All posts by Iris

Sunday

Me and My Life, Portraits of People and Places

I wanted to go to church this morning. I didn’t go last week because I was getting sick. I didn’t go the week before because I had to work. So I wanted to go back, reconnect a little, and see some of the people I’m just starting to actually know there. But as I slowly started getting ready for the day, I realized that the hour-long drive there might actually be dangerous in my state, so I gave up and resigned myself to another long, tedious, miserable day on the couch staring at the same walls, thinking the same thoughts, and doing extensive cost-benefit analyses every time I contemplate getting up to do such strenuous things as make tea.

I knew this would start messing with my head, and sure enough, after a few hours spent resenting the sunshine and the texture on my walls and the unrelenting wasteland that is Sunday morning TV and the corduroy of the couch and… well, you get the idea. After a few hours of that I realized that I’d been miscalculating those costs and benefits and that the consequences of staying on the couch were far greater than those of getting out of the house.

Unfortunately, the coffee shop was so full that there wasn’t a seat to be had. Strangers were already making themselves as narrow as possible so as not to actually touch each other while sitting three across on the couches. Students and townies were already awkwardly sharing tables with each other. A few brave souls were even bundled up and sitting outside on the bank of four old theater seats (you know, the wooden kind where the seat part folds up to meet the back, and where it’s never quite clear who gets to use the arm rests).

“Cost. Benefit. I could go back home to stare at those textured walls, or I could try to take a walk,” I told myself. And so I bought some coffee (caffeinated, for the first time in weeks, because at this point moving is more important to me that being a purist) and set out on a walk. 40 minutes later, after having walked 4 blocks (thankfully the short sides of those blocks), rested on a park bench for about 10 minutes, and then walked back, there were seats open at the coffee shop.

And so here I am.

There are music wars going on behind the counter, so every few minutes the rock music stops abruptly in the middle of a riff and a mellow singer-songwriter type comes on. A few minutes later someone else will interrupt the long string of “My doctor says I’ll be fine, but I’m feelin’ blue. My doctor says I’m fine, but I’m feelin’ blue. Ooooh, my doctor says -” and back comes the driving beat and hoarse-voiced singer.

By now I’m pretty much the only post-collegiate adult here. Living so close to a college means that Sunday afternoons at the coffee shop means fighting for space amongst the chemistry textbooks, backpacks, highlighters, and laptops. One girl has brought an apple, complete with apple corer. The corer now rests on the rim of her empty water glass, the perfectly cylindrical core down in the glass itself, and she slowly and distractedly pops apple slices into her mouth in between highlighter swipes. Another girl has basically moved in and could probably survive here until Tuesday without leaving if it weren’t for her class schedule. She’s well-equipped with fruit, bags of nuts, a jar of Eucerine cream, her phone, her laptop, three or four notebooks, and a good twenty pounds of text books. Another girl is telling her friend, “I don’t know if legwarmers are in any more, but I’m wearing them anyway. It’s cold!”

And still the sun is shining. And I still resent its cheeriness. But at least there is no texture on these walls, and this couch is not made of corduroy. And I can amuse myself by trying to guess just how long before one of the employees will lose patience with the music. (Oh. There it went. Not long, then.) And so I think I’ll tackle some of the work that has to get done before tomorrow and then make my way back to the couch, where some ibuprofen will probably make short work of these aching legs (which are reminding me that they didn’t have a vote when I decided to go for that walk, earlier).

And still the sun is shining.

This is mine and this is mine and this is mine and this is mine

Living with Cats

Every once in a while, Ira Glass interrupts himself on This American Life to say something like “Now, we should note that the next story may not be suitable for all audiences. There’s nothing graphic or anything, but it does acknowledge the existence of sex.” These warnings always make me smile. Tere’s a whole lot of ground between “existence” and “graphic,” so the notice feels more like a wink and a nudge than a warning. And if I’m bothered by the existence of sex, it’s too late now to back up and unhear the warning.

Well, since I’m still laid up with the aftermath of the flu and desperately in need of something to do that doesn’t require moving, or even sitting up, I thought I’d write a little. But the thing that popped into my head to write about is one that triggers an Ira Glassian warning in my head every time I mentally compose the post.

We should note that the following story may not be suitable for all audiences. There’s nothing graphic or anything, but it does acknowledge the existence of bathrooms and that adults sit on toilets.

There. Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and for those of you who don’t know, Pippin is a cat. I feel that this could be an important piece of context before we proceed.

Without further ado…

Twice a day, Pippin claims me as his own property — once in the morning and once after work. It started innocently enough. At first, he’d follow me solemnly into the bathroom and sniff my folded hands as I sat on the toilet. Then one day he gently and deliberately rubbed each of his whiskered cheeks against those folded hands. Apparently, this exercised pleased him. The next time we met there in the bathroom, he was much more insistent and thorough in his marking. He applied multiple layers of scent to each hand, stopped to sniff his handiwork, and then reapplied scent where needed.

That was all well and good. Cute, even. But then simple cheek-rubbing stopped being sufficient for the job. Why stop with scent glands when you can add saliva? And so, little by little, he started rubbing his whiskered cheeks and his teeth repeatedly against each clasped hand. And then he started licking and gnawing in between scent applications, and his nose-nuzzling became downright aggressive.

He also became increasingly impatient for me to sit down to be marked. It used to be that when I got home from work he’d flop onto his back and request a belly rub. Now he precedes me emphatically down the hall to the bathroom, where I’m expected to follow regardless of need, it seems. And if I do follow, he sometimes rears up on his hind legs to begin the process before I even sit down.  On the rare occasion that he’s otherwise occupied and doesn’t notice when I wake up in the morning, he’ll come running from whatever corner of the house he’s been exploring, meowing loudly to let me know he’s coming. “I’m here! Wait up!! Sorry I’m late!”

