Small Home Appliance, you have failed me

Ah. My hair-blow dryer (proper spelling/ word spacing?) broke this morning. I tried plugging it into different sockets. Tried pushing the reset button. Nothing. And I can't afford to buy a new one until... two weeks from now. Which means I'll have curly hair for the next two weeks. I must admit, I felt a little victimized, kind of wanting to shake my fist at the mirror and all that. But then my Scarlet-O'Hara-tomorrow-is-another-day-alter-ego awoke and now it seems like a challenge. I always want to do different things with my hair and never do. Maybe I'll try that whole weave-a-silk-scarf-through-your-tresses 'do. Sounds like it will be a horrific failure (imagine frizzing and bobby pins slipping out of my hair like pine needles, and loose scarf ends dangling in my soup when I'm trying to eat), but I'm excited.

I've also considered cutting my own hair. Note: I know this is a BAD idea, but... it's kind of tantalizing.

Matches

I'm kind of experiencing one of those ghastly moments when I realize that I've wasted a lot of time. As in--I'm twenty-three and I've been waiting for something indefinable since I was like nineteen, but I haven't gotten there. And at this rate and speed, I won't. You know that book, The Little Matchgirl? It's super sad. This poor little girl that is selling matches in the snow and she gets so cold that she lights one and when she lights it, she sees a room full of food. Then her match burns out and the scene disappears. She lights another one and sees a warm coat or something. And then, not caring about the cost and not thinking about how she'll have to return home to her father that beats her because she didn't earn any money--she lights all the rest of the matches. And for one or two moments the blaze warms her and she sees a whole room of people who are happy to see her and love her. Then she dies in the snow. That's the book. No joke. It's that whole idea of being on the outside looking in. And she didn't choose it, it was just her life. For some reason, in this moment, reflecting, I feel a bit like the matchgirl myself. But I've chosen it. You know? I think everyone is a bit of a matchgirl or matchboy sometimes. But more often than not, I think we're standing there with our one match lit and feeling cold because we chose to be.

Concert in the Canned Vegetables Aisle

Why is it that they play the best music in supermarkets? Seriously. Okay, it's usually not the super popular pop junk. But it's those immortal kind of songs that you know without even knowing why. Like "Maggie" by Rod Stewart. I have heard that song in only two places: 1)when I worked at a physical therapy clinic where the radio was constantly tuned to some soft rock station, 2) in a grocery store. And then there's songs like "Red Red Wine" by UB40. What else? I'm listening to "Red Red Wine" right now--and frankly, it's no good unless you're choosing some raw chicken or a consistency of peanut butter (Crunchy? Creamy? "Stay close to me-e-e"). Or what about "For What It's Worth" by Buffalo Springfield. Except that song also seems perfect on any day that's too hot outside. There's the occasional Norah Jones song and some Simon and Garfunkel from time to time. More recently I heard "Stuck in a Moment" by U2. Can I just say how much I love that song? Yes? Here it is: I love that song. It's good anywhere, but especially in the Macey's breakfast aisle. I found myself singing it as I was choosing between corn flakes and Capn' Crunch while it piped through the speakers overhead. I remember looking over to see some guy standing in front of the oatmeals, mouthing the words while he picked up a box of brown sugar and maple instant.

Of course there are always the exceptions. Stores that play only country--I can deal with that. Country music makes me kind of happy in an inexplicable way. Listening to country music is frowned upon in some circles (ahem)--but when it's just playing, and you have no power over it, what can you do? Totally kosher.

There are always the stores that play music that makes you want to duck your head and avoid eye contact with anyone. These are the stores that seem to have songs that fit in the I-can't-believe-they-say-that-where-I-have-to-hear-it-in-public-with(MY GOSH)-other-people category. You know. The lyrics are all pretty much the same: I can't live without you/ come back to me/ euphemisms for you-know-what/ you're my soulmate, etc etc. Those are the worst. Because there's always some time when you're asking an employee where the Parmesan cheese is and in the interim of where your question ends and his answer begins you hear the words (somehow, perfectly clear and distinct), "please baby, you're my only lady." Instant shame.

You know what I haven't heard in the supermarket for a while? Seal. I could really use a little "Fly Like an Eagle" or "Love's Divine" the next time I need some olive oil or ground hamburger. I kind of wish I managed my own grocery store just so I could choose the music. First track? "Nothing in My Way" by Keane, and then some "What the World Needs Now" by Jackie Deshannon. Which would have to be followed by a little JLo or Whitney Houston. Come on, people--what could be better while stuffing some celery stalks into a plastic bag?

Summer Souffle

I would like one day of summer tomorrow, please. This will include the following ingredients: fresh sliced peaches with sugar, swimming in the too-hot afternoon, bare feet, over sized sunglasses, sunburned faces, lemonade, boating, shorts, flip-flops, the smell of sunblock without the actual use, sleeping, reading, barbecue, corn on the cob, rolling down grassy hills, s'mores, star-watching, hiking, scent of sun on the black screens in the window of my old house, half an episode of Regis and Kelly, lazy-beautiful music, fans blowing, random flecks of glitter, shade of trees, cucumbers, zucchini, dirt between toes.

Blend ingredients and add relaxation, folding in gently. Bake at 85 degrees for three to four months.

I eat ramen noodles, and then I feel guilty

Oh, stop being such a ninny.

