The Boot Camp for Lost Boys

I live in a city of over 300,000 people, but in a way, none of us really live in the same city. We see our different parts of it, live our different lives in it. We all have personal landmarks, and they're rarely shared, communal ones. Other people don't drive past the Chatterbox on France and think, "That's where I had what I thought was my best date of '08. Man, was I wrong about that." Other people don't see the Figlio billboard and remember their awkward dinner with a burly guy who not only finished a plate of pasta so enormous it could feed a small village but who roughly stopped the waitress from taking his CLEARLY EMPTY plate by spouting through a mouthful of bread, "No! I'm DIPPING!" And I'm guessing (though I could be wrong, of course) that not a lot of other people think, every time they drive past that big house on Emerson, "Heh. I was deflowered there."

I was out with Carrie last night and we found ourselves stopped at the traffic light beside another of my personal landmarks. It was the corner where I had my first (and thus far only) truly angry, yelly, incredulous breakup. Previously, my only reference point for the restaurant on that corner was that it was the venue for my urban family's second annual Easter Orphans and Heathens Brunch. Now it will always be the place where I stood chastising a soulless, unrepentant manchild in the cold while his new girlfriend watched from a bar stool inside.

I'm talking about Jimmy, of course. The pothead. The damn Buddhist. Remember him? Remember what a sweet story it was originally but how spectacularly it went awry?

I still sort of can't believe that happened. It's absurd, really, and as such, I have to laugh at it. Or maybe not laugh, but at least shake my head and roll my eyes. I'm not angry anymore. I knew I wouldn't be. There's no reason to stay upset over losing a person I'm better off without. But I do still think about him. I do wonder what he's doing. And though I'm not hurt anymore, I'm also not perfect, so when I wonder about him, I'll admit that I hope he's not doing well.

It's not [entirely] that I'm bitter. It's that I honestly think the man needs to hit rock bottom. He has been down, yes. He has been broke and destitute. He's even spent the night in a jail cell at least once. But I don't think he's ever really gotten it. I'm not sure he's realized that any of it is his own damn fault. And I don't think it helps that through all of it, he's always had someone saying, "You are awesome, Jimmy. You're a great person." And I think he needs to stop hearing that. Because he is NOT awesome. He is a flake. He is a fuckup. He is a great big irresponsible child. And you know what? Children get reprimanded when their behavior is inappropriate. Children get punished when they misbehave. Jimmy got fired, skipped out on his rent, lied to his friends, and vanished on me, and what was his punishment? Free room and board with a new girlfriend and a free vacation on said new girlfriend's dime.

I really didn't mean to go into so long a rant about someone who's worth so little energy. I didn't mean to launch into a similar rant when Carrie and I pulled up to that stop light last night. But Carrie, no stranger to fuckwits and manchildren herself, didn't stop me. No, instead, she joined right in.

"It's too bad there's not a boot camp for lost boys," she said. It was a flash of brilliance. Yes! A boot camp for lost boys! We can probably all think of a few candidates for new recruits.

"Do you think it would really work as a boot camp, though?" I asked.

Carrie: "What do you mean?"

Me: "Boot camp is a short-term program for immediate results. Lost boys are driven by instant gratification, but they've also got short memory spans. We need to shoot for long-term change. It might need to be a reform school."

Carrie: "Yeah. They need to go AWAY. Maybe for a long while."

Me: "Or at the very least, an ongoing outpatient program."

Carrie: "Like social work. They'd be assigned a case number."

Me: "And a case manager. They'd have to report in on their progress. And the case manager would talk to their friends, too."

Carrie: "And their parents!"

Me: "None of that manipulating and revising history and skewing the story to make themselves the victim. The case manager would need context. She'd talk to the people who actually KNOW the guy so she'd know what's really up."

Carrie: "But the lost boys would have to meet with each other regularly, too, right? Like an AA meeting?"

Me: "Definitely. And they'd go around the circle.... I'm Adam. I'm a lost boy. It's been six weeks since my last irresponsible, capricious act. And a chorus of lost boys would reply, Hi, Adam. Oh! And they'd get chips after each milestone!"

Carrie: "Chips? People in AA get chips?"

Me: "It's like a little medallion to mark an accomplishment. 'One month sober,' 'One year sober.' That sort of thing."

Carrie: "Oh, so they wouldn't cash them in for anything... not like poker chips, or skee ball tickets..."

Me: "Ha! No, but that would be awesome. I applied for six jobs this week. Here is my chip. I would like to trade it in for that bottle of Jaegermeister."

