Words you want to hear when preparing to house-sit: “I hope you like gingerbread cake with cream cheese frosting…There’s going to be a lot in the fridge when you come over.”

Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of the gingerbread cake. While forgetting why I’m there in the first place, forcing a small, tragic dog to jump up and down, waggling his ears wildly in hopes of capturing my attention. “Hey, lady! Lady! Lady who’s supposed to be taking care of me! Get your head out of that cake, lady! BUSTER’S HUNGRY TOO, YOU KNOW.”

Sorry, Buster. None for you.

None for me either, because I made this macaroni and cheese a month ago. Using twice as much cheese as the recipe calls for. Sometimes I’m rather inspired, and I say it myself. Like when Miguel de Cervantes thought, “Hey! How about PROSE!” Or Pollock said, “Hey! Let’s try PAINT SPLOSHES!” Quite similar to when I declared, “Hey! MORE CHEESE!” Truly a genius for our time.

When will someone create the technology necessary to turn a PICTURE of macaroni and cheese into ACTUAL macaroni and cheese? The kind that I could eat with my fork? A fork I could have ready and waiting in under three seconds. We can send monkeys to the moon but can’t make a pan of cheesy pasta goodness appear magically before me? I feel a bit cheated by the 21st century.

(This pathetic display sponsored by Bloggers Who Really Shouldn’t Post While Waiting Hungrily For Dinner To Finish Cooking Already Anonymous.)

I don’t cook very often any more - it’s less satisfying to cook for one and I’m a little lazy about inviting friends over for festive artery clogging. But I’m making spicy tomato and fennel soup tonight and if that doesn’t thrill you to your very core, let me tell you about the hat I’m knitting. It’s a hat! I am knitting it! ALERT THE PRESS.

Speaking of pointless yet enjoyable creation, one accomplishment I’m rather proud of is my haiku about a kiwi. It’s a dazzling tribute to this under-appreciated fuzzy brown fruit and I CAN’T FIND IT. My desolation over the loss of my kiwi haiku suggests that I don’t have enough to do. Or maybe it suggests that my contribution to the poetry world will have to remain at its pinnacle with Fred, Thanksgiving Turkey on the Lam.

Meter-challenged poems about tasty, tasty turkeys are apparently what happens when I’m not allowed in the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. So it’s probably good that I’m making tomato soup right now. KEEPS ME OUT OF FURTHER MISCHIEF.

As a truly dedicated procrastinator, the more there is to say, the more likely I am to slink off the internet and hide my laptop under a cushion where I don’t have to see it mocking me. I’m much better at writing haikus about a slab of brie than I am at discussing anything of real importance. Yes, my communication skills are stellar. I give seminars.

Therefore! A list of important things:

1. Obama got elected. (Someone may have had the eloquent reaction of: “If I’d known I was going to be jumping up and down so much, I would’ve worn a bra.”)

2. My lovely friend May got married. (Sadly, Buster the yodeling chihuahua was not part of the ceremony. I plan to dress him in a veil for a Humiliate Small Helpless Dogs photo shoot.)

3. I re-entered the dating pool. (And flailed wildly, by the way, reminding myself of the time I was swimming and a friend’s dad had to jump in, sneakers and all, because it looked like I was going to meet my maker with a snout full of chlorine.)

4. I joined Twitter. (Which may or may not belong on a list of Important Things. You decide.)

Regarding point number one: Hope may be naive, but I take comfort in knowing that never have so many people wanted one man to succeed.

Regarding point number two: I wish I had a photo of May’s face as she walked down the aisle. And of her new husband’s as he watched her. But I don’t. So I will have to ask you to imagine the glow. THERE WAS DEFINITE GLOWING. Not to mention some damn fine mozzarella.

Weddings depressed me for awhile, but now I find it reassuring to see that much love gathered into one well-dressed room. Which segues nicely into point number three: Love is out there, whether it’s coming for me any time soon or not. Nothing naive in that hope.

