Schoolin

You don't have to be in school—or even employed, for that matter—to learn things. For example, within the last 48 hours I have learned the following:

1. Salad dressing is not a proper substitute for marinara sauce.

2. St. Elmo's Fire is an electrical weather phenomenon in which the ionization of air molecules during a thunderstorm causes a faint blue or violet glow to materialize around tall, sharply pointed objects—most notably ships' masts. That, and an 80's movie starring Emilio Estevez.

3. Eating an entire box of cookies my self does not make me feel bad at all.

4. Despite being aware of learned thing #1, I will continue to do learned thing #1.

5. It's harder to run 3 miles at 7 am than 7 pm.

6. The attractiveness of a man plummets the instant you notice the kanji tattoo on his ankle surrounded by flames.

7. There is no such thing as "one quick nightcap at the Slammer"

Plungers, hammers, and nuts

This afternoon I was unexpectedly reminded (for reasons we will not be exploring here today) that our household does not have a plunger. Too embarrassed to ask the neighbors, and sorely disappointed that one did not magically appear when I closed my eyes and quickly swung open the broom closet door, I was forced to walk down to the local hardware store—wishing to complete this errand with as little fanfare as possible. 

 As soon as I enter the small store (a tidy, compact space with no windows, giving one the impression of being inside an anal retentive man's toolbox), I hear "...and if you put nuts on Mama, then that makes her Papa", followed by the type of laughter reserved only for men who have just said something vulgar while their wives aren't around. I immediately feel an odd sense of guilt for having overheard this men's-only-club-banter, but press on through the broom and rake aisle. While waiting for help and idly browsing their vast hammer selection (I need to get one for a secret-Santa gift), a lumberjack of a man slides up beside me and asks what type of hammer I'm looking for. I can tell he's not an employee and this makes me squint my eyes ever so slightly in suspicion. This "volunteer salesman" continues to discuss hammer features with me, but, since I'm not that well versed in tool-speak, I'm not sure if his conversation is laden with sexual innuendo, or if he's genuinely trying to help me find the right mallet. Finally, I'm approached by an actual clerk, find my plunger, and am at the checkout counter. Just when I think I'm home free, a Channel 2 News team walks in, video camera in hand. Instantly, nightmarish scenarios play out in my head: 

"Excuse me miss [microphone thrust in my face], what's that there you're buying? Oh, a plunger?—Hey, Tim, get a shot of the blond with the plunger!... So ma'am, what brings you in here for this today?" 

Mercifully, it turns out the news team was there to talk to the store owner about which supplies people may need to prepare for the alleged snowstorm this weekend, NOT to interview me, my plunger, and my hammer. 

Two seats down, but worlds away

I'm at a coffee shop sitting next to possibly the most attractive man I've ever encountered: His hair living its life independently in currents of light brown faintly bleached in hidden tucks and folds—not by vanity, but by an active (surf-filled?) lifestyle I presume. His face is angular and confident, suggesting a hint of Aryan architecture, but with a more Scandinavian gentleness, and what I can only imagine is an architect's sense of simple, efficient style with undertones of originality and rebellion concealed for those who care to look. He's wearing two watches—one on his right wrist, one on his left. Perhaps one is set to Swede time? Or perhaps he's just waiting to scoot next to me, strap one onto me wrist and tell me "Here, now you won't be late..." "Late for what?" I'll coo, barely able to see his tall, lean form through my hummingbird lashes. "For our date, silly."  Alas, my daydreams are dissolved by the sighting of the dreaded wedding ring. Though, truthfully I should have known the instant he pulled up outside riding a tandem bike—the second half being built for a child. But, I just naturally assumed he was late for work, and with his single-man's bike having a flat, was forced to borrow his procreating neighbor's bike. I think I'll just default to my usual theory—the wedding ring's a fake, used only to stave off the throngs of female admirers he's surely accustomed to; This mock matrimony will dissolve and the "ring" will slip off like melted butter as soon as we make eye contact. What?! What's this? He keeps looking my way... Ok, be cool, control your reactionary underarms... oh, wait. He's just looking at his bike out the window. Probably doesn't want it to be stolen. His neighbor would be pissed.

Thanks not spanks

As much as I would like to rant about the myths surrounding this holiday, as well as the bloated, empty consumerism associated with this time of year, I'm just going to chill the f out and do something we should all consider today—think about the things you are truly thankful for.

50 things I'd like to give thanks for:

[After, of course, friends, family, health, and cookies.]

