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March 31, 2003
A plea from the Editors
Dear Readers,
We are concerned. Despite a to-do list as long as her antennae composed of both pleasant activities, such as communicating with loved ones, and vital tasks like locating a source of income which pays for groceries and the rent, Hilatron's butt has remained firmly attached to the couch for almost the entire weekend. Likewise, her gaze has rarely wavered from either trashy television or diverting but unredeeming web sites (sometimes both at once).
Things started off hopefully enough on Friday evening with a tasty dinner at the Linwood Grill in the charming company of Agent Courtney and the hyperlink-free D. However, we fear that the exessive quantity of starches and dairy products contained in the Vegetarian Platter, while ever so delicious at the time, has overloaded our trusty robot's synapses. Saturday and Sunday have been mere wastes of days, typified by a staunch refusal to engage in any activity beyond the bare physical necessities.
This would not be terribly worrisome - heaven knows that we are not opposed to some Leisure now and again - but it is evident that Hilatron is not actually enjoying her voluntary invalid state. Since her blobbish awakening at noon on Saturday, we have been treated to a litany of bored sighs and woeful looks. Gentle suggestions that those who get up and finish that decorative pillow case, finally, are rarely bored and woeful were met with alarming sneers and the occasional low growl. Worse still, instead of preparing for the coming work week by going to bed on time, Hilatron has elected to stay up late tonight to watch a rerun of Buffy, thus promising a surly Monday morning for all.
In the interest of getting a new entry up on this blog sometime, not to mention the successful running of errands and the uniting of hand and mouth, we implore you to send your motivational speeches, well wishes, and voodoo spells to Hilatron that she might recover her lost gumption. If we don't do something soon, we fear what the future may hold. An Editor can only take so much daytime television, you know.
Best regards,
The Editors
Posted by hilatron at 12:50 AM | Comments (1)
March 27, 2003
In Which I Channel My High School Literary Magazine Self, But Just for Your Amusement (I Promise), and Only for a Moment (Pinky Swear).
I wear my beige pants to work and
everyone I pass wears beige pants and we
tromp along beigely,
swishing in neutral lockstep.
If we stayed home, our beige pants
could go without us; they know the way
better than we do.
Clothes make the man and beige pants make the underling,
the one who takes the notes and types the letters,
the one who waits for everyone else to finish,
the one who says �Oh, that�s okay.�
Beige belt loops circle
from Monday to Friday
and back again.
Machine wash warm.
Tumble dry low.
To avoid wear, blend in.
Muffle yourself if necessary.
Despair comes not in a black cloak,
but with yard after yard of beige twill
to wrap around us.
Posted by hilatron at 06:40 PM | Comments (3)
March 26, 2003
A fellow sufferer?
Confidential to the person who found Blogatron by searching for "pencil phobia:"
Dude, do you have the same weird problem I do?? Okay here's mine: I have this strange aversion to some, but not all, pointy objects, where I cannot stand to have them pointed toward my eyes. It makes me twitch and cringe; it is related to an irrational fear of getting stabbed in the eye,* but it seems to have an almost physiological source and/or effect. When I have one of my little episodes, it sort of feels like my eyeballs are trying to crawl up into my skull, gibbering in terror. And I blink a lot. And, you know, the twitching.
I am sure it would be pure comedy to record the inside of my head while I am trapped in a meeting with a habitual pen-waver. Wouldn't it, you sick bastard?
It is very revealing of the human psyche to see the number of people who, when told of my phobia, need to test it by jabbing things at my face.
It gets worse in proportion to how sleep-deprived I am.
Partial list of things that aggravate the phobia, in approximate order of botheriness: pens/pencils, clear straws, opaque straws, dental equipment (you know how they put it all in a rack right near your head when you're in the chair? Sadists!), pins/needles, car/tv antennae, scissor points.
Partial list of things that do not aggravate the phobia: tree branches, knives, fork tines, bobby pins, most random non-shiny pointy wooden things.
So, yeah. E-mail me if you do not want to display your freakishness as much as I do, "pencil phobia!" Maybe we can start a coalition and get some government funding. That would be super.
