Overly Verbal

You know what day I like every year? The day on which I purchase my calendar for the next year. It always makes me happy to look back at my calendar from the previous year and decide whose birthday I’m not going to remember anymore.

I also get some small hope out of the idea that my calendar in the coming year will include lovely and amusing social events in greater measure than last year’s did. But that almost never happens. And yet I retain my hope, because when you get right down to it, my capacity for hope is really unquashable.

Is unquashable a word? It is now.

I can’t wait until I can use parentheses again.

For the last two days I have spent my lunch break in Barnes and Noble, and for two days in a row I have avoided spending $9.95 on the book that includes all of the words you might need to learn to become a competitive Scrabble player. Okay, less than $9.95, really, because of that whole B&N member deal. But still, that book is kinda heavy, and I didn’t want to lug it home, because the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority hates me. For example, today they managed to kill one of their employees, and injure another, by running into said employees with a train, in between two stations that are too close to my home for comfort.

And so I left work early, and took another subway line home, and people were complaining the whole time about the delays. At one point we had to get off the train, only to get back on the same train three and a half minutes later, because a train was disabled in front of us. Excuse me for a moment, you miserable, complaining people, but you could have been the lover or parent or child of someone who got killed by a train this morning. Wanna maybe try putting things into perspective for a minute? We just spent three and a half minutes not moving forward. Get a goddamned grip.

It’s a wonder I ever build up enough courage to actually leave my home.

But back to Barnes and Noble. The man who helped me was freakin’ adorable. I had read about a book in the Barnes and Noble blow in - okay, it’s not a blow in if it’s fully attached with rubber cement. What is it then? A “free-standing insert”? But it’s attached. I don’t have time for this quibbling - in the New Yorker, and could remember only the first three, maybe four words of the title.

And he found the book in the computer system, in spite of my being kind of vague, because he’s my new hero. And it was supposed to be on the gift books table, so he accompanied me there, and it was not. So we went to the New Age section.

And when I apologized for being approximately the worst customer of all time, because I made him go to the New Age section in the first place, and then open a shrink-wrapped book so I could look at it - he used my keys - after making him jump through hoops to figure out where the stupid book was in the first place? He said, “No, this is fun, actually.”

And we talked about Carlos Castaneda, as people do when they’re standing around in the New Age section, and I’m like half in love with him already, and now I don’t know what to do. Sure, I can come up with any number of excuses to visit Barnes and Noble on my lunch break tomorrow, and two days next week, but after that I won’t be working within striking distance of this particular bookstore.

Can you really ask a boy who works in a bookstore out on a date? Can you? How? Help me out here. I’m too old for this. If you worked in a bookstore, and a clever charming girl was on the verge of actually stalking you, what would you want her to say to make something else happen?

Don’t fail me now. Really.

Just so you know, it is in fact possible to fill all of the space on my answering machine in one fell swoop. You just have to sing into it long enough. My answering machine is great. I love it. People call me, and when I don’t answer the phone, they sing. Sometimes “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,” sometimes that Eurythmics song “Jennifer,” sometimes “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” sometimes “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

Okay, so that’s mostly just Sara.

But sometimes it’s Manuelo too, which is nice because Manuelo really can sing. Not the songs he chooses to sing into my answering machine, the most recent of which happens to be “Brandy”, but some other songs, at least.

That last sentence? Belongs in parentheses.

I think I’d like to now say that people don’t sing into my answering machine often enough. I am so very easily amused.

Speaking of music, you know how I said that books were the only appropriate Christmas gift? I take that back, but only to add that the Tom Waits box set would also be an appropriate Christmas gift, music being uplifting and spiritually restorative and all. Also, on my lunch break today I’ll be stopping by Barnes and Noble to take a look at their exclusive new Onyx Edition Scrabble board. There hasn’t been an attractive Scrabble board that rotates since the one I own, which came out in 1989 or something. Anyway, if that’s any good, that would make a fine Christmas present too.

In other news, people have been saying the best things to me lately. Here’s the short list:

• Actually, your cat’s kinda bitchy.
• Can you start on the 6th?
• You’re more interesting than I thought you were.*
• Let me know what you think.
• But that’s just wrong!
• I don’t know where, confused about how as well.**

People have said other good things too, but not so much things that make sense completely out of context.

