yellow gummy bears and invaluable life lessons

a friend told me today that the way to distinguish losers from non is to "observe, analyze, and feel nothing."
what a goddamn manswer.

another lesson I haven't the slightest clue how to implement: learn confidence. oh, b'okay! feel nothing. ON IT.


"did you soak those gummy bears in vodka?"
"hah, no. but I bet they'd taste better if I had."
"that's unfortunate."
"well, they're the yellow ones. what do you expect?"

Exploding Gummy Bears  -- trying this. Anyone want to venture a guess as to how expensive potassium chlorate is these days?

P.S. I mourned for my Hoops and Yoyo mug again today. While emptying the dishwasher, I nudged the remnant of my Liquid Heaven Mug, seen here.

I have the talking base, which slurps and says, "MMMMMM LIQUID HEAVEN" and other raunchy-if-taken-out-of-context-subject-matter, but no context. I went to reclaim my mug, and no one had seen it. Saddest day.

the only fascinating thing

about today is how gorramn boring it is.

carry on.

ch-ch-ch-ch check 'em out!!!

as is evidenced by past blog entries, my memory from my childhood is spotty at best. ready for another fuzzy entry? okay, good.

I cannot remember when the first time I heard of the Locks of Love Foundation was, but I expect it was around the time of second grade. I feel like my mom was either still alive and receiving some diesel chemotherapeutic treatment that would leave her without hair, or she had just recently died. But what I do recall is this, Scruff McGruff plush toys. I wanted one quite badly. I remember pestering someone for it, and while I was begging for Scruff McGruff because he would keep me safe from everything bad in this world, I noticed on the next page of the magazine [the one facing me whilst begging] was an article about Locks of Love. A girl my age had lost all of her hair from a rare genetic disorder called "alopecia areata," and how thankful she was to a fledgeling organization called Locks of Love for donating a real human hair wig to her, so she didn't feel quite so sick and alone.

The story made me cry, and at the time, I still wore my hair so long I sometimes forgot how long it was and sat on my braid. Oftentimes, I wouldn't notice till I tried to move my neck and realized that I was anchored in place by my own ass. So I had more than enough hair to spare.

The article went on to say that it takes approximately ten hair donations to create a single wig, and I am proud to say that I have donated almost enough times to make my own wig. I aim to chop off my hair every other year. As you may expect, it's almost donatin' time. One hour's time, to be exact.

Even the littlest actions can create a lot of good, so this is what I aim for. Here is my hair as of three o'clock this afternoon [disregard the lack of styling. It's being chopped for heaven's sake. also disregard the fact that I am still wearing pajamas. I'm doing laundry, and it's finals week. you're lucky I'm wearing pants.]:

The ruler should give you a pretty good indication of where my hair will be cut to (allow for additional half-inch of length for curl-shortening). And this is the look I'm hoping to achieve post-cut [which I am acutely aware is very ambitious because it's Carrie Bradshaw, and I am lazy... but at least today it should look good]:

mignonne, n'est-ce pas?

so in case you were not a 90s kid, or your life was just extra-terrible and you didn't get the pleasure of growing up with Scruff McGruff or Locks of Love, here are the websites.

SMG -- http://mcgruff.org/ [McGruff on the main page sounds quite a bit like a less-constipated Strong Bad]

LoL -- http://locksoflove.org/

and if you don't know who Strong Bad is -- http://www.homestarrunner.com/vcr_sb.html

UPDATE:

this is me, post-cut.

given the fact that it is raining outside, I'm pretty happy with the result.

P.S. did you know that Locks of Love is not the only hair donation foundation out there? I didn't! Nor was I aware that there has been some brou-ha-ha surrounding these foundations in recent years, with donations being thrown out and other scandals. Pantene Beautiful Lengths is by far the most lenient place to donate, if you are willing. Eight inches of unbleached hair, and you're good to go. if you're looking for more donation options check out this comprehensive list.

please and thank you.

don't misunderstand; I do what I want.

