More ways to alienate readers: sharing personal medical information!

I have spared pictures only because I don't have any.

Call me strange (it wouldn't be the first time), but having stitches put in my arm is the most fun I've had in a while.

Growing up, I was one of those kids who had the bum luck of having one's health completely in tact, possessing an indestructible set of bones, and an imperviousness to all childhood inflictions, such as the chicken pox, being beat up on school playgrounds, etc. I used to pray that I too could break my arm playing whiffle ball, get a hot pink cast and have my classmates write uplifting messages on it like "Get well soon," "I hope your arm heels" [sic], and "You suck at whiffle ball." The amount of attention and sympathy a child in a cast received was astounding, and at the time, enviable.

I never got that day, because as I mentioned, I am completely 100% healthy all the time and have never had anything remotely wrong with me in twenty-five years. That is, until last week. My eight year-old cousin had pointed out a bump on my arm that seemed to appear out of nowhere. My aunt saw her within inches of the unidentifiable bump, panicked, and immediately sent her to the other room while I was promptly quarantined. I had previously noticed the offending bump but ignored it because "imperfection is perfection" but also because I am very lazy.

To get more to the point, we are in an age where it has become increasingly important to put things into two camps: cancer and not cancer. Wanting to secure its place in the "not cancer" category, I made a trip to the doctor, who immediately placed me in the middle of a surgical amphitheater and had me put under anesthesia while being surrounded by several world-renowned surgeons who played Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide who made the first incision (very slightly dramatized for effect).

While a team of diagnostic medicine experts worked around the clock to determine what ailment I was suffering from and how my life could be spared, while still being covered by my insurance plan, I put on very large bandages and only wore short-sleeve shirts. Finally, I had my chance to remove the medical tape (while making convincing facial expressions to imply how painful it is to rip off a Band-Aid) and reveal something that was actually, kind of gross and painful-looking. To my disappointment, my co-workers have not reacted to the injury I appear to be suffering from nor have they inquired how my health is. Or why the bandages have been getting progressively larger each day.

My older brother was positive that my unborn twin was hanging out inside my elbow. I considered the idea briefly, wondering what it would be like to meet my own unborn twin after twenty-five years of silence. Would it be any different than meeting my born twin?

The biopsy results were returned several days later and although my doctor did not specifically say that it was not cancer, her upbeat tone assured me that it was neither a tumor nor a misplaced twin. The whole event was such fun, however, that once the stitches are removed I may have to accidentally run into a doorknob or something just to get stitches again.

Party Tricks

I attended a wine tasting event at the Museum of Fine Arts last week. I decided I should wait to blog about it until I'd forgotten much of the experience and had to make most of it up. I did, fortunately, take some notes along the way and figured I'd share some of what I learned with you. I also took some fliers, swizzle sticks, and complimentary (?) blocks of artisan cheeses, but these proved more difficult to share.

I make it a point never to eat cheese alone because that might constitute a problem, so my good friend came along to the tasting. In truth, we learned a great deal about nothing and I'm not even sure the sommelier had been to a wine tasting before. None of the following information was actually communicated to me because the MFA is an institution of arts and they don't even have a single book of matches behind the bar, so I had to Google any of the knowledge contained in this post. As a result, I am now qualified to review any kind of wine imaginable, including wines that have not been invented yet.

In fact, the most memorable part of the entire production was the older gentleman who may have been the right-hand man of the sommelier. Primarily he stood there drinking all the wine and heckling us whenever we got up to try a different wine, informing us that the wine in hand would make us more God-like, or, taken in too much quantity, destroy our reputations, or both.


How to Appreciate Wine (Instructions)
Remember, a good wine will appreciate you, too, and won't take advantage of you or constantly point out your flaws.

1. Looking at the wine: Quite often, your wine will come in a glass.

2. Smelling your wine: Some of the common smells associated with wines include types of berries, fruits, flowers, trees, nuts, and industrial U.S. cities. I happen to have a very keen sense of smell, probably from all the candy I ate growing up, and I was able to be a lot more specific in my descriptions than you will be able to be. Don't let this discourage you. You can still enjoy wine!

3. Remove your nose from the glass.

4. Describing its flavor: Your first impression of the wine's flavor is called a “forepalate," followed by the "midpalate" and not surprisingly the "endpalate." According to a source I did not verify, "You may be surprised at how differently the wine tastes going down from when it first came across on the palate, so focus."

Here is a transcription of the notes I took during the wine tasting:

Wine:2008 Lois Grüner Veltliner
Aroma: New Car
Forepalate: French Onion soup with gruyere cheese
Midpalate: OFF! insect repellent
Endpalate: bagels and lox
Pairs well with: agoraphobia, steak tips

Wine: Mark West Pinot Noir, probably made this very afternoon
Forepalate: Lawry's Seasoned Salt
Midpalate: I think there is something wrong with this grape juice
Endpalate: Tang
Pairs well with: self-loathing, steak tips

Wine: 2006 Columbia Valley Cabernet Merlot
Forepalate: Forgot to focus
Midpalate: Attractive male entered bar, still forgot to focus
Endpalate: [indecipherable scribbling]

5. Finally, locate your car keys. They are already in your hand. That's right.

You may insist that I've left out a good deal of information about wine tasting, and I have to respectfully disagree with you; I only left things out I didn't really feel like talking about.

