Just A Leech On The Groin Of Society

Mrs. Nator surprised me yesterday. She told me that she'd been working out some figures, and decided that it would be better for us to take out another loan until I graduate, rather than having me find another job.

Do you think it had something to do with the hour-long crying jag/anxiety attack I had that morning?

Yes, school has been more intense than I ever imagined it. "A two-year degree at a community college," thought I. "How hard could it be?"

I did not realize that the reason they have about a 100% rate of graduates passing the licensing exam and getting jobs immediately is because most of the students wash out before graduation. Nor did I realize they essentially cram three or four years' worth of information into two straight years, with almost no break, since we have summer internships. Finally, I did not realize how the thought of possibly screwing up and hurting an animal - as I nearly did by mis-placing my first solo endotracheal intubation into the dog's esophagus instead of her trachea - would raise my already high anxiety generator to nuclear meltdown levels.

So, thank you Mrs. Nator. What's another few thousand in debt when at least we haven't defaulted on a mortgage or lost our shirts in the stock market? Now, I hope, I can focus on studying, rehabilitating my leg, and learning how to meditate the stress out and the confidence in. I'll make you proud, I promise.

Life Is Like A Roller Coaster

Lately, with my knee injury and trying to stay in school and find a new job, it's felt that way to me. My first memory of a coaster, however, is a little bit different than most. I've carried to this day a visceral but clear memory of in my head of the first "big kid" coaster I ever went on when I was probably no more than five. It wasn't a traditional coaster, but a toboggan that when vertically up a dark tube, then out into the sunlight and down and around in spiraling turns to a few gentle dips at the bottom. For some reason, the period in the tube, tilted onto my back staring up in anticipation, is the part I get visions of every now ant then.

That ride in Wildwood, NJ, is long gone, but thanks to the interwebs, I've found POV footage of an exact replica in Altoona, PA. Watch and enter deep into the recesses of Da Nator's mysterious psyche! (Or is that id? Apply your own school of psychology!)

What strikes me most about this now is how much it mimics being born. Seriously, you're put in an uncomfortable position, faced with an irreversible path into the dark where you don't know what will happen next, thrust through a scary tube into blinding light and whirled around in a vantage point you've never seen before. No wonder it's stuck in my subconsciousness!

That or, you know, it was just something I'd never done before and a very cool ride. Here's hoping your coaster ride doesn't malfunction and throw you off into space...

What I Learned In Lab Class

Behold the lamprey: not quite an eel, not quite a fish, not even quite a vertebrate. In other words, one weird-ass mothafukkin animal, my people. Damn.

What you see at its front is essentially an extended upper lip with nary a lower lip in sight. Lampreys are jawless. They sort of have heads, but you'd be hard pressed to find exactly where they end and the body begins (not to mention their brains are barely more than a cluster of cells). Their front ends are basically sensory organs with that big mouth at the end, which functions like a suction cup with teeth in it. They glom onto a hard-spined fish, stick to them and rasp away with those teeth, ingesting the fish's blood and tissues. Their tongues even have teeth on them!

I have stuck my finger into this maw - and lived!

Their skeletons are cartilaginous, like sharks, and they have both a nerve cord, which is similar to a spinal column, minus the vertebrae, and a notochord, an early version of the vertebral column which is much less rigid, and is now found in mainly lower forms and embryos (yes, you had one, too, early in your development). A bizarre throwback to ancient times, fossilized records show that they may not have changed in over 360 million years. Judging from the condition of our dessicated dissection specimen in lab class, it was probably among the first.

1. nerve cord, 2. notochord, 3. the eggs that become millions of little lampreys waiting to suck your braaaaiinnns!

My first dissection went fairly smoothly, considering the condition of the specimen and the fact that the scalpels in those dissection kits are about as sharp as prison-issue sporks. The lamprey was actually pretty small, so it's a stretch for eyeballs over thirty years old to see all the mushy parts, especially since doing so meant getting close to that smell. However, I did it, and I made a new friend in one of my new lab partners. It turns out she is a geeky gay white girl, too. In fact, she's so gay, geeky and white, she makes me look like Snoop Dogg. Let me put it this way: we ended our conversation by talking about the origin of slash in Star Trek fiction. For further research in lab: how did the idea of Kirk, Spock and McCoy all getting it on at once not kill slash in its infancy, if not actually kill homosexuality altogether? Discuss.

