hey pretty

Bump in the Night

Issues with my quasi-boyfriend/friend with benefits/pain-in-the-ass-acquaintance-of-the-male-persuasion made me a little edgy this weekend. Despite pumping my body full of endorphins and escaping into the utterly trashy world of Vanity Fair's ongoing obsession with the mistresses of Tiger Woods, there was little I could do to console myself. Of course it figured that drama should follow me into the land of dreamy dreams too.

Somewhere around 3:00 a.m this morning I awoke to the sound of something unsettling in my apartment--an object falling to the floor somewhere in the dark recesses of my studio. At the foot of my bed lingered a foreboding blob-like figure. Bolting upright in bed, I emitted my very best horror-movie-heroine scream. 

Finally adjusting my eyes to the dark I focused on the figure, which I believed could only be a scary burglar coming to murder me in my bed, despite my beyond paranoid tendency to triple lock my doors at night.

Of course I was wrong. Of course the figure I was so convinced was there to doom me to a fate of being stabbed to death under piles of Liberty print was actually...my fiddle leaf fig plant. The same fiddle leaf fig plant that has been situated at the foot of my bed for months.

This girl needs a vacation.

A Luddite's Tour Through the Ap Store

I've never been what innovation experts call "an early adopter." I blame this on my own stubborn distrust of any cultural phenomenon vaguely resembling hype. It has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion that my curmudgeonly tendency to immediately bristle at any popular new movie, book, pop star* or TV show makes me a limited, short-sited individual who is surely missing out on the joys of the "next great thing." Which may or may not be true, but I'm too busy grooving on the greatness of the Rolling Stones and Joan Didion to care. Talk too much about a new sensation's greatness, and I will automatically shove it in a mental file labeled "review later" whereby I will often conclude that yes,  this Twitter thing isn't so bad after all.

The same uneasy relationship extends to cool new tech gadgets. This may in part be influenced by my parents, who fled New York City in the early '70s to live on a farm in rural Vermont, and who always seemed the last people on the pasture, dirt road or block to become hip to the flashiest new whatever. I'm pretty sure they didn't buy their first CD player until the mid-90s, and I'm almost positive that when they did, it was hooked up to a receiver from the early '80s.

Given these factors, it should come as little surprise that I have chosen to eschew the iPhone for the past two years. And practically, it makes great sense to do so. For starters, my LG NV flip phone works just fine, and why do I need internet at my finger tips at all times? I spend 9 hours a day at work glued to a computer the size of a Mini Cooper, and return home every night to an old iBook that while decrepit, navigates the web as well as a four year old computer can. If anything, I should be encouraged to adopt a less dependent relationship on the web's capacity to entertain me, not to buy a device that allows me to obsessively check to see if anyone "likes" my latest Facebook status update fifty-five times a day. But recently I've been wondering if it's time to rethink this. A project at work has picked up speed these past few weeks, and I've become a little more phone and internet dependent. It seems that when you create a world where one's professional peers have constant access to email and internet, you too are expected to maintain the same ties.

A pesky effect of technological revolutions is that they set the paradigm for what mainstream communication is. And with technologies developing at faster and faster paces, the standard evolves pretty quickly. We're currently at the point where my inability to read PDFs while eating my lunch on a Saturday is accepted by many. But how long I can squeak by without a smart phone before I'm that annoying, contrarian Luddite is anyone's guess. Well, it's my guess. I'm sure there are plenty of industry experts with a lot to say about that.So earlier today I found myself pondering an upgrade to a smart phone. As a Verizon customer, there is great economic sense in getting a Droid. On the other hand, I played with a friend's Droid two weeks ago and almost chucked it out  the window of the S4 bus it annoyed me so. With the gold standard of smartphones being the iPhone, I felt obligated to read some specs about iPhone on the Apple site, and to try not scoff at the annoying cultishness of the whole affair.

iPhone evangelists cite the thousands of aps available on the market as an incentive to buy the gadget. Because you can look up movie times on your phone and get restaurant reviews, information readily available elsewhere and through other means if you have the forethought to hunt for it ahead of time. I mean, is there any essential information in the world available only through Apple aps? To me, the whole business of aps just feels like another reason for Apple to overcharge consumers for something flashy and pretty, that appeals to some emotional and non-objective information vetting system buried deep within our psyches.

