whiskey in a teacup . com

In all likelihood, nothing will become fucked over the next several hours when we leave for the airport and board one flight, and then another.  I recognize that the odds of the plane plummeting out of the sky due to mechanical failure are relatively low; much more likely is the scenario in which my anxiety reaches such fantastic proportions that I create a force field which interferes with the plane’s instrumentation, causing me (and a bunch of other chumps) to hurtle rapidly and horribly to our respective deaths.  Alternatively, we could make it to Brazil without incident, have an enjoyable trip, and return home roughly as alive and intact as when we left.

I give it a 50/50 shot.  Goodbye for now.

This is righteous. The Darwin exhibit was righteous. Standing in front of a graduated wall of skulls–impossibly old and simian on the bottom row, human on the top–makes me feel the way I imagine theists feel when they commune with their deities.

Kneeling/crouching next to wheelchairs for much of the day, and then running five miles, puts considerable strain on one’s knees.

I went to have a key made today (at the locksmith that is within spitting distance from my place of employment but which I never really knew existed) and there were a bunch of older people just sort of standing around. Yellowed children’s drawings tacked to the walls, ancient-looking padlocks for sale, etc. I correctly suspected they wouldn’t take my credit card, and when I returned with a twenty from the ATM, they couldn’t break it, but luckily one of the hanger-outers had small bills. Everyone was friendly and efficient, but the atmosphere reminded me vaguely, and inexplicably, of Eraserhead.

This weekend has been significant for one too many Delirium Tremens, the frequent playing of this song, and a whole lot of existential mini-crisis wankery that is interesting to no one. It also included looking at condos, a long walk down Mass Ave to Harvard Square in the cool wind, and hazelnut gelato, so overall I can’t complain.

Anyway, in the spirit of this rainy, mid-coffee, pre-brunch Sunday morning, I’m posting this scan of a picture I drew when I was little. I come across it sometimes in a folder of miscellany on my hard drive and wonder, what did I mean? I don’t remember. But it doesn’t surprise me that at age five-ish I was already apparently feeling some serious ennui.

I got my car back today, which was a nice surprise. I called a few days ago to check on the progress of the repairs, and the guy said, “It should be done Thursday or Friday and we’ll call you the day before it’s finished.” Okay. So then it got to be today and we still hadn’t heard back, so we called, and they were all, “The car is finished” and we were all “Thanks for letting us know.” So, now it’s back, and though I was just commenting to Jared this morning that I was starting to miss driving, I must now lament the end of the hilarious jokes I’ve been making in the interim. For instance, if I leave a bottle of water in Jared’s car, he freaks out about it, and I say, “Well, generally I keep my water bottles in my car, but ’somebody’ crashed my car…” and that sort of thing. When you’re a sarcastic jerk like me, having the chance to harass your partner in that fashion is like finding a goldmine in your backyard.

Despite what would appear to be bitter hostility, I still love Jared so much that even my camera phone takes ethereal pictures of him. This whole incident is now just one more experience to put behind us, and one very valid counterpoint to bring up when he makes fun of me for being clumsy or annoying. Really, when he pulled that wild u-turn, he was giving me a gift.

Yesterday after work I was walking past the sidewalk where the vans come to pick up our clients (almost all of whom are in wheelchairs).  Two teenage boys were walking slightly ahead of me, and upon noticing the van parked next to our building, one of them said “Hey, there’s the bus,” and then made a series of sounds that are universally recognizable as being derogatory towards the mentally retarded.

My first reaction was that I ought to grab the kid by the shoulders and make my kneecap his first and last girlfriend.  Deciding against that, I thought I should at least say something, but all I could think of was a string of expletives that probably wouldn’t teach the brat much of a lesson in compassion and tolerance.  While I was thinking it over, the moment passed, and I simply muttered “you little fucker” under my breath, and continued on my way.

Saturday morning I woke up around three-thirty with Jared sleeping beside me, Julia asleep on the couch with the TV on, and a case of feminine hysteria that left me writhing and whimpering in pain for about an hour and a half. When I fell back asleep I dreamed that Jared and I were on the plane to Brazil, where we are slated to go in less than two weeks. Instead of a runway the plane was preparing for takeoff by cruising down residential streets, rumbling past cars and pedestrians. At the moment of liftoff I realized I didn’t feel scared, but I knew I was supposed to be scared, so I started wailing.

I have never flown, and over the years my feelings towards flight have gone from apathy to anxiety to all-out fear. Well-meaning but simple people cite statistics about how safe it is; closer friends tell me they understand, but I know they don’t really understand. I know I can do it, because when I steel myself to do something, I do it; however, my feelings regarding the impending flight are mixed, to say the least.

It occurred to me recently that fear is something of a foreign emotion to me, as I imagine it is to most people who grew up in safe neighborhoods and have been lucky enough to lead comfortable lives free of threats of physical harm or disaster. Those who know me well know that I am almost constantly anxious, and devote much of my day to imagining and attempting to prevent all manner of accidents and traumas…but anxiety is quite different from true fear, which is something I honestly don’t know if I have ever felt.

