Thursday, May 29, 2008

White House of Hotties

We have new neighbors. I have not introduced myself yet because they have ugly cars and because I miss the family who moved away. I sigh as I recollect. They were a southern Indian family: all doctors, all hot. Their beauty provoked us to song, and since they lived in a white house, the beginning of every song began with "White house of hotties, want to touch your bodies..." A rare glimpse of Raman watering the lawn or Suddha getting the mail launched us into long professions of devotion, replete with hand motions (we would make claws with our hands and pretend that we had the privilege of pinching them, any of them...)

As for the new neighbors, I know that you can't always judge a book by its cover, but most of the time you can, and I don't like them. I don't want to pinch them. However, we have had a change of heart with a family that lives across the street. The dad used to run on a treadmill in their garage, and we could hear the whirring of machinery followed by frequent spurts of yelling. That is how he came to have the nickname "Treadmill of Evil." After a few months of using the nickname (ex. "Treadmill of Evil trimmed his palm trees," and "I saw Treadmill of Evil at the hardware store,") we had a family discussion and decided that Treadmill of Evil's nickname was too harsh. It was painting every impression of him in a diabolical light. So, he became Treadmill of Hope. Somehow, by changing a nickname he knew nothing about, he began to act differently. We heard less yelling and noticed that he was spending more time with his four-year-old doppleganger. The point of this heartwarming story of love and redemption is that I may come to really like my new neighbors.

I would like to clarify that I did not like the White House of Hotties because they were Indian. I liked them because they were hot. And wealthy.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

The Best Look in the World

Twice this week, I have wondered if I am wearing pants. It's not a question of whether I am wearing pants, shorts, or even a skirt, but whether my entire lower half is nude. The question itself does not concern me; it can only mean that I have purchased very comfortable clothing and undergarments if I can entirely forget that they are there. What concerns me is that, instead of looking down to see if I am wearing clothing, I try to figure it out by thinking about my legs and whether or not I can feel material on top of them. I would have thought that my sense of sight would be the default here, the line between two points, but apparently I trust and/or prefer my sense of touch.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Not Your Average Tuesday

Since I am not currently employed, I will admit that I sometimes wake up in the double digits. It's not often, but often enough for me to be defensive about it. So yes, it happens a lot. Not that it's any of your business. This morning I awoke at six with a headache. Since I have been battling a head cold and suspected the headache may be due to sinus pressure, I tried to alleviate the discomfort by getting back into bed with a heating pad and a cold compress. After half an hour, my headache was worse and I felt nauseous. I gave up on my useless drug-free methods and returned to my tried and true: two Excedrin Migraine. I hesitate to take my trusty pills because of the substantial dose of caffeine they put into my system. I like caffeine but am not used to large amounts of it, and I am always curious to see how I will react.

I took the pills at six thirty. By nine thirty, I had responded to all emails in my inbox, talked to my dad in China, fed the dogs and the cats, played with the dogs, taken 1.5* walks, faxed some notes to a pianist, and vacuumed, dusted, and mopped the entire downstairs. At that point, I predicted a one o'clock meltdown, when I would pick a fight with my mom and then take a nap. I actually picked the fight around eleven fifteen, apologized around two, and got back in bed at three thirty.

*The first walk was cut short when, after four minutes of walking, I had to walk back to my front yard, throw up, and then start the walk over again. I suppose I could have thrown up in my neighbor's front yard, but Art the elderly pet-sitter was driving by and we just recently struck up a relationship. I thought it was a bit early in the relationship for that much reality.