Call Uncle, the Ants Have Won

I come home in the evening to my pup and my ants.  They are everywhere.  Every time I wake up a new swarm has moved to a new location.  First it was the corner of my apt by my bed (I slept on my couch that evening), second my kitchen counter, third my desk and inside my computer, and then again on the other side of my kitchen, traveling in that lovely single file line up and down my walls.  I spray them with this natural orange spray thing that kills them instantly but the others are not deterred.  They say, "Ha ha, Hannah!  We will just move a few feet this way.  Watch us crawl and scurry around for no palpable reason other than to decorate your very plain walls."  It's come to the point where I avoid coming home as much as possible.  I actually stay my entire shift because otherwise I'd have to be hanging with the black dots in my peripheral, which I sometimes hope are just the result of some concussion that I could have mysteriously received unbeknownst to myself.  But alas, I bring my face closer and the dots are tangible, little creatures.  The worst part is the tingly feeling.  I don't only feel the tingles at home, the most plausible location for ants to be crawling on my wrists and neck.  I also feel them in public, at work, ringing up a customer and scratching my neck, leg, left wrist, right wrist, left ear, right shoulder all while saying "Debit or credit" in an unusually rushed voice.  They must think I'm abusing some form of narcotics.  

I'm coming to be at a somewhat forged peace with these creatures.  I know Padme enjoys them.  She was dancing with them on the carpet, hopping around in a frenzy, and after their fox trot she licked them up, aiding me in my quiet elimination of the ubiquitous friends.  It's like having relatives over.  Yes, a bit corny to compare ants with aunts.  But I do not care.  I am tired and am trying to believe these ants will leave me soon.  Say you have family in from out of town.  They will be here for two weeks.  Aunt Linda is sleeping in your room with her husband Carl who's not really her husband at all, you come to find out.  You would be sleeping on the comfy living room couch, but their son Lester, who ends up telling you you're adopted while you two are playing truth or dare, has claimed that territory.  So you sleep in your baby brother's room who cries in the middle of the night and in the early morning, every single time.  Linda and Carl are up at dawn making coffee and putting dishes away in the wrong spots.  Lester sleeps in till noon every day, even when people are sitting at his feet watching TV.  Your parents took time off work and are doing chores around the house.  Baby brother's got a knack for covering all of your belongings with jam.  But come May 21st, they will be gone.  You will get your room back.  Baby brother will go back to day care and your parents back to work.  And you will resume to being your lazy self in peace and quiet, walking around naked in your kitchen without fear of being seen or talked to or scolded or somehow covered in jam.  All will be well.  

by the by...Pamde's 16 pounds now

About My Feet and Other Things

I am only making a new post because it's been so long.  That is the worst reason to write.  Actually, it kind of rings true with my new creed:  don't talk unless you have something to say.  Or maybe I'll make it, make every word count.  I hate when people, myself included, just speak and speak when they're not really saying anything.  So I'm trying only to speak if I have something relatively important to say...which is not something I'm fulfilling with this post right now.  I just have some time to kill and, again, it's been so long.

The only thing I could think of to write about was feet.  My feet hurt.  I think it's because I've been running.  Yes, friends, running.  "Hannah running?  No."  Well, if that's what you said in your mind, then you're right.  I have not been running, per se.  I've been walking Padme nearly every day and she always ends up swatting the air rapidly with her paws because I'm just walking too damn slow.  So I started picking up the pace to a lovely jog, which to my lungs and heart means an intense ten minutes of gasping for air.  Then I started putting on my running shoes when I take Pad for a walk.  (I don't remember why or when I bought such athletic shoes)  And so, I feel like I'm running because, you know, I'm wearing running shoes.  What a concept.  Anyway, I heard you're supposed to change your running shoes every week or something.  And I haven't been, so my feet hurt.  

Padme is also responsible for my other footwear mishap.  As you know, puppies chew on things.  Lots of things.  Especially the cliché shoe.  After discovering the damage Pad's teeth could do, (i.e.: chewed through my computer charger...80 bucks to replace it...not just like 80, but actually 80) nearly everything I own has been elevated to the few puppy-free zones in my apartment.  Especially my shoes.  I was at my parents' house this morning and, by cautionary habit, set my Rainbows on the chair next to me.  My sister wanted to take a seat, so she put them on the ground.  Next thing I know, puppy's completely ruined them.  But I'm still even steven.  Cynthy got me the coolest shoes for my birthday the night before.  

I wish I had another shoe anecdote.  Then this post would have an actual theme and/or focus.  Fortunately for you, the rest of my shoes have been pretty much drama free.

I will now make a list of unimportant happenings in the life of Hannah:

1)  I am rereading my favorite book, White Noise by Don DeLillo.  Better yet, I'm reading it in its first edition.

