Overly Verbal

I got nothin’. It’s been a rough week, what with the esophagus and all. I seem to be fully recovered, but am still a little behind. (Puns on that sentence are not only not necessary, thank you very much, but will not even be entertained.)

I went into the bank on Thursday, because I needed a cashier’s check. Going into a bank usually makes me want to cry, because well, you know why: it’s the inside of a bank. You need something, they’ve got it, and they don’t want to give it to you, unless they charge you at least $6, and maybe not even then. Anyway, I thought I was sitting pretty when I noticed that the cashier who helped me had a nameplate that indicated that she was a “Professional Teller”. Well this oughta be quick then; she’s a professional. (The woman in the space next to her had a similar nameplate, but it just read “Teller”. How do they think that makes the poor girl feel? Couldn’t they at least call her a “Paraprofessional Teller”? Or is that a separate step, in between regular and professional tellers? Banking is apparently quite complicated.) Anyway, it took forever, of course, because somehow even professional tellers are not allowed to sign cashier’s checks themselves, and have to disappear into the bowels of the building for long, long minutes, in order to find a “Professional Signaturist” or something. My life is rich.

In addition to that excitement, I bought a couch. I haven’t had a couch since I moved into my new place, because, well, there’s a pile of stuff where the couch would go, and also, I’m poor. But I’m having a houseguest for an indeterminate amount of time, and he’ll need a place to sleep. I didn’t actually buy a couch, I just bought a futon mattress. Actually, I didn’t so much buy one as just pay for one, and then sit around hoping it will arrive at the store as promised on Monday. And I took from Goethe an old crappy futon frame that he wasn’t using. (It’s black metal, and it does have one thing going for it: it’s the only piece of furniture I own that can have nicks and scratches repaired with a King Size Sharpie Permanent Marker. That’s not nothing.)

Actually, there is one other thing, but I’m not sure this is the appropriate place in which to share it. I’ve learned a new expression that invariably sends me and everyone within earshot into fits of irrepressible giggles whenever it is spoken. But it’s kinda dirty. If you really want to know, and I haven’t already told you, send me an e-mail, and I’ll share. Because sharing is nice. (Better yet, call me, and then I’ll manufacture a reason to use the expression, and will get to hear you giggle, instead of just imagining it.)

I promise to have something amusing next week, if only pictures of the generous gifts I gave Mr. Monkeyspank. If that’s not amusing to you, you’re dead to me. Really. (Now I have to vacuum, and figure out what to do with the pile of crap that was where the couch goes. I am pleased to report that the addition of a couch means that there is no longer any major piece of furniture that grown-ups are supposed to have that I am not in possession of. Now I can die happy.)

And since that’s all I’ve got, guess what else you get? Yup. Gratuitous cat photos. He’s very reflective, isn’t he?:

Don’t say a prayer for me now. Save it ’till the morning after.

My esophagus hurts. (And I’d like to take this opportunity to once again use the word “sphincter”. My lower esophageal sphincter seems to have allowed acid into my esophagus.) Actually, I don’t know whether my esophagus hurts or not, because this has never happened to me before. If it’s not my esophagus, though, I don’t know what it is.

Here are two short conversations I had today about my new-found problem:

*****

Via text message

Me: I think my esophagus hurts. That’s near your throat, right?

Mr. Monkeyspank: *your* esophagus is not near *my* throat

Me: I very nearly typed “Mine, not yours, I mean.” I knew you were going to say that. But seriously, ouch.

*****

Real live in-person conversation, as I was getting out of Goethe’s car after he drove me to the store to buy medicine

Me: Thanks. I’ll tell you how the medicine works.

Goethe: How it works?

Me: Whether it works.

*****

Why, when I’m clearly suffering, is everyone so mean to me? Even my mother, when I called her to make sure she’s not allergic to any of the medication I was considering, said, “Well, you’re probably just getting an ulcer.”

Anyway, I hope I don’t actually have acid reflux disease, because that would require having Duran Duran’s The Reflex stuck in my head, as I do now, only all the time.

Sources (one of whom is actually a doctor, though not the right kind) say the pain I am experiencing may be related to diet. To wit:

July 26

Breakfast: coffee

Lunch: Big Mac

Dinner: microwave popcorn (all of it)

July 27

Breakfast: coffee

Lunch: chicken salad on rye

Dinner: nothing yet, but most assuredly not microwave popcorn

It’s a wonder I’m not actually dead. (And do you know what happens after you get The Reflex stuck in your head? Hungry Like the Wolf. Arrgh.)

I’m supposed to be the clever one, right? And this is the best I can come up with? Geez.

