All I Ever Wanted
There’s no concentration at work, today. Not that I’m writing this at work.

I’m going on vacation this week. A much-deserved, so-very looked-forward-to, vacation. Because not only have I not left town at All since freaking Christmas - but also now, it seems like everyone I know is taking life-changing pilgrimages to the canyons of Arizona and the dairy-cows of Wisconsin and just generally getting a lot more physical and mental exercise than I am.

I’m beginning to feel like I have cobwebs stringing me to my little everyday habitry. I think when I break free on Thursday morning (Very early, so we can watch the sun rise over the North Georgia Mountains; hell yeah.), those cobwebs’ll snap free with a "Pwing!" My knees and elbows will creak a little at first as I hike through the woods of New Hampshire, but I’ll explain to my companions that I’ve been living rusty-ol’-tin-woodsman style for the last six months, and then they’ll understand and pass me the oil can.

I started planning this trip back in February, when personal thangs were not at their sunniest and all I could daydream about was escape. I called my aunt and uncle in New Hampshire to confirm my flight dates, and my aunt said, "My, you sure are getting a head-start!" Yes. Because this vacation is mine. Since I started planning it, Hunter has decided to come along which is great, but I feel a proprietary-ness about this trip, like Clark Griswold: It will be good.

Except that for me, even if things don’t go according to schedule, it will still be good, because the point is not what I’m doing, it’s how I’m feeling. Vacation = that little block of time that is strictly selfish and lazy and forgetful. And the only time that is all mine.

Queen of the (Vanilla-Scented) Castle
Yesterday while working one of my final shifts at Gift Shop, I had a stunning revelation. It began when a customer strolled by the front counter carrying one of our pastel-painted wooden picture-frames in the shape of a baby-t-shirt with a little hanger on top. I intercepted her with a "Do you need that gift-wrapped?" And when she said, "Why, yes," I took the monstrosit—err, frame, from her. And at this exchange, the old Feelings-O-Meter actually tipped to the "Yay!"- End.
No dread.
Instead I actually felt a little thrill at making this the best damn-wrapped pink and blue wood baby frame that ever there was. She would sigh with admiration upon coming back to the counter: The silver "Wrapphia"-brand bow! The shiny-smooth paper! How could anyone even think to Un-wrap such a treasure to expose the tackiness that lay within?

Those who’ve been reading this little blog for a few months will recall that I do not like wrapping strangers’ presents, pretty much as a rule. I can wrap things just fine at home, on my own, but it’s not something I would ever call a talent, so usually it’s not the neatest wrapping-papered confection once I’m through. Basically, it's not bad, for a ten-year old.

And when there’s some lady breathing her heavily Estee-Laudered pheromones down my neck, ordering me to Make It Pretty; It’s for a Wedding, dammit; while glancing frequently at her Rolex and heaving great stage-sighs because the wedding starts in like, five minutes; well, that just takes any enjoyment that might have been there, straight out.

Or so I thought. Because I actually have gotten better at wrapping gifts, and now I even um, actually enjoy it. A little speed-origami to brighten up the old day.

In my book, it’s all about that Something that happens when you make the transition from New Employee to Seasoned one. You start feeling like you own the place.

The fact of two or three people standing around waiting for me to find boxes for their rainbow windchimes is no longer nerve-wracking. They can wait all they want. Or they can go home. I don’t care. I won’t be rude to anyone, but with a feeling of ownership comes the conviction that this is My place. I was here before you got here and I’ll be here when you’re gone, and you can choose to make this a pleasant exchange or not, but it won’t stick with me, either way. Fuck; it’s not my wedding.

Yes, I am more bored than ever with my weekend job, but I also only have one week left until the place goes out of business. After that, I start at Small Publication full time. Yes, they hired me for real. I am happy about this, although a part of me wonders if maybe I need a crappy weekend job to make myself enjoy working at Small Publication so much, by comparison. Will I get bored there next? Frankly, the place certainly has its own share of jaded employees. Until now, I've navigated my way around their negative-nellydom every day like the chipper hero in the video-game Frogger. We’ll just see, I guess. If an unusual amount of time goes by between postings, you'll know I've gotten squashed.

Amen to that last post.

Because it is nearly midnight on a Saturday night, and after a nice long walk with m'dog through the insane-with-cicadas night; a glass (or two) of Riesling and this Joanna Newsom song, "Swansea" = bliss. It really doesn't take much to make me completely content; Like a cat who's crawled inside this-here song.

(Did I mention I've had some wine?)
God Damn, I say.

I've been considering lately, a move to a city that's much more purely urban than the one in which I currently dwell. One common, sorta a-priori-accepted opinion is that a more strictly Urban or Rural environment will do one's character good. I have no idea why, though.

We have some friends moving to the mountains in North Carolina soon, and we're all giving them an envious hoo-rah of a goodbye. They are somehow more pure-of-heart for their decision; all of us know this. And another friend of mine's moving to NYC, and there's this idea that she's somehow taking the high road too, by moving to a Real City.

I wonder on a night like this how I could possibly leave the smell of dirt and fresh-cut grass for the smell of hot concrete and exhaust.

Oh, Alice.

For ambition; that's how.

Well, Gift Shop is closing. I think I might be a curse to any small, independently-run business who hires me part-time. Ah well.

The music of this harp-playing elf-woman I went to see play a few nights ago is running through my head. I am not such a fan of the folk music in the Joan Baez tradition. (Three words: Braying Nanny Goat. Sorry, ya'll.) (No, wait. No I'm not.)

But Joanna Newsom, who we went to see on Tuesday night, was something from another planet. A beautiful, beautiful planet at 1/16th-scale of our own, where little people sail around in walnut half-shells and still somehow manage to be fierce rather than precious.

Joanna Newsom is very small. She belts out complex, double-edged lyrics with the tinny ferocity of a tough old mountain woman from centuries ago. It was a very good show.