I wasn’t afraid before my surgery because I was too young to understand what was going on. I was mildly afraid when I nearly slid off the back of my ex’s motorcycle, but then that happened so quickly that what I felt was really just a moment of panic. I shook and teared up while sitting in the exam room waiting to be diagnosed with interstitial cystitis (which involved the nurse pouring a caustic substance into my bladder via catheter), but I was less afraid of the pain and more overcome with the emotions that accompany a long-awaited medical diagnosis. I’ve been in car accidents and had nasty infections, and once I thought my kitten had run away…but all of these experiences were underscored by the sense that it was going to be ok, and then it was ok, and that was that. I have never felt sexually threatened, never felt scared that someone was about to attack me (and on the rare occasion that someone has hit or bitten me I have again felt mostly panic), never been so sick that I thought I would die, and the list goes on and on.

But when I think about going to the airport, checking in, stepping onto the plane, and buckling myself in, I feel what I can only describe as terror and dread. The feeling is powerful and consistent and mostly, but not entirely, irrational. It makes my entire body clench, it makes me gasp, and it sends the proverbial chills down my spine. It makes me really afraid. It’s not so consuming that I think I won’t be able to handle the experience, but it will certainly be interesting for all involved. Ideally, I will survive the flight and feel empowered by having conquered (slash submitted to) something I feared. Realistically, I will probably spend much of the trip dreading the flight home.

Time will tell.

This evening while I was sitting at the library, a librarian who appeared to be in her sixties came over to me and noted that she owned the same shoes as the ones I was wearing.

Shortly thereafter, at the supermarket, I finally admitted to myself and the universe that I have lost the ability to comfortably digest milk, and purchased a gallon of Lactaid.

I’d like to meet the man who invented the practice of putting potato chips into a sandwich and pressing on the top slice of bread to crush the chips.  And I’d like to shake his hand.

In general, it’s easy to sell me highly stylized, whimsical fare like the ads for this movie promised. I thought Sin City was pretty bitching and I expected 300 to have a similar impact. While I did find it quite entertaining and fun, there were a few significant problems.

The tone of the movie, from the beginning to the middle, suggests that it takes itself seriously and that we’re supposed to follow suit. Okay, I can do that when you’re showing me how the Spartans toughen their kids up by making them wrestle as soon as they can walk, and then literally throwing them to the wolves. But I am forced to break my stoicism during scenes of the Spartan king fucking his wife in slowed-down high speed photography, her tits bouncing like rippling water as she assumes various positions, culminating in a rear-entry configuration that causes the entire theater to burst out laughing.

After that, there were some neat battle scenes (mostly shot in that popular style of slow-motion alternating with normal speed) and some neat (albeit not terribly historically accurate) monsters. There was also a lot of patently silly showboating by the king, such as when he taunts Xerxes by saying something like “I’d kneel before you if I hadn’t pulled my hamstring killing all your dudes!” My friend pointed out that one character refers to the war as one that “will go down in the pages of history”, which was pretty funny in itself.

It’s an inspiring and amazing story, to be sure, but there’s a point at which watching people kill each other becomes less a part of the plot and more like porno for the bloodthirsty. I do find that the less advanced the technology, the more I can tolerate scenes of war: throwing spears is less repulsive than gunplay is less repulsive than nukes. Still, the constant battling eventually stops being exciting and just becomes sad.

However, it must have made some sort of an impact on me, since when I woke up this morning I defiantly declared, “Today, we brunch at Sound Bites!”

Via Pharyngula: there’s some dating website for dipshits based on natural selection (i.e. no uggos allowed; we’re trying to create a master race here!) which is, in itself, not a new or interesting idea…but I noticed they have a list of forty-one physical features that will disbar you from joining the site. As I read through the list, I noticed that I possess many of these apparently vile and repellent traits. Including:

Sweat patches

Who among us hasn’t, on occasion, worked up a visible funk in the armpit region?

Weird pubic hair

Modern standards being what they are, I assume they mean “any pubic hair at all” for women and “ungroomed pubic hair” for men. I proudly fail on this one.

Fat rolls

Sometimes if I’m sitting or leaning over, the flesh of my stomach arranges itself in a rather unflattering way, and Jared grabs at it and I insist, “I’m at an angle here! This is not actually fat you’re grabbing!” at which point he launches into a George Costanza “I was in the pool!” routine. It’s just part of our daily life together.

Acne

This is starting to get pretty insulting. I mean, I take excellent care of my skin, but I still have an occasional minor hormonal breakout. There’s really nothing to be done about it.

Out of proportion noses

You try being Jewish, assholes.

Hair in the wrong places on women

Fascists.

Out of date fashions

Still rocking the Docs, with no plans to stop.

Facial hair (women)

It’s not like it’s visible or anything. But again, you try being Jewish.

Anyone with a middle part

What the fuck?

Oversized essential anatomy (women)

Now, this is not something I personally suffer from (if they mean what I assume they mean by this terminology), but damn, that shit is harsh. I notice there’s no “no tiny package” rule for men. I call bullshit.

Well, anyway, I guess that’s that:  I’m officially fug.  I’ve got half a mind to submit my photo, which would most likely be accepted, and then BLOW THEIR MINDS by revealing the secret truth of my hideousness…but I’m content to simply write a smug and self-righteous entry on my personal website.