if Aaron and I worked at Bath and Body Works (a conversation about a hypothetical situation)

spaceboy: you could work there too, and i would bring a girl over for you to look at, and you wouldn't even look....you'd just say "every time you bring a girl over to me, i have nightmares..." and then you'd look and just shake your head and walk away

Bunga25: we'd both wear aprons.

spaceboy: i would have a whole wardrobe of green aprons - i would get a dab of lotion on it, let out a sigh that disrupted the whole store, and then go change it
spaceboy: "lotion is for skin, not aprons!"
spaceboy: it's not fair that my apron should get lotion when that poor lady's face needs it so much more

Bunga25: you waster you.

spaceboy: you could tell me to go and don't come back until i don't feel like wasting lotion when we have a store full of dry people

Bunga25: could we go to lunch when we work at B and body works?

spaceboy: of course

Bunga25: but we'd really go outside the mall or wherever, hide by our cars and drink whiskey from a flask.

spaceboy: from the bottle.
spaceboy: with a cork in it

Bunga25: and when wed come back in we'd be real talkative.
Bunga25: and honest.
Bunga25: "honey, that is not your color"

spaceboy: ma'am, even as blurry as things get after lunch, i can still see you need emergency hydration...sit here and don't think of how bad things are

Bunga25: hello new customer, have you ever noticed that all our items smell the same?

spaceboy: you could talk with a german accent and i could say you went to the company's secret beauty school

Bunga25: we could slap each other on the ass whenever we made a sale

spaceboy: i would make the sale and then say, did you believe all that stuff i said? cause if so, i have to go say it to someone else

Bunga25: and then while you were trying to make the sale, i'd walk by and whisper, too loudly, "man, this one's about to buy a lot of crap!"

spaceboy: i would just bring in random items and get people to buy them.

Bunga25: like a can opener?

spaceboy: i would have a bucket of sand and say that it was moisturizing sand, but really it would just be that sand from the pot you're supposed to put your cigarette butts into

Bunga25: we could sell squares of toilet paper and say they were super sterile face oil blotters.

spaceboy: i would get a tall skinny candle and say that you are supposed to use this candle to light the other candles. "if you just start it with a match, then why bother. you have to get it started with a pure flame."

spaceboy: yeah, tp squares with like "brawny" printed right into them

Bunga25: the business needs us.

spaceboy: the world needs us

Chappy likes good music

My friend Chappy is always playing awesome music when we go over and grill out on his porch. Besides that, he is a great guy. You can check out his audio blog at this address:

http://johnchappy.blogspot.com

On the page, you can listen to songs he recommends. Isn't the internet fantastic?

remnants of jeanne and I love the TV

I'm excited about watching "Gilmore Girls" tonight on the WB, and that, friends, is a bad sign. Last night J and I sat through "7th Heaven" and "Everwood." When I changed the channel at ten for "CSI Miami" (which I actually like) I realized there was a problem and turned the television off.

Back when I lived by myself in the dingy, moldy studio apartment with all the animals I would flip through my cable stations never satisfied at what I'd find. I'd watch a little bit of "Newlyweds" or "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" never really feeling sad if I missed a show or attempted to find something more fulfilling (reading! all those books you've wanted to read for years!) to do.

But now that J and I have a cable deal which includes wireless internet, we've opted for the very most-basic-ever BASIC cable deal, which is very similar to not having cable at all. We get all the channels up to 25 and the Food Network way up at 77 crystal clear and nothing else. At first this meant I watched less TV, which I was enjoying. This is when I took up knitting and read voraciously.

But the networks have started up their new seasons and are getting me involved with their characters. Hot-looking teens with scandalous sex lives and unique one-parent families. Abstinence-loving Christians and brilliantly serious scientists who never smile. Washed-up actors in sitcoms I never had the patience to watch before.

