The Contents of Your Kitchen Cabinet Can Speak Volumes About You

…As I’ve learned over the years of sharing living quarters with others.

My current roommate’s eating habits are almost as peculiar as mine, something I couldn’t help but notice since I’ve moved in this past fall.  Now that she’s left town for three weeks, I set out to confirm my suspicions and took the liberty of swinging open the doors to her side of the kitchen cabinets, above the counter where she keeps her Zumba tapes.  The findings are quite telling about a 31-year-old compulsive-dieting product of our present day health-nut consumerism.  Of the pseudo-food that I found include:     Continue reading


Phone Calls With Mom, and Ensuing Contemplations of My Life At 29

I got off the phone with Mom a while ago after making her sit and wait patiently while I dumped my weekly baggage on her for an hour.  In between my monologues, she took the opportunity to mention, again—as if my life isn’t already complicated enough—“You KNOW, you’ll be turning 29 soon!  Oh my goodness!” Blah Blah.  And once again she reminded me how my eggs—you know, my eggs—will only still be fresh for about another year.

“It’s just a fact,” she harped.  “I was talking to my-friend-the-OBGYN about it.  So many women make the mistake of thinking ‘they can wait’ and that everything will be perfectly fine and then they end up in trouble!”

So then I suggested that for my 29th birthday she and Dad pay to have a few of my eggs frozen.  You know, a long-term security deposit, like buying a CD or a mutual fund or something.

“Ummm . . . sure.  Daddy and I would pay for that,” she stammered.  “We’d do anything for you.”

image from Wiki Commons

Let’s say this is me.

image from Wiki commons

This would be me if I had lived in Europe in the 1930s.

This would certainly be me if I had lived in the US in the 1880s.

This is most likely what would have ultimately become of me if I had lived in early modern Europe.

. . . Or maybe this, if I had lived in the English colonies.

This is definitely not me, but I really prefer the more romantic portrayals of aberrant women . . .

And this short story by Idra Novey makes me think of what I’d be like if I had lived in Latin America in the 1970s.

*Images are all from Wiki Commons, and I sure hope they’re on the public domain.  Click the image to go to the source.

My Library Days

Today was another day without a call from the staffing agency.  So, at around 4 pm I decided to force myself to change out of my pajamas and head over to the local library to return the near-due batch of books I had taken out.  And go browsing for more.  The library is one of the few places in which I feel truly comfortable and unthreatened.  It is the only public establishment that I can think of where I’m off the hook as an agoraphobe.  For me, it’s a temple to the soul.  In a library, I am protected by compulsory peacefulness and privacy:  You’re not allowed to talk to anyone.  You get to conceal yourself within a silent forest of towering folios, rows upon vacant rows of comfortingly shadowy foliage.  And, what’s more for my deprived soul, is that you are free to pluck voraciously from the shelves with impunity.  Anything and everything marked with a call number is up for grabs, no fees, no calories, no obligations, no strings attached.  And picking and sampling is both condoned and encouraged.  Likewise, it is perfectly acceptable to loiter around aimlessly perusing for hours.  The library is beyond the realm of the mythicized candy store: it’s the Garden of the Hesperides, on steroids.  Continue reading