LaurieWrites

And would that be to burn in hell?

I'm running out of patience with the church signs up the street.

"If you don't have what you want, be grateful you don't get what you deserve."

What I deserve is CANDY. Halloween CANDY. Bring it. Now.

Schooled at the Best Buy

Yesterday I bought a video camera, in my continued efforts to empty my bank account with the acquisition of multimedia gear that becomes an obsessively used part of my life. It's becoming a serious problem that I have absolutely zero interest in solving, so I've decided to just roll with hit for a while and see where it takes me. I've had my eye on a camera for a while, and yesterday I finally decided to go and get it. Just go and get it. It's so difficult for things to be so easy sometimes. I had a last-minute plan to tape the first moments of my sister's in-laws meeting the rest of my family later that evening. Stuff like that should be remembered, just for its sheer hilarity (and this is a reflection on my family entirely, not the nice new people who actually didn't seem too alarmed by the time the night was over. And that was after my treatise on the Halloween votive candle holders. That was classy.)

My plans were smashed, however, because it turned out once I got home that I didn't have the right memory card for the camera. The girl who sold it to me wasn't very informed about the equipment herself, which isn't at all surprising in this day and age of employees who often seem offended by the presumption that they may be called upon to answer questions about what they're selling. She was nice enough - just unclear. And I got confused, thinking that the cards I already had for my digital camera would work in this new one. Both are Canons, I thought - that should do it, forgetting that Canon also makes huge ass copy machines and printers too, and probably farm equipment for all I know, so why would I assume that all of the ancillary products would be the same? Why? Because I didn't really feel like shelling out an extra 60 bucks for a memory card, and sheer hope led me to believe that I already had what I needed at home. Dumb. Never assume that. ALWAYS assume that you'll need to shell out 60 more bucks in Best Buy - and pretty much any other store. At least 60.

So today I went back to get the correct memory card, so I can start taping my dog, and my mother's repetitive questions, and oh...maybe even myself if I get the nerve? I doubt that, but we'll see. I picked up the card I needed (2 GB!!! 2!!!! I am Sofia Coppola's older, less emaciated sister!!! Watch out!) and went to the cashier line. There I found a life coach.

Me: There's a 20 dollar rebate. Is there information in the package about it?

Her: It'll print out with your receipt.

Me: Oh, good. Now I just have to remember to send it in.

Her: Listen, now. You do it RIGHT AWAY. You go home, and you put it on the coffee table. And you fill it out. And you mail it in.

Me: Right. Immediately.

Her: Seriously. You put the STAMP ON THE ENVELOPE before you forget. And TAKE IT to the post office tomorrow. Mail it before you forget! Because it's twenty dollars, and you're going to get a CHECK, that you can spend on ANYTHING IN THE WORLD!!!!

Me: You are so very absolutely right. And I thank you.

Her: No problem. Just don't forget to mail it.

She was very young, but obviously does not mess around. Sometimes the easy things are just easy.

Let's see. It's Friday. Nerves are fraying a little. My sister's engagement party is tomorrow, which is turning into the equivalent of a mini wedding reception, and the whole house is ripped apart because apparently in my mother's most scream-inducing nightmares, her new in-laws to be are going to come down and go sashaying through the rooms like Simon Cowell and Paula Abdul, with Simon the dad holding up placards with scorecards on them, and Paula the mom's flipper clapping hands toddling along behind. Let's just say that the house could be sold at this point, save for two rooms, because it's so clean. All of my remaining stuff has gone into the storage unit, and I couldn't help with any of this because work is insane and unlike someone else who has thrown herself into this job, I don't have leave to burn. I have to go to work. Every day. Therefore, when next I move, I have no idea what's in any of my boxes. On the one hand it's unnerving, and on the other it's pretty cool, because I can jet out of here at any time and just leave it all. But most of all it's unnerving - not gonna lie.

I had a syllabus to finish two nights ago (try to stay awake for that, I dare you) and the room that the computer's in is right next to the chaos that has been the roar of the vacuum cleaner for the past two nights. I've never seen a person vacuum like my father. He's the most obsessive compulsive vacuumer I've ever witnessed, which shouldn't surprise me. It could be because he hasn't ever done it, and it's interesting him like a shiny new toy.