I suppose this particular reaffirmation of willingness to be companions might get old eventually, but as long as he doesn’t progress to blood drawing I think the odd ritual can continue. If nothing else, it gives me a story to tell that requires a Glassian warning, which makes the whole thing doubly amusing.

And Now I’m a Statistic

Me and My Life

Being allergic to eggs means I can’t get flu shots. Not getting flu shots means I have a pretty good chance of getting the flu, particularly since my formerly iron-clad immune system seems to have adopted a kinder, gentler, first-come first-served attitude lately.

And so when what had felt like a perfectly normal energy crash on Sunday developed to include aching joints, a persistent cough, and that “don’t mess with me, I’m working on a fever” feeling, I knew that all my hand-washing had been in vain. I’m now one of those “people we suspect had the flu but don’t really know because testing them all would be a drag” numbers that you’ll hear about on the news.

Being ill is boring, but I did learn a few interesting things this week. For example, did you know that there’s a whole show called “Flipping Out” on cable? The premise appears to be that people (though possibly only the semi-delirious people) will happily spend hours watching a self-centered, micromanaging, manipulative, OCD guy flip out at his employees while he remodels the houses of the fabulously rich and famous. Apparently this show is also interesting enough to make for marathon material, which is handy if at some point during the day you feel like you haven’t seen enough over-reaction to minor drama, or if you catch yourself wondering if this guy is always like that, or if you just caught him at a bad moment last time you flipped past that channel. The higher your fever goes, the more compelling this train wreck seems, and you may even find yourself watching an entire episode just to see if the poor minion underling will crack under the diatribes that follow such horrible infractions as forgetting to order guacamole with lunch. (The answer, apparently is “yes,” followed by the self-centered, micromanaging, manipulative, OCD guy wondering why he keeps having to hire replacement employees every couple of weeks.)

I also learned that I really REALLY want a diagnosis for whatever’s sapping my energy on a regular basis. Being laid up with the flu is no more tiring than the energy crashes that knock me out every couple of weeks, which is kind of a startling reality check for me. The main differences are that the flu also brought a cough and some pretty intensely achy joints, and that the flu has a name and therefore comes with carte blanche to stay home and watch stupid TV between naps. Although, I suppose contagion also plays a role in just how socially acceptible it is to stay home, and I’m not crazy about the idea of having a chronic contagious condition.

And finally, I learned that my cat really prefers me when I’m radiating a little more heat than normal. When my fever broke, he hopped off my lap in disgust and went to go curl up in a fleesy hammock and gaze at me in disappointment.

Curious

Randomness

There’s got to be a story behind the handful of doritos, plastic fork, baseball helmet, and pair of sneakers that appeared in the front yard yesterday.

I’d also like to know what’s happened to my neighbor, who keeps getting memos from the main office, but who hasn’t seemed to be living here for the last month and a half.

Randomness

Me and My Life

I’m having one of those evenings… so here comes a brain dump.
I think I need to transition to WordPress so that I can password protect some posts. Not that I want to say bad things about people, but I’m on an introspective kick lately, and sometimes those things shouldn’t be let out into the real world too far. And yet, I appear to need to write this stuff down into a space like this, so I think I need a platform that’ll support a little more granular control.
I need to fill out the reams of paperwork that go along with Monday morning’s doctor appointment. I’ve been avoiding it for two reasons: 1) I hate paper work in general, and 2) Just the idea of going to another doctor makes me feel a little ill, so I’ve been avoiding the paperwork. I’ve got to finish it tonight, though. And really, as long as this doctor doesn’t tell me I’m wasting his time it’ll be better than the last guy.

I’m spending tomorrow with a really good friend. We’ll celebrate her birthday with two meals separated by lots of hanging out. I’ve been incredibly lucky to become friends with such wonderful people over the years. It seems sappy to say that, somehow, but it’s absolutely true. I don’t understand how friendship and love happen, but I’m so very glad they do. And so tonight I look forward to tomorrow and think fondly of my other friends.

I also don’t understand why Blogger did away with spell check in its new editor. I depend on that like you wouldn’t believe. The fact that I now copy each post into Word to check my spelling is an indication of just how much I depend on it. Probably yet another reason to leave Blogger, I guess.

Seeing my family for less than 24 hours has left me feeling a little eviscerated. I miss them so much, and I’m too worn out to deal with this like a mature person. All of my mental energy has already been used up by not caring too much when my extended family came up to me over the course of the weekend, nudged me, and commented that we’re running out of cousins to marry off.

I was reminded this weekend that public displays of affection just don’t happen in Japan. A Japanese friend was floored by things that seem so normal at a wedding — the new couple dancing together, clinking glasses to ask the bride and groom to kiss… And I realized that I’ve only seen my parents kiss a handful of times. I’d never noticed this before since everything about their interactions has always been saturated by deep affection and respect for each other, but last night I mused about how deeply their cross-cultural pasts have shaped them and to some extent, I’m sure, my siblings and myself.

Tonight’s project (other than paperwork) is to rest up. To that end, I’m eating Italian peasant bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, drinking a glass of red wine, watching stupid TV, and probably going to bed early. There’s probably also some ice cream with homemade strawberry sauce in my near future.

And since early bed is seeming more and more imperative by the minute, I think it’s time to break out the paperwork.