laughter of all the little children of the world completed in a mere 28 to 31 days.
Then I spent a good chunk of yesterday napping, so the hell with it.
Besides, my month is already pretty well-scheduled with the sort of mundanities that provide a brief, yet false sense of accomplishment. When the month is over, I will be able to look back and say, “eh.”
In addition to my normally strenuous schedule of doing as little as possible, the following things are on the docket for November:
- jury duty, otherwise known as “three eight-hour days of sitting around reading a book and trying to avoid conversation with my fellow citizens who are bored because they neglected to bring their own damn book”;
- comparing prescription drug plans for my mom since her current plan just changed its copays from $12-$40 in 2009 to $57-$270 in 2010, followed by 96 hours of wondering exactly how amoral a person has to be to work in the health insurance industry these days;
- a meeting with the financial planner, which I need to prepare for by looking in the mirror and practicing my, “I completely understand what you are talking about and I would like to hear more about dollar cost averaging, it is so interesting, really I mean it” face;
- twenty-five minutes with the optometrist in order to ensure the health of my eyes and safeguard my vision for years to come;
- three hours with the optician in order to select eyeglasses that look almost but not quite identical to the eyeglasses I purchased in 2006 and also the ones I purchased in 2003.
- twelve hours of cooking Thanksgiving dinner;
- twenty minutes of eating Thanksgiving dinner;
- two hours of wishing my family would just go home already because Thanksgiving dinner is over and Survivor is about to start;
- thinking about how I should get my Christmas shopping done early so that I can spend all of December baking cookies in the shape of snowmen and watching holiday movies;
- feeling guilty about not getting my Christmas shopping done early;
- deciding that December will be a new month during which I can accomplish all my Christmas shopping as well as every single thing I have failed to accomplish in my previous four plus decades of life; therefore, I better rest up.
So, as you can see, November will be chock full of fun and excitement.
This is the final chapter in one branch of NPW’s Choose Your Own Blogventure series, and it picks up where Noelle’s chapter ends. To start the blogventure from the beginning, go here. Depending on which choices you make at the end of each section, you could end up back here or at one of the eleven other endings. Possibly, your brains will be eaten by cranky corpses. Happy Halloween!
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“We fight!” Annelise exclaimed, “Zombies versus vampires! Who’s with me?”
The zombies were silent. No one moved, save for Mr. Feldman, whose left eye spontaneously popped out of its socket and rolled away. “Damn … ” he muttered, silencing himself before Annelise could look his way.
“Who’s with me?” Annelise repeated, desperation edging her voice.
Mrs. Streeter fiddled with her hair net, while Mr. Sumps pretended to be engrossed by a bird. Tommy’s eyes met Annelise’s, and he winked. “Girl, you so fine,” he said, attempting a pimp-lean and falling into the aisle.
“What is wrong with you people? Why aren’t you …” Annelise was interrupted by Jenny, who had boarded the bus with a tray of 20 raw strip steaks.
“Here you guys are!” Jenny was exasperated. “I’ve been looking everywhere! Are you coming back inside or what?”
Annelise caught hold of the tray. “HEY!” Jenny yelled.
“Everyone! Grab a steak! Aim for their hearts!” In a panic, Annelise began flinging steaks at the vampires surrounding the bus, her wild throws missing their targets.
Mr. Sumps rolled his eyes and leaned down to Tommy, still flailing on the floor. “She’s a pretty girl, Son, but she’s not too bright.” With a heroic lunge, Tommy got himself upright, hoping Annelise wouldn’t notice he’d broken off his foot in the process.
“Young lady! You stop throwing food this instant!” Mrs. Streeter barreled down the aisle, grabbing Annelise by the ear and steering her into the nearest seat. “I didn’t put up with this nonsense at Harry Cooper Elementary School and I will not put up with it now!”
Annelise burst into tears. “I don’t understand,” she wailed. Tommy tried to go to her, but his missing foot caused him to fall to the floor again where he found himself staring into Mr. Feldman’s dislocated eye. “The vampires … My father … Why aren’t you helping me? They killed my …” Annelise’s sobs overtook her.
Mrs. Streeter started to rub Annelise’s back, stopping only when her hand fell off. “Oh, honey. Your father will be fine. After all, you have the talisman.”
The vampire who’d bitten Dr. Ansel retrieved the talisman from under the bus. Passing his pale arm through the window, he handed it to Mrs. Streeter. “Thank you, Stanley. That was very considerate.”
