The delays in securing an operation for my gimp arm in the public
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system (that shit be fri) are becoming laughable, and I feel I'm
getting the runaround, as it were. "Back in my country", we solve
problems by throwing money at them. So I've been getting second and
third outside opinions.
My upper arm is paralyzed from muh severely lesioned (aka them bitches
got CUT) axillary nerve and suprascapular nerve. It's been almost 6
months from the date of the accident, so I know I am running out of
My first outside opinion is with the former chief of traumatology at
the public hospital where I had the original operation to fix my
clavicle. I feel this is a slightly mafiaistic (yes, that is a word...
now) connection, as he shares his private practice with the evil lady
doctor who is the current chief of traumatology.
All three doctors (public, private 1, private 2) seem to be saying the
same thing. If I had approached the private doctors sooner, they
probably would have done a graft of my sural nerve. Since it's kind of
late in the game, they're probably going to do a neurotization from
who knows where. The public doctors think both the nerve graft and the
neurotization are equally likely to be fine at this point. Word on the
street (and I'd like to know which street) is that it's much easier to
recover from the neurotization.
They all specialize in brachial plexus injuries and they are
supposedly number 1 (private 1), 2 (public), and 3 (private 2) in the
southern hemisphere (including injuh and australia).
Private 1 makes me nervous because of the close connection to Public
(bitch is crayzay), so I'm leaning toward Private 2, who spent some
time practicing at Mass General and is a visiting professor at
So, regarding Private 2:
Q1. Would you allow this person to operate on you?
Q2. Would your response to Q1 change, if upon entering the office, you
saw that he had written a book, and that Deepak Chopra had written the
introduction? If so, how?
Please respond to Q1 by Monday.
Now that I have somewhat of an objective, or at least a necessary activity to engage in to reach said somewhat of an objective, I have to procrastinate.
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I should be studying for the GRE right now. Or the GMAT, the much-easier-to-score-very-well-on exam accepted by some programs in lieu of the GRE. Don't worry, it would only be to have an admissions advantage. My somewhat of an objective does not include plans to be a douchebag. I am not going to business school. But I guess trying to get an admissions advantage makes me a douchebag. If it walks like a duck...
I felt the urge to write today, but it took me so long to find/access my journals that I don't know how much more energy my hands have. I'm still trying to train my fingers to type. I've been doing intensive physical therapy since October and will start physiotherapy tomorrow to see if my nerves have a chance of full recovery. I'm getting it back slowly, enough so that I have the confidence that I can complete assignments with more than 24 hours' turnaround time, but for some reason clients are not falling over themselves to contract my services. Weird.
Now that I have dependable internet, I should also e-mail a lot of people. I created a triaged list of people to contact and update and thank, but somehow just writing the list made me feel overwhelmed and like a bit of a failure in my relationships of all kinds. I'm sure they'd understand. RIght?
So my account still exists, but I have no idea how I just logged in, seeing as I don't even remember what email address is associated with it. Anybody? Anybody? Bueller?
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Remember that time I got a pair of True Religion jeans for $15?
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Yeah, that was today.
There's more going on in my life, I swear!
Erin and Anna have been hounding me for an update (Erin randomly, and Anna is standing over my shoulder yelling at me to type).
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Today I was a sloth and woke up at 1pm. I sat on the couch by the window and finished reading the curious incident of the dog in the night-time (yes, that was a dash...crazy Brits). I read the New York Times online and e-mailed someone a randomly disturbing article of interest. I know these sentences are choppy. And I like how "choppy" sounds choppy (in contrast to "monosyllabic," which certainly does not sound like it is comprised of but one syllable. How misleading!). Anyway, I think the point of this entry originally might have been that I ate a lot today. Not just a lot, but the world's most random assortment of things. Now, if you know me, you know that I eat things for two reasons: either I have a craving or it's in front of me. So for lunch I ate chocolate and brussels sprouts. Here is why I don't understand my appetite: I ate the chocolate because it was there, but the brussels sprouts because I craved them. Craved. Is that weird to anyone else?
