I Enjoy Depending on Others

It's amazing how fast one's (or my, not to generalize) ability to do things or solve problems oneself deteriorates when other people are around to do the doing/solving for you.

This phenomenon had been limited to my visits to family, where I become accustomed to eating healthy and gourmet meals to which my contributions are 1. setting the table, and 2. sitting on a spinny stool at the kitchen island drinking margaritas, so that I go through a readjustment period when I get back to my apartment of sullen and half-assed meal-planning and grocery shopping (i.e., buying three different varieties of turkey cold cuts and no bread, necessitating "chef's salad" lunches that involve a lot of chopping and remembering to pack or scavenging for a fork). Or, visiting my brother and his partner, being fed an excellent dinner, then dropped off at and picked up after a rock show, or having an awesomely intellectual Spring Break Miami at foreign films and art installations, none of which I had to find out about on my own and during which (the Spring Break, not the art installations) they insist on my taking the only bed. Or, in the case of my sister and brother-in-law, going camping, where "going camping" translates roughly into "pointing at various items in the garage while they're efficiently loading the car and asking, 'Do we need this?', then being bundled in outdoor gear and driven to the campsite, where I fiddle around with the box that food stays in and bears can't open while they (my sister and her husband, not the bears) set up the tent. Before you read further, I urge you to note from that last link that BearSaver.com is "Your first choice in quality Bear-Resistant Commercial Containers & Bear-Resistant Dumpsters." And whimsical capitalization, it would seem.

Back to the issue at hand, however: now, my simple problem-solving skills are declining to an alarming and possibly irrecoverable degree, for which I blame my fabulous friend Shamsi and my excellent boyfriend.

Shamsi and I travel together to a conference every year (you may recall that I contracted Legionnaires' disease or similar there in 2006), and at the most recent, she solved my problems so seamlessly that I almost didn't have time to moan about them before they were fixed. I whined about my shoes hurting and being too hungry and sleepy to walk back to the hotel and change them; she handed me some turkey jerky to gnaw on, then presented me with the choice of A. sitting on the conference patio, after which I would still be sleepy until the afternoon coffee break and my feet would still hurt, or B. taking a pleasant 10-minute walk that will take us to both a cafe and the hotel. She even anticipated my next complaint by suggesting I put my fancy shoes in the free conference bag for carrying. She also let me pretend her very cute purse was mine all week, because I perennially forget to shop for a moderately-sized, professional-looking bag to bring to conferences (but since then I've bought one).

My excellent boyfriend, in addition to making unflattering finger-puppets of people I dislike, showering me with toy otters and gummy candy, and proving a successful convert to both Rome and Veronica Mars, has conversations with me that go something like this:
Him: Can I get you anything?
Me: No, I'm fine.
Him: Are you sure? I'm getting up anyway. Do you want another beer?
Me: No, thanks.
Him: Did you get some stuff to eat?
Me: I had some of the snacks -- I'm waiting for the burgers to be ready.
Him: Do you want some water?
Me: Ooh, yes, actually!
But because of treatment like this, I once got my hands sticky after negotiating a breakfast buffet line and was ruefully preoccupied with it for a full ten minutes before noticing that spare napkins, which could be dipped in water and used to remove the syrup without even looking for the bathroom, were available slightly beyond and to the right of my plate. I only noticed the napkin dispenser was at the table when I mentioned the problem and he cast about briefly for a solution before pulling out a napkin and handing it to me.

It's questionable whether they do this because they're super-nice, caring people, or because it's super annoying to listen to me cursing the darkness. Either way, it's pretty awesome.

The Data is In

Did you know that it is acceptable to use "data" as either plural or singular?

As I understand it, as a singular, it functions as a collective noun, the same way you would say, "The herd is...." This is explicit at dictionary.com, and implicit at Oxford English Dictionary Online (which you may not be able to access without a subscription), where multiple usage examples treat "data" as singular.

This is highly gratifying, as I often encounter smarter-than-thou types who feel compelled to interrupt presentations or discussions by shouting corrections when someone uses "data" as singular. When you assume, you may make an ass out of you and me, but when you hypercorrect, you just make an ass out of you.

