My brain eez not good for mat.

Here's a collection of random things that made me laugh. Enjoy!

From time to time I check the traffic statistics for my blog. Somehow, someone found my blog by searching for "baby chimpanzee born in 2011." Sorry, dude. You have the wrong chimp. This chimpanzee was born in 1988.

Me: "My blog has only had 2,600 page views."
Mom: "In 5 years?"
Me: "1 year."
Mom: "26,000 eez a lot."
Me: "It's 2,600."
Mom: "Vut's anodder zero?"
Me: "Another zero is a difference of 18,000."
Mom, after a pause: "Your mat eez not good."
Me: "My mat?"
Mom: "Mat!"
Me, confused: "What mat?"
Mom: "Your brain...eez not good for mat."
Me: "Oh, math! Yeah, you're right. It would be a difference of 20,000."
My calculator has informed me that I'm still wrong.

One of my classmates asked this question during class: "Isn't it illegal to smoke weed while driving?"
Yes, and it's also illegal to smoke weed while not driving.


At my pharmacy job: "Good afternoon, XYZ Pharmacy."
"Hi, do you fill prescriptions there?"
Hmm...

A customer asked the pharmacist if there was any drug that could help reduce coughing caused by smoking cigarettes. "I can't ask my doctor because he'll just tell me to stop smoking," the customer explained. If you smoke, you won't find this funny.

My dad, misreading a menu: "Jalapeno pepper poopers."
That doesn't sound appetizing.

Watching the National Dog Show on Thanksgiving: "You know why the carpet's not green?" my dad asked, chuckling. Get it?

My mom looked at me and started laughing. "I vuz just tinking...if your arm vuz a buffalo ving, it vould be de juicy plump part." See also: Shit My Mom Says.

That's Irby on top. Daisy's the little one.

My mom shrieked, "Daisy peed in my closet!"
"How do you know it was Daisy?" I asked.
She replied, annoyed, "I deedn't pee, deed you?!"
"No..." I frowned slightly, furrowed my brows, and shook my head. "I mean, how do you know it wasn't Irby?"
"Oh! Heh, heh! Because eet vuz just a leedle bee of pee." (translation: a little bit of pee)

My body woke up earlier than my mind.

I kept hitting the snooze button on my alarm today. I was tired! Sometimes I cut a deal to encourage myself to get out of bed in the morning when I'm still sleepy. Self, I think to myself, If you get out of bed now, you can take a nap later. Deal!

It was later than I'd anticipated when I finally got out of bed. I set up the Keurig to brew a cup of coffee while I brushed my teeth. It was almost 8:10. It takes me 20 minutes to drive to my internship--I was on the verge of being late! I didn't have time to put on any make up. I grabbed my coffee and my cosmetic bag and ran out the door. My heel caught the hem of my pants and I nearly tripped as I ran down the stairs outside my apartment. I almost just died!, I jokingly thought to myself.

While driving, I remembered that I had to pick up a newspaper for a current events group I facilitate. I figured I would stop at a deli that's just around the corner from my internship to buy the paper. It might delay me by--what? A minute? As I got closer to the deli, I saw that it was shuttered. A "For Lease" sign was on the window. Ugh! I'd definitely be late if I turned around and went to 7-Eleven in the opposite direction! Oh well. I'll just have to use some of my lunch time to go buy a paper, I grudgingly concluded.

I pulled into the parking lot at my internship just barely in time at 8:27. The parking lot was nearly empty. That's weird. I looked at the clock again. It's almost 8:30! Where is everyone?!

Then it hit me. Work starts at 9. I've been there for three months now. It always starts at 9.

So there!

As I type this, I'm somewhere in New Jersey, driving about 60 miles per hour. Well, I'm not the one driving but "riding" 60 miles per hour doesn't sound right. The bus I'm on from New York to northern Virginia has WiFi ("wife-ee" or "wee-fye" as my mom calls it). I know, my thoughts exactly; technology is awesome.

Enough background information. Let me get to the point. Of the fifty-plus people aboard this bus, I think the bus driver and I are the only ones wearing our seat belts. If you're like me, you're thinking to yourself, "Every seat on that bus has a seat belt? That's awesome!" If you're like most people, you're wondering why I bothered with this silly life-saving contraption.

Remember when some cars had seat belts that you never had to unbuckle? The seat belt would move away from across your chest when you opened the door. (Thinking back on it, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. If the door were to fly open during the crash...well, there goes my seat belt with it!) Anyway, my mom had one of those cars. I remember nothing about the car other than it had those seat belts. This is just my hypothesis, but I think the way that car automatically buckled me up every time I sat down conditioned me to appreciate that buckled-up sense of security.

As soon as I get into my car I shut the door, engage the locks, and put on my seat belt. I fasten my seat belt before I even put the key in the ignition. Let's say I'm just getting in my car to change parking spots. I still automatically put on my seat belt. (I don't know why I'd randomly decide to change parking spots. I just couldn't think of a good example. Feel free to offer suggestions.) Let's say someone else is driving. They park, turn off the car, and run into the store while I wait. At no point would the thought of unbuckling my seat belt cross my mind. In the past I've occasionally gone to my car between classes to take a power nap. Yep... Seat belt on.

I just love seat belts. I can't get enough. So that's weird bus/car/motor-vehicle-with-a-seat-belt habit number one.

This brings me to weird bus behavior number two. I took a nap in the beginning of this bus ride. Before falling asleep, I put my coat on backwards--Snuggie style--so it would act as a blanket (normal). I also pulled the hood up over my face (bordering on weird...or definitely weird). Here's the thing. The overhead lights are off. Every single individual reading light on the bus is also off...except for the one belonging to the girl in the seat directly in front of me. (In her defense, she is in fact reading.) Now, I don't know if I have abnormally thin eyelids or if I have a melatonin deficiency, but even a tiny amount of light negatively impacts my sleep. That's why I wore my coat and hood backwards.

I don't care if I look like the shady misanthrope on the bus (every bus has at least one) with my seat belt, backwards coat, and hood covered face. You know why? Because I'm warm, I was able to take a delightful power nap without the overhead lights inhibiting my melatonin production, and if this bus crashes the driver and I will be able to unbuckle our seat belts and run to safety. The rest of these people will be SOL.

