Moths: You can never be too careful

A conversation with the lovely Sara, who just moved into a new apartment in my building:

Sara:I need to unpack but i dont know where to put it all. Doyou use moth balls btw?
me: i don't use moth balls
Sara: yea they smell. im just wondering how you go about moths not eating clothes.
me: Uh...have you had a moth problem in the past?
Sara: Umm no. But the place was new and i figured there might be some moths somewhere out there
me: Yeah...I'm pretty sure you'll be ok... I've never had a moth issue...I don't think anyone's had a moth issue since the mid-1950s...
Sara: Phew. relieved
me: One less thing to worry about there, huh?

Hard as diamonds

The sad thing is that I'm fairly certain that this isn't even close to being the dorkiest conversation I will have this week:

Me: There is this wonderfully entertaining debate over on Salon about the usage of the word "adamantine" in regards to a description of Wolverine's claws [in a review of X-Men: The Last Stand]
vs. Adamantium that is
Him: the latter is correct
Me: I know...but that's the debate, because the writer used adamantine
Him: well he is stupid and shouldnt be writing about things that he doesnt know about...
f*ckin jerk
Me: and they're arguing over whether or not that could work too since Adamantium is technically adamantine
and it was a woman
Him: 1) Adamantium is NOT adamantine...
they sound the same...however, Adamantium has different properties (in the book) than adamantine...
Me: yes it is. adamantine is an adjective and the fictional substance of Adamantium is by definition adamantine
ahh i see
Him: no its not...
Me: not even when used as an adjective?
Him: the creator named it a similar name, but not the same name...
Me: just to mean hard as a diamond?
Him: no. its pronunciation has nothing to with it...it’s a different 'element'
Me: no I understand that
but I mean that "element"
when described
could be described as being adamantine, couldn't it?
in it's classical Greek sense
I mean
Him: I’ve never seen it referred to as such...
Me: well of course not, because it was obviously an error...more likely a copy editor who changed it, but I mean as a way of justifying it's usage
on a technicality
Him: I’ve seen..."his claws are made of adamantium" AND "he has adamantium claws"
Me: yeah but those are describing what they are actually made of
the substance
but you can also say “his claws are shiny”
Him: right...
Me: and adamantine means "hard as a diamond"
so you could, technically, say "his claws are adamantine"
you can even say "his Adamantium claws are adamantine"
Him: no...
Me: why not?
Him: because you would be wrong when saying that...
Wolverine's adamantium claws are harder than diamond...they are the only indestructible material on Earth (this is from the book)...
Me: hmmm...but "hard as diamond" isn't meant to be literal...
like I could say "ugh, talking to you is adamantine sometimes"
Him: but even saying it figuratively would not express its indestructibility
Me: okay I see what you mean...although I still don't think it's technically wrong...if used figuratively
Him: Is this what’s going on at Salon?
Me: basically
lol
i think that we got into it a lot more than they did though…
Him: a collection of losers...
Me: i should just cut and paste our convo
Him: of course we did
please dont
Me: lol
Can I put it in the blog?
Him: Id almost rather it at Salon...
but do what you need to do...
Me: I won't say it's you
Him: thanks
Me: although anyone that knows both of us will know it is
Him: yea...people will have no idea

Code Red

The procrastination level in my life has officially reached a very dangerous level. I'm talking toxic, potentially fatal...just plain bad. Coupled with my massive broke-ness, I'm afraid that my health may start to suffer:

1) I haven't done groceries since April 18th. This is incredibly pathetic considering the fact that I grocery shop online and charge it all to my dad's AmEx. So it's not a money issue (although my checking account is currently hovering at -5.18 thanks to my excessive spending last week in Puerto Rico). And it's not a time issue. It's more of a "just haven't gotten around to logging onto Peapod and clicking on what I want" kinda issue. Basically, I'm lazy. The contents of my fridge at this moment consist of things one would usually find at the Roy Rogers "fixins bar": a tomato, an empty jar of applesauce, a gallon of water, a can of green chiles, and assorted condiments (mayo, horseradish, capers, two kinds of mustard, tahini, etc.). There also used to be a half-jar of stuffed green olives, but I ate that for dinner today.

