Going, Going, Gone

I've moved! Find me here: www.justjoywriting.wordpress.com.

Change Is Inevitable

They say all good things must come to an end. I happen to believe that all good things deserve the chance to become even better things, which is why I'M MOVIING! Or at least my blog is.

Click this link

http://www.justjoywriting.wordpress.com/

to visit the new blog. Those of you who have signed on as followers here can still do so on the new blog as well (and please please do; it really means a lot to me). If you follow through Facebook, I'll be posting the link to the new blog there through my status updates. I have some new ideas for things I want to do, and I'm looking forward to seeing how things turn out.

Drive-Thru Confessional

As busy people with self-imposed hectic schedules, we love a good drive-thru. Using the drive-thru allows us the necessity of ordering, consuming, and cleaning up without ever having to park or exit the car. We don't even have to dress for the occasion. Get it and go; it's the American way. Thank you, McDonalds.

But during that brief moment of respite in which we allow ourselves some measure of nourishment (be it ever greasy, fried, or otherwise harmful to our overall health), I can't help wondering what kind of consideration we give to those whose voices float out to us garbled and mostly incoherent from the screen reading "Order Here."

Sure, we don't mind telling them which value meal or combo pack we're going to have for dinner. We don't mind telling them we want no onions or that we want to supersize it. But what happens after they take our order? What happens when we think they've gone? What kind of information are those disembodied voices privy to?

We always assume that as soon as they take our order they are gone, and we don't necessarily consciously make the connection between the voice in the box and the person at the window. Do they hear us berating other drive-thru patrons for ordering too much? Do they hear us venting about bad bosses, failed friendships, luke-warm marriages? Do they hear us discussing health problems or politics? Religion and the weather?

Do they ever hear things that make them want to spit in our order?

We take for granted that the drive-thru affords us some element of privacy. Our cars are safety zones, impenetrable despite our daily grind. We think our cars preclude us from interaction with what's outside them (maybe this is why people so diligently pick their noses while they drive, but that is a whole other blog). What we fail to think about is the implicit contract of communication that we enter into as soon as we respond to the question of whether we want fries with that. By inviting that voice into the vehicle, we are, whether we intend to or not, allowing that drive-thru worker into that particular moment of our lives. No wonder so many of them seem so disgruntled.

Anything I Can Do You Can Do Weirder

Privacy is not something guaranteed to us, but it once was a general consideration we liked to make for each other. The world was once a place in which we didn't know everything about everyone, and we didn't need to know everything about everyone. At what point this changed I couldn't begin to guess, but now it seems that the opposite is true: we don't just need to know everything about everyone, we feel entitled to know. And a big thanks to the various social networks, as well as reality tv networks like Bravo, for allowing us these all-too-familiar glimpses into each other's lives.

Don't get me wrong: I love reality shows (inasmuch as they are reality) and Facebook just as much as the next person. However, I am also one of those (few it seems) people who believe in censoring myself. My life is not what I would call fascinating enough to chronicle every bit of it for perusal via hourly status updates, and Facebook will never encapsulate who I really am. But I do indulge in the connectivity, and I have been known to watch a Real Housewives show or two. How could I help myself? Everyone else was doing it.

And although many reality television shows are innocuous (hardly bringing more than bad role models and media-driven substantiation of stereotypes to the table), it's shows like Hoarders and My Strange Addiction that seem to warrant a closer look at why we want to know what we want to know. What is the attraction? Why do we get sucked into these shows that chronicle people with psychological problems? Certainly there are people suffering from these afflictions who never make it onto tv. Do we care about those people? Do we even notice them in real life?

I can't help wondering if we aren't mesmerized by these shows because they make us feel better about ourselves. We see these people grappling with issues like eating couch cushions or collecting hair from shower drains, and it makes us feel a little bit better about our own idiosyncrasies. We see the hoarders or the messiest house in America, and it makes us not feel so guilty that the supper dishes are still soaking in the sink or that the dusting has been neglected for another week.

