Yesterday, I could think of nothing to say. I apologize. I did talk to the Blog Bully last night for the first time in a long while and he said, "Well, that's what being a writer is. Writing something even when you have nothing to say." That's probably not a direct quote, but it was something plucky along those lines. Did I say, "Wow! You're right! Thanks, Blog Bully!" No. I said, "Are you KIDDING? Have you nary a word of praise? I've been writing and writing. You are the meanest Blog Bully EVER." He then mustered up some pride and compliments for me, but it was too little too late. I am a sensitive flower.
Speaking of almost successes, I did go to the gym yesterday. I know! I too was amazed. However, I did not actually exercise when I got there. I intended to. Honest. But it was all "two people to a lane, I didn't really want to come here anyway" in there, so I just spent some time in the steam room and took a shower before heading across the street to Yoshi's for my friend's gig. And a hamburger. It got me no closer to fitness, I'll admit, but I did feel much better when I left than I did when I arrived, and isn't that what the exercisers are always claiming about going to the gym? So, I think I win. Plus, my hair looked a lot better after I washed it. Turns out you're supposed to wash it. Weird.
Instead of exercising (or washing my hair) I have been watching Game of Thrones. As with everything else that is popular among the vast majority, I am late to join the Game of Thrones fervor, not so much from lack of interest as from lack of access. However, a friend recently loaned me seasons 1 & 2 on DVD. [Another friend just loaned me The Killing season 2, and someone is coming over to bring me Deadwood tonight. I am a well-known junkie. Soon my limbs will atrophy completely and I will have to be carried to work by strapping servants, provided they can extricate me from my deeply indented sofa.]
I have taken to referring to Game of Thrones as Medieval Fantasy Boobs. I meant "Fantasy" in the sense of the genre: dragons and spells and magical kingdoms and the like. However, I'm now six episodes in and have already seen even more bare-chested women than I originally anticipated. I have also, as you'll recall, recently been in the gym locker room, where I saw the usual number of bare-chested women--just regular, notably dissimilar women. Having weighed all this data, I think I am going to have to reallocate the "fantasy" to directly modify the "boobs." In short, it's fortunate that my gym is in San Francisco and not in the Seven Kingdoms because I'm pretty sure none of our bosoms would make the cut. Accordingly, we would all be swiftly dispatched in some grisly manner, as I assume the law of the Great Revered Ancestors must require.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
Innovation
I have an email in my inbox today from Anthropologie.
Subject heading: How we're wearing shorts.
Needless to say, I am on the edge of my seat. I'm saving it for a little mid-afternoon treat. I don't want to get my hopes up too high, but my fingers are crossed that it's:
Subject heading: How we're wearing shorts.
Needless to say, I am on the edge of my seat. I'm saving it for a little mid-afternoon treat. I don't want to get my hopes up too high, but my fingers are crossed that it's:
atop our heads, like so many jaunty caps. Unlike traditional hats which create a mini oven for your head and leave you with a matted 'do, inverted shorts have two passages for refreshing airflow. Combine that practicality with the endless possibilities for incorporating your hairstyle directly into your fashion look and you've got a surefire hit for the hot days ahead! We are loving shorts with two ponytails threaded through--casual, carefree, evocative of the playful, endless summer days of childhood!
Monday, April 08, 2013
Funny vs. funny
On Friday night, my friend invited me to go with him to a stand-up comedy show on Mission at 10pm. (Partially this is because 1. He likes stand-up comedy 2. He wants to do stand-up comedy 3. He wants me to do stand-up comedy and 4. Stand-up comedy is the cheapest entertainment in town occurring outside one's own house.)
It is very rare for me to go to things that begin at 10pm, particularly on Mission Street, though I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell the cool kids. God knows I'm having enough trouble getting a date in this god forsaken town without you announcing to everyone that I'm not cool. Anyway, there we were. On Mission. At 10pm. I learned that many, many people are wandering the street in difficult shoes and inadequate outerwear at that hour seeking [more] alcohol. They stand in line outside noisy places to get it. I had no idea. It seems like a terrible way to spend an evening, but what do I know?
We waited with some other comedy patrons in a confused cluster for about 15 minutes until we were allowed in to the little theatre, to which (I add parenthetically), I proved to be allergic. Literally. Not is highbrow "the theatre did not meet my requirements" type of way, more in a "oh man, this place makes me itchy" kind of way.
When we walked in, there was already a five-piece band cramped on the tiny stage: a banjo player who looked like a Prohibition-era gangster; a skinny mandolin player with Kenny G. hair; a guitar player with a close-trimmed beard, trousers with suspenders, and a plaid shirt, like a farmer headed to church; another guitar player sporting a copious and poorly maintained beard, a bandana tied sweatband-style around his head, and a tan suit--an ensemble that, taken altogether, said "homeless hippie going to a job interview"; and, on the double bass, an incongruously short, rather androgynous guy with a shaved head, a sideways baseball cap and large glasses. For what seemed like a very long time, they noodled around on their instruments, not actually playing anything. When the lights at last dimmed, they launched into the first of several seemingly identical bluegrass songs. I have no explanation for this. My friend asked me several times if we were at the right show. I reminded him that he had invited me, so if anyone should have some insight into why we were currently watching a bunch of very earnest young bluegrass musicians at a comedy club, it was himself.
After about four songs, a special guest was invited to join them for the next (still identical-sounding bluegrass) number. I'll be honest; I was expecting a fiddle player, or possibly a stronger vocalist. What I was not expecting was a very full-figured woman in garters and spangles to come out and strip. But that's just what she did. She shimmied and shook and vamped and winked to the country twang of five string instruments all the way down to her knickers and pasties.
There really wasn't anything funny about it, or, at least nothing funny in a way one associates with amusement or, more specifically, comedy. It was funny like, "I don't know, but I've got a funny feeling about this." or "Does this smell funny to you?" It was perplexing as hell is what it was.
Just when we had given ourselves over altogether to the Twilight Zone episode "The Wrong Theatre," an actual comic took the stage. He was funny. You know, like a comic. We were relieved. Nevertheless, the band, cramped though they were on the wee stage, stood there for the entire show behind the comics like an eccentric Greek chorus. They didn't play again until all five comics had finished their bits*, which is to say that they just stood there for about an hour. Possibly the theatre itself was too small to accommodate five more people in the house?
*Speaking of people's bits, the stripper came back on at the very end. I know you were wondering.
It is very rare for me to go to things that begin at 10pm, particularly on Mission Street, though I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell the cool kids. God knows I'm having enough trouble getting a date in this god forsaken town without you announcing to everyone that I'm not cool. Anyway, there we were. On Mission. At 10pm. I learned that many, many people are wandering the street in difficult shoes and inadequate outerwear at that hour seeking [more] alcohol. They stand in line outside noisy places to get it. I had no idea. It seems like a terrible way to spend an evening, but what do I know?
We waited with some other comedy patrons in a confused cluster for about 15 minutes until we were allowed in to the little theatre, to which (I add parenthetically), I proved to be allergic. Literally. Not is highbrow "the theatre did not meet my requirements" type of way, more in a "oh man, this place makes me itchy" kind of way.
When we walked in, there was already a five-piece band cramped on the tiny stage: a banjo player who looked like a Prohibition-era gangster; a skinny mandolin player with Kenny G. hair; a guitar player with a close-trimmed beard, trousers with suspenders, and a plaid shirt, like a farmer headed to church; another guitar player sporting a copious and poorly maintained beard, a bandana tied sweatband-style around his head, and a tan suit--an ensemble that, taken altogether, said "homeless hippie going to a job interview"; and, on the double bass, an incongruously short, rather androgynous guy with a shaved head, a sideways baseball cap and large glasses. For what seemed like a very long time, they noodled around on their instruments, not actually playing anything. When the lights at last dimmed, they launched into the first of several seemingly identical bluegrass songs. I have no explanation for this. My friend asked me several times if we were at the right show. I reminded him that he had invited me, so if anyone should have some insight into why we were currently watching a bunch of very earnest young bluegrass musicians at a comedy club, it was himself.
After about four songs, a special guest was invited to join them for the next (still identical-sounding bluegrass) number. I'll be honest; I was expecting a fiddle player, or possibly a stronger vocalist. What I was not expecting was a very full-figured woman in garters and spangles to come out and strip. But that's just what she did. She shimmied and shook and vamped and winked to the country twang of five string instruments all the way down to her knickers and pasties.
There really wasn't anything funny about it, or, at least nothing funny in a way one associates with amusement or, more specifically, comedy. It was funny like, "I don't know, but I've got a funny feeling about this." or "Does this smell funny to you?" It was perplexing as hell is what it was.
Just when we had given ourselves over altogether to the Twilight Zone episode "The Wrong Theatre," an actual comic took the stage. He was funny. You know, like a comic. We were relieved. Nevertheless, the band, cramped though they were on the wee stage, stood there for the entire show behind the comics like an eccentric Greek chorus. They didn't play again until all five comics had finished their bits*, which is to say that they just stood there for about an hour. Possibly the theatre itself was too small to accommodate five more people in the house?
*Speaking of people's bits, the stripper came back on at the very end. I know you were wondering.
Friday, April 05, 2013
Thursday night
Have you ever had one of those days where you get all depressed and full of self-pity/recrimination and then later at home you feel no better and become suddenly disgusted with yourself for watching so much television, so you turn it off and--to rather ambitiously combat your TV habit--undertake to read a long biography of Marie Antoinette, but when you get to page 8 you fall asleep in a chair, only to wake up an hour later and relocate to bed where you have vivid, anxious dreams, but no actual rest because your allergies are raging out of control so that when you finally get up the next morning, after hitting the snooze alarm for a full hour, you have a nasty headache?
No?
Oh.
Yeah. Um...me neither.
No?
Oh.
Yeah. Um...me neither.
Thursday, April 04, 2013
Not the good kind
I suffer from as many weird body-image issues as the next woman, but I think my sense of self-worth may be most unhealthily reliant on the praise of dental practitioners. If I walk out of the dentist's office cavity-free and brimming with compliments on my obvious flossing, I am like a first-grader who's earned a sticker. So proud! So happy! If there is scowling or tsking or technique lecturing, I am brokenhearted. You can imagine how low I felt when I was informed I required the Human Dermal Product to be sewn into my mouth. It was all my fault! For brushing too hard, of all things. A large-scale punishment for overeager oral hygiene. That seems hardly fair.
In the six months following the surgery, I have tried to mend my brushing habits to meet the needs of my delicate gums. I am even using an unsatisfying extra-soft toothbrush, which, as I may have mentioned, feels not much more effective than rubbing a kleenex around in your mouth. Still, I have been mindful. When I went to the periodontist today, for the final recovery status check, I was primed for praise.
Instead, I have plaque. Not a plaque, mind you. Not a plaque that says "Best Patient We've Ever Had" or similar, just plaque. "You're totally lousy at brushing your teeth" plaque. "Ah, you have plaque here," he told me. And I wanted to say, "You have plaque. You have plaque all over your big, stupid, plaquey FACE." But I didn't.
He made me look at the inflammation with a hand mirror. And then he continued to poke my gums with a super pointy metal stick, calling out mystery numbers to his assistant. "And there's bleeding, of course," he told her, with what struck me as more than necessary condescension. And I wanted to say, "That's what happens when you poke the inside of people's MOUTHS with a pointy metal stick. You big dummy." But I didn't. Instead I said, "I've been worried about brushing too hard. Particularly at the surgical site." He said, "Well, now you're being too careful."
For the love of God! What do you people want from me?
So, that's it. I am a big dental failure.* If you don't want to be my friend anymore, I understand.
For the record, however, though the periodontist has told me time after time that the kidney stone he had was worse than the kidney stone I had, [Oh. excuse me. Renal stone. He calls it a renal stone, because he's a doctor.] it totally wasn't. Mine required SURGERY, suckah. So, whatever. I lose at gum-line brushing, but I win at kidney stones. Ha!
In the six months following the surgery, I have tried to mend my brushing habits to meet the needs of my delicate gums. I am even using an unsatisfying extra-soft toothbrush, which, as I may have mentioned, feels not much more effective than rubbing a kleenex around in your mouth. Still, I have been mindful. When I went to the periodontist today, for the final recovery status check, I was primed for praise.
Instead, I have plaque. Not a plaque, mind you. Not a plaque that says "Best Patient We've Ever Had" or similar, just plaque. "You're totally lousy at brushing your teeth" plaque. "Ah, you have plaque here," he told me. And I wanted to say, "You have plaque. You have plaque all over your big, stupid, plaquey FACE." But I didn't.
He made me look at the inflammation with a hand mirror. And then he continued to poke my gums with a super pointy metal stick, calling out mystery numbers to his assistant. "And there's bleeding, of course," he told her, with what struck me as more than necessary condescension. And I wanted to say, "That's what happens when you poke the inside of people's MOUTHS with a pointy metal stick. You big dummy." But I didn't. Instead I said, "I've been worried about brushing too hard. Particularly at the surgical site." He said, "Well, now you're being too careful."
For the love of God! What do you people want from me?
So, that's it. I am a big dental failure.* If you don't want to be my friend anymore, I understand.
For the record, however, though the periodontist has told me time after time that the kidney stone he had was worse than the kidney stone I had, [Oh. excuse me. Renal stone. He calls it a renal stone, because he's a doctor.] it totally wasn't. Mine required SURGERY, suckah. So, whatever. I lose at gum-line brushing, but I win at kidney stones. Ha!
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
Oops
I missed a day. Sorry. I didn't really know how long the "a post every weekday" thing was likely to last, but I guess now I do. Not very long. But you'll note that I'm back already. See? Getting back on the proverbial horse right away (an approach, it bears mentioning, that I never took with actual horses), proving definitively that though the similarities between my relationship with this blog and my relationship with the gym are legion, I'm better at this by a slight margin. Mostly because I can do this while sitting down, expending very little physical force, and not having to change into any special clothes. Mind you, the email I got from the gym yesterday said that 30 minutes a day of exercise, five times a week would dramatically diminish my "risk of mortality."* It said nothing whatever about blogging.
*This continues to amuse me. No matter how much you exercise, you're still going to die. Sorry about that. There is no such thing as eliminating your risk of mortality. I think they might want to go for "increase your longevity," but then I'm just a writer, so what would I know? I'm sure the exercisers have this well in hand, what with all that extra oxygenated blood flowing freely to their brains and all.
Speaking of the exercise I'm not doing and the mortality I'm recklessly courting by, interestingly enough, doing nothing, I am watching way too much TV. It's depressing, actually. I need to develop an interest in cooking or crafting or something. Or somehow acquire more friends. Or perhaps just different friends? I continue to try to solve the combined boredom/loneliness problem by inserting a boyfriend into the landscape, but the Men of the Internet continue to ignore me en masse, so something else needs to happen. Horticulture? Canning? Embroidery?
I believe this is the moment that most women turn to cats, but, as you no doubt know, I could not detest cats any more if I tried.
*This continues to amuse me. No matter how much you exercise, you're still going to die. Sorry about that. There is no such thing as eliminating your risk of mortality. I think they might want to go for "increase your longevity," but then I'm just a writer, so what would I know? I'm sure the exercisers have this well in hand, what with all that extra oxygenated blood flowing freely to their brains and all.
Speaking of the exercise I'm not doing and the mortality I'm recklessly courting by, interestingly enough, doing nothing, I am watching way too much TV. It's depressing, actually. I need to develop an interest in cooking or crafting or something. Or somehow acquire more friends. Or perhaps just different friends? I continue to try to solve the combined boredom/loneliness problem by inserting a boyfriend into the landscape, but the Men of the Internet continue to ignore me en masse, so something else needs to happen. Horticulture? Canning? Embroidery?