Carrie: "Nooo! We'd have to take their alcohol AWAY, not reward them with it! Their cigarettes, too. Maybe even movies."

Me: "They definitely wouldn't be allowed to watch Swingers or Fight Club or Reservoir Dogs. And nothing that glorifies life as a manchild."

Carrie: "Would there be twelve steps? And the Serenity prayer?"

Me: "They should at least have some sort of creed. I will not be careless with hearts. Or finances."

Carrie: "I will do no irreparable harm to women."

Me: "I will take responsibility for my actions."

Carrie: "We should totally transcribe this conversation and put it on the Internet."

Me: "I'm way ahead of you on that."


Of course, gauging success in the lost boys program might be difficult. An alcoholic measures progress in concrete milestones that are easily quantifiable. "I haven't had a drink in thirty days." That's clear cut. Black and white. But "It's been six months since I frustrated a woman to tears in the privacy of her own bedroom"? "It's been two months since my mother silently wondered to herself where she went wrong with me"? These things are harder to verify. Still, it's an idea whose time has come, I say. Any social workers out there looking for a new project?

I suppose in this economy, a "staycation" does make the most sense.

Well then. Much as that Someecard I lifted for my Inauguration Day post does continue to perfectly sum up how I'm feeling (raise your hand if you're still smiling involuntarily every time you hear the words "President Obama"), Inauguration was a week ago, and I'd best be posting something new, hadn't I? After all, I received an email from 3Carnations today wondering if I'd run off and moved into a Buddhist center. Perhaps some of the rest of you were wondering the same thing.

Nope. Still here, and it's a very good thing I do not live in a Buddhist center, as they likely would have kicked me out by now given that I don't think anyone could peacefully meditate with me barking like a pack-a-day smoker with advanced emphysema for the past five days. I routinely think about the many reasons it's probably best I live alone, but usually they have to do with things like being able to leave the bathroom door open when I pee and having complete control over the TV (which I can actually see from the bathroom when I leave the door open to pee, not that I would ever do something so tacky and barbarian, of course). This week I'm thankful I live alone for another reason, though, and that's that I managed to pick up a case of bronchitis, and I'm well aware that sharing bronchitis is significantly less fun than sharing anything else that comes in a case.

I do feel bad for my coworkers, who despite never having taken any sort of vow to love me in sickness and in health are forced to listen to me cough away all day, and yet bless their hearts, haven't sealed me in a sound- and germ-proof bubble just yet. Hooray. And today I spent my lunch hour at the walk-in clinic in a local grocery store, where the nice physician's assistant readily handed out Zithromax and Codeine-laced cough syrup as if they were candy, a seemingly devil-may-care attitude to this whole "we must stop overprescribing antibiotics" nonsense. I actually passed on the Codeine (Which was totally the wrong move, right? How often do we get the chance to try the good stuff??), but I have high hopes that with the Zithromax alone I will be on the mend soon. Fingers crossed, because I do think I'd miss my lungs if I just inadvertently hacked one out mid-cough.

In case you are curious, however, while I haven't moved into a Buddhist center, the Buddhist is still in the picture, and I very much hope he's not hacking up any internal organs on my account soon too. I also hope I didn't breathe too closely to the guy I had a date with on Thursday, as I turned down his invitation for a second date, and to be rejected and infected in the same evening is something I wouldn't wish on even the most boring of Catch dot Mom man. Which this one wasn't, by the way. Boring, I mean. No, he was perfectly nice and friendly and even fun-ish and mildly interesting. I also felt absolutely zero romantic chemistry with him, however, and while I know it's an ongoing debate whether that sort of thing matters from the start, I'd still prefer to trust my instincts and skip the ho-hum second date this time. I may be irreparably wrecking my dating karma in a way that will come back to haunt me in a manner similar to the so-called best date of '08, but that is a risk I'm going to take, my friends.

Speaking of Catch dot Mom men, I would like to tell you about the latest one to wink at me. His favorite local hot spots include "the airport," and his favorite place "abroad" is New York City. I realize there are times I'm not as smart as I like to think I am. I can think of more than two times when I've snidely mocked the absurdity of something only to realize it was I who was in the wrong. So help me out here, word nerds. I know the Midwest is deemed fly-over land. I know it's a foreign country to many of those on the coast. But New York City? A location "abroad"? Technically, perhaps, but please tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that dude's horizons (or vocabulary) could stand some growth?