Nobody in my house was talking to me, so I went downstairs to see what was on the Food Network, with the hope that Good Eats would be on. I had to sit through 24 minutes of 30 Minute Meals to get to it, and then the show was only about butter. I was disappointed--to say the least. Let me digress here to talk about Miss Ray. While I like how she tries to get disaffected housewives to not be overwhelmed by the thought of cooking a meal, nothing she makes ever sounds like it tastes good. So yeah, I don't like her. The only person on that channel with actual talent is Mario Battalli. In my professional opinion. Yeah.
Chris is spending a month in Rio, so I watched House by myself and then picked up my little sister from her friend's house. We got Taco Bell on the way home. I had a Chalupa. I am totally aware that Taco Bell does not in any way resemble authentic Mexican food, but I ate it anyway. That might have been considered excusable in an alternate universe, but as we drove back home from Taco Bell, we decided we were still hungry so we went to Wendy's, where I got a 5 piece order of chicken nuggets. I am totally aware that the chicken nuggets do not in any way resemble authentic chicken meat, but I ate them anyway. With sweet and sour sauce. Which I don't really like too much. I meant to ask for ranch or honey mustard, but when the guy at the window asked what kind of sauce I wanted, I couldn't think of the names of the sauces I desired. So I said the first thing that I thought of besides barbeque sauce. Because that does not go with chicken nuggets and that would have been even more unacceptable than sweet and sour.
Random medical knowledge to the rescue. I witnessed an egregious error in this week's episode of House: they thought the chick had African sleeping sickness, so they treated it with melasoporol. Which is the general standby treatment...if you live in Africa. But in an emergency, like it was on House, they use it here too. Except they expected improvement within a few hours of administering treatment. A course usually takes 3 weeks. Fine, whatever. But they made such a huge deal about how it's a mixture of arsenic and antifreeze and they showed the medicine corroding her veins... but they continued to give injections in the same vein for the rest of the show. In real life you have to inject it at a different site each time because of said damage. I know, it's television. And I'm anal. But there haven't really been any mistakes on the show (not in the episodes I've seen, anyway). And that was kind of large and basic. Maybe to my insular group of science dork friends and me ("Is catecholamine a neurotransmitter?"). Did I mention that I'm not going to medical school because I hate dealing with people?
I need to stalk the Culinary at some point in the near future. I guess this week. You know, just like I'm redoing my resume this week. Ha. That's funny. About the resume. I really will go to the Culinary this week.
Anyway, more later.
It wouldn't be so depressing if this weren't a preview of the weather for the next eight months, except that we can surely look forward to it getting progressively colder.
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I will say that the sun did decide to come out today for a whole twenty minutes before it set. This weekend was plagued by rain. Not oh, a few drops, how charming rain, but flood warning, 3 inches per hour rain. Pretty much every street corner is a lake, yay Boston drainage! Oh well. The cloudy weather forced me to clean my room today. Now, most people are exaggerating when they say that their rooms are filthy, but this was definitely unacceptable. I had three days' worth of SOAKED clothing (good luck finding an open washer or dryer on the weekend) hung in various places about the room, including over the bookshelf, closed in the dresser drawers, over the closet door and doorknob, hanging from the window lock, and hanging over the back of my chair in addition to occupying my drying rack. Several Boston Globes were scattered about to catch the drips. Dirty dry clothing was everywhere, a pre-laundry-sorting project that was in progress before I realized I didn't have time to do laundry. I think the people in this building must be much cleaner this year than in years past simply because it seems that all washers and dryers are occupied at all times of the day on all days of the week. My Wednesday night antisocial activity has been effectively stripped from my schedule. I think I'll try going down there next time I'm suffering from insomnia and see what's up.
