Pour one out for Jamboree

I got a new car. But before we get too excited, let’s take a minute to appreciate my old car. I feel like I need to pay her the respect she deserves.

Here she is, fresh from the car wash.

The car I’ve had for the past 13+ years was a 1997 black Honda CR-V. We (*my parents) bought it gently used when I was a senior in college.

I named the car Jamboree. She served me well all these years. I’ve driven up and down and up and down and up and down and up the length of California. I’ve driven to Tahoe and Big Bear and Mammoth in the snow. I’ve packed it full of all my stuff on multiple occasions and moved.

LA to SF move, 2008

I taught one of my nieces to drive in it. I’ve gotten into several accidents (both at fault and non at fault) and walked away uninjured each time. I could fit into tiny parking spaces but also fit large pieces of furniture in the back.

And, as Jamboree and I both got older, I could park obnoxiously close to douchebags who felt entitled to take up more than their fair share of the parking lot with their douchebag fancy cars. I didn’t care if my door got dinged or whatever, Oh? You’re going to park IN THE MIDDLE OF two clearly marked parking spaces, here’s my shitty old car RIGHT UP IN YOUR BIDNESS. YOU DON’T GET TO PARK LIKE AN ASSHOLE ON MY WATCH.

Over time, Jamboree gained a lot of, ah, shall we say, character. One by one, all of the “creature comforts,” as my mother calls them, started failing. The clicker stopped opening the back hatch and then it stopped locking or unlocking the car. The passenger side mirror was shattered. The windshield was cracked. If it rained outside, it also rained on the passenger side floor. The air conditioner would only work if I was on the highway. The CD player would get stuck and refuse to play either the CD or the radio until I jammed an old hotel key card into it to jiggle things loose. I decided to embrace the quirkiness and covered Jamboree with USC bumper stickers and got a vanity license plate.

Fight On!

When Niall and I moved in together, we moved into a nice apartment in a nice area, or so we thought. We did not realize that the “nice” area was actually right on the cusp of a not so nice area. Which is fine, whatever. Except that we have two cars. Both of us need cars for work (I could go on a long tangent here about public transportation in SF and why the two of us specifically need our cars, but can you just take my word for it?). Our new apartment had a 1 car garage, which was GREAT. Niall tried to pull his car into it and ended up scraping the passenger side mirror and the driver’s side door because the garage is NARROW. So I started parking my car in there.

And then… Niall’s car got broken into 3 times over the course of 2 months. So we swapped. Niall learned how to squeeze his wider-than-the-garage-door car into the garage, presumably by some wizardry, and I started parking my car on the street. I decided to just leave the doors unlocked, but then I got to my car one morning to find it full of garbage and reeking of cigarette smoke, so okay fine I’ll lock it. And then it was broken into twice.

And a good morning to you as well.

And then the battery was stolen once. And THEN, one fateful November morning, I walked up to the spot where I had parked my car and it was just… gone.

Uhhh.

Huh.

Dude, where’s my car?

I called Niall on the off chance that he had moved my car in the middle of the night for some reason. Nope. I walked up and down the little street to make sure I hadn’t left it in a different spot and forgotten. Nope. I called the city to make sure it hadn’t been towed. Nope. ALL SIGNS POINTED TO STOLEN. Somebody stole my 1997 Honda with 255,000 miles on it.

I took a Lyft to the police station and reported the car as stolen. And then I went home and found us a new apartment on Craigslist.

I reported the thievery to my insurance company and picked up a rental car. And then I was stuck in limbo for some unidentified amount of time until the insurance company would declare my car a “Total Loss.”

After three or four days I was CERTAIN my car was in pieces spread far and wide, but I kept waiting. AND THEN. One morning I was on my way to work when my friend Daniel called me. I figured it was a butt dial, but no! HE FOUND MY CAR. He was cycling to work and noticed a junky old Hondy CR-V plastered with USC stickers. HE FOUND MY CAR.

