Fancy New Kinsley

On breakfast plans...

2011-12-24T20:20:00.001-08:00

Dad: Is Jessie making her cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning again?
Jenna: Well you made yourself sick off of them last year so do you really want them?
Dad: Damn straight I do.

On gifts...

2011-02-14T09:08:00.001-08:00

Jenna: Santa gave me a zit for Christmas.

Son of a Beach. Now, with extra gross!

2010-04-22T18:51:00.000-07:00

Moo and I went for a walk today and ended up at the beach, because yesterday when I was walking on our usual path I think I heard a gunshot. Maybe. It was loud. In any case it was loud and foreboding and my mind went places and saw things and holy crap, Moo, what say we turn around and cut this walk a little short? So I found a new route which, yes, technically goes as far north as I was walking yesterday but is on the other side of the highway and a park and therefore safer somehow? But no gunshots or other loud noises today, so maybe all the hooligans were using silencers today. But based on my extensive tv knowledge of guns, silencers still make a pshhht sound, and I didn't hear anything like that. So, safe.

But remember how I was talking about the beach? Technically I don't think dogs are allowed on the people beach, but since it's April and 46 degrees and other people were doing it, that made it okay. I let Moo off her leash and we walked towards the water, one of us realizing that sneakers are not the best sand footwear and the other of us maniacally chasing after seagull shadows. We investigated the water (cold, alternately scary then interesting then scary then interesting), a golden retriever (only interested in stealing our tennis ball) and a dead fish (dried out, its final resting place a bed of wood chips and its own intestines).

I am boss of this beach. Fear my big, puffy

body and my leetle tiny wet paws.

We played fetch for a while and chased more seagulls. She's really improving; I only had to yell, "Moo! MOO! LEAVE IT! MOO! GET BACK HERE!" two or three times before she'd come tearing back. Thank you, puppy classes.

Yeah, yeah. Hang on. I found some tracks.

Moo is very fond of her tennis ball. Fond bordering on obsessive. I bought a Chuckit! because it looked fun and also because I am a terrible, terrible thrower. Throwist. Person who throws. I'm not a good one. As soon as the ball is in the launcher, Moo is rapt. On the return trip, though, she's a little more lax, so I get distracted. I was staring at the water or texting or something. Moo frequently drops the ball to sniff around or tear the hell out of tissues she finds on the ground, which I find to be one of her more distasteful habits. Not the most distasteful, however. She has a new most distasteful habit because when I looked up from whatever I was distracted by, I saw her rolling - with gusto - on the dead fish. The world slowed. "NoOOOOoooOOO!" I waved my arms and ran at her, stopping her mid-dive. "LEAVE IT! LEAVE!!! IT!!!!!" But it was too late. What I had thought was a dried husk of a fish was actually a dried husk of fish filled, Gusher-style, with rotting, pinkish fish goo. Moo's exuberant rolls had caused this foul liquid to ooze out of some weak point in the fish's anatomy - somewhere near where the intestines had been torn out, if I had to guess. And she had been rolling in it.

All the pillowed beds in the world are apparently not as

appealing as this rotting, stinking carcass.

She stared up at me, smiling her idiotic puppy smile and wagging her sandy tail, as if to say, "Look! Look what I found? Isn't this GREAT? All this time we were playing with a ball and THIS was here!" Damage assessment: dirty and wet paws, belly tangled with a variety of dried beach fauna, and oh, yes, reeking smears of pinkish death goo on her otherwise white back.

Fan. Tastic.

Panic mode. I am miles from home. I have a goo-smeared dog and a four foot leash. Assets? I am on a beach, surrounded by water. Unfortunately it's too cold and gross to wade in, dunk the dog and rinse the fish goo back to its natural habitat. Also, I remember when I was at Valpo and we'd go to the Dunes and the water would be closed because it was contaminated. So, that's out. But, hey, we're on a beach! There's showers on the beach so people can wash the sand and guts off of themselves before they leave for home. We headed back inland, playing fetch all the way. As she ran, the goo-smeared fur flopped wetly back and forth. Disgusting, but not as disgusting as how she smelled when I had to get closer to hook her leash on her collar. Like... the diapers of a monkey that is fed exclusively on a diet supplied by Starkist. Please let the showers be on. I don't want to bring this mess home. I tapped the touch plate to turn on the foot spray. Nothing. Tapped on the shower plate. Nothing. I tapped on every damn plate on that shower pole. Nothing, nothing, nothing, all while Moo sniffed around looking for more dead flesh to roll in. Drinking fountains! Shut up, I was desperate. That's the kind of stuff you should imagine happens in drinking fountains anyway, as they are gross. They're also not on in April, dammit.

I had resigned myself to walking home with stink-dog when I saw a bathroom building. Oh yes, this is happening. The whole place smelled like pee, which honestly was a welcome change from the pink ooze. I scooped up the dog and put her in... well, on the sink.

OM taught me to be resourceful.

Yeah, they were a little shallow. And small. And that one on the left may have been the source of the pee smell. Whatever. This had to happen. Using the push-and-get-two-seconds-of-water faucets, I splashed her with ice cold water, then grabbed a paper towel and a few hundred pumps of hand soap and went for it. I scrubbed til it was no longer pink then went back to splashing water on the offending area. Then I put her on the floor, washed my own hands and continued our walk. A full bath would happen, but this would do for now.

Moo, your ass looks huge.

She got significantly fewer compliments on the way home, but we made it. And then it was turbo bath time, with three shampooings.

Unclean! Unclean!

*And oh holy shit, I was just looking at the pictures again thinking about adding some writing and realized that the fish? That looked so dry and fishy? WAS ACTUALLY A DEAD RAT. The intestines were its tail. Oh, God. This dog sleeps in my BED. I have to rethink our entire relationship. And also go throw up. Forever.

**It was rat goo, you guys. Rat goo. (whimper.)

Some things that have been falling out of my dog's face lately

2009-11-07T21:12:00.003-08:00

More Spidermobile

2009-11-06T20:36:00.000-08:00

So where did we leave off? Ah yes, the spider in the purse. A few days passed, and the spider was forgotten. I don't know what ended up happening to the purse. I drove back to Chicago thinking there was just three of us in the car. It wasn't until a week later when I was driving somewhere - the trauma of the experience has erased my destination from my mind - that it revealed itself. Hanging onto the ceiling by the shotgun oh shit handle. Jackass. And of course, once I noticed it I was totally able to focus completely on driving and not watching that little asshole to make sure it wasn't going to launch an attack on my face. It could happen.

Everything was fine until it started crawling along sunroof towards the backseat. "Oh, hell no." I thought and grabbed the only smoosh weapon I had on hand: a granola bar wrapper. I went to smoosh and missed. On my second attempt, the little bastard fell between the seats. Great. Now I knew there was a spider in the car but couldn't see it, and it was most likely angry since I had tried to smoosh him with a granola bar wrapper. Fantastic. Abandoning my car on the side of the road seemed a very real and appealing option at this point.

Spider has made one more appearance since, in the dark on Halloween night. Fell on a friend, which is appropriate for the holiday I guess but still awful. He may be dead now, but I have no proof. I won't feel safe in there again until I see his crispy, dead body. Until then, have you any idea how many spider-sized holes and crevices are in your average Corolla? A LOT. I know this because I now notice them all. Small holes in the console, seams in the light above my head, the entire damn lining of the sunroof... the little bastard has so many options he could live in a new home every day.

My plan now is to carry a dustbuster to the car each time I use it, only entering after I ensure that the ceiling doesn't harbor any hitchhikers. Ugh, this whole post is just making me paranoid about spiders - I just thought I saw one on the wall behind my screen. Otherwise I guess it will starve to death eventually but I don't know exactly how long that will take. Anyone have any data on spider starvation? I removed the granola bar wrapper and all its invisible spider-sized nutrients if that helps your calculations. The only other food in there is another granola bar that expired in 2007. Good friggin' luck, Spider. Your days are numbered.

