the sloppy copy

For the first time in…forever?…I’m experiencing a glorious phenomenon that, for lack of a better descriptive word, I’ll call sleep.

No! I’m for serious! Until now, all sleep I’ve experienced has been but a hologram–the mere appearance of sleep and rest. At an appointed time, generally when I arbitrarily decided it was “time for bed,” I would go through the motions of my nightly routine (not literally, as going through the motions of brushing one’s teeth does not prove to be as effective against plaque and cavities as the actual act of doing so**), climb under the covers, close my eyes, and lay there, willing sleep to come. And it does, usually pretty quickly (always pitied those who took an hour or more to actually fall asleep). And, like clockwork, I wake up 2, 3, maybe 4 times during the night. This has happened since I was a kid, and I never thought it was abnormal (until Lindsay Wagner Told Me Otherwise). I wake up, look at the clock, roll over, fall back asleep. When I wake up the next morning, I can generally remember what time this occurred (1:23, 3:37, 5:18–or, more freakily and disconcertingly often– 2:00, 4:00, 6:00). I woke up, hit “Nap” (Snoozing is for pussies) until I’ve systematically eliminated usually-necessary morning activities (shower, breakfast, coffee, peeing, matching my clothes, etc;). 

And yet–AND YET–this routine was starting to get old. For starts, I actually like waking up early. I like having enough time to shower and have breakfast and drink a cup of coffee while I watch old reruns of The West Wing  on Bravo. This is enjoyable to me. And staying in bed until 7:48 when I need to be in my office at 8:00 makes this type of enjoyment impossible. 

In a seemingly-unrelated-yet-wondrously-connected tangent, I made a recent trip to Borders where I dropped a hefty sum (as I always, always do). So, so eager to dig into my findings, I finally cleared all of the worn-just-once-so-it’s-not-technically-dirty-but-I-don’t-want-to-put-them-back-in-my-dresser-for-some-reason clothing from the recliner in my bedroom and curled up with a book (you bet your ass I was wearing my Snuggie) one evening. I read until I was yawning, and tired, so I climbed (literally–it’s a high bed) into bed and fell fast asleep. And when my alarm woke me the next morning, I only pressed “Nap” once. I woke up, properly bathed myself, and sat in the same chair as I sipped my morning Joe and enjoyed the witty banter of Jed Bartlet and his quirky staff. 

And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

Gradually, the intense love affair that I’ve shared with my bed lost some of its strength. I find myself not waking up in the middle of the night nearly as many times as before. And I get up when my alarm goes off! (Okay, I still press “Nap” but not nearly as many times as before!). My goal now is to get up out of bed–are you ready for this?–When my alarm goes off for the first time (!!!!). For the first time in my 26 years of existence, I am able to see the rejuvenating effects of sleep. It’s not just something to do when all the good TV shows are over or I don’t feel like being productive anymore! It has a purpose! And that purpose is Good!

Thank you, Lindsay Wagner, for opening mine eyes.

* http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0354899/  Trippy movie, though I’ve not seen it all the way through. Guess I’ll add that to my Netflix queue.

** For the record, “Nobody can pantomime brushing teeth like [I] can.” This is an almost-direct quote from a high school yearbook, written by an acquaintance with whom I took Actor’s Studio I. More on that disaster, and the related Children’s Theatre fiasco, in another post.

I am 26 years old, and I live in three adjoining dorms rooms that have been converted to the loosest definition of “apartment.”

I have my own kitchen, my own bathroom, a bedroom and a living room. It is well-furnished, passably-appointed, and yes, there are cinder block walls.

I do not pay rent. I have free digital cable that includes more channels that I’d ever, ever want and free high-speed internet access. I only pay the taxes of my cell phone bill, which includes more text messages and minutes than one person could possibly use in a month. I do not pay for utilities, most of my furniture is new or nearly-new, and I’m provided with an ample meal plan. If I don’t want to, I never have to cook. Ever. 

I do not deny that this is certainly The Good Life, or some version thereof. 

