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.

Indiana Jones and the Kitchen Nightmare

In August, shortly after I moved into my new apartment, I got a puppy.

Here she is back then, napping with some things she planned to destroy.

When I got her, she was about 4 months old. She was the product of an unplanned pregnancy on the part of my brother's beagle. (They considered sending her off to a boarding school for unwed mothers, but ultimately decided the tuition was too high.) I had wanted a dog for awhile but I felt like I should wait until I had a home with a yard, and possibly a dog butler, which is definitely a thing that exists. But then my brother had illegitimate mutt puppies, and one of the potential owners backed out, and, you know, puppies!! So now here we are.


Oh, sorry, let me just...

Ah, yes, HERE we are.

Objectively, I'd have to say that Stella is the best, most beautiful dog in the world. She is definitely half beagle, but she is also definitely half something-much-larger-than-a-beagle. We've visited her little beagle mom a few times, and Stella is at least twice her size. She weighs a little over 40lbs, although maybe that's too much, because a woman at the dog park called her fat a few months ago. (That woman is currently regretting her choice of words at the bottom of a river.) Mainly she's just built kind of like a golf cart, all small and square. She doesn't run particularly fast, but she is super strong, and could probably pull a smallish rickshaw given the right motivation.

Since her lineage was questionable, I'm lucky she turned out cute and relatively well-behaved. She whines a lot when she's bored (I am quite often boring to her), and I can't give her any toys that aren't made of steel, because she'll destroy them and swallow the pieces. But in general, she knows what is and isn't allowed, and she's friendly with people and other dogs, and she hasn't torn down the house yet.

Ok, enough of this online dating profile of my dog! Time for an interesting story! ... About my dog.

Like many dogs, Stella likes to lick the dirty plates as I load them into the dishwasher. A few weeks ago, she had her head pretty far in there, licking the plates at the back of the bottom rack. When she started to pull her head out, the whole plastic rack moved, and she paused for a second to think through the situation. About the same time I realized that she must have gotten her collar hooked on the rack, she decided that the best way to deal with this was with running away. She backed up again, the rack moved again,and so she backed up as fast as she could, dragging the entire rack out of the dishwasher. Luckily, at that point it came loose from her collar and crashed to the floor, showering her with a hail of silverware as she darted out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Which is where she spent the next hour, sitting as far away from the kitchen as she could get, staring wide-eyed and alert in the general direction of the dishwasher. And later, when she needed a drink of water, she went to the edge of the kitchen and kept her feet planted on the carpet while she streeeetched her neck over to her water bowl.

Needless to say, it was one of the most excellent things that has ever happened, and it totally makes up for all those trips outside in the cold to watch her pee.

Next Week: Pictures of T-Shirts I'm Giving to Goodwill

Until I'm sure my formerly sprained toe is back to it's old self, I'm having to run in my old running shoes. The ones that don't make me look like Girlfriend of Swamp Thing.

Unlike these, which totally *do* make me look like an Amphibi-lady.

I've mentioned before that every running shoe I've ever tried (except the Nessie Feet) have given me terrible blood blisters, but I have stopped short of ever actually posting photos of my feet in this state because despite what you might think, I actually have a little bit of class and decorum. UNTIL TODAY.

Just kidding, I'm not going to post pictures of my maimed feet. I will, however, post photos of my socks following Monday night's run, and let you draw your own conclusions.


You may not be able to see that well, what the fact that my socks are filthy and also have an adorable pink stripe down the side. How bout we zoom on in?


There you are. Here you can see where I have helpfully added two sloppily drawn dueling suns, in order to call your attention to the areas of interest. Those dark reddish spots there? Oh, that's just where my blood blisters burst open while I was running and made a big painful mess.

I know, right? Pretty punk rock. But here's the best part. Guess how far I had to run over the past 7 days in order to make my feet self-destruct? Go on, guess.

Only six miles. Over the course of a week. To be specific, three separate runs, each totaling less than 2 miles, is all it takes to make my feet literally EXPLODE BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

So I've got a slightly trainwreck-y spine and exploding feet, and yet I soldier on. And to think, I was worried that people would think I wasn't hardcore enough.

(By the way, I promise not to let this turn into the All Running All the Time Blog, but I think we can all agree that you'd be sad if you hadn't gotten to see photos of my dirty socks. Right? Right.)

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.

And Four Months Ago, I Thought It Was Impossible

Considering it's been a week since I ran the half marathon (and 17 years since I last posted), I reckon it's about time I debriefed the troops.

(Which is you guys. You're my troops, didn't I tell you?)

Alright! So. This is going to be a long one, better settle in. The half I ran was the Rock 'n' Roll Virginia Beach half marathon, which took place on September 5th. I, my co-runner H, and our Official Spectator E all made a weekend of it, going down on Friday afternoon and returning on Monday. When we got there Friday night we took a trip down to the beachfront (our hotel was actually about 20 min inland) to get dinner and drinks and check out the sights. Virgina Beach has an awesome boardwalk that I greatly enjoyed, and which makes up the last mile of the race. Friday night there was a concert near the boardwalk and some booths nearby where people were selling things. We had a delightful conversation with some young men who were selling hot dogs and pickles "that will change your life." Unfortunately (?), no part of that last sentence was a euphemism. We also found a tent where some people were selling air-brushed tattoos. My friend E wanted one, so I took the opportunity to get something intimidating air-brushed on me for good luck.


