So I have this running joke that if you complain about something, it magically gets better. For instance, if you tolerate a noisy car alarm for a while and then grouse about it, it somehow stops honking the second you finish your sentence. Sounds silly, but time and time again, voicing a well-timed and valid complaint seems to work. (This belief has been proven so often that one of my colleagues says that I control the world with my mind. I wish.)
But:
While we were walking down Guerrero tonight, Craig found a file folder holder on the street. "Crazy," he said. "Just yesterday I was saying I need one of these." So he picked it up.
Then, as Meg and I were discussing the home organizer's belief that our new feng shui-ed out kitchen setup would bring more money into our lives, we stumbled upon some cash on the sidewalk. (Meg used it to leave a generous tip at the ice cream parlor.)
Yesterday, I said that I wanted a cupcake; an hour later, Sabrina, not knowing of my cupcake lust, IMed me to say that I should come over and grab one of the treats she'd baked. Bingo! Cupcakes. Today, I wished I had a better umbrella because mine is broken, and one randomly arrived in the mail.
I don't believe in The Secret and all of that new agey manifestation stuff, but I do love odd coincidences like this. Tomorrow, I will wish for Ryan Gosling and Kate Moennig to deliver a bucket of kittens. Will provide updates when this inevitable event goes down.
But:
While we were walking down Guerrero tonight, Craig found a file folder holder on the street. "Crazy," he said. "Just yesterday I was saying I need one of these." So he picked it up.
Then, as Meg and I were discussing the home organizer's belief that our new feng shui-ed out kitchen setup would bring more money into our lives, we stumbled upon some cash on the sidewalk. (Meg used it to leave a generous tip at the ice cream parlor.)
Yesterday, I said that I wanted a cupcake; an hour later, Sabrina, not knowing of my cupcake lust, IMed me to say that I should come over and grab one of the treats she'd baked. Bingo! Cupcakes. Today, I wished I had a better umbrella because mine is broken, and one randomly arrived in the mail.
I don't believe in The Secret and all of that new agey manifestation stuff, but I do love odd coincidences like this. Tomorrow, I will wish for Ryan Gosling and Kate Moennig to deliver a bucket of kittens. Will provide updates when this inevitable event goes down.
Labels: neuroses
Earlier this week, my roommate brought in a personal organizer to help her with her office and bedroom. Or maybe the woman should be called an organizing expert. I don't know what the official job title is, but the end result is a much tidier space. Looking at Meg's freshly neatened closet made me glare at my own disastrously messy one. In my defense, mine is pretty Lilliputian. Still.
Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.
In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.)
Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008.
Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.
I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them.
As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.
Today I began a brutal, scorched-earth organization project. I don't buy a ton of random stuff, but it's still horrifying to see how many unnecessary things were lurking in my bedroom. Pilates kit, baseball hat, feathered cat toys, knit mittens, on and on.
In going through my clothes, I realized how much emotional attachment I assign to certain outfits. Hell, I still remember the dress I wore to dinner 13 years ago today. (Patchwork, clipped in the back, worn with old-man cardigan sweater. In retrospect, it was impressively unattractive.)
Today I evaluated every piece in my closet, and so many memories came back. The blue flutter-sleeve blouse is a sweltering day in Nara, September 2006. Black sailor pants are a walk down Damen to Rice Street, April 2003. The cherry red off-shoulder dress — a stunner that is as beautiful as it is impractical — is dinner in New York, September 2008.
Those associations are joyful; others are not as light. A red t-shirt reminds me of being at the nursing home during Dad's last days. The tags remain on a backless dress bought for a date that never happened; there has been no reason to show off my spine otherwise. High-heeled shoes gather dust; they can't be worn anymore because doing so hurts my foot in new ways.
I've been trying to assign new meanings to those things, but today I gave up. Sometimes the only way you can win is to admit that you can't. So I pulled a few things out of my closet, gave them one last look, folded them into crisp squares, and put them in a box to be carried out of the house tomorrow. Someone will create new stories for them.
As for now, the organizer is redoing our kitchen to create better feng shui. (Oh, San Francisco!) She says we've had a money block due to the placement of our recycling and bar storage. "Now you'll be rich," she joked. Not counting on that, but in getting rid of five bags' worth of stuff, I do feel like I've got a little more physical and mental space.
Labels: neuroses
My maternal grandfather was an immigrant, and that side of the family is thoroughly German. After cooking bacon, my grandmother would pour the grease into a coffee can, saving it for, well, I don't know what. But she was saving it. My grandfather kept every rubber band, bank statement, scrap of twine. "You never know when you might need it," he'd say. Living through both World Wars — the first as a child, the next as a young man — created a lifelong habit of frugality.
I know it's not right to generalize, but it is rare to see a messy German. My mom's side of the family, and the vast majority of their countrymen, have a uniquely Teutonic dedication to order and cleanliness. My grandmother's home was always sparkling; I remember her hands glowing pink from cleaning with diluted bleach. (It is a wonder that my mother ever developed proper immunity, because the home held so few germs for her body to fight.) Before we left his house after a visit, my grandfather would rush out to clean our car windows even if he had taken it through a car wash that day. Everything in my grandparents' home was tidy, there was never any dust or disorder, and god forbid you leave a dirty dish in the sink for a moment or two.
Betty is her parents' daughter. I'll clean my apartment before she visits, but while I'm in the shower or running to the store for a minute, she'll make it shine. I ask her not to do this, because it makes me feel like a filthy sow who is being silently judged. (Also, she should just rest and stop working so much.) My take on tidiness is a blend of my father's controlled-chaos clutter and my mother's fastidious and spotless organization.
Yesterday's cold, rainy afternoon made me happy because it meant I could clean the apartment. This probably doesn't sound like fun, but it is so satisfying to zone out with an old toothbrush and dirty tiles. There's a kind of zen-lite focus that develops when all there is to do is disinfect and organize. I like to clean because doing so leads to tangible, visible results. So before an unusually social evening began, while the sky whipped rain against the windows, I was rearranging the contents of my dresser drawers. This probably sounds like the most tedious chore, but like they say, if it makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone, go ahead and do it. Especially if your socks wind up arranged by color in the process.
I know it's not right to generalize, but it is rare to see a messy German. My mom's side of the family, and the vast majority of their countrymen, have a uniquely Teutonic dedication to order and cleanliness. My grandmother's home was always sparkling; I remember her hands glowing pink from cleaning with diluted bleach. (It is a wonder that my mother ever developed proper immunity, because the home held so few germs for her body to fight.) Before we left his house after a visit, my grandfather would rush out to clean our car windows even if he had taken it through a car wash that day. Everything in my grandparents' home was tidy, there was never any dust or disorder, and god forbid you leave a dirty dish in the sink for a moment or two.
Betty is her parents' daughter. I'll clean my apartment before she visits, but while I'm in the shower or running to the store for a minute, she'll make it shine. I ask her not to do this, because it makes me feel like a filthy sow who is being silently judged. (Also, she should just rest and stop working so much.) My take on tidiness is a blend of my father's controlled-chaos clutter and my mother's fastidious and spotless organization.
Yesterday's cold, rainy afternoon made me happy because it meant I could clean the apartment. This probably doesn't sound like fun, but it is so satisfying to zone out with an old toothbrush and dirty tiles. There's a kind of zen-lite focus that develops when all there is to do is disinfect and organize. I like to clean because doing so leads to tangible, visible results. So before an unusually social evening began, while the sky whipped rain against the windows, I was rearranging the contents of my dresser drawers. This probably sounds like the most tedious chore, but like they say, if it makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone, go ahead and do it. Especially if your socks wind up arranged by color in the process.
Labels: neuroses
Once,it was summer in Ann Arbor and I was heading down the street with a fish. I don't know why this scene popped into my head today, but it did.
First, the background. My then-boyfriend Evan was taking the LSAT, and to celebrate, I thought a goldfish was in order. Yeah, I don't know why, either. Apparently nothing says "I love you, future lawyer" like carp. Anyway, I took the bus to Meijer, bought the fish, and set up the fish's bowl in Evan's apartment. "What a lovely surprise this will be," I thought, smug in my creative gifting. Unfortunately, I was not well-versed in the art of fish maintenance, and I didn't know that tap water can kill fish. Poor Evan trudged home after finishing the test, only to be greeted by a lifeless fish floating belly-up, its tiny fins suspended in its watery grave.
Evan was nice about the whole thing; if I recall, he even took care of the toilet "funeral." I felt terrible, of course. Just awful. I decided to atone for my fishslaughter by buying him a new fish, which I'd planned to gently place in purified water. Ichthyic salvation!
You can read what happened, but the gist is that fish la deuxieme met its death in a sewer. It's funny on a can't-win-for-losing level, and part of me still laughs at how my attempts to be romantic frequently end in disaster. So it's not like I fail to see the dark humor in the fish debacle.
Even still, the death of Fishy 2 remains one of my biggest small horrors. I can almost feel the warm rain of that day. The scene plays through like a movie. I can see the fish hurled out of its bag, and I feel the panic of trying to grab it, trying to capture it, trying to keep it from dying. There is something acutely upsetting about seeing fish out of water. Their frenzied jumping and gasping, faster and faster, makes me panic and feel their helplessness. Maybe it's because even though their little fish-brains cannot philosophize, they fight death just as fervently as you or I would.
(This is why, after years of fishing with my father, child-me began to toss worms and cheese into the water instead of baiting a hook; that way, I could enjoy my dad's company and could see fish up close without guiltily watching them thrash about. A harbinger of my vegetarianism?)
Nothing more to say, really, except that I still feel bad when I think about the whole thing. It's not like I need to talk it out in therapy or anything, but my heart aches when I remember that flopping fish being pulled into the sewer. I tried so hard to save it. Is it ridiculous to have piscine empathy? Maybe. Probably. I mean, millions of people eat fish every day and they don't think twice about sending them to the sewer. Like I said, I don't know what spurred the return of this memory, but maybe tomorrow I will go feed some koi to balance things out.
