Food Matters

• Pinkberry: i had been curious about this much-hyped food spot ever since i read KT’s review of it on her Gastronomy 101 blog. so on a warm day, our taste buds piqued, Mo and i took a leisurely walk to this frozen yogurt-esque shop to sample what all the fuss was about. and it was, as KT noted, totally underwhelming. it tasted like a tart slushie that had sat in the freezer too long.
  
  and hullo, just two flavors? no sugary-cereal-as-toppings gimmick can mask the fact that variety is lacking here — and i need variety in my frozen treats. and i need yum flavor, also lacking. but hey, it’s popular with the kids; the ones who helped bring this fad to the forefront: generic college kids in their hoodies, the type who bring glowsticks to raves. they were in line all around us.



• Taco Truckin: Polly had a birthday party in Highland Park the other week, a fun party in a gorgeous craftsman house where i talked to a lot of strangers and drank red wine, Mo by my side. as nice as that was, the night’s highlight had to be the stop we made both before and after that party: to an unmarked taco truck we found on Fig, where we ate $1 tacos so profoundly impressive to my taste buds that their mere memory is making me salivate as i type this.
  
  cut to sunday night in bed: Mo and i retired for the evening, undressed, spent and still discussing these magical tacos. cut to three hours later: Mo at the bedside waking me from a deep sleep, saying, “i got up and got tacos from a truck on Santa Monica. want some?” cut to five minutes later: Mo and i eating tacos at 2 a.m. at the coffee table.



• crockpot sundays: also known as make-a-grip-of-food-so-you-have-leftovers-to-take-to-work-all-week day. i’ve made some good soups, stews, a jambalaya, some roasts and a whole hen that produced a crazy good stock as byproduct. next up: homemade fish stock, so Mo and i can perfect our bouillabaisse recipe.
  
  we tried the other week with lackluster, store-bought stock and spent a good hour scrubbing the mussels and clams with a scouring pad before throwing them aside in a bowl. and while they sat in this holding bowl — awaiting their death-by-steamer fate that would have them opening wide to expose their tender, yummy uvulas — they made noise. like snap, crackle, popping noises that caused them to shift in the bowl. i’ll confess that i haven’t cooked with much “living” food before, and this made me very uncomfortable.

Spring Fling

nothing helps cheer a girl up faster than a fabulous party, especially one populated by her dearest friends who rally in her home and raise a glass to nothing in particular. i think i will make this an annual tradition from now on: The Purposeless Party. no gifts, costumes or holiday greetings required. just people standing around drinking, which is, for all intents and purposes, the essence of all parties are anyway.

of course this could never replace the self-indulgent birthday bonanza extravaganza i host for myself each june. that’s still on the calendar for this june, when i will be turning the inconsequential age of 31. expect no melodramatic chronicles or lamentations. i might even make the party all about my pup Juice, who also has her birthday in june. she will be turning the all-important age of 5.

but back to real-time... here are a few party pix.


even purposeless panties parties need a name: Mo and i called our the Ides of March Flirt-Fest and Cocktail Giveaway. the flirty Care Bear panties appeared on the Evite, and inspired guests to be very “creative” when leaving their acceptance or declination response. great examples of this were juan’s “going commando!!” acceptance and dee’s philosophical musing “what if you have menses?”


stocked and artfully arranged: was the outdoor bar.


the welcoming committee: Juice on the lookout for people whose faces she can lick.


it was 9:30pm: Mo and i started to get nervous, all like “no one is coming. our party is a dud. cancel the strippers.” just kidding, there were no strippers, only clowns.


hijinks & hilarity: the clown’s name was Damien.


and the people came: and they drank and rejoiced and blew cigarette smoke at me and my camera.


always auditioning: my favorite coworker and token actor friend Phillip gives a headshot smile by the tree.


it got cold: so we hauled our asses inside.


c/o ’94: Ann, Raidis and Damien representing for our high school daze, as usual.


talk talks: Mo and Phillip debate the word “conversate.”


the alien hand? Frank’s hang loose might be the reincarnation of Dave’s alien hand, which was sadly not in attendance this time.


laugh laughs: Juice told the funniest joke to Raidis.


lick licks: then she planted a sloppy one on Ann, who had crumbs on her face.


kiss kisses: wendy the goddess, with her fiery plant halo, smooches juan the lucky bastard.

and you should have seen the orgy that followed. but those photos are not for public posting. just kidding! we only had clowns.

