Thursday, July 31, 2003

A Big Fuck-You

This should come as no surprise to anyone, but landlords are still screwing over tenants everywhere.

The management at my former apartment owes Jenny and me $145. This money was taken out of our deposit for professional cleaning services. According to the paperwork, our apartment was "dirty" when we moved out--uninhabitably so--while it was in good shape when we moved in. The new manager, the third they've had this year, says his hands are tied. The building manager who checked us out is the one who says the place was in such terrible shape. We signed the paperwork, they said, so what can we do?

You're told to "get everything in writing" when dealing with these entities. What you're not told is what to do with said documents, what their ramifications are, and what you can do to modify their contents. The process, especially in a big property management company like Coho, is so streamlined that us stupid young'uns are liable to everything is hunky-dory. We did our research, but still didn't know the right questions to ask.

So today, a year and some months later, two business managers removed, we're short $145. Not that it's a huge chunk of change--albeit not inconsequential--but it's the principle of the thing.

The day we were scheduled to move in was the same day the previous tenants were moving out. We were delayed several hours, which was a huge hassle because Jenny and I were kicked out of the dorms the same day and had all our shit in our parents' respective minivans, just waiting to unload. It was midday when Jenny called to angrily inform me that Greg, the then-manager, told her we couldn't move in because the old tenants hadn't moved out.

The whole day is kind of a blur of hauling, bitching, and cleaning, but I recall it this way: We were allowed to start moving our stuff in around 4 p.m. The boys were still getting their stuff out. The place wasn't cleaned. In fact, Greg and I vacuumed the living room ourselves as the boys hauled boxes out. Sometime in there the carpet cleaners do their thing quickly and Jenny and I leave for the weekend. Greg did the checklist, though not very thoroughly, and we signed it. He said everything was fine. Nowhere and at no time did anyone say a word about professional cleaners.

Our little apartment, while not in the best condition, was habitable and comfortable. Over the year, we didn't trash the place. Poor ventilation lead to some problems like mildewey showers that we couldn't do much about. Behind the toilet tank was totally black; also not our fault. The rest of the house suffered nothing more than the usual wear and tear. I mean, we're girls. The worst thing we "did" to the place was spill tea on the carpet and leave corners to collect dust.

And we cleaned. Oh, how we cleaned. Bleach was applied to the mildewey bathroom in several coats over a weekend. Everything was scrubbed. Under the fridge, even, was cleaned, though it was obvious when we did so that no one had done it before. (There were broken candles under there in colors I haven't even had.) We vacuumed, we washed walls, we dusted, we did everything in our power to make the place clean as possible. It wasn't sparkling, but it wasn't any worse than when we moved in.

The building manager, however, felt it was disgusting. She didn't say so at the time, of course, but we found out today. At check-out, we asked her about the cleaning crew we knew was waiting outside. She told us they were going to clean all the apartments, and promised to vouch for us because she remembered our move-in fiasco. She was afraid she'd be in the same boat. This put us at ease. We made a point to ask the then-new manager about it right then, even, and he said he'd talk to her and said it sounded like we shouldn't have to pay the cleaning fee.

Then I got the check in the mail. It seemed a little skimpy. There wasn't a clear explanation of what the money was for or why we got back what we did, so I consulted Jenny, who went to the office and asked about it herself. Two points emerged from this: One, we'd been delinquent $200 for an expired rent voucher, so that was taken out of last month's rent. Fine, we can eat that one. Two, a $145 cleaning fee had been levied. But we'd asked about the cleaning fee! They'd told us it shouldn't be a problem!

Well, it was a problem.

That's why today I stormed out of there, absolutely livid and swearing at a mommy with a newborn baby that she was lying to me and this was such bullshit, blah blah blah.

Essentially, I'm sure, we are less the "victims" than the "people who fucked up out of naivete," and $145 ain't too bad for such an important life lesson. But it still sucks.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Fresh Crab Bliss

We've got crabs.

(tee-hee.)

Lauren's dad gave Chris four fresh, cleaned and cooked crabs on Sunday. He's sharing with us all, of course. Jen and I split one last night and ate every last delicious morsel with our hands and chopsticks and half a lime each. Lime and crab is bliss.

Today for lunch, I ate another half a crab with a puddle of tzatziki, also bliss. Sweet, messy bliss.

Really, that's all I have to say on the subject. I love crab. It's probably the most grotesque thing I'll eat, but I couldn't give it up. On the rare occasions I get to eat it, it's so worth it. These crabs, they lived for me.

In other news, Margaret is leaving our happy home for a small school in North Carolina. Not that she's been around... well, at all this month, but Chris only found out through his dad. Not Margaret. At least they're willing to cover her share of things until we can replace her. More details forthcoming.

Green Shirts Do Not Mean Go

I don't know if people just get confused by the whole dichotomy between green light = go and green anything else = not necessarily anything to do with go, but I've noticed that when I'm wearing a kelly green shirt, drivers are less likely to stop for me in a crosswalk. I happen to own three kelly green t-shirts now, all of which I wear on a regular basis, partly because I like the color and partly because they are cool shirts. And I've never been run over or had someone absolutely fail to stop in such a situation that I felt it was strongly related to my shirt color. It remains, however, that these things happen, and it makes me wonder.

Today, for instance, I was crossing Brooklyn at 47th (my favorite four-way stop ever, or not! but a necessary conduit to the rest of the world from where I live) and I was clearly crossing the street as a woman driving a newish Japanese sedan stopped at the line, then proceeded to take her turn and stop just before the other crosswalk (where I was) without any apparent regard for me or the man standing on the corner waiting to cross.

Trust me that I'm not the sort of asshole who takes advantage of the letter of the law stating the absolute right of way of a pedestrian and darts out in front of traffic. This was a busy four-way stop with lots of pedestrian traffic and clear crosswalks. I had waited for other cars to go through before I took my turn. I just don't like to be bumped up next to by a car.

In other small irritations... why is it that some people consider it complimentary to tell you that you're skinny?

Certain people or groups tell me that I am skinny when I see them for the first time in awhile. I don't mean people who know me well (i.e., Becky) and tell me I've lost weight in the course of conversation, but rather people I don't know well but are sort of family. I guess it's better they're telling me I'm skinny and not fat, but still. It doesn't sit right.

On Friday, when I arrived at the house, some of the Cambodian women saw me and gave me a quick once-over, brows furrowed. "Em! You so skinny now!" they told me. I said, "Uhh... I guess so..." wondering how they can say that when I wear a size 14 and they wear a 4. The word "skinny" itself makes me feel I must look emaciated. But these are all cultural differences I couldn't possibly explain to these women I could barely name, and it's not like I'd want to be their size, anyway. Just couldn't they tell me I look good instead? Why skinny?

My mom, of course, kicked me and said, "Say, 'thank you.'" So I did.

I'm sure they all think I'm very peculiar.

Monday, July 28, 2003

I Hate Driving

Despite going to bed at 10:30, I am completely exhausted this morning. Warm nights must just not be conducive to actual rest, even if you're passed out in bed.

I had a very long weekend. It involved a lot of driving, a lot of family, a lot of food, and not enough seeing Christine again.

I took pictures, of course.