With the current state of our nation’s economy, I’m sure there are many of you out there who are jealous of this description of my life. And you should be, because it’s pretty dang sweet. I recommend it to anyone who is willing to put up with living side-by-side with 18- and-19-year-olds, eat in a college cafeteria, and handle the ups and downs of running a residence hall.

Funnily enough (to me, at least), it’s not as tantalizing when I describe it that way.

Working in Residence Life (“Res Life” to us pros) requires a special kind of patience and a sometimes infinitely-high threshold of, well, I guess tolerance is the right word. But at the same time, I contend that it’s not an occupation reserved for those hyper-involved undergrads who just loooooooooved college so much they never ever wanted to leave (omg omg omg!). Sure, there are the diehard folks who seem to take some kind of sadistic pleasure in getting woken up at 3:00 am for fire alarm (or at least they get pleasure from bitching about it to everyone who will listen) or who succumb to a full-on grand mal seizure when they hear someone call their place of residence a “dorm” as opposed to the more pleasant-sounding “residence hall.” I fear that these folks sully the reputation of this kind of work, because we’re not all crazies, I swear. 

As I’ve been trying to illustrate, there is no better way to extend your college glory days indefinitely than by working in a student-affairs-related capacity at a college or university. Taking on a position as a live-in (or even live-on) staff member gurantees that you are at least somewhat of a “people person” who at least begrudgingly accepts the responsibility of being a “first responder” of sorts when the shit hits the fan (this is not always a metaphor. College kids be nuts). 

But the greatest aspect, and the one that I fear the hardcore “lifers” just don’t get, is that you can seriously have your cake and eat it too. The “masters in higher ed” flock seem to have the tendency to become so enveloped in their work that it starts to define them. And that’s okay, to a point. But what some of these folks don’t get is that they have the most bitchin’ opportunity in front of them: play with the college kids (be silly, do stupid–yet legal–shit, spend money that isn’t yours on dumb stuff like building a 40-lb ball of play-doh), but then go home. Be an adult (okay, so you might be an adult who has an extraneous pager or cell phone occasionally on your person in case The Call comes, but just go with me here), because you are one. Don’t stagnate in the lives of your residents, go out and create one of your own: one where you get paid to Jell-o wrestle (or at least document it), but one where you also go home some nights and relax (maybe watch some CSI: Miami, for example, or write in your Web log) and have “you” time, or, alternatively, go out with pals that you don’t work with, or if you do, have conversations where the words “resident” or “meeting” or “hearing” or “incident” never ever EVER come up. 

As Miley Cyrus might say, it’s the best of both worlds.

Go ahead, snicker at the dramatic “sunglasses moves” of David Caruso, or the slurred Spanish spoken through the Southern drawl of Emily Procter, or Khandi Alexander’s mother-hen approach to medical examining…

…and claim that the original CSI (“Vegas,” as you people like to abbreviate it to) is superior to “Miami” and “New York,” (“but especially Miami,“ you’ll likely add)…

…and throw in there, for seemingly good measure, that the CSI “franchise” really just diluted the entire thing, but that “Vegas” came out strongest in the end because it lacked the gimmicks of “New York” and “Miami” (“especially Miami…”).

Go ahead. I don’t care. I’d be lying if I said that, at one point, I didn’t agree with you (at least about the sunglasses thing, especially after watching this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glvGfQnx3DI

But I recently started digging into this show, and can now offer at least 398 reasons why Miami is not the trashy stepchild of Vegas (okay, so I’ll narrow it down to 3, in random order):

You can watch Miami with the lights off in your living room.
Vegas is so damn dark, all the damn time. Every crime happens in the middle of the night, and every investigation of a crime scene involves walking through a house, searching for clues by flashlight. I understand that there’s some kind of “science” behind the flashlight thing, but even in the middle of the day, in the middle of the freaking desert, the interior of every building is pitch black. Are the citizens of Nevada required to purchase black-out curtains? It pisses me off when I have to lean in closer to the TV to see what the hell is going on, which makes me wonder how people with poorer vision watch the show.

