tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17481535976009104752024-03-05T04:29:55.870-08:00Well, I'm Not Dead YetTaking life one almond at a time.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.comBlogger120125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-65718812537329582252015-11-17T22:03:00.000-08:002015-11-17T22:03:58.118-08:00Day 2: The Blood Thickens"Ah!"<br />
<br />
"Time to wake up, you're restricted from water starting now, go to the bathroom if you need to."<br />
<br />
"Uh...OK."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"There's going to be a pinch--" the girl said, as she poked the first needle in my left arm.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Have you had any changes in your health?"<br />
<br />
No, again.<br />
<br />
"OK, you're going to sit up suddenly, swallow this dose, drink this small water bottle, and then IMMEDIATELY LIE BACK DOWN."<br />
<br />
They said this part pretty seriously, so I just nodded because you don't make someone with a needle in their hand upset.<br />
<br />
"Five...four...three...two...one...Go!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"...Nothing is coming out."<br />
<br />
What?<br />
<br />
"We need to do another IV. Now."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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?<br />
<br />
"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.")<br />
<br />
"...Shoot."<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Look at that, you aced your blood pressure test." One girl said, as she took off my blood pressure cuff.<br />
<br />
I know, my heart studied blood pressure at SUU.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPQqwrw3h3sLC4N3KfJgF5CJSov6hCgIdZeHClVfmkmrDtMMmG0asBTEB0MzC9nJv2CwIbmEeKiMSBLSuZNGCEJ48SUCXAAAT-MmJTiWoLJG53DDLtyqxdUHjOsYwGLpvpj52I3Gbkqtt/s1600/IMG_0904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPQqwrw3h3sLC4N3KfJgF5CJSov6hCgIdZeHClVfmkmrDtMMmG0asBTEB0MzC9nJv2CwIbmEeKiMSBLSuZNGCEJ48SUCXAAAT-MmJTiWoLJG53DDLtyqxdUHjOsYwGLpvpj52I3Gbkqtt/s320/IMG_0904.JPG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The second IV that "worked." I'm a trooper, as the workers here told me.<br />I assume that just means difficult.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
*I found out today that I'm supposed to call them <i>coordinators</i>. Not nurses or doctors or scientists or whatever. That really just sounds like they're planning a fancy party in here.<br />
**Riddle me this: Why <i>don't</i> those people bleed while the bugs are eating them? It's probably the magic of a PG-13 rating, but come <i>ooooooooooooon</i>. 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.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-60777117747558097792015-11-16T20:34:00.001-08:002015-11-16T20:34:45.988-08:00Dr. Jekyll and Mr. BoringI 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.<br />
<br />
So now I'm sitting here with my shoulder hyper-extended (extound?) and figuring out what to do left to entertain myself today.<br />
<br />
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--<i>but that didn't stop me because I'm tougher than a pioneer with dysentary</i>.<br />
<br />
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. <i>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).</i> So I went about making my way to get signed up for any study that was available.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"What's your size? Extra Large?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, he's probably an extra large," chimed in another worker.*<br />
<br />
"Well, I usually do a la--,"<br />
<br />
"Here's an XL, go get changed in the bathroom please.<br />
<br />
"Ok..."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Ok, now go pee in this cup."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Well, we look good for today."<br />
<br />
<i>Huh?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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.<br />
<br />
Things I did to occupy myself for the next twelve hours"<br />
<br />
-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.<br />
<br />
-Googled Carrie Bradshaw's pink Oscar de la Renta dress to see if I could find one to buy <i>for some reason.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
-Rewatching Bojack Horseman Season 1 on Netflix.<br />
<br />
-Falling asleep and having to rewatch episodes of Bojack Horseman.<br />
<br />
-Texting all of my friends how bored I was to see who would respond first (No one did for a few hours.)<br />
<br />
-Seeing how long I could hold my pee.<br />
<br />
-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.)**<br />
<br />
-Finishing one of the books I brought (I only brought 3. This is day 1 of 5.).<br />
<br />
-Googling 'Octupus Monster.'<br />
<br />
-Attempting to braid my hair.<br />
<br />
-Subsequently getting angry that I don't have to ability to braid my own hair.<br />
<br />
-Wondering if my cat thinks I'm dead and how long he will mourn me.<br />
<br />
-Probably only a day. Because he's a cat.<br />
<br />
-Rediscovering that Goldfish crackers are still good.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9Uqbp4XAb2phSRvGxxzI4NJQPwzMj2cQiSu-v0lsKgF6Y6GhctKyDAb-WZYbl0S1fZnyhFenNNKtZaNWIfU_pj9fGEvc5JyFGwnnmwr-S4h9-SVSzRO6Y4_8WwipHKUd6_qq-0dI5PwL/s1600/IMG_0901.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9Uqbp4XAb2phSRvGxxzI4NJQPwzMj2cQiSu-v0lsKgF6Y6GhctKyDAb-WZYbl0S1fZnyhFenNNKtZaNWIfU_pj9fGEvc5JyFGwnnmwr-S4h9-SVSzRO6Y4_8WwipHKUd6_qq-0dI5PwL/s320/IMG_0901.PNG" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I took her advice. I binge watched <i>A</i> show.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
-Combing my hair with my fingers.<br />
<br />
-Wondering if I get to keep the water bottle they gave me. Especially since I smudged all my initials upon first grabbing it.<br />
<br />
-Scrolling through blogs just to read the ignorant comments.<br />
<br />
-Deciding not to comment back because you know that those people will find you and try and cut off your scalp in your sleep.<br />
<br />
-Reaching for my chapstick under my bed and hyper-extending my shoulder***<br />
<br />
-So here we are now. Twelve hours later. Nearing the end of Day 1. Send supplies please.<br />
<br />
<br />
*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.'<br />
**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.<br />
***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 <i>like some kind of prisoner</i>...who is totally here on their own volition.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-34227474311005457052015-08-07T23:14:00.000-07:002015-08-07T23:14:05.502-07:00Juice and China PoopsI 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.<br />
<br />
"Hi! Want a juice?"<br />
<br />
"Well hello there! Juice for your troubles?"<br /><br />
"...please, buy some of this shit.'<br />
<br />
Hey, a jobs a job...right?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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." <a href="http://chineseculture.about.com/od/chinesefestivals/ht/How-To-Play-Liars-Dice.htm" target="_blank">You can see how to play if you want.</a>) 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.<br />
<br />
<i>No, no, no, no, no...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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.).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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, <i>especially</i> since this toilet was covered in lord knows what.***<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>missed</i>. 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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Never had I felt such sweet relief.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*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.<br />
**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?<br />
***You know exactly what.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-84962461450282922252015-07-09T15:02:00.000-07:002015-07-09T15:02:24.996-07:00Is This Parenthood?<br />
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
</div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" while simultaneously slamming a chair against the ground is a tactic that I find myself frequently using.<br />
<br />
Basically the cats are revolting.<br />
<br />
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?)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
All these things they continue to do to me, I constantly wonder if I acted in a similar manner throughout puberty.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Displaying IMG_0449.JPG" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=fea57b50c8&view=fimg&th=14e74c585ba17250&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ9P3v7fUzq70tE2wIANZXzMxqZPSboYkaVfUWx4s95jm6cbTe5vGHFWmwkcwYsQG0sgc146ZRwqoEpHQvrKUxYqvh9oIycRJ82vqzxpAWZTw-pio3PmBLiC-b0&ats=1436478195097&rm=14e74c585ba17250&zw&sz=w1256-h555" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I told you you couldn't borrow my sweater!" "Well it looks better on me, anyways!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=fea57b50c8&view=fimg&th=14e74c52aba4756f&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ_5PeJBW8gIu804IWCLTrWA6GbQ4qi7MNV2EzTokfc4AGOd6e5Zi07_Mf1WKbI3VTxmZX8spbR0Wk666sA0n49jQfL_Br4UQ7bMR81w9IClV8hekcz-IaCkwN4&ats=1436478195120&rm=14e74c52aba4756f&zw&sz=w1256-h555" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Displaying IMG_0450.JPG" border="0" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=fea57b50c8&view=fimg&th=14e74c52aba4756f&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ_5PeJBW8gIu804IWCLTrWA6GbQ4qi7MNV2EzTokfc4AGOd6e5Zi07_Mf1WKbI3VTxmZX8spbR0Wk666sA0n49jQfL_Br4UQ7bMR81w9IClV8hekcz-IaCkwN4&ats=1436478195120&rm=14e74c52aba4756f&zw&sz=w1256-h555" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even when they decide to do a ninja freak-out for no particular reason and your face gets caught in the crossfire.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Displaying IMG_0452.JPG" src="https://mail.google.com/mail/u/0/?ui=2&ik=fea57b50c8&view=fimg&th=14e74d1a5acadd31&attid=0.1&disp=inline&safe=1&attbid=ANGjdJ_RuUz2App4MU2ysRh5ZKzDnLepZNhxeJtgEvvJwpofMcisa3oXJYGlomLGpnld03ZTtzV6wN3tFRRWOVVyv0Q7wXtQlq3lbaeKrd1C7K-xSCQF7sKCZGyisRw&ats=1436478976758&rm=14e74d1a5acadd31&zw&sz=w1256-h555" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because sometimes it's just hard to be mad at that.</td></tr>
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Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-65059620880616041862015-04-24T07:03:00.001-07:002015-04-25T09:53:52.424-07:00Constant breathing<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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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.<br />
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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What it probably looks like (look at all the happy people!)</div>
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What I see (there are definitely some dead people on that hill. Dead, SAD people)<br />
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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. </div>
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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). </div>
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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. </div>
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"Breathe in...breathe out...." I heard in my head. </div>
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"Breathe in...breath out...PSHHHHHHHHHH."</div>
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Suddenly, I was back in the yoga class in China taught by an older southern woman named: Constance. </div>
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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. </div>
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Respect was her forefront, and yoga was her bitch. She never enjoyed late-comers, and yelled out commands like a staff sargeant. </div>
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"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! </div>
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"WARRIOR POSE."</div>
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I could still hear my friend Tamara breathing out expletives under her breathe as she assumed warrior one. </div>
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"Hey, I don't want to hear that language in my class!" Nothing got past Constance. </div>
