I put up a review of The Lace Reader on the store's website earlier today. I finished it last night at the store. At 6 o'clock it was time to close up and I still had about 10 pages left, so I turned off the lights, locked the door and hid in the office to finish it.

Our first few days have been slow, but today I went around to some of the other businesses closeby and passed out buiness cards. And I posted my first (I think) MySpace bulletin. Sara says I'm "networking." I feel more like I'm begging. But that hasn't stopped me yet!

It was so exciting for me to actually finish a book! I've been so busy lately that I've barely read at all.

Labels: books., the bookstore., work.

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I'm watching Pocahontas. I love this movie so much that I can't make objective observations of it. It's a cartoon based on real people, but, like, none of it is true. But I freaking love it. I remember seeing it in the theater with my grandparents and my cousin Megan. Megan and I were super-crazy into Pocahontas.

I've had the music from this movie in my head for two days, so it's a relief to finally hear it. Yesterday, Amy and I went to our store and put furniture together. Today, I stayed home and worked on our book order. My head feels fuzzy from overconcentration. (That isn't a word, is it? It is now!) As stressed out as I feel and as worried as I am, as I stood in my living room earlier, looking at my bare windows, I realized it has been way easier for me to start pulling together a bookstore than for me to make curtains. Which is why I still don't have curtains. That makes no sense. Why don't I have curtains?

Labels: sewing/crafting., work.

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This is my last week at work. Today I bought a few things I've had on hold for months, which was way more exciting than it probably should've been. But, putting it in another context, these may be the last books I'll buy for...a while. (My sister keeps talking about this place called a library...?) After Friday, I'll have to pay retail for books. It's like some crazy nightmare that I never saw coming.

Labels: books., work.

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Last night was the big Harry Potter release party. It was a huge success. All the planning and organization really paid off. John was there and took lots of pictures. He said a group of kids started calling him Colin.



I made five snitches like this one, which we hung in various places around the store. Three of them and two brooms were suspended from tree branches over the patio.

I bought a copy of the book, just because it felt like the right thing to do. I'm still reading Goblet of Fire.

Labels: books., sewing/crafting., work.

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Sitting in our 'fridge right now is a bowl and a half of banana pudding. This is actually less than I was expecting to have left over. I made three big bowls of it to take to a church function tonight, not really knowing how many people would come. John and I are on the Mission Team and this year the team has chosen to support the Red Bird Mission in Beverly, KY. Our program tonight was called "A Night in Appalachia," because we were informing some of the people of the congregation about the mission and the region it's a part of. My banana pudding was a "regional" treat. Only I didn't make it the fancy way. I used instant Jell-o pudding and Cool Whip.

On Friday, the store where I work is having a Harry Potter midnight release party for book 7. That's in two days. We don't have the books. And we won't get them until Friday. Because Scholastic is freaking out that people will read it early and destroy all the fancy-pants secrets of who lives and dies or who ends up with whom. So because a bunch of meanies want to ruin the fun for everyone, I'm on pins and needles planning a party for a book I've yet to see.

Add to that the fact that our children's section is being / has been rebuilt this week. In fact, our carpenter is probably in the store right now installing some shelves.

On Monday, the book buyer and general manager of the store, who has been living in another state for two years, had her first day back in the store. So, I finally met the person I've been talking to on the phone nearly every day for over a year. It was sort of like meeting Charlie from Charlie's Angels. (At least, I guess that's what it was like, since I never really watched that show.)

Also on Monday, my old boss showed up at the store.

What a crazy week! I'm really looking forward to Saturday. We're probably not going to do much this weekend, so maybe I'll actually read. Or sew.

Our church and both of our jobs know that we're moving back to TN this fall, so I'm starting to feel the pressure of needing to prepare for that. John and I went to Lowe's this weekend and picked out stuff for the house we'll be moving into. (My parents own a little house in the woods that no one is using anymore. My sister lived there for a few years after she got married.) The house needs a little work, like new ceiling fans and paint.

We saw the new Harry Potter movie on Saturday, after going to Lowe's. I really liked it a lot, but the third one is still my favorite.

That night, I think I dreamed about Harry Potter flying around my new bathroom. But the details are a little fuzzy, so I'm not sure.

Labels: books., food., movies., work.

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It's so trite to be stressed out in December. But I am. And I hate that I am. Partly because I feel like my job doesn't deserve to be stressful. (Of course, if ever there was a time for a retail manager to be stressed out, it would be now.)

I don't think I'm going to send Christmas cards this year. I was planning on making them. In fact, I started making them...and got rather far before deciding I didn't really like the way they were turning out. Plus, they were taking way too long. And now it's so late I don't think I'm even going to try store-bought ones. They'd just be late anyway. Maybe I could do a New Year's card? That's just lame, isn't it?

Yes, it is.

Labels: holiday., work.

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Partly because Nintendo is silly and didn't understand how inherently cool the Wii is (apparently), and every store in all of Burbank and Greater Los Angeles is out of them and this is very sad to us sad souls who didn't pre-order... And partly because we've been talking about getting them for at least a year anyway...

John and I, a month before Christmas, bought a DS Lite for each of us. John's is black. Mine is girly pink and looks like a ballerina will dance inside it to the tune of "Waltz of the Flowers" when it's opened. It doesn't. Though, you can buy a "game" that's basically a puppy.

Yeah, I know this purchase is a little ridiculous. Especially now. But moving stinks. And my job is stressing me out. And I just need...well...I need a gadget that makes me not think about anything else for a while.

It doesn't hurt that it's pink, either.

Labels: toys., work.

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My job has become a stress-tastic roller coaster of annoying proportions. It's everywhere. I can't get away from it. I'm. So. Stressed. Out. And my job isn't even that hard! Plus, John and I have just moved into a new apartment and I keep tripping over half-unpacked boxes. I have bruises all over.

I have the sinking feeling that January is going to feel more like a relief than a party.

Labels: work.