Panthea Antheia

My roommates and I were talking about our Halloween costumes today. We're all dressing up as goddesses. One of my roommates is dressing up as a specific Hindu goddess who has blue skin, four arms, and a necklace made of human heads.

Wow, I thought to myself. My generic Greek goddess idea is woefully uninspired. Unfortunately, the only Greek goddesses I could think of off the top of my head were Aphrodite and Athena. I bet all the girls who want to be a unique goddess choose to be one of those two. Google to the rescue! I looked up "Greek goddesses" and began skimming lists of every goddess imaginable. (There's a virgin goddess of childbirth? Really? Who came up with that and thought it made sense?)

I discovered something unbelievable. Google, you are amazing! How have I gone 23 years without knowing there's a Greek goddess of flowers named Antheia?! And I found out just in time for Halloween! All I have to do is add flowers to my generic uninspired costume and tada! Instant creativity! (Every sentence in this paragraph ends with an exclamation point! Even this one!)

"Hi, my name is Panthea and I'm dressed as Antheia. No, I'm not making this up."

Perfect!

Who should I see to address this issue?

It's ten degrees* above freezing. This should be illegal. We must lobby Congress.

*Fahrenheit. I have no concept of Celcius other than water freezes at 0 and boils at 100.

I was born a baby chimpanzee.

I didn't think it was possible, but I'm pretty sure I'm getting hairier.

Those laser hair removal Groupons are becoming very appealing.

Digging up my roots.

Early this year when snow was still falling, I decided to give my black thumb one last chance at growing plants from seed. Real gardening supplies were not yet on store shelves, so I turned a styrofoam egg carton into a seed starter. I'd read that impatiens take a long time to start from seed, so I planted them early as recommended. My baby seedlings sprouted quickly. I watered and rotated those pups often so that they'd grow evenly. As soon as I could find seed starting kits, I bought a couple and planted those too. Seed trays were threatening to take over my dining room table.

My little green gems took a long time to grow leaves. About half of the plants died. I remained patient with my remaining young impatiens. Once it was warm enough outside, I began putting the trays out in the sun for increasingly long periods of time. After training the babies to live outdoors, I gave them new homes in pretty planters around the fence of the patio.

I watered and fertilized them often...and still no flowers bloomed. By this time, mature potted flowers were beginning to show up at stores everywhere. Some frauds stir water, oil, and eggs into cake mix and call themselves bakers. Not me! Similarly, I couldn't buy ready-made, just-add-water flowers and call myself a gardener. After what seemed like an eternity of looking at skimpy, flowerless stalks and leaves, I became impatient with my impatiens.

Yes, I did the unthinkable; I broke down and bought beautifully blossoming impatiens plants from the store! I came home and didn't even give my babies an explanation. I ripped them out of their pots and discarded their battered bloomless bodies in the woods just past the walkway that leads to the front door.

Without even giving them time to process what had just happened to them, I quickly replaced them with the bountiful new plants. The patio was instantly beautified and I was instantly satisfied.

Fast forward several months... I'm walking out of the door one morning to go to work. There in the woods, just past the walkway, I see the most beautiful bright flowers. They almost look like...impatiens. I realize that these used to be the barren, flowerless, pathetically skinny stalks that I ripped out in spring. I tore them out by their roots and tossed them into the woods like waste, expecting them to rot and degrade into the earth. They didn't. Their roots found a new home and flourished.

I'm no longer engaged to the person with whom I thought I'd build my life and my future. I've left what was my home. My roots are exposed now but I know they'll find their way soon enough.

My Friend's Divorce by Naomi Shihab Nye
I want her
To dig up
every plant
in her garden,
the pansies, the penta,
roses, rununculas,
thyme and the lilies,
the thing
nobody knows the name of,
unwind the morning glories
from the wire windows
of the fence,
take the blooming
and the almost-blooming
and the dormant,
especially the dormant,
and then
and then
plant them in her new yard
on the other side
of town
and see how
they breathe!

Life, you're really throwing me for a loop here.

Earthquake in northern Virginia (and apparently all along the east coast). Somewhere between a 5.5 and a 5.9 on the Richter scale. No damage.

I just started laughing.

Part of my life has been turned upside down. I'm dealing with it in the best way that I know how: to wallow briefly when necessary but then will myself to notice the beauty and love around me.

I'm so fortunate to have caring people in my life--family and friends. I'm thankful that I've learned to acknowledge and appreciate the good, even when I can't ignore the bad.

I'm reminded of one of my favorite poems by Robert Frost:

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

Frankly, I'm reminded of many different poems and proverbs but this is the only one that isn't dreadfully cheesy.

Sexy car, stupid idea.

Last night Tommy showed me a picture in one of his car magazines. "The new Audi sports car comes with a fire extinguisher." Do you see it? It's in the lower right hand corner of this picture, where purses and feet are supposed to go.

"That's bad," I said. "Do they think you're going to need it?" It would probably be prudent to keep a fire extinguisher in one's car, but to sell a car with one? Are you telling me you expect my car to blow up while I'm in it?

I can just imagine some corporate suit pacing around the conference table at a design meeting, asking his staff, "How can we make this car just a little more badass? Brainstorm, people!" A few moments later... "I've got it! Let's put a fire extinguisher in the car! It'll say, 'I'm sexy, I'm hot, I'm dangerous!'" His cronies cheer and rally around him.

Everyone was afraid to tell their boss the truth: it's a stupid idea. When I'm in my car, I don't want to see anything associated with fire. Selling a car with a fire extinguisher is like including a free pregnancy test with every box of condoms.

Stupid.

In other news, I'm getting my hair cut today. Wish me luck.

There's a fine line between ambience and danger.

I just got to the spa where I get my nails done. They dim the lights for ambience but it's so friggin' dark in here that it takes a few minutes for my eyes to adjust.

The receptionist led me down a dark hallway. All I could see were the illuminated sconces. I followed closely so as not to run into any invisible walls. She stopped suddenly and invited me to take a seat.

I quickly scanned the room deep, dark void. I can't see any chairs, I thought.

