Sign #431 we watch way too much C.S.I. around here

While drying my hair yesterday, I managed to bang the back of my hand into the corner of the vanity in my bathroom. It hurt. I stood there, feeling it throb and watching the blood pool under the skin, a pale bluish dome with a small bloody scrape on top.

Me: "Leah, come and look. I've got a hematoma!"

Leah: "Cool! Subdural?"

Me: "Nope. Not a head injury, just a regular hematoma."

*comes into bathroom*

*looks at my hand*

*makes appraising face*

Leah: "Nice."

Me: "I know, right?"

Dispatches from the Arctic

Early January 2015:

It's cold. I mean really cold. Oh well, good excuse to hang out indoors and watch some Netflix. It's kinda nice to have to stay indoors and cocoon. Bring on the cold weather!! We love winter!!!!♥!!

Late February 2015:

It's a wonder we're all still sane. Or alive really. No one goes outside anymore unless they need to -- except the dog, and he has to pee fast or the stream will freeze up and stick him to the deck. We have to dress like this to go to work and school:

Even indoors we dress in more layers than a Winchester. We lurch around the house like Joey wearing all of Chandler's clothing. 

We are all pale and tired-eyed from too much TV. We have watched seven seasons of Friends, four seasons of The Walking Dead, and have nearly exhausted our Netflix show options. God help us, this is up next:

We are not only pale, we are dry and scaly and chapped. I am even tempted to take this guy up on his offer.

I gave up wearing makeup a couple of weeks ago. Walking into the frigid and never-ending polar winds getting from my car to my office turned my eyes into small crow's-footed Niagara Falls, and I'm damned if I'm going to let my tears wash off $5 worth of Yves Rocher every day.

Ottawa Catch-22: It's so cold the ice conditions on the Canal are perfect. It's so cold that anyone actually skating on the canal is quickly captured and placed on a 48-hour psych hold.

The days blur into each other. We get quite inordinately excited when the daily high goes up to -9, but our hopes are cruelly dashed when the windchill makes it feel like -22 anyway. We begin to wonder if this winter will ever end.

"Friends" post pictures of their tropical escape vacations online, or pictures of where they live their carefree snowless lives. 

We hates them. We hates them forever.

We descend into a scary hell of bad 1980s sit-coms and barely repressed profanity.  In fact, our feelings for winter can best be expressed like this. 

We no longer love winter. We wait patiently for Spring. Or death. Or the next season of House of Cards.

How the sugar bowl lid got broken. Or, I really ought to just sit down and not move around, like at all.

I don't think it's any secret that I am not the world's most graceful person. 

I am 5'10" with long gangly arms and legs. I also have balance issues that would lead any competent physician to suspect inner ear problems. So. Cut to the chase: Not graceful. Clumsy. Awkward.  I'm hoping to use this to my advantage somehow.

So there I was, clearing up in the kitchen, listening to my latest, most favourite jam on repeat on my iPhone, earbuds in, because I like it loud.  I was dancing up a storm, feeling very sure that this is what I looked like:

In actuality, I probably looked a lot more like this:

Only slightly less hairy.  

You'll have to imagine the general flailing and tipping too far to one side followed by the over-correction as I attempted to right myself, knocking an empty gym water bottle off the counter with my elbow.  I didn't see where it landed, I have a blind spot around my feet because...boobs. So of course I immediately stepped on the water bottle, which sent me hurtling to the floor. It's a good thing the dog is quick. It's the only thing that saved him from becoming crushed into a small, furry latke stuck to the tile floor. 

I got up slowly, and leaned a bit on the counter near the edge of the sink to push myself upright. My earbud cord snagged on a spatula that was sitting in a pot of water in the sink, lifting it up and dropping it neatly on my toes. The resultant hopping around dislodged the lid of the sugar bowl and, as if in slow motion, accompanied by my "Nooooooooo" it bounced on the tiles and separated into four pieces:

Shopping List

Crazy glue - for sugar bowl lid

Bubble wrap - for all hard surfaces in kitchen

Baby gate - to keep dog/cats out of squash zone

Mirrors and duct tape - for blind spot

Vodka - to help with the 'sitting down not moving around' thing

Insomnia thoughts, or, I wonder if I'm parking next to a crack house

This is what insomnia looks like:

Well, that's what insomnia looks like in a normal, tidy house with no pets and an attractive woman with normal hair.