And that’s all I’ve got this morning, but now I’m free to not write here again today. Gosh, when I set my mind to something, I really do it. I wish I could set my mind to doing something productive, instead of something meaningless and easy, like writing an entry every day for seven days without using parentheses. I could quit smoking or something if I would just apply myself.

Wait, how much fun would my blog be if it was all about how I was quitting smoking? That would be rich.

Okay, no it wouldn’t. I’ve quit smoking repeatedly, and each time it’s been really easy, once I just set my mind to it. I need a muse. Someone to convince me that quitting smoking is good for me. Anyone?

In other other news, Mr. Bunny has something new to say.
________

* Pardon me if that wasn’t exactly verbatim. I have this thing where I sometimes restate what someone’s said without being perfectly precise. I say what I thought they said, instead of what they actually said. Oops.

** Wait. No one actually said that. That’s that damn Snow Patrol song, which I cannot get out of my head. Doesn’t matter what I do, it’s stuck in there.

So today was kind of a long day, and I don’t have any steam left, and I’ll be busy later. Yet I promised myself to write here every day. So you know how I always write lists when I can’t write? Let’s mix it up a little, eh?

I think I’ll write some poetry. You might decide never to read my poor, derivative, sad blog again.

*****

Roses are red,
a guard is a sentry.
I’m going to rhyme
for the rest of this entry.

*****

I don’t want a new job,
but a sugar daddy.
If he played golf,
I would be his caddy.
If we farmed rice,
it would grow in a paddy.
If we had a daughter,
we’d name her Maddie.
When I get fat,
he can call me “Fatty”.

*****

I really miss using
parentheses.

• You: “Can she do it?”
• Someone else: “Nah, nothing rhymes with parentheses.”
• You: “Oh, but if anyone can do it, it’s Jen.”
• Someone else: “I bet she can’t.”
• You: “Let’s see, shall we?”

I never have read
Demosthenes.

• Me: “Please hold your applause until we’re through.”

*****

Early to bed
and early to rise
makes a man healthy,
wealthy, and wise.

Yet as hard as I try,
I don’t get enough sleep.
It’s almost enough
to make me weep.

*****

“That’s really cute, Jen.
Don’t do it again.”

“But I’m anxious, and tired,
and not at my best.”

“That’s just what I’m saying.
Please give it a rest.”

It seems that I have a new job.

They’re going to be paying me more than I thought they would.

But still not enough. Whatever.

Their vision plan is paid for by the company, which is good because my retinas are silently deteriorating as I write.

My office is no more than a fifteen-minute walk from the offices of at least two gentlemen* I know with whom I can eat lunch, or have a drink after work.

I can pay for my transit fees with pre-tax dollars. Or my parking, if I had, say, a car.

I may start as early as next Wednesday, or as late as the following Monday.

Writing it here first means that nobody can be mad because I didn’t tell them first, or even immediately.

Now I have to call and explain to the temp agency that while I appreciate their finding me a long-term, potentially permanent position, I really don’t want it anymore. Luckily, that can wait until tomorrow, after I find out when they’d like me to start.

After that’s done, I will only have 13,998 other things to worry about.

I can’t decide whether I’m happy or not. Getting a new job is one of the most stressful things you can do in life, right?

In other news, after making turkey stock, I have only one thing to say about next Thanksgiving. If I’m making dinner, we’re having ham. Because ham doesn’t leave a carcass.

I am doing a great job with this parenthesis thing, no?
_______________________

* And I use that term loosely.

Has anyone picked up this “Only Revolutions”, by this Mark Z. Danielewski character? I’m lost. Publisher says it’s “unlike anything ever published before.” Generally, I like the unusual books.

Okay, I don’t. Can’t stand Joyce, really.

But Faulkner? With all those parentheses? Totally my thing.

I really hate this no parentheses thing. I can’t cope.

But this one is on the NYT list of best 100 books of the year, and I can’t even pick it up without getting a headache. Anyone?

I love the dedications. “You were there.” Fantastic. Wish I’d thought of it. But, oh, my brain hurts.

Sara? You’re all literary like that.

Help me out here. I mean, I’ll try again on the bus in the morning, but geez.

So yesterday, or the day before, someone who I am gracefully allowing to remain nameless told me that my blog is too hard to read because it has too many parentheses.

Yet yesterday, someone told me that I am a good writer, and asked why I’m not an author.

Why am I not an author? There are two reasons.