Do not try this at home.

After a long-ass lecture, delivered in an outrageous French accent by our professor (thank goodness I did the reading), I filled in an application at a local vet's office, and then went home to find my lab coat had arrived in the mail. Question: if you found out your animal health care professional had run around the house in his or her lab coat and underwear singing "(s)he's the one they call Doctor NOOOO PAAAANTS!", would you entrust him or her with your beloved pet? Does it help to know it was to the tune of an old Mötley Crüe song?

All in all, a very productive day. I think I'm going to enjoy this class. It makes me feel AAAAWL RIIIIGHT!

Homebound Lesbians

It's that time of year - it's sit on our asses time!

Yes, we always plan to do festive stuff, but it seems that every year we are so exhausted from the stress of finishing stuff up at work (or school), that at least one of us gets sick, and we both lie around like cold-stunned sea mammals, intent only on resting and building up our blubber.

Despite our limited budget, we found a cheap performance of the Messiah to go to last weekend. But we ate the tickets, because Mrs. Nator didn't feel well. Then, this weekend, we had tickets to go see Jollyship the Whizbang do a dirty pyrate-themed holiday puppet rock opera. But we are so brain dead that we showed up a day late.

It's Christmas eve, and we don't even have a tree, yet. Mrs. Nator is starting to sneeze. And we keep turning to each other and asking, "do you want to do something," or "what do you want to do," and then replying "I dunno... (snifflemopeshnort...)"

But at least we're doing it together.

Here's some pyrate puppet ridiculous to cheer up your holidays. And remember, Santa likes rum in his milk.

Gobble Gobble Hey

Sorry I've been such an absent blogger and not commented on others' blogs, lately. School has been beating my ass.

The good news is, I seem to be beginning to beat its ass back. That's right, I got the results of my latest Chem exam this morning. This was the one I was fairly sure I'd be lucky if I got a 70 on, and figured would probably indicate that there was no way I'd be getting into the clinical program (thus meaning my whole school time was a waste, I was a failure, I should go live in my mother's basement, etc.). Well, guesswhatholycrap I got a 94 on it! Apparently, I didn't have to get all the answers right exactly (although I did almost all of them right, to my surprise), I could get credit for using the correct formulas, setting up my problem accordingly, and showing I did the work. Go know!

Not only that, but the teacher decided to throw in an extra 5 points for everybody, just as "Thanksgiving points" - which means my grade will go down as a 99!

I think I frightened some of my classmates when I got my exam back and doubled over yelping "WHAT??!!" It was a happy yelp, though. This takes so much pressure off me, you can't imagine. I mean, maybe you can, and I still have to keep working hard, but it means my studying paid off, and I'm not in danger of getting below a C (which would surely knock me out of running for the clinical program). I'd started to consider what kind of full-time work I'd have to start looking for when I failed out at the end of the semester, and convinced myself that no matter how hard I studied, I'd never grasp anything about Chemistry, and now this.

I think I can enjoy my Thanksgiving, now.

So, thanks being in order this time of year, thank you to all of you who read my self-involved rants and leave supportive comments. It really does help. Now I'm taking a long nap before I start my reading for my final Intro to Vet Tech project on green sea turtles, and reviewing chapters of Chem. I hope you all have a great holiday, and have some time and space to remember what you have to be thankful for, too.

...AAAAAAAAAAA...

Chemistry exam on Friday! Help!

Smooches,

- DN

P.S.: Anybody got a freelance or part-time job I can do? I gots lotsa skillz. You don't want us having to move in with one of our mothers on your conscience, do you?

P.P.S.: Anybody know a good malpractice lawyer? Hello?

P.P.S.: Yes, I am still boring. Check back sometime when I'm not in a panic.

