the paper that looks like money

i remember it. that awkward exchange. the old man in line behind, anxious to buy his big red gum in a hurry. and mom pulling out that over-sized paper money that wasn't money, but, on a good day, operated as smoothly as the real stuff. nowadays, the transaction is less embarrassing for the bearers, less arduous for the big-red-gum-buying sorts, tapping their toes, sighing loudly, running their fingers over sharon stone's face on the glossy cover. I am 24, and should I give birth to three children in the next day, I will be awarded some sort of assistance from the government. But as it is, I am single, in between jobs (or two or three of them), and still living at home. But other than the plethora of cereal options at my disposal, provided kindly by the father, I'm on my own.

My slight disparity all hits home after watching a slew of Beverly Hill 90210 (season 2) episodes. Granted, I feel duller after having indulged, but man, all that neon-clad volleyball action, and bmw-buying, and oceanside triviality reminds me that I live in the 68502 zipcode, and things operate a little differently here.

Where am I going with all of this? Well, first of all, dialogue in my own life is most definitely better than that delivered in the show. Minus the synthy soundtrack. [But between you and me, I know an islander who could help out with that.] Second of all, my life still looks rosy and 90210 to someone else; my complaints are really just a series of neuroses afforded to me by a certain amount of wealth we Americans know (preachy mcpreacherson). Finally, life is something to sort out. The scholarly life is safety from taking on real issues, ones we dealt with peripherally as children (mom exchanging signed notes for potatoes and milk). But these images sneak back up on you and stare you down in the awkward transitional periods. Adult, but not steady; child, but not naive.

You may be asking yourself now, those neophyte blog-readers out there, how the picture I've opened up with hooks up with the blog's subject matter. I guess the moral is, between jobs or not, half empty or half full, one can still dress up and dance and relish something. Be it little dogs, black and white ceramic (oh-so-racialist), or falling in the mud followed by ceremonial foot-washing at a corner park (a man watches birds at the fountain; a woman reads the paper. it is 8:15 in the morning).