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Along with being a yoga instructor, Constance would also grace us with her knowledge that I will dubb, "Constance medicine." </div>
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"You know, if you rub your big toe, that will help you along with your bowels since everything is connected by the nerves."</div>
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"Each breathe is releasing the toxins that are in your liver."</div>
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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. </div>
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"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 <i>whole</i> lot better."</div>
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"Oh...thanks." Was all I managed to say. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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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. </div>
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I huffed out another breathe and took a slow pedal up bitch hill and heard those familiar words in my ear:</div>
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"Breathe...PSHHHHHHH."</div>
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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. </div>
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*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.<br />
**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. </div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-40991398419891335932015-04-16T14:10:00.001-07:002015-04-16T14:10:04.458-07:00Moving OutI 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.<br />
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...Oh wait.<br />
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While I won't pretend to be as cool as the first two of these people, I will <strike>pretend </strike>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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In hindsight, I should have put him in a carrier.<br />
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That was another dilemma of moving around because what about the <i>children!? </i><br />
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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 <i>wasn't</i> so sure because she just loves him sooooooooooooooo much.<br />
"Ryan, when are you taking your cat."<br />
"Uh, I have to go organize socks at a different place now."<br />
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"Ryan, your cat has been here for a couple years now, can you take him away? Because he's annoying."<br />
"Don't lie, you li--,"<br />
"Nope, nope. No, Absolutely not."<br />
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"Now that you're moving out, can you take that dang cat out of this house?"<br />
"But he's going to miss chewing on your couch!").<br />
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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.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's not as innocent as she appears. Underneath the fluff is a small psychopath.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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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.<div>
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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.</div>
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"Ryan, get out from under the bed!"</div>
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"No! It's safe in here, they can't get us!"</div>
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"But there's food and a bathroom out here."</div>
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"I can hold it! And there's a random person out there! Who is that!?"</div>
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"We've been friends for awhile, why can't you just accept that he's going to be living with us now?"</div>
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"MY LIFE IS OVER."</div>
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That was basically his reaction.</div>
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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 <i>thieves</i>?). As the old house grows emptier, the other one starts to feel less like a mess and more like a home. </div>
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Let's see where we can go from there.</div>
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*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. </div>
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Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-8031362253001939242015-03-12T11:10:00.000-07:002015-03-12T11:10:36.386-07:00I'm An EnablerI 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!<br />
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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.<br />
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ANYWAYS.<br />
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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...<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Ryan: Hey! How are you today?<br />
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Woman: Oh...not so good. The dentist just gave me some news that wasn't so great.<br />
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Ryan: Well...that's not amazing. Uh...what can I get you?<br />
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Woman: Well, how much sugar does the soy milk have?<br />
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Ryan: *<i>Checking the soy milk nutrition facts</i>* It has...6 grams per serving.<br />
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Woman: That's not that bad...Hmmm...Ok, I'll get a soy chai latte with two shots of espresso and caramel sauce.<br />
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Ryan: *<i>Slightly taken aback*</i> OK, so that's a soy chai latte with two shots and <i>caramel?</i><br />
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Woman: Yes.<br />
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Ryan: OK! Coming right out!<br />
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*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.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-623120860268225442015-03-02T21:10:00.000-08:002015-03-02T21:10:29.058-08:00ChicagoI recently flew out to the windy city for a quick trip to see what it's all about.<br />
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Windy? Yes.</div>
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Cold? Yes.</div>
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Frightening? Slightly.<br />
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We arrived into the city <i>slightly</i> 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 <i>actual</i> name, but who has time to look up those things?), were out for a little bit, and headed back to our hotel.<br />
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Let me just preface by saying that upon public transport, I generally don't find it necessary to talk to people. Ever. Never ever.<br />
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Place: Chicago subway car.<br />
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!*<br />
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Apparently, the man across from us decided that this was a fine time to strike up a conversation.<br />
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"Did you guys see the game the other day?"<br />
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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 <i>because you don't talk to strange subway people, Jake</i>. 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."<br />
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"Oh, we're ok, thanks." Jake replied.<br />
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"You know, you guys staying in a hotel? Wanna invite me up for a drink?"<br />
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NO.<br />
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"That's OK, we're just going to go to bed," Jake said politely.<br />
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Now I'm picturing this man following us back to our hotel room to touch things on the mini bar** and ruin our lives!<br />
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We got off the train and I walked a little quicker than I would have normally.<br />
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"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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Us: I'm here for my flight:<br />
Flight people: Your flight has been delayed...4 hours.<br />
Us: No one mentioned that.<br />
Flight people: Here is airport money. Go be happy now.<br />
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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.<br />
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But who really knows what is happening at your local theater down the street.<br />
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*Calling this literature is probably a great overstatement. Kind of like saying you're a "photographer," when you just have 150 followers on Instagram.</div>
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**I accidentally lifted something on the mini bar to <i>just look at it</i> 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!</div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-81387705982335717562015-02-17T21:35:00.000-08:002015-02-17T21:35:11.891-08:00Time to Boil Some ChickenI'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.<div>
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...or that could have been someone else.</div>
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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)</div>
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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. </div>
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10:18: I'm waiting for my chicken to boil</div>
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10:19: I found some cake</div>
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10:19: I found whipped cream</div>
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10:20: I ate them both together</div>
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10:20: Don't worry, I looked at an apple</div>
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10:21: I'm balancing whipped cream on a fork</div>
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10:21: I'm balancing whipped cream and cake in my stomach</div>
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10:21: Whipped cream is just as good out of the container</div>
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Does anyone know how to locate your sweet tooth/cover chicken in chocolate?</div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-76670037600957823092015-01-22T22:15:00.001-08:002015-01-22T22:15:25.408-08:00The Hottest of PotsLast 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:<div>
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Four Seasons Hot Pot and Dumplings.</div>
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A wave of nostalgia hit me as I prepared my colon for the fiery poops that would surely ensue.</div>
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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). *</div>
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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 (<u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s21rDuyWSCg" target="_blank">Here if one if you want to see it</a></u>). It's a frightening process because sometimes they pretend to try and hit you in the face. </div>
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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.</div>
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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. </div>
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"Do you remember when mushrooms grew in our bathroom?"<br /></div>
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"Do you remember when that taxi driver tried to charge us 100 quay to go two blocks?"</div>
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"Do you remember when wouldn't pay for our internet for days and decided that indoor heating wasn't totally essential?"</div>
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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.</div>
