Sunday Morning Coming Down

I spent this past weekend in Reno, NV, celebrating my friend Heather’s birthday. We had a grand time, as one does in Reno. I tweeted Sunday morning “‘The beer I had for breakfast, wasn’t bad so I had one more for dessert.'” It was a true depiction of my situation as it might be yours, this victorious Tuesday morning (Go Giants!).

This tweet came up on my weekly phone call with my aunts and mother last night. Neither of my aunts or my mother caught that I was quoting song lyrics. My belief that it’s clever to tweet/FB lyrics without attribution is perhaps misguided and disrespectful to the artist.

It is a lyric from the Kris Kristoffersen song, Sunday Morning Coming Down. Until I Googled it, I would have assumed it was written by Johnny Cash, who introduced the song–in its glorious wisdom–to me.

It’s the tale of the morning after a night of adventure…the nostalgia, the regret and the basic human urges.

Without further ado…Johnny Cash performing Sunday Morning Coming Down, my favorite Sunday morning hangover song.*

*Will, the bf, and I just had a conversation about whether to admit to hangover on the Internet. I said to him, “Babe, we just bought! We should embrace the hangover with two fists!” To which he replied, “It’s true that the Sunday morning hangover is generally acceptable.” Conversation over.

you know blog

we have to talk about something.

I feel like, sometimes, you judge me. Yep, it’s true. I feel like, if I don’t write on you enough, you start to emit these really hateful vibes. Like, who are you, to think you can keep a blog alive and then watch as it barely even changes on a MONTH TO MONTH basis?!! What kind of mother will you be?!!!!! Would you want to live like that?!! Have some compassion, you HO!

Well, look blog. I’ve been cheating on you. I’ve been toying with various open source software options, and installing plugins to FireFox. I’m even considering installing Linux. And, of course, there’s mySpace. Ohhhh, my beloved mySpace.

Now, I know that we can all get along and you’re down with polyamory and all, but…

To be straight, you’re just not that high of a priority. Do you even know how slow I am at answering email? Let alone phone calls?!!

And you’re a little too public. I’m going to run for civic office one day, you know. We have to be realistic about things. I don’t think this is going to work out.

Unless, maybe, if we made you a wiki, and then I might never be ultimately responsible for your content?

Worth some follow up thinking, I’d say. Your thoughts, blog?

Susie J's life lessons March 13, 2006

1. If one clips their toe nails regularly, their socks aren’t wont to get those gaping holes in the big toe.

2. If drinking six vodka tonics and two beers one night lands one in the depths of the H.O., one should deduce that drinking nine vodka tonics and three beers the next night will do the same.

3. Always avoid saying I love you as long as possible.

4. Neglected eyebrows will never pluck themselves.

5. Not only does Schwan deliver delicious ice cream to your doorstep, but it also offers lots of yummy and convenient microwavable party food–the perfect contribution to any friends’ soiree. And they’re hiring. I know cause they have a van parked right outside. It’s going to get a ticket come 9 a.m. for blocking the street sweeper. But I won’t. I learned that lesson.

6. Regretfully, a filing system requires a modest amount of upkeep.

7. America’s Best Value Inn is not, at first inquiry, America’s best value for accomodations.

can you darling…can you picture this?

The sun’s shining, but you curse its very life-warming essence, that’s how far down in the H.O. you are today. But the air smells crisp, and if it wasn’t for your inevitable arrival at your place of employment, life wouldn’t be so bad after all. You approach your BART station, stick your ticket through, and ascend/descend to the requisite platform. A seasoned traveler, you don’t have to wait long, no, not long at all, for your train to arrive.

And sure, your earphones are coddling your hangover. It’s not soo bad. It doesn’t matter where on the train you choose. Wherever you’re going, your day is about to be perfect.