I am Breaking Up With Target

Dear Target,

We've had some good times -- remember the cute china I got from you a couple of years ago? And the mirror with the little birds painted on it that was awesome for my kitchen and I was so sad when I dropped and broke it (partly because reconstruction revealed that there was a piece of glass approximately one inch square lurking somewhere on my kitchen floor, but also because it looked so nice with my thrift-shop paintings of fruit) that I biked to the store (not you -- one that's closer) especially for superglue to repair it? And that time you had patio furniture at such a good price that I bought it right away and carried it home on the bus?

But the thing is, those were a long time ago now. Now, I can't even get the what I need from you; just today, I came looking for some simple things, and what happened?

What I Needed (and Why)
*Eucerin anti-redness night cream (allergic freak; pathological aversion to color in complexion)
*Dove eye cream (aging; prodigious eye-bags)
*Anti-allergy mattress pad, size full (allergic freak; thin spots in old mattress pad cause unseemly resemblance to linens in skid row boarding house)
*Clothes drying rack (global warming; also, landlord jacked up price on dryer)
*Microwave egg poacher (hankering for poached eggs; lack patience and motor skills to poach in pan of water first thing in the morning)
*Washcloths (old ones all mascara-stained)
*Silver polishing cloth (heartbreak of tarnish)
*Tapers (impulse-bought orange and yellow glass candlesticks last week)

What I Found
*Anti-allergy mattress pad in all sizes except full
*Twee, Michael Graves-designed clothes drying rack that holds no more clothing than my current system (laying out items on old beach towel behind the couch), which you would not part with for less than $20; weighty metal variation on collapsible wood-dowel drying rack, also $20
*Empty space on shelf teasingly bearing tag, "Micro Double Cavity Egg Poacher $3.99"
*Washcloths (10 for $2.99), admittedly acceptable but left behind in snit

Some of this, I know now, was not your fault, Target -- Dove has apparently discontinued my eye cream (in a panic, I chose a Neutrogena substitute at CVS that contains AHAs, which the label tells me increase sun sensitivity: am thrilled at the prospect of sunburned/eventually malignant eyelids) and you surely had tapers -- but really, this has happened the last several times I've come to see you. You've changed.

You used to be all about fulfilling my list of random crap I needed without going to the grocery, drugstore, and mall, plus delighting me with random crap I didn't need priced just low enough that I didn't have to choose between a toss pillow and dinner. Now you're all about hypnotic, mod commercials and ill-fitting $40 dresses. But the thing is, if I wanted to spend $40 on a dress, I could get a well-fitting one off the sale rack at any given ladies' clothing store. I don't need you for that.

I've had it with you, Target. I guess I'll see you around, but don't call me anymore, OK?

I'm Not Giving You Any More Coconuts

So, my friend Cari came up with quite a brilliant metaphor or simile today about relating to difficult people, which I thought I would share with all of you:

These relationships are like the relationships of fictional native Polynesians with their volcanoes: You can offer all the pineapples and virgins you want, but it's still going to go off when it wants to. You can't say, "Dang, next time I won't burn so much taro," or "I really made the wrong call; I'd better bring an extra virgin next week." Similarly, when the volcano is dormant, you might be tempted to think, "Hey, those coconuts we threw in last week are really doing the trick -- we must be doing something right!" But really, it's just timing.

Cari is a genius. I totally need to start treating my volcanoes as natural phenomena, not mysterious supernatural entities. Although I do think they kind of like all the pineapples and burnt offerings. Even if they do wreaking havoc on the carpet.

OMG, Where did he get the Cane?

I just learned that my fantastic sister and brother-in-law are having a baby, which is excellent news because babies are super-fun, at least when they're in a good mood. I even received a scan of the sonogram, which I have enhanced using the magic of Photoshop so that you, dear reader, can get a better sense of what the baby looks like:


I mean, you have to admit that at this point the baby looks more like a peanut than anything else.

Also, a big thank you to my brother-in-law, who gave me the go ahead to post a picture of the inside of his wife's uterus on the internet, and to my sister, who may not realize yet that said picture has been published on the web.

