August 11th 8:52am - Laundry Calamity

I have been traveling through India for almost a month, and my clothes attract abominable odors to them. I smell like my flesh is decaying in sewage.
I have habitually paid to have my entire clothes collection cleansed. By the kilo. However, when I inquired, every laundry locality charged by individual item. I resolved to purchase detergent and rinse them myself. I located Tide and was as satisfied with myself as if I had a pet pig named Moo who was as loyal as Mickey Mouse's Pluto. The Tide yielded ten loads and cost as much as three shirts.
After brimming buckets in the bathroom with water and detergent, soaking clothes, rinsing, ringing, and hanging, my hands were as coarse as Cinderella's. But I was pleased with my frugal feats. There were no clotheslines outside, so I suspended shirts, pants, underwear, and socks from light fixtures, faucets, and nails. There was one towel rack. I can't boast bras. My breasts are so stunted they only necessitate nipple tape. Duct and Scotch tape are sufficient. My bathroom resembled a clothes slaughterhouse. Or an obstacle course simulating my great uncle's house. He referred to himself as an inventor. One time I unfastened the door to enter his yard and a flower pot hammered into my head. That was his burglary prevention invention. It is one of my earliest memories.
Every time I added another garment to a bathroom faucet or fixture, a shirt or a pair of underwear would fall and stream into the soused floor. It occurred to me that I should swing shirts in circles to shed water. Like I bend over and brandish my head about when my hair is waterlogged. This was as profitable as investing my savings in the stock market two months before the economy plunged. The apparel I attempted to rattle dry dislodged already dangling attire onto the flooded floor. I gathered the garments and again wrested water from them. My hands felt as smooth as Sacha Baron Cohen's ass. The ensemble eventually replete, I exhaled a Bigfoot blow and slid a foot forward to step from the bathroom. My foot rocket-launched from the detergent, water, and soap infesting the floor. I thrashed my arms to the sides as my body levitated. I clenched everything I could and emitted a screech like a pig being butchered. Toilet paper, clothes, and toiletries showered my descent to the floor.
When I departed Darjeeling, my clothes were as clammy as thirty-eight hours before. Packing saturated clothes resulted in my bags and all belongings smelling like mold.
I blame the wet, cold Himalayan climate. In talking with my mom days later she said a friend had suggested I try out for Survivor. I can't even wash and dry clothes.

April 10th 5:45pm - Two-Legged Donkey Gracefulness

I have the gracefulness of a two-legged donkey. I blame this on the fact that I was born two months early and cross-eyed. They correlate. My eyes and limbs beseeched essential belly time. But I was born with the primordial hand-eye coordination of a baby having only resided for seven months in amniotic fluid. Thus, my cross-eyed ungainly self.
Having squandered the day in Camana, Peru scrutinizing porn-blocked computers, my bus blared its horn as I strolled up the street to the hostal. I felt as lucky as Michael Jackson with his jail evasions that my hostal was adjacent to the bus departure. I flashed as fast as my pastry-satiated self allowed (Peruvian weakness: Panaterias) to my hostal, hurdled up the twenty-something steep steps feeling as mobile as Rosie O´Donnell, and pealed in to the metal gate at the top. When one of the woman workers gaped open the door to see me with my hands on knees and sweat-sated face, I clattered, ¨Bus! bus!¨ in what I deemed a quasi-coherent Spanish accent, my arms disporting like a fifth-rate magician. I dashed in, grappled with my backpackers pack, slung it over my shoulders, grasped my Nike backpack, and launched myself out the door as my bus uttered a prolonged honk.
In my self-induced-rocket-launch I had disregarded the facts that, 1: the stairs were not only steep, but narrow, and 2: I was attired in beach outfit, aka a short orange tube-top dress and sandals bereaved of traction for the past four years.
I dashed on to the stairs propelled by the bus horn.
My feet summarily slipped and I skid down those twenty-something steps, my monstrous backpackers pack padding my back. I death-gripped the Nike bag to my chest and shrieked like a disabled banshee. The backpacker rapidly whacked every step, jolting my descent and fragmenting my superfluous shrieks.
I toppled amid Peruvian masses mobbing the sidewalk and tossing food from the ground through windows to bus passengers with soles (dinero) swaying from their hands.
I landed sidewalk-sitting, my legs lolling in front of me like Gumby and my Nike backpack straddling two stairs behind me. Both the bottom and top of my dress hugged my waist, my naked tiny titties trotting and my underwear exposed.
I mentally catapulted a thank-you to My Alcohol God for transmitting my drunken dogma to my life´s core: never wear thongs. I inebriatedly declared this when I was seventeen and fell off a counter while clad in dress and thong. I have lived by the doctrine since.
I trucked my dress top up, the bottom down, and twirled around like a turtle on its back until able to maneuver myself to my feet. I flounced to the man by the bus door and produced my ticket with a flourish. He informed me in Español that my bus was late and wouldn´t arrive for another half hour.

