I know I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. The internet could disappear today, and it all would have been worth it just for YouTube. Today’s reason for loving YouTube is that it has reunited me with two of my most passionate crushes of all time, Ann Wilson and Steve Perry. And until just now, I never noticed that they pretty much had the same hair. What do you know?
Please take a moment to rock out.
Filed under: General on February 26th, 2008 | 11 Comments »
The wonderful thing about being near-middle aged is that it has given me the perspective to disdain not only the old, but the young as well. Now that I’m almost 37, I have come to discover that there are three distinct stages to life: Annoying > Not Annoying > Annoying Again.
Babies are annoying because they cry a lot and poop in their pants. Kids are annoying because they ask too many questions and need too much attention. Teens are annoying because they wear clothes that are a) too small or b) too big. Twenty-somethings are annoying because they think they run the world. And then people over 60 are annoying because they think they have earned the right to be rude to everyone.
I call this phenomenon the Annoying Quotient, and thanks to my Big Idea White Board™, I have been able to graph out the exact points at which the AQ is at its lowest, also known as the “Sweet Spot.”
As you can see, the sweet spot begins at around age 32 and lasts until age 52*. During this twenty-year span, a person is at her most productive and least annoying, and therefore is the greatest contributor to society.
[click to enlarge]
There’s something about the Big Idea White Board™ that just gets my creative juices flowing, so much so that I was inspired to write these two poems:
Ode to the Young
Look at me! I’m young! I’m young! I can listen to Talking Heads cover bands and dance like a hippie elf at a bonfire!
I’m young! I’m young! I can wear ironic t-shirts and skinny jeans while I text message all my friends who are sitting right next to me in the movie theatre!
Hey! I’m young! I’m young! My friends and I can all lollygag on the escalator during rush hour at the train station because we don’t really have to catch a train, we’re just here to get a Jamba Juice.
Look at me! I’m young! I’m young! I put purple dye in my hair and spike it up four inches like I invented punk rock, and then I give you a dirty look if you look at my purple spiked hair, even though the only reason I style it like this is so that people will look at me.
Ode to the Aged
Look at me! I’m old! I’m old! I’m going to stand next to you and keep harrumphing loudly until you get out of my way at the DSW so I can try on these Aerosoles shoes.
I’m old! I’m old! I’m going to shove your shoebox off this bench without saying a word to you because I’m old and I need to sit down.
I’m old! I’m old! I’m going to pretend it’s the future and we all drive around in hovercrafts, which is why my Buick LeSabre keeps floating in between two lanes while I drive seven miles below the speed limit.
I’m old! I’m old! I’m going to cross against the light in the middle of a busy intersection because a) I can’t see the Don’t Walk sign or b) I’m old and I don’t give a damn because no one will dare run over an old person.
I’d better make the most of these next 15 years, because it’s all Aerosoles and hovercrafts after that.
*Ed. Note: If any of you fall outside of the sweet spot, I’m not saying that you annoy me. It’s all your friends who annoy me.
Filed under: General on February 25th, 2008 | 25 Comments »
As the old adage goes, nothing brings people together like a common enemy.
I’ve worked in the same building for several years, walking in and out of the same revolving doors, seeing the same people in the stairwells during the quarterly fire drills, passing the same group of 22-year old sales guys on their smoke breaks, but I never felt any sort of kinship with them.
Occasionally I’d give a nod to one of the older lawyers on the 21st floor, or a cursory “Sure is cold out there” to the ladies who get off on that floor with the fancy lobby, but that was really the extent of our relationship.
That all changed on January 21, 2008, which will forever go down as “E-Day” in our building. It’s the day the building stood still. The day I found my hate. The day we got a new elevator system.
At first it was an office joke. “Hey! Did you see the 4-page memo about our new elevator system coming next month? Hello, overkill?”
“No doubt! Umm, yeah. How complicated could it be? The button with the arrow pointing up means you want to go up. The button with the arrow pointing down means you want to go down. Do they think we’re morons?”
Apparently in an effort to cut down on the long morning and evening waits for elevators, our building purchased a new highly intelligent vertical transportation system which uses sophisticated algorithms to determine the most efficient route for each person to travel, resulting in the minimum number of stops and maximum speed to destination.
We all laughed about all the celebratory signs that began to pop up throughout the building: Coming Soon! New Elevator System!