Stuff and whatnot

Maybe I was serious when I said I might start writing all blog entries in Facebook status format. Frankly, I am too exhausted at the moment to muster much more than that, and if you have been following my Facebook status updates, you might know why. As I typed in that little "What are you doing right now?" box yesterday, I am TIRED of being Rosie the Riveter, all "I can do it!" I much prefer the Homer Simpson philosophy at this point. My slogan is "Can't someone else do it?" Home ownership has its benefits, my friends. At the moment, I just can't remember what they are.

That said, I have had a satisfyingly productive weekend. My lawn is mowed, the jungle of knee-high Dr. Suessian weeds eradicated; my garage door cable is fixed; my house is clean(ish); my laundry is done (almost); and most importantly, (if I could get a drum roll, please?), my garage is finally fully repainted. Really. I don't know what I'm going to do with my weekends now, with that project no longer lurking in my consciousness like a cloud of residual Catholic guilt. Actually, that's not true at all. I know exactly what I will do. I will lounge with fewer reservations, perhaps take a bike ride or two before the snow flies. And in a few weeks I will be procrastinating on some other odious chore or project, the recently scraped-down and painted garage a suppressed memory.

And let's see... What else have I been up to recently, instead of typing idly on the Internet? Well, I officially closed my match with "Bob," the pierced and heavily tattooed man in the scary t-shirt. (Sorry to everyone who was hoping I would go out with him just for your amusement.) Much like meMarmony, the site I'm on currently provides a drop-down list of reasons when you choose to "archive" a match. But also like meMarmony, sometimes the list of stock standard reasons simply aren't all-inclusive enough. "Because I would be afraid to be alone with this man" was not a provided reason; hence, I had to settle for the decidedly more vague "Not a good fit" explanation instead. Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe, as they say.

What else? Well, I went out with Mr. Arty-Looking IT Guy (the man whose profile prompted me to pony up for membership at this latest venue in the first place). It was a positive enough date to warrant a second one for more research, but that's all I want to say at this point. Also, dude needs a better Internet alias. If he happens to stick around, I'll work on that.

Hmmm. Also, I finally saw the Little House on the Prairie musical at the Guthrie, I received a semi-hefty property tax refund I forgot I had coming, and I did an absurd little happy dance in my car as I crossed the new 35W bridge for the first (and second) time. My house to Midtown in less than 15 minutes, instead of the 30+ it has taken for the past year! I tell you, it's the little things (particularly when those little things are sort of big things) that matter. Man, I have missed that bridge.

I'm sure lots of other things have kept me busy lately, but at the moment, my brain is too addled to think of them. Also, the third of those ridiculous teen vampire books is waiting for me, patiently neglected on my bedside table for the past week or more. I think I'll spend a little time with Bella and Edward and his purportedly velvet voice and then call it a night. I'll catch up with you soon, my friends.

And I swore comparing myself to Gwyneth Paltrow would most certainly be a one-time thing*

I think it's official: I have forgotten how to blog. Ordinarily, when something relatively notable happens (like, I don't know, I get rear-ended on my way home from work), it is only a rather brief journey from "Well, this sucks" to "Hey, I can blog about that." Today, however, it took a full four hours from time of incident to time when I realized misfortune could be blog fodder. I'm not sure if I should be proud or ashamed of that.

In reality, the event wasn't even particularly notable. I could go on with the silly fate arguments... "If only I'd left work two minutes later." "If only I hadn't stopped at the Saturn dealership to get my oil topped off." "If only I hadn't exited the highway earlier than usual in an attempt to avoid the latest round of road construction." But all of that is pointless "What if"-ing. It's been too long since I've seen Sliding Doors to remember all the details, but didn't Gwyneth Paltrow actually fare better when she missed the train than when she caught it? Maybe I dodged a worse bullet by getting rear-ended by a different one. Who knows.

Unfortunately, the only possibly claim-worthy damage in this little mishap was to the bumper of the car in front of me, which I hit when the woman behind me hit me. And since I'm pretty sure insurance company logic states that each driver is responsible for any rear-ending damage to the car in front of them (even if the rear-ending occurs only because someone behind pushed them there), I'm pretty sure I'll be paying for that kid's new bumper. Bugger. Happy birthday, little man in the red Civic. (No, really. It was the dude's birthday today. A car accident--however minor--might beat a snowstorm. I'm not sure. Poor kid.) Also, is it just a coincidence that the Saturn behind me did no damage to my car and my own Saturn did no damage to hers? It's like the sometimes magical, self-healing Saturns know their own kind and wouldn't possibly do the discourtesy of inflicting any damage to one of their own. When a Civic is in the picture, though? All bets are off, clearly.

