Grocery Store Breakdown

No, I did not have a breakdown in the grocery store, although I was occasionally irritated by people parking their carts in the middle of an aisle in such a way that others with carts cannot pass them, while the offending person takes an inordinate amount of time choosing a bottle of salad dressing, oblivious. (Yet another instance of people failing to realize that others inhabit the planet. This is a major pet peeve of mine.)

Anyway, two nights ago I made one of my rare major grocery shopping trips. My usual trips involve stopping in when I need something specific or when I'm planning on actually cooking something, and just getting what I need right then plus a few other things, maybe. You know--the kind of trip where you just need a basket, not a cart. (This effectively avoids the above scenario where you can't push your cart around the carts of clueless others. Zipping around with a basket is much more efficient.) Every now and then, however, my kitchen reaches that near-empty point, where I've run out of just about everything and opening the fridge door and peering inside is just depressing. (There's something inherently comforting in looking at a full fridge and disheartening in looking at an empty one--don't you think?)

So, on Monday night, I ventured out to do some real shopping. I planned on spending about $70-80, which may not sound like much to some of you, considering I only do a major trip once every three to four weeks. But, I'm a single, relatively small person who eats out a lot--how many groceries could I need, really? That's the question I was asking myself when I exited the store 45 minutes later, having dropped about $130.

What I failed to remember--what I always fail to remember--is that I am a single, relatively small person who likes to indulge herself, and who also has three voracious animals who seem to never stop eating. Still, in the car on the way home, I wondered how I managed to spend almost twice the amount I had planned on spending. So, last night I got out the receipt and broke down the items I bought into categories, just to see where my money was going. Here are the results, in percentages*:

Cleaning products: 11%
Personal hygiene products: 8%
Sin items (beer, ciggs): 12%
Junk food: 7%
Condiments: 6%
Pet food and treats: 18%
Actual food: 40%

Hmm. I've always wondered why, even after a "major" trip, my fridge always seems to still look relatively bare, and this explains it--there's only about $40 of food in there. Very enlightening.

*Percentage may not add up to 100 due to rounding.

Another Hazard of Texting

Last night, I encountered an entirely new hazard of dating in the text-message age. Well, not really a hazard, per se--maybe a quirk? It's pretty funny, actually--you'll like this.

I got home from my work happy hour around 7:00, fed my little ones (the dog and cats, that is), and took the dog for a long walk. About five minutes after I got back, I got a text message. The exchange went like this, word for word, with some explanatory comments:

Texter: Its john; want 2 come down 2 german village?
[Older Young Guy's name is John.]
Me: Where are you?
John: House sitting across from barcelona [a restaurant]
Me: Want to just meet out somewhere around there?
John: Sure; where r u now?
Me: Home. Just got back from happy hour.
John: U should head down here
Me: Where exactly?
John: Want to just meet me here, then we can head out?
Me: K. Directions?

He then gave me directions and said he would meet me at my car when I got there and we could just walk to a nearby bar. I headed on down, found the place easily, parked my car, and called him. He said he'd be right out. I thought his voice sounded really odd. So the door to this house opens, and out walks . . . a totally different guy than the one I thought I was meeting.

I can only imagine what my face looked like as he approached my car; luckily, it was dark out. I had to recover pretty quickly. This guy was another guy named John, and he's a friend of a friend. I met him last summer and have run into him a few times at parties and such, and he came to a party I threw for a friend a few weeks ago. Well, apparently, he'd gotten ahold of my number--presumably from said "friend." Keep in mind that I'm piecing all of this together in my head as we're greeting each other and exchanging pleasantries and walking to the bar. It occurred to me that it was a bit presumptuous of him to just text me out of the blue like that as if we were good friends, and on a Friday night, no less. This is not someone I would have gone on a date with if I actually knew it was him I was meeting. He's a nice enough guy, but I'm just not attracted to him. But I was kind of stuck now, wasn't I?

In the end, it wasn't a total loss. We had a couple of drinks and talked, and he's actually a very nice guy, and one of those rare ones who actually listen and ask a lot of questions and seem genuinely interested in the responses. In fact, I found myself wishing I was attracted to him . . . but that just wasn't happening. (He's not bad looking at all--just not my type.) And here's a kicker--I wound up telling him the whole thing, all about the mistaken identity, and he got a big kick out of it. More points in his favor. But I'm not going to date him. The evening ended with the understanding that we'd just be friends.

Be careful with the texting, people. It's been an issue with me more than once this week.

*In retrospect, I should have known. Older Young Guy would never use semicolons.

Off the Wagon

Dammit, I texted him. But only once. O.K., twice, but the second time was in response to his response. And O.K., I probably would have texted him more if he had responded to my response to his response . . . but he didn't.

