Wild Kingdom

Every morning when I get out to bed, three cats all rush to the kitchen from wherever they had settled in for the evening. Contrary to popular belief, they bypass the food dishes in favor of the far window that looks out the driveway. The resulting excitement revolves around a woodpecker's decision to build a nest in the framework of the carport. As soon as the window is open, two cats will pack themselves in on the narrow sil, leaving one to pace around back and forth on the floor until a coveted viewing space opens up.

The woodpecker is entirely undeterred by this wild kingdom peepshow.


Oh, and something did this to an unfortunate tree across the street. Yeah for living in the woods.

Social Engagements and a Neglected Apartment

I'm the type of person who really needs a balance between the social and the anti-social. In addition to a slew of college-entrance exams, and in the hopes of somehow finding the magic cure to not knowing who we were, a whole host of personality tests were administered to us during our formidable teenage years. The lack of accuracy of these tests is best demonstrated by the experience of a friend of mine. She took a lengthy test that was meant to pinpoint careers that fit her personality. Her result? Mortician. What has she really done? She's traveled the world, lived in dozens of places, and works in marketing. In my own case, no test was ever able to tell me whether I was more inclined to be around people or whether I was better on my own.

Last week was the classic example of this carefully crafted equilibrium being entirely thrown for a loop. For about five or six days running, I was rarely home. Each day, I had a different social event to go to and different people to meet. The engagements ranged from a small birthday dinner for a close friend to a surprise party where I had been asked to appear as a pilgrim for the guest of honor. Two things resulted from this: exhaustion and a very messy apartment.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment. Even in its cleanest state, it still is small. The morning after my last social event, I woke up with barely a clear square foot on my floor or a clear place to sit on my couch. In the interests of getting to work on time, I forwent contemplating the state of the place. I turned on the car--a must-do for us in northern New England, I got dressed, I made coffee. I was half a minute away from walking out the door to head to work when the phone rang.

It was my landlord. I had announced about three weeks before that this would be my last month in this apartment. After a long search, I found a new place that addressed some of the shortcomings of my current living space. He said he was going to advertise the apartment, and he would let me know if anyone wanted to see it.

And someone did. That afternoon.

Suddenly, I had an "Oh, shit" moment on my hands. I hardly knew what to do. The apartment was in no state to be shown by anyone's imagination, unless the purpose of the visit was to feature it on a TV show with a "don't try this at home" theme. I had no choice but to call my boss and explain that I would be late.

I spent two and a half hours cleaning. You wouldn't think that you would need that kind of time for a one-bedroom place, but it had devolved to such a state that under normal circumstances, I probably would have divided the work over several days. You also notice several things that would have passed before, but to the landlord's eye, may have been signs of a bad tenant. In order to get this done, I actually had to change back into what I wore to bed--not wanting to wreck a nicely-put together work outfit. Because of an ambitious plan to clean up a classroom at work, my broom and mop were not present, so I had to use a brush and dustpan to get the bits and pieces off of the tile in the kitchen, and then, pull out a replacement sponge for the mop I didn't have and clean the floor on my hands and knees. I didn't stop the whole time, and I probably dropped about 5 pounds in the process.

In the end, for the first time, the apartment looked like a showplace. The landlord noticed nothing amiss. And, I had a whole lot more time this weekend to myself than I had originally planned for.

I probably wouldn't have turned out to be the "spontaneous" type if there had been a test for that.

Chocolate Squares

Someone should have alerted the brilliant team at Ghiradelli that advertising the new line of peanut butter filled chocolates may not result in the boost in sales they are aiming for at the moment.

Delight in Old TV Favorites Resurrected

My parents have the ultimate cable television package--something that I would have to give up meat products and alcoholic drinks to afford. When I visited for Christmas, I discovered the Fine Living Network, and this particularly excited me because two old favorites are on the regular schedule there: Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and the original Iron Chef.

