Recently in Quotidian Category

I wrote on twitter about being shy. Here's a bit of expounding:

Before yesterday I wouldn't have added you as a contact unless I knew you personally or overcame the supreme sense of hesitation after seeing that you added me and thought why on earth would this person do that? When I was actively doing Illustration Friday I loved the comments, but it was so hard for me to leave one on somebody else's site. I've always been the girl who sits at the side of the pool splashing her feet while you were out there playing marco polo or whatever. I hate making the first move and for that matter so does JM--it's a wonder we'll celebrate our tenth anniversary soon.

Anyway, yesterday I had a beer and threw caution to the wind. I started adding people left and right to my twitter and flickr accounts. I even left a message or two. Maybe only one, not two. Am I too weird? It's taken a while, but I think I'm finally getting the gist of this internet life-thing. Toes in, next the whole foot.

Last night, I stayed up until 3 a.m. whacking away at an essay on Antony and Cleopatra, and woke up not enough hours later with a notion of how I could rip it apart and restructure it. My brain then crossed its little symbolic arms, snooted its little symbolic nose up to the sky, and refused to do anything until I bent to its will.

Stupid brain. Why can't you shut up and leave me be?

In any event, the paper is done now. I have no business writing here when there's so much else to write before the semester is out, but I promised myself I would bang out a few words, just enough to reassure you I'm alive.*

I'm intensely sleep-deprived: I'm seeing sparkles of color, flashes of light, and dark slithering tails of what must be large scaly creatures lurking just out of the corners of my vision. It's Jacob's Ladder around here, my friends, and the infusion of caffeine I gave myself this afternoon guarantees I'll be awake to make the most of it all night long.

The Fella has been my stalwart through the havoc of this week. He surprised me Saturday night by arriving home from work with a pizza and a Red Velvet cake ("because I'm so proud of you") just around the time I blearily looked up from the keyboard and started wondering what I could throw together for dinner.

Yesterday afternoon, I started with "I was going to make ---"

He cut in, "No, no, you're not making dinner. I'll get something, anything! What would you like?"

"Oh, uh... really I can easily make ---"

"You. Are. NOT. Making. Dinner. What would you like?" Taking in my utterly blank look, he (bless him) got up, put on his coat, and said, "I'll be back with something."

Tonight, he made spicy-hot quesadillas heaping with vegetables, because I've been talking about Tex-Mex. And he bought ice cream.

Yes. Yes, I am the luckiest. Thank you, Dr. Beardface.

*Tonight, I heard a term for this, a term I love so much I promptly stole it. The phrase is "waving, not drowning."

age 14: The high school assigned each new student a locker and a lock, sternly admonishing us to record the combination somewhere safe to avoid the cost and inconvenience that would come if the maintenance staff needed to lop off the original lock and replace it. Confident that my enormous brain could hold a 3-digit combo, I threw away the scrap with the number on it... and promptly forgot the combination. I wasted weeks and weeks muddling along in classes without most of my books and notebooks, hoping to remember the combo before everything was gassed beyond repair by the tuna sandwich also contained therein.

age 17: I struggled in vain against the Krazy Glue with which I had inadvertently (well, duh) bonded my hand to a metal banister in the now-empty rehearsal room, counting the minutes as they ticked away, making me later and later for homeroom.

age 23: Sitting at the counter of my favorite proto-hipster diner, I was chatting away with Terry, one of the servers there. Apropos of nothing, Terry waved vaguely and chirped, "Hey, Elsa, you know Matt, right?" I responded not "Matt, the graphic artist?" or "Matt, Chuck's friend?" nor even "Gosh, I know a bunch of Matts. Which one?" No. I pealed out, "Matt? Matt with the basketball head? Sure, I know Matt. Why?"

Terry blinked slowly, his face otherwise unchanging. I slowly realized his vague wave was a gesture of reintroduction, just as he announced in measured tones, "Because he's standing right behind you."