The good news, of course, is that no one was hurt. Well, no one unless you count me, and my mysteriously scuffed toe. When the woman behind me slammed into my bumper, my foot slipped off the pedal and my sandal fell off, and somehow in that process (be it in scraping against the edge of my shoe or against some part of the pedal), I managed to scrape up the top of my big toe such that it actually bled for a few minutes and still hurts a bit now. That's right: true to form, I injured myself in the stupidest way imaginable given the circumstance at hand. I injured my toe in a minor car accident. Seriously, that would only happen to me, right? (Well, me and Abbersnail, maybe. Oh, come on, Abbers; you know it's true.)

On an entirely unrelated note, I remain amused by everyone's enthusiasm to weigh in on my first ramen noodle experiment. I am also amused that the day after I posted that, Natalie Dee weighed in as well. Check it out:



Mmmm... Fried noodles... you know you want some again now...


--------------------------------------
* A one-time thing that I've now done twice. Please, please let it end here.
--------------------------------------

Not even Whiskeymarie uses the word "whiskey" this many times in a single post.

I had a Friday Five in mind for today, but if you'll forgive me, I have more pressing matters on my mind. Namely, whisky (or whiskey). I do not drink whisky (or whiskey). I do not buy whisky (or whiskey). So when I needed to acquire whisky (or whiskey) for my retro cocktail party, I stood staring at the row of whiskys and whiskeys in the liquor store near my house and ended up choosing Dewar's, solely because I remembered it's what Meg Ryan drank in Prelude to a Kiss, and I figured if it was good enough for Meg Ryan circa 1992, it was good enough for me.

Yesterday I found myself chatting with a coworker about this retro cocktail party scheme of mine, explaining my dilemma with the whisky/ey and relaying the very sophisticated and sound decision-making method behind my purchase.

His reply? "But Dewar's is Scotch, isn't it?" And I replied, all smug and confident, "No, it said 'blended whisky,' and that's what I need: blended whisky." He shrugged, trying to be agreeable even though he was clearly suspicious and knew I was wrong.

I just looked at that label again. It does indeed say "blended whisky," but in between those words is one other word: Scotch. Blended Scotch Whisky. Dammit.

You'd think I just started drinking (or hell, reading) yesterday. What is wrong with me? But moreover, is that what was wrong with my drinks? Is that why the prototype Manhattan I made the other night tasted like battery acid? Or is a Manhattan supposed to taste like battery acid, no matter what type of whisky is involved? People, I need help on this. Do I have to go out and buy more liquor, or is shopping for whisky like shopping for so many other things, and the multiple choices for seemingly identical products are just meant to overwhelm and incapacitate us and really it's all a big conspiracy to deaden our senses so that the government can keep us from rising up?

Ahem. I may be getting away from the point. Back to it. Can I make retro drinks with Scotch whisky, or will I be mocked mercilessly by my guests if I don't remedy this? As usual, I'm sure the Internet has the answer for me.

On an unrelated note, I just whacked my skull full force into my kitchen cabinet while cleaning. First the bathroom incident and now this. Clearly I should have been born with some sort of warning label. Ouch. There is no hope for me.

Also, I just realized Jeopardy! is on at 3:00*

Well, I fought a good fight for a while, but the cold was winning, so I finally gave in and left work early yesterday and also stayed home from work today. And while that whole "when life hands you lemons" mindset tells me to enjoy an excuse to relax without guilt, to realize that an aching head and a fever are perfectly good reasons to spend an entire day alternating between my couch and my bed, I still fear an intervention may be in order. Why?

Five reasons it's a good thing I'm not home during the day every day.

1. Ellen
2. Gilmore Girls and Full House reruns on ABC Family
3. Little House on the Prairie on the Hallmark channel
4. HGTV
5. Oprah

People, I didn't even remember I had ABC Family or the Hallmark channel. I have got to rally myself into an upright position and leave the house soon.

On the up and productive side, I have finally almost finished hand-stitching the binding on my quilt. If this cold doesn't let up soon, I may even finish those damn socks as well. We shall see.


--------------------------
* Ooh! But it's on opposite back-to-back episodes of What I Like About You! I really, really shouldn't have consulted the Yahoo TV listings today.
--------------------------

If this post is insufferable, I blame the meds.

It seems my body has decided to celebrate the much-anticipated onset of spring by infecting itself with the sort of fantastic virus that makes me want to curl up in bed with my stuffy, sniffly, achy-headed self rather than go outside to run through the tulips and make wishes on puppies or whatever the hell all those healthy people who can still breathe through their noses are doing out there tonight. It seems a bit suspicious to me that just when I start trying to eat healthy, my immune system revolts. "Where are my processed, refined carbs!?" my blood cells seem to say. "Why haven't we had chocolate in over a week!?" I've said before that my poor diet was apparently defying science and somehow magically helping to maintain the delicate balance that generally keeps me superhumanly impervious to cold and flu. It's like the crayon lodged in Homer's brain that kept him from being a genius, except that really it's not like that at all.