Actually, most of my meals for the past two weeks have left much to be desired. I'm eating the way people eat when they are either:

a) about to move out of an apartment and trying to use up all the food,

b) pregnant, or

c) insane.

(For the record, I am none of the above.)

I'm actually quite shocked that I haven't passed out in the middle of Connecticut Avenue.

On Monday, for example, the only thing I ate all day was a half-can of Goya Black Bean soup...room temp...right out of the can. I sat there poking a spoon into the can while watching Beautiful Girls for the 89th time (such a damn good movie) and thinking, "Didn't I go to culinary school?" On Tuesday I had ramen and several glasses of wine. Last night I had plain rice with butter and salt on it and Diet Coke with a whole lotta rum in it. Today I ate 8 stuffed olives, some Wheat Germ, and two-going-on three glasses of wine. I thought I'd hit a low point half-way through last week when I made myself a BLT, sans the L, T, and bread. Yes, do the math: I had bacon for dinner. And some rum. Basically, I'm just drinking my calories these days. Alcohol is now the only thing keeping me alive.

I was kind of dizzy today at work, but because of aforementioned negative checking balance issue, going out to lunch was not an option. I made myself a cup of tea and was pawing through my purse for a piece of candy when my coworker Mike walked into my office to say good-bye (he's headed to South Africa in a few weeks). He was carrying a plastic container with leftovers from his lunch. "You don't want half a Reuben and fries, do you?" He asked. My eyes lit up like those of the 10-cents-a-day kids you see in Sally Struthers commercials. "Sure," I said in my best oh-no-I'm-not-totally-broke-and-starving voice. It was the best tasting sandwich I've ever had in my life. Ever. I felt the way those Little House on the Prairie girls felt when Michael Landon came home with an orange and oyster crackers. It was like Christmas.

I finally realized that this was getting really sad, and so, to motivate myself, I invited a couple friends over for dinner on Saturday evening. Then I surfed on over to Peapod and ordered $200 of groceries. They'll be delivered tomorrow morning between 6 and 8 AM, and you have no idea how excited I am. I've never been so enraptured with the possibility of making my own turkey sandwich. Or pouring myself a glass of juice! Juice! Oh my ship is coming in...


2) A second example of general Alejandra laziness: I got back from Puerto Rico about a week and a half ago. I've yet to unpack and have basically spent the week pulling clothing out of the unzipped suitcase and quickly ironing it in the morning. I can't afford to do laundry so pretty much everything I own smells like coconut oil and is covered with a barely imperceptible layer of sand. Oh, and I pretty much stopped wearing underwear about three days ago.

My cat has a weird love of suitcases (and coconut oil, I think) and is constantly trying to snuggle up on my piles of linen skirts, bathing suits, and magazines (if you click on that picture you should be able to find last month's issue of Wired nestled among the brightly colored clothing). I spend a lot of time running after her with a little plastic spray bottle of water. Much in the same way Dr. Evil controls Mini Me.

I was discussing all this earlier today on Gmail Chat with Looney and Sara, both of whom are going through similar financial situations (Looney's still wearing underwear, though...I hope). He sighed his Looney sigh (well, I'm pretty sure he did at least, but we can't be sure since it was on IM) and said, "Don't worry, we'll grow up eventually."

I really, really, hope so. Until then, I'm eagerly anticipating my tax refund...

Cinco de mayo was almost 20 days ago

I have a link (over there on the right) that allows you to quickly e-mail me if you are ever so inclined. Today I checked it for the first time in a while and found the following e-mail from BFF Matt regarding my recent lack of blogging. I felt I had to share:

Dear Alejandra-

Thank you for your blog. I loved checking on it daily and finding out what was happening in your crazy world and hoping for a typo here and there or a rogue incorrect fact to pick on you about. But, alas, there were few and now there are none, because you have simply stopped blogging. Basically, I have written you today to express my dismay and to tell you that I will no longer check "sentfrommydelldesktop.blogspot.com" until I receive an invitation. Otherwise, I am just setting myself up for disappointment.

