Three day weekends are wonderful. But not all three day weekends are created equally. I’m tired of this “Monday off” nonsense. I would much prefer to have Friday off. After all, isn’t it so much better to work insanely hard all week and then to realize, on Thursday, “Hey, I don’t have to work tomorrow! Woohoo!!!” I’ll take that over the “Yeah, I’ve got Monday off, but then have to work the whole rest of the week” scenario.

It doesn’t matter how you look at it. Every week is required to have a Monday. Because the definition of Monday is “the first day of the work week.” Yesterday was Sunday, as far as I’m concerned. It even felt like a Sunday. And today was totally a Monday. Not a bad one, mind, but a Monday nonetheless. I know this because this is what went through my head at 6:15 this morning: “Fuck, I do not want to get up right now.”

Part of the blame here might lie in the shift of Earth. You know, that whole tilting of the planet nonsense that signals the start of a new season. Yeah. Suddenly, the sun doesn’t peak over the mountains until well after 7 am. And given that I’m the sort of person who doesn’t like to be out of bed until the sun is at least shining light onto the world, this is a problem for me. I like my days long, but getting up before the sun is shining is, to my mind, against the natural order of things. Rather than argue about the delay of the time change, I think I’d prefer to simply start work a little bit later than usual. Oh, and still finish at the usual time, of course.

The other thing that sucks about having Monday off is that one day of the week is totally left out. There’s no Tuesday. Wednesday stays the same, in all its hump day glory, and the rest of the week follows accordingly. With Friday off, on the other hand, Friday remains its wonderful self. And as a full part of the weekend, which is really as it should be.

Of course, I like the time off, so I really can’t complain there. But maybe next time, I’ll take Friday off too, just to make sure I can capitalize on all the weekend potential.

Question: What’s the hot ticket for something to do on the Monday night of a holiday weekend?

Answer: Go to the neighborhood grocery store!

I learned tonight that hanging out at the grocery store at the aforementioned time is totally the place to be. If I was to judge by the number of cars I saw in the parking lot when I arrived there around 7:15 pm, I’d say the place is more popular than most of the clubs in downtown Albuquerque. It was a spectacle the likes of which I’ve never before seen.

• The parking lot was packed. Angry couch potatoes in Sport Utility Vehicles circled the lot, vulture-like in their quest for a spot as close to the grocery entrance as possible. Woe to the pedestrian or shopping cart that gets in their way.
• A few stragglers loitered at the grocery store entrance, awaiting their posse of fellow food-lovers. Lucky for them, though, there’s no cover charge.
• An unusually large throng of people tried to enter the store at exactly the same time. And those darn two-person-wide doorways just couldn’t let them all through at once.
• So many people milled about the produce section and cereal aisle that it was impossible to get through. Those little hand-held baskets wield virtually no influence on anyone when trying to squeeze through to the other side of the aisle.
• The self-checkout lanes had a five-minute wait to them. And the guy behind me kept humming through his teeth to show his impatience, which was pretty damn annoying.

October is here. Which means that here, in the great state of New Mexico, it’s one of the touristy-est times of year. Welcome to Albuquerque’s International Balloon Fiesta. Non-New Mexican people have a tendency to refer to is as the balloon “festival.” Please note that this term is completely and totally inappropriate. It’s fiesta. Considering how many people aren’t aware that New Mexico is part of the United States, I don’t think it’s too much to ask to use our Spanglish jargon.

Given that I’ve spent my entire life right here in Albuquerque, one might think I’d be bored with the balloon fiesta. Like, hot-air balloons, big deal! In actuality, though, it is during this time of year that I imagine owning and piloting my very own hot-air balloon. This fantasy usually goes away as soon as the week is out. Still, it doesn’t matter how many I see, I am still so easily amused by hot-air balloons it’s not even funny. And if anyone else talks about hot-air balloons and/or events involving more than one balloon, you can be sure that I’m right there telling them how in Albuquerque, there are nearly 1,000 balloons present each year at the balloon fiesta. Because I’m competitive that way.

There’s really only one thing not to like about the balloon fiesta: the population practically doubles in the city. Every motel and hotel in town is packed, and the cheapest place to stay is, on average, $100 per night. Most places are booked long before the October for the whole week of the balloon fiesta. Now, I don’t really mind having lots of people here, because I like to play tourist myself from time to time. But. The city gets really crowded, and whereas at other times of year most drivers are ‘jerks,’ the average ‘jerk’ driver suddenly elevates into ‘asshole’ driver.

But none of this can stop me from enjoying myself. Though I’ve slept in and missed the mass ascensions for the past two mornings, I at least saw one balloon up close so far. The picture above was taken just outside my apartment this morning. I heard it outside, and managed to get a picture with my camera phone. Never mind that I was still in my pajamas, and was probably close enough for the people in the balloon to see me. I mean, I’m sure they see that sort of thing all the time, and are quite used to it by now.

Tonight I’m going to the balloon glow, or “Glowdeo,” to use our awesome Southwestern terminology. While I’m there, I’m thinking about buying a pin of the Darth Vader Balloon, because I’m all about the dark side.

