Can't Spell Panic Without an "Eye"

Sometimes I wear glasses, but most of the time I walk around semi-blind because I refuse to wear contacts. The idea of sticking my fingers in and around my eyes completely disgusts me. I’ve never tried before, but the other day I got a glimpse of what it would be like.
You know when you buy new clothes/accessories, one of the first things you do is remove the price tag? Well, there are two types of people in this world: those who like Neil Diamond and those who don’t, and those who rip price tags off and those who use scissors. I’m the latter and the former.
I bought a hair clip from H&M and was fixing to put my hair up and just ripped the tag. Something malfunctioned and a tiny piece of plastic flew right into my left eye. I screamed – a lot – and looked in the mirror trying to find the piece of plastic. It was stuck UNDER my eye lid. I could SEE it under my eyelid when it was closed. Continuing to scream and say “Oh no” over and over again with visions of eye patches and parrots on my shoulder running through my head, I had to dig around my eye and find the piece of plastic. This struggle lasted at least two minutes, but felt like 30 hours. Both my eyes were revolting, tearing, stinging and I finally found the plastic and vowed never to have contacts because I’m sure the experience is exactly the same thing.

Waiter, There's a Baby Leg on My Beach

I went down to Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. for a few days for a work conference; it was so nice to be outside without a jacket and scarf for a few days.

A colleague and I went for a walk on the beach together, with the warm water splashing over our toes. We had to weave in and out of piles of jellyfish that were brightest blue I'd see outside of a box of crayons. Then, we had to avoid another hazard, a baby leg:

Back on the farm

I took a day off from work today and, at 3:45 pm, I have yet to leave my couch. I've been watching television all day. Now, I'm flipping between Tool Academy (amazing) and Date My Mom (only because there was nothing interesting on PBS, of course). As this is my first time watching this show (read: not at all), I should explain the premise. Instead of going on dates with a girl his own age, the male contestant goes on dates with the daughter's mom to choose his later date, hence, Date My Mom. They always interview the mother and daughter before they go on their date, where it's their chance to say something corny like, "It's 2009, this boy's mine". Well, this one daughter looks at the camera and says, "This guy better be hung like a horse to get through THESE barn doors." ... um ... well ... (...) (...) I ...
I'm just letting you all know this is happening while you're hard at work, or watching Citizen Kane or reading the Collected Stories of Nabokav.

The Ultimate in Man Babies

Last night, I went with a friend to see "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button". I loved the short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, but quickly realized even through the previews, that it wouldn't be the same.

When we were waiting for the movie to start we talked about the normal stuff: New Year's plans, Christmas vacations, and, of course, Man Babies.

We were probably pretty obnoxious to other theater goers because as soon as they showed Benjamin Button as a "baby" we were obnoxiously disgusted. But our loudest guffaw was when Benjamin's mother called him, "not a boy, but a man child".

Please to enjoy, some of my favorite "man childs":

I'm Turning Into The Fly

In the 1986 re-make of The Fly, Jeff Goldblum, turns into a creature after an experiment goes terribly, terribly wrong. Geena Davis is the first to notice these changes when she catches a glimpse of some very thick hairs growing on his back: Now, I've already talked about my rapidly-growing, single back hair. But recently, I've sprouted some Fly-esque hairs between my eyebrows.

I come from a proud tradition of the unibrow. My father has a unibrow, my grandfather had a unibrow and I'm sure his father's father felt the winds of the Atlantic tickle his unibrow on the boat to French Canada many, many years ago.

My sister and I have been waxing our eyebrows for years in hopes to discourage hair growth - it's worked to some extent. But, now, even the sweet lady who reshapes my brows frowns at the development. I get the frown, the "hmmmm" and the hope that maybe if she leaves the wax on longer that hair will wave the white flag.

I know stray hairs are something that happen as you age, but why does one have to sprout right between my eyeballs? Any suggestions besides looking forward to having 4,000 lenses in each eye?

Taking the Fun out of Fungi

I've been thinking a lot lately why I've probably had bronchitis twice in the last two months (I say probably because I haven't actually been to the doctor. I picked the wrong insurance plan - the one with an insane deductible and also the one with mental health coverage for my inevitable nervous breakdown which I can't afford - mentally or financially).

Yes, bronchitis voice can be sexy - Rod Stewart made a career out of it. But, outside of topping the Billboard Charts, spitting up green globs, stifling coughs during conference calls at work and constantly clearing my throat is less than attractive.

