Dinosaur

"I was younger then..." -- Stephen Sondheim

 

Last week, I gave a lecture to a group of high school seniors and used the word "Walkman." They looked utterly perplexed.

 

"A Walkman is an old-school term for a portable cassette player," I said.

"Um..."

"Remember cassettes? Tapes?"

"Yeah, but those were before our time."

"Really? How did you guys listen to music on your way to school as kids?"

"With our iPods."

"Sorry... what year were you born?"

"1995."

 

When did I get old?

Fashion's Day Off

"They need to adore me, so Christian Dior me from my head to my toes. I need to be dazzling. I want to be rainbow high. They must have excitement, and so must I." -- from Evita 

 

I love fashion. I take pride in my wardrobe and love arriving at work each day in a flattering outfit and a fabulous pair of high heels. And I do this to make myself happy; I've always been pretty sure that my colleagues don't notice what I'm wearing half the time.

 

Today, that assumption was proven incorrect.

 

At around 8PM last night, I sat down on my couch and put on Thor. I intended to choose and iron today's work outfit while watching, but instead, I fell asleep. Therefore, at about 7:30 this morning, I woke up on the couch, completely disoriented, with half an hour to dress and get to work on time.

 

I grabbed a huge pink and white button-down shirt and black matchstick pants (i.e. the two things in my closet that were ironed and hung properly), paired them with pink and brown wingtips, threw my hair into a ponytail, and cabbed it down the block.

 

My sartorial choice wasn't up to my usual standard, but it wasn't a complete train wreck.

 

 

Or so I thought. During the course of the clinic day...

• Five people asked me if I was sick.
• Three people remarked with some form of "Oh my goodness, what happened to you?!"
• My work brother spent the whole morning invading my personal space to loom over me because, owing to my lack of heels, he was a full ten inches taller than me.
• One feisty nurse exclaimed, "This is NOT you!" and gave me a five-minute speech about how she barely recognized me when she saw me.
• The same nurse later announced to the clinic floor that everyone better bring their cameras tomorrow because "she's definitely going to wear something stunning to make up for this mess."
• A snarky friend complimented my look and called it "walk of shame chic." And when I explained that I woke up on the couch ten minutes before I was due to leave for work, he questioned whether said couch belonged to me.

 I called my best friend on the way home to tell her about my surreal day. Her comment? "Lesson learned: you're not allowed to take a fashion day off. Ever."

To Someone I Forgot

"Now you're just somebody that I used to know." -- Gotye

You were a jock with an impressive high school sports career, stunning blue eyes, a super-hot athlete girlfriend, and considerable popularity. I was a nerd, and though I was also popular, I belonged to a completely different social hierarchy than you. You chilled with other athletes and fellow Long Island commuters while I hobnobbed with academic overachievers and people who joined way too many extracurriculars. But because this was sophomore year of high school, before AP scheduling forced the top 10% of our class into near-identical schedules and permanently segregated our cliques, you and I ended up in the same geometry class. And we sat next to each other in the front row.

We had never formally met before, but I knew you by reputation and expected you to ignore me. But you didn't. You talked to me, asked me questions, and tried to get to know me a little. I did the same. And eventually, we developed... I wouldn't quite call it a friendship. I'm not sure what it was. But we'd share smiles and laughs before and after class. We'd confer on practice problems. We'd exchange rueful glances whenever the teacher said something particularly inane. And every once in a while, you'd lean over and draw pictures in the margins of my notebook. Our tenuous association would vanish the second we left the classroom every day, but for what it was, it was nice.

In May, we switched teachers, classrooms, and, to my horror, seats. Then in September, I embarked on the AP Calculus math track while you decided to stick with a sane schedule. We parted ways. I registered for too many AP classes, made friends with the Science Olympiad team, and set my sights on the Ivy League. Presumably, you returned to your sports stardom and your hot athlete girlfriend -- and I say "presumably" because, once our companionable days in geometry class were behind us, I have no recollection of ever interacting with you again.

We graduated. I moved to Manhattan and became a rocket scientist, but I still kept in close touch with my high school friends and teachers. You, on the other hand, became one of the many kids from my class who vanished off the face of the planet after graduation. No one ever mentioned seeing you or hanging out with you. You never came to any reunions. And, basically, I forgot about you.

Last weekend, I visited my parents and grabbed a book out of my old room to kill an afternoon. The Catcher in the Rye was required reading in sophomore year of high school, and as I flipped through the familiar scenes, I marveled at how much my comprehension of the text had improved since I last picked it up.