Come on - three hours of TV? Three hours is what I get sucked into some nights! I realize that the national average is something like 76 hours a day but I am proud to say I've never loved lounging in front of the television. Sure, I've spent a good day checking out what's on when I'm wasn't feeling well, or just need a break, but this is different.

This is what I swore I'd never do - make time for the television...be home to watch a particular program. This is what I am eagerly contemplating right now.

The season is changing also. The days will soon be shorter, and honestly, the rain...It's been raining nonstop and we're now catching the end of hurricane Jeanne. Getting into pajamas at, oh, say seven, and cuddling up to watch several hours of programming, however completely numbing and unproductive - well, I suppose there couldn't be a more appropriate time. I'll just chalk it up to September and see if we can't get over this thing.

September 2004: the month it rained a lot and Cara ate a lot while lazily sitting in front of a television.

(Hopeful prediction: October rolled around and she stopped.)

this more fun, the orange?

Colors are fun. The nice people at blogger.com have a whole array of templates and colors. When I was, with some trepidation, starting this thing, I chose the first template (the previous) that seemed ok, but today decided it was time to update my look. Will you still read my blog, oh you seven-or-so faithful blog readers? Now that it's orange and all?

Also, I've changed the settings so that anyone can write comments, and not only those who have created blogger accounts. I should have done that at the outset but didn't know what I was doing.

My next step? Pictures. Aren't I getting computer savvy? No, not really.

What'll you have?

Once a year on the mostly-unused grass at the old Durham ball park, a great crowd of drinkers descends and gathers for four hours at a time to enjoy the World Beer Festival.

What an idea - brewers from all over the world (as indicated by the event's title) bring their wares and the city of Durham lets them set up camp all day and then looks the other way when hours later their streets are full of drunk people - drunk people peeing on their sidewalks, interuppting traffic, singing and wearing balloon animals. Of course, we got a group together and went.

The World Beer Festival is an anniversary of sorts for J and myself. See, it was at this very same festival in 2001 that we got enough samples of beer in us to start flirting voraciously and tell each other about the feelings we had. We did this at a safe distance from my boyfriend at the time (the one I was living with) and then quickly drank enough more to make it seem ok when that very ex-boyfriend drove me, J, and all J's friends home in our jointly-owned Volkswagen Jetta. I sat in the back on J's lap because there "was no place else to sit."

However, the result, after many, many hours of intense scrutiny and worrying, as we all know, was good. So this year the day was all about fun without romantic jitters or clandestine chats. Instead our little group, including Tom, who'd been at the 2001 as well, his wife, and J's sister, broke right into some jovial beer sampling.

Because you see - that is what this is supposed to be. Some of the snobbier beer-brewers give out true samples. Everyone is given a small cup and the point is to try as many kinds of beer as you'd like. At the beginning of the afternoon this was accompanied by washing out the glasses with water provided each table, or even pouring out the beer one doesn't like so much. This changes round about the second hour. As beer bottles are shifted from one recycling bin to another, the crowd lets out a great roar. "WOOOAAAHAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," as though we'd accomplished a challenging act of great bravery. People started taking their shirts off. We began making friends with strangers.

When the day ended we said goodbye to friends, some doing pretty well, some looking like they were going to need some help finding the exit. We got our last glasses of beer from the vendor who'd been the most generous in filling up the cups before they were forced to shut down the operation. The festival people wanted us out.

On the way back to the car a very considerate young man pointed out a puddle in the street. "Beware," he said. "Beware, urine."

And so the World Beer Festival has carried weight as a day-of-great-importance, as well as simply been a memorable, fun day. Unfortunately for the vendors, I don't really remember which beers I liked the best. To tell the truth, the table that struck me most was Pabst Blue Ribbon, where they'd lined up hundreds of bottles, indicating the great numbers of Pabst drinkers who had patronized them during that afternoon. Behind the table sat an older man, smoking a cigar and lazily sipping some of the cheap, refreshing brew, reminding everyone who passed by that life is every bit as relaxing as you make it for yourself.

on the farm

It is earlier than I normally arise. I've gulped coffee with milk, no sugar. I've arrived at the supposed meeting place, but I get it wrong. I end up chasing a white bus full of roughly 30 senior citizens down 15-501 and then onto Highway 64. We are going on a farm tour.