JUST SITTING THERE

The car was totally fine! It was still in San Francisco, parked in a neighborhood, WITH A FULL TANK OF GAS. I looked like somebody was using my car like it was THEIR car. I don’t know what they were using to start the car, but apparently you can start an old Honda with, like, a screwdriver. ANYWAY, I called the police and told them I had found the car. They sent a cop over and released the car back into my custody. I gotta say, I wasn’t too impressed with the SFPD. I had reported my car as stolen and it turned up still in San Francisco. They obviously weren’t looking very HARD for it. And the cop basically glanced at my car and gave me a piece of paper. Call me naïve, but I thought he might go knocking on some nearby doors or dust the car for fingerprints or… ANYTHING AT ALL.

(Here is the part in my story where people like to point out that car theft is SO common that the police just don’t even have the time or resources to deal with it and I reject this because, come on. I feel like doing NOTHING AT ALL to isn’t going to stop many car thieves. But whatever [sarcastic jazz hands].)

Anyhow, I had my Jamboree back! It had a few new bumps and bruises, but nothing too serious.

I got a club.

WHAT NOW MOTHER FUCKERS.

For a few months everything was great!

And then Jamboree started making a sound like an old fashioned automobile. Chugga chugga chugga AWOOGA. I took it into my regular car place and they told me it was the muffler, but that I should take it to a muffler shop since they could only replace the whole [something] that would cost a lot more than just replacing whatever part of the muffler was malfunctioning. So I took Jamboree to the muffler shop where the mechanic seemed to take personal offense at the suggestion that it might be the muffler, “Who told you that? Did they actually DRIVE the car and hear the noise? Did they just ASSUME it was the muffler? Where’s their evidence.” After a few minutes of deer-in-the-headlights stammering, I sweetly offered to give Mr. Muffler the phone number for Mr. Auto Shop so they could hash things out, but muffler man declined. After a thorough exam, he concluded that he didn’t know where the sound was coming from but it was Definitely Not the Muffler.

Okay, fine.

So I just ignored it. And it went away!

Only to be replaced with THIS noise:

I promise you, I was not transporting a sea lion.

So Niall and I discussed it and we decided that it was time for me to get a new car. While Niall would have been happy to see Jamboree sold for parts, I was wringing my hands and having an emotional crisis. My carrrrrr. My Jamboreeeeee. She had been such a good carrrrrrr. I loved that car and nobody would appreciate it like me, would they?

As you may or may not know, I have a slew of nieces and nephews, several of whom are teenagers right now. I decided to give Jamboree to my next niece in line who is turning 16. She is pretty thrilled.

And fortunately, my dad seems to have the same sentimental streak as I do (or is it the other way around?). He took the car to his mechanic where they fixed, wait for it, the BRAKES AND STEERING. When I asked what I owed him, my dad said “Nothing! We have to keep Jamboree in the family!” So, to recap, I have a new car, my niece has a new old car, and my dad is the most generous man in the world.

Goodbye Jamboree, you've been an excellent car. Be good to my niece.

Silent Night

I bought a nativity set a couple months ago. I got it because it reminded me a little of the set my parents had when I was a kid and also I like nativity sets for Christmas decorations and also I like playing with little figurines, and unfortunately as an adult lady with no children, playing with little figurines doesn't come up as often as I'd like. Anyhow, I hauled out the Christmas stuff last weekend (because December started and so yay CHRISTMAS!!!!) and today I unwrapped the nativity set. I have some questions.

Okay, there are Mary and Jesus. And that's for sure an angel with the wings. And the little shepherd boy with some sheepies and cows. So far, so good.

And then, uh. Who... are all these people?

I thought... Wait. Aren't there supposed to be the three wise men and Joseph? If that's Joseph on the far right with the halo, why does he also have a shepherd's crook? I know what you're thinking, but it's too short to be the walking stick from his journey, it's clearly a tool for shepherding. Also he's an old man, basically far left side wise man's long lost twin bro. And speaking of the wise folk, if those are the three wise persons with hats and bundles, who is that fourth lady person? Does somebody have a carrot on their head? What is going on here?

Oh, wait. I think figured out how it's supposed to look.

Okay, so in the center we've got Mary and Jesus and Mary's partner. And then on the right there is the angel and the shepherd and his apprentice boy and their animals. Over to the left side are the two wise men and one wise woman who decided to go a little more stylish with her wise hat. I like this. Whoever designed this nativity scene gave it a nice modern twist (which still allows for immaculate conception!).