November 30, 2008 11:47pm – Cars: Hazardous Contraptions

Last week a car hit me.
In the past thirteen months I have essentially ceased all physical activity. Last week I regrettably discerned my swelling sides and bulging stomach. I had a vision of a portly, obese self and thought, one day. Not yet! The Vision instigated unrivaled inspiration and within minutes I dashed down the street. When I say dashed, I mean prodded. Or scuttled. It was uphill. I drove my arms back and forth, back and forth. My self-narration comprised the following:
“I will not die. I will not die. Maybe moving my arms faster will automatically force my legs to go faster… Nope. That didn’t do anything. Except my arms are more tired and my legs hate me. I will not die.”
I peaked the hill and with wild abandon flung myself downhill. My body soared, my feet lightly ricocheted off the concrete. A streetlight revolved from yellow to red and I fluttered across the street. Delight that through the previous thirteen months I preserved the ability to run downhill overwhelmed me. A smile erupted across my face. And then a punch exploded into my side. With no effort at preserving my upright position, I tumbled to the concrete. A car had reversed into me as I gloriously paraded past. The driver either failed to notice me, the flying sprinter, due to my intense speed, or just didn't care enough to stop. The car leapt away from me and rocketed down the street. I shrugged, stood, and resumed running. Or scuttling.

October 15th 6:33pm - Glass Disaster Part 2

I arrived at the hospital in record time, accompanied by my dad and boyfriend. I hobbled into the emergency room, more concerned with food yearnings than with the pain factor. I sat listening to the echoing chorus of my empty stomach while my dad explained the incident to the hospital admittance person and my boyfriend held my hand. The hospital powers that be entrusted me to a doctor, and four minutes later (again: record timing) my toe was stitched and I was on my way to get food and then to my friend’s basketball game.
My doctor removed the sutures two weeks later and I returned to my soccer team amid much teasing concerning the origination of my damaged toe: food.
Though I assumed the adventure had concluded, it was not done yet. Over the next two months my toe was under high stress – it hurt constantly. After every soccer practice I removed my cleat to find my sock blood-soaked. Pressing on the tiny scar on my second toe was not consistent with feeling the corresponding toe on my opposite foot. I graced my doctor’s office with my presence three times. Each time he assured me my toe was misbehaving because I wasn’t treating it well as I was still playing soccer on it. I accepted his explanation. After the third time my mom did not. Ignoring my many protests, my mom hauled me away to the hospital again. This time it was a different hospital.
A nurse immediately coerced me into a wheelchair. My mom explained the situation in detail while I endeavored to make the wheelchair balance on one wheel. This lasted until another nurse seized the wheelchair’s back and wheeled me away to get an x-ray. The nurse enlightened me and my mom by notifying us that glass very rarely appears on an x-ray. The hospital took an x-ray anyway. When they embraced the x-ray to the light, we saw a shard of glass encroaching across my toe. The doctor exclaimed how unusual it was to see glass and summoned five other doctors to observe. By the time he made a minute cut in my toe, twelve doctors and nurses crowded around the hospital bed straining to see. He extracted an inch-long piece of glass out of my toe. The audience sighed and clapped. The first ER doctor had stitched an inch of glass in my toe. It had resided there for two months.
Lessons Learned:
1. Playing soccer on a toe that had stitches taken out should not hurt.
2. Walking after sutures were confiscated should not hurt.
3. If your foot continues to bleed two months after you had stitches removed, something is wrong.
4. You are powerless in a wheelchair. If someone decides you are going to go somewhere, you go. Popping wheelies doesn’t help.
5. Glass does appear on x-rays!