But not having an iPhone or experience with aps what do I know? Maybe I'm just forming prejudices, letting my own dislike of the new and flashy bias my opinions. So I took a little stroll through the ap store, and here are some impressions.

Barista

"Make your own espresso beverages at home," says the description. Wait, you mean to say that in addition to being a phone, an iPod and a web browser in one, the iPhone also makes coffee? No, apparently it just tells you how to mix foamed milk and espresso together. Or if you're really ambitious, how to add vanilla flavoring.

Shakespeare
"If you’re headed back to school soon, don’t forget to pack a copy of Shakespeare. On your iPhone. The free app brings you the full text of all forty plays, as well as the Bard’s poems and sonnets." In my day, we had actual books, and they were awesome. In addition to being able to curl up with one (the sentiment of curling up with an electronic device is so impersonal) you could even scrawl notes in the margins, which is handy when it comes time to write your English papers.

DIRECTV

Set your DIRECTV from afar." That would actually be rather great. But I have RCN. Does RCN have an ap for that? RCN sucks, so probably not.

Wooden Labyrinth

"Maneuver a wooden ball  through a wooden labyrinth." In all fairness to Apple, this was one of my favorite games when I was 8. But part of the charm of Wooden Labyrinth is the lovely tactile experience and the old timey fun of a game consisting of a plain wood box and a metal pinball. While Apple's ap version is pretty, I do wonder how the experience measures up.

Yelp

"Read reviews of places near you." Or I could just a.) research these choices ahead of time or b.) be adventurous and test out something new.

Surf Report 

"Check surf conditions world wide." Precisely what this urban, ocean-fearing non-surfer needs.

iOwn

"Take inventory of your belongings." You mean like, the iPhone and iPad I don't possess? Is there a prize for who has the most stuff? I know this is America and all, and whoever dies with the most stuff wins, but the concept of an iPhone ap actually illustrating and encouraging this is both hilarious and ironic. It's hironic, if you will. Yeah, Apple. You own us alright.

The bottom line here is that the ability to purchase aps will never be a deciding factor in my decision to "upgrade" from my clunky, pedantic, slightly-above-average-in-intelligence-phone. While I like the idea of Shazam, which tells me what song is playing at a given location, there is always a music snob around capable of providing that answer, and do I really need a tool to accelerate my compulsive music-buying habits?

No, if I do eventually fall victim to the flashy seduction of the iPhone it will be thanks to its ability to allow me to keep up at work and to maybe serve as a replacement for my aging iPod. And if it happens to provide me some entertainment on the metro in the form of obsessively checking my Facebook feed, so much the better.



*The Warholian brilliance of Lady Gaga not withstanding.

2010, I Think I Love You

Come here 2010, and let me give you a big old hug. Yes, and perhaps a big wet smooch on the cheek for good measure. What is it about you, 2010 that makes you so inherently superior to your crummy, useless predecessor 2009? While I understand it silly to believe that one's situation could change simply with the turn of a calendar page, the utter rockingness of this month has given me no choice but to posit the obvious: 2010 is already exceeding any expectations I could have set for it. Until last Friday, nothing extraordinary had occurred to inspire such ardor for the year, it just somehow seemed better.

But then on Friday, two minor miracles occurred. Have you ever received two pieces of information so good your brain has a hard time processing them? Like, your brain, so used to bad news and stressful situations just rejects two back-to-back triumphs and instead demands to know the catch? I hadn't. So it came as a significant shock to my system when first it was announced that everyone at work would be receiving a substantial cost of living increase for 2010. Like, raises that would be generous even if we weren't currently floundering about in a completely depressing recession. So that was cause for much ticker taping and ballyhooing, and dreams of vacations and all the awesome crap I get to buy for my apartment.

