Productination

“Hey, I’ll be in LA this weekend, am I going to see you?” said the message from a college ex-girlfriend.

“Maybe ;)” I responded. I had a project due next Monday.

“Aww, just maybe?! :(” she wrote. I smiled. She was such a sweetheart.

“Alright, you can have Friday night, call me when you get in,” I wrote.

I thought nothing of it until today, when I received her next text,

“Hey I’m sorry, I can’t hang out tonight. I get off work at 9 :(“ she wrote.

Awesome. I am no stranger to the maddening flakiness epitomized by young girls. In fact, this wasn’t the first time I had been flaked on that week. Fortunately, there is always a veritable cornucopia of backup plans to execute in LA.

Even so, I knew it’d be months before I had another opportunity to see her. I also wondered if she was really flaking because of time constraints, or if there was some other reason.

There was an easy way to find out.

“Haha, cool. I’ll pick you up at 930 :). Where are you staying?” I wrote.

In a mere 62 characters, I had acknowledged her previous message but ignored the part I didn’t like. I knew that the moment required a strong lead from me, and, based on previous experiences with women, I knew she would follow.

Unless of course, she had ulterior motives.

“The Best Western in Norwalk, is that too far?” she wrote.

“So, do you still write poetry?” she asked.

“Yeah, a little,” I said, “wanna hear some?”

“Sure,” she said.

We were standing in a crowded gelateria at the time, so it took a tremendous amount of determination for me to put on my best serious face.

I looked her right in the eye and said, deadpan, “We’re no strangers to love.”

“Oh my God…” she said, laughing.

“You know the rules, and so do I,” I continued. “A full commitment’s what I’m, thinking of.”

“Am I getting Rick Rolled IRL?!” she said, pronouncing it “eye are ell.”

“You wouldn’t get this from any other guy,” I said.

“What’d you think?” I asked her, grinning smugly.

“That was beautiful. You could maybe, make that into a song!” she said.

“I know, it’s totally going to be a number one hit!” I said.

“Well, maybe not right away,” she said.

“But in like, 20 years?” I said, completing her thought. We both laughed.

I wouldn’t say it’s mandatory that girls be geeky as a prerequisite for me to hang out with them, but it definitely helps. Girls, when I make references to geek culture, let it be known, I am testing you. I will assume that you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, that’s alright, we’re all geeky about different things, but if you do, that’ll definitely accelerate the process. Consider it a 2x multiplier.

And if you didn’t understand what I just said, guess what? That’s part of the test.

I peered inside the crisper drawer. The broccoli was turning brown, the squash had some soft spots, and the bell pepper was definitely molding.

It was time to make a soup.

I am simply amazed that we live in an age when food is so abundant that I can get quality, locally grown, organic produce delivered right to my door for about an hour’s wages. The past week, I’d been too busy to take advantage of my vegetable box, and it had been sitting in the bottom of my refrigerator while, night after night, I ordered out for sushi, green curry, and taquitos.

Oh how I love the green curry.

I was surprised that the vegetables were in as good a condition as they were; they were still largely salvageable!

Using a paring knife, I slipped in and out of the areas around the spoiled bits with great precision, excising the parts that were too far gone. When only healthy flesh remained, I swapped in a bigger knife for chopping.

The knife rest heavily in my hand. I steadied my grip and took my time as I brought it down. I felt every millimeter of the squash’s internal geography as the blade pierced the skin, sank through the pulp and fiber, and hit the solidity of the wood beneath it. Each vegetable had its own unique density and texture, and I savored the chance to chop this many different kinds at once.

Chopping zucchini was probably my favorite.

I sat in the tiny, cramped desk, my laptop battery dead, listening to the lecture. I had arrived to class about an hour late, and this was the first time in a couple weeks I had even shown up.

I saw scrawled on the chalkboard an outline for our project proposals, which were due in a week and a half, and started to panic. Holy crap it was really happening, I’d have to do some actual work in this class, and all my slacking had finally caught up! Would I be able to make a heroic effort and pull something magical out like I usually do?

I looked around the classroom, everyone else seemed to be paying rapt attention. They probably knew much better than I what the hell was going on. I considered the possibility that I was the worst student in the class. What series of choices had lead me to this colossal one-hundred and eighty degrees turn?!

I thought that taking a break over the summer might help restart myself for school. I had a nice vacation, a nice trip to Seattle. I got a lot of cleaning and organizing done in preparation, I went to all my classes the first week, and then…

Class let out, and I silently filed out of the room, head down. As I skated to work, the thought again crossed my mind, louder than it ever had been in the past.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for grad school.

Almost every day, I consider hanging it up, dropping out of grad school.

And almost every day, I work up the resolve to continue plowing through.

Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up.

I’m not lazy, this blog should be evidence of that, I’m just very selectively motivated. And right now, school isn’t doing it for me. I don’t wake up in the morning inspired to go to lecture. I don’t spend my free time thinking about topics we’ve discussed, or new ideas for projects. No, I try to scrape by on the bare minimum, so that I have enough time to program code, write words, and take pictures. That’s what moves me. That’s what keeps me up at night and yanks me out of bed every morning. That’s what gets me excited about going out into the world every day.

There was a time in my life when school was what drove me. I enjoyed going to classes, doing homework, taking tests. I was good at it, I knew I was learning a ton, and I was having fun. The fire’s died down.

I haven’t felt that hunger in about four years.

The most fucked up part of this totally un-tragic story is that I like telling people I’m in grad school. I have this crazy notion that people would think I’m dumb otherwise. It’s ridiculous, and shouldn’t be a factor.

It’s one of the main reasons I have yet to pull the plug.

Unlike most people in Los Angeles, I actually enjoy driving.

