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February 26, 2004
Hungry Hungry Hilatron
In all of the stress and drama that is going on right now, my brain is trying to escape into a safe haven of utter triviality. With my father in dire* straits, the sudden need for me to take on a host of time-consuming and bureaucracy-intersecting duties, my future suddenly looking a lot less carefree than it did one month ago, I have chosen to become annoyed about…my diet.
Let’s just say that I am not one of those people whose appetite suffers when I am feeling stressed. With the exception of a particularly vibrant case of the flu at around age 11, no illness, life situation or emotional upheaval has ever prevented me from getting my three (or four, or five) squares a day. In fact, if anything, my stomach’s demands for regular meals only strengthen during times of crisis. I’m sure that you would all like to picture me hovering concernedly over the dear father’s bed, asking if there’s anything I can get him, soothing his worries and the like, but alas, the picture is only complete if you add a thought bubble which reads “You know, that hummus in the hospital cafeteria lacked seasoning. This time I think I’ll try the grilled cheese on rye. With tomatoes. And I wonder what they have for dessert today…”
The pants that I am wearing today are a grim testament to this trend – I swear they fit in January. I am fairly certain that two of my limbs could spontaneously detach while I was sitting in a burning building breaking up with Josh during an earthquake the day after my cat died, and the foremost priority in my mind would be what I might make for dinner, and how soon I could justifiably get that going. This infernal self-preservation thing is becoming annoying.
*Not deathbed-dire, but “Hmm. You’re probably going to live a long time, but what we’re less sure of is how fun that life is going to be for you” kind of dire.
Posted by hilatron at 12:04 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
February 23, 2004
Confidential to some of the people I pass on the way to work:
Dear Lady Who Wears the Perfectly Round Circles of Blush:
What’s that all about? You’re at least forty, and not identifiably crazy outside of the weird doll makeup. (You could also stand to go a little easier on the perfume, but that could be said of a dishearteningly large number of people.) So anyway, I wonder about you. How did this trend start? Was it a gradual process, where you just started to get lazy with the blending and gradually got acclimated to the way it looks? Do you think it gives you a girlish charm? Do your coworkers make fun of you behind your back?
Curiously,
Hilatron
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Dear Blonde Girl,
Okay. I can respect that you’re rocking a whole sorority girl thing, with the L.L. Bean and the athleticism and the smiling and the faux-retro-preppie-slut clothing that’s so popular with the kids these days. I mean, it’s a look, I guess. Also, I’m sure that your cute button nose and perky physique ensure that you rarely spend a Saturday night bereft of the company of some strapping young man, adorned with Abercrombie t-shirt, smelling of hormones and CK1. To each her own, I’m sure you would want none of my homebody, artwanker, cult-movie worshiping lifestyle yourself, it is a world of infinite variety, and so on.
However, this thing you’ve got going on lately is just disturbing. I noticed back in January that your complexion had gone from standard-issue milkfed peaches and cream to an out-of-season tan, but I figured that maybe you’d just gotten back from some fabulous Christmas break vacation. No big thing.
Then there was the footwear. True, we were past the unbelievable cold spell that held early January in its terrible thrall, but still. Flip-flops are simply not something you want to see on anyone’s feet in winter in New England. It’s unsettling. My own toes curl in sympathetic distress every time I pass you, plus it’s just plain wrong to pair them with a puffy North Face jacket.
This morning, I realized that things have gone too far. If no one else is going to tell you, I will – girl, you’re orange. Put the self-tanner down and back away slowly. I don’t know if you think it makes you look healthier or thinner or what, but seriously, you are just scaring us. And still with the sandals! It was 25 degrees out this morning, not counting the wind chill factor!
I beg you to face facts and accept that it’s still winter, Blonde Girl. I realize that you’d probably rather be getting hosed down by a drunken emcee on sunny Miami Beach, but pneumonia and an increased risk of skin cancer never made anything better.
Concernedly,
Hilatron
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Dear Space Taker,
Every day it is the same. Am I the only person who stands up to you and your sidewalk-hogging ways? Don’t you get tired of pretending to be shocked when I don’t walk in the street or through the bushes so that you can remain plumb in the middle of our shared path? Well, do your worst. This here’s my half, even if I do have to keep body-checking you to prove it.
Resolvedly,
Hilatron
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Dear Preschool Class that Uses One of Those Kid-on-a-Rope Devices With the Little Handles for Each Child, Making Them Into a Bumbling, Slow-moving Little-kid Train:
I should probably be horrified at the enforced conformity or something, plus I don’t even like kids all that much, but awwwww.
Hypocritically,
Hilatron
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Dear Sort of Arty-Looking Guy Who Wears the Same Kind of Khakis Every Day, Along With a Resigned, Tolerant, “I’d Rather Be Winning the Lottery” Expression:
I’ll bet you were not really cut out to be an administrative support employee either, were you?
