Sometimes I just want to drink a lot of ginger ale. Like, a lot.

Last summer I managed to figure out a way to politely but honestly answer the “weakness” part of the question “What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?” Now when I exhibit those weaknesses at work, I always think, At least I warned them.

I was shopping the other day, and I found a dress that sort of looked like a bedshirt, the kind of thing men in movies about the Revolutionary War are always wearing when they wake up in the middle of the night and light candles and find out that the British are coming. But it was also kind of cute (if that’s in any way imaginable), and I decided to try it on, and it was kind of cute, but I still thought it might be an actual NIGHTGOWN. A nightdress. I thought of looking online and making sure it was indeed intended to be a modern woman's garment, but then I decided it’s probably best not to wear a dress that resembles an eighteenth-century patriot’s pajamas – even if it’s not intended as such.

At work last week, a parent came into my school and handed me a colored pencil she said she found in the parking lot. I feel like this is the most baffling thing that has ever happened to me. The only plausible explanation I can come up with – for why ANYONE would EVER do that – is that she thought colored pencils and schools were like hypodermic needles and hospitals: The colored pencil needed to be disposed of in our special designated trash.

Here’s the problem with shopping at a farmer’s market: I don’t have that kind of patience. Every Sunday, there’s this farmer’s market about seven steps from my apartment, and I go there every Sunday with the best of intentions, and make this loop around the whole thing. And NEVER buy ANYTHING. Because I’d have to make five different stops and have five different conversations and get my wallet out five different times to get what I want. So every Sunday I just give up and go to the supermarket, where I can find pineapple and marzipan and vinegar and pay with a credit card and not have any conversations at all.

Sometimes when I complain about the bus, the person I’m talking to will say, "You know, you could always get a bike." To which I respond, "Um, I’m an adult?" On the long list of reasons it’s better to be an adult than a child, not having to use a bicycle as a method of transportation ranks somewhere between being able to use a calculator whenever I want and never needing permission to use the bathroom.

I read an article yesterday about a woman who kept all of her trash for three months, and carried it around with her, to teach herself about sustainability. It stressed me out. It was like when I read The Omnivore’s Dilemma and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle in the same week, and couldn’t buy out-of-season produce for at least four days. I still feel shame palpitations whenever I buy non-local raspberries – which is often. But if raspberries are AVAILABLE in February – what am I supposed to do? Raspberries are amazing. Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver both claim that out-of-season produce tastes terrible, but that just makes them liars.

When my bus is more than five minutes late, I turn my iPod off, close my book, and stand up. I face the correct direction. It's not that I think I can will the bus to arrive, just that I want the bus to know I'm serious now.