So That Happened

I realize that a space shuttle could have conceivable circled the earth seven times since my last So That Happened post. For this I apologize. In my defense, I have had nothing remotely noteworthy to report. I figured it would be a waste of your time to read about how the high point of my week was vanquishing a gigantic mud stain on my friend's carpet while we watched House, so I've been waiting for a substantial momentous occasion to occur before I aired my latest stupidity. Now that such stupidity has been achieved, I can air it.

It has been a long time since I've had an active library account. The last time I borrowed a book was probably 15 years ago. This recently changed, though, since my New Year's Resolution is to read every National Book Award winner for fiction and I unfortunately do not own every National Book Award winner for fiction. 

So a couple weeks ago I went to the library, reactivated my account and received a snazzy new card for my keyring. (My last card was about the size of a billboard, and on it I had written "LIVVY" in a scrawl so illegible that I was forced to realize that I was not, in fact, right-handed. I had previously been convinced otherwise.) I checked out two books, read one, and went to return it. If you have not returned a book to the Bothell Public Library recently, I encourage you to drag along a friend for emotional support. What was once a self-explanatory drop-box--you opened the handled door, slid your book down the chute, and closed the door--is now an automated book depository that requires you to push a button to open a slot, place your book beneath the red scanner, wait for the scanner to turn green, then slide the book through the slot. Gone are the days of the .02-second returns. Now you're asked so many questions--"Would you like assistance?" "Are you finished?" "Would you like a receipt?"--that it's like you're filling out a personal profile on Match.com. I was so perplexed by the simple process of bringing a book back to the library that before I knew it a line of anxious book-returners had formed behind me. It was like that scene in Elf when Buddy doesn't know how to ride an escalator. When I got home, I announced to my mother that "Those new book return slots are crazy!" "New?" she asked. "Try at least five years old."

So many fails.

Happy Australia Day!

Sure, it's a national holiday commemorating the day in 1788 when the First Fleet arrived on Australian turf and commenced bloody annihilation of the indigenous populations. Sure, it's known by many whoever wrote the Wikipedia page as Invasion Day. Sure, I do not consider our equivalent, Columbus Day, a holiday for the sole reason that as a college student I was never given the day off from classes. But let's face it: We humans are a conquering people. We think highly of our accomplishments, particularly when such accomplishments include founding a country and using it as a playground prison for British convicts. 

We were shown this image numerous times throughout the course of my Australia Now class, the homework for which I would frequently put off  by stating, "Australia not now! Australia later!"

And so, in honor of Australia Day (which is celebrated on January 26 and it just so happens to be January 26 in Australia right this very second!), I have compiled a list of 15 Australian things for which I'm eternally thankful:

1. Tim Tams
2. Chai from Shanti Bhagvan Chai Temple at Melbourne Uni
3. Missy Higgins and every song she has ever written, particularly "Steer"
4. Jesse Spencer
5. McCleod's Daughters, most notably the stupendous opening credits
6. Hang Up, Don't Hang Up and basically every single thing Rove McManus could ever do or say
7. The 14-meter bronze and steel koala statue in Dadswells Bridge
8. Kangaroos
9. Dr. Michael Cathcart, my tutor for Australia Now
10. MAHONI'S FROZEN YOGHURT (I mean, come on: They have their own theme song with the lyrics, "Good for my tummy, good for my body, frozen yooooghurt, yummy yummy yummy yummy!" Clearly this is the best franchise that ever could exist.)
11. The ACCENT
12. The middle-aged man in the tea room in Hamelin, Western Australia who told us that we couldn't park our campervan where we 'd parked it because "sure as shit" a paying customer was going to want that spot.
13. Little Cupcakes
14. Starburst Babies, particularly Starburst Squirts Crazy Babies--gummy Buddha-looking babies with fruity liquid entrails. It's hard not to think of it as amniotic fluid, but it's delicious amniotic fluid. (Thank you to my dear friend Jessica for reminding me about these!)
15. The entire country in general 

And that's a wrap. From President Obama and everyone on this side of the equator, happy Australia Day!

"My Heart is a Flower"

Amos Lee is one of the two people in this world (the other being Tina Fey) who can do absolutely no wrong. He is programmed with the breathtaking ability to say exactly the right things, look exactly the right way, and create exactly the right music. I would have been jealous last night, staring at a person touched by every miracle in the universe, if I hadn't been so busy staring into his eyes, my mouth agape, trying to burrow my way into his soul. I went with my friend Hilary, and I don't think we stopped beaming the entire concert, including the opener--an adorable middle-aged South African man named Vusi Mahlasela to whom my dad, who works at the theater, referred as "my friend Bodi." Hilary and I were literally squirming with delight from the first note all the way through the last song: Amos Lee's impeccable--and unexpected--cover of "Fat-Bottomed Girls."