It's been suggested that in order to captivate an audience with the attention span of 140 characters, the action has to be extreme. There is no room for middle ground. We don't want to see shows about average people. We want to see the extreme versions of ourselves, what we would turn into if we just let go. Is this why we feel justified as spectators? Are we just trying to keep ourselves in check, or have we in our quest for never-ending connectivity convinced ourselves that this is entertainment?

Re-runs and Re-reads

Growing up my family used to watch the same movies over and over until we were so well versed that we no longer needed the actual film to enjoy the experience of watching it. We didn't branch out very frequently (to quote from our repertoire: "We don't normally go where we ain't already been."), but occasionally we would adopt something new. Sometimes we chose well; other times we'd revert to the standards. They made us laugh. They made us cringe. They were comfortable.

Books affect me the same way. Branching out is always fun, and trying new authors feels like living dangerously sometimes. But there are certain standards, certain stories, certain authors that remain constant. These books I've read over and over again, some of them so many times I can quote whole sections. The characters have become a part of my reality, so real to me that it's difficult to conceive of them the same way every time I open the pages. At some point, I reason, they should have learned from these mistakes. They should know as well as I what is going to happen in the next chapter because we've all been there before. Except we haven't. The characters never age, although my perception of their actions and my ability to relate to them does. I love them for who they are to me and what I feel like they could be if they were only given a few more pages. The possibilities are endless.

The scenery in these books and the action feels a bit like watching a familiar film. I know the cracks in the sidewalks and how the paint peels from the porch railing. I know on what side of the castle the moss grows because I've seen it in my mind so many times. It's just as real to me as anything I see on screen.

I look to the characters for consistency. People, real people, are slippery, and it's very easy to put trust in the wrong place. We don't want to think that we are the only ones who have our best interests at heart, but so often that seems to be the case. But the people in the books remain the same through every read. They don't stab the reader in the back. They don't modify their behavior to save themselves at the reader's expense. I always know where I stand with them, even if it's not where I want to be. I respect them for this. I always will. They have become a comfort zone, a place to land when I'm looking for something predictable, something with order, a welcome distraction when I feel like I'm losing control.

A Prompt Writing

It was a strange engagement. But she had her own reasons for wanting to go through with it. And so did he.

She waited for him at that bar on Third Street. A friend of a friend had referred him. She had been assured that he could get the job done. They'd never met before, but somehow she knew she'd know him when she saw him. The bar smelled of smoke and rain and made her feel claustrophobic, and if the flourescent light above the bar kept flickering, she'd lose her nerve.

"Another?" asked the ever-attentive bartender. He wasn't used to seeing women in his bar; he couldn't even remember the last time he'd served one. She was a newcomer to the place and as such was worthy of suspicion. Her appearance did nothing to bolster his confidence in her. Her wet hair was matted to her forehead, and her mascara had run just enough to make the dark circles under her eyes noticeable.

"No thanks," she said. "I'm drivin'." Eventually I will be anyway, she thought.

She took a long drag on a bummed cigarette. She'd picked a poor day to quit. She could quit tomorrow. All this would be over tomorrow. Today was a day for a smoke. She finished sipping the gin and tonic she'd ordered over an hour ago. She shouldn't even be here. She should have left half an hour ago. Where the hell was he? She didn't have all evening to wait. She did have a schedule to keep, places to be, things to do...

She was seething by the time the bell atop the door jingled.

Funny, she thought. Seems kinda outta place in a joint like this.

"Did someone call a tow truck?"

"It's about time you showed up," she sighed. "I've been waiting forever. My car won't start, and I have an engagement at a gallery in ten minutes. You know I'll never make it in time to give my opening speech, and even if I did I couldn't give it looking like this. Do you know what kind of important clients..."

"Will you be payin' with cash or credit?" he interuppted. "If it's credit, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

*This story is based on a prompt (at the top in bold) provided by the Writers Digest website circa January 28, 2011. I can't be serious all the time. : )

If the Cliché Fits...

I'm no advocate for stereotypes in general. Among other reasons, I find them to be suspicious and unreliable. But sometimes I can't help indulging, if only briefly, in some admission that there are some that are based in truth. Some, mind you, not all and not many.