The hirsute arm to the left is mine, and my tat is (naturally) a hot pink T-Rex. I'm not sure if you can tell, but there's also glitter on it. One of the girls gave it a name, but I can't remember what it was, so let's just assume it was Clancy. Clancy graciously stuck around through Sunday, and I did indeed look to him for inspiration at some point late in the race.

Saturday morning we got up and went to the Health & Fitness Expo. Apparently, most big races have Expos beforehand where the runners can go pick up their bibs, timing chips, and free t-shirts. There's also, of course, a bunch of booths set up selling running paraphernalia. I didn't end up buying anything, but that's really only because I wanted one of EVERYTHING and I couldn't decide what to spend my money on. (This is how most shopping trips go for me, actually.) Walking into the Expo, I had to fight back tears, and I still can't really explain why. Maybe it's because of the cheerleaders they had lined up to cheer for everyone as they walked in (!!), or because it was the first time the whole thing felt really real to me, or maybe it's just because I was walking around with this gigantic, diverse group of people and they were all Runners and I was a Runner too, as far as they were all concerned. Whatever the reason, I got a little emotional, like I do. But once the tears dried, I could more clearly see all the sweet perks. Free granola bars! A card for 10% off at P.F. Chang's, good for a year! Temporary tattoos from Dodge, for some reason! (They were a race sponsor, not that that really explains the tattoos.) My favorite piece of (not free) merchandise at the Expo was a car magnet that said, "In my dreams, I am a Kenyan." That pretty much sums it up, right there.

Sometime Saturday night was when I started panicking about the race. I wasn't ready, I didn't have my stuff together, I couldn't remember how to run. We were going to get lost on our way there, or be late, and miss the start. It all seemed very serious. I picked a fight with my race partner and everyone went to bed in an uneasy mood.

When race day dawned, however, we were all so excited (and punch-drunk from lack of sleep) that we forgot our anxiety in favor of stumbling around in the dark and laughing at things that weren't particularly funny. We got up at about 4:45 and suited up, and then there were bananas and bagels to eat and coffee to drink and who knows what else. Because our hotel was so far away from the beachfront, we had to drive to the amphitheater to park and catch shuttles to the start line. The shuttle ride itself was 20 minutes, and we were (I was) worried about getting to the start line by the time the gun went off at 7. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, until we got within a mile of the amphitheater, at which point it became apparent that everyone in Virgina Beach was there, as well as some people from neighboring counties who came out JUST TO GET IN MY WAY. Even once we had finally parked, there was a long line for the shuttles, where we had to wait for about 15 minutes while I vibrated with anxiety.

When we finally arrived at the start line, we still had to use the porta-potties, which of course had lines of their own. The first waves of people were already taking off as H and I sprinted to get in line to pee. Luckily, however, there were about 20,000 people running the race that day and they were arranged in corrals in order of their projected finish time. Which is to say that even though the race "started" at 7am, H's and my corral didn't cross the start line til more like 7:30. Here's some of those 20,000 people:

And here's the start line!!:

When we first started, I honestly wondered if I'd be able to remember how to run. I hadn't run since Thursday (3 days before), and I was so anxiously hyper-aware of my body that everything felt weird. Did my ankle always bend in that way? Did my foot always hit the ground at that funny angle? And what is it I'm supposed to do with my hands, again? After about a mile, though, everything sort of evened out. The Rock 'n' Roll races have bands and cheer squads set up every few miles, and right before the first turn there was a band playing Flight of the Conchords' "Business Time," except they had changed it to "Running Time." It was definitely one of the highlights of the race, and it was stuck in my head for days.

Going into the race, my friend H and I had tried to figure out a strategy that would balance my misguided NEED FOR SPEED with her bum hip which had been bothering her for the past month. We decided that we'd try to confine our walk breaks to the water stations (which were set up about every 1.5 miles). In training, I had usually only walked a minute a two for each mile, so I thought it was do-able. For the first few miles we were zooming along at a pace a little faster than our goal pace, but we had to run up a hill early on that apparently made H's hips flare up, and after that things got rough for awhile. We had a goal of finishing in less than 3 hours, but H started stopping for walk breaks more and more often, and sometime during the 6th mile I realized that there was no way we were going to make our goal at the rate we were going. I explained the situation to H and she tried to rally, but it wasn't going to happen. She kept telling me to go on without her, but I didn't want to because I was afraid she was going to give up. Finally, I made her promise to at least run some if she could, and then we hugged and high-fived and I took off to try to make up some time.

During miles 7 and 8, I was running at a pace much faster than I had planned, trying to get back on track. I felt OK though, so I didn't let up until I had 8 miles behind me and I was sure that I could finish on time. After that, I took a break to walk and eat the free packet of Gu some volunteers had handed me about half a mile back. During the race I carried a little bottle of water to drink from between water stations, so at each station I would drink a small cup or two of water and then take another cup or two to refill my bottle. Apparently at some point during my snack break, juggling the water bottle and the Gu packet and keeping my feet moving became too much for me, because about 10 min later I looked down and there was sticky blackberry-flavored gel dripped all across the front of my running shorts. Sexy! Something about running by myself, covered in Gu, while my friend struggled along somewhere behind me struck me as both hilarious and sad, all at once.

