It's official

I'm regressing back to those school days, school days, happy golden rule days.
First, the case of the evil chin zit. Now, pink eye.

I feel like the world's most disgusting creature, one gimpy, crusty eye cursing the bright sun, the cold air, and its own reflection. I feel infected, and really, well, I am. Ick.

I never had pink eye as a child, and never really saw it in action either because as soon as one kid in class came down with it, he or she would be sent home stat. I can certainly see why! I don't feel sick, but you can tell that this sucker is majorly virulent.

I wore sunglasses from the front door of my apartment all the way to my desk at work today. The last thing I wanted was for fellow straphangers to stare at my one puffy monstrosity, the crowd parting like the Red Sea before Moses as I walk through the car to find a seat. Children screaming, women crying, men throwing themselves in front of their families - "Look away, kids! She-Beast, take me instead! They've got so much to live for."

Pete assures me that he's had pink eye, and it goes away in a few days. Keep your fingers crossed for me, and remember to wash your hands!

This is a red-letter post

It is the first time I am posting from my brand spanking new Powerbook. Please direct all abject worship this-a way.

It is the first time I am posting while ganking someone else's wifi. Thanks, whoever you are! You're the best.

It is the first time I am posting from the couch.

It is the first time I am posting from the couch while watching Luis kick ass at Final Fantasy VII. Cloud so sexy. Sephiroth also so sexy, and so evil. Neither so sexy as Squall, whose game, thank god, we play next. I think it's all about the scar. :: pant pant pant ::

Hey, it is the first I am posting from the couch while watching Luis kick ass at Final Fantasy VII and simultaneously fantasizing about writing some wicked Squall/Cloud slash.

Right. Where was I?

Well, no matter. I am always one of the last people to hop on the gadget bandwagon, so it makes sense that only now would I truly understand the glory that is wifi and the supreme beauty that is the Powerbook. I've always been an Apple girl, but now I'm falling in love all over again.

Funny Things My Dad Says

In honor of my father's 64th
Happy Birthday, you big dork

"She's been rode hard and put away wet"
- about a woman who looks like she's busted/tired/been around the block

"I clicked on the link and now the damn computer's just sitting here playing with itself."
- adventures in dial-up

"Hit the bricks, bitch."
- said to a nun

"Shut yer pie hole."

"Junior was busy running off at the mouth."
- the way he described Luis after their first meeting

"Uhhhh, booger."
- the first thing he came up with when asked to pick a password

"Maaaa, I want the Krispy Kreeeeeme!"
- screamed at my mother in the Cartman voice in the middle of Walmart

"You smell what?"
- his response to anything you say to him - going deaf, he never hears you the first time around

"All the river. Mercy buckets."
- making fun of me and mom speaking French

"He's just practice."
- said about every boyfriend I've ever had, except for Luis. I guess it's game time now, baby!

"He's a little light in his loafers."
- describing my first real crush, who really did turn out to be gay

"Heaving your burritos"
- euphemism for throwing up

Doing the iPod Shuffle

How do you use your mp3 player? Are you the sort of person who listens by album, almost like a digital CD player? How about the guy who makes playlists for all occassions? (Luis, I'm looking at you, Mr. "Chill.") Could you even be like me, the person who always keeps their music on shuffle by song?

If so, then you probably spend most of your time skipping ahead to the next track like I do, since for some reason, the iPod consistently picks songs from the same artist in close succession, or worse yet, gives me all opera when what I really want is some fucking System of a Down. Sugaaahhh!

As an experiment, I decided to get out my crack pipe (oh shit - sorry - iPod) and write down the first ten songs it came up with on shuffle. Ladies and gents, drumroll please:

"Liberi Fatali" (Opening Theme), Final Fantasy VIII
"High and Dry," Radiohead
"There's a Doctor," The Who
"Rock N Roll," Peaches
"Somewhat Damaged," Nine Inch Nails
"Goodbye," Kevin Shields (Lost in Translation)
"Paranoid Android," Radiohead
"O Mimi tu Piu non Torni," La Bohème
"Ikebana," Kevin Shields (Lost in Translation)
"Rushing," Moby

Hrm. I'm pleasantly surprised by this for a few reasons.

