Sometimes the casket
falls during the funeral,
sometimes it’s just drugs.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Fly, bats.
At dinner today, I told my family about the talk I sat through by one of the researching biologists at my school, where he talked about the fact that organisms with a high probability of dying in the near future have no incentive to live longer, and so age faster.
“So that’s why bats live two to five times longer than comparatively sized land mammals,” I said.
“Is that true?” My mom asked.
“Yes,” I said. My sister had a contemplative face.
“So,” she said, “If we could fly…?”
“So that’s why bats live two to five times longer than comparatively sized land mammals,” I said.
“Is that true?” My mom asked.
“Yes,” I said. My sister had a contemplative face.
“So,” she said, “If we could fly…?”
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Listen to the Sound of my Voice
This morning, I was sound asleep and having a strange dream. I was walking into a room where my mother was sitting with a girl I used to know back in high school. In the dream, they were talking, but stopped when I came into the room.
“Oh, Apricot,” my mom said. “Would you like to paint High School Acquaintance’s shirt for her?”
“Oh, no,” I shook my head, “No, actually--”
They exploded into fury about how I was calling this girl fat, and how that was unacceptable, when really, all I wanted to do was talk to my mom for a moment. I hung my head, looked at the carpet, and thought, ‘Gee, self, this is just like what happened at the LARP convention.’
Just then, my mom in the waking world knocked on my bedroom door and said, “Apricot? Don’t you have to be up?”
“Whutimeissit?”
“It’s a quarter to seven.”
“No, I don’t have to be up until eight.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Thanks.”
The part that makes this Twilight-Zone-ish is that last night, when I stood up to go to bed (before anyone else) I said, to my mom, “Now, I don’t have to be up until eight tomorrow.”
She said, “Oh, that’s so nice.”
I don’t blame my mom for not remembering, and it’s great of her to come try to wake me up when she had thought I overslept (I’ve done it once or twice before) but I do think it’s funny that I would be dreaming about people not listening to me when she came up to wake me up because she didn’t remember some trivial thing I had said.
“Oh, Apricot,” my mom said. “Would you like to paint High School Acquaintance’s shirt for her?”
“Oh, no,” I shook my head, “No, actually--”
They exploded into fury about how I was calling this girl fat, and how that was unacceptable, when really, all I wanted to do was talk to my mom for a moment. I hung my head, looked at the carpet, and thought, ‘Gee, self, this is just like what happened at the LARP convention.’
Just then, my mom in the waking world knocked on my bedroom door and said, “Apricot? Don’t you have to be up?”
“Whutimeissit?”
“It’s a quarter to seven.”
“No, I don’t have to be up until eight.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Thanks.”
The part that makes this Twilight-Zone-ish is that last night, when I stood up to go to bed (before anyone else) I said, to my mom, “Now, I don’t have to be up until eight tomorrow.”
She said, “Oh, that’s so nice.”
I don’t blame my mom for not remembering, and it’s great of her to come try to wake me up when she had thought I overslept (I’ve done it once or twice before) but I do think it’s funny that I would be dreaming about people not listening to me when she came up to wake me up because she didn’t remember some trivial thing I had said.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
LARP Insults
I went to a LARP convention with my boyfriend recently so that he could sell the beautiful jewelry he makes. He did really well, and I even sold a few of my cards. On the first day of the convention, I noticed someone walking around, and I knew I'd seen him before, but I couldn't remember where. I also felt like we hadn't been friends.
The second day, I saw him again, and had the same feeling.
On the third day, while I was sitting at our booth alone, he came into the vendor's hall, and it hit me.
"Hey," I said, smiling. "You were my TA for physics!"
He raised an eyebrow and said, "That might be possible." He walked over to the booth.
"Yeah, at my specific school," I specified. "For my specific physics class."
"Oh, I thought you looked familiar," he said.
I smiled and nodded, and then glanced at the yellow pumps he was carrying. "Are those your shoes?"
He frowned a little and then laughed. "No, I found these. I'm trying to figure out who they belong to. None of my characters are female."
"That's too bad."
"Well, I don't really have the physique for it; maybe the stature."