Both of these shows take me back about four years. When they were regularly broadcast on main TV channels, I was still at Plimoth Plantation, I was living with a boyfriend, and I hadn't continued my education beyond a BA yet.

Queer Eye provided hours of entertainment for me and instruction for my significant other. I think he watched mostly to pick up grooming and dressing tips. Additions to his wardrobe included new underwear and button-down shirts with stripes. He also became conscious of his nose hair, and the fact that stray strands should be removed.

I never liked the new, American version of Iron Chef. The whole campy, flamboyant flavor of the original is captivating, and Iron Chef America never caught on to this fact. I also prefer the Japanese Iron Chefs to their American counterparts--when you watch, you get to see their talent without that annoying dose of American "I know I'm going to win" arrogance.

There's a vote for mindless entertainment for you. And yes, both of these shows are recorded daily on my DVR.

I am also particularly excited by the apple pie in my fridge right now.

That Knock on the Door

At this festively political season of the year, no place of residence is safe from the multi-front attack by canvassers, enthusiasts, and volunteers. As we speak, there is a small delegation from the local Obama camp, whose office is adjacent to my place of employment, wandering around the neighborhood. For a solitary moment, they stopped outside of my building. I was planning my defense. I was comfortably situated on my couch, a plate of breakfast on my lap and curlers in my hair. I figured that I could just avoid answering the door, but the fact they could easily see right into my front window would have probably encouraged them to up their efforts to get me up to listen to their practiced schpeal about their chosen candidate.

I must extend warm thanks to my next door neighbors. In their patriotic desire to support Barack Obama, they acquired a sign from the aforementioned office and placed it right in front of the house. Upon first glance, the building looks like a one-family home rather than a modified three-apartment structure. The canvassers took one look at the sign, figured the people inside were already collective Obama supporters and therefore, speaking to them wouldn't accomplish their goal of convincing people to vote for their candidate. They moved on to another, less fortunate set of individuals.

A Job Well Done

Thanks a lot, Anne.

Temporarily Disabled

About four weeks ago, my mother nagged me into the doctor's office. My foot had been painful to walk on and somewhat swollen for about two weeks without much improvement, and I thought perhaps I had a stubborn sprain that wouldn't heal because I couldn't go for an entire week without at least some minimal walking. To make a long story short, I explained what was wrong to the doctor and he ordered some x-rays.

And it turned out to be broken.

Now, I had never had a broken bone before, so my mental imagery on the subject was rather skewed from the reality--visions of jagged bones protruding through pliable flesh and disjointed limbs hanging in pendulum-like motion apparently weren't entirely accurate. I had a stress fracture on the top of my foot. This meant three days of ibuprofen, four weeks without excessive walking, six weeks out of the gym....and a whole week on crutches.

I may have been carrying my own body weight distributed between two pieces of rubber-padded aluminum, but that didn't mean that suddenly I stopped needing necessities. During the course of my temporary disability, I made three trips to the supermarket--three different supermarkets. Here are my ratings for each of these establishments.

Market Basket
Rank of Three: 1
Customers: Excellent

My first trip, I took with my co-worker, who offered to help me out when I asked him. He wheeled the cart around and I hobbled from place to place to select items. People kindly moved out of the way for us, and some even went the long way around aisles so not to get in our way. I rarely had to stop my momentum to allow people and carriages to pass--many times, people willingly curtailed their own progress to allow us to pass. Some were even kind enough to ask me what happened and to share their sympathies. Overall, a very nice crowd, and I was able to do a fairly large food shopping even without the use of one foot.

Shaw's
Rank of Three: 2
Customers: So-so

I did a quick shopping for a meal's worth of food towards the end of my tenure on crutches at a local Shaw's. I put a backpack on, made sure that the only things inside of it before going in were my wallet and cell phone, and I put each of the items in the sack. I offered to let the cashier to look in my bag to make sure I had taken everything out of it, but she kindly refused with a knowing smile.

