Friday, July 9, 2010
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Pittsburgh: It's not as bad as you thought.
(And potentially not bad at all.)
It's all happening!
First this:
http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/07/06/travel/06hours.html
And now this:
http://www.cnn.com/2008/TRAVEL/getaways/09/02/pittsburgh.market.ap/index.html
It's all happening!
First this:
http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/07/06/travel/06hours.html
And now this:
http://www.cnn.com/2008/TRAVEL/getaways/09/02/pittsburgh.market.ap/index.html
Monday, August 4, 2008
Blood and Guts and Very Little Glory: One Woman's Violent Struggle with a Pop-up Sponge and a Collins Glass
*disclaimer, this happened at least a month ago, I was just really delayed in writing about it. But I bet you knew that by the fact that it wasn't riddled with typos from my once errantly bandaged pinky.
I was washing dishes in my sink, as I so often do, when I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew, maybe 5 or 10 seconds before this happened, that this was going to happen. I had my hand wedged all the way in a Collins glass, scrubbing (I'm an aggressive dishwasher) when I heard a loud crunch, and my hand went numb.
Three guesses.
As soon as I couldn't feel my hand I began to slowly fill with panic. I was too afraid to look down and survey the damage. It felt like I stood there for minutes, but in reality it was only a few seconds. I finally looked down and saw blood everywhere. Just everywhere. Still no feeling in my hand. I let out an animal-like groan. I vaguely heard my roommate ask what happened as she started toward the kitchen. Then I started going south.
"Rachel" came in and caught me as I started to slump over toward the kitchen window. Good thing, too, or else I'd have cracked my head open on the dog bowl, or windowsill, or microwave, or some other hard thing that you're not supposed to fall on. She lifted up my hand to assess the cut(s) and in doing so I saw the damage, again -- and then I slumped, again.
Let me, in my defense, tell you that I am not afraid of blood or pain. I have never come close to passing out at the sight of blood (okay, I witnessed a birth up close once and I got a little light-headed, but I held my own, thank you very much). I've also suffered some impressive injuries, and I am still the reigning concussion queen in my peer group.
What I think was so terrifying about this was the fact that I couldn't feel my hand. Also, the bleeding wouldn't stop. Rachel sat me down in a kitchen chair and started squeezing and lifting my hand (did I mention she's certified in first aid?) and telling me everything was okay. About five minutes after I cut myself I began to feel the pain. Awful, awful pain. And then I got this unmistakable burning in my stomach. I told her I was going to be sick and lurched my way to the bathroom, making a mess as I went along. I didn't throw up though. The body is a funny thing, especially when you're frightened.
As I sat heaving 5-year-old-like sobs and trying to wipe my nose I told Rachel that I thought I needed stitches. All of this blood. All of this pain. Stitches, right? Well, in order to get stitches you need stuff to stitch together. And when you take a niiiiiiice chunk out of your knuckle, well, the effectiveness of stitches is questionable. Especially when you run the hypothetical inevitable finger bend through your mind and see the stitches tearing open. EWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Sorry.
When I finally calmed down Rachel went to clean the mess out of the sink. Interestingly enough, the glass had only broken into three large pieces. I can't tell you how many wine glasses I've broken with my aggressive dish-washing style -- they leave little nicks, not unlike paper cuts. This glass was thick though, and basically turned into three knives as it broke. Ugh, I still shudder thinking of that awful noise.
Anyway, bottom line is I didn't get stitches. Partially because I became obstinate from the pain, and partially because I was afraid of my insurance deductible. A few days after I ran out of the bandages Rachel bought for me, I went to the pharmacy to buy myself more. I bought myself a sweet box of Animal Planet animal print bandaids. They were absolutely pointless because I was using those big absorbent pads and gauze and surgical tape. I have two nasty scars to prove that I didn't get stitches. And we're down one Collins glass. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre, as Rachel would say.
The positive side of all of this is that the next time I break a wine glass and get a "paper cut," I'll be able to bandage myself in style. That and, for the time being, that big, white, neglected Amana dishwasher in the kitchen is my new best friend.
