Errands

Running errands is the best. It makes me feel like I've done something with my day. It gives me tangible evidence that I did not sit on the couch and watch Celebrity Fit Club all day. I bought shampoo. I got gas. I can check "buy more dog food" off of my list (I'm a big list person.) It's one of the better feelings out there.

If I could make a decent living out of just running errands, I would. I know I could move to LA and become the self-deprecating personal assistant of some starlet, but I'd really just like to run errands when I want to run errands. I don't want Lindsay Lohan calling me in the middle of the night because she had a craving for blue M&M's. She can get her own M&M's. I just want to buy lightbulbs and face wash; and a new garbage can for the downstairs bathroom. Maybe a fan and a little hook for my keys to put by the back door. Yes, a hook would be nice.

Hospital Side Effects

The worst thing about going to the hospital (besides the fact that you're sick enough to be in the hospital) is not the runny/shriveled up/bodily-function-inducing food, or even the backless gowns stained with someone else's blood. The worst thing, by far, is the sticky goo left behind on your skin from the industrial strength medical tape they use to hold down pretty much anything that's not naturally growing out of your arm: an IV, excess tubing, various pieces of gauze, cotton balls, and really anything else that might (Heaven forbid) succumb to the force of gravity. The tape itself is bad enough; all thick and itchy. Ripping it off gives you an instant rash, red bumps sprouting up where your arm hair used to be. If it stopped there, it might even be tolerable. Your arm might just heal and regenerate hair with no further problems. Not the case. A thin black residue forming a perfect outline of the tape will stay with you for about 3 more weeks. You can pick at it, but you honestly have a better chance of pulling out more of your already sparse arm hair than picking off the goo. Trying to rub it off only results in red skin (much like a sunburn) and a spreading of the goo to other, previously uneffected areas. The goo must be left alone to run its course. And it will get worse before it gets better. It will gather lint and dust. It will collect dog hair and carpet fuzz. Stray whisps of cotton ball will hang on for a while. It's just a part of you until it decides to leave. And it will, eventually. Just make sure to steer clear of the hospital after it's gone. No one wants a second outbreak of the goo.

Bad Copy

Why is this Museum of Glass copy so difficult for me? I thought it would be easier than Re/Max for sure since it was a place I could experience, but nothing's coming out of me that I'm proud of. I even went and sat...for hours...in their Hot Shop hoping ideas would just seep into me by osmosis. But the best I've come up with is something similar to a cross between an episode of Barney and a list of side effects for a genital herpes drug. Even in 14 pt. font, it still reads like fine print. After re-reading what I had written yesterday, I actually involuntarily smacked myself on the forehead with the palm of my hand. Class should be fun tonight.

Things I Wish I'd Known Before Fighting Cancer:

• Eat as much as possible when hunger strikes because that'll only happen about twice.
• A hot bath will do more good than most pain killers.
• Well-wishers can be annoying and exhausting even though they mean well.
• Don't expect everyone to know what you're going through even if they tell you they do.
• It's not a good idea to take three Percosets and an Oxycontin at once, no matter how bad the pain is.
• Pain killers stop working after a few months (see above).
• Laughter is NOT the best medicine three hours after abdominal surgery.
• Shaving your head is kind of nice; it's growing back the hair that sucks.
• Wigs are made of real hair. They need washing too.
• There is an art to throwing up.
• Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream saves lives.
• People are amazing.

Tpynig Lsesnos

I remember taking typing classes in elementary school, but I never learned the "proper" way to type. I think it had to do with the computer program used to teach us. It was some program for the Apple IIE computer (you know, the green font, the overly spastic cursor) that would beep every time a mistake was made. And there were plenty of mistakes. Every computer in that room beeped at least every 3 seconds. It sounded a little like some of the electronic 80's music we were raised on. After a while, some of the kids in class started to get self conscious about how many times their computer was beeping, so most of us abandoned trying to learn the proper way to type and we resorted pecking at the keys with our index fingers. It took us around 5 minutes to type "Sally hit the ball", but we did it in perfect, beep-free silence. Then we rewarded ourselves with a rousing game of Oregon Trail. We eventually all died of dysentery.

Cush for the Tush

I never really understood padded toilet seat covers. Are people really sitting down to do their business that hard that they need another inch or two of cushy protection? Can they not control the velocity at which they throw their bodies towards the toilet? Perhaps it's there to ease the pain of long bathroom visits, but if someone is sitting on the toilet long enough to require a cushion, they should really probably be seeing a doctor. I suppose padded toilet seat covers could provide a nice forehead rest for those tough nights after parties or bar-hopping, but this doesn't explain why they are so popular with grannies the world over. But who knows, maybe all of our grandmothers are having a lot more fun then they let on.

