I can go all night, but I don't recommend it

In case anyone here thinks I'm actually a responsible adult, let me set the record straight:

I'm not.

Last night, I accidentally stayed up all night because I had procrastinated too long on my schoolwork. Whatever, I can handle it every once in a while. Every time I pull an all-nighter, I just think to myself "You're young, it's not a big deal." Except that I also stayed up all night last Thursday writing a paper (for the same class? You betcha!). So I think both my brain and my body were beyond the "I'm a superhero" phase and more into the "Let's fuck with this bitch" mode.

How can you tell when this happens? Well, today I:

- Fell asleep on the train on the way to Grand Central, and actually did one of those lovely twitches to wake myself up. When I opened my eyes, one of them was tearing up because of the aforementioned anger felt by my body. I assume this resulted in mascara running. As soon as I was up, I checked to make sure my wallet was still in my bag.
- Almost ran into the wall while looking around the corner for cute boss. Three times.
- Lost the power to spell "clitoris" in my sex psychology class. I wrote "clitorous" and then stared at the word, bewildered that I had no idea about the correct spelling. I looked at the paper of the person next to me and realized my mistake.
- Was somehow unable to read during another class when my professor told us to quickly look something up. I panicked, then read the same paragraph five times. When that didn't work, I wrote the exact words in my notebook and read them. Smooth.
- Forgot the word "slow-mo" (as in slow motion). Instead, what came out was "Slow-Bo."*
- Think I spoke in some half-English language on the phone with L, who wants to interview me for some article. I can't imagine she got any good quotes.
- Told my roommate "You're like a pillow!"

At least I was charming when one of my sort-of crushes made small talk with me. Either that, or I think I was charming and he may avoid me for the rest of the year. I guess we'll see.

*This isn't a word, but everyone in the room liked it so I plan to continue using it.

I said brr... it's cold in here

The heat in my house isn't working properly. The result is that when it gets really cold out, the house is only about 50 degrees Farenheit. But 50 is only a number. Let me offer some more graphic ways to understand what this means:

- When I grab silverware or dishes, it chills my hand.
- When I put food on my plate, it stays hot for about 2 minutes.
- With 3 layers on, I shiver and my feet actually hurt from the cold.
- To me, turning on the computer has now become a way to check email and heat the room.
- I am afraid to take a shower because I know it will be painful to get out.


Do something about this? We've tried. My housemates and I have called campus maintenance and had them come "fix" the heat about 7 times this winter. They tend to show up, wake everyone up, and leave abruptly without giving us a report.

Today I tested the temperature in my bedroom with my handy dandy thermometer, and saw that it was about 55. I closed my door and turned my hair dryer on, and about 40 minutes later the temperature was 65 degrees. I heard a knock on my door, so I turned off the hair dryer and said "Come in."

It was my roommate from across the hall, who recently watched An Inconvenient Truth. A few days ago, she presented me with a list of tips on how to curb global warming. She saw the hair dryer in my hand and frowned disapprovingly. "TAB, do you know how much energy you're wasting by heating the room with that thing?"

I glared at her, shocked and defensive. "Excuse me? Have you noticed how cold it is in our house?"

"Well yeah, but that takes up a lot of energy. That's not a good idea." She crossed her arms.

"I don't see what the problem is," I said, confused that she didn't understand. "If our heat was working properly, we'd be using more energy than I'm using by turning on my hair dryer."

She continued to disapprove, but I eventually shook my head at her long enough to convince her to leave. On my way out later on, I poked my head in the kitchen to see her standing next to the open oven, which she was using to heat the room.

I gasped (Jokingly. Nothing actually surprises me). "What happened to 'You're wasting energy?'"

"Whatever," she said in the voice of a 12-year-old.

... And now I know I can use my hair dryer whenever the hell I please.

I hate being 'it' in Tag

Okay guys, I'm drunk, I'm vulnerable, Chicago lost the Superbowl... let's do a post to reveal my crazy secrets...

1. Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you”.

2. People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own 6 weird things as well as state this rule clearly.

3. At the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

Weird thing #1:
All the guys I am attracted to are less into sex than I am. Great.

Weird thing #2:
I used to be neat freak, and even though I still feel like a neat freak at heart, I am pretty messy most of the time. (although maybe by "pretty messy," I mean not OCD... hmm)

Weird thing #3:
People think that I'm bitchy or rude because of the way I act, which they describe as "confident," whereas I am often extremely self-conscious. So... I accidentally come off as a bitch (hence my blog title)

Weird thing #4:
I hated (American) football until I learned about it this January. Now I love it. Call me a hypocrite, or just accept me as cool because now I'm one of the elite class of women who's into football.

Weird thing #5:
Much as I hate the gender stereotypes, I have to know that the relationship is "going somewhere" before I let a man touch me below the belt. Even though I feel like a prude for doing so. And am really really horny.

Weird thing #6:
Often, I think I'm more popular on my blog than I am in real life. I know that may sound sad, but in some ways it's very rewarding: I am a writer, and y'all don't know me, so it's even more of a compliment that you stick around. Sometimes when I feel like no one likes me, I remember how rewarding my blog is and it makes me feel better. Um... wow lame... forget that one.

