I'm as cuddly as a cactus

Confession: I don't like Christmas.  It's my least favorite holiday, not just because I have a grinch-like personality, but also because 1. I'm not Christian so I don't see why I'm supposed to celebrate it   2.  I hate excessive American consumerism and 3. all it means for me personally is running around to 3-4 different houses in one day to fulfill familial obligations, and I firmly believe that holidays should be relaxing.


So, I was slightly annoyed when I had to wait 4 hours to use my kitchen this evening because it was filled with older women bickering with each other over the proper way to mash potatoes (by hand, with a masher, or with an electric mixer).  I had lots of vegan cooking to do if I wanted to have fancy food to eat for Christmas (and, while I'm not a huge fan of Xmas, I am a fan of vegan feasts, and I'm definitely NOT a fan of watching other people gorge on animal products while I have nothing tasty to eat).  I began prepping my food in the kitchen only to get all but kicked out, because it's tricky to cook when literally every single kitchen utensil is commandeered by one of two crazy old ladies..... even though I started cooking first.

I found myself up until 1am finishing my tasty vegan menu (traveling to 3 different places to celebrate Xmas leaves me little time to actually cook on Xmas day).   On my 4th glass of wine, I realized that cooking was getting more and more challenging, but in the end I hope it'll be worth it.

The menu:

Cinnamon rolls (for xmas morning)
Butternut squash and apple soup
Cashew nut roast with sage and onion stuffing
Quinoa salad with tomatoes, basil, and chickpeas
Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies

I think my Mom may also prepare one batch of green beans with margarine instead of butter, so I can eat them.  She's so flexible and concerned that I have something to eat (for those of you who need the clarification, yes that was sarcastic).   I love her anyway though.

The items I picked to make were somewhat laborious, and definitely pricey.   In fact, my check-card was declined at Safeway this afternoon when I spent over $100 on groceries, and I stood at the check out line feeling embarrassed that I had no other way to pay.   Before I left for the grocery store, I had logged into my bank account online and intended to transfer money from savings to checking, knowing I'd be spending alot of money on dishes that required a plethora of ingredients.

I stood at the register, insisting to the cashier that this made no sense; it obviously wasn't her fault but we needed to call my bank or something.

"I just checked my bank account before coming here.  In fact I transferred money into my account just in case!"

I had the pleasure of calling my mom and asking her to come to the grocery store and pay my $70 grocery bill (I paid the first 30 in cash), and her thinking I was a moron for not managing my money well.

Shortly after calling her, I realized I have a somewhat smart-phone, and logged in to check my bank account online.   I quickly realized the problem; my absent-minded self transferred money from checking to savings instead of the other way around, leaving a mere $20 in my checking account.   I fixed the problem almost instantly (yay, internet!), explained to the manager that I'm a moron, and he laughed, allowed me to pay my bill and take my food and leave.  Undoubtedly his impression of me went from deadbeat to ditzy spoiled moron in 2 seconds flat. I'm actually not sure which impression I'd prefer people have of me, though I was glad to have my overpriced goods.

For my first vegan Christmas, I feel a decent amount of pressure to show my relatives that being vegan doesn't mean I don't eat, and in fact I eat alot of tasty dishes.   How does Christmas become about dispelling myths about veganism instead of Jesus, loved ones, and Santa? 

Easy.  I'm a heathen.

Before you finish reading this post with the impression that I'm a grinch with a heart 3 sizes too small (or is it 2 sizes...?), tonight I helped my sisters type up letters to Santa.

My 11 year old sister (yes, she still believes in Santa) typed a letter essentially saying "Dear Santa, Thanks for stopping by, but we have alot of relatives and alot of gifts here already, I don't think we need much more.  Enjoy the cookies!"  I teared up (yes, literally) at her selflessness, though I remembered shortly after that she's manipulative and it could all be a ploy to get Santa, admiring her lack of greed, to leave her MORE stuff.

My 8 year old sister left a slightly bossier note, one that I typed up for her and debated whether to point out to her that it was rude (I didn't). 

"Dear Santa,

I hope you traveled safe.   I just wanted to let you know that Stephanie's old stocking is now MY stocking, because Mom said that Stephanie doesn't need presents from Santa any more because she's grown.   And Stephanie's old stocking matches Rachel's better than my old stocking, so I'm taking Stephanie's.  You might not know it, but last year you kind of messed up and switched Rachel and Stephanie's stockings.  Make sure you put Rachel's gifts in the Moose stocking and mine in the Teddy Bear stocking.  Also, I hope you brought me what I wanted..... a dress.

