Dipshit

So yesterday I had the pleasure of hanging out with my nephews and sisters. My son was there too, the younger one. Who very nearly suffered a massive head wound when my older sister wildly flung a rock within one inch of his skull. Since it did not hit him it was funny but she decided that maybe her arm was too tired to execute any more precision rock skipping at that point. As evidenced by the near decapitation of my kid.

That is so not the story though. My sisters and the boys left to go to a science museum, a really cool one because its staircase is a double helix, and I just wanted to go home because even though I can choke people just with my legs only, walking around slowly (meandering, I guess) as one does in a museum is one of my more painful activities.

So (my god, is it ever taking me a long time to get to the main event), on my way home I wanted to stop at this healthy crunchy waitstaff-with-dreadlocks place for blueberry pie. It is really good pie, chock full of blueberries. I mean more so than your average pie. Anyway, I was waiting for them to cut it, as it seems like a very frustrating pie to portion, and this elderly lady scooted in front of me, demanding a pie that was not present in the pie....what's that called? Showcase? Whatever. Anyway, she was waiting right in front of me for her pie, and I was waiting for mine.

There was a sample dish of curry chutney on the counter, surrounded by bread cubes which were the vehicle upon which the chutney travels to the sampler's mouth. I was all, "Huh. Chutney." Then I mentally moved on as chutney is of no import to me unless I have an immediate chutney need, which I did not at that time.

But suddenly the chutney became not just important but almost a matter of national security because I saw, seriously it was magnified like a hundred times and also in slow motion because of the horrific nature of the event, a bread cube that was no longer a cube due to the clear arch of adult dentition on one side hovering above the chutney. I saw the bitten cube slowly descend in the old lady's claw, all of my body tense with anticipation, hoping against hope that I would be witnessing the lesser offense of her rotating the dipping implement, exposing only the unbitten side of the bread to the chutney. Inside I felt a silent scream of "NNNNNNOOOOOoooo!!!" but it did not matter because even in slow motion the bread cube eventually met the chutney, tooth arch side first. She really swooped it in there, too, clearly wanting to both capture a lot of chutney and gross it up as much as possible. I had to look away as she aimed it toward her gaping maw.

I instantly snickered, while gagging also. I scanned the area for a comrade-in-grossout. Alas I was alone, but it was seriously like a comedy where I was looking around, stunned and laughing, wondering, "Did anyone see that? Seriously?" No one did. I stifled my laughing because I thought to myself, "Self, laughing alone at a deli counter is weird. Stop it." The counter girl handed me my pie. I'm pretty sure I had a crazed look on my face. I wasn't sure what to do, I mean this woman had basically just raped the communal chutney and I felt like someone should know. But she was also still only one foot away from me.

I went to check out and could no longer contain myself. I totally told on that Typhoid Mary. I told the woman, "Hey, I thought you guys should know that someone just totally DOUBLE DIPPED in the chutney. I saw it and it was so disgusting." She was all, "Oh my god, seriously? That is so gross." Now feeling vindicated, I lost some control of myself and giggled/cackled. "I know, right? Who does that? It was so totally gross." She was all, "Who was it (disgusted look on face)?" And I, triumphant in finally being able to rat the chutney tainter out, "That old lady with the walker (said with more glee than I intended, but seriously I haven't gotten to tell on anyone for probably 25 years)!" The checkout girl made a few more disgusted comments, said she'd tell the deli people, and thanked me for by public service and acumen in catching the offense.

I thought maybe a free brownie would have demonstrated the depth of appreciation but sadly it was not to be. Anyway who knows what might have happened to it, since it was within reach of the bioterrorist. She probably used it to wipe her butt.

Frittastic

As some of you may have seen on facebook, I have become obsessed with fritters. I am making fritters a lot, like every other day or so. It started innocently enough with the zucchini/summer squash combo, and I realized while making them that the sky is the limit, pretty much. As long as you follow the fritter formula (shredded veggies + eggs + almond meal/flour + salt and pepper) you are good, similar to working within the confines of the haiku or hotdish concepts. Anyway, I'm all about the fritter. My next batch is going to focus on the root vegetable, possibly a parsnip/beet extravaganza.