Of course the bright side is that when you're running for hours on end, the scenery is always changing, so I didn't have a lot of time to dwell on my berry-scented shorts. Overall, the route was really pleasant, as were the bands and the cheering crowds. The only part that dragged a little was the few miles in the middle that went through the naval base. At that point, there weren't a lot of trees for shade, and there weren't a lot of spectators either, so you were sort of on your own for motivation. As the race went on and I started to get tired, though, everything sort of faded into the background. After 10 miles, every step I took was officially The Farthest I Had Ever Run. From mile 10 to mile 11.5 or so, all I could think about was making it to the water station that was supposedly set up around mile 11.3. I say supposedly because it was definitely about a quarter-mile farther down the road than that, and at that point in the race a quarter mile was about 2 miles too far. I finally gave up and started walking early, only to see it in the distance about 30 seconds later. I ran again to mile 12, where I walked for a minute or two and gave myself a pep talk. It went something along the lines of, "You have to run now, and you have to run for a mile, and you can't stop until you're on the other side of the finish line. Don't be a loser, OK ready set go!" And then I ran.


The last mile is along the boardwalk, which you turn onto just past the 12-mile marker. As soon as I was by the beach there was a nice strong breeze in my face, which I think really helped sustain me through the end. My feet were so beaten up at that point that they were just kind of numb, and it felt like they were coated with concrete. I had that all-over tingly feeling that I get when I've pushed myself to the limits of my endurance, and even though my stomach wasn't exactly growling I had the distinct impression that food would be necessary soon. I was running as hard as I thought I could (and still maintain it for another mile), but I felt so worn out I was sure I must be going incredibly slowly. And yet... I looked at my watch and I was going a full minute per mile faster than my goal pace! All of the myths about race day adrenaline were true! After I got done being excited about how quickly I was going, I realized I was going to have to maintain that pace until the end and I became a little alarmed. Although it felt like the loooooongest mile of my life, I persevered, mostly because I started mentally listing people I was running "for." When I ran out of people to dedicate the last mile to, I moved on to abstract concepts, like social justice and H's hips. THEN I started listing things I wouldn't stop running for, as a way to convince myself that I was more dedicated to finishing the race than I was to money and happiness. Things that wouldn't have made me stop running included: a free PhD, a billion dollars, a brand-new dream home, a bear covered in razor wire, a threat on my family's life, and who knows what else. Finally, 8 years later, I crossed the finish line, arms over my head, a determined look welded to my face.

Time: 2:52:30ish. Under my goal by 8 minutes. And I'm confident I would have been faster if it weren't for the rocky start.

After that, it's all kind of a blur. There was free beer on the beach, and cooling our feet in the ocean, and naps and showers and dinner at P.F. Chang's (10% off!). And of course, celebratory booze. And then the next morning, we got up and returned to the scene of our recent glory for bike riding along boardwalk and a little lounging by the ocean. It was the best Labor Day weekend ever.


Postscript about my running buddy: She finished about 15 min after me, sprinting across the finish line like a champ, and then we dragged her to the medical tent to ice her hip. She went to the doctor today and they told her she might have a stress fracture, so now she has to be on crutches until they can take a picture of her bones. Basically, if you haven't run 13 miles on a broken hip lately, you can't touch my girl H. ;)

Photographic Evidence

I had planned to tell you all about my new house guest, but time got away from me so that will have to wait until tomorrow. Instead, here are some photos I found that illustrate just how fully-loaded Lee's car was for the trip to Texas.

Note the rear tire, which just barely has enough room to turn without scraping against the wheel well.

Bonus reflection of me taking pictures of a car in a hotel parking lot, like a crazy person.

So there you are. That's what a medium-sized sedan stuffed to the brim with all of one's earthly belongings looks like, these days. I also meant to take photos of the cockpit so that everyone could see how cramped it was in there, but I forgot to. Suffice it to say, every hour or so I would look around for a place to put something (an empty soda bottle, my feet, a gum wrapper), and then be like, "Oh, right." and just swallow it instead.

Finally, as a palate cleanser, here's a photo of the sunset in Mississippi as we sped through trying to make it Louisiana before stopping to sleep:

A Post-Christmas Reflection

For the record, this is my favorite Christmas treat:



For the uninitiated, this is a form of Chex Mix made by coating Chex cereal in a melted chocolate and peanut butter concoction and then tossing them in powdered sugar. Street names include 'puppy chow' and 'muddy buddies.' It may not look like much, but it is a nearly ideal chocolate-and-peanut-butter delivery system. The primary ingredient in this recipe is 9 kinds of sugar, and the only part that isn't sugar is essentially air, with a little bit of crunch. This shit is fantastic. I have probably gained 10 lbs since I have been home for the holidays and I don't even care, as long as I have my life-affirming sugar.

This brings me to the broader topic of desserts in general. Let me explain to you, briefly, the purpose of dessert. The purpose of dessert is to provide a way to eat sugar that is slightly more civil than just dumping spoonfuls of it right into your mouth. This is why there is absolutely NO REASON to add fruits (or God forbid, vegetables) to a dessert dish. Technically, yes, fruit is mostly sugar. But it's an inefficient form of sugar. What you really need in a dessert is the purest form of sugar you can get your hands on. That's why its called refined sugar. You can't use oil to run your car until it's been refined, and you're not getting the most out of your sugar until you do the same to it. Adding fruit to your dessert just dilutes its potency. When you want to get drunk, you drink the strongest liquor you can find; when eat dessert, you should eat something that's 99.9% sugar. Save the fruit for breakfast.

