Given me an A

Some of you may not be aware of my new self-improvement project. It's a valiant undertaking I've recently started. The journey will not be a simple one, the effort great, the road difficult and long. And yet, I embark upon my odyssey with great hope and look towards the future with a optimistic eye. I am confident that one day in the distant future I will acheive my goal. What, you may ask, is the great feat that lies before me? I can condense it into a single word my friends. Yes, what I quest for may be summed within a mere three syllables:

Awesomeness.

Yes that's right. I am training myself to be awesome. Nothing more, nothing less, than pure unadultered awesome. And once finished when I walk out of a room people will say of me, "Wow. She's... awesome."

As the number 42 has shown us, knowing what question to ask is half the battle of finding the answer. I assumed by this logic that figuring out what exactly the fundamentals of becoming awesome would entail would then also lead me far along my quest in its name. I think that what I've discovered, at least as far as my own definition of people who are awesome is concerned, is that the sum of one's awe is generally the product of a series of random and suprising occurance all converging upon one person. Quid pro quo, the path to awesomedom is individual for each being that seeks to bask within its glory. I detail below my own plan, but keep in mind, to follow it exactly for yourself will acheive nothing but the idolization of my particular awesome. Not, let me repeat, not your own.

We start simple. I believe the fundamental key to awesomeness is defying convention and the general (read boring) expectations one has of you. So, we have to examine some of the usual stereotypes that one might have if they were to take a look at a person like myself. To many, I would appear to be female. This is in fact true. I would tend to say that among the male sector of the human population there is a general conception that women drink things that taste like candy: melons, cherries, oranges. As such I have decided to forgo any but the most manly of alcohols. If I'm going to imbibe it, it better be clear or brown and have no pansy-ass soda or ice. Thanks to Bob and Barbara's (15th and South) City Wide Special I am now more than happy to drink a shot of whisky and a PBR in rapid succesion, for a mere $3 I might add. Non-girly drinker, check. The dive bar earns extra points.

Another general attribute of awesomeness is knowing people that you would never be expected to know. In the case of a liberal rather Nordic looking 20 something, a group of elder South Philly Italian guys does quite nicely. I can't count the number of times I've said hello to a series of such gentlemen on the street and had someone look at me with that face of "And why do you know all these random guys on 9th Street? What exactly do you do to be on friendly terms with so very many of them?" The Di Bruno clan has done wonders for my social esoteric factor. I mean, how many of you can claim to know a guy named Johnny Smiles?

I also believe that random knowledge is key to a state of awesomeness. Given that because I still have a wealth of useless chemistry floating around somewhere in my brain (that other major finally comes in handy) I felt quite capable of commenting on the various oxidation states of Nitrogen and Sulfur and as such should head towards the more humanities side of learning. Thus, I resurrect my desire to learn Russian. Because really, anyone who's awesome should know a language that is not useful in a general life setting but possibly life-saving if launched into a Communist spy-laden country. I pondered a dialect of Mandarin but since I already have the Russian books, we'll stick with what we've started. The alphabet has been mastered and I already know the phrases "Your suitcases have stayed behind in Washington." and "Where is Red Square, please?" So really, I'm like three quarters there.

Finally, I think that to truly be awesome, in the words of the great Napoleon Dynamite, you need some "awesome skills." A skill, I thought. I knit, I cook, I do theatre. But, from the look of me, none of these past times are skills that would be terribly suprising if I told you that I did them. You might be impressed with the level of aptitude at said skill but none of them would make you say, "Come on. You don't really do that." So after much pondering I figured white girl and ass kicking tend not to go together so something in that vein would be my best bet.

The test then would be to come up with a method of ass kicking that would be original. I have no desire to go where Joss Whedon and Buffy have gone before me. Hand to hand combat, any form of martial art then was out. I thought maybe a skill that could conceivably be a sport separate from maiming an attacker would come in handy because I could practice without the aid of an actual intruder. Bow and arrows were a little too "Robin Hood" for my taste and whips and chains were far too much in the dominatrix category for them to have unqualified cool factor. Anything using long blades is too Shakespeare "stage combat"y and the various asian weapons seem a bit fetishistic.

So. What I finally came to was knife throwing. I am just going to have to learn to throw knives. And learn to do it really really well. I've found them online relatively inexpensively. And not a lot of formal training it would appear is needed to begin the amatuer knive thrower. An awful lot of practice it seems is all one needs. So I just need to figure out where I can throw my knives and I'm off.

So there are my humble beginnings. I know I will find more things I must take up alongside these as I make my way towards ultimate awesomedom. But ever formerly un-awesome awesome person had to start somewhere. I can only promise to inform you as I ascend to my higher state of being.

Scott is A Big Fat Jerk

It's true.

He's willing to leave Linda behind to the mercy of the ancient demons who have possesed the rest of their friends and set out on foot by himself. And he knows she can't walk because the entity formerly known as Sheila stabbed her rather violently in the ankle with a pencil. Not to mention that he's the one who summonded the evil spirits by playing the tape with the tribal incantation read by the noted, if now extinct, anthropologist that they found in the basement of the cabin in the woods they are staying at for the weekend, which roused the monsters from slumber in the first place. Sheila had asked him to stop but he just wouldn't listen.

But it's ok. He meets a rather untimely end, only fitting given his cowardly attitude. Unfortunately Linda, though innocent, is not strong enough to fend off the demons. Which means that Ash is out one girlfriend. Left to hack the zombies to bits all by his lonesome.

Watching Scott's reaction to the situations he confronts in Sam Raimi's The Evil Dead (the original) makes me think a lot about how people react under pressure. I think that crisis situations, like when those around you try to eat your brains while their faces start to putrify, tend to bring things simmering under the surface to the fore. Scott and Ash always had a tense friendship, Ash confident in his relationship to Linda, a little more fit, better lines (better being a relative measure of quality). It's no suprise that Ash is in the driver's seat with Linda at the helm as the seemingly happy group of five ride off into the woods. Scott on the other hand is left to make snide comments from the backseat while sandwiched between two girls who pay him no attention. You can't tell me there's no resentment building there.

So Scott masks his insecurities in bravado, tape playing and all, which inevitably falls apart in the face of the souless undead. And Ash and he are left to sort out their personal tensions in rapid fire screaming matches while what used to be Sheila rapidly approaches. So while the other friend (she's gone before the first half hour is up, I can't be expected to remember her name) screetches like a banshee from her cage in the cellar, they bicker and debate over whether or not they can hack Sheila to pieces with an axe.

It's so not about whether to dismember the zombie, guys.

While I'm at minimum 35.3% facetious at a given moment there is some genuine sentiment to what I've said above. I think it's pretty easy on a day to day basis to ignore the little issues that build up between yourself and the people around you. Taken one at a time, these tiny misunderstandings can be explained away circumstance by circumstance. But I think you begin to sense when there is a long standing tension. An issue that can only be grazed upon if touched at all. It makes for knife cutting thickness between people, made thicker by the lack of acknowledgement.

And I admit, like the proverbial demon creature that kind of thing can creep up on you. So quietly and stealthily that you might not realize until it pounces all over you. But when you do get that sinking feeling in your stomach don't walk down into the cellar pretending to be unawares. Come on. We all know the old "Hello, hello?!" is just masking the inevitable.