How I failed to see the shadow cast by his big enormous round head, I've never understood.

age 25: I celebrated the bright warm spring day by wearing a (brand-new!) light and gauzy skirt and sweater in soft pastels. My lunch break came along. Eager to enjoy the air and sun, I quickly hit the washroom, then bustled outside. I spent the next thirty minutes walking around the center of town. Just as I exited work, a woman walked up to me, eyes on my skirt, hesitated, then said, "Pretty skirt." I beamed my thanks.

At the corner, a woman walked up to me, paused, stammered, and finally said, "Pretty skirt!"

In the town square...

In line at the coffee shop...

As I walked down Congress St....

My lunch break drew to a close. Just as I reached the door to my place of work, a woman stepped up to me. I smiled at her, readying myself for the compliment. "Um," she said, then dropped her voice to a hiss. "Your skirt is tucked up into your waistband." I reached around to discover that I'd been walking around for 30 minutes with my flanks and one buttock exposed to the fresh spring air.

age 27: On a fine summer day, I propped open the door to the posh boutique where I worked. In the process, I somehow slipped off the doorsill, tumbled onto the sidewalk, and found myself sprawled on the curb, limbs in the street, my fine linen frock tossed up over my head baring my panty-clad bum to the denizens of my small town. I stood up, smoothed down my skirts and frills, waved reassuringly to the small crowd that had assembled (including a car that screeched to a halt a few feet from me, to help or to gawk), and went back to work.

age 38: Donning the fuzzy fuchsia slipper-socks sent (along with an adorable handmade nightie) by my sister, I announced, "These things are slippery. They'll kill me." That might sound like hyperbole, but The Fella knows me well enough to hear the truth when it's spoken: he urged me not to wear them, even for a moment. I scoffed, "Hmmph, I think I can survive one night." Three minutes later, he heard a series of ominous thumps and slamming sounds, then me meekly calling out, "I'm okay!"

This barely skims the surface of embarrassments. Half-expect this to become a series. Category, even.

Some things I never tire of:
- the smell of orange peel.
- fresh bread.
- rosemary. I love the flavor, the scent, and the look of it: in soap, in essential oils, in a frittata, with pan-fried potatoes, photgraphed against the light, unfurling itself in a terracotta pot, crushed between my fingers.
- the kitty weaving her way between my ankles when I show up for catsitting duty. No, not even when she trips me.
- the various family kids, with their various (sometimes, but not always age-specific) fancies and interests.

Things I still miss:
- late-night taco stands.
- the anonymity of the subway.
- my father's too-thin hand patting mine.
- tromping the thirty steps to Elli's house so we could celebrate or commiserate daily. It's been over 20 years since we were childhood neighbors, and I still miss that ease.

Things I have yet to accept, and still resent with varying degresses of intensity:
- the end-of winter slushy slog.
- car alarms.
- mold.
- people who still leave their cellphones on in the theater, the movies, and in exams.

shoe business. After giving to charity perhaps 30 pairs of shoes*, I still have perhaps 15 pairs left. How many do I wear? Two: a pair of leather sandals in the summer (and around the house year-round), and a pair of tall boots in cold weather. In my defense, that's partly due to an injury sustained in an accident early this year: I cannot wear heels above an inch these days.
*These were crazy rich-lady shoes, too, expensive and fragile and stylish and about 20 years out of date. There's a story there for another time.

junking junk mail. When I receive junk mail with a prepaid return envelope, I circle my address on the return form and write in big block letters PLEASE REMOVE MY NAME AND ADDRESS FROM YOUR MAILING LIST. THANK YOU!, then carefully fold the entire mailing, including the original envelope, jam it into the prepaid envelope, and mail it off. I don't know if it works, but it's quite satisfying.

click. When I ask if you mind having the overhead light off (and I will ask, since I dislike the overhead light) or, more rarely, when I ask if you mind the overhead light on (which means I'm beading with teeny tiny beads or sewing or trying to find my black shirt among a pile of black laundry), I ask by saying "Click?" as I reach toward the light pull.

