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.