*I mean, it's rational to fear getting stabbed in the eye, but it's irrational to think that your straw is going to leap out of your soda and attack you. Um, not that I've ever thought that.
Posted by hilatron at 02:25 PM | Comments (6)
March 25, 2003
I don't know why I bother.
Look here, Mr. Cat:
You could at least wait until I put the cover on the freshly cleaned litter box, before you befoul it.
It's just good manners.
I mean, really.
Posted by hilatron at 11:58 AM | Comments (2)
March 22, 2003
Inventory
Items needed to update spring wardrobe:
New jacket.
Pants that fit.
Handbag.
Items most definitely not needed:
Funky dresses.
Cute vintage tops.
Costumery.
Books, oh, my God, it is as though I live in a world made of paper already.
Items purchased during recent bout of thrift store fever:
Two pairs of sensible pants.
One cute 50's sweater-girl cardigan.
One late-50's sleeveless cotton eyelet dress.
One funky sleeveless polyester minidress.
One funky 60's silk shell which is several sizes too big but I'm sure I can take it in during all my free time.
One nurse's uniform.
Three outdated how-to books with funny pictures.
Posted by hilatron at 07:55 PM | Comments (0)
Murray's Motto:
No Person Shall Nap Alone.
Or, rather, no person shall nap without having tickly whiskers thrust into their armpit, being walked over, purred at, twirled around near, and finally flopped down upon in such a way that said person cannot move at all.
Posted by hilatron at 05:55 PM | Comments (4)
March 19, 2003
My First Psychiatric Disorder
Circa 1986, at the age of 10 or 11, I became an avid consumer of prepubescent girlporn such as Tiger Beat and Teen Magazine, all those rags which featured interviews with and soft-lit portraits of the pretty long-eyelashed teenage male stars of the hour. Though there is no excusing this sort of behavior, I hope that I am at least somewhat redeemed by the fact that I was always embarrassed to buy them. I think my real motivation was to emulate my best friend's much admired older sister, she of the attitude, satin panties, teal eyeliner, and tumultuous love life. In an attempt to absorb some of her cool through imitation, I decided to paper the walls of my bedroom with glamour shots of my idols, never mind that while she had selected objects of adoration with at least a touch of lasting chic (chiefly members of Duran Duran), I limited myself to choices which have not stood the test of time so well, street cred-wise.
Kirk. Corey. Corey. Keifer. Wil. Ralph. With loving care, I removed the staples and trimmed the pages and set about creating a shrine of nonthreatening cuties. Dozens of pairs of doe eyes gleamed from above my dresser; coy smiles and pensive gazes mingled next to my bed. Stonewashed denim and the ill-advised use of pastels abounded. And for a time, all was good in the Land of Puberty-Driven Poor Taste.
In order to understand the transition from "dorky yet content" to "possibly someone should look into institutionalizing this girl," you must have insight into my childhood mindset. If I think of myself as suffering from a touch of the social anxiety disorder now, I was a full-on mess circa Grade 5. Afraid to talk to people. Seeing insult in the most innocent comment. Prone to living in a dreamworld. Add to this an inability to feather my hair or coordinate slouch socks, and a fondness for writing poetry about cats, and you have the perfect recipe for a self-made preteen outcast. As a result, I had plenty of free time and a strong tendency towards daydreaming about my sparkling wit, fly dancing skills and conquests of the male sex, instead of working on making these things a reality. And since ample fantasy fodder adorned my walls, that's where I started.
It started innocently enough: dinner with one teen idol, a movie with another, a ride in a convertible with a third. The romantic picnic atop the cliff with Ralph, my heavy raven-black hair* flowing in the wind, my sea-green eyes** glowing with happiness, his confession of undying love? That kept me going for weeks. All was (strictly PG-rated) bliss.
There was a problem, however. I was doing well with my settings, characters and props (a red rose, a single tear, etc), but the lack of a realistic premise was starting to get to me. There was just no way I could wrangle an introduction to any of my faux beaus. Once I was within range, I was sure, nary a matinee star could resist the imaginary me, but how was I to get a foot in the door? The objects of my affections were all the way across the country and I had no money for a plane ticket. This detail was really bringing me down: I was not the kind of girl who could just plunk herself down in the middle of a love scene, no questions asked. I needed buildup. I needed an in.
