Public Service Announcement

Number one reason I am finally admitting that I need glasses, and probably should get contacts: I have no peripheral vision.

I have been holding out for the past three years, thinking I could get away as a mere recreational glasses user. Hey, I'm not getting old, maybe I'm just really trendy! Hornrimmed glasses are so hot right now. It's not like I am an actual nerd, spending 12 hours a day staring into a computer screen doing legal research. It's nerd-chic, right guys?!

No. My need is very real, and I'm coming clean. I was sent a very clear signal tonight that, probably, there is a great evolutional need for the sense of vision, beyond just making sure your food isn't rotten, or watching the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

The signal was received loud and clear, in a moment of "eureka!" that struck me as many of these moments do: in pursuit of Mexican food. I happened into my neighborhood Chipotle (or Chippies, for those of us who frequent), ravenous, after a rigorous workday of, again, staring at administrative regulations for 12 hours, (admittedly pausing occasionally to *quickly* glance at kitten videos). It was seven thirty, I had just endured one and a half face-punching hours in traffic, and I'll be crystal clear that I was not on the top of my game. But those football sized burritos sang to me from the darkness.

So I'm in line, pondering my burrito future (so many glorious options, and why god why did they have to start putting the calorie amounts up there) and I have that glazed over, moon-faced, starved-since-three expression. I am halfway through the sacred burrito-selection assembly line of wonder when I become aware of another human on my right. But remember, I have no peripherals. So shadowy man-like entity with no face approacheth, and it could be my brother or Jack the Ripper for all my beady, bespectacled rodent eyes can tell. Unfortunately, it was neither. After ordering the largest burrito possible with all the fixin's I go to my right pocket for my moolah and realize that I have been standing next to That Guy I Went To That Dated Party With In College And Probably Made Out With But Promptly Avoided Him For The Last Two Years Of College Out Of Embarrassment And Since Have Forgotten His Name Because Who Keeps Track Of That Shit What Am I Supposed To Keep A List Of All Potentially Awkward Encounters Now?

I meet his eyes and he morphed into a full human. It's too late. He probably saw me when he walked in and witnessed the whole hugely grotesque burrito ordering sequence (extra sour cream, what the HELL is wrong with me??) thinking I was ignoring him. Because I have no peripherals with my effing glasses on, I had no heads up whatsoever, no extra four seconds to magically conjure up a name-face recognition, no time at all to permit the kind of adrenalin-induced flight autoresponse I normally go with. Just straight up mortified panic. I don't know his name. It's already weird. Getting weirder by the second. If I keep staring, he will know I recognize him. He probably has a clue already from my deer eyed, sweat beading dumb head.

I turn my head. Mutely, I hand my card to the cashier and collect my garbage bag full of burrito. Thank god I did not have the peripherals to witness his expression as I power-walked out of that place like a housewife with that swishy, ass-wiggling contained sprint like a little fat kid trying to be first in line at the snow cone stand at the pool but the lifeguard just yelled at him for running. That was me, running away from my weird awkward past. Wow, I've come a long way.

Yay for lists!

I've been thinking a lot lately about relationships.  Obviously, I can't deny the Debbie-Downer-ness of my previous post, and neither can I defend it.  The reality is that I get overwhelmed and dramatic, perhaps to a degree one might term "batshit crazy," when I should be grateful, excited and what - exhuberant?  I'm getting married for Pete's sake! 

When in a relationship, it's really easy to get lost in your own head, to the point that you forget someone else is living right beside you.  We are selfish creatures.  We walk out of our house and forget that the other lives an entire life apart - like that tree-in-the-forest riddle.  If we aren't there, who's to say it makes a sound?  The perception of our world is necessarily and absolutely one dimensional, and has been our whole lives, so of course it's difficult to accommodate another person schlepping alongside.  It is against our nature to conjure substantial and constant empathy for someone else, especially when they live with you, you see them every day, and they do the most annoying things. 

Here's the kicker:  these things we call relationships are not immortal.  They're more like plants.  One day, you forget to give it water and it's droopy, sad, and gray.  I know; I've killed a lot of plants.  I killed a cactus.

So this morning I got mad that Oscar wouldn't walk the dog, even though I got up an hour before him and would be at the mercy of suicide-stage traffic, and I was super bitchy.  I felt really crap-tastic about it, and about life in general.  Realizing that attitude to be counterproductive, because I just kept feeling crappier, I got into work and decided to write down a list of his best attributes that are included in the reasons for which I will love him until I breathe my last breath.