Glam-arrrrrgh Magazine

I thought I looked pretty cute on Monday, until I got halfway to school and realized I had inadvertently dressed like a pirate.

Exhibit A: My outfit


Exhibit B: An outfit a pirate would wear

I Just Really Like Toast

So, two of the many fantastic things I got for Christmas are a digital camera and a Hello Kitty toaster, which together make possible the post you are reading right now: a photo-essay about my breakfast. The world is a better place.

The old toaster: Toastmaster? Sure, I used to think so.


The new toaster is clearly more attractive.


Plain bread is lame.


My God! The image of Hello Kitty has miraculously appeared during the toasting process! Come on, that's just awesome.


If Hello Kitty were a religious icon, my house would be loaded with the devout right now. Luckily, it's just full of me. Eating cute toast with eggs.


Coming soon: I Swear I Had Some Marmalade in Here: An Apartment Recovers From the Dry Toast Incident

You Win This Round, Roadrunner

I went to Albuquerque over the long weekend to see my lovely friends there, including but not limited to Cari and Shamsi, and to get one more day of snowboarding in before resigning myself to four months in the desert buried in books, a.k.a. the Spring semester. The trip was fantastic. I have no pictures to post, because the lady with the hard case for her camera was designated photographer, and she has been somewhat indisposed. I think she's fallen into a decline because I left.

The expectation was set high before I even got on the plane in Phoenix, because as I was waiting on line for security screening, I noticed a series of placards next to the carry-on baggage x-rays indicating you should not board with guns, knives, cans with flames coming out of them, or bombs.

Much to my delight, they were rendered approximately like so (I didn't take a picture, because I'm pretty sure there are few quicker routes to the little airport jail than using a camera near security installations):

Fortunately, I am neither Boris Badenov nor Wile E. Coyote, and so had no cartoon bombs in my luggage.

You Don't Get a Picture of the Costume

A conversation about ElfQuest this week led to a fit of nostalgia -- my college roommates and I loved these graphic novels our sophomore year, even each dressing as a character for Halloween -- which led to this quiz:


You are Nightfall; the strong one!

Coincidentally, this is also the ElfQuest character I dressed as.

Not coincidentally, I am a huge geek.

Law & Order: Drunk Tank

I had to call 911 last night for the first time in my life. At about midnight or 1, I was on the computer when someone tried to get into my front door, not just turning the knob and going, "Oops, it's locked," but shaking it and banging against it really hard. I had just about convinced myself that I had imagined it or it must have been someone having trouble with his lock at a neighboring apartment when I heard someone rattling the doors on our storage sheds in the alley.

I freaked out for a second, then went to check out the front door situation and found that it was my door the person was trying to open, because the door was being held closed by the deadbolt but not the doorknob latch, if that makes sense, so then I freaked out for a little bit longer and hid behind my desk and finally decided even though I couldn't hear anything at the moment to 1) creep into the kitchen for a knife (bizarrely rejecting the 10" chef's knife because it was dirty and choosing a 3" paring knife instead -- apparently, in my moral code, cutting intruders is OK, but cutting them with an oniony knife is just not done) and 2) call 911, because if you're freaked out enough to be hiding in your own house with a knife, you should probably get the police involved.

I was all prepared to be the best. emergency caller. EVER! and collected my thoughts before I called, but then totally puddled up as soon as the nice lady answered the emergency response line. I gave her all the information, and she asked a series of questions including, "Are you hearing the noises now?" and "Are you at home alone?" and, hilariously, "Are you expecting anyone?" which suggests that a not-insignificant number of people call 911 to report the attempted intrusion of, like, their roommates.

Then I hid with my knife some more, passing the time by gauging the likelihood of my being able to leap over the patio wall, should I have to escape out the back door (conclusion: likely to flub wall-vault and become trapped in patio like rat armed with paring knife; should instead attempt to flee through front door). Then I heard the police cruiser pull up and a minor scuffle outside, and one of Tempe's finest came to my door and told me that they had apprehended the guy, who was blind drunk and thought he was trying to get into his house several blocks away, but settled for passing out with his head in one of the water heater closets off the alley. I thanked the nice cop for coming out, and he said, "No problem -- you can call us anytime you need anything," which prompted the excellent mental image of my calling 911 for a magazine or quart of milk.

