Lost and Found

Identity Crisis.

I've started reading *Real Simple*, a magazine designed for middle class women with 1.5 children and bright airy homes in the suburbs. It was the bright Spring colors that lured me to the publication at the library a few weeks ago, and the clean, neat design that begged me to purchase it at the grocery store shortly thereafter.

The magazine gives suggestions for a healthy, balanced lifestyle: a little craft here, a recipe there, a tip to remove wrinkles on that page and a cute quote about friendship on the next. I know that the magazine is directed toward the average American woman, that it exists solely to sell advertising. I know this as much as I know that Target is a nicely designed version of Wal-Mart. Nonetheless, I can't put the magazine down and I still consider going to Target a wonderful Sunday afternoon activity.

Every time I read my *New York Times*, I attempt yoga, I purchase my free-range chicken, I remind myself that I don't want to be a typical Middle-American suburbanite that loves my car and adores the half-price appetizers at Applebee's. I want to grow my own herbs, I tell myself. I want to write stories, I tell myself. I want to shop at only locally-owned stores.

But I don't grow my own herbs, I haven't written anything worthwhile for over six months and I love Nordstrom. What's more, I'm enamored by new Swiffer products.

Where am I going with this? I read a *New York Times* article yesterday about mega-churches in the exurbs. The churches I'm familiar with; it was "exurbs" that I had to look up online. Wikipedia says that an exurb is short for "extra-urban", a term to describe rural communities completely separate from urban life. These communities are held together by office parks, big box retailers and shopping malls. Developers create the transitory communities. Build it and they will come. Culture may or may not follow. If it doesn't, the developers will create that, too. It's all packaged, and I find it terrifying. The article mentions that these exurbs were gold mines for the re-election of George W. Bush.

I've resisted the aforementioned world since I've started thinking for myself. But, I realize, *Real Simple* is the literature of the exurb. Target is the central market. The Swiffer Wet Jet is, well, the cleaning tool of the exurb.

How can I live in Middle America and maintain my identity? Is it still possible? I fear the answer is that no matter how original I think I am, I'm nothing more than a number. I'm lumped into a category that marketers name "the blog-writing independent-minded college educated woman with liberal leanings and a soft spot for free-range meats" group.

Somewhere in an office park, surveys show that people who fall into the aforementioned group are likely to respond to bright Spring colors and clean, neat design.

A Page Turner.

The Boy and I are four days away from celebrating three months together, and I've just discovered that he likes Garrison Keillor. I learned this today. Less than ten minutes ago.

I know that on more than a few occassions, he's offered to switch the radio to Prairie Home Companion while we're in transit on Saturday evenings, but I always attributed that to his trying to win me over and show his gentlemanhood. It never occured to me that he owns twice as many books by Keillor than I do.*

After spending three months with someone, one would think that I'd know that they enjoy one of my favorite authors in the world. I understand that I can't know everything immediately. I'm waiting for six months to find out his preferred ice cream flavor. But the Garrison Keillor thing is something that usually comes up within the first half hour of the first date. It's one of those feeler questions so I can determine who I'm dealing with. Obviously The Boy passed without this test.

The thing is, this opens up a whole new world. What will I find out tomorrow? Does he like Sherman Alexie? What about Franzen? Does he also buy the *New Yorker* with the intention of reading the articles but only has time for the comics? Only time will tell what else I'll learn.

Meanwhile, I'm going to work at getting this silly grin off of my face.

*Okay. He has two books. Which means I only have one. But it sounds more impressive the original way, doesn't it?

Milk And Sugar, Please.

Every guy in America skipped work today to watch basketball. So I left early to do some shopping. So there.

I’ve started drinking coffee, which means that I’ve gone from one teeth-staining addiction to another. (Strangely enough, the sore throats that I’ve always blamed on smoking too many cigarettes still exist in the mornings.) Back to coffee. I find the whole thing very fascinating.

Nearly all other addictions are outlawed in the workplace and in daily public life. Smokers are quarantined outside. Pornography is generally viewed from the safety of one’s own home. Companies have to have a specific license to serve alcohol. But coffee, coffee can be purchased and consumed just about anywhere. Churches serve it. Employers provide it. There are coffee shops on every corner of most trendy areas. You can drink it during business meetings and while driving.

