Thursday, August 31, 2006
Take that, Netflix
Can I just tell you how awesome this guy is? Last night, he mentioned that he'd seen both Season 5 of Gilmore Girls and Season 1 of Veronica Mars on sale for $20, causing me to launch into a bitter diatribe about Netflix denying me the DVDs I had requested. So what did Reuben do as soon as he'd returned from purchasing the aforementioned on-sale Season 1 of Veronica Mars? Promptly lent it to me, before he'd even taken the plastic off. Reuben, you rock. And now that I probably won't have to exceed the magic number of DVD rentals in September, perhaps Netflix and I can begin to mend our rocky relationship.
Can I just tell you how awesome this guy is? Last night, he mentioned that he'd seen both Season 5 of Gilmore Girls and Season 1 of Veronica Mars on sale for $20, causing me to launch into a bitter diatribe about Netflix denying me the DVDs I had requested. So what did Reuben do as soon as he'd returned from purchasing the aforementioned on-sale Season 1 of Veronica Mars? Promptly lent it to me, before he'd even taken the plastic off. Reuben, you rock. And now that I probably won't have to exceed the magic number of DVD rentals in September, perhaps Netflix and I can begin to mend our rocky relationship.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
What part of "fifteen minutes" do you people not understand?
Given my feud with Netflix, I was hurting for entertainment last night. So during a rerun of Gilmore Girls I had already seen, I flipped over to FOX for Celebrity Duets, a train wreck of a spectacle in which washed-up has-been celebrities (such as Carlton Banks and Xena the Warrior Princess, who as much as I try to I cannot think of as "Alfonso Ribero" and "Lucy Lawless," which may be part of their problem) sing crappy songs with washed-up has-been musical artists (Michael Bolton, Michelle from Destiny's Child), then get judged by other washed-up has-been celebrities and musical artists (Marie Osmond and Little Richard, the latter of whom appears to be giving Paula Abdul some real competition for the title of Most Incoherent Reality-Show Judge).
It's the latest offering in the "let's take a former celebrity and make them do something that's completely outside their range of talent" genre that seems to be all the rage these days in reality programming. For me, this type of show illustrates one thing: There's a reason why people are only supposed to get fifteen minutes of fame. I mean, I'm pretty sure I could have gone my whole life not knowing what a horrible singer Carly Patterson is and been just fine. So listen up, washed-up has-been celebrities: Either pull a Teri Hatcher and languish in the obscurity of Radio Shack commercials while you're waiting for your next big break, or make like Gary Coleman and get a normal-person job. Just please, for the love of God, stop polluting my television with your attempts to sing/cook/lose weight/ballroom dance. (Yeah, I can't believe I just advised people to emulate Gary Coleman, either. I guess that's a true testament to the effect Carly Patterson's off-pitch vocals can have on a person.)
Given my feud with Netflix, I was hurting for entertainment last night. So during a rerun of Gilmore Girls I had already seen, I flipped over to FOX for Celebrity Duets, a train wreck of a spectacle in which washed-up has-been celebrities (such as Carlton Banks and Xena the Warrior Princess, who as much as I try to I cannot think of as "Alfonso Ribero" and "Lucy Lawless," which may be part of their problem) sing crappy songs with washed-up has-been musical artists (Michael Bolton, Michelle from Destiny's Child), then get judged by other washed-up has-been celebrities and musical artists (Marie Osmond and Little Richard, the latter of whom appears to be giving Paula Abdul some real competition for the title of Most Incoherent Reality-Show Judge).
It's the latest offering in the "let's take a former celebrity and make them do something that's completely outside their range of talent" genre that seems to be all the rage these days in reality programming. For me, this type of show illustrates one thing: There's a reason why people are only supposed to get fifteen minutes of fame. I mean, I'm pretty sure I could have gone my whole life not knowing what a horrible singer Carly Patterson is and been just fine. So listen up, washed-up has-been celebrities: Either pull a Teri Hatcher and languish in the obscurity of Radio Shack commercials while you're waiting for your next big break, or make like Gary Coleman and get a normal-person job. Just please, for the love of God, stop polluting my television with your attempts to sing/cook/lose weight/ballroom dance. (Yeah, I can't believe I just advised people to emulate Gary Coleman, either. I guess that's a true testament to the effect Carly Patterson's off-pitch vocals can have on a person.)
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
We used to be friends
I'm talking about you and me, here, Netflix. What happened? Did you learn about my working of the system oh so many months ago, and you're just now exacting your revenge? Don't you think it's a little late for these childish tactics? I'm living by the rules now, paying you $15 a month for the privelege of watching Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars uninterrupted, and this is how you repay me? By suddenly cutting me off from Lorelai and Rory in the middle of Season 5, just when I'd managed to craft the perfect schedule for getting in the rest of the season by the end of this month? I mean, do you really expect me to believe that there's suddenly been a rush on Disc 4 of a season that aired two years ago? I suppose you know deep down that I'm not buying it, and that's why you sent your girl Veronica Mars in to distract me with her awesome snarkiness and her adorable tough-cookie-ness and her Dandy Warhols theme song that gets stuck in my head. Well, good job there, Netflix, but I won't forget that easily. Especially when you tell me that my next Mars fix won't be here until Friday. It's Tuesday. And let's not even talk about the fact that I mailed a disc back on Saturday, meaning I technically should have a little red envelope waiting for me when I get home this evening. If that's the way you want to play it, then FINE. We are so in a fight.