We both laughed, and it was at this moment that my boyfriend walked back into the room, through the door which was maybe fifteen feet away from the booth (so, close enough to hear me). I said, "Well, you could be a dwarf female if you grew--" --a beard, I meant to say, but I didn't get the chance.
"Are you calling me short?!"
I blustered and tried to explain, but it was too late. He stomped out of the vendor's room, and my boyfriend walked over to the table, and looked down at me, looking both puzzled and shocked.
"What?" I was embarrassed and grumpy.
"Why did you call him short?"
"He did it first," I protested.
We laughed it off, and packed up our things a couple hours later when the convention ended. It wasn't until we were about halfway home, when it hit me.
"Boyfriend! I just remembered!"
"What?" He looked alarmed, probably because I was driving and shouting at him at the same time.
"That guy, the one who I called short on accident! He was sensitive about it."
"Yeah...?" Obviously he didn't understand me.
"Nonono," I turned down the radio, and he flinched a little as I took my hand from the 2 o'clock position on the steering wheel. "No, in class-- I think he wore lifts in his shoes. I can't believe I forgot that."
My boyfriend laughed appropriately, and we stopped for pizza. I had peperoni and cashews, even though I decided not to eat meat made of many individual animals anymore.
The second day, I saw him again, and had the same feeling.
On the third day, while I was sitting at our booth alone, he came into the vendor's hall, and it hit me.
"Hey," I said, smiling. "You were my TA for physics!"
He raised an eyebrow and said, "That might be possible." He walked over to the booth.
"Yeah, at my specific school," I specified. "For my specific physics class."
"Oh, I thought you looked familiar," he said.
I smiled and nodded, and then glanced at the yellow pumps he was carrying. "Are those your shoes?"
He frowned a little and then laughed. "No, I found these. I'm trying to figure out who they belong to. None of my characters are female."
"That's too bad."
"Well, I don't really have the physique for it; maybe the stature."
We both laughed, and it was at this moment that my boyfriend walked back into the room, through the door which was maybe fifteen feet away from the booth (so, close enough to hear me). I said, "Well, you could be a dwarf female if you grew--" --a beard, I meant to say, but I didn't get the chance.
"Are you calling me short?!"
I blustered and tried to explain, but it was too late. He stomped out of the vendor's room, and my boyfriend walked over to the table, and looked down at me, looking both puzzled and shocked.
"What?" I was embarrassed and grumpy.
"Why did you call him short?"
"He did it first," I protested.
We laughed it off, and packed up our things a couple hours later when the convention ended. It wasn't until we were about halfway home, when it hit me.
"Boyfriend! I just remembered!"
"What?" He looked alarmed, probably because I was driving and shouting at him at the same time.
"That guy, the one who I called short on accident! He was sensitive about it."
"Yeah...?" Obviously he didn't understand me.
"Nonono," I turned down the radio, and he flinched a little as I took my hand from the 2 o'clock position on the steering wheel. "No, in class-- I think he wore lifts in his shoes. I can't believe I forgot that."
My boyfriend laughed appropriately, and we stopped for pizza. I had peperoni and cashews, even though I decided not to eat meat made of many individual animals anymore.
Lab Thumb
I got through my first day of summer session yesterday, and it wasn’t all that bad, despite the near freezing temperatures in the laboratory. I really understood what the professor was saying, and with one, mild exception, I really understood the homework problems, too. I’m still terrified, though, because the first midterm is in two days. That doesn’t leave a lot of time to prepare. I take comfort in the fact that many of the people in the class are taking it for the first time right now.
My sister’s cat has this new trick, where he screams at anyone who walks in front of my parent’s bedroom, because he wants to go in and lay on the mattress hidden under their bed. I think he’s decided it’s his secret cave.
My thumbnail has begun to come up, and it is very tender. I bled last night under the nail, where the white bubble of air was trapped, so now there’s a brown bubble with a thin white crest at the end, followed by yet another layer of bruising, and all of this constitutes probably a third of my nail. As David Attenborough probably never said, ew ew, ew ew. Ew.
I think it is unhealthy for me to consume turkey jerky the way I do. I mean, in the quantities I do. I consume it in the normal fashion.
