So this is what it's like . . .

. . . to not have a life.

I've always heard about people who work 60-80 hours a week, all the time. Generally, these people fall into one of two categories. Either they're completely consumed by ambition and the pursuit of money (e.g., corporate attorneys, stockbrokers, certain corporate ladder-climbers, etc.), or they're just obsessed with what they do (e.g., entrepreneurs, scientists, artists, etc.). I fall into neither of these categories. Although I've sometimes wished I could force myself to become an obsessed artist, I'm just not. I'm more of a balance seeker--you know, work hard, play hard, rest frequently. That's been my life . . . for as long as I can remember. But not lately. As most of you know, lately it's just been work hard.

The scary part? You can get used to it.

Over the past few weeks, I've actually grown used to not really making plans, to not having weekends free. I've gotten used to bringing work home at night and looking at page proofs until 11:00. The nagging voice in my head telling me I really should find time to call my friends and family, to go visit my nephew and niece, to balance my checkbook, go to the store, get a haircut, do laundry, actually cook a meal rather than order one, blog, etc., has finally shut up. It realizes I have to focus on other things right now.

It's O.K., though, because it will end in a couple of weeks. This is not my life all the time, and I'm not going to waste time bitching about it incessantly. I can handle almost anything for a short while. My question is: How the hell do some people do this all the time???

I just don't get it. I don't see the appeal. I don't see how the pursuit of money or power or an obsessed-upon goal can outweigh the simple pleasures of maintaining good hygiene, having a clean house and clothes, eating decent meals, and getting a good night's sleep. Not to mention actually having a social life--you know, occasionally talking to people outside of work, going out now and then, etc.

Of course, I realize that many of these people have other people doing some of this stuff for them. They might have a maid or laundry service, or a spouse or partner to cook for them and clean up after them. But still, there's more to life than working. Or at least, there should be.

I really can't wait to get my life back.

Some examples of how out-of-whack things are right now:

*I really need a haircut. The situation is getting desperate. I'm starting to resemble Cousin It from The Addams Family. The amount of product I have to use on my hair on a daily basis just to keep it under a semblance of control could choke a horse.

*The other day, I bought underwear in lieu of doing laundry.

*Current contents of my fridge: 3 cans of ginger ale, 4 beers, some Half-n-Half, 2 eggs, 3 pickles, and some condiments. That's it. I'm not kidding.

*Last night for dinner, I had couscous from a box. (Cooks in 5 Minutes!) The night before, I had some cheese.

*As I type this, a tumbleweed of cat hair floats lazily around the floor of the office. I haven't cleaned in here in about two months.

Oh well. The end is near, and in two days, I leave for Vegas, baby. Then, six more days of hell, and things should get back to normal. Hopefully. We'll see.

(To Rick, Paul, and Dad--so sorry I haven't been in touch this week. I will soon--promise.)

Figure It Out

A quick blog from the cubicle.

As most of you know, I'm extremely busy at work right now. I'm pushing up against a huge deadline, and I'm doing everything I can to make sure I don't have to cancel my Vegas trip coming up in a couple of weeks. I don't have a lot of time at work for anything besides work.

That's why something that just happened here, which would be annoying at any time, was particularly annoying today.

Let me set the scene first. The cubicle across from mine, usually occupied by Dr. Actually, is empty this afternoon. All the lights in the cube are off. The computer is off. The chair is pushed neatly under the desk. And, as a finishing touch, there is a note clearly displayed on the cube wall: "Working at home for the rest of the afternoon, 9/19."

Which is why it boggles the mind that some idiot from the second floor just knocked on the wall of my cube, completely interrupting me, to ask, "Excuse me, do you know if [Dr. Actually] is in today?"

Seriously, some days it's like God knows I don't believe in him, and so he creates exceptionally stupid people--off the chart stupid--and then sends them to torture me.

This Day in God

I went to a wedding this past weekend, the first one I've been to since the divorce. I suspected I might feel a bit . . . what's the word? skeptical? cynical? physically ill?. . . about the whole thing, considering my personal experiences over the past couple of years, but during the actual ceremony, I didn't really have any personal feelings at all. It probably helped that I was someone's date and didn't really know either the bride or groom very well, and so I absorbed the whole thing from a purely observatory standpoint. And one thing I noticed (like you could miss it) was how God-heavy the whole shebang was.

I've been to a lot of weddings like this over the years, and they all have several things in common. First, in almost every one that I've attended, neither the bride nor the groom is particularly religious, but the parents of one or both of them are. And since said parents are paying for everything . . . presto! Suddenly, God plays a major role in this relationship, one He never really seemed to play before the bill came due. All of a sudden, the way these two people met was by God bringing them together. The way they got to the altar was through God's love guiding and sustaining them. And the way they're going to continue to stay together forever is by God's hand steering through all the trials and tribulations of marriage. Which is, by the way, a gift from God, as is everything in life (including, one must presume, war, cancer, and Nickelback videos).

The other thing I notice about these ceremonies is the Bible verses. These God-heavy weddings always include Bible verse readings, which somehow wind up being the exact same verses every friggin' time. There's about three or four of them, total, and they're always read by a friend of the bride or groom who wasn't quite good enough of a friend to actually be in the wedding party, but whom someone felt should play a role at some point. And so, they get to read one of three or so verses. At this particular wedding, it was the whole "Love is not jealous, love is not vengeful, love is not spiteful, blah blah blah." You know the one. In fact, if you've been to a wedding with any religious connotations at all, you've no doubt heard it. It's about the most popular one--I bet I've heard it at about 60% of the weddings I've attended. What a unique, special ceremony that makes for. Seriously, what's up with that? Why in the world would you want your wedding to be exactly like everyone else's? I just don't get it.