“Stanley?” Annelise looked up. “You know him?”
“Of course! All the undead know each other,” Mr. Sumps explained. “What’s more, we all like each other. That’s why we don’t fight. Fighting is for the living.”
“But he … Stanley said he would kill us. And he killed my father!”
“Yeah,” Stanley exhaled slowly, “Jenny was running around with your steaks and wouldn’t take our orders. I get cranky when I’m hungry and Dr. Ansel … well, did you read that shit he wrote?” Stanley was turning pink, and the others watched as he brought himself under control. “But I still shouldn’t have killed him. My bad.”
“Stanley hasn’t been undead for very long,” Mrs. Streeter whispered to Annelise. “He’ll learn.” She handed Annelise the talisman. “Now,” she addressed the group, “who’s hungry?” Everyone was indeed very hungry, and zombies and vampires alike headed back towards the diner, led by Jenny.
“Come on, Annelise,” said Tommy. “Reanimate your dad and come have some dinner.” Annelise looked at Tommy, noticing how cute he was despite all the shedding.
“You know,” she smiled, “Dad’s had a big day. It wouldn’t hurt him to stay dead a little bit longer.” As they walked across the parking lot, Annelise shyly took Tommy’s hand. “You can reattach it later,” she whispered.
While the zombies and vampires talked and laughed over their pie and coffee, the strange wolves loped out of the darkness in their odd, half-upright gait, sniffing at the forgotten pieces of raw steak. Under the full moon, they settled in around the bus, gnawing at the bloody meat and waiting for the peaceful ones to return.
THE END
Tomorrow is Choose Your Own Blogventure day here at, well, here and elsewhere. CYOB is the brainchild of NPW, and this sentence contains lot of aconyms. Twenty-two bloggers have written chapters of a short story, all of which have to go live tomorrow at 10:00 AM Eastern/7:00 AM Pacific and various times in between. Because it’s a collaborative effort, if one person doesn’t get his or her chapter published, it can mess up that branch of the storyline. I finished my chapter a couple of weeks ago and now I just have to publish it tomorrow morning. Thus, here is what I’ve been thinking for the last two weeks every time I look at my blog:
What if my internet connection isn’t working on the 30th?
Maybe I should send my chapter to someone else with instructions to publish it in case my internet connection isn’t working on the 30th.
I could send it to Stefanie. I don’t think Stefanie is doing it this time.
Why isn’t Stefanie doing it this time?
I hope Stefanie is okay!
If my internet connection isn’t working on the 30th, I could go into the office to publish it.
I don’t want to go into the office at 7:00. Larry will be the only one there and he’ll talk to me.
The last time Larry talked to me, he guessed my weight and got it exactly right.
I hate Larry!
I think I ate all the Halloween candy.
I hope my internet connection is working on the 30th.
And so on and so forth. The upshot being that there might be a story chapter here tomorrow morning and there might not, depending on whether my internet connection is working. Incidentally, it has never not worked before; I just like to worry.
You may be thinking, “why don’t you just schedule it to post automatically tomorrow, nitwit.” Which, that’s rude. But yes, excellent idea. Except I’ve never scheduled a post before, and I have no idea if it’s reliable so I will check the WordPress forums to see what others have to say. Ah. They say it’s unreliable. Of course, some of these people are saying things like “supposably it will publish tomorrow” and “I would not be phased if it didn’t work,” so … you know. I suspect these are people who have written long blog posts discussing their “preggnent hampsters.”
This is where the experimental part comes in. This post, the one you may or may not be reading right this second is a scheduled post. If you are reading it, then no problem. If you’re not, then you’ll never know. But again, if you are, then that means tomorrow’s post should publish as well. Unless WordPress as a whole crashes. I think I will worry about that for a while and then stop.
In Which I Say a Variety of Unrelated Things In Order to Remove Caramel Cob From the Top of the Page
I would like to announce that I have fixed my refrigerator. Huzzah! It is no longer leaking water into the freezer compartment. However, it now runs approximately 15 hours a day. Maybe it always did that I didn’t notice. Thus, I still might buy a new one, and not only because I enjoy walking around the second floor of my local Sears calling out, “Hello!” and then listening to it echo back. “Hello … hello … hello …” Sears used to be a lot better. Witness:
Perhaps that wasn’t the best example.