I'm talking about you and me, here, Netflix. What happened? Did you learn about my working of the system oh so many months ago, and you're just now exacting your revenge? Don't you think it's a little late for these childish tactics? I'm living by the rules now, paying you $15 a month for the privelege of watching Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars uninterrupted, and this is how you repay me? By suddenly cutting me off from Lorelai and Rory in the middle of Season 5, just when I'd managed to craft the perfect schedule for getting in the rest of the season by the end of this month? I mean, do you really expect me to believe that there's suddenly been a rush on Disc 4 of a season that aired two years ago? I suppose you know deep down that I'm not buying it, and that's why you sent your girl Veronica Mars in to distract me with her awesome snarkiness and her adorable tough-cookie-ness and her Dandy Warhols theme song that gets stuck in my head. Well, good job there, Netflix, but I won't forget that easily. Especially when you tell me that my next Mars fix won't be here until Friday. It's Tuesday. And let's not even talk about the fact that I mailed a disc back on Saturday, meaning I technically should have a little red envelope waiting for me when I get home this evening. If that's the way you want to play it, then FINE. We are so in a fight.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Beauty and the beast
Well, my evening of beauty on Saturday was cut short by a little ugliness. I was standing at my dining table, putting my picture frame together, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scurry across the floor. Thinking it must be a roach, I got my flashlight out of the drawer, prepared to smoke it out (or shine it out, as it were) from its hiding place for a date with the bottom of my flip-flop.
I deduced that it must have headed for the safety of the couch, so I swiftly pushed it back from the wall and shined the flashlight into the cavity. And that's when I saw it, sticking out from the edge of the couch: the back half of a furry body, tapering off into a long tail. A mouse. Or perhaps a rat. I didn't really care to get close enough to make such a fine distinction. Instead, I did what any independent, self-sufficient woman living alone would do in such a situation: I jumped onto the coffee table, called the nearest male I could think of (in this case, my friend Todd) and proceeded to scream hysterically into the phone.
Todd was able to calm me down enough to convince me to get down off the coffee table and head to CVS to buy a mousetrap, which he offered to come and help me set up. (I gladly accepted this offer because, even though I probably could have figured it out on my own, I wasn't about to go near the back of the couch again.) Somewhere during this excursion, I decided to name the rat George (after the other big rat in Washington...ba dum ching!), as naming household vermin sometimes helps me be less freaked out by them. (It does not, however, give me any compunction in killing them, as per the rules of engagement, so there goes the theory that telling a murderer your name will somehow prevent you from being murdered.)
By the time Todd arrived to set up the traps, I had not seen George again, but I attributed that to the fact that I was unwilling to get within five feet of the couch. I had Todd check under the couch and in various corners for signs of George, but he did not see him. He also thought that the fact that I hadn't noticed any droppings or evidence of food tampering meant that perhaps George was just a temporary visitor. But really, I don't know where he could have gone. Although Todd explained to me how a mouse's bone structure allows it to fit through tiny cracks in walls and on baseboards (a fact that boys apparently have some innate knowledge of), if George is half as big as I remember him being, I'm not sure how that's possible. Then again, it's quite probable that I've greatly exaggerated his size in my memory. Or that I just hallucinated him to begin with. Which could mean I'm crazy, but at this point, I'd almost rather be insane than be sharing my home with a mouse/rat.
Well, my evening of beauty on Saturday was cut short by a little ugliness. I was standing at my dining table, putting my picture frame together, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scurry across the floor. Thinking it must be a roach, I got my flashlight out of the drawer, prepared to smoke it out (or shine it out, as it were) from its hiding place for a date with the bottom of my flip-flop.
I deduced that it must have headed for the safety of the couch, so I swiftly pushed it back from the wall and shined the flashlight into the cavity. And that's when I saw it, sticking out from the edge of the couch: the back half of a furry body, tapering off into a long tail. A mouse. Or perhaps a rat. I didn't really care to get close enough to make such a fine distinction. Instead, I did what any independent, self-sufficient woman living alone would do in such a situation: I jumped onto the coffee table, called the nearest male I could think of (in this case, my friend Todd) and proceeded to scream hysterically into the phone.
Todd was able to calm me down enough to convince me to get down off the coffee table and head to CVS to buy a mousetrap, which he offered to come and help me set up. (I gladly accepted this offer because, even though I probably could have figured it out on my own, I wasn't about to go near the back of the couch again.) Somewhere during this excursion, I decided to name the rat George (after the other big rat in Washington...ba dum ching!), as naming household vermin sometimes helps me be less freaked out by them. (It does not, however, give me any compunction in killing them, as per the rules of engagement, so there goes the theory that telling a murderer your name will somehow prevent you from being murdered.)
