ever feel like the words aren't enough
like there's too much grammar
and rules
and sense-making
and the effort of it, to put
the right words forward
in consecutive order
one foot in front of the other
it's just too...well...orderly?
better, tonight, this night,
to look at the moon,
which is just past full
to look and see
how wonderfully orange it is
a surprising
voluptuous orange
which I realize are still words
surprising and voluptuous
and orange is a word, too
even though I am heartened by the fact
that no one seems to be able to find anything
to rhyme with it.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
distractions
there is a book
I am supposed to be reading
or worse, writing,
and instead what do I do
but think about how much my eyebrows
could use some shaping,
and why haven't I found the perfect lipstick,
and how there seems to be an endless,
rotating pile of dishes in the sink
neglected, perpetually in need
of washing.
I don't think enough
about that book I'd been meaning to read
or the essay I'd meant to write so that someday
my name might appear in the New York Times
in full, fascinating italics.
I don't say it enough, really,
don't say enough about a lot of things,
don't push them out of the door of my head
and onto the beautifully traffic-snarled main street
where there is the disruption of snow or fog or heroism or even, yes, tragedy
because keeping them inside means a kind of hot chocolate warmth
and there are so many lovely but meaningless distractions
which take more than enough time
like dishes or lipstick or eyebrows
any attempts at organization and aesthetic prowess
I take ridiculous amounts of time
just for this
so
I won't say it, won't push it out the door,
that thing, that dream,
the engine behind it all,
keep it quiet, instead, and I mean "it"
as in everything,
"it" as in the ruddy moonscape of my life
all the nameless, imperceptible furies and fantasies
the life that refuses to be categorized
the unarticulated life
that life
I keep it
where I can see it. Inside.
But how the wind
whooshes on the outskirts of the windows
a howl, one delirious heart-splitting song,
the wind is this grand sweep of desire
a chemical want
a cataclysm of such horrible love
it topples things, changes their shape,
changes its shape, too.
I can't imagine it.
What would it be like
to rise out of the cozy chair
and put my cheek against the glass
to feel even the muted intimation of that wind?
What would it be like
to rise from my cozy chair
and head, my God,
out the door entirely?
I am supposed to be reading
or worse, writing,
and instead what do I do
but think about how much my eyebrows
could use some shaping,
and why haven't I found the perfect lipstick,
and how there seems to be an endless,
rotating pile of dishes in the sink
neglected, perpetually in need
of washing.
I don't think enough
about that book I'd been meaning to read
or the essay I'd meant to write so that someday
my name might appear in the New York Times
in full, fascinating italics.
I don't say it enough, really,
don't say enough about a lot of things,
don't push them out of the door of my head
and onto the beautifully traffic-snarled main street
where there is the disruption of snow or fog or heroism or even, yes, tragedy
because keeping them inside means a kind of hot chocolate warmth
and there are so many lovely but meaningless distractions
which take more than enough time
like dishes or lipstick or eyebrows
any attempts at organization and aesthetic prowess
I take ridiculous amounts of time
just for this
so
I won't say it, won't push it out the door,
that thing, that dream,
the engine behind it all,
keep it quiet, instead, and I mean "it"
as in everything,
"it" as in the ruddy moonscape of my life
all the nameless, imperceptible furies and fantasies
the life that refuses to be categorized
the unarticulated life
that life
I keep it
where I can see it. Inside.
But how the wind
whooshes on the outskirts of the windows
a howl, one delirious heart-splitting song,
the wind is this grand sweep of desire
a chemical want
a cataclysm of such horrible love
it topples things, changes their shape,
changes its shape, too.
I can't imagine it.
What would it be like
to rise out of the cozy chair
and put my cheek against the glass
to feel even the muted intimation of that wind?
What would it be like
to rise from my cozy chair
and head, my God,
out the door entirely?
