Day 2: The Blood Thickens

"Ah!"

"Time to wake up, you're restricted from water starting now, go to the bathroom if you need to."

"Uh...OK."

My day started with a flashlight shining in my face at 6am. Despite the fact that I was a little groggy, I still managed to comprehend what was said. They* took away my water bottle and the hustle and bustle began.

Around 7, 10 or so coordinators suddenly appeared in the room and began frantically prepping for the day. Needles were pulled out, gloves were put on, I was asked, "Have you had any changes in your health?" approximately 700 times, and then the IV's began.

Now, I've never had a really big deal with watching needles or putting them in (Not that I do that often or ever.), but I do have an issue with a piece of metal sitting around in my arm for extended periods of time.

"There's going to be a pinch--" the girl said, as she poked the first needle in my left arm.

No big deal. Apparently I just had to sit there for another hour while they coordinated all the medications and doses and doctor jargon. Then came the time for the study to actually begin.

"Have you had any changes in your health?"

No, again.

"OK, you're going to sit up suddenly, swallow this dose, drink this small water bottle, and then IMMEDIATELY LIE BACK DOWN."

They said this part pretty seriously, so I just nodded because you don't make someone with a needle in their hand upset.

"Five...four...three...two...one...Go!"

I swallowed the dose as quickly as I could (Because I'm a champ at races and I WILL beat everyone else in this study.) and then downed the water bottle and laid back down. Another girl came around my shoulder to draw blood out of the IV that had been prepped.

"...Nothing is coming out."

What?

"We need to do another IV. Now."

Since this was all a timed operation, they needed to quickly draw blood out of my other arm. The girl quickly grabbed another IV set and went to work.

"I don't meant to rush you, but you have 30 seconds." another girl told her. I started to feel like they were defusing a bomb, and I was the bomb--especially since everyone else's arms seemed to generously be giving up their blood. What's the deal arms? Why the sudden stage fright?

"Small poke..." she said, while I could see her brow furrow as she mentally counted down the clock. I actually applauded that she was able to get in as quickly as she did (Not that I doubted her, but if I was in that position, I totally would have just stabbed and said, "That's what you get for having thick ass blood.")

"...Shoot."

I could see the tiny dribble into the vial as my arm refused to give up blood. I did congratulate my body on its ability to recognize when it should be clotting, or seizing up, but now was not the time! Cooperate, goddammit!

I could see that she just wanted to shake my arm and scream, "GIVE ME THE BLOOD." but she retained her composure rather well. Instead, she just reached for a single needle, stabbed it into my arm, drew the blood, and told me the IV would work later.

Over the next few hours, people hovered over me ("Have you had any changes in your health?"), prodding me with more needles (and eventually removing the IV in my left arm that was there for backup "just in case."), measuring my temperature, and writing in their little books. It made me feel kind of special to have so many people fawning over me making sure that I hadn't passed out and died.

Over and over, the process continued with another coordinator. They would come up to my janky arm, try and get a blood flow, slap my arm around a bit, and eventually be relieved that they got enough out to call it good. I was silently cursing my slow blood flow since these moments usually pushed the IV around a bit. It's like in the "Mummy" movie franchise where the monster scarabs crawl around some antagonists skin until they become a skeleton...except way less disgusting and seemingly more blood** (because I guess I drip a little bit).

The time passed, the routine continued, I wheeled my heart monitor to the bathroom like an invalid, my arm continued to be defiant, and then eventually it all came out. No more needles, no more blood, and they gave me a big ass lunch as some sort of consolation.

"Look at that, you aced your blood pressure test." One girl said, as she took off my blood pressure cuff.

I know, my heart studied blood pressure at SUU.

The second IV that "worked." I'm a trooper, as the workers here told me.
I assume that just means difficult.

*I found out today that I'm supposed to call them coordinators. Not nurses or doctors or scientists or whatever. That really just sounds like they're planning a fancy party in here.
**Riddle me this: Why don't those people bleed while the bugs are eating them? It's probably the magic of a PG-13 rating, but come ooooooooooooon. I want there to be some acknowledgement of actual human anatomy. If I wanted to see that blatantly disregarded, I'd watch Grey's Anatomy.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Boring

I think I just hyper-extended my shoulder. Is that a thing? Or is that only a thing with your elbow? Either way, I think I hyper-extended my shoulder reaching for my chapstick under my bed. Of course, I refuse to carry around my chapstick and it's one of those egg-shaped chapsticks that just roll away when you reach for them because my life is meant to be endless suffering.

So now I'm sitting here with my shoulder hyper-extended (extound?) and figuring out what to do left to entertain myself today.

This morning around 9am, I checked myself into a medical research facility. I'm sure your first thought might be something along the lines of, "Ryan, you're going to be coming out of there an octopus monster...with a gimp." or, "You know those places are only for crack heads and junkies, right?" Well, if that's how you feel, you could be right in those things--but that didn't stop me because I'm tougher than a pioneer with dysentary.

A few months ago I was perusing the newspaper while sipping my coffee when I stumbled upon an ad looking for participants for medical research. It featured a pleasant looking girl in her mid 20's laughing (probably to some medically related joke like, "Do you know what I find humerus? Your funny bone!") and staring off into the distance picturing how much better her life would be if she joined this medical study. Damn, I really want to be that girl, but me and with my hair and teeth because I have some great teeth (and momma wants a new pair of shoes). So I went about making my way to get signed up for any study that was available.