(1) It is a pretty accurate illustration of my musical taste.

(2) It illustrates the precise problem I have with the shuffle feature: out of ten songs, two are Radiohead and two are Kevin Shields. I almost always skip past Kevin Shields, only listening to the Lost in Translation soundtrack when I'm in a severe funk.

(3) I'm really, really glad it didn't churn out five Dashboard Confessional tracks in a row like it did on the way to work this morning. There's only so much breaking of hearts and rending of garments that one girl can take!

Tjuzing

Do you ever find yourself in front of your closet, late for work, frantically trying on everything you own? Nothing fits right, the shirt that goes with these pants is dirty, you forgot to sew that button on, this skirt would really look better with those shoes you can't afford...how can you have a closet full of clothes, but nothing to wear?

This is how I feel about our apartment.

Let me clarify, lest Luis take offense: this is how I feel about every place I have ever lived, including my childhood bedroom. All of the components are there - I just haven't hit upon the exact arrangement of light, color, and style that will finally make me sit down and shut up, satisfied with my efforts. Instead, I tweak, I reorganize, I bitch, I fantasize about Benjamin Moore.

Our place looks fine. I know this. Hell, it even looks fucking fantastic by some standards. The problem is, it doesn't look as good as my imagination allows it to look, barring the limitations of time, budget, room size, and feisty cats.*

Another large component is the necessary compromise involved in living together. For example, Luis is emphatic about not painting the walls, so we don't paint the walls, much as I would love to slap something bright and fun up. I was emphatic about buying a new duvet cover after the Fosse/Vaseline incident (don't ask), so we bought a new duvet cover, much as Luis' life probably wasn't grossly impacted by the grease stain. Compromise is good, and probably keeps some of my more insane fantasties in check. What if I covered one wall of the living room in suspended chains and added some uplighting for extra drama? Naah, Luis would never go for it. See what I mean? I actually considered this uplighting/metal thing with ball chain, but I digress...

I wonder if I will ever be able to look at my living space and be 100% satisfied, be it our current apartment in Gramercy or any future place we may call home. Maybe I missed my calling - I should have become an interior designer so I could act out my design fantasies on someone else's dime. With someone else's space, I could put a restriction on myself, know when to tjuzs and when to put down the paintbrush and step away from the découpage.

* This semi-lucid rambling was inspired by a contest going on at Apartment Therapy for the most beautiful bedroom. I would love to be able to enter ours and win, but I fear the criticism from the public judging poll. In a way, it's sort of like putting your picture up on HOT or NOT: if you have to ask, you're probably not.

Fame

Listen up world, for truly, I have made it. Lo, I made a contribution to Gawker Stalker, and it was published. Scroll all the way for the now famous (in certain circles) Matt Dillon at the Magician encounter.

Shameless Overachieving

Do you remember when the Simpsons first came out and dinosaurs roamed the earth? Back then, when my brothers and my parents were still on speaking terms, my oldest brother decreed that we were just like the Simpsons. In fact, he still refers to my dad as Homer from time to time - an uncanny likeness if you ask me.

For my birthday one year, Bla bought me one of those "Lisa Simpson - Overachiever" t-shirts. She was shown jumping rope, counting (1,001, 1,002...), and everybody thought this was just hysterical. At the time I was offended, but now I realize that being an overachiever is not necessarily a bad thing. For example, I finished my taxes on February 1st, 2005. E-filed. I think I'm probably within the first 100 in the state, nay, the country! This somewhat unremarkable achievement leaves me feeling warm and fuzzy inside.

I suppose this is due to the fact that we don't get graded on things as adults. In school, I was never satisfied until I got an A, paid my own bills, did the laundry, put up the spring musical, balanced my checkbook, you get the point. Never one to procrastinate, I could always count on my own ability to multitask and achieve. In the workplace, I multitask all the livelong day, but there isn't anything exciting to show for it: no GPA, no Employee of the Year award. Instead, achievement is measured in adult terms: salaries, bonuses, a muttered "good work" from a superior. While these tokens of achievement are certainly more valuable in a pragmatic sense, I can't help but wonder why they leave me so unfulfilled.