Your friend,
Jordan"

Children's notes to Santa make my heart grow at least 1 size.  I'm slightly less grinchy now.

Ways to feel like a terrible person: #1 - Sick your dog on the housekeeper

My family dog, Ubu, is a playful lab that pretends to be super protective.  He growls when anyone nears an entrance of our house, and as soon as someone actually walks in the door, quickly begins wagging his tail in hopes of getting some attention and love.

Because of his fierce attitude when potential bad guys are at a distance, but his enthusiasm and friendliness when anyone actually gets near him, my family and I play a game with Ubu when anyone knocks on the door.

"Get the bad guys Ubu!  Get the bad guys!" We rile him up, to see how much we can get him to growl and bark at the door, and whether it might actually scare the person outside, who is always someone that we know.

Last night my mom told me to make sure to pick all my stuff up off the floor in the morning, so that Dala the housekeeper could vacuum.   After doing this, I immediately forget that Dala is coming, sit on the couch drinking my coffee, and when I hear a car pull up in the driveway, begin instructing Ubu "get the bad guys!!"

Assuming it was my mom walking in from running some errands, I continue to get Ubu all worked up when I hear the door open and someone step inside. 

"Get her! Is it a bad guy Ubu?  Get her!!"

To my surprise, Ubu continues growling, though by this point from where he's sitting, he should be able to see my mother and be jumping all over her and giving her kisses.

A woman starts muttering quickly and fearfully in a language I don't understand, and I get up off the couch and walk near the door to see the woman that must be Dala.

"Oh my god -I'm sorry! It's just a game.. I thought you were someone else!! I'm so sorry!!  Ubu, sit!"  I try to apologize and keep the dog away from her.

Dala walked past me without saying a word, and to be fair I'd be kind of pissed too if I walked in to be underpaid to clean someone's house and they sent their dog over to attack me.

The inner workings of Stephanie's brain

People often ask me, or I can tell from the puzzled looks on their faces that they're wondering, What goes on in your head?

To partially answer this question, I've provided snippets of interactions I've had recently that prompted me to retreat into my own brain and ponder things. 




Tonight my step-dad showed me a car he was looking at online, one that I pointed out cost more than my college education.

"Well... it's 400 horsepower."
"Did you just compare the value of this car to the value of my college education?"
"Yep...I mean not just any car. This one is 400 horsepower."

I wonder what "horsepower" even means, as it's a word I've never cared enough to think about before tonight. Does this mean a car with 400 horsepower has the capacity to move at 400 times the speed of a horse?  That it would take the strength of 400 horses to move this car?  I decide no on the second theory, as people often have to push dying cars to the side of the road and usually don't have 400 horses to help them accomplish this.  It must be the first theory, I decide. If I google it and get a boring answer that doesn't support my theory, I'll be disappointed, so I've decided not to.


In making some cooking plans, I started to google a question, to the effect of Is such and such brand of something or other vegan.

After typing the word "is," I see that google has already generated a list of questions I might intend to type.


Is facebook down?
Is Beyonce pregnant?
Is Lady Gaga a man?
Is Mariah Carey pregnant?


I tried to imagine caring about the answers to any of those questions, except of course the facebook one. I immediately checked to see whether I could log into facebook, and with a sigh of relief when I successfully did, I closed out the site anyway and returned to cooking plans.



I became a big fat introvert when some distant relatives came to stay for the holidays. One of them, a woman who commented on how I'm such an adult since she last saw me, (I'm not convinced we've actually ever met before today) prides herself on seeing how many consecutive sentences she can utter before having to stop for a breath. While I know I am occasionally guilty of doing this myself (my record is 2.7 minutes without having to breathe), when others do it I sort of want to crawl into a hole and die.

So when my grandma (no, not the Mormon one) asked if I wanted a glass of wine at 4pm, I replied "Yes, please!!" and sipped a smooth red wine (one that's likely far out of my price range when my family isn't footing the bill) while mentally drowning out her ramble about democrats ruining the world. I fantasized about a future holiday spent with an unknown future significant other and their well-adjusted, gay-friendly, anti-racist family - who perhaps also start drinking delicious wine at 4pm.



This evening I was accused by my grandma of not following my vegan diet when I used chocolate chips to make cookies.