In any case, in my mind's foggy and self-pitying state, I can't possibly be expected to form logical transitions in a coherent and well-flowing post. You know what that means, right? Bullet points it is! Yay for lazy under-the-weather blogging! Away we go.

• Around my birthday, I thought it was about time to revisit those New Year's resolutions of mine to see how I'm doing. I always find it hard to think of starting over and new-leaf-turning in the gray bleak of winter anyway (when there are no actual new leaves to turn). Spring seems the more logical time for shaking off the dust in my life and making changes, and since spring's when I mark another year since my birth, that feels like a good time to think about resolutions for the still large chunk of the year ahead. When I looked back at my resolutions this time, I realized I wasn't doing all that well... The vitamin one's going great (seriously? marking this off on my kitchen calendar was all I had to do to make it stick??), the "get fucking organized" one is in some slow but steady progress, and I finally (finally!) met Lara (along with NPW, Red, and once again, Noelle). But the budget? Haven't touched it. I am excellent at running out of money before pay day. I am not so excellent at figuring out just why. And finally, as for the more-sleep-on-weeknights goal? Well, one benefit of this cold is that I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I don't remember the last time I did that. It was remarkable! I told myself I would go to bed by 9:30, and I did exactly that! I have nine minutes to hit "Publish" and make that happen again this evening. We'll see how that goes tonight.
  
  
• Speaking (again) of my cold (because, hello, no one else has ever suffered a cold before, so I must milk as much sympathy as possible for the cross obviously I alone have to bear), I know exactly from which coworker I acquired this bug, and when she came to my desk to apologize for sharing, I accused her of licking my keyboard. The look of unparalleled disgust on her face was understandable, given that this particular woman is so prim and tidy that she probably lays toilet paper squares down in her own bathroom before she'll sit. Still, I thought it was funny, anyway. (But then, we've already established that my humor isn't for everyone, right?)
  
  
• I didn't really intend for the first two bullets to be about my cold. Perhaps I didn't need the bullets of not-so-randomness after all.
  
  
• I also didn't intend to be so linky-here, linky-there tonight. Are any of you really going to click through and read the cross-referenced material? It's OK if you don't. I just like to be thorough and precise.
  
  
• On my way home from work tonight, I saw a group of twenty-somethings teaching themselves to tightrope-walk across a red rope rigged up between two trees in a park. This park is, by the way, the same forest of whimsy near my house where I saw the motley crew of mismatched half-Renaissance men having a photo shoot last year. (And there I go with the links again. Whoopsie.) This begs a multitude of questions (or, three, at least, anyway). Does a troupe of circus and festival performers live nearby? Do they actually live next door? And if so, do I want to be invited to their parties, or not so much? Or, alternately, are they a group of mythical nymphs or fairies who actually live in those woods and come out only... er, only in broad daylight, it seems? I do not know, but I can't wait to see who I drive past in that park next time.
  
  
• Since I'm sure at least two of you are curious, I did email the Hotlist tag guy, the English professor. For those of you who were unclear, by the way, a Hotlist is not the same as a wink, although both can be equally maddening in their passive, er... what's the opposite of passive-aggressive? Passive-friendly? Just plain passive? Moving on. Both are equally maddening, as both imply that the guy viewing my profile is expecting me to step up, and that is not how I roll. OK, it is sometimes how I roll, but in my many years of dating trials and failures, it is rarely the route to success. In any case, I emailed him. The deciding factor was his answer to the "If I was given a million dollars" question (or rather, non-question, as it's stated in that format exactly--a question mark-less sentence fragment). His answer to the non-question was, and I quote, "That should be 'If I *were* given a million dollars,' by the way. Hooray for the subjunctive!" Clearly that is a man after my own heart. My profile may as well say "Word nerd seeks same," it seems.
  
  
• The Neighborhood Giant? Apparently not a man after my own heart, as it's now eight days post-date and still no word from him. The man baffles me. BAFFLES. And that's hard for anyone to accomplish at this point. Moving on.
  
  
• Did you know that if you peel a banana from the bottom rather than the top, those little stringy bits don't stick? No? You didn't know that? That's because it's not true. I have tried this at least five times since I saw this supposedly handy tip in an email my mother forwarded, and it has yet to work even once. This should not surprise me, given the reliability (or rather, lack thereof) of the other information she's forwarded over the years. Microsoft is not giving away money, mother. Barack Obama is not a closet Muslim. Now I just need to find the Snopes.com page to dispel this banana myth.