I believe this is the moment that most women turn to cats, but, as you no doubt know, I could not detest cats any more if I tried.
Monday, April 01, 2013
Ouch, again
I received a bill for my historic kidney stone surgery, of which, I am ecstatic to report, I am only required to pay a very small portion. It cost a lot. Drink water. That's my big advice.
The most surprising bit is the line item for "Recovery Room" which runs to very nearly $3,000. Did you know it cost that much to lie unconscious, drooling blood, in a room with at least ten other unconscious people?
Yeah. Me neither.
If you're on a budget, I think you can just find a flophouse full of junkies and have more or less the same experience for free.
The most surprising bit is the line item for "Recovery Room" which runs to very nearly $3,000. Did you know it cost that much to lie unconscious, drooling blood, in a room with at least ten other unconscious people?
Yeah. Me neither.
If you're on a budget, I think you can just find a flophouse full of junkies and have more or less the same experience for free.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Farewell
Richard Griffiths has died, which makes me sad. Even sadder is the fact that I learned this from an internet headline "Harry Potter Actor Griffiths Dies." This is not unlike referring to Marlon Brando as "Superman Actor"--not untrue, but rather missing the point. When the black day comes that we say farewell to Maggie Smith, I will not be responsible for my actions if she's blithely referred to as "Harry Potter Actress." You are forewarned.
I had the enormous good fortune to see Mr. Griffiths in Alan Bennett's The History Boys on Broadway some years ago. I would have liked very much to see it again almost immediately after the curtain call. He was a great actor. I'm sorry he's gone.
I had the enormous good fortune to see Mr. Griffiths in Alan Bennett's The History Boys on Broadway some years ago. I would have liked very much to see it again almost immediately after the curtain call. He was a great actor. I'm sorry he's gone.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Falling in love again
You may recall my fantasizing about being Marlene Dietrich (you may also recall fantasizing about yourself being Marlene Dietrich, but I wouldn't know about that). Well, as it happens, I basically am Marlene Dietrich. I offer this evidence.
On one hand, it is comforting (however hollowly) to know that I am not alone in pitiful behavior, that even Marlene Dietrich has wandered around ridiculously pining for men who ignore her. On the other hand: Men, what gives? This pattern of behavior that spans the decades and leads you to ignore not only me, but also Marlene Frickin' Dietrich really must stop.
Have you seen Marlene Dietrich?
Exactly.
So, while I need no longer envy Marlene Dietrich her love life, I do keenly envy her being a close personal friend of Noel Coward. It is a thing to which I have long, and alas, fruitlessly, aspired.
When you are selecting friends from among famous people whom you do not know, your slim odds of success greatly improve if you first narrow the candidates to those among the living. A tiresome restriction, but there it is.
Also, how much do you love that Yul Brenner was called Curly?
On one hand, it is comforting (however hollowly) to know that I am not alone in pitiful behavior, that even Marlene Dietrich has wandered around ridiculously pining for men who ignore her. On the other hand: Men, what gives? This pattern of behavior that spans the decades and leads you to ignore not only me, but also Marlene Frickin' Dietrich really must stop.
Have you seen Marlene Dietrich?
Exactly.
So, while I need no longer envy Marlene Dietrich her love life, I do keenly envy her being a close personal friend of Noel Coward. It is a thing to which I have long, and alas, fruitlessly, aspired.
When you are selecting friends from among famous people whom you do not know, your slim odds of success greatly improve if you first narrow the candidates to those among the living. A tiresome restriction, but there it is.
Also, how much do you love that Yul Brenner was called Curly?
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
One fewer
I got an email today with the subject heading "Top 5 Deathbed Regrets of Writers." It's likely that I will suffer from all five of them, but just in case one of them was "Failed to update my blog after being totally on a roll," I am here. Maybe this simple act of showing up means I'll only suffer four deathbed regrets--as a writer, anyway. I hate to contemplate the number of non-writing related deathbed regrets there may be. I may require a long, wasting sort of illness in order to get though them.
One of the downsides of being cowardly is that regrets are easy to come by. Perhaps you would like to cross-stitch that onto a throw pillow as a warning to yourself. Granted, it will have to be a pretty big pillow to fit such a long phrase, but that's okay. When you get home from all those brave, self-actualizing activities, you're probably going to be pretty tuckered out. A large, cautionary pillow may come in handy.
You're welcome.
One of the downsides of being cowardly is that regrets are easy to come by. Perhaps you would like to cross-stitch that onto a throw pillow as a warning to yourself. Granted, it will have to be a pretty big pillow to fit such a long phrase, but that's okay. When you get home from all those brave, self-actualizing activities, you're probably going to be pretty tuckered out. A large, cautionary pillow may come in handy.
You're welcome.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Heaven, briefly
It will not shock you learn that I never played Spin the Bottle. This is just as well, because had I been obliged to kiss anyone publicly at any point within the years that one would typically be playing Spin the Bottle, I would have died instantly. You scoff, but I'm convinced that in certain quantities there is a lethal combination of inexperience and mortification; I suspect it manifests in spontaneous combustion on an impressive scale. For the record, I could probably play it now, but it hasn't come up. Most people I know are married, so I guess it would make for an awkward dinner-party entertainment.
Ahem. Anyway.
Apparently there is a thing in Spin the Bottle called "Seven Minutes in Heaven" which requires two bottle-selected people to retire to another room or a closet or something for seven minutes, presumably to get it on in a grope-ier/tongue-ier way than they would on a regular turn. I'm shaky on the details.
This morning, the phrase popped into my mind as I reached, eyes still closed, for the familiar button on the clock. This is exactly what the snooze alarm grants every time: seven minutes in heaven. No bottle required.
Ahem. Anyway.
Apparently there is a thing in Spin the Bottle called "Seven Minutes in Heaven" which requires two bottle-selected people to retire to another room or a closet or something for seven minutes, presumably to get it on in a grope-ier/tongue-ier way than they would on a regular turn. I'm shaky on the details.
This morning, the phrase popped into my mind as I reached, eyes still closed, for the familiar button on the clock. This is exactly what the snooze alarm grants every time: seven minutes in heaven. No bottle required.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Harbinger
Of late there is a bird just outside my window who hails the dawning of each new day with:
Ah, springtime.
CHEEP! cheep!A song every bit as bewitching and melodious as a malfunctioning Casio watch alarm.
CHEEP! cheep!
CHEEP! cheep!
Ah, springtime.
Friday, March 22, 2013
There will be blood
The nail salon that I, well, I was going to say "frequent" but I think that's inaccurate. It suggests a greater commitment to nail care than I seem to have. Largely this is because, though I enjoy the result of pedicures, I do not enjoy pedicures themselves. My strategy is: have a pedicure, wait for nails to become dangerously long such that my socks are in peril, then have another. I might slightly alter this routine if there were any danger of accidentally sleep-slicing someone else's leg open, but that, alas, is not a current concern.
What were we talking about? Right. The nail salon that I patronize is small and inexpensive (perhaps, in part, because they have not bought a new nail color in at least the past three years, helping keep their overhead low). There are four ladies who work there: the owner who mostly does waxing and is kind of lousy at nails, though don't tell her I said so; the older, very gentle lady who I always pray will be there, but who does not work every day; the quite gentle lady; and the woman who embraces a tough-love approach to foot care, the thoroughness and vigor of which might be better practiced upon cadavers. (Do morticians do any nail work? I think she'd be ideal.)
The last four times I've been, I've gotten the tough-love woman. The whole experience is agonizing (perhaps I have freakishly sensitive feet? I don't know. They're the only ones I've ever had, so I have nothing to compare them to), but she does not alter her style based on the flinching and writhing and embarrassing kicky reflexes it engenders. I hate everything about it, yet I am too much of a wimp to refuse service from her and wait for the very gentle lady or the reasonably gentle lady.
Yesterday, I thought I was a shoo-in for the reasonably gentle lady (the very gentle lady wasn't there) who greeted me with smiles of genuine recognition, filled the basin with water for me, and draped the "you're wearing a skirt" modesty towel over my knees. We were at last reunited! My relief was palpable. Meanwhile the tough-love lady was busy with someone else's manicure. Ha! But then, having gotten me settled, [cue ominous organ music] the reasonably gentle lady called another patron into the waxing room. It was a race against the clock. For ten tense minutes my eyes darted between the closed waxing room door and the manicure station. Please let it just be eyebrows, please let it just be eyebrows.... But no. The manicure was finished while the waxing door long remained firmly shut. (I assume the only hair left on that woman is on top of her head. Also, I hate her.) With her usual sturdy resignation, the tough-love lady rolled her little stool of misery over to my station and pulled my right foot firmly toward her as my hands tightened on the armrests and my knuckles whitened.
Fade to black.
Lights up on tidy toes, no longer posing a danger to myself or others, but polished in what proves to be a disappointing, rather banal shade of red. A color that, naturally, I was too cowardly to ask her to change.
What were we talking about? Right. The nail salon that I patronize is small and inexpensive (perhaps, in part, because they have not bought a new nail color in at least the past three years, helping keep their overhead low). There are four ladies who work there: the owner who mostly does waxing and is kind of lousy at nails, though don't tell her I said so; the older, very gentle lady who I always pray will be there, but who does not work every day; the quite gentle lady; and the woman who embraces a tough-love approach to foot care, the thoroughness and vigor of which might be better practiced upon cadavers. (Do morticians do any nail work? I think she'd be ideal.)
The last four times I've been, I've gotten the tough-love woman. The whole experience is agonizing (perhaps I have freakishly sensitive feet? I don't know. They're the only ones I've ever had, so I have nothing to compare them to), but she does not alter her style based on the flinching and writhing and embarrassing kicky reflexes it engenders. I hate everything about it, yet I am too much of a wimp to refuse service from her and wait for the very gentle lady or the reasonably gentle lady.
Yesterday, I thought I was a shoo-in for the reasonably gentle lady (the very gentle lady wasn't there) who greeted me with smiles of genuine recognition, filled the basin with water for me, and draped the "you're wearing a skirt" modesty towel over my knees. We were at last reunited! My relief was palpable. Meanwhile the tough-love lady was busy with someone else's manicure. Ha! But then, having gotten me settled, [cue ominous organ music] the reasonably gentle lady called another patron into the waxing room. It was a race against the clock. For ten tense minutes my eyes darted between the closed waxing room door and the manicure station. Please let it just be eyebrows, please let it just be eyebrows.... But no. The manicure was finished while the waxing door long remained firmly shut. (I assume the only hair left on that woman is on top of her head. Also, I hate her.) With her usual sturdy resignation, the tough-love lady rolled her little stool of misery over to my station and pulled my right foot firmly toward her as my hands tightened on the armrests and my knuckles whitened.
Fade to black.
Lights up on tidy toes, no longer posing a danger to myself or others, but polished in what proves to be a disappointing, rather banal shade of red. A color that, naturally, I was too cowardly to ask her to change.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Let there be light
Halogen bulbs last for years and years so, when the bulb in my reading light burns out, I experience shock and denial. That light always works! How can it not be working? WHAT IS HAPPENING? I then forget to go to the hardware store to replace it. I forget for many days in a row. This perhaps wouldn't matter at your house, but my living room walls are punctuated by little sconce lights on a dimmer switch. They are charming, in the same way that candles are charming. And, also like candles, they will make you go blind if you use them for reading. (I'm pretty sure all of our ancestors went blind from reading by candlelight. Right? Didn't I hear that on NPR?)
Before you get all concerned about whether John Irving's latest novel + sconce lights = blindness, let me reassure you that I finally remembered to replace the necessary bulb and last night's reading was eyestrain-free.
I asked the hardware man to direct me.
Me: Can you tell me where to find a halogen bulb?
Him: A what?
Me: A halogen light bulb.
He steps in front of me and leads me to the appropriate aisle.
Him (a bit dubiously): There are a lot of kinds of halogen bulbs. (He begins listing various shapes and sizes of halogen bulbs)
Me (interrupting): Of course. I just needed to get to the right neighborhood.
Him: Oh. Well, all the lightbulbs are here.
Me: Yes. Thanks. I need one of these tiny two-prong ones.
Him: Ah. [more dubiousness] Those come in different watts and volts.
Me: Yes. I need a 20 watt, 12 volt. Ah. Here. This is the one.
Him: Yippie Skippy!
I think he meant it from the heart.
Before you get all concerned about whether John Irving's latest novel + sconce lights = blindness, let me reassure you that I finally remembered to replace the necessary bulb and last night's reading was eyestrain-free.
I asked the hardware man to direct me.
Me: Can you tell me where to find a halogen bulb?
Him: A what?
Me: A halogen light bulb.
He steps in front of me and leads me to the appropriate aisle.
Him (a bit dubiously): There are a lot of kinds of halogen bulbs. (He begins listing various shapes and sizes of halogen bulbs)
Me (interrupting): Of course. I just needed to get to the right neighborhood.
Him: Oh. Well, all the lightbulbs are here.
Me: Yes. Thanks. I need one of these tiny two-prong ones.
Him: Ah. [more dubiousness] Those come in different watts and volts.
Me: Yes. I need a 20 watt, 12 volt. Ah. Here. This is the one.
Him: Yippie Skippy!
I think he meant it from the heart.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Dastardly scheming
I have a friend who has only recently moved here (seemingly on a whim) and is living in one temporary set-up after another while he looks for a job. Meanwhile, most of his belongings are in storage on the other side of the country. He has expressed to me particular dismay at the pitifully equipped kitchens that have been made available to him during his California experiment. He misses his knives and pots and steamers. He misses cooking.
My kitchen is quite well-stocked. I have excellent stainless steel cookware, a variety of ceramic baking dishes, a pastry brush, a meat-tenderizing mallet. I even have a cherry pitter. Last night for dinner I had a peanut butter and honey sandwich. And some Kalua. What? It was raining. It seemed appropriate. Plus, I didn't even know I had Kalua.
Are you having a brilliant idea right now? Because I had one last night.
On Saturday, I am doing my friend the great and generous favor of allowing him to cook dinner in my kitchen. After which I'm pretty sure the rules of etiquette dictate that I join him in eating it.
Lest you think that I am nothing but a conniver, I will have you know that, this very morning in honor of this meal, I finally replaced my horrible pepper grinder (which required cranking gusto more appropriate to starting a Model T, only to result in pepper bits only slightly smaller than the original peppercorn) with an excellent pepper grinder. A pepper grinder worthy of someone who misses grinding pepper.
Everybody wins.
My kitchen is quite well-stocked. I have excellent stainless steel cookware, a variety of ceramic baking dishes, a pastry brush, a meat-tenderizing mallet. I even have a cherry pitter. Last night for dinner I had a peanut butter and honey sandwich. And some Kalua. What? It was raining. It seemed appropriate. Plus, I didn't even know I had Kalua.
Are you having a brilliant idea right now? Because I had one last night.
On Saturday, I am doing my friend the great and generous favor of allowing him to cook dinner in my kitchen. After which I'm pretty sure the rules of etiquette dictate that I join him in eating it.
Lest you think that I am nothing but a conniver, I will have you know that, this very morning in honor of this meal, I finally replaced my horrible pepper grinder (which required cranking gusto more appropriate to starting a Model T, only to result in pepper bits only slightly smaller than the original peppercorn) with an excellent pepper grinder. A pepper grinder worthy of someone who misses grinding pepper.
Everybody wins.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Drumming in French
Yesterday you probably were thinking, "Yes. This is all very tragic about your car, but did you humiliate yourself at the French thing? I need to know." To be honest, I can't tell whether your fervor in this regard is born of sympathy or mockery, but I am willing to extend to you the benefit of the doubt. This time.
