I speak like Stevie from Malcolm in the M
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Douchebags Save Metro from Crazy Pregnant Lady
As a full-time Metro rider, I often suppress my fury at the issues Metro faces and/or creates. I feel as if I spend lots of time on Metro platforms and on bus stops trying to suppress impatience and helpless anger at the way Metro is run. What helps me get through it is watching the people who ride the Metro. It keeps me from going completely crazy on the Metro and from rushing the driver's seat and driving the train myself. I could even do it without texting or having my friends hang out in the driver's seat with me (oh, Metro).
So last night around 9:30pm, I am riding the red line from Silver Spring. I finally got on a train, after the message boards were broken and there was "track maintenance" at Medical Center, 15 stops away, so I had been waiting for a while. There was a dearth of entertaining people on the train. No random person preaching about Satan or telling the women they had demons and there wasn't even any singing. But then we hit the CUA stop and I hit the motherlode. A hoarde of douches alighted the Metro - law students from CUA. Now, I was once a law student at CUA. And it seems that nothing has changed - these were not only douches, but they were also typical DC guys (and CUA law students) who are maybe a 2 out of 10, but think they are an 11.
The median age of the whole group looked to be 23 and most looked nervous being on the train after dark. Most of the kids sat in the seats, clutching their Contracts text and smiled nervously. But the douche kings swaggered into the train and clustered right by the door. In case we weren't aware they were law students by their ostentatious carrying of a Torts book (which also means that they are first years, which hahaha, poser tools), they start talking loudly about how awesome they are at law school while simultaneously texting because they are busy and important.
Since they were standing in front of the doors, they had to pick up all of their books and man purses every time someone came on the Metro. One kid actually figured out that this was inconvenient and he moved - which promptly got his douche membership revoked. But the rest of them just kept sighing heavily and acting all put out when someone came on the Metro. Obviously, if the alighting passengers had been aware that they were FIRST YEAR LAW STUDENTS, they would have gone in a different way.
So last night around 9:30pm, I am riding the red line from Silver Spring. I finally got on a train, after the message boards were broken and there was "track maintenance" at Medical Center, 15 stops away, so I had been waiting for a while. There was a dearth of entertaining people on the train. No random person preaching about Satan or telling the women they had demons and there wasn't even any singing. But then we hit the CUA stop and I hit the motherlode. A hoarde of douches alighted the Metro - law students from CUA. Now, I was once a law student at CUA. And it seems that nothing has changed - these were not only douches, but they were also typical DC guys (and CUA law students) who are maybe a 2 out of 10, but think they are an 11.
The median age of the whole group looked to be 23 and most looked nervous being on the train after dark. Most of the kids sat in the seats, clutching their Contracts text and smiled nervously. But the douche kings swaggered into the train and clustered right by the door. In case we weren't aware they were law students by their ostentatious carrying of a Torts book (which also means that they are first years, which hahaha, poser tools), they start talking loudly about how awesome they are at law school while simultaneously texting because they are busy and important.
Since they were standing in front of the doors, they had to pick up all of their books and man purses every time someone came on the Metro. One kid actually figured out that this was inconvenient and he moved - which promptly got his douche membership revoked. But the rest of them just kept sighing heavily and acting all put out when someone came on the Metro. Obviously, if the alighting passengers had been aware that they were FIRST YEAR LAW STUDENTS, they would have gone in a different way.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Destruction
Bad. So bad. I shudder when I think of it.
We have mice. But specifically, there is one ballsy mouse who comes out while we are watching television, says hello and then runs behind the television. We recently found the nest in our television cabinet, which was bad enough, but then it turns out the mouse was defiling the PS3 and we went on CODE RED HIGH ALERT. Ryoko, our dog, has been trying so hard, but she is an Epic Fail at catching it. But we needed to up the ante, because the PS3 might be in danger, people.
This morning, Ryoko runs to the television cabinet as soon as we come downstairs (as usual), to start her vigilant stalking (and CATCHING FAIL) of the disrespectful mouse. As Brian opens up the cabinet, he sees the mouse tail disappearing under the record player. He moves it, and the mouse comes running out - but I am alert and block her way with my foot (showing some amazing reflexes which haven't been apparent since I was 16 and caused me to check for spider bites that I may have gotten in a laboratory) and she runs into a bag of kindling, in which the mouse is trapped! My joy is fleeting because then I realize we have to kill the mouse. We simply cannot let this mouse live, IT WILL DESTROY THE TELEVISION.
Brian takes it to the kitchen to kill it.
"How are you going to kill it?"
"I'm going to chop it's head off."
"WHAT? Are you a serial killer? Who does that? OMG, GAH, GAH, GAH!"
I am in the dining room, being totally helpful, by screaming really loudly and making references to Silence of the Lambs.
"GAH!" from the kitchen
"WHAT?"
