Oh, this makes me gasp:
Commoner woos blog princess?
MP did it first.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
NO PIRATE PATCH
No untruths here, kittens: I was scared for my eye and my life as I made my way to the cosmetic opthamologist, with amma in tow (my vision would be compromised by the sexy pirate eye patch, so the doctor's office had asked me to bring along a friend) today. At what cost was I trying to rid myself of this chalazion? Anesthesia in my eyelid? A scalpel right next to my eyeball? One slip and I'm a goner, right? "This guy gets paid to make people beautiful," I reminded myself between frantic prayers. "There will be no slippage of the scalpel. There will be NO slippage of the scalpel."
I tried to focus on my breathing, on mental images of scalpels not slipping, and on mental images of me sporting an eye patch as amma and I made our way to the doctor's office. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair that looked a hell of a lot like a dentist's chair. You have correctly deduced that this did absolutely nothing to calm my already frayed nerves. The doctor strode in and at that moment of intense anxiety at the thought of the scalpel now slipping into my eye and permanently destroying what are arguably my best features, I decided that he was the sexiest man I've ever seen and that I loved him. I obviously Stockholm syndrom'd the situation, just like I did back when I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed back in college and decided that I was in love with my orthodontist. Stockholm syndrome aside, I love MP and everyone knows that David Benioff is the sexiest man I've ever met in my life (he's so much hotter than his pics that it's sick; it gives me a stomach ache every time I think about it).
Anyway, so there I am, stone-still in a dentist's chair, waiting for the cosmetic opthamologist to accidently slip his scalpel and blind me forever. But there's something even more horrible that I've forgotten about, kittens: the anesthesia. And my cosmetic opthamologist gently (sexily) reminds me that it's going to be the most painful part of the surgery.
"What could possibly be more painful than a scalpel in my eye?" I wonder and brush the warning aside until, holy Allah in Jannah with all of his angels, the cosmetic opthamologist sticks me right in the chalazion with a needle. And what I proceed to feel is fiery hot and spicy damnation spread all across my lower lid until all I want to do is go home with my chalazion intact and fuckin' cuddle with it at every milestone from here to freakin' eternity.
But the pain subsides. I stop squirming. Cosmetic opthamologist flips my lower eyelid inside out with something that might look like an eyelash curler and I'm horrified but am able to keep my eyes closed so the horribleness subsides, or so I think. Cosmetic opthamologist instructs me to take deep breaths, that I'm way too tense but when I proceed to follow his instructions, he tells me not to move my face, so I try to breathe without moving my face. I hear him snipping (there is no scalpel, apparently, only scissors) away at the chalazion and I feel pressure on my eyelid and I hope and pray that cosmetic opthamologist doesn't accidently poke me in the eye with the scissors. Then he says that he's going to cauterize the incision and that I may smell something burning and I try not to pass out.
And then we're done and cosmetic opthamologist slaps gauze onto my eye and I'm thinking that he'll put the patch over the gauze. He slaps tap over the gauze and I think, surely there will be an eye patch. But then the dentist's chair is being pushed up and I'm being told that I need to schedule a post-op appointment and I have to interrupt cosmetic opthamologist: "You mean this is the eye patch??" and I he laughs and says yes, what was I expecting and I feel like he's stabbed me in the eye with a scalpel. "A pirate's eye patch," I manage and he says that those are for pirates and for the movies, alas, and sends me along.
I take public transportation with my mom, not looking like a trendy pirate but like a freak and by the time we finally stumble into a train, there's room only for my mom to sit down and I'm totally fine standing but the guy sitting next to amma takes pity on my ugly eye patch and offers me his seat, which I take because, wait a minute, is that my anesthesia wearing off?
Yes. Yes it is. So, by the time we get home, the upper right quadrant of my face feels like it's been bashed in by a hammer (even my gums hurt) and, forgetting about the patch, I fall asleep.
I'm fine now, kittens: the patch is festering in the trash and though my eye is slightly swollen and lightly bruised, I'm well on the road to recovery and a chalazion-free life.
Here's a picture of my not-a-pirate's-patch. A pirate wouldn't be caught dead in this get-up. See what I mean?
I tried to focus on my breathing, on mental images of scalpels not slipping, and on mental images of me sporting an eye patch as amma and I made our way to the doctor's office. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair that looked a hell of a lot like a dentist's chair. You have correctly deduced that this did absolutely nothing to calm my already frayed nerves. The doctor strode in and at that moment of intense anxiety at the thought of the scalpel now slipping into my eye and permanently destroying what are arguably my best features, I decided that he was the sexiest man I've ever seen and that I loved him. I obviously Stockholm syndrom'd the situation, just like I did back when I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed back in college and decided that I was in love with my orthodontist. Stockholm syndrome aside, I love MP and everyone knows that David Benioff is the sexiest man I've ever met in my life (he's so much hotter than his pics that it's sick; it gives me a stomach ache every time I think about it).
Anyway, so there I am, stone-still in a dentist's chair, waiting for the cosmetic opthamologist to accidently slip his scalpel and blind me forever. But there's something even more horrible that I've forgotten about, kittens: the anesthesia. And my cosmetic opthamologist gently (sexily) reminds me that it's going to be the most painful part of the surgery.
"What could possibly be more painful than a scalpel in my eye?" I wonder and brush the warning aside until, holy Allah in Jannah with all of his angels, the cosmetic opthamologist sticks me right in the chalazion with a needle. And what I proceed to feel is fiery hot and spicy damnation spread all across my lower lid until all I want to do is go home with my chalazion intact and fuckin' cuddle with it at every milestone from here to freakin' eternity.
