Out of Thought, Out of Mind

I originally had plans to spend the weekend at the beach, sunning myself from 9-5 instead of waking up late in the comfort of my air-conditioning, entering the city heat late morning, or afternoon, and spend a few hours at the gym -wishing I had more energy to propel myself along, on the treadmill, the never-ending rubber road on which I never seem to take a good, solid, forward step.

The beach plans were cancelled amidst the flutter in the office Friday afternoon. Actually, it hadn't been all that chaotic, just much to do before the weekend sprung upon us at the chiming of the eighteenth hour.

The plan had been changed to an Italian dinner downtown by the South Street Sea Port, under the name of Jackson Brown. To follow, a concert on the pier. Both were equally enjoyable but my mood, appropriately labeled, was listless.

Merriam-Webster, my most-favorite online dictionary, explains the adjective by stating it is, quite simply "characterized by lack of interest, energy, or spirit." Which brings me to my next topic of conversation. Conversation.

More so than not, I find myself in the peculiar situation of being "caught" out of thought, zoning out, out of it... Not listening. More often than not, I admit to the small crime of ignoring the small talk at the lunch, cocktail, or dinner table, ignoring my mother who asks if I am eating three meals a day, ignoring the station change on the subway...never explaining all to well where I was, or more importantly, what deserved my attention ever much more so than the one holding the proverbial microphone.

To further my thoughts, I'm not sure my lack to attention can be consistently be attributed to lack of interest, energy, or spirit. Of course at times it certainly can, but then what else could it be?

**

"Where is this bar? on Spring Street?" I asked a friend at a party last night.
"Spring Street Lounge. See these jumpy toes?" He begins, "This this little piggy drank some beer, this little piggy ate roast beef, this little piggy caught a cab, and this little piggy ..." By the time his song entered the fourth verse, I was a bit lost. I stared at the floor between his feet, glimmering with the slight coating of spilled drinks, dusted with dirt stuck to sticky-bottomed flip flops.

"And this little piggy went allll the way to the Spring Street lounge." He stops, proudly staring at me. Waiting for my response.

I can only stare.

"Not impressed huh?" He waits again. I snap to. And quickly laugh with him, while he walks away, tending to the next party-goer vulnerable enough for his antics.

Perhaps, in another circumstance, time I would have felt bad for not attributing, or furthering, our conversation. I would have apologized for zoning out, failing to listen, being a jerk. Something of the sort. Certainly at another time.

**

What is it that fosters this uncontrollable ability to look utterly preoccupied with something else besides the words being spoken? It reminds me somewhat of the scene in the newest superman movie, when he shoots up through the atmosphere, out into the vastness, emptiness of outer space - but cannot quiet his mind. He hears everything. But what is it that differs between superman's mind and my own? He hears everyone else - lacking the pressure of his own voice.

My Favorite Food Group

The other day in Barnes & Noble, I was browsing the new non-fiction table, sifting through topics of little interest when my fingers drifted across a world history... of salt.

Now. Salt has been, since I can remember, my favorite condiment, spice, sugar, vegetable, starch, fruit, protein, carb... everything, anything. I LOVE salt. It's just that pure. White. Table salt, sea salt, garlic salt...

For several years, or more than that, my father has cleverly declared that salt was, and still is, my favorite food group. I have proudly relayed this fact to anyone and everyone who has the privilege of witnessing my admiration for the mineral, rock, crystal, and brine.

Salt, A World History, by Mark Kurlansky, begins with admiration as well - for a rock he purchased in Spanish Catalonia adding that "those who think a fascination with salt is a bizarre obsession have simply never owned a rock like this."

I hadn't even gotten beyond the introduction before I began turning down corners of pages, stopping to re-read sentences that has struck me in one way or another, reveling in the fact someone was unknowingly developing my affection for salt by deepening my understanding for sodium, "a chemical term for a substance produced by the reaction of an acid with a base."

Wait. Back-up. No forward, quickly avoiding an impromptu chemistry lesson, forgotten labs about electrons, balancing equations...

"When sodium, an unstable metal can suddenly burst into flame, reacts with a deadly poisonous gas known as chlorine, it becomes the staple food sodium chloride, NaCL, from the only family of rocks eaten by humans."

To reiterate, not only is salt the ONLY rock we eat (rock candy excluded), we narrowly miss encounters with a flaming metal and its poisonous gas camaraderie in order to enhance... enhance the flavoring of our foods.

To add to this excitement, I learned that our bodies need salt to survive (which I had assumed was true) but more importanly if we deplete our bodies of sodium, we will perish. I never, in a lifetime of dedication, knew that salt was such a dramatic, and timeless rock. Though it is proven that salt can be derived from anywhere on the planet, this rock, these crystals started wars and manipulated governments, provided cornerstones for religious ceremonies, and gave satisfaction to girls like me, with plates of french fries and chicken nuggets.

Red Bull, Ice Cream, and Oprah - a Recipe for Philosophical Renderings?

So I finally did see Knocked Up, and had almost completely forgotten about the workplace "battle" between women, which motivated the before-mentioned wonder women host to gather her thoughts and share with others.

The scene took place two times in the movie, at the beginning, when our heroine Allison receives great news, and towards the end, where her meeting yet again proves triumphant. Without ruining too much of the film for those who haven't seen it, the other women in the room repeatedly, and seriously, makes comments which are not wholly outlandish, but certainly unnerving, and precarious towards Allison. The irk is immediately evident.

Call me literal, but it was the women's frank attitude that lended an attractive reality to the situation. A hard-working women gets a promotion which most likely has occurred over 190823590 times in other movies before. The coworker with the comments made the situation original. I got a raise after I cried for an hour, burdened with stress. Not to sound pitiful, but think about translating that into film? Whimpering "thank you, this means so much to me" with reddened eyes.

But what irked me more so, was the way in which the women treated their men. Debbie, Allison's older, and somewhat neurotic, sister blatantly preached to her younger sibling about how she is "conquering" her husband, breaking him down to build him back up again, leaving unwanted personality traits and annoying nuances behind. I should at this time mention that this notion came to Debbie through an Oprah epiphany and intermittent chugging sessions of Red Bull and Hagen Daas. This is reminiscent of hazing.

As the situation evolved, Debbie thought Pete was being unfaithful. In reality, he was sneaking off to play fantasy baseball, and go to the movies. For solitude, for space. Debbie trapped him with her rhetorical, rounding questions, overarching queries as to why he didn't want to do things with her, and why wouldn't he think she wanted to go out? In the end, Pete was given to dutiful title of an asshole. Even Ben, the father-to-be, decided it was so. Poor Pete, I say. Since when did solitude and friends become triggers for assholisism. I'd say I've have to side with Pete on this one.