The Great Pencil Holder Caper of '04

A few weeks ago, on order from my boss boss, I put out some lovely pencil and scrap paper holders at some of our "look up station" computers. Now (shudder and gasp) they are missing! Shocking, isn't it?

The boss boss wants pencil and paper out for our dear patrons, yet our dear patrons are hoodlums who would steal the lovely holders, yet the boss boss will not have ugly holders that could be chained down. Would she accept the anarchy of pencils and paper outside of holders?

Oh, confusion!

And to top it off, my contact at the mousepad vendor is an idiot, but I cannot use another vendor because only the idiot is university approved.

Oh, fiery confusion!

THIS IS MY LIFE!

Vanity Fair, Garden State Pretty Good

I finally saw some movies in the theater, Vanity Fair and Garden State.

I might have enjoyed Vanity Fair, the gorgeous period art house film, for what it was if I hadn't just finished reading Vanity Fair, the long-ass satirical novel. I understand why Mira Nair and Co whittled away the sprawling narrative and Thackary's snarky commentary to fit into a feature length movie. I'm not sure why they de-clawed Becky Sharpe. I guess they thought we wouldn't like her if she was morally ambiguous. Too bad. I did appreciate how Nair played up the Indian influences and didn't ignore the colonial and race issues that really were in Thackary's novel, even though he had the sexist and racist attitudes of his day. Reese Whitherspoon brought humanity to the Bitch in Election. I think we could have handled the bitch in Becky while understanding the social circumstances which oppressed her. Vanity Fair had good acting and great hair, but not enough venom. I wish it had been more like Barry Lyndon.

Garden State was good, even though Natalie Portman's make-up looked really bad in one scene.

Rallied for the Rally

Just the word rally makes me twitchy. During most high school "pep fests," my little clique of AP geeks with art fag connections used to cut out and hang in the cafeteria. Some would sneer "fascist", then glower over their diet coke. It seemed foolish to display too much positive excitement for anything.

I was tempted to cut out on today's rally, too. I was afraid there'd be weirdos with gruesome pictures of fetuses and what not. Then I told myself, if I think someone is fit for the highest political office in the nation, the least I can do is get my ass to his rally when it's the neighborhood. Weirdos be damned. So I printed out my little ticket, sunscreened my neck, and waited in a mad long line to spend a few hours on the grass for John Kerry.

I actually had a decent time. There were few out-and-out weirdos. The vibe was pleasant. A nutty crunch guy with a bike helmet tried to chat me up. I met a friendly nurse from New Jersey. I clapped at the good stuff and even chanted "Kerry, Kerry." Why not? I can't be opposed to audience participation. Of course, there were a few rough spots. Our honorable Mayor tried to do a call and response thing using the word "inalienable." I was handed a cacamamy sign to wave which said something about restoring world credibility. I can't remember the exact wording, it was so awkward. A college kid in the crowd wished everyone would stop alluding to Vietnam. But between the U2 and Springsteen songs and the giant helium balloons spontaneously bursting from the heat, there were some exciting speakers. Joe Biden was the best. Finally, Kerry himself hit the stage. He took of his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, waved, then made a regrettably goofy rock 'em sock 'em gesture. He's slimmer than you might think, although as far as I could tell the man is not much taller than my thumbnail. Then Golden Boy Rendell spoke, then some soldiers' moms. Then a boxing champ handed Kerry some gloves. By the time Kerry actually started speaking, I had been warmed up and warmed over too much. His speech was okay (I find his stentorian tone a welcome change from twelve years of Dixie twang), but I cut out as soon as he said "closing" so I could avoid the big exit rush.

Far from Godliness

At last I am on vacation. So far, I've spent most of it cleaning my bedroom. I started at 10 a.m. By 2:30 I was beat. The room's still a mess by most standards.

Cleaning freaks me out. As soon as I managed to clean off the top of my dresser, I was struck by a dull thud of sadness. The vast open surfaces and the unobstructed view of my mirror gave me a tiny pang of mini-agorophobia. Where were all my little friends, the dust pixies?

The stuff on top of the dresser had to go somewhere. "Just put it in the middle of the floor for now." I told myself. I figured, If I just kept moving around, I'd maintain momentum. "Just clean off surfaces one by one." Soon the sight of all the stuff in my room (and I try to keep my stuff to a minimum, which can be a challenge even on my sad wages) made my brain short circuit, and I often found myself sitting and staring on the edge of my bed, like Holly Hunter in that scene from Raising Arizona --you know the one-- where she's lost all interest in housework and law enforcement.