"Go through that doorway," she encouraged me.

I don't effin' see a doorway! I didn't move or speak.

Finally, she pointed. Oh... I think I see an opening in the wall...

I successfully made it through the building without injury, but the point is turn up your damn lights. Thank you.

Complaint Department

I have three complaints for today.
1. Mother: You never reply to my emails. That's it, Ma. Your emails are going straight to my spam box from now on...until you reply to my last email with the video of the sneezing baby panda.

2. Most chain restaurants: When I ask for no bun on my burger, why do you take away my lettuce, tomato, pickles, and onions too?

3. NPR: I am so sick of your reports on the debt ceiling negotiations. (I crossed that out because everyone knows the government never negotiates anything.) Until August 2nd or until it's resolved, I don't care.

I'll balance out my complaints so as not to seem like a heartless jerk.
1. Salon: Thank you for rescheduling me with a different manicurist when I told you that I'm very picky about my French manicures. If I wanted a bad French, I'd do it myself.

2. World: I'm thankful that I have the luxury of being able to complain about such stupid things. There's a devastating famine in Somalia and here I am with a full belly and an upcoming nail appointment, complaining.

3. Flowers: Thank you for blooming in the small strip of woods between our condo and the golf course. I admire your beauty and perseverance every morning as I walk to my car. (Perseverance? Yes! Stay tuned for a blog entry about these flowers... Coming soon.)

Yeah... It's all for me.

I ordered food from the drive-thru and received two sets of utensils with my order, signifying that I ordered enough for two people.

Thank you for assuming I couldn't possibly eat this much food...but I can.

Everybody has nipples!

Tommy and I spent some time at our condo's clubhouse yesterday. It was sunny and hot: perfect for lounging in and around the outdoor pool. We had fun goofing off and horsing around in the cool water. (I cradled him baby-doll style in the pool. It makes me feel like I have super human strength.)

A mother and her young 3- or 4-year old daughter were playing on the steps leading into the pool. We passed them on the way out of the pool. As we walked by, the tiny girl looked at Tommy and said to her mom, "Look at that big man! Look at his nipples!!!"

I wasn't sure if I'd heard her correctly, so I confirmed it with Tommy once we were out of earshot. The mom replied to her daughter, "Everybody has nipples! But you don't talk about peoples' bodies. That's private."

I imagine the little girl thought to herself, "If it's private, why is he showing off with those shiny ornaments?!" Poor kids. They get such mixed messages.

It's a small world!

My dad is obsessed with soccer. He watches, plays, and used to coach soccer. He just gave me some interesting information about Ali Krieger, who plays for the United States women's national soccer team. Her name has been in the news after scoring the winning goal against Brazil this past Sunday.

Apparently, she's from Northern Virginia, where I grew up. My dad's best friend has two soccerphilic daughters who played against Ali when they were teenagers. Her father, John Krieger, used to coach soccer at a nearby high school. He and my dad competed when they played on opposing adult men's soccer teams.

Here's the most interesting thing my dad told me about Ali Krieger. "I punched her dad in the face once. He tackled me so I got up and I punched him."

My dad punched Ali Krieger's dad in the face. Small world!

Our mailman is psychic!

As I was leaving our condo, I happened to see the mailman. I knew I'd seen this guy a couple times before, but we'd never said more than "hello" to each other. The gorgeous spring weather contributed to my good mood, so I went way beyond the customary "hello" and asked, "How are you?" (Deep, I know.) We both agreed that we were in good condition. His next question, however, blew me away.

"How's...uh...Tom?"

What?! How does he know my boyfriend's fiance's name?! Yes, he delivers our mail, but our mailbox isn't by our condo. It's a communal mailbox on the other side of the road--just one tiny cubby among many other cubbies. Our condo faces the woods so there's no way he could've seen me walking from our door to the parking lot (thus seeing our address and mentally connecting our names to my face).

I'm dumbfounded. Our mailman must be psychic!

The man's definitely getting a Christmas card this year.

Princess, Paradise, and Proposal!

For two weeks this past April, I experienced non-stop princess treatment. First, Tommy and I went on a Princess cruise to Princess Cays, St. Maarten, St. Thomas, and Grand Turk. The ship was gorgeous, the food was decadent, the service was excellent, and the islands were stunning! Here are some pictures from our week in Paradise:

 

Professional Pictures: Part of the Princess Treatment (above)

Stunning St. Thomas

my new ass of a friend

a view of Magens Bay from a hilltop

Magens Bay beach

I'm stronger than I look.

Tommy's really strong.

On Wednesday, April 20th we docked in St. Maarten. The first thing I noticed once we stepped off the ship was a store called Diamonds International. (They have countless stores throughout the Caribbean.) I asked Tommy if we could go inside and look around. I figured I'd show him the type of engagement ring I like. This is something we'd done before. After looking at every single ring in the store--and trying on about a dozen--I finally found a ring a loved! That's when Tommy bought the ring. They sized the ring as he completed the paperwork. Meanwhile, a thousand thoughts were running through my mind. "What does this mean? Does this mean we're engaged? Because he didn't ask me... Is he going to pocket the ring, take it home, and propose a few months down the line? That'd be weird." Once they sized the ring, they brought it back out and handed it to Tommy. He looked into me eyes and asked me to marry him. Of course, I said yes!

Tommy excitedly told me that he had to tell his dad.

"He knew about this?!" I asked.

"No! I didn't even know," he revealed. We had a good laugh.

We were so excited to share the news with everyone, but we couldn't just pick up our cell phones and dial our families. (Not for the fortune we'd be charged every minute!) Instead, I took a picture of the gorgeous ring on my hand and sent the image to our parents.  My dad and Tommy's parents replied immediately. We could sense the elation through their text messaged replies!

My mom still hadn't replied by the time we went on our scheduled tour of the island. Before starting up the bus, he walked up and down the narrow aisle and announced in a charming accent, "I want you to know that you are in the presence of a movie star! I am RRRaphael!" He rolled the R in his name like a drum. He showed us around the gorgeous island and gave us a timely tip before dropping us off to enjoy some shopping in the French capital of Marigot. A store there allowed each visitor a free 2 minute phone call to the US!

