Fighting the forces of Darkness...day by day

All You Need is Love

I'm in an abusive relationship.  It's with  Valentine's Day.  Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved Valentine's Day.  I love the theory of it, I love the stories, I even love pink for one month of the year.  However, no matter how much love I give to Valentine's Day, it has never loved me back.  In fact, it works as hard as it can to make me miserable.  Valentine's Day waits until I'm down and then conspires to kick me.

It occurs to me that, maybe, Valentine's Day is like that guy who is "good on paper."  It's great, in theory, to have a day to celebrate love in all its forms.  But somehow, when that theory turns to practice, things go awry.

V-Day 2003

I was in the first real relationship of my life.  As such, I had plans for the first real Valentine's Day of my life.  Everything was so awesome! 

I bought the boy (let's call him...Fred...) a present.  Sparring gloves.  The couple that can slap each other around safely is the couple that stays together.  I also wore a pair of daring underwear.  I don't want to get into vivid detail, readers, but they were red...and lacy.  Yeah.  I know, super hot. 

We went out to dinner and then to see the most romantic movie of 2003: Daredevil.  Probably watching Ben Affleck attempt to have emotions about Future-Wife Jennifer Garner is what did us in.

The next day (I think it was the next day...for narrative purposes, let's pretend that I'm right) we got into a 6 hour long fight over...nothing?  Incompatibility?  Colin Farrell?  I remember the fight taking us up and down some relatively dubious streets in the late-night hours.  We paused for several minutes to talk about web comics.  We paused again, an hour later, for an angry-taco break.  That's not a euphemism...Nico's made some great break-up fare. 

I woke up the next morning, proud to have survived my first real fight as part of a couple.  I went to meet Fred after class.  He was surprised that I took our break up so well.

Adding insult to injury, I'd been dumped and not realized it. 

V-Day 2005

I didn't make it to Valentine's with this one.  We broke up a week before.

V-Day 2008

I'd been seeing someone for a year.  In retrospect, this whole relationships was one of the worst mistakes of my life but, at the time, it felt like a shoo-in for a good Valentine's.

Then Jacksonville experienced such a torrential storm that half of it flooded, my bf's car broke and I spent the holiday driving him random places.  Later on, he would thank me with a large bouquet that would look more at home in the front of a funeral parlor than on my dining room table.

I know what you're thinking, "He got you flowers and you're still complaining?"  Yes.  I am.  He asked me what I'd like for Valentine's Day.  The one thing...THE ONE THING...that I said was "Not flowers.  They make me sneeze and give me migraines." 

I both sneezed and had a migraine on Valentine's 2008.

V-Day 2012

Returning to halcyon days of yore, I had a break up right before the joyous holiday of love.  I also came down with a gushy head cold that I just thought was getting better when I made my last post.  It was not.  It was getting worse.  Oh yeah, and that extra tooth thing.

While walking through the machine shop at work, one of the machinists didn't hear me and turned around quickly, hand in a fist.  I got gut-punched.  Rather than settle for the metaphoric gut-punching, Valentines 2012 decided to go literal.  I folded like a piece of paper and whuffed for breath for a second.

A familiar piercing pain appeared at my temple.  Another migraine.  This one refused to be thwarted by drugs.

-----
I'm not saying that Valentine's Day is a bad holiday, probably it's the perfect holiday for someone out there.  But, for my own health, I think Valentine's Day and I need to break up.  It's not you, Valentine's Day, it's me.

The Law of Threes

I am a firm believer in the law of threes. By this, I don't mean celebrity deaths or catastrophe...I mean personal and small defeats tend to come in groups of three. For example, three years ago, I was downsized, had to sell my condo in a short sale, and totaled my car. All of these things ended up turning out for the best but at the time it felt like the hits just kept coming. Sometimes it's smaller--but it seems like when you are down and out, something will come around to knock you just a little bit lower. I'm speaking minor misfortunes for the most part. I'd hope that it's never something like being diagnosed with cancer, heart disease, and HIV all in one go.

A week ago, I got dumped. This was a bit of a blow (partially because it concluded a triumvirate of pre-Valentine's dumping that is just low) but it wasn't so bad. I could cope, I was slogging on. When dumped, I usually focus on looking extra hot, so when I encounter the man, he'll see what he missed. This might be completely ineffective, but it still makes me feel better. However, this time, hotness was a long shot because I immediately fell prey to a violent cold.

Hard to look like the one who got away when you're snotting all over the place and have a voice like a pre-op transsexual dude.

Still, I rallied. I clung to health like a lemur clings to a particularly sturdy branch and I made a quick recovery. Just today, I sprayed some soothing throat-gunk into my mouth and ran my tongue over my teeth, feeling sweet relief.

Until I hit an obstruction.