By the time Todd arrived to set up the traps, I had not seen George again, but I attributed that to the fact that I was unwilling to get within five feet of the couch. I had Todd check under the couch and in various corners for signs of George, but he did not see him. He also thought that the fact that I hadn't noticed any droppings or evidence of food tampering meant that perhaps George was just a temporary visitor. But really, I don't know where he could have gone. Although Todd explained to me how a mouse's bone structure allows it to fit through tiny cracks in walls and on baseboards (a fact that boys apparently have some innate knowledge of), if George is half as big as I remember him being, I'm not sure how that's possible. Then again, it's quite probable that I've greatly exaggerated his size in my memory. Or that I just hallucinated him to begin with. Which could mean I'm crazy, but at this point, I'd almost rather be insane than be sharing my home with a mouse/rat.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Cheap dogs and beauty booty
This afternoon, Autumn and I made a trek out to IKEA to buy some stuff for our new apartments. (OK, so my apartment isn't nearly as new as hers is, but embarrassingly, she's not too far behind me in the race to unpack.) I was very good, and restricted my purchases only to the things I desperately needed, like a table lamp base to replace the one that broke while I was moving, and a frame for the poster of Monmartre that Jeff bought me for Christmas, which has been sitting in its tube ever since. I carefully budgeted my cash so that I'd have just enough left over to buy a hot dog from the snack bar on the way out. However, they didn't have the watering can I wanted, so I could afford the full meal deal: two hot dogs, chips and a drink. I'm beginning to think the best part about IKEA is the hot dogs. Oh, sure, they're nothing to write home about, taste-wise, but they're only 50 cents. Fifty cents! How anyone can leave that place (especially after a couple hours of hunger-inducing shopping) without a hot dog in the belly is beyond me. (OK, maybe not at 10 a.m. But that's when you go for the delicious $1 fro yo.)
Throughout the day, Autumn plied me with samples left over from an article she'd written on local cosmetics stores. The loot included three addiction-feeding tubes of MAC lip gloss, some shampoo that smells vaguely like Mexican food (it contains lime and sea salt, so that's probably inevitable) but is supposed to be amazing for your hair, plus various other trial-sized lotions and potions. And so now I am going to spend the rest of my Saturday evening beautifying both myself and my apartment. Considering that I didn't wake up until noon today and committed a rare caffiene indulgence with Wild Cherry Pepsi at the IKEA food court, it's safe to say that I could be beautifying into the wee hours of the morning.
This afternoon, Autumn and I made a trek out to IKEA to buy some stuff for our new apartments. (OK, so my apartment isn't nearly as new as hers is, but embarrassingly, she's not too far behind me in the race to unpack.) I was very good, and restricted my purchases only to the things I desperately needed, like a table lamp base to replace the one that broke while I was moving, and a frame for the poster of Monmartre that Jeff bought me for Christmas, which has been sitting in its tube ever since. I carefully budgeted my cash so that I'd have just enough left over to buy a hot dog from the snack bar on the way out. However, they didn't have the watering can I wanted, so I could afford the full meal deal: two hot dogs, chips and a drink. I'm beginning to think the best part about IKEA is the hot dogs. Oh, sure, they're nothing to write home about, taste-wise, but they're only 50 cents. Fifty cents! How anyone can leave that place (especially after a couple hours of hunger-inducing shopping) without a hot dog in the belly is beyond me. (OK, maybe not at 10 a.m. But that's when you go for the delicious $1 fro yo.)
Throughout the day, Autumn plied me with samples left over from an article she'd written on local cosmetics stores. The loot included three addiction-feeding tubes of MAC lip gloss, some shampoo that smells vaguely like Mexican food (it contains lime and sea salt, so that's probably inevitable) but is supposed to be amazing for your hair, plus various other trial-sized lotions and potions. And so now I am going to spend the rest of my Saturday evening beautifying both myself and my apartment. Considering that I didn't wake up until noon today and committed a rare caffiene indulgence with Wild Cherry Pepsi at the IKEA food court, it's safe to say that I could be beautifying into the wee hours of the morning.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Make me whole
I'm so easily seduced by the aura of Whole Foods. It's just so nice and clean and full of exciting new things all in pretty packages. Just walking into that store makes me feel prettier and healthier and...well, more wholesome. In an effort to save money, I try to keep myself from shopping there on a regular basis, but I have a feeling this could become more difficult after this evening, when I discovered that the items I purchased were at prices comparable to what I would pay at my usual grocery store. Mangoes were on sale for 99 cents (the mango selection at my grocery store here is crap, so I have no idea what the comparison is, but that's how much they used to cost at Publix) (sniff, Publix), and Puffins (I've taken a short hiatus from the granola) were actually $1.50 less than they are at my other store.
I guess it's probably a good thing that the store isn't located closer to my apartment. It's only a couple of miles away, though, so I generally like to ride my bike there, just so I can really get the full Whole Foods feel-good experience. Although I guess if I were getting the real experience, I'd arrive not sweaty and disheveled in gross clothes and with helmet hair, but fresh as a daisy in some impossibly expensive but elegantly casual cotton skirt, and my bike would not be some cheap thing I picked up on Craigslist, but rather an authentic vintage Italian cruiser with a wicker basket, into which I would place my organic vegetables and herbs and perfect, crusty loaf of bread before riding off into the countryside to prepare a healthy yet delicious gourmet feast.
Ah well, at least I've got a bike. I had to ask for a plastic bag at the check-out so it would ride well on my handlebars, but I felt like such a poser doing so. I at least felt a little better when I was walking back out to my bike and I saw a girl pull into the parking lot in her huge-ass Land Rover. Talk about a poser. But maybe she got paper bags to make up for her not-so-environmentally friendly choice of transportation.
