anomalous escapades

Or perhaps not so anomalous after all. It is entirely possible that the status quo is not the typical representation. I frequently maintain that I have an uneventful, quiet life, but there are days like today that make me just not so sure. 


In summary, I helped evacuate one of the largest museums in the world because Frank Gehry is building an underground annex while someone was showing my boyfriend their jolly roger studded thong. Yeah, I know. Right?


Obviously, the first question begging to be asked is: Why in the Warhol is Gehry designing an underground building?! 
For this I have no answer. As I shuffled around in the 4 square foot area I call work, my paw clutching my precious [Frank Gehry Morph pendant], I pondered this very question to no avail. If you figure it out, please enlighten me.


Turns out the evacuation was a mistake. A detonation for the aforementioned annex tripped an alarm, causing security to have a mild panic, resulting in a knee-jerk reflex to get everyone the hell out. It was completely unnecessary, but a welcome break in an otherwise quiet afternoon. 


The thong happening isn't my story. Nor was it my thong. Suffice it to say, my boyfriend is such a portentous persona that everyone wants to show him their goods. 


In pedestrian findings, and I mean in the ambulatory sort - not jejune blahness, take a moment to enjoy these fine points from around the city. 

flower show at Macy's - thanks Dr. Ivey!

proof I was radiant way before that was big in Japan

if it weren't for the Big Book of Sex Toys, little Oliver wouldn't be around for Mommy and Daddy to read to

finally - a sign in Chinatown that's I can read

Life is good.

lie - sold en masse

Sometimes it's just convenient to pass the buck. Blame someone else for shortcomings, mistakes, lost socks in the laundry. Oftentimes reassigning culpability leads to guilt - I mean, you didn't really want everyone to think the dog licked the icing off that cupcake, did you?
This time I feel no remorse, no guilt.


I blame Daylight Savings.


I keep forgetting it's Sunday. I'm completely convinced it's Monday. There can be no other explanation than the unbalancing due to this lie we all so passively accept.
The unsettling feeling doesn't end there either.


Last night I began Jean Hanff Koreltitz's Admission and was sure it was non-fiction. Yeah, I suppose the subscript of "A Novel" should have been a clue to the fictitious nature, but somehow that didn't register. For this too I blame Daylight Savings. Brilliant as I am, it couldn't have been my mistake - it must have been that we're conditioned to accept misinformation. The clock reads 2:02am on March 13th? Lie. It's really 3:02am.


The one thing we all count on (literally) and plan our lives by is jumbled, befuddled, tumbled, and rumpled. And obviously the consequences are much more severe that anticipated - it takes more than just a minor mussing to muddle my mind like mint in a mojito.


But really, what should have we expected? This whole charade was dreamed up by a man who wanted more time to collect bugs. Not to mention, the first practitioners were the Central Powers of WWI. Certainly a wonderful role model for major societal decisions.


So you, DST, you are to blame for my lost socks, my missing quarters, and my confused double takes at the calendar. Happy hour may be a bit brighter now, but otherwise, my nontraditional Arizona has it right.