But then the truly grand news dropped.

My boss resigned. Or "resigned." Whatever. While no doubt juicy and minorly scandalous, the point here is that I never have to see her ever again--the person I like least in this world, and who likes me least in this world--the person totally not above picking random fights with me just because she happens to be having a bad day, not b/c I did anything wrong in my job. I've experienced many storms in my professional past--not all of which I have navigated with grace, nor even fully survived.

But despite the feeling of hanging on to my job by only my fingernails, it seems that this particular tempest is over, after a mere year of misery and gut-wrenching turbulence. So momentous were both these pieces of news last week, that the chatter and flurry of excitement they inspired caused our ED to send us home early. Or to happy hour, where I arrived to find my colleagues more elated than I had ever seen them, each raising a glass to my department-mate and me as we entered the bar. Like we had brought down one of our evil campaign opponents, not merely survived a year of suffering under a boss so bad I had often referred to her as "Cruella."

So, thank you 2010. Let's keep 'em coming, shall we?

How to Succeed in Business May Actually Take Trying

This week at work, we've been busy interviewing candidates to replace an associate in our department. Our team is kind of a mess right now in terms of interpersonal dynamics, and the challenge of a group interview where we all pretend we're happy together is akin to a very dysfunctional family at holiday dinner. In a word: uncomfortable.

Regardless, we must fill this position, so I have met a handful of applicants in the past week and now understand why our country has such a high unemployment rate right now. Sorry, that was insensitive, but I couldn't resist. But if the guy I spent 30 minutes with earlier today is any indication, joblessness is compelling people to apply for positions for which  they are clearly unqualified. Like this dude, who has a PR background, but no demonstrated interest in non-profits or advocacy organizations, let alone the kind composed mainly of earthy types who live to "fight the system." This was evident in his dodge of every question relating to his grasp of our policy issues and his preference of instead delivering grand speeches about the "need to defend the little guy."

Dude, I don't care about the many promotions you received as a journalist and what a hard-hitting newsman you once were. If you can't be bothered to at least brush up on some of the larger topics that my organization fights for, I fear for your commitment to coming through with concrete deliverables. Moreover, the testosterone that oozed out of your every pore suggested to me that I may have met you a long time ago at a frat party, where you may have been crushing beer cans on your head. Not a good fit for us. I suggest in the future that you, and others out there reading this who might benefit from a very obvious job-hunting tip, STUDY next time you interview. 

Over and out.

Wish Fullfillment?

Hey peanut gallery (who has been SO quiet recently. Seriously, speak up every now and then or else I will have to start calling you something else) guess what I did last night?

Yes, I did go to happy hour. But I only had one glass of wine, and by the time I walked home half a mile in the freezing cold, I wasn't even tipsy anymore (yes, tipsy after one glass of Pinot Noir--oh have the mighty have fallen). I skimmed how-to-write-a-novel books. Two of them in fact. And I can now quite confidently report (as if it wasn't abundantly obvious before) that novel writing is totally overwhelming for one who tends to peddle in press releases, op-eds, media statements and the occasional quasi-confessional blog entry.

Experts urge would-be novelists to write about what we know, which I am working on, I just happen to know quite a bit (calm down, I have never claimed to know much of anything useful or important. The mishigos that clutters my brain isn't all exactly something to be proud of). My problem seems to be the challenge of selecting which witty observations and nuggets of personal experience would be appropriate to use, and spinning them thusly. Also problematic is the dilemma of using real life characters as inspiration for fictional ones. Let's face it, I know a lot of characters. And I don't want any of them to sue me should I do a poor job of disguising any of them in ye old tome of navel gazing self reflection.

I suppose that much of this boils down to a crisis of confidence in my imagination. Or a clear lack of imagination, which of course, is totally worse.