This is what insomnia looks like in my house:

I share my bed with a cat, a dog, various dog toys, a book, at least one pair of glasses, and then there's the hair. (THE HAIR. I could write an entire blog post about the hair. But, I digress.) So you'd think that there's a lot that I could occupy myself with when insomnia strikes. Like that glass of wine on the night stand. Turns out, not so much.

On those occasions when I can't sleep, it seems that my neurons are determined to have one of those tequila parties where, when you clean up the next day, you find someone's bra under the kitchen table, miniature marshmallows everywhere, and that someone has drawn a moustache on the cat with a Sharpie. They (the neurons) drunkenly skitter through all the sensory input of the day (and with the internet and Netflix, there's a lot of input) and compose a list of random thoughts with which to torment me.  

Like last night -- here's a running commentary of what was going through my head:

• At work, I think I'm parking next to a crack house. 
• Sketchy neighbourhood? Check. Sketchy house? Double-check. Sketchy-looking people coming and going all the time? Check. Check. Check.
• If it isn't a crack house, what else could it be? 
• I heard about pizza in Vancouver that's drizzled with marijuana oil. To quote my friend Sasha, "Munchies: the problem and the solution all wrapped up in ooey gooey goodness. Duuude." But, wouldn't this just be a self-perpetuating rollercoaster? Eat the pizza, get the munchies, eat more pizza, get more munchies. I guess as business plans go, you could do worse.
• Maybe it isn't a crack house. Maybe it's a.....I don't know. Craps game? Bible study? Recurring Pampered Chef party?
• If I could create one piece of legislation, it would be to institute jail time for not returning your shopping cart to the shopping-cart corral at the grocery store. Criminalize selfish laziness, I always say.
• Beards without moustaches. I don't get those. I don't get those at all. Seriously, who thinks those look attractive?  I mean unless you're Amish, 

or Captain Ahab,

or Abraham Lincoln.

Why bother? And even he would have looked better if he'd added a moustache. See?

Debonair, right?

• Do cats have the capacity for sarcasm?
• Did I close the garage door?
• Poutine. I want some. But at 2:43 a.m. it's not going to happen. Peanut butter on crackers is a REALLY SUCKY substitute.
• Wait, I think I fell asleep there for a minute. CRAP, I just thought too loud and woke myself up. 

Eventually, of course, I do fall asleep. Usually about half an hour before the alarm goes off and I have to get up and get ready for work. And parking next to the crack house.

Bring on the Santa cats

I'm having a bit of trouble hanging onto the Christmas spirit this year.  I was hoping that cats in Santa hats would do it. So far, so good. Mrs. G. would be proud.

It's been a weird couple of days around here, complete with a home invasion, canine gastrointestinal distress, saw wounds, and possible narcolepsy. Intrigued? I thought you'd be. Pull up your chairs, children, and I'll tell you a story.  Or at least subject you to a disjointed stream-of-consciousness attack.

Friday evening we had a home invasion. Canadian-style. I was in my bedroom on the computer, Leah was in her room, and Rae was watching TV in the living room.  I heard the front door open and close, and the dog going ballistic.  I figured Rae had either gone out to the car for something, or a friend had dropped over.  I called out, "Rae, who's at the door" and Rae showed up in my room, all confused, and told me there was a stranger in the house.  I jumped up, not even bothering with the three-hole punch for a defensive weapon, and rushed to the front door where a guy in his early twenties was standing in the entryway taking off his boots.  (This reassured me immensely. I was sure that if he was breaking in on the false assumption that we had scads of drugs or money lying around, then he probably wouldn't be overly fastidious about making boot marks on the rug.)  I picked up Rocky, who was still barking his head off, and said to the guy, "Hi?"  He smiled at me and said, "Is Ryan here?" I answered, "No, no one named Ryan lives here." 

