Seriously, though; funky glasses say something about you. Glasses aren't just an accessory, they're a necessity. So, if you choose frames that you think are expressive and singularly fashionable, or maybe just weird, it kind of puts something out there about you. It's like driving a whacked-out car or having a crazy couch; such things are investments, it is a commitment to buy them, and they can very easily fall into the category of utilitarianism. Not these babies, though. I love my glasses.

The site manager at work, who has a crush on me and likes to tell me about how he rocks out on his synthesized drum machine, told me my superspecs look "hot." Hot? Yeah, that's something you hear alot: "Check out the pair of glasses on that one."

The word "hot," in that context, sounded so odd coming out of his mouth... He's a really sweet guy, and pretty cute, but he's older than me (more evidence of the older-men-love-the-Luva phenomenon) and I think that when he talks to me, he tries to young it up. Not that I'm really hip or anything, but he often just ends up sounding hopelessly retro, like one of those guys who turns his basement into a rumpus room with a pool table and thinks that he can revisit his youth by putting up posters of "Misfit" and "Twisted Sister."

Yes. Now that I've fulfilled my meanness quota for the day...

The voting registration guy in front of the grocery store complimented me on my glasses, then said, "Oh! And you have pretty eyes, too!" I thought that was sweet.

Since getting the glasses, I get checked out more frequently when I'm shopping at Whole Foods, which of course means that I'm supah-stylin' with the transgressive, hippie-turned-yuppie-turned-rockstar-returned-hippie crowd. Yes. Gimme a discreet tattoo, and I'll be sexy enough to start an underground rock band.

I wonder how long this new-found confidence will last. As long as I avoid any and all photographs of myself, I should be able to maintain the delusion that I'm as attractive as I like to imagine myself to be.

Except ... except ...

OK, I'm about to become about ten thousand times hotter.

This coming Monday, I have an appointment with the dermatologist to have no fewer than TEN warts burned off of my hands. I feel toady. Yuck. Lick my back and you'll hallucinate. Well ...

So, this pending appointment should prove to be loads of fun; the process of obtaining the appointment was it's very own adventure in my little land of hyperbole. Getting the referral from Robodoc proved to be a trial in itself, because my HMO is apparently run by network of bureaucrats interconnected by an inscrutable web of sticky, nonsensical red tape, (as are most HMOs,) and Robodoc kept blowing me off. (Which isn't completely her fault, I guess, considering the runaround nature of the HMO to which she must report.)

So these warts, which are not, by the way, remotely STD-related (I know you're wondering), but are caused by some funky topical virus, are getting progressively bigger and uglier and crackier and more obstructive of my every gesture. So, I put on my bratty bitch-hat and started calling Robodoc every fucking day, saying how much pain the warts were causing me (which is pretty true ... they're gross, and they fucking hurt), and how they were getting in the way of my every day life. (Because I'm, what? A hand-model? Which, when you think about it, must be a pretty sweet gig. I mean, you can get as fat and zitty as you want, and still call yourself a "model" because your hands are featured throwing dice on a Yahtzee box. Dig? Anyway.) It could be worse, of course. I mean, off the top of your head, can you think of an uglier phrase than "genital warts?" I'll bet you can, but still, that's ugly. But I don't have them. Phew.

Anyway, back to the warts at hand (heh) ...

Robodoc was all, "But the warts aren't on your face, right?" Because I guess the presence of a face-wart, no matter how small or painless, constitutes an emergency. God bless America. At first I was like, "No. Just on my hands. But they hurt, I keep bumping them, and I type for a living, so they get in the way and I want them gone." When that didn't work, and Robodoc told me to call her back in a few weeks, I was like, "Oh! No, wait! I just found another one on my chin! Face wart! Face wart!"

She was actually cool about my trasparent referral-obtaining scheme. "Well," she said, "let's just say you have one on your chin, and we'll go from there." The next day, I got a call from this bitchy receptionist at the dermatologist office, who gave me an appointment in the most condescending, least helpful way possible. But hell, fuck her. My hands will soon be free of toadiness, snooty receptionist or no.

If the facewart lie didn't work, I was planning on telling Robodoc that my hands were possessed, and that the warts were telling me to "do things."

HYPOTHETICAL CONVERSATION:

Robodoc: You're warts are ... talking to you?

Me: Not as such. They can't talk, per se.

Robodoc: So ... what? Do they want to see an Ear/Nose/Throat specialist? Because, if that's the case, you'll have to call back for a referral in a month and a half ...

Me: NO! The voices ... THE VOICES! There are so many! So ... many ... voices ...

Robodoc: Um ... you know, you don't need a referral to make a psychologist's appointment. You can make that appointment yourself. You only need referrals to see a specialist.

Me: AUGH! The warts! I need them gone! I must be free! I can't ... do their bidding ... anymore ... (dissolves into weeping)

Robodoc: Um, alright. I'll see what I can do. I guess this constitutes an emergency.

Me: (Spooky voice,) Redrum! Redrum!

It didn't come to that, however. It's almost too bad.

I'm taking Monday off, and will return Tuesday with my hands burned through in several spots by the evil hotcold acid of nitroglycerin, so I don't know how next week's Reverse Weekend Recap will pan out.

I'll try to predict it for you now:

Tonight, I'm going to see a show that my bitter, divorced friend is acting in.

Tomorrow, I hope to get drunk. I'm semi-determined to pick someone up this weekend, but that probably won't happen.

Sunday, I have rehearsal. Blah.

Monday, my appointment. Courtney's taking me to Rolling Meadows, IL to get my hands burnt to shit. Woo. The dermatologist is located in a Health Services center on Golf Road. Golf Road, in Rolling Meadows. I'm concerned that once we get there, Courtney's car will turn into a Saab and we'll both be given obligatory botox treatments.

That was shitty of me. I've never been to (or heard of) Rolling Meadows. But, doesn't it sound like somewhere for the cast of "Saved By the Bell" to settle down after they graduate from Sunnydale High?

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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