It's Just Wrong

We have a problem here.  We have a very acute contrast that needs to be corrected, quickly.

I just paid a visit to the office men's room.  I'm standing there at urinal station two, everything is going great, no turbulence to report.  So I'm relaxed.  About three seconds into the process, the overwhelming smell of the room invades my nose and consciousness.  It's not what you're thinking.  It's not even remotely related to what you're thinking and that is the problem.  Our men's room smells like fresh, hot-out-the-oven vanilla cake.  Not just vanilla, mind you, because that's a popular enough scent in candles and incense and such as to be innocuous by now, but rather, warm vanilla cake.  If you're going to load the scent dispenser in a men's room (and please, please do that), you need to be using your pines, your ocean breezes, your sandalwoods.  Hell, I'll even give you "clean cotton" because, as we all know, at least that is related to what's happening in a restroom in the opposite sense.  But in no instance anywhere, ever should there be a food scent fogged into a men's room where all hell has been known to break loose frequently throughout any given 60 hour work week, especially not a food as specific and delicious and emotionally-provoking as warm vanilla cake.

Sure enough, just as I was hurrying along to finish and escape this gas chamber of horrors, some nameless of pair of feet gave us all a jarring blast from its ass, seemingly just to drive home the point.  Warm vanilla cake in a men's room is a scent confounding to the senses, a senseless choice made by an obviously sadistic mind.

Square One

There is a lovely kind of peace to the new year.  After the holiday crescendo of Christmas, there's a quiet lull, like that moment in flight after a steep takeoff where you level out and settle in, overlooking an endless blanket of clouds.  For a brief period, the calendar is blank, the bank account is bare, and there is the opportunity to consider the potential for the year ahead before it's begun to take shape on its own.  What do I want to happen this year?  What will inevitably happen that I never could have imagined?  What's more fun than possibility?

This weekend will be the second in a row in which I will "do" very little and yet I am as excited for it as I would be to go to Disneyland (Okay, almost).  Sleep in.  Have a relaxing breakfast and read the paper.  Open all the windows and play those albums I'd been meaning to give a second and third listen.  NFL Playoffs on TV.  Have a beer or three because, why not, I'm not going anywhere.  Take a walk.  Take a nap.  Walk down to the grocery store and forage for dinner.  Cook!  Really, actually cook!  Play more music.  Dance.  Watch a movie.  Or two.  Sunday: repeat, with the exception of a show Sunday night, because it is good to get out amongst the lively, in small doses. (Please forgive my stylistic writing there, I was just not hearing it with commas.)

Someone asked me today about doing something in the near future and while I appreciate how nice of a gesture it was, part of me wants to fervently defend my lack of commitments.  If I were being completely honest without consideration, I would say, "No.  I have no plans and don't wish to make any, thank you very much."  But I try not to be such an arse.

I write about having no commitments as I'm an hour away from starting my acting class again.  Hypocrite!  I am truly excited about getting back to it.  Like the Avett Brothers' sing, "Now I'm rested and I'm ready...Rested and I'm ready...Now I'm rested and I'm ready to begin."  I think the month off (less than that really) was a wise choice.  I needed a break just to live in my own skin for a few weeks.  Plus, a fresh start is almost always great idea if you can do it.  I feel open, very unset in my ways at the moment and am looking forward to finding my way through a new scene.  And, on that note, I must now go prepare my traditional, never-to-be-skipped-or-deviated-from peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  Hypocrite!

Happy New Year.