October 14th 5:52pm - Glass Disaster

Food enthralls me. Especially in high school (really nothing has changed), I was an avid food admirer. I incessantly craved food. This could have been because I consistently played multiple sports, accordingly requiring massive amounts of calories, but whatever the reason, I was (am) forever ravenous. At Christmas my mom gave me a large multi-picture frame. Openings for nine photos with a glossy sheet of glass as defense against the perilous environment of my room were enclosed by a deep cherry wood frame. Shortly after receiving it I positioned the components on the ground to situate photos I wished to use. The outcome of walking through my room in the dark of night to use the restroom: striding across the sheet of glass, thus fracturing it into large shards. The damage: banished lethargy (a result of the cracking sounds resonating through the previously silent room); and destruction of the glass. I switched on the lights, surveyed the damage, and deposited the glass slices into a large plastic trash bag on one side of my room. The bag was leftover from the inevitable trash accumulation after Christmas. The next day as I ran out the door to go to school I noticed one of the lengthy glass sections had penetrated the thin plastic bag, its jagged tip prodding the air, hovering six inches from the ground. I endeavored to remember and do something about it later. I didn’t remember. This recurred for three days. On the fourth day I pondered in my closet what to wear to my friend’s basketball game when I heard my mom yell that dinner was ready. Visions of chicken and potatoes dancing through my brain, I sprinted through the room, my face animated. Halfway to the door the top of my foot connected with that unruly glass point. I ceased running and glanced down to see blood spurting from my foot. “Oh no,” I muttered to myself, hopping to my bathroom, feeding the carpet a trail of blood. I sat on the blue tiles as I attempted to wrap enough toilet paper around the base of my fourth toe to cease the blood flow. Scotch tape enveloped the toilet paper, applying pressure and denying the blood eruption. Succulent smells from the kitchen accosted my nostrils. Two minutes later I beamed, satisfied, and hobbled downstairs. My then-boyfriend and I entered the kitchen simultaneously, he coming from the front door and me from upstairs. My mom immediately observed my foot and demanded to know what happened. I shuffled to the table, sat down, and drooled as heavenly smells of food wafted around me. I explained it was nothing, I just ran into a piece of glass. I seized my fork and sunk it into the moist, white chicken breast while my mom insisted I go to the hospital immediately. I looked up at her, a mouthful of bliss. She stood with her arms crossed. I knew that look. I wasn’t going to have the opportunity to eat. I looked down longingly. The food focus drowned the voices of my parents, siblings, and boyfriend. I managed to consume four bites before I was yanked from my seat. The blood had penetrated the bandage. I was hustled to the car and driven to the hospital.
Lessons learned:
1. When you notice something (glass) appearing to be a hazard, do something about it. Don’t just let it rest, jeopardizing the livelihood of your toe, for days.
2. Never run through a room with said hazard at a dangerous angle, even if food calls.
3. If such a tragedy does occur: scheme. Boyfriend or Sister could have delivered plate of food upstairs and The Parents would not have known until after dinner.

August 29th 4:10pm - Motorbike Misfortune

A few months ago found me traipsing through Southeast Asia with two of my friends. We commenced our expedition with Bangkok , journeyed north into Laos , worked our way south to Bangkok again, and flew to the Thai islands. During this rather lengthy excursion, we utilized all modes of transportation. We traveled by plane, train, van, boat, bus, raft, and elephant. Upon reaching the island of Koh Tao ( Turtle Island ), we came to the now-knowledgeable decision to do as the locals do: ride motorbikes. In Thailand , it is customary to cram a small motorized bike with mom, dad, baby, and three children heaped on top of one another. We, being three (rather larger) American girls, elected to rent three bikes. The three of us approached various island natives, haggling (as is routine) for the best rate. A rather squat woman with long black, graying hair tied up rose ahead of the others as the frontrunner, offering us three bikes for 100baht less than her numerous competitors (the amount works out to be slightly over three and a half dollars saved). I surrendered my passport as collateral for the three bikes, and we bounded onto our newly acquired toys. One of my friends had ridden a motorbike before. Thus, she became our motorbike educator. It took us little over ten seconds to realize they were manual motorbikes. Translation: we couldn’t just turn the key, press a button, and vroom-vroom our way down the street. Instead, we had to turn the key, put in the clutch (located on our right handlebar), and then slowly release the clutch as we applied more weight on the gas (situated at our feet). Quite complicated. I find it impossible to drive a stick shift car, much less endure so much effort to initiate the thrumming and jumping metal that is a motorbike. However, I reminded myself that I am an athlete, and assured myself this simply cannot be that hard. Within a minute the other two had their bikes growling and one of my friends rapidly rocketed away. My saintly instructor stayed by my side as I struggled to get the bike’s motor humming. I could not for the life of me coordinate the release of the clutch with the correct force on the gas. I tried, and the bike jolted forward before dying. Again: the engine thrived, bounding ahead, before failing. Hearing the other motorbike’s purr bearing towards me motivated my extreme concentration on starting the engine. And then: success. The bike vibrated beneath me, roaring with life, and hurdled forward directly into the street. “Whoa,” I yelled, doing my best to maintain my grip on the bike. “Whooa,” I yelled as I advanced to the opposite side of the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car. “Whooooa,” I yelled as an enormous truck (very unusual for Thailand ) loomed in front of me. “Aggghhh!” I screamed as I swerved the bike in an attempt to avoid colliding with the parked truck. I almost accomplished my challenge. The bike hit the edge of the truck, and gravity propelled me to the ground, the bane of my existence landing directly on top of me. I lay, stunned, for half a second before chuckling my immense relief at the fact I was still breathing. My friends couldn’t breathe, as they were overcome with hysterics, one of whom peed her shorts from laughing. Outcome: one cracked motorbike mirror, one bruised body (I told people I got trampled by an elephant… much better story), one passport held hostage by small, thickset woman, the loss of the equivalent of $100U.S. to repair motorbike “damages,” and one marginally bruised pride : )