What the hell is wrong with me?

For those of you who were at happy hour, please don't tell G--she'll kill me.

Counting Days

Well, I'm now on day six of successfully not texting a Certain Person. Yep, I'm pretty darn proud of myself. However, happy hour looms, a mere four hours away. Could be dangerous--I have been known to drink and text.

I may need a sponsor.

Random Thoughts

Apropos of nothing:

1. I hate it when people I know do things to validate and perpetuate stereotypes. Jokes are often based on stereotypes, right? Here's one:
Question: What do you call it when two lesbians move in together?
Answer: Their second date.
I really do like your new girlfriend, sweetie--I just wish you'd take it a little slower.

2. Because I fell asleep wearing my contacts last night (again), I had to use eyedrops this morning. As I was standing there in the bathroom with most of the drops dripping down my face, as they do, I casually read the bottle of drops, which featured bullet points listing the beneficial attributes of said drops. One of the bullet points proclaimed the drops to be "Non-staining." WTF? Is this really necessary to point out? What kind of scary eyedrops are floating around out there? Be careful, people.

3. Lately, I'm putting an inordinate amount of energy into not texting a certain person. It's amazing how much of one's life can be caught up in not doing something. I've actually spent up to an entire hour just sitting on the couch, mentally debating the pros and cons of texting this person. I almost slipped last night, but I managed to turn the phone off and plug it into the charger in another room. It's day five.

Another Lesson

O.K., folks, here's another lesson on What Not To Do.

[Seriously, I should be writing an advice column, don't you think? If someone, somewhere, took me up on this, heartache would be saved. Or at least headache. Really, someone take me up on this, please.]

So. You're a single guy, and you've been out with a particular woman a couple of times. You both had a lot of fun. There's no pressure, you're just having fun. So, you haven't seen each other in about a week, and you call her up. She's casual. You chat. You tell her you'd like to see her soon. So far so good.

The problem? You have no plan. None whatsoever.

You give her no clue about when you'd like to see her or what you'd like to do. Your conversation is more along the lines of that of a good acquaintance who is just clueing her in to the fact that he might like to glimpse her in person sometime in the next few weeks. No rush.

But wait, it gets worse. When she takes the initiative and suggests a particular night, you're evasive. You might be going out of town, you say. You're not sure yet. You tell you'll know the following day, and you'll give her a call and let her know.

Can it get even worse still? Yes it can! You fail to call her the next day as promised. And the night she suggested is the following night.

Guess what she's going to do? That's right, Einstein--she's going to make other plans. At the very least, she's going to tell you she's made other plans, whether she has or not.* What's more, she's completely turned off by your wishy-washy rudeness. She's going to turn you down the next time you suggest an actual plan for a date. In fact, she may very well stop taking your calls altogether.

Idiot.

*By the way, I did make actual other plans. You can go piss off, Aaron. (Not Aaron from work, by the way! A different Aaron. But hi, Aaron from work!)

Chuck Sucks

Here in the Heartland, we're in the middle of a major winter storm today. It snowed pretty steadily for two days, and then last night, we got freezing rain on top of it all, followed by a steep temperature drop, followed by more snow. What this means in practical terms is that I knew my place of employment would either be closed today or, at the very least, running on a delay. Extrapolating further on this set of circumstances, I should have been able to sleep in today--yes?

No.

At 6:30 this morning, something woke me up. A noise outside my window. An awful, continuous, scraping noise. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. It went on and on. I roused myself to look out the window, and there was my neighbor, Chuck (who lives in the apartment formerly occupied by Hippie Neighbors), shoveling the walkway in front of our building. At 6:30 in the morning.

You know that awful feeling, where something is happening that just annoys the crap out of you, and you know there's nothing you can do about it, and you just sit there seething quietly, obsessing about how much better your life would be if this particular thing was not happening? And then your quiet seething turns to fantasies about hitting a particular person over the head with, oh, say, a snow shovel? This was how my day began. (It should be noted that 6:30 is considerably earlier than I get up on a regular day, let alone a glorious snow day when I should be allowed to sleep in.)

And so I lay there, hating Chuck and missing Hippie Neighbors, who never would have undertaken this particular task--or any task, for that matter--at 6:30 in the friggin' morning. Why? Why did he have to shovel that early? Why? It's like those people who mow their lawns in the early hours on a weekend. Does no one stop to consider that they're not the only people living on their block? To top it all off, you can't say anything and piss off a neighbor, because who knows when you might need them to bring in your mail or rush you to the emergency room or something?

