A Glass Elevator

I live next to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Except they don't make sweets inside, they make movies. And it's not like I never see anyone come in or out--I do, though not many; people glide through the parking gates on beach cruisers with PIXAR tatooed on the butt of the cushy leather seats. And instead of the smell of chocolate goodness wafting through my windows, it's the sound of a pile driver that sets pace for my pulse. (Pixar is remodeling.) And instead of big wrought iron gates, there's a long stretch of wall that is covered in pink blossoms. So, no. It's not Wonka's Factory, but I do think that there is magic behind those walls and somewhere inside in a secret secret room there's the secret to happiness.

Everyone knows happiness can't be bought. Let's set that thought aside, then, and imagine what it would look like if it could be bought, or how much we'd be willing to pay.

Happiness Exhibit A:
Tuesday night HAPPY hour at Teacake Bakery. I have not been on the mad cupcake bandwagon that's been sweeping the nation (don't you just love phrases like saaawweeeping the nation?), but I have been on the eternal "sweets are the goodness of life" bandwagon. And while I don't go for the frosting shots, half off cupcakes are right up my alley.

Apparently, after rereading, I'm only willing to pay half price for happiness. I'm a cheapskate, a miser, a SCROOGE.


I can never finish the wild ambitions I start on. As my tennis teacher once told me, I lack follow through. (I've also heard this often from people on the other end of my answering machine....) I should remember this when I start an a), b), c), or 1), 2), 3) routine. If I would just leave off the numbers, no one would ever know I had petered out.

Back to happiness though, Leo whatshisname tried making a Happiness Machine in Dandelion Wine, which may be the best book of the summer (every summer, in fact), but his machine ruined everything. Technology has advanced, and I'm sure if Leo could simply get through those gates to that secret secret room where Pixar keeps the key....

In other news, I've hit upon the ideal analogy: temp agency employers = parol officers. I get my daily check-up call to see if I've gotten into trouble and if I'm keeping my "skills" up for the distant day when I will be assimilated back into productive society. Their condescension reminds me that they make their money off of my transience, and perhaps don't mean it when they sickly sweetly encourage my efforts to get off the streets of unemployment. Morticians need dead people, cops need criminals, temp agencies need me. Ahh. To be needed.

And last of all, a line from Joan Didion: "Some women fight and others do not."