Not my job

The year 2011 has been a rather transitional one for the Sighted family, both immediate and extended. My wife graduated from medical school, married me, I left the country for the first time (Canada doesn't count), moved back to the Palmetto State, my brother graduated from law school (as did his fiancee), and he's going to get married. (My family is a very professional one -- I want to open a restaurant and call it Doctor, Lawyer, Engine Chief to cover all of our professions.) He, of course, has posted pictures of him in his dapper suit as he intimidates opposing counsel and slaps paralegals on the behind and whatever else attorneys do on the ol' Facebook, and the thing that struck me most is that his hair looked really good.

Not that that's unusual, but I work in a factory and I pretty much just need to arrive fully clothed to look appropriate. Lawyers and doctors deal a lot more with people than we do, so saying things like, "What moron is responsible for this flabby body?" or "Divorces for broken marriages like this are fun!" which would be more than acceptable on the shop floor are frowned upon in an office or hospital. Which is a shame, really.

It has been kind of surprising how much I have learned about the experience of doctors and lawyers, since I have seen pretty much every Scrubs and Law & Order episode that there are. (But I saw it on television! It must be true!) Dr. Sighted has not had sex even once in a closet at the hospital. Why bother even being a doctor in that case?

There aren't a lot of tv shows about engineers, for really all those same reasons. I imagine if there were, the main character would be a lot like House (also not a faithful representation of reality, as it turns out) without being a genius -- he'd just think he was. Antisocial behavior and disheveled appearance is tolerated in the only person on earth who can save your life; not so much in the guy who is really good at math, has mismatched his socks again and insults you in Elvish.

Anyway, it's an exciting time. I am surrounded by talented people in my family. With two newly minted attorneys, I am pushed even further down the list of best dressed -- and that includes the fact that my wife went to work tonight (yes you read that right) in scrubs and my other brother is a deputy sheriff. I included that last one because I have never, not even once, seen him wear the Sgt Slaughter hat.

Shattering taboos, one pair at a time

I just got some new underwear this weekend, and I must say, I am completely pleased. I have been wearing underwear for a while now, and I'd like to think I'm pretty good at it. (Although, occasionally I do make mistakes. Once, more recently than I'd like to admit, I put my boxers on backwards. The urinal was completely off limits that day.) There are times that I'd like to mention things about underwear, but for whatever reason, underwear is pretty sexualized. I think that's a bit extreme. It'd be like saying that a guy who climbs Mount Everest once is a big time mountain climber. I've spent a lot of time with science, I want to see some repeatability, killer.

I would probably say that for the average person, underwear's day to day role is much less sexual than the media would lead us to believe. I'm pretty sure it's mostly so you keep sweat and stuff off your real clothes. And to let you have a chance to wear something that has dollar signs on it. (Sadly, I don't actually have money boxers. I wish I did.)

I might have underwear questions. And they might not be sexual in nature. Like, for example, what's the deal with the hybrid boxer-briefs? There is no way that they seem competitive with the full-on boxer shorts. Also, are the people who are wearing briefs later in life just afraid to try something new? How many people try boxers, but decide they hate freedom and go back? I want statistics on that. But this isn't polite conversation. Even though asking something like, "Do my cutoffs go with this blazer?" might be a little less controversial.

This is to say nothing about the feminine sorts of underwear. But they seem even more sexualized. Bras, for example. There are some girls who probably could get on without them, but they still insist on it. Is that because of social pressure? An excess of pride? A safeguard against turning into a human thermometer? You can't ask that question out loud.

And I think that's bunk. I would like to know what sorts of personal decisions go into electing between boy shorts and panties for girls. Is it similar to the issues weighed for boxers and briefs with guys? Or is it usually a sexualized decision? How often to girls top and bottom underwears match? That doesn't even come up with us! (Actually, I guess I only speak for those of us who are not transvestites.)

I think the biggest question is about the boxer-briefs. The more I think about it, it seems like the worst of both worlds. And is it really necessary to put those douchey looking underwear models on the cover of every underwear package? I know what it's supposed to look like.

