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24 September 2007 : junkies like us...
hi, i'm lindsay. the veins in my arms finally crapped out.
by which i mean, i finally encountered what i've been dreading for five weeks now but have been lucky enough to avoid: the utterly incompetent phlebotomist. i hadn't had blood drawn in over a week; my veins should have been just fine.
before he came in to draw my labs, i heard him yell "i wouldn't care to stick her" from the other side of the lab. for those of you outside the bluegrass, that's kentuckian for "i wouldn't mind drawing her blood."
smelling really good and calling me "darlin'" do not a phlebotomist make. it took three seconds for him to not be able to find a vein in my arm, two more for him to not be able to get enough blood out of the back of my hand, and another six for him to decide to use my wrist:
exhibit a, yesterday at about 4pm.
exhibit b, yesterday at about 11:30pm.
i promise never to joke about sticking the needle between my toes again.
posted by lindsay at 11:07 :: 1 comments
23 September 2007 : three.
1. to all spiders of the world: i think we can coexist just as peacefully as man and fish if you would all agree to the following things.
DO NOT build webs through my living room and then disappear so i can't find you to take you outside.
DO NOT bite me if you are poisonous.
NEVER, EVER, EVER AGAIN drop through my open car window and start crawling up my arm while i am turning left at a major intersection right next to a parking lot where there are three cops having a little powwow.
2. i, for some reason, have started reading the blog of elyse from america's next top model season one. and i, after what - five years, six? - still want to be her friend.
3. lately, every time i think about, hear about, see on television or read about new york city, i get butterflies in my stomach.
i'll keep you posted on what that means.
posted by lindsay at 23:51 :: 0 comments
20 September 2007 : Epsilon Pi in Real Time (last Saturday)
Living across the street from a frat house has its disadvantages, and also its advantages. For instance, regardless of the fact that I had no idea there was a football game this evening, I left my windows open to the cool fall air and am now full to bursting with the knowledge that UK not only had a football game tonight, but they won.
My favorite moment thus far is the drunk guy with the cup of beer sloshing all over his shirt screaming "I WANNA GO CELEBRATE!"
If my car is on fire in the morning, I will be a) not surprised and b) less inclined to be grateful to not have to turn on the news for sports updates (first sirens of the evening, commence...now).
Last Tuesday, when the fire alarm at the Epsilon Pi house went off at 3am, not only was I awake, but reading some of the most boring academic literature to have ever graced a university press. I was utterly delighted, when I first noticed the flashing lights through my blinds, for the opportunity to sit on my roof sipping tea and taking note of the various frat-girlfriend hairstyles.
Now, there was some definite milling about in a small circle and my numbers may not be perfect, but I counted 12 girlfriends and two haircuts. Maybe two point five.
Unfortunately, my recent serious illness and hospitalization occurred during rush week. The night before I went to the doctor the first time, I had to park my car three blocks away (it took almost 20 minutes for me to hobble home) out of respect for the three stretch Hummer limousines with the strobe headlights on the street directly in front of my house.
Currently, I am counting how long the same men can shout "UK, UK, UK, UK, UK, UK, WILDCATS" over and over again before getting winded. It has been 7 minutes. I am also counting how many newspaper helicopter passes are made directly over my house; so far I've got six. Seven.
Last night, there was a fairly drunken party. This morning when I went to check my mail, there was a size ten slingback peeptoe stiletto heel in matte black on the sidewalk. And while I see you all calculating this as a disadvantage, I'd like to remind you that I've been looking for a pair of black peeptoe heels for quite some time now. I'm also a size ten. My search is half over. And honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if I find the other one next Saturday.
13 minutes; ten helicopter passes. One firetruck. The local greasy spoon buys a round for the house each time something with lights and sirens passes within view; poor bartenders must be fit to anyeurise this evening.
I guess I should get around to discussing the couch on the front lawn. It's an eyesore, and surely has something of a discernible size living somewhere in it. I'm not beyond admitting, however, that sometime in the next ten months I will quite likely stumble home too drunk to make it up the 18 flights of stairs to my bed. In which case, I will collapse gleefully onto that couch with one foot flat on the ground and wake up in the morning with my panties in my pocket.
16 minutes. 14 helicopter passes.
Filled with a vague sadness that I never bothered to embrace sorority life, date a frat boy and join in such festivities as these, I must now take my leave in order to read several chapters of a very long book.
I'll let you know tomorrow what the final count on helicopters turns out to be. The screamers' numbers have dwindled to an obviously tiring two.
Welcome to Kentucky.
***UPDATE***
I don't even have the words to describe how elated I am that my car is not parked on the street tonight.
***UPDATE***
The fire department just showed up at the Epsilon Pi house. I am disappointed to report that they have set the lawn couch on fire, and now I shall be forced to move. Unless they buy me shoes.
posted by lindsay at 11:39 :: 1 comments
15 September 2007 : Show and Tell.
Yeah, okay.
Who found this website by searching for the phrase "prehensile organs for hold ing her"?
It isn't that I'm not delighted by this, or that I don't know why precariously came up on the search.
It's just that...why were you searching for that phrase? Do you, also, love Darwin with all of your heart that isn't reserved for cars and boys and Lisa B. and Cera Sunshine?
Are you single? Wanna have a non-alcoholic beer?
(Are you messing with me, Frank?)
posted by lindsay at 23:45 :: 3 comments
: missing the point.
On Thursday morning, I got the phone call again. Emergency room, blood too thin, spontaneous internal hemorrhage, blah blah blah. One source says its my sucky diet causing me to be so sensitive to the meds. One source says its a genetic predisposition (genetically sensitive? I totally buy that). Either way, I was in danger (again) of bleeding to death from a papercut, so I hauled my ass in for blood tests and vitamin k shots.