When I'm stressed my hair tends to go higher on my head like Pebbles, another on the list of my odd idiosyncrasies, which runs from here to Baton Rouge right about now. And no, not the Pebbles who sang "GIRL-FRIEND. How could you let EM TREAT'CHA so BAD. BABY I'm NOT SAD NAH GIRLFRIEND." She, by the way, looks alot like that punk ass informant who ate it on the first season of 24. Hm? Probably just me.  Anyway, behold the ponytail of quiet desperation:

That's some more of my stuff ready for the storage place behind me. Also, the phone that was promised to be mailed to me never arrived. These people are...NOT SMART. I said it. They're not. They're dumbdumbstupidfuckingdumb, and I am so irritated by their not smartness that I'm beyond being irritated, that's how irritated. I don't even care about the karma anymore. And by the way, do not rent from Thrifty Car Rental ever. Just for me. Thanks. This is how I feel about those jackasses.

In good, keeping-me-sane news, NYC in two weeks, thank God - and I think I'm going to Philly for Thanksgiving and back to NYC for New Year's. The NYC part is really, really good news - Philly...it's okay. Also, BNL and Lionel Richie are next week, but can someone explain to me why no one wants to go see Barenaked Ladies with me? What's wrong with people? It's one of the most fun live shows in the world of pop music, I swear. It isn't The Raconteurs in Nashville or anything, but it's free! So sad.

If you haven't watched "Friends With Money," don't. Depressing. Just watch "Shopgirl", either again or for the first time.

And in final funny news, my site is the second hit on Google Images for "Awesomeo", from this post more than a year ago. It's a South Park thing. I get hits from people searching for it every day, multiple times a day, which is funny.

Butters: When Cartman is playing all alone in his backyard, he likes to dress up like Britney Spears and pretend he's her! He sings and dances around with a life size cut-out of Justin Timberlake!
AWESOM-O: …You saw that?
Butters: Yea. And I video-taped him doing it!
AWESOM-O: …Nuh-uh.
Butters: I've got the whole thing on tape, even him making out with the Justin Timberlake cut-out!
AWESOM-O: …No way.
Butters: Yeah! And if Cartman ever messes with me again, I'm gonna show that video to everybody! Then I'll have my revenge, boy howdy!
AWESOM-O: … Um, where is this videotape, Butters?
Butters: Huh? Oh, I dunno. It's around here somewhere. Hey! So what do you wanna do now, AWESOM-O?
AWESOM-O: Uh, Butters, maybe you should give AWESOM-O the videotape?
Butters: How come?
AWESOM-O: Well, because… AWESOM-O can, like, back it up for you, and make copies and stuff. I am AWESOM-O.
Butters: Oh, that's all right, AWESOM-O. Come on! I have a lot of things to teach you.
AWESOM-O: … Oh, son of a bitch!

Fall Stories - Part Three, I think

I decided it was probably time to move the "Shitty" header down, as much as it's been making me laugh. And it seemed a good time to highlight some more of my pictures from some recent travels and other random fun and games. If you're a flickr contact, pardon the repetition...but I know you don't get much of the backstory on there, and you have to be dying for it. Right? ; )

First, there's my dog and the latest installment in his ongoing showdown with the fiercest rubber monster in all the land. This thing could kick some serious ass.  If it were REAL. I don't know what exactly he thinks it is, but he goes ballistic in his old, demented doggie way whenever I - of course- antagonize him by bringing it cloooooooooosssssssseeeeeeeee to his face, and then faaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrr away. 

Relax. Eventually I let him win. He always wins. This thing makes him nuts, so I don't make him wait as long to chase it and (I'm sure he thinks...) kill its already inanimate self. I guess it would freak me out from that angle too, though...with this coming at me and whatnot:

My friend Andrew is not a monster, but he's crazy for Greek food, and I like to feed people, so I bought him some. He smiled like this.

