Ms. Smith (and K- Rock, Special K, Nay Nay and The Suz) Goes to Washington

"Tomorrow, summer ends. Doesn't it feel like it ended a long time ago?"
--The Suz

As if she knew we would need a cure for the soul-crushing malaise that sets in this time of year, K-Rock was on a mission Friday afternoon. That mission: get 4 (mostly) single women and one newlywed into a car, make them brave the Jersey Turnpike on a Friday evening and get them to our nation's capital to stalk the prevailing celebrity crush of American women over 30 with slightly liberal-leaning sensibilities.

Apparently there's nothing wrong with us that a little milling around on the Mall and a dodgy hotel room can't fix. By Saturday afternoon we had established a toehold on the dodgy hotel room and started counting the days until Oct. 29.

Sunday afternoon The Suz said to me, "This is so quintessentially us."

Well, it used to be us, anyway. That was before we got steady jobs and mortgages and dogs and lawnmowers and major appliances. Now we have to wait for three months out of the year to actually have the lives we wanted. Three months just seems a little shorter each year. It's not enough.

Remember Festhaus? Remember when we'd wake up on Saturday morning and drive 4 hours to go drink beer and ride roller coasters?
Remember that time I got sick in the trash can by the boat thingy that swung us upside down? Remember what that boat thingy was called? Because I don't.
Remember that time I had to bail you out of the pokey in some podunk town on the way to the beach because you got caught speeding?
Remember the morning in London that ended up in the ER? Speaking of London, surely you remember the guy who exposed his balls in the off-license?
Remember when we used to decide to go to Maine for dinner?
Remember when we woke up on the floor of the Motel Six in New Haven? Remember spending the next day in New York swilling Pepto from the bottle because you were a trooper?
Remember Vegas? Yeah. Me neither.

So it used to be us. Maybe for one weekend in October, it can be us again. But there will be more of us, looking for a summer that won't end this time.

But it will only be quintessentially us if we get ourselves arrested in Jon Stewart's hotel.

The Local Flea Market Sends Manda to the Dark Place

The Londonderry Flea Market might be where dreams go to die. The Suz and I ventured forth this fine New England afternoon to wander past tables upon tables of-- how do I put this?-- crap.

VHS tapes. Computer parts from 1987. Designer handbags with a K*. Plastic toys. An old gumball machine. An entire table of Beanie Babies. Bootleg Red Sox t-shirts. Doll's heads. Headless dolls. Frayed plastic flower arrangements.

I got the sense this was the end of the line for these items. Aisle after aisle of stuff that wouldn't make the cut to get donated to charity. The detritus left over at the end of a thousand yard sales, placed on tables marked "Free" at the curb, to be taken here.

And this is what happens to all of these things that we buy on impulse because we're told we're supposed to want them. These things that children beg for through November and December and discard by January 12. These things that are supposed to make up for whatever is really missing from our lives.

I have a house full of these things. And lately, I have undertaken the rather daunting task of shedding myself of what I don't need, because I'm beginning to suspect that these things I don't need are the very things that might keep me from getting to the things I do need.

These books have failed to distract me from my dissatisfaction with my job. These DVDs have failed to replace the friends I have lost. The vast CD collection isn't getting me to more interesting locations. Those cute shoes didn't bring about the return of the long lost love of my life. That wall hanging didn't make up for the fight I had with my mom. That lovely teapot couldn't resurrect the dead.

We buy stuff we don't need and maybe don't even especially want, because we think that will make us happier. And when we're not happier, we buy more stuff. And eventually it ends up on a table in a field in New Hampshire, where it doesn't inspire happiness so much as despair.

The Manda Gets Lost in the Supermarket

My grocery list is such a cliche. I have a cart full of Lean Cuisines, yogurt, cat food, and bananas for cereal. The checkout line is long. Too long, in my opinion, for a Sunday evening at 6:00, but I guess a lot of people had the same idea I had.

So they open another line. The cashier doing the opening looks right at me and says, "Ma'am, I can take you down here."

So I start to move, but the woman at the end of the line next to me moves faster. In my head I'm thinking a word that I won't say out loud, because my mother raised me better than that. So away she goes to the newly opened line, except she miscalculates. She hurries down one line too many, leaving me in just the right spot at the right time. I swerve my little cart of cliches right into the lane ahead of her.

"Bitch," she says out loud, because clearly her mother didn't raise her as well as mine raised me.

"Yeah. Like you didn't do the same thing," I reply. She has no response to this, which is a good thing. Sometimes these moments where Human A bumps up against Human B have a way of ending up on the news.

Any day you can leave the supermarket and not end up in police custody or on Channel 5 is a good day.