"The head is off and the mouse is STILL MOVING!"
Cue more screaming and flailing from me. Ryoko is so excited she can barely contain herself because she wants to carry the bloody corpse around the entire house and play with it. Which NO, just NONONONONO.
"Why did you chop it's head off? Why didn't you just knock it over the head with the skillet?"
"Oh. Hmm. . ." said the Serial Killer.
So the whole ride to the Metro, we were quiet and subdued, like we had just killed a hooker in Vegas and buried the body and eventually the madness will descend and more people will have to be killed to cover up the first murder and OH MY LORD. We shall not speak of the MOUSE DECAPITATION. Except when I do. A lot. To anyone who will listen. Whatever.
We have mice. But specifically, there is one ballsy mouse who comes out while we are watching television, says hello and then runs behind the television. We recently found the nest in our television cabinet, which was bad enough, but then it turns out the mouse was defiling the PS3 and we went on CODE RED HIGH ALERT. Ryoko, our dog, has been trying so hard, but she is an Epic Fail at catching it. But we needed to up the ante, because the PS3 might be in danger, people.
This morning, Ryoko runs to the television cabinet as soon as we come downstairs (as usual), to start her vigilant stalking (and CATCHING FAIL) of the disrespectful mouse. As Brian opens up the cabinet, he sees the mouse tail disappearing under the record player. He moves it, and the mouse comes running out - but I am alert and block her way with my foot (showing some amazing reflexes which haven't been apparent since I was 16 and caused me to check for spider bites that I may have gotten in a laboratory) and she runs into a bag of kindling, in which the mouse is trapped! My joy is fleeting because then I realize we have to kill the mouse. We simply cannot let this mouse live, IT WILL DESTROY THE TELEVISION.
Brian takes it to the kitchen to kill it.
"How are you going to kill it?"
"I'm going to chop it's head off."
"WHAT? Are you a serial killer? Who does that? OMG, GAH, GAH, GAH!"
I am in the dining room, being totally helpful, by screaming really loudly and making references to Silence of the Lambs.
"GAH!" from the kitchen
"WHAT?"
"The head is off and the mouse is STILL MOVING!"
Cue more screaming and flailing from me. Ryoko is so excited she can barely contain herself because she wants to carry the bloody corpse around the entire house and play with it. Which NO, just NONONONONO.
"Why did you chop it's head off? Why didn't you just knock it over the head with the skillet?"
"Oh. Hmm. . ." said the Serial Killer.
So the whole ride to the Metro, we were quiet and subdued, like we had just killed a hooker in Vegas and buried the body and eventually the madness will descend and more people will have to be killed to cover up the first murder and OH MY LORD. We shall not speak of the MOUSE DECAPITATION. Except when I do. A lot. To anyone who will listen. Whatever.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Soylent Allergy
I've been on an elimination diet for a couple of weeks now. Good times. Said diet consists of meat (good), rice (acceptable), fruit (eh, depends on which ones), and vegetables (ew). Yeah. No spices. No sugar. No flavor. No delicious, delicious tositos. No frosted cereals, the love of my life, and main staple of my diet. I SHALL DIE A PAINFUL DEATH WITHOUT MY BELOVED FROSTED FLAKES.
Aside from discovering that one should not drop both coffee and sugar simultaneously, as it will cause near-death experiences in the form of running over the curb, snow piles, and anything else with your auto, it's been....fine. Except for one thing. Apparently, MAH BODY HATES TEH FROOT. AND VEGETABLES. Every day, I awaken with abdominal cramps, and have to run to the toilet. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES FOR YOUR OVERALL MOOD, KIDS? I am a POOP MACHINE. Seriously. NOTHING BUT POOP. This diet is supposed to HELP with allergies, NOT CREATE GASTRIC WOE. Also, am becoming fashionably gaunt. Why isn't it bathing suit season?
Anyhow, the likely culprit at this point? FRUCTOSE. Seriously. What else?
I've already had reactions to DAIRY (makes me congested, sneeze), WHEAT (migraines), and EGGS (vertigo, migraines). WHAT THE HELL, BODY? I am going to get scurvy at the rate we're going at. That or beri beri. Or rickets. Or some other old fashioned disease, like when I got scarlet fever as a kid.
Oh, the horrors. Anyhow, I cut back on the froot, supplementing with the healthy exchange of POTATO CHIPS (natural variety, no additives). Lo & behold, feeling MUCH BETTER.
In short, my body can only handle MEAT, MEAT, RICE, POTATO, LARD, MEAT, LARD, SALT. AND COFFEE. Go figure. Oh, and bananas. I ate about 10 of those in the past 2 days as well. So there's that.
Off to the allergist with me, as one of my friends noted that at this rate, the only food left on the list is soylent green.