Take, for example, Hal. Hal is travelling from Ohio. He is a middle-aged businessman who enjoys a good game of golf, particularly if the company is paying for it. He is tall, but he allows himself to hunch over, evidence of what might long ago have been some vague insecurity about his height. No signs of that insecurity now. Hal has made something of himself. He needs to prove himself to no one. The clubs in his bag are proof enough.

Today is the perfect day to head to the course. It's sunny, and there doesn't seem to be much wind. To hell with the golf shoes: Hal is on vacation. Flip-flops will suffice. He practices his swing a few times, all the while calling it a futile exercise; Hal's swing is top-notch. He wheels the golf cart to the first tee and lights his stogy. Oh yes, it's going to be a good game.

We managed to somehow make it to the first tee at the same time and were thus paired with Hal for the eighteen-hole duration. Throughout the game, we learn nothing of Hal's personal life. Is he married? Does he have children? Grandchildren? What kind of business is he in? All we know is what we see.

Somehow my mind wanders to every image I've ever conjured of the traveling businessman making the most of his time on the golf course, but all I can see is Hal. I've seen him on television sitcoms all my life. He's in movies and books. He's in commercials. Hal is that guy. In my mind's eye, Hal has a modest home in the suburbs. He has modest cars and a modest wife. Occasionally he knocks back one too many beers at the July 4 barbecue, but since that's only once a year, it's no big thing. Hal has a 401K with his company, and he's hoping to hold onto the job for just a few more years when he can (finally) retire. He has children who should be finished with college by now and almost are. When they're finished, he and the missus will look further into buying that vacation home. Whether Hal has any of these things is irrelevant. This is what my media experience has taught me about guys like Hal.

If I thought this stereotype was dangerous, I would never have allotted the situation so much attention. But Hal's situation has me thinking: where do the stereotypes come from? Would Hal be offended if he knew I thought of him this way? Would he be amused? Does his life follow this outline at all? Without really realizing what I was doing, I created a tidy life story for Hal, and in reality I know nothing about him. Why do I do this? Is it wrong? How do I stop?

*Disclaimer: I don't manufacture life stories for everyone I meet. I think poor Hal was simply typecast based on a fleeting moment of boredom. Forgive me if this was wrong.

Life Notes

Growing up I never liked the idea of PE in school. Don't get me wrong; I see nothing wrong with being healthy and active. But something about being forced to change clothes with other people and then being made to sweat with them hit a sour note with me. Forced merriment has never been my thing. Which is why, so often, I would have my mother write notes excusing me from PE.

At the time I thought it was clever. I knew for certain that my mother genuinely thought I didn't need to do PE because of a headache, a cough, a hurt ankle, you name it. If all the things that got me out of PE had actually happened to me, I would say it was a near miracle I made it out of grade school. I realize now that she knew the whole time. Kudos to mom for writing the notes anyway.

The impulse to "sit out" doesn't seem to leave us just because we get older. Sure, there is no longer someone making us change clothes in front of other people in rooms where only a fool would walk around barefoot. But we still get the urge to cry injury every now and then just for the sake of catching our breath. Wouldn't it be great if we could get a parent's note for a day of life?

I imagine it would say something like, "Dear , Please excuse from life today. She has a headache. Signed, A Parent." At this point we now have free license to sit back and watch as everyone else continues to run laps. Round and round the gym they go while we sit back and cool it on the bleachers. It would be a temporary reprieve, as almost all gym notes were. But it would allow us to sit and gain perspective on things so that when we do rejoin our peers the next day we will realize that what we are doing (in most cases) is in fact running around in circles.

The problem here is that all good things will come to an end, and while most of us would use the privilege of the life note responsibly, there would be those that would take advantage and ruin it for everyone else. At some point life itself would start limiting excuses to doctors' notes. At that point (I don't know about you), I would rather run the laps.

Is Nothing Sacred?

They say there's nothing new under the sun. But they say a lot of things, some true and some not so true. (What do they know? Who are they anyway?) Perhaps, though, they're onto something.