A Worrisome Bump

Less than two weeks into this brand new year for which I had such sky high hopes, I developed something worrisome on a rather worrisome area.
You should probably stop reading this if you'd like to be sexually attracted to me ever in the future. Oh, no takers? FINE THEN, CARRY ON.

It was a bump. A worrisome bump on my behind.

A worrisome bump on my behind that HURT like hell. I noticed it late one night, but I decided to, y'know, wait and see how it looked in the morning because it'll probably be fine and come ON, Universe, you can't possibly be serious with this bullshit.

And then the next morning the bump was bigger and also more painful. I limped to the bathroom and examined it in the mirror all contorted-like, as one might when trying to examine one's own tush. In the mirror I could plainly see that my right arse cheek had turned an angry bright red color.

So... yikes.

I decided to throw modesty to the wind and hauled my painful hiney over to Urgent Care where I was told that my worrisome bump was actually a worrisome ABSCESS on my butt cheek that needed to be incised and drained right now RIGHTNOW.

And that is how I found myself lying facedown on an exam table with my ASS ON FULL DISPLAY.

The (very kind and professional) doctor incised and drained the abscess and covered it with gauze, while the (very nice and understanding) medical assistant told me they saw things like this all the time. They sent me on my way with some painkillers and heavy hitter antibiotics.

The next day, I found out the culture of my abscess had grown MRSA. Because, why the hell not? Of course 2013 started out with a nice case of BUTT MRSA. Of course.
I really don't know how I got it. I have excellent hygiene and I'm persnickety about hand washing. I work in healthcare, but not in a hospital. I do wound care, but it's not like I ever touch my patients AND THEN TOUCH MY BUTT. So I dunno. Perhaps it was from a toilet seat. Which makes me feel like, okay, I guess I can't ever sit on a one ever again, even with the flimsy paper guard. And I definitely feel like I'm FOREVER UNCLEAN.

The doctor emailed me the "decontamination guidelines" and I had to go back to the pharmacy for some special nose cream and fancy body cleanser. Then I had to call my supervisor and go on mandatory sick leave. And then I had to set fire to wash all of my towels and clothing.

Everything's fine. I'm fine. The abscess has healed, the pain is gone, and I'm done with my antibiotics and my decontamination process.

But, MRSA!
BUTT MRSA!

I just don't even. So, 2013, that's how it's going to be, huh?

Robbed

On Friday my car got broken into for the second time this year, because why not?
The last time was in February so I am starting to feel like an old pro at this. I drove straight to the auto glass place and they had the window fixed in a couple of hours. They also kindly piled up the items that were strewn about my car's interior (mostly maps and papers from the glove box) and vacuumed up the broken glass. They also gave me a deal for being a repeat customer. The only real downside of this place is the fact that my old windows were tinted and these guys don't do tinting so now my car is starting to look like an odd patchwork of windows.

Despite the quick fix, this sucks and I'm annoyed, particularly since my car was JUST robbed in February. These robbers got all the stuff that the others left behind-- a bag of clothes, my phone charger, my tire iron, the REST of my CDs, and my Important Things basket. They also took some things that I had just bought but hadn't carried into my apartment yet-- some sodas, kitty litter, and toilet paper. I had thought there was nothing of value left in my car after the last time but now there REALLY isn't. These thieves have been thorough. They yanked out my change drawer and moved the seats around, presumably checking for hidden valuables. They grabbed a box from the front seat and threw it in the trunk, probably after realizing it held nothing but scrap glass (for crafting). It is creepy to think about a stranger being in my car, going through my stuff, and taking what they think is valuable. Jerks.


On the plus side they overlooked my sun shade, my picnic blanket, and my flip flops.

Also? THEY LEFT ME A PRESENT.

That? Is a Wild Turkey glove. I don't know if it was an accident or some kind of insult because you'll notice that the middle finger is cleverly marked "Give 'em the Bird." Were the thieves sloppy? Or are they flipping me off?
Either way, joke's on them because all I've got to do now is find the person with the OTHER GLOVE.
Hello, my name is Superjules. You stole my Important Things Basket. Prepare to die.