Yesterday when I was frying the carrot/sweet potato batch (pretty good, wrong choice of carrot as I purchased shredded instead of shredding my own; lazy, I know, but I paid for it in inconsistency of vegetable media), I was heating the olive oil. I was shirtless. Why? you ask. Because sometimes I don't have a shirt on, I say. It's natural, yo. Anyway, I spotted some butter on the counter and thought I should add it to the olive oil because what could be better than that? Olive oil--delicious; butter--delicious; together--who knows but let's try it. Probably awesome.

I plopped the butter into the already-very-hot oil. It splashed, as one might expect, if one were not vacant mentally as I was at that moment. I swore mightily as splashes burned my abdomen, like three medium-sized drops. That really hurt, and I believe it hurt more because it was caused by dumbness. And now I have three small red circles right next to my Harry Potter tattoo.

Fritters in the oil
Better than my abdomen
Splash splash burn burn ow

Wax On, Wax Off

Though mammals, as a society we seem to frown upon body hair, especially for women. I bend to this social convention in spite of almost-reflexive desire to stick it to the man whenever possible. In my pursuit of delicately feminine hairlessness, I offer you, the reader, this recap of my most recent experience:

I decided a while ago that waxing is the most effective use of my hair-removal time. Mostly because I saw some little wax strips on sale, bought them, and then spent thirty minutes removing little strips of hair from my upper leg. It was satisfying and addictive. Cool, I thought, less hair on my leg. I should consider this as my dominant hair removal mode. So I ordered a home brazilian wax kit, complete with warmer and wooden sticks, so I could be a total pro. It arrived. I did nothing with it.

Until last Saturday, when I found myself with hours of free time. No kids to deal with, no place to be. I turned that wax warmer right on and read the instructions, kind of. I was planning to learn by the scientific method and also memories of waxings past.

I started out with my upper leg. The wax was really hot. So I have a pinkish rectangle on that leg now. I moved on, envisioning a smoothly amazing bikini area. Best to just get naked, I thought. I sat on the bedroom floor and got started. Wax on, this time after a slight cooling period because I did not want burned bikini area. I spread the wax on, then waited, then pulled up the edge a bit to make a tab to really pull on. Then I ripped that motherfucker off like it was a bandaid made of worm jerky. There was an instant of satisfaction then a crashing wave of searing pain. Once that subsided I went for round 2. But this time, I knew what I was facing so hesitation came into the picture and fucked up the whole plan.

I tried 1,2,3 pull! Except my hand, out of sympathy for my groin, would not cooperate. I tried deep breathing and holding it, thinking that maybe that would strengthen my resolve. Nope. One quarter pull at best. I tried the slow pull just in case the bandaid thing is a shitty old wives' tale. Nope, so much worse; I could actually feel individual hairs screaming as they were unseated. Finally I just went all out, mostly out of sheer panic at never getting the wax off of myself, destined to always be stuck to underwear on one side.

In spite of clear evidence that one cannot wax oneself, I kept going, thinking it might get easier. Not really. And in case you were wondering, even with awesome flexibility certain parts of one's body are not quite as accessible as one might hope. I'm pretty sure the salon waxing scenario, the one with a spotlight directed at your lady garden while you contort yourself like a pretzel/sex acrobat, is actually used for a reason other than abject humiliation. At any rate, I got some areas of myself partially waxed and decided to hang up the wooden stick for a while, probably until I forget how much it sucked, whereupon I will try again (similar to how I arrived at giving birth to child #2).

Since I was done I turned off the wax warmer and was going to go take a shower to try and get all the little leftover bits of wax off. Surprise! I found out as I tried to get up that my ass cheek was actually waxed to the floor. Like all the little wax drips had accumulated under my butt, which then adhered to the wood floor. I vascillated between horror, panic, pain, and also cracking up. I took a moment to think about how I might extricate myself from this situation, and how I would never, ever tell anyone about the time I waxed my own ass to the floor.