I was all nervous for my final clinical evaluation earlier today.
I sat down in my professor's office, professionally dressed.
she took one look at me and laughed. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm a little nervous, but otherwise really good. How are you?"
"Well, don't you know you passed? What is there to be nervous about?"
"Uhm, well... I do now."
"Don't be silly, you would know if you weren't passing."

a thousand mental pictures of rolled eyes, gritted teeth, and stamped feet flooded my mind's eye. my heart rate climbed.

"Uh, how?"
"We would have created a plan together to help you suck less."
"Thank you?"

She went on to say that on a scale of embarrassment to the program and the institution to self-directed, I was graded a "supervised" because I "lack confidence." Otherwise, I would have been a sure "self-directed." [FUUUUUU----] She passed me her summary of my clinical performance which, by the by, was written free-hand and without all the stuff-me-in-a-box clinical jargon with which I struggled. I whispered that I was jealous that she got to write in free form.

She asked if there was anything I wanted to say because if not, I could leave. I stared at her for a moment. Wait, this is what I sweated all morning? Uhm, no. I was going to fill the void with words until I felt I had overstayed my welcome.

Quite unprovoked, I said, "The most learning I did this semester was about myself. Sure, my dexterity improved and I learned how to manipulate my voice for those hard of hearing to better understand me and skills I wasn't aware even existed. But mostly, I learned that I am smart. I am capable. I am compassionate. My work is worthy of praise. And above all, I learned that I can no longer subsist on the opinions of others. Approval won't always be forthcoming, so I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. Be confident in the face of adversity. Because I am good at what I do. I have no idea how to implement that, but I think I'm making progress."

In reply, I got, "you should be a writer."

heh. heh. I TRIED THAT ALREADY. Also, you just told me that if I wasn't so damn insecure, I would be an early self-directed. so I'm stickin' with nurse. final answer.

"But you're right. You should be confident. You're smart. You have no idea what your strengths are. I think that's because you have so many. So work on that. Learn from this, okay? Anything else?"

If I hadn't been seated already, I may have hit the ground. Learn confidence. Okay, no clue how to do that. But uhhhh -- confidence. And before I even really understood what was happening, I was ushered out the door. I continued walking down the hallway in a bit of a fog. is this real life?

there is only so much solace one can take in

the thought that hey, it's not mouth-cancer. and therefore, we don't know what it is.
but you better believe I'm taking ALL OF IT.

gratitude, thy name is Caitlyn.
speaking of, I did a fabulous job on exam number four.
and in two weeks' time, I will be immune to this season's flu arsenal.
hot chocolate on a chilly afternoon. polished nails for a whole month. no five am till January. good friends. good slow cooker creations. nostalgia. naps. confidence. character arcs. encouragement from an unexpected source. patience. perseverance. spell check. Joseph Gordon-Levitt. mmmm. gratitude.

honesty's a real bitch.

okay. here it is.

my mom died when I was little little little. of a cold. in an ICU. because a rounding doc or ICU nurse or fellow patient or a visitor was ill in her general presence. it all happened in four days, from surgery to signing the "time of death" paperwork. I didn't even get my Friday visit. I was pissed. My dad returned the teddy bear I bought for my mom in the hospital gift shop to me before I got the talk. I tried to tear its head off. I lacked the strength. I remember sitting in the wicker chair, crying, trying desperately to behead a bear I had bought less than a week before and when my dad asked, "are you going to say anything?" I looked at him and said, "It should be her telling me about you."

Meanwhile, Joshua ran around the house at top speed, screaming, "Mommy's on a vacation with JEESUS."