I was washing dishes in my sink, as I so often do, when I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew, maybe 5 or 10 seconds before this happened, that this was going to happen. I had my hand wedged all the way in a Collins glass, scrubbing (I'm an aggressive dishwasher) when I heard a loud crunch, and my hand went numb.
Three guesses.
As soon as I couldn't feel my hand I began to slowly fill with panic. I was too afraid to look down and survey the damage. It felt like I stood there for minutes, but in reality it was only a few seconds. I finally looked down and saw blood everywhere. Just everywhere. Still no feeling in my hand. I let out an animal-like groan. I vaguely heard my roommate ask what happened as she started toward the kitchen. Then I started going south.
"Rachel" came in and caught me as I started to slump over toward the kitchen window. Good thing, too, or else I'd have cracked my head open on the dog bowl, or windowsill, or microwave, or some other hard thing that you're not supposed to fall on. She lifted up my hand to assess the cut(s) and in doing so I saw the damage, again -- and then I slumped, again.
Let me, in my defense, tell you that I am not afraid of blood or pain. I have never come close to passing out at the sight of blood (okay, I witnessed a birth up close once and I got a little light-headed, but I held my own, thank you very much). I've also suffered some impressive injuries, and I am still the reigning concussion queen in my peer group.
What I think was so terrifying about this was the fact that I couldn't feel my hand. Also, the bleeding wouldn't stop. Rachel sat me down in a kitchen chair and started squeezing and lifting my hand (did I mention she's certified in first aid?) and telling me everything was okay. About five minutes after I cut myself I began to feel the pain. Awful, awful pain. And then I got this unmistakable burning in my stomach. I told her I was going to be sick and lurched my way to the bathroom, making a mess as I went along. I didn't throw up though. The body is a funny thing, especially when you're frightened.
As I sat heaving 5-year-old-like sobs and trying to wipe my nose I told Rachel that I thought I needed stitches. All of this blood. All of this pain. Stitches, right? Well, in order to get stitches you need stuff to stitch together. And when you take a niiiiiiice chunk out of your knuckle, well, the effectiveness of stitches is questionable. Especially when you run the hypothetical inevitable finger bend through your mind and see the stitches tearing open. EWWWWWWWWWWWW.
Sorry.
When I finally calmed down Rachel went to clean the mess out of the sink. Interestingly enough, the glass had only broken into three large pieces. I can't tell you how many wine glasses I've broken with my aggressive dish-washing style -- they leave little nicks, not unlike paper cuts. This glass was thick though, and basically turned into three knives as it broke. Ugh, I still shudder thinking of that awful noise.
Anyway, bottom line is I didn't get stitches. Partially because I became obstinate from the pain, and partially because I was afraid of my insurance deductible. A few days after I ran out of the bandages Rachel bought for me, I went to the pharmacy to buy myself more. I bought myself a sweet box of Animal Planet animal print bandaids. They were absolutely pointless because I was using those big absorbent pads and gauze and surgical tape. I have two nasty scars to prove that I didn't get stitches. And we're down one Collins glass. C'est la vie, c'est la guerre, as Rachel would say.
The positive side of all of this is that the next time I break a wine glass and get a "paper cut," I'll be able to bandage myself in style. That and, for the time being, that big, white, neglected Amana dishwasher in the kitchen is my new best friend.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Robert Plant and Grass Clippings?
Today as I was walking toward my house a maintenance man started a leaf blower to clean grass clippings off of a parking lot. I immediately started singing "In the Light."
I thought I would lose interest after the first verse but I made it all the way to the point when the guitar and drums kick in, and before I knew it, I was at my front door.
On a similar note, the phones in my office sounds just like the background sounds/synth-noise/mind-numbing chaos that is "Technology" (you know, that overplayed song by 50 cent and Justin Timberlake). I find myself saying "Ayo, I'm tired of using technology" without a hint of irony, and that's just sad.