Potpourri

If you are ever at Target in search of ice cube trays, let me help you out: they're over on the other side of the store by the food storage things, NOT by the rest of the kitchen stuff.
Semi related: if you are ever in need of a jar opener for all your jar opening needs, what you are looking for is a CANNING jar opener.

---

I give a monthly donation to Greenpeace, just a small amount that I set up as an automated payment through their web site. I like that it is a monthly smaller donation rather than a LARGE feeling-guilty donation because that's easier for my budget to handle. Anyhow, so now I'm on Greenpeace's email list. I'd like to be able to unsubscribe because them emailing me about whatever iceberg-melting, rainforest-burning, whale-killing horror is happening right now only stresses me out and I'm still going to give them the exact same amount of money as I do every other month. But apparently to unsubscribe, first I have to go to the web site and 'manage my account' which means that first I have to 'create an account' so I ended up just flagging the emails as spam. Sorry Greenpeace, I still support you both in values and financially but I can only handle so much unrequested communication.

---

KC, while replacing one of my annoyingly tricky and hard to find lightbulbs, "Who was it that said 'let there be light'?"

---

Last week I received an email alert from my school about a job opportunity. Sometimes hospitals, clinics, or recruiters send these out to the school so that the school can forward them to the appropriate group of students. I emailed the contact person and he called me back within the hour. The job sounded really great and they sounded interested in me, even after I explained that because the quarter ends in September I won't have my NP license until October at the earliest. He told me to email my resume and an explanation of my timeline and that he would call me the next day to set up an interview next week (which is now this week). So I emailed my resume and a cover letter that explained my timeline and I included some information from the BRN about the application process for getting my prescribing (furnishing) license to illustrate that aspect of my timeline. I tried not to get my hopes up, but I started daydreaming about what it might be like to work in that clinic and how cool it would be to move into a bigger apartment near the site and what should I wear to the interview?
And then... nothing. I didn't hear anything the next day, which was Friday. I waited until yesterday (Tuesday) and I called. Weirdly, I got one of those automated voicemails "The party you are trying to reach is unavailable, please leave a message," so apparently the guy had called me from his cell phone?
Also, the email address was the guy's personal email, not a company email.
Also, the clinic doesn't have a web site.
I'm starting to wonder if this was a real job at all.

---

I slept in Jenny's bed on Friday night. And now I know EXACTLY how KC feels about his guitar. My bed sucks.

---

My parents got me a Kindle for my birthday. It was a very nicely coordinated gift-- they got me the Kindle and my sisters got me a Kindle cover and some Amazon gift cards. I LOVE IT. I can't believe how pleasant it has made taking public trans. It's like boarding muni with a STACK of books and I just zone out with my stories and let myself get taken to a dream world of magic.
I'm a little disappointed they don't have the Babysitters Club books for Kindle because that's pretty much my fave guilty pleasure reading and then I could read them in public (instead of just at my parents' house, where my mom politely pretends she doesn't notice) because NO ONE WOULD HAVE TO KNOW. Get on that, Amazon.

I don't know, either.

Stairway to, um, nowhere?

Oh ho ho, he's cle-ver.

?

Yeah, that's all I've got for you today. I'm maxed out this week. If you know what I mean.

Smoochies,

Julesy

Potpourri

For someone who doesn't have cable I've certainly been managing to watch a few too many episodes of both Gossip Girl and The Secret Life of the American Teenager (hereafter referred to as Secret Life as that title is far too long). Actually, I don't have the attention span to sit down and watch shows, but I do like to have some noise in the background whilst I'm puttering around the house and washing dishes and such.
I find it interesting that these two shows have captured my attention because Gossip Girl is full of characters I CAN'T STAND and don't sympathize with and don't like ONE BIT (Why did you become such a tool, Dan? Why?) and don't care if bad things happen to them. But then Secret Life is full of characters that are likable and who I can sympathize with despite their poor choices and ... Oh wait. I figured it out. It's because I don't actually care about any of those characters either. Neither show has me INVESTED enough to care if something bad happens to their characters. In other words, neither show can HURT ME. Yes, that's what I said. Because I didn't think reading the Hunger Games series could hurt me even though it was violent and mind-boggling but oh ho ho, the author managed to kill off the ONE character I LOVED and so I read the rest of the book(s? [no spoilers here]) feeling wounded and mad. And I don't like to feel wounded or mad when I'm listening to TV and folding my laundry so that means I can't get too invested and I guess that solves the mystery of why I like both Gossip Girl and Secret Life. Glad that's settled. As you were.

