Happy Birthday, Mr. President

Chin chin in honor of these revolutionaries 

 

Priorities, people!

Today while I was walking down University Avenue I saw a bum wearing a bluetooth.

Ok, so that didn't actually happen, but I was at the sporting goods store this morning and bared witness to a man with no legs asking to try on a pair of size ten shoes.

Crap. I lied, again.

Ok, what did actually happen this fortnight was me failing to escape the ubiquitous media coverage of Ms. Suleman, proud mother of now fourteen children. The woman, who has clearly undergone too many restylane injections and is evidently suffering an identity crisis mistaking herself for Angelina Jolie, receives $490/month in food stamps, plus additional federal assistance for three of her disabled in vitro babies from her first sextuplet. Suleman claimed in her interview that once she was finished with her masters program, she would be able to financially support her babies on her own. You know what else she wanted to do on her own? According to a family member, the biological father of her children (who were all conceived in vitro) is actually her boyfriend. "He was in love with her and wanted to marry her, but she wanted children on her own".

What the hell?!

In vitro fertilization costs between 12,000 and 15,000 dollars which is a lot of money, unless you were fortunate enough to receive a disability fortune after being injured in a riot at a mental health hospital.

So where do we draw the line? Where do personal freedoms infringe upon ethics? When is it right for science to trump nature? At what point should the feds quit bailing everyone out? At what age does one realize his mother is cuckoo?

the counterpoint

Every story has two sides. Last week I wrote about the consequences of living in a world/country/society where ambition is so highly regarded that it becomes oppressive, rendering us zombie-like and out of touch with life. Some of us, particularly the over achievers, would likely benefit from being committed to one thing fewer, thus less hurried, and more available to stop and smell the  lilies. Furthermore, these individuals would be more happy, more productive (ironically), and overall, less manic. While I wholly believe in said thesis, it is imperative I make one thing clear- this theory does NOT apply to those who lack ambition, nor those without any sense of time or urgency. Case in point- the North Park Post Office. This is most certainly not the place to visit if you have 1.) another appointment within the hour or 2.) an empty stomach. (It is however, the place to go if you have an entire afternoon to kill, or enjoy some fantastic people watching). Here are some more facts about the North Park Post Office.

1. The people who work the desks are very nice, to a fault. They are much more interested in the details of your day than getting your package stamped and sent out in a timely manner.
2. 1 in 3 people (male and female alike) come in to the NPPO donning false hair. This ranges from the spray on type, to the long, curly, very blonde type.
3. All the attractive people I have ever seen in the NPPO are very openly gay.
4. There is never a line with fewer than 18 patrons.
5. Even the ladies who run the front counter adhere to fact #2.

6. One cannot expect to spend fewer then 40 minutes in line.

So perhaps this makes me a bit of a hypocrite or idealist, or preoccupied with my own self interest, but I really would appreciate it if while I lived my life thoughtfully, patiently, and frequently stopping to sniff the flowers, everyone else could hurry the eff up.

Another one bites the dust

Today marks Day 1 of my official road to Boston, or qualifying for Boston rather; I'm off to a bit of a shaky start. The fun began when I woke up at 5am feeling like someone had lacerated my throat and stuffed it with cotton bunnies. How is it that I've escaped falling ill all autumn and winter, even escaped parasites in Asia and tetanus from Mission Bay, but still managed to wake up alongside death this morning?  C'est ma vie...

I peeled myself from my warm nest and stumbled to the bathroom to clean out my plugged ears with a warm q-tip, only then to discover fresh blood spewing out of my ear. "Hello? hello? hi, ok". I think I can still hear out of the left side of my head.  On the bright side, at least hearing loss isn't a detriment to running fast, and perhaps now I will have an excuse for my selective listening.

The day o' fun didn't stop there. I coached practice, then bounced off to school, where I proceeded to fall asleep in the front row, and right in front of the projector. And for the record, when I say "fall asleep", I mean it's a wonder I didn't electrocute myself because I woke up cheek and sleeve and desk covered in slobber, mere inches from the fancy piece of powerpointprojectoring.

I apologized to my professor, left lab early, and dragged my feet to the bus stop. Usually I ride my bicycle to school, but San Diego has been hit with such wild weather of late, and I have learned from previous bad decisions that it's better to ride the bus than cycle in the rain. I stood there for a while, letting my brain wander about such topics as deafness, my neck to toe neon green fleece ensemble (seriously), whether it would be possible to convince my teacher I was not in fact as moronic as she probably thought, etc. I checked my watch. Why had I been standing there for forty minutes? Usually my bus comes every 10. How did so much time just pass by? And why was this the fourth time the number 7 had rendered me exhausted? I leaned back to peer at the bus schedule, promptly to realize I had been standing in front of the entirely wrong bus stop while the rest of the world was passing me by. 

I managed to make it home without injury, but then like a gun draw in a shitty western film, came the rapid onset of my cookie craving. When they come, they hit me hard and there's absolutely no escaping the wrath of these inner monsters. Which brings me to the present- throat still feeling as though it were grated alongside my block of parmesan, ear needing a feminine hygiene product, physics neglected, type II diabetes- check, and now too stuffed off cookies to roll over, much less do an hour of steady state and yoga.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

evil devil bus

devil cookies

riding tandem downhill in a monsoon in korea is probably not a good idea if you plan to lose your brakes and shoes

finishing my most recent marathon

When one door shuts, another door opens

Last night I had planned a girls night out with two of my friends from last semester's biology course. Priscilla is a vivacious and garrulous Brazilian while Becky is a wonderfully wry and fantastically coarse midwesterner. Though seemingly opposite (with my personality lying somewhere in between), together we have an unassuming and harmonious companionship.

Despite my love for these girls, we have a tendency to flake on each other. Last night was meant to be our "FINALLY we are going to follow through with plans" night. I curled my hair, put on gobs of mascara, tried on a few too many outfits, did all those girly things that I have fallen somewhat out of practice doing, and finally after a little more than an hour felt like I didn't look completely masculine (although I did somewhat bare semblance to a drag queen). Anyway, it was 8:15 and I was about to start blending my first margarita when I heard the little dingle my cell phone makes when I have received a new text message. It read "sorry, my stomach is hurting, I'm just going to go to bed". WTF?!! Thanks Priscilla. I just wasted an hour trying to make myself socalclubsceneworthy, bought a bottle of tequila, tried on about six outfits, and now you're telling me you're canceling? Mind you, not even having the courage to call, rather text? And fifteen minutes after you're supposed to be at my apartment?!

GRRRR. I was fuming, but mostly just disappointed. I reached for an eye makeup removal wipe, but before giving it the initial swipe across my lids, heard again the chime of my cell phone. "Going out downtown. vip list, no cover, no line. want me to pick you up?" Thank you Trevell Quinley for swooping in and saving the day! I ended up at a notably pretentious, yet very pretty tri level club, getting treated by staff, clinking glasses late night with olympic gold medalists, and making the usual scene on the dance floor.