I hope you had a Merry, fruit-free Christmas [and/or holiday of your choice].

Questions Answered By My Trip To Houston

(I spent last weekend in Houston, and it was delightful. I only took about 20 pictures, though, and all of them were taken during our day trip to Galveston, so I'm just going to intersperse a few of them throughout this post. Enjoy!)

Q. How long can babies scream?
A. One and a half hours, at least, bless their shrieking hearts. Coincidentally, this is the length of a plane ride from Nashville to Houston.

Q. How are things in the Dominican Republic these days?
A. Not so good, if we are to believe the eager young lady on my plane who was delivering a monologue to her seatmate regarding her recent mission work in "The D.R."

Q. What other information can young missionaries offer us?
A. Well, this one in particular is "a strong believer in the power of prayer." She also believes that the humidity level in locations like the gulf coast keeps people looking young.



Q. Are your views on public v. private education realistic?
A. No. As a matter of fact, I have it on good authority that I become "irrational" when talking about this issue in particular, and that what I need is "another 10 years in The Real World." (As an aside, may I just add: *sigh*.)

Q. Aside from the occasional good-natured heckling directed toward budding social workers, what is Lee's uncle like?
A. He is a very friendly and generous man who knows good meats and cheeses when he sees them. Also, tall.

Q. How much cheese is too much cheese to consume in one day?
A. This is a trick question. There is no such thing.

Q. What are Lee's views on fresh mozzarella cheese?
A. Apparently, it grosses him out that it's packed in water.



Q. What's all this I keep hearing about "death panels"?
A. I believe you have come to the wrong question-and-answer session. Perhaps you were looking for this?

Q. Can you swim?
A. No. Interestingly enough, I have not somehow become a good swimmer since the last time I tried.

Q. Can you at least tread water?
A. Listen, I have a lot of other very useful skills, OK?



Q. What do oysters Rockefeller taste like?
A. Like elastic mouthfuls of briny protein marinated in the joyous tears of angels and then covered in cheese.

Q. Seriously though, these questions have very little to do with your experience in Texas.
A. That's not actually a question, but nevertheless, I shall address it. I had a great time, and it was exceedingly nice of Lee's uncle to let me come stay at his place and hang out with him and Lee for the weekend. (Lee's been working for his uncle in Houston for the past month, I don't know if I mentioned that or not.) I got to wander around the biggest mall I have ever seen ever, I ate raw oysters (and oysters Rockefeller), and I got to see all the thrilling sights and sounds of Houston and Galveston.

Also, we went to this restaurant called Ragin Cajun that serves cajun-style fried food, and it was delicious. And, to activate the drink machine, all you had to do was kind of wave your hand in front of the beverage of your choice! I swear, the things you see in the big city. I don't know how people get used to it.


(By the way, my brain-damaged gerbil wasn't dead when I got home! He's still tilting his head to the side all the time, but he doesn't seem too bothered by it, so I've resolved to stop worrying and just think of it as a new endearing quirk. Hooray!)

I've Been Watching A Lot Of Bones Reruns

This is Emily Deschanel:

This is her younger sister Zooey Deschanel:

I can't possibly be the only straight woman in the world who'd be willing to make out with both of them. Can I?

Happy 4th of July Weekend!

On Shrimp and Sunshine

Well, I'm back! I'd like to commend Christa for being the only person who followed instructions and left a comment on my last post. I can only assume that the rest of you didn't comment either because you didn't have the patience to read that far down, or because you think I'm just some kind of trained monkey that dances for free. Either way, there's not much I can do about it, because a) I'll never learn how to write concisely and b) I love being your dancing monkey.

Anyway, as you may recall, I spent last weekend in Florida, and I've returned victorious.

Last Wednesday night I went to bed early so I could wake up Thursday morning at 6:30 to take a shower and get dressed and pick Kellie up from the airport at 8.

No wait, that's what I meant to do. What actually happened Wednesday night was I got a little drunk with Lee to celebrate the end of his exams, and then I woke up Thursday morning at 8am to Lee saying, "Hey, do you know what time it is?" I have no memory of turning off my alarm, but I must have, because it obviously didn't wake me up.

The rest of that day (after the frantic dressing, re-packing, and driving to the airport) was pretty uneventful. Kellie and I met up with her sister Carrie and drove a million miles down to north Florida. The best part about traveling with women as opposed to men is that women don't judge you nearly as harshly when you demand to stop and use the restroom every 45 miles. It wasn't a bad ride at all, until the last 2 hours or so when I got really bored and started eating all of our snacks in an effort to entertain myself. (I was alone with the food in the back seat, which was maybe not the best idea.) When we finally arrived that night, about 8 hours later, we went out to dinner at a lovely bar on the beach. I had a crab cake and fries and a beer. I give that meal a 10 on the satisfaction scale.

