"It's not a bed," Chuck told me recently while we were contemplating our worldly goods.
"What do you mean it's 'Not a bed'?" I asked.
"It used to be a bed. Now it's just a mattress and box spring," he told me, adding a long story a broken frame and an eager buyer at a garage sale years ago.
I guess I'd noticed that I never lost a sock under it. That the Gatorade bottles pile up next to the bed instead of lolling in a cat-hair coat in a hard-to-reach place. I used to have my own bed, a sleep-machine that fit the definition of a bed-bed. I donated that to the woman who now sleeps in my old bedroom in my old apartment so I wouldn't have to lug it a mile when I moved in with Chuck. Now, comparing the two things in my head, I see that Chuck is right. It is just a mattress and box spring.
I had no idea.
This is just one of a few things that have come to my attention in the past few months. Another: There is something about my body chemistry and the standard laptop that renders the latter useless. In my most recent purchase, the USB ports started malfunctioning one at a time until none of them worked. Now the damn thing won't stay online for more than 3 minutes at a time. It revs like a helicopter, gets hot, freezes. It's a piece of shit. Instead, I use one of Chuck's backup desk top computers on which he has installed Linux. For about a year, I have believed that neither YouTube nor Hulu worked on this computer. Blah blah Linux. Blah blah incompatible. That the sound didn't work.
Yesterday Chuck told me that I could use both features. That I just had to turn on the speakers. Turns out he is right.
A PRAIRIE HOME SUCK-PANION
If you were to tell me that you don't like "A Prairie Home Companion," I would make some pretty grand assumptions about your political affiliations and the size of your brain. You can't not like APHC. It's charming. It's Minnesotan.
A few weeks ago I realized that I hate "A Prairie Home Companion." Garrison Keillor's lazy horny-toad voice, all those banjo interludes. Kill me now. I'd rather listen to Click and Clack, and they talk about one of my least favorite topics: cars. But in every episode, you can imagine having Thanksgiving dinner with these clowns. "Pass the gravy, Clack."
I realize this probably means I've been sucked into some sort of pedestrian quicksand, but I really like Coldplay. Sometimes I listen to the Coldplay station on Pandora, even though it means I might come face to face with Jason Mraz (suck). Something about Coldplay soothes my soul. I'm hoping this isn't a gateway drug to passing out on a couch after the 10 o'clock news, organizing dinner parties at Olive Garden. "Pass the breadsticks, Clack."
I read "Candy Girl" when it first came out, and can't remember what I thought about it. I saw Juno, and can't remember what I thought about that, either. I've observed Diablo Cody's life the same way I observe the plotline on "One Tree Hill": Not exactly sure why I'm doing it, but doing it just the same. I follow her on Twitter; I would read a story about her in any sort of magazine. But I have been unable to decide if I like or loathe her.
Finally, I have an answer: I love Diablo Cody.
"Jennifer's Body" is brilliant. It is both clever and cleverly derivative. Almost a mocku-horror flick. Totally 80s-style kitch, but an 80s-style of kitch that makes fun of itself. We've just finished watching Season 1 of "United States of Tara" and there it is again. This wordy dialog that is so fun and interesting and visual and quote-worthy.
My friend Tuska recently told me that she doesn't like Cody precisely because of the way she writes dialog. Tuska knows a thing or two about directing, and said she is distracted by how unnatural the phrases are. I'll give Tuska that. But I'm still sold. Cody writes the kind of things where you don't even want to laugh because you're going to miss the next bit of hilarious genius spat from a character's mouth.
I'm a fan grrrl.