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October 16, 2003

Some Restrictions May Apply

I know I've said it before, but the vertical layout thing is starting to get to me... I can't make my entries as long as I want to, so I'm sort of forced to write more than one entry on the same day if I've got a decent amount of things to say. Hence, this is my second entry written within about three hours of each other. I'm sure you understand. As soon as I get my review done, I'm going to work on changing it.

But I digress...

Remember what I said about things today being kind of taboo? Well, my mother was just one of those. When I hopped on the North Loop bus this morning, I turned on my cell phone to check just how early I was going to make it to class (I hardly ever make it to journalism early--I'm usually the last one in the room). It gave me this blinking envelope signal, telling me that I had ignored a voice-mail from yesterday (I forgot to charge the phone again, so I never got any calls). So I dial my voice-mail number, listen while the electronic voice goes through its usual jargon, and waited until I got some sign of human life.

It was Noga.

I don't even remember what she told me in the message... Something about being over Michael's house, and me calling her sometime that evening before she left for work. I let it slide, thinking that I'd probably return her call sometime tomorrow. It could wait until I finished buying myself a croissant at Oxley's, couldn't it?

But it didn't. She called me again while I was waiting in line, the sound of the Chemical Brothers blaring overhead. "Hey, I know it's been a while since I've called, but I sorta wanted to ask you something...?"

"Yeah, sure, what's up?" I asked innocently.

It turns out the only reason she'd called was to invite me to some fundraiser thing she had planned. She didn't have enough money to go on yet another trip to Israel, so she was holding candle parties; hoping to sell enough of them to her friends to make a profit without putting in any of her own money.

"And they're really quality candles, you know. They smell great and everything--Michael's mom said so. And they make nice Christmas gifts, too."

"Uh-huh," I nodded, wondering if she'd remembered that neither of us celebrate Christmas at all.

"So, can you go...?" She asked me nervously, hoping her pitch had worked.

"Yeah, sure, I guess so," I mumbled, having paid for my croissant.

"Oh, that's great! Thanks, I knew you'd come through for me." I had this halfhearted sense of accomplishment in my chest, knowing that neither one of us was really as devoted as we should have been to the conversation. I'd been sold into friendship slavery. The whole thing was just cheap, you know? I mean, if you're only going to call your so-called best friend every four months, don't make it about money.

I'm angry about the fact that I even continued talking to her. As a matter of fact, I'm supposed to go upstairs in fifteen minutes and wait for her to call again, as if we're naturally supposed to go through the old motions of being friends, just because I'm going to shell out $30 for some fundraiser.

And then I'm angry just because I'm angry, if that makes any sense. Why is this such a big deal? Why do I stress out so much about things that matter so little? Why am I always trying to drop things that I just can't handle?

Good Lord, I need a psychologist. Or at least a chocolate bar.

Today's Soundtrack: "Why Georgia," John Mayer

Best Part of the Day: Watching Brian dance the "hootchie-coo" in class.

posted at 7:28 p.m.

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