I'm so easily seduced by the aura of Whole Foods. It's just so nice and clean and full of exciting new things all in pretty packages. Just walking into that store makes me feel prettier and healthier and...well, more wholesome. In an effort to save money, I try to keep myself from shopping there on a regular basis, but I have a feeling this could become more difficult after this evening, when I discovered that the items I purchased were at prices comparable to what I would pay at my usual grocery store. Mangoes were on sale for 99 cents (the mango selection at my grocery store here is crap, so I have no idea what the comparison is, but that's how much they used to cost at Publix) (sniff, Publix), and Puffins (I've taken a short hiatus from the granola) were actually $1.50 less than they are at my other store.
I guess it's probably a good thing that the store isn't located closer to my apartment. It's only a couple of miles away, though, so I generally like to ride my bike there, just so I can really get the full Whole Foods feel-good experience. Although I guess if I were getting the real experience, I'd arrive not sweaty and disheveled in gross clothes and with helmet hair, but fresh as a daisy in some impossibly expensive but elegantly casual cotton skirt, and my bike would not be some cheap thing I picked up on Craigslist, but rather an authentic vintage Italian cruiser with a wicker basket, into which I would place my organic vegetables and herbs and perfect, crusty loaf of bread before riding off into the countryside to prepare a healthy yet delicious gourmet feast.
Ah well, at least I've got a bike. I had to ask for a plastic bag at the check-out so it would ride well on my handlebars, but I felt like such a poser doing so. I at least felt a little better when I was walking back out to my bike and I saw a girl pull into the parking lot in her huge-ass Land Rover. Talk about a poser. But maybe she got paper bags to make up for her not-so-environmentally friendly choice of transportation.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
My fall lineup
Just in case you're not already aware of how big a dork I actually am, let me just throw this out there: I just spent several minutes entering the premiere dates and times for my favorite TV shows into my computer's calendar. Not only that, but I set little reminder messages for each one, just in case I should accidentally forget to glance at the calendar once premiere season draws nigh. Because, you know, if I should accidentally miss the premiere of Lost, the world will likely stop spinning on its axis. (No, I'm serious. It could. But it probably won't, if only because October 4 at 9 p.m. is already etched onto my brain.)
Putting my extreme dorkitude aside for a moment (or possibly shining the light on it even brighter, depending on how you want to look at it), it looks as if this TV year is shaping up quite nicely. Of course, there's always the possibility of sudden cancellations, intriguing mid-season replacements and time-slot tangoes to throw it all to hell, but right now, it's gelling in a most pleasing manner. Let's have a look:
Sunday: The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives. Honestly, I'm pretty much over both of these shows. But what the hell else am I going to do on Sunday nights?
Monday: How I Met Your Mother. Again this year, with the exception of this little 30-minute gem, Mondays are pretty much devoid of quality entertainment. I blame this in part on the puzzling recussitation of The Bane of Doug's Existence, otherwise known as 7th Heaven. Any hope I held that the J.J. Abrams-helmed Life With Brian would catapult Monday out of this lameness was immediately dashed by, well, the lameness of Life With Brian. But is it too late to hope that it could have a sophomore-season surge, a la fellow mid-season replacements The Office and Grey's Anatomy? Boredom just might compel me to find out.
Tuesday: Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars. Someone made the brilliant choice to schedule my two newest obsessions (well, technically, Veronica Mars is not an obsession proper yet, as I'm still working my way through the G-Girls) back to back, and I love them for it. Although I joined the Gilmore Girls party waaaay too late (the show's original creators have stepped down, and this is likely the final season), I'm still looking forward to a full night of wit and snark.
Wednesday: America's Next Top Model and Lost. What can I say? Two completely different kinds of awesomeness, back to back. Wednesdays were my favorite TV nights last year, and I'm guessing that will be the case again, but they'll have some competition from...
Thursday: The Office and Grey's Anatomy. Again, two totally different kinds of awesome, although the differences here are just a tad bit more subtle. Both of these shows have the ability to make me laugh and cry within the span of one episode. That's potentially a lot of laughing and crying in one night, which could be good or bad. We'll see how it goes.
Just in case you're not already aware of how big a dork I actually am, let me just throw this out there: I just spent several minutes entering the premiere dates and times for my favorite TV shows into my computer's calendar. Not only that, but I set little reminder messages for each one, just in case I should accidentally forget to glance at the calendar once premiere season draws nigh. Because, you know, if I should accidentally miss the premiere of Lost, the world will likely stop spinning on its axis. (No, I'm serious. It could. But it probably won't, if only because October 4 at 9 p.m. is already etched onto my brain.)
Putting my extreme dorkitude aside for a moment (or possibly shining the light on it even brighter, depending on how you want to look at it), it looks as if this TV year is shaping up quite nicely. Of course, there's always the possibility of sudden cancellations, intriguing mid-season replacements and time-slot tangoes to throw it all to hell, but right now, it's gelling in a most pleasing manner. Let's have a look:
Sunday: The Amazing Race and Desperate Housewives. Honestly, I'm pretty much over both of these shows. But what the hell else am I going to do on Sunday nights?