I texted my sister to inform her of the situation, just in case things went wrong. She responded with a "Haha! Oops!" which I felt was neither helpful nor sympathetic. I then managed, through inner fortitude, explosiveness, a nearby price tag, and sheer force of will, to pry my ass off the wood floor. It hurt a lot as you might imagine. I'm sure my ass cheek is as smooth as a baby's ass cheek though, so benefit there. Unevenly smooth ass cheek.

The second part, the one where I would never, ever tell anyone about the time I waxed my ass cheek to the floor, well, that one didn't go so well.

Step Up

So my parents help me a lot. As in, I couldn't do it without them. They pick up my boys when I can't, take over the evening runaround when I'm stuck at the hospital, fix things, and do laundry that otherwise would not get done. I'd just buy new underwear.

At the end of this semester, I thought I'd like to show some gratitude by getting them something, but they're not really gift people, more like theater or donate to peacenaturelove people. So I got tickets to two events, one just for them and one for all of us, me, the kids, and my parents. This all-of-us event was a step show, like people doing synchronized stompy/clappy things. Cool, I thought. This will be fun for all! Because rhythm unites all generations, and it's a new experience.

Well, I was right. It was a new experience. But not in the way I thought it would be, like all ages and colors uniting in the power of human innovation with their musical bodies. No, it was more like the new experience of complete and total discomfort as you realize that this show is much racier than you thought, and you are two seats away from your dad.

The actual performances were cool, but sometimes got raunchy. I like raunchy! In certain times and places! But the horribly uncomfortable moment when a stompy clapper pauses to mime....uh....well,...CUNNILINGUS upon a bowl of whipped cream is a moment I will never forget because the flaming hot vasodilation of embarrassment and horror is seared into not just my memory but probably my DNA too. Ohmygod. I mean, it was funny! And graphic, holy shit. But my DAD WAS TWO SEATS AWAY. Did I make that clear? I had the experience, the horrifying, soul-melting experience, of witnessing clear evidence that my dad had knowledge of sex acts, because he didn't look puzzled, as he should have had he no knowledge of sex acts as I prefer to believe. My mom was there too, kind of blithely clapping along, so I was spared further despair on that end, thank Venus.

This whole event was so not okay. What was supposed to be love and gratitude turned into the clashing of two things that should never coexist, parents and sex. I'm surprised we did not create antimatter, because it was like the Large Hadron Collider sped embarrassment, visions of parental purity, and raunchy graphic tongue moves into a superconducting stream of plasma capable of annihilating rational thought as we know it. I guess a stream of plasma wouldn't just create antimatter, though, so my physics broke down a little bit there. But still! It was really bad, is what I'm saying.

Random Thoughts

I've come to realize that everything in life is a fractal. Once again supporting my theory that physics can explain everything, not just bodies in motion and quarky stuff. A horrible busy day has the same shape and rhythm of a horrible busy week, which has the same shape and rhythm as a horrible busy semester. See? It's a fractal.

Speaking of semesters, this one is almost over in spite of my near-certainty that I would not ever see the end of it. Intense might be a word one would use to describe it, if one even had enough energy left to try to put the past 4 months into words. Which I do not. Suffice it to say that this semester included feats of logistics the likes of which the world has never seen in order to get me and the kids where we needed to be each day, a large amount of time on a Very Sick Patients floor, a professor dying in spite of me and some other students performing major resuscitation upon her (after a midterm), and days when I saw my kiddos for a total of maybe 10 minutes. It's been a great learning experience all around, at incredible cost. I don't think I can effectively describe the semester until I've had a little distance from it, though. Maybe in the summer.

Big Head

The principal at my kids' school (holistic school of feelings and nature) prefers to be referred to as the Headmistress. The first time I heard her say that I did strain a bit not to laugh. Because of course that is funny and full of innuendo.

As I got to know her, I began to realize that she was so not kidding about this. And that Headmistress is a totally apt title for her. One of the silent auction prizes at the Gala this year was a day at the shooting range with the Headmistress.

I'm pretty sure she is actually a dominiatrix outside of school hours. I think she keeps her husband in a sex dungeon.