CSI: Miami, on the other hand, is sunny (as I assume Miami actually, you know, is). Even when investigating for evidence using flashlights, there’s at least some natural light coming through these things called windows. Amazing, I know. I don’t feel like the entire show is filmed on some giant soundstage in Vancouver, which is the impression I get with Vegas.

The CSIs are just cooler.
Don’t get me wrong, I am by no means “cool.”  (Case in point: I had dinner with friends a few nights ago: 6 out of 9 of them work in some form of IT. The conversation naturally gravitated toward some kind of certification one of them is seeking. He showed me the book he was studying from (oh yeah, he brought his backpack into the pub). It seemed intense). But I watch TV to escape, not to see how my friends would be if we all ended up going into careers in forensics. I like to see the unreal (a stunningly gorgeous, blonde-and-perfect ammunitions expert, for instance). Even the “cool” characters on Vegas are big dorks. (Yes, I know Catherine Willows is a former exotic dancer. I’ll give the Vegas writers points for that one).  But other than ex-stripper Catherine, Warrick Brown was the only actually cool character…and they killed him off. Figures. 

David Caruso
As I said earlier, I can understand one’s irritation with David Caruso’s Horatio Caine. Overly dramatic? Yes. Hard core bad ass? Oh hell yes. Dapper in his suits, always packing heat, H is just fun to watch. Are his vocal inflections bizarre? Of course.  But have you ever really listened to Jorja Fox’s Sara Sidle? Every single sentence sounds the same. At least there’s an element of surprise in Horatio’s speech–where will he choose to pause? What strange syllable will he emphasize? And how will he use his sunglasses as an extension of his body?  David Caruso has made this character so much his own that I can’t imagine him as anything else.  Watch Jorja Fox in old episodes of ER or The West Wing and she’s pretty much the same: CSI, doctor, Secret Service. She’s just a vaguely masculine chick with a chip on her shoulder. And why the hell was Sara chasing Gil Grissom? Ew.

Let me state for the record that I’m not trying to incite a riot. Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, and opinions change. If you want to poke a hole in my arguments, go ahead, but don’t expect me to care that much. I know that my tastes aren’t always in the mainstream (I once told someone that I preferred Stargate: Atlantis to SG-1 and they were shocked–and possibly disappointed in me. I’ve since kept this information to myself, until, you know. Now).

The point of this post (at least, I think there’s a point) is that your least-favorite, gag-inducing, headache-causing tv program (or band, or movie, or song, or actor, or…) is always, always, always gonna be someone else’s personal favorite.

So don’t hate. Haters. Never. Win.

pause.

pause.

Music.*

(*cue “Won’t get fooled again” / The Who)

"The hair," as requested...

Well, there it is, folk(s). I’m not generally photogenic on demand (“good pictures” happen spontaneously, outside the bounds of my control, and never when a professional is behind the camera), and this was taken in PhotoBooth, but this pic gives a pretty good idea overall of what I’m dealing with here. 

A friend wants to give me a faux-hawk. If this happens, you can bet there will be pictures of that, too.

And now back to regularly-scheduled ranting…

I don’t care if they’re offering free haircuts and giving out $100 bills: DO NOT GET YOUR HAIR CUT AT GREAT CLIPS. It took me 3 or 4 truly heinous haircuts to really realize this, and I feel it’s my obligation to pass it along. 

I’m willing to admit that it could just be the Twin Oaks, Missouri Great Clips location, but I’d rather be safe than sorry (again).

I ended up going to another place, pleading with them to fix my most recent hair disaster. You’re probably asking yourself why I didn’t more clearly express my displeasure while I was getting my hair cut the first time around. I’m asking myself the same question (while kicking myself–hard). Part of me just assumed that the stylist was just styling it differently than I would: she used about a pound of mousse, then wax, THEN hairspray to finish it off. I figured I could go home, wash all the shit out of my hair, and fix it the way I wanted. 

No such luck–so off to Custom Cuts I went. The stylist did a tremendous job of salvaging the over-razored poof ball but had to go short…like WAY short… in the process.