This was how yesterday morning in my life as reporter-at-a-weekly-paper-in-a-rural-county began. The farm tour was the gig. I was covering it and I was excited. I love old people and I love tours. I even love farms. Missing the bus and then having to chase the bus was unfortunate but once I found the group at the first stop I was pumped. A farm...only it wasn't a farm - not in the basic sense of the word. This was a meat processing establishment.

I made my way, smiling, into the classroom where my group of tour-mates were getting the lowdown. We were asked to put on hairnets and smocks. This, I guessed, was to keep us from getting pelted by any pieces of hog skin or random lard.

It smelled and the machines that spat out meat into large plastic containers disgusted me, but I got over it. There to help me were these people, these amazingly friendly people. Once they found out I worked at the newspaper it got pretty fun. "Watch what you say! Watch what you SAAAA-AAYYYYY," they roared. "She's from the NEWSPAPER!" We were kidding around. We were getting to know one another. I took a picture of two men only to be told that I, now, had to pose for a picture they would take. I love getting my picture taken while wearing a hairnet!

We did lots of fun things together that day. We had banana pudding. We talked about dogs. We learned about all the things the county had to offer, like laminated logs with which to make log cabins. Plants grown in water to aid in riverbed restoration. Meat goats.

After the barbecue place, where they gave us each a free sample pack (of meat which I'd just seen coming out of machines into large plastic vats) we didn't get to wear any more special outfits, but we did get to walk around in the bright sunshine. I asked questions when I could, some for my story, and some I was just curious about. There were so many personalities. The gentle old doctor audio-taping the event for his kids. The tall joker. The know-it-all. In fact, at one point while walking into a building at the lumber yard, I felt a steady tug on my backpack straps. I could not move forward. It was my smarty-pants friend. "Did you know...!" he began. I didn't know the particular piece of trivia and it was a fulfilling interchange for each of us.

I stepped on the bus to say goodbye at the end of the day before we all went our seperate ways. Last night I met up with J for a beer and several other friends happened to be out, too. I told them about my day and showed them where I'd gotten pork juice on the bottom of my pants. I settled into the cool night with my sweatshirt on and a Newcastle. It felt good to have traversed such distance in the span of one day.

popcorn delivered

On Sunday I awoke with a raging headache and the distant memory of people singing loudly along with music wailing from a borrowed karaoke machine perched on the kitchen table on the sticky-with-beer floor. Ah, we'd had a party! But dear God in heaven, I was not ready for this next day, this bright, shining morning to have arrived so soon. The only promising aspect was the blue sky - so blue - so enticing, I viewed through the blinds. I would not allow the suffering to continue.

The phone rang, a piercing loud disruption. I braced myself, sort of doubled over in the bed. But it was Vinnie - my brother on his study abroad trip in Ferrara, Italy. He had stories. It's awesome, he said. You must come, you will fall in love with the town. So many stories. How he and his roommates rode bikes to the train station, took the train to Padua, bought ridiculous, extravagant outfits and went out to a big dinner. There are little dogs everywhere, he said, and they look like Mina. The study abroad people organized a wine tasting for Vin and his two roommates, the only three in this program for the fall semester.

This is no world to shy away from, I thought. I dragged myself out of bed, head throbbing. I march into the shower. I made it as hot as possible. I put clothes on - no more pajamas, had toast and peach butter and orange juice. Water, so good for me. At this point I couldn't deny the outdoors any longer and ventured onto the deck where I discovered that it was the First Fall Day.