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Last night, I fell asleep reading a book. In fact, that's the second day in a row I've done that. And the book isn't even boring. I really like it, actually. I just can't keep my eyes open lately.

The book is Handling Sin by Michael Malone. (For those of you paying way too much attention, his name might sound familiar because he also wrote Red Clay, Blue Cadillac, which I read--now that I think about it, that was almost two years ago, actually--and wrote a review of. That is, back when I was ambitious and wrote reviews. Notice, that section of the site has been gone for quite some time.) I'm a little surprised at myself for choosing this book out of the often-referenced stacks of books that seem to be constantly underfoot in this apartment like affection-depraved cats. Why? Because it's over 600 pages long. I want to finish these books after all, so it seems odd that I picked one of the biggest I could find. It was picked for these two reasons: 1) it had somehow surfaced and was the top book in it's particular stack, and 2) I needed something funny.

It is funny. Though, I'm not that far into it, relatively speaking.

My job has been driving me a little nuts lately. Everyone keeps going on vacation and I have to get their shifts covered, when really, what I want, is to go on vacation myself. Of course. Who doesn't want that?

I will be going home to TN for the last weekend of the month. And I will be flying alone for the first time in several years. I'm embarrassingly nervous. I used to fly much more and am now totally out of the habit. Not that that is altogether bad, considering I've always hated flying, even when I was used to it. I'm going to be in town for my youngest nephew's birthday, which has never happened before.

So, because work has been driving me a little nuts, I can't sit in the recliner to read. Because I fall asleep. Because this is the closest thing to stress retail is going to get you. (I mean, really, it's not like I work for the bomb squad. People won't die if we run out of Middlesex, no matter how good people keep saying it is.)

Labels: books., work.

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When I'm at work, I feel anxious. Ready to leave. My life exists outside of my job. I sometimes don't even feel connected to it. I think about how much fun I can have...as soon as I drive away.

Last Saturday evening, John and I went to a neat restaurant in Glendale called Damon's. It's a Polynesian, tiki, fake-palm-tree decorated steak house. We met some of my coworkers from my old job. It was a sort of a strange night. They were all so funny and great to be around and I had a fantastic time. We exchanged old "war stories" about how bad the job got toward the end--two of them were laid off on Christmas Eve.

And yet... I left feeling depressed. I guess, in part, because I don't work with them anymore. And, I think, because I know there was something about that job that was so much better than the one I have now. Of course, if I went back now it would be horrible. None of those people work there anymore, after all.

I was kind of a mess on Sunday. It's funny how I can be so full of ambition and ideas and have huge projects going all the time, but at the same time feel like I'm never productive. I'm a paradox.

On Monday, we had reservations to go to theLargo again. We were supposed to go with Anna this time, but she got a terrible sinus infection over the weekend and by Monday was skipping work to hang out at home with a kleenex box. So, John and I went alone. Oh, yes, we saw the amazing Flight of the Conchords!

If that name means nothing to you, I suggest you make them your summer project. Get to know Bret and Jemaine.

They were unbelievable. So funny my face actually hurt. I can't describe it. If I mentioned, for example, that at one point Jemaine was wearing a viking hat (I don't know the story, but it's always on top of the Largo piano) and shaking a banana, they might sound a little over the top. They might sound like prop comics. They aren't. They're brilliant. They sang songs we'd never heard before.

A couple of weeks ago, I watched a episode of the Golden Girls, it may have even been the last episode, and Dorothy quotes Freud to her ex-husband Stan, saying "Our beds are crowded." She was getting remarried and acknowledging the fact that the ghosts of her and her new husband's old marriages and past relationships would always be with them. Yes, I just used the Golden Girls to quote Freud, yes, I did it, don't judge me! By that token, our table at the FotheC show was very crowded (and not just because Anna's absence meant sharing a table with two total strangers).

Our lives in general are watermarked by the friends who aren't here. The friends we moved away from. On Monday, I felt guilty because Anna was sick and really disappointed. But that was nothing on knowing how much Jim would've loved being there.

Our table was very crowded.

Labels: disney., friends., music., work.

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The job situation is pretty much ironed out. I told the people at the new job I needed more than 20 hours a week or a higher pay rate per hour. They gave me both. Surprisingly.

So, the job that's been driving me crazy is ending on Saturday. I told my boss today.

I thought, I don't know, that it would be dramatic or something. Instead, it just sort of happened and now I've done it and I can't go back and add things in about how obnoxious my boss and his wife and son have been and I can't talk about how I've gotten, like, no respect. Because it's over now. And I was basically very nice. Nicer than I needed to be. Nice like the girl my parents raised.

Last night I dreamed I was in Arches National Park. John and I were there taking pictures of these crazy rock formations. Except, I've never actually been there, you know, while awake. We were basically walking around on a boardwalk with a metal railing and all the arches were lined up like croquet wickets below us.

After having dreams like that, I really want there to be a reason. An explanation. I want it to mean something, or say something, about who I am. If that's true, I don't get it.

Labels: work.

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The job prospect that I had lined up looks like it's only going to be part-time... So, I probably can't take it, after all. Even though I did work there on Monday. And am supposed to work there again this Monday. I just found out today, though, that they might not really need me as much as they thought. Hence the "20 Hours a Week" situation.

To which I must say: Ah, crap.

Not to mention, even at full time, it would involve a significant pay cut. Of course, I'm not totally sure I'm not going to go ahead with it anyway. It's not like I have any other plans.

In the mean time, the "we're eventually closing, someday, we promise" sale going on at my present job is causing a serious storage problem in my apartment. There are now books scattered on the counter, piled on the coffee table and my nightstand, and in stacks in front of the couch and our already-totally-full bookshelves.

And in case you're wondering, no, the surplus of books has not helped me to actually finish one. I've just started more. I have no self control.

Labels: books., work.

