daily preciousness

Thursday, April 26, 2001

to boldly vent...

I am such a Star Trek: Voyager geek. No, I mean it. It's gotten to the point that I cry nearly every episode -- because there are only a few more episodes to go before they end the series. So I guess that makes me more of an emotionally unstable Star Trek fan than an actual geek. (I'll have to check the manual on that one.)

Yesterday it genuinely pleased me to see that Robin Roberts, my English professor for this summer's classes, had a "United Federation of Planets" bookbag that she brought to the orientation. (It was an orientation for my study abroad classes in Dublin this summer.)

So anyway, when Tom Paris helped out a dying woman and her baby last night, tears just soaked my eyes like you were squeezing out a sponge. They poured out of my eyes, making little salt paths down my cheeks to my mouth, where I couldn't help but taste them on my lips. My lips were trembling at that point, so there was no point in trying to control them.

I'm going to miss that little show. It had great characters, even though its storylines weren't the best. In my little world of change and shifting, it's been a constant over the last few years.

When I was in Japan, Jim taped a few episodes and sent them to me. It was great to watch them.... I saved them like little treasures, as if I were a hungry child during a time of food rationing.

I savored each one once every few weeks, saving them for when I felt lonely or homesick. They comforted me with the uniquely american culture embodied by the Federation. They made me feel at home in a culture more enlightened than the *real* U.S. culture.

Wednesday, April 25, 2001

beak appeal

It's been a while. I guess it's time for me to moan and bitch and complain. In other words, it's time for me to make up for lost time.

But I can't moan or complain. Life has been really good to me lately. That's worth sharing, I suppose. So this is just a little slice of my life. From last night.

I had dinner and a movie with the good doctor Don last night. It was a blast. We went shopping first. I love driving around with him because he has a fast little sporty car that makes really fun noises when he shifts gears. (It makes even funnier sounds when he shifts gears incorrectly.)

We went shopping at the grocery store, collecting ingredients for a Thai dish that we both wanted to try. I wasn't really doing a good job with the shopping cart. I had designated myself vice president in charge of buggy affairs so that I could help out with the mission. But it didn't turn out so well. First, some over-active clerk grabbed the buggy since it was empty and apparently too far away from us. Then, I kept running into my own foot with the buggy. That was painful. Luckily, I had big, chunky boots on, to protect my feet. He threatened to take away my title as buggy VP.

We lacked an essential ingredient: fish sauce. So we went to an International foods store down the street. And the little Pakistani there cowtowed and shrugged, indicating that the sauce was at the *other* foreign food shop on the far side of town. So we improvised, getting an oyster sauce instead.

But this entry isn't about oyster sauce. If you thought this was going to be the Food Network of diary entries, you were wrong. Nope. Instead, I guess I will<'b> moan and complain about something.

Despite the fact that I have tremendous fun with Don -- despite the fact that he let me be VP in hcarge of buggy affairs, despite my intense romantic and altogether fanciful outlook on life, I realize that Don has no feelings for me.

And that hurts like the dickens. Like a big old skinned knee after a sore-and-bleeding skating without shinguards accident. It hurts like the dull, aching void that I felt when I got my wisdom teeth removed and had to stay away from solid food for three days. He doesn't care for me.

And he's all I think about. When I think about it, it's really lame and stupid.

You know what? It's ridiculous for me to have a crush on him -- he's got a big red W.C. Fields-esque alcoholic nose, he's balding and he's way too short. (Don, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. But it's true. You do have a classic W.C. Fields beak, you know? I'm simply trying to convince myself that I shouldn't waste time lusting over you. But it's a useless attempt. It's hopeless. Because I'm already a huge fan of you.

Don's got to be one of the sexiest men that I've ever known. I don't know what it is -- maybe it's his quick, dry wit, or his intelligent ice-blue eyes or the fact that he makes a point of gently poking fun at my habits in a sweet way. I don't know what it is. But this is a man I could genuinely fall in love with.

Like the line from the song, "Everytime we say goodbye, I die a little," it genuinely pains me to leave him. I linger about, make futile attempts at conversation and make every attempt to prolong my taking leave of him. He's always sleepy (that's old people for ya!) when it's time for me to go. And I hate to overstay my welcome. But it's really hard to part with him. I just want to hold him. You know what? I can still feel our brief goodbye kiss on my lips from last night -- it lingers in my mind, like an afterglow!

Now, I realize that I sound like some idiotic schoolboy, fantasizing about the unattainable. But he is within my reach. The fact is that I haven't yet managed to make him realize what a catch I am. And the clock is ticking. I may not ever manage to convince him of how good I'd be for him.

That's the pitiful part. There's so much to gain. He's so great -- a kind, warm, funny, smart, giving man! But he doesn't have any feelings for me, unfortunately. At least -- at the very least -- he counts me as a friend. And I could do worse, I suppose.

We made pad thai shrimp for supper together. It's so much fun to cook with him. We make a great team. I laugh so much when I'm around him. He bought Sapporo beer to go with the meal. It was

perfect. Then, for dessert, he brought out some homemade brownies from his Mom's recipe. They were moist and rich and nutty. Just perfect. I was just dumbfounded when he brought out the brownies. I mean, can there be a MORE PERFECT man for me? I doubt it. We watched Billy Elliot (so good that I cried) and then we cleaned up a little and he sent me home with extra pad thai and brownies.

This morning, at work, I think I will win the coveted "best sculpture in aluminum foil" award for my leftover brownies. I'll have Don to thank for that. (I'll mention his name, my eyes glistening with tears, during the acceptance speech.) Don made the brownies look like a little swan. What it lacks in originality, it makes up for in beak appeal.

I guess that's sort of like Don. With that W.C. Fields thing going on, he definitely has beak appeal, too.

Wednesday, April 11, 2001

no fear, skylarks and molassas

I saw two items of note this morning on my jog.

There was a tough 4x4 truck with a "NO FEAR" sticker on the front windshield. It was a rough-hewn black and had those mudflaps with naked women on them. The odd part was -- in the back, there was a little white picket fence just waiting to be daintily placed around a children's playhouse or something. It was such a stark contrast -- the "tough guy" who was soft enough to enjoy picket fences....

After that, I noticed two skylarks vying for territorial control. They did a little dance of agression and submission. No blood was drawn, but a whole lot of attitude was laid out.

Don't mess with me.

My energy level was terrible, however. I felt as if I were running through molasses. I half-way wanted to look behind me to make sure that no one was holding onto my ankles, slowing me down.

Such is the life of a moderately active runner.