To all the new beginnings of this past week. And to spending next week catching up on sleep. Don’t worry, Mr. President Elect, I’ll sleep enough for you too. Just doing my part for our country.

Has anyone else been waiting for this day for eight years? 2000 was the first time I was home to cast an official lever-pulling vote in a presidential election (rather than the highly unsatisfactory “check the box and drop it in the mail” escapade of 1996) (although there weren’t any real levers in 2000 anyway, so NEVER MIND), and the experience was marked by a rather cocky attitude. “Of course Gore will win,“ I thought, strutting toward the polls in my sensible shoes. In the following weeks, no one got much work done as we all kept racing into the kitchen to watch the Florida coverage. I remember standing on that linoleum, stunned and gaping, when the election went to Bush. Four years later, I thought, “Of course Kerry will win. Bush didn’t even really win last time, how could he possibly win now?”

When Bush was crowned again, I cried. Not that this means much; I cry over news stories at least twice a week and occasionally over home furnishing ads. But I was joined in my weeping by several Face Down the Grizzly With a Stern Glare types, men who ride motorcycles in the rain and consider it a rollicking good time to dangle off those really high rocks in Yosemite. We were devastated, and it cast a gray pall over my mood for weeks. Where “gray pall” = “futile outrage” and “urge to hurl rotten kiwi fruit.” It’s totally counterproductive, but that’s when I stopped paying attention to politics. For the health of my molars.

Right now, I’m trying not to think anything, and certainly not a sentence beginning with of course. What reassures me is something Sean said a few months ago, “Last time we were voting against Bush. Now we’re voting for someone.”

Whatever happens, I find that comforting.

I’m not feeling well today, so I probably won’t make it to work. But you can bet your ass I’ll make it to the polls.

(Yes, I did.)

One of my greatest joys in life used to be cranking up my stereo to the level known as Makes Dogs Howl In Six Counties, and dancing around the house like a loon. In fact, when I was about 16, I put a hefty scar on my left hand by jumping onto my mom’s bed, flailing wildly, and throwing my hand up into the glass light fixture on the ceiling. Which shattered and rained down over my head as I tried to staunch the blood before it went all over my mother’s bedspread. I carefully cleaned up the shards and replaced her ceiling fixture with my own. Hi, mom! I don’t think I ever told you that story.

When I moved in with my ex, I put an abrupt halt to these shenanigans. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but do you willingly gyrate like a baboon with a stomach full of Mexican jumping beans in front of your significant other? At least without the aid of a stomach full of bourbon? I thought not. Now that I have my own place, it’s perfect for a little one-woman terpsichorean rumpus. Which I will share with you because I AM BEING BRAVE. Feel free to laud my courage. And mock my slippers.

Presenting the debut film from Moose Productions: Moose Hootenanny

Link to video I can’t imbed in this post without breaking the entire web site and maybe my kitchen chair.

Disclaimer: Please disregard the poor quality. Odd pixelation done entirely on purpose. To make it gritty and real. This is art, you understand. (cough) Thank you.

Also: The ending might make you a little queasy.

Gainful employment: landed

Date for David Sedaris: snagged

Herb garden for doorway: purchased

Penchant for yanking symbolism out of EVERYTHING: overplayed 

One of the problems with being a former English Lit major - aside from the general assumption that you won’t be using your degree unless you compose tortured sonnets in the bathroom of McDonald’s where you serve Big Macs to surly teenagers - is a tendency to see symbolism everywhere. You can only write so many essays about Queequeg’s coffin before the tendency to imbue daily details with significance becomes overwhelming.