Despite all this, I did manage to draft some short character sketches and rethink some structural decisions I realized I could be more flexible on. And this morning I discovered an old note book filled with scribblings, much of which were actually pretty good. Soon, I will be ready to pull the trigger and actually do this thing. Perhaps 2010 will be the year of the novel. Which, to be honest, has been a personal dream of mine for some time. If only I could figure out why realizing it would be so scary.

It Be Resolved

Now is the time of year that we contemplate resolutions in their various forms. Whether we commit to uphold new ones or not, it seems like practically everyone has something to say on the topic of self improvement in the new year. And why not? New Years resolutions are after all, a time honored tradition--so ingrained in the popular psyche that even those who don't make them often feel compelled to justify their actions.

As for HP? I tend to favor ones that seek to improve the quality of my life in rather unnecessary, yet fun ways. For instance, I am way more prone to resolving to "get more manicures" or "drink better wine" than I am to say, master my finances, apply for graduate school, lose 15 pounds, or finish my novel write page two of my novel. I mean, who wants to confront oneself with such potentially unpleasant and daunting challenges when one could instead have lovely hands with which to gesticulate, or enjoy the pleasures of a nice Malbec once in a while? Another thing about resolutions is that those made in say, January, tend to lose their immediacy and relevance months later. A resolution yet unmet in early '10 is one thing, and quite another in May. For those of us who procrastinate, New Years resolutions are festering time bombs of personal failure.

It's time to consider a new approach.

If the goal of a resolution is to enable one to make managable life improvements, and to actually like, better oneself, a more strategic approach is needed.

Which is why I'd like you all to consider the concept of monthly personal goals. In the beginning of every month, you conduct a quick assessment of your life and what you have going on, and then pick one or two things you'd like to accomplish, like "learn how to play bridge," or "organize front hall closet." You then have between 28 and 31 days to accomplish such feats. If for some reason, you take care of your goals before the month is over, you can set some more goals. Regardless, breaking your self improvement goals down into month-long periods creates a more pressing deadline for you to enact them, and doing so will give you the sense of achievement and satisfaction to propel you to the next. 

Lest you think that I am some sort of uber-organized, highly motivated person capable of maintaining a level of initiative and momentum unheard of by mere mortals, well...think again. This is me we're talking about here--lazy, unmotivated, a slacker par excellence, a Type B adrift in a city of neo-maxy zoom Type As. If I can do it, so can you.

And speaking of me, I have already accomplished my two goals for January. The first was to establish a reasonable morning fitness routine. This has proven far easier than I ever imagined. Every weekday morning I wake up at 7 and go downstairs to the gym in my apartment building, and I do 30 minutes of cardio at whatever piece of equipment is available. I find that waking up isn't so terrible if I remind myself that there is no point in putting it off, as I will have to get up eventually anyway. It's not like I can just stay in bed all day, so are those extra 30 minutes of alarm clock snooze tag worth it? No. No, they are not. It also seems that exercising in the morning pumps endorphins into my body, and I am not quite as grouchy and lethargic as I am if I sleep in. Finally, it fills me with a sense of accomplishment. Even if I do nothing else all day, and totally space out at work, at least I burned 200 calories that morning. If it helps me burn the evil 5 (10??) pounds I seem to have accidentally packed on over the past 6 months, even better. 

Goal #2 was to update my resume. Seeing that I forgot how I had mostly already done that a few months ago, I accomplished that feat yesterday and may even motivate to do something with it. Of course,  having completed my resume, I now like my job again. But I'm sure this feeling will not last long. At least while my evil fembot of a boss is still around.

Ps; Apologies for the janky formatting on this entry, Typepad seems to be experiencing some sort of quarter life crisis.

Like Sands Through an Hourglass

Yikes, dearest 19 readers, where did my autumn go? It seems that every year, I find myself trudging to work in an outer-layer not quite warm enough for the weather, bracing myself against the damp November grey, and noting that the absence of leaves on trees signals the definitive end of autumn's glory. This year, such a realization came today. Along of course, with one that I have not blogged on a regular basis in several months.