"Milk is just something the Europeans put in our chocolate to water it down for us and keep the good stuff for themselves," I explained, "like the English did when they sent us beer."
"Is that true?" she asked.
"Basically.  I mean... pretty much.These are semi-sweet chocolate chips. They have cocoa and sugar... but they're not processed with milk. You just have to know the right brands to buy."

A quick taste-test passed my chocolate-addicted grandmother's test, and I wonder how it is that a chocolate fiend like her never realized that milk chocolate ISN'T the good stuff, and if any of the stuff I just claimed had any partial truth to it.

My eavesdropping step-father looked at his beer, undoubtedly pondering whether he should head to England for a better pint.

Behave children... Or Santa will curse you.

Santa (this dude on the left, if you're unfamiliar) recently asked me to help him with a Christmas project for my sister, Rachel.  He plans to hide her main present in a certain room of my house, and asked me to create a scavenger hunt in different rooms of the house, ending with her gift.


Today I wrote up five clues to be attached to Candy Canes, the first of which she'll find in her stocking, the last of which will lead her to her new bike. 
 

The second candy cane she finds will have this note attached:

Congratulations! You're well on your way,
I want you to work for this gift I brought on my sleigh,
Here's another clue to help in your looking
You'll find it in the room where your Mom does the cooking.
 
The scavenger hunt continues, and even includes a fake-out, in which Rachel will receive one clue that says her gift is in the basement, but then will arrive in the basement to find a note:

Ha! I got you… you thought your gift was down here!
Santa has a sense of humor, my dear

Eventually, Rachel will get to her bike.  I decided there needed to be a final note on the bike - to bring closure to the scavenger hunt.  My writer's block kicked in after the first five verses, and I struggled to find appropriate rhymes for the last one.

Hoping for some helpful feedback from my friend Amanda, I sent her this:

I hope you're excited, you've found it at last!
Be careful not to drive it too fast,
Always wear a helmet - safety first
Merry Christmas dear Rachel, I hope it's not cursed!

I then proceeded to laugh about the word "cursed" (which I obviously did not intend to use in the real poem, but I had to entertain myself through my writer's block) for several minutes.   I tried to find alternatives, interjecting the word fun into my poem, but my useless rhyming dictionary only suggested that I rhyme "fun" with "Satan."

In fact, I frequently use Satan in my methods of achieving fun: my mom has decorative letters she puts out every Christmas that spell out Santa, and I tend to make a game of re-arranging them to spell "Satan" and waiting to see how long it takes her to notice.  She gets really mad.

When I told Amanda how hilarious I found my "cursed" poem, she suggested that perhaps I need more sleep.  I pointed out that between 12pm yesterday and 12pm today, I slept for 18 hours (don't judge me for my gluttonous sleep habits, blame the surgery and the meds).

In my well-rested state and with a clear mind, I've decided to become a writer of children's books. 

First titles to include "Fun with Satan," and "Behave, or Santa Will Curse You."

I have the break-up skills of a 14 year old

I recently signed up for a netflix account, mostly so that I could stay up until 4am every night watching 24.  But last night I needed a break from the addiction, and instead opted for a Swedish film about teen lesbians (no, not porn).

I read the subtitles as popular, attractive Elin struggled with her sexuality as she fell for Agnes, a nerdy socially rejected lesbian at her school.  After the two made out, Elin freaked out and started dating Johan, a boy who had been relentlessly pursuing her.

One day, Elin was hanging out with Johan in her living room.  She retreated to her bedroom, closed the door, and called him on his cell phone. 

"I don't want to see you any more.  You can leave."  She said (though not in English).

The next day, Elin called Johan again. 

"I'm sorry... but I'm in love with someone else."

Wait... did this girl really dump him via phone from the next room, then call him the next day to dump him again and mention that she was in love with someone else?   Elin is a little harsh.

Still, I couldn't help but think that I'm not any more gifted when it comes to rejecting people.  Perhaps it's because my first boyfriend (in 8th grade) dumped me in a letter, and I subconsciously desire to achieve such horrendous ways of breaking up with people.   Or maybe it's because I lack general social skills, I don't know.  I feel badly about the ways that I've ended things with some people; I've never been mean to someone out of malice, but I'm sure my lack of willingness to be forward and blunt has come across as bitchy in the past. 

It's cool though.  I know my strengths and weaknesses, and while I  may not be a good breaker-upper, I am good at watching hot Swedish lesbians break the hearts of straight teenage boys.