There was something...protruding...from the roof of my mouth. In a panic, I jabbed at it with my tongue. No budging. I attempted to stick my iPhone into my mouth to photograph it. Turns out, inner mouth self portraits are harder to pull off than you'd think. I ran into a public restroom (yes, this was all in public) and shoved a mirror into my mouth as I stared into the vanity mirror.

It was exactly what it felt like. Like a shark, I am dropping a tooth a row behind all my other teeth. This isn't a huge surprise, I knew that I had two baby teeth that never left...and may still not budge. However, in all its wisdom, my body has decided that a week shy of 29 years old is the age where I should finally get the rest of my adult teeth.  As a note of trivia, directly pertaining to the title of this piece, I now have 33 teeth. 

If You Keep Doing That, You'll Go Blind!

It's come to my attention that I write a lot about the very few times that I've been ill.  This is probably because I tend to be ill in luridly dramatic but not particularly serious ways.  I fall prey to sitcom diseases, like food poisoning or the flu, which are acceptable to joke about.  If I were writing a humorous anecdote about my chemotherapy, you probably wouldn't know whether to say "aww" or laugh.*

One of my earlier illnesses occurred my freshman year in college.   I was new to the bizarre world of roommates and even newer to the whole "taking care of myself like a functioning member of society" thing (sometimes I look into my refrigerator, find it full of uneaten carry-out and realize that, over a decade later, I still don't have it completely down).  I've mentioned that my roommate that year had a love of scented candles/plug ins/sprays/throw pillows.**  The thick odors that swirled through our room only barely covered up the other thing that my roommate apparently loved: poor hygiene.

Our room looked like a battlefield in the rotten-food wars.  Leaning towers of plates could be found scattered around the general sink area.***  Virulent yellow-orange EZ-mac clung to some, while ramen noodles drooped listlessly from others, tangling and creating a rat-king of gnarlyness.  I cleaned my own dishes but staunchly refused to clean hers.

I was young enough to believe that my stubbornness would eventually win out.  I was also young enough that I didn't have a firm grasp on how germs and bacteria work.  It turns out, they don't care who creates them, they go after everyone with equal gusto.

At the beginning of the spring semester, the situation turned extreme.

My eyes kind of hurt.  Like, all the time.  It felt like there were shards of glass in them.  I began to suspect that my roommate had been playing with fiberglass over my pillow.

One afternoon, after wearing glasses for a while, I decided to go for a run.  I opened my contact lens case on my side of the sink and fished out a lens.  It sat on my fingertip so innocently, like a delightfully lubricated little bowl.  I plopped it into my eye.

The next thing I knew, I was on my knees on the dorm floor, tears streaming from my face, as the most intense pain I have ever felt blasted through my eye.  It felt like someone had taken a razor blade to it.  Not just one, like someone took 20 razorblades, covered them with cat hair, burrs, and tobasco, then swiped them around my eye socket.

This is exactly what it felt like

After an eternity of pawing at my face, weeping, and begging God to please just make it stop, I wrenched the lens from my eye and stared at it.  The lens looked fine.  No razors or tobasco anywhere.  Because I am an idiot, I decided that probably a new lens was the solution.

After an eternity of pawing at my face, weeping, and begging God to please just make it stop, I wrenched the second lens out of my eye and threw it across the goddamned room.

The situation deteriorated pretty quickly after that, only matched by the growth of my denial.  By the end of the week, I couldn't even see using glasses.  I'd adjusted my computer so that the text was so big I was literally reading things word-by-word because that's all that would fit on the screen.  From the front row in class, I couldn't see a thing.  Looking at my textbook didn't help either, I couldn't make out chapter titles, much less text.

Finally, I mentioned to my parents that there was maybe something wrong.

They suggested that, perhaps, a visit to the ophthalmologist was in order.  That seemed pretty alarmist to me.  A visit to the doctor?  I mean, probably everyone goes mysteriously and painfully semi-blind on occasion.  It's like a coming of age thing.  You grow hair new places, feel funny around boys and then lose your vision.  Perfectly normal.

However, since this whole vision thing was causing me to fail exams (BECAUSE I COULDN'T SEE THEM) I relented and visited the Dr.

My ophthalmologist was roughly 85 years old.  This isn't an exaggeration, he was amazingly old.  He had seen a lot in his career.  One view of my eyes had him calling everyone in the office in to look through the scope because it was "so gross."  My corneas were bubbling.

Let me say this again.  My cornea. Was. BUBBLING.

It turns out, I had fusarium keratitis--ages before B&L started giving it to everyone with their contact lens solution.  I guess that the rotten food farm that my roommate created had also provided a wonderful fungal breeding ground of grodyness.  Fusarium was eating my corneas, causing them to do all manner of weird stuff.  Like bubble.  And amass gobs of scar tissue. 

