surreality
My life most recently has been a surreal stream of events that has turned my expression into a permanent "WTF" look everywhere I go. I was sitting at work the other day when a co-worker ran into my pod, breathless and apologetic for her tardiness to our weekly brain dump. "No problem," I said, turning in my chair. "Well," she responded, "Colin Powell was here giving a talk, and I was watching it." "The former Secretary of State is here?" I said, baffled. "Yeah," she said, "in fact, I was in the laundry room washing my underwear, and Colin Powell walks in, and then our founders walk in, and then the CEO walks in, and Colin Powell says 'Hi, what are you doing?' And I said 'I'm washing my underwear.'" "I'm sorry," I said, "but are you making this up?" "No, I don't know why I told Colin Powell I was washing my underwear, but I did." I never did get to ask her why the company founders and the CEO thought it fit to give the former Secretary of State a tour of the laundry room at work, but then, my permanent WTF look got in the way of anything else I tried to do that day.
After telling Superstar about the events, I went home and continued watching my nightly dose of Sex and the City. I have singlehandedly watched every episode of Sex and the City in about two months. All six seasons that I never watched while they were on the air, I watched in a rather ambitious timeline that might be construed as a tad crazy. Speaking of which, has anyone noticed that Carrie Bradshaw is not really a character one would call "endearing?" I'm not even sure I'd call her real. Psychotic, maybe, but c'mon, she met plenty of perfectly acceptable people she kicked to the curb. Of course, not that I'm one to talk, since I suppose I dumped my last serious, perfectly acceptable relationship, but then again, I haven't had a whole lot of those to trash. The current one? Serious, yet hard to define.
As I sit at the dinner table at work listening to my co-workers rant on about online dating, usurping of other people's boyfriends, vengeance, and other unrelatable activities, I think, wow, I am old. I don't gossip, I am not interested in other people's boyfriends, and I sure as hell won't online date. Yet at the same time, the minute Superstar left, I was back to my old bachelorette ways, leaving a trail of clothes in my wake, not cleaning the tub, eating pasta from a box, and buying new shoes. That's right, I can now officially walk in 4" heels, graduating from my 3.25" pair I started with a couple years ago. As sure as Superstar is turning me into a princess, I'm turning him into a punk. He bought new Vans at the Vacaville outlets last week, on our way home from Tahoe. That's right, Mr. Collared Shirt & Khakis is now swaggering around town in a pair of lace-up Vans, and Miss I Once Was a Teenaged Skater Chick is now tip-toeing around in sky high heels and flirty dresses. I guess if we're going to have a bad influence on each other, fashion is as safe as it gets.
In other surreal events, we walked into a Sausalito art gallery last week (because if you aren't in an art gallery in Sausalito then you're in a wine store), attracted to a (dare I say) exquisitely clever little oil piece in the window depicting four abstract ladies sitting at a bar. I always look at art in art galleries through windows. It's the safest form of admiration, usually because I'm too dirty to go inside and always because I'm too poor to strike up a legitimate conversation. We strolled in, Vans, sweatshirts, jeans, and all, and Superstar had the audacity to remark to the salesman about the painting in the window. In our classic Silicon Valley billionaire apparel, I guess he took a gamble and played his cards, pulling the painting out of the window. "This one is by a Ukrainian artist. It's $3500." I think there might have been an imperceptible twitch at the corner of my right eye, but other than that, we went with it, nodding appreciatively and calling it lovely. "I -- like the warm tones and the texture on the dresses." "She likes the verticality," Superstar said without missing a beat. This is ridiculous, I thought, then smiled as the salesman led us to the back of the gallery where he placed the piece up on a mantle of some kind and adjusted the mood lighting. We spent several ridiculous minutes gazing at it from different angles and distances. The salesman walked away and came back 30 seconds later. "$2500" he said. Damn, $1000 in 30 seconds, how good are we? We eventually escaped this man about ten painful minutes later, but not without telling him we'd consider it over margaritas and asking for his card. "If I could get him down to $1500, I might actually buy that," Superstar said as we strolled down Bridgeway St. "Oh right," I answered. "You know, if I wasn't spending money on remodeling my kitchen," he added. Not too long after this, we bought some ice cream at a store across the street, and Superstar nearly had a fit about the $7.55 for the two scoops. "I can't believe they can get away with charging seven bucks for ice cream," he said, disgusted. I assume this is about how much the gallery paid the Ukrainian artist for his painting, but I guess in the end we'll never know.
