On the first day of crazy, there was insanity, an asiaaaan in a dance crew:
This middle-aged asian guy walks up and asks me the time, and then launches into the most ridiculous story about how he was in a dance crew in the 1980s at the start of rap, and how he is getting back into it. I did not know whether he was looking to impress me or recruit me for his new group. Unfortunately, he recently had a pacemaker put in, which apparently has two unjoined parts that must touch at all times - which he illustrated by jamming his index fingers together over and over.
He told me that because of his pacemaker, he could not do anything other than floor moves, but that he "do thing that women like." I was not brave enough to ask what that thing might be - also, I was having a hard enough time keeping a straight face as it was. I kept thinking, "So this is what happens to those poor Asian 80's actors (think Long Duk Dong ala Sixteen Candles). Luckily, before he got the nerve to ask me to join his hip hop troupe, I was able to escape.
On the second day of crazy, there was insanity, drunk friendly lout:
"HEY GIRL!" In my mind, being hailed that way by complete strangers is usually associated with crazy or stupid. An arm was thrown across my shoulder, and I was hit by the smell of the inside of a toilet in a singles bar at new years. Mmmm, Eau'd cheap booze and desperation.
As I turned to look into the yellow eyes of the grizzly, smelly dude accosting me, I sighed, suspecting that we were going to be new best friends at least until my bus came. In a rambling, incoherent narrative, Mr. Inebriate explains how he took the bus to Lebanon to buy some wine - a precious substance, which apparently cannot be found in the bustling town of Enfield (pop. 4582)?? He passed out in the middle of the ride and woke up in Vermont - where the cruel bus driver forced him to hike across the state border into Hanover, where once again, he passed out, this time on a park bench. Unlike the bus, where being drunk and unresponsive is okay, Hanover is the home of prestigious Dartmouth College, where it's only okay for the students to be drunk and unresponsive. So, New Lush Friend was hassled by the police, who dragged him off to jail. There, he narrowly avoided prison rape (amongst the hardened criminals of Hanover, NH) and was sent to the hospital.
Most of his storytelling was spent describing the indignities he suffered at the hands of my institution's medical staff, which mostly seemed comprised of repeatedly asking him if he was intoxicated. "INTOXICATED? INTOXICATED!!" He bellowed, as if this was the single most ridiculous idea he had ever encountered, never mind the fact that the fumes rising off of him were beginning to strip the facade we stood in front of. He also threw in some advice about getting diseases - mostly, that I shouldn't, but if I did, I shouldn't mess with them, heck, I shouldn't EVEN TOUCH THEM. Every few minutes he would remind me that his buddy Rick, who I repeatedly denied any knowledge of, was dead. Apparently poor Rick dared to touch his disease, which certainly begs a few questions I don't think I need to pose here.
Of course we were traveling on the same bus, and my buddy promised to stick close and sit RIGHT next to me so we could continue our scintillating conversation. I may have, at this point, had some kind of contact drunk going on, but I was unable to devise a way to get rid of him. I figured if he tried to follow me home like some kind of soused puppy, I would throw myself on the mercy of the bus driver. Luckily, he bid me a pleasant good day, merely reminding me to "beat my boyfriend with a stick to keep him in line."
I can only hold my breath in anticipation of the batshit insane personages who will harass me tomorrow, but first, I think I need a bath and or flea dip...
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
50 Years of Spaceflight
I never wanted to be an astronaut. Let’s be honest, if I’m chicken-shit when it comes to roller coasters, I didn’t see myself strapped to forty tons of rocket fuel blasting to the outer reaches of our atmosphere, past all hope of rescue. Then, there were all these math requirements, and I’ve never been too fond of numbers, either. Despite all that, I have a bordering-on-obsessive fascination with manned spaceflight. It’s difficult for me to understand how anyone wouldn’t be interested in humans flinging themselves out of our planet’s grasp, never mind the exciting science they perform while doing so. Today, America marks 50 years of manned spaceflight, only a few days after Russia has done the same. The difference between us is that our anniversary feels like a closing, rather than just a milestone in an infinite progression of achievement. There are only two flights left on NASA’s shuttle manifest, and no solid plans for a new program to follow. There is no national outcry, no tears shed over the passing of an era of American innovation – I would be surprised if the shuttle program died little more than a quiet death, fading into the annals of history.