It took a bit of time, but eventually I was able to get screened (blood drawn, urine sample, EEG, the works) and told to show up at 9am on a Monday morning.

So there I was. Bright and early, dressed in my comfy clothes, ready to get experimented upon. Armed with my phone, a few books, a laptop loaded with movies, and...charisma? I really wasn't exactly sure how to emotionally prepare for this and so far I've gotten that the general feeling is slight indifference.

I walked into the doors and was quickly ushered into a room where they proceeded to search my belongings (Because who knows, maybe I decided to bring my cat with me. Or worse, contraband food!) and hand me a pair of scrubs to change into.

"What's your size? Extra Large?"

"Yeah, he's probably an extra large," chimed in another worker.*

"Well, I usually do a la--,"

"Here's an XL, go get changed in the bathroom please.

"Ok..."

I cinched up those pants real tight, but couldn't avoid the balloon that I am now wearing for bottoms. Thankfully, I'm not doing a lot of moving and no one really cares too much about what you're wearing here, since, surprise! They're all wearing the same thing.

"Ok, now go pee in this cup."

After a quick trip to the bathroom, I proceeded to lay on the bed given to me in the room with every other study participant.

"Well, we look good for today."

Huh?

That was it. That was the first day. It wasn't even 10am and I was done for the day. Well, it looked like the point where I just resign myself to die.

Things I did to occupy myself for the next twelve hours"

-Incorrectly type in the wifi password to my laptop for two hours and taking an angry nap, only to wake up and realize I had just switched two characters.

-Googled Carrie Bradshaw's pink Oscar de la Renta dress to see if I could find one to buy for some reason.

-Rewatching Bojack Horseman Season 1 on Netflix.

-Falling asleep and having to rewatch episodes of Bojack Horseman.

-Texting all of my friends how bored I was to see who would respond first (No one did for a few hours.)

-Seeing how long I could hold my pee.

-Watching the other participants to see if they ever left their beds (I don't think they move. I think they might be dead. This is probably purgatory.)**

-Finishing one of the books I brought (I only brought 3. This is day 1 of 5.).

-Googling 'Octupus Monster.'

-Attempting to braid my hair.

-Subsequently getting angry that I don't have to ability to braid my own hair.

-Wondering if my cat thinks I'm dead and how long he will mourn me.

-Probably only a day. Because he's a cat.

-Rediscovering that Goldfish crackers are still good.

I took her advice. I binge watched A show.

-Combing my hair with my fingers.

-Wondering if I get to keep the water bottle they gave me. Especially since I smudged all my initials upon first grabbing it.

-Scrolling through blogs just to read the ignorant comments.

-Deciding not to comment back because you know that those people will find you and try and cut off your scalp in your sleep.

-Reaching for my chapstick  under my bed and hyper-extending my shoulder***

-So here we are now. Twelve hours later. Nearing the end of Day 1. Send supplies please.


*Yeah, I'm still not really sure what to classify these people. Nurses? Scientists? Experimenters? Madmen? No, then they just sound like advertising moguls in the 60's. I wonder how they'll feel if I just call them 'Pap.'
**I have a weird anxiety about walking around since no one else is. Am I supposed to walk around? Am I supposed to resign myself to my bed and the floor is lava? Will the nurses come and tackle me if I get too far away from my cot? I'd rather not risk it.
***I just realized that I never explained why my chapstick was under my bed in the first place. It's not like it rolled there on its own, I put it there in a bin. I forgot to mention that all of my belongings are sitting in a large plastic bin underneath my bed so I have to reach under there any time I want to moisturize my supple lips or grab a book like some kind of prisoner...who is totally here on their own volition.

Juice and China Poops

I spent almost the entirety of yesterday night in a small, crowded booth, trying to pander my wares to any passerby who happened upon us at the park.

"Hi! Want a juice?"

"Well hello there! Juice for your troubles?"

"...please, buy some of this shit.'

Hey, a jobs a job...right?

It had become yet another day where I had mild fatigue from working from dawn until dusk* and had made it a habit of forgetting to ear any proper meals. This usually results in me drinking copious amounts of coffee and drinking whatever leftover juice I can get. Newsflash: a diuretic mixed with a blast of fiber doesn't bode well for your insides. It actually bodes ill. But not, like, black plague ill.

When the night finally ended, I was able to finally relieve myself since 1) I will avoid using a public port-o-potty at all costs, and 2) I can do what I want even if it probably hurts my insides slowly. This was a bittersweet feeling as the aforementioned coffee and juice had done their work and basically resigned me to the porcelain throne for a bit. In that moment, I had a slight moment of deja vu upon trying to squat over a Chinese hole in the floor in an establishment that struggled to call it self a bar.

Let's go back to Beijing. I had decided to do a little bit of traveling with my time in China and had a few short days in Beijing with my friends, and the rest I wandered around by myself .** The first night was a slight celebration as none of us had been on vacation for awhile and we found the best comfort food we could think of: Mexican cuisine.

For a place that was smack dab in the middle of a Chinese city, I was actually impressed by my burrito and nachos that showed up on my plate. Like a true American, I scarfed everything down as fast as I could, while ignoring the fact that the hot sauce on the side was a little hotter than I was used to. But ignoring did the trick, because nothing was going to stand between me and a little slice of home.

