What? Oh. Not that.

To be added to a long list of misunderstandings.

As I have surely mentioned, I am currently fruitlessly engaged in the project of online dating (as seems more or less always to be the case). The site I'm using bases its "matches" on users' responses to a vast number of questions, of which I have answered less than a hundred, but of which there may well be thousands. Yesterday I happened upon this statement, requiring a yes/no response. "I enjoy animated nudity."

I puzzled over this for quite some time, imagining it to refer to some preference for a frolicsome approach to nakedness rather than, perhaps, being naked and just lying around. Then I thought it might be trying to politely address the level of vigor one might desire in one's sexual collaborations. But then, there are many other questions that address that very issue with, if anything, disconcerting frankness, so why would they suddenly be coy? It finally dawned on me that the question referred to uh...sexy comic books? X-rated cartoons? Something? I'm sure there's some approved term for those, but I have no idea what it might be. So I guess maybe I'm a "no" on that one. Having sorted that out, I'm sure to be united with my future spouse shortly.

Then this morning on NPR, I heard part of a series about people doing community-service oriented jobs. I heard the introduction as, "Today we will hear from an emotional Management Counselor working to help women transition from prison back into society." I thought that it seemed reasonable that that sort of work might make someone emotional, but also thought it strange that they mentioned it. "Well," I reasoned, "Maybe she cried through the whole interview or something." Only well into the segment did I realize that Oh, wait! It's Emotional-Management Counselor. Not emotional Management Counselor.

Rock steady

To answer your question, yes. I do still have a kidney stone. Every time you think "Man, I sure am tired of her talking about that." I invite you to think about how tired I am of having it. There. Do you feel duly chastened?

In brighter news, the Human Dermal Product is coming along nicely. My oral surgeon did a great job, as he will be the very first to tell you. If I had anything like the, um, let's call it "self-confidence," of my oral surgeon, I would probably be in charge of the world by now. But then, no one wants a poorly trained namby-pamby in charge of sewing things into their mouth, I suppose. I have been eating apples with gusto.

Yesterday, I went downtown to return some misguided online purchases and I felt rather sentimental about living in a place where my very glamorous Gap cashier, with long hair, flawless makeup, beauty mark, skinny jeans, and chiffon blouse was a youth named Kevin. I hope Kevin gets a fantastic employee discount. Gap clothes should be so lucky as to be chosen by Kevin.

The Banana Republic staff were very friendly, though not one of them shared my feeling that the song playing in the store was the stupidest song ever written. I don't know what this song is called, but I'm going to guess it's "I'm Waiting at the Airport." Do you ever musically narrate your day to yourself? Well, I do. Perhaps I wouldn't if I didn't live alone. However, it's not uncommon that I might sing a little ditty about, say, eating lunch. It would go something like "Hey. You should eat some lunch now." The tune would not be an act of musical genius, but it would pass the time.

That is exactly what "I'm Waiting at the Airport" is like. I don't know who sings it, but he tells us over and over again that he is, indeed, waiting at the airport and then, at some point, in a pretty dramatic plot twist, he sends a text. I tried to share the moment with someone, but, incredibly, no one else seemed stunned or amused by the relentless inanity of this--possibly very popular--song. It was a lonely time. But then, though all I did was return a tee shirt and mock the Banana Republic soundtrack, they presented me with a small complimentary jar of jam.

Christmas magic.

If they want it, they give you a cup

In the ladies' room near the urology department, I discovered that not one of the toilets been flushed following its last use.

I attribute it to either an over-enthusiasm about urology or a slight misunderstanding of how it works.

Sudden springtime

As I was driving down Oak Street, there was a car from Tennessee slightly ahead of me in the next lane. I saw a young woman in the passenger seat reach back to throw something out the open rear window. I was getting ready to be all tsk-y about it (no one likes a litterbug) but it proved to be a handful of flower petals. Pink. Possibly from a peony.

She did it three times. The petals fluttered behind their little hatchback and gave the busy street an air of a parade or a spring wedding. It was quite lovely. Then, having finished her work, she reclined her seat all the way back so she could smoke politely, holding her cigarette out the same open, back window.

I think her life might be markedly improved if they got the front window fixed. Maybe Santa is looking into that.

Next step: PhD

Today I got a CT scan and also filled out a questionnaire in which I said:
A. That, yes, I know what a radiologist is.
B. That no, a radiologist is not a doctor.*
C. That I have a master's degree.

So. That went well.


*The whole time I was filling it out, I had in mind the technician who performs the scan, but there's no going back now. I am very hopeful that it's anonymous and that all the radiologists don't get together at lunch and say, "Did you see this Kari? Ha! Master's degree, my irradiated kidney. I bet she's got some pathetic MA in, like, Humanities." And then they all laugh and laugh, entirely unconcerned about choking because, even though they're radiologists, they all totally know the Heimlich.