Garden of Aural Delights

Sometimes I listen to things other than Beirut. And then I suddenly catch a snippet of Zach Condon’s voice and spend the next few moments/hours in audiogasmic glee, wondering why I ever listen to anything else.

Mmm. Happy.

Also: I have news, news that makes me glow. All will be revealed in time, but suffice it to say that the future looks bright, and will look even brighter in a certain sort of liquid golden sunshine.

Ode to Giardia

So this, I thought, is what it feels like to die.

As you may or may not know (and unless you’re Bethany or Jenn, you probably don’t) I’ve been doing battle with a delightful little parasite named Giardia for the past two months. I’ve known for only two weeks, however, that Giardia was the culprit. After a month and a half of intestinal woe and symptoms far too nasty and, for lack of a better term, fecal, to share, I hit up the doctor’s office and had a grand span of diagnostics–blood and various other materials–run. I was actually relieved when they came back with a tangible reason for my misery, and slightly amused that for two months I’ve never been without a team of little friends, chillaxin in my lower gut. And hey look! They’re even kinda cute!

Giardia!

The cure was simple: take 4 caps of a little antibiotic called Tindamax, one time, and you’re good to go. I clicked my heels and downed the 2 mg panacea, expecting soon to be cured. My amusement at my tagteam of microscopic friendies continued ’til roughly Wednesday night, when I started feeling B-A-D.

Somehow I dragged myself to an hour of punishing Power Yoga at Samadhi Yoga Studio with Jenn, then we cooked a lovely dinner that included my patented caramelized onion, apple, goat cheese and arugula pizza. Despite knowing that for the benefit of my parasites I must now be essentially vegan, I had a little bit of pizza and a glass of lovely peach wine. Bad. Idea. This, I believe, was the beginning of the end.

Flash to yesterday: so exhausted I felt like I was moving underwater and every blink took effort; shaking, shivering with cold, then tearing off my clothes from overheatedness; rolling nausea, aching eyes, and all mucous membranes (use your imagination here, kids); dizziness, headache, and deep aching in all of my large joints and muscles (but, to be fair, I know not whether to attribute these last symptoms to the power yoga or to my mysterious illness). Needless to say, I bagged on the gym again last night and came home to call the doctor and fall into bed at 7p.m., sleeping through until 11 this morning. This is so. not. normal.

After hacking up applesauce and a visit to the clinic this afternoon which included a panoply of other bloodwork, I’m home and still completely wiped. The doctor is nearly 100% sure that the degree of horrible I’m currently experiencing is not because of the Giardia, but in fact the fault of the antibiotic! It turns out that the cure is often far worse than the ailment.

Jesus, I’m lame. I just hope that I recover enough this weekend to go to work on Monday and be ready for a Retrospective event on Tuesday night (more on that to come). Sadly, I’ll need to play PR girl and look camera and video-ready for that, so it may or may not happen. Bah.

For the time being, it’s more bed for me, and for the next few months nothing but whole grains, vegetables, fruit and soy protein. Goddamn, I’m gonna miss me some dairyz. ):

Eeeeenteresting

This, found in today’s Google search terms (YES I’m a lazy blogger) is interesting to me: “yonosoymaria i’m still sorry.”

Are you? And who are you? Hmm. A puzzlement indeed.

Well–I can confidently say, hey,  it’s okay! Whomever you are–unless you’re the girl who farted at me in downard dog tonight in yoga–I’ve probably already forgiven you–or I just no longer care. (:

Another Googlesearch Win of The Day

Apparently some nice stranger found my blog by searching “how to be less surly.” Somehow, I don’t think I’m much help with that. *cackle cackle*

Explication: on my exorbitant amount of hatred for St. Patty’s Day/chatter about my friend pete

I recognize that the following declaration has the potential to alienate a decent cross section of readers and perhaps more than a few of my friends. Nonetheless, I shall go boldly forth where my heart, aesthetic sense, and love of gentle culture and the gently cultur(ed) tell me and just spit it the hell out: I kind of hate St. Patty’s day.

Of all the sorry excuses for holidays, St. Patty’s is the one I find the most tragic. I mean, why beat around the bush? If you want to go out and get shamefully jaxied, then by all means, friends–go forth and swill in good health! But please, don’t do it swathed entirely in green and wearing various nicknacks and flair requesting kisses simply for your alleged Irish roots. As I waited for my chariot to bear me home today I saw a particularly unfortunate young victim of the day garbed entirely in stringbean green and an enormous, furry Leprechaun-style hat. At first I thought I was hallucinating; then I only wished I was. Imagine my horror when I realized that this monstrosity was making its way down the street toward me, accompanied by a chesty young minx in a ripped “Kiss Me, I’m Irish!” tank, trucker hat, light, ripped jeans tucked into pale, dirty Uggs and–yes–oh sweet baby Jesus on a cracker, yes!–aviators! I don’t think I could’ve possibly beheld a more comprehensive collection of tasteless, tacky items on one sad looking personage. As they tittered and weaved on past I had all I could do to keep from retching into the big plastic dispenser containing free copies of The Advocate. When I boarded the bus five minutes later, I was still fighting off waves of naus. Sadly, dear friends, this is why until I met last year’s Irish coworker, Paul, I associated “Irish” with “tasteless.” Tell me, distantly-rooted Irish-Americans, is that fair?

