Yeah…so I never got around to posting last week. I tell you, those Monday holidays are nice but they sure screw up the rest of my week. Then again, I’ve had trouble keeping track of what day it is since about Thanksgiving, so that’s probably a pretty invalid excuse.

I just noticed that my desk chair makes an inordinate amount of squeaking and creaking as I shift around in it. It’s probably always been there, but I’ve successfully blocked it out until now. I wonder if it’s a source of intense annoyance for those around me…

Have you ever been at a crossroads in a friendship—when you come to realize that, despite a long and varied history, it’s time to cut someone loose? I’m there, and it’s bizarre. For reasons I don’t know (but can probably guess), one of my formerly nearest and dearest friends has all but disappeared—or at least has suspended all contact. There was no fight, no incident, nothing, which is probably why this feels so un-final. He’s just…gone, and it’s time for me to accept that and, in my own way, say goodbye. It might not be a permanent farewell, but it’s necessary now. So, goodbye, Mr. Drama—I hope you chose things that make you happy, and I hope the things that make you happy choose you. Fare thee well.

At times like this, a good croissant would go a long way towards, well, I’m not sure what. There’s really not a lot that’s wrong at the moment (and a few things that are substantially right!), so I’m not talking culinary therapy or anything. Still, something with an overwhelmingly high butter content would be pretty fab right about now!

No list today—my little brain is a little empty.

So...since my eyes were going buggy looking at this page, I decided to switch templates for a while. I can't decide yet if I like this one, but at least the font is bigger. We'll give a few weeks...

Check it out…I’m actually posting on a Monday! This isn’t the longest list I’ve ever posted, but it’s here and it’s on time, which has to be worth something.

Things I Like

• Hans Blix. Actually, I haven’t completely formed my opinion one way or another on Mr. UN Inspector…but I really and truly dig his name. Hans Blix…say it, you’ll feel nifty. Hans Blix! Some people have those names you just want to shout—I had a professor once named Heghnar Watenpaugh, which you should definitely shout in some fashion before the end of the day. It’s pronounced exactly as it looks, and it’s very conducive to bellowing. Go, shout it now.

• The Anna Nicole Show. I am so guilty of loving this show I can hardly stand it. Reality television, in general, bores me to tears. Recently, however, I have made two reluctant exceptions to my opinions on RTV—The Anna Nicole Show and Joe Millionaire (I know, I know!). To be honest, I can’t completely make myself watch and entire episode of Anna Nicole, because I reach breaking point with her vapid sluggishness pretty quickly…yet something always pulls me back. It’s kind of like slowing down to see the car accident, getting grossed out, then circling back around the block for another look in spite of yourself. Whatever it is, I can’t stop watching. They’re airing a live episode on March 2, and if you think I’m not going to tape it, you’d better think again.

• Solid perfume. You’ve seen it—looks like a tiny little deodorant stick you rub on your neck and wherever else you normally apply fragrance. Though it can be difficult to find your favorite scent in this form, it’s pretty awesome when you can—the intensity stays constant for several hours (much longer than anything liquid) and it tends to leave tiny little shimmery bits all over your skin. Not tacky, please-cleanse-thyself-Tinkerhell glittery, mind you, but nicely subtle sparkle. A glow, if you will.

• Direct deposit. I’m actually required by my primary employer to utilize this banking function, and I couldn’t be happier. Seriously, is there anything that gives you the same unique sense of both security and glee than looking at the clock late Thursday night and knowing your paycheck just showed up in your account—in its entirety?! No effort, no deposit slip…just the blind faith that your money is going to be there. Yes sir, I love me some direct deposit.

• Lemony Snicket. I know, I know, another cool name, but I can’t resist. I have come to understand that this is actually a pseudonym of a children’s author named Daniel Handler (which, come to think of it, is a pretty cool name in and of itself). Though I think Lemony Snicket is an absolutely smashingly wonderful name, I can’t help but imagine what an even better pastry it would be. I can stand here today and say with complete certainty that I would order anything called a Lemony Snicket off any menu, regardless of the description. It’s pure naming genius, and it sounds like it would be highly agreeable to any form involving a buttery crust.

• Federal holidays. Working at an institution that follows the federal holiday schedule really bites you in the ass around Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter…but you come out even in random three-day weekends for holidays you wouldn’t normally observe. Seriously, Columbus Day? Never gave it a thought before, now I actively look forward to the second Monday in October. This Monday is President’s Day, and I’ve got a full day’s worth of vegetating penciled in.

Things I Don’t Like

• Baby’s Breath. Why is the industry standard for floral arrangement filler so unbelievably tacky? Truly, you can take a perfectly wonderful grouping of flowers and greenery and turn it into cheesy shit by adding a few sprigs of baby’s breath. It’s fugly, and there are a ziptillion alternatives. If I could find a florist who refused to stock baby’s breath and consequently used any of the other triptillion options of filler, I would make them my one and only floral supplier.

