The girl at the Fremont Outdoor Movies on Saturday night who was wearing two foldable armchair carrying cases in lieu of sweatshirt sleeves? Yes, that was me. Apparently, I'm the only person in all of Seattle's outdoor-moviegoing crowd too dim to realize that it gets damn cold near the canal after sunset.
In case you're interested, it's very difficult to turn magazine pages when your hands are encased by chair bags. It also makes you sound like a branch of leaves rustling in the wind whenever you move. Or breathe. However, it does make it easy to obtain elbow room in an otherwise-packed venue. Oddly, no one wants to sit within range of Armchair Sleeve Girl.
Monday, August 08, 2005
America. F--- Yeah.
You know, it's not the macrolevel policies, the bloviating political bigwigs or the embarrassing international behavior of the country that really get to me. It's something much smaller, something relegated to the shadows and gutters of our national consciousness, as embodied by today's grocery store trip.
We're housesitting in the Maple Leaf area right now, a north Seattle neighborhood where homes are slightly more affordable than their centrally located neighborhood. (Read: you can purchase a 2-bedroom for under $400,000 instead of half a mil.) Consequently, it's populated predominantly by young homeowners, minority families and elderly residents from the area's half dozen retirement centers. It's more diverse and less affluent than most of the neighborhoods just north of downtown.
As a result, you can walk into the local grocery store on any given night and actually see (gasp!) people from multiple age groups. I love Seattle, but we aren't exactly teeming with diversity, at least when compared to other places I've visited or lived. Or, maybe we're diverse but fragmented...but I digress.
I turned the corner to the produce section and heard a clattering to my right. Before rows of dully waxed apples in faux straw-filled crates, an elderly man was wrestling to place his foldable walker beneath his grocery cart. He was extremely frail and gaunt, stooped from the back to the shoulders like the bow of a weighted fishing pole. Arthritis had wrenched his knuckles and fingers into sharp angles. He was alone in the middle of the brightly lit section, pushing at the flat skeleton of his walker as it dragged against the floor. All around, people passed by with baskets in hand. No one even glanced at him.
I helped him move the walker onto the bottom of the cart, and we went through the awkward routine that always follows. Thank you, even though I feel worse because I needed your help. At least you noticed me. You're welcome, but I'm a coward because I'm not going to ask if I should stay to help you shop. I'm sorry. For everything.
I don't think there was anyone waiting for him outside. There's no way he could have driven a car. The nearest bus was a block and a half away, and it only ran every half hour after 9pm.
You can call me a bleeding heart, but here's the deal: I wanted to cry when I left, and I've been thinking about him all night. I hate the way we treat our elders in this country. They nurture us and prepare the way for our success, and we thank them by leaving them to die unnoticed and alone. If you're rich, you'll hire personal caretakers who can help around the house, and you will pay off your mortgage before you have to stop working. If you're like everyone else, you'll be lucky to escape the dank hallways of dismal nursing homes; you'll be living pretty well if you eke out a living off food stamps and long bus rides to the grocery store.
(Coincidentally, there's a very powerful piece out right now, written by a physician whose father is going through the end of his life. You can find it here, but I wouldn't recommend reading it if you are feeling at all down, or possibly if you're going through something similar. It's a tough read.)
I wish our culture placed greater value on family connections. I don't see any political leaders on either side who campaign vigorously to help families care for each other in their twilight years. No one with power advocates extended leaves of absence for people who need to help their parents or grandparents, nor do they offer tax breaks so families can hire nurses' aides to help. So we're forced into nursing homes, hospitals and hospices while our families suffer the combined mix of guilt, burnout and exhaustion. It infuriates me.
If anything ever happens to anyone in my family, I will do whatever it takes to be there for them. It scares me to think that might not be enough - I might lack the finances, medical knowledge or emotional wherewithal to see it through. I wish things were different. Seriously, if I ever miraculously publish a book that sells, part of the earnings will go towards services for the elderly. We're all going to be there someday, even a handful of the high and mighty who think they can buy their way out of anything. If for no other reason than pure self-interest, you'd think we'd want to change the way we value our predecessors.
We're housesitting in the Maple Leaf area right now, a north Seattle neighborhood where homes are slightly more affordable than their centrally located neighborhood. (Read: you can purchase a 2-bedroom for under $400,000 instead of half a mil.) Consequently, it's populated predominantly by young homeowners, minority families and elderly residents from the area's half dozen retirement centers. It's more diverse and less affluent than most of the neighborhoods just north of downtown.
As a result, you can walk into the local grocery store on any given night and actually see (gasp!) people from multiple age groups. I love Seattle, but we aren't exactly teeming with diversity, at least when compared to other places I've visited or lived. Or, maybe we're diverse but fragmented...but I digress.
I turned the corner to the produce section and heard a clattering to my right. Before rows of dully waxed apples in faux straw-filled crates, an elderly man was wrestling to place his foldable walker beneath his grocery cart. He was extremely frail and gaunt, stooped from the back to the shoulders like the bow of a weighted fishing pole. Arthritis had wrenched his knuckles and fingers into sharp angles. He was alone in the middle of the brightly lit section, pushing at the flat skeleton of his walker as it dragged against the floor. All around, people passed by with baskets in hand. No one even glanced at him.