---

I was going through the photos on my phone yesterday and I found a couple that I thought I would share in sort of a randomly assorted kind of way.

I decided to take a shortcut through an alley a few months ago. I was just walking along, minding my own business. And then I came across THIS:

Of course. Why am I even surprised at the things I see on the streets of San Francisco, anymore? Coffin boxes. Rainbow-dyed dogs. A whole horde of people dressed as Santas. There are usually plenty of interestingly dressed people but my favorite by far was a man I saw just a couple weeks ago while walking down Polk Street. Amongst the flamboyantly dressed and leather clad citizens of the Tenderloin this man was delightfully understated, wearing jeans and a tee shirt with long hair and a handlebar mustache and just a hint of something extra-- a pair of long blue dangly earrings.

---

I went to Chinatown awhile back and stood in front of this display for a rather long time.

I must have some sort of sensory issue because all I wanted to do was stand there and fondle those small objects. I particularly enjoyed picking up one and squeezing it in my hand. It was HIGHLY satisfying.

---

Um. One of my chairs broke. Actually, only the seat split in half first. KC told me he could fix it. And then I tried to move it aside into the corner while I was doing something at the table and it ended up like THIS:

Apparently I do not know my own strength. Ha ha. Just kidding. The chair must have been held together with wishes and spit because anyone who has met me in real life knows my arm muscles are purely decorative.

---

The other day I wanted to make my bed. Bowie was on the bed and would not move. So I made the bed with him in it.

Oh GOODNESS.

---

I have clinical tomorrow. My preceptor emailed me and said she'd prefer if I stayed the full 12 hours so we could debrief and plan out the rest of the quarter. Twelve hour shifts were the norm during my first year (the RN part of my program) but for the past year and a half we've switched to the kinder schedule of 6-8 hr days. And those days are intense enough, I'll tell ya what. I'm usually exhausted after them. Anyhow, most of my preceptors have not been on the 12 hr day schedules but this one is and she'd like me to stay that long. And so I will. But right now I'm sort of worrying about how on earth I'm going to cram enough snacks into my bag for tomorrow. For an 8 hour day's snacks and lunch I usually bring fruit strips, string cheese, a sandwich, an apple juice, crackers or pretzels, a granola bar, some berries, and a big bottle of water. So what am I supposed to add on there for a 12 hour day? Gah. Interesting how I really ought to be worrying about understanding EKGs and identifying heart sounds but no no here I am spending my time fretting about SNACKS.

At the Little Shamrock Pub

"I'm going to the bathroom."

"Ok. I would recommend that you go to the one on the left. It's more, um, entertaining."

"What?"

"You'll see."

Oh.

Teeth and Ovary

Toothsome
Yesterday I was at the dentist-- for the third time in a week and a half. Apparently they do mean it when they say you should see the dentist every 6 months. I used to do that... and then I started nursing school. But I found myself with some free time and so I went for a teeth cleaning last week. No big deal except a couple spots of decay and a chipped tooth. I went back the other day for my fillings and OH MAN. Maybe it's just the locations of these particular fillings or maybe I just haven't had a filling in awhile but I felt like my dentist got out the special tools just for me. He also doesn't really say what he is doing while he does it and maybe that only matters to me now that I'm a nurse and care about medical/procedural thangs. But when I'm lying there and somebody's wielding what looks to be an old ratchet and a pair of pliers I want to know what they're up to.

"Just to warn you I'm going to use my slow drill. It is more precise than my fast one" he said. And then I can only assume he signaled to someone to start pedaling in the next room because the drill was so big and clunky and rattled so hard I thought all my teeth were going to shake loose.
And then yesterday I went back to get the fillings finished up and my dentist whipped out a piece of SANDPAPER and sanded down my teeth. SANDPAPER.

I mean, I'm not saying this dentist did anything wrong, but it did sort of leave me wondering if those tools were really the best and most technologically advanced available.