First, I have this idea that writing is an art and not a skill. I think the only way you can be taught to write is by reading, and then you’re not being taught, precisely, you’re just gathering evidence about what works and what doesn’t. I think I lose my voice every time I try to follow someone’s rules about grammar, or punctuation, or the proper way to tell a story. Every single thing I’ve ever written for pay or for a grade has been schlock. Skillful schlock, but still. Sure I can follow a formula. I can think of at least three different ways to say 69 percent in words: slightly more than two-thirds, somewhat less than three-fourths, nearly seven in ten. And I can write a sentence telling you what I’m going to say, then tell you what I have to say, and then write another sentence telling you what I just said. But that’s boring, and I like writing, so I don’t want to do it for a living, because I’m afraid that would steal my joy. I also enjoy reading, and wouldn’t want to do that for a living either, because there is nothing worse than reading something because you have to, unless it’s writing something because you have to.

The second thing? I have no discipline whatsoever. How I have managed to live my life this far without serious consequences when I am irresponsible about almost every single thing I do is a complete mystery to me. Yes, when it really matters, I have enough discipline for at least three people. But most of the time, I’m easily distracted, entirely suggestible, and have the shortest attention span in the history of the world. Or at least the history of the world since Sesame Street first aired. That show? Ruins your attention span.

Finally, as you may or may not be aware, November is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, as the kids all say these days. There’s no way in hell I’d be able to manage to write a 15,000 word [Oops. I meant 50,000. JM 11/27/06] novel in a month, given that you need such things as characters, settings, and a plot in order to write a novel, and I do not have any of those things. So another year passes in which I don’t write a novel. But it’s also NaBloPoMo - if you want to play along, you’re supposed to post to your blog every day in the month of November. I could have done that, sure, but what would have been the point? My blog is supposed to be entertaining, and I can guarantee you that if I had written anything at all yesterday it would not have been entertaining in the least. I was not in a good mood.

At any rate, this confluence of events has led me to an idea. I don’t think you’re going to like it, but I do, at least for the moment. We’re going to try an experiment. I’m going to write here every day next week, and without once using a single parenthesis. Or a square or angle bracket. Or even a brace.

Unless I decide that I just can’t use my keyboard without using the parentheses every once in a while, and then I’m going to fill this space with emoticons, just to get it out of my system.

Like this

:-)

Or this

:-]

Or this

:->

Or this

:-}

What do I think is going to happen? I think it will be easier than I think it will be. And I think I will write an awful lot of paragraphs that consist of only one or two sentences. And I think I will read slightly less as myself than I normally do. We shall have to wait and see. But I’ve already managed one day, so there are only six more to go.

Wish me luck.

And I’d put this in parentheses, but I’m not supposed to, so I’ll just say it: I wish you luck too. This might be the worst idea I’ve had in a long time.

True to form, I forced my Thanksgiving guests to watch Word Wars. (Okay, only two of them, because Uncle Wiggly had long since fallen asleep. And the movie somehow put Goethe to sleep too, for at least part of the time. Or maybe it was the tryptophan?) I loved it. I love competitive Scrabble players, and sometimes think I’d like to be one.

Of course, Word Freak was a better book than Word Wars was a movie. What book isn’t better than the movie? (Okay, Damage. That’s a better movie than it is a book, but only because in the movie Jeremy Irons gets it on with Juliette Binoche. Standing up, no less.) (But lest you think I’m shallow (shallower? Whatever.), and that I believe every movie version of a book is better just because Jeremy Irons is naked in it, let me point out that I hated the Lolita movie with Jeremy Irons. Hated it. And Mr. Irons got naked. Even that was not enough.) (Much as I appreciate Jeremy Irons, I also really enjoy Eric Stoltz. But The House of Mirth? That movie was also wretched.) (Interestingly, I saw both of those movies in New York. Maybe there’s something about seeing a movie in New York that makes me hate it? Hmm. I didn’t see a lot of movies when I lived in New York. Why spend two hours inside when you could be outside, soaking up the city? I remember seeing The Matrix, but I literally cannot think of another movie that I saw in a theater when I lived there. I wish my memory were stronger. It’s a given that I saw at least one Woody Allen movie while I lived there, but I can’t remember which, or if I liked it. Weird.)

