It's no excuse for my extended blog absence, but I have been struck down for most of this week with a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad cold. The type of cold where on the first day, when I came home from work after a drive home spent shivering violently with what I later found to be a 103.3 fever, I was pretty sure I had the flu. The real flu, not the thing that people call the flu but is really just some random virus. But then the next day I was able to get off the couch and eat something, which does not happen when you have the real flu, as I know from when the husband had it two years ago. I did, however, run a borderline fever for so long that I became convinced that the thermometer was broken, but no. Apparently my bronchial tubes and sinuses were under attack, and I was burning from the heat of battle. I am feeling better, though - good enough to go to work tomorrow and face the toddlers, at any rate. Even though it was probably one of them that got me sick. And even though this is the second time I've been sick this winter, and I should really get some extra days, because that's not fair.
Anyway, onto other things. I am knitting socks for someone. Never fear, non-knitting friends, I am not about to turn all knitting-blog on your asses, mostly because I knit so slowly that I would post even more rarely than I do now. But I want to say that this has been the most frustrating project I have worked on since I started knitting. Perhaps it's because I still had a high temperature yesterday when I started on them, but I have had to backtrack over and over and over again. They are a present for someone, and the husband suggested that when they're finished (he was being optimistic), I should present them along with a soundtrack of me making them so they could identify the techniques. ("Oh, so that's a goddamn stupid motherfucking short row. How lovely.") They are toe-up, which is the trickier way to knit socks, for me at least, since you have to use a weird cast-on. And then, I was online double-checking something about the stitch pattern I was using, and saw someone refer to it as a pretty easy four-row pattern. Which was a problem, because what I was doing only had three rows. So I had to undo the whole thing.
And if that whole paragraph sounded like "And then I had to put flibbety-flabber in the diddly-doo," then I'm sorry. Join me next time, when I'll share the Tale of the Weiner-Licking Dog. And unless they cause me a great deal more hardship, I won't mention the socks again except to maybe post a picture of them when they are finally all done.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
People let me tell you 'bout my best friend...
If one determines one's best friends based on the amount of time spent with them, then surely my dentist ranks right after the husband and the dog. Last year, I got a crown, two onlays, two fillings and a root canal. There would have been more, but at a certain point even the generous benefits plan from the husband's soul-sucking job begins to buckle at the seams.
The problems began... well, at my conception, really. Sometimes I feel cursed genetically. If there is a medical issue on either side of my family, I seem to have gotten it. I have a sneaking suspicion that somewhere within me lurks a renegade prostate, waiting to cause bewildering problems in my middle age.
One of my genetic blessings was apparently crappy teeth. My husband will attest that I take good care of my teeth. I floss regularly. Yes, I have a sweet tooth, but I also have mouthwash in my desk at work, so shouldn't the two balance out? Apparently not - just ask my dentists, of which there are many.
The absolute worst was the first dentist that I picked out myself, in the town where we currently reside. The husband and I had moved for my job, and he was still unemployed. I stupidly thought that since I had no mouth pain, I must have no mouth problems, and I didn't sign up for the expensive dental insurance I was offered. But this dentist not only informed me that I was on the verge of a mouth apocalypse, but would also tell me that any pain she inflicted on me was "good for getting ready for childbirth" or "nothing compared to childbirth". I got some fillings and one very expensive crown from her, and vowed never to say no to dental and never to go to a dentist who was openly thinking about my womb.
After her came my current dentist, the aforementioned best friend. I feel confident about his ongoing plans for fixing all my mouth problems, though I will say that he insanely slow. And he seems to think that I see him so often because I want to be there, like he works at the corner pub or something. He'll tell me about new equipment that the office gets, or talk to me about the town library, or whatever, when honestly, stepping into the door of that place makes me grumpy and irrational and generally unfit for conversation. They have tvs in each of the dental cubicles, and my usual appointment time is during the Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. And all I want to do is seethe silently about how I never remember to put lip chap on even though I always need it after the first hour of holding my mouth open and how lame all of Rory's boyfriends are, and he's all "So what percentage of the town library's budget do you think comes from fines?"
But he hasn't mentioned childbirth once, so my teeth and I will continue our visits until the benefits run dry or my mouth is fixed, whichever comes first.