But wait - there IS something new to report here. This particular doctor, unlike the other (four...no, five) I've seen in the past three weeks, was concerned when I mentioned that I'd had an obnoxiously constant headache for oh...two weeks, maybe more. The fact of this, combined with my utter lack of clotting ability, instigated my first CAT scan experience. To those of you who are Buffy fans, the answer is no: they do not call it that because the machine is shaped like a cat.
I've decided I think CAT scans are a scam. I laid on an uncomfortable piece of plastic with my head in a vice, held real still for five minutes in the donut hole of a circular piece of tan plastic that made some whirring noises. I never saw the results of the test, no cool neon photos of my brain showed up for evidence, and yet I'm going to end up paying thousands of dollars for that wasted five minutes of my life. I believe nothing of actual consequence happened in that dimly lit room, and the ER staff merely wanted a little extra compensation on the side for having to reassure me that my brain was not bleeding.
Jerks.
But the worst part is that I expected to get a little something more out of the deal. Yeah, yeah, no brain bleeding, who cares? So my headaches are just a side effect of all the powerful drugs coursing through my system - I already knew that. I'm probably a little dehydrated - these things happen when you don't drink a full 8 ounces of water each time you take a pill. And the headaches are pretty bad, yeah, but they haven't prevented me from being a functioning member of society (well as much as any girl can from the cave of first year grad work, anyway).
I just wanted...more. When the pretty doctor walked back in and said, "So, your results are normal - you've got a brain and it isn't bleeding," I just stared at her. I think this confused her, and I was supposed to be excited - jump carefully around the room avoiding sharp objects and such.
But seriously, that's it? I don't want to hear that it's normal. Where's my "Your brain is not bleeding, but we did discover activity in an area of the brain that's never been used by a human before! Why, you're some kind of supergenius! Here, try to detach my foot and float it around the room, and then reattach it, using just the power of your brain." They could have called it the Lindsay's Area (or you know, something clever).
I spent the rest of my day grateful to not be in the hospital, but bitterly disappointed by my physical normality. Though in retrospect it occurs to me that if I could have detached her foot and reattached it using only the power of my mind, I might have suffered a fate a little worse than a hospital stay. There probably would have been really big syringes and white coats and then I would be forced to join Secret Ops or something even more sinister.
Since camo, mind control and track marks have all gone the way of the baggy, one strap overall, and I've already got some wicked bad track marks, I think I'll try to be a little more gracious in the future about my lack of supergenius.
posted by lindsay at 17:16 :: 3 comments
09 September 2007 : check my mike
for absurdity and hilarity, i invite you to follow my (somewhat sage) advice and go visit bad news hughes.
mostly because of this:
"'This way whenever I look at my tattoo I'll always remember my dead baby.' Holy shit, are you really in that much danger of forgetting your dead baby? I mean, I'm pretty sure I'd do a fine job of remembering Devo without my (totally sweet) new tattoo."
somehow i just had four days off and only managed to spend about two hours of it doing homework.
i'm the best doctoral candidate EVER.
posted by lindsay at 23:25 :: 1 comments
: probably not for the faint of heart; definitely not for me
[just a warning that this is really long]
i got out of the shower this afternoon only to realize that my towel was exactly where i'd left it three days ago (also known as "the last time i showered") - on the floor of my bedroom. i hate it when this happens, and yet it happens a lot. so i ran my dripping wet, freezing cold, naked ass through my apartment to where the towel was, hurrying back to the bathroom before i got everything i own wet.
the bathroom, which was covered in blood.
i thought i was hallucinating, too little sleep or more likely too much; blinked twice, twice more. it was still there, little puddles of it on the floor, pink rivulets traveling lazily down the sides of the tub, the toilet tank, the sink.
i panicked, of course. spent at least two important minutes that could have been better used checking myself for mortal injuries staring blankly at the carnage and thinking i need to call my doctor which doctor i have so many doctors and what do i say i need to call before i even bothered to look.
there was nothing, i couldn't see anything. even in the mirror, nothing but my skin, lately paler white than ever, blue veins alarmingly prominent in the more delicate areas. lately, the backs of my hands are disarming, fragile looking, the webwork of capillaries exposed to the world.
it took a while to figure it out. an infected hair. one. on my leg. it's been plagueing me a while now, probably because i can't help but poke at it, make sure its still there. among other things, i've been disallowed the time honored custom of removing my body hair with razor blades, so i know it's been at least three weeks since it popped up post shave. and it finally gave up the ghost. a little tiny pinprick of a nothing bodily annoyance, so small i have to contort into a ball to get a good look at it. and so much blood, any normal person would have at least cut off a hand to achieve such stunning results (never doubt that i'm an overachiever).
this is the truth of my current existence, a moment bringing skillfully home what i've been dealing with (read: avoiding) for a while now.
everything has changed.
-----
a couple of weeks ago, my leg swelled up and started hurting like a little whiny bitch. like a constant charley horse in my calf, if you can imagine. stoic that i am, i chalked it up to a tendonitis flare up, iced it down and went about my business. it didn't get better. three days, four days - the swelling didn't go down even after propping it above my heart for an entire (restless) night. so i went to the doctor.
in hindsight, i realize her reaction was telling. i think at the time i was too tired to notice. this, i would later learn, is the conversation going on just outside the door:
"we need to call KIC, i've got a young woman in here with a blood clot."
"a blood clot, really? how old?"
"twenty four."
"shit, are you joking?"