But the pain subsides. I stop squirming. Cosmetic opthamologist flips my lower eyelid inside out with something that might look like an eyelash curler and I'm horrified but am able to keep my eyes closed so the horribleness subsides, or so I think. Cosmetic opthamologist instructs me to take deep breaths, that I'm way too tense but when I proceed to follow his instructions, he tells me not to move my face, so I try to breathe without moving my face. I hear him snipping (there is no scalpel, apparently, only scissors) away at the chalazion and I feel pressure on my eyelid and I hope and pray that cosmetic opthamologist doesn't accidently poke me in the eye with the scissors. Then he says that he's going to cauterize the incision and that I may smell something burning and I try not to pass out.
And then we're done and cosmetic opthamologist slaps gauze onto my eye and I'm thinking that he'll put the patch over the gauze. He slaps tap over the gauze and I think, surely there will be an eye patch. But then the dentist's chair is being pushed up and I'm being told that I need to schedule a post-op appointment and I have to interrupt cosmetic opthamologist: "You mean this is the eye patch??" and I he laughs and says yes, what was I expecting and I feel like he's stabbed me in the eye with a scalpel. "A pirate's eye patch," I manage and he says that those are for pirates and for the movies, alas, and sends me along.
I take public transportation with my mom, not looking like a trendy pirate but like a freak and by the time we finally stumble into a train, there's room only for my mom to sit down and I'm totally fine standing but the guy sitting next to amma takes pity on my ugly eye patch and offers me his seat, which I take because, wait a minute, is that my anesthesia wearing off?
Yes. Yes it is. So, by the time we get home, the upper right quadrant of my face feels like it's been bashed in by a hammer (even my gums hurt) and, forgetting about the patch, I fall asleep.
I'm fine now, kittens: the patch is festering in the trash and though my eye is slightly swollen and lightly bruised, I'm well on the road to recovery and a chalazion-free life.
Here's a picture of my not-a-pirate's-patch. A pirate wouldn't be caught dead in this get-up. See what I mean?
A SCALPEL VERY CLOSE TO THE EYE or THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR BEING A BAD, BAD BLOGGER
I've been a very bad blogger. I used to blog almost daily until this very blog introduced me to my current fiance and though my relationship with MP hasn't by any means robbed me of my charming nerdiness, it has robbed me of my free time. And now we're planning a wedding and I need a whole seperate post to explain to you how miserably stressful wedding planning and choosing a wedding planner and keeping everyone happy has been (hell, I probably need a whole new and anonymous blog to do that without stepping on toes and hurting feelings, winkwink).
Speaking of parenthetical winkwinks, I will have a scalpel very close to my right eyeball tomorrow. Yes, kittens, your terribly neglectful blogger is going under the knife! Remember that chronic sty/cancer on the lower eyelid of my right eye?
Well, it's still right here with me, folks.
The chronic sty has been on my eyelid for nearly five months now. It's been with me through some very meaningful milestones: my engagement party, MP's move to JC, his 33rd birthday, my 30th birthday party, the year 2009.
Chronic sty has been right here, illegally squatting on my eyelid and making me feel like a freak.
Except it isn't a chronic sty, after all. I went to a third opthamologist a couple of weeks ago (this one is a surgeon--a cosmetic opthamologist--referred to me by the wonderful second opthamologist I saw (as an aside, second opthamologist is the closest thing to a small town doctor in this town and I'm happy to refer anyone who needs an opthamoligst to him. For real)), who declared that the eyelid squatter was no chronic sty. It's actually a chalazion, a lump formed in the eyelid when one of the many oil-secreting glands we have along our lids become blocked with the very oil they secrete. The gland is supposed to rupture, releasing the built up oil but, in my case, it's deep in the eyelid and there appears to be too much skin surrounding it for that to happen.
So, I'm having the squatter removed tomorrow because: 1) while a chalazion might taste delicious if it was an Italian pastry, it's actually just an inflamed, ugly, but luckily small and useless mess at the moment; 2) I'm getting married so, as much as this guy's been a part of all of the milestones this year, I won't miss it at all next year; 3) and I get to sport a patch after the procedure, which is pretty cool.
I'll need to focus on these reasons tomorrow when the doctor injects my eyelid with anesthesia (he admitted that this would hurt like a mofo) and then scoops the shi-zat out.
Gulps and petrified sighs from JC. Wish me luck. Believe it or not, I've missed you g
Speaking of parenthetical winkwinks, I will have a scalpel very close to my right eyeball tomorrow. Yes, kittens, your terribly neglectful blogger is going under the knife! Remember that chronic sty/cancer on the lower eyelid of my right eye?
Well, it's still right here with me, folks.
The chronic sty has been on my eyelid for nearly five months now. It's been with me through some very meaningful milestones: my engagement party, MP's move to JC, his 33rd birthday, my 30th birthday party, the year 2009.
Chronic sty has been right here, illegally squatting on my eyelid and making me feel like a freak.
Except it isn't a chronic sty, after all. I went to a third opthamologist a couple of weeks ago (this one is a surgeon--a cosmetic opthamologist--referred to me by the wonderful second opthamologist I saw (as an aside, second opthamologist is the closest thing to a small town doctor in this town and I'm happy to refer anyone who needs an opthamoligst to him. For real)), who declared that the eyelid squatter was no chronic sty. It's actually a chalazion, a lump formed in the eyelid when one of the many oil-secreting glands we have along our lids become blocked with the very oil they secrete. The gland is supposed to rupture, releasing the built up oil but, in my case, it's deep in the eyelid and there appears to be too much skin surrounding it for that to happen.
So, I'm having the squatter removed tomorrow because: 1) while a chalazion might taste delicious if it was an Italian pastry, it's actually just an inflamed, ugly, but luckily small and useless mess at the moment; 2) I'm getting married so, as much as this guy's been a part of all of the milestones this year, I won't miss it at all next year; 3) and I get to sport a patch after the procedure, which is pretty cool.
