I'm sure both my readers are dying to know what happened next in The Saga of the Specs.
Wednesday morning, the bridge snapped for the second time. The Krazy Glue ate away at the plastic, just as Alison predicted. I was forced to wrap masking tape around the two pieces yet again. Andrew was kind enough to document my geeky glasses for posterity (complete with nerd expression).
I was able to get a Thursday morning appointment with my optometrist. The good news: my vision has remained fairly steady for the past 3+ years, and my eyes are very healthy. Hooray! The bad news: I don't have eye insurance. Boo! Luckily, my wonderful buddy Regina sent me some designer frames (Shiny Dark Blue, although they look darker than the pic) that fit just fine on my face. I can even slam dance/head bang and they stay put. Rock on! I want to thank 'Gina and her workmate/instigator Lena for passing them along. Every penny counts as I wait for freelancing checks!
I also decided to get Transition Lenses; it'll be nice to be outdoors in the sun and not have to squint. Greg and Kirsti both had positive things to say about them, and I trust Kirsti's opinion. I should get the glasses by next Wednesday. Until then, I'm just more of a spaz than usual.
After my clumsy, bloodtastic afternoon yesterday, I decided the best solution was beer and television. Prison Break wasn't on until 8, so I watched ABC's Wife Swap.
For those of you who don't know the premise of this show, two families swap mothers for two weeks. Each woman leaves behind a "manual" for her replacement. The first week, the visiting mom has to live by her new family's rules. The second week, the family has to live by the visiting mom's rules. Hilarity and conflict often ensue as the producers go out of their way to cast families with the most opposite lifestyle/beliefs they can find. The episodes usually end with each family changing a little bit after a stranger points out what wasn't so evident to the other mom.
The first family is from Kentucky. They live in a deer-head-decorated half trailer/half house in a woodsy area. They hunt together, and the parents have no qualms about swatting their two boys, 10 and 12, when the kids misbehave. Their diet consists mainly of what they shoot themselves: squirrels, rabbits, and deer. As a person who has eaten all three of the mentioned animals and grew up in hunting family, this wasn't too strange to me. We didn't have any Confederate flags in our house, though. Or participate in family taxidermy.
(Full disclosure: I can't remember what squirrel tastes like; I was [1] too young and/or [2] my mother slathered it in some sort of edible sauce. I remember eating hasenfeffer stew, though, and just try to get between me and the deer jerky from my dad's yearly buck. You'll be sorry!)
The second family is from Arizona. The entire "nontraditional" family is strictly vegan and only eats raw foods; they didn't even have a stove. The oddest thing, however, was the matriarch's belief in something she calls "sun gazing." I can't describe it any better than she does in her instruction manual:
From 7:30am-7:38am I stare at the sun. Sun gazing has changed my life - it suppresses my appetite, gives me mental clarity and prevents disease. I learned about it through an Indian guru who believes we don't need food to survive. He lives on sun, air and water alone. Hopefully one day I will be like him and no longer desire food. I believe sun gazing can help with world hunger. If people knew they could look at the sun for energy we would have less starving people in the world.As Ellen (she had called me after reading about my day) scoffed, "Does she know she's talking about photosynthesis? And that she's not a plant?" I was explaining the sun gazing thing, and reading the subtitles aloud to Ellen when the elder Kentucky boy looked directly into the camera during an interview and said:
"My new mom eats the sun. [pause] Creepy."
Awesome.
I am going to incorporate "My new mom eats the sun" into as many conversations as I possibly can. I could not stop laughing, although it could have been the beer. I don't know.
Of course, lessons were learned. The hippie chick allowed her family to start cooking vegetables, and the Kentucky husband helped his wife with household chores. But...
"My new mom eats the sun."
As a freelancer, I often deadpan that I never leave my apartment. Today... I should have heeded that punch line.
Chicagoland is supposed to experience a temperature drop later tonight or tomorrow, so I figured I should grab some groceries this afternoon. I don't have a car, but I have a little cart. I used to have a big white one for my laundry and such when I lived in the city, but I replaced it with a smaller model once I hit the 'burbs. The closest Jewel is about a mile from me. I figured I'd get some exercise and pick up some healthy grub. Go me!
It's overcast, which is usual for this time of year. I don't bother to bring my umbrella, which I kind of regret after it starts raining about half a mile from the store. No worries — I make it to the store no worse for the wear. I'm in the produce section (yes, really, Mom and Dad) when my glasses break in half for no reason. By that, I mean I took them off to wipe away some raindrops and the bridge just snapped.
Crap. The world is mighty damn fuzzy without my specs. I should look into Lasix. Anyway, I sort of loiter next to the avocados, wondering how to fix this. At first I put on both pieces to see if they will magically stay on my face. No dice. I hold one lens up to my eye and squint the other eye to check out salad dressings, but that's just dumb. I try to find some green onions. (Cue the classic '60s song...) They're usually wrapped in rubber bands, right? Maybe I can use a rubber band to wind around the bridge of the glasses. However, no green onions. Anywhere. Bastages! I think about checking the radishes, but I'm afraid the other patrons will think I'm sort sort of weird produce sniffer who likes to get too close to the vegetables.