About a hundred pages in, I discovered that an old bookmark was still tucked between the pages. It was a fragment of looseleaf about four inches square, torn out of what appeared to be my geometry notebook (judging from the partial circles and angles visible near the ripped edge). In the center of the scrap, someone had clumsily drawn two stick figures -- one with a skirt and high heels, the other with a tie and glasses. The figures shared the same bewildered expression and the same Homer Simpson-esque hairdo. They were holding hands. One figure was labeled with your name and the other was labeled with mine in boyish handwriting. 

I remembered your face -- those striking eyes and easy smile -- long before I remembered your last name. I also realized, for the first time ever, that I had a crush on you during high school. I wasn't willing to acknowledge it back then because you were a jock, I was a nerd, our presence in the same class was a never-to-be-repeated fluke, and girls in my crowd had zero chance with guys from yours, but I fully admit it now. (I'm still not willing to admit that your habit of doodling on my notebook may have indicated even a hint of reciprocity, though; you were a jock, I was a nerd, and old habits die hard.)

I wondered what ever became of you, so I got on Facebook, Google, and Twitter to find out. And it turns out that the man who vanished off the face of the planet after graduation has nearly no online presence either. I did give myself half a heart attack when I found a memorial website dedicated to an athlete in your sport with your name, but one additional search hit proved that you're still alive and competing.

It's been exactly ten years since we last sat next next to each other, sharing smiles and pretending to learn math. Wherever you are and whatever you're doing now, I hope you're happy.

I Am Ashamed That Women Are So Simple

"My mind hath been as big as one of yours, my heart as great, my reason haply more to bandy word for word and frown for frown. But now I see my lances are but straws, my strength as weak, my weakness past compare, that seeming to be most which I indeed least am." -- William Shakespeare

Last week, I hacked my TV remotes to control devices other than their intended targets. I combined traditional drawing and digital ink and paint to create an advertisement that's currently hanging all over two boroughs. I finished writing a scientific research paper. I made and decorated a birthday cake using a recipe I designed myself. I built a theatrical prop out of plaster, polyurethane, and chicken wire that's able to support up to 300 lbs. I knocked back a few pitchers of beer with a few surgeons. I knitted a sock. I re-tiled my kitchen floor. And I did all of this by myself. In fact, this sort of laundry list is a typical week in my world.

As those closet to me know, I'm a whole lot of tough-as-nails wrapped in a deceptively sweet, feminine, cookie-baking package. I work hard and I have a lot of hobbies. I keep busy. I get shit done. I'm independent. I'm worldly. Not much shocks me. I'm a problem-solver. I don't need anyone or need to feel needed by anyone in order to be happy. The female relatives who spent my childhood encouraging me to find a strong husband to take care of me have admitted defeat because I'm stronger than every man they know. My friends call me a badass and I wear the word like a badge of honor. This is who I am.

How, then, do I reconcile who I am with something else I did last week -- namely, how I reacted to the appearance of a mouse in my kitchen? To put it bluntly, the mouse kicked my ass. Yes, I multitasked the crap out of him (i.e. barricaded him in my kitchen, bought and laid traps, scheduled for an exterminator) and caught him within fifteen minutes of first spotting him. But once that walnut-sized ball of fur was covered in peanut butter and stuck to a patch of glue on my kitchen floor, I panicked. And we're talking real panic here. The little bastard was squealing and galloping the glue trap around my kitchen for the better part of an hour while I was standing on my coffee table with my hands over my ears sobbing and hyperventilating.

For the first time in my adult life, I was physically and emotionally incapable of solving a simple problem. And as I stood on the coffee table like an idiot struggling to regain control of my breathing, all I could think about was how much I wished I had a husband or live-in boyfriend who could take the mouse away for me.

Obviously, as a woman normally secure in her ability to handle anything and smash gender stereotypes to pieces along the way, the fact that I longed for a man in my hour of need worried me far more than the mouse did.

The next day, I tracked down One Doc In Particular and told him the story. He laughed his ass off at my plight -- especially the kitchen barricade -- but grew serious when I described my desperate coffee table regrets and how defeated they made me feel.

He leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, and eyed me thoughtfully. "It's not a bad thing to need a man, you know."

"For some people, maybe. But a lot of my self-worth comes from my self-sufficiency. I only surround myself with people that I want in my life, not people that I need in order to get by."

"You're certainly not co-dependent, that's for sure."