So lest you too are confronted by the Evil Dead someday, better to talk things out before they gain form and mass. When you have that little voice in your head that reminds you of the dishes left in the sink or the socks in the dryer don't let it sit and fester. Just go ahead and mention it. Maybe you sound petty, maybe the person will be annoyed. But at least you won't have to hash it out while a pus-dripping former aquaintance tries to kill you.

bone lady baby

Did you know the Phillies Phanatic makes six figures. Six figures! High six figures too. And he isn't even a thing. He's green with a long nose and other than driving a four wheeler and purportedly enjoying the ball playing of my city's team, not much can be said for him. Some people have it made...

The other day while I was working Paulie, an elderly father figure type at Di Brunos, came in and started chatting with me about the city of Philadelphia. Which was great because it gave me a chance to catch up on some of the numerous stories he tells about both the Di Brunos themselves as well as growing up in and around the Italian Market. Paulie recently re-purchased the home he lived in as a kid. He gave his older, larger house to one of his kids. Anyway, he came in to the store and started to tell me stories about the good old days: little bars at which real life mobsters hung out at, bustling throngs of people every weekend not just those labeled "Italian Festival", working as a fruit vendor as a kid ("At night you left the fruit there, no one touched it, or you got touched") etc etc.

I found out that the Asian strip mall near my home used to be a cemetary. The bodies, by the way, were not relocated. Saigon Maxim is sitting on a pile of skulls baby. According to Paulie there are cemetaries like the former one on my corner that were just paved upon all over the neighborhood. According to him, when contractors started building new homes over the area between 2nd and 5th near Washington they ran into trouble when digging foundations because they kept running into people's remains. What do you do with a bunch of nameless bones in the ground? Build new houses on them, seems to be.

I was made aware that at one point the corner one block away from my own was the most notorious spot for being shot, killed and buried upon. I guess if the mob wanted you rubbed out they sent you to the spot upon which a pawn shop now resides and you waited for your untimely end. According to Paulie it was written up in Ripley's Believe It Or Not.

I also finally was clued in to the mystery of the strange building just off of 9th and Montrose that seems to be fully furnished with a rather odd window display (Catholic memorabilia, dead house plants, and some very old signs selling some kind of candy among other things). Aparently this was once a working store but after the proprietor died some decades ago his daughter just left the building exactly as it was the day he exited it. And hasn't touched it since.

There were other stories, equally as interesting detailing the various different little traits of the area in which I live. I don't even really care if any of it is true. Mostly, I like the sense that someone lives in a place for so long and that there's a history for them in that place. I love seeing Paulie, and not only because he yells "Look at poor Adrienne. Somebody help her. She's the only one doing any work here." Which he says even if I'm sitting on a stool reading a magazine. He's kind and is always talking about his kids or grandkids. He epitomizes why I keep working at Di Brunos, the love of South Philly, the great length to which he will espouse upon it. I crave the sense of community the people I work with bring.

Which is maybe why the Phanatic gets the big bucks. He's part of that drive to bring a group of people together. He's taking a stadium of humans, semi-connected only in terms of geography and giving them something to shriek about together. Which is noble in it's own way.

Even if he does look like a cross between Gonzo and a green telephone on wheels.

Simplicato

"I'm committed to eliminating the poppy crop."

- President Bush's response to inqueries about his stance towards Afghanistan's growing number of heroin-producing poppy farms


Oh CNN. You make me laugh aloud.

Sometimes you have to stop and enjoy the simple pleasures in life: an early morning shower with someone you care for, walking with no direction on a warm afternoon, a bite of a soft oatmeal cookie, the President of America saying the words "poppy crop" with dead seriousness. At times like these one wonders what everyone else in the world is so upset about, wonders why we're all wasting our time being angry or frustrated or sad about life when we can take in these small things and smile. Why is it so easy to get caught up in the day to day crap that surrounds us and so hard to take a big picture moment and realize everything that is going right in the large scale? It seems the small things that fill our days become little mini anchors that weigh us down rather than being occasions for rejoicing at being alive. Our routines and chores act as little nettles grabbing onto our clothing and while no one task causes fatigue or despondance alone, when added slowly, day by day, they find strength in their numbers. Until you reach the proverbial straw and find yourself suddenly despairing at the weight of it all. Some days I look at the drama going on in my life and the lives of my friends and I have to beg the question: When did our lives become so very full of poppy cock?

People often wax poetic about childhood, the ease, the uncomplicatedness of it all. When a crayon was just a crayon and nap time was an afternoon requirement. "Whatever happened to that kind of black and white simplicity?!" they cry. The thing is though, I don't know if it ever existed. Childhood, for me at least, was a scary and turbulent place. Emotions ran on high and the tiniest stimuli produced catastrophic emotial reactions. Though we prefer to remind ourselves of the times as a child when happiness was as close to complete as it can be, we must remember that the trade off was the occasional ebb of despair as low as the depths of the soul allowed. And though these emotions may have been inspired by as something as small as a lunch of Chicken A La King the feelings were no less true than those we have as adults. I think that it's easy to edit and re-edit memory in the light of one's most recent tragic or not so tragic events. But re-evaluating our previous conundrums based on all the contemporary information we have now ain't playing fair. It's easy to go back and say to oneself that not getting that part in the high school play was a simple and silly thing to get upset about, but the point is that at the time, it wasn't. I'm pretty sure that the emotions we feel now are generally the same ones we felt in those rose colored distant times, even if the things that inspire them have changed. I don't think the simplicity has disappeared. I'm not sure it ever existed.

Rather, I think our lives are as simple or as complicated as we choose to let them be. And by simplicity I don't mean that we can ever go back to a time where we don't work for a living or have to pay bills, those are the trade offs for mental maturity, but that we can go back to a time where our daily tasks haven't become entrenched in routine. Maybe it's possible to find a way back to enjoying the discovery of what we do every day.

This past weekend I worked two 11 hour days during the Italian Market Festival. Thousands of people wander through a two block radius in search of all things mafioso. I had been dreading all week the impending hours I would have to spend smiling and pretending to care about people's interest in Aged Asiago. But Saturday morning while we were setting up one of my co-workers threw a bundle of kale and knocked a huge bottle of olive oil off a shelf. It fell from 8 feet and covered the floor in off-yellow greasiness. And I can't really say why, but that made me smile. In its own small way it was defiant, that oil all over the floor. We slipped and slided the rest of the day but I didn't mind at all. When a pigeon flew into the store and the customers shrieked and hid from it, the smile grew a little wider. And when a balloon from a stand flew up into the light pole and shorted out the electricity for the entire neighborhood, I laughed and got out a notebook to write people's orders down by hand.

All of which is to say, none of the details in my life have gotten any less complicated. But I'm attempting to create a little simplicity where before there was none. Because I'm trying, in my own small way, to work against the instinct to pin myself with another tiny anchor, trying not to slash and singe, eliminating all the red and black from my life. Unlike Dubbya I don't want to burn them down, those big fat flowers with their opiate smell, and cut out the possibility of discovery in life.

I'd rather find a way to run wild in my fields, my glorious fields of poppy crop.