This past weekend was one primarily characterized by inertia. Normally, this is an affliction I suffer from on Sundays, but this time around I had what felt like two Sundays. This, if you are me, is not good. There was: "I need to wash my hair, so I might as well go swim and then I will go to the grocery store, which is not far from the gym and then all will be well." Followed by this: "But I don't want to go swimming. Plus, if I don't leave the house, it won't matter if I don't wash my hair and I think I still have two eggs in the refrigerator, so I don't need groceries THAT badly." And this went on and on and on. (It is often quite tiresome to be me. I mention this in case you are suffering from some sort of bizarre, misplaced envy.) This endless loop then extended to the French thing. Am I really going to go to the French thing? I don't really want to go to the French thing. Is this a dumb dress to wear to the French thing? Et cetera.
Ultimately, I brushed my still dirty hair, put on the possibly dumb dress and left the house. Triumph! However, since I had failed to go to the grocery store, I was, in fact, ravenous. So, while ostensibly on my way to the French thing, I turned the wrong direction, spent about twenty minutes looking for parking in the Mission and took myself out to dinner at Range. It was delicious.
Fortified by pork and conversations with other human beings (in English), I did then go to the soirée, where I said three French things, screwed up one verb, watched some Haitians drum and dance, watched some West Africans drum and dance, and left. I believe I was there for 37 minutes of a four-hour program. However, I did spend at least five hours tortured by event-related indecision, so I think it all evens out.
For the record:
1. My dress seemed ok.
2. French men wear a lot more cologne than American men.
3. It's especially difficult to hear questions posed to you in a foreign language in a room where there is a lot of drumming going on.
4. I really love Range, though it's possible that my favorite bartender no longer works there, which is disappointing for me, though hopefully good for him.
5. I washed the bird shit off my car.
6. I finally washed my hair.
7. I still haven't been to the gym. Shut up.
This past weekend was one primarily characterized by inertia. Normally, this is an affliction I suffer from on Sundays, but this time around I had what felt like two Sundays. This, if you are me, is not good. There was: "I need to wash my hair, so I might as well go swim and then I will go to the grocery store, which is not far from the gym and then all will be well." Followed by this: "But I don't want to go swimming. Plus, if I don't leave the house, it won't matter if I don't wash my hair and I think I still have two eggs in the refrigerator, so I don't need groceries THAT badly." And this went on and on and on. (It is often quite tiresome to be me. I mention this in case you are suffering from some sort of bizarre, misplaced envy.) This endless loop then extended to the French thing. Am I really going to go to the French thing? I don't really want to go to the French thing. Is this a dumb dress to wear to the French thing? Et cetera.
Ultimately, I brushed my still dirty hair, put on the possibly dumb dress and left the house. Triumph! However, since I had failed to go to the grocery store, I was, in fact, ravenous. So, while ostensibly on my way to the French thing, I turned the wrong direction, spent about twenty minutes looking for parking in the Mission and took myself out to dinner at Range. It was delicious.
Fortified by pork and conversations with other human beings (in English), I did then go to the soirée, where I said three French things, screwed up one verb, watched some Haitians drum and dance, watched some West Africans drum and dance, and left. I believe I was there for 37 minutes of a four-hour program. However, I did spend at least five hours tortured by event-related indecision, so I think it all evens out.
For the record:
1. My dress seemed ok.
2. French men wear a lot more cologne than American men.
3. It's especially difficult to hear questions posed to you in a foreign language in a room where there is a lot of drumming going on.
4. I really love Range, though it's possible that my favorite bartender no longer works there, which is disappointing for me, though hopefully good for him.
5. I washed the bird shit off my car.
6. I finally washed my hair.
7. I still haven't been to the gym. Shut up.
Monday, March 18, 2013
A mataphor? A message?
Yesterday, for the first time in many months, I had my car washed. The passive voice should alert you to the fact that I spent my own personal dollars for this to be done. The car was thereupon shiny and, I like to think, relieved.
Not 24 hours later, this very same vehicle has been liberally shat upon by some [gluttonous? diseased?] bird.
That is all.
Not 24 hours later, this very same vehicle has been liberally shat upon by some [gluttonous? diseased?] bird.
That is all.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Bonjour
Tomorrow I am going to an event called "Soirée Francophone" and I'm a little bit nervous. I feel like if it were Soirée Francophile I would have it in the bag--we could all just eat baguettes and be enthusiastic about the Eiffel Tower in a general sort of way. It's the "phone" part that has me worried. My French is in pretty serious disuse, such that if I am called upon to form any verbs other than in the present tense I risque making an idiote of moi-meme. So please to wish me bonne chance and cross your fingers that I miraculously happen to wear the right thing and that--if things go très, très well--someone might even think I'm charmante. I quite miss being thought charmante.
Speaking of charmante, regardez! Here is a very tiny door. In a tree! In Golden Gate Park. I am very delighted by this. I would approximate my delight to be about 287 times greater than it would be if someone took it upon themselves to knit around this tree. People seem to enjoy this trend (indeed, there are two street signs across from my house that have been sheathed in knitting), but I am not really a fan. Tiny doors in trees, however? Behind which gnomes and/or fairies clearly reside? Yes, please.
via The Bold Italic
Speaking of charmante, regardez! Here is a very tiny door. In a tree! In Golden Gate Park. I am very delighted by this. I would approximate my delight to be about 287 times greater than it would be if someone took it upon themselves to knit around this tree. People seem to enjoy this trend (indeed, there are two street signs across from my house that have been sheathed in knitting), but I am not really a fan. Tiny doors in trees, however? Behind which gnomes and/or fairies clearly reside? Yes, please.
via The Bold Italic
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Retro
Last night I had a dream in which Sean Penn met Madonna for the first time. (Lest you wonder, they were quite taken with each other.)
It's disappointing to discover that my subconscious is so woefully out of date.
It's disappointing to discover that my subconscious is so woefully out of date.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
The scared is SCARED
This is a video via my friend Cindy on Facebook, via Eat My Heart Out Storytelling, via who knows what. It's the internet. There's a lot of clicking going on.
I would urge you to watch the whole thing or you risk missing the moral. And that would be a pity.
Happy Wednesday.
I would urge you to watch the whole thing or you risk missing the moral. And that would be a pity.
Happy Wednesday.
the Scared is scared from Bianca Giaever on Vimeo.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Idle hands, etc.
There are times I write to entertain you and there are times I write to entertain myself. This, I am sorry to say, is the latter. Lacking any kind of narrative through-line, we shall resort--once more!--to a numbered list of miscellany.
1. Just now, in conversation with a friend, I uttered this sentence, "It will abut the Spiritual Life Center." My friend laughed. It was not my intention to make her laugh, but her point is taken.
2. Rather than going to the gym after work yesterday (as was Plan, oh I don't know, let's say Plan D, vis à vis gym-going), I got a deep dish pizza from Little Star, half of which I ate, very rapidly, while watching hour after hour of television. So fitness is going well.
3. I find that even if I am nearly hysterically tired, I will not go to bed at 10pm because, in my mind, 10pm is too early to go to bed. Instead, I will do something like watch a show about a Norwegian crime reporter (possibly Danish?) until I fall asleep in a chair. Wait. I take it back. There is a narrative through-line from #2 to #3, after all. Perhaps #4 will provide a conclusion.
4. While at the market during my lunch hour, I purchased a charmingly small bottle of fancy tonic water which I am eager to take home and introduce to my fancy gin. It seems to be that sort of day. Perhaps if I had not allowed myself to fall asleep in a chair last night, I would have met the day with greater joie to say nothing of de vivre.
Yes. That will do. Don't worry, I'm sure there will be more sloth and lack of will power to celebrate another day. Carry on.
1. Just now, in conversation with a friend, I uttered this sentence, "It will abut the Spiritual Life Center." My friend laughed. It was not my intention to make her laugh, but her point is taken.
2. Rather than going to the gym after work yesterday (as was Plan, oh I don't know, let's say Plan D, vis à vis gym-going), I got a deep dish pizza from Little Star, half of which I ate, very rapidly, while watching hour after hour of television. So fitness is going well.
3. I find that even if I am nearly hysterically tired, I will not go to bed at 10pm because, in my mind, 10pm is too early to go to bed. Instead, I will do something like watch a show about a Norwegian crime reporter (possibly Danish?) until I fall asleep in a chair. Wait. I take it back. There is a narrative through-line from #2 to #3, after all. Perhaps #4 will provide a conclusion.
4. While at the market during my lunch hour, I purchased a charmingly small bottle of fancy tonic water which I am eager to take home and introduce to my fancy gin. It seems to be that sort of day. Perhaps if I had not allowed myself to fall asleep in a chair last night, I would have met the day with greater joie to say nothing of de vivre.
Yes. That will do. Don't worry, I'm sure there will be more sloth and lack of will power to celebrate another day. Carry on.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Gold star
On my way to work every morning, I drive past Davies Medical Center. Today, I stopped midblock to create a little traffic opening so an ambulance could get out of the parking lot.
When I checked my email later there was a message from a friend whom I'd not seen in several months.
Subject heading: Hi!
Message: Hey, thanks for letting that ambulance out of Davies! That was me :-)
There's a moral here somewhere. Particularly (though I hope not solely) if you're personally acquainted with any paramedics.
When I checked my email later there was a message from a friend whom I'd not seen in several months.
Subject heading: Hi!
Message: Hey, thanks for letting that ambulance out of Davies! That was me :-)
There's a moral here somewhere. Particularly (though I hope not solely) if you're personally acquainted with any paramedics.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Springing forward
Disclaimer: I am not noticeably springing forward in any way other than setting my clocks ahead an hour. I'd like to tell you that I have been propelled into some kind of frenzy of self-improvement, but that would be a lie. Thank you.
From observing the moderate outerwear of passersby, it is my belief that it is warm outside, but here in the north-facing apartment, I just keep adding layer upon layer of clothing and wondering if it would be de trop to put on gloves. I made a plan to meet someone at 2pm, with some notion that I would want to have the morning and early afternoon to--I don't know--sleep very late and then swan about gracefully? Read a book? Write a poem? I have no idea. What has happened instead is that I stayed up far too late watching some kind of murder mystery and then, thanks to raging Allergy Head, slept for what felt like about 37 minutes. All in all, 2pm turns out to be a uniquely inconvenient time to do anything. Not far enough away to really commit to anything else, but distant enough to necessitate a great deal of time-killing. I've been ricocheting around like an air hockey puck (or possibly a real hockey puck. I wouldn't know. I prefer air hockey and miniature golf to their grown-people equivalents). I'm listening to RadioLab! No! I'm reading an article about Burning Man! No! I'm listening to "Kill the Director" by the Wombats! No! I'm updating my blog with my up-to-the-minute thoughts and feelings! On and on it goes with little pauses to put on more sweaters and rotisserie myself in front of the heating vent.
1. I spoke to my neighbor about the construction-site-worthy racket that comes my way every time they feed their kid. He's made some adjustments to the high chair and the noise has gone from unbearable to really, really annoying. So that's improvement.
2. Often I "wash" my face with nothing more than water and a washcloth. This seemed perfectly adequate; it's not as though I work in a coal mine or on the Vaudeville stage. Recently, just for the heck of it, I used some make-up remover and a cotton um...disk (What are those things called?) which I generally use only on the rare occasion I've got to contend with mascara. And that is how I came to learn that I've been employing an Elizabethan style of hygiene. Oh. Hi, makeup. What are you doing on this cotton disk? Did you not notice the water I liberally applied a few minutes ago? Apparently not. Good to know. Sorry about that, pores.
3. I've been to a few lately and, secretly, I'm not sure movies are radically improved by being in 3D. This may be partially because I have exactly the wrong nose for wearing those glasses for two hours. Ow. But, really, why the sudden fervor for another dimension? Surely, that is what going outside is for?
4. The Blog Bully and I went to the theatre on Friday and he took issue with my insinuation that it's his fault I've been such a lousy blogger. He said he'd certainly noticed, but was trying to be kind under the circumstances of my lengthy indisposition. He's having no more of it. We're all on notice.
Oh, hooray. In ten minutes, it'll be time to leave the house. Enjoy your evening of lingering sunlight.
From observing the moderate outerwear of passersby, it is my belief that it is warm outside, but here in the north-facing apartment, I just keep adding layer upon layer of clothing and wondering if it would be de trop to put on gloves. I made a plan to meet someone at 2pm, with some notion that I would want to have the morning and early afternoon to--I don't know--sleep very late and then swan about gracefully? Read a book? Write a poem? I have no idea. What has happened instead is that I stayed up far too late watching some kind of murder mystery and then, thanks to raging Allergy Head, slept for what felt like about 37 minutes. All in all, 2pm turns out to be a uniquely inconvenient time to do anything. Not far enough away to really commit to anything else, but distant enough to necessitate a great deal of time-killing. I've been ricocheting around like an air hockey puck (or possibly a real hockey puck. I wouldn't know. I prefer air hockey and miniature golf to their grown-people equivalents). I'm listening to RadioLab! No! I'm reading an article about Burning Man! No! I'm listening to "Kill the Director" by the Wombats! No! I'm updating my blog with my up-to-the-minute thoughts and feelings! On and on it goes with little pauses to put on more sweaters and rotisserie myself in front of the heating vent.
1. I spoke to my neighbor about the construction-site-worthy racket that comes my way every time they feed their kid. He's made some adjustments to the high chair and the noise has gone from unbearable to really, really annoying. So that's improvement.
2. Often I "wash" my face with nothing more than water and a washcloth. This seemed perfectly adequate; it's not as though I work in a coal mine or on the Vaudeville stage. Recently, just for the heck of it, I used some make-up remover and a cotton um...disk (What are those things called?) which I generally use only on the rare occasion I've got to contend with mascara. And that is how I came to learn that I've been employing an Elizabethan style of hygiene. Oh. Hi, makeup. What are you doing on this cotton disk? Did you not notice the water I liberally applied a few minutes ago? Apparently not. Good to know. Sorry about that, pores.
3. I've been to a few lately and, secretly, I'm not sure movies are radically improved by being in 3D. This may be partially because I have exactly the wrong nose for wearing those glasses for two hours. Ow. But, really, why the sudden fervor for another dimension? Surely, that is what going outside is for?
4. The Blog Bully and I went to the theatre on Friday and he took issue with my insinuation that it's his fault I've been such a lousy blogger. He said he'd certainly noticed, but was trying to be kind under the circumstances of my lengthy indisposition. He's having no more of it. We're all on notice.
Oh, hooray. In ten minutes, it'll be time to leave the house. Enjoy your evening of lingering sunlight.
Thursday, March 07, 2013
Out-of-work showgirls galore
Well, hello there you few, you happy few. How the heck are you? Since last we spoke, I've been doing my best to Participate in Life, which is not to say that I'm not also watching a great deal of television. Today is apparently National Book Day, so this evening I will endeavor to keep forging ahead with Zadie Smith's NW, with which I was making excellent progress after a rocky start (I'll be honest, the first section very nearly compelled me to abandon the whole thing, but the advent of the second section hailed a different prose style and my hope was renewed), until I happened upon some AMC series on Netflix called "Hell on Wheels," which I have subsequently been watching in back-to-back episodes. It is about laying the railroad across the country post-Civil War. Racial tensions! Frontier prostitutes! Backroom deals! [Understandably] Hostile Indians! There's a lot going on, but mostly what's going on is a--can I just say this? Sullying my refined reputation?--a ridiculously hot actor. I'd never heard of him, but Anson Mount, you are making me rethink my stance on beards. (Apparently, I'm not the only one to swoon, as evidenced by the fact that this even exists.)
Ahem. What was I saying?
Right. Participating in Life. I've had some cocktails. I had a dinner guest for whom I produced an actual balanced meal. I went to a lecture on climate change, the most encouraging aspect of which was that the scientist presenting was very visibly pregnant, leading me to believe she must see some cause for optimism that I somehow missed.
