u s e y o u r h a n d s

Do old people still keep their savings in mattresses or the freezer? Did they ever? I have a little bit of money now and I decided to investigate housing options for said funds. My mattress was out. I don’t have a real mattress, just a shitty futon mattress, which isn’t a mattress at all, just a cloth envelope for rocks. I decided against the whole freezer thing. Early in life, I met a gypsy along the road who prophesied that a legion of frozen chicken breasts would rise up and bankrupt me. The only logical choice was the bank.

I haven’t had a bank account in a year or so. I prefer to deal on a cash-only basis as it prevents me from making short order of my limited funds. If I see two twenties in my hands, I like to hold on to them; however, if I’m holding a little plastic rectangle, game on. I chose Bank One, and so far, the excellent lever of service I’ve received totally trumps those fuckers at my last bank.

Yesterday, I decided to exercise my small amount of funds at a nearby shopping mall. I have been afraid of the Woodfield Mall since I moved here. I’ve heard stories of this mall, this huge, huge mall, with more chain stores and restaurants and people. But there was a store I really, really wanted to go to, and in all of Illinois, the only one is at the Woodfield Mall. I would brave this Woodfield Mall in order to get tights that fit and long skirts. Yes!

I would never visit any dense population center on the weekend. Every time I do this, I end up crying. I pulled in to a spot at Woodfield at a quarter to eight. The mall was sparsely populated and I powerwalked between marauding groups of teenagers and stationary old people. It seems that these two groups peacefully share the mall by completely ignoring each other’s presence.

Due to the bizarrely circuitous manner in which the glass and metal walkways were constructed, I had to consult a directory twice before I found myself in some sort of teen-themed corridor inhabited by Hot Topic, American Eagle Outfitters, and the Wet Seal. My target, a Hot Topic spin-off called Torrid, was here. Torrid’s a store, it seems, for the plus-size goth. While I am in no way a goth (and liking Morrissey a lot does not a goth make) and barely a plus anything, I like funky clothes that fit. Torrid has them.

I’m going to divert from my Shopping Journey as Interesting Blog Entry for a moment here to explain how I feel in the plus-size store. When I have occasion to go to a Lane Bryant or a Torrid, I feel tiny. I wear one of the smallest sizes in these stores and pants are always long enough without being crazy, tall-girl-store long. I don’t buy anything else at these stores but pants. Pants, pants, pants. I feel like a lithe gazelle, the pick of the savannah, in these stores.

But Torrid was great. They have cool shit at great prices. I picked up some glittery bits for my hair and a pair of fishnet stockings who’s crotch won’t hang down to my knees. I enjoy this store. I’m sure little portly girls with style across the land are jumping for joy.

Reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo. I will begin this book today.

Opening: A savings account. Each dollar I save is one more minute I don’t have to spend in this hellhole.

My frien Ethan has been reading a lot of Algonquin Round Table folk recently. Alexander Woolcott, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker. I got an email from him the other day telling me about a Parker biography he’d picked up recently. “She had a really sad life,” he said – and I imagine, wistfully – “There’s one person who would have benfitted from antidepressants.”

I’ve weighed that very question. To take or not to take. Do I really want to pick up a trend this late in the game? Is Prozac passe? But that’s a silly concern and it keeps me from really considering the issues that frighten me.

Not least among these concerns is the idea of shame that my brain or sheer willpower can’t improve my outlook. How trivial. Why can’t I transcend? Do I not deserve contentment? It’s something that runs very deep and I’m not going to go into in on my webbity not only because I don’t want to talk about it, but also because I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve been running away from that question a long time and I think the road’s almost up.

I went to go see The Hours this weekend. I guess I should have realized it was about depression and suicide, but I just didn’t think about it. It was not the movie for me to see. There’s a part that resonated too deeply. Virginia Woolf discovers that she can use suicide as an out when pain becomes too much. That’s something that we all think about at some point. If this gets too tough, I can choose whether or not to endure it. It’s a question of legislation for some, morality for others. And while it’s a great source of comfort to many terminally ill patients, I can speak only as a chronically depressed person. That choice to live – that some people make every day – is too much. It’s too great a temptation and too empty a comfort. I’d rather not have to think about life in terms of days or weeks of pain.

But without insurance, I guess even pondering the question of chemical mediation is moot. However, it’s good, solid thought in advance. If I ever find myself in the thick of the shit again, I can always rely on this cogent pro-prozac argument. I can print this out and take it to a pharmacist and say, “I’ve given myself license!”