Also, I tried to resist, but I love bad puns so much that I had to add that this story is totally off the hook. (Groan.)
First, the background. My then-boyfriend Evan was taking the LSAT, and to celebrate, I thought a goldfish was in order. Yeah, I don't know why, either. Apparently nothing says "I love you, future lawyer" like carp. Anyway, I took the bus to Meijer, bought the fish, and set up the fish's bowl in Evan's apartment. "What a lovely surprise this will be," I thought, smug in my creative gifting. Unfortunately, I was not well-versed in the art of fish maintenance, and I didn't know that tap water can kill fish. Poor Evan trudged home after finishing the test, only to be greeted by a lifeless fish floating belly-up, its tiny fins suspended in its watery grave.
Evan was nice about the whole thing; if I recall, he even took care of the toilet "funeral." I felt terrible, of course. Just awful. I decided to atone for my fishslaughter by buying him a new fish, which I'd planned to gently place in purified water. Ichthyic salvation!
You can read what happened, but the gist is that fish la deuxieme met its death in a sewer. It's funny on a can't-win-for-losing level, and part of me still laughs at how my attempts to be romantic frequently end in disaster. So it's not like I fail to see the dark humor in the fish debacle.
Even still, the death of Fishy 2 remains one of my biggest small horrors. I can almost feel the warm rain of that day. The scene plays through like a movie. I can see the fish hurled out of its bag, and I feel the panic of trying to grab it, trying to capture it, trying to keep it from dying. There is something acutely upsetting about seeing fish out of water. Their frenzied jumping and gasping, faster and faster, makes me panic and feel their helplessness. Maybe it's because even though their little fish-brains cannot philosophize, they fight death just as fervently as you or I would.
(This is why, after years of fishing with my father, child-me began to toss worms and cheese into the water instead of baiting a hook; that way, I could enjoy my dad's company and could see fish up close without guiltily watching them thrash about. A harbinger of my vegetarianism?)
Nothing more to say, really, except that I still feel bad when I think about the whole thing. It's not like I need to talk it out in therapy or anything, but my heart aches when I remember that flopping fish being pulled into the sewer. I tried so hard to save it. Is it ridiculous to have piscine empathy? Maybe. Probably. I mean, millions of people eat fish every day and they don't think twice about sending them to the sewer. Like I said, I don't know what spurred the return of this memory, but maybe tomorrow I will go feed some koi to balance things out.
Also, I tried to resist, but I love bad puns so much that I had to add that this story is totally off the hook. (Groan.)
I don't know if it's a Fashion Week hangover or my new insurance not paying for my $300/month Rx or what, but lately I can barely stay awake. Eight hours of sleep every night, yet I feel like nodding off before every day. With heavy eyelids and a useless brain, I finally succumbed to that forbidden and embarrassing workplace faux pas: the supply-closet nap. I grabbed two pillows from the couch near Engineering, locked myself into a closet, and got ready for a nice little 45-minute nap-a-roo.
I justified this decision by telling myself that it was perfectly appropriate to use one's lunch hour for a siesta. (Right?) I lowered the shades, turned on the white noise iPhone app, and let myself drift away. Strange dreams. When the alarm went off at 2pm, I bolted awake and was maybe 15% less sleepy. Progress!
Unfortunately, the triumph was short-lived, so I turned to something I don't want to use: caffeine. In theory, coffee's great. In reality, it makes my heart pound and my stomach churn. But I can't nap at work every day, so I went down to the café in our office building and got the hookup from Miguel. Miguel is the kind of boy I would have had a little crush on if I were 21. He's jovial and kind, and he remembers small details about his customers. On Friday, he'd asked me to think of a joke for him over the weekend. I forgot, but he didn't, so I had to whip out my favorite on the spot. He chortled, and although he may have done so to get a better tip, I like to think that he laughed because it really is a quality joke.
If I were less tired right now, I'd come up with a snappy way to finish this off, but the whole point is that coffee is now becoming part of my life. I do not like this development. But unless a regular nap becomes part of my day, it looks like this may be the only way to stay halfway alert. Anecdotally, most of my friends are similarly sleepy lately, which may suggest that something is going around. Or that my company (me, not my employer) is incredibly exhausting. Could go either way.
I justified this decision by telling myself that it was perfectly appropriate to use one's lunch hour for a siesta. (Right?) I lowered the shades, turned on the white noise iPhone app, and let myself drift away. Strange dreams. When the alarm went off at 2pm, I bolted awake and was maybe 15% less sleepy. Progress!
Unfortunately, the triumph was short-lived, so I turned to something I don't want to use: caffeine. In theory, coffee's great. In reality, it makes my heart pound and my stomach churn. But I can't nap at work every day, so I went down to the café in our office building and got the hookup from Miguel. Miguel is the kind of boy I would have had a little crush on if I were 21. He's jovial and kind, and he remembers small details about his customers. On Friday, he'd asked me to think of a joke for him over the weekend. I forgot, but he didn't, so I had to whip out my favorite on the spot. He chortled, and although he may have done so to get a better tip, I like to think that he laughed because it really is a quality joke.
If I were less tired right now, I'd come up with a snappy way to finish this off, but the whole point is that coffee is now becoming part of my life. I do not like this development. But unless a regular nap becomes part of my day, it looks like this may be the only way to stay halfway alert. Anecdotally, most of my friends are similarly sleepy lately, which may suggest that something is going around. Or that my company (me, not my employer) is incredibly exhausting. Could go either way.
Labels: neuroses
My doctor is the best. Every time I go in for a visit, he asks how I'm doing, and he seems to actually care about how I'll answer. This last time he had another physician with him to observe. Doctor 2 — Electric Boogaloo, M.D. — looked apologetic for barging in on our appointment.
So my doctor checks a few things out, and I am proud of myself for not asking him to look at the sliced toe. He fills Dr. Boogaloo in on my health history, including the cancer scare/dad death/broken foot unholy trinity. Boogaloo keeps a mostly stoic face but you could tell he felt uncomfortable, as though the non-doctor side of him wanted to say he was sorry about it but the professional part of him asked, "What would Trapper John do?" and decided to stay quiet. This is probably why he is making the rounds with my doctor, because my doctor has a PhD in people skills. My doctor knows how to make patients feel like he cares. Maybe a little too well...
While writing a prescription, my doctor — that sly devil! — said, "And so. Dating! Tell me how that's going." Notice how he just assumes that there's something to tell. He has been on my case for a year now to date more, and he is always encouraging me to do XYZ activity and so forth. I know he sounds yenta-ish here, but he's actually very sweet about it, like a stepfather might be.
Because I have issues with trying to please authority figures (thanks, Catholic school!) I burst out with a bunch of tiny stories of dating disaster. I tell him about the chard-inspecting Ryan Gosling lookalike at the farmer's market who interpreted my feigned interest in his panniers to be actual interest in his panniers. The bike questions, as I told the doc, are an excuse to talk with someone, but Fake Ryan Gosling seemed to think I was enthusiastically curious about the stupid panniers.
"Well, Fake Ryan Gosling is either dense or a damned fool," my doctor said. Dr. Boogaloo nodded supportively, like Oprah would.
"Maybe both," I said. Ha, ha, ugh.
Then, as always, the good doc nudged me toward putting myself out there a little bit more. I like to think that he would like to help me find twue wuv, but then again, maybe he just wants me to get knocked up before my ever-dwindling egg supply poops out completely. So, because he's that good at guilt-tripping me, I followed his advice and cobbled together an online dating profile. This in itself would be slightly awkward, but you know what's even more so? When the computer algorithm searches hundreds of profiles to suggest your absolute best pairing... and who's number one in the resulting list but an ex? As for my doctor, he's got some 'splainin' to do.
So my doctor checks a few things out, and I am proud of myself for not asking him to look at the sliced toe. He fills Dr. Boogaloo in on my health history, including the cancer scare/dad death/broken foot unholy trinity. Boogaloo keeps a mostly stoic face but you could tell he felt uncomfortable, as though the non-doctor side of him wanted to say he was sorry about it but the professional part of him asked, "What would Trapper John do?" and decided to stay quiet. This is probably why he is making the rounds with my doctor, because my doctor has a PhD in people skills. My doctor knows how to make patients feel like he cares. Maybe a little too well...
While writing a prescription, my doctor — that sly devil! — said, "And so. Dating! Tell me how that's going." Notice how he just assumes that there's something to tell. He has been on my case for a year now to date more, and he is always encouraging me to do XYZ activity and so forth. I know he sounds yenta-ish here, but he's actually very sweet about it, like a stepfather might be.
Because I have issues with trying to please authority figures (thanks, Catholic school!) I burst out with a bunch of tiny stories of dating disaster. I tell him about the chard-inspecting Ryan Gosling lookalike at the farmer's market who interpreted my feigned interest in his panniers to be actual interest in his panniers. The bike questions, as I told the doc, are an excuse to talk with someone, but Fake Ryan Gosling seemed to think I was enthusiastically curious about the stupid panniers.
"Well, Fake Ryan Gosling is either dense or a damned fool," my doctor said. Dr. Boogaloo nodded supportively, like Oprah would.
"Maybe both," I said. Ha, ha, ugh.
Then, as always, the good doc nudged me toward putting myself out there a little bit more. I like to think that he would like to help me find twue wuv, but then again, maybe he just wants me to get knocked up before my ever-dwindling egg supply poops out completely. So, because he's that good at guilt-tripping me, I followed his advice and cobbled together an online dating profile. This in itself would be slightly awkward, but you know what's even more so? When the computer algorithm searches hundreds of profiles to suggest your absolute best pairing... and who's number one in the resulting list but an ex? As for my doctor, he's got some 'splainin' to do.