And that's about enough Wednesday randomness*, I think. It's off to bed (20 minutes late, but still better than usual) for me.


* TM Funky Carter

Shut up, please. I am very busy and important.*

I'm feeling a bit mad with power at the moment. I have been called "Boss" by my coworkers no fewer than five times this week, and I have to say, I'm really not used to that sort of thing. Generally speaking, I have very little authority over anything or anyone. Our real boss is on vacation, however, and before she left, she pointed at me and told my four coworkers, "She's in charge!" So whoo--I am in charge. I'd say it's going reasonably well so far. Frankly, I have been delegating and authoritating like I've had minions for years. Yes, I know "authoritating" is not a word. That's how much power I have; I'm wantonly adding words to the lexicon. Go me.

I actually considered testing the limits of my authority and in-chargeness this morning by giving us all the day (or at least the morning) off, but I decided that is probably not the best way to prove I am a trustworthy and business-minded fort holder-downer. Know what is also not the best way to prove myself a reliable fort holder-downer, though? Saying "Sure; thanks!" to that fourth drink when I am already out far past my bedtime on a Thursday night. Not a smart move, Stef. I think the Bad Idea Bears played a part in that one.

If anyone's looking for me, I'll be taking a nap in my car, OK?


______________________

* Reference, anyone?
Anyone?? Bueller?
______________________

Is this why people thought prohibition was a good idea?

Remember a couple months ago when I talked about having an absinthe party? (What do you mean, "No"? You expect me to believe you have better things to do than retain everything I ever say? Impossible.) Anyway, my friend Carrie and I co-hosted that event last night, and though I spent most of today feeling as sodden and benumbed as the tortured artists who made the Green Fairy legendary in its day, I would venture to say that the party was a success and a good time was had by nearly all.

I am feeling rather foggy headed, not so much from absinthe specifically but from absinthe and vodka and champagne and wine, not to mention a 6:00 a.m. bedtime. People, I am too old for this. I know this, and yet I continue to pretend I can party like a rock star. Or, in the case of an absinthe-centered event, party like Hemingway. And when it comes to indulging in absinthe, Hemingway was just a damn fool. I mean, the man mixed his absinthe with champagne. I am no expert on the substance, but I can say that of all the concoctions I sampled last night, that one was, hands-down, the most vile.

I was going to proceed with a list of other absinthe-related lessons I learned, but frankly, I am too damn tired at the moment for even a bullet-point post of laziness. So how about a photo essay instead? Work for you? Oh good. Here we go.

Me pouring my first absinthe of the night


Michael demonstrating the ritual as well


Carrie demonstrating for another absinthe apprentice


Look! Even -R- came. If only I could drink with all my blog friends... Incidentally, -H- still thinks we look like sisters. I don't see it; do you?


Carrie and the Green Fairy (I suppose they were my TWO co-hosts for the night)



Full set is on Flickr if you're interested. And now I'm off to bed.

I am not myself these days

Did you have an Etch-a-Sketch as a kid? Do you remember doodling away, drawing line after line and jagged curve after curve through the grainy silver and then shaking it to start all over again?

That's what it feels like in my brain right now. I keep turning the knobs and winding the lines into a bigger and bigger mess, and much as I want to pick the slate up and shake it clean, I don't seem able to do that.

This too shall pass. I know this. But right now, the ball of negative thoughts swirling in my head is something best left to old-fashioned private journaling, not typing out in a forum where I can't take it back. So while I'm not on an "official" blog-break like so many other people these days, I also don't have much to amuse you with right now. Perhaps I'll get to a book report this week, but other than that... I'll see you when I'm feeling sunnier.

Peace out.

It's still Friday...

...Though just barely.

Oof. I am tired. The kind of tired where a dull and nagging ache settles itself inside my head for 72 solid hours. The kind of tired where it feels as though some sort of vacuum has sucked all the moisture out of my eyes and then reversed and spit dust back into them for good measure. The kind of tired where that last sentence actually seemed like a reasonable metaphor. The kind of tired that makes me somehow sit quietly amid lively conversation with good friends for a full five minutes or more without interjecting a single comment, side-story, or loud and scathing judgment. That's tired.

I've slept poorly all week, I think due mostly to the seemingly unending string of 90+ degree days, which make it impossible to sleep without running the window AC (because it's 86 degrees in my bedroom) and also impossible to sleep with the AC unit running (because it sounds like a freight train running directly toward my bed). I think I can easily trace the source of my current perma-headache; I just don't know what to do about it.