Josie and I left Friday morning around 11:30. We'd hoped this would help us avoid major Portland traffic. We were wrong. Taking 205 to her house, traffic was backed up for miles just after crossing the Columbia. The radio said there was a three-alarm fire south of us that was causing traffic to be re-routed. She instructed me to get off an exit early and directed me through Oregon City to West Linn, to her dad's house. She and her dad gave me directions back to the freeway that would hopefully avoid the fire. I went for miles through country roads and encountered more stop-and-go on a curvy, hilly two-lane road just before the freeway. I was afraid it would take me hours to get to Tigard.

I talked to my mom as I sat in that mess. She sympathized and said she'd leave the hotel keys at the front desk for me while her and Koko went to my brother's house for food and monk stuff. They'd expect me in about an hour.

Almost as soon as we got off the phone, however, the road cleared up, the freeway entrance was right there, and there were about three other cars on the road. Traffic on the other freeways was great, too. I found where I was going and got there in about 10 minutes. Mom and Koko hadn't even left yet. I put on the one skirt I brought and followed them to Sua's house.

It felt very strange, driving for the first time this route that I grew up knowing so well as a passenger. Margot later expounded on this strangeness. She wanted to drive by our old house, too.

Grandma and Grandpa were already at the house and food was out. I got a little bowl of chicken green curry with some thin rice noodles and cabbage, which was tasty. I talked to Yan, who is all of 17 these days (!!) and graduating in a year and my grandparents a little before I had to pick up Margot from the MAX station. Grandpa showed me the many scratches and strange marks on his hands and forearms to which he was prone because of medicine he takes.

After my sister arrived, we pushed our niece and her cousin Monique on the swings. They were cute. Another little girl their age ran in Kanhya's swing path while she was up in the air and I had to grab the swing so Kanhya didn't kick her on accident. Eep.

Saturday morning I got up, ate breakfast, and went shopping for something dressy to wear to the wedding and reception. Target had a knee-length pinstripe skirt for $20 that I liked well enough, but no shirts I'd wear with it. Meier & Frank had a big sale, so I wandered for a long time. I hate, hate, hate shopping department stores. I get very lost. They are, of course, *designed* so you get lost, but still. I found a skirt marked at 33% off $21 and a pretty blouse marked at $12.99. I decided they matched well enough (red shirt with a patterned skirt that had some red in it) and took them to the register. They rang up as $8.99 and $9.99, respectively, so I was thrilled.

I took them back to the hotel and Margot and Koko said they didn't match well enough and asked if I had another shirt. I didn't. I said I wished I had a plum shirt, which would have matched much better. Margot was wearing a plum shirt with her black lacy skirt. My red shirt fit her okay, so we decided to switch. This worked well enough, except I only had one outfit for the wedding and the reception, and apparently I was supposed to have separate outfits. I just didn't have time for more stupid shopping.

The wedding itself was pretty interesting, what I saw of it. Koko and I watched, digital cameras poised, for the candle-passing and the tying of red string around the wrists. Koko said weddings in Japan are much quieter; the Cambodians were talking loudly the whole time. Two guys convinced us to go have our picture taken with the bride and groom after we tied red string and wished them luck. After all the pictures were taken, we threw palm seeds on the new couple and followed them up to the bedroom for the symbolic fruit-eating. At this point, the wedding was done. It was about one o'clock.

This was when Christine called. We decided to meet at the Saturday Market MAX stop at 2. I figured this would be just fine and dandy. But first, Koko and I needed to return to the hotel to change. Then I needed to get lost and take half an hour to find a damn MAX stop where I could park. Then the train needed to take at least 45 minutes to reach our destination. Then Josie had to call to ask what was up and my cell phone had to be crappy so she thought we got off in Pioneer Square. After all this, we only had about two hours to hang out. Koko went off to explore the market and Christine and Josie needed food, so we went to Taco Del Mar and had takeout in the park. I just had a lemonade, since I was full of delicious beef red curry, eggrolls, chow mein, and fried rice.

At this time, I will point out that yes, I eat vegetarian. For the most part. So stop being confused that I ate meat; I'll explain. My reasons are health and environment, essentially (Diet for a Small Planet, anyone?), but I make occasional exceptions. Big Cambodian weddings--especially since they don't exactly *serve* remotely vegetarian or even pescetarian dishes--are a deserving exception. I will also eat meat if/when I travel the world. I was avoiding meat-only dishes this weekend, but would eat meat in dishes. Anyway, end explanation.

After lunch, we had some more time to kill, so we hung out in Coffee People. I had a medium (16 oz., yeesh) black coffee and biscotti. Christine and Josie got milkshakes. Wonderful milkshakes. Did I mention I had a milkshake (okay, "smoothie" made with fresh berries and nonfat frozen yogurt) at Burgerville on the way to town? Because I did, and it was amazing. Anyway. Josie bought gummi bears and played out a little drama in which one bear fell into the shake and the others jumped in to "save" it, but they all perished. Bwa ha ha.

It was great to hang out with both of them again. Christine is back!! Christine!! She should come to Seattle soon or we'll all die. Well, anyway, Josie and I were super happy to see her, of course, even if no one else could make the effort. We're the originals, anyway.

Koko and I had to get back to Tigard around 5. We were almost on time to the reception, but I took a wrong turn on 99 and ended up in Tualatin instead of the restaurant. Whoops. The sign said Tigard was right! My directions said turn left! I thought I was being smart, but really, I was being dumb. Oh well. We were only about 15 minutes late, and the party didn't actually start for another hour or so. Mom and Margot showed up half an hour after we did, in fact.

A live band played most of the night, very loudly. I ended up putting in my ear plugs because it was so loud. My brother sang two songs for the couple's first dance that his wife said were very romantic. I asked if he ever sang to her, and she was quiet for a minute. I said, "Oh, never, right?" She laughed and admitted that he did; she seemed kind of bashful. It was unusually affectionate for her, and I told her so.

The food was all right. There were about a million courses; I can't remember them all. I particularly liked the fish and the mixed vegetable and seafood stir-fry served in a fried taro root bowl. They served shots of Hennessey to all the Cambodian men and left a two-liter each of 7up and Coke on every table, but no water. I asked for a pitcher of water early on, which was taken away when it was only half empty. Alas! The waitstaff was too busy to give us water.

The way to give gifts at these weddings is not to pick silver and china from a registry, but to write a check, put it in an envelope, write your name on the envelope, then give it to the couple when they come to your table at the reception. Then they bow and thank you.

Sunday morning, a film crew had invaded the hotel as we were trying to check out. Our chaotic morning involved separate trips to get breakfast, separate trips to Target, broken keycards, broken TV guest services, busy elevators, and an unusable lobby. A woman on the elevator told me supposedly Matthew McConaghey was filming there and agreed with me that it was inconvenient timing.

The route to West Burnside and Powell's was a confusing one. My directions told me to get off the 405 at a NW 14th St. exit. We saw no such exit before 405 merged into I-5. We realized this was totally wrong when we saw the Jantzen Beach exit sign, which is the last stop before Washington. We got off the freeway, turned around, and headed south again, this time taking the exit to Burnside, going right when we should've gone left when we finally got there, but getting parking and arriving in front of Powell's just in time. Christine was waiting. We found the two Thai places she'd suggested we go, but they were both closed. So was the pizza place.

We ended up going to a nice Japanese restaurant with good food and kinda high prices, but still in the affordable range. I had a bowl of excellent teriyaki salmon. Mm. Christine and Koko talked a bit about being in a foreign land, going home (Koko is leaving in a week), and cultural differences. Christine brought me a McLenin's t-shirt and Cold War propaganda poster from Russia. Neat.