Here we are several minutes before Amos came on, running through our pre-concert checklist: 1) Are we standing? 2) Are we singing along? 3) At what point will it be acceptable for us to propose marriage?

It needs to be explained that I have the worst track record in the galaxy when it comes to correctly guessing what the opening song will be. You can pretty much assume that whatever song I decide will absolutely be the opener will absolutely not be the opener. After Hilary and I used air-tight logic to rule out anything from his new album (which hasn't been released yet and so we were positive he wouldn't start with something no one knew) and all the super slow songs like "Black River" and "Soul Suckers," we decided on four songs we felt confident about. We even did math to figure out the odds of us being right. Aside from being some of the youngest people there, I have no doubt we were the only ones mathematically calculating the chance that Amos would open with "Shout Out Loud." With what, you may ask, did he open? A song from his new album. I'm telling you, I have a gift.

But the night wasn't all perfection. Remember way back, oh, two weeks ago, when I demonstrated that after four months of riding public transportation every morning I was still incapable of knowing when not to get on a bus that was clearly not mine? Well I didn't quite do that again, but I think it's safe to say that I should not ride the bus without adult supervision. Here's the deal:

Hilary and I had planned to meet at her house in the U-District for dinner before the show. I chose to take the bus in because my dad was working that night and I could get a ride home with him after the concert. This is an obscenely long story, but the uber abridged version is that apparently I don't know the difference between the directions NE and NW. This is how the events of that night unfolded after I realized I was 30 minutes from her house when I was supposed to be there in three:

1. I finally--again, long story--arrived at Hilary's house.
2. Unbeknownst to me, we had a bus to catch at 6:29 to get downtown. 
3. We scarfed down food in less than seven minutes and raced out the door.
4. We missed the bus by about a minute.
5. By the time we arrived downtown, Hilary had developed a splitting headache.
6. As we practically ran through the city to get to the theater (it was now 7:10), we stopped at a Bartell's so Hilary could get some Advil. 
7. Showtime was 7:30. We were in our seats at precisely 7:28. 
8. After the show ended and we were waiting for my dad to finish, his coworker told me how unfair he thought it was that my dad should have to work on his anniversary. My hand flew to my mouth. Craaaaaap.
9. I texted my brother, demanding to know why he hadn't reminded me. His response: "Ahahaha. Whoops."

So. The concert was incredible, I lay in bed last night smiling as I quietly sang "Flower" to my cat (who was visibly irked that I was keeping her from her precious sleep), and I can officially say that I've made eye contact with the man I'm going to marry. The moral of my story: I am the worst rider of King County Metro you could possibly find.

P.S. I forgot to mention the part about me and Hilary trying to speak solely in Amos Lee song titles while on the bus. Most noteworthy attempt: Hilary pointing out the window into the darkness and saying, "It started to rain."

A Couple Things

I don't really have anything of substance to report today, so I'll just give you a brief overview of the past few days. And by brief, I mean you should probably prepare yourself to have a full head of grey hair by the time you finish reading this.

1. It was no surprise to anyone in my family when we discovered my cat's love of yogurt. She's got a nose like a bloodhound and can pinpoint, with her keen feline tracking instincts, the exact time and location in our house that a foil yogurt lid is ripped open. It follows logically, then, that she would love milk (although the only time she scores this is when we leave our cereal bowls unattended and the little stinker, prowling in the shadows behind the ottoman, goes in for the kill). Ok, so yogurt, milk, and her low-calorie adult cat food, of which she receives less than a cup a day. Those foods are to be expected. However, in case you've never been introduced to my darling angel, I should mention that she's not exactly your average cat. So not-average, in fact, that her odd dietary habits have left me practically no choice but to create a word document entitled "Things Taffy Eats." Here is what the list contains, minus the abovementioned items:

Yes, my cat's diet looks like the reels of a slot machine, but at least she likes her fruit. And, weirdly, popcorn. And for all of you snickering about the...somewhat rotund shape of my little baby, I'll have you know that she only receives a pea-sized amount of whatever we happen to be cutting. (I have no idea why the apple decided to defy formatting.)