I helped him move the walker onto the bottom of the cart, and we went through the awkward routine that always follows. Thank you, even though I feel worse because I needed your help. At least you noticed me. You're welcome, but I'm a coward because I'm not going to ask if I should stay to help you shop. I'm sorry. For everything.
I don't think there was anyone waiting for him outside. There's no way he could have driven a car. The nearest bus was a block and a half away, and it only ran every half hour after 9pm.
You can call me a bleeding heart, but here's the deal: I wanted to cry when I left, and I've been thinking about him all night. I hate the way we treat our elders in this country. They nurture us and prepare the way for our success, and we thank them by leaving them to die unnoticed and alone. If you're rich, you'll hire personal caretakers who can help around the house, and you will pay off your mortgage before you have to stop working. If you're like everyone else, you'll be lucky to escape the dank hallways of dismal nursing homes; you'll be living pretty well if you eke out a living off food stamps and long bus rides to the grocery store.
(Coincidentally, there's a very powerful piece out right now, written by a physician whose father is going through the end of his life. You can find it here, but I wouldn't recommend reading it if you are feeling at all down, or possibly if you're going through something similar. It's a tough read.)
I wish our culture placed greater value on family connections. I don't see any political leaders on either side who campaign vigorously to help families care for each other in their twilight years. No one with power advocates extended leaves of absence for people who need to help their parents or grandparents, nor do they offer tax breaks so families can hire nurses' aides to help. So we're forced into nursing homes, hospitals and hospices while our families suffer the combined mix of guilt, burnout and exhaustion. It infuriates me.
If anything ever happens to anyone in my family, I will do whatever it takes to be there for them. It scares me to think that might not be enough - I might lack the finances, medical knowledge or emotional wherewithal to see it through. I wish things were different. Seriously, if I ever miraculously publish a book that sells, part of the earnings will go towards services for the elderly. We're all going to be there someday, even a handful of the high and mighty who think they can buy their way out of anything. If for no other reason than pure self-interest, you'd think we'd want to change the way we value our predecessors.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Quote for the weekend
When god closes a door, he always opens a window, because you can't throw yourself out of a door.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Resisting the urge to hyperventilate
Augh! Augh! I just received the unofficial guide to my Big English University (for the sake of being able to write about it in the future without upsetting anyone, I'm going to leave it unnamed...). Here's a sample of what I'm supposed to cope with once I'm unceremoniously belched out of the airplane into the terminal...
Getting to BEU from central London: Take the train from King’s Cross to BEU. Try to get an express. About GBP 17 unless you have a young person’s railcard (you have to be under 26 to be eligible for one or have proof of being a student.) You can get this right at the train station or from the Graduate Union Shop for GBP 20 and it saves you 1/3 off rail fare for a year. You will need two passport photos with you. If you plan on going to visit London or really anywhere at all in England, be sure to pick up the railcard early in the year, since the savings really will add up. If you’re over 26, the rail station requires a letter from you college confirming that you are indeed a student. You can also get a Young Person’s rail card by showing an International Student Identity Card. I know you’ve mentioned this later, but it might be worth mentioning it here. The Graduate Union Shop, however, only requires you to show your blue university card and the wait is normally much shorter.
Passport photos?? College letters?? What the heck is a blue university card?!? And what's with the two-person dialogue going on at the bottom of the paragraph? Is it talking to me? What did I say to it??
Suddenly, my brain is pulsing against my skull with insistency, but there's nothing I can do to comfort it. Oh my god, what have I done? I'm trading in my secure little life for a blue university card, rainy weather and questionable vegetarian food. And the sick thing is? I can't wait to get started.
Except for the whole "getting from London to BEU" bit. Maybe I can develop a teleportation device in the next five weeks...
Getting to BEU from central London: Take the train from King’s Cross to BEU. Try to get an express. About GBP 17 unless you have a young person’s railcard (you have to be under 26 to be eligible for one or have proof of being a student.) You can get this right at the train station or from the Graduate Union Shop for GBP 20 and it saves you 1/3 off rail fare for a year. You will need two passport photos with you. If you plan on going to visit London or really anywhere at all in England, be sure to pick up the railcard early in the year, since the savings really will add up. If you’re over 26, the rail station requires a letter from you college confirming that you are indeed a student. You can also get a Young Person’s rail card by showing an International Student Identity Card. I know you’ve mentioned this later, but it might be worth mentioning it here. The Graduate Union Shop, however, only requires you to show your blue university card and the wait is normally much shorter.
Passport photos?? College letters?? What the heck is a blue university card?!? And what's with the two-person dialogue going on at the bottom of the paragraph? Is it talking to me? What did I say to it??
Suddenly, my brain is pulsing against my skull with insistency, but there's nothing I can do to comfort it. Oh my god, what have I done? I'm trading in my secure little life for a blue university card, rainy weather and questionable vegetarian food. And the sick thing is? I can't wait to get started.
Except for the whole "getting from London to BEU" bit. Maybe I can develop a teleportation device in the next five weeks...
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Musings on married life
Somehow, getting hit on is much more entertaining. It's fun to smile and nod while they test out cheesy platitudes ("Damn, you work out? You're all put together..."), then flash the ring with mock disappointment and announce that you're off the market. Although this guy did offer to give me his card "in case things go south." So professional...
The perennial guilty pleasure arrives with a boom
A sonic boom, that is.