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Here's a little something from my diary/journal. I write in it maybe once every three months. Maybe. The last entry is from November. Anyway, this is dated March 20, 2005. Except that I'm not including any of the actual names and places. Because my boss has a freaky son who's probably reading this. He's so freaking scary. So, uh, I'll call my boss...Gary.

I'm getting restless again. It isn't that I hate my job, even though I guess I kind of do, it's that I can't ignore this urgency to move forward...to what...I have no idea.

Not long after I started working at *the store*, *Gary*, the owner, got me involved with the typing of all his old journals. At first I found Gary to be an intellectual god--a latter day Renaissance man. He was the kind of person I've always wanted to work for. He spoke Middle English in my job interview.

But now...somehow the only assessment I can muster is that he is an endearing, deteriorating mess of a man. His health is poor. Very poor, in fact. He's constantly hunched over because of his bad back and osteoporosis. He wears ill-fitting clothes, often t-shirts that I have a strong suspicion are either from Goodwill or were give-aways, many with logos that I would never begin to actually associate with this amazingly literate, pop-culture oblivious man--things like Ford Racing and Nike. Arbitrary details that somehow add up to my gradual distaste for him. Perhaps if he were my grandfather, I would find these traits somehow endearing.

As he is not my grandfather, I must remind myself that he could probably quote Donne or Keats on demand.

And it isn't as though I find him despicable. To the contrary, I think he is a fine man who just happens to be in poor health, late years, and possessing a rather strong addiction to buying old crap.

Lately, he's been working on an article. He's become strangely manic about it. He's had, probably, 30 drafts. He keeps picking it apart, writing notes in the margin--notes no one, usually not even him, can read. He'll have me sit at the computer in the office while I'm at work, totally useless to the store, and edit while he dictates and redictates the same passages I edited in the same fashion days before. It's like being the typist for John Nash.

What makes the situation even weirder, or should I say more uncomfortable, is that his back has crippled him to a state where he can't sit up straight--meaning he sometimes, maybe even without noticing, leans on me while craning his head to look at the monitor. I can always smell him. And he doesn't have that creepy "old person" smell. In fact, I can't think of anything besides maybe a freshly dug hole in moist soil that compares to his particular scent.

I brought home a manuscript for him tonight that smells like him. His teeth are crooked and yellow and I somehow always suspected he smoked when he was away from the store. And when I asked John, by holding the jumbled (also wrinkled and coffee-stained) pages toward him, what it smelled like, he said pot.

As I typed, my hands felt dirty after handling the musty pages that, when I sorted them with Gary before leaving work this evening, had felt damp. And I could imagine him, in what has to be horrible pain, smoking pot and making notations that would never be understood.

Today, at work, we re-edited his article, he claimed, for the last time. His hands are a mess. I know this because there is an disportionate amount of down time while I edit for him. For a few minutes he will dictate almost faster than I can type, then he'll trail off to read and reread and mull over whether or not to use "seemed fair" or "was right," or some other seemingly insignificant phrase. Today his short sleeve puckered above his shoulder, exposing the tender pale skin above his elbow. I found myself inexplicably repulsed. I felt somewhat like the narrator of Poe's "Tell-tale Heart," who hated the imperfection of an old man's eye.

(I find myself even more disturbed that I've found myself in a situation in which I've actually related to Poe.) Pale skin made paler with the splotchy marks all old people seem to have, only his come in both freckle-brown and deathly white.

I fear I am demonizing him because I've read his journals from decades past, how his mantra seemed to be "I Will Not Serve," a phrase I typed over again tonight. And yet this man who recites Donne, who went to law school, who edited magazines, stumbles in his crippled state up ladders to retrieve a book on roses (that was probably sold three years ago) for a customer who more than likely would rather be a Borders drinking a latte.

I hate him for climbing on ladders. I want him to say, "You, young person that I pay to work in my store, see if there's a book up there on Pygmies" or whatever the hell it is he's doing that he shouldn't.

I hate him because he strikes me as someone who gave in. I hate him for the same reason teenage girls hate their mothers: I hate what I fear I could become.

What makes it so tragic is that I really like Gary. A lot. But. I guess I can't help the rest.

Okay, since then, I've heard him lie about a gazillion times. Lie. I hate lying more than anything in the world. It's cowardly and stupid.

Plus, he doesn't really quote Donne. I don't know what the hell he's quoting. I think it's Hamlet most of the time. I don't know. I've never read it.

I am a bad, bad English major. I've never read Hamlet.

I'm not worried about becoming "Gary" anymore. (Man, that fake name was a bad choice.) That's not why I don't like him. I don't like him because he thinks everyone loves him. No. He thinks he's so damn lovable. Like just because he can quite iambic pentameter from a play most Americans have never read that makes him a sage old pillar of the community.

By the way, I hate Poe. He's boring and overrated. And I. I am very cranky.

People come in every day and have little pity parties for themselves when they find out the store is closing. A guy told me last week that he'd been dumped and that finding out the store was closing was worse news...for him. A woman today. Jeez. She asked if the store was closing. Yes. Then. Then she said that was worse news than when she'd found out her parents had died.

What?

What kind of sick people are these? You know--you know--how much I love books. But there is no way that this store closing (and by the way, I'm losing my job), would be worse than anything happening to any relationship I have. Who thinks that way? Seriously.

And I also wanted to ask this lady lots of questions. Did you get the information that your parents were dead at the same time? Were they in an accident? Had you ever actually met them? What sort of books do you read that have characters you can relate to? You weird, hateful lady, I'm losing my job! Pity me! It sucks that your parents are dead! That would trump me losing a job that's driving me nuts. But you tossed that out! That was a good card to play! You're crazy! Who loves a store more than their parents? Not only that, but a store that is really really dirty! I had to wash and lotion my hands six times yesterday just straightening from Steinbeck to Zola. My nose started itching from the dust and when I rubbed my nose, I gave myself a Hitler mustache with the dirt that was all over my fingers. And I don't even know how long it was there before I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and saw der fuhrer looking back in the mirror! Go away! I feel no pity for you! I looked like one of the most hated people in history for most of the afternoon yesterday because of this place and none of you "kind people" had the decency to tell me! Screw you!

