So, it’s lunchtime

You’re at work and you haven’t brought anything to eat.

So you think, "I won’t go to the grocery store and buy canned soup, no. I’ll treat myself and go to Einstein’s for a sandwich—No, a salad."

Because you always seem to remember them having good salads.

Memo: Your memory is a faulty, faulty thing. As riddled with holes a sieve, cheesecloth, or the afghan your sister crocheted with you when you were eleven that’s since been attacked by various pets you’ve lived with over the years, the latest animal, an excitable puppy with big, strong, stupid jaws. Your mind is as riddled with holes as the old, mushy lettuce that Einsteins puts in their nasty boxed salads.

Because salads from Einsteins—like most middle-of-the-road five-or-six dollar-for-lunch places, suck. Do you want to pay 5.50 for three inches of so-so lettuce topped with some bland chicken and some cheddar-cheese squares? Is that worth it to you? Is it? Is it?

You think, "I’ll treat myself further and dine on the patio outside the restaurant." And the moment you sit down to your sticky table, perched on your uncomfortable metal chair, your food is inevitably zeroed in on by a cavalcade of the most determined flies in the world. And as you’re sitting there reading about How to Make the Perfect Pot Roast in the crumpled up "Food and Living" section of yesterday’s paper that was the only thing there to read, swishing flies away from your mushy, favorless salad, remind yourself.

For the umpteenth time.

Salads at Einsteins are just not worth it.

Hot hot heat
It’s really hot out. Hot and Humid. Humid and hot. Heat and humidity that's making me linger at work. Screw my (un-airconditioned) car. I want my home to drive to me.

We’re supposed to go eat Mexican food with some friends tonight – and last week, I would have been so all about this prospect. Last week was the first week of real summer warmth. Last week I felt like getting away from it all. I was re-re-reading this road novel that takes place in New Mexico about this woman and her hitchhiking passenger, a dwarf. And every single plot twist seems to take them to a roadside stand or a small cozy restaurant to eat homemade empenadas and huevos revueltos and steamy tamales. And so last week, I made these plans with these friends to go to Nuevo Laredo this week.

This week, I’m reading The Crying of Lot 49. I had a 24-hour queasy-fever-headache-thing two days ago that seems to get slightly revived every time I step out into the fricking tropical rainforest that is our fair city in June.

And a moment ago, I couldn’t remember the name of this one dish they’re always eating in the road novel, so I did a quick web search on “Mexican Food,” but found only sad little websites that do nothing to perk up anyone's appetite, and only dampen my overall zest for life; i.e., the exact opposite effect of really good Mexican food. Because...Pinto bean-feta quesadillas? It's wrong, people.

Another night, I would've liked to sit out on a patio in my pretty white cotton dress I bought in Mexico, drinking margaritas in the moonlight with my friends. But tonight I want only darkness and the hum of our window-unit air-conditioner.

Okay, so; distilled down to its very essence, that last post admittedly looks very, "What if God rode the bus?"

Too zen for my shirt

Today I met a smug Buddhist monk.

Which, until today, I had thought of as a contradiction in terms.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if it were just some regular Joe who was now proclaiming himself to be Buddhist, but a monk?

Maybe this is my lesson for the year. About six months ago, in a volunteer group, I met this woman who told me she’s a Unitarian Universalist minister. I myself was raised Unitarian Universalist, and was kind of excited to meet someone else who shared my liberal humanistic spiritual blah-de-blah.

But things got weird as the weeks and months went on, because it was revealed Ms. Minister was really...the Anti-Minister.

In any religion, (oh! Can you hear the sweeping generalization coming?) with the possibility of a few of the homegrown varieties from here in the Belt o’ the Bible, I usually think I can count on ministers to be, oh, at least slightly compassionate. Meaning, at the very least, that they won’t be the ones who make fun of people as soon as they’re out of earshot. Or who seize every possible opportunity to harp loudly about how Their religion is Superior to your Christian one, because of this or that.

But I found myself cringing like Old Money toward the Nouveau-Riche whenever this woman opened her mouth. I was, after all, raised a UU. Lady Anti-Minister was a converted Baptist-—and had not yet removed every last splinter of that particular chip from her shoulder. For example, another woman in our group would tell us about her church choir concert, right? And Anti-Minister would choose that moment to start making fun of Christianity. Yes, you heard right: a person who had engaged in religious studies. Making fun. Of the whole of Christianity.

(Yes: Hello? Liberal religion? Acceptance? Tolerance? This means you, um, Rev.)

Besides which, she was often downright mean.
Not to everyone, but particularly to one woman in our volunteer group with unusual fashion sensibilities, like fluorescent miniskirts (She was in her late 40s) and to whose heel I swear toilet paper was strangely attracted. Oh, and her lipstick tended to range out of the usual lip-range and she was really, really (really really) talkative.

Anti-minister and this other woman would make fun of Ms. Unusual Fashion with a sneaky cruelty that carried me all the way back to the very depths of sixth grade.

The fact that this is a person you’re supposed to be able to come to with your problems still floors me. What does she do, call up a friend to make fun of you as soon as you leave her office?

Which of course makes me think: Exactly how easy is it to become a monk or a minister? I always imagined at some point, there’d be some sort of rigorous test that would somehow prove your spiritual convictions--and your compassion. And I’m not even taking into consideration, here, the whole business with the Catholic priests and the molestation charges. That’s a whole other matter, really. Right now I’m just thinking about how much it bothers me that no, you can’t count on someone you’d normally think you could automatically count on, not to be a jerk. No amount of official training can fix some people.
And--I should know--you find saints in the most unexpected clothing as well, so.

Clear explanation

-After nine days, I let the horse run free.

--Well, why'd you do that?

-'Cause the desert had turned to sea.

--Ah.

Timeframe: Roughly two hours or two days
Yesterday I woke up with a bright, go-getter outlook. Today is the day I will finish up unfinished business, I told myself with certainty.

Like the Count of Monte Cristo or Inigo Montoya, I would eradicate old debts - with the scabbard of my pen.

The main item being, see, this thing I’m applying for at this radio program in the Midwest that I would give my eyeteeth to be a part of. And eyeteeth are in high demand, nowadays. If I were on the staff of this show, or if they just let me put together stories for them now and again and slice lemons for their ice-water or whatever, I would kiss my sweet eyeteeth goodbye quite contentedly.

So what I needed to do yesterday, as part of my application, was to critique three of their radio stories that are not as good as they could be. I knew of one such story right away, that I’d heard a year or so ago, that had kind of sloppy editing. Much like the previous sentence. So I wrote up a quick little clever critique and then set my sights on finding two more such stories.

Which basically required listening to episode after episode of Favorite Radio Program on the Internet, seeking out radio stories I didn’t like.

And by midafternoon, I was rillyrilly tired of listening, and had found exactly zilch.

I had taken a few breaks throughout: Had eaten lunch with friends; had taken the dog out for a walk. But between doing those things, I returned to my desk to listen and listen to show after show, completely unable to find a damn thing to critique.

And now, my powers of distinguishing good from mediocre had been dulled. Dulled by the very sharpness of the show’s constant wit—A wit that had now become nothing short of grating, to me. If I had to hear one more epiphany, one more clever analogy, or one_more_freaking_story, I would hurl my Mac out the window.

So, yesterday, I would not call "good." Because when I decide to accomplish something, I go to it with a keen zest. But that zest can only sit at a computer chair for so long, biding its time. That zest can only listen and take in for so long before springing me into action or killing me from the inside. It's its own Count of Monte Cristo.