Good god, I don't care if they are a symbol of war, if they scare my friends' cats, snarl traffic, piss off locals and create one big pointless diversion. They are the best pointless diversion I've ever seen -- I still remember my first summer solo in Seattle, when I leaned on the rail of my apartment building's rooftop deck and watched them fly over the neighborhood. Our building was the tallest in the city, so the squadron used it as a marker to make their turns; they flew so close I could see the pilots in the cockpits.
Today, they came straight over Broadway while I was driving, accompanied by a little Red Baron plane that managed to hold its own. Everyone was stopping in the middle of the road, craning their necks or pulling out camera phones to take pictures as they turned on the smoke and shot over Capitol Hill.
Trust me: I know it's anathema to all that makes me an upstanding antiwar activist -- but against my better judgement, I still get goosebumps whenever I hear that telltale roar coming closer. I feel like a little kid again, the same one who wanted to learn how she could fly a few feet from another plane going 100 miles per hour. Guilty as charged, I'm afraid.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
When all of your tears dry...
This isn't going to be a great post, but sometimes I just need to let my music speak for me.
I've been listening to Carbon Leaf a lot lately; their new album, "Indian Summer," manages to contain songs that cover every emotion I've experienced this summer. Now, on the eve of my best friend's departure to Kansas, I just keep listening to this same song -- it seems like an appropriate sendoff:
"Changeless"
Call my friends to share some wine
To share some laughs, and last goodbyes
My photographs of these years
Will make me laugh through the tears
What are the odds, what are the odds
this ends and we don't meet again?
What are the odds, What are the odds
that I will miss your smile?
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take care and
Fly away and see the world
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take time and
If you need rest, I'll keep your nest
Changeless
Let fondness be our souvenir
To keep it warm, we'll keep it near
Otherwise with no heart to recall...
A memory's just a memory after all
I will not leave this pulse alone
Though it may take the long way home
I will not wait until the end
For my applause for you my friend
What are the odds, what are the odds
This ends and we don't meet again
What are the odds, what are the odds?
This ends and we won't meet again
What are the odds, What are the odds
That I have missed your smile?
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take care and
Fly away and see the world
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take time and
If you need rest, I'll keep your nest
Changeless
I know, of course, that I will see her again, many a time throughout our long lives. That's what appeals to me about this song: it's a determined pledge to maintain the integrity and intimacy of a friendship, despite all of the changes in store.
This isn't going to be easy, and the closer my own departure comes, the more goodbyes I have to say. I never realized how hollow those can make you feel, how much your chest aches when you give that last, awkward hug before turning away for awhile. You have to say goodbye to everything: your friends, your old haunts, your favorite view of Lake Union...So I cling to another song, playing it time and again in the car as I cruise slowly down the road:
You've come far, and though you're far from the end
You don't mind where you are, 'cause you know where you've been...
When all of your tears dry,
let your troubles roll by
I'm terrified and excited; a jumbled, incoherent storm of words; the flutter at the throat of a bird before it takes flight. Part of me wants so badly to let this pass me by, and the other half is pleading for the courage and faith to see it through...I want someone, anyone to take me by the hand and guide me through to the end, but I know I have to do this on my own...and I know CB and Kelli and everyone else will be there for me, but I'm still insecure enough to beg for reassurance...I need wisdom and faith, a faith I don't have right now and don't know how to retrieve.
Raise the roof, that I might see the stars
To gain wisdom, to see things for what they are
Please, I need proof
Dance till you fall
Love till you die
Shut your mouth
Raise the roof
Trapped in the snare with too much dreaming to bear
Fearful and frantic, hopeless and a romantic
Inspired but tired, I run this wide-open course
Like the sagging spirit of an older horse
Peel back this backdrop, like the lids from my eyes
Put you in plain view, let me visualize
Touch me again in my dreams till I feel
Touch me again till I wake and it's real
The wisest advice to me that I didn't reach
Was to lock up the heart, but keep the key within reach
Touch me again in my dreams till I feel
Touch me again till I wake and it's real
Dance till you fall
Love till you die
Shut your mouth
Raise the roof
The enormity of it overwhelms me to the point where I feel consumed by my own future. I know it's going to be better in the end, but oh how I wish I could slow down just long enough to gauge where I am before I try to keep going. Some days, everything feels like it's at the right pace; today, as the inevitability of the big move grows clear, I feel like I'm flying too fast to breathe.
Too much to do, too much to see
Pictures to take, people to meet
When there's so much space in between
It overwhelms me
Scene after scene passes by my life
The window's a wound, the road is a knife
The irony, ask me, "Where have you been?"
I don't know, I don't know
because I don't know where to begin
I warned you: it wasn't going to be a great post. I'll try to be a little more articulate tomorrow, but for now I just want to sit and figure out where, exactly, I should begin in this new part of my life.
I've been listening to Carbon Leaf a lot lately; their new album, "Indian Summer," manages to contain songs that cover every emotion I've experienced this summer. Now, on the eve of my best friend's departure to Kansas, I just keep listening to this same song -- it seems like an appropriate sendoff:
"Changeless"
Call my friends to share some wine
To share some laughs, and last goodbyes
My photographs of these years
Will make me laugh through the tears
What are the odds, what are the odds
this ends and we don't meet again?
What are the odds, What are the odds
that I will miss your smile?
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take care and
Fly away and see the world
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take time and
If you need rest, I'll keep your nest
Changeless
Let fondness be our souvenir
To keep it warm, we'll keep it near
Otherwise with no heart to recall...