I think I’ve mentioned that I worked for Sears when I was in high school. I was quite useless in that job as it required interacting with people in a personable way, but since about half of their employees were high schools students, surliness was something of a watchword. When I worked there, it was a huge store. The building spanned a city block, with two smaller buildings on the next block. It had three floors of merchandise, and a fourth floor of offices as well as one of those horrible department store cafeterias where furniture and appliance salesmen would go to have pot roast and coffee at lunchtime. The store was always crowded and busy and smelled like corndogs and peanut brittle. Today the same store occupies only a third of the building and seems deserted whenever I go in, which I do occasionally when I need a curtain rod or a George Foreman Grill and don’t feel like driving all the way to Target. I was there recently and saw an employee who I used to work with in 1980. I think she was even wearing the same clothes. The store keeps getting smaller and sadder, but she’s still there. I can’t decide if I feel bad for her or not. There’s something to be said for finding your niche early in life.
To update you on another previous item, you will also be relieved and/or indifferent to hear that I found my khaki shorts. They were in the couch. I don’t know. They were stuffed behind the couch cushions. I don’t know.
In other news, I am overdue for my biennial good cry. I mean, I cry a lot anyway, but it’s usually just a couple of tears after reading something sad or seeing a skinny dog. But I’m in the mood for a big old BOO HOO WAAAAAAH! kind of deal. I think it would clear the decks, so to speak, and let me get through the holiday season with equanimity. The rules for the good cry are that it must be prompted by something that’s unfortunate but ultimately inconsequential, and it can’t be a pretty cry that makes other people want to cry along in sympathy. It has to make your face sort of scary or it doesn’t count.
While in non-news, last night I was watching some tabloid show and they were interviewing Jon Gosselin. They asked him if he thought Richard Heene, better known as Balloon Boy’s nutty dad, is a bad father. I have little opinion about the Gosselins beyond, “um, are they somebody?” but even still, is Jon’s input on this at all necessary? It’s not as if people are sitting around saying, “Gee, I don’t know what to think about Papa John Phillips either. What does Jon think?”
And finally I will resolve a seasonal question that arises repeatedly in my stats this time of year, namely, “have fun-size Snickers shrunk?” The answer is, “yes, and what the hell is up with that?” Disappointment. We are not strangers to it.
Caramel corn! Caramel corn! Caramel corn!
Oh dear.
Halloween gets scarier every year.
Summer is gone and winter is here. Autumn took the year off — I can’t begrudge it, I would do the same if I could. I have nothing of interest to write about, so I will just type for a while.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’s back.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’s back.
My dog has fleas.
My dog has fleas.
He has fleas.
My god, the fleas.
Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of my dog.
asdf jkl; asdf jkl; asdf jkl; aaa ;;; aaa ;;;
This would all make sense if you had taken Office Machines I and II with me in the 10th grade. I can work a ten-key like nobody’s business, though Excel has made that skill quite unnecessary. Not that I have a long string of numbers that need adding. How sad, not to have any numbers. If you have any numbers, leave them in the comments.
The other day, I was thinking about places I’d rather be and things I’d rather be doing. In particular, I wondering how far I am in miles from Kailua, even though I can’t afford to live there. I consulted my friend and doctor, Google, and it informed me that it is 2,796 miles, assuming I drive there.
I can’t decide what I enjoy most about these directions, whether it’s the instruction to kayak 2,756 miles across the Pacific Ocean or the implication that the Pacific Ocean is located just north of downtown Seattle. You know, it’s weird because I’ve driven down Northlake Way a bunch of times and I have never noticed an ocean there. I guess I should try to be more observant. At least once I get to Hawaii, it will be easy to find my way around. I am to emerge from the ocean and continue in a straight line, just like the first amphibians, except that the first amphibians probably weren’t driving Toyotas.
Oh look, a map!
I couldn’t possibly get lost now.
On the other hand, I could walk, which would take three weeks longer, but I would save two miles. Then again, the always helpful Google cautions that this route might not be fully paved.
No sidewalks over the ocean? WELL WHAT THE HELL HAVE I BEEN PAYING TAXES FOR?
Maybe I could take a bus or the subway. That might be easiest and, besides, you meet so many nice people on public transportation.
Huh. No public option. I guess everyone will just have to try to get there on their own and hope a tsunami or undersea earthquake or just the ordinary wear and tear of crossing the ocean doesn’t take down their kayak. I mean, assuming they can afford a kayak and that it’s not inadequate when the sea gets rough. You know, I have a feeling not everyone is going to make it.