Never trust children

I've been wearing one of my step-dad's tee shirts for the last two days, from a 2001 "Pig Roast" my entire immediate family attended... except for my youngest sister, who was not yet born.

My family finds it ironic that the vegan is the one walking around in a Pig Roast tee shirt, and I have to agree, but it's the most comfortable baggy tee-shirt I've been able to locate after my surgery.

As a child I was dragged to these annual pig roast events; I never had much interest in them as a vegetarian and just generally as someone who thinks seeing a dead pig is disgusting.   But the host of these parties made them family-friendly events (if you consider watching a pig spin like a rotisserie chicken in a large bonfire kid-friendly), and went out of his way to make it a fun shindig.  There were moon bounces, games, lots of other food, and one year - a  dunk tank.

The 2001 Pig Roast - the shirt which I'm currently wearing - was the year that I volunteered to be in the dunk tank for a few hours.   As a 14 or 15 year old, I constantly bitched about any event my parents dragged me to, and the whining was particularly bad if it involved watching an animal roast with an apple in its mouth.  I suspect that asking me to sit in the dunk tank was a way to curtail the whining a little; if I was under water, no one could hear me complain, plus I was far enough away from the pig bonfire that I wasn't quite as grossed out as usual. 

As the product of my mother's first marriage, I have always been signficantly older than the kids of my parents' friends.   Family/friend events growing up were not so much entertaining for me, as they were an opportunity for people to use me as a free babysitter.   I sat in the dunk tank on a chilly Saturday in October, as a bunch of kids under the age of 10 skipped the part where they were supposed to throw a ball and see if they could knock me in, in favor of just running up and pushing the button so that I'd fall into the water every time I had barely even taken a seat inside the dunk tank.

I considered this an easy baby-sitting job, as the children were all uninterested in leaving the area around the dunk tank, and while it was exhausting to constantly fall and have to climb back up on the bench, at least I didn't have to chase children around the large backyard.  Rachel, my middle sister, was 3 at the time, and already learning how to torment her big sister.  She was perhaps the worst perpetrator of "cheating" at dunking me.

Today the tables turned a little; as my mom left to run some errands she yelled as she walked out the door
"Rachel! Watch your big sister!  Make sure she walks around."

Engaged in an intense game of battleship with me, my sister mutters "Sure,"  then refocuses on sinking my submarine (she won, but only because once again, she cheated).   Positive that my sister would forget by the time we finished our game, I ignored the fact that my mom told my 11 year old sister to babysit me.  Mom and I have had a debate over the last several days as to whether I've been walking enough (as this activity is supposed to prevent me getting blod clots), and I guess she trusts Rachel to manipulate me into walking.

Understandable, as yesterday she successfully manipulated me into going for a walk around the house.

"Steph, come here I have to show you something!" Rachel called me up to her room, and I dragged myself off the couch after she refused to tell me what she wanted to show me, as I have a weakness for mystery.

I get into Rachel's room, and she exclaimed "Oh, I think it's in Jordan's room."  We walked over to our other sister's room together.

By the third room she dragged me to, I realized there was in fact nothing to show me and that she was manipulating me into going for a walk against my will.

Normally, this is the point where I would tackle and tickle her, or pick her up and hold her upside down, but that seemed unwise given my stitches and the fact that I'm not supposed to lift more than 5 pounds.

For now, I just have to accept that my 11 year old sister is good at manipulating me, and good at cheating.  I'd like to say she learned from the best... but I think she's better than me.

People can't drive

Last night one of my closest friends got in a car accident on her way to visit me, while I was on the phone with her.

I heard a loud banging noise, then the phone drop, Amanda exclaiming "crap!" and at some point picking up the phone to tell me she was in an accident and would call me back.  She texted me later to let me know that she had her parents come pick her up, and I was relieved to know that she was okay.   As was pointed out to me earlier today, "cars are replaceable, Amandas are not."

My mom came into my room this morning and woke me up, having seen Amanda's facebook status about air bags and texted her (yes, my mom has both a facebook and texting relationship with MY complicated facebook lover), telling me:

"She's okay.... don't freak out.... but Amanda was in an accident last night."
"Yea I know."
"You know?  How do you know?"
"She was on her way over here last night."
"Oh so it's your fault?"
"Thanks Mom, I didn't feel guilty enough as it is."
"So you talked to her last night after it happened?"
"Not exactly..."
"Oh my god! You were on the phone with her!"
"Yea..."
"So... it's actually your fault! I can't believe you called her while you knew she was driving!"