With the aid of medicinal eye drops and time, my vision was somewhat saved.  However, I still have ghost vessels--left over from when they were needed to heal the scar tissue.  Doesn't that sound awesome?  My eyes are haunted by ghosts of blood vessels past.


*Note: I don't actually have chemotherapy...that was an example.  Now I hope I don't get cancer as some sort of karmic retribution for making light of chemo. 

**I typed "scentrid" about three times...my brain created a new combination of "scented" and "putrid"

***By "general sink area" I mean "front half of the room"

For the past year, I've been volunteering in the emergency room at a local hospital.  Usually, my days there consist of swabbing urine and blood off of gurneys, fetching abysmal coffee from an instant machine for worried families, and rolling endless strips of gauze into neat sausage-packs of bandaging.  I picked this position because of the excitement and glamor.  Also because I figure that if I make up more than 7 beds while at "work," I've fulfilled my bed-making quota for a week and thus do not need to maintain my own bed. 

For every boring and dull day, every so often, I get a real doozy. 

Quid Pro Quo

I bake a lot.  It makes me happy.  More importantly, it turns out that people like it when you feed them.  People really like it if you feed them things with sugar.  After working at the hospital for over half a year, people still refused to make eye contact with me.  Every once and a while a nurse would officiously call me "Volunteer!" and ask if I was still in high school.  This was better than the doctors, who refused to acknowledge my presence at all.  I literally stood in front of several talking only to be completely ignored and then bumped into while they walked away. 

Anyway, I figured that perhaps I could try to make them all sweeter through baked goods.  And, if I couldn't make them sweeter, I'd have the long-term revenge of putting them in diabetic comas.  On day 1 of my plan, I brought in a batch of my famous chocolate chip cookies.  Orgasmic noises were made and I walked away from the break room feeling pretty damned good about myself. 

Several minutes later, after I finished making yet another in the string of interminable beds, one of my co-volunteers came over.

"Wow, that cookie was soooooo good," he said.

"Gee, thanks" I responded, modestly. 

"No, I mean, that was amazing.  I wish I had something as good to give you."

I smiled politely back.

He paused and then a look of excitement crossed his face, "Have you ever seen a dead guy?!"

"Um, yeah.  I TA in an anatomy lab."

Instantly, he was dejected, but soldiered on, "What about a new dead guy?"

"No, I guess not."

"Want to?"

And that was how I traded a cookie for a dead guy.


Casanova

I met Casanova near the end of my first month at the hospital.  He was a homeless psych patient who was camped out in one of the hall beds.  He alternated between a Spanish, Italian and French accent.  Sometimes he forgot he had an accent at all and sounded like he was from Des Moines.  He sat in his bed in the classic Burt Reynolds pose.*  His attire was also similar to Reynolds in said pose.  The only thing between my eyes and his business was a precarious corner of a sheet. 

The hallway bed is right next to the linen cart, which is kind of like my nexus on ER days.  He gave me the ol' hairy eyeball the first few times that I restocked at the cart.  The next time I came by, he tried out his French accent.  After gushing a few sweet nothings, he asked for a back rub.  I politely turned him down and went along my way.  The next time, he was Spanish.  He explained about how he was a famous lover and would really be doing me a favor by throwing me a bone.  I told him that I get plenty of bones (well, I mean, for the sake of conversations with crazy people, I do) and collected more sheets. 

The next time around he asked me if I was refusing him because of my military background making me all regimented.  He surmised that I was an ex-marine, because they have the hottest uniforms.  He said this while assessing my assets.  Then he tried to get another massage. 

The sheet was slipping even lower, so I beat a hasty retreat. 

* found here ....  Interestingly enough, googling "Burt Reynolds pose" supplies a lot of pictures just like that one--but also provides this (oh, the humanity) and this. 

Skillz

UPDATE: Men # 8 and 9 added!!!

I am known, among my coworkers and friends, for being quickwitted and glib.  I have a 1-liner for most situations--sometimes a 3-liner; it really depends on the situation.  Stories flow from my lips, making even the most boring events seem exciting.  I can talk to you about Farscape for hours.  Literally.  Hours.  Maybe days, I've never put it to the test.  I give a hell of an interview.  I say this so those of you who haven't spoken to me in a while will realize that I have not suffered a stroke or become a shut-in (you will probably also realize that I am a huge nerd but that's been going on a good while; I'm comfortable with it).

For 90% of my social interactions, I am a delight.  For the other 10%, I'm a catastrophe.  Those of you who know me (Kate) probably understand that these 10% involve talking to boys.  My default defense mechanisms for dealing with attractive males (or really any strange male attention) fall into two categories.

1: Tongue tied silence.
2: WE ARE JUST BUDDIES AND GREAT FRIENDS. (in which I overcompensate for our friendship by acting like 300% more "one of the guys" than I ever would)

That's it.  Those are my two modes.  I can't help it.  It's the reason that I can only effectively date someone with whom I am already friendly. 