Now, I'm no student of the Bible, although I did do my fair share of verse memorizing at a Baptist youth group I was forced to attend back in the day. Ever heard of Awanas? ("Awanas" stands for "Approved Workmen Are Not Afraid, whatever that means. Today, they may have changed the second word to "Workers," but back when I was being brainwashed, it was definitely "Workmen.") It's sort of the Baptist equivalent of Hitler Youth. We wore uniforms, competed in athletic competitions, and memorized a shitload of Bible verses, and we were awarded ribbons and medals to wear on our uniforms when we recited the verses correctly. The verses were never put into any larger context, and we were not allowed to ask any questions about the verses--it was basically get your assignment, memorize it, and spit it back to the drill sergeants. . . I mean, religious instructors, while standing at attention in front of the rest of the cadets . . . I mean, students. Yeah, it was great. In fact, I have Awanas to thank for completely turning me off to everything remotely religious for the rest of my life. Thanks, Awanas! (By the way, I totally kicked ass at verse memorization. I had a lot more brain cells then. I was basically a 5-star general by the time I got too old to attend, at around age 14. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to start cranking out Aryan babies at that point, but things didn't turn out that way.)

Anyway, back to the Bible. It's been several years since I cracked one open, but every time I attend a wedding and hear the same old verses, over and over, I can't help but wonder if there's not something else in that book that people might choose to quote. I mean, the thing is like 5,000 pages long! There's really only three or four verses in the entire tome that are appropriate to quote at God-heavy weddings??

I've come up with two possible answers, both of which carry validity in my opinion:

1. People are lazy. Eons ago, someone trolled this cumbersome book and came up with some verses that sound wedding-friendly. Everyone else just picks up these verses because they're too uninspired to sift through 5,000 pages, looking for their own verses to have their sort-of friend read.

2. There's just not that much to choose from on love and marriage in the Bible, because it's mostly about war and carnage and plundering and God's wrath and plagues and burning villages and how we're all completely full of horrible sin from the moment we're born. (What a wonderful book upon which to base a religion. So completely unlike the Quran, right?)

So, which possibility do you think is correct? Feel free to weigh in, because I'm really curious.

(Postnote: Despite the rant, I had a really good time at the reception, which was your usual free-cheap-beer-and-wine-and-dancing-to-horrible-pop-hits type of deal. My date was very sweet, and at times, it's nice to have a license to just get drunk and dance your ass off to bad music. Isn't that what weddings are really all about?)

Enough Already

I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome myself back from my extended blogging sabbatical. Oh, you didn't know I was on sabbatical? Actually, neither did I . . . my long absence just sort of happened. As so often happens, actual life got in the way of narcissistic endeavors. And we've all agreed that blogging is narcissistic, right?

So anyway, it's been a busy summer, but I'm feeling the need to write again. So let's just dive right in, shall we? It will be just like when I take some time off work (like that ever happens)--the very day I get back, I inevitably get people coming up and asking me questions about stuff that happened while I was gone. And somehow, I answer. It's like I was never away. Let's make this like that. The diligent among you will notice that I posted (just a while ago) an entry I was working on a few weeks ago. I'd like to expound on the Hot Guy from Indianapolis in a new feature I will call "What Not To Do."

WHAT NOT TO DO

The Scenario: Let's say you're a guy, and you're out at a bar on a sunny Saturday afternoon. You wind up meeting an intriguing woman who is sitting by herself waiting for a friend. Before said friend shows up, you and she have some time to get to know each other. You really like her. You find her very attractive. You have good conversation. Unfortunately, she lives three hours away, and she's meeting someone else tonight. But, you're still interested--enough to exchange information and make plans to maybe meet up at some point in the future.

Later: You text-message this woman several times. Sometimes she responds, sometimes she doesn't. She has since gone back to her own town and is expecting you to call. Instead, you keep texting her, a lot. This goes on for a few days. In your texting, you say you want to visit the woman, and the two of you begin making tentative plans for you to come to her city on an upcoming weekend. (By the way, we are already in What Not To Do territory with all the texting and no calling, but it's a relatively minor infraction.)

Later still: You text her asking her to call you. The next day, in the late evening, she does. You tell her you have the president of your company in your office (you're a mortgage broker, by the way), and can you call her back in about 20 minutes? She's pretty laid back. Sure, she says.

An hour later: You call her back. She is taking apart a futon frame, but she's willing to talk to you while she does so. You start, very tentatively, to make plans for you to travel to her town that weekend. About two minutes into the conversation, you get a call from a client. You take the call, and for the next 10 minutes, this woman you are supposedly interested in gets to hear all about your client's financial situation, along with your advice for the client. The client obviously doesn't know that this strange woman is silently listening to the whole conversation. (Can you sense what territory we're entering into here?)

12 minutes later: You hang up with the client and apologize to the woman. She still sounds relatively unfazed and attempts to have an actual conversation with you. About a minute later, you hear the woman saying, "Are you there?" And you say, "Sorry, I was reading e-mail."

The denoument: The woman finds a reason to get off the phone with you as quickly as possible. Your visit never happens. You e-mail and text her a few times more, but she never responds.

O.K., what have we learned here? A valuable lesson, I hope, in What Not To Do. Look for this as a recurring theme--as recurring as my blog entries will be from here on out. I promise. Or at least, I promise to try.