Eventually, I convinced my mom that I had called Amanda to ask her to make a quick stop on the way to my house, NOT to conspire with the jackass who parked his car, lights off at midnight, in the MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY (yeah, I imagine that would've been a hard accident to avoid regardless of whether she was on her phone).

I learned three things from this incident:

1. Amandas (and other friends) are irreplaceable.  They should not get into car accidents.
2.  Blaming people is annoying.  Unless they're parked in the middle of a highway, in which case they're idiots who deserve to be blamed for stuff.
3.  Amanda should get a job in Annapolis, so she doesn't even have to get on the highway to come over to my house and hang out.

I like sparkles

In no way did I expect to get pre or post-op gifts, but I've gotten a handful, though the most interesting one came today. 

My boss gave me a book a couple weeks ago, one that she found particularly inspirational and suggested I read it while recovering and bored.  My step-mom and Carolyn both gave me Victoria's Secret gift cards for the bra shopping I'll need to do soon, and Carolyn also gave me a delicious jar of homemade jam that serves as a great Percocet chaser.

Today Emily came to visit me, bearing a small gift bag with a bottle of body glitter inside.

Now, we all know I have an affinity for shiny, sparkly things.   Emily admitted that she found this in her room, and had purchased it who knows when for someone else, but found it and thought I'd like it.    She was right. 

What I found most entertaining was Emily's comment shortly after I opened the package with glitter.

"I think it's edible, too!"  Emily then took the body glitter from me and read the package to confirm that it indeed, is edible.

Edible body glitter is pretty awesome.  Now, perhaps it doesn't have the most utility in comparison to Victoria's secret gift cards or Jam, but it is indeed the most creative gift related to... things I could do with my body after surgery.  Am I to have someone lick it off my new, perkier boobs?   Lick it off someone else?  Decorate my home-made jam with it?  Dip my percocet in it?  The possibilities are endless.

I haven't decided yet.  But I do know... that Emily is awesome.

In other news, today my mom gave me medicine that expired 5 years ago, AND I showered for the first time since Sunday.   I feel both sick to my stomach, and really clean.

My surgery wasn't vegan.

Two days ago, in case you missed my continual facebook updates and people's comments about "the girls," I had breast reduction surgery.   I walked into the "pre-op" room, where I was instructed to change into a gown, anti-embolism stockings, cozy slipper socks, and... extremely ugly, baggy, "surgery panties," which were G-string style.   G strings... are not necessarily sexy.  The good news is I never soiled them.
Terrified that the anesthesia wouldn't work on me and I'd be awake through surgery, Grey's Anatomy style, I spoke with the anesthesiologist before my operation, who asked a series of questions about what I am allergic to, to make sure she didn't poison me to death.  

"Are you allergic to eggs?"  She asked.
"Um, no... but I don't consume them, I'm vegan," I responded.

Apparently egg lecithin can help prevent blod clots, which I suppose is a good thing.  Obviously if I had said I was allergic to eggs (or that I refused medicine with eggs in it), the anesthesiologist would have given me some sort of alternative drug, as presumably even people who are allergic to eggs need surgery now and then.  But, I allowed the anesthesiologist to give me the egg medicine, thinking it was probably ideal that I go with her first choice recommendation for anesthesia.

You know how in movies/tv, people always get to count backwards from 100 when they're being put to sleep for surgery?  100...99....98.... then they're out.

I didn't get to do that.  And I have to say I'm a little disappointed, I wanted to see how long I could make it.

"Are you tired yet?" The anesthesiologist asked me as I laid flat on the table in my g-string surgery panties, underneath an ugly blanket.

"Um no... should I be?  Don't operate yet!"  Still have that episode of Grey's Anatomy on the brain.

"That's okay... sometimes it takes a few minutes."

The last thing I remember is the nurse, Connie, holding my hand while the anesthesiologist injected more drugs into my IV. 

"So how long have you lived in Ohio?" Connie asked.

"I don't know... I'm not good at math."  I guess that was my "counting backward," because the next thing I knew I was in a different room.  Alone, and wrapped in some bandages.

I had three immediate reactions when I woke up from surgery:

1.  Where the fuck am I?  Was I in an accident... am I dying?
2. Oh sweet, my boobs are smaller!  Joy.  (There may have even been some happy tears).
3. Oh my god, I'm a terrible vegan.