My imagination quickly supplied what I thought, at the time, was a neat solution. Through some act of magic, I decided, the pictures on the walls would create a sort of portal into my bedroom, giving my crushes a vision of me at an opportune moment, such as when a fire was starting to engulf my room as I slept or while I was overcome with despair and sobbing on my bed after a tragic act of betrayal. Through a murky process of deduction, this photo-telepathic actor would be able to figure out where and who I was, and notify the fire department or make the morale-saving phone call as appropriate. Once he was made aware of my existence, Love's Baby Soft-scented ecstasy was sure to follow.
Pleased with this clever twist, I went about my business of reading Anne McCaffrey novels and putting the finishing touches on my trysts during math lessons. It worked out beautifully.
A little too beautifully, as it turned out. I began to take the idea that the subjects of the pictures could see me a bit far. If I invented a particularly fine dance step, the pictures saw and approved. Although I was not allowed to wear my lavender-and-blue eyeshadow artwork out of the house, it was noted and admired by the pictures. Witty commentary on my homework was appreciated by the pictures.
My overinvolvement in this fantasy became problematic when I started worrying. If the pictures could see my triumphant moments, then were my poor fashion choices, zit popping, nose picking and snoring also up for grabs? I started to become self-conscious in my own room, feeling that every act was performed before a clear-skinned, blowdryed audience. It seemed to me that my former beaus were slowly turning on me, becoming more and more cruel and distant in their judgment as they got to know me through observation. And since this little psychodrama was taking place entirely inside my head anyway, it was just a short leap to the horrifying notion that the pictures could not only see me, but read my thoughts as well. There was no time or place that I was safe from their scrutiny.
Using my own special blend of low self-esteem combined with narcissism, I assumed that my imaginary audience of movie stars was deeply interested in, and critical of, the details of my life. I started hiding behind my bunk bed or the closet door to change clothes, and questioned my every move. How could I gain their approval? Were my thoughts cool enough? Would my facial expressions pass muster?
A girl can only take so much. When I ripped all the pictures off my walls and threw them away, I made sure I had a plausible reason for doing so. I sure as hell wasn't going to say "Well Mom, I'm taking these down because I've developed an obsessive belief that they can see and judge my every thought and action!" I mean, I knew it was crazy even though it continued to haunt me. I was painfully aware of the separation between fantasy and reality, even if that separation was doing little to protect me from the disparagement of a bunch of make-believe Peeping Toms.
Today, I am still aware of that separation. I am a functional, capable adult with a job, a mature emotional life, and a successful romantic relationship. I have, for the most part, moved beyond those adolescent days of feeling like I absolutely had to be someone, anyone, other than my awkward, uncool self.
All of this growth, however, does not change the fact that I refuse to hang family pictures in the bedroom, and exercise caution in selecting bathroom reading material: no books with portraits of the author on the cover, thanks.
I mean, what would they think?
*My real hair? Blonde, wavy, fluffy.***
**My real eyes? Blue, with gray. Plus what the hell are "sea-green" eyes anyway? Anyone ever seen this? Yet, for a number of years, all my heroines in all my stories had goddamn sea-green eyes.
***At the time. Now, thanks to chemistry, it is red, and straight.
Posted by hilatron at 06:32 PM | Comments (3)
March 18, 2003
Heavens to Betsy.
Good gracious. Oh my. Yesterday I posted about the truck with tree, and that very evening on my way home from work, I discovered that the truck was gone.
The possibilities, as I see it, are: 1) that the owner of the truck reads this blog and was motivated by my post to move tree, and 2) that I have godlike powers and the universe seeks to put right what I complain about here. In the case of (1), I would like to say: Hello! Please do not be alarmed. I meant no harm. Believe me, I know about some procrastinating. In the case of (2), allow me to note: I DO NOT HAVE TWENTY MILLION DOLLARS. Thank you.
I will be sure to keep an eye out for the truck; in the unlikely event that the truck returns with tree, I'll continue keeping count.