After the police left, I became strangely paranoid that the drunk would be angry with me for having him carted off to the drunk tank and turn up at my house again, so I could not sleep until I had closed the bedroom door (only a passing nod to added security, as it doesn't lock) and placed a hammer (not knife, for fear I would grab the blade in the middle of the night and find myself fighting off an attacker with hilt of knife held in badly injured hand) and both phones within easy reach of the bed. Needless to say, the drunk did not show up looking for revenge, so everything's fine now.

I was Really Looking Forward to Writing my Manifesto

So, we were reading Hegel in one of my classes last week, and I guess I didn't know that slogging through 200 pages of 19th-century German philosophy could somehow be made worse, but it can be: by slogging through 200 pages of the wrong book of 19th-century German philosophy. Yeah, the bookstore somehow managed to order Hegel's Introduction to the Lectures on the History of Philosophy instead of Introduction to the Philosophy of History. Which is awesome, because I love wasting my time. I would have read it just for fun anyway.

But actually, it was a little bit awesome, because the book we got was part from Hegel's own notes, and part reconstructed from his students' notes taken during his lectures. That being the case, I read it totally looking forward to the book's seemingly inevitable descent into:
-"thoughts are not the thing itself"?! WTF? -- check on this during office hours.
-OMG 'Geist' again can U explain I missed class Weds...?
-Dude I don't know what he's on abt 1/2 the time!!! Mid-term better be mult choice.
-I know right?!? Hey want to grab a beer tonite?
-Yeah awesome but how about Heckels, I jilted barmaid at Die Fledermaus can't deal w that scene now
-Buxom one? NICE.
-ha ha yeah but thought we were betrothed or something, might have to duel w her brother now
-Whoa bummer
[Drawings of clear boxes of various sizes (reproduced in Fig 1, below)]

Unfortunately, the German students were apparently a lot more attentive than I would have been in that class, because it was just a lot of droning about World-Spirit, and randomly capitalized nouns.

I can't say I didn't get anything out of it, though, because now I can finally put my finger on what makes me different from Marx: he reads Hegel and is inspired to craft an insightful and revolutionary social theory; I read Hegel and am inspired to blow off the last 50 pages and watch Project Runway instead.

I am Being Punished for my Horticultural Hubris

I thought I was starting to do pretty well taking care of houseplants -- I had five that were attractive and growing, needing new pots every once in awhile and stuff -- but ever since I moved last year they have been slowly dying. This sucks for several reasons, not least of which is how it's super depressing to be surrounded by dying lifeforms. And I feel terrible throwing out a plant just because it's dropping leaves and looks sickly, so I keep them around until they're just a few brown sticks. Sometimes I keep them around after that, because I'm a terrible housekeeper.

But also, two of my plants were my grandmother's, and my grandfather gave them to me to take care of after she died two years ago because he was worried that he would kill them. No pressure, right? Well, one of them was a Christmas cactus, and I knew it wasn't long for the world when I came home from school one day to find a branch amounting to about two thirds of the plant lying on my desk, no longer attached -- but I was able to root about five babies from the part that fell off, and distributed them to various people I know who can be trusted with plants, including my mom, who is so good with plants that my parents last year got about a half-bushel of peaches from a tree that sprouted from a seed in their yard. From a seed. That shit is like magic to me.

Anyway, I still have the second plant from my grandmother, one that my grandfather got when a florist dropped the ball on delivering an order for the memorial service (side note: they called to ask if he still wanted the arrangement, or if he'd prefer a live plant. Yes, please do send me a funeral arrangement to display in my home. That will really take the edge off the loss of my spouse of 60 years), and said, "Now, take good care of that one -- that's your grandmother's memorial plant." NO PRESSURE. Cut to today:
I am terrible granddaughter, unworthy of memorial plants.