There were some snags in this supermarket shopping, however. I was swinging myself along in time with someone directly in front of me walking in the door, and without thinking, she stopped to look at a circular right at the entrance, making it next to impossible for me to get by her. I had to push the crutches together resulting in such a skinny fit that I almost couldn't push my body through them, and at no point did she look up. Although it was difficult, I managed to make it all the way across the store from the produce aisle to the bread aisle (why they put these two common staple categories so far apart, I will never know). Here, I was presented with a conundrum. Although the aisle was wide, there were too many displays down the center of it for me to use that as a transportation channel. On one side, a woman had parked her carriage and was scrutinizing several loaves of Sarah Lee bread, and on the other, a woman had two children in the plastic red car mould attached to the carriage, making it about twice as wide as it would have normally been. Upon approaching this aisle-wide succession of obstructions, I thought if I just paused in front of them, they would notice me and one of them would have moved. After moving close by enough that I could not be ignored, neither of them shifted. I waited a minute--still nothing. Finally, I sighed and literally said "Come on, ladies." That got their attention--both of them moved and one (the bread-examiner)even apologized.

Whole Foods
Rank of Three: 3
Customers: Should not be allowed to reproduce

This trip was absolutely incredible. It was enough to make one lose faith in humanity all together.

I arrived here and parked around the side because every single parking space in any kind of walking distance was taken up by some large gas-guzzling vehicle with four-wheel drive and a luxury logo. On my way in, a young man, who saw me coming and was just a little too far away to beat me to the door at a normal walking pace, actually rushed in front of me to ensure he would have to wait for me to get in the door before he could. I made my way to the back of the store--I only had a few items to pick up and this time, I knew exactly where they were. On my way, I had to maneuver around one clueless guy who was having a very hard time figuring out whether to go for the hot or cold entrees bar with his little, biodegradable carton, and walked in front of me no less than two times in deep contemplation over this topic. After picking up what I needed in the pasta and fish departments, I went over to the produce section. I stopped in front of the bags of salad. I leaned my crutches up against the side of the refrigerated display and shifted about three feet down the way, as the spinach I was looking for was sitting there. No sooner had I picked up the plastic bag and put it in my backpack then a guy, who couldn't be given the consideration of not knowing I was the owner of the crutches, parked his cart right between me and my means of doing any traveling. I couldn't believe it. I had to hobble around him, and actually use his cart to hold myself up, just to get to the crutches. When they were safely under my arms and I was about to move, a conga-line of produce shoppers started to pass by--fifteen of them. I held myself up there while shopper after shopper and cart after cart passed me by and not ONE of them stopped the progress so I could move out of the way. Instead, they looked at me as if my genes would pollute the perfection of the human race with an up-and-down look and an accompanying eye-roll as I stood there supporting my own body weight with my upper half.

The only bright spot in all of this was my next turn into the seasonings aisle. While a store employee had a conversation with a customer in front of where I clearly needed to get, a man approached me and asked me if I were by myself. Since I was, he asked if I needed any help, and I thanked him, but I told him I was Ok. He said if I needed anything, he would be happy to help, and he left. This was the only man in this store who deserved to live.

This solitary bright-spot in my grocery shopping experience was immediately followed by a trip to the check-out line where my successor talked my ear off about the diet she was on and how much weight she had lost.

Excuse Me, Mr. Yeats

I was peeling through some literature compellations, and I found the context for the "woman won or woman lost" quote. I thought Yeats said it on his own at some point (my source, sadly, was The Boston Globe's "Quote of the Day"). In fact, it starts the last stanza of Part I of his poem "The Tower." The poem is really long, so I am not going to post it (if you're interested you can find it here). Here is the stanza it comes from:

Does the imagination dwell the most
Upon a woman won or woman lost?
If on the lost, admit you turned aside
From a great labyrinth out of pride,
Cowardice, some silly over-subtle thought
Or anything called conscience once;
And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

Yeah for minor discoveries.

In other news: Someone wants to publish some of my pictures--and the stuff I took with the old point-and-shoot, too (not the fancy thing I take pictures with now). Do I get any money? Uhhhh.....no. Oh, well.

