I’m grumpy. Not hella grumpy, mind you, just regular grumpy. I suppose it’s from a week of drinking booze and eating varieties of delicious, weird, snack food that Trader Joe’s is always inventing, getting you hooked on, then discontinuing. (“Dark chocolate covered, rosemary-seasoned aspirin, anyone?”)
Maybe it’s because the weather just became truly warm here in L.A.; the kind of warm that makes you hate wearing shirts and leaves you wanting to bear-hug an electric fan. Most folks here love this weather – in fact, many moved here specifically for it. I am not those people. I like the north aspect to North America. And if it is going to get hot, I want it to smell like baked oak trees and wild grasses – not car exhaust and Beyoncé’s Heat.
No amount of orange juice makes this stuff taste good, FYI.
Maybe I’m grumpy because we* finally found the right bookshelves for our bedroom after an exhausting day of umlaut deciphering, baby stroller dodging and meatball eating at our nearest Ikea, only to discover that we forgot bookends, which we need before we can use the shelving.
(As a side note, I was and am definitely grumpy to discover just how much bookends cost. It’s ridiculous! I went to Staples to buy something basic and was so horrified at the prices they asked that I almost punched a perfectly innocent roll of bubble-wrap. Why are bookends so expensive, Earth?! It’s not like they’re a particularly complicated feat of engineering. They don’t require gallons of oil to be made and most don’t come encrusted in blood diamonds. I’m not asking for a matching set of porcelain Siamese cats or genuine Art Deco blocks of marble flourishes – I just want some steel shaped like an “L” to keep my compendium of Chas Addams illustrations from falling to the floor, at a price that won’t doom me to a diet of boiled millet. Is that so much to ask?!?)
The worst part of being grumpy is having to hang out with yourself. I mean, the last thing I feel like doing is hearing someone whine and bitch about warm weather and bookends – I mean, get a rope, already!
Therefore, I am determined to be proactive about my grumpy mood. I turn to my bag of tricks, cultivated from years of getting to know myself (and pretty intimately, I might add – we even dated for a while), which help alleviate any foul disposition and aid my accord, accordingly.
What makes me feel less un-rad? I mean, besides smoking Djarum Blacks and playing hours and hours of Scrabble against my iPhone (neither of which are healthy in large doses). Well, reading books at a park always puts me at peace, or even just escaping to a café and ordering something to drink that comes with a spoon. That’s nice. Or, if those options aren’t doable, it can also be pleasant to stay at the Four Seasons on Lana’i, get massages in a private tent on the beach and follow that with a five-course meal. But who has that kind of time? Besides, if I could afford that, would bookends be such a vexation?
Thank [insert deity of choice here] there’s music. I can always count on certain songs to be the sonic Prozac I so desire. And so, in an effort to satisfy your endless (and almost troubling) curiosity about what makes me the man I am, but also to help get me out of my current funk, I’ve assembled the following mix of music that’s more powerful than any shade of blues to which my serotonin lends its hues. Enjoy… especially you, dear author.
*”We” consists of myself and my rad boyfriend.