It should be enough that somewhere out there, someone is continuing to explore space. The Russians will still be launching Soyez rockets, and some of them will even carry Americans. The ISS will continue to orbit, and innovations in spaceflight will march on, but in significant way, we will be left on the sidelines. I am rarely a nationalist, but I am proud to be part of a country that is driven to push the envelope, ask big questions, and be capable of producing the technological feats needed to answer them. I know that there are valid concerns out there about the viability of the near-obsolete shuttles, the cost, and the inherent risks to human life, but that’s not what this is about. The lack of interest in the loss of this program smacks of the pervading apathy the American public has toward science in general. Since when, as a nation, did we lose our curiosity? Why are the only questions we’re interested in asking anymore about what so-and-so did today on facebook, and who won on Dancing with the Stars? Does there need to be a death involved for us to feel a sense of tragedy?
For me, I will always remember standing at Banana Creek, filled with wonder, watching those forty tons carry seven measly humans into the vast expanse of blue sky and beyond.
Related Reading
It should be enough that somewhere out there, someone is continuing to explore space. The Russians will still be launching Soyez rockets, and some of them will even carry Americans. The ISS will continue to orbit, and innovations in spaceflight will march on, but in significant way, we will be left on the sidelines. I am rarely a nationalist, but I am proud to be part of a country that is driven to push the envelope, ask big questions, and be capable of producing the technological feats needed to answer them. I know that there are valid concerns out there about the viability of the near-obsolete shuttles, the cost, and the inherent risks to human life, but that’s not what this is about. The lack of interest in the loss of this program smacks of the pervading apathy the American public has toward science in general. Since when, as a nation, did we lose our curiosity? Why are the only questions we’re interested in asking anymore about what so-and-so did today on facebook, and who won on Dancing with the Stars? Does there need to be a death involved for us to feel a sense of tragedy?
For me, I will always remember standing at Banana Creek, filled with wonder, watching those forty tons carry seven measly humans into the vast expanse of blue sky and beyond.
Related Reading
Saturday, January 15, 2011
The Lotion Dilemna
I have ridiculously sensitive skin. I can glance at a bottle of scented detergent in the store, and watch the rash creep up my arms. I even have a crazy white streak through my hair that originates from a skin condition. So, every winter, I resign myself to looking like shit for the next six months (I live in New England, so that might actually be an understatement on the length of the season), and feeling literally less than comfortable in my own skin. My skin gets patchy, itchy, red and gross, and a few years ago, I developed a form of eczema that looks like a raised circle, mimicking a less palatable skin condition. My GP's answer, after losing interest when it became clear it was not ringworm? "Put some lotion on it."
So, I have half-heartedly slapped on greasy cetaphil and thick aquaphor - and when I feel fancy, Aveeno - in the hopes of hydrating. Truthfully, my adherence to a routine has been less than faithful. By the time I finish bathing, teeth brushing, mouth washing, face scrubbing, hair taming, and contact applying, who has time to moisturize before I have to throw on clothes and run out the door? And god forbid, if I want to put on some makeup! Then, the same deal at night, only this time, it's getting in the way of something really important: sleep.
This year, my eczema came back with a vengence, starting at my hairline and laying waste as it marched in to the center of my face, leaving destruction and scales in its wake. I suppose I could make a vow to dutifully apply lotion day after day, but as mentioned in the last post, I'm not a resolution-maker, and damnit, hard work is not the American way! Furthermore, I believe in the power of technology!
Surely Modern Science has come up with a solution to my problem?
Off to the drug store I ran, to find myself faced with an ENTIRE AISLE of choices! Having not shopped outside of my plain old standbys for quite some time, I was overwhelmed. No longer does lotion just moisturize and scent, it must have some additional purpose. Either I was being firmed, or de-wrinkled, or tinted, or de-toxified... and by the time I was through reviewing these choices I was beginning to have some serious worries about crow's feet, cellulite and poisons that might be additionally marring my already dry skin! Clearly, I needed to take a closer look, and let me tell you, I timed myself, and I spent 23 minutes in that aisle studying lotion bottles. I could see the pharmacists eying me with terror, bracing themselves for the inevitable stupid question ("Which one of these will fix the herpes?"). Lucky for them, I'm already a scientician.
In all honesty though, while I have great faith in the quality of life improvement research can bring us, I have no patience for psuedoscience.
