Make Your Heartbreak Into Tacos

If you live in Houston, which you don't, perhaps you are familiar with Escalante's. It is a "fine Tex-Mex" restaurant. From what I can tell, "fine Tex-Mex" basically means tacos and enchiladas, except with slightly fancier ingredients and presentation. Also, margaritas made with expensive tequila.

If I lived in Houston, which I don't, I would have an entirely unhealthy relationship with Escalante's. As it is, I demand to eat there at least once (I said at least) every time I visit. The worst part is, I have only ever tried one thing on their menu, and it is a salad. But it is the only salad I'll ever need for as long as I live.

Let me tell you about this salad. First, we have a bed of romaine lettuce, tossed in mango chipotle vinaigrette. I can see I've already got your attention. Greens are unimportant, though, they are merely a vehicle for deliciousness delivery. Next, we have avocado. So rich and creamy. Followed by the sweetness of fresh mango. Too sweet, you say? That's where the sliced red pepper comes in, to give it a kick. But where's the meat? Oh, I didn't mention? This thing is covered in shrimp ceviche, baby. It's true. Fresh shrimp, cold-cooked in lime juice until they're little maritime packages of zing, exploding in your mouth with citrus flavor. And finally, the coup de grace - a walnut-encrusted warm goat cheese medallion.

Is my love for this salad making you uncomfortable? Well it doesn't matter, because there is no Escalante's in North Carolina. It's OK, though, because what do we do when we can't have our favorite salad? That's right, scouts, we make it into tacos. Which is why I tried to make shrimp ceviche tacos last week. And now I'm going to tell you about it.

As I mentioned, shrimp ceviche is just shrimp, chilled and marinated in lime juice until the acid from the juice cooks the shrimp. I wasn't sure how many limes it would take to make enough juice to cover shrimp, so I bought several fresh limes, and some prepackaged lime juice (Flavored with extra chemicals!) just in case. I decided to only 'cevich' like 6 shrimp to start with, because I am but one person, and also I didn't want to ruin all of my high-quality frozen Target shrimp at once.


Turns out, though, that even just 6 shrimp require a lot of lime juice in order to cover them completely (which you must), so I decided to go with the fake lime juice. Spoiler alert, this was a mistake.

It's real because it's green!

The ever-overwhelming internet gave me wildly conflicting times regarding the length of time that shrimp must marinate before it is fully cevich-ed. The longest time I saw listed was 24 hours, so I got all responsible and proactive and prepared them the night before I really wanted to eat them. (That is a lie. I wanted to eat them right away.)

Because my shrimp were poorly covered, I had to check on them periodically and flip them over. It was fun, like tending a little garden. A seafood garden. That is ready to harvest within 24 hours. The next night, I excitedly pulled them out of the refrigerator, and removed their tails. (I do not know why I didn't do that sooner. I could have used less juice!)


The outsides looked pink and cooked, but I was suddenly less than confident in my ability to cook shrimp with nothing more than limes and enthusiasm, so I cut a few open. Sadly, they looked a little gray and raw on the inside. (There is no photo of the raw insides, because of lime fingers.) I tasted a piece of one shrimp as an experiment, and briefly considered the benefits of food poisoning, since I was pretty stressed out last week and would also still like to lose those extra pounds.

It was upon tasting them that I realized the fake lime juice was a mistake. Or maybe it was the 24 hours of marination. In any case, fake lime juice is concentrated, so instead of the fresh burst of citrus I expected, I was faced with overwhelming limeade flavor. It tasted like those commercials where the cheese scientists shove a giant wheel of cheese into a single Cheez-it, except in this case someone shoved a whole package of powdered lemon Kool-Aid into a single shrimp.

In any case, I'd come this far, and I wasn't about to walk away now. I decided against attempting to food-poison myself, so I had no choice but to just microwave the damn things for a few seconds. They came out fully cooked, and no less worse for the wear, in spite of being far less classy and French than originally intended. Whatever, limeade-infused hillbilly microwave shrimp, just get in my tacos. And subsequently in my belly.

Garnish!
(Red pepper, onion, and avocado)

Speaking of things that are classy, mangoes! They seem expensive, right? So instead I bought pineapple mango salsa from Whole Foods. It still cost me $95 for a small container, but at least someone did me the favor of cutting it all up, which has got to be worth at least $70.

Mmm... hundred-dollar fruit cubes.

This stuff is tongue magic, by the way, and it has taken quite a bit of self-control not to just eat the whole tub at once with a spoon.


I assembled the shrimp, veggies, and fruit salsa on fresh corn tortillas I made by hand, using corn from my own organic garden. (Heh.) The looked downright delicious, sitting there. You could barely tell by looking at them that the shrimp were radioactive. And yet there still seemed to be something missing...

Ooohhhh yeah.

Once I added some spicy sriracha sauce to my tacos, I was finally able to sit down and enjoy them. They were actually pretty good, and they only tasted a little bit like confusion and desperation.

