T-shirt is soaking. Even more remarkably, so are jeans and sweatshirt worn for two miles walked in this morning’s 83-degree heat index. No, not trying to move down a weight class; covered up for modesty during stroll through more cough “urban” part of New Haven…
…but in fact attracted MORE attention–seriously–for being so inappropriately bundled up than would have for regular skanky attire.
Source: https://twitter.com/#!/axelrachelbank — see 3 Sept 10
I just ate a small piece of soap that I found on my arm because I thought it was cheese.
So I’m in this coffee shop — WHOA! That is huge — and they have on the tip jar little index cards with fun facts on them, which seems to me like a non-asshole way to call your attention to the presence of the tip jar, and while I was waiting for the lady to ring up my latte and trifecta of micro-muffins, I was reading the cards, and one of them said something about how there is a word in the English language that has only one vowel but that one vowel appears six times and that word is INDIVISIBILITY, and I was looking at this and thinking “what about ‘Y’?” because I mean I know “Y” is the sometimes-vowel but in the case of “indivisibility,” it’s serving as a vowel because the word is pronounced “in-dih-viz-ih-bill-it-EE,” not “in-dih-viz-ih-bill-it-YHHH,” which would be how things would go if “Y” were acting as a consonant, that is to say, anything but a vowel, and I thought about pointing this out to the lady and then I realized that this is the kind of thing that makes them do something terrible to your latte, like make it with regular milk instead of soy, and so I’m keeping it to myself.
I’m presently hanging out at the Yale School of Management, of which I am not a student but where I’ve come to do some of my homework because I
a) am in New Haven and need a place to get my homework on and,
b) frankly, cannot abide one more interaction in which I step up to the counter, say to some hipster barista, “hi! How are you?” and have them look back at me, doing and saying nothing until I laugh uncomfortably and ask them what kind of soymilk they use and may I have a latte and charge it, please, and,
c) franklier, I am thoroughly, profoundly sick of homeworking my own ass all over the Yale School of Medicine.
I’m now in this study room that’s lined with little individual computer station/carrell thingies, and it’s very quiet and – fittingly – very businesslike and there is NO EATING OR DRINKING (saith the sign by the door, which I have no plans to mess with), and I am trying hard to not type too loudly or look like I associate too frequently with hipster baristas (no matter what my side of the interaction may be like), lest I attract the unfavorable attentions of the four very businesslike dudes* who are also camped out in here.
Now, though, I’m worried that maybe I have already done that, in case there was some memo about which study rooms are for boys only that was circulated widely but that I, being of the non-student variety, never got.
Also, it’s very warm in here, too much so, so I’ve taken off my sneaks, and my bare toes just discovered under my adopted desk an abandoned but quite plump raisin, and now I’m wondering if this is maybe some leftover evidence of whatever gruesome incident made them implement the policy on that sign. I’m also wondering if this means I can eat my yogurt.
*Seriously. How else would you describe madras shorts, a North Face bookbag, and a very, very serious engrossment in spreadsheets?
~APPETITE SPOILER ALERT~
Now then. Riddle me this, please, even though it’s not really a riddle: does “rhinoplasty” refer to all kinds of plastic nose surgeries*, or only the ones that involve the septum and/or bone structure specifically and with the specific intent to make the patient look less ethnic?
Here’s why: I got my nose pierced a few months ago, and even though its one slightly barbed edge means that my nightly and morningly face-washing sessions frequently devolve into being-prostrate-on-the-floor, gasping-and/or-cursing-with-nosestud-partially-extracted-and-washcloth-partially-pinned-to-face sessions, I think I like it. I mean, my nose sparkles now. Well, the left side, anyway, which is good, since all the left side had going for it previously was that broken capillary that Ned said is not as unnoticeable as I think it is.
Anyway. I anticipate that I will not always be as hyped about having a sparkly nose as I am now, and when that time comes, I anticipate following through on extracting the thing fully and permanently, and THEN I’m going to have a[n extra] hole in my nose. I anticipate seeing this as problematic not only on an aesthetic level but also because I am a kid who frequently has a runny nose (although it’s been getting better since I’ve agreed to acknowledge that I have allergies at least one day out of every year), and that is more than enough to contend with without having to worry about having a leak on the port side. The bearing all this has on what it’s called, of course, is that I would like to know with some confidence what to look for on potential future health insurance coverage overviews.
*This is actually too much for me to even try thinking about.
As a couple of you* have observed, I’ve kind of quit blogging, almost for an entire year now. In fact I renewed my lease on this domain last month, i.e. I was always planning to return, but you couldn’t have known that, unless you happen to work in the processing department of a certain Internet domain registrar and web hosting company, in which case I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to keep what you see confidential.
I think part of the problem is that I got a boyfriend (eeeeeEEEEEEE!!!), which has apparently hindered my acting upon this blabbing-on-the-internet impulse. Not so much because he keeps me so very busy–he’s actually quite low-maintenance, other than liking candy a little too much–but because now I have a captive audience.
Last night, a couple of people I know–”friends,” you might even call them–came up to suburbia from the city to see me read,** and then one of them emailed to say that she liked the thing I read and, having sought further reading on this here web log, particularly liked one particular vignette of idiocy.
This individual is someone whom I’ve been hoping for awhile to get to be real friends with in that way that happens sometimes, where the hope is manifested less cooly than you realize later you wanted it to be, like when you’re hanging out in group and she mentions she’s cold and so you hurry and go behind a pole so you can get your pants off really quick and then go back to the group and be all, “hey, oh, do you want some pants? I mean, I heard you were cold or whatever, and I just…had some in my bag,” so now I’m blogging again. We’ll see how it goes.
*Although not so many as to give me any kind of delusions of grandiosity or other good-iosities, promise.
**Should this be hear me read? Either way, I feel like this near-institutionalized phraseology should really be re-thought, and then maybe phased out, because it really makes it sound like they weren’t sure I could and wanted to check.
As I’ve mentioned before, I am going to be a bridesmaid in a wedding later this summer (dupioni! pomegranate!) and I just received the formal invitation to said wedding.
When I opened the envelope, the invitation itself was all nicely bound up, like this:
What I really want and I guess also kind of need to know is if this sparkling binding thing is my special bridesmaid gift or if everybody got one.
For the last couple of days, I’ve experienced some pain in the ball of my left foot, a very specific pain of the foreign body sort. So earlier today, I went at the offending spot with my very best micro-surgical layskills and – I am proud to say – soon unearthed* a small piece of glass.
Happy as I was to have it out of my foot, though, I’m a little bit less happy that I now kind of feel like it’s in my mouth.
Yesterday, I was hanging out in my boyfriend’s house, alone, with the doors locked (New Haven is tough, especially at late afternoon on a Monday in June), with his car in the driveway and its keys in my purse, just puttering around and takin’ care of business until it was time for me to go pick him up from work, when I got my hand stuck in his toilet.
The how of this is unimportant; for the exceptionally curious, however, I will disclose that it may have had something to do with me having accidentally* flushed an important piece of the toilet paper roll holder.
Eventually, I was able to get said hand unstuck (the particulars of which process are also unimportant), and when I told said boyfriend, he laughed at me and reminded me of the time he left me alone and I started a fire in his microwave, and now I am thinking that behavior like mine is why people get babysitters.
*If anyone is wondering, I didn’t do it on purpose.