In a world in which we have so many avenues to communicate with each other in order to generate new ideas, where have all the original thoughts gone?

Several decades ago American muscle cars prowled the streets as guys of all ages panted after them. But all good things must come to an end, and so the muscle car slipped into our collective memory, a rusting piece of nostalgia. Until recently, that's where it stayed. Apparently now is the time for resurgence of these particular cultural relics, albeit remodeled shadows of what they were before. Never mind their sounds, emissions, or the fact that they've now morphed into semi-family-friendly cars; we have managed to clumsily resurrect that which was probably best left untouched and untarnished. Where are they with a good cliche when you need them?

We do this with movies (Footloose), cartoons (Scooby Doo), and songs (for an example, select any newer pop song containing a remix of an early 90s hit in the background). We also do it with written ideas.

Writers are inspired by other writers, and we begin to generate what we perceive to be original thought. That's until we consult the original only to find that we have, in fact, produced a copy, a retelling of another author's thoughts. And who knows: maybe that author copied another author ad infinitum. As writers we walk a thin line between original thought and cheap imitation. We create fascinating dialogue via social networking and coffee house conversations, yet somehow we don't conceive anything new independently. Just when we think we're onto something, we find that someone else has beat us to the punch. Am I saying there is no original thought going on? No. Do I believe that there are original people generating original ideas? Of course. But I also believe that somewhere along the way we get lazy, and it becomes easier to "create" that which has already been created.

Is nothing sacred anymore? Can we not seek inspiration from others in art, music, writing, design, and entertainment without churning out mediocre counterfeits of our own? They also say history repeats itself. A dangerous thought, this. Creativity beware.

Good Luck

As a kid I had an eye for four-leaf clovers. I never had to hunt for them as other people did. It fascinated my mother, and I never lost the knack for it. Every time I come home, I find one.

Until now.

Every time I think I've spotted the elusive clover, it turns out to be a dud (no offense to the run-of-the-mill three-leaf clover). My best efforts are now thwarted by my own excitement and anticipation. Then it occured to me: what if they're all gone? What if we've picked them all?

We all know that when the clover is plucked, it dies. Maybe not immediately, but the end is certainly inevitable. We have no evidence (at least I don't) that another necessarily grows back in its place. Maybe that's the problem with the world today: we've picked all the good luck already, and there's nothing growing back in its place.

With that in mind, if and when I stumble upon another lucky clover, I will leave it firmly attached to its roots. I will marvel over it briefly, smiling and thinking to myself, "Oh yeah, I've still got it."

The Green Contradiction

Every Friday morning the recycling collection truck rolls through the neighborhood. I watch as it mechanically and methodically picks up the cans of people's good intentions and empties them into its belly. I can only do this for so long, though. At one point, it gets too far away, and the back of the truck is no longer visible through the thick cloud of emissions pouring from the exhaust.

It's That Time of Year

It's amazing what a little rain can do. Walking out the door this morning it finally feels like summer. The air is thick with moisture craving somewhere to go, and the breeze is just swift enough to keep it from being sticky. Days like today make me remember why I love summertime.

I leave the house expecting to smell sunscreen, and there is the inevitable smell of cheap plastic floatation devices to be used at the pool. These smells, coupled with the smell of fresh cut grass and gasoline or charcoal and burned hotdogs, are timeless, as are the sounds of sprinklers watering ever-parched backyards and the lawnmowers being used to cut them or the twinkle of lightning bugs as they try to evade capture at dusk. I know them; my parents know them. The kids down the street from me know them. Some things just never get old.

Summer mornings are my favorites. The day holds so much possibility. On cool summer mornings when the dew is still on the grass, the world is mine. I can do anything or nothing, and the air seems charged with anticipation. Generally by mid-day that sense of optimism has given way to that sun-tired feeling that unfailingly accompanies high temperatures. But at least I had it, and at least I know I'll have it again the next day.

Whether I actually smell the smells or see the sights is irrelevant. I never really think about how etched into my memory they are until this day comes every year, and their possibility is enough for me. Today, for me, summer has actually begun.