What have I been up to?

I feel like I've been on the receiving end of that question a lot recently and I can't come up with a good answer. To be honest, I can barely account for my time recently, and it has little to do with suffering from over-extension or the like. Maybe I've just been a little disconnected, floating, not really interested in examining the situation. And really, who can blame me? Much of 2009 was a bit traumatic. I began the year reeling from a traumatic breakup, rebounded with a couple of slightly bumpy flash-in-the-pan romances, then vaguely divorced myself of most romantic notions for several months. Dedicated readers will get how uncharacteristic that is for me, how I almost always have a crush of some kind, how intent I often seem on finding some guy to mess me up and make me miserable.

Beginning in August, I briefly dated a man who, while funny, smart and terrific in many ways, was not ready for a relationship. For my part, I didn't trust my real interest in him. Now we're friends, and things feel good. Solid-like, and in typical me fashion, I wonder what intentions and destinies lurk beneath the surface of this seemingly platonic relationship. I vacillate daily between relief that the dating nonsense is over with, and wanting him back because I can't help but wonder if this is it. I never before wanted anyone back, because as my friend A (who has known me for like, 16 years) pointed out, I don't really do breakups, per say. I do violent, irreversible exploding aparts filled with tears and insults and slut spirals and people moving to opposite ends of the country. Rare is it that I experience a level-headed lets-still-be-close conversation punctuated with laughter and sincere making of plans to drink beer at local favorite water holes (ones that are realized, to boot!). Maybe I am actually maturing, or maybe there's something else at play. For now, I am content to simply wonder.

2009 was also the year of the boss from hell, who thankfully has mellowed out, but the drama over that and various other weirdnesses at work has left me drained and disengaged. I am thankful for the steady paycheck, but pretty much over it. Of course, I remain as ambivalent as ever about my career path and continue to think that what I need is somebody to just grab me by the shoulders and shake me until a better idea comes to mind. I simply have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, and the older I get, the less certain I become.

Another reoccurring theme of '09 has been hermitude--slowing down, withdrawing from social activities. Given the hecticness of my former life as a social butterfly/dedicated bar fly, this makes sense. Yet this fall's flurry of parties and whatnot revealed the need for a balance that I will have to push myself to attain. The fact is, I am something of a loner at heart, and while I relish times spent with friends, reaching out to other people is not my primary nature. I think I feel a resolution of sorts forming.

Also resolved, is to dedicate more creative and intellectual energies to writing projects, whether they be this silly blog, a different silly blog, short stories, or *gasp* a novel. True to my general nature, I have a hard time organizing my thoughts and experiences into a coherent narrative. And that dearies, is basically it. I'm also working out a lot, taking an art class, and rededicating myself to Pilates, but since this entry is beginning to resemble one of those, "what I ate for lunch" missives, I shall refrain from further exposition on those topics. In short, things are fine and I will try to write more regularly, if only for the practice. Or so should Judith Regan wonder what the lyrics to the song Hey Pretty contain and stumble across this site to offer me a book deal. Because shouldn't something come easy for once? Wait, don't answer that one.

Quite a Statement for One Who Loathes Musical Theatre...

There exists an alternate universe where people break into mashups of Halo/Walking on Sunshine. Where boys named Noah Puckerman bed 40-somethings and play on the football team, yet sweetly serenade  their secret honeys with Sweet Caroline. And that alternate universe is named Glee.

Much has been said about Glee. For this former drama club geek, I think what best sums it up is how it completely captures the sublime miseries and triumphs of being a teenager. Seen through an adult lens it reveals a lesson you wish you knew when you were 16, but probably wouldn't believe until now anyway: that lurking behind even the coolest teenage exterior is a anxious jumble of nerves and insecurities.

I know that this link is several weeks old, ergo old news, but I'm finding it the perfect antidote to this gloomy day. Yes, we do need sunshine and optimism. AND maybe angels too.