The drive to Olympia was mostly speedy. There was a slowdown around Centralia, but we still made good time. Bad traffic started just north of Olympia and continued through Tacoma, where it's expected, and made me want to bang my head against the windows. Overall, it took half an hour longer than it should and put me in a terrible mood. I was exhausted when I got home, but I got to see Kevin.

Speaking of which, the new Ave falafel place, Bella Rosa? Good damn falafel sandwiches. Mediocre burgers, but excellent falafel.

Thursday, July 24, 2003

She called!

I'm not fucked!

Yippy!

Just Waiting for the Call

In half an hour to an hour and a half, one of my sources should call me for a quick interview. I am nervous, even though all I have to do is fire off a few questions and scribble down the answers quickly enough not to waste her entire lunch hour. I need to be at work in an hour and a half, but obviously, I might be late. Unless I can catch the 44 or 48 or something. That would save me a bunch of time if the timing is right.

Anyway. Assuming she calls, I'm not totally fucked. I did talk to the other source yesterday afternoon and the website for the subject of the story covers a lot of the information the editor wants in the 625-to-700 words. No time to catch up with other sources, of course, but hey. I'm squeaking by with the bare minimum, for now.

Kevin and I went to the Crocodile last night and caught half of Ben Lee's set and witnessed the rocking of Fountains of Wayne. I'd never heard Ben Lee before, to my memory, but I enjoyed it. He told some amusing stories and quips and the songs were pretty good. FoW rocked--they played two songs I really like, "Leave the Biker" and "Sink to the Bottom"--though this was one of the last dates of the tour, and they were noticeably tired. They did two encores, but I wasn't feeling the love. When we saw the Eels, the love was palpable; Mr. E did three frickin' encores before he had to drag himself offstage. But anyway, FoW was good stuff, and it was cool to go to the Crocodile for the first time.

So today at work, I must write my story. After work, I'm either going to do laundry and spend time with Kevin or go to Chop Suey and see the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players. I need to go to my prof/editor's office with the story tomorrow morning, probably around 10-10:30, then get Josie and drive to Portland. I need to refuel the car. I need to do a lot of things.

I think I'm going to try to find some "experts" in sunburn/burn medicine at a UW facility and write a story (possibly for the stupid Daily) about severe sunburn. Of course I'll use my own recent experience; not very proper journalistic, but probably far more interesting than a straight news story, unless I can find someone else with a similar story.

My sister will be flying into Portland tomorrow evening and I will pick her up from a MAX station nearer our hotel. I'm not sure what I'll do with my evening, but Saturday afternoon is to be spent with Josie and Christine (!!!), perhaps in downtown Portland (to do: get piles of Mapquest directions), before I must go to the wedding reception. Sunday I'll meet Christine for lunch or so before getting back on the road, alone (to do: borrow some of Kevin's CDs that are good driving music, like Sloan and Fountains of Wayne).

The 12 o'clock hour is drawing near. I'm sitting here with a bowl of cold avocado green curry and brown rice from Araya's. We went there last night specifically for avocado green curry, even though it was much more expensive than I remembered ($12.95 instead of $8 or 9) and we got Tom Kah soup, too, so it was just way too much food.

I would seriously never make it as a real reporter. I can write, maybe, but I'm terrible at newsgathering. I get so anxious I want to puke. I don't know how to pronounce peoples' names, even if I consult the Internet. Ah, well. More coffee for me.

And I took the gauze off today without reapplying silvadene. It's okay. I can shower. I was able to shave the hair off that made it somewhat painful to peel off the skin. I can wear socks, shoes, and pants. I can stand. It doesn't even itch like hell right now. It's just shiny, a little tight and dry, and ugly, but since when did I care?

Monday, July 21, 2003

Mornings Are Borings

Here I am, at work again. I almost didn't think I'd make it here today.

You see, the pain Thursday night through Saturday was so bad, I wasn't sure I could walk here. I spent most of the weekend with my feet elevated to at least the crotchal level, or gravity disagreed with them and they became upset. Not one for upset feet, I complied with their wishes to be up, no matter how awkward or annoying.

Then a miracle happened. Or something. Sunday I woke up and was not in pain. I tumbled out of bed, and when my feet hit the floor, it didn't hurt. I walked to the bathroom without hobbling like a zombie. Sitting on the toilet didn't cause my legs to experience the dull ache that had become so familiar. I could stand at the sink and wash my hands without shifting weight from heel to toe and foot to foot, always swishing the pain around.

So I spent Sunday cleaning house. To top off my day as Suzy Homemaker, I baked cookies from scratch. Sweet, delicious, fattening, unhealthy, unvegan coffee oatmeal chocolate chip and pecan cookies.

Honestly, I was so bored of reading and doing things that required sitting down that I desperately wanted to clean house. No shit.

Saturday I left the house a few times, though. Saturday was better than Friday. I still managed to throw my phone across the room once, though, after it was explained to me that I'd have to return to urgent care for more silvadene because they told us how to put it on all wrong on Thursday. We'd used far too much. The nurse practitioner I saw on Saturday was a tad dismissive for my taste (and some jerk in the waiting room muttered something about "real emergencies" as I was leaving--dude, there were like two other people there, and if they felt I was a lower priority they damn well could've kept me waiting longer), but she gave me more of the good stuff and told me to apply it only once a day. She said I shouldn't have to use it for that long.

I'm shooting for Wednesday as the last day to wrap. Mostly because I'll be out of gauze after the Wednesday dressing and I don't want to buy more. It costs $3.50 for a single roll of gauze at Walgreen's. I don't think I'll be doing the mummy costume any Halloween soon.

Kevin has been so good through all of this. He stayed with me most of the weekend just so I wouldn't be alone, even though it totally fucked with his sleep pattern. He's willingly changed all the dressings, washed the burn, and applied the silvadene. He bought me groceries that wouldn't require me to be on my feet much Friday morning. He took me to the ER twice.

So. Anyway. What with all these improvements, I have no excuse but to get my shit together and write a couple good stories this week. At least one, anyway. And I am going to begin research... now.

Friday, July 18, 2003

"...Just Give Us a Call"

You have no idea how much anxiety those little words cause.

Calling someone is my last resort. Always. Except my mom or my boyfriend.

Asking for help, too, is a last resort. I'd prefer to think there are few problems I will encounter that I cannot tackle personally. Obviously, this is far from the truth, but it's my working solution.

So when someone says, "If you have any questions, just give us a call," I have to shudder a little. Because I won't call. Even if I have questions. Even if they're important.

It's stupid, but it's the goddamn truth.

My mouse appears to be broken. It's willing to manipulate the cursor slightly every once in awhile, but not much more signs of life exist. It's in a coma or something. Guess I'll have to replace it. Fortunately, I am muddling through keyboard shortcuts and hot keys to maneuver my X-session. That is, I can have windows and not use my mouse. Tres geek, no?

It's only a matter of time before something actually big in my computer blows up. Something expensive. This mutt box, this little Frankenstein machine is surviving nicely otherwise. When all you do is leave it on constantly, running Linux and sometimes listening to mp3s, it takes a lot to kill it.