(two weeks later, that second doctor would say, "consider yourself lucky, hon. i've seen girls your age have strokes." needless to say, i was not comforted.)
two seconds, my leg in the on call's small hands, and i was out the door with a prescription for one ultrasound ("IMMEDIATELY") in one hand and written directions to KIC in the other. i got lost three times. i'll admit it: i was bawling like a little baby. too much stress, too much shit. alone in a new city, four hours from home. now was not the time for this.
i cried all the way there, through the ultrasound, the waiting room where finally they said, "didn't anyone tell you that you're going to the hospital?", all the way to the hospital, through triage, registration and on up to my room. by the time night rolled around, it would take a lortab 750 to kill my headache. i don't handle crisis well, i don't deal in stressful situations, and i don't like being lonely.
it was only a couple of days. bed rest, injections, pills - all manner of pills. my mom and my brother were there within five hours. i slept, i caught up on L.A. Ink, i pressed the call button and made an announcement to whoever answered, every single time i had to pee.
the problem, see, is not the issue itself, not the blockage or the pain or the swelling. not the degradation of being totally helpless, trapped in bed for 36 hours. not the side effects of the medications, or the inability to do anything on my own even after being out of the hospital. that doctor was right, i was lucky. i could have had a stroke. i could have had an embolism. so many people my age have it so much worse.
the problem is my body. this body, that i've loved, cherished my entire life. this body that gets potatoes when it craves potatoes and water when it craves water. and now i'm alone in this city because i'm trying to do something, because i want more than an office job and a husband, because i have to not spend the rest of my life being ordinary. but my body, it isn't, apparently, up to the task. the first four weeks i lived in lexington, i was sick. i've felt like it betrayed me, it gave up on me, it faltered when i most needed it to be strong. but let's put blame where blame is due. when i asked for the pill, last august, i was asked to sign a paper stating that i had been informed and understood the risks of taking it. see, a girl isn't supposed to get the pill when she smokes a pack of camels every single day and has a dad who died of heart disease at 45.
i can't even explain the helplessness.
i did it anyway. took the damned pill every day, smoked my cigarettes and thought nothing of it. me? i'm 24. i eat lots of leafy green vegetables, never get constipated, drink at least a gallon of water a day. i'm fucking invincible (a theory which, despite this interlude, has yet to be disproven. just saying.).
it was pretty much a year to the day of popping that first tiny hormone tab that i landed in the hospital with my leg on a pillow (did i mention the awesomocity of being moved to a negative pressure room upon the nurses' discovery of my fun shingles?). the saddest part?
in that entire year, i never got laid.
true, i was considerably less pimply and almost never pre-bleed cranky, but mostly it was completely worthless. now, i'm out the pleasure of cigarettes, and i am never, ever allowed to use any kind of hormone birth control, ever again. the pill, the patch, the shot, the ring.
seriously. never again. i'm pretty sure this is divine retribution for that time i went to boarding school, celebrating the fact that my new absence meant i didn't have to get confirmed into the catholic church, a fate i'd been certain for years i'd be unable to avoid.
-----
so let's just say that everything's gone a little haywire since then. i'm on all kinds of medications right now, keeping my blood as uncoagulatin' as safely possible. disallowed the indulgences of things like spinach, oatmeal, and a second cup of coffee. breaking, rather successfully (but with a little help from my new best friend) my smoking habit - though that, i think, is made more difficult by the fact that i can't drink on these medications. not smoking is a lot easier than not drinking - case in point, i forgot to take any chantix at all today, and cigarettes never occured to me. i also have instructions to lose 75 pounds. that's going fairly well for me, but who knows for how long. fear only motivates as long as it sticks around. and yeah, this episode has been rife with the fear, but it's receding into the past pretty quickly, buried in piles of textbooks and the detritus of everyday living.
it's pretty nutso. tap me on the shoulder, it leaves a bruise. under my clothes, i'm pretty uniformly mottled with purple and yellow. insanely frequent blood tests have left me looking like a junkie and on a first name basis with all staff at the hospital lab (yesterday, i asked how long it was gonna be before they had to stick the needle between my toes - no one was amused). and on saturday morning, at 6:14 am, i got a phone call.
"i just got the results from your blood test," the on call told me. "i need you to go the emergency room."
i'd been in bed for maybe three hours. "huh?" i said. "blood test?"
"the emergency room. NOW."
i went, driving slowly; i was shaking and i get disoriented when i drive in glasses.
"i think they called about me?" i told the triage nurse. "my inr was over ten yesterday." she startled. maybe it was just my familiarity with the jargon.
there was no wait. they gave me a vitamin k shot (i considered asking for a smack on the ass, too, but it seemed in bad taste), another blood test, three heated blankets, and a couple of hours to sleep on a bed. i'd been carefully following the restrictions on my diet: one cup of coffee per day, no leafy greens, no cranberries. the list of prohibited foods is taped to my cupboard. set alarms to take my medication every twelve hours on the dot. screwed up my courage and found a blank spot on my belly to give myself a shot, twice a day. but there's no telling, no way to ensure things don't spiral out of control. the new blood test indicated an inr so high they couldn't read it.
among other things, this apparently meant that i could just start bleeding spontaneously out of random important places - like my brain. internal hemmorhage was at any moment another moment away. i was told not to clip my toenails. it would take about 24 hours for the vitamin k to work its mojo, but until then something so simple as cracking my hip against the counter could be fatal (so, clearly, i decided to enjoy a trip to indianapolis later that day - evil was weighed against evil, and i decided that four hours risking a car accident at someone else's hands was infinitely preferable to having an anyeurism in my living room when every single person i knew in lexington was in indianapolis. plus, i like getting what i want, and i wanted to go to that show). now it wasn't just my body working against me, but everything that was supposed to help it. doing what i was told put me in more danger.
fortunately, that's past. things seem to be under control (at least until i start getting billed).
but, like i said, everything has changed. i hadn't given up smoking for all the things that went along with it: coffee and crosswords with frank, tv nights with lisa. it's hard to change everything all at once. no cigarettes, suddenly. no liquor. a new diet.
i falter. and i'm going to need help. that's the point of this post. routines need to be deconstructed: no more coffeeshop chainsmoking, no more delighted group bingeing on various things (booze, pasta, etc). did i mention that losing 75 pounds decreases my risk of a recurring event by 90%? and that air travel is going to constantly be a fearsome adversary? and that i'm supposed to go to africa next summer? and that it apparently takes something like 40 hours to travel from indianapolis to lusaka, zambia?