H Street Shuttle: Symbolic of 'Hoods Reluctant Acceptance of "Outsiders?"

On Saturday, I was reminded of a particular graffiti tag that often catches my eye in the ladies room of The Raven. It reads something to the effect of, "If you need to take a cab here, you don't belong here." Of course, said graffiti has been since forever ago. Mount Pleasant was significantly less accessible by foot and public transit the first time I noticed that tag, some 6 years ago. I'm not really sure what the pervading attitude towards "non-locals" is in Mnt P. these days, although I suspect that it has calmed down a little. One can't live on the edge of the rapidly developing Columbia Heights and reasonably maintain one's neighborhoodcentricity. 

Today, a similar sentiment still lives for some on the H Street corridor today. Due to my dislike for overly-populated night- life haunts, I have come to really prize many of the establishments on H Street. Some, such as the Argonaut, have a cool, laid-back vibe where you can enjoy a quality beer and not scream to make yourself heard to the person sitting next to you. And in the case of Saturday, the bartender will be cute and he'll dedicate himself to refilling your pint of Allagash White practically every time you turn your head. As my own neighborhood lacks such an establishment, I often put up with the inconvenience of traveling across the city for such an experience. That however, does not seem to sit well with certain long-time residents of the area, one of whom I met on Saturday.

Very drunk, he took it upon himself to systematically annoy my friend and me for a good chunk of the night. It started off innocuously, but didn't get belligerent until after he asked where I lived and I said "Woodley Park." Apparently, that makes me a bougie snob unwelcome at his favorite watering hole.

Well excuuuuuuuuuuuuse me.

I am so tired of this assumption. There are plenty of reasons to live in WP besides the fact that you may enjoy living among the upper-middle class. Living there doesn't mean that you're a certain kind of person any more than living in Columbia Heights means that you're a gang member or a yuppie.

I can understand the anxiety felt by a long-time DC resident at the prospect of sharing a bar with a white 30-something woman who lives in WP. But give me a break. I'm sure there are people who live in the neighborhood who are way more of an indicator of a transitioning and threatening demographic than I am. I, who lives in a friggin' studio apartment and struggles to make ends meet each month. So leave me alone to enjoy my yuppie beer, good sir.

Eventually it was time to go home, a detail that brings me to the actual point of this post. Hurting for funds in a bad way, the sort of bad way that makes me inclined to not want to take *any* cash from the ATM, I am swept with a momentary fit of thrift and decide to wait for the H Street Shuttle. I have taken said shuttle before and have found the wait time only minorly painful. Crossing H Street to find the stop, I see the shuttle pass going in the opposite direction and think that it won't be terribly long before it heads back to safely transport me to Gallery Place.

I think wrong. 45 minutes later,  I am frazzled, exhausted, I need to pee and most importantly, I am no closer to home than I was when I embarked on my journey. Also, at some point, some dude leered and muttered menacingly in my face. I can see the shuttle idling several blocks away like some impossible oasis of safe transit but it will not come any closer. It finally arrives and before long, I am tucked safely into my bed. However, my journey home has taken me approximately an hour and a half, thanks to the glorious inefficiencies of the H Street shuttle.

I now find it ironic that despite the apparent intolerance among many for outsiders on H Street, they make it damn difficult for a person to return to "their side" of the city.

I am hoping I can chalk this experience up to bad night and that the shuttle will return to better form.

Technology FAIL

All around me these days, technology seems to be failing. Last week, our email/internet/phone system at work broke and was virtually unusable for three days. The same strange universal force responsible for that snafu also caused my boss's motherboard to short circuit, which made her micromanaging and robotic inability to communicate with most humans that much more intense. Several days later, my cell phone decided to only work when plugged in, which of course inspired a hi-larious trip to the Verizon store for a replacement wherein I was mocked by a store worker and sent home empty handed. Then, on Monday, my beloved remote control died. Oh, and yesterday, as many of you know,Gmail experienced some sort of hysterical breakdown.