Shortly thereafter, our laughter started to show the first signs of strain. “Hey… uh, did you guys see the latest email from the building management? There’s a 15-minute instructional video we need to watch. On how to use the elevator system.”
“Ohmigod, are you guys watching this? ‘Press the number of the floor you want to go to. The kiosk will then tell you which elevator to step into. If you are with a large group all going to the same floor, you must all still punch your floor into the kiosk, and be aware that your party may be split up into multiple elevators for maximum efficiency. Do not get into an unassigned elevator as it will not stop on your floor’ What the hell?”
A few days later, flyers were posted over the Up/Down buttons threatening that “Traditional call buttons will be deactivated. Floor buttons inside the elevator will also be deactivated. Please use the main kiosk as of January 21st.”
When E-Day arrived, the building management had representatives from the elevator company standing by all the kiosks, wearing ill-fitted blazers and plastered smiles, encouraging everyone to “Hey! C’mon over here and punch your floor into the kiosk!” as though we were each getting one free pull on the giant slot machine and a 2-for-1 coupon for foot long hot dogs at the Golden Nugget.
The first day was mass chaos, and a clear indication that our crisis management team is poorly prepared in the event of a real emergency. I waited in line for the kiosk and saw the person in front of me get assigned to Elevator H. I pressed my floor into the kiosk and was told to go to Elevator H. The person behind me pressed her floor and was told to go to Elevator H. None of us were going to the same floor. As I squeezed my way through the crowd gathered around the kiosk to get to Elevator H, I realized that every single person was being assigned to Elevator H. Elevator H never came. Nor did G, I, J, K, or L.
The man in the blazer pulled out a walkie-talkie.
“Uh yeah this is Andy on the south bank. Yeah, uh, something’s wrong with the kiosk. It’s assigning everyone to Elevator H, but it’s not coming down. Yeah. Uh huh. Yeah, can you override that? Uh huh. Okay.”
He took a deep breath.
“Folks? Having a little problem with Elevator H here, so uh, I’m gonna need you all to re-enter your floors back into the kiosk. Yeah. Just working out some bugs. Sorry ‘bout that.”
If harnessed, our collective dramatic sighing, sarcastic huffing and bitter grumbling could have powered a small city. I would have settled for just one elevator, though.
“Well, that was sure a great investment!”
“I’m so glad I don’t have to press that confusing Up/Down button anymore.”
“Yeah, now I only have to stop on five floors to get to mine INSTEAD OF THE TWO I used to stop at.”
“Dumbasses.”
It was like the building sold our stairs for a bag of magic elevator beans, and we were ready to kill some giants.
The initial system hiccups didn’t get much better in the weeks to come, and the complaints grew. An entire floor of people missing their trains one evening because the elevators didn’t arrive for twenty minutes and they didn’t want to walk down the seventeen flights. Kiosks that told us to go to Elevator J when clearly Elevator J had no intention of stopping on our floor, so we had to ride it back down and start all over. People making a mad dash to their assigned elevators only to have the doors shut in their faces before they could hop on.
Do you have any idea what it feels like to get on an elevator that has no buttons inside it and suddenly realizing that it’s not stopping on your floor? It’s like being in an iron maiden, that’s what it’s like. As if to taunt us, a few of the elevators still have buttons in them. You can press them all you like, but they won’t work. They won’t even light up to give you the false sense of control.
The machines have taken over. Resistance is futile. The call is coming from inside the elevator. Stop on the nineteenth floor, HAL! STOP ON THE GODDAMN NINETEENTH FLOOR! I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jenny.
The management company tried to make amends by plying us with treats. On Valentine’s Day, we all arrived to a lobby full of pink and red cookies, each individually wrapped and tied up with red ribbons. We grumbled as we snatched the sweets off the table without even making eye contact.
“I’m diabetic, and I took two.”
“They owe us for these elevators.”
“Damn straight.”
“I ought to grind these into the carpet.”
“That’d show ‘em.”
“Hey, you have a good one!”
“Thanks – you too!”
Twenty-one floors of laser-focused, collective hatred and I’ve never felt such a heart-warming sense of belonging in my life.
Filed under: General on February 19th, 2008 | 22 Comments »
I’ve always found that making lists makes me much more productive, because I can actually visualize what I’m accomplishing as I cross each item off my list. As you can see, this was a highly productive weekend.
