In Which Money Is The Root Of All Evil

As if on cue, my father had a new question for me when I spoke to him a few days ago:

"How's your job search coming?"

I should explain that I get along really well with my father, and that I value and respect his opinion. But he apparently has this notion that now that I am "bringing in some money," I should be looking for a full-time job, the goal of which I assume would be to bring in more money. And the matter-of-fact way in which he posed the question, as if to get a job so I could be working while looking for a better job should have been part of my plan from the beginning, quite frankly annoyed me.

There was a commercial on a while back (I can't remember what for) which said something to the effect of "We know you don't just work for money." It showed pictures of kids running into their father's arms and other hokey visuals to explain why people go to work each day. At the time, I thought it made no sense. Of course people work for money. Money is why people work. But the more time I spend at my job (I've been there about a month and a half now) the more I am beginning to understand the meaning of the commercial better: while I do work for money, I wouldn't do just anything to get it. If I sat in an office eight hours a day staring at a computer screen, I might make more money. But I would absolutely hate going to work every morning. If you're lucky, you go to work because you enjoy what you do, not just to fill in the time between bill payments.

Right now I am enjoying what I'm doing. My current job is not part of my career goal (which veers, in fact, in a totally different direction from where I am now), but I like it for what it is and I'm happy there. And if I can spend some time there while planning for my next move - the one into an actual career - why shouldn't I? While it grieves me to be at odds with my father, it would grieve me even more to be at odds with myself.

In Which Things Happen

I was on the phone with my dad the other day. I haven't seen him for awhile, not since I went home in July for a weekend visit. I'm used to going months at a time without seeing him (or anyone in my immediate family, for that matter) because of the distance. He's never been to my apartment. He hasn't seen where I work. In short, he doesn't really know much at all about this new post-college life I'm starting to make for myself. Which is I guess what prompted the question he asked me:

"What do you do?"

I was a little taken aback, and I didn't know quite how to answer. I think what he meant was what do I do in my free time, but it got me to thinking: without classes, homework and extracurriculars - the essentials of my life for 17 years - with what activities do I fill my days?

The answer:

I wake up. I take a shower. I check my e-mail, Facebook and MSNBC.com. I eat brunch. I commute an hour to work. [Side note: I find it funny that I live in the city and work in the suburbs. For some reason that amuses me.] I work a job I like (thankfully) with people I like (also thankfully). I take the bus and T home. I make and eat dinner. I divide the rest of the night between putzing around on the computer and watching TV. (A lot of TV - probably more than any human being should ever be exposed to. In fact, I'm convinced that my roommate and I are the ones keeping the producers of those awful VH1 reality shows in a job. Whatever we can do to help the economy).

On Saturdays I grocery shop and on Sundays I do laundry or return library books, whichever needs doing. I spend weekend nights with friends or family, or sometimes just at home.

And that's it. It's a repetitive lifestyle, and much more quiet than what I am accustomed to, especially after the past four years, when there were weeks at a time where I would barely have a moment to breathe. Despite the monotony, though, I find that I like it. I thrive on a schedule, and if doing the same things at the same times day after day isn't the definition of a schedule, I don't know what is. For now, it suits me. And besides, who would want a life where checking ICanHasCheezburger.com wasn't part of the daily routine? Not I.

I look at this every day.

In Which I Voted Today!

Having lived in Massachusetts now for four years and three national elections, I think I can say with some confidence that the only time I can tell someone I'm from Ohio and not get a look of either pity or scorn (or a mixture of both) is during an election cycle. People haven't been as excited to find out I vote in Ohio this time around (perhaps because most of my acquaintances already know that about me), but in 2004, whenever someone found out I was voting absentee, I and my birthplace immediately became that much more interesting. While in normal times, Ohio is a state that seems to be universally looked down upon (and not always rightly, mind you), in an election year, an Ohioan has something special which for many a year past - and probably many a year to come - no person from Massachusetts has laid claim to: a vote that counts.

This morning I opened my mailbox to find that it was time for me to cast that vote. I was excited, not by the thrill of voting, but by the fact that the ballot had actually reached me at all. In 2004, it almost didn't. Turns out even Cleveland, one of Ohio's centers of art, culture, and intellectualism (if such a place can be said to exist), has its share of simple-minded Ohioans (read: idiots). It was the semester before I started college, and I was living in the Jamaica Plain area of Boston with my aunt and uncle. After arranging for my absentee ballot to be send there, I eagerly awaited its arrival, only to be disappointed week after week. A call to the Cuyahoga County Board of Elections revealed that the ballot was on its way. Another week passed with no ballot, and I requested that another be sent, which, according to the B of E, was done. Still no ballot. Finally, my father went in person to the Board of Elections to see what the problem was. Turns out the ballots were sent not to Jamiaca Plain in Boston, MA, but to Jamaica. The country. See the maps below if you need help visualizing this.











But I guess all's well that ends well: my father straightened things out and a new ballot arrived to the correct location just in time for me to vote. Plus, somewhere in the island nation of Jamaica, a couple ballots with my name on them might still be floating around. Everyone's a winner.*

Happy voting.




*John Kerry excluded.

In Which Imitation Is The Highest Form Of Flattery

As evidenced by the fact that I haven't written anything in a few weeks, there is really nothing new and exciting going on. Perhaps, though, the fact that there is no news is news itself: faced with the lack of anything better to write about, I've decided to play the critic and give my two cents on a TV ad. Now, this is obviously not a new concept. Scores of bloggers write about advertisements, probably because they are so ubiquitous. And today I'm going to be one of them. Besides, anyone who watches as much TV as I do (and hopefully there are but a few) is bound to see some ads that just beg to be analyzed.

Mucinex's Mucus Family Reunion

Reader, meet Mr. Mucus.
Spokesblob for the expectorant Mucinex, Mr. Mucus and his mucus-y friends and family have been trying to hole up in the lungs of print and television advertisement actors for many a year now. Unfortunately for them, Mucinex has always been there to kick them out. Curses; foiled again. Anyway, most people's complaints about Mr. Mucus revolve around him being disgusting, which, as a giant glob of bronchial mucus, he is. I've never been too bothered by his inherent grossness; hey, if Mucinex wants to take the gross-out angle to sell their product, who am I to say they shouldn't? It was only when I saw their most recent TV ad that I became as sincerely disturbed with the campaign as most people have been from the beginning.

Now, this ad is so new that I've only seen it once, and, scour the internet though I did (and believe me, I did), I could not find a clip of it anywhere. So I will have to use the power of words to describe it here (a real-world application for my B.A. in English!):

We begin in the lungs of the unfortunate host. Mr. and Mrs. Mucus are inviting their mucus-blob relatives into their new home. "Aunt Harriet! Uncle Dick!" Mr. Mucus gushes, "It's a mucus family reunion!" Fine. The woman obviously has some sort of infection, and she's literally coughing up a lung trying to get rid of the mucus infestation. Then she takes Mucinex, at which point Mr. Mucus and his entire family are "evicted."

This is where it starts to get weird. After she's disease free, we see Ms. Previously-Infected-Commercial-Lady open the door to her own house. "Aunt Harriet! Uncle Dick!" she exclaims, as she ushers in some relatives of the human variety.

Here's the problem: The respective relatives of Mr. Mucus and his human hostess have the same names! What in the world is going on here? Are the mucuses anthropomorphisms of the humans? Deep down, are we all just really giant blobs of mucus? Or is there a parallel universe in which everything and everyone exists just as it does here, only instead of humans, they're mucus?

That should give you a little something to think about.