I immediately called my mom's workplace to see if she'd received our picture message. I greeted the person who answered the phone and asked to speak to my mother. "Congratulations, Panthea! Your mom called us and told us the news! She picked up a cake and she's bringing it here to celebrate." Holy cow, good news spreads quickly! After confirming that our immediately family knew,  I posted the news on Facebook and got tons of happy responses. (Technology! How bizarre.)

I took at least a half dozen pictures of my bejeweled hand.
"Look how gorgeous it is with the mountains in the background!
Look at it with the ocean in the background!
Look how pretty it is with the beach in the background!"

For the rest of the trip, we went into every Diamonds International store we came across, just to make sure there was nothing I liked more. At our last port of call, Grand Turk, Tommy found a ring that he fell in love with. It had a massive center stone--not my taste at all! He must've made me try on that ring ten times. He tried everything to get me to like that ring. "Look how it sparkles in the sun," he said to me. The saleswomen didn't know what to do. "Sell her the ring!" he begged them. Nothing could've made me trade in my beautiful, petite ring for that mammoth monster of a stone. Tommy finally relented, but for the rest of the day he kept telling me how heartbroken he was that I didn't let him get that ring.

Our ship returned to Florida on Easter Sunday. We had planned to pick Tommy's grandmother up in Boca Raton and drive with her to Tommy's parents' home near Orlando. That morning, Tommy called Grandma to let her know we were back. He spoke to her for a few minutes. When he got off the phone, he said to me, "Everyone cares about you! Grandma said she couldn't wait to see you."

I half-jokingly told him to get used to it. "It's all downhill for you, baby!" The wedding is all about bride, I explained. People will buy me gifts and say they're for us. When we have children, it'll be all about Mommy and the baby. This idea was further reinforced once we arrived at his parents' house, where the princess treatment continued! Mom and his sister Lisa had decorated the entire house for us! The tables were decked with flowers and the walls were draped with banners congratulating us on our engagement. (Let's be honest, the flowers weren't for him...nor were the pink bunny decorations.) 

With just a few days' notice, they had even bought us me gifts! Mom and Lisa gave me beautiful Swarovski crystal figurines and a heart-shaped picture frame. (What do you think? Is it safe to conclude that these gifts were for me?)

After a beautiful vacation, we finally returned home to New York and quickly went back to our daily routine. My first day back to school was fun! As soon as I walked into class, friends and classmates started talking at once. "Panthea!" "There she is!" "She's here!" "Yay!" "Everyone's looking at your hand!" My 15 minutes seconds of fame were delightful.

It has been an incredible (and incredibly busy) few months! Tommy and I had a beautiful engagement party a few weeks ago. Our families and friends joined us. Two of my relatives from overseas even came to celebrate with us! My favorite cousin in the world, Assefeh, surprised me with a visit! She's like a sister to me so I was thrilled to see her. Tommy's dad gave a wonderful toast during dinner that still makes me tear up when I think about it. I'm a very lucky girl and I'm so thankful!

By the way, you may be interested in knowing the story behind how we fell in love. To make a long story short, let me just say that I knew from the beginning he was the one for me. You see, we both have only four toes on each foot.

So, my mom has this friend...

Disclaimer to all of my future employers and New York University, to which I intend to apply for graduate school: If you must read this, please consider my exquisite command of the English language and not the content of this story. Thank you.

One of my mom's friends just told me a hilarious, mortifying story! I have a headache from laughing so hard. Unfortunately, I cannot adequately capture the hilarity of this story with written words, so you'll have to use your brilliant imagination to supplement what I've written.

My mom's friend was at work and felt the sudden urge to use the restroom. (Maybe this friend had eaten one too many prunes or maybe her intestines were just feeling vengeful that day. Who knows?) She fought valiantly to contain her bowels as she hop-skipped to the restroom. Unfortunately, her heroic efforts were in vain. Yes, the unthinkable happened...inside her underwear...and down her legs. With new found determination, she quickened her step and at last made it to her safe haven, the restroom. She rushed into a stall, closed the door, and analyzed the situation. There was no hope for her panties; they were dead on arrival. She threw them in the garbage. Next, she assessed her pants. They would definitely survive, but they were in critical condition and in need of immediate treatment. She had to wash them.

Picture this: She had to leave the privacy of her stall without underwear, holding her pants in her hands. She spot-scrubbed her pants in the sink, praying no one would walk in, for her own sake and theirs. Afterward, she returned to the stall to don her wet pants. Before returning to the workplace, she put her jacket on to cover the circle of wetness on the back of her pants. She warded off people's questions. "I'm cold!" she lied. She periodically touched the back of her pants to monitor the drying process. A pharmacist caught her! "Why do you keep touching your butt?!" he asked her, laughing.

Thankfully, my mom's friend has a good sense of humor. She was able to laugh about this later.

By the way, the friend in this story is not me. If this had happened to me, I would absolutely tell you. You see, I have no shame.

"Don't quote me on the hippo."

Tonight, after living together for over 2 1/2 years, I learned something new about my boyfriend, Tommy. While we were driving home from dinner, I learned that he is fiercely anti-koala bears. His hatred is unfounded. Unless you've personally been mauled by a koala, how could you hate a creature this cute?

"Once I realized they were fucking drug addicts," Tommy explained, "I was totally anti-koala!" My boyfriend explained to me that koalas only eat eucalyptus leaves, which he stated are addictive. "If they don't have eucalyptus, they don't eat. Koalas are vicious because they're always in withdrawal."

I taken aback by the degree of disgust evident in his voice. "Wow. You're really passing judgment," I observed. I pulled out a pen and paper and started recording our conversation for this blog. "You hate koalas!"

"I do!" he replied, emphatically. "You hear people saying, 'Aww, I want a baby koala,' but they don't know koalas are vicious drug addicts!"

"Baby koalas are cute!" (Another keen observation on my part.)

"Anyway, koalas are fucking drug addicts. That's all. That's my point. That's why they have such a nasty disposition. Oh, you know what else?! The hippopotamus! It has the same koala issue." Tommy saw that I was fervently writing down what he had just said. He added, uncertainly, "Don't quote me on the hippo."