Nothing Doing

What do people do all day?

I was thinking about this all morning as I sat at work. It was a rainy friday and that meant there was nary an Italian Marketeer in sight. So after we cleaned and priced every inch of the store, there just wasn't much to do. I tried calculating the seconds until I left from the fractional amount of hours remaining and then after ticking the seconds off in my head for a while converting back into hour format. You know, so that I can compare my own internal clock against actual time.

But you can only do that so long.

And when I finally tired of my game I thought, "Gee, what if I had to do this all day every day?" I'm lucky enough to have OCD tendencies, how on earth does a normal person if left to their own devices pass the time? Because people are doing it all day every day. It's a subject I often kind of wonder about. When someone asks me "What did you do today?" I often come up with a couple specific highlights: Did some laundry, cleaned my room, watched a show, etc. But really, these things take what, A hour, two at most? And then I stop and think, what DID I do today?

The other day I had the whole day off and around noon I realized if I let myself I would review old movies and read the internet all day long. So I decided it was high time to cash in a gift card I got to the Black Cat Gift shop. Which for those not in the know = Way West Philly. So I walked from my house way down in low numbers in South Philly to 34th and Sansom, I spent about 20 minutes buying some pretty stationary and then I walked back home. It took me all day. I also bought a burrito in there too.

People have an unbelievable capacity to pass the time. I found this out the month I was in between jobs in October and stayed around the house all day, every day. It was not the high point of my existence. The funny things was, the more time I had, the less I seemed to do with it. I kept thinking, you could learn a language, go to the gym, read the great works of literature, you have infinite time to do infinite things. But instead I read popcorn books, worked out sparingly, and only learned a couple russian phrases.The more I stayed in the greater capacity I had to exert to leave. I didn't know why but it seemed like an inordinate amount of effort to do anything at all.

Why do we want to waste our time? I'm not sure. But it makes me realize that you have to light a fire under your ass whenever possible. Make plans, stick to them, keep your goals in mind because letting yourself float from function into formlessness is easier than it seems. Commit to an arbitrary decision, especially if it's arbitrary. Because sometime you just need to do something even if it's only for the sake of the doing.

So in that spirit, I am going to embrace this Friday eve. In other words I'm out my damies.

The Borscht is Strong With You

In about 4 hours I'm going to be sitting in a seat with cup holders and a reclining back. It will be midnight and I will most likely watch several previews for various sundry sci fi movies. I will be eating some combination of rasinets, M & M's, and twizzlers in between stuffing my face with popcorn. And most amusingly, I will be surrounded by a pack of dorky (but at least one very cute) males who will be very, very excited.

Yes, when Star Wars Episode III makes its debut in Philly, I will be there to ring in the first showing.

Now, I'm not going to bash Star Wars. Aliens, outer regions of the galaxy, space travel. I was a big nerd with the best of them. Yoda and Jabba the Hut are painted on my wall in my childhood home. Granted images from the X-Files are greater in number. Leia and Luke may have had me as a fan but Mulder and Scully was a way of life for me. And my heart still goes pit-a-pat when I think of David D in a speedo. But whether or not they take the number one spot in adolescent obsessions or not, the original trilogy and even the re-release money making extravaganza that followed were big. I liked them. I liked them a lot. I have the Greedo action figures to proove it.

However, when I heard tell of a new set of movies, suped up this time with the biggest and baddest technology George Lucas could get his grubby paws on, I was ambivalent. I wasn't sure that I was going to like what was coming. I already knew the prequel story. It was writ large in my imagination. Was there anything that actually illustrating it was going to add. I doubted it. But still I held out hope. I wished against the odds that they would be great. I wanted them to be good. I even pretended like I thought they would be.

And not so suprisingly my expectations were not even nearly met.

First off, I hate Portman, we've covered this before. I don't like her and I don't like that she's stealing my movies. And while Samuel Jackson and his purple light saber are cool, Matrix Yoda makes my soul want to die. He doesn't need to jump around! He's not a cat toy! That's why he has the force! I'm sorry, but come on, that was stupid. Not to mention the fact that he looked to young, was no one paying attention to the fact the timeline doesn't match up!? He wouldn't have that big an age difference in the lifespan of just one human. It just doesn't make sense!

Ok, seriously, I'm stopping. Deep breaths. In and out.

After the episode one came out I almost cried. Why? I wanted to plead with Lucas Why do this to my childhood? You're taking what I loved and making it boring. At least if you made it evil I could disagree with you. I could hate it, but at least I'd feel. This, this was just... baby food. It was pea flavored baby food. It was mushy and bland and it didn't have any texture. Except for the lumps in the middle that were ill defined. Bleh.

We're not even going to talk about episode II. It made me want to hurt Ewan McGregor. And I really like Ewan Mcgregor. He's so small and earnest. And he sings the pretty songs in Moulin Rouge. So if you can do that to poor Ewan, something must be really wrong. So like I said, we do not speak its name. So why do you ask, am I such a glutton for punishment? Why can't I get it through my head that you can't go home again...

Truth is, I don't know. But Mr. Za za zoo offered me a ticket, and while it may be a bargain with the devil, call me Faust, I have to go. I'm going to be annoyed. I'm not going to like it. But I'll be there.

At least I'll get a sugar high.

The name is Bread. But my friends call me Ginger.

That's right my friends. He's back.

Well, sort of.

First off, if you haven't read this yet do so now or the rest of my post, not to mention general allusions I routinely make, will make no sense.

Now that we're all caught up I can explain the note I received under my door today. It was written on the back side of a ripped and rather trampled sign. For a lawn care sevice. Aparently, says the back of the note, No Job is To Small!!! It goes on to list such jobs: Spring Clean Up, Yard Work, Trash Remo- which I can only guess ends in -val. I can't be sure though because the bottom three quarters of the page are gone.

The note proper is from, you guessed it, my dear friend, the one, the only, G.B. And it reads as follows:


Be aware while I can't do justice to the handwritten form I have endeavored to preserve line breaks and punctuation as much as possible

Hi my Name is [names removed to protect the clearly guilty]
I Am [Name of wife of landlord] & [Name of Devil Incarnate, aka my landlord]'s son
I used to Live here Down the Stairs.
ON first FLOOR I will Be Expecting mail.
if You WouLD Please call Me
At [A number, notably a philly area code] And Leave a message
that I have MAiL it Would Be gReatly APPR.
Or contact [Landlord] or [Wife of Satan]
tHAnX.

So, friends and lovers, it would seem the occupants of this household are in a bit of a moral pickle. Ginger Bread is not the brightest bulb in the box. He recognizes he himself cannot check our mailbox every day to get whatever it is he aparently can't send to wherever he's currently hiding out. And yet he doesn't seem to question our complete faith in him despite several attempts by law enforcement officials to seek him out at our residence. We have a freaking phone number people.

Do we ignore the note and the mail entirely, simply try and remove ourselves from the situation given that we will be moving relatively soon? Do we wait and see if any mail actually arrives and call said number? I've always wanted to ring a crack house. Or do we call the police and tell them that clearly he's dropped by recently and given us a key to his hide out, a direct line in fact... Seems the clear and obvious choice. But, is it worth the mental worry of wondering what will happen if the police, who have clearly done a bang up job of catching him so far, miss the mark and Ginger realizes we have clued them in. Maybe this is some kind of test. Maybe Ginger is watching me as we speak.

