P.O.S.

We at America's favorite department store use the term POS to refer to the cash register, "point of sale". However, for purposes of this post, the term will be used in a different sense entirely.

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Remember Wile E. Coyote? How he gets that stupid look on his face just before being plowed under by an avalanche or the latest Acme product? I am well acquainted with that dreaded "oh shit, something is going to happen and I can't stop it" feeling; the most recent episode having been Saturday morning.

It seems that my POS car has given up all pretense of even trying to be an operable vehicle. Ever since a week after it was last repaired, it has been making a strange noise that we don't even have the money to investigate fixing. The noise has steadily gotten worse and for about the last month I have been trying to comfort myself by playing Ryan Adams in the car so loud that I cannot hear the noise anymore.

I have been hoping against hope that it was just an exhaust problem. That maybe there was a hole in my tailpipe that I could stick some gum in. Or use some duct tape Richard Dean Anderson style. But nooooo, that POS had to go and get itself into an impossible situation. You see, it seems my car is headed for imminent transmission failure. Q: How is this possible on a car with only 60,000 miles? A: It's not supposed to be.

It is exactly this sort of illogical situation that has forced me to consider whether or not I may, in fact, be cursed. I'm being completely serious. This sort of thinking is entirely non-productive and I am trying to snap myself out of it; however in the context of my middling nihilism at the moment (also not productive) it is very difficult to do so.

Perhaps the greatest manifestation of the "curse" to date is the fact that there was a freak snowstorm "the worst weather Portland has seen in 10 years" the morning my thesis absolutely had to leave the PDX Kinkos to make it to the book bindery on time. I had to risk arrest just to make sure everything was in order with the final copies.

Don't get me wrong, I think I am totally capable of being one of the most rational people I know, whenever I need to be. This said, there is a part of me that is extremely vulnerable to the power of suggestion (especially when it is spiritual in nature.)

A new-agey co-worker of mine has noted for some time that it seems to her that there is "considerable sadness" in my aura. She has been volunteering to cleanse my aura using techniques that she learned (where else?) in Sedona, Arizona.

On Saturday, after reporting to work having just received the diagnosis on my car, I finally let her. Cleansing one's aura apparently involves taking one back to the stockroom and patting one on the head many times and repeating a lot of what I would label "positive affirmations".

But you know what? I feel a lot better. I don't know if my superstious half just needed a cure the equivalent of the malady itself; that I just needed to give myself permission and things would improve. My more logical side says that nothing happened; I am only experiencing a momentary upswing based on something that part of me perceived as having taken place.

Does anybody have thoughts on this experience? I'm curious. Oh, and also, does anyone know of any cars that are small, eco-friendly, and preferably, free?

Ramble On...

Lately I feel like I am living in "The Sims". I attribute this to the near-constant feeling that I am being watched. And I attribute this to working at a mall where I AM watched by high-powered cameras about 9 hours a day.

Literally, per instructions from management: "If you have to scratch or are having a wardrobe malfunction, go in the fitting rooms. Otherwise, we will be watching." For the first few days, especially, I was more than a little paranoid. If I had to do so much as straighten my nametag, I went in the back. Not anymore. Yesterday, I decided that since I had a captive audience, I was going to dance along with my favorite Muzak selections. (I already have most of the 8 hour playlist completely memorized).

But back to The Sims-I feel like someone is clicking on me and selecting different options- "fold" "organize" "smile" "do dances to entertain loss prevention". One of these days I am going to go up to the home store, take off my shoes, and take a nap in the "Ralph Lauren Premium Hotel Edition" bed. They will really be amused by that one.

As a sidenote, I have never been able to play "The Sims" quote unquote "correctly". My playing "The Sims" consisted of using cheat codes (ie 'Rosebud' which distracted me for all of "Citizen Kane" and made it impossible for me to concentrate) Anyway, I was never able to develop Chuck Klosterman-esque disillusion with "The Sims" because I never really exited build mode. I just used the cheat codes to get lots of money and build ginormous houses. These things were verifable masterpieces of modern art, if I do say so myself. I probably had several days worth of work in those babies. But I digress...what I was really getting to was that...

Yesterday, a gaggle of teenage clientele entered my department only to promptly remind me of one of my worst pet peeves that usually begins to make its appearance this time of the year: the plastic strap bra. Ladies, clear plastic does not equal invisible. (See also: bar sluts in saran wrap dresses) Perhaps this look was cool for about one week back in 1999. Actually, no, it was never cool.

One of my other pet peeves: when you go to eat shrimp and they still have the legs on them. I do not like my shrimp au natural, thank you. I like them slippery and ready for cocktail sauce. This issue comes up because I was attempting to live dangerously and eat some cajun food. Dem dirrty cajuns like dem dirrty shrimps wit legs. For some reason, I can make myself believe that a shrimp is artifically produced and comes from a lab when it has no legs. This allows me to separate it from its fishy friends, most of which I am afraid of (except for tilapia and tuna, those are the friendly fish).

I cannot put enough emphasis on this point: I am deathly afraid of dead fish. (Not in the grocery store, the ones that wash up on the beach.) Dead fish are truly frightening and are one of the biggest problems facing the world today. They can turn an innocent walk on the beach into a night of horror. Therefore, when my pet fish Moxie and Roxie died last week, I wasn't even able to give them a proper flush-off. I had to go hide in the other room while Brad netted them out of the drink (Brad is also good at opening feisty jar lids.) These two abilities combined are the most redeeming qualities of the male species.

I am also terrified of going bald; however that is beyond the perview of this increasingly random exercise.

In other news, my parents are in town. I have been trying to goad them by wearing mass amounts of black (my mother: "Black is the devil's color and you're not allowed to wear it.") Never mind the fact that it is my work uniform.

My father: "I have a client who's really into wine. Do you know where I can get some for him?"
Me: "Yeah sure, what are you looking for?"
My father: "Something pinot...wait, I have it written on a business card."
Me: "Ahh, he wants pinot noir. Not my personal choice, but I can get him a nice bottle of Willamette Valley 2002 for about $50"
My father: "How do you know that?"
Me: "I have connections. I have my very own wine distributor."
My father: "How did you do that?"
Me: "You get special discounts if you drink more than 10 bottles a week."
My father: "Really? You drink that much?"
Me: (Rolling eyes) "What do you think?"

My poor parents. I don't think they get my sense of humor.

Someone needs to stop me now. From meandering blog posts. And also from screaming "Rubie Rubie Rubie Rubbbbbbbbaaaa......Do ya do ya do ya dig it?" (Yes yes I knowwww, that's why I need to be stopped). And also from drinking directly from the carton, but that's beside the point.