My hike yesterday morning was plagued by fog. Wispy bits of gray cloud wafted in front of my feet as I huffed up the hill toward Sweeney Ridge, a path usually graced with spectacular views of the Pacific and the San Francisco skyline, but yesterday boasted only a thick soup of depressing precipitation. About halfway up, I passed a woman who said, “Don’t worry. It’s sunny at the top.” After twenty minutes of trudging through the gray gloom, the sky opened up and the sun lit the hills. I literally stepped out of the dark and into the light. Standing on the ridge, I looked out over the purple hills, fog rolling through the valleys, and was very glad I kept going. Then I realized I was standing smack in the middle of a poorly written novel and maybe I should quit it with the heavy-handed literary device transference already. Plus, my cleverly manipulated “emerges from the cloud of fog into the light” symbol was sort of ruined when I realized I’d have to go back down through the fog to get to my car and go home.

Speaking of English majors who may or may not have jobs: My who versus whom crisis was the only thing I got wrong on my Grammar Test For Gainful Employment. I may have glowed like a comma-friendly beacon when I got the job and learned my score. (90/100/100 if you were wondering. Which you weren’t. BUT I’M TELLING YOU ANYWAY.) My sickening tendency toward teacher’s pet continues unabated. The passage of decades apparently does nothing. But I can now relax for awhile with more money than I’ve ever made in my life. (Um, the sum is still quite unimpressive. I have a knack for underachievement in the cold, hard cash department.)

In other news, David Sedaris makes me giddy with glee. As does having an actual date, conjured up specially for this blessed literary event. In preparation for this date I scrubbed my shower tiles. Don’t ask me why. Seriously. I couldn’t tell you. Anyway, the David Sedaris tickets were a lovely gift from a dear college friend for my 30th birthday. Her kindness was repaid with a sheepish email declaring I wasn’t going to make it to her wedding in New York. I am an ass. She is awesome. As is David Sedaris and his rendition of the Oscar Meyer Wiener song, sung in the voice of Billie Holiday.

Current mood: inordinately, insufferably proud of myself. Even if my date is less a date and more…bribery.

The need to post here is sitting on my shoulders like an elephant. An elephant who ate too much candy corn and is wearing a fuzzy pink hat remarkably like the one I’ve almost finished knitting. My elephant is fidgeting because he thinks he looks stupid in a half-finished hat with needles sticking out the top. He’s right, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings.  

Life is feeling very…alive lately. Do I win for most insightful and well-written sentence? I DO? Why, thank you. I accept. Over the past few months, my refrigerator has been a veritable train station for baby shower and wedding invitations, with more wonderful news popping up almost weekly. If you read the newspaper, times look dark. Iceland has crumbled and Sarah Palin seems to think hunting moose is a good idea and the world’s wealth is teetering over some chasm that I simply can’t fathom because I slept through most of my high school economics class and so never quite understood how money makes more money just by sitting there. But if you look at my refrigerator, life is plugging steadily - and happily - on.

Evites are a blessed invention: Less waste! Instantaneous RSVP options! But there’s something about getting a large cream envelope and opening it to a message of “We’re celebrating, and we want you to celebrate with us - as demonstrated by this large square of linen card stock.” And it feels all fancy and celebratory until I trip on my way to the refrigerator and splatter tomato juice on it. Even then it feels celebratory, only slightly less tidy.

I’m looking forward to sending out my own invitations some day, for what I haven’t decided yet - gainful employment! first date! new Tuscan villa! But right now I’m happy to plug along with my projects - new hobbies that result in half-finished pink hats, and flirting with learning Italian because I’ll need it to wrangle contractors who fix the water pump at my Tuscan villa. I jump on the train during my lunch hour to hear Sarah Vowell, a woman who makes me happy just by existing. Run errands as Roman gladiators ride scooters down Powell Street hawking yogurt. Eat strawberries that should surely be out of season now.

And fudge on my insistence that the only way to meet someone is while making a fool of myself over his poor spaniel as he says something suitably charming. It’s a nice picture, but really translates into “stare at green sneakers while ignoring all charming owners of cute dogs.” So I’m altering my expectation from Perfect Coincidence to Whatever Works, because I’m determined to find myself a date for the David Sedaris reading next Monday.