"Right now, I can pretend like this never happened and/or chalk it up to panic-induced hallucination. But what if it happens again?"

He shrugged. "If it happens again, you'll have been through it already. And you're a smart lady. You're good at getting your learn on. You'll be able to deal."

Perhaps he's right. Yeah, I had a moment of weakness, but it's not a life crisis unless I make it one. Badasses are adaptable, after all, and I can still wear that label with pride if I move on and learn from the experience.

It's also good to know that I have people on speed dial to help me down off the coffee table... and I told him so. "No problem," he said. "If it ever happens again, let me know."

I smirked. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Oh, absolutely nothing. Those things freak me out. But I still want to know."

Guess I wasn't putting gender equality back into the stone age after all.

No Better Feeling

"Brother, you can't go to jail for what you're thinking, or for the woo look in your eye. You're only standing on the corner watching all the girls go by." -- Frank Loesser

You know those blissful days when you put on a fabulous outfit and feel really great about yourself? So great, in fact, that you can’t help but strut down the street like it’s a catwalk? And, when the man of your dreams happens to be walking towards you along said street, you’re able to give him a saucy smirk and a cool “hey” instead of an incoherent mumble?

Only one thing can make that sort of day better… and that’s when the man of your dreams responds by giving a dorky salute and nearly colliding with a trash bin.

Bananas

"So many dreams that are finally coming true... now you finish me off when you finish my thoughts the way you do!" -- Patti Russo

One Doc in Particular has been craving bananas lately, so I've been making lots of trips to the fruit stand across the street where they're sold four for a dollar. As a result, I've developed an interesting rapport with the fruit stand's proprietor... one based entirely on crass innuendos about bananas.

Three weeks ago...

Me: What are your bananas like today?
Fruit Man: They're great! I've got big ones, little ones, fat ones. What kind do you want?
Me: I'll take those big ones. On top.
Fruit Man: Ah, the lady knows what she likes!

Last week...

Me: I'd like four bananas, please.
Fruit Man: I'm going to give you these. They're long and skinny, just like you.
Me: Uh... thanks?

This morning...

Me: I'm just going to grab four bananas today, thanks.
Fruit Man: Grabbing bananas is a wonderful way to start your day.
Me: I know. That's why I need so many!

Luckily, what I do for a living means I have zero shyness about urologic humor. Let's just hope my doc friend doesn't decide that he wants melons for breakfast any time soon.

Storm Stories

"We've got a low-pressure system and a northeast breeze, we've got a falling barometer and rising seas. We've got the cumulonimbus and a possible gale, we've got a Force 9 blowing on the Beaufort scale." -- Billy Joel

Friday, 9:00 AM: I make a beautiful blueberry almond cake for a dinner party I'm hosting later in the day.

11:00 AM: Said dinner party gets cancelled because of the "hurricane" people seem to think we're getting. More cake for me, I guess.

12:00 PM: And here come the emergency email alerts from work. People actually think this hurricane thing is going to happen? Weren't we supposed to have one of these a few weeks ago, too? Lightweights.

12:30 PM: Work just contacted me. Other hospitals are evacuating, patients are getting transferred to us, and we might be short-staffed over the weekend. I agree to put my name on the call list for emergency volunteers. Crap... I guess this hurricane thing is actually happening.

12:35 PM: I just realized that putting my name on the call list means I'm confined to my apartment for the entire weekend.

1:00 PM: So what am I supposed to be doing? I've never had a hurricane before! I should stock up on food and water, I guess. I have candles and a flashlight. Laundry goes in. Phone plugs into the charger. My Dutch oven and big pasta pot get filled with water and stored. Better refill the ice tray, too.

3:00 PM: I head over to the supermarket. Bedlam! Crazy! I wasn't aware that this many people lived in my neighborhood in the first place!

3:15 PM: A woman in the freezer section is screaming on the top of her lungs about ice. "There's no ice! How could there not be any ice! What if the power goes out? I need ice!" I helpfully remind her that the power isn't out yet and that she should put some water in her freezer. "Hey, that's a good idea!" she responds.

3:20 PM: The guy on line behind me, who has a cart full of tuna fish, points at the mushrooms and head of broccoli in my basket and asks me why I'm buying so many perishable items. I say mushrooms and broccoli will last just fine in a cool fridge rather than a cold one. He nods thoughtfully. Nothing like a little rain to bring out the crazy in people.

3:30 PM: Looks like I'll be stuck in my apartment for the foreseeable future. Let's see what's on Netflix.