This was the worst offender of them all - and I expected better from a company generally selling the most basic of skin protectants (white petrolatum). It promises revolutionary "Stratys 3," a patented complex which claims to penetrate ALL layers of my skin. What does that even mean, I wondered. The three attached to stratys - a word very similar to strata, or layer, made me think of the three basic levels of skin, the epidermis, dermis and subcutaneous. I really don't think I need to be moisturized all the way down to my hair follicles, and I'm not even sure that's good for me? But maybe they meant the first three layers of the epidermis, the strata corneum, licidum, and granulosum. Clearly I needed to do further research. Back at the great Gazoogle, I poked around for the product information. On vaseline's promotion site for Sheer Infusion they claim,
"Stratys-3™ is an effective patented moisturizing complex, combining three powerful ingredients that infuse and suspend moisture across all layers of skin*-- the top, the core, and deep down. "
Ooooh, the deep down! Tharr be monsters!...or just really gross dry dead skin cells. But, what's up with that asterisk on skin? Perhaps they're going to enlighten me on just what they mean by these layers! And they do, even in appropriately scientific terms:
* stratum corneum (surface skin)
B-but, but - that's just the very uppermost, flattest, and deadest layer of the epidermis! So you're telling me that after all this hyped up, multi-layer moisturizing avowing quackery, you don't even reach below the VERY FIRST STRATA of the top layer of skin?! For fucks sake, Vaseline.
... I bought a bottle of Aveeno and called it a day.
So, I have half-heartedly slapped on greasy cetaphil and thick aquaphor - and when I feel fancy, Aveeno - in the hopes of hydrating. Truthfully, my adherence to a routine has been less than faithful. By the time I finish bathing, teeth brushing, mouth washing, face scrubbing, hair taming, and contact applying, who has time to moisturize before I have to throw on clothes and run out the door? And god forbid, if I want to put on some makeup! Then, the same deal at night, only this time, it's getting in the way of something really important: sleep.
This year, my eczema came back with a vengence, starting at my hairline and laying waste as it marched in to the center of my face, leaving destruction and scales in its wake. I suppose I could make a vow to dutifully apply lotion day after day, but as mentioned in the last post, I'm not a resolution-maker, and damnit, hard work is not the American way! Furthermore, I believe in the power of technology!
Surely Modern Science has come up with a solution to my problem?
Off to the drug store I ran, to find myself faced with an ENTIRE AISLE of choices! Having not shopped outside of my plain old standbys for quite some time, I was overwhelmed. No longer does lotion just moisturize and scent, it must have some additional purpose. Either I was being firmed, or de-wrinkled, or tinted, or de-toxified... and by the time I was through reviewing these choices I was beginning to have some serious worries about crow's feet, cellulite and poisons that might be additionally marring my already dry skin! Clearly, I needed to take a closer look, and let me tell you, I timed myself, and I spent 23 minutes in that aisle studying lotion bottles. I could see the pharmacists eying me with terror, bracing themselves for the inevitable stupid question ("Which one of these will fix the herpes?"). Lucky for them, I'm already a scientician.
In all honesty though, while I have great faith in the quality of life improvement research can bring us, I have no patience for psuedoscience.
 |
| Exhibit A. Vaseline Sheer Infusion: Moisture. Redefined. |
This was the worst offender of them all - and I expected better from a company generally selling the most basic of skin protectants (white petrolatum). It promises revolutionary "Stratys 3," a patented complex which claims to penetrate ALL layers of my skin. What does that even mean, I wondered. The three attached to stratys - a word very similar to strata, or layer, made me think of the three basic levels of skin, the epidermis, dermis and subcutaneous. I really don't think I need to be moisturized all the way down to my hair follicles, and I'm not even sure that's good for me? But maybe they meant the first three layers of the epidermis, the strata corneum, licidum, and granulosum. Clearly I needed to do further research. Back at the great Gazoogle, I poked around for the product information. On vaseline's promotion site for Sheer Infusion they claim,
"Stratys-3™ is an effective patented moisturizing complex, combining three powerful ingredients that infuse and suspend moisture across all layers of skin*-- the top, the core, and deep down. "
Ooooh, the deep down! Tharr be monsters!...or just really gross dry dead skin cells. But, what's up with that asterisk on skin? Perhaps they're going to enlighten me on just what they mean by these layers! And they do, even in appropriately scientific terms:
* stratum corneum (surface skin)
B-but, but - that's just the very uppermost, flattest, and deadest layer of the epidermis! So you're telling me that after all this hyped up, multi-layer moisturizing avowing quackery, you don't even reach below the VERY FIRST STRATA of the top layer of skin?! For fucks sake, Vaseline.