i haven't got much time, which means i haven't got much time for relapses. i hate this shit. i hate that i have to be this girl. but, friends, you're what i've got. so i'm asking for support. and i'm telling you all of this in the way of an obligation, a binding contract. because this, it's serious. and because i'm fucking serious. so it's gotta be.
posted by lindsay at 01:26 :: 2 comments
07 September 2007 : friday morning secrets.
i have some things to admit. some pretty shameful things, actually. i'm going to start out by saying that since, oh, the age of seventeen (which was a whopping >7 years ago) i haven't been a scenester.
it's just not a comfortable place for me to be. i like music, i go to shows. i can't, however, get down with unwritten hair and dress codes, coolness quotients that fly straight over my head. see, i'm lindsay. i do what i do. and i'm fucking badass.
that's how that works.
keeping that in mind, i will say that in this new city of mine, the 'scene' is the most comfortable place towards which i can gravitate. i should probably be sticking closer to my cohort (that's the cool grad school term for "people in my incoming class"). but they're all...in their 30s. and married. with kids. and years ahead of me, educationally.
and honestly? anthropology is what i do, but anthropology is not what i am. school is great, and i'm doing well, but i can't be school all the time. part of the reason that uk and chapel hill were contenders 1 and 2 in my grad school hunt were that they were great schools in towns with great music. and i like the scene here. the kids are more... rock and roll, i guess, than you see in my previous habitats. so my desire to make friends, feel at home and do more than read has me being exposed to things i've managed to avoid other than by mocking.
like skinny jeans. this is my confession: skinny jeans, i kind of like them. they look kind of cool. and this is worse: i kind of wish i could wear them.
don't worry; i'm still living in bootleg central. at 25, i understand that actual women have actual curves that look actually really bad in tapered pants. and i am an actual woman. more to the point, i can't afford to buy clothes.
seriously though. if someone were to walk up to me tomorrow, hand me some flat abs and thirty bucks, i'd leave a cloud of dust and a scrambly cartoon sound in my haste to get to the mall.
i just thought you needed to know.
posted by lindsay at 01:49 :: 4 comments
: note for future events
apparently, kentucky was unaware of my ability to have straight hair.
i blame kentucky for this, as the humidity up to this point has been far to great to allow such a transgression.
but i broke down this morning (and again tonight) and said to my self, "self, i think i should straighten my hair." part of this is because i've been cutting my own bangs for six weeks now and pretty much they look good only if they're stick straight. but mostly, i get bored and need to switch it up a little.
well, my straight hair threw kentucky for a loop. i've never gotten so many compliments in any given day. never had so many near-strangers touching my head. (who knew all it took was a flat iron?)
i was at the bar, sipping my soda water with lime, pretending the little plastic cup also contained gin, when he sat down. i didn't notice him until he slapped a one dollar bill faceup in front of me, his palm resonating through the club as it made contact with the wood. i look up and he says, "that's for you."
i raise an eyebrow and wait. he leans forward. "that's my vote, for you being alive."
it is a compliment of mythic proportions, and i am most charmed. and folks, this is where the evening began. words like "sexy" and phrases like "you look hot" were bandied about by unexpected individuals, like they were going out of style.
i left early, choosing to stick with what the evening had given me, and grinned all the way to my car.
here's some pictorial evidence that there was nothing out of the ordinary about me tonight (please ignore how perplexed i am by my newfangled picture takin' machine):
i have two theories.
1. people from kentucky, they like straight hair.
2. stale market, fresh meat.
posted by lindsay at 01:12 :: 1 comments
05 September 2007 : this great Kingdom.
ahem.
When the sexes differ in more important structures, it is the male which is provided with special sense-organs for discovering the female, with locomotive organs for reaching her, and often with prehensile organs for holding her.
why, charles, stop it! you'll make me blush.
posted by lindsay at 21:18 :: 8 comments
03 September 2007 : so avoid-y.
scene:
cool, sunny, sunday morning. i wake up tired, sore, and surrounded by boys. this is as entertaining as it sounds, though not remotely so dirty. my muscles (and the bruises which refuse to heal) are complaining - because i slept on the world's least comfortable floor.
after twenty minutes or so of listening to various morning musics (cat playing, boys chattering, hangover puking, dogs barking) i wake up enough to rub my eyes vigorously and dig through my bag to put in my contacts.
the boy who slept at my feet says, "hey, give me some of that stuff."
groggy, i am, and trying to put contact lenses into dry eyes that don't want to open at all, let alone wide enough to allow the adherence of foreign objects. "what stuff?"
"you know what stuff."
i dig my saline solution out of the bag and throw it at him. it hits his arm. he picks it up and says, "no rub solution?"
i thought his eyes were dry from all the drinking and staying up late. he throws it back at me, and suddenly everyone in the room is engaged in a conversation about my no rub solution. my sterile, no rub solution.
as i find and surrender the bottle of tylenol that he originally desired, i find myself less and less entertained by the hilarity around me.
sterile, no rub solution? sounds like a metaphor for my life.
posted by lindsay at 13:25 :: 0 comments
02 September 2007 : distractions galore.
in the spirit of avoiding at pretty much any cost being honest with myself about things that ought to be disclosed but will have to wait for a better day, i would like to give you a list.
all the careers i considered on my way to anthropology, and here:
1. entomology
2. osteology
3. wildlife biology
4. full time dvd menu design
5. pretentious writer of novels-ology
6. housewifery
7. world's most renowned expert on fishwives
8. paleogeography/paleogeology
9. full time coffeehouse eccentricity
10. graphic design
needless to say, numbers 3, 6, and 7 are still on the table.
posted by lindsay at 23:19 :: 1 comments
hi, i'm lindsay. the veins in my arms finally crapped out.
by which i mean, i finally encountered what i've been dreading for five weeks now but have been lucky enough to avoid: the utterly incompetent phlebotomist. i hadn't had blood drawn in over a week; my veins should have been just fine.
before he came in to draw my labs, i heard him yell "i wouldn't care to stick her" from the other side of the lab. for those of you outside the bluegrass, that's kentuckian for "i wouldn't mind drawing her blood."
smelling really good and calling me "darlin'" do not a phlebotomist make. it took three seconds for him to not be able to find a vein in my arm, two more for him to not be able to get enough blood out of the back of my hand, and another six for him to decide to use my wrist:
exhibit a, yesterday at about 4pm.
exhibit b, yesterday at about 11:30pm.
i promise never to joke about sticking the needle between my toes again.
