Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Flying
I hate flying. I especially hate flying over an ocean. I especially hate flying without close friends or family. I will be doing all of these things in 2 days, and I'm really not looking forward to it.
A discomfort with a situation has quickly manifested itself into a full-blown phobia. Great. I'm trying to be as excited as I should be about visiting France for the first time and spending 5 weeks in a completely different culture, living with a foreign family, and not knowing anyone. Unfortunately, when I start thinking about these exciting new experiences, my brain stop before then and only focuses on the long plane ride across the large Atlantic on the airline that claimed the lives of over 200 people just a few weeks ago.
I used to love flying as a kid. We used to go to Florida every other year as well as random other places on vacation, and it never really bothered me. My dad was in the Air Force forever ago and used to have his pilot's license so I always felt pretty comfortable since he was. Well then I wised up. I stopped flying as much, therefore becoming less comfortable. Oh yeah and then that little incident on 9/11/01 happened. My next couple of flights after that were more nerve-wracking than fun, and when I went to New York 2 summers ago, I was pretty nervous. But even when I was completely OK with flying, I was never OK with the idea of flying over a freaking ocean. I guess it doesn't matter where you fly. Either way, you're dead. But the whole idea still freaks me out. It didn't help when the AirFrance plane went down in that same ocean recently.
Yes, I know the statistics. 1 in 11 million. Yes, I know it's more dangerous to ride in a car. Yes, I know that I'm being a baby. But I can't help it. It's a phobia, which is an irrational fear. Getting on that plane is going to be the hardest thing I've done in a long time.
Good thing I got tons of sedatives to numb my mind. At least if the plane crashes, I'll be blissfully unaware of my death.
A discomfort with a situation has quickly manifested itself into a full-blown phobia. Great. I'm trying to be as excited as I should be about visiting France for the first time and spending 5 weeks in a completely different culture, living with a foreign family, and not knowing anyone. Unfortunately, when I start thinking about these exciting new experiences, my brain stop before then and only focuses on the long plane ride across the large Atlantic on the airline that claimed the lives of over 200 people just a few weeks ago.
I used to love flying as a kid. We used to go to Florida every other year as well as random other places on vacation, and it never really bothered me. My dad was in the Air Force forever ago and used to have his pilot's license so I always felt pretty comfortable since he was. Well then I wised up. I stopped flying as much, therefore becoming less comfortable. Oh yeah and then that little incident on 9/11/01 happened. My next couple of flights after that were more nerve-wracking than fun, and when I went to New York 2 summers ago, I was pretty nervous. But even when I was completely OK with flying, I was never OK with the idea of flying over a freaking ocean. I guess it doesn't matter where you fly. Either way, you're dead. But the whole idea still freaks me out. It didn't help when the AirFrance plane went down in that same ocean recently.
Yes, I know the statistics. 1 in 11 million. Yes, I know it's more dangerous to ride in a car. Yes, I know that I'm being a baby. But I can't help it. It's a phobia, which is an irrational fear. Getting on that plane is going to be the hardest thing I've done in a long time.
Good thing I got tons of sedatives to numb my mind. At least if the plane crashes, I'll be blissfully unaware of my death.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I got a migraine at work
Cons: I was at work and was unable to drive home due to the migraine blindness that I get when this happens. No comfy bed or parents/roommates to love on me when I'm feeling sick.
Pros: Paid naps in pitch black empty doctor exam rooms. Being taken care of by Mallory's mom/my favorite co-worker.
Pros: Paid naps in pitch black empty doctor exam rooms. Being taken care of by Mallory's mom/my favorite co-worker.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Gay Pride
So I attended a gay pride parade yesterday. For those of you who don't know me and just creepily read my blog, I'm not gay. Also, before anyone starts thinking it was really big of me to attend a gay pride parade even though I'm not gay, it was an accident. The truth of the matter is, it doesn't really matter why I was there (it happened to be on the walk back to the metro station) or who I was with (my heterosexual romantic partner). But what matters is how I felt about it.
Now I've never had a problem with gay people, but I've always had a people who have had a problem with them. This post isn't going to be about that, though. This is no debate. We'll just leave it at the fact that I, personally, have no problem with homosexuality. However, I've never really understood these gay pride parades. I understand working towards gay rights, but gay pride? What is there to be proud of? So you're gay. I don't have straight pride parades. What's the deal?
Well I got my answer last night, and it pretty much bitch slapped me right in the face.
After leaving (a very nice and romantic) dinner with my boyfriend at a restaurant in Washington, D.C., we walked out the door and walked towards the metro station that John'siPhone was giving us directions for. At the block where we needed to turn, I heard a loud amount of techno music and cars slowly going down the street while lots of people were on the side. "A parade!" I squealed. "I wonder what it's for." At that moment, I realized the only float I could see was carrying about 10 shirtless men with six packs and cowboy hats. Then John told me that he remembered someone at work talking about the gay pride parade. I was immediately excited to attend this sort of function since I am always open to new experiences, and as luck would have it, the route to our metro station happened to be on the parade route. For the next 15 or so minutes, I experienced homosexuality all around me, and I loved it.