Birth of Spidermobile

2009-11-05T22:14:00.000-08:00

There is a spider loose in my car. I know this, because when I was driving with one of my sisters, she suddenly spazzed out and screeched "SPIDER!!!!" while flapping her arms and slapping at herself. You're an elegant lady, Jenna. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Anyway, I managed to keep the car on the road as she threw her purse to the floor. "It's in my purse. No, no. It's in there. It was on my neck and now it's in my purse." I saw this as moderate containment of the spider situation; she saw it as the complete and utter ruin of her purse and all the items it contained. Potato, potatoh.

"Well how big was it?" I asked. I have a very specific formula I use to calculate how much I hate/respect/fear spiders. Size factors very heavily into this formula as do hairiness, leg thickness, color and whether or not I have just walked into its web. Ugh. It's a pretty simple formula to use, as no matter what you input the answer is always 100% of possible spider hatred. Still, it's good to know one's enemy.

"I don't know."
"Well, it was on your neck, you have to have some idea. Dime? Fingernail? Quarter? WAS IT QUARTER SIZED?!?"
"I don't know! It was smaller than a tarantula."
"Okay, well thank you for narrowing it down."

Jenna spent the rest of the drive staring fearfully at her purse while I spent the rest of the drive looking for skittery movement out of my peripheral vision. Once we hit the driveway, she leapt from the car holding her purse at arm's length. She then found a clear spot and then dumped out the bag and began kicking through her belongings. When an item was found to be spider-free, it was transferred to her jacket pocket. My job was to hold the purse upside down, its lining all barfed out, while watching Jenna kick epipens and tampons around the front yard. Pretty effective strategy, really. I kept an eye on the purse I was holding in case the crafty spider was hanging in it. It was at this point that I noticed that the lining was torn in several places.

"You know, Jenn- there's holes in this lining. He could have crawled in there and be setting up shop right now. He could live happily for quite some time in your purse and you'd never even know it."

"No!" she wailed. "I love that purse!"

I forget what happened next because I got bored holding the purse and went inside. The next time I saw the purse it was on the kitchen table, which in my opinion is a crappy place for a potential spider house. Jenna was planning on making my mom sew up the lining of the purse, sealing the spider within a satiny, faux-leather grave like some kind of tiny, postmodern twist on The Cask of Amontillado or however you spell it. We both assumed that the spider was in the purse.

But you know what they say happens when you assume. You end up with a damn rogue spider in your car, and do you even KNOW how many hiding places for a spider there are in your average car? Way more than in a stupid purse, that's for sure. Ugh. We'll have to get into that tomorrow.

NaBloPoMo

2009-11-04T12:16:00.000-08:00

Well according to Christine (I didn't verify this with other sources, so this may just be a trick) November is NAtional BLOg POsting MOnth. So basically an acronym with training wheels is cajoling me into writing. I'm okay with that. I'm a little late to the party, which is pretty typical, but if I feel really inspired maybe I'll backdate a few of these. Yeah, I'm not above lying. Lots has happened since I posted last, and I don't feel like doing a formal update. So... I'll give you little pieces as background is required for these daily posts and you can take them as given. Tidbit #1: I now have a puppy, her name is Moo.

She has about a billion toys, but a few are her obvious favorites, like these squeaky balls.

Alas, the squeaky balls are rapidly reaching their own individual fates. I thought I'd use this post to commemorate their passing. (Note: this might not be a good idea for a post. I can't tell. It seemed funny when I was thinking about it earlier. It's been so long since I posted that until thirty seconds ago I was writing in the HTML window thinking hmmm, when did blogger get so complicated? Maybe NaBloPoMo will be good for me. You damn kids and your HTML.)

Red Ball

They say that only the good die young, and although I have no way to measure your goodness versus other mini squeaky tennis balls, you certainly bit it first. I guess you can take that as a compliment. You accompanied us to the dog park for some fetch, an overly ambitious idea on my part for at that time Moo's idea of a "fun time" at the dog park was avoiding all dog contact and sitting on my feet. An insane Jack Russell terrier (but I repeat myself) overheard your squeaky attempts to engage Ms. Moo and extended you an invitation to play. I hesitated, as you were small and cute and I had no guarantees of this dog's retrieval abilities. Eventually, I relented and the dog proved to have impressive fetch and drop-it skills. I'm sorry. This was the beginning of the end. Your end.

A surprisingly far throw sent the terrier running, but the ball was intercepted by a boxer. A dog, not the guys who hit each other. The boxer soon realized that what he had caught was truly a prized possession, as the Jack Russell chased him to get it back and then his owner followed suit, realizing the dog had stolen a toy. Also, the ball was the perfect size to lodge in a boxer esophagus, making it that much more attractive. The chase went on for hours, or at least twenty minutes. By the time you were returned to me you were no longer the bright cheery Red I had come to know. Your time in that dog's mouth had changed you, transformed you into a matted, muddy, dented shadow of your former self. Seriously. It was friggin' gross. There was no way you were coming home with me looking like that. It was your time for you to start living your own life as a designated dog park ball. I discreetly rolled you away and headed home. Is that bad dog park etiquette? Hmm. I'm not sure, but if it is, then disregard that and know that I threw Red away like a responsible dog owner.

Either way, I never saw Red again. Hope everything worked out for you, buddy.

Green Ball

You were the next to be drafted for dog park duty. Don't thank me, thank your fluorescent color that stands out so well against the grass. I'm not sure what colors dogs see but half the time she gets distracted and I end up going to get the ball anyway. As for your fate, I'm honestly only including you because you were included in the ball family picture up there. You just kind of disappeared. I think you might be in my dog park bag but I'm too lazy to get up to look. Hey, I just said all the balls had stories. I didn't say they were all interesting.

Blue Ball

This was a walk related incident that was entirely Moo's fault, as she has no blog and cannot refute this. We were walking along the lake on those giant steps which I'm sure have a name but if they do, I don't know it. The edge looks like the top of the castles that I draw. I'm sure you have a very clear mental picture based on that terrible description, but here's a picture just in case.

I let Moo run free to drain the last of her crazy puppy energy. To facilitate this, I rolled you, Blue, and you performed admirably. In my defense, I was careful to roll you towards the step and away from the water. This strategy worked out quite well for some time until you bounced off Moo's paws and headed for the lake. Ugh. What the hell were you thinking, Blue?

At this point I'd like to say that I'm sorry if I seemed more concerned that Moo turned and bolted to follow you to the edge than the fact that you were clearly already going over. You're an $.80 toy and she's a puppy whose swimming skills are limited and certainly wouldn't be helped by a 10-foot fall into cold water. Luckily Moo stopped and we both crept to the edge to see you floating helplessly in Lake Michigan. Not even near one of those ladder things, which to be honest I totally wouldn't have used to rescue you. They look slimy.

I did have the presence of mind to say a few words on your behalf. If those words sounded a lot like me saying, "Whoops, sorry Moo! It's gone. We've got more at home" well then I can only say that you were half submerged and clearly in shock. I said some lovely things and I'm sorry if you missed them. If it makes you feel better, it took Moo a good forty-five seconds to stop looking for you in my hands. Sigh. Good-bye, Blue.

Orange Ball

Hmm, Orange... you might be under the couch. Again, I really only had stories for Red and Blue but you and Green are part of the package. Don't get all full of yourself, based on the early demises of your brethren you don't have long to live. Come to think of it, I recently I saw Moo holding you between her paws and tearing off your orange fuzz coating. So even if you do make it to old age it will likely be a patchy, balding and miserable existence. So quit it with the smugness, Orange. I don't like your attitude.

All right, that's all I got. See you tomorrow.

More Tales from Hollywood

2009-03-10T20:48:00.000-07:00

On the sidewalk in front of the Chinese Theater, a shifting cast of wannabe actors mill around dressed as movie characters. Passersby can have their pictures taken with the character of their choice, most likely for a small fee. A trick I will not be falling for again, after some stupid FAKE gladiators outside the Colosseum in Rome got me to take a picture with them and then bilked me out of whatever the lira-equivalent of five dollars is, which, yeah, five dollars but it was one picture with costumed idiots and I can’t even look at it and enjoy the memory without getting pissed and wishing I had castrated that idiot with his stupid plastic sword for tricking me. So I scoffed at the tourists partaking in these photo sessions. One woman we saw, though, took it to a whole new level.