I’ll make reference back to the title of this entry. Will I have an even day? The same day that I had this heavy Hours/depression experience, I was flying high in a happy way. I really enjoyed watching an MTV reality show called Sorority. Wow. And I wasn’t making fun of it all the time. I was engrossed. The politics of an all-female organization. And in pastoral California! And I had yummy Entenmann’s. It was sunny-ish. The morning was good.

But then I turned some corner and my head and took a nose-dive into the shit. That happens way too often and always has. The ups and downs take too much out of me now. I need better shocks on this car.

Let us segue.

The 11 a.m. air is heavy with the smell of fried food and ketchup. How, on earth, can that be?

In the suburbs, it’s snowing. Horizontally. Every time I use “vertical” or “horizontal,” I think back to 7th grade and a mnemonic device courtesy of Patty DeHaven: “Vertical is upright, like a virgin. Horizontal is flat, like a whore.” I know the difference, but every time I use those words, that’s what I think of.

Overheard:

[at home] “Your face smells horrible.”

Listening to: Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville. It’s got my song on it, “6′1″ Because that’s how tall I am.

Every Friday, the proprietress of the webbity, the lovely miss shylo, chooses several Missed Connection ads and develops a backstory for them. This week, I feature selections from the Chicago Reader and Seattle’s The Stranger. If your town weekly has Missed Connection or I Saw U ads, send me a URL.

BROWN LINE, MONDAY 2/10, 10:50am, between Sedgwick and Merchandise Mart stops. I sat in the handicap seat kitty-corner to your left. You had sandy-blond hair, 5 o’clock shadow. I had a charcoal pea coat, black stocking cap, later shaved dark-brown hair, sporting backpack/ black portfolio case. Me: exited at Mart. You: looked lost with directions in hand. “Can I help you find your way?” is what I should have said. (From the Chicago Reader)

It was horrible. The first interview I’ve had in 14 months and I totally blew it. First, I get there fifteen minutes late. Wasn’t my fault. The HR lady told me to “turn right at the Dunkin’ Donuts” but there were two on that block. Fucking turn where? When I finally got in there, she told me she really meant “turn right at the White Hen.” Whatever. So, I got in there and they started talking to me about the position, the company and I start yawning uncontrollably. Holy fuck.

Angelic White Subaru Wagon. Ubiquitous Subaru, I am lost. Drive to me and steer me to the truth. If you love me, show me or set me free. I saw your Valentine, you have wings, learn to use them. My two wheels are rolling nowhere without you. (From The Stranger)

Sir? Um, sir, please don’t do that. “….” That’s completely inappropriate, sir. People are here with their families. “….” Oh, Jesus Christ, sir. Pull your pants back up. “….” Yeah, I think it’s a lovely car, too, sir, but you just can’t do that. If you’d like to purchase the car…. “….” Oh, God. You’re sick. Get the hell off the lot. Hey, Ted, can you get the detailing guys to take care of this?

the architecture of a kiss. You were walking downtown and stopped to adjust your fishnet stockings…I saw infinity then the wind began to howl through my mind and down the streets. Would love to meet you and bake a cake…not vanilla. (From The Stranger)

Goddamn fishnets. They look amazing, but this particular pair is always shifting in odd ways. But I wear fishnets all the time. I love the first wearing out of the package, but I also like wearing them when they’re shot to hell and have rips in them. The first is my Bettie Page look, the second, my Courtney Love look. Both make me look fuckable, in my opinion.

I THREW GLOVES in your face Sunday, 2/9. Brown Line? Loop? I was trying to toss them off the train for whoever had just dropped them. I tossed too forcefully. Sorry. (From the Chicago Reader)

There are things that I do that can be misinterpreted. I am often told that I am brusque. With the help of Dr. Tim, my therapist, I’ve begun to take a good, long look at how others view me and how I view myself. Turns out, it’s not the same way. I’m going out of my way now, to be nice. Holding open doors, smiling. I’ve been told it looks like growling, but at least I’m on the road to happiness.

Esprit d’escalier of the day: I made an appointment for a lady exam and the receptionist instructed me to “not put anything in [my] vagina for 24 hours.” I should have replied, “Well, guess that means I’ve got to get a wallet.”

Waiting for: my fucking bank card to show up. So far Bank One, you’re just like those assholes at Wells Fargo.

Wearing: Leopard-print Mary Janes with sparkly socks. I keep it real in my slate-gray cubicle.

Overheard: [at work] “Jeremy’s wearing painter pants. I saw you come around and saw the little loopy and thought, “Oh, Jeremy’s wearing painter pants!”

[at work] “Erroneous Monk.”