Song for a Crappy Tuesday

Your socks are soaking wet.

The dusting of snow didn't look so bad in the early morning light. From the blur of sleep, your brain imaged the pair of wool socks you received as a Christmas present two years ago. They were expensive, covered in snowflakes and reindeer. Those should be fine, you thought. You and your brain shook on it and you headed to bathroom for a shower.

Nothing is lucky on mornings like these. On the train, a hulking teen aged girl and her anxious younger brother sandwiched you between them. You were invisible to them, and their loud recitation of the Twelve Days of Christmas - and how WRONG little brother was getting it - re-cancelled your noise canceling head phones. To your dismay, they got off at your stop, and swerved three or four times right into your path.

The five minute walk to your office took half an hour. With each step, your shoes - the good ones, too - flooded. Every snowflake carried five gallons of water.

You left your right glove on the train.

The ding-donging Santa in front of the Walgreens grimaced at you.

Cathy, who sits in the cubicle opposite your own, didn't hold the elevator for you - even as the LED brooch on her snowman sweater sparkled through the crack in the door.

Finally, you squish into the office and collapse into your seat.

Wool socks are a lie, you think.

Every cubicle around you is decked with boughs of Christmas cards and dancing palm trees that sing "White Christmas". Cathy pokes her head up, the brooch dazzling her face every second or so.

"I am sorry about the elevator." she caws. "I didn't even see you until the last minute."

You let out a tired chuckle. "Yeah."

Just then, right past Cathy's head, you spot her.

It is Tuesday. She's gazing at the giant flakes of snow tumbling by the window. The grey light bathes her smiling cheeks. Her desk is free from holiday twinkles and tchotchke.

After a moment, she turns to see you, smiles and waves, and then returns to her thoughts.

Cathy is still talking probably, but whatever. You huff to yourself and fall back into your seat.

On top of everything else today, you have to go and get a crush.




I can only listen to Beirut so much. I like them (or, rather, him, I guess. It's pretty much Zachary Francis Condon's baby.) quite a bit, but with all the Bohemia and trumpets and longing, depending on my mood, I can hit super-saturation pretty fast.

It's a fun listen, though. The gypsy influenced pop has a great sense of depth. It borrows history by using brass and ukuleles and mandolins, and layers it with new world lyrics and technology. This is particularly true of the song Nantes, a combination of synthesized vibes, French samples and old rhythms. The build on it takes me by surprise every time.