My brain and tongue just met, and they ain't friends

Sales Associate at the Dress Barn is not an ideal job. It's not even an ideal summer part-time job, though it fights comfortably in the weight class of "fine." This was made all the more evident to me when, during my 20th hour at the 'Barn in three days, I found myself excited to realize that there was one more rack of shirts that I had yet to organize by sleeve length, and as a result I had one more dangling carrot of activity to distract me from the boredom.

Working with and for a whole bunch of middle aged women does have its perks, though. Being old enough to have officially eliminated any illusion of adults being Big Scary And Omniscient, the 'Barn allows me to get more than a glimpse into the middle aged, middle class suburban lifestyle that more likely than not awaits me, providing me with ample material to make a list of Traits I Will Not Have When I Do Eventually Achieve This Role. For example:

- I will not be unaware of my age. Specifically, having longer-than-shoulder-length hair tends to invoke the Laura Ingalls syndrome in people.
- I will not bring my husband shopping, an activity which I'm convinced will never be healthy for him, since usually the attitudes of the men trailing their wives in the store remind me of Old Yeller being brought back behind the shed.
- I will not be oblivious to the length, necessity of detail, and (lack of) plot arc to stories that I tell.
- I will not work at Dress Barn.

See? I'm growing already.

Maybe you should kiss someone nice. Or lick a rock. Or both.

During a conversation Drew and I got into the other day, one of us brought up secrets (having them, keeping them, theming gardens around them), and I decided I must not have a very good conception of what a "secret" is.

First, my initial reaction would be to say (which I did) that I don't have any secrets. I can't think of a single piece of information about my past or self that I wouldn't reveal if asked... except for small, specific things that I may keep from individual people, but not from the general population (I never got more than 100 pages into The Blind Assassin. Don't tell Jenny). Does that count? Because when I think of secrets, I tend to define them as things that you'd rather not tell the majority of people. A closeted gay man has a secret.

But both varieties are technically secrets. Consequently, I guess you'd have to consider whether it would be more insulting or significant to be one of the Uninformed Citizens in the General Population or to be Individually Out of the Loop. Considering how much of a bad rap being singled out gets (outside of TV dating game shows), being the subject of individual exclusion would seem like the greater evil. So does that mean I'm theoretically a worse person in the secret-keeping world?

Logically, maybe. But considering the inconsequential nature of most of my secrets, I'm still going to claim moral dominance over, like, closet serial killers.

5 Things I Like About Summer:
- Warm fingers and toes despite poor circulation
- Higher probability of seeing kids fall off skateboards
- Triple T Part II: "We can actually keep the ball in the court this year"
- Stopping the insanity
- Manifesting the Two Face syndrome in my body tan lines

I don't go to sleep to dream

Not that I could see it working any other way, but for some reason it's always seemed wrong to me that entering a relationship takes the combined, and sometimes laborious, effort of both parties, yet ending a relationship requires only the whim decision of one. A part of me feels like any end to a relationship should be more like a divorce, with both parties consenting before the separation is official, to appease my sense of balance. Of course, there are a million moral and logical issues that would crop up with the execution of that plan, which is why it's a good thing that I, with my priorities occasionally staked more heavily on theoretical aesthetic symmetry than practicality, do not run the world.

Yesterday JennyKoys and I were wandering around Barnes and Noble and having an undoubtedly immensely deep and philosophical discussion about Facebook. More specifically, we were talking about picture tagging, and the way both the practice and how it has developed reflects pretty standard stereotypes about teenage narcissism. At this point, people are always glad to see someone with a camera around, with the ego-tickling knowledge that any photos of them will be on the Interweb within 48 hours.

When it comes to vanity, though, taking an interest in your own appearance really isn't unreasonable. After all, out of everyone you know, you're probably the one who sees your own face the least, and when you do happen to catch a glimpse of yourself, it's at a pretty standard and unalterable angle. Most other people, on the other hand, aren't usually looking at you 100% square in the face all the time. I'd like to think that there has to be some benefit from seeing yourself more frequently in different lights and perspectives. And I mean a benefit other than "indescribable vanity."