back in the saddle

I bought a new shirt at the Bon lastnight. I’ve been wearing it an hour and a half and have deposited upon it one blob of toothpaste spittle and a mysterious black smear. Both on the left boob. HOW DOES SHE DO IT, FOLKS?! I was trying to look nice for an interview I’m conducting today. Maybe I’ll just hold my arm strategically. Or maybe I won’t give a rat’s hindquarters because SHE’S supposed to be impressing ME. But you know, best foot forward and all that.

MSH has been out of town so the last two nights my project (besides catching up on laundry and season 1 of the O.C.—more on that later) has been to paint the bedroom light fixture. Why, you say? Because the light fixture was, much like the bedroom walls before we painted them, dark reddish purple. It’s been dangling from the ceiling (had to get it off the ceiling in order to paint the ceiling) without its frosted dome now for two weeks. MSH blew his quarterly wad of home improvement energy painting the walls of the room, and I don’t blame him. My motivation sprang from wanting to have it done when he got home. I love a surprise. So I painted the light fixture two coats of primer and two coats of green. This morning, I went to reattach the fixture to the ceiling and—-to make a long story short it didn’t work and now there’s bits of insulation (perhaps) and random feculence (definitely) in my eyes. So---surprise, honey! Now please spend ten minutes cursing and shoving at this light fixture. Since he took it off the ceiling, maybe he knows some trick I don’t.

So, I’m watching season 1 of the O.C., and I have concerns. Like Anna’s green underwear showing through her white dress in one episode. Like Kirsten's horrible dye job. Like the fact that in contrast with his total freakout on Marissa about her drinking, Ryan’s reaction to Kirsten’s drinking second season is totally blasé. Like the fact that the trapped-in-the-poolhouse conceit of the New Year's episode (love the ending, though) is a total fart because--News Flash!--THERE'S A PHONE IN THE POOLHOUSE WHICH HAS BEEN UTILIZED IN PREVIOUS EPISODES!!! And the fact that Summer spends more time in a bra or a bikini top in the first four episodes than she does the whole second season. But I’ve got to say there are more heartwarming episodes in season 1—-I had missed several of these when they originally aired—-I LOVE the New Year’s episode. Can’t we just stay in the rosy glow of the final minute of the New Year’s episode forever? I watched one past that—-the Rooney concert/Oliver busted for trying to buy coke—-and I’m a bit dispirited. It’s because of this Oliver Trask character, Marissa’s buddy from therapy who turns out to be El Freako Manipulativo Numero Uno, complete with an imaginary girlfriend. (Only Marissa is blind to his schemes until he holds her hostage in the penthouse suite!) I can’t stand him. I had to fast-forward portions of lastnight’s episode (admittedly I’d seen this one the first time around.)

Item 1: His skin. He’s wearing 8 times as much pancake makeup as any other actor on the show, but you can still see mottled purply patches showing through. Now if this guy making it in the entertainment world with a skin condition, I am behind him in theory, but as an O.C. viewer, I’m accustomed to the flawless complexion of, say, Mischa Barton.

Item 2: His hair. It’s dyed black, so it looks unnatural and they comb the sides forward so he looks like he’s wearing some sort of weird wig—-he resembles Bob’s Big Boy but with spikes.

Item 3: (Delving deeper---but not too deep!) His face. Sometimes he looks like a ruthless pig (no offense to pigs) but when he looks cute, or rather when he’s TRYING to look cute, he looks like this guy I used to hang out with. In fact, his name and the character’s name are somewhat the same. And that makes me agitated. And his voice bothers me, but that's not worth an item.

Item 4: The usual—-the fact that he’s HIGHLY EVIL AND NAR-NAR, as well as manipulative and childish and, like every other evil character on “The O.C,” reveals his true nature to Ryan while playing nicey nice with Marissa, so Marissa thinks Ryan’s the bad guy for wanting to clean his clock and strand him in an irrigation ditch. I guess that’s the writers, not “Oliver.”

donut, driving, dream

The soon-to-be home of Top Pot Doughnuts (Wedgwood) has had erected upon its roof a gigantic metal donut. It's not a "Grand Opening" sign, but it's a very good sign.

Yesterday I had an obliging coworker follow me to the mechanic to drop off my car. There are nine lights on the way there, and it’s about a mile and a half. After the first light, right by our office, we didn’t have to stop the rest of the way. The lights were all green, or they turned green as we approached. We were back in 20 minutes. Weird!