The problems began... well, at my conception, really. Sometimes I feel cursed genetically. If there is a medical issue on either side of my family, I seem to have gotten it. I have a sneaking suspicion that somewhere within me lurks a renegade prostate, waiting to cause bewildering problems in my middle age.
One of my genetic blessings was apparently crappy teeth. My husband will attest that I take good care of my teeth. I floss regularly. Yes, I have a sweet tooth, but I also have mouthwash in my desk at work, so shouldn't the two balance out? Apparently not - just ask my dentists, of which there are many.
The absolute worst was the first dentist that I picked out myself, in the town where we currently reside. The husband and I had moved for my job, and he was still unemployed. I stupidly thought that since I had no mouth pain, I must have no mouth problems, and I didn't sign up for the expensive dental insurance I was offered. But this dentist not only informed me that I was on the verge of a mouth apocalypse, but would also tell me that any pain she inflicted on me was "good for getting ready for childbirth" or "nothing compared to childbirth". I got some fillings and one very expensive crown from her, and vowed never to say no to dental and never to go to a dentist who was openly thinking about my womb.
After her came my current dentist, the aforementioned best friend. I feel confident about his ongoing plans for fixing all my mouth problems, though I will say that he insanely slow. And he seems to think that I see him so often because I want to be there, like he works at the corner pub or something. He'll tell me about new equipment that the office gets, or talk to me about the town library, or whatever, when honestly, stepping into the door of that place makes me grumpy and irrational and generally unfit for conversation. They have tvs in each of the dental cubicles, and my usual appointment time is during the Gilmore Girls on ABC Family. And all I want to do is seethe silently about how I never remember to put lip chap on even though I always need it after the first hour of holding my mouth open and how lame all of Rory's boyfriends are, and he's all "So what percentage of the town library's budget do you think comes from fines?"
But he hasn't mentioned childbirth once, so my teeth and I will continue our visits until the benefits run dry or my mouth is fixed, whichever comes first.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
And I'm proud to be an American...
So I was going to talk about my dental adventures, but then I spent an hour trying to figure out what's wrong with the dog (either nothing that a little honey couldn't fix or HE'S GOING TO DIE!!!! depending on which crazy internet person I choose to listen to) and then I spent another hour looking at shoes on Zappos, and then ordering the ones I had put in my cart yesterday. So you are spared for today.
Anyway, I'm actually more inspired to talk about the wonders of being a voting registrar anyway. (Choosing something positive over useless kvetching?!?! Weird, I know.)
I am a registrar for the county I work in, and today was the last day to register to vote before the Illinois primaries, as well as the day of my evening shift. I was a little worried going in, given that my training consisted of this exchange with the head of adult services (HAS):
HAS: Hey, Rachel, are you a registrar?
Me: No.
HAS: You wanna be one?
Me: Sure.
HAS: Sign this.
Me: Okay.
HAS: Read this sacred oath out loud.
Me: Okay.
HAS: Congratulations! You're a registrar.
And that was a year ago. But it turned out well. It turns out that all it takes to be a good registrar is decent penmanship and an ability to fill in forms. And it was so exciting! All these high school kids came in, and several people who had been naturalized recently. It made me all teary-eyed on the way home. I heard on the radio that several New Hampshire polling places ran out of ballots and had to rush to get more, and that record numbers were expected. And apparently we had to get more registration forms today, because we were taken by surprise by the onslaught. So as divided and angry as the country feels politically right now, at least it has brought forth this desire for involvement and participation, and a desire to get off our asses and do something. It's really a beautiful thing. Even if it is sprung from a collected desire to cancel out the votes of everyone we disagree with. So, for today at least, I am very proud to be an American.
(So proud that I'm not even going to discuss how irritated I was by the media discussion of Hilary's 'display of emotion'. She's not my candidate, but for the love of all that's holy, are we still at a point as a nation when a single unfallen tear from an established female politician can get us all talking about women and their hormones being dangerous for international affairs? It's enough to... no, wait, I'm not discussing this.)
And I'm sorry if that song is in your head, but it's in mine too, so there.
Anyway, I'm actually more inspired to talk about the wonders of being a voting registrar anyway. (Choosing something positive over useless kvetching?!?! Weird, I know.)