In closing, I was also given the opportunity that night to try foie gras for the first time, which looked an awful lot like Spam and tasted like 250 mL of wine because that is exactly what I had to drink to get the horrible taste out of my mouth, as well as the image of a duck having a large metal tube shoved into its throat just so I could experience the undeniable pleasure of wanting to rip one's tongue out of their mouth. You have to wonder, instead of forcibly over-feeding ducks to produce foie gras, why don't they just erode their self-image with scathing criticism until they binge eat without the help of a feeding tube? It works on most females over sixteen and you would probably have more luck getting it past PETA.

See, I'm not awkard with your baby.

See, I just patted it on the shoulder and said "hello." When it did not respond to this, I stuck out my hand for it to shake. When it did not offer its hand in turn, I asked what sex "it" was and what was "its" name. Then I said, "Hello, Jake. How old are you? I'm twenty-five." Your baby furrowed its brow and I inferred that he did not know the approximate answer to my query. Your baby being from Boston, I figured he would at least be aware of how the Red Sox were doing this season (I do not, so theoretically he could have told me anything whether it was remotely accurate or not and I would have believed him). I hate to break this to you, but your baby is either apathetic about sports or was born without the capacity for speech. Your baby then looked like he was either going to cry or file a report with Child Services requesting that I never have custody of a child.

Oh, I give up. I was introduced to the baby of a friend's sister yesterday and within moments decided that I had to be at the mall or something. I considered asking if it was recommended to treat a baby in a similar fashion to how you would treat a puppy, but I couldn't think of a better way to phrase this question.

I gave up coffee six months ago, could your baby use this gift certificate to Starbucks?

Budgeting attempt #457

I lost my credit card for the second time in two months (at a bar, try to contain your surprise), which is probably a good thing considering my current bill is unfathomably high. A brief overview of my statement as I tried to cancel my credit card (again) revealed something that I was otherwise unaware of. I am poor. Not only am I poor, I am negatively wealthy. I should be looking at people who consider themselves "poor" in envy and asking them how they have been so successful with their investments. As I routinely do each year for about one week, I am designing a budget to better fit my fiscal allowance (this comes out to roughly $1 per week). Spending less money on food is an essential element to budgeting, because a thorough investigation of my spending habits reveals that I spend close to 41% of my paycheck on sandwiches. The following monetary restrictions have the added bonus of aiding in weight loss until I become anemic, lose all muscle mass, my hair begins to fall out, and I hallucinate. In fact, I'm pretty sure this is the exact diet of many glamorous celebrities!

Breakfast: Flirt with Dunkin' Donuts guy for free munchkins (This worked once so I'm convinced it has potential. If cashier is female, just try harder.)
Lunch: Once flirting for munchkins doesn't work twice in a row, purchase bagel with quarters stolen from a video game arcade.
Dinner (once every 72 hours): Donate platelets at nearest hospital in exchange for coupon good for one free meal at hospital cafeteria.
Dessert: Chew on a straw.
Optional snack items:

• Stare longingly at pictures of food on Blackberry I just purchased for $200. Deny to everyone that I have just licked Blackberry.
• Free Saltine crackers and plastic cutlery from nearby cafes. Garnish Saltines with ketchup, salt & pepper packets, and more cutlery.

Entertainment: Watch tourists in Faneuil Hall exit Dick's Last Resort with enormous paper condom hats on their heads.

Granted, I know this will only last one more week, or however long it takes for Visa to mail me a new card. But in the meantime at least I get to eat a lot of bagels. And hallucinate without paying for drugs.

My aunt, uncle, and little cousin just returned to Boston after two weeks in China. My eight year-old cousin brought me back a small kimono-shaped purse as a souvenir, to keep my cell phone in "so I don't lose it at bars anymore" (in her own adorable words). For the record, I've only lost my phone at a bar once! The other time was a cab. I really had nowhere to go with this post, other than the fact that upon their return my aunt noted there was actually more booze in the house than when they left instead of less (you're welcome).

Alcoholism is a symptom of Seasonal Affect Disorder

Judging by the recent weather we've been experiencing in Boston, I have spent a disproportionate percentage of my salary on bathing suits when I should have spent it all on umbrellas. I didn't sign up for a health club membership and go for the month of December so I could not wear a bikini this summer, but I have heard from the acquaintance of a friend of a reputable source that the entire summer is going to be this miserable and rain-soaked. So unfortunately, unless we all move to a corner of the Earth that hasn't had amnesia and forgotten that it's summer, we are all going to have to start on heavy anti-depressants to get through this summer.