After our assorted Tex-Mex, the group of us decided to try and find a place to sit down. We all ended up going into a small building across the street, whose stairs winded up all over the place; each landing a different bar or club. Eventually we settled on one near the third or fourth floor and sat down while we watched some locals play some kind of drinking game involving dice (Note: I actually looked it up and the game is called, "Liar's Dice." You can see how to play if you want.) The game itself was rather tame, other than the other drunk Chinese people everywhere (one of which had decided that he wanted to lift up his shirt and rub his stomach on my friend. I don't think that was her favorite part.) That was, until my stomach began to rumble.

No, no, no, no, no...

Now really wasn't the time for this. I had only gotten sick a handful of times during my stay in Asia and I had considered myself lucky since the public toilet situation was...messy (Chinese restrooms were never kept up and were usually covered in all kinds of human garbage. I usually tried to resign to holding it wherever I went, but the truth of the matter is, if I wanted to go, I could have in the street like a lot of people decided to. Mostly drunk men and babies.).

I was petrified. I had always applauded by iron bowels and their ability to hold it, but this time the flood gates were open and I needed to prepare for the impending torrent. I quietly excused myself from the table and headed to what most resembled a bathroom. I sidled past all the other people waiting around the toilets and walked into a stall, to behold my worst nightmare: the squatter.

Despite being in a relatively "American" part of town, this place still went by Chinese habits of having a flat toilet in the floor that you had to squat over. While I had never mastered the art of the "squat" (Imagine me over a toilet falling back and force while trying not to touch my hands on the floor, but touching my hands on the floor so I didn't fall into the small poop hole. Actually, don't imagine that.), I was really banking on all of my practice to get me through this one, especially since this toilet was covered in lord knows what.***

While I rushed into the stall and quickly relieved myself (while maintaining most of my balance), I glanced up to where I imagined toilet paper would be if there had even been a dispenser. My heart sunk to the bottom of my toes. This was yet another reason I always avoided public restrooms and was always cautioned to bring tissues with me wherever I went. I sat and pondered for a second what I was going to have to do and resolved for one option. With an odd maneuver, I fanagled the underwear I was wearing out of my pants, and used them to finish the job. I hesitated a little as this was a pair I had grown fond of over our time together. They had never shrunk, never bunched, and had always looked relatively new. But I knew what had to be done. I said a silent goodbye and the deed was done. It was like leaving a fallen soldier behind as I walked away from the bathroom; semi-unscathed, but leaving behind a comrade that had done his duty...dutifully.

I wandered back to my table, feeling slightly uncomfortable about what had just occurred and sat down to try and come back to some sense of normalcy. Upon sitting down, I realized something wasn't right. Yup, something had been missed. I continued to sit and participate in the conversation until I couldn't stand it any longer and politely excused myself once again. Things might have actually been fine, but my anxiety of having any kind of..stench wafting up around me was too unbearable.

Knowing that there wasn't any kind of wiping material  in the bathroom, I decided I needed a new strategy. I couldn't let anyone I was with know what was happening, so I pretended to head to the bathroom, only to double back and leave the bar when I was sure no one was looking. As I walked out the door, I surveyed my options quickly: this building was only full of other bars, and one of them was bound to have...something. I walked into the bar across the landing and, as luck would have it, there was an empty table with a giant pile of napkins. It was as if the light shining down on them was a beacon from heaven itself, beckoning me to take them.

Before anyone there knew what was going on, I snatched as many as I could carry and headed back into the other bar where I fast-walked past our table and straight into the bathroom section.

Never had I felt such sweet relief.

I was able to leave my discarded napkins aside and walk out of the small stall with my head held high, my pants a normal scent, and my dignity still slightly intact. My undergarment comrade had paid the price for my Mexican food-induced negligence, but I would remember his sacrifice in times to come. It was a small price to pay for a possible brown blemish on my spotless record.




*I hesitate to say dusk since there was no dusk about it. The sun had set long before I was done working and had probably taken an ambien and was about to sleepwalk in on their roommate and pee in their hamper. Or something like that.
**I realize in hindsight that I totally could have been murdered, killed, body snatched, organ stealed(?), but at the time I really didn't think about it. But hey, I survived, right?
***You know exactly what.

Is This Parenthood?

I find myself yelling a lot in my house. It's not that anything particularly exciting is happening, but I keep having to break up pointless fights.

"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" while simultaneously slamming a chair against the ground is a tactic that I find myself frequently using.

Basically the cats are revolting.

Who knows, it could be that time in a cat's life where it decides to anxious, excited, rebellious, and downright grumpy all the time right before it goes off to cat college. Unfortunately, this manifests itself by having countless cat fights behind the washer, cats playing "Kill Bill" (the last scene in Vol. 1) on my bed at night, and attacking a pair of socks with the ferocity of a thousand rottweilers chasing after...a ball? (What do dogs chase these days? Cars? A cell phone plan with the best coverage? They wanted you to go to Jared's?)

It has gotten a little exhausting. Every time that I have to put my foot down (quite literally), a pang of guilt comes over me for yelling at these small creatures. I assume they only look to me as a food dispensary and occasional massage chair, but I also hope that they see me as some sort of parental figure that they can attempt to love.