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"Do you remember when you ate a popsicle that had red beans inside it?"</div>
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It was funny; while most of the memories were seemingly negative things (like a man <a href="http://ryancards.blogspot.com/2013/09/throwing-up.html" target="_blank">throwing up</a> 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.</div>
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"Do you remember the skinned animal faces at walmart?"</div>
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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.</div>
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"Do you remember when our toilet spit up sewage into our apartment?"</div>
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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.</div>
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"Just dump it all in." I leaned over and told them. </div>
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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. </div>
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"Do you remember when you ruined that couple's dinner?" </div>
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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.</div>
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No, really, just have a try. Have a try.</div>
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*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.</div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-3574903176112957982015-01-14T20:38:00.001-08:002015-01-14T20:38:06.332-08:00The Holy Cheesus Be ProudI'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.<br />
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The holy cheesus watch over us and the marinara be proud.</div>
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Cheesus crust, I can feel hell opening up right now.</div>
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<br />Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-71362469160052492192015-01-08T17:09:00.001-08:002015-01-08T17:09:13.396-08:00Swimming and the Good WifeI've recently become a bit obsessed with <i>The Good Wife</i>, 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.<br />
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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). </div>
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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. </div>
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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.</div>
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I recently found myself in a bit of a rut. I filled this rut with countless hours of <i>The Good Wife, </i>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?<br />
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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.<br />
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I was doing all the things I deemed correct on my checklist:<br />
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Working: Check<br />
Eating: Check<br />
Personal Fulfillment: ...Crap<br />
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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. <i>What would Good Wife do?</i> 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.<br />
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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.<br />
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I AM GOOD WIFE, HEAR ME SWIM.<br />
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First thoughts upon jumping in:<br />
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"Fuck, it's cold."<br />
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"Why did I used to enjoy this?"<br />
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"If I suck in more water, I can clear out my sinuses."<br />
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"If I suck in more water, I won't have sinuses."<br />
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"What is Michael Phelps?! A wizard?!"<br />
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"I'm going to pretend to go my normal speed, but I'm actually racing you, the guy next to me."<br />
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"OK, I still enjoy this."<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Now I'm one step closer to Good Wife status...but substitute an advanced law degree with a Bachelor's from Southern Utah University.<br />
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*That means I want to shoot her into my veins.</div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-27553688033800485182014-11-16T11:16:00.001-08:002014-11-16T11:16:47.443-08:00AnxietyAs a kid, people always described me with words like, "shy," or, "quiet." I would actually say that a lot of people still describe me as that way; the kid who would rather sit in the front of the classroom, but only talk occasionally. That kid who spins his thoughts over and over, until he can pick the one that seems right for the situation.<br />
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Anxiety is a sneaky little bastard who has hung out with me most of my life.<br />
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I'm going to go back to my Mormon roots for a second and pull out the well-worn technique of looking at a dictionary and explaining what anxiety is. If you would all turn with me to your DSM-V handbook and look up Social Anxiety Disorders:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">A. A persistent fear of one or more social or performance situations in which the person is exposed to unfamiliar people or to possible scrutiny by others. The individual fears that he or she will act in a way (or show anxiety symptoms) that will be embarrassing and humiliating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 2em;">B. Exposure to the feared situation almost invariably provokes anxiety, which may take the form of a situationally bound or situationally pre-disposed Panic Attack. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">C. The person recognizes that this fear is unreasonable or excessive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">D. The feared situations are avoided or else are endured with intense anxiety and distress.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">E. The avoidance, anxious anticipation, or distress in the feared social or performance situation(s) interferes significantly with the person's normal routine, occupational (academic) functioning, or social activities or relationships, or there is marked distress about having the phobia.</span><br />
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...Etc., etc., etc.<br />
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<span style="line-height: 2em;">If I was going by the book, I would now open up a dictionary and read you the literal definition of anxiety (Something along the lines of how anxiety is more related to social exclusion whereas <u>fear</u> is related to actual physical harm. I feel the need to make that difference.). I would now break this apart piece by piece, until my ten minutes were up and I could sit down and relive myself from all the pressure of giving a talk in church once a year. But I'm pretty shit at being a religious person, so I'll ask you to picture a shaggy-haired kid with large round glasses in the fifth grade. That kid is me, in case you were wondering.</span></div>
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Fifth grade Ryan was quiet. Teachers liked him, parents adored him, and lots of kids found him a little strange. He was very selective about who he chose to be his close friends, which resulted in him only having a few he was comfortable being himself around. One day while at his friend's house, Ryan got more rambunctious than he usually did because he was comfortable. He was being loud and saying most things that popped into his head without everything going through the filter first. While in the middle of running through the house, Ryan remembered the name of a scary movie he had been thinking of all day and subsequently yelled the plot to his friend when out of the corner of Ryan's eye, he saw his friend's mom. The music was loud, kids were running and screaming, and here was Ryan screaming morbid things like murder across the room. It didn't look good. At least, to Ryan it didn't look good and that was all that mattered. He went home feeling rather despondent and the thoughts kept spinning and spinning: what was she going to think of him now? This noisy rambunctious kid--talking about murder! He must be no good. He must be weird. He must be a bad seed. After that, Ryan didn't really like seeing his friend's mom very much.<br />
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This little anxiety monster has followed me around for most of my life. There are days when he is really quiet, and there are days when he will not shut the hell up.<br />
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"Remember that time you walked into your professor's office and because you stared at him too long he hates you forever?"<br />
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"Don't forget about the time you walked into class late, no one will forget that."<br />
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"Everyone still remembers that awful campaign slogan you made for jr. high class elections."<br />
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"That homeless man remembers the time you farted near him".<br />
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"You asked for that day off and now your boss wants to fire you."<br />
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I spin these thoughts over and over again, each time making sure that they grow until it's the only thing I can think about, Then there's anxiety, sitting on my shoulder getting fatter and fatter as each thought becomes a slight obsession.<br />
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"You can't win in that race and <i>when</i> you lose <i>no one </i>will forget."<br />
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"Your friends only tolerate you."<br />
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"You're going to fail that class, flunk out of school, and end up alone."<br />
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I am ashamed to admit that sometimes I seriously acknowledge these thoughts. <i>Dammit, I really am going to end up alone with a shitty job and no name for myself. I'm sure that even my cat will leave me. Well, he'll probably just eat me. </i><br />
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They stick to my brain like everything to a George Foreman grill.<br />
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There were days when I felt like someone had made my brain into a washing machine full of bricks that pounded on the edges until I felt like I was going to burst.* It was usually during those times when I distracted myself with music, video games, and books. This way, I'd be able to wrap myself up in something that was outside of my own head so I wouldn't become to physically and emotionally exhausted.<br />
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<span style="line-height: 2em;">Within the past several months of my life, I've had a lot of...grownup life things happen to me. I say grownup because I always joke about how "grownup" I am with my friends (hint: I'm not) and these were things I had never really to prepared for. I had to make a very serious relationship decision coupled with some serious family issues that had arisen. One left me feeling hurt while the other left me in a very cold disposition. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 2em;">...</span><span style="line-height: 2em;">Looking at it now, I guess it wasn't a </span><i style="line-height: 2em;">terrible </i><span style="line-height: 2em;">combination for the situation. </span><br />
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I had gotten very stuck. I stopped blogging because I felt like trying to find things to joke about would almost be like lying since I didn't really believe anything that I tried coming up with (Believe me, I tried; and in all honestly my <i>wonderful </i>and <i>terrific</i> writing probably would have suffered if I had chose to share it). I distanced myself from any social network that I had and instead tried to focus in only on work.<br />
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Each and every day I was digging myself deeper into my own little anxiety hole.**<br />
