I had a NIGHT of incredibly vivid dreams.

The most distressing was about my job interview. I dreamt that the interview took place in a conference room that was attached to a small reception room and then a mirror-image room on the other side. I wore clothes that were too hot, and even though the interview is for a sales position, the company was called Chase, like the bank.

The interview wound up being with--not one or two people--but an entire room full of combative, attractive salespeople with huge egos and candy and weed addictions, the manager of the division I'm hoping to work for, and the owner of the company. The owner of the company began the interview by saying, "Let's get right down to business, I want you to Chase something out of me." So I asked him for his shirt. To my horror, he complied without coercion. Thankfully, he wore a kind of beefy oxford over another oxford, so when he gave me his shirt, there was another normal oxford with a tie under it. Then I asked him for his tie, and he got this perverse look of lecherous-old-man glee on his face. Then I said, "I appreciate the pun, but do you have a better prompt? I'm not so good with inventing my own prompt on-the-fly." So he said, "Pretend you're waiting on us." Which, in my dream, was comfortable for me, but the rest of the salespeople were who I was waiting on.

I was making up a menu and upselling my face off. It was going great. But I was half way around the table when people started ordering candy. By this time, the old man and the guy who would've been my manager had disappeared. So After the third girl ordered those gummy garbage patch kids with all the sour shit all over them, I was like, "What's going on here!" And one of them, a guy who resembled this rambunctious eater I waited on in real life just hours before this dream, leaned in close to me (he had terrible breath in the dream), and said, "see, you have to go on a candy run, because we just smoked some pot." I stood there for a minute just looking around, and one at a time they all started laughing. Giddy like people who've just smoked pot are. I was conscious that they weren't laughing at me, but I was convinced that the old guy and the division manager were in some room someplace watching the whole thing on some hidden camera, tisking and shaking their heads and going, "That girl's not going to hold up under this kind of pressure."

I was so annoyed and on edge that I ran out of the room, but couldn't find my way out of the building. I ran down this long corridor and ran into the manager-of-division guy who said "I thought things went really well. I bet you'll get the job." I yelled over my shoulder, "Really? That's great! Because I really, really, really need it." When I finally got out of the building it was pouring rain, the old lech was there waiting and I was in tears and he said, "What's wrong?" I said, "They want me to go on a candy run, and they're all stoned." Then he disappeared and I was in my car, with the windows down, getting very wet and wearing high heels and purple (of all colors!), and talking myself into then out of going on a candy run for the obnoxious stoners who by that time I was trying ton conceive of working with.

The whole things was vivid and intense, and even now I'm still getting flashes of the imagery from it.

I also dreamed that Pearl spoke in full sentences and recalled verbaitum things I have told her when I thought she wasn't really capable of understanding enough to remember the off-color things it might occur to me to say.

Of course, she also assured me in the dream that she was perfectly capable of understanding the difference between serious mommy and crazy mommy. And that she likes it when I say crazy things.

so this'll be short.

Two days ago, I had a life-changing-epiphany. Now I am coping with the aftermath and deciding what to do.

I almost bought a book today from the Bargain Bin at Borders called Why Smart Men Marry Smart Women, but I changed my mind when I read the dust jacket and learned that it's a speculative analysis of census and harris poll data, "proving" that all the problems that go along with being a smart, ambitious, successful woman who wants to marry, but can't manage to meet a man who's able to take the constant ego assault that being with a smart, ambitious, successful woman actually is will be solved entirely by 2010, and more education and success actually HELP smart, successful, ambitious women find smart men who want them. The best part: it purports to have a thesis that goes something like this: "it doesn't matter that you get married, but that you have a good marriage and lead a full life." DUH. I feel sorry for people who need a book to tell them that. I also feel sorry for a person who so desperately wants to believe all the things the book claims to evince that they would commission a Harris Poll and WRITE A GODDAMN BOOK. I was also annoyed by the acronym SWANS: Strong Women Achievers, No Spouse. STUPID!!

I REALLY, REALLY hate Wikipedia.

I've been seeing ghosts of my friends all week. One in the grocery store two days ago, one driving by me today, one crossing the street three days ago in Oakland. Of course, these are just city-to-city twins. None of the people I've "seen" are actually in Pittsburgh.

I've become a horrid typist. Worse, I can't write with a pen fast enough anymore.

I've started journaling again.

I ate a delicious sandwich three days ago. I can't stop thinking about it.

I have an interview for a sexy job in one week and one day (sexy=lotsa money, flexible schedule, benefits). In one week, I'm gone from Pittsburgh for good.

I dislike people who eat out on Sunday afternoons. Christians are fucking cheap tippers. And they're conspicuous about it, too. Who else goes to eat at exactly 12:30 on a Sunday afternoon wearing not-quite-fancy, but better-than-casual clothing, with their spouse and all of their children?? Three guesses--the first two don't count.

John Cusack

In half of films from
nineties: wore skinny leg jeans.
Flares for the next ten?

(I know, i know. it's supposed to be about nature. look. this is the modern world. we have cars that don't need keys. I think there can be haiku about fashion.)