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
the rain
waking up
to a slick balcony floor outside
plants weighted with water but alive and hungry
i am warm in the bed
all warm
thinking of coffee, that first cup
thinking of what it means to not ache
to not yearn for a thing
thinking of the small satisfactions
the world's tiny magic
a single drop hugging a square inch of jade plant
something blooming, unbidden,
after the world's terrible rages
a moment of electricity passing
between a woman inside warm in bed
and a drop of water outside
hovering deliberately
staying put
insisting on survival.
to a slick balcony floor outside
plants weighted with water but alive and hungry
i am warm in the bed
all warm
thinking of coffee, that first cup
thinking of what it means to not ache
to not yearn for a thing
thinking of the small satisfactions
the world's tiny magic
a single drop hugging a square inch of jade plant
something blooming, unbidden,
after the world's terrible rages
a moment of electricity passing
between a woman inside warm in bed
and a drop of water outside
hovering deliberately
staying put
insisting on survival.
Friday, January 21, 2005
running
Let me start off by saying that I am not, in fact, a runner. Yet for the past two-and-a-half weeks, I've begun the somewhat arduous task of getting back into shape after a year spent on my tucchus with precious little aerobic activity. Yes, you can count the basketball once a week, but why should you, really? My gynecologist...let me repeat, my GYNECOLOGIST informed me that I should really be exercising at least 30 minutes everyday. Now I know this. I mean, this 30-minutes-a-day thing is pretty much conventional wisdom by now, plastered on every cereal box, morning show program, and 24-Fitness ad in the world. But I didn't really get it until I started doing it. I mean, I've always thought of myself as pretty athletic. I think it has something to do with being tall and having a fast metabolism. At least, I've heard it said to me many times. "You look very athletic." And amazingly enough, some people think I even do yoga, which always cracks me up since I pretty much despise yoga. Maybe that's too strong of a word. It's more that I feel rather ambivalent toward yoga. I don't think I'm ready for it. I don't think my mind is calm enough to sit down with myself and do the downward dog in earnest. Things are moving a little too fast up there for me, and the times that I HAVE taken a yoga class, I feel so...what's the word...novice. And of course I do, since I never make it past the one yoga class. Maybe if I invested in a semester's worth of yoga I'd feel somewhere along the intermediate path.
But let me get back to running, and the fact that I'm not really a runner. I mean, I can run, but only if there's a ball to chase after or a very big money prize at the end of it. I never understood the way real runners got that "runner's high" thing, how they could just go for miles without stopping, how they got into this zone, how they managed to keep sane with all of that repetitive movement. At least with basketball, there's some spontaneity involved, pacing changes, and maybe a left-hand hook shot to wow the crowd. But running is so...meditative really, which is probably why I never did it for its sake alone. (There was, however, the exception of the junior high track team, when my coach decided that my obscenely long legs were going to be the ringer for the 1-mile and 2-mile events. No dice. I'd sprint the first lap around, feel victorious, and then this very quickly downgraded into complete exhaustion. Every race I was in I can in last - can you believe that? Every fucking race!
Now, however, I am not participating in any races, and I really just need to get my aerobic capacities up to speed, mostly because I just hadn't exercised those aerobic capacities very consistently. So first I started walking (for about 3 weeks) and then I just naturally wanted to pick up the pace a little. I went to Tar-jay and bought a cheapo pair of running shoes, and that afternoon went on my first run, during which I coughed up a gross amount of mucus and generally felt like I'd never, ever had any dose of exercise in my life. But I knew the next day would be better, and it was. I put my little radio on, and the earphones, tried to find any available station that had a little bit of a beat to it, and went off. And now, a couple of weeks later, I'm up to 3 miles. I switched my course to the Kezar Stadium track, where I could count the laps and not worry so much about zoning out during heavy traffic. I pretty much stay in the number 3 lane the whole time. I stop after a mile and stretch, wait for the next song to come on, and then keep going for another mile. It's not that bad, although I suspect without the music it would be interminable. I mean, there's absolutely no entertainment in it for me to run these laps EXCEPT the radio, and trying to time my footsteps to the beat. I don't know how regular runner do it, the ones that enter marathons and run 2 or 3 whole hours with their eyes on the road. BORING!