Does the imagination dwell the most upon a woman won or woman lost?

Quote by William Butler Yeats, from his poem "The Tower."

Discuss.

Paging Daniel Powter....

Oh, shit.

It's about five to nine in the morning, and I have a meeting at nine. I successfully had organized all I needed for the day, I had opened some windows for the cats, I had even consumed a breakfast that required preparation. What I hadn't done was take my keys off of the chest of drawers in my room, and my expression of frustration and exasperation had corresponded directly with the usually reassuring click behind me as the door knob snapped into place in the frame.

Of course, it had to be the morning I had an important meeting to go to, set up by my boss, that was due to begin in about five minutes.

I was carrying about twenty pounds of stuff, and I had no choice but to walk to work--which isn't that far away, but extra weight paired with inhospitably warm and humid weather conditions made that task a chore to say the least. I cursed the whole way, but I made it. The only drawback was that I was by then wet enough to have been able to successfully vouch for a quick swim in the local river.

As soon as I got the door open, I met up with my boss who was also on his way to this meeting. This meant no opportunity to duck into a ladies room--or any room for that matter--to impose decency on my appearance. I walked into the room entirely conscious that I looked hideous.

About two hours later, I was back where I started.

I met up with one of my colleagues who was working in the basement and asked if he knew where I could find a step ladder. I had done the same thing a few months before, and my upstairs neighbor heard about it, brought down one of his own, and broke into my apartment through an unobserved window. If he could do it, I figured I probably could, too. I desperately hoped that it was one of the lower, more accessible windows that could be opened. A step ladder could not be immediately located, so I returned to my apartment hoping I wouldn't need one.

Of course, the easy-to-get-at windows were impossible to penetrate, no matter how hard I tried to do so. Walking around the side of the building, I noticed that one screen seemed to be slightly obscured from its track. Unfortunately, this window was high. I pulled out a recycling bin to hoist myself up and pushed up the screen. Now the window was open. I lifted myself on a nearby cement pillar, and I was close enough that I could pull myself through the window. As I raised myself up so I was level with the living room, Charlotte, my cat, who was looking at the new found potential source of freedom with deep consideration, spotted me. She was shocked--a classic "what the hell are you doing?!" look crossed her face--ears back, eyes wide, and she backed away from the window. I pulled myself through and collapsed on the floor.

Charlotte, however, retreated to under my bed where she had to mentally regroup from the shock of seeing "mom" climb in the window rather than coming through the door.

I immediately changed my sweat-covered, now dingied clothing in order to go back to work.

My only surprise--there were no messages or phone calls regarding a strange woman breaking into my apartment reported by either my neighbors or the police.

A Few Moments from 1776

Great film from 1972.
Look for the lines:
"This is a revolution, damnit! We're going to have to offend somebody!"
and
"Those who would give up their liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."

Bottle

When I opened up the storage unit before I moved this time, there were lots of things I didn't remember saving. Some of them were particularly useful--I found about four boxes of kitchen accessories, all well-wrapped and ready to go back to work. I had one panicked moment when I pulled out all of the parts of my futon and couldn't find the nuts and bolts that held it together. I did prove to myself that there are a few ways me-three-years-ago and me-now still think the same way when I figured the most practical spot for them would have been my tool kit, and lo and behold, there they were. Sigh of relief immediately followed that discovery.

I knew that part of that process would become one of those time-capsule-like experiences for me. I also knew that was really cliched and I hated it. Fortunately, I didn't find too much that brought back sitcom-like flashbacks for me. Most of it was an "oh, yeah...I remember that" set of moments. And, I preferred it that way.

One of the things I pulled out was an old wine bottle--Fetzer Chardonnay. I saved that bottle on purpose, and more than likely because I didn't want the details associated with it to transform into a mythical state they didn't deserve.