Labels: neuroses
I think Oscar Wao left me some of his fuku, because this trip has been a bloody adventure. LITERALLY. Yesterday's snorkeling adventure involved many marine sightings, including the big excitement of the trip: a sea turtle. (Yes, it is possible to coo underwater.) Unfortunately, at the second snorkel stop, there were sharks and stingrays. They didn't make me nervous, but an angry moray eel did, and its snakelike appearance made me swim away a little less carefully than I had earlier in the day. Leg, meet coral. Leg, meet pain.
All of the travel-book warnings talk about how if left untreated, coral scrapes can become infected and then your leg swells up and they have to cut it off but you wind up dying anyway, all because you are scared of eels. But I decided to stop worrying and get on with life.
This smug satisfaction lasted for less than 24 hours. I decided to take a clothed swim. Clothed because, despite my freakish reapplication of sunblock yesterday, my back is the color of a lobster. (We saw lobsters while snorkeling, too.) It hurts and I'm too cheap to spend $13 US on aloe vera gel. Anyway, I was very careful while floating around the Caribbean. Didn't want to step on starfish (can they hurt you?) and so I'd look through the clear water before putting my feet anywhere.
Until, of course, the point at which I really should have been careful.
I crawled onto the concrete barrier that separated the sea from a little inlet, and oh, looky there, a mini angelfish or something similarly cute and bright! And oh my god, what was that? Pain! In staring at the fish, I'd forgotten that the concrete was jagged in places. I thought it was just a scratch, so I went back to fish-watching until I noticed that the water was getting cloudy. I moved my foot and a bright red blot of blood stained the sand. Shit shit shit. Blood everywhere! Oh god, sharks, they're going to come for me and someone else will get bitten and it will all be my fault! Etc.
I limped back to my lodging, dripping an impressive amount of blood all the way. Blood flowed over my flip-flop, leaving a little trail of blood behind me. "Did you step on a nail?" the proprietor asked. I don't know, I just bleed here. "You should get a tetanus shot if it was a nail," she said.
I bicycled to the store, where the clerk spoke only a few words of English, and I didn't know how to say "Do you have Neosporin?" in Chinese. (After scouring the entire store, I can report that they do not have Neosporin.) Cleaned the wound with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, began thinking of the clerk's tetanus question, and went to the guest house's computer to IM Scott about whether he thinks I need to get a shot. He is the one who taught me how to properly clean a wound this past summer, and when I bleed, I think of him.
So. Off to the clinic. I'd like to pretend that I'm super cool and laid-back about this, but instead, each painful throb at the wound site is another sign that I'll need to be airlifted to the States. (Each word written here is another way to fill the time before the clinic closes, because guess who is terrified of a tetanus shot?)
All of the travel-book warnings talk about how if left untreated, coral scrapes can become infected and then your leg swells up and they have to cut it off but you wind up dying anyway, all because you are scared of eels. But I decided to stop worrying and get on with life.
This smug satisfaction lasted for less than 24 hours. I decided to take a clothed swim. Clothed because, despite my freakish reapplication of sunblock yesterday, my back is the color of a lobster. (We saw lobsters while snorkeling, too.) It hurts and I'm too cheap to spend $13 US on aloe vera gel. Anyway, I was very careful while floating around the Caribbean. Didn't want to step on starfish (can they hurt you?) and so I'd look through the clear water before putting my feet anywhere.
Until, of course, the point at which I really should have been careful.
I crawled onto the concrete barrier that separated the sea from a little inlet, and oh, looky there, a mini angelfish or something similarly cute and bright! And oh my god, what was that? Pain! In staring at the fish, I'd forgotten that the concrete was jagged in places. I thought it was just a scratch, so I went back to fish-watching until I noticed that the water was getting cloudy. I moved my foot and a bright red blot of blood stained the sand. Shit shit shit. Blood everywhere! Oh god, sharks, they're going to come for me and someone else will get bitten and it will all be my fault! Etc.
I limped back to my lodging, dripping an impressive amount of blood all the way. Blood flowed over my flip-flop, leaving a little trail of blood behind me. "Did you step on a nail?" the proprietor asked. I don't know, I just bleed here. "You should get a tetanus shot if it was a nail," she said.
I bicycled to the store, where the clerk spoke only a few words of English, and I didn't know how to say "Do you have Neosporin?" in Chinese. (After scouring the entire store, I can report that they do not have Neosporin.) Cleaned the wound with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, began thinking of the clerk's tetanus question, and went to the guest house's computer to IM Scott about whether he thinks I need to get a shot. He is the one who taught me how to properly clean a wound this past summer, and when I bleed, I think of him.
So. Off to the clinic. I'd like to pretend that I'm super cool and laid-back about this, but instead, each painful throb at the wound site is another sign that I'll need to be airlifted to the States. (Each word written here is another way to fill the time before the clinic closes, because guess who is terrified of a tetanus shot?)
As a woman, I'm somewhat expected to groan at the thought of swimsuit shopping. Women's magazines devote plenty of ink to finding the right swimsuit for one's body type (pear! apple!) as though we are a nation of Cathys. Through these articles we learn about padded tops, hidden girdles, string bikinis, tankinis, monokinis, and so forth. But nothing hides the fact that wearing a swimsuit is akin to parading around in one's underwear, and no swimsuit can magically hide our jigglypuff.
Because I accept this reality, swimsuit shopping is not so bad — especially because I do it only once every few years. My existing suit (bought in 2006) is too big now, and so it is time to buy a new one. All I want is a simple black bikini. No fussy beads, no goofy fake-metal rings, just a classic look. You'd think this should be an easy thing to find, right? It's not.
I refuse to pay $80 for what amounts to less than a yard of fabric, so today I went to Target, who always stocks swimsuits no matter what time of year it is. There were six racks stuffed with swim, so I had much to choose from. Although my heliophobic ass wouldn't mind the extra sun coverage provided by a one-piece, I avoid them because they flatten, not flatter. They always transport me back to being 12 and wondering when I would finally need a bra. (Still waiting.) Most of Target's maillots were matronly tummy-cinchers, which was frustrating. Some of us might want to wear one-pieces without choosing a style made for a middle-aged mommy or a Mormon. Or a middle-aged Mormon mommy.
So, then. Bikinis. Whereas the one-pieces were dowdy, the two-pieces were itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, etc. Most looked like something a 16-year-old Tila Tequila fan might like to wear. I encountered Ed Hardy knockoff skull bikinis and bikinis decorated with paisley, camouflage, and neon paint splatters. All of these things made me feel old. Which, considering the fact that I am about twice the age of the hypothetical target audience for these suits, makes sense.
Finally, I managed to find a black swimsuit. This one called to me due to its simplicity and blackness. I tried it on, which was challenging because (obviously) you keep your underpants on during the process. I'm glad that rule exists for sanitary purposes, but it's hard to envision what you'll look like when there's a pair of underpants poking out from underneath the swimsuit. I looked like a never-nude.
Now is a good time to mention how multiple people have commented on the alleged hugeness of my ass. I have been told that I have a big one for a white girl, which is a backhanded compliment that tosses in some mildly racist talk just for funsies. Personally, I don't think my haunches are as big as everyone claims, but years of unsolicited comments have left me wanting to avoid anything that highlights my bum more than necessary.
Because of this history of bottom-focused talk, I wasn't sure what to think of the suit. It's not that it looked bad or was scandalous, but it basically looked like lingerie. And the bottom was skimpier in the back than I would like. Then our friends prudish Swimsuit Angel and slutty Swimsuit Devil showed up, one resting on each of my shoulders.
"Ayyyyyyyyyyy," said Swimsuit Devil. (Apparently, Swimsuit Devil sounds like the Fonz.) "Lookin' gooooooood. You should totally buy this because it is uncharacteristically sexy for you. Live a little! Enjoy what you've got before gravity drags it all south!"
"Oh my, no no no," Swimsuit Angel clucked. "You will not be able to fade into the background with this harlot bikini. Especially because it looks like lacy underpants! Go for something less revealing, like a hazmat suit."
As part of my "do things differently" plan, I decided to side with Swimsuit Devil. Yay for body acceptance and so forth. But preening in the Target dressing room is much different than parading around in front of strangers. I imagined walking in the suit in front of unknown men, and how I'd be able to feel their eyes even after I passed. Not that I'm some goddess with a knockout figure, but I think most women know the sensation I'm talking about. Stares can feel so violating. So in the end, that party pooper Swimsuit Angel won out, leaving the swimwear quest unfinished. I swear, I've spent more time thinking about swimsuits today than I've worn them in the last three years. And yes, I know this is all ridiculous, but perhaps it's a little more entertaining than the alternate story: Here's An Anti-Greenwashing Tirade About How Scott Naturals Toilet Paper Is Made of Only 40% Recycled Fiber.
Because I accept this reality, swimsuit shopping is not so bad — especially because I do it only once every few years. My existing suit (bought in 2006) is too big now, and so it is time to buy a new one. All I want is a simple black bikini. No fussy beads, no goofy fake-metal rings, just a classic look. You'd think this should be an easy thing to find, right? It's not.
I refuse to pay $80 for what amounts to less than a yard of fabric, so today I went to Target, who always stocks swimsuits no matter what time of year it is. There were six racks stuffed with swim, so I had much to choose from. Although my heliophobic ass wouldn't mind the extra sun coverage provided by a one-piece, I avoid them because they flatten, not flatter. They always transport me back to being 12 and wondering when I would finally need a bra. (Still waiting.) Most of Target's maillots were matronly tummy-cinchers, which was frustrating. Some of us might want to wear one-pieces without choosing a style made for a middle-aged mommy or a Mormon. Or a middle-aged Mormon mommy.
So, then. Bikinis. Whereas the one-pieces were dowdy, the two-pieces were itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, etc. Most looked like something a 16-year-old Tila Tequila fan might like to wear. I encountered Ed Hardy knockoff skull bikinis and bikinis decorated with paisley, camouflage, and neon paint splatters. All of these things made me feel old. Which, considering the fact that I am about twice the age of the hypothetical target audience for these suits, makes sense.