In the past 10 years, I have been approached in public by exactly 7 men.

(I know that's sad.  I tend to send a "go to hell" vibe in public.  It keeps me from having to fend off the hoards of men who would otherwise attempt to speak with me*)

*That's a lie.

Man #1
Name: Unknown
Location: No Anchovies, Tucson AZ
Year: 2003

I slid up to the bar of No Anchovies, ready to order a pitcher of beer for my friends waiting outside.  I noticed the thick scent of patchouli and glanced to my left.  Someone was glancing back.  He wore a woven Rasta style hat, despite being a scrawny, sandy-haired white boy.  He was attempting to grow a beard, perhaps hoping that it would make him look wise beyond his years (his years numbering roughly 18, by my approximation), but more likely because he was simply too lazy to shave.  The overall effect was much like crops during the Dustbowl.  Straggly strands popped out about every inch or so.

Rasta-hat leaned towards me.  "What's a pretty girl like you doing buying the pitchers?"

I was confused.  I didn't know if some boy was supposed to be buying me a pitcher of beer (which would make me an alcoholic**)  I also thought maybe he was talking to some other pretty girl who was behind me and it would be embarrassing if I responded, assuming that I was the pretty girl.  Instead, I smiled and sort of jerked my head around in a neutral way.  It could mean "I acknowledge that you are speaking!" or "I like beer!" or "I'm deaf!"

Rasta looked confused, but doggedly continued.  "Would you like me to buy you a beer?"

Why would I want him to buy me a beer?  I had a whole pitcher right in front of me.  It occurred to me that he might be attempting to pick me up.  My initial reaction was to be horrifically insulted that he thought he had a chance.  My second was that my mother raised me to be a nice person.

I smiled and said, "No, thank you."

He was even more confused.  My words said "no" but my tone said "I'm not a bitch."  He decided to choose the tone as his cue.  "You sure?"

I was inexperienced dealing with boys, so I pointed out all the beer I had in my hand.

"Would you like to buy some pot?"

I turned around and left.

**In 2003, a pitcher seemed like a lot of beer. 

Man #2
Name: Unknown  (Jeff?  It seems it was something like Jeff)
Location: Starbucks, Jacksonville, FL
Year: 2005

This story and the story of Man #3 are told in full detail in this post.  I don't want to repeat myself, but I'll give a brief accounting of each.

I was sitting in a chair at Starbucks reading and periodically glancing up at the young man sitting in the armchair near me.  I'm a sucker for auburn hair.  That's really my only excuse.

"What are you reading?"

"Huh?"***

"What are you reading?" he said, slightly louder, assuming that my response was due to not hearing him rather than a desperate gambit to buy time.  ****

"Just a book"*****

"A good one?"

"Kinda."

"Would you like to get coffee some time?"

Maybe my dating problems are because people keep asking me if I want to meet later to get the beverage that I already have in my hand.

"Um...sure."

We met, a week or so later for coffee.  It was going really well until he started asking me about my relationship with Jesus.

*** Remember how I mentioned being glib?
**** I read pure trash.  The answer to "What are you reading?" is always embarrassing.  It's never "oh, Dante's Divine Comedy"
***** Isn't the wordplay scintillating?


Man #3
Name: Will forever be lost to infamy.  Alias: Baldy McBoobGrabber

Location: Square 1(nightclub), Jacksonville, FL

Year: 2006

 As with the Man 2, the full story (and it's a doozy) of Man 3 can be found here.  

I was out with my friends, after the decision to turn over a new leaf.  This new leaf meant that I would attempt to use multiple words in sentence-form when a man attempted to speak to me.******

A lumbering bald dude who was approximately 10 years my senior swaggered up and asked me to dance.  I have never before that and only once after been asked to dance by a stranger.  Already breaking my new leaf, I simply nodded, speechless.  

What followed was a travesty of epic proportions that involved theater groping and hand raping.  Also baby voice.  I was so appalled that I was speechless for much of this time.******* 

****** Since my current rate of men speaking to me was once every 2 years, I felt pretty safe with this decision. 
******* I think I might have mentally transported myself to another world like people do when they suffer from serious trauma.. Seriously...read the previous post.

Man #4
Name: Rasta #2
Location: Jacksonville Ale House, Jacksonville, FL
Year: 2006

2006 was a big year, two whole strange men spoke to me.*

This was an almost direct repeat of my experience 3 years ago.  I sat at the bar, sipping a Miller Lite.**   I was the first of my group to arrive, so I was enjoying the solitude that you can only get while pretending to watch a sporting event in a crowded bar.

I started to feel uncomfortable.  You know the feeling; where someone's staring at you and you haven't placed who it is yet.  It didn't take long to find the culprit.