Zip It

Today I was talking to Ms. Reasor and I realized something. I feel like I've been in college for a loooooong time. So long, that all of those extra o's were completely necessary. It suddenly feels like I've been living here my whole life and all of my elementary/middle/high school days are so distant. Something started when I came here. When I walked into my dorm bedroom that first fall and saw all of Ms. Reasor's things piled on her side of the room. And the framed photos of her and her sisters--especially the one where she and Courtlin are dressed up in crazy clothes with false mustaches.

That first year I ate a lot of pancakes and baked potatoes. Dashboard Confessional was my alarm in the mornings. Then Ms. Reasor moved out and another girl moved in, but was never home, so I could listen to music while I got ready for the day.

The second year Ms. Reasor and I put a sign on our door and invited people in. We wanted to make friends real bad. That didn't really work. But other things did--like talking to people. Sometimes I still feel like the pivotal part of my college life transpired in the egregiously ugly Canyon Terrace Apartments.

I remember Ms. Reasor and I talking about boys. A lot. All of the time, it would seem. And I remember that there was a boy who was very important to her and I didn't understand the situation. And when she was going through that and feeling so sad and I thought I knew the solution, but I really didn't--I think that's when I started to learn to be a better listener. Part of being a better listener is simply shutting your mouth and not trying to force the wisdom you think you have on other people. Because your wisdom, frankly, doesn't do a whole lot for someone else's life. It may not be wisdom at all. And you can't force realizations that you have on other people. Because it's not their realizations. It very well may not be right for them. I think I first realized that when we were walking down the sidewalk from the Marriot Center one day, going home. I don't know what event we were coming from, but I remember finally understanding that sometimes someone just needs you to listen. They don't need your advice. They don't need your opinion. They don't even need your condolences. They just need your ears and your silence.

Steve and Jackie

In writing the title of this post I was reminded of that song, "Jack and Diane." I hate that song. Almost as much as I hate the harpsichord--which is a lot. I could fill a whole room with my hate for the harpsichord, and at least 7/8 of a room with my hate for that song. Scratch that. A whole room for the song too.

At any rate. Today I was thinking about the golden days of my youth (I'm thinking like age eleven here) when I had this ratty pair of Jack Purcells. Hands down, the best shoes I've ever owned. And this led me to thinking about some of my neighbors that lived diagonally across the street from my house. That may not seem like a logical train of thought, but it is. Explaining would take too long, so just run with me on this.

Steve and Jackie were this middle-aged couple. I think it was a second marriage for both of them and I'm pretty sure Steve had children from a previous marriage. The house they lived in was great. I grew up in an older neighborhood (at least, it was older by the time I was a teenager--it was brand new when we first moved in, but I wasn't even two by that time)and their house looked more or less like all the other houses in the neighborhood, but inside it was much more modern and classy. The living room was big and open, with brick arches and a huge fireplace. I remember there was a wine bottle rack on a ledge leading to the kitchen and floor-to-ceiling glass windows in the front room. They had a beautiful black lab, whose name I can't remember (Kerry or Lucy or Heidi or something). There were a few times when they went on a vacation and they gave me a key to their house. I would walk the dog and feed her, things like that. And, of course, I explored their house. There was a sauna upstairs. And a little room filled with books that had a cut out in the wall so that you could look down and out over the living room. I remember opening their fridge and seeing little more than a few thick steaks and a few bottles of wine.

There was one summer when their dog ran away. Steve had taken her with him when he went fishing somewhere or something and she ran off and that was it. They posted signs, called the police, etc. Then finally, two weeks later, they got a call from someone in Molalla. They found her. We were all so relieved and glad. We had really mourned her loss. As much as a pet can be, she was a part of their family.

I used to go over to their house a lot, or just talk to them in their yard. My next door neighbors, Jacob and Megan, used to go too. All three of us would chatter with Steve as he watered his lawn and we'd badger Jackie as she weeded the flower beds. Looking back now, I think Steve was more comfortable with us than Jackie was. Both of them let us climb the trees in their front yard. Jackie used to bake white chocolate macadamia nut cookies for us. They were warm and big and sometimes pretty salty--but we loved them. I know my mom used to worry about us going over there too much. She was concerned that we were pestering them, and we probably were. But they never made us feel that way. She didn't know Steve or Jackie very well. They were friendly, but that was about it. Steve and Jackie were very different. It didn't occur to me then, but it occurs to me now how very kind they were to us. Three grubby neighborhood kids, coming in their kitchen, asking for glasses of water, getting their dog too hyper, spouting off questions about everything, listening to Steve tell us about his grandfather that wore stiff collars.

I can't remember when it was exactly--I think it was during my last few years of high school--but Steve and Jackie moved away. I can't remember where they went. I think they wanted a bigger house with some land or something for their dog. A new family moved it that I didn't know at all. They had a son who was probably in college and he used to leave and return to their house multiple times a day, driving a different one of their cars every time. They were nice cars, really nice cars. I don't think I ever spoke to him, but I remember staring at him and him staring at me and I remember that he didn't seem real. I couldn't imagine his life--like he didn't have a history and he wasn't going anywhere. I couldn't seem to make myself believe that there was something going on inside him. If I cut open his mind, I wouldn't see anything.

I wonder where Steve and Jackie are--what they're doing, if they still have their black lab. I remember Jackie's thank-you notes that she gave to me after I took care of their dog. They were unusual cards with some kind of ethnic print on the front. And her sophisticated, spidery penmanship inside--written with an inky black pen.