A word of caution: if you watch the entire first season of Dexter - the show about a serial killer with a moral compass – in one weekend, you will have bad dreams. A lot of bad dreams. Dreams about serial killers, and pools of blood, and scalpels, and body parts, and meeting serial killers, and being a serial killer, and thinking serial killers are really hot. Consider yourself warned.
Filed under: General on February 10th, 2008 | 16 Comments »
I am *totally* that crazy cat lady, because this video just cracks me up, and I’ve watched it about five times. This is what my cats will look like once I get them on their diet and exercise regimen. And once I move to England.
Filed under: General on February 7th, 2008 | 14 Comments »
It is time for my cats’ annual checkup and vaccinations, so I load them into the cat carrier and prepare myself for the most stressful seven minute drive I endure all year. Alien mostly just works herself into a vegetative state as soon as I turn on the engine, making her body as small as it can possibly get or burying her head under the fleece blanket lining the carrier. Predator, on the other hand, takes a much different approach. He starts screaming and clawing at the door to his carrier from the second I buckle my seatbelt. There is nothing I can do to calm his cries, so I turn up the radio instead.
The woman at the front desk verifies my address and tells me to have a seat. I notice that the office is firmly divided between cat people and dog people, and I don’t want to make waves so I sit next to a woman talking in soothing tones to two boxes covered with dishtowels. Angel has an eye infection, but Cocoa is just there for moral support. And perhaps a nail trim.
“I found Cocoa four years ago. Well… he found me, really. Showed up on my porch one day and been with me ever since. Sweetest cat you’ll ever see, so calm, good natured. Angel, on the other hand…”
I open up the door to my cat carrier, letting Predator peek his head out and sniff the air. He is silent. Alien is a blue fleece lump. A stylish young man walks in and the screeching begins once again. I tell Predator to be quiet, but then realize that he wasn’t talking, it was that man’s cat.
A Siamese, I think. I’d know that voice anywhere.
He sits on the other side of me and notices Predator halfway out of his carrier.
“Oh, you have a Siamese, too? How old is he?”
“He’s seven. I knew yours must have been Siamese by his meow. How old is yours?”
“Magnus is seventeen! Can you believe that?”
As he says the word seventeen, he turns Magnus’ cat carrier toward me, and I regret to admit that I instinctively lurch backwards. I have never seen anything quite like this animal in my life, and am struck by the thought that it looks like a Picasso interpretation of a Siamese cat.
“He’s here because we think he might have cataracts. And he can’t walk very well, but the vet said his leg isn’t broken or anything, so they’re just going to give him a shot and see if that perks him up.”
I’m no veterinarian, but I’m pretty certain that Siamese cats are not supposed to have white eyes, so I mentally concur with the cataract diagnosis. Magnus also has a droopy lip on one side that flaps a bit when he meows, and since I’ve never seen a curly-haired Siamese before, I suspect he has mange.
Cocoa’s owner looks at us and says, “Wow! They could be twins!”
I think to myself, yes, they could be twins, if Predator were cryogenically frozen and suddenly reanimated in the year 2045 by his evil twin Magnus. In that case, they’re identical.
It is finally my cats’ turn for their checkup, so I lug the carrier into the back room and unload Predator onto the stainless steel exam table. I warn my vet ahead of time that he will hiss at her incessantly, but not to take it personally. He’s just very private.
“Is he having any health problems?”
“No, no. Well, I think he’s gaining weight.”
“Okay, let’s just get him on the scale by himself and see… Whoa! Yeah, he’s fat.”
I feel shame.
“So Predator is 15.5 pounds, and that’s up a pound from last year. What does he usually eat?”
“I only feed him dry food – Iams or Science Diet – and I give him a cup a day.”
“Whoa! Each? That’s twice as much as they should be eating!”
“But… but, that’s what it says to feed them on the bag…”
I feel shame.
She recommends that I don’t just immediately cut their diet in half, but supplement their meals with something that will make them feel more full. Something with fiber. Something like canned French cut green beans.
“Canned French cut green beans?”
“Yes, so many people have told me their cats love them.”
“Are you sure they didn’t say dogs?”
“Trust me. And you should really get him to exercise a little. You should buy multi-colored ping-pong balls, poke a hole in them, and put a few grains of rice inside. They’ll bat those around the house all day long.”
Or for thirty seconds, I think, until they roll under the couch, otherwise known as the catnip mouse burial ground.
