As it turns out, it's very difficult to post daily when working 16 hour days. I'll catch up over the weekend so that at the very least I will post an average of one post per day. I'll tell you all about my trip to the dentist, L.M. Montgomery's lesbian love letter, and my thoughts on spitting. It'll be good times.

I have my first dentist appointment tomorrow in . . . longer than I care to confess. I have all the usual fears: will it hurt, will it be expensive, will the dentist call the entire office staff in to laugh at my x-rays. I'm hoping that in the four score or so years since I last visited a dentist they're come up with such incredibly modern and revolutionary techniques, I'll only need to sit through 5 seconds of a laser pointed in my mouth, then come back in 50 years for another cleaning. Along with my jet pack, hover car, and miracle zit cream, I feel that the 21st century owes me a hell of a lot in the way of superior dental care.

Scrabbled

In a stunning turn of events, I totally kicked this guy's ass at Scrabble this afternoon. We were entering the final round and I was down by 50 points. "Okay," I thought. "I just need to use all my letters to get that50 point bonus." At the time, the letters on my tray were I-R-A-N-O-U-T, a fine political commentary, but not especially useful. On the board, the word LINE was hovering over to the left, spelled out horizontally. In a brilliant (for me) move, I positioned RAINOUT vertically, using the A to convert LINE to ALINE (like the skirt), scooping up a triple word bonus at the same time for both words. It was possibly the most brilliant move of my Scrabble career.

It's not really a pure victory -- we'd all been sorta cheating throughout the game, looking at each other's letters, suggesting good plays. The scores for each round proved quite conclusively that my friend (Arcomay, we'll call him, to preserve his anonymity) was by far the most skilled player of the three of us, and I contribute my win more to my unflagging good luck than to any particular skill on my part. There's no doubt that the next time we play, he'll have less pity on me and I will be creamed, hard.

For the moment, though, I am totally basking in a sweet, sweet move.

My Secret Identity

I went to the grocery store tonight. It amuses me that when I walk into a supermarket, the staff sees only what I want them to see -- a 30 year old, schoolmarmish woman with faded brown hair, glasses, and concealing clothing that leaves not just a lot, but in fact everything to the imagination. Little do they suspect that this mediocre female is in fact -- THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION.

I hide it well, you see.

As THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION enters the store, she abandons the cares and concerns that plague her everyday persona. Here, she enters her own true milieu, observing -- and judging -- every aspect of the store around her. She begins in produce, noting that the new brown-gray pseudo-wood flooring does give the store an olden-timey feel, but she frowns disapprovingly at the two heads of cauliflower idling on the ground. She condescends to return them to the pyramid of vegetables from whence they rolled, but has only a snort of disgust for the mess of broken and bleeding green bell peppers around the corner. After all, the nicest olden-timey floor in the world cannot redeem the shoddy "work" habits of the staff.

The quality of grocery store employees has surely fallen off since the days when THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION graced the check-out stand.

THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION wanders the aisles, noting where the shelves haven't been faced in days, where the floors need to be swept, where end displays are lacking in balance and aesthetic appeal.

If she happens to buy a gallon of milk, she'll always check the expiration date on the surrounding gallons -- just in case.

It is at the check-out that THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION is most at home, of course. Noting that her cart contains 16 items, she virtuously goes to the "All Sizes" checking lane, never dreaming of trying to sneak into the "15 Items or Less" line. Besides, as well as taking a stand for honesty in check-outs, she would never dream of patronizing a lane dedicated to poor grammar. Facing the check-out clerk with a serene expression, her lip upturned ever-so-slightly to convey a friendly, but not too friendly, attitude, THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION waits to be greeted. Unsurprisingly, the check-out clerk ignores THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION in favor of chatting with the baggers. Though THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION knows that she could garner far better treatment if she were to reveal her true identity, she chooses not to exploit the sanctity of her calling; let her be treated as if she were a regular person. She does permit herself the indulgence of directing a stoney, icey face at the check-out clerk, diverting it only to take note of the ever-growing heap of groceries piling up at the far end of the stand, clearly yearning to be handled by a competent bagger -- a creature THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION has yet to have encountered in Chicago. THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION aims a knowing glance and a keenly pointed eyebrow at the night shift manager (a not-uncomely man, a man for whom THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION may have spared an idle daydream or two -- visions of herself and him squirming and thrashing in the break-room, wantonly thrusting against a row of carts, or writhing on the conveyor belt until overcome by the fumes of burning rubber and passion -- but for whom she now feels disdain, the only emotion she can spare for a man whose apathy toward his sacred duties is clearly reflected in his poorly trained staff). A fleeting look of shame crosses his face, and a yearning for what he now knows can never be, but rather than confront his recalcitrant baggers, he takes refuge behind the Customer Service desk, with only the pain and humiliation of his lonely, loveless future as company. This was not unexpected to THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION, but still -- she regrets his actions.