The Ugly Sister

Tacoma is the Canada of Washington; the ugly sister. Tacoma suffers from a severe inferiority complex as well as a little bit of ADD. Seattle was prom queen. Tacoma didn't even have a date to the dance. Tacoma took to smoking pot under the bleachers during football games while Seattle cheered in the stands. Seattle went to an Ivy League college where she double majored in Psychology and Music Eduation. Tacoma took a few general ed classes at a community college before dropping out to work as a parking attendant. Tacoma has to listen to everyone gush about how fun Seattle is, how beautiful, how successful. But Tacoma is growing into herself. True, it took a little cosmetic surgery, but Tacoma's ugly awkward stage is almost over. And where Seattle can be a little distant and self-absorbed, Tacoma's been known to many as a loyal friend. So I raise my glass to you, Tacoma. You may smell a little funky every now and again, but it's worth having you around.

New Science

I've spent the last two years of my life feeling like some sort of artifact dredged up from the Titanic or a new species of monkey or something. I'm walking science and doctors don't quite know what to do with that. They keep taking my blood and running tests, hoping that one day they'll run the right one and end up with a Nobel Prize in medicine. I actually wouldn't be surprised if another one of me is growing in a test tube somewhere in Seattle. Meanwhile, I'm injected with what I can only assume is some sort of vibrantly colored Kool-Aid while giant magnets are used to look at my insides. The skin above the vein in my arm has turned into cork board and the scars on my stomach and chest seem to provide convincing evidence for my wild stories about carjackings in New York and knife fights in Amsterdam (I've actually never been to either place). I suppose it's kind if ironic that I work in a museum, seeing how I'm always on display.

My Humble Abode

I must admit I've been fumbling through this ReMax copy all week trying to think like the target audience and I'm finding it rather difficult. I've never been in the position of having enough income to even think about buying a house (let alone make a "lifestyle change"...unless that includes switching from regular to light cream cheese.) For fun I typed in my price limits on the ReMax online property search just to see how far $8 an hour would get me. Not very far. My search results showed me that with several loans and maybe another job or two on the side, I could be the proud owner of a trailer. And not even one of those nice trailers with flower boxes in the windows and porches with awnings. It was your stereotypical piss-yellow, small-windowed, rusty-hinged, Cletus-don't-make-me-get-the-hose trailer.

Behold, my future.

But I guess it's kind of nice that ReMax even gives listings for us poor folk. We've all gotta live somewhere, I suppose. And I guess ReMax has also given me motivation to work hard and perhaps make more than $8 an hour one day. And if not, hands off that trailer. I saw it first.

Potluck Etiquette

Potlucks. What does one bring to a potluck anyway? Is there some sort of potluck etiquette you have to follow? Must it always be so random? Isn't there a way to make your dish fit with everyone else's? I guess there will always be a few staples you can gauge your potluck contributions off of. There will always be meatloaf. And Jello. And something in a crockpot. You can also count on some sort of "salad" made of mandarin oranges covered in white and pink fluffy stuff. These are the dishes that always show up, but no one can ever figure out who brought them. One of the most nerve-racking things about potlucks is being in line in front of someone when you don't know what dish they brought. A lot of people get really offended if you don't take some of their dish. You might get lucky and get in front of the chocolate chip cookie lady, but then again, you might end up in front of the mandarin fluff salad guy. You can feel his eyes watching you as you hesitate when you reach the salad. It's the moment of truth: do you pass on the fluff stuff and risk being pelted with a shuttlecock during the evening's badminton game, or do you just take a pity scoop and pray the salad guy doesn't see you throw it away later? It's a tough call. Most people opt for the pity scoops. Apparently nothing is worth getting hit by a shuttlecock.

Magically Delicious

I have a sweet tooth that is out of control. I need sugar like Paris Hilton needs her T-Mobile Sidekick. It's a bit ridiculous, really. I blame it all on the fact that while growing up, I was never allowed sugar cereals except on certain holidays. I waited all year for St. Patrick's Day just so I could bust into a brand new box of Lucky Charms. I even liked those little wheat crunchy things shaped like awareness ribbons that accompanied the marshmallows by a ratio of 200 to 1. Even they were coated in sugar. But like most kids, I was more excited about the marshmallows. I waited until the very last second to eat those delicious little hearts, moons, and stars; until they were all bloated with pastel milk. There is a point, after roughly six minutes of milk soakage, when the marshmallows become "ripe". They develop a thin foam-like casing around the still-solid sugar core. Put one of those babies on your tongue and press it against the roof of your mouth. That, right there, is a little piece of Heaven. I've gotta say, there are very few things in life as satisfying as a good bowl of Lucky Charms. They truly are magically delicious.

Homebody

Sometimes I get a little worried that I’m turning into the kind of person who will keep the blinds closed and tape pictures of the outdoors to the wall.