I drank a pot and a half of coffee last Sunday. My voice accelerated, my hands shook and I cleaned the entire house. I brushed every step of my carpeted staircase with a lint brush until every visible cat hair was dislodged. I couldn’t stop.

And the next morning, I had a headache reminiscent of those that I had when I abruptly stopped using the patch. Until I had a cup of (free) coffee (provided by my employer). I don’t understand how something that carries the same effects as a drug is so socially acceptable.

I can give myself an mid-afternoon high with no questions asked, but if I announce that I don’t give a damn about the basketball games, then I am a social outcast. Weird.

I did it.

I actually bought a transcript of a program on NPR.

And I didn't buy just a single program. I upgraded to the subscription that allows me to download five transcripts a month.

Next thing I know, I'll be purchasing copies of This American Life.

Love Song to a Business.

In college, I used to spend hours upon hours in Casa, a restaurant / bar / coffee house. It was through my interaction with the regulars in that place that I began to think of Athens as home. When I graduated and life pried me from the arms of Southeast Ohio, I had to say goodbye to Casa. This was as difficult as saying goodbye to actual people. That place had life; it breathed.

I’ve found a new home. An artistic little hole, filled with all of my necessities: good music, books, wireless internet, coke, coffee, beer and good food. Its large windows, which let in the perfect amount of daylight, are filled with plants and herbs, reminding us of organic life.

The stage is equipped with a piano, the perfect aide to the singer-songwriters that add another layer of art to the place. The bathrooms have punching bags. There is at least one chess set constantly ready to be played and the pool table begs to be utilized.

Victorian Midnight Café is the name. And no, I don’t feel like I’m cheating on Casa. I feel like I’ve met Casa’s big city cousin. I found it two weeks ago, and I’ve had lunch there twice this week. It’s lovely.

Adventures in Event Planning.

You may have noticed that I haven't been updating lately. I blame this on a variety of reasons, most of which have to do with the trade show that I'm currently working. Part of the whole marketing thing, unfortunately, includes event planning. I admit that sometimes it's nice to get out of the office and interact with the public, but nine days of it can be trying. Throw in the fact that my girlfriends in similar fields get to do their event planning on a cruise ship or in Vegas. Me? I get to hang out in the multi-purpose building of the Ohio State Fairgrounds. (That's the building that has the place where the horses shit connected to it.)

This is literally my first free moment near a computer. Which is sad, because I have quite a few stories to tell. I went to a produce conference in a Marriott in Indianapolis last week. Yes, a produce conference. I spent the first evening of the conference talking to a produce guy who believes that the tsunami was God's way of protecting America from the Muslims. Thank you, crazy ones, for making all Christians look like total freaks. Maybe last night's light dusting of snow was God's way of telling me that I don't have to work later today. Probably not.

I spent the first half of Friday morning, the morning that I was supposed to be setting up our booth for the show, at the urgent care center in a wheelchair. I had slammed my foot into a piano the previous evening and wasn't able to walk when I woke up. I crawled to the bathroom for a bath, and scooted back into my room wearing only a towel, while a male houseguest slept downstairs. (It's hard not to compare it with the episode of Sex & The City where Aiden has to rescue Miranda from the bathroom floor.) Luckily, Gene stayed asleep and I was dressed by the time The Boy came to retrieve my pathetic body. Two hours in the urgent care center with no cell phone reception (and the whole world calling me to ask me about frittatas for television, carpet padding and awning colors) and I came out with a contusion. Yes, all that drama for what can be classified as "a very bad bruise." At least the crutches awarded me some sympathy from the hoard of angry co-workers.

And Sunday wasn't quite the day of rest that I've taken for granted in the past. At one point, I had a "celebrity" chef huffing and puffing, angrily pouting in my left ear while I had a co-worker blaming me for a major mishap in my right ear (via cell phone.) Apparently, we hadn't brought her onions and the world was going to end. I took a deep breath, ignored the voice on the phone and looked at her and said, "I really wish I hadn't stopped smoking." I don't know that that was the professional thing to do, but I don't care.

And today. I'm in the library because Cingular shut off my phone due to lack of payment. I had to come here to use a land line to pay the bill. The phone is reconnected; all I have to do is turn it off and turn it back on. But I think that I might just keep it off for a little bit. Because, well, it's quiet.