Hello, Old Friend

One of my major problems has been that I seem to cling to negative emotions. There are stupid slights and embarrassing situations that happened to me as a child that no-one else would still remember, or hold against me if they did. Yet, excruciatingly detailed recollections of them will spring to my mind unbidden, and the rush of emotions that come with them will leave me stunned. It doesn't help that I had a rather odd childhood, with plenty of opportunities for bad feelings and embarrassment.

This is why, over the last couple years, I had decided it was alright that I had fallen out of touch with my closest childhood friend. Yes, we had taken different paths in a number of ways, and changed. She has become a great believer in and advocate of twelve-step programs and a mother of three, while I have a bohemian lifestyle of lesbian partnership, rejection of traditional work and religion and too many cats. But I came to feel that, as it seemed I would never be able to view my childhood calmly, from a distance, much less with affection, it was for the best that I detach from childhood friendships that remind me of it.

For a while, it seemed to work. I felt guilty about the ebbing of the friendship, but relieved to be able to blank out on memories that fed my angst. I tried to tell myself that this was a natural evolution and the way of the world.

But when I checked my voicemail and found a message from her while I was in the hospital, I was excited.

The truth is, I missed her. Not only was she my friend, but my stepsister. We shared a checkered and difficult past within our dysfunctional family, different in some ways but, in many, similar. And as many awful, disturbing memories and feelings we may share, we were also always there for each other from our single-digit years through our early twenties. Even though we have changed, we still know each other's cores better than perhaps anyone else, save our partners.

So, despite knowing it would dredge up old wounds, I called her back. We've been in contact many times over the last few weeks, and have shared some biographical writing we've both been working on. It has been difficult facing some issues, and I can't say it's been easy. I'm also not completely confident in the return of our relationship, yet. But I'm so glad to hear her voice on the phone, and I'm hoping that, together, we can put together the stories of our past and learn to be a little bit kinder to ourselves.

Please Pardon The Interruption

What kind of idiot mutilates herself with a granny cart?

I have a giant hole in my leg!

I am so behind on everything in school I am never going to catch up!

The universe is trying to tell me that I made a mistake in going back to school!

I don't WANT to have to go back to doing computer work to make enough money!

I don't deserve anything better!

I am a failure! And unlovable!

It's NOOOT FAAAAAIRRRR!!!

WAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

Sigh.

Well. I wonder if that got it out of my system?

Your Dreams Explained!

1. If you dream that you are flying, but suddenly start to fall:
You are afraid of success, or that your success and happiness will end. Is there someone or something in your life holding you back?

2. If you dream about turtles:
You will make slow but steady progress. You need to slow down and pace yourself. Alternatively, it indicates that you are sheltering yourself from the realities of life.

3. If you dream about your teeth falling out:
Either you are feeling powerless, or you are lying. Cut that shit out.

4. If you dream there are rocks you must climb:
You are taking too much Prozac. Also, you have issues with shoes. Stay away from pigs, if you know what's good for you.

5. If you dream you are a pirate bearing an uncanny resemblance to Angelina Jolie:
Alright, now you're just making shit up.

6. If you dream you are suddenly back in high school, where you have to take multiple exams you didn't know about in those infernal blue booklets, and you are late for all of them and don't remember how to do anything, and all the kids are teasing you and trying to tell the teacher that you are cheating:
You have returned to school later in life, and most of the students are 20 years younger than you. You just had an unfortunate and unlikely accident with a shopping cart that kept you out of classes that, little did you know, were to prep you for your first Chemistry homework and your first Intro to Vet Tech quiz, which requires extensive memorization of medical terms. Also? You can't ever make up that lab you missed. Oh, and you're so stressed about studying that you're procrastinating my writing stupid blog entries. Nervous, yet?

Or, you will soon come into a big fortune!

Your mileage may vary.

Haircut 100

Anybody remember that band? Yes, I am old.

I got a new haircut today. I've had pretty much the same hairstyle for a number of years now, and it was time for a change. Mrs. Nator likes it when my hair is a bit longer, so I let it go for a while, until finally the shagginess drove me mad (and I got some money for my birthday I could spend on a hair cut).

