so sayeth one paco underhill, whose book 'call of the mall' must be read by anyone appalled/fascinated/bewildered by american culture. for example: makeup counters are always adjacent to the shoe department, so the ladies have something to occupy themselves whilst waiting for the minion to return with the size they requested. or: the layout of supermarkets invariably house the dairy products in the back, since most people always buy milk and they have to slog through everything else to get there, but consumers have grown annoyed by the inefficiency of that, and convenience stores have capitalized on milk-selling, so some supermarkets now have 'common buy' sections right near the entrance, as well as the full-throttle bowels-o-the-beast dairy area, or as i have just coined, the dairea.
fucking interesting to me, anyhow. i like knowing how i am unconsciously manipulated on a constant basis. i read 110 pages in one sitting, drinking 48oz of progressively watered-down tea from one wilting bag. i can be miserly even as i peruse tales of excess.
it is good to be back in warshington, even though i miss s and her clan like fuck. i worked 13 hrs apiece on sunday and monday, 12 on tuesday, 9.5 yesterday. today is freezing cold and very mellow. i made some delicious stuffing and burned the shit out of my mouth. this is, to my shame, the first time i have actually cooked something for myself in months. i typically feel culinarily witty if i add spices to a can of soup (that i then proceed to eat cold, from the can, with a fork since i don't like spoons. cold canned soup is actually very tasty- as long as it is not the condensed variety, obviously.)
alaska, though. i procured a digital camera whilst there and tomorrow i will try to post some photographs. the anecdotes will have to wait until then.
since being back:
-listened to ween's 'captain fantasy' over and over. this was my soundtrack when i was about 13, sitting in the nb hall at service high, sulking with my headphones. it is juvenile as fuck but still pretty great. i have not heard anything of ween's after 'the mollusk.' it is odd, how one can love the shit out of a band but never pursue them further.
-learned that heating up one of the 1L fluid bags/hot water bottles from work and keeping it in my lap on the drive home from work helps me freeze a tiny bit less. "don't you have a heater?" one of the other techs, a guy who once owned a bug, asked. "yeah, but it's not hooked up" i said. "why?" "because it's been too cold to mess with it" i said. yeah, funny. i am a shitty bug owner. but damned if they don't teach you how to improvise.
-had my employee review. "excellent across the board" they said. this is at my tacoma job (i don't start in seattle until next week). twice a year everyone reviews everyone. it is a stressful experience, made especially bullshittish by the fact that we must put our names at the top. i was reminded of the evil slam books of my youth. i will fucking miss that place. i will still be on call for relief shifts. "do i get to keep my locker?" i asked, half-joking. "of course" they replied. good, since i have a stupid rosie the riveter sticker permanently adhered to it, and i feel rather guilty.
-cases at work: angus, the GDV with thrombocytopenia (discovered after already in surgery) that bled out post-op, from every orifice, mainly his ass. another GDV surgery (jessie) last night that i was monitoring, neccessitating a gastrotomy because the stomach tube wouldn't pass, proceeding to spill a huge mass of stomach contents, including spaghetti, into the abdominal cavity; the stray cat with hideous flea dermatitis who i fell in love with, despite his pendulous gonads; everything else is a fucking blur, by choice. lots of DKA, lots of wounds (including a yorkie who was shot through her kidney), lots of strays. i am rather exhausted still.
*
suburbia be damned; i do love frank lloyd wright. my pulse slows just looking at his buildings.
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