As I’ve already established, I rarely feel impatient, nor am I easily upset, so traffic and other people don’t bother me. The only time I get annoyed is when there are people in my car stressing out, and even then, I am still pretty centered.

I’ve put a yellow post-it note over my dashboard clock that simply says “NOW!” Seeing that I’m late to an appointment would not affect my driving, I drive as efficiently as possible all the time. I used to compulsively check the clock, which only served to create stress, without actually resulting in getting anywhere faster.

The same post-it note has been in place for over a year now and I love it. Other people are not as enthused, and sometimes insist on not only lifting it up to check the time, but broadcasting that information to my unwilling ears.

People have also asked me why I have no GPS in my car. Perhaps this concept will seem alien to most, but I don’t mind getting lost. I like the idea of having a compass, and I bought one from Walgreens to keep in my glovebox, but in general, printing maps from Google has been sufficient.

Taking a wrong turn somewhere does not bother me; it’s an opportunity to explore a path I’ve never been down before.

I left the house today intending to get my camera fixed. I ended up at Playa Del Rey.

Having put off doing my laundry for several weeks, I was going commando as I pulled up to the parking lot.

It’s been a recurring pattern in my life lately to put things off, to procrastinate. Actually, it’s been a recurring pattern in my life on and off for about the past ten years. While putting things off, I try to use my time wisely, hence the name of my website. But make no mistake, productive procrastination is procrastination nonetheless.

Of all the cleaning related tasks, I find laundering the most satisfying in terms of its “bang for buck” ratio. All I have to do is put my stuff in a machine, punch a couple buttons, and out comes clean clothes? Amazing.

Even so, my laundry situation had not gotten bad enough to warrant declaring bankruptcy, until today. See that’s the problem, the psychological cost of putting something off grows so gradually, it doesn’t outweigh the cost of handling it until usually it’s past the point of decency.

Only when I’ve re-reworn all my socks and underwear do I really start to feel desperate.

The quarters fell into the slot in slow motion, sliding against the tracks and clinking noisily against the others in the box below. I lifted the gray flap and poured in that fragrant, white powder, stopping arbitrarily. I never know how much to put in, but I figured that it’d be hard to go overboard.

I selected my options, hit start, and the cycle began anew.

I much prefer living in denial to receiving bad news, so like my recent run-ins with the dentist and the optometrist, I put off taking my car to the shop for as long as possible.

I had last changed my oil around the 13000 or 15000 mile mark. When my car turned 20000, I imagined vital engine parts grinding against each other, or my brakes going out while I was doing 85 on the 10E. I called the shop, and set up an appointment for today.

Apparently, I really lucked out with this shop. It’s been in the owner’s family for like sixty years, and was on some TV special about honest repairmen. I’ve been there before, and the service is always spectacular. When I made the appointment this time, I asked for oil change, tire rotation, and just, you know, a general inspection to make sure everything was running in tip-top shape.

I know very little about cars.

After dropping off my whip, I grabbed my DS and headed to a local coffeeshop. I helped villagers with their fucking math homework while sipping my delicious cafe du jour. A cover of one of my favorite songs played through the stereo, as the crowd chatter was abuzz with talk of Joe the plumber.

The mechanic told me that my car would be ready in an hour, he called after 40 minutes. I steeled myself, preparing to hear bad news and expecting a bill of thousands of dollars.

It was $47.50.

“Keep Thursday clear, M is going to Washington DC, and we’re sending her off in style!” the message from S said.

But after last week’s disappointments, I was hesitant. I already had plans to hang out with my other friend J that night, and I desperately wanted to catch up. After a moment’s thought, I decided to play it cool and reschedule with J.

Girls love it when you play hard to get. Right?

“Sorry babe, ’something’ ‘came up’, and I can’t make Thursday, we’ll have to catch up next week ;),” I wrote.

“Aww, I’ll try not to kill myself :(“ she replied.

J, such a sweetheart.

When today rolled around and I had no details of the evening’s festivities, I started to get antsy. S, told me she was flaking, but the group would be going dancing. She didn’t know where they were meeting. Awesome.

My other closest friends from that group weren’t returning my calls. After much nail biting on my end, they replied that they too weren’t going. Excellent.

Finally, I found two who confirmed that they’d be in attendance. Even then, no one seemed to know, or was willing to tell me, where or when we’d be meeting. Incredible!

I was running out of entries in my phone book, when finally, at 8:30, I reached someone who had a semblance of a plan, allowing my paranoia to shift focus from not knowing where we’d be meeting, to worrying that they’d leave without me.

Yeah, I’m a little crazy.

I love my optometrist.

She’s just so much…more attractive than my optometrist at home. In addition to being really nice, caring, and knowledgeable, she’s super cute.

Plus, you know, she’s a doctor, so if things don’t work out, I could still divorce her and take half her money.

Such were the thoughts running through my mind as I sat in that same chair, my face against that same phoropter, for the third time in the past month.

Today, she complimented me on my hair.

“Does it take long to get it like that?” she asked.

“No, not long, just a minute or two.” I said. What she didn’t know was that I had not showered this morning or last night, and that my hair was exactly as it was when I rolled out of bed. I was giddy.

“Your left eye isn’t healing as quickly as I’d like it. I’m going to give you some prescription strength eye drops, and then we’ll schedule another appointment in a week,” she said.

“Honey, you don’t have to make excuses just to see me again,” I said with my signature smirk, “you could have just invited me out for a cocktail.”

Or wait, no. That only happened in my head.

What she actually said was, “I’m going to give you some prescription strength eye drops, and then we’ll schedule another appointment in a week with that corneal specialist I mentioned.”

To which I replied, “OK. Sounds good.”

I wondered if she was on Facebook.