Labels: it's a sickness, life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 11:07 :: 1 comments
23 September 2007 : three.
1. to all spiders of the world: i think we can coexist just as peacefully as man and fish if you would all agree to the following things.
DO NOT build webs through my living room and then disappear so i can't find you to take you outside.
DO NOT bite me if you are poisonous.
NEVER, EVER, EVER AGAIN drop through my open car window and start crawling up my arm while i am turning left at a major intersection right next to a parking lot where there are three cops having a little powwow.
2. i, for some reason, have started reading the blog of elyse from america's next top model season one. and i, after what - five years, six? - still want to be her friend.
3. lately, every time i think about, hear about, see on television or read about new york city, i get butterflies in my stomach.
i'll keep you posted on what that means.
posted by lindsay at 23:51 :: 0 comments
20 September 2007 : Epsilon Pi in Real Time (last Saturday)
Living across the street from a frat house has its disadvantages, and also its advantages. For instance, regardless of the fact that I had no idea there was a football game this evening, I left my windows open to the cool fall air and am now full to bursting with the knowledge that UK not only had a football game tonight, but they won.
My favorite moment thus far is the drunk guy with the cup of beer sloshing all over his shirt screaming "I WANNA GO CELEBRATE!"
If my car is on fire in the morning, I will be a) not surprised and b) less inclined to be grateful to not have to turn on the news for sports updates (first sirens of the evening, commence...now).
Last Tuesday, when the fire alarm at the Epsilon Pi house went off at 3am, not only was I awake, but reading some of the most boring academic literature to have ever graced a university press. I was utterly delighted, when I first noticed the flashing lights through my blinds, for the opportunity to sit on my roof sipping tea and taking note of the various frat-girlfriend hairstyles.
Now, there was some definite milling about in a small circle and my numbers may not be perfect, but I counted 12 girlfriends and two haircuts. Maybe two point five.
Unfortunately, my recent serious illness and hospitalization occurred during rush week. The night before I went to the doctor the first time, I had to park my car three blocks away (it took almost 20 minutes for me to hobble home) out of respect for the three stretch Hummer limousines with the strobe headlights on the street directly in front of my house.
Currently, I am counting how long the same men can shout "UK, UK, UK, UK, UK, UK, WILDCATS" over and over again before getting winded. It has been 7 minutes. I am also counting how many newspaper helicopter passes are made directly over my house; so far I've got six. Seven.
Last night, there was a fairly drunken party. This morning when I went to check my mail, there was a size ten slingback peeptoe stiletto heel in matte black on the sidewalk. And while I see you all calculating this as a disadvantage, I'd like to remind you that I've been looking for a pair of black peeptoe heels for quite some time now. I'm also a size ten. My search is half over. And honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if I find the other one next Saturday.
13 minutes; ten helicopter passes. One firetruck. The local greasy spoon buys a round for the house each time something with lights and sirens passes within view; poor bartenders must be fit to anyeurise this evening.
I guess I should get around to discussing the couch on the front lawn. It's an eyesore, and surely has something of a discernible size living somewhere in it. I'm not beyond admitting, however, that sometime in the next ten months I will quite likely stumble home too drunk to make it up the 18 flights of stairs to my bed. In which case, I will collapse gleefully onto that couch with one foot flat on the ground and wake up in the morning with my panties in my pocket.
16 minutes. 14 helicopter passes.
Filled with a vague sadness that I never bothered to embrace sorority life, date a frat boy and join in such festivities as these, I must now take my leave in order to read several chapters of a very long book.
I'll let you know tomorrow what the final count on helicopters turns out to be. The screamers' numbers have dwindled to an obviously tiring two.
Welcome to Kentucky.
***UPDATE***
I don't even have the words to describe how elated I am that my car is not parked on the street tonight.
***UPDATE***
The fire department just showed up at the Epsilon Pi house. I am disappointed to report that they have set the lawn couch on fire, and now I shall be forced to move. Unless they buy me shoes.
Labels: life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 11:39 :: 1 comments
15 September 2007 : Show and Tell.
Yeah, okay.
Who found this website by searching for the phrase "prehensile organs for hold ing her"?
It isn't that I'm not delighted by this, or that I don't know why precariously came up on the search.
It's just that...why were you searching for that phrase? Do you, also, love Darwin with all of your heart that isn't reserved for cars and boys and Lisa B. and Cera Sunshine?
Are you single? Wanna have a non-alcoholic beer?
(Are you messing with me, Frank?)
posted by lindsay at 23:45 :: 3 comments
: missing the point.
On Thursday morning, I got the phone call again. Emergency room, blood too thin, spontaneous internal hemorrhage, blah blah blah. One source says its my sucky diet causing me to be so sensitive to the meds. One source says its a genetic predisposition (genetically sensitive? I totally buy that). Either way, I was in danger (again) of bleeding to death from a papercut, so I hauled my ass in for blood tests and vitamin k shots.