I Rule!

I'm such an idiot. Remember the whining about the Allen wrench in the last post? Tonight, it suddenly occurred to me that I have a tool kit, and that such an item might contain an Allen wrench or two. Sure enough, upon inspection I found not a couple, but no less that eight different sizes of Allen wrenches in said kit. And I picked out the very one I needed on the first try, just by eyeballing things. That was pretty exciting.

So then, I went to work on the futon frame, and not to brag, but--I tore that bitch apart. It wasn't easy. For one thing, all the nuts were stripped, which I must have done myself when I put the thing together around eight or nine years ago. Also, it's difficult (for me, at least) to take something like that apart while avoiding having heavy metal pieces of frame fall on you when the screw finally comes loose. But I did it. And I enjoyed it, kind of. It's funny--whenever there's a man around--my dad, my ex-husband (not that he's around anymore), one of my cousins, a male friend, etc.--I just kind of sit back and let them take care of such "manly" tasks. After all, it's not like I have any particular fascination with such things. But it's nice to know I can step up and carry out rudimentary mechanical tasks when the situation calls for it.

Other things I learned about myself tonight:

*I can cut a lime by using another slice of lime as a cutting board.
*I can turn down a date with a really hot guy I met in Indianapolis, who is willing to drive three hours to see me, just because I don't feel like dealing with it.
*I can play online poker and quit while I'm ahead. (O.K., just because I did that once doesn't mean I can always do it. But it's a night of accomplishments--let's just go with this one.)

Stuck in the Middle With . . . Me

I had great ambitions for this evening. Not pinned-down ambitions, but great nonetheless. One of them involved a vague plan to tear down the boxes in the basement, and then to somehow dissasemble the dead (RIP) futon frame in my bedroom and transport it, piece by piece, to said (and now cleared) basement. Alas, this plan went awry when I could not find an Allen wrench.

[Funny thing about Allen wrenches. They come with practically every "assembly required" item you purchase. I swear, I once bought a remote control that came with a tiny Allen wrench. On a normal day, you can't avoid encountering one in some junk drawer somewhere. But then when you need one . . . ]

The failure to find an Allen wrench kind of took the wind out of the sails of my ambition. Apparently, no such mishap befell Hippie Neighbors, who are particularly active this evening. Hippie Wife/Mother is out tending the garden. Hippie Husband/Father is hosing down his jeep. Hot Hippie Brother is shirtless and Building Fire to Cook Meat. (And smoking again, I see. This is a guy who, a couple of months ago, quit smoking, and after two weeks or so started lecturing me about smoking.) For those of you keeping track, here is what Hippie Neighbors have managed to build/erect/grow in our communal yards over the past few months: a full-blown garden with corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, beans, lettuce, and about a dozen herbs; a covered two-person wooden swing; a fire pit; two grills; a hammock; laundry lines; assorted chairs; assortive decorative plants; and various windchimes. Coming home never fails to confound me--it's half private suburban yard, half trailer park. It's annoying and intriguing all at the same time. Also, their seemingly endless industriousness guilts me out a little. Of course, I did spend an hour outside earlier on the porch, reading a novel. I haven't noticed any of them trying to slog their way through Middlesex.

Anyway, I guess their habits are preferable to those of the neighbors on the other side of me, They Who Are Never Seen. This is an older couple (but not that old--mid-50s, probably) who, literally, never make a peep and almost never come out of their apartment. I've seen each of them maybe three times in the six months I've lived here, and never together. And I have never seen them use their front door. In fact, they still have their winter-sealant plastic up on that door, some of which is poking out through the bottom and has been doing so, in the same exact position, since I moved in. And now, they've got these vines growing on their porch that are threatening to take over the building. These vines have already devoured two plastic chairs on TWANS's porch. (I'll try to post a picture soon--it's unbelievable.) These people also have a big pile of crap on their back porch--boards, old panes of glass, an old table, etc.)--and a broken-down car in our communal parking area. None of this stuff has moved an inch since I moved in.

So, to recap, I've got one set of neighbors who won't come out and clean up their shit, and one set who won't go in and won't stop adding more shit. And I'm just hanging out in the middle.

Cowtown's #1 Ambulance Chaser

If you live in Central Ohio and watch any T.V. at all, you have no doubt seen the commercials of one Kevin Kurgis, personal-injury attorney extraordinaire. For those of you who live elsewhere (you lucky bastards), I'll provide a brief synopsis of one of his typical pitches:

Open with a scene of a perfect, upscale, attractive, Aryan-looking family--consisting of a father, mother, one son, and one daughter, of course--driving down a country road in their current-model SUV. The father, who is driving, naturally, has his hands precisely at 10-2 on the steering wheel. Everyone is buckled in and behaving wonderfully, although the mother occasionally turns her head to gaze adoringly at her children in the back seat and chat with them a bit.

Cutaway to another vehicle somewhere down the road, heading toward our Perfect Family. This vehicle is an older-model pickup, carrying two white trashy teenagers who are obviously supposed to be under the influence of one or more substances. They are carrying on, messing with each other, screwing with the radio, and of course swerving all over the road.

You can guess what happens next. We don't actually see the inevitable accident, but White Trash Wasted Kids come close to hitting Perfect Family head-on. Perfect Dad swerves at the last minute, and then . . . fade.

Fade back in to a darkly lit courtroom. A tall, beefy, imposing man starts walking directly toward the camera, talking fast.

