whiskey in a teacup . com

It’s slightly chilly outside, but sunny.  I’m wearing long sleeves (and the first non-gym socks of the season!) and sitting in the “enclosed porch” that faces out onto our street, drinking a mug of coffee.  I scheduled another nursing exam today, which will bring me one step closer to earning my degree.  Jared and I were with friends all weekend but today it’s just us and the kitty, left to relax.  In a while I’ll continue reading Pnin and then go for a run.  What a beautiful day!

Something dawned on me yesterday while running at the gym:  you can totally tell which girls have fake tits because their breasts remain separate and distinct in a sports bra.  It’s very noticeable.  As for me, when I put on my gym gear I develop a disappointing, lackluster uni-breast that is almost completely flush with the rest of my torso.  The only thing that even vaguely indicates my femininity is the lack of a visible package in my pants.  On the other hand, my modest natural attributes don’t weigh me down or shift uncomfortably when I run or earn me any derisive glances from my fellow gym-goers, so I’m basically satisfied.

After a five mile run, handfuls of dry Life cereal and a Sam Light are nothing short of glorious, as is the knowledge that the season premiere of The Office is coming on tonight!  Snarking it up with TJIC is pretty fun too.

(The Jared-bashing in the aforelinked post is somewhat warranted, but is of course in jest.  Everyone loves Jared.  One of my clients, who met Jared last week, today expended a great deal of effort to say two words that I could not understand through his dysarthria and asked him to repeat at least a dozen times before getting it:  “nice husband!”)

Unable to sleep, I go out to the back stoop in the middle of the night. I am in the process of lying down on the steps and wrapping myself in a blanket when a voice from the trees, or the sky, or somewhere else I can’t see in the darkness, declares “I can see you, Erica, and I’ve been watching you, and I’ve been inside that pretty little striped house of yours many, many times.”

The house isn’t striped, but other than that minor factual (symbolic of…something?) error, this one was a doozy.

Today I stepped out into the sunshine and was contentedly walking down the street when I remembered that I had an unchecked voicemail on my cell phone. The message was from my mother, urging me to call her back to hear some “sad news”. The tone of her voice was sad but not apocalyptic, so it was more curiosity than panic that lead me to immediately return her call.

It turns out that my former neighbour, a guy my sister’s age who we had grown up with, had been killed in a car accident the night before. I hadn’t seen him in years, maybe even a decade, but I think of him fairly often. I have a thick, raised scar on one ankle from the time I gashed myself on a jagged bicycle gear during some summer hang-out with him. I think of him when I watch The Three Amigos! because one time my sister and I locked ourselves out of the house and he might have helped us climb in through the windows, and that movie was playing on the TV when we got back inside. I think of him and my sister playing endless tennis matches in the street between his house and ours. I think of how his family was one of the only black families in our entire town and I remember the comforting smell and feel of their house. There is no acute pain for me, not like the loss of a close friend, but there is the strange unsettling sense that someone who was a mainstay in my memories is now gone, and though he inhabited little isolated chunks of my childhood, he leaves behind a gaping void in the lives of his parents, his sister, his wife, and his baby.

When my mother called to tell my sister the news, a bad cell connection lead her to mishear “Derek”–his name–as “Erica”, and for however many stunned seconds, she thought it was me who had died. Somehow that made the whole thing less surreal and unbelievable and more concrete and terrible for me, and maybe for all of us; the idea that on some generically pretty summer day, someone close to you, or even you yourself could be jerked out of existence. I think it’s not lack of compassion, but basic human egocentricity that makes us contemplate other people’s tragedies in the context of our own lives, but doing so still makes me feel guilty, and gave me even more reason to fast today, this day of atonement.

Today as I was driving down our one-way street, some douche turned onto the road the wrong way and started barreling towards me. I should have saved the energy I put into laying on the horn and composing an on-the-fly hand gesture for “this is a one-way street, you dumb fuck” and instead put it towards physically obstructing his path with my vehicle, getting out of the car, taking my leatherman tool from my bag, and slashing his tires.

There’s always next time! And unfortunately, I’m sure there will indeed be a next time.

I recently logged into Amazon to use a gift certificate we received for the wedding.  Upon my arrival the site made five recommendations of items I might like to purchase:  four nursing texts, and a DVD of Un Chien Andalou.

Whether or not this is true, I would like to make a brief public service announcement re: proper handwashing technique. Handwashing is not solely about getting your hands clean. It’s about not immediately re-contaminating them by touching surfaces that have also been touched by other dirty, vile cretins who have even worse hygiene than you. If you follow these easy steps after using the bathroom, before and after eating, and after handling animals and anything else that may have been touched with ass, has an ass, or licks its own ass, you have a chance in hell of not being as germ-infested as the inside of an actual ass.

After washing your hands (thoroughly, for at least 15 seconds, working up a good lather with the soap and getting all surfaces, between fingers, and wrists), you do not turn off the faucet with your clean hand. You take a paper towel (or regular towel, depending on where you are), dry your hands, and turn the faucet off with that. Then, when exiting the room (this is critical if you’re in a public restroom), you do not touch the door handle with your actual skin. Use a paper towel or your sleeve or whatever you have to use as a shield. Fuck the trees. This is one instance where creating trash serves the greater good.

If you are not following these protocols, you may as well find the nearest pile of feces, blood, and mucus, stick both hands in it, rub them together, and then lick them clean. You filthy, filthy dog.

WhiskeyChimp LLC is temporarily relocating to NYC.  Jared has to go to a trade show, and I figured I’d take a few days off work to tag along, take pictures, and study in the hotel.  We’re currently on the “LimoLiner” which is significantly less luxe than its website implies, but still pretty sweet:  I’m blogging from the bus!

Today I was first in line at a red light. I was waiting to take a left turn at a four-way intersection. All lanes of traffic were stopped, and the lane perpendicular to mine was about to get a green light. Suddenly I thought to myself, “I bet the guy behind me is just going to pull around me and turn left, since everyone’s got a red light. It would be a total dick move but relatively safe, and he’ll get away with it.”

A moment passed, and I thought maybe I had been wrong–no one’s that much of an impatient fuckwit, are they? But lo! The guy behind me then stomped on his gas, swerved around me, drove into and through the intersection, and was gone before the other lane got its green light.

The asshole force is strong with me.