After telling Superstar about the events, I went home and continued watching my nightly dose of Sex and the City. I have singlehandedly watched every episode of Sex and the City in about two months. All six seasons that I never watched while they were on the air, I watched in a rather ambitious timeline that might be construed as a tad crazy. Speaking of which, has anyone noticed that Carrie Bradshaw is not really a character one would call "endearing?" I'm not even sure I'd call her real. Psychotic, maybe, but c'mon, she met plenty of perfectly acceptable people she kicked to the curb. Of course, not that I'm one to talk, since I suppose I dumped my last serious, perfectly acceptable relationship, but then again, I haven't had a whole lot of those to trash. The current one? Serious, yet hard to define.
As I sit at the dinner table at work listening to my co-workers rant on about online dating, usurping of other people's boyfriends, vengeance, and other unrelatable activities, I think, wow, I am old. I don't gossip, I am not interested in other people's boyfriends, and I sure as hell won't online date. Yet at the same time, the minute Superstar left, I was back to my old bachelorette ways, leaving a trail of clothes in my wake, not cleaning the tub, eating pasta from a box, and buying new shoes. That's right, I can now officially walk in 4" heels, graduating from my 3.25" pair I started with a couple years ago. As sure as Superstar is turning me into a princess, I'm turning him into a punk. He bought new Vans at the Vacaville outlets last week, on our way home from Tahoe. That's right, Mr. Collared Shirt & Khakis is now swaggering around town in a pair of lace-up Vans, and Miss I Once Was a Teenaged Skater Chick is now tip-toeing around in sky high heels and flirty dresses. I guess if we're going to have a bad influence on each other, fashion is as safe as it gets.
In other surreal events, we walked into a Sausalito art gallery last week (because if you aren't in an art gallery in Sausalito then you're in a wine store), attracted to a (dare I say) exquisitely clever little oil piece in the window depicting four abstract ladies sitting at a bar. I always look at art in art galleries through windows. It's the safest form of admiration, usually because I'm too dirty to go inside and always because I'm too poor to strike up a legitimate conversation. We strolled in, Vans, sweatshirts, jeans, and all, and Superstar had the audacity to remark to the salesman about the painting in the window. In our classic Silicon Valley billionaire apparel, I guess he took a gamble and played his cards, pulling the painting out of the window. "This one is by a Ukrainian artist. It's $3500." I think there might have been an imperceptible twitch at the corner of my right eye, but other than that, we went with it, nodding appreciatively and calling it lovely. "I -- like the warm tones and the texture on the dresses." "She likes the verticality," Superstar said without missing a beat. This is ridiculous, I thought, then smiled as the salesman led us to the back of the gallery where he placed the piece up on a mantle of some kind and adjusted the mood lighting. We spent several ridiculous minutes gazing at it from different angles and distances. The salesman walked away and came back 30 seconds later. "$2500" he said. Damn, $1000 in 30 seconds, how good are we? We eventually escaped this man about ten painful minutes later, but not without telling him we'd consider it over margaritas and asking for his card. "If I could get him down to $1500, I might actually buy that," Superstar said as we strolled down Bridgeway St. "Oh right," I answered. "You know, if I wasn't spending money on remodeling my kitchen," he added. Not too long after this, we bought some ice cream at a store across the street, and Superstar nearly had a fit about the $7.55 for the two scoops. "I can't believe they can get away with charging seven bucks for ice cream," he said, disgusted. I assume this is about how much the gallery paid the Ukrainian artist for his painting, but I guess in the end we'll never know.
i finally found him
That's right, I found him. I just never imagined him in tights, but hey, we met in a used bookstore in Palo Alto and I guess I just became entranced by his swarthy build and commanding gaze and really long sword. Best of all, he was a steal at $3 (plus 25 cents tax), there's only 365 pages of him to understand and it's all written down in black and white, I can put him on the shelf when I'm bored of him, and I can sell him back to the store if we don't work out (probably minus 50% or so, but it's still a great deal). He also never calls me on the phone only to not listen to me while waiting for me to shutup so that he can say he has lots of things to do, leaving me wondering why the hell he bothered calling in the first place. I'm not much of a fan of mysteries or Choose Your Own Adventure Books ("If you think he's listening, turn to page 32, if he's letting you run your mouth off while he sits at his laptop, turn to page 14"), so I have to say that a man between four-hundred pages of lightly used fantasy is the best option I've come across lately. According to the back cover (which is the only thing I've read so far), he's not even her real husband, he's just some dude who saved her from a sinking ship so she decided to take him home and parade him around town like her real husband. Sex and the respect of others without the commitment! Charmed!
if you want something done right
Blackmail yourself. Superstar threatened to make public this bad web cam photo of me wearing his V-day gift. So I'm beating him to the punch by posting it myself. Enjoy.