1. Slammer Christmas lights

2. Pancakes

3. Darren from Cat Island, Bahamas

4. The homeless man who yelled "Now that's what I call saving gas!" as I rode my bike past

5. The playhouse

6. My boobs

7. Carlo Rossi

8. Adult-sized footie pajama manufacturers 

9. Maverick

10. Nap-time hallucinations 

11. When Liz relents and french braids my hair

12. People who still rollerblade

13. The way the night feels limitless after a few glasses of wine

14. King burrito

15. a.m. phone calls with the mother

16. The gloaming

17. Good lighting

18. Jeff's teeth

19. The ability to recall my dreams

20. Puppies that try to run up stairs

21. Foxhorn being pulled out of purses at a 3$ movie

22. Cheap rent

23. The few occasions no one notices when I say something really dumb

24. The movie Sleepaway Camp

25. That I wasn't actually taken away by twin clowns and their evil circus ambulance like in my dream last night

26. Pace's hand gestures

27. People with laughs like stories

28. My unemployment skirt

29. My introduction to Wizard People

30. Finding gatorade in an emergency kit your mom put in the back of your car when your super hung over one morning

31. Finding a gas mask in an emergency kit your mom put in the back of your car when your super bored in traffic

32. Annie and Martha giving me a dead seahorse they found on the sidewalk 

33. Ghost stories

34. That beer you discover in the waaaay back of the fridge behind the jar of sauerkraut when you were sure they were all gone

35. Kisses from Lizzie 

36. Concerts that haunt you

37. The architecture of my nose

38. Breakfasts at Beaterville

39. The four different people who called to tell me about the new live puppy cam

40. LOST Season 5

41. Having blond leg hair

42. The kind of warm you only get from hot toddies

43. No scar from the "macaroni & cheese microwave incident"

44. Unexpected snowy mornings

45. British accents—faking them, listening to them, etc.

46. My great-grandmother's furniture

47. Riding my bike in early October

48. Catching crawdads in June

49. Seersucker

50. You.

Legends of the Fall

Perhaps it's that I'm no longer sitting at a desk for eight hours a day and therefore have more time to walk around, but I've noticed an increase in my tripping [James, read: falling down], and have begun to observe the nuances distinguishing these assassins of the vertical...

The Liberated Marionette: This is probably my favorite fall. Exclusive to days when I'm wearing my Danskos, this trip entails five feet, ten inches of unsuspecting mass quickly toppling over, much like a marionette whose strings have suddenly been cut. Can be easily identified by several robust thuds as the shoe itself slams against the floor at various angles. 

Slo-Mo Dansko: Similar to The Liberated Marionette, but slower. Usually occurs near a stable surface, such as a desk or wall, where one can catch one's self before the second thud. 

Stair face: This trip actually entails falling up. Rumored to have originated during high school years, when heavily back-packed, dexterity-impaired teenagers would hurry up the steps to class. Who amongst us doesn't remember rushing up a flight of stairs, late for calculus (or for me, geometry) when  suddenly one foot doesn't quite clear the step on its ascent and—slam—you're a quadruped with a Jansport.  

Be safe out there kids, and wipe your feet before running on tile. 

Yesterday, I

Yesterday, I (in chronological order):

- Woke up in adult-sized footie pajamas.

- Found out my identity was not stolen, just accidently assumed by a man named Michael.

- Discovered, and promptly removed, a nail in my mattress. 

- Was "shooshed" by a homeless man*.

* I'm not actually sure if he was homeless, but he did appear unkempt, a bit addled, and was sitting against a brick wall in a side alley. I'll just call him an urban wallflower. 

Tripping

Why do we purposely (though, perhaps subconsciously) make certain sounds when we trip—or am I the only one?  I'm well aware that we all look back or around, instinctively trying to locate what made us trip, since we can't bear to admit that it was just us. But today when I slipped on some wet leaves, I realized that I also make a sound when I trip. It's something like what I imagine a 50's housewife would utter upon discovering her husband in bed with another man—"oh, oh my." Very prim and contrived. Am I creating this faux falsetto to try and counteract the gangly spectacle? In actuality, I should be making a noise that more accurately mirrors the action of tripping—which for me, resembles a newborn giraffe being tossed onto a skating rink. I vow, from this day forward to provide a more honest, a more raw and guttural, oral representation when I slip, trip, or think a step is there when it isn't. 

Catchup [a list]

Unemployed but working.

Still typing.

Teeth showing more than the sun.

Good. That's Fall for you.

Feeling colors and dreaming again.

Short skirts and herring bone tights.

Trying to bend my knees more.

Enjoying life past 11 pm.

Lazy susans and hot toddys.

I want tiny birds to perch on my clavicles.

If I keep up with the treaties, they'll be homeless. 

Sidewalk vagabonds shouting economy-based cat calls.

I love it all.