I know it's not the actual season yet and that there will probably be more hot days before the season truly sets in, but if this past Sunday was a preview, I am ready. I parked myself in one of the big plastic chairs we've got out there for a while, reading, while my sockless feet started to get cold. Every once in a while I'd peer up at the sky to remind myself of it's color.

Being outside was all I wanted. Justin and I were alarmed when the doorbell rang in the middle of the afternoon, only to find a dedicated young boy scout on the front step, selling popcorn. I cannot resist young people working hard to sell their various cookies, candies and the like, and I certainly cannot resist the thought of caramel popcorn being delivered to my door. But the boy had it now, he said! I could pay my $15 and get my popcorn now! I waited because he had to run to the house to get it (I glimpsed his father lurking off to the side, a major contraption strapped to his back which I'm assuming held various containers of chocolate, caramel, buttered popcorn. Mine, however, had to be tracked down). I stood on the sidewalk, where it was sunny, but I remained comfortable in a zippered sweatshirt and linen pants. My hair was messy, I didn't care.

Waiting for that popcorn I listened to a the voices of children in the neighborhood. People were wearing typical early fall clothing, like long sleeve t-shirts and shorts, and suddenly I wished I were married. Or about to get married, at least. Suddenly I wanted more than anything to be part of a young married, or engaged couple, striking out in the world, and it made sense beyond any feelings of making that commitment, or moving on to the next step.It just seemed such a sensible adventure for two people in love to embark on, and this is what I thought about while I waited patiently.

It was a good wait on a relaxing day. The boy scout came back and I wished him good luck. The day turned into a cool night. I got back into bed about nine hours after first leaving it. My headache was gone.

rationalizing afternoon rage at man's best friend

Hello dog.
They say, dog, that you don't know what you have done wrong when my screaming and yelling commences. They say that if you've done it hours ago, you just don't know.
But sometimes I think you do.
I go to the pet store, dog, and buy you things to chew on that are more expensive than you'd think. Bones that say you'll "chew for hours" and toys that claim you'll be "occupied all day."
Why is it then, dog, that you chewed on the bed? Why must you put everything in your mouth?
Do you know that I've had a rough day, dog? Do you understand why I'm upset?
Do you know what crying is? Do you understand that I am overreacting, but need to be comforted, dog?
Sometimes I think you do. Sometimes when you put your head on my knee, I think you do.
But then you are wagging your tail and want to go for a walk, dog. You pick up your leash excitedly, but human emotion is not so simple.
Do you know, dog, that when you poop I pick it up with a plastic bag so we will be looked on with favor by all the neighbors? Sometimes it gets on my hands. I've picked ticks from your ears, dog. I've paid money for people to teach me to teach you how to sit and stay. I take you to the park, dog. Sometimes I forgo a social event to see you run and leap because it makes me happy to see you happy.
The bed is not for your mouth, dog. It's not good for your teeth.
When I am angry you know more immediately than I do, and I can't resist you laying on your back, eyes squinted, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry," you seem to say and I want to let you put your head on my knee and then we'll be friends again.
It happens every time, dog. You prove to me that you didn't mean it.
And I always take you back.
Do you know what forgiveness is, dog? You cannot even comprehend how many times I have forgiven you.
On the other hand, you have never even been mad at me.

the day I became...

I wish I could say that this was the day I bore down and in a moment of inspired genius, began my book. I wish I could say that on this rainy Wednesday afternoon during the hurricane season here in North Carolina, here in my favorite coffee shop drinking out of a turquoise and green coffee cup - such a large inspiring cup of coffee - my life took off.

However, a more likely scenario seems to be that I might just continue to sit here, waiting for the tire to be replaced on my car at the shop down the street, observing people of the community. What the hell is everyone doing here? Does no one work?