The burn cream has finally stopped stinging. The only pain now seems to be muscular. My calves are super unhappy-feeling for how I've had to treat them this past week. All kinds of excess and strain, these puppies have endured. They're not taking kindly to gravity these days, no sirree. Amazingly, my ankles don't hurt. Just the calf muscles. And that's a dull, sometimes crampy ache. I can ride it out by keeping my legs up as much as possible. If they are level with my hips, all is right with the world.

It seems strange that less than a week ago, I found it impossible to hold anything useful on my skin--cold packages or gels--and suddenly, it's easy as pie. Gauze. I'd never have thought of it. The wonders of modern medicine.

Next weekend I am to drive to Portland with Josie. We think Christine will be home by then. We have every intention of spending some time with her. I'm not sure how much Christine knows about these intentions, but she will now, Ms. Blog-reader. We've missed you immensely.

Oh, and there's a Cambodian Buddhist wedding. My sister is flying up from San Francisco for it and everything. Koko and mom and my aunt will be down. It's between my brother's best friend and my sister's-in-law sister. It will be a big deal, but mom doesn't plan to attend all the ceremonial stuff. She says this time, no one will translate. She says they won't let her participate this time, because she's not married. She's going to stay with her friend Mag, who lives less than a mile from my brother and who also lost her husband to prostate cancer. She's getting a hotel room for the rest of us. To have a base. To have free continental breakfasts and Shirley Temples in the evening. To not have to drive in from wherever our friends live that we could actually stay with, since our friends don't live in Beaverton. At least mine don't.

And now, it's time for Pill #4 for the day. It's a red capsule. Then maybe I'll grill some Ahi tuna for my dinner, if I can sit down. Happy weekend.

Thursday, July 17, 2003

Wonderful ER, Or Something

Aloe is not enough.

Antibiotic burn creme, however, ought to be.

So towards the end of my shift tonight, the pain and blisters were getting much, much worse. Every time my boss looked at my legs, he said, "ewww." In a nice way, of course. By the time the doors locked, he suggested I get it looked at up at Hall Health, and I agreed. Why didn't I just do that yesterday?

I left work and walked to upper campus. Hall Health is right across from the Communications building, which is where I was going anyway. I called Kevin as I walked, and whimpered excessively. It was way fucking painful. When I got to Hall Health, the sign said it closed at 5. This was about 7:25. I told Kevin to come pick me up outside the Communications building ASAP and we'd figure out what to do.

I hobbled over to CMU and up two and a half flights of stairs to the newslab, which was miraculously unlocked and in use by someone I don't know who was printing off hundreds of pages of LexisNexis shit. I browsed the story requests and selected one that sounds decently interesting, due in a week, 650-700 words. Emailed the paper's editor and one of the contacts. Bam. Went out to wait, in massive pain.

Kevin finally arrived after getting a little lost on campus and we determined the best course of action would be to high-tail it to the UWMC Emergency Room. So I insisted that he park and walk in with me, and of course I insisted on walking. The wait was probably 30 minutes. Bad Boys was playing on the TV in the waiting room.

When I finally saw the nurse practitioner, she surmised that, gee, that was a nasty burn, and it sure looks like it's got a secondary infection, too! So she drained the blisters (clear, not pussy), had the medical assistant girl (whom I swear I've seen as a student in the computer lab) wash the whole area (ow) and apply a thick layer--"like frosting a cake"--of silver sulfadiazine creme with a tongue depressor. Then she applied non-adhesive pads to cover and wrapped it in gauze. She put all these items in a bag and sent it with me, because I'll be repeating the procedure twice daily now.

The NP also prescribed some antibiotics, which Kevin is now at the Ballard 24-hour Walgreen's filling, and told me to keep my feet up as much as possible. Great. The whole thing stung slightly and hurt like hell, but I'm sure it will help much more than, say, aloe alone.

"It's a good thing you came in," she told me. "This wouldn't have healed on its own."

Wonderful Aloe

As per Christine's request, there will be no more garish pictures of my sun-induced pain. But I will update you on my condition.

The swelling is way down. In fact, it may be gone. It's hard to tell--my feet aren't all that attractive to begin with. I can see and feel the bone again, however, so it must be happier.

It still hurts to stand still if I've been walking for awhile (i.e., from home to work), but I was able to stand still at home before leaving to bathe and do the dishes. Yeah.

This lady I was helping saw my burns and gasped. "Honey, those are, like, third-degree burns!" I tried to brush it off. I don't know if she is a med student or what, and I didn't want to ask. I just told her they were getting better.

I am able to apply aloe without it stinging. It actually feels good, too.

In other news, there were apparently five story requests sent to newslab this morning, so I'll have to stop by after work and see if any are still there. I couldn't go before work, so I hope I'm not screwed. I could really use some story assignments.

If my legs don't hurt too much, I will probably try to go shopping tomorrowish. I've worn my plaid skirt three days now, so I can probably only squeeze one more wearing out of it and another one or two out of the dress. I tried to wear a longer skirt this morning, which was only mildly uncomfortable until I applied aloe and it got all over the skirt. Could not abide.

I really have nothing else to talk about. My life has been dealing with the pain lately, or receiving sympathy for it, etc. The only other things I've been doing besides class and work have been reading. I finished both Pamela Ribon's Why Girls Are Weird and Chuck Palahniuk's Survivor yesterday and really enjoyed both. Hell, I really enjoy reading regularly again, period. It's been awhile. I'd like to crack back into some of the Salman Rushdie that's piled up on my shelf, unread since I read the first few chapters of The Wind Beneath Her Feet. Midnight's Children was probably one of the best novels I've ever read and I have two other books by him, so I really should read them. But for now, I've put Philip Caputo's A Rumor of War in my bag to read, since it was assigned when I took a 100-level U.S. History class two years ago and never actually read.

So... I think my weekend plans include recovery, and possibly a movie or two.

Wednesday, July 16, 2003

The Only Thing That Feels Good

Jebus lord. I tried to shop and my legs burrrrned every time I had to stop walking. At crosswalks. And, of course, at racks full of shoes that probably don't fit me in the first place. They are not very size 10-friendly at the Buffalo Exchange, let me tell you. I could buy oodles of boy shoes, but those aren't backless!

ahhhh
So I hurried bitterly home to soak my feet, because it is the only thing that feels good. And good lord, does it ever feel good.

I would start begging the heavens right now for massive floods if I thought it'd help, but that would probably be too dirty to be of any real value.

So it's the fourth week of a nine-week quarter. I'm supposed to write nine stories by August 22nd. I've written exactly one with no apparent prospects for more yet. I am so fucked.

But hey, I've been reading a lot of books and actually paying a modicum of attention to the newspaper, which is healthy. It's just the whole reporting aspect of the class that's fallen to the wayside for me. So fucked.

I should get back to reading and thinking about what the hell to write.

Goddamn, this soak feels good.

I had a dream last night that Kevin lit up a joint in my mom's living room. I was incredulous, but amused as hell. Kevin doesn't do any drugs, much less in my mother's house. Neither does my mom, for that matter. I remember wanting to try it in the dream, but not in the living room. That he lit up at all reminded me (even in the dream) of the scene in The Big Lebowski where the Dude has been taken to the other Jeff Lebowski's study to be given background on his mission to get ransom money ot Bunny's kidnappers and the Big Lebowski is being all melodramatic and shit and the Dude is like, "Mind if I do a J?"

Anyway. Non-standing activities time. I am on the path to recovery.

One More Try

Holy shit. I've figured out why things are so fucked up!