Now, you might be thinking from the picture that it is not depressing because of the dying plant, but because my apartment is apparently a barracks. It isn't really -- there just happens to be a cinderblock wall here and there. But because my two super-low-light plants are doing OK, I decided that maybe the others are dying because I get no sun in my house except for one big window, and I moved the saddest plant over there, and I will open the blinds for it during the day. I had to make a klassy dining chair/cinderblock wall/dying plant decorating element because I don't have any occasional tables lying around. I think maybe it's perking up after just being there for today -- I'm almost positive only one leaf was up when I left this morning. I hope so.

Panic! At the Altar

Despite my friend Greg D's best efforts to start a rumor to the contrary, I actually have not dropped out of grad school to live in a remote cabin and write anti-academic screeds, although screed-writing is on my list of things to do more of. My time since coming back from the wedding has been spent as follows:

Week 1: Curse heat.
Week 2: Train new students; pretend not to be anti-social at department welcome functions.
Week 3: Wage successful campaign to take class in another department, which garners the longed-for prize of reading 300 pages and writing 10 within 48 hours.
Week 4: Catch plague or similar; recall fondly the days when standing or even sitting upright did not cause dizziness and colorful spots before eyes; enjoy subtly energizing effects of prescription-strength Sudafed, approximately 400% of maximum recommended over-the-counter dosage.

Which is all kind of a bummer, because I was introduced to a wonderful invention during the trip, and have not been able to tell my readership about it until now. Except that I have approximately one (1) reader, and I'm pretty sure I told her about it on the phone. Anyway.

The invention is the Bridal Emergency Kit, which induced much eye-rolling when my sister called at 10:30pm while I was trying to pack to ask me to make one and list all the items that go into it, my feeling being pretty much that I generally make it through a five-hour party--even days at a time--without Band-Aids, crackers, or a needle and thread, so what about a wedding requires that these things be available? Well, as it turns out, we used almost every damn thing we put in there. Here is what my dad (who ended up building the kit after I rebelled) put into it, and what we ended up using the items for:

Needle and thread (matching bridesmaids' and bride's dresses): the only thing we didn't use
Safety pins: to secure incorrectly altered rehearsal dress
Band-aids: to cover my open wounds resulting from several days of insensible shoes, also to tape notes to door
Pocket knife: to cut Band-Aids used to tape notes to door
Tampons: self-explanatory
Oyster crackers: to correct low-blood-sugar-related bridal-party snappishness
Flashlight: to check radiator fluid of our car, which overheated en route to wedding site
Tide stain-removal pen: red sauce incident
Mini-bottles of vodka (added as joke): to correct stress-related mother-of-the-bride meltdown

We also joked about adding a safety whistle and compass, and we could have totally used the whistle to keep the rehearsal on track. I am now fully endorsing this kit as an excellent bridal shower gift--but not at showers I'll be at too, because I have dibs.

Giving the People What They Want

As I post, I am at the airport, waiting to board a flight home to Colorado for my sister's wedding. Because I never get it together enough in advance to check in online, I am in the dreaded "C" class for Southwest Airlines' seating cattle call, and am eagerly anticipating my middle seat and having to shove both messenger bag and laptop under the seat in front of me. I can only hope that this will be as positive an experience as my last flight, during which I fell asleep, then woke up to find my shirt askew, part of my bra exposed, and the 50-year-old man next to me staring at it intently. You'll be relieved to hear that I had the forethought to avoid a repeat experience by wearing a prettier bra this time.

The Commute to Canada is Killing Me

Perhaps you've seen those interweb ads for Monster.com that have an alarm clock and read, "get more sleep -- work closer to [your location, which we creepily obtained from your computer]"?

Well, something must be wrong with their stalking software, because I just got one that urged me to "get more sleep -- work closer to United States".

Heeeeee.

We Don't Need no Water...

My family has been aflutter with planning my fantastic older sister's wedding, especially during the last few weeks, when she took an extended trip home to make crucial decisions (What color tablecloths? What color?!?) and stuff guest welcome bags in the manner of the political prisoner of a dictatorship fiercly dedicated to the cause of ribbon, tulle, and the color blue.

