The Things I've Done

I am back in a totally non-zombie way.  Things got... a bit crazy for a while there.  Let's take a look at my itinerary from the last six weeks or so, shall we?

• Thanksgiving:  The Dude met My Sister the Lawyer, and no one died.  Mostly importantly, me.
• The Dude proved himself to be the worst friend ever, but his friend did specifically request a roasting.
• My company Christmas party.  Open bar.
• The Hobbit:  Desolation of Smaug!  Followed by beer.
• Christmas party with the Dude's enormous Irish family.  Open bar.
• Christmas #1, with the Dude's mom.
• Christmas #2, with my family (Sandwiched by Christmas Eve and Christmas #3 for the Dude.
• Hangover.
• Light show at the arboretum
• New Year's Eve pajama party.  With beer.
• Hangover.
• Inventory at work (yay!...).  Followed by beer.
• Lunch (and beer) with friends
• Computer-building with beer.
• Karaoke!  Beer-fueled karaoke!
• Hangover.
• Board game party.  (No beer--recovery.)
• Frozen!

Honestly, I think I'm forgetting about half the things we squeezed in.  Some of it is probably lost in a semi-drunken haze.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I missed you while I was away.  But beer!


(True:  I actually don't drink a lot.  Partially because drunk me is an exact replica of the worst B-actress's portrayal of badly-written drunkenness--who actually slurs?--but mostly because I've never found drink and fun to be mutually inclusive.  I think some of the Dude's friends think I'm a teetotaler.)

Giraffe Spit Smells Like Marigolds

Yesterday, my whole hand was in a giraffe's mouth.

This giraffe and I got up close and personal.  I know what it's spit smells like.

It was pretty much the best day of my life.

Ricky, you have some mansplainin' to do...

It was my senior year of college.  I had taken a fall down a flight of stairs, and had some pretty severe bruising on the inside of my left arm, and a ladder of less-severe bruises down my back.  Hurt like a mother, but nothing terribly serious.  However, within a few days I'd developed some hard lumps in the bruise on my arm--calcium deposits.

I took myself off to the campus health center, and the doctor happened to be in.  (He was usually available for a couple of hours, two or three days a week; the rest of the time the nurse was available.  And generally more helpful.)  I sat on the table, rolled up my sleeve, and explained that I was concerned by what I felt--

"Don't worry.  It's not cancer."

--which I was pretty certain was a series of marble-sized calcium deposits, and what was the best course of action to take to ensure I didn't pass them through my urethra.

"Oh.  Oh.  Well, warm, damp compresses should help with that."

Gee, thanks.  I'm so glad you were able to ease my fears about cancer of the bruise.  What color ribbons does that have again?  I'm sure I saw it on a rubber bracelet somewhere.

If you don't know what mansplaining is or aren't aware how commonplace it is for women to be on the receiving end of it (from whatever gender), I recommend checking out this link.

Highlights of a Weekend Survived

A quick recap:

• Two weddings
• Two funerals
• One weekend

The Dude described me to a friend as "born and pasteurized in Wisconsin."

Bringing back-up ballet flats for after everyone has had a few drinks and no one cares anymore has saved my feet.

It was still too many hours in heels.

The hotel suite we shared with some friends had a fireplace.  It was a glass fireplace.  Through which you could see one bed from the other.

It's possible for a drinking straw to taste terrible.

Some guy asked a friend from South Africa if she spoke "that clicky language."  (Because, you know, she came from that general continent area.)  I feel this was more than enough grounds to punch him in the teeth.

My friend from South Africa is a much nicer person than I am.

She can also wear high heels for like seven consecutive hours without showing any visible signs of wanting to kill herself.

I have now been introduced to everyone the Dude has met.  Ever.

Of course, I'll still need to be re-introduced next time, because I can hardly remember a name when I meet people one at a time, much less by the dozen.

Having heard more stories from the Dude's family about what he was like as a child, I now understand why some species eat their young.  (Though I guess he turned out mostly okay in the end...)

I managed to get through three sit-down meals in nice clothing without spilling anything or dribbling food down my chin.



I'm counting this one a success.

Yeah, I Say "OreGON." And I Sort of Hate Myself For It.

(Content note:  The experience described below is a lot more universal than you're going to want to admit.)

When I was in grade school, the best days in computer class were when we were allowed to play Oregon Trail.  This was back in the day when a computer was still called a MacIntosh, and the green oxen pulled a green Conastoga wagon across a black screen.