I don't know how long my hair is or should be

I am right at that point in my hair growth where I could probably use a haircut. However, I have an interview on Thursday, so I'm not sure it's a good idea to get a haircut tomorrow, since if it sucks, I'll look like a guy with a bad haircut. I wouldn't hire a guy with a bad haircut. The upside to being right tat that point is that I could probably go a little while with my current hair arrangement and be ok for a little while.

It's such a tenuous time, though. Like when you finish shaving and are wondering if it's time to lose the current blade and go to a new one. If you jump the gun, you're being wasteful; if you're too late, then you look foolish in public. A friend of mine basically told me once that if I have to ask if I need a haircut, I need to get one. I'll tell, you, though, I'm going to take the risk and wait it out for a few days. I live that close to the edge.

It's tricky, because I basically only know how to do one thing with my hair. I have no knowledge of gels or pomades, and I'm not even sure that, considering my hair, either one of those things would be a good idea. (I think there'd be no doubt, though, that I'd be a Dapper Dan man.) It does get old having the same hair all the time, but I feel like my hair is holding me hostage and I don't have a lot of choice in the matter anyway.

Ironies of the Holidays

I got a pretty healthy injection to my wardrobe over the past two weeks. Good thing, too, because I was starting to look like a hobo. I think the clothes all look better than what I was wearing before, but I still don't trust myself to select things by myself in the future. It's like being in the cockpit of an airplane; a layperson can identify someone who is a good or bad pilot pretty easily, but making those decisions yourself it's a little intimidating so it's nice to have someone in there with you.

I think that the reason people always talk about getting into shape as their New Year's resolutions is so that they can fit into all those new clothes they just got. Every time I go home, I feel like I gain 15 pounds because my mom is a very good cook, but her sense of proportion is a little off. For example, the amount of food she makes for a meal would be appropriate if my family were the defensive line for the Miami Dolphins. We usually don't go hungry. Now, though, I need to discipline myself into resuming exercise or exchange all my pants.

I guess I should've been more active while I was at home, but I was really looking forward to the bowl season. That's really an unusual source of regret, don't you think? For like a month and a half, I was looking forward to watching all of the college football games (I pretty much achieved it, except for the odd one that even I couldn't muster any interest in or were airing simultaneously), but now I wish I had, maybe, played a game of basketball or something. The weather was nice, and I don't think I took sufficient advantage of it because I slavishly obeyed my plan. Maybe next year.

There's also a lot of family that explodes over Christmas. I find it amusing how easily it is to get worn out and run out of things to say to the more tangential relatives. It's also tiring to tell the same stories over and over again to different people, which I think is a big part of the problem. I should write out a pamphlet with the essentials and just hand them out when I meet people I haven't seen for six months. "Oh, how's school going?" Look at bullet point #4. "How long do you get to stay?" Intro paragraph. If they have interesting questions, you know, the sort that I'd expect someone who has known me for my whole life to ask, then that's one thing. Maybe I'm just being picky. I should probably do some exercise anyway.

My clothes sometimes smell like wood. That's not an innuendo. (Inyourendo.)

My dresser, as most dressers are, is made of some variety of wood. I purchased mine about five months ago, and it still sometimes transfers the odor of wood to my shirts and pants. On its face, that is not any real problem, since wood usually smells nice. However, it kind of plays with your head when you smell it on clothes, like if you were to drink a glass of milk and it tasted like celery. It's not inherently bad, it's just weird enough that it catches you off guard and feels wrong.

So, after I do my laundry and stick my clothes in the dresser, it collects the sent of cheap pine. After a few hours of everyday wear, though, it just starts to smell like regular clothes, so it's not a big deal. The big news is I started using a new laundry detergent last time I went grocery shopping, and the combination of cheap pine and Cheer is a smell as foul as any I have ever experienced, save a fat guy waiting in line on Summer day at Disney world. I mostly notice it in my towels, which makes me really excited to dry my hair with them. I worry that my head is broadcasting all sorts of stink rays, some ruthless combination of Cheer and pine, that makes my otherwise dapper appearance seem completely offensive.

