Strange Lucidity

One good thing about being sick, or more aptly, the only good thing about being sick, is the freaky fever-induced dreams one gets to experience. Have a gander at this one:

Sean and I were vacationing in some evil-governed tropical locale, like Columbia or something. Presumably, we were visiting his older sister (note: he doesn't HAVE an older sister), who was living there with her litter of children.

Anyway. So, we're alternately backpacking through a lush tropical jungle and shopping for light fixtures in a gift shop (you know how these things make perfect sense in dreams....), when suddenly an olive-green jeep full of uniformed men pulls up. We were a bit startled, but the man who approached us seemed friendly enough. In a heavy accent, he asked if we were visiting for the first time. We replied that yes, we were. He then asked if we had seen the famous, rare Gimlet Bird that inhabited the areas (I don't actually remember what he called the bird, "gimlet" seems interesting enough). We said no, we hadn't.

So, the man proceeds to jiggle around some branches of a nearby tree and produce this bird straight out of something by Lewis Carroll. It was fushia, yellow, green, blue, orange...it had a little horn for a beak and little suction cups to help it climb the tree, Fairythin wings beat rapidly on his/her back.

Entranced, we watched the bird for some time. We thanked the man, and he excused himself. When we came out of our freaky Lewis Carroll bird reverie, the man was gone. It was then that I happened to glance at Sean's backpack, which was sitting open next to a tree (mine was still on my back).

It was filled with blocks of cocaine.

I gestured to Sean, trying not to appear alarmed. He looked over at the bag, then looked back at me with widened eyes. Recognizing that we were the victims of some kind of setup attempt, we turned tail and began to walk nonchalantly (so as not to draw attention to ourselves) out of the jungle/gift shop. At a distance, we could see the uniformed men shouting to each other; so we began to run.

As is typical of dreams, I couldn't run very fast. I remember telling Sean to go ahead as fast as he could, saying they wouldn't bother me because I was already wearing a backpack (not sure of the logic there, but anyway...). Reluctantly, he ran off, his purple-pink sweatshirt (of paintball fame) streaking through the forest.

Not sure how, but we ended up back at his older sister's house eating vanilla ice cream with chocolate sprinkles (or "jimmies" to you Bostonians...) with her 6 or 7 children. Then, I realized I was late for my Social Marketing class group meeting, so I grabbed a calzone and headed for the library.

Whoa. That nyquil's some heavy stuff.

Calgon, take me away........

Overheard

This is a conversation going on right now in the neighboring cubicles. Sophie is Russian, and very impressed with her social standing, but in a funny way. Marie is NOT impressed with Sophie, and pokes fun at her a good part of the day.

Marie: I think I'm going to wear my bunny slippers to work tomorrow.
Sophie: Bunny slippers? What are these bunny slippers? Who wears these?
Marie: You know, bunny slippers. You don't have bunny slippers?
Sophie: (indignant) No. I have good slippers.
Marie: "Good" slippers?
Sophie: Yes, good slippers. They are made in Italy!
Marie: Are they made out of spaghetti?

*giggling*

These people crack me up some days.

Sick. And Pissy.

*sniffle*

If it weren't for the fact that I utterly cannot miss my Social Marketing class tonight (I'll be out of town next week...), I would have called in sick. But if you have to go out anyway....might as well have the cash from working. Not to mention that I had a short week last week and I'll have a super-short week next week. Hey, we pions don't get such luxuries as "sick time" or "vacation time" or "holiday pay".

So, here I sit, my glands swollen to the size of baseballs, my hair stubbornly sicking (Ha! I meant "sticking"! That was a Freudian slip!) to the damp, clammy skin of my neck. I'm out of coffee at home, so I'm slurping long-cold green tea. I'm also out of food at home (these things happen when other people insist on eating your food, but that's another story...), so for lunch (at work) and dinner (at school) today I brought a bag of banana chips, a granola bar, and some baby carrots. I'll likely be supplementing with a bagel, courtesy of Dunkin Donuts. I eat too damn many bagels. Of course, I wouldn't have this problem if the lunches and dinners and snacks I buy to get me through my hectic schedule didn't mysteriously disappear. I'm not really sure what happens to them, since both of my roommates blame the other. I'm thinking that perhaps there's a very small man with a very large appetite living under the sink. He seems to have a taste for Trader Joe's frozen biryani and cereal.