Let's see, what's next? Oh, yes. Before I bought him food, I took this picture. Home is pretty. Pretty, pretty home. : )

Last week I went to Indiana. Marcus, my colleague and adopted little brother, was the best co-pilot ever, and I don't just say that because he makes up new lyrics to "Chain Hang Low" that make me laugh and laugh. I mostly say it because of that, but not entirely. He also has a perfect sense of direction, and this is essential when serving as my co-pilot. We went to Bloomington, and also took a sidetrip to Dayton, where I saw Steven's new house. And then we went to the Dayton Friday's and caught up for a very short time, but it was good. He votes for happy hour, by the way.

Indianapolis was an okay city to hang out in. I went to my first NBA game, got to go to Steak & Shake for the first time since I left Dayton (thank God they don't have them here. Too much of a good thing), visited the IU campus, which is gorgeous, and showed Marcus the UD campus. I didn't have any good Dayton propaganda, so I bought an overpriced hoodie that I swear I never want to take off. It's going to be an integral part of my schlumpy winter uniform.

My friend Annett was in town for business for just that day, too, and happened to call from the airport  to see what I was up to, having no idea I was there. She lives in Virginia now, but I met her in Ohio, so it was funny that she was there, and we all got to meet up and have dinner. We were joking that it figures that I come to town for one day after being gone for seven years and I can still compose a dinner party faster than I can in Maryland some days. It's a homey place like that. This is her with some of Marcus's dessert at Bravo, where I must have eaten once a week when I lived there. He's still talking about that dessert, in fact, as evidenced by this photograph that seems to say, "Is that a foreign spoon heading towards my apple loveliness?" All I can say is that I will not steer you wrong in the culinary landscape, my friend.

I also went to the Eiteljorg, a cool museum of Native American art in Indy, and saw this excellent machine, the Art-o-mat. It's an old cigarette machine that dispenses works of art on blocks about the size of...a pack of cigarettes. It's part of the museum exhibit and also works, so it ate five bucks of my money and gave me a painting of a sheep on a block of wood. The pinhole photo one was out, so I just pulled at random and got this woman's work. Awesome idea. If you care about art - particularly innovative work - you need to click on that link, honest, or this one, where you can find out where all the machines are. And if you're a working artist, they take submissions. I bet it's not a big moneymaker, but how cool. Maybe I'll send some photos. Don't know. But click. Go ahead. You want to.

The museum has three Georgia O'Keeffe paintings, and I loved this one. I wanted it. Even a print would have done, but there were none to be had.

This photo was taken at Luna Music, a store in Indianapolis that Brittany recommended to me. If you can see the handwritten sign between Johnny Cash and Miles Davis, it says, "I am not afraid of you and I will beat your ass," which I found most fitting.

Also in Indiana, we saw Sandy Allen, the lady who happens to be the second tallest woman in the world at a Pacer's game. (And in further proof that Wikipedia is a goldmine of somewhat unreliable weirdness, check out that Split Enz wrote a song about her, called "Hello Sandy Allen". Bizarre.) People were talking to her and getting her autograph, and she seemed chill about the whole thing - motoring around outside in the rain after the game with her hood up, smoking a cigarette.

We saw a blues band who were a combo of Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future, a slightly less shaggy Garth from Wayne's World, and maybe the guy from Sixteen Candles? They were good, in any case. These signs were key to the downtown Indianapolis experience. They're animated, and are designed by Julian Opie as part of the downtown public art project. It was weird to see the street sign slinking towards you seductively, but I dig the concept. 

I came home and immediately headed to Susan and Ray's wedding. It was such a great day. She was so serenely happy, it radiated from her out into the air and standing next to her you just kind of sighed. For instance, this was the most serenely happy version of YMCA that I've ever seen. I've never seen so many smiles in one day. They just couldn't stop smiling. They are so sweet, and so happy. I love that in people.  

