Okay, new leaf, turn over already!
Ah, Fourth of July weekend. Normally, Eric and I drive or fly up to San Francisco for Fourth of July weekend. But, what's this? We're already here. I have to keep reminding myself that I live here, because really, I don't spend all that much time exploring my new (except I've been here for nine months) town. I'm at work all day, then I drive 45 miles back to the city, then I sit on my ass in front of a computer/television/book and can't be bothered to go anywhere or do anything. Which is sad. And not very substantial blog fodder. My blog is malnourished.
So you'll all just have to settle for the landscape of my miiiiind. Heavy.
Recent disturbing dream: Rick Astley is my coworker and he wants to take me on a date, for which he picks me up at my mother's house in Pennsylvania. And before you accuse me of somnainfidelity, you should know that Eric is entirely to blame for this because he brought up Rick Astley over pizza night before last. That'll teach him to fill my subconscious with references to mid-eighties pop flops.
Recent conundrum: I got a speeding ticket earlier this month and now find that driving to work has lost all its appeal. I'm hyper-conscious about my speed now, despite the fact that I am so completely not an unsafe driver and just got singled out that day because I was easy to pull over. I was framed. I was a patsy. This must be how Oswald felt.
Anyway, now everyone on the freeway is zipping past me, blissfully unconcerned about marring their driving records, and I'm practically standing still at 73 miles per hour. It's depressing. I want to recapture the freedom I felt at 80. I want to feel the proverbial wind at my heels. I want to LIVE again, dammit! But, sadly, my pit-of-the-stomach recollection of those flashing lights in my rear-view mirror overpowers any desire to put the hammer down, and I'm left powerless to prevent any beat-up old Volvo station wagon from passing me. On the right.
Recent peeve: Shopping for pants. Actually, this is a persistent peeve. Who do "they" make this shit for, anyway? There are few things in this world that boost my bile levels more than standing in a dressing room, making WTF face in the mirror as I model a pair of a) khakis so low I'm endangering innocent lives merely by bending at the waist; b) jeans so wide-legged they make me look as though my torso has been grafted onto two tree trunks; c) some kind of chastity device designed to enlarge my abdomen to entymological proportions. Set me up with a nice proboscis and the look would be complete.
Recent fond memory: This is very recent, actually, since the word "proboscis" reminded me of it. My friend Jo and I used to play this game called If You Could Have Any Animal Characteristic, What Would It Be? She always chose eyes on stalks, which was fun to sing to the tune of Duran Duran's "Girls on Film." I chose night vision and/or the ability to turn my head 360 degrees. Wings are too easy and they're not very ergonomic in a work setting. Discuss.
I know, I know. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?
About halfway through our weeklong trip to London, two weeks ago, I was going to write something about the city being dark, dirty, disturbing and all the other things people say about London. All of which are true. But boring. I think it may feel more poisonous to its residents than other cities — because of its age, its tragic history, its labyrinthine “structure” — but every city takes a bit more than it gives. London just takes more than most.
I still love it, though. Because I’m a sucker for the tragic history part. And I know how to use my Mini A to Z. But it pissed me off a little this time, because I wasn’t prepared for it to be such a crappy host. When I lived there, I had plenty of time to play by its rules. But when I’m on vacation, I want my temporary town to be open to my whims. I guess I should have known better. The pubs close at 11. Stores shutter up at six. There is no hot spot for a nice brunch. You’d better eat by eight in the evening or you’re screwed. London wants you to be on its schedule or you’re going to bed without dinner, young lady. I think all those ghosts still run the place. They want you off their streets at a decent hour so they can keep all the good beer for themselves.
But that’s old news now. All hail, laziness!
We’re headed to LA this weekend, and whilst I’m there, I will be thinking about how to redesign this site (with help from people who know what they’re doing) because it has grown tiresome to me. I feel like a rich, white male executive whose eye has begun to stray from his faithful wife of twenty years to that lovely young junior account rep. You know the one. With the legs. Yowza!
I’m such a bastard! I hope this site takes me for all I’m worth. I hope it gets the house in the Hamptons. I so have that coming.
You can find more of the interesting word usements I structure on Apple.com.
Read my article, Better Writing Through Design, on No. 242 of A List Apart.