Aside from discovering that one should not drop both coffee and sugar simultaneously, as it will cause near-death experiences in the form of running over the curb, snow piles, and anything else with your auto, it's been....fine. Except for one thing. Apparently, MAH BODY HATES TEH FROOT. AND VEGETABLES. Every day, I awaken with abdominal cramps, and have to run to the toilet. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT DOES FOR YOUR OVERALL MOOD, KIDS? I am a POOP MACHINE. Seriously. NOTHING BUT POOP. This diet is supposed to HELP with allergies, NOT CREATE GASTRIC WOE. Also, am becoming fashionably gaunt. Why isn't it bathing suit season?
Anyhow, the likely culprit at this point? FRUCTOSE. Seriously. What else?
I've already had reactions to DAIRY (makes me congested, sneeze), WHEAT (migraines), and EGGS (vertigo, migraines). WHAT THE HELL, BODY? I am going to get scurvy at the rate we're going at. That or beri beri. Or rickets. Or some other old fashioned disease, like when I got scarlet fever as a kid.
Oh, the horrors. Anyhow, I cut back on the froot, supplementing with the healthy exchange of POTATO CHIPS (natural variety, no additives). Lo & behold, feeling MUCH BETTER.
In short, my body can only handle MEAT, MEAT, RICE, POTATO, LARD, MEAT, LARD, SALT. AND COFFEE. Go figure. Oh, and bananas. I ate about 10 of those in the past 2 days as well. So there's that.
Off to the allergist with me, as one of my friends noted that at this rate, the only food left on the list is soylent green.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Old Dog
Hobo is the name of our family dog. My dad, sister and brother went to the pound one day to get a cat in 1994, but when they came back, they had a dog who had mange, a cone and flies buzzing around him. They were all "they were going to euthanize him! but we had to save him, look at his face! He's so sweet." When my mom and dad died died, I took over running the house, the teenage brother and Hobo, who was about 11-ish at the time. Needless to say, it was very difficult trying to maintain a large house with a useless. . . er. ..troubled teenager and a dog who was bordering on elderly and often escaped from the yard to defecate on other lawns, thus making all the neighbors want to get together and lynch us. Then, after many years, I bought a condo and my sister took the dog. Now, my sister is selling her place and I live in a house, so Hobo has returned (thankfully minus the useless teenage appendage who is away at college).
Hobo is now officially OLD. We don't know how old he was when we got him in 1994, but at the minimum, he would be about 16 or 17 now. Which is ELDERLY. He is:
On a sidenote, our other dog is totally using this as an opportunity to remind us how great she is. She ostentatiously goes to the bathroom in appropriate places, with triumphant glances at Hobo (who really can't see them anyway). She is totally overcompensating by doing every cute trick she has in her repertoire.
So this dog. This dog. He is not in good shape. The question would be "why don't you put him to sleep?" which is a logical step. However, every time he gets sick or we decide he's miserable and take him to the vet, he KNOWS and is all "I want to live! And DANCE! I love you and you and you so much and see? I only have a little bit of a limp! I am so happy and joyful, let me just put my head on your lap!" So we decide, well, he seems happy and then he is spared because I can't bear to put a dog to sleep who wants to live.
When he came, I was like "Husband will be able to put him to sleep, I'm too emotionally involved." Alas, this is not the case as the Husband has fallen under the spell that is the poor, sad, lovely, sweet, decrepit dog. He does have a sweet face. So we are investing in rug cleaner, towels, a crate and a lot of patience.
Hobo is now officially OLD. We don't know how old he was when we got him in 1994, but at the minimum, he would be about 16 or 17 now. Which is ELDERLY. He is:
- Mostly deaf
- Sort of blind
- Somewhat incontinent (conditions apply)
- Lost a lot of sense of smell
- Underweight, possibly because of some teeth issues where he can't eat
- Crippled (right rear leg is completely useless, front left is bowed)
- His farts smell like he's just taken a dump, which leads to. . .
- Incontinent and can't tell when he has to go
- Too crippled to get to the door to let us know he has to go out
- Too deaf/blind/smell impaired to realize he's not outside
- Forgotten his house training
- Just decided that he's too old to even bother and just says "ah, fuck it"
On a sidenote, our other dog is totally using this as an opportunity to remind us how great she is. She ostentatiously goes to the bathroom in appropriate places, with triumphant glances at Hobo (who really can't see them anyway). She is totally overcompensating by doing every cute trick she has in her repertoire.
So this dog. This dog. He is not in good shape. The question would be "why don't you put him to sleep?" which is a logical step. However, every time he gets sick or we decide he's miserable and take him to the vet, he KNOWS and is all "I want to live! And DANCE! I love you and you and you so much and see? I only have a little bit of a limp! I am so happy and joyful, let me just put my head on your lap!" So we decide, well, he seems happy and then he is spared because I can't bear to put a dog to sleep who wants to live.