So, rather than my old, outdated gay boy-style haircut, something like this:

I now have something between an emo cut like this:

and a twink cut like this:

My hairstylist totally rocks, and Mrs. Nator and I are both happy with the results.

I only hope that when I go back to school the cool kids like me! I'll just die if they don't...

Just A Walk In The Park - The Sequel

A little clarification in response to the comments on my last post:

WT: Basically, I did my "don't look at the dangerous animal and you won't enrage them," routine. I fortunately was very close to the larger, more populated path at that point, and I figured if he was doing something he didn't want to be caught at - or was trying to show women something he wanted to be caught at - if I pretended not to see him he would leave me alone. The one time I got hit by a stranger it was because I caught two teenaged guys doing something they shouldn't. More on that later.

CB: You do have a point: there's always danger in the big city. Of course, there's danger everywhere. Suburbs have rampant economic, drug and drinking problems, and the random violence that go with them. Plus, if you're out in the country, no one can hear you scream...

CD: No thank you. As angry and scared as I get sometimes, I can't wrap my mind around carrying a weapon. It just seems too likely to escalate things, or be turned against me.

I did study Goju karate and self-defense for several years, which has made me feel slightly more competent when it comes to looking out for myself. However, given my propensity to freeze like a deer in headlights in the face of strong danger, I find it most practical for me to practice the flight response rather than the fight response. As any good martial artist will tell you, the best self-defense is avoiding a fight as much as possible. Plus, I'm pretty much a pacifist.

Of course, there was the one time I got hit by the teenagers cited above. Punched right in the jaw where I'd just had oral surgery, when I discovered them defacing a subway hallway. I surprised my self by swinging up one of the very heavy suitcases I was holding and smacking the attacker upside the head. When he ran away, I yelled up the stairs to his compatriot (who had scampered up at my arrival), "Yo! Your boy just hit me - and if I see him again, I'm gonna kill 'im!"

I had no idea I was so ghetto.

Just A Walk In The Park

I did something today that I normally don't do: I wandered alone in the park. To be honest, I rarely "wander" alone anywhere. If I am walking somewhere alone, it must always be with a purpose. I must have people to see or errands to run. If I am with someone else, I can sometimes wander, even though being with someone usually means there will be a discussion of where to go. However, when I am by myself, I usually have to have a destination in mind, or I'm likely to stay inside.

Why is this? Well, I thought to myself while following a dappled path through Prospect Park, the fact is that I feel vulnerable when I am outside alone. On regular days I may just feel a little conspicuous - that is, I feel as though I don't want anyone looking at me. On good days I'm alright with it, but on bad days it devolves into downright social anxiety. In my mind, somebody, or some persons, are out to get me, whether it's with a few rude comments or an outright attack, and I must remain alert at all times, and scurry home as soon as my business is done.

Today was one of the bad days, for some reason, and while I'd had a lovely day wandering much of the neighbourhood with a friend-cum-longstanding AC client, as soon as she was gone, I felt strange. I decided that it was a beautiful day and it was time to get my butt to the park and get some sun and exercise, rather than sitting in my hidey-hole for hours. The previous day I'd barely ventured outside - only to do some quick grocery shopping - and I worry that feeding my neurosis only worsens it. So it was that around five thirty I found myself meandering through a groomed forest, and wondering why, instead of enjoying the greenery and light, I was having visions of scenes from The Blair Witch every time I looked around at the trees.

Why am I so afraid? I thought. Is it because my mother left our house when I was six, imprinting some kind of lack of protection on my tender brain? Is it because I grew up as one of the only white kids in a tough neighbourhood, routinely chided and threatened? Is it because of the training I received as a child of the 1970s, that strangers might try to kidnap and rape little kids, or at least put razor blades in their Halloween apples? Is it due to the two minor muggings I've been through, where I wasn't even badly hurt... my alcoholic stepfather... the events of 9/11? Just what is it that makes me so tense while alone in public that I cannot enjoy a simple stroll?

