Drop Edge of Yonder

Some of you may have figured out that I’m taking a medical transcription course.  (Because what I really need is another degree.  [insert eye roll here])   But I gave this a lot of thought and did more than a month of research — which is more consideration than I gave seminary for damn sure.)  I figured this would allow me to work from home and  — more or less –  be my own boss, since I keep getting burned big time in the outside professional world.  And it’s comforting to know I can always go back to teaching or hotel management if I need to, but I really don’t want to.

Thus far the MT course work has been almost ridiculously easy.  I just finished the module on medical roots, prefixes and suffixes, and I sort of kicked ass.  I had a great high school biology teacher, so I already knew about 90% of the terms.

But some of the roots/prefixes/suffixes were completely foreign to me.  For instance, now I know that “algia” means “pain,” which explains the condition “fibromyalgia.”  And “infra” means “below or beneath,” so I will finally remember that infrared light is below red — that is, the longest wavelength of color of visible light.  And then there’s “brady,” which means “slow or retarded.”  So you can imagine how it went when I was quizzing myself aloud over the new terms:

“‘Malacia’ is ‘softening.’”

“‘Penia’ is ‘deficiency.’”

“‘Brady’ is ‘retarded.’”

“‘Rrhexis’ is — Wait.  WTF?  Retarded?”

So suck on that, Tropic Thunder controversy.  My homework called me a retard.

If you’re following it at all, I’ve posted my 5K Ass Project results for Week 3 in the August 2000 archives.  Things are a little womlu this week, and I got a bit long-winded in the most recent post.  But I noted a couple of important discoveries that I felt compelled to share on the very off-chance that someone else had struggled with the same issues.  (Anyone else out there who is 4’11″ and thought she should weigh 100 pounds?  If the answer is yes, you should probably go to the Archives.)

Although I didn’t mention it there, part of my increasing acceptance of the way my body should be is thanks to my almost-constant viewing of the Olympics.  I know that sounds crazy and might lead you to think that I’m aiming for something ridiculous like a 2% BMI, but that’s not the case.  In point of fact, I’ve come to accept that I have significant muscle mass and that is not a bad thing.  I’m never going to look like any of the athletes you see in the Games, and I don’t really want to.  But watching the Games has reminded me that terms like “athletic” and “fit” do not necessarily mean “rail thin.”

I’ve found myself especially admiring the female athletes’ physiques and marveling at their sculpted muscles far more than I do their male counterparts.  (Except for the male swimmers.  Is there anything more scrumptious than a swimmer’s body?)  This is ironic because my yoga instructor has mentioned several times over the past few weeks that many women who do yoga intentionally don’t focus on the poses that require upper-body strength in particular because they think that muscle definition in their arms is “unfeminine.”  This seems like crazy talk to me, because upper-body strength means that you’re, well, strong.  I’ve always been strong relative to my height, thanks to some incredible genetics from my maternal grandmother.  My lower- and upper-body strength, in particular, are very good.  I need to focus more on my abdominal strength, which sucks.  And although I love my yoga classes, I also need to concentrate on doing more cardio — despite the fact that I hate it.  But Aunt Doodie has committed to walking with me every day, so I hope that I’ll make some progress in those areas soon.

*****

As promised, there’s a new contest for August.  This month I’m giving away one of mouse‘s (Laurie’s) healing stone bracelets.  The winner can choose one item from mouse’s selection of said bracelets at her Etsy store, which features her LollyBeads creations.  (I purchased a set of her hairsticks for one of my sisters as a birthday gift, and said sibling loves them; her melodramatic, all-about-the-pretending three-year-old daughter loves them even more.)

To qualify for the contest you don’t have to do anything except comment below. The contest closes at 11:59 p.m. on Saturday, August 23. The winner, which will be selected using a random number generator, will receive the aforementioned healing stone bracelet of his/her choice from the linked page at mouse’s LollyBeads Etsy site. Everyone who comments is eligible to win, including people I know in real life.

There are people whom I know in an Internet Only way who must think I suffer from some sort of multiple personality disorder because of all the email addresses they have for me. A quick count shows that I have eight active email addresses. Eight.