3:35 PM: My top recommendation is the complete series of Firefly. I've never seen that show... completely missed it when it was on the air for ten minutes ten years ago and only learned about its existence through obsessed friends during college. It has serious geek cred, though... and it stars my second-favorite Canadian. What the hell, let's give it a try!

4:00 PM: This is stupid.

4:25 PM: River Tam is annoying.

4:30 PM: Not even Nathan Fillion can save this shit.

4:35 PM: Hold on... is Jayne played by the same guy who played the Area 51 commander from Independence Day? Google Google Wikipedia Google... aha! He is! I had a huge crush on him when I was ten! Wow, this brings back memories.

4:45 PM: This isn't bad.

5:00 PM: River Tam is still annoying.

5:15 PM: Jayne shooting people is way sexier than it should be.

6:15 PM: This is awesome.

7:30 PM: Half the cake is gone. Whoops.

11:00 PM: Why hello, shirtless Jayne. Damnit, he's hot.

11:30 PM: Work sends a second emergency alert; all the lab buildings are closing for the weekend. I bet my friends -- and one doc in particular -- are freaking out right about now.

11:32 PM: The aforementioned doc in particular texts me in a panic because he's getting thrown out of his lab for the weekend and has experiments running.

11:50 PM: Jayne's pumping iron now. I could watch this all day.

Saturday, 2:30 AM: Crap look at the time! And I'm not even tired!

2:32 AM: Zzzzzz.

9:30 AM: Now that I'm washed and dressed and in my right mind, time to continue the hurricane prep. Windows and blinds are closed. Maybe I'll fill up my bathtub too. If only my stopper sealed tighter...

9:40 AM: I am the MacGyver of storm preparation.

12:00 PM: Am I supposed to like River Tam yet? Twelve episodes in and I still don't.

1:30 PM: Mom, you need to stop calling me. And no, I am not sleeping in my kitchen tonight "just in case." You do know there are knives on top of my fridge that might come raining down on my sleeping form if I kick the door the wrong way, right?

3:30 PM: I'm getting impatient with the amount of time it's taking my oil paints to dry in this weather. The skyline of Manhattan at sunset I'm currently working on has rolling hills instead of buildings, and I can't do a damn thing about it until the paint I used for the clouds is dry.

3:35 PM: I used a lot of cadmium yellow in this painting. Cadmium is a carcinogen and I'm sitting here with all my windows closed. I'll crack one just a little bit.

3:38 PM: I closed the window. Too nervous.

4:30 PM: All fourteen episodes plus Serenity have now been viewed. Jayne needs to have my babies and I still wish someone would have tossed River out of the airlock a few episodes ago. And work hasn't called me to come in. What to do...? Aha! The new season of Doctor Who started today!

4:45 PM: Who needs River Tam when you've got River Song? Sigh, what a badass.

7:30 PM: Dinner time! I made tri-color orecchiette with broccoli in a light mornay sauce, baked until golden brown. Or, more simply, glorified mac and cheese.

7:45 PM: Crap... it just got really dark out there really fast.

8:00 PM: A couple of my friends are online. Let's use Google + Hangouts to wait out the storm together!

8:05 PM: Jon can see me, I can't hear anyone, and no one else showed up. Let's abandon that idea.

10:00 PM: It's blowing something fierce out there. My bed is next to the windows. So is my couch. And the asshats across the street didn't do anything about their patio furniture. I'll drag the couch into my foyer tonight so I'm not sleeping next to panes of glass.

10:01 PM: Couch. Heavy. Ow. Forget it.

10:20 PM: Pillow fort on the floor in the foyer!

10:30 PM: This is way more comfortable than it should be.

Sunday, 2:45 AM: My ass is cold. The rest of me is fine, but my ass is cold.

2:46 AM: Oh. The couch cushions slid apart during the night and my booty fell into the vacant spot. I should rearrange my pillow fort so it's wedged against the wall.

8:45 AM: Plink plink plink... what the hell is that noise?

9:00 AM: Clock radio went off. The classic rock station is playing their usual Sunday morning Beatles lineup, and somehow all of the songs are storm-related. Guess the UK weather had a bigger effect on the Fab Four than I ever realized.

9:10 AM: Still with the plink plink plink. It's coming from the kitchen. Not the refrigerator, not the oven, not the toaster. Ah, great. My ceiling is dripping. Where's that old frying pan?

9:15 AM: Mmmm, coffee. Finding the super to ask about the flood status of the apartment above mine can wait.