He was about 3 stools down.  His sandy ponytail hung lank down to the middle of his back. ***  He rubbed the side of his beer bottle anxiously and continued staring.  I stared back for a second and then looked away.

"Can I get you a beer?" ****

"I have a beer."

"Would you like to buy some weed?"

"No."

"Are you sure."

"Yup"

*I have nothing new to say...I'm just getting tired of the multiple asterisks so I decided to start at 1 again.
**Don't judge me.  I no longer thought that a pitcher indicated alcoholism but I'd also greatly lowered my standards where beer is involved
*** Point of interest.  Hair past your shoulders is unforgivable unless you are a pirate, a rock star, or a vampire.
**** See?  This is a definite pattern.

Man #5
Name: Unknown
Location: Some bar
Year: 2009 (St Patrick's Day)

A little bit of background.  At this point, I'd dated someone for a year and a half and then been single for about another half a year.  I was about to move across the country, so getting back on the horse seemed like a good idea. 

Several beers had been imbibed by this time, meaning I was far more likey to speak in complete sentences.*  There was dancing and laughter.  There were people playing disco music while wearing afro wigs.  I sort of bobbed my head. **

A slender yet muscular man with skin the color of coffee and lips that you wanted to bite,wove over to me and grabbed my  hand.  This was going well.  I hadn't had to speak at all yet!

We sort of swayed on the dance floor.  He kept trying to kiss me.  I wasn't that drunk.

"What's your name?" I asked him.

He murmured something in a thick French accent.  I had no idea what he said but it was pretty to hear him talk.

I nodded.

He murmured something and then nodded his head at me. 

"My name's..." I quickly went through my list of aliases that I developed after Baldy McBoobgrabber "...Cindy?" ***

His eyebrow twitched.  I did my best to smile like a normal person who hadn't just provided an alias.

He murmured something at me.

"What?" I yelled back over the music.  Except the music had stopped so I just yelled it.

"Do you want to go to my place?"

"Oh, no, thank you."

"I'd really like you to."

"Maybe another time."

"Can I have your phone number?"

We were still dancing.  So I was in the awkward position of having to either provide my number or say no while in direct contact.  I didn't want to give him my number.  I made one up on the spot, instead.  Yes, I am that girl.

He didn't believe me.  I can't imagine why...only every bit of information I'd provided had been a lie.  He asked me to repeat it.  I did, happily parroting the number back.

He reached for me again and he kissed me briefly.  I let him.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

For some reason, he thought that my kissing him constituted a green light and he tried to make a move.  I stepped back.

"Oh, look, my friend's calling me!  K!  Bye!"

I never saw him again.

* I'm far more talkative when tipsy.  In fact, it's a problem  I have yet to find the perfect mix where I talk enough but not too much.
**I suck at dancing.  Even intoxicated, I rarely attempt a solo dance.
*** Cindy?  That wasn't on my list.  I definitely hadn't meant to add the question mark.

Man #6
Name: Unknown
Location: Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, CA

Year: 2011

I was walking in the park with a friend from South Africa.  A big dude was walking in the opposite direction and giving us eyes.  I wondered if he was looking at her or at me.  I also wondered if he was going to mug us.

"Would you ladies like some weed?" He asked, jovially.

"No, thank you." I replied*

*It seems weird to add this to the list, I know.  But I meant it literally when I said that strange men around my age never speak to me.  Also, apparently I look like someone who really wants some reefer.  Just for the record, I don't.

Man #7
Name: Unknown
Location: Safeway, Belmont, CA
Year: 2011

I was sleep deprived.  I just want that on the record.  I had my ipod headphones in my ears and I was buying catfood.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man looking at cereal.  He was cute.  Like, really cute.  I never see cute men buying cereal at 10 at night.*

I ran into him several more times.  Each time, I held eye contact a fraction too long for it to be merely polite.  This wasn't because I was being coy or had a plan.  It was mostly because I was too tired to move my head.  Also because, as mentioned, he was really cute.

My Safeway experimented with wheeled baskets for a while.  They were like rolling luggage, only you toss your produce in them.  I was skittering down a hallway, wheeling my cat food and my broccoli** towards the cash register.  I felt a presence behind me.  Pure instinct took over and I started walking faster, like I was in a hurry to get somewhere.

"I've never seen a basket like that before." He said

I looked back over my shoulder, to verify that he was speaking to me.  This is a reflex.  I could write another blog post about cute boys who I actually thought were speaking to me but weren't.***

"Yeah, they're new." I said.  My voice was about an octave higher than normal.  Why was I talking so fast?

"They're pretty neat, let me take a look at that."  I stopped while he assessed my basket. ****

He finally stepped away and looked up at me.  I could tell a conversation was immanent.

"Ohhh, open cash register!"  I bolted.