I've got a blister about four inches long and an inch and a half wide on either leg. A big, sallow, yellow blister.

the best i could do

I know this looks like an angry Scotsman falling down the stairs, but really, that is my leg--you cannot shave burnt skin; it will make the baby Jesus cry--and the speckly oblong doodle should point out the blister. Which I could not capture well. With the flash, it made the burn look insignificant and the blister nonexistant; without, there is blur. So, enjoy the angry falling Scotsman blur.

The swelling has begun to go down, however. I am going to go to the Buffalo Exchange after class in hopes of finding a pair of clogs or mules or whatever they're called that are closed-toe shoes with no back. That would be heavenly. I can't wear these damned flip-flops forever.

In other news, Christine was heading home as of yesterday, so the entire country better give her a big welcome home. Yay for Christine!

Time now for coffee and class.

Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Margot Is Funny

(12:30:40) MargotElyse: chop off your leg at the knee
(12:30:43) MargotElyse: get a peg
(12:30:46) MargotElyse: with a wheel on the end
(12:30:47) mikazaru11: haha.
(12:30:52) mikazaru11: i'd have to do that for both ;)
(12:30:54) MargotElyse: and be like the animated guy who shaved babies
(12:31:00) mikazaru11: ...
(12:31:03) MargotElyse: *saved, not shaved

A Quick Summary of OTC Sunburn Remedies

Or, Why Is It That If "U" Is the Second Letter of a Word, I Always Capitalize It If I've Capitalized the First Letter?

Whew. That was a lot of capitalizing.

So, here's what the burn looks like. This is the left leg:

ow

It looks much paler in the photo than it IS.

Seriously. Coming home from the Eels show last night, some dudes on the bus commented on its redness. We got into an amusing conversation in which one of them attributed my burn to "the Devil" because there could be no other explanation, and the other stated that I took the red pill. I said it (the ibuprofen) was actually more of a mauve, but it's more red than blue, sure.

I am now trying Tylenol (after ibuprofen and Aleve) to help the swelling. So far, it hasn't done jack, as you can see.

puffy

My ankle should not be that thick. And yet, this is what counts as improvement. I demand a refund!

Things that have helped:

Solarcaine, briefly. Aerosol spray is so pleasantly cool.

Wearing skirts that don't fall past the knee. Unfortunately, I have exactly two of these, no shorts (save plaid flannel boxers which, um, no), and no capris/waders/etc. Perhaps this is retribution of the fashion nazis.

Splashing around in a tub of cool water, if by "tub" you mean old trashbin lined with a bag too small for it so it starts falling off the edges.

Walking or not walking (i.e., sitting).

Mom strongly suggested I take on this madness:

ice cold burn

...which STUNG LIKE A BITCH. Holy fucking cow. She said it would improve. Well, after I got over the wincing and whelping long enough to just lie there and read a book, it STILL stung, and then I had to get up to get water or something and the nylon socks I'd used to tie it on (better fastener than, say, dental floss) REALLY stung. So, anyway, no.

At least I'm dressed so far today. And I went to Safeway for some hydrocortisone spray, which some website claims will be of assistance in the long run. I could've easily used creme, sure, but that would hurt like hell to apply. I am all about the sprays at this point.

I should probably get those frozen berries and peas back to the freezer at some point. And make food.

I am going to be totally late for work, but I think that's fair. I just need to be there before 5 so no one has to stay late. I think I'll be there by 2, which is only an hour late.

I haven't bathed since Sunday, though I have washed important parts. I think my hair can just stay greasy today. Who the fuck cares.

At this time I would also like to point out that Kevin is a good boyfriend and Jenny's new apartment is fuckin' sweet.

Monday, July 14, 2003

A Whole New Reason to Whine

I will tell you all about my skippity-doo-dah adventures in Seaside with Haremites in a moment, but first: It's whiny-time.

I have the worst sunburn ever. On Friday, Josie and I sat out in the sun for several hours, reading on the beach. It was so nice. But then, the badness came.

Josie didn't wear any sunblock, save for her face, because it would just turn into tan in a few days. She had impressive red bikini lines all over, but most amusing was the line about her collarbone from the straw hat she used to cover her face as she slept. Hee.

I slathered my body in 45 spf waterproof and sweatproof sunblock--and yes, I have heard that anything over 15 spf is essentially useless; I don't care--and wore jeans and a tshirt. I thought I would be fine. I was wrong. I'd rolled up my jeans to just below my calves. The one place I didn't apply sunblock.

And the one place I got a terrible sunburn.

It came on slowly. The first day, we got aloe and tended to our poor skin, but it was nothing truly unpleasant. When I woke up the next morning, however, it was difficult to walk because the skin was so stiff. It stung when sheets or pants touched the burn. Hot water running down my leg in the shower caused me to wince. It felt better only when walking around or sitting with the legs not touching anything.

Yesterday, it was much the same, but then I spent around five hours driving home. Apparently the rigidity required of me to drive didn't agree with the burn, so my ankles started to swell. Then I discovered a tiny blister on my left leg.

At this point, I was trying anything. Jen's mom suggested holding a rag soaked in vinegar against it. Everyone asked me if I had aloe. I tried wet socks, a baggy full of ice wrapped in a wet tshirt, other goos. Kevin drove all over town looking for a place that was open and selling Solarcaine or some other product Chris recommended. He ended up with some calendula gel from Fred Meyer which was about as effective as the aloe and also hurt to apply. (This is the only time in years I've thought it might be remotely beneficial to actually shave my legs, but the thought of dragging a razor across tight, sunburnt skin is not a pleasant one. Let's not even think about waxing. *shudder*)

Bartell's and Rite Aid don't open until 8, and I had to be at work at 7:30. So here I am, still in pain. I'm wearing my pirate skirt, since it's long (i.e., the hem won't constantly irritate the burn) and flowy, so it's probably better than pants. Feet are still a bit swollen, though perhaps less so. And I can't get aloe until after class.

Aieee.

So anyway, enough whining, more talk of the pleasant. I had an enjoyable weekend otherwise. Josie and I drove to Seaside Thursday night after I got off work. Josie insisted we stop at DQ on the way and bought me a dipped cone. Mom was still there, and it was good to see her. We spent Friday relaxin': readin' on the beach--I read all of Will Ferguson's Happiness, which was fricking hilarious--shoppin' for aloe and sunglasses at the Rite Aid, searchin' for a particularly tempting sweets shop and buyin' saltwater taffy assortments, and watchin' Addams Family Values until Jana, Shane, and Lindsay finally showed up around 11.

I would like to note, for the record, that Friday was absolutely gorgeous.

seaside on friday: sunny

On Saturday, Lindsay woke up before the rest of us and took a run on the beach. It was beautiful. Also, I discovered I was right about the PMS thing.

By the time we'd rallied the troops to go outside and make a sandcastle, things had taken a turn.

seaside on saturday: gray and windy. also, lindsay

As you can see, Lindsay is digging a hole against an ominous gray backdrop of sky, waves, and fear.

jana and shane

Jana didn't think much of the weather, either, but Shane hid his true feelings under a whiny exterior.

But we managed to build a lovely sand castle anyway. Four young adults trying to play is an odd thing.

hall of the mountain king!

