Pointless Paper

If you want to hear me rave endlessly about something, bring up the topic of junk mail. Not the penis-pill-money-scam-other-random-bullshit variety in your inbox. The stuff that goes thump in your mailbox. It actually angers me how many times I've had to fill my recycling can with this pointless crud, and grieves me to think that trees are a-fallin' so that some scamtacular company can attempt to sell their wares to little ol' me, a totally uninterested audience. I know I'm not alone in this. There should really be a law. A well-written, airtight one.

When I lived at my prior address, I signed up for a service that helps stop junk mail. It kind of worked. But since moving to my new place the junk has located me again. For every piece of legitimate mail I receive, I get ten leaflets for some crummy pizza chain or fake psychology graduate school.

Take for example, yesterday, when I finally picked up the keys for the new mail box in our fully renovated lobby (details later) The neighbor handed me some of my overflow mail and this included a Glamour magazine with my address on it. I have never subscribed to Glamour in my life. How did they find out about me? Did I fill out a card for a discount at the grocery store five years ago that placed me squarely into some sad beauty magazine demographic? Have they been tracking me ever since? Did my old hotmail address start selling my inbox contents to some scabby online marketing pirate? If I'm going to read a fluffy beauty rag it'll be Lucky all the way, thankyouverymuch.

So, I spent the last 10 minutes on the web jungle of glamour.com trying to wade through made-up statistics about sex and chirpy articles about celebrities and their luscious hair until I finally figured out how to cancel a subscription I never signed up for in the first place.

I know it's rough out there trying to market sub-par products to a world full of brokeass people, but could you stop felling forests and please stick to spamming me with laughable emails and blingy Facebook adverts instead?

Thanks.

Update: Turns out my sister signed me up for Glamour as a gift. Foot, mouth, you are already pretty well-acquainted...

Updated Update: My sister did not sign me up for Glamour; she subscribed me to the glorious Domino, which unexpectedly folded---Glamour was the substitution that was offered. I think she would have preferred a refund.

The best laid plans should really go get laid.

There comes a week in every girl's month where she envisions herself as a more perfected specimen. This week is flanked by other weeks where remembering to run the dishwasher and actually disposing of the umpteenth "low-cost dental care" flyer lining the mailbox is sufficient. But during this particular week, it's all about ambition.

I love to talk a big talk to myself. Sometimes quite literally. I imagine myself being interviewed about how I finally kicked some of my bad habits or assembled the perfect work wardrobe entirely from secondhand clothes, or the perfect apartment decor from objects found on street corners. My fantasy responses would sound something like this:

"Well, yes, I just eventually forced myself to go to bed at 9 on the dot, so it became much easier to wake up at 6:00 AM. If I hadn't developed this habit, I would never have had the time to earn that black belt."

"I just stuck to my guns about eating lunch and dinner in every day until I saved up enough for my new vacation home in Belize."

"Oh, you like my dress? Thanks! I recently took up a sewing apprenticeship in my spare time."

"This arm definition is from my 2-hour long daily home yoga practice."

"Actually, I made this table myself out of reclaimed wine barrels."

And so on.

To kick off my monthly week of lofty goal-setting, I decided that I would get to bed early on Sunday (and for the rest of the week) and wake up extra early for a morning jog. Never mind that I haven't ever gotten up at 6AM for anything but a flight, even when I was a cross-country runner in high school. I was going to be one of those people who prance over dew-covered grass and smile beatifically as they pass still-darkened windows fueled by the glow of inner peace and unshakeable confidence.

So I settled into bed with a book at 10PM, about an hour before I'll usually even think about sleeping. I read until I was drowsy, then switched off the light.

La la la.

Around 10:30 I switched on the light and picked up my book.

11:30. I started getting nervous about that alarm that I'd set for 6AM. No way of achieving the coveted 8 hours at this point.

A few minutes past midnight. I tapped the little button on my alarm that dims the light so I couldn't see how badly I was failing at the very first step in my quest for perfection.

Who knows what time it is now. Dear god what was that noise??????

(Tried to decide whether or not to investigate the noise. On went the bedside lamp.)

4:30 AM, must've finally dozed off at some point, having officially wussed out on the whole potential burglar/serial killer/stalker noise investigation idea. Whoops, left the lamp on. Hence sudden disruption of (now) desperately needed sleep.

I did eventually wake up and do some yoga. And I did make a delicious breakfast that would've done the Lake Merritt Farmer's Market proud. But I had to laugh a little. I rarely have trouble sleeping these days. I'm lucky if I get five pages further along in my book. That whole idea of perfection was like the psychological equivalent of an ice cold bucket of water to the groin.