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And it sucked.<br />
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Then came my epiphany: It was me.<br />
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I was the one who decided what I got to do next. As simple as that was, it hadn't really dawned on me before to just stand up against myself and <i>do something</i>. New empowered Ryan started not putting up with shit. New empowered Ryan gained a strange new confidence that he hadn't really ever seen before. New empowered Ryan put himself out there and firmly decided what he wanted. New empowered Ryan only talked in third person!<br />
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I got to be the hero of my own story. I got to be Han Solo when he decided to take initiative for saving the galaxy. I got to be Indiana Jones in his last crusade (but nothing more because <i>there definitely no more movies about Indiana Jones after that</i>). Apparently, I get to be Harrison Ford, and I will roll with that.<br />
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While I still didn't blog, it was more out of just serious neglect than crippling anxiety (like your first ten goldfish..minus the crippling anxiety). While I've still maintained my distance from social networks, it's less out of weird validation and anxiety, and more from just not needing that around. <span style="line-height: 2em;">The endless spinning brought on by over-thinking; not speaking up and wishing I had, or speaking up and wishing I hadn't significantly slowed down. In fact, it made this weird turn around where I did a lot of talking with little regret (except the time I decided to engage a homeless man). I was getting the support I needed from the people who mattered in my life and I didn't see this change going away any time soon.</span><br />
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Now, this post has been something of a struggle. It's been edited, read, re-read, re-edited, completely changed, and left alone to simmer for a very long time. Every time I looked, it changed a little; leaving old parts because I liked them and some serious erasing because <i>why would Ryan five minutes ago ever say something so ridiculous</i> . Now I'm just comfortable with the whole thing.<br />
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There are still days when the little anxiety monster still likes to hang out on my shoulder (e.g..: parties and surprise gatherings), but he's gotten a lot more quiet. That, or I've tried to stop listening. Either way, I'm comfortable with that.<br />
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*Even as I write that sentence, I have a slight twinge of anxiety from fearing that people will think that's a horrible analogy.<br />
**Do I have enough analogies and metaphors for anxiety in this yet? Because I also worry that I may be using analogy and metaphor incorrectly sometimes, which is why I included both right here because I am shit with grammar and just the English language in general. Now I worry that grammar isn't even the right word.</div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-14319513380901982622014-04-09T18:13:00.003-07:002014-04-10T13:07:05.713-07:00Dear Girl Above MeDear girl above me,<br />
<br />
I know we've never met before, or ever really seen each other, but I assume that we both know that the other exists. I'm sure you've seen me passing out of the driveway, or carrying groceries into the door, and I don't blame you for not saying hi (I mean, I haven't said it either, so we're all good on those grounds).<br />
<br />
You have a dog, which is super great! Our dogs even have a lot in common <i>sometimes</i>! They're quiet, respectful, and don't bark a lot. I forgot to mention that my dog died a few years ago (so she's not as lively as she once was). Your dog, on the other hand, seems to be full of life and so do you! I get the talking in a weird baby voice to your dog and having it chase things. I also realize that I used to do that with my dog outside (You know, when she was alive.) so that people indoors could maintain some peace and quiet. I'm sure our dogs would have even gotten along because I can tell that your dog likes to talk (bark) all the time! For instance, at 3am the other morning, she just wanted to let the whole neighborhood know where she was and you decided that a good run around the house might help. I think we really bonded at that moment.<br />
<br />
I also get the whole "spousal problem" thing! I mean, if I was home alone, I would talk as loud as I could on the phone to my friend complaining about things he was doing. He left the TV on again!? Ugh, he is just the worst (I assume.). But here's where you lose me: Every time your so-called hubby returns home from <i>wherever</i> he goes during the day, you two seem to have a fully functioning wood shop up there. It would seem to me that after complaining on the phone for hours at a time about this person that you wouldn't be able to haul heavy lumber around the house together, but you two seem to make it work! (I guess that's what marriage is all about, right?)<br />
<br />
Us below you also think that your furniture is probably great where it is. To us, it sounds like you've rearranged it about every day since you got there and it has to have reached some sort of feng shui. Also, if it's dead bodies (No judgment! We've just speculated that loud thumps followed by long silences could be some kind of "Silence of the Lambs" type scenario, but we don't want to be <i>nosey</i>.), please drop them on a mattress or something.<br />
<br />
Have you ever heard of the hit television show, "American Idol?" Every song you've sung to could definitely bring you fame and fortune, *hint hint.*<br />
<br />
Maybe we could be friends, but our sheer proximity really prevents me from doing that right now. There are days I want to knock on your door and tell you that I can hear you screaming at the TV, but I don't want to make you feel <i>embarrassed</i>. I'll also admit that it's a little nice pretending like I know your life because I can hear every <strike>little </strike>move you make.<br />
<br />
I will also definitely take the instance of when you threatened to throw up on your significant other so that he would leave you alone and apply it to my daily life. That was a metaphor, right?<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
The guy passive-aggressively complaining about you on the internet<br />
<br />
P.S. We can still hear you faking sex.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-63765939762234256782014-04-02T21:37:00.000-07:002014-04-02T21:37:55.912-07:00Pseudo-parenthood, Part 2Stella and Steve have left our presence. After chewing on multiple items of clothing and basically anything in sight, paired with multiple escapes (probably coordinated by Steve), we were over owning rats. I know, I know--we only had them for about a week, BUT THEY WOULDN'T LOVE US. Yes, I mean to say that crawling over my body with little rat feet isn't love.<br />
<br />
How did we fill this void? With a guinea pig of course. Yes, on our trip to return our small rat "friends," we happened upon the small tank that held three little guinea pigs. Three little fluff balls making tiny guinea pig noises that kind of sounded like a wave machine, but with more guinea pig. It was like a two-in-one bargain!<br />
<br />
"I like the brown one, because it's a loner." I said to Beth.<br />
<br />
It was true. Our little spotted guinea friend didn't play with the other two orange-spotted pigs and kind of just moseyed around the tank and looking for something else to do.<br />
<br />
"I think that's why I like him too." said Beth.<br />
<br />
With that, we chased our new friend around the tank until we were able to successfully catch her in a cardboard box. Her name is Wallace and she will love us.<br />
<br />
Wallace took kindly to her new home by not moving or doing anything in particular. She actually resembled a guinea statue until I tried to touch her where she would turn into a small race horse to escape my grasp. Things I did not know: Guinea pigs are faster than you think.<br />
<br />
"Wallace likes to nibble." Beth sent me in a text the next day.<br />
<br />
"Wallace bit me." I sent back later that day. It turns out that screaming, "LOVE ME!" while holding out your hands to catch an escaping guinea pig doesn't actually make them warm up to you faster.<br />
<br />
Here's to our second chance at pseudo-parenthood. Because guinea pigs can't fit through small bars...and neither can children.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-29507450172090464012014-03-26T11:48:00.000-07:002014-03-26T11:50:07.614-07:00Stress Poops"They're stress pooping! Everywhere!"<br />
<br />
Again, I find a little pellet settled nicely on a blanket, or a pillow, or my shoulder. Little Stella and Steve couldn't handle being held, touched, or even really looked at. The stress proved too much and manifested itself in a little brown turd.<br />
<br />
I never thought I would have to restrain a small animal, but that's all I've been doing lately. The cage (probably manufactured for a small dog), has proved useless in their relentless attempts at freedom. The moment one gets put inside, it will climb up the bars to what I only imagine it screaming, "FREEDOM!" in a Mel Gibson voice. We've since amped up our security with chicken wire, numerous blankets, a candle, and a laundry basket. We thought it would be enough, but I still come home to find these little Houdini's sitting on the top, looking at me with a smug look of satisfaction that says, "Fuck your cage."<br />
<br />
Having an animal that doesn't want to immediately snuggle is also frustrating. Dogs: Always. Cats: Eventually persuaded. But NO. They can't just calm their tiny little heads down so that I can GIVE THEM MY LOVE. It really gets me right in that spot that hurts. The metaphorical heart, or whatever.<br />
<br />
Steve and Stella, such a dynamic duo. While both are girls, Beth and I decided that Steve was the best option because we don't conform to gender stereotypes. We're progressive by letting our pets have whatever name we choose for them.<br />
<br />
So basically I'm writing this to inform you I have rats living my apartment now. Our landlord said no pets, so we got rats because they're under the threshold of real pets, right? Little pets that won't relinquish their love to me.<br />
<br />
I'm only waiting to get home to find Steve sitting atop the cage with his little mouse paw flipping me the bird.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-61516114934358983312014-03-13T20:09:00.001-07:002014-03-13T20:09:41.286-07:00Chinese FamilyEver since I got back from China, I made the goal to try and learn some more Chinese. I had mastered a few key words and phrases (like telling a taxi driver to take me to an egg instead of an airport), but figured that if I was ever going to get past the level of "sad immigrant," I would have to do something.<br />
<br />
So, I enrolled in Chinese for the semester.<br />
<br />
I didn't really know what to expect from this class at all. In high school, I had taken few Spanish classes (Hola, me llamo Ryan. Me gusta gatos y perros y bibliotecas. Te gusta levantar pesas? Bueno.) and those had been rendered useless over the years by my unwillingness to study, so I wondered where this class would leave me. Surely, I was ready to study for a college class. I mean, what else have I been doing for the past four years?<br />
<br />
Which brings us to now; halfway into the semester with my vocabulary slowly growing, but constant frustration at my heels. My professor's teaching style is that of, "Here is a powerpoint presentation that I am now going to read to you word for word and I will have you parrot some things back occasionally." It's not my favorite, but I participate.<br />
<br />
"How many people do you have in your family?" My professor said. This question, on repeat like a BB gun, constantly smacking us unaware and fumbling around for an answer.<br />
<br />
"Uh, five." the blonde guy in the corner said.<br />
<br />
"Five. Who are they?" He was relentless, this small, Chinese man. First how many, then who they were, then occupations; what next? their favorite 80's movie?<br />
<br />
"Well, my dad is an engineer--"<br />
<br />
"Engineer!" He blurted out, which was quickly followed by the Chinese equivalent.<br />
<br />
Please spare me from this blitzkrieg.<br />
<br />
"You! How many?"<br />
<br />
I knew my numbers well enough, but I didn't know all the words for siblings.<br />
<br />
"Uh...five..." is what came out.<br />
<br />
"Who are they?"<br />
<br />
I began in Chinese, "a mother...a father...a younger brother...and older brother..."<br />
<br />