Friday morning we slept in a little and then got up and spent some time on the beach. At the time that I was applying my sunscreen, we were planning on lying on the beach, so I took great care sunscreening my delicate alabaster skin in preparation for its first encounter of the year with the sun. At some point during my elaborate sunscreening procedure, however, the decision was made that we were merely going to be walking up and down the beach, rather than lying around. Thus, the majority of my sunscreen was rendered unnecessary when I put on shorts and a t-shirt over my bathing suit. My concern about the sun was not completely unfounded, though, since during our walk I proceeded to burn the bejeezus out of the top of my head, which was the only part of my body I had forgotten to sunscreen. So when I grow some kind of crazy scalp tumor, you'll know why.

Friday night was spent hanging out at the house of some friends of Kellie's dad. These friends live at the next house down the waterway from Kellie's dad, and they're very nice people. Last time I was down there they threw a kind of brunch party with pancakes and fruit and mimosas. This time around it was an evening affair, and there were veggies and crab dip and a fire and a sailboat we got to tour. (Their sailboat, incidentally. Not some kind of black market stolen sailboat that someone commandeered for the evening.) I got a little tipsy and had to play that game where I talk just enough not to seem antisocial but not so much that I say something embarrassing. Does anyone else worry about this stuff when they're drunk? Nope? Just me? Ok then. Moving on!

Saturday we got up and went to the Shrimp Festival, which was the whole reason for the trip. (Well that, and so Kellie and her siblings and her dad could all come together in one place for awhile. But mostly the Shrimp Festival.) For those of you that may be unaware, this is the 3rd Shrimp Festival that Kellie and I have visited together, which I believe in Florida makes us part of a Shrimp-Based Common Law Marriage or something. The Shrimp Festival has a lot of great things going for it. For one, during the weekend of Shrimp Fest, there's this bank that puts out a sign proclaiming themselves 'Shrimply the best!' which then gets a bastardized version of the Tina Turner song stuck in my head for the entire weekend. Nearly as important as that, however, is the event itself. It's a street festival with some booths set up for selling a variety of shrimp-based foods, and others where local artists sell their sculpture, paintings, and photography. There are also antiques dealers selling costume jewelry. And ice cream! This year, I enjoyed a 'shrimp twister' (lettuce, grilled shrimp, and a spicy dressing wrapped in a tortilla). I also ate fudge brownie ice cream in a leaky waffle cone. I took pictures of frolicking toddlers and people dressed as pirates. And I looked at lots of gorgeous art that made me feel brilliant and creative by association.

As if all that wasn't enough to make it a successful day, we spent Saturday night at Kellie's dad's house enjoying beer and rum and delicious grilled ribs with homemade barbecue sauce. (Basically, I spent 75% of the weekend tipsy.) Visiting Kellie's dad's house (which sits right on a gorgeous waterway) always makes me take a serious look at my life and ask myself: What can I do to end up living here?

Lovely screened-in back porch with view of the waterway.

Small dock-thing behind the house.

View from the dock as Kellie's brother fishes. It's just gorgeous, you know, no big deal.

Other questions Kellie's extremely health-conscious and athletic dad makes me ask myself: When's the last time I went to the gym? Why don't I get up at 8 am and bike 13 miles? How will I ever kick this Reese's peanut butter cup addiction? Self-consciousness aside, I always have an amazing time when we go down there. Kellie's dad, in cooperation with the state of Florida, has an uncanny ability to create the perfect combination of sunshine, nature, art, shrimp and booze to reignite my lust for life. So much so that even after I had to get up and ride another 9 hours back home on Sunday, and even after I had to return to a huge pile of work on Monday, I'm still feeling like everything is A-ok.

So... what's been going on with you?

Gratitude, Days 18 & 19: Wedding Edition!

Hey everybody! I forgot to post my gratitude again yesterday, but you know how it is when you're in a wedding: everyone gets drunk and there's an orgy and then there's no time for writing on your blog. Anyway, it may be a good thing that I didn't do it yesterday, because I'm feeling a little melancholy today and it might help me out to list 10 things that make me happy. So here we go:

1) The wedding yesterday was beautiful. The weather was the best it possibly could have been for an outdoor wedding - sunny and clear and 75 degrees.

2) The groom was so solemn and sweet and sincere when he recited his vows that I almost cried. It's comforting to know that my friend married someone that loves her so much.

3) I love meeting the friends of my friends. I always get nervous about it for some reason, but then I'm pleasantly surprised to realize that my friends have great taste in people. I had a similar experience with this whole wedding thing, meeting people's significant others and the groom's friends, and pretty much all of them were great.

4) Yesterday was the first time I've ever had my hair and makeup professionally done, and let me tell you, it's enjoyable. It's nice having someone that isn't you rub brushes all over your face and make your hair all stiff and curly and adorable. I've decided to have it done every day forever and ever. Prepare to be blown away by my constant up-do.

5) At the reception, there was crab dip and chocolate cake!

6) At one point, the DJ played several love songs in a row until I was overcome with joy and forced to go out on the dance floor to sway and turn in a circle with my friend and Maid of Honor Shelly. It was basically just as beautiful and meaningful as if we'd been dancing with boys. (The boys were there, of course, they were just hanging out at the table and watching the hot girl-on-girl action.)

7) This evening I went to a work party and Future Roommate and I got gifts to celebrate the fact that we got into school and we're going to get educated. We also got cards that every one signed. It's nice to feel loved.

8) I also got to sit and have a nice conversation with my boss about things other than work, so that was cool. I like my boss.