When we got home I decided to see whether this "koala issue" was even true. I have Google set to auto suggest; as I begin typing in a search, Google shows related suggestions based on other users' common searches. Here's an actual screen shot I took of the result:

Um... "koalas for sale" and "koalas chlamydia"? I'm not quite sure what to say.

Please and Thank You

Dear Self,

Please be asleep within a half hour. You have nine hours of class tomorrow.

Yours truly,
Self

Chicken broccoli are my most like food too.

I am starving. In fact, my hunger pangs are so intense that I can't decide what to eat. I would gladly cook but there's no meat defrosted and I'm not an herbivorous rabbit.

I quickly went through the options in my mind: Pizza toppings without the crust initially appealed to me, but that feels more like a hasty snack than a meal. A nice bunless Whopper from Burger King came to mind, but I had a burger for dinner last night. Salad from Wendy's? Nah, I had that for lunch on Friday. The insides of a few tacos from Taco Bell? No, their "meat filling" is mostly starchy filler. Aha! How about Chinese takeout? Steamed chicken with broccoli, no sugary sauce, no starchy rice. I'll make my own low-carb stir fry sauce for it. Done! Chinese it is.

I rummaged through our drawers for a takeout menu. Nothing. I Googled "Chinese near 11727" and found Golden Wheel Chinese Restaurant, conveniently located 1.4 miles from our front door. The place happened to have two reviews so I skimmed through them. Spell check can only do so much.

Reviews:

1. "I have tried their food for 9 years already. Their service and the food always be good and fresh. The place always cleaner than anywhere, that's very important. I especially like Chicken Broccoli and General Tao's chicken. Cream cheese fried wonton and the white meat dumpling are our family's favorite appetizers. I came from city and is not easy for me to find the tast like there, that's the one. Very good."
2. "We can't wait to go back and they are the best.: They are our favourite chinese restaurant. Their sesame chicken and General Tsos's chicken, also the chicken broccoli are our most like food. Their place is so clean and their service is excellent which we ever seen in the other chinese place. Everytime we be there, their food is always fresh. They are family owned all the time."

My comments: 

1. I like it when food be good and fresh. I'm glad you've found the tast that's the one like there.
2. You mean they never temporarily sell the place for the weekend? I see... So they're family-owned all the time, not just on weekdays!

That's it, I'm convinced! I be there tonight.

Monday's Midterm Paper (and random tidbits about procrastination)

My policy on papers is that I absolutely, positively cannot start them until three days before they're due. (Last time I pushed it to 12 hours before the paper was due. I got four hours of sleep and an A.)

Sometimes I procrastinate by reading internet articles on how to avoid procrastination. Needless to say, none of those tips have worked.

Procrastination, here I come! ...Later.

I'm worth more than a murderer.

Let me give you a brief synopsis of a documentary I watched in my Institutional Oppression policy class today. The video focused on a murder victim and her murderer, who was also accused of killing two other people. The victim, Risa, was sexually abused when she was young. Her mother had several children and neglected them all. Eventually, the state removed the children from the house and placed them in foster care. Risa became involved with drugs at a young age but managed to graduate from high school with a 3.5. Once she "aged out" of the foster care system, Risa moved into her own place, enrolled in college, and worked to support herself.

As it turns out, the murderer grew up in a similarly harsh environment. He was molested as a young boy. His mother, an alcoholic, abused and neglected him. Unlike Risa, the murderer was not removed from his hectic home. Instead, he turned to gangs to form a new family.

It seems to me that the filmmakers' goal was to raise questions about the morality of the death penalty. In my opinion, this story is an unfortunate example of how the social welfare system fails children and families. This is an argument for prevention and intervention, not for abolishing the death penalty.

Alright, alright, I'm getting to the point. During the class discussion, someone expressed the view that we can't judge that murderer's worth and that to do so would mean that we feel we're better than him.

While I understand that some people genuinely feel that way, I must respond by saying, "Speak for yourself. I am worth more than a murderer."

Speaking of school, I dreamt last night that someone in my class had a 4.005 GPA. Notice the two zeroes? I was pretty upset that they'd beat me by five thousandths of a point and puzzled that it was even possible to get anything higher than a 4.0 in college.

Guacamole - Finger Lickin' Good

My boyfriend and I made delicious guacamole on Super Bowl Sunday. While chopping up the final ingredient--cilantro--I managed to nick my finger with the knife. Okay, I more than nicked it. I took out a good chunk of flesh. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt. Tommy finished chopping up the cilantro as I went to the bathroom for some self-administered first aid. I rinsed my finger with Bactine and hydrogen peroxide, then wrapped it tightly with some leftover sterile gauze from my wisdom teeth extraction. I decided that I would go to urgent care if the bleeding continued. Thankfully, no blood seeped through the gauze at all and I was able to focus on finishing my half of the seven avocado guacamole.

Around halftime I decided to apply some Neosporin to the cut. I went to the bathroom to unwrap the gauze. The gauze was stuck to the wound! I tried once to gently pry the gauze off my finger but the pain--which was all but absent when the knife sliced through me--now screamed at me to stop. I ran some warm water over my finger in an attempt to soften the congealed blood. The gauze didn't budge. Tommy suggested that I let my finger soak longer. He brought me a Solo cup filled with warm water and we continued watching the game. Every so often I would wiggle my finger in the water to see if the gauze had loosened, and every so often Tommy would exchange the cooled contents of the cup for warm water. This continued for at least an hour. (Baby, correct me if I'm exaggerating.)

I finally accepted the fact that I needed to step up my offense. Using a Q-Tip, I applied triple antibiotic ointment all over and around the gauze. On its own, the lubrication didn't work. Over the next half hour I used Q-Tips to slowly and carefully pry the edges of gauze off of my mutilated finger. (Seriously, even the thought of experiencing pain makes my chest tighten with anxiety.) I had saturated several Q-Tips with blood by the time I finally got that damn gauze off.