Very cranky. People cry in front of me. They are unashamed. They bawl.

And then. There are others. People who don't care. And I can't decide if they're worse or not. People at the far ends of any spectrum tend to frighten me. Trouble is, the middleground seems to have fallen out completely. So I'm surrounded by crazies and cold-hearted people who want me to "do better" on the price of a book that is already 50% off.

Labels: work.

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I've reached that point where even complaining about work from the second I wake up in the morning and fall asleep again at night is not enough time to explain how much I totally hate and am completely consumed by my job. Which is probably why I've been dreaming about work lately. Even in my sleep, I can't get away.

There have only been a couple of things in the past that have totally taken over my life like this. This short list includes: 1) an abusive relationship when I was fifteen and 2) my thesis. I can't break up with my job.

And when I consider the similarities of my current job and the other two things on the all-consuming-annoying-crap list, it comes down to this: I'm not being paid enough. Because 1) one of the other items is that I wrote a freaking thesis and shouldn't be working retail anyway and 2) the first item on this list eventually led to two years of therapy, which I could never afford to do again.

There's this great book called The Pharmacist's Mate in which Amy Fusselman talks about how her dad's death is so important and always on her mind that she feels like naming her son "My Dad Is Dead" would be appropriate. That's how I feel. Whenever anyone asks how I am, even in that way strangers ask without wanting an answer, I want to say, "I hate my job."

"Hey, how's it going?" "I hate my job."

"Would you like hot sauce with this?" "No, my job is driving me crazy."

"How's work?" "How can you be so insensitive? You creep!"

I have to pull myself together.

Oh. Yeah. By the way. I hate my job.

Labels: work.

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John and I got married two years ago today. I find that pretty hard to believe. Two years used to feel like a long time.

I'm glad, really, that I don't feel like these two years, in particular, have not felt long. I don't think that would be a good sign.

We have now entered the "terrible twos." Characteristics? We're cranky, don't really sleep on a proper schedule, and tend to scream "NO!" a lot. Usually while watching the news.

Or, in my case, while at work.

The bookstore is closing. Customers like to tell me how horrible it is. For them. And it is, I know that. Trust me. I know.

I feel like I need to constantly keep myself in check. At times, I find a sort of perverse joy in telling people who are complaining, "Well, we're closing, so the stock isn't what it used to be." And hearing their shock. It's like I'm a cartoon character who occasionally pulls a huge mallet out of her back pocket. Oh yeah? You're not satisfied? Mallet to the face! Pow!

I've been looking for jobs online. Something I find, at best, to be no fun. At. All. There are so few things I want to do. I've checked out jobs at ever museum in the LA area, which led to finding only one possibility...south of downtown, a good, oh, say, hour of early morning traffic away. Nope. Won't work. So yeah, if I wanted to drive the tram at the zoo, I'd be in luck. But. I don't.

Another symptom of the terrible twos, luckily, is that when we're not screaming, we are quite adorable. Especially John.

Labels: work.

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Firstly, I should totally be asleep right now. And I am sort of tired.

I've got HGTV playing in the background. It does little to inspire. It really just makes me think about how little money I have. How little money I make, more like.

I'm in one of those moods. Don't really want to sleep. One of my moods. Jeez. How pretentious is that?

And just then, when I think I sound pretentious and hoity-toity stupid, I hear Kenneth Brown say he wants to paint a room Spanish Moss, he says, the great color, he says, from Louisiana, he says. I am not hoity-toity stupid, after all. Using the phrase "Spanish Moss" to describe a color is way worse than anything I could ever do.

Who is Kenneth Brown, anyway?

So, we watched Broken Flowers tonight. It's a very smart film. (Notice, I did not call it a "movie." Not sure if that distinction was instinctive or premeditated.) In fact, I want to watch it again. Right now. I'm not going to though.

Because, as I've said, I should be asleep right now.

It went public today (which is now yesterday) that the store where I work is going under/out. My boss keeps using the phrase "selling out." He means it literally: he's selling out stock. I wonder how many people think he has somehow sacrificed his principles in this process.

You know, besides me.

Interior designers have their own language. And most of them seem to have the same ambiguous accent.

Labels: movies., tv., work.

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We've been back in CA for a little less than a week now. I was greeted by a note on my car, which, from our bathroom window, looked like it could've been a parking ticket, that said, "I LIKE TO BUY YOUR CAR. MIKE (818) ***-****." It was right after reading this note that noticed a patch of paint on my front bumper pealing up and down with the white underneath exposed, and that Mike apparently wants to buy a crappy-looking car.

My job is ridiculous. Like a circus sideshow. Or Pat Robertson. We're down to a skeleton crew and we're all starting to go crazy. Sort of like having cabin fever, only the cabin is a store being run by wishy-washy, selfish weirdos.

Ever since coming back though, I've had this excited feeling in my chest. The weather is warm and clear, just like it was ever June visit I used to make to my Grandparents' house. It makes me want to go to the Queen Mary or the zoo or the beach. Something touristy. It's a strange feeling, like something good is coming, in the midst of depression and funk.

Labels: los angeles is weird., travel/tourism., work.

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I've been reading Denison, Iowa by Dale Maharidge. The subtitle is "Searching for the Soul of America Through the Secrets of a Midwest Town." When discussing which town to use for this book, Maharidge says:

[I]t became rapidly clear that this book had to take place in Iowa. One reason was that the state is geographically in the center of the nation. Another reason was its neutrality. Many Americans have built-in prejudices against certain regions and states. "Alabama" said to a northerner conjures stereotypes, just as "New York" uttered to a southerner evokes another type. And to southerners and easterners, "California" has, well, its own baggage. Iowa's neutrality is why so many fictional stories from popular culture are set in the state:The Music Man, The Bridges of Madison County, Field of Dreams.