I've also been to quite a lot of movies at the Roxie because my very clever friend Elliot Lavine has programmed the hell out of this year's Pre-Code Festival. My favorites were Shanghai Express and Lady Killer. In the first, Marlene Dietrich spends a lot of time leaning in the doorways of railway cars smoldering silently while being perfectly lit. In no way do I resemble Marlene Dietrich, but I couldn't help feeling that if I could spend my life in black and white being perfectly lit, I too might be rather beautiful. I do need to work on my posture, admittedly, and learn to hold a silence for a long, long time. And maybe smoke. But I do think there's something to this theory. In the second film, I discovered that James Cagney circa 1933 was quite appealing in a wise-cracking upstart kind of way. Among many, many snappy comebacks this was my favorite:
Former criminal associate: So you're rubbing noses with movie stars now?
Our hero, now a big Hollywood success: Well, call it noses if you like.
Oooh.
All the movies are lousy with that kind of banter. I swoon. Here's a bit from Night World:
Woman: Why you all fall for that broad is beyond me.
Man: Not beyond you, baby. Behind you. By about ten years.
Ouch.
In other press-stopping news, I've been back to the gym. And--lo--I did swim. I know. We've been here before, but this time maybe I'll stick to it? Maybe? When I showed up and handed my card to the check-in guy, I told him to be careful, that the scanner might explode or something since I had not actually been there in A YEAR. Let's just not talk about the money. In any case, I have now been twice. Twice in one week, mind you. I plan to go tomorrow too. Look out, world. The hallmarks of "fitness" including sore shoulders and "I can't stop sneezing because chlorine makes me allergic to my own arm" are almost back!
In that I have never met Anson Mount, there has also been a small flurry of internet strangers, about which I haven't a great deal to say except this. There is a period before you go out with someone the first time when you wonder if this is a person who will come to matter to you. Whether, unbeknownst to you now, this first meeting will be something you'll look back on as a moment when your whole life changed. And mostly, that's not what happens, but it could. It could.
Ahem. What was I saying?
Right. Participating in Life. I've had some cocktails. I had a dinner guest for whom I produced an actual balanced meal. I went to a lecture on climate change, the most encouraging aspect of which was that the scientist presenting was very visibly pregnant, leading me to believe she must see some cause for optimism that I somehow missed.
I've also been to quite a lot of movies at the Roxie because my very clever friend Elliot Lavine has programmed the hell out of this year's Pre-Code Festival. My favorites were Shanghai Express and Lady Killer. In the first, Marlene Dietrich spends a lot of time leaning in the doorways of railway cars smoldering silently while being perfectly lit. In no way do I resemble Marlene Dietrich, but I couldn't help feeling that if I could spend my life in black and white being perfectly lit, I too might be rather beautiful. I do need to work on my posture, admittedly, and learn to hold a silence for a long, long time. And maybe smoke. But I do think there's something to this theory. In the second film, I discovered that James Cagney circa 1933 was quite appealing in a wise-cracking upstart kind of way. Among many, many snappy comebacks this was my favorite:
Former criminal associate: So you're rubbing noses with movie stars now?
Our hero, now a big Hollywood success: Well, call it noses if you like.
Oooh.
All the movies are lousy with that kind of banter. I swoon. Here's a bit from Night World:
Woman: Why you all fall for that broad is beyond me.
Man: Not beyond you, baby. Behind you. By about ten years.
Ouch.
In other press-stopping news, I've been back to the gym. And--lo--I did swim. I know. We've been here before, but this time maybe I'll stick to it? Maybe? When I showed up and handed my card to the check-in guy, I told him to be careful, that the scanner might explode or something since I had not actually been there in A YEAR. Let's just not talk about the money. In any case, I have now been twice. Twice in one week, mind you. I plan to go tomorrow too. Look out, world. The hallmarks of "fitness" including sore shoulders and "I can't stop sneezing because chlorine makes me allergic to my own arm" are almost back!
In that I have never met Anson Mount, there has also been a small flurry of internet strangers, about which I haven't a great deal to say except this. There is a period before you go out with someone the first time when you wonder if this is a person who will come to matter to you. Whether, unbeknownst to you now, this first meeting will be something you'll look back on as a moment when your whole life changed. And mostly, that's not what happens, but it could. It could.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Blog gratia blogis
As is only too obvious, the Blog Bully is really not on top of his game. As such, I am a slacker. So this is me trying to do the right thing even when no one's looking (or whatever that Rule to Live By is). I'm going to warn you, however, that trying to be a good little blogger for its own sake means that there may well be no actual content. This will not stand in my way. Indeed, I can very easily continue to write sentences about nothing whatsoever for longish paragraphs at a time. I've been writing to online strangers for YEARS, so I've got the chops. But let's see if I can't rummage around in the untidy drawers of my brain and come up with something. Something more, that is.
1. Once a year, I hold a weekend meeting with s group of student playwrights to do a table reading of their plays. Whenever this event rolls around, I buy too many snacks. Far too many snacks. (The faculty room is now lousy with surplus hummus and cocoa-almond spread.) Deep down I must fear that teenagers in a room without snacks will go feral and turn on me. They probably wouldn't. Probably.
2. My previously mentioned imaginary friend Gideon Defoe attended the Oscars since The Pirates! was nominated. I actually enjoy the Oscars, unlike many people, but I enjoyed nothing so much as I enjoy this picture of Gideon looking at Charlize Theron with extreme anxiety.
3. For reasons that elude me, whenever I am in my office, I am cold enough to have blue fingers while I am also sweating in a "never buy anything that requires dry cleaning again" manner. Blue fingers and damp armpits. Equally unpleasant and seemingly impossible to achieve simultaneously. And yet. Every day. Only in my office, however. Vive the weekend.
What? I told you I had nothing to say. Can you be surprised it's come to armpits? I think not. The good news is that I know when it's time to wrap it up.
1. Once a year, I hold a weekend meeting with s group of student playwrights to do a table reading of their plays. Whenever this event rolls around, I buy too many snacks. Far too many snacks. (The faculty room is now lousy with surplus hummus and cocoa-almond spread.) Deep down I must fear that teenagers in a room without snacks will go feral and turn on me. They probably wouldn't. Probably.
2. My previously mentioned imaginary friend Gideon Defoe attended the Oscars since The Pirates! was nominated. I actually enjoy the Oscars, unlike many people, but I enjoyed nothing so much as I enjoy this picture of Gideon looking at Charlize Theron with extreme anxiety.
3. For reasons that elude me, whenever I am in my office, I am cold enough to have blue fingers while I am also sweating in a "never buy anything that requires dry cleaning again" manner. Blue fingers and damp armpits. Equally unpleasant and seemingly impossible to achieve simultaneously. And yet. Every day. Only in my office, however. Vive the weekend.
What? I told you I had nothing to say. Can you be surprised it's come to armpits? I think not. The good news is that I know when it's time to wrap it up.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Chemistry
This morning while I was brushing my teeth, this image came to mind. I am sitting at a bar table across from some man. Between us, outlined in a slightly silvery light that in a certain kind of movie translates as "invisible", is a smallish heap of very tiny winged creatures, all of whom are curled up adorably, piled upon one another and deeply asleep--these are our collective pheromones.
And there, in brief, you have both a summary of last night and the inherent problem with online dating.
And there, in brief, you have both a summary of last night and the inherent problem with online dating.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Bzzzzzz
I am about to embark on a novel called The Death of Bees. That is, I'm going to read it, not write it. Don't get excited. Among other things, it seems someone is already using the title, so writing it would be a waste of time.
Here's my concern. I have already read: The Secret Life of Bees, Bee Season and Little Bee, three novels with radically different plots that I nevertheless freely confuse. Is there really room in my buzzing brain for more bee books?
Stay tuned.
Here's my concern. I have already read: The Secret Life of Bees, Bee Season and Little Bee, three novels with radically different plots that I nevertheless freely confuse. Is there really room in my buzzing brain for more bee books?
Stay tuned.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Brought to you by reading brain
Every time I mention the plot of something I've seen to my mother, she archly remarks that I could be writing a great deal if I were didn't watch so many movies. This infuriates me, largely because it is infuriating. I also think it's false. However, tonight, as I was sitting [I was going to say "quietly" which I suppose is true in that I was very quiet, but it also suggests an atmosphere of quiet, which is decidedly not the case. The Upstairs Baby is crashing around up there in an unprecedented manner, which is not to say that I have not been expecting and dreading it. My most indulgent fantasy is not the one in which I find lasting love; it is the one in which no one lives above me. However, let us not let the Upstairs Baby thwart us in the middle of a perfectly good epiphany.]
Ahem. I was sitting here quietly, reading a book, when I felt an actual impulse to get up and write something. So, perhaps giving my brain a chance not to be stuffed with sitcoms and similar is to give it the opportunity to...wait. There's a term for it. Think. That's it. This is not to say that every time I read a book I feel like leaping up and writing one. On the contrary. Usually, I feel like doing nothing more extraordinary than continuing to read the book. However, I do notice a difference in reading brain versus watching brain. There is an expansiveness in the former that can bode nothing but good. Books. I recommend them.
Last week, the Festival of Wellness was in full swing and I was out and about every night save one. As a result, I have been rather exhausted and have gone to bed at 9:30pm the last two nights, but, just for fun, let's pretend I'm heartier than that. On the whole, I had a lovely time, though there were a couple of downsides. For one, my mother and I had to face the hard fact that we really don't care for authentic Indian food. We are regretful, but find that it is simply too spicy. Way too spicy. We have not yet reached the point where we have said this out loud to others, but there it is. If you have some Americanized chicken tikka masala, I'll happily join you. Otherwise, I'll just have a side of naan. Plain naan. (Which, now that I think about it, was also not available on the menu.) Another not so great thing, is that I had a convivial dinner with a man who fancied me, but actually, based on more recent evidence, I guess didn't? This has really only just occurred to me. Best change the subject.
The very best thing I did was attend Sunday Suppers. By merely buying a ticket, I was given access to a dinner party in a nearby garage. Indeed. A long table with a white cloth and flower arrangements, a delicious five-course meal, and 29 other people whom I had never met. In a garage. (Thank God. Dinners are usually outside, I believe, but it's winter. Even in California.) For me, that made for a unique Sunday. I was the only person to attend alone, but most other diners had the chance to meet 26-28 lovely new people, so it was an adventure for us all. I had the great good fortune to sit in immediate proximity to people I liked enormously. Plus, there was no avocado or mayonnaise involved with the meal. A triumph all around. Did I mention it was delicious? It was delicious. And the people were charming? They were charming.
I loved it.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go roll a small neighbor in bubble wrap.
Ahem. I was sitting here quietly, reading a book, when I felt an actual impulse to get up and write something. So, perhaps giving my brain a chance not to be stuffed with sitcoms and similar is to give it the opportunity to...wait. There's a term for it. Think. That's it. This is not to say that every time I read a book I feel like leaping up and writing one. On the contrary. Usually, I feel like doing nothing more extraordinary than continuing to read the book. However, I do notice a difference in reading brain versus watching brain. There is an expansiveness in the former that can bode nothing but good. Books. I recommend them.
Last week, the Festival of Wellness was in full swing and I was out and about every night save one. As a result, I have been rather exhausted and have gone to bed at 9:30pm the last two nights, but, just for fun, let's pretend I'm heartier than that. On the whole, I had a lovely time, though there were a couple of downsides. For one, my mother and I had to face the hard fact that we really don't care for authentic Indian food. We are regretful, but find that it is simply too spicy. Way too spicy. We have not yet reached the point where we have said this out loud to others, but there it is. If you have some Americanized chicken tikka masala, I'll happily join you. Otherwise, I'll just have a side of naan. Plain naan. (Which, now that I think about it, was also not available on the menu.) Another not so great thing, is that I had a convivial dinner with a man who fancied me, but actually, based on more recent evidence, I guess didn't? This has really only just occurred to me. Best change the subject.
The very best thing I did was attend Sunday Suppers. By merely buying a ticket, I was given access to a dinner party in a nearby garage. Indeed. A long table with a white cloth and flower arrangements, a delicious five-course meal, and 29 other people whom I had never met. In a garage. (Thank God. Dinners are usually outside, I believe, but it's winter. Even in California.) For me, that made for a unique Sunday. I was the only person to attend alone, but most other diners had the chance to meet 26-28 lovely new people, so it was an adventure for us all. I had the great good fortune to sit in immediate proximity to people I liked enormously. Plus, there was no avocado or mayonnaise involved with the meal. A triumph all around. Did I mention it was delicious? It was delicious. And the people were charming? They were charming.
I loved it.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go roll a small neighbor in bubble wrap.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Um...thanks?
As seems now to be traditional, there are little valentine hearts with messages posted all over the school. I happened upon one that said "I wish I could tell you that you're smart."
Is this a wistful would-be compliment from a shy admirer, or a snide put-down? We'll never know.
Is this a wistful would-be compliment from a shy admirer, or a snide put-down? We'll never know.
Monday, February 04, 2013
House cleaning
A couple months ago I had a plumber come out to take a look at my very sluggish bathtub drain. He left no word, but I did discover a Rastafarian wig's worth of my own hair in the wastepaper basket, so, um, I guess I know what the problem was there. I have learned a valuable lesson and put a makeshift hair-catching device over the drain.
More recently then, when I noticed that my bathroom sink gurgled piteously long after I'd turned off the faucet left the room, I assumed there was another nest of hair to blame, but sinks are less intimidating that bathtubs, so I thought I'd try to sort it out myself. I got a three-dollar plastic stick at the hardware store specifically designed for pulling disgusting things out of your drain. And it did, just not hair. More like sludge. And then the stick got stuck, leaving me with a slow drain now filled not only with sludge but also a long plastic stick.
I had been told by several people that the stopper in one's bathroom sink "just unscrews" if you want to take it out. This did not prove to be strictly true, alas. However, I was feeling handy, so I looked it up online and learned how to loosen a nut and disengage a pivot rod. (Yep. A pivot rod.) Having done so, I was able to remove the stopper, free the stick, and have full access to the sludge, a further description of which I shall spare you, except to say that a plastic stick was not what was required to address it.
Having de-sludged as much of the drain as I could reach, I felt, I'll admit it, probably prouder of myself than was entirely warranted by the situation, but hey, previously, I'd never even heard of a pivot rod. That's when I discovered that releasing a drain stopper is at least 60% easier than replacing a bathroom stopper. Oh, the swearing. Oh, the long-armed contorting. Oh, the ultimate total failure to reattach the accursed nut. To sum up, I started out with a gurgly drain and ended up with a sink that essentially had a large uncovered hole in the drainpipe. In other words, a mostly unusable sink. Nice.
Fortunately, I have many friends who are way more competent than I am. (I recommend this strategy.) Many of these friends not only have tools, but know how to use them. One of these friends came home with me on a lunchtime field trip and between the two of us my (sludge-free) drain is now fully functional. In my defense, I will say that it turns out to be way easier with two people than one. You have to be able to look down the drain to line up a couple of things, while also being under the sink tightening those same things. This, for most normal people is not physically possible. So, I feel like slightly less of a loser, a thing I enjoy.
Bolstered by this flash of handiness, I took it upon myself to finally wash the weird soot-based tags that have been accumulating on the front of the house. I don't totally get what this is. Graffiti tags that are achieved (thankfully) not with ink or paint, but with the charred end of something? It's not as easy to get off as it sounds, but I was out there with my scrub brush and soapy water feeling very virtuous indeed. I am a renter, people. A mere renter. In a building I share with others. I will be keeping an eye out for my commendation from the mayor.
Did someone pee more or less into my garage that very night, obliging me to get out the damn soapy water again the next day? Yes. Did I feel as civic-minded and efficient? No. I mostly felt disgusted and furious, not unlike every other time someone has peed on my house.