My routine is this - the run, home for a glass of water, then a long, blissful hot shower, then dinner, then chocolate. And because all this exercise gets me hungry, I've begun to see the run as the vehicle for hot showers and food. I'm like Pavlov's dog. It doesn't really take much apparently. Put chocolate out as a reward and I'm there, jog bra on, out and ready to rock.
But let me get back to running, and the fact that I'm not really a runner. I mean, I can run, but only if there's a ball to chase after or a very big money prize at the end of it. I never understood the way real runners got that "runner's high" thing, how they could just go for miles without stopping, how they got into this zone, how they managed to keep sane with all of that repetitive movement. At least with basketball, there's some spontaneity involved, pacing changes, and maybe a left-hand hook shot to wow the crowd. But running is so...meditative really, which is probably why I never did it for its sake alone. (There was, however, the exception of the junior high track team, when my coach decided that my obscenely long legs were going to be the ringer for the 1-mile and 2-mile events. No dice. I'd sprint the first lap around, feel victorious, and then this very quickly downgraded into complete exhaustion. Every race I was in I can in last - can you believe that? Every fucking race!
Now, however, I am not participating in any races, and I really just need to get my aerobic capacities up to speed, mostly because I just hadn't exercised those aerobic capacities very consistently. So first I started walking (for about 3 weeks) and then I just naturally wanted to pick up the pace a little. I went to Tar-jay and bought a cheapo pair of running shoes, and that afternoon went on my first run, during which I coughed up a gross amount of mucus and generally felt like I'd never, ever had any dose of exercise in my life. But I knew the next day would be better, and it was. I put my little radio on, and the earphones, tried to find any available station that had a little bit of a beat to it, and went off. And now, a couple of weeks later, I'm up to 3 miles. I switched my course to the Kezar Stadium track, where I could count the laps and not worry so much about zoning out during heavy traffic. I pretty much stay in the number 3 lane the whole time. I stop after a mile and stretch, wait for the next song to come on, and then keep going for another mile. It's not that bad, although I suspect without the music it would be interminable. I mean, there's absolutely no entertainment in it for me to run these laps EXCEPT the radio, and trying to time my footsteps to the beat. I don't know how regular runner do it, the ones that enter marathons and run 2 or 3 whole hours with their eyes on the road. BORING!
My routine is this - the run, home for a glass of water, then a long, blissful hot shower, then dinner, then chocolate. And because all this exercise gets me hungry, I've begun to see the run as the vehicle for hot showers and food. I'm like Pavlov's dog. It doesn't really take much apparently. Put chocolate out as a reward and I'm there, jog bra on, out and ready to rock.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
leftovers
If I had to come up with a food-related issue that I have, it's this: I have a bad relationship with leftovers. Mostly, what it is (I believe) is a fear of food-borne diseases. I stick almost religious to the expiration dates stamped on milk cartons, eggs, and other perishables. If the yoghurt goes a day over, I have no compunction about throwing it away. But leftovers are different. There's no expiration date stamped on them. You have to kind of decide when it's done occupying the prime real estate in your fridge. You have to take in all the sensory data to help determine the state of its freshness. And everything lasts a different amount of time in the fridge, even when properly stored. For example, leftover salmon has a very short fridge shelf life once the package is opened. I know because my father had a bad experience with leftover salmon once, years ago, when I was learning how to drive and he let me take the wheel from our house in New Hampshire all the way to Boston, and about 20 minutes into the ride he made me pull over so he could release the salmon back into the world. The experience was indelible, and I have never let any opened salmon container sit idly by for more than a day.