Maybe the whole "No Job is To Small!!!" is actually an encoded threat, a portent of what could happen to me if I don't tow the line. I see what the Bread is getting at: Spring "Clean Up." Yeah, like I don't know what that means. "Hey Adrienne, it's spring and I'm B-Diddy and if you don't watch your back it's gonna be your hacked up remains I'll be cleaning up!" Or Yard Work, "How's about I bury you in the midst of my dejected and weather beaten lawn ornaments!" I'm not even going to go into the implicit symbolism of the fact that Trash Removal was cut in half.

Well, I only need to play apartment Survivor for another couple months. I've hatched a complicated two pronged escape plan. Assuming I can realize his entry into the house before he sneaks up the stairs and successfully kills me, I have two choices. If I felt I had a little time I could open the window down the hall and shimmy out onto the roof over our laundry room. I'd have to wait out there until he left which granted would be a bit nerve wracking, but I still think if I thought I had the time this would be the best plan. I've toyed with the idea of buying a fire ladder and leaving it out on the roof but then I'd be stuck in the 10 foot concrete enclosed back yard and would have no way out of there. So I think we'll stay on the roof.

If I felt like he would finish maiming the corpses of my roomates (I'm just assuming their deaths in this scenario, at best their dying screams would create extra sound muffling for my escape) too fast for me to have time to climb out the window then I could always hide in one of the three closets within easy access. The one outside of my room proper would be ideal as it has a rusty ladder leading to the attic, but would take longer and creates a higher chance of being seen since I'd have to wade through my clothes to get to it. The other two are in my room and pose about equal pros and cons. The left one is roomier and holds more sharp objects, my tool box as well as some umbrellas with pointed ends, an old flute, and a few pairs of stilletto heels but has the drawback of essentially sequestering me there. The right one is next to the kitchen door, easier escape access if I had to run once found but contains fewer make-shift weapons. I suppose the old jewelry box is pretty heavy and could serve as a blunt battering type of defense.

I wish I could I say that I've never heard noises coming from downstairs and gotten up to go hide naked in my closet in a panic.

But I can't.

Fil-A-Buster or IKEA is my happy place

Well "slighted anonymous reader" has put me in my place.

I will make a couple excuses: lost my username and couldn't get back on, when I finally did and tried to write blogger was down, also had a few long work days coupled with some required appearances at events outside the home and yes, Mr. Za za zoo took up some time in there too. Or maybe I just went out and got myself a life. Who knows, in any event, it's true, I haven't written anything for quite a few days now. And while there were times I started, I just didn't have the energy to really sit down and do it like I need it to be done. Many apologies. I'll try and be better from now on.

However, in the time since last we spoke I've realized two very important things.

First is that if I ever have a band, in which I will no doubt have to sing backup vocals and play the bass (thus requiring the actual learning of said instrument), my first album will be called Unsated Monkey which will also be the title track.

The second thing is that though I have no design on doing so, if the need arose, I could be a fantastic homeless person. I'll make it clear that I have no desire whatsoever to live on the streets of Philadelphia. [Editorial Note: Somewhere in New Jersey Bruce Springsteen is crooning] However, if I was forced to, I know I would more than rise to the challenge. I have also a great love for the people of IKEA and Chik-Fil-A, which I pronounce Fill-Uh, as in the first two syllables of my fair city. Because that's what the sign says and I hate fast fooding of the English language. There is no such thing as phun, you cannot pick a razzberry, and in my book nite will never follow day. Besides, with the effort wasted when you have to include the dash marks you might as well just write fillet.

Sorry, for the tyrannical rant. But these things bother me. Did you know the Di Bruno Bros Mission Statement ends with a sentence fragment: Enriching our customer's satisfaction along the way. Every time I go to work and see the sign hanging over the register it makes me want to gouge my own eye out just so I have somethng to knock it down with.

Anyway, I was talking about why I'd make a good homeless person. And I say this not only because I get intensely and irrationally upset about incorrect grammar. I'm also extremely good at eating cheap food. Like at IKEA, where I had mac and cheese, an ice cream cone and a cup of coffee for 2 dollars and 50 cents today. Not to mention a days worth of entertainment. It had been a while since I was at IKEA and I was reminded of a story I love to share, one that explains why if I ended up on the mean streets I'd never want for food, thanks to my wiley ways. It's a tale some of you will have undoubtably heard before, but it's classic Adrienne to repeat my best stories upwards of 4 or 5 times before people start to stop me. Besides this one is way worth a second go-round.

So a few months ago I, which is to say "Esteemed Chik-Fil-A Customer", received in the mail a set of two coupons: one for a free Chik-Fil-A chicken sandwich and one for a free Chik-Fil-A chicken breakfast biscuit. Now granted, the coupons could have been intended for one G. Bread instead of ourselves. But, given the distinction of the intended recipient as quoth "Esteemed" I'd like to think the good people at Chik-Fil-A clearly intended these lovely articles of savings to be put to use by the upstairs occupants of my humble abode. So my former roomate, now lost to the Appalachian Trail, and I thought this too good a deal to pass up. As such we drove down to the nearest Chik-Fil-A, a mere 5 minute drive from our home, and handed the paper hatted counter worker our coupon.

"Anything else?"
"No, just the sandwich thanks."
"Just the one sandwich. For both of you?"
"Yep. Just the one."
"Nothing to drink?"
"No thank you."
"... Fries?"
"Nope. "

At this point the woman paused, unsure how to proceede. She bagged the foil wrapped treat and after a moment's deliberation pressed on with:

"Here's your sandwich and thanks for coming to Chi-Fil-A. Have a coupon."

And with that she handed us a certificate for a second free Chik-Fil-A sandwich.

Now granted, this time we were made to work for our food. A 3 minute phone questionaire would have to be answered. Buttons ranging from 1 to 5 would have to be pressed regarding our Chik-Fil-A experience. We had to think hard about the cleanliness, courteousness, and tastiness factors of our first visit. 4's and 5's across the board my friends. On the whole, I'd like to hope the corporate big-wigs felt good listening to our short recorded message about what we felt when we ate at Chik-Fil-A as compared to other fast food establishments.

This brings me to the second half of the story, before which I must take some time to wax poetic about the greatest mass-producing furniture and home good store to come out of a Scandanavian country to date. I love IKEA. Some say love is a very strong word, to which I say, then it applies. Miles and miles of affordable little futuristic shiny green plastic things. Bins as far as the eye can see filled with pillows and tiny 3-pack picture frames, coat hangers and can openers, wicker baskets and red-flowering mini-cacti. Display after pre-assembled display of neat little kitchens, bathrooms and bedrooms just waiting to be recreated in a moderately inexpensive aparment near you. And the best part is, the savings don't only extend to the housewares.