In other news, I’m having one of those weeks where everything feels overwhelming. My refrigerator began leaking water into the bottom of the freezer compartment, which means that the drainage hose is clogged with ice again. Take my advice, people, and never buy a side-by-side; they’re more prone to need repair and also you have to store your frozen pizzas vertically. I had a dreaded repairman fix the same problem three or four years ago, but it’s recurred and I thought it seemed like a simple enough fix to do myself. I couldn’t find a diagram of the fridge’s internal organs anywhere, so I figured I’d take the thing apart and wing it, just like a man. And in the end, I was unable to fix it, just like a man. It’s better than it was, but not actually repaired, and it’s old enough that I think it’s actually worth just getting a new one. Ordinarily, shopping for practical things makes me giddy with happiness, but I’ve got about forty-five other things I have to deal with this month, and I am dealing with them by sitting on my couch, watching The Office on DVD, and weeping. Hey, avoidance doesn’t just happen.
Did you know that if you say, “Home Depot” in a blog post, they will come? Sometimes more than once.
They also linked to me on their Squidoo page. I don’t know why Home Depot needs a Squidoo page, but then I also don’t know why Comet Cleanser has a Facebook page, so not knowing is not a new phenomenon. I suppose Home Depot is trying to figure out if personal blogs would make a good advertising medium for them, and if that’s the case then I would just offer a bit of unsolicited advice, which is that they might not want to link to a post in which every participant is discussing their love for Ace Hardware. At the same time, I would be happy to write something nice about Home Depot, if they were to, say, give me a new refrigerator. If they could also contact Toyota and ask them where my free Prius is, that would be great too.
Oh. Well, I have to kill myself now.
Speaking of hardware stores and near-death experiences, I went to the former and maybe had one of the latter yesterday. I mean, not really, but it’s a slow week and I have nothing else to talk about. I needed a tube of Duco Cement so I could glue a broken dish back together and discovered via modern computing machinery that you can only buy this item online if you are willing to pay $7.99 for shipping on a $2.99 item or at an Ace Hardware store if you object to paying $7.99 for shipping on a $2.99 item. Shortly thereafter, I found myself in the parking lot of an Ace Hardware store. As I headed to the door, a man walking towards me said, “DON’T SCRATCH MY CAR!” I was at least 20 feet from the nearest vehicle, which happened to be mine, so I very smoothly replied, “huh?” He began laughing maniacally and said, “I’m joking!” All righty. Not exactly Def Comedy Jam, but whatever. Then I noticed that what he had purchased in the store was a whole bunch of rope. The time to flee had arrived.
Inside the store, the year was 1955. It was roughly 2000 square feet, containing every possible hardware-store-type item your handy heart could desire, as well as two employees who were visible to the naked eye. Clearly, this was not a Home Depot. I located my item:
which had a price tag on it. Quaintness abounds.
Employee #1 was busy actually assisting another customer, so Employee #2, who had been writing on a pad of paper, stopped doing that and came over to ring up my purchase. I know, right? A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind. He used one of these to ring it up:
and then he wrote out a receipt:
It was all so civilized and odd. For a brief moment, I wondered if, were I to go to the gas station, these guys would come running out:
Of course, they would probably ask me if I had my husband’s permission to be driving a car and wearing pants and thinking about politics, so perhaps it’s better that they didn’t appear. The dude with the rope was still there though, standing around and looking suspicious. When he saw me, he quickly got into his car and drove off. I have a feeling that one of these days I’m going to hear more about that guy on my local news.
So let’s see; I’ve covered the glue, the cash register, the guy, and the rope. And … that’s about it. Oh, except also I have a cold. This might be my most exciting blog post ever.
Although the following confession will no doubt cause at least three of you to unsubscribe from this blog immediately, I’ve been carrying it around for years and now is the time to say it: Lorelai Gilmore annoys me. And Rory Gilmore annoys me even more. I don’t dislike them; I just like everyone else in Stars Hollow better. I like Luke better. I like Kirk better. Lane. Mrs Kim. Miss Patty. Babette. Sookie, Jackson, Michel, Paris, Taylor, Gypsy, Bootsy. Richard and Emily? Love Richard and Emily. In the universe of the Gilmore Girls, it’s only the actual Gilmore Girls who bugged. Oh, and Drella, but she wasn’t on very much. I’m aware the show went off the air two years ago, but I didn’t have a blog then. Maybe next week I can talk about Welcome Back, Kotter and why Epstein was more interesting than Barbarino. It involves the notes from his mother.