Shitty

In my continuing angstful reporting on the decline of our culture and what passes for a society, I'll add that someone pooped on the FLOOR in the ladies' room in the PE building at school today. On the FLOOR. And of course, because these random things must happen to me or it wouldn't be a Monday, I opened the door to the stall and there it was - a plop of poop - right in the front of the toilet. It was like that pile of fake poop that was such a sidesplitter when I was young. Right. Oh, the hilarity. Stop it. My side. I'm still trying to get over it. Except this - SHIT - was real. And not only that, but the...shitter had taken great pains to cover the floor behind the toilet with piles of those tissue seat covers, in some bizarre stab at a fecal art installation (I can just see my Google hits now.) The toilet itself was also stuffed with paper, and for why? I mean, what could have made it in there? And just to be completely gross, let me note that whatever I saw on the floor, not that I'll describe it for you or anything, was....solid...enough to have been able to make it in an organized fashion to the APPROPRIATE RECEPTACLE that carries it away so the next poor person doesn't have to look at it! As in, not the floor.

And besides the fact that this encounter almost made me vomit  it was so beyond disgusting, it also left me with a lingering sense of injustice (like THAT'S rare!) and a question: how is it that when I have to go that bad, the paper's always about to run out? I mean, such that if I pulled that kind of...shit...there'd only be enough paper products in the stall to perhaps cover one floor tile, instead of the equivalent of a shower curtain strewn all over the dirty floor. I'd just like to know that, God. Thanks.

Can I ask you a question?

In the past three days, the following things have occurred:

A friend e-mailed to ask me about a random song lyric, which happened to click in my head because it was a Dar Williams tune, and how I love her, yes I do.

My father called to ask me to help his friend at work understand the process for buying a "kegerator" on Craigslist.

My sister called from Philadelphia to ask who sang "What I Am Is What I Am", and when I said, "Edie Brickell," she and her friend yelled, "OH RIGHT!!!!"

My cousin called to ask if indeed there was ever a Rainforest Cafe or a Gifford's Ice Cream Store at Montgomery Mall, because they told her at work that there wasn't, and I was the backup. I had to break the news to her that neither establishment had ever been there, but that she should go to Tyson's, where there is a Rainforest Cafe, because the new upscale wing is the shizzle for people watching and window shopping. And that Gifford's ice cream is available in Bethesda, but the old molds that they used to use to make the most awesome ice cream rolls ever were in short supply so they didn't make them as much as they used to when we were kids.

I've decided, based on this chain of events, that I'd like to quit my job and become a regional information service, because apparently there are some things at which I still excel.

Thankfully I hung onto my car keys

(EDIT, Monday, October 23, 2006, 12:00 p.m.: I wrote the post below last night, while doing that late-night ruminating that I'd win a gold medal in if there were a competition of fucked up insomniacs. Pursuant to its contents, I won't risk bad karma for the moment and tell you exactly how I learned the whereabouts of my phone, but check back in a couple of days and I'll likely be less concerned about that. It set me off on an interesting thought process, anyway. Just when you think you've questioned all the answers, and perhaps envied all the dancers too, more stuff comes down the pike and maybe finally an unquestioned answer too. Joy! Wish me luck with my delete key. It's time.)

I lost my phone somewhere in Indiana yesterday, between walking to my car at the hotel down the street and getting on the plane. I'm pretty sure I can narrow it down to between when I got out of the car at the rental return place and getting in the security line.

That was extra special fun, also. And please bear in mind that all of this was happening between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m., and a morning person I am so NOT, much to my continued grown-up (ha!) chagrin. I was directed to the ONE security line that housed a new implement of torture screening machine, that you step through WITH your shoes on. This was an important concept, as the guard was screaming, "If YOU'RE GOIN' THROUGH THE AIR MACHINE, LEAVE YOUR SHOES ON!!!!!!! And THEN YOU GOTTA TAKE 'EM OFF TO GO THROUGH THE SECOND SCREEN." This was the fucking Matrix, man. Air machine, second screen, other such rhyming things. So I asked the guy in front of me, just to clarify: "We take off our shoes after this thing? We have to go through both?" I'm always afraid to do anything that could be construed as even vaguely shady in these lines, lest one of these TSA people (and very NICE people you are, if you're reading this! Please don't come and find me, o keeper of my airline security! I get it. I get it. It sucks for you too, on some level, what with the throwing away of all the liquids that are poured directly into plastic bags by complete tools who don't watch the news or read the newspaper or know what a website is my fellow travelers, and telling those same tools them they need to throw their COFFEE AND WATER AWAY before they get past the gate. God. PICK UP A PAPER, WILL YOU?) Anyway, lest one of these TSA people spy me making one of those faces I make TOTALLY ACCIDENTALLY and drag me to the security belt of shame down beyond the others, where they talk to you alone and say things like, "Please don't touch your bag while I'm screening it, ma'am," and then I do or say something else weird because it's oh so God-blessed early and I slept for three hours and I'm a little weird under the best of circumstances and then I really get into trouble.

