(no subject)

I was walking rapidly down Mercer Street, trying to hold in my tears.

One of the itinerant graphic designers, all folded up against a building with her Mac on her knees and a ratty sweater tied around her shoulders, noticed I was in distress and called out, hey, do YOU know how to deal with the new Final Cut? (Because that must be why I was upset, right, because I'd been wrestling with software.)

I looked at her and almost, almost lost it. But then I faced forward, sped up and moved on.

I don't remember why I was so upset. Just that walking fast helped.

Dreams are weird.

Well. THAT's never happened before.

Big ol' clump of mud RIGHT in the middle of my bundle of spinach.

What the hell.


** ETA: Alright, this deserves a little more unpacking. See, they sell two kinds of spinach in nearly every standard grocery I've been to here in the big city. There's your normal no-frill twisty-tied bundle of >> SPINACH << , with the barcode and three different corporate labels printed on the tie, what gets misted with all the other veggies like a normal hunk of produce. And then there's the ~Organic Baby Spinach~, pre-washed and in a totally extraneous plastic container.

I've had problems with extraneous packaging since India, where the trash wasn't helpfully trucked away from us every day, but even more than that my gut reaction to this choice is to see it presented as yet another tiny symptom of the growing class dichotomy that's fucking America over. (Yeah yeah. I should just rename this blog The Economist's Daughter.)

So with this bit of fuzzy discontent I opt to get the bundled spinach, knowing that my mother will be annoyed that I'm not feeding myself organic but it's more than twice as expensive, come on. And then, mud. And slimy rotting bits of spinach all embedded in. Super- nice.

This has been another issue of Getting Mad Without A Target.