• Ridiculous overreactions to cold weather. Stop the presses, the temperature approached freezing here this weekend. For some reason, this caused residents of this fine city to lose all sense of reason and accountability and take undue extreme measures to “protect” themselves. Seriously, my apartment complex posted signs all over the place (huge, red signs) that read: “FREEZE WARNING! Drip faucets! Set thermostat to 65!” Jebus, people, I spent the first 17 years of my life in places with legitimate cold and not ONCE did we drip our faucets to prevent frozen pipes. Really, for pipes to freeze, you have to have a) an actual hard freeze that more than makes a gentle gesture in the 32-degree range, and b) it has to happen pretty fast. Yikes.

• The Two-Week Freakout. Unfamiliar with this concept? Clearly you haven’t dated men under 30 in recent memory. I’ll come back to the logic behind my age-bracketing here in a minute, but let me first explain this horrific phenomenon. The Two-Week Freakout (TWF) is the unfortunate event that inevitably occurs after two weeks or so of dating someone new. I’ve heard legends of women initiating it, but I think they might be pure rumor. In my experience, after two weeks (or 3-4 dates, give or take), a sudden and unexplained distancing occurs. At some point, this is followed by a bullshit conversation about “not wanting a relationship” and “needing to take time for [the speaker]” or possibly “you’re really great, but I don’t want to give you any false expectations.” It’s entirely possible to smooth past the TWF, but its occurrence definitely dials up the crazy in any relationship, and that’s garbage. Also, it strikes me as entirely lame that these boys, er, men, never seem to think for a *moment* that at least *some* of the women out there aren't wanting to define a Relationship after two weeks. Yeesh, calm the hell down, guys, some of us would just like to see where it goes. Okay, back to my age bracketing—I can say with certainty that this occurs regularly and reliably with men under 30. I’m furtively hoping it’s something they eventually grow out of, but time will tell. Maybe less time than one would think…oh devil! I’ve said too much!


That wraps up this week’s list. I’m loosely thinking about a Friday wrap-up for the week, but we’ll see how things go. May your week be delightful and your metabolism speedy!

**********BONUS MATERIAL**********
In addition to today's normal post of this week's list (see below), I'm adding a special essay that has been in the works (and admittedly on the backest of back burners) for several months. I'm so damned glad about having finally forced myself to finish it that I can't wait to post the thing. Here it is, approximately a year in the works if you can believe it. I am a slacker of unprecedented proportions.

***
Ridiculous Things You’d Think a Quality Education Would Enable You to Outsmart:
The Lies and Trickery of Victoria’s Secret
A Tragedy in Two Acts

~I~
This story begins with a wholly mediocre dress. Highly decent fabric and color, but primarily shapeless due to the lack of fitting necessary to accommodate the complete absence of a zipper or other such closure device. Picture the final project you might have attempted in 9th grade Advanced Apparel Construction, then imagine it falling into the boundaries of acceptable fit and showing up on the rack at Burlington Coat Factory for $17 a week before your company’s Christmas Dinner/Dance. I admit, it’s not bad looking, and I bought it as a backup. Having very little time to shop during the week, this was like my second string quarterback: not the first choice by any means, but sure to deliver an adequate performance if needed. And cheap, which is a crucial detail to this story.

Further attempts to displace the backup dress with a first-string, above average, I-really-and-truly-like-it dress were entirely futile, which I could accept since purchasing formal dresses is generally a task requiring a significant time investment. The Dress Formerly Known As Backup (DFKAB) has “spaghetti straps” and thus requires something other than my favorite black Calvin Klein bra underneath. It needs, in fact, something strapless and preferably backless. My experience with strapless-backless bras is less-than-positive….I think. I have blocked out a few horrific experiences relating to hideous strapless dresses I was forced to wear in my community theatre days…there were weird straps around my waist and great quantities of boning, which just sounds wrong. Anyway, I remembered Heather, my college roommate from junior year, and her rave reviews of what can only be appropriately called “sticky boobs.” Why the hell not?

I stumbled into Victoria’s Secret, mumbling to myself different versions of how I might ask “hey, do you have those sticky boob things?” in different terminology. Thankfully, before I could find someone to ask, I found a display of various support devices that utilize adhesives of some kind. I really and truly intended to select one without the help of a VS sales associate, but the options were many and varied—far surpassing my decision-making skills.

“Caitlynn” and I debated the merits of two styles: individual, sticky, butterfly-looking things, and a more structured option. The latter was essentially a sturdy pushup bra minus a back and straps. It adhered to one’s body with a series of adhesive strips. Hrmm…that seemed like it was asking to fall off and land around my feet. The first option seemed completely helpful—just peel off the backing and apply! The picture on the package showed smooth, flawless, strapless, backless support. I was sold—especially since the sticky butterflies came in a pack of TWELVE, so I had plenty to practice with, and was about a third the cost of the sturdy thing.