A memory's just a memory after all
I will not leave this pulse alone
Though it may take the long way home
I will not wait until the end
For my applause for you my friend
What are the odds, what are the odds
This ends and we don't meet again
What are the odds, what are the odds?
This ends and we won't meet again
What are the odds, What are the odds
That I have missed your smile?
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take care and
Fly away and see the world
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take time and
If you need rest, I'll keep your nest
Changeless
I know, of course, that I will see her again, many a time throughout our long lives. That's what appeals to me about this song: it's a determined pledge to maintain the integrity and intimacy of a friendship, despite all of the changes in store.
This isn't going to be easy, and the closer my own departure comes, the more goodbyes I have to say. I never realized how hollow those can make you feel, how much your chest aches when you give that last, awkward hug before turning away for awhile. You have to say goodbye to everything: your friends, your old haunts, your favorite view of Lake Union...So I cling to another song, playing it time and again in the car as I cruise slowly down the road:
You've come far, and though you're far from the end
You don't mind where you are, 'cause you know where you've been...
When all of your tears dry,
let your troubles roll by
I'm terrified and excited; a jumbled, incoherent storm of words; the flutter at the throat of a bird before it takes flight. Part of me wants so badly to let this pass me by, and the other half is pleading for the courage and faith to see it through...I want someone, anyone to take me by the hand and guide me through to the end, but I know I have to do this on my own...and I know CB and Kelli and everyone else will be there for me, but I'm still insecure enough to beg for reassurance...I need wisdom and faith, a faith I don't have right now and don't know how to retrieve.
Raise the roof, that I might see the stars
To gain wisdom, to see things for what they are
Please, I need proof
Dance till you fall
Love till you die
Shut your mouth
Raise the roof
Trapped in the snare with too much dreaming to bear
Fearful and frantic, hopeless and a romantic
Inspired but tired, I run this wide-open course
Like the sagging spirit of an older horse
Peel back this backdrop, like the lids from my eyes
Put you in plain view, let me visualize
Touch me again in my dreams till I feel
Touch me again till I wake and it's real
The wisest advice to me that I didn't reach
Was to lock up the heart, but keep the key within reach
Touch me again in my dreams till I feel
Touch me again till I wake and it's real
Dance till you fall
Love till you die
Shut your mouth
Raise the roof
The enormity of it overwhelms me to the point where I feel consumed by my own future. I know it's going to be better in the end, but oh how I wish I could slow down just long enough to gauge where I am before I try to keep going. Some days, everything feels like it's at the right pace; today, as the inevitability of the big move grows clear, I feel like I'm flying too fast to breathe.
Too much to do, too much to see
Pictures to take, people to meet
When there's so much space in between
It overwhelms me
Scene after scene passes by my life
The window's a wound, the road is a knife
The irony, ask me, "Where have you been?"
I don't know, I don't know
because I don't know where to begin
I warned you: it wasn't going to be a great post. I'll try to be a little more articulate tomorrow, but for now I just want to sit and figure out where, exactly, I should begin in this new part of my life.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Forehead-slap worthy article of the day
Look, people: it's a DESERT. What did you expect when you moved there? Water? Did you expect water? Well, have I got news for you!
There shall be much wailing and gnashing of teeth
Hurrah for the potential downfall of Bill Frist, who hath invoked the wroth of his evangelical keepers. He's basically been univited from the Justice Sunday II gathering, even though it's held in his own state. Bill made the mistake of thinking that they were his handmaidens, rather than the other way around -- and now, surviving his term will be more difficult than keeping pork out of the energy bill. You know you're in trouble when Focus on the Family and the Family Research Council warn there will be hell to pay -- 'cause they're not kidding. That's capital "H" hell they're talkin' 'bout. Those "reprecussions" FRC promised after Frist pledged his support to stem cell research? They'll be in the form of holy hand grenades.
The saintly model of moral integrity, Rep. Tom DeLay, shall make the keynote address in Dr. Frist's absence.
The saintly model of moral integrity, Rep. Tom DeLay, shall make the keynote address in Dr. Frist's absence.
Signs that I haven't quite rejected our consumer culture in its entirety
1. My incessant urges to have my hands on my new computer. I keep toting it outside to check out the indoor/outdoor screen, screwing the monitor around so I can use it as a notepad (will I ever need it? Who cares?!), and fabricating excuses to surf the internet because the web's become cooler since I found a computer with wireless capabilities. Kelli gave me EndNote as a wedding gift, and I started salivating. I was more excited about a freaking bibliography program than I think I was about getting into some of my grad programs...though that may not say much, since they were in LA. I also keep telling people that I purchased a new computer and then insisting that they come over to see it, because I don't feel like exposing it to the dangers of the outside world yet. My own father was forced to follow up a perfectly nice sushi dinner with a trip to our current house so I could show him the twisty-screen feature. Amazingly, he's still willing to help me fly home for Christmas. Someone. Please. Help.