It seems the custodian stealer thief guy has discriminating taste after all. I left those fruity chips for him, and was disappointed beyond all reason when I walked into the office this morning and saw that they were still there. But he’d made off with an unopened bag of Starbucks coffee from the refrigerator. Oh sure, just leave behind the stuff I actually want you to take! I guess my fruity chips can’t compete even with coffee.

I still have some hope, though. I left the chips out again tonight, in a more “hidden” location. And if that fails again, I’ve decided I might even try pouring the nasty things into another chip bag, just to see if another kind of chip might be more tempting. If all else fails, I’m going to leave a sign on the chips, or maybe on the dry erase board, that says “Just take the damn chips already, geez!”

While my morning started off lousy thanks to wild disappointment because my chips weren’t stolen, I cheered up a little bit when I looked at a few pictures I’d taken on my phone yesterday during one of my speech sessions. We were playing with Mr. Potato Head, a good time in and of itself. I was made better, though by my student. I happened to be sitting directly across the table from him, and so was at a particularly, uh, interesting vantage point.

When it comes to potato heads, I’ve only ever played with them the way you’re supposed to. I occasionally would step outside the box, and put an arm on its head or some equally silly thing. I never thought to create the thing completely upside down. As in, place the hat where the shoes go and vice versa. My student did this, to each of three different ones. He didn’t even change it up a little, but kept making them upside down.

Cute, I thought. Or silly. Or whatever. Until I noticed what these creatures looked like from the back, thanks to my unusual vantage point. As it turns out, making potato heads upside down makes them offensive to the person who has to look at them from the back. I got mooned by every one of those things. Granted, I don’t think having the potato heads drop trou and moon me was intentional, but yikes. That didn’t make it any easier for me at the time.

I’ve come to the conclusion that chips, of the crunchy and/or salty variety, should not, for any reason, taste like fruit. The issue initially came to my attention at Target last week, where I was confronted with yet another of Frito-Lay’s schemes to make themselves seem like they’re not the only company manufacturing chips.

The chips “brand” is called Flat Earth, and its logo is a flying pig. And because it’s trendy for all forms of food and restaurants to have a story behind them, their story, printed on the back of the bag of chips, goes something like this: a small group of passionate women, avid chip eaters the lot of them, decided they wanted healthy chips, and so blended potatoes, rice, and fruit (all dried, of course) into one. And then they called them “fruit crisps.” I’m guessing this not because British people use the word ‘crisps,’ but more likely because ‘chips,’ in relation to fruit, usually involve massive amounts of oil. Just look at banana chips.

Though I found myself pretty repulsed, I also had a mild curiosity. What, I wondered, would Peach Mango Paradise baked fruit crisps taste like? And so, against my better judgment, I decided to find out. Here’s what they taste like: disgusting. If I was an animal in the wild, I would die because I can’t, apparently, follow my own instincts.

It’s been a week now, and the chips remain on top of the refrigerator, largely untouched. Because rice, potato, and mango is just about the worst combination of food in the entire universe. There’s a reason it had never been tried before; it tends to make people gag.

In my previously weakened and sick state, I didn’t give much thought as to what I was going to do with the ‘crisps.’ I have no desire to eat them, but then again, I don’t want to throw away FDA-approved edibles. This morning at work, I thought that maybe I could bring the crisps to work and leave them out for people to eat. With any luck, people would devour the entire bag, and my problem would be solved.

While pondering, aloud, what I would do if there was any left over, Robert reminded me that I could leave them out in the open in my office over night. The custodian who cleans my office at work has a penchant for stealing, though his thefts are a bit unusual. Given his history of stealing chocolate, coffee, gross donut holes from the local grocery, bottled water, and juice boxes, we reasoned that maybe he’d also free me of the burden of the fruity chips. I can’t think of anything cooler than a guilt-free way to get rid of stuff I don’t want. Instead of cursing this guy, I’ll be thanking him. Not to mention taking advantage of him. Which, really, is justifiable.

During the boring lunch meeting at work today, I found myself envisioning walking in to work the day after tomorrow and rushing to the place I had left them, to see if they were gone. It must have been a pretty vivid vision, because suddenly I was no longer at the meeting. I may have, in the vision, made a certain “yes!!” gesture that comprised of my moving my right hand, which was in a fist in front of my eyes, downward in a victorious fashion. I say this because about half-way through the meeting, I did this without really thinking about what I was doing. My fist connected with the paper plate that held my mostly eaten veggie sandwich, all that remained of which was the lettuce that didn’t taste very good and some small crusts of bread. My fist connected with the part of the plate nearest me, and lettuce, dressing, and bread went flying through the air right at me. Luckily, I managed to remain deadpan, and meekly went about mopping my lettuce-covered self up. I hate it when that happens.

Anyway, I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow. I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my breath bated. This could get good. If it works, the rolls and fruit I no longer want might just end up sharing the fate of my beloved fruit crisps.