Eventually, I got over it, got up, made some coffee, and watched Chuck out the window. Scrape, scrape, scrape. It took him half an hour. I wondered about the other neighbors, whether he'd woken anyone else up, whether they'd been as annoyed as I was. And then I thought I might forgive Chuck if he also shoveled my part of the walkway. The walkway in front of our building comes up from the street and branches off into a Y, with one part leading to the apartments of Chuck and the Asian woman on the end of the building, and the other part leading to the apartments of yours truly and They Who Are Never Seen. Since TWANS are an older couple, and I'm just a girl*, I thought it would be nice if big strong early-rising Chuck shoveled our part of the walkway as well. But no. He shoveled just his own part of the Y, and then retreated back into his apartment. Selfish, selfish Chuck.

(As it turns out, even if Chuck hadn't woken me up at 6:30, I would have been woken up around 7:05 by Guy Who Took an Hour and Fifteen Minutes to Get His Piece of Crap Car Out of Its Parking Spot on the Street and Almost Hit My Car in the Process. More on this saga later, maybe.)

*Of course I was kidding about the "just a girl" thing, but the truth is, I don't own a snow shovel.

Adventures in Singledom

Hello there! It's been a while. I don't want to write a long, drawn-out post about why I haven't blogged in over three months, but I do apologize to those of you (all three or four of you!) who miss my occasional rantings and musings. I could say I'm just too busy, but as most of you know, I watch far too many episodes of Law & Order for that to be a viable excuse. I could also blame it on my wonderful dog, whom I got back from my ex right around the time I stopped blogging--and it's true that the long walks we go on every evening suck up a healthy chunk of my time--but that's not really it either. The truth is, I just haven't felt like it. And now I do. It's that simple.

Anyhoo, a couple of weeks ago marked the year anniversary of the start of my post-marriage life, and I took the opportunity to reflect upon my journey back into the dating scene since then. It also got me thinking about when I was still married and hanging out a lot with other married couples, and howmany of these people often mentioned how glad they were that they didn't have to date anymore, what a hassle it is, how difficult it is to find anyone to connect with, etc. etc. (Meanwhile, I would often wonder whether some of these people were actually "connecting" with their spouses . . . .) And as someone who has suddenly been plunged back into the dating pool as a late-30s divorcee, I can attest that there's a lot of truth in all that whining. Dating can be tedious, especially for women in my situation. That tired, stereotypical chick-flick mantra that "All the good men are married or gay" exists for a reason, especially when you're talking about men my age. Of course, statistically speaking, there should be a healthy pool of divorced, age-appropriate men out there, but I haven't really found that to be the case so far. And then again, in that situation, there are often kids involved, and I'm just not in a place to deal with all of that right now.

Luckily, none of that really fazes me, because I'm just not looking for a relationship. I know some people probably think I'm just saying that in a sour-grapes sort of way, but it's true--I'm perfectly happy on my own. And that's a very freeing attitude. I've been able to spend the last few months just meeting and hanging out with people and having fun without bogging things down by constantly evaluating them for long-term relationship potential. It's a constant adventure, and it's also excellent blog-fodder. So, without further ado, let's take a look at some of the people I've had the pleasure and/or annoyance to meet over the past several months. (Note: Descriptive aliases have been used to protect . . . well, me, from libel suits by any of the below parties I might have been stupid enough to give my blog address to.)

*Hippie Neighbor Brother
What can I say? He was just always around. When the hippie neighbors were still here (they moved to Colorado, by the way), hippie husband's brother was over at their place constantly. And in the summer, we were all outside all the time, often drinking beer on the porch(es). And he was really cute and single . . . it was kind of inevitable that we would wind up hanging out.
Pros: really cute, fun, good at grilling food
Cons: a total flake, broke, not all that smart
Status: out of touch since hippie neighbors moved away, except for one note left on my porch asking to borrow a hairdryer (?)

[Here's a photo I took of him surreptitiously out my front window while he was sleeping in the hammock. Sorry it's such a lousy photo, but it was out the window.]






*Young guy #1
Most of you know who this is--several of you have met him. And you were probably thinking, what is she thinking? (Age difference: 15 years.) What I was thinking was that he was sweet, smart, straightforward, and a lot of fun. The fact that he was an extremely talented musician didn't hurt either. We had a great summer until he got himself into some trouble. I still care about him, and I hope he finds someone (a bit more age-appropriate) who deserves him someday.
Pros: again--sweet, smart, fun, musician, very cute
Cons: way too young, substance abuser (recovering!)
Status: we still talk on the phone sometimes, and go to an occasional movie