2. The pathetic thrill I feel when I purchase a new bike jersey or pair of gloves. They're woven, cheap fabric in gaudy shades your colorblind aunt wouldn't wear, for god's sake. It's not like I stumbled onto that mint-condition Prada top hanging in the back of Buffalo (although I think I'd prefer the bike gloves). Now, I'm drooling over the bikes in the latest Trek catalogue -- for the price of a semester at graduate school, I could own Lance Armstrong's freaking model racing bike. And when I skidded across the wet cobblestones of British roads at 40 mph and wrapped the bike around a telephone booth, well, at least I'd have the sweetest wreck you've ever seen. Seriously, this obssession must stop. I'm starting to see the appeal of those insane multicolored jerseys that weekend warriors wear -- and from there, it's really just a quick slide down the slope to purchasing bike socks with flashy designs and spandex pants for every occasion.
3. Tortoise supplements. Laugh as you will, but it's no different than buying expensive cat toys
or humiliating your dog by having its nails painted. Okay, so I technically did that, too, when my husband made Ndugu this swanky tux for his wedding day role. Anyway, by this time next year, Ndugu will be sequestered in an outdoor pen where at least 10 varieties of weeds, greens and grasses will sprout for his consumption. And yes, I did in fact spend the weekend building an outdoor tortoise pen -- which he hates. It's not interesting enough, or big enough, nor does it have a little button he can push to make worms pop out of the ground. Still, I'm trying to make up for it with the pasture mix, the feather grass, the dandelions and the "krunchy krouton" all-natural nutritional food topping. I don't need a child, thank you: I have a chelonian.
4. Did I mention my new computer?
2. The pathetic thrill I feel when I purchase a new bike jersey or pair of gloves. They're woven, cheap fabric in gaudy shades your colorblind aunt wouldn't wear, for god's sake. It's not like I stumbled onto that mint-condition Prada top hanging in the back of Buffalo (although I think I'd prefer the bike gloves). Now, I'm drooling over the bikes in the latest Trek catalogue -- for the price of a semester at graduate school, I could own Lance Armstrong's freaking model racing bike. And when I skidded across the wet cobblestones of British roads at 40 mph and wrapped the bike around a telephone booth, well, at least I'd have the sweetest wreck you've ever seen. Seriously, this obssession must stop. I'm starting to see the appeal of those insane multicolored jerseys that weekend warriors wear -- and from there, it's really just a quick slide down the slope to purchasing bike socks with flashy designs and spandex pants for every occasion.
3. Tortoise supplements. Laugh as you will, but it's no different than buying expensive cat toys
or humiliating your dog by having its nails painted. Okay, so I technically did that, too, when my husband made Ndugu this swanky tux for his wedding day role. Anyway, by this time next year, Ndugu will be sequestered in an outdoor pen where at least 10 varieties of weeds, greens and grasses will sprout for his consumption. And yes, I did in fact spend the weekend building an outdoor tortoise pen -- which he hates. It's not interesting enough, or big enough, nor does it have a little button he can push to make worms pop out of the ground. Still, I'm trying to make up for it with the pasture mix, the feather grass, the dandelions and the "krunchy krouton" all-natural nutritional food topping. I don't need a child, thank you: I have a chelonian.4. Did I mention my new computer?
Great site for Seattle cyclists
www.ghostcycle.org
If you've ever been hit, share your story here. It's about time that cycling conditions in the city received more publicity. I realize we're better off than most, but I've still had more close calls than I prefer to remember -- and some of these stories are pretty awful. Hopefully, the site will make an impact.
*Dreaming of Cambridge, where bikes rule the roads...*
If you've ever been hit, share your story here. It's about time that cycling conditions in the city received more publicity. I realize we're better off than most, but I've still had more close calls than I prefer to remember -- and some of these stories are pretty awful. Hopefully, the site will make an impact.
*Dreaming of Cambridge, where bikes rule the roads...*
Monday, August 01, 2005
Missing the womb
Back in my undergraduate days at Seattle U's Honors College, Becca and I knew a neurotic friend who had difficulty confronting its life-draining demands. He unsuccessfully tried managing his problem with copious quantities of pot, beat poetry, vodka and spray paint (mostly of an atomic bomb exploding next to a giant phallus on his dorm room walls...pity the summer cleaning crew...). Then, he discovered the one trick that worked: a return to the womb.
The womb, in this case, consisted of one's dorm room bed: insert self deep within its covers, pull blankets over head, and think calm, blank thoughts while the afternoon ticks away slowly.
We laughed about it at first, but soon both of us were unable to resist its alluring, white-noise call...and the Honors Womb became a fixture in many a dorm. What this says about the mental state of honors students, I prefer not to ask.
Today, I find myself longing to return to the womb again. My tortoise is gone, my best friend is moving to Kansas, and I've managed to accomplish just shy of nothing in my summer grad school prep. Seriously, this is ridiculous. I've never been so stressed out. I went to the dentist a week ago to find out why I had a new gap in between my molars. He looked up from the chair and asked, "Have you been under a lot of stress lately? You've managed to clench your jaws hard enough to work your teeth out of alignment."
Just remember that when you see me three or four years from now, wandering the streets with my second set of braces ('cause I'm sure not getting them in England!). I'm the girl who managed to clench my teeth into a whole new position. Somehow, I find this entirely amusing, which is probably appropriate for a frantic grad student.
Seriously, the womb sounds pretty good right now. Anybody have a spare mattress?
The womb, in this case, consisted of one's dorm room bed: insert self deep within its covers, pull blankets over head, and think calm, blank thoughts while the afternoon ticks away slowly.