I love the narcissism of my friends. James has proposed a month-long addendum to the North African/Middle Eastern skip-jump: a lovely hike along the entirety of El Camino de Santiago. Not for religious purposes, but to travel to the remains of St. James anyhow. But in addition to his previous Spanish adventures, the name is what sold him, methinks. Even though the real St. James was a saint because he murdered Moors. And James is Arabic and knows this. It actually sounds kind of cool, and of course we can explore fun Catalan dialect during the first portion. And I could think of worse things to do than hike in the Pyrenees. And now for my related narcissism: could I look more awesome than after hiking 500 miles in 25 days?
Maybe I should stop playing with silly putty on my laptop keyboard.
Well, the incubation period is about right. I'm convinced that I caught this case of tuberculosis from the emergency room, center of nastiness and assorted diseases. Or maybe it's from yon kitten of James (straight).
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Don't worry, dear readers: it's not tuberculosis. That's just what I call any cold (according to my charming and unique lexicon). I'm not even coughing yet.
I was rather thrilled with my immunity up until this point. Most folk get sick within the first few weeks of school; I made it through a whole month. I do believe I am officially on my ass now. I walked home from the GSU today and it took 28 minutes. I seriously considered stopping to rest on several random benches along the way, but dignity and the awful thought of having to get up again prevailed and I just ambled along until I reached my destination. When I reached casa dorma, I was absolutely exhausted, but it was only 6:00. As you know, that's probably a little too late to take a nap (wait, it is never too late to take a nap). I told myself I would stick it out until 7, because, let's be honest, I am not opposed to sleeping for 12 hours and being a complete sloth. 6:30 rolled around and I could barely keep my eyes open and my head was starting to bob, so hey, why not just call it a night? I entered my cloud despite the warm temperature outside (cloud = bed with foam thing and feather mattress topping + down comforter + 400 thread count sheets (I challenge you to find those in twin extra long)) and immediately fell into a state of complete relaxation. God, I love sleep so much.
Now, I must note that nobody ever calls me. Like, ever. Not five minutes after I put my head down upon my New York Times review (yes, I'm serious)-endorsed pillow, I got a phone call. Less than an hour later, another. 10 minutes after that, another, and immediately after, another. The inquiries were:
Do you want to go to a concert?
Do you have any staples?
Is it okay to put the fish in the tank yet?
What is your favorite vitamin water flavor?
Looking at that list, I am far more amused than upset. Really, if you don't want to be bothered, why not just turn your phone to silent or--gasp--off? There are two reasons I won't do that. One is that I prefer to use my phone as an alarm clock over my actual alarm clock. If it's silent, well, it won't be very alarming, now will it? The other is incredibly sad and pathetic and shall not be disclosed at this point in time or ever.
Needless to say, I was unable to fall back asleep. As I have a view of the Prudential building (see: inferior and hideous Boston architecture, volume I), I noticed it was changing colors. Hm, I'm not on acid or anything, wtf? Well, that was also distracting. Yeah.
So I forced myself to get out of bed. Actually, I really had to pee and couldn't hold it any longer so I had to get up. I thought of the paper I had neglected to read and analyze in its entirety before endocrinology tomorrow: "Activity-Dependent Modulation of Neurotransmitter Innervation to Vasopressin Neurons of the Supraoptic Nucleus". You would update your journal too.
I would like to add that I hate both cell biology and neuroscience. Put them together and you would also consider dropping a Biology major one class short of completing it.
Okay, everyone has used the facebook to procrastinate at one time or another. While perusing my new favorite person's profile, I discovered the greatest group in the history of the world:
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Most likely to eat their own young's profile
They aren't cute. They're tiny, tiny monsters who look like Winston Churchill. Babies are the poor man's ugly Muppet. We don't find every syllable they utter to be just precious, and it's not ok for you to bring them into movie theaters, airplanes, or Starbucks. It's not that we hate them, it's just that we firmly believe they should be raised like veal for the first four years, in a box. Far away from us.
I was so delighted when I read this that I actually squeaked while trying to hold back my evil laughter.
I just felt the need to share that with the general population.