What I Need

a vacation: i have been holed up in hell-lay for too long. a three-day weekend in SF happened four months ago, last November, and i haven't had cause to use my passport, which just expired, for the past four years. i'd be happy to spend another weekend in SF or maybe Mexico. hell, even Oxnard would work right now. calgon, take me away!

money: broke like a big, broke joke. credit card bills been coming, borne of christmastime indulgences; new C&B super chair also came, with a hefty oustanding balance; new printer/scanner/copier multifunctional ass-kicking, tree-killing machine for home office arrived from amazon, on sale but not free; and Costa Mesa tech class also came with costs. where is that tax refund?

zsa zsa gabor: i wouldn't mind if she called me again. it was kinda cool the other two times it happened.

sustained focus: motivation for the Secret Project has been waning and i've still got miles to go until completion. i could and should be doing more, but instead i pursue distractions that lead into more distractions until the day is drained. plus the purpose is murky, making the dedication hard to muster.

domestic bliss: Mo and i have been swimming in a beef stew lately. relationship flareups, bustups, bickerings, exasperation. no good reason behind it. no easy resolution to it. maybe we both need a vacation, one with romance.

conditioning hair treatment: the mop is getting sloppy, despite my religious use of overpriced Aveda products. be it age or overprocessing, the hair on my head keeps thinning, graying, frizzing -- ensuring more bad hair days than good.

time: there's plenty on the clock, i just need to get better at managing it. not sure why, but only about half the items on the to do list get done lately, and poorly. and then comes the scramble of finding extra time -- for myself, my relationships, the housework, the gym and all the other forsaken items and obligations that were avoided in the original to do list.

a brighter bright side: wtf is up with the moon, the tides, the ides of march? i'm all whines and woes, focusing only on the suckage. i'll come around, i'm sure. it's just tension passing through, as it tends to at times. it doesn't detract from all the goodness in existence; it only eclipses it momentarily. a sunrise is still scheduled for the morning. or something. whatever. i don't feel like writing anymore.

My First Meme

and likely my last. i’m a sucker for peer pressure and seeing that i have no new news to report and that other members of my Bloglomerate^TM have completed this meme on their blogs, i figured i’d be a sport and play along. so here goes the posting of Five Things You Might Not Know About Me. (note to Wade: tag.)

1. in high school, my house was make-out headquarters for my group of friends. my parents regularly spent long weekends in Las Vegas tending to the rental property they owned there, leaving me alone to tend to myself. sometimes, just hours after their departure, friends and wine coolers would fill the house for such exciting games as Truth or Dare and Seven Minutes in Heaven, which sometimes led to private make-out sessions in my older sister’s vacated bedroom, which sometimes led to lost virginities, rumors at school the following week and home pregnancy tests the following month.
   
   it was great, yet risky fun. one sunday, my parents returned home early to find the garden hose going full blast in the jacuzzi, which had nearly emptied the night before when six of my friends jumped in for a skinny dip. i felt my nerves race when they appeared suddenly at the door, my hand tightly fisted to conceal the cigarette butts and condom wrapper i had gathered from the floor a moment earlier. yet with a few excuses, i managed to escape discovery, ensuring that my house remained an epicenter of hot teenage sex, including my own when i was 17 -- with my older boyfriend, in the jacuzzi, done in two minutes. note to self for next life: avoid sex in water, especially for your first time. it doesn’t provide added lubrication like you think.



2. sadly, i’ve never been a big dreamer when i sleep. i’m sure i dream and just don’t remember, but even when i do remember my dreams they’re mostly lame nightmares where i’m being chased by a bear through a forest. but most nights, i get nothing. just a dark, uneventful stretch of time where my fantasy life should be. weak.



3. at 20, i found myself hanging out with all these theater types in california’s Inland Empire, where i lived for one very hot summer. that was the summer i also began smoking cigarettes since, you know, theater kids smoke to look cool and i’m bad with the peer pressure. so one thing led to another, and before i knew it, i was starring in a play at the local theater -- Christopher Durang’s Baby With the Bathwater.
   
   since it was a no-budget local theater troupe kind of performance, i played three different characters (all supporting roles), as did my fellow “actors.” the play’s opening scene had me singing “hush little baby” a capella. it was my first and last time performing on a stage in front of strangers, and i was very awful -- as a singer and an actress. i was all shaky voice and bad affectation, flubbing lines and missing cues. it was your basic bad local theater performance and while i’m grateful for the experience, etc., etc., i’d never do it again.