~II~
I made my merry way home, VS bag in hand and a sparkle in my eye. Hey, if these worked, why not use them for other occasions when straps would be tacky? This was sheer engineering genius and I was thrilled at the prospect of a dry run. Oh folly, what a ruthless game you play.

Standing in front of the mirror, I shed my shirt and bra and grabbed the first sticky boob. The instructions were simple enough: “Remove adhesive backing. Apply by starting at centre and smooth outwards.” More pictures of smooth support perfection…I was convinced all over again. I removed the backing…wait, it stuck to my fingernails. Unstick, unstick, unstick…success. I now held a slightly rumpled but fully usable sticky boob. I started at the, um, middle, and tried smoothing outward. Yeah, nowhere near as easy as it sounds. I ended up with a very itchy, very wrinkly, and completely unsupported left side. Determined to conquer this sticky beast, I tried again on the right—this time pulling up more as I smoothed. Though the second attempt yielded slightly better support, the visual was NOTHING like the picture of smooth perfection on the package. Instead, I looked like the victim of an extremely unfortunate grease fire.

I threw on the DFKAB to see what they looked like under the garment in question. Further disaster. Not only was I shamelessly un-supported on both sides (the progress made on the right was clearly not sufficient), the edges stuck out more than a little. Gross. Now I looked like the aforementioned burn victim trying to cover up my hideous scars and head out for a night on the town—in a cheap, untailored dress.

Giving up for the night, I decided to remove the sticky boobs. This heralded the next problem of rather gargantuan proportions. Not only was there no way to pull them off that minimized pain, but it soon became evident that my general sensitivity to adhesives was in no way overlooked by this product. Blinking back tears, I pulled them both off and looked at my reflection in horror. Where the wrinkly, burn-like surface had been now appeared as a splotchy, irritated mess. Think of allergic reaction hives, but angrier. Fed up for one night, I wadded up both stickies and gave them to the cat to play with.

~Epilogue~
Between the night of the disastrous first run and the night of the actual event in question, I attempted two or three more trials that resulted in varying degrees of success. By the time the crucial Saturday night rolled around, I had pretty well mastered the lift-and-smooth technique. Okay, at least it wasn’t the train wreck I started with. I did, in fact, wear a pair of sticky boobs to the Holiday Dinner thing. I’m sure it was better than nothing, but not by much. Since a group of us went out for drinks afterwards, it was a good 6 hours from the time I got dressed to the time of sticky boob removal. Thankfully I was more than feeling the effects of the aforementioned post-fete drinks, so I have remarkably little memory of the removal process. There were most certainly remnants of rash the next morning.

To compound the moronic agony of this whole experience, I should confess that I wore one of the remaining pairs of sticky boobs to the same event the following year (2002). Clearly, I didn’t learn anything from the previous year’s hell, because I went into the whole deal all over again thinking it wasn’t a bad idea. The dress was substantially better, but completely backless. I probably could have gotten away with wearing nothing underneath it, since it was fairly well lined and rather fitted, but where’s the fun in that? Of course, by fun I mean the kind of fun involved in taking out one’s own gallbladder with a spoon, but who’s counting? I, for one, am far too busy repeating the cycle of stupidity programmed for me by Victoria and her rotten, rotten secrets.

I promised last week that a good list would be forthcoming. I’ve been kicking ideas around in my head ever since, and have in deed produced a list…though its quality is a fairly subjective thing, so please bear with me. As a side note--I have no idea what's going on with my archive list. I know it would make sense for things to be listed in chronological order, but that doesn't seem to be in my control. I think it's all there...but you never know. Anyway, here's the list without further ado!

Things I Like

• Dreams about food. I had an exceptionally vivid dream last night about some really spectacular food. Is there a better way to ear? Seriously, give it some thought—the options are essentially limitless, it’s probably going to be of exquisite quality, and there’s absolutely no nutritional/metabolic consequences whatsoever.

• People who kiss with purpose. What a way to make you smile a little more and walk a little taller. I have someone specific in mind here…hopefully he knows who he is and recognizes this for the shout-out I’m intending it to be.

• Hotel sales and catering management. If I weren’t an inherently honest person, I would seriously consider making up a few business cards with a legit-sounding business name and a dedicated cell number on them. I’d then make periodic rounds through this city’s hotels, claiming to be shopping around for a rooming block proposal. Seriously, nothing makes sales persons pay attention faster than a prospective customer looking for a place to park a few grand in revenue. Luckily, my current job allows me the opportunity to do this in a legitimate fashion, and as a consequence I have enjoyed several hours of small talk over lovely hotel food in the past several months. I don’t think enough people realize that there are some truly fantastic restaurants in the above-middle-market hotel arena. Of course, it’s much more fun to eat there when you’re a client. In general, the better hotels in a major city do a pretty good job of hiring fun people for their main sales positions. Bottom line: they’re paid to be exceedingly friendly, and it’s a fun ride.