Name that Ovary
A couple months ago I told my primary care NP that I sometimes get really horrendously painful cramps that leave me nauseous, sweaty, crying, and unable to stand up straight. She offered to write me a prescription for Vicodin and I held myself back from tackle-hugging her. Seriously. I was so happy I almost cried. But I also felt kind of stupid, because who take Vicodin for CRAMPS?
"I don't know what the deal is," I told her, "I mean. I feel kind of lame for taking Vicodin for this but it IS really painful. But I don't get it-- it is only sometimes; it doesn't happen every month."
"Well," she said. "Is it every other month?"
I paused and thought back. I could remember the present month as pain-free and the previous month as MIND NUMBINGLY PAINFUL but that was as far back as I could recall. "I think so," I said.
"Sounds like you've got one very powerful ovary."

One Very Powerful Ovary.

Seriously, guys, watch out for me and my ovary-- we're going to take over the world.
And now when I have cramps I get to say things like "It's powerful ovary month" and "Don't cross me, sucka, I've got more power in one little ovary that you have in your entire realm."

It was recently suggested to me that my ovary needs a name. And I think it does. She does, rather. Obviously my ovary is a girl. Also, she's the left one, by the by.

Here are the names I have come up with so far:
Jadis- the name of the witch from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She was a bitch, that's for sure, but no one can deny that she was powerful.
Ursula- the sea witch. Her name sounds like an ovary to me.
Maleficent- the evil queen. Her name just sounds eeeeevil. But maybe she's too evil because, y'know I like my ovary and all.
Ate- pronounced "Ah-tay." The Greek goddess of evil, misfortune, and infatuation. I do like how she is described as a temptress who leads humans toward evil.
Lilith- While looking up possible names, I came across our old friend Lilith. I like that she's naughty and disobedient and sexy and not submissive.

A Variety of Ladders

I count five. FIVE. And I still don't understand why they needed all of them.

How to h....

The other day I wanted a cobb salad and by some alignment of the stars I actually had lettuce, cheese, croutons, eggs, and avocados. So I went online to look up how to hard boil eggs because I tend to forget the various, tricky, hot-water-cold-water steps. Anyhow, here's what came up on Google when I started typing:

Quite the assortment of How Tos, I think. I wonder if having sex' (with the apostrophe) means different that having sex (with no apostrophe). Is there something extra fancy I don't know about? Also, WANNABE HACKERS: Quit searching for hacking instructions, that's just creepy. Why don't you go out and have some sex'? It will probably make you happier in the long run.

Stupid Drunk from the drink, waving with a hammer

So late last night I tried typing "Julia is" into Google to see what the most searched threads were.

Uh. What? The first one that comes up is JULIA IS A HIGHLY ENTHUSIASTIC SEX BOT. That's the MOST searched thread (if I'm interpreting the Google search box thingy correctly). Well okay then.

Curious about "Julia is zo schoon," I clicked on the link. And it turns out it is some kind of song or poem? Translated, it apparently goes something like this:

Julia is so clean, as clean as the siren  
All she has red hair and a few crooked legs

Julia, Julia, Ju-li-a Julia, Julia, Ju-li-a
Julia, Julia, Ju-li-a, and Julia is so clean.

And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful hair
In front of and behind the flax yarn was

And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful teeth
They are as green as grass, yellow with dark edges
 
And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful eyes
One is glass and the other looks up

And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful breasts
One of cork, the other is full of crusts

And Julia is so beautiful, she has those beautiful ears
One who is deaf, the other can not hear

And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful arms
She hung up her body, and dried intestines

And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful legs
One is wood and the other disappeared

And Julia is so beautiful, she has such beautiful legs
One keeps them stiff and the other lets them vibrate
 
And as Julia ate, she could show her appetite
She did not eat but they ate in one days ten pounds beans

And Julia was sick last, when she was in her room
Stupid Drunk from the drink, waving with a hammer

And now Julia is dead, now you can see her
Filled with bran, she lies in 'the museum to shine

Julia, Julia, Ju-li-a Julia, Julia, Ju-li-a
Julia, Julia, Ju-li-a, and Julia is so clean.


Yeah. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.... Those are the things that come up if you look for my name online.
I HAVE QUESTIONS.