I'll need to focus on these reasons tomorrow when the doctor injects my eyelid with anesthesia (he admitted that this would hurt like a mofo) and then scoops the shi-zat out.
Gulps and petrified sighs from JC. Wish me luck. Believe it or not, I've missed you g
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Seriously? SERIOUSLY??!
So, we're less than two days away from the shebang and get this: I have a chronic sty on the lower lid of my right eye and what appears to be half a button candy-sized subconjunctival hemmorhage north and slightly east of my left iris. The sty is barely noticeable but has been squatting on my eyelid for quite some time now. Obviously, it's cancer but the opthamologist I visited on Friday said it was nothing more than a sty that wasn't being treated and, as a result, was not going away. Well, I've been treating it opthamologist-lady and guess what? IT'S STILL RIGHT HERE ON THE LOWER LID OF MY RIGHT EYE.
I didn't notice the subconjunctival hemmorhage until an hour ago, as I was removing my contact lenses and getting ready for bed. The websites I've frantically consulted (as well as MP, to whom I cried cautiously, half expecting my tears to be laced with blood) since are assuring me that it's nothing but a rupture of blood vessels under the conjunctiva caused, apparently, by strenuous exercising, coughing, vomiting, touching/widening eyes, sneezing, pulling extreme g-forces, choking, straining. I strenuously exercised this morning (long live boxing), which I suppose could have caused the rupture. It's a small enough hemmorhage for me to have missed during the day. I also did sneeze violently a couple of times today; the last time I sneezed violently was 2.5 hours ago as I re-watched The Westminster Dog Show that I'd DVR'd (yes, I hate the idea of breeding dogs and cats when there are millions in shelters but, no, I can't deny that those dogs in the show are precious). That could've been it, right? I also widen my eyes a hell of a lot when I'm talking and there was a lot of that happening earlier tonight over dinner with girl friends.I have to learn to stop that. I haven't vomited, choked, or experienced extreme g-forces lately, so I'm ruling those causes out.
But what if this hemmorhage is a sign of something much worse like cancer? And what if it is somehow connected to the chronic sty on the other eye? Well, I'm going to attempt to get an answer some time tomorrow.
There's just one thing I know: I WILL wear sunglasses to our Friday night engagement party if these eye issues persist.
Thirty is a little over a month away and I'm already crumbling to age, dear readers. Oh dear.
I didn't notice the subconjunctival hemmorhage until an hour ago, as I was removing my contact lenses and getting ready for bed. The websites I've frantically consulted (as well as MP, to whom I cried cautiously, half expecting my tears to be laced with blood) since are assuring me that it's nothing but a rupture of blood vessels under the conjunctiva caused, apparently, by strenuous exercising, coughing, vomiting, touching/widening eyes, sneezing, pulling extreme g-forces, choking, straining. I strenuously exercised this morning (long live boxing), which I suppose could have caused the rupture. It's a small enough hemmorhage for me to have missed during the day. I also did sneeze violently a couple of times today; the last time I sneezed violently was 2.5 hours ago as I re-watched The Westminster Dog Show that I'd DVR'd (yes, I hate the idea of breeding dogs and cats when there are millions in shelters but, no, I can't deny that those dogs in the show are precious). That could've been it, right? I also widen my eyes a hell of a lot when I'm talking and there was a lot of that happening earlier tonight over dinner with girl friends.I have to learn to stop that. I haven't vomited, choked, or experienced extreme g-forces lately, so I'm ruling those causes out.
But what if this hemmorhage is a sign of something much worse like cancer? And what if it is somehow connected to the chronic sty on the other eye? Well, I'm going to attempt to get an answer some time tomorrow.
There's just one thing I know: I WILL wear sunglasses to our Friday night engagement party if these eye issues persist.
Thirty is a little over a month away and I'm already crumbling to age, dear readers. Oh dear.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
AHEM
I have nothing but a no good, long-ass list of excuses for why I haven't blogged in a very, very, very long time. So, instead of detailing why I haven't blogged in a painfully long time, I'm going to jump right into blogging. How about that?
My engagement party is this Friday. Yes, it's Friday the 13th, but as amma said, "Our people don't believe in any of that garbage." It's going to be a big to-do. Not only will I be decked out in the traditional shalwaar kameez but the folks have already told me that they're expecting: 1) MP to re-propose to me in front of everyone (no, seriously) and 2) a Bollywood-like number (no, seriously).
But before we discuss the pomp and cinema of my engagement party, can we talk about that lame-ass Wikipedia entry for shalwaar kameez that I've linked to in the previous sentence? What the fuck, Wikipedia (or the common folks, like you and I, who uploaded this shit on the site)??! Is this the best picture you could find to show the world what a freakin' shalwaar is?
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Sure, this picture of a Muslim Sindhi girl circa 1870 is pretty cool:
But is this really the best example of a "modern style shalwaar kameez" you could find?
A white woman wearing an anything but fashionable lime green kurta suit? Hells to the no. Sure, she was probably the only one who cared enough to upload a damn photo into this entry but that doesn't matter. If I hadn't brought any of this up, all of you non-South Asians would have followed my link above and thought that the shalwaar kameez is an ugly-ass traditional outfit, when it's anything but. So, for the sake of shalwaar kameez, I was considering uploading photos of some lovely outfits from this site but turns out I have to create an account before I can upload any images to Wikipedia and, really, who has time for that? Not I. So, I guess I'll just deal.
My engagement party is this Friday. Yes, it's Friday the 13th, but as amma said, "Our people don't believe in any of that garbage." It's going to be a big to-do. Not only will I be decked out in the traditional shalwaar kameez but the folks have already told me that they're expecting: 1) MP to re-propose to me in front of everyone (no, seriously) and 2) a Bollywood-like number (no, seriously).
