The other day a lot of my friends got this text message:
"Hey what are some weird and really really rare diseases (like Trenchfoot)?"
And while we're on the subject: do you know of any unusual diseases?
February 29, 2012
February 24, 2012
I know the real reason.
Why do ER billboards show wait times?
On the freeway I passed a billboard for an emergency room that said "Current wait time: 8 minutes" and I thought, "Gee, with a wait time like that now might be a good time to patch up this giant hole in my chest that's spurting blood all over the windshield."
I barely care what the time and temperature is, and I definitely don't care how long I could sit in a waiting room. Why not take that sign down and put up a screen that plays wildlife videos all day? And while we're at it, take down the hospital and put in a taco restaurant.
Free advice, emergency room. You're welcome.
On the freeway I passed a billboard for an emergency room that said "Current wait time: 8 minutes" and I thought, "Gee, with a wait time like that now might be a good time to patch up this giant hole in my chest that's spurting blood all over the windshield."
I barely care what the time and temperature is, and I definitely don't care how long I could sit in a waiting room. Why not take that sign down and put up a screen that plays wildlife videos all day? And while we're at it, take down the hospital and put in a taco restaurant.
Free advice, emergency room. You're welcome.
February 22, 2012
Admit it: you're impressed I found my camera.
The first step is admitting you have a problem.
The second step is eating an ice cream sandwich.
The second step is eating an ice cream sandwich.
February 20, 2012
And the screaming is louder.
My next-door neighbor who taught the extremely unpopular night class "How to calm a screaming baby" moved out a few weeks ago.
Fortunately my post-graduate education continues, with the new tenants' complimentary evening course: "How to make a baby."
Coincidentally, it also involves a lot of screaming.
Fortunately my post-graduate education continues, with the new tenants' complimentary evening course: "How to make a baby."
Coincidentally, it also involves a lot of screaming.
February 17, 2012
It changes
TIME MACHINE POSTs are things I wrote in France and then never published because of laziness something besides laziness. Here is one of them.
Every Friday I go to a literature review session for college students who apparently have nothing better to do on Friday nights. Last week when it was over and everyone was leaving, the teacher asked me where I lived and how I was getting home. When I answered that I lived by the train station and was going to take the metro she told me that was a horrible idea and she would give me a ride. I said that was very nice of her, and I put on my coat and my backpack and was ready to go.
"Woah, don't put your coat on! We're having a picnic."
I looked around, even though I already knew what I was going to see. It was 9:30 at night. There was no one else in the building. She pulled a picnic basket from underneath a table.
This is something that happens a lot in France. Someone says something very clearly, and I understand every word, but I don't UNDERSTAND. Yes, I caught that you want to have a picnic with me at 9:30 at night. I was able to grasp every word in that sentence. And yet... it's 9:30 at night. And you want to have a picnic?
Dinner was a bag of tiny chicken drumsticks that you can put in the microwave, gluten-free bread because she knew I was allergic to wheat, and a package of garlic cheese. There was a ton of chicken in the bag, but she kept telling me to eat more, until finally they were gone. Then she pulled out a second bag of tiny chicken drumsticks, barbeque flavored.
"Barbeque is a different flavor that regular," she announced in case I had never had flavored food before. "So, it changes."
"It changes" (or ça change for people who wish I didn't translate all the dialogue on my blog) is a sentence that I UNDERSTAND does not mean the same thing as it does in English, but it's impossible for me to think otherwise. In French ça change means "It's kind of different, but there you go." France is kind of different. It changes. But I like it.
Every Friday I go to a literature review session for college students who apparently have nothing better to do on Friday nights. Last week when it was over and everyone was leaving, the teacher asked me where I lived and how I was getting home. When I answered that I lived by the train station and was going to take the metro she told me that was a horrible idea and she would give me a ride. I said that was very nice of her, and I put on my coat and my backpack and was ready to go.
"Woah, don't put your coat on! We're having a picnic."
I looked around, even though I already knew what I was going to see. It was 9:30 at night. There was no one else in the building. She pulled a picnic basket from underneath a table.
This is something that happens a lot in France. Someone says something very clearly, and I understand every word, but I don't UNDERSTAND. Yes, I caught that you want to have a picnic with me at 9:30 at night. I was able to grasp every word in that sentence. And yet... it's 9:30 at night. And you want to have a picnic?
Dinner was a bag of tiny chicken drumsticks that you can put in the microwave, gluten-free bread because she knew I was allergic to wheat, and a package of garlic cheese. There was a ton of chicken in the bag, but she kept telling me to eat more, until finally they were gone. Then she pulled out a second bag of tiny chicken drumsticks, barbeque flavored.
"Barbeque is a different flavor that regular," she announced in case I had never had flavored food before. "So, it changes."
"It changes" (or ça change for people who wish I didn't translate all the dialogue on my blog) is a sentence that I UNDERSTAND does not mean the same thing as it does in English, but it's impossible for me to think otherwise. In French ça change means "It's kind of different, but there you go." France is kind of different. It changes. But I like it.
February 15, 2012
I can make it on my own
The other day my friend and I tried arepas at a gluten-free bakery.
Three years ago I would have eaten dirt before arepas, but dirt is really low in nutrients and I get so, so hungry. Arepas are actually great, and it's cute when they try to be a sandwich. Like a three-legged puppy just scraping along.
Three years ago I would have eaten dirt before arepas, but dirt is really low in nutrients and I get so, so hungry. Arepas are actually great, and it's cute when they try to be a sandwich. Like a three-legged puppy just scraping along.
