Overly Verbal

So today I bought some cat toys. (Because they were half-price, and even my cat likes to save money). Hot pink, bright red, and grey fake mice, because the only way to get a grey mouse was in a three-pack. (My cat’s not stupid. Mice are grey, brown, maybe white, but not pink or red. So the pink and red ones will sit in the basket with the other miscolored fake mice, while the grey one will be played with ferociously. I know, the math doesn’t work. Paying half-price for something you are only going to utilize a third of leaves you paying 150% of the real value of the portion you’re using, but whatever. I’m a sucker for a discount.)

So I, being the person that I am, read the directions on the toys. And get this: you’re supposed to supervise your pet when they are playing with fake mice. Really. It says so right on the package: “TO ENSURE SAFETY, YOUR PET SHOULD BE SUPERVISED WHEN PLAYING WITH TOYS.” I think we can all agree that I’m a little off, a little more careful than the average person, but for goodness’s sake, watching the cat play with his toys? So I, being the person that I am, check the Internet for information on ways in which cat toys can be dangerous. And aside from the possibility that a fake mouse might have eyes or ears or a tail that can be pulled off and swallowed by the little fuzzbuster, you’re in pretty good shape when it comes to the fake mice. I always supervise my cat when I let him eat marshmallows; I don’t have time to watch him play with fake mice. (Your children, however, might swallow a fake mouse, so I think it would be slightly more productive to label the cat toys with warnings about your children being supervised when playing with cat toys. Or maybe you should just buy your children their own toys already. Geez.)

Anyway, does anyone actually do that, supervise their pets when they’re playing with toys? I mean, sure, if your dog is playing with a frisbee, he’s liable to be supervised, what with his lack of opposable thumbs preventing him throwing a frisbee himself and all. But I would like just one person to leave a comment explaining the turn of events that caused him or her to start supervising their animals when chew toys were available, just so I can understand. (You can even make up a reasonably believable scenario. That would be fine.) Thank you.

Also, it bothers me no end when I type something in Microsoft Word and am told a word is wrong: Word tells me that miscolored should be discolored, which is so wrong it’s not even funny. So, I told Word that miscolored is a word, and now I feel better, because it will not correct me again on that matter, but I do also feel as if I should probably write a letter to Microsoft and tell them their dictionary is wrong. (But then I’d have to write Google an e-mail and tell them that Gmail needs a custom dictionary option, because it always tells me that my last name is spelled wrong, and that’s pretty aggravating too.) (And my travel Scrabble game has letter racks with only enough room for seven letters, instead of the requisite eight spaces required for easily moving your tiles around. Arrgh.) (If I wrote every letter I should write, to tell someone that their product would be vastly improved if they just took my suggestion, I would never get a single other thing done. Why don’t people just ask me before they make new things?)

(And now, of course, I’m also reminded of the time I used the word ‘moreover’ in something I wrote, and someone who was being helpful changed the word to ‘however’. Because they were unaware that such a word as ‘moreover’ existed. Here’s a tip: if you read something I wrote, and you don’t know a word, it might behoove you to look it up in the dictionary. Because I’m probably not wrong. Really. I’m Jennifer, and I’m probably not wrong. Get used to it.)

I got a new keyboard! It’s ugly as all sin and fully attached to my computer with a wire (which is not what I wanted at all). But it’s very quiet, all the keys work, and it was only $20.00. So I’m not complaining, and I think I’ll be able to write here more frequently now that I have a functioning tool to do so.

First, though, I have to put together my new file cabinet. I bought a file cabinet for myself for my birthday. (I know: it’s an actual illness, OCD, and one that you can get treatment for. But if I want a file cabinet for my birthday, that’s what I shall have.) So if that’s what you were planning to get me, send me an e-mail and I’ll tell you where you can get another one that will match. I think I’ll need two, actually.

Some men are so beautiful it should be illegal. In particular I’m thinking of Ben Folds and Josh Joplin. (And they both do really lovely covers of songs that make me disproportionately happy. In particular “Such Great Heights” and “Eye of the Tiger” respectively. You should listen to them, and then you’d be happy too.)

(And the laughing in the cover of “Eye of the Tiger” reminds me of New Order’s “Every Little Counts” and when’s the last time you listened to that? (And if you were wondering how long any given person could spend on YouTube watching 1980s videos? Well, it’s a long time. Quite long, actually.) (And how long could one spend dancing around one’s living room to “Bizarre Love Triangle,” if one were so inclined? Three minutes and 51 seconds.))