I decided then and there that I was going to push forward, keep walking, and get out by myself more often. I'd go to the park alone again soon. Maybe Coney Island, maybe a movie and lunch. I would wander with no direction, perhaps even without my ever-present iPod and camera that I sometimes use to separate a part of myself from the rest of the world. Here I was, on a gorgeous day in a gorgeous park, dozens of happy people just down the path enjoying the late summer sunshine without the slightest tremor of doubt, and I was going to continue down this path and enjoy it, too.

And that's when I saw the ragged looking half-undressed guy lurking behind a tree.

Random Observations of the Day

1. I am sick of hearing about Michael Vick on football shows. Yes, he did a bad thing, and he will be punished for it. I am actually thrilled that he was caught, will be punished and it all has been publicized, because animal abuse runs rampant in this country, with very little to stop it and mainly slaps on the wrist for abusers. However, when I watch my cheesy football programs, I want at least three quarters of them to be dedicated to general football news, not just the whole Michael Vick thing. Not only does it get boring, otherwise, but opening day is coming up and I've got three fantasy teams to maintain, people. TYFYPATTVIM.

2. Bread should be soft. Crusty is great, but the entirety of a slice of bread should not be like unto a slab of drywall. I'm not saying I like all my bread to be Wonderbread squishy - that's really only okay for PB&J or diner toast. But if the bread completely dominates the sandwich, it is too aggressive, capiche?

2b. Likewise, not all fancy bread needs to be sourdough. The uses of sourdough are limited! If I want some delicious rosemary bread, it does not to be sourdough, as well. Then, who can taste the rosemary?

3. If you want to see how your neighbours live, try pet sitting. Not only has the past week allowed me to meet lovely new critters, but to wander in the homes of several complete strangers. I've seen everything from a simple railroad flat to a richly appointed five-story victorian, aboriginal art to Herman Miller chairs, chipped floorboards to carved hearths, and it has been very interesting, indeed. And, although I do experience some apartment envy, it's also fun to realize what benefits our present abode does have (lots of space, with separate rooms but no separate levels) and what I would and wouldn't like in our next home, when we can afford one.

4. I always seem to have the latest gay boy haircut, unless you count the bald look. I think Mrs. Nator and I are fine with that.

5. I am the Greatest Procrastinator in the World!

Time to do something productive?

The Good, The Bad and The Creepy

Item: There is a trail of blood leading to our door - literally. We discovered it yesterday morning, but weren't sure what it was. Our landlords later told us that someone had been stabbed outside a local bar and stumbled down our block, stopping just in front of our building. Our downstairs neighbours had seen the cops dealing with the situation, but we had our air conditioner and TV on and didn't hear a thing. It's nausea-inducing enough to see a trail of splotches weaving up the block and around the corner and learn it is blood, but why did he stop, and leave an extra big splatter, in front of our building? Is this just where he dropped?

No further news on what happened, or how the victim is doing. Our neighbourhood is usually pretty good, so even if it's bound to happen once in a while in the big city, it's disconcerting.

Item: So far this week I have nine pet sitting and two communication gigs. Yesterday saw me visiting a parrot, two (lesbian) doves and four cats over three apartments. The cats are all love bugs, but the birds are suspicious of me. The most I could get out of the parrot was a several-minute round of exclamations of "hello!" back and forth between us. Most of the time, he snuck around in an almost cartoonish manner, sussing me out. It's fairly common for birds to be cautious with strangers, so I'm just trying to be gentle and give them their space. It does get a little tiresome, however, when the conversation goes like this: "Hello!" "Uh, hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Hello!" "Oh, for Christ's sake..." "*burping noise*"

Item: Happy birthday to me. Today I turn (sigh) 37. When did birthdays stop being a cause for a big celebration?

Anyway, we're just having a low-key dinner out for two to celebrate, so today is free for me to finish up my pet sitting duties, confirm that the school processed my tuition, do some work on my business site, and contemplate the enormity of my lifestyle changes. Um, yipes.