• Cold milk. I went through a bizarre lactose-intolerance phase, and it seems that I have fully recovered. I managed to completely forget how great milk tastes, and it’s been an awesome rediscovery process. I am ridiculously easily amused.


Things I Don’t Like

• Construction. I know, I know…I live in the wrong city. It’s a good thing I drive an SUV, because my daily commute through downtown would inflict serious damage to the suspension of anything smaller. One of these days, I swear I’m going to see a Hyundai disappear into a pothole and never come out again. Then all the other drivers will pause for a moment out of respect for our fallen road companion, then we’ll press on regardless.

• Monsters in the closet. No, silly, not the kind I was afraid of when I was four…the kind we all have lurking about beneath the sunny displays we so skillfully project 99% of the time. Some people call them skeletons, but I think whomever coined that phrase must have had an uneventful upbringing. Granted, everyone has issues, and in some ways I think the sooner we recognize the common ones (trust, commitment, blah blah blah) and lower the drama at tad, the less BFD (big fucking deal) it will all seem. But…what about the honest-to-goodness BFDs? When do you have The Conversation with people close to you? It never gets easier, and the anticipation process when I realize I need to say something doesn’t ever seem to lessen in intensity. No matter what the ubiquitous ‘they’ will say, striking the balance between effectively communicating pertinent details about a former BFD and heightening it into a federal case is tricky. Nondisclosure is always an option, but also a risky little game. You just never know when someone will (unknowingly) say or do something that triggers you into a bad place and all of a sudden your BFD talk has become unavoidably necessary and you’re upset about it to boot. What a crock. Maybe someone should develop a line of t-shirts with customizable placards we could all use to broadcast our respective BFDs to the general population. We’d certainly demystify a lot of things…

• Soy milk. In general, I’m a huge fan of soy products, but I can’t get behind this one. Perhaps I’d feel differently if people didn’t insist on using it as a substitute for regular milk. Folks, get a clue: it tastes NOTHING like regular milk, and it never will. I found this out the hard way, and ruined several cups of great coffee attempting to convince myself otherwise. It’s undeniable, even to soy milk fans I know, that this stuff tastes markedly nutty. I can’t think of any circumstance where I would actively choose to make my coffee taste nutty…nope, can’t do it.

• Taxes. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that there are very few people who enjoy our method of taxation. In the past, I’ve always been a fan since they pay for so many things we all use on a daily basis. This is, however, the first year I will end up owing taxes instead of getting a refund, so I’m a little bitter. Note to readers: change your W-4 at your primary job when you acquire a second source of income. It didn’t even occur to me when I started my teaching gig, and I’m it’s going to bite me in the ass come April. Sigh.

• Obligation gifts. We have more wedding and baby showers around here than I can possibly count, and we’re all pretty much socially required to contribute towards departmental gifts. Bless these people and their life events, but I’m a little tired of the bi-weekly baby shower wallet drain. This morning, my department was shaken down for not one but two shower gifts. Gawd, people, enough with the babies. When was the last time we had a cool-single-person-who-would-totally-love-some-new-dishes shower?


Along the same lines as obligation gifts, I give you…
Things I Have Conflicted Feelings About

• Valentine’s Day. It’s a nice idea, really and truly, but I hate the way it makes people feel obligated to go through cheesy rituals they wouldn’t choose otherwise. V-day is one of the few times I feel legitimately sorry for men in particular, because I think they carry the heavier end of the guilt/obligation knapsack here. I’m thinking back to one particularly awkward February 14 my senior year of college. I had been randomly seeing someone for a few months, but we had actually gotten to a place of really not liking each other than much and spent markedly little time together. In all honesty, I think we were both looking forward to things fading politely away. Unfortunately, Valentine’s Day came along, and poor Ethan felt the need to send me flowers. Arg…I have no idea what possessed him. To compound things, the florist he used ended up being oversold, so they couldn’t deliver on time. In case you’ve never had a problem getting flowers on Valentine’s Day, you should know that florists take that very seriously and issue many, many apologies—all of which confirm that the sender did not, in fact, forget to order your flowers on time. I’m not kidding, I received two emails, three phone calls, a handwritten note, and a certified letter…all telling me how sorry they were to have screwed up my delivery and that I should, in no way, blame Ethan for their tardiness. Ever wanted to take a mildly weird situation and pump the awkward factor up by about seven magnitudes? This would be a great approach. When they finally surfaced, they were lovely…but I felt really bad that he felt obligated to send them.

Thus I conclude this week’s list. Until next week, keep your heads up and your coffee hot.