"Oh. I was supposed to meet Ryan here to help him move." 

"You've got the wrong address."

"I'm so sorry. My bad. Let me get my boots back on and leave you guys alone. That sure is a good watch dog you have there."

"Yes, he's very vicious and he bites." (That was a lie, but I figured it was ok in the circumstances.  I mean, in Florida I would have been within my rights to shoot him. Lying doesn't seem all that bad in comparison.)

"Sorry again. Have a nice night."

"You too. I hope you find Ryan."

And then I locked the front door, which is something I don't usually do until bedtime. 

Saturday I had planned on getting a tree and decorating the house.  A good plan, but one that was not destined to happen. Because I hadn't made arrangements to get my snow tires put on, oh in late October like smart people do,  I was left with plan B which was going to Canadian Tire and waiting in line with all the other idiots people who had put off putting their snow tires on, as the mechanics change tires on a  first come, first served basis. I came prepared with a book, because I knew that I'd be waiting a while.  It was warm in the waiting room, and the recliner chairs were very comfy.  Despite the suspenseful book, my eyes were very heavy. I didn't sleep long though. I managed to snore loudly enough to wake myself up.  The other customers were polite enough to pretend that they hadn't been laughing at me, but I know they totally were.  

Later that evening we went out to pick up a tree. Much to Leah's disgust, we didn't trek out to a tree farm, the one with the real reindeer and the camp fire around which you can sit and drink hot chocolate and eat hot dogs.  But the farm has to put the cost of reindeer upkeep and hot chocolate supplies into the price of its trees, and I'm not subsidizing anyone else but me (and the LCBO) this year. So, we drove to Loblaws and scored a nice Fraser fir. Sunday morning I got the tree stand up from the basement and got the saw out to make a nice clean cut at the bottom of the Christmas tree trunk. It took about ten minutes and I only sawed my hand open once. And it barely needed a band-aid, let alone stitches. New record. 

We had to run off before decorating the tree as we had our annual Christmas cookie decorating and dinner date at my cousin's. It was fun as usual. Knowing that the dog would be lonely while we were gone, I pulled a marrow bone out of the freezer and gave it to him to gnaw on.  (This may seem apropos of nothing, but it comes in later in the story.)  

Monday morning. Five-thirty. The alarm goes off and I reluctantly get out of bed. I had only taken a few steps in my bare feet on the hardwood floor, when I started sliding, windmilling my arms and one leg as I hydroplaned across the floor, my foot in a cold, wet, pile of dog vomit.  Apparently the marrow from inside the bone had not agreed with Rocky. At all. It did wake me up in a hurry though.

It's hard to feel Christmassy when your day starts with stepping in dog sick, and then hitting all the red lights on the way to work, and then finding no coffee in the lunch room when you arrive at work.

Fortunately, what's stopping me from being curled in a fetal position at the computer, throwing back the cheap Argentinian shiraz and watching Once Upon a Time fan video mashups set to sad Coldplay songs on Youtube, is the fact that there's a lot to look forward to: watching the girls open their presents, Christmas dinner with my friend Julie and her family, the Boxing Day trip to Windsor to be with family and friends for a whole week. I feel the Christmas spirit starting to come back.

Bring on the Santa cats.

Treadmills are Evil

I have a question for you.

Suppose, just for the sake of discussion, that you started an exercise program at the YMCA/YWCA in your community.  And you designed a twice-a-week workout consisting of about a half hour of very fast walking on a treadmill followed by an hour of weights.

And suppose on a Monday evening, you were on a treadmill, very busy talking to your friend on the next treadmill, and somehow lost your footing, causing you to flail around like the subject in a nerve-gas experiment, and, instead of jumping off, you inexplicably tried to climb back on with your left foot while your right foot was on the floor, leading to a very ungainly galloping motion which quickly ended in an epic faceplant onto the moving belt which then shot you off the back of the machine until you stopped with your shoulder still touching the belt which then proceeded to sand off a couple of layers of skin.