So the man said yes, we were to leave our shoes on for the air machine, so I did, but not after saying "Wow, looks like we pulled the shortest straw," which immediately after it left my mouth I regretted, because what if he was a joke screener who just happened to be carrying his son's Spongebob suitcase as a cover? You know how they have those signs up that say, "IF YOU MAKE ANY JOKES ABOUT BOMBS OR EXPLOSIVE DEVICES OR THE HOT COLOR-CODED MESS GEORGE BUSH HAS MADE OF OUR COUNTRY, THIS WILL BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY AND YOU MAY BE DETAINED AND YOU MAY MISS YOUR FLIGHT?" Well first of all, those kill me because like, I'd be more concerned about going to one of those nice little prisons where the soldiers like to make you wear dog collars than missing a flight to Baltimore, but that's just me, I'm just sayin'. And second of all, I thought maybe that short straw comment could be construed as a joke, except it was more early morning, fellow traveler commiseration. But hell, in these United States version 06.0, who knows what they'll get you for? Nothing happened, though, and I went through the little pod-looking thing without incident. I had to strain to keep from laughing (another close call) because you stand there and yes indeedy, air is PUFFED (go ahead say it) on you from a variety of directions, which apparently is intended to see if you're a bigger threat than the dude with the rogue bottle of cologne in his carry-on. It was so strange. Then I had to take my shoes off to go through the regular "second screen." And dammit if I didn't wear my boots both out there and back this time, because I had occasion to look cute at this conference and those suckers are heavy, so I wore them to keep my suitcase under the weight limit.) That moment with the guard is always really awkward, you know? Like I know I'm cool, I take off my jewelry and don't wear a belt or harbor any loose change in my pockets, but I'm still afraid I'm going to set off the alarms Nelly-style. So I stand there and have this weird little moment with the guard, and will myself, "Do not speak. Do not move too quickly or blurt out a non-sequitur", and the second they say, "Go ahead," I'm so relieved.

Wow, this was supposed to be about losing my phone. I guess I had some things to share about this whole airport thing. I love that I don't know at all sometimes what I'm thinking until I say it or write it. Whatever. I knew in my deeply intuitive, under-rested brain that I had lost it when I saw the sign (Ace of Base, Jesus. What is with the random lyrics?) at the checkpoint that said something about "you cannot take your phone through the airpuff machine," or something, or maybe it was the belt? I don't know. Indianapolis had some weird shit going on that I'd never seen before. Anyway, this sign opened up my eyes to the fact that I knew my cellphone wasn't on my person. I am not an organized person by any stretch of the imagination, except on my computer hard drives, which is why most of my life is there. Paper confounds me. STUFF confounds me. I think I subconsciously picked my last two boyfriends because of their frightening organizational skills...it was comforting, or something. However, even though I'm disorganized, I have sort of a mental photograph of where stuff is that I need to keep on my person at a particular time, and I don't feel okay unless I make sure it's there. Hence the running mental feed of my boarding pass, and phone, and license, and all that stuff. I knew in that line that I couldn't map my phone in all my shit, and knew at that moment that there was nothing I could do about it, because I was in the sweatshop of security and there was no retracing to be done at that point.  I briefly allowed the uplifting thought that if my plane went down there'd be no last-minute text message to my parents or my sister, which just goes to show you what a deeply modern Irish-German Catholic I am.