The next trap I fell into was microcleaning. I spent rediculous amounts of time fixated on cleaning a few inconspicious spots while the rest of the room remained in chaos. But my, you could eat off that 3 x 5 inch area of the book shelf that I sponged with Murphy's Oil soap, then scoured with baking soda, then wiped again.

Further Still

The organizing aphrorism, a place for everything and everything in its place, confounds me. Of course, all my material posessions can only be in one place at a time (physicists and magicians are more than welcome to prove me wrong). But what should that place be? Conventional placement seems lacking. The best place for everything as far as I'm concerned is within a two foot radius of the head of my bed.
Unlike some people, I am even having trouble accepting the whole books go in the bookshelves concept. Yes, I work in a library. Maybe it's because I never got that library science masters degree. I'm trying to get all the books and media on the shelves. Honest I am. It's just that I don't read next to the shelf. (Someone made a related point at a staff meeting yesterday.) The shelves, which are part of a wall, are so far away from my bed. (Look for beds in the stacks next fall.)

I have given up the frat boy housekeeping aesthetic, I swear. How can I, a grown woman, accept such clutter? It's bad feng shui, the sign of an unquiet mind, etc. When my Mom came to visit, she couldn't relax in my room for the tiny bits of clutter that I just couldn't see, even after I'd spent a day trying to tidy up. She kept trying to clean up even more and there was no stopping her. To her, there was no reason to live as I did, "unless you're sick or something." "I'm not sick," I replied. "I'm just untidy." She kept tidying until I had to leave the room. When I came back a half hour later, she was throwing things into the wastebasket. She had no business throwing away my sharpie on acetate drawing of a ginger root just because it was on the floor in the corner behind the radiator! I left again. Why couldn't she just love my room --and the drawing that never became the silk screen print it was intended to be-- the way it was?

Housekeeping Hell

Okay, forget the unconditional love craving/child rebellion noise. Maybe my fundamental problem is that deep down inside, I just don't give a shit if my bedroom is tidy. If your kitchen is dirty, you've got real problems. Same goes for the bathroom, to some extent, so the only rooms I can properly clean all by myself are kitchens and bathrooms. I know when these rooms are clean, but a person could clean a bedroom forever.

Or maybe I'm just thinking too much. Or maybe I'm just lazy. There are plenty of how to clean books out there with many methods. I suppose one day I'll find one that works for me, but the bottom line is that cleaning sucks. It is not a meditation. I doesn't not put me in touch with the order of the universe. I do not see the face of God reflected in the spotless dish. All the philosophy and Tom Sawyer white wash in the world can't change the fact that it requires my dicipline.

Zoltan Sighted

I handed him his book. He smiled at me, delighted that it was actually the one he wanted. Does he remember me from all those years ago, when I came to his office sobbing, my mind shredded, like muscle tissue after an overzealous workout, by the formal language? He was smoking Merits, enjoying a collegial conversation with some kid about logarithms or algorithms or some freaking rithms! And when he was through with this philosophy whizkid, he turned to me, read my face and said, "Imagine you have a unicorn named Alma."

They're Really Back

Although the fall term at my university started a couple of weeks ago, it didn't feel real to me until this very moment, when one of my student workers came in to lend me her Eurotrip DVD. It's the unrated version. I'm a bit saddened, though, because the student worker who gave it to me used to declare every movie she saw was "the best." Everything from Armageddon to Newsies to You Got Served. (She still loves Newsies and always will, I suppose). Now jaded, she says of Eurotrip, "just don't watch it twice."

Foundation

I am proud to say that in my six years of being an aunt I have never purchased any underwear for Thing 1 or Thing 2.

Last weekend, I accompanied my aunt on a little retail therapy trip. She's been through hell recently, and I guess mall sensations ease the pain. She wanted to buy things for me. I can't complain about having relatives who like to buy me things, but I haven't been comfortable with it since I hit junior high. Being in my mid thirties doesn't make it easier. I just don't have the ritual down. How many times should I refuse the generosity before I accept the treat? One aunt snatched a restaurant bill out of my hand faster than Grasshopper could snatch the pebble. They can be relentless. And then, there's the awkwardness of having a family member select or even recommend clothing.