Also salad never keeps for more than a day, but the evidence there is purely visual. The lettuce has wilted into a sad, sorry state. Every vegetable, in fact, looks like it's moving into cronedom far too quickly and unnaturally, like those missing persons photographs on milk cartons where they've had to do age progression. So that's easy to throw away. But what about a chicken dish, which is almost always better a day or two later. Or rice, which, like pasta, also seems to keep for an indefinite period.
The problem is that I am almost always making too much food for myself. It's like I can't cook for one - something in me imagines a family of 6 sitting down with me in the evenings, and so I prepare an unseemly quantity of food, only to pour most of it into my now substantial collection of Tupperware. And the next day, like a good girl, I'll go into the fridge at lunchtime and see what I can get rid of. But then I'm over it. I don't need to have the chicken again. I'm finished with the stuffed peppers. Or it's too warm out for the soup that I made the previous evening, and so now it's going to sit in the fridge, gathering whatever soup gathers, and I probably won't want it again.
And I hate throwing food away. I do. I can't stand it when I'm catering and we have to toss the bulk of the leftovers into the trash. (Catering companies have this policy not to dispense food to their employees after the event's over, for reasons of liability or something). So at home, I always package up what I don't eat. But if I don't eat it the next day, and no one's coming over who might be interested in it, I don't want to keep it either. It's a culinary conundrum.
Let's get back to the fear of food-borne illness thing. I've heard plenty of stories from other people who think they "may have gotten sick" because of something they'd eaten which had seen better days. Or no, often they will blame it on a perfectly fresh food item and not realize it was the consumption of something totally innocuous-seeming which really threw their GI system over the edge. And it's true that about once a week (or ever two weeks, if I've been particularly negligent), I will open up the fridge doors and go in there as if I were part of the Sanitation Task Force and get rid of the items with a questionable life expectancy. And I'm noticing that some items just stay in the fridge because I've forgotten about them. Which is maybe the trouble with Tupperware in the first place. I need something less...opalescent...to determine the freshness status of my food. Like it's nearly impossible to figure out how long spaghetti sauce has been in the fridge. Unless there's a fine layer of mold hugging the surface, you really have no idea. Or lunch meat. A certain smell needs to come from the source to help you make an accurate assessment. Cheese is a problem, especially when it's already stinky and/or has mold on it because it's supposed to. What about things like hummus? tzatziki? risotto? polenta?
I read somewhere that honey is the only food that doesn't spoil. Which does bring me a small measure of comfort, I admit. I wish the list was longer than that, though. If I knew that butter had a flexible shelf life, I wouldn't get my nose dirty bending down at the dish and sniffing at it with such Agatha Christiean suspicion. I'd be eating it instead. Like normal people.
Also salad never keeps for more than a day, but the evidence there is purely visual. The lettuce has wilted into a sad, sorry state. Every vegetable, in fact, looks like it's moving into cronedom far too quickly and unnaturally, like those missing persons photographs on milk cartons where they've had to do age progression. So that's easy to throw away. But what about a chicken dish, which is almost always better a day or two later. Or rice, which, like pasta, also seems to keep for an indefinite period.
The problem is that I am almost always making too much food for myself. It's like I can't cook for one - something in me imagines a family of 6 sitting down with me in the evenings, and so I prepare an unseemly quantity of food, only to pour most of it into my now substantial collection of Tupperware. And the next day, like a good girl, I'll go into the fridge at lunchtime and see what I can get rid of. But then I'm over it. I don't need to have the chicken again. I'm finished with the stuffed peppers. Or it's too warm out for the soup that I made the previous evening, and so now it's going to sit in the fridge, gathering whatever soup gathers, and I probably won't want it again.
And I hate throwing food away. I do. I can't stand it when I'm catering and we have to toss the bulk of the leftovers into the trash. (Catering companies have this policy not to dispense food to their employees after the event's over, for reasons of liability or something). So at home, I always package up what I don't eat. But if I don't eat it the next day, and no one's coming over who might be interested in it, I don't want to keep it either. It's a culinary conundrum.
