This Quarter Life

The organization I work for is rather small but is spread out across two buildings. Because I live in Ruralville, the two buildings are across the swamp from each other. Deep down I know it’s actually a moat, but I never let on that I know.

Because of this and also because there’s a lot of inter-office tension between those who know about the moat and those who don’t, we’ve been having informal Meet and Greets with different staff members. I say informal because they’re only mandatory if you want to keep your job. Even though it’s my personal responsibility to find fault with everything, I’ll concede a sack of bonus points to the organization for the effort.

Anyway, these Meet and Greets are designed to help us all get to know each other, so at each meeting we say our name and then answer the question of the day.

Yesterday’s question was “If you could live anywhere, where would you live?”

So, okay. Back up. As an editor, I mostly communicate with people via email. I try to be as neutral as possible in my emails, abstaining from terroristic threats about what will happen the next time someone uses a comma like a stupid person and offering suggestions to improve people’s writing (“Although I understand ‘ED’ is an accepted acronym for ‘Emotional Disturbance,’ perhaps since this document is going to seniors, we might want to reconsider the usage.”).

Point being: Nobody really knows me and nobody really likes me because I referee the use of “ED.” Which, okay, yes, that is a glamorous job, but one that doesn’t garner a lot of fans.

Since nobody knows or likes me, I figure I have very little to lose during these Meet and Greets. So when it came my turn to answer the question of where would I live if I could live anywhere, I thought a moment and said, “Well, I’m kind of restricted in where I live because of the terms of my probation.”

Uncomfortable silence.

Uncomfortable laughter.

Uncomfortable silence.

Anyway, these Meet and Greets are supposed to serve as a springboard for starting conversations with our co-workers, but not a single person has spoken to me today, which I don’t really understand.

I usually like to package Internet links, tie them up with a nice little bow, and post them together. But this link is so important, so timely, and so life-altering, that it would be an act of treason not to post it immediately.

Weed-Whacking Goats Will Work for Food
NPR

Ric Francis/AP

I love goats. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this yet, but OMG: Goats.

4 = Number of pictures on Facebook featuring me posing with a goat.
1 = Number of times I have been bitten by a goat because I was thinking with my
      heart and not my brain.
2 = Number of business cards I have kept and hung on my wall for no reason other
      than a goat is part of the logo.

My previous posts were about that guilty pleasure, The Bachelorette. There were two posts, actually, so I like to scientifically refer to these posts as a series.

Anyway, two things happened as a result of these posts this series.

Thing One
This Quarter Life showed up as a link on a site having to do with mold. I couldn’t figure out why because this blog, as I think I’ve made abundantly clear, is mainly about tacos. But then I remembered I wrote about how I decided one of the bachelors was probably my soul mate because I decided he probably didn’t like mold.

Yes, that is airtight logic and reasoning, but I want to reiterate that I prefer my blog be associated with weight gain due to taco consumption and not with mold. The former is infinitely more attractive. It just has that Q factor that really pops.

Thing Two
My mom, whom, I also discussed in relation to mold in my last post (FINE. This blog is about mold, almost exclusively so.), called to tell me she had read my blog. I said, “Yeah, it was pretty great. I wrote about how I watch reality TV and judge people on reality TV and then think about reality TV and the people on reality TV and then write 5-paragraph essays it.”

She said, “Well, I’m glad you have a fulfilling life, but I want to let you know that I hate ants in the kitchen more than I hate mold.” And then I said, “I don’t even know who you are anymore!”

To sum up: as a result of my epic blogs on The Bachelorette, I learned a lot about myself. Namely, that I am obsessed with mold and quite possibly adopted.

Yesterday = Chris and Frank. Today = Kirk and Roberto.

Kirk

Kirk was my guru from day one. All I was hearing during the introductions was an indistinguishable chorus of “I’m here for the right reasons,” and then I heard Kirk say he macraméd something. And then I decided to make this about me.

I try to incorporate the word “macramé” into as many conversations as possible. “Macramé” and “Shellac.” I don’t know what either of these words means; I just use them whenever I do something especially crafty, like when I fold a napkin diagonally instead of in half: “I just macraméd this. Probably going to shellac it later.”