(If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'm referring to the synth that kicks in at around 30 seconds. If you don't know what I'm talking about in the first part, go read a book or something.)
I always thought at this age my imagination would be tamed. It isn't. I'm glad.
PS- That video for "technology" is the worst, in case you don't have eyes to see that for yourself.
PPS- Here you go, lame-os, some high school senior hippie (or so it would seem) worked super hard to set all 8 minutes and 41 seconds of this to stills of the Northern Lights. A+.
PPSS- (6/23/08)My roommate vacuumed last night and son-of-a-gun if I didn't start it again.
I thought I would lose interest after the first verse but I made it all the way to the point when the guitar and drums kick in, and before I knew it, I was at my front door.
On a similar note, the phones in my office sounds just like the background sounds/synth-noise/mind-numbing chaos that is "Technology" (you know, that overplayed song by 50 cent and Justin Timberlake). I find myself saying "Ayo, I'm tired of using technology" without a hint of irony, and that's just sad.
(If you don't know what I'm talking about, I'm referring to the synth that kicks in at around 30 seconds. If you don't know what I'm talking about in the first part, go read a book or something.)
I always thought at this age my imagination would be tamed. It isn't. I'm glad.
PS- That video for "technology" is the worst, in case you don't have eyes to see that for yourself.
PPS- Here you go, lame-os, some high school senior hippie (or so it would seem) worked super hard to set all 8 minutes and 41 seconds of this to stills of the Northern Lights. A+.
PPSS- (6/23/08)My roommate vacuumed last night and son-of-a-gun if I didn't start it again.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The International: A Prelude
I have been a fan of the Carnegie International since 2005, when I first encountered the 40+ exhibits during a writing class. With my student ID in hand, I went back every chance I got, sometimes studying difficult paintings, trying to find meaning that was, to me, furtive, and sometimes sitting in the octagonal room filled with 8 projectors, each showing slightly differing clips of a man and a woman wandering the streets of an abandoned Paris train station while Philip Glass scores seemingly colored the black and white film.
I have eagerly anticipated this newest International. I had the opening marked in my date book and have been salivating at the chance to go. I finally went today, with my father and boyfriend.
It is fantastic. I am startled by how this International is simultaneously so similar and so different from the last one. It is, as was the previous one, ruthlessly fulfilling for any visual aesthete. This new one is both less provoking and more in-your-face. I'm wondering if the provocation will come with a second, third, etc., visit.
The first piece I encountered, an interactive wishing exhibit, set the mood for the visit perfectly. The wall is covered with ribbons of different colors. On each ribbon a wish is printed (some in German, some in Spanish, some in French, some in English). You remove the ribbon with the wish you want, or like, and tie it to your wrist with three knots. As you make each knot, you wish. Then you take a little piece of paper from a table nearby and write a wish of your own, which you slide into a hole in the wall. The artist collects the written wishes and prints them on new ribbons. I am wearing another person's wish, and someone else will wear mine. When this ribbon breaks, or falls off of my wrist, the wishes will come true.
I imagine that the artist prints multiple copies of some of her favorites because a few messages were peppered frequently among the others:
I wish for no more political crimes in Lebanon.
I wish to win the lotto.
I wish a vacation en la playa.
I wish I could have chosen my religion.
Je désire mourir en dormant. ( Translation: I wish to die sleeping.)
When I read the last one aloud, and then translated for my boyfriend and dad, a woman standing near me looked up and said "that's a good one, I should have taken that one."
I took the ribbon that said "I wish to always be overwhelmed by love."
In the spirit of this blog, which is really just the spirit of myself, I left one that said "I wish love for you all."
And I do.
I have eagerly anticipated this newest International. I had the opening marked in my date book and have been salivating at the chance to go. I finally went today, with my father and boyfriend.
It is fantastic. I am startled by how this International is simultaneously so similar and so different from the last one. It is, as was the previous one, ruthlessly fulfilling for any visual aesthete. This new one is both less provoking and more in-your-face. I'm wondering if the provocation will come with a second, third, etc., visit.
