the ocean

Small Talk

So my new trainer has apparently decided that a good way to motivate me is to pepper me with questions about my life as I hoist ginormous weights above my head. I seriously feel as though I'm training with Charlie Rose. The questions just seem to keep coming no matter how out of breath or in pain I may be. I realize that it's sort of an awkward situation to be in, much like going to the dentist: there are two parties there, but one of them is most definitely disqualified from any sort of competent conversation. The typical solution is just to prattle on incessantly about oneself, though, as exemplified by my dental hygienist who catalogued for me a variety of fascinating facts about her hobby of collecting dolls. My trainer, on the other hand, maintains a secrecy level generally reserved only for high-ranking officials of the Bush administration. He only likes to ask questions, even if my responses happen to be horrific grunts.

I am not good in these situations. I simply don't need to be telling my life story to the man who forces me to roll around on a Resist-A-Ball. Or to a cab driver, for that matter. Or my hairstylist. I tend to find myself making things up before I know it, announcing that I received secret ninja training from the Department of Homeland Security or that I'm best friends with Angela Lansbury. Or I try unsuccessfully to turn the subject to something I'm passionate about, like James Joyce, or the early works of Lindsay Lohan. I think that really the only solution is for me to go live in a cabin deep in the woods and pen a manifesto about the evils of technology.

The Week in Personal Injury

Last night I was running into the kitchen to answer the door and I coasted across a slick patch and jammed my big toe against the bottom of the fridge. Of course it immediately started spurting blood and I immediately started spurting curse words, and I never did get that door answered. I applied my usual medical course of washing it and wrapping it in band aids, and I think it will be fine. It's still a bit tender, but my limp is practically gone. Which is disappointing, because I was thinking about telling people I was attacked by a bear.

Other than that, it has been a fairly quiet weekend. We saw Baby Mama last night, which was pretty good. Of course, even though we were twenty minutes early, we ended up only being able to get seats in the second row, so we emerged with searing neck pain and eye strain. And the people behind us kept showing each other how smart they were by loudly predicting the most obvious twists of the plot. This is why Netflix was invented, people.

At the Watercooler

Yesterday was Administrative Professionals Day. I got my secretary a card with a painting of sailboats on the front and a blank inside from a box that I bought when I was in undergrad. And also a check. I figured that was better than flowers, which generally die, or candy, which generally gets eaten by someone other than the secretary and quite frequently by the gifter him- or herself. She seemed to like it. Actually, she said she "felt weird" about it because she has only been working for me for a few weeks. I told her to view it as reparations for my future crimes.

Actually, I think she may have earned it already, though. Work has been crazy busy and I've asked her to create more redline documents than I had ever previously dreamed possible. I frequently have to ask other people to do things like that that are probably quite simple but I have no idea how to do. The other day I asked someone to take a document off of a flash drive for me. I didn't realize that all you really have to do is plug it into your computer. I also frequently have to ask people to format documents for me. As far as I'm concerned, bullet points arise from some freaky voodoo magic.

Auto Universe

I had a flat tire this weekend. Apparently, you're not supposed to drive over nails. I really think they should have included that in the owner's manual.

Anyway, the lack of a car meant that I had no food, since I would never dream of walking the five blocks to the grocery store. I had to invent exciting new food combinations, like Taco Bell Fire Sauce and flour or two-month-old crackers and soy sauce. It was a taste sensation.

The good news, though, was that it turns out I do know how to change a tire. I even remembered to take the car off the incline before jacking it up so as not to run myself over. And I used my superhuman strength to wrest the lug nuts off of the tire where several strong men (read: my sister) had failed.

The new tire was like $107. These days, that's about a tank of gas.

Couples Therapy

It's now two Fridays in a row that I've ended up in the same train car as a couple having a public and humiliating fight. This is of course entertaining, but also kind of horrifying, much like the transformation of Teri Hatcher's face.