I'm speaking of course about the newest IKEA promo, the 99 cent breakfast from 9:30 to 11am. So after receiving our free chicken coupons and myself being in the possession of one IKEA gift card impatient to be redeemed, the roomate and I decided it was high time we take advantage of this breakfast blessing. So before the coupons expired, and Chik-Fil-A being only just across the parking lot, we decided to suppliment our IKEA morning meal with two Chik-Fil-A breakfast sandwiches, one from the original coupon and one from the second. So once again we handed in the pieces of paper bequething us our poultry laden bounty:

"Anything else?"
"Nope, just the breakfast sandwiches thanks."
"That's all?"
"Yes indeed."
"No orange juice?"
"Not today thanks."
"... Fruit cup?"
"I think we'll be alright."

Again a troubled pause. Inner struggle and strife. Hamlet, written and re-written in the mind of the woman before us.

"Here's your breakfast sandwiches and thanks for coming to Chi-Fil-A. Have some coupons."

And low and behold, the woman hands us two more free sandwich coupons. We trotted off to IKEA feeling quite pleased with ourselves. We ate our scrumptious dollar breakfasts, the best part of the dollar breakfast being of course that if you spend more than 25 dollars at IKEA and can show your receipt they refund you that money when you ring in at the checkout counter. I having used a gift card, paid no money at all for the purchases essentially leaving IKEA paying Seth and I a dollar each to eat their food. Not to mention that I acquired several new home items, including a tasteful desk lamp which now brightens a once dark corner of my room.

At the time I quite believed we could continue this chain of chicken as long as we made sure to redeem our sandwiches every week or so before the coupons expired. Sadly, the next and what proved to be last, visit to Fil-A marked the end of that particular ad campaign.

With people like my roomate and myself, I can only wonder why...

Za za zoo story

What do you call the little something that hides inside, sleeping and dormant, until the day it cracks its shell and you realize someone makes you smile? It's a force that rides the tide of human emotion, making the mild mighty and the brazen unable to utter a word. What is that push just under your ribs that keeps your heart in your throat, anitcipating another's return? It isn't a feeling that fills you. Rather, it's one that seems to empty everything out of your body suddenly, repeatedly, such that you think you might implode. It's the one that roars in the middle of "I ought to be gett-" and quiets to a purr only once you have that someone within arms reach. What do we call this maelstrom of emotion, this tornado of feeling?

I like to call it: Za za zoo.

Name it whatever you wish, butterflies, a spark, chemistry, puppy love, it boils down to the same little thing. Oh elusive za za zoo, wars have been fought in your name, epics have been written, countries given and taken, lives have been laid down to grasp at a piece of your bounty. How often we try to create, to hold, to keep you only to find you are a fickle mistress. Strange then that when we finally decide to walk away you blindside us from another direction.

Za za zoo strikes, often without warning and throws you into an upsideown inside out world that you can't and don't want to get out of. Za za zoo is a walking contrradiction, alternatively taking and giving, pushing and pulling, uping and downing, twisting and turning you around and around until your center of gravity gets sick of it all and decides to take a vacation. And the strange part is that for the same reason it throws us off balance, it makes life that much more interesting.

Za za zoo may bring it's baggage, no doubt. And that can be hard to handle. It starts to unpack before it checks to see if there's nearly enough closet space. So one day when you take a break from going out on the town with your Zoo (you're on a single name basis by now) you walk in and realize there are piles of stuff you never noticed. What do you do when it it outstays its welcome, when it sours and becomes a rotten pile of za za goo? Throw it back from whence it came as fast as your heart will let you, and hope when/if it comes back it might have learned some manners? But, mounds notwithstanding, the scariest part about knowing za za zoo, and those who have done so will agree, is that just as fast as it comes, za za zoo may take a hasty exit and say no goodbye. Leave you missing those hated piles.

Because try and make za za zoo behave the way you want it to, force it to put things away before it's ready and you take away it's powerhouse, the luscious vowels it feeds on (a double ah and an ooh). And then za za zoo takes a nap, all you're left with is zzz. Which defeats the purpose of having it over in the first place. Za za zoo is like a eccentric relative, if you want it to live the way you normally do, then you're just going to be frustrated. If however, you enjoy it's insanity for the laugher inducing, butterfly inspiring, neck prickling experience it has the potential to be, even if it changes your daily routine, za za zoo may come for an extended visit. In fact the only thing that seems to keep za za zoo under control is opening the door, shaking its hand and giving it the guest room. If you're lucky it might just move in for good.

So know that I'm wary and I'm watching you this time, za za zoo. You and me both. We've been uncomfortable bed fellows in the past. And I've got some new rules: No eating the food in the fridge until you've bought some groceries, don't leave dishes in the sink you don't intend to clean and I am definitely not making the bed by myself.

But.

The door is open. And I hope you'll unpack your socks.

...

Wow.

I am so angry.

I just spent 45 minutes on a post. It was witty and charming and was going to make you laugh and smile. But I hit the back button and it's gone. And I have not the energy to start anew.

I apologize for leaving you with this and only this.

But it's all we have for tonight.

Dalíwood

"Every morning when I wake up, I experience an exquisite joy - the joy of being Salvador Dalí - and I ask myself in rapture: What wonderful thing is this Salvador Dalí is going to accomplish today?"

- S. Dalí


I saw the big exhibit today. I got to wear my little headphones and walk around for several hours and learn the inner workings of a very popular visual artist. I actually came to respect his work in a far greater capacity than I ever had previously. Dalí painted about love and fear and death, he created his own symbolism using everyday objects, and bore his demons out to the surface and exorcised them with his canvases. He used the classical mode of near photographic realism in painting and created an entirely new style of art.

And I got a little jealous.

Dalí from the perspective of whoever the ghost-like figure is that writes the art museum blurbs was always ahead of his time. From an early age he knew he was destined to be a great painter. He was ultimately expelled from the fancy-pants art acadamy he attended because he didn't deem any of his teachers worth grading his senior project. That's some balls of steel. And taking a look at the carefully laid out museum exhibit it seems that while Dalí didn't necessarily always know exactly where he was headed in a literal way, his artistic drive was pushing him towards further and further exploration. That somehow the deep part of him that told him he had to paint also told him what impulse he better follow in doing so. And that unshakeable little voice allowed him to continually evolve and often anticipate where the rest of the art world was headed. At least, that's what the curator would have me believe.

There's a point most people hit in life when you realize that you aren't ahead for your age anymore. I remember being told I was reading at the 8th grade level when I was in 4th grade (whatever that means) and I thought, "Look at that, I've managed to pick up 4 years here. Who knows what I'll be doing when I'm actually in 8th grade!" I became entranced by the idea that there was this magic time I'd managed to surpass, I'd skipped those paltry 4-7th grade years and skipped right ahead to that magical number 8. I liked the feeling of being more than my little 4th grade self might outwardly show. And if you take the time to tabulate all the advanced years accrued in various subjects over the years I ought to be operating at the ripe old age of 34 by this point in my life.

And sometimes I think I'm trying too hard to do just that. Being a driven person is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don't have to root around for the innate drive to want to pursue goals in life. I don't need direction, I've got plenty thank you much. I have so many objectives and plans that I sometimes, and here's the curse, forget to check in and make sure they're worth having. A lot of times I end up with ideas about what I'm supposed to be doing, be it in relationships, in my career, sometimes I even evaluate my emotional stasis level in terms of how I rate against my age group.