4. i don’t eat chocolate. it makes my skin break out in all its adolescent glory so i avoid it. people sometimes get weird when they hear this, like it’s some crime to not enjoy chocolate. the truth is that i like chocolate, but i don’t love it, and i certainly don’t like it enough to endure a face full of pimples. call me crazy. and call me a liar because there is one brand of chocolate i will eat because it’s of such remarkable quality that it doesn’t cause breakouts. it’s a Belgian brand called Neuhaus that i sampled while on my european adventure a few summers back. thankfully, its availability is limited in the U.S., otherwise i might be eating these fattening, expensive, decadent and truly extraordinary chocolates too often. but yeah, in between bites of Neuhaus, i don’t eat chocolate.



5. in grade school i bullied a girl who rode my bus. she was a few years younger, and her older sister, who was in my grade, initiated the wild bullying sessions each afternoon on the ride home, calling younger sister “porky” repeatedly. this seemed an odd fit since “porky” wasn’t exactly a porker; she was of average build. still, older sister went ahead with the “porky” commentary and i joined in because, as noted above, i’m a sucker for peer pressure.
   
   eventually, older sister transferred to a new school, leaving “porky” and me riding the bus together. at that point, terrorizing “porky” had become habit so i continued with it. i think it killed her self-esteem. her mother even appeared at the bus stop one day to chastise me, but i still didn’t stop. i kept going with the name-calling until “porky” transferred to a new school, presumably because of my ridicule though i can never be sure.
   
   the following year, i got a bully of my own. we were seated near each other in homeroom, meaning that each new day of the 8th grade began with her torturing me. she was scrawny, and in retrospect i could have kicked her ass, but she was popular and blessed with magnificent skin. i, however, had some intense adolescent acne going on so logically she called me “pizza face.” i hated her and began doing her math homework each morning to minimize the ridicule.

Dorking Out

whooooo! new colors for the new year! ok, i’m a little late at the update as it’s february already, and i’m super overdue for a blog redesign, having kept the same template since this blog’s inception in 2003, but hopefully this color switcheroo will mark the start a new yearly trend. (does it look ok? not too bright nor dull?)

what inspired the change? glad you asked! let me tell you about this nifty class i took on web development, courtesy of Learning Tree International (and my employer’s dime). i spent last week in glorious Costa Mesa, shacked up in the (shit hole) Days Inn for four nights, with days spent at the nearby Radisson Hotel where i learned all about what it takes to build a web site from the ground up.

and holy shit, it’s complicated — like really, really complicated. i spent the week lost in a fog of acronyms and applications, hearing such terms as PHP, Perl, JSP, applet, ASP, SQL, XML and CSS. and to think i took the class to learn basic HTML, which we did only on the first day. i thought being a copy editor would up my aptitude for learning this stuff, as i’m already ridiculously detail-oriented, but this kicked my ass. apparently, it’s not as easy to spot errors in code as it is in copy.

i’m trying to learn it, though it is a new and foreign language. one time in class, it took me ten minutes to realize the instructor had switched topics to database management and SQL, which he kept pronouncing as “sequel,” causing me to scour course notes in search of the prequel to his sequel until the phonetics of it finally dawned on me. but i wasn’t entirely without my successes. i did learn much useful HTML, including:

• how to create buttons:


• how to make text bigger and smaller


• how to create checkboxes: <-- Check me!


• how to color text


• how to create text fields:


• how to create radio buttons: Love it! Hate it!



• how

  to

  create

  tables



• how to create horizontal rules:



---

check me out! it’s like that day i learned how to use the advanced formatting features in Word. so invigorating. in any case, i definitely intend to continue learning HTML and CSS through additional classes, books and programs. i got a long way to go before i’m fully dorked out and can truly develop a web site from the ground up, but the class has made for a lovely start.