I push my cart to the opposite side of the store where I think there are office supplies. Superglue might be there too. I find Scotch tape, which is next to useless. I mince down the aisle and finally spot some masking tape. In my haste to rip open the package, one cardboard corner catches on the cuticle on my right index finger and rips part of it off.
You'd think I hit an artery.
So I'm now blind and bleeding. I hastily try to wrap the two pieces together and not cover the lenses or my coat with blood. I listen to the announcements over the intercom and wonder if there's a code for this sort of situation. "Anna, code 152, Anna, code 152..." I half expect a muffled voice to call attention to the furtive person getting blood all over the office supplies in aisle... aisle what? I don't know, BECAUSE I'M BLIND AND I'M BLEEDING.
After several fumbled attempts, success! The masking tape has done the trick, at least temporarily. I also use a piece of tape as a makeshift Band-Aid around my finger. So now the lenses are smeared with dirty fingerprints and the adhesive on the tape is precarious; I can't justify wiping my glasses on my sweatshirt, so I just peer through the grime. At least I can now identify what's on the shelves in front of me. One of the first items I see and throw immediately into my cart is Krazy Glue.
(In retrospect, I could have immediately opened the Krazy Glue to fix my glasses, but I thought the masking tape would hold until I got home. And applied directly to my skin, I'm sure the Krazy Glue would have stopped the bleeding as well. Multipurpose indeed.)
So. Shopping. Yogurt? Check. Apple juice? Check. If I keep my head bent down for too long, the pieces fall apart. I feel the outer edges slowly succumbing to gravity before I push them together again. For some reason, I think that these downward tipping glasses would be perfect for sight-impared basset hounds. I also don't feel comfortable holding my head high and drawing attention to the fact that my GLASSES ARE HELD TOGETHER AT THE BRIDGE BY A PIECE OF MASKING TAPE.
I get through the checkout line with little hassle and then go outside to transfer my groceries to my push cart. I didn't realize it only carries about half the volume that my old cart did. Whoops. Too much stuff! I put the heaviest items in the bottom of my cart and the produce on top. I have to carry a few bags as I push, so I make sure those contain light bulbs and toilet paper and the like. For one brief second I consider gluing my glasses together here as I crouch on the pavement, but I decide to wait until I get home. (My one wise choice of the afternoon.)
I also didn't realize that the cart is apparently built for those of normal size. As a tall person, I'm used to ducking when I step out of El cars or into lower doorways. I know I'm not built to scale. But the cart is just short enough for me to have to hunch over in order to push it. I've had serious back problems, so I try to be aware of my posture at all times. Pushing heavy things at an awkward angle isn't good. Only a mile to go!
At least it's stopped raining.
A man decides to step off the sidewalk and pee against the side of a building as I walk within three feet of him. Charming.
Roughly halfway through my return journey, I experience another high. Picture this: A too-tall woman with spaz glasses held together by masking tape pushing an "old lady" cart full of groceries across the street. Then the front wheel gets caught in a particularly deep and cruel seam near the curb, forcing the cart to stop suddenly. The "soft items" go flying as both the cart and the woman topple over next to the sidewalk.
A man and a woman are not 30 feet away from me as I hit the ground. They don't ask if I'm okay, or if they can help, or do anything but deliberately and obviously ignore me... as they laugh loudly. I pick up the bananas, which aren't bruised or broken, the head of lettuce, the mushrooms. I'm sure I was shaking my head and laughing at myself as I repacked the top of my cart, but what kind of people say nothing?
Did I mention this happened right in front of the Salvation Army? Which is the building that the couple had just departed? No lie.
I pass the yuppies, who studiously avoid looking at me but continue to chuckle. One chatters on a cell phone. I'm sure my accident looked hilarious, and I obviously wasn't hurt. But for fuck's sake, who are these assholes? I wanted to glare meanly at them, mutter something sarcastic like, "Thanks for your help. Really." But I knew that if I moved my head too fast to the left, my glasses wouldn't hold, and the two pieces would fall to the ground with a pathetic clatter.
Luckily, the rest of the journey home is nowhere near as exciting as bleeding under fluorescent lights and being openly mocked by jerks outside a church charity. For a few seconds, I actually consider going through my building's back door. It's closer but it also has a flight of stairs down. I've been canon fodder all afternoon; why deliberately put myself in the line of fire? I push the cart to the front instead.
My pity party is immediately brought to a screeching halt when I help one of my wheelchair-bound neighbors get through the building's front door and into the elevator. Ah, Proper Perspective. You have the best timing. As I struggle with my too-short cart by my front door, another neighbor says she just got a bigger, taller cart for $30 and tells me the name of the website where she bought it. Another point to Perspective. Perspective always wins. As it should.
One drop of Krazy Glue gel later, I am now able to both wear my glasses and see through them. Whew! So after fixing and drinking some cherry Kool-Aid (Oh, yeah!), I shall now move on to beer. I really wanted to go to the Gapers Block book club at The Book Cellar tonight to discuss Wendy's book, I Am Not the New Me, which I really enjoyed. (Cinnamon and I were going to meet for dinner and public transit it there together.) But I think it's better for everyone if I keep to myself for the rest of the day. Who knows what could happen if I interacted with other people? Nothing good, I dare say.