P.S. I was halfway through eating the tacos before I remembered I had also purchased goat cheese (to replicate the salad, remember? from the top of this post? like, 3 years ago?). I made them again later, but instead of ceviching, I just sauteed the shrimp in butter and squeezed some fresh lime juice over them later. And I remembered to add a dab of goat cheese. It's no Escaviche Salad from Escalante's, but I'd be willing to eat it every day for the next 3 years or so.

P.P.S. Just to make sure we all learned something here... If you're going to make shrimp ceviche: 1) cut the shrimp into pieces first, and 2) use fresh lime juice.

Planning for Success

1. Sign up for an independent study.
2. Halfway through the semester, agree on a reading list (over 40 journal articles, a few books to skim) with the professor. Tell her you'll send her your summary "as you make you progress."
3. Over the next few weeks, read some articles here and there. Maybe 5 or 8 in total. No need to strain yourself.
4. Two to three weeks before the end of the semester, realize that you still have 45 articles to read and summarize, along with all of your other final assignments, and also your 25-hour-a-week job.
5. PANIC.
6. Read furiously.
7. Check clock.
8. You've only read one article in two hours?!?
9. Repeat steps 5 through 8 until you are no longer physically capable of further panic.
10. You need a drink.
11. On Saturday afternoon (your assignment is due Sunday), go hang out with friends from 4 to 9 pm. Drink a glass of wine, or four.
12. Arrive home at 9pm. Did I mention your assignment is due tomorrow? Homework is hard when you're intoxicated, you know.
13. Have a nap til 1am.
14. Wake up, mainline soda, work til the wee hours of the morning.
15. Finish assignment in an exhausted haze.
16. Swear you'll never do this again.

SEVEN MONTHS LATER: Begin again at step 3.

There's Got to Be Easier Ways to Be Validated, But I'll Take What I Can Get

Say you're a totally amazing runner, known the world over for your excellence and badassitude. Perhaps you have been intensely training for a race, while wearing an outfit that looks exactly like this:

(Or maybe you're more into hot pink. Whatever, I don't mind.)

Now imagine you find your intense training interrupted by an unthinkable injury, the likes of which only a true athlete would ever face. What do you imagine that injury would be?

You are probably imagining yourself wearing a full body cast, which is the only thing keeping your bones organized ever since you ran so fast that you broke the sound barrier and all of your skin melted off. That is truly an awesome injury you've envisioned, reader. But I can do you one better.

Torn ligaments.

Where, you ask? Well, the injury is localized in a small area at the end of my leg, slightly below the ankle.

Well, more like below and in front of my ankle.

I suppose it would more properly be called my foot.

Really, we're talking about the... frontish part.... I guess...

OK FINE I SPRAINED MY DAMN TOE, OK?!? GOD!!

...But it's my big toe, which is very important, you know.

What had happened was this. Back in January I joined that running group I told you about, the one training for a 10 mile race in April. At that time I switched from normal running shoes which had always given me terrible AWFUL blood blisters, to these newfangled Aqua Sock-lookin things.

OH YES I DID. Because aside from being sick of those blisters, I just felt like I looked a little too dignified when I was running, you know? I thought, "How can I bring running, a typically athletic endeavor, down to my usual comfort level of intense dorkiness?" And the heavens opened and took a bunch of my money and then these shoes dropped into my lap.

At any rate, things were going swimmingly and I was blister-free and running faster and making friends and looking just as dorky as I like to. The only issue was that the sidewalks around here are kind of uneven and when I get tired I start to kind of drag my feet (and let's face it, even on a good day I can be a little clumsy), so toe-stubbing was a bit of an issue. The mostly innocuous toe-stubbing reached its climax in an epic week at the end of February that began when I stubbed my toe, fell, skinned my arm and knee, and scratched my ipod.

Even though falling and getting skinned up was painful and made me feel kind of stupid, it was also kind of exhilarating. I stood up all dirty and bloody and it felt like that time when I was 10 and I wrecked my bike and had to walk it all the way home like a warrior. Except this time I wasn't loudly sobbing.

Two days later, proud of my perseverance and confident that my toe-stubbing days were behind me, I joined the group for a 6 mile run. It was tired and having a bad run, and finally around mile 5.8 I stubbed my toe REALLY HARD on an uneven place in the sidewalk. Just whacked it real good against the concrete. This time I didn't fall and when my friend asked if I could keep running I said, "Yeah, I think so." Six steps later it was clear that the stabbing pain in my toe was not going to allow continued running, so I stopped and slowly hobbled on as everyone else sprinted past. It was a dark tenth of a mile back to the car, during which I contemplated the possibility of a broken toe, and the idea that I might not be able to finish training or run the race. Once again I was reminded of that time when I was 10 and I wrecked my bike, except this time it was the despair and the weeping I was thinking of. (But I DIDN'T cry, so there.)