On top of that, I've had all sorts of things on my mind... you know, like falling bridges and strained friendships and uneventful dates and where on earth to find a god-damned jean jacket. So I lie in bed, my brain spiraling around and around like a hamster on a rattly little wheel. Hamsters are nocturnal, you know. So is the part of my brain that wants to think everything through right now! it seems.

This means that in the past week, I have used just about every silly little focus-shifting mind game I can think of to get myself some rest. No, I don't mentally count the claymation sheep in the Serta commercials. Instead, I do these far more sensible things.


Five foolish ways I try to make myself fall asleep

1. I lay in Shavasana, the final resting pose that takes me to the edge of sleep in nearly every yoga class I attend. Surely if it can put me to sleep on a hardwood floor it can put me to sleep in my bed, right? Except that every time I attempt this, I remember that I cannot sleep on my back, so I might as well just be tossing and turning instead.
   
   
2. I say the alphabet backwards (something I actually taught myself to do during a bout of insomnia back in college). My faulty breathalyzer may not save me from any run-ins with the police, but at least I'll be prepared for the sobriety tests, right?
   
   
3. I sing all of the Girl Scout camp songs I can remember (in my head, silly, not out loud). In particular, I'm partial to On My Honor and Barges. A few years ago, I managed to recall all the words to three verses of the former without using the Internet. (No wonder I cannot sleep, with my brain rifling through its archives and file folders so wildly.)
   
   
4. I go through the alphabet, trying to think of one male name and one female name for every letter. If I go through two rounds, I will inevitably get stuck on Q , and will eventually fall asleep still trying to come up with something other than Quinn, Quincy, or Quentin.
   
   
5. I try to think of every teacher I have ever had... easy enough until I get to college, and then I realize how very bad my memory is.
   

I actually don't think I'll even need any of these methods tonight. There is finally a cool breeze coming in through my window; I can fall into bed without setting an alarm; and my head is ready to hit the pillow any second. Wish me luck.

Red red whine*

When I returned from the movie in Loring Park last night, the thermostat in my house read 88; the faulty breathalyzer read .05, and the clock read close to midnight. Anyone wanna take a guess at how I feel today?

On top of that, the movie was entirely uninteresting, and my handy camp seat was temporarily stolen by a cognitively challenged woman who had earlier been rooting around freely in her nostrils and absentmindedly playing with her spit. To make that last part even better, in my wine-fueled annoyance, I actually thought it was a logical idea to reason with the woman. She clearly had no inkling that she'd done anything wrong, and yet I apparently felt the need to look at her sternly and ask, "Why did you take that?" Considering the way my friends often like to distort this sort of thing for amusement in later retellings, I imagine that simple question will eventually be distilled down to "Stefanie yells at the mentally handicapped," much the same way an incident in a hotel hot tub years ago is now retold as "Stefanie swears in front of small children" and the way our friend Greg's simple complaint to a restaurant server has long been relayed as "Greg once beat up a Denny's waitress." Ah, good times.

Anyway, all circumstances and after-effects aside, it was still a fine summer evening in the city. There was good conversation with friends, a lovely cheese-heavy picnic spread, and wine (oh my yes, so much wine). Still, foggy-headed and crabby is no way to start the week. I may need to take another hobo nap on my lunch break.

-----------------------------
* A shout-out to my dear friend GG on that stolen title, of course. I'm at a loss for anything more appropriate right now.

Who needs sleep?

I got approximately four and a half hours of sleep last night, thanks to the Peter Bjorn and John show at First Avenue, which was very entertaining and enjoyable but which started (or rather, ended) far too late for an old thirty-something like myself on a Wednesday night. Ordinarily I'd be able to make it through the day by simply focusing on the countdown of hours until I can go home and crash for the night. Tonight, however, I have to rush home, change clothes, and immediately head to dinner and a play with a man I might consider dating, and since I might consider dating him, I'd sort of prefer to be my usual sharp and witty self (read: not babble incoherently or repeatedly trail off into unfinished sentences any more than is already the norm for me). I'd also prefer to remain awake for the duration of the play, and the way my eyes are burning, that might be a tall order.

In the past, on days like this, I've spent my lunch hour hiding out in my car on an unpopulated street or parking lot, reclining in my seat for a power nap. It's an unseasonably warm 83 degrees here today, however, and baking in a heatbin isn't exactly conducive to rest and relaxation. (I never did get that "As seen on TV" AutoCool.)