What to do then? The groceries remain unsacked. Will this be the night, the moment when at last she can cast aside her bland disguise and reveal herself? Will THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION bag again? She flexes her hands in anticipation.

But no. Not tonight. A bagger has sauntered over and begun the job. THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION keeps one eye on the sacker as she notes his slowness, his inattention, his overall ineptitude. Never has she entered a grocery store without hoping to find THE ONE, the sacker who combines grace and speed with intelligent packing, THE ONE to whom she might pass her mantle -- but she knows that she will not find THE ONE on this night, not unless the culinary world suddenly develops a mania for squashed tomatoes and flattened bread.

THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION thanks the bagger politely -- never let it be said that she abandoned good manners in the face of poor service -- and pushes her cart away from the stand but still within sight of it. She swiftly rebags her groceries, ending the unholy unions of tomatoes and toilet bowl cleaner, milk and light bulbs, toilet paper and orange juice. Saddened but resigned, she looks up at the bagger -- but he hasn't noticed. Perhaps . . . one day . . .

She exits. Passing through the doors, she leaves behind THE BASHAS' STORE #7 AND DISTRICT #4 1994 PACK-OFF CHAMPION and is just another Chicagoan struggling with her bags on a cold and snowy night.

A Plea for Pity

I had a difficult morning. My apartment, though thoroughly splendid, can’t help but be a little chilly in the mornings. My bedroom retains heat so wonderfully, I turn the heat down at night, close my bedroom door, and I’m completely toasty until morning. Morning sucks, though, since I have to open the door and shiver my way over to the bathroom, shiver my way into a shower, shiver out of the shower, and shiver through another 20 minutes until I’m all dry.

And I was very sleepy this morning. In spite of my best resolutions, I’ve worked quite late the last two nights, and I’m a bit sleep deprived. When I woke up this morning, I could only account for the whereabouts of about 2% of my brain. Stupid brain.

I’m just trying to make you understand how the following was possible.

Wrapped in my towel, bleary-eyed and wet-headed, I was bent over drying my hair. And it was taking forever. And I was cold. So I decided to give up. I flipped the switch on the dryer and – nothing. Or rather, still something. The stupid thing was still on.

I panicked. How could I get it to turn off with the switch broken? I kept flipping it back and forth, hoping that maybe it had just forgotten what it was supposed to do next, maybe a little memory jog would remind it. No luck. How could I go to work today when my dryer won’t turn off? Can I prop it up somewhere and count on it not to fall over and not to burn the apartment down? Maybe put the handle in a cup, say, a cup weighted down inside with rocks to prevent it from tipping over? Probably not. Holy crap, I’m going to have to call into work sick because I can’t get the dryer to turn off! But I can’t call in, it’s Friday, all my reports and files are due today! Can I work from home, holding the dryer up in one hand and working Excel with the other? Everything will take so long! Goddamnit, there’s no other choice, I’M JUST GOING TO HAVE TO CUT THE GODDAMN WIRE AND MAYBE I’LL GET ELECTROCUTED BUT THAT’S A RISK I’M JUST GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE AIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

About the time I decided to slash through the wire with a knife, it suddenly occurred to me that the cord led somewhere, led to . . . a plug . . . and, say . . . isn’t there something else I can maybe try and see if it would maybe work . . .?

I unplugged the dryer and went on with my life.

Did I say I had 2% of my brain this morning? Maybe I overestimated.

