I am good at some things but not others

Oh, you guys said some lovely things about my sketch-paintings. Thank you! My heart is warmed. Now I have Hot Heart Syndrome. The doctor said I'll be okay, as long as I'm not startled or upset, ever.

So listen, I would love to illustrate whatever, but I can't draw anything that isn't right in front of me. This is my terrible secret. Seriously, I have no visual memory. I can't even really picture what an elephant looks like right now, much less draw it. (It's gray! And…and looks like a briefcase! Wait, no, that's wrong. Four Ionic columns and a cloud?!) If I were to illustrate, I'd need to see everything I needed to represent. This could get tricky for, say, a children's book. "Listen, I'm glad you want me to illustrate Mr. Wubs and the Tricky Mubbles, but unless you get them all to my apartment and force them to stand still, I really can't do business with you. Yes, the Mubbles too. I understand they're tricky. Not my problem."

The End.

Changing the subject awkwardly: On Christmas day, my parents gave me a pair of warm mittens. They are adorable, in addition to being warm. (It was not the only gift from them. My parents are nothing if not overly generous.)

ANYWAY, after we were done gifting, my mom said, "By the way, the mittens came with a hat, but I think there's something wrong with it." She showed me the hat, which appeared to be perfectly acceptable and something I would happily place on my head.

But then I tried it on:

"You see?" she said. "I don't know why it looks so goofy."
"I can't see," I said. "I'm so confused. Everything is dark. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME." I stumbled around and my mom laughed a whole lot. I suspect this was a Christmas gift to her.

And then my sister walked in and said, "Yeah, you have it on backwards. Also, don't tie it, oh my god."

RIGHT.

This reminded me of this one summer in college when I worked as a bank teller, and I was terrible at it, just awful, and a fellow teller said to me, helpfully, "There are different kinds of smarts. You have book smarts. You just don't have…life smarts."

It took me this long to discover that I also don't have hat smarts. At least in this case I can blame my mom.

And now, a sexy story for you

A couple of days ago I was getting out of the shower, and while I was changing, I noticed that I had cut the top of my toe. (Not the big toe. A lesser toe. I don't know why this detail is important.) Scott noticed it as well, or maybe I stuck my toe in his face and shouted "LOOK I AM BLEEDING PLEASE HELP" (I sometimes do this) and he said, reasonably enough, "How did you do that?"
I hesitated. Then I thought, you know what? We've been together for seventeen years. It's about time he knew this about me. "Well," I said, "I…I must have nicked it with the razor."
"The razor? But why…?"
"Because," I said. "Because I have furry hobbit toes. And I shave them."
"You ... shave your toes?" I have never seen him look more confused.
"DON'T JUDGE ME," I did not shout. But I thought it. Maybe I said it?
"It's better that you don't know too much about this," I said. "But yes."
"But I don't understand," he said, "why would you shave them?"
"As opposed to what? Waxing? Burning?"
"No," he said, "I would think you would pluck them."
And then I backed slowly out of the room, then out the door, then down the stairs, and now I don't know where I am.

No, but seriously. Pluck them? I don't even know where to start with this. Does he think I have one or two weird aberrant hairs that sprout up on my toes? I have tiny mini-forests that would sprout on every toe if I didn't maintain them. Should I not have told you that?

Perhaps the sexiest detail in this story is that I was getting ready to go to the OB/GYN.  Yes, I was shaving my toes for my doctor. No reason she should have to deal with anything less than the most hairless of feet in her stirrups!

Aaaand I've just lost my last male reader. My work here is done.

POPPOPPOP

So yesterday someone kept setting off firecrackers outside our building, those really loud POPPOPPOP kind that made me jump out of my seat and might have been giving me some mild traumatic flashbacks. I couldn't see who was doing it but I could HEAR it, oh my word. So the third time they went off I yelled out the window "ENOUGH" but I was so mad it sounded like "EEEAAAAGH" and Henry came out of his room and suggested, "Maybe you should call the police, Mom."

I shouted "GET YOUR MAMA SOME SCOTCH, FOR HER NERVOUS CONDITION" but he just rolled his eyes and went back into his room. He's a sensible boy.

I called 311, which is the number you call for noise complaints (and assorted other NYC concerns, like incorrect recycling, and rats with weapons), and the conversation I had then with the lovely 311 lady went thusly:

311: "How can I help you?"
Me: "Someone is setting off firecrackers, and it's incredibly loud, so I'm calling to make a noise complaint. Because of all the noise, you see."
311: "Oh, that's illegal."
Me: "?"
311. "Setting off firecrackers is illegal, ma'am."
Me: "Right, which is why I'm calling you."
311: "It says here in the something something code blah blah blah illegal illegal illegal."
Me: "Sure does sound illegal!"
311: "This is a police matter."
Me: "And you're not the police, is what you're trying to tell me?"
311: [deep, pained sigh] "I'll patch you in to 911. Just…just stay quiet and let me speak first. I'm going to speak first. Okay? Then it'll be your turn."
[pause. beeping noises]
911: "911, what's your emerg--"
Me: "THERE'S A LOT OF NOISE AND THE 311 LADY SAID--"
311: "MA'AM."

Okay, I made that last part up. But I loved how she was so insistent that I not speak first. So concerned! So insistent! I was clearly unpredictable and dangerous. For all she knew, *I* was the person setting off the firecrackers. Maybe I was? It's all a blur.

P.S. I have no idea if the police came, even. Anyway, when I shouted EEEAAAAIGH out the window someone replied, "He's leaving, he's leaving." I didn't take their word for it, but maybe it was the case. Like we had  been visited by the Firecracker Guy, and his shift was over. He knew when enough was enough. Or when enough was EEAAAUUGH. That must be the worst job ever. How do you hear anything, Firecracker Guy?

P.P.S. I do not get the whole loud-popping-noise-firecracker appeal. I get the appeal of sparklers and things that make whooshing noises and are pretty. I do not understand why loud shit that is scary and also LOUD would be fun, in any way. I ranted about this to Scott, who asked me, "Were you ever a kid?" Of course I wasn't! What a ridiculous notion.

Marriage!

-I would really like to figure out this weird chest pain I'm having.

-Shouldn't you go to the doctor? Chest pain seems like a good reason to go to the doctor.

-Well, no, it's not really my chest like my HEART. Maybe it's my lungs? Or my boobs.

-You can't tell the difference between your lungs and your boobs?

-Well, I mean I can in everyday life, yes, but since one area sits right above the other, it's hard to tell which hurts.

-That makes no sense. Your breasts and your lungs are different things.

-Thanks, doctor.

-I mean, just because they're close to each other, you don't know which it is? I can tell the difference between my pants and my testicles.

-So you're saying that breasts are the pants of the chest.

-That's exactly what I'm saying, yes.