This is why: Over the bitter strains of Belle and Sebastian, or maybe you’ve given in and bought a Brighteyes album… whatever your poison, fate interrupts, and you hear my voice – yes! my voice!! – announcing the approaching BART station. Your body fills with glee. Just imagine. “Dublin/Pleasanton.” Maybe I would pronounce the forward slash “Dublin-forward-slash-Pleasanton.” Maybe you’re not going to DP. You’re going to 12 street. “Twelth Street” – can you hear it?!! And then, how eloquently I would deliver the transfer instructions! Oh. That’s the sound of sweetness, that’s what that would be. Your toes would curl in anticipation. You wouldn’t be able to wait to detrain. And when you did, there’d be my smiling face peeking out of the top of the train. Waving; ensuring all my passengers safely made it off the train, over that little gap and up the stairs.

Yes, yes, this would be perfection. This is my calling. I am ready. Sometimes I might misspeak and say “MacBart” rather than “MacArthur.” I’ll develop a following. Folks will laugh – actually laugh – on my BART train. We’ll have dance parties when we go under the bay. I’ll turn on my mini radio, and abuse the microphone. I’ll open the doors at strange places late at night. We’ll let on the loonies, and never complain.

And let’s say you and I have plans for the evening, but we have yet to finalize them. While commuting, all you need do is press that little button (maybe three times) and you will actually talk to me way up at the front of the train in the control pit! We’ll have a quick chat, and arrange to meet at 16th and Guerrero at 5:15. I’ve been working since three a.m. – it will be time for drink. And then you’re not going to wonder all day when we’re going to meet up as you otherwise might have.

I say, life is grand. We’re not even going to need cell phones anymore. Now, aren’t you glad to see me?

Three days at a home fair in Santa Rosa


1:15 p.m. Show up fifteen minutes late, hung over as a mother fuck. I can’t think, let alone communicate. Apparently, we’re selling sponges (I think I knew that?). But not the kind that keeps you from getting knocked up. Nor the kind that we typically use to clean around the house. (Those are filled with gaping holes – a haven for dirt, germs and bacteria.) Not to mention, they’re not absorbant at all, but we’ll get to that.

We’re not just selling sponges. We’re selling sponges. With a microphone, glaring lights, a rehearsed charming demo… The booth is complete with water heaters and Sponge Bob action figures (we are selling yellow sponges).

I can’t think at all. Spent the day bagging two big ones (one for the bathroom, and another for general cleaning – they retail on QVC for $19.95 a sponge, but here at the home show, they’re buy one get one), one small one (the perfect size for tubs, sinks, teflon, pots, pans and dishes) and a paper describing what to do when they get rock hard (why bacteria cannot survive and they don’t get the nasty odor those cellulite sponges get) and where to buy more (but you won’t need another one – they’re guaranteed for a year, but they’ll last for up to twenty or longer).

The demo ends with a dramatic demonstration of how the sponge removes Diet Pepsi from a square of light-colored carpet, Carpe Diem. Carpe Diem is not just any carpet, either. He has a sponge backing which absorbs the Diet Pepsi so it doesn’t form an unattractive puddle on the demo counter. He gets a bath every night, and when he’s not working a home show, he’s accompanied by framed pictures of beloved daughter and grandchildren.

I try to learn the spiel. Three damn minutes. I can’t take it. Pot food won’t help, I decide (thankfully – I can’t risk any more panic attacks at temp jobs).

I refuse to put on the microphone… Still in the H.O. at eight p.m. when the damn thing finally closes.


10:15 a.m. Try the demo, wind up spilling Diet Pepsi on the woman I’d suckered into watching my botch of a demonstration. It really is a convincing demo – especially when my mentor presents it. No one wouldn’t buy these sponges. They’re bacteria, mold and mildew resistent. They work like a vaccuum (that’s why we call it “the sponge that sucks”). It easily cleans any and all surfaces without scratching or leaving any streaks. Use it on cars, boats, RV’s, kitchen counters and kitchen appliances. It even works as a squeegee on your shower doors and glass.