The first piece I encountered, an interactive wishing exhibit, set the mood for the visit perfectly. The wall is covered with ribbons of different colors. On each ribbon a wish is printed (some in German, some in Spanish, some in French, some in English). You remove the ribbon with the wish you want, or like, and tie it to your wrist with three knots. As you make each knot, you wish. Then you take a little piece of paper from a table nearby and write a wish of your own, which you slide into a hole in the wall. The artist collects the written wishes and prints them on new ribbons. I am wearing another person's wish, and someone else will wear mine. When this ribbon breaks, or falls off of my wrist, the wishes will come true.
I imagine that the artist prints multiple copies of some of her favorites because a few messages were peppered frequently among the others:
I wish for no more political crimes in Lebanon.
I wish to win the lotto.
I wish a vacation en la playa.
I wish I could have chosen my religion.
Je désire mourir en dormant. ( Translation: I wish to die sleeping.)
When I read the last one aloud, and then translated for my boyfriend and dad, a woman standing near me looked up and said "that's a good one, I should have taken that one."
I took the ribbon that said "I wish to always be overwhelmed by love."
In the spirit of this blog, which is really just the spirit of myself, I left one that said "I wish love for you all."
And I do.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
This Heat Has Got to Be Kidding
Heat, are you serious? As if "Thermostatkrieg 2008" wasn't bad enough already in my office, and now we've got weather so hot it's making my dog toss her cookies. It's also making people very grumpy.
I feel like such a failure--I always hold out as long as I can before turning on the AC and it went on June 9* this year. Pathetic.
*It would have gone on sooner but we were out of town draining someone else's** AC.
**Comfort Inn, Presque Isle***.
***Not my favorite hotel.
I feel like such a failure--I always hold out as long as I can before turning on the AC and it went on June 9* this year. Pathetic.
*It would have gone on sooner but we were out of town draining someone else's** AC.
**Comfort Inn, Presque Isle***.
***Not my favorite hotel.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Question: How Many Liberal Arts Majors Does it Take to Program a Heart Rate Monitor?
Answer: I don't know yet.
(Nike Imara HRM)
It is a very, very cool piece of equipment with too-cool-for-school instructions.
In other news, I got sick at work today. It was not at all awesome like getting sick in grade school school used to be. I was sitting in a meeting and all of a sudden I felt a vaguely familiar sensation. "This feels odd," I said to myself. "What does this feel like? Hmm. This feels kind of like having a fever, if I remember correctly. Hang on, wait, yeah, no--yes, I've actually got a fever." And then the room started swaying a little bit and I had to apologize and leave the meeting.
I promptly came home and went to sleep, which is exactly what I am about to do again right now.
(Nike Imara HRM)
It is a very, very cool piece of equipment with too-cool-for-school instructions.
In other news, I got sick at work today. It was not at all awesome like getting sick in grade school school used to be. I was sitting in a meeting and all of a sudden I felt a vaguely familiar sensation. "This feels odd," I said to myself. "What does this feel like? Hmm. This feels kind of like having a fever, if I remember correctly. Hang on, wait, yeah, no--yes, I've actually got a fever." And then the room started swaying a little bit and I had to apologize and leave the meeting.
I promptly came home and went to sleep, which is exactly what I am about to do again right now.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Slow Burn
So I just came back from a run. It wasn't a big run, or a hard run. I just did a mile medium/hard and then a mile of fartleks. Not grueling but worthy of enough effort to justify spending my (currently tiny amount of) free time doing it.
So I walk into my house and my downstairs neighbor, who I will call "Hank," and I start chatting about various things (drilling, cell phones, moleskin notebooks, family) and he pauses to show me his new briefcase (re: Swiss Army messenger bag). As he was showcasing the versatile mesh pockets, I said "What's it mean if your hips hurt after you run?" He looked up at me with a cocked eyebrow and said, "it means you haven't run in awhile."
"It's only been two weeks!"
(with a little bit of judgment) "That's enough."