Last week's couple began their fight on the platform and carried it with them on the train all the way to their destination. The man was talking in a very low voice so as to try to avoid embarrassment, which the woman countered by speaking loudly enough for people several blocks away to hear. The gist of their dispute was that the man had some kind of work obligation on their anniversary which would require him to postpone their celebration, and the woman viewed this as compelling evidence that he just didn't care about their relationship at all. Coincidentally, I believe that was also the subject of the Lincoln-Douglass debates. She was the clear winner, employing such time-honored techniques as 1) sitting silently and refusing to acknowledge him at all and 2) telling him not to touch her. Obama and Clinton could clearly take a lesson.

This week's argument was less amusing in that it became physical, but more amusing in that there was drunkeness involved. Actually, the term "argument" may not actually apply, as it consisted mainly of a wasted girl in full pink Cubs regalia smacking the heck out of her boyfriend until a couple of friends pulled her off him and off the train. She continued to scream obscenities at the train as it pulled away. I couldn't really get the thread of her thesis, but the words "dick" and "slut" were definitely involved. Obviously a communications major.

Arts & Culture

Did I mention that I finally saw Michael Clayton? I thought it was pretty good. I was a little disappointed that Tilda Swinton didn't wear that Glad Bag ensemble she rocked at the Oscars, but I found her sweating and trembling amusing. Clooney seemed like pretty standard Clooney, all conflicted and world weary and dreamy eyed. But I thought the script was pretty tight and in some ways -- not the ones involving murder, greed, and nefarious deeds, thank you very much -- it reminded me of my own workplace. Maybe that's not a good thing.

I also saw The 39 Steps with my parents. It's an old Hitchcock movie from like 1939 or something. Generally I am not in favor of things being in black and white, but it managed to hold my attention at a tight 90 minutes. It also helped that I tried to view it through the lens of something my grandmother would find entertaining. Of course, acting from that period pretty much seems like every line has quotation marks around it, but I'll take that for cultural learning.

And finally, I am reading Cousin Bette by Balzac, as I think I mentioned. It's pretty good. There's a lot of French stuff in there that I don't care about at all, but it's well plotted and the prose is pretty delectable. I also enjoy that there's a good deal of casual racism and class bias that the editors just decided not to take out. We're not exactly talking the Value Tales Series here, if you know what I mean.

Parental Control

Well, my parents are in town. That means I've been eating at lots of sensibly-priced family restaurants and watching far more of the History Channel than I am accustomed. (It turns out the Nazis were bad!) So far, the trip has been relatively without incident. My dad did wander into a restricted area at the Art Institute and set off a few alarms, and I did at one point tell my sister that she "wouldn't care if her parents got hit by a car," but that's pretty much par for the course. And my parents are in some kind of educational conference today and tomorrow, so I have the blessed leisure to work without interruption. I'm sure I'll pay it back in Bennigan's this evening, however.

We did take in the Edward Hopper exhibit at the Art Institute on Saturday, which was fairly remarkable. Having so much of an artist's work in one place really helps you to understand it better, even if that artist is a seventh grade girl with a certain skill for drawing Tweety Bird. But Hopper is actually one of my all time favorites, and it was wonderful to see the progressions and themes in his works. It was a bit maddening to see every painting amidst a thronging crowd sucking on contraband watter bottles and taking verboten cameraphone pics, but I'll take it as I can get it, I suppose.

Happenings

My non-hilarious trainer had me do squats on Tuesday, and then on Wednesday I decided to go for a long run despite the searing pain in my legs. As I result, I found myself unable to move my legs on Wednesday afternoon. I was shuffling down the hall like a robot, or NBC's Brian Williams, if you think there's a difference. I ended up locking myself out in the elevator bank because I was holding some boxes and couldn't lift my legs to put the pass card against the sensor. Thankfully someone came by and let me in. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

I got a great night of sleep last night, though, because the beeping in our home has finally stopped! After deciding to euthanize the security alarm by turning off its circuit breakers, we realized that the awful shrieking was in fact coming from our carbon monoxide detector. Since it's being going off for a month now and no one has died, we weren't too worried that we actually had carbon monoxide problems, and sure enough, all we needed was a new 9 volt battery. As the music of Jennifer Lopez has taught me, silence is golden.