A quick mental count in my head told me that I had left out three of my real sisters, added a new brother, and also forgotten a made-up new sibling, but I was past the point of caring.<br />
<br />
"OK, now talk to the person next to you."<br />
<br />
I turned to the girl next to me (A girl notorious for wearing the exact same outfit to class every day: Grey zip-up hoodie, blue bootcut jeans, and faded, black, slip-on shoes. The shirt underneath the hoodie varied from day to day, but it was lost underneath everything else. I often wondered if she either washed these items frequently, or had a stockpile of the exact same thing she could vary from day to day. I imagine her looking in the mirror and saying, "You know, I'm going to mix it up today and wear <i>Tuesdays</i> pants! Ah! I'm so bad!" and then accidentally wearing Wednesdays pants again.) and she began asking me the same questions.<br />
<br />
"How many people do you have in your family?"<br />
<br />
"I have four...I mean five! I have five people in my family." I said, stumbling over my own lie.<br />
<br />
"Who are they?"<br />
<br />
"I have one older brother."<br />
<br />
She looked at me for a second, putting together the inconsistencies.<br />
<br />
"I thought you said you had two brothers."<br />
<br />
"Yeah...and a younger brother. He's 17." I had to give him an age to make her believe he was a real person.<br />
<br />
She continued to stare at me, "OK, do you have any pets?"<br />
<br />
"How do you say, 'my dog is dead,' in Chinese?"<br />
<br />
<br />Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-19732825677219821092014-03-01T16:26:00.000-08:002014-03-01T16:26:38.742-08:00Psychics and PizzaBack when I first tried to start dating guys, I fooled around with dating websites. Ignoring all of my upbringing of "stranger danger," and "everyone on the internet is an ax murderer," I made a small profile on an obscure dating website to see if I had what it took to put myself out there. Apparently, the criteria for putting myself out there meant having a profile picture and a description that was probably something like, "I enjoy books and food. People are tolerable." (Since this website has been cast aside like so many Yu-Gi-Oh cards from my childhood, I don't know what it looks like now. But, seeing so many different dating avenue nowadays, I figure that things haven't changed all too much.)<br />
<br />
As time went by, I found myself meeting (meeting in the sense of talking to the internet) a lot of colorful characters. There was guy who had the small "inconvenience" of being married; the twenty-one year old who actually just turned sixteen; the "I'm only going to send you penis pictures" man; and let's not forget the foot enthusiast who offered me 50$ if he could lick my feet. I wasn't terribly impressed by the fish in this sea. Mostly, I was starting to wonder if everyone on the internet <i>was</i> an ax murderer living in my closet. I decided to stick it out a bit longer to see if there was anyone worthwhile; this is when I met The Psychic.<br />
<br />
The Psychic didn't introduce himself as a psychic (that came up later), but as a guy my own age that seemed like not-an-ax-murderer. How could I pass up someone who wasn't trying to lick my eyeballs? We messaged back and forth for a little while before I agreed to give him my number and go on a date with him. Granted, he still could have been a suburban housewife posing as a guy on the internet, but<i> </i>the sheer number of people wanting to touch my feet made me realize that people are surprisingly honest on the internet...to a certain extent.<br />
<br />
The day of the date arrived and I sent him a text to ask about details; when, where, dinner, etc. He suggested that we grab a pizza, rent a movie, and just hang out. Awesome, it wasn't anything high pressure that I had to really get ready for and I wouldn't be stuck in a restaurant wishing I hadn't ordered the spicy quesadilla. I did notice something a little odd though. At the end of each of the texts he sent me was a little signature that read: Psychic ________ (I'm just gonna leave out his name out of courtesy and relevancy)*.<br />
<br />
Huh? Psychic? Not wanting to be overly chatty before the date, I didn't say anything about his signature. This way, if my usual rant about how sweatpants are not unacceptable in public didn't fly, I would have some topic on hand to talk about. I like to plan out conversations before they happen and this one was a goldmine:<br />
<br />
-Oh, you're a psychic? How many dead bodies do you find for the police in a week?<br />
<br />
-Oh, you're a psychic? Like the horse whispering kind or the "I can see dead people," kind?<br />
<br />
-Oh, you're a psychic? I'm gonna choke on a marshmallow, huh? I just know it, you really gotta tell me. Don't lie to make me feel better.<br />
<br />
-Oh, you're a psychic? Are crystal balls solar powered or satan powered?<br />
<br />
As the time rolled around for the date to start, I hopped into my car and headed to his house. Not having a car, I would pick him up, grab a pizza and a movie, and head back to his home. The drive was a little nerve-wracking as I was meeting a stranger on the internet and I kept my fingers crossed that I wasn't going to lose a kidney or meet a 65 year-old woman.<br />
<br />
I pulled up to the address I had been given and gave him a call as I <i>was not</i> about to knock on a strangers door in a neighborhood I didn't know. He would come to me (which also gave me time to high tail it out of there if I saw a flash of a hook/chainsaw). The Psychic opened his front door and I got my first look at the person I had only seen flattering pictures of on the internet.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, The Psychic was not a 65 year-old woman, a man wearing a mask made of skin, or a pile of cats; he was actually the guy in his pictures. What I forgot about pictures on the internet is that they're usually taken to be flattering. The Psychic was about five-foot three and weighed about as much as a bag of feathers. His hair was a shaggy, dirty-blonde, and was swept to the side above his square glasses. His pants were skin tight, showing off his stick-thin legs a super model would envy. Overall, I was kind of unimpressed but was pretty sure that if he tried to stab me in the throat, I'd be able to fight him off.<br />
<br />
Heading up the stairs to his house, I introduced myself and greeted him. He responded in kind and went inside where two small dogs started licking my shins. "Come say hello to my mom!" he said with a smile. "No, please no. I have something I left on the oven for a few hours." Is what I wanted to say. What happened to the good old days when one doesn't meet the other's parents until said parents are presented with a cow of appropriate girth and udder size?<br />
<br />
I went up some to a higher level of the house and was then greeted by his mother and his mother's friend who were watching the Oscars while eating pizza. They were genuine friendly women, but also probably slightly intoxicated as evidenced by the few boxes of wine on the counter. "Want to head out and get that pizza?" he said. <i>Yes</i>. The first date was supposed to be something where I could focus on looking good for just one person, I hadn't budgeted for more. Meeting relatives was something I believed was reserved for a later date.<br />
<br />
I fast-walked to the car and we headed out to the pizza place that he directed me too. The conversation was pretty mundane: "Oh, what do you like to do?" "How many siblings do you have" "Favorite color?"--all that first date stuff one needs to get out of the way. While getting the pizza, I was more than welcome to let him pay for it (I mean, it <i>was</i> the first date and I <i>did</i> drive out to his house and meet his mother and his <i>dogs</i>. As far as I'm concerned, I paid for my end by showing up and <i>also</i> by not being a murderer.). We then hit up a RedBox to see what movies we could rent.<br />
<br />
When picking movies, I usually tend to let the other person pick. Not because I think that they'll pick something good, but because I don't want to pick something that's bad. See, if they pick a terrible movie and we both hate it, then I can blame them. But, if they pick a terrible movie and they <i>like</i> it, then I get to put that strained smile on my face and make non-committal statements like, "The lighting was really good," and "It was a movie alright!" (Sorry if you've ever picked a movie with me before and I've made statements such as those above. You are now warned).<br />
<br />
"Go ahead, you pick."<br />
<br />
He sat there for a second before choosing the film, "My Sister's Keeper." I groaned internally (For those of you who don't know this film, it's about a little girl who has a terminal illness and the only way to keep her alive is to borrow things like bone marrow, fluids, probably friends and dolls, maybe even <i>secrets,</i> from her sister. How should I really know? I didn't watch it. Well, it turns out that the sister was basically born so that the parents could use her to keep the other sister alive. Point being: it's not a happy-sunshine-flowers movie. But let's get back to the car.).<br />
<br />
We had been talking the entire time of our pizza pick-up and sad-movie rental and I finally worked up the courage to ask him why his signature was what it was: Psychic ________.<br />
<br />
"Have you ever seen the show 'Psychic Kids'?" I responded that, no, I had never seen/heard of that show before. "Oh, well I used to be on it." What exactly did that show entail? "There were other psychic kids and we would sit around and talk about supernatural stuff." That sounds pretty cool, I guess. Lots of entertainment value. "Yeah, it was." So...you're an actual psychic (while what I wanted to say was, "you <i>think</i> you're an actual psychic). "Yeah, sometimes I see things." You don't just make them up? "No, I'm a psychic." Wait, crystal ball kind of psychic? "No, that's just crazy." That's what I thou-- "Other people do that, I talk to spirits and sometimes I can see the future."<br />
<br />
Yes, he was <i>that</i> kind of psychic; the kind who really believed. Well, at least he was giving me something to work with conversation wise. I asked him if he could see anything about me. "Could you read my palm and tell me how I'm going to die?" "No, I'm not really that kind of psychic." "What about my aura? You guys can see auras, right?" "You know, it's a gift that really only works with people that I'm closer to, so no." Huh. For a gift that was about being rather omniscient, he was being selective. Where were the dramatics? The puffs of smoke and bolts of lightning and evil laughter? Weren't psychics supposed to tell me of my grisly demise that I could only prevent if I did something completely drastic and irrational? This was getting disappointing. "Not even what I'm going to eat for lunch tomorrow?" I meet a real psychic and they won't even describe any future maiming for me.<br />
<br />
The Psychic decided to continue by telling me about one of his latest visions.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I actually was able to know that my ex-boyfriend was going to break up with me before it happened." Yeah? "Yeah, it was really strange. I mean, I kind of saw it coming after we went camping and things didn't go very well. You see, the last night we were there he forced me to have sex when I didn't want to."<br />
<br />
What.<br />
<br />
Nope.<br />
<br />
Date 32.<br />
<br />
Date 673.<br />
<br />
Date NEVER.<br />
<br />
The Psychic had obviously decided that this was his "sweatpants in public" topic of choice and was going to run with it. He opened the floodgates and information that I would have deemed "information for close friends/family," kept coming out.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it all happened and then we broke up. But then I went and got tested and was really concerned when the test came back positive with HIV." The Psychic continued. "Turns out, they actually mixed up my test results with someone else."<br />
<br />
"So...you don't know yet?" I said.<br />
<br />
"They're figuring everything out and should have it back to me in a day or so. I mean, this all only happened a few weeks ago."<br />
<br />
I could hear my own teeth grinding as I sat there listening to him. I had never met anyone before who had deemed themselves <i>possibly</i> HIV positive and I retreated into protection mode. All the knowledge I had learned in the two days of my high school online health class was thrown out the window and replaced by fear of the unknown.<br />
<br />
I was a little stumped--I had no idea how to keep a conversation going. Now if I said, "Do you know what people should never wear in public? Sweatpants.", it wasn't anything compared to "My boyfriend raped me and I may or may not have HIV." So much for planning ahead.<br />