When I finally got back to my car, I worriedly rushed home to take off my shoes and behold my surely monstrously damaged toe. But when I finally got a look at it, it looked mostly normal, except maybe a little more red and swollen than usual. What the hell, toe?!? I was honestly a little pissed at my digit for not looking as awful as it felt. After aggressively icing my foot, I considered going to the doctor, but everyone I talked to told me a doctor would just charge me for an x-ray and tell me to rest, so best to save the money and just not run for awhile.

Thus began an unreasonably stressful 3-week period during which my thoughts consisted mostly of "I should be running I'm getting out of shape what if I miss the race?!? But if I run my toe won't heal and I'll never walk properly again! But if I DON'T run I'll miss the race and be a failure forever... ow my toe, I think I'll eat some cookies." I ran once after I thought I was almost healed, but the pain in my toe came back, so finally I decided that I was willing to pay the price of a doctor's visit just to have someone tell me in an authoritative voice WHAT I OUGHT TO DO.

I made an appointment with the Sports Medicine department of Campus Health. I had intended to check with the receptionist to make sure my special case belonged in Sports Medicine (and not say, the Clumsy Spaz department), but she was all brisk on the phone and I didn't get a chance to explain to her that I wasn't a Real Athlete involved in Real Sports.

During the days leading up to my appointment, I became irrationally convinced that the Sports Medicine doctor was going to turn out to be my middle school gym teacher, and that he would remind me of that time I had to sit out the Presidential Fitness Test because my "ankle was sprained." (It really was, by the way. It's just that I didn't like using crutches, and plus that guy was a jerk.) As I sat in the Sports Medicine waiting room watching football players come and go, I became even more convinced that I'd be seeing Dr. Overweight Gym Teacher, MD only to receive a prescription of heckling and mockery.

But guess what, guys! Turns out, the doctor was a lady! And a very nice one, at that. And she showed me how to "buddy tape" my big toe to my second toe (so it can provide moral support, I assume), and gave me permission to take criminal amounts of ibuprofen. AND she did not laugh in my face when I told her I was training for a race. In fact, she told me that if I tape my toes together and wear normal shoes for the time being (welcome back, blisters!), I should still be able to run the race. Hooray!!

So, the moral of the story is this: Gym teachers seldom have the time or money to attend medical school.

No, wait. The moral is: I'm a real athlete, so suck it, Former Gym Teacher!!

No. Ok, it's probably this: If you think you've seriously injured yourself, just go to the doctor and get it checked out, even if your friend who's broken 8 out of 10 toes tries to tell you it's a waste of time. You shouldn't be taking medical advice from someone who's broken that many bones, anyway.

And The Award For Most Unnecessarily Complicated Craft Project Goes To

It should come as no surprise that I own a lot of books, and that being in grad school has resulted in the purchase of many more. You might be thinking that textbooks can be sold back to the bookstore at the end of the semester, but the problem is that now see each book as an important part of my future as an academic. What if someday I'm writing a journal article, or doing some kind of statistical voodoo, and suddenly I have a question about something I studied in grad school, but I can't look it up because I sold the book back to the bookstore? That is why I can't sell back my books.

As a result of my fear of disappointing Future Me, I have amassed quite a stack of textbooks. Up until a few weeks ago this stack was taking up a chunk of the already-limited floor space in my cluttered room. After 3 semesters of accumulating books, I started to fantasize about getting another bookcase so that I could house my books like a civilized member of society, rather than a (particularly well-educated) cave person.

On a related note, my pet gerbils both died last fall. But if there's anything I've learned from devout Christians and fans of mediocre romantic comedies, it's that "when God closes a door, he opens a window." In this case, he closed the door on my gerbils, and he opened the window on a new bookcase. The bookcase in question used to support the gerbils' habitat and house all of their gerbil accessories (food, bedding, tasty treats, back issues of Better Homes & Gardens). But once they died, I was free to fill it with textbooks.

Unfortunately, the bookcase was black, which I felt wouldn't fit with the design scheme of my bedroom. Also, I worried that adding a dark-colored piece of furniture to a room already bursting with furniture would be claustrophobic. So of course, the bookcase would need to be painted. Preferably a nice light, springy green. And because I have been cultivating supportive imaginary friends in my head, that idea was met with a resounding YES!

Everything that happened after I made the decision to paint the bookcase can basically be explained by the fact that the bookcase I was repainting was one of those $40 fiberboard some-assembly-required deals. With a fancy piece of cardboard nailed on the back.

The first step was to buy supplies. I went to Home Depot's paint department and selected a color on a paint swatch that I liked. Then, because I don't like looking confused, I wandered around the store purposefully for a little while. At one point, I accidentally made eye contact with the guy that worked in the paint area.

"Can I help you ma'am?" he said. "Uh, yeah... Can I just take get this paint off the shelf, or do you have to mix it for me?" "When you're ready, we'll mix it for you." "Oh, OK." I wandered off to the plumbing area.