Things that Gmail's Ads Believe I Am Interested In, But I Am Not

-- Loft-Like Lifestyle in NJ
-- $379 Disney World Travel
-- Bully Busters Workshops
-- Class of 1970 Reunion
-- Epiphyllums Grown By Pat
-- Pat O'Brien DVD
-- Bike the Czech Republic
-- Fight Club Sunglasses
-- Northern Pike Hot Spot
-- Montreal Birthday Parties
-- Theaterfun for Children
-- Atlanta Toilet Partitions
-- Libertarian Underground
-- White Noise Machines
-- Dungeons and Dragons Apparel

Shades of Goldilocks...

My cleaning lady is a funny gal. She insists on rearranging the items on my bedside table into her preferred pattern every week, even though I always insist in turn on putting them back the way I want them. She doesn't believe that socks should be paired when they're put away in the drawer, even though that's how all the socks that are already in there are stored. She always puts the chairs in a square around my round dining table. And she seems to want to avoid talking to me or my sister above all other things.

This week, though, I came home to perhaps her greatest accomplishment yet. She had "made my bed" by piling all of the pillows in the center and then putting the blankets over them. It looked like a tiny volcano had risen out of the middle of my mattress. My first thought was literally that there might be someone hiding under there. But a few smacks with a tennis racket later, it turned out it was just another creative decorating idea. Could it be that she's just not familiar with the concept of a bed?

Play Ball

My neighbors have come up with an interesting game. They're leaving dollar bills on the sidewalk across from their house and, when people pick them up, they're laughing loudly. I'd like to think there's more to the game than that, but if there is, I can't discern what it is. I think laughing is great, though, so I'm all for it.

I also awoke this morning to the sound of people barbecuing in the backyard next to me at 9:30 AM. I guess there's nothing like a hot dog and a Miller High Life for some people to start their day. And all of the shouting adds to the full bodied flavor.

Cubs season is really fully upon us. And one more win and they'll be back up to .500! All of it really makes me understand why baseball fans like to drink heavily.

Check it Out

I have kind of a weird thing (imagine that) about my books. Not only am I kind of picky about what I read (although I did buy The Da Vinci Code in hardback for $1 at the Brown Elephant), I also care about how my books look. Maybe because I am constantly judging people on the train for reading, say, a hardcover edition of The Secret or a well-worn copy of The Fountainhead, I worry that I will so be judged. So I most prefer to have plain-bound, anonymous editions of the classics, or cool-looking 70s paperbacks with hilarious illustrations. It's better reading that way, I swear.

But the other day at my local public library I got screwed. I approached the desk with a lovely forest green copy of Balzac's (tee hee) Cousin Bette, only to be told that, because it wasn't "bar coded," I would have to take their other copy. That copy? A paperback with a movie tie-in. So now Jessica Lange is leering up at me from my bedside table each night.

The implications are staggering. What if people now think I picked out this book because I fell in love with a little-seen 1997 motion picture from Fox Searchlight that I never even knew existed? I may have to learn to speed read.

The World's Worst April Fool's Gags

-- Informing your children they're adopted.
-- Marrying Ryan Seacrest.
-- Saran wrapping your grandmother's asthma inhaler.
-- Cross breeding rubber chickens.
-- Invading Poland.
-- Stalking Pat Sajak.
-- Leaving a Whoopee Cushion on Whoopi Goldberg's chair.
-- Telling people you've actually read Finnegan's Wake.
-- Becoming a Log Cabin Republican.
-- Claiming to like According to Jim.
-- Pretending the condom broke.
-- Murder/suicide.