Let's get back to the fear of food-borne illness thing. I've heard plenty of stories from other people who think they "may have gotten sick" because of something they'd eaten which had seen better days. Or no, often they will blame it on a perfectly fresh food item and not realize it was the consumption of something totally innocuous-seeming which really threw their GI system over the edge. And it's true that about once a week (or ever two weeks, if I've been particularly negligent), I will open up the fridge doors and go in there as if I were part of the Sanitation Task Force and get rid of the items with a questionable life expectancy. And I'm noticing that some items just stay in the fridge because I've forgotten about them. Which is maybe the trouble with Tupperware in the first place. I need something less...opalescent...to determine the freshness status of my food. Like it's nearly impossible to figure out how long spaghetti sauce has been in the fridge. Unless there's a fine layer of mold hugging the surface, you really have no idea. Or lunch meat. A certain smell needs to come from the source to help you make an accurate assessment. Cheese is a problem, especially when it's already stinky and/or has mold on it because it's supposed to. What about things like hummus? tzatziki? risotto? polenta?
I read somewhere that honey is the only food that doesn't spoil. Which does bring me a small measure of comfort, I admit. I wish the list was longer than that, though. If I knew that butter had a flexible shelf life, I wouldn't get my nose dirty bending down at the dish and sniffing at it with such Agatha Christiean suspicion. I'd be eating it instead. Like normal people.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
duncan hines
There's nothing quite like cake mix. Especially when you have the urge to bake but don't necessarily have all the ingredients or the patience to sift or the inclination to roll dough or whatever it is. And though I'm usually up for putting on my Betty Crocker persona, l was quite content last night to delve into the cupboards for the renegade box of cake mix I knew was lurking in there somewhere. All I had to do was add water and eggs, mix, and bake. I love that. And I needed the cake because it was the necessary vehicle for what I REALLY wanted - frosting. I love to make frosting. I don't follow a recipe, but I have an idea of what goes in it. First, there's butter. Usually a whole stick. You put that on a low-ish temperature on the stove, then add a bunch of powdered sugar, cocoa powder, and some half-n-half. And last night, on a whim I added some of the leftover coffee sitting my French press, so I had a little mocha thing going. Oh my GOD it was good. And somehow making cake and frosting at 11 o'clock at night feels very...6th grade sleepover. And the only real difference is that this time, I got to the beaters and bowl ALL TO MYSELF.
Food is actually quite important to me. I enjoy it. I appreciate its role in my life. For example, right now, I just finished eating an extremely satisfying roast beef sandwich from Say Cheese in Cole Valley. Today is a perfect roast beef sandwich day. It's not raining (which would call for soup, preferably Campbell's Vegetable) but it's overcast, which makes me want to have something hearty but not something that'll stick to my ribs for too long. Whenever I eat roast beef, I am reminded of my carnivorous ancestors. There's something fundamentally...early man...about eating red meat. I love that. I love the rigorousness of my teeth and jaw during meat consumption. It's very different from the tender mouthings at tofu, or the artful slide of the tongue over a creme brulee. It's basic, uncomplicated, and I notice sometimes how my nostrils flare at first contact with the meat, something I imagine the early homo erecti experiencing during the hunt. Feeling the rewards of the flesh, both of yours and the 4-legged creature who was being sacrificed for your culinary enjoyment. Although I suppose during those early days, there wasn't much choice in the matter. No organic or soy-based products on the supermarket shelves just yet. No chai tea. No barbecue potato chips (the perfect accompaniment to a roast beef sandwich). No yellow cake with chocolate frosting for desert. How awful.
