the sloppy copy

If I had to list the top ten things that I dislike about wearing glasses, well, I probably wouldn’t. But if I had to, it would probably look something like this:

Glasses are an indicator of poor eyesight, and if that poor eyesight comes in the form of nearsightedness (as it does for the majority of people, I think), it means having to bring things closer to your face to see them properly. Sometimes those things do not smell good.

They (they who?) say that when one sense is diminished, others become more acute as a sort of Sensory Compensation Plan. For me, this means I have a pretty keen sense of smell. I’m able to distinguish the composition and origination of a variety of scents. Strong smells smell even stronger to me.

[Side note: I very nearly passed out this afternoon while checking to see if I had, indeed, removed all of the clear polish from my fingernails. I’ll also add that I was using 100% acetone as remover.]

When one wears glasses, they are sometimes required to take them off to facilitate access to one’s own eyes, i.e. in the administration of eye drops or application of makeup. Cruelly enough, both of these activities have better outcomes when performed with initial precision – a precision that is best achieved through the aid of clear vision. Still don’t get my point? Allow me to illustrate: I cannot put drops in my eyes without wasting at least 3 or 4 drops to other parts of my face (or running down my cheek). I also must lean very closely to the mirror when applying makeup (I’ve been known to leave mascara-marks in my wake). Even then, to try anything other than my normal beauty routine generally yields something I like to refer to as The Buck-Fifty-Hooker Look.

I will count that point as two.

While on the topic of beauty and fashion, let me add that I long for the day when the Dwayne Wayne-style clip-on sunglasses come back in style – not because I don’t want to look silly if I were to go out in public sporting a pair, but because they don’t freaking sell them anywhere anymore.

Also, prescription sunglasses are expensive. Also-also, I don’t do enough work in the jungle to warrant a pair of Transitions Lenses (even though I will always – for no discernible reason – associate them with your everyday pothead and not the exotic-animal photographers in their commercials).

What number am I up to now? Seven? Twelve?

I think that you get my drift: there’s more than one downer in the life of your average Full-Time Glasses Wearer. Even though some of us may end up going to work with Mimi Bobeck eyeshadow from time to time, or be forced to occasionally drive with one hand shading our forehead as if we are Michael rowing our boat to shore (Land-ho!), we at least have one thing going for us:

We don’t have to stick our fingers in our own eyes every day. Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

So if my cousin has a baby, how is that baby related to me? In my head, I call them “nieces” and “nephews,” though I know that’s not accurate. Out loud, I say “my cousins’ kids” so that others don’t think that my 20-year-old brother is a baby daddy.

Are they second cousins? Cousins once removed?

I don’t actually care. All I know is that they are adorable, and I have another one as of late last night/ early this morning. Her name is Gianna, Gia for short, and I cannot wait to meet her.

I’ve listened to this song at least a hundred times (or more) but I realized today that I’d never looked up the lyrics. Sometimes when this happens I experience some sort of religious epiphany: Oh my god, it’s like this person watched me and then wrote this song. This was not one of those cases, but it’s still a good song, regardless.

“Evaporated” / Ben Folds Five
(Whatever and Ever Amen, 1997)
What I’ve kept with me
and what I’ve thrown away
don’t know where the hell I’ve ended up
on this glary, random day
Were the things I really cared about
just left along the way
for being too pent up and proud

woke up way too late
feeling hung over and old
and the sun was shining bright
and I walked barefoot
down the road
started thinking about
my old man
it seems that all men
wanna get into a car and go
anywhere

CHORUS
here I stand – sad and free
I can’t cry and I can’t see
what I’ve done
God. . .what have I done

don’t you know I’m numb, man
no I can’t feel a thing at all
’cause it’s all smiles and business
these days
and I’m indifferent to the loss
I’ve faith that there’s a soul somewhere
who’s leading me around
I wonder if she knows
which way is down. . . [on demo: which way is up and which is down. . .]

CHORUS

I poured my heart out
I poured my heart out
it evaporated. . .see?

Blind man on a canyon’s edge
of a panoramic scene
or maybe I’m a kite
that’s flying high and random
dangling a string
Or slumped over in a vacant room
head on a stranger’s knee
I’m sure back home
they think I’ve lost my mind.

Dear Whoever Reads The Comment Cards,

Hello! You probably did not expect to receive a comment card from me, but I understand (and appreciate) your surprise and delight.

