Ravings of a Textual Deviant

Six years ago, Ed and I got married.

Five years ago, we realized that nobody wants to eat year-old wedding cake.

Four years ago, we finished unpacking from our move into our first house (after six weeks of torturous wallpaper and improperly-installed-insulation removal).

Three years ago, we went to Toronto for the weekend.

Two years ago, (give or take a few weeks) we saw my brother as himself for the first time. (He used to be my sister.)

One year ago, Ed’s paychecks were bouncing and I was recovering from the Project of Elemental Evil.

I hope the trip keeps getting longer and stranger. It’s been fun.

In my experience, buying a swimsuit requires a special kind of masochism. Practical suits are ugly; attractive suits are impractical, and seem to be designed to look good on hangers rather than people. Sometimes it takes me days, or even weeks, of shopping to find something I can live with.

Unfortunately, I go through swimsuits at an alarming rate when I take frequent water aerobics classes. Even the suits that were supposedly chlorine-resistant didn’t last very long, and cost considerably more. My most recent suit faded practically before my eyes, developed holes and pulls in just a few weeks, and finally gave up the ghost on Monday. By Wednesday afternoon, I hadn’t managed to replace it. I had one hour to buy a suit before my next class.

I refused to accept the possibility of failure. I walked into the pro swim shop and asked for “the most indestructible suit available on this planet.” Turns out that my mistake had been buying nylon suits, rather than polyester ones. The saleswoman warned me that the only catch is that there’s almost no stretch in the polyester suits. Bah, I thought. It’ll have to stretch enough for me to get it on. Shows what I know; I haven’t done contortions like that in an advanced yoga class. I developed a sudden, intense empathy for sausage filling. On the other hand, it had all kinds of support; things that usually bounce weren’t going anywhere. Best of all, the first one I tried on fit, was comfortable after got it adjusted, didn’t ride up, and looked darned good if I do say so myself. The entire process took twenty minutes.

I may never get this lucky again…but if the suit lasts more than six weeks, at least I won’t have to worry about it for a while.

Have you ever been in a Turkish restaurant?

If you haven’t, you really ought to give the Bosphorus a try. It’s in a house downtown, and its atmosphere is very reminiscent of some of the better restaurants-in-houses in Bloomington (Siam House…mmmm!). A few of us went over the wall yesterday and had a truly great lunch. I had a tabouli appetizer that was a little different than the tabouli I am used to, in that it was less salad-y, but delicious nonetheless. I’m told by reliable sources that the lentil soup and the spinach-and-artichoke dip are also very good. We were served lovely, garlicky flatbread, lightly toasted and crisp, along with our appetizers. Five of us decimated two baskets of it in fairly short order. My appetizer was followed by the kofte (grilled patties of ground lamb with onions and herbs), served with almost-pilaf and mixed vegetables. The vegetables were a bit overcooked, but the rest of the dish made up for it and then some. My coworkers ordered grilled squid “steak” (two thumbs up) and doner (Turkish gyros), both of which smelled fabulous. And of course, when one goes to a Turkish restaurant, baklava is required. I’m not able to finish even a modest portion on my own, but one of my coworkers was more than happy to help me out. It’s served with real whipped cream dusted with crushed almonds, and is flaky, crisp, nutty, and sweet without being overpowering. The menu seems to have at least a couple of vegetarian options, and if you’re not willing to go off your diet once in a while for a really good meal, you might as well just stay home.

935 S. East St., Indianapolis (across the street from the Lilly campus, just off the East Street exit off I-70 West)

Now you can do something good for the environment and get reincarnated!

I’m working on a system that is supposed to go live on Friday. Every time I think something is finished, somebody finds something else that we forgot to do. This project is like a hydra, I tell you, and all I’ve got is a chainsaw.

Update: A rusty, intermittently-functional chainsaw.

A couple of years ago, I was on a project that involved lots and lots of long meetings. It didn’t take long for the people running the meetings to start bringing in snacks, mostly candy. Before long, one could expect a large container of lollipops in various strange flavors at every meeting, including the “mystery” flavor. (One of the flavors I remember was buttered popcorn. This was not a popular one, but it seemed to compel us to try them.) One day, we were trying to convince one of our compatriots to try a “mystery” flavor. “But what if I don’t like it?” she protested. “Just do what I do,” I suggested, grinning. “Put the wrapper back on it and put it back in the bowl.”

Later this year, Ed and I are going to Portland (Oregon) to visit my brother and his girlfriend. I’ve never been to the Fair City of Roses (as Ari calls it), but I’ve heard plenty of good things. I’ve been promising to go for a few years now—ever since Ari and Kim bought their house—but I haven’t felt comfortable actually going until now. I kept telling myself that it was because I hadn’t met Kim, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable showing up at her house as a complete enigma. But the truth is, that wasn’t the problem. (Points to Kim, though, for doing exactly that this summer, when she and Ari came back east!)

The real problem was that until recently, Ari and I didn’t talk. Not in an I’m-mad-and-not-talking-to-you kind of way; at least not on my part. And I was about to say that it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that until a couple of years ago, my brother was my sister. But really, it does. Until a couple of years ago, Ari was grim, prickly, and difficult to talk to. I never understood why, and I didn’t feel comfortable talking to Ari for fear of getting my head handed to me, or unintentionally giving offense. I felt as though I was always being judged, or failing to measure up to some impossible standard that I didn’t even comprehend. It was much, much easier not to say anything at all. I’d been not saying anything—or very little—for over ten years.

Now, Ari’s obviously much more comfortable with himself, and more relaxed than I can ever remember seeing him. I was absolutely stunned the first time he cracked a joke. He’s turning out to be a really fun guy, and I feel kind of bad that I let the distance between us get so vast. But now, even with him over 2000 miles away, I feel much closer. I’ve had more email and phone contact with Ari in the past year than I have in all the time since he finished high school. We’re both really psyched about my visit. And for the first time, I feel as though I’m welcome there.

“It’s an infestation of the slack-jawed, booger-eating, first-cousin-dry-humping primates. A pox on their houses and their apartments, and their condos… I’m just tired of talking to people who could LOWER the average I.Q. of a zombie apocalypse.” —Ed

Given that I’d rather eat my own head than enter the teaching profession, this result rather surprised me.

McGonagall - Transfiguration

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