But wait - there IS something new to report here. This particular doctor, unlike the other (four...no, five) I've seen in the past three weeks, was concerned when I mentioned that I'd had an obnoxiously constant headache for oh...two weeks, maybe more. The fact of this, combined with my utter lack of clotting ability, instigated my first CAT scan experience. To those of you who are Buffy fans, the answer is no: they do not call it that because the machine is shaped like a cat.
I've decided I think CAT scans are a scam. I laid on an uncomfortable piece of plastic with my head in a vice, held real still for five minutes in the donut hole of a circular piece of tan plastic that made some whirring noises. I never saw the results of the test, no cool neon photos of my brain showed up for evidence, and yet I'm going to end up paying thousands of dollars for that wasted five minutes of my life. I believe nothing of actual consequence happened in that dimly lit room, and the ER staff merely wanted a little extra compensation on the side for having to reassure me that my brain was not bleeding.
Jerks.
But the worst part is that I expected to get a little something more out of the deal. Yeah, yeah, no brain bleeding, who cares? So my headaches are just a side effect of all the powerful drugs coursing through my system - I already knew that. I'm probably a little dehydrated - these things happen when you don't drink a full 8 ounces of water each time you take a pill. And the headaches are pretty bad, yeah, but they haven't prevented me from being a functioning member of society (well as much as any girl can from the cave of first year grad work, anyway).
I just wanted...more. When the pretty doctor walked back in and said, "So, your results are normal - you've got a brain and it isn't bleeding," I just stared at her. I think this confused her, and I was supposed to be excited - jump carefully around the room avoiding sharp objects and such.
But seriously, that's it? I don't want to hear that it's normal. Where's my "Your brain is not bleeding, but we did discover activity in an area of the brain that's never been used by a human before! Why, you're some kind of supergenius! Here, try to detach my foot and float it around the room, and then reattach it, using just the power of your brain." They could have called it the Lindsay's Area (or you know, something clever).
I spent the rest of my day grateful to not be in the hospital, but bitterly disappointed by my physical normality. Though in retrospect it occurs to me that if I could have detached her foot and reattached it using only the power of my mind, I might have suffered a fate a little worse than a hospital stay. There probably would have been really big syringes and white coats and then I would be forced to join Secret Ops or something even more sinister.
Since camo, mind control and track marks have all gone the way of the baggy, one strap overall, and I've already got some wicked bad track marks, I think I'll try to be a little more gracious in the future about my lack of supergenius.
Labels: it's a sickness, life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 17:16 :: 3 comments
09 September 2007 : check my mike
for absurdity and hilarity, i invite you to follow my (somewhat sage) advice and go visit bad news hughes.
mostly because of this:
"'This way whenever I look at my tattoo I'll always remember my dead baby.' Holy shit, are you really in that much danger of forgetting your dead baby? I mean, I'm pretty sure I'd do a fine job of remembering Devo without my (totally sweet) new tattoo."
somehow i just had four days off and only managed to spend about two hours of it doing homework.
i'm the best doctoral candidate EVER.
posted by lindsay at 23:25 :: 1 comments
: probably not for the faint of heart; definitely not for me
[just a warning that this is really long]
i got out of the shower this afternoon only to realize that my towel was exactly where i'd left it three days ago (also known as "the last time i showered") - on the floor of my bedroom. i hate it when this happens, and yet it happens a lot. so i ran my dripping wet, freezing cold, naked ass through my apartment to where the towel was, hurrying back to the bathroom before i got everything i own wet.
the bathroom, which was covered in blood.
i thought i was hallucinating, too little sleep or more likely too much; blinked twice, twice more. it was still there, little puddles of it on the floor, pink rivulets traveling lazily down the sides of the tub, the toilet tank, the sink.
i panicked, of course. spent at least two important minutes that could have been better used checking myself for mortal injuries staring blankly at the carnage and thinking i need to call my doctor which doctor i have so many doctors and what do i say i need to call before i even bothered to look.
there was nothing, i couldn't see anything. even in the mirror, nothing but my skin, lately paler white than ever, blue veins alarmingly prominent in the more delicate areas. lately, the backs of my hands are disarming, fragile looking, the webwork of capillaries exposed to the world.
it took a while to figure it out. an infected hair. one. on my leg. it's been plagueing me a while now, probably because i can't help but poke at it, make sure its still there. among other things, i've been disallowed the time honored custom of removing my body hair with razor blades, so i know it's been at least three weeks since it popped up post shave. and it finally gave up the ghost. a little tiny pinprick of a nothing bodily annoyance, so small i have to contort into a ball to get a good look at it. and so much blood, any normal person would have at least cut off a hand to achieve such stunning results (never doubt that i'm an overachiever).
this is the truth of my current existence, a moment bringing skillfully home what i've been dealing with (read: avoiding) for a while now.
everything has changed.
-----
a couple of weeks ago, my leg swelled up and started hurting like a little whiny bitch. like a constant charley horse in my calf, if you can imagine. stoic that i am, i chalked it up to a tendonitis flare up, iced it down and went about my business. it didn't get better. three days, four days - the swelling didn't go down even after propping it above my heart for an entire (restless) night. so i went to the doctor.
in hindsight, i realize her reaction was telling. i think at the time i was too tired to notice. this, i would later learn, is the conversation going on just outside the door:
"we need to call KIC, i've got a young woman in here with a blood clot."
"a blood clot, really? how old?"
"twenty four."
"shit, are you joking?"