More creative genius uncovered in the family basement

Why am I the one in my family who chose to write when my brother so obviously should be carrying that torch himself? I previously subjected readers to "The Witch and the Prince," an original piece of short fiction written by my brother at age seven (circa 1988, but it is essentially timeless), which I found in a box of our old things my parents meant to throw out but kept forgetting to put out on garbage day. Last time I was home I uncovered "Aliens," printed on that old accordion-style computer paper. "Aliens" reflects a more mature, socially-responsible writer. It is a story of space travel and extra terrestrials, but it is also grounded in reality; it echoes the futility man sometimes feels against unfamiliar forces. It also depicts the strength of the US defense force (kinda). (I find the parentheticals to be most helpful.) Reproduced here:

ALIENS

The countdown started. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, BLAST OFF! The shuttle rose into the sky, then into space, but when in space it got stuck. Jon and I tried to get it back into orbit but we couldn't. We asked Keith if there were any meteors in the area. The answer was YES but it was a UFO!

We tried radioing for help but it didn't work. We could only talk to it (the UFO). So we asked if they wanted peace, but they wanted to kill us! Then in the distance we saw another UFO. We tried radioing it (the UFO), it worked. It wanted peace, and it killed the other ship and brought it back to Earth. On Earth we had a celebration for them (aliens).

But the aliens in the other ship hadn't died. They started to attack Earth. But this time the other aliens weren't there to help us so we called the AIR FORCE and the NAVY and the MARINES and the ARMY and they barely killed them and since then they (aliens) haven't attacked.

Ultimately, it is a story of survival, just barely. Sure, it could stand a little character development. Who is Keith? Who is Jon? Which one is more attractive and what do they typically have for lunch? Fortunately, I know the answers to all of these questions because they are clearly my brother's childhood friends.

Are blogs only for sharing how terrible your day was and where you've recently been for lunch

Or can I publish sloppily-drawn, not very funny cartoons I just thought of in the shower, too?

City Living: Dangerous? Or informative and flattering?

As the only daughter in a typical suburban household, my mom and dad assumed the customary role of over-protective parents. The City was a dangerous place where children from good families were kidnapped by pimps and drug dealers disguised as bus drivers. It was better to spend our time sitting in our carpeted homes watching people living in the city on television, or to occasionally go out to the movies and watch it on a much much larger television. And I mean who can blame them, I recently got on a bus bound for Cambridge and somehow ended up in Roxbury. In a 12" miniskirt. But sometimes, it's just downright flattering. There are all sorts of crazy people around with very active vocal cords seeking to embarrass themselves just for you! One of the more awesome (and very odd) moments of my life occurred this morning:

I nonchalantly walked past an idling taxi, at which point the driver shouted something at me. Naturally I assumed he was asking me for directions and I would be forced to tell him that I was just visiting. He offered me a free ride to wherever I was going (three blocks from my office) which I declined, which prompted him to then ask me to lunch and/or dinner. I began to walk away but he actually got out of his cab to follow me around and ask for the specific reasoning why I would not go out with a nice middle-aged taxi driver like himself. After fumbling for a while with some excuses I had stashed in my purse for the appropriate moment, I finally found the good old standby which was that I was in a VERY SERIOUS COMMITTED LONG-TERM RELATIONSHIP WITH A GUY WHO DRIVES A MUCH BIGGER TAXI THAN HIM and that I probably shouldn't even be speaking to him right now.

A less exciting and somewhat more uncomfortable example happened last night around the south end, when I was mistaken for a prostitute and queried about services by a man driving slowly by. He didn't go so far as to ask for rates/discounts, etc., he just uttered the two magic words: "Sweetheart. Sex?" (He liked me!) After pausing to consider the proposal for the appropriate two to three minutes, I moved on. I am a lot of things, but a prostitute is not one of them.

For whatever reason I've been getting approached by people in vehicles lately. Why is this? So they can drive away real quickly if I actually say yes? So there you have it: cities are a great place to build up your self-esteem by talking to whackos.

Burn Before Reading: Ashley Freeland does not recommend you re-read your childhood diaries

Going through my childhood journals (Vols. 1-26) at age twenty-five was perhaps not one of my greatest ideas. My dad shipped me a collection of journals I’d written in at various awkward stages of my life which I had requested in order to review, and if the desire struck, burn. While I had expected to find angsty poems over lost spelling bees and sweaters purchased at full price right before they went on sale, what I actually found were feelings (I have been searching for an adequate synonym for “feelings,” and I’m afraid it can’t be done so the word will have to stay put) I had done a damn fine job of shoving into a corner of my mind which collected a lot of dust over the years. In other words, I had no idea I’ve had such a hard life … ?

Naturally, I shared this discovery with my parents so they could feel equally bad about my ruined childhood. I also occasionally alluded to “what I had been through” without specifically mentioning what this actually was, which leads me to believe I might want to check police reports to see if I had survived childhood imprisonment/torture of any kind. I might have been referring to braces.

What is evident:

1. The high quantity and variety of clubs, teams, and activities joined and almost immediately dropped out of stays at a pretty consistent level throughout my entire life
2. The sheer number of boys mentioned from the moment I learned to write onward is astounding, and I have no idea who over half of these people are
3. My confusion surrounding the word “boyfriend” becomes pretty evident in earlier monologues, particularly in grade one when various (remarkably senior) male actors are mentioned
4. I changed the spelling of my name three times.