Delta

That's right, I'm changing blog shit instead of finishing my paper. But I like it! Crystals are nice, and I think I see signs of hexagonal close packing, face centered. I'm not sure I remember my crystalline structure facts well enough to say that with certainty, though. It might be body centered cubic close packing. Shit.

BeWhat?

It  has recently come to my attention that there is such a thing as decorated lady parts. Apparently one can use adhesive or something to place little rhinestone bits upon oneself in either a specific pattern, like a butterfly I guess, or more randomly just for sparkle and snap. It's called Vajazzle. Another possible name they should have considered is Bad Idea.


The reason I think it is a bad idea is this. If you have scratchy non smooth things stuck to you they will get caught on other things, and tug upon the parts to which they are anchored. It's the Law of Hangnails. And there is no person on earth for whom I so need to decorate my cooch that I would endure crotch hangnails to do so.

I became curious and wondered if there was an analogous male decorative notion. Indeed there is, the Pejazzle, or the more subtle term, Body Crystals For Men. The logistics of this elude me, as the item to be decorated is not exactly....consistent of medium. Did I put that delicately enough? Or was I unclear? I was trying not to make Southern ladies pass out by saying boner. Because that's what I'm talking about, really. It would be like the cookie sheet dilemma. Do you space according to how they are now or how they will be once in the oven for a bit? It's just that here the cookie sheet is expanding, not the little rhinestones.

Also there's this: Well, two things really: First, I don't know that we want to call attention to the male genitalia in a way that makes them look like a disco ferret. Second, I feel that in a coupling type situation one might find rhinestones not an ideal interface with one's tenderer areas. Again, I was being nice for the ladylike. Otherwise I would have just said I think lady town would go slasher movie with a man of Pejazzle.

I do feel that this concept could get out of control. Scrotazzle, for instance, or Cracktazzle. There's only so much on the human body that you can decorate, and more often than not it's better left alone.

Terrible Twenties

So there's this girl in my cohort, I'll call her Spotina because that rhymes with her name which is weird so you still won't guess it, and she is something else. She is super competitive, loud, obnoxious, and all around not my favorite kind of person. She totally outdid herself last week, though. To paint a better picture of her you should probably hear some of the dumb shit she does first.

She was in my seminar class last semester, which involved random things like papers, time in the robot patient lab, and quizzes on mathematical calculations, pharmacology style. Every question she got wrong on a quiz she would argue with the teacher. She would say, "Well, if you read it this way you should calculate a dose of 1000g of morphine for the patient." Or, "Well, I interpreted it to mean that you should have 3 not 20 units of insulin." Or my favorite, after the teacher reads the answer, "Number 5, the answer is 15 micrograms." Spotina: "Well, I did it a little different and my answer was 23, does that count?"

Dude. Your patient is dead, hyperglycemic, and dead again. You don't get to argue math. Maybe string theory or non-euclidean geometry but not fucking medications. No wiggle room there. Wrong answer. Accept it then study really hard before you kill people with your fake interpretive math. Asshole.

Another thing she does which sucks is random inappropriate sexuality moments. Like she will either give gross flirty looks to people or make comments about her own sex life, about which I do not want to hear. Especially things about how she can only have military boyfriends because they are the only ones tough enough to handle her. I guess a tour or two in Afghanistan would maybe put her in perspective, or at least make her seem like less of a trial than roadside incendiary devices or angry fundamentalists. So possibly a fair point on her part. That's not what this is about, though. It's about me disliking her. And her inappropriateness.

So the major event, now that you know what an asshole she is, was in lecture. 90 people. Great professor, great class; it's about professional leadership, roles in healthcare, communication, conflict,all that kind of stuff. Very engaging and cool. We had to form into our clinical groups and use all of the materials in a plastic bucket to build a freestanding tower. Highest tower wins. Materials were styrofoam cups, straws, tape, a comb, easter eggs, tagboard, and probably some other things. It was meant to be an exercise in role development, like who falls into which roles in team efforts and how everyone operates within that.