(Speaking of performances, I did perform The Battle Hymn of the Republic in full yesterday evening. And no one left in the middle, but I think that’s because the cheesecake was still on the horizon.) (Speaking of which, did I eat cheesecake for breakfast this morning? Yup.) (Did Uncle Wiggly? No, he had Froot Loops. He always, but always, eats the end of the Froot Loops. Why don’t I just buy bigger boxes of Froot Loops? Why?) (Or more than one box? That would work too.)

Otherwise, I got nothing. Even though it’s technically Friday night, I fully intend to stay in and read a book, maybe knit, maybe watch a movie. Tomorrow I have such exciting things to do as return some library books, go to the bank, dry some catnip (because the catnip plant is now a small bush), and finish cleaning the kitchen. (And I have to deal with the turkey carcass. Most of the time I don’t need a man. I’m quite good at fending for myself. But some things, like if there’s a dead or mortally wounded mouse in my apartment, or a turkey carcass? Sure I can deal with it. (And if it was someone else’s house? I’d be happy to pick up that person’s dead mice, or deal with their turkey carcasses. I’m just nice like that.) But even though I can do those things, it would be nicer if there were a man to do those things for me. Shouldn’t my feminine wiles be good for something? Damn it.)

Oh yeah. That job thing, where they were going to call me by Wednesday? They didn’t. And now Friday has come and gone too, but without a phone call. That’s fine. I don’t really need a job or anything. (Damn it again.)

(Speaking of Scrabble (yes, that was a while ago, but at least it’s still the same entry), Uncle Wiggly is good at Scrabble. Yes, I used all seven of my letters this morning, but he used all seven of his letters in the same game. And then did it again. Twice, in one game. Damn it yet a third time.)

I’m trying to think of a happy note to end on. Oh wait: here’s something. After Thanksgiving I somehow ended up with more wine than I had when I started. Given the special proclivity that most of the guests and I have towards consuming large amounts of alcohol, that’s not just happy, it’s pretty well remarkable. (You can tell, because I just, um, remarked upon it.)

So today? I’m pretty thankful. I know some great people, and some of them came to my house for dinner. And I didn’t poison any of them, and everyone was satisfied with the meal in general. Funny things that happened?

• “You made the whipped cream? How do you make whipped cream?” “You buy cream, and then you whip it. You have to add sugar, but that’s about it. It’s all about speed, and sharp blades.” “That’s hot.” “Actually, it’s chilled.”
• I shouldn’t admit this out loud, but we totally looked at online porn at one point. All four of us, hovering around the monitor, arguing about whether the woman onscreen was faking it or not. Turns out, she was faking it, and one of us could explain how. Doesn’t everyone do that, watch porn on Thanksgiving, and then explain how it works? If not, why? (How lucky are the boys I know, that at least one of the girls they know wants to look at online porn with them, and on Thanksgiving, no less? Lucky.)
• I forgot to eat any turkey. I ate glazed carrots, stuffing, Brussels sprouts vinaigrette (a la Martha Stewart), a roll that was perfect, cornbread, the very best fruit salad ever, mashed potatoes (that were way too dry, but no one but me noticed), sweet potatoes with caramelized apples (geez, that’s a lot of vegetables, isn’t it?) pumpkin pie, and cheesecake. But I didn’t eat any turkey. I hear it was delicious, though. (The cat liked it at least. As did the dog.)

But in addition to being thankful that I could pull off an excellent dinner (each part of which wound up either hot or cold, as needed, at exactly the same time, and which dinner included every single person’s necessary dishes), I’m also thankful that I have really great friends, some of whom now are more impressed with me because I totally nailed the dinner and the desserts.

Additionally, I’m thankful that everyone who came had an opportunity to hold forth at length about his or her (no, his) topic of expertise, and that everyone was interested in hearing about everyone else’s expertise. We listen; we understand; we ask intelligent questions; we hear; we sympathize, or empathize, as appropriate. That’s kind of awesome. It’s not about what you eat, or whether the rolls are perfectly golden brown at the same time the mashed potatoes are hot. It’s about the people you’re with, and whether or not those people are good. And when everyone’s on their best behavior? Very, very good. (That whole porn thing? That is their best behavior. Really.)

Also, I love Brussels sprouts. Madly.

Happy Thanksgiving.