I normally don’t really give a shit about my hair. I mean, I want it to look nice, but I usually don’t care if I get a so-so haircut. “It’s just hair,” I think. “It’ll grow.” So I just brush it out or pull it back or do whatever I can to make it look okay. 

But now my hair is short. Like middle-aged woman who wears snowman sweaters short. Like hairy armpitted lesbian human rights protester short. And there’s not much I can really DO with it. 

There are worse things (much worse things, just ask the aforementioned hairy- armpitted lesbian), so I really ought to just get a life and move on. Except every time I walk past a mirror, I don’t even recognize myself. “Who is this fifth grade teacher looking back at me?” I wonder. “And why the fuck did she let someone do that to her hair?”

Maybe I’ll just shave it off and start over.

*Hair, that is.

Update: No more text messages from Dustin, though I did get a “Merry Christmas” from someone in Maryland Heights (Mo). Not quite as interesting.

I could really go for some ice cream. I could actually really go for anything that is not currently in the kitchen at my parents’ house (where I’m currently staying). This is not a diss to their grocery choices. There are many delicious things therein, but, as is always my case–nothing that I want. And really, all I want is some ice cream. 

I am a horrible grocery shopper. I always carefully plan out my shopping list, and I always leave it at home. I always keep a mental note of the things I need to pick up when I’m out, and I always forget every single item when I’m actually at the store. 

This condition extends beyond supermarket shopping. I found a Target gift card that I got as a gift last year from my supervisor and decided to spend it a few days ago. I knew there were things that I had been eyeing at this consumer oasis, but couldn’t remember what these things were as I left the house. “I’ll just look around until I remember,” I thought to myself. 

Right. 

When I have no money to spend, I can take hours in Target compiling mental lists of all the lovely things that I will purchase when next I will allow myself to do so. Mostly extraneous junk, yes. But some of it is (at least kind of) necessary. But when I have $50 burning a hole in my pocket, I wander aimlessly, amazed at how supercilious all of these items are and wondering who would pay for any of this junk? 

So I shouldn’t bemoan the lack of ice cream. “Is there anything special you want from the store?” asked my mom earlier this week. “No, I can’t think of anything,” I said.*  Oh well. 

*I know what you’re thinking. “You probably didn’t want ice cream when she asked you, don’t beat yourself up.” But this is fundamentally wrong. ANY TIME is a good time for ice cream. You must understand this. I can think of very few instances when this statement is false (“immediately before undergoing major surgery” or “after already eating three gallons of Rocky Road” are two that come to mind, though the latter is a stretch).

The sound of a vibrating pocket alerted me to an incoming text message. I check the phone, but do not recognize the number. The message is short, sweet, and to the (rather esoteric) point:

hay

Um, ok? I do not respond; my first instinct is that it is a former acquaintance who is a bit on the creepy-obsessed side. I do not wish to spur him on. 

But I’m still curious as hell, so I take a shot in the dark and Google the number.

Lo and behold! A hit! Multiple hits, actually. Apparently I have received an ill-spelled text from the number of one Dustin Ward, country music entertainer extraordinaire! 

An attempt to follow one of the links leads me to a cancelled MySpace page. Alas, I might have just been subject to some weird text-message spam. 

But what’s this? 

http://www.free-press-release.com/news/200709/1189906888.html

The plot thickens! I’ve been contacted by a Q-List celebrity (note: Lists A-P were a bit too well-known). But who is this man–this singer of country music, this user of Free Press Release Dot Com? 

The world might never know… because frankly, I’m not nearly impressed enough to text back.

It started as a joke about “purple drank,” but this is ridiculous.

The “sandwich line” at the cafeteria of my place of work is overall well-equipped. A variety of delicious (sounding, not always looking) ingredients awaits us hungry lunch-goers each day. Though the selection is varied, my choice is generally the same each time I visit: garlic wrap, smoked turkey, swiss cheese, green pepper, onion, tomato. It’s simple and delicious. 

