Non-drowsy cold medicine is a lie. Less-drowsy is more appropriate. It hasn’t completely shut down my higher faculties, but I am lackadaisical, and a bit slower. If you came at me with an attack, it would take me a second longer to register and react, by which point you probably would have disabled me.
The medicine has kept me from coughing up a lung, which is kind of useful when you’re trying not to infect others with the latest and greatest nature has to offer. It also helps when you’re working in an open room around others that have no desire to be laid low by whatever it is you’re carrying.
I never really took sick days as a kid in school, because my parents instilled in me that learning was so important. There was one occasion where I almost passed out and fell down a flight of stairs, I was so light headed. Even growing up, I am loathe to take sick days unless it is bad. Like the time I caught the flu and had trouble sitting up without falling back down, that forced me to take sick days.
This sickness makes me wonder about the state of my immune system, that I have one to begin with. Without it, this cold would ravage my body, until I could no longer sustain myself, at which point I would die. Hopefully, the cold virus would have found a chance at some point to jump to another host, at which point it would then reproduce and thrive again.
I get sick once or twice a year, probably about average. Can’t remember how often I got sick as a kid, but I have to imagine that it was fairly often, because my immune system is fairly strong now. Had to be exposed to all that crap as a kid to learn what was good and what was not, develop a response, and go from there.
Even as I type this, I want to pass out and sleep for a while. would much really change, aside from me getting a deserved nap? not really.
***
I love callback humor. Watch Arrested Development for a great example, constant callbacks to earlier conversations and episodes. We're all guilty of callback humor in our own way, like when you're joking with someone, and reference it fifteen minutes later. Of course, the only problem with callback humor is that you have to be paying attention.
Whenever I have to introduce myself, I tend to be very much the smartass when I do so. If nothing else, it lets people know that I am not always serious, that I don't take myself seriously. The last time I did so, I introduced myself as an alcoholic, also mentioning it was three hundred days since my last drink. Also asked if Irish coffee counted, since I had a cup of tea from Starbucks in front of me.
Then, I promptly forgot about this. This was a problem, as when all anyone knows about you are the few words you say, such as being an alcoholic, that's all they have to go on. R.L. kept making repeated references to me drinking heavily, which I completely missed as I was tired and not paying attention. That was embarrassing to me afterwards, when I had some time to think.
High humor is hard. I started with fairly low humor, sarcasm, and R.L. took it to a higher level, making callbacks. I couldn't even remember my own words, which was quite sad. Of course, that also means that, for all that to have worked, I would have needed to be paying attention and concentrating on the funny.
It's so hard to focus on the funny, especially when you're thinking about it. In my life, I've found you can either be funny, or pay attention, so long as you're actively trying one or the other. If you don't try, it turns out you can do both. Unfortunately, I try way too hard, and things fail. And maybe that is the key, making it seem effortless, by not expending effort. It's hard to break the ice, and sometimes, maybe I should just let it happen naturally.
Or, you know, I could probably drink more. I am an alcoholic, after all.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
Solo Creepy
The Starbucks men's bathroom door displayed an "Out of Order" sign, so the barista handed me the women's bathroom key. That alone does not make me a pervert, though the rest of this story might.
After I urinated, I moved to the trash can to toss out my water bottle. A swinging metal plate covered the trash. I pushed the bottle through the door, and noticed a white box. Curious, I held the door open with the bottle and looked inside.
It's a bathroom trash can. I expected all the used tissues. What I didn't expect was the Victoria's Secret bag, and the EPT box. Of course, when I saw this, my first thought was "Why haven't I been going into women's bathrooms before now?"
Flash back to a couple hours ago. I saw the woman with the Victoria's Secret bag earlier, and she had spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom. I know this because I had to go, and she was inside.
This is pure conjecture, but I think she took the early pregnancy test in the Starbucks bathroom. There was also a stick that was probably the used test, but I didn't want to dig down and retrieve it.
Who is she, that she had to go to the Starbucks bathroom and take the test? Z.M. theorized she had to hide something from her boyfriend. I felt she couldn't wait to get home; there was a CVS pharmacy nearby.