Of course there were still some valuable entries that withstood the test of time and continue to amuse me, such as:

• “I LOVE VOLLEYBALL! VOLLEYBALL VOLLEYBALL VOLLEYBALL!!!!!”
• “Oh no my pen is dying I have to find oh here I found a new pen sorry it’s blue!”
• “MY MOM SMOCKED ONCE [sic]!!!” (She continues to deny this allegation.)
• “I don’t understand how I can live in this house. There are bugs everywhere. A jaguar can’t scare me, but bugs can.” 5/17/? (I had encountered many jaguars in the wilds of Highland Park, Illinois, none of which scared me at all.)
• “Things to do every day: 1. Floss teeth 2. 8-Minute Abs 3. Look for guys 4. Practice guitar”

I no longer do 8-minute abs, play guitar, or repeatedly try out for cheerleading squad. I am no longer on yearbook staff (one meeting attended, for free cookies), Spanish club (one meeting attended, free pan de muerto), or track (one event attempted, hurdles - last place. free pizza.). On the other hand, I have not had braces for over eleven years and I look forward to many years to come of not having braces. I cannot stress enough, unless you want to lie awake half the night wondering who you are going to eat lunch with tomorrow, until eventually you realize that you don't even have a cafeteria, maybe it's best to just let yourself assume that you wrote about puppies, Christmas, and attractive celebrities who were way way too old for you.

Making a commitment to your furniture!

I'm afraid of commitment. There, I said it. I'm not talking about to people, because that's a more personal subject that I'm going to avoid completely so I don't have to confront it, but I am afraid of committing to places, inanimate objects, and occasionally jobs. The idea of permanently temping (bit of an oxy moron so bear with me) will always be alluring to me. It took me two years of living here to buy myself a mattress. I acquired all the furniture I have through relatives who bought better furniture to replace it with, and although I find said furniture very attractive/comfortable for napping/expensive looking/capable of containing lots of things, I also secretly resent it very strongly. It's nice to have things, but it also makes the idea of becoming homeless more terrifying because it's much harder to be homeless while carrying around a queen-size bed, armoire, and leather sofa. They wouldn't fit into a shopping cart. If I moved somewhere, I'd have to figure out how they would arrive there too. In other words, the largest commitment I have made in my life so far is to my furniture, and this feels wholly unsettling. It is also the longest term relationship I've been in, which is a separate issue that won't be dealt with on this blog ever.

For those of you who forgot what a hangover feels like

They are excruciating. I nearly decided to conveniently "forget" that I worked on Fridays, but I wasn't sure how believable that sounded. (Hi Mom! Hi Dad!) I have revised my job description to include sleeping face-down at my desk. People should not drink "bowls" of any kind of beverage, particularly when it requires seven straws to finish the job. Also, if you can't pick up a martini because you lack the dexterity required to pick up said martini without spilling it everywhere, you probably should not be drinking martinis in the first place. My organs simply refuse to cooperate together as a team and are instead insisting that they each carry out their own artistic method of destroying me. I probably haven't felt this terrible since my last hangover. Of course, showing up unexpectedly at some swank bar in the South End being the only one dressed like a teenager whose entire wardrobe consists of clothing from American Eagle their parents wouldn't let them out of the house with is always fun. My brother is coming into town today so naturally I want to show him a good time by being incredibly moody and irritable and sleeping a lot.

It is a matter of fact that as Americans we are maturing at an increasingly slower rate than previously. Less than two hundred years ago, if I had been a satisfactory daughter, I would have given birth to nine children by now. Sure, six of them would have died before their third birthday, but that would still leave me with three kids to feed, clothe, and repeatedly remind what a burden they are and how they will never amount to anything.

Is this alarming? The fact that one hundred years from now, we're going to have sixty-five* year-old children? The mid-life crisis when you buy the Porsche is going to come at an inopportune time because you'll have cataracts and won't be able to drive.


*Absolutely no math or research was done for this post. It is important to me to keep numbers completely arbitrary and everything very loosely based on facts.

A Rejection Letter to Myself From ... Also Myself

Although deep down I realize I am applying for a Master's of Fine Arts partly for the sheer pleasure of seeing the look of restrained horror and disbelief on an adult's face when I tell them I'm applying for another degree in Creative Writing, I remain fixed in my conviction. It is true that I have been charged with changing my dreams as often as most people brush their teeth (I don’t own a toothbrush), but I have held onto this particular goal for days if not weeks. I've been spending a lot of time writing, and thinking about writing, but mostly just writing about writing. I'm also aware that it's an incredibly difficult program to get into (right up there with med school! Although you don't actually have to save anyone’s life or be able to name any parts of the body or be able to name anything of any consequence at all). So in order to save deciding committees the trouble of rejecting me personally and to give them ample time to reject the other 96% of applicants, I have decided to write my own rejection letters from them. Ahem.