<br />
"That...really sucks." is all I could come up with.<br />
<br />
Not wanting to really delve deeper into The Psychic's life, I hurried back to his home to try and watch this movie and end this date. By now the pizza was cold, but I made sure to keep my hands on a piece and keep my feet pointed straight ahead as to avoid any instance of canoodling. My eyes began to wander the room: two cream colored couches, one love seat of accompanying color, two lace doilies covering two wooden coffee tables with small matching lamps (the kind whose lampshades one sees on an inebriated person's head), and short carpet that I probably wouldn't want to rub my face on. Every single item put in its specific place by a single mother and her small dogs.<br />
<br />
The movie started and my mind was racing with the checklist of what to do next: Do I say nothing the rest of the night? Do I make small talk about the movie? What if I go to the bathroom and just never come back? What relatives do I have that could be dead soon? Despite my own prejudices of using a cellphone on a date, I pulled out mine to see what excuse I might muster up.<br />
<br />
As I opened my phone, I saw that I had one message from my friend Grace reading: "I might call you and pretend that I need to go home and you need to go along with it."<br />
<br />
How convenient.<br />
<br />
"Me too." I replied<br />
<br />
A short while later, my phone rang. <br />
<br />
"Hello?"<br />
<br />
"Hi, mom."<br />
<br />
So I'm her mom now. <br />
<br />
What followed was a short conversation between Grace, her mother, and me listening blankly on the phone.<br />
<br />
"But mom, I don't think I need to do that until tomorrow." she said, "Well, I guess if you <i>really</i> need me to come home now then I guess..." I couldn't help but wonder if Grace looked sincere on the other end of the line or if her expressions more closely resembled dogs when they're being punished. That would probably be good enough.<br />
<br />
I hung up after Grace's mother decidedly told her daughter that she needed to go home. "Do you need to go home?" said The Psychic, "It's OK if you do."<br />
<br />
This was my out. "No, I'm good; I <i>really </i>want to finish this movie." I said, putting on a big smile and glancing up at the screen to a bunch of weepy actors crying over who-knows-what. Hospitals and terminal illnesses, how romantic.<br />
<br />
How long was I obligated to stay and watch a depressing movie on a first date? Considering it was a weeknight, I didn't think that I was required to really <i>finish</i> the movie, but at least get past the first 20 minutes.<br />
<br />
About three pieces of cold pizza into this movie later, I decided I needed out. I also had to come up with a better escape plan than, "I need to go the bathroom for the next FOREVER." and sprint out the door. I knew I might not be the best on first dates, but I knew I was a little better than that.<br />
<br />
I settled on the, "Gee, it's really late and I have to get up early tomorrow," excuse. Though it was easy to see through, it was more polite than setting something on fire and jumping through the window.<br />
<br />
"Gee, it's getting late," I said as I checked my phone reading: 8:30pm, "and I have to get up early tomorrow...<i>to swim</i>."** The Psychic didn't put up any fight about this. I mean, first dates usually entailed <i>some</i> kind of physical contact and I had been about as approachable as a cockroach. Despite this, he was gentlemanly and walked me out of his house.<br />
<br />
"Would you like any pizza to take home?" he asked as we came to the top of the landing and approached the kitchen where two pizzas still sat in their boxes, untouched and beginning to harden.<br />
<br />
"No, I got enough...wasn't that movie depressing?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I'd just been told to watch it so I thought it'd be a good choice."<br />
<br />
I left him at the door with a small hug; his eyes at nipple level while I gave him a small pat on the back. With that, I hopped into my car and made my way back towards my house. While I drove away, I couldn't help but think if he might have seen this coming the whole time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*You may be asking, "Ryan, why didn't you make up a new name for this kid? I mean that can't be too hard. I have twelve kids and it wasn't that hard naming <i>them</i>." Well, you wonderful person you, I decided not to make up a new name because the name's that I came up with weren't very fitting. His real name is the only one that feels right to me so the new label of, "The Psychic," give us the detail that we need. If you don't like that, you can go name more of your own kids.<br />
<br />
**Throughout my high school years, I would get up at 5:30am every morning to go swimming. To accomplish this, I would go to sleep rather early. After high school though, this still became my go-to excuse when I wanted to leave somewhere at night. Sorry if you have been a victim of early morning swimming.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-76228090259807476232014-02-08T19:16:00.000-08:002014-02-08T19:16:21.731-08:00New NeighborsMy new house is nothing special.<br />
<br />
A basement apartment on the side of a fading yellow house on the corner of a suburb slowly becoming outdated as its counterparts are being constructed on the other side of town. I'll give it that: a titch of "originality" in its environment (Which I have to do to oppose the bourgeoisie since I'm in my twenties and have to fulfill that obligation as a college student of this century. I can just <i>feel</i> the angst.).<br />
<br />
The dents in the walls and the stains on the ceiling are evident of its neglect in past ownership, but I like to think that it had a more colorful history. The last owner only smoked in the same spot in the kitchen every day for 5 years and created the yellow stain on the ceiling. The scorch mark on the wall is from a birthday cake gone awry. Making a place home means deciding it was something more special before and now it's yours.<br />
<br />
"The landlady said she would fix that sink...in November." Beth tells me again and again. Our bathroom sink is merely a statue new sinks might look at in a museum of the first pioneers of sinks (or at least the sinks that went to Woodstock). With two faucets, it's a mystery how this ceramic actually lived up to its expectation of washing things at the right temperature.<br />
<br />
The first month was quiet. According to our landlord, our neighbor upstairs had sustained some type of injury and was usually with his sister. He might have even been up there and just never made a lot of noise; it was nice.<br />
<br />
"When did our injured neighbor get so loud? And multiply?" I asked one day while I read a book at the table. The usual pitter-patter and occasional flush of a toilet had been replaced by what seemed to be people repeatedly pouring bricks all over the floor and then rolling in said bricks.<br />
<br />
"I think we have new neighbors." Beth was right, new neighbors they were. Overnight, our quiet little basement turned into the underside of a highway (complete with hobo).<br />
<br />
One afternoon during lunch, I started hearing music. I had learned earlier that week that while our apartment, already providing minimal insulation from sound above, provided even less when the small closet door to our washing machine was open. I opened the door and recoiled slightly at the sound. It was music alright-- the doin'-it kind. I quickly texted Beth. "They have sexy music on upstairs. They're totally doing it." "Ryan," she replied, "afternoon delight is a thing." I shuddered.<br />
<br />
They ruined quiet shower time.<br />
<br />
They ruined quiet lunch time.<br />
<br />
Then, they ruined quiet movie time.<br />
<br />
We were chomping down on salt and pepper chips when it happened. The movie was about to play and we were settled comfortably in our spots in the living room, Beth and I, when it happened. The noises. Such distinct noises they were.<br />
<br />
"OH MY GOD." We hear from the floor above us. "YEAH, DON'T STOP. OHHHHH."<br />
<br />
I turned to Beth, "Are they?..."<br />
<br />
"They are." she said.<br />
<br />
Our faces, then displayed with an appropriate level of disgust, quickly turned into the face of curious children.<br />
<br />
"Open the laundry room door!"<br />
<br />
We quickly crowded around the open door and listened.<br />
<br />
"OH GOD. YEAH. LIKE THAT." and other grunting noises descended from above.<br />
<br />
"You know," Beth said as she looked at me, "that girl is a really good faker."<br />
<br />
I nodded and grabbed a few more chips out of the bag.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-84366157291368781962014-01-09T17:37:00.000-08:002014-01-09T17:37:50.399-08:00To Miss A SheepDue to the fact that I feel guilty about not putting anything up recently informing about my current goings-on (which things have been happening and stuff and things and blah), I decided to share this story that I wrote with you today. I will preface this with that I wrote this under a mindset that would best be described as...disturbed. I think that's enough detail.<br />
<br />
I was responding to a friend's e-mail where the subject line she sent me was: "W<span class="hP" id=":17a" tabindex="-1">ho'd have thought it was possible to miss sheep?"</span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1"></span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1">Here was my response:</span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1"></span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1">You know, I think that it is possible to miss sheep. Once when I was a very small child, I had a small sheep; I named him Reginald McFluffypants of Yorkshire the III (or Reg, for short). Well, Reg and I would do all sorts of activities together to pass the time: boggle, running, crocheting, shuffleboard; we were the best of friends. Then one day while I was at school, Reginald decided that he needed more stimulation in life. "Life isn't just about shuffleboard! I need something more. MORE I SAY!" With that, he slammed the door and I didn't hear from him for a long time.</span><span class="hP" tabindex="-1"> That was until one day when I got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. </span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1"></span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1">Upon answering, I could tell that it was Reginald. He had sold his fur to buy carrots and had nothing left to sell (oh, he was also heavily addicted to crack). I searched the dank city far and wide until I found the small hovel he was staying in. "No, don't look at me!" he said as I walked in the door. He was on a stained mattress with a bottle of coke and a loaf of bread surrounding him; it was bleak. "Ryan...I don't have long..." he whispered in my ear, "But I just wanted to say...I always hated shuffleboard." With that out of the way, Reginald died in my arms, leaving me nothing but a cold husk and shoddy lambskin.</span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1"></span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1">Happy first week of school.</span><br />
<span class="hP" tabindex="-1"></span>Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-45957938299767278582014-01-01T16:56:00.001-08:002014-01-02T00:40:17.565-08:00PieI'm late. I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late I'm late. This thought occurred over and over as I drove towards the Marie Calendar's on the other side of town. The plan had been to meet at eight o'clock, order a couple pies to share, and go from there. Despite the fact that I'm perpetually late for most things, it still gives me more stress than if I were to open my freezer and find decapitated baby dolls in there with a note in scrawled letters that read, "I like eating your toenail clippings."<br />
<br />
Driving up to the Marie Calendar's, I saw the time was 8:15. It wasn't the worst; I figured that everyone would be sitting down and just beginning to order so I would definitely wouldn't be the <i>last</i> person there. Opening the door, I was greeted by two familiar faces; Russell and Spencer. They were sitting by the fireplace looking...early.<br />
<br />
"No one else is here yet?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"What did you expect going to dinner with a bunch of Mormons?" said Spencer, a punctual Mormon.<br />
<br />
It was true.<br />
<br />