Posted by hilatron at 10:53 PM | Comments (2)
March 17, 2003
Countdown
I'm not sure when I noticed it; definitely sometime after the Presidents' Day storm which dumped 27 inches of snow on the greater Boston area. Let's estimate a week after that, since it was awhile before the snow melted enough to reveal what lay beneath.
So just to give this thing a boundary, let's say that since February 25, there has been this black pickup truck sitting in the parking lot of the building adjacent to mine. In the bed of the truck is a Christmas tree. It was looking a bit the worse for wear when I first noticed it, and the elements have not been kind to it since. Each day makes it more brown and brittle, more naked and skeletal.
There are a couple of peculiar things going on here. One, the truck never moves. I can only imagine the owner of the truck sitting in his or her lonely apartment, haunted by the spectacle of the tree: my imaginary person wants to go places, wants to do the shopping, wants to stock up on oodles of new spring fashions, but can't. How could one drive around with a dead tree in their truck, spewing needles at fellow drivers? It just isn't done. People would stare. Perhaps the tree is an unspoken source of tension in a romantic relationship. My tree owner's significant other may be filled with seething resentment over the continuing presence of the evergreen, seeing it as a symbol of all the little frustrations that have been building: lack of follow-through, inability to let go of the past. The tree symbolizes all those nights when the s.o. has wondered, "Is this really the one? Can I spend the rest of my life with these character flaws?" In my imagining, nothing is said. The truck and tree are merely a silent accusation, acknowledged by no one and thus gaining power every day.
The other thing that is weird is that there is not one, but two dumpsters sitting just yards away from the truck. How much could this dried-out, broken tree weigh? Could it be so hard to just drag it across the lot and heave it in? I mean you could even drive over there. It makes one wonder if perhaps the tree is being kept for some nefarious purpose. What sort of hijinx could you get up to with a dead tree anyway?
I'm at a loss to explain it, but I can track the evidence as best I can and perhaps the truth will come to light. Thus I present you with: the Tree Counter. Starting today, we'll keep track of how long the tree stays there in the pickup truck, using my estimated first sighting date as the beginning. After this entry, I'll move the Tree Counter to the sidebar, but I'll be sure to let you know if there are any notable developments.
Today's Tree Count is: 21 days.
Posted by hilatron at 12:47 PM | Comments (2)
March 16, 2003
Pour me a gallon of rum, talk to me about endangered monkeys, and I'm all yours.
Today was a good day. Friends from New York are visiting, and we are engaging in Boston Activities. It's fun to show my apartment and neighborhood off, but I'm ashamed by how little exploring I've done in this city. Must go on some missions when Josh's poor knee heals.
Anyway, due to the need to fall back on the classics, off we traveled to the Museum of Science this afternoon. Ah, what fun! I must admit to sort of preferring the functional, "family friendly," this-is-the-world-and-how-it-works kind of museums to the here is some old art kind. Those kinds are okay, but given my druthers I will probably gravitate toward the kind where there are buttons to push and things like that.
Some highlights of the Museum: 1) Fabulous, fifties inspired (if not left over from) signage, especially in the "Mathematica" display. Such nice fonts. Such lovely layout. Such meaningful punctuation. I wish they would make some posters of their signs, but I suppose there would not be a big market for that. 2) Tamarins! Oh my goodness they are so cute. Could someone let me know if they get along with cats? Thanks. 3) The lightning show: a perennial favorite. A set straight out of a science fiction movie, loud noises, and bright sparks, not to mention the so-dry-it's-almost-evaporated humor that is the hallmark of New England life.*
It was not until the end of our trip that we went to the gift store, so my disenchantment with my fellow man may be attributed to tiredness. However, it seemed to me that there were some frightening people there. In order, I experienced: three generations of women who had done seriously traumatizing chemical experiments on their hair, respectively: straightened and dyed pitch black atop a pale-yet-leathery face, permed and bleached, bleached and teased into a foot-high corona; a surly buzz-cut teenager with no better way to express his angst than to elbow me in the ribs, CLEARLY ON PURPOSE, as I passed him; a parent having a surreal discussion with his child about proposed methods of discipline: "Do you want me to spank you? Or do you want me to ground you?" (I, myself, do not recall ever having had a range of options, not to mention - spanking! - really! - it's time to put an end to that); endless track suits. Heavens to Betsy, where do all these track suits come from? They're not okay. Can we please all agree on that?
