I forgot to tell you! Or, Events Coincide.

On Friday, April 10, 2009, I had a giant bowl of tagliatelle carbonara. It was amazing. It came with an organic egg yolk perched on top, with "hand cut noodles, English peas, smoky bacon, black pepper and Parmesan." It was a fantastic meal, and it was also a bit of a triumph.

The last time I truly enjoyed a carbonara-based dish was late December, 2003, a few days before I left on vacation for Thailand, and the day after I ate at Joyfull. I left that Italian restaurant and arrived home, happy. It was Sunday. I went to bed, and dreamed of school lunch. Around 3am, I woke up and my mouth was watering--not because I was hungry, but because that was the signal that I was about to spew. So I spewed. It was hell.

About 10 miles away, two really good friends were experiencing the same gawdawful thing. We're pretty sure meat from Joyfull was the culprit. Worst case of food poisoning I've ever had.

So here I am, almost 5 and a half years later, and I can finally eat carbonara again. I feel like this should be a clever metaphor for something, but surprisingly, it's not. (No really, I am surprised.) Instead, I'm excited that I've reclaimed one of my favorite foods, and I'm looking forward to making pasta carbonara at home. I love a happy ending.

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Self-control and a funny picture.

Be proud of me: here is a list of things that I didn't blog about today:

• the putrid throat chunk that dislodged itself while I was eating chocolate. Look at your pinky nail. About that big. One of the few things that actually disgust me is putrid throat chunks.
• almost losing two keys from my keyboard because of overzealous cleaning
• how my left ear finally got unclogged, after at least two years. That, or my left speaker magically started working again after a couple years. I'd be grateful for either.
  

Instead, I'll leave you with this gem, found on a random flickr account:


That would be a pigeon that got stuck trying to eat peanuts meant for the squirrels. And it's totally got that "Oh Shit" look on its poor squashed face.

I did something like that once. I was trying to get something out of a large clothes hamper when I was around 6 or 7. (I could probably still cram into it, it's that big.) And of course I fell in. It's both terrifying and humiliating doing that to yourself. And yet, if I were there watching myself, I'd laugh, for sure.

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I am okay with reality.

Once I wedged a photocopied poem in some guy's door. It was about boats I think. At the time, it was the only thing I could do. And as much as I'd like to think that he noticed it and at least took a moment to wonder, I'm certain that he never saw it. He probably only touched it twice--once when he stepped out and once when he scuffed it away while he unlocked his door.

[Two days until I'm out of my apartment. Current progress: it almost looks like someone lives here, opposed to someone haphazardly storing things.]

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I was in a furniture store.

I think I was buying a bunk bed for my college apartment, so that puts us about 5 years ago. Some guy caught my eye, and it turned out to be a guy from high school. We weren't friends, but we were in a PE class together. Maybe Spanish class too. I remember him mentioning something about working with disabled kids, and I was impressed that's how he turned out. When we played football in high school, he used to sit on my head when I hiked the ball. I wouldn't be surprised if he was one of the kids who smoked out during lunch.

I clicked my way onto some girl's myspace. I knew her in high school too. She was small and twerpy, like me but stronger. I have little desire to talk to the girl, but it was nice to see that she grew up, looks happy, grew her hair out some. I barely recognize her.

Another guy that got sacked with the unfortunate nickname of Willow got all hairy and resembles Ben Stiller. He's got cheekbones now.

None of these people were good friends of mine. But it's reassuring that these people seem happy with who they are all these years later. The only people I really think about from high school days are good friends or people who've done something stupid. And of course my friends are phenomenal and can Do No Wrong, but everyone else turned out mediocre and stunted from growing up in an oatmeal suburban town.

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Cursed.

My Japanese is getting so bad that Spanish is starting to creep in again.

And I just got a song from an elementary school musical stuck in my head. Remember Cosmic Pinball? "Take me away, Let me fly through outer space, wherever you sayyyyy" Jeezus it's painful. Look at how vivid my elementary school memories are: Movie Vampires Evilly Mortify Juveniles Seeing Unauthorized Nighttime Programs!