Iowa definitely is neutral. I'm actually reading this book and I have to keep reminding myself that the town isn't in Idaho or Ohio, as all three state names play a game of musical chairs ignorance in my mind. I've driven through Iowa. About a year ago. And I can't conjure one single image.

The book is really interesting though. I like the writing well enough, even though it is clearly coming from a more cosmopolitan person than any in Denison, which is unfortunate, in a way. Denison is described, maybe not in facts but in tone, as a miniscule town. When I read that it had a Wal-Mart, I thought, Oh. I guess it isn't all that small.

I am reminded that I live in the sprawling metropolis that is LA. Not only that, but I live in the valley. If Manhattan were an animal, it would be something like a cat, with long claws, balled up and ready to pounce. Los Angeles would be a sleeping St. Bernard, legs and feet carelessly spreading out all around him.

I took a ride through Laurel Canyon with my boss today. He doesn't have a lot of respect for the double yellow lines...as in, traffic should always stay to the right of the double yellow lines. He is much more creative than that. The car was in reverse for about a fourth of the time I was in the car. Oh, yeah, and we were lost.

As we rode along (before going into the hills), he pointed at various drugstores and coffee houses and told me what the lots used to hold when he was a boy. And it occured to me that this was a man who never really left his hometown. I know he's lived elsewhere and travelled, but that isn't the same. The comfort that must bring him startles me. I started getting these weird panicked feelings about going back home for my birthday...

I'm never going to see the places I grew up in ever again. Not really. There are more new businesses in town, more houses dotting the highway. Seeing those things gradually, like my boss was able to do, at least means that you're in the loop.

I did a couple of image searches for my hometown...and the results were almost spooky: the courthouse, the stained glass windows of the church I grew up in, a guy I went to high school with, the parents of a girl I knew, Main Street during the parade, etc. Things so familiar, but totally foreign.

Maybe I should read some Thomas Wolfe. Somewhere I have a memory of a professor saying, You can't go home again. You really can't.

Labels: books., tennessee., work.

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I don't think I could've counted how many people bothered me today. So, to all the people out there who witnessed me slowly losing my cool by way of causing it to happen, I offer this:

Yes, I work retail. No, you're not better than me, Ms. Ladyonthephone. I'm not sorry I could not read your mind as to exactly how you wanted your book to enter the red plastic bag that I didn't even have to give you. I haven't read, nor have I even heard about every book in existence, a fact that does not determine my level of intelligence.

I had to stop and buy gas ($2.85 for regular, by the way, not that I'm complaining--I'm made of money, after all) on my way home. In the process of pumping gas, two different people asked me for money.

The first was this girl, probably about twelve years old, who weakly went through an entire description of what organization she was with and what great things it was doing for kids like her (whatever type of kid she may be, I really don't know) and how they're going to Yosemite and did I want to buy some of the items she had to sell? She had a couple black boxes strapped to a little miniature dolly (like Deb in Napoleon Dynamite, only not as colorful). But I honestly had no cash. I was at the "pay with your card" thing. She didn't seem to mind. And also didn't seem surprised.

As I was starting to pump my gas, I saw this woman off toward the edge of the parking lot, maybe on the sidewalk, in jeans and a white blouse with a black sweater over it. I remember thinking something vague and typical about being overweight and, in general, not that great of a dresser. But really I was preoccupied because the nozzle was sort of slimy.

And then the woman walked over to me. And her face looked hard. Like a woman in a Dorothea Lange photo. Her lips were chapped. She wasn't thin; she was skinny. The black sweater I'd vaguely thought was pretty, is pilled and ragged. She asked if I could help her out by just giving her some change. I told her I didn't think I had much, but that I'd check in my car after I was done filling up.

I couldn't do it while the gas was pumping, because every gas station in LA has these ridiculous springy things over the nozzles, which I suppose are somehow intended to be better for the environment, but actually cause the hose to shoot out of the car. I haven't gotten gas without getting some on the ground in over a year. (And we wonder why the supply is low. Every little bit helps.)

So the tank is full, I get in my car and scrounge around for change. I can see her floating around, hoping I haven't forgotten and not wanting to appear desperate. I tell her I don't have much and it's the truth. She says she'll take anything. I think I found, maybe, 38 cents. And I drop it into her hand.

And my fingers, just for a second, touch her palm. There is no moisture.

In the same gas station, I think every other car would cost more than mine and every single person was dressed better than I was. And I find myself wondering if it was just because I was at the first pump that she asked me, or if there's some sort of societal understanding that rich people are sort of scary. Not necessarily that someone else wouldn't have given her 38 cents, or hopefully more, but that maybe she was just as intimidated by the people there as I was. I reminded myself that when I first looked at her I thought something along the lines of I look like crap. I don't belong.

I wonder if she could tell.

Labels: work.

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Today's the anniversary of the day John and I arrived in California.

To celebrate, I went to work. On a Sunday. Like I do every Sunday.

There's this older gentleman that comes on every Sunday evening, who's nearly deaf, which means he's loud. He has a huge jaw, and wicked sense of humor. He's also an artist, which mostly amounts to him pouring over art books for a couple of hours and drawing anyone near him into an impromptu oral critique. My analyses usually sound like the one I offered today on a book about Soutine, "That's a lot of trees." Aside from his occasional tirades about the Civil War (he might be related to Sherman of burning-Atlanta-to-the-ground fame: a yankee), Japanese interment Camps (better safe than sorry, he would say), and political or social issues in general (remember, he's loud), he's quite funny and pleasant.

Another one of our frequent customers is this incredibly effeminate man, I'd guess to be in his late 50's, who gets his kicks telling dirty jokes that are usually also racially or culturally stereotypical, and, of course, offensive. He calls me a "dear, dear, child" and "oh, dahhling" and is actually a nice man, when he isn't trying to be funny (which he isn't) or touch me. He's big on hugs. And no worries if you're behind the counter--he can always pat your face.

Both of these characters were in the store at the same time today. I don't know if I've ever seen that happen before. They're both attention hogs...and can get pretty jealous.