Monday: How I Met Your Mother. Again this year, with the exception of this little 30-minute gem, Mondays are pretty much devoid of quality entertainment. I blame this in part on the puzzling recussitation of The Bane of Doug's Existence, otherwise known as 7th Heaven. Any hope I held that the J.J. Abrams-helmed Life With Brian would catapult Monday out of this lameness was immediately dashed by, well, the lameness of Life With Brian. But is it too late to hope that it could have a sophomore-season surge, a la fellow mid-season replacements The Office and Grey's Anatomy? Boredom just might compel me to find out.
Tuesday: Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars. Someone made the brilliant choice to schedule my two newest obsessions (well, technically, Veronica Mars is not an obsession proper yet, as I'm still working my way through the G-Girls) back to back, and I love them for it. Although I joined the Gilmore Girls party waaaay too late (the show's original creators have stepped down, and this is likely the final season), I'm still looking forward to a full night of wit and snark.
Wednesday: America's Next Top Model and Lost. What can I say? Two completely different kinds of awesomeness, back to back. Wednesdays were my favorite TV nights last year, and I'm guessing that will be the case again, but they'll have some competition from...
Thursday: The Office and Grey's Anatomy. Again, two totally different kinds of awesome, although the differences here are just a tad bit more subtle. Both of these shows have the ability to make me laugh and cry within the span of one episode. That's potentially a lot of laughing and crying in one night, which could be good or bad. We'll see how it goes.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Some stuff
-Yesterday I fell of my bike while waiting at an intersection in what was quite possibly the stupidest maneuver ever. One second I was standing there, perfectly vertical, and the next? Totally horizontal, sprawled out on the sidewalk. I can only imagine what it must have looked like to random passers-by. If only someone had had a video camera, I dare say I'd be raking in the big bucks from America's Funniest Home Videos right now. (Or maybe not. How much money do they give away, anyway? It can't be that much, if they're still on the air.)
-I've been watching too much Gilmore Girls again. Lately, I've picked up the habit of wanting to use the Girls' trademark coy rebuff of "Dirty!" at every conceivable opportunity. Like when I read this conversation between Doug and his mom. Or when I saw that the sermon at the church service I attended yesterday was entitled "Eating Christ." Although you have to admit that the latter was kind of asking for it. (What? It's not like I said it out loud in the middle of church. I just thought it. Which is still probably enough to send me straight to hell. Damn you, Gilmore Girls!)
-I'm so happy about not being sick anymore that I can barely sit still. The fact that it was 67 degrees and freaking gorgeous outside this morning is not helping matters much.
-I really like the word "phantasmagoria." I was flipping through the dictionary earlier and came across it. It's awesome. That's all.
-Yesterday I fell of my bike while waiting at an intersection in what was quite possibly the stupidest maneuver ever. One second I was standing there, perfectly vertical, and the next? Totally horizontal, sprawled out on the sidewalk. I can only imagine what it must have looked like to random passers-by. If only someone had had a video camera, I dare say I'd be raking in the big bucks from America's Funniest Home Videos right now. (Or maybe not. How much money do they give away, anyway? It can't be that much, if they're still on the air.)
-I've been watching too much Gilmore Girls again. Lately, I've picked up the habit of wanting to use the Girls' trademark coy rebuff of "Dirty!" at every conceivable opportunity. Like when I read this conversation between Doug and his mom. Or when I saw that the sermon at the church service I attended yesterday was entitled "Eating Christ." Although you have to admit that the latter was kind of asking for it. (What? It's not like I said it out loud in the middle of church. I just thought it. Which is still probably enough to send me straight to hell. Damn you, Gilmore Girls!)
-I'm so happy about not being sick anymore that I can barely sit still. The fact that it was 67 degrees and freaking gorgeous outside this morning is not helping matters much.
-I really like the word "phantasmagoria." I was flipping through the dictionary earlier and came across it. It's awesome. That's all.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Doctor, doctor, give me the news...
I'm not sure exactly what I've done to provoke it, but my body has officially declared war on me. It's like I'm Hezbollah and my body is Israel. Or the other way around. Whatever. The point is, it's not pretty. First there was the possible ear infection that turned out to be probable TMJ. After I'd managed to nurse myself back to health from that incident, bam! I get hit with a nasty cold. After the cold augmented into a possible case of pinkeye yesterday, I decided it was definitely time for a UN cease-fire resolution. Or, to drop this oh-so-timely metaphor, I decided to go to the doctor.
Except for a few visits to the Student Death Center in college, I haven't been to the doctor for an illness-related visit since I was in, or at least very close to, the single digits. Some things have changed since my last visit. Namely, the doctor I saw today was approximately the same age as me. That almost never happened when I was a kid. (OK, fine, it never did happen, no matter how much I wished Doogie Howser were my doctor.) I guess it's not inconceivable for someone approximating my age to have completed medical school and be set up in private practice, but it didn't instill me with a whole lot of faith. There was a medical degree on the wall, though, so I'm sure it's fine. Those things are pretty hard to fake. Right?
The medical history form that I had to fill out was also a lot more detailed than I remember. Granted, my parents handled that when I was a kid, so I guess I never really gave it much thought back then, but I've filled out a few for routine check-ups since then, and I don't remember there being such strange and personal questions. Like, why do they need to know my sexual orientation? Or, even stranger, my religious beliefs? Is that so they can make sure I'm not Jewish before they prescribe an intensive dose of bacon-eating? Or do they want to make sure I'm not an atheist so they feel OK praying for me in my sorry state? I don't get it.