These memories are precious because they're old. I'm not sure why else they're valuable.

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PAWS.

PAWS. Damn if I remember what it stands for, I just know I loved that program. Remember? The typing program? The silly orange cat, a as at ask asp asks...I could hammer away on a clackity IIe for hours. I don't remember playing it that often (how could a kid from San Diego resist Carmen Sandiego?), but I remember being pretty good at it.

Next memory: growing up, I had a clunky plastic typewriter. It was blue. I rarely used it, but it was neat. I don't remember actually doing it, but I have this strange feeling that I wanted to take it apart. I'm sure I did. It was all caps. I didn't realize that wasn't normal until I used a typewriter in the library job. The library typewriter was electric, and that combined with both cases just blew my mind. It scared me at first, after years of doing everything on a computer. Clackity clackity. I grew to love it, even though I never mastered how to center a title.

All this comes up because one lazy morning, G asks me if I know how to touch type, or whatever newfangled word he used for it. All I remember (terminology-wise) is something about home keys, and always being shit at reaching the period with the proper finger. (I remember the cat would get angry if I didn't press the key in time, so I would just use a different finger.) I was a little incredulous, a little offended (to me, people that hunt and peck are inferior) but then again, he's never seen me do much more than check my mail. Always the same position--left hand holding up head, right hand picking out the letters in my addresses. I guess he's never seen me write email. ::shrug::

Funny, the things we still don't know about each other.

(And to salve my pride just a little, I checked a few typing tests online. About 60 WPM, averaged over three tests. That makes me feel better.)

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Definitely me.

I remember on the morning of high school graduation, it was absolutely essential that I put nail polish on. I'm sure it was something unnecessary, like clear. After the whole thing was over, after we rushed from our seats to stand with best friends to sing the alma mater one more time, I went to Olive Garden with my family. The guy who I had kind of dated (but had long since gotten over me) was there with his family as well. I don't remember how I felt, if it was embarassment or rage or irritation. I remember his mom was nice though. She liked me.

I am one of those lucky people that loves my high school friends fiercely. But high school life itself wasn't the high point of my life. I'm grateful for that, too.

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Valentine's Day?

Dammit, that's coming up.

My sister has a pretty good post up about what Valentine's Day was about in our family. Me, my favorite memories were from junior high school. When the hormones made us all run amok.

Every year, some group sells flowers that can be delivered during class. I don't remember getting one, but that could be my crap memory. And I don't even think we were selling roses. We sold carnations. And a boy picked up a broken one and gave it to me. A really sweet gesture, even though we had already flirted and moved on months before. I saw him again years later. He was working at Denny's and I was absolutely floored.

Another time in high school, there was a boy and we wrote on each other's lockers. I think he drew a rose on mine. That one went absolutely nowhere, but I still had fun. No clue what happened to that one, even though our colleges were pretty close to each other.

Now, I'm going shopping for a real Valentine's gift for my very real boyfriend. Shh. Don't tell.

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Stir it up.

Oh so stagnant. It's time to try this "blog" thing for reals. Again. (If you can name all of the blogs I've had, I'll write a post in your honor.) I remember lifetimes ago vowing to be interesting, and to never talk about what color my socks are, but to hell with the old rules.

Right now I am wearing thick blue socks. These are not sexy socks. In fact, they're snowboarding socks, that I just might've used all of twice for snowboarding. They're great staffroom socks though, I tell ya.

Moving on before I start up the banal weather chitchat. Though it will come up later, I assure you.

I have memories of overgrown sweatpea plants in my backyard. We brought them home one Mother's Day in styrofoam cups, and let them multiply. I marveled at the smooth round brown seeds at the end of the season, but for some reason didn't try to eat the green pods until many years later. Occasionally there would be a big, almost Japan-worthy spider suspended in between, and I would feed it ants, picking them up one by one, trying to get them to stick in the right places. Yep, I was one of those kids.

Those were some good memories. Thanks ants.

Thants.

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