August 11th 6:25pm - Stove

I am a procrastinator. I am a severe procrastinator. In high school I wouldn't begin my homework until eleven at night. One time I had an essay due the following morning at nine. I began at eleven-thirty that night. Three-thirty in the morning found me sitting at the computer with a nodding head and incessantly closing eyes. It was the exhausted-head-nod-jerk-yourself-awake kind. In over an hour I wrote one sentence. That's when I resolved something needed to be done. My eyes puffy, my head swimming, I came to the always-brilliant decision to turn on the stove and put my head over the flame in an effort to wake myself up. For some (still) imperceptible reason, I did exactly that: I turned on the stove and placed my head over the flames. I stood, stationary, for ten seconds or so before leaping back, fully alert. I shrieked and sprinted the three steps to the sink. I wrenched the faucet on and threw my hair underneath the water. In my semi-conscious state, pulling my hair back before situating my head above a fire simply didn't occur to me. In my semi-conscious state, not putting my head over flames never occurred to me. I had effectively managed to light my hair on fire in an effort to wake up.

In retrospect: when trying to stay awake, putting your head in the freezer would have an equivalent effect as over a stove/flame. Possibly not the same extreme state of alertness that I was thrust into, but it would have presumably woken me up enough!

August 5th 3:18pm - Furniture High-Rise

In 6th grade my parents told me I could design my room in the house they were building. My vision: blue paint, dark blue carpet, a wall of bookcases with a ladder sliding across (like Beauty & the Beast, of course), a secret door within the bookcase leading to a secret room, a walk-in closet, and an attached bath. Oh, not to mention a step up and an arch for a separate sleeping region. My room ultimately had all of these ingredients... barring the sliding ladder and covert door and room.
By 7th grade my room had the luxury of walls and ceilings. I came to the logical conclusion to paint the ceilings as a day sky with clouds and butterflies, with the added magnificence of a night sky with stars. Make no mistake, the stars included glitter.

When my parents told me two Decembers ago they were going to replace the blue carpet with the sumptuous multihued carpet of the rest of the house, I decided it was time to repaint. I went to the store and isolated a warm beige color for my future walls. I called some friends to help me. One friend brought over an unenthusiastic attitude, but also a 12-pack of bottled beer. We spent a couple of hours dancing around and painting as much of each other as the walls. When the ceiling and one of the walls had been completed, I looked around and became depressed by the drab monotony the color provided. I returned to the store and bought red paint. I alloted one wall as the lucky color victor, and we painted.

Difficulty: the walls were textured. The ceiling was beige and the wall red. I couldn't for the life of me accomplish a straight line. And I needed a straight line. That night, after my friends left, I revisited the line. Following some internal debate, I determined the best course of action would be to locate a smaller brush and paint along the wall with the added benefit of a ruler. With the recognition that the ladder was downstairs in the garage came the realization that I was not going to retrieve that ladder. Instead, an ingenious plan: drag my 18th birthday wooden chest to the wall. Cover it with a towel so as to protect it from any excess paint descending from the brush. On the towel place a plastic folding chair (the chair scarcely fit the chest, but it did fit). Stand on chair to paint line. Perfect height.
This plan succeeded. I would paint as far as I could reach, climb down, move chest with chair intact a foot or two, and repeat. I was nearing the completion of the line. I stepped up onto the towel and then to the seat of the chair. I extended my arms towards the line. One hand was occupied with the paintbrush and the other with the ruler. My weight wasn't perfectly balanced. And then the chair collapsed. I plummeted to the floor. Instead of striking the floor, however, my lower back struck the edge of the solid wooden chest with the full force of a 153 pound woman plunging from several feet in the air. My right foot went crashing into the box of glass beer bottles kindly brought over earlier.
End result: I sat on the carpet with my back to the hope chest. My right foot was cut by the bottles. One of the bottles had still been full. When my foot connected with it, the glass shattered and the liquid surged onto the floor. The entire box lay on its side. I couldn't breathe because my air had been pounded right out of me.