Connie walked back into the recovery room a few seconds after I woke up, telling me that I did great while feeding me drugs.   She helped me get into a wheelchair, wheeled me out to my mom's car, where I professed my love for her.

"You're the best nurse ever... I love you.  I know you think it's because I'm on drugs, but even before the drugs you were just the best.  Seriously, you're amazing.  Thanks for holding my hand." I told Connie.

On the way home, my mom had to assure me that I wasn't a terrible vegan.   It didn't mean a whole lot coming from her, as she thinks my veganism is stupid in the first place.  I have since recovered from my vegan guilt, and accomplished the following:

1.  Taken three days to write a blog post, because I got too sleepy to finish it each time I began writing.
2.  Eaten 3/4 of a jar of jam all by myself.
3.  Flashed Amanda my bandages and said "Say hello to these!"
4.  Insisted that I could walk by myself, and been caught by my step-dad as I nearly fell to the ground.
5.  Played "Snake" on facebook at least 300 times.

Once again, my percocet is kicking in, I'm losing my mental coherence, so I think it's quitting time for now. 

Happy Percocet Week!  I love percocet.

Say goodbye... to these.

If you're an Arrested Development watcher (like you should be), you probably remember Kitty.  Kitty is the secretary of the Bluth company, who at one point had an affair with George Bluth - who purchased her implants after she publicly flashed her breasts for a "Girls with low self-esteem" video, and embarrasingly, was cut out of the tape.

The next Spring break, armed (chested?) with larger knockers, Kitty finds a reason to flash someone practically every time she leaves a room, shouting "Say goodbye... to these!"


I wanted to share one of these clips on my blog, as the language and excitement that Kitty expresses are appropriate to my sentiments right now - though for an opposite type of change in my breasts.  But of course, this is the only time in life that youtube has failed me in my search for an entertaining video.

Today, I haphazardly packed for my flight home to Maryland an hour before leaving for the airport.   I threw 3 or 4 bras into my duffle bag, but quickly realized.... I don't need them.   I have one more day of wearing my current bra size, and then my stash of practical bras and sexy lingerie will both become useless to me.

After picking me up at the airport, my mom asked whether I was ready/excited/nervous for my surgery on Monday.   We talked about the importance of communicating with doctors and surgeons to be sure we're on the same page, and my mom referenced a news special where she learned the advice that if you get one of your limbs removed - and it's one you have two of -that you're supposed to write in sharpie on the one you want to keep "NOT THIS ONE."   This way, if the surgeon misreads which limb s/he is supposed to remove, s/he will be reminded upon undressing you.

"So what am I supposed to write on my breasts?  'Please reduce the other one too'?" I asked her.

My mom just laughed, and agreed that I probably want them to end up somewhat symmetrical.

I briefly contemplated having a flash-a-thon (at Amanda's brilliant suggestion) the day before my surgery and shouting "Say goodbye to these!!" as Amanda escorted me into various public places.  But, as I've agreed to babysit my sisters tomorrow and take them to a neighborhood Christmas party (perhaps the least I can do as my parents shelled out nearly 6 grand for my operation), I've opted not to engage in this activity.   Though, as my parents are working on remodeling our basement and have not yet enclosed the two stripper-like poles that my 11 year old gymnast sister has realized are "fun to dance on", I think me flashing strangers would be the least of their parenting problems.

Still, I've decided that I've outgrown my flashing days, and too few people would get the reference if I ran around town asking people to "Say goodbye to these!"

Perhaps I'll just write it on my breasts Monday morning.

It's peanut butter jelly time

I have this routine when I microwave food: get out plate, put food onto plate, insert into microwave and set the time, then sit on the couch and play on facebook until my food is ready and the microwave beeps at me.

Today I came home, decided what I wanted to eat, got out all the necessary supplies for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and put them on the counter.  I then sat in front of the tv, typing on my laptop, wondering several minutes later why the microwave had not yet beeped to tell me my meal was ready.

It turns out, I am in fact lazy and absent-minded enough to believe that my microwave will prepare any kind of meal for me if I just take the ingredients out of my fridge and cupboard.  

Which leads me to wonder...  will I one day have an automated sandwich maker on my kitchen counter?   Not the grill kind, the kind that actually has fake hands to spread sandwichy materials onto a piece of bread for me.  So that I can waste away my life on social networking sites.

