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April 5, 2006

There's a cat picture at the end.

Confessions of a crappy housekeeper, Part I
My suitcase from Paris is still sitting in the middle of my living room floor, with four pairs of questionable socks in it, a scarf, some hats, a guidebook, random stuff. I'd be willing to bet big money that one of the girls who went on that trip with me came home, immediately unpacked her suitcases, sorted her laundry into lights, darks and delicates, put away her cosmetics and gifts, then took a shower and tidied up before taking a nap.

Me? I came home, hauled the bag about two feet in the door, drank a beer and went to bed. Not that there hasn't been progress -- the laundry has made it out of the suitcase, aside from the questionable socks which appeared mysteriously a few days ago, and now the suitcase is a favored cat bed. I'd be depriving the poor cats of something new and fun if I put the suitcase away today. Better wait until Saturday, when I can amuse them in person.

 

Confessions of a crappy housekeeper, Part II:
I have funky shui. I try to remedy this will all sorts of cheap organizing trips, but the funky shui is on to me. In an effort to make my home office a more useful and less cluttery space, I could have cleaned or de-cluttered or gotten rid of some junk or maybe even vaccuumed. Obviously, I went to Target and spent hours browsing the home storage aisle. I bought this cube-like storage thingy, it's sort of a bookcase in cube format, and anyway, I spent hours (really. HOURS. I am maybe not very much in love with reading directions. I prefer to assemble things intuitively, with a hearty beer. And the directions make a nice coaster.) (I do not recommend this tactic to home improvement) anyway! where was I! Oh , hours spent assembling the cubes which were to perfectly organize and hold my many things.

I moved the whole thing into the office (I did not assemble it there, because it's too far from the beer and Tivo.) I placed the pristine cube thingy against the wall, put a round, artsy-fartsy photo frame on the top, and artfully arranged my small collection of notecards in one cube. Its stark prettiness was so lovely, so appealing. And of course the floor still has a pile of junk on it, and the cube organizer is stark and pretty and ... empty.

I am so wrong in so many ways.

 

The more I learn about the internets, the more I think women ought to be running the country.
I don't usually get my panties in a bunch about internets stuff, ya'll know I'm still uncomfortable saying the word "blog." It just sounds wrong, that word, like "booger" but for webpages.

However (and this has nothing to do with boogers, I promise) I was contacted a few months back by Debra Roby, who has a personal blog and also writes for a website called Blogher.org, a collective of women who are witing online, from all walks of internets life. She wrote a profile of yours truly on Blogher, and my panties are very and well bunched, in a good way, because I'm truly appreciative and happy to be in such good company. Women writers appeal to me on so many levels, and Blogher has a little bit of everything. I hope ya'll will start visiting there, too and get to know the women who should be running this place. Since Debra first contacted me I've become such the little Blogher voyeur, reading female-centric websites on politics, race, religion, cooking, travel, all of it. Good stuff!

 

The more I learn about the Internets the less I want to start dating.
I freely confess that while I can easily carry on for HOURS about the subtle differences between mid-century chair designs or this month's Graydon Carter column (I have a huge Graydon Carter crush) or my views on the imprisonment of Mikail Khodokovsy, I am maybe not so knowledgeable about the hipster doofus side of life.

Because, surprise! I am not very hip.

Pretty much all current music sounds like the same band to me (Me: "Is that Matchbox 20?" Jen: "No. Laurie. It's not. Why do you think every non-rap song is by Matchbox 20? THERE ARE OTHER BANDS OUT THERE BESIDES MATCHBOX 20.") I don't go to cool clubs, or hang out in trendy bars, or know who Paris Hilton is dating (that last one? TOTAL LIE. I keep up with my stars. OH YES I DO.)

But it's OK. I'm totally fine being just the doofus part of hipster doofus. Doofuses (Doofii? Doofusees? Doofusers?) are good people. We are "colorful." We have our own brand of Doofus Chic, and we are livin' out loud and proud. Kind of like Scientologists... but not so jumpy on the couchy.

So! Anyway. Back to the internets and dating and all the things I was very much happy to be ignorant of. Really.

Many many months ago, a friend was telling me about posting her blog on this thing called Craigslist. I am not retarded, exactly, I mean I have heard of Craigslist, I just didn't know what it was. Or care. Figured some guy named Craig had a ...list. Or something.

(In my defense, people, I have VERY LIMITED web surfing time. I spend it on only the very most important things: eBay, Zappos, celebrity gossip, knitting blogs, obsessive news reading, WebMd. You know. THE NORMAL DOOFUS STUFF.)

