Umbilically Attached to Our Stuff

Okay, so I enjoy giving (or receiving) the perfect gift just as much as the next American, and I would never suggest to anyone that you-know-who is the reason for the season. But I do think we've lost track of something huge (our humanity, maybe?) when a crowd is so focused on getting at the Cheap Stuff They Want that they inadvertently kill a person on their way into a store, and everyone just keeps on shopping. In fact, screw our humanity: at this point, even our animal instincts toward self-preservation are being dangerously misused.

It's My Pity Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

Those of you who subscribe to this blog have probably figured out that I bumped the keyboard shortcut for "Publish" (what are the odds?) while I was typing the title of this post. You will have been notified that I posted something about self-pity, which turned out to be blank. So even if I decided to write this for pure catharsis value and then not publish it, some of you would know I was emotionally wonky. This being the case, I figure I owe you an explanation of what's been making me sad/angry/frustrated lately (aside from the fact that I'm a careless typist):

1. The class I'm teaching went amazingly well for the first week, and then went promptly into the shitter. Case in point: when teaching a chapter about locating subjects and verbs, it's best, as the instructor, not to have to admit in front of your students that you aren't really sure what the main verb in that sentence is. Being groggy from a long weekend cannot fully excuse flamboyant stupidity.
2. Aside from that, I thought I was doing pretty well, and that the students were, too, until I graded the first test. Not good. Not good at all. While this probably has more to do with test anxiety than my teaching skills, I'm afraid a certain amount of self-blame is just part of responsible teaching.
3. Due to some ill-timed government nonsense, I'm pretty sure we're driving around in an unregistered car.
4. I'm thrilled that the loud sex neighbors are now shrieking with orgasmic delight over someone else's head at 4 A.M., but we're still stuck with the neighbor directly below us, who has a recording studio in his bedroom (I swear I couldn't make this up), and likes to work in it after midnight. When he wakes me up, one of us goes down to complain and he falls all over himself apologizing, but feeling bad only goes so far when he's too clueless/inconsiderate/forgetful to make it more than a few nights without doing it again.
5. Because I want to limit my complaints to when it really matters (at night when I need to be sleeping), I feel unable to go down and pound on his door right now, while the volume on his stereo is up so high our whole apartment is vibrating. I don't recognize what he's listening to now, but the other day I was startled awake from a nap by "Don't Worry, Be Happy." Just like if Bobby McFerrin had been in my living room.
6. Also, he thinks my name is Erica, and calls me that every time he sees me. It's too late to correct him.
7. A very good friend moved to Washington this week.
8. Most of the friends I'm left with are casual friends from work, or Eric's friends first. A lot of them are single men.
9. Last night, while we were trying to make plans with some of these friends, one of them suggested going to a strip club. I think a strip club could be fun, but only if there were other women in the group, and there weren't. The guys briefly surmised that they didn't want to "choose between boobs and Amber," then unanimously chose boobs. I was left home with the cats and a rerun of Saturday Night Live.
10. Sad calling, it turns out, is not entirely unlike drunk dialing. Sorry, Emily.

Whew. I think there's room in my head now for the work I need to do. Thanks, Internet.

The Gods of Bad Timing Must Be Very Proud

Two days ago I began to develop a cold in my chest: tight lungs, wheezing, loose cough, awful sore throat. Tonight I can feel it gradually encroaching on my sinuses.

Next week, Eric and I are going on our very first real vacation ever. There will be untold amounts of hiking. I would so much rather stay healthy right now.

Three Cheers for Poor Planning

Today we finish moving upstairs. It feels preposterous to say that, because this does not look like the apartment of people who will be living somewhere else in 24 hours. But the next four days are spoken for, so this is our only chance. Yesterday while Eric was at work (thanks to my friends Natasha and Gina, who carried the heavy stuff), I managed to move and put in their places 80% of the books and most of Eric's rocks our knick-knacks, plus the electronics (minus computer) and hundreds of movies and CDs--which are all up there, in the media cabinet, alphabetized. I also cleaned the living room, hall, and bedroom, so the windowsills are no longer black, the mats of cat hair on the blades of the ceiling fan and in between the radiator coils are gone, as are the several things on the walls that may or may not have been boogers.

