If somebody could please tell me why Sunday night keeps coming so damn quickly after Friday night, I would really appreciate it. Monday night to Wednesday night? Not reached at lightning speed. Friday night to Sunday? Zips right by. It’s not fair.
I suppose this shortening of the days could have something to do with getting up when the day is half over. If I were able to try that on work days, perhaps those would fly by as well. Anyway, this morning, when I arose at the crack of 10:40, I made myself a list--a useful and productive list of all the useful and productive things I was going to do today. Unfortunately, it is now 9:40 p.m. and I have scratched only four items off that list, and one was something not even on the list originally, but which I added to the list after accomplishing it just so I could scratch it off. (Oh come on; I’m not the only one who does that; am I? Admit it; some of you do it too.)
One thing I did scratch off the original list was to call T-Mobile Customer Service and get their crack team of technical support specialists to figure out why my shiny new blue cell phone was being all coy and neglecting to tell me when a new voice mail was awaiting me. That problem is now solved, thank you very much, T-Mobile. Annoyingly not solved is the question of why my new pre-paid T-Mobile-to-Go service does not permit me to use the impossibly handy Google SMS feature I’d so enjoyed with my previous post-pay account. (Seriously, if you are not aware of that feature, check that link. If I can’t use this anymore, at least the rest of you should freely partake of it. You will thank me later; I promise.)
Since apparently spending a full hour playing with my cell phone was more important than spending any hours writing my Christmas cards or cleaning my bathroom, I also learned how to use T9 mode for text messaging (Maliavale was right! It is an amazing invention! I should have known a smart girl like Malia would never steer me wrong.), and I also got all bold and adventurous and figured out how to download a new ringtone despite T-Mobile’s web site telling me it simply was not possible with my plan (or rather, new lack of a plan). Since that achievement, I have subsequently called my cell phone from my home phone no fewer than three times, just to dance around my kitchen to the MegaTones version of Bizarre Love Triangle. Yes, I am a dork. It's not even all that convincingly recognizable a version of Bizarre Love Triangle, but it is so much less annoying than any of the default rings available to me (all of which make me want to hurl my phone into a vat of boiling oil just to make it stop) that I cannot help but be relieved and excited by my accomplishment. (I'm not even near a vat of boiling oil very often, so this is undoubtedly a better solution.) Incidentally, I am certain that all phone makers now do this (make their phones void of any tolerable ringtone options) on purpose simply to support the downloadable ringtone industry. This may be one of my bizarre conspiracy theories, but I am convinced that it is true.
Would you like me to stop talking about cell phones and T-Mobile now? OK, I can do that. Let's talk about whether my apparent newfound aim to rid the world of injustice one rude concert-goer at a time is a sign that I've finally grown a pair or a warning that I'm one button-press away from going all Frances McDormand and losing it in a register line at Old Navy. I think I was a little drunk with power after successfully booting an inconsiderate group of wedger-inners at the DeVotchKa concert on Thursday, because last night after the Bob Schneider show at Fine Line, I channeled the inner bitch again. This was the first truly cold weekend of the winter, so the coat check line was ridiculously long and slow moving, but I waited as patiently as possible for the half hour it took to move ten feet within the semi-orderly mob/line. This is why I was in no mood, when I was finally within six people of the window, to see a half-drunk stick-insect of a twenty-something casually sidle on in right beside me. She looked ahead pretending to be unaware of her offense, but I tapped her on the shoulder and said, "Um, maybe you didn't notice, but the end of the line is back there." "Oh," she smiled, barely moving in her place at all. "We've all been waiting a half hour," I continued. She held back a bit. I know she just passed her claim ticket to her boyfriend, who refused to budge from his spot, but I elbowed in front of him too, determined that I would get my coat before them. I'm sure they laughed and eye-rolled at my crazy, high-strung, bitchy self as they left with their unjustly prematurely retrieved coats, but I really don't care at all. Um, yeah. I could be channeling this energy and anger into solving world hunger or bringing peace to the Middle East, but no. Coat check lines and concert crowds are apparently where I find my calling. Go figure.
All righty then. Moving on. What else did I do this weekend? Well, yesterday (before I got all passive aggressive and borderline confrontational at a club show), I went to the No Coast Craft-o-Rama (which you might have heard about if you clicked the link in that post about my media debut). It was a lovely event with all sorts of clever and interesting things made by impossibly creative and talented folks. I got a bunch of my Christmas shopping done, which felt wonderfully productive, and I also ran into and chatted with no less than seven people I actually know (not even counting -R- and the Incredible H, who I made plans in advance to meet there). I'm not used to being all connected and recognizable Girl-about-Town. Usually in public I revert to the spaced-out daze of inward reflection, barely aware of my surroundings. Last week at Cost Plus World Market I about jumped out of my skin when I heard someone call my name from the next register over. I don't live anywhere small enough to run into friends and acquaintances while shopping, but there my friend Tricia was nonetheless. Suddenly Minneapolis feels a bit like Stars Hollow, and I really never thought that'd be the case. Then again, my neighbor three houses down actually does remind me a bit of Taylor Doose, so maybe I should have been expecting this for a while.
All right. It is now well after 10:00, shortly nearing my bedtime, and my bathroom still isn't clean. Apparently I thought this would somehow happen magically while I typed, but alas, it was not the case. Is that a feature in the new Blogger Beta? If so, I should really switch to that post-haste.