There’s the standard personal account, the business account, the WD/MN identity account, the old blog account, the new blog account, the old hotel account, and two ancient Hotmail accounts. Except for the last two, I send and receive items from each of these accounts every single day.

This is part of my whole obsession with organizing; even the junk drawer in my kitchen has everything separated into different sections and held in little Ziplocs. I like to compartmentalize, I guess, because it’s efficient. And I especially like thinking, “I know so-and-so from XYZ, so he’ll be in the 123 account.”

But some of you people are starting to cross lines, and now you have, like, four email addresses for me. Is it making you as crazy as it’s making yours truly?

This whole compartmentalizing thing is about to blow up in my face, though, because in a few months a whole slew of you will get added to the Real Life List.

And then the Internets will explode.

I’m so excited about my upcoming trip out West where I’ll meet a gaggle of Internet Only people that I honestly can’t even think about it. Because if I think about it, I’ll start fantasizing about it. And if I start fantasizing about it, pretty soon there will be this whole thing where we’re all trapped on a deserted island together. (I have already gone through this with Aunt Doodie,* Spike,** Zach Galifianakis and Nathan Fillion. And Neil Patrick Harris better stop being such a kick-ass, adorable, singing machine unless he wants to play Robinson Crusoe to my Friday.***) If a whole bunch of you show up on my own personal Fantasy Island at the same time, it’s going to turn into Bizarro Lost. Then I’ll have to figure out which of you are Kate and Jack. And then I’ll hate the two of you, whoever the two of you may be. Which would suck, because I like you right now.

And what will happen if I’m not the same person there that I am here in cyberspace? I think I’m the same person. Well, except for the contractions; I use far fewer contractions online than I do in real life. (I think this is a WD influence, because in Arkansas we have more contractions than the rest of the country combined. And I know them all.)

But the question remains: will I be more or less in person? And while I mean “less” in the “nice and interesting” way rather than the “human worth” way, it’s still something I think about. What if my vocabulary isn’t big enough? What if I can’t understand the British or the Northeners**** because they talk too fast? What if I’m boring as all get out? What if we don’t actually watch Buffy at some point and I panic in the face of withdrawal? What if I fart in front of everybody? What if my hair frizzes out super bad and they all taunt me into singing selections from Annie?

What if all or part of that comes to pass and I can’t get by on my tits and charming accent?

God. This is just like seminary all over again.

*Not that way.
**Spike. Not James Marsters. Because he is a doofus.
***Please note that I am not the protagonist in my own fantasy. I am lazy everywhere.
****I still can’t watch The Fully Monty or Fargo without subtitles.

I’ve spent the last four hours trying to figure out how to get photos from Flickr into a WordPress post, and I cannot do it. No amount of searching WordPress or Flickr or even the almighty Google has resulted in anything approaching success. Ultimately, there was nothing I could do except… cry.

Three weeks ago the incompetence of three separate fast food chains infuriated me so badly that I called their respective corporate headquarters to complain. I called KFC to complain because they put lettuce on my Snacker after I expressly said no lettuce. Which is ridiculous.

For awhile now I’ve been threatening to punch pooches in the kidney if they don’t behave while I’m bathing them. But lately, I’ve only been mostly kidding.

Last week I was absolutely incensed when Kroger Fuel gave me only three cents off per gallon when I qualified for ten cents off. I may or may not have shared some very disparaging remarks regarding the character of the teenage boy manning the little cashier barn behind the bulletproof glass. I caused a scene. Me!

And now I’m crying because I can’t figure out how to put pictures in posts.

Before my family starts asking me if I’m okay a million times a day and showing up at my house unannounced and trying to take me out to dinner all the time, let me stress that I. AM. NOT. DEPRESSED.

I am… angry. This is new for me. Anger is something you swallow until you choke on it, and then you regurgitate it whole when you have your big biannual blow up. But you sure as hell don’t keep encountering it day in and day out, an anger acid reflux that roils and bubbles and burns and churns.

And I’m pretty sure I’m bored. Really, really bored. The whole unemployment thing is catching up with me now, and I’m not nearly so mentally active as I need to be. I’m not used to it being all quiet in my brain. Does anybody need anything proofread or researched? Like, for free?