Well, ladies and gents, that paragraph should have been 2 paragraphs. But am I going to change it? No. I'm tired. And I guess I should start doing some sort of work. Blech. Ahh, phlegm, my long-lost friend, I embrace thee.

*Hack*

Site Review

Here ya'll go--if you'd like a heads-up on the site I'll be reviewing for tomorrow's class, it's the website of the Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry , part of the US Department of Health and Human Services. I'll post the entire site review after we go over it in class--or else I'd be wasting my breath, eh?

My Alter Ego?

I met my alter ego last night. Or at least, I fancy her as such.

I was walking through Chinatown on my way to class at Tufts, inhaling the smells of grease and soy sauce that tend to permeate the very air around NEMC, when she brushed past me. She was in a hurry, like me; and she looked a bit lost. For an instant, our eyes met in some sort of deeply human recognition of "kindredness", and then we were both gone.

I thought of her as I plodded on towards my class. Not just of her, but of the scores of people we pass every day and don't ever really "see"; and I wondered about her; about her life. She was wearing a mid-length dark trench coat, she was carrying a backpack. Her hair was babyfine blond; not oozing-with-self-confidence-I-paid-$100-at-james joseph-for-these-highlights blond, but the plain natural blond that nonhighlighters tend to have. What struck me most about her was that she was wearing a long, black skirt with a slit up the front, and as she hurried along she was furtively trying to hold it closed over her calf-high boots. I suppose the reason it struck me so was that it was so vulnerable, so not confident. If it were me, I would have let the slit snake up my thigh and walked along completely oblivious, or at least laughed at my risque skirt.

But, she didn't. I wondered how else we were different. Does she love oatmeal cookies, where I would gladly leave them alone? Does she drive a big luxury car, as I rush to catch the "T"? Is her favorite season summer? Does she love to knit? Does she loathe the feeling of warm, wet spring grass squishing between her toes? Is she a dog person or a cat person? New England or Manhattan clam chowder? Is she in love? Is she alone?

I decided that she loved the oatmeal cookies--fresh and hot from the oven with big soft raisins that burst in her mouth as she bites into them. Her car is something in the middle of economy and luxury, something nondescript like a honda or nissan. She likes summer because she likes the warm weather, but she doesn't like to go barefoot because it's "gross". She's a cat person (not just someone who happens to like cats and doesn't have time for a dog; like me; but a full-blown cat person), and she has a calico cat with a food name--like "Muffin" or "Cookie". She likes manhattan clam chowder. She's not in love. But, she's not alone, either.

I thought of her again after class, as I climbed hill after hill walking from the T stop to my apartment; exhaling streams of condensation in swirling clouds. I thought of the split second we looked at each other, recognition in our eyes; and wondered if she wondered about me--the girl with the thatch of red hair and the smattering of freckles, the glasses she hates but has to wear until she has time to get a contact exam perched on her nose, her hands lazily squeezing the gloves in her pocket. I had made all these snap judgements about her--that she lacked self-confidence, that she was quiet and gentle. What would she have thought of me? Me, who fancies myself a 'free thinker', clad completely in Abercrombie & Fitch (because their jeans are long enough, but that's another story...); who preaches about "health", as I slurp cup after cup of coffee....do I really fancy myself a more complicated person because I prefer autumn to spring? Am I deep, dark, and brooding because I don't like oatmeal cookies and had a pet ferret?

I didn't have time to really put as much thought into those issues as I would have liked. By this time I was nearly home. I let my scarf come unwound and flutter to my hips, its fringe tickling my fingertips; as I burst into the light of my apartment building, climbing the stairs towards my cat, my secondhand lamp, and the phone I'd use to call someone who loved me.

I'm Secretly a Burnout

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