A recent endeavor down at the office found me hunkered over the paper shredder for an extended period of time. There is a picture on the paper shredder of an aerosol can with a line through it. Who is this mythical person who would put an aerosol can in a paper shredder? I would like to have a few beers with him, circa 2001.
My bathroom cabinet came complete with words of encouragement. I like to think that this tender missive was posted inside the medicine cabinet by my apartment’s former resident, Jeff Hoar, but Hoar was a chain smoker who had his bed in the kitchen. I don’t think that he put much stock in inspiration.
Despite what the bathroom tells me, I don’t always feel beautiful. Mantras like that only help to reinforce what you’re already feeling. If you aren’t feeling it, the tendency is to tell that silver sticker to shut the fuck up.
At least the apartment has been prettied up. Although he alleges to detest its landscape, its climate, and its people, my chum Daniel has decided to move to Chicago. He arrived on Friday, just in time to assist me in erasing a tiny bit more of Hoar’s legacy. No longer are my walls a color I thought of as nicotine dingy. The living room is a serene blue, the kitchen is a cheery (if perhaps overly vivid) yellow and the bathroom is a hue that is a little bit reminiscent of self tanner. The bathroom color is certainly not a home run. It reminds me somewhat of my parents’ bedroom circa 1989, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Nonetheless, improvements have been made.
There is the definite chill of fall in the air as I sit in bed shoveling cheesecake into my gullet at 11pm on Sunday night. A person definitely should not eat cheesecake at 11pm, and probably should not eat cheesecake in bed. But, man, I am hungry! I have entered a phase of constant ravenousness that I haven’t experienced since Winter 2004, otherwise known as that time I got really fat.
I am fortunate enough to live two blocks away from a liquor store with excellent selection. As far as I can tell, this store employs two people: middle aged Mexican lady and middle aged Iraqi man. I am partial to Iraqi man, as he is more gregarious than Mexican lady. That’s not to say I don’t like the lady. She seems amused by my every other day not so cheap beer purchase. I hate cheap beer. I won’t lie.
Today I bought a six pack of beer and a bottle of wine, despite my temporary ban on wine drinking. Two significant spills in two days led to impermanent restrictions. A shirt, a skirt, and a placemat very nearly fell victim to my clumsiness, yet were spared by my overall domesticity. Studying up on stain removal methods does serve a purpose, people.
Anyway, guess what? Now I am 28! I had a birthday on Monday. It was very low key and I spent it at work and then with Lesley Harvey. I like having a friend with my same last name. It confuses people. And Les Harv is also pretty smart and cool, which doesn’t hurt matters.
The person who lives across the street from me watches quite a lot of television. Though I do not own this machine myself, I can see theirs from my bed. It has been pretty warm lately, but winter she is upon us. I have been hand washing all my sweaters in anticipation.
I got a new cell phone yesterday after that foul mouthed Motorola finally uttered its last racist breath. I hated that phone anyway, and I am looking forward to the T9 offerings on my new cherry red Samsung. The guy who sold me the phone started up a conversation with me in typical midwestern fashion, even though he revealed moments into it that he is actually a southerner recently transplanted but four months ago.
“Oh! So you haven’t been here for winter yet!” I exclaimed with a deviousness reserved for those who know the horrors of the biting wind and the swirling snow and the mercury that hovers around the zero mark for a big chunk of the calendar. Truth be told, I am a little nervous about it myself. I haven’t been here for a winter since 1997. I toy with the idea of getting a bike that will be more of a tank, or maybe more of a snowplow. But am I really going to ride a bicycle all winter? Am I that tough? I used to be, back in the days when my brother and I shared a paper route and I faithfully tossed out the Daily Journal as I pedaled my Huffy around the Timber Ridge subdivision. I don’t think I am now, though. Thank the lord that my current occupation finds me tossing out invoices rather than soft hitting local newspapers.
As for now, it’s sunny and seventies outside and my mother is coming to take me shopping today for birthday gifts. Monday is my birthday, and I don’t think I could possibly be any less affected by it.
I work with this married couple. They have a minivan that has the license plates “UR Special 2″. If you happen to sneeze in the presence of either of them, they say, “god bless you you are special.” They say it with no punctuation and they say it very quickly.
They are both also professional body builders and have great affection for beets.
If you would have told me four years ago that a future Monday night would find me hanging out in a honky tonk in Chicago drinking pitchers of Old Style and playing Alabama tunes on the jukebox, I would have laughed you right back to Silverlake. But it is true, and it is awesome.
It might be too late to remark upon September 11 two hours away from September 15, but who am I to do things in a timely fashion anyway?
Of course olde 9/11 is an important day for all of us, blah blah blah. And anyone who has listened to my endless droning surely can recall the tale of me waking up on my mother’s couch, vaguely aware of a (mis)adventure on September 10, 2001 involving a large bag of pills purchased in Tijuana and being lost in the desert. Imagine my utter confusion at the events sprawled across the television that morning.
At any rate, this Thursday past was significant to me in a personal way that resonates more than any patriotism ever really could. September 11, 2007 was the day that I arrived in Illinois, en route to the ultimate destination of New York. Driving through the countryside that day, Dom was pulled over twice by the cops owing to his middle eastern appearance and California plates. As for me, I wore a silly hat and got excited at the vistas I have always loved the most – those white houses and those red barns. The air smelled good, the sun was shining. I was back home.
I don’t think I would ever have guessed that in one short year I would be back. I would not exactly go so far as to say that I ever viewed New York as the end of the line, but neither did I think my stay there would be so brief. While I have mostly come to terms with all of this, it is rather unfortunate to be reminded of a poignant personal moment on a day that is becoming as rife with canned poignancy as a Hallmark store. So much never forgetting cannot possibly be healthy.
This week saw me having two visitors, both of them wonderful lads from my carefree California days. Less than two weeks into my new apartment, and already hung in my closet are the abandoned clothes of boys who are just passing through. A painting of Garfield playing the ukulele rests against the wall, wondering if it will ever be reclaimed. There is an interloping purple toothbrush in my bathroom. All this leaves me wondering, is anyone ever going to come into my life who just wants to stay forever instead of stopping by for a little while and leaving me with their refuse?
Someone in my building has a wireless network called Obama08. In bold, yes. My newly functional network is called go&come. Nowadays I really like ampersands. I am thinking of getting one tattooed on my finger. Bad ideas aren’t abounding. At the moment this happens to be the only one floating around.
Oh midwest, you are so cute! You give up these really cheap apartments that are pretty nice with lovely views and perfectly serviceable hardwood floors and walk in closets. You dish up amazing characters and many opportunities. Then you give me a wall mounted beer opener! Aren’t you something.