Yeah I'm really drunk. Really. Mmmm... vanilla vodka. Who wants to make out?

The 6 I'll tag are the top 6 commenters on my last post (good job, guys!!):
1. Wanderlusting
2. GrewUpRural
3. The Ambiguous Blob
4. S (aka dropout)
5. Strange bird
6. monicker

Hah! That'll teach you not to comment first anytime soon!

Facebook: One more way to embarrass myself

So I guess if you can't get your heterophobic gay friend to tell you you're hot, the universe will send someone else to do it.*

I saw that I had a message when I logged into facebook. Usually I get junk mail from groups that are sending mass emails to everyone about upcoming events, but this one was from an acquaintance who graduated last year. He wrote:

by the way, i always thought you were absurdly hot. no disrespect intended, just a statement of fact. it's possible that we'll never see each other again so you might as well know. PLEASE don't take it the wrong way. good luck in life and all that you do!

I was flattered. My impression of him was that he had been a pretty popular guy and a talented musician. Also, a friend of mine freshman year was obsessed with him. His message was kind of adorable, and I always love it when guys clarify that they're not being creepy. So I wrote him back:

Thank you :) I always thought you were an absurdly nice guy. I wish I could have gotten to know you better while you were still here. If you're ever in town we should hang out!

Afterwards, I realized that I may have insulted him by not calling him absurdly hot in return (who likes the "You're such a nice guy" response?). Still, if I had called him hot, he probably would have assumed that I'd like to have sex with him. This way it sounded a little more platonic. I remembered that he didn't live in the city, so I assumed I might never see him again.

So I was a little unsure whether to be excited or nervous or terrified when he replied:

i'm in town about half the time. i have to travel alot for gigs and such but i'm around. i'll hit you up on facebook next time i have a good chunk of free time. see you!

... This could get rather uncomfortable, since I haven't decided if I would actually want to see him when he comes to town.


*I will eventually stop talking about how hot I am.

I'll take that as a compliment

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Because yellow means warm and happy

After a lovely snowstorm hit the Seattle area, I was watching the weather report on the 11 o'clock news. The forecast map showed up with the state of Washington, and all over were these bright little suns. My heart leaped.

Then I saw the temperatures next to the suns: 30 degrees.

I felt cheated. I know the suns only mean that it won't be cloudy, but to me it also means that it will be warm. When you see orange and yellow in such liberal amounts, don't you think of warmth before you think of seeing your breath when you exhale? Well I do.

I think the only way to solve this injustice and simultaneously indicate that it will be sunny is to make the suns blue. I'm just saying. I was pretty disappointed, weather-guy.

This post is about me

After my surgery, I saw it as my goal to sit on my butt for days on end. Luckily, this was also doctor-recommended, so I could easily justify such a decision. The one unfortunate piece is that sitting on my ass actually hurts after a while. The few times I looked in the mirror, I could see the deep lines imprinted in my skin as a result of simply not moving for hours. And my heels ended up hurting because I was sitting with my feet up for hours on end. My heels! Who would have thought? Ah, I learn new things every day.

Today I haven't taken any percocet at all, and it's a nice change of pace to feel alert for the first time in days. I hung on for a few hours this morning to my 'I'm recovering' card, until I got a call from The Ex asking if I can hang out when he's back in town this weekend. That's when I remembered the perks of being recovered. (Of course, I was also aware of them when I wasn't able to walk or shower with ease, but this was another reminder.) So I stopped asking for favors and walked around a little more. Now I feel like my goal is to prove to my parents that I'm healthy enough to leave for two days. Unfortunately, I can't do that and insist that they bring me juice. Too bad.

When I started taking less painkillers, I started reading more. There was a stack of books on the table next to my recovery chair (aka my ass buddy) that I intend to read before I go back to school. I finished reading Catch-22 finally, and with a twinge of guilt I selected a 'fun' book, called Stupid and Contagious. I read it in two days. Though I was taking less painkillers than before, I was still taking enough to alter my state of mind.. that's my excuse at least. Because I really liked the book, the style of writing and all that... and now I kind of want to be one of the characters.

Shut up, I know.

The thing is, we already have so much in common that it's almost like she is me. (Though I am better, of course) For example: I would definitely buy three donuts at once, no question about it. Or was it four... well, I would eat four too (my max is 8, I think). I have also looked up diseases and thought that I had them, only to find out that I was wrong (apparently I'm not bipolar? whatever..). Most importantly, I am a horrible waitress. Just awful. I could be a fabulous waitress if I only had two tables; give me three and I will freak out.

However, she also got the guy in the end, and she got a dog. So far, it's not a perfect match. *sigh* Unfortunately, I am not the main character of Stupid and Contagious. Consolation prize: I am the main character in my blog!

Surgery details

Okay, so... I know I kind of promised a drugged-up post in my last post, but I'm pretty much done taking drugs that will screw me up.

In my defense, when I wrote that "promise post," I was high on percocet. So... that'll have to do.