Dear Applicant,

While we appreciate all the time it must have taken you to complete the application process (which you keep incorrectly telling everyone is harder than actually going to graduate school) and the 4 A.M. epiphany that undoubtedly sparked your interest, it is with feigned regret we must decline your application. Simply put, we fear you’ll just end up spending graduate school the way you ended up spending your undergraduate school, by trying to find out how much your new friends can drink and scouring the campus for boys you have not met. Although we find you to be a creative individual (the very fact that you created your own rejection letter from us is unusual and quite frankly a little disconcerting), we feel you are probably better suited for a life of infrequent blogging for no pay. If you ever find yourself in the area, we encourage you to visit our gift shop for a selection of university mugs, sweatshirts, and keychains with the capacity to open a beer bottle.

Good luck in all your endeavors (and by endeavors we mean blog),
Faceless Admissions Committee

P.s. Please stop trying to contact us at our homes late at night. We are not reversing our decision.

Really inconvenient places to get inspired

It's difficult to control where artists (haha, I'm referring to myself as an "artist." Laugh all you want.) find inspiration. Sometimes inspiration occurs in the most inappropriate places, like during sex. I'm not admitting to this happening, I'm just saying it would be inappropriate to go searching for a pen. A few places I actually will admit to being inspired:

1) In the shower. I don't usually keep pens here. There is also the obvious problem of your thoughts immediately being soaked and the difficulty of writing on wet paper in the first place. It is also not a good idea to bring a laptop into the shower.
2) A public restroom. Maybe I shouldn't admit to this, but I have stood at bathroom sinks writing down something that suddenly struck me. People washing their hands next to you may find this behavior slightly creepy.
3) A funeral. It's generally frowned upon to write in fits of inspired glee beside someone's casket.
4) When being attacked by a large bear. Publishing aspirations aside, it is not in your best interest to stop and write down how being attacked by a bear makes you feel.
5) During sex.

"Always wear clean underwear before you leave the house" and other misleading advice

OK, so that one's true. Specifically, I want to address the malicious bits of advice that have been thrust at me by teachers, guest speakers, family, and friends since I decided I wanted to be a writer years ago. Nothing particular to my own writing, since most of the people in question have not read anything I've written, but tracing my past, it seems that from about the 10th grade onward, people started telling you that you couldn't do anything you wanted to do anymore. Up until this point, it was OK to profess that you wanted to be an artist, it was OK to share with enthusiasm that you wanted to be a stage actor (even though you had stage fright which presented itself on mutliple embarrassing occasions). They snatched away the Kool-Aid they had been serving us and replaced it with something arguably more bitter and depressing (alcohol seems like an obvious literal example to be placed here).

And I want them all to knock it off. I want the Grown-Up Realism Party or whatever they're calling themselves to stop spreading these viscious rumors about how publishing or whatever your personal interest is is so hard that basically you shouldn't ever try. I admit I have to come to terms with the facts of reality. Surprisingly (this is especially surprising to me), it's not the potential for esteem or success that compels me to write. It's the need. I need to write the way an addict needs its drug of choice. The fortunate part is that I probably won't have to sleep with someone to get my fix when money's tight (I don't know that this is true - I'm not really IN the writing world yet). It is the knowledge that I sometimes spend as long to craft an email as some people spend doing their actual jobs. I'm afraid that if I don't pursue this somewhat lofty goal I will begin to save everything I jot down in my notebook and share them as anectdotes at parties in a frenzied state and you will never, ever get me to shut up. That sounds like something of a nervous breakdown. How would you like that? I'm going to have a nervous breakdown at your party! There's no quicker way to kill the buzz of a good party (other than passing out too early on someone's couch. That pretty much kills the buzz for you.) than when you have to call an ambulance because one of your friends is panicking themselves into a state of shock.

"If you didn't have to work for the rest of your life, what would you do? Then
do that. Oh, I thought you were going to say 'accountant.' You want to be a
writer? There's no money in that. It's funny, writer sounds so much like
'accountant.'"

When I tell people I want to be a writer, sometimes they get all cheeky and ask if I'm going to write The Great American Novel. The truth is that I don't want to write The Great American Novel. I didn't even read The Great American Novel in high school when we were supposed to read it over summer vacation. Instead, I watched All My Children and ate Oreos all summer and when fall came I got the Cliff Notes version and then I cheated off someone else's quiz when they weren't looking. I just want to amuse people, to connect with them in a way I feel is sometimes more difficult to articulate in person, and to make them think a little. But not too much, not so much that they suffer an acute panic attack or break down in fits of tearful despair.

I'm twenty-five. Therefore, I write this with virtually no authority or proof whatsoever. But if it were up to others, I would be in law school studying to be some sort of regulatory something-or-other with a sensible, nice haircut wearing a magenta Gucci suit with shoulder pads (actual suit once pressed upon me).

Reasons I should not nanny full-time Part 18

Why is so much emphasis placed on informing children who will be picking them up should their regular caretaker become unavailable? I have been babysitting the same kid every Friday for two years. I couldn't make it last Friday, and he didn't even notice I had been gone. I certainly didn't make it a point to tell him and he seems to have made it to soccer practice in any event. Children are remarkably resourceful when you just give them a little freedom.