As soon as my finger was free from its fabric confines I went to the bathroom to rinse it off. Because of all the irritation from teasing off the gauze, it had started to bleed again. Before I applied Neosporin to my big boo-boo and redressed it, I showed the finger to my boyfriend with a frown. He was speechless for several seconds and his face contorted with concern. He hadn't realized how much flesh I'd carelessly lopped off! The first thing he said was that we needed to go to the hospital. My sweetheart helped me get ready, making sure nothing touched my battle-wounded finger. There are several hospitals near us, but the only one I know how to get to is Stony Brook University Hospital...because I take classes two floors below the hospital's cafeteria. It makes sense, right?

To make a long story short, we went to the emergency room and after a few hours they sent me home with a tetanus shot and "special" non-stick gauze. I bet that Lamborghini-grade gauze will cost my insurance company a few hundred dollars. Interestingly, one of the doctors told me that I might've severed a nerve in my finger, which would explain why I felt no pain when I cut it. It did hurt when I was peeling the gauze off and I can feel sensation now, so who knows? They also said it was fortunate that my nail was undamaged because that would've required a completely different treatment plan. Later, Tommy told me that they said they would've had to remove the nail in that case! I somehow missed that part. It's a good thing I didn't hear that because I would've escaped from that torture chamber had I known fingernail removal was even a remote possibility! I can guarantee that I would have flipped out. There's no way I would have let them rip my nail off. (Can you sense the passion and ferocity* in my reaction?)

All's well that ends well, right? (I love you, Ma Ingalls. [Little House on the Prairie reference. Ignore it if you must.]) By the way, we never found that lost chunk of flesh. Tommy said he looked through the cilantro and it wasn't there. I don't know. I'm convinced we ate it. That guacamole was damn good, though.

*Ferocity is a fantastic word and I didn't have to use a thesaurus to find it.

"It was awesome!"

Have you ever known someone who has had abdominal surgery? This includes C-sections too--any surgery that requires cutting through the abdominal muscles. If so, you may have heard them say during recovery that they never realized how often they use their abs just doing everyday tasks. Bear with me as I get to the point. Exactly a week ago I had all four of my impacted wisdom teeth removed. I never realized how often I hit myself in the face doing everyday tasks until last Wednesday! A few hours after the procedure, I lay down in bed, drowsy from the pain medication. I pulled the flat sheet and blanket over me and closed my eyes. My eyelids must be very thin because the room was too bright for me, even with the blinds closed. I tried to pull the covers over my head for darkness. When I make the bed I like tucking the top sheet and the blanket under the foot of the mattress. Well, I guess I did an exceptional job that morning because the covers wouldn't budge past my chest. Determined, I yanked that damn blanket towards the headboard with brute force! I lost my grip and my hand went flying. I ended up punching myself in the cheek. Ouch! I warned myself not to do that again.

I didn't learn from my mistake. The same thing happened several times over the next few days, even when the covers weren't stuck! Several times I gently pulled the blanket up but my brain failed to send the STOP signal to my hand. Collision! My jaw stopped my hand. I was getting dressed one day last week. I have no idea how, but in the process of putting my left bra strap over my shoulder, I ended up punching the right side of my jaw. I still don't understand it.

I was awake during the extractions. This was my first dental procedure other than regular cleanings, Zoom teeth whitening, and the filling of a cavity in a baby tooth when I was much younger and even shorter than I am now. I really didn't know what to expect. I'd never had nitrous oxide and I don't remember getting novocaine injections when my cavity was filled. The oral surgeon turned on my laughing gas, gave it a moment to kick in, and then pumped my gums full of novocaine while I squeezed the hand of the female assistant. The injections really didn't hurt but my eyes still teared up for some reason. The oral surgeon and his assistants left me alone for a while to let the novocaine injections take effect. My fingers were tingling from the gas and I felt pretty chipper and calm. I remember looking around the room and reading the various oral health posters on the wall. It struck me that although I felt buzzy, I was still fully coherent. I actually thought to myself, "I could text message right now and make sense. I'm so coherent I could do a spelling bee!" Perhaps that's a sign that I wasn't totally there. What do you think?

During the surgery, the surgeon and his two assistants started talking about Family Guy. I chuckled through my wide open mouth. "Do you watch Family Guy?" the surgeon asked me. (He has a lot of experience asking yes or no questions, I guess.)

"Uhn-hnn," I answered. As soon as they finished up and took all the tools out of my mouth, I started to share a story about Family Guy. "Mah bofenz cuthin..." My mouth and lips were completely numb so I couldn't speak properly. "Nehvoh mahnd. Oo can't unnerstan meh."

The staff assured me that they could understand me, saying something along the lines of "We're fluent in Mumblese."

So I continued, "Mah bofenz cuthin had a behbeh a yeh ago..."

One of the assistants translated. "Your boyfriend's cousin had a baby a year ago?"

"Uhn-hnn. And dohwing her pwegnanceh she cawd deh behbeh Stewie."

"During the pregnancy she called the baby Stewie?" I nodded and they laughed. Stewie is a football-headed, witty, cynical baby on the show, in case you don't watch it.

I walked to the waiting room where my boyfriend Tommy was sitting. I didn't know it at the time, but my mouth was stuffed with gauze so I couldn't close it all the way. I remember thinking to myself, "I can't tell if my lips are closed or not." I was grinning like a maniac. Tommy gave me a gentle kiss and asked how it went. "It wuhz awthum!"

Signed, "Jealous of the Four-Legged Mistress"

Today's Dear Abby is priceless! It needs no embellishment whatsoever.

A widowed man's second wife wrote in complaining about one of her husband's dogs. Here's a snippet:

"I have never seen a dog act like her. Ginger acts more like a wife than a dog. She clings to Monty to the point he doesn't have any time alone. She'll sit outside the shower until he is done. If he takes a bath, Ginger sits on the edge of the tub. She runs to him when he gets home from work to greet him before I do. As she's running ahead of me, she looks back as if she's worried I'll beat her to him."

Seriously, Leno should consider reading these advice columns for material.

Really, Self? Really?!

It's past 3 AM, Self. You haven't slept in 20 hours. Your first class of the semester starts in 5 1/2 hours. This is the night you've chosen for sleeplessness?!

You've had your warm decaf tea (two cups) and your bedtime story (fifty pages worth!) What more do you want?! Fall asleep already!