At one point, finding themselves with time to kill between appointments with the caterer and cake dude (and he really is a dude -- a classic mountain-town burnout who happens to be a genius with pastry), she and our parents decided to drive by the cabin her also-fantastic fiancé had reserved for the wedding night, and found ... a smoking ruin. The rental agency just hadn't bothered to notify the couple that the unit had burned to the ground and their reservation had been transferred to a different one.

Now, this was kind of a shock to my sister and our parents, and, as my sister the attorney possesses truly masterful angry-phone-call skills, I imagine it was also a shock to the unfortunate CSR at the rental agency who had to explain the situation, and yet I have been giggling about it ever since I found out.

Age-Inappropriate

(from threadbared.com)

Is it weird that I would be totally tempted to make one of these dresses for myself?

I'll Take the Stairs, Thanks

The facilities maintenance people on campus have a standard flier that they post when they will be doing construction work, filling in the appropriate location on the form to alert people with offices in that area that things are about to be extremely unpleasant.

Because I am easily entertained, I was delighted to come across such a sign posted outside the department office earlier today, reading:

"Attention: Occupants and visitors to stairwells and elevator cab ..."

Heeeee.
"What're you up to?" "Not much, just popping in to see the stairwell for lunch."
"Hey, where's your office these days?" "I'm in the elevator cab."

I'm not sure what they're doing to the stairs, or why they have the stairs and elevator torn up simultaneously, but presumably, this means that they are fixing the elevator so that the door opens not only to let you board the elevator, but also to let you out on the appropriate floor. I kid you not, getting stuck in an elevator is such a common occurrence in our buildings that my officemate always uses the bathroom and has a drink of water before taking the elevator, just in case.

Subject: Condolences

My primary boss's cat had to be put to sleep this week, which led to a surprisingly complex workplace etiquette dilemma: clearly, I didn't want to be all business-as-usual, but at the same time, she and I are not what you'd call confidantes, so I didn't want to be intrusive, all, "Hi! It's possible that you would prefer to mourn privately, but I will nonetheless bring up your recent loss in a professional setting! I heard your cat died! That really blows!". I thought a minimally intrusive sympathy card would probably be best, but that would take awhile to get to her (she's out of town), which would leave the business-as-usual e-mail I'd sent 30 minutes before hearing about the cat (but about two hours after the cat actually went) just hanging out there making me look like a callous asshole for several days. Emergency action was required, i.e.:

1. Frantic composition of sympathy e-mail; that the subject line was "Condolences" really tells you everything you need to know about how hilariously awkward and inadequate it was.

2. Hasty excursion in search of a reasonably sympathetic, yet professional card; no reflection on the fantastic Changing Hands Bookstore -- I think the range of available sympathy cards is just uniformly bad -- but it took me about 45 minutes to decide among some really deplorable choices:
a. Outside: Watercolor cat on cloud with halo and wings. Inside: Some kind of tear-jerking sentimental poem about loss. Sure, if my goal was to make her cry more.
b. Outside: Night sky with cat-shaped constellation. Inside: "Heaven is a little bit brighter now". Sweet dancing Christ.
c. Blank card with pen-and-ink drawings of frolicking cats. Relatively inoffensive, but will depiction of happy cats make her feel worse?
d. Blank card with black-and-white photo of sleeping cat. But does sleeping cat have unpleasant visual associations with dead cat?

... and so on. I ended up with a pretty good one with a simple non-cat design and a positive message about having a good life, but it was a tightrope ... a fucking tightrope.

Strange Things are Afoot at the Circle K

Dear Keanu Reeves,

Your newfound desire for a family and a stable life are very endearing, and I have had a soft spot for you ever since Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. As a result, it is with great regret that I inform you that, while I agree that beards are pretty sweet, if yours is still patchy when you are 41, you should accept that you will never achieve full coverage. Please consider a different facial hair conformation. Perhaps a moustache; that, at least, is looking pretty solid, and I understand from their sudden presence on random hipster dudes-about-town that they're totally happening right now.

Hearts & rainbows,
Me

P.S. The internet has failed to yield a link directly related to The State sketch "The Bearded Men of Space Station 11". I'm not angry with you, interweb -- just very, very disappointed.