All these things they continue to do to me, I constantly wonder if I acted in a similar manner throughout puberty.

"I told you you couldn't borrow my sweater!" "Well it looks better on me, anyways!"

Destroyed clothing? There was the time I let my sisters tie strings to all the tags in my clothes and we saw if we could rip them out by running away very fast. I think I just ended up with minor whiplash, though.

Made a fuss about wanting more food? Since I possess opposable thumbs, I generally just did a lot of eating on my own. So the time that you kept finding pieces of pizza with only a couple bites taken out of them, that was me, Mom. Sorry.

Fought with my siblings? My brother kicked me down the stairs once. In his defense, I must have been being obnoxious in some manner. Probably how I must have been obnoxious when he rolled me down the stairs in a sleeping bag, ninja kicked me into the couch, sat on top of me, tied me up in the closet...(I'm starting to see a pattern here...)

Obviously with my generalized analysis of my childhood, I can now justly say that I feel like a parent just trying to do what's best for the sake of the children.

Even when they decide to do a ninja freak-out for no particular reason and your face gets caught in the crossfire.

I may not be a perfect parent since I don't make them make their beds every day, but I think I'm getting there. Last week, I only yelled at them once for knocking over my flowers. They might have only knocked them over once, but I think that's a goal we can all live with. 

My only hope is that when they grow up and go off to cat business school, or cat law, that they remember me fondly. Or, at least dream about the giant food dish that appeared to them every day.

Because sometimes it's just hard to be mad at that.

Constant breathing

My car recently died. One day it was fine. The next, I tried starting it as usual and it made a noise I could only compare to satan stubbing his toe or finding out that his Netflix had too many users on at the same time. Either way, it was kind of upsetting.

To deal with my car-lessness, I pulled out the old bike that I used while I was in Cedar city. By used, I mean decorated my living room with since I was too afraid to ride around in cedar city traffic*. Now I had to delve into the realm of traffic that had a speed limit above 25 mph. 

The first couple days weren't actually terrible. I would ride to work, around town, the gym, and then home. I was proud that my legs were surprising me with the ability to keep going, but that pride shriveled when I would occasionally stop to walk up the really steep parts of a hill. One hill in particular would be Bitch Hill. 

What is Bitch Hill? The bottom of my street. Since moving, I relocated closer to the mountain which makes my commute anywhere in town a breeze, but coming home is...less breezy. That being said, I named the bottom of my street bitch hill since it starts with a steep incline only comparable to the steepest part of whatever mountain you think is the steepest. 

             What it probably looks like (look at all the happy people!)

                What I see (there are definitely some dead people on that hill. Dead, SAD people)

The first couple of days, I did before-mentioned** strategy of hopping off my bike and walking it along like I was returning it to its lost family. I had no shame as I hadn't seriously rode my bike in...uh, how long has it been? Since I first learned how to ride it? Yeah, probably that. My little walk would help me to rejuvenate so that I could pedal on home on the slightly less steep slope and then pass out of the floor, cursing bitch hill. I decided the other day, though, that I would not be made a bitch that day. I would be bitch free. 

So, I began to pedal up that bitch with the determination of a drag queen at a dress sale. There was no going back (or at least not in my mind because I wouldn't be a quitter for a stupid bitch hill). 

The theme from Chariot of Fire started to play along simultaneously with the Rocky theme song in my head and I realized how much I didn't find either of those songs very inspirational, but I still decided they were appropriate. I can only assume that any passerby within earshot would have to assume a horse was trotting by by the gusts of wind that were escaping from my mouth. Each one louder than the next, I huffed and puffed on with my little bike on the gear that allowed me to pedal forward. 

"Breathe in...breathe out...." I heard in my head. 

"Breathe in...breath out...PSHHHHHHHHHH."

Suddenly, I was back in the yoga class in China taught by an older southern woman named: Constance. 

Constance was the epitome of southern. A drawl that rivaled honey spilling out of that jar you can't quite figure out with the same sweetness in her attitude. A white woman in her 50's, always dressed in yoga pants and a loose t-shirt that swallowed her 5'3 frame (and hid her small paunch), along with a colored bandana (due to her bald scalp that I vaguely remember being cancer related) that changed with the weather. 

Respect was her forefront, and yoga was her bitch. She never enjoyed late-comers, and yelled out commands like a staff sargeant. 

"Breathe in...breathe out...PSHHHHHHH." Her breathes were as calm as a lady in a store screaming about how she should be able to return that sweater even though there was a hole in it. Yes, she may have snagged it on a fence running from some cops and her dog might have used it as a chew toy, but this is obviously bad construction! 

"WARRIOR POSE."

I could still hear my friend Tamara breathing out expletives under her breathe as she assumed warrior one. 

"Hey, I don't want to hear that language in my class!" Nothing got past Constance. 

Along with being a yoga instructor, Constance would also grace us with her knowledge that I will dubb, "Constance medicine." 

"You know, if you rub your big toe, that will help you along with your bowels since everything is connected by the nerves."

"Each breathe is releasing the toxins that are in your liver."

One jem of Constance medicine I was blessed with upon arriving slightly early to class. Constance approached me as I was doing a couple warm up stretches and bent down to talk to me. 

"Since you can't do kegals, you need to flex the small part between your legs to strengthen it up." She said, her drawl inflecting each word with tar. "If you do that," as she went down to a whisper, "it will make sex a whole lot better."

