PipesDreams

This is Pipesdreams, coming to you live from the Satellite of Love, also known as the home of and , which will be my base of operations for the next few sweet, sweet days.

It’s like I’ve died and gone to geek girl heaven. Seriously. You cannot comprehend how much awesomeness lurks in the nooks and crannies of this house. Gorilla suits. Robots. Lightsabers. Monkeys. Shipwrecks. Skull helmets. About a gazillion books on arcane and marvelous subjects. And that’s just what I can see from this chair. We won’t even discuss the movie collection.

Besides which, what could be better than coming home to three loving cats? I humbly suggest, coming home to three loving cats AND all the Doctor Who episodes known to man.

I actually suffered some considerable trepidation for a day or two about the wisdom of taking this gig, only because I knew I would like it too much. Here I am, in a delightful, spacious apartment decked out with all the necessities (internet, toilet, fridge, in that order) on one of my favorite streets in my favorite neighborhood. The urge to call in sick to work for the rest of the week is nearly overwhelming. ‘Neverwhere’ is staring at me from the Neil Gaiman section, saying “quit your job! reread me!” If it weren’t for the copious cobwebbage in the scary basement, I’d be planning to dig a tunnel and live down there, real surreptitious-like.

Since I lived in the Annex for years, I am totally comfortable with going out for a walk at 2am to get some cheese doodles from the corner store by myself. I can swing by the Victory for a drink, stop at Suspect for a video – not that I will need to rent ANYTHING while I’m babysitting the mother of all sci-fi/cult/horror movie collections (Chuck Norris in ‘The Octagon’, anyone?). And I can go buy a comic book from The Beguiling with minimal hassle. Here is, in fact, the start and finish of me getting hassled…

Me: Hey, Peter. Have you got Persepolis in stock?
Peter: Middle aisle, halfway to the back. What the hell happened to you? It’s been 3 years.
Me: Oh, you know, worked at the Snail, started dating JVL…
Peter (sardonically): Mmm. How’d that work for you?
Me (curtly): Not, uh, not well.
Peter: So you’re boycotting the V-Ls now? You wouldn’t be the first. Or the last.
Me: Yes, well, enjoy reaping the cash benefits of my personal pain.
Peter: That’ll be twenty-one sixty-five.

So, you know, it’s pretty dreamy here. I’ve given the cats their sustenance and hugs for the evening, and I can’t face another moment of work, so I’m lazily toying with the options of starting on the pile of recommended viewing Joe thoughtfully left out for me, or turning on the PS2 and engaging in a little private Dance Dance Revolution mania. JOY.

Today I had the most delicious steak for lunch. Thick sirloin, grilled to perfection. Mmm.

I have to say, I didn’t miss red meat at all during my years as a vegetarian, but I also may not have realized that some of my lethargy at that time was due to anemia (the rest of it was due to being a teenager and pining after unattainable boys).

I learned this about myself by going to Red Cross clinics with my good friend , whose goal it was to join the “100 donations” club. CWF would already be hooked up to the pipe, blood chugging merrily out of her veins as though her bone marrow just couldn’t wait to be making a fresh batch. I would still be standing forlornly at the nurses’ station, willing the stupid drop of blood floating in the iron test vial to sink, sink, sink damn you! My tiny heart would be bursting with the milk of human kindness, the desire to “give the gift of life” overcoming even my intense fight-or-flight response to needles, but after a) fainting after three donations, and b) failing the iron test twice in a row, I am now officially on the Red Cross shitlist, and have been asked to please not continue wasting their time and also eat more liver, thank you.

I wish I could blame my deathly pallor on anemia, too, but I think I have to chalk that up to genetics and a disinclination to use self-tanner. They say the average adult has nine years worth of B12 stored in the liver, but I’m pretty sure mine has about three hours’ worth on a good day. The upside to this is that, unlike many people who approach steak with a fearful lust born of the knowledge that their cholesterol levels are about to soar, I consider it a gift to my weak-ass hemoglobin.

Sure, there’s iron in green vegetables, beans, dried fruit, almonds, seaweed, etc. All of which I also enjoy. But there’s something to be said for just sinking your teeth into another animal and being all, “that’s right, bitch, I AM at the top of the food chain”. On the other hand, many of my most treasured food treats (tea, chocolate, red wine) interfere with the absorption of iron, but am I going to avoid them just to increase the amount of oxygen that my stupid, needy muscles get? HELL NO.

In other news, I am seeing and for dinner tonight (more meat?) and to get their keys so that I can sit on their cats while they’re away this week. Also, tomorrow and his wife are in town, and I can’t wait to give them both tremendously big hugs and kisses. Yay!