"I'm Kevin Kurgis, and I'm a lawyer. If you've been injured in an accident, your job is to get well, and my job is to fight the insurance company. In fact, I'll do whatever I can to squeeze as much cash as possible out of them so that I can take a third of it, or maybe even half, depending on how stupid you are and how much I can pull over on you."

O.K., he doesn't actually say that last part, but somehow, that's what I hear every time.

Even if you don't live in the Heartland, you no doubt have your own local version of the prominent PI-attorney commercial hawker. They all make the same kinds of ads--you know, the kind that looks like it was shot by an out-of-work porn director.* Bad production quality, really bad "acting," and a sales pitch aimed at an intelligence level just slightly below that of your average Jerry Springer viewer. Such commercials are a natural outgrowth of our legal system, and they no doubt bring in big bucks for the ambitious PI attorney who can afford them.

But apparently, they're not enough for our own Kevin Kurgis.

For those of you who don't know, I had a little incident with my car a few weeks ago. Not my fault--some asshole did a hit and run while my car was parked on the street. They got my driver's side fender pretty good, enough so that I had difficulty opening the door. No note, of course. Asshole.

Anyway, I filed a police report, because I thought that's what you had to do before filing an insurance claim. (I don't think that's actually true, but never mind.) And then I filed an insurance claim, fully expecting and prepared to deal with an evil corporate empire and its demon-from-hell representatives.

As it turns out, the whole experience was completely free of stress or evilness. The insurance company sent an adjuster out to look at my car. Said adjuster was a perfectly nice guy who took about 15 minutes to write up an estimate. Four days later, a check arrived from the insurance company. As I write this, my car is being fixed up good as new. Sure, I'm out the $250 deductible, but all things considered, the whole experience could have been a lot worse.

The funny part is, a few days after I filed the police report, I got a letter in the mail from . . . can you guess? Kevin Kurgis himself! The letter was very reassuring, full of promises about how he would go to battle for me with the insurance company over my "injuries." The injuries he and his crack staff apparently figure I sustained while my car was parked as I was several blocks away at a music festival, thoroughly enjoying myself.

So, there's a lesson learned--apparently, ambulance chasers don't need for an actual ambulance to be involved before pimping themselves out for a claim. And in fact, they don't even need for any injuries to be sustained. And in fact, they don't even need for an actual accident to have occurred.

All I can say is, if you live in central Ohio, be careful of filing a police report--KEVIN KURGIS WILL FIND YOU!! And the letter he sends you will be full of grammatical errors! And it will infuriate you that a man who doesn't even understand subject-verb agreement is a millionairre, while you are not.

*Said out-of-work porn directors are getting plenty of work these days, apparently, because all of the online poker site commercials are done in exactly the same way.

Do Something 2Day!!!

This was from the "Found" website. I no longer have to worry about homework, but the last admonishment kind of hit home.

Blog Rot

blog rot: (n.) condition wherein one has not written in one's blog for so long that when one finally does attempt to do so, an almost physical stench emits from the screen, driving one away again. Condition can be brought on by preoccupation, laziness, apathy, or any combination thereof. Symptoms tend to be worse in the summer. Condition can become permanent if not treated aggressively.

Here we go again, another post explaining/excusing why I haven't blogged in so long. The fact is, after you've let three weeks go by, it's really difficult to just jump back in again. Several things have kept me away, but I'll pare them down to three main excuses . . . I mean, reasons:

1. Work, work, work. I'm still working over 50 hours a week, on average, and after spending 8 to 10 hours during the day at the computer at the office, I rarely feel like jumping back on one when I get home.
2. Social life. After several months of semi-hibernation while I contemplated/reflected upon my split from my soon-to-be-former husband, I'm starting to get out there among the living once again. And it's been good. It's summer, the weather's been gorgeous, and there's a lot going on.
3. Topic Indecision. Despite the (very valid, I think) reasons above, there have been several times I've sat down and actually logged on to the blog, only to stare at the screen for a while, get frustrated, and then ultimately give up. The problem isn't that I have nothing to write about. It's quite the opposite, in fact--I have too many ideas, and I can't seem to choose which one I should dive into at any given time. Should I just write about my life and what's going on with it? Make some pithy observation about something seemingly mundane but potentially interesting? Write a movie or book review? Or maybe dive into something political again, which, incidentally, I haven't really done since the Great Election Tragedy of 2004? I can never decide. And so, instead, I don't write at all.

This is a common problem, I think, with casual blogging--you know, when your blog has no unifying theme. Do I need a theme? Maybe. I'm still working it out.

Life would be so much easier if I just had a blog like this guy's. In case you're too lazy (or preoccupied, or apathetic) to check out the link, I'll sum it up: It's called "snakesonablog," and it's all about this guy's obsession with the upcoming flick, "Snakes on a Plane." For those of you who don't know, SOAP is a potentially horrid or brilliant B-type movie starring Samuel L. Jackson that's premiering, I think, next month. It's getting a lot of pre-release buzz as a made-to-order cult classic. Whether it will endure as such remains to be seen, but it's a fact that it already has an early cult following thanks in large part to this guy's blog. You might think it would be rather difficult to build an entire blog around one's excitement over an upcoming movie--even burb doesn't go that far--but this guy has done it. And I have to admit, I'm a little jealous.

One major drawback to the SOAB blog, though, is rather obvious--what happens to it after The Big Event (i.e., the premier of the movie)? No matter how the movie is received, the whole point of the blog--which lies in the anticipation of the event--will be mute. The poor guy will have to totally reinvent his blog. And if, as is so often the case with things we look forward to, the anticipation of the event proves more fulfilling than the event itself, where does that leave him? Maybe he'll be too disheartened to ever blog again! And his (semi) fame, like that of so many others, will be a mere flash in the pan, giving him a teasing taste of greatness only to snatch the plate away again.