February 13, 2012
my job is lucky it's so fun
Someone with apparently more random knowledge than I have told me that the 9-5 workday was originally designed for 8 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, and 8 hours of free time.
My workday this year is 14 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, 1 hour of running, and 1 hour of free time. Sky's the limit on this hour of free time though. I can eat something, call my family, do laundry, or even take a shower.
My workday this year is 14 hours of work, 8 hours of sleep, 1 hour of running, and 1 hour of free time. Sky's the limit on this hour of free time though. I can eat something, call my family, do laundry, or even take a shower.
February 10, 2012
when life gives you lemons you move to the red light district
One night last year after ten pm, one of my flatmates knocked on my door an invited me to come have soup with everyone.
I had just moved into a new apartment building - a former 18th-century brothel that had very recently been turned into awesome studio apartments. There were about fifteen people on my floor and only one of them loved telling jokes about bordellos. She has a blog. You're reading it. We all shared a toilet and I only walked in on someone once all year. And we each had a little kitchen in our room, but there was a communal kitchen on the floor below us, and every day someone made a dish from their home country and everyone ate dinner together before smoking cigarettes in the unlit spiral stairwell all night while the homeless men did their homeless thing just outside, leaving a fresh coat of Heineken bottles on our doorstep every morning.
Anyway the ceiling of the kitchen was really low and the room was tiny and packed and the soup that night was from Brazil. It had olives, chicken wings, and giant chunks of lemon in it. Nothing else.
After everyone had asked me if I liked Johnny Cash and told me they had a friend who lived in New York, things died down, and I looked around at us, all eating our soup. We were all from different countries, all wearing crazy clothes, all speaking horrible French with wild accents, all avoiding squirming when we bit into a chunk of lemon and we were all laughing together.
Like the cheesiest and worst tv show in the world.
But then I thought back on roommates I've had that would have made really great tv. As you read this filler sentence, imagine them. And I thought, sometimes the best television material makes the worst roommates. And I think the opposite is also true.
I had just moved into a new apartment building - a former 18th-century brothel that had very recently been turned into awesome studio apartments. There were about fifteen people on my floor and only one of them loved telling jokes about bordellos. She has a blog. You're reading it. We all shared a toilet and I only walked in on someone once all year. And we each had a little kitchen in our room, but there was a communal kitchen on the floor below us, and every day someone made a dish from their home country and everyone ate dinner together before smoking cigarettes in the unlit spiral stairwell all night while the homeless men did their homeless thing just outside, leaving a fresh coat of Heineken bottles on our doorstep every morning.
Anyway the ceiling of the kitchen was really low and the room was tiny and packed and the soup that night was from Brazil. It had olives, chicken wings, and giant chunks of lemon in it. Nothing else.
After everyone had asked me if I liked Johnny Cash and told me they had a friend who lived in New York, things died down, and I looked around at us, all eating our soup. We were all from different countries, all wearing crazy clothes, all speaking horrible French with wild accents, all avoiding squirming when we bit into a chunk of lemon and we were all laughing together.
Like the cheesiest and worst tv show in the world.
But then I thought back on roommates I've had that would have made really great tv. As you read this filler sentence, imagine them. And I thought, sometimes the best television material makes the worst roommates. And I think the opposite is also true.
February 7, 2012
My thoughts while eating dinner with you.
Ha! This piece of chicken looks like a fetus! I've got to show this- wait. Is that dinnertime conversation? Probably not.
In one country they do eat chicken fetuses, in eggs. Can I mention that out loud? No, I can't. That makes people really sick even when they're not eating.
Hmmm... I wonder what the weirdest thing everyone at this table has thrown up is? Those will be some interesting stories. And it doesn't involve scabs, death, periods, or feces, or vom- ah. It does involve vomit. As a pretty central theme actually. Not dinnertime conversation.
Man, butter smells the same as urine to me. I bet everyone agrees with that. Wait, urine. Not dinnertime conversation.
That girl over there looks like my friend who had an ingrown - curses, that won't work at all.
I wonder if anyone's ever died at this restaurant.
Woah, what if this sauce were blood instead of cranberry?
Farts.
In one country they do eat chicken fetuses, in eggs. Can I mention that out loud? No, I can't. That makes people really sick even when they're not eating.
Hmmm... I wonder what the weirdest thing everyone at this table has thrown up is? Those will be some interesting stories. And it doesn't involve scabs, death, periods, or feces, or vom- ah. It does involve vomit. As a pretty central theme actually. Not dinnertime conversation.
Man, butter smells the same as urine to me. I bet everyone agrees with that. Wait, urine. Not dinnertime conversation.
That girl over there looks like my friend who had an ingrown - curses, that won't work at all.
I wonder if anyone's ever died at this restaurant.
Woah, what if this sauce were blood instead of cranberry?
Farts.
February 5, 2012
Have you listened to this song?
Have you listened to it yet today? This morning? Are you listening to it RIGHT THIS MINUTE?
So am I, always.
So am I, always.
"Tell me everything about California."
The first words I heard when I answered a phone call from my sister yesterday morning.
She's never wasted time with "Hello."
I told her that it's sunny every day and that I live right by the beach and that sometimes I get free hamburgers, because I want her to know that I'm a rock star and my life is amazing.
Here's the only thing California's missing:
She's never wasted time with "Hello."
I told her that it's sunny every day and that I live right by the beach and that sometimes I get free hamburgers, because I want her to know that I'm a rock star and my life is amazing.
Here's the only thing California's missing:
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