After the Museum it was off to Chef Chow's House for some good food and the shockingly wonderful surprise that was the Scorpion Bowl. Does everyone know about this but me? Okay. It's a bowl. A big bowl. Of liquor. With fruit pieces and ice cubes. And two-foot straws. And a flame in the middle. I have been out of the loop for so long! I must drink so many Scorpion Bowls to catch up!
The next time you hear from me, I do hope that I'll be knee deep in Tiki rum and entertaining my monkey. What better way to dissolve these end-of-winter blahs?
*Hmmm. Could the fact that I spent a good part of my childhood in New Hampshire have something to do with why no one ever gets my jokes? Or is it the whole being not of this earth thing? Nature, or nurture? Who can say?
Posted by hilatron at 01:01 AM | Comments (0)
March 12, 2003
The Stop & Shop Bagger Interview Guide
Welcome to your Guide, Middle Manager! Here you will find a list of the questions you will need to ask your potential Stop & Shop bagger in order to determine if he or she is ready to represent Stop & Shop in his or her duties, and a brief series of bagging exercises to help you determine his or her bagging skill level. Also included are sample responses. As you interview your subject, circle the answer that most resembles his or hers, and then use the handy scoring section at the end of the test to see if you should hire him or her. It's just like Cosmo!
QUESTION 1: As a bagger, you will interact with people all day long. Do you consider yourself a "people person?"
Answer A: Wow, sure! I love to talk to people, try to find out what they need, and give it to them!"
Answer B: Um, I don't mind people, I guess.
Answer C: *Incoherent grunting*
QUESTION 2: Here at Stop & Shop, we sell some things that are heavy, such as large bottles of soda and tubs of kitty litter. How will you react when someone sends these items down your line?
Answer A: I understand that, as a grocery bagger, handling whatever items the store sells is part of my job. If a customer purchases something I can't lift, it would be the work of a moment to call over one of the many teenage boys in uniform who seem to lurk around the registers all day hitting on the cute cashiers, and get him to help out. That would be no problem at all!
Answer B: *Sigh* If someone is going to buy that shit, I'll have to deal with it. *Slouch*
Answer C: Grrrr! Hisssssss!
QUESTION 3: Please demonstrate how you will ask customers what their preferred method of bagging is.
Answer A: "Would you like paper or plastic, sir or madam?"
Answer B: "Paper or plastic?"
Answer C: "PAY-PLAH! PAY-PLAH! PAY-PLAH!"
EXERCISE 1: Have your subject bag the following items: two bottles of soda, five cans of vegetables, two boxes of crackers.
Response A: Two double bags. One contains: one bottle of soda, three cans of vegetables. The other contains: one bottle of soda, two cans of vegetables, two boxes of crackers.
Response B: One double bag containing all the items.
Response C: Two single bags, one of them with a broken handle. One contains: two bottles of soda, four cans of vegetables, and one box of crackers. The other contains: One can of vegetables, one box of crackers.
EXERCISE 2: Have your subject bag the following items: two jugs of soy milk, one bottle of soda, six cans of vegetables, a box of cereal, and a loaf of bread.
Response A: Three bags. One contains: two jugs of soy milk. The second contains: one bottle of soda and one box of cereal. The third contains: six cans of vegetables on the bottom with the loaf of bread laid on top.
Response B: Two bags. One contains: two jugs of soy milk, one bottle of soda, and six cans of vegetables. The other contains: one box of cereal and a loaf of bread.
Response C: Two bags. One contains: six cans of vegetables. The other contains: a loaf of bread laid across the bottom, two jugs of soy milk on one side of it, the box of cereal on the other side of it, and the soda outside the cereal.
EXERCISE 3: Have your subject bag the following items: A produce bag containing six apples.
Response A: *The subject places the apples gently into a bag, and sets the bag gently into the grocery cart.*
Response B: *The subject tosses the apples into a bag, rips the bag off the stand, and lets them drop onto the counter.*
Response C: Apples?! I hate apples! *The subject picks up bag by the wrong end, scatters apples all over the counter, picks them up and throws them onto the floor, stomps on them, picks them back up, spits on them, insults their mother, throws them into a bag, and chucks the bag out the door into the parking lot.*
SCORING GUIDE
Mostly A Answers: Avoid hiring this type. They're likely to be go-getters, and the next thing you know, you'll have to give them a raise or something.