Which naturally leads to another question--is it better to have blogged and stopped, than never to have blogged at all?

Let's hope I can successfully battle the blog rot and never have to find out.

(By the way, I love this bit of trivia about the SOAP movie, from IMDB: Samuel L. Jackson only signed on for this film because of the title. It was later changed to "Pacific Air Flight 121", but Jackson demanded they reverse the change. "We're totally changing that back. That's the only reason I took the job: I read the title.")

Do the Math

The grocery store I frequent (Giant Eagle) has been running this program for a while called "Fuel Perks," in which for every $50 you spend at the store, you get 10 cents off each gallon of gas at this certain gas station. The total of the money you spend at the store accumulates until you utilize your gas discount. I've been taking advantage of this program for a few months now, and it's not bad--I fill up my car about every two weeks or so and usually get 20 to 30 cents off per gallon. Sounds good, right? It is good, actually. I've got no problem with the program itself. What I do have a problem with is--can you guess?--the program's advertising campaign, or, more specifically, its main slogan.

I was at the store a couple of days ago, pushing my cart around, going about my business, when the advertisement came on over the sound system. You know how that goes--suddenly the subtle background music in the store is interrupted by a woman's unbelievably cheerful voice promoting the weekly specials or whatever. Well, this particular promotion discussed the Fuel Perks program, explaining what it was, how it worked, etc. I wasn't really paying attention until I heard the final line of the ad: "You may never have to pay for gas again!"

Now, this started the analytical wheels in my head turning. As I studied cans of cat food (29 cents each), I started thinking about just how much money I would have to spend at Giant Eagle every two weeks to "never pay for gas again." It was a pretty simple calculation. Let's say gas costs $2.80 a gallon (and that's a generous assumption lately). If I have to spend $50 to get 10 cents off, and there are 28 factors of 10 in $2.80, then we multiply 50 times 28 to arrive at the magic figure. The result? $1400. To get a tank of free gas, I would have to spend $1400 at the grocery store every two weeks. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think that would be a challenging proposition for a family of, say, 40 people, let alone a single person living on a salary of less than that total. (Net, that is.)

Maybe this is just the way my mind works, but I can't help but picture the meeting of the ad execs when they were thinking up this campaign, and someone proposed this slogan. Did anybody pipe up and and say, "Excuse me, but that doesn't really make sense. No one spends that much on groceries. No one is going to "never pay for gas again" because of this program."

Hmm. Nah, I don't think that happened either. And if it did, that person is probably looking for a new job right now.

What I think about all the time, unfortunately . . .

I don't blog much about my job, because, as we all know, there is always the danger of getting dooced from doing so. However, I've never hidden the fact that I'm an editor--more specifically, a textbook editor, and more specifically still, a high school social studies textbook editor. Upon hearing my job title, some people think, "That sounds cool," while even more people think, "God, that sounds fucking boring." Actually, it's both. In some respects, my job is pretty cool--I get to be creative, I have a lot of autonomy, I write and edit all day, and sometimes, I even get to travel. In other respects, it's tedious and extremely stressful, and the pressure is never really off. And then there's the whole thing about getting addicted to one's salary and benefits package, said benefits package being pretty fucking awesome and basically having the effect of doubling the salary, for all intents and purposes . . . but I digress.

I'll go out on a limb here and divulge the information that I'm currently working on an economics textbook. An economics textbook that somehow needs to be "hip" and "cool" and "cutting edge." Which means that, whether I'm actually at work or not, I'm keeping a constant eye out for market trends and new products and other stuff that I might be able to put in my book, eventually. And I gotta tell you, it's pretty exhausting. I can no longer watch TV, listen to the radio, or look through a magazine (all of which are supposed to be "relaxing" activities) without constantly evaluating everything I see and hear, consciously or subconsciously, on its potential merits as a feature or mention in my book. And in case you haven't noticed, advertising is everywhere. There is no escape.

It's really no wonder I'm exhausted and/or drunk all the time.

Anyway, it probably makes sense that with all this scrutiny, I've become particularly critical about ads and whatnot. And I have a particular favorite right now. One that makes me wonder what people are thinking and what's going to happen to this product in the long run. Really, I'm curious and incredulous. Without further ado, the product in question is:

VEET.

Have you all heard of this? It's yet another way for women to remove hair from their bodies, supposedly. First off, let me say that I'm a little suspicious of alternative over-the-counter hair-removal solutions. Remember "Nair"? Of the "We wear short-shorts" long-legged skinny women commercial fame? Nair was supposed to be this cream you just rubbed on your legs and, magically, the hair came right off. Did that stuff work? Did anyone ever actually try it? I remember asking my mom about it many years ago, when I was still a young lass with barely a leg hair to bitch about. According to Mom, no, it didn't work at all. Then why would people buy it, I asked? Because, she said, they had great TV ads, and a lot of women would go out and buy it once, and then realize it didn't work, but by then it would be too late, because they'd already spent the money. That's how the company made money, she said, by all these women buying it once. But why wouldn't all these women tell their friends it didn't work, I asked, and then no one would buy it?

Oh, what a sophisticated young consumer I was.

As far as I know, that' s what DID happen with Nair--it's not around anymore, right? So now, I'm wondering what will happen with VEET.