We laughed about it at first, but soon both of us were unable to resist its alluring, white-noise call...and the Honors Womb became a fixture in many a dorm. What this says about the mental state of honors students, I prefer not to ask.
Today, I find myself longing to return to the womb again. My tortoise is gone, my best friend is moving to Kansas, and I've managed to accomplish just shy of nothing in my summer grad school prep. Seriously, this is ridiculous. I've never been so stressed out. I went to the dentist a week ago to find out why I had a new gap in between my molars. He looked up from the chair and asked, "Have you been under a lot of stress lately? You've managed to clench your jaws hard enough to work your teeth out of alignment."
Just remember that when you see me three or four years from now, wandering the streets with my second set of braces ('cause I'm sure not getting them in England!). I'm the girl who managed to clench my teeth into a whole new position. Somehow, I find this entirely amusing, which is probably appropriate for a frantic grad student.
Seriously, the womb sounds pretty good right now. Anybody have a spare mattress?
Thursday, July 28, 2005
One of THOSE days
Make that one of Those weeks. I'm in a terrible mood right now, alternating between "turn on the waterworks" and "kick the crap out of whatever's available." Right now, I think I'd prefer the latter. This whole summer has been an exercise in frustration: I start out with simple personal goals, accomplish none of them, scale them back, continue to accomplish nothing, and so forth. I can't even spend time with people I care about because our schedules have all gone to hell. Add in one uncomfortable bike mishap (ah, the joys of striking one's seat with great force), and I'm liable to wither anyone who makes eye contact.
I took a long walk tonight after sunset, trying to clear my head. Part of me wanted to keep walking, to see where I wound up when dawn broke over the Sound. Running away from my problems never sounded so good. I also thought about going to a bar for a few drinks, but being solo is never a great idea, particularly since I'm likely to put a pool cue through anyone who says anything smart right now. Somehow, I don't think the Gates people would appreciate if if I skewered a lewd member of society. Kelli got it right: half of me is thrilled about what lies ahead, and the other half couldn't be more dejected. Self-imposed schizophrenia: I wouldn't recommend it.
Grumble. Sorry to be the grinch of the evening. Hopefully, things will improve...sometime? At least until then, I can watch my Daily Show highlights.
I took a long walk tonight after sunset, trying to clear my head. Part of me wanted to keep walking, to see where I wound up when dawn broke over the Sound. Running away from my problems never sounded so good. I also thought about going to a bar for a few drinks, but being solo is never a great idea, particularly since I'm likely to put a pool cue through anyone who says anything smart right now. Somehow, I don't think the Gates people would appreciate if if I skewered a lewd member of society. Kelli got it right: half of me is thrilled about what lies ahead, and the other half couldn't be more dejected. Self-imposed schizophrenia: I wouldn't recommend it.
Grumble. Sorry to be the grinch of the evening. Hopefully, things will improve...sometime? At least until then, I can watch my Daily Show highlights.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Light a candle tonight
Please consider lighting one tonight for an online friend whose mother is very ill. To read her story, visit www.momscancer.com. Thanks.
Monday, July 25, 2005
This little piggy got none
I've seen some disgusting things in my brief life, but this one might top them all. Bryan's genetics lab held its annual summer barbeque tonight. Some companies like to see how many hot dogs and hamburgers they can pile on a single platter, while others are content to stockpile massive tubs of potato salad. This group, however, has come up with a sure-fire way to top them all:
One large, fully intact, roasted pig.
Complete with apple.
So, as the vegetarians picked at plates of rice on the edges of the table, others brandished large knives and hacked into Mr. Piggy. You couldn't really avoid it, particularly since the highlight of the evening proved to be the Opening of the Brain Case (you wish I was kidding), in Which Otherwise Sane Geneticists Challenge Each Other to a Test of Manhood. Or, in my case, in which the vegetarian hides behind the counter trying not to think about what her husband's friends are spreading eagerly onto crackers.
It's times like these when I feel the need to dispute this claim that we are more intelligent than other life forms. Who else got excited about the inner contents of a roasted pig? That's right: the dogs dancing giddily around the room. No wonder cats show utter disdain for both species...I really wanted to point out that, intellectually speaking, there was no real difference between the pig atop the table and the dogs beneath it...but something tells me it wouldn't have gone over well.
Ewwwwww. I feel yet another full body shudder coming on. At least now, I won't be phased when a Brit digs into a pile of blood pudding. Bring it on, lads: I've seen the inner workings of a pig. And geneticists wonder why they can't find dates...
One large, fully intact, roasted pig.
Complete with apple.
So, as the vegetarians picked at plates of rice on the edges of the table, others brandished large knives and hacked into Mr. Piggy. You couldn't really avoid it, particularly since the highlight of the evening proved to be the Opening of the Brain Case (you wish I was kidding), in Which Otherwise Sane Geneticists Challenge Each Other to a Test of Manhood. Or, in my case, in which the vegetarian hides behind the counter trying not to think about what her husband's friends are spreading eagerly onto crackers.
It's times like these when I feel the need to dispute this claim that we are more intelligent than other life forms. Who else got excited about the inner contents of a roasted pig? That's right: the dogs dancing giddily around the room. No wonder cats show utter disdain for both species...I really wanted to point out that, intellectually speaking, there was no real difference between the pig atop the table and the dogs beneath it...but something tells me it wouldn't have gone over well.