Complaints aside, I hope that you have not died and that this is your mom or dad checking your email account post mortem. If you have kicked the bucket, well, then I understand why you stopped blogging.

Yours truly,
Muffin

*Also, while I realize this is a day late, I'd just like to say Happy Birthday to my muffin. Welcome to the mid-twenties. May all your dreams come true... (I just love this picture because you are the only person in the world who could pull off that Cote d'Azur shirt on a Sunday afternoon in Gallery Place...Well, you and Patrick Dempsey)

I'm not sorry

The summer before my senior year of high school, I won a full scholarship to attend a theological summer program at Emory University. (Just one of the many, many dork camps I've attended throughout my life.) There were 65 of us living and studying together on the gorgeous Emory campus in Atlanta that summer. It was the first time in my life that I somehow ended up as part of the "cool" group. I'm still not sure quite how it happened, but I guess the scale was a little different--especially when you consider that we're the kids that thought it would be really fun to spend a summer studying world religions (it totally was, btw). Anyway, we "cool" kids staked out the biggest of the dorm break rooms as "our" room. We'd lounge around on the couches taking naps, debating, and reading. We'd play music and dance on top of the tables or play games like Balderdash while eating pizza. We shared secrets, did each others make up, and not-so-subtly let everyone else know that they weren't really welcome in "our" room.

One day, I was laying around on one of the couches reading a book (I'm pretty sure it was Leaves of Grass) when a bunch of my friends ran into the room. They'd gone to the CVS in Emory Village where they purchased several water guns. They'd been involved in a water fight outside and were currently in a kind of precarious truce. They sat around eyeing each other with their still full guns in their laps, each wondering who would make the first move. I sort of looked at them out of the corner of my eye, but kept reading my book. Then it happened. Someone squirted his gun and all hell broke loose. Next thing I knew I was hiding under a pillow, trying to keep Whitman from getting all wet, while my friends ran around the room like maniacs spraying water everywhere. Someone ran into the kitchen and came back with a bowl of water which he threw all over one of the other guys. This went on for a few minutes until everyone ran out of water and collapsed into a heap on the couch, laughing and panting.

Then we looked around the room and saw what had happened. Every single surface was soaked. Some posters on the wall had been ripped down. The couch cushions looked like they had been caught in a rainstorm. Right about that moment, one of the advisors walked in and saw the room. They called all of us into a meeting room and told us that we had to apologize to the entire community for destroying one of the common rooms. At that point I stood up and said that I had not been involved in the water fight and refused to join in on the apology. A small debate started over whether or not I should be included since I hadn't participated but had been present the entire time. My friends thought I should stand up with them since I was part of the group. The advisors told me it was my decision. I thought about it for a moment and said, "I am not going to apologize because I'm not sorry." From that moment on, everyone started referring to me as "brutally honest Alejandra" and constantly threw the phrase "I'm not sorry" at me. To this day, I'll randomly get text messages or e-mails from them that just say "Are you sorry yet?"

And, no, I'm not.

The reason why I'm telling you this is because I know that I've been neglecting this blog for a couple weeks. I've gotten e-mails, phone calls, MySpace message, even text messages from friends and random readers asking me when I'm going to update and trying to make me feel bad for not posting anything new. So here it is. I'm back. I'm updating. I will continue to update regularly from this point on. But I'm not sorry that I left you guys in limbo for so long. No excuses. No apologies.

I'm not sorry.

Cinco de Mayo Lunchtime Sightings

-Sexy midget newsman George Stephanopoulos checking his BlackBerry on the corner of Rhode Island and Connecticut. It reminded me that I was totally in love with him for the three days in 2000 that it took me to read his book about the Clinton years, All Too Human.

-Fitness celebrity John Basedow, miraculously recovered from the tsunami incident, ordering a 1 lb "the works" burger at Fuddruckers under the pseudonym "Juan."

(One of these really happened. One of these is a figment of my very active imagination. Take a wild guess...)

Talk dirty to me II

Is there something about me that invites totally inappropriate comments from strange men on the street? Really, is there a stamp on my forehead that says "talk dirty to me"? Because that can be the only explanation for some of the things people say to me when I go out.

