I like a lot of things.

I like trashy romance novels, and almond related pastries, and carnivals, and mountains, and really loud concerts, and listening to disco on trains, and the internet, and about a million other things.

But sometimes I think that while I probably like all of these things equally, there are a few things that I enjoy doing/ eating/ watching/ etc. that really make me feel most like myself. For example, when I listen to Celtic music (or anything that incorporates a lot of bagpipes), I feel most like Tara. This isn't to say that I like that music any more than I like listening to show tunes or metal or anything else in my music library, in fact I can go months at a time without feeling the need to pop in a Gaelic Storm CD, but when I do it just seems to get under my skin a little more than any other kind of sound.

Lately a few things in life have conspired to leave me feeling a little off kilter, and last night I quite accidentally had an evening that seemed tailor designed to make me feel more like myself. When Grant and I lived in Kingston our most recent apartment was right over a Vietnamese restaurant, which is basically one of my all time favorite kinds of food. I don't think I've had Vietnamese food since the last time I was hungover in Kingston, so when my parents suggested we try a local place, I was pretty excited to indulge in the Jersey version of the #34 that I always used to order. Afterwards we went home and ended up watching a documentary that I've been wanting to see for some time, 32 Short Films About Glenn Gould, which if you like music or non-linear storytelling, go watch it immediately!

It sounds kind of douche-y and pretentious to say that Vietnamese food and an avant-garde Canadian documentary clicked me into feeling a little more like myself, but who are you to judge? Grant, you've been quiet for a few weeks, I challenge you to a topical blog post: what activities/ sounds/ sights/ tastes make you feel most like yourself?

Words, words, words!

I've been thinking about the intersections between vocabulary and geography lot lately.

An example. The other night at practice I forgot to bring a water bottle. There was an empty one in my car, and so I wanted to determine if there was a water fountain anywhere in our practice space or if I was just going to have to suck it up/ pass out from dehydration.

"Is there a drinking fountain around here?" I managed to ask that night's practice leader between asthmatic pants.

"A what?"

This is where I paused. Either the nice tall man hadn't heard me over the sounds of chatter and velcro, or he was also from Wisconsin. I took a leap of faith.

"A bubbler*?" I ventured.

He shrugged and went into the hallway to look, while the girl sitting next to me took a sudden interest. "You did not just say 'bubbler!?!" She looked amused. I somewhat sheepishly admitted that I had grown up in Wisconsin, and she told me that her husband is from Rhode Island, where the term is apparently also used.

Another girl gave me her extra bottle of water and practice continued on, but my mind lingered on my hopeful attempt at regionalism.

I was born in Massachusetts and until I was about seven I had a fairly awesome little New England accent. Then we moved to Wisconsin, where I was made fun of for saying things like caw instead of car (or key-ar, if you're going to be Midwestern about it) and eventually my accent faded into something that was no longer "posh" New England, but definitely not a character from Fargo either. Despite the fact that my accent seemed fairly impervious to Wisconsin, after just three and a half years of living in Ontario, I've noticed that my lately my vowels are more rounded, and my bosses tease me when I mention "clocking out."

What I'm getting at with all of this rambling, is that I don't really sound like I'm from anywhere particular. I just sound like I'm from North America, generally. So while some people can answer "where are you from?" just by the way they say "ya'll" or "caw" I tend to look toward regional vocabulary if I want to add some flavor to my indistinct intonations. This also means that when I say "bubbler" or unthinkingly slip an "eh" at the end of my sentence I get raised eyebrows or made fun of for trying to be Canadian. But to me these words are like little badges, showing where I've been and which places have left an impact on who I am. If accents are like vocal landmarks, I sometimes feel like I'm left surreptitiously building little trails signs out of my vocabulary. Your ears might just skim right past the "bubbler" in my sentence the same way you might not notice that someone arranged a few sticks just so while walking in the woods. But its there. And, as I fumble to explain that I'm only living in South Jersey, no I'm not really from here, these words are a comfort, inconspicuously pointing towards home.