As we were walking around, we kept seeing a reasonable facsimile of Captain Jack Sparrow foppishly running to and fro in front of the theater. With a woman following him with a camcorder. All while shouting at him to keep running. Um, what? On and on they ran, weaving through the crowds, and were quickly out of sight. An hour later, this craziness mostly forgotten, we were confronted with it again, head-on. While walking down the sidewalk, we heard the voice of the amateur director behind us.

Sparrow, in front of blue polo shirt guy; Camerawoman in red hat; Zorro, obvious.

“Keep running! Run through those girls! Run through the middle of them!” Oh, hell no. I was not going to be a part of this foolishness. I stepped to the side and glared as Captain Sparrow flounced by, carefully followed by the camerawoman. And let me tell you, a half hour of running around Los Angeles mid-day did not do anything for their aromas. Phew. Also, there had been some casting additions since the portion of the storyline we had seen earlier.

The story now also involved Zorro sauntering behind Sparrow, absently hitting on people he passed. Now, I was only seeing some chase scene segment of the movie, but I am really getting the sense that this is a movie I would not like to be forced to watch. Because you know she’s going home to splice her hours of footage together on her iMac with her collection of instrumental soundtrack MP3s, burn off some DVDs and then lure her unsuspecting friends over to force them to watch her cinematic catastrophe. Those poor fools.

Someone please tell Zorro that he has to be IN FRONT of the camera to be in the movie?

I never did find out what Sparrow was running from or how Zorro factored in. Maybe she was reshooting the end of Pirates of the Caribbean: People Are Still Paying to See This Nonsense So Let’s Make a Third Movie, because that was one suck-tastically terrible ending. Seven years of single motherhood punctuated with one day of barnacle encrusted visitation rights? Bullshit. I agree: let the Z-man pick up some of the slack. Sure, he may step out on Keira Knightley’s anorexic ass for Catherine Zeta Jones every once in a while, but at least he’s bringing in some income by slashing Zs into stuff. My knowledge of Zorro comes pretty much exclusively from a trailer I saw ten years ago, but I think that’s a pretty accurate assessment of his persona. But for serious, the end of that Pirates movie sucked hard. They should have had the whole trilogy end and then cut away to Robin and Spongebob discussing the ethics of piracy. That would have been more satisfying ending. Or, I just had this picture I wanted to use again because it cracks me up.

Robin and Spongebob offer unique perspectives on piracy. Unfortunately, no one listens.

To whom it may concern: If you are secretly in love with Jack Sparrow, Zorro, Keira Knightley, Catherine Zeta Jones, gladiators, barnacles, Robin or Spongebob and feel that I have slighted them, been flippant with their good names or offended you, please know that I don’t care. Please also know that these people are fictional, not people at all and/or not interested in you. K thanks bye.

Mysteries from the Past

2009-03-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

At one point, I knew what everything on this list meant. I wrote down each word for a reason and then carefully tucked it away in a hidden pocket of an old wallet, where I found it this past weekend.

Alcohol transform slutty… rapping. It’s just cryptic enough to sound vaguely profound. Like something that would be needle pointed on a pillow in the sitting room of a drug-addled poet to curb his homicidal tendencies. Or encourage them. I’m not sure.

And then there’s the question of the Target shopping list. C sub 1 W sub 1? I’ve been thinking about this since I found the note, and… apparently I needed to purchase a Star Wars robot. I don’t have any robots, so I must never have made it to Target.

PS - YOU'RE WELCOME for the free advertising, Bonar Group.

I'm Not a Genetic Counselor, But I Play One On TV

2009-02-08T20:28:00.000-08:00

Until last fall, I had never been west of the Eastern half of Minnesota. That’s no longer true: Fancy New Kinsley went to Los Angeles for a (grumble) educational conference (grumble) week! No clinic (true), no homework (false); nothing but fun in the sun (false, false, false). The trip got off to an inauspicious start, as most of my better trips do. Three of us hitched a ride to the airport with my dad, who was in town for a meeting and also to take the cat back home for a week so I wouldn’t come home to find her shriveled up on my windowsill… like my crispy flowers. We went to the check-in counter to claim our tickets and see just how much I had overpacked. Answer: not enough to have to pay a fee. Win. The friendly SWA agent printed my ticket and asked for my ID, a security measure I usually appreciate. “Uh-oh,” she agent said. Oh, this is going to lead somewhere good. “Your license is expired.” Okay, but my name and picture haven’t. I’m not asking to drive the plane, so what’s the problem? Unfortunately I don’t carry my passport with me, though I should in case I need to flee the country if a spy who looks like Matt Damon needs my immediate assistance. Although how long do passports last? That might be expired too. Anyway, as it turns out, what we do now is red-stamp and write all over my boarding pass and tell me I’ll have to go to “special” security. Whatever. As long as I get on the plane, I don’t care. Dad’s already gone, there’s really nothing else I can do. And so it was on to our gate, special boarding pass in hand.

I was separated (we got sTHeparated! Ha! Does Tara even read this? Who knows) from my travel pals fairly quickly and shuttled off from the main hallway – alone, with my head hanging in shame. I lost sight of the rest of the airport while walking down a hall into a walled-off area of the terminal. It was horribly traumatic and we’ll have to leave it at that because I was forced to sign a non-disclosure document about my brief, nightmarish experience.

Just kidding, they were totally nice. I had to put my bags in trays and the first guard told me that actually, since my license has been expired less than a year the airport didn’t have a problem with it but the SWA people are persnickety little bitches and they call shenanigans after two months, which may or may not be against the rules. And for the record, my license had been expired for four months at that point, because who the hell ever looks at the expiration date of their license? Well, me, now. The guard put my cell phone in a bin and asked what sounded like “Have you ever been to the Buffra?” I believe “Uh, no? I don’t know what you’re talking about?” was my clever reply. “Have-you-ever-been-to-the-Puffer?” he enunciated. “Oh. No.” Apparently this is new. It’s an arch that you stand under, and jets of air are blown at you, and you wait there while a computer sniffs you and decides whether or not you smell like terrorism. After a tense moment, the green light went on and I was free to go, most likely because I had neglected to put on my Victoria’s Secret purple whore spray that morning. The spray is purple, not the whores. My shoes were returned to me, and I put them on while watching the mild violation of my bags. The process was pretty interesting, mostly because I knew I had nothing to worry about. That they could find! I’m kidding. Or am I?! I am. The only possible contraband would be the crochet hook I’d brought; even then, seriously? Terrorism and handicrafts hardly go hand in hand. They wiped my electronics and the insides of my bags with filter paper and took them to a machine that would decide my fate. A few beeps and boops later I was allowed to go free. As it turned out, I made it through my “special” security before my friends. Huzzah! We hit the food court (where they were performing flu shots. Huh? Exactly) and then went to our gate. The flight was long but uneventful; I didn’t have to sit next to a crazy alien believer, so what’s the point of writing about it? I got a window seat because I am a child. I saw mountains and deserts and clouds, and when we landed it was warm with a 100% chance of palm trees. The internets helped us find somewhere to eat, and then the night was pretty much over.

The upholstered expanse of central Nevada.

The next day I woke up absurdly early thanks to the two hour time difference. I’m talking 5 a.m. no problem. It was not natural. Conference stuff didn’t start until four, so we decided to head to Hollywood to be tourists for a while. We were dropped off by our weird and possibly dishonest cabbie in front of the Kodak Theater, where popular award shows are apparently held. As soon as we got out of the car we were standing on the Walk of Stars… right on Britney Spears’ star, essentially guaranteeing I’d have her music stuck in my head for the rest of the day. I’d pretend to complain but if you read this you probably know me and the lie that would be.

First on the list of stuff to do was Coffee Bean, because Kelli was dancing around and composing ballads about their coffee, having been in CA for nearly 20 hours and not having been to one yet. We sipped our drinks through the famous (á la TMZ) purple straws, with me getting an ice cream headache with every sip. I think my drink was freezing the short-term memory center of my brain, thus explaining why I’d continue to chug a drink that was clearly causing me pain. In true tourist style, we walked around with our heads down, reading the ground.

She's a man, baby. XY.