"Oh...thanks." Was all I managed to say. 

Along with her well of wisdom, Constance usually dealt out treats before Namaste. The rules of receiving a treat always included closing your eyes and picturing a serene picture in your mind. Then Constance would walk by, tap your head, wait for you to open your mouth, and pop in some kind of food; usually a grape or small piece of chocolate. 

I began looking forward to rubbing my toe twice a week and bending my body into poses unbeknownst to me, while a southern drill sargeant reminded me to get that breath out. Each lesson I was becoming a regular subscriber of the Constance journal of yoga medicine. Then one week, yoga was cancelled. It stayed cancelled week after week with no word from Constance. 

I later learned from my friend Tamara that Constance had gone back to visit America, but was never allowed back into the country of China. That, or she didn't want to come back; I never actually figured out which in the end. 

------------------------------------------------

I huffed out another breathe and took a slow pedal up bitch hill and heard those familiar words in my ear:

"Breathe...PSHHHHHHH."

Just keep breathing. Then you can get home and rub all the toxins out of your foot. Or was it stretch the good air into your butt? Either way, I deserved a fucking grape. 

*While not heavy, traffic in the Cedes was what we call, "I'm not used to seeing a biker so I'll probably hit you." And cedar is basically one giant hill both ways in the snow with your grandma on your back telling you now in her day it was two hills with fire raining from the sky.
**Post edit: I realized that I never before mentioned this strategy. Probably because in my mind I just decided that hopping off my bike had to be the only thing that I could do and thus explaining it at all had no real merit. 

Moving Out

I recently moved out of my old childhood house. Yes, I'm aware all the jokes that can be thrown around for a 20-something who lives in their mom's basement; the recluse who only plays Dungeons and Dragons, the loner who fears sunlight, the post grad who was just too lazy to look around his new city for an apartment.

...Oh wait.

While I won't pretend to be as cool as the first two of these people, I will pretend vouch that moving is hard. When did I ever accumulate so much stuff?! While packing up, the amount of times I said, "I'm definitely going to use this at my new house." could have paid my rent if excuses were nickels. Can they be dollars? Because then I could just buy a house. Or a dog. Or a car that doesn't shake on the freeway.

The bags began to pile up and eventually I realized that this was going to be a two car trip. Maybe more. MORE. As having graduated, I had also graduated into this weird phase of adulthood that meant your life could no longer fit into a station wagon. Gone were the days when I had a suitcase, a couple garbage bags, and a laundry hamper strewn about the insides of my car while my cat frantically ran about the car while simultaneously clawing my face.

In hindsight, I should have put him in a carrier.

That was another dilemma of moving around because what about the children!? 

I had an agreement with my mother that my cat wouldn't live at her house indefinitely and I finally lived up to that promise (Because part of me wasn't so sure because she just loves him sooooooooooooooo much.
"Ryan, when are you taking your cat."
"Uh, I have to go organize socks at a different place now."

 "Ryan, your cat has been here for a couple years now, can you take him away? Because he's annoying."
"Don't lie, you li--,"
 "Nope, nope. No, Absolutely not."

"Now that you're moving out, can you take that dang cat out of this house?"
"But he's going to miss chewing on your couch!").

After the bulk of my essentials were put into my new place, I finally decided to pack up the one living thing that I own and introduce him to his new roommate (Since Beth has a cat as well. We are basically fusing into one old cat lady.) The moment that I pulled out the crate, Kitten knew that something was up. A small chase ensued between me trying to get the cat, the dog trying to get the cat, and the cat trying to crawl into any small space available.

She's not as innocent as she appears. Underneath the fluff is a small psychopath.

Eventually we were able to come to a compromise where I had to fanagle* his limbs into the crate  while I forced the dog outside. We were all a little upset.

Having moved before, I figured that Kitten was going to have an easy adjustment to his new living quarters. He had his poop box, his scratching post, and food bowl. Who knew that suddenly getting laminate floors would cause a meltdown. I imagine, though, that if I woke up and someone had redone my entire house while also adding a new person to the living situation, I would be a little frightened.

"Ryan, get out from under the bed!"

"No! It's safe in here, they can't get us!"

"But there's food and a bathroom out here."

"I can hold it! And there's a random person out there! Who is that!?"

"We've been friends for awhile, why can't you just accept that he's going to be living with us now?"

"MY LIFE IS OVER."

That was basically his reaction.

I've since coaxed him out of his living situation while sporadically adding a couple more things to my pile of, "I'll definitely use this." while never accepting that I can let any article of clothing go (because what if bleach stains and zombie apocalypse and thieves?). As the old house grows emptier, the other one starts to feel less like a mess and more like a home. 

Let's see where we can go from there.

*Fanagle: The act of twisting different limbs or objects in order to fit them into an enclosed space. Also works with trying to fix iPhones, bookshelves, and making cookies. I.e.: insert it into any meaning you find appropriate. 

I'm An Enabler

I usually refrain from every writing about my job (because we all know how touchy the customer service industry is), but this time I thought I would share with you because who needs a job!

Not to mention, I will be fine this time because it's at my separate job and I'm hoping the internet is a dark and deep enough place that most of these thoughts will never see the light of day.

ANYWAYS.