So, my friend was very patient in explaining to me what a Craigslist is. I was confused how she managed to post her website on some guy's homepage. She didn't laugh at me. (My Friend: Not A Judger.)

I like having knowledge of stuff. And pretending to be informed. It goes to my know-it-all core, even though I do not in fact know much of anything. But when Katrina hit some time later, and a Southern friend was looking for someone to watch his animals for a while, I told him with great authority to go look on Craigslist dot COM, like I knew what I was talking about, all hip-like. He was real quiet for a minute or two. Then, "Um, darlin?" he said. "It's Craigslist dot ORG."

"Interesting," I said. "They must have changed it."

Ya'll see how I can be.

Fast forward many months to... recently. I am on the phone with Jennifer, complaining that I MUST HAVE A TREADMILL. I have somehow decided that the ONLY WAY I will be happy is to buy a treadmill. In a perfect world, in my mind, a treadmill would help me sleep better, eat less, drink less, get in good shape, stop craving a smoke, stop stressing out, stop panicking, PLUS! I can watch Tivo while doing it!! Better than sex, baby. TREADMILL! HAPPY!

Jennifer suggested I go online to Craigslist and look for a used treadmill. Ha! Can't fool me, I KNOW IT'S NOT JUST SOME DUDE'S HOMEPAGE. But... OK. Treadmills? Weird!

Turns out Craig has a list for all kinds of cities, with all kinds of stuff on there. I picked the Los Angeles list and started browsing for treadmills. Which got boring after about fifteen seconds. So I poked around and checked out some other junk, like puppies, and I tried to see where my one friend had posted her blog, and hello! This Craig has personal ads on his list!

And of course, they are a lot less boring than looking at treadmills.

After five minutes of reading the Men Seeking Women area, I ... maybe was INSANE and had to call Jennifer.

Me: HATE HATE HATE

Jen: ...?

Me: WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Let me READ some of this TO YOU... Here is a PRIZE... he is, and I quote, a seriously overweight, balding unemployed guy who is seeking a thin, petite beautiful redhead, he wants a girl who other people would say is "far too pretty" to be dating him OH MY GOD HE ACTUALLY SAID THAT.

Jen: Ah. Craigslist. Did you find a treadmill?

Me: HERE IS ANOTHER PRIZE. "I am 49, boring and dumb, seeking a thin beauty ages 18-22 for fun and possible relationship."

Jen: He said he was boring and dumb?

Me: No, but he might as well have. It was implied in seventeen paragraphs of BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Jen: OOOOK. I am logging on. Hang on.

Me: OH MY GOD THIS GUY WANTS A WOMAN WHO CAN SPELL OR USE SPELLCHECK ... and YET here is how he describes himself: "I am an old fashion kinda guy. Who loves to eat a home-cook meal." Um, is it just me or if you're going to be an arrogant asshole about spelling and grammar, maybe you should spell your own self-absorbed-self-description correctly?

Jen: Oh crap, click on the Swede seeking benefactor...

This went on until I reached maximum vomit level and had to leave the computer immediately and retreat into the Cabernet. Seriously. Who ARE these people?

Of course, I cannot leave the internets alone, with its Men Seeking Women, because ya'll one day I will have to date and if this is what is out there, I may have to move. Relocate. Haul ass out of Crazytown. I decided in a fit of clarity and also excuse-making that it was maybe just Los Angeles guys, so I decided to do some research on the matter. I went back to Craig and his damn list and looked for another city. One that would likely have nicer people with less superficial and frankly delusional tendencies. Like...uh. Madison! Madison, Wisconsin! I have never been there, but they make good cheese, and ... Wisconsin! Just sounds like they would have nice guys.

No. No no no.

Bad.

Don't do it.

I was much happier when I thought the scariest thing out there was Zappos.com and its impact on my bank account. But if this online personals thing is any indicator of what is OUT THERE, I imagine me and my treadmill (from Sportmart, thank you) will be very, very happy. We will have a deeper, more meaningful relationship than I could ever find on the list of Craig.

Because people. There is not enough wine in this world. I'll just remain a singular doofus. It's fine. I'll listen to my Matchbox 20, or whatever, and talk about Russian oligarchs while seated on my Burke dining chairs. And I am staying far away from Madison, Wisconsin AND Craig AND the list he rode in on.


Told you so.
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Posted by laurie at April 5, 2006 9:41 AM