Finally, I managed to find a black swimsuit. This one called to me due to its simplicity and blackness. I tried it on, which was challenging because (obviously) you keep your underpants on during the process. I'm glad that rule exists for sanitary purposes, but it's hard to envision what you'll look like when there's a pair of underpants poking out from underneath the swimsuit. I looked like a never-nude.
Now is a good time to mention how multiple people have commented on the alleged hugeness of my ass. I have been told that I have a big one for a white girl, which is a backhanded compliment that tosses in some mildly racist talk just for funsies. Personally, I don't think my haunches are as big as everyone claims, but years of unsolicited comments have left me wanting to avoid anything that highlights my bum more than necessary.
Because of this history of bottom-focused talk, I wasn't sure what to think of the suit. It's not that it looked bad or was scandalous, but it basically looked like lingerie. And the bottom was skimpier in the back than I would like. Then our friends prudish Swimsuit Angel and slutty Swimsuit Devil showed up, one resting on each of my shoulders.
"Ayyyyyyyyyyy," said Swimsuit Devil. (Apparently, Swimsuit Devil sounds like the Fonz.) "Lookin' gooooooood. You should totally buy this because it is uncharacteristically sexy for you. Live a little! Enjoy what you've got before gravity drags it all south!"
"Oh my, no no no," Swimsuit Angel clucked. "You will not be able to fade into the background with this harlot bikini. Especially because it looks like lacy underpants! Go for something less revealing, like a hazmat suit."
As part of my "do things differently" plan, I decided to side with Swimsuit Devil. Yay for body acceptance and so forth. But preening in the Target dressing room is much different than parading around in front of strangers. I imagined walking in the suit in front of unknown men, and how I'd be able to feel their eyes even after I passed. Not that I'm some goddess with a knockout figure, but I think most women know the sensation I'm talking about. Stares can feel so violating. So in the end, that party pooper Swimsuit Angel won out, leaving the swimwear quest unfinished. I swear, I've spent more time thinking about swimsuits today than I've worn them in the last three years. And yes, I know this is all ridiculous, but perhaps it's a little more entertaining than the alternate story: Here's An Anti-Greenwashing Tirade About How Scott Naturals Toilet Paper Is Made of Only 40% Recycled Fiber.
Labels: neuroses
In elementary school, our classes always put on some sort of holiday presentation that involved singing. We'd line up in our blue-on-blue outfits, arranged by height in front of the church, and we'd belt out a blend of religious and secular-but-not-godless tunes. During one rehearsal, young Christopher Dunn felt his eyes roll back, and then his body followed. In trying to stand up straight, he'd locked his knees so tightly that he fainted next to the altar.
I thought about poor Chris yesterday while at the doctor's office. My doctor is the best. He's kind and down-to-earth, and he explains tricky medical things in easy-to-understand ways. He remembers non-medical details about my life and is always encouraging me to date more. Also, he is a sci-fi nerd.
I was in his office for a few reasons. Most importantly, I'd found another breast lump, and it was painful. I always feel awkward about having him check this sort of thing. I worry that he might think I'm trying to get some cheap thrills out of the visit, which is doubly awkward because I'm pretty sure he's gay. Anyway, he felt what I was talking about, made a concentrated frown, and then covered my torso with the hospital gown.
"Well, your breasts look good," he announced. "Oh, wait, that doesn't sound right."
"You're right, they're spectacular," I joked. Laughs all around. (See, he gets my sense of humor.)
So the lump didn't worry him. Good. Then it was vaccination time. There are two things I'm terrified of: snakes and needles. If it's possible to avoid either, I'll do it. But I'd rather have an vaccine than have Hepatitis A or B — the treatment of which would undoubtedly involve even more needles — so you do what you gotta do.
That brings us back to Chris Dunn, whose particular brand of fainting I stole as the second vaccine spread through my arm. Suddenly I couldn't see, my ears began ringing, my face drained of color, my throat and tongue tightened, and I began slumping down on the table. Did you know there's a fancy term for this? It's called a vasovagal episode, and my doctor explained it to me as I considered dying of embarrassment. Suffice it to say that I do not look forward to next month's follow-up vaccine appointment.
I thought about poor Chris yesterday while at the doctor's office. My doctor is the best. He's kind and down-to-earth, and he explains tricky medical things in easy-to-understand ways. He remembers non-medical details about my life and is always encouraging me to date more. Also, he is a sci-fi nerd.
I was in his office for a few reasons. Most importantly, I'd found another breast lump, and it was painful. I always feel awkward about having him check this sort of thing. I worry that he might think I'm trying to get some cheap thrills out of the visit, which is doubly awkward because I'm pretty sure he's gay. Anyway, he felt what I was talking about, made a concentrated frown, and then covered my torso with the hospital gown.
"Well, your breasts look good," he announced. "Oh, wait, that doesn't sound right."
"You're right, they're spectacular," I joked. Laughs all around. (See, he gets my sense of humor.)
So the lump didn't worry him. Good. Then it was vaccination time. There are two things I'm terrified of: snakes and needles. If it's possible to avoid either, I'll do it. But I'd rather have an vaccine than have Hepatitis A or B — the treatment of which would undoubtedly involve even more needles — so you do what you gotta do.
That brings us back to Chris Dunn, whose particular brand of fainting I stole as the second vaccine spread through my arm. Suddenly I couldn't see, my ears began ringing, my face drained of color, my throat and tongue tightened, and I began slumping down on the table. Did you know there's a fancy term for this? It's called a vasovagal episode, and my doctor explained it to me as I considered dying of embarrassment. Suffice it to say that I do not look forward to next month's follow-up vaccine appointment.
Labels: neuroses
Walking with a limp means I walk slowly, which means I have to budget extra time into any trip. If I need to be somewhere at 12:30, it's best to aim for 12:10 or so, just in case a steep hill or detour or simple fatigue thwart my efforts to be on time. That's why yesterday, I had a good half-hour to kill before an appointment downtown.
Since there's not much else to do around there, I decided to window-shop. I hadn't been shopping since August, at least not for fun things. (Insoles and groceries are not fun things.) In general, I am not into consumption as entertainment, but recent weight loss has rendered most of my wardrobe unwearable, so I hoped to find some simple APC-ish basics. Slim gray sweater, black trousers, that sort of thing. Instead, I wound up purchasing a bagful of brassieres, even though most of mine still fit. (Oh no, I've mentioned unmentionables.)
If I were a better person, this admission would be more horrifying than embarrassing, but: Shopping made me happy yesterday. I liked the ritual of the clerk carefully wrapping everything in tissue paper, then sealing it with a sticker before putting it into a sturdy shopping bag. I liked unpacking the bag at home and setting everything out in a neat little row. Buying nudged me into a happier mood, and even worse, it made me feel as though I'd accomplished something.
Of course I know that any sense of accomplishment is flimsy and false. And I know that shopping is not only a money vampire, it also has a lot to do with what's wrong with our culture. I recognize the gross plague of consumption that, in many ways, defines American life. I see how it distracts us from important issues, how it creates a voracious yet insatiable appetite for newer/faster/better/more, and how it ultimately disappoints us for failing to produce the happiness and satisfaction promised by advertisers and marketers.
But, see, I'm a huge hypocrite. It's easy to judge the people who hit Wal-Mart for 4 a.m. Black Friday deals — and trust me, the fiendish gleam in shoppers' eyes as they swarmed shops for holiday deals definitely weirded me out yesterday. But how am I any better? Although I really was pleased with my new acquisitions at first, at home I felt different about them. Removed from the seductive ambiance of the store, they seemed just as lovely but not nearly as necessary as I'd told myself they were just hours before.
Normally, I can easily resist shopping because I see relatively few messages to do so. My roommate and I don't watch television, so we don't see commercials. Adblockplus hides all of the ads online. The boutiques in my neighborhood sell $400 dresses that I can't afford, so I don't even go through the doors. I already have everything that I need, and I know better than to buy into consumerist culture, so to speak. Yet it didn't take five minutes in the store to produce a perceived need (ooh, French bra!), create an emotional response to it (will be secret vixen under baggy clothes!) and justify the purchase (treat yourself!). Object lust tricks our brains and I'm just as susceptible as anyone else.
I've rewrapped my purchases in their crisp tissue paper, and the bag sits on my dresser. I'll give it a few days, but I'll most likely return the items. That's not because I genuinely want to; there's an impish little voice telling me, "But it's so difficult to find bras in your size! Keep them!" I'd be returning them because it just doesn't feel right to buy things I inarguably don't need. Plus, in the same way that people get that shopping high, it might feel good to prove that I can resist the shop-shop-shop message. We'll see.
(In shoppydevil-Annie's defense, it really is difficult to find bras in my size! I often have to get them altered to properly hug my scrawny ribcage. Thus, when I find some that fit, I want to snap them up so I don't have another tear-filled breakdown in the Nordstrom lingerie department because most brands don't even make bras in my size. See? I am a terrible person. Naomi Klein hates me.)
Since there's not much else to do around there, I decided to window-shop. I hadn't been shopping since August, at least not for fun things. (Insoles and groceries are not fun things.) In general, I am not into consumption as entertainment, but recent weight loss has rendered most of my wardrobe unwearable, so I hoped to find some simple APC-ish basics. Slim gray sweater, black trousers, that sort of thing. Instead, I wound up purchasing a bagful of brassieres, even though most of mine still fit. (Oh no, I've mentioned unmentionables.)
If I were a better person, this admission would be more horrifying than embarrassing, but: Shopping made me happy yesterday. I liked the ritual of the clerk carefully wrapping everything in tissue paper, then sealing it with a sticker before putting it into a sturdy shopping bag. I liked unpacking the bag at home and setting everything out in a neat little row. Buying nudged me into a happier mood, and even worse, it made me feel as though I'd accomplished something.