I work at a coffee shop part time which entails me (Surprise!) making coffee and other assorted hot drinks for people. It's actually a very enjoyable job and can we discuss how impossible coffee art is? Super impossible. So far, I've made a smiley face, a "cactus," a teeny tiny leaf, and an abstract painting of a man. At least, I think it was a man...

Every day we have our regulars, who usually drink some form of "bad-ass" coffee*, the people who come in to use our wifi, and the random other people who could use a nice drink. I am the enabler who will give them what they want.

I heard our drive through window ding the other day and opened it to greet a blonde woman, possibly late fifties, who looked like she had seen a better day.

Ryan: Hey! How are you today?

Woman: Oh...not so good. The dentist just gave me some news that wasn't so great.

Ryan: Well...that's not amazing. Uh...what can I get you?

Woman: Well, how much sugar does the soy milk have?

Ryan: *Checking the soy milk nutrition facts* It has...6 grams per serving.

Woman: That's not that bad...Hmmm...Ok, I'll get a soy chai latte with two shots of espresso and caramel sauce.

Ryan: *Slightly taken aback* OK, so that's a soy chai latte with two shots and caramel?

Woman: Yes.

Ryan: OK! Coming right out!




*I like calling it that because it's some variation on the blackest of black coffee that will burn your insides and grow at least 10 hairs on your chest. They are bad-asses.

Chicago

I recently flew out to the windy city for a quick trip to see what it's all about.

Windy? Yes.

Cold? Yes.

Frightening? Slightly.

We arrived into the city slightly late (because 10 is totally late these days) and decided to meet one of our friends on the other side of town at a club. This involved discovering the Venmo metro card system (like a magic debit card!), hopping on a creaky train, and jetting through the cold night. Eventually we made it to the part of town dubbed Boystown (which could totally be the actual name, but who has time to look up those things?), were out for a little bit, and headed back to our hotel.

Let me just preface by saying that upon public transport, I generally don't find it necessary to talk to people. Ever. Never ever.

Place: Chicago subway car.
Crowd: Sleepy people, old people, homeless-looking old people, homeless-looking sleepy people. Please choose to reorganize that in any order you with and feel free to add more adjectives. It's like I built ad libs right into this post! Now it's a game and literature!*

Apparently, the man across from us decided that this was a fine time to strike up a conversation.

"Did you guys see the game the other day?"

I had no idea to which game he was referring to, but Jake did somehow. They started chit-chatting back and forth while I sat there mortified because you don't talk to strange subway people, Jake. Maybe it's my small state upbringing, but I swear you don't do that. Jake went on to tell this man about our night and when Boystown was mentioned, the man perked up a little. "Oh, Boystown? Yeah, I was just there the other day, if you guys want, I can..." where he lifted his hand in a DRUG SMOKING MOTION, "hook you up."

"Oh, we're ok, thanks." Jake replied.

"You know, you guys staying in a hotel? Wanna invite me up for a drink?"

NO.

"That's OK, we're just going to go to bed," Jake said politely.

Now I'm picturing this man following us back to our hotel room to touch things on the mini bar** and ruin our lives!

We got off the train and I walked a little quicker than I would have normally.

"Why did you talk to him! He offered us drugs!" For some reason, Jake did not understand that we don't talk to strangers. "Everyone in this town just wants to offer us drugs!" Which was appropriate since we walked past a man who mumbled something under his breath and it was DEFINITELY DRUG RELATED BECAUSE WHAT ELSE COULD IT BE?

I tried not to let our first night be a downer on the rest of the trip, so I didn't base this city on a couple hours of drugs and debauchery.

The rest of the city proved to be a little more to my taste. We walked up and down Michigan Ave. looking at the shops, ate deep dish pizza (because holy Hannah Montanna, that is a lot of cheese. They are serious when they say deep. Like, deeper than your soul and all your friends souls.), saw the pier and rode the ferris wheel, went out to a couple clubs, saw and took pictures in front of the ever so magical shiny bean, and spent time with our friends at a comedy festival.

What comedy festival? I can't recall the exact name, but apparently it is one of the biggest gatherings of comedy troups (groups? troupes? gaggles? Eh.) in the country. We arrived at the theatre and our friend told us that we were going to see the group named Fuct. Yes, fuct. F-U-C-T. Like duct tape, but fuct tape.

I walked into the theater expecting SNL-like comedy sketches and waited to be pleasantly entertained as the lights dimmer around me in the blackbox. Next thing I know, one of the girls in the sketch re-enacting a man's dream has her shirt off. I glanced around and realized I wasn't the only one slightly surprised. Boobs. Just...boobs. The rest of the show continued in a similar fashion, one man trying to eat a doughnut off his junk, another where two men dick jousted over a girl in the audience, and lastly, a man lighting his dick on fire.

"What. Is. This. Show." I managed to get out. All I could think about was how these people had actual thought this up and has to rehearse it with one another. They had to see each other naked A LOT. And dangerously. With fire. FIRE. What was this city?

Our next show had 100% less nudity, but included 100% less talking as well. The men pantomimed all their actions and at one point asked me to move my seat. I, not being one for audience participation (This isn't dinner theater!), just shook my head. They eventually got me to move one seat, but the rest of the night all I heard about was how I had given these men a death glare. Some people are just so dramatic.