Forgive me. I just don't get it. I know I'm opening myself up to a barrage of medieval punishments from friends, family and strangers. I can almost feel the first stones bouncing off my back.

You're right. I haven't read the books. I HAVEN'T. I'm a little proud. Back in '99 or when ever it was that the first one came out, Harry Poter and the Onslaught of Mania, I read a few chapters of it in the aisle of the B. Dalton at the shitty mall my friend Lauren worked at.

You're right, you're right. It's well-written. It's fine. For YA literature. Terrific, even. It's complex, the characters are rich, etc. I have NO beef with the writing, none. And I am totally in awe of J.K. Rowling's rags-to-riches-single-mom story for reasons that are totally obvious. I think the stories are nice. I think that Rowling has done something that few other fantasy writers have done: the characters are more intersting than the story, we identify with them, we love them, we are even secretly aware that Hermoine is the true protagonist...

I get e-mails from Borders. I have one of their little key tags that entitles me to discounts and savings and cool, cool things. About once a week, they send out the “Borders Shortlist.” Those of you who're also book-heads belonging to Borders thingy will know what I'm talking about. This Borders Shortlist usually has a new book, a new recording artist, and a new book-on-tape/CD. This shortlist was FULL of Harry Potter. Come to the party at midnight dressed as your favorite HP character, we'll have punch and games and little sacks of magic. The WHOOOOLE shortlist e-mail was dedicated to Potter.**

That is what I don't get. The histrionics. The serious obsession. The way I know at least 3 grownups who're totally in tune with the coming of both the film and the book. Not to mention, EVERYBODY else in my family (except for dear old dad, who's too busy winning the bread to buy the HP books) has just finished re-reading all six in preparation for the seventh!!??!!

C'mon!!

My reading list is full of things to read, but there's just no space in it for HP.

Maybe i should be peeing in my pants with glee that something to READ has captured the imagination of almost everyone in America, no, the World between the ages of 7 and 57. But there's something hinky about it! It makes me suspicious. Sort of like back when everybody was anticipating the New Star Wars Movies. Only that was JUST movies, and they wound up sucking so the mania wore off quickly.

Of course, I'm sure that when Pearl gets a little bit older I'll read her the HP books. I'm sure I'll enjoy them. But it'll be about 5 years too late to hop on the bandwagon. It's never too late to enjoy a good book, and I prefer books without bandwagons.



**Wait, not the WHOOLE short list. There was a 2” blurb at the bottom advertising the Borders Visa (with which you could purchase HPobilia) and Barbeque University with that Reichland fellow of Beer Can Chicken Fame. What success! Busting in on the HP Mania. That guy is my new hero.

Check out this review of the literary journal that published my storyat this link. But wait! Before you get clickin! You have to scroll ALLLLL the way down to where the reviewer writes about The Sou'Wester. (That's the journal that published me. They published Ray Carver, too. I think I already said that. But oooh that is exciting!!)

First of all, Panera is not my first choice, but I'm here on my way to work today, and it's the most-convenient place with free Wi-Fi. I also have to say something for its cheapness. The other coffee shop choices I have are Crazy Mocha, which has free Wi-Fi, but its like two and a half dollars for a cup of coffee, no refills. Grrr. Starbucks is good. I like their espresso. But to use their Wi-Fi it costs $10 for a day and some other absurd price for an hour. Panera, I can sit here for 5 hours if I want, drink unlimited coffee for a buck and a half, and their bagels, without cream cheese, are $0.95. Cool.

Anyway. I think a lot of people here have major Mac Envy. If you walk into Crazy Mocha with anything but a Mac, you might as well grow some lesions on your skin and start spreading AIDS.

The people watching isn't as good at Panera. These people don't have any politics about supporting local business, or if they do, they've quieted it (like I have) for the free Wi-Fi and cheap, refillable coffee. I'm looking forward to a time in my life where I can afford to put my pocketbook where my mouth is. That means: no shopping at Wal Mart, ever, using privately-owned, or small, local chain grocery stores, bakerys, etc. Eating Organic Meat and Dairy Products. Cage Free Eggs. Choosing nice companies when I have to—Starbucks for one, Target for another. Of course, Trader Joe's, which is practically my religion.

Anyway. Mostly the people here at Panera are nice, normal middle-class white people with no arty glasses or facial tics. There are some folks from India around, and some asian people. Mostly they're here with their computers or their children and spouses. But just a few blocks yonder, at the Starbucks, I can go on a given day and be one of the few native english speakers in the place. There's something terrific about that. Panera's also a neato place to see the Seniors. I think they like how inexpensive it is, too. But seniors, in general, aren't good people-watching.

In some ways, I like the lack of pretention in the conversations I overhear. In other ways I crave it. Mostly, I guess I'm just really glad to live in a place where I can walk to free Wi-Fi. That won't be the case much longer...