Lessons:
1. If you need to take your sink stopper out, have a friend standing by. (But do not make them look at the sludge.)
2. Don't pee on other people's houses.
3. Don't write stuff on other people's houses.
4. If you see someone washing pee and/or graffiti off their own house, tell them you sympathize and that they rule. (Optional, but nice.)
More recently then, when I noticed that my bathroom sink gurgled piteously long after I'd turned off the faucet left the room, I assumed there was another nest of hair to blame, but sinks are less intimidating that bathtubs, so I thought I'd try to sort it out myself. I got a three-dollar plastic stick at the hardware store specifically designed for pulling disgusting things out of your drain. And it did, just not hair. More like sludge. And then the stick got stuck, leaving me with a slow drain now filled not only with sludge but also a long plastic stick.
I had been told by several people that the stopper in one's bathroom sink "just unscrews" if you want to take it out. This did not prove to be strictly true, alas. However, I was feeling handy, so I looked it up online and learned how to loosen a nut and disengage a pivot rod. (Yep. A pivot rod.) Having done so, I was able to remove the stopper, free the stick, and have full access to the sludge, a further description of which I shall spare you, except to say that a plastic stick was not what was required to address it.
Having de-sludged as much of the drain as I could reach, I felt, I'll admit it, probably prouder of myself than was entirely warranted by the situation, but hey, previously, I'd never even heard of a pivot rod. That's when I discovered that releasing a drain stopper is at least 60% easier than replacing a bathroom stopper. Oh, the swearing. Oh, the long-armed contorting. Oh, the ultimate total failure to reattach the accursed nut. To sum up, I started out with a gurgly drain and ended up with a sink that essentially had a large uncovered hole in the drainpipe. In other words, a mostly unusable sink. Nice.
Fortunately, I have many friends who are way more competent than I am. (I recommend this strategy.) Many of these friends not only have tools, but know how to use them. One of these friends came home with me on a lunchtime field trip and between the two of us my (sludge-free) drain is now fully functional. In my defense, I will say that it turns out to be way easier with two people than one. You have to be able to look down the drain to line up a couple of things, while also being under the sink tightening those same things. This, for most normal people is not physically possible. So, I feel like slightly less of a loser, a thing I enjoy.
Bolstered by this flash of handiness, I took it upon myself to finally wash the weird soot-based tags that have been accumulating on the front of the house. I don't totally get what this is. Graffiti tags that are achieved (thankfully) not with ink or paint, but with the charred end of something? It's not as easy to get off as it sounds, but I was out there with my scrub brush and soapy water feeling very virtuous indeed. I am a renter, people. A mere renter. In a building I share with others. I will be keeping an eye out for my commendation from the mayor.
Did someone pee more or less into my garage that very night, obliging me to get out the damn soapy water again the next day? Yes. Did I feel as civic-minded and efficient? No. I mostly felt disgusted and furious, not unlike every other time someone has peed on my house.
Lessons:
1. If you need to take your sink stopper out, have a friend standing by. (But do not make them look at the sludge.)
2. Don't pee on other people's houses.
3. Don't write stuff on other people's houses.
4. If you see someone washing pee and/or graffiti off their own house, tell them you sympathize and that they rule. (Optional, but nice.)
Friday, February 01, 2013
New year
Guess what it is? It's February. That's what. And you know what February is? It is the month I slated to herald my own personal new year. I spent January first sick and weeping and then I had surgery a week later. That seemed like such a notably terrible tone to set for a whole year that I decided: Forget you, January. You're not the boss of me.
February, I'm happy to see you.
I feel like I'm back from some long absence. It's so hugely relieving to feel well after being out of commission to varying degrees since September that every day feels a little bit exciting. I've been feeling celebratory. This is jolly, but, also, I've discovered, dangerous. It transpires that "celebratory" means I spend money that I don't necessarily have readily available;* I go out too many school nights in a row; and, interestingly, I keep wearing shoes that hurt my weird broken feet. What can I say? One wishes to dress up a little for the Festival of Wellness. Today, however, I am wearing the Sneakers of Recovery, to make up from the longer-than-it-seemed-in-theory walk to and from the car in the not-so-great-for-walking boots last night.
Last week, a couple days after Porchlight, I took myself on a date (it's vexingly difficult to get anyone else to do it, so I just took matters into my own hands) to Nopa where I had pleasant chats with strangers as well as a very good vegetable tagine. A few days later, I went to a play that made me cry, after which the Blog Bully bought me a fancy cocktail and some brussels sprouts. See? It's been like that.
I've been at the Castro three nights this week seeing dames and hard-boiled guys fall in love and/or kill people. It's been a good time. Tomorrow, I'm going with my [brand new] friend Melissa to the Noir Nightclub, which will briefly allow me to pretend I live in an era better suited to my aesthetic needs (though, obviously, an era in which my feet would have hurt all the time, which is worth bearing in mind).
Coming up, there's Mud and Blood, a cool show that I saw in October, but plan to see again next week. You could go tomorrow if you want. A story with a band and at least one handsome man in a hat? I like that. The lovely Katy Stephan will be singing her very own songs at the Rite Spot on the 5th. Octavio Solis, a brilliant playwright and one of the kindest men I've ever met, has a new play at The Magic. Also, apparently there's a football game on Sunday, a thing I care about not at all, so my friend and I are going to go see a movie which, as far as I can tell, is a zombie love story. I'm generally not so interested in zombies, but I do enjoy love stories. And not watching football. When you're not lying around with a hideous illness or dulled by painkillers, there's a lot to do, is what I'm saying.
Hi, February. Happy New Year.
*That fiscal cliff and its resultant tax changes have left me a hundred bucks a month poorer, which, A) if you are me, is considerable and B) extra considerable if you're still paying for your accursed oral surgery. Boo.
February, I'm happy to see you.
I feel like I'm back from some long absence. It's so hugely relieving to feel well after being out of commission to varying degrees since September that every day feels a little bit exciting. I've been feeling celebratory. This is jolly, but, also, I've discovered, dangerous. It transpires that "celebratory" means I spend money that I don't necessarily have readily available;* I go out too many school nights in a row; and, interestingly, I keep wearing shoes that hurt my weird broken feet. What can I say? One wishes to dress up a little for the Festival of Wellness. Today, however, I am wearing the Sneakers of Recovery, to make up from the longer-than-it-seemed-in-theory walk to and from the car in the not-so-great-for-walking boots last night.
Last week, a couple days after Porchlight, I took myself on a date (it's vexingly difficult to get anyone else to do it, so I just took matters into my own hands) to Nopa where I had pleasant chats with strangers as well as a very good vegetable tagine. A few days later, I went to a play that made me cry, after which the Blog Bully bought me a fancy cocktail and some brussels sprouts. See? It's been like that.
I've been at the Castro three nights this week seeing dames and hard-boiled guys fall in love and/or kill people. It's been a good time. Tomorrow, I'm going with my [brand new] friend Melissa to the Noir Nightclub, which will briefly allow me to pretend I live in an era better suited to my aesthetic needs (though, obviously, an era in which my feet would have hurt all the time, which is worth bearing in mind).
Coming up, there's Mud and Blood, a cool show that I saw in October, but plan to see again next week. You could go tomorrow if you want. A story with a band and at least one handsome man in a hat? I like that. The lovely Katy Stephan will be singing her very own songs at the Rite Spot on the 5th. Octavio Solis, a brilliant playwright and one of the kindest men I've ever met, has a new play at The Magic. Also, apparently there's a football game on Sunday, a thing I care about not at all, so my friend and I are going to go see a movie which, as far as I can tell, is a zombie love story. I'm generally not so interested in zombies, but I do enjoy love stories. And not watching football. When you're not lying around with a hideous illness or dulled by painkillers, there's a lot to do, is what I'm saying.
Hi, February. Happy New Year.
*That fiscal cliff and its resultant tax changes have left me a hundred bucks a month poorer, which, A) if you are me, is considerable and B) extra considerable if you're still paying for your accursed oral surgery. Boo.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
A partial list, I'm sure
Very stupid things I've done in the immediate past:
1. Bought (and opened and generally rendered unreturnable) a laundry bag, even though I already have a laundry bag.
2. Walked right into a spam scam. RIGHT INTO IT.
3. Did a load of laundry without soap.
4. Misread a song title as "Si Tu Doris Parker" when it is, in fact, "Si Tu Dois Partir."
5. Believed (again, still) that the project of online dating would result in something other than bruised feelings and an overarching sense of futility. Yay!
If one of you writes that as-yet-unwritten song, "Si Tu Doris Parker," you'll let me know, right? I'm very interested in hearing that song. Also, I'm growing increasingly suspicious that I need glasses. You'll want to stay tuned for the resulting "I feel silly in glasses" crisis.
1. Bought (and opened and generally rendered unreturnable) a laundry bag, even though I already have a laundry bag.
2. Walked right into a spam scam. RIGHT INTO IT.
3. Did a load of laundry without soap.
4. Misread a song title as "Si Tu Doris Parker" when it is, in fact, "Si Tu Dois Partir."
5. Believed (again, still) that the project of online dating would result in something other than bruised feelings and an overarching sense of futility. Yay!
If one of you writes that as-yet-unwritten song, "Si Tu Doris Parker," you'll let me know, right? I'm very interested in hearing that song. Also, I'm growing increasingly suspicious that I need glasses. You'll want to stay tuned for the resulting "I feel silly in glasses" crisis.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Looking up
So far today I got:
1. Eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has not happened in many thrashy, coughy nights and I am so thrilled to be restored to rest that I could just kiss you.
2. Two--TWO!--real letters in my mailbox. Letters that actually must have arrived yesterday, but my mailbox is so stupid that the good stuff often sinks down to the bottom while the ridiculous newspaper circulars get stuffed into the top where I have to rip and wrestle them free with two hands, only to recycle them immediately. But on my way past this morning, I glimpsed another crumpled advertising postcard and when I reached in to grab it, I unearthed two slim envelopes with my address penned in the recognizable handwriting of people I love.
3. A glimpse of five elderly Asian ladies on the tennis court in Dolores Park, well bundled and doing slow and deliberate calisthenics. I need to befriend some elderly Asian ladies to instill in me a commitment to exercise. Nothing else has worked.
4. The last parking place on the desired block.
5. Two compliments on my outfit.
And yesterday, in the good mail I did manage to find, in a teeny envelope within the larger one, I got a gold star. It's nice to have a friend who rewards you for sticking to hard resolutions.
I don't know, but I think 2013 is starting to come together for me. Here's hoping you can say the same.
1. Eight, uninterrupted hours of sleep. This has not happened in many thrashy, coughy nights and I am so thrilled to be restored to rest that I could just kiss you.
2. Two--TWO!--real letters in my mailbox. Letters that actually must have arrived yesterday, but my mailbox is so stupid that the good stuff often sinks down to the bottom while the ridiculous newspaper circulars get stuffed into the top where I have to rip and wrestle them free with two hands, only to recycle them immediately. But on my way past this morning, I glimpsed another crumpled advertising postcard and when I reached in to grab it, I unearthed two slim envelopes with my address penned in the recognizable handwriting of people I love.
3. A glimpse of five elderly Asian ladies on the tennis court in Dolores Park, well bundled and doing slow and deliberate calisthenics. I need to befriend some elderly Asian ladies to instill in me a commitment to exercise. Nothing else has worked.
4. The last parking place on the desired block.
5. Two compliments on my outfit.
And yesterday, in the good mail I did manage to find, in a teeny envelope within the larger one, I got a gold star. It's nice to have a friend who rewards you for sticking to hard resolutions.
I don't know, but I think 2013 is starting to come together for me. Here's hoping you can say the same.
Monday, January 21, 2013
A dream
It only just occurred to me as I turned off my light last night that President Obama's second inauguration coincides with Martin Luther King Day.
A hopeful sign, indeed.
A hopeful sign, indeed.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
2013
Here is a surprising confession: yesterday, I felt quite cheerful. I wouldn't mention it, except that I have not been feeling cheerful for rather a long while and it made a nice change. I spent the day blue-fingered and generally freezing (and please, dwellers of other lands, I know it is colder where you live and Californians discussing winter sparks great mirth and/or derisive snorting for you and your family and when you come here, you persist in wearing shorts because it is so balmy, etc. etc. I understand that cold is relative. However, I am still cold much of the time. I'm not kidding about the blue fingers. I hereby decree that I am allowed both to live in San Francisco and to be cold. At the same time. Thank you.) but when I left work around 7:30pm, there was a very crisp sliver of moon in a cloudless sky and it seemed benevolent. Upon my arrival at home (a place where there is a very reliable heater, praise be), I did some dishes (I am hoping the new year will prove to be a tidy one) and then settled in to watch the latest episode of "Downton Abbey" which I had somehow forgotten to watch the day before. If you are me, the revelation of a forgotten, unwatched "Downton Abbey" is akin to finding crumpled twenty-dollar bill in the pocket of your recently laundered jeans. This, along with tea and some small, delicious cupcakes made my the inimitable Katy Stephan, made me feel for the first time in weeks, like maybe everything is looking up, after all.
I had planned for my Christmas vacation to be a veritable festival of cocktails and treats and cinema excursions. Instead, I had the plague. No need to go on about it; after all, you're familiar with being sick, but it was a particularly miserable and lingering affair, not at all conducive to holiday jollity. Then, approximately two days after achieving near-wellness, I had surgery and went back to bed. Sigh.
Still. Happily, the kidney stone is no more. And soon, I hope, the remaining pain will also be awarded the past tense. And then--hoo boy--will I ever be a champagne-drinking social butterfly.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve, I finally felt well enough to go to a movie at last. After poring over my options, I chose Les Miserables. Now then. I am a girl who likes a musical, but somehow I had never actually seen this one. Frankly, that seems impossible to me, yet it is true. Ultimately, I think film is a very bad way to be introduced to it. I didn't know it was one of those opera-style shows where the singing just doesn't quit. That doesn't bother me onstage, but it turns out it bugs the hell out of me on screen. I became an eye-rolly snorter. No one wants to sit next to that girl. Sorry, everyone. I was really shocked by how much I didn't enjoy it. Before the revolution even got into full swing I thought, "Okay fine. Those two will get together. That one will die. I'm done here." And, people, I left. I almost never leave a movie. It felt quite rebellious. I think there was still a full hour to go. I tromped back to the parking garage where I had very begrudginly parked my car only because the movie was too long for the two-hour street parking limit. That damn garage charged me $10 which may be commonplace, but which made me absolutely furious. All in all, going to a movie I didn't like and didn't see all of cost me $20. Grrrr.
All of that may be why I enjoyed this so very much. There's a little mp3 clip that I invite you to listen to.
Edited 4/1/13 to add: Better yet, this. This is exactly my experience. A couple days later I found the antidote: Lincoln. Oh, how I loved it. If people in the 1800's actually spoke anything like that, I am truly sorry for the anemic state of the modern vernacular. But then, what I experienced may not be the conversation acrobatics of a bygone era; it may simply have been the conversational acrobatics of Tony Kushner. In which case, Tony Kushner, I thank you most humbly.
I had planned for my Christmas vacation to be a veritable festival of cocktails and treats and cinema excursions. Instead, I had the plague. No need to go on about it; after all, you're familiar with being sick, but it was a particularly miserable and lingering affair, not at all conducive to holiday jollity. Then, approximately two days after achieving near-wellness, I had surgery and went back to bed. Sigh.
Still. Happily, the kidney stone is no more. And soon, I hope, the remaining pain will also be awarded the past tense. And then--hoo boy--will I ever be a champagne-drinking social butterfly.