The newest advance by far was that the doctor entered the exam room with a laptop in tow and proceeded to consult it during the visit. Given his age, I was initially convinced that he was having to Google my symptoms to figure out what was wrong with me. But I soon figured out that it was just taking the place of the notepad that doctors in the old days used to scribble on. Not only that, he used it to send a prescription to my pharmacy, which was ready for me to pick up by the time my boss forced me to go home for the day. Pretty nifty! Now if only the drugs could work that quickly...
I'm not sure exactly what I've done to provoke it, but my body has officially declared war on me. It's like I'm Hezbollah and my body is Israel. Or the other way around. Whatever. The point is, it's not pretty. First there was the possible ear infection that turned out to be probable TMJ. After I'd managed to nurse myself back to health from that incident, bam! I get hit with a nasty cold. After the cold augmented into a possible case of pinkeye yesterday, I decided it was definitely time for a UN cease-fire resolution. Or, to drop this oh-so-timely metaphor, I decided to go to the doctor.
Except for a few visits to the Student Death Center in college, I haven't been to the doctor for an illness-related visit since I was in, or at least very close to, the single digits. Some things have changed since my last visit. Namely, the doctor I saw today was approximately the same age as me. That almost never happened when I was a kid. (OK, fine, it never did happen, no matter how much I wished Doogie Howser were my doctor.) I guess it's not inconceivable for someone approximating my age to have completed medical school and be set up in private practice, but it didn't instill me with a whole lot of faith. There was a medical degree on the wall, though, so I'm sure it's fine. Those things are pretty hard to fake. Right?
The medical history form that I had to fill out was also a lot more detailed than I remember. Granted, my parents handled that when I was a kid, so I guess I never really gave it much thought back then, but I've filled out a few for routine check-ups since then, and I don't remember there being such strange and personal questions. Like, why do they need to know my sexual orientation? Or, even stranger, my religious beliefs? Is that so they can make sure I'm not Jewish before they prescribe an intensive dose of bacon-eating? Or do they want to make sure I'm not an atheist so they feel OK praying for me in my sorry state? I don't get it.
The newest advance by far was that the doctor entered the exam room with a laptop in tow and proceeded to consult it during the visit. Given his age, I was initially convinced that he was having to Google my symptoms to figure out what was wrong with me. But I soon figured out that it was just taking the place of the notepad that doctors in the old days used to scribble on. Not only that, he used it to send a prescription to my pharmacy, which was ready for me to pick up by the time my boss forced me to go home for the day. Pretty nifty! Now if only the drugs could work that quickly...
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Gee, I can't wait to be pregnant
Sometimes it's as if I already am, with the random and intense food cravings I get sometimes. A few weekends ago, it was gummi bears. Walking through the mall to the Metro, I saw a couple of gummi bears littered on the ground, and suddenly I couldn't get them out of my mind. (Yes, I realize how weird it is that seeing gummi bears sitting on the dirty, nasty floor would make me want to eat them. But in my defense, I craved clean, fresh-out-of-the-bag gummi bears, not dirty-floor gummi bears.)
Today, it was Five Guys, known to some as the makers of the best burger this side of Booche's. The thought of eating anything else for lunch made me physically ill. I must say, I felt pretty damn good tearing through that yummy, yummy cheeseburger. I felt not quite as good as I devoured most of the extra fries the guy threw in my bag, mostly because they'd gotten kind of cold and soggy at that point. And now? Well, now I feel like crap. Which leads me to believe that I wouldn't be very good at that whole pregnancy thing. If this is how poorly I handle food cravings, I have to think I'd be hopeless when it comes to fluctuating hormones, morning sickness, labor, and all of the much-harder stuff that goes along with pregnancy. Count me out for now.
Sometimes it's as if I already am, with the random and intense food cravings I get sometimes. A few weekends ago, it was gummi bears. Walking through the mall to the Metro, I saw a couple of gummi bears littered on the ground, and suddenly I couldn't get them out of my mind. (Yes, I realize how weird it is that seeing gummi bears sitting on the dirty, nasty floor would make me want to eat them. But in my defense, I craved clean, fresh-out-of-the-bag gummi bears, not dirty-floor gummi bears.)
Today, it was Five Guys, known to some as the makers of the best burger this side of Booche's. The thought of eating anything else for lunch made me physically ill. I must say, I felt pretty damn good tearing through that yummy, yummy cheeseburger. I felt not quite as good as I devoured most of the extra fries the guy threw in my bag, mostly because they'd gotten kind of cold and soggy at that point. And now? Well, now I feel like crap. Which leads me to believe that I wouldn't be very good at that whole pregnancy thing. If this is how poorly I handle food cravings, I have to think I'd be hopeless when it comes to fluctuating hormones, morning sickness, labor, and all of the much-harder stuff that goes along with pregnancy. Count me out for now.
Monday, August 14, 2006
The doctor is in
There's no better cure for sudden angst than watching fuzzy episodes of My So-Called Life on YouTube. Now I just wish I could find a cure for the common cold. I suppose the NyQuil and Ricola cough drops combo will have to suffice for now...
There's no better cure for sudden angst than watching fuzzy episodes of My So-Called Life on YouTube. Now I just wish I could find a cure for the common cold. I suppose the NyQuil and Ricola cough drops combo will have to suffice for now...