Ordering said meal is not so simple. First, in order to receive actual Swiss cheese, I must ask for “Big Eye Swiss.” I’m not sure what that means, but if I just say “Swiss,” I get some mysterious white cheese slapped on my tortilla. Though not a cheese connosseiur by any means, I’m unaware of any variety of Swiss cheese that comes without holes. To me, asking for Swiss cheese with holes is like asking for a pizza with crust: it’s a given. But I’ve since learned to adapt.

When in Rome…

So imagine my delight when the cafeteria introduced a “hot sandwich line:” flatbreads topped with your choice of ingredients, then toasted in an oven. Delicious! And “Swiss cheese” was listed as an ingredient! When I took a closer look at the cheese offerings, I was delighted to find that it was the Swiss cheese I’ve loved my entire life: just plain, whitish cheese avec holes. Brilliant! Perfect, until today…

I should have known something was amiss when I heard the Sandwich Lady ask someone in line ahead of me if he wanted “White or yellow cheese.” It always makes me cringe when others identify food by color. It implies that the food product is devoid of any actual distinguishing taste and that the only difference between the choices is its (usually) unnatural color. But I heard another in line ask specifically for Swiss cheese on his sandwich, and I sighed with relief. 

When it came for my turn, I put in my order: flatbread, turkey, swiss (Hey, I know what I like and stick with it. Don’t hate). Not until I got further in line did I realize that there were, in fact, two available cheese: one was yellow, the other was white. Cheddar? American? Provolone? Swiss? Who knew? As far as Sandwich Lady was concerned, it was Yellow and White. No additional adjective necessary. I hung my head, reluctantly accepting my sandwich into a to-go container and shuffled back to my building. 

For the record, the cheese they slapped on my sandwich was not Swiss. I actually have no idea what sort of cheese it was, other than White. My sandwich tasted horribly. I forced myself to take 3 or 4 bites, then gave up.

Yuck.

I come from an extended family of Mouth Kissers. When it comes time to leave a family gathering, we gather in each others arms and kiss, lips-to-lips. Never in my life did I find it strange that I kissed Aunt Gerry on the mouth until a random thought hit me when I was in high school: Is that normal? I mean, it’s not like I’m exchanging French kisses with aunts and uncles, but is this what other people do? 

It’s a question that’s haunted me ever since, and I’ve realized that the answer is No, but they’re the weird ones.

In short, I am normal. You are not.

I am normal because our family’s dishwasher broke when I was 12 years old. Though it might have been a relatively simple fix, we will never know, because no one ever called the repairman. Ever since, we washed the dishes by hand. The dishwasher sits there, deteriorating in its misuse next to the kitchen sink, and I have since forgotten how to operate this particular piece of (relatively) common household machinery. Thus, when it’s time to be helpful when eating at other friends’ homes, and someone asks me to “run the dishwasher,” I give them that open-mouthed stare made famous by the lobotomized.

I am normal because our mother used phrases like “I don’t care if you eat Oreos until your teeth fall out,” if she didn’t feel like giving us a better reason why one shouldn’t eat Oreos for breakfast. Thus, when she told me I could eat Oreos for breakfast on my tenth birthday, it was kind of…anticlimactic.

I am normal because I have only had friends spend the night at my house twice. Once, when I was in first grade. The second time was when I was in college, and my friends and I decided to take a road trip to St. Louis for Spring Break (screw Florida). I arrived unannounced, because I knew my mom would say no if I asked. Okay, so that was a pretty douche move on my part. I take it back. I’m not normal, I’m a bitch.

Et cetera

Et cetera

Et cetera.

I realized yesterday that the only person who really gets me is my own brother. Together, we are two of the weirdest, most awkward people to ever exist (though hopefully in that endearing way made famous by Judd Apatow, et al).

Anyway, it’s a good feeling, knowing that there’s at least one other person out there who shares your ridiculous inside jokes, can quote the film Operation Dumbo Drop with you word-for-word, and with whom you can be utterly, totally, yourself.

Is this what (some, statistically) married people feel like?

And is it odd that I found it with my own brother?