The afternoon of New Year's Eve, I finally felt well enough to go to a movie at last. After poring over my options, I chose Les Miserables. Now then. I am a girl who likes a musical, but somehow I had never actually seen this one. Frankly, that seems impossible to me, yet it is true. Ultimately, I think film is a very bad way to be introduced to it. I didn't know it was one of those opera-style shows where the singing just doesn't quit. That doesn't bother me onstage, but it turns out it bugs the hell out of me on screen. I became an eye-rolly snorter. No one wants to sit next to that girl. Sorry, everyone. I was really shocked by how much I didn't enjoy it. Before the revolution even got into full swing I thought, "Okay fine. Those two will get together. That one will die. I'm done here." And, people, I left. I almost never leave a movie. It felt quite rebellious. I think there was still a full hour to go. I tromped back to the parking garage where I had very begrudginly parked my car only because the movie was too long for the two-hour street parking limit. That damn garage charged me $10 which may be commonplace, but which made me absolutely furious. All in all, going to a movie I didn't like and didn't see all of cost me $20. Grrrr.
All of that may be why I enjoyed this so very much. There's a little mp3 clip that I invite you to listen to.
Edited 4/1/13 to add: Better yet, this. This is exactly my experience. A couple days later I found the antidote: Lincoln. Oh, how I loved it. If people in the 1800's actually spoke anything like that, I am truly sorry for the anemic state of the modern vernacular. But then, what I experienced may not be the conversation acrobatics of a bygone era; it may simply have been the conversational acrobatics of Tony Kushner. In which case, Tony Kushner, I thank you most humbly.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Bright new tomorrow
I am not dead. Have I been sick since seemingly the dawn of time? Oh, yes. And yet, I am coming round, people. I am almost back. Tomorrow, in fact, I will try to actually write things for your edification and amusement.
In the meantime, let it be known that I'll be at Porchlight for the aptly-themed, brand new year of storytelling next Monday, January 21. I guess I should specify that I'm going to be telling a story. "I'll be at Porchlight" is often the case, but usually I'm in the audience. Not that I wouldn't want you to say hi if we were both there, but, you know, it's kind of a bigger deal that I'm performing. To me, anyway.
Phew. That was hard. I'm totally out of practice communicating with other humans. Though I do talk to myself aloud quite a lot, it's not quite the same. Hi.
In the meantime, let it be known that I'll be at Porchlight for the aptly-themed, brand new year of storytelling next Monday, January 21. I guess I should specify that I'm going to be telling a story. "I'll be at Porchlight" is often the case, but usually I'm in the audience. Not that I wouldn't want you to say hi if we were both there, but, you know, it's kind of a bigger deal that I'm performing. To me, anyway.
Phew. That was hard. I'm totally out of practice communicating with other humans. Though I do talk to myself aloud quite a lot, it's not quite the same. Hi.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Another
Frankly, when we started out, no one thought our union would last more than a couple of weeks, but today my kidney stone and I are celebrating our two-month anniversary. It's almost better than Christmas.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Cultural signifiers
1. I think it would be good if I could eradicate from my personal repertoire flashing two thumbs up at people. I do this strangely often, but never well. Despite the enthusiasm that presumably sparks the action, I lack follow through and often forget to actually employ the critical thumb part of the thing, leaving me with my two puny fists raised toward someone in a baffling, albeit cheerful salute. The whole thing lacks dignity.
2. My French friend tells me he was watching "Breaking Bad." There was a scene in which Jesse Pinkman and his cohort were greeting each other. "What up, biotch?" they said. Unfamiliar with this charming form of address, my friend heard, "What up, brioche?" and was briefly hopeful that French pastry was taking American slang by storm. Would that it were.
2. My French friend tells me he was watching "Breaking Bad." There was a scene in which Jesse Pinkman and his cohort were greeting each other. "What up, biotch?" they said. Unfamiliar with this charming form of address, my friend heard, "What up, brioche?" and was briefly hopeful that French pastry was taking American slang by storm. Would that it were.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Marry Christmas
Last night, I went to Evany and Marco's Christmas party. This is not all that unusual. I've gone to Evany and Marco's Christmas party for years. I used to go to it when they lived in an apartment in another town, before they had a child and bought a house. There has been the phrase "Evany and Marco" for a long time. For me, there has been "Evany" for even longer. (I've mentioned her before, for sure.) Almost forever, really. There were parties in other apartments. There were other pre-Marco boyfriends, but I don't even remember their names. And, can we just be frank? I'm pretty sure they were nowhere near as good-looking as Marco. Marco has many excellent qualities, which would be well worth enumerating, but he is also a hell of a handsome guy. It is impossible not to notice this.
Last night's party seemed to be sort of dialed up a notch: more crowded than its predecessors, no child or dog in evidence, a taco truck in the driveway, balloons filling the hallway, paper pom-poms festooning the ceiling, catering help in the kitchen, Evany in a shimmering cocktail dress along with gold shoes with butterflies in her hair, Marco in a suit. But the TV with the yule log was, as is traditional, blazing in the back room. All the usual guests were in evidence. So not so very different, maybe?
Except that, yes. Different. Historic, in fact.
Because in the middle of this party, Evany and Marco got married.
photo by Brian Mello
I have never been to a surprise wedding before, let alone the surprise wedding of two people who--for years--have already been joined by a conjunction in my mind and by their child and their home and their life together. Two people whom I thought had long since decided to forego this particular formality. But now, having been to just such a surprise wedding, I can tell you that the rightness of it is nearly breathtaking.
Evany talked about Marco's extraordinary generosity. She said that he brought out in her the best possible version of herself. She said that when she comes home in the evening she's excited to see him. Marco said that, before Evany, he had always seen love as a supplement, not as a completion. Now he gets it. He said he misses her right away whenever she leaves.
photo by Jill Stauffer
I cried. Obviously. Then we all drank champagne and our friends were married. Marco came out and changed the "e" in on the Merry Christmas banner to an "a." And then we danced, as was only fitting.
That the happy couple could make such tributes to each other eight years into their union is extremely affirming. I want, more than I can say, to find just that with someone. While it is--oof--lonely not to have yet found it, it is greatly encouraging to know that it is not a thing I only imagined to be possible. Indeed, it's right there in my friends' living room. I'm holding out for it, people.
Marry Christmas.
photo by Jill Stauffer
Evany and Marco, long may you reign. I love you crazy kids.
Last night's party seemed to be sort of dialed up a notch: more crowded than its predecessors, no child or dog in evidence, a taco truck in the driveway, balloons filling the hallway, paper pom-poms festooning the ceiling, catering help in the kitchen, Evany in a shimmering cocktail dress along with gold shoes with butterflies in her hair, Marco in a suit. But the TV with the yule log was, as is traditional, blazing in the back room. All the usual guests were in evidence. So not so very different, maybe?
Except that, yes. Different. Historic, in fact.
Because in the middle of this party, Evany and Marco got married.
I have never been to a surprise wedding before, let alone the surprise wedding of two people who--for years--have already been joined by a conjunction in my mind and by their child and their home and their life together. Two people whom I thought had long since decided to forego this particular formality. But now, having been to just such a surprise wedding, I can tell you that the rightness of it is nearly breathtaking.
Evany talked about Marco's extraordinary generosity. She said that he brought out in her the best possible version of herself. She said that when she comes home in the evening she's excited to see him. Marco said that, before Evany, he had always seen love as a supplement, not as a completion. Now he gets it. He said he misses her right away whenever she leaves.
I cried. Obviously. Then we all drank champagne and our friends were married. Marco came out and changed the "e" in on the Merry Christmas banner to an "a." And then we danced, as was only fitting.
That the happy couple could make such tributes to each other eight years into their union is extremely affirming. I want, more than I can say, to find just that with someone. While it is--oof--lonely not to have yet found it, it is greatly encouraging to know that it is not a thing I only imagined to be possible. Indeed, it's right there in my friends' living room. I'm holding out for it, people.
Marry Christmas.
Evany and Marco, long may you reign. I love you crazy kids.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
What? Oh. Not that.
To be added to a long list of misunderstandings.
As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."
I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.
Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.
As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."
I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.
Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Rock steady
To answer your question, yes. I do still have a kidney stone. Every time you think "Man, I sure am tired of her talking about that." I invite you to think about how tired I am of having it. There. Do you feel duly chastened?
In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.
Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.
The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.
That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.
Christmas magic.
In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.
Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.
The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.
That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.
Christmas magic.
Thursday, December 06, 2012
If they want it, they give you a cup
In the ladies' room near the urology department, I discovered that not one of the toilets been flushed following its last use.
I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.
I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Sudden springtime
As I was driving down Oak Street, there was a car from Tennessee slightly ahead of me in the next lane. I saw a young woman in the passenger seat reach back to throw something out the open rear window. I was getting ready to be all tsk-y about it (no one likes a litterbug) but it proved to be a handful of flower petals. Pink. Possibly from a peony.
She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.
I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.
She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.
I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Next step: PhD
Today I got a CT scan and also filled out a questionnaire in which I said:
A. That, yes, I know what a radiologist is.
B. That no, a radiologist is not a doctor.*
C. That I have a master's degree.
So. That went well.
*The whole time I was filling it out, I had in mind the technician who performs the scan, but there's no going back now. I am very hopeful that it's anonymous and that all the radiologists don't get together at lunch and say, "Did you see this Kari? Ha! Master's degree, my irradiated kidney. I bet she's got some pathetic MA in, like, Humanities." And then they all laugh and laugh, entirely unconcerned about choking because, even though they're radiologists, they all totally know the Heimlich.
A. That, yes, I know what a radiologist is.
B. That no, a radiologist is not a doctor.*
C. That I have a master's degree.
So. That went well.
*The whole time I was filling it out, I had in mind the technician who performs the scan, but there's no going back now. I am very hopeful that it's anonymous and that all the radiologists don't get together at lunch and say, "Did you see this Kari? Ha! Master's degree, my irradiated kidney. I bet she's got some pathetic MA in, like, Humanities." And then they all laugh and laugh, entirely unconcerned about choking because, even though they're radiologists, they all totally know the Heimlich.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Cafe culture
This afternoon, I went to my favorite cafe on Valencia Street. It has some good armchairs and floor lamps. They play no music. When I order tea, they give it to me in a diminutive pot along with a cup, a tiny pitcher for milk, and a wee spoon. All this they put on a little oval tray. The cafe is attached to a bookstore. It is clearly a cafe for people who want to read. I thank them for it.
Today, the chair I chose was facing and fairly proximate to the bathroom--not in a "last row of the airplane" unpleasant way, just in a "hard to ignore the bathroom line" way. Generally, to access the bathroom, you must fetch a key from the front counter. Today, however, the door was not firmly closed, such that when cafe-novice would-be bathroom users approached, they could quite simply push the door open and walk in.
Unfortunately, when the system is meant to involve a key, and there is a sign explaining this on the bathroom door, to go into the bathroom without the key is to have a false sense of security. Really, you are open to a sudden and embarrassing encounter with someone who does have the key.
For a long while, people came in and out without incident, each letting the door fall mostly, though not entirely, closed behind them, essentially perpetuating the perilous situation indefinitely. I worried about it for about an hour and remained ever-vigilant. Finally, someone came out and pulled the door closed--click--behind him and I was able to relinquish my self-appointed role of Bathroom Door Guardian.
Everything about this episode strikes me as terribly telling about my character. I am not altogether pleased.
And now, to make me seem even worse, a small screed
Dear sir,
Aside from this one, every other cafe on Valencia, of which there are seemingly hundreds, seems primarily designed for you to come with your colleague and a variety of electronic devices and talk loudly about your business plan for hours on end. Everyone else will have their earbuds in anyway, or their own business plan to discuss, so they won't even notice.
If you feel you must do this in the one cafe for miles around that does not scream "hipster internet millionaire," I think you should have the courtesy to at least buy a cup of coffee. Seriously. Even if you don't want it. We are all renting our chairs for the price of a beverage. That's how this business model works.
I feel better now. Thanks.
Today, the chair I chose was facing and fairly proximate to the bathroom--not in a "last row of the airplane" unpleasant way, just in a "hard to ignore the bathroom line" way. Generally, to access the bathroom, you must fetch a key from the front counter. Today, however, the door was not firmly closed, such that when cafe-novice would-be bathroom users approached, they could quite simply push the door open and walk in.
Unfortunately, when the system is meant to involve a key, and there is a sign explaining this on the bathroom door, to go into the bathroom without the key is to have a false sense of security. Really, you are open to a sudden and embarrassing encounter with someone who does have the key.
For a long while, people came in and out without incident, each letting the door fall mostly, though not entirely, closed behind them, essentially perpetuating the perilous situation indefinitely. I worried about it for about an hour and remained ever-vigilant. Finally, someone came out and pulled the door closed--click--behind him and I was able to relinquish my self-appointed role of Bathroom Door Guardian.
Everything about this episode strikes me as terribly telling about my character. I am not altogether pleased.
And now, to make me seem even worse, a small screed
Dear sir,
Aside from this one, every other cafe on Valencia, of which there are seemingly hundreds, seems primarily designed for you to come with your colleague and a variety of electronic devices and talk loudly about your business plan for hours on end. Everyone else will have their earbuds in anyway, or their own business plan to discuss, so they won't even notice.
If you feel you must do this in the one cafe for miles around that does not scream "hipster internet millionaire," I think you should have the courtesy to at least buy a cup of coffee. Seriously. Even if you don't want it. We are all renting our chairs for the price of a beverage. That's how this business model works.
I feel better now. Thanks.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Thankful
I will not try to make an all-encompassing list of things for which I am grateful because A) it would be impossible and B) it would be boring for everyone but me. Maybe even including me. I try to stay pretty actively grateful year round, so for today I'll just look to the recent past and the imminent future and see what I come up with.
First, I am so overwhelmingly grateful for my parents that it brings tears instantly to my eyes to even think about it. I'm grateful they're so nearby and available to keep me company and feed me custard when I have a mouth full of newly-sewn human dermal product, even though I'm a grown-up. I'm grateful that my mother can hear all my weird issues about how our tiny three-person Thanksgiving makes me feel like a lonely spinster and then devises a Thanksgiving plan that involves swimming pools in Calistoga and going to a restaurant. Ta da! Magically transformed from sad day with not enough people to glamorous California outing. My parents totally top the list. I like them. Long may they reign.
My friends come next. I like them too. Have you noticed how good it is to have friends? I'll bet you have. You're pretty perceptive like that.
Next I'm going to say:
1. Grant, my colleague's husband, who hardly knows me but who calmly answered the phone and then drove me to the hospital one morning at 4:30am.
2. Health insurance
3. Drugs and the kind people who administer and/or prescribe them.
I know it's a bit kidney-stone centric around here, but I am very serious about my gratitude for having access to a whole system that let me step quickly from agony to painlessness and then continue to keep the pain at bay for what is now almost a month. It's no joke. I have been thinking a lot about people who are obliged to suffer because they don't have that access. It shouldn't be allowed. Period.
Oops. I didn't mean to go quite so Power to the People there, but seriously. Health care. It's a good thing to have. Still, so as not to leave you on quite so serious a note, I will add one more:
4. The guy who just moved in next door who looks like he was sent here after an open casting call for "hot neighbor."
What? Like there's no room in Thanksgiving for a tiny bit of objectification? C'mon.
May your own blessings prove too many to count.
Happy Thanksgiving.
First, I am so overwhelmingly grateful for my parents that it brings tears instantly to my eyes to even think about it. I'm grateful they're so nearby and available to keep me company and feed me custard when I have a mouth full of newly-sewn human dermal product, even though I'm a grown-up. I'm grateful that my mother can hear all my weird issues about how our tiny three-person Thanksgiving makes me feel like a lonely spinster and then devises a Thanksgiving plan that involves swimming pools in Calistoga and going to a restaurant. Ta da! Magically transformed from sad day with not enough people to glamorous California outing. My parents totally top the list. I like them. Long may they reign.