A few weeks ago, for example, I went to the grocery store wearing a knee-length black linen skirt, a black hoodie, and a military green Che Guevara cap. I'd just come back from the gym so my still-wet hair was parted and braided. As I stood at the corner waiting to cross the street, a tall, handsome man in a suit came up to me, smacked the brim of my cap and said, "Hey Castro! Wanna start a revolution?" He then proceeded to tug on my braid and tell me that he "liked my look." I gave him a sort of freaked-out stare and waited impatiently for the light to change, at which point I darted across the street. I told my friend this story last weekend and he wisely noted that that's the sort of thing someone would usually say from an open car window so that he could get away quickly.

Today I took advantage of the incredible weather and did a bit of shopping during my lunch hour. I went to the Gap, Filenes, and Victoria's Secret. I got back to my building and took the elevator upstairs. A man got on with me and pressed a floor a few above mine. He looked down at my packages and said, "Victoria's Secret, eh? Are you going to be a naughty girl tonight?" Had I been in a different mood, I would have slapped him or tossed a martini in his face (I keep martinis in my purse for occasions just like this). But I was a little too happy to start a fight. I looked at him, raised one eyebrow, and replied, "maybe..." as I walked out of the elevator.

I thought about it a few minutes later and was completely appalled. I mean, this is an office building! I'm wearing office clothing. It was 1 in the afternoon! Who does that?! I really hope he had been drinking during his lunch hour...

Sloppy Seconds With Opal Mehta

The Morning News, my new favorite stop on the "information superhighway" (I don't think that phrase has been used by anyone but Al Gore since 1996) is sponsoring a plagiarism story contest. This absolutely brilliant idea was inspired by the Kaavya Viswanathan plagiarism scandal and suggests that we too can copy entire passages from multiple books and craft them into our own "original" tale. The deadline is midnight on Friday, May 12, but I'll have to get my entry in before that as I will be in beautiful Puerto Rico that weekend. My favorite line from the contest rules:

"The winner of the TMN 'Sloppy Seconds With Opal Mehta' Contest will have his or her story published on The Morning News, and will also receive a TMN T-shirt and mug to remind them of this, the moment ethics in writing died."

Oh, and for those of you looking to check out the aforementioned book, I saw that Olsson's (my second favorite DC bookstore) still has a few available at their Dupont Circle store. That surprised me as I thought the publisher had pulled all unsold copies of the book, but I guess not.

Good luck SFMDD readers!

Temptation, is that you?

Four days. That's how long my big "so I'm officially a non-smoker" bit lasted. I couldn't even make it a whole freaking week. I kind of knew this was going to happen as I wrote that first post. I knew it the minute I started describing just how sexy I think cigarettes can be and when I went into detail about all the times I enjoy lighting up a cigarette...the jazzy evenings, the post-dinner smoke, that scene in Reality Bites...it was all too much. I was jonesing the minute I hit "publish."

My return to smoking was casual and without fanfare. I'd had a few drinks and was walking to a bar late Saturday night when my friend, the man on whom I place all the blame for this relapse, asked me if I wanted to smoke. Without hesitation I replied yes, only seconds later remembering that I didn't smoke anymore--but it was too late. The thought was in my head. The smoke was all around me. I turned around and saw that the other two friends we were with were also smoking. "We'll share it," my friend said. I accepted the proffered grant and trembled a bit as I attempted to light it. "Damn it, I'm going to have to confess to this in the blog," I said as I took that first sweet drag. Gone was the repulsiveness of Monday's cigarette. It was smooth...like only P-Funks with their recessed filters can be. And I loved it. Later that night we shared a second one at the bar and it tasted even better than the first.

No decision yet on what this means, but I'm holding fast to the rule that two is not a pattern...

Why sometimes it kinda sucks to be a single girl in the city

I came home from work on Friday in a great mood. I was tired and a little buzzed, but otherwise, things were going well. I had plans for the weekend, the weather was amazing, I'd done a bit of shopping, the world was, basically, my oyster.

And then I tried to switch on the light. ...nothing.