But Lorelai did say one thing I appreciated. I can’t remember the exact quote, but it was something to the effect that although she was happy with her life, sometimes she wished she were married so that there would be someone else to pick up the slack. Boy, do I ever relate to that. Never more so than yesterday, when I spent the afternoon in my front yard cutting down a cedar tree with a handsaw and no husband.
Well, I didn’t actually cut it down. Cutting down trees is bad luck, unless they’re about to fall on your house, in which case it’s worse luck to leave them up. I just cut the top six feet off a ten-foot tall tree. With a handsaw. I plan to remain exhausted for at least three more weeks. The tree was old and huge, and it got badly damaged when a foot of snow fell on it last winter. I should have cut it back last spring, but I procrastinated enough that spring became summer and the tree became a home for approximately one million yellow jackets, so I had to wait. Even as I was cutting it yesterday, there was one lonely yellow jacket buzzing around, wondering what I was doing to his house and where his 999,999 cousins went, so I let him sting me as a consolation. One sting, three hours, numerous scrapes and bruises, two neighbors coming out to stare at me, one t-shirt ruined by cedar sap, and the job was completed. Then I came in the house, drank a bottle of Gatorade, took a shower, and fell asleep at 7:30.
So that’s one thing done. I still need to paint the porch, de-moss the driveway, strip the wallpaper in my office and hope it’s not the only thing holding up the ancient plaster underneath, refinish the floors, and about thirty other things that I’m not going to list because I’m starting to feel weepy and hopeless.
While, like Lorelai, I’m basically happy with my life, I never envisioned it being like this. And by “this,” I mean lying on the floor under the kitchen sink, halfway into the cabinet with the cabinet edge digging right into my back, trying to unscrew the connectors on the old broken faucet so I can replace it with a new non-broken faucet, finally succeeding with only a minimum of injury, and then having a big lump of plumber’s putty plop down on my face. I envisioned my life as being slightly more sophisticated and glamorous. At the very least, I envisioned it not involving spackle. I have been disappointed in this regard.
At least Lorelai had Luke. Whenever something was broken in her house, Luke would come over and fix it and then cook something for her, probably something nice, like a cheese omelet or hash browns. But I have found that non-fictional people are less useful. I have friends and relatives who are capable of changing lightbulbs or vacuuming, but when it comes to something like removing the front door, fixing the weather stripping on the bottom, and then rehanging the door, I find I am better off doing it myself, even though I have weak arms. This is primarily because when a job needs doing, I admit that I don’t know how to do it, so I consult the oracle of The Google. Google normally points me to at least seven different methods of doing anything, so I need to interpolate between the contradictory parts. I find this works better than calling a friend and having him approach the job by saying, “I will just bust through this wall and then figure it out from there! Where do you keep your sledgehammer?” eventually necessitating that I call in a professional contractor to (a) fix the original problem and (b) repair the unnecessary hole in the wall.
Hiring someone in the first place is mostly out of the question, unless it involves electricity or ladders, both of which I fear. Since remodeling the kitchen and bathrooms a few years ago, I cannot stand to have workmen in the house because I do not enjoy being lied to in my own home. “Really, there’s supposed to be a three-inch gap between the bottom of the drywall and the floor? I never knew that!” “A proper paint job bubbles and cracks within three days? I’ll tell my friends!” If I’m hiring someone to do a job, I don’t think I should have to have numerous conversations with them about why it’s not okay to half-ass it. Not half-assing it should be assumed. If I lean on them hard enough, they might eventually do the job correctly, but having to repeatedly explain to them that it’s not cool to rob me tends to take its toll on my sense of well-being and regard for humankind.
I can’t remember where I was going with this post, but it hardly matters now. I don’t have time to figure out how I got from tree to despair in only six paragraphs, as my day is already scheduled. I will be spending the afternoon cutting a million pounds of tree limbs into pieces small enough to fit into the compost cart using only a handsaw, and when it’s over there will be no omelet and no fried potatoes waiting for me. This is the kind of thing that makes me fondly remember the day plumber’s putty fell on my face.