So instead, I walked a few blocks to the relatively quiet and tree-shaded park near my office in search of a comfortable spot to rest my eyes. I picked the rear side of a picnic bench at the far end of the park and I rolled down onto my back on the bench. About two minutes later, I realized that (A) a rubberized coating on a metal grated bench does not, in fact, adequately cushion your head from the fact that it is still pressed against a metal grated bench and (B) it is hard to lie comfortably on a 12-inch wide plank, as there's no logical place for your arms to go. I considered moving down to the grass, but I hadn't brought a sweater or blanket to put under my head, and the fear of ants and gnats in my hair is even less conducive to rest than my 80-plus-degree car was. Hence, I stuck it out on the bench.

It took a while, but about twenty minutes later I jerked to consciousness aware that I had, in fact, fallen asleep for at least a few minutes. And then I realized something. I slept on a park bench. In a city park. In the middle of the day. I am a modern, urban hobo!

The evidence goes beyond today's lunch break, actually. I can quickly think of at least four previous occasions when I've taken a nap in a public park. It's usually been with my friend Sarah, during a vacation in another city or on the return route from a camping trip. Sometimes we've even taken our Slumberjack sleep mats out of the car to nap properly on the ground in the park.

The uncomfortable metal grate benches are no accident in this particular quiet suburb, I think. It's a hobo-thwarting plan, if ever I saw one. And on behalf of would-be suburban hobos everywhere, I am hurt (or at least, my poor skull temporarily is).

I really should have titled this before I started typing, because now all I can think of is Hans Moleman

At the private boarding school featured in Prep, one day a year is designated as "Surprise Holiday." The students show up for roll call that morning and are told, "Surprise! You get the day off. Go do with it as you please."

I would like to institute something similar for every time there is construction going on in or near my office. That shouldn't be too much to ask, should it?

The condo building next door is apparently having some sort of roof work done, which means I get to hear hammering and shouting and the low and constant rumble of some sort of large machinery idling for what I can only assume will be most of the day. Fun! Hello, headache that I had during all of December (when our office remodeled and expanded into an adjacent part of the building--an area conveniently located on the other side of the apparently rather thin wall directly to the left of my head). Can't say I missed that constant throbbing pain one bit.

Also, the roof crew's trucks and machinery are now consuming a full two-thirds of our tiny parking lot, which seems not particularly fair or right, but since I'm not the one who owns the place, I guess I won't complain. Also also*, would it make me sound like a judgmental old lady if I point out that the crew looks like a band of misfits pulled straight out of Boys Town? It would? OK, forget that part then.

---------------------------------------
* Apparently I like that word as much as -R- does. (Apparently I also like the word "apparently.")
---------------------------------------

(Sidenote: Know what’s one thing I do not need to hear when I am already in a bad and agitated mood? The one man here at That-Place-That-Shall-Not-Be-Blogged-About who annoys me and makes my stomach turn the most, strolling through the hall singing "Ifff you want my body, aaand you think I’m sexy..." Ew. No, sir, I do not want your body, nor do I in any way find you sexy. OK, I am cranky. I apologize. Moving on.)

In other news, I saw Eagle vs. Shark last night, which will not be in wide (or, I guess, limited) release until June, according to Rotten Tomatoes, but which was screened here as part of the film festival this week and which I am certain will be widely talked about and near-universally adored when its release date arrives. I say near-universally because I didn't particularly love it myself. It was OK; I liked some of the characters, and there were several amusing parts throughout the film, but overall I didn't laugh nearly as uproariously as the people around me did. Those people also probably loved Napoleon Dynamite, however (the film to which this one draws some very immediate and obvious comparisons), and I did not. Don't get me wrong. I am all about rooting for the underdog, and I love me a quirky nerd hero. In my mind, though, the nerd must be subtly charming and self-deprecating, not an unjustifiably arrogant idiot who's rude and cruel to the few people who inexplicably want to spend time with him. It's entirely possible I'm taking things too seriously, however. After all, I'm also the girl who can't stand hidden camera practical joke shows or slapstick physical comedy because it makes me nervous. Perhaps I need to lighten up. Or perhaps it's entirely OK that this style's just not for me. Anyway, Eagle vs. Shark. You may love it. (Most of my fellow theater patrons last night seemed to.) I did not. Let me know in June, I guess.

Tonight I am off to see Warchild, and later in the week I am heading to Once, because apparently the Film Festival is my excuse to make up for the fact that I saw only two movies on the big screen between August and December of last year, and now I'm getting them in all at once. I may be spending so much time in dark, smelly rooms this week that I become some sort of mole-person in the process. For the benefit of my already sad dating life, let's hope that’s not the case.