I went to Hyde Park today, the neighborhood I lived in seven or eight years ago. I've only been back once, when I helped a friend pack, and I didn't look around too much while I was there. Today I had a grand old time.

First I went to the Museum of Science and Industry. That museum is just ginormous. There was free admission today, and since it's a weekday, it was practically deserted. There was a certain kind of Mixed-Up Files air about it, but as if 20 strangers had all been inspired to run away today too, instead of just me. I saw the genetics exhibit, the internet exhibit, the amazing room where the tiniest whisper can be heard clearly 30 feet away, the train set, the astronomy exhibit, the fairy castle (no, I don't know what that's doing there), and some other stuff. Best of all was the Omnimax film, Sea Monsters. I need to have an Omnimax in my home.

After the museum closed, I went to the awesomest used book store in Chicago, Powell's, where I picked up How and Wells' commentary on Herodotus (volume 1) and Courtesans and Fishcakes: The Consuming Passiond of Classical Athens. Good looking reads, both.

Then, possibly the best part: I went to the Medici. Once upon a time, I used to go there for the most delicious fizzy lemonade. It was the most perfect lemonade ever. In spite of the snow outside, I decided I had to have the lemonade. I spoke to myself rather sternly regarding getting my hopes up: there was no way it could be as good as I remembered. I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. I've idealized a moment long past.

Wrong! Suck that, common sense! It was, in fact, not merely as good as I remembered, but much better. They used to use a small crushed ice, but this lemonade today had minute ice particles. The lemon to sugar to water ratio was perfect overall, the balance between the three that of a tight rope artist dancing across a silk thread. It was amazing.

Walking around Hyde Park, I felt disturbingly like an amnesia victim. In spite of my year there, I remembered almost nothing of what I was seeing. The museum was a complete blank except for the fairy castle, the street names sounded vaguely familiar and I couldn't decide which one I had lived on, and almost none of the stores rang a bell. Powell's I did remember, and that was a relief, but I couldn't picture myself ever in it. The knowledge of how it looked might just as easily have been from pictures I'd seen as my own personal experience.

I freak me out sometimes. Maybe I never lived in Chicago.

This is a pretty horrible thing to show you. It's not the most horrific thing I've introduced you to, but it's right the hell up there.

If there are children in the room, you should ask them to leave now.

Okay. Here you go.

The second most horrific thing I've ever given you.

It should probably go without saying -- not safe for work.

Edit 1/23/08 7:09 pm: Fixed so that first link goes someplace.

You probably don't know this -- and I know you don't know this because I know you, and you never watch the news or read the papers or ever venture on-line, and you're a freak, but Lord help me, I just can't quit you -- but it's frickin' cold here. Cold in that way where when you go outside and you try to breathe through your nose, you just can't, because first it burns and stings like your genitals 4-6 weeks after a night with the temple hooker (what? I said your genitals, not mine), then the sides of your nostrils stick together because the boogers have frozen, and it's an interesting feeling, but not satisfying -- satisfying in that way it's satisfying when you have a crusty hook on one end of a booger, and the other end just goes on and on and on into your skull, so that when you pull on that crusty end it extracts a line of elastic and springy mucus that was connected to your brain stem, so pulling it out feels just awfully nice -- but definitely interesting.

Someday when scholars of ancient English are sitting in their crappy classroom in the most rundown building on campus (because the Poultry Science students will still be getting the nice buildings and the Ancient Languages students will still get the buildings that serve as mating grounds for beetles), they will be cursing me for the convoluted nature of that sentence and wondering why they didn't just major in business/engineering/education like their mothers told them to.

Item #453 on the quite long list of things which make me cranky: People who think that I am a dumb, rich, white girl and treat me accordingly.

When I go into your extremely crappy little furniture shop hoping to buy a crappy little rug for my apartment, do not try to fool me into spending $250 on your crappy rug. I am neither stupid nor rich. And when I ask to look at end tables, don't try to sell me on a set of end tables/coffee tables/sofa tables because you think that I'm rich and don't tell me that you can make me a deal on the 3 of them for a mere $300 because I AM NOT AN IDIOT. The best part was when you showed me a sample of the wood that they were made of and it was incredibly obvious that they were made of stained CRAP. Seriously, my $10 IKEA end table is of a nicer wood.