Three years ago, a relationship ended, and trust me, it wasn't my finest moment by far. The whole thing had been relatively short, and I would have been foolish not to think that it was going to eventually turn out that way due to a number of circumstances having to do with him and his life. Idealistic me had gotten involved with someone who didn't know who he was or how to make his life better. Instead, in many ways, he just drifted from day to day and suddenly, he was over forty and asking himself how he got there. He was smart, he had a lot of talents, but he didn't have the balls to deal with much, and anywhere conflict came up in his life, he backed away and hid in a corner. In my case, I was just unforgivably pathetic. And, that's why I saved that bottle.

He decided to leave. "Conflict" had come up and he just couldn't handle it. He had misled me to a huge extent, but even more sadly, he misled himself into thinking he was someone and was capable of something he wasn't. I am not going to pretend that I stood tall at that moment--I was emotionally wrecked. I am actually extremely embarrassed about it. After he unceremoniously marched out my back door without any compassion and only thinking about himself, the process for me had only begun. I had to work the next day, and rather than make the practical choice and call out sick, I picked up this then-unopened bottle of wine and consumed all of the contents. This was certainly enough to put me to sleep, and I fell into bed moments afterwards.

The next morning, I woke up on time but realized I hadn't slept off the effects of the alcohol entirely--and this, I must say, was entirely due to my own naivete. I had never gone to bed and woke up still tipsy. Again, my practical mind did not kick in and I still went to work. For a while after this, I went through a rough patch where I needed to pull myself out of feeling emotionally sunk, and lots of people helped me with that.

By the time I really started to regain myself, I decided to save that bottle. I wanted to remind myself what had happened to me--what I had allowed to happen to me.

I still have that bottle, and I remember. And it has not, and will not, happen again.

Now, if only the people down the street would change the volume of the music they are playing so the vibrations from the bass line weren't weakening the foundations of this house....

River Ouse

If Anyone Can Explain This....

...please let me know.

Ten Years On

Tabitha turns ten years old this month. I adopted her from an animal shelter as a kitten...the year I graduated from high school.

Which makes this year the ten year anniversary of my high school graduation. Meaning: The Year of the Ten Year Reunion.

So, what was happening ten years ago, in May of 1998 (ugh)?

Top Grossing Films:
"Saving Private Ryan"
"Armageddon"
"There's Something About Mary"

Academy Award winning Best Picture: "Shakespeare in Love"

Grammy Winning Album of the Year: Sunny Came Home by Shawn Colvin

Top Songs of 1998:
"Too Close" by Next
"The Boy Is Mine" by Brandy and Monica
"You're Still the One" by Shania Twain
"Truly, Madly, Deeply" by Savage Garden'
"How Do I Live" by LeAnn Rimes

On TV:
"Dawson's Creek" premired in January. It is labeled one of the top ten worst shows of the year.

"Sex and the City" will debut on HBO in June.

"Seinfeld" and "Murphy Brown" will end this month in 1998. Other 1998 losses include: "Step By Step", "Family Matters", and "Babylon 5".

Interesting News Bits from May 1998:

Palistinian lawmakers released a "no confidence vote", charging that Yassir Arafat (who has thought about him lately?) and his government were largely corrupt and inactive.

A Constitutional Amendment was on the table permitting prayer in public schools. President Clinton opposed it.

The first degree in ECommerce was kicked off at San Diego's National University.

Bart Simpson makes the cut and lands on Time Magazine's 100 Most Influential People list. "People of the Century" named were: Bill Gates, Nelson Mandela, Pope John Paul II, and Oprah Winfrey.

1998 marked the 30 year anniversary of the deaths of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. And yes, we were asking the same questions and making the same comments.

You Know There's A Problem When.....

....Hannah Montana makes the Time Magazine Top 100 Influential People List.

Or if she makes any list that includes individuls like the Dalai Lama.

This is what you can expect from a publication that entertains a recommendation by Rosanne Barr (see: George Clooney, who I think has fallen a little off the map recently anyway and probably doesn't really deserve a mention by anyone, much less her).

