Monday, April 16, 2007
I just drank a soy latte. Perhaps I should just stick to a simple cup of coffee because caffeine does a number on my spiritual alignment. I get all nutty. That’s a spiritual term based on the Latin root word that means “all sorts of crazy excited and then I feel like I could lift heavy objects or start a small business or replace the kitchen floor with fresh topsoil and start growing leafy green vegetables which will increase the amount of vitamin C in my diet.” Maybe some decaffeinated tea. Although sometimes when I order decaf tea I feel as though I have given up on life. As if the server should hand me the cup of tea with an afghan and I should take a nap under the table. Afghan, the blanket, not the people we are bombing. That would be weird. So I have this intense artificial stimulant pulsing through my veins, providing a great opportunity to talk about Netflix. I’ve been a member of Netflix for almost a year. At first, I really enjoyed having no deadline to watch and return my movie rentals. Yet, here in lies the problem. The convenience has become an inconvenience. Can that be considered a Twist of Fate? How great is that song? Where the bejesus was I? Yes, Netflix. I need a deadline. I have the worst time management skills imaginable. For instance, a couple of times a week I’ll have a show at 8pm with no appointments prior. The day will pass and I’ll randomly look at the clock at 7:15pm. This ignites a massive panic attack. Clothes flung in the air, chairs turned over, papers jammed into my bag, pitted against a backdrop of expletives. I rush towards the door, repeating my mantra, “phone, keys, wallet”. Inevitably, I will have misplaced one of these items. Example A of how fun it is to live with me. I start screaming, “Have you seen my wallet?” No. “Have you seen my keys?” No. “Are they on the table in the living room?” No. “Can you call my cell? I think it’s in my room somewhere.” Yeah, I guess. I do this two or three times a day. Back to Netflix. I need a deadline. I need a label on the movie that reads, return this on Wednesday UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH. Or perhaps something less intrusive like, return this on Wednesday UNDER PENALTY OF AN EXCRUTIATING TIGHT HAIR BRAID. Two months ago I rented an Inconvenient Truth and Pink Flamingos. Everyday I look at the movies and chastise myself for not watching them. It’s climaxed to the point of feeling actual resentment towards the movies. (Insert tone) “I realize, Al Gore, that you’ve made an important film. I’m going to watch it. I am. I’m just tired right now. I don’t know if I have it in me (a recurring thought as I’m about to watch documentaries). The polar caps are melting, life is so depressing, and we’re all going to drown so I may as well have a cocktail.” Then I pour myself a nice cold, crisp, oaky/dresser drawer, earthy, tangy, palate enhancing, dry, woody, viney, leggy, full bodied Sierra Nevada and hole up, determined to watch the movie tomorrow night which won’t happen because I’ve scheduled something that isn’t on my calendar but I need to attend which will cause another time management panic attack leading to more life questioning and alcohol consumption. Maybe I do like Netflix.