Maybe that wasn't first, but I feel like I don't remember life before the Johns' departure.
Kind of an odd pair, but I guess they're traveling together now. I picture John Ritter making Johnny Cash laugh. Treating him to a lite beer on the train.
I wonder if the train they're on has "quiet" cars.
Then again, I guess nobody on that particular train is really using a cell phone, right? It would probably be difficult to get a good connection where they're going.
Although that's likely the ultimate joke.
In heaven, there's probably crystal clear connections. You can probably go anywhere in heaven - even a closet, basement or parking garage - and not lose your connection. They're probably all watching us down here on earth with our bad cell phone connections and saying "now THAT'S hell!"
I heard that the Johns died while I was sleeping. Not that they actually died while I was sleeping, but that I literally heard the news while I was sleeping.
I have this new television that has a timer in it.
Did I mention that I love inventors? And did you know that you can now purchase a television in DC forless than a dye job? Life is strange.
Anyway, I was sleeping and this wonderful, remarkably inexpensive television turned itself on. I must have slept for a long time with it on because I swear I heard the announcements about twenty times.
During that morning's drive to work, the teaser on the news channel was that the entertainment world was mourning two deaths. For the life of me, I could not remember who died. I definitely remembered hearing the news, but apparently I don't take in too much in the way of details when I'm sleeping.
Much like when I'm awake.
But the radio station played some obituary type interviews. And I found out things about the Johns that made me like them.
It turns out that John Ritter was pretty tight with Henry Winkler.
That's very cool. The Fonz has turned out to be a sincerely nice, talented guy in real life. Kind of like Opie or Richie Cunningham or whatever that other guy's name is.
And it turns out that Johnny Cash wore black for a reason.
I always just thought it was because he was kind of a serious dude. A Marlboro man. A guy who knew how to use a gun when somebody didn't pay up after poker.
So yes. Black made perfect sense for Johnny Cash. You can't have a low, gravelly voice like that and wear mauve. Or even variations on blue.
But apparently, Johnny Cash wore black on purpose. Apparently, he was showing his empathy for the downtrodden.
Wow. Now that's pretty cool.
And that, of course, is why I wear black.
And I'm sure that those passing me on the street are thinking that exact thing.
"Wow. That girl's really cool. She's taking a stand for the downtrodden."
Yes. I am highly certain that I'm getting high marks for my statement of social conscience.
Especially when I wear my Calvin Klein. Or Ralph Lauren. Or Juicy Couture.
And I'm positive that my midnight black, supple suede Kate Spade bag with mocha noche black velvet feather ruffle trim says the same.
By the way, did you know that à la mode means in fashion? Apparently someone decided that having ice cream on pie was the fashionable way to eat it. I'm sorry to say that I generally skip the ice cream. To me, it just distracts from the essence and texture of the pie. Besides, I'm really just a crust person when it comes down to it.
Sorry. I've been researching french phrases and their original meanings.
Quel dommage.
Or is that quel frommage?
Anyway, although I'm highly fashionable in my material offering of social commentary, I fear that my look may soon be compromised. As much as my wardrobe screams "I care about suffering," I have recently realized it's time to take superficial action against the lines and hollows of experience.
Yes, I mean wrinkles.
And circles.
I've got both. Around my eyes. And it's getting pretty obvious. Especially the dark circles.
I never used to notice what was going on in the occular area. I just figured the wondrous sparkle of my eyes could conquer all other imperfections.
Well, that's over. The dark circles are about to outdark my roots.
And, when I mentioned it in the locker room at the pool, nobody gave me that "what are you talking about" look. No "don't be silly" eye rolling in response.
But I did get advice. I was quickly counseled to purchase concealer.
I was really hoping for "what are you talking about, you silly goose, you?"
But, I guess it's just time to admit the truth: I've experienced enough of life that my experience must now be concealed.
And, never one to shun a wake up call, I studiously tried concealer.
