poisoned pizza and matrimony

getting ready for work this morning, as i go over to the frozen pizza box (don't judge me) that i trekked far and wide to get last night, barefoot, up the hill, for ten miles to the gnasty gristede's on west fourth street, i realize that the safety perforation package 'don't eat if this is torn' thing is torn. now, i got eight-and-a-half lovely hours of sleep last night, and after a gratifying evening of doing laundry and bonding with my new best friend suzy at the laundromat ('arbitino's is much better than joe's pizza!' 'the hell it is. if you like canned mushrooms and stale cheese, i suppose.' 'they don't have canned mushrooms!' 'oh, maybe they use rubber instead.' 'they're my friends. if you want me to help you fold, take it back.' 'i can fold myself, thank you very much.' 'oh so THAT'S how you fold towels. i. see.' 'well you eat stale pizza.' 'you don't pair your socks?' 'good god no. far too much effort. they're all black, i just pick two in the morning.' 'so you eat cheap pizza and wear mismatched socks.' etc., etc., etc.) and dusting and sweeping my flophouse a la donna reed (sans pearls and evening finery), i awoke to just such a pleasant state today. the dilemma about whether to eat the pizza that may have been tampered with was a little too beyond me.

so, if i die today, you'll know what did me in. which would be a shame, for i'm heading up to the nuptial of the most charming couple in upstate new york. love the two of them: such a good fit. and as my hilton garden inn reservations aren't cancelable without paying for the nights, it would make being food poisoned that much more unpleasant. to get to the wedding, one has to drive right through the heart of middle america, if middle america were in upstate new york: not just walmart, SUPER walmart. not just an outlet center, THE BIGGEST outlet center around. and so on, and so on. typical america at that: not just the haves, but the haves more than ANYONE ANYWHERE. i should be ready for a therapy session after the four hour drive to and fro, but the little destination town is all shades of charming, and having all of us in the same hotel should be like college all over again. stay tuned for my insanity ramblings as the weekend progresses, kids.

i can see clearly now the rain is here, part two

the whole thing that even got me to the ophTHALMOLOgist was that i am down to my second-to-last contact for my right eye. since the whole 'whoops, we ordered the wrong lens! twice!' debacle of two-and-a-half years ago, when they shipped me what they thought to be a one-year supply of lenses (i'm thrifty...), they shipped extra left-eye lenses to make me happy. so, my left eye has contacts for probably another year, but my right eye is running out. and as i've come to find out from dr. hot guido, both lenses are obsolete anyway. but still, the only thing getting me through today is that i can throw away the ten-day disposable lens that i've had for at least 40 days, and put in the new pair of obsolete knock-off lenses, as the correct, real ones are on their way.

i'm king of online searches. i can find anything. anyone. name it. but the one cute pair of glasses, the only goddam ones, aren't ANYWHERE to be found online. searched by the model: nothing. the designer's name: nothing. obscure international sites: nothing. ebay, new best friend forever: nothing. i'm completely at a loss, but will not go down without a fight. suggestions, please, i'm sinking here, kids.

i swear, two things in life to which i'll never, ever warm up: apartment and spec searching. i will die in this place, because i'll never never never never never never never go through a move again, but i can't very well live with glasses from five years ago, can i? of course not.

geez, i'm looking more like napoleon dynamite by the day :-(

i can see clearly now the rain is here

nasty, cold, blustery day in new jack. this morning, i finally took marge's incessant advice about seeing an ophTHALMOLOgist, not my opTOMetrist of ten years. fine, saw this guy who turned out to be a hot piece of italian ass (SO usually not my type, but hello guido...) prescription barely changed, but changed nevertheless...
'any problems with your sight?'
'sort of. i can't understand why, but some contacts from the box are crystal clear, and some just don't correct my vision. bizarre.'
'who makes them?'
'clinasoft.'
'who?'
'clinasoft?'
'what the hell is that?'
'um, if you don't know... hold on, i brought the boxes...'
'wow. these. now i know. these are the knock-offs to the ones i'm going to prescribe.'
'knock offs, like as in 'that's not a rolex!''
'sort of. let me explain.'
[clinical mumbo jumbo] '...same packaging, same font, everything, so that's why you can't always see.'
'oh. lovely. and, since we're talking about things that help me see, or don't, lasik...?'
[clinical mumbo jumbo] '...about four thousand dollars.'
'hail mary!'
'don't take mary's name!' [something in italian, ending with him crossing himself.]
'sorry. yes. i apologize. so, four thousand...'
'but i use the latest in lasers.' [clinical mumbo jumbo.]

so we agree that a few months worth of contacts is a good deal, lest i pimp myself out (again) to pay for lasik, and he gives me the prescription for new glasses. go to cute optometrist place near me with uber, uber adorable guy behind the counter...