I shrug my shoulders and pull Alien out of the carrier before shoving my morbidly obese boy cat back in. Alien’s exam goes much more smoothly, mainly because it’s like examining a person in a coma. She just sits there, staring at some distant point in space, imagining she is far away from the antiseptic smell and harsh noises of this exam room. I like to think that she can still hear my voice, so I hold her paw and tell her it will all be over soon.
“Alien is at a good weight, and her teeth are beautiful.”
I feel pride.
As I pay my bill and pick up their rabies tags, I nod and smile at Magnus’ owner, but avoid making direct eye contact with the cat. I just can’t bear to look. The trip home takes less than five minutes, because I am eager to get to the grocery store and start my cats on a high fiber, healthy diet.
As soon as I set the carrier on the kitchen floor and open the door, both cats burst out and run into the living room, only to return one minute later and crawl back inside the carrier to work through some sort of feline Stockholm syndrome.
At the grocery store, I am amazed to see how many versions of canned green beans there are, but I know that I must find the prescribed French cut ones. For a good forty-five seconds, I debate whether to buy the store brand or the Green Giant brand, and then am appalled that I would haggle over thirty cents when my cats’ health is on the line.
Back in my apartment, I call Alien and Predator to the kitchen and tell them I have a special treat for them. As soon as they hear the can opener, they start meowing and rubbing up against my legs, which I never understand since I can’t recall ever feeding them cat food from a can that wasn’t a pop top. Who has taught them to associate a can opener with food? Television, I suppose.
With a great flourish, I set down the paper plate of Green Giant French cut green beans in front of them, and they look at me as if I have just set down a paper plate of Green Giant French cut green beans in front of them.
They don’t even bother doing a courtesy sniff before walking away with their tails in the air.
I stand in the kitchen, dejected, and as I lean against the counter eating the remaining green beans straight out of the can, I make a mental note to find out where I can buy multi-colored ping pong balls.
Filed under: General on February 6th, 2008 | 21 Comments »
My friend Seamus has an important research position, which occasionally (see: frequently) requires him to send me random YouTube clips and Top 100 lists. This video was of particular importance, as it is apparently the favorite TV show of our friends’ children. After watching it, I feel like I’ve been possessed by a demon. A party in my tummy demon.
I can’t believe that all my life, I have neglected to invite my meals into my stomach before eating them. I feel like such a boor. Never again. The next time someone takes me out to dinner, I’m going to exhibit perfect etiquette: “Does flank steak want to go to the party? The party in my tummy? And does Zinfandel want to go to the party in my tummy? Yeah! So yummy! So yummy!”
Dinner anyone?
Filed under: General on January 29th, 2008 | 18 Comments »
One
Today at the gym, I stood in front of my locker for 20 minutes trying to remember the combination to my lock. I was absolutely positive that I had it right. After trying the combination no less than 50 times, I contemplated finding some sandpaper and a stethoscope to see if I actually learned anything from all those heist movies I’ve watched over the years.
Eventually, I had to swallow my pride and walk back up to the front desk, where they laughed and pulled out an enormous bolt cutter from underneath the counter. They handed it to an adorable Natasha Lyonne look-alike, and I took the walk of shame behind her to my locker. She tried her hardest to cut the lock, but I buy only the highest quality Masterlocks, so she had to give up after only making a slight scratch. As she left to get one of her burlier male counterparts, and started warning all the women that the locker room was about to become co-ed, I suddenly remembered the actual combination.
The dent in my lock will serve as a constant reminder of my impending senility. Until I forget how it got there.
Two
I finally took on the brutal task of organizing my linen closet, which probably isn’t a big deal for most people, but mine serves as a repository for every shampoo, conditioner, hair gel, curl enhancer, smoothing pomade, hair spray, body lotion, salt scrub, lip balm, Clinique Bonus Days sample, feminine product and hotel soap I have ever acquired throughout the course of my 36 years.
While rearranging the actual linens in my linen closet, I also found a dog mask, rabbit ears, koala nose, wolf snout, and an unfamiliar portable CD player that contained a disk of trance music. At some point in my life, I apparently was holding raves in my linen closet. The only things missing were the glow sticks and Ecstacy.
Just as I was putting the finishing touches on the second shelf, I accidentally knocked over a poorly secured but 90% full bottle of Natural Citrus Listerine, spilling it all over my newly organized bathtowels and sheets. I just walked away.
Party over here:
Filed under: General on January 27th, 2008 | 20 Comments »
I had barely finished half my latté when the man at the counter yelled through his multiple lip piercings, “We close in five minutes!”