What's the big deal? People are totally obsessed with Ice Cream. I worked for a summer at an Ice Cream Shop. Besides the fact that my boss was an irresponsible nitwit who'd done too many psychedelic drugs so that his already-substandard intellectual powers were significantly lessened, I maintained a state of consistent shock regarding the lengths to which people were willing to go for Ice Cream, the ways in which people allowed their feral side to show. Ordinarily nice, sensible humans lost their minds, the moment they stepped through the Ice Cream Shop Doors. It was like that famous movie with Jack Nicholson where the house turns him mad.

Perhaps it was the fact that the ice-cream fiends were usually the straight-edge crowd. The stereotype warring with the situation in my mind was too much for my little scooping ego to bear? Or it was these compact and hygienic people wearing Banana Republic or J. Crew, almost always seemed just slightly batty, with a 3-5 dollar daily ice cream habit. (If it was the 80s, I'd call 'em yuppies) In some cases it was the after-gym-indulgence. In others, it was just a metabolic miracle. In all cases, it was compulsive. A craving people went with no matter what time it was. The shop in which I worked was open until 11pm. That was retarded. But routinely, 10:55 rolled around and there was a line out the door. What was it about New Haven that made people crave ice cream a short hour before midnight?

Was it the 7:00 showing at the indie theatre letting out? Was it the square-people-early-band at Toad's next door? No—there was something else to it. Something pathological. Was it power? Decadence? What?

Have a freakin beer! There are fewer calories in a beer than in 2 scoops of ice cream. Plus, you'll sleep better. Plus, it's better for your teeth.

ON THE FUCKING INTERNET!!!!

OOOOH I AM SO ANGRY I COULD WEEP.

I just wrote a terrific blog complete with HTML links and formatting. It was really funny and included things I hate, things I wish I had right now, and a remarkable analysis of the phony TV show "Six Degrees." Guess what, that last doesn't take you to the IMDb page for "six degrees" because I am too annoyed to go looking for the way to make HTML links. It also included a link to Miranda July's website that my friend Jeffrey just e-mailed to me.

Of course, the whole thing is my fault. I should have composed the blog brilliance on my word processing software.

This blog is neither interesting nor funny.

grrrrrrrrrr.

Maybe it's not true that I never do nice things for other people anymore, instead it's that other people do more nice things for me now than I've ever asked for before. It's kind of the rub about being a Scorpio Single Mother. Scorpios don't like to ask for help (and no, James, I didn't like to ask for help loooong before I learned these things about Scorpios). My mother (who is also a scorpio) still rolls her eyes if someone holds the door for her. She is almost 50. I have had to teach myself how to ask for help. People are happy to help, once you ask. Sometimes even before you ask. But knowing that and doing it doesn't really make it any easier on my fragile little ego.

But mostly, we're all self-enamored little fishes swimming blindly in the jet stream of our own needs. And I enjoy the ride. I don't usually look outside of my jet stream, or break its wall. Especially now since Pearl's needs are my needs. So the need-to-resources ratio in this zoo is 2 to -45 sometimes. I just don't have the mental space to accomodate other people, too.

But today is my last day working at the Olive Garden FunHouse in Robinson. I am soo glad. But Josh, this cool guy who works in the kitchen as a Culinary Assistant, is a musician when he's not at the OG, and who has sacreligious tattoos, was telling me about his relationship with The White Album. How he keeps losing it.

I own The White Album. So I burned it for him. I wrote the songs on the discs. I made a little protective sleeve from printer paper. The White Album will ride home with Josh unscratched.

This nice thing is especially good because it is entirely without self-interest (except for the little endorphin high everybody gets from doing nice things that is biologically engineered to keep people doing nice things instead of naughty things--which is why we don't need government telling us what nice things we can do and what unnice things we should not do, trouble with government is that it doesn't trust humans to do what we are made to do, and that is survive in tribes but that is a blog for another day). I don't want to sleep with Josh. He's a nice guy, but not really my type. I'm leaving the area soon, so no strings. It's my last day--it's likely that I'll NEVER see Josh again. But Josh will have The White Album again. And that's an album no human should be going about on the planet without.

for a story.

woman character named Polly O'Reilly is totally in love/obsessed with Sara Jessica Parker, or Mary Louise Parker (I can't decide). She is a compulsive smoker whose father is dying of lung cancer. She owns several pairs of Jimmy Choos & lives in an apartment overrun by cats whre she dances, naked, but for the cat hairs that stick to her sweating rump. She works as a person who repackages things for Trader Joes, and because of her good performance on the job, has been promoted to repackaging the phyllo dough-wrapped-goodies, like Spinach Pie and Eggy Parm. "it takes serious delicacy to do this right, and I do. i lead the plant in minimum waste. they gave me a plaque and a button to wear on my smock. Everyone knows. and I never, never forget to wash my hands after I smoke." She works next to an old woman called, Ironically, Mary Louise Louise. She works accross from a John Corbett look-alike who wears a cros around his neck and wrings his hands while he chants about Mary during the 15 minute breaks.

hahahah! Yeah right. Like I would post a serious story idea here. Shea! As if!

Or maybe I AM serious.

Who knows??