And that’s all I have for today. I should have something good later this week. Mighty is back. Mouse is mad. Tomorrow morning I have to deliver myself to a temp agency. (In a suit, I guess. We all know that I naturally choose a suit when attempting to clothe myself, so that should be fun.) Details will surely follow.

Is it or is it not the height of all laziness to order your groceries online and have them delivered? Personally, I believe it’s simply prudent, if you don’t have a car. The delivery fee is only $4.95 (if you have a coupon or spend more than $100, which is easy if you only order your groceries once a month), and when you consider that it would cost between $2 and $2.50 to take the bus to and from the grocery store (well, it could be as cheap as $1.25, or even $1, if I ever managed to be bothered saving money by using bus transfers - it’s weird, but I would really rather pay extra than have to deal with a bus transfer. Usually I’m so practical, but the transfers are printed on that crappy newsprint, and they bug me.), I think we can all agree that there is at least $3.95 worth of aggravation involved each and every time you go to the grocery store. I’ve never had a bad experience with Peapod (by Giant), except the very first time I ordered from them, when the truck broke down and they didn’t bring my groceries until the next day. But they gave me free delivery then, and if you’re bringing me my groceries? You know what? Take as long as you’d like. Generally they arrive either five minutes after the opening of the delivery window or five minutes before the closing of the window, but it’s so pleasant to be sitting at home waiting for my groceries that it just doesn’t matter when they come. But here’s a thing you might wanna know. Giant won’t deliver alcohol to your home, and Safeway will. But when I lived in New Haven there was no Safeway, so I always use Peapod. But you might want to try Safeway, because if I’m not mistaken, paying someone to deliver beer to your house is the height of all civilization or something. (Or library books. That would be even better, if I could convince the library to just bring the books to my house. Then I’d never ever have to go outside.)

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for today. If you too would like to have your groceries delivered, give them my e-mail address, and I’ll get a discount!

So I was talking with someone last night about career aptitude tests. So I took one, and this is only a small part of what we’ve learned:

Rather than a motivation for putting others first, Jennifer’s preferences revolve around self as a first priority. Jennifer is motivated by self-interest, status, and recognition. Jennifer does not like to lose, so all options and choices are evaluated on the basis of the chance of gain versus the chance of loss before a decision or commitment is made. Stress and frustration are experienced when things aren’t going Jennifer’s way. Pleasure, enthusiasm, and energy are experienced when things are going Jennifer’s way. Association and relationships are chosen, maintained, or abandoned on the basis of self-interest.

Well thank goodness we finally figured that out, eh?

And this:

Compiling means more than simply gathering large volumes of data sheets and stuffing them in a filing cabinet. It means that Jennifer is motivated to find, identify, classify, store, remember, and retrieve what is important or what might be important for future use. (NOTE: This is crucial for researchers, technical writers, lawyers, academic teachers, consultants, systems engineers, and programmers).

Also?

Because of Jennifer’s unique motivations for working with math, it can probably be said that she is deliberate enough, concentrates enough, figures enough, and watches detail enough to be able to add, subtract, multiply and divide to come up with the right numbers. For some otherwise bright people, this is hard to do or very unlikely to happen (e.g., dialing a phone number or putting the right address on an envelope). Transposing numbers may be a problem for some persons, so this unique preference with regard to math may not always register for this worker trait.

Oh my god. Apparently I can do basic math, and accurately. Who are these “otherwise bright people” who can’t dial a phone or address an envelope? I feel special, particularly given that I not only don’t transpose numbers, but actually know the rule to figure out if someone else has transposed numbers. (The rule of nine: if you’re trying to balance your checkbook, and the difference is divisible by nine, chances are you’ve transposed a number. I don’t know why it works, but get this: if you write 18 instead of 81, the difference is 63. 25 instead of 52? 27. I could go on, but I’m sure you get it by now. Here’s another thing we learned: “Jennifer is motivated to educate, which means to share knowledge that will be useful for the persons taught.” (That’s useful right there, in case you didn’t know what ‘educate’ means.))

So I think I know what I’m going to do for a living now. I need to go work for this career-helping company, as an editor. You probably didn’t notice that their use of serial commas is inconsistent in the paragraph about the math. But I did. Because for me, at least, “Preferences lean heavily toward proper language usage, spelling, punctuation, keyword identification, referencing, and cross-referencing. Attention to detail is essential and remains a motivational factor in vocational activity and success.”