"Damn," I thought. "Lightbulb must be out." I dropped my bags on the table, sidestepped my stupid horny cat, and walked into the bedroom-area to turn on that light. ...nothing. "Fuck," I thought, as I tried the light in the kitchen. There was no power in the entire apartment. The sun hadn't gone down completely yet so I opened up the blinds and sat on my bed trying to figure out what to do. I checked the fuse box, but didn't really know what I was looking for. It's one of those older boxes with screw-in fuses, not switches like I'm used to. I couldn't remember the emergency number so I called 411 and gave them the name of my building.

"Are you sure that's the right name?" The woman on the other end asked.
"Yup, pretty sure," I answered.
"Hmm...well there doesn't appear to be a building by that name on Connecticut Avenue...are you sure that's the right address?"
"Well, it's my building, and I'm currently inside of it, so yes, I'm pretty sure it exists," I said, not even bothering to mask the impatience in my voice. "You know what? Nevermind, I'll find it somewhere else. Thanks." I hung up the phone. (I get a kinda bitchy when I'm anxious...)

I walked outside into the brightly lit hallway and looked around. One of the apartments down the hall had a rent notice sticking out of the louvre door. I grabbed it (someone's two months behind on rent) and called the number on the bill. I got a voice message that referred me to an afterhours number. I called that number. I got another voice message referring me to a third number for emergencies. I called that number. I got an answering service that took my message. By now the sun had gone completely down and I was sitting on my bed in the dark. 20 minutes later the leasing agent called me back and asked me if I was aware that it was my "responsibility" to have spare fuses on hand.

No, I was evidently not aware of this...

She told me that I could find fuses at Rite-Aid and that all I had to do was take out the old ones and screw the new ones in. "It's like changing a lightbulb," she said.

So I grabbed my keys and walked down the street to Rite-Aid where I stood for 10 minutes trying to figure out which fuses were the right ones. Finally, a man walked by and asked me if I needed help. He picked out the right fuses for me, I bought them and a flashlight, and ran back up the hill to my apartment. I followed all the directions and replaced the fuses. I waited for a moment, expecting the lights to come on at any time. ...nothing. At this point I started getting nervous. I decided to call Pepco to see if there was some kind of outage. I dialed 411 again and they transferred me.

"Good Evening, Petco, Where the pets go. This is Steve, how can I help you?"
"Wait, what did you just say?"
"Petco, Where the pets go. This is Steve..."
"Oh...I called 411 and asked for PePco..."
"Hmm...yeeeah, they do that all the time. You should ask for Potomac Electric next time."

After calling 411 again, I spent 10 minutes fighting with the peppy automated Pepco lady ("Hi! This is Polly! To report an outage, please say 'service'! I think you said 'Billing,' is that correct? I'm sorry, I can't make out what you're saying...Did you say 'fuck off and die?' Is that correct? OK!").

At this point it was completely dark. I was sitting alone on my bed, my cat was howling, and I didn't know what to do.

I started crying.

I never cry. But I hate feeling totally helpless. I hated not knowing what to do. I hated that they couldn't just send someone to fix it for me. I hated not being able to talk to a real person who could say "your lights will be back on in 30 minutes." I hated that I was completely alone.

So I called best friend Matt. "Can you come over?" I wailed into the phone. "What's wrong?!" he asked, a bit alarmed. He knows I never cry.
I explained the situation. "OK I'm getting in a cab," he said.

When he showed up he put his arms around me and curled up with me on my bed while we waited for the lights to come back on.

They eventually did, of course. Turns out that there had been a slight overload in my unit and the main circuit had shut off my power. They fixed it, finally, but the whole situation just made me feel kind of sad. I'm usually a pretty independent person and love living alone, but there are some times when you really need someone else around. Since graduation, most of my friends have left town for law school or jobs in other cities. A couple have gotten married or are in serious relationships that take up all their time. Even Matt will be moving away in a couple months. It just seems like everyone has a plan or at least a rough outline of what they want to do with their lives, while I'm still kind of drifting.

I guess nights like this force me to admit that I'm a little bit more alone, a little bit more unsure, and a little bit more scared than I thought I would be at this point in my life.