I think I'm just going to have to wait it out, though, use up all of my laundry detergent and go back to an odorless soap once its all gone. I didn't realize at the time that I was buying an scented one, or that the previous one was in fact odorless. I just knew that my clothes didn't smell like the underside of the Loch Ness monster's flippers. Maybe I should just do what I used to do, and leave my clothes in piles on my floor. I never had unfortunately smells in my shirts when I did that.

Let it Rain

I haven't gone into the lab yet today because it's raining. Really. I woke up this morning, heard the rain falling down, and said to myself, "It's rainy and probably cold. I don't feel like putting on shoes yet." My job is either awesome or terrible, it's hard to say.

I am probably going to go in after I finish lunch, though. It's still raining, but I don't really have anything else to do this afternoon anyway, other than play Xbox, and that seems kind of depressing. What I really wanted to write about today is the food I'm eating for lunch. I've already told you that I'm pretty awesome with food, but I want to take it a step further. Over the weekend, I decided to recreate a Cuban dish I had in Miami that was stellar. It's called ropa vieja, which means old clothes. Nothing as delicious as a shredded t-shirt seasoned with cumin.

It got that name because it looks like shredded clothes, which is kind of weird, because I don't know how carrots fit into a fashion ensemble. The meal involves flank steak, a tomato based sauce and vegetables over rice. It's the sort of meal I should carry around with me in a small pan and portable stove, to get people to do my bidding. I need to recruit a chorus of women to eat my food and then sing me praises in three part harmony.

I have a very general theory of food that coastal cultures in general produce better food than mainland cultures. Peoples like Cuban, Japanese, Italian, Mexican, Thai, etc, do good work, particularly when contrasted with the trainwreck that is German or Slavic cuisine. (Chorizo, a Spanish sausage, is infinitely better than any sausage to come out of Germany.) There are, of course, exceptions; for example, my very own peoples, the British and the Irish aren't really spectacular at food making, and they're both islands. (They seem to have brewing and distilling down pat, though). People seem pretty excited about the French, too, but other than their cheeses and breads, I'm not all that familiar. Actually, looking at the geography, maybe it has something to do with warm weather being better; because Scandinavian food is really confusing, and they have all those fjords up there. So the theory needs revision, that's what you people are for.

The US kind of wins, though, because we just steal everyone else's and make it our own. Pizza? Made in New York. General Tso's Chicken? Had to be our influence, after all, we have Colonel Sanders, too. French Fries and French Toast? All American, and we name it after another the French to stick it to them, because you know they hate to think of that they'd be responsible for those. I guess I'll make the chorus sing patriotic songs, too.

A little fashion sense even I can understand

People everywhere have very strong opinions about popping the collar. I see signs, have heard people bitch about it, and there are facebook groups about it. The thing is, I've only seen one collar actually be popped. It was at a Ralph Lauren Outlet store, and I'm pretty sure the guy worked there. He looked like sort of guy who would drink a Bud Select while calling it a "brew." Or put rufies in a girl's drink at a party.

So, judging from my statistical sample of one person with a popped collar, I can understand where the opposition comes from. However, I don't really understand how this level of vitriol developed for such an uncommon thing. Something like violent anger directed at CSI is more understandable, because you can't turn around, televisionwise, without running into one of those Jerry Bruckheimer produced pieces of filth. Then again, I don't go to frat parties much and I try to avoid places where crappy beers are the drink of choice, which I guess are really two of the same things, so I might not be in the collar popper's native habitat.

So where does this happen? Is it simply a manifestation of a bad college stereotype, as I suspect? It can't simply be that; people I've run into who never go to those places have formed more intense opinions about this than they have about abortion. I have to say that until I see it pop up (ha ha!) more often, I'm probably not going to care, even though I realize this issue is like two years old at this point. So yes, I'm a little behind. I'm in grad school; time doesn't flow the same way for me.

