Holy technological dinosaur, Batman
Mood:  irritated
Now Playing: That song that Michael Bolton turns down in his car at the beginning of Office Space
I am pretty sure I could work for customer service. Especially at a cell phone company, because you don't need to even really know how much more than how to pick up a phone, it seems. If you call about any problem whatsoever, here's what they'll tell you:

Turn the phone off for a few minutes and turn it back on.

That's it. Apprently, this will magically cause the satellite signal stars to align in your favor.

I naively expect the customer service reps to be really knowledgable and have some idea of how to solve the problem. We don't let doctors get away with that kind of thing. ("Just go to sleep for at least eight hours a day and your broken leg should just heal right up.") Or mechanics: ("Take the key out of the ignition for a couple minutes and then try starting it again. That'll fix the brakes.")

I also learned a couple other things recently.

If I can help it, I'm never going to fax another thing. These illegitimate lovechildren of the telephone and the photocopier must be stopped. The machines are clunky; the technology is archaic, with all the dialing, buzzing, beeping and waiting. I had to fax some crap to my incompetent relocation company today (If you hear the name Paragon Relocation in job negotiations, politely decline and instead pack your stuff on a donkey. More reliable and less stubborn.) and, a mere fifteen minutes of busy signals later, transaction complete!

As I stood there and waited for my documents to scan and come out the other side, I realized that the fax machine is exactly like those futuristic and ridiculous computers on the Batman television series. Batman walks up to the Bat-mileage Calculator or some such and frantically pushes some buttons. Beeping, whirring and flashing ensues. Finally, a little slip of paper comes out. The fax is the exact same way, except you don't get any new information on the paper at the end.

Second thing I will be avoiding from now on is grits. As part of my quest to try new things and to assimilate to the area, I ordered shrimp and grits tonight. I was told grits were delicious: a lovely substance that magically takes the flavor of whatever is mixed in. Even Outkast likes 'em ("If you like fish and grits and all that pimp s***")Yeah, well, here's the truth about grits: It's Cream of Wheat that also gets served with dinner. But not in a comforting warm breakfast cereal, way. Not in a hearty, delicious mashed potatoes way. Or not even in that refreshingly-light-change-from-meat way rice has. My verdict is, grits, as the name implies, simply make food an inedible taste and texture.

Maybe the need to eat grits is genetic here in the South, like accents, friendliness, or a penchant for wallpaper.

Hair, there and everywhere
Mood:  down
Now Playing: Grateful Dead

After a month in the South, I've seen some things. Things that I could not make up.

1. A woman in curlers at 4 p.m. driving a pickup truck recklessly.

2. A child with an honest-to-goodness mullet.

3. Grocery stores with entire aisles devoted to hair spray.

4. Three roads named after televangelist extraordinaire Billy Graham.

5. Fried chicken advertised as a snack.

6. A party with so many empty fifths of Southern Comfort, you could teach an entire classroom of mulleted children their fractions.

7. A stripper leaving work at 7:30 a.m. Actually, she looked a lot like anyone would after a long night of work. Except with more makeup.

8. Kids with a ferret on a leash.

9. A Blockbuster employee with the nerve to critique my movies before ringing them up. As if her caveats: "This one is *not* that great" (The Family Stone) and "This one is too drawn out" (The Weather Man) was going to send me back to the shelves. What next? The Subway sandwich artist recommending a package of Oscar Meyer bologna and a loaf of Wonder Bread instead?

10. Duke playing Wake Forest. In football. Or, as I like to call it, the lousiest way to spend a Saturday afternoon. Stick to basketball, fellas. Honestly.

No right angles in my life
Mood:  cool
Now Playing: Ben Lee (and that has nothing to do with that damn Dell commercial)

So I have DVR now, and like anything else, it's a blessing and a curse. I'm a big fan, obviously. I never have to settle for second-rate television. Or, more accurately, when I watch second (or even third) rate TV, it's of my own accord.

So you may think that this novelty alone is enough to make a girl indulge in incredible amounts of television. But that's not it exactly. Here's where the addiction comes in: DVR makes me feel efficient at television watching. Without the commercials or boring parts, I can burn through twice the programming in half the time. So when I sit down to watch, say, a guilty pleasure like Project Runway, instead of an hour going by, I only drop 40 minutes on it. So, what do I do with that extra 20 minutes? I start something new. And therein lies the second pitfall of my DVR addiction: sense of accomplishment. The collection of shows my DVR has thoughtfully recorded for me is not just a meaningless menagerie; it's a challenge. A veritable on-screen To Do list that must be conquered. Yes, it's practically daring me to watch all five episodes of the Simpsons that air daily. I don't, of course, I can't.

Sometimes I force myself to watch "live" television, just for the thrill of the hunt. But it's sort of dull to me now, much like years of burned mix CDs have ruined the thrill of the radio.

Now I'm sorry, but I really have to go. There are episodes of Dick Van Dyke and ESPN's NFL Yearbook: Pittsburgh Steelers that are just daring me to watch.

'Nothin' could be finer... than to have your ham and eggs in Carolina'
Mood:  chatty
Now Playing: The Andy Griffith Show ("When in Rome...")

Fourteen days ago, my computer was wrapped in bubble wrap and stuck in a big box. In that span of time, much has happened that warrants a rambling observation. I've driven across several states, met scads of new people, acclimated to extreme humidity, unpacked my studio apartment into something a little larger than that, and started a new job. This account will probably just scratch the surface of that whole experience.

There is something ingrained in my nature that makes me nervous when people are doing things for me. I feel weird that the flight attendant has to handle my trash. I don't like valet service. And, as it turns out, having movers carry all your heaviest stuff and load it into a truck, though way more convenient, makes for a bit of an uncomfortable feeling as well.