2)  I turned 21 on Wednesday.  I've had a long and tiring week.

3)  I've been playing guitar more lately.  Proud of myself.

4)  I love my sister.

5)  I love Blue Moon.

6)  Went to sleep at 6 am.  I am tired.

7)  I do not love working in the deli.

80)  Mother's Market customer are oddballs.

9)  I'm a Mother's Market customer.

10)  My other recent creed is to stop complaining.  It's so hard.  I wish I didn't make up that creed.  Ah my life

11)  The language of sarcasm is not meant for all.

12)  You should see Pad right now.  She sleeps in the most awkward positions.

13)  I got a cool locket for my birthday.  Guess whose face is in it.  Hint:  she's brown and awesome.

14)  I secretly wish I could blog for money.  

15)  I find it odd and a little upsetting how much joy I feel when I hear the polite beep alerting me of a new message.

16)  Eight firemen were at my house last night.  We only needed two or three.

17)  I like talking to people.  Favorite pass-time.  Besides sleeping outside.

18)  Il fait chaud.

19)  Alias was a good show for the first three seasons.

20)  I hope no one reads this post.

Padmé

I've become that person who's obsessed with her dog. I'm a little embarrassed.

Irksome

I'm convinced environmentalists go around to various public restrooms and tighten the toilet paper dispensers so no one can get a sufficient amount.  

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't spare a square.

Does frontal male nudity mean it's rated R or PG-13?

I was flashed. A few days ago. It was awful.

I'm standing at the register being my normal awesome self. I'm efficient. I don't dawdle. I get people through the line without being too cheery. Some people call me mean and not very personable, but I call it being genuine. When people ask, "How's it going" I say, "Eh, I'm at work." Most understand.

My point is, I'm innocent. Standing there doing my job. This bro is at the counter with his sagging jeans and screen printed hooded sweatshirt. The total is something like $3.02. He gives me a five dollar bill.

"Do you have two cents?" I don't want to give him 98 cents in change.

"Uh, I think so. Hold on."

He reaches deep into his pockets to search for coins. While doing so, he pulls his pants down so far that I can see nearly every bit of his manhood. I'm shocked, I assure you. I actually audibly say, "uhhh" as I look up at the ceiling listening to that awful music they insist on playing until he discovers a couple pennies.

"Here you go."

"Uh, thank you. Um..." I complete the transaction. Although when I'm giving him his change I feel like I'm paying for a peep show.

Needless to say I was very distracted from being awesome at work for at least five or ten minutes. It was horrible.

Not sure why I felt the need to divulge such information. I guess I wanted to express another reason why I should find another job, one that appreciates the fine work I do and doesn't repay me with unwelcomed nudity.

Bek

This is my website you won't understand because it's a class project, unless you happen to study the French literary theorist Jacques Derrida....

However, you should still check it out cause it's awesome and I worked hard on it.

gracias to dustin lemos

On the Subway Eating Leftovers and Being Really Happy About It

Do you ever drive with the radio on and realize that you have been listening to a song for a few minutes that you really wish you weren't listening to? And you would have changed the station, except you were deep in thought about nothing in particular?

I'm driving home at almost one in the morning and as I'm getting off the freeway, or the Autobahn as some would have it, I realize I've almost finished listening to "That's the Way I Like It" in its entirety. As it finished out, I drove the rest of the way to my apartment laughing hysterically. Not sure why. Maybe because I'm a little cooky from finals week. I didn't change the station though. You'd think after I heard such a ridiculous song I'd switch it. But I don't really like the sound of changing stations. There's no continuity. It is so flustering to change stations mid-song. I'm also apprehensive because I think it's kind of rude, as if I'm offending the artist whose song I cut off.

I'm glad I didn't change the station though, because as I was pulling into the parking lot, I heard the first few seconds of "When A Man Loves A Woman." Great song. Sad to turn it off. But at least I didn't have to hear "uh huh, uh huh" running through my mind as I go to sleep tonight. Although now that I'm talking about it more, I probably will be singing it in my sleep...and tomorrow.

Some of the best moments I have with myself are in my car. First of all, I dance like there's no tomorrow, and like there's no seat belt, nearly every time I drive. And also, I just crack myself up. I'm sure you have those moments. Who sits there listening to "That's the Way I Like It" by themselves at 1 am without singing or dancing along? Just sitting calmly with one hand on the wheel thinking about where they'd just been or where they are going...That is what made me laugh.