Still, I can’t help but keep coming back to the idea that I should hang up the whole regular job thing and open a bookstore where I can also sell baked goods. All I need is some venture capital. Anyone?

(The other thing I need, if I’m going to roll over my retirement contributions from my last job, is a notary. Anyone?)

If you haven’t seen Akeelah and the Bee and have any desire whatsoever not to know how the movie ends, just stop reading this right now, because I’m going to spoil it for you.

Oh, it was a heartwarming, inspiring story. First, my heart was warmed when Derrick-T is talking about the poem he wrote, and some thug says “You wrote a poem?” and T says, “What do you think rap IS?” What indeed?

[Cases in point:

A lot of simps won’t like this song
‘Cause them punks like to hit it and quit it
And I’d rather stay and play
‘Cause I’m long, and I’m strong
And I’m down to get the friction on.

Poetry. (See how it rhymes and stuff?)

Oh yes, ladies, I’m really bein’ sincere
’cause in a 69 my humpty nose will tickle ya rear.
My nose is big, uh-uh I’m not ashamed
Big like a pickle, I’m still gettin’ paid.
I get laid by the ladies, ya know I’m in charge,
both how I’m livin’ and my nose is large.
I get stoopid, I shoot an arrow like Cupid,
I use a word that don’t mean nothin’, like looptid.

Again with the rhyming. Poetry, I tell you.

I don’t know what they want from me
It’s like the more money we come across
The more problems we see

Biggie, Biggie, Biggie, can’t you see? Sometimes your words just hypnotize me.]

And then I was inspired. First, to win the national spelling bee. (But it’s too late for that now, so I’ll have to live vicariously through my child.)

Then, I was inspired again. Inspired to make sure that no child I know, let alone any child I might actually have, would ever in a million years consider throwing any contest, let alone a spelling bee, to make some other kid feel better. That’s cheating! (I thought we had covered the cheating in an earlier scene in the movie. Cheating is wrong.) If you have to see the movie with a child, and you can’t find the words to explain to that child why it’s wrong to pretend like you don’t know how to spell a word that you can actually spell (because you suddenly went mute AND lost the power to write), please refer to my last post, with the lovely inspirational quote about not shrinking to make other people feel secure. (Or the commandment about not bearing false witness against your neighbors. (I’m not sure that’s what God meant by “bearing false witness”, pretending you can’t spell, but it seems right to me.))

And the movie doesn’t misattribute the lovely quote about the light at all. In fact, it doesn’t attribute the quote to anyone, nor does it use ellipses when truncating the quote. Both of which are also wrong. [And I don’t want to be accused of the same lack of scholarly zeal, so let me just state that the quotes above happen to be Sir Mix-A-Lot, Digital Underground, and Notorious B.I.G., respectively. As if you didn’t know that already.]

But really, it was not the very worst movie ever. And this is why I am not a movie reviewer. Because movies make me mad, even if they have two or three redeeming qualities. They could have just let Akeelah win outright, because she was the better speller, and then had the other kid’s dad brought up on child abuse charges, and that would have been fine. But no, it had to be some sort of feel-good romp in which everyone wins in the end. And that just pisses me off. Everyone doesn’t win in the end. Lots of people are losers. Why isn’t that ever a lesson?

Someone always has to lose. Get over it.

So I’m watching this movie, Akeelah and the Bee. (It’s about spelling bees, and, as we all know, the only thing I’m really good at is spelling, so I generally like the movies about the spelling bees). So there’s this quote, on Laurence Fishburne’s wall:

Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be
brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?’
Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God;
Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that
other people won’t feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.
It is not just in some of us,
It is in everyone, and as we let our
own light shine we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.

Marianne Williamson
“A Return to Love”

And Akeelah reads it out loud, and he asks her what it means, and she says something like, “I’m not supposed to be afraid . . . of me.” And that really resonates, doesn’t it?

(So, I haven’t yet gotten as far in the movie as the part where the quote is misattributed to Nelson Mandela (I only went so far as to Google it and find that out, because I had to pause the movie to share the quote with you). Marianne Williamson is really pretty, so no wonder she believes in God. (I, however, am firmly reminded once a month that there is no God, because if God was all-loving and whatnot, I don’t see why I’d have menstrual cramps.) I was a little hesitant to see the movie in the first place, what with it being produced by Starbucks or something, but I’ve kinda got this thing going with Netflix, so you might as well get ready now to hear my thoughts on any number of movies that I wouldn’t normally watch. It’ll be fun, I guarantee it.) (And tomorrow, barring actually getting a job or something, I swear to God I’m going to read this alleged book, “A Return to Love”, even if I have to pay good money for it.)