10:00 AM: The streets are dry and it looks like the sun is coming out. Guess it's safe to empty my bathtub, huh?

12:00 PM: My kitchen wall is bulging. And it's squishy. Greeeat, there's water in there, too.

12:30 PM: I should have frozen half of that bread loaf I bought last week... just tried to toast a slice and found it moldy. In the chute it goes. And the supermarkets are still closed. Time to bake bread, I guess!

2:30 PM: My butter-almond bread dough rose beautifully! Now I need to flour my table, punch down the dough, roll it up with some cinnamon sugar, and let it rise for another two hours.

2:31 PM: I bobbled the flour container. Half a pound of flour is on my floor. And on my jeans. And in my handbag.

2:35 PM: Made the mistake of using a wet paper towel to mop up the flour. Now I'm Cloroxing sticky paste off my parquet.

3:00 PM: I took a walk during my dough's second rise. My neighborhood is wet but completely undamaged. Thank goodness.

4:40 PM: Bread is in the oven and the alien in my wall is gone. Now the paint just looks deflated and pathetic.

5:00 PM: Work never called for me. Woo!

5:30 PM: My apartment smells like fresh-baked bread. And the bread itself looks delicious.

5:40 PM: My apartment smells like the two burnt slices of fresh-baked bread that didn't agree with my toaster oven.

6:00 PM: I'm wandering around in circles with a steaming pot of boiled vinegar water to try and get the burnt smell out of the air. I feel like I'm participating in some sort of crazy religious ritual here.

6:30 PM: The aforementioned doc just texted me. He wants me to bring the remainder of the blueberry almond cake to clinic tomorrow. Hahahaha... he thinks that cake lasted the night... poor naive man.

7:00 PM: Baking another blueberry almond cake would replace the burnt toast smell with delicious cake smell. Hm. Do I have any milk left? Yes, but I'm low on blueberries. This will have to be a blueberry almond peach cake instead.

7:50 PM: Ironing for work tomorrow. Seth MacFarlane cartoons are on TV. Something delicious is in the oven. Typical end to an atypical weekend.

30 Day Photo Challenge: Days 5-12

"And so, if you want to be with me, you have to follow through on every word you say." --Gavin DeGraw

I'm actually doing a decent job keeping up with Oh So Lovely's 30 Day Photo Challenge...

Day 5: Someone I Love. My family and a hundred other people who may or may not be related to me at a feast celebrating our town's patron saint.

Day 6: Childhood Memory. Fresh homemade pizzelles. My apartment smelled like butter and lemon zest -- exactly the way my grandmother's apartment would smell during Christmas week every year during my childhood.

Day 7: Something New. I left Zumba class with a stitch in my side and a sense of accomplishment.

Day 8: Technology. My second set of Bose in-ear headphones, which are splitting and fraying and falling apart just as badly as the first ones did. I'm switching brands once these finally bite the dust.

Day 9: Faceless Self-Portrait. My shadow and I waited for the bus.

Day 10: Something I Made. My retro rocketship poster bathed in sunrise.

Day 11: Something Fun. A few dozen Scotch glasses and a dozen friends makes for an amazing evening.

Day 12: Close-up. My windowbox tomatoes have been on the vine for two months and still aren't ripe yet...

30 Day Photo Challenge: Days 1-4

"Please baby, can't you see I'm trying to explain? I've been here before and I'm locking the door and I'm not going back again." --Melissa Etheridge

I've decided to use my Smartphone to its fullest potential by taking on Oh So Lovely's 30 Day Photo Challenge. I started on August 9th instead of August 1st, but better late than never, right? I'll be posting the results in batches to save space.

Day 1: Self-Portrait. Talk about a clean start to the challenge!

Day 2: What I Wore. The dress has a fluffy a-line skirt and I paired it with purple platform pumps.

Day 3: Clouds. Late afternoon looking west.

Day 4: My Favorite Color. Red velvet from Two Little Red Hens.

The Lichtenstein Project: Part 2

"I think that most people think painters are kind of ridiculous, you know?" -- Roy Lichtenstein

Last week, I covered my apartment wall in clear contact paper and painted a huge Roy Lichtenstein face on it. A few days later, I picked up my brushes to finish off the mural.

 

 

 

I gave her hair, a skyline, and a giant thought bubble... but I couldn't decide what phrase should go in it. Should I leave the text unaltered from the original? Should I write something of my own? Should I steal a quote from another Lichtenstein painting?

 

I elected to leave it blank. You can draw your own conclusions about what she's thinking.