The marketers of VEET are pretty sophisticated as well, as marketers tend to be. In the commercial, they focus consumers' attention not on the dilapitory cream that one must use, but on the "special tool" that you get when you buy VEET. This "tool," by the way, looks exactly like a razor with no blade. In the commercial, a woman (whose face you never see, of course) runs this "tool" over her slender, perfectly toned, apparently already hairless leg, and suddenly . . . well, I guess we're supposed to assume that whatever hair that was there that we couldn't see in the first place is now gone. That is the magic of VEET. Can you dig it?

Now, I have many questions about all of this, but none of them center on whether or not VEET really works. Honestly, I don't care. I made my peace with razors a long time ago. Sure, shaving is a pain, but it gets the job done. It's reliable. Compared to most of life's trials, it's no big deal. I'm O.K. with it.

Of more interest to me is the thinking behind this whole marketing campaign. I don't know, maybe it's the particularly astute discernment abilities I've developed after months of working on this economics book, but a lot of things in the campaign make no sense whatsoever to me. Allow me to lay them out for you:

1. What, exactly, is VEET? Is it the "special tool"? Is it the cream? Is it the whole system, as a whole? Or is it more a concept, an idea, a dream of living a leg-hair-free existence? I'm just not sure.

2. Who was the genius who decided to call a major part of this product, marketed very specifically to women, a "tool"? Really, you couldn't come up with anything better and/or more appropriate? Honestly, the idea of using a "tool" on my legs doesn't sound very appealing. It seems vaguely surgical, and to some, it might conjure up images of people's shins being cracked with a wrench or something. I won't even go into the possible sexual innuendos that could be derived from an alternative definition. Just a really, really bad choice of terminology, in my opinion. (The assertion that the tool is somehow "special" doesn't help either. Not at all.)

3. And finally--VEET??? What the hell does that even mean? Is it an acronym? Is it supposed to summon up some association with something else? And what would that be, exactly? To me, it sounds like a word aliens would use. If an alien landed in my backyard, descended from his/her/its ship, floated up to me, and said, "Veet!" I would not be surprised. That would make sense, in some strange way. But as a way for my legs to be sleek and smooth? Nah, it just doesn't work.

So, while I'm curious to learn what others might think of VEET, I have no plans to include it in my book in any way. Apart from the mind-boggling aspects of the marketing side of the whole thing, I just don't think teenage girls need more cajoling into trying to be even more hairless than they're already encouraged to be.

People Much More Important Than Myself

O.K., I'm actually at work right now, so this has to be a short one, but you know what I love? I love it when you go into the break room at work to get some coffee, and someone at the sink feels they have to rinse out their coffee cup about 68 times, even though you are standing there obviously waiting to use the sink yourself. These same people who have plenty of time for a cup-rinsing marathon then do not have time to make another friggin' pot of coffee after pouring the last bit into their mondo-rinsed cup. It doesn't make it any less annoying that the coffee machine itself, being pretty modern and made for a corporate environment, couldn't be faster or easier to operate if it was run by mind control. You don't have to measure coffee. You don't have to add water. You just dump out the old coffee grounds, open a new packet, and flip a switch. But I guess some people are just too important and busy to spare that extra 15 seconds it would take to accomplish this amazing feat.

O.K., I feel better. Deep breath. Back to work.

A Typical Monday Night

Aren't a lot of you dying to know how a newly-single, 30-something woman in my situation spends her typical weekday evening? Me too. I don't really know what most women like me do--I only know what I do. Tonight, for example, broke down like this:

5:30: Went to get a haircut
6:30: Got home
6:30 - 7:30: Did some stretches; played with cats; blogged
7:30 - 9:00: Worked on Chapter 5 first pages
9:00 - 10:00: Made dinner--macaroni & cheese, 1 beer, 2 chocolate chip cookies (Hey, I'm allowed to eat like a white-trash bachelor once in a while. For lunch I had a chicken breast and steamed vegetables. O.K., it was chicken cordon bleu.) Ate dinner while watching a poker tournament. Also browsed through a BusinessWeek, looking for stuff for my book. Also played with the cats again. (It was "Catnip Hour.")
10:00 - 10:30: Watched Anthony Bourdain's show ("No Reservations") on the Travel Channel, primarily because I've developed a serious crush on him. (It's also just a good show.)
10:30 - 11:00--i.e., now: Sitting here blogging with cat (Alex) sitting on my lap and purring loudly and rubbing his paw all over my face and neck. (Yes, it does make it awkward to type.)
[Pending] 11:00 - 12:00: Take a bath, with a book and a glass of wine. Go to bed.

So there it is--all very typical of a night in. I imagine that for some people, such a night would be boring and/or lonely, while other people would give anything for the solitude and chance to relax. Everything's relative, right?

Is this why I've been labeled a moral relativist in the past? Hmmm . . . .

GSD

Some of you have been asking whatever happened on my date with Grocery Store Dude. Well, it did turn out to be a date, of sorts. I showed up with every intention of telling him I couldn't stay, but he offered to buy me a beer right away, and I figured one couldn't hurt. (It never does, right? . . . ) Well, three beers and three hours later, I had come to the following conclusion: GSD is even more of a hippie than Hippie Neighbors, if that's possible. (Apparently, I am giving off some subconscious hippie-attraction vibe. I should get that checked out.) Here's why I believe this:

1. He used the following words and phrases, unironically, sometimes multiple times: Goddess, spiritual journey, The Man.
2. He apparently didn't brush his hair before our date.
3. He was obviously stoned for our date.
4. He doesn't own a car, and he talked extensively about how people who own cars "don't SEE things, man."
5. He works as a roofer and a canvasser, all under the table.
6. He took a 4 1/2-month backpacking trip through India last year.
7. He is involved in an ongoing investigation resulting from said trip, in which he got caught at the airport with some sort of large bowie knife in his backpack, which he "forgot" was there. (Although I put "forgot" in quotes, it is quite possible that he did, in fact, forget. I just think the security people had a tough time swallowing that one.) I am unclear on the details of this investigation, but he did mention a court date coming up. They still let him take his trip, however. I don't know, I'm pretty confused about that one.
8. His name is Spring.