All Aboard

woosh, there went january — and i’m happy to see it go. what a miserable month it was. i’ve read that deaths during the winter months, particularly the holiday weeks, increase by 5% over the norm. and it makes sense how someone with maybe six months left in them would just throw in the towel early, when it’s cold outside and lonely inside.

but this year, it’s especially foul in its incessancy: week after week, various coworkers would need a day or two off to attend funerals. my officemate lost her grandmother, then other coworkers lost their aunts, friends, even a father. then came my own great-aunt just last week, with her funeral on a rainy L.A. day, which made for an exceedingly gloomy and muddy burial. i wasn’t close to her, but seeing my extended family grieving saddened me. yet what saddened me the most was hearing that my landlord’s boyfriend had brain cancer. plus, i’ve been reading depressing books lately, with themes on death and sadness, loss and transition. damn joan didion.

on the bright side, i’ve finally emerged from the personal funk that i blogged about below. i tried dismissing it as boredom or another episode of restlessness when in fact it was a mini-depression borne of indirection. the not-so-secret crux of the matter, i’ve realized, is that i need a goal to work toward — something long-term and bigger than the regular baby goals of exercising more and paying off my debts.

the last big goal of mine involved applying to, surviving and finally finishing graduate school. that occupied a good two-and-a-half years of my life when i never felt the gnawing restlessness of indirection. surely, that was a stressful time that didn’t allow much room for superfluous feelings, with its spin cycle of assignments and deadlines.

but i do recall that the time leading up to my decision to apply felt very much like these current times, when i would loiter endlessly in my head, kicking tin cans around, supervising the committee meetings of the mind, with everyone yelling at one another, the chorus of disagreements, all terrorizing me into deciding: what’s next?

and while it would seem that psychotropic medicine should be next, i have decided to embark on a Secret Project that i cannot yet publicly discuss lest all my good intentions fail to materialize into anything worthy (again), causing me severe personal and public embarrassment (again). i have realized that too much of my focus was wasted on thinking about the things i’d like to do and how i’m not doing them, when my real focus should have been on doing the things i’m thinking of doing, instead of the other way around. duh. clarity is so divine.

rest assured that Secret Project does not involve more schooling nor is it an attempt to write the Great American Novel that i’ll get around to one day. it’s more lifestyle related, long-term and exciting and new, we’re expecting you. just planting the new-idea seed in my head has done much to evaporate the funk fog i had been lost in these past few months — replacing defeatist thoughts with constructive aims. yet it’s still months away from sprouting so bear with me.

and all the death and sadness of january have served as great motivators, helping me realize that the now counts more than anything else, so i better get started on making my dream life happen.

Giving to Love

Happy Blue Year

i’ve resolved not to make any new year’s resolutions anymore, at least not publicly. instead i’m subscribing to my buddy Jeremy’s assertion that it’s better to talk about results instead of goals, otherwise “it’s like telling the universe what you expect to happen, then trying to sit back and watch.”

reading over last year’s list of the things i didn’t do (enough of) is yet another indication that achievement doesn’t always follow on the heels of good intentions. i tend to start strong and finish weak. i tend to fantasize about perfect outcomes, a magical dream life where my potential is limitless, dedication enduring. unfortunately, the hard work required for my fantasy outcomes never actually appears in my daily reality, where inertia is king.

i’d like to say that this year will finally be different, but i need to be realistic about my own track record, which weighs heavily on the hot air side, slim on the achievements. plus, i’m not discussing resolutions publicly. instead, i’ll turn them over in my head, trying to reconcile what i want to do with what will likely happen. it’s a big divide, and it’s been making me blue.

i had the week between christmas and new year’s off. Mo was in houston visiting his bro, and my other peoples were scattered around the country visiting family of their own. that week off was very relaxing, very bourgeois, as i spent the days shopping the after christmas sales alone, getting a facial, massage, all the while thinking, thinking, trying to answer the age-old question of what i want to be when i grow up.

in my office at work, i have a smaller version of this poster printed and tacked onto the wall. my old officemate and i rallied our coworkers into signing the individual fries with their names. people always jump at the chance to sign it, as if being part of the small fry club were some great honor. and as they stand for a moment choosing the perfect fry for their names, i wonder how OK they are with it, how i can be more OK with it.

new years tend to drive it all home — the realization that time is no longer on my side, that things change less over the years, that i must conform to adulthood without complaint. and then come the counter-thoughts right on the heels — quit your whining, your life isn’t bad, accept your potential as a function of your limitations.

i keep thinking, hoping, waiting for the time when my restlessness will transform into resolve and make my dream life happen, make the entropy assume its next form. maybe this year. maybe not.

