Pillow

Here's one for you Coupling fans: Today I spent $38 on a pillow. Why would I do such a thing, seeing that I come from frugal stock, and indeed the futon this pillow graces cost a mere $100? Well, I went to a three-story department store today after work that was in the final stages of its closing sale. It's called Hecht's, and it must have been pretty upscale until very recently, but it was kind of eerie by the time I found it. The first floor had nothing but store fixtures left, and some 70%-off rugs (originally priced in the $3,000-$9,000 range). Upstairs the selection was only slightly better. It looked like most of the affordable things had been carted off long ago, leaving, for example, a wide choice of dyed-pink foxfur coats.

But it seemed there must be something for me in this going-out-of-business sale. Wandering through the bedding section I spotted this pillow. It didn't have a price tag, but it was 70% off and I thought, how much can a pillow be?

$170, that's how much. By the time I found this out, though, I felt invested in buying the pillow. I'd been wandering around the store with it for awhile, having a last phone conversation with Nell before she disappears into Siberia, trying to find a cashier willing to ring me up... and after all if the pillow used to be $170 there must be something special about it, right?

I think it adds a lot to the futon. Unfortunately it makes the other two pillows feel bad--I think they cost $5 each at BigLots. I'm going to have to go donate some money toward stopping genocide in Darfur to atone for this.

Irony from an unexpected source

Pig
Originally uploaded by ChezShawna.

Today I got a box of cookies from my parents. It also included a small tissue-paper wrapped bundle with a note shown here (it says "I am a housewarming gift. Don't throw me away!").

I have nothing to say that would do this pig justice, so I won't try.

Zhongwen

Today I signed up for Chinese classes. They don't start til October, but it's a step in my doing-more-stuff plan. Seriously: I've spent $15 on public transportation since I got here, and I don't even have a car. It's a sad state of affairs. But soon I'll know Chinese and can explore China, which I've heard is pretty far away.

I'd like to express my solidarity with TOWWAS, who's trapped in some sort of cyber-limbo. I mean, didn't she have enough problems, what with the cough and the mysterious wisps of smoke emanating from her steering column? Google really needs to get its act together: today it started sending me someone else's email. She might be my alter ego--same name (different middle initial), a year older than me, same astrological sign. We've both lived in California and New York. But she's a lesbian. How do I know all this? Not because I've been reading her email (that would be creepy). It's the beauty of MySpace.

The Best Prize is a Sur-prise

The surprise was that Veronica Mars wasn't in my mailbox when I got home today. Why, Netflix, why must you fail me in my time of need?

So I watched the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory remake on stolen premium cable instead. I seem to be the only person of my generation not to have seen the original, so I didn't have too many expectations. This movie was a chance to ponder once again what a strange and wonderful actor Johnny Depp is. Also the interesting stereotypes. For example, to all appearances, Charlie lives in England. But when he's in the store and finds the golden ticket, suddenly people with American accents start offering him dollars for it. Because Americans are so vulgar we commodify everything? The kid playing the violent video game was, of course, from Denver... Columbine, anyone? I thought it was a little strange that he'd gotten so smart when his weakness was supposed to be TV. Everything he said made a lot of sense, but the moral seemed to be that with optimism and old-fashioned gumption, one can overcome the laws of physics and logic.

I did enjoy the movie, though, moralizing and all.

31 Days in DC

Well, I've been here a month now, and here's a short list of things I've done: unpacked, started a new job, acquired a futon and a cat, sold my car, started reading Wonkette, read Middlesex, watched 5/6 of the first season of Veronica Mars, met a half-second cousin, started a new blog, and gotten a haircut. The last might not sound like a big deal to normal people, but it had been six months. I was gently reprimanded about the state of my split ends.

I've become addicted to Veronica Mars, so much so that I added her to my MySpace friends. The final disk (in which the big mystery is finally solved) arrives tomorrow from Netflix--a big moment for me. Season Two is coming out this month, but I'm going to try taking at least a few months break before diving into that one. That might give me time to take care of some of the more interesting items on my to-do list, like finding a new tae kwon do school and taking Chinese. Not to mention decorating my apartment.

By the way, anybody have suggestions on what to do when your walls are so hard that nails bend when you try to hang pictures?

Success!

I did it! I sold my car. The upside of the pain I went through to do so is that I now feel convinced that I really, really wanted to sell that car. My life seems simpler already.

The DMV in Montgomery County was much nicer than the one in DC. There was a parking lot and no metal detector, the inside was painted a soothing shade of light blue, and there were skylights. The real shocker was that the staff were friendly and helpful.

Here's a parting shot of my car, which I owned for two years almost to the day. Goodbye, Grommit, and thanks for all the memories.

The Crushing Difficulty of Simplification

WARNING: This entry contains extensive bitching and graphic scenes of frustration.

As readers of this blog know, I am attempting to simplify my life by selling my beloved car, Grommit. I recently got Grommit's title in the mail from the bank where I'd just paid him off, along with a letter asking me to make an appointment at my local DMV to get the bank officially released as lienholder on the car. The bank is in California.

