Finding Your Music

So my mp3 player's battery ran out before I was finished with my walk and I had to schlep home with no tunes. And I realized that the route is kind of a drudge without music. Seemed like something true to life in general, that it's not so fun without that special touch of something. I've been going through the motions without the music, that little special something that makes the drudge part worth the while. Doesn't really matter what the music is. Just sing it! Even if it drives your friends crazy because you won't stop singing it after the movie has been over for hours.

Strange Cookery

You ever wake up at four in the morning and realize that horrible smell is something your housemate is cooking? You wonder: a) how that smell managed to make it all the way to your bedroom with such strength that when you close your eyes you can imagine that he's cooking on your nightstand, b) what kind of carnage are you going to find when you finally get up the nerve to investigate the kitchen, and c) how on earth are you ever going to get back to sleep when there is not enough incense in the world to cover that magnificent stench. And on that note, do not ever tell a meth addict he can come stay with you unless you have first spoken to his NA sponsor to be sure he is really on the wagon like he says he is. Seriously. Just don't do it.

The House Guest Who Never Leaves

You ever have one of those people in your life who asks to crash in the guest room, and then one morning you wake up and realize he lives there now? This epiphany usually happens as you catch him cadging your coffee before it's done brewing. He exists in your household like some sort of Zen exercise in patience, eating your food, using up your hot water, counting your shoes and generally making a nuisance of himself. His contributions include more dirty towels, more empty cereal boxes in the trash, and a cigarette butt collection growing on your porch. If only you could just throw him down a well and toss his Lucky Charms down after him. Alas, it is illegal in most states.

Hello Drunkie Poo, How Are You?

This is to all those folks who drunk dial call centers after tying one on. I salute you! You, who call in and have a rambling conversation with yourself before forgetting where you are and then hang up on me? You rock! And you, who can only holler the product name over and over again until your voice gives out in a spasm of coughing. You're special too. But YOU, Drunkie Poo - you know who you are - you call in asking about something I can't make out because you have lost the ability to enunciate, and you are damned insistent about it. You must have MumbleSnurfleMumble, and you must have it now! Drunkie Poo, it is time for you to unclench your fist from the bottle of Night Train and call it a day. Seriously.

May We Have Your Express Permission to Throttle You?

So I switched from limited to unlimited movies per month on a rental service which shall not be named, thus giving them more of my money. They evidently felt that because of this event, a reminder of their ToS was in order. Because apparently I'm given to rental promiscuity. And we all know what happens to promiscuous types in horror movies, don't we?

Grocery Store Horror

I don't know what it is, but lately every time I hit the checkout line at a grocery store, I get the clerk who is about three more shoppers away from his nervous breakdown. It doesn't matter if I change stores, either. I will still get the clerk who overshares.

Seriously. I've had clerks who regale me with terrifying stories about the condition of their feet, clerks who rant about "the greenwashing of America" when they see I have my own bag, and just tonight a clerk who felt free to let me know that he was feeling on the verge of being the headline in tomorrow's newspaper. Is it something about my face?

It's not like they're overtly threatening me, so much as aggressively telling me things their own friends probably don't want to hear about, much less a complete stranger. Now, I work in a customer-facing job, and I get customers all the time who take advantage of the fact that they have a captive audience in order to tell me things that make me ponder the efficacy of natural selection. Have I just gotten too comfortable with shining on things like that? Do I now have a demeanor that says, "hit me with your batshit crazy, I can take it?"

If only you could buy beer at the self-service checkout, then I could avoid this problem altogether.

Why Cash Isn't the Ideal Gift for the Recovering Meth Addict in Your Life

Sorry I've been so AWOL. Real life intrudes in the most surprising ways.

Take the month of December. I have a dear relative who has a December birthday. A number of well-meaning people gave him money for his birthday and for Christmas. To most people, especially during these hard times, that is a gift of thoughtful trust. Unfortunately to a meth addict, even one in recovery, it is a gift that looks an awful lot like a score. In the case of my relative, whom I'll call Darryl, it proved too great to resist. Darryl is now reining merry havoc on everyone who gave him the cash. Joy to the world. When a meth addict goes on a bender they're not difficult to find, because they tend to find everyone they know and get shouty. They kind of look like the dudes from Scanners, only without a synth soundtrack announcing their imminent tweaking, and not so much with the telekinesis as with the physical throwing of things. Property damage often ensues. Peace on Earth, good will toward men.

So, word to the wise: gift certificates. That's not to say that a determined addict won't find a way to trade that for drugs, but it looks less like a potential hit than the cash does.