2007
Shake It Up
Sometimes when we’re out walking and eating at the same time (what?), Simon will toss his burrito wrapper or empty soda can on the sidewalk. Even though he’s doing it for the very specific reason of making us both recoil in horror, I still can’t help myself from, well, recoiling in horror. To me, the thought of dropping trash on the ground or throwing it out the window of a moving vehicle is against the order of the natural universe. It feels like I’m a snake, a big one, and a group of schoolkids on tour of my terrarium are petting me against the grain of my scales; I feel my skin prickle and my stomach do a side-twisting back-handspring, and I want to systematically sink my venemous fangs into each of their prepubescent forearms until they agree to only stroke only head to tail from then on. Watching someone throw garbage on the ground is as bad even as if they’d done “shave and a haircut” without the “two bits.” Drives me batty.
It drives Simon batty too–the litterbug thing–but in true Simon style, he likes to push his own boundaries every once in a while to shake things up, and throwing a napkin into the gutter now and then is safer than skydiving, so I don’t complain. Whenever he throws garbage on the ground, I’m a mess of nerves, convinced we’re going to get arrested or be docked ten points on our citizenship report card. Meanwhile, he revels in the delicious torture of so bold-faced an act, and I can see him testing himself, wondering how long he can stand it before cleaning up, and not just his mess but probably also someone else’s.*
I was reminded of this yesterday when, as I was taking off my pants last night, instead of undoing the button first and then the zipper, I reversed the process, zipper first, then button. It was a tiny little detail, but I got that same against-the-grain feeling in my gut and, with it, a little thrill. I guess it’s a product of having too regular a routine if something so minor could throw me for a loop the way it did. But, in true Leah style, I turned a pathetic situation into a positive one, reasoning that I am not sorely lacking in excitement but instead incredibly lucky to be so easily entertained. For some people to really feel “alive,” they have to don chainmail jumpsuits and swim with sharks or freebase methamphetamines with scabby hobos. Me, I just undo the zipper before the button and wham! I’m walking on the wild side.
Other things that rock my world include:
–driving twenty feet without my seatbelt on
–skipping my facial moisturizer with UV protection
–going commando under a skirt while still at home
–biting into a stick of butter
Okay, I’ve never actually bitten into a stick of butter, but doesn’t the thought of it just make you turn inside-out? *shudder* Please tell me I’m not alone in getting a kick out of this sort of thing. Otherwise, I’m going to have to sign up for Fear Factor.
*Although he still might pick up a random bit of trash from the gutter, Simon has retired from cleaning up after people while they’re still within swinging range. He once saw a biker type (burly, hairy) toss a wrapper to the ground in a parking lot, and he (Simon) made a point to not only go over and put the wrapper in the dumpster but to say to Mr. Harley-Davidson, “Let me get that for you.” He (Simon) almost got his ass kicked.
2007
Time Is On My Side, Yes It Is
Once upon a time, teen me worked in retail (a bookstore!) and was a soulless slave to the clock. All employees–even the managers–had official timecards, the kind you punch in one of those scary machines painted army green and constructed of industrial-grade equipment that could withstand nuclear attack, not that I ever thought of detaching it from the wall via bomb or short-range missile. Being at work meant always being on the clock, and although I seem to enjoy structure more than a lot of people, it got to be a little much after a while. I had exactly 30 minutes for lunch–not 29 and certainly not 31–and exactly 15 minutes per 6-hour shift to hide in the break room and temporarily detox from icky customers (always with the dirty books in the bathroom; why?!) by reading Jewel’s latest volume of heartfelt poetry.
For a few months, my work in books also overlapped with my work in newspapers, and perhaps the contrast in schedules made each more bearable. I usually started my day at the paper around 4 p.m., staying officially until my tasks were “done,” but staying unofficially until I stopped having fun–typically well past midnight. There were geeky writer boys everywhere, a full-size basketball hoop in the layout office, and Blind Date on the teevee in the main hall. It beat going home to the bedroom in the basement of my parents’ house.
These days, in my current job, everyone pretty much comes and goes as they please. I get to work anywhere between 8 a.m. and 10:30 and leave between 5 and 9, often depending on the presence of free food. Along with the purchase of my new car, however, came the promise of an even more relaxed schedule. No more waking up early if he had a meeting, no more staying late if he got stuck on a job. I could decide my own working hours once again, and I was looking forward to the freedom.
If you are expecting a “But,” you’re onto me.
BUT somehow having my own car has made my beholdenness (beholdence?) to the clock even more acute. The culprit? The dreaded parking meter.
If I want to park at my local BART station and take the train to work (save gas, save the whales), I have to get to the lot before 9 a.m. (agony) and fork over almost $7 for the day’s transportation. This morning I tried to park in a different BART lot–one that would only cost $4/day–only to realize it is smaller and therefore full faster and earlier, which, being that it’s also farther from home, means to secure a spot I’d have to wake up another thirty minutes earlier (torture). Thus it is that this morning I drove all the way to work and parked at a meter for the abusive cost of $10 in quarters and dimes, plus gas, plus the emotional trauma of having to feed the meter in the middle of the day and be accosted by the friendly neighborhood letch.
So here I sit, having been done with work now for twenty minutes, but dammit if I’m going to abandon my pre-paid parking spot even one minute too soon, thereby wasting 35 minutes of asphalt. Yes, it’s only fifty cents but I am stubborn. For the rest of the time I sit at my desk, I’ll check the clock every 90 seconds and then leave with just enough time to ride the elevator, cross the street, and walk to the lot. If I get to my car even five minutes early, I’ll likely sit in the spot watching the time tick all the way down, at the rate of one and one-fourth cents per sixty seconds, just on sheer principle.
(Maybe also I’m in no hurry to get home because Simon has a late meeting and won’t be around when I get there. What fun is it to barrell down the highway in my flashy wagon when there’s no one home to greet me? No one, that is, except the cat, who will have dragged her yellow bear to the center of the Oriental rug and then barfed proudly next to it. Simon, I found out a few weeks ago, has been cleaning up Eve’s semi-regular afternoon barfs for months, which surely adds to my reluctance to go home. No one to compliment my boobs + a slime of catfood left as a calling card? Hardly the open arms I need.)
2007
Shakedown
This morning I was forced to launch a miniature tour of terror around my office (people not doing their jobs and therefore making three times as much work for me), so by the time I was able to go get some lunch (1:45), I was capital-R Ready to take a capital-B Break. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the air was crisp and fresh, the golden arches were gleaming from a distance…and then some random jackass on the street tried to make nice with me as I was walking past him at mach one, and when I didn’t stop and french kiss him for his unsolicited come-on, he actually said to me as I was walking away, “Daaaaaamn, girl, you got some fries with that shake?” as if those were the magic words to make any woman change her mind. Where was the underscore because surely these things happen only in the movies.