My favorite laughing in the car moment happened about a year ago. I was driving home from work rather mindlessly when I saw the most hilarious bumper sticker: "CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF PISTACHIOS." Of course, started laughing, slapping my knee and the whole bit. What does that even mean? Do people really get attached to a particular nut? Do pistachios have some sort of cult following? Do Pistachio Groupies talk trash on Peanut Groupies because they're not really nuts, they're legumes? Or what about Brazil Nuts? Do people who have Brazil Nut bumper stickers get slashed tires because, come on you morons, a Brazil Nut is a seed!? I had to know the answers.

I followed the guy. I finally got up next to him at a stop light for the perfect opportunity to discover the story behind the sticker. I make the motion of rolling down a window.

"I love your bumper sticker!"

"Thanks!" He's a middle aged white guy who looks like a surfer.

"Where did you get it?"

"I grow pistachios!"

"Oh, no way."

"Yeah, I sell them. Go to my website."

"Okay!"

The light changes and I get behind him so I can memorize his web address. I went on it when I got home and it was down due to construction or something.

I kept laughing at the sticker, though. Throughout the week I'd think of it randomly and let out a weird noise from my attempt to contain my laughter. When someone would ask what I was laughing at, I'd tell the story. They wouldn't get it.

If I had been in the car with someone, I guarantee I wouldn't have laughed as hard as I did that night. I guess I'm just a really fun person to be around if I'm by myself. Which I know doesn't make sense. But it's the truth.

Moral of the pointless stories I just told? Uh, drive by yourself late at night.

I feel like I should put some pictures up so this post isn't so boring. You're more inclined to read something if it has pictures. Maybe I'll put pictures up of something irrelevant, yet intriguing. You'll read this entire post trying to figure out what the pictures are connected to. You'll read through my story about listening to a song and my story about a random bumper sticker, then you'll read this paragraph and discover the pictures meant nothing. Except they meant something to me: to get you to read this.

Okay I need to sleep. It's been a foreign activity to me in the past week.

Bye

Those Who Hate Poetry, LOOK AWAY

Being the dedicated Lit major that I am, browsing my awesome Norton anthologies has become one of my favorite ways to kill time. I have discovered many new poets and authors by simply flipping through pages. Several names that I have never seen introduce themselves to me and I'll read a bit of their works, musing, "Well that's nice. Very anthologizable." But none has caught my eye quite like Stevie Smith. What's unique about her is that I can't get her poem out of my mind. I'm really not that into poetry. I have one poem that I'm obsessed with (Victor Hugo's "Elle avait pris ce pli") and a couple that I love (T.S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" and "The Waste Land"). But I don't drool over poetry the way some people I know do. I just don't really get it, honestly. Except for those rare moments when everything aligns, the poem makes sense, and I know that those words were meant to be written for some specific purpose, that they have some sort of transcendental quality.

Stevie Smith's poem "Not Waving but Drowning" struck that chord in me recently. If you know all of the poems that I listed above, then when you read this one, you'll know that apparently I am only drawn to morbid poetry. So it goes...

Not Waving but Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

From reading the introduction to Stevie Smith, I learn that she illustrated many of her poems with line drawings, which she called "doodles." This particular poem is accompanied by one such sketches. Since I cannot find it online, (one of the only times Google has failed me) it is lucky that I pride myself in my ability to explain visual objects through words. Imagine a flat-chested 13-year-old girl staring smugly with squiggly lines across her bellybutton area signifying water. Her hair is combed in front of her face looking a bit like the infamous young lady from the horror flick The Ring. I don't know what else to say about this poem, since I am really awful at analyzing poetry. But only, I like it. I wish you could see this sketch. It's a bit freaky.

Sciurophobia

I think I have developed a legitimate, irrational fear of squirrels.  How can something be legitimate and irrational at the same time?  Not just any fear is irrational.  Let's define phobia, which is pretty much synonymous with the term in question:

phobia

[fō′bē·ə]

Etymology: Gk, phobos, fear

an obsessive, irrational, and intense fear of a specific object, such as an animal or dirt; of an activity, such as meeting strangers or leaving the familiar setting of the home; or of a physical situation, such as heights and open or closed spaces. Typical manifestations of phobia include faintness, fatigue, palpitations, perspiration, nausea, tremor, and panic.

When I see a squirrel at my complex my heart nearly leaps out of my chest and races me up the stairs to my door.  I scream and squeal like a girl who is just trying to get attention.  It's terribly embarrassing.  This has resulted in my being self-conscious of that fact which will probably lead to a social phobia where I am constantly afraid that a squirrel will enter the room or my line of vision or the car or whatnot.  I will then revert to my original irrational fear and go berserk over the squirrel, whether one has actually entered into close enough proximity, close enough for me to see its bushy tail and beady eyes and curled hands acting like they're holding a nut or acorn even when there's nothing there!

I have a phobia of my phobia.  Maybe I'll move.

Today

Today, after I bagged up a customer's groceries, we made eye contact and he said, "Coolio."

He was in his forties.