Do I have enough stamina and enthusiasm to make it as a student while working at my advanced age? Stay tuned to find out...

Aloha 'Oe

So, while First Nations is gettin' all scrumdillyiciously descriptive about her four day trip, you've heard barely a burp from me about Hawai'i thus far. This is is because:

1. I miss it so much that I am having major trouble adjusting to being back in the city, and thus can't really think about my vacation without going a little crazy

2. I'm afraid to bore all of y'all, since I don't seem to be at my writerly best of late (must be the stress, not lack of talent, right?)
&
3. We did so much over two weeks that it's a bit overwhelming trying to remember and artfully describe it all.

I did, however, finally post a jumble of description, reviews and pointers at TripAdvisor, so if you're so inclined, you can see that post to find out a bit of what our trip was like.

Other than that, I will drill away at getting the photos up, but as I'm so anal about post-processing them, it may be next summer before I get all of 'em chosen and adjusted just so. I can only hope some of them will be worth the trouble, even if they can't fully illustrate the gorgeous sights of the Big Island.

In the mean time, wish me luck Natorettes. Tomorrow I'm going to track down the head of the Vet Tech department and whinge at her in person!

Beware The Crankenmonster!

1. I swore they wouldn't make me cry this time. They didn't, yet, but it was close. It turns out that after months of telling me I had to get my financial aid status worked out before I could register, not only was the rep who was helping me out for two weeks when I came in to register yesterday, but it turns out that I could have registered before the aid paperwork was done. Imagine my rage and frustration, then, when it turned out that not only will my loan paperwork not be processed for weeks, but two of the core courses I must take to enter the Vet Tech program are already filled.

I can't take other courses in their place because, as someone who already has a BA and some grad work, I've already fulfilled most of the credit requirements for the program! Which all means there may be only one or two courses open to me this semester, i.e. I'd be less than a half-time student, not eligible for any loans, still responsible for paying interest and payments on my pre-existing loans and have to return to work full time. Da Nator is Not. Pleased.

My only hope at this point is that I will be able to reach the director of the program (who is probably God Knows Where during August) and convince her to allow my a spot in the courses. Wish me lots of luck. Groveling Hat... on!

2. On a much less important note, "the most beautiful thing ever"? I think not. While I think Mia Michaels is a great choreographer, if she hadn't shared the backstory that this piece on So You Think You Can Dance last night was about her and her recently deceased father reuniting in heaven, would everyone be crying and raving at the end? The piece was good, but nowhere near as wonderful as her Emmy-nominated "bench" piece from last year. To cap it off, Neil's extra-Caucasian one-note dancing drained much of the spirit out of it, and Lacey, who normally is a bit better at conveying emotion (at least outwardly), must have been brought down to his level, because she spent the whole dance with a precious, frozen grin plastered on her face. Let's face it, what everybody loved about the piece was the dead father, and possibly the fake flowers all over the stage.

Lacey has been mostly consistent and vote-worthy, but Neil should have been gone a long time ago. He has been getting by on his WASPY, non-threatening-to-tweens looks, rather than his dancing or emotive ability. Boo, I say, BOO!

Thus endeth the gripe session for the day. Now I'm off to try reaching the program director again, setting up some work ours with my pet-sitter friend, and moping in the most obnoxious way possible. Maybe I'll work on vacation photos tomorrow. Today, I'm missing Hawai'i too much...

technorati tags: so you think you can dance,sytycd,vet tech,school

Update

Good news! The doctor has okayed me to go SCUBA diving, and I think I've almost convinced Mrs. Nator to let me do it. Keep those WooOOOnnns coming!

In other news, I still have to clean the entire house tomorrow. That's over 1100 square feet of cat fur, kitty litter dust and highway grit. And that doesn't even count the de-pornifying. I love my mother-in-law and we get along famously, but damn.

Have I mentioned the new bed is HUGE? The cats still haven't figured out a way to get up on it.

Later, taters...

Sundry

Giant-Ass Bed

Well, we done dood it. We finally got a new bed. King size, in fact. Simmons firm plush top, so it's steady with all those little coils, but the top gives.