Age 16, Trendy Restaurant, First Real Dinner Date, He’s Wearing His Father’s Shoes.
He said he was going to order a Seven and Seven.
“He’s not going to bring you a Seven and Seven.”
“Yeah, he will!” Maybe he thought the shoes made him look 21.
Shrug. “You’re going to be embarrassed when he cards you.”
The waiter appeared and didn’t ask if he could bring us something from the bar. “Are you ready to order?”
I ordered my food and when the waiter asked, “and to drink?” I said I’d have a Coke. The waiter turned to His Father’s Shoes. “And what will you have?”
He ordered his food and paused when the waiter asked him what he’d have to drink. He looked at me. I shook my head sadly, seeing in his face a future of one dumb boyfriend after another. He adjusted his position, throwing his arm over the chair back, leaning slightly in a posture of casual cool. His smile was oddly smug.
“Root beer!”
“I’m sorry. No root beer.” The waiter said “root beer” like you might say “diarrhea.”
“How about a Seven and Seven?”
The waiter wrote something on his pad (my guess would be: “fool”), walked away, then returned with our drinks, one Coke and one 7-Up.
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Age 19, Gourmet Hamburger Chain Named After Bird, With Older More Mature Man of 23
The waiter approaches to clear our plates, which were little red baskets lined with parchment and steak fry detritus.
“Dessert?” the waiter asked.
“Not for me,” said the boy.
“How about you, Ma’am?”
“Uh … no.”
“Can I take your plate, Ma’am?”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll be right back with your check,” the waiter said, leaving with our plates.
The boy and I looked at each other, each quietly uttering, “Ma’am?” and bursting into giggles, as a middle-aged woman from the next table looked on disapprovingly.
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Age 22, Steak House, He’s a Sketchy Elderly Moron of 36
Examining the check, he informs me that with tip, my half is $23.00.
“I don’t see why I should have to pay half.”
He looks confused and annoyed. “I figured you’d want to pay for your own dinner.”
“I don’t mind paying for my own dinner but you had two more drinks than I did, your entree cost a lot more, and you also had soup!” If I had liked him more, I would have been less enraged about the soup.
“So we’re doing an exact accounting then?” Snappishly. This, from the person who just asked for twenty-three dollars.
“Yes.” If I didn’t cross my arms here, I should have. “We are doing an exact accounting.”
“It’s not like I asked you for gas money.”
“But you thought about it, didn’t you?”
He said nothing for a long minute. Busted. “FINE, JUST GIVE ME FOURTEEN DOLLARS THEN.”
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Age 27, Waterfront Seafood Restaurant, He’s Just a Friend.
“Do you want to get a bottle of wine?”
“Yeah, that’s okay,” I replied, “but I’ll probably only have one glass, so pick what you want.”
“How about the Ste. Chapelle? That’s made in your home state.” An odd criterion, but he was an odd person.
“Ste. Chapelle is made in Idaho. You’re thinking of Ste. Michelle.”
“They’re both made in Washington.” He was getting that lecture-y patient look on his face.
“No.”
“I’m certain that Ste. Chapelle is made in Washington.”
“Well, you’re wrong.” I was pretty sure this wasn’t going to go over.
“Not to be condescending,” he began, in the way he always began right before he was about to say something condescending, “but I think I know more about wine than you do.”
“You do,” I allowed, “but Ste. Chapelle is made in Idaho.”
The waiter arrived at our table and Just a Friend adjusted his face in such a way as to indicate that the question he was about to ask was purely for my benefit.
“Ste. Chappelle — that’s a Washington wine, right?”
“No, sir, it’s from Idaho. Perhaps you’re thinking of Ste. Michelle.”
I smiled with all my teeth and tilted my head obnoxiously from side-to-side, until Just a Friend was prepared to speak to the waiter again.
“I’ll have a Heineken,” said Just a Friend.
“That’s Dutch!” I happily exclaimed.
“Don’t bring her anything.”
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Age 35, Cigar Bar in San Francisco Financial District, With Boy, Age 40, and Cigar, Age 2
“I’ll have a Ketel One Martini, up, with olives.”
“I’ll have the same,” he said.
“Great!” Our server was happy with our order. She turned to me, “I’ll just need to see your I.D.”
“Certainly!” I was happy with our server. I showed her my driver’s license, she emitted another “great!” and started to take our order to the bar.
“Don’t you want to see my I.D. too?” he called after her, assuming a look of mock hopefulness.