So I knew that in order to actually see Barry Manilow, I’d have to stay up late, on account of they always save the best for last. But I didn’t know how late I’d have to stay up, so I watched well more of the American Music Awards than I thought I should have had to. Anyway, here goes:

Someone, Goethe maybe, recently asked me if I liked Snow Patrol, and I said I didn’t know who Snow Patrol was. Turns out I do, and that’s a fine song indeed, so now I can say I like Snow Patrol. I’m hanging with the cool kids now.

Um, Lionel Richie? I totally love you, but when did you turn into Tom Jones? That belt buckle? Oof. I mean, really, oof.

Fall Out Boy? Your guitarist is totally, totally hot. Hotter than hot. But still? Stop making that noise. It hurts my ears.

Rascal Flatts? You are so cute. Cute. Really. You might think about stopping, while you’re ahead.

Barry Manilow? Sometimes I think that nothing could make me happier than you do. Sure, there’s cheese, and Mouse (and Mighty), and my hair, and several of my coats. All of those things make me happy too. But none of those things perform medleys, and you know what really makes me happy? Medleys. But yours was weak. Weak. I love you more than should be admitted. Really, I do. I can’t smile without you. But that was just sad. And now I’m going to bed, because I’m disappointed. Frankly, I’ve had quite enough disappointment lately, and was hoping you would cheer me up. All you had to do was sing something nice, and you didn’t. Sure, Burt Bacharach turns me on. (Don’t tell him, though, because I have enough trouble as it is.) Why do you fill me up, buttercup, baby, just to let me down, and mess me around? And if it’s quite alright, why the heck don’t you just perform a medley that makes me happy?

Damn it.

(But speaking of Jews and Christmas albums, when is John Mayer doing a Christmas album? Do I have to write a letter to his agent?)

Okay, so I went to Harris Teeter again, and marshmallows, a turkey, and a box of clementines are all now happily residing in my home. (And Mouse is now sitting in the box the clementines came in. Cute.) So there will be Thanksgiving after all.

Speaking of clementines, the smell of oranges is supposed to alleviate anxiety. Having just eaten a clementine, I’m afraid I still have no proof whatsoever that this conjecture is true.

Still speaking of clementines, I now have Sweet Caroline stuck in my head. (I think I liked it better when The Battle Hymn of the Republic was in there.) (And here’s something: no one actually wants me to prove to them (I mean, him or her) that I actually do now know the words to all six stanzas. Whatever. Your loss.)

So I’m in McDonald’s the other day, and they’re playing Christmas carols. I like many a Christmas carol. I’m particularly fond of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. But I don’t think it’s right to play Christmas carols in public until Thanksgiving has come and gone. I just don’t. (And as long as we’re on the topic, I think it’s only fair to point out now that all of my favorite Christmas albums are by Jews: Neil Diamond, Barbra Streisand, Barry Manilow (and the Muppets and John Denver. John Denver wasn’t Jewish, but some of the Muppets most definitely are). Figure that one out.) Anyway, I think maybe I’ll ring in the holiday season by making my Thanksgiving guests listen to my favorite Christmas albums. Would that be wrong? (Is it bad enough that I’m going to make them watch a documentary about competitive Scrabble-playing when they’ll probably want to watch football?)

Speaking of things on TV on Thanksgiving, have you ever been to watch the inflation of the Thanksgiving Day parade balloons? They do it just outside the Museum of Natural History (only my very favorite place on the planet. Literally. If I ever were to get married, it would have to be in those halls. Never mind the logistics, the cost: if I’m putting on a dress that’s worth more than your car and giving the rest of my life to someone, in front of God and everyone, that’s where it’s gonna be.). (See how I have hope, even when there’s no good reason to? I am nothing if not consistent.) Although I lived in New York (for what, five Thanksgivings? Six?), I only went once. But I went with my roommate at the time, because she wanted to go: she was from the Philippines and really didn’t get the whole Thanksgiving thing, and it was a hoot. If you have kids (Onespeed? What are you doing Thanksgiving Eve?), or know kids, you should definitely try to let them experience that once, because even to my cynical mind, it was sort of magical. If I’d been say, eight, when I first saw it? That would have been keen. Big Bird, writ large? Fantastic, and not to be missed. You only live once.

That’s all I’ve got. I thought I wasn’t going to go to work tomorrow, but now I am. (And have I heard about this other job yet? No. (Kindly see above, about the orange/anxiety issue.)) So now I have to wash the dog, make fruit salad, and do enough laundry to kill a horse. Wish me luck.