Since yesterday, the song stuck in my head has been Carly Simon’s “Let The River Run”. It’s a fine song, really. Good enunciation. (And remember when it used to be a commercial for the United States Postal Service? I love the USPS.)

Anyway, here you go. I do so like to share:

It’s asking for the taking.
Trembling, sha-ay-king.
Oh, my heart is aching!

We’re coming to the edge,
Running on the water,
Coming through the fog,
Your sons and daughters.

We the great and small
Stand on a star
And blaze a trail of desire
Through the dark’ning dawn.

It’s asking for the taking.

Come run with me now,
The sky is the color of blue
You’ve never even seen
In the eyes of your lover.

(And I’m not sure about your iPod, but on my iPod, The Carpenters come right after Carly Simon. I really am so very easily amused.)

I got an e-mail from Amazon.com yesterday:

______________

Dear Amazon.com Customer,

We’ve noticed that customers who have purchased The Professor of Desire by Philip Roth also purchased books by Selim Aissi. For this reason, you might like to know that Selim Aissi’s Security in Wireless Networks And Mobile Platforms will be released soon.

______________

(So guess how much “Security in Wireless Networks and Mobile Platforms” costs? $109. Want a copy? Preorder it now!) (I once bought a pair of pliers from Amazon.com, because I needed pliers, and I was buying a book anyway. For a year they kept sending me thick shiny hardware catalogs.)

______________

Dear Amazon.com,

I’ve noticed that people who run websites selling books also send me really stupid e-mail. For this reason, I’ve just asked you to stop sending me e-mail recommending books I might like. Thank you in advance for your cooperation in this matter.

______________

That’s all for now. As some of you are aware, Overly Verbal was down all day yesterday. I think my webhost gives me a discount on my service if I’m not up all the time. But who’s keeping track of whether it’s working or not? (I mean, other than you.) That’s right, them. Hmm.

When Goethe came up with that ever so clever list of things I love (you know how lazy I am? This lazy: I am not going to link to that list, because you can go find it yourself if you’re so stinkin’ interested. If you’re not reading the comments, you’re totally missing out. Witty, clever barbs are flying all over the place.), he neglected to mention that I love old cookbooks. I like new cookbooks as much as the next person (okay, more than the next person. Way more.), but I really love old cookbooks. And there’s a new thriftshop near my work, and Mondays you get 25% off!

So I spent $6.87, and came home with three old cookbooks, a book of short stories, and two, count them two, presents for Mr. Monkeyspank (esq., etc.) (because earlier today I told him “I told you so” and it’s not nice to tell people “I told you so” and when you do tell them “I told you so” you should buy them a present, maybe, or two. Once the presents have been delivered, pictures of them will surely be posted here, so that my largesse can be appreciated, celebrated, and - dare I say it? - venerated.) (There I go again with the inside jokes. I should be more forthcoming: Mr. Monkeyspank beat me at Scrabble the other day, after playing the word venerate.)

I like to get six different things for $6.87. It makes me happy. (But I’m also a little dismayed because I don’t have a scanner with which to scan images from my old cookbooks. If I did, I could share those images with you, and then you’d be happy too.)

Some other junk happened today too, but nothing worth writing down, except that during the cab ride home from the Metro station this evening (Shut up. It was hot, and the bus was late. I don’t have a car, so I’ll take a cab three and a half miles whenever I damn well please, thank you very much.), I had the pleasure of riding past the George Washington Masonic National Memorial. It was all lit up like the Empire State Building, except somewhat smaller, and not so much in New York City, and I was pleasantly reminded of my recent trip there, and also several parts of the story I left out, including but not limited to the box of bullets in the car. (Older times we’re missin’, spending the hours reminiscing . . . ) (Couldn’t help it. Little River Turnpike, Little River Band, you know.)

On a different note, why do I not write literature for children? Really, why? Am I doing something else that’s so important? Would I not be the next Dr. Seuss? Is there already a next Dr. Seuss?

Things are going downhill around here, and fast.

Me: Did you see the cute picture of Mouse?

Goethe: Yes, it’s blurry. All of your pictures are blurry. You can’t even take a picture that’s not blurry.

Me: Nuh-uh.

Here are three not blurry pictures: of my cat, a coatrack, and some flowers by the library.

Take that, Goethe.

So, I’ve spent quite a while today applying for jobs online, which required writing a cover letter or two. Normally, words come easily to me, and I don’t revise. (Because everything that comes out of my brain is perfect the very first time. Really.) (Most of the time I don’t even spell-check. Because I know how to spell.) (Except for once, when I was in 5th grade, and came in 3rd in the spelling bee, because I misspelled pyramid. I know, that’s embarrassing, but, as I learned while reading The Washington Post this morning, I’m a “publizen” now.) (And if I really do believe we don’t have a right to ultimate privacy in the first place? I guess I’m a fascist too, but we knew that already.) (Someone surely could have come up with a better word than publizen, though. Somehow it sounds like a venereal disease to me.)