Creatures of Habit

Do you ever do things like brush your teeth and then forget, only later to wonder if you brushed your teeth this morning? Actually, that was a bad example because when you brush your teeth you have that lingering fake peppermint taste in your mouth for like an hour. But something really habitual, mindless and reflexive to the point that you don't think about it anymore, like locking the car door or flushing the toilet. If you do your business in the bathroom and leave while drying your hands and step out and think, "Is my waste still lounging in that bowl, or did I send it on its merry way?" I don't think I've ever actually forgotten to do either of those things, but I sometimes forget that I actually did them. Isn't that weird?

I got back from watching a movie at a friend's place tonight, and wondered if I remembered to lock the front door before I left. I had no recollection of inserting my key into the lock to perform this act, much like I have no idea from where two pairs of my pants came. They are really shorts, but pants, to me, is a funnier word. Fortunately, I did not forget to lock the door. It's good, I guess, that I don't ever forget, but it's a little frightening, too, that I am capable of doing something to the point of not remembering if I did it. Could this apply to other things, less mundane and possibly more sinister? Could I have taken baseball bat to a Mercury Sable and simply have forgotten? Or robbed a Pakistani bank at gunpoint? I'd never know, because Pakistani money probably isn't worth that much; I wouldn't expect a huge lifestyle change after holding up one of those.

I hope, for all of your sakes, that I am not some sort of subconscious criminal genius. It would be kind of awesome, though, to be able to just have money appear in my apartment and I have no idea where I got it. I'd really prefer to remember how I got it, though. I'll try to sing a song or something for each of these frequently occurring events in my daily life, so that they'll stick out a little better. Although I've never forgotten to flush the toilet, that's not the sort of risk I'm prepared to take.

Maybe a wig would be easier

I am on the fence about getting my hair cut. I've covered this topic, before, too, but I'll try not to repeat myself. I hate having to do it, because it's just too complicated. I never know what to ask for, I always forget how much it costs so I go in with like $50 (just in case) and it never looks the same the day you get it as it does the next day. I wish there was a construct your own haircut like the car websites have. That way I could choose between the sunfire red and gunmetal without making anybody uncomfortable.

In addition to the uncertainty with the process itself, I really have to wonder about the timing. Do I need one? Can I wait a few days? Would anyone notice if I did? Or are they laughing at my (comparatively) longish hair now? I really have gotten the same haircut for most of my days, with the exception of the AFROTC ones. I have very particular hair, not unlike a child who refuses to eat unless there are chicken nuggets in his spaghetti-os. My hair demands the cut I have now, or else I look retarded. As it stands now, I'm only ridiculous, which I think is a step above.

It's getting to the point where it's a little messy right now, though. I don't mind the length, so much as the unrulyness. If I cut a little some of the hairs off, though, that usually settles them down. It makes me feel like Stalin killing off peasants in Siberia. But, like those peasants, the hair always comes back. Maybe this would be easier if I had Stalin's hair.

Oh, Magoo...

I do not have perfect vision. Well, I do, but that's because I employ the aid of contact lenses. Without them, I cannot read my computer screen. I'm serious, I checked. But, at night, before my contacts become dried layers of cataract upon my eyes, I remove them in exchange for my stylish Oakley glasses. I know they're stylish because I had someone else (my brother) pick them out for me. I feel like I would need a seeing-eye person for selecting anything remotely fashionable. For example, my shoes are orange.

But the thing I don't understand is that when I put on my glasses, after lying harmlessly on my bathroom sink all day, they are dirty. How does this happen? Does my roommate sneak in, twisting his mustache like Snidely Whiplash, and rub his thumbs all over my lenses? Or do they have some sort of make out session with my toothpaste? This really makes me wonder, because when I put them on, invariably, I clean them with my shirt. Every day. How can they get dirty the next day? Honestly, I blame it on my roommate's shaver.