It is HYOOOOGE. Like, I have to hop up to get my butt on it, and my legs dangle way off the ground. It's not a California King, because apparently 1-800-MATTRES leaves those on the West Coast, along with leaving off the last S for Savings. I think it will accommodate Mrs. Nator in all her lengthy glory, however. She can make up the couple inches of length by lying more diagonally.

Spending the money was scary, but with both of our backs giving out at times, it had to be done. Now we just have to try to keep the cats away from it, other than when we're in it. They're traumatized enough already by the movers schlepping it in. Anyone know how to rig up a boat horn to a pressure-sensitive mattres(s) pad?

Happy Pride

I guess. I dunno. I am so old and nest-y, I can't be bothered. Do I really want to sweat for hours watching a parade and then wander around trying to find a place to get a drink? No.

Wish Me Luck

on two things coming up. The first is today, when I have my exam to see if it's okay for me to take a beginning SCUBA class. I really want to take one in Hawaii. However, since I fat, lazy, on prescription drugs and have had spinal surgery, I have to get the okay from my doctor. I'll also be getting a blood test to make sure I got my measles-mumps-rubella vaccinations, because I have to verify that before I register for classes. I'm not worried about that, though. I just want my doctor to look at the SCUBA form while I'm there and tell me I'm healthy enough to do it. WoooOOOOnnns, please!

The second is cleaning for my mother-in-law's visit. She's coming on Wednesday, and thus far, I have been having a hard time getting my ass in gear. It's just pure procrastination stemming from feeling overwhelmed at how grubby this place is. There's no cure for my laziness long-term, I suspect, but a little boost of WoooOOOnns for one task couldn't hurt.

And that's it for now. I feel as though I've become rather boring, lately. Sorry if I have - there's just been a lot to do in preparation for school, mom-in-law's visit and Hawaii. My brain is rarely in the now, because I'm so excited about the close future. I guess if you're really bored, 1. fuck you, schmendrick & 2. you can go look at slideshows of my trip to the NY Botanical Garden or my visit with my sister, bro-in-law and the niece and nephew. I'm out!

Collidge fore Dummies

As part of my loan search activities, I signed up on a whim for collegboard.com's SAT question of the day. I figured I would limber up my mind a little bit and see how rusty it's gotten. You can imagine, then, the sudden sweat I break into on seeing answers like this:

Suppose that x quarts of the final mixture of dye will be made. Since it is to be made from equal amounts of orange and green dye, it will consist of 1 over 2x quarts of orange dye and 1 over 2x quarts of green dye. Since the orange dye has 2 parts yellow dye for each 5 parts total dye, 2 over 5 of it is yellow dye. Similarly, 1 over 3 of the green dye is yellow dye. The amount of yellow in the final mixture is given by (2 over 5)(1 over 2)x + (1 over 3)(1 over 2)x = 1 over 5x + 1 over 6x = 11 over 30x quarts

Yeah.

In my defense, only 30% of answerers got this question correct, and it was labeled as "hard." That said, I'm nervous. I thought I'd taken calculus in high school and that would get me out of the pre-calc requirement for the vet tech program. Alas, when I received my transcript, it showed I'd taken trig, and done rather badly at it. (Now that I remember, I used to get into ceaseless arguments with the Russian teacher, because I usually got the right answers, but in a complete bass-ackwards way.) Balls.

It's become worrisome enough that I've started having dreams about it. Last night I was back in college, and couldn't find anything. I had a math class to go to, and while the teacher and classmates were very nice, I'd missed the first class, didn't have the book and was so tired I couldn't concentrate at all. Then I proceeded to wander around campus in what seemed to be a partially-open hospital gown, revealing my ass to all, unable to figure out where I was supposed to be going or where any of my friends were at lunchtime. Curiously, however, it wasn't all panic and exhaustion. I was actually still fairly happy to be blundering about at school, and particularly happy that I'd been assigned a small room to myself with a bed and desk in it in a dorm, where I could nap and study to my heart's content. Strange.