“You …” I was interested to see how she would finesse this. “You have an honest face.”
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Age 46, Mediocre Chain Restaurant, The Occasional Boyfriend
“I hate this place.”
“Me too.”
“Why did we come here?”
“Jam-ba-lay-a!” I said it like Newman. I always say “jambalaya” like Newman. I am annoying.
“We should have gone to the Creole place.” He was right, but it was too late now.
Our food arrived, and we picked up our forks. Just as I was about to put the first bite in my mouth, our waiter reappeared.
“How is everything?”
I set my shrimp and rice-laden fork down and closed my mouth. Then I opened it again. “You just brought the food a second ago! Go away!” The waiter laughed and went away.
“I hate this place,” he said, “but the jambalaya is good.”
Welcome to the First Annual Name Your Own Award Presentation Thing! I’m sure you’re all very excited or something. I know I’m very excited or something. As you may be aware, there was a bit of a delay between the nominations and the distribution of the awards because someone implied that some of you weren’t as deserving as others and it turned into a whole big thing and there was booing and crying and apologizing and more crying and then another someone said that the first someone was a jackass and then there was consternation and more apologizing and probably some crying but that might have just been me and it was all very very unfortunate. But later we’re all invited over to Kelly Rowland’s house for sandwiches, so I hope you haven’t already eaten. Anyway, on with the awards!
But first, a production number.
Eep. That’s more than enough of that. On with the awards!
But first, you probably want to know what I’m wearing. What people are wearing is always super interesting and fun. Remember the time Sarah Jessica Parker wore Chanel Couture? And the other time she wore Chanel Couture? And that time she got really wild and wore Dior Couture? Man, that was crazy. At any rate, I am wearing a Fresh Produce Resortwear pale green tank with a picture of a polka-dotted cartoon fish on the front and a pair of navy jersey shorts by … actually, I don’t know who made the shorts because the tag fell off about a year ago. But you can get the shorts at a store near you, if you live near a Target. And now, on with the awards!
Right after this announcement. The awards are displayed below in official award-size format (I am just making things up now). If you want to see why I’ll never be a graphic designer or if this is your first day on the internet, you may click on the award to see a larger version.
On with the awards! No, really.
Our (?) first award goes to the redoubtable Liz at LizLand!
Please hold your applause until the very end. Thank you.
Liz was nominated in the category of “Best Blogger for No Particular Reason Clear to Her or Anyone Else,” but I couldn’t figure out what a picture of that would look like. Liz likes to make things difficult for me. Did I ever tell you about the time she wanted me get rickets? She’s kind of evil, but I’m fond of her nonetheless, so I had a glass of orange juice and awarded to her the very prestigious Hillary:
Congratulations, Liz! Don’t be jealous, haters!
Next up is Sauntering Soul, who requested that she be given the, “Blogger Most Likely to be Stabbed by a Psycho in an Atlanta Nail Salon.” Now, if it were me, I would probably just buy a couple of emery boards and call it a night, but perhaps this is why I am not on vacation in South America with a guy whose true, legal name is “Hot Brazilian.” In any case, I don’t want to put a curse on the poor woman just before she’s about to go to the jungle, so in that spirit, I present to Bev the following:
It took me, like, two hours to make that badge and the proportions are still off. This might take me out of the running for the Best Blog Awards Award. Woe.
April is over at WickedBlue, when she’s not here either nominating or not nominating herself for an award, I couldn’t tell which. And I quote, “I’ve never had an award. I’m afraid asking for one sounds creepy … ” I am going to assume that what she meant by that was, “GIVE ME AN AWARD, WOMAN!” April is indirect, yet shouty. AND TODAY SHE IS A WINNER WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That one made more sense in my head. I could explain it, but today is not about me.
Today is about … Suebob! Red Stapler Suebob! Suebob! And it’s about time too. Because if there is one person who deserves accolades and awards and cash (legal disclaimer: I am not giving out cash) it is Suebob. She would never tell you this herself, of course, because she is almost as modest as Jesus and I are, but she has achieved a level of greatness that defies description. Really, ask anyone to describe how great Suebob is and they’ll stare at you, all confused-like. She is just that awesome. And yet so very humble. She is so humble that she tells people her coffee cup only holds sixteen ounces, even though it really holds eighteen. True story. For these reasons, I present:
Congratulations, Suedon!