It is obvious what they're doing, in most cases, but since these coffee-house dwellers are invoking the worst kind of envy in me with their artsy, offbeat lifestyles I feel the need to criticize them more stringently than is probably necessary. Two are playing chess. One is pregnant. A young man is doing homework, and in between problems planning dinner with friends on his celly. A serious and bespeckled young woman is intently typing on a laptop - I steal a glance and it seems she is writing some sort of grant. Legitimate. All legitimate.

In fact, all these successful looking assholes making me feel completely incomplete in my organized "career" life of sorts. All appear to have something to do, which pisses me off. They are all working on something while I am merely working on getting to a point where I'll be working on something. They are "working on something" while drinking exceedingly large cups of soy lattes and obscure herbal teas, each in his or her own way enforcing the hard cold truth that I have a job to return to and the worst thing is, like the great Ben Folds ends the classic "The Battle of Who Could Care Less," all I can think is, "You're my hero, I confess."

I envy them and I adore them. I view their tattoos, required reading, their friendly interchanges with each other and their solitary confidence as fodder for my daydreams.

Don't get me wrong - I do realize, at least somewhat, the folly of this obsession. Much like being sick which often looks, strangely, glamorous, does this sedentary officeless lifestyle appeal to me. But when under the comforter, surrounded by a thermometer, cough drops, and chicken soup, watching infomercials, paints the perfect image of "sick," I've found myself in that position wanting to get back to my normal routine. Should I really be able to spend hours at the coffee shop working towards my PhD or critiquing important papers, well - it just might not suffice.

Besides, people might be watching me as well. Should one of these hip coffee-drinkers abandon their own crucial work and take a look at my furious notebook writing and say, "Well, what are you working on?" I'll answer, "Oh, it's a book of essays - the observations of a twenty-six year-old on the various routines of humans around her," and I bet that will pass.

something extreme

This Monday, which I have off thanks to the holiday, began well. Waking up early and rested in addition to not having to go to work is such a calming start to the week. I had my favorite tea. I made almost-burned toast and peanut butter. I decided to take a trip to the grocery store because we didn't have much food in the house. I like the grocery store. I like loitering in the aisles. Possibilities on a mundane level.

But something happened to change my mood.

On the way to the store I listened to the NC State radio station, hoping to hear some new tunes. During a break they played a public service announcement for the Peace Corps. It was well-done, intended I suppose to get people thinking of all the more adventurous things they could be doing. Meeting nomads in the Gobi Desert or teaching computer skills to young Armenians. The Peace Corps motto, "life is calling," echoed through my Civic as the spot ended and the station went back to some kind of harsh punk that really wasn't very good.

Suddenly the excitement I'd generated at the thought of my impending grocery store visit seemed ridiculous. When I was in high school my initial desires to join the Peace Corps were dashed as I contentedly engaged myself with social life and the prospects of college in Boston here in the States. The appeal of being in a foriegn place - even one that needed me - faded as I realized I just liked the idea of doing something different in a general sense. It wasn't that I wanted to shirk adventure, but more that I was discovering what my kind of adventure was. I wanted to be a writer.

Therefore this public service announcement did not send me back into some adolescent daydream of jetting off to Africa. I'm over that. But I did emit an "oh shit," as the realization sunk heavily into my being, rendering the happy mood I had sustained all morning lifeless.

The realization, of course, is that I want to do something. I want to do the 26-year-old version of the 12-year-old Peace Corps dream.

I do a lot of things. I work. I write for a newspaper and I like that. I walk my dogs. I follow politics. I'm on an committee for a non-profit. And none of these are the thing. Important fulfilling things? Yes.

I talked to my brother about this recently. He is now in a little village in Italy on a study-abroad program. Before he left we talked about him going there - how he was excited and knew it would be good for him. I talked him about how I was feeling and that maybe I needed a second job or to take a class.

No, he said, you need to do something extreme.

I explained to him then that I couldn't just leave. There is a boy here, living in a house with me, that I love. There are two dogs, and various people and routines I've gotten used to, and what's more, am happy to have in my life.

