She doesn't know her ass from a hole in the ground.

Since I just returned from a halcyon week in the South with a whole slew of fabulous people, one might think that I'd be peaceful and nourished and rejuvenated - but perhaps one would only think that if one didn't know me.

Here's the thing. Most of the fabulous people I spent the week with are really into their occupations - their grad programs, their careers, etc. I am not. Now, don't misunderstand me - I love what I do outside of work, and I'm very excited about what I will be doing, but currently, I'm just showing up for a paycheck. I keep my eyes open, I bare my teeth in what I hope looks like a smile, I do a day's work in 2.5 hours, and then I try to pass the time without getting fired. I have done this with every job I've had since leaving grad school.

I know that what I'm about to admit is whiny and mealy-mouthed and privileged and probably indicative of a weak mind. In fact, I'm sure that some of you will tell me to go put on my big girl panties and buck the f*ck up. I take your point; my life is really nice. Nonetheless, the simple truth is that I am my primary interest. When anything other than n.o.c., or my family, or my friends takes me away from that, then I become bored and murderous and a little hysterical. I know that millions of good folks spend their lives toiling away at sh*ttier jobs than I can imagine, and I know that many of them make the best of it, but I am simply not that admirable a person. And I bet you thought this post would be about the beach.

Anyway, we think we may have found some ambergris. It's either that, or some really disgusting, stinky sea funk with a booger-like consistency. What do you think?

heigh ho

I'm back at work today, clearly as industrious as ever. If I told you that spring break made work seem better or more rewarding, I would be lying; all it did was emphasize how much I dearly love not working. But this is getting awfully close to a whine, and that's far too self indulgent for someone who has just done a fat lot of not much for a week and a half.

I had the good fortune to spend a few days of my vacation with one of my college roommates. She lives in Morganton, NC, a teensy town about an hour from Asheville. Bizarrely, I've since stumbled on a whole slew of folks who've had their own Morganton experiences. Small effing world.

Anyway, whenever I'm in a place like Morganton where the cost of living is low, I feel compelled to compare prices. I fear that this generally puts me in a bad light, and I end up sounding like some incredulous, tightfisted Yankee that David Sedaris might write about. "You paid how much for your house? For a whole house?! Ha! That wouldn't get you a cardboard box and a shared pickle jar where I'm from! " or "You paid what in taxes? For a whole year?! I could find that in my couch cushions!" or "Dinner for two for twenty dollars! I've had bagels that were more expensive! Cripes, you people have it made!"

Of course, I've made certain trades for high mortgages and expensive dinners. For example, smoking in public establishments is not allowed here. I can dine at any of fifteen nearby Thai restaurants. Shade-grown, organic, free-trade coffee is widely available. Bars are open on Sundays. And, perhaps best of all, I seldom worry about running into people I don't want to see. After spending a few days in Morganton, I realize that these luxuries are worth the price. And so, here I sit, trying to look busy, so I can afford the lifestyle to which I have become accustomed.