I called my mom and had a quick discussion about types of paint, primer, and sandpaper. Finally, I sucked it up and walked back to the paint area, ready to order my paint in a clear, authoritative way. After finding the paint guy and staring expertly at some sandpaper for awhile, I was finally able to leave with paint, sandpaper, a tarp, and a paint brush. I hadn't even started painting yet, but I was already a home improvement champion.

The first thing I did was lay out my tarp on the living room floor and rip the cardboard backing off the bookcase. I had a vision, you'll recall, and part of the vision was that the bookcase would have no back. Then I removed the adjustable shelves and began painting. After the first coat dried, it became clear that this would require much more paint. Even lightly sanded, the plasticky coating on the bookcase didn't accept paint well, and even if it had, black is a hard color to cover. Sometime between coats 2 and 3, I got a phone call from my roommate (who had been out of town) saying she was on her way back. Not wanting her to come home to a mess, I moved the whole operation into my room, where I had considerably less space to engage in my artism. A few more days passed, during which I applied 3-4 coats of paint to my project, plus touch-ups.

I had noticed during the course of all this that the frame of the bookcase, without its shelves and backing, seemed suspiciously rickety. I mentioned this to my father, who pointed out (as nicely as possible) that it was kind of a cheap piece of junk, and the cardboard backing had provided it with much-needed stabilization. Back to Home Depot I went, this time to procure some wooden triangles with which to reinforce the bookcase. Those ALSO had to be painted, and hammered onto the back of the bookcase.

Finally, my bookcase was uniformly green and beautiful, and it was time to put in the shelves and get my books into their new home. I pressed the metal shelf supports into position, and lifted the first shelf into its space. As I pushed it in, I felt some resistance. Apparently the 4 coats of paint had made the shelf a tight fit. I pushed harder, and the shelf aggressively removed a chunk of paint. OH HELL NO. I did NOT just spend a week huddled in a corner of my room, hunched over a tarp and applying coat after coat after coat of paint just to end up with a shelf-less bookcase. Before I could do anything rash (like SET THE DAMN THING ON FIRE), I put the shelf down and walked away. Once I was calm enough to deal with it, I called my mom for advice. She came up with the ingenious solution of using a razor blade to take off a strip of paint just wide enough to slip the shelves in, and then touching up any black parts that showed once the shelves were in.

So I did that, and at long last I had my masterpiece!


(This is a horrible and offensive photo, I know, but I had to use the flash and then subsequently crop out some of my junk. What was I gonna do, get out my camera and take a better picture? Ha.) (Also, note the strip of black I left at the bottom, which marks the exact moment at which I said, "Ah fuck it, it's done.")

Anyway, if you'd like to do something similar, all you need is a quart of paint, a razor blade, 4 scrap pieces of plywood cut into triangles, 8 days to sporadically apply paint, and about $30. Seriously, though: just go buy a new bookcase.

Skillz

I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at falling down.

I know what you're thinking. "Anyone can fall down," you say. "Why, I'll do it right now!" I swear, the lengths you people will go to in order to prove me wrong. Now sit down, press this paper towel to your bleeding nose, and pay attention.

Anyone can fall down, I know this. But falling down well is an art form. It takes more than just giving in to gravity; all that will get you is broken wrists and shame. Falling down well, on the other hand, will gain you a sense of self-respect and accomplishment.

For example, I have fallen up steps on multiple occasions. This is because my legs sometimes forget where my toes are. When this happens, my leg stupidly smashes my toes against the edges of steps, while the rest of my body is trying to continue forward motion. This results in a kind of lurching, pecking, stomping walk up the next few steps while I catch myself. This walk probably sounds incredibly stupid to you, but that's because you're using the wrong frame of reference. You're comparing it to normal walking, which is unfair. In reality, you should compare it to what would have happened if I weren't so good at falling: a broken nose and a lot of hard-to-explain bruises. Also possibly some crying.

The best fall-up-stairs I've ever had was when I was in high school. There was a big staircase in my high school which led from the entryway to an open hallway at the top. This made the staircase visible to the entire cafeteria, most of the upstairs hallway, and the whole lobby of the school. It was a perfect stage for my accomplishment, is what I'm saying.

One day after school had ended, I was walking up the stairs with some friends to retrieve our things from our lockers. As we neared the top of the staircase, I was so engrossed in our conversation that my legs forgot about my toes again, and I stubbed my them aggressively against the next step. I felt the familiar feeling of my upper body continuing forward while my lower body ruined everything, and I saw the hard tile floor rushing toward my face. As time slowed down, I became acutely aware of the approximately 350 other students who were about to witness a girl dramatically breaking her face.

At the last moment, however, my ninja-like falling skillz came into play and I twisted my body around in an effort to protect my face. Before I even knew what I was doing, I had landed on my butt, sitting upright at the top of the stairs, completely uninjured. It must have looked as though I had suddenly gotten tired of walking and simply decided to settle down at the top of the stairs, perhaps to enjoy a cup of tea. Strange, yes, but a far cry from public injury and humiliation.