But before we discuss the pomp and cinema of my engagement party, can we talk about that lame-ass Wikipedia entry for shalwaar kameez that I've linked to in the previous sentence? What the fuck, Wikipedia (or the common folks, like you and I, who uploaded this shit on the site)??! Is this the best picture you could find to show the world what a freakin' shalwaar is?
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Sure, this picture of a Muslim Sindhi girl circa 1870 is pretty cool:
But is this really the best example of a "modern style shalwaar kameez" you could find?
A white woman wearing an anything but fashionable lime green kurta suit? Hells to the no. Sure, she was probably the only one who cared enough to upload a damn photo into this entry but that doesn't matter. If I hadn't brought any of this up, all of you non-South Asians would have followed my link above and thought that the shalwaar kameez is an ugly-ass traditional outfit, when it's anything but. So, for the sake of shalwaar kameez, I was considering uploading photos of some lovely outfits from this site but turns out I have to create an account before I can upload any images to Wikipedia and, really, who has time for that? Not I. So, I guess I'll just deal.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A NEW DAY
I would be remiss to not comment about Obama's inauguration earlier today.
What a spectacular, amazing, and awe-inspiring moment. If someone had told me four, eight, twelve years ago that in 2009, America would have a black president called Barack Hussein Obama, I would have told him to get the hell outta town. I'm ashamed to say that as recently as a couple of months before last year's presidential elections, I refused to let myself believe that my fellow citizens were evolved enough to elect a black man (how could a people who elected Bush a second time possibly do anything in its best interest?).
I've never been happier to be proven utterly, utterly, utterly wrong.
Here we are now, twelve hours into having a brand-new, 44th president. He may not be able to fix all of the problems our nation--as well as the world (we are a global neighborhood, after all)--faces right away but having a capable, respectable, calm, charismatic, and intelligent commander-in-chief leading the way will, without a doubt, mollify our collective anxiety. And as Obama's said, he won't be able to bring solutions to the crises that we face today without our help. By challenging each and every citizen to rebuild this nation through service to his or her community, Obama's ushering in a new era of responsibility that we haven't seen in a very long time.
I have never been more inspired.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
CANADA
Dear All,
I'm blogging for you live from Ottawa where it's--you guessed it--snowing. It's cold here, kittens, so cold that, upon my arrival, I promptly fell ill with a sore throat and nasal congestion. My puny immune system has never seen the likes of an extreme Canadian winter. This winter makes the winter weather we have in the mid-Atlantic region look like spring.
However, you should be proud of me: I strapped on skis for the very first time yesterday and with icicles hanging off my eyelashes (seriously, I have the pictures to prove it), I attempted cross-country skiing for the very first time in Gatineau Park. I wore more layers than I've ever worn before: thermal leggings, fleece tights, and cross-country skiing pants on the bottom and a sports bra, thermal shirt, fleece zip-up and snow jacket on top, with a balaklava covering everything but my bejeweled (with the icicles, that is) eyes. I was doing very well for the first half hour on the trail, taking MP's instructions to heart, and gliding along, feeling so wonderful and one with nature. We saw five, maybe six people.
But then I fell.
And I couldn't get up.
And, what felt like the entire population of Canada, whizzed right past us, as I lay on my back giggling my ass off. "First time skater," I managed to say, sitting up and waving to a few of the rubberneckers. The panick set in quickly thereafter. "Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD, MP, I CAN'T get up." The skis felt giant and unwieldy. What the hell was I supposed to do with them? How the hell was I to get up?
Luckily, a nice Canadian on skis who wasn't MP stopped by us and showed me how to get up after a fall on skis.
Good thing because I proceeded to fall four more times.
The funny thing about falling is that it becomes progressively easier.
I'm happy to report that I was skiing very well by the end of my cross-country skiing adventure with MP. I'd wanted to hit the trails again today but, man, Canada's still kicking my immune system's ass especially swiftly today so I figured I'd take a break (especially with the heavy snow fall out there; this is truly a winter wonderland!).
So, happy winter to all of you. Keep reading, kittens. I'll report back to you soon.
I'm blogging for you live from Ottawa where it's--you guessed it--snowing. It's cold here, kittens, so cold that, upon my arrival, I promptly fell ill with a sore throat and nasal congestion. My puny immune system has never seen the likes of an extreme Canadian winter. This winter makes the winter weather we have in the mid-Atlantic region look like spring.
However, you should be proud of me: I strapped on skis for the very first time yesterday and with icicles hanging off my eyelashes (seriously, I have the pictures to prove it), I attempted cross-country skiing for the very first time in Gatineau Park. I wore more layers than I've ever worn before: thermal leggings, fleece tights, and cross-country skiing pants on the bottom and a sports bra, thermal shirt, fleece zip-up and snow jacket on top, with a balaklava covering everything but my bejeweled (with the icicles, that is) eyes. I was doing very well for the first half hour on the trail, taking MP's instructions to heart, and gliding along, feeling so wonderful and one with nature. We saw five, maybe six people.
But then I fell.
And I couldn't get up.
And, what felt like the entire population of Canada, whizzed right past us, as I lay on my back giggling my ass off. "First time skater," I managed to say, sitting up and waving to a few of the rubberneckers. The panick set in quickly thereafter. "Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD, MP, I CAN'T get up." The skis felt giant and unwieldy. What the hell was I supposed to do with them? How the hell was I to get up?
Luckily, a nice Canadian on skis who wasn't MP stopped by us and showed me how to get up after a fall on skis.
Good thing because I proceeded to fall four more times.
The funny thing about falling is that it becomes progressively easier.