My friends come next. I like them too. Have you noticed how good it is to have friends? I'll bet you have. You're pretty perceptive like that.
Next I'm going to say:
1. Grant, my colleague's husband, who hardly knows me but who calmly answered the phone and then drove me to the hospital one morning at 4:30am.
2. Health insurance
3. Drugs and the kind people who administer and/or prescribe them.
I know it's a bit kidney-stone centric around here, but I am very serious about my gratitude for having access to a whole system that let me step quickly from agony to painlessness and then continue to keep the pain at bay for what is now almost a month. It's no joke. I have been thinking a lot about people who are obliged to suffer because they don't have that access. It shouldn't be allowed. Period.
Oops. I didn't mean to go quite so Power to the People there, but seriously. Health care. It's a good thing to have. Still, so as not to leave you on quite so serious a note, I will add one more:
4. The guy who just moved in next door who looks like he was sent here after an open casting call for "hot neighbor."
What? Like there's no room in Thanksgiving for a tiny bit of objectification? C'mon.
May your own blessings prove too many to count.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Say what?
In a radio commercial I am hearing constantly of late, Taylor Swift informs me in the flat voice of someone new to reading aloud that:
"Wonderstruck Enchanted is the next chapter in the story of my Wonderstruck fragrance."
What? Do fragrances have chapters?
To me it sounds as though someone has taken a lot of arbitrary words and strung them together in the hopes that, for the listener, being confused will be similar to being fascinated. Bicycle tea cozy astonished dumbstruck harmonica wheelbarrow. Also, a pretty girl! Coming soon!
What? Do fragrances have chapters?
To me it sounds as though someone has taken a lot of arbitrary words and strung them together in the hopes that, for the listener, being confused will be similar to being fascinated. Bicycle tea cozy astonished dumbstruck harmonica wheelbarrow. Also, a pretty girl! Coming soon!
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Holiday glow
People are all fretting about the potential shopping mayhem of Black Friday--crowds! crowds1 CROWDS!
The big secret is that everyone is flocking not to the mall, but to the UCSF radiology department. Or, I assume so, based on the fact that when I called to make an appointment for a CT scan this morning, I was on hold for an hour. It was a dramatic hold, replete with sudden breaks in the hold music suggesting that I may have been disconnected; many recorded updates letting me know that they were experiencing high call volume (a thing I was able to deduce by the very fact that I was still on hold, but thanks); and many actual rings of the phone that implied someone was about to answer, but really, just prompted another announcement that everyone was busy. It was all very exciting.
So, if you gaze into the faces of your loved ones in the coming days or weeks and see that they seem to be positively glowing with holiday spirit, it is highly possible that they have been recently irradiated.
In related news: kidney stone, joke's over. We know you're still in there, and we're coming to find you.
The big secret is that everyone is flocking not to the mall, but to the UCSF radiology department. Or, I assume so, based on the fact that when I called to make an appointment for a CT scan this morning, I was on hold for an hour. It was a dramatic hold, replete with sudden breaks in the hold music suggesting that I may have been disconnected; many recorded updates letting me know that they were experiencing high call volume (a thing I was able to deduce by the very fact that I was still on hold, but thanks); and many actual rings of the phone that implied someone was about to answer, but really, just prompted another announcement that everyone was busy. It was all very exciting.
So, if you gaze into the faces of your loved ones in the coming days or weeks and see that they seem to be positively glowing with holiday spirit, it is highly possible that they have been recently irradiated.
In related news: kidney stone, joke's over. We know you're still in there, and we're coming to find you.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Two meals
1.
Last night I waited for a very long time at Pizzeria Delfina, where I had been planning to have the Margherita pizza, my favorite. However, once I was confronted with the menu, I entered into a spiral about how always getting the same thing is illustrative of how I lead my sad little life, etc. and so ordered the special. It was liberally seasoned with some mystery herb that my waiter informed me was part of the catnip family. I still ordered it. It was a misguided decision. Let's just be honest, shall we? Even without catnip being involved, no matter how fancy it is, pizza that does not involve tomato sauce always disappoints me. Viva marinara! (as they no doubt say in Italia).
2.
It occurs to me that in this increasingly gluten-obsessed town, with its passion for soy products, my breakfast of Cream of Wheat with 2% milk is totally punk rock.
As you are no doubt wondering, but too polite to ask, yes. There is still a kidney stone stuck in me somewhere. I believe this is day 23.
Last night I waited for a very long time at Pizzeria Delfina, where I had been planning to have the Margherita pizza, my favorite. However, once I was confronted with the menu, I entered into a spiral about how always getting the same thing is illustrative of how I lead my sad little life, etc. and so ordered the special. It was liberally seasoned with some mystery herb that my waiter informed me was part of the catnip family. I still ordered it. It was a misguided decision. Let's just be honest, shall we? Even without catnip being involved, no matter how fancy it is, pizza that does not involve tomato sauce always disappoints me. Viva marinara! (as they no doubt say in Italia).
2.
It occurs to me that in this increasingly gluten-obsessed town, with its passion for soy products, my breakfast of Cream of Wheat with 2% milk is totally punk rock.
As you are no doubt wondering, but too polite to ask, yes. There is still a kidney stone stuck in me somewhere. I believe this is day 23.
Thursday, November 08, 2012
Well, now we know
So much has happened since October 25, back when we were young. The Giants won the World Series; a scary storm ravaged the East Coast; we set the clocks back; we reelected our lovely president. We also had Halloween, about which I care not at all, but I don't want you to be distracted thinking, "Hey! What about Halloween?"
And yet, I spent most of that time asleep. From time to time, I would be awake for a couple of hours, during which time I forced myself to drink gallons of water. Remember poison stomach? Yeah. Me too.
It's funny to look back and realize that I wrote about poison stomach on Thursday of that week and then Friday night at 8:30, I was suddenly doubled over in pain. "Wow." I thought, "That poison stomach is really not messing around. I guess I shouldn't have eaten that slice of pizza. I'll get some Tums on my way home." Have you ever needed Tums and been literally unable to hold yourself upright due to crippling pain? No, me neither. And yet, I was totally committed to this Tums theory even though I could barely drive the car. I will spare you the long version of Walgreens trip. It involved a lot of nausea, weird limping, shallow breathing, and sitting on the floor of the store. You know what didn't ultimately alleviate any of my symptoms? Tums.
The drugstore errand was sufficiently harrowing that when I got home I looked up "appendicitis" online and, having established that the pain was on the wrong side, I came to the end of my list of medical theories which looked like this:
1. Gas
2. Appendicitis
So, I settled in for several hours of writhing and keening and rocking back and forth and vomiting. It was novel. I'll give it that. Finally, at 2:30am, I called the advice nurse who told me to call the doctor on call. I was embarrassed to bother the doctor at 2:30am, but made the call. She suggested that I should go to the emergency room. I suggested that maybe I should try Alka Seltzer. She said she doubted that would really help, which was too bad because it seemed a lot easier than going to the hospital.
This is perhaps the main reason that living alone is maybe not such a great idea: you might need to go to the hospital in the middle of the night. I may get married this week, in fact, just to ensure that someone is around in case this ever happens again. Neighbors seem like a good Plan B, but there are just three apartments in my building. One of them is currently vacant and my remaining neighbors were out of the country. (Was this karmic payback for being so delighted that they were going? Possibly. Just kidding, neighbors. I'm not excited about your baby, but could you please come back and drive me to the ER? But maybe in a few minutes? Right now I can't actually get off the floor.) The doctor had suggested that I take a taxi. I pretended that that was an option, though my real reaction was "yeah, right." Have you ever tried to get a taxi in San Francisco? It's not one of the things we do all that well. I lay there for another couple of hours running through the "who can I call at this hour?" emergency list and finally settled on a colleague who I knew lives very nearby. She was out of town, as it happened, but her very kind husband came to fetch me at 4:30 in the morning and took me, clutching my trusty vomit-receptacle trashcan, to the emergency room.
The wait was not so very long and though I was in agony, I was at least no longer in agony while simultaneously trying to figure out how to get from bed to the hospital, so that was reassuring. Once I was in a room and in a gown, the doctor deduced almost immediately that I had a kidney stone. This made me laugh, which puzzled him. "I don't know." I told him. "It's just not something I ever imagined having." The tech said, "It looks like you're doing the kidney stone dance all right." (Make a note of that. It might be a big sensation in the clubs, if that's your scene.) Meanwhile, he was helpfully prepping me for an IV and, just when I thought I might actually die, he hooked me up to dilaudid and my life improved by about 1000% in 20 seconds. (I haven't worked out all the details of my plan to get married this week, but that guy is at the top of the list of candidates. Thank you, kind sir.)
Now it's twelve days later and it's still lodged in there somewhere, unimpressed by the deluge of fluids I have consumed, so I take a narcotic painkiller every six hours and look forward to some future day when I'm no longer so sleepy all the time.
Meanwhile, the moral is, if you feel like you have to crawl to get from one part of the room to the other and no position gives you any relief from the sensation that someone is stabbing you in your lower back, Tums is probably not the answer. There's no need to wait eight hours to go to the emergency room. Just go. What? You can take a taxi.
And yet, I spent most of that time asleep. From time to time, I would be awake for a couple of hours, during which time I forced myself to drink gallons of water. Remember poison stomach? Yeah. Me too.
It's funny to look back and realize that I wrote about poison stomach on Thursday of that week and then Friday night at 8:30, I was suddenly doubled over in pain. "Wow." I thought, "That poison stomach is really not messing around. I guess I shouldn't have eaten that slice of pizza. I'll get some Tums on my way home." Have you ever needed Tums and been literally unable to hold yourself upright due to crippling pain? No, me neither. And yet, I was totally committed to this Tums theory even though I could barely drive the car. I will spare you the long version of Walgreens trip. It involved a lot of nausea, weird limping, shallow breathing, and sitting on the floor of the store. You know what didn't ultimately alleviate any of my symptoms? Tums.
The drugstore errand was sufficiently harrowing that when I got home I looked up "appendicitis" online and, having established that the pain was on the wrong side, I came to the end of my list of medical theories which looked like this:
1. Gas
2. Appendicitis
So, I settled in for several hours of writhing and keening and rocking back and forth and vomiting. It was novel. I'll give it that. Finally, at 2:30am, I called the advice nurse who told me to call the doctor on call. I was embarrassed to bother the doctor at 2:30am, but made the call. She suggested that I should go to the emergency room. I suggested that maybe I should try Alka Seltzer. She said she doubted that would really help, which was too bad because it seemed a lot easier than going to the hospital.
This is perhaps the main reason that living alone is maybe not such a great idea: you might need to go to the hospital in the middle of the night. I may get married this week, in fact, just to ensure that someone is around in case this ever happens again. Neighbors seem like a good Plan B, but there are just three apartments in my building. One of them is currently vacant and my remaining neighbors were out of the country. (Was this karmic payback for being so delighted that they were going? Possibly. Just kidding, neighbors. I'm not excited about your baby, but could you please come back and drive me to the ER? But maybe in a few minutes? Right now I can't actually get off the floor.) The doctor had suggested that I take a taxi. I pretended that that was an option, though my real reaction was "yeah, right." Have you ever tried to get a taxi in San Francisco? It's not one of the things we do all that well. I lay there for another couple of hours running through the "who can I call at this hour?" emergency list and finally settled on a colleague who I knew lives very nearby. She was out of town, as it happened, but her very kind husband came to fetch me at 4:30 in the morning and took me, clutching my trusty vomit-receptacle trashcan, to the emergency room.
The wait was not so very long and though I was in agony, I was at least no longer in agony while simultaneously trying to figure out how to get from bed to the hospital, so that was reassuring. Once I was in a room and in a gown, the doctor deduced almost immediately that I had a kidney stone. This made me laugh, which puzzled him. "I don't know." I told him. "It's just not something I ever imagined having." The tech said, "It looks like you're doing the kidney stone dance all right." (Make a note of that. It might be a big sensation in the clubs, if that's your scene.) Meanwhile, he was helpfully prepping me for an IV and, just when I thought I might actually die, he hooked me up to dilaudid and my life improved by about 1000% in 20 seconds. (I haven't worked out all the details of my plan to get married this week, but that guy is at the top of the list of candidates. Thank you, kind sir.)
Now it's twelve days later and it's still lodged in there somewhere, unimpressed by the deluge of fluids I have consumed, so I take a narcotic painkiller every six hours and look forward to some future day when I'm no longer so sleepy all the time.
Meanwhile, the moral is, if you feel like you have to crawl to get from one part of the room to the other and no position gives you any relief from the sensation that someone is stabbing you in your lower back, Tums is probably not the answer. There's no need to wait eight hours to go to the emergency room. Just go. What? You can take a taxi.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
I'm not winking. It just looks that way
The bad news is that for four days I've had something I'm going to diagnose as "poison stomach" and my left eye has been twitching for TWO WEEKS. It's all very tiresome. Perhaps I am more stressed out than I think I am, or perhaps I'm suffering from severe crunchy-food withdrawl (as soon as I get the okay from the periodontist, look out, apples, I'm on my way). Or maybe I'm dying of a silly disease that is like a pitiful patchwork of relatively benign symptoms. Next I'll probably get seven hangnails and one stopped-up ear. In any case, vim and its rugged companion vigor are not currently in evidence.
The good news is that, on Monday, my mother and I went to see another of those National Theatre Live productions and I'm telling you, if you like theatre and you live somewhere that movie theatres exist, you really ought to look into it. I have seen numerous plays that I have loved--LOVED--through this program. The Last of the Haussmans was one of my favorites. Damn. It was the playwright's very first play, which amazes me. The cast was perfect. I would see it again if that were possible (which, alas, for me, it isn't. However, I know it's playing this Saturday afternoon in San Francisco, so if you live here, it's not too late). I am now officially a fan of Rory Kinnear. If you see him around, be sure to let him know. I'm sure he's been waiting years to get my attention.
To sum up: Yay, National Theatre! Boo, achey stomach, twitchy eye, and general malaise. (I originally had an exclamation point at the end of the "boo" sentence too, but I reconsidered. If you give general malaise an exclamation point, it only encourages it. We can't have that.)
The good news is that, on Monday, my mother and I went to see another of those National Theatre Live productions and I'm telling you, if you like theatre and you live somewhere that movie theatres exist, you really ought to look into it. I have seen numerous plays that I have loved--LOVED--through this program. The Last of the Haussmans was one of my favorites. Damn. It was the playwright's very first play, which amazes me. The cast was perfect. I would see it again if that were possible (which, alas, for me, it isn't. However, I know it's playing this Saturday afternoon in San Francisco, so if you live here, it's not too late). I am now officially a fan of Rory Kinnear. If you see him around, be sure to let him know. I'm sure he's been waiting years to get my attention.
To sum up: Yay, National Theatre! Boo, achey stomach, twitchy eye, and general malaise. (I originally had an exclamation point at the end of the "boo" sentence too, but I reconsidered. If you give general malaise an exclamation point, it only encourages it. We can't have that.)
Monday, October 22, 2012
Vocabulary
It would be okay with me if no one said these things ever again:
Dive bar
Gluten-free or, really, even just gluten
Partner in crime, unless used to describe an actual accessory to a legal violation.
Oh! I just remembered this one three days later. Midcentury modern.
And, while we're discussing terminology, here's a question. Is the whole thing still called "online dating" if it takes a great deal of time and emotional wherewithal, but does not result in any actual dates? I think it may be time to coin a phrase.
Dive bar
Gluten-free or, really, even just gluten
Partner in crime, unless used to describe an actual accessory to a legal violation.
Oh! I just remembered this one three days later. Midcentury modern.