2. And now a word on product names: What kind of education do you have to eke your way through to earn the privilege of naming a feminine hygiene product or a type of cold sore medication? Do you have to major in the prestigious field of Nomenclature? You should. This lack of educational foresight has allowed the following two egregious products on our drugstore shelves:

WHY? Maybe it's just me, but I like buying things that don't elicit any more embarrassment than they have to. I don't doubt the effectiveness of these items, but who thought those were acceptable--even marketable--product names? Vagisil? Really? And Herpecin? I've got a cold sore medication that I swear by. It's called Blistex. Perhaps you've heard of it.

I guess this wasn't as long as I thought it would be, but it's probably pretty boring. My apologies.

Poetry Corner Sunday Morning

I always seem to stumble upon certain poems at exactly the right moment in my life. I was just going through the mounds of old bank statements and elementary school report cards (yes, I still have them--is that weird?) that have accrued in the bottom drawer of my desk, and I found this poem given to me by my dear friend Cal during poetry class my last semester at UPS. We had been asked to bring in some of our favorite works to share with the class, and this was one of Cal's. It's extraordinary. 

five-story house in laleli 
by Gisela Kraft

one lies in rags on the street
and his stomach is empty
and he wishes for death

one sits with friends at tea and backgammon
and his mind is empty
and he wishes for death

one sits in a straight-backed chair at a desk
and his bank account is empty
and he wishes for death

one flies back with food in its beak
and its nest is empty
and only this one says
we should give it another try

Fun Fact: I Was Born Without a Brain

At 9:15 this morning I sent my friend and fellow intern Hilary the following text: "Fun fact: I was born without a brain."

This is, as those who know me will agree, mostly true. While attempting to make peppermint hot chocolate the other night, I melted a piece of candy cane to the bottom of the pan and started to freak out that I would never get it unstuck. ("It's sugar, Olivia," my mom had to remind me. "It melts.") I once spelled "bath" "baht" during a game of Scrabble and didn't realize it until my friend pointed it out as we were putting the board away. In college, I announced to my friends (completely seriously) that I was "skilled and seasoned...like a piece of meat." 

Clearly I don't have a whole lot going on upstairs.

But however idiotically I've acted in the past, arguably nothing I've done up to this point has been as stupid as what I did this morning. 

Last night it snowed around four inches in the span of a couple hours. The temperature was right at 32, and by the time I was getting into bed the snow had turned to rain. Huge white drifts were beginning to plummet from tree branches that sprang back up in weightlessness. When I awoke in the morning there were still a couple inches on the ground, but the overnight rain had turned it entirely to slush. 

I don't own snow boots and I refuse to wear my rain boots to work. I'm convinced that such footwear would be inappropriate because I have to appear somewhat professional, and black boots with multicolored polka dots doesn't exactly scream "Take me seriously!" (Why I seem to think navy blue Keds are acceptable is beyond me.) So I wore my tennies to the bus stop with my pant legs rolled up like the true gangsta I am, and by the time I reached the freeway entrance my shoes and thick wool socks were entirely soaked. There was deep, dirty slush all around me. I was trapped in deep, dirty slush.

My bus, the 522 (to Seattle), usually comes at about 8:24. Though there are two other buses that service that stop, neither of them comes anywhere near the same time as mine. Imagine my surprise, then, when at 8:22 I saw a small Metro bus--the 236 to Kirkland--approaching at a notable clip, brown slush spewing out in all directions. I frowned. The 236 was not listed as stopping here. As it came closer, I saw that the the driver was motioning to me, pointing down at his steering wheel somewhat menacingly as if to say, "This is the bus you want! You will ride this bus if it's the last thing you do."

Did I for one second stop to remember that this was, in fact, not the bus I wanted? Absolutely not. I knowingly boarded the wrong vehicle. Like I said, I was born without a brain.

Because of the snow, I figured some of the buses might be on snow routes. Maybe this driver was simply covering the 522's usual passengers. I kept telling myself this despite the fact that the destination on the front of the bus clearly said "KIRKLAND." I maintained this mindset for a large portion of the ride, including a long strip of road that I thought could have been a back street through Lake City. It was, of course, not.

I rode all the way to the terminal--a random stop in some random part of Kirkland with which I was utterly unfamiliar. By this time my feet were searingly cold and the thought crossed my mind that if I ever made it out of this ordeal alive, I was going to become a monk so I could learn to spiritually transcend the icy, stabbing pain of frostbite. 