I called the rental car place yesterday - nothing. The airport - nothing. TSA - nothing. So I just started calling my number, and someone answered it. It appears that some lady in Indiana has my phone, and will answer it, but will not speak to me. She answered it a couple of times, and said "Hello," but then let the air go dead and hung up. I had my sister and my friend in Texas text it. I called it like fifty times from my desk today, and finally just sent a note from my mom's phone to PLEASE send it back, no questions asked. It's a terrible little phone, actually. It's two years old and scratched up, and the keypad acts up. If I let it go - just suspended the number - I'm up for a new one on November 12th, so I can just hang out and be underground for a few weeks, and start over.

Most of all, I'm wondering why someone would answer a phone and not talk to the person who called...especially because they've got it and after the battery dies, won't be able to do anything with it. I called Verizon today and told them to leave it on just for tonight, in case she got one of the texts and found Jesus or something and opted to call back one of the numbers I left. That's doubtful, and that sucks.

I know that in the overall scheme of things it's no big deal. The thing is, though, that I'm a dumbass dork. Clearly, because I can't get myself to the airport without losing one of my possessions (But I was fried! And I had to walk! Five blocks from my hotel to get my car! At 5:45 a.m. In Indiana, where it's already kind of cold, and it was dark! Sucked, dude.) What I'm ticked about is that I had STUFF in that phone that I wanted to save, and didn't. I had pictures I hadn't emailed myself yet (dork!) I had some voice mails saved that I never forwarded, that I wanted to keep forever...or at least as long as I could (DORK!!! I KNOW!!!!) They were special to me, from special people, and at least one said something that I'll never hear again but wanted to know was there if I felt like listening to it even though I never did, so that made me sad. And this doesn't even go into the more than a hundred telephone numbers that Verizon tells me they can't transfer from their servers. Blast.

There'll be more about the trip later - pictures, mostly - but that's the immediately lingering issue. Tomorrow morning I'll call and cancel everything, which I guess I should have done today, but I wanted to give it a chance to work itself out, which is more or less my philosophy on most things and tends to go pretty well more often than not. And probably giving it a chance to work itself out in this case is different than finding what I lost. It's surrendering it to the dipshit woman who has it, along with voicemails and pictures that mean nothing to anyone but me. It's really okay that they're gone, though. It's good practice to let go of things more often than not - talismans, old words, relics, whatever they are - and surrender them to memory. And even if it's stupid to lose track of them at a Thrifty rental car place in Indiana, I guess that was where they had to step off.

Midwestern Notes

Indianapolis, whereas it is an ideal place environmentally for one to occur, is a terrible location for the boiling over of an existential crisis.

Have you ever had a moment when you had an idea of who you were supposed to be, and what you possibly were supposed to be doing, but it was all swirling around your head like the birds in the cartoons when people get knocked out? Or like Pigpen's dust. Yes, like Pigpen's dust. That's a much more appropriate comparison in my life. Another comparison, if you've seen the original (and only, but that's another post) Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, is the chocolate bar that was supposed to be transmitted via the television airwaves. It started out on one side of the room and was broken down into little pieces, and sent over to the other. And then that little prick Mike Teevee got in the machine and it shrunk him, but that's not relevant to my point. Those ideas of being and doing, they've been broken down into little pieces and are hovering over me. See? There's one now!

Take me away from this, good people of the Internet. I don't really have any ideas at the moment, so now I'm going to go out to dinner, which seems to be the next right step. Rocking weekends to all y'all.

Lucky Days

What a very good couple of days this has been. I'm in Indiana. I love the Midwest, and I don't even really know why. I began a post before I left about the reasons and the whos and whats and all that, but I don't know if any of that one will make sense anymore. I try to get out here in the fall, but I missed last year, so good thing it worked out this time. I'm traveling with a colleague/friend (work trip this time) whose personality is the yin to my yang, so it's worked out well.