O.K., so obviously, I will not be dating this person. He was interesting to talk to for a few hours, though. He was very intrigued about my stint in Africa--no surprise there--so we talked mostly about travel and other cultures and the way the U.S. is perceived in the world, etc. So all in all, I enjoyed myself and met an interesting new person, albeit one I will probably never see again. Or maybe I will, but in a platonic way only. In the end, we split the tab and said goodnight, and when he asked if he could see me again, I kind of talked around the issue . . . I'm really busy, I'm not really ready to date again, etc. Which, in retrospect, kind of sounds like a blow-off, doesn't it? We'll see how it's perceived in hippie-speak.

Hippie Baby Name

Well, Hippie Baby has arrived, and I finally met him last night. And learned his full name. And that name is:

Paulo Joaquin Sequoia Hawkeye S__________.

I couldn't make that up, people.

I can't remember exactly what Hippie Dad's last name is, but it's something very Anglo-generic sounding, not quite "Smith," but close. And both Hippie Parents are very Anglo themselves, in case you were wondering. One thing's for sure--in case you all thought I was exagerrating the neighbors' hippie status, that name should convince you that I was not. That, and the cloth diapers I spied hanging from a laundry line out back yesterday.

On the plus side, the kid is cute, and I haven't heard a peep out of him yet. Either he's not a crier, or the walls are thicker than I thought. I'll take either one.

This 'n' That

1. Quit Yer Bitchin Sorry about the lame, whiny post yesterday. I just had to vent. A lot of other people at work are in my same position, or will be soon, and I should just learn to handle it better. I'm going to try shorter posts here and there when I can and not think about them so much--just blog with the flow, so to speak. Like now.

2. Hippie Baby on the Way For those of you who have been following the saga of when my hippie neighbors will have their baby, I think today's the day (or yesterday was the day). They weren't home when I got home from work yesterday, and they're still not home. Soon, the soundproof qualities of the cement wall separating our apartments will be tested, I believe. Also to be tested: the patience, resolve, and sanity of the hippie neighbors, who are planning on using cloth diapers even though they lack a washer and dryer.

3. Dilemna So, some of you know about Grocery Store Dude, who asked for my number at Giant Eagle last week. (To be clear, he was a fellow shopper--he doesn't work at the grocery store. Not that there's anything wrong with that.) He called on Monday night, and we made plans to meet for a drink tonight. The problem is, I don't want to go. I knew I didn't want to go as soon as I hung up the phone with him, for a variety of reasons, and then I also remembered that I have a hair appointment after work as well. (Really! I do!) I tried to call him twice last night, using the number that was on my cell phone from when he called me--and it just rang and rang, no answer, no voice mail, nothing. What do I do? I have three options, basically--stand him up, show up and tell him I can't stay, or show up and stay and end the evening as quickly and politely as possible, then head home to try to get in an hour's work before "Lost." What to do??

I know, I know, I can't just stand him up--that's unbelievably rude. But isn't it rude to have a stupid frickin phone number that doesn't allow people to actually reach you??? Maybe I can pull off Option 2 gracefully. I don't know--I'm pretty out of practice with this stuff. Stay tuned--I will post results of the date dilemna and hippie baby arrival later tonight.

In Over My Head

This is probably not going to be the most pleasant of posts.

As I'm sure many of you have noticed, I haven't been blogging much recently. Of course, this isn't the first time I've been negligent. In my previous lapses, I've always blamed it on 1) laziness, or 2) not having enough time alone in which to really sit down and write. Ever since the Major Life Event (which I'm just going to start referring to as the divorce--it's not like it's a big secret or anything), I can't claim a lack of time alone. That's one thing I have plenty of. (I don't mean to sound like I'm whining about it--it's mostly by choice.) Unfortunately, all of this wonderful time alone has dovetailed with my project at work ratcheting up to a mind-numbing level of my time and attention required. To give you an idea of what the week's been like so far:

Saturday: worked 3 hours at home
Sunday night: worked 5 hours at home
Monday: worked from 8:30 to 6:00 in the office and then from 7:00 to 10:00 at home (for a total of 12 1/2 hours)
Today: worked from 8:30 to 5:00 in the office and will put in another 3 to 4 hours tonight (that's another 12 hours or so.)

You get the idea. The thing is, I could work like this every day and not get caught up. I will never be caught up--it's just not physically possible. I'm burned out already, and we've just started production. And I can't really talk to anyone about it. People just tell me, "Oh, you shouldn't work so much. Don't worry about it. It's not the end of the world if you're not right on schedule. It's not world peace. It will get done."

Well, no, it won't get done. Not unless I do it.

In the past week, I've started four blog posts that I haven't been able to finish. I just can't turn off the work stuff. Even now, I'm trying to get all of this out, just bitch about it for a while, and I'm thinking I should really be working on Chapter 4 first pages instead of trying to blog. I just can't do it.

