the one about pie that's not really about pie

Earlier today, I informed Husband I bought him a present at the farmer's market. I can't say what it is, because then Husband will find out before he gets here. He is going to like it.

Husband informed me that he bought a gallon of apple cider. Husband really likes cider; however, he often buys more than he has a capacity to consume. For instance: today, when he bought a gallon of cider and is leaving it for a weekend. As it is not pasturized, it will be apple cider vinegar by the time he gets back.  [EDIT: Husband claims he bought the cider yesterday. This improves the situation by 0.97%, which is really small.]

Husband then started talking kind of crazy and hyper. I said, "Stop drinking cider." He informed me he'd had three glasses already. That's a lot of sugar. Good, natural sugar, but sugar all the same, and Husband complains enough about the state of his pancreas. I think his pancreas needs antidepressants or something.

One thing I bought for me at the farmer's market was two mini-pies. I'm talking two inches round, and for my snack prior to class tonight. One apple crumb, one pumpkin. I began to eat it when Husband came back from a walk, upon which he planned to buy cheese. I asked him if he had bought cheese in the following manner:

Edited for punctuation and capitalization.

Me: CHEESE is the question, and CHEESE is the answer. I think that requires question marks. Here are some: ????????????????

Husband: Um, stop drinking cider?

Me: I have no cider I have pie

Husband: Same thing?

Me: Um, one is liquid the other is solid

Husband: For craziness?

Me: Au contraire. One is pie and the other is ... not pie. Liquid goes to your brain faster. Because you swallow it and it goes directly into your blood. Pie / solid has to be broken down into molecules of co7 and stuff, and that takes longer, and there is some splitting of atoms.

Husband: Oh, co7

Bottom line: The sugar contained in apples--named co7 for our purposes, because my copious knowledge of science, molecules, and chemistry tells me that--makes you communicate via Gchat in run-on sentences, which are not really sentences, because you don't use punctuation.

co7 = punctuation depleter.

Watch out for it on the news. It's going to be all the rage.

the one about hair

Within the last three months, I went from having very long hair to a cute, sweet, easy, "reverse bob." My stylist named it that. I'm not sure if it means that my scalp appears backward.

Why did I have so much hair to cut off, you may ask? Well, I got married three months ago, and I belong to the strange group of women who consider it essential to have approximately seven yards of hair to pile on top of their heads for their weddings. Except whenever I wear a ponytail higher than say, the nape of my neck: insta-headache. And I didn't want my hair overly structured and teased and sprayed with twelve kinds of lacquer to make it stay up.

Obviously I wore it in a French twist. Requiring full-scalp teasing, root-to-tip hairspray, a combination of 30-something hair and/or bobby pins, and the feeling that I had bound my head. Like foot-binding. But a head.

I am nothing if not consistent.

Cut to after the wedding, pins out, but hairspray + teasing still very much present. And the fact that, even though I had a spreadsheet detailing the whowhatwherewhenwhyhow of my wedding, I had not packed a bag for the wedding night. I did not have a contact case, a change of shoes, or most importantly, a hairbrush. I respond to the title Idiot Bride, thank you very much.

I could not sleep without brushing my hair. I needed a shower more than I have ever needed a shower in my life. Seriously, I could need a shower less if I ran a marathon. But hairspray + teasing + water = dreadlocks. So at approximately four in the morning, I got up, used Husband's comb to painstakingly brush out every inch of my hair, watching flakes of hair spray fall like dandruff snow. I showered. I washed it as many times as the hotel sample shampoo would allow. I felt like a human.

Do you blame me for chopping off a foot of hair?

Here's the problem. Short, choppy hair requires more upkeep than long hair. This haircut goes from cute flippy-ness to side-mullet in exactly six weeks. I am deep in side-mullet territory.

Of course the person who created this hair cut, promptly forgot about it six weeks later, and then trimmed it, trimming my bangs to the wrong side, no longer works at the salon I go to. Not the first time this has happened to me. Nor the second. It is in fact the third time I have had to change stylists at the same salon. I know this happens. It's New York, stylists are always moving around, blah, blah, blah.

And now I want the side-mullet/reverse bob turned into a regular bob and I have to explain that to a new person.

Who is ironically the same person I went to the first time I ever went to that salon, although I immediately forgot her name afterward and never used her again. Obviously should have stuck with that one. I'm not even going for good haircuts any more. I'm going for the same person cutting my hair three times in a row.

I'm pretty sure the phone message I got from the salon is them yelling at me about changing stylists. Because I could have avoided that.

I'm about a mile from Flowbie territory.

the one about research

For my film genre class this semester, I have elected to write a paper on developmental disability films.