The bus route board at this stop listed that the 255 to downtown Seattle was scheduled to arrive at 9:09am. I checked my watch. 8:57. Perfect timing, I thought. I might even make it to work on time! I get in to the office at 9:30 every morning, and while onboard the 236 I resigned myself to the fact that I would probably be roaming around the greater Seattle area, lost, for the rest of my life. 9:09 was, from this, a vast improvement.

Here is where my bus-snow logic would have come in handy. Naturally it didn't occur to me that this bus might be on a snow route. Was it? You betcha. (This is, after all, my life.) In this case, the snow route meant that the bus was coming every hour instead of every half hour. And, as luck would have it, I had just missed it. I didn't know this, though, until it rolled up an hour later--after I had seen the other four buses come through once, and then twice, and I overheard my driver telling the woman behind me why he hadn't come 30 minutes before.

The 255 was extremely crowded but I managed to snag an aisle-facing seat in the middle rotating section--the part that looks like the inside of an accordion (because evidently I know what the inside of an accordion looks like). The problem with this was that since I was on a bus whose route was completely foreign to me, and because there were so many people blocking the windows, and because the few inches of window I could see were entirely fogged up, I had no idea where I was. "Are you somewhere in Enumclaw?" Hilary asked when she called several minutes later. Though I was fairly certain I was heading toward Seattle, Enumclaw was as good a guess as any.

For the sake of your sanity, I'll fast forward through the rest of the ride, including when I overheard a lady tell an elderly man that the next stop was University and, believing her, I got off there only to discover it was 5th and Pine and I had to slog seven blocks through Hurricane Wednesday Morning to get to the office. I'll also fast forward through my email not working.

I arrived at my desk and Clancey looked up from her computer. "Good bus ride?" she asked, smirking. "I may or may not have taken the wrong one," I answered. "I find it alarming that I'm almost 23 and I still have no idea how to ride public transportation." "You know," she said, "a month from now this is going to be hilarious. Heck, it's hilarious now."

You know me. I live to amuse.

Another Day at the Office (or, the Contents of My Inbox)

Greetings from 1201 Western Ave, Suite 425--affectionately known as the Office. I bring you this exclusive insider’s update courtesy of my lack of assignments and general boredom. I spent several minutes searching for a way to take a screenshot of my computer so I could give you an in-depth image of my life at 11:25am on Thursday, January 6, 2011, but Macs and I don’t have the tidiest of relationships. Instead, you’ll just have to settle for these brief status updates throughout the day:

9:34am: When I arrived at my cubicle this morning, I saw that my phone was flashing—an indication of a new message. I pressed the “Message” button, entered my security code when prompted, and then waited the usual two minutes—no exaggeration—for the prerecorded message machine lady to locate my single message. I did all that just to listen to someone breathing really loudly for several seconds before hanging up. This is my life.

11:37am: I have just consumed a Cuties Clementine—after Googling the fruit to make sure that Cuties are, indeed, clementines and not satsumas. The sticker reads, “Root 4 the Cute!” and I have stuck it to my hand so I can send it to a friend in Australia, where the word “root” would never be found next to an adorable icon of an animated orange with eyes.

11:40am: H just dropped her pen.

11:42am: I informed H that I’m blogging from work. Her response: “Oh! Don’t forget to mention my turkey noodle soup!” 

11:53a,: I have successfully located a YouTube video for one of my web event uploads. As a reward, I’m indulging in a dry, spongy PB&J.

12:17pm: Across the office—the dwelling place of the people I fondly refer to as “the others”—there was a sharp cackle and then silence. I took the opportunity to make a ruckus of my own…by biting into a carrot. Shortly after the disruption of peace and quiet, I received this from H: “How’s the blog update going? You getting all that yelling coming from that office?”

12:28pm: H would like me to inform you, my faithful readers, that she has recently received several press releases and is “hot on the trail of press photos.” Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen. It’s gettin’ wild up in here.

12:45pm: I emailed C about my live office blogging. (Note that I emailed her and she sits right next to me. That’s how we roll here at the Office.) This was her emailed response (all you need to know beforehand is that M is a woman who sits smack-dab in the middle of the interns but has never spoken to any of us and carries on loud and mostly meaningless telephone conversations about the SPF of her sunscreen and how many shots of tequila she had while on vacation. C and I have made it a point to eavesdrop, but really, it’s not like we can choose not to hear): “That sounds just as productive as any day here, really. I really enjoyed my tofurkey and swiss sandwich, and I feel like your readers are probably hanging on the edges of their seats wanting to know that. Also, M’s dad made it home safely from the airport yesterday, so I know we are all relieved. I just spent twenty minutes watching YouTube clips of Teatro Zinzanni, which seems to be a strange mix of a circus and a strip club. Pretty sure I saw some naked boobs. Outrage in the office.”