I kept thinking about the people I serve and how many of them have an all-or-nothing mentality about success and failure. One of my favorite questions is "So, how's that working for you?"

So how's that working for you?

"Well, let's see. Since I officially decided to stop translating my fantasies about ultimate perfection literally, I've found that I can pick up one or two small things at a time and practice getting really good at them instead. I vacuumed every week this month. I went out late on Friday and spent a little money, but I also made a delicious dinner from a new recipe last night. Oh, and I happen to sleep like a 10 year old kid on vacation in Hawaii."

Perfectly.

Find a Penny, pick her up...

I adopted a pet from the Oakland Animal Shelter, and you can, too!



Her name is Penny, and I am ENTIRELY unbiased when I say that she's an incredibly sweet girl. After owning two gorgeous but naughty bengal kitties I never thought I'd head down the pet ownership road again. I was also torn because I had always really wanted a dog. I spent the better part of my childhood begging my parents for either A) Another kid B) One of those child-sized battery operated jeeps that were probably recalled a month later C) A puppy. The puppy seemed the most promising option, since it was the only one that didn't cause my parents to laugh hysterically in my face for an hour. I still managed to end up up dog-less. Now that I have a place of my own, revenge can finally be mine!

Except....in my little high rise it just doesn't seem right. Dogs need space. I've also come home late on one too many occasions to find a dog owner from my building plodding down to Grand Avenue so that Scruffers can find relief in some dark alcove around Lake Merritt. Hmmm.

Penny is quite content just listening to my washing machine and ambushing my book/keyboard when she wants attention. She does not persist when I close the door on her at night, and has excellent manners in general. The Oakland Animal Shelter has many such cutie pies of both the canine and the feline persuasion. Heck, they have some damn cute bunnies, too! The pets who weren't surrendered for behavioral reasons are generally well-socialized, since they're used to interacting with a variety of humans and other animals. Rescuing a pet feels great, and if you are so inclined (and reside in the Oakland area) I highly recommend that you pay them a visit.

Bon Ami!

Am I the only person in the world that finds housekeeping a completely unintuitive process? I don't want to think about how often I have filled a bucket up with water and cleanser, mopped the floor, then sat around wondering what to do with the filthy water. I usually flush it down the toilet, but then I worry that there are floor goobers in the water that will clog the drain. On occasion I end up dumping the water into the tub, only to realize that I have already cleaned the tub and have to do it all over again. Cleaning the tub twice in one day makes me want to cry a little bit.

Does anybody else feel like they're just pushing the dirt around when cleaning their floors?

Same with vacuuming. I'm convinced that the benefits of vacuuming are almost entirely psychological.

And what, pray tell, does somebody do with all those dirty rags? It seems a waste to devote a wash cycle to a couple of dirty rags, but I also don't want to stick them with a bunch of my semi-dirty t-shirts. Those t-shirts have never done anything to me! Those t-shirts deserve a better fate. I hide my rags under the sink after a cursory rinse, and try not to think about them.

It seems that I am in the minority. Most folks seem to be able to clean their entire house with water, vinegar, a bucket and mop. In an hour. It takes me all day and I treat myself to a vacation in Brazil afterwards.

I will say that Bon Ami is one of my favorite all-time products. My little French-speaking weapon of choice.

I like gritty cleansers 'cause they lift the stains off of tiles instantly, thereby making me feel like less of a domestic failure than I really am. And unlike Ajax, the detergent of choice in my childhood home, it doesn't give me an instant sinus headache.

A Love Letter to Jerome, Arizona

Dear Jerome,

Right now I am officially on the mend from a nasty bout of the summer flu. The virus left me with a sepulchral cough and a prescription for several medications that chemically lobotomize me for a few hazy hours (and little else.) However, it also afforded me time to reflect back on my day trip to meet you.

While I greatly enjoyed Sedona's unearthly beauty, you were the crown jewel of my first vacation to Arizona. It was love at first sight for me...I'm not sure you feel the same. That's okay, Jerome. It was both your breezy indifference and casual hospitality that drew me in, among other contradictions.

How does such a small town generate all of that spunk?

House of Joy, you brought me your promise in spades. I read somewhere that after your birth as a brothel you became a world famous restaurant. Now you tempt me with your stockpile of original early and mid-century posters, military ephemera and other mixed media eye candy. In every incarnation, it seems you have lived up to your name. I appreciate your owner, who radiated warmth, but did not hover. This is a quality that I particularly value when I am up to my elbows in sparkly things, prints, and refrigerator magnets emblazoned with naked figures and bawdy puns.