Of course I know that any sense of accomplishment is flimsy and false. And I know that shopping is not only a money vampire, it also has a lot to do with what's wrong with our culture. I recognize the gross plague of consumption that, in many ways, defines American life. I see how it distracts us from important issues, how it creates a voracious yet insatiable appetite for newer/faster/better/more, and how it ultimately disappoints us for failing to produce the happiness and satisfaction promised by advertisers and marketers.
But, see, I'm a huge hypocrite. It's easy to judge the people who hit Wal-Mart for 4 a.m. Black Friday deals — and trust me, the fiendish gleam in shoppers' eyes as they swarmed shops for holiday deals definitely weirded me out yesterday. But how am I any better? Although I really was pleased with my new acquisitions at first, at home I felt different about them. Removed from the seductive ambiance of the store, they seemed just as lovely but not nearly as necessary as I'd told myself they were just hours before.
Normally, I can easily resist shopping because I see relatively few messages to do so. My roommate and I don't watch television, so we don't see commercials. Adblockplus hides all of the ads online. The boutiques in my neighborhood sell $400 dresses that I can't afford, so I don't even go through the doors. I already have everything that I need, and I know better than to buy into consumerist culture, so to speak. Yet it didn't take five minutes in the store to produce a perceived need (ooh, French bra!), create an emotional response to it (will be secret vixen under baggy clothes!) and justify the purchase (treat yourself!). Object lust tricks our brains and I'm just as susceptible as anyone else.
I've rewrapped my purchases in their crisp tissue paper, and the bag sits on my dresser. I'll give it a few days, but I'll most likely return the items. That's not because I genuinely want to; there's an impish little voice telling me, "But it's so difficult to find bras in your size! Keep them!" I'd be returning them because it just doesn't feel right to buy things I inarguably don't need. Plus, in the same way that people get that shopping high, it might feel good to prove that I can resist the shop-shop-shop message. We'll see.
(In shoppydevil-Annie's defense, it really is difficult to find bras in my size! I often have to get them altered to properly hug my scrawny ribcage. Thus, when I find some that fit, I want to snap them up so I don't have another tear-filled breakdown in the Nordstrom lingerie department because most brands don't even make bras in my size. See? I am a terrible person. Naomi Klein hates me.)
Labels: neuroses
It seems that the more you want to avoid someone, the more likely you are to run into that person. Take, for instance, the time JC and I came to San Francisco for my job interview. While getting dressed that morning, I thought, "What will I do if we run into Phil?" Anxious gears started turning before I told myself, "Self, don't be paranoid and ridiculous. It's a big city. Not gonna happen." I felt proud of myself for rejecting my neuroses.
So of course, we ran into him at the park. Exceedingly awkward conversation ensued.
Yesterday, after spending months wondering when he'd bump into his gargoyle of an ex-girlfriend, a good friend of mine saw her. The encounter was uncomfortable but not traumatic, he said. He handled it without even an inkling of drama, and I savored the idea of her realizing how much better he's doing without her. (I know that seems nasty, but if you purposely and remorselessly wound someone I love, you've earned my disdain.)
Fortunately, there aren't many people I would like to avoid in this town. Four out of 808,976 isn't bad. And yet! A few weeks ago, while hobbling home in the dark, I was approaching a crosswalk when my right crutch slipped. I wobbled, saved myself from falling, and straightened myself just in time to see a member of that quartet zoom past me at 40 mph. Nice metaphor, huh? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Wound up doing both.
And last night, not five minutes after hanging up with aforementioned friend, I saw one more member of the Avoidance Posse. Instead of wanting to flee, though, I just smiled from afar and hoped that he was doing well. Funny how these sorts of things can provoke the opposite response of what you feared they would.
So of course, we ran into him at the park. Exceedingly awkward conversation ensued.
Yesterday, after spending months wondering when he'd bump into his gargoyle of an ex-girlfriend, a good friend of mine saw her. The encounter was uncomfortable but not traumatic, he said. He handled it without even an inkling of drama, and I savored the idea of her realizing how much better he's doing without her. (I know that seems nasty, but if you purposely and remorselessly wound someone I love, you've earned my disdain.)
Fortunately, there aren't many people I would like to avoid in this town. Four out of 808,976 isn't bad. And yet! A few weeks ago, while hobbling home in the dark, I was approaching a crosswalk when my right crutch slipped. I wobbled, saved myself from falling, and straightened myself just in time to see a member of that quartet zoom past me at 40 mph. Nice metaphor, huh? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Wound up doing both.
And last night, not five minutes after hanging up with aforementioned friend, I saw one more member of the Avoidance Posse. Instead of wanting to flee, though, I just smiled from afar and hoped that he was doing well. Funny how these sorts of things can provoke the opposite response of what you feared they would.
Labels: neuroses
A few weeks ago, an astrologer friend slipped me my December horoscope early. While I don't live my life by the zodiac, I enjoy reading horoscopes nonetheless. (Admit it. You do, too.) Apparently I am going to be "emotional and introspective" for most of the month, which is completely not like me at all! In addition, the stars have given me the green light to spend money on frivolous things — a nice change from the checks I've been writing to various doctors and hospitals. Finally, I could find myself engaged. I assume some words got chopped off there. Engaged in a to-the-death Uno battle? Engaged in a lengthy, poorly informed diatribe about tax brackets? We shall see.
On the new agey scale, with zero being disbelief and 10 involving phrases like "energy vortex," horoscopes are maybe a two. Get up to the five-and-six ideas, though, and then I get giddy with anticipation. It's not that I think woo-woo stuff holds the secrets of the universe. Quite the opposite. I just think it's fascinating to see what people do in the name of exploring spirituality. I'm not a believer, yet I can't help but be intrigued by the existence of enzyme baths and salt-filled float tanks. Hey, if it works for you, then by all means enjoy your Tibetan singing bowls.
Once, for a job, I went to an open house at an expensive new agey spa. The tour was all kinds of nuts, and I loved every cuckoo minute of it. Right off the bat, my guide said that she could tell that my third eye was particularly strong — which was great news, because my first two eyes are a bit farsighted. Another woman said that I should have Milo's emotions read by an intuitive healer ($100/hour), and that doing so would explain Sergeant Shortlegs' bratty behavior. (This could be done over the phone, and I wondered how the healer would know that he was dealing with Milo. For all he knew, I could be making Minou meow into the receiver.) After touring the yoga rooms, I was advised to purchase crystals to bring the right kind of energy into my home. Then I walked over to a machine, put my hand on it as instructed, and listened to a man explain the significance of my aura's color. I am curious yellow.
Time and time again, new-age experts say that I have good energy. It's always nice to hear that, but really, what else would they say? If they thought I had bad juju, it's not like they'd tell me. "Your brittle soul drips with the stench of death" isn't exactly the sort of phrase that's likely to get people to sign up for pricey feline reiki sessions. While I do think certain people do give off (ugh, I hate this phrase but it fits) bad vibes, I don't think strangers can know whether I have good energy. After all, I'm frequently curmudgeonly. I doubt that curmudgeons can astral project.
Anyway. December. I will let you know how that engagement works out. (For what it's worth, my astrologer friend has given an in-person reading to fellow Taurus Bobby Pattinson, so you never know how the stars may align. If a conflict-free diamond is proffered, this zodiac stuff might be worth following after all.)
On the new agey scale, with zero being disbelief and 10 involving phrases like "energy vortex," horoscopes are maybe a two. Get up to the five-and-six ideas, though, and then I get giddy with anticipation. It's not that I think woo-woo stuff holds the secrets of the universe. Quite the opposite. I just think it's fascinating to see what people do in the name of exploring spirituality. I'm not a believer, yet I can't help but be intrigued by the existence of enzyme baths and salt-filled float tanks. Hey, if it works for you, then by all means enjoy your Tibetan singing bowls.
Once, for a job, I went to an open house at an expensive new agey spa. The tour was all kinds of nuts, and I loved every cuckoo minute of it. Right off the bat, my guide said that she could tell that my third eye was particularly strong — which was great news, because my first two eyes are a bit farsighted. Another woman said that I should have Milo's emotions read by an intuitive healer ($100/hour), and that doing so would explain Sergeant Shortlegs' bratty behavior. (This could be done over the phone, and I wondered how the healer would know that he was dealing with Milo. For all he knew, I could be making Minou meow into the receiver.) After touring the yoga rooms, I was advised to purchase crystals to bring the right kind of energy into my home. Then I walked over to a machine, put my hand on it as instructed, and listened to a man explain the significance of my aura's color. I am curious yellow.
Time and time again, new-age experts say that I have good energy. It's always nice to hear that, but really, what else would they say? If they thought I had bad juju, it's not like they'd tell me. "Your brittle soul drips with the stench of death" isn't exactly the sort of phrase that's likely to get people to sign up for pricey feline reiki sessions. While I do think certain people do give off (ugh, I hate this phrase but it fits) bad vibes, I don't think strangers can know whether I have good energy. After all, I'm frequently curmudgeonly. I doubt that curmudgeons can astral project.
Anyway. December. I will let you know how that engagement works out. (For what it's worth, my astrologer friend has given an in-person reading to fellow Taurus Bobby Pattinson, so you never know how the stars may align. If a conflict-free diamond is proffered, this zodiac stuff might be worth following after all.)
Labels: neuroses
Earthquakes happen all the time here, but most are so small that nobody feels them. And in general, Californians don't feel earthquakes unless they're strong enough to rattle dishes. I say this because there have been a few earthquakes that I felt immediately, only to look around my office and see the native Californians typing away as though our desks weren't shaking. Meanwhile, we transplants look at each other with do-you-feel-this surprise, mixing excitement with fear as we wait to see how shaky things will be.