But--and here's the ridiculous part--that leaves cleaning the (filthy, by my admittedly neurotic standards) bathroom and kitchen, plus moving about half the living room furniture and the entire contents of our bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. And nothing is actually packed. On the bright side, I discovered yesterday that it's surprisingly quick and easy to toss stuff in a box, carry it upstairs, and empty the contents of the box into their proper place. Plus, today I have helpers: Eric is off work, and our friend Jonathan will be our bitch for the day. I think he works for beer.

Still, I'm feeling overwhelmed, like I've been given an hour to eat an entire cow. With a plastic spork and no knife. And since my morning cup of tea is empty now, I think it's time to start digging away at it. Wish me luck and sanity.

The Best Part of Waking Up

My bowl of Cheerios was at that annoying stage where there is so little cereal floating in the milk that the spoon refuses to capture more than a few Cheerios at a time. Because I didn't want to spend the next 45 minutes eating, I drank a mouthful of cereal straight from the bowl. I should be an expert at this thing I've been doing for more than twenty years, but today one Cheerio went farther back in my throat than I was comfortable with, and--bonus!--I sucked up a small piece of banana that I didn't know was still in the bowl. This combination made my gag reflex very excited while my mouth was very full. So I tried to gently clear my throat to loosen the rogue Cheerio.

It didn't work.

Unless by "work," you mean that all the milk in my mouth, and a couple of Cheerios too, suddenly spewed from my mouth and nose with surprising velocity. The cat was so freaked out she jumped off my lap, and I haven't seen her since.

All I have to say for myself now is that I'm glad I was planning on cleaning this room today anyway. I was sitting at the computer desk when it happened, and everything--everything--on the desk got milked. Of course I wiped it up with a paper towel already, but this is milk. Milk scoffs at paper towels. In fact, since our calendar hangs on the wall behind the desk, I'm kind of looking forward to it not being February anymore.

Vomitastic!

If I had known 2008 was going to be the year of being sick all the time, I would have had second thoughts about celebrating on New Year's Eve. But I did celebrate--too much--and shortly after midnight, I was sick. The next morning I was hungover, of course. On January 2nd, I had the first symptoms of a nasty cold that still has a tiny little finger hold on me. And then--then!--this past Saturday night we went out for a friend's birthday.

Festivities started at the seafood restaurant we went to for Eric's birthday last year. They were out of coconut for the coconut shrimp, so I had a somewhat disappointing basket of fish and chips and (this is important; remember this) one beer. I didn't finish my food because I started feeling full and bloated about halfway through, but greasy food can do that to me, so I thought little of it, even though I got increasingly uncomfortable after the food left the table. This is how we were persuaded to walk a few blocks to an 80s-themed bar full of pink and blue neon and loud music. Because these were primarily Eric's friends, I was determined to hold it together for as long as he wanted to stay out, and anyway I was still convinced that I just had some indigestion. So I sat in a chair and didn't drink and looked miserable enough that people felt bad for me and I felt bad for that.

And finally I was done.

I signaled to Eric that I was ready to go, we said our goodbyes, walked out of the bar and probably 15 feet down the sidewalk, and I threw up a pink avalanche into a snowbank. In front of people.

I really don't think it's fair to have to vomit hot pink in front of people outside an 80s bar when you didn't have a thing to drink inside that bar, and when the pink color (it took a while to figure this out) is from zinc and echinacea lozenges.

And, hard as this may be to believe, my night went downhill from there. On Sunday we were supposed to drive to my grandma's house to finally celebrate Christmas, but I had to call my aunt at 7:30 in the morning (after a night of sleeping for one-hour intervals) to tell her I was pretty sure that wasn't a good idea. Our belated Christmas dinner is in the freezer until further notice.

I have to say I'm disappointed. I'm usually not sick very often, and I always imagine sickness as some sort of welcome break from real life. Like if I get sick enough I'll be able to skip work and spend the day on the couch reading books and watching movies. The reality, I now realize, is that sickness likes to take up your three days off in a row, and that you don't feel like doing a damn thing on the couch when you're sick enough to stay there all day. And then your boyfriend, who's spending his two days off being incredibly nice and making you broth and Jello, gets bored.

Being sick sucks.