I have to give moms credit. they do all the dirty work. all the emotional stuff, like heartbreak and death and triumph and hitting a rut and puberty and everything that is most glorifying and horrifying. the two years preceding my mom's death were a rough patch for our family. my great aunt, my uncle, my grandmother, and my grandfather all passed before her. and each conversation started the same way. my mom would flop on her back beside me on my purple canopy bed. she would talk about the flowers on the canopy piece and transition the conversation from the beauty of flowers to life and how beautiful life is and how we celebrate the life of a beautiful person with beautiful things like flowers. and then she would tell me of the Beauty That Is To Come in heaven, where Jesus and the angels were ready and waiting to rejoice with us. and inevitably, the conversation circled around to who died and when the funeral was.

the first funeral I attended was scary. I cannot remember much, aside from being yelled at for staring at the casket for too long because I was blocking prime prayer views. I remember thinking, "why bother praying for her now? can't she just walk next door and say hi to Jesus herself?" oh, and how cold her hands were. after being extricated from the viewing area, I overdosed on Almond Joys in the basement of the funeral home with my cousins and threw up for days.

my mom's funeral was different. I asked several times if I could stay with her -- the cushions looked comfy, and she was sleeping so soundly. I remember silly little things from my mother's funeral, like the lipstain she wore. and how mad I thought she would be when she woke up and saw the purple hat they put her in. I remember trying to talk to family members who could manage four words before sobbing. I remember standing on the burial plot. My cousin looked Pastor Denny in the eye and demanded him to open the casket one more time, to "give Aunt Cathy one more hug." I remember thinking that I never loved her more than in that moment. I remember leaving the burial site with my aunt who smoked in the car, and even though I pretended like I hated her for it, I secretly loved the excuse to choke and cry because I felt like I had already reached my tear quota.

but you know what? I don't wonder. I don't think, is there more we could have done? she got poked and prodded, as did we all. she found a marrow-match. she walked boldly into surgery that would leave her more vulnerable than the day she was born. her bone marrow and the scar tissue forcing it outside the bone was sucked out, and the donor marrow replaced it.

and you know what? I love you. I want you to fight. I want you to win. you know why? because the only thing that I can think of worse than reliving that whole experience is adding the heartbreak of inaction to it.

so, be cool man. go. fight. win.

patience and penlights.

I have crevices in my teeth, the deepest craters of which are impenetrable by even the goofiest looking toothbrush. as a result, I periodically have acrylic gook pumped into them as a prophylactic measure against decay because I went through a lot of pain -- both physical and psychosocial -- to get my teeth so straight and so clean-clean. not gonna give that up now.

only trouble is, I hate that gook. It smells like acrylic nail sludge was concentrated, with a little added hate. and my teeth are like ticklish. It's weird. my current dentist tells me I'm the only client of his who laughs during the procedure. Though, if it's nerves or veritable ticklishness, I cannot be sure. and that typical teeth polishing business? forget about it. just hearing the polishing brush turn mildly sets off my gag reflex.

so today, I almost made it out the door without a proper checkup by the dentist. shucks and darn, he caught me. and he suggested I take a seat in the next room over so the hygienist could continue cleaning up my microscopic tooth shards off my pre-warmed chair. it's always funny to reflect on what matters are most pressing at a given time -- in that moment, all that mattered was my cold bum.

my dentist was just finishing up the exam, when he points out a 2mm by 2mm bleb on the left tonsillar region of my oropharynx (not quite throat, for you lay-folk). He prefaced the explanation with, "this is outside my scope of practice, but..." which sounds a bit like "OMFGZ HOLICRAP" to me. He suggests I go check it out, biopsy it if I must. It could be nothing. It could be a papilloma. It could be early stage throat cancer.

In all likelihood, it's like that skin tag on my chin... you know, that thing my dad tried to perform the horrifying, parent-patented "lick the thumb, swab it away" method every Sunday at church for my first eleven years. you'd think after the first time I shouted, "DAD! That has always been there!" he would have learned. You would be wrong.

but let's be real here. I do not use tobacco of any sort. I have been vaccinated against many, many strains of HPV. I eat fruits and veggies. I exercise. I de-stress. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'll be eating a metric eff-ton of leafy greens and adding green blurfs to all of my beverages and taking ALL the vitamins and practicing ALL the yoga between now and Wednesday. but fo serious. I have cried it all out (I think). I can't wait for Wednesday to hear, "legit. it's nothing."

P.S. pro tip: if you are trying to use a penlight to look down your own throat, point it at you in real life, not your mirror-throat. that will only complicate things and leave you with floaters.