I'm happy to report that I was skiing very well by the end of my cross-country skiing adventure with MP. I'd wanted to hit the trails again today but, man, Canada's still kicking my immune system's ass especially swiftly today so I figured I'd take a break (especially with the heavy snow fall out there; this is truly a winter wonderland!).
So, happy winter to all of you. Keep reading, kittens. I'll report back to you soon.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
OTTAWA, HERE I COME
Tomorrow I embark on my first winter vacation in Ottawa, which as you all know is that magical spot on the map where Fiance MP was born and raised. Ottawans embrace winter, he tells me. He grew up ice skating on the Rideau Canal Skateway—recognized as the world’s largest naturally frozen ice rink by Guinness World Records--during Winterlude, taking breaks to sip on hot chocolate and nibble on beaver tails. There's an endless selection of activities for the sports enthusiast: winter hiking, skiing, snowshoeing, ice hokey, oh, the Canadians sure know how to turn snowy times into good times!
And t's going to be good times, kittens; great times even! Oh, the snow! Oh, the ice skating! Oh, the cross country skiing for which MP will have to buy me a whole new outfit because I don't have anything to ski in! Oh, the Christmas lights! Oh, the laser light show on Parliament Hill!
Oh, the bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, frost-bite inducing, I'm-wearing-three-layers-yet-I-still-feel-like-I'm-rolling-down-a-snow-covered-mountain-in-my-underwear, deathly, deathly cold!
The high on Friday: 8 degrees Fahrenheit.
No, that isn't a typo. That's what the Canadians call Friday! At least Saturday's high, 11 degrees, is in the double digits. It's going to snow seven of the eight days that MP and I will be there, which is actually a lovely treat.
I may bitch a bit about the weather, but, seriously, I'm looking forward to my first hardcore winter. It should be interesting!
Wish me luck!
And t's going to be good times, kittens; great times even! Oh, the snow! Oh, the ice skating! Oh, the cross country skiing for which MP will have to buy me a whole new outfit because I don't have anything to ski in! Oh, the Christmas lights! Oh, the laser light show on Parliament Hill!
Oh, the bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, frost-bite inducing, I'm-wearing-three-layers-yet-I-still-feel-like-I'm-rolling-down-a-snow-covered-mountain-in-my-underwear, deathly, deathly cold!
The high on Friday: 8 degrees Fahrenheit.
No, that isn't a typo. That's what the Canadians call Friday! At least Saturday's high, 11 degrees, is in the double digits. It's going to snow seven of the eight days that MP and I will be there, which is actually a lovely treat.
I may bitch a bit about the weather, but, seriously, I'm looking forward to my first hardcore winter. It should be interesting!
Wish me luck!
Monday, December 15, 2008
GIANT COLLARS IN THE COLD or I NEED A COAT: A Follow-Up to the Follow-Up
The coat arrived last week and it makes me look like the Michelin Man...well, if the Michelin Man was shorter and black, anyway. Puffy down coats are for tall people; I'll stick to the semi-giant collars, thank you very much.
But, yes, you're correct. Wearing my current coat in the sub-zero hell that I'm told is an Ottawan winter is outerwear (and probably actual) suicide. I'm no dummy: I've already endured two winters on the verge of what felt like hypothermia (and that was in NYC, readers) to know that won't cut it. So, I've dug the Anne Klein herringbone plaid toggle coat that, until last night, resided in the back of my closet. The coat happens to be very cute, yes, but it also happens to be like two sizes too big for me and, frankly, I'm not sure I am--or ever was--an Anne Klein herringbone plaid toggle coat kind of girl.
I don't have the patience to elbow my way through department stores anymore, so too bad. The toggle will have to do. It certainly is warm enough.
In other news--I've certainly been obsessed with coats on my blog lately (that is when I actually am blogging; it's been a rough few days, darlings...)--fiance MP is due back from his Nepalese trekking adventure on the 18th! Woohoo! I haven't seen our favorite Canadian since the 26th of November. It's been a lonely past few weeks to say the least.
Well, that's it for now kittens. Choose your coats wisely and stay warm!
But, yes, you're correct. Wearing my current coat in the sub-zero hell that I'm told is an Ottawan winter is outerwear (and probably actual) suicide. I'm no dummy: I've already endured two winters on the verge of what felt like hypothermia (and that was in NYC, readers) to know that won't cut it. So, I've dug the Anne Klein herringbone plaid toggle coat that, until last night, resided in the back of my closet. The coat happens to be very cute, yes, but it also happens to be like two sizes too big for me and, frankly, I'm not sure I am--or ever was--an Anne Klein herringbone plaid toggle coat kind of girl.
I don't have the patience to elbow my way through department stores anymore, so too bad. The toggle will have to do. It certainly is warm enough.
In other news--I've certainly been obsessed with coats on my blog lately (that is when I actually am blogging; it's been a rough few days, darlings...)--fiance MP is due back from his Nepalese trekking adventure on the 18th! Woohoo! I haven't seen our favorite Canadian since the 26th of November. It's been a lonely past few weeks to say the least.
Well, that's it for now kittens. Choose your coats wisely and stay warm!
Sunday, December 07, 2008
GIANT COLLARS IN THE COLD or I NEED A COAT: A Follow-Up
I've ordered the coat above. It doesn't have big collars (I told you I'm over those). It has a faux fur lined hood (because only animals can pull off real fur); it's puffy, sporty, comes with five pockets (if you don't already know how I feel about pockets, know this: I like 'em) and a lifetime guarantee, plus I got 3-day shipping for free.
It also happens to be a pretty damned cute coat.
I think this should do the trick in Ottawa at the end of the month!