Mostly B Answers: Borderline. Keep an eye out for symptoms of independent thought; if the subject seems to have poor self-esteem and a general sense of overwhelming ennui, they're probably okay.
Mostly C Answers: This is your perfect bagger! They're too poorly socialized to ever kowtow to silly customer demands for service, and the chances of them moving on to a better job, or ever aspiring to move up the chain of command, are extremely slim. Good work!
Posted by hilatron at 12:51 PM | Comments (9)
March 10, 2003
How did my morning go? This is how.
After extensive field experiments, I have reached the conclusion that the following activities cannot be successfully combined:
-Sleeping + Cat wrangling
-Sleeping + Inventing a new snoring prevention device involving Duct tape, a pillow, and the cat
-Turning off alarm + Having vivid dream about "Supertron" responding to an S.O.S. from the imperiled metropolis
-Brushing teeth + Blowing out candle
-Fastening brassiere + Styling hair
-Applying concealer + Making lunch
-Walking to work + Sleeping
Posted by hilatron at 02:45 PM | Comments (2)
March 09, 2003
Correspondence #5: Rejected Testimonial Letters
Dear Proactiv Skin Care:
Your product works so well, I have been forced to begin picking my nose in lieu of having anything to pick on my face!
Thanks,
Hilatron
__
Dear Garnier Nutrisse Hair Dye:
I thought you were kind of expensive, until I experienced the peachy-pink disappointment of Clairol Hydrience Intense �True� �Red.� Now I know you�re worth the two extra bucks.
I�ll Never Stray Again,
Hilatron
P.S. They weren�t kidding about the �Intense� part, though. Dayum.
__
Dear Pilot V-700 Roller Gel Pens:
Oh my goodness, your pens are so nice. I mean they make me [CENSORED]. I almost [CENSORED] every time I bust one out. Mmmm baby.
I Think I Need A Cigarette,
Hilatron
__
Dear Trader Joe�s,
I think it is safe to say that at $2.99 a bottle, your wine is sure to be the intoxicant of choice for winos and underemployed robots looking for cheap thrills.
All That and Not Even Hung Over,
Hilatron
__
Dear Baker�s Shoes,
Although I am sad to see them go, I am frankly astonished that your knockoff of an Aldo shoe which was, in and of itself, a knockoff of some high-fashion trend of the season, has lasted for three whole years before completely self-destructing. I mean, realistically, I gave them a few months at most. But you really went above and beyond my low expectations! Keep up the good work!
Yours,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 03:03 PM | Comments (0)
March 06, 2003
A Momentary Loss of My Usual Aplomb
Dear Co-Worker:
You are a very nice person. You do your job well, you care about people and you are always willing to help out. You are pleasant to speak with and you never seem to be in a bad mood.
However, none of that will matter if you do not STOP WHISTLING RIGHT NOW!!
Best regards,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 09:40 AM | Comments (2)
March 05, 2003
Can't Make a Tron a Housewife
Hmmmm.
You will recall that Valentine's Day brought Josh the special treat of a broken kneecap. Thus, getting around is a trial and carrying things an impossibility for him. Therefore, I am now the household's sole homemaker. Consequently, I have been taught an important lesson about the workings of my psyche, to wit:
I am so not cut out for this Donna Reed gig.
I am not too proud to tell you that my customary insistence on equality in the division of household chores has little to do with any feminist principle and much to do with my intense dislike of cleaning, cooking, folding and dusting. Fortunately, Josh's parents raised him right, and up until now, this division has gone smoothly and without complaint: no shoulderer of unfair burdens, I.
Lately, of course, things have changed. Josh is out of the running, housework-wise. It's difficult to say which one of us has it harder: me, with the sudden doubling of chores, or him, having to eat my *shudder* and/or *yawn* cooking every night for dinner. One thing is for sure, though: smiling sweetly and providing unobtrusive service to my family does not come naturally. Murray has about had it with my lengthy monologues on his level of poop production. Josh, knowing that he depends on me for water glass placement, is wisely keeping his own counsel, but I sense that I am approaching my quota on world-weary sighs.