My weekend has already been too eventful (holy crap, i just typed "to" by accident, an offense that I believe is punishable by amputation of the responsible hand (like "your" for "you're" ...how ignint must you be to be completely unable to absorb a concept taught in second grade? It's not like you haven't had time to correct your grammatically deviant ways.). Except amputation isn't necessary if you don't have full use of your hands anyway. Read on to find out why!). no more capitals because typing with one hand isn't easy and this way i can blame any subsequent typos on muh disabillitee.
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it was a friday night like any other, the necessities for a dinner party with the amigos (you know, dinner) in the making. the courses in reverse order, as to build up suspense before introducing the offending item, were molten chocolate cake; raspberry glazed chicken with herbed couscous; spinach salad with gorgonzola cheese, candied walnuts, dried cranberries, and balsamic vinaigrette; and matzo ball soup (oy! it was shabbat! and what better way to perpetuate the unfair genetic stereotyping about my randomly jewish behavior/appearance than to make matzo ball soup?).
i should have been suspicious when the pot of soup displayed the signs of a rolling boil...for 20 minutes even after the heat had been reduced to the lowest setting on the bootleg electric stove. whatever, soup should be served hot. as i was transferring the soup to a bowl (a two-handed operation, naturally) some soup splashed onto my right hand. a standard neuro-spinal reflex arc was activated (sorry antonio), and my hand involuntarily retracted. my left hand was in no position to support the vessel of burning death, and most of the remaining boiling liquid poured over my hand. okay, so it hurt. a lot. i went to the bathroom sink and proceeded to administer burn first aid, which consisted of running my hands under cold water for a time during which the water used could restore long-barren ethiopian fields to fertility. (god bless america)
said unit of time later, my right hand was fine, but my left hand was in ridiculous pain at any point it wasn't completely submerged in water. eh, what do you expect from a burn? i placed my hand in a bowl of cool water as we ate dinner (proof positive that nothing can ever make me give up food). the situation hadn't improved even an hour later, with my whole hand still pink and angry red splotches appearing between my fingers, small areas puffing away, indicating initial sadness of the collagen/laminin matrix, precursor to pus exodus. ew. well, that's not really a first degree burn, is it? i decided to look up burn first aid, but Sara's ordinateur couldn't trouve le site-web "google.com". problem solved moments later (engrish! speak engrish, you stupid widdle retahd!), this is roughly what i found: "minor burns: run the affected area under cold water for 15 minutes...if the burn is on the hands or face or exceeds 3 inches in diameter (check, nope, check), treat it as a severe burn. severe burns: if the victim is on fire..." thanks for being completely useless. hm, long story short, seek medical attention. not too many doctors' offices are open at 11:30 on friday, so my only option was the emergency room.
one would assume that there are many advantages to being a three minute drive from the longwood medical area, home to some of the world's best and brightest physicians and residents. if you had a really basic injury and were given myriad care options, all the same distance away, would you go to a red sox endorsed (wtf is wrong with boston? who likes baseball enough to be retarded enough to risk death for the sake of a team? dear god, this city is inferior in every way. please nuke it.) institution or would you go to harvard's teaching hospital? me too. (actually, they're both good hospitals, but brigham and women's it was. besides, being a conscientious sort of gal, i didn't want to violate anyone's religious beliefs by walking into a jewish hospital on friday night/saturday morning.)
confidence levels were up, as the reception desk isn't manned by secretaries, but by actual nurses who see you immediately. a lovely, gay, male (what's new?) nurse with an extreme distaste for the smell of vomit did a preliminary inspection of my hand and wrapped it in wet gauze (are you serious?), spilled some coffee grounds on his keyboard, and then asked me how much pain i was in, pointing to two posters on the wall, only one (in spanish) remotely grammatically correct, so i said me duele muchisimo (as opposed to "hurts whole lot"), as my hand felt like it was about to fall off, thanks.