No, he said again, not like that. Not like moving away or anything like that, he explained. In the rest of our philosophic discussion, I gained that what he meant if not so much put into words was that I needed to figure out what this "extreme" thing was for myself.

So after the grocery store and memories of this conversation, I decided that worry is not the correct emotion to bring to this situation. Maybe it isn't going back to school or a new job that I'm looking for. I have always said I would like to write a book. Putting a name on it is a good start - what I want to achieve...my extreme something.

calculating toxic dosage

I came back from a nice walk in the creek this afternoon to discover Mina sitting calmly at the window, awaiting my return. Suddenly, with a horrendously ominous feeling, I remembered the chocolate craving I'd had earlier in the day which I'd satisfied by buying a Toblerone chocolate bar and eating a few triangles. And then I walked over to the plastic drugstore bag lying where I had carelessly left it on the table. My Crest White Strips were there and intact. But the chocolate was gone and I knew where I'd find the remains - and did - torn apart on the blanket where the dogs sometimes sleep in the bedroom.

"Careless" takes on a new meaning when you are around my 10-pound Mina. Careless means leaving the chairs too close to the counter because Mina might fancy a scavenging trip around the counter. Careless means leaving the door to the closet where we store the trash even a touch less than completely closed. Careless might mean failing to inform any visitors that should they have any gum, snacks, lip balm, or other edible items anywhere in their belongings, that it would be safer to place those items out of human reach.

She only eats edible things, mostly human food. Mina has never enjoyed typical bad dog behavior, like getting into the Advil bottle or chewing the furniture. But she has a tremendous propensity for scouting out any food product once we have left the house. She will also scale great distances, like from the floor to the counter top, to reach her goal. Being a tiny dog, her talent is both admirable and terrifying.

Therefore, leaving a Toblerone bar out for her to discover (which I did completely unknowingly) was beyond careless. It bordered on wrecklessness or animal abuse.

After discovering the remains in the bedroom, I gathered Mina in my arms and proceded to pace around the room. She's done things like this before, so I wasn't in a full panic. She ate seven chocolate cupcakes once with no negative side effects. I know it takes a lot of chocolate to seriously hurt a dog, so decided to look up what I could on the internet. When all I found were scary sites that didn't provide any helpful information ("NEVER feed your dog chocolate." "Dogs should never even taste chocolate." "After indulging in the Christmas candy, Daisy, the beloved yellow lab, went into a nearly irreversible coma.") I called my vet's office, a place I adore.

I attempted to convince them that I was calm as I struggled with tears, Mina, who's little body was still producing a normally beating heart, thank the lord, in my arms (I constantly checked her vitals like we were in an ER and I the star of one of those high-stress doctor TV shows).

3.2 ounces. That was the amount of the entire bar, information I gained after fishing the torn container out of the trash where I'd (again with the carelessness) thrown it away.

"Mina. Mina don't die," I told her while on hold. They were calculating the toxic level of milk chocolate for a ten-pound dog. "Don't die. Please."

I often tell people that if anything were to happen to Mina, I wouldn't be able to go on. While an exaggeration, there is some truth in it. Some part of me would damaged forever. She barks at strangers. She attacks other dogs. She won't go out when it's raining, and consequentially poops on the floor. But she loves me. Mina creeps into bed to sleep next to me when she thinks I can't hear her. She jumps onto the couch when I've got her leash out because it is easier for me to reach her there. She is smart and mischeivous and small. Don't die. Don't consume toxic items, little dog.

It turns out, I found after waiting for what seemed an eternity on the phone, that the toxic level for a dog Mina's size is eight ounces. Since she definitely ate less than three, the worst I should expect is for her to have an upset stomach. I told the woman in the vet's office thank you about ten times, and calmed down.

She will be ok, but I'll be watching for any signs of distress, just in case. I'm sure it was worth it for her - the brief but intense moments of pleasure ripping the box apart and enjoying some Toblerone. That stuff is damn good.