I spend my Friday afternoons leaving work early (more people who don't notice my absence) to escort a child from a bus stop to his house, to soccer practice, and back home. Children have this adorable way of cutting across your path while you're walking beside them so that you are forced to collide directly with traffic, the nearest mailbox, and/or frail elderly women dragging themselves behind walkers.

This weekly hauling across town gives me roughly forty-five minutes to fill with conversation with an eleven year-old boy. I don't think I would even know how to fill forty-give minutes of conversation with an 11 year-old boy if I was an 11 year-old girl. I have to admit, this is partly my own fault. I could come more prepared. I tend to exhaust all my prepared questions in the first minute. This includes the time-tested classics: "How was school?" (fine), "What did you do in class?" (I don't know), and "What happened to your forehead?" (an accident in archery). Subjects he has a demonstrated interest in are: sports, Wii, and why I am not very smart. The last video game I owned was JJ and Jeff for TurboGrafx-16. Not only has he not heard of this, he doesn't believe it ever existed, and wonders how I could play video games in the first place since there was no television, electricity, or running water in my youth. I have to say he makes a very convincing argument and even I am starting to have doubts about how correctly I am remembering things.

As I have recently been informed (by aforementioned child), my sole responsibility is to sit there and make sure the house doesn't burn down. But that's not all! I also have to make sure he is not hit by moving vehicles or abducted by a band of gypsies, that he does not shoplift, commit large or small scale fraud, or eat more than two HoHos or less than three green beans, and watch closely for signs of swine flu or other recent frightening pandemic, dyslexia, stroke, or early onset male pattern baldness. After school, we are both burnt out from putting in a hard day's work, so I make sure I fuel up with Diet Coke and Oreos before soccer practice and that he doesn't burn down the house. The only assumption you can make about children is that absolutely everything they touch is covered in billions of teeming germs just waiting to get their hands on you, without exception. Within even relative proximity, you can and will catch any number of illnesses you thought you had acquired an immunity to years ago.

I know you're not supposed to tell people's children they are the reason you're never having your own kids, but sometimes it's hard not to. On the other hand, if you pay close attention (by eavesdropping on their conversations) you can pick up some valuable insights, like that having a girl as a friend is good, in the long run, but definitely not on the bus. It's hard for me to determine exactly why this is, but I'll just have to take their word for it because buses weren't around when I was a kid.

Why we choose to continue our continuing education

Why do adults voluntarily continue their education after they've graduated and entered the workforce? To quench their thirst for knowledge and find something stimulating to engage in after work? To prolong the recurring nightmares about not being able to find your classroom or showing up to school naked? After all, they are free to spend their leisure time indulging in purely amusing behaviors like sitting in front of televisions or trying to pick up strangers in bars.

I don't think I have sweat since my high school Spanish class. Spanish teachers can really make you sweat. I don't know how a perky five-foot woman who may or may not actually know English can make me so nervous, but every time she looks at me I feel like she's asking me to translate something into hieroglyphics on the blackboard. I signed up for an Adult Education Spanish language course in preparation for a move to Spain I had recently decided to make to teach English (which I rescinded the following morning when I decided I liked my furniture too much to move to another continent). I'd forgotten how good I had become at avoiding eye contact and looking convincingly like I was conjugating the most difficult verb in the history of the Spanish language in my head. My Spanish isn't progressing very quickly but sometimes Profesora Somethingiforget says the craziest things, like (translated): "Today we are going to exchange Pop-tarts and visit our grandparents in Revere." It's strangely unfulfilling when these turn out to be empty promises. I bet you didn't think I knew the Spanish word for "Pop-tarts."

Also, is it me or has class been getting a little too personal? Last week we spent an entire chapter learning words to describe relationships including, but not limited to: love, husband, wife, boyfriend, friends-with-benefits, prenuptial agreement, and "make-up sex." One of the questions in this week's homework asked us to detail the circumstances of the first time we fell in love. Either that or my Spanish is just terribly bad. What are we going to discuss next? Our credit scores and disturbing childhood experiences?

Vices: everyone has one, some of the more interesting people have six or seven of them.

Sometimes it's a good idea to give something up, if only to prove to yourself that you can give something up. You also get to tell people you were able to give something up to the acclaim of friends and strangers, as if it was some great personal struggle you have triumphed over. It doesn't even have to be something you like. I gave up coffee last August and was able to abstain for the following six months. I also started drinking in the morning. I find it's much easier to replace a vice than to eliminate it. I also gave up vodka for Lent this year, and lasted all 27 days of it.

I caved and started drinking coffee again this winter, but I'm trying to give it up again because I haven't been acknowledged for anything in a while and would like some encouragement. Methamphetamine seems like a sound replacement. That or jogging.

Disclaimer: Because some of the people who frequently appear in this blog* feel that they are over-represented here, or portrayed in a particularly harsh or whiny light, and have expressed interest in being absent from any future blog posts, the following is to be considered a work of pure fiction.** Any resemblance or similarities to real-life persons is strictly a huge coincidence.


Some people move away from home to a big city on the coast of somewhere, to a place where people actually outnumber cows, and discover that they've transitioned to their better, flashier lives and left the past behind them. And some people keep coming back because they always feel like they've left something, somewhere, and figure it must be around here somewhere and if it's not under the bed then it must be in the back of the closet ...