My sister’s cat has this new trick, where he screams at anyone who walks in front of my parent’s bedroom, because he wants to go in and lay on the mattress hidden under their bed. I think he’s decided it’s his secret cave.
My thumbnail has begun to come up, and it is very tender. I bled last night under the nail, where the white bubble of air was trapped, so now there’s a brown bubble with a thin white crest at the end, followed by yet another layer of bruising, and all of this constitutes probably a third of my nail. As David Attenborough probably never said, ew ew, ew ew. Ew.
I think it is unhealthy for me to consume turkey jerky the way I do. I mean, in the quantities I do. I consume it in the normal fashion.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Socks and Laboratories
I have a very busy summer planned for the next nine weeks. I am taking the whole organic chemistry series, and am also working in a laboratory, where some very smart people are studying evolution. I get to work with photos of fish.
The lab I will be doing the laboratory portion of my organic chemistry class is, as I learned today, very, very cold. It was like walking into a walk in freezer. Not that it was actually below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, but it had that shock of cold across the face on a warm June day. I’d estimate that it was under 60 in there. I am wearing jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt over a tank-top, and I was wildly uncomfortable. Everyone in the lab was sniffling. With all of the talk of budget crises, I wonder why they are choosing to make it uncomfortably cold inside a building, when it would be so much cheaper and easier to just, y’know, not do that.
I have also wondered for a long time why the landscape people fight so hard to keep the students from wearing paths the grass; why don’t they just turn those ruts into real paths? People are going to keep wearing out the grass there anyway. I have been whining about this issue for years now, and during the spring quarter, a professor actually mentioned the same issue during class.
Yesterday was father’s day, and my mom (in a mild state of panic) sent me and my boyfriend to the sporting goods store to buy a couple of pairs of socks for my dad. Better than a tie? Oh, yes. These weren’t just any socks. These were Thorlo socks.
Now, like gravy, this may be one of those things which is unique to my family. There is, they feel, no better gift in the world than Thorlo socks. These are the socks that can solve all of your problems. They are the best socks in the world. These socks could cure cancer and then bake you a pie if they wanted to, but they don’t. They just want to cushion your feet from all the ills of the world and your Nike shoes. These socks are the Chuck Norris of hosiery. They’re the best.
Next door to the sporting goods place is an independent fish store (the kind which sells pets, not food) and since I like fish and we weren’t on a time constraint, we ducked in there after buying the life-changing socks for my dad. They have a large tank in the front of the store where they keep sharks and rays. Normally there’s one or two of the little guys swimming around, making me feel vaguely uncomfortable while I try to look at mollies and guppies and things, but yesterday, one of the sharks wasn’t happy.
He (or she, I suppose) had the most horrific injury I’ve ever seen on a living animal. His entire nose had been torn off, probably by another shark. There were little white strips of cartilage poking out of the bloodless pink meat, and the shark was breathing hard and fast, floating near the bottom of the tank, while his companions swam around like nothing was going on--like their sharky friend wasn’t missing most of his head.
Then we went out and shared a chicken bake and a soda, because I’m heartless and not easily put off my food.
The lab I will be doing the laboratory portion of my organic chemistry class is, as I learned today, very, very cold. It was like walking into a walk in freezer. Not that it was actually below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, but it had that shock of cold across the face on a warm June day. I’d estimate that it was under 60 in there. I am wearing jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt over a tank-top, and I was wildly uncomfortable. Everyone in the lab was sniffling. With all of the talk of budget crises, I wonder why they are choosing to make it uncomfortably cold inside a building, when it would be so much cheaper and easier to just, y’know, not do that.
I have also wondered for a long time why the landscape people fight so hard to keep the students from wearing paths the grass; why don’t they just turn those ruts into real paths? People are going to keep wearing out the grass there anyway. I have been whining about this issue for years now, and during the spring quarter, a professor actually mentioned the same issue during class.
Yesterday was father’s day, and my mom (in a mild state of panic) sent me and my boyfriend to the sporting goods store to buy a couple of pairs of socks for my dad. Better than a tie? Oh, yes. These weren’t just any socks. These were Thorlo socks.