After that, we decided a trip to Cannon Beach was in order. We took two cars the 10 miles down 101, drove around downtown and found no parking except for the street right by where we originally got off the highway. By this time, we were starving and ate at the nearest restaurant: the new and semi-upscale Clark's. They had a surprisingly good selection of vegetarian items, much to our delight. I had a sandwich on foccacia with portobello mushroom, cheese, bell peppers, and onions that was supposed to be like a Philly cheesesteak. And the fries. Oh, they were good fries. Unh.

When we walked outside, we could feel the sprinkling.

We drove through town and parked on a gravel road by some beach access near Haystack Rock. It was still sprinkling and very windy. Josie, Shane, and Lindsay tossed a frisbee around, to comical ends in such wind.

windy

Shane and I both thought the dark gray clouds approaching from the south and the increasingly heavy rain were signs of a good time to make our escape, so we all did. The afternoon was spent watching Liar, Liar instead. Then everyone wanted to go downtown and play, so we walked. I broke off and sat in Pacific Bento for awhile, sipping a mediocre latte and writing, before going home. They stayed out for quite awhile longer, apparently playing at the arcades and amusements and buying fudge. Yum.

When everyone got back, it was dinner time. We grilled burgers (garden and beef), toasted multigrain buns, made salad, and prepared garlic bread. Much deliciousness was consumed and everyone was full.

They played card games for a spell before Shane had to start heading home. We bid him adieu and packed up the wagon to make a bonfire on the beach.

The weather, of course, had failed to improve significantly, but now it was dark in addition. Confident we could still create fire against such odds, we dug a pit and began striking matches.

After about half a box of matches igniting and immediately blowing out, Josie and Lindsay walked to the nearest bonfire and asked for their secret. Jana and I mock-warmed our hands over the pit and said we didn't need a bonfire. Josie and Lindsay returned with a big bottle of lighter fluid and began gathering rocks to build a wall against the wind.

Eventually a fire was started, but it took a very long time to get going. Josie had to ask me to stop calling it "pathetic."

bonfire in the wind

But it did happen, and we toasted marshmallows to our bliss and covered the fire in sand and went home before too long.

Josie and Lindsay, despite their longings, decided not to go swimming in the ocean at night.

Thursday, July 10, 2003

Grrr. But Yay.

Too often do I feel murderous these days. Not in the sense that I have any intent of slaughtering any of the great unwashed, but I do feel the blood boil a bit from time to time.

Maybe it's just PMS.

I wrote a post a few days ago that Blogger told me it couldn't post. It seemed incapable of communicating with my ftp server. Everything was up--in fact, I had been using ftp myself earlier that day--but Blogger said it was no-go. So it ate my post.

Grrr.

It was a good rant, too. About things that no longer matter and so it cannot be replicated.

Just got the general angstiness floating around. And I've managed to bite the left side of my tongue with my sharp canine twice in two days, so it's all unhappy and lumpy.

However.

The weather here is ass. It's in the high 80s. I hate this weather. It makes it unpleasant to be inside, and outside of my house is gross because it smells of feral cat shit and weird, beer-swilling neighbors.

In Seaside, it's 66 degrees and partly cloudy.

Guess where I'm going tonight.

Yeeeessssss.

Only Josie is coming with me tonight. Jana, Lindsay, and Shane are due to arrive sometime tomorrow. Kevin says he might come down at some point, but he doesn't know. This means "no." He claims there is nothing to draw him to the beach, despite his complaining of late that Seattle parks, especially ones with beaches, are not open late. Apparently, the lure of 2 a.m. beachcombing is not enough to compell him to make a 3.5-hour drive and stay with a small crowd of my crazy friends. Psh.

I really have nothing to say right now. I'm tired. I want to go home, but I am stuck here at work for another two eye-glazing hours while people complain that we close too early, etc. Then I must grab food items, refuel the car, and pick up Josie before we head out on the freeway for a butt-numbing drive into the darkness.

The one real downside to this beach excursion is I will miss the farmers' market. Oh, boo hoo, but sad. I might be gone next weekend (to Victoria with mom and Koko?) and the one after that (Portland for a wedding), so that kills the entire July crop season! What will I do without organic produce?!

Die, I guess.

Tuesday, July 08, 2003

Just like the past, with a new coat of paint

I feel like writing, just not here. I am in command of my vocabulary lately, I just haven't had anywhere to properly direct it. And I'm using too many adverbs.

Fuck it, it's an online journal, that once oft-disparaged literary art form.

Someone's parents parked their honkin' SUVs in the parking spots behind my house and my neighbors'. They were moving out of the apartment across the alley, but still. You should ask permission to park in spots like that. It's akin to parking in someone's driveway.

Kevin and I spent the Holy Day of Our Lady Great Nation America in Olympia. I spent too much on groceries and he drove to alleviate boredom. I had to barter to get him to come with me--I didn't particularly want to drive alone on a holiday, since my sister (channeling our mother) chastised me for attempting to drive on what could potentially be a day of very bad traffic, etc. WSDOT made the roads look pretty clear, but still. So we settled on a trip to Woodard Bay, which Kevin had never been to and was unlikely to host several hundred obnoxious picnickers, to precede visiting Becky.

The park was lovely. No one was around. It was beeaaauutttiful. (Hint: If you want to see more pictures, switch the "2" at the end of the link's filename for any number 1-5. My web server doesn't seem to like directory listings, so you gotta do it by hand.)

I drove from the park to Becky's house. It's not a terribly long ways, though the park is out in the edges of civilization, even for Lacey.

We spend the evening with Becky (joined much later by Shawn), who let us use her kitchen to make a stir-fry that was intended to be grilled skewers. She shared some of her good teriyaki sauce (the Soy Vey brand, which is rich with whole damn sesame seeds, yum). She showed us anatomy and physiology and developmental psych textbooks and told stories about her life lately and the people in it. She seems much happier these days, which is so good. She says the only apparent downside to antidepressants is they make her very sleepy, and since her mom and stepdad are also on the same meds, they are all sleepy all the time. But sleepy-happy isn't necessarily a bad state, eh? Better than fucked up for sure.

We left around 11 since Becky was getting very sleepy indeed. She told us not to die. Kevin wanted to drive again because he gets rather bored otherwise. He drives as fast as the person in front of him, usually trying to find the person going the fastest--in this case, 80 mph. Just south of Exit 114 to Nisqually, I mentioned that there was, in fact, a state trooper lurking. That was when we saw flashing lights. The story is my semi-fictionalized account for the sake of Caleb's insatiable thirst for storytelling. Anyway, after that, we switched, and I drove under 70 mph for the remainder of the trip.

Today is gray. I need to call the Bothell family and try to secure an interview. I don't know how much they seek or avoid publicity for their story, and you need to take a lot of precautions around sick kids. I don't know; it could be very sensitive, and I'm not sure how well-equipped I am to handle it. I can be somewhat empathetic, and I have had some real-life experience and some journalistic training in this general area, but still. Who knows.

I just finished reading The Hot Zone this morning. Ebola doesn't sound like fun. And we came so close to total annihilation!!!! The writing style kind of annoyed me; it tried to hard to recreate a movie-type scenario, read peoples' minds, etc. when it sounds like it was more of a post-hoc journalistic investigation. But it was pretty scary, without ever actually using the word "annihilation," as I recall.

