Universally Acknowledged

I’m currently rehearsing for a play. On an entirely unrelated note, if you are in Albuquerque between September 14th and October 7th, you should go see a show at the Adobe Theater in the North Valley. I have it from scrupulously unbiased sources that their upcoming production of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice is the single best thing to hit the stage in this millennium.

Since most of the setup in Jane Austen’s stories takes place at country balls at the turn of the 19th century, the cast is learning a few vaguely Regency-era dances for the party scenes. As a result, the women are asked to wear skirts at rehearsal so that we can practice moving correctly.

Several of the actresses possess varied collections of flattering sundresses; I, on the other hand, have been bringing the same ankle-length skirt to every rehearsal and adding it to whatever blouse I wore to work that day. It usually makes me look like a colorblind Puritan.

I’ve started doing my grocery shopping after rehearsal without changing. It’s fun watching the checkers try to decide from my purchases which fundamentalist sect I belong to.

It probably doesn’t help that the grocery store is my favorite place to talk to myself out loud.

There may also be some dancing around.

I even got stopped at my car last week by a sixteen-year-old Albertson’s parking lot monitor. Apparently they frown on exuberance after 10 p.m.

The poor guy seemed kind of disappointed when I started obediently pointing out the items on my receipt. Next time I’ll have to make more of an effort.

I Am the Internet's Leading Expert on Voldemort Syphilis

If you pay an inordinate amount of attention to my sidebar, you may have noticed that I enabled ads on this site. I’m pretty sure this does not count as “selling out,” because I think you actually have to make any money to do that.

Mostly I was interested to see what ads Google would deem appropriate for my content. So far it’s been pretty disappointing—a little coffee, a lot of exterminators, and some totally legit online psychology classes. Then again, I guess ice cream isn’t a major player in the online marketplace.

Much more satisfying is my StatCounter account, which tracks my site visits and gives me the tools I need to become a creepy cyber-stalker. My favorite feature is Keyword Analysis, which lets me see what search terms have led people to this blog.

On the one hand, it’s exciting that people actually find me via search engines. On the other hand, I’m a little concerned about some of the phrases that lead to me.

In the above case, it’s not really the phrase that worries me so much as the URGENCY expressed. The next one, meanwhile, is less disturbing and more pitiful:

This keyword feature let me discover that I am the go-to source for information on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s unsafe sex practices.

That’s right: Google “voldemort syphilis,” and my page comes up as the first result. Now I can rest assured that I’ve made a meaningful contribution to society.

While you’re at it, I’m also uniquely qualified to answer your questions on canned pasta impurities and the odds of making it through the night undigested.

Apparently I can provide expertise for other Dark Lord-related needs as well, though other sites have beaten me to the top slot.

Feel free to call on me for snot questions, too.

Then we have the topics where I’m glad that someone else has been selected champion.

These results are also the reason behind my incriminating Google search history for this evening, left over from trying to find out if I’m the top match. You all are my witnesses for when Big Brother stops by with a few questions about my surfing habits.

P.S. It appears that a good third of my search engine traffic comes from people who are promptly disappointed that I’m not providing an encyclopedic My Little Pony database, and another 40% is from the time I titled a post with an insanely popular Charlie Sheen quotation. I didn’t piggyback off of Charlie’s tailspin on purpose, but if I do sell out in the future, this is the form it will take.

You borrow my brain for 5 seconds and just be like, "Dude! Can't handle it!"

I talk to myself pretty much all the time, even when I miraculously manage to avoid doing it out loud for a while. Occasionally I’m writing or making a grocery list, but often I’m just replaying a loop of the last thing to enter my mind until a new thought happens.

This habit is distracting and psychologically worrisome, but it doesn’t become a problem until I forget I’m in a public place and open my mouth. I’m apt to hold lengthy discussions with myself at the grocery store—it’s a consequence of the fact that, since finishing college, I can no longer do simple arithmetic without speaking out loud.

This process eventually devolves into shouting at various groceries for their myriad infractions.

They never submit to my authority, either. In general, I’ve noticed that the inanimate objects I address have a disheartening tendency not to follow my instruction.

It’s like they aren’t even trying. Somewhere in the midst of the melee, I’ll look up and realize that other people are around as well. Then I get all self conscious.

When they eventually take me away to a little white room with bars on the windows, at least I won’t be lonely.

Is There a Continuing Ed Class for That?

Somewhere in middle school I missed the class on how to dress in clothes that look good. This omission left me incapable of distinguishing between outfits appropriate for not getting teased in 7th grade and those appropriate for repainting a doublewide outside Wal-Mart in 1987.

Conveniently, I also missed the lessons on how to be self-conscious, thus preserving my love of brightly-colored stretch leggings and extra-large t-shirts from the science fair. That’s how I reached the decision to adjust for cold weather by wearing red stirrup pants with my new lavender dress.

This was the day my balloon of blissful ignorance began to leak and I begged my mom to buy me a pair of jeans. This was also the same classmate who, a few weeks later, took advantage of our napping substitute teacher to wrap masking tape around my eyes and drag me across the floor by my braided hair, so I got those lessons in self-consciousness after all.

Anyway, my continuing lack of fashion standards makes clothes shopping an ordeal that I only attempt when all of my existing garments develop enough holes to be used for draining pasta. Paralyzing anxiety about the term “business casual” couples with my ingrained unwillingness to spend more than $20 on anything short of a life-saving appendectomy.

On top of that, I primarily shop at discount superstores that require you to navigate around the 87% of the options that proclaim either “Hootchie Mama” or “Thanks for coming to my retirement party.”

I am also not big on shopping when it comes to gifts for non-relatives approximately my own age. I have no ability to determine maturity-level-appropriate presents. I also can’t use the “buy something you would like to receive” metric anymore because I would just get everyone Play-Doh, and anyone who has invited me to a previous birthday party already has some.

(Two-hour intermission while I browse the Play-Doh website. Did you know there’s one with confetti in it? You can also buy it by the pound, or teach children to inject it into dogs.)

Ultimately, the only shopping I really enjoy is at the grocery store. While I’m there I can imagine myself as the kind of person who prepares mouthwatering delicacies instead of just smearing things with peanut butter.

That’s how I end up with a pantry full of orphaned crab meat and saffron and a kitchen spattered in Cement of Béchamel Sauce.

The resulting failure-related reversion to a ramen-based diet is also why I keep having to go shopping for pants.