Thursday, December 04, 2008
GIANT COLLARS IN THE COLD or I NEED A COAT
Growing up, I'd always preferred winter to the other seasons. I spent my summers, daydreaming about walking through horizontal snowstorms and right up into adulthood I prayed for that elusive work-snowday, not so I could sleep in but so I could run around in a blizzard--the bigger the better!
And then there was last winter, which, strangely proved to be one of the most unbearable winters for me in recent memory. Surely, I'm getting old and, at 29 my body just can't handle colder climes anymore, right? Right?
Wrong!
It's my coat, kittens. I bought this totally not warm DKNY number last winter because I wanted a coat with big, giant collars and my fruitless shopping campaigns proved to me that there were no such coats available in the retail market...all but this DKNY coat that has a grand total of two buttons and collars that are big, but not giant. After a thoroughly exhaustive search, I decided to settle for this coat. And you wanna know what? I'm cold. I'm freezing. My teeth chatter when it's 40 degrees out. I can't tolerate any sort of chill and I'd probably fare better wearing thermal underwear and a big cableknit sweater.
Now that the giant-collared coat is all the rage this season (what can I say, I'm a woman ahead of my time), I've been totally turned off of them by my giant-collared coat (which, given my trend-setting tendencies, means that the giant-collared coat will not be en vogue again for a number of years).
The moral of the story, however, is that I need a warm coat. Well, I need more than a warm coat, really: I need a coat that can keep me toasty in one of the coldest capital cities in the world, Ottowa, as I spend my first winter with MP and his family later this month. The coat needs to be semi-stylin' because my flimsy-but-trendy-coat experience hasn't made me anti-fashion but I do understand that, at the end of the day, I might have to choose function over fashion. Plus, the balaklava I'm going to be sporting the entire time I'm up north will make it really difficult to look cute.
So, kittens, any ideas for coats to wear in one of the coldest capital cities in the world?
And then there was last winter, which, strangely proved to be one of the most unbearable winters for me in recent memory. Surely, I'm getting old and, at 29 my body just can't handle colder climes anymore, right? Right?
Wrong!
It's my coat, kittens. I bought this totally not warm DKNY number last winter because I wanted a coat with big, giant collars and my fruitless shopping campaigns proved to me that there were no such coats available in the retail market...all but this DKNY coat that has a grand total of two buttons and collars that are big, but not giant. After a thoroughly exhaustive search, I decided to settle for this coat. And you wanna know what? I'm cold. I'm freezing. My teeth chatter when it's 40 degrees out. I can't tolerate any sort of chill and I'd probably fare better wearing thermal underwear and a big cableknit sweater.
Now that the giant-collared coat is all the rage this season (what can I say, I'm a woman ahead of my time), I've been totally turned off of them by my giant-collared coat (which, given my trend-setting tendencies, means that the giant-collared coat will not be en vogue again for a number of years).
The moral of the story, however, is that I need a warm coat. Well, I need more than a warm coat, really: I need a coat that can keep me toasty in one of the coldest capital cities in the world, Ottowa, as I spend my first winter with MP and his family later this month. The coat needs to be semi-stylin' because my flimsy-but-trendy-coat experience hasn't made me anti-fashion but I do understand that, at the end of the day, I might have to choose function over fashion. Plus, the balaklava I'm going to be sporting the entire time I'm up north will make it really difficult to look cute.
So, kittens, any ideas for coats to wear in one of the coldest capital cities in the world?
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
I CARE FOR...
TOFU SHIRATAKI!
Oh to meet the genius who first combined tofu and yam flour to make this delish pasta substitute! I more than care for Tofu Shirataki, kittens. I LOVE IT! I LOVE IT! Some will probably complain that the tofu-yam spaghetti, fettuccine, and angel hair pasta is too chewy but, for someone like me, who will feverishly pedal backwards for chewy foods like tapioca balls, mochi, and nougat, Tofu Shirataki is the loveliest vegan and low-calorie-yet-surprisingly-filling food ever (we're talking 40 calories a bag, people!).
YUM!
Monday, December 01, 2008
SO, NOW WHAT?
I spend most of my days distracted by my engagement ring. It's nice to have these few stress-free weeks before MP and I begin to plan the shindigs--yes, that's a plural for all of my non-Desi readers; there is nothing like a South Asian wedding--in the new year.
Speaking of MP, he's currently trekking among mountains in South Asia, and I won't see him for another sixteen days. He won't have email access for twelve days. This separation by continents and oceans and weeks and days and countless hours and minutes is way harder than I thought it would be. Whenever I whine to amma about missing him, she tells me I should be ashamed of myself, that no polite girl expresses such feelings for her fiance out loud. I just frown and whine some more, at which point she starts to wonder out loud, "Why would anyone want to hike for twenty-one days, anyway?" to which I respond, "Canadians love the outdoors," and she says, "Ah, and why didn't you go? He asked you to go," and I respond, "Don't you know me at all?"
As much as I love MP, I would never ever be able to hike for more than one day. Hiking/trekking/roughing it in Mother Nature, my dear non-Canadian readers, involves much more than just walking up and down rugged terrain--your Nerddd can easily do that part (ahem. Descending down a mountain might be the one exception I make, however, in this "walking up and down rugged terrain" scenario: there's nothing quite as frightening as sitting on your ass and sliding down a FUCKING MOUNTAIN FACE).