Can you put pillows in the washing machine?

Yesterday I decided to go through my bathroom and get rid of the less spa-like items and excess clutter, so I started filling a bag to go to the Salvation Army. But then the bag looked kind of empty with just a few candleholders and my old shower caddy inside it and then Temerity Jane told me to be a lot more heavyhanded than I was prepared.

Well OKAY! Time to get serious. So I took a good look around my apartment and weeded out some more stuff-- that pile of sweaters that I had stacked in a cupboard as a kind of "I never wear these, let's see if I miss them" test and two or three flat irons that I don't use because my new one is vastly superior but that I was keeping "just in case." And then I came across my old pillows. I had bought new pillows months ago (during bedroom zen) and just sort of shoved the old ones into the crevice between the wall and the dryer. I didn't know if the Salvation Army would accept pillows and I couldn't seem to find the answer online but it felt wrong to just toss them down the garbage chute when really they were perfectly fine pillows, aside from the dryer side/wall dust.

So I decided to wash them. But I wasn't sure if you could put pillows in the washing machine. So I typed "Can you put pillows in the washing machine?" into Google and maybe I should have looked beyond the first page of hits but everything that came up seemed to indicate that you could... so into the washer they went.

Ten minutes later my laundry nook and kitchen/hallway were a quarter inch deep in water.

"GAH!" I shreiked. I stopped the washer, yanked out the pillows, drippily carried them into the bathroom and flung them in the general direction of the bathtub. I gathered up all of my towels and mopped up the puddles.

So then I washed the pillows in the bathtub which is probably what I should have done in the first place. And then I, uh, threw all the wet towels back into the (half full of dingy water) washing machine and crossed my fingers. (<--- see also: she who does not learn a lesson). It ended up fine, though. The end result was achieved in that the pillows became clean and the washer did not leak again.

But I am still unclear: can you put pillows in the washing machine?
Another way to phrase this might be: why the hell did my washer piddle all over my floor when I put pillows in it but seems to be working fine now?

Wanted: Nonscary Oil Incense Burner.

As a part of my make-my-bathroom-more-like-a-spa project, I went out in search of an oil incense burner. If you were to ask me why I favor oil incense, I would tell you that it is by process of elimination--

I like scented candles but I don't like how they burn unevenly. I don't like that sometimes the plate or saucer is insufficient and the wax drips out everywhere. But I also don't like the ones that come in more cup-like holders because then they burn down and you're still left with an uneven lump of wax that you either just plop a new candle on top of or scrape out of the holder with a knife and a whole lot of swearing. So, no candles.

I like the idea of regular incense in either cones or sticks, but I do have a bit of a sensitive allergic nose and the smoke from those both tend to bother me. Also, I can't deal with the cleanup of the PILES AND PILES OF INCENSE POWDER that they leave behind.

I also don't want to use some air freshener fan or that weird thing that shoots a puff of good smell into the air whenever it feels like it. Those seem somehow more chemically to me than burning oil. And also not as pretty.

Okay, do we all follow my logic for oil incense? Moving on. I decided that my old burner wasn't sufficiently zen for my spa-like bathroom. So I went looking for a new one.

And I found it nearly impossible to find an oil incense burner that wasn't shaped like some kind of howling creature.

Behold, this.

And this.

And this.

And these guys.

Maybe other people don't have the same problem with this that I do, but when I look at those I can instantly hear them crying "AWOOOOOOOO AAAAHHHHHH OOOOOOOOOO" in my head and that does not seem to be very zen at all.

So I didn't realize I was going to have to make this stipulation but here goes: I am looking for a new oil incense burner that DOES NOT RESEMBLE A BELLOWING MONSTER.

HI! Or, more specifically, HIGH!

Yesterday. It started out like a normal day. I got up, did my morning routine, maybe I'll pause here and take a moment for some obsessive compulsiveness. Would you like to see how I set up my kitchen counter at night, in preparation for the morning?:

That would be my large cloth bag for snacks, small cloth bag for my breakfast, silverware, my travel tea mug (with teabag) and lid, and a plate and knife for buttering my toast and a spoon for stirring sugar into my tea-- all neatly arranged and ready to go. It takes me about thirty seconds to arrange it like this in the evenings but if I don't do that it takes me nearly twenty minutes longer to get ready in the morning. It's like some sort of time continuum malfunction.