... I bought a bottle of Aveeno and called it a day.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Mirror
I am not a resolution maker. The idea of resolutions is always tempting to me, but I know myself too well. I'm better off tackling small goals building up to a big change, than to make some dramatic promise on an artificial "new beginning," which I will inevitably break and disappoint myself with. Still, it's hard not to think about your body when the rest of the world seems riveted on that exact subject. It doesn't help that the gym becomes so crowded in the month of January that I avoid it like the plague, exacerbating the issue.
I have little shame in admitting that through my childhood and teenage years, I was a dork. In college, I consciously forced myself out of my socially inept shell, and became the considerably more outgoing woman that I am now. I don't regret this, but a sad truth of adulthood is that you begin to see nearly everything has a tradeoff. Encasing my inner nerd in a better-groomed, more confident package was no exception.
I shed my absolute devotion to jeans and t-shirts, and discovered that curly hair can look something other than frizzy, if you care for it. I learned how to put on makeup, shop for clothes, even flirt with boys! Over time, this developing awareness of how others viewed me changed how I viewed myself, and not in a positive way. Much to my constant disgust, somewhere along the way, I developed vanity, and more particularly, a terrible body image.
I do not keep any full length mirrors in my apartment. An initially accidental lack has become quite intentional over time. While occasionally inconvenient, I consider this absence to be enormously beneficial to my psyche. These days, I rarely find myself looking in a mirror with satisfaction, and worse, I can't help BUT look. I wonder if my skin is too red, my hair too frizzy, my nose big, my tits floppy, my arms flabby (am I developing a paunch?) and the list goes on and on. And while a very small, still sane portion of my mind registers that none of this probably has any bearing on reality, it sure does a number on my self-esteem.
On an "ugly day" I find myself desperately wishing that I could go back to the days of being able to look at my body with something like objectivity. True objectivity would require some standard of beauty separate from culture, which is impossible. But, as an awkward kid, I was able to look at myself and make statements like, "My knees are knobblier than most," or "My hair is more brown than X's" without assigning value to that observation. My appearance had no tie to my self-worth, and in retrospect that seems enormously appealing.
I can't turn back time and go back to the days of blissful ignorance, but I could happily compromise. I want to be able to see my body, realistically, and face what I am, what I look like, without shame or disappointment attached. I want to be able to make the best of what I have, without constantly wishing for something else. I have no idea how to get there.
I have little shame in admitting that through my childhood and teenage years, I was a dork. In college, I consciously forced myself out of my socially inept shell, and became the considerably more outgoing woman that I am now. I don't regret this, but a sad truth of adulthood is that you begin to see nearly everything has a tradeoff. Encasing my inner nerd in a better-groomed, more confident package was no exception.
I shed my absolute devotion to jeans and t-shirts, and discovered that curly hair can look something other than frizzy, if you care for it. I learned how to put on makeup, shop for clothes, even flirt with boys! Over time, this developing awareness of how others viewed me changed how I viewed myself, and not in a positive way. Much to my constant disgust, somewhere along the way, I developed vanity, and more particularly, a terrible body image.
I do not keep any full length mirrors in my apartment. An initially accidental lack has become quite intentional over time. While occasionally inconvenient, I consider this absence to be enormously beneficial to my psyche. These days, I rarely find myself looking in a mirror with satisfaction, and worse, I can't help BUT look. I wonder if my skin is too red, my hair too frizzy, my nose big, my tits floppy, my arms flabby (am I developing a paunch?) and the list goes on and on. And while a very small, still sane portion of my mind registers that none of this probably has any bearing on reality, it sure does a number on my self-esteem.
On an "ugly day" I find myself desperately wishing that I could go back to the days of being able to look at my body with something like objectivity. True objectivity would require some standard of beauty separate from culture, which is impossible. But, as an awkward kid, I was able to look at myself and make statements like, "My knees are knobblier than most," or "My hair is more brown than X's" without assigning value to that observation. My appearance had no tie to my self-worth, and in retrospect that seems enormously appealing.
I can't turn back time and go back to the days of blissful ignorance, but I could happily compromise. I want to be able to see my body, realistically, and face what I am, what I look like, without shame or disappointment attached. I want to be able to make the best of what I have, without constantly wishing for something else. I have no idea how to get there.
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