9) I'm watching the series premiere of Fox's new semi-animated show "Sit Down, Shut Up," and one character just said this: "I'm idealistic. I believe in doing things that are unrealistic, or have no effect. That's just who I am!" It made me laugh because just today I had a long conversation with a social worker about how we've always wanted to "help people," even though sometimes it's really frustrating working with people that need help.

10) I love being half-asleep and cuddling with a handsome young man who is also half-asleep.

Hey, I feel much better already! Happy Sunday!

Here, Let Me Make You a Hug

Would you like to hear about some girly craft project I'm doing? Oh, come on, it's not like you're doing anything else.

But first, let me ask you this: have you seen this commercial?



Isn't that just adorable? A little cheesy, yes, but it still kind of makes you feel warm inside. It also made me think, "You know, I bet I could crochet one of those little hug things."

And so that's one of the things I've been doing for the past few weeks. Allow me to share my progress with you.

First, I watched the commercial very carefully and then drew a fancy plan.

I'm a profeshnul.

THEN, I crocheted some stuff:

I've got two of these. Now what?

To be honest, this is a pretty ridiculous undertaking on my part, since I've really only been crocheting seriously for a few months. Also, usually I have a pattern to work from, a pattern which has been written by someone who knows what they're doing, and not just some nonsense I scribbled on a scrap of paper.

Anyway, I've created the front and back of the Hug Creature. Now all I've got to do is just figure out how to connect the two sides, stuff it, and give it a face and arms. I'm practically finished!

Slash Pockets: Bane of My Existence

As a woman with a relatively small waist-to-hip ratio (my waist is much smaller than my hips), shopping for pants is one of my least favorite activities, ever. As a matter of fact, whenever I go shopping for pants, I tend to end up with a skirt, or shoes, or underwear... and no pants. Within the generally dismal category of pants-shopping is the especially miserable subsection of shopping for 'nice' pants: dress pants, khakis, etc. This is why I wear the same 3 pairs of pants to work over and over again.

Shopping for dress pants is particularly terrible for 3 reasons: 1) they are always made of thin fabric, which accentuates curves that I'd really rather hide, 2) they always have a really boxy cut which utterly fails to accentuate the curves that I want to call attention to, and 3) most of them have slash pockets. AAAAUUUUUUGGGHHH SLASH POCKETS. Many of you, who may not harbor the same irrational hatred for slash pockets that I do, might not know what they are. Here is an example:

Now I'm even more pissed because I had to make this picture.

I think that the reasoning behind slash pockets is that they are meant to be less visible than the kinds of pockets you find on blue jeans, and thus present a more "clean" look. That may be true, if the person wearing the pants is a model, a tree, or a curtain rod. Unfortunately (for me), when you put slash pockets on pants and then put those pants on someone with round hips and round thighs, the fabric gets confused and pulled in too many directions, until it just gives up entirely and puckers outward.

Artist's rendering. This is by no means a 'clean' look.

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to visit my future graduate school, to meet some faculty and students and that kind of thing. I don't feel right wearing jeans for this occasion, but I also can't wear any of my 3 pairs of 'work pants,' because ever since I started losing weight, they look a little more like 'clown pants.' So as much as I hate it, I had no choice but to go shopping for new pants on Sunday night. Naturally, I went to Target, since it's the source of 90% of my current wardrobe. I went at 8pm, which gave me an hour to get in, find The Perfect Pair of Grown-Up Pants, and get out. I breezed through, right past the socks and purses and jewelry and bathing suits, picked up every pair of semi-casual nice pants I could find, and went back to try them all on. Every mother-loving pair of pants either made me look short and round, or they had slash pockets, or both. Certainly none of them imparted the level of sexy professionalism I was looking for. So, rather than blame my voluptuous hips for all this, I blamed the pants, and set them on fire.

As they smoldered quietly in the dressing room, I perused the shoe aisle to comfort myself. And the shoe aisle did not disappoint. For on the first rack I came to, I found The Perfect Pair of Not-at-All-Grown-Up Shoes. There was only one pair left, and they were my size, and they were ONLY FIVE DOLLARS.


And that, Internet, is how slash pockets ruined my life, and then really cheap shoes turned everything around. I still don't know what I'm going to wear tomorrow, but surely these shoes and a nice pair of jeans will say, "Consummate Professional" just as well as khakis and brown flats would have. Right?

Holiday Roundup

Hey there, remember me? I know posting's been a little sparse lately, but you know I love you, right? It's just that I saw so many other people on the internet writing about their Christmases and their New Year's resolutions and I started to feel intimidated because I didn't have anything to say. I got stage fright, you know how it is. You believe me, don't you?

Ok, fine, I admit it. I was partying without you. But I'm here to redeem myself with a ridiculously long post* about the holidays! Hooray!

*Although really, aren't all my posts ridiculously long?

Alright, Christmas first. I spent Christmas at my parents' house, and I've already sort of told you about this, but it's obvious you weren't listening, so I'll repeat it: good food (crab legs!), playing Spore all night, quality time with my brother, presents and things. I think the best Christmas present I got was a brand new kickass digital camera with 18x ZOOM OH MAN THE THINGS I PLAN TO ZOOM IN ON. You'll recall I requested a new camera here on my blog, thus this is proof that The Internet performs miracles. By filling my parents with the Holy Digital Spirit and working through them to enact Its will. In the name of Firefox, amen.