Things like this happen to me pretty often, so I think you can see what I mean when I say that I'm pretty great at falling down. You may also be wondering why these abilities don't translate to other things, like not ever falling down in the first place. To be honest, I don't know. I can only assume that not falling down in the first place involves an entirely different skill set.

Stick around, and sometime I'll tell you about the time I ran over my own foot with a three-wheeler.

This Rescue Mission Brought to You By Jillian Michaels and Waste Management

Friday night, Lee and I had planned to go see a movie (Shutter Island! It was good!) so in preparation I spent the whole day locked in my apartment getting work done. And I was successful! If success is defined as doing about 4 hours of work and 8 hours of sitting around and wasting time. By the end of the day, I was cranky and stir-crazy and in a generally foul mood. I had offered to cook dinner before we went to the movie, so at around 6pm I gave up on homework and headed out to the grocery store.

On the way out the door I grabbed the trash so I could take it out without having to make two trips. It's efficient strategies like that which have helped me to conserve energy and remain the curvy woman that I am today. (It's OK, Jillian Michaels is helping me now.) At any rate, I grabbed the trash and my purse, locked the door, locked my purse in the car, and then stomped across the parking lot to throw the trash out. I hurled both of the trash bags into the dumpster and heard a satisfying clanking sound when they landed in the mostly-empty container. And then I noticed that my hands felt empty. Overly empty. NO KEYS kind of empty.

I stood and stared dumbfounded into the dumpster for a minute. Surely this wasn't happening. I looked around on the ground. No keys. Dammit! This was obviously a test. The universe saw my crankiness and raised the stakes. Someone clearly wanted to see me throw a shit fit, alone, in the parking lot. I resolved to disappoint the universe by remaining calm, and took a deep breath. OK. I looked into the dumpster again. It was very dirty, much like a dumpster. It was fairly empty, and in my crankiness I had heaved the trash bags pretty far out of reach. The opening wasn't very big, and it was high up, about chest-level. Oddly, the dumpster did not seem to be designed for people to climb into it.

No problem. I would just go in my apartment and get something to stand on. I walked toward my apartment. My... locked apartment. The key to which was in the dumpster. Alright, regroup! I'd just have to call Lee to come help me strategize. I just needed to go grab my phone from the car. The... locked car. The key to which was in the dumpster. Son of a bitch! No no, just focus. Maybe there's someone in the apartment office! I stomped across the apartment complex, not panicking in the least, to find a... locked door. The keys to which were in the dumpster. Figuratively speaking.

Fine. Fine! I would just live in the parking lot of my apartment complex, forever and ever.

QUICK FACT ABOUT ME: I would much rather live in a parking lot until I died than have to go knock on a stranger's door and ask them to help me climb into a dumpster to fish out my keys.

I walked back to the dumpster and began to try to psych it out with the force of my mental rage. Alright dumpster, it's just me and you now. And you are about to be in a WORLD OF PAIN, young man! I didn't know what I meant, but I felt galvanized.

I reassessed the situation. The opening in the dumpster was high enough that I couldn't just hurl myself in, but there was a little bit of a lip right below the opening that I might be able to get my foot on in order to leverage myself in. I looked around to try to find a place to grab onto the dumpster. The dirty, filthy, dumpster, which had surely never ever been washed with soap and water in all the many years it had been in service. The filthy dumpster, which was no doubt exponentially more filthy on the inside, where I was going.

Fuck it. It was this, or living in the parking lot, and it looked like it was going to rain. So I hoisted my pants up, grabbed the edges of the - ICK! - dumpster, walked my feet up the side until they were on the lip, and pulled myself into and through the opening. I landed inside the dumpster and briefly felt like a champion. Hooray! It's Friday night and I'm in a giant metal box full of strangers' refuse!

I spotted my keys, grabbed them out of a pool of wetness I didn't want to think too much about, and flung them out of the opening and onto the pavement outside. Excellent! The keys had been liberated!

I looked out of the opening at my keys on the ground, filled with pride, and suddenly realized that I wasn't sure that I could get out. There was no helpful lip on the inside of the dumpster. Oh God, WHAT IF I COULDN'T GET OUT?!? I would have to stand there, in the dumpster, in the dark, staring out of the small opening like some kind of demented puppet show, waiting for deliverance. At that moment, I honestly couldn't decide what was more terrifying: having to live in the dumpster forever, or having to wait to be discovered and helped out by one of my neighbors. SPOILER! I am currently writing this blog post from inside the dumpster.

Anyway, I crossed myself and prayed to Jillian Michaels for the strength to climb out, in the name of the 30 Day Shred, amen. I can't remember exactly how I pulled myself out, but I have bruises on my shins now. For the sake of the narrative, let's just say that I exploded out of that dumpster like the Hulk, leaving only a pile of debris in my wake.

