I went to Panera bread for a quick bite between jobs. The entire transaction at the cash register involved me answering a long series of questions. "How can I help you? Do you want bread? Apple? Chips? Which sandwich of the two? What kind of soup? Anything to drink? Do you have the Panera Bread club card? Cash or credit? To stay or to go? What is your name?" When I am feeling silly I fantasize about pretending to not speak English while ordering. Or pretending I'm deaf. I know that ultimately it isn't a big deal but Jesus, can I just have a fucking sandwich?? Why do you need my phone number and name?
I just answered a reference question that asked if I could find copies of the TWO Jodi Arias movies that recently aired. Like, yesterday, recently. Why the hell would anyone watch even one film of that (the only way I'd watch anything about that woman is if it involved badly acted reenactments...I love those) much less TWO? This woman was chewing moistily the ENTIRE phone conversation. If you desire a reenactment of THAT, simply get a friend or a lover to pack their mouths with a sloppy joe and stand right next to your ear and chew for about five minutes after asking you to look up the DVD release dates of several DVDs. This woman also wanted "that movie with that guy who died from the Sopranos, Jose Gonzalez." Yeah, no. No we don't have that movie.
How is Mad Men so good? Seriously. Six seasons in and the show remains so good and really, how many shows have managed that? Most television shows falter around season 3 or so and overstay their welcome. I think maybe the shortened seasons of the show, which has only 13 episodes, really helps. My attachment to these characters and this story is unsettling. I feel like I want to write a thesis about it. I hope some graduate student somewhere in the future writes one. Matthew Weiner is someone I'd put on my guest list for ideal dinner party.
And finally, in a particularly irrational turn of events, I find myself, at 6:45pm, still annoyed at something that happened this morning. My new shampoo bottle required me to exit the shower, run to my kitchen on the other side of my apartment, get a pair of scissors to pry open the PLASTIC WRAP that enveloped the PLASTIC BOTTLE in order to wash my hair (which I'm not even sure why I bothered since the air has turned into a hot bowl of soup practically the SECOND it became summer officially, rendering my hair sideshow Bob-ish). Why so much plastic? Why does a plastic bottle need to be wrapped in plastic and if it is, why is anything other than my own hands, grasping awkwardly in the wee, half awake hours of the morning, required in order to open it?
I stumble through life confoundedly.