We passed Grauman’s Chinese Theater, also famous for hosting things. Probably some award show. Chinese Oscars? Who knows. We saw a giant TomCruiseOlogy center, took some very original and hilarious pictures and then walked quickly and silently past so they wouldn’t leap out and grab us to extract our alien souls and then marinate our brains in crazy juice, as is my understanding of the organization. After that we entered a rather sketchy area. We could see glimpses of the Hollywood sign between buildings, but the buildings themselves were definitely not hosting any red carpet events, unless you count “hosting” a Halloween costume sale by putting turboslut costumes on mannequins with THE biggest boobs I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think that counts as an event when that’s what you do all year long.

Buy, lease, or dump a body.

I also saw a store that sold pimp suits. I got a picture, but due to some Designer Protection Integrity Technology®, the pimp suits were invisible behind a large glare.

The fabrics are lovely. For smackin' a bitch up!

We turned back when the sketch factor got too high, and also when the stars on the sidewalk started repeating. Alfred Hitchcock has two? I admit I enjoy the man’s work but come on. Is one star for his shadow?

When we returned to civilization, we went to Highland Center to get some pictures of the Hollywood sign that didn’t have an abandoned construction/murder lot in front of them.

From our lofty tourist perch we surveyed the eateries available to us, settling on a nearby California Pizza Kitchen seeing as we were a) in California and b) being stupid tourists. It was going well until a “grave error” was made with one of our orders Mer had to wait approximately ten years to get her food. Our waiter, Alphabeta Kentucky (not his real last name, but okay fine it was another state south of the Mason-Dixon line that rhymes with Bennessee, I shit you not) told us our drinks would be comped. Woo! Should have ordered more than just an iced tea. This is a good general rule I will be implementing.

After lunch we had time for Grauman’s Chinese Theater. I’m not really sure what the purpose of this place is. What goes on inside? Why is it Chinese? Does Grauman have a variety of ethnic theaters in his possession? All of these questions have no clear answers, unless of course you Google them, but I’d rather leave it with its shroud of mysteriousness.

Another mystery: why does Samuel L Jackson write like a girl?

We walked around and compared our feet to the freakishly tiny feet of the stars of yesteryear. Seriously – Judy Garland may have had something wrong with her.

TCBFS affects tens of people a year. Please, won't you help?

Foot binding, tiny creepy baby foot syndrome (TCBFS), something was going on. I realize I’m tall (thanks to random guys in hospital basement hallways) and therefore have larger than average feet. But I don’t know how she was teetering around on those little nubs. One entire foot could have gotten caught in a chink between the bricks of the yellow brick road. Especially where the road fell into disrepair in the ghetto of Oz. Wait, was there a part like that? Maybe that was in ‘Return to Oz.” Ever see that? It is cracked OUT. The fact that I saw the movie while on codeine for my tonsillectomy (and then, of course, recreationally) may affect my memories of this cinematic surprisingly-not-straight-to-VHS gem. Talking couches, heads in cabinets, a rolling Nothing taking over the land (actually this may be from the Never Ending Story). What is up with movies from my youth? Speaking of tangents, what the hell was I talking about before? Oh, right. Tiny midget feet. Freaks! The fortune teller was roaming around here now, claiming to everyone that she had some good news for them if only they’d pay her for a reading. I couldn’t spend my money on her, though. I had to buy some postcards because I am a very good sister and friend so we went to Hip Hop Hollywood, and awesomely trashy souvenir shop. I carefully picked out cards for each person and if you are reading this and didn’t receive one, it must have gotten lost in the mail. Damn you, USPS! While we were browsing the other fine merchandise, we noticed a commotion outside: a bunch of people standing in front of a semi-circle of photographers. Things are happening...

We somehow figured out that a star was being unveiled. But whose star was it?! I SUCK at identifying celebrities, so I was staring at the crowd desperately trying to recognize someone when two of us come leaping through the store, whisper-shouting for me to get my camera (get? Please, it’d been in my hand since we got out of the cab that morning). Who had just arrived via gleaming white Dodge Caravan but Doogie. Freakin’. Howser. The Doog.

(Related but uninteresting fact: I did not watch Doogie Howser. The only episode I ever saw was one where his weird friend had to deliver their teacher’s baby in an elevator.) Was it his star? Were we waiting for the Doog? I didn’t see one for him during the walk, could today be his day? Hmm. He hung back playing it cool while I pretended I wasn’t taking his picture. No one congratulated him. I was still scanning the crowd to see if any faces looked familiar… nope. Then suddenly a giant emerged from the crowd. That nose! That gross Weird Al-esque hair! Those tiny Scrooge mini-glasses! We have it, folks. My first independent celebrity sighting. Penn Gillette. Towering over the unmagical masses

Funny story, even though it should have been obvious to look for sidekick Teller next, I didn’t. In fact, I didn’t even know he was there until I read a story about the event, and then noticed that he was even in the pictures I had taken.

Whoops. I see you now, Teller!

But the question remains: why was this unlikely duo being photographed mid-day? Who do they have in common? In the absence of any real answers, I kept taking pictures and speculating wildly. I love the lack of photographic responsibility afforded by digital cameras. Somehow, possibly by sneaking through the wall of photogs, I saw a name on the newly revealed star: Houdini. Oh, of course. Houdini. That explains Teller the Magical Giant, but Doogie? I got nothin’. A brief photo shoot later and Doogie skipped back to his Caravan and zipped away to who knows what. Probably not much if he has time to attend unveilings for long-dead magicians. Possibly the opening of a PetSmart or a Star Trek convention. You know, more logical events for him to attend. Before the crowd could disperse, we had to head back for some NSGC ice breaking newbie foolishness, effectively ending any opportunities to gawk at famous(ish) people. On our way out, the gypsy tried to peddle her crazy one last time. None of us were buying because we knew our immediate futures: ten hours a day of non-stop lectures and all the cheap plastic shit we could carry. And so until next time, I leave you with some words of wisdom on the timeliness of wearing striped sweaters.

Spongebob and Robin discuss the age old issue: sweaters vs. capes

P.S. Sorry about the formatting, it's screwed up and I don't know how to fix it and everytime I go back in I get yelled at about HTML or some nonsense and it was risking everything to come back in and make this P.S. That was the end of that sentence but you probably can't tell because of the period that is a part of the P.S. Shit, now it happened again. Do I need to put another period after that? I dunno. Sorry about the formatting.

Pepper and Ass

2009-01-21T19:12:00.000-08:00

Bought some new body wash the last time I was at the ol' Jewel-Osco... yeah, I know how to treat myself right. I decided to go for the grapefruit and lemongrass scented Dove. It's supposed to energize you, and with two 7 am tumor boards a week I need all the energy I can get. It smelled pretty good in the store. Citrusy. However, the story changed when it combined with water.

Chemical reactions of an unspeakable nature combined to create the one of the top three foulest stenches I've ever been trapped in a shower with. (Don't ask.) It was a overbearing, peppery stank. And I mean both pepper the spice and Pepper my family's dead rabbit who's been decaying underground in an HP printer box for quite some time now. Pepper and skunk. Pepper and hot wet garbage.

I thought I was clear of the stink but a few hours later while sitting at the computer in clinic, I caught a whiff of it. Oh, God no. It was lingering and combining with my perfume to give me a light, delicate aura of peppered ass. Not to say that my perfume smells of ass. It was some chemical reaction or something. I can't explain it. Science.

It seemed to come and go all day, so I avoided getting close to anyone lest they begin to question my personal hygiene. After all, it was bathing that got me into this mess. I had to go back to Jewel-Osco tonight so I bought new body wash: swirly blue with an ocean-fresh scent. Until the water hits it, anyway. Hopefully I smell better tomorrow.

Who loves computers?

2009-01-11T14:31:00.001-08:00

I don't.

Recruiting

2008-12-03T07:02:00.001-08:00

Besides bleeding profusely, another part of this rotation is observing research coordinators recruit participants for a study at Northwestern. Crazies abound.

Recruiter: Okay, and then you sign here.
Man: Do you mind if I use my pen? It's a fountain pen. It's one of the last vestiges of my bourgeois lifestyle.

Recruiter: (explains the DNA bank)
Woman: I saw a movie on that once! They abducted women and kept them in pods underwater and took their DNA and cloned them! Are you doing cloning?!