So, I hereby (if not at all unconsciously) give you permission to stop hiding your light under a bushel, hold your index finger in the air as if it was a flame (as you were most probably taught to do in Sunday school), and be fabulous all over the place. Go on, do it. Who are you not to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?

I’m having a little trouble with my keyboard (in particular, the shift and +/= sign keys are sticking). (Some of you know why.) Anyway, not being able to accurately type leads to blogging problems. Yes, I could go buy a new keyboard, but I had a job interview yesterday (at which I took a proofreading and an “attention to details” test - details will surely follow) that required my going to the mall and spending $100 (because you can’t buy new pants without buying a new blouse, bag, and shoes to go with them. No, really, you can’t. And if you happen to be me, and you happen to actually find two pairs of pants that fit you, you have to buy them both, because that never happens.) (Because I’m a freak of nature with abnormally long legs. I know. You should have such problems. Whatever.), and when you’re unemployed, it’s really probably better not to spend a lot of money. Of course, it’s only money, you’ll make more, but still. I want a wireless keyboard. In case I want to sit on my couch and type. Because sometimes I do. And you can’t buy a wireless keyboard without buying a wireless mouse, and the combo I want is super-expensive, because it won’t do to have just any old wireless keyboard, it has to fit into my personal aesthetic, which is really rather stringent. What to do? It’s not like you have to replace your keyboard frequently, so you should get the one you want, right? (Speaking of personal aesthetics, is it necessary to point out that when I finally joined the 21st century and bought a DVD player I bought one that was several years old but was precisely the same brand that my TV and VCR are, because I like things to match? I thought not.)

See why I can’t write to my blog? Aside from the wireless keyboard dilemma, I’m also faced with this existential crisis that my hair is having. I sort of pride myself on my remarkably cute hair, but I think I should grow it out again, because a) it’s going to be winter soon, and b) if I grew it out I could donate it again, and then have remarkably cute hair for free, because when you donate your hair you get a free haircut. But then in the interim it would be all awkward-looking. Is that okay, even in the name of altruism? (See, what with the keyboard and the hair, it’s a wonder I can type at all.)

(Don’t you sometimes wish I wouldn’t write here at all? Wouldn’t that be nicer?)

The other day I got it in my head that I wanted a soft pretzel. (When I lived in New York it pleased me no end to be able to go on my lunch break to a pretzel vendor outside of the Museum of Natural History and then share my pretzel with a squirrel in Central Park. Those were days.) So I made soft pretzels, and I have only two things to say about that. First, they were delicious. Second, they were ugly as all sin. The second batch will be better, I’m sure, because they will simply be pretzel sticks (logs?), instead of pretzel-shaped pretzels, and will therefore be both beautiful and delicious.

In other news, I am happy that it is September. September is my favorite month. This September, in particular, is coming out very nicely, given the unemployment, and the knitting (I’m nearly finished with a cardigan), and the weather being all rainy and cool (and one other thing I’m sort of keeping under my hat). September tends to be filled too with fun junk like craft fairs (in particular one at Mt. Vernon I think I’ll attend Saturday - if you’ve suddenly developed an interest in 18th-century crafts, you’re welcome to come with me) and arts festivals, and oh, yeah, September is the month leading to my birthday, which conveniently coincides with Columbus Day this year, allowing me a three day weekend (or not, if I don’t have a job). I’ve already mentioned at least two things I’d like for my birthday (Manilow tickets and the New Yorker archives on a portable hard drive, in case you’ve forgotten), but I think it’s only fair to point out that I’d also like a car. If you happen to have an extra, I mean.

(Also, I think it’s only fair to note that if you happen to be five foot seven, and choose to wear two and a half inch heels to a job interview, secure in the idea that you will be meeting lots of men who are taller than you, you will invariably only meet women, all of whom are actually much shorter than you are, even when you are not wearing two and a half inch heels. Just so you know.)