Before moving to California, I'd never experienced an earthquake. Midwesterners worry about floods and tornadoes, but not earthquakes. The New Madrid fault gave off a shudder in 2008, and my parents felt it all the way in Michigan, but its quakes are infrequent. It is a largely impotent seismic villain, so nobody thinks much about it. Here in San Francisco, though, I frequently imagine potential disaster scenarios.
For instance, when I go to the dentist, I am barely in the chair before mild anxiety sets in. Initially, this is because I feel awkward having the handsome dental hygienist scrape tartar from my molars. But as he goes off to look at my x-rays, the paranoid earthquake fantasy strikes, and I imagine all the ways things could go terribly wrong. The office is in an older building, so maybe it hasn't been retrofitted, and what if the quake happens when the dentist is drilling? It would take only one twitch of the fault to make that tiny drill punch a hole through my left cheek. I'm not into body piercing.
Or! I could be at the ob/gyn for the yearly exam. Feet in stirrups, paper cloth over my legs, pap smear in progress. The doctor turns to pick up a swab, and then — get ready to rumble! The lights start swinging, the plastic-uterus visual aid falls off the table, and as my body tenses in panic, it forces the speculum to fly through the air before hitting the poor doctor in the eye. Meanwhile, the ceiling collapses, covering me with dust and debris. Soon, the local action-news reporter is live on the scene. As she describes the valiant rescue efforts going on behind her, a firefighter hears my muffled cries. "Bill, I think they've found another survivor," the reporter will shout as the rescue crew begins digging toward my weak cry for help. CNN picks up the feed, because if there's one thing cable news loves more than disaster, it's a human-interest disaster story. "We've almost got 'er," a rescue guy yells. Cheers all around! The camera zooms in just in time for viewers to watch the rescue team remove the last of the rubble, revealing my spread-eagle pose in high definition for the whole world to see. Later, I am fined by the FCC for indecent exposure.
What? It could happen.
Before moving to California, I'd never experienced an earthquake. Midwesterners worry about floods and tornadoes, but not earthquakes. The New Madrid fault gave off a shudder in 2008, and my parents felt it all the way in Michigan, but its quakes are infrequent. It is a largely impotent seismic villain, so nobody thinks much about it. Here in San Francisco, though, I frequently imagine potential disaster scenarios.
For instance, when I go to the dentist, I am barely in the chair before mild anxiety sets in. Initially, this is because I feel awkward having the handsome dental hygienist scrape tartar from my molars. But as he goes off to look at my x-rays, the paranoid earthquake fantasy strikes, and I imagine all the ways things could go terribly wrong. The office is in an older building, so maybe it hasn't been retrofitted, and what if the quake happens when the dentist is drilling? It would take only one twitch of the fault to make that tiny drill punch a hole through my left cheek. I'm not into body piercing.
Or! I could be at the ob/gyn for the yearly exam. Feet in stirrups, paper cloth over my legs, pap smear in progress. The doctor turns to pick up a swab, and then — get ready to rumble! The lights start swinging, the plastic-uterus visual aid falls off the table, and as my body tenses in panic, it forces the speculum to fly through the air before hitting the poor doctor in the eye. Meanwhile, the ceiling collapses, covering me with dust and debris. Soon, the local action-news reporter is live on the scene. As she describes the valiant rescue efforts going on behind her, a firefighter hears my muffled cries. "Bill, I think they've found another survivor," the reporter will shout as the rescue crew begins digging toward my weak cry for help. CNN picks up the feed, because if there's one thing cable news loves more than disaster, it's a human-interest disaster story. "We've almost got 'er," a rescue guy yells. Cheers all around! The camera zooms in just in time for viewers to watch the rescue team remove the last of the rubble, revealing my spread-eagle pose in high definition for the whole world to see. Later, I am fined by the FCC for indecent exposure.
What? It could happen.
Labels: doom, neuroses, san francisco
As previously established, I am a bit of a hypochondriac. I like to think of my overanalysis of the smallest things as a charming personality quirk, because that makes me seem less loony when I do things like call Betty and blurt, "I think my foot is going to fall off."
It might! I know this because my toes have been cold and a bit tingly all weekend. (Never mind the fact that my healthy foot is also cold.) The Google tells me that this could be a sign of acute compartment syndrome, and as we all know, the internet never lies. The more I read, the more convinced I was that I was going to have to have my foot removed — maybe even the leg! ACS is serious; if you don't get it treated right away, your nerves can be permanently damaged. Since I enjoy being a biped, I phoned my doctor, who asked if I was in severe pain. Discomfort, yes; severe pain, no. Then it isn't ACS, she said, but I should come in tomorrow anyway since it sounds like I need a new cast. Despite this reassurance, I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to wake up tomorrow with my foot looking like the Cryptkeeper's.
It might! I know this because my toes have been cold and a bit tingly all weekend. (Never mind the fact that my healthy foot is also cold.) The Google tells me that this could be a sign of acute compartment syndrome, and as we all know, the internet never lies. The more I read, the more convinced I was that I was going to have to have my foot removed — maybe even the leg! ACS is serious; if you don't get it treated right away, your nerves can be permanently damaged. Since I enjoy being a biped, I phoned my doctor, who asked if I was in severe pain. Discomfort, yes; severe pain, no. Then it isn't ACS, she said, but I should come in tomorrow anyway since it sounds like I need a new cast. Despite this reassurance, I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to wake up tomorrow with my foot looking like the Cryptkeeper's.
Labels: i can't walk, neuroses
So for the past few months, I have been trying to figure out if Robot Boy was my boyfriend. I am neurotic (you don't say) and although I know it's very seventh-grade of me, I kinda need to label a relationship after a while. I assume that unless we say "OK, I am dating only you," then we are free to date other people. In fact, unless told otherwise, I assume the other person is dating other people. And that makes me think, "Uh oh, I should be dating other people, too! Cannot put all dating eggs in one basket!"
(I told you I was neurotic.)
So when Robot Boy introduced me to someone as his friend back in August, I quietly slipped into the Tomlin Freakout — the inevitable panic that stops emotional attachment before it gets too deep. Being a former English major, I overanalyze vocabulary choices with the best of them. Naturally, I assumed that he must think of me as just a platonic friend and I should really diversify my dating portfolio and boy was I dumb to think he liked me in the same way, I bet he's dating that redhead too, and I had better retreat, RETREAT! I managed to regain enough sanity to talk myself down from the freakout, and we talked about my unnecessary parsing, but still, I spent the next couple of months wondering why he wouldn't just say he was my boyfriend. It's junior-high, I know. I am not proud of it. It's just that in my experience, people who say "Aw, let's not label ourselves" wind up being the ones who are shtupping some 22-year-old girl while you're at home naively baking them romantic cupcakes or whatever. So you see why I like a little reassurance, don't you?
Long story short, I recently explained that I needed more definition, which is the adult way of saying, "I just want to be called your girlfriend, even though I am embarrassed to admit that." Robot Boy said, duh, of course you're my girl, silly. And then we broke up! It was a Bizarro World breakup, one of those "Hey, we're in love with each other, so let's call the whole thing off!" events that, in a movie, would have Jennifer Garner doing madcap cute-crazy things to get her ex back. I thought about doing something sweepingly romantic, except I'm heavier on the crazy than the cute. So instead I allowed myself a week to wallow, and now, in an effort to stop pining, I am writing lists of things that weren't great about Robot Boy. The problem is that he is a good man who is proving difficult to vilify. I have a hard time coming up with real flaws, so the list is filled with trivialities like "doesn't like my shoes" and "does not discourage redhead from blatantly sexual flirting" and "has facial hair." (In my defense, my shoes are stylish, and he does seem to enjoy the attention, and, well, longtime readers know how I feel about facial hair.)
Betty was saddened to hear about these recent developments; I think she had visions of tiny Robot Boys and Robot Girls running around someday. "That was not great timing on his part," she said. "Of course, maybe he'd been wanting to break up with you for a while, but he didn't want to dump you while you were worried about Dad dying." Leave it to my mother to introduce more conspiracy theories into my head. I have spent the hours since lying in bed, amplifying coincidences into evidence to support this idea. The cycle of neuroses has been recharged!
(I told you I was neurotic.)
So when Robot Boy introduced me to someone as his friend back in August, I quietly slipped into the Tomlin Freakout — the inevitable panic that stops emotional attachment before it gets too deep. Being a former English major, I overanalyze vocabulary choices with the best of them. Naturally, I assumed that he must think of me as just a platonic friend and I should really diversify my dating portfolio and boy was I dumb to think he liked me in the same way, I bet he's dating that redhead too, and I had better retreat, RETREAT! I managed to regain enough sanity to talk myself down from the freakout, and we talked about my unnecessary parsing, but still, I spent the next couple of months wondering why he wouldn't just say he was my boyfriend. It's junior-high, I know. I am not proud of it. It's just that in my experience, people who say "Aw, let's not label ourselves" wind up being the ones who are shtupping some 22-year-old girl while you're at home naively baking them romantic cupcakes or whatever. So you see why I like a little reassurance, don't you?
Long story short, I recently explained that I needed more definition, which is the adult way of saying, "I just want to be called your girlfriend, even though I am embarrassed to admit that." Robot Boy said, duh, of course you're my girl, silly. And then we broke up! It was a Bizarro World breakup, one of those "Hey, we're in love with each other, so let's call the whole thing off!" events that, in a movie, would have Jennifer Garner doing madcap cute-crazy things to get her ex back. I thought about doing something sweepingly romantic, except I'm heavier on the crazy than the cute. So instead I allowed myself a week to wallow, and now, in an effort to stop pining, I am writing lists of things that weren't great about Robot Boy. The problem is that he is a good man who is proving difficult to vilify. I have a hard time coming up with real flaws, so the list is filled with trivialities like "doesn't like my shoes" and "does not discourage redhead from blatantly sexual flirting" and "has facial hair." (In my defense, my shoes are stylish, and he does seem to enjoy the attention, and, well, longtime readers know how I feel about facial hair.)