A few times when I went home to Chicago people not knowing me and my sister mistook her for the elder sibling. And I'm struck by the vehemance with which I felt the offense at the time. What a egregious and unpardonable mistake it felt like. How heinously demeaning a reflection on my persona it seemed to be. It's sort of shocking to me now how terribly much this perception upset me. It doesn't bother me any more. But why?

Because I've taken a step back and thought about how many ways I took pride in myself when I perceived myself ahead of the game: dating those older than myself, securing positions I could claim were beyond what I might expect of my years, being the youngest in a given situation and still having those around me treat me as an equal. I loved and still fall into the trap of loving to think of myself in these terms. And when I justify the behavior I tell myself it's not me trying to prove anything, I'm just "that way." But more likely it's really just me back in those 4th grade shoes pretending to be an 8th grader, needing desperately to feel ahead of the game. And I'm starting to think that's a little bit stupid. Ok, everyone wants to be a genius. But while there are lots and lots of smart people who do cool and interesting things, real honest to god geniuses are pretty rare. And they usually aren't very happy anyway.

I doubt Dalí was sitting around thinking what he could do at a given time to prove he was going to be a famous painter, what steps he could engage in to be as far along that road as he could. He was probably just trying to stay true to his impulses, however "childish," however ahead or behind his times they may have felt. He followed what his insides were telling him he needed to do to stay true to the best version of him, however ant-covered or melted-clock-filled that had to be. And when those things no longer struck a chord with him, he didn't worry if the timing was right, he just moved on. But not before really letting himself paint all the rocks shaped like his father trying to castrate him that he needed to.

I think I'm figuring out how to enjoy acting my own age. Because just perhaps there's stuff in those between years that I might miss experiencing if I skipped now and did mangage to go straight to 34. Things that would make me a better 34 year old when I actually get there. It's about time I called in those advanced reading level years anyway.

Rebel without a cough OR Why Mom Mom is Cool

So I'm still a snotty monster but I've pretty much beaten the cough. Yay! I apologize for being out of the posting loop. Two days, no words from the wise. How sad, how abandoned you must feel. Truth be told it's a combo of things that has kept me absent. First off, a friend of mine decided to "fix" my computer. Now, granted I asked him to do so, it was as sick as I was and even a little slower. But aparently computer people hate Internet Explorer. I didn't know this was a requisite to being a computer person but, so it would seem, it is. You instead have to download a browser called Mozilla Firefox. So here's the rub, my ID to blogger and a variety of other websites are saved in Explorer's memory. Not in Firefox's. So I just couldn't sign on, because I didn't remember my User ID. And the thought of wading through my hotmail INBOX to find it, assuming the email that contains this information still exists, just made me tired. So I didn't post.

But though Brad was tricky and thought he'd hid Explorer from me, I found it. And so until I find the appropriate "Let me onto my webpage you asshole computer!" data, using this sub-par browser will have to suffice. The second thing being that my mom flew into Philly for Mother's Day and I've been busy playing with her instead of my computer. Which leads me onto the meat of today's post:

My mom could beat up your mom.

Not that she would. My mom is pretty Quaker-style when it comes to the whole issue of violence. However, in her younger years she was an amateur body builder. Before, I might add, it was cool for girls to have big muscles. And ran a million miles a day or something. But when she got pregnant with my sister realized that more than 1% body fat was ok too. She also triple majored in Biology, Psychology and Chemistry in college. She was all set to head off to med school when she realized she didn't like sick people. So last minute, against the wishes of most of the people around her, she switched streams and did the pHD in Psych thang instead. Sick people, no no no, but crazy people are aparently a-ok in her book.

She loves gardening and kept my sister and I in fresh vegetables and fruits all through the growing seasons. Our garden is one that is well tended but still looks a little wild. While Angie the Korean neighbor spent hours upon hours arranging peonies in neat little color coded sections, my mom planted flowers in a more big-picture style. When the bird feeder dropped sunflower seeds off the front window ledge and actual sunflowers started to grow she just found a way to incorportate them into the plan. Some days when we'd be out the door to school my mom would stop and just look at her flowers. She'd take a second or two to just look at each one, smell a couple if needed. We'd have to take stock of which ones had flowered recently or which ones she'd have to cut down because they were on their way out. And while I might have been a snotty teen at the time, it's a detail I still treasure about her.


My mother reads bad mystery novels as well as deeply moving prose. She doesn't watch a lot of TV but if a Law and Order Marathon comes on, dum dum, it's criminal justice city. Except that now she's pretty much seen them all. Seasonally, she is seriously and affectively disordered which results in a great love of warm climates and a lot of sitting in the sun in the summer. If you're walking on the darker part of a street with one shady side and one sunny side with my mom, you better be prepared to crossthe road, through oncoming traffic if need be. In the winter she doesn't like to read things that are upsetting so she saves those books for the summer time when she's already in a good enough mood for the heavy stuff. When I did A Delicate Balance in college, an Albee play that wallows heavy in family dysfunction, she came and watched the show. When I asked if she'd come back the next day to see it again she said, "Adrienne, I love you. And if you really want me to, I'll see it again. But I'm a family therapist and I get to deal with depressed people every day."

I love that my mom never witholds her real opinions about things I've worked on she comes to see. If she doesn't like something she won't pretend or lie, but she comes and makes sure I know I'm supported by at least one member of the audience. Because she knows me so well she has this tendency to get to the meat of what's often going on with me within the performance and not just the product for public view. My junior year of college when I directed an original piece semi-based on the theme of accepting the imperfections in loving someone, she cried because while on the one hand she believed some of the things I told her helped me come to the conclusions of the show, she was sad that maybe I'd gotten there too early.

She likes to watch Sundance movies and really just won't watch things that come out at anything with the word Multiplex in it. Except for some reason the movie School of Rock with Jack Black, which we went to together on a semester break and she loved, which I could never quite figure out. But again, it's one of the things I like best about her. My mom ain't letting you pin her down. She's got her generalisms like everyone: she has forgotten her checkbook in the freezer, she likes to call me Schmadrienne and litle furry things schmanimals, and she is constantly refering to objects as "the thing... on the thing... you know, that whatchamajigger... come on, the doo-dad." In fact there is a large piece of furniture in the kitchen that has been permanantly deemed "The Wooden Thing."

But despite that, she's always suprising me. She likes to mix it up. Emotive on one hand, a little bit rock and roll on the other. My mom has always said she'd rather live in a camper at the end of her life, eating the best food, getting to travel to places she's always wanted to see, than to live in a "nice" house with "nice" furniture. She proves by example how important it is to get the experiences in life that make you the person you grow to be and not the things that you ultimately won't and don't need. Which is not to say she totally eschews them, just that they aren't what make you who you are.

She's loved and lost. Shown me that risks are risky. That though they don't always work out they were still worth taking. Maybe even more so. My mom has gambled big in life and has always made sure that no matter whether she won the bet or not, the experience of doing what you know is right, what will make you deeper and live fuller is the real pay off. And I'm trying every day to live by that example.