Sitting in the office, I could hear the "oh, dahhlings" starting and the art discussion becoming more one-sided as my co-worker clearly retreated behind the protection of the front counter. I pictured these two customers, one in his fifties and the other in his sixties or seventies, having an all-out brawl. In a ring. I pictured the former wearing a blue silk boxing robe (perhaps with "The Artiste de LA" embroidered on the back) and bright blue gloves hopping up and down with his high shoulders slumped in front of him, that savage jowl poking out, and his white hair falling down in his face. The latter I pictured dressed similarly, only in pastels ala Richard Simmons, and teasing his opponent, only to retreat back into his corner and giggle. The Artiste de LA hates that sort of thing! He would be positively livid. In fact, being sort of a homophobe himself, he'd probably back out of the fight altogether.

It was at that moment, when I accused a customer of backing out of the boxing match in my brain, because he might think a man who calls me "dahling" might be gay and therefore not like him, that I realized the following things: 1) I'm really hard on conservatives. 2) I know nothing about boxing. 3) I have either entirely too much imagination or not enough real thoughts in my head to keep it otherwise entertained.

Labels: work.

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I'm hiding out in the office at work, on break. There's this customer here that scares me. Because he looks and, more importantly, laughs like a clown. I'm not kidding. I can't stand the guy.

"The In-laws" are still in town. I've been sleeping on the air mattress...and I now formally apologize to any and all of our guests that have previously spent the night in our apartment on that raft.

I'm cranky.

Labels: apartment., company., work.

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I'm at work taking my break in the office because I have no car today. Because the one I so skillfully smashed up still isn't fixed yet.

For lunch, I got food from the vegetarian Mexican restaurant down the street. And, because I never really walk outside the store, it was kind of interesting going to get my food. I mean, the store is close to this huge intersection, so that was part of it. But, really, it just smells weird outside. The car exhaust smell...the heat...it smelled like a carnival.

Labels: los angeles is weird., work.

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It's really late. Or. Really early.

Pulp Fiction is on. Again. And I just remembered this customer that came in the store a couple of days ago that sort of reminded me of Ving Rhames (no, it wasn't him) in a black tracksuit with a yellow headband and yellow sneakers with flames who wanted a bible. He then proceeded to tell this girl I work with all about how the antichrist is coming with the next pope. He took about a half an hour debating between two big bibles flipping through pages of Revelations and saying "this is deep, man, deep" over and over, the kind with space for the owners' geneological information at the front, then picked...and realized he'd "left his wallet" at home. Or on the bus. Or something. And he left.

I'm still awake because John and I are cramming for the written test we hope to take tomorrow at the DMV. Because the time has come for us to finally become legal in the state of California. It's frightening from almost every angle...not the least of which being that we'll probably have to pay a small fortune for said legalization.

If you're in the mood for browsing products with hypercolor and gratituitous flowers, you might be interested to know that there are new items in the store.

Labels: movies., work.

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In lieu of actual money for all the typing I did for him, my boss let me have a print that's been hanging in the store since before I started working there.

Oh yeah...the store where I work, which sells new and used books, also sells art (prints, originals, posters, some sculpture, etc.).

The print is a reproduction of the Horizons Pavilion mural from the now-defunct Horizons attraction at Disneyworld. Sadly, Horizons was my favorite attraction in all of WDW...and now it's gone. What's cool about this particular print though is that it's signed by the artist, Bob McCall, and used to belong to imagineer and all-around cool guy John Hench. It's super fancy-pants pretty. And since John and I went to Disneyworld for our honeymoon and some of my favorite family vacations when I was a kid were when we went there, it's like we hung happy memories on the wall over our TV. And now all I want to do is look at our honeymoon photo album.

Labels: disney., me and the awesome things I like., work.

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I spent my night typing old love letters my boss got in the 60's from a girl he didn't end up marrying...and watching The Muppets Take Manhattan. I just noticed, while looking for the best site to link, it was nominated for an Oscar for best original score in 1984. I had no idea. I felt sort of sad...what with this being a movie from my childhood and all...and there being a lot in it about friends splitting up and writing to each other and plotting out plans that might never happen.



The letters I was typing were pretty rough. Not poorly written or anything, just, well...I think I probably wrote letters sort of like that to guys I didn't marry either...and I can't imagine someone, someday, forty years from now getting paid to retype them.



The 80's weren't good for Miss Piggy. Huge teased hair just doesn't work for pigs. Have you seen her in that shampoo commercial? Disney has fully owned the muppets for, what? A couple of months? And they've already done ads for Pizza Hut and some shampoo.

And the quote of the day:
"Because you share a love so big, I now pronounce you frog and pig."

Labels: childhood., disney., movies., work.

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Alright, so, I'm doing this typing job on the side for my boss. And I'm not supposed to talk about it. Because apparently his wife, who is also my boss, would get really really angry if she knew one of her employees was working on it. And this worries me. Because I don't want to get fired. Not that I think I would be, even if she found it, but still...it's weird.

And what I'm typing is rather hard to read. It's kind of ironic that this job came up just after I reread the partial diary I kept during college. I read it and thought Wow, I was overdramatic. Not to mention that weird kind of naive, the kind where you really kind of know what's going on, but you're still too young and inexperienced to fully grasp how everything fits together. Of course, I'm still not totally out of that phase yet, being only 23, with my whole life ahead of me...and absolutely no career prospects coming into the horizon at present.

Anyway, I'm reading this stuff he wrote way back in 1960, when he was probably about my age. I guess I shouldn't really even be talking about it, so I'll just say this: There's no worry of me being corrupted by the rantings of a twentysomething self-exiled in London.

To demonstrate sort of how it feels, I made this. Well, to sort of demonstrate. My boss is Invader Zim. I am Stitch. And Lilo is society.

Or something pretentious like that.

Labels: work.