1.  He's handsome.
2.  He's kind.
3.  He's tall.
4.  He's bright.
5.  He's caring.
6.  He's funny, and makes me laugh all the time.
7.  He has great hair.
8.  He's the most intelligent person I know.
9.  He's ambitious, and sets high standards for himself.
10.  He has beautiful eyes.
11.  He tastes like truffle when I kiss him.
12.  He wears cologne just because he knows I like it.
13.  He is warm.
14.  He holds me tight.
15.  He is eager to please me.
16.  He likes dirty vodka martinis.
17.  His favorite movie is Tombstone, which is adorable.
18.  He listens.
19.  He is reasonable and logical.
20.  He holds my hand.
21.  He does the dishes because he knows I hate it.

Trust me, I could go on... but just engaging in the exercise of writing this list brings to the forefront of my mind all of the fantastic, superlative, one-in-a-million pieces of this guy, and I feel calm, grateful, and infinitely stupid for even getting mad this morning.  I should send him this.

Sorrow, thy name is love

Anticipation has got to be the worst state of human existence.  Particularly when, as now, the event to occur has such potentially devastating implications for the future.  What future?  My future, my almost-husband's, and ours together.  That's three, not two.  That has been the most illuminating realization borne of this process:  by welding our lives together, we have created an entirely new being in "us."  "Us" is a thing on its own; "us" exists as a new reality.  "Us" can thrive or perish.  

I became aware of "us" in the context of likely the biggest and most important decision of our (future) marriage, aside from the obvious decision to get married.  We are making the rank list of ENT programs, in order of preference, that will be submitted and eventually determine where we will live for the next 5 years of our lives.  For those of you unfamiliar with the idiotic process, after medical school, one does not simply get a job offer.  That would not be special enough.  Instead, you apply to all of the programs you'd like to attend, they may or may not offer you an interview (for which you must pay airfare, hotel, transportation, etc.), and then you make a list from 1 to however many interviews you get, in order of preference.  The programs in turn rank you, alongside all of the other candidates to whom they gave interviews, and you both submit the list to a computer database.  The computer database organizes your list, their list, the list of every medical student in the country, the list of every medical program in the country, and produces a mathematical algorithm.  On March 16, 2012, every medical student in the country will sit in the auditorium of their respective schools, and hear their name called in front of their peers and family.  They will walk onstage and receive an envelope containing the name of the program with whom they have "matched."  Cue happy face/sad face/celebration/suicide.  Bam.  For five years.  As soon as you open that envelope, you have entered into a binding 1-year minimum contract with that particular program.  

I am in the uncomfortable position of side-liner.  My future is tied to his, and to that damn rank list.  I get a say, of course, but ultimately, his professional career is at stake.  He wants to rank #1 a program in California.  I want to rank #1 a program in New York City.  The reasons for why we have our choices are many, and all are valid and important.  Individually, the validity of each reason is rendered irrelevant by the fact that we ultimately disagree.  I feel fucking sick just saying it.  

Where is there room for compromise?  How do we compromise?  And what are the consequences for the "us"?  Either way, one of us is disappointed, embittered, saddened.  One of us feels trampled, betrayed, alienated.  The other feels guilty, selfish, tyrannical.  Technically, one will win, but in any case, the "us" loses, its future tragically threatened.  I've been so blindsided by the reality of how fucking precarious the existence and longevity of "us" truly is.  I'm so naive for believing that we were different, that our love was stronger than average and would be sufficient to overcome such obstacles.  But it is so easily broken!  I can see how it happens without consideration.  I can see the seed of resentment planted, the initial hope and effort eventually strangled by the reality of disappointment.  I can see the blame, the bitter accusation, the dashed dreams and pain of resignation.  I really can understand how people can get there, and for the first time I see in us the potential.  

How to decide on a course of action?  Shall I be honest?  I assert my choice, I steamroll him, and I get what I want; but I lose a part of his trust.  The seed is planted and resentment grows.  He won't ever forget how I took away his dream of success, his chance at a top tier program;  how I put myself before him, and my needs before his.   He blames me whenever thinks of what he gave up, silently and subconsciously cursing my selfish resolution.  Shall I bend to his choice?  I leave my family, move to the suburbs, give up my dream (which used to be our dream) of living in New York, and I go with him.  I am alone constantly while he happily pursues his choice.  I become desperate to make it work, but whenever I feel sad, lonely, or uncomfortable, my subconscious reaction is to curse him.  I become depressed.  I don't want him to see it, don't want to disturb his happiness, but I keep sinking, knowing he can't pull me back up, because it's not enough, we can't change it now, we're stuck in a cycle of blame and hurt.  