Then up those serpentine streets. Past wine bars, restaurants, galleries, restaurants, wine bars, galleries, hotels. And it occurred to me that given your modest population, there is no shortage of local attractions. Or proprietors who are warm and approachable but never overly solicitous. Your status as a tourist destination seems to be more of a coincidence then a strategic decision. I like to imagine that if you existed in a vacuum, the same amenities would also be there, just for the brazen heck of it. That your oblique avenues and tiered porches materialized one day out of Cleopatra Hill like a southwestern Shangri-La. And you extended an elbow and offered everybody a drink and a place to stay and didn't give a hang about what anybody thought of you.

I passed the Spirit Room a few times without visiting. Mostly it was because I was with my Mom, who isn't much for bars in general. I must admit, I still feel kind of awkward getting tipsy in my mother's presence. Maybe it's because I have never seen her in any state other than crisply sober. Either way, I got past that concern and we eventually walked in. I love your molded tin ceiling and other original details. And that painting above the stage that seemed like an homage to Olympia. Mostly, I appreciate the fact that your friendly and expeditious bartender sold me one of the best gin and tonics I've ever had for four dollars. I left a four dollar tip just for that. Bartender who served my Mom a Sprite alongside my beverage without a discernible hint of irony: I salute you!

Well Jerome, I really hope we meet again. I hardly feel I have the right to continue singing your praises when we're barely acquaintances. But you just have that way about you. Maybe next time I'll sample a "Haunted Hamburger" or stay in one of your guesthouses. If your ghostly denizens in any way resemble your corporeal ones, I'll still sleep like a sated baby.

Graciously,

Rachel

Green Sludge Dreams

There is a new flu epidemic sweeping the Bay Area. Me and my co-worker caught the same bug and had nearly the same rapid progression of symptoms: Sore throat, fever, and then cough, cough, cough. This one is a stinker, folks. If you feel a sore throat coming on, I recommend that you sequester yourself. The doc told me this morning that this virus has brought in heaps of patients and that the tenacious little bugger can live for 1.5 hours outside of the body.

Anyhow, I tried to stay far, far away from the green, licorice-flavored goop, but after three nights spent coughing myself awake, I was beginning to drift off during my appointments at work. So, I caved.

I must say, Ny Quil tastes sort of good.

Nevertheless, I had a dream that night that a giant worm was eating everybody in the Bay Area. It was releasing a neurotoxin through its skin that was corrupting people into sacrificing themselves for the good of the worm....and I was the only one impervious to the toxin. After what seemed like hours of running away from pod people and the worm, I ended up in front of a field with signs indicating where people should line up if they would like to be cooked rare, medium, or well-done in their quest to become worm food.

I woke up and flushed the Ny Quil down the toilet.

I highly recommend an aromatherapy bath instead. About 5 drops of essential oil (I used Rosemary and Tea Tree oils) warm (not hot) water, you will rest easy without dreams of becoming worm bait.

It's All Coming Together...

A few weeks ago, I received some unsurprising news. The UC system will now be operating on a (thinner) shoestring, and in all likelihood our pay will drop substantially this year--probably within the next month or two.

While absorbing this new information as a homeowner earning a modest income, I found that I wasn't as devastated as I thought I'd be. In fact, I felt all right. Naturally, I'm concerned about about the level of morale among staff and faculty (this is an equal opportunity pay cut) and I worry about how this will particularly impact the many single parents who work for UC. But otherwise, I feel more at peace than I have in awhile.

Perhaps it is this little haven of mine?

Amazingly, right before The News, my space started to come together. I brought home a beautiful wall hanging from my office that I had bought at the Berkeley Himalayan Fair years ago. I found some new plants and pillows at an unbelievable price. I resurrected an old oak end table that had been languishing in storage for years. While I used to labor over every conceivable decision in my previous dwellings, I reverted back to my trusty old "screw it" approach and found that everything coalesced.




In the gesture of letting go, there is harmony. I know, shame on me for my lack of eloquence. But let's face it; most of us live in refuge from common sense MOST OF THE TIME. We think that excessive worry is the sticky stuff that binds our lives together, when it is often just the sticky stuff that keeps us firmly glued to a sinking ship.

Ahhhhh...sticky stuff.



Painting my office nook was particularly therapeutic. I was having brunch at Aunt Mary's Cafe in Temescal, and happened to notice the gorgeous color on their kitchen wall. It was midnight blue with a slight suggestion of green, and altogether gorgeous. The gracious and lovely waitress brought me a pint of the paint (a custom mix) so that I could record the number and buy some of my own.

I used to buy little samples of paint color and slap them on the walls, living with them for weeks until I made a decision which I always seemed to end up doubting later on.

This time I marched over to Kelly Moore, bought the paint, and painted the nook. And I don't mind saying that I think it looks hot. No samples or accompanying sticky stuff required.