It involves:
1) eating in the wild---mildly problematic for someone who dislikes eating in sidewalk cafes, picnics, and barbecues);
2) relieving oneself in the wild---yes, foregoing that absolutely vomitous outhouse in the Pine Barrens during the Summer of '96 and choosing to pee in the forest was liberating and empowering and made me feel like I was in touch with nature all weekend. I, however, draw the line when it comes to digging a hole for number 2;
3) sleeping in the wild---a sleeping bag is uncomfortable and please refer to number 1)
4) not showering---I prefer showering every day, in the woods or out;
5) the constant danger of wild animals---while I love, love, love animals, it is one of my life's goals to never face down any of the following amazing, awesome, and beautiful creatures of God in the wild: bears, bobcats, black rhinos, venomous snakes, wolves, buffalo, mountain goats, foxes, wild boars, cougars, elephants mosquitos, crocodiles, lions, and many, many more. Nature: that's where they all reside, my friends;
*
6) I have no desire to face down the throngs of cannibals, serial murderers, terrorists, and bandits that I imagine populate dark jungles everywhere (shudder);
*
7) I enjoy hiking towards destinations such as comfortable (luxury or not) hotels where I can have a shower, warm meal, and good night's sleep in a bed. Hiking to just hike some more? What's the point in that?;
*
8) am I really expected to travel without my makeup and hairdryer? Seriously?;
*
9) and what about this lovely engagement ring? What do engaged gentleladies like myself do with their engagement rings before immersing themselves into "nature" for weeks and weeks? I didn't get this ring to leave it at home. But I suppose I don't want it to snag on a branch and fall off into an endless pile of leaves--or wild boar crap--either.
*
You see kittens? A sane American like myself can't be expected to hike for multiple days, right?
*
Right?
*
But it's been six days since MP's left on vacation and as the seconds and the minutes and the hours tick by impossibly slowly and I don't find myself appreciably closer to the 18th, I think about how I might just suck it up next time, after all. Pooping in the woods, while facing down any variety of wild animal and insect, and sliding down the steepest of mountain faces doesn't seem all that bad as long as I'm with MP.
*
Sigh.
*
For fuck's sake, this dude's made me such a fuckin' softie.
*
Ay. Love. Sigh.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
WATERLOGGED SHOES, QUEBEC CITY and THE NERDDD or HOW IT ALL WENT DOWN or THE SPARKLE MAKES MY EYES BLEED TEARS OF HAPPINESS
So, kittens, hope you're well. As always, it's been way too long since I've blogged. Oh, I've been crazed, what with being whisked away to Quebec City last weekend by our favorite Manadian, MP, who, after a string of mishaps and misery, finally managed to propose to me. And now your socially awkward, perpetually single, on-her-way-to-spinsterdom Nerddd is actually engaged, which is hard to believe, I know but goodness, it's true. What is even more difficult to believe is the fact that I'm engaged to the Madlibbin' Parasailer but that, too, is very, very true and I thank the Blogger gods for making our match possible.
It's surreal.
I spent last week reading through my earliest correspondences with MP and if anyone would have told me then that this guy was my future husband, I would have choked on my saliva and, upon being able to breathe once again, would have said, "Nuh uh."
Two years and two days after the very first time MP left a comment on my blog--my response to which was, interestingly, a prophetic, "Anonymous, do I know you?" (MP went by Anonymous in those early days)--here I am, engaged to the guy.
Life's funny kittens; it's strange and absurd, full of twists and turns that never quite seem to make sense, until that one day when all of the scattered pieces fall into place and suddenly you can see that life is beautiful, that underneath the strangeness and absurdity there is this thing called kismet or naseeb or destiny.
Call it what you will. It is beautiful.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
MY COLD: A Long and Necessary Whine
Apologies for the lack of updating here, readers. For once, I have a valid excuse: I've been ill, terribly, terribly ill.
It all started back on Thursday, October 23rd, when I was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. I usually have boundless reserves of energy, so I found my listlessness a bit odd. Chalking it all up to over-working, over-exercising, and over-hiking I decided to take the day off from boxing. The following day, however, found me just as exhausted. What was going on?! I refused to miss another day of boxing because of a little fatigue but, unfortunately, my body had other ideas. So, instead of the gym, I went out with MP, who, upon holding my hand, commented that I was burning up.
I woke up with a devastatingly sore throat on Saturday morning, which eventually subsided over the course of the day. I even managed a seven mile run.
I paid for the seven mile run the following morning, when I woke up with not only a sore throat but nasal congestion like you wouldn't believe. It felt very much like someone had stuffed water-soaked cotton balls up my nose, an odd and wholly unpleasant sensation, indeed. I stayed in bed all day.
I felt even worse on Monday morning and, yet, I somehow made it into work. I even managed to be productive. I was taking measured swigs of Robitussin by this point, in the hopes of kicking this horrible, horrible cold. Not feeling terrible on Tuesday morning, I came into work hopeful that I might be on the mend. I was proven wrong, however, when my condition quickly deteriorated over the course of the morning until I, nearly coughing up a lung and blowing deluge after deluge of sickness from my nose into wads of tissue, called the day a defeat and limped back home. I stayed at home the following day, still ill, still chugging Robitussin, to no marked improvement.
Woe.
Thursday saw my return to the office, as my waterlogged nasal passages dried up for the most part. The cough, however, was something to be contented with; booming and wet, it made my body hurt as much as it made people stare. The Robitussin was utterly useless and my hacking became my own personal theme music. The prospect of boxing anytime soon felt impossible. And so I coughed through Thursday. On Halloween Friday, the cough proved to be an appropriate accessory for my Renegade Nun. Dressed as a nun, I also carried a machine gun, was draped in bullets, had a holy water bottle strapped to my waist and a cigarette dangled from my lips. It was only fitting for Renegade Nun to have emphysema.
My cough was so bad that instead of spending a festive night with my friends, I retired home and tried to fall asleep early. As usual, I ended up glued to the cable news networks, fully obsessed with the presidential elections.