That was a tightly contested race, however. The Trump Medal of Humility very nearly went to Gillian based on her written application: “I want the Best Blogger in the World Award.” I am happy to oblige because (a) Gillian is an excellent blogger, (b) these awards don’t contractually bind me to anything, and (c) Gillian started law school a few weeks ago, which means that her life is now a desolate sea of pain and humiliation, so a picture that I ganked and photoshopped ought to pick her right up! Behold, Gillian, for you are the Best Blogger in the World:
I probably should have saved that one for last. It makes the rest of the awards a letdown. Oh, well!
Abby is no stranger to disappointment, as she is a regular reader of my blog. She’s the only person to have two entries on my blogroll, and this is despite the fact that she emails me every day threatening legal action if I don’t stop linking to her. This was Abby’s nomination: “Not only do I rarely elicit comments on any of my three (THREE!) blogs (and that does not count the ones I maintain for a non-profit and my neighborhood association), responses to my FB statuses are even more non-existent. So what kind of award does that entitle me to?”
Whoops! I almost didn’t say anything there. Well, you know, I don’t get it either. Abby can be found here, and here, and here, and why more people aren’t yakking it up and annoying the hell out of her in the comments section the way they do on other blogs — not this blog of course you guys are great really I mean it — is just one of the strange things about the internet, I suppose. Perhaps it would help if she devoted more posts to calling other people “halfwits.” I know that’s increased my readership. In the meantime, an award!
It’s not much, but it’s really nothing.
We are going to pause for a brief intermission while I eat some pancakes.
Now that I’m all hopped up on sugar, it’s time to go to middle school and give Nancy Pearl Wannabe her award. And bounce on her chair. And make her teach classes while we let the janitor and lunch lady check books out to the kids. And break her SmartBoard. It’s going to be so much fun! Here’s your award, NPW! Also, do you have a Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers I can borrow? I PROMISE TO GIVE IT BACK.
Seriously, don’t ask her about Outlook.
So, how are you enjoying the awards so far? Well, but think how I feel. I’ve been typing for three days now, and I’m not even close to being finished. Do you know whose fault this is? Stinkypaw’s! She started this whole thing by giving me an award last month. Don’t give me any more awards! (I do not mean that. Please give me awards. Without awards, my life is a hollow shell.) And since what is good for the goose is good for the gander, or, as they say in Stinky’s native language, j’ai une jambe cassée, it’s time to return the honor.
Félicitations, Mme. Stinky!
The next award is just plain odd. It’s for Marius, and … I just don’t know. I don’t understand, yet I am consumed with envy.
He’s certainly deserving; I’m just concerned about the hairball situation.
You know, when the First Annual Name Your Own Award Presentation Thing began, Clint and Ron were young men. This is them now:
But wait! More awards! You’re excited, I can tell.
But first, another production number! No! Screw that! More awards!
The next award goes to Stefanie of the aptly-named Stefanie Says. About a year ago, I noted her mightiness, and the ensuing months have not diminished her authority. Of course, this post has caused her to slip into a coma, but that’s beside the point. The point is that she is a winner!
I hope she regains consciousness soon, so that when someone leaves me a comment telling me I’m a “looser,” she can explain where that person went off the beam.
The votes for all awards were tabulated as follows: those who asked for awards got them, those who didn’t ask for awards did not. There are no accountants. There’s only me.
Does it seem strange here today? Let’s see what the award is for Jen at The Coconut Diaries. Then we’ll know for sure.
Nope, everything seems normal to me. Now, I know she wanted something involving liquor or shoes, but the thing is, when Jen’s around, you just know someone’s going to take a shot to the junk. I only hope that someday she can meet my neighbors.
Now, for the final award …
Oh, I see. Keep that up, and I will send Jen over to see you.
As I was saying, for the final award, in the overall category of last but not least, is Cat Boy! Charles runs an inadvertent animal shelter and knows what a galette is. He writes about cats, squirrels, food, things that happened in the 1970s, and people who have died. So I think you can see why I am a fan. I am hoping that someday he and I can go to the Rachael Ray show together where we will refuse to applaud even once.
The raccoon almost had to settle for Chicken in a Biskit.
Well. That’s it for the Last Annual Name Your Own Award Presentation Thing. Except for one final remark and that is that it is bloggers such as yourselves who make … oh, no! GRAB YOUR AWARDS AND RUN, PEOPLE!