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Things I love at the moment
-John Steinbeck. Right now I'm reading Travels With Charley, his travelogue about driving across America with his standard poodle. Let me just say, John Steinbeck writing about travel? It doesn't get much better than that, at least not in my universe.
-Vegetarian Times. A while ago, I thought to myself: Wow, I love both goat cheese and cilantro so much that if I were ever to find a recipe that incorporated goat cheese and cilantro, I might never eat anything else. That recipe is in VT's September issue. I'm making it next week, and possibly for the rest of my life.
-The little nip in the air. On Monday and Tuesday it was still just wishful thinking, but yesterday and today it was truly there. It seems as if my weather-channeling plan actually worked.
-The sundae I made today at work. Our printer threw us an ice cream social this afternoon, with seven kinds of ice cream and as many toppings as you can imagine. (As well as some you probably can't imagine. Chocolate-covered gummi bears? Are a better idea in theory than in practice.) Not being able to decide on one sundae "theme" from the vast array of toppings present, I decided just to take the things I really loved. Which is how I wound up with a vanilla-chocolate sundae with hot fudge, raspberries and butterscotch chips. Actually, if I'd really followed this maxim, the ice cream would've been cookie dough, but I restrained myself. When it comes to sundaes, there's a fine line between awesome and disgusting, and I was already dancing precariously close to the edge.
-John Steinbeck. Right now I'm reading Travels With Charley, his travelogue about driving across America with his standard poodle. Let me just say, John Steinbeck writing about travel? It doesn't get much better than that, at least not in my universe.
-Vegetarian Times. A while ago, I thought to myself: Wow, I love both goat cheese and cilantro so much that if I were ever to find a recipe that incorporated goat cheese and cilantro, I might never eat anything else. That recipe is in VT's September issue. I'm making it next week, and possibly for the rest of my life.
-The little nip in the air. On Monday and Tuesday it was still just wishful thinking, but yesterday and today it was truly there. It seems as if my weather-channeling plan actually worked.
-The sundae I made today at work. Our printer threw us an ice cream social this afternoon, with seven kinds of ice cream and as many toppings as you can imagine. (As well as some you probably can't imagine. Chocolate-covered gummi bears? Are a better idea in theory than in practice.) Not being able to decide on one sundae "theme" from the vast array of toppings present, I decided just to take the things I really loved. Which is how I wound up with a vanilla-chocolate sundae with hot fudge, raspberries and butterscotch chips. Actually, if I'd really followed this maxim, the ice cream would've been cookie dough, but I restrained myself. When it comes to sundaes, there's a fine line between awesome and disgusting, and I was already dancing precariously close to the edge.
Monday, August 07, 2006
When bread breaks you
No, this is not the title of the latest hastily produced weekend prime-time shock show from Fox. It is, sadly, my life.
For some reason, that reason being that I did not have time to go to the store and have no other food in my house, I decided to bring for lunch today a couple of the leftover ingredients from The Great Strata Disaster of '06: the end of a loaf of French bread and some Gruyere cheese. Only since it's been a week since TGSD '06, the bread was, shall we say, a little stale. Oh, all right, it was worthy of being studied in a college-level geology course. But I've been to France several times, and by now I've cut my teeth on the stalest of the stale baguettes in hostel kitchens and budget-hotel dining rooms. Plus, I thought I could maybe soften it up in the microwave.
This was not to be. In fact, heating the bread only served to turn it into a sort of cracker, which was a plus for taste but a definite minus for masticability. At this juncture, it is important to mention that I have lately developed some sort of ear infection. Since I don't yet have a doctor in D.C., I've been trying to treat it myself with homeopathic ear drops, which so far seem to have done more harm than good. The pain now seems to have spread down to my jaw, making it difficult to do things like talk, swallow, blot lip gloss and, most importantly, chew.
As you can see, I was going into the task of eating rock-hard bread with a severe handicap. And yet I gave it a valiant effort, one that has succeeded in getting a minimal amount of nourishment in my belly, yes, but also bringing so much pain to my jaw that it's looking increasingly unlikely that I will ever be able to eat solid foods again. I guess it's a good thing I like smoothies.
No, this is not the title of the latest hastily produced weekend prime-time shock show from Fox. It is, sadly, my life.
For some reason, that reason being that I did not have time to go to the store and have no other food in my house, I decided to bring for lunch today a couple of the leftover ingredients from The Great Strata Disaster of '06: the end of a loaf of French bread and some Gruyere cheese. Only since it's been a week since TGSD '06, the bread was, shall we say, a little stale. Oh, all right, it was worthy of being studied in a college-level geology course. But I've been to France several times, and by now I've cut my teeth on the stalest of the stale baguettes in hostel kitchens and budget-hotel dining rooms. Plus, I thought I could maybe soften it up in the microwave.
This was not to be. In fact, heating the bread only served to turn it into a sort of cracker, which was a plus for taste but a definite minus for masticability. At this juncture, it is important to mention that I have lately developed some sort of ear infection. Since I don't yet have a doctor in D.C., I've been trying to treat it myself with homeopathic ear drops, which so far seem to have done more harm than good. The pain now seems to have spread down to my jaw, making it difficult to do things like talk, swallow, blot lip gloss and, most importantly, chew.