The following week was a blur of coughs. People continued to stare at me as I wondered if I was succumbing to some sort of cancer that manifested itself in cold symptoms. I bitched about being sick all of the time. I bitched about missing days and days of boxing. I suspect everyone but MP grew tired of listening to me (if you're reading this MP, now's NOT the time to be honest! Kisses!).
Oh, the patience of Canadians!
And, just when I thought things couldn't get worse, worse they became. During an especially awful coughing fit on Friday, November 7th, I severely pulled my intercostal muscles on my right side. Now, in addition to coughing like the fate of the free world depended on it, it hurt to breathe, laugh, and, oh yeah, cough. I cried about "my rib, oh, my aching rib!" all weekend. Amma told me to suck it up. My brothers ignored me. MP commented that this was an unfortunate turn of events.
I had moved onto Robitussin bottle number two and wondered if perhaps my rib pain wasn't an intercostal muscle pull at all. What if it was another manifestation of cancer. I fretted and, finally, finally called my doctor, looking for a cure!
All I found, instead, was a message stating that the number had been changed. Extensive Google research revealed that my doctor had upped and moved without informing any of his patients.
Lovely.
So, after hours of extensive online research, I found someone who looks to be a capable physician, wrote out a timeline of my lingering sickness, and brought it to him. In turn, he prescribed me with antibiotics ("you've fought this cold valiantly but sometimes it's okay to ask for a little extra help"); a strong cough suppressent ("be careful, this is a narcotic"); and Celebrex("it'll help with the severe intercostal pain").
The cough medicine is making me a bit loopy, my gastrointestinal system is experiencing all kinds of crazy because of the antibiotics, and the Celebrex has me feeling like an old fart, but I'm on the road to recovery...and might very well be boxing again tomorrow.
Anyway, that's why I couldn't blog quite as often as I would've liked to readers.
Forgive me.
It all started back on Thursday, October 23rd, when I was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. I usually have boundless reserves of energy, so I found my listlessness a bit odd. Chalking it all up to over-working, over-exercising, and over-hiking I decided to take the day off from boxing. The following day, however, found me just as exhausted. What was going on?! I refused to miss another day of boxing because of a little fatigue but, unfortunately, my body had other ideas. So, instead of the gym, I went out with MP, who, upon holding my hand, commented that I was burning up.
I woke up with a devastatingly sore throat on Saturday morning, which eventually subsided over the course of the day. I even managed a seven mile run.
I paid for the seven mile run the following morning, when I woke up with not only a sore throat but nasal congestion like you wouldn't believe. It felt very much like someone had stuffed water-soaked cotton balls up my nose, an odd and wholly unpleasant sensation, indeed. I stayed in bed all day.
I felt even worse on Monday morning and, yet, I somehow made it into work. I even managed to be productive. I was taking measured swigs of Robitussin by this point, in the hopes of kicking this horrible, horrible cold. Not feeling terrible on Tuesday morning, I came into work hopeful that I might be on the mend. I was proven wrong, however, when my condition quickly deteriorated over the course of the morning until I, nearly coughing up a lung and blowing deluge after deluge of sickness from my nose into wads of tissue, called the day a defeat and limped back home. I stayed at home the following day, still ill, still chugging Robitussin, to no marked improvement.
Woe.
Thursday saw my return to the office, as my waterlogged nasal passages dried up for the most part. The cough, however, was something to be contented with; booming and wet, it made my body hurt as much as it made people stare. The Robitussin was utterly useless and my hacking became my own personal theme music. The prospect of boxing anytime soon felt impossible. And so I coughed through Thursday. On Halloween Friday, the cough proved to be an appropriate accessory for my Renegade Nun. Dressed as a nun, I also carried a machine gun, was draped in bullets, had a holy water bottle strapped to my waist and a cigarette dangled from my lips. It was only fitting for Renegade Nun to have emphysema.
My cough was so bad that instead of spending a festive night with my friends, I retired home and tried to fall asleep early. As usual, I ended up glued to the cable news networks, fully obsessed with the presidential elections.
The following week was a blur of coughs. People continued to stare at me as I wondered if I was succumbing to some sort of cancer that manifested itself in cold symptoms. I bitched about being sick all of the time. I bitched about missing days and days of boxing. I suspect everyone but MP grew tired of listening to me (if you're reading this MP, now's NOT the time to be honest! Kisses!).
Oh, the patience of Canadians!
And, just when I thought things couldn't get worse, worse they became. During an especially awful coughing fit on Friday, November 7th, I severely pulled my intercostal muscles on my right side. Now, in addition to coughing like the fate of the free world depended on it, it hurt to breathe, laugh, and, oh yeah, cough. I cried about "my rib, oh, my aching rib!" all weekend. Amma told me to suck it up. My brothers ignored me. MP commented that this was an unfortunate turn of events.
I had moved onto Robitussin bottle number two and wondered if perhaps my rib pain wasn't an intercostal muscle pull at all. What if it was another manifestation of cancer. I fretted and, finally, finally called my doctor, looking for a cure!
All I found, instead, was a message stating that the number had been changed. Extensive Google research revealed that my doctor had upped and moved without informing any of his patients.
Lovely.
So, after hours of extensive online research, I found someone who looks to be a capable physician, wrote out a timeline of my lingering sickness, and brought it to him. In turn, he prescribed me with antibiotics ("you've fought this cold valiantly but sometimes it's okay to ask for a little extra help"); a strong cough suppressent ("be careful, this is a narcotic"); and Celebrex("it'll help with the severe intercostal pain").
The cough medicine is making me a bit loopy, my gastrointestinal system is experiencing all kinds of crazy because of the antibiotics, and the Celebrex has me feeling like an old fart, but I'm on the road to recovery...and might very well be boxing again tomorrow.
Anyway, that's why I couldn't blog quite as often as I would've liked to readers.
Forgive me.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
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