blocked rage. If you leave your grocery cart blocking the center of the aisle, if you pull your car into the crosswalk while waiting for the light to change, if you jump onto the bus the moment the doors open without waiting for standing passengers to disembark, if you enter the elevator and stand blocking the doors, if you and your gaggle of friends choose the spot in front of the escalator/ the library doorway/ the video drop/ the classroom door to stand around with your dogs and your strollers and your lattes while you catch up, you fill my field of vision with a pulpy red haze of rage. Also, if you have more than two items over the limit in the express lane, I loathe you, scofflaw.

queue. On the other hand, if I'm in line at the library with a lot of books or at the market with a number of items, and you're standing behind me with just one or two (or you're behind me with a mess of things but also with a child who'se noticeably melting down), I'll wave you ahead almost every time. If you then gum up the works by not having your library card or whatever, well, see above.

I am participating in NaBloPoMo.

When the occasion arises to watch TV at my brother's place, I think I'll make the popcorn while he sets up.

My ex had a similarly baroque set-up, and he fussed and kvetched over me while I learned the necessary sequences to initiate TV-watching and program taping. I became pretty well accustomed to it, able to walk into the room, click a mere six or seven buttons, and settle down to watch a show.

Then came the evil day: he left one of the many remotes on the couch, and in his absence, I sat on it. If my bum knew what buttons it pressed (and in what sequence) to produce that daunting blue screen, it wasn't telling. When he came home to discover my rash act (She dared to sit!) had prevented me from taping that night's re-run of Babylon 5*, the house rang with pointed disappointment and condescension.

Did I mention: ex?

*I am so not making this up.

I am participating in NaBloPoMo.

Over the past year or so, D and I accidentally developed a favorite sport that could readily go by the name Stump The Sweetheart. The game can start anytime, any place, when one partner lobs the first pitch: "I love you" followed by a nonsense nickname. The second player answers with "I love you" followed by an unrelated nonsense nickname.

The volleys continue until a player bursts out laughing, falters, or delivers an inaudible. "I love you, [mumblety-peg]" would be a losing stroke. Oddly enough, "I love you, Mumblety-Peg!" would not.

The faltering, when one of us is simply unable to concoct a nonsense endearment, occurs with surprising regularity. It's harder than you'd think to keep tossing out absurd cooing endearments without pause. You try it sometime. "I love you, Rosencrantz," suits the game down to the ground, but a return of "I love you, Guildenstern," gets the buzzer.

A sufficiently hilarious salvo from the instigator gets the (significant) other cracking up, resulting in an ace: the schmoopie equivalent of a hole in one. "I love you, Fry and Laurie" was a recent inexplicable example.

Some contenders for the No-You're-The-Schmoopie doorprize around these parts:

I love you, Bruce Lee
I love you, perfessor
I love you, cuttlefish
I love you, Dr. Beardface
I love you, guv'ner
I love you, rambling rose
I love you, Tipsy McDrunkerton
I love you, sans serif
I love you, Iron Chef
I love you, Harper Lee
I love you, Señor Biggles
I love you, moon pie
I love you, wifi
I love you, bagel face
I love you, Mister Bingley
I love you, Spiderpig
I love you, Chief Shoot 'em Up

Honorable mention goes to "I love you, monkey," a phrase disallowed in the game, as it's the standard endearment chez nous.

This past week has seen us assisting lost Texans on their way through Switzerland. Wednesday we helped a couple from Corpus Christi find the back way to Bülach from Baden, and yesterday we helped a Buddhist monk find her hotel in Zurich.