In either circumstance, the "us" suffers.  No matter who wins, we lose in the end.  Neither of us can change how we feel, and neither can we prevent the future from coming.  I choke up when I talk to him about it.  He probably thinks I'm crying because I want my way.  But in truth I am so scared of losing him, and so scared that the breakdown of  "us"  is inevitable.  Impressing upon me for the first time is the reality of how hard our marriage will be, and how stupid I am for thinking I understood that before.  Can two people, each having a strong will of their own, ambition, and desires, ever truly compromise?  And what does that word even mean?  Does a successful relationship require one person who compromises, and the other inflexible?  I truly hate ending with questions, but I can do nothing but anticipate...

So not right.

A friend of mine brought cupcakes into work today.  "Yay!" is the phrase that one would normally be associated with such an event, but here's the caveat:  these were no ordinary cupcakes.  DISCLAIMER:  to those of you with an abnormally sensitive gag-reflex, read on at your own peril, and that of your computer.

Buffalo.  Chicken.  Cupcakes.  With blue cheese icing.

Vom.

Now, I am a woman who loves her food, but come on America!  Have we not subjected our populace to a towering-enough risk of diabetes/obesity/can't-fit-in-my-chair syndrome that our repertoire needs such a foul creation?  It's basically sugar, corn flower, Buffalo sauce, blue cheese icing made from confectioner's sugar, and as an added flourish, a baby chicken wing stuck right on top, I suppose meant as a comforting assurance that it technically qualifies as food.  In fact, it is a cleverly-disguised baby-step towards cardiac arrythmia.

I had a similar experience while traveling in Texas recently, where I noticed the disturbing trend in that region that desires to sneak in as many additives to render the food as caloric as humanly possible - why eat salsa, when you can MIX IN A STICK OF CREAM CHEESE?  Why have waffles, when you can EAT A WAFFLE SANDWICH WITH BACON, EGGS AND CHEESE?  A steak is far too healthy, let's FILL IT WITH CHEDDAR!  I know, it's seems the perfect commentary to set up the inevitable punchline "Hey, y'all, everything's bigger in Texas!  Dang-gum-it!"  But isn't it really just sad?  It's hot there, aren't you uncomfortable?  Doesn't it suck to breath heavy, sweat, feel exhausted all the time?  Are the chocolate-dipped fried Twinkies worth it?  The proclivity for extreme eating is made more troubling by the lifestyle down there - unless you're living in downtown Austin, you're not walking anywhere.  In Texas, if you don't have a car, the "FUCK YOU" is palpable.  There are very few sidewalks, no public transportation to speak of, and everything is so sprreeeaadddd ouuuuuttt.  Texans are driving drunk.  That is just a fact.  Or maybe they've replaced drinking with eating ribs.

 

I'm not deliberately singling you out, Texas.  That's just been my experience.  I mean, I haven't been to Mississippi, but I assume it's the same deal.  The thing is that the vast majority of people I know, boys and girls included, are concerned about their weight, and are constantly dieting.  I also have my own struggles, and I didn't grow up eating freaking blue cheese icing or The Baconator or fried Butterfingers.  I really just think, that can't taste good!  It's too much!  It's like seeing one of those pornstars with HUUUUGE boobs and HUUUUGE lips and BLOOONDE hair - I have a very negative physical reaction to over-doing it.  Now, maybe that's a personal problem.  But those cupcakes look evil enough to kill.

Ryan Reynolds is not a leading man

I am so sick of new movies that perpetuate the myth that Ryan Reynolds is a leading man.  He is a snarky sidekick providing a wealth of comic relief in such action movies as X-Men:  Wolverine Edition starring Hugh Jackman's Mutton Chops and That Shoot'Em-Up Movie Where Jeremy Piven Is A Magician And Common Is There Too.  Post-Van Wilder, however, his lead roles have left something to be desired.  I get a really uncomfortable feeling when I see him onscreen not dropping a snide little snark-bomb.  I just think, who does this guy think he is being serious/romantic/sweaty?  It's like a Pavlovian dog at a hand-bell concert - where's my kibble, Ryan?  You can't just show in a movie, after snarking your way into Hollywood, and expect me to be cool with your new persona.  I need to be eased into such a radically different cinematic experience.  While you were trapped in a box for two and half hours, my little trained brain kept waiting for "Real original, guys!  What, were they out of shark tanks at the Cliche-Ways-To-Kill-People store?"  Just kidding, of course I didn't see that movie.  I have a strict policy against situational action movies - those kind of scenario-inspired totally unrealistic watered-down pseudo-thrillers written by some dude, on his bong-scented couch, like GOT IT, what if there's this like this normal guy, just livin' his life, and ends up in a telephone booth/on a ledge/kidnapped by a security guard/mortally dependent on a cellphone. 