The main problem here, I think, is my inability to come to terms with the cyclical nature of housework. I am forever staring at a sink full of every single dish we own, including that weird cooking utensil that we don't even know what it does, and saying "What! Again?!" I am unable to shake the "There, that's done" feeling that registers with each completed task, despite knowing that it will have to be done again and again. Thus, I am constantly ambushed by clutter, dirt, and smelly things that, in my deluded opinion, should not be there, since I just took care of them. It's getting so I'm afraid to turn bright lights on, for fear of the mess that will have mockingly appeared since the last time I looked. I believe I may be developing a new syndrome, something like Cleanliness Expectation Dissociation Disorder.
This could get ugly. If my theory is correct, it's only a matter of time before I start to question my own senses. "Sure," I'll think, "it looks clean to me, but what do I know? After all, I could have sworn I just did laundry, and yet a pile of dirty socks just tried to hug Murray!"
Once my mind starts to go, it'll all be downhill, of course. I'll begin to buy "cooking" wine by the case. I'll make thinly veiled sexual comments to the paperboy, who will just be horrified due to my chosen attire of a mustard-stained housecoat and tube socks. I will growl at people in the grocery store.* I will scream obscenities at telemarketers who call during the day and interrupt my stories.
Two weeks down, four more weeks on the crutches. Pray for us, lest you find me on the porch sneaking Pall Malls, while Josh has clandestine meetings with a fetching young physical therapist who fluffs his pillows with a smile and "just can't understand how anyone could let themselves go like Hilatron did, when she had a fine catch like you!" It's going to be a long, cliched March.
*Okay, but louder than now, smartass.
Posted by hilatron at 12:43 PM | Comments (2)
March 03, 2003
Thanks for Coming, Get Home Safe
Thank you for all your birthday wishes. I may be imagining it, but I believe that my circuits received a little ether-borne "zing!" at the appointed non-hour of my birth on Friday night, providing them with the energy required after a long day of bus riding and party shopping.
Preparations for the soiree moved forward like a smooth and painless military operation, only more fun, thanks in large part to the superior planning skills of the Captain and the advanced errand-running technology that is Agent Mike. In just a day and a half, we were able to shop for and prepare the following menu: split pea pakoras, beet-walnut salad on endives, chocolate and cheese fondue, and tiny angel food bundt cakes, chocolate or plain, with strawberry or chocolate sauce to garnish. Things turned out delicious, if I may say so, and all without measuring spoons! (Although I still say that your flatware tablespoons ARE NOT THE SAME AS MEASURING TABLESPOONS, Captain. Twitch twitch incorrect volume estimate protocol detected whirrr zzzzpp error error!)
A word of advice: if you are planning to serve champagne cocktails at your next party, estimate high and get a few bottles more than you think you'll need. Because the cocktails will be so swanky, so attractive and appealing and tasty, that even your usual beer swillers and jack-and-cokers will try one and come back for more. Luckily, when we ran out, we were at the point in the evening when people were ready to say "Oh, you're out of champagne then? Tra la la, no matter, just pour me a drinking glass of gin if you will." Here is what we should have had more of:
Classic Champagne Cocktail: Drop one sugar cube into your glass, add a splash of Angostura bitters, and pour champagne over all. The cube will fizz delightfully. You will probably go to the liquor store and they will not have bitters, but that's all right - just get some sweet and sour mix and that will do nicely.The Pear Passion:
Cut Bartlett pears into 1/4-inch cubes. Soak in pear brandy for not more than two hours. Add 4 or 5 cubes to the bottom of the glass, and pour your champagne over them. The pear cubes are supposed to "dance," which apparently means "float" to cocktail dilettantes like me.
Thanks to everyone who came, and love to those who e-mailed me that you could not make it. It was great to see so many friends after the cold, rather introverted month of February. Hopefully I managed to socialize with everyone enough, and convey my deepest affection properly, despite champagne tipsiness. You are the icing on my cake, after all.
Posted by hilatron at 10:47 AM | Comments (1)