Dear Saint Potpourri,

The time has come to complain. I'm sorry.

I appreciate the fact that there's a scent-squirter in the women's bathroom to mask any unpleasant smells. And for the most part, it works unobtrusively.

But it seems to be my luck to walk in at about the time that it sends out a fresh blast of scent. And in a small, windowless bathroom, it is like walking into the perfume section of a department store when they are actively hawking "Remora," their new expensive gladiola-sandalwood-eau-de-gorilla musk, and being cornered by three ambitious perfume mongerers who are paid on commission.

And worse still, it aims directly over the sink, so I am constantly facing the dilemma of whether to clean my hands and risk blinding myself, not to mention subject myself to level 5 olefactory hurricanes, or whether to spread germs as far as the office's kitchen sink, and THEN kill 'em off.

All of which leads to total paranoia -- entering the bathroom and listening, trepidatiously, for that unholy "shppppppppst" sound, at which point I have less than 5 seconds before I feel my hair anointed and must return to the office smelling like a french...well...you know...woman who likes to hang out on street corners late at night.

I swear I have transcended the sins of evil scent. Saint Potpourri, I need no further anointment! I have paid my nostril pennance! I have already been baptized! Have mercy!!

PSA: demonic possession still a myth

Calm down, folks, the zombie-virus has not yet leaked from the pentagon/terrorist/monkey facility in Africa, etc., nor have the demons finally broken the human brain-wave barrier.

It's just color contacts.

For those of you unacquainted with them, color contacts appear to change the color of your pupils, and these days they do so quite masterfully -- they can have the same streaks, spots, and variations of tone that normal irises do. However, the shades themselves are still unavoidably unnatural. There are eye colors we expect to see with certain hair shades and skin tones, and then there are startling eye colors that can make someone gorgeous, and then there are color contacts, which, more often than not, speak to me of demonic possession. They aren't meant to be subtle, so the colors are turquoise rather than blue, cedar rather than brown, emerald rather than green, and in some cases, violet or gold, which you just don't see much, if at all.

I will admit, my education in color contacts comes more from sci-fi and horror movies, so I'm probably making the association based on the content of said movies...

All of this stems from an experience with one of the girls behind the jamba juice counter, who was wearing color contacts. I'm sure jamba-girl usually has lovely brown eyes, and with her contacts on, she had golden orangey streaks and flecks as well.

She was smiling and friendly, and I'm pretty sure she wanted to make jamba juice out of my brains and suck them down with a straw. And while I'm sure my brains would go well with strawberries and orange sorbet, too, I'd rather not have to contemplate this on my lunch break.

However, it was just a false warning, so I thought I'd reassure any of you who have encountered it...reassure and forewarn. (~_-)

Returned from my return

I got back yesterday (about a year ago) from a week's visit to Connecticut (wait, I don't still live there?) with a day visit to New York (about five years ago) embedded.

The time dilation was astronomical and cohesion of experience entirely subordinated. Steve and I found ourselves unable to plumb the concept of a San Franciscan domicile within about 12 hours of our arrival last Tuesday. Assimilation into Connecticut life came swiftly and cleanly -- conversing about cars, dogs known as doods, real estate, tractors, humidity, Eastover; waking up to sunlight, which, bounced off of all that humid verdure, took on a golden crystalline aspect that both energized and soothed; and then morning broke on the crowning event of the visit -- an enatic family reunion.

Said family reunion, from marinated kabobs to souvenir t-shirts to Eastover's Erik-trimmed lawns, went off completely hitch-less-ly. My mom and Mary had the clever idea to color code the t-shirts according to branch of the family, so that the Freddie Pratts (my mom and Mary's dad) all received purple, the Teddie Pratts all received red, the Tracy Pratts all received blue, and the Butlers all received green. The brilliance of this idea became clear once the t-shirts were dispersed and donned -- almost immediately the family was aware of the tendency to clump within one's "color." This led to a sense of belonging, certainly, but also made later evidence of more widely dispersed comingling a satisfying visual collage.

I realized I have awesome cousins, all within 9 years of my age, athletic, friendly, wry and quick. This would be the result of excellent breeding, no matter what everyone says about their first marriages. ;0)

The trip to NYC was brief and phantasmagoric. We caught up with old friends and walked north along Central Park West for an hour, simply taking it all in. Sponsored by Steve's parents in their upper west side apartment, we gazed at the Hudson from the 23rd floor and slowly picked out the shapes of passers-by from the frenetic beige of the buildings.

Planes lead to the staccato of experience, it is widely agreed. But I must say, the train we took to and from NYC was no more skilled in adhesion than its aviatior counterpart. Steve and I bore a swollen sense of dislocation with a stoic cry of wee-wee-wee all the way home...and I find myself at work today sorting through a disjointed collage of contentedness.

I raise a toast upon the memory of an icey bottle of Sam Adam's Summer Ale -- Here's to family!