It's cruelly hilarious and compellingly sad. My twisted mind came up with the following: After some clothes shopping, she admits that she hasn't had her period, and had to get the test, but she's not ready for a lifetime devoted to parenthood. It's something that she's scared of, but has to know now. Of course, she can't pee, so she decides to stop in a Starbucks and slam some coffee to get ready. After a venti, she sneaks the VS bag with the EPT test inside into the bathroom. She takes the test, and it's positive. Somewhat stunned and in denial, she puts on the sexy new lingerie for her boyfriend in the bathroom, swearing that after tonight, the one last night where he will still think she's sexy, she will tell him the truth. She dumps the box and bag, and walks out to a strange guy standing there dancing back and forth, looking like he's ready to piss himself. She hands him the key and walks into the rest of her life.
***
I am a member of the Fellowship of Solo Diners. We are a soft-spoken group. Armed with our thick novels, our newspapers, our Kindles, we go into restaurants with our heads held high. When the waiter asks "Two?" we respond "One." The smile on the waiter's face wanes a little, pity enters their voice, they show us (as individuals) to the table made for many. After all, breaking bread should be a communal activity. The ancient tribes bonded over food. Everyone did their part, small or large, and everyone reaped the benefits. Now, our food gathering efforts are distributed, and we no longer need to break bread as a group.
It depresses me.
Not that I'm social or anything. I have lived my life as a loner, for better or worse. (And for whatever reason, that's changing, and I no longer want to be the loner. I just have no clue how to do that.) I still remain a member. Travel often finds me alone, and I have to eat. Most of the time, I either stop by Walgreens for Lunchables and soda, or get room service. However, every so often, I feel a need to venture out into the world, so as not to become a complete shut-in. I find a restaurant, we dance the dance, and I sit there with my book, ready to order my food, scarf it down, and get the hell out. What need have I to linger? You linger over company, good or bad. You plow through food if you're just there to push it down your gullet.
Of course, I feel like everyone is staring at me. I say that because I stare at the solo diners when I see them, and I wonder what their story is. Like the other day, I was having dinner with Z.M., and sitting a table over was another solo diner. I recognized all the traits, the barren look on her face, the crossword puzzle she was working on, getting through her meal ASAP and trying to get out ASAP. We almost collided going to the bathroom, and I wanted to give her a high five and say "I'm with you." Of course, after 1995, I learned you can't do that to strangers the hard way. The restraining order should have expired by now; I don't want another.
It's not as if there's anything wrong with eating alone in public. Except there is something wrong with eating alone in public. More than anything, it's a subtle reminder that, well, you're alone. Again, nothing wrong with being alone. It's just kind of sad. Eating is one of our fundamental survival activities. You eat with others, on a very basic level, you're saying "I am existing next to you." It's different than sitting next to them on the metro, when you're forced together. Generally, you choose the people you eat with, and even if not, at least there's still that social component to it. In some ways, maybe eating with others is a subtle form of acceptance and love.
Think about how vulnerable we are when we're eating. Seated, hands full, mouths full, not really in any position to defend ourselves. Eating with someone is also a very basic show of trust. "I trust you not to stab me while I eat this potato." I'm trying now to remember a meal I've had with someone I don't trust, and I really can't. But, as is my right as a writer, I am imagining eating lunch with someone I don't trust. I'm baring my teeth a lot, and not at ease.
I just found http://www.solodining.com/ after a quick Google search. I want to go the opposite route and set up a website specifically to find the fellowship members a dining companion for a couple hours on short notice. Some auto-match criteria based on day/time, you put in your preferences and locations, and are told to meet somewhere at somewhen with someone you don't know. And why do I feel like I'm reinventing online dating?
But really, not as such, except exactly so. Still, at least for someone that travels, this would be a surprisingly useful tool. Hell, for anyone that doesn't want to eat alone, this could be useful. Maybe this is my destiny, to unite people for the purposes of eating a meal that wouldn't be so solitary.
Hm. Solo diner that goes through a trash can in a women's restroom at Starbucks. I am a pervert, apparently.
After I urinated, I moved to the trash can to toss out my water bottle. A swinging metal plate covered the trash. I pushed the bottle through the door, and noticed a white box. Curious, I held the door open with the bottle and looked inside.
It's a bathroom trash can. I expected all the used tissues. What I didn't expect was the Victoria's Secret bag, and the EPT box. Of course, when I saw this, my first thought was "Why haven't I been going into women's bathrooms before now?"
Flash back to a couple hours ago. I saw the woman with the Victoria's Secret bag earlier, and she had spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom. I know this because I had to go, and she was inside.