NEVER put dish soap in the washer.

FOAM-TASTROPHE

I flushed about twenty bucket loads of foam down the toilet. You know how a lot of toilets are finicky and don't like to flush twice in a short period of time? Yeah... Well, I actually had to alternate between our two toilets. Each toilet needed time to recuperate after swallowing giant gulps of foam.

Here's the background story: I've found that dish soap makes a great spot treatment for grease stains. Last week I was dabbing dish soap onto one of my shirts, rubbing it in to eat up the oily spots. There were so many splatters that I ended up pouring dish soap all over the shirt. The more the better, I figured. That oil-spotted shirt needed a lot of help! I made a mental note to myself to start wearing one of my various cute aprons while cooking.

I decided to take the cleaning one step further. This was my rationalization: if dish soap works as a spot treatment, imagine how well it'll work as laundry detergent! I threw my greasy little pink shirt into the washer, slammed the door, and drizzled dish soap into the detergent compartment. I started to pull the soap bottle away from the washer...but then I decided to pour in some more. A lot more. Maybe a full cup more. I set the washer to the heavy duty cycle and walked away, congratulating myself for salvaging that poor, innocent shirt.

About midway through the wash cycle I passed by the washer and couldn't see through the front window.  Only foam was visible. I shrugged. It just needed more water to dilute the foam, right? I stopped the washer and set it back to the beginning of the heavy duty cycle. When the buzzer sounded I casually walked over to the washer, excited to see my sparkling clean, beloved hot pink shirt. A gasp escaped from my mouth. 

The foam had somehow escaped from the sealed and locked confines of the washer and managed to pile up in front of the machine. The window was still blocked by foam inside the machine. I quickly grabbed two beach towels and started wiping up the floor. (FYI, in case you're ever stupid enough to cause a foam-tastrophe of your own, it helped to squash the foam with the towels. That lessened the volume and made it easier for the towels to soak up the liquid.) After mopping up the floor, I opened the door of the washer to clean out the foam. No! Bad! Wrong! Fail!

Have you seen the chocolate making episode of I Love Lucy? Surely you know of the episode, at least. Well, Lucy and Ethel switch stereotypical gender roles in that episode. The girls go out and find a job (chocolate factory fiasco) while Fred and Ricky take on the day-to-day domestic duties. While planning their dinner menu, Fred and Ricky decide they should cook one pound of rice for each person. Here's how that turned out:

That's what happened with the foam when I opened the door of the washer. And the shirt still has oil stains!

Shit My Mom Says

First of all, let me start off by saying that I really should have a Twitter account, a book, and a TV sitcom called Shit My Mom Says. In fact, it was my mom who introduced me to the Shit My Dad Says Twitter feed. I've since deleted the email she sent me but along with the Twitter link she wrote, "See, I'm not the only one who does it!!! All parents say things like that." I have several examples of my mom's gaffes, most of which have been directed at me:

I was probably in middle school when my mom explained to me, "You're not gorgeous but you're pretty."

It was during high school that she told me, "You're just photogenic." Does that mean I look like crap in person?

We were shopping together about a year ago when I showed her a dress that caught my eye. "No, that dress is for skinny people," she said casually.

Last week I told my mom that I was getting my eyebrows threaded for the first time. (I usually get them waxed.) Her response? "Oh really? You should do your whole face."

Last night my mom asked me the same ten questions she always asks during our nightly phone conversations. Your mom may have the same script. "What'd you do today? What'd you have for dinner? How's Tommy?" and so on. Then she switched gears and completely blindsided me with this:

"Sooo, how's your period?"

"My period's fine, how's your period?" I asked, warily.

"I haven't had eet since June."

"Okay..." I paused for a second but quickly recovered. "Should I ask Tommy how his period is too?"

We're both pharmacy technicians and it turns out my mom had heard of women having very light or no menstruation on NuvaRing, which I use. After I gave her the details she wanted, we somehow segued into sharing funny pharmacy stories with eachother. I laughed so hard that I was crying by the end of the phone call.

My mom started off slowly by sharing weird comments she'd heard recently from patients. Examples: "I crapped my pants so I went home to clean up" and "I got a shot in the butt!!!"

My mom really got the ball rolling when she said to me in her muddled but cute Iranian-Italian accent*, "You know I don't really look at de customers. De udder day I vuz at de vindow helping a customer and I vent and got heez prescription and came back to de vindow and de customer said to me, 'Ma'am, you have the wrong customer.'  I vent to de wrong vindow!!! I vuz so embarrassed. I mean, I done dat before but I realized eet. Dis time the customer told me!"

Giggling, I asked her what she said in response.

"I sed, 'Oh, HEH! HEH!'"

My mom continued with the self-deprecating stories. "I alvays forget vich vindow I'm at. So sometimes I'm at vindow one and I say, 'I can help de next customer at vindow number tree.'"

"So where do the customers go?" I asked, laughing.

"Dey go to vindow tree!!! And my covorkers laugh and say, 'Why did you send the customer to my window?'"

She then told me about a coworker of hers, whom we'll call Nicole because that's her real name. "Neecole answers de phone a lot. She's good at eet so dats ver dey put her. So de udder day she vuz at the vindow and said, 'I can help the next customer at window number four.' Den de customer vent to her vindow and Neecole said, 'Hi, Woodbridge pharmacy, Nicole speaking. How can I help you?'" This made me laugh so hard that it brought tears to my eyes and caused a mini-coughing fit.

I had to tell my mom about my own recent pharmacy blunder. There was a problem with a prescription and I had to get in touch with the customer. I called the phone number on file and got the standard robot answering machine. "Hello. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone." I waited for the beep and then absentmindedly gave my schpiel: "Good afternoon, XYZ Pharmacy, this is Panthea. How may I help you?" A few seconds passed with no response from the voice at the other end of the line. I started to get annoyed with that person...but I quickly figured out my mistake and managed to salvage my pride by hitting the asterisk (*) button and selecting the "erase and rerecord" option.