If, in the off-chance you do not know who I am (if so, I imagine you have recently repatriated yourself after having lived overseas for a number of years), please allow me the pleasure of introducing myself. My name is Julie, and I am one of this country’s leading experts in turkey burgers.

For the past four-plus years, I have travelled the contiguous United States in search of the perfect turkey burger (or TB, for those who are able to overlook the fact that this abbreviation also stands for “Tuberculosis”). Of course, when I say “travelled the contiguous United States in search of the perfect turkey burger” I mean “whenever I am at a restaurant that serves burgers I usually choose the turkey option, but not always, because turkey is not always a menu choice or sometimes I decide that I’d rather try the chicken quesadillas”).

As you might imagine, I have eaten my fair share of TBs (again, this refers to turkey burgers, not a highly-communicable respiratory disease), and after taking just one bite of my lunch this afternoon I just knew that I would end up composing this essay on the stack of your comment cards I surreptitiously swiped from the hostess stand as I was escorted from the building (sorry about that, by the way. I hope you have more in the back).

The TB in question was nearly perfect. Not too juicy, not too weird-tasting; this is to say nothing of the satisfied feeling with which I left your establishment. Just ask the patrons sitting in the booth adjacent to mine: I could scarcely (nay, hardly) contain my satisfied moans and deep sighs of contentment. In fact, it was difficult for me to remain fully clothed (as the police report will corroborate), as the pure pleasure I experienced while feeding myself this delicious creation stirred a deeper, more primal, urge from within myself. As I finished the last – perfect– bite of my meal, I actually exploded in a shower of fulfillment and ecstasy.

Haha, no, that is an exaggeration. Had I literally exploded, I would not be able to complete this comment card, now would I?

But if it were, in fact, possible for one to explode in a shower of fulfillment and ecstasy, the management of this restaurant can rest assured that I, along with each and every guest who orders the TB basket with bottomless fries, would immediately do so.

On second thought, this phenomenon might cause your establishment’s corporate headquarters to remove the TB from the menu, as the media is not always kind, and might paint such human-explosions in a negative light.

So while I do not actually desire for your menu items to cause spontaneous combustion, I can think of no more fitting metaphor for my newfound love affair with your turkey burgers and I hope you find this explanation for my behavior this afternoon suitable and that you will promptly remove my name from your nationwide “Do Not Serve” list.

Yours ever-so-truly,
Julie

Oooooooh, how ’bout this background, eh? Had I more knowledge of CSS it’d be a little different but it’ll do for now.

Like how I made myself sound like I knew what I was talking about? Guess what! I don’t! I don’t even know if what I just said made sense. I don’t know what CSS is, other than the fact that I clicked on a link labelled as such. Then there was a whole lotta shit I didn’t think was wise to alter. So this current theme will remain as-is.

Ain’t technology fan-fucking-tastic?

* * * *

The smell of smoke woke me this morning, immediately followed by the bleat of a Smoke Detector. And yet, I remained tucked snugly into my bed, enveloped in a cozy quilt cocoon. See, today was the first day – ever! – that we’ve used the furnace, and the collected layers of filth lining our home’s air ducts doth protested when met with the blast of gas-powered heat being forced through. The result was not unlike what I imagine happens when a thrombolytic is forced through a stroke victim. Except that it reeked, and no one’s life was saved.

I love autumn. I love so many things about the season. I even love the name we’ve given this time of year: Autumn. The perfect balance of consonants and vowels. The more-dramatic sounding Fall is okay, yes. But Autumn so richly connotes much more: the changing leaves, the carved pumpkins, the fuzzy sweaters and the woolen socks. Mmmmmmm. Autumn.

My brother has made a permanent neural association between Counting Crows and Autumn. And really, I can’t blame him. “A Long December” is Autumn to me. I don’t know why. It just is, despite having the winter-iest month in its title.

Some of my friends have been posting our favorite October things on a message board, and here’s what we’ve got so far:
Fall!
Playoff season!
Hockey season!
Halloween!
Hot apple cider!
Sweaters and hoodies!
leaves changing color!
that smoky smell in the air in the evenings!
Football!
Gourds!
Indian corn!
Pumpkin pie!
Leather boots!
Knee socks and tights!
Soups and Stews and Chili!
Sleeping snugly at night with the window open and a cozy comforter on the bed!
Baking cookies!

See? How is this not the greatest season ever?

Until Winter officially gets here and I fall in love all over again.