Oh so the surgery went well... except for afterward. All of the pre-surgery was great. I got along famously with my nurses, hung out with my IV coming out of my arm, complimented my surgeons on their cool hat things. The last exchange I had before going under was between me and the anesthesiologist:

"So in about 20 seconds, you'll feel a stinging sensation..."

"Wait, are you going to tell me when you do it?" For some reason, I wanted to know when to start the countdown. I didn't want to just suddenly lose control and be unable to get out my last words in case I had something really important to say. Which I did not.

"Oh, you wanted me to tell you?"

Shit! I could go at any instant. "Yes I want you to tell me!" I started feeling a stinging sensation behind my nose while he informed me that he had already administered the anesthetic.

One of the nurses came into view and said "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Angelina Jolie?"

"Yeah," I responded distractedly. "Okay, goodbye now!" I announced. Right before losing consciousness, I remember hearing "She's really pretty."

Waking up was not quite as fun. I was greeted by a nurse holding an oxygen mask over my face, asking me about the pain, which was horrendous. "It hurts!" I yelled with as much restraint as possible. They didn't warn me about that part.

She ran around and returned with some drug to put in my IV. "There you go, it should start to work soon." I waited for the flood of relief.

...

By the way, those painkillers they use in TV shows are fake because this crap definitely did not work immediately. That or the hospitals should really take notes from TV doctors. The pain didn't go away. "How is it feeling now?" asked the nurse.

"It still hurts," I whined. Why didn't she give me the imaginary, quick medicine? I had drip running right into my vein; why was it taking so long? She could at least leave the room so I could cry by myself (sorry, there was an old man next to me who I'm pretending wasn't there).

"I can't give you any more painkillers," she explained soothingly, "I've already given you two doses."

I glared at her and grudgingly accepted her offer of cranberry juice and pudding. She then wheeled me over to a recliner, forcing me to move (more glaring), and then brought my family back. I was not pleased. All I wanted was some more anesthesia, or a room alone in which to cry. Bringing concerned people to me was not my plan B.

When the pain died down (finally) I asked my mom, "So, what did the doctor say when he came out to see you after the surgery?"

"What were his exact words?" My mom asked, flabbergasted. As though this were an outrageous and unexpected question.

"Uh yeah? What did he tell you?" You know... how'd it go?

"Oh, I don't remember."

Superb. "Well, generally then. What did you find out?"

"He said they didn't find a tear like they thought they would, and they were able to clear out a lot of irritation that was there, so that's good."

That's it? What was wrong with me then? Why did I just have surgery? They weren't really sure. "They did find that you have a missing piece of cartilage, though."

What? When the surgeon came by, I tried to ask him about the meaning of all of this, and he just smiled and said we would talk later. Thanks, hero! I'm going to rest easy now that I have no clue what's going on.

I tried to spend the drug daze of the next 48 hours reading, but it's kind of hard to stay awake when you're on drugs. I would have blogged, but I couldn't sit up to type. So I watched my surgery video, finished one (count it!) Sudoku puzzle, and let my stepdad teach me the rules of football.

Yesterday I became frightened when I saw only half of my painkillers left, and started devising ways to ration them out to make them last as long as possible. By my calculations, I should have finished most of them today, but I skipped a few doses for reasons unknown, so I can either enjoy them later or sell them to classmates. Or feel guilty about considering using them recreationally and refuse to sell them in case I decide to change my mind and do it anyway.

Until my post-op appointment with the surgeon (a week), all I can think about is being a 20-year-old cripple. Sexy.

But everyone celebrates Christmas

My stepdad invited me to attend his very last luncheon before he retires. If we wanted to, we could call it his "retirement luncheon." I showed up with my mom and tried my best to remember all the people who approached me to remind me of the funny story from when I was six. For the most part, I succeeded at feeling guilt-free for not remembering any of them.

I sat at the end of the table with my family and tried to enjoy my half-cold turkey dinner (Thanksgiving = Christmas?). I tried to strike up a conversation with the two women across from me while skillfully avoiding the fact that I didn't know if I had met either of them before. The best we came to a conversation was when I tried to get them to answer a riddle on a card I found on the table. When they didn't know the answer, I tried to get them to guess it invoking the rules of the game catch phrase, which I enjoy immensely. They simply didn't understand what I was doing. Their faces read: "Why isn't she just telling us the answer? We already gave up."

When the band was late in taking the stage, my stepdad took the microphone and announced that we were going to do a talent show. He began by singing "White Christmas." Then a nice lady came over and did a duet of "Silent Night" with him. Then they tried (and failed) to recite "A Visit From St. Nick". Then everyone looked around at each other, not sure what to do. The band was still setting up. People started suggesting more Christmas songs to sing, and I couldn't help but wonder if there were any non-Christians in the room.

"Why don't we sing a non-Christmas holiday song?" I suggested.

One of the ladies from across the way looked at me. "Like what?"

Without suggesting a Hanukkah song, all I could think of was Jingle Bells. That song didn't seem nice enough to represent my idea, so I continued thinking.

The lady still looked confused. "You mean like 'Away in a Manger?'" She asked.

I gave up. "Sure," I said, and went back to eating my stuffing.