I like to go back to the Midwest occasionally to stay with my parents in the suburbs and leave dishes all over the house and lights on in every room and basically just to periodically anger them. I find it comforting to know that I can make the people that love me very very angry with me by doing very little. While I may have lived in three different apartments in the past year, with six different roommates, I come back home and everything is exactly as it was, precisely where I left it. No one has so much as borrowed a book or bothered to fix a slightly off-center painting on my bedroom wall.

I am determined to make this visit home as exciting as (but no more than) a typical week during my high school education. Which permits the following activities: an overabundance of television (preferably "marathons"), a trip to the mall for sneakers, several lunches at strip malls (is there any other place in the world with more strip malls?), and at least one night out, the details of which I won't make privy to my parents and will return the next day looking pale and complaining of sleep deprivation.


I arrived at home in the family minivan this afternoon. After a couple of heated political arguments with my parents, which I ended by flinging a magazine at my father (both times), I voluntarily agreed to accompany my mom to the graduation from obedience class that their award-winning dog was enrolled in. I went because, well, mainly because the very thought generated an intense desire to see just how far I could roll my eyes into my head. I figured if nothing else it would provide some good writing material. When I mentioned this to my mom, she immediately retracted the invitation. Luckily, I was able to score an extra ticket from a scalper outside the veterinarian's office.

I have to preface this by saying that the class wasn't nearly as crazy as I had expected, nay had hoped, perhaps due to the fact that the teacher actually seemed to know quite a lot and the whole experience was so just disturbingly heart-warming. For the entire bit I sat idly by in a metal folding chair with arms crossed, listening intently and trying to get over my rational fear of the German Shepherd three seats over from me.

Class turned out to be held inside some kind of barn/gymnasium. The surprisingly engaging teacher*** who I think held a lot of credentials in some things, began the session by responding to important questions (from humans) like what dogs should and should not eat and the proper way to confront a pet experiencing separation anxiety. (Apparently the answer is sometimes with anti-anxiety medications prescribed to humans. This fact alone merits its own post.) I discovered that one very crucial element to being a successful dog-obedience-class-teacher is the ability to personify an animal. In order to present a given scenario to human dog owners, one has be able to speak for the animal -- to know what it's thinking at all times and exactly how it would be thought out loud in English, and at what pitch and timbre. (Evidently most dogs have a tendency to say "No sir!" after most phrases.)

Of course this only wraps up Day 1 of my stay, and I already feel like I've been here about ninety hours. As I always do, I'll soon tire of the strip malls and the traffic, and I'll want to go sit in traffic in another part of the country for a while -- and I will return to Boston. I will leave behind the awkward honking of Canadian geese and FoxNews consistently blaring in the background. And I guess I will leave because my life is mainly somewhere else now, inside new drawers and closets and presumably lost underneath the bed. But mostly I will leave because my return ticket says so.


*Person. Honestly, most people realize I don't have any power to defame someone's character.
**The truth is that it can't be fiction, because I'm simply not even that good. But it's common knowledge that adults over 60 can't read print this small, and so this is a secret fact shared between you and me, dear reader. While we're on such a personal level here, sharing secrets and all, I think you are looking very nice this evening, and I probably wouldn't object to you buying me dinner.
***Instructor? Trainer? Coach? It's unclear to me what the exact title would be in this case.

I'm blogging from a new laptop!

Changes you may notice include:

• Speedier and more efficient blogging, with more credible sources
• More (or less) pictures
• Less crumbs in the computer keyboard
• Better hair

Actually, it's not "new" in the sense that it has recently been purchased. More like "new" to me because someone else wanted something that could more technically be considered "new" and I looked just desperate enough to accept a hand-me-down. It occurs to me that I've never made a single purchase in my entire life (credit card charges will dispute this claim). Being the youngest child certainly has its advantages, namely the one where you never buy anything for yourself and just wait around for someone else to get tired of their own things and give them to you for free.

The dangers of being really, really ridiculously good-looking

An incredibly attractive, close female friend of mine manages to get hit on not only by every breathing human male she encounters but also by their girlfriends. I had no idea propositions for threesomes from couples were nearly so common until I met her. I imagine she could walk around with half a slice of pizza stuck to her face and men would still try to pick her up. I suppose this could evoke a what-am-I-chopped-liver kind of response if I didn't also find it tremendously amusing.

I mention this not to brag about how attractive my friends are, but to point out the hidden dangers associated with being very good-looking.

So this blonde friend convinced me to take a kickboxing class with her at the gym last night, something I was initially hesitant to do because I look sort of scrawny and wimpy and as it turns out I actually am sort of scrawny and wimpy. (Is there any proof that all humans even have "oblique" muscles to begin with? My experience seems to suggest otherwise.) Something that may occur to you on your own during a kickboxing aerobics class, which did not initially occur to me, is that in order to avoid passing out you must not only precisely execute the steps and punches and jabs in sync with the instructor, but that you must also continue to breathe for the entire duration of class. Since I am one of the least coordinated people on this side of the equator, the simple act of breathing while keeping in tune with our freakishly fit instructor (who looked a lot like Emily Haines, if Emily Haines had been parented by Arnold Schwarzenegger and a BowFlex machine) proved to be too difficult. I started counting stars until I realized that stars seemed out of place on the inside of an aerobics studio.