“Five minutes? What kind of independent coffee shop closes at eight o’clock?”
“Apparently this one.”
“Lame.”
We bundled up to face the bitter cold that awaited, while debating what to do next. Neither of us knew of any other coffee shops in the area, and I wasn’t up for a bar. I could have easily called it an evening, but felt somewhat obliged to stay since our conversation had been cut short by the hipster barista.
We paused as we walked past a grimy looking diner, and although he acted like he had never been there before, I saw Robert nod at the woman at the counter.
“It’s either this, or the McDonald’s on Broadway,” he shrugged.
“Let’s give it a shot.”
As we entered, we walked past three gumball machines, two of which contained what appeared to be peanut dust. The third was half full of multi-colored Chiclets, and I made a mental note to check my wallet for quarters before I left.
The diner was empty except for a man mopping the floor in back and the woman at the counter. She was fifty-something with yellowish bleached hair and penciled-in eyebrows, and flashed us a huge smile as we entered.
“Sit anywhere you like.”
Our options were either stools at the counter or booths along the wall. I chose a booth near the window and straddled the wide silver patch of duct tape that was holding the seat together.
“You’re not too cold over here by the window, are you?” she asked, as she tossed down our menus.
“No, it’s fine, thanks.”
“Can I get you started with some coffee?”
“Actually, I think that’s probably all we’re having… unless you’re going to get something to eat?”
He flipped the menu over and then flipped it back again. “Huh. They got new menus. But no, no, I think I’ll just have the coffee. Decaf.”
Our waitress gathered up the silverware she had just placed down and went to make some coffee. A fresh pot, she assured us with a smile.
“So you’ve been here before?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, for breakfast a long time ago.”
A woman came in to use the ATM and left the receipt sticking out of the machine. There were two types of hot sauce on the table, which seemed extravagant for such a small diner. All three ceiling fans were different.
We talked about the Olympics and tiger attacks and thrift store books and how all of Chicago is just one good rainstorm away from collapsing into a giant sink hole.
“The Lincoln Park Zoo isn’t allowed to have elephants anymore, you know.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“They kept dying. Now they’ve been banned from getting new ones.”
I wasn’t entirely sure I had my facts straight, but he didn’t know that, so I didn’t waver.
Our waitress set down our coffee and said, “See? Nothing like a fresh brewed pot of decaf. I hate stale decaf that’s been sitting around, don’t you?”
“Absolutely. Thanks so much!”
He was working his way through all the Ian Fleming novels, which he would then sell on eBay for a profit. I mumbled as I tried to explain what I did for a living, “It’s really boring… and people… and data.” Sometimes it’s good to play dull.
Two young men came in and sat at the booth across from us. The waitress seemed to know one of them because she teased him about not being dressed for the weather while she refilled our coffee cups.
“You went to Mexico? Whereabouts?” she asked the young man, as she leaned on her elbows across the counter.
“TJ.”
“Where’s that?”
“Tijuana.”
“Oh… Tijuana. You bad, dirty boy. People get into trouble there, don’t they?”
We went back to talking about the rising cost of condos and the primary elections, but every now and then I would catch part of their conversation.
“You can get prescription drugs there without prescriptions.”
“Yeah, and I heard that Mexican drugs are actually better than the drugs you can get in the States.”
I looked at the clock above the kitchen and announced that it was probably time for me to head home. We got up to pay, but our waitress was still deep in discussion with the young men.
“Isn’t that right?” she asked me. “Don’t cancer people go to Mexico to get drugs?”
“You mean like experimental ones?” Robert asked.
“Yeah. Like all the rich Hollywood stars used to go down to Mexico for treatment when they knew they were going to die anyway. Like Paul Newman and Liz Taylor and everyone.”
I was pretty sure that both Paul Newman and Liz Taylor were still alive, and I didn’t recall ever hearing that they had cancer, but then maybe that’s because the experimental Mexican drugs had cured them.
“Huh. I’m not sure.”
“Yeah… that’s all you see on TV nowadays is cancer drugs. Everything’s a cancer ad. I don’t even want to watch TV anymore.”
“That’s true – now that all the drug companies can advertise on TV, that’s all you…”
“I know! And then it’s even during the kids’ shows! I swear, I’m watching TV the other day and some little kid comes on and says, ‘I have a brain tumor!’ I don’t want to see that. I turned it right off.”
“Huh. Yeah.” I pulled out my wallet but Robert waved me off. The bill came to $2.80.