Gay men holding hands while walking small dogs, men wearing only speedo bathing suits, lesbians grinding on floats, the most wonderful drag queens you've ever seen being escorted by gay mostly naked men wearing bowties and tiny underwear, men and women on motorcycles wearing all leather, priests with signs that said "God invented rainbows." I walked past that parade with a huge smile on my face soaking in the sense of community that I kind of wish I could have been a part of. Every restaurant or store had a rainbow in the window. Everyone was hugging and kissing each other. I felt like a minority as I held my boyfriend's hand dodging the men in pink tight shirts and women in wife beaters. Even as we reached the metro station, I couldn't help but feel kind of sad that I was leaving the party in the streets.
And that's when I realized what gay pride is all about. I thought about the thousands of people who are in the closet and deathly afraid to come out because they would be ridiculed. I thought of the people that feel like they are unlike anyone else and something is wrong with them. I've never felt such a sense of community in my life last night, and if attending one of those parades won't get you out of the closet, nothing will. I felt pride for everyone I knew who was gay. Every other day of the year, they might feel uncomfortable holding hands with the person they love in public. They get stares as they kiss their soulmate goodbye. Yesterday was their day to express themselves and they should be proud to do that.
Now I've never had a problem with gay people, but I've always had a people who have had a problem with them. This post isn't going to be about that, though. This is no debate. We'll just leave it at the fact that I, personally, have no problem with homosexuality. However, I've never really understood these gay pride parades. I understand working towards gay rights, but gay pride? What is there to be proud of? So you're gay. I don't have straight pride parades. What's the deal?
Well I got my answer last night, and it pretty much bitch slapped me right in the face.
After leaving (a very nice and romantic) dinner with my boyfriend at a restaurant in Washington, D.C., we walked out the door and walked towards the metro station that John's
Gay men holding hands while walking small dogs, men wearing only speedo bathing suits, lesbians grinding on floats, the most wonderful drag queens you've ever seen being escorted by gay mostly naked men wearing bowties and tiny underwear, men and women on motorcycles wearing all leather, priests with signs that said "God invented rainbows." I walked past that parade with a huge smile on my face soaking in the sense of community that I kind of wish I could have been a part of. Every restaurant or store had a rainbow in the window. Everyone was hugging and kissing each other. I felt like a minority as I held my boyfriend's hand dodging the men in pink tight shirts and women in wife beaters. Even as we reached the metro station, I couldn't help but feel kind of sad that I was leaving the party in the streets.
And that's when I realized what gay pride is all about. I thought about the thousands of people who are in the closet and deathly afraid to come out because they would be ridiculed. I thought of the people that feel like they are unlike anyone else and something is wrong with them. I've never felt such a sense of community in my life last night, and if attending one of those parades won't get you out of the closet, nothing will. I felt pride for everyone I knew who was gay. Every other day of the year, they might feel uncomfortable holding hands with the person they love in public. They get stares as they kiss their soulmate goodbye. Yesterday was their day to express themselves and they should be proud to do that.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Beach Day
I went with John to Virginia Beach for the day yesterday. I came armed with SPF 15, 30, and 85+. There was no way I was going to get burned even though I wanted to stay out all day and enjoy the perfect weather. Turns out 85+ isn't as strong as you might think it is.
We got there around 10:00am and immediately went onto the beach, lathered our suntan lotion on (85+ on my face and arms, 30 on everything else) and promptly passed out to catch up on sleep missed throughout the week and the fact that we both woke up at 7 to get to the beach early and beat some traffic. After a couple hours, like a good little girl, I reapplied.
After a nice beach walk and a short dip in the ocean, we decided to grab some lunch. The pizzeria we went to (its name was Pi but it was just the symbol) kind of took forever, but it ended up working out because we were inside from 1 to 2:30, a good time to be out of the sun. After hydrating and slathering on more suntan lotion, it was back onto the beach for some more beach sleep (and eavesdropping on the drunk assholes next to us talking loudly about how they've all dumped their fiancees and pawned the rings).
That's when I noticed the first burn. Apparently I forgot to put the lotion up my thighs high enough. But it was only a little pink, so I just put 85 on it and called it a day. I ended up reapplying again that afternoon, and I realized my thighs were a little worse than I had originally thought. By the time our dinner date was over, I was miserable. I had also forgotten my neck, and right under my bikini top it was dark red. My thighs were by far the worst. Blood red skin that moves against each other when you walk.
After lots of aloe (which some people pronounce ay-loe), water, and more sleep last night, my skin is slightly less in pain, but just as red. I hope my bright red neck fades before work tomorrow.
Besides the burn, it was a great day at the beach though. I'm just really angry at SPF 85+ lotion for making me think I couldn't get burned. Oh well.
We got there around 10:00am and immediately went onto the beach, lathered our suntan lotion on (85+ on my face and arms, 30 on everything else) and promptly passed out to catch up on sleep missed throughout the week and the fact that we both woke up at 7 to get to the beach early and beat some traffic. After a couple hours, like a good little girl, I reapplied.