Interlude

Finally, the weather was actually inviting one to experience it rather than saying "DON'T be nuts. Stay inside, moron" loud and clear. I was at work, and in a moment of partial procrastination and succumbing to the temptation that looking out the window produced, I walked outside the back door and stood there for a few minutes, leaning up against a brick staircase and watching the traffic go by on the nearby street.

Then, I saw a kid--a boy about six or seven years old--run behind the building, coming from the square around the front. He was shirtless, his shorts a little long for him, and his face was beet red presumably from having been out in the sun. He stopped next to a pickup truck that was parked in the loading zone there, pulled his shorts down, and peed on the pavement there in my full view. I felt bad enough that he entered my line of sight and chose to remain there while he relieved himself that I looked away, hoping that when I turned my head back, his pants would have been closer to his waistline.

After he finished, he walked towards me on the sidewalk, heading for the stairway I was leaning on. As he passed me, he gave me this "what's your problem?" look.

Geez.

Apology to Self

Dear Self--

I am writing to wholeheartedly apologize for removing a recent post from your blog. I understand why you felt you needed to do that, and this is no reflection on the validity of that judgement. Someone very close to you for whom you care a great deal felt that what you wrote wasn't as balanced as you perceived your handling of the subject you chose to write about. Perhaps that may be true, perhaps not. The point is that I understand you were so surprised at having hurt someone you care about so much, you didn't feel you had much of a choice. It was also clear that other people thought that was "the right thing to do" at the time.

However, I promise you never to do that again.

It is useful here to consider what the purpose of this blog really is, and I know you put a lot of thought into that after you deleted that post.

* * * * * * *

No one blogs to hurt people--some do so to share information, some to connect family together, some to discuss a certain experience in their lives. The bottom line is that some people will like what you write and some people won't.

Lots of people, I am sure, do not like this blog or perhaps even me personally. You may not like me because I am a woman, or a liberal, or because I like history or because I take photographs you think are horrible. However, I didn't start writing here because I thought that everyone would like what I had to say. If you are upset with me and what I have written, I ask you first and foremost to remember that my intention is NEVER to hurt anyone. Then, I ask you to weigh two things on my behalf--whether you are upset with me because a composition of mine unapologetically levels some kind of judgement on something relating to you in a cruel way without sympathy or whether I may have written something with which you simply may not agree. I hope, sincerely, that if you are amongst those who care about me, people who remind me how blessed I am and thankful I should be, that my asking for this consideration on your part is not an unreasonable request.

First, my heartfelt apology for hurting anyone for whom I care so dear. I am sure it is hard to believe, but it hurts me more to know someone I know was hurt by me inadvertently. Second, however, is my resolve that I have to stick up for this blog and why I keep it. It is entirely understandable that I be asked to be sensitive to the feelings of others. However, it is important for me to be clear--this is my blog and my space here. If I am inconsiderate to you personally, I welcome your checking me on that point without question. If I present an opinion with which you do not agree, though, I only ask that you recognize my right to have that opinion and express it in my space. Many people disagree with my opinions, and every blog post is, in essence, a discussion. There is a "Comments" section at the end of every post. I welcome all insights, and I have never deleted a comment unless it was "spam" or was obscene in language or content.

You are welcome to disagree, but please do not ask me to avoid writing about certain things because we disagree on those subjects. I sincerely hope that my resolve will not alienate anyone I care about, and I believe if those individuals will only do me the favor of remembering my right to have an opinion and express it, even if it isn't the same as their own, there is a common ground of understanding to be found there.

A sincere thank you from me to everyone who pops in to this blog from time to time--people I know and people I have never met in person--and my appreciation for all thoughts and comments expressed on my posts. I enjoy reading what you have to say, on the blogs of others and in response to what I have written here.

Now, it's fabulous outside, so on to the rest of the day.