We ended the trip with a quick stop to Wrigley's Field, finally finishing off our deep dish pizza (because it took about 3 days to eat it), and regular airport drama.

Us: I'm here for my flight:
Flight people: Your flight has been delayed...4 hours.
Us: No one mentioned that.
Flight people: Here is airport money. Go be happy now.

It wasn't the end of the world (and who can be mad that we had airport money?), but it made our final hours a little frustrating. In the end, we still made our flight back to our salty lake where there were 100% more clothes people and way less dicks on fire.

But who really knows what is happening at your local theater down the street.





*Calling this literature is probably a great overstatement. Kind of like saying you're a "photographer," when you just have 150 followers on Instagram.

**I accidentally lifted something on the mini bar to just look at it and Jake grabbed it and threw it back down like it was that statue in Indiana Jones and we were about to be crumbled by some giant boulder. Apparently now they magnetize it and if you and if you lift it, THEY CHARGE YOU. What is this madness? I just wanted to read the ingredients!

Time to Boil Some Chicken

I've tried to get on this health kick for the ten millionth time in my life. Usually these diets end with me sitting on the floor twitching while I reach for a bag of sun chips and the powder from a doughnut laces my mouth. Then it ends with me ending up at a weird party and getting paid to eat doughnuts and possibly injecting jelly straight into my veins where I end up getting my arm amputated.

...or that could have been someone else.

The point is, my stupid sweet tooth really just needs to be ripped out of my mouth to motivate me to eat "better." (Since it's not like I'm scarfing down ten McBetes every day, mostly I just cave to sugar)

I even updated Beth the other day while I was waiting for some chicken to boil so that I didn't just shove Junior Mints into my mouth. Because a diet isn't a diet unless everyone knows about it. 

10:18: I'm waiting for my chicken to boil

10:19: I found some cake

10:19: I found whipped cream

10:20: I ate them both together

10:20: Don't worry, I looked at an apple

10:21: I'm balancing whipped cream on a fork

10:21: I'm balancing whipped cream and cake in my stomach

10:21: Whipped cream is just as good out of the container

Does anyone know how to locate your sweet tooth/cover chicken in chocolate?

The Hottest of Pots

Last night I drove down to Provo to have dinner. I knew that we were having dinner, but I didn't really knew where until I was about halfway down when I got the text for the address:

Four Seasons Hot Pot and Dumplings.

A wave of nostalgia hit me as I prepared my colon for the fiery poops that would surely ensue.

For those of you who don't know, hot pot is a Chinese cooking method in which they basically leave a giant pot of boiling broth on the table into which you dump all of the things you want to cook (beef, chicken, unidentifiable meat, veggies, unidentifiable veggies, noodles, etc.). You can usually also decide to have the pot divided in half, in which half is a regular broth, and the other half is a broth frothing with foreign spices glowing bright red that begin to eat away at the pot itself. Since it's so hard to decide which, you get to have both (Which means you also get to decide which kind of poop you'll have later. JUST KIDDING. Because you only get fire poops). *

Some really fancy hot pots have people that come out and do the noodle dance for you. No, not the PB&J otter noodle dance, but where they swing a giant noodle through the air to stretch it out and then subsequently throw it into your pot (Here if one if you want to see it). It's a frightening process because sometimes they pretend to try and hit you in the face. 

I walked into the restaurant and it was like a little piece of China had been plucked away from the homeland. Or, you know, a Chinese family opened a restaurant in the middle of a large college city. It was humid and smelled like, well, every restaurant in China (which can best be described as spicy with a hint of raw meat). There was the familiar bar of foods: raw meatballs, raw shrimp, raw...blocks of white stuff--you know, all the essentials. I scooped up what I wanted and plopped it into the bubbling pot.

Since the four of us at the table had all been to China at one point or another, we started to play the, "Do you remember when...?" game. 

"Do you remember when mushrooms grew in our bathroom?"

"Do you remember when that taxi driver tried to charge us 100 quay to go two blocks?"

"Do you remember when wouldn't pay for our internet for days and decided that indoor heating wasn't totally essential?"

Oh, I remembered. While a lot of things didn't happen to me personally, usually some kind of variation did. Part of me expected that after the dinner ended, I would hop onto a bus filled to the doors with people and a baby peeing on the floor.

"Do you remember when you ate a popsicle that had red beans inside it?"

It was funny; while most of the memories were seemingly negative things (like a man throwing up on me), they were somehow slightly endearing in my mind. They were those little gems of my life that I had experienced in a foreign place that most people don't understand unless you've lived there.

"Do  you remember the skinned animal faces at walmart?"

While I had a lot of hard times in China, I had a lot good times too. I saw amazing sights and met some of the kindest people. Mostly I learned how to try and laugh at a situation that looked pretty grim and shitty. There were days when I putting a smile on my face as I walked out the apartment building into the smog and past the smells of the sewer coming from who knows where, was all that got me through the day. Now I get to look back at that accomplishment.

"Do you remember when our toilet spit up sewage into our apartment?"

Out meal ended about the same time a new couple had entered the restaurant and were preparing to ready their ingredients in the pot, looking a little confused.

"Just dump it all in." I leaned over and told them. 

They followed my instructions only to be chastised by our Chinese host. He descended upon them telling them that certain items should go in first and what goes where and blah blah blah. I tried not to make any more eye contact with them seeing as how their first Chinese experience was ruined and I was the culprit. 