i was called in to see a doctor some time later (yay dots) and was told to sit on a bed in an inspection room, standard, really. the funny thing about being conscious in an emergency room is that you can spend your time watching for inefficiencies and fake-ass bitches. granted, someone who gets a residency at bwh has plenty of excuses to embark on a perpetual ego trip, but dey bedside manners be ridiculous. inefficiency number one: the escorting nurse had put me in the wrong room to begin with, so i had to be moved to an alternate location, happily it was one from which i could see the whole er.
disturbing/interesting observations include:
during about fifty observed egresses from the room, only one doctor sanitized his hands.
a resident sneezed into her bare hands and then immediately touched a patient's mouth.
a group of folk far more interested in another resident's digital camera than the jaundiced man beginning to seize behind them.
sickly sweet, contrived friendliness toward patients on the part of two women: exaggerated head movements, unnecessarily loud voices, stupid phrases, "oh no, what happened to YOU?...oops, you poor thing, well, don't you worry..."
everyone being seen by three different doctors who asked them all the same questions. this was only not irritating for the man with alzheimer's next to me.
a catheter bag, filled with intended substance and blood, dripping onto the floor and people walking through it like it ain't no thang but a chicken wang.
three different doctors recommended three different treatments, and in the end my hand was given a creep-nasty cloth-soaked-in-not-iodine-yellow-substance shell and then wrapped over with gauze.
i don't really know what the purpose of that was, but at that point the vicodin was all up ons, and then some fool resident proceeded to make me take advil and tylenol together for pain... which might have been overkill, and was definitely slightly dangerous. way to communicate with each other. so, i was feeling pretty much fantastic (which meant i wasn't feeling anything) and was given my very own suture removal kit, medical tape, gauze, triple antibiotic ointment, and mysterious yellow soaked cloth to dress my hand again in the morning and sent on my way.
as an aside, i think suture is one of the dirtiest sounding words in the english language, and i don't have any to remove, but i think they gave the kit to me to cut away dead skin in the future, or so it's written with detailed instructions on my discharge sheet. i wasn't really paying attention at that point. (um, are you supposed to do that to yourself?)
spent the night over the toilet; i guess i don't have a very high drug tolerance. good morning, it's a beautiful day! my hand is leaking and i can't move it.
wow, i started typing this two hours and 10 min ago. time to get work done.
This is something I'd characterize as a whole lot of dirty:
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The two girls with whom I share a bathroom don't wash their hands. I've placed a delightful-smelling cherry blossom soap on the sink ledge, and its volume has only decreased due to my own use. It's for communal use. I don't understand. And even if it wasn't, if you were to use the bathroom and had neglected to bring your own soap, wouldn't you be so gosh darn relieved to find some waiting for you that you'd use it anyway? I have yet to hear the sink running.
Maybe the saddest part is that I put real thought into the soap selection. I figured it's a nice summerish scent, gel based, and it lathers really well. It's pink to match their toothbrush holder (as an aside, I don't think any of those brushes have moved, either).
I'm updating at 8:30 am because I don't have class at this hour for the first time EVER at BU. Additionally, I am so used to waking up at 5:00am from this summer that sleeping in until 8 makes me feel just as deliciously slothful as waking up at noon does other folk.
Off for breakfast with James (bi (read: "gay: has never slept with a woman and doesn't plan on it")).
I'm drinking some Egyptian orange blossom water from James, who felt I had to have a bottle. Interesting. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I do have to admit that I'm rather tempted to wash my delicates in it; it smells delightful!
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My first-semester freshman year chemistry lab partner, the Iranian billionaire, seems to have run away from the sciences and hath made his way to my Monetary and Banking Institutions class, and is now my study group. I missed him.
I love fresh figs.
Say you find a Gucci handbag in the middle of the sidewalk at 4am. Said handbag contains two Coach wallets, a Tiffany keychain, and a cell phone with a dead battery. You find the owner's school ID and use her school's directory to find her e-mail address. You also send her a facebook message. You tell her you have the handbag and ask what the best way to get it back to her is. It's been three days and you haven't heard a thing, despite the fact that the handbag also contains credit cards, car keys, and apartment keys. She clearly needs this.
