2004-03-08

Things upon which I have developed a strange and unaccountable fixation lately:

Throwing shit out. This is probably a combination of the impending arrival of spring and of watching way too many episodes of Clean Sweep; also of the fact that I�m leaving the country in approximately twelve weeks and three days (and eleven hours). But whatever the reason, my urge to purge is in overdrive, and I am setting gleefully upon my bulging closets and cupboards, ruthlessly consigning to the dustbin all manner of knickknacks, holiday decorations, partially-functioning electronic equipment, dubiously flattering items of clothing, fossilized beauty products, old indie newspapers (no, I will never get around to reading all those record reviews: I am forever doomed to un-hipness and out-of-the-loopness, alas), alarming agglomerations of rubber bands, sleek-but-impractical Ikea items, nylons with holes, swizzle sticks from bars in Brooklyn, Chinese takeout menus, bags of barley (who am I kidding?), dull scissors, stale pet treats, the Lost Boys soundtrack on cassette (wha???), and single mittens. Yes, my love affair with Glad Bags has been a real voyage of self-discovery. Literally, in fact, since I was in danger of being lost forever under an avalanche of bric-a-brac.

Self-help books. You won�t see these listed in my �reading� field at the bottom of the page, since I�m way too embarrassed to reveal actual titles; I�m very paranoid about being seen as credulous. It�s a slippery slope: one day you�re reciting a few affirmations to help develop your self-esteem, the next you�re two hundred pounds and oozing viscous streams of mascara all over Dr Phil as you blubber that you self-medicate with food to make up for the fact that your dad never came to your ballet recitals. Very dodgy industry. But the books are just so damn seductive. And fie on those who say they don�t work! After reading one, which I usually do in a matter of hours, in the manner of a guilty dessert after finishing a �real� book, I generally feel very positive about myself for a whole evening. And until they start letting me check a sixpack of beer out of the library for free (oh, happy day!), that�s a very economically viable way to improve my outlook on life.

Black licorice. Where have you been all my life? Bizarrely, I�ve always � always � utterly loathed the taste of black licorice. To the point that if I got any in my Halloween bag as a child, I would throw it out, a fate not even reserved for those crappy little boxes of raisins. As an adult equivalent to this, I�ve been known to actually turn down free shooters if the proffered liqueur was Sambucca, Anisette, Pernod or any of the syrupy licorice drinks. But a few weeks ago, I caught a whiff of fennel seed tea in a grocery aisle, and realized that it smelled really good. It�s a whole new candy world! I love licorice! It frightens me, though � if I go about randomly ceasing to hate things, what�s next? Stiletto heels? Light beer? Children? Supertramp??? I DON�T KNOW WHO I AM ANYMORE.