'oh, those are cute, may i see?' [dripping rainwater over his just. so. perfect. display case.]
'yes, they are paul chiol.'
'who? ooh, they're mad cute!'
'and they bring out your lashes.'
'sorry?'
'sorry.'
'no, don't be sorry. how much are these with my 'insurance?''
'[*cha ching*]'
'now you need to be sorry.'
'yeah, those are a bit steep.'
'make a deal? [wink]'
'yeah, with your amex. sorry, stud. [shy grin.]'
'ok, but let me write the style and price down.'

...to be continued...

feeling rather social

so, suze orman, you seem to be rubbing off on me. i will take your advice, and will find out my fico score. you asked me to get my credit rating from the three big reporting agencies first, and i did. i learned:
1. citibank checks my credit every single month, religiously. bastards.
2. that abercrombie card i opened over ten years ago? still open. same with bloomingdale's. why would i close either? naked men are enough to keep the former open, and free valet parking at roosevelt field enough for the latter. that i don't have a car isn't the point.
3. a vacation club in texas checked my credit, a few months ago, but never contacted me before for my permission or after for an offer. not that i want to rent a townhouse in dallas, but still. shady?
4. sallie mae is an angry, angry woman. loves me, but don't ever cross her.

what, you don't?

when i was a wee little cubefarmprole-to-be boy, in my little sea-faring town, homer and marge would take me and bart out for seafood every now and then. a fate worse than death, that smell, the eyes, i hated, HATED it. but we all got lobsters, as they about gave those things away growing up. nice of the parents, but i haven't looked at a lobster since the eyes stared back at me that one time when i was in the eighth grade, so help me. my brother took it off my plate, when he was done with his, plucked the eyes off and went to town on the thing. i'm too busy naming the thing in my mind, wondering if he gave it up peacefully or with a struggle all the while butter is dripping down my parents' and brother's faces.

one of the staples of sea-faring town restaurants are refrigerated dumpster-like buildings. they're bigger than your typical r.v., and they hold the garbage. as marge explained to me, you cannot well just throw out seafood trash, it would draw vermin for miles and stink the town up, so they enclose and refrigerate it. (i think it's even a law back home, but don't quote me.) pure brilliance, i thought. and i never forgot that.

mancat came over a few days ago, went to get something out of my fridge, and started chipping away. 'still refrigerating garbage, i see.' 'clearly. what do YOU do with your garbage. duh.' [throwing an indignant look and rolling my eyes.] 'i throw it out.' 'well i don't have vermin.' 'neither do i.' 'yeah, not sure why. i'm telling you. it's the only way to go. airtight, and when i get enough, i take it out. i'm not going to waste a bag on a wrapper.' 'oh and where do you put the food in your fridge?' 'my food and my food trash co-exist peacefully.' 'you're insane.' 'insane without bugs.'

um, not so much

can't win for losing today.

arrived to work quasi-kinda-sorta-ontime, early for me, to a bosslady in a rancid mood. her last week, putting ducks in a row, bla bla bla, bitch bitch bitch. of course, as i'm the only guy in firing range, nothing was quite right. 'how come the chart in this tab is bigger than the chart on that tab! you messed up the formatting!' 'because you're viewing the one tab at 100% and one at 150%.' 'you never gave me the art for this order.' 'hmm. pretty sure i did.' 'it's not in my file. so you didn't.' oh. ok, your grand magical file filled with all the answers to life's great mysteries doesn't include something i gave you and you promptly lost. sorry. let me get on that.

got to the treadmill at lunch, and some frump was walking on wilma. at least it wasn't biceps, but still, i mean, if you have to use wilma, and her ipod / towel slot goodness, i can get over that she's not committed to me, but to walk on her? dude, go outside. you're pissing me off. fine. so i'm blasting cheesy dance music, on a competing treadmill, adjusting my towel over the display every 30 seconds, while trying to keep focused on mad about you on the monitor, until the power gets cut to the last four treadmills of each of the three rows. i nearly go flying (as did the power walking angry elderly lady) and i have no idea how far i've run or what is going to happen to jamie and paul when they go to yoko ono's apartment. argh! and just at that point, so help me, biceps comes in and throws me his nasty grin, and proceeds to do these pornographic stretch moves. so of course i have to go to a treadmill that DOES work and sprint just to be a prick. because i'm not petty or anything.

on the way out, i ask the too-happy club general manager what happened to the power on the 'cardio mezzanine.' 'oh, a little fuse glitch with the construction, but it's all good, bro! when the renovations are over, this place will be BETTER! THAN! EVER!'

oh. ok.

was looking forward to a badly-needed decompressing drink and chatting with runnerboy, but poor dear came down with bird flu or sars or something, so we had to reschedule. i had a lovely night of spaghettio's, cleaning up the flophouse, and suze orman on an audiobook. (marge got it for me as my alien-bump removal recovery gift. 'here! you're young and underpaid! let's listen together with the dogs. they like her.' 'now you're inflicting suze on me AND the dogs.' 'don't be fresh. if they had a 401k, they'd earn their keep with her advice. she's brilliant.' 'kinda stoned on pain killers.' 'it'll sink in over time. don't worry.'

man alive. tomorrow had better be better... or i'm writing a letter.