Things I've Learned While...

In the mountains on a weekend getaway:

Upon venturing into the mountains in an attempt to escape the desert, a number of things became brutally obvious...

1. Altitude sickness is a very real thing. It is inescapable unless you are completely accustomed to the terrain. It has the ability to make a person feel hungover without the benefit of having been drunk the night before. Staying hydrated will help, but the only thing that will alleviate the pain is evacuating the elevation.

2. Yellowjackets can harmonize. Sure, they buzz around being nothing but nosy. But in case you miss them, they will suspend themselves in front of your face and recruit some of their friends. If you still fail to notice, they will sync the sound of their buzzing in a last-stitch effort to grab your attention. And if at that point you have still failed to notice, well, benadryl will probably be in order.

3. All manner of wildlife (deer, coyotes, squirrels, woodpeckers, etc.) coexists on a golf course in the mountains. They are not afraid of you. At all.

4. When you're planning a relaxing weekend getaway in a remote mountain location, it is probably a good idea to ensure that your reservations do not fall on the same weekend as the annual Ruff Riders bike rally.

5. You should also avoid scheduling the same getaway when Bret Michaels is in town.

6. If it happens that you inadvertently make your reservations when both Bret Michaels and the Ruff Riders are in town, park yourself in a well-lit area, and watch the crowd. It's an interesting one and will keep you thoroughly entertained for an indefinite period of time. Just don't let them catch you looking.

In some ways I feel so much wiser for having experienced this weekend, but more than anything life's ironic sense of humor has not been lost on me.

Which Came First: The Book or The Reader?

For the last couple of weeks, I've been trying to figure out what happened to my inclination to write. I feel like a part of me has checked out and taken my inspiration with it. Wherever it went, I hope it's having fun. I'm expecting a postcard any day.

Then I started thinking about my reading habits over the past few weeks, and it hit me. Like a ton of bricks.

I've always believed that there is a direct correlation between what I read and what I write; one is all but completely dependent on the other. I am not alone in this belief. In his book On Writing, Stephen King suggests, "If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write." I wholeheartedly concur.

Without even thinking about it, I glean ideas from what I read. Books, articles, the backs of cereal boxes all prompt me to ask questions. I don't mean to suggest that I get personally introspective because of what I read on the back of my box of Special K. But I think that when I read more, I am more perceptive. The world becomes clearer and more ambiguous at the same time. I find myself questioning more frequently that which is presented to me as fact. I get curious.

With that said, school is officially finished, and I have all the time in the world to read what I want. So here's to a summer full of good wine, good books, and good writing! I hope.

Some Things Just HaveTo Be Said

Disclaimer: While I don't normally like to get too personal in these ramblings, sometimes there's no other way to say what needs to be said. Permit me to be personal, if only this one time.

Nearly ten years ago when the planes hit the towers on September 11, I was changing the letters on the school marquee to announce the coffee house being sponsored by the drama department at my high school. I watched in confusion as the details unfolded, and I wondered what application these events would have to my own life. I cried for the families at the time not only because of the tremendous loss they suffered, but because I knew that the road they faced was a dark and unpleasant one. And one they would have to travel alone. No matter how patriotic I became or how many American flag t-shirts I purchased I would never be able to fill the void created for those families on that day. My hands were tied, and there is nothing I hate more than being powerless.

Over the next few years I watched as our nation activated its military in a way with which I was completely unfamiliar. And while it all seemed vaguely real (I had heard of people in my hometown deploying or a friend's cousin's cousin's nephew being sent overseas), it still didn't seem real that it was happening in my lifetime. My life progressed regardless of what was happening across the globe, and I never felt much connection to what was going on. I graduated from high school and moved to college, and the world kept turning for me. But one day things changed, and the whole concept of September 11 and the War on Terror wore a new face.