Recruiter: Have you ever lived within five miles of a power plant?
Woman: One time I had rats in my house.

Recruiter: Have you ever been exposed to any of these chemicals more than the average person?
Woman: No...
Recruiter: Okay, then-
Woman: One time I was exposed to cat urine.
Recruiter: Oh, uh, that's not really on our list, so-
Woman: I think there should be information on long-term exposures and short-term, substantial exposures.
Me, thinking: How the hell much cat urine are we talking here?
Recruiter: Well, if cat urine was an exposure we'd have a lot more sick people in the hospital!
Woman: Oh, yeah! I work with toxic chemicals.
Recruiter: Okay, what kind?
Woman: Paints. And cadmium.

Blood Type: F-

2008-11-23T19:08:00.000-08:00

I'm in a rotation at school that's all about research and laboratory genetics. Fascinating. Mostly it consists of sitting in a tiny, freezing yellow break room trying to maintain my body temperature and waiting for lab people to come get me so I can watch them do things that require gloves, bodily fluids and expensive machinery. The internet cuts out whenever someone uses the microwave, maintenance people fly by the doors on strange indoor cars and Chinese lab techs slurp disgusting entrees while reading websites that look like pop-up ads. I'm learning a lot.

Anyway, as a part of this rotation we get to have our own chromosomes done, something that I am inordinately excited about. In order to do this, we obviously have to give a blood sample. I'm the last person in this rotation, so I've watched as my classmates take their empty tubes to parts unknown and then some time later, return with their very own karyotypes. Thanksgiving is sort of hosing up my whole rotation, so I've been working on getting my stuff done around the break. I asked around about getting my blood drawn, and all points seemed to indicate that I should get it done at University of Chicago, where my rotation is. I headed to the campus last Friday and told my supervisor that I was interested in getting my blood drawn. She told me that the last time the nurse came down to draw someone's blood (to the basement, of course, because where else would a genetics laboratory be?) she got in trouble because it wasn't really her job. My supervisor told me she'd see if anyone was around who could do it and left. I began the futile search for a wifi connection to pass the time. A little while later, supervisor came back followed by a lab tech.

"Lisa, Anthony can draw your blood. He used to draw blood as part of a research protocol, so he said he'd be fine doing it." Anthony walked over to me.

"Can I see your arms?" I proffered my elbowpits for his inspection. "Hmmm. You have really tiny veins."

"Yeah, I know."

"Well... I think I can do it." Think? Real great. Yes, please stick pointy things in my arm as long as you think you can do it.

"If you're really going to do this," I said, "I want to hear some confidence."

"I can do it." All right. I want these chromosomes, we'll just get it over with today and then I'll be on my way to a shiny copy of my genetic material. We agreed to meet after the lab meeting, and he went off to become more confident. I began chugging water to encourage my veins to swell.

After the seemingly eternal lab meeting, I met Anthony in the molecular lab. He had an armful of blood-letting paraphernalia, including but not limited to butterfly needles, tourniquets, tubes, tubing, alcohol and band aids. They put down an absorbent pad to hold all of this and I sat down. Anthony enlisted another woman in the lab to hold the blood tube and depress the plunger-thing when the blood started coming out, and we began. I looked away, not interested in the details of this process. I was perched on a lab stool and didn't feel like fainting onto the lab floor from such a height. I focused on anything else while things were happening to my arm. Anthony declared that the needle was going in, and I braced myself for... nothing, really. It didn't hurt at all. I didn't hear any calls of triumph for quite some time. And then:

"Uh... oh. I think I went through the artery. I didn't get it."

Hmmm. You'd think I would have felt that. I felt him pull away and turned my head to see what was going on. What was going on was that a river of blood was pouring down my arm, all over the absorbent pad, dripping down off of my shoe and puddling on the floor. Oh. That's not what we set out to do.

Anthony began a non-stop stream of apologies while pressing gauze into the bend of my arm. "I am so, so sorry. Are you okay? I am so so sorry."

And honestly, it still didn't hurt at all. If I hadn't looked over, I would not have known that I was exsanguinating. Quite a surprise, really. Luckily I excel at clotting and the source quickly dried up. Anthony cleaned up the microcosmic murder scene while I cringed at the large purple welt on my arm. Sonofabitch.

So that was an utter failure. No blood. Well, plenty of blood, but none in the tube. But still, nothing had hurt so far, so that was good.

"Do you want me to try again?"

Well that was certainly a question. I weighed my options and decided to go for it. I can't truly explain why, looking back on it. I wanted it done, I wanted my chromosomes, I didn't want to have bled all over the floor for nothing. I nodded slowly.

"One more try." He found a suitable spot and prepared to try again. The tube was set, I looked away. And this one hurt. I could feel everything and it was not good. He tried in vein (see what I did there?) for a few seconds and then gave up. No blood for the tube. More apologies and some thanks for trying and I left, feeling oddly like a failure.

For the rest of the day, every time I saw Anthony he apologized. I think I have a cookie bouquet coming my way. But honestly, most of it didn't hurt. The only (ha: only) reminder I have is an alarmingly large, reddish-purple bruise that isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

And I still have to find someone to draw my blood.

Fail.

This just happened.

2008-11-07T13:21:00.000-08:00

Cast
Me, walking down the hall.
Some guy, walking behind me.

Some guy: Girl, you TALL!
Me: Huh? Yeah, I guess.
Some guy: What are you, like six feet?
Me? Nope. 5'9".
Some guy: TALL.

End scene.

CPS from NSGC in LA

2008-10-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

Back from NSGC with fun LA stories and tons of cheap plastic crap. Family, don't look to closely at this picture. Some of it is gifts. The, uh, higher quality crap. :) Promise.

I'll write again soon, but right now I'm just too tired. So, so, so, frickin' frackin' tired.

Elusive Creatures...

2008-10-09T12:00:00.000-07:00

I discovered over vacation that my camera has a time-lapse video function. The other day I got a memo under my door that window washers were going to be working on my building. This video is the inevitable result of these two events.

I know the music's kind of cliched but I couldn't think of a song about window washers besides Barenaked Ladies' 'When I Fall' and that was kind of slow and depressing. Any better ideas?

Sigh.

2008-09-28T20:36:00.001-07:00

Making New Friends

2008-09-23T08:49:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had to leave a session to make a phone call. I do that on a fairly regular basis, when the session is a bit boring or to call my friends to brag about the rarity of the condition my patient has. This time, I ducked into an exam room to call a lab to check the cost of a test. I was transferred from the lab to the billing department and put on hold, and during the transfer I heard what might have been a bizarre, strangled scream. I have no more information about that nor does it lead to anything else later in the story; it just weirded me out.

I waited for an indeterminate amount of time. Bored, I looked to my surroundings for entertainment. Sitting on the desk in front of me was a stack of two Tupperware containers. The top one appeared to contain a clump of hair submerged in a bit of water. "Well that's werid," I thought, absently picking up the container. "Who cleans out their shower comb and saves it for the doctor?"

I checked the label. "[Patient's name]'s pin worms with eggs attached. Keep in water." Oh. Holy. Jebus. Picture me, sitting in an exam room on the phone, stuck on hold with a lab and a handful of presumably still living parasitic intestinal worms. "Quick" is an understatement describing the speed with which I set that Tupperware down. The one beneath the original nightmare contained what at first glance, still in my parasite-crazed mind, appeared to be folds of infested intestinal tissue. I soon realized that it was actually paper towels. Shut up, I was bracing myself for the worst. This one was just some pinworm eggs from the same patient. Just some parasite eggs.

Holy crap, who is this chick?! Where is she?! Did she sit in this chair?! Okay, done. Put the phone down, holding or not, and went to wash my hands. Up to the elbows. Several times. By the time I got back to the phone it was making a weird beeping noise, so I hung up and called back, only to be put back on hold. Very good phone system they have down at Baylor. At this point, the infectious disease doctor popped in to the room.

"Are you hanging out with my worms?" he asked, grabbing the disgusting containers.

"Yeah, then I had to wash my hands," I replied, then realizing that information was totally unnecessary, that now this doctor knew I was touching the worm containers, freaking out about touching the worm containers and worrying that worms could transmit their eggs through plastic to my skin. He didn't need to know that.