Two nights ago I had one of the worst nights I've had in a long time; I shivered so much from my fever that my jaw was sore the next morning. For whatever reason, I still decided to go to work but arrived looking menopausal with sweat teeming down my face. My boss sent me home and I slept for an impressive 21 hours.

I feel much better now, but have a new development: when I exhale or yawn, my fingers get very tingly. I did some research, and the Internets have told me that I have multiple sclerosis. Has this sensation happened to anyone else? (outside from eating a York Peppermint Pattie)

After my extensive research (read: Google), I looked around my apartment for clues why I might be sick.

First, in my bedroom I have one window that still has the air conditioner unit in it. This air conditioner is very old - it wasn't mine to begin with, it was my ex-boyfriend's, but I decided that if I had to pay for our sin apartment all by myself after he moved out, I could at least keep the AC. I'm sure it's seeping death/failed relationship particles into my room at night, but one of my best friends/resident male handymen recently moved back to Chicago. I'm usually not THIS girly, but I do need a man for a few things.

Then, there's my Brita filter. I have not changed this filter since I moved back to New York ... in April of last year. I've essentially been sifting dirty New York water through a dirty Brita filter into my body. No wonder my lungs feel like those of an 80-year-old smoker.

Since I was in my kitchen, I looked around for other signs. Here is a towel where my roommate and I dry all our dishes. Full disclosure, sometimes these dishes sit here for days not being put away. But, look at what we have here - mold!:

Then, I knew what I was going to find in my bathroom. I've been ignoring it for a long time - passive aggressively hoping someone else would buy a new shower curtain liner. I'm embarrassed to share this, but if I put it out there, maybe I'll change it:

I've taken the same passive aggressive approach with the Irish Spring in the shower, too. Whose IS that?
I can't keep spending money on NyQuil knock-offs and killing my lungs, especially if I refuse to pay my voodoo doctor more money to cure me when I know what I'm doing wrong. Tonight after work, I am going to clean my apartment head to toe to make sure I don't get sick anymore, because if you want something done ... wait until you're on your death bed and are finally forced to do it yourself.

Overheard Conversations I Wish I Didn't Overhear

Woman on phone: Yes, hello. I need to make an appointment for another pap smear.
...
Woman on phone: When? Well, I'm wide open.

The ups and downs of living in New York City

You walk to the subway and see the same homeless man in a mesh shirt you see every morning on the way to work; only this time, he's proudly standing over a pile of poop. His own.

Then, you wait for the subway and see the operator in the front wearing a skeleton glove on his hand to drive the train, and this excites you to the point of joy that totally redeems what just happened.

Judgment Day

Terminator 2 is one of my favorite movies. So you can imagine my excitement for Terminator 4: Salvation, starring my favorite actor Christian Bale. I just saw the teaser trailer the other day. And, I was so sad to read that today he turned himself into police for domestic disturbance. I, like many abused women, started to make excuses for him: he's probably stressed, everyone has a crazy family, maybe he's on steroids for Batman and the Terminator, he's a method actor leave him alone, he played one of the greatest characters ever, Patrick Bateman - that's hard to shake! Maybe a German Shepherd started barking at his mother and he thought she's the T-1,000.

I don't know.

But, I do know that the idea of machines coming to life and killing the human race is frightening to me, but feels very real. In fact, pets are very sensitive to technology; dogs are the ones to recognize the first terminator. This weekend at home my family cat, Jelly Bean aka "Catty", ran from her electronic litter box that my mom gave my dad for Christmas this year (?):



I have my own version of an electronic litterbox that I hate and run from. It's the grossest invention out there. I doubt boys even know of their existence, and I doubt even higher that this is FRESH plastic being circulated on the seat. Here it is at the Chicago O'Hare airport:


We've already survived August 29, 1997. I just hope Bale survives July 22, 2008.

...

Cold Case Files: Ladies Room

Today I had one of the most disturbing experiences of my life at work. It wasn't wasn't with my job performance, it wasn't with technology, but it was with a co-worker. Well, indirectly.

Usually while I'm working I try to drink as much water as humanly possible as a reason to keep getting up from my desk: 1) to get more water 2) to make pee. Today after many glasses of water I walked into the bathroom and saw it.

The stall all the way over the right, MY STALL, looked like a crime scene. Someone had taken off their womanly NEEDS and left it on the floor of the stall - MY STALL - and somehow on part of the wall. I was so grossed out and now I can't return to that stall ever again. Maybe not even that bathroom.