12:50pm: This just in from Correspondent H: “Got a massive photo of TC Boyle...does he look like a serial killer or what? Look over my way.”

12:51pm: This just in from Correspondent C: “More big news for the blog! I have Scrabble on my phone, and someone just beat me 342 to 194.  I mean, that's just shameful. They had three words that used all 7 of their letters. In one game!”

12:55pm: There is a strange man standing next to M’s desk. I emailed H to ask who he was. The answer: “I don’t know! He sometimes interviews people in the conference room. And he’s got a weird pic of himself in the staffroom in colonial garb or something. I’ll give you my Starbucks card ($5, baby! Catch of the Month!) if you find out.” I should mention that Catch of the Month refers to the intern or editor who catches the most egregious, embarrassing errors while proofreading before the issue goes to print. The “catcher” receives a $5 gift card, which at Starbucks is exactly enough for half of a weakly flavored chai latte and two bites of blueberry muffin.

1:04pm: Every time the advertisers (aka “the others”) sell an add, they ring a cowbell. The bell was just rung. It is very distracting, as I am hard at work over here. This just in from correspondent H: “That bell just puts a hitch in my giddy-up. Know what would really liven it up over here in editorial? An airhorn. One that we blew every time we found an error fact-checking or a widowed word on a proof. I’m putting this in the suggestion box right now. Where is that?”

1:07pm: C dropped her water bottle. I slid my chair around the corner of the cubicle and told her that I’m writing that down. “I made too much noise!” she said.

1:40pm: I just looked over at H and she made the motion of her head exploding.

1:58pm: H got hung up on by the owner of a doughnut shop.

Just another day in the black hole of human contact that is the Office.

My Monday Morning Plan, Gone by Monday Afternoon

For Christmas, my dear friend Ellen made me an NPR tote bag. She cut out the individual letters and squares of felt and hand-stitched them together. I beam every time I see it. It is the most beautiful bag in the universe. Even Taffy agrees.

Also for Christmas, this time from my mother, I received the book Pretty Birds by Scott Simon, host of NPR's Weekend Edition. I was elated, as you can probably imagine, because it combines the two greatest loves of my life: literature and public radio. Coincidentally, my two greatest loves happen to be two of the three greatest reasons why I'm a dweeb. The third: the fact that I used the word "dweeb."

When I came into possession of these gifts, I couldn't wait until today when I could strut to the bus stop with my gorgeous tote over my shoulder and wait for the 522 while engrossed in my new book. I was even going to read during the ride rather than listen to one of my many podcasts, nevermind that reading in a moving vehicle makes me nauseous. This was a new year--the start of a new me. I would be a tote-hauling, bus-reading maniac.

I woke up this morning and headed out the door at 8. I felt ultra-informed as I slogged up the icy hill toward my stop with my NPR bag swinging against my side and a spring in my step that proved dangerous along the slick pavement. Every so often, I would find my mind drifting off, imagining a young attractive man--a news-savvy public radio listener, of course--getting on at the next stop, noticing my tote and recognizing the name on my book and practically tripping over himself to take the seat next to me. Four stops later, I was so preoccupied with Pretty Birds that I didn't notice the seat next to me had been filled by a greying, heavyset man in his 60s with a hairline whose recession I swore I was witnessing as he sat. Okay, so not my young, attractive, news-savvy (although my new friend could very well have been news-savvy) male suitor. But I wasn't giving up hope..

Until the ride home. No one sat next to me. I displayed my bag on my lap with the letters facing the aisle (this will probably make more sense if I mention that I was on one of those inward-facing side seats and not one facing the front of the bus), but if anyone noticed the popular public radio logo, they didn't make it known to me. I sat across from a woman who was also reading, and I felt smug and elitist--which is a completely new experience for me--when I saw that her literature of choice was a small, yellowing paperback called "Spoiled Rotten," the letters gold and gleaming above a side profile of a scantily clad woman whose neck and ears were covered in bling. (I'm allowed to use that term because I am a dweeb.) I swelled with pride as I turned the page of my new pristine tome about the life of a young female sniper in Sarajevo in the 1990s. I was gettin' me a edumacation.

But, sadly, no boys.