But when I’m writing cover letters? Good god am I neurotic. Do I sound too pretentious? Of course I do. Should I sound less pretentious? Why? If they don’t want to hire someone with an English degree from freakin’ Columbia (with honors, natch) to be their glorified proof-reader, then they shouldn’t. I can’t change who I am. And I wouldn’t if I could. (Okay, maybe if I could, I would. I’d like to be independently wealthy, for example, and have a Toyota Tacoma and a soldering iron (because I made a beaded bracelet this afternoon that I’m afraid will fall apart. My nascent jewelry-making skills would be more reliable if I could just solder the knots closed). So yeah, I’d be just like I am now, but with oodles of cash, a pick-up truck, and a soldering iron.) (Do you have a soldering iron? Can I borrow it?)

Which is all just to say that if you’re looking for a new job, now’s the time to ask me to write your cover letters for you, because I have action verbs coming out of my ears, and I’m already probably re-writing your resume for you anyway (as needed), so you might as well try to keep the same voice in all job-seeking communications. (Also, I’m really concerned with the ways in which changes in technology are affecting whatever the hell industry it is that you or I might be applying for a job in.)

In other news? Well, there is no other news. In addition to writing cover letters that read as if they were written by professional cover letter writers, I’ve also spent this weekend cleaning my apartment, filing some papers, and trying to keep Mouse from knocking over everything on my desk and discovering what’s actually inside the webcam. As follows (I know, he’s blurry. It’s a webcam.):

Here’s another picture of Mr. Bunny, with his friend.

Everyone who has ever played Scrabble with me will know that I always say, “I got nothin’” just before I bust out with some crazy-ass word you’ve never even heard of that’s worth a hundred points. But today, I mean it. I’ve got nothing. Not one interesting or amusing thing to recount.

I did buy a new ruler today. It was 39 cents. But it’s really just the perfect ruler, and it has holes in it in case I need to keep it in my binder. (Which I do not. But if I did, I’d be set.)

And do we want me to go on and on about how there is no key on my computer keyboard to make the cent symbol? No, no we do not. Because then I’d have to go on and on about the fact that my typewriter does have a cent symbol, on a very special key that makes an at symbol when you don’t use the shift key. And my typewriter doesn’t even have a key for the numeral one, because back in the day the numeral one was the same as the letter L. And the days during which you could make a cent symbol (for say, when you bought a ruler for 39 cents) were good, and now they’re gone, and that’s sad, and it’s only Friday. We should save these sort of sad-making things for Sunday nights.

But then again, if we didn’t have modern technology, I wouldn’t have a blog, and so I’d have to type a letter, and I’d have to use carbon paper if I was going to send the letter to more than one person at a time, or make a photostat, and I don’t have a photostat machine, so we’re probably better off the way we are now, aren’t we?

Damn it.

Here’s a short list of diseases I have not recently tested positive for:

(I know, “not recently tested positive for” is a little forced, but it’s possible that the tests gave false negative results, so no one will say for sure that I don’t have any of those diseases. I feel pretty confident about it, though.)

On June 14th, I gave blood. I had never done so before, for a number of reasons. 1) There’s a weight limit. (I used to not reliably weigh over 110 pounds, but now I reliably weigh between 115 and 119.) 2) I used to be anemic-like, and they prefer your blood to have a lot of iron in it. 3) No one ever held a blood drive right in the building where I work. (Because I was never so stupid as to work for a company that had quite so many employees as the one I work for now. People from dozens of locations have just moved into a new, centralized administrative building; they have yet to post the sign that reads, “All Mediocrity Now Consolidated For Your Convenience!”) (But there are other signs: the “Ladies Room” sign is not that bad - not how I would have done it, but at least it doesn’t make my brains drip out of my ears. But I do have to walk past a sign every day that reads “Mens Room”. I want to find the woman who made that sign and throw a Funk and Wagnalls at her, but there are so many women in my building that I’d be hard-pressed to find that particular one, and I’d probably run across more mind-numbing signs on my hunt.) (Or maybe I could throw Eats Shoots and Leaves at her. Which one’s heavier?)

Let’s get back on topic, shall we?