I feel all naked now. Probably a good thing I couldn’t figure out that Flickr/WordPress issue, because I was going to post another kind of naked.

This is what I did during my blogging hiatus, in no particular order:

• Kicked Rocco out
• Got fired
• Decided to write, organize and produce my own version of Food Court Musical
• Learned how to make homemade candy bars
• Signed up for unemployment
• Worked my way up to the number one and number five spots, respectively, on Facebook’s “Addicted to Angel” and “Addicted to Buffy” trivia applications
• Gave up my dream of being in the roller derby
• Realized unemployment will not keep me from being homeless…
• …Began bathing dogs for Aunt Doodie in exchange for her paying my rent
• Started taking a yoga class
• Got cable TV with a DVR
• Spent a lot of time with Aunt Doodie musing about how we would survive on a deserted island
• Started working on building a freelance career, which will theoretically enable me to stay home so I can play “Addicted to Angel/Buffy” Facebook applications and watch the DVR all day long
• Successfully completed a ten-day cleansing fast
• Entertained at my home twice in one week — a record!
• Found out my Aunt Shelley has cancer
• Realized I am not equipped to write, organize and produce my own version of Food Court Musical, so enlisted the help of my friends
• Became obsessed with sushi and ate it almost every day for two weeks
• Lost nine pounds
• Spent a lot of time daydreaming about how Nathan Fillion and I would live on a deserted island, using Aunt Doodie’s survival ideas and my “tons of free time” ideas
• Attended the Slayage Conference, where Rhonda Wilcox saw my name tag, remembered me, and asked why I never formally submitted my paper
• Made my home almost totally chemical free
• Became disgusted by sushi and vowed to never eat it again
• Found out my cousin Bailey is having another baby
• Learned how to fry an egg perfectly
• Bought a plane ticket to LA for the WD party in October
• Twisted Cindy’s arm until she agreed to visit me this summer
• Ate more sushi
• Found, loved and lost my precious Dr. Horrible
• Lost a toenail

Tonight I went to Bailey‘s (AKA “Daisy Fever‘s”) first roller derby bout, which was her first bout as a member of the Little Rock Derby Girls.

And, oh my God, I am in love.

I didn’t really catch on at first. I kept asking, “Who’s got the ball? I can’t even see the ball!” (FYI: There’s no ball in roller derby.)

But ten minutes into the bout I turned to Aunt Doodie — whose elbows were already carpet-burned from leaning and scraping against the “railing” at the rink during the bout — and delightedly exclaimed, “I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s all very exciting.” (If you can imagine a wide-eyed Anya delivering this line, you’ll have the gist of my tone and wonderment.)

I think what excites me about roller derby is the same thing I found appealing about professional wrestling way back when I used to follow WWE Pay-Per-Views around the Mid-South: the violence. Although I suppose that, in this instance, it’s more about the potential for violence. Let’s face it: girl-on-girl derby violence is a gozillion times more exciting because it’s for the sake of the game, rather than man-on-man wrestling violence for the sake of scripted entertainment. (Somewhere, a gaggle of niche feminists who just don’t get it are shrieking in horror.)

By intermission (Or whatever. There was a break, okay?), I had decided I had to be a derby girl. I was already envisioning my outfit and trying to come up with an appropriate name. There are just a few complications:

• I’m old (34), and the vast majority of the derby girls I saw competing are in their early 20s.
• I’m incredibly short and am not, in any way, an “imposing figure.”
• I’m an overweight smoker who probably couldn’t make it around the track a single time, much less for two solid minutes in a pack of vicious young women intent on destroying me.
• I can’t roller skate. (This is, um sort of a big barrier.)

But I’m still giving roller derby some semi-serious consideration, because there are clearly a lot of benefits: something to do other than work at the hotel and peruse the Internet; good exercise; an acceptable outlet for pent-up aggression — and much, much more.  (I’m assuming, anyway.  I’d probably get free nachos after the bouts if I were a team member.)