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Is this Christmas, or what can you do?
Psh. As if we needed more.
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Don't you love finding entertaining magazines around the house? My latest foray into the world of "masculine" literature is an outdated issue of GQ, courtesy of my metrosexual brother. In it is an interview with Alan Greenspan. I already know plenty about the man I aspire to be (and, oh, I will be) one day, but the delightful descriptions of his personality quirks and intentional vagueness--all in a dumbed-down, intellectual poseuresque format--had me giddy. It's just so me. But we already know I'm a Middle Eastern gay man trapped inside a white girl's body. That might explain a little. Well, not about my delight in the article per se, but since when have I ever stuck to a topic when not submitting prosealicious material to be graded?
World domination to come. I'd better get on the fast track.
The hamster looks more angry than bored, but I guess it's an accurate pictoral relection of my current state, as waking up daily at 5:00 does cause my eyelids to assume a drooping position until I consume massive quantities of plain chai and the clock displays four digits.
Designs on European travel having been duly thwarted by circumstances other than those able to be controlled par moi, I spent the weekend with my charming cousin in scenic Easton, Pennsylvania.
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Dear Department of Transportation,
I would like to suggest a small improvement to our nation's highway system: it would be a great idea if you were to post signs indicating when two lanes are about to merge from the left onto an alreadyeightlane highway. Holyfreakingcrap.
Fun quality time with Antonio is fun quality time with Antonio--(Yes. Carefully chosen punctuation. I dare you to try to misuse an em dash. In a novel way. Yeah.)no matter what the circumstances, it's always delightful! I love how nobody else gets genuinely excited about seeing dey cuzins, even in the face of disappointment and many kilomile bodily relocations.
In other news, the hottie (as deemed by work-endorsed Photoshop adventures) let me play with his... car. This might not be such a huge deal, but for a girl with a history of lusting after men of the utterly unattainable variety (married? what is that?), AHHH!!! Can I say how much I've missed the wonderment of automatic fun single-wheel braking? Having permission and encouragement to negotiate his lovely ve-hick-ull around multiple s-bends at a healthy 30ish mph over the speed limit both with and without him in the car avec moi is surely an indication of muy trust. Which of course is steps away from a declaration of undying love. Right. Fun to drive, though. So hot. One week left. Why, yes, you certainly can do anything you'd like. If. Only. Some people might call it a pathology of sorts, but maybe I just like the challenge.
So, back to how my journal entries never go where they're intended. And how I've stopped listing individual songs due to lack of knowledge of artists and/or song titles.
No longer in Argentina = CHRISTOPHER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! See, it never hurts to keep in touch while abroad.
Sidebar: I long for the days when I had game...
(Much like a subtle nuance, a nuance that is not blatantly obvious.)
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Awesome weekend. A weekend of ridiculous excess and good times all around? Of course! It got off to a slightly rocky start, what with a certain Hungarian having apologize for making life difficult. But I understand how shards of pottery are more important.
This adventure begins at the Ritz-Carlton Battery Park, where my card refused my golden touch and wouldn't let me get to muh floor. A kind middle-aged man assisted me and I found yon room. The ambience was on in the form of a wonderful jazz CD playing on yon room stereo. I sat down on the couch and waited. And waited. An hour after he said he had arrived in New York, I still hadn't heard from James. Fearing the worst in my paranoid mind, I turned on the news to see if a lone, Middle Eastern traveler with a single suitcase bearing an Egypt sticker had been apprehended for no apparent reason. Not that a recent London incident upset me or anything. Luckily, nothing of the sort occurred, and he called moments later. The cause of his tardiness? BU-reaucracy. Not that it's surprising.