We decided to take a break and consult one of the gym employees for advice on how to remain conscious. I nearly collapsed onto the front desk, wheezing, on the brink of unconsciousness, while the enamored and concerned personal trainer asked my perky friend detailed questions about what kind of symptoms she was experiencing. It occurs to me that had this been a real emergency, I would have had to manifest an epileptic fit in order to solicit any medical attention.

But being attractive can also be damaging to your own health, not just the health of your friends. For example, while hanging out in hell's kitchen in NYC at four A.M. (I don't know if that's the right neighborhood, but it sounds appropriate), some friends and I noticed an unfamiliar tour bus parked outside of the worst nightclub on earth and decided to capitalize on our friend's good looks by convincing her to climb aboard the bus and satisfy our curiosty. How did we know that something wasn't about to go horribly awry like the kidnapping of said friend and fleeing across the border only to use her as a drug mule? Um, we didn't. It remains an experience she won't talk about to this day.

Iatrophobia

Today is Red Sox opening day at Fenway. Which is kind of a big deal for everyone here. But more importantly to me, I have a scheduled visit to the doctor for some reason I cannot really remember. More than likely I probably woke up feeling kind of hypochondriatic one morning and wanted to see if they were any closer to finding a cure.

The individual's rate of aging (and therefore deterioration of health) can be determined by the number of questions one asks within a standard sixteen minute physical. What once began as a simple "Oh and I've had this cough, doc, is it tuberculosis?" has snowballed into a list of experienced signs and symptoms I prepare that can only point to imminent death and disease. Though doctors' primary reason to exist (other than to diagnose, treat, and bill) is to answer your questions and concerns, you have to remember they are present to answer purely medical questions; they are not your therapist, Google, or a Magic 8 ball. (I.e. "I develop a stutter whenever someone mentions my ex-boyfriend's name. Do I have a central nervous system disorder?" or "I've been having dreams about Michael Keaton, but I've never even seen a Michael Keaton movie. What could this mean?")

I have to say that my mom was totally wrong about the whole "eating so much junk food is going to catch up with you one day" theory. While it's true that I've gained weight since I was thirteen, if all the Reese's peanut butter cups, Ho Ho's, and Milano cookies I managed to consume in those magical metabolism glory days suddenly just "caught up" to me one day, I think I'd be in much deeper trouble than I currently am.

That said, weight seems to be one of those things you can never get quite right at the doctor at any age. Somehow you've always grown too much or too little and are in danger of being in some sliver of the pie made up only by other freaks and those with growth disorders. (This may be a predominantly female experience. See: bathroom scales.) Remember how your pediatrician used to calculate exactly what percentage you fit into compared with the rest of your developing American peers? I can remember standing on the scales of judgment as an adolescent trying to think more like lead so that maybe I would cause the number on the scale to go up and I'd be in a more popular percentile with more of my (cooler) peers. Well, I try to think more like Fluff these days and they don't tell me what percentile I fit into but you can almost see them plotting you on some sort of Graph of Normalcy.

On the other hand, you don't get encouragement anymore either. The physician's never like, "You gained eight pounds since last year, good job! Keep eating your veggies and someday you'll be as big and strong as Michael Jordan!" Or, "Good work not being an American obesity statistic!" Now they just ask if you're a smoker. And there is no lollipop for cooperating.

New ways to answer the phone at work

I don't often get phone calls at work from actual people looking for help. More frequently I get hung up on, have a deep, emotional conversation and then realize I've been conversing with a recording, or find myself trying to decipher the message of a fax machine that keeps calling (see: Pie of the Inedible Sort) . Lately I've been having a little fun seeing how long I can delay actually speaking before the caller starts to freak out. But I don't think I'm going far enough. I would like to take advantage of this by doing the following:

1. Hanging up on people before they have a chance to hang up on me
2. Answering the phone in a sexy, throaty voice
3. Trying to switch everyone's phone service
4. Responding in sign language (which I will learn)

*This post was drafted in January. I was hoping no one noticed because I have nothing to contribute today.

There's no such thing as a free lunch.

Other than the free lunch they give out at the hospital if you will listen to them talk about cancer for an hour. MGH Cancer Center's Grand Rounds seminars are an exciting weekly occurrence not only because they discuss the most ground-breaking, innovative, Power Point-laden discoveries about cancer, but because they provide a free buffet to any employee who attends. And if you can have yourself paged after your last potato chip, you don't even have to stay for the whole lecture. I estimate that at least 40% more employees have developed a sudden interest in cancer research since the economy took a dive. The presentation content tends to be just so slightly beyond my understanding of carcinomas, so I typically find myself spending most of the time daydreaming about things that are completely unrelated to cancer. It is very cost-effective if you are able to finish a chicken salad sandwich while looking at pictures of tumors.