As you can see, I was going into the task of eating rock-hard bread with a severe handicap. And yet I gave it a valiant effort, one that has succeeded in getting a minimal amount of nourishment in my belly, yes, but also bringing so much pain to my jaw that it's looking increasingly unlikely that I will ever be able to eat solid foods again. I guess it's a good thing I like smoothies.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Wake me when it's fall
After watching Proof this morning (my seven-word review: Who knew math could be so exciting?), I've started longing for fall. No, longing is too blasé. I am pining here. Though it was never explicitly stated, it was obvious from the scenery and the costuming that the movie was set right at that delicious time when the first chill is creeping into the air--or, as the Indigo Girls put it so brilliantly, when "summer's beginning to give up her fight." When I walked outside at noon, I was confronted with the harsh reality that, although the heat wave has temporarily retreated, fall has not yet arrived.
I refuse to accept this, however. And so now I am listening to a bunch of the music I associate with fall (Jeff Buckley's "Lover, You Should Have Come Over," Death Cab for Cutie's "Marching Bands of Manhattan," David Gray's "Babylon") in the hopes that I can actually will it into existence. I'll let you know how that goes. (I have a feeling I won't be getting rid of my fan anytime soon.)
After watching Proof this morning (my seven-word review: Who knew math could be so exciting?), I've started longing for fall. No, longing is too blasé. I am pining here. Though it was never explicitly stated, it was obvious from the scenery and the costuming that the movie was set right at that delicious time when the first chill is creeping into the air--or, as the Indigo Girls put it so brilliantly, when "summer's beginning to give up her fight." When I walked outside at noon, I was confronted with the harsh reality that, although the heat wave has temporarily retreated, fall has not yet arrived.
I refuse to accept this, however. And so now I am listening to a bunch of the music I associate with fall (Jeff Buckley's "Lover, You Should Have Come Over," Death Cab for Cutie's "Marching Bands of Manhattan," David Gray's "Babylon") in the hopes that I can actually will it into existence. I'll let you know how that goes. (I have a feeling I won't be getting rid of my fan anytime soon.)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
The remedy
In the interest of not dying, I've spent the past two nights at the carriage house in the air-conditioned company of these fine lads. However, the promise of a cold front, and also the fact that I forgot to take out the trash before I left, has driven me back to my own abode this evening. The cold front has yet to make an appearance, though, and so it's still pretty unbearable here. Therefore, I decided to take Jana's concept of Naked Week one step further: I drew myself a nice cool bath, loaded up a plate with frozen pizza, grabbed a bottle of water, propped my iBook up on a box (see, I knew this whole procrastinating-on-unpacking thing would have its benefits) and fired up my latest Netflix selection, Season 4 of Gilmore Girls (which, in another McGyver-like feat of ingenuity, I had to free from the mailbox adjacent to mine with a butter knife). Come to think of it, I got the whole bath/laptop/DVD idea from Jana, too; I just added the frozen pizza part. (It occurs to me now that I really should've thrown in a beer as well. Next time, next time.) It's probably a good thing she and I don't live near each other. I'm not sure the world could handle the force of our collective genius.
In the interest of not dying, I've spent the past two nights at the carriage house in the air-conditioned company of these fine lads. However, the promise of a cold front, and also the fact that I forgot to take out the trash before I left, has driven me back to my own abode this evening. The cold front has yet to make an appearance, though, and so it's still pretty unbearable here. Therefore, I decided to take Jana's concept of Naked Week one step further: I drew myself a nice cool bath, loaded up a plate with frozen pizza, grabbed a bottle of water, propped my iBook up on a box (see, I knew this whole procrastinating-on-unpacking thing would have its benefits) and fired up my latest Netflix selection, Season 4 of Gilmore Girls (which, in another McGyver-like feat of ingenuity, I had to free from the mailbox adjacent to mine with a butter knife). Come to think of it, I got the whole bath/laptop/DVD idea from Jana, too; I just added the frozen pizza part. (It occurs to me now that I really should've thrown in a beer as well. Next time, next time.) It's probably a good thing she and I don't live near each other. I'm not sure the world could handle the force of our collective genius.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Oh! Those summer nights
A few weeks ago, Monika told me that she thinks that the hotter it is when you're sleeping, the stranger your dreams get. After last night's dream in which my sister and I went in with Nicole Richie to buy the apartment over my grandparents' garage, I think I know what she means. Two nights ago, though, I dreamed that I was making out with Jesse Metcalfe, star of Desperate Housewives and also that new movie with Ashanti and Brittany Snow that looks beyond stupid, like we can't tell exactly how it's going to end just by watching the two-minute preview, and also I really can't get over the fact that Jenny McCarthy plays somebody's mom in it, so maybe I'll shut up now about the insufferable heat.
A few weeks ago, Monika told me that she thinks that the hotter it is when you're sleeping, the stranger your dreams get. After last night's dream in which my sister and I went in with Nicole Richie to buy the apartment over my grandparents' garage, I think I know what she means. Two nights ago, though, I dreamed that I was making out with Jesse Metcalfe, star of Desperate Housewives and also that new movie with Ashanti and Brittany Snow that looks beyond stupid, like we can't tell exactly how it's going to end just by watching the two-minute preview, and also I really can't get over the fact that Jenny McCarthy plays somebody's mom in it, so maybe I'll shut up now about the insufferable heat.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]