Someone once called me a "Seize Life Girl": that typically 20-something character in a movie, often played by a Portman or equally fresh-faced all-American type, who typically teaches the people around her to chuck their fear out the window and grab life by the balls. I hated this label for a while because I associated it with the banal movie people who single dimensionally talk about risking pain and heartache for the big payoff. Which inevitably, along with Natalie P's love and support, the non-life seizing guy always got.

The thing I realized though, is that there are people out there who really are risking things, big things, stability and comfort zone related, core-shaking things to try at living their dreams as they are shaped and reshaped with the process of being alive. Susan Mackey is one of those people and because of her I see that it's awesome to be a Seize Life Girl when you're trying to seize some real-world life. She isn't perfect, but she taught me that I don't need to expect her or anyone else to be so. Not everything she might have guessed her life to be has come to pass as she planned it, but she lets me know that there are things that happened instead that she would never, ever, trade for some idea of happiness she had at a some other point. She raised Dale and I with compassion and understanding. With tolerance and love. And at times she did so without a lot of help. And I love her and respect her more than anyone else in the world. She means more to me than anything, more than my at times emotionally unexpressive self has the ability to make sure she's aware of.

I dedicate this day to the original Seize Life Girl, who grew up and became the Seize Life Woman, my mom.

WARNING: Not for the faint of heart

Don't read this post if you're grossed out easily. I need to vent about how icky I feel and I'm not in the mood to come up with witty stand-in words or metaphors to describe what's really going on.

Bleh. Sorry for not writing yesterday, friends. I worked in the morning, hit the gym and went to see a movie with a friend. Somewhere in the middle of that I got sick. Really sick. And by the time I got home, though I was planning on writing a little something here, I just didn't have the mental energy. The attention was too busy being diverted to the "Am I going to sneeze again? Yes... No. No wait, YES! No... I guess I not aft- ACHOO" center of the brain. I don't know how illness goes from zero to sixty so fast, but suffice to say I'm not in a good way this morning. My body is waging war on me and boy oh boy is it winning. I am a sad casualty in its quest to conquer.

Mainly I'm full of snot. My nose at this point is so blocked that it really has ceased to be anything but a decorative facial piece. One that needs to be constantly maintained at that. The tissue fibers also seem to increase my propensity to sneeze, dash cunning from the R & D people at Kleenex. One sets the stage to need a second and so on and so on. I'm starting to get that "been blown so many times the skin is wearing off" red look that is so fashionable these days. A by product of which seems to be removing all the natural oil from the area around my nose which my body happily produces again in over abundance. Red and oily... Very chic.

They say for nose excretion that clear is bad because it means allergies and green is good because it means a cold, which goes away. I think that's what they say... I'm pretty sure. Anyway, let's hope that's what they say because it's green mucus city over here and not just from the nose. Oh man, this is really gross but kind of cool: So I woke up this morning and my eyes wouldn't open. It was that thick a layer of goop. But, there was one green morning friend from my eyes that was shaped, I kind you not, in the form of a very small koala. Could be a new form of tea leaf reading, the stuff you pull out of your eyes in the morning determines your future. I guess I'm either moving to Australia or becomeing a zoologist.

I actually find the raspy thing kind of fun. I like trying on a different voice for a few days and since I don't smoke I'll never get another chance to sound like a cancer throated old lady. The only downside of that deep throaty sound is all the coughing that precipitates it. I don't mind the coughing in general but the back of the throat tickle that won't go away makes me crazy. You just can't get it out. It seems to go away for a couple minutes when I'm using a Halls cough drop. But I ran out of the 50 pack last night around 3 am. Big suck let me tell you. The cough is on the lam though. Like the preverbial Ginger Bread it's making a run from those who would seek it out. As such it has gone from a throat centered location to a more deep chested kind of hack. A good strong full body throttle cough. A la a consumptive, if you will. I'm so pale and my cheeks are so rosey... Cough cough...

I've got a headache and I'm just a wee bit naseous. Woo hoo. The fun just doesn't end. You know when everything just feels a little fuzzy? It's such a weird sensation. My tongue doesn't taste things right, my ears feel plugged, and it might just be paranoia but I feel like I don't even see as well. I was heading into the kitchen this morning and seriously just walked directly into the door frame. I have a huge bruise on my arm now and I can't even get mad about it because it was born from total and complete stupidity. I just walked into a door.

I'm also really sore. I can't tell if that comes from the gym yesterday or from the sick. Or the walking head on into a solid wood surface. But either way it isn't helping matters. Anyway, I won't whine much more lest I let this blog get any more self-indulgent than it already is. I took a bunch of pills, one of them has to do something. Hopefully the Nyquil and bad Netflix movies will sufficiently knock me out for a bit. Because I of course woke up with the sun again.

Oh and one last thing: If someone brings me chicken noodle soup I'll be your love-slave for life.

After I get better of course. No one wants a snotty love-slave.

The Mod Squad

"Moderation has been created a virtue to limit the ambition of great men, and to console undistinguished people for their want of fortune and their lack of merit."

- François, Duc de la Rochefoucauld


I've always liked the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. François was a generally active political guy, was ballsy enough to make fun of the courtiers to Louis XIV. He's good with the quips and I'm the last person to fault someone for a good one liner. Restrained cynicism is super sexy. Plus he suffered from severe gout, and man you have to admit, gout is a way cool disease. Crystals form in your joints. Crystals!

But while I understand the point he's trying to make above, I have to say that on this issue, I just disagree.

Moderation is not a bad thing. I think that in my admittedly anecdotal experience of the world, moderation is severely lacking. Everywhere you look things are supersized or minaturized. Extreme viewpoints, excessive activity are the norm not the exception. Why should I need a phone the size of my fingernail and a burger the size of my head? I don't. But the fact is, if I wanted it I can have it. And to me that's not reason enough.

Faster, stronger, higher tech, these are the words we're constantly bombarded with every day. And after a while I start to feel like a mouse on a treadmill. I'm old fashioned about a lot of things. I like to hand write letters once in a while. I like to walk to work even if it takes me 45 minutes. Some people think I'm weird for doing so. "Why take more time when you don't have to?" I can't put a finger on it really. Maybe I like to really sit down and do the thing I'm doing. Because while driving and emailing are convienant I always have the nagging sense when I do either that I'm really half someplace else. When I walk I just look at the trees. I find a new street I've never been down. When I write a letter I have to pay attention. I can't just scribble down the first thing that pops into my head.

Moderation is great because it provides some sense of perspective. I like junk food. I also think it's important not to throw tons of crap in your body. It would seem I have a bit of a disjunct in philosophy. Oh ho! But for moderation. Moderation says that I can both generally try to eat healthfully and be good to myself but understand that it's just as important to break the rules once in a while to ensure that life stays worth living. Moderation in viewpoint allows one to be able to see both sides of an argument.

And don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I want to be a wet blanket. There are some arguments where no argument is needed. Sometimes you just believe an extreme view unequivocally. Which is important too in its way: Everything in moderation, including moderation. Sometimes you have to be a hardass and stick to the end of the spectrum point you want to make. Because I think extremes are ok once in a while, but pick your battles. An extreme point of view stops having meaning when everything you do is taken to, pardon the pun, the extreme. And as such I don't think it would be a good thing if extreme points were easy to hold. To be as far out on a limb as you can possibly be is, and I think should be dangerous. The danger, the risk, is what proves how important the view must be. It's admirable and at times needed but you certainly can't hang out there forever. Use it with caution and only when necessary people, extremes are at the end of the bell curve for a reason.