I am 28 years old.  I have lived alone for 10 years.  I was afraid that the cute boy would ask me out and that I would have to contend with a whole evening of conversation. 

*Roughly 50% of my grocery shopping is done at night.  Really weird people are at Safeway after 9.
**Kraft Mac and Cheese
*** But I won't.  Because that's the whole story.  There were cute boys.  I thought they were speaking to me.  They were not.
****Not a euphemism.  Probably.

Men #8 and 9
Location: San Mateo, CA (parking garage, 11:00 pm)
Year: 2011

I was in downtown San Mateo, for a going-away party.  I split from the group and meandered towards my car, in the center of a parking structure.  Two large men with full tattoo sleeves and ball caps were standing by my car.  Their shirts were over-sized and they kept glancing at me as I approached.  In my mind, I called them Thing 1 and Thing 2.

It was sketchy but there were some other people in the garage and I had a knife so I didn't feel too bad about the situation.  The men started towards me as I unlocked the drivers side door.

"Is this your beetle?" Thing 1 asked.

No, I had unlocked and was getting into a stolen vehicle.  "Yeah, it's mine."*

"Why does it say 'Turbo' on the back?" This was Thing 2.  He was standing by my trunk, eyeing it.

They apparently really liked asking obvious questions.  "Because it's a turbo."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"We've both had old bugs and really loved them.  I didn't even know they had new bugs in turbo," Thing 1 effused, "Um...can we see it?"

"Sure." 

I popped the trunk and they examined my engine. **

Apparently it's just like a Porsche.  They talked about VW's for a while longer and then Thing 1 looked at me, hopefully. 

"Is it a stick?"

"Of course it's a stick."

"Oh my god.  I want to hug you but I'm a complete stranger so, uh..."

Then Thing 2 gave me a high-five.  So did Thing 1. They went their way and I went mine.  I like to think that this indicates growth.  I spoken several sentences, all in the right octave and at the right tempo. 

*I can't talk to a nice boy at Safeway but a parking garage in the middle of the night apparently doesn't phase me.  Then again, my mother has told me that when I was a toddler, I once befriended a motorcycle gang in a McDonald's.  
** Again, not a euphemism.

Big Bird is Watching

I was an impressionable child.  Beyond an obsession with reading books that were far above my age-range, I wasn't exposed to that much terror.  I didn't have any siblings to tell me about closet monsters or clawed creatures under my bed.  Apparently, I didn't need them because my own imagination provided more fodder than you could believe for weird childhood fears.

A disgusting monster (with long talons and hand-hair) that loved grabbing child-feet lived under my bed.  If I ever slept on top of the covers with bare feet exposed, he'd definitely grab them.  I don't know what he would have done if he'd grabbed them but it was probably horrible.  Maybe tickling.  Maybe pedicures.  Interestingly enough, there was also a Christmas elf that had run away from Santa under my bed.  I guess he sublet from the monster.

There was a vampire in the downstairs hallway and a werewolf who lurked in the back yard and waited to behead me as I took out the trash in the evening.  My childhood was filled with peril.

None of it compares to Big Bird.

Like many children, I watched Sesame Street and loved the yellow-plumed giant bird-thing. I was about 3 or 4 when I received a stuffed Big Bird doll for Christmas.  He was about 4 feet tall, which was larger than I was at the time, and had a benevolent grin on his open beak.  I dragged him up to my room and proudly set him on my toy box in front of the window.


Things were going swimmingly until storytime.

My father used to put me to bed with a variety of stories--most of his own creation.  Come to think of it, he was probably the root of half of my illogical childhood fears.  I still remember a story that involved a cave with bones strung up in the back--rattling in the wind gusts with hollow clicks.  He painted vivid pictures.

On the night in question, the story wasn't so terrifying.  I was curled up in my bed clutching my rag doll, Lollie.  My father sat down next to me with Big Bird on his lap and moved Big Bird's open beak so that he was telling me the story.  I was enraptured with my new toy and its unexpected abilities.

As the story went on, I realized that Big Bird was scooting closer to Lollie.  As my dad moved the doll closer, he began to make smacking, hungry noises in between paragraphs of his story.  Slowly, Big Bird lowered his head and pecked Lollie once, delicately.  Then he went in for a bigger bite, nomming my poor little rag doll right in front of me.  I watched in abject terror as the monstrosity lifted the pink flannel doll in his mouth and gulped like a stork.

My father was just smiling like this was a fun game but doll-murder and cannibalism was happening right on my bed!  I snatched Lollie from Big Bird's clutches and scooted away.  Big Bird made several more advances but I shielded the rag doll with my body.  

At the end of story time, my dad (who was obviously unaware that his child thought stuffed animals were completely alive and now also believed them to be terrifying) placed Big Bird back in his spot of glory against the window.  He kissed me good night and turned off the lights.