So, anyway, Kirk has done extensive work in the macramé field. He is also from Wisconsin, which means he doesn’t need to be taught to pronounce it “WIS-consin” and not “WEST-consin.” So many positives.

At some point Kirk revealed he had mold poisoning. And at first I was all, “OMG he OD’d on penicillin too?!?” But then it turned out he didn’t actively give himself mold poisoning; he lived in a mold infested infestation. Which is yet another positive because, oh boy, would he and my mom ever get along!

My mom loves to talk about mold and mildew. She talks about it in capital letters. She used to hand me tile cleaner before I showered so I would be armed against any MOLD and MILDEW sneak attacks. I bet Kirk could get on board with this idea. Let the bonding begin!

But holy crap: Deal breaker alert! At one point I am almost positive Kirk and Ali had their hands in THE SAME MITTEN. I don’t know who initiated this and who just allowed it to happen, but I wish it hadn’t happened. Sharing of mittens is only allowed when one loses one’s mittens. But even then, as we all know, lose your mittens and you shall have no pie.

Roberto

Roberto is Latin. And, apparently, for this reason alone, Ali doesn’t think casting other bachelors was really necessary.

Roberto and Ali reenacted a recent date I was on when they tight-rope-walked across two skyscrapers or something. Actually, no, wait, I didn’t go on that date. And the fact that it happened on this show is a deal breaker.

NOT because that’s a weird and fake thing to do, but because—and let me be clear—if I am ever out with a guy and someone decides we should be harnessed and suspended 10,000 feet above ground, if that guy does not grab hold of me and run away as fast as he can, there’s going to be hell to pay.

Roberto used to play “professional” baseball. Although I remain unclear if he played in the Majors. And every time Roberto brings up the fact that he played professional ball, I am torn between vigorously calling him out and keeping my mouth shut because I, too, sometimes stretch the truth. Like every time I tell my boss I am adequately prepared for the day’s meeting. And, also, let’s face it: Roberto almost playing in the Major Leagues is more impressive than anything I’ve ever actually done.

Finally, Roberto seems pretty smooth (read: Roberto is Latin), and I can’t really handle that because I am as awkward as possible at all times, and surrounding myself with suaveness makes me feel even more like I live on the Island of Misfit Toys. 

I’ve been watching this season of The Bachelorette on behalf of my friend SV. I was going to take accurate notes, but that turned out to be hard and required applying myself. So I wrote up a summary of the final four bachelors instead.

Because I’ve decided I strongly believe in doing things alphabetically, Chris and Frank get a shout out today. Kirk and Roberto tomorrow.

Chris

Chris is awesome because he never dresses up. That’s good in and of itself because the more T-shirts he wears advertising his dad’s business, the more money I can roll around in later.

It will also come in extremely handy later, because when he starts making unreasonable demands like, “please don’t wear your pajamas to the grocery store” and “please get dressed on occasional Saturdays,” I’ll be able to whip out a tape of him from the show and be all, “This from the guy who wore a T-shirt printed with the Periodic Table of the Elements for his publicity photos?! Really?” Game. Set. Match.

In other news, Christopher moved back home to live with his parents for a few years as an adult. This is something else I can use against him during various fights I pick with him. And his only comeback will be, “I moved back home to take care of my mother while she was dying of cancer.” And then I’ll be all, “Oh. Sorry.”

The last thing worthy of mentioning here is that Chris almost fell off a horse on a date. And this really spoke to me because, as you may be aware, earlier this year I fell out of my bed. So we could probably and potentially really bond over that.

Frank

I always forget about Frank. Probably because I forgot to watch one of the episodes featuring his one-on-one time and accidentally did something productive with my life. Like went to Wal-Mart. Also probably because Frank sometimes wears glasses and sometimes doesn’t. And that’s really confusing for me.

So…Frank. During some sort of poetry jam session that went on somewhere at some point, Frank announced, “I’ve written a lot of love poems.” Which was super hot of him to say because I like being told a guy had multiple opportunities to write multiple love poems to multiple other women. I also find really attractive the implication that he has freely written other women love poems but is only writing this love poem because the host of The Bachelorette told him to.