Broken.

2008-09-15T14:40:00.000-07:00

Here is an amazing list of the things that I own that have broken recently.

1. My DVD player's sound amplifies the music and sound effects and minimizes the dialogue. This happened a while ago actually but I recently got Netflix so it's come up again.

2. Driving back to Chicago I realized a little door on the dashboard of my car won't stay closed. Some stupid plastic part of the hinge is broken. The corner of it digs right into my knee while I drive. It's great.

3. Got new headphones in the mail courtesy of a lifetime warranty! Whee! One of the earbuds exploded the other day (less than a month after receiving them) and I am now forced to half-listen to idiots on the bus and train. Thanks a pantload, Koss.

4. Took my necklace off today and the chain broke. Wonderful.

5. Had an allergic reaction to something on my legs that resulted in some extremely broken skin. Yeah, that's probably reaching. But it was AWFUL. Itching to the point where my legs were twitching involuntarily, it hurt to touch and my only option for sleeping was pounding a few Benadryl. Wow, when I put it it like that maybe I should have sought medical attention. Eh, it's clearing up now.

6. Laptop. This one's painful. The screen had been pink for a while, but thanks to the store I bought it from going out of business, my warranty couldn't be extended like I had planned. I put up with the pink for about four months (after a while you don't even notice it, I swear! Just don't put it near anything that's actually white) and then one morning the poor little guy flickered and went black. If I shined a flashlight on the screen I can see the icons, (what, this wouldn't be your first instinct?) but it's utterly unusable. Like trying to play a first generation Gameboy at night. Not gonna happen. I Frankenstein-ed it up to another monitor to extract my precious, precious data and sent it off and was hopeful. I got the call today with the estimate. $978.36. Nine hundred and seventy-eight dollars and thirty-six cents. So that's not going to happen anymore. I am no longer a mobile computer-er.

7. The cat's sinus infection is back so she's kind of broken too.

Hopefully my old computer won't explode when I hit publish. Also, I just remembered how bright and shiny and happy my last post was... Fancy New Kinsley, the Fancy New Manic Depressive.

NEXT!

2008-08-14T22:13:00.000-07:00

Hard to believe I'm on my fifth rotation. It seems like just yesterday I was fearing for my life on the 4 down to U of C. Now I'm living it up on the X9 en route to Rush Medical Center. Woo! Much improvement here.

And I just found out a formerly weekly 8 am, hour-long lecture, one of which I was supposed to give (boo!) was changed to a once a month lecture with no student presentations (yay!).

And today, on my first day of my rotation I held a 5-pound premie twin my supervisor was too scared to hold. She said that noble deed earned me an automatic A for the rotation, and I WILL be holding her to that.

Also, I don't have to come to clinic tomorrow (no patients = no me) and there's an Air and Water show all this weekend - my supervisor printed me the schedule (!) complete with a "unique night show with a dazzling pyrotechnic display and streams of sparkling light in sync with music."

Everything's coming up Lisa!

Stay tuned, I'm liable to find an immortal, maintenence-free puppy that sheds rainbows and craps Reece's Pieces the way this day is going. Woo!

I know.

2008-06-02T17:27:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in a while. I've been busy with end of the year stuff. And look at what I have to deal with at home.One cleans windows with ammonium hydroxide. The other is dermatologist-approved to cleanse sensitive facial skin. They both come in blue packages and are currently sitting on the couch together.

I'm not saying my life is fraught with danger that keeps me on my toes and ever-alert. But I'm not saying it isn't, either.

I'll post when I can. Stay safe.

Podcast Pickiness

2008-05-23T21:34:00.000-07:00

I have a strange relationship with music. One day, we're BFF. Singing, dancing... it's a great bond. Other days - most days - I can't listen to any song for more than ten seconds. Seems kind of silly for a girl like me to have an iPod, you might say. Shut up, I'll do what I want, I say in an immature reply. Enter podcasts. Talking on just about every topic under the sun, free for the downloading. I have a roster that keeps me sane on the public transportation here and I'm always trying to add new podcast friends to my playlists. To encourage me to keep posting here, I've decided to write about a podcast a week. I'll start with the ones I know I like and then perhaps venture out into new and different podcasts. Suggestions are welcome, so fellow podcast junkies, feel free to let me know who's chatting it up on your mp3 player of choice. Here we go!

Slate Explainer Podcast

In theory, this podcast is a fantastic idea; in practice, it's been a bumpy road. This podcast is a great exmaple of the importance of the narrator. I love this column on the Slate website, so when I found there was a podcast I literally squee'd with joy. (Squee: verb. To squeal girlishly, usually in conjunction with a positive emotion.) When I started listening, June Thomas was the speaker. She was all right aside from her bizarre accent. It sounded like a typical Scottish accent with the occasional word that would come flying out of her mouth and bitchslap me with the absolute ridiculousness of her pronunciation. Soon, I stopped enjoying the podcast. I began listening on edge, waiting for the next retarded word to arrive. Before long she was replaced, and her replacement made me long for the days of stupid pronunciations.

Michelle Tsai is the bane of my iPod's existence. Supposedly she's a writer for Slate, and she should stick to a medium that doesn't require me or anyone else with any hearing ability to listen to her voice. She speaks with the affected sing-song voice of a braindead Valley girl who would be booted from The Hills for being too ditzy and annoying. In Tsai-talk, every statement is a question, and every question is coquettishly overacted. I picture her flouncing into the studio to record each week and it infuriates me. Occaasionally some other guy reads the Explainer. Yeah, those are the good weeks. I was forced to give up listening to this podcast because I was going to have to feed my iPod into a wood chipper if if I heard that she was "Michelle Tsai and this is the Explainer podcast for Thursday, March thirtinkth" one more time. Thirtinkth is not a typo, it's an attempt to capture the spine-crinkling annoyingness of her voice. Thirtinkth. That's actually how she says it. Grr. Hang on, I've got to go punch something.

A few months ago, I would have only recommended this podcast to you if you had either a huge tolerance for Valley girl or a deafening love of trivia. Even then I would have pointed you to the web column instead. However, there has recently been a long-awaited changing of the guard. Other listeners must have felt the same way because Tsai has gone the way of the dodo. There's a new female narrator, which means that my boycott of the Explainer podcast is over! New girl has a minor problem with over-enunciation here and there, but for now I'm chalking that up to excitement about her new job. Time will tell, but I don't think she'll take the Tsai-path to eardrum distruction. She had better not, anyway. We saw what happened to Tsai. Well, technically I guess we didn't. But I have my theories...

Blast from the Past: First Rotation

2008-05-21T09:27:00.000-07:00

Look at this! Look at all these entries! Look at me go! Whee! Here's some embarrassingly old stuff I wrote but never typed up. Let's go back... way back to the first week of my very first rotation. February something. Let's set the stage for this situation. I live in Lakeview, north of my classes downtown. My first rotation was at the University of Chicago. A couple of inches on the map, if that. Keep that in mind.

On the first day, I caught the bus with two fellow 1st years who are on their lab rotation at U of C. According to the CTA website, the best buses to take were the #147 and the #4. Not that that probably means anything to you, but just know that it's not a problematic route... on paper. After we boarded the #4, it came to our attention that this. Bus. Is. Exceedingly. Painstakingly. Ridiculously. Slow. Like, stops every block as we descended into the ghetto. For over an hour.

We finally arrived at U of C and headed to our separate rotations. That first day I observed a few cases, met a world-renowned cancer doctor and then headed back home. Unfortunately I left a few minutes later than the other two and had to write the lovely #4 alone. Well, I wasn't alone, but trust me. I was alone. I managed to score a seat right away, turned up the tunes and tried to breathe out of my mouth. Seriously, this bus was nas-McAssty. And as I'm sitting there, trying to remember what stop I needed for my transfer, I see a lady sitting ahead of me. No, maybe it was a gentleman. I'm not sure. I'm sorry, sir/ma'am. Perhaps you should consider at least one article of gender specific clothing? Some lip gloss? I dunno. Just a thought if you want a bitchy blogger to be able to identify your gender when she writes about you without your permission on the Internet. Anyway.

(S)he was sitting in front of me in one of the side-facing seats behind the driver. I'm innocently looking forward to any point on the oh-so-distant horizon that is NOT in the ghetto when what do I see in my peripheral vision? The ambiguous individual burying his/her/its head in a tattered backpack and inhaling very deeply and loudly through his/her/its nose. I'd use the word "snorted," but that's a pretty judgement-laden word, and I have no way of verifying what substance, controlled or otherwise, was given an express ticket to his sinus cavity. The flu is going around, maybe it was some Vicks Vap-o-Rub. You know, to clear the sinuses. For when he/she/it snorted coke later. See, we just don't know and it's really not fair to judge.

He/She/It disembarked quickly at the next stop, so I guess I'll never know what it was. I'm no drug-scent expert, but I do know that I didn't smell any mentholated, sinus-clearing vapor wafting my way. Just unidentifiable repulsive body-related odors. I remained a mouth-breather until we re-entered civilization, where I promptly got off the bus at the wrong stop and had to walk many, many blocks to find a bus that would take me back home.

So yeah, I had the best "first day" story that night at happy hour.

As an apology...

2008-05-19T14:22:00.000-07:00

for not posting last week, I offer this pink building. I had a packed week, but I've got stuff to post this week. Plenty of stories.

Whoops...

2008-05-12T09:39:00.000-07:00

...maybe I just have a general problem keeping living things upright.

My Greenish Thumb

2008-05-07T09:14:00.000-07:00

This title makes me wonder if Tara still reads this and if she'll bring up The Cactus Incident. I guess we'll just have to see.

One elusive spring day (before the temperatures plunged back into the thirties and we were issued a winter storm watch) I went to Home Depot with a friend to check out paint samples for a semi-illicit painting project we've got planned. More on that later, depending on how illicit it turns out to be. Anyway, Home Depot. I friggin' love this store. The smell, the ridiculous size, the aisles and aisles of stuff I have no use but an inexplicable desire for- it's great. We headed right to paint and attempted to determine what colors of paint were most conducive to study and concentration. And also what colors were the prettiest. I have a few seasons of Trading Spaces watching under my belt so I'm essentially an expert. We grabbed samples of some possible colors (gray with purple accent walls, we are nothing if not full of school spirit) and some light bulbs for me. I tried to find a fuse for a beloved and recently incapacitated desk lamp to no avail. I demand that you care about my mundane day-to-day illumination activities.

And then, an astounding discovery - a display of water lilies that can be grown in containers! That's not even the best part! They were all labeled with the flower's expected color. I began looking through them to see what was available when what should I see but the most wonderful word possible when dealing with colors: changeable. Changeable! Changeable color flowers! Truly, we are living in the strange and glorious future with flowers that float in bowls of water and magically change color.

After purchasing an equally exciting teal hurricane vase from Target, I gathered my supplies on a garbage bag on the floor of my apartment. To begin the process, I immediately fumbled the bag the water lily came in, tumbling it end over end to the floor in a spectacular firework-esque spray of dirt and twine. Shit. Now I had a 50/50 shot of plunking this net bag in right side up. I decided the top was the side that appeared to have some sort of brainy growth beginning to sprout out of it. After all, most people have brainy cranial growths. And yes, I'm aware of the fact that plants sprout various appendages from both ends, and that the disgusting brain growth did look a lot more like roots now that I think about it, dammit, but what's done is done. It needs full sun so it steals some of Sasha's recently recovered sunny window real estate, and I keep my fingers crossed that I didn't doom my new plant friend to an upside down watery grave.

Now I've got to prepare for my weekend guest, Bailey. If you're worried about her safety based on the previous story, you need not fear. I've spent more time with fauna than I have with flora. Besides, it's much easier to tell if a Labrador Retriever is right-side-up. I'm sure we'll be fine.

Update: Hooray! I think I picked the right side! Of the plant!

What...

2008-04-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

the hell.

The Past Few Days

2008-04-15T21:37:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, my sister Laura sent me a card she made.

She should start a greeting card business, g's.

Yesterday I walked full-force into the hook on the back of a bathroom stall door. It looks kind of like I have a tattoo of a nondescript bruise on my arm and it hurts like a bitch.

Tonight I was doing the dishes, and while I was scrubbing a pot a rogue piece of broccoli leapt out of the soapy water onto the handle. For a split second I was absolutely terrified. Yeah, of broccoli. I thought it was a mutant praying mantis or something.

Ooh, and my sister's gonna have another baby! So that's exciting, although it's not like my title changes. Maybe I'll add another 'a' to the word 'aunt' for every niece or nephew my sisters pop out. Yahoo for me, I'm gonna be an aaunt!

The Creature

2008-03-11T18:08:00.000-07:00

There is a creature that lives somewhere on my floor. Close to my apartment, if my aural depth perception does not deceive me.

All I know about the creature is that it has the shriek of a squeaky dog toy being stepped on. Not very intimidating, you might say. Yeah, you're right. But it is annoying. This thing shrieks constantly. Not normal baby cries, just squeaky toy wails. Normally this isn't a problem, but if I'm trying to study in quiet, this quickly drives me insane. I have yet to lay eyes on this being, but if voice is any indication it has no mouth, only a small vent that causes air to squeal as it rushes in or out. The very thought of this malformed maw horrifies me.

Yes, I know it's probably a child. I think I woke it up one night when I slammed lettuce onto my counter to break its lettuce-neck and make a salad. And I don't care.

Having said that, it's probably some kid with a chromosome abnormality that results in this hideous vocal permutation whose parents struggle daily with the difficulty of raising an atypical child in such a cruel, unforgiving world.

Either way, it' s damn annoying.

The One-Blog Summary of Five Months Two Days Sixteen Hours Nine Minutes and Thirty Seconds

2008-02-22T17:51:00.001-08:00

I know, I know.

Kim and Denise came to visit, and then I cat-whispered Sasha into shutting the hell up. I bet Kim and Denise wish those events were switched around.

I attended supernumerary orientations, class started, and my head began to fill with trisomies, monosomies and the exquisitely worthless study of epidemiology.

I did laundry for the first time only to have some bastard steal my peach-scented dryer sheets when left alone for thirty seconds. Thirty effing seconds. So I left an angry post-it note in the hall where they were stolen (childish, yes, but it made me feel better) which I later found stuck to a single non-peach smelling (yeah, I smelled it to check) dryer sheet. Smartasses. I spent the next few days surreptitiously sniffing fellow elevator passengers for any scent of thieving bastardism - to no avail.

We started medical communications, a class where we hold fake exam sessions with fake patients. Hilarity ensued when we were encouraged to make up solutions to their problems. Heh. I miss that class for many, many reasons.

My car was cruelly and viciously and okay FINE superficially violated while innocently parked on Lake Shore Drive. Grrr.

My mom sent me new peach dryer sheets.

Classes continued: PS continued to be worthless, epi still sucked, genetic lecture series and journal club continued to be easy stretches of no work on my part, intro to genetic counseling was still ruining my otherwise free Fridays. Oh and all the while, I was doing four hours of work study a week in the neuro department, conveniently located across the street from the icebox that is Lurie.

I got a sweet parking spot in the garage. The precious is safe.

Thanksgiving. Kara had the Iraq war explained to her and her only question was about how different countries communicate with each other. Her suggestion was calling cards. Ate food, was thankful.

More classes.

Finals... ugh. Then my bus pass betrayed me briefly before deciding we could be BFF for twelve more hours - then it was entirely dead to me. I hung its carcass on my bulletin board.

After that day of mind-bending tiredness, Jenna the sister came to visit for a few days. We did some shopping, saw Wicked, did some more shopping and nearly froze to death. This last occurred on more than one occassion, one of which involved a zoo, Christmas (sorry, holiday) lights and animals that stayed out of view in their shelters and were therefore smarter than the two of us.

Christmas break. Laura had her foot removed, or a bone removed, or something, and couldn't walk all through break. We watched a lot of DVDs, so I got completely caught up on Grey's Anatomy just in time to have no new episodes thanks to the writer's strike. Dominated numerous games of Xbox 360 SceneIt. Went out to eat, hot-tubbed, slept, and generally had a great, relaxing break.