Obviously, when naming the members of my party, I borrowed exclusively from my friends and, more importantly (sorry, friends), always included the name of my latest crush.

Because that's the height of romance in fourth grade.

Invariably, my crush would drown during an attempted river-fording (I knew I should have paid the Indians to guide me across!) or succumb to dysentery.  There were other diseases in the game as I recall, but dysentery seemed to be the only one that could actually be fatal.  That and ford-crossing.

Because I was a particularly twisted child, these deaths were always very amusing to me.

A few days ago, the Dude sent me a photo--he'd set me up as a test patient of the hospital that for some reason employs him.  The first thing that popped into my head?

Via

Naturally.


(True:  I just went to the bathroom and discovered there was toothpaste on my ear.  What?!  How!?)

Life Lessons

Yesterday I learned:

• To never wear sandals in a dog-friendly park.
• That dating a nurse is totally helpful in determining whether or not you need stitches.
• And that it's generally considered inappropriate to make Weekend at Bernie's jokes at a funeral.

These three lessons are fortunately not related.

My Spirit Animal Is A Marsupial, But It Doesn't Matter Because I'm Dying.

I'm sick.  Not with the plague, as I was surprised to learn.  It's one of those unnotable, unspecial summer head colds that just make you want to die.  Someone asked me yesterday how I was feeling.

I answered promptly and with confidence:  "My head is wallaby."

Like this.

Suffice it to say I had a fever, as this word choice made perfect sense in that moment.  "Wallaby" sounds like it should be an adjective, and they live in Australia.  So, you know, they're upside down.  Which pretty accurately describes how my head felt yesterday--not right and generally askew.

(First it was the possums...  Now my blog collection of marsupials is growing.  Be afraid--very afraid.)

On a side note, I'd like to make it known that I do not have pink eye.  I scratched my cornea last weekend doing yard work.  My eye and my head are two completely separate things.

Oh, you know what I mean.  Don't judge me!

Also I'm never doing yard work again.


(True:  The Dude is also sick.  We spent last night feeling very, very sorry for ourselves and each other, and watching Doctor Who.  Which I think makes a pretty legit pity party.)

Kicking ass. (Where I'm neither the kicker nor the kicked.)

Hello?  Internet?  Did you miss me?

I now live somewhere new!  And it's not a cardboard box!  Isn't that exciting? 

Just kidding, moving is never exciting.  Unless you're moving because you won the lottery and are moving into a house with a pool.  For your puffins.  That'd be sweet.

But there are more dogs here, and that's pretty all right, too.  Oh, and some dude lives here, I guess.

Well, I could fill you in on what's been happening in my life lately, but it'd strain your suspension of disbelief, so just imagine that I've spent the last two weeks fighting crime with my trusty gorilla sidekick.

Good lord.  I've just become WordGirl.

Look, here's a .gif gift!

Via

This woman kicks some serious, literal ass.  I want to be her.

So, since I really have nothing to share but word vomit, here are some gems from the Internet:

This guy "Changes the Creepy Guy Narrative." 

Rape Culture 101  This is a fantastic piece.  The following is a quote that really struck home for me, since I do follow these "rules."  All of them.  And some more, like what CTA train cars to ride in after dark, and when to go to my storage unit, when to call someone to "walk" me home.

Rape culture is telling girls and women to be careful about what you wear, how you wear it, how you carry yourself, where you walk, when you walk there, with whom you walk, whom you trust, what you do, where you do it, with whom you do it, what you drink, how much you drink, whether you make eye contact, if you're alone, if you're with a stranger, if you're in a group, if you're in a group of strangers, if it's dark, if the area is unfamiliar, if you're carrying something, how you carry it, what kind of shoes you're wearing in case you have to run, what kind of purse you carry, what jewelry you wear, what time it is, what street it is, what environment it is, how many people you sleep with, what kind of people you sleep with, who your friends are, to whom you give your number, who's around when the delivery guy comes, to get an apartment where you can see who's at the door before they can see you, to check before you open the door to the delivery guy, to own a dog or a dog-sound-making machine, to get a roommate, to take self-defense, to always be alert always pay attention always watch your back always be aware of your surroundings and never let your guard down for a moment lest you be sexually assaulted and if you are and didn't follow all the rules it's your fault.


Here's another great post by the same blogger called, "On Sitting With Fear."  Actually, just go ahead and read everything in that blog's archives, okay?