So they take only a pint of blood, and then a little bit to test it for diseases. That doesn’t seem like a lot, until you consider that it’s a full twelfth of the blood in your body, and then, well, that seems like a lot. I had never been so close to passing out in my entire life, except the one time I actually passed out, and that time I didn’t even feel like I was going to, so it wasn’t weird. This was weird; normally I feel in control of my body, but I was most definitely not. And I still can’t figure out why I didn’t expect it to be weird. I think that we can all agree that slowly draining the blood from your body is bad - why would doing it deliberately and under the supervision of trained medical professionals make it any less unpleasant? Why did I think I would react with anything other than dizziness and nausea? (Because I’m cocky, that’s why. And arrogant. And somewhat unschooled in the ways of the human body.) (Certain ways, anyway.)

And here’s something to think about - when you give blood at work, the other people giving blood at the same time are going to be people you might run into later, so having a nurse-type person change your chair around so your feet are up in the air, apply wet paper towels to your forehead, and give you a red biohazard bag in which you are allowed to vomit, if necessary, could prove embarrassing. (But everyone was very nice to me, and then they gave me cookies. And I like cookies. And there were pretzels too!) And I got to wear a sticker around for the rest of the day that read, “Be nice to me! I gave blood for the first time today!” (But I ended up going home early, because I felt sort of woozy.) (Because I’m sensitive and delicate.) (And also, they took 8.33% of my blood.) (So I didn’t get to use the sticker to its full advantage, but on the way home on the subway I did consider the potential utility of always wearing such a sticker. People will readily give you a seat if they think you just gave blood.)

(But here’s something they don’t tell you until AFTER you’ve donated blood for the first time - you can’t have any alcohol for the rest of the day. Geez. No heavy lifting? No problem. No beer? Seems like if you have less blood, the beer would be even more effective than normal - how is that bad?)

So, in order to accept my blood, they had to make sure I didn’t have any of the abovementioned diseases. Unlike most people, I have never taken an HIV test, because during the time between taking the test and finding out the results, I would have gone insane with worry about whether or not I had ever been exposed to HIV. (Which of course I haven’t, but neither have I ever been in a plane crash. Nor am I likely too. Doesn’t stop me from worrying about whether any given plane I happen to find myself on will crash.) So they tell you that you’ll get a letter from them in about two weeks, with your blood type and the next date on which you will be eligible to give blood. I think we’re far enough into this story for you to have forgotten when I gave blood. (That’s okay; I know you’re at least trying to keep up.) It was about a month ago. During the two weeks after I thought I should have already received a letter, was I worried that I possibly had any number of those diseases that I almost definitely do not have? Why yes, yes I was. (But did I tell you I was worried? No, no I didn’t. You know why? Because I’m nice like that.)

(So what’s my blood type? A positive. Which is the same blood type of something like one out of three people. I am so very common, aren’t I?)

So I’ve really made light of the whole situation, but I can tell you now that I am quite pleased with the fact that I may have helped save up to three lives. I certainly don’t have any extra money to give to people who might need it. (Heck, I don’t even have enough money to give some to PBS or NPR.) If someone wanted the shirt off my back, they could have it (unless it was my very most favorite polka-dotted shirt, in which case I’d invite them over to pick out one of my less favorite shirts). Every thing I find I don’t need around my home goes right to the thrift shop, because one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. And I recycle, and I try to purchase products that are recycled, and that don’t contain excess perfumes and dyes. My cat uses cat litter that is made out of wheat, not clay. Generally, I try to create as small an impact on the environment as I can, up to and including not owning a car, even though my life would be, in some ways, much more pleasant if I did have a car. (The noise pollution when I sing? That’s ephemeral.) But does all that make that much of a difference, really? I mean, it’s not like saving the environment is saving lives.

So now I’m going to get up on my soapbox, and encourage you to give blood if you can, and as frequently as you can, because it’s free. And if I can do it, you can do it. I know some of you aren’t able, but if you can, you should. I used to babysit a three-year-old girl who had cancer; my brother once crashed his bike in the middle of the desert and landed on his face (he wasn’t that hurt, just needed some stitches. He sure did look funny when I met him in the emergency room, though.); I could get hit by a bus. Any of those things could happen to you too, and if you needed blood so you wouldn’t die, wouldn’t you feel bad about not having once donated some?

And I can give blood again on August 9th. So if you were going to invite me out for a drink sometime shortly after August 9th, I might have to say, “Sure, I’ll go out for a drink, but I’ll have ginger ale. Because I just gave blood.”

(And now there are two new links in the sidebar. The American Red Cross, and Locks of Love. (Later, we can talk about how I donated my hair, except I didn’t donate my hair, because it’s still in a plastic bag on my desk. Has been since December, when I cut all of it off. I need a padded envelope, that’s all, and then some kid will have a wig.))

(Do I need a new category: “Ways in which you should be more like me”?)