Food is actually quite important to me. I enjoy it. I appreciate its role in my life. For example, right now, I just finished eating an extremely satisfying roast beef sandwich from Say Cheese in Cole Valley. Today is a perfect roast beef sandwich day. It's not raining (which would call for soup, preferably Campbell's Vegetable) but it's overcast, which makes me want to have something hearty but not something that'll stick to my ribs for too long. Whenever I eat roast beef, I am reminded of my carnivorous ancestors. There's something fundamentally...early man...about eating red meat. I love that. I love the rigorousness of my teeth and jaw during meat consumption. It's very different from the tender mouthings at tofu, or the artful slide of the tongue over a creme brulee. It's basic, uncomplicated, and I notice sometimes how my nostrils flare at first contact with the meat, something I imagine the early homo erecti experiencing during the hunt. Feeling the rewards of the flesh, both of yours and the 4-legged creature who was being sacrificed for your culinary enjoyment. Although I suppose during those early days, there wasn't much choice in the matter. No organic or soy-based products on the supermarket shelves just yet. No chai tea. No barbecue potato chips (the perfect accompaniment to a roast beef sandwich). No yellow cake with chocolate frosting for desert. How awful.
Friday, January 14, 2005
dentistry
The lights went out at the dentist's office today. Luckily, no one was mid-drill. I was waiting for a little bit of fixing for a crown that was pushing the neighboring tooth away. Although according to my dentist, I grind my teeth and have for years, and they made me a mouth guard to wear at night. Or as the hygienist put it, "Whenever you feel stressed out." Funny, but I don't really know when that is. And will I be able to cart out my guard when that happens? Is that something I should carry in my purse? It fits nicely around my teeth, like a good pair of jeans might fit around your middle, but it's not the most attractive thing in the world. If I'm in the middle of an argument with someone, trotting this thing out when things get stressful and then putting it on, then trying to speak through it, might prove hazardous to conversation.
It's interesting, this mouth guard. Having never had braces, or had much going on with the teeth in general, I'm somewhat amused by this new dental accessory. It makes me want to go play field hockey. It reminds me of heated NBA contests, when players tug their mouth guards out and then throw the first punch. It makes me think of closeups during televised football games, the arc of blood you might see over someone's eyebrow, the teardrops of sweat coming down the cheek...and the ubiquitous mouthguard.
It's amazing to me how white movie stars' teeth are. Mine are not that white. They're not bad, but they're not that white either. They're kind of...ecru. Or bone. I'm sure there are few synonms for off-white. Do you remember that commercial for Rembrandt toothpaste I think it was? A kindergarten teacher is asking her students to identify color. She points to the sky and they say "blue." She points to the grass and they say "green." Then she opens her mouth wide and points to her teeth. They pause, and then come up with all the words for "not white." It's quite funny.
Commercials. Speaking of them. My all-time favorite commercial that I always wanted to be in was for Big Red chewing gum. I wanted to be in that part of the commercial where the couple is smooching and the song goes "So kiss a little longer..." The ad ran during those years when I wasn't kissing anybody, so it got my heart rate up a little thinking about being in that commercial. And still, I wouldn't mind. It could be an interesting bit of trivia to pass around at parties. "Remember the updated Big Red commercial in '05? Well, I was the one standing under the ferris wheel kissing the big country boy after dark."
It's interesting, this mouth guard. Having never had braces, or had much going on with the teeth in general, I'm somewhat amused by this new dental accessory. It makes me want to go play field hockey. It reminds me of heated NBA contests, when players tug their mouth guards out and then throw the first punch. It makes me think of closeups during televised football games, the arc of blood you might see over someone's eyebrow, the teardrops of sweat coming down the cheek...and the ubiquitous mouthguard.
It's amazing to me how white movie stars' teeth are. Mine are not that white. They're not bad, but they're not that white either. They're kind of...ecru. Or bone. I'm sure there are few synonms for off-white. Do you remember that commercial for Rembrandt toothpaste I think it was? A kindergarten teacher is asking her students to identify color. She points to the sky and they say "blue." She points to the grass and they say "green." Then she opens her mouth wide and points to her teeth. They pause, and then come up with all the words for "not white." It's quite funny.