All of this is inspiring me to throw my hands in the air and shout imploringly "why me?"

Times like this I question the efficacy of the so-called digital revolution. Sure, it's very nice that practically everyone in developed nations owns the21st century equivalent of a walkie-talkie and that I can be reached by my friends for a beer at the drop of a hat. But how necessary is that? Of course, I know this opinion to be unpopular. Take Saturday for instance. I have been spending some time with a new gentleman friend and I was explaining the cell phone situation to him.

"Okay, so the phone isn't working so well," I said. "So, uh, if you need to get in touch with me between these hours..well...you can't. So don't change plans at the last minute."

"But what if you're out and somebody wants to get in touch with you?"

"They won't. They'll just have to do it the way everyone did it 10 years ago. You know, in advance."

Novel, I know.

Really, the cell phone thing doesn't bother me that much.

But the remote? Yeah, that's another story. The writing had been scrawled on the wall many days in advance of its actual passing, I just thought the batteries might need replacing. I spent a good amount of time on Monday after tennis trying to revive it's cold, lifeless plastic body. A battery switch did not reap the results I had been seeking. Then I thought that perhaps the problem was due to poor channel surfing form so I spent some time pointing the remote at the TV with greater purpose and authority. Nada. I finally calledR CN and their solution to the problem was to have me press a bunch of buttons on the remote at once. Nothing. They finally conceded that it was indeed broken and that I should bring it in to the closest RCN store for a free replacement.

Awesome. 

But yesterday, instead of performing said errand at lunch as I intended, I instead got sucked into joining my friends at work outside for a fun, social group lunch--an activity loads more enjoyable than errand-running.

This meant that later that night as I passed a few hours with friends over happy hour beers, my purse contained, in addition to the usual cell phone, wallet, random scraps of paper, tubes oflip gloss, keys and granola bar, a cell phone charger and a remote control.

Awesome.  Because nothing says "sane" like a purse full of dead electronic gadgets.

And of course, I was subjected to a second night of no remote control, which seriously cramped my DVR watching. Can somebody please explain why DVRs have to be made so that not having a functioning remote turns TV-watching into the most arduous activity outside of scrubbing a kitchen floor with a toothbrush?

So today, invigorated by the positively crisp 80 degree weather, I made my way down to Metro Center to procure a new remote. Have you ever been to theRCN store on F Street? If so, you know that security there must be a pressing concern, as evidenced by the fact that their customer service reps sit inside large plexiglass boxes. It is seriously hardcore. Like, liquor store in Petworth hardcore. Do they fear violent exchanges with their customer base so much that they must resort to such drastic measures? Is there service *that* bad? Lucky for me, the remote control exchange took less than 5 minutes, most of which was spent enduring a minor level of emotional abuse from the lady in the plexiglass box after I asked for my batteries back and she scolded me for not thinking of that sooner. Good point. "Well," I countered, "I expected you to maybe try fixing the thing before you threw it into the 'broken remote control box'." While taking a snotty tone with abadass customer service lady with a very short temper trapped inside a plexiglass box is never advisable, she did seem to see my point and dropped the argument. Then she handed me my new remote and thus, my purse became home to an actual functioning piece of technology. Or so I hope.

So the problem with the digital revolution is that we become so reliant on it that when its trappings fail us, it's much harder for us to function, simply because we have to spend that time adjusting to the absence of that technology. It's like it creates a little glitch in  the circuits of our own minds, which disrupts communication flows and makes everything pause for a second while we readjust course and pick up a book instead of watching Mad Men. Which is fine, but it's not insignificant.

There are times when I long for a more analog way of being. Like when I learned about the Impossible Project, I squeed with happiness. And when my friend M quipped that we need an analog counterpart to the internet. While I know that he wasn't serious, it got me wondering what that would look like. As I see it, it would sort of be a giant bulletin board where people would post things and those things might  have strings linking to other things. Impossible yes, but fun and fanciful to imagine.

We may live in a digital world, but a heart, I am an analog girl.