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Thursday, August 30, 2007

So, apart from getting waylaid by the sad woman with her sad story in Barnes & Noble last weekend, I also managed to get a little book shopping in.

Actually, it wasn't shopping so much as it was replacement. Several times in the last couple of weeks, I had gone into the upstairs book-o-teria and book-bookery that is the home office in search of either Gone with the Wind (Every time I pick it up, I mean to read it with a critical eye, and every time, I fail -- but damn it, I was going to try again) or Pride and Prejudice, and both books, both beloved copies were missing.

I looked everywhere. I mean, EVERYWHERE for either one, and came up with bupkis, so we went trooping off to the bookstore for replacements.

And now, if you looked at my nightstand, you'd get a snapshot of who I am these days: Jane Austen stacked on top of Margaret Mitchell stacked on top of Harper Lee stacked on top of J.K. Rowling, with Sarah Vowell and Abraham Lincoln (the man himself) leaning in on the action, all covering up the secret shame of a woman's glossy and a doorstopper work of English chicklit.

I finished Pride and Prejudice the night I bought it, and I've been working my way through GwtW on my own, while reading a bit of Harry Potter (Sorcerer's Stone) out loud to Adam every night, while the rest I pick up at random, open somewhere in the middle and just read.

I can't believe a quarter of the American population is missing out on this joy. Really, it breaks my heart.

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Sunday, August 26, 2007

In another one of those vaguely alarming, cliché-riddled blog posts, I have to tell you that I'm becoming more and more like my mother every day.

Today's illustration of this slow, lifelong metamorphosis comes via a trip to Barnes & Noble, where a very distressed middle aged woman interrupted my reading to ask for help writing a letter to her incarcerated niece.

There was a brief out-of-body experience as I stood there, listening to the horrors that had befallen this family. I watched myself shoulder my handbag, murmur "how horrifying" when prompted and cover my mouth at the shock of it all (and really, it wasn't shocking, it was just depressing -- another boyfriend shaking another baby to death). I listened to myself dictate a few simple sentences. I watched myself give up the name of the only public defender I know, and I realized I had just had my passport stamped for Iammymomonia.

This happens all the time to my mom. She'll be going about her day, and some random, downtrodden person will corner her with a tale of woe, and my mother -- being the kind hearted person she is -- will dole out advice and sympathy for as long as it takes, or until Dad extracts her from the scene. This has happened to her for years. I think it's because my mother has a very sympathetic, gentle face, one which exudes a particular warmth of character that seems so lacking in this world.

And now I made her sound like she's radioactive. I am an awesome daughter.

It's not that this was the first time I've had a stranger talk to me, it's just that I tend to bring out the latent asshole in your average Johnny on the Spot. "That's a gay little car you drive," or "You'd be kind of pretty if you lost some weight," or from earlier today, "What kind of meanhearted person doesn't give a dollar to little babies?" (because I declined adding a buck to my total at Walgreens for whatever children's charity they were peddling today). And usually, I can be counted to be an ass right back -- tell me, did you lovingly fondle the Bumpernutz before you installed them? -- but when this woman started pouring out her heart, I couldn't bring myself to be a stone-cold bitch. I stood there, I listened, I offered suggestions and sympathy until Adam came to hook me away.

"Don't turn into your mother," he scolded.

Too late.

And really, I can't say it's a bad way to be.


Thursday, August 16, 2007

I'm not sure what's nerdier: my desire to dress up for Halloween, or my desire to dress up as Arachnia, Queen of the Spider People and Bride of Chaotica.


Sunday, August 12, 2007

Parts of posts I will never make (but should):

* Kittens. In the office. Ohemgee, dude. At one point, my co-worker had a phone in one hand and a kitty in the other, and even though I could hear the client yelling at her, she wore this expression of complete bliss because KITTEN. Seriously. And then the next day, someone brought around their brand new baby for free snuggles.

I don't work in Corporate America. I work in Happy Land.

* "[This band] sounds like the Electric Teeth, except angry. With Rolf singing."

"After many tequilas and 'luudes -- also, he shanked Dr. Teeth on the bus in a desperate bid for stardom."

"The shanking came he had the epiphany that 'Dr. Teeth' is just a euphemism for 'dentist.'"

"Rolf had a traumatic experience with dentists as a young pup."

"Haven't we all?"

* So, we're following this drizzled yellow paint line down 7th between Silver and Gold, and I'm still convinced that this could be one of those coincidences, when Adam shows me where the line slaloms through the line of parking meters, which is when I concede that okay, it's fucking with him.

* I'm not sure which is the most unsettling bit: that I have a little bit of a crush on Sushi Guy, or that Adam is okay with the crush on Sushi Guy and maintains that Sushi Guy reciprocates, or that when we went in for dinner yesterday, Sushi Guy noticed my hair and said it looked good. Please notice that in all of this, I am not disturbed by how much sushi we've been eating.

* I'm standing there in the dress repeating to myself, "this is Diane Von Furstenberg, it is a size eight, and you friggin' FIT it," myself can't help but point out, "it's still a sack."

I bought it anyway, because I am weak. Also, did I mention my formerly-sized 22 ass fit into something in the single digits? Yeah, I am that shallow.

* And now I'm in the market for a used Mini Cooper S.

* Seriously, anyone want a house on the West Side?

* And that's how I finished my first pair of socks.

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