This is pure conjecture, but I think she took the early pregnancy test in the Starbucks bathroom. There was also a stick that was probably the used test, but I didn't want to dig down and retrieve it.
Who is she, that she had to go to the Starbucks bathroom and take the test? Z.M. theorized she had to hide something from her boyfriend. I felt she couldn't wait to get home; there was a CVS pharmacy nearby.
It's cruelly hilarious and compellingly sad. My twisted mind came up with the following: After some clothes shopping, she admits that she hasn't had her period, and had to get the test, but she's not ready for a lifetime devoted to parenthood. It's something that she's scared of, but has to know now. Of course, she can't pee, so she decides to stop in a Starbucks and slam some coffee to get ready. After a venti, she sneaks the VS bag with the EPT test inside into the bathroom. She takes the test, and it's positive. Somewhat stunned and in denial, she puts on the sexy new lingerie for her boyfriend in the bathroom, swearing that after tonight, the one last night where he will still think she's sexy, she will tell him the truth. She dumps the box and bag, and walks out to a strange guy standing there dancing back and forth, looking like he's ready to piss himself. She hands him the key and walks into the rest of her life.
***
I am a member of the Fellowship of Solo Diners. We are a soft-spoken group. Armed with our thick novels, our newspapers, our Kindles, we go into restaurants with our heads held high. When the waiter asks "Two?" we respond "One." The smile on the waiter's face wanes a little, pity enters their voice, they show us (as individuals) to the table made for many. After all, breaking bread should be a communal activity. The ancient tribes bonded over food. Everyone did their part, small or large, and everyone reaped the benefits. Now, our food gathering efforts are distributed, and we no longer need to break bread as a group.
It depresses me.
Not that I'm social or anything. I have lived my life as a loner, for better or worse. (And for whatever reason, that's changing, and I no longer want to be the loner. I just have no clue how to do that.) I still remain a member. Travel often finds me alone, and I have to eat. Most of the time, I either stop by Walgreens for Lunchables and soda, or get room service. However, every so often, I feel a need to venture out into the world, so as not to become a complete shut-in. I find a restaurant, we dance the dance, and I sit there with my book, ready to order my food, scarf it down, and get the hell out. What need have I to linger? You linger over company, good or bad. You plow through food if you're just there to push it down your gullet.
Of course, I feel like everyone is staring at me. I say that because I stare at the solo diners when I see them, and I wonder what their story is. Like the other day, I was having dinner with Z.M., and sitting a table over was another solo diner. I recognized all the traits, the barren look on her face, the crossword puzzle she was working on, getting through her meal ASAP and trying to get out ASAP. We almost collided going to the bathroom, and I wanted to give her a high five and say "I'm with you." Of course, after 1995, I learned you can't do that to strangers the hard way. The restraining order should have expired by now; I don't want another.
It's not as if there's anything wrong with eating alone in public. Except there is something wrong with eating alone in public. More than anything, it's a subtle reminder that, well, you're alone. Again, nothing wrong with being alone. It's just kind of sad. Eating is one of our fundamental survival activities. You eat with others, on a very basic level, you're saying "I am existing next to you." It's different than sitting next to them on the metro, when you're forced together. Generally, you choose the people you eat with, and even if not, at least there's still that social component to it. In some ways, maybe eating with others is a subtle form of acceptance and love.
Think about how vulnerable we are when we're eating. Seated, hands full, mouths full, not really in any position to defend ourselves. Eating with someone is also a very basic show of trust. "I trust you not to stab me while I eat this potato." I'm trying now to remember a meal I've had with someone I don't trust, and I really can't. But, as is my right as a writer, I am imagining eating lunch with someone I don't trust. I'm baring my teeth a lot, and not at ease.
I just found http://www.solodining.com/ after a quick Google search. I want to go the opposite route and set up a website specifically to find the fellowship members a dining companion for a couple hours on short notice. Some auto-match criteria based on day/time, you put in your preferences and locations, and are told to meet somewhere at somewhen with someone you don't know. And why do I feel like I'm reinventing online dating?
But really, not as such, except exactly so. Still, at least for someone that travels, this would be a surprisingly useful tool. Hell, for anyone that doesn't want to eat alone, this could be useful. Maybe this is my destiny, to unite people for the purposes of eating a meal that wouldn't be so solitary.
Hm. Solo diner that goes through a trash can in a women's restroom at Starbucks. I am a pervert, apparently.
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