“I mean, I swear that that’s why everyone has cancer nowadays. Half of that is mental, you know? Watching all them cancer shows and listening to all them cancer ads… that’s probably causing it. I tell you, when I see that ad come on with that little kid and he starts to go, ‘I have a brain…,’ I cut him off right there and change the channel. No you don’t! That’s what I say.”
“Yeah, TV is pretty crazy.”
“Isn’t that the truth? I mean, whatever happened to Corningware ads? How come you never see those anymore? Nothing but cancer drugs. That’s why you don’t see a TV in here. Nothing’s gonna poison you here.”
“Well, we got that fresh pot of decaf to keep us healthy, too!”
“That’s for sure. Well, come back soon!”
I pulled my hat down low, close to my eyes, preparing for the inevitable blast of icy wind, then paused before stepping outside. I stretched out my mitten-clad hand as Robert held open the door.
“Chiclet?”
Filed under: General on January 24th, 2008 | 20 Comments »
I went shopping this weekend only to be horribly disappointed to learn that despite the -25 degree wind chill, apparently it is spring in Chicago, so stores are stocked with pastel Capri pants and jaunty denim jackets. Procrastinators like me who realize in mid January that they’ve been wearing the same five outfits to work every week for the past four months are relegated to the tables in the backs of stores where piles of unfolded sweaters are pawed at by grubby hands like mine, searching desperately for a size that is not XS.
My fellow shoppers and I circled the table like ravenous wolves looking for bargain sheep, followed closely by the unfortunate sales clerk who had the Sisyphean task of refolding all the garments left in our wake. Eventually I stopped looking at the actual article of clothing itself, and instead focused solely on the tag. I grabbed anything that was M and clutched it to my chest, figuring I could inspect the item once I made my way to the fitting room. Sometimes clothes run big, I thought, so I’d grab an occasional S. But sometimes they also run small, so I grabbed an XL since L’s were as scarce as M’s.
When I got to the fitting room, I found that I had an S sweater in blaze orange, the same sweater in XL, a black M camisole I didn’t even remember touching, a fuchsia M turtleneck, and a bright blue S fitted sweater with a cowl neck and little buttons along the cuffs.
None of these things are clothes I would typically wear, but I wanted to buy them all – even both orange sweaters that didn’t fit – just because they had been reduced to $15.99 or less.
I walked out with just the blue sweater – an unlikely choice. It’s not my color, not really my style, and it’s so tight that when I raise my right arm, the left one automatically follows, but for some reason I felt compelled to buy it. It was only when I put it on this morning that I noticed the smell. As I pulled the neck over my head, I got a distinct whiff of perfume, most definitely not my own.
I lifted up the neck a bit and inhaled deeply. It was sweet, but not overly so. Not musky. Kind of clean, like laundry detergent, but less utilitarian. Wait, I thought. Is this an old lady sweater? Did an old lady try this on and decide against it? Am I now wearing a $12.99 sweater that a heavily scented rail-thin grandmother tossed aside? And how did so much perfume soak into a sweater if she just quickly tried it on? Maybe it smelled like something else – something much, much worse – and the old lady reached into her enormous purse to find her art deco atomizer with the long stem and fancy tasseled bulb and sprayed it directly onto the neck of the sweater because the odor was so vile she couldn’t bear the thought of letting it touch her face again as she removed the offending piece of clothing.
Without so much as a nod to the dressing room attendant, she tossed the sweater back onto the table on her way out, just as I was walking in. Maybe I even smelled her as she passed by, but I was too focused on the sale rack to notice.
As I finished getting ready this morning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed. It was like a stranger had wrapped herself around my throat like a little mink and wouldn’t let go. I pulled the neck of my sweater out as I sprayed on a hefty dose of my own perfume. She disappeared for a few minutes, only to return as I made my toast.
She is strong, this old mink.
She kept me company all day – while I rode the half-empty train to work this morning, as I made myself some green tea for the anti-oxidants, when I argued with our Legal department over federal regulations, and as I poured myself a glass of scotch tonight to fight off the chill.
She’s gone now, hanging in my closet making friends with something grey and argyle, no doubt. Sure, she got on my nerves at first, but I think I’ll keep her around for a few more weeks. Not so much for sentimental reasons, but she’s dry clean only and I can’t afford to get rid of her just yet.
Filed under: General on January 21st, 2008 | 8 Comments »