Mostly because they kept taking all the chairs I kept sitting in. So eventually, I just plopped down on the floor and watched the whole moving process from the dirty spot on the carpet that was once hidden behind my tv stand.

There were three movers, and it occurred to me that their little system was much like that of comic book villains. Take the leader, in this case, we'll call him the Joker. He was the most pleasant mover, or at least had the best English. The man in charge. His "costume" was most ornate, decorated with gold chains and a bit of extra flair. The other two were his henchmen, quiet and dressed alike in the moving company garb, they did all the heavy lifting and the simpler problem solving issues.

After my stuff was loaded, I said goodbye to it and to Illinois, heading east to the homeland for a couple of days. I drove to Charlotte from there, and my furniture arrived a day after I did.

There are many things about my new home that feel a lot like what I'm used to. For instance, many people settled here are actually from West Virginia as well; unlike in Chicago, where I knew of none. Also, there are many trees and I daresay a bit more grass. In fact, one of the trees out front of my building is blooming with clusters of pink blossoms. Not thinking, I parked directly under it for a day or two. Some wind, some rain, and now it looks like a flower girl at a wedding played a terrible prank on me.

With that said, there are some things here that will take some getting used to:

-- There sure are a lot of smokers. Even though cigarettes are upward of seven dollars a pack, there's a lot more lighting up going on than what I saw in Chicago. Maybe it's because so much tobacco is produced in these parts. Maybe if you go to Iowa, everyone there is eating corn all the time.

-- People really use those beer can cozy things, some of which have clever sayings like "Rehab is for quitters" on them. This may be because a) lack of coasters or b) the ridiculous heat renders even the coldest beer warm after just a few minutes outside. While we're on beverages, I'm thirsty 24-7 in this crazy climate. My refrigerator is full of drinks. Seriously, I went to the grocery store the first time and without really thinking, realized I had purchased: Pepsi, beer, and containers of orange juice, apple juice, lemonade and cherry limeade. 

I bought a new alarm clock today. I'm not really sure why, because I'll be working night shifts and therefore will probably never really use it again. But I think I needed it to make the bedroom feel like a bedroom. In any event, I had had the same alarm clock since fourth grade. It was a Christmas present from my parents; I had picked it out from Radio Shack because it had a radio and a headphone jack. So I would secretly stay up past bedtime to listen to WVAQ's Top 10 @ 10 every night via headphones. And therefore my worst enemy at 6 a.m. was my best friend at 10 p.m.

In a very sad little ceremony, I shoved my alarm clock in the trash before the move, because the buttons stopped working and I could set the alarm anymore. In any event, I was pretty sure that alarm clock (when it worked) offered me everything alarm clocks offered: wake up to radio, wake up to beeping, fall asleep to radio, listen to radio, battery backup.

And then I picked up a little alarm clock at Target today.

Pardon me if I sound "SO nineties" here, but this thing is more complex than a glorified oven timer should be, I think. I mean this thing isn't even a really expensive model (30 bucks) but... It has two alarm settings (A and B) for regular days, and then another weekend setting that also can remember two times. And when you have it set for weekend, to celebrate, the face turns from an orange light to green. (You can set the backlight to bright or low.) It remembers what time zone it's in and automatically adjusts for daylight savings time. You can wake to beep, some sort of melody or the radio. I'm a little scared.

With my acquisition of this piece of equipment and also a DVR, I may just finally be cool enough for this millennium. Or dorky enough to still sleep in and watch Jeopardy whenever I want.

 

Shirt and Sox
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Gypsy Kings

Yesterday I saw some animals at the Lincoln Park Zoo, or, as I call it, that Zoo that killed all those elephants.

Allow me to list them:
Chipmunk
Birdies (scientific name: small birds)
Rabbit
Children
Flamingoes
Cheetah that was panting like a dog in the heat
Camels
Pigeon Lady

That's it. After hours of walking around and a four-dollar train ride. Ok, the Pigeon Lady made it worth it. She was down by the lake with about 100 pigeons surrounding her. As she fed them, she kinda cooed and talked to them and pigeons actually were in her hair, and fluttering, hovering in the air right in front of her. It was kind of like that scene in Snow White where she's whistling and birds and animals all surround her, except with less singing and more pigeon shit.

Here's a word of warning about zoos in the summertime. The animals, being not entirely stupid, hide inside where it's cool. The humans, being entirely stupid, pay to walk around outside to see where they would be. So from June-August the zoos are not so much zoos as they are giant lemonade stands with the most expensive parking in town.

After the zoo disappointment, I got to see a Sox game. This is not my first game, and previously whenever those chicks in the scantily clad outfits would come out and throw t-shirts into the crowd, I'd stand up and wave like an idiot trying to nab one. And I'm generally pretty unlucky. I get in the wrong checkout lanes. I go to the ATM when it's out of cash. I buy things the day before they go on sale. This time as the ladies were hurling shirts into the crowd, I sat still, focused on shelling a peanut. And that's when luck fell into my lap. Or, more accurately, bounced off the screaming idiot in front of me, and I nabbed a 75% White Sox 25% Chicagoland General Motors t-shirt.

As luck would have it, my newfound fortune was amost compromised when some fellows in the row behind me, who had been commenting on most of the game in English and some other language but both very loudly, reached down and intended to grab the balled-up shirt right off my lap. A pacifist through-and-through, here was my response:

ME, clutching shirt and glaring: "What the hell are you doing?"
HIM: (nervous laugh)
ME, puffing out shirt: "Hey, while you're at it, why don't you take this one right off my back?" 

Some people belong in a zoo.