I am a registrar for the county I work in, and today was the last day to register to vote before the Illinois primaries, as well as the day of my evening shift. I was a little worried going in, given that my training consisted of this exchange with the head of adult services (HAS):
HAS: Hey, Rachel, are you a registrar?
Me: No.
HAS: You wanna be one?
Me: Sure.
HAS: Sign this.
Me: Okay.
HAS: Read this sacred oath out loud.
Me: Okay.
HAS: Congratulations! You're a registrar.
And that was a year ago. But it turned out well. It turns out that all it takes to be a good registrar is decent penmanship and an ability to fill in forms. And it was so exciting! All these high school kids came in, and several people who had been naturalized recently. It made me all teary-eyed on the way home. I heard on the radio that several New Hampshire polling places ran out of ballots and had to rush to get more, and that record numbers were expected. And apparently we had to get more registration forms today, because we were taken by surprise by the onslaught. So as divided and angry as the country feels politically right now, at least it has brought forth this desire for involvement and participation, and a desire to get off our asses and do something. It's really a beautiful thing. Even if it is sprung from a collected desire to cancel out the votes of everyone we disagree with. So, for today at least, I am very proud to be an American.
(So proud that I'm not even going to discuss how irritated I was by the media discussion of Hilary's 'display of emotion'. She's not my candidate, but for the love of all that's holy, are we still at a point as a nation when a single unfallen tear from an established female politician can get us all talking about women and their hormones being dangerous for international affairs? It's enough to... no, wait, I'm not discussing this.)
And I'm sorry if that song is in your head, but it's in mine too, so there.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Happy New Year!
One of the best things about the end of the year is the constant stream of top ten and top 100 lists. In that spirit, here is a link to the 10 Best Animated Movies for (Traumatizing) Kids. Now, I read the whole list, because I am a dork from the 80s, but all I ask of you is that you read #1.
http://www.cracked.com/article_15070_10-best-animated-movies-traumatizing-kids.html
Crazy disturbing, right? But the little blurb doesn't even tell you how disturbing it is. My friend Jessie lived in Japan for a few years, and is currently working in the anime industry. I told her about this, thinking she would say, "Oh yes, what an odd little bit of cultural flotsam." Instead she said, "Oh yeah, the tanuki. Those are real animals. Raccoon dogs. They really do have giant testicles, and supposedly they fight with them." (And if you didn't follow the link before, you totally are now, aren't you?) So apparently, they are a wild animal that has a whole mythology behind them in Japanese culture largely because of their giant testicles. And if all of that isn't testicle-tastic enough for you, check this it out from the Wikipedia article about tanuki:
On that note, happy new year! This is a crap holiday, if you ask me, but enjoy it anyway. Especially if you like football, a character flaw for which I will forgive you, just this once.
http://www.cracked.com/article_15070_10-best-animated-movies-traumatizing-kids.html
Crazy disturbing, right? But the little blurb doesn't even tell you how disturbing it is. My friend Jessie lived in Japan for a few years, and is currently working in the anime industry. I told her about this, thinking she would say, "Oh yes, what an odd little bit of cultural flotsam." Instead she said, "Oh yeah, the tanuki. Those are real animals. Raccoon dogs. They really do have giant testicles, and supposedly they fight with them." (And if you didn't follow the link before, you totally are now, aren't you?) So apparently, they are a wild animal that has a whole mythology behind them in Japanese culture largely because of their giant testicles. And if all of that isn't testicle-tastic enough for you, check this it out from the Wikipedia article about tanuki:
A common schoolyard song in Japan (the tune of which can be heard in theThey sing about tanuki testicles to the tune of Shall We Gather at the River!!!! My childhood was empty!
arcade game Ponpoko and a variation of which
is sung in the Studio Ghibli film Pom Poko) makes explicit
reference to the tanuki's anatomy:
Tan Tan Tanuki no kintama wa,
Kaze mo
nai no ni,
Bura bura
(Roughly translated, this means
"Tan-tan-tanuki's/Raccoon-raccoon-raccoon dog's testicles, there isn't even any wind but still go swing-swing-swing".[1] It then proceeds to continue for several verses, with many regional variations. It is sung to the melody of an American Baptist hymn called Shall We Gather At The River?.[2])
On that note, happy new year! This is a crap holiday, if you ask me, but enjoy it anyway. Especially if you like football, a character flaw for which I will forgive you, just this once.
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