As excellent as the best examples of these films are, they never fail to make me sob like my pet just died. I plan to compare a list of to-be-determined characteristics and tropes used in the following films:

• Rain Man
• What's Eating Gilbert Grape
• I Am Sam

To do this, I will have to watch the films at least once. Probably twice, considering I ordered the special editions, which all feature commentary by various parties involved in the making of the films. I thought perhaps I could listen to the commentary and not watch the films. But the commentary likely references the specific scenes, and would be rendered useless by removal of such a referent. So two viewings of each film are necessary.

Ergo, I think I should throw a viewing party. Any number of my acquaintances would happily watch tear-jerking (melo)dramas with me, I presume. I could use it as research, to study the effect on such variables as:

• Tear production
• Laughter
• Popcorn consumption
• Level of physically manifested discomfort, including:
• Shifting positions
• Shielding eyes
• The fetal position
• Requests for alcohol
• Fleeing

I could also discuss the tropes and characteristics I plan to investigate with my test group. I mean, my friends. We could have a regaling discussion about disability, stereotyping, and Rain Man's capacity for one-liners repeated for decades.

Paper would write itself, and I would generally humiliate myself in front of people.

Fun fact: The cover of the special edition DVD of Rain Man features a terribly photoshopped picture of Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman walking down a highway. In this photograph, they each appear to be at least 20 feet tall. I just tried to find this picture on the internet. It does not exist outside the anomaly of my DVD. It is quite literally this picture on a highway backdrop, and it only serves to perplex me.

the one about my lunch: updated

I forgot my lunch today.

Really upsetting, because I went out to dinner last night specifically to purchase a meal that would also serve as lunch. I also specifically insisted upon Italian food thanks to large portions and the joy of carbohydrates.

That lunch now sits on the floor. In the hallway. Of my apartment.

Which is, according to Google Maps, 5.6 miles away from my current location: my office. 

Side note:

Reason #1,502 living in the New York metropolitan area depresses me:

I live 5.6 miles away from my office. It takes me 50 minutes to get from one place to the other. Google Maps says it is a 15 minute drive, via the exact route the bus takes. The bus takes at least 30 minutes.

Le sigh. Side note ended.

To make matters worse, my hallway is grossly under-refrigerated. We have complained about the problem, but apparently normal people do not use their entrance hallways as refrigerators. They're missing out.

Did I mention that my lunch is/was a container full of angel hair a la puttanesca? Yep. That's a bunch of anchovies sitting in my delightfully-heated apartment. Signs point to me not emptying this container, and simply throwing it out, lest I die of anchovy poisoning.

And yes, today of all days I did exchange the aluminum leftover container for a nice, shiny, clean GladWare container, so as not to explode my entire office building by microwaving metal.

Obviously I should explode things more frequently. Although I'd still have to buy lunch in that situation. Vicious cycle.

Related: Google informs me of the existence of a restaurant called Puttanesca in New York. In case you don't know such essential bits of Italian, "puttanesca" means prostitute. Your restaurant is called Prostitute, people. Based on their web site, they know that. And knowing is half the battle.

Also: "I have a container of puttanesca" has all kinds of meanings unrelated to left over pasta. And should not be refrigerated. And perhaps should be ventilated. Or humans should not be placed in leftover containers.

Somehow, this is all moot compared to what Husband forgot enroute to his weekday home today: power cord for laptop. My lunch will cost approximately $7. New power cord: a happy, round $79.

Still looking for the restart button for today.

Update: Leftover container leaked. Hallway smells like a fish infestation. And someone gave Husband a power cord. I am indeed the bigger loser. Too bad that's not the equivalent of winning.

the last one about baseball

Hypothesis proved.

I would like monetary compensation from the San Francisco Giants for the assistance I provided. I would also like them to retire my number. 

It's been a tough post season, realizing that I enjoy the sport of my elders. I suppose the apple does not actually fall far from the tree.

Aw, nuts.

the other one about baseball

Hypothesis proved.

Did not watch World Series Game 3 on Saturday night. (Too busy rollicking around a fun city in which I do not live and seeing entirely too many grown people dressed up as bananas.)

Giants lost.

Came home after best bus ride ever and the speediest Sunday night subway ride in history, watched the end of Game 4. Giants already winning, but continued to win due to my viewership.

Giants won.

Because of me.

Obviously.

The superstition of sports fandom plus my own abnormal of superstition does not bode well. I have lucky and unlucky outfits.

In the end, I do this for Husband. Our vows should have included, "I will sublimate my superstitions onto things that you like so your sports teams can win and I can feel responsible even though I will complain publicly about the responsibility."

To be continued...duh.