Now, like gravy, this may be one of those things which is unique to my family. There is, they feel, no better gift in the world than Thorlo socks. These are the socks that can solve all of your problems. They are the best socks in the world. These socks could cure cancer and then bake you a pie if they wanted to, but they don’t. They just want to cushion your feet from all the ills of the world and your Nike shoes. These socks are the Chuck Norris of hosiery. They’re the best.
Next door to the sporting goods place is an independent fish store (the kind which sells pets, not food) and since I like fish and we weren’t on a time constraint, we ducked in there after buying the life-changing socks for my dad. They have a large tank in the front of the store where they keep sharks and rays. Normally there’s one or two of the little guys swimming around, making me feel vaguely uncomfortable while I try to look at mollies and guppies and things, but yesterday, one of the sharks wasn’t happy.
He (or she, I suppose) had the most horrific injury I’ve ever seen on a living animal. His entire nose had been torn off, probably by another shark. There were little white strips of cartilage poking out of the bloodless pink meat, and the shark was breathing hard and fast, floating near the bottom of the tank, while his companions swam around like nothing was going on--like their sharky friend wasn’t missing most of his head.
Then we went out and shared a chicken bake and a soda, because I’m heartless and not easily put off my food.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Hanging Backwards
Right now, I'm sitting on my bed, and am in the middle of putting some of my clean clothes on hangers before they go in the closet. The first thing I put on a hanger was a new blouse, which I like very much. I then laid it down next to me, with the loop of the hanger pointing to my right.
Since then I have placed five more items on hangers, and then tried to lay each and every one of them the opposite way on top of the first blouse.
I should have just put the shirt the other way in the first place.
I'll never get this right.
Since then I have placed five more items on hangers, and then tried to lay each and every one of them the opposite way on top of the first blouse.
I should have just put the shirt the other way in the first place.
I'll never get this right.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Cereal Thumb
A couple of weeks ago, my sister was in a play at her high school, and it was very funny. She was spectacular in it, as she always is. She has real stage presence, and she throws herself into her characters.
After the play, I rode in the car while my dad took my aunt home. Then, we came back to the school to pick up my sister, and one the way we ate single-serve cereal boxes, dry, which someone had thrown onto our driveway in some sort of marketing scheme. That isn’t shady at all. Anyway, since my aunt lives less than five minutes from the school, this took about ten minutes, so my sister was still puttering around and getting ready to go. That part doesn’t matter, though, because of what happened next.
I climbed out of the passenger’s seat, and shut the door casually behind myself with one hand, closing my thumb in the door as I did so.
I yelled non-words and dropped into a crouch, ready to fend off the lion or whatever, and began to spin around my thumb, as though it were glued to an immobile stake in the ground, hopping as I went.
I could hear my dad pause on his side of the car, and knew that he was waiting to see if this was a real injury or just one of those I-bumped-my-wrist-a-tiny-bit-too-hard things. As I began to rise in pitch as I yelled (mostly an assortment of nonsense with “Oooh no, ohh no,” thrown in) he came around the truck.
When he saw me spinning, he crouched down too, and did that I’m-not-touching-you thing people do over an injury with their hands (to fend off the carrion birds, I guess) and asked to see my thumb.
I opened my hand, which was clenched around the injury, and squealed, because it hurt, and there was blood. My dad hissed at me, and unlocked the car door to get some (clean?) napkins from the center consol thing. I wrapped them around my thumb, and managed to get up to follow him into the auditorium, in search of ice.
He strode up the aisle with purpose, and I followed behind him, hunched over my injury, making that high-pitched sound through the nose, like a dog, unaware that there were other people in the room. We made it to the lobby, where one of my sister’s friends was talking loudly on his cell-phone.
My dad had to ask him twice for ice, which is understandable, because that’s a weird request, but then he saw me, and scurried off to grab an adult (the drama director). She went behind a door and came back with a huge plastic shopping bag (the kind for like, microwaves or computer monitors) with about a cup of ice in it.
I wrapped this around my thumb and sat in a metal folding chair behind the card table where they sold concessions during the play, and made that sound. Another friend of my sister’s, who I assume saw me come in earlier, while I was in my pain haze, came up into the lobby and said,
“Apricot, are you oka-- you need to stop smiling like that. It’s creepy.” And then he shuttered. Of course, he didn’t call me Apricot, he used my name.