So this is where you guys get to weigh in. I figure I’ll at least give it a shot; that is, I’ll try to learn how to stay upright on a combined eight wheels, and we’ll see what happens from there. But I need a kick-ass character name to inspire me. There’s a looooong list of registered, in-use names here that can’t be used but might inspire. My favorites are names like “Sandra Day O’Clobber” and “Pound Anya,” which are nice plays-on-words that I find amusing. And I found an anagram-making site, which anagrams my name into “Rabbi Red Rots.” (I thought that was kind of cool and ironic, considering my “reverend-ness.”)

So, get creative and comment!

*Post title bastardized from the lyrics of a song by Jim Croce. And if you don’t have Jim Croce in your life, you are so missing out.

A month ago, Min asked me explain what I meant when I said I boil out my ears twice a week. And then I promptly forgot.

I boil out my ears by tilting my head to one side and pouring a capful of hydrogen peroxide in my “top” ear. Please note that I do not boil or even heat the peroxide beforehand; it just goes straight from the bottle to the cap lid to my ear. When you pour the liquid in your ear, it sort of sounds like it’s bubbling up, which I guess is why it’s called “boiling.” Once the fizzing noise stops, you turn your head to the side so the peroxide flows out.

Truth be told, I don’t have any idea why I do this. Mama regularly boiled out our ears when we were growing up, and it’s a habit I’ve kept. I assume it’s supposed to clean out my ear canal, but I really have no idea. And yet… I still do it.

My daddy has been trying to get me to try ear candling for a while now, and I finally acquiesced on New Year’s Day. It was sort of soothing, although the entire extended family sat around and watched while my middle sister put a flaming stick in my ear for ten minutes. I was simultaneously grossed out and fascinated by what appeared to be chunks of cerumen* when she cut open the stub of the stick and showed me the insides of the ear candle. You can therefore imagine my disappointment when I learned that ear candling doesn’t do what it claims and is potentially dangerous.

I guess I’ll stick with boiling out my ears.

One more thing to explain…

I know I said I was participating in Blog 365, and I am! The post from last Tuesday has proven to be fraught with technical difficulties, which I hope will be resolved by the weekend. And I keep revising the “missing” posts from this week, because I realized I needed to put a little (read: lot) more effort into them to get the right tone. (I know I’m mostly a big ole whiner on this blog. I’m working on it, I swear.) So if you read rather regularly and just check for new posts at the top of the page, you might want to use Google Reader or one of those RSS Feed thingies that I don’t really understand. At least that way you’ll know when I post backdated items.

*I have been in love with the word “cerumen” since I learned it in seventh grade science.

Things I Made Tonight

• Brown Rice Basmati Pilaf (with celery, onions, raisins, fresh ginger, and a ton of spices)
• Hot and Sour Soup (without bamboo shoots [I foolishly bought bean sprouts instead because I AM A DOOFUS.] and with shiitake mushrooms [I hate mushrooms.] and sliced pork.

Verdict: Delicious

Things I Wish I’d MadeTonight

• French Sourdough Bread (I really do have the perfect recipe.)
• Cherry Pie (I had everything, but I got distracted by the awesomeness that is the rice.)

Verdict: Wistful but (probably) healthier

Last night I dreamed that David Cross had a late-night talk show, and David Koechner was his sidekick. They had Pres. Bush on as a guest, and they hilariously eviscerated him in exactly the way you would hope John Stewart would but know he really wouldn’t have the balls.

Then I dreamed that Rocco and I were sharing a bed — my bed. (But sharing it in only a two-people-sleeping-in-the-same-bed way, okay?) And I couldn’t sleep because I kept thinking, “When did we decide to do this?” and “Where the hell are my cats, because they always sleep with me and there’s no way that’s good for his allergies?” and “How come he’s snoring peacefully while I’m lying here worrying about this?” Then my mother got loose in the warehouse that was attached to our house in the dream, so I had to go find her before she fell and hurt herself or ran away or whatever. And then some Orcs came in and I had to get a battle axe.

Then I woke up. And I knew before I even opened my eyes that I was sick, sick, sick.

Gross.

Panicked, pitiful voicemail I left for one of my sisters tonight:

“I waxed my face and OH MY GOD that shit hurts like hell and I think I might have pulled some skin off. I’m gonna have to wear a little half-mask like the Phantom of the Opera and probably start singing in a vibrato all the time and I’m gonna spend the rest of my life in the tenor section instead of just when I’m in community choir.”