He left me in the dark with that monster.



I scooted closer to the wall, hoping to protect my back from a pointed and bitter beak. If I squinted, I could just make out the bird outline against the window.  I knew he wasn't moving.  Yet.

I also knew that it was just a matter of time.  Eventually, I fell asleep, clutching Lollie to my chest.  I woke, knowing that I'd survived the night but would have many more to go.   I tried hiding Big Bird in my closet but my parents put him back on the toy chest.  I tried shoving him under the bed to no avail.  The next time I entered the room, he was on the toy chest.

Every night, I stayed awake for hours after my bed time, eyes riveted on the fluffy silhouette in the window.  I'd fall asleep and then wake in panic because I'd dropped my guard.

My father was blithely unaware that his little game had fostered such panic and periodically continued it.  I'd return to my bedroom to find different toys hanging limply in Big Bird's mouth.  I could see the evil in his eyes, smell the rotten cotton stuffing in his beak from the stuffed critters he'd previously devoured.  My parents never noticed the nefarious toy destruction that was happening in my once peaceful bedroom. 

It got to the point where I was only sleeping about 3 hours a night.  The other hours were spent staring at the window frame, plotting new ways to thwart the bird and running to the light switch and flipping on my lights, just to make sure that he hadn't grabbed any more hapless victims.

The scary thing is, I don't know what happened to Big Bird.  We moved from New Jersey to Arizona and, somewhere along the way, Big Bird left to terrorize an other child.  I'd like to say that I was worried about the toy mass-murder that was happening somewhere in the midwest.  Mostly though, I was relieved.  My bedroom was a safe place again.

Except for the monster under the bed but he wasn't really so bad.

Stats

The other day, I was perusing the stats for Fighting and discovered several interesting trends amongst the people who find this site while googling.  These are the results of google searches that have lead people to my little site:

640x480 puppy mill pictures
Ok, what?  Why would desktop photos of a puppy mill be something that a person searches?  Why would my website be the place to find them?  To my knowledge, I've never written about puppies or about mills, much less the two combined.Out of curiosity, I googled the phrase.  My website is not listed, but somehow blogger thinks that multiple people found their way here.

Contrast Sensitivity
Whoever found this site by searching Contrast Sensitivity was probably gravely disappointed at my post about Africa and a contrast sensitivity chart turning into a zebra.  Hey, researcher guy?  My bad.  

Zombies
This is a no-brainer, pun intended.  

"his wife rubbed my thigh"
Why Google, you pervy little search engine, you!

border patrol ford velociraptor
I....am at a loss for words.

Oh.  Apparently this is actually a real thing, an SUV.  There go my fantasies of a saddled dinosaur keeping the borders safe. 


crab puffs
Probably this site is also disappointing for crab puff aficionados, since all I do is talk about how much I like them. 


Readers, are you fans of delicious flavor?  If so, follow my friend Abby and I at Kitchen Desserters.

Red Rover, Red Rover...

I've managed to make it through a semester of human anatomy without a single blog post.  I didn't post about the gruesome pleasures of a cadaver lab, or about how awesome it is to hold a brain.  I didn't even post about how gross the digestive system can be. 

A whole semester of silence destroyed with two words.  What two words you ask, gentle readers?

Killer sperm.

That's right.  In case you didn't catch that the first time, or thought it was a mistype.  KILLER.  SPERM.  And no, this isn't killer sperm in the sense of a Lifetime Original Movie, where our heroine Daisy Fitzgerald finds her twu wuv after three years in the coal mine--only to discover that his ejaculate is toxic to her (due to coal pox). 

This is an actual spermatozoon that is created with the sole purpose of hunting and killing alien sperm.  It's like a uterine border patrol.  Maybe you missed it at the beginning of this paragraph...it kills alien sperm.  So, say that a woman doinks two guys within 24 hours...Sperm Wars.  Sperm wars are happening all up in her woman parts. 

Besides the killer sperm, there is slacker sperm.  It just sits around and basically creates a barrier that alien sperm can't cross.  Think of it as spermy red rover.  But this sperm doesn't do anything beyond hang out with other sperm and periodically act as a shield. 

With all the playground games and wars and whatnot, it's amazing that any of the (relatively rare) egg-seeking sperm actually get the job done. 

So, to sum up.  The vast majority of sperm is predominantly interested in hanging with buddies and fighting with other sperm.  

Sounds kinda like men. 

Letters: the Sequel  

Dear USA Network,

I’m really psyched that you post eps on Hulu (see what I did there...regarding Psych...your awesome show?).  Most networks aren’t as super as you are.  Since all your shows are on ungodly late at night (or when I have class), I’m reliant on Hulu for my viewing pleasure. 