New Year's. The second half of my holiday was spent in Cherry Grove, SC with Lee's family. Some people raised their eyebrows at me when I said I was going to the beach for New Year's, as if I didn't know it was cold there, too, but did I mention that I got to go for free? When the trip is free, you go where you're told. (Also, did I already thank Lee's family? Thanks! They don't read this - thank God - but I'm sure they heard me anyway.) We were only there for 3 days, but it was a great time. I'm incredibly lucky that I get along so well with my significant other's family, and also that they had the entire first season of True Blood on DVD.

True Blood. I do not get HBO, but now I wish I did. I spent most of last week and this past weekend watching this show and I was totally sucked in. Lee was all, "mutter mutter romance novel grumble handsome vampires," but I think he enjoyed at least 10 minutes of the 9 hours he spent watching it with me. Confidential to Sam Trammel (pictured at right): I could be convinced to have your babies in an emergency. Call me.

2008. It was a good year. I have a lot to be thankful for. I'm 84% less crazy, I'm feeling really happy at my job, I have awesome coworkers, and I'm a year and a half into the best relationship I've ever been in. High five, 2008. You're alright.

2009. Alright y'all, let's get real. Part of the reason I've put off posting for the past couple of days is because I've felt obligated to come up with some really thoughtful, profound resolutions for the upcoming year. The funny thing is, I don't normally make too big of a deal out of the New Year. There's just something about writing your thoughts on the internet and pretending that someone is going to read them that makes you feel like you have to come up with something deep. But I'm thinking that I'm pretty happy with how I handled 2008, so I guess my main resolution for next year is to keep up the good work: try not to backslide into the crazy, keep going to the gym and being healthy, keep being kind to myself, don't beat myself up when I fail to be perfect.

The only new resolution I have I stole from a magazine. I think it was Glamour (I was reading it at the gym) that had an article about how you can make a big difference simply by making a small change and sticking with it every day. They had a woman who did pushups every day, one who wore red lipstick every day, so on and so forth. So, I think my resolution for 2009 is to approach my problems that way. If I'm unhappy with something in my life, I'm going to come up with something small that I can do consistently, rather than trying to overhaul an entire set of habits. So there's my resolution: make manageable resolutions throughout the year, rather than ambitious ones right now.

Oh, by the way: Happy January 6th!

Looks Like It's Time to Head to the Grocery Store

Today: Worked from 10 to 5:30, volunteered from 6 to 10. Would like to sleep now.

But! I owe you guys a post, and I would never let you down. So, without further ado, here's my half-assed post about how I need to go to the grocery store. (Alternate title: You Know Things Are Bad When You Can't Even Find a Midnight Snack.)

Here we see my freezer.

That chicken has been there a long time, and the vegetables possibly longer. In other words, this freezer really may as well be empty.

Furthermore, my fridge proper!

As you can see, I endorse Tostito's salsa, and I enjoy an icy cold bottle of water from time to time.

Tune in again tomorrow, when I'll be posting pictures of the area underneath my bed, and also my desk drawer. Riveting stuff.

(My mom is going to be so upset when she realizes I'm starving to death.)

Funfetti Mess

Last night, while Lee was at work, I made a funfetti cake, as part of the on-going Lee Birthday Weekend Celebration Extravaganza. I had grand visions of a two-layer cake, lovingly iced and sprinkled. Lucky for me (because it builds character), I ran into a variety of obstacles along the way.

First of all, Lee doesn't really have any "cake pans" to speak of. The best I could come up with was a big rectangular glass pyrex deal, which kind of threw my whole glorious two-layer cake idea out the window from the outset. But OK, we make do with what we have. Because I'm insane, I called my mom to make sure a glass pan would work just as well as a metal one, because all the little cartoon pans drawn on the cake mix box appeared to be made out of metal. She assured me that this was ok.

Also, Lee doesn't have an electric mixer, or even a whisk, so I had to make do with a wooden spoon. I stirred and stirred and stirred and stirred. There were many lumps in the cake batter. I called Lee. "If your cake is lumpy, it is because you don't own a whisk and you are useless. Thanks for ruining everything." He suggested that I use a fork. He thinks he's so smart.

The fork took care of most of the lumps, so I was riding pretty high on my success-in-the-face-of-adversity when I joyfully poured the batter in the pan. Hm. Something seemed wrong. I think... I forgot to oil the pan. Alright, don't panic. (I told myself.) Thinking fast, I took the spoon and shoved all the batter to one side of the pan. Of course, Lee didn't have any cooking spray or anything, so I took out some vegetable oil and kind of... drizzled it into the pan. OK, no problem. Shove all the batter to the other side, and it appears to be... sitting in a puddle of vegetable oil. That's not quite what I intended, but alright, soldier on. I did the other side, spread all the batter out, tried to ignore the 1/2 inch fringe of vegetable oil floating around the edges, and apprehensively placed the pan in the oven.

I licked the spoon (and possibly the bowl) to calm my fears while it cooked.

When the timer went off, I went to check on it and - By God! - that cake looked beautiful. It was golden brown, and it sure as damn wasn't sticking to anything, I'll tell you that much. I let it cool for a bit while I contemplated my next move. Things were going so well, I thought maybe I could have a layer cake after all. I mean, what is a rectangle, if not 2 squares? I could cut the rectangular cake in half, stack the two squares, ice it, and no one would know the difference. (Foreshadowing!)