This time, Aunt Liz was jonesing to buy me some new "foundation." Apparently, my foundation wasn't doing all that it should. It needed some restructuring. There's nothing like visiting the big lingerie store with an elder relative. "No thongs or garter belts for me today, thanks. Just point me to the foundation, the serious foundation, please." While I was trying on an assortment of structured bras, I overheard the one of the sales ladies say, "I'm sorry, sir, but you're not allowed to go in the fitting room with your friend." At least my aunt was content to wait outside for me.

On a related note, while we were in the drugstore looking for some lotion, my aunt asked about the new warming K-Y jelly.
"Uh, I guess it's supposed to be better because it's warm."
"But what does it do?"
What is worse, answering sexual questions from a family child, or a family adult?
"It's lubrication."
"Oh!"

Thank God she understood. Imagine if this had taken a "Something About Mary" turn. A cheerful senior citizen purchases what appears to be a tube of lotion. Her wimpy neice doesn't have to guts to explain the mistake. That senior puts the tube in her purse, and then takes it out at a family gathering to moisturize her hands, announcing with glee "It's the new lotion I bought with Ashy! It feels great!" Tee hee.

Those of you who've known me for a while might recall another Knees family K-Y story.

Philly Fringe Fest Shows

Check out this Fringe Festival Comedy show. Everybody's doing it. It will make you feel good.

Endings

Recent events remind me that nothing lasts forever. Will this brilliant revelation add urgency to my many life change plans? Will I be prodded into some decisions? Now I do not burn, I rust. But I still need to move my ass.

I must get more rejections.

Saved by Robots and Warrior Cells

Okay, here's what's what. Lots of stuff is happening, but it's mostly too mental, even for this blog. I am working to uncoil many circular thoughts.

I stopped an incipient cold by imagining that tiny warriors were swording germs in my bloodstream. Even ignoring their size, the warriors didn't look like me, which may not be very empowered. This leads me to think I should study a martial art so I can imagine microscopic mes fighting my germs. Martial Arts is definitely a class that I wouldn't normally take, and that means there could be straight guys there. Somehow, this train of thought seems ironic.

Mom is safely back in MN. While she was here, her talk frequently ran to the value of a spouse and children during old sickness. Having such thoughts in the back of my head as I try to meet guys may not be helpful, but frankly, if it wasn't for the distant need to have someone trustworthy to keep my bed sores to a minimum and make sure no one's plundering my life savings, I could survive single and childless, so long as I have money. I decided that in the future, there will be a robot advanced enough to care for me in my twilight years. These future robots will boost my present day guy meeting aplomb and boost my F U power against my brother. More irony, more paradox?

Labor day morning. Watching six episodes of Sailor Moon, a show I'd never watched before, raised the following questions that I know I shouldn't ask:

Howcome the first thing that happens to Sailor Moon during her hero transformation is a manicure?
These girls are in junior high school? Er, what's up with that?
If they're in Tokyo, then why does almost everybody look white?
What's with that Chad character's accent? Canadian Surfer Brit?
Giant drops of sweat!?

Labor day afternoon. I chose to walk against the flow through the Ikea showroom. I also went against the faux grain of the store by being completely single and not having a car. They were out of lingonberry soda and the rug I wanted. I also went to Target and did not buy a copy of People magazine.

Detail Disoriented

Today I fell in the typ-o shame vortex. Seems nobody noticed that the 4 was a 5 until it was much too late. Fortunately, I was pulled from the vortex by two kind co-workers and the good people at Philip Morris.

Set with a Somali, Crazy for Camelot

The Somali airport van driver who dropped my Mom off at my apartment yesterday reassured us both that when it's time for me to return to Minnesota, he can surely find a Somali man for me to wed. What a relief!

I am so mean to my mom, partly because I see in her all of the poor travelling habits that I've been working years to shed. Caprice on wheels-- she overpacks, arrives late without excuse, forgets to phone ahead, makes last minute announcements and generally behaves as if she had an entourage and a team of porters at her command, instead of one carless daughter and a sister with a husband in the hospital. I imagine Mom, who was raised in a red dirt road town with seven siblings, got this way after reading about Jackie Kennedy's 1962 trip to India. Mom was crazy for Camelot. Now she's in the suburbs with her sister and there's not a press corp or an elephant in site.

Busy

Being busy is better than being bored. Too bad the most effective cures for stress juice are inappropriate for the office.