It’s interesting to compare your shows with TNT’s.  They aren’t too different in theory, lots of crime-ish procedurals.    The only difference is that you, USA Network, actually have a sense of humor.  You don’t try to teach me deep and meaningful life lessons with your shows.  Which makes me happy, as I don’t care to learn any deep or meaningful life lessons when I’m vegging in front of my computer on the weekends.  I want to laugh or maybe see attractive people kiss other attractive people.

Also, you help to employ a girl who was my best friend in 2nd grade.  I know that doesn’t mean anything to you but (since I never saw her after 5th grade) I didn’t know what she was up to...maybe bull fighting or rodeo clowning.  Granted, USA, bull fighting or rodeo clowning probably would have been more exciting than production assistanting.  Still, it’s nice to know that it wasn’t selling kitten organs on the black market.  She didn’t seem like that kind of girl.

Also, once I learned who she was, I used Facebook to find her and probably freak the hell out of her.  So, USA Network, you turned me into one of those creepy internet people.  I disabled Facebook soon after.  That’s probably your fault too.  

Maybe I don’t like you so much after all.  


Hugs-
Me

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Dear People on TV,

If you actually want the bad guy to be dead, try shooting him in the head instead of the torso.  This goes double for any zombie-related situations.  Especially once you’ve got them down, for God’s sake, shoot them in the head.  



That’s all.

-Me

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Dear Writers of Trueblood,

WTF man?  Not everything needs to be bondage and be-headings and orgies and dog fighting.  There are many parts of life that aren’t the seedy underbelly  In fact, the very term “seedy underbelly” implies that there are complete other body parts that aren’t seedy at all.  

Don’t be so bitchy about the South.  There are many lovely people there.  Not everyone is a white trash meth addict.  You walked the line pretty well in S1 but it seems that you’ve given it up completely.  

Was it the fault of the reviewers?  If enough people call you a “guilty pleasure,” do you feel inclined to become one?  I like my naked vampires as much as the next gal but they sort of lose their charm when they are naked all the time--and whine or cry about half the time.  This isn’t Twilight.  

If you have a book that provides you with a storyline that makes sense and then you choose to write something that doesn’t make sense at all, you are an idiot.

XOXO

Me

 Letters

Dear Chinese Food Delivery Guy,

I know that I order appetizers/food at a 10/1 ratio.  I’m ok with that...which is why I order them in the first place.  It’s not my fault that your crab puffs are so delicious.  Maybe if you made them less delicious, I would not order so many of them.  Please stop commenting on how many I order.  

Also, please stop reminding me of how one time you guys forgot to run my card and you had to call me to get the info.  I entered the damn info myself and my screen was still up so I know I did.  Stop saying, “Ahhh, you make mistake.”  I didn’t make a damn mistake, you did.  What’s more, even if I had made a mistake, it was months ago.  We are not bonding over this BS.

If your crab puffs weren’t heaven with four corners, I would stop ordering from you.  

XOXO

Me


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Dear Domino’s Pizza,

While I’m on the subject of food delivery, I have a bone to pick with you.  

Your online order system is super.  When I’m done ordering, you have this little bar that tells me what stage my pizza is at in its assembly.  I know that Juan makes better pizza than Frank does because I know who made my pizza.  I know that Jorge does a good quality inspection.  

What I do not know, to any accuracy, is when the hell the actual pizza will arrive at my house.   I know when it leaves your location, a block away.  But it seems like the time between then and when it arrives at my door varies from 5 minutes to 40.  Plus, quite often, the delivery guy updates your bar so it says my order is complete and delivered.  Then, I’m staring at a bar that says “Delivered! MMM, we hope you’re enjoying your pizza.”  

No!  I am not enjoying my pizza because it isn’t here yet!  You’re just taunting me!  The last time you delivered, Domino’s?  I looked at that message for 35 minutes before my pizza finally arrived.  I thought maybe you’d been in a horrible accident and sauce was running red in the streets.  I worried about you...and about my pizza.  

There’s no point in having a status bar if it doesn’t show your actual status.  

Love and kisses,

Me

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Dear Leonardo DiCaprio,

Don't think I'm not on to you.  I know you've used witchcraft to somehow get hotter with every movie.  And at some point my hate for you grew to grudging admiration to actual respect.  I'm still not sure when it shifted.

You used to be so weaselly.  I’m almost positive. I remember being staunchly anti-you and somehow it’s turned on me.  Even when you play a crazy person with an insane accent, I find myself rooting for you and thinking that you have pretty eyes.  How did this happen?  

And worse, what if the other celebrities figure out your secret?  Do you want to be the trendsetter responsible for a magically hot and respected Gary Busey?  Because you know he’ll jump on that bandwagon if he can find it.  Tom Cruise is just looking for a way back in.  

Please, Leo, for all our sakes...keep your secret.  

Sincerely,

Me