I'm not really sure how effective concealer is. I have to wait until I pass a window or mirror and accidentally see myself. Otherwise, I'm looking too intently and I can't determine objectively whether there's any difference.
All I know is that now I have things to hide that are right there on my face for the world to see. Gotta love a challenge!
But I really think the concealer's kind of stupid.
What, after all, am I trying to hide? And what kind of concealer will make me look naturally circle-less and not just like a girl wearing concealer over dark circles?
I guess the bigger concealer issue for me is that ultimately it won't matter anyway.
The harder we try to sell ourselves, our look, our purpose, our meaning, the more likely others are to misinterpret us anyway. And god knows they're already misinterpreting us a bunch.
Like when I used to wear black to fade in and disappear. Of course I just stood out.
And in later years, when I wore black to stand out. Of course I just faded in. Just another girl in a sea of girls wearing black.
And, best of all, when I eventually ventured away from black into the land of other colors. I still got accused of wearing black all the time.
Invariably.
I think it often doesn't matter how we portray ourselves. Others tend to see us how they want to see us. Or how they've been taught to see us. Or how they're in the lazy habit of seeing us.
Hopefully, others are now seeing me as I once was...without circles under my eyes.
I guess how we look and act is ultimately meaningless. Unless others know - and understand - what's behind the look or the act.
And I'm not talking about obvious life actions. Certainly, you're either nice or you're not. You're either gracious or you're not.
I'm talking about the nuances. Figuring out why people are wearing black. Or wearing pink. Or wearing concealer.
If you can find out what's behind people's quirks, it brings you closer to them.
Or pushes you farther away.
But, regardless, it often tells you more about them than what or who they say they are.
I've got this new housemate, for instance.
I call her hussy. But don't get excited yet.
I can't call her roomie. We don't share a room. At least not yet.
So I tried calling her my housie.
But housie sounds stupid.
And yet, housie is so terribly close to hussy. So hussy she is.
Ironically, hussy is anything but. She'll make someone a really wonderful wife someday. Actually, she already made someone a really wonderful wife. But that's another story.
Luckily, for now she gets to practice her domesticity on me.
And I do believe she'll have that serving-freshly-brewed-coffee-first-thing-in-the-morning thing down really soon. Just another year of practice.
Oh. I guess it's only eleven months now since I'm thirty days into the lease.
Anyway, hussy's quite the domestic goddess.
But when I first got here, I noted there was no food in the house. Nothing to tempt, taunt or tease. Nothing to invite cravings. Nothing to snack on. Nothing to wonder how long it had been around. Just nothing. And plenty of it.
Hussy, of course, quickly divulged the hiding place of her food....and boy was I wrong. There is food in the house.
Three cans of tuna, one container of oatmeal, some red apples and some broth that I definitely won't be begging, borrowing or stealing.
One might easily think her a boring person. If she weren't so clearly not boring.
But the food thing was really interesting to say the least. Here was this highly ecclectic person with culinary tastes even less sophisticated than mine????
Number one: not possible. Number two: very curious.
But look hard enough and you'll discover a person's true self.
It turns out our Little Miss Hussy has more condiments than Nigella Lawson. There are condiments all over the place. And not just your basic honey mustard either. There's salt from France and herbs I've never heard of. Spices with unpronouncable names and hot sauce of unrecognizable origin.
The girl likes it hot. And spicy. And interesting.
And when I asked her about the enormity of her condiment selection, she told me she likes lots of options.
Wow.
Lots of options. Lots of choices. She likes to know that she can make the chicken in any of 100 different ways. Anytime she wants.
I briefly wondered whether I liked options. It was only briefly because the answer was so obvious.
I hate options.
Or rather, I should say, I hate too many options.
I'll do stuff. I'll eat, drink, swim, run. I'll read. I'll go to a party.
But just tell me what to do and when to be there. That's the way I like it.
Options, to me, are just confusing. Just more to think about.