This guy's name is Kim. He didn't get any interviews until he added a "Mr." before his name on his resume.  Are you shocked?

Millenials are ruining the world. Just like every generation before us.

I'm Still Not Dead

But I am moving.  Real posts to follow once the dust has settled.

Here's some stuff to tide you over....  (Pardon the lack of hyperlinks.  I'm in a hurry.)

http://dogbehaviorscience.wordpress.com/2012/09/29/100-years-of-breed-improvement/

(Wherein breeds from now are compared to the same breeds from 100 years ago.  Interesting read, and a bit worrisome.)


http://kateharding.net/2009/10/08/guest-blogger-starling-schrodinger%E2%80%99s-rapist-or-a-guy%E2%80%99s-guide-to-approaching-strange-women-without-being-maced/

(This article should be required reading for every single person upon reaching puberty.)


http://realtorstotherescue.org/

(Realtors who will help you find pet-friendly housing.  Yay!)


http://www.themilitantbaker.com/2013/03/things-no-one-will-tell-fat-girls-so-i.html?m=1

(This chick kicks ass.  I think I love her.) 


(True:  Moving sucks.)

Why I'm Too Grateful to My Body to Diet

I always knew my body was a capable one. 

I remember being small, and deciding that my family was waiting too long to put up our Christmas tree.  So I dragged the box--probably bigger than me at that point--carefully downstairs, negotiating several tight corners and a narrow, steep staircase--downstairs and set the thing up myself.  It became a tradition for me to do it, and early enough on that I don't remember how our family did the tree thing prior to that.

I remember how easily I'd get bored of my bedroom, frequently rearranging furniture for a change.  I almost wrote "quick change," but it wasn't a quick process at all.  I could only push or pull one end of my dresser a few inches at a time, walking it forward, and then moving my bed in the same manner.

In high school, in the season I didn't play a sport, I lifted weights for fun.  In field hockey season, we'd run miles during practice, much of it in a semi-squat.  (Yes, it's a bit of a different sort of sport.)  My idea of fun as a child was riding my bike up and down our dead-end road or horseback riding.  I never worried about whether my body was capable of accomplishing a task or participate in an activity.

I got sick my junior year.  It took a while to diagnose (an undifferentiated autoimmune disorder, which is what they diagnose you with when they know the problem is with your immune system but not what the actual cause is), and the first few months were frightening.  I became so accustomed to hearing the latest worst possible prognosis that I forgot that there was any other option.  This viewpoint was helped along by the chronic fatigue and pain I was dealing with at the time, and exacerbated by the fact that I was unwilling to give up a single activity, pushing my now-limited endurance far beyond what was reasonable.

Suddenly, playing field hockey was not just physically challenging, it was incredibly painful and exhausting.  There were days I was too sore or too tired to manage a flight of stairs.  I refused to give any extracurriculars up, so it was the norm for me to go from class to field hockey or softball practice to play practice to prefect duty and then home at 10:30 to start four hours of homework.  It kind of sucked there for a while.

I got my health under control my freshman year of college.  I was angry for a long time that I'd ever had to go through all that, but now, almost decade later, I see the experience differently.  My body made it through that mess as best as it could, even while I was ignoring what it needed to get healthy.  My body works hard for me, and I've gotten better at treating it right.  I eat better, sleep more, and call it quits when I'm running out of steam.  I try to be active, though I hate working out.  Since getting my health under control, I've climbed all the stairs of Notre Dame and tackled the Eifel Tower and huge national parks.  I live in a third-floor walk-up without a problem.  I got an air-conditioning unit up those three flights of stairs alone.  My body works.

So I'm not going to hate it just because my thighs touch or because my belly has a bit of squish.  It's been too good to me to turn on it for such a petty reason.  It's a (mostly) healthy body in a normal body fat range.  If that changes, I'll need to renew my dedication to treat my body well.  That doesn't seem to be what dieting is about.  The focus of dieting has always seemed to me to be deprivation--punishing yourself.  I owe my body better.  I used to worry about my weight all the time, constantly striving to keep it in check.  But I've come to realize:  this body of mine?

It's good.

I was going to post, but then I nerded out instead.

But you know, it's Much Ado about Nothing.  By Joss.  And with everyone I love.  And Shakespeare.  And it comes out in two weeks, and I can honestly say I've never been so excited for a movie in my life. 

Via

So, yeah, I may have just gorged on everything about the film I could find instead of putting together a proper post.  Or eating lunch.  Because, you know, priorities.