I’ll keep you posted.

Scratching your head and clutching a coffee cup in panic over a who vs. whom crisis usually signals the relieved awakening from an unholy nightmare in which some masochist made you take a grammar test at 8:15 in the morning. Only this morning it wasn’t a dream and OH YEAH, THAT MASOCHIST IS ME. Willingly participating in a tragic demonstration of which classes I napped through in hopes of procuring gainful employment. It’s sort of like taking the SATs, except with a direct and unmistakable correlation to the size of your bank account.

By ten this morning, my brain had exploded and the shards lit themselves on fire.

I’m better now.

Since you’ve all been suitably horrified by the idea of a grammar test at the crack of dawn, I’d now like to enthrall you with tales about knitting! and buying things on Etsy! Therefore:  

I’m learning to knit!

I bought this on Etsy!

Fine, my tales aren’t that enthralling. Hush.

Jemima taught me to knit last week, and my yarn and I are currently enjoying a particularly tender honeymoon. I rush home eagerly each night into the waiting arms of my knitting, and don’t even get peeved when I notice a dropped stitch three rows back. I’ve completed the first seven rows of a very fetching fuzzy pink hat and am counting the hours until I can return to my knitting needles.

Some people nest when they’re pregnant. I nest when I get sick of choking on dust and staring at blank walls. Since I bid adieu to college almost a decade ago, I can’t really get away with posters tacked up with used chewing gum anymore, but neither am I ready for full-fledged art. If I even knew what full-fledged art was. (I don’t. Large splatters of green and orange on a blank canvas? Porcelain baby doll limbs dipped in red paint?) Etsy is my happy middle ground. Three prints from here and a few from here, and my walls may one day claim a personality other than “blank” and “hey, look! a white wall!”  

If you have an Etsy favorite, do me a huge favor and leave it in the comments. My Etsy trawling has become an addiction and addictions must be fed. Especially when one has hours before she can return to her knitting and is still recovering from grammar trauma.

(Another post is up at Lemondrop. They - the great and mysterious Lemondrop They - don’t seem to admire my long and windy titles, because they keep changing them. And, yes, there’s probably a reason why they’re the editors and I’m not sure who gets whom-ed.)  

Nothing like getting a salted caramel hot chocolate from Starbucks and calling it lunch to cement your domination in the field of poor decision making. Oof. Hot chocolate for lunch - not accompanied by a healthy salad or turkey sandwich, by the way - was really not one of my wiser plans. So, hey! Maybe the other decisions I’ve made today are actually good ones! Because I poured all my bad judgment into meal choice. YES!

Hi! You know what else drinking hot chocolate for lunch does? IT MAKES YOU HYPER.  

Saturday was one of the most spectacular autumn days since autumn decided to call itself an official season. So I took myself and my red water bottle up to Sweeney Ridge to compose sonnets dedicated to the clear blue sky and ocean view. That was the plan anyway: sky + sonnets = deluded English major with a water bottle she’s inordinately proud of just because it’s apple-hued and shiny, but then I decided I’d rather play photographer. I hit the summit, pulled out my point-and-shoot, positioned the most glorious nature shot you’ve ever been privileged to witness - and my camera died. So you’ll just have to imagine it. Are you imagining it? Are you blown away by my artistry and subtle manipulation of a cheap camera that always makes things all smeary because I never did read the manual? Are you? GOOD.

Now imagine this post has a point and that all your fondest wishes are about to come true, that Daniel Craig just walked through your office door holding the bridle of the chestnut pony you asked Santa to bring you in 1983. The pony won’t even take a dump on the report that was due two hours ago, because the report was finished by Angelina Jolie in a halter top. You’re welcome.

~

* If not, there’s absolutely no excuse for this post.