Ewwwwww. I feel yet another full body shudder coming on. At least now, I won't be phased when a Brit digs into a pile of blood pudding. Bring it on, lads: I've seen the inner workings of a pig. And geneticists wonder why they can't find dates...
Back in the atmosphere
Just got back last night from a trip down to Eugene to bid adieu to my best bud, Kelli. Have I mentioned how much I hate saying goodbye to people? It's a punch to the gut that no one should have to experience...She's off to Kansas, and I'm off to Cambridge -- so begins a long series of conversations via AIM and e-mail. I don't know if any other farewells will be more difficult: Bryan and I will see each other a few times per month, and I know my family will be able to see me at least twice per year...but this is my best friend, my sister and my confidante, the one who's always stood by me, even when I've done some ridiculously stupid things. I can't imagine being so far from her. Maybe that's why I didn't want to let go when we hugged in the driveway, holding back tears and trying not to let our voices crack too much. I know it will be okay; right now it's anything but.
It was a long drive back to Seattle.
It was a long drive back to Seattle.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Lyric of the day
"Nothing in the past or future ever will feel like today" -- Bright Eyes
(Yeah, I know. Who else, right? I swear I actually have a well-developed musical palate...I mean, name one other person who listens to Bright Eyes, 2Pac AND Strung Out in the same day. Okay, maybe that just indicates musical schizophrenia. I think I'd better go back to studying my Spanish.)
(Yeah, I know. Who else, right? I swear I actually have a well-developed musical palate...I mean, name one other person who listens to Bright Eyes, 2Pac AND Strung Out in the same day. Okay, maybe that just indicates musical schizophrenia. I think I'd better go back to studying my Spanish.)
De-evolution
You know you have a cycling addiction problem when you walk into a bike store to purchase a helmet and walk out with said helmet...as well as a second pair of fingerless gloves, a neon yellow jersey and an orange summer safety vest. You know it's really a problem when you were going to buy more but got kicked out when the store closed because you couldn't choose between a U-lock and a second pair of bike shorts -- and when the guy behind you in line started teasing you about your gear's coordinated colors (blue, thank you). He told me I should buy an airhorn to grab the attention of wayward drivers...and I almost did...Can't you see me furiously squeezing my horn bulb and shooting death glares at the guy who tries to make a quick left into my path?
The podiatrist removed my stitches today and made the mistake of telling me I could start biking whenever I wanted. Tomorrow morning at 8am, I'll be flying down Eastlake on my way to the dentist -- why drive in this weather when you can combine a workout and a tanning session?
Seriously, there's something wrong with me. I'm dreading the transition from my Trek 520 to the single-gear junkheap I'll purchase to slog along Cambridge's paths. I knew I was in trouble when I experienced a total high biking down the Burke on a frigid January night while the rain spattered my clothes. There's no sight in Seattle that rivals the Burke's panoramic views of the downtown skyline at night -- and no better way to experience those views than to be flying down a deserted trail in the dark with nothing but the sound of your tires singing.
The podiatrist removed my stitches today and made the mistake of telling me I could start biking whenever I wanted. Tomorrow morning at 8am, I'll be flying down Eastlake on my way to the dentist -- why drive in this weather when you can combine a workout and a tanning session?
Seriously, there's something wrong with me. I'm dreading the transition from my Trek 520 to the single-gear junkheap I'll purchase to slog along Cambridge's paths. I knew I was in trouble when I experienced a total high biking down the Burke on a frigid January night while the rain spattered my clothes. There's no sight in Seattle that rivals the Burke's panoramic views of the downtown skyline at night -- and no better way to experience those views than to be flying down a deserted trail in the dark with nothing but the sound of your tires singing.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
It hurts so bad
Today was not a good day. I woke up in a funk at 10:00, two hours later than I planned to get out of bed. Why was I so slow to rise? Try being alone in a dark, creaky house at night while your significant other is out of town, lying in bed on the second floor while raccoons the size of polo ponies scuttle across the roof. Every sound jerked me back into wakefulness, and I managed to look out the window just in time to see a police car roll by with its silent flashers whirling. Consequently, it was well after 3am before I fell asleep.
My workout took forever -- possibly because I have a Frankenfoot -- and the house was a mess. I spent over an hour watering the fricking plants so they wouldn't perish in this unanticipated stretch of warm weather. I returned "Million Dollar Baby" to the video store and found out it was due two days earlier.
Finally, I got home and decided to let Ndugu out for a stroll. He must have eaten something bad or have been bitten/stung, because I brought him in two hours later, set him down...and his back legs were useless. Completely useless, splayed out behind him and scrabbling at nothing. His breathing was agitated and he looked very uncomfortable. I was trying to rub some sensation back into his legs when he started to make a choking noise. Now, seriously. What the heck do you do with a choking tortoise? Shake him? Pound on his shell? All I could do was put him in my lap and rub his throat when he wasn't trying to pull back into his shell. I was scared sh--less. Finally, he started calming down -- but he's been under close observation all night, and now I'm paranoid about letting him go outside.
Despite all this, I still couldn't understand the bone-weary lethargy I'd been feeling. I couldn't study anything today; every time I tried, I just stared at the page without comprehending the difference between por and para. At sunset, I went for a walk to clear my head. I had Bright Eyes on the Ipod, and I was walking down towards the water listening to "I'm Wide Awake It's Morning" (have I mentioned how obssessed I am with this singer/songwriter? You must go out and purchase this album now, then listen to it at least five times, which is when the lyrics begin to wash over you until they're as much a part of your day as breathing). When "Old Soul Song (For the New World Order)" came on, my chest tightened. By the time "and when I get so lonely I can't speak" tore from his throat, I knew exactly what was wrong.