I had another dream about my aunt lastnight. As always when I dream about her, she had recovered very, very well from the effects of brain cancer and several surgeries. The puffiness in her face was gone and she could smile with both sides of her mouth. She could walk unassisted and even swim. Her face was thin and she had blond streaks in her dark brown curly hair—longer than I’ve ever seen her with. As usual in these dreams, she talked about how hard she’d had to work to heal to this point. She and my mom and I were sitting in a huge bathtub, getting ready for a party. She and her family lived in a beautiful mansion in an old neighborhood (I think my subconscious was taking a cue from the Volunteer Park area of Capitol Hill.) I remember inlaid marble in a Mariner’s Compass design, big old trees lining the streets, a storm outside. Of course, the dream had many subplots and twists, but what remained palpable when I woke up was the intense joy and gratefulness seeing my aunt so healthy and free and independent. I took her face in my hands and kissed her cheeks. Then when I woke up, I realized, as usual, that it was just a dream. That always makes my heart sad. The joy of that image of my aunt, followed immediately by the wistful realization of its unreality, keeps pulsing into my mind at intervals.

Oh what a fabulous day!

Why this day rocks, in chronological order:

1. Read heartwarming news story about a dog whose barking saved a drowning toddler.
2. Have reinvigorated New Cash System with phat roll of cash.
3. Ate sushi for lunch AND raspberries.
4. Successfully removed raspberry stains from pants--completely--with steaming hot water.
5. Pants dried in just about an hour.
6. Received fabulous bouquet of roses, lilies, iris, etc. from fabulous husband.
7. Successfully input second automated payroll.
8. Fabulous coworker successfully transferred video of wedding onto VHS for viewing on anniversary weekend getaway. (In the process she ended up having to watch it seven times, and cried all seven times, isn't she sweet?!)
9. New flat panel monitor arrived at work for ME; desk feng shui completely transformed for the fabulouser.
10. Tested new walkie-talkies with coworker K, are fabulous. Have devised call-signs and location names for our respective offices. May be enough fun that I don't miss her. At first.
11. Fabulous anniversary getaway weekend to commence in one hour, ten minutes.

questions

Q: Should one put hand cream on one's chapped lips if lip balm is unavailable?
A: Only if one wants to be tasting a nasty mix of perfumy taste and chemical taste for the next half hour.

Q: Should one notify one's husband when one isn't going to be home until after 11:00 PM on a weeknight?
A: Yes, if one wants to prevent severe anxiety, sleeplessness, and thoughts of calling hospitals on the part of said husband.

Q: When will Top Pot Doughnuts open its Wedgwood location?
A: After "early 2005," after installation of very tall palm tree, but hopefully before hell freezes over!

feng shui

I have just been informed that my boss is buying me (and two other coworkers) flat panel monitors. Can we afford this? Doubtful. Am I pleased as punch? Yes indeed. My current monitor is at least two feet deep. There will be so much more space on my desk! Which I can pile with work I'm ignoring in favor of the internet!

today

I was going to get up at six and be at work by 7:00. Didn't happen. I stayed up until 2 AM and 1 AM over the weekend so even though I went to bed at 10:00 lastnight, I was very tired this morning. Of course, sleeping an extra hour and a half didn't reduce my tiredness by a spectacular amount!! But of course that reality doesn't cross my mind when I'm cuddled up in bed.

Anyway, I got out of bed at 7:20 and meditated. Not sure for how long. Then I fannied about doing...whatever. Then as Mike was leaving I was in the laundry room for some reason and when he reminded me about the contractor coming to give us a bid this evening it reminded me that I HAD A GUY COMING FOR AN INTERVIEW AT WORK AT 8 AM. Ah ha. So THAT was why I was planning to come in at 7:00--to prepare, to shove the mountain of crap off my desk, presenting impression of with-it, together HR manager--and now it's 7:49 AM by clock in basement. And I wasn't wearing pants. And I hadn't showered. So, in a complete and utter panic, I got it down to the bare essentials--birth control pill, deodorant, bra, clean shirt, pants, sandals--and I was in the car at 7:53 by clock in car. I got here at precisely 8:00, and the sprightly job candidate was already here, causing me great embarrassment, but I tried to keep my composure as I printed off my sheet of questions and started the interview. He seemed really interested in working here, so I must not have given a completely bad impression. But it was still a bad impression. I knew I KNEW I never should have scheduled the interview for 8 AM Monday morning but his schedule was pretty restrictive. And halfway through the interview I realized I was using my quiet submissive woman voice. I HATE that.

Then I was eating sushi while on the phone with our sales director, and accidentally scooped a quarter-teaspoon of wasabi into my mouth. I had to put down the phone, run to the sink, and rinse out my mouth in manner of high school freshman in chemistry class with dangerous substance in eye.