My brother was the only one home. Later he said he heard a smacking sound, glass breaking, a huge thump, and an odd groan. He came bounding up the stairs and sprinted into my room to behold me crumpled on the floor on my side struggling to breathe with my right foot in a box of beer and one of the beers soaking into the carpet. When I regained my breath I began to laugh.

Advice: If you are going to insist upon painting a straight line on a textured wall, pay someone. Or just use a ladder for height. Odd assemblies of furniture in tower form are not suggested.

July 30th 5:20pm - French-Fries and Lemonade

My brother and I were in Spain for two weeks roughly seven years ago. My fifteen-year-old stomach had been incessantly craving french-fries and lemonade. The entire two weeks. We were generally in Granada, a moderately small city, that didn’t have a McDonalds. The fact that it didn’t have a McDonalds devastated me. Our meals were odd things like cold tomato soup, which is never good, and fish. With eyes and scales and bones. I inevitably ate the microscopic bones. They would get lodged in my throat, consequently forcing me to choke. Additionally, the food we were fed was in miniscule, diminutive proportions considering the colossal quantities we were raised on. We supplemented our “meals” with bread and chocolate and the occasional nibble of cheese. Aka we lived on bread.

So, when we arrived at the airport with a very modest amount of money left, we came to the desperate decision to use it on food, seeing as we had essentially starved for the previous two weeks. I was delighted to see that there were french-fries and lemonade. Real lemonade. From lemons. Every time I had ordered lemonade in Spain they took it to mean limonada. The servers had given me Sprite every time. Uni-lingual idiots. Not understanding the nuances of the English language in their native Spain! Anyway, I happily placed my order and started salivating like a rabid dog at the sight of the largest lemonade and french-fries offered. They placed it on a tray, I surrendered the very last of my money, and ran away with my treasure.

Every table and chair in the dining area was occupied. The smell of the fries tantalized me. Tortured me. I felt like I was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. My brother walked ahead of me, weaving his way through the countless chairs and tables positioned almost on top of each other. He squeezed through one particularly small area and I followed. As I turned sideways to wedge myself through the two chair backs my backpack hit something (it turned out to be somebody’s head) and I lost my balance. My hand, off-kilter, tilted the tray. My perfectly-balanced french-fries and lemonade toppled. I reached out with one of my hands to try and salvage some part of my heaven-sent meal. My outstretched fingers connected with an older woman’s breast and my greasy fries and extra-large drink plummeted onto her lap and chest.

“Oh my god!” she screamed in a thick English accent, her white hair bobbing as she jumped up.

“Oh my god!” I screamed as tears welled in my eyes for my lost little bit of bliss.

July 16th 10:10pm - Dishwasher

I'm in the interview process. Apparently you don't just have one or two interviews with a company. As it turns out, it's much more complex and intense than I anticipated it to be. I've interviewed with six different people from one company, not to mention multiple round interviews with a couple of other companies.

So, I was running slightly late the other day. I had taken my time checking my e-mail, eating breakfast, sitting and staring at the wall thinking about nothing, putting my dishes away and starting the dishwasher... and then I looked at the clock. I was in my room. I jumped up from the chair I was lounging in, and I was in automatic, highly concentrated, do-everything-all-at-once mode. In a minute and a half I had dressed: black slacks (ironed down the front middle, of course), turquoise silky collared short-sleeved shirt, black suit jacket, and heels. No tights. I would never in my life normally wear heels (I have bad balance), but for first impression (or in this case, second impression) interviews I feel it is fashionably necessary. I'm not sure why. When the minute and a half had expired and I had located my purse and keys, I realized my phone was in the bathroom on the opposite side of the house. So, as I usually do when I'm in a hurry, I decided to run. I went clumsily, awkwardly, clumping, out the bedroom door, down the hallway, through the living room (avoiding tripping on the rug = great sign), and I could see the final destination in sight. The bathroom door. And that's when I fell. My feet slipped out from under me. I thought such scenes only happened in movies. First one foot, then the other. My arms went slow-motion-rotating behind my body trying to catch me. They didn't. I landed on the white tile floor and to my confusion, as I landed, small bubbles floated up around me a couple inches off the ground. I started laughing, that kind of hilarity sprung by outlandish occurrences. I sat up, slowly, my entire back soaked through, the suit jacket and shirt in a wet, soapy substance. As it turned out, I had put dishwashing liquid soap in the dishwasher, not dishwasher liquid soap.