One other thing. It’s almost time to renew my lease. I can do so for twelve months, for only a slight increase, or for six months, for a fairly steep increase, or go month-to-month, for a ridiculous increase per month. Thing is, there’s only a half-month’s rent penalty for breaking your lease, so it’s actually cheaper to sign a twelve-month lease and break it after six months than to sign a six-month lease. Are people really that stupid? It’s not like basic math is a secret. (Sometimes I feel frankly frightened for the fate of this world, but other times I just feel like a freakin’ rocket scientist.)

I think that’s all, for now. Again, I’m sorry I left you hanging, desperately wondering what I’ve been up to. (One thing about this whole blogging thing that has only recently become apparent is that I only have a song stuck in my head when I’m unhappy. When I’m happy, as I am now, I have a perfectly normal relationship with music, and since many a time any given blog entry begins with some nonsense about a song I have stuck in my head, I have fewer and fewer impetuses for entries the happier I am. Hard to be me, I tell you, hard to be me.)

(First, let me start by telling an amusing story that took place in the Barnes & Noble College Bookstore in New Haven, Connecticut. I wasn’t there, but I believe it:

Customer: I’d like to return this book.
Cashier: Okay, let me just call back to the manager.
Manager on phone [apparently]: “What’s the title of the book?”
Cashier: Let me look. ‘Henry Eye-Vee.’

(Which naturally reminds me of the time I went to the Barnes & Noble on the Upper West Side, looking for “The Way of the Pilgrim.” After finally asking someone for help (and having to spell the word “pilgrim” for her after she assumed it was spelled “pilgram” - uh, didn’t we learn that in, I don’t know, second, maybe third grade? You work in a freakin’ bookstore?), I learned that different versions of it could be found in both the literature and the religion sections, but the one in the literature section was shelved under the name of the translator, and the one in the religion section was shelved before Aquinas (which belongs under T anyway, you bloody morons!) (not you, Barnes & Noble), but after Adler, because, as we all know, “Anonymous” is and was a living, breathing author, and should be shelved as such. Is it any wonder that no one reads when even the people who work in bookstores can’t put the books where they belong?)

(And naturally that reminds me of many a funny story that occurred when I managed a bookstore, and before that when I worked at a Doubleday. But I’m trying to make a point here, and it’s not about bookstores, it’s about why I need a new job.))

So today I started drinking beer at four, and am eating frozen pizza for dinner (after cooking it, I mean. I’m not that far gone.) (Yet.). I’m quite sure my life was significantly different when I had a job, but then again, the only jobs I’m finding are ones for which I am grossly overqualified. (I’m sure we could all have a field day in the comments about why no job for which I am perfectly (or even under-) qualified is even remotely attractive to me, but let’s not, eh?) Anyway, I really did think when I started this little unemployment kick that I would go slightly mad after a week or two of not working, but instead, I’m totally enjoying it. Which is all just to say that a) I need a sugar daddy, and b) I’m a happy person.

Also, Mr. Monkeyspank loves Eddie Money. (Hopefully not with the love that dare not speak its name, but at least in a way that is slightly annoying.) The first 10 or 20 times someone sings “Take me home tonight,” it’s cute, maybe, but because the lyrics are so very inane, it made me very, very sad when Mr. M called me last night and veritably shouted, “Turn your radio to 94.7 right now!” Because 94.7 was actively engaged in an Eddie Money retrospective, not so long after Mr. M had been singing “Be my little baby” at me so frequently that I most assuredly did not want to be his little baby. (Note my word choice, Freak Money D. I said “at” not “to”.)

(And now I can hear you thinking, “Okay, Jennifer, this story is lame.” Bear with me.)

So I’m drifting off to sleep, with Eddie Money lyrics in my head (Won’t you pack your bags, we’ll leave tonight) when suddenly INXS is in my head: Never Tear Us Apart, which may be the worst INXS song of all time, if only because it would not go away. And eventually I have to get out of bed to look up the lyrics online, because I’m sure there are more lyrics, and I’m just forgetting them. But no, my ability to remember lyrics is strong and true. That’s just all the lyrics there are. Four different stanzas. That’s all. And that’s Stupid. (With a capital S.) But what I’d really like now is for someone to analyze the tablatures, or whatever the heck they’re called, and tell me why Eddie Money led to INXS so that we can all understand what’s going on in my head. Anyone?

Because maybe then you wouldn’t have to read any more of these boring, boring stories about stupid things that happen to me. And that would be good, wouldn’t it?

This is Mighty.

This is how Mouse feels about Mighty.

That is all.