Frank whines a lot about Ali not giving him enough attention. He must not have understood the part of the contract he signed that said, “By signing this, you agree to be given the honor of dating the same woman as 24 other men.”

But Frank makes up for his whining idiocy by being super kind and considerate. For example, one time Ali came down with Ebola or something during a date. To show his concern, Frank took her out of the hotel and brought her outside in the rain. Does that not seem considerate? That’s because I haven’t told you yet that he offered her an umbrella! Swoon! 

The year is almot half over. I read some books. The best of this bunch? Rebecca and Await Your Reply.

What have you been reading, dear reader? Let me know!
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1984 (George Orwell)
Big Brother controls the past, the public, thought, and memory. He tortures all who dissent. Much like my big brother does when I suggest he not Tweet about Miley Cyrus.

Await Your Reply (Dan Chaon)
Ryan and Jay are hackers. Miles and Hayden are twins. George and Lucy are lovers. BUT IS EVERYONE WHO THEY APPEAR TO BE? Probably not, since I asked that question in capital letters.

Can You Keep a Secret? (Sophie Kinsella)
Convinced her plane is going to crash, a woman divulges all her secrets to the man sitting next to her. The plane doesn’t crash.

Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
Yossarian, a WWII pilot, runs into logical paradoxes, circular thinking, and no-win situations. For most of us, that’s just a typical day at the office. For Yossarian, it’s a matter of life and death.

City of Thieves (David Benioff)
The story of The Odd Couple set in WWII Russia. During the siege of Leningrad, a Jewish teenager and an AWOL soldier are sent on a mission to secure 12 fresh eggs. Which seems reasonable.

The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen)
A mother wants her extremely dysfunctional family to be together at Christmas. And no, my mother’s pen name is not Jonathan Franzen.

Gilead (Marilynne Robinson)
An old preacher writes a letter to his young son about religion and life. If my dad wrote me that long of a rambling letter, I would tell him what I told my high school English teacher on a course evaluation: Either talk less or talk faster. And then my dad would give me low marks in “attitude.”

Go Tell It on the Mountain (James Baldwin)
I was surprised when this book turned out to be about religion, hypocrisy, and family–and not about yodeling in the Swiss Alps.

The Heart of the Matter (Graham Greene)
A religious man has an affair. But guess what! As it turns out, committing adultery is incompatible with religion. So the guy feels super bad and then does some more things that are incompatible with religion.

The Help (Kathryn Stockett)
A young white woman writes the stories of black housekeepers in 1962 Mississippi. Risky? Yes.

Herzog (Saul Bellow)
I can confidently say that Herzog is the main character, that he has troubled relationships with women, and that he writes a lot of philosophic letters. Beyond that, I can confidently say that I understood every fourth page of this book.

The Magnificent Ambersons
The Ambersons are rich and therefore magnificent. As the city grows, their wealth fades. Ergo/thus/henceforth, they are no longer magnificent.

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (Muriel Sparks)
According to this book, I am not in my prime because I am not in love with a one-armed man. Also because I don’t encourage teenagers to have sex with married men and run off to fight Franco. Usually.

Prodigal Summer (Barbara Kingsolver)
One character is obsessed with coyotes, another with insects, and a third with chestnut trees. What do all these things have in common? Possibly nature. But probably an opportunity for preaching to the reader.

Rebecca (Daphne du Maurier)
Maxim de Winter’s housekeeper prefers his first wife, Rebecca, to his second wife, the narrator. For that matter, it seems Maxim does, too, which is unfortunate. But not as unfortunate as…oh, I don’t know…a shipwreck, a murder, and a house fire.

Remember Me? (Sophie Kinsella)
A woman wakes up with amnesia and doesn’t remember she has a weird husband and a high-powered job. If I had a dollar for every time this happened to me, I would have earned $9 just last week.

The River Wife (Jonis Agee)
Jacques rescues his future wife from certain death. Then Jacques becomes an alcoholic pirate with abusive tendencies. Jacques may need counseling.

You Remind Me of Me (Dan Chaon)
A mother gives up her firstborn son for adoption, keeps her second son, and everyone involved wishes the woman had just used birth control.

Oh hi, Internet.