Between "Asshole" and "Unaware"

When I first moved out here, my mother spent a weekend with me helping me set up and settle in. There wasn't a huge range of stores to choose from for essentials, so we ended up at a local Target for bed linens and bathroom supplies. We pulled out of the parking spot and drove to the end of the row to turn on to the street and head back. In the process, two people tried to skip the stop sign in the other two directions at the intersection and cut us off entirely--or possibly injure us and spike their car insurance rates. I made an under-the-breath comment about the whole me-me-me attitude that has taken the world by storm and the fact that everywhere you go on the road, someone is trying to jump in front of you just to get wherever they're going two minutes sooner.

My mother's reply--"Well, they don't know they're being jerks."

My response--"That is absolutely ridiculous."

OF COURSE we know when we're being assholes. That's why we sheepishly avoid making eye-contact when we sail by someone we think is traveling at a speed that is just a hair too slow for us.

There are times when people do stupid things they don't know are inconsiderate. Take the guy who rushes to get one step in front of you when you're both walking into a local supermarket (that he knows he did). Then, as soon as he makes it past the threshold of the automatic doors....he stops. He stops to look at his shopping list, he stops to browse through a circular he just picked up. He just stops. A minute ago, he was so aware of you he was trying to beat you out. After his mission was accomplished, he has commenced blocking everyone's ability to enter the store after him.

The worst was the other day in the local fabric store. Since the calendar, at least, says that we are leaving the winter season (although evidence of that is hard to find outside), I decided to look through the sale fabric to see if there was anything interesting. I get to the back wall, and there is a larger woman there talking on her electric-pink Motorola Razor cell phone. She gabbed about soccer practice, meeting for lunch, etc. It appeared that we were just looking for the same thing in the rows of bolts. I followed the perimeter of the rows along the wall and around the corner. Two minutes later, I could hear her again....she was literaly tracing my path through the aisles, mindlessly, and still talking. I looked back at her and said "Please don't follow me if you're going to be talking on that phone." She apparently missed this request. And, to make it worse, it became clear to me that she wasn't looking for anything in particular. She was browsing randomly and tracing my path in the store in the process. I decided to look around on the other side of the store. I went into the least-traversed aisle there on purpose, and lo and behold, two minutes later, Guess-Who was there again, gabbing away with a glint of metallic pink at her ear. I gave her a look--a look that made an impression given the taken-aback expression I saw from her in response. I walked right by her, said "Absolutely ridiculous" loud enough to ensure she could hear it, and returned to the side of the store I was originally intersted in. I was not bothered again.

Good News: The neighbors across the hall are moving out due to a techinicality on their lease (a rather big one). The smell in the 2 by 4 foot space between our doors has exponentially improved.

Notes

My Favorite Geico Commercial: The one with the "true Geico customer story" featuring "The Pips" to help tell that story (other guests include Peter Frampton and Joan Rivers).

Yahoo is featuring a story about the top so-and-so-many billionaires with the tagline "NEW face on the list!!!". Get this, Yahoo: I don't care who it is. All I know is that I'm on a decent salary supporting only myself and I still have to think through a practical budget for the necessities.

There is a virus going around that features a scratchy throat and dizziness as symptoms. How do I know? Answer: Personal experience.

"That's Amore" is the newest dating show on MTV. The only good thing about it is that it's sheer ridiculousness has made even the biggest fan of "I Love New York", "Flavor of Love", and "Rock of Love" realize how stupid it is to get a bunch of people on a show with some kind of theme in order to compete for the affection of some at least semi-well-known individual. The truth of the matter is I have no idea where they picked up the guy for "That's Amore". Does anyone know?

I'm not a Hillary Clinton fan, but I have to hand it to her. She really turned it out last night, regardless of the resulting delegate number (which is still smaller than Obama's). The lack of uncertainty may not be a bad thing for the Democratic party, either. McCain may be the confirmed nominee of the Repulican Party at this point, but most eyes, whether conservative or liberal, seem to be glued to the Democratic race to see what happens there. Sorry, McCain. My recommendation: hair dye is a cheap way to get people to notice you.

Ho-hum, I suppose. More at another time.