(two weeks later, that second doctor would say, "consider yourself lucky, hon. i've seen girls your age have strokes." needless to say, i was not comforted.)
two seconds, my leg in the on call's small hands, and i was out the door with a prescription for one ultrasound ("IMMEDIATELY") in one hand and written directions to KIC in the other. i got lost three times. i'll admit it: i was bawling like a little baby. too much stress, too much shit. alone in a new city, four hours from home. now was not the time for this.
i cried all the way there, through the ultrasound, the waiting room where finally they said, "didn't anyone tell you that you're going to the hospital?", all the way to the hospital, through triage, registration and on up to my room. by the time night rolled around, it would take a lortab 750 to kill my headache. i don't handle crisis well, i don't deal in stressful situations, and i don't like being lonely.
it was only a couple of days. bed rest, injections, pills - all manner of pills. my mom and my brother were there within five hours. i slept, i caught up on L.A. Ink, i pressed the call button and made an announcement to whoever answered, every single time i had to pee.
the problem, see, is not the issue itself, not the blockage or the pain or the swelling. not the degradation of being totally helpless, trapped in bed for 36 hours. not the side effects of the medications, or the inability to do anything on my own even after being out of the hospital. that doctor was right, i was lucky. i could have had a stroke. i could have had an embolism. so many people my age have it so much worse.
the problem is my body. this body, that i've loved, cherished my entire life. this body that gets potatoes when it craves potatoes and water when it craves water. and now i'm alone in this city because i'm trying to do something, because i want more than an office job and a husband, because i have to not spend the rest of my life being ordinary. but my body, it isn't, apparently, up to the task. the first four weeks i lived in lexington, i was sick. i've felt like it betrayed me, it gave up on me, it faltered when i most needed it to be strong. but let's put blame where blame is due. when i asked for the pill, last august, i was asked to sign a paper stating that i had been informed and understood the risks of taking it. see, a girl isn't supposed to get the pill when she smokes a pack of camels every single day and has a dad who died of heart disease at 45.
i can't even explain the helplessness.
i did it anyway. took the damned pill every day, smoked my cigarettes and thought nothing of it. me? i'm 24. i eat lots of leafy green vegetables, never get constipated, drink at least a gallon of water a day. i'm fucking invincible (a theory which, despite this interlude, has yet to be disproven. just saying.).
it was pretty much a year to the day of popping that first tiny hormone tab that i landed in the hospital with my leg on a pillow (did i mention the awesomocity of being moved to a negative pressure room upon the nurses' discovery of my fun shingles?). the saddest part?
in that entire year, i never got laid.
true, i was considerably less pimply and almost never pre-bleed cranky, but mostly it was completely worthless. now, i'm out the pleasure of cigarettes, and i am never, ever allowed to use any kind of hormone birth control, ever again. the pill, the patch, the shot, the ring.
seriously. never again. i'm pretty sure this is divine retribution for that time i went to boarding school, celebrating the fact that my new absence meant i didn't have to get confirmed into the catholic church, a fate i'd been certain for years i'd be unable to avoid.
-----
so let's just say that everything's gone a little haywire since then. i'm on all kinds of medications right now, keeping my blood as uncoagulatin' as safely possible. disallowed the indulgences of things like spinach, oatmeal, and a second cup of coffee. breaking, rather successfully (but with a little help from my new best friend) my smoking habit - though that, i think, is made more difficult by the fact that i can't drink on these medications. not smoking is a lot easier than not drinking - case in point, i forgot to take any chantix at all today, and cigarettes never occured to me. i also have instructions to lose 75 pounds. that's going fairly well for me, but who knows for how long. fear only motivates as long as it sticks around. and yeah, this episode has been rife with the fear, but it's receding into the past pretty quickly, buried in piles of textbooks and the detritus of everyday living.
it's pretty nutso. tap me on the shoulder, it leaves a bruise. under my clothes, i'm pretty uniformly mottled with purple and yellow. insanely frequent blood tests have left me looking like a junkie and on a first name basis with all staff at the hospital lab (yesterday, i asked how long it was gonna be before they had to stick the needle between my toes - no one was amused). and on saturday morning, at 6:14 am, i got a phone call.
"i just got the results from your blood test," the on call told me. "i need you to go the emergency room."
i'd been in bed for maybe three hours. "huh?" i said. "blood test?"
"the emergency room. NOW."
i went, driving slowly; i was shaking and i get disoriented when i drive in glasses.
"i think they called about me?" i told the triage nurse. "my inr was over ten yesterday." she startled. maybe it was just my familiarity with the jargon.
there was no wait. they gave me a vitamin k shot (i considered asking for a smack on the ass, too, but it seemed in bad taste), another blood test, three heated blankets, and a couple of hours to sleep on a bed. i'd been carefully following the restrictions on my diet: one cup of coffee per day, no leafy greens, no cranberries. the list of prohibited foods is taped to my cupboard. set alarms to take my medication every twelve hours on the dot. screwed up my courage and found a blank spot on my belly to give myself a shot, twice a day. but there's no telling, no way to ensure things don't spiral out of control. the new blood test indicated an inr so high they couldn't read it.
among other things, this apparently meant that i could just start bleeding spontaneously out of random important places - like my brain. internal hemmorhage was at any moment another moment away. i was told not to clip my toenails. it would take about 24 hours for the vitamin k to work its mojo, but until then something so simple as cracking my hip against the counter could be fatal (so, clearly, i decided to enjoy a trip to indianapolis later that day - evil was weighed against evil, and i decided that four hours risking a car accident at someone else's hands was infinitely preferable to having an anyeurism in my living room when every single person i knew in lexington was in indianapolis. plus, i like getting what i want, and i wanted to go to that show). now it wasn't just my body working against me, but everything that was supposed to help it. doing what i was told put me in more danger.
fortunately, that's past. things seem to be under control (at least until i start getting billed).
but, like i said, everything has changed. i hadn't given up smoking for all the things that went along with it: coffee and crosswords with frank, tv nights with lisa. it's hard to change everything all at once. no cigarettes, suddenly. no liquor. a new diet.
i falter. and i'm going to need help. that's the point of this post. routines need to be deconstructed: no more coffeeshop chainsmoking, no more delighted group bingeing on various things (booze, pasta, etc). did i mention that losing 75 pounds decreases my risk of a recurring event by 90%? and that air travel is going to constantly be a fearsome adversary? and that i'm supposed to go to africa next summer? and that it apparently takes something like 40 hours to travel from indianapolis to lusaka, zambia?
i haven't got much time, which means i haven't got much time for relapses. i hate this shit. i hate that i have to be this girl. but, friends, you're what i've got. so i'm asking for support. and i'm telling you all of this in the way of an obligation, a binding contract. because this, it's serious. and because i'm fucking serious. so it's gotta be.