These three days are a precursor to my new reality, when I'm not going to wake up next to Coalescent Boy each morning, when I won't pull up on my bike and glimpse him through the front window. My new lifelines will be the phone and the internet -- and my calendar, dutifully counting down the days between visits. I know I'll adjust -- I have to, or else I'll never move off the couch -- but right now I'm too tired to even think. It's the worst thing I've felt in a long time, a pain so raw and ragged that it yawns a little wider every time I feel his absence. Which is ALL the time. There's a sob stuck somewhere below my throat, but I can't find the tears to remove it. So it sits, reminding me of its presence by welling up as I type.
Since January, I knew this was coming. I felt it looming beyond the horizon as the days grew longer; now, they're waning and I feel its presence just over my shoulder. I should have prepared a little better, but I didn't know how. For now, all I have are my walks and my music, which I will play over and over again until the words soak into my bones. I don't want to think about tomorrow yet. Today's enough, for awhile.
My workout took forever -- possibly because I have a Frankenfoot -- and the house was a mess. I spent over an hour watering the fricking plants so they wouldn't perish in this unanticipated stretch of warm weather. I returned "Million Dollar Baby" to the video store and found out it was due two days earlier.
Finally, I got home and decided to let Ndugu out for a stroll. He must have eaten something bad or have been bitten/stung, because I brought him in two hours later, set him down...and his back legs were useless. Completely useless, splayed out behind him and scrabbling at nothing. His breathing was agitated and he looked very uncomfortable. I was trying to rub some sensation back into his legs when he started to make a choking noise. Now, seriously. What the heck do you do with a choking tortoise? Shake him? Pound on his shell? All I could do was put him in my lap and rub his throat when he wasn't trying to pull back into his shell. I was scared sh--less. Finally, he started calming down -- but he's been under close observation all night, and now I'm paranoid about letting him go outside.
Despite all this, I still couldn't understand the bone-weary lethargy I'd been feeling. I couldn't study anything today; every time I tried, I just stared at the page without comprehending the difference between por and para. At sunset, I went for a walk to clear my head. I had Bright Eyes on the Ipod, and I was walking down towards the water listening to "I'm Wide Awake It's Morning" (have I mentioned how obssessed I am with this singer/songwriter? You must go out and purchase this album now, then listen to it at least five times, which is when the lyrics begin to wash over you until they're as much a part of your day as breathing). When "Old Soul Song (For the New World Order)" came on, my chest tightened. By the time "and when I get so lonely I can't speak" tore from his throat, I knew exactly what was wrong.
These three days are a precursor to my new reality, when I'm not going to wake up next to Coalescent Boy each morning, when I won't pull up on my bike and glimpse him through the front window. My new lifelines will be the phone and the internet -- and my calendar, dutifully counting down the days between visits. I know I'll adjust -- I have to, or else I'll never move off the couch -- but right now I'm too tired to even think. It's the worst thing I've felt in a long time, a pain so raw and ragged that it yawns a little wider every time I feel his absence. Which is ALL the time. There's a sob stuck somewhere below my throat, but I can't find the tears to remove it. So it sits, reminding me of its presence by welling up as I type.
Since January, I knew this was coming. I felt it looming beyond the horizon as the days grew longer; now, they're waning and I feel its presence just over my shoulder. I should have prepared a little better, but I didn't know how. For now, all I have are my walks and my music, which I will play over and over again until the words soak into my bones. I don't want to think about tomorrow yet. Today's enough, for awhile.
Okaaay, maybe it IS time for me to leave the country
You know your state is screwed up when, in 2005, a senator is fighting to pass a law banning bestiality.
Apparently, she sprang to action after incidents that took place in Enumclaw (oh, how that town now loathes the sound of its own name). I'll let you read the article to learn the details; in short, a man died after being kicked in the groin by a horse while he was...well, you know...You can also read Seattle Times columnist Nicole Broeder's remarks on the whole affair, which pretty much encapsulate it all. Why would anyone want to read? For the same reason that the story is the most e-mailed article of the week among our local papers: because part of us just can't believe it's true, and the rest of us has to know what the hell happened!
It's also a bit alarming to learn that 17 states accept bestiality; several others (including Rick Santorum's home state) outlaw it but fail to delineate specific penalties if one is caught in the act.
Suddenly, those empty suitcases in my room are just begging to be packed.
Apparently, she sprang to action after incidents that took place in Enumclaw (oh, how that town now loathes the sound of its own name). I'll let you read the article to learn the details; in short, a man died after being kicked in the groin by a horse while he was...well, you know...You can also read Seattle Times columnist Nicole Broeder's remarks on the whole affair, which pretty much encapsulate it all. Why would anyone want to read? For the same reason that the story is the most e-mailed article of the week among our local papers: because part of us just can't believe it's true, and the rest of us has to know what the hell happened!
It's also a bit alarming to learn that 17 states accept bestiality; several others (including Rick Santorum's home state) outlaw it but fail to delineate specific penalties if one is caught in the act.
Suddenly, those empty suitcases in my room are just begging to be packed.
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