And what IS it with people who are fascinated by their own whitey-Irish roots? They love to profess that their hearts ache for their country–one to which 70% of these piners have NEVER EVEN BEEN! How foolish and charlatanesque is THAT? And while we’re at it, come here–no–closer. I mean closer that that. Now, lean in: I’m going to whisper this one in your ear. Ready? here it is! Even with all of that Irish “heritage,” wee Johnny–you know, the kind hinged upon your collection of shotglasses and Celtics jerseys–I have news! You’re nothing more than a boring, easily burned caucasian! That rich Irish cultural mythology is a Potemkin village erected around yer Pappy’s beer-infused “condition” and mammy’s sharp tongue and mean temper. Bake your potato and drink your Guinness, boy, but don’t let me catch you denying that you’re 40% German and 30% Hungarian, too. Hmph. Irish. You’re as Irish as my American shorthair cat. In fact–she has green eyes. She’s probably even more Irish than you.

Sidenote: it’s not that I hate Ireland, or the truly Irish, at all–I simply dislike what the American St. Patty’s Day celebration is and all of the shiniez attendant upon its black calendar day. You real Irish? I think you’re bitchin’. Come on in, sit on down, and tell me what’s the craic?

</end cruel rant>———

“Dude, what are you, running from bears?” I ask when he answer the phone. There is a wheezy, breathless chuckle and I hear a distant plane gliding somewhere near Little Rock.
“Naw, naw. The bears are only in my head tonight,” he assures me over a background of footfalls and intense breaths. “Hey, c’nI call you back in five or ten?”
“Sure,” I say. “Sure, take your time.”
Anybody else I’d expect to hear from in an hour, if at all, but this is not anybody else–this is my strange phonefriend, Peter, and when Pete says he’ll call back in 5 or 10, I know he will.

Peter and I were never technically friends when we were at Trinity. We both rowed; we were both English majors; we had a passel of mutual friends. And yet, despite all of that, we were never actually close. At this point I couldn’t even tell you why we started talking in November, or who made that first call (though my money’s on him), but it’s a somewhat regular irregualr experience now, and one to which I’m slowly realizing I sincerely look forward.

There’s something languid, thoughtful, warm and slow about a conversation with Peter, a way he has of pausing after a thought that lets you know he’s really considering what he’s just heard or said. I love talking with him, though saying we speak infrequently is generous, and if there’s a voicemail that goes unreturned there’s a 99.9% chance it’s his to me. When I do call back, when I do quell my phone-phobia long enough to hit “send,” and when I do hear that peculiar Arkansas drawl I am immediately uplifted, comforted, and addled as to why I waited so damn long to dial. I’m not sure what it is about Pete–I’d love to chalk it up to his being one of my only friends/acquaintances who is truly, deeply and unabashedly spiritual, though I fear that such allegations’d be doing the simple goodness of his own being some sort of injustice–but I’m pleased that that intangible “it” exists, and I’m pleased that when tonight I called him, he picked up. We talked a little about life, about my tenuous future, and about his novel which I’d pledged to read, yet have somehow stalled at page 120 despite its high quality. Other times, however, we’ve spoken of God, of love, of heartbreak, on numerous other topics too weighty to balance with many of the people I know face to face, let alone those I know most deeply by phone. He’s a special kid–one I wish I’d taken the time (or the bite out of my own fear) to know better when I had the chance.I suppose, though, that it’s never really too late.

Sadly, I won’t get to the discussion of overheard gym conversations I was hoping to deploy, nor will I share my thoughts on dispensing unsolicited advice on the heels of a breakup. Hopefully that’s something I can do tomorrow, but for now, I’m feeling rather headachy, rather sinusy and rather like I’ve had a few too many pints. Good night, Blogosphere, good night–and may your luck be substantially better than that of the Irish.

More Retro Posting!

I know I’m neglecting my own blog. I know it’s shameful. I’ll be back–really! And probably this weekend!

But for now, content yourselves by checking out my little piece on Alan The Gallant, a whimsical, sophisticated design firm out of Barcelona, Spain. We’ll be doing more with ATG in the coming weeks, so stay tuned!

Ah, dreams of Spain! Ah, how I pine… (for more reasons than two)…

Oh sweet mother of mercy, yes!

Someone found my blog by Google searching “wet cats.”

I am complete.

Bloggie Developments!

Exciting news!

I’m a staffer at The Restrospective now, along with some fabulous fine folk by the names of Gitamba, Shaan, Alicia and Jason. How will this shake out, and what does it change? Well  a) my street cred just went +a bajillion, and b) a few times a month you can cruise more of my ramblings regarding shiz about which I may or may not be qualified to ramble over at Retro. Today happens to be one of those days of the month when I’m holding court up on page 1, so head on over, give it a gander, comment if you like and cop a listen to a band of which both Oscar Wilde and Tim Burton would most readily approve.

Protected: Part the Fourth: Your Place, or… Okay. Definitely Your Place.

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Pervy Delights

In the interest of expanding my Spanish vocabulary (or at the very least maintaining lo que tengo) I subscribe to dictionary.com’s Spanish word of the day. Today’s word is “parecido,” meaning “similar.” In the two years I’ve been a subscriber, this is definitely one of my top three favorite sample sentences. Can anyone detect why?

Lo hacemos de forma parecida a como lo hacen los animales.
We do it in a similar way to animals.

Totally. Rad.

And speaking of Spanish, tonight my dear Charles is coming to dine with me at Barcelona, after which we may go to Real Artways to see a movie. This little rendezvous has been an excruciatingly long time in coming, so I’m double (possibly triple) pumped to see him!

More soon. I know I owe a 4th installment of the now two month old Spanish saga and it’s in the queue–just needs to be finished! Hopefully this weekend’ll yield a little time to work on that.