I don't mean to be bitchy.  You are an actor, and you probably have more skillz than I realize, but you were unfortunately pigeonholed into a character from whom you may never escape.  Additionally, I consider you lacking in qualities I expect in a leading man.  The formula is pretty rigid.

1)  People need to want to make out with a leading man.  Desperately.  Generally speaking, the best leading men have had luscious, kissable lips, preferably paired with a strong jaw so as to prominently display the clenching required of leading men during emotionally or physically taxing scenes.

TMJ is a serious disease.

2)  Leading men must possess a measure of unpredictability, danger, and energy that seems at times out of control.  Ryan, you are too nice.  I could easily picture you sitting in my living room, munching on some popcorn, offering to take my mom to the airport tomorrow 'cause it's no problem.  I don't slightly fear you, and therefore, how can I be attracted you in an action-movie setting?

This guy could punch anyone in the face, at any time, and not even care.  "Charisma."

3)  Maybe this is a personal issue, but Ryan just has that "gym body."  Like, clearly he didn't acquire those muscles just by livin' his bad ass life.  Everything is puffy and shiny and hairless and symmetrical.  It's just so unnatural. 

 A leading man, by contrast, should not care about his appearance enough to go to the gym like a proud peacock - he requires his muscular physique for the demanding tasks he must accomplish within the 2.5 hour allotment (rescue wife, round-house kick, run from explosions, barely dodge gunfire).

 "What's that?  I look good?  THERE'S NO TIME!"

It's not just Ryan.  Jake Gyllenhall, Orlando Bloom, Shia LeBoeuf, Zac Efron, Ryan Phillipe, Seann William Scott, and ol' Tobey "Babyface" Maguire - I never bought, and will never buy, any of these guys as leading men.  Of course, bad-ass-ness always changes that.  Leo DiCaprio could have disappeared into teen-heartthrob obscurity, but he helped himself out by looking kind of f*cked up all the time.  Robert Downey Jr. got into drugs, as did Colin Farrell - it's sad, but that does add the danger factor.  Not that I encourage it, I'm just using it as an example.  Everyone loves a comeback, that's all I'm saying.  Robert Pattinson might just save himself by keeping up the brooding, slightly-nauseous crazy-eyed public persona he's been cultivating.  There's hope for you, yet, Reynolds. 

Flo Rida

I am feeling the spirit of Florida today, likely because I'm there right now. Yes, dear ether, I touched ground yesterday afternoon in the land of sun, sea, oranges and grandma. I am officially on vacation. Unfortunately mother nature did not receive my notice, and the weather was kind of shitty. Therefore, I am channeling tropicana by accessorizing with this hair flower (see below), with all the intent and purpose of an Indian rain dance, hopefully communicating to the weather demons my prayer for sunshine.

It's Oscar's birthday today. Old man river is 31 grand years of age. Why is it that the older he gets, the more attractive he gets, and the older I get, the older I get. I can see it now, the mid 30s power shift, where he morphs into Clarke Gable and I slowly become Roseanne. Thanks again, nature.

Gratuitous glamour shots of my dog.

Ok, since we're all getting to know each other a little better (and by we, I mean faceless internet pseudo-people composed primarily of ether, and by each other, I mean me, an egomaniac patently assuming that ether-people will find her interesting), I am going to really open up, super-intimately, and show off my favorite furry creature in life. (Hint: it's not the mouse who keeps shitting under my kitchen sink, although she does at times exhibit rat-like qualities). It's my dog! Her name is Lucy, please begin swooning.

Her cruel masters maliciously tied hilarious Christmas ribbons to her for their own disgusting viewing pleasure.  Don't worry folks, she barely noticed, as you can tell by the laser-guided ultra-focused stare she is giving her favorite ball right now, as if she is trying to telecommunicate it into motion herself just to chase it.

"I am still young, and only slightly convinced that you are not raising me for food right now."

For those of you unlucky enough to not have a dog, I suggest you immediately save your settings on World of Warcraft, shut your computer, slip your atrophied limbs out of your bathrobe/pajama combo, go out into the sunlight (careful, it can be bright, you might want to grab some shades), go to the nearest animal rescue center and pick out the fluffiest, wiggliest one you can find.  Pet ownership is the best thing ever.  It will save your soul.