Two weekends ago I went to my high school band reunion. That’s right, band reunion. I wasn’t even a star band student in high school. I was the kid who looked forward to the rests in the music so I could deface the music stand with games of hangman. Anyway, point being: I went to a high school band reunion. I am a nerd.

Before the concert, all the band folk were catching up with one another on what we’d done since high school. As I was waiting to tell everyone how in the years since high school I had managed to convince two solidly sober people I was Amish, I listened to the others talk about the great things they had done.

And then I started to feel inadequate because it seemed like everyone had an undergraduate degree. Since I didn’t know what that was, I felt certain I didn’t have one. After high school, I got a college degree, got a job, left that job pending an ongoing investigation, got another job, moved to the Canadian border, and was never heard from again. Or something like that. The point is, at no time did I earn an undergraduate degree. Or so I thought.

The clarinetist to my left said she had earned an undergraduate degree from the same college I went to before earning her graduate degree somewhere else.

At this point I was able to determine that you don’t actually graduate. Instead you get an undergraduate degree. So that made sense, and I was relieved that when it was my turn I was able to use the correct lingo when I said: 

“After undercollege, I got an undergraduate degree!”

I smiled and was all, “In your face. I can use fancy words!” but then this happened:

“Sorry, undercollege?”

“Duh. That’s the proper term for high school.”

“Okay. I guess. So where did you get your graduate degree?”

“I don’t have one. Why are you asking?”

“Well because, usually, when people say they have an undergraduate degree it’s because they went on to get a graduate degree.”

Armed with this new knowledge, I had to revise my moments-old thesis. It turns out it’s only highly educated people who don’t get college degrees. They get undergraduate degrees. But, apparently, at no point do they actually graduate college. So that’s weird.

One last thing to ponder: my band director caught up with me as I walked to my car after the concert. And he said:

“How’s life treating you? You look well-adjusted.”

So, how does one look well-adjusted? And how does one respond to being told one looks well-adjusted? I had been hoping for a “you look smoking hot” in a non-perverted teacher/student way, so I was a little disappointed. But mainly I was disappointed because—well adjusted?—clearly here was another person who doesn’t read my blog.

Today is a red letter day. Actually, last Friday was a red letter day, but I didn’t know it at the time.

When I first started this web log (“blog” if you will), I checked my “stats” and “visits” all the time. Every time someone visited my site, I was all, “Mom, I’m FAMOUS!” And then during one of my daily self-inflicted computer catastrophes, the IT Guy asked me to tell him my IP address. And then he told me what he meant by that. And then he told me how to find my IP address. And then he stopped answering my calls.

Once I finally found my IP address, I realized it was the IP address that had occasionally been visiting my site. It seems the only person visiting my blog was me, and even I wasn’t doing it that frequently.

At this point I stopped checking my stats.

For some unknown self-indulgent reason (possibly witchcraft; probably The Hand of God), I checked my stats today. The moment this image appeared on my screen, I realized this blog is destined to become immortal. BEHOLD the search term that directed an upstanding taco connoisseur to this site:

That’s right: When you want to do serious taco research, you come to This Quarter Life. When you want to make sure your level of gluttony surpasses all others, you come to This Quarter Life. And when you want to rejoice in the power of seasoned beef over common sense, you come to This Quarter Life.

In short, this blog has achieved a level of success not previously imagined.

Thank you for helping to make my dream a reality.

What’s new for prom this year? Seed potatoes, that’s what!

I didn’t really need this sign to tell me that, though. I’ve always been a trendsetter. I remember being near tears when my prom date showd up with a rose corsage instead of the seed potato one I requested to match my dress.

“I though you were joking about that,” he said. “What is your deal with seed potatoes?”

“They’re glamorous!”

Anyway, in addition to seed potatoes, I totally foresee this being the hot trend for prom this year. You heard it here first.

Two new This Quarter Lifetionary entries.  Amaze your friends with new and official words and phrases.

 Grumblecakes. Term of endearment for someone pleasant-challenged.

White Trash Trifecta. A shopping trip including stops at each of (and only) the following: Wal-Mart, K-Mart, and Fleet Farm. Best completed in pajama bottoms.