But I guess I should have known that she liked options. The hussy owns twelve denim jackets. Please don't tell her that they all look the same to me.
So Johnny Cash wore black for a reason. And Hussy likes to choose between her vast array of denims and spices.
I, in the meantime, want as few options as possible and no longer limit myself to black. But, I am ambitious and want to achieve my goals at a fast pace. I know this because I read about interpreting doodles.
Extroverts draw their doodles in the middle of the paper. They don't like to be ignored. But us right-sided doodlists reveal an interest in the future.
Left-sided doodlists want to stick to their past. And doodlists who draw at the top of the page are over-enthusiastic.
Bottom draw-ers are just negative toward life.
Of course I doodle squares. Interestingly enough, a bunch of squares with a small space in between indicates a doodler of solid personality whose life contains few surprises. But my squares, of course, are even closer than "small space in between" - my squares overlap.
I'm definitely not a circle person. And thank goodness. Circles indicate flexibility but laziness.
Unfortunately, I shade my squares. An indication of depression. But at least my exertion of pressure on my writing utensil is even. That means I'm serene and balanced.
So I guess that means I'm depressed but okay with it?
Unfortunately, I don't do birds or flowers. There go indications of imagination, intellectual power and affectionate nature.
So I guess it figures that I order the venti coffee.
A new reader suggested I write about the relationship between personality and coffee ordering.
At first I was all over the idea since I always order the venti. I want a lot of coffee so that I never have to experience wanting more coffee. There's always plenty in the cup. Even hours later. My goal, at all times, is to avoid having to want more. Not having enough.
But damn. My coffee order's not simple.
I take my venti with half coffee, half hot water and room at the top for lots of cream.
That makes me high maintenance, right? There's no way I'm analyzing coffee drinking if it shows me to be high maintenance.
But here's the deal: I'm not high maintenance otherwise. I don't ask for food off the menu. I don't send food back. I don't even ask for dressing on the side. I take my food exactly as the restaurant prepares it. No complaints.
And, I never try on anything except pants. I figure a shirt is a shirt is a shirt. I estimate the size and then accept it whether loose or tight.
Whatever I get, I eat. Or wear. It's just easier that way.
But the coffee's too strong these days. I like it lighter. And the hot water's usually behind the counter. Otherwise I'd make my own concoction instead of asking for it. And if I don't ask for room at the top, they fill it all the way and then I have to pour some into the trash can which makes me feel bad for the poor worker emptying the sloshing trash that day.
So, you see, I've totally and completely proved my point.
You can think you know someone just by watching them. You think you know why they wear black or why their kitchen cupboards are bare or why it takes them ten minutes to explain their coffee order, but you really don't.
And now, supposedly, you really don't know someone until you know how they sleep. Apparently, 51 percent of women sleep crouched in the fetal position. The fetals tend to be shy and sensitive. The soldiers - people who sleep flat on their back with arms at their sides - are quiet and reserved.
The side sleeper - on one's side with legs outstretched and arms down - is the social, easy-going person. But not if their arms are outstretched! Then you've got a yearner - someone who tends to be more suspicious.
Good listeners usually adopt the starfish position -- on the back with outstretched arms and legs.
Of course I sleep in a position called the freefall. Flat on the tummy with hands at the sides of the head. It's the most unusual position, apparently. Only 6.5 percent of sleepers prefer it. And, of course, those folks are usually brash and gregarious.
Again, I object.
Why don't you ask me why I sleep on my tummy!
Okay. The answer is that I have no idea. But don't worry. I'm sure I'll figure it out. And believe me, I'm sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with being brash.
The french say vive la difference. But Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance says you can't know a man until you've worn his shoes.
I think I'll split the difference. I'll try to look beyond the facade and explore why people are the way they are and why they do what they do. But only if they'll let me wear their shoes.
And only if the shoes are Manolos.
Since I can't afford my own Manolos.
But be careful about the shoes....you know they'll say a world about you.