We're based in Indianapolis, which is actually a pretty cool city. I was here several years ago and in the between time they've spruced it up a lot. Midwestern cities are clean in general (except for Gary, Indiana. What the hell happened there?), but this one is really really oddly clean. There's a ton of stuff to do in the downtown area, which I don't remember from before, but my head was in a different space then, and I was traveling with three middle-aged women who didn't want to go anywhere and watched me like a hawk the whole time, so I probably settled for less than exciting stuff. I'm over that kind of thing, obviously. There are several neighborhoods with lots of live music (jazz in particular, which is interesting), an awesome Borders downtown, a nice shopping center with a Nordstrom and everything (big news for this part of the world.) This is good, cause I have a wedding on Saturday almost immediately after I get off the plane, so it'll be good to have a dress since I don't think sweats will work. I get to go to a Pacers game tomorrow with the boys from work, and that should be interesting. And in between I'll learn stuff about how to do my job better, which is really a need lately.

We went to Bloomington yesterday to visit Indiana University. It's such a gorgeous campus and meets my vision of the perfect little college town. I could have really felt better about almost failing out of my freshman year of college if I'd done it somewhere like that instead of skulking around College Park binging on sesame bagels. Yesterday was also notable because I introduced my friend to Steak and Shake - a Midwestern institution whose cherry coke and cheeseburger meal is laced with an addictive drug. It had been way too long. We also drove by the "Classy Chassy Go Go Bar," which merits a mention, for a variety of reasons.

Today we drove to Dayton. Dayton. Haha. So many years ago I lived there, and so much water under the bridge and all that, but not much changes there. I was in town for ten hours but it was good for my tired little soul. I got to go to my grad school campus, and then see a friend of mine who just bought a house right up the street from where I used to live for a RIDICULOUSLY low price compared to Maryland standards. Seriously, he paid 200,000 less than this house would go for at home. Crazy. Still, I was so glad to see his new spot, regardless of the fact that I'll be squatting in a cardboard box for that amount of money at home before it's all said and done. Whatever it is.

It turned out that a friend of mine whose company has a base in Dayton was also in town for the day from Maryland, so she met us and we had dinner at Bravo and drinks at Fridays (fine dining for these parts.) It turned into a day of perfect coincidences and good memories, and that was so great and warm and fuzzy and all that shit that's sometimes lacking. I like when different parts of my life intersect in good ways, considering that most of my friends come from different areas of my life and lots of them don't even know each other. It starts to make a little bit more sense when people come together - especially when they seem to like each other or at least don't stare at each other blankly or with looks of disgust.

Anyway, my Dayton story has been told here in bits and pieces so I won't belabor it. Although it's a place I'd love to live in again for the sense of comfort that it brings me now, I know I won't go back. I need to go somewhere, but it won't be there. I like knowing it's out here, though, with its 24-hour groceries that my major metro area remarkably lacks, and comfortable bookstores and easily driveable roads and familiar places I like to go to and people who seem more concerned about who you are than what you - and they - do. I like going back to UD and seeing the changes in the campus and buying stuff I don't need in the bookstore. I like keeping track of where my life has been, so I can either decide where I don't want to ever go again, or remember stuff I wanted to do that I've conveniently forgotten.   

And most of all, I love road trips with someone who sings made up lyrics with me to "Chain Hang Low" and "Word Up," which was the funniest shit ever and for that reason alone made this trip worth it.

I'm procrastinating mightily, because I have to do like twelve things, none of which are things that I love or bring me any particular sort of joy - not the joy it brings me to post random shit on this here webpage, clearly. Anywho, I set out to ponder my hatred of the term "rocks my socks" today,a nd let me just say that I love feeling justified by random people who post comments on Urban Dictionary.

The #3 and #5 entry for this phrase make me unreasonably happy (#3 solely for its use of the term "freakworthy".) #5 even uses it in an example sentence: "omg, the used like, totally rocks my socks"

*gets kicked in the mouth*

"ow!"

"see...i told you not to say it!"

And please note the other words and phrases on the left, which are quite enjoyable as well. This is all kind of reminding me of a quote from "The Dundies" episode of "The Office", wherein Michael plays the fool he always is, this time with slang:

Michael : Yeealech! TMI. TMI, my friends. TMI? Too much information. It’s just easier to say TMI. I used to say, “Don’t go there,” but that’s lame.