Betty was saddened to hear about these recent developments; I think she had visions of tiny Robot Boys and Robot Girls running around someday. "That was not great timing on his part," she said. "Of course, maybe he'd been wanting to break up with you for a while, but he didn't want to dump you while you were worried about Dad dying." Leave it to my mother to introduce more conspiracy theories into my head. I have spent the hours since lying in bed, amplifying coincidences into evidence to support this idea. The cycle of neuroses has been recharged!
Labels: betty, neuroses, regression to adolescence
I dreamed that I still worked at a job I hated, with the same person in charge of me. She kept giving me vague guidelines for finishing a project, and she expected me to work while mourning my father. "But we sent flowers," she said.* This is true; it was a bouquet of black and white tulips. I had to drive a rental car, and I thought I was in a line for a car wash. Fortunately, I wasn't, and I drove past a McDonald's (thought about getting a meatless cheeseburger in case it was the last food for a while, decided against it) and to a toll booth. A large truck carrying foundation makeup pulled up behind me and tried to clip itself to my car; I wouldn't let that happen.
Then I was home, but it was a not-home sort of home. It was Easter and we decided to go to Wal-Mart. (In real life this would not happen.) I was driving with someone, like a younger version of my mother, and she said that M-43) was about to change. It went from being dotted with houses and greenery and billboards to being flat, barren, dry. We got to the Wal-Mart parking lot and a man told us that you can't shop on Easter. So we decided to go to the nursing home instead.
I couldn't find the right door to open. They were a sickly shade of mauve. Teresa opened the door for me, and I walked in, and Dad was there. He was still alive. I tried to hide my shock. He was walking around, his chest bruised and purple, and he was in good spirits. "I'm going to be around a long time," he said, echoing what he'd told me in real life two weeks before he died. I held back tears.
I tried to call Scott (beau, not brother), because I wanted him to meet my dad. "Get here soon," I said. I wanted to ride on the back of his motorcycle, but he had only one helmet, and I knew my scooter helmet had been sold years ago. I sat to the left of my father and put my hand on his chest.
---
Not that dreams are that exciting to read, but this is more for me to remember it and analyze it later.
* Edited to add, this might make it seem like this is about my current job, but it isn't. It's about a job I had years ago; it still haunts my dreams.
Then I was home, but it was a not-home sort of home. It was Easter and we decided to go to Wal-Mart. (In real life this would not happen.) I was driving with someone, like a younger version of my mother, and she said that M-43) was about to change. It went from being dotted with houses and greenery and billboards to being flat, barren, dry. We got to the Wal-Mart parking lot and a man told us that you can't shop on Easter. So we decided to go to the nursing home instead.
I couldn't find the right door to open. They were a sickly shade of mauve. Teresa opened the door for me, and I walked in, and Dad was there. He was still alive. I tried to hide my shock. He was walking around, his chest bruised and purple, and he was in good spirits. "I'm going to be around a long time," he said, echoing what he'd told me in real life two weeks before he died. I held back tears.
I tried to call Scott (beau, not brother), because I wanted him to meet my dad. "Get here soon," I said. I wanted to ride on the back of his motorcycle, but he had only one helmet, and I knew my scooter helmet had been sold years ago. I sat to the left of my father and put my hand on his chest.
---
Not that dreams are that exciting to read, but this is more for me to remember it and analyze it later.
* Edited to add, this might make it seem like this is about my current job, but it isn't. It's about a job I had years ago; it still haunts my dreams.
A week after seeing Scott in San Francisco on May 1, he flew to Portland. A week later, I flew 5,944 miles to Spain not really knowing what would happen when I opened the door and found him in our Barcelona room. I kept joking that we'd either hate each other or be madly in love by the end of the trip. Things ended somewhere in the middle, and then we flew back to our respective states. We saw each other a few days later due to his friends' wedding, and a few days after that we saw each other for a few hours, and now he's 5,918 miles from here. (That sounds far, but until last week, it was 8,707 miles from here, so it's all a matter of perspective.) In a little over a week, I'll see him again, and a few days after that, I'll be 643 miles away from home in his house.
Thanks to the magic of the chatbox, we talk in the mornings; he, hours ahead in the future, tells me what to expect during my day. My daily routine has been shaken up, strangely and somewhat suddenly, and I'm not sure what to think of it yet.
Thanks to the magic of the chatbox, we talk in the mornings; he, hours ahead in the future, tells me what to expect during my day. My daily routine has been shaken up, strangely and somewhat suddenly, and I'm not sure what to think of it yet.
Labels: neuroses
I worked late tonight, and the sun was just beginning to sink when I left the building. A middle-aged, legless man was making his way up the street in a wheelchair. His face showed the accumulated stresses of an uneasy life, but he didn't look defeated or miserable. Just tired, maybe a little lonely. I gave him a smile as I walked by, then he turned and looked at my shoes. He asked, "Can't I get you to walk me somewhere in those heels?"
I smiled and started laughing a little bit. I always do this when strangers flirt with me; it's a nervous response, and of course it makes me happy to be noticed, so it's a genuine laugh. "Not tonight," I replied. I was nice, I was friendly.
"Please," he said. "I'll do anything for you to come with me." It was more sweet than sad, the kind of line that makes me crack a smile. "No, but thank you," I said before wishing him a good night and going on my way.
Halfway down the block, my grin fell as I wondered if my laughter, borne of delight and surprise, could have been interpreted as that of scorn and mockery. It's been hours and I still can't stop thinking about the man on Sutter Street, pushing himself up that hill.
I smiled and started laughing a little bit. I always do this when strangers flirt with me; it's a nervous response, and of course it makes me happy to be noticed, so it's a genuine laugh. "Not tonight," I replied. I was nice, I was friendly.
"Please," he said. "I'll do anything for you to come with me." It was more sweet than sad, the kind of line that makes me crack a smile. "No, but thank you," I said before wishing him a good night and going on my way.
Halfway down the block, my grin fell as I wondered if my laughter, borne of delight and surprise, could have been interpreted as that of scorn and mockery. It's been hours and I still can't stop thinking about the man on Sutter Street, pushing himself up that hill.
Labels: neuroses
...to find the time to write. I have been guilting myself a lot lately about it, too, which only creates a dirty snowball of bad feelings. I always thought I'd be a bit more accomplished by now, and New Year's Eve always slaps me around a bit: another year gone without reaching this goal or that goal, made worse by the knowledge that I didn't really try to reach it in the first place. I'm taking some time off next week to work on writing, which is such a luxury.
2008 was not the worst year, but in some ways it was the most challenging. In September, my dad fell at the grocery store, and he hasn’t been living at home since. He spent the first week in the hospital, and we all thought he’d be going home. Instead, he was sent to a nursing home, where he had a seizure and began hallucinating. I flew home and spent most of my time next to his bed, watching him grasp the air and wonder how he’d lost so much weight so quickly. When I visited him at the nursing home a few weeks ago, he’d regained most of the 20 pounds he’d lost, and he could walk again with help, but I still spent much of the time blinking back tears. His memory is slipping, his hands are twitching more, and the idea of a limited and lost future is is depressing. I always knew I would lose my dad at a relatively young age, but now that it’s no longer an abstract concept, it’s harder. I wish there were something sanguine to say, and I do put a smile on my face when I talk with him in person or on the phone, but it’s for him, not me.
The silver lining to this dark cloud is that it's nearly effortless to make my dad happy. He isn't severely depressed about being in the nursing home (I think he enjoys the attention from the young nursing assistants) but I know he gets lonely. How can he not? So I call him, or send him a postcard or sneak him some of his non-alcoholic beer, and he's so happy. If this is how our last years are, I'm all right with that.
2008 was not the worst year, but in some ways it was the most challenging. In September, my dad fell at the grocery store, and he hasn’t been living at home since. He spent the first week in the hospital, and we all thought he’d be going home. Instead, he was sent to a nursing home, where he had a seizure and began hallucinating. I flew home and spent most of my time next to his bed, watching him grasp the air and wonder how he’d lost so much weight so quickly. When I visited him at the nursing home a few weeks ago, he’d regained most of the 20 pounds he’d lost, and he could walk again with help, but I still spent much of the time blinking back tears. His memory is slipping, his hands are twitching more, and the idea of a limited and lost future is is depressing. I always knew I would lose my dad at a relatively young age, but now that it’s no longer an abstract concept, it’s harder. I wish there were something sanguine to say, and I do put a smile on my face when I talk with him in person or on the phone, but it’s for him, not me.The silver lining to this dark cloud is that it's nearly effortless to make my dad happy. He isn't severely depressed about being in the nursing home (I think he enjoys the attention from the young nursing assistants) but I know he gets lonely. How can he not? So I call him, or send him a postcard or sneak him some of his non-alcoholic beer, and he's so happy. If this is how our last years are, I'm all right with that.
Labels: neuroses
Lately I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with my lack of interest in marriage. Many of my friends are happily married or engaged, and tonight I found out that a friendly acquaintance has just been married for the second time. I have known him through his first marriage, his divorce, and now I know him as a married man again. Of course I wish him and his bride the best, but some strange part of me wonders if I'm lagging developmentally. Shouldn't I be dreaming of the white dress and honeymoon? Instead, the main appeal of my own hypothetical wedding is the copious amount of expensive cake I'll be able to shove into my mouth.
Don't get me wrong; I'm genuinely happy for my married friends, and I get happy/weepy at their weddings. But when I think about being married myself, I become anxious. I imagine that when you are married, you are not allowed to eat cereal for dinner, or to walk around pantsless in a nonsexual way, or to take off for a solo vacation, or to sleep alone. I like doing all of these things. Maybe my opinion will change over time, but I have been dating for about 15 years and have yet to worry about becoming an old maid.