At the end of the day I think moderation doesn't comfort anyone who hasn't tried to accomplish anything. Moderation doesn't mean apathy. If anything it means choosing more carefully what you expend your energies on. Thinking harder about the position you're going to take. I don't think moderation limits great men. I just think it makes them work hard for the thing they want to be great at. And don't you sort of think whatever these great men are doing wouldn't nearly as great if they hadn't had to work so hard to do it?

Then again, who am I to talk? In the words of our good friend François: Nothing is given so profusely as advice.

Because I promised I would

I like to read books in the shower. Not in the bath at the end of a hard day to relax with candles lit and soothing enya inspired music. No, I read books in the plain old stand up and clean yourself shower. I know, it's weird. I have to hold my arm far away from my body so the spray doesn't destroy the book entirely. Even so the steamy environment warps the covers and crinkles the pages. It isn't the most efficient way to bathe or read and I realize that. And at some point I do actually have to put the book down to rinse my hair.

Though I don't know that anyone knew I was doing it, I've loved this pastime since I was a kid. There's something wildly appealing about doing something that is clearly rather ridiculous. Something that everyone would say I ought not do. I've always had a little bit of a "I'll show 'em" attitude when I think I've got a better perspective. It's a function of my personality. Along with the thinking thing, which sort of ties into the need to constantly observe the world around me and suss out what I feel about it.

According to my mom, my sister and my personality differences were aparent from the word go. Dale was a "cuddle baby," content to be held or stroked or generally nestle in any comfortable position she might find against another person. However, so family legend goes, I would only allow myself to be held if I was in a position to look around. I'd snuggle only so long as I still had a clear view over the shoulder of the snuggler. And I aparently loved to be in that baby back pack thing, so I could make sure to eye anything that might approach mom and me from behind.

For a long time I'd meet a person and automatically get a sense they were unlike myself, that they were probably a snuggle baby as a kid or that they could go with the flow in a way I just didn't comprehend. And everyone at some point meets someone and says to themselves, "Oh my God, they are so THAT kind of person" but has no label to fully explain what THAT means. I got kind of obsessed with this idea and for years I wished there were a way to easily classify people into personality types. A simple system of oh, I don't know, four letters by which someone could extraxt vast amounts of information about you and the way you interact with the world around you. A system that could be answered by taking a test that consisted of a series of yes or no questions.

And then I got to high school and took an AP Psych class. As it turns out, there is such a test. And boy are you in luck. Because not only is there one, but I know everything there is to know about it.

The test operates by gauging one's place on a series of personality attribute spectra. It was originally developed by Jung and had three dimensions and was modified and extended to four by a woman named Myers-Briggs for whom the test tends to bear its name. A person scores in varying degrees towards one end or another of a particular scale and is assigned a letter (with percentage if the test is particularly thorough) for each of the four categories. Thus one falls into one of 16 categories of personality.

The four different dimensions are listed below with a brief explanation. Feel free to see which way you lean:

1) Extraversion (E) vs Introversion (I)

This one is a trickster if only because most people assume it is the easiest to judge. The differences are pretty obvious but beware that it is not a simple question of ones brassiness or willing to be outgoing in public. What the question is really asking is the source and direction of energy expression for a person. An extrovert will regenerate from time in the external world, talking to people etc and vice versa. I for example am an extreme introvert who can be very extroverted under certain conditions. But at the end of the day, crowds tire me and I need lots of alone time to myself.

2) Sensing (S) vs Intuition (N)

Number 2 deals with how one takes in information. A senser is a person who feels the information they receive comes directly from the external world. Intuitors tend to believe their information comes from their own internal or imaginative world. Sensers are very in touch with their environment, react first to a loud noise or sudden event. Intuitors live in their heads and can be almost oblivious to their surroundings. I am of the belief that most people who attend prestigious liberal arts colleges belong in the "N" end of this category.

3) Thinking (T) vs Feeling (F)

Here one classifies how a person processes information once they have it. A thinker would rather logic a problem and feelers tend to go based on emotions and well, feelings. The classic question to figure this one is given an argument with a friend where you are sure they are wrong would you rather prove your point correct or have everyone go home without incident?

4) Judging (J) vs Perceiving (P)

This last one talks about how a person acts on the thoughts they've taken in and processed. Strong scores in the judging end means that a person tends more towards organizing life events and likes living according to predetermined plans. Perceiving means that instead he or she is inclined to improvise and seek alternatives.

This test is a quick way to figure out what you are.

And this one is long but will give you percentages and even offer you a chance to see how well you and a mate will match based on your scores.

I love this test. I can pretty much within a few meetings of a person guess them with great accuracy. I myself am pretty strongly INTJ aka The Mastermind Rational:

Numbers indicate strength of the preferences in %
Introverted: 78 Intuitive: 100 Thinking: 75 Judging: 67

We INTJ's are terribly rare and compose about 1% of the population. We have a hard time operating outside of our own thought bubbles, are fiercely independent and don't always like having to negotiate human emotions, both ours and those of others. We're aggressive about the things we care to be, often offputtingly so. But we're insanely loyal and when we care about someone, even if we have a hard time dealing with or showing it, we do so with great intensity. Newton and Austen were INTJ's though unfortunately Ayn Rand also joins the ranks. And amusingly, if one had to classify fictional characters both J R. R. Tolkein's Gandalf and Hannibal Lecter are said to also share my personality.

I invite you to leave a comment as to how you score yourself. I am most intrigued to hear. If you take the long one do include your score. Then we can see if we got married how things would end up...

A Series of Unfortunate Haikus

Hey friends, I'll return tomorrow with my regularly scheduled programming of relections on the world around me. Quick fill in: visit with the sis was great, we ate some greek food, walked around the city, decided to do a play together, got in a tiny bit of partying, and even took a nap (she drooled on my pillow), and now I am left with a collection of amusing notes stashed around my room: The "How well do you know your sister?" quiz, the Adrienne and Dale mad lib, etc. As such I was inspired with my own bout of creativity. Rather than my usual flowery prose (as it is in my opinion rather unjustly described by some) I thought I'd forray into a new and more succinct written medium. Here are some recent random rhetoricals, enjoy!

Loathed ice-cream truck
You park outside my window
Playing your trite song

Week of passover
Roomate wants a piece bread
Matza must suffice

Says "A Heartbreaking
Work of Staggering Genius"
But is it really?

When I make my bed
Throw pillows come together
Thank you IKEA

Ode to kitchen bugs
Haven't seen you in a while
Are you still alive?

Hey genuine guy
Your apartment is trendy
You are nice as well

Dawson's Creek Disc 2
What Joey doesn't know yet:
Jack will soon turn gay

Appalachian Trail!
Where Seth has been swallowed up
Two months pass slowly

Is the cold so bad?
Heat sure costs an awful lot
Thoughts from a gas bill

I trip and spill you
Your thin white arms paint the floor
Little milk puddle

What? Back to my block?
By now both driven insane
Me, Ice Cream Truck Man