I put this task off for a week or two. On Monday, however, I found a guy who wanted to buy the car (yay!) so decided to get the title business taken care of. So yesterday morning I went down to the DMV, which inexplicably is located very near the Capitol so of course has grossly inadequate parking. Having miraculously managed to secure a space on a street a mere 4 blocks away, I walked in, stood in line and explained the situation.

Of course the woman behind the counter had no idea what I was talking about. She suggested I go to the DMV in California. When I convinced her this was not the best course of action, she told me that I would need to

1.) get a DC drivers license, requiring
a.) proof of address
b.) my social security card, and
c.) my birth certificate

2.) surrender my current California title and wait 10-15 days for DC to mail me a new one.

So I marched out in a huff. I hope they learned their lesson.

Then I moved on to plan B: get my form filled out at the Maryland DMV while transferring ownership to Mr. Buyer, who lives in that state. I was scheduled to meet Mr. Buyer at the DMV this afternoon but called ahead to try to determine if plan B would be feasible. Maryland DMV worker was also confused, but seemed to think it could be done. She did tell me, though, that we'd need to print out a bill of sale from the website and get it notarized before coming in. We should be able to get it notarized at any bank, though, she said.

Thus Mr. Buyer and I decided to meet at his bank instead of at the DMV so that he could procure a check at the same time that we got the form notarized. At least I thought that's what we decided. Mr. Buyer thought we were meeting at a suburban metro station. His directions included the name of the major road said station is on, plus the not-at-all helpful information that it was in a downtown-type area and had a bridge to a tall building. By the time I got there I was already ready to strangle him. I really hate driving in this town.

But I did get there, with only a little bit of backtracking, and Mr. Buyer and I were off. Mr. B is a skinny Iranian-American kid with pungent B.O. It's worth noting that he's starting medical school soon. He told me to turn left to get to his bank, and half a mile or so down the road said we'd passed it and had me turn around. It turned out we should have turned right in the first place. He apologized. We eventually got to his bank, where the notary had gone home for the day. A bank employee had us wait for 10 minutes while he called another branch to make sure their notary was on duty, then printed out a MapQuest map for us. This seemed like a nice touch until we were three miles down the road and were most assuredly not on the right track: it was time for another U-turn.

(Later, on closer inspection, I determined that the directions we'd gotten were not actually from one branch to the other branch. There were from some unidentified location in that suburb to the branch we needed to go to, and they'd directed us in exactly the wrong way.)

After about 6 miles of fruitless searching for the branch, during which we became increasingly discouraged about the possibility of reaching the DMV before its 4:30 closing time, Mr. B and I concurred we should just go to any bank for the notarization. I thought this was a good idea because I thought Mr. B had mentioned earlier that he'd already been to the bank that day to get the check for the car--another miscommunication. Mr. B thought this was a good idea because he is an idiot.

There are lots of banks in Rockville. A substantial proportion of them, we found, close at 3:00 pm. Finally we found one that was open (until 7:00!) and had a notary on duty. It was unlikely we'd make it to the DMV on time, but at least the whole excursion would accomplish something. Or so it seemed.

We sat down with the notary. She put our names in her book. She told me to sign my part of the bill of sale.

"This would be the time when you give me the check," I said to Mr. B.

He didn't have it. He apologized profusely.

I hadn't been exactly nice to Mr. B so far that afternoon. He's easily the worst navigator ever to sit shotgun in Grommit. But at that point I lost my cool a little.

"How," I asked, "did you plan to buy a car?"

More apologizing as we left the bank and got into the car yet again. Oh, he thought he'd just get the check when we got the bill of sale notarized, he forgot, this was his first time buying a car, etc.

He decided that the best course of action would be to go back to the first branch and at least get the check today. He apologized some more, and I wished he'd stop because I felt like the ball was in my court to tell him it was ok, and it really wasn't. If I weren't a 20-something vegetarian I would have been worried about my blood pressure. As it was I was worried I might commit vehicular homicide.

I dropped him off at the bank. We decided to meet at a DMV in a different suburb (one closer to the city) at 9:00 am to continue the odyssey.

Stewing in my car on the way back home, it occurred to me that I could make myself feel better by enjoying my car while I still had it. And the obvious way to enjoy my car was to take advantage of Rockville's plethora of box stores and strip malls. My first stop was at the Container Store, where I bought a handy cart (shown eons ago at the start of this entry). That's what people use to shop for groceries when they don't have a car. My other stops were Ann Taylor Loft (no luck this time), Baskin Robbins (nothing like a milkshake to calm the soul), and Trader Joe's, where I stocked up like a girl who won't get back to Trader Joe's for a long, long time. It worked: I recovered much of my equanimity. Only to lose it again when I got back into the traffic hell that is the District and almost hit a blind man.

Will I manage to sell my car before grinding my teeth down to nubs and losing my new job due to absenteeism? Stay tuned.

The Apocalypse

That's right, guys: sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I hope you've already built your bomb shelters. I'm sure there will soon be a shortage of concrete. This newsletter was left outside my apartment door this evening.






But perhaps this provides some cause for optimism. Do you think they'll deliver to my bomb shelter?

In other religious news, I think this must be the best snippet to come out of the Mel Gibson anti-Semite debacle: "his twistedly homoerotic spank-movie The Passion of the Christ..."