“I can’t,” I said, grinning. “It hurts too much.”
“Well it’s terrifying,” he told me, and went back into the theater.
My dad came over to the chair and said, “Let me see your thumb.”
I opened up the plastic and wet paper napkins to reveal a very ugly thumb, still making those irritating stuck-pig sounds.
“Whelp. You’re going to lose that nail,” my dad said.
And that’s when I burst into tears. My head fell back, and I started sobbing.
My dad sighed to himself, shook his head, and started down the aisle to get my sister.
Who thought I was carrying a dead bird in a bag, crying over the corpse.
It’s been a couple weeks since this happened, and the cuticle died completely, all the way down to the base of the nail. It does indeed look like I’ll be losing the nail, but it no longer looks quite as bad as it did, y’know, when it happened.
--
On an unrelated note, the boyfriend has started a new blog about his jewelry making, and I highly recommend it.
http://rolandgridley.wordpress.com/
After the play, I rode in the car while my dad took my aunt home. Then, we came back to the school to pick up my sister, and one the way we ate single-serve cereal boxes, dry, which someone had thrown onto our driveway in some sort of marketing scheme. That isn’t shady at all. Anyway, since my aunt lives less than five minutes from the school, this took about ten minutes, so my sister was still puttering around and getting ready to go. That part doesn’t matter, though, because of what happened next.
I climbed out of the passenger’s seat, and shut the door casually behind myself with one hand, closing my thumb in the door as I did so.
I yelled non-words and dropped into a crouch, ready to fend off the lion or whatever, and began to spin around my thumb, as though it were glued to an immobile stake in the ground, hopping as I went.
I could hear my dad pause on his side of the car, and knew that he was waiting to see if this was a real injury or just one of those I-bumped-my-wrist-a-tiny-bit-too-hard things. As I began to rise in pitch as I yelled (mostly an assortment of nonsense with “Oooh no, ohh no,” thrown in) he came around the truck.
When he saw me spinning, he crouched down too, and did that I’m-not-touching-you thing people do over an injury with their hands (to fend off the carrion birds, I guess) and asked to see my thumb.
I opened my hand, which was clenched around the injury, and squealed, because it hurt, and there was blood. My dad hissed at me, and unlocked the car door to get some (clean?) napkins from the center consol thing. I wrapped them around my thumb, and managed to get up to follow him into the auditorium, in search of ice.
He strode up the aisle with purpose, and I followed behind him, hunched over my injury, making that high-pitched sound through the nose, like a dog, unaware that there were other people in the room. We made it to the lobby, where one of my sister’s friends was talking loudly on his cell-phone.
My dad had to ask him twice for ice, which is understandable, because that’s a weird request, but then he saw me, and scurried off to grab an adult (the drama director). She went behind a door and came back with a huge plastic shopping bag (the kind for like, microwaves or computer monitors) with about a cup of ice in it.
I wrapped this around my thumb and sat in a metal folding chair behind the card table where they sold concessions during the play, and made that sound. Another friend of my sister’s, who I assume saw me come in earlier, while I was in my pain haze, came up into the lobby and said,
“Apricot, are you oka-- you need to stop smiling like that. It’s creepy.” And then he shuttered. Of course, he didn’t call me Apricot, he used my name.
“I can’t,” I said, grinning. “It hurts too much.”
“Well it’s terrifying,” he told me, and went back into the theater.
My dad came over to the chair and said, “Let me see your thumb.”
I opened up the plastic and wet paper napkins to reveal a very ugly thumb, still making those irritating stuck-pig sounds.
“Whelp. You’re going to lose that nail,” my dad said.
And that’s when I burst into tears. My head fell back, and I started sobbing.
My dad sighed to himself, shook his head, and started down the aisle to get my sister.
Who thought I was carrying a dead bird in a bag, crying over the corpse.
It’s been a couple weeks since this happened, and the cuticle died completely, all the way down to the base of the nail. It does indeed look like I’ll be losing the nail, but it no longer looks quite as bad as it did, y’know, when it happened.
--
On an unrelated note, the boyfriend has started a new blog about his jewelry making, and I highly recommend it.
http://rolandgridley.wordpress.com/
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