Once I was out, I looked around and confirmed that no one had witnessed my heroic efforts, and was briefly a little disappointed that there was no one there to be impressed. Then I brushed myself off, grabbed my keys, and ran for my apartment before the dumpster could grab anything else off of me. Once I got inside I aggressively washed my hands and keys, checked my body for Hepatitis, and decided to carry on with my life.

And then Lee and I ate chicken parmesan and saw a wonderful movie and got a little drunk and the end, hooray.

This Is Why I'm Currently Taking Up a Collection For Lasik Surgery

Here's a fact: I have terrible vision. How terrible? Well, my driver's license includes a stipulation that I must wear corrective lenses. The first thing I do in the morning is put in my contacts, and the last thing I do at night is take them out, because time spent without my contacts is time spent risking a horrible, hilarious death at the hands of some innocuous household object. Like, I don't know, mistaking a fork for a screwdriver and then... jamming it in my eye? My vision is so bad that when I take one contact out, I set it calmly in the contacts case on the counter, but when I take the second contact out, I have to physically bring the contacts case 3 inches from my face so that I can be sure that I'm actually placing the contact in there properly. I have glasses, but I hardly ever wear them, because although they're very pretty and they make me look smart, they also have fairly thick lenses which I'm convinced cause a little bit of a Mr. Magoo effect.

In addition to having bad vision in general, I have terrible night vision when I'm sans glasses and contacts. I like to think that this is part of the reason that I've always been a little afraid of the dark. The combination of an active imagination and night vision that makes everything seem like a black and gray impressionist painting can make for some harrowing late nights spent wondering if that shadow in the corner is just some clothes or A MURDERER COME TO KILL YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.

Even though I have awful night vision, I usually don't put on my glasses for late night trips to the bathroom. I know my bedroom well enough that it's not necessary. That's why I didn't put my glasses on the other night when I was staying at my parents' house and had to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. I was careful, though, because it was really dark, and I was half-asleep, and I'm clumsy, and you just never know. So I swung my feet over the side of the bed and got up, slowly. And I slowly worked my way across the room to the doorway. And when I got close to the doorway, I was so surprised by how dark it was out on the landing that I started walking even more tentatively, edging my way into the hallway while I peered, squinty-eyed, trying to make sure that I was headed across the hall and toward the bathroom and not into some inky black abyss of horror and danger. Seriously, it was just so DARK in the hallway, and I seemed to remember there usually being some sort of light on out there, and why couldn't I see anything? These are the confused thoughts I had as I inched my way out toward the hallway, and then, well...

KA-THUNK! is probably the best description of the sound the bedroom door made as I carefully and deliberately walked right the hell into it with my big dumb forehead.

On the bright side, once I opened the door, it was really pretty easy to find my way to the bathroom.

What the Hell, How Bout Some Frivolity?

Here's my Touchy-Feely Tip of the Week:

Smile at strangers like you're happy to see them.

This is useful for several reasons...
1) It establishes a connection, however brief, between you and another person, which can be helpful when you're feeling sad or lonely.
2) Supposedly, even just the act of smiling can release endorphins, which make you feel good. (Or maybe it's actually serotonin? Crack cocaine? I don't really know. Just trust me, your brain oozes some kinda feel-good shit.)
3) Usually if you smile at someone, even if it's for no reason, they'll smile back at you. Which usually makes me feel like a rock star. Suddenly, the whole world is beaming at you for no reason. Hell yes, here I come, the girl that strangers smile at. The Pedestrian Whisperer, they call me.
4) Most people look more attractive when they're smiling, so this strategy has the added benefit of occasionally leading to spontaneous sex with strangers on sidewalks. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I'm Not Dead, I'm Just Useless!

Hi there, internet. I just wanted to drop by and assure you that I am still alive, and to apologize for my continued absence. I got through my last day at work, which was as lovely as a last day of work can be, I imagine, and now I'm in the midst of serious packing-up-my-life, as I'll be moving to Grad School this weekend. I've started thinking of Grad School as a place, a job, and a stage of development, all wrapped up in one. From what I understand, that's probably a pretty accurate idea of it, actually.

In the midst of all the packing, I've also been keeping up with that silly running endeavor I told you about. (At this point I'd like to publicly thank Erin for her offer to be my mentor/partner-in-crime. I think it makes a lot of sense to have a running/biking crime-fighting duo, and as soon as I speak with my agent, I'll get back to you.) For a little while I was actually getting better and faster at running, if you can imagine that. Luckily, due to a series of poor choices (skipping several days of training to go out drinking instead, failing to ice my knee when it first started to hurt, only running when it's 500 degrees outside and the sun is BEATING ME ABOUT THE HEAD the whole time), I appear to have returned to my usual, painfully slow level of running. It's alright, at least I'm comfortable here.