Understandingly,
Hilatron
Posted by hilatron at 03:38 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
February 18, 2004
Is It Me?
If someone would kindly tell me what is up, if I have the words “CUT HERE” written on my back in letters of flame invisible only to me, or what, I would sure appreciate it. Sunday night, the scene was as follows: I am standing in line at the McDonald’s in the bus station, needing nothing more desperately than I need fries and a shake, arteries be damned. There is one person in front of me paying, and one person in front and to the left of me, gathering his straws and whatnot. Suddenly another guy appears – tall, leather jacket, surly, possibly a bit crazy, in demeanor. He sort of capers up to the straw gatherer, stands next to him, and says something meant to sound like a familiar greeting, but it comes off a bit too aggressive, or something. Straw Guy looks bewildered. While this all happens, my sluggish brain is trying to sound the alarm bell (“Something’s up, yo! Straw Guy does not know this guy! Why is he in front of you?”), but the system has had a rough day and it’s not getting through fast enough. Paying guy finishes, and, you guessed it, Surly/Crazy slides right on in front to place his order. For which he does not have enough money. So there has to be a discussion about why the Supersize Manly Meal #5, or whatever, costs more than five dollars. And it is oh, so hard to pick out a drink, you know? Etc.
This whole time I am standing there, staring at the back of his bony head, and…I just can’t. I can’t say or do anything. For one thing, after a day that began with cramming my dad’s entire life into a 5x10 storage space and ended with a particularly unhappy visit to the nursing home I’ve seen way too much of, but not nearly as much as Dad has, in the last week, after having to weigh options that I have never even dreamed of before, all of them unpleasant, after being confronted time and again with situations for which I have no preparation and no reference, I just don’t have the energy to commit even one more self-directed act. For another thing, I have pretty much had it with the stress thing, and I am a little afraid that if there is another dismissive Stay-Put situation I will actually end up in jail this time. Or in the hospital myself, since, for a third thing, there is something a little scary about Surly/Crazy and he is bigger than me.
Oh, and then the shake machine was broken.
But yeah, if anyone has a handy guide to looking less like someone you can cut in line, and also less like someone you pick to sit next to when the bus is full, that would be just super.
Posted by hilatron at 09:49 AM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
February 16, 2004
Dividing Line
I have discovered the one thing that separates people like me from rich people - not synthetic fibers, not health insurance, not luxury vehicles, not higher education. Nope. It's cords.
Rich people do not have visible cords. Ever. I had this revelation while looking at a picture of my grandmother sitting on the couch in her old house in Alton, taken when I was little. What made it look sorta trashy? Was it the poor lighting? The rust-and-orange floral couch (made out of some sort of ghastly synthetic wool later proven to be the world's itchiest substance)? My grandma's polyester blouse?
It was none of those things. What it was was the cord trailing from the needlepoint-sampler wall clock and disappearing behind the couch, an unseemly manifestation of inconveniently placed outlets. I look around my apartment, and I see nothing but cords: playstation controllers trailing in front of the television, speaker wire adorning the bedroom wall, an extension creating a safety hazard across the hallway in order to provide power to the cordless (ha!) phone. Rich people don't put up with that shit. You won't see them cursing in the middle of the night, tripping over the wiry obstacle that keeps their rotating fan going. I have yet to see a brown plastic extension cord worming its way across anyone's living room on Cribs. I'm not sure how they do it, but I'll know I've made it when these accursed connections are hidden away at last.
Posted by hilatron at 06:55 PM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
February 11, 2004
Slackers post links
Oh my goodness look at all this teal. I'm still running around like a damn fool, getting not much accomplished, not even posting a guest entry that was kindly sent to me. For now, go elsewhere:
Today's the day. The Massachusetts Supreme Court is debating, among other things, an amendment to the Constitution that would specifically deny the right of marriage to gay people. What's that sound? Thomas Jefferson spinning, y'all. Mass Equality has suggestions for how to take action. I called my representatives; how about you?
Since I am clearly not going to be able to plan the party I wanted to, here's a good way to celebrate my real birthday. C'mon, people! Make it happen! (Thanks aviatrix for the heads-up.)
Posted by hilatron at 07:53 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
February 06, 2004
I'm not dead...
...just dead tired. Since Monday I've been out of town dealing with, reacting to, and/or being assaulted by a family crisis of ever-expanding proportions. Maybe I'll tell you some things about that sometime, but right now nothing looks better than my bed. I'll leave you with this tidbit: in the name of all that is holy, establish a filing system for your paperwork before you start to go a little potty in the memory department. Land sakes.
Oh, and any kind thoughts and well wishes you can spare for Dad o' Tron would be most appreciated. They'll definitely come in handy.
Posted by hilatron at 09:55 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack