Dive Right In

One of the hidden benefits of apartment-living dog ownership is getting up at all ungodly hours so your pooch can poop. Come rain, snow or 2am, if the dog needs to go, you go out and let her go.

Around 5am every morning, you can find me wandering the dark streets around my apartment with my dog Zoe. I am usually very jittery and nervous because I am sure that at any moment I will be murdered by a serial killer. I constantly look for any suspicious people or activity or noise and then, the instant my dog is done pinching off, I bag it, throw it into the nearest trash receptacle and then run/jog back to the apartment and thank the gods I was not raped.

This particular morning, my dog wanted to go out a little earlier than usual. It was because of this change in routine that we came across a very familiar scene. Hoards of people sorting through the trash at Trader Joe's. I have witnessed this while living in Brooklyn, but there, the Trader Joe's was organized and the trash was not placed in the dumpster until people sorted it for non-rotten oranges or half-moldy bread. Here in Seattle, the bags are unceremoniously thrown into the bin just as God intended. 

I did not notice anything at first. I had just finished picking up my dog's steaming crap in a thin plastic bag and was in the process of throwing it in the Trader Joe's dumpster when I sensed movement from all directions. Like zombies, 3 people came slowly walking around various corners with reusable grocery bags eager to do their trash shopping. Zoe and I backed away slowly and watched from a distance as their very politely worked together to liberate this semi-fetid feast. This mild-miasmatic meal? This early-hour effluvium? 

Anyway, I went to work that day and thought about how common this practice is. I even brought it up with my coworkers. Who are doctors. Nurses. Professionals. As I ended my story, the anesthesiologist entered the room and notified me that one morning, I may just see him waist deep in waste outside my local Trader Joe's because he is an advocate of what is called "urban foraging". 

Urban. Foraging.

I politely reminded him, the attending medical doctor who makes a six-figure income, that he eats from the same place I throw my dog's diarrhea. He made some comment about salvaging and I made some comment about disgusting and the conversation ended, neither side appeased. I also noticed that the other people in the room looked at me like I was kind of wrong.

I never thought I would be in a debate about not eating trash. And I never thought that my coworkers in the hospital would be mad at me for making that point. 

Convinced that this is wrong, I now make a habit of only throwing my dogs poop in the Trader Joe's dumpster, no matter how far away from it I am. As an added "fuck you", I now never tie the bag close, praying with each toss that fecal matter coats every last item in that bin.True, I was unflinching in telling everyone how repulsive the idea of curb crawling is, but that is my right...just like it is the right of any hobo to go sifting around in sewage looking for sustenance. And that is what makes America great.

 

No Class

I love flying. Now that I have a dog, I do much less of it, but when  I fly in 1st class, each time I fly is a drunken, spacious, speedy power trip.

Aside for them access to booze and the sweet buzz of superiority, the real reason I like to be all up in the air with strangers is that I get to make up a back story and b someone else entirely for the whole trip. What do I care...I will never see these tools again?

So last night, as I was the 4th person boarded the plane, I see a woman, comfortable, buckled-in sitting in the same row as me. I love me the window seat (getting up for weak bladders and being hit by every ass who wanders by with bags...no thank you) and I politely tell the woman that I am sitting at the window and we a conversation that goes a lil' something like this

-Hey I am sitting next to you.

-Okay, hello.

-Do you need to get up so I can get in?

-No, you can just crawl over me.

-I hope you don't mind by butt in your face.

-I don't.

And from that, it was on. After crawling over her in the most dramatic and obscene fashion, I thought about what my back story would be.

I invented a husband (as always) and explained that I do not wear a wedding ring because my fingers swell when flying. I then composited my husband based on all the men I know, but since I needed by husband to not be gay, I tried something else. My husband, Topher, is a production/set designer in NYC but is working on location in Vermont and could not be with me for this vacation.

At the mention of my husband, the woman decided she would tell me about her family- her two artsy children  and then, about her own husband. Who was dead. She told me all about how he was a great bread winner and the love of her life and one day, while working out with his personal trainer his heart exploded and he died instantly. He had just started taking the drug Vioxx (google heart and vioxx together- you will get this). She then told me that I need to quit whatever I am doing and go...run to my husband and spend every minute I can with him because you never know when he could be taken away.

Some weeping happened (mostly me) and some compassion happened (mostly her) and the crushing guilt of being a bitchy liar consumed me. I did not tell her the truth (we still had 5 hours together) but I listened intently for the ding that told me I could put my earphones back in and think about how I had shamed myself.

She continued to talk to me about how her children rely on her so much now because they were both in college when her husband died. She was in the middle of discussing how her husband could never give her daughter away at her wedding when

Ding. Ding.

Earphones. I was so nervous and awkward I dropped them, then worked on untangling them for what seemed like 12 minutes. I thought to myself what excuse I could give- so for once I went with the truth. I told her I was working on a website and podcast and needed to get these soundbites edited for the midnight deadline.

And thus ended my conversation with the emotionally devastating woman who cold cut right through my lies. When we landed, we wished each other a good night and a safe ride and I prayed to sweet zombie baby jesus that I would never see her again.

Chair Monster

Dog ownership is hard. I mean, sure you get the face-licking and snuggles, but you also have the soul crushing despair that comes when you realize that your dog is completely dependent on you for all things.

This weekend, I decided to take my tent out of the box it has been in for 3 years and gather up all the new camping equipment I purchased off amazon and get my ass out to the woods. Some new friends had booked a beautiful group campsite at Lake Kachess where friendly dogs are always welcome.

If there is one thing Zoe (my dog) is, it is friendly. Too friendly. Shy really. A total bottom. When other dogs show up, she assumes a position that says "chase me around and then share my treat later and then I will lick you as we form a dogpile". It is adorable.

The hard thing is most other dogs are not this friendly. I am not saying they are mean, just a little less trusting. There were two other dogs in the woods this weekend- and while both of them loved Zoe, they kind of hated each other. Because of the ridiculous fighting that would take place between the two dogs, a decision was made to leash the dogs and keep them away from each other. I guess I should say that the decision was made to put the two other dogs on leashes, but me, feeling an act of solidarity, also decided to put Zoe on a leash. It was really easy to put it on her, she was sleeping beside me in her doggie bed.  

As Zoe slumbered, I was finishing up my hobo meal and wanted to get another beer. Since I was leaving my chair and had did not want to disturb my dog's slumber, I simply tied the end of the leash around my camp chair.

After one step in the direction of beer, I hear a cacophonous racket behind me. The sound of gravel followed by shouts of "ZOE" and "NO" and "STOP". I turn around to see a red dog-shaped blur running at full tilt followed by what could only be my camping chair. Off she went, fast, into the darkness. Soon, all we could hear was the jingle jangle of her collar.

Off she went, fueled by the sheer terror that comes from knowing  a chair monster is only three feet behind her. With our flashlights scanning the woods, we found the chair. It appeared to have snagged on a broken stump. Attached to it, was Zoe's leash and collar.

Don't worry dear reader, Zoe was fine. I walked down to my tent and after a well directed whistle, Zoe came trepidatiously approaching me and instantly wanted inside the tent. So she gets comfortable inside my brand new sleeping bag, pupils dilated and heart racing. I decided to hang out with her for a bit, snuggle down next to her until she goes to sleep. But then, thanks to the beer and the warmth, I fell asleep almost immediately.

So sure, my first night with new friends I was trying to impress was instead spent in my tent consoling my dog. I earned the nickname "granny" and every time I asked what time it was, a reference was made that it was still too early to go to bed. 

It was an otherwise uneventful weekend for Zoe, no more monsters. Despite being unable to tell your dog "nope, it was just a chair" or "the lake is not like a bath" or "napkins are not food" there is no rationale they can understand. What brings Zoe comfort is just being present and occasionally giving a turkey treat. I wish people were that easy.

Benign Growth

Anyone that has read/seen/met/listened to me for a few minutes knows two things. 1- I am hilarious. 2- I am so pretentious that sometimes I want to punch myself in the face.


Thanks to a friend I had years ago, my ability to one-up anyone in any conversation about anything was brought to my attention. During a discussion on study abroad, I quickly mentioned my stint at Oxford (mentioning, of course, how it is the #1 University in the World...however that is determined). Next we were talking about Chinese food- so of course I interrupted to mention how I lived in Hong Kong and that I have the amazing peanut sauce that I can only buy in Canada. I thought I was simply shining a light on my brilliance...showing these new people that I was someone ineresting. But no. Afterwards, my friend pulled me aside and called me a stuck-up bitch right to my face. And by the hammer of Thor, he was right.

I have become a better person (in only this one single area) and I am happy to say that most times, when I am about to utter words that make me look like a smart-ass spoiled little upstart, a little voice chimes in- "dude, Chelsea...if you mention First Class one more time, someone is going to punch you in the throat" and I stop. I mean, obviously, sometimes I need those around me to know that I am better than them...but that is happening less and less as I age.

So this trait in me is the one thing that I hate most about myself and therefore, it is the thing I fixate on the most.

Flashback to this past weekend.

I decided to leave the dark, warm, dog-filled interior of my studio apartment to a lovely evening with friends. Not only were there some old familiar faces, but there were new people for me to impress and interact with.

This is what happens- I see someone new, we talk it up until we find an interesting topic and within minutes I have cuckolded the whole conversation and made it about me. The conversation goes a li'l something like this

Me- "Hey, nice to meet you, I'm Chelsea. How do you know (insert friend here)?"
Person- "Oh, we randomly met at a bar in Chapel Hill, we hit it off while sitting at the bar"
Me- "Cool, which bar"
Person- "Twilight Exit"
Me- "Oh, I love that bar, it reminds me of the oldest bar in the world, which is in Cornwall, and I have totally been to it. Please, tell me more things in your life that I can undermine with my awesomeness."

And there you have it. In short, I am a great person to hang out with. BUT NO- not at this party, with my senses all intact, I managed to keep my incessant know-it-allism and bragging to a minimum. That was, until I met the Medical Assistant.

Grab hold of your ankles, reader, because you are about to bend over and take some hardcore nursing hate. Here it goes, and it is not going to be pretty.

Because of the shortage of nurses in this country, many of the jobs that, in the past, were performed by nurses, instead are performed by either licensed of unlicensed ancillary personnel- and I use the word ancillary with the most hostility possible. Tasks that are not likely to require critical thinking or comprehensive assessment (I said not likely, not not) are divvied out to positions that have only been created in the past 15ish years- like medical assistants (check blood pressure, pulse, temp, take a history), surgical assistants (set up and pass instruments during surgery), or medication administrators (they hand out pre-packaged medications to patients). These often require an associates degree and sometimes require certification with the state, but they always fall under the scope of practice of a nurse or doctor who oversees their actions and have to sign off on their work.

While I super hate my job sometimes, there are more often other times when I take great pride in what I do. I see some crazy things, I save lives and at the end of the day, whether I have "thought critically" or not, I like to think that I am advocating for my patients, teaching families and positively impacting surgical patients who are in unfortunate and scary situations. So to be good at one's job does not always require an alphabet behind your name or expensive degrees. But, come on, no one who earned a GED at 25 ever really amounted to much...just saying.

And that last statement just ruined the whole paragraph. Whatever...

My friend is having great concern over her skin (on a side note, she is gorgeous and has very clear skin) and so, of course, she should ask the Medical Assistant, who works at a Dermatologist's office. I completely support the idea of her not asking me, because here are all the things I know about skin and skin related topics.

1. Tattooing the skin hurts.
2. One must prep and cut through the skin to get to the organs.
3. Dermatology offices get cool free samples
4. My dog licking my face has cleared up all my pimples, but I should not tell that to people because it implies that I do not immediately wash my face after.

Anyway, she was then told by the Dermatological Medical Assistant...well, it amounted to a series of absolute lies (too sciencey and dry to write verbatim, so you are just gonna have to go with it). During this conversation, I did mental gymnastics, thinking to myself, at what point is it appropriate to verbally castigate this person? When is it okay to tell someone they are wrong and you are smarter and better? How can you usurp a conversation and make it all about you, Chelsea, and your skills and your knowledge and your expertise?

The appropriate time to call someone stupid or incompetent is the next day, when the person is question is not around, but when you are surrounded by their close friends and roommates. Seriously, you do this and no one will ever think you are a dick. And also, if possible, bring up other random examples of when other menial health care workers have been dangerously incompetent- that way you can group everyone together and seem like a job racist (totally a thing).

So, despite my self-awareness and constant growth, it seems that I still have some hurdles to over come. Since a was able to form words, my mother has said to me "Please, Chelsea, THINK before you speak". and now...28 years later, I believe I am starting to understand...it is something so simple, such a simple rule.

If I am thinking words and want to take those words from my brain and form them with my mouth...well, I should just not do that.

A great alternative I have found, is to write those words down in a blog..that way, no one can get hurt.

Juice it

So, if I was to pick one reason I hate being a nurse, you might think I would choose "exposure to blood-borne pathogens" or "seeing dirty genitals" or simply "smells". You would be wrong. The main thing I hate about nursing is that it is a field that is dominated by women. Catty, fat, angry, underpaid women.
I cannot sit down to lunch without entering a conversation about calories or gluten. Usually it is a fat nurse eating fried food from the cafeteria lamenting about how she cannot seem to loose the weight. Sometimes it is a fat nurse eating a salad covered in a cup of ranch dressing ranting about how she is so hungry. Occasionally there is a fat nurse eating a huge portion of only meat or swearing off all cheese or refusing to eat anything white. It is exhausting eating lunch.
I usually take out my phone, and even though I do not get a signal, I pretend to search the internets or read email or old texts. If there are coupons on the table, I read them. Old medical journals. Sweetener packets. You get the idea?
Well, I was without material this time, as I sat down to a new and strange scenario. I started to unpack my lunch and the nurse next to me did the same. Out of her abnormally large lunch duffel, she removed 3 container jugs of bright colored liquids. Deep greens, dirty orange, a dirty deep orange-green. She was juicing. And she told me all about it.
Apparently, she was told that the best way to lose weight was to avoid processed foods and eat only fresh vegetables and fruit. Note I said 'lose weight' and not 'be healthier'. The sheer fiber load of eating these foods would strangle her colon so she was told to juice. Add some protein powder, maybe some wheat germ. Juice it. I nodded politely, while quickly fumbling for my phone. I ate my food with gusto and then fled, to make a quick call to my mom.
I was shocked by what that phone call contained. My dear mother, who has been doing some great things to be healthier in her advancing years, has also decided that her food needs to be fresh and not in solid form. She bought, what sounded like, an industrial juicer, and has since been making kale and carrot smoothies. Oh. My mom is also a nurse. So there is that.
Horrified at how so many women who have spent their careers performing liquid food tube feedings to patients who can no longer swallow, I hung up the phone and shuddered to myself. Kale smoothies? No thanks.
After work, I called my friend H to seek some sanity. We recently started a blog together as a way to provide support for each other as we struggled to stop eating crap food and get off the couch. I, being the awesome human you know and love, set up the website and then almost instantly abandoned it. So I called her to get some insight into this new diet fad. Before I could even broach the subject, H mentioned that she watched a movie called "Fat Sick and Tired" or something to that effect- a documentary about a men who decided to stop being a lazy fatty and get his act together. Before I could ask "why did you watch this movie" she told me it was streaming on Netflix. Oh Netflix, providing bored people a random streaming movie outlet since 2009.
H had watched this movie and saw that, like the others in my life, she needed to eat fresh fruit and vegetables. But again, like the others, the idea of chewing all that produce really put her off, so she bought a juicer. And she feels great.
I could not help myself. I went to Amazon and searched for juicers. I did not buy the juicer, but I pondered the thought of simply drinking my way to a thinner life. I then thought about what a kale smoothie would taste like with vodka in it.  I closed the web browser and walked over to my fridge. I opened my produce drawer and saw a plethora of choices. I grabbed a handful of mini heirloom tomatoes and ate them in their solid form. They were delicious and crunchy and juicy and I consoled myself with the fact that my chewing was actually burning more calories than if I just drank them.

How does it end?

Oh, dear readers, I must apologize for my absence. Only now do I realize that I have been remiss in posting to you the crazy events of my life.
I was standing in my apartment, desperately waiting for the Comcast man to finish installing my Internet, and a series of unequivocally 'funnynurse' situations happened. And I thought of you. And so here I am.
First, he showed up right on time. Not funny or nurse, but still, amazing considering sitcoms have told me that people from the cable company are unreliable.
Second, he was hot. Again, not interesting, but sitcoms have also told me that this is how porn starts... although porn has never shown me this, which is very unreliable.
Anyway, he is trying to fix my Internet, letting his skilled hands race over my keyboard, multi-tasking with phone calls to operators and quips about how fast my computer can go and he stares into my eyes and asks "Do you want 20mbps? We can give you 20 over the normal 12 for three months for free".
It is at this moment, realizing that I don't understand anything his pretty litle mouth is saying, I decided to kick things up a notch.
Instead of asking him to clarify the question, I blurt out "what is that, speed or something". The words fall out of my gaping maw so sloppily, it sounded like I should have had a mouth full of chitlins. To cover for this ugly sentence, I then girlishly laugh and say "oh, speed doesn't matter as long as I can watch porn". He just looked at me. Unblinking. Unforgiving. Instead of shutting the hell up, I said "I mean, there is nothing worse than watching porn and having it buffer and buffer...I mean, I just want to yell 'come on porn, I need to see how it ends!!'" He then laughed awkwardly and broke eye contact like he was ashamed for me. But I was not done. HE clearly did not get my joke and so, I had to explain it to him...because obviously, jokes that are explained are the funniest. "Don't you get it?" I asked. "It is funny because all porn ends the same way..."
The only words spoken from that moment on were, "sign here" as he finished up and tried to make a speedy retreat.
Now, I would like to tell you that no words were spoken because we were having a crazy deep anonymous porn star cableman bang because I am so funny and sexy-awkward that he could not keep his hands off me. But, like most men in my life, he just thought I was weird, and even with my phrasing, did not think my comments were jokes and assumed I really just wanted him to leave so I could watch porn.
What an insightful man.

Fear of Flying

Ugh. It seems no matter where I work, every hospital/office/cubicle arrangement has crazy people in it- ones who are socially incompetent, strange, ugly and just weird.
I was asked by a coworker how much longer I would be staying in Seattle. She then asked me- what did i like least about the city?
I replied that the airport was one of the worst- the parking is crazy expensive with no good alternative and the light rail only runs during certain hours from certain places. I also mentioned that the flights for my airline (AA) out of there often are not direct and always go through DFW which is a huge and ugly airport. Maybe it is because I am in travel mode, but that was the answer that was truthful
She then decides to tell me that it is one of the best for traveling "to the Orient"..yeah, the Orient, as if I am looking for a spice road or easy access to silk. I mean, really lady?
I decided not to remind her that simply being out to the west is a requirement for travelling west and that, yeah, if proximity to the west was my main goal, then SeaTac Airport would NOT suck my balls. No..I said nothing.
She then asked me where I was going- so I told her, all places in the continental US and that it was not the best airport for that, it does not seem to go directly to anywhere interesting...in the Continental US. This was a conversation that had nothing to do with anything and I wanted it to be over as soon as possible.
This lady then tells me all about EVERY FLIGHT SHE HAS EVER BEEN ON. the one from Seattle to LA to Hawaii, the one from Seattle to Chicago to NY the one from Seattle to blah to blah to BLAH WHO CARES SHUT THE FUCK UP. Then she made some comment about how she disliked flying in the US and she preferred to vacation out of the country...
I just nodded and tried hard not to make eye contact. I did not even mention that she herself, could not get a direct flight to ANYWHERE SHE MENTIONED. I just busied myself with picking up paper off the floor and triple checking the patent's arms and legs (and his penis, because I am thorough).
She went on about flying for the next 12 minutes until someone came to relieve her, but the whole time it was TSA this and checked bags that and overhead bins and leg room and luggage fees and OH MY GOD I WANTED TO STAB HER IN THE FACE.
The only saving grace was that when she left the room, the resident looked at me and said "what the hell was all that?" to which I replied "I know, right?"

Hit and Run Your Mouth

I am lucky enough to have a parking deck under my apartment building- one of the small pleasures that comes from living in a city and not having to scramble over street parking. The one thing that always worries me is my proximity to a huge concrete support pole, but thankfully it has never been a problem because the spot next to me is empty.
It has never been a problem, she says....until today.
After a leisurely afternoon around Seattle, I pull into my parking deck only to find that there is a big SUV Land Rover thing in the spot next to me. It has big signs in the window about riding bikes and how they apparently have a "baby on board". I have never seen this car since living here and notice that this huge SUV is very close to the white line, but I roll my eyes and proceed into my spot. Except that during that eye roll, my eyes must have adjusted inappropriately and I slightly grazed their back passenger side bumper. Like...the car didn't even move. In fact, I didn't even know I hit it until, as I am pulling further into my spot, the passenger side door flies open and this douchey hippy jumps out. He immediately goes to the bumper and runs his fingers along it, shaking his head. His wife jumps out of the drivers seat and motions for me to roll my window down.
She puts her hands on her hips, leans forward and asks me "did you just hit my car?". I was inclined to remind her that if she has to ask if her car was involved in a significant accident it must not be a big fucking deal, but instead I replied "Yeah, I did, I think I grazed it". She leans down and runs her fingers her along the bumper and says "oh man, it is all scuffed up. It is really scuffed" I tell her I would be happy to give her my information...all from my car that is half in and half out of the parking space, blocked by the open door. She says she does not want my information, then starts this whole long dramatic speech about how the plastic bumper is over a metal support and something something Land Rover something. She then changes her train of thought away from her overly expensive car and then asked her husband to check on their baby. For real. After the great collision rocked her car to its very steel foundation, she finally remembered that she had a child in the car.
At this point, the backseat passenger door is opened. I am still just sitting half in my space.
I know that I should be timid, I know I was the wrong who did wrong, but for the love of Christ, welcome to living in a city. I have seen worse damage done by a key or during parallel parking. I lean my head out and say "Look, I can give you my information right now, or if you see it in the sunlight tomorrow and it looks awful, you know where I live, but if this is resolved, can you please let me into my spot?" Yeah, I know, I should be all happy that nothing was damaged and that no one got hurt, but I really just wanted to get the fuck back to my apartment. I had this image in my mind of this happening in the street and traffic being blocked up for miles in either direction because these hippies like to blow things out of proportion.
I tried to ask politely, thankfully it was interpreted as polite, the couple and their baby got back in the car and left. I have this feeling that tomorrow there will be a note on my car asking for insurance info. Ugh. Living alone on an island with a tomato plant and internet is sounding better and better.

Thanksheaving

Okay. I am going to go ahead and say that though family mostly annoys and perplexes me, I really really enjoy hanging out at family events. Between being able to look my aunt in the eye and say "wow, you are a drunk" or tell my cousin "I don't want to feed your kid, he is all sticky", I know that there is a kind of....judgey freedom...that happens when around family.

Knowing that I will only be on this coast for a few more months, I thought, what the hell, it would be awesome to celebrate a good old Traditional Canadian Thanksgiving with my relatives. Side Note- Canadian Thanksgiving is pretty much the exact same thing as US Thanksgiving- turkey, trimmings, the giving of thanks, pumpkin pie, firewater, small pox blankets etc.

My cousin thought it would be fun to get some of the family down, (a total of 7 adults and 2 kids) so we could eat turkey until we we were physically incapable of swallowing because ones esophagus is full of food. Family being what it is, excuses started to be made as to why one could or could not attend this event. My grandmother could not go because she could not find someone to watch her dog (dog trumps great grandkids, apparently). My grandfather could not go because my grandmother did not give permission. My Uncle decided he would rather watch the Canuks opening season game and my cousin was out too late the night before getting trashed. I mean, sure I was tired having just come back from Denver and I would have to drive 3 hours each way, but I understand...leaving your dog for 4 hours is just unnacceptable.

Since the number of attendees had dwindled to a meager three adults, it was decided that cooking a turkey was unnecessary. Instead, a large cauldron of seafood chowder was to be stewed with a side order of crab stuffed mushroom caps.

It is here that I should point out to the casual reader that I do not eat seafood or mushrooms. The smell of the ocean makes me gag a little and the chewy, rubber texture of mushrooms is pretty much the worst. I moved from Vancouver, oh, a good 16 years ago, so there is really no reason that my family should in any way know that I have a visceral aversion to these foods. I knew about a week in advance that the menu had changed but since I was a guest and trying to be polite and nice and all loving family, I did not say anything. I thought...meh, I will just wing it and maybe there is something I can eat.
Well, I choked it down. Now, the food was, for seafood, probably awesome. I am sure that anyone who likes chowder filled with bits of squid and clams that look like mini-inverted-vaginas would have gobbled this soup down hungrily. Me, I tried hard not to look at it, chewed the parts that I could and then quickly swallowed water to clean my poor, overworked taste buds. Like a champ, I popped whole mushroom caps into my mouth, secretly thanked that old boyfriend who taught me to open my throat, and just swallowed them whole. I had done my part, I was polite, I ate.

After dinner, I drove my aunt home and then headed back to the United States. While waiting in line at customs, I felt a weight growing in my stomach. I did not feel ill, but I could not help thinking that I was also not not ill. I mean, for someone who never eats seafood, I just jammed a whole lot of types of seafood inside me. I kept distinctly remembering the beg from the freezer labeled "Seafood Mix" that got tossed into the pot...and I thought, more like "Seafood Mystery Bits". I remember looking into my bowl and seeing a row of purple tentacles staring back at me, floating helplessly in a sea of cream.

And then i lost it. My mouth did that "tons of saliva swallowing" thing, and I found the nearest gas station and ralphed. Have you ever been to a gas station bathroom? And then have you ever had to put your face close to the toilet in a gas station bathroom? Yeah.

Judge Not, Lest Ye Be Judged

How dare you judge me, Seattle? Who the hell do you think you are.

So, dear reader, since moving to this rainy city I have started to feel...uncool. While in NYC, I lived a cosmopolitan life with nice lunches, late nights and occasionally throwing up out the side of a cab. It was very Sex and the City. And yet here I am, in a city where everyone smells like weed and dirt and people find it acceptable to go to the grocery store in their pajamas, and I feel like I am being judge. NO SEATTLE!! It is I who will judge you.

I realized all these emotions rather early in the morning as I attended a staff meeting. As I walked through a side door into the hall, every eye turned to me. Their faces read "who is this girl and why should I care".

But I looked awesome, wearing my little paper booties and my frog hat to go with my crisp blue scrubs. I had on amazing eye make-up, I had the fresh scent of a recent shower combined with a daily deodorant application. My eyebrows were waxed to perfection (as was my upper lip). As always, I exuded a confidence that was second only to Angelina Jolie. I was hot shit! Men wanted to be with me and women wanted to be me.

So why then were these filthy hippies looking at me like I was trash? I thought briefly that it could be because I an new, that I was misinterpreting their their curiosity as hostility. But then, I found myself crossing my arms in silent hate-judgement of them. I went so far as to uncross those same arms so I could jot down notes to myself about some of the cartoonishly awful faces that were looking at me.

1st- Gay Santa. No. Really. This man, who seemed to be a ring leader of this goon squad, was about 350lbs and change. Big fluffy grey beard...wait...did i type fluffy? I meant filthy...filthy grey beard...like imagine if you used a nice white towel to dust off some charcoal, and then fashioned that used towel to a fat man's face. Done. "Well sure", you say that makes him Santa, but what makes him gay. Good question reader. He was wearing rainbow socks. Nope, not gay enough...He was wearing long, dangly, silver earrings in each ear. Still not gay enough. People called him Beth. BINGO! Nailed IT! Okay, you got me. I thought they were calling him Beth, and when I heard it, I tried so hard to stifle my laugh that I silently farted. His name was not Beth, it was Biff...but I am not convinced that is any better.

2nd- Retard Presenter A. Last week, we were shown a video on some OR procedural crap to not leave shit inside of people blah blah blah. Well, the video had no sound, they could not figure out how to get sound and thusly abandoned the video. This week, they thought 'hmmm...let's try this again, only, let us not change a single thing about the set-up of this lap top and projector, but cross our fingers real hard'. Go figure, the video still did not have sound. So this presenter decides to talk us through the video, describing what was happening like the worst DVD commentary ever made. Again, maybe you doubt my choice of adjectives...but do not. Retard is appropriate. The video was 14 minutes long. And this video starred 4 nurses who were sitting at the staff meeting.

3rd- Retard Presenter B. A second presentation was also to take place this rainy morning. It was again, about not killing patients, etc. It was a pretty simple report and consisted of 3 power point slides. Yet somehow, in comedic tragedy, the presenter did not know how to use powerpoint. I mean, sure, she put the slides together and edited them and added a background and even learned how to cut/paste pictures into this thing...but did you expect her to practice toggling between THREE WHOLE SLIDES before she stood up in front a group of 120 of her peers? If you think it would detract from the presentation by accidentally closing PP twice, skipping over the middle slide numerous times and not knowing how to make it full screen, you would be so fucking wrong...

So, I left that staff meeting with a big arrogant smile on my pretty waxed face knowing that no one knows how to judge some one like I can.

And the band played on...

Mexican food is by far, my favorite and least favorite food of all time. Yeah, the blend of meat and cheese and spice is magic in my mouth, but at the same time, it means I have to be around Mexicans.

Every Sunday, La Hacienda decides to kick the Mexican experience up a notch and bring in a bunch of musicians to form a ragtag Mariachi band. These dudes seldom wear the same outfit, often look like meth addicts and always play their music as loud and as close to your face as possible. I do not understand a culture the likes three horns, one accordion, two guitars and a singer all playing at full volume in 2400square feet. Yeah Mexicans, you tamales are fantastic, but I can't afford them if I have to have a tympanoplasty. Look it up, nerds.

And because Jesus is a little prankster, me and HEB always seem to get the urge for spicy cheesy meats on Sunday. We always forget that Sunday is Mariachi Explosion until we open the door to the restaurant and then, are we blown back a few inches, cartoon-style, by the overwhelming power of sound. We look at each other, HEB rolls her eyes, "son of a bitch" I say, and then we make the decision to suck it up, order extra large margaritas and politely decline their offer to serenade us at 150decibels.

So, as order and try to have a half-screamed conversation in this crowded restaurant, HEB's face has started to look pale and her eyes grew wide. It could have been that we were talking about the perils of eating beets in the 24hours before/after butt sex, but no, it was because behind me, that band was approaching. HEB frantically tried to wave them off, thankfully, she knows more Spanish than me...fluent, actually. So, as I rudely yelled "NO ME MOLESTE", she politely, yet forcefully explained to them that their services were not required.

The Mariachi Men seemed to understand and took this opportunity to break, maybe get some churros...or a beef taco. They dispersed for a few moments of blissful silence, until they decided that this was the perfect time to re-tune their instruments...to really make sure everything was harmonious...because that matters to musicians...IT is just that they did in right next to our table in the middle of the restaurant. One Mariachi, a trumpet player, decided that it was necessary to test his own skills and started to play as high as he could go, just cuz he can. He looked right into my eyes, going octaves higher and higher, as if sputtering a trumpety "fuck you" to me and anyone else who would dare deny them in the future. The trombone player joined in with this cacophonous miasma, playing at different rhythms, disjointed notes.

I had this image of him taking this hot cheese load right in the eyes and having it sizzle right off the mini-skillet. In his fear, he drops the trumpet so he can claw this concoction off his face, trying to salvage his sight. I take the opportunity to jump on his trumpet with full force and crush it into a useless metal hunk. Then I spit on his trembling body, down the rest of my margarita, scream "that's what you get, you Mariachi Motherfucker" and strut out of the place to the sound of applause.

Lucky for that bastard, he broke eye contact and all the merry men decided to go on their merry way.

If there is a hell, there is a Mariachi band there

Vocal Stylings

Some times a girl just wants to sing. So, I gathered some friends, donned my favorite wig and headed out for a night of Karaoke.

I was unprepared for the events that were about to unfold.

First, the woman who was running the karaoke was the fugliest, roundest, most ill tempered woman that has ever registerd on my retinas. I mean, Jesus Christ, who wear sweat pants and a t-shirt to a night out? And mascara- a very small investment for a very large reward. She was very regimented in her control of this karaoke game which leads me to believe that she has little control over her own life (re: cat lady). This fug-monster would only let a handful of women sing, yet there was a high concentration of attractive hipster men…hmmm…I thought to myself, as she kept selecting the same men over and over again, never once calling my name. Then it occurred to me…she was using her karaoke power to get laid. By calling on the same hot, drunken men, she was keeping them happy and in a good mood and making them pliable so she could bend them to her sexual whims. Here is the dialogue of this lady’s brain…
“wow, there are some hit guys here tonight and they all want to sing karaoke. I control the karaoke. I am going to use my powers or evil and let these men sing and dance and cavort all they want, and then, they will be so grateful for my amazing loyalty, I will get finger banged.” Yeah, so me and my friends waite around or our names to be called while the same 10 people sang over and over again.

Second, we found a table that we hd to share with two of the gayest gays who ever gayed. This is not a problem normally, but it is when one of the gays gets so drunk that he has drunk himself straight. Yeah. One moment, I am casually drinking my PBR like a pro, the next, a gay is rubbing his stubbly face up nest to my cheek, kissing my ear and telling me I am beautiful. No. No. No. Not Okay. I mean, I don’t want to get AIDS, so yeah. He kept getting all close up on me and kissing on my face as I politely tried to not get face raped. His boyfreind, on the other hand, seemed to mis-judge the situation. Instead of being mad, he decided to buy Mr. Face McKisserson shots of Jager. I looked super angry/confused/scared for my vagina when it was explained to me that Jager always puts Rapey O’Kisserface to sleep. I was glad yet also sad. Glad because I wanted him to stop hugging me and putting his saliva all over the left side of my face. But I was sad because I want to have someone who knows how to handle me when I become inappropriate in social situations…such love.

There was going to be a thrid bullet about a Mexican Lawyer who was laid off and is couch surfing in Seattle until he takes the boards in Illinois or some shit, but frankly, he was so goddamn boring it is not worth the energy to type.

All in all, a well rounded evening.

Liar Liar

The Central Nervous System is a complex and intricate thing. It controls every aspect of my body- pooping, walking, yawning,dreams, my sense of humor and even personality disorders like compulsive lying.

I do lie, friends, everyone does, but never has my compulsion made its way into my subconscious.

This morning, my alarm went off and I was not ready to go to work. I mean, for god's sake, it was only 9am. I decided that I would rest for a little bit longer, and that is when you can have some crazy good dreams. For me, these dreams I usually vivid and often have familiar people and places and situations- when I wake up from one, I sometimes think that conversations in these dreams ACTUALLY HAPPENED. More than once I have mistakenly referenced a dream situation with a friend/lover/parent that has led to confusion or anger.

So there I was, limbo dreaming- dreaming a dream of the waking world, and in it, a friend was paralyzed from the neck down, no walking, no nothing. He has C5-C6 injury, it anyone is wondering and he was an incomplete quadriplegic. Then, next thing you know, I am in a car accident and I become a paraplegic because of a lumbar spine injury from my seatbelt- ONLY I AM NOT- no, I am laying in bed I think about it and decide I will not tell anyone that I can actually walk, just to play it out and see if the Neurosurgeons can tell I am faking it.

Nope, no one knows I am faking it. In fact, I end up going to court and making money and going to more lawyers to give that money away in some kind of account that is named after me. Everyone is totally sorry for me though, so I remind myself that I am not actually paralyzed and maybe, years later, it is time for me to make some kind of miraculous improvement in my leg region.

I decided upon lying again and saying that now, I have some muscle control and I can stand, but I cannot walk and do to walk I actually just grab the pant-leg and move myself around like a marionette? I add the question mark at the end of that sentence because I am pretty sure that that is not a thing...but whatever, brain, way to use all that medical knowledge and make my dreams look stupid.

At this point, my other paralyzed friend from earlier in this saga has joined a dating site for people in wheelchairs, and he has found the love of his life. I decide to join a different website because I am not really crippled, so I do. And one day, as I am in a convenience store, stand/leaning at a counter folding clothes, a guy comes in to meet me. We start talking and walking towards some stairs, the whore time he does not notice that I am lifting my legs with my pants. He lives above this convenience store (convenient!) but I have to tell him that I cannot go up, because I paralyzed. I find out he is a Neurosurgery Resident and he vows to fix me one day.

I am scared now, because this surgeon is planning a state of the art surgery to save my legs...but I am freaking out because I do not want to have surgery for no reason, so I try to concoct a plan about moving away and starting over...I think about moving and not talking to any of my friends or family again and just "walking" away from the whole situation. Then I think about telling everyone that it is fake and I was seeing how long I could pull it off as some kind of performance art project- I try to rationalize that faking paraplegia for a number of years, suing people, setting up trust funds, making my insurance pay for unnecessary physical therapy, having my entire house made wheelchair safe- all of that is just one step up from me wearing wigs in public and calling myself Chloe.

Then thank God, my phone rang...my real phone, not a dream phone and I was saved by the bell. Before I reached over to pick it up, I did spend a second making sure I could wiggle all my toes, but other than that, I think I left that dream mostly unscathed.

What the World Needs Now...

So, on a rainy Sunday evening, my roommate and I decided to actually leave the house and go to a bar for drinks. WE decided upon an Irish Pub we had frequented before, only because the bartender is superhero handsome. OH, and he gives us free drinks. So yeah.

Imagine our shock, as we sit down at the bar and hear some kind of up-beat, old timey piano music coming from the back room accompanied by a shrill, opera-esque woman. Curious, we asked what the hell was going on, to which The Bartender replied "every Sunday at around 4pm, this man comes to play old show-tunes and an Access-A-Ride van pulls up and these old women pile out to sing and they don't leave until closing".

After a lead-in like that, how could I not try to sing something? The Bartender took my name (and phone number wink wink) and then took my request up to the piano. Imagine my surprise when he did not know how to play "Lady Marmalade"? Undeterred, I then gave him song titles like "Tell Him" "Say A Little Prayer For Me" and "Wishin and Hopin". (Please note, these are all songs off the My Best Friend's Wedding soundtrack)

This little piano man was having none of my suggestions. I took time to go to the bathroom (where I do most of my thinking) and while there, I saw a poster on the wall. It showed a picture of the piano man with the tag line "Come Out for a Gay Olde Time". Yup...that pretty much summed it up. I went back the piano man and asked him what he songs he knew- it seems that if none of my well known suggestions were an option, he could give me some direction as to what was in his particular songbook. The piano man chortled at me and then looked down at his green bejeweled vest- he looked back up, very dramatically and said "I have over two-hundred thousand songs in my head, so I think it is easier if you chose one, dear".

After some frantic googling of the list of songs on the soundtrack, I came back to him with one final option- "What the World Needs Now is Love" but with the caveat that all the old ladies had to help me because I did not know it that well. I started to warm up by singing a much better song (say a little prayer for me) when this guy walked into the bar, came up to me and said "you have such a beautiful voice, are you going to sing?" Yes, I was going to sing.

And sign I did, while reading the lyrics off the screen of a blackberry, I sang. You know who really could have used some lyrics? The Piano Man...who insisted on singing along with me....loudly and at his own pace.

I finished, to much applause from the Blue-Hiared group and then I headed back to the bar. The same strange man from earlier then came up to me and said "you are so beautiful and you sounded amazing" and then he proceeded to kiss me on the lips directly in the middle of me saying thanks. It kind of skeeved me out...but was also?...not nice but not awful?

So, back to the bar where the bartender gave me another free shot and told me I was very good. Then BAM, out of nowhere, Skeevy guy sits next to me at the bar. My dutiful Roommate/Wingwoman then decided to sneak away, leaving me talking to this dude. Here is an excerpt of the conversation

Skeev-Can I give you my phone number
Me-my phone is...
Skeev- you are so beautiful
Me- broken...my phone is broken
Skeev- I have had 7 phones in the past year
Me- so you are unreliable?
Skeev- no, I didn't lose them, I switched them
Me- so you have committment issues. Hmmm..Check please

OH, if only it was the simple. I did get the check, but I also, stupidly stupidly gave Skeev my number. I would not give him my last name and i certainly did not "give him the business", but I could not help but kiss him more- not really because I wanted to, but because he held my head in place with both his hands.

The bartender was a little cold to me as I settled my check and Skeev continued to mack on me. He paid way to much attention to my credit card as I slid it across the bar, so I turned it over and called him a stalker to his face.

I left the bar, and turned around when I realized I forgot my roommate, and the instant I turned around, I was face to face with Skeev. Yeah. He followed me. He then proceeded to face grab again, tell me I was so attractive and wetly kiss me. I made a hasty retreat, choosing to be more stealthy than normal. I then received 4 texts and 2 phone calls in the span of 3 hours. I then turned my phone off, double checked the locks on the doors and windows and watched Friday the 13th on-demand. The only reason I watched the movie was to get my mind off the fact that kissing strangers could lead to mouth herpes.

All in all, an interesting night

Bra Size

Well, now that I haves someone to once again see me naked, I have made the decision to upgrade my panty drawer. While there is nothing wrong with hanes six-pack underwear or my extensive collection of sports bras, I feel that they do not scream “sexy”- hence my recent visit to Victoria’s Secret.

And no, dear reader, this visit was not in person. It was done as almost all my shopping is done- online. There is something so powerful about online shopping, no idiot sales people, no babies, no leaving the house in the rain. Then, a few days later after it has slipped your mind that you engaged in AND for the masochist in me, there is the fact that what you order never really fits or is the wrong color.

So yeah, ordering a bra online is probably the stupidest thing a person could do- everyone’s boobs are different and blah blah blah common sense blah don’t buy online blah. The bras arrive. They do not fit. But not for the reasons you might expect...

For years, Victoria's secret has been to shove foam into a bra- this allows the illusion of lift/cleavage/separation that woman strive for. Well, flat-chested women strive for it...a girl who orders a size 38D does not. Come on, Victoria, do you think all that padding is necessary with honking tatas like mine? Shut up, Victoria, the question was rhetorical, it is not necessary.

So, I stood looking in the mirror, staring at how my bountiful bosom poured over the top and cursing the day i checked the box for a rush delivery. I bent over to see how much it would cost to have them sent back, and as i did, my left breast fell out. Did I say fell? I meant flopped like a dying fish. I have never felt less sexy, so thanks for that Victoria.

As i tucked Lefty back into this disaster of a garment, I saw that it was $5.99 each to return them. THAT IS ALMOST 12 BUCKS!! It is times like this, I look down at my bracelet and ask..WWJD?

So I take the surgical scalpel that I have in my Emergency Zombie Infection Kit and I begin to slice open the bra to remove the padding. Duh.

So, with the help of natural focus, a Global knife and a 10 blade I deconstructed a $50 bra. And now it kind of looks okay…at least now by breasts actually fit into it...although there is no support or definition and my tits look like garbage. Lesson learned. Well played, Victoria....well played...

What the WHAT??

Dear Two readers,

As I searched around my site today, doing some minor editing of posts, I cam across a comment on my Pitcairn Island post (henceforth called "Rape Post"). Apparently, my meager blog is read by people who do not directly know me (SHOCK!!). My surprise was instantly lost when I realized that the post was pro-island rape...or at the very least not anti-island rape?

Here is a brief list of talking points that went through my strange little mind
1- someone who did not go to college with me read this site
2- they have internet on Rape Island?
3- Am I really that bad at math or was i considering the fact that island territory also includes water rights? Or maybe I just blindly made up a number because no one cares.
4- There is no such thing as bad press...

Anyway, my apologies to any of the several dozen inhabitants of Sexual Misconduct Atoll that I may have insulted...please don't sue me. The point of the post was more about having to explain your actions to someone who doesn't know the whole story and it was mirrored by the trials of dudes who had to explain the actions of their society to outsiders who do not know the whole story. Mirrored imagery? Startling metaphor? I feel the urge to scream the words "freedom of speech" or "Fox news is wrong all the time" or something equally as dumb.

For those who do want to learn more about this interesting island, please do go to the official website- which sadly did not come up once in my many many searches.

Oh well, never again will I use the internet for the trivial purpose of gaining knowledge, no, i will reserve it for its intended purpose...a free and never-ending supply of amateur hardcore porn.

Big Bertha

Subway tales

I love the subway if only because I can walk on in full pageant makeup, ski boots with flowers in my hair and no one gives me a second look. I can just sit and listen to the same Sufjan Stevens song over and over while avoiding eye contact and looking sullen until the train pulls into Borough Hall.
Sadly, this trip, I did not have the luxury of anonymity. Nope, this trip, a morbidly-obese, slightly-dirty, possible-hoboish woman entered the train.

I was minding my own business when out of no where, a hand starts waving in front of my face. I look up at this old woman in bright pink lipstick, and search my memory for her face. Before I can register anything, she takes her newspaper, folds it begins swatting my leg. Yeah, swatting at my leg like I am some misbehaving dog or some stray animal she is trying to “shoo” away from her. Then she yelled “MOVE” at me. And turned around, pointing her cosmically huge ass at me and tried to shove her body into a 6 inch space.

I scooted over as much as I could while this woman (who from henceforth, will be named Bertha) wriggled and writhed her body in an attempt to fit. The poor man on the other side of Bertha was jammed up against the rail, and I was trying my best not to sit in the lap of the man on my left. I thought that our interaction was over, that Bertha would cease to bother me, but no, she was only just beginning.

I sat for a few seconds feeling uncomfortable emotionally and physically, when I looked over and Bertha was staring at me. Staring at the side of my face with her face all scrunched in disdain. The instant she noticed my attention, she moved her head to get direct eye contact and then jabbed her fleshy elbow into my ribs. Twice. Every jab seemed to bring her closer to my side and it was strangely intimate- I mean, I have had sex with less skin to skin contact than this trip with Bertha.

Like a pussy, I broke eye contact first and began to look around the subway. I was distracted as Bertha read her paper, extending it as large as it would go and spreading her trunk-like arms into my face. I could not help but notice she was title-reading, furiously turning the page when she was done and pushing her girth further and further into my personal space. No detail of the paper was skipped- not the classifieds or personals, not even the sports pages that…had…the Olympics? Yup, she was reading an out of date paper. How out of date, you ask? February 23rd. On March 7th. And when she was done angrily reading one paper, she went into her purse and took out a different out-of-date paper of which she had a seemingly endless supply.

Now, just because someone chooses to jam their bacon-soaked hocks into a tiny subway seat does not make them crazy. Waiting until a lengthy train ride to catch up on the news, also not a deal breaker on mental health. No, it is the constellation of these events (or symptoms?) that troubled me. I was very glad when my portion of the ride ended and I extracted myself from her side. I could tell Bertha was happy as well, mainly because of the cacophonous sigh she released which was audible over my music. With one fleeting glance, I looked back at Bertha, only to see her shifting her jiggly body into the warm space I left behind and she looked up at me…and promptly looked deep into my eyes and gave me the finger. God speed, Bertha.

To Do List

I know that I have issues with sex that are too numerous and strange to mention, especially here...this is my blog not my livejournal...but still, as I read through the postings on Craig's List personal ads, I could not but feel that I have been doing this sex thing all wrong.

I seldom look someone in the face and proclaim my need for intimate relations and the thought that someone can ask for sex through a Internet-based want ad confuses me. I mean, I want sex, but I feel that it is implied in a date or with drinks or at a movie theater or whenever a hot tub is present. Why would any skip all the fun of dating just to get naked, grind it, and then cry alone in the shower later? Yeah, I don't get it...

Also, I have never, in the heat of passion with my most intimate partner ever asked him to fuck my ass or pee on me or nut in my face or pull my hair or fist my throat or do any number of ridiculous/trashy/hot things that these strangers are perfectly willing to beg for on The List. Maybe because I was raised in a traditional and shame-based Catholic household. I mean, I am not a prude, and I understand sex is supposed to be fun or something, but i do not think I could ask some dude "ram this dildo into me while filming it" without bursting into laughter or immediately shouting "JUST KIDDING"

Okay, now at this point, you may be asking yourself, "where is this sad little girl going with this"? Well, that is a great question. As first, I was focusing only on the people who post (The Freaks), and then my mind went straight to the people who answer (The Cum-Dumpsters)...but then, my crazy mind could only focus on one thing- how does one set this up and not get murdered.

Maybe it is because I have self respect or it could be debilitating mental illness, but I try not to put myself in situations that will end with me being raped by a plunger- and thus, I over think and plan and catastrophize every little moment in my life.

I will admit that for like, 7-9 seconds I really considered answering an ad on Craig's List. It was in those seconds that these thoughts went through my head like a hurricane
-should it be at my place?
-no not my place, I have a roommate and that would be weird and i don't want him to come to my place because then he will know where I live and he could be a total stalker or what if like, a whole gang of people show up and try to rob me? Or what if he comes here and he is gross and I change my mind and I want him to leave and he doesn't leave? Also, you should not use your regular gmail account to get these emails because then he might steal your identity?
-so his place?
-if i did do that then I have to text the address to someone and let them know that if I do not call them in the morning to call the police and tell my parents that I love them because my god, who knows what I could be walking into- some guy could have a whole gang bang waiting or a hidden video camera so he can secretly tape us and then next thing you know there will be video of me all over the internet (and it will be unflattering- all money shot with balls just slapping away). I mean, what do I do if I get there and he has bad teeth or dirty fingernails? How do I politely tell him that no amount of God's Honest Horny will ever let me put my mouth on that?
-what if he kills me?
-imagine the shame that my family will suffer if they find my cum-filled corpse floating in the East River! There will no doubt be a version of the incident on Law&Order. My face will be all over the television and the assholes at Fox News will break the story about my secret sex rendezvous. The perpetrator will never be found and the Burroughs will live in fear for the new Craig's List Cum Kill-her.

I never did reply to any posts.

I think I need to find a fine line between being utterly alone and sleeping with strangers, and until then, I know that my sweet sweet brain meats will keep me safe from all the danger out there.

No Man is an Island

I am a shameless know it all. I admit it and I am not ashamed of it. I love to spend my days knowing worthless facts and random tidbits because who knows, it might be the one thing that wins pub trivia. I do not learn these things to shove knowledge in anyone's face, but I often find myself as a resource to those who question if Mongolia is a real country or wonder if a cat's purr comes from the
lungs...

As i start each day, I never know where my internet hunting will take me, what links I will follow and what clarifying terms i will google. Indeed, this is a great era, where answers are only keystrokes away. I should not be surprised then, when throughout a series of mundane circumstances, I should happen upon an article accusing a small island with a population of 47 people, of massive counts of child rape.

Please, let me explain.

I love geography and often, instead of paying any attention at all the patient strapped to the operating table, I play a geography game. Sure, the patient may need a blood transfusion or an implant opened...and that is all great and good, but in the mean time, I am bored and www.sheppardsoftware.com provides free games that makes each day I am alive a little less shitty.

These games get me through the day. A friend showed me the website years ago, and now I am hooked. This game highlights a country and then you must type in the name of that country- and it is timed and spelling counts (Azerbaijan? Djibouti?)...so ...yeah...it is hard.

I did not start out as some amazing geography savant, indeed, the first step to the game is correctly selecting the country when asked- it is at this step when one can read a blurb about the country (exports, history, which STDs started there...etc). I always skipped this part- like any addict, I needed a fix, and this history of who settled who and what language got sent where was useless to me. But now, years later, I have memorized every country and beaten my own personal best time AND I have correctly identified all the major rivers. It is only now that I debased myself with reading a little about these countries I had spent years mapping- think of it like running out of weed and now you are forced to scrape your bowl for resin. It is exactly like that.

I chose the islands of Oceania. I know what you are thinking...huh? Well- google it, bitch. You will find New Zealand out there and pretty much every island country on which Survivor has ever filmed (Tuvalu, Vanuatu Palau, etc) . I was reading the usual blurbs about the indigenous peoples being eradicated with small pox or learning cover their baby-making junk by missionaries, until I got the tiny place known as Pitcairn Island.

Does this ring a bell? For some (like my dad) it might- for those that don't, here is a synopsis
-sailors don't want to sail anymore so they mutiny and send their captain off in a tiny boat stealing the ship the HMS Bounty
-they kidnap some fine Tahitian poon and take it with them to this tiny little island
-they burn their boat and sever all ties to Britain and those 30 people live happily ever after

Well, the next blurb on the screen discussed how, at the last census, the island's inhabitants totaled a mere 47 (estimate). That is right, estimate. god forbid, someone on the census committee missed someone who was pooping on this 18.1 square mile island. Pitcairn has a claim to fame in being the least populated sovereign territory in the world.

I was impressed that this little child's website would be so detailed about all this history. As I scrolled down to the last paragraph I read "There are allegations of a long history and tradition of sexual abuse of girls as young as 10 and 11" which lead to a long drawn out court hearing of 13 of the male citizens (including the mayor).

Now, we need to notice 3 important points
1- This has combined my love of geography with my love of talking
about rape. I don't expect you to understand this..i know it is
weird, but whatever.
2- This is a child's website. Yes, the world maps are hard, but it is
also designed in bright colors and has little baby animals on every page.
3- Wikipedia is the best website ever. E.V.E.R. There is nothing that
you cannot search for, no matter how obscure.

So, here I was, engrossed in this ridiculous article when another
nurse had quietly come in behind me. Like a ninja, she had silently
positioned herself over my shoulder and was reading right along with me. I do not know how long she had been there, but she clearly did not see my progression from website to website in my perilous search for answers. I only realized that she was there when I heard her read aloud "a woman alleged that she had been raped twice as a school girl wait...and she had been a virgin ...Why are you reading this?"

I was so mad that my quest for knowledge was being judged by this woman, with her arms crossed and a stare that meant she thought I might be dangerous. I was a little embarrassed that she had seen me reading this, but I honestly had nothing to be embarrassed about. Dare I try to explain to her what I had been doing? Could she understand that I just wanted to learn more about this random tiny island made up of ex-mutineers and pedophiles? I said the only thing that I could.

"It's a long story..."

Up in the Air

Ah, the joy of flying. To be quite honest, I actually do not mind it. I do fly a lot and have it down to a relatively uncomplicated and smooth-ish system. I say this with reservation because there are so many factors to take into consideration (mainly other people- other travelers, babies, security guards, unhelpful asshole airline employees etc)

So, today I a flying off to Chicago for an annual Cianci related experience. I get to the kiosk and there is an old woman who is tapping away at the screen at the station next to me. I effortlessly complete my transaction in about 2 minutes (it would have been shorter, but I spent a few seconds seriously considering the offer to upgrade to 1st class, a decision I will deeply regret later). As I finish, the woman, turns to me. She has two large bags to check and her wallet is hemorrhaging papers/cards/money as she tries desperately yo slide her credit card through a slot clearly marked for passports. She politely says “Can you please help me with this?”. I am not wearing a fancy American Airlines vest and I do not have an foreign accent. Clearly I do not work at the airport, so no dice, grandma, but nice try. I do not make eye contact and instead continue on my way to the security checkpoint.

I will not comment directly on the security station because it has been overdone. Instead, dear reader, extrapolate stereotypical scenarios from the following questions I would ask other travelers
1- You have multiple children uinder the age of 5, are you sure that it is worth the cost and trouble to see your family for a few days?
2- when you btough your huge stroller or wheelchair/scooter, did you not think that shoving coats/toys/bags/water bottles all thorugh it might be a bad idea?
3- Are you afraid that your house will be robbed while you are gone? That is the only reason I can think of for why you would be wearing every piece of jewelry you own. Did you not know that jewelry is metal? And metal sets of a metal detector? I undestand that you are taking your bling off piece by piece? When you take it off, do you really find it relaxing to act exasperated as if someone else is to blame for this situation?
4- I love those boots!! They do not look difficult or time consuming to remove at all.

So, I made it through security. Although, for full disclosure, I mist admit that I did delay the line a little. I took off my shoes and then pay my coat across them, I also removed my computer and put it in a separate bin and stayed with my belongings to push them through the x-ray machine. I did not however, remove my scarf. True, I could have expertly tailored it with explosives. My bulky sweater/jacket though, was not a security risk. Good job, security, I feel so much safer.

Anyhoo, I positioned myself near the gare, back facing the on-slaught of commutters, and instead busied myself with reading a terrifying and graphic novel-type thing my parents bought for Christmas. It is aptly titled “ZOMBIES: A Record of the Year of Infection” field notes by Dr. Robert Twombly. It is exactly as the name describes. There are rather bloody, abstract drawings of reanimated corpses in various states of decay. Since I have an overwhelming fear of zombies, it was an odd choice of book…but my parents know best that I am a crippling masochist, so maybe it was perfect. The drawings are…severe?
I( am very used to being a people watcher, and indeed, would have busied myself observing the rushed and weary traveler instead of reading had I not been a little curious. I am very thankful that I kept my attention on the book for two reasons
1- It made everyone around me very uncomfortable. I really really like to make strangers un comfortable. These are people that I will never see again in my entire life and whom I will forget the instant I get off the plane. The cover had the word ZOMBIES scrawled across it in blood red lettering as well as the picture of a rotting zombie from both a front and rear view. Many of these passengers stared at the cover as I read, and the small child next to me was removed by a concerned parent. I guess I am glad I had this book because it made the people-watchers great people to watch.
2- Reading distracted me from the fact that a woman staggered down the hall and proceeded to vomit all over herself. I did not hear it, not gagging, no sputtering. Not the splash of it hitting the glossy airport floor. Instead I heard the horrified gasps of those around me and saw the disgust register in every face. One woman across from me was on the phone and thankfully, she said “Dad, this woman just puked on herself…she is heading to the bathroom.” Her narration was most helpful. All the catty women around me began chatting about how they really really hoped that she was not on our flight. That narration was not helpful…no shit Sherlock, I also do not want Vomit McPukesherself on our flight. I took that moment to think if maybe I should find out if she needs assistance…since I am some sort of medical professional-but instead I chose to stay in my seat and brainstorm ways to sabotage her if indeed she tried to board our plane.. I am settled on diagnosing her with highly contagious bacterial meningitis and went back to my book.

Well, now I am sitting here on the plane, at a crusing altitude of 25,000 feet, with my iTunes on, typing this post to distract me from the two children in the seats surrounding me- one of which I am pretty sure shit its pants sometime right after take-off…but god forbid mom notices, she doesn’t even notice that her son is screaming his head off, she should have saved some of the vamlium for jr. and done us all a favor.

Also, most of you readers know that I like booze. In fact, I am going to say that I love booze. I have admitted this kind of undying, faithful and self-sacrificing love only one other time in my life..so yeah, I am pretty serious. I brought bottled water on the plane so declined the offer of more water from the glorified air-waitress. I regretted it immediately when the man sitting next to me bought three mini-bottle of Jack Daniels. My mouth watered at the thought, but then I realized it was 1030am…so yeah…despite the offer of a mid-flight drinking buddy, I stuck to water.

Well, my plane is “starting it’s decent” into Chicago.

Despite all of this…not a bad trip.