My group kicked ass. We had so much fun and we built one badass tower. It leaned a little but who's judging? The other half of our clinical group also kicked ass and had an even more awesome tower. A lot of other groups towers fell over altogether, or just sucked and weren't high. So the professor had us stop and discuss the activity, like what did we learn from it? Ol' Spotina piped up with how she felt like she was the only one on her team who felt competitive, and who really wanted to win, and so the others did not put much effort in. Her tower was pretty sucky. Good job on the teamwork, Spotina! Seriously the whole class was just like, oh there she goes again, throwing people under the bus and being an asshole. After we discussed things a bit, a few more towers fell, and the remaining towers were voted upon and it was agreed that my clinical group (the other half though, not mine) won, with ours second.

And here's where shit went down:

Spotina stood up and kicked her tower down. That's right. She kicked that fucker right to the floor, right in the front of the lecture hall, like by the podium. I still can't get over it. Who in the hell past the age of 2.5 kicks shit over because they didn't get what they wanted? Spotina, that's who. Tower Kicker Spotina.

I'll tell you what, if I were on her team I would have kicked her down right next to the tower. I can do that, you know.

Happy New Year?

Ok, so I haven't really welcomed in the new year with a blog post wrapping up and analyzing 2011. Because it would be kind of a complain-y post, or possibly so apathetic and burned-out sounding that people reading it would want to watch St. Elmo's Fire just to cheer up. 2011 is done, kids are awesome, I'm alive and not committed yet. Pretty good all around, I'd say.

So 2012. More of the same. Some days I want to pour salt on slugs just to break up the stress a little. Actually that would add to my stress by making me wonder if my life was turning me into a sociopath. It's possible, you know. So not relaxing then, salt on slugs.

Highlight of this year so far was kicking ass in the GI lab. The doc was quizzing me and his fellow, which turned a little competitive I will admit. To be fair, the fellow had a camera up someone's ass and was slightly occupied with that. However, I reigned in pathology of inflammatory bowel info. I kicked that fellow's distracted-in-the-rectum ass and got recruited to boot. Ew, no.

Another highlight was my girls' weekend with long ago college roommates. It was nice to be a girl for a weekend, and I tried not to say the f-word as much as I do on the mats. One of the girls is pregnant, adorably so (really so cute, pretty much the opposite of my own pregnant self; I was more....large); one just bought a beautiful house and is adjusting to suburban mom-hood (never easy, things can be uptight at times); one brought her very, very cute baby girl (the first of all of us to have a girlie); and one left her boys at home for the first time since they were born (Yay! and also, well, not exactly ragin' nights on the town. Next time, maybe).

In other news, my younger son is becoming obsessed with sport stacking. It is so cute. He is the most ungainly, awkward, overlarge Lenny of a child at times, and then he blasts through a little 3-6-3 in record time. After which he trips on his own feet and knocks over all the cups, pulling the mat off the table as he tries to right them. Poor thing is bigger than any 8 year old has a right to be, size 7 (men's) feet all over the place. I actually got a black eye from his flailing about 2 weeks ago. Someday he'll grow into himself, I hope.

The elder son is claiming puberty. I'm not convinced, though in certain lights his upper lip looks ever so slightly fuzzy. I think he and his gymnastic buddies are having some kind of puberty-off, where the winner has the most body hair, since I hear about it a lot post-workout. Since none of them are showing any signs of any hair at all, I can only imagine that the competition is based mainly upon unconfirmable claims of pubes. I mean, he's already tried out his "I totally have ball hair, Mom." line on me, probably practicing the authenticity for later locker room pube discussions. My response to the claims are generally along the lines of "Cool, dude. Puberty on." Or sometimes, depending on threat assessment, "Please don't show me. I'll take your word for it." Another time it was "Hair on balls, way to go."

Along with the phantom ball hair has come some serious emotional lability. Like laughing to crying in .0002 seconds. It's wild. And the only thing that helps is a cuddle and talking. I discovered that my very catchy song "Puberty Hormones--They're Making You Sad!" did not help the situation at all. I mean, it helped me because it is a hilarious song but did not diffuse the subject of the song's emotions, which was really the issue.

Puberty hormones
Make sadness and ball hair grow
Don't pick up those socks.