It turns out my mentor has never once spilled Diet Pepsi on a customer in her five years in the business. The customer receives one free sponge, though she hadn’t witnessed the magic absorbant capabilities so vividly demonstrated by Carpe’s dance with Diet Pepsi, and thus she’ll probably never appreciate it. She was pissed, and rightfully so. She left with a brown stain on the crotch of her white pants. Well-rested me decided that it would be socially ackward to demonstrate the amazing absorbant capabilities of the sponge that sucks in this situation. I decide not to cry.

Hours pass. I sell my first sponges. I wear the microphone. I (mostly) remember the spiel, though I’m always forgetting to point out that they’re machine washable (or throw them in the dishwaster – I even bleach mine!). I even say, “So, if you get a spill, what do you do? Get excited, run and grab some paper towels. You might do a little dance on the paper towels, but a whole roll won’t get up the stain or the smell”, and make the joke about pouring the Diet Pepsi back into a glass – either “give it to the person who spilled – you’ll save money on drinks that way” or “give it to the kids – they’ll never know.” America laughs at that. And they love it when I say the word “pee”, even when it is imbedded in a list of liquids the sponge sucks up (not that that list is finite if the list of liquids is not).

8:15 p.m.: I leave the home fair and drive back to Oaktown, to return by noon the next day (which I accomplished, by the way…well, noon oh five). I try the towel (if you buy a bag right now, we’ll throw in a free towel – works like a chamois on your car or trucks, try it as a travel towel – Speedo makes one that Olympic swimmers use to towel off with after events). Not really as absorbant as I’d imagined. And it’s kinda hard to wash off. I’m a little disillusioned. I decide it takes multiple uses to really appreciate their usefulness, and I plan to try it as a face cloth (companies like Aveda, the Body Shop, Dermalo…oh fuck, why can’t I ever say it right?…DermalogEEEca market small squares of it for washing your face – it removes dirt oil and reside without getting any bacteria).

No need for complete sentences when you’re selling something. All that matters is that someone buys what you’re selling.

I manage to acquire prescription speed at the party I attend, a perfect solution to the problem that was the consequence of attending the party in the first place: not sleeping enough.


Take the Adderol and a bong rip, have a lovely drive to Santa Rosa.

12:15 p.m.: My mentor says “you’re looking awfully chipper this morning!” I feel validated. I sell some mops while she demos.

I demo. I sell three sets of sponges from one demo – not bad considering “it takes time to handle crowds.” I realize that I’m really only approaching women with the sponges. The men don’t really nod when I ask them if they’ve noticed how your normal cellulose sponge gets those smelly smells while I wave a clean one in their face. Lukily it’s dripping water, something a PVA sponge never does. It holds the liquid in until you squeeze the end or twist it like a towel. (I later learned that I was not twisting the sponge correctly. I’m going to practice this and my intonations before our next home fair in Conord in April.)

You have to hypnotize the crowd.

And when you do, as my mentor did time and time again, they grab the bags of sponges off the counter. You can’t take the money fast enough, or demonstrate again soon enough to keep their attention. The crowd always moves. But the ones that stay will never have a smelly sponge again. Did I mention that they’re guaranteed for a year, but I’ve heard from customers that they will last for up to twenty? Sometimes I forget to mention that. They’re made of Poly Vinyl Alcohol. (Did I get that right? sometimes I get it wrong. I called “Poly Virtual Alcohol” to one dude, and he didn’t bat an eyelash. Haha. Virtual alcohol. I like it.) It’s a material invented by NASA. It collects dirt, hairs and grime but since it’s dense with only microscopic pores, all the dirt, hairs and grime collects on the outside to be easily washed off by a stream of hot water. It’s the most absorbant material around, and these sponges are the most durable and sanitary on the market.

I learn that there’s money in sales. And you really don’t need complete sentences, but, really, I rather like complete sentences. What I don’t like is the forty hour work week, 50 weeks a year – anything to avoid that.