Maybe Pamie's book will arrive soon so I can read something that's not fucked up and scary. Like the New Yorker.

listening: ben folds five - missing the war

Ay, yi yi, yi

I just wrote a story that is about 1,200 words about a 4-year-old who had a brain tumor. That was a good interview. I was absolutely terrified to call the family, but the interview went well. I just hope my story is as good as I'd like it to be, even though stories never are.

Now all I have to do is find two more stories to do this week and I'll be caught up. Feh.

I also need to read the paper and find stories that are interesting, which if I don't do that right about now, I will have to do with an actual newspaper. That, like, I have to buy with actual money. Like, whatever.

Like, that's totally an awesome excuse to stop by Bulldog News after work. Maybe they will have more rockin' magazines for me to pick up and find new joy in, but somehow I doubt it.

And stop by Newslab. Maybe there will be story requests. And I should format my story so I will have it all ready to show Mike tomorrow before class.

Oh, rah, productivity.

I have nothing to talk about. All these entries lack a single focus point beyond, well, me.

Speaking more of me, I had what might be the least good meal in an Ave restaurant I've ever had last night. Kevin and I have wanted to try the Himalayan Sherpa place for awhile now--not sure why--and last night grabbed a coupon and went for it.

We ordered two completely different things on the vegetarian menu. He ordered the house special dal; I ordered the roti combination, which was some stuff and some bread. We both got exactly the same four little cups of sampler entrees, and while I did get bread, he got rice. Bad rice, according to him. The dishes were a red butter sauce with peas and cheese, some overly mushy vegetables with some dry sauce-type thing, some flavored and possibly pickled/steamed cabbage and assorted greens, and a bland, watery lentil soup. It's possible some of these things were part of what I ordered. None of them had anything to do with what Kevin ordered. The butter sauce with cheese, especially, isn't what Mr. Vegan would order. But we were so baffled that we didn't send them back. Stupid move. At least we had a coupon.

Then we went to Carkeek for a particularly pink-and-red cloudy sunset and no trains at high tide. And I had some particularly unpleasant gas.

Between the interview and dinner, I was home and saw this supposed "cleaning schedule" Chris made up. It was a completely absurd schedule that rotated daily, which makes absolutely no sense. I was very angry, and his mother--his family was in town for a few hours and catching a midnight flight to New York--said something about him making it up when she told him the compost was going to attract rats and cockroaches. Which is probably a fair assessment, but it hardly merits such a fascist cleaning regime. So, I ranted, of course, to Kevin all the way to the restaurant about how Chris better not expect us to follow that, blah blah blah.

Kevin helped me reason that Chris had obviously made it up to appease his mother, who can be notoriously demanding in terms of anal retentiveness. Which is the main reason I don't like being in my own house when she's around.

When I got home much later and Chris was home from class, his family safely delivered to the airport, I checked in to make sure my assumptions were correct. I explained that the system as he laid it out would never work, if for no other reason than I refused to abide by it. He said we needed some system, which I can agree to, and Jen came out of her room and we talked about it for a few minutes. We'll have to have a house meeting to figure something out, anyway.

In my opinion, there are really only certain tasks that are not regularly done that should be specially assigned on a rotating basis. Bathroom cleaning is one of these. Outdoors chores are probably another. Everyone needs to make a concerted effort to keep the kitchen clean and dishes washed and floors swept. People need to pitch in to make sure shared towels are washed regularly. We should also probably rotate garbage duty.

I just refuse to let it dissolve into some sick authoritarian, Mary Poppins-esque, "this house must be so clean you could eat off every surface, so spend your life cleaning" bullshit. We all have different levels of clean we are accustomed to. In order to live together, we have to adjust to the mean. If someone is more anal, I'm sorry, they have to clean more in order to bring things up to their standards rather than forcing the rest of us to clean like we were them.

But I doubt it's come to that.

Saturday, July 05, 2003

Just like the past, with a new coat of paint

I feel like writing, just not here. I am in command of my vocabulary lately, I just haven't had anywhere to properly direct it. And I'm using too many adverbs.

Fuck it, it's an online journal, that once oft-disparaged literary art form.

Someone's parents parked their honkin' SUVs in the parking spots behind my house and my neighbors'. They were moving out of the apartment across the alley, but still. You should ask permission to park in spots like that. It's akin to parking in someone's driveway.

Kevin and I spent the Holy Day of Our Lady Great Nation America in Olympia. I spent too much on groceries and he drove to alleviate boredom. I had to barter to get him to come with me--I didn't particularly want to drive alone on a holiday, since my sister (channeling our mother) chastised me for attempting to drive on what could potentially be a day of very bad traffic, etc. WSDOT made the roads look pretty clear, but still. So we settled on a trip to Woodard Bay, which Kevin had never been to and was unlikely to host several hundred obnoxious picnickers, to precede visiting Becky.

The park was lovely. No one was around. It was beeaaauutttiful. (Hint: If you want to see more pictures, switch the "2" at the end of the link's filename for any number 1-5. My web server doesn't seem to like directory listings, so you gotta do it by hand.)

I drove from the park to Becky's house. It's not a terribly long ways, though the park is out in the edges of civilization, even for Lacey.

We spend the evening with Becky (joined much later by Shawn), who let us use her kitchen to make a stir-fry that was intended to be grilled skewers. She shared some of her good teriyaki sauce (the Soy Vey brand, which is rich with whole damn sesame seeds, yum). She showed us anatomy and physiology and developmental psych textbooks and told stories about her life lately and the people in it. She seems much happier these days, which is so good. She says the only apparent downside to antidepressants is they make her very sleepy, and since her mom and stepdad are also on the same meds, they are all sleepy all the time. But sleepy-happy isn't necessarily a bad state, eh? Better than fucked up for sure.

We left around 11 since Becky was getting very sleepy indeed. She told us not to die. Kevin wanted to drive again because he gets rather bored otherwise. He drives as fast as the person in front of him, usually trying to find the person going the fastest--in this case, 80 mph. Just south of Exit 114 to Nisqually, I mentioned that there was, in fact, a state trooper lurking. That was when we saw flashing lights. The story is my semi-fictionalized account for the sake of Caleb's insatiable thirst for storytelling. Anyway, after that, we switched, and I drove under 70 mph for the remainder of the trip.

Today is gray. I need to call the Bothell family and try to secure an interview. I don't know how much they seek or avoid publicity for their story, and you need to take a lot of precautions around sick kids. I don't know; it could be very sensitive, and I'm not sure how well-equipped I am to handle it. I can be somewhat empathetic, and I have had some real-life experience and some journalistic training in this general area, but still. Who knows.

I just finished reading The Hot Zone this morning. Ebola doesn't sound like fun. And we came so close to total annihilation!!!! The writing style kind of annoyed me; it tried to hard to recreate a movie-type scenario, read peoples' minds, etc. when it sounds like it was more of a post-hoc journalistic investigation. But it was pretty scary, without ever actually using the word "annihilation," as I recall.

Maybe Pamie's book will arrive soon so I can read something that's not fucked up and scary. Like the New Yorker.

listening: ben folds five - missing the war

Thursday, July 03, 2003

Things That Frustrate Me

I write this as someone who has been rudely awakened by the incessant stuttering of city work crew jackhammers in the street. At 8 a.m. That shook the house.

Not a happy camper am I.

So yesterday started out so full of good intentions. Only a couple good things came of it.

I should admit now that I am super whiny.

Went to class. Class was fine. Walked partway home with a classmate I've talked to for awhile who told me that my freaking out at 28 Days Later psyched her up for something scarier than what she saw, so I guess that was a positive outcome.