I fell in love with a man in a uniform, and I knew that things would never again be as easy for me as they had been. When we got married, I knew deployment was a reality I would have to face with him, and so I bound my heart to his and watched as he prepared himself the best way he knew how. We spent a year apart, and although it was stressful and difficult, painful and uncomfortable, I still consider that a small sacrifice. I know men and women who have watched their spouses deploy three, four, more times than they care to think about. A year seems pretty small in comparison to what they've given. But they keep going, spouses and soldiers alike.

It's been awhile since I've heard the name Osama bin Laden. For awhile it seemed like people had put him in the backs of their minds. Sure, his name pops up on September 11 as we commemorate those who died and those who go on living without them. But what about the other 364 days of the year? Army life became the mission of my family, whether that was before, during, or after a deployment. The reason for deployment seemed lost for awhile.

Now that the spearhead of the attacks has been effectively eliminated, I am reminded once again of what all this is for. I am reminded of the way I felt that September morning; I am reminded of how I felt watching my husband go off to war. And I am reminded of how much my life changed between the two events.

The road may not be any less difficult for those who lost someone that day. It may not be any less difficult for those who lost mothers or fathers, sons or daughters, sisters or brothers, husbands or wives on foreign soil over the past few years. But somehow I feel like I understand it a little better. And it is my hope that these families will derive a new sense of hope, a new sense of pride from the news we have today, knowing that it isn't all for nothing. Knowing that we will never forget.

Bless our troops, and bless this country. I am proud to be an American.

A Confession

When I started this blog I called it a commitment to myself. It was supposed to be something I meticulously maintained, a public expression of myself and what I like to do.

But I'm starting to realize that there are some things about myself that are inescapable. For example, I have an inability to be consistently prolific. There times in my life when I write everyday, sometimes twice a day. I write everything that pops into my head for better or for worse. Then there are times like now. These are the times when trying to write something worth reading (who am I kidding, something worth writing) seems utterly and painfully impossible. Putting my fingers to the keyboard becomes an arduous task, one that fails to bring joy in the way to which I am accustomed.

My writing life moves in cycles. They come and go without warning. I never know for sure what to expect until I sit down at the computer and find my fingers repelled by the keys. It is at that point that I know my writing is finished for awhile.

These phases never last. That is my comfort. I know that any day now I will sit down and be compelled to write. At that point I will again be able to (hopefully) entertain you with random meanderings of thought. Until then, bear with me as I wait out this cycle.

Hippity, Hoppity

Every year around this time the world goes pastel. Or at least supermarkets and drugstores across America do. We begin to see a predominance of jelly beans, and the chocolate bunnies look as though they are plotting a mutiny. That plastic grass that we use to fill children's Easter baskets seems to show up in places we would least expect it. The Easter bunny, for all intents and purposes, is unavoidable. This has me contemplating Easter eats. Every holiday has its nasty token candy. Halloween has those peanut butter (at least I think they're peanut butter) candies wrapped simply in orange or black wax paper. Valentine's Day has those little heart-shaped candies (that seem to be made from chalk) bearing sayings significantly sweeter than the candies on which they are written. And Easter has the non-descript semi-egg-shaped (or is it a jelly bean appearance they're going for?) that are supposed to be filled with cream. Or maybe it's a marshmallow filling. You know the ones. They come in cellophane wrappers, and I'm pretty sure they have no name. We hide them when we run out of brightly colored plastic eggs filled with the good candy, and we hope children don't realize just how much they have been cheated. Every year, even as an adult with no children, I find myself in possession of one of these candies. And every year I find myself hopeful that the recipe is finally right. By all appearances these candies should be delicious. They have the promising pastel color, the ergonomic shape (perfect for stuffing one's face), the suggestion of a socially acceptable sugar overload. With a "here's hoping" I take a bite, and I have yet to be satisfied with the result. I can't say that I have ever tasted plastic, I mean really tasted it, but I'm wondering if that is in fact what is used to manufacture the so-called candy coating. The "creamy" (or "marshmallowy") inside flakes into pieces, leaving an unidentifiable aftertaste and the fear that perhaps what I've just eaten is not, in fact, approved by the FDA. Perhaps there was a time when these candies were fresh. Perhaps there was a time when the only health hazard they presented was that of their sugar content. That time is not now. That time is probably not in the past decade. My hope for this Easter is that children everywhere will be allowed to stick to the chocolate bunnies and jelly beans that, in comparison with these unnamable concoctions, seem harmless enough.