As we were walking back to our car from a visit to Starbucks a little woman draped in long, light gray robes from head to toe, asked us if we spoke English, showing us a piece of paper with the name of a hotel and a phone number. We told her yes, but didn’t recognize the hotel name, so rang them up and soon discovered she had gone in the opposite direction of her intended destination. She accepted our offer of a ride, then told me I spoke English so well and asked where was I from, to which I replied, Houston Texas. She chirped up, “Me too!” She was in town on a meditation retreat and wanted to spend the last few days looking around Zurich. Once in the car she removed her head covering and I saw her shiny, shaved pate. It was then I put the meditation/robes/Buddhist monk picture together. We dropped her at the hotel after a short ride over the bridge she was originally meant to cross and said goodbye.

I was so enchanted with our our encounter and being able to help this woman, and kept wondering why this would make me so profoundly happy and not one of the thousand other instances in my day. Was it because of my favorite joke: “What did the Buddhist monk say to the hot dog vendor? Make me one with everything.” If I were helping lost Buddhist monks all day, would it feel so special? Does everything have to mean something? I hate my writing, why does it feel so awkward?

I had my doctor’s appointment today and although the gene results weren’t back, the MRI showed no more signs of the pituitary tumor I was diagnosed with back in ‘88! Woo woo! I’m afraid to admit it’s given me another sliver of hope that I don’t have the gene defect and am only dealing with a mild case of hyperparathyroidism. I hate admitting that I have hope. It’s like I’m jinxing myself, and this is the part of the movie that you can all clearly see that I have it, but I’m blinded by wishful thinking and froo-froo feelings of serendipity caused by helping a Buddhist monk find her way, as well as a couple from Corpus Christi (Body of Christ), Texas. I mean if that isn’t a sign, what is!?! A girl can leave the religion, but sometimes the religious thinking can’t leave the girl.

In other news, I just sent an e-mail about fonts to my mother starting with the word, “alas”. I am geek personified and it's amazing I can even put words together to form a semi-cohesive thought.

I have been consumed by many projects, events, and on-going dramas since August. I find that when I’m away from my computer I’ll mentally compose a blog entry that seems happily acceptable, but upon sitting in front the screen it just isn’t worth recalling. Or rather I’m just too lazy to think back and then press all those keys. Dear.

Highlights of the past 2 and a half months:

My mother and step-mother both visited us and cheese was had by all!
I ordered a new compact camera that will arrive by the end of October. So pretty.
Both JM and I had birthdays celebrated with delicious cake.

Low-lights of the past 2 and a half months:

JM’s uncle died on the day in between our birthdays.
His mother was told of her imminent joblessness.
We learned of a genetic mutation shared by several of my family members and are awaiting my own test results.
I have hyperparathyroidism, possibly as a result from this defective gene. We’re awaiting more tests to decide what to do.
Switzerland started importing Dr. Pepper. Now I have to do another intervention on myself and go through dreaded caffeine withdrawal headaches.

Future highlights:

A Leica!
Travels! Details to be announced later.
Caffeine free again and looser jeans!
The return of falling asleep within half an hour of actually shutting my eyes and attempting it!
Heck, a new haircut!
Nanowrimo! Oh no, not again.
Snow! Which means Return of Snow Corpse.
Much rejoicing. Yay.

Wow, I’ve just saved myself a few month’s worth of writing again. This blogging stuff is easy. Natch.

Yesterday in German class we played a word game (à la dominoes) using separable verbs. The above photo was one of my contributions.

I hope my neighbors don't speak English because my balcony door is wide open and I just uttered an obscene word reserved for those special, private moments between one and the thing one just tripped over.

Other special moments in from this last week:

...Walking around the Dallas airport with a margarita in a Starbucks coffee cup.

...Making my own version of Homemade Vanilla ice cream with skim milk, vanilla sugar and regular sugar. I have to refrain from jumping up to stir it every five minutes so it has a chance to freeze before I go to bed.

...Telling JM that the sentence he heard about a man riding on his ass did not refer to the man's posterior, but rather an animal.

...Butchering the German language every time I open my mouth this week, no, make that the last seven years. In fact, why am I still writing? I should be studying.