Kevin was supposed to come over to catch the bus and see the movie. I was afraid he was going to flake out, because the night before he said something about how he wasn't sure he could be awake then, and: "I'm not sure I feel like a movie." So I ranted to Chris a bit, who told me I was in the right, then Kevin just showed up. We went to catch the bus, which left as we got there and looked to be going the wrong way. We went back to the house to see if we could find another route or if the theater offered validated parking. It didn't. Two hours of parking on Capitol Hill in the middle of the day probably offsets any savings from attending a matinee, so I said we shouldn't go.

Which, of course, made me stupid-mad at myself.

I tried to get some work done. I called people for my two stories (one story per week! It's week two and I won't have turned in any stories! Yay) and talked to both of them. I arranged to go to the weightlifitng class tomorrow morning, so I thought I'd have one story done by tonight. Score. The other source told me the family would be coming back to town Friday afternoon, so I should try calling them Saturday or later. The story's due Wednesday, so it should be okay. I'm a little worried I'll have to get to Bothell for a proper interview; it seems like trying to figure out the mess that is treatment and insurance hassles wouldn't work well over the phone. I emailed the editor of the paper wanting the weightlifing story to tell her of my plans (and the class schedule so she could send a photographer).

Kevin and I sat in my room, twiddling our thumbs, until I said: "Hey, wanna go to Goodwill? It's 50% day!" He asked if I was joking. I confirmed that I was not, so he agreed. We roped Chris into our trip and set off for the freeway.

The store was a little hectic and picked-over, but the renovations made the place look and smell much nicer than it used to. I picked up five records for scratching (although I may discourage scratching Gladys Knight and the Pips' Imagination, yeeeah) for $0.50 each, a couple paperbacks for $0.34 apiece, and a gorgeous pair of tall red boots (with 3" heel, yikes) for $3:
new boots

So I felt pretty stoked about my awesome thrift score, and we sat around downstairs, fucking with records, walking around in too-tall boots, and making dinner. Jen came down and was suitably impressed with my purchase and showed me her new-used knee-high black Docs. Aieee. I cooked these Gardenburger BBQ Riblets that intrigued me at Trader Joe's last week--despite my actual distaste for BBQ sauce and ribs--which turned out to be pretty good, though I am not looking forward to cleaning my George Foreman. This is turning into the Product Placement Paragraph, geez.

After copious grazing, Kevin wanted to go to Carkeek. I agreed and checked my phone for messages. I had one from the editor at the weightlifting-assigning paper saying that the interview subject didn't want to be interviewed tomorrow because it wouldn't be well-attended so close to the holidays, and, in fact, wants to meet with the editor to discuss the angle of the story before proceeding, so she'll let me know if and when the story is ever going to happen. Oh, okay. Down to one story, as-yet unwritten, for this term in which I need nine stories. Yay, that's cool.

Carkeek was lovely. The sun was bright, so we walked to the south end of the beach (high tide) and climbed over the railroad tracks to sit on this weird path behind a tree. Some guys walked by after a long, slow-moving freight train passed and made comments about this area being good to stash things (they didn't see us). Then Kevin suggested going to Value Village, which I was all for.

I found a toaster almost exactly like the one I broke. It's not as wide, but I think it's sufficient for our toasting needs. $6. Not a great score, but better than what I'd pay for even the shittiest toaster at Fred Meyer. Kevin found an ugly mustard yellow wheeled chair that he really liked and ended up buying. He took issue with my calling it ugly, but I countered that one of my favorite shirts is what I call hideous. "I'm not saying it's ugly in a bad way!"

I wanted to go the Barnes and Noble because I thought they'd for-sure have a copy of Pamie's book I could buy, so we ventured over the hill to the U Village. I feel dirty. They didn't even have it. They had 23 copies on order, but nothing in the store. Bastards. Now I guess I'll have to order it online.

We ate falafels and hung out and eventually I was just fuckin' sleepy and went to sleep, which brings us to 8 a.m. and the jackhammers. And here I am. And sure, I'd probably have been awake by now anyway, but damn.

Here's hoping something about today goes right. Goddamn.

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

Kevin's Crazy New Neighbors

...have a dog named Hitler, apparently:

[kevin] the people above me have a dog
[kevin] it's name?
[kevin] hitler
[emily_] oh. my. fucking. god.
[emily_] did you meet them?
[emily_] or you've just heard them yell "hitler" a lot?
[kevin] no, i didn't meet them
[kevin] i was sleeping and i woke up
[kevin] and this girl was saying 'hitler!' 'hitler'
[kevin] 'hitler'

More to come. I smell crazy neighbor stories a-brewin'.

I Want to Rock and Roll All Night

Yes. Prize for #1 Most Overused KISS lyric...

The new Gossip LP arrived in the mail yesterday, along with my other KRS orders of a neat-o 7" (also featuring the Gossip) and Xiu Xiu's A Promise CD and some random Gossip promo material (button, b&w photo mini-poster, sticker). There was a big pink poster enclosed with the record itself. I mailed the sticker to my sister and have thus far listened to the record twice. I like it. Beth Ditto sounds somewhat different--more mature, maybe--and the music is a bit less melodic, but still so fierce, strong, commanding, sensual.

So, hi. I slept. I am now Awake. Everything is the same, except I now want to see all of 28 Days Later when it comes out on video. I'm hoping setting will mitigate anxiety. I keep reading about it (this helps, really--no one else was so freaked out by it) and am actually intrigued. And feeling super wussy for being freaked out.

I have plans to see the 2:20 matinee of Winged Migration with Kevin tomorrow at the Egyptian. I hope he is awake by then. Usually he sleeps all day. He has said he will be, though, and he is not allowed to break promises. He also said he is interested in the movie, which may be partially because I told him: "You WILL see this with me," and partially because it looks fucking cool. I think he will enjoy it. I think I will enjoy it. And since it's just two hours of birds flying over stuff, there will be nothing to freak me out.

I also need to interview a woman who teaches weightlifting at the downtown Y for the NW Asian Weekly. I know I've mentioned this before, but I finally tried to contact her this morning. The operator took a message for me and said she's out today. So, rats. Her next class is early Thursday morning, so if I want to talk to her students, I guess I'll have to get up early. Rats, again. But this will all be sorted out after I actually talk to her, which sounds like it won't be 'till tomorrow. And there are rumors of story requests (numbering eight, coincidentally the number in our class) floating around the newslab, which I'll have to check out after work tonight.

The Haremites seem to have descended (via e-mail) upon Tuesdays at our house as an Official Unofficial Gathering Time, which I hope changes when they realize: (1) I work until 7 and don't get home until closer to 8, and, (2) Chris has an astronomy class that consumes his evenings, except maybe Thursdays. However, I think the only people around are Josie and Jesse, so it probably doesn't matter. They can come over and hang out and I don't even have to entertain them, really, though we'll probably talk. Mi casa es su casa, as the saying goes.

I'm trying to organize a little trip to the beach house for the weekend of July 11-13. This is the only free weekend I know of this month. So far only Jana and Josie have signed on, so if anyone reads this who didn't get an email and would like to be included, leave a comment. I can get you on the "people who want to do things with Emily" email list. Heh.

As far as I know, though, no one reads this thing who doesn't know me already.

Time to find "interesting" things in the two local dailies for show and tell tomorrow.