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I just watched Garden State for the first time since I saw it in the theater back in October, I think. We rented it last night, along with Ray, which was way sadder than I ever would have imagined. Anyway, it was strange watching Garden State again now...after so much is different in my life now.

We first saw it in Alhambra, which felt like the middle of nowhere...because it sort of is. And we got there really early, ended up eating at the Denny's down the street before hand. John and I were arguing about jobs and not having them. And about whether or not we were even suppose to be in California. And then we saw this movie that defines family as "a group of people that all miss the imaginary place," that imaginary place being the elusive definition of "home."

Things not being so desolate now, I watched it again, right after a rather disappointing work week. Disappointing because I'm a snob and feel self-conscious when I hand ex-employees, who've just been accepted to impressive East Coast schools, their change.

When I read this article in the Times on Sunday, the two things seemed related. I don't really know why exactly. The article really annoyed me though. Mainly because I got the feeling that Charlotte Allen is not only not in the position to judge, but that she doesn't realize how much she contradicts herself.

For example:

Allen mentions Deborah Tannen and that she writes about "how the sexes are socialized to communicate differently" in an article that basically says women, of late, are only good at being privately intellectual.

From Tannen's book You Just Don't Understand, discussing a sample couple:

"Returning to Rebecca and Stuart, we saw that when they are home alone, Rebecca's thoughts find their way into words effortlessly, whereas Stuart finds he can't come up with anything to say. The reverse happens when they are in other situations. For example, at a meeting of the neighborhood council or the parents' association at their children's school, it is Stuart who stands up and speaks. In that situation, it is Rebecca who is silent, her tongue tied by an acute awareness of all the negative reactions people could have to what she might say, all the mistakes she might make in trying to express her ideas." (page 87) In other words, women are chatty at home, men are confident in public.

Now, is it just me, or is there something missing in Charlotte Allen's assessment of female intellectuals? Or should she simply not have made reference to Tannen, whose book holds such a persuasive argument Allen herself has chosen to ignore?

And then I think about myself. And in what direction, if there is one, that I'm heading. And I wonder, when does the need for progression slow to a halt?

The truth isn't that I'm some lost child, searching for the way back. I'm just looking for the way out.

Labels: movies., work.

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I'm using John's computer because my laptop is going through a problem. It won't recognize the power chord, so the battery won't charge. Not cool. Dell sent me a new power chord because we figured the old one had just been wadded up too many times to work anymore. It came today. That did not solve my problem.

Dell is now going to send me a box so I can ship my laptop to them and they can fix it. They request, however, that before I send it I should "remove the hard drive."

I am a little freaked out about that. But that will prevent any scratching, right?

Anyway, I'm using John's computer with what feels like (after using a laptop for so long) the world's largest keyboard.

My desktop, meanwhile, is sitting on our bedroom floor. It hasn't been connected and running since May, before we moved out of our apartment in Atlanta.

And I had every intention of getting it up and running today. I didn't though. Partly because I ended up working half of yesterday (Monday being my other day off) to fill in for someone. And partly because I really don't know where I'd put it anyway.

Labels: work.

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I've been typing like a fiend. Freelance typist. That's me. I'm seeing.

This morning, at work, my manager (the Sunday manager, incidentally, is my favorite) sent me next door to the AMPM for milk and a couple copies of the Times. And as I walked outside, the weather was fantastic. It was like an LA postcard out there. And the cars drove by. And the mountains stuck up above the buildings in front of me. And then I smelled it.

There's a quality in the air that I only smell occasionally, but that I remember smelling every time I went into my grandparents' backyard when I would visit as a kid. And when I've smelled it in other cities (Nashville, Bowling Green, Atlanta, anywhere with lots of cars in one place, basically), I always think mmm, LA.

And it's really strange to get all nostalgic about a place when you're actually there. It's like I forgot. Maybe I did.

Dude. I gotta go to the beach.

Labels: los angeles is weird., work.

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The metaphor is almost,
no--
is too obvious.
This man who sounds like my father,
over the popping and crackle of a phone that's needed replacing for years,
tells me he feels fine.
The biopsy revealed
he has silica in his lungs.

Silica, in little paper packages:

in the toes of patent leather church shoes
with "little bitty buckles" his heavy hands could barely fasten
(as I brushed my cheek on his stiff collar--
Old Spice is almost,
no--
is too obvious now);

in molds, I think;

in countless nooks, crannies, and doll boxes;

to remove moisture?

The disease is shaped like honeycomb,
as though, somehow,
it thought we need

a reminder.

We already know these things.

Sylvia Plath was given a beekeeper.
I close my eyes
and see the man on stage,
spinning plates on sticks depend on his encouragement.

Honeycomb lungs for the man
who went to work on the morning of my wedding day.
He occupies my words as
wrenches and lathes:

Metaphor becomes useless with only the thing.

--October 30, 2004, sitting on the ground in Tomorrowland.

As I was shuffling around the entire section of tv/movie star biographies at work today, a man came up and started making polite conversation with me:

Wouldn't it be great if you could just internalize all the material in books just by touching them?

I nodded.

I'd just shelve books all day long.

Of course, I didn't have anything terribly interesting to say in response, so I just agreed and kept working. And then he asked how I got the job. Did I have a background in English? Was I from Kentucky originally? Why didn't I have an accent? What did I study? Rita Dove? Oh, yes, National Poet Laureate. Mhmm. Had I read much Wallace Stevens?

He had done graduate work at NYU. He was talking to me because he was in the store...selling his books. Because he has no job and needs money.

Selling your books because you need the money...

How does it go? Go to grad school and make yourself even more unemployable?

I want to keep the plates spinning, Dad. And I want to add more.

If I could only realize in "real life" the excitement I feel over being able to bring up in casual conversation that Ted Kooser is from Nebraska... Or even that I know who he is.

I don't know. Maybe I'm asking for too much.

I just keep going back to that image of the homeless man in Boyle Heights pushing a shopping cart full of books. Hold out. Hold out 'til the bitter end.

