In the past couple months, two new layers of crazy have been added to my life.
1. I bought a value pack of tooth brushes at Walgreens and one of the three has a purple, rubber squiggle piece inside the bristles. I love it. I love brushing my teeth now. I'm not sure what that little rubber thing is all about but it's really working for me.
2. I am the most anti-scent person I know (after my sister) but I've developed a fixation with Mr. Clean Citrus Scented cleaner. My bathroom, kitchen, book shelves, and baseboard moldings have never been so clean because I always want to use the stuff. I am really disappointed that I can't use it on my tile floors because it would make them sticky.
I'm getting closer to being featured on one a psychological ailment reality shows.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
I was not in love with The Crane Wife even though everyone and their sister kept telling me I must be. I am loving The King is Dead though and not just because of the Neil Young-est harmonica. I do have a soft spot for early REM so I'm sure that plays a part. Gillian Welch is a favorite too.
I heard the Robert Plant covers of Low the other day and, while I didn't love them, it did remind me of how much I loved I Could Live in Hope when it came out.
This was a good music weekend for me but it got off to a strange start.
On Friday afternoon I was at my neighborhood Dominick's waiting at the checkout counter. I was zoning out, half-mindedly looking at the tabloid covers that seem oddly fixated on celebrity cellulite, when I overheard the little old lady in the babushka two customers ahead of me complaining about the price of her chicken. The bagging guy began to explain that only the whole chickens were on sale, not the whole chickens that were cut up. My mind went back to fat bottomed girls and then it was my turn.
I sent my envirosack and food down the conveyor belt, swiped my Club Card, paid my bill and then waited for what felt like forever for the bagging guy to put my less than 15 items into the bag. I even grabbed some and stuffed them into my backpack to move the process on. The person behind me with only three items paid and went on his way; the person behind him was almost ready to pay too. The bagging guy was taking his time and it became clear that he had something to tell me. As he handed me my envirosack he looked me straight in the eyes and said:
"Uh .. have you heard ...." [I imagined he was going to tell me that Gala apples were $.10 cheaper than my Macintosh] ".... the bird's the word."
Apparently I've got ANNOYING MUSIC stamped across my forehead.
"Yes. Yes, I have heard that." "I'm not surprised, because everybody's heard, about the bird."
And I heard him singing "awell a bird bird bird" as I walked out the door. God how I hate that song.
I listened to an interview with Gregg Gillis the other day and found his obvious excitement about his catalog of samples/cataloging system for them really endearing.
I love the contrast of that interview with this scene of hip kid mayhem from last New Year's Eve at one of my least favorite Chicago venues.
Fun concert crowd footage from the Joel Fernando Media Lab people. Makes me glad I stayed home this year and cleaned my sock drawer though.
For the past two years, at our staff holiday party, a new and (to me) disturbing trend has developed. After the buffet, after dessert, and after the raffle (this year I won two tickets to Steppenwolf!) people have started to dance.
Wild dancing, line dancing, Dancing-with-the-Stars dancing.
One of my catalogers and I stood on the edge of the dance floor, clutching our drinks in hand and talking about dancing. My cataloger, J., is a super cute woman in her mid/late 20s. Her main objection to the dancing was doing it at a work function. Mine came more from being a woman in my early 40s who came of age at a time/place with limited dance opportunities. In middle school, some boys were into break dancing, but not girls. And by the time high school rolled along, we mostly went to clubs and ... stood around clutching drinks. I can say that I have at least managed to expand my emotional range since then beyond Goth impassivity and teenage surly scowl.
Ever since that conversation, dancing has been on my mind. I've had several grim dancing experiences.
1. "The Wiz" tryouts sophomore year of High School. Two of my friends at the time, Nancy S. and Stacey B., were both perky, happy high school girls. They were also both coordinated. The choreography required to be a munchkin stressed me out way too much and I decided to cheer them on from a seat in the audience instead.
2. Bellydance/burlesque dance classes. I enjoyed the fundamentals classes of both where you could stand there and do drills but once again, the choreography was beyond me.
3. Ballroom dance class with a boyfriend who had recently dumped me. I like to think that the emotional awkwardness of that class led to my difficulty with the box step, but I'm pretty sure my two left feet played a part. I'd like to say "our four left feet" but the boyfriend went on to successfully navigate some contra dance classes. As my revenge (for being a better dancer, not dumping me) I plan on trampling his left foot and his right foot during a box step move if we dance at his upcoming wedding.
After posting about Toto and Africa, I realized that both of those bands and all four awful songs got under my skin more from MTV than the radio. Early MTV may also be to blame for my bad dancing because I loved this video.
Come to think of it, that sparkly red dress would be PERFECT for next year's Holiday Party and I bet no one would even notice my dance moves if I was wearing red pantyhose.