(True:  I have more filmed versions of Shakespeare than I can shake a spear at. Ba dum chick.)

I'm Alive! And Tan(nish)! And Clothed!

I know, I know.  I'm shocked, too.

As far as warm-locale vacations go, I'd say this one was a huge success:  this was the first one during which I did not get physically ill from a sunburn (My Sister the Lawyer's wedding--I almost missed my speech for the puking.*) or a permanent line from a blister-level sunburn (reaching all the way to my armpits--just a little uncomfortable, that**).  Three cheers for me!

And, it was relatively disaster-free.  Sure, my tank top strap broke, but it happened in the hotel room, so no biggie.  And there may have been a Marilyn Monroe moment, but no one was really looking.  And the clasp of my swimsuit top may have snapped, but the tankini portion held everything mostly decently in place, and the bit of plastic clasp that winged five feet away didn't take out a single bystander's eye.

So this was definitely my most low-key vacation.

*You know it's a good wedding when you puke through most of the reception dinner and still manage to have a great time.  Also, don't judge me.  I fell asleep on the beach and forgot to reapply my sunscreen.  It could happen to anybody.

**Yeah, okay, I forgot to put sunscreen on my neck and chest.  And then I fell asleep on the beach.  And while it could happen to anybody, it mostly just seems to happen to me.  You should probably feel sorry for me.  And send pity cookies.


(True:  I saw grown men play what was essentially floor hockey.  In the dark.  With bare feet.  With a ball that was on fire.  Did I mention the bare feet?)

Just Say No--to Scissors

Don't run with scissors.

I'm pretty sure it's a warning exactly nobody takes seriously.  I mean, sure, children probably should avoid the motion + sharp objects equation, but we grown ups ought to be able to handle it, right?  As long as we aren't simultaneously making stabby motions with them?

Not me.  At least, I assume not--I haven't actually had a run-in with scissors yet.  But last week, I split my thumbnail smack down the middle with an apple slicer.  Two weeks ago I took a chunk out of my index finger when I was chopping vegetables and missed.  I have a nasty scar on the knobby bit of my wrist from when I juggled a razor in the shower.

If scissors are a gateway cutting tool, I've skipped straight to the hard stuff.


(True:  Super glue is a useful tool to have in one's first aid kit.)

It's a Grisly Affair

When I was little, I thought Barbie was what being a grown-up woman was all about.  She was a doctor/veterinarian with impeccable clothes and hair who balanced her career, glamorous outings with Ken (or more likely, G.I. Joe) on the jet-ski, and possibly a family (a beautiful, silent baby) with ease and long vacations to Italy.

When I was little, I was stupid.

Here is what being an adult woman is really like:

• WORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKWORKweekend.
• BILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSBILLSmoney?
• NO ONE REALLY LOOKS LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  THE KARDASHIANS DON'T EVEN LOOK LIKE THE KARDASHIANS DO ON TV.  Stop judging my sweatpants.
• Uncomfortable bras, and worst of all, strapless bras.
• You only get your period when you think it's safe to wear your favorite underwear.
• I could go out.  Or I could stay in, gorge on pizza puffs, watch bad television, and be in bed before the ten o'clock news.
• That event so awful I won't name it here.  (But it involves stirrups and a vicious lie along the lines of, "It'll just be a pinch.")
• Wolf whistles.
• Grubby children pulling your birth control out of your purse in front of mixed company.
• Childbirth war stories.  (Seriously--can mothers answer me why none of you seem to have PTSD?)
• The expectation of the general populace that you just can't wait to experience that particular miracle.

And what women have to look forward to:

• Smashing, painful mammograms.  For years.
• Menopause and the accompanying misery.  For years.
• Death.

Surprisingly, I'm not saying being a woman is such a bad thing.  It's worked out pretty well for me so far.  I'm just saying, thank the ladies in your life for being seriously hardcore.  And that maybe women deserve a little something for tolerating all the shit we do--like the Permanent Fund Dividend in Alaska, where they give you money for living there year-round.

Because, fuck.

Via

(True:  Today I had the grisly distinction of bearing witness to several women's very detailed discussion of mammograms.  I am suddenly terrified of life.)

In a Surprise Twist, I Actually Survived

And mostly intact!  WhirlyBall was pretty much more fun than ought to be legal, although I did end up with some bruising on the insides of my legs that might raise some eyebrows if I decide to sport my Daisy Dukes this weekend.  You know, if I had any.  Or thought that was a good look for me anyone me.

