Arrr, mateys

Today, I went to the swanky-ish place where David gets his glasses, in order to have my eyes examined. It's time for new glasses - my old ones are battle-weary. What's odd is, if you look at the lens coating, it seems to have worn away in a pattern that looks like two flaming circles. I'm attributing this to my heat-ray vision.

For the first time, I was thinking about getting contact lenses. I've never worn them up until now - mostly because I didn't like the idea of sticking my finger in my eye. But I thought, hey, time to try something new. The eye doctor, after dilating my pupils to the point where I looked like a Precious Moments figurine, declared that my eyelids were suffering from some redness and inflammation. I told him I occasionally got styes (gross, I know), and he said that there were probably small blockages of the ducts going on all the time, leading to the redness. But he offered a course of treatment, which I would have to undergo before I could have contacts.

I have to shampoo my eyelashes.

I can barely remember to shampoo my hair or schedule a haircut (my inattention to these things makes Kyan cry.) But now I have to add another segment to my daily regimen, brief as it is. This involves cranking up the water temperature, aiming the shower at my (closed) eyes, lathering up some baby shampoo, and massaging it into my eyelashes. Also, the doctor added, I could massage my lower lids, to "express anything that might be blocked."

Oh, great.

Still, if this can avoid any future styes, I am all for it. If you've never had one, count yourself lucky. I had never had one my entire life, until I was working for BoozeAnne. On the weekends, I was playing second keyboard for a production of The Pirates of Penzance in a theater out on Long Island - the guy I was dating at the time was the music director. The air in the theater was full of dust and grit; that, coupled with the intense stress I was under from working for BoozeAnne, brought on my first-ever stye.

But, since I'd never had one before, I didn't know what it was, or how to treat it (warm compresses and ibuprofen.) It got worse and worse, until I looked like the Phantom of the Opera, with a grossly swollen eyelid.

BoozeAnne was supportive. "Ha, ha. You look so stupid. And weird!" Then she'd go back to her beer.

Little did she know that I was already planning to jump ship. Over the last few weeks, I had been pursued by CrazyCo Hellkins, a corporate identity firm. Many of the executives there had come from International BrandCorp, where I had been an industrious assistant to the creative director and several design directors. The creative director had a reputation for being difficult and eccentric, but I had always enjoyed working for him. He was a Venezuelan of German extraction. He wore a cape. You get the picture. Anyway, he put the word out that I should be recruited for the new firm, no matter what it took. Little did they know that I was dying to get away from BoozeAnne and our No Exit-like office.

After being wooed at a few clandestine lunches by another of the executives (with whom I had once had a brief affair - but that's a story for later), I was going in for an interview at the Rockefeller Center offices of CrazyCo Hellkins. There was only one problem: my reddened eyelid was the size of a golfball. So, I did the natural thing.

I bought an eyepatch. Like a pirate.

When I went in for my interview, I imagined that I looked like the Man in the Hathaway Shirt. Instead of, you know, just another guy in an eyepatch. I could tell everyone was curious, but they were all too polite to ask.

"Can you tell us something about your management style ... and, oh, are you missing an eyeball?"

I think I did joke about it - "I learned my lesson, don't run with scissors!" - but otherwise, I made no reference to it. The interview seemed to go well. I wanted to throw in an occasional "Yo, ho, me hearties," but didn't.

I stopped in at the Sort-Of-Urgent care center that was near BoozeAnne's office. The very nice Indian doctor explained to me what a stye was and how to get rid of it. "Oh my goodness. It is so simple. A warm washcloth and many Advil. My heavens. Look at the size of it. What a pity."

I got the new job, and fled BoozeAnne's office, leaving a me-shaped hole in the door like Wile E. Coyote. When I turned up at CrazyCo, I once again had the use of both eyes, and never brought up the eyepatch. I kept it for a while, just in case I felt like a pirate.

I'm off to shampoo my lashes. Yo ho ho.