(part of the reason) why my sister is (still) super smart

I did not drink alcohol in high school, more from a lack of ambient peer pressure than a conscious decision. I turned 18 the day after my parents left me at college (small, liberal arts college) and celebrated with a cigar (Swisher Sweets) and a beer--a Miller Genuine Draft in the can, given to me out of a minifridge by my first college crush, Boyd,* a fallen Mormon and snowboarder 6 feet something with broad shoulders, brown hair falling into his eyes, and a mush-mouthy tendency to eat his words. Like me, he was a huge Black Crowes fan. I don't remember enjoying the taste of that first beer, but I liked the effect, and didn’t hesitate to drink my second beer less than a week later, one of two Hamm’s dropped to me and Big L, my second college crush, out a window of the Beta house (in violation of college and fraternity rush policies.)
From there, things progressed rapidly to Jaegermeister, a particularly disgusting kind of hard liquor that tastes like licorice. The drinking policy at my college was pretty liberal (kind of like the arts!) in that if you had ten people or fewer in a dorm room (everyone had to live in dorms their freshman and sophomore years) and you weren’t making too much noise, and you didn’t bring the alcohol outside the rooms, no one in authority would bother about what you were consuming. I don’t recall if there was a different policy regarding pot. The state liquor control board came to town the first semester of my sophomore year and swaggered and threatened and acted like they were putting the kibosh on all our alcohol-fueled fun, but it didn’t have much of an effect that I recall.

Usually when I drank, it was binge drinking. The official definition of binge drinking is five or more drinks in a session, but for a skinny (at least first semester!) 18-yr old woman, I think three or four drinks qualifies. I used to down four shots of Jaeger in rapid succession to get my buzz on. I later learned that this only worked as long as I’d just eaten a full meal. It wasn’t my only form of entertainment freshman year, but it constituted a large part of it. I got drunk many, many times throughout my college years, but I drank hardest and most often during my freshman year, when I was 18.

My sister started college at a large, prestigious university in the Midwest, and when she arrived, she was six months younger than I had been when I entered college. She didn’t drink in high school either. In my assessment, this was more due to her character and decisions than it was in my case. Some of her first college experiences outside the classroom involved taking care of girls on her floor when they were puking drunk, undergoing verbal abuse from drunk people, and even in one case, I believe, trying with some of her friends to physically keep a drunk guy out of a drunk girl’s room, at her request. (Correct me if I’m wrong on that one, sis.) I don’t know if anyone offered her alcohol before she had these negative experiences while stone sober, but she quickly determined drinking was Not Her Thing. To this day, she likes a glass of wine or a beer, but doesn’t enjoy being tipsy, and I don’t know that she’s ever been drunk. One time, having drunk one high-octane martini at a bar, she told me she felt “kinda funny” and asked me to give her a ride home. I think she and my dad’s attitudes about alcohol are pretty much the same. (My dad has been drunk before, on “one or two occasions,” in college, natch.) Having experienced sensations and behaviors they find unpleasant or negative, they decided not to overindulge in future, and they haven’t. They’re so logical and scientific!

I now give you that which provoked this post, a piece I heard on NPR on the way into work yesterday:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4673056

I can’t find an article that summarizes the same points, so I apologize if you can’t access the audio. Basically, it’s very scary. Teenagers’ brains are still developing, especially in the frontal lobe, cerebellum, and hippocampus. And there is, in the current estimation of the doctors who did the study, NO safe amount of alcohol for the teenage brain. (I had arrived at work when they got around to nicotine, so I turned it off, but duh.) And they never specified, but they said “throughout the teen years” several times, which I would guess includes ages 18 and 19.

It’s not news that alcohol is bad for brain cells, but this story hipped me to some very, very bad news for young drinkers. And it made me wonder if all that drinking ages 18-19 is somewhat to blame when I put my wallet in the refrigerator, leave my keys dangling in the front door all night, forget what I’m saying, drive to the bank when I started out for the yoga studio, lock my keys in the car at the gas station and then drive off without removing the gas nozzle from the tank, or completely blank the name and organization a caller has just clearly stated to me when I transfer a call in the office. (And all this at the tender age of 27.) Whereas my sister (24,) notwithstanding the occasional brainfart, is obviously at the top of her game--you can attest to this if you’ve heard her speak for three minutes or more. Now, I honestly and un-self-deprecatingly report that she has always been smarter than I am. Not that I’m not “the shizzle,” cuz you know that if you’re a regular reader *fluffs hair and makes with the finger pistols* but hey—-brains. Easy come, easy go. Intensifies my future ulcer problems when raising teenagers.

On a related point, how do you properly discuss drinking with your kids if you've had my experience and I no it's pretty typical?—“Well, Timmy, alcohol is bad, Mom knows because she got wasted several times in her day. So you shouldn’t do it. Yes, _I_ did it, but you can’t.” Yeah, that’s gonna go over well. But are you supposed to lie? I almost wish I’d never touched the stuff, in order to maintain parental purity. I guess the answer is: among kids with parents who have gotten drunk a lot AND among kids with parents who've never drunk a drop there are those who DO have drinking problems and those who DON'T or to whom the demon liquor never appeals. Not to mention the genetic component. In other words, and not just as regards drinking, having a kid is like betting it all--body and soul, yours and theirs--and having no idea of the odds.

Cheers!

*I never succeeding in getting Boyd to kiss me. I hadn't yet figured out I could just go ahead and plant one on whomever I pleased. Boyd flunked out, went back home to Salt Lake City, and was finally properly indoctrinated to the point that he went on his mission the following year.