"Do you remember when you ruined that couple's dinner?" 

I do. Really I just wanted to pat them on the back and reassure them that this was the authentic experience. Taking advice from a stranger, dumping everything in, and hoping for the best.

No, really, just have a try. Have a try.

*If you're wondering where the dumplings are in this story, I was too. We asked our host where the dumplings were (since they were so clearly explained in the SIGN OF THE RESTAURANT) and he informed us that his aunt had moved back to China and she was the one who made the dumplings. Apparently, she had left no recipe, taught no one else, and had decided not to change the sign.

The Holy Cheesus Be Proud

I've always believed in true friendships. Usually, I find that they revolve around some kind of dark humor, slight sacrilege, and a love for food. Beth and I have a strange bond, especially when it comes to our cheesus.

The holy cheesus watch over us and the marinara be proud.

Cheesus crust, I can feel hell opening up right now.

Swimming and the Good Wife

I've recently become a bit obsessed with The Good Wife, the lawyer show about the wife of a disgraced politician. That's seriously oversimplifying everything, but you can Google everything and spoil it for yourself.

Now, when I say obsessed, I mean it's a little bit overboard on the amount of time I spend thinking about this show. Primarily, I try to identify with the main character of the show, Alicia Florrick.

I like to identify Alicia as an independently strong woman. She sticks up for herself, doesn't take crap, knows when it's OK to have a few too many glasses of wine, and make fun of herself. A little strangely, I relate in a lot of ways, because I'm obviously a Chicagoan housewife turned kick-ass lawyer due to a public indiscretion with my husband. WE'RE JUST THE SAME, OK.

Well, mostly I've tried to emulate Good Wife status when I'm down in the dumps. Good Wife spent a good chunk of her life putting her lawyer-ness on hold to raise her children. While she definitely never regretted setting aside the law for her family, it seemed like there was something missing from her life. Then due to unexpected circumstances, she found that missing piece and her life was then just a show about how great being a lawyer is and how she only wins her cases and she never gets wrinkles. HA, if only (except for the part about the winkles). 

Good Wife finds that once thrust back into being a lawyer, her life is hard in a completely new way. She has to juggle home and work life, maintain great hair and outfits. and be confronted with moral dilemmas on a daily basis. While her name implies that she is nothing but good, Good Wife also finds herself in sticky situations because she occasionally decides to be--NOT SO GOOD. 

But that's what I like about her. While I want to heroine-ize her*, I see her being a person. Good wife messes up. I mess up. Good wife overcomes obstacles. I overcome obstacles. I think you guys might have missed it, but we are basically the same.

I recently found myself in a bit of a rut. I filled this rut with countless hours of The Good Wife, pizza, and trying on my entire closet at late hours of the night. Everything was feeling a little sluggish, so I decided to take mental inventory of my life. I was exercising, working, seeing the people I cared about, so what was the issue? What would Good Wife do?

While it was easy for me to look into Alicia's life as to what she should do (Run for the State's Attorney's-ship, duh!) because I'm the omnipotent one in this situation, it was a little more difficult to look at myself. In fact, it was damn frustrating.

I was doing all the things I deemed correct on my checklist:

Working: Check
Eating: Check
Personal Fulfillment: ...Crap

I wasn't exactly sure what that even meant to myself at this point, which was a strange feeling. I wasn't unhappy, but I wasn't exactly sure how to fix the feeling that lingering feeling. What would Good Wife do? So, I took my power stance, put on my metaphorical power suit, and stepped out the metaphorical door and into my metaphorical courtroom. For me, I determined I needed to start swimming again.


Swimming for me had always been a release. It was really the first (and only) sport that I excelled at and taught me the meaning of discipline and hard work, not to mention that weird friend bond you have with your teammates. So I took my power stance, put on my literal swimming suit, stepped out the locker room door and into my real life swimming pool.

I AM GOOD WIFE, HEAR ME SWIM.

First thoughts upon jumping in:

"Fuck, it's cold."

"Why did I used to enjoy this?"

"If I suck in more water, I can clear out my sinuses."

"If I suck in more water, I won't have sinuses."

"What is Michael Phelps?! A wizard?!"

"I'm going to pretend to go my normal speed, but I'm actually racing you, the guy next to me."

"OK, I still enjoy this."

I told myself I was Alicia at this point. While still being pretty rusty, I just needed to get my feet off the ground and jump into the deep end (literally, two points for puns). This wasn't going to be easy, but giving up would be more disappointing to myself than getting the engine going again. Not to mention the giant wave of nostalgia that I was getting. The general feeling of weightlessness, the taste of chlorine (yes, it tastes strangely good, OK?), and the tightness of your lungs until you get that breath of fresh air; it was intoxicating.

The day my cap broke was the end of an era for past Ryan. Poor cappie had been around for years and seen me through quite a lot, but it was time for something new...to squeeze the life out of my head.

So I've continued this for a bit. Keeping my swim gear in my car in case of emergency (the great flood, you know?!) and actually utilizing my gym's amenities. Although the routine doesn't change a lot, it's been weirdly relieving to add this to my days.

Now I'm one step closer to Good Wife status...but substitute an advanced law degree with a Bachelor's from Southern Utah University.

*That means I want to shoot her into my veins.