I always say that summer is my favorite season, and that is totally true, with the small exception of the very end of July and the beginning of August. That's when things begin to get unbearably hot and humid in North Carolina, and I start fantasizing about Halloween. (Also: candy!) To illustrate, let me give you a short list of times during which I have determined (from personal experience) that it is not a good idea to run outdoors in NC at the end of July:

1) 11 am
2) 12 pm
3) 5 pm
5) 6 pm
6) Basically any time between sunrise and sunset.

Now that I've shared this knowledge with you, it's time for me to hobble off, dripping sweat, and find a bucket of water to dump over my head. Til next time!

Run, Don't Walk, To Your Nearest Mental Health Professional

I ran across this article on The Onion today, and I like it because sometimes I worry that this is what it's like to talk to me:

"Rhetorical Pleasantry Elicits 45-Minute Response"

Some would agree that that is, in fact, what it's like to talk to me. But those people can GO TO HELL AND DIE.

*****

Speaking of extremely inappropriate responses, the Asshole Voice in My Head had a bit of a renaissance this past weekend. Maybe he was trying to help me celebrate my birthday, I don't know. All I know is that on Friday night, Lee and I were supposed to hang out with my friends Cristina and Todd, because Todd was also having a birthday last weekend, but that was all preempted by The Asshole's treacherous muttering. On Thursday, Cristina was originally a little vague on the plan for the evening, mentioning only that we "might go out somewhere" and that she would call me Friday. She really seemed excited for us all to hang out. So my plan was to have dinner and spend time with Lee until I heard from Cristina, and then later tag along for Todd's birthday festivities.

On Friday night, however, it got later and later and I still hadn't yet heard from Cristina. I didn't want to call her and ask what the deal was though, because she had seemed so vague, and for all I knew they had changed their minds and decided to do something that was just the two of them. Finally, around 10 pm, when Lee and I were busy amending our plans to just watching a movie and getting drunk in my apartment, I finally got a text from Cristina saying, "We're going to head to Boozetown in about an hour." I wasn't sure how to take this. Could she not have filled me in on the plan earlier? What had she been doing all this time? Luckily, before I could get too confused, the Asshole in My Head graciously stepped up and offered his own explanation. Obviously, he said, they've been having a fantastic time doing super-fun things with other people that are NOT YOU and you weren't invited along for that because Cristina and Todd don't actually like you and would prefer if you were not a part of their lives at all. Actually, he went on, all of your other "friends" probably feel the same way about you, too. Happy birthday!

(My personal brand of Crazy. It's like paranoid schizophrenia, but without all the excitement of auditory hallucinations and delusions of grandeur.)

I expressed this reasonable interpretation of the events to Lee. He, in turn, expressed some skepticism, but told me that he would go along with whatever I wanted to do. We sat in silence for a little while, as I'm sure Lee wondered just how irrational I planned to get this time, and I listened attentively as the Asshole In My Head expounded on his central thesis of how and why I have no friends. Finally, he concluded with: ...So you see, really all you can do is stay home and feel sorry for yourself, since obviously they don't actually want you there anyway. You should probably also drink half a bottle of wine, to teach everyone a lesson.

"Yeah, that'll show 'em!" I agreed. "What??" Lee said. My eyes narrowed with resolve. "Take me to get some wine."

I texted Cristina back and told her that I wasn't sure if we would join them, but to let me know when they were on their way to the bar. In the meantime, I followed the advice of The Asshole and drank me some wine while we watched the first half of The Day The Earth Stood Still. (The remake with Keanu Reeves. I find him attractive and I SHALL NOT apologize for it.) (The movie, however, was mediocre.) By the time Cristina notified me that they were on their way to the bar I was feeling (thankfully) much more jovial and forgiving, and I think The Asshole was taking a wine-induced nap, or something. "Well, we ought to at least make an appearance," I told Lee. "Just to be nice."

And so we joined them and I celebrated with more booze and even though it wasn't ideal I considered the evening a success because at least I got to get drunk and flirt with my boyfriend. And I didn't throw up. The end.

My main point ('Oh, here it is!' you may be saying to yourself) is that I'm a little concerned that The Asshole in My Head was able to get me so riled up, so long after I declared him to be 84% conquered. I think the reason he got so powerful the first time around is because I was dealing with a major life transition at the time, so I'm kind of worried that he's going to try to stage a coup again soon, since I'll be distracted with all the moving to a new town and getting a new roommate and starting grad school and slowly draining my bank account. So I think that what we have to do is come up with a few ways to protect myself from The Asshole and his Crazy-making monologues. Here's what I've got so far...