But what can I say?  A center steering column in a bumper car leads to suspicious bruising.

In other news, overnight my voice has subsided to a subauditory squeak.  I went to lunch with some friends, and they spent the entire meal pretending (sort of pretending) they couldn't hear me, and the entire ride back mocking me.

I'd write up a proper post, but I have Frutti di Bosco gelato to eat, so you're out of luck.


(True:  I am wearing a ponytail today.  One of our salespeople came up behind me and pulled it.  To be perfectly clear, my ponytail is not an invitation to touch me, no matter how often we talk on the phone.  Especially from behind, without announcing your presence.  Geez, people!  Haven't we moved past this yet?)

It's Been Nice Knowing You, But Now I'm Headed toward Certain Doom.

Pray for me.  If you are certified, please include Last Rites.  (That's something you have to be certified for, right?)

Tonight, I am learning how to play WhirlyBall. 




This can only end in tears.  The last time I was in a bumper anything, I was about seven.  My grandparents had taken my cousing, my sister, and me to Little Ammericka, and my sister conned me into going on the bumper boats with her, even though the engines were unhealthily (yes, that's a word, because I say so and so does Merriam-Webster) loud.  It was just the two of us, because my cousins chose that opportune moment to disappear.  My boat's engine cut out, and My Sister the Lawyer bumped my boat over and over while I was stranded until I cried.  It took the operator about six hours (okay, probably about fifteen minutes) to figure out how to retrieve me.

Ah, the memories.

Now, I'll be adding a sports element to an activity that's already cutthroat, and I'm not exactly the most coordinated person...

Take this morning.

This morning, I decided to wear a pencil skirt.  It's sort of sunny out, and I sometimes like to pretend it's spring.  Everything went swimmingly until I tripped on my skirt in the bathroom.  So naturally I tore the seam, which runs down the back of my skirt

And of course the hole is exactly ass-level.

If this is karma, I must have been Genghis Khan in a past life.



(True:  It's a good thing I'm wearing tights.)

The Worst Pies in London

I made sort-of-home-made chicken potpie the other night.  I take a lot of shortcuts, but some chopping is required.

Don't worry, I found a BandAid before we had a Sweeney Todd moment.

(And no, it wasn't the worst pie.  It was actually kind of good.  Go me!)



(True:  I tend to get burned out on the soundtracks from musicals pretty quickly, but Johnny Depp's version of "My Friends" never gets old.  Any other recommendations?)

Because PRIORITIES.

I went home last weekend to visit my folks.

I leave some clean clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes there (let's not talk about the books, okay?), because I pretty frequently forget to pack stuff. 

This last weekend, it worked the other way:  I forgot half my stuff there when I came back to Chicago.

Things I forgot:

• Mascara
• Deodorant
• Toothbrush

Things I did not forget:

• The new book my mom is lending me

(True:  No need to worry.  SuperTarget and priority mail saved the day, and I don't believe I descended into smelly-kiddom.)

Not the Phone You're Looking For

I went to a private high school, and I was one of the select few allowed a key to the elevator for some boring health blah, blah, blah.

Like most elevators, this one had an emergency phone.

Unlike most elevators, this one's phone was listed in the phone book.

So it wasn't uncommon for me to answer the phone and chat with some poor parent looking for information on admissions.  Fortunately for them, I worked part-time in the admissions office and could direct them to the right number.  Unfortunately, I graduated some years ago and am no longer available for that service...


(True:  You know the kind of luck I have?  The kind where I drop the key to the elevator down the elevator shaft.  Luckily, I knew rescuing-type people.)

Hops in the Right Direction: Persistence Pays Off

I know I told you yesterday I'd post a real post today, but I lied.  I'm a liar-pants, and I'm sorry.  This is really just an update.

Last week, I wrote about how I've been having trouble leaving Prada at home without her barking up a storm.  I tried just ignoring her before I left, and that seemed to improve things somewhat.

Well, it's been a week, and I can now leave without a single bark!

My dog is the best dog ever to dog.

That is all


(True:  This post is brought to you by six kinds of cold medicine and the letter M.  Sorry if it doesn't make much sense.  I think my head has drifted over to Kenya for the day.)

(Also true:  My nose is so chapped is actually bleeding.  I have succeeded in feeling the sorriest for myself ever.)