But back to my story: So I did my morning routine, hopped on the MUNI and headed over to school. Sitting in my first class of the day, I started to eat my breakfast-- tea and toast. I soon realized that during my commute my toast had gotten rather cold and hard so I ate only a few bites, but I did drink all of my tea. I don't drink tea every day (just on days when it is necessary that I be awake in the morning) and I never drink tea without eating something along with it.

This is important because: halfway through class I realized that I was listening to the lecture, filling out the homework sheet, doing my reading for my last class of the day, and looking through all of my syllabi and entering the important dates on my calendar ALL AT THE SAME TIME. And then I was so jittery and energetic that I took the STAIRS up to the 7th floor for my second class of the day. Aha, I thought, so THIS is a caffeine high! And I kept thinking it would go away but all day long I was a little bundle of exuberance and fervor. It was kind of strange, but on the other hand kind of awesome because I had such an animated and productive day. So. Caffeine. Yes.

Question

Okay, Amazon, what the hell is this? If I'm looking at shovels you immediately assume that I might also like some blankets and AXES? How about some rope, too? And maybe a map of the desert where I could dump the body?

(c)heater

Winter has apparently arrived in the City by the Bay. For me, this means permanently switching my radio station to 96.5 so I can listen to Christmas music all the time. Yes, allthetime. It also means that it's cold. I know it's probably not cold to some of you snowfolk, but cold to my California wussyness. And I'm extra wussy, or so I've been told. So the other day I turned on my heater and I realized something: the heater likes the blinds shut.

See I was leaving the blinds on my window open for several reasons-- natural light, making my wee apartment feel less claustrophobic, people watching during allocated study time, etc etc. But also because I figured that the COLD from the windows would make the heater stay on longer. Because if the apartment feels colder to the heater, it will work harder... you follow my logic?

But then the other day I left the blinds shut because I wasn't ready to deal with the day and the heater stayed on much much longer. And then I tested it, opening the blinds to see when it would shut off. To my surprise, it turned off much SOONER. It's as if my heater needs an ego boosting sense of accomplishment. When the blinds are shut, the heater chugs along, warming up the house degree by degree, feeling proud of itself. When the blinds are open, the heater starts up and then quits, throwing its arms into the air and pouting well why do I even bother!?


So this means I have to make a choice when I'm in my apartment: I can either have natural light and a pretty view of the outside world, or I can be warm. But I can't have both. (Balls!)

Jules what now?

I was at Ikea today during my break, wandering the maze and spacing out. Then I hit up the "As Is" section, which I think is by far and away the best part of Ikea-- furniture that is cheaper BECAUSE you already assembled it for me? Yes, please. I ended up buying a little bookshelf thingy that will help me turn that weird desk/irritating cabinet area into something more useful and thus work toward the zenning of my bedroom.


I also found these:

?

Huh.

I came home from Chico with my leg looking like this:


I don't think this photo does the injury justice since you can't quite make out the multiple bruises but, well, it's hard to photograph your own inner knee area. Also, it's out of focus. Also, apparently I'm rather veiny.

And today I came home to find Bowie sitting on the bed like this:


Leaning on his haunches like some beer-bellied couch potato. And then he just STARED at me. He even sat there long enough for me to run into the other room and get my camera.

I'm not sure to think about either situation.

Watchmen

I thought this movie was great. Compelling, entertaining, exciting, funny, etc. Probably one of the best superhero movies I've seen. But this poster is a bit deceiving,

[C said it wasn't right to post this and ruin the surprise so **SPOILER ALERT**]

because, well, that guy is NAKED for the majority of the movie. He wears this suit in like one scene and a glorified thong in a few others but for the most part he's just walking around with his glowing blue wang out. And none of the other characters acknowledge it or tell him to put some damn clothes on, EVER. He's just hanging out naked. All the time. That's just how it is. And it's cool, whatever, because I guess that's how it is in the book. And I guess not everybody is apparently an eight year old at heart who feels the need to slap her seatmate on the shoulder, giggle, and hiss "BLUE WANG!!" whenever it appears.