And, while we're discussing terminology, here's a question. Is the whole thing still called "online dating" if it takes a great deal of time and emotional wherewithal, but does not result in any actual dates? I think it may be time to coin a phrase.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Oh, sorry
A short list of inanimate objects to which I have apologized aloud today:
1. My car (which I bumped into while getting in)
2. The blotter on my desk (onto which I spilled a tiny bit of tea, leaving a small stain.)
3. The last third of my banana (which I didn't eat because it had a huge bruise)
1. My car (which I bumped into while getting in)
2. The blotter on my desk (onto which I spilled a tiny bit of tea, leaving a small stain.)
3. The last third of my banana (which I didn't eat because it had a huge bruise)
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
A list including spinach
I can't be all, "Oh look at me. I'm so on top of updating my blog." one day and then not post anything for days on end, so this is a bit of a grab bag.
1. I just came from the periodontist's office and was slightly embarrassed to see a surgical assistant who, presumably, last saw me weeping and bleeding. She asked, "How are you?" and I said, "I'm fine. I think last time you saw me, I wasn't, but I am now." To which she replied, "You did really well." I have no idea what that means, in that I was out of my mind on drugs and remember nothing at all, nor do I know how one could "do poorly" as a sedated patient, but I am fond of praise, so I'll take it. Maybe I'll put it on my resume.
My doctor was weirdly cagey about when I'll be allowed to eat whatever strikes my fancy, so we're still going to have to hold off on the tortilla chip/carrot stick fiesta you were going to invite me to. And the making out? We're definitely going to need to postpone that. Bummer. But I am now capable of smiling at you without pain, so that's progress. However, I may have chopped spinach in my teeth. Sorry about that. I promised my mother I would eat vegetables, even while being unable to chew. I keep insinuating chopped spinach (which I don't really enjoy) into things.
2. On Saturday, the nice guys of Previously Secret Information had me perform with them during LitCrawl, which was flattering for me. It's always exciting to be part of LitCrawl. It makes me feel very legit. Public speaking with a mouthful of sutures, however, is not something I can wholeheartedly recommend. Vexingly, just twenty-four hours later, the most problematic of the sutures came out. Sigh. So if anyone would like to hear me tell a story with a less numb tongue, let me know.
3. Someone in the hall is recounting an anecdote (breaking news!) and just said, "My then boyfriend..." a phrase which, in the context of my own life, always implies a break-up, but then she finished, "now husband." Oh. Right. That's also a possibility. Sigh.
4. According to my calendar, I will be seeing five plays in the next three weeks. That seems like a lot. In fact, it makes me think that some of the rest of you must be slacking off on your theatre-going. Step it up, people.
5. Among the many things I think I'm supposed to enjoy but don't are jazz flute and, increasingly, "30 Rock." I am working through my emotions on this and will let you know how it works out. I suspect just eschewing jazz flute will have fewer social repercussions than giving up on Tina and the gang.
1. I just came from the periodontist's office and was slightly embarrassed to see a surgical assistant who, presumably, last saw me weeping and bleeding. She asked, "How are you?" and I said, "I'm fine. I think last time you saw me, I wasn't, but I am now." To which she replied, "You did really well." I have no idea what that means, in that I was out of my mind on drugs and remember nothing at all, nor do I know how one could "do poorly" as a sedated patient, but I am fond of praise, so I'll take it. Maybe I'll put it on my resume.
My doctor was weirdly cagey about when I'll be allowed to eat whatever strikes my fancy, so we're still going to have to hold off on the tortilla chip/carrot stick fiesta you were going to invite me to. And the making out? We're definitely going to need to postpone that. Bummer. But I am now capable of smiling at you without pain, so that's progress. However, I may have chopped spinach in my teeth. Sorry about that. I promised my mother I would eat vegetables, even while being unable to chew. I keep insinuating chopped spinach (which I don't really enjoy) into things.
2. On Saturday, the nice guys of Previously Secret Information had me perform with them during LitCrawl, which was flattering for me. It's always exciting to be part of LitCrawl. It makes me feel very legit. Public speaking with a mouthful of sutures, however, is not something I can wholeheartedly recommend. Vexingly, just twenty-four hours later, the most problematic of the sutures came out. Sigh. So if anyone would like to hear me tell a story with a less numb tongue, let me know.
3. Someone in the hall is recounting an anecdote (breaking news!) and just said, "My then boyfriend..." a phrase which, in the context of my own life, always implies a break-up, but then she finished, "now husband." Oh. Right. That's also a possibility. Sigh.
4. According to my calendar, I will be seeing five plays in the next three weeks. That seems like a lot. In fact, it makes me think that some of the rest of you must be slacking off on your theatre-going. Step it up, people.
5. Among the many things I think I'm supposed to enjoy but don't are jazz flute and, increasingly, "30 Rock." I am working through my emotions on this and will let you know how it works out. I suspect just eschewing jazz flute will have fewer social repercussions than giving up on Tina and the gang.
Friday, October 12, 2012
500
This is my 500th post here at Cereal for Dinner. Five hundred. Looked at a certain way, it's not a particularly impressive number. After all, I began this project eight years ago and, though I'm not great at math, I do know that there are significantly more than five hundred days in eight years. However, if I were one of those super-motivated, self-supporting, widely-read daily bloggers, this site would probably be called Balanced Meals Every Night: Musings on Self-Actualization. And, you know what? It's not called that. And only partially because that's a terrible title.
To me, five hundred feels like quite a milestone. I'm still here. I'm still doing this. Since there were years when I only wrote a handful of times, there was no guarantee that I'd keep it up. What's more, I've even taken to admitting it to people rather than keeping a secret available-to-anyone-on-earth-with-an-internet-connection diary, as I did for years. (I'm not totally clear on how the internet works, I guess.)
The exciting thing is that I'm getting better at showing up. If you look over at the archive list to your right, you'll see that in 2010, I only wrote seventeen times, but in 2011, I got that up to 110. Was this because I suddenly had a lot more to say? No. This is because in 2010, I didn't know the blog bully and in 2011, I did. Seriously. It's that simple.
This one's for you, Blog Bully. Thanks for paying attention. Thanks for tsking. Thanks for caring. It has made all the difference.
*********
Extra! Extra!
Tomorrow night as part of LitCrawl, I'll be telling a story (as best I can with my poor abused tongue that has been rubbed raw by sutures) at Stage Werx Theatre at 6:00 with the good folks of Previously Secret Information. It should be a good time. Come on by. It's free. If you don't like my piece, there are at least 450 other writers presenting within a three-hour period. There's going to be something in there you totally love.
To me, five hundred feels like quite a milestone. I'm still here. I'm still doing this. Since there were years when I only wrote a handful of times, there was no guarantee that I'd keep it up. What's more, I've even taken to admitting it to people rather than keeping a secret available-to-anyone-on-earth-with-an-internet-connection diary, as I did for years. (I'm not totally clear on how the internet works, I guess.)
The exciting thing is that I'm getting better at showing up. If you look over at the archive list to your right, you'll see that in 2010, I only wrote seventeen times, but in 2011, I got that up to 110. Was this because I suddenly had a lot more to say? No. This is because in 2010, I didn't know the blog bully and in 2011, I did. Seriously. It's that simple.
This one's for you, Blog Bully. Thanks for paying attention. Thanks for tsking. Thanks for caring. It has made all the difference.
*********
Extra! Extra!
Tomorrow night as part of LitCrawl, I'll be telling a story (as best I can with my poor abused tongue that has been rubbed raw by sutures) at Stage Werx Theatre at 6:00 with the good folks of Previously Secret Information. It should be a good time. Come on by. It's free. If you don't like my piece, there are at least 450 other writers presenting within a three-hour period. There's going to be something in there you totally love.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Frankenmouth II
Oh, friends. The levity about Frankenmouth has significantly diminished now that I officially am Frankenmouth. My craw is veritably brimming with Human Dermal Product. Well, so is yours, if it comes to that, but mine is now the Human Dermal Product of others and it has been sewn in. I am finding this to be approximately as revolting as it sounds. However, the pain is very nearly gone. This doesn't mean I want to do anything crazy like chew or brush my teeth--let's not get ahead of ourselves. However, it does mean that I am no longer crying and counting the hours until my next dose of ibuprofin (a thing I'm pretty sure I don't know how to spell correctly and am too lazy to look up. What? I had surgery. Can you not cut me some slack?)
Down Sides
1. Reportedly, I wept upon coming (sort of) out from under sedation. My mother had to say, "Tell the doctor you're okay, honey." Which I did, I guess. Then I continued to cry all the way to the car and possibly much of the way home. I remember nothing whatsoever about this (see Bright Sides) but I can't stop thinking about it. Evidently, it is an unusual reaction. My mother thinks it was just a drug reaction. My doctor thinks it is a reasonable reaction to the trauma of a fairly extensive procedure. I can't stop wondering if I am really just deeply sad. That if you dip into my subconscious self, I am just a weeping mess. I have no evidence to support the theory that gum surgery sheds light on secret existential mourning, but I am doing plenty of fretting about it. Conscious or unconscious, I am an excellent fretter.
2. I woke up only three hours after getting to my parents' house post-surgery. They say some people sleep as long as ten hours. I enjoy sleeping; I was hoping for more.
3. When you get to the point where you have to start cutting back on the pain meds, it hurts. That's right. Having things sewn into your mouth hurts.
4. I had one stabby suture. Every time I would move my head a certain way, it would stab me in the cheek. I started to take it personally.
5. For several days, I felt like I looked more like Luke Wilson than myself. Look. I like Luke Wilson, but dude has a weird jaw.
6. Despite not being able to chew, I think I may be gaining weight. I'm looking at you, Trader Joe's pudding.
7. I'm performing on Saturday. And I kind of can't talk normally. Or smile.
Bright Sides
1. I am overcome with love and gratitude for my parents who gave me sympathy and company and many, many edible things that do not requite chewing. Seriously, had I had to just come home by myself...well, I don't want to even think about how depressing that would have been. I am lucky.
2. I remember nothing at all about the surgery. The last thing I remember, I was in the lobby, looking at a magazine with pictures of Keira Knightly in costumes from Anna Karenina.(Which, for the record, are gorgeous.) My next clear memory is waking up in my parents' guest room. Thank you, drugs.
3. I went in to the doctor's office on Monday and they trimmed the stabby suture. Ha! Take that. Also, they seemed entirely delighted by what an awesome job they'd done sewing things into my mouth. I basically just have to take their word for it.
4. Accidental experimentation suggests that with the Human Dermal Product in place, I may be able to drink cold beverages without pain for the first time in years.
5. While lying around waiting to take more drugs, I read The Marriage Plot in three days. I liked it very much.
6. I have allowed myself to buy Trader Joe's pudding.
7. Theoretically, I'll now be able to keep my teeth in my head for many years to come. This pleases me.
Down Sides
1. Reportedly, I wept upon coming (sort of) out from under sedation. My mother had to say, "Tell the doctor you're okay, honey." Which I did, I guess. Then I continued to cry all the way to the car and possibly much of the way home. I remember nothing whatsoever about this (see Bright Sides) but I can't stop thinking about it. Evidently, it is an unusual reaction. My mother thinks it was just a drug reaction. My doctor thinks it is a reasonable reaction to the trauma of a fairly extensive procedure. I can't stop wondering if I am really just deeply sad. That if you dip into my subconscious self, I am just a weeping mess. I have no evidence to support the theory that gum surgery sheds light on secret existential mourning, but I am doing plenty of fretting about it. Conscious or unconscious, I am an excellent fretter.
2. I woke up only three hours after getting to my parents' house post-surgery. They say some people sleep as long as ten hours. I enjoy sleeping; I was hoping for more.
3. When you get to the point where you have to start cutting back on the pain meds, it hurts. That's right. Having things sewn into your mouth hurts.
4. I had one stabby suture. Every time I would move my head a certain way, it would stab me in the cheek. I started to take it personally.
5. For several days, I felt like I looked more like Luke Wilson than myself. Look. I like Luke Wilson, but dude has a weird jaw.
6. Despite not being able to chew, I think I may be gaining weight. I'm looking at you, Trader Joe's pudding.
7. I'm performing on Saturday. And I kind of can't talk normally. Or smile.
Bright Sides
1. I am overcome with love and gratitude for my parents who gave me sympathy and company and many, many edible things that do not requite chewing. Seriously, had I had to just come home by myself...well, I don't want to even think about how depressing that would have been. I am lucky.
2. I remember nothing at all about the surgery. The last thing I remember, I was in the lobby, looking at a magazine with pictures of Keira Knightly in costumes from Anna Karenina.(Which, for the record, are gorgeous.) My next clear memory is waking up in my parents' guest room. Thank you, drugs.
3. I went in to the doctor's office on Monday and they trimmed the stabby suture. Ha! Take that. Also, they seemed entirely delighted by what an awesome job they'd done sewing things into my mouth. I basically just have to take their word for it.
4. Accidental experimentation suggests that with the Human Dermal Product in place, I may be able to drink cold beverages without pain for the first time in years.
5. While lying around waiting to take more drugs, I read The Marriage Plot in three days. I liked it very much.
6. I have allowed myself to buy Trader Joe's pudding.
7. Theoretically, I'll now be able to keep my teeth in my head for many years to come. This pleases me.
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Frankenmouth
It's countdown to oral surgery. Indeed, it's oral surgery eve eve. Which is to say, it's scheduled for Friday. I am fairly terrified, but am trying to distract myself by making jokes about it. You may have noticed that this is my strategy for most of life. Well, that and crying.
I have been provided with a great many documents by the periodontist: instructions for pre- and post-surgery, waivers where I agree to not sue them if I lose all feeling in my mouth or if my face becomes permanently discolored (what?), financial agreements where I agree to pay them more money than I actually have, etc. The best of these forms is entitled "PATIENT'S CONSENT FOR CONNECTIVE TISSUE GRAFTING WITH HUMAN DERMAL PRODUCT"
Human Dermal Product is pretty much comedy that writes itself.
There is also a lot of focus put on the need to be escorted from the treatment by a "responsible person." Obviously, you can't drive yourself, but you are also not allowed to take a bus or a taxi unaccompanied. In fact, if you cannot produce evidence of this responsible person, they will either cancel your appointment, or proceed without sedating you. I wrote to my mother to double check whether she felt she qualified as responsible. Because you know what? I'm not undergoing this without sedation. She thinks she can make a good case for herself. She used to be a kindergarten teacher.
I also gave her this information from the post-op instructions:
I have been provided with a great many documents by the periodontist: instructions for pre- and post-surgery, waivers where I agree to not sue them if I lose all feeling in my mouth or if my face becomes permanently discolored (what?), financial agreements where I agree to pay them more money than I actually have, etc. The best of these forms is entitled "PATIENT'S CONSENT FOR CONNECTIVE TISSUE GRAFTING WITH HUMAN DERMAL PRODUCT"
Human Dermal Product is pretty much comedy that writes itself.
There is also a lot of focus put on the need to be escorted from the treatment by a "responsible person." Obviously, you can't drive yourself, but you are also not allowed to take a bus or a taxi unaccompanied. In fact, if you cannot produce evidence of this responsible person, they will either cancel your appointment, or proceed without sedating you. I wrote to my mother to double check whether she felt she qualified as responsible. Because you know what? I'm not undergoing this without sedation. She thinks she can make a good case for herself. She used to be a kindergarten teacher.
I also gave her this information from the post-op instructions:
" Attend to either an alert of sleepy patient in the same manner; do not trust him/her alone."So, there will probably be bleeding and gauze and things. There may also be sleeping. I'll keep you up to date. If you wanted to get together for chips and salsa and corn on the cob and then make out with me, well, I'll have to take a rain check. (But that sounds fun, so let's be sure to get that on the calendar.)
You know I am not to be trusted when I'm sleepy. ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN! (Most likely, sleeping, but still. I might do it in a CRAZY, RECKLESS manner.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