Meet the Parents

even though we had been living together for the last six months, dating for a year and a half, Mo still hadn’t met my family. this was the result of equal parts accident and intent -- ok, mostly intent. i’ll confess the thought of the Big Family Meeting made me uneasy, so i didn’t push it on Mo, who never asked. my parents, however, were asking often, and when they started up with “what should we get Marlin for the holidays?” i knew i could no longer delay the big reveal. we settled on the saturday before christmas at my parents’ house where we would exchange gifts and have dinner. my sister would be there with her husband and two kids. i would be there with Mo and my furry kid Juice. easy as pie.

truthfully, i had avoided the Big Family Meeting because it was too damn important. given that i’m 30, unmarried and jewish, such a meeting was incapable of being unimportant. and it was incapable of being easy: Mo is not jewish, nor is he russian — he’s actually a black man whose light skin allows him to regularly pass as white, a disorienting concept for most. he’s also without full-time employment, spending his free time daytrading and writing articles for Archinect. for me -- and probably Juice especially -- having him home often is a welcome treat, but for my parents, he’s probably not the guy they would have picked for me out of a crowd, especially with all the “nice jewish boys” on JDate.com.

plus, my family had grown close to my Last Serious Boyfriend and were as heartbroken as i was when things didn’t work out. during the unraveling of that relationship, my ex even told me, “tell your dad i’m sorry,” a message i relayed to my father who choked up and declared, “it’ll be hard for me to trust the next important man in your life.”

thankfully for him and me, there were plenty of unimportant men to keep me distracted until Mo came along. and while i know he’s important, i’m not sure that he’s “serious” in that one-thing-leads-to-another way that tends to be the hope of jewish parents with unmarried daughters who are 30. i feared that Mo might not be serious enough for the family introduction. his move-in was circumstantial and presumed temporary. we never discussed “our future,” never explored the mystery of “where is this going.” i always figured that our relationship would continue until it began to suck, at which point it would end, just like the relationships i’ve had before.

*******

i woke up early the day of the meeting to begin chewing my cuticles and planning my exit strategy. was that pneumonia i felt coming on? doesn’t my numb left arm signify the onset of a heart attack? no, i probably just slept wrong. Mo gets up and i begin the prep pep talk while he fixes his morning coffee — “my sister’s husband is Patrick. he probably won’t talk to you much but don’t worry about it. my parents’ dog is Chip. he’s small so careful not to step on him.” Mo is barely awake, looking at me askew, but i keep the facts coming, regaling him with details, life stories, russian proprieties he must follow in order to make the right impression. (“you have to drink vodka with my dad.”)

Mo nods, or maybe it was an eye roll. he grabs my hands and squeezes.
“it’s too early?” i ask.
“it’s too much,” he says. “you’re worrying too much. today will be fine.”

i shake him off and keep going all the same, stuffing him like a holiday turkey. more information, warnings on their temperaments. i begin to think aloud: “maybe we should develop a secret language for today, like hand signals to let each other know what’s really happening. are you getting all of this?” phone rings. it’s my Ma confirming the time and asking whether Mo has any dietary preferences.

“i was just telling him all about you guys. you know, preparing him for today,” i say.
“what type of ‘preparing’? you think we’re all monsters or something?”
“no, mom! i’m just telling him everyone’s name and profession, that’s all,” i lied. an argument could easily erupt from here. “let’s have a nice day today, please.”
“ok, fine with me. come by in the afternoon around 5 p.m.,” she instructs.
“what should i bring?”
“your boyfriend and a good attitude.”
“i always have a good attitude, damnit!! Ma?? MA???”

but she had hung up. “damnit, she knows how much i hate it when she hangs up on me!!”
i feel the steam release from my ears, followed by a big exhale. i look at Mo, who’s quietly sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee.
“you know, my family,” i start, “they’re not going to be your ideal family to walk into. hell, they’re not my ideal family to walk into.”
“the craziest people anyone knows are always in their own family,” Mo says. “when i was growing up, the fabric of our couches matched the pattern of our wallpaper. they were both plaid.”