Of course, when I go back to school, I won't have such a room. But I doubt I'll be wearing an actual hospital gown, either.

And the good news is, I still do quite well on the verbal questions. Haven't missed one yet.

Lord, I am in for a change...

Goody Two-Shoes

I am terrible at being a criminal. Sure, I sneaked liquor from my parents' cabinet a couple times. I went to a lot of clubs when I was underage and drank and did other illegal substances. But all of those were pretty much given to me for being pretty (shut up - I was back then!) and didn't require a whole lot of effort on my part. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was that lack of effort that left half the Haitian drug dealers in late 1980s Manhattan with blue balls. Poor Haitian drug dealers. Hi-yo!

Anyway, my point is, my life of crime has been negligible. There was the time when I was working three student jobs to get through college that I'd sometimes under report the earnings at the student lounge/pool hall by a couple dollars, so I could get a juice and some crackers from the vending machine for lunch. Horrors! The thing was, I felt terribly guilty and I like I was going to get caught every time. I knew that I was fortunate in that I appeared to be the last person anyone would suspect of stealing: a small, shy, lower-middle-class white girl with good manners and a semi-midwestern accent (my parents hailed from out there, even if I was raised in New Jersey). Of course, many teenage girls will tell you that's why they know they'll never get caught. But I genuinely hated doing it and thought I was a terrible person the whole time. Plus, above and beyond that, I was always waiting for The Man to catch me and stomp me down with the iron-heeled boot of justice. "I have terrible luck and am a terrible liar, and therefore, if anyone gets caught, it will be me," was my reasoning. It still echoes today.

Thus, standing by the line for the Rufus Wainwright show trying to sell my tickets was an alarming affair. It didn't matter that there was a geeky-looking kid of maybe 15 or 16 beside me who'd bought his tickets at the original rate of $40, and was trying to sell them for over $200, while I wasn't even hoping to break even on the $220 Mrs. Nator had spent on seats in the same section via eBay. The whole time I was sweating, and waiting to be accosted by the ginourmous bouncer at the front of the line.

Even getting to the place was surreal. It being one of those sudden summer weekends in New York where five million events were going on at once, the subways were full of a mix of rainbow-bedecked Brooklyn Pride goers, Puerto Rican flag draped Boriquas making their way home from the PR parade, and blonde tourist families in matching sneakers and golf shirts whispering to each other "Daddy, is that man speaking Hispanic? And why is that fat lesbian sweating like she's been caught in Singapore customs with a condom full of crank up her ass?"

Outside of the subway was more weirdness. Hordes of people surrounded food tents in Madison Square Park, supervised by far too many irritated-looking police than I wanted to see at that juncture. Then, just as I was drawing up to the venue, a mob of bedraggled bicyclists came barreling down 23rd Street, taking up the lanes with everything from tiny foldable bikes to weird, double-cranksetted contraptions about eight or nine feet high. This did nothing, I assure you, to make me feel more comfortable.

I suppose I could have imagined that, what with all this going on, little old me trying to sell a couple of tickets would hardly be on major law enforcement's radar. I also must confess that, in actuality, I'm not even sure this whole deal was illegal at all. Still, the first pair of gays that talked me down to $110 for the pair got the tickets, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. (I just know the kid beside me was grateful to see me go. There was no way he was going to make a profit with the weenie with the air of desperation throwing better tickets than he had at people at a loss.) Besides, I had to get back to Brooklyn to get a quart of Italian ice and Mrs. Nator's anti-inflammatory prescription before the stores closed.

As I made my way home, circumnavigating stocky women plastered with Puerto Rico stickers and Gay Pride buttons and sniffing the rare sea-tang in the air from a front blowing in, I took stock. I got $110 for the tickets, half of what we paid for them, and $60 of which were blown on frozen desserts and medications within 20 minutes. Not so great a deal. If I had hung in there, no doubt I could have made a lot more. Ah, but the relief from fearing that I was going to get hauled in and ass-raped in the hoosegow? Priceless.