Labels: books., family., school., work.

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So. No more Hallmark. I now work in a bookstore. And I've decided that if I were in the X-men, I'd be a shapechanger. Like Rebecca Romijn. Only overweight and, you know, not blue and naked.

I watched the American Music Awards tonight. What a bizarre waste of time. John Mayer's guitar mic was turned up louder than the one he was using to sing...so it looked like he was just strumming away and mouthing the words. The audio seemed basically off for most of the performances. I missed Gwen Stefani altogether. Still not sure how that happened. Probably just as well though. Saw Josh Groban though.

I think my least favorite celebrity is Jessica Simpson. And, frankly, the very fact that I've formulated the thought of who my least favorite celebrity is...frightens me.

I'm glad I'm working in a book store now... Intelligence by osmosis. And so on.

Labels: music., tv., work.

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I'm still at work.

I realized today that if I stand up and look out the window above my cubicle, I can see the Hollywood sign.

I've been going to lunch at this place called Astro Burger, down the street at Melrose and Gower. The women behind the counter have severe lipliner arches on their faces and ponytails so slick their hair looks fake. The posters on the wall cover two subjects: tourist locations in Greece and the Gardenburger.

I come in alone. Get my (superfluous) main entre, (main attraction) fried zucchini, and coke and take up half of whichever two-seater booth in the corner is available. I turn on my cell phone. But no one has left me a voicemail telling me that my stunning resume wowed them under their desk and they must, without further delay, employ me at my earliest possible convenience. So. I call my mom.

Tomorrow maybe I should go to the healthy place across the street.

Probably not.

Labels: los angeles is weird., work.

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The music last night was really nice. I'm listening to The Mathematicians on the laptop right now.

Last night while Lee's band was playing, I had to go to the bathroom. As I walked out of the busy dining hall and down the stairs, everything turned into an unnatural silence. And I thought, if this were a movie, something bad would happen to me now, while my husband is directly upstairs listening to Lee's band with about 60 computer geeks eating bad hotdogs and undercooked burgers. I'm going to be mugged or murdered or something during Lee's horrible stage banter.

Nothing happened.

On the way back, I found a bunch of Japanese girls hanging out and looking into the windows of the doors in the lobby at the band. They've been here all summer. They've lived down the hall from us for over a month. I don't know any of their names. I motioned for them to go in, which made them smile and giggle. They didn't come in until later though. I guess they needed to work up the courage.

They're going back to Japan today. One of them has hung out around us a lot in the past three weeks. I don't know her name. When John and I were leaving the party last night to go back to the lab, she and her friend were standing off to the side, near the door. Crying. I gave her a hug, which seemed to do nothing but make her cry harder.

We have to pack this evening because we're moving again. Going back home. Home is such a stupid word. How does it get away with being so ambiguous? I think we're going to dinner with some of the other counselors tonight. They're going home tomorrow.

When my alarm clock went off this morning, I could hear an engine idling outside, toward the main door. I imagined it as being a big charter bus like the one in which I first saw Dirty Dancing in high school on a trip to the Cincinnati Zoo with plush pink seats, waiting as tiny Japanese women pulled cumbersome luggage behind them, the cold breeze blowing their dark hair in front of their eyes.

It was probably just a garbage truck.

Labels: music., work.

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I have a student this week, a seven-year-old girl. And I'm actually going to teach the general curriculum. This week has started out in a way that I would describe as normal, except that it hasn't happened to me before...which goes against the point of "normal."

I started reading Red Clay, Blue Cadillac last night on the train back from Grand Central. I just finished the third story. It's so different from the stuff I normally read, I'm not sure how to "judge" it. For example, one of the stories I read today was first published in Playboy.

Yes, I know. And Kurt Vonnegut is free to get his stuff published wherever he wants. It's not like I've read any of it either. Right. Right. For the articles, I know. I know.

It leaves me wondering though, are Southern women (the subject up for analysis) really that much different from other women? And if so, do I have it? Makes me wanna go around calling people honey. And now that I think about it, I kind of do that already. But not with a pot of decaf in one hand and a face like Naomi Judd. Where'd that image come from anyway? Have I ever actually met anyone who fit that description? My grandmother's name was Cordelia and she made the best buttermilk biscuits in the county, I'd be willing to bet.

On Friday, one of the campers (who I think is 15 or 16) was talking about the way Southerners talked and asked me about the phrase "it's gonna hit the fan," which he so politely edited for my camp-counselor, could-get-him-in-trouble ears. He knew what it meant...but somehow wanted to attribute it to rednecks in a saloon [because we had so many of those in the rural South] getting bored...or something like that. I don't know. It didn't make any sense.

And by the way, his Southern accent sounded like the very stuff headed for the blades.

Labels: books., tennessee., work.

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I'm so tired. So. Tired. I burned off a disk tonight with all the stuff I did with my kid in class...complete with an html interface that I made tonight--something I'm not sure I really needed to do. It took a while...and I'm not sure anyone's going to really care.

I think that's what's bothering me lately. I want more people to care. Not about me, necessarily, but about things other than themselves.

There's something disconcerting (and I do mean disconcerting) about hanging out with the "lax" crowd for so long. I've known lots of people who were messy and only half-heartedly devoted to school/work before, but there always seemed to be at least a kernel of compassion and conviction just waiting for the right words to chase it out of them. And it's usually always been more than just a kernel. I know people who get livid.

And that's just plain endearing.

I feel like I'm a long way from home. Because I'm at home around the opinionated, the feministic, and the involved. I'd much rather fail than never try.

Labels: friends., work.

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I was supposed to be at work today. I was supposed to work three days this week. That is, I was supposed to work before I found out my assignment was cancelled. So. I'm playing with the laptop my parents gave me for graduation. I just got it Thursday night. I've been downstairs for a total of about ten minutes today. Watching movies on our little TV in the bedroom and cuddling on the bed with a purring little Dell isn't the worst way to spend a day.

Labels: work.

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