I'd like to patronize local businesses, but when they patronize me instead, it just doesn't work out. Put some goddamn price tags on your furniture and quit trying to rip a person off just because she happens to be wearing a nice skirt that day, okay? (For those of you keeping track at home, it was my red velvet. Purdy.)

I mentioned that I have been reading L.M. Montgomery's journals. I checked volumes 2-4 out of the Harold Washington Library last weekend, and I was sorry to see that Volume 1 was missing. Volume 1 covered her late teens and early 20's, and I was counting on that volume for the racy stuff that would best satisfy my voyeuristic tendencies. I one read that volume 12 or so years ago, and I vaguely recall a romantic encounter she had one evening with a romantic stud named Herman who, I am fairly certain, invited her back to his room. She didn't go, but it was pretty thrilling.

Anyway, volume 2 was fairly dull (by which I mean, no sex) in spite of her marriage to Hugh. Of course, she doesn't love him, though she is a bit fond of him, so I didn't even get to read about the merest kiss. Volume 3: likewise. In volume 4, covering her life at the ages of 55 through 61, I expected more of the same -- until I hit March 1, 1930:

"The next week I got another letter from Isobel. She said that she thought that she was losing her mind -- that only I could save her -- that she wanted very much something which only I could grant. She wanted to come down to Norval and stay all night at the manse -- and she wanted to sleep with me."

Awesome!

She goes on to relate how she was utterly repulsed by the idea, but then, scared that Isobel might commit suicide, our heroine goes over to her house and -- sleeps in her bed with her.

What happened? Stay tuned . . .

Gummi bears, bouncing here and there and everywhere . . .

Over the last week or so, I've been reading the personal, private diaries of L.M. Montgomery, famed author of Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon, and A Correspondence and a Climax (that last one will be the name of my autobiography, I think), and man, do I love reading the intimate details of other people's lives. She kept a diary for years and years and years, so there's a lot to go over. "Man," I thought. "This is terrific stuff. I should give this a go, this keeping a diary business. Why haven't I ever done this before?"

Then of course, I remember that I had, that they're called "blogs" now (three years into "blogging" and I still motherfucking hate that retarded word, hate it so much that I refuse to use it without the doubtful quotation marks which call into question its right to exist), and that I have actually had more than one. Right. And maybe if I'm sooo inspired to write out every detail of my life, I should just go set up a new journal like I've been telling everyone I was going to do. So here we are.

Over these years of random journals, I've developed a few philosophies for the journal:

1. Tell the whole story, or at least most of it. Nothing makes me quite as cranky as the random emo post suddenly appearing on someone's blog after months of silence only to whine "If only this festering life would come to an end!" and then back to months of silence. If I decide I want my festering life to come to an end, you will by God know every single reason why I am wholly justified in this wish, what steps I will take to fulfill it, when you can view the scene live online, and who's job it'll be to post the video to YouTube. EVERYTHING. Words you will never hear come out of my mouth: "To make a long story short . . ."

2. Except when telling the whole story will violate someone else's privacy or maybe when it'll just piss them off. I know you guys want to read about every sigh and moan in my many, MANY sexual encounters, but in those 2% of encounters which actually involve another living creature, I think we can afford him some privacy. (Note I say "him." If I ever do indulge in some hot girl-on-girl action, I think we will all want the tiniest details preserved for posterity.)

3. I'd really, really, really like it if you'd put a name on your comments. Any name. I just want to know if the comment is coming from a family member (eh, nice), a friend (oh, hi!), or a total stranger (OMG, SOMEONE I DON'T KNOW IS READING! MY EXISTENCE IS JUSTIFIED!!!!1!). Sure, I've made a bit of a science out of identifying commenters based on the signature tells demonstrated in everyone's writing style, but at the end of the day, that's still guessing. I hate guessing.

4. Regular posting makes everyone happy. I know I've been a sporadic poster in the past, but I also know that the journals I like best are the ones that have new entries everyday. I'm going to give that Entry-a-Day thing a whirl. We'll see how long that resolution sticks.

5. Labels are stupid.

Test . . .