So, I did that and... well... one of the things that makes cakes so easy to frost is the fact that they have that golden brown skin on the outside of them. Once you cut the cake in half, like I did, you sort of lose that advantage. The frosting wasn't sticking in a lot of places, and there were cake chunks all mixed in with the icing and it was just... not a pretty sight exactly. But, what the hell. I threw some sprinkles on it and called it a day. It's not like somebody makes a cake for Lee every day, maybe he wouldn't notice.

The end result. (Half-eaten, which indicates that it tastes much better than it looks.)

Also, here's a bonus photo of the sweet jack o' lantern that I carved last week.

My Body is a Wonderland

When I was young, my parents purchased some helpful reference books from some traveling encyclopedia salesman. One of these was a big book of medical facts - symptoms, treatments, etc. The BEST part about this book was the large appendix in the back that had flowchart after flowchart, to better enable those of us at home to indulge in hypochondriac hysteria. I loved these flowcharts. Anytime anything even remotely unusual happened with my body, I would haul out the Big Medical Book and diagnose myself with some terrible disease, often cancer. Then I would go to my parents and explain to them that I had cancer, and desperately needed to see a doctor immediately. This went on until my parents disappeared the Big Medical Book, and my flowcharting was put to an end. This was, of course, long before I knew that the internet could help me to diagnose myself with cancer in half the time, and with snazzier graphics.

These days, I am just as much of a hypochondriac, but with the charming twist that I refuse to go to the doctor. I don't really want the attention of a doctor, because that requires time and money and sitting in God-forsaken waiting rooms and extremely boring examining rooms for hours and hours. No, I want the attention of my friends and family, who I can reach with a simple phone call. Over the past year, this has led to a lot of conversations between Lee and I that go something like this...

J: "My armpits really itch."
L: "Still? Haven't they been itching for, like, a month now?"
J: "Yeah... maybe it's some kind of infection."
L: "Maybe you should go to the doctor."
J: "No, I don't think so."

Lee has become so accustomed to this that now the conversation is truncated: "My armpits itch." "Well, I'd tell you to go to the doctor, but we both know that you won't, so I guess you'll just have to deal with it." This kind of conversation, by the way, is much less gratifying than the kind where people love you and feel sorry for you. Mine is a very difficult life.

Sadly, the "itchy armpits" symptom that I mentioned above is not something that I made up for comedic effect, but is rather an actual problem that I've been coping with for some time. Lee thought this was kind of funny, and suggested that maybe I had athlete's foot in my armpit, and that I should go to the doctor since, after all, it had been bothering me for a couple of months. I suggested that maybe if we continued to ignore it, it would go away. After I had spent a lot of time ignoring the itchy armpits, some kind of weird lump showed up on my left wrist. Since I could still move my hand, I deduced that my wrist was not broken, and that this was a condition that could also be ignored, thank goodness. But then a coworker told me that a friend of hers had had a similar lump on her jawline, and that turned out to be cancer. Now that I am older, cancer seems far less glamorous than it did in the old flowchart days, so a few weeks ago I decided to shut up and go to the doctor.

Before I tell you about my doctor's visit, though, I want you to look at this gross wrist lump. Because I just want you to appreciate what I'm dealing with over here.




Ok, so through the magic of the written word, I'll skip the waiting around nonsense and just tell you what the doctor told me. (Man, aren't you lucky!) The thing on my wrist, according to a professional, is a ganglion cyst. It's completely non-threatening and non-cancery, and not a problem, except it kinda hurts when I do push-ups. So, once a year, I have to worry about that. If I want, I can have it drained or something, but I can also leave it alone. Choices! I'm thinking that with the phrase "have it drained," this post just crossed into grossness, but maybe that already happened back when I posted those pictures. Anyway, the official reason for the picture is to tell you that I was not shocked at all by this diagnosis, because I had already figured it out myself, through the magic of google. Here, go look at this wikipedia page and tell me that my picture doesn't represent a textbook ganglion cyst. (Or, you know, don't go look, if you're already grossed out enough.)

What's that you say? What about my itchy armpits?? Well, I'll tell you!

The doctor said that it looked like I had what's called "a fungal situation." (Doctor-speak, what can you do.) He told me that he could prescribe me some cream to put on it, or that I could just go to Wal-Mart and get some of this:



You know what that stuff is generally used for, right? ATHLETE'S FOOT. So, yes, I have athlete's foot in my armpits.... or, more accurately, I have athlete's armpit. Which is doubly funny when you consider the fact that none of my body parts are particularly athletic, least of all my armpit. But I'm guessing that my armpit decided after several months of a gym membership that it would just go ahead and BE ATHLETIC, DAMMIT, and then maybe the rest of my body parts would jump on board. But now I'm no less a spaz, I'm just a spaz with itchy armpits. Thanks, armpits. Really, that was swell of you.

Anyway, the point (well, one of the points) of this 90-page post is to tell you that ha! I don't need to go to the doctor ever again! I spent an hour and a $15 copay to find out what google and my boyfriend had already told me for FREE. So take that, healthcare system! You just can't beat a girl that mastered flowcharts before the age of 10.