Over the past few years, my high school friends have organized small gatherings here and there to bring the whole gang back together. Sometimes these occasions are brought on by a marriage of one of our cohorts, or simply because everyone is in the same town at the same time--they usually happen is the point that I'm trying to get across. Since we have gone our different ways in life and a lot of us might not have much in common anymore, these meetings have become somewhat of a "catch-me-up" event. Who's dating who, who's knocked up, who's getting married, who got arrested--just stuff like that; not to mention there's always the question of, "If we had met now in life, would we be friends?," But I try and disregard that as we have the "high-school bond" and that I do enjoy these people's company.<br />
<br />
About five minutes after getting our table the rest of the gang showed up. By that point, a few of us had ordered individual slices of pie and our original plan had gone out the window. But screw the plan and onto the gossip!<br />
<br />
We brought up new jobs, graduate programs, undergraduate programs; basically all those things in life where we just cry a little bit inside when we think about our future <strike>debt</strike> lives. It was nice to focus on our dearest Angelee for a while as we prodded her about her dating life until it came time to question me about my recent trip. Oh, by the way, <i>I just went to China*</i>. I was slightly obligated to fill my friends in.<br />
<br />
Friend 1: Wait, where did you go?<br />
<br />
Ryan: China. I got back last Saturday.<br />
<br />
Friend 1: Really? That's crazy. How long were you there?<br />
<br />
Ryan: Seven months.<br />
<br />
Friend 2: I always know what you're doing because I read your blog.<br />
<br />
Ryan: Yeah...I really gotta keep that thing up better. Weird story: people in my city found out about my blog.<br />
<br />
Friend 2: How did that happen?<br />
<br />
Ryan: I was at a birthday dinner when one of the Chinese guys there heard my name and said, "Wait...do you have a blog?" My friends told me there was only one other Ryan in the entire city and they assumed he didn't have a blog. I was a little afraid because things I wrote about my city might not be considered the...nicest.<br />
<br />
Friend 4: That's so crazy. Small world, I guess.<br />
<br />
Ryan: Yeah, so I guess I'm slightly internet famous! (I think it's right above the daily arrests and below the obituary)<br />
<br />
Friend 2: I really do think your blog is funny. Though, if someone reading it didn't know you very well, they might think you're always about to kill yourself.<br />
<br />
Ryan: What?<br />
<br />
Friend 3: Yeah, if [the reader] didn't know you, you can seem a little moody.<br />
<br />
*Nods from around the table in agreement.*<br />
<br />
Ryan: Oh. Well, I guess I'll try and sound less...suicidal.<br />
<br />
Friend 1: Don't worry, we still think you're funny.<br />
<br />
Friend 3: You're probably going to blog about this, huh?<br />
<br />
Ryan: No...<br />
<br />
<br />
*Yes, now I can use this as one of those conversational ice-breakers FOR EVERY CONVERSATION EVER. "Oh, you look tired." "Yeah, well I just went to CHINA."; "Would you like a little more cheese on your pasta, sir?" "Cheese on your CHINA?!"; "I'm going into lab--" "CHINA. DID YOU KNOW I WENT THERE." (I really promise that I'm not going to be <i>that guy,</i> (You know, the one who has to tell you about that <i>one</i> thing he did every time he finds an opportunity to insert it into conversation.) but I might bring it up from time to time. I call it playing the "China Card." Haven't seen me in awhile and I demand time for you to see me? China card. I demand cheesecake for lunch and macaroni for dinner? China card.)<br />
<br />Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-37338202331872913802013-12-20T10:22:00.001-08:002013-12-20T10:22:20.444-08:00¡Que Sopresa!Oh hey guys, guess what?<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'M BACK IN THE 'MERICA.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, I have returned a tad earlier than I had previously anticipated. Well, that's a lie. It's really earlier than some of <i>you</i> had anticipated because I've been planning this for month. <i>Months.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
See, I decided when I bought my plane ticket home that I would give some people some big surprises because who doesn't love a surprise? Me, I don't. Well, they're fun and I can enjoy them, but I like giving them more! The joy, the tears, that small moment when you believe you might have given someone a heart attack, to that longer, more disappointing moment when you realize that they're not going down. Who doesn't love PLAYING WITH PEOPLE'S LIVES?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So now that I'm back, I'm going to answer all those questions that you <i>totally </i>want to ask me (Yes, I'm making the assumption that someone would ask these questions. I reserve the right to make up hypothetical situations in my mind that I believe could happen in real life).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here we go:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
1. Holy guacamole, you must be tired. Plane flight; how long?</div>
<div>
Well, including layovers, 32 hours. Total flight time: about 18.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. Oh my gosh, did the man next to you on the plane invade your space!?</div>
<div>
How did you know?! He breached the unwritten rule of, "This is my armrest and that is your armrest." I might have noticeably pushed his arm a few <strike>hundred </strike>times during the 13 hours.</div>
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<br /></div>
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3. Isn't The 'Merica just so great?</div>
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Yeah, and quiet. Where are all the people?</div>
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<br /></div>
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4. These are all the people.</div>
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Really?</div>
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<br /></div>
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5. Really.</div>
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Oh.</div>
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<br /></div>
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6. Welcome back to the land of preservatives!</div>
<div>
Thank you, glad to be back. But isn't Oreo a preservative? Because I'm pretty sure I ate enough of those paired with McDonald's to preserve my body for the next millennium (But wouldn't that seriously be cool if my body was so well preserved from the chemicals in the food that I ate that future archaeologists just found me perfectly preserved, skin and all, eating a doughnut off the ground or something? This is assuming we have a sudden disaster that kills everyone. Like Vesuvius, but much less...ashy.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
7. What do you miss?</div>
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Dodging cars in traffic BECAUSE IT MAKES ME FEEL ALIVE. But seriously, I miss some foods (Cheap noodles everywhere!), cheap public transportation, and other things that I'm sure I'll be aware of the more time that I'm back.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
8. So you totally speak Chinese now, right?</div>
<div>
Wo jiao Ryan. Wo xi huan noodles. Wo bu hui shuo hao zhongyue ...ni shi xigua.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
9. What it's like being back in the 'Merica?</div>
<div>
You've been here for awhile, so it must be pretty OK.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Glad to be back y'all.</div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-76264034886547544742013-12-06T15:00:00.002-08:002013-12-06T15:00:03.292-08:00Things I Didn't Know: Part IIOh look at that! We're back to things about China that I didn't know but forgot to tell you about last time! Is there an acronym for that? Yes, it's TACTIDNBFTTYALT. It's not the easiest to remember or say, but if you could slip it into everyday conversation, that'd be great (I'm trying to make it a thing).<br />
<br />
Yes, these are more things that I instantly remembered as soon as the original post had been up for about a day. I sat on the bus and smacked myself in the head--not only because the bus lurched to a stop, but also because <i>how could I forget some of these things</i><i>? </i>So without further ado, here are more things I didn't know about China (Also, I'm not done editing the other post that I really wanted to get up because sometimes I want things to be <i>perfect</i>. Not super perfect, but pretty dang good. I didn't want there to be such a large gap between posts and this one probably won't be edited much or at all! This is for <i>youuuuuuuuu</i>. Writing something in a list form is just so much easier and it means that I can listen to music and eat Oreo's while I write instead of concentrating really hard--and typos are just so much easier to ignore! I mean, it's like if I promised you guys a cake in two weeks, but halfway through that I decided to give you cookies. They're probably store bought, but they're still <i>cookies</i>, so you can't complain. Just take the cookies!):<br />
<br />
<u>1.* How Lines Work</u><br />
They don't. Really more of the fact that they don't exist to an extent. I'll use the example of waiting for the bus: People wait in a large clump where the bus will be. When the bus arrives, everyone just kind of walks as a collective clump to try and attempt to board the bus. If you've ever tried to shove a ball of hamsters through a vacuum tube (<i>not that I have</i>), you know that it doesn't exactly work very well. This also applies to getting off the bus. Take the hamster metaphor, but imagine the hamsters coming <i>out</i> of the tube (<i>Not that I've done that either</i>.) Never have I ever strong-armed so many people.<br />
<br />
<u>2. Belly Shirts</u><br />
For ladies? Of course not! I first arrived in China at the beginning of summer when the temperature was just starting to climb. Eventually, the heat reached what I would call the "unbearable" zone and an interesting phenomenon began: the belly shirts. Men between the ages of 20's to late middle age (Some older, too.) began to roll up their shirts to just below their nipples. This could be on the bus, in the elevator, or just a nice stroll on the town. Just...bellies, <i>everywhere</i>. The cold has now put the bellies back from where they came, but I know once it gets above 65 degrees, they will reemerge...<br />
<br />
<u>3. Bangs</u><br />
As far as I can tell, bangs are really in right now for Asian women. It could be the population density that I live in, but I'd guess that about 50% of women have bangs that are cut straight across, right above their eyes. (Which of course reminds of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SfE8cyvHvo" target="_blank">this old commercial</a> that I enjoy.)<br />
<br />
<u>4. Hot Water</u><br />
I may have talked about this before, but double the information for you! Hot water has magic properties. At least, that is what I'm led to believe. You have a small cold? Hot water. Your back hurts? Hot water. You've been stabbed? Hot water...and maybe a trip to the hospital. I've been recommended to drink hot water for all of these things (minus the stabbing) to see if it helps. I guess I can't say it <i>doesn't</i> work, but I can say I've scalded my mouth more than I ever have before when water used to be so innocent.<br />
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<u>5. Backstreet Boys</u><br />
They had a tour here recently which means I hear my childhood on the radio a lot. Every time those songs come on I get flashes of Pokémon cards and Beanie Babies.<br />
<br />
<u>6. Spitting</u>.<br />
Oh sweet Beyoncé above us, the spitting! It can be sly and dribble out the mouth, or a loud hacking accompanied by a noisy spat, but it all goes to the same place: the ground. Be you old woman or teenage boy, you spit what you want, when you want, where you want.<br />
<u><br /></u>
<u>7. Baby Clothes (<i>How did I forget this one?)</i></u><br />
There is this interesting little modification to baby clothes here. Almost each and every pair of baby pants comes included with a slit that goes from crotch to bum. Yes; also the babies don't wear underwear a lot (and diapers are a rarity). These handy little slits mean that the baby can just release the floods (1 & 2) whenever they feel like it. Places such as: On the bus onto your feet; in the Walmart garbage can; multiple street corners; and playgrounds.<br />
<br />