__________________________________

*A definition according to Wikipedia:

The 'bubbler' was developed in 1888 by the then-small Kohler Water Works (now Kohler Company) in Kohler, Wisconsin, which was already well-known for its faucet production. While Harlan Huckleby is credited with the actual design, it was Kohler who patented it and trademarked the name. The original bubbler shot water one inch straight into the air, creating a bubbling texture, and the excess water ran back down over the sides of the nozzle. It was several years later before the bubbler adapted the arc projection, which allowed the drinker to partake more easily.

And now you know!

In Which I Originally Forgot to Title this Post

Happy belated Labor Day! I kept wanting/ meaning to post over the weekend, but since both my sister and J-beau were visiting, I didn't have a whole lot of time to compose my days into pithy anecdotes.

Truthfully, the weekend wasn't particularly exciting anyway. My family went to the Amish market for fresh pretzels and delicious meats. J-beau and I went wine tasting (please take a moment to laugh at how ridiculous the idea of fine New Jersey wine sounds), and then on the way home stopped by a race track and took in some drag racing. Wine + race cars = classiest, most random date ever.

The fun stuff all happened today, and that was what I was saving up my blogging powers for. Today involved driving way into Pennsylvania to get some footage of an installation for my company, and then driving into another section of Pennsylvania for my first ever roller derby practice!

I haven't been on roller skates since I was 17 and it was a part of high school gym curriculum. Still, I do have vague memories of being the best at roller blading on my block, circa age 6. I also like ice skating. These were pretty much my qualifications going into practice. I was the least expereienced of the rookies, but I had a lot of fun learning to stop and fall and block. I think that the sport will be a good outlet for my aggression, plus I don't think that I've played a legitimate, organized team sport (non gym class related) since... the fifth grade during an ill-fated attempt at the basketball team? Before that it was soccer in grade 2... which is another childhood trauma for another blog post.

Plus, I'm answering Grant's challenge from his last post, however indirectly. I haven't been back to the gaming store yet (too busy to fight the last boss!), but I have joined a team sport, which has to count for something - especially when its as cool as derby.

Offices and Autos

Yesterday I started my first semi grown up job.

Afterward I got hit by a car.

A metaphor maybe?

***

I'd go on and on about the specifics of my new job and new co workers, but since the job is fairly internet heavy, it seems prudent to be vague. I can say that so far, based on two days of a sort of orientation, I'm really enjoying it. Nice people, fun atmosphere, and, best of all, I have my own office.

Let me repeat that, I have an office. I can say, "please, step into my office." I can invite people to have a seat. I can find a small table for my office bar, Mad Men style. Never mind that the room is a little bigger than a closet and was filled with boxes, and old ink cartridges, and packing materials, and for some reason an old drum kit this morning, it is an office, and it is mine. There is even a really nice desk! With a whiteboard!

I'm glad that Grant and I are blogging now, because years from now, if apes haven't taken over and the rapture (or other religious apocalyptic event) hasn't struck, I think it will amuse me to look back and read about my giddiness over a little room with a desk and a lot of boxes in it.

---

The other part of my news, of course, was getting hit by a car. Thankfully, as far as accidents go it was minor, and I was more mentally stunned than physically hurt. The woman who slammed her car into mine was a nurse, and felt awful about it, especially since my rear end/ trunk was dented and she didn't have so much as a scratch. Having once rear ended someone many years ago, I understood how she terrible felt, and she kept apologizing over and over. She had just gotten off of a really long shift at a nearby hospital and probably didn't need a car accident to add to her long day. Happily we were both insured.

This is not a particularly dramatic or exciting story, but it seemed like the sort of thing a person would blog about, so here I am.

...

Before ending this post of awkward transitions, I wanted to apologize to Grant. I told him that I would post this last night and then after playing Bananagrams (soooo fun) with my mom I ended up falling asleep earlier than expected. Be annoyed if you want, Grant, but I will play the "just got hit by a car" card, and try not to let it happen again.