Hey now, "Hank!" We can't all be Eagle Scout marathoners with sick distance times even though we smoke like a chimney and eat nothing but red meat and potatoes with the occasional capellini aglio olio.
Or can we?
So I walk into my house and my downstairs neighbor, who I will call "Hank," and I start chatting about various things (drilling, cell phones, moleskin notebooks, family) and he pauses to show me his new briefcase (re: Swiss Army messenger bag). As he was showcasing the versatile mesh pockets, I said "What's it mean if your hips hurt after you run?" He looked up at me with a cocked eyebrow and said, "it means you haven't run in awhile."
"It's only been two weeks!"
(with a little bit of judgment) "That's enough."
Hey now, "Hank!" We can't all be Eagle Scout marathoners with sick distance times even though we smoke like a chimney and eat nothing but red meat and potatoes with the occasional capellini aglio olio.
Or can we?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
All Apologies (and some appetizers, if you will)
I lied. I totally lied. April 23rd I promised new posts soon. It's been more than a month! In my defense, work has been really crazy. Working extra hours - through lunch, staying late, extra days - the works. I'm not complaining though, I love my job.
Anyway, I took a vacation last week. I have a lot of stories. What comes to mind first is that we rescued a sweet-ass feral cat. We didn't keep her (everyone I know is allergic to cats, 2 dogs in my apartment, trying not to get evicted, etc.), but she got adopted into a cat colony (did you know such a thing existed?). We named her Miss Boots. Her nickname is Nancy Sinatra. She was all black but with white front paws and white "boots" (you guessed it) up to her haunches on her back legs (ala Nancy Sinatra). I'm not really a cat person, but if I could have found a way to adopt this cat I totally would have.
For now I'm happy with getting her a home, medicine, food, shelter, and making sure the fish hook she managed to get stuck in her mouth was (surgically) removed (many, many thanks to the vet, the vet techs, and everyone at Friends of Felines).
On another note, my dog actually flipped when she saw Miss Boots on the deck. Literally. I got her a travel crate (it's pop-up, like a tent) and she, while inside of the crate, flipped it end-over-end and rammed it into the sliding glass doors when she saw Miss Boots on the deck. I almost peed my pants and my dog actually peed her pants(?). I had to wash her blanket (bedding). Twice.
Also, I ate a cinnamon roll that was bigger than my face. Seriously, it was probably more than 12 inches long and 6 inches wide. And I ate it. Because I was on vacation.
In other news, congrats to my LA poet for having a master's degree, and for being almost 24!
Anyway, I took a vacation last week. I have a lot of stories. What comes to mind first is that we rescued a sweet-ass feral cat. We didn't keep her (everyone I know is allergic to cats, 2 dogs in my apartment, trying not to get evicted, etc.), but she got adopted into a cat colony (did you know such a thing existed?). We named her Miss Boots. Her nickname is Nancy Sinatra. She was all black but with white front paws and white "boots" (you guessed it) up to her haunches on her back legs (ala Nancy Sinatra). I'm not really a cat person, but if I could have found a way to adopt this cat I totally would have.
For now I'm happy with getting her a home, medicine, food, shelter, and making sure the fish hook she managed to get stuck in her mouth was (surgically) removed (many, many thanks to the vet, the vet techs, and everyone at Friends of Felines).
On another note, my dog actually flipped when she saw Miss Boots on the deck. Literally. I got her a travel crate (it's pop-up, like a tent) and she, while inside of the crate, flipped it end-over-end and rammed it into the sliding glass doors when she saw Miss Boots on the deck. I almost peed my pants and my dog actually peed her pants(?). I had to wash her blanket (bedding). Twice.
Also, I ate a cinnamon roll that was bigger than my face. Seriously, it was probably more than 12 inches long and 6 inches wide. And I ate it. Because I was on vacation.
In other news, congrats to my LA poet for having a master's degree, and for being almost 24!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Thanks
To the girl in the cute sundress and flip flops on East Carson:
Thanks for telling me that I looked very nice, I needed that.
Thanks for telling me that I looked very nice, I needed that.
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