There are more things to give you entertainment for a while. Remember, <i>just take the cookies</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Can you guys also not get on my case about the numbering? I know this is a semi-continuation of the old list, but now it's new numbering because I want it to be. I am God in this situation.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-49853988205460151772013-11-23T07:37:00.000-08:002013-11-23T07:37:00.132-08:00Things I Didn't KnowRecently I read an article that was a compilation of people's thoughts and observations about America when they were living there for the first time (The article is actually titled <u><a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/michael-koh/2013/11/16-people-on-things-they-couldnt-believe-about-america-until-they-moved-here/#VFBrEVGgUBYHMPDq.01" target="_blank">16 People On Things They Couldn't Believe About American Until They Moved Here</a></u>). It's a whole lot of perspective on what we as a society consider "normal," or at least pretty native to the US.<br />
<br />
With this in mind, I thought I'd try and give my own list of what I've experienced living in a city in China.<br />
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<u>Let me be clear and preface this with</u>: <i>These are my own experiences and I am not generalizing them to the culture or country as a whole. It may be that I've only seen/experienced an isolated occurrence, so please don't get on my case saying things like, "But </i>I <i>went to that same city and </i>I <i>didn't have any of those happen to me!" or, "You're taking things out of context and RUINING NATIONS." </i>or, "<i>I really wish you would tell me the recipe for your chocolate chip cookies, they're just so delightful!"</i> <i>We might have been to the same place, but this is my life. Also, I'll die before I tell you the recipe, </i>Barbara<i>. Trying to steal my spotlight at the county fair each year, you harpy.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Let's begin:<br />
<br />
<u>1. Traffic</u><br />
Holy Hannah Montana the traffic! People had told me that the traffic was a little ridiculous, but I really didn't know what they meant. I think the only rule that applies is that there are no rules. If you want to change lanes, you swerve into the other lane. You may do this if you're a small e-bike or a 2-ton bus; it really doesn't matter. Pedestrians walking into the middle of a crowded intersection? No problem; just walk a little quicker grandma. (The sad thing is that I've gotten used to this and if a taxi isn't cutting people off, I think it's going too slow).<br />
<br />
<u>2. Sqautter Toilets</u><br />
The actual preferred method of excreting your bowels is by squatting. To do so, there's usually a toilet like structure planted into the ground where you just do your business. I'm still not good and and probably won't ever be good at mastering this skill. I'm alright with that. Also, there's usually no toilet paper in the stalls.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3AvoaqJ8lsCmSLQq1O22IVEOEwlW5cP85caUfZcoz2oQ3IeRJo6vzSIXZZERHzXfPi18XGuq-cfmZkzUk1-rdR-Tz-o0nwzvsc7q5Rjkiwk2y2itKB34P2uZwMstuUQv_6BqZjeN2Y9u/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz3AvoaqJ8lsCmSLQq1O22IVEOEwlW5cP85caUfZcoz2oQ3IeRJo6vzSIXZZERHzXfPi18XGuq-cfmZkzUk1-rdR-Tz-o0nwzvsc7q5Rjkiwk2y2itKB34P2uZwMstuUQv_6BqZjeN2Y9u/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a squatter in case you didn't know.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<u>3. Grocery Shopping</u><br />
<div>
Grocery shopping is much more frequent here than it is in the states. People don't usually buy things to stock up for a week or two, but usually opt just for what they need to make the meals for the next day or so. After the meal is made and everyone has eaten, a lot of the time the excess is thrown out.<br />
<br />
<u>4. Credit & Cash</u><br />
Most stores in my city don't accept credit cards. The preferred method of payment is debit or plain old cash. Thinking back, I usually never carried much actual cash in the states whereas now that's really all I deal with.<br />
<br />
<u>5. Pay As You Go Plans</u><br />
As far as I know, monthly subscriptions to most things don't exist. Your phone bill you pay for until the credit runs out, your gas until the gas is out, the internet until you use all your data, and your bus card until you've taken so many trips. Depending on how much you use something, this <i>can</i> be beneficial (seeing as how my phone bill comes to about 30$ in the past six months).<br />
<br />
<u>6. Eating Out</u><br />
Having a dinner party at one's home is mostly unheard of here. Usually, the home is reserved for immediate family. If one has a guest they'd like to treat to a meal, they always take them out to a restaurant.<br />
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<u>7. Eating Out Part II</u><br />
Eating dinner at a restaurant can mean a very long meal. It's rude to just leave mid-meal without the host suggesting that the dinner is over, so sometimes you gotta get comfy.<br />
<br />
<u>8. Transportion</u><br />
Everyone takes public transportation. It's a lot more convenient and reliable than most American cities--also cheaper. Having a car in the city is more a sign of wealth and status than it is the only mode of transportation.<br />
<br />
<u>9. Long Pinky Nail (or other fingers)</u><br />
Exactly what it sounds like. I still do not know what the utility of it is. Is it for aesthetics? Protection? Opening cans of soda?<br />
<br />
<u>10. Chinese Food is Spicy (and Other Things)</u><br />
Really, I just didn't know it was that spicy. Generally, there are also more bones in a meat dish and lots of fish are served with the face still attached. Congealed blood? I didn't know that was a dish. Restaurants serve a lot more of the animal than US restaurants do.<br />
<br />
<u>11. No Tipping</u><br />
Really, no tipping. Never ever. You just don't. (I've been told that it's offensive, but I don't have enough solid facts to say that's the sole reason, though it could be).<br />
<br />
<u>12. Portion Size</u><br />
I guess I should have expected this, but gone are the days of a really large order. Drinks are about the size of an American small (if that even exists anymore) and dinner is usually served on a small plate where you can dish up your own portions. What I would kill for an Iceberg milkshake...<br />
<br />
<u>13. Fruit on Pizza.</u><br />
NO.<br />
<br />
There you have it as that's what I can think of right now. Like I said before, this is just my experience and it's to try and give you a little better look at my current life. Who doesn't want to step into my shoes? They really don't smell that bad. Do you know whose shoes smell bad? My neighbor who puts his shoes outside his door into the hallway in my apartment building. The entire hall just ruined by rancid feet smell. One of these days I'm going to throw them out the window, but I'm also afraid to touch them because they smell so bad.<br />
<br />
...So in comparison, my feet really aren't that bad.<br />
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<u><br /></u></div>
Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1748153597600910475.post-34892956540641144542013-11-15T06:28:00.000-08:002013-11-15T06:28:07.165-08:00SandwichesI found myself wanting Subway on a Friday night. After having eaten authentic Chinese food all week, I was craving some small slice of America (preferably with turkey, tomato, and some mayo). With there being two Subways in the area, I decided to hit up the one closest to the night market. This way I would be able to hit two birds with one stone; a <strike>wonderful</strike> mediocre sub and a busy market with things I'll never need but I always love to look at.<br />
<br />
The small journey began as going to Subway is actually a small trek. Unlike my old city with a Subway built in my backyard, basement, and infesting every street corner; I would have to take a bus across town. When I say town, I mean through rush hour Chinese traffic. Take a pickle. Now shove that pickle through some peanut butter. You have about the same effect. Still, I was set on getting my sub so I headed out.<br />
<br />
After sitting on the bus pressed up against a bunch of the Zhengzhou natives, I walked a few blocks to my destination: Subway! Oh, sweet glorious American capitalism invading each country coast to coast. On my final street cross, I jogged up an elevated sidewalk and down the other side where I spied a woman sitting on the stairs jingling a small cup filled with coins. I quickly thought about how I didn't have any small bills, so I walked quickly by and hopped down the stairs.<br />
<br />
Subway was in sight...but so was another symbol of the American way, McDonald's. Despite my hour trek and my initial reason to make my way over to this part of town in the first place, my brain suddenly wanted a hamburger.<br />
<br />
<i>No, Ryan; you came over here for Subway. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But, </i>hamburger.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I know, but do you really need to eat that junk?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Yes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Well, OK then.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I didn't struggle too long before I walked underneath the glowing yellow 'M' and through the doors.<i> </i>I made an order and, like its name, the food was fast. Sitting down, my mind kept going back to the old woman on the stairs.<br />
<br />
Weeks before, I had been going to a trivia night with my old roommate, Jake. We would always walk through an underpass and occasionally there would be people sleeping underground in the alley-like structure. "You know," I said, "some people can really just sleep anywhere." Jake didn't really respond. When we made our way to the top, Jake told me to go on ahead and that he'd be there soon. Instead of doing as he suggested, I came with him to wherever he was going (mostly out of curiosity). We found our way into a small <strike>convenient</strike> liquor store (because most stores are just liquor with random things scattered here and there) where Jake bought a few bottled drinks. I decided I was thirsty, so I bought one too. When we walked out the door, I began walking towards our original destination but Jake was walking back towards the underpass. <i>Huh?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I followed, still oblivious to what was going on, as we made our way back down the stairs. Jake went back the way we came and set a drink by each of the men sleeping on the ground. Yup. <i>Douchebag, </i>was all the echoed through my head.<br />
<br />
Growing up, I had always been taught to usually ignore homeless people because a lot of the time they weren't actually homeless, just scamming people. I really took that mentality with me everywhere, putting on these people blinders so I could walk by without being accosted. In my mind, I had made these people nothing and forgot that these people actually <i>were </i>homeless. No home. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. And here I was making a joke about how they were able to sleep on the ground. <i>Douchebag.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Back to McDonald's, I'm sitting there remembering my former douchebaggery and I kept thinking to the woman outside on the stairs. Maybe this would be the opportunity to redeem myself. I stared down at my three sandwiches: two small cheeseburgers and a chicken sandwich. Would she really enjoy any of these? I told myself that she probably wouldn't. I ate my two hamburgers and being full, I took it as a sign that she was meant to have the chicken sandwich. Yes, by this point, I was accepting that fast food from a mega-corporation were giving me existential signs.<br />
<br />
Cleaning up my garbage, I headed back outside with sandwich in tow to see if the woman was still on the stairs. She looked to be cleaning up and moving on, so I hurried towards her.<br />
<br />
"Ni hao..." I held out the sandwich and she gingerly took it, not really looking up to see what she was actually taking. When she looked down in her hands she had a slightly confused look on her face as if this was definitely not what had been expecting. Without missing a beat, I kept making my way up the stairs not really wanting to see what would happen next. I had that little light feeling I get when I've deemed something I've done worthy of correcting <i>all</i> past misdeeds. It was a chicken sandwich of karmic justice, it was.<br />
<br />
Then I coughed. <i>Oh shit.</i> The past week I had been sick. The kind of sick with loose bowels, dry heaving, and a nasty cough. I had also just given a chicken sandwich that I had handled to a homeless stranger.<br />
<br />
I walked a little faster.Ryanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15965079227413794953noreply@blogger.com0