We went to a restaurant that centered around cheese. If you know me, I thought I was in heaven. Fellow foodies, we consumed Sauternes-and-Stilton fondue with apples and bread cubes, trout amandine, and pineapple renverse with coconut-lime ice cream. The culinary orgasm lasted pretty much the whole weekend, the climax of which occurred on Saturday night at Duvet, a restaurant which employs 10' x 10' platform beds piled with pillows in place of tables. Ahh. Complete zen moment. The only shock sufficient enough to tear us from the euphoria occurred when we saw "The Pillowman," an AMAZING play. Highly recommended. Do you love superlatives? It was the most bestest show I've ever seen.
To my friends I choose to describe in person the subsequent events, but let's just say y'all'd be proud that it resulted in me peeing in public in an affluent neighborhood and walking >60 blocks barefoot. And not feeling a thing. Nearly ruining my life again, but for my subtle reminder handcuff/bracelet, which was brought out of retirement to keep me from doing something stupid.
And there was the long-awaited meeting with Antonio!!!
Oh, Faith, I just witnessed the Target commercial. Oh my.
Tangent: holy crap, I love House and knowing everything.
Witticisms and entertaining bitching later. Pictures on muh imagestation website.
I wish more than anything that I were endowed with the gift of discretion. I have also never learned the art of quitting while I'm ahead.
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This absolutely can NOT happen, EVER.
But why not?
I think I'm going to cry.
Twinge of hope, dash of regret, and a whole lot of guilt. And I haven't even done anything.
Hilarity ensues on quick trip to a fast food chain. A legendary tale of rillness, as witnessed by Courtney.
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A large woman, estimated to be weighing nearly 300 pounds, approaches the counter at a Kentucky Fried Chicken.
"Can I help you?" inquires a frail-looking, elderly white man behind the counter.
The woman proceeds to order a bucket of chicken, a family-sized side of mashed potatoes, a chicken sandwich, and all the fixin's.
"Is that for here or to go?" dutifully asks the old man, according to his training.
"BUHSCUSE ME?! You think Imma eat this all my own self?" yells the woman.
"Bitch, I don't know your life!" replied the old man.
Now, some people may get away for the weekend, some may have plans with friends, some may go out to dinner, and some may go to the movies. Well, that's not very original, is it? Never being one to follow the crowd, I took my little sister to the grocery store.
Before you pass judgement, we had plans to hang out with Antonio, but they were thwarted by Satan and quality body products.
So, Anna was having some distressing boy troubles this week, and I'm always eating, so hey, why shouldn't we go buy some ice cream? Plus I needed vanilla beans to make creme brulee. I recently purchased a kitchen torch and ramekins at Williams-Sonoma, my favorite store (even better than Home Depot!). Well, we arrived at yon groceria (not to be confused with "bodega"), and began our search for the elusive vanilla bean. Having been unsuccessful in our previous spice aisle searches, we headed to the exotic produce section. Between stalks of sugar cane, baskets of taro root, jicama, and (most exotic of all) coconuts, was a barrel of what appeared to be natural loofahs. A loofah in the produce section? A two-and-a-half foot long loofah? No, it couldn't possibly be. Shaped like elephant trunks and caveman clubs, we beat the seeds out of them for planting at a later date. Of course we took a few with us around the store, just because we could. We continued our quest for the vanilla bean, and an employee stopped us to ask us what, exactly, we planned on doing with our fibrous implements. We said we had no idea, to which he replied, "Oh. I always see little Spanish people walking around with them." Down the next aisle we added fat free, sugar free instant pudding to our haul, then, as I complained loudly about there being saffron but no vanilla beans available while I held a jar containing two in my hand. Oops. Well, they wanted $15 for two, and I was just not feeling it on sheer principle. Why, you ask? Maybe I was being my randomly Jewish self, but the beans did not pass the Williams-Sonoma test: if I can get it cheaper there--the world's most overpriced and wonderful kitchen store--it's too expensive. And they have them 2 for $9. So hmph. In case anyone was wondering. Like it's a deal or something.