O.K., I'm going to stop whining now. And get to work. Just wanted to let everyone know why the blog has sat so forlorn and neglected. And it may stay that way for a while.

My New Crusade

So, the other day on my way to work, I was listening to some insipid morning show on the radio, and they were discussing a variety of news events. The first item concerned some local child-molestation case, and the others, which I can't recall specifically, had something to do with political issues. This particular show, like many other morning radio shows, features a lead guy with one other guy and a woman as sidekicks, and the woman always does the news. (Why are so many shows set up like this? WHY?? That's a topic for another entry.) Anyway, the woman talked (insipidly) about the child-molestation case for a while, and then about one of the political issues (again, insipidly), and then about the other political issue (can you guess my take on her coverage of this one?). And at the end of her brilliant expose, the lead guy spoke up, and the conversation went something like this:

LEAD GUY: You know, with all the problems in my own life, I just can't bring myself to care about this stuff. I just don't have the energy. Well, except for the child molestation--I do care about that.
WOMAN: Well, of course you care about THAT--you have children.

Now, I have a mind like a steel trap. I immediately latched onto that comment and thought, "So, the implication is that if you don't have children, you don't give a shit about child molestation issues. You could care less if children get molested. Why would you? After all, you don't have children, and so you don't care about children."

As one of the Childfree, I take offense to this assumption. And I'll write more about this later. This is my New Crusade. Stay tuned.

Blog, Interrupted

I haven't been able to post as often as I'd like lately, mostly due to work. I've actually been doing a lot of work at home at night lately, which leaves me kind of drained on the writing front. Tonight, for example, I would really like to blog about the following topics:

1. The MRI I had yesterday. Interesting experience. No results yet. I could've tried to call my doctor today to get the scoop, but I was too busy at work. (By the way, I've been off the vicodin since Sunday night. No serious pain lately, except for in the morning, when it's still pretty excruciating. My tolerance level for pain is pretty high right now, though, and by lunchtime, it's been pretty much gone, so I'm laying off the painkillers.)
2. My New Crusade. (Aren't you curious? More on this later.)
3. The guy who tried to pick me up at the laundrobar tonight.
4. The slow and irritating death that my computer is going through, and what I'm going to do about it.

Look for posts on these and other utterly fascinating topics soon, but tonight I need to pack for my trip to Wisconsin for Serious Family Time. Stay tuned.

My Boys

[This is a post I started a couple of days ago, and I'm just going to post it or else it will hang out in my "edit" box forever. Sorry it's not really complete.]

One other thing I did over this mostly unproductive weekend was hang out with my boys a lot. For those of you who don't know them, here they are:

Alex, the lover:















Darby, the mighty hunter:















I don't understand people who don't like cats, or who claim that cats are boring and don't have personalities. Most of these people, I believe, either
A) have never lived with a cat;
B) never took the time to really get to know the cat they lived with; or
C) had the unfortunate experience of living with a cat who was also an asshole.

Yes, cats, like people, can be assholes. So can dogs. For those of you who hate it when people anthropomorphize animals, you'd better stop reading now, because I do it a lot. Having lived with cats and dogs all my life, I've seen a wide variety of personalities, quirks, and mannerisms in them. I've known cats and dogs who are more interesting and have more diversity of feelings, moods, and behaviors than some people I've encountered. They are individuals. They are, each of them, unique.

Take my boys, for example. Alex, I've had since he was about six weeks old. He's my baby, and I, with no question, am his mama. He adores me. He follows me everywhere. As I write this, he is sitting two feet away, gazing at me through half-closed eyelids. (Both cats, and most cats, spend much of their lives half-asleep--not totally asleep, as many people believe. It's like this semi-permanent meditative state they've perfected. Admirable.) Alex is a cat casanova, a total lover. He's laid back, clever, sweet, charismatic, and cute, with just a little bit of a naughty streak. And, he has developed a variety of distinct facial expressions, ranging from utter and obvious contempt (usually reserved for his brother) to wide-eyed innocent curiosity. Alex's human movie star equivalent: Johnny Depp. (Does this mean I have a subconcious wish that Johnny Depp would adore me and follow me around with sleepy eyes? No, that's completely ridiculous--that wish is NOT subconscious.)

Darby, I got when he was between two and three years old--no way to know, exactly. He was a cat of the street. (Admittedly, the street was in Westerville, but still.) He's gorgeous, tough, and schizophrenic. He's incredibly smart in some ways, and not that bright in others. Also, he has the memory of a goldfish. I've probably let this cat in and out of the apartment about 54 times this weekend. He'll come in, and then immediately forget he was just out, and go out again, and then come back in 10 minutes later. (I know, it' s partly my fault for indulging him--but sometimes, moving from the couch to the door and back again is the only exercise I get over the course of several hours. Also, this cat can make some noise. You try ignoring the Yowl of Doom--excruciatingly audible inside and outside the house--while you're trying to read or watch "Law & Order.") Darby is one those cats who will be sitting quietly in one room, and then suddenly, for no discernible reason, decide he has to be in a different room RIGHT NOW, and he'll just bolt out. And then back again. He reacts to catnip the way I imagine humans react to getting a massage while on PCP. He is extremely auditory, with a variety of purrs, coos, and yowls in his repertoire, but he has only three expressions: perfectly content; really, really surprised; and manic. He has been known to bring me gifts of birds, mice, chipmunks, and baby rabbits. I am both appalled and touched by his gestures. Darby's human movie star equivalent: Russell Crowe. (Does this mean I have a subconscious wish that Russell Crowe would bring me dead chipmunks? . . . )