Towards the end of our conversation, I pulled out my laptop (her name is Pinky and she's a petite, sleek, pink netbook) and started to document our stories. I realized I was giving my mom delayed verbal responses so I explained to her that I was typing up our conversation so that I could post it online. Now, I had no idea she knew of this blog, but she immediately and excitedly replied, "Oh! In your ting?! I Tink I'm Funny?!" Yes, Ma, in my ting!

My parents miraculously acquired Facebook accounts last year. The link to this blog is on my Wall but my mom has never once mentioned it to me. Apparently, she's a big fan of my "I Tink I'm Funny Ting." Ma, could you leave a comment once in a while?

*I guarantee that the next time my mom calls she'll ask me, "You tink my accent eez cute? Tank you! You alvays make fun of eet."

People with four-wheel drive tend to be stupid.

I've long suspected that people with four-wheel drive have a propensity towards stupidity. I propose that every single stupid thing a person with four-wheel drive does while driving is rationalized using the following sentence: "It's okay because I have four-wheel drive." For example, "I'll drive 80 miles per hour in the snow because I have four-wheel drive." Also consider, "I'll drive though that flooded road because I have four-wheel drive." How about this? "I'll go off-roading past all these stupid chumps waiting in traffic because I have four-wheel drive!"

As a student of social work, I know that I have certain biases. After all, one can only see the world through one's own lens. Therefore, I must carefully examine my prejudices and ask myself whether my attitudes are legitimate. Done! I found proof. Check it out.

Let me explain the thought process of this Neanderthal man. "BIG SNOW PILE BLOCK MY PARKING SPACE!!! OK. I HAVE 4 WHEEL DRIVE!!! I CLIMB MOUNTAIN!!!"

For the record, I do not have four-wheel drive. I'm better than that.

Half a box of tissues and a cupful of hand sanitizer.

I don't talk to myself. Talking to oneself is almost as weird as liking cats. Instead, I think to myself. I actually have silent monologues in my mind, using the pronouns "you" and "I" interchangeably. (Okay, maybe that's slightly weird.) When I'm the only one home, I hardly make any noise at all, other than the occasional "ow" from veering too far to one side of a doorway and not quite clearing the door frame.

I woke up one morning last week and made it through half the day without using my vocal chords. Early in the afternoon, I abstractedly* started to hum to myself. I was hardly cognizant of my humming until I realized that no sound was coming out! What?! Sure, I had (and still have) a cold but my voice has never gone wimpy on me like that! Determined, I tried harder. Nothing. A faint squeak, maybe. I mean, I really struggled to hum. My eyebrows were probably furrowed together with concentration. I wondered if I'd lost my voice completely. Since talking to oneself is weird, I refused to test out my voice by speaking. I continued the labored effort to hum. After my vocal chords revved up a bit, more squeaks started coming out. Soon I was able to screech every beat of the song I was humming although it sounded warped, the way a cassette tape wails when it's been played too many times. Still, my voice wasn't dead. Relieved, I went back to doing the laundry.

That evening my boyfriend called from work. I answered the phone, "SQUEAK-lo?" [Hello?] I quietly told him I wasn't able to speak normally. He asked me to test out my signature banshee cry "Woop! Woop!" So I did...and he didn't hear it because nothing came out. Refusing to fail, I tried several more times, eventually working up to a shrill yet grating "Ooo! Ooo!"

Anyway, it's been a few days now and although I can speak, I sound like Kermit the Frog. About a half hour after getting to work this morning the head pharmacist said to me, "Panthea, you sound like shit. Are you sure you need to be here?" I stuck through my shift. I generally despise life when I'm sick, but with this cold it's different. Other than the fact that my head feels like an inflated balloon (just pressure, no pain), I feel fine. Seriously, just chop my head off and I'll feel normal again...except I won't have a head.

*P.S. Don't be fooled into thinking I have an interminable** vocabulary. That was my first time using the word "abstractedly." I spoke to a very helpful dinosaur named Thesaurus. Crafty, right?

**P.P.S. That was my first time using the word "interminable" too. Feel free to correct my usage if necessary.

Teenagers.

I wrote this last night while waiting for our plane.

Do you remember ever being really, really bored as a teenager? Do you remember looking through your cell phone (or brick-sized car phone or phone book depending on the era during which you were a teenager) for the number of someone, anyone you could call for an entertaining conversation, even if that person was an acquaintance from high school that you acknowledged only a handful of times? These searches typically occurred when you were stranded somewhere, like at an airport waiting for a delayed flight or enduring a weekend visit with your mom's second grandcousin thrice removed. You've done it; I've done it.

Now the kid sitting across from me at Dulles Airport gate B64 is doing it. He has called at least five different people whose numbers he has managed to scrounge up from deep within the bowels of his iPhone. He sounds like Screech from Saved by the Bell and he's speaking at maximum volume.

Here's what I know about "Screech" from listening to being bombarded by his conversations. He just finished up his first semester of college. He doesn't go back until January 25th. He doesn't have a major yet but he's leaning towards accounting. It's clear that Screech hasn't spoken to most of these people in some time. One of the people he called got married recently. "So how's married life?!" One person he called lives in Connecticut. He invited a different friend/acquaintance/phone pal to Las Vegas. In the next conversation he invited someone to an abandoned building in upstate New York. (I have no idea. I'm just reporting what I heard.) During one phone call he mused that he should take a flight somewhere exotic. "Somewhere far. Away from here. And live in a hotel there forever. I'll have free WiFi. And my bed will be done every day. You know, they'll... What do you call it? They'll do... They'll do my bed." Clearly, this kid has never made his bed. He doesn't even know the phrase.

During one of his random conversations he became agitated and said, "Stop doing that. I'm hanging up if you don't turn that down! Stop. You're on speaker." He wasn't on speakerphone. Liar. Screech concluded that call by flatly stating, "I'm going to end this call now because I'm bored. I'm hitting END now."

I was just about to walk over, kneel next to Screech, and say in a discreet therapist tone, "You probably don't realize it, but you're speaking very loudly." An older gentlemen beat me to it. He stood up, walked toward Screech, placed one palm parallel to floor and made the "lower your voice" gesture. Screech stammered an apology to the man, told his phone mate in a hushed voice that he had to go and abruptly hung up. The older man walked back to his seat and sat down, sporting a victorious grin. Good job, Sir.