Then it was back to school, thankfully now with a puffy and furry and long new coat in an acceptable color.

More classes, blah blah blah.

Bad weather consistently being built up to epic blizzard proportions only to have the green radar masses miss me entirely, much to my eternal disappointment. We did get a preemptive snow day in anticipation of a storm that never came. Pretty great to have a mid-week day off, though.

Happy hour was reinstated, and the peasants rejoiced.

Mrs. Kim flew in for a visit instead of going to some dumb tropical destination. Good choice.

And then - rotations began, and in this time of no sleep and no free time, I was inspired to resurrect and update this blog. So that's a quick recap of my grad school experience thus far. Of course there's more, but in the interest of time and privacy (which is a DAMN shame, because I could spin some fantastic tales about certain... things) we'll have to leave it at that.

Anyway, I'm really going to try hard to update regularly, and by all means send some abuse my way if I'm slacking off. Nice abuse. Encouraging abuse. In the form of flowery prose and flowers. I've got enough stress already.

MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!

2007-09-20T04:05:00.000-07:00

Isn't it so great how vocal Siamese cats are? It's like they're having a conversation with you! They think they're people, and that's adorable. Well let me tell you: not at four in the morning, it's not adorable.

Sasha has begun a campaign of terror, and is unable or unwilling to communicate what her demands are. If she even has demands. She has food. She has water. She has me. What the hell else could a cat want? Whatever it is, she wants it at four in the morning and in her mind, the only way to get it is to walk around yowling.

I have to commend her, she was clever enough to discover that by going into the bathroom, she can treble the volume of her voice thanks to the tiled walls. Fortunately I was clever enough to begin shutting the bathroom door when I went to bed. However, my opposable thumbs will only get me so far in this war. I need to sleep at night, while she has all day to laze about, recovering from her nightly sonatas.

I've tried to think like a cat to figure out what she wants. The only thing I can figure is that she's looking for Tasha, her sister. They've never been apart for more than a week in the ten years that we've had them, and maybe she doesn't like being an only-cat. And before you start feeling sorry for her, know that to all outward appearances, they don't even like each other. Sasha beats the crap out of Tasha for sleeping on anything she has deemed as her own. For Tasha's part, the only time I see her interacting with Sasha is when she chases her around the basement, paw extended to scoop in and then gnaw on Sasha's back leg. Maybe I'm misinterpreting that, but I know my sisters and I don't bond like that. Well, not literally anyway.

I don't know what to do here. I've tried everything. That's a lie. I've tried two things: throwing pillows at where her voice is in the darkness, and scritching my fingers on the bed to entice her to jump up, curl up and (most importantly) shut up. I implore anyone with any understanding of cat psychology to help me out here... not only are classes starting soon, but I have friends coming at the end of this week and I certainly don't need her waking everyone up all night long. I'm open to any suggestions except for drugging her, but if your suggestion is really well-worded or asking my address to send me said drugs free of charge, I will totally take it under consideration. Help!

Sasha's Big Move

2007-09-16T09:39:00.000-07:00

As it turns out, when you live in a new city and don't have a job and classes haven't started yet, you have a lot of time on your hands. So judging by the torrent of academic doom-bringing emails I have been receiving from the second years, I seized what is apparently one of my last opportunities for spontaneity and went home for the weekend. Daring, I know. Laura and her cast were home so the three of us got to spend some quality time together. The whole fam also road-tripped down to Bloomington for the day to see Jenna and go to an IU game. Those who know me know my stance on football, and can approximate my feelings towards live football where the distractions that make televised games bearable are frowned upon. Highlights of the game include seeing and then trying to take a picture of my face with a Northwestern flag I saw on the top of the stadium (I know, I know, Big 10 or whatever. I'm still making all the connections) and getting a inverse-raccoon style sunburn thanks to my sunglasses.

One of the reasons I had come home was to transplant one of our cats to Chicago. I had decided to bring Sasha, because even though she has a crippling fear of the unknown, her life consists mainly of laying on the floor and watching me do stuff. It's hard for her to do that when there's 200 miles between us. My car was filled with stuff I forgot and one cat in a crate in a larger crate. I thought that'd be nice for her and me, because I wouldn't have a car filled with impossible to remove cat hair and she'd have a little freedom to move around but be unable to crawl under my seat and root herself permanently to the floorboards. I learned that lesson the hard way. However, freedom was not what Sasha wanted for this trip. As I was paying attention to the road as all good drivers do, my estimate is that she spent 98.7% of the trip like this...

... out of her bag, but wedged beneath it in a pathetic bid for some security. I'd have felt sorrier for her if she hadn't punctuated the trip with bouts of loud, plaintive meowing. I figured out that after the initial twenty minutes of meowing, she only spoke up when I did. This meant no talking on the phone and no singing, two of my favorite things to do in the car. I was down to podcasts, which I don't mind, really. I've got to keep replenishing the font of random knowledge in my head somehow and podcasts provide a easy way to do this. This trip did remind me of a joke, though. What do you call it when someone throws a cat out the window while driving on a highway? Kitty litter. Heh. Animal abuse is bad, kids. Don't throw cats out windows.

Once we made it to my apartment, I brought Catface in first and put her bag on the bed. She made no move to leave or even extract her face from the blanket to see that this wasn't, in fact, the vet's office, which is the only other place she ever goes. I made four more trips back to my car, and with each load I brought in, I checked to see what she was up to. Each time, it was this...

... with no variation. She moved a bit if I petted her, so I knew that the trip hadn't completely broken her brain. I proceeded to watch some tv and put my new stuff away so Sasha could come out when she felt comfortable. For the record, it takes over four hours for my cat to get comfortable enough to skulk out from her bag, look around furtively and then scurry under the bed. She stayed there for the next few hours, looking entirely annoyed with her new surroundings, as evinced below:

I eventually lured her out with the promise of brushing, but as soon as my attention was diverted for even a second she was back under the bed. I went about my business, making sure her necessities were out in plain sight should she choose to leave the bed. She didn't. Oh, well. Cats are resilient little things, aren't they? If they can survive falls off of buildings and trek hundreds of miles to reunite with lost families, they can adjust to moving to a rather nicely decorated and furnished apartment with a person they already know and like, right? Right?

It begins...

2007-09-09T20:44:00.000-07:00

That's right - new city, new blog. I was sick of trying to explain the old address too. Bygone in-jokes with a limited scope of recognition do not good web addresses make. Lesson learned. Incidently, anyone who recognizes where my new address comes from will get the satisfaction of knowing we have the same taste in... well, something. No hints. But a quick Google search has revealed a similarity to a certain South Park episode title and I can only assure you that's not what I'm referencing. Ugh. Move your minds along, people.

Anyway, I've moved to Chicago, because the commute to Northwestern from Indy would have been a bitch. I'm sure this will result in hijinks aplenty, and this will be a good a place as any to record them. Classes haven't started yet and I've only been here two days, and so far my adventures have consisted mainly of unpacking and putting stuff away all while watching some deliciously angsty episodes of Lois and Clark: The New Adventures of Superman on DVD. (Shut up - it was a great show when I was 13 and it's a great show now. I am so excited for the Lex Luthor body-switch/amnesia/evil heart-stealing doctor plotline that words fail me.) Moving in was epic thanks to one way streets, non-existent instructions from management and an elevator controlled by what must be some severely disgruntled and possibly mentally impaired monkeys. My dad deserves the gold medal in Cirque du Soleil-style parking garage Uhaul maneuvers. And silver and bronze, too. The last time I parked my car, I headed back towards my building, and this is a rough approximation of my internal monologue after a while of walking: "Okay, the lake is this way, so my apartment is this way. This isn't that hard. Those flowers are nice. Hey, this street looks familiar... Well look at that, a silver 'Rolla with Indiana pla... oh. Crap. Let's rethink this... where the hell is Lake Michigan?" I haven't had to drive anywhere since, but I am 98% sure I will be able to find my car again when I want to go somewhere. I'll put up some pictures when there aren't boxes and unhung pictures and unshelved books everywhere. I gotta get going now, though. Lois and Clark are undercover in a marriage counseling camp, and I have a feeling the leader is cryogenically freezing couples to repopulate the earth after some cataclysmic event. I don't want to miss it.