After a nice beach walk and a short dip in the ocean, we decided to grab some lunch. The pizzeria we went to (its name was Pi but it was just the symbol) kind of took forever, but it ended up working out because we were inside from 1 to 2:30, a good time to be out of the sun. After hydrating and slathering on more suntan lotion, it was back onto the beach for some more beach sleep (and eavesdropping on the drunk assholes next to us talking loudly about how they've all dumped their fiancees and pawned the rings).
That's when I noticed the first burn. Apparently I forgot to put the lotion up my thighs high enough. But it was only a little pink, so I just put 85 on it and called it a day. I ended up reapplying again that afternoon, and I realized my thighs were a little worse than I had originally thought. By the time our dinner date was over, I was miserable. I had also forgotten my neck, and right under my bikini top it was dark red. My thighs were by far the worst. Blood red skin that moves against each other when you walk.
After lots of aloe (which some people pronounce ay-loe), water, and more sleep last night, my skin is slightly less in pain, but just as red. I hope my bright red neck fades before work tomorrow.
Besides the burn, it was a great day at the beach though. I'm just really angry at SPF 85+ lotion for making me think I couldn't get burned. Oh well.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Sandy
I did my good deed for today.
Driving home from work, a dog ran out in front of my car. She (I think) was a young golden retriever or retriever mix. I saw on the other side of the road was a cop chasing her down, so I decided to turn in and try to help him catch this dog. She was very skittish and nervous. At first, she stayed about 5 feet from me. I was just trying to keep her calm and make sure she doesn't run more or go back into the busy street.
So then the cop crosses the street and tells me that he found out the dog belongs to the people who own the house whose yard we were in at that moment. It was a run down shack with a shitty fence. The police man knocked on the door while I talked sweetly to the dog and tried to talk her into going into her back yard. When I realized she was terrified to go into her own yard, I knew someone was hurting her.
Well, the man that answered to the police officer's knocks was a drunk Mexican who couldn't speak English despite being in the US for years. He called the dog Sandy. Sandy hated him. Her ears immediately went down with her tail between her legs. The closer her got to her, the faster she ran. I wanted to kill this man.
So she took off down the street and I followed her on foot while the officer got his car and called animal control. He also realized that Sandy was being hurt by this man, so he said that since the dog didn't have a collar and he couldn't understand what the man was saying, he was treating the dog like a stray.
Well, as I was following Sandy, she went into a backyard which was fenced in but had a broken gate, so I stood in the opening and kept her in this random person's back yard. Once Jose (or whatever his name was) was gone (about halfway through the chase for the dog, he lost interest and went back home), Sandy was much calmer and very sweet. I told the cop once he caught up with me that I would gladly take the dog home and put her in my yard or take her to a kill-free shelter where I used to work. He said it was OK with him if it was OK with animal control.
So then animal control came, and the lady told me that since we are treating this dog as a stray, it is their policy to keep it for 9 days so the owners can have a chance to find the dog. After that, it can be euthanized or adopted. Well now I'm in the process of calling shelters to see if they will take the dog. Either way, you can bet that in 9 days I'm going to be at the pound picking up that dog.
Even though Sandy isn't in a good home yet, I'm still glad that she will never be hurt again.
Driving home from work, a dog ran out in front of my car. She (I think) was a young golden retriever or retriever mix. I saw on the other side of the road was a cop chasing her down, so I decided to turn in and try to help him catch this dog. She was very skittish and nervous. At first, she stayed about 5 feet from me. I was just trying to keep her calm and make sure she doesn't run more or go back into the busy street.
So then the cop crosses the street and tells me that he found out the dog belongs to the people who own the house whose yard we were in at that moment. It was a run down shack with a shitty fence. The police man knocked on the door while I talked sweetly to the dog and tried to talk her into going into her back yard. When I realized she was terrified to go into her own yard, I knew someone was hurting her.
Well, the man that answered to the police officer's knocks was a drunk Mexican who couldn't speak English despite being in the US for years. He called the dog Sandy. Sandy hated him. Her ears immediately went down with her tail between her legs. The closer her got to her, the faster she ran. I wanted to kill this man.
So she took off down the street and I followed her on foot while the officer got his car and called animal control. He also realized that Sandy was being hurt by this man, so he said that since the dog didn't have a collar and he couldn't understand what the man was saying, he was treating the dog like a stray.
Well, as I was following Sandy, she went into a backyard which was fenced in but had a broken gate, so I stood in the opening and kept her in this random person's back yard. Once Jose (or whatever his name was) was gone (about halfway through the chase for the dog, he lost interest and went back home), Sandy was much calmer and very sweet. I told the cop once he caught up with me that I would gladly take the dog home and put her in my yard or take her to a kill-free shelter where I used to work. He said it was OK with him if it was OK with animal control.
So then animal control came, and the lady told me that since we are treating this dog as a stray, it is their policy to keep it for 9 days so the owners can have a chance to find the dog. After that, it can be euthanized or adopted. Well now I'm in the process of calling shelters to see if they will take the dog. Either way, you can bet that in 9 days I'm going to be at the pound picking up that dog.
Even though Sandy isn't in a good home yet, I'm still glad that she will never be hurt again.
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