The big boss comes to meet me, right when I’m selling a mop to a lady who was lucky enough to witness a demo by my mentor. I’ll take it. I’m wearing the microphone and everything.

A trio of three elderly buy a set of sponges from me. They’re going to split the set between them (the towel you receive as a complimentary gift is so big that you can cut the towel in half or quarters to make one dish cloth, one dust rag, and still have half to use for a personal towel – great for traveling! – or a facial rag). They ask me whether I had to memorize the demo, since it seemed so natural to hear me say it. I admit that yes, I had to learn it. They ask how long I’ve been working on it. I modestly pronounce that today was only my third, yes, that’s right, third day selling sponges. I take their congratulations. Fills my belly. Have
I eaten?

I take the congratulations of a long-haird gentlemen that was awfully impressed with my demonstration, but somehow not impressed enough to buy a set of sponges. Asshole. He suggests that they’re really a quite a hippie product, since they’re reusable and biodegradable. I recognize how correct he is, and wonder how he can see my leg hair through my jeans.

The day ends. We total with $5400 in sales (not the best for a homeshow, but not the worst – though, admittedly, in the lower five). I walk away with $300, one mop, six big sponges, one small sponge, and two towels. Not to mention the infinite benefits of the knowledge that the selling of cleaning sponges is a sexist business (men don’t need to see Carpe’s role in the demo – all they need to know is that the PVA sponges and towels won’t leave streaks on their vehicle), that the handle of the mop is telescopic not stereoscopic (it extends to up to five and a half feet – use it to clean high up windows, or RV’s – and compacts for easy storage), and that you really don’t need to know how to spell chamois, or realize that it ought to be italicized in print, to sell a sponge that comes with a free one.

6:15 p.m.: I can’t wait to try out my new PVA mop on our mold on the bathroom ceiling. I drive back to Oak town, lock my keys in my car.

11:41 p.m.: Retreived keys thank goodness for AAA, but have yet to try out my new PVA mop on forementioned mold. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.

daunted on a Thursday

i have what i’ve decided to call “the worst temp job ever”, though that is possibly untrue. Possibly, or probably, i will discover in my life a “worse temp job than the worst temp job ever” and I find that possibility only minimally satisfying.

the planet ruling my life right now is characterized by a constant desire for a more satisfying satisfaction. i used to have a shower head that advertised it was “even wetter feeling” and if water has degrees of wet feeling, and higher degrees cause a more satisfying shower – it really was a damn good shower head – how many degrees of satisfaction do I in fact need?

direction = satisfaction, perhaps a true statement. love = satisfaction, perhaps true as well. no definitive identity relations hold in these equations…at least from my point of view. without any, then, the I is an i, is a me, and I am daunted by dissatisfaction. so daunted i did not go to the auto repair shop to file files and move files and unmove filed files and then move the files i moved yesterday.

but i am not daunted. tonight…a night for satisfaction. my horoscope said so. in the fine print that no one else can read without the lense of one experienced in such things. a night for a new bar – an experience always satisfying. i like going into a bar that i have previously only experienced intermediate to maximally wasted. it always looks so different with fresh, undrunken eyes, as the Elbo Room looked to me last Tuesday. and it was that in an effort not to be daunted i utilized those four gin and tonics during happy hour and wound up at work in the h.o.. and that i have utilized nameless other drinks and bars on these days of existing thus unsatisfied. Southern bars filled with southern men wanting to take me home or for a ride in their helicopter…or not southern men, but still, the same damn itinerary.

Satisfying would be a fresh itinerary. today i got a fresh itinerary, and I shall and am utilizing it. tomorrow i will make a fresh itinerary. everyday is a fresh itinerary, but how can that not on its own be fairly daunting?especially with the decreasing chances of visiting novel bars. what i need to find are the correct conditions for satisfaction = everyday. or satisfaction = breathing, cause then, i couldn’t avoid being satisfied. or, perhaps…

satisfaction = blogging.