In Which My Mother Tries to Buy Paint Rollers

Since I'm starting a semi-adult job on Tuesday, I figured that I was in need some some semi-adult clothing to wear to it, which could mean only one thing - a trip to Goodwill. My family is a big fan of thrift stores - I don't know if we go more for the prices or the feel of hunting for treasure (or seeing who can find the ugliest use of sequins), but whatever it is that draws us in, its one of our favorite family activities.

Yesterday my parents and I went off to local thrift store, in search of skirts (me), professorial jackets (dad), and various sundries (mom). After about forty minutes of rummaging, and several skirts later, I decided I had had just about enough and went to find my mother in the knick knacks section. She was holding a bag of paint rollers looking very pleased with herself.

"Look what I found!" she exclaimed.

"Paint rollers?"

"No, look under them!"

And I did. Underneath the paint rollers was a plastic, pearly, obviously phallic object.

Horror.

"Is that a...?" I am in complete horror.

"Its a vibrator!" She said cheerfully.

In fact it was a couple of paint rollers AND a "wedding night package" that included a vibrator, several little bottles of massage oils, and some bath beads. All unopened. All, for some reason, packaged together at a thrift store.

Of course she bought them.

Why Can't We Be Friends?

I have an awkward conundrum.

So I'm currently living in a suburban area with zero friends nearby, and a job that doesn't force me to interact with people in my age group on a regular basis. Being young and friendly, I'm finding the adjustment from university town life where everyone was close in age, proximity, and willingess to par-tay to this strange social wasteland where my middle aged neighbors rarely leave their houses.

I've never been in the situation where I've had to try and make friends without the aid of a pre-existing institution, be it a school, a summer camp, or even the randomly chosen roommates from my exchange program, and I'm finding it surprisingly difficult. I can't decide if this difficulty is society's fault or mine. With so many news reports and accounts (fictional and non) of rapists and murderers and kidnappers and smugglers and pirates and evil overlords permeating the media pop culture, is it any wonder that something as simple as making eye contact in public can be considered creepy? Why did that guy just smile at me in the produce aisle? Is he making fun of me? Is he going to sue me? Is he going to kidnap me and sell me into some sort of sick underground drug/slavery/concubine ring? I should probably pretend I need something from the dairy counter and RUN NOW.

I find myself frequently caught between this kind of irrational paranoia and, on the flip side, trying to overcompensate by forcing myself to be overfriendly, which probably causes other people to think that I'm going to murder them and turn them into home furnishings. So far my twin approaches of total mistrust and giant friendly smiles have yet to win me the friendship of random strangers, and I'm trying to figure out a new approach.

One idea, which I'm gathering the courage to try, is to randomly give my phone number to the nerdy guys who work at the local video game store. The last time I was there picking up Super Paper Mario (because I am crap at video games that aren't Paper Mario related) I struck up some good banter with the guys behind the counter. Joking about speaking German and how impressive their disc de-scratch-ifying machine was (super impressive!), I was struck by the urge to give them my number and ask if they'd ever like to grab a beer or engage in some good old fashioned nerdiness (D&D? Seeing Scott Pilgrim? I'm not picky!) but chickened out when I figured that they would consider my forwardness creepy, or misconstrue it thinking I was trying to get into their khaki cargo pants.

It reminds me a little of romantic comedies; gestures that seem really cute and thoughtful on paper but that suddenly seem more like grounds for a restraining order in real life. Not that I'm planning on sitting out side of the gaming store with a boom box, John Cusack style, but it does seem like there's more room for error than I'm normally comfortable with in my social interactions. Still, nothing lost and nothing gained. So when I finish Super Paper Mario within the next few weeks and have an excuse to see if they sell the old-timey Game Cube controllers, I think I might just be giving out my digits and hoping for the best.

(Poor Peach clearly did not get away from the guy in the produce section quickly enough.)