Well, our assortment of goods was becoming delightfully random, so why not go for broke and get the mafia guy at the register to comment on it? A tube of anchovy paste and three containters of ice cream later, the nice colored lady at the other register informed us that we could be ess-fole-ee-ate-in in the shower with it. The loofah constrictor rang up as "peanut candies"... I think that may have been a misread.
So we got to our casa and my brother's car and a ridiculous Viper had found homes in our driveway (stripes on the hood... you know... I don't care if it comes with them, they're stupid). I had trouble getting the bag with the loofah/fibrous seed pod out of the car, it was so inappropriately long. I open the door to find my brother's girlfriend standing in the entry, and in my usual outspoken and mild-to-incredibly offensive manner, I yelled, "Ashley! Hey, you're kind of Puerto Rican, what is this thing?!" Before I even crossed the threshold. Go me. She laughed, but had no idea that it could serve any purpose other than as a showering implement. I guess she doesn't eat them. I love her. She's nice and funny and awesome. Yes.
Anyway, my mother, with all of her Brazilian know-how from spending a year of her precious youth in da rill LA, was determined to burn down our house by placing our precious coconut upon the stove to burn off the hairs for a smooth finish. I wouldn't have any of that, so Anna and I egressed to the porch, where we made like some natives and scraped the coconut upon the concrete until it was smoov as a baby's bottom. Or a hairless coconut. And you wonder why I so rarely update.
So, in conclusion (can you believe Ms. Marin commanded us to write like so in eighth grade?), the point of this entry was to inquire of my lovely readers whether the natural loofah is traditionally consumed and/or marketed as a foodstuff. And whether any of you knew it is a plant. I always thought it was a sponge myself. Does anyone have loofah recipes?
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I love having exceptionally intelligent, interesting, and charismatic friends.
Not only did he get a 38 on his MCAT, he just got hired to teach a Kaplan course to share with others how to eat the MCAT for breakfast (and lunch and dinner; it is 8 hours long, after all).
Part of the interview process was to give a five-minute presentation on a topic of your choice.
He spoke for five minutes about the many different types of coffee and the merits of each, offering ideal dessert pairings at the very end.
Who does that? So awesome.
(FYI: For the purpose of settling wrongful death lawsuits, it's legally defined somewhere in the $10 million range)
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Speaking of valuing life (and of course mine is worth more than anyone else's ever!!!!!), how sketchy are flight arrangements to and from areas of questionable ties?
So, really, it's simple: fly from the first world to the (let's call it second) pseudo-third world, to the RILL first world, and back to the regular first world. Not wanting to be shot or bombed or otherwise targeted by folk of special origin, we've got to fly in and out on native or collaborator airlines (as previously mentioned). I love multi-destination tickets.
Well, holy crap, between last week and this week, variety has been completely stripped and it now seems that the only flights available out of Dubai are on Aeroflot.
BUHSCUSE ME?! Aeroflot, as in highest accident rate airline in the world? As in, Cold War-era Soviet state-run airline? As in, we hire MiG pilots (and their average age is 56)? And 17 year olds to balance it out to a reasonable flight force average age? As in, it's still not quite privately owned and real Soviets oversee its operations? (Yes, I said "Soviets" and not "Russians" because there is a HUGE difference.) Okay, I guess not as many people as would be expected have heard of nonstop flights. But day-um, how cool would a 17 hour layover in Moscow be? Exploration awaits! Because I've figured out the most randomly Jewish way to travel on $3,698 airfare: pick your layovers in neat-o places, timed perfectly for full exploration opportunity. Prague there, Mecca in between, Moscow back. Well, it all sounds whimsical, but nyet thanks. Surely it's dangerous enough to show up in the middle east at all with one too many x chromosomes. If I manage to survive the trip, I'd rather not die over Moldova or somewhere equally random where my remains will never be retrieved.
Waiting for an AirFrance flight that isn't smashed together in with Delta in the itinerary. Did I mention that I don't want the airlines I choose to go bankrupt before I leave?
Anyway, Antonio, I hereby leave thee muh assets.