Ways to Protect Myself From The Asshole in My Head
1. Tinfoil hat. Duh.
2. Ooh! Entire tinfoil SUIT OF ARMOR. Is someone writing this down?
3. Eating magic mushrooms until I develop a new Voice in My Head that can drown out The Asshole. Preferably one that has the commanding, yet compassionate voice of Mr. T. Or Morgan Freeman. Or Sidney Poitier. I need a distinguished black actor, basically.
4. Counting. Constant counting.
5. Repeated hand-washing. That's healthy, right?
6. Teaching The Asshole to speak in a language that I don't know. Maybe one of the African click-languages.
7. Sedatives. Sedatives that were designed for large jungle mammals.
8. Hitting myself in the face with a shovel until I escape into sweet, merciful unconsciousness.

Ok, so the list so far leaves a bit to be desired. But I don't move until the beginning of August, so I've got a little time to come up with some more alternatives. Feel free to leave your ideas in the comments.

Dead Ends: Unitarians, Coffee, and Lady Issues

I was going to write today about my thoughts on the Unitarian Church, but I basically already explained it all in an IM conversation with a friend of mine, and he put it on his blog before I could. So just go here if you want to know what I think about that. (In the first part, I'm telling him he should go to church more often or there will be negative spiritual consequences. The second part is my recounting of how my friend had to tell her very conservative parents that she visited a Unitarian chuch one Sunday. And the third part is the important one, about my primary problem with Unitarians.)

Ok, so that's covered. I was also going to tell you about how I discovered caffeine this morning, but then I said it on twitter so that's already been covered, too. Basically, it went like this:

Oh man I don't feel like doing this stuff I'm supposed to be doing. I think I'll have some coffee while I mull it over.
*Prepare cup of coffee, drink cup of coffee.*
You know, work doesn't sound so bad after all! Let's do this! Who wants a hug?!?
......
Hm. Self, have you ever noticed how much happier and more enthusiastic we feel after having a cup of coffee? I wonder why that is? Oh... wait... I see. 'Caffeine,' you say?

In conclusion, I'm basically a scientific genius, it's just that I should have been born thousands of years ago.

But my discovery of caffeine reminded me of something else, which is lady-related, and not in a sexy way, which is why maybe any men reading this should just move on before they get bored.

......

Ok, are they gone? I don't want any of them to hear me confess this and then hold it against the entire Lady Nation when the time comes for one of us to be Commanderess in Chief. I have maintained silence about this issue for a very long time, but I ultimately decided that it's worth the risk of talking about it if I can save just one other young woman from the many years of ignorance and confusion that I endured. So here we go.

I am a sensitive soul. Sometimes I have days when I feel particularly emotional and I cry at the drop of a hat. Other times I have days when everything pisses me off and I want to punch all people in the face, with extreme prejudice. And there are still other days when I feel both ways at once, weeping inconsolably as I beat the everloving hell out of anyone who happens to cross me. It's understandable, it's completely natural, it could happen to anyone. It seemed reasonable to assume that, at these times, the world was out to get me.

Except for that while I was in college, I began to have an interesting experience, which repeated itself with a peculiar regularity. It happened, oh I don't know, about every 4 weeks or so. Perhaps you see where I'm going with this. The experience went a little like this:

ARGH! I hate everyone! That person is being a jerk! And so is that one! To hell with you all! Why is everyone always picking on me? Have I become Charlie Brown over night? I just want to... to... CRYYYYYYYYY oh no my life is terrible. I'm terrible. Everything is terrible! No one loves me! Don't say you love me, because you clearly do not! Also, when did I gain all this weight? Why don't my pants fit properly? You know what would fix all of this? Some motherloving CHOCOLATE, that's what. Let's make that happen. Now!

All of this would occur before 9 or 10 am, at which point I would look at the calendar and think:

On top of everything else, today is a Monday! Of course it's a Monday! It's only fitting that I'd have the WORST DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE (which is today) on a fricking Monday gosh I hate Monday. You know, I think the last time I felt this way was a Monday, too. Just like a Monday to treat me this way... And now look! As if that wasn't enough, about 10 days from now I have to... to start...

my period. Oh.

That's right everybody, it was PMS. It took me 4 years (that's almost 50 instances of PMS) to figure out what you all probably figured out 4 paragraphs ago. Perhaps it took me so long to accept it because I always thought I was far too intelligent and rational to be vulnerable to the effects of mere biology. But alas, it turns out that apparently all those stereotypes about what happens to a woman under the influence of estrogen withdrawal are taken directly from my life. So if you're a high-functioning woman in a position of power who can't be taken seriously because her 'emotions are tied to the cycles of the moon' or whatever, I sincerely apologize for that. I did not know that my bonkers mental states were going to be taken out of context and applied to other perfectly rational women.

I guess in a way it's comforting because now I know that when I start feeling crazy, it's probably just my endocrine system - nothing to see here, move along now. But it's still a little alarming to think that that's all it takes to TOTALLY RUIN MY DAY. The only thing scarier than what my PMS experience is doing to me currently (and women's rights, again, sorry about that) is what it will eventually do to me and my hypothetical husband if/when I ever get married, if/when I ever have babies. Oh sweet deity, spare me now.