When he came, I was like "Husband will be able to put him to sleep, I'm too emotionally involved." Alas, this is not the case as the Husband has fallen under the spell that is the poor, sad, lovely, sweet, decrepit dog. He does have a sweet face. So we are investing in rug cleaner, towels, a crate and a lot of patience.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
It's 10 AM, Do You Know Where Your Ovary Is?
So, had to have an ultrasound, and what a joy that was, let me tell you. First off, said procedure involves drinking fluids and NOT PEEING FOR HOURS. They say drink, oh, ELEVENTY-TWELVE OUNCES of water, and then go to the appointment, and, you know, just HOLD IT, since this is the SAME TEST USED ON PREGNANT LADIES. WITH BLADDERS THE SIZE OF THIMBLES. Anyhow, this time, I learned, and just had a cup of coffee, and proceeded as usual, figuring, hell, they wouldn't notice that I was flagrantly disregarding their rules. I was correct. So let this be a lesson: coffee fixes everything.
Anyhow, I proceeded to the appointment, whereby they where searching for our pals, the Rice Cysties, the harbringers of pain and doom. Said pals are small, and usually to be found on the right ovary. Which, as far as I know, is located in my abdominal cavity. Somewhere nearish to my uterus. Or something.
Everything was going according to plan, my belly beginning to itch dramatically from the ultrasound fluid (note to self: HOW IN HELL CAN YOU BE ALLERGIC TO AN HYPOALLEGENIC GEL?), and as I'm talking to the tech about my issues, she notes that my ovary appears to be rather small. Well yes, part of it was peeled off in a surgery, removing a prior Cystie, but hey, there should be THREE MORE THERE.
The radiologist then enters the room, and looks at the images, and announces, that NO, THAT IS NOT MAH OVARY. Okay. What is it then? A ghost? She then asks me if I know where my ovary is. Dude. Really? I mean, yes, I've had a few anatomy classes, but this is a pretty small organ, and I'm retroverted, so mine's not exactly in the normal placement, and it's a little smaller than average. So no, I can't just POINT TO IT FOR YOU. And HELLO, YOU ARE THE ONE WITH THE HOITY-TOITY DEGREE.
My confidence rapidly falling, she then states that maybe I don't have a right ovary at all. Hmmm. 6 months ago I had one. Did I somehow lose it? Did I leave it in the car last week? Or in the office? Did something EAT IT? I don't know. Then she claims to see a fallopian tube. Yeah...those were sort of burnt out, in a surgery, last I was told. So what are we seeing, exactly?
At the end of this, she tells me I have no Cysties....but riddle me this, Batman: IF YOU COULDN'T FIND MY DAMN OVARY, HOW DO WE KNOW THERE AREN'T ANY CYSTIES?
To be honest, I'm a bit perplexed. And ironies of ironies, it's acting up today, and I think I actually could point to it this morning, hahaha.
Anyhow, I proceeded to the appointment, whereby they where searching for our pals, the Rice Cysties, the harbringers of pain and doom. Said pals are small, and usually to be found on the right ovary. Which, as far as I know, is located in my abdominal cavity. Somewhere nearish to my uterus. Or something.
Everything was going according to plan, my belly beginning to itch dramatically from the ultrasound fluid (note to self: HOW IN HELL CAN YOU BE ALLERGIC TO AN HYPOALLEGENIC GEL?), and as I'm talking to the tech about my issues, she notes that my ovary appears to be rather small. Well yes, part of it was peeled off in a surgery, removing a prior Cystie, but hey, there should be THREE MORE THERE.
The radiologist then enters the room, and looks at the images, and announces, that NO, THAT IS NOT MAH OVARY. Okay. What is it then? A ghost? She then asks me if I know where my ovary is. Dude. Really? I mean, yes, I've had a few anatomy classes, but this is a pretty small organ, and I'm retroverted, so mine's not exactly in the normal placement, and it's a little smaller than average. So no, I can't just POINT TO IT FOR YOU. And HELLO, YOU ARE THE ONE WITH THE HOITY-TOITY DEGREE.
My confidence rapidly falling, she then states that maybe I don't have a right ovary at all. Hmmm. 6 months ago I had one. Did I somehow lose it? Did I leave it in the car last week? Or in the office? Did something EAT IT? I don't know. Then she claims to see a fallopian tube. Yeah...those were sort of burnt out, in a surgery, last I was told. So what are we seeing, exactly?
At the end of this, she tells me I have no Cysties....but riddle me this, Batman: IF YOU COULDN'T FIND MY DAMN OVARY, HOW DO WE KNOW THERE AREN'T ANY CYSTIES?
To be honest, I'm a bit perplexed. And ironies of ironies, it's acting up today, and I think I actually could point to it this morning, hahaha.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Two words.
When will people learn that 'a lot' is two words? If you don't already know this, consider this your lesson, America.
That's all.
That's all.
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