Texts from Last Quarter

Recently my cell phone informed me that its memory was near full.   Apparently keeping over 2,000 texts in my inbox will do that.  During a time-wasting meeting masquerading as a "class,"  I deleted, one by one, over 400 texts from my phone.   Unable to find a way  to delete all my texts at once, I reasoned that I had nothing better to do during class, and started with the oldest texts in my phone from August and September. 

Some of my favorites include:

(678): Ooo your name is Steph

(240): Dear self, remember to date people tomorrow.

(316): Comme des enfants, couer de pirate
(this one is interesting as the number is not saved in my phone, and I have no idea who was french-texting me)
(949): I didn't know soda expired

(508): I just realized I've made out with half the people in this room.  Fml.

(949): I'm not interested in sleeping with women.

(949): Buutluvrmatt sent me another message.

(802):  Im not going out ne more I wanna stay with the tigers.

I really enjoy reading texts months after they were sent, as I no longer remember the context and can just imagine that my friends are all buckeyes (aka nuts).


In other news, I was misinformed that a certain prominent member of the Ohio State community died yesterday (will avoid using the name here as I do not want to again start rumors that he's dead), and I proceeded to inform several people that I work with.  Upon receiving a text today that he didn't actually die, it was someone else, I had the pleasure of going around my office to say "Great news.... he's still alive!!"

I then had to apologize to the people who went home after work last night, googled this person and read about his life in mourning.  Oops.  From now on, I don't announce deaths unless I personally witnessed them happen.

I don't get poetry... unless it's sexual

In re-reading a coursepacket from one of my awesome, undergrad, queer classes, I rediscovered this limmerick.  



A gay man who lived in Khartoum

Took a lesbian up to his room,

They argued all night

Over who had the right

To do what, and with what, to whom.

Our bodies, our selves, our lingerie

I have 12 days left until my breast reduction surgery, and I'm kind of freaking out.

This morning I had a pre-op appointment - had to get some bloodwork done to make sure I am healthy enough to be anesthesized (I think that's a word?).

Now, I'm all for helping people learn their jobs hands-on; I didn't complain when the optometry student conducted my vision exam or when the gynecology student stuck her fingers you-know-where.

But, today my bloodwork was drawn by someone obviously learning the process, supervised by some guy who distracted me by asking questions about what I do in life.  Student proceeded to prep my right arm for needling without asking which arm I preferred, then jammed the needle into my vein in a not-so-delicate manner.  I'm not sure in the future I will support people learning to use needles on me, unless I take up a heroin habit.

Meanwhile, I answered the supervisor/distractor's questions about what "student affairs" is, when I really wanted to scream to get this horrible, violent student away from my arm and put her on phone-duty.

Distractor then asked me if I had arrangements for receiving my bloodwork results.

"Yep, this is just my pre-op bloodwork, my doctor is going to fax it to the surgeon."
"Pre op?" He asked, "you're having surgery?"
"Yea I'm having breast reduction surgery in a couple weeks."
"Whoa - I didn't need to know what kind of surgery.  That's your business."

My mistake for misinterpreting his question about my surgery for an interest in talking further about my surgery.  I suspect he wouldn't have had the same reaction if I told him I was having hip replacement surgery.

Boobs are kind of funny.  I feel like a creeper because I keep staring at stranger's boobs, trying to imagine what the size of mine will be like after my surgery - and to be fair to the strangers who catch me doing it, they don't know that I'm not just a creeper.  Obviously, it's not appropriate to ask them what size bras they wear, and apparently it's not even appropriate to tell a medical professional that I'm having the procedure done (note: "The Procedure" is what my dad calls it every time I talk to him, as he cannot physically utter the word "breast" to his daughter).

Last night my roommate turned on the Victoria's Secret Fashion show.  [Insert feminist critique here related to body image and beauty and sending unhealthy messages to young people/our entire culture], but that's not really my point.  I can watch a full hour of models parading around in bras, panties, and stilletos on a major television network, but I can't tell a medical professional what kind of surgery I'm having because it involves boobs?  He probably spent last night watching the same damn fashion show while jerking off.

I'm gonna need people to get a little more comfortable talking about breasts - both because I'm terrified of my surgery and need people to tell me it'll be okay, and because I think it's stupid not to be able to have conversations about our body parts at a Health center.

Oh and for the record - I have to go back for more bloodwork tomorrow because I got a call and learned that distractor/supervisor of student didn't realize that she didn't take enough tubes of blood.  Super.