A Danger Zone

In the realm of shopping experience, nothing beats a good department store. Macy's is my favorite. There's something about a department store that screams elegance and sophistication. Except when it screams danger. Most department store experiences are the same, if not similar. We walk in the doors to the smell of clothing dye and perfume spritzes and the leather of the shoes and handbags, all mingling with each other to create that distinct department store aroma. We make our way to the center of the store where the jewelry and cosmetics are located and where the floors are made of shiny white tiles that seem to glitter in under the track lighting. Oh yes. I can hold my own in a Macy's. But some department stores are different. These are what we would call the high end shopping experiences (Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue). There's something about these particular stores that is unsettling. Perhaps it's the smell of the leather handbags that cost more than most people's monthly mortgage. Perhaps it's the dye in the $200 t-shirt hanging on the sale rack. Perhaps it's the expensive perfume worn by the shoppers, who are positively dripping with huge gaudy jewelry that we know cost a fortune. There is an intense potential for danger in the form of overpriced jeans or the "free" gift with purchase, a sense that a person could easily lose track of actual value because of the allure of the store and its merchandise. Whatever the case, it is safe to say that these shopping venues offer a different kind of retail experience, one filled with lust after things we can't afford and a sense of apprehension as we quickly make our exit out of fear that we will have to pay for the privilege of browsing. These trips never prove fruitful; I leave the store feeling as though I've stolen the experience itself. I do, however, have a new appreciation for my own shopping habits. Bring on the Macy's and the Dillards!

Would You Like That Nose Job for Here or to Go?

This city is full of incompatible ideas, business combinations that just don't compute. Take, for example, the strip mall containing both a burrito vendor and a cosmetic surgery facility. I suppose to some logic this seems reasonable. Stop in for a burrito, have a tummy tuck, and be on your way. Personally, I like my guacamole with nachos, not face lifts.

The Trouble With Vacations

After the brief sojourn often referred to as spring break, I find myself simultaneously refreshed and puzzled with regards to vacation behavior. Why do we forgo our everyday sense of decorum in the name of getting away? What is it about going on vacation that makes people abandon themselves?

We vacate our lives to get away from ourselves. We go away to exotic locations and do things that our every-day selves would never conceive of doing. And we think this is good for us. But the act of vacationing is deceiving. It is replete with inherent problems that we either pretend to overlook or blatantly ignore in the process of going outside our normal selves. For example:

Problem #1: The Spending

What happens to our relationship with our wallet when we go on vacation? Somewhere between the outlet mall and the tiki bar we decide that less is more when it comes to discretion. We buy things we don't need simply because we would never buy them when we're home. That shirt that we'll only wear once? When we are back to our normal lives and back to our normal level of sanity we realize that that shirt will hang pitifully in the back of the closet, a constant reminder of the temporary insanity we experienced all in the name vacating. Those "cute" capris with the anchors embroidered on them? They somehow seem out of place in a city that contains absolutely no recreational water features. And yet we continue to spend money on these things, if only to convince ourselves that we do have the innate capability of being someone other than who we are every other day of our lives.

Problem #2: The Return to Reality

What happens when we return to reality, sunburned, exhausted, and broke? The reconciliation of the fabulous vacation we've just had with our ordinary existence is not only time consuming; it is an emotionally painful experience. We realize that not everyday can be fabulous like a vacation, but we find ourselves wondering why. Why can't we live everyday with the kind of reckless abandon we seem to conjure from within while we are away? These thoughts run through our minds when we are cleaning out the shower drain or patching the hole the dog scratched into the wall. When we are taking out the garbage or sorting the laundry. To pretend that getting back to normal feels anything less than a disappointment would be a blatant lie. And by the time we have managed to assimilate our vacation experience into our memory, it's time for another vacation again.