View from a Blind Eye

Wow, who knew such passion could be elicited by the discussion of laundering undergarments? I have to admit, I have a few lingering questions, not the least of which is, how can you justify the extra loads? (Heh, LOAD. You know how some words come out as dirty, even though they aren’t? Sadie did it again: LOAD. See also: CHUNK). I did a quick scan of my underwear and realized underwear is SMALL, dude. I … I don’t even know if I own a full load’s worth of underwear, and that includes Adam’s. I realize we’re only two people, but still … if I held out until we had enough for separate loads, it would be all period underwear, all the time.

Also, I’d like to say that while I do care about the fact that there might be — how did H put it? — POOP MOLECULES on my Threadless T’s, I find that theory discomforting no matter what the situation. I mean, I don’t want to be spreading more poop molecules onto my most delicate bits and by putting them all in one load, aren’t you CONCENTRATING the poop molecules? Better to spread them around, I say.

Incidentally, my favorite quote from all of you is from Katie, who said, “I don’t exactly think you’re gross for combining, but it’s kind of un-kosher.” Kosher! It’s so funny! It’s just I imagined the underwear salted and brined, like gefilte fish. Oh … forget it, it’s not that funny! Except it is to me! UN-KOSHER!

Also, those who offered to e-mail recipes? I love you. And yes, please. jonniker at gmail dot com OR jonna at jonniker dot com. And my, what a lovely blouse you’re wearing!

Aaand, let’s abruptly shift gears, if you don’t mind (though really, y’all are more than welcome to natter on about washing underwear because I am strangely riveted). I have ruined my dog. I treat her well — I do! — and therein lies the problem. She’s … she’s spoiled, and spends the majority of the day at my feet, usually walking between them so that I am afraid I’m going to snap her head off like a dandelion. And when she’s not with me, she’s clearly devastated by my absence and it breaks my heart. She just WAILS until she’s sitting next to me, and if she’s not touching me in some way, it’s obvious that her world is crashing down in some deep, crushing way. And worse? Her favorite thing in the world is to be carried like an infant and I know I’ve fucked this up, I KNOW. I coddled her for her entire life and now I’m paying the price I KNOW. But honestly, right now, she’s asleep on my leg. I can’t help it, and apparently I deserve whatever shit I have coming my way. Cesar Milan would not approve and would likely have me committed.

And finally, nothing says snorefest like a rant about the economy, but seriously, folks, say it with me now: We’re in a recession, no matter what the definition is. Emotionally speaking, anyway, for Jesus, could there be more doom and gloom and talk of penny-pinching? I’ve read no fewer than five articles full of economic armageddon, and though it mercifully has a rock-bottom feel to it, it frustrates the living hell out of me. Mostly because, as we all know, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more we talk about it, the worse it gets and consumers tighten their belts and wallets until they’re CONSTRICTED. TO DEATH. And those who haven’t choked to death are eating Spaghetti-O’s out of a can to save a few bucks. At this rate, we’ll all be in line at the sausage factory waiting to see if they have any job openings for people who can squeeze mashed pork into pig’s assholes. I’m so sick of it.

And I’m tired — OH SO TIRED — of the stock market being used as an indicator for the economy’s health. It’s meaningless to the Average Joe, and further, there is not nearly as much of a trickle-down effect as the rich white men of the world would like us to believe, and have I ever told you that I wish I’d gone to school to become an economist?
Well, I do. It interests me tremendously, and always has, though most recently as an avid media whore and a person who unfortunately owns a house in one of the worst real estate markets in the country. (I’ll say it again: a normal house with a normal mortgage that I could afford that I did not overpay for. And I LIVED IN THE HOUSE.) (YAY!) (Am now renting it, if you were wondering.)

Also, dude, economist is one job that is recession proof, no? They live for this shit, man.

And might I once again throw out a hearty “fuck you” to subprime lenders and the asshats who built their investments around them in any way possible? Sit and spin, douchebags! I’ll give you something to invest in, like this giant steaming bag of fresh dog poop. The ROI will likely be greater than the pile of shit you’ve found yourself in, and thanks to you, I am also swimming in that pile of shit.

And lastly, I have to get this out so that someone can tell me it’s meaningless. About six months ago, I had this dream that some creature was trying to eat me — the creature was invisible, and it came sweeping up this giant hill into my house, which was mysteriously in the country. It was like that weird Lost thing that ate Eko, if you will. And though I woke up before it happened, it was understood that I was EATEN by this invisible force.

And blah blah, dreams, no one cares, but the point is that the giant hill the creature loped up to assist me with my eventual demise looked startlingly like the one that is now my backyard, and it freaks me out EVERY DAY. Or more specifically, like right now, when we’re experiencing winds up to 35 MPH and it sounds like I’m about to be devoured inside. So tell me: should I stay awake nights, waiting to be snacked on like a crudite platter, or should I just chalk it up to coincidence?

Happy … is it Wednesday? I’ve lost track, apparently.

*Emily Wells

23 comments March 25th, 2008