I really should blog more. The issue is time. Which is probably the lamest excuse ever created. It’s the excuse that you tell an online date when you don’t want to see them again. Sorry, I’m reeeeeeaaaally busy specifically NOT being with you. Although I guess my excuse isn’t so much because I’m trying to avoid blogging, it’s more along the lines of “I spend most of my life in front of a computer and when I get home. . . I don’t want to.” Plus, now that I’m actually a more valued employee, I can’t actually blog at work anymore, which really puts a damper on everything (both work and blogging). Also, in the last two weeks since we moved to the new place (still in Mountain View except with natural light, a dishwasher, a washer and dryer and without the need to hide our cats from the landlord, whoohoo!) we haven’t had internet because M Fox is in charge of that and that means he had to badger every internet provider in the county into giving him the lowest price so he could compare. Gotta love a man who won’t rest til he gets the best deal (yes, I’m Jewish, what of it?), but it took awhile. We have Comcast now for those who are jut DYING to know.
As it happens, this morning my throat was raw and icky and my entire body had that wonderful Several Dock Thugs Beat Me With a Lead Pipe All Night and Left Me For Dead feeling. After croaking my predicament on the machine at work, I slept another 4 hours. Unfortunately I woke up hot and my ear had pasted itself to the side of my head. Stupid dock thugs.
Anyway, despite my noble efforts to suck it up, I was told that if I tried to go into work, I’d be unceremoniously thrown back out. So here I am on my couch, surrounded by tissues, orange juice and various pills, blogging.
When I first moved back up to NorCal to live in my mother’s basement while interning for Chronicle Books (*snort snort push glasses up nose snort*), she procured for me a little two drawer dresser that was about a foot and a half wide. One drawer barely contained all my panties and bras. All my bedclothes? Kind of a joke. I have that horrible disease where I feel guilty for throwing away any t-shirt that someone gives me, regardless of how ugly or ill-fitting. “I’ll just wear it to bed!” I cheerfully say to myself. And so my bed shirts are vast, both in size and quantity. Either everyone thinks I’m remarkably fat or that I’m a prodigy tailor. One is debatable, the other is an outright over-exaggeration. I’ll let the viewers figure out which is which.
That being said, this sad little dresser has been vomiting out bedclothes and panties for about a year and a half. I’ve schlepped this damn thing from my mom’s basement on Mt. Crumpet to Redwood City and now to Mountain View. And for some reason it took me until yesterday to be over it. So we decided to go to Ikea so I could get a Big Girl dresser and M Fox could look at lights.
M Fox and I agree on two very major points about the place were we live, wherever it may be: it must have plants and it must be well-lit. I hate dark houses. And plants are nice. We agree on many other things as well (obviously), but those are two pretty big deals. I would add “books, food, and pets” to that list, but that’s me. Just to clarify, M Fox has nothing against books, is pretty ambivalent to food (skinny jerk) and loves our cats, but I don’t know that they’re necessities in his eyes. Well, the cats are at this point. Gah, I’m losing control of this train of thought.
Anyway, my favored boyfriend does widen the concept of “well-lit” past my wildest imagination. You see, he has a vision. He wants to negate the current light switches in the house and set up every light on a remote control. This seems bizarre, but it makes sense, I swear it. Understandably, the apartment was designed in such a way that every convenient plug is attached to a light switch. That’s great and all, except that convenient plugs are often used for computers. And that got obnoxious really quick. So yeah, remote controlled lights, I’m on board, I can see that, whatever you want honey, you figure it out and let me know. But then I found out that this is only the first step to his master plan.
The next step is that he wants lights to recognize you when you walk in the door, know your exact lighting preferences, and turn on to that setting automatically. When there are two people in the room? The lights will adjust to the average of the two settings. Three people? TOTAL NUCLEAR MELTDOWN! Actually, I don’t know, maybe a poison dart will just take out the third person to avoid confusion. In the immortal words of Anthony Cohen, perhaps slightly rephrased, “Yeah, and I’d like a robot that eats garbage and farts perfume.” Except that the favored boyfriend has figured out a way to do this. No fucking kidding, folks. He has the technology. He has the dream. And now it’s time for the gathering of the parts to make his journey toward the Light Side complete. Ultimately, he wants also to program in personal temperature preferences. Whoa.
Maybe it’s because my dad is the kind of person who until only the last few years learned to trust email. Maybe it’s that I’m not as much of as technophile as M Fox. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve seen Terminator. What I know is this. However irrational as this sounds, I don’t like the idea of a light bulb knowing my lighting preferences. Call me crazy. Honestly, I don’t even know what a bulb could do with that information. Sell it to Google, start sending me spam about greener fuses or political rants about the irrelevant nature of candles, I just don’t know. But I’m deeply suspicious. I’ve told M Fox my feelings. I think he finds my concerns more cute than rational.
Seriously, though, I think that it’s more about how I watch technology strip people of the ability to think on a daily basis and I feel like I’m lazy enough without having a lightbulb pre-dimmed for me. For Mike, this is obviously about a new toy and the thrill of advanced technology, which I totally understand (hey, I just bought $90 worth of children’s books to read a week ago. . . so touche). But honestly after we had schlepped the 80 pound box of drawer parts (YOU READ THAT RIGHT!! 80 POUNDS!! WTF!!! FOR A CHEST OF DRAWERS!) up to the apartment where I painstakenly put the whole damn thing together, scraping off skin, hammering my thumb, putting the stupid fucking wooden dowels in the wrong hole and having to dig them out, etc etc etc, I have to admit that I was still glad that humans could still do this by themselves without assemble-bots.
Well, except when I hammered my thumb. Then I wanted a bot. Or at least for the favored boyfriend to do it.