*****

as we approach the front door of my parents’ house, i could feel the flight instinct taking over my body, making all my limbs twitch. for a moment i consider dropping the holiday presents i have in my arms, the bottle of vodka and bouquet of flowers i made Mo buy for my parents, just tossing it all aside and running toward the horizon, but Juice manages to snake her leash around my legs in a way that renders me immobile. i glance down and catch her big brown eyes, wide with encouragement. she had grown to love Mo as much as i did. there’s no reason the rest of my family wouldn’t do the same.

i look over at Mo for added encouragement and sense strain on his handsome face. in my selfish paranoia i had disregarded his feelings. immediately, my thoughts turn to his thoughts and i conclude that our thoughts are identical and still center around me. he must fear, like i fear, that the Big Family Meeting would make me too human, too flawed, too prepossessed of traits i couldn’t overcome. any remaining mystery that shrouded me — the exotic, lovable goddess i had imagined myself being in Mo’s mind — would vanish upon the unearthing of my roots, like cinderella at midnight.

door opens. cries of “hello, happy holidays” bellow from everyone. gifts are unloaded, hugs and introductions all around. my father and Mo stand facing each other, eye to eye, my two big loves, both six feet tall, dark-haired, bearded. the resemblance is undeniable. handshake. hug!
“do you drink vodka?” my pops asks.
“yes. definitely,” Mo replies, scoring points.
“good! hey Meel, i like him already. go help your mother set the table.”

and then, i don’t know. i helped set the table. we sat down, ate, drank, laughed, told stories — same as always, only now with Mo at the table. he fit in nicely, warmed up to everyone. there was no weirdness to sort though, no visibly tense moments. my family never brought up his job situation, and as i sat at the table looking over at my sister’s chinese husband and two biracial kids, i realized how silly i was to worry that Mo’s race would be an issue in my family.

my father seemed to appreciate that, like him, Mo wasn’t fond of cats, and he even found funny Mo’s story on how, during high school, Mo and friends used to record soft porn off the television in my childhood home, taking advantage of my family’s illegal “black box” that received all the cable channels, including the naughty ones. i beamed when the joke went over well, declaring dumbly, and perhaps a bit too loudly, “see, we all have the same sense of humor!!”

even Juice had a grand time, rummaging as she was through the pile of dog toys set aside for my parents’ miniature pinscher, who sat nearby looking forlorn. my sister’s kids were sparkling angels, despite my young nephew’s attempts at joining Mo as he used the restroom; and my parents and i got along splendidly, keeping our respective monster claws under wraps. Mo and i received various gift cards as holiday gifts, and were sent home with warm wishes and tupperware full of leftovers. on the whole, the night was thoroughly anticlimactic, almost unmemorable.

as the night was closing, i managed to steal a few moments with my parents for the debrief, which amounted to “so far, so good. bring him back!” on the ride home, i got the debrief from Mo, which amounted to, “overwhelming, but not bad. i could do it again.”
“‘again,’ really? it wasn’t too hard on you?”
“no, it wasn’t so bad,” Mo says with a smile. “i told you today would be fine.”

Tidings

farking hell, december already. i don’t know why time and its passage still surprise me. the way the days pile on top of each other to turn into months and now, almost, a year. not like i could expect a different outcome. but here i am again with the requisite, “oh, where does the time go? oh, the days move too fast.”

i remember how dreadfully slow time moved during childhood when i would count down the days until winter recess, summer vacation. the school year seemed so long and dreary, like adolescence itself. and though i don’t miss being a kid one bit, i do miss the nervous anticipation that accompanied every new calendar year, which signified the approach of a birthday, one year closer to emancipation at 18, to ultimate freedom.

nowadays, new years signify tax season and the need to put 2007 instead of 2006 on my checks, which will trip me for months. they signify the end of holiday gluttony, with the scattered picked-over party trays and dried-up poinsettias. then come the repercussions in the form of credit card bills, increased gym visits, crusty fruitcakes.

not to scrooge. i’m quite content with the present state of things, which, by all measures, is delightful. i have goodness all around me. i feel stable, secure, loved, in control and... bored.

the days are predictable: wake, work, sleep, rinse and repeat. and next year will be no different. i also feel perpetually sick, having just shaken off a cold that kept me home from work for a few days. i had gnarly sniffles that moved me through a box of tissues a day and left me with tender nostrils. when i went in for a haircut last weekend, my hair guy seemed alarmed by their redness, and asked whether i had a “colombian hangover.” now it feels as though the bug jumped from my nose to lungs, making me wheezy.

while home sick, i roamed around in my polka dot pajamas, looking for low-effort things to do between naps. at some midday point, the phone rang and i went to grab it, checking the caller ID as usual before answering. “Zsa Zsa Gabor,” it read. fuck! “hello! hello?” dial tone. fuck!

it was the highlight of my day.