My parents considered naming me Sunshine (oh, the hippie years), but refrained for two reasons. One: I’d have to write Sunshine on all my checks and resumes, and do people take Sunshines seriously? I’m glad I never had to find out the hard way. Two: What if they called me “Sunny” and I, um, wasn’t? The teen years might have been particularly grim, with a possible legal name change to Unreasonable P. Morbid.

But I’m generally a pretty happy person - one might even call me sunny. Sure, I’ll catch myself thinking, “Oh, I can’t be happy now - I don’t know where my paycheck’s coming from in December, I’m the only single person I know in this city, I haven’t achieved anything impressive, my storage closet’s not organized.” As I grow older, I’m getting much better at calling BULLSHIT on this nonsense.

The flip side is, as good as I am at being content in crappy circumstances, I’m equally good at being miserable in perfect ones. I’ve been known to feel utterly dejected and wretched while sitting on the back of a boat in a Caribbean harbor on one of the most beautiful starry nights a tourist could ask for. At this specific point in time I had a partner, an interesting job, plenty of money, and - oh yes - was spending two and a half weeks sailing around lush tropical islands eating barbequed shrimp, drinking rum and gingers, and watching dolphins leap around the prow of the boat. From the outside, it appears to be everything any sane person needs to be ecstatic. But I wasn’t.

I suppose you could look at it as a prime example of Privileged Girl Being Profoundly Ungrateful, but I think it’s more accurate to say that you can be unhappy in the best of circumstances and happy in the worst. Which leads me to believe your current circumstances don’t prescribe your happiness or lack thereof.

(For the record, it was amazing trip. It just didn’t manage to make me into a different person. Damn.)

Being miserable on a Caribbean beach may just be my own macabre talent, but it always reminds me that what I - and our culture in general - tend to recognize as harbingers of great joy don’t make one bit of difference to your actual happy quotient. Nice house, good-looking mate, successful career, sweet vacations - I’ve had all these things (OK, the house wasn’t mine, but I lived in the damn thing, so for the purposes of this post, it counts) and not had those things and I’ve since realized they don’t have the substantive effect one hopes they would. Sure, I’d rather be unhappy with these things than unhappy without, but there’s just no good substitute for actual contentment.

Well, fine then. GO AHEAD AND MAKE IT SO MY CREDIT CARD DOESN’T FULFILL ITS GLEAMING PROMISE.

For me, right at this moment, there are any number of things I can use for short-term happiness: a mocha, a new paperback novel, a hike in Pacifica, pulling out the dusty yoga DVD, coercing friends to brunch. Long-term reliable happiness is a little trickier. Or maybe it’s not. In the past six months, whenever I feel the unhappy creep in, I try to pull myself out of my head - maybe by taking those deep breaths people are always talking about (oxygen is important! who knew?) or just looking around and noticing where I am, right at that moment. Often, where I am is pretty good.

Essentially, there are two ways I can look at my life right now:

Way Number One

I’m alone.

I live in a hallway that’s prone to mold.

I haven’t had a vacation or real mental break in a year and a half.

My career is faltering or nonexistent, depending on your definition.

I don’t have any savings.

Way Number Two

I have a nice little place in my favorite city.

I’m young, healthy, and have always been able to earn what I need.

I’ve had the opportunity to visit some of the most beautiful places on earth and, statistically speaking, will get to go somewhere soon.

I have loving friends and family who are always there when I need them.

I’m figuring out how to do more of what I love, whether it makes me money or not.

~

I occasionally have moments - sometimes whole hours - where all I see is Way Number One. But far more often, I’m feeling Way Number Two. And that makes me happy.

~~~

Footnotes (Minus the Convenient Numbers):

Inspired by Susan and Chris because their posts made me think and isn’t it nice when that happens?

My happiness assessment is obviously culled from my own experience - experience which, thankfully, does not include homelessness or hunger or real tragedy. I don’t know what happiness requires in those circumstances, but I do know what it requires in mine - which I suspect is the best any of us can do.