*Young guy #2
I know, I know. But, as I pointed out before, available guys my age aren't that easy to find. Also, there's something about the young ones. They don't drone on and on about their careers or their investments or the hassles in their lives. They like to go out and have fun. They don't have kids from former marriages. They can stay up past midnight. They're uncomplicated and passionate. And, as I've been pleasantly surprised to discover, the young men of today often appreciate older women who are substantially more secure with themselves than your average 20-year-old. And this one in particular was (is) quite intriguing.
Pros: cute, smart, funny, musician
Cons: way too young, and another reason I can't really mention here
Status: good friends

*The Ex
No, not the ex-husband. Out of the blue one day, I got a call from an ex-boyfriend from my pre-marriage days. He'd heard I'd gotten divorced. (Yes, this can be a very small town sometimes.) We arranged to go out one night and met for dinner and drinks. The evening started out well enough, catching up on what we'd been doing the last few years. As the night wore on, however, I was reminded over and over of why we broke up in the first place. The whole thing culminated in a stupid, pointless argument over the circumstances of our break-up. In the end, he told me that he was confident he would eventually find the right person (who was obviously not me) because he was, in his words, the "total package."
Pros: still really cute, able to pay for dinner
Cons: boring, arrogant, tiresome, self-delusional
Status: will probably never speak to each other again

*The Guy Who Should Be Gay
What is it with me and this type of guy? This is the third one in my life who's been interested in me--a guy with impeccable taste, articulate, no guy friends, way into the arts, hates sports, super sensitive . . . gay, right? No. I'm pretty much convinced he's not--he's 38, after all, and would have probably figured it out by now. But I can't help thinking that his love life would be much better if he was. Believe me, I love gay men--I just don't want to date one. Nor do I want to date one whose whole persona screams gay, even if he's not. I'm sorry if that seems mean or insensitive, but at some point in life, a person has to drop political correctness and face certain realities. There may be women out there who are attracted to this type of guy, but I simply am not.
Pros: smart, good conversationalist, shares my taste in movies, music, and books
Cons: no spark whatsoever, needy, not a musician, still possibly gay
Status: I may have to cut off contact soon, although I wish he could be my good gay male friend

*Older Young Guy
Seriously, when I met him, I thought he was about 34. Turns out, he's 26. It's almost unbelievable--he looks older, acts older, and is way more cynical than I would expect a 26-year-old to be. And he's a musician. (Do you see a pattern here?) And I met him at a kick-ass concert that we were both really into and had a great time hanging out. A few weeks later, our interest in each other is waning. It's mutual and obvious. I'm not sure why--just one of those things.
Pros: extremely smart, good conversationalist, interesting, attractive, musician
Cons: cynical, unreliable, arrogant, ignores my dog (This is a big red flag to me, by the way. Here's a hint to all single men: If you're interested in a woman, and this woman adores her dog, and you ignore her dog, this woman is not going to adore you.)
Status: dying on the vine

So, there we are, a snapshot of my ongoing quest to not have a relationship. Because, looking back over this list, it's pretty obvious that that's what I'm doing.

And that's O.K.

Learn It. Know It. Live It.

O.K., after my long absence, I know I owe everyone a catch-up post, and one will be forthcoming this week. However, before I forget about it, I really need to air one of my all-time biggest pet peeves. This weekend, I read The Ruins, by Scott Smith. I was expecting an intelligent, literary thriller, as Smith was also the author of A Simple Plan, which I didn't actually read, but I heard it was great and I loved the movie. Well, The Ruins turned out to be kind of a B-grade horror story with a completely unbelievable plot, flat characters, and infuriating turns-of-events--and I couldn't put it down. As silly and asinine (and, I might add, gross) as it was, it was also nevertheless compelling, and I couldn't quite figure out why. So, today I went online to read some reviews and see what other people thought of it. As it turns out, readers were all over the place--most people either loved or hated it. There were also plenty of people like me, who recognized it as completely silly but couldn't stop reading. What struck me the most, however, was the number of folks who made some reference to "suspending belief."

People, if you're going to take the time to actually write a book review on Amazon, please also take the time to get your literary phrasings down correctly. [WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD RE. THE RUINS.] If you're reading a novel about vines that can think, reason, plan, move, speak German, kill people, and laugh about it all, you are suspending DISBELIEF--as in, all this stuff is completely impossible to believe, and therefore you feel DISBELIEF, but you are SUSPENDING that feeling in order to just escape into a book (or movie, or T.V. show, etc.) for a while. On the other hand, if you live in a world where the above scenario inspires BELIEF, then I'm sorry, but I don't think they should allow you to have books like that in the sanitarium. That's just my opinion.

If you need further clarification, here's a Wikipedia article on the whole concept. Please learn how to use this phrase correctly, or stay away from the Amazon "post" button. Thank you.

[To all: Please keep tuning in . . . posts will come more frequently. I finished my project!!!]

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.