800 new words on the page and Super in print.
It’s a good day.
800 new words on the page and Super in print.
It’s a good day.
I finally went to the allergist today.
Apparently to prove that I’m allergic to something I’ve been allergic to my entire life I need to be jabbed in the arm repeatedly with a pin and then watch my arm swell into hives (don’t scratch!). Seriously is there some underground market for antihistamine out there that they can’t just take my word for it?
Allergists are sadists.
But it’s worth it. It is. Because I want a dog. I told the allergist that the minute I walked into his office. I want to get allergy shots because I want a dog.
So he jabbed and I sat and itched without scratching, imagining myself cuddling a whole litter of fluffy puppies without sneezing once.
Dr. Sadist: “You’re allergic.”
Me: “I know.”
Dr. Sadist: “You have year round and seasonal allergies.”
Me: “I know.” Did this guy even bother to read my file?
Dr. Sadist: “You will need two shots a week for 8 months, then two shots a month for a year, then shots every four months for another year.”
Me: “Wait, this paper says pollen and dust mites. How will this help me get a dog?”
Dr. Sadist: “No, you shouldn’t get a dog. You suffer from allergies.”
What? No. Seriously. What? I didn’t even have the words to ask any other questions. I just picked up my prescription for 140 needles full of allergen and walked out the door.
What is the cost of everything was measured in needles (or some other form of pain). You want a new car? That’ll be 15 punches in the left breast. You’d like that muffin? Six paper cuts please. 140 needles and you can cut that lawn. Wait, something seems wrong with that deal.
Living in Yaletown I’ve gotten used to the sight of strollers that are just as likely to be carrying a dog as a child. I judge them, but I’ve grown accustomed to what I assumed was a cultural phenomenon in my little piece of Vancouver.
Before you berate me for judging, these dogs aren’t late-in-life (read old and crippled) creatures being taken out for fresh air by their loving and possibly overindulgent owners. They’re inbred fur babies (often wearing more expensive jewelry than their people). And, while they’re so tiny that walking for ten blocks would exhausted them and put them at risk of being whisked away by a particularly hungry crow, they could probably walk.
I didn’t think accepting the stroller puppy phenomenon was a bad thing. After all my (and everyone else’s) acceptance of this oddity wasn’t likely to cause a breakdown in society…and I was doing my duty with my silent judging. Then I saw something that changed my mind; stroller kitty.
Now admittedly the cat, stroller and who I can only assume was the cat’s caregiver were in the downtown east side so there is a possibility that there were mental health issues involved, or that maybe the cat’s owner was, I don’t know, taking it to the vet and didn’t have a car. But there is the equal possibility they were just going for a walk and I’m going out on a limb with this one. Cats in strollers is one step too far.
What if someone from Yaletown, drove by and saw the stroller kitty and was all “what a great idea”? The sidewalks are already crowded enough with canines on wheels and people that can’t figure out basic umbrella etiquette (tilt when you pass people for the love of all…) But cats in strollers?
No. Just, no.
The next time I see a healthy dog in a stroller I’m going to be part of the solution. Me and a pound of raw sausage are going to see just how far a stroller puppy can run… Sorry in advance if it’s your dog…and if a hungry crow gets it. I promise to throw a sausage at the crow.
What other uses could you find for a pound of raw sausage? And how would you explain the smell?
I plan on randomly sniffing other people and loudly asking “does anyone smell that”? Then I’ll just keep moving, they’ll never know it’s me…until I throw the sausage for a dog…then they might know it’s me but they’ll be too busy watching a crow carry away a chihuahua and a pound sausage to notice the smell. (Genius.)
Have you ever been in a conversation with someone and they start talking in that slow calming everything’s going to be ok, just take a deep breath while I call the nice men with the valium voice and you’re like, oooh is someone freaking out? Then you realize you’re the only other one in the conversation?
I went to the Doctor and apparently:
Really, hair loss is to be expected? By who? I’m too young and too female for a comb over, Doctor.
In good news the doctor doubled my iron prescription and promised that my hair will start to grow back when my iron levels return to normal. And, while my bathroom counter looks like a medicine chest, there’s still lots of room for the mannequin head in case he’s wrong. Off to buy a wig now. I may go blond.
I saw a great comedian perform last night. (On YouTube. That counts as live right?) One of his jokes was about sharing the crazy; flaunting it really. Like walking up to someone on the street and saying “peanut butter is the answer” then walking away. Perfect. I may actually try this, although I intend to use bananas instead of peanut butter because I’m not a comedy plagiarist and because bananas, right?
Point Two: (I swear it will connect to point one eventually.)
We all have things we’re self-conscious about. It could be those few extra holiday pounds, a nervous stutter or your steadily balding anemia scalp. Whatever your pain is, it’s usually worse in public wondering “are they staring at my head or just something interesting that can see through my thinning hair, god I miss the ‘80s when my hair was four inches taller and opaque”.
I don’t even necessarily mind that people might be thinking about my faults or pointing them out. The worse part for me is thinking that they might be wondering if I know. “Hey, think that lady knows you can count the number of hairs left in her widow’s peak?”
Point Three: That person, the one who breaks and just announces a litany of her self-loathing flaws to everyone she passes on the street would make an amazing character.
“I ate red sauce at lunch and now there’s an arrow shaped stain pointing at my left breast.”
“I gained eight pounds in four days. Personal best.”
“The tan line on my ring finger used to be a ring. I’m. Divorced.”
PS. Bananas are the answer.
I’m stressed out studying for my French tests. I’m spending all of my spare minutes going through vocabulary lists and trying desperately to remember the difference between COI and COD. (I think it something about paying for deliveries.)
By Wednesday I’ll probably be bunched up in a corner randomly conjugating whatever verb I hear.
“Where’s Laura hiding?”
To hide – Cacher
Laura…what are you doing? To do – Fair (Argh, Irregular!)
Hopefully I’ll be gibbering in French.
What is that person you pass on the street everyday, the one mumbling incoherently to themselves, had a reason for their particular brand of crazy? What if they were me or better yet someone really intelligent, who had gone overboard studying for a test or prepping for a meeting only to become stuck in revisions? (Help.) Happy writing.
From the diagram the flanks are clearly where hopes are stored but I can’t decide if dreams would be considered chuck or brisket. Mmmm, dreams.
I totally want this flask and I don’t even drink. Is it wrong to put crystal light in a flask?
So you catch a Unicorn…
Do you take it to a butcher or try to field dress it yourself? I mean I’d hate to risk an unscrupulous butcher substituting a lower class of magical meat.