Commercials. Speaking of them. My all-time favorite commercial that I always wanted to be in was for Big Red chewing gum. I wanted to be in that part of the commercial where the couple is smooching and the song goes "So kiss a little longer..." The ad ran during those years when I wasn't kissing anybody, so it got my heart rate up a little thinking about being in that commercial. And still, I wouldn't mind. It could be an interesting bit of trivia to pass around at parties. "Remember the updated Big Red commercial in '05? Well, I was the one standing under the ferris wheel kissing the big country boy after dark."
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
technology
I'm at the Apple store downtown today with my dad, not expecting traffic, not expecting any congestion whatsoever, just a simple trip to retrieve the generous Hanukah gift on behalf of the ever-supportive-of-my-writing-career parental units...and the store is packed with MacWorld visitors, many of whom are standing in line clutching little green packages. Apparently, it's this new gum-sized mini-mini iPod thing that can hold 250 songs, and Apple just rolled out the new product today. Amazing. It was like a tsunami of consumers, and it made me a little sad, actually, knowing that in a year or less the little green package is going to be replaced by an even smaller tangerine package boasting something even more technologically wacky. And in a way, I thought about how the less money I make (i.e. being a freelancer) the less I'm apt to be in line for the latest gadgetry, simply because I just can't afford to buy in all the time. When I was making more money, I was so much more of a consumer - a Peet's latte twice a day, packaged salads from Briazz, certain Banana Republic items. I didn't care about the sale rack. I didn't care about last season's reduced-priced fashions. I wanted here, I wanted now, I wanted the goods.
Now, with my personal budget cuts and eagle-eyed gaze at the potential minefield of my bank account, I have honed my sale radar considerably. I also don't buy very many things other than groceries, the occasional lipstick, a pair of jeans once in a while from Crossroads, and a 90-day supply of contacts every...90 days. I make my own coffee. I only go to Banana Republic when someone ELSE is shopping for themselves (or a relative has sent a gift certificate). But the thing is, I really was beginning to NEED a new computer. The one I've been using for five years, a classic blue clamshell iBook, is beginning to fray at the seams. It's losing essential battery life because some vital component inside the hardware isn't connecting properly. The blue part of the computer, the decorate band around the perimeter, is threatening to peel off any day now. Apple doesn't sell replacement parts to it anymore, and my warranty's run out anyway. So yeah, it was time.
And standing in line at the Apple store, I came face-to-face with this frantic consumerism - the urge to buy the latest gadget, the devotion to new technology - and realized that it's nearly impossible to escape. The world is moving at this certain speed that makes us feel behind and then compels us to want to catch up. I wanted to get out of that store as soon as possible, even though I wanted even more to take this computer home. And I've got it now, a smaller, lighter, faster version of my old clamshell. I'm hoping it holds up another five years...
Now, with my personal budget cuts and eagle-eyed gaze at the potential minefield of my bank account, I have honed my sale radar considerably. I also don't buy very many things other than groceries, the occasional lipstick, a pair of jeans once in a while from Crossroads, and a 90-day supply of contacts every...90 days. I make my own coffee. I only go to Banana Republic when someone ELSE is shopping for themselves (or a relative has sent a gift certificate). But the thing is, I really was beginning to NEED a new computer. The one I've been using for five years, a classic blue clamshell iBook, is beginning to fray at the seams. It's losing essential battery life because some vital component inside the hardware isn't connecting properly. The blue part of the computer, the decorate band around the perimeter, is threatening to peel off any day now. Apple doesn't sell replacement parts to it anymore, and my warranty's run out anyway. So yeah, it was time.
And standing in line at the Apple store, I came face-to-face with this frantic consumerism - the urge to buy the latest gadget, the devotion to new technology - and realized that it's nearly impossible to escape. The world is moving at this certain speed that makes us feel behind and then compels us to want to catch up. I wanted to get out of that store as soon as possible, even though I wanted even more to take this computer home. And I've got it now, a smaller, lighter, faster version of my old clamshell. I'm hoping it holds up another five years...
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