Don't get me wrong; I'm genuinely happy for my married friends, and I get happy/weepy at their weddings. But when I think about being married myself, I become anxious. I imagine that when you are married, you are not allowed to eat cereal for dinner, or to walk around pantsless in a nonsexual way, or to take off for a solo vacation, or to sleep alone. I like doing all of these things. Maybe my opinion will change over time, but I have been dating for about 15 years and have yet to worry about becoming an old maid.
The day before I left for Fashion Week, I realized that if I was to make it through even one day, I needed a giant bag. Since the only one I had was a weekend tote, I picked up a cheapy patent "leather" bag at Forever 21 during my lunch hour. It turned out to be a lifesaver due to its ability to swallow my normal needs (wallet, grooming items) as well as press passes, snacks, folders, a camera, and a recorder.
There's something enjoyably, secretly subversive about attending fashion shows while toting a shitty $18 bag. There's something so gauche about it that I couldn't stop laughing, and oddly enough, carrying the bag in question made me immune to the stares of well-heeled fashion types. I mean, if you don't play the "whose bag is more fabulous" game, you kinda win by default. Nobody cares what you're wearing, although, in a weird turn, I received compliments on my crap bag. Go figure.
Based on my observation that the less fancy your clothes are, the less vulnerable you are to mean fashion snobs, I plan to show up wearing a potato sack and flip-flops in September. Watch out, Anna Wintour!
There's something enjoyably, secretly subversive about attending fashion shows while toting a shitty $18 bag. There's something so gauche about it that I couldn't stop laughing, and oddly enough, carrying the bag in question made me immune to the stares of well-heeled fashion types. I mean, if you don't play the "whose bag is more fabulous" game, you kinda win by default. Nobody cares what you're wearing, although, in a weird turn, I received compliments on my crap bag. Go figure.
Based on my observation that the less fancy your clothes are, the less vulnerable you are to mean fashion snobs, I plan to show up wearing a potato sack and flip-flops in September. Watch out, Anna Wintour!
I am at that age that is no longer considered "young" (even though it is). It is a stressful time because I feel unaccomplished in some ways, developmentally stunted in others. Well, today I got a brilliantly grim idea: Let's see where I would be throughout history. If I'd lived in Roman times, I'd likely be dead already. Great. My tombstone would read HERE LIES TOMLINICUS, WHO DIED ALONE SAVE FOR MINOUS AND MILOCUS, WHO ATE HER DECOMPOSING FLESH AFTER THEIR VITTLES RAN OUT. I've still got a few years before I hit the age of Medieval death, though, so who knows what could happen before I turn 33.
Labels: neuroses
Last night, as my father watched Antiques Roadshow in hopes of spotting his son-in-law the porcelain expert, my mother and I made my new favorite dinner. We cooked the Angelica Kitchen recipe of marinated tempeh, mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, and freshly picked snow peas from our neighbor's garden. The three of us sat down at our kitchen table. My dad didn't notice that the meal was vegan, and in fact he eventually cleaned his plate.
But first, some backstory. Earlier in the visit, I had told my mom about a recent Saturday night date. See, this is the thing: everybody thinks I date a lot (and maybe I do from time to time) but it's fairly rare that I get squirrely about going out with somebody. Anyway, I was very excited and therefore mildly anxious about spending time with the gentleman we will call Mr. Vocabulary. I think it's because he has a certain joie de vivre, a beautifully genuine smile, and, yes, an awesome-in-the-literal-sense vocabulary. This is going to sound corny, but he seemed really engaged in doing things with his life, and I like that in people.
The problem was, I tried to be suave and subtle in suggesting that we get together (read: I am a chicken), so I wasn't sure if our dinner plans were an actual DATE or if they were just, you know, hanging out. I don't like to assume that men are romantically interested in women, because I don't like the whole heterosexual assumption thing myself. Or maybe he just wanted to have dinner because he likes to eat. Or maybe he just wanted to continue our scintillating discussion of Mineral's greatest hits.
While I tried to decide if I was being foolish for thinking that this was a date, I tried to get dressed. I wish that my brain could print output of my thoughts, because they are mile-a-minute and ridiculous:
I finally dressed myself in Levi's and a black shirt (again, Ulla Johnson, who is maybe my favorite clothesmaker) and picked up Mr. Vocabulary at his house. This is all I will say about the evening here, because I don't think anybody would appreciate the details of their Saturday night being broadcast on the interweb. Besides, I am still not sure if it was a date.
All of this weekend history leads up to dinner. My mom had been hitting the Franzia, and so she spilled the secret of my weekend maybedate. "Annie," she purred, "Did you tell your father about Mr. Vocabulary?"
Suddenly, I was 13 years old again, hoping that my dad wouldn't notice that boys existed or that yes, I was indeed wearing a bra. Was my mom kidding? Of course I had not told my father about Mr. Vocabulary. There are certain girly things that girls tell mothers, and fathers are not allowed to hear them. It's nice to let dads think that young suitors are lining up to ask their daughters on sterile dates void of sexual tension. I think it might break my dad's heart if he saw how I generally prefer to stay home alone on weekend nights, curled up with Miki-chan and dessert. Who am I to shatter his ideal?
To my mother's question I mumbled no, and then feigned a keen interest in the lonely radish sitting among the snow peas. Chomp, chomp I went on the sacrificial vegetable: mouth's full, can't talk now! Of course, my mother saw this as a sign to fill in the blanks. "Well, he's a little older than Annie," she told my father, who by this point had noticed me squirming. "And he grew up in X, which is very interesting, wouldn't you say, and he has lived in Y as well, so they can talk about that, and his name is MISTER VOCABULARY. I like that name, don't you? I mean, of course Annie would want to keep her name if they ever got married—not that that's in the cards this early, but I'm just saying that Annie Vocabulary just doesn't sound the same, does it? And get this! He is not a vegetarian and he smokes. He smokes!"
This last morsel of information delighted my mother to no end, fueled in large part by my naive teenage declaration that I would never date a smoker. She loves it when I go on even a single date with someone who smokes, because this makes her think that I will get off her back about her own habit. She is wrong about that. I considered telling her as much, but then I glanced at my father, whose interest in the mushroom gravy now matched mine in the vegetables, and decided to let it go.
But first, some backstory. Earlier in the visit, I had told my mom about a recent Saturday night date. See, this is the thing: everybody thinks I date a lot (and maybe I do from time to time) but it's fairly rare that I get squirrely about going out with somebody. Anyway, I was very excited and therefore mildly anxious about spending time with the gentleman we will call Mr. Vocabulary. I think it's because he has a certain joie de vivre, a beautifully genuine smile, and, yes, an awesome-in-the-literal-sense vocabulary. This is going to sound corny, but he seemed really engaged in doing things with his life, and I like that in people.
The problem was, I tried to be suave and subtle in suggesting that we get together (read: I am a chicken), so I wasn't sure if our dinner plans were an actual DATE or if they were just, you know, hanging out. I don't like to assume that men are romantically interested in women, because I don't like the whole heterosexual assumption thing myself. Or maybe he just wanted to have dinner because he likes to eat. Or maybe he just wanted to continue our scintillating discussion of Mineral's greatest hits.
While I tried to decide if I was being foolish for thinking that this was a date, I tried to get dressed. I wish that my brain could print output of my thoughts, because they are mile-a-minute and ridiculous:
Huzzah, I am going to wear my new Roxanne Heptner shirt and grey pants. Oh, wait, but then you can see the bra through the shirt. Maybe that is a good thing! No, no, this bra is not foxy and besides, if it is not a date, you will look inappropriate and tacky. Wear the white Ulla Johnson shirt instead, but dress it down with jeans so it doesn't look too fashiony. Ah, but this shirt is the sort of thing that makes men confused as to why you'd have sleeves that kinda float there...
I finally dressed myself in Levi's and a black shirt (again, Ulla Johnson, who is maybe my favorite clothesmaker) and picked up Mr. Vocabulary at his house. This is all I will say about the evening here, because I don't think anybody would appreciate the details of their Saturday night being broadcast on the interweb. Besides, I am still not sure if it was a date.
All of this weekend history leads up to dinner. My mom had been hitting the Franzia, and so she spilled the secret of my weekend maybedate. "Annie," she purred, "Did you tell your father about Mr. Vocabulary?"
Suddenly, I was 13 years old again, hoping that my dad wouldn't notice that boys existed or that yes, I was indeed wearing a bra. Was my mom kidding? Of course I had not told my father about Mr. Vocabulary. There are certain girly things that girls tell mothers, and fathers are not allowed to hear them. It's nice to let dads think that young suitors are lining up to ask their daughters on sterile dates void of sexual tension. I think it might break my dad's heart if he saw how I generally prefer to stay home alone on weekend nights, curled up with Miki-chan and dessert. Who am I to shatter his ideal?
To my mother's question I mumbled no, and then feigned a keen interest in the lonely radish sitting among the snow peas. Chomp, chomp I went on the sacrificial vegetable: mouth's full, can't talk now! Of course, my mother saw this as a sign to fill in the blanks. "Well, he's a little older than Annie," she told my father, who by this point had noticed me squirming. "And he grew up in X, which is very interesting, wouldn't you say, and he has lived in Y as well, so they can talk about that, and his name is MISTER VOCABULARY. I like that name, don't you? I mean, of course Annie would want to keep her name if they ever got married—not that that's in the cards this early, but I'm just saying that Annie Vocabulary just doesn't sound the same, does it? And get this! He is not a vegetarian and he smokes. He smokes!"
This last morsel of information delighted my mother to no end, fueled in large part by my naive teenage declaration that I would never date a smoker. She loves it when I go on even a single date with someone who smokes, because this makes her think that I will get off her back about her own habit. She is wrong about that. I considered telling her as much, but then I glanced at my father, whose interest in the mushroom gravy now matched mine in the vegetables, and decided to let it go.