Labels: it's a sickness, life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 01:26 :: 2 comments
07 September 2007 : friday morning secrets.
i have some things to admit. some pretty shameful things, actually. i'm going to start out by saying that since, oh, the age of seventeen (which was a whopping >7 years ago) i haven't been a scenester.
it's just not a comfortable place for me to be. i like music, i go to shows. i can't, however, get down with unwritten hair and dress codes, coolness quotients that fly straight over my head. see, i'm lindsay. i do what i do. and i'm fucking badass.
that's how that works.
keeping that in mind, i will say that in this new city of mine, the 'scene' is the most comfortable place towards which i can gravitate. i should probably be sticking closer to my cohort (that's the cool grad school term for "people in my incoming class"). but they're all...in their 30s. and married. with kids. and years ahead of me, educationally.
and honestly? anthropology is what i do, but anthropology is not what i am. school is great, and i'm doing well, but i can't be school all the time. part of the reason that uk and chapel hill were contenders 1 and 2 in my grad school hunt were that they were great schools in towns with great music. and i like the scene here. the kids are more... rock and roll, i guess, than you see in my previous habitats. so my desire to make friends, feel at home and do more than read has me being exposed to things i've managed to avoid other than by mocking.
like skinny jeans. this is my confession: skinny jeans, i kind of like them. they look kind of cool. and this is worse: i kind of wish i could wear them.
don't worry; i'm still living in bootleg central. at 25, i understand that actual women have actual curves that look actually really bad in tapered pants. and i am an actual woman. more to the point, i can't afford to buy clothes.
seriously though. if someone were to walk up to me tomorrow, hand me some flat abs and thirty bucks, i'd leave a cloud of dust and a scrambly cartoon sound in my haste to get to the mall.
i just thought you needed to know.
Labels: life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 01:49 :: 4 comments
: note for future events
apparently, kentucky was unaware of my ability to have straight hair.
i blame kentucky for this, as the humidity up to this point has been far to great to allow such a transgression.
but i broke down this morning (and again tonight) and said to my self, "self, i think i should straighten my hair." part of this is because i've been cutting my own bangs for six weeks now and pretty much they look good only if they're stick straight. but mostly, i get bored and need to switch it up a little.
well, my straight hair threw kentucky for a loop. i've never gotten so many compliments in any given day. never had so many near-strangers touching my head. (who knew all it took was a flat iron?)
i was at the bar, sipping my soda water with lime, pretending the little plastic cup also contained gin, when he sat down. i didn't notice him until he slapped a one dollar bill faceup in front of me, his palm resonating through the club as it made contact with the wood. i look up and he says, "that's for you."
i raise an eyebrow and wait. he leans forward. "that's my vote, for you being alive."
it is a compliment of mythic proportions, and i am most charmed. and folks, this is where the evening began. words like "sexy" and phrases like "you look hot" were bandied about by unexpected individuals, like they were going out of style.
i left early, choosing to stick with what the evening had given me, and grinned all the way to my car.
here's some pictorial evidence that there was nothing out of the ordinary about me tonight (please ignore how perplexed i am by my newfangled picture takin' machine):
i have two theories.
1. people from kentucky, they like straight hair.
2. stale market, fresh meat.
Labels: life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 01:12 :: 1 comments
05 September 2007 : this great Kingdom.
ahem.
When the sexes differ in more important structures, it is the male which is provided with special sense-organs for discovering the female, with locomotive organs for reaching her, and often with prehensile organs for holding her.
why, charles, stop it! you'll make me blush.
posted by lindsay at 21:18 :: 8 comments
03 September 2007 : so avoid-y.
scene:
cool, sunny, sunday morning. i wake up tired, sore, and surrounded by boys. this is as entertaining as it sounds, though not remotely so dirty. my muscles (and the bruises which refuse to heal) are complaining - because i slept on the world's least comfortable floor.
after twenty minutes or so of listening to various morning musics (cat playing, boys chattering, hangover puking, dogs barking) i wake up enough to rub my eyes vigorously and dig through my bag to put in my contacts.
the boy who slept at my feet says, "hey, give me some of that stuff."
groggy, i am, and trying to put contact lenses into dry eyes that don't want to open at all, let alone wide enough to allow the adherence of foreign objects. "what stuff?"
"you know what stuff."
i dig my saline solution out of the bag and throw it at him. it hits his arm. he picks it up and says, "no rub solution?"
i thought his eyes were dry from all the drinking and staying up late. he throws it back at me, and suddenly everyone in the room is engaged in a conversation about my no rub solution. my sterile, no rub solution.
as i find and surrender the bottle of tylenol that he originally desired, i find myself less and less entertained by the hilarity around me.
sterile, no rub solution? sounds like a metaphor for my life.
Labels: life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 13:25 :: 0 comments
02 September 2007 : distractions galore.
in the spirit of avoiding at pretty much any cost being honest with myself about things that ought to be disclosed but will have to wait for a better day, i would like to give you a list.
all the careers i considered on my way to anthropology, and here:
1. entomology
2. osteology
3. wildlife biology
4. full time dvd menu design
5. pretentious writer of novels-ology
6. housewifery
7. world's most renowned expert on fishwives
8. paleogeography/paleogeology
9. full time coffeehouse eccentricity
10. graphic design
needless to say, numbers 3, 6, and 7 are still on the table.
Labels: life in the bluegrass
posted by lindsay at 23:19 :: 1 comments