And suppose that you went to work on the Tuesday morning wearing a sleeveless dress because a) it was hot out, and b) you didn't want anything touching your ouchy, oozing shoulder, shining under a thin layer of Polysporin.

And suppose your co-workers exclaimed in horror at your bruised and road-burned shoulder and asked you how it happened, what would you say?

1. Bar fight.

2. Motorcycle accident.

3. Saving baby from house fire and being hit by collapsing, flaming beam that hurtled down from the ceiling as you choked on smoke, scanned the blazing room, and managed to scoop up both the wailing baby and an unconscious kitten before staggering outside into the front yard lit by the strobing red lights of fire trucks and collapsing from smoke inhalation.

4. The lame, lame truth: That you were unco-ordinated enough to fall off a treadmill.  And probably shouldn't be allowed unsupervised around gym equipment, any vehicle with a combustion engine, or high-heeled shoes.

What would I say, if this far-fetched scenario were to happen to me?

Well, I'd go with Number 1 when greeting the other attendees at a meeting, and grudgingly admit to Number 4 when faced with non-believing stares.  You know, in the unlikely event that anything like that were ever to happen to me. 

Just for the sake of discussion.

It's one of those days

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well played, Facebook. Well played.

It's Valentine's Day, and since I haven't blogged since Christmas I thought I should mark the occasion with a post.  A post about Facebook.

It seems these days that Mark Zuckerberg or one of his many, many Facebook drones is taking an unseemly amount of interest in the fact that I'm single. 

I've noticed over the past few weeks that the ads for Dr. Oz's diets, Air Wick air fresheners, and vacation resorts in Puerto Vallarta appearing next to my news feed have been replaced with ads for dating sites.  Awww, Facebook is worried that I'm lonely.  (Yeah, I know, it's nothing personal -- the fact that I ticked off 'single' in my profile sets off an algorithm that populates the ad space with dating-site ads.)  But still. The variety of ads is amusing and maybe a little disturbing.

First of all, they started with the largest possible dating pool: single men.

No thanks. I don't want to meet single men. At least not online. But hey, thanks for asking.

Then they realized I'm a bit more discriminating than that, so they countered with a site advertising 'high-quality men'. 

(Because really, a girl has to be assumed to have *some* standards, and presumably would not be clicking on ads for 'low-quality men.')

Yeah, no.

Ok, they must have thought that maybe I'd like to hook up with someone old enough to know who Blondie was.

(Once, after getting my hair cut and dyed blonde, I said to my young, attractive styist, "Thanks, this looks great!  I look just like Debbie Harry!" "Who?", he said, wrinkling up his adorable forehead. "You know, the lead singer from Blondie?" *blank stare from big brown eyes* "Um, nope." Gah!)

Nice try, but still no.

OK, they upped the ante romantically: French men?

Non. Je pense que non.

OK, time to try some other niche markets. How about tempting me with a tattooed boyfriend?

Unless it's Adam Levine, no.

Faithful single policemen seeking a second chance at love?

Why can't I get them for the first chance at love? And why just policemen? Why can't I browse the faithful single accountants, management consultants, radio personalities, or cowboys?

Oh. Never mind.

But still, no.

You have to respect the imagination inherent in this, but I still wonder about the success of a marketing ploy that figures if photos of real, attractive-ish men won't do the trick, maybe women might respond to stick figures. 

  

And here's my answer.  In stick figure font.

(Wouldn't it be hilarious if some guy I met on this site came to my house and found that I *was actually* a stick figure with a triangular dress and no hands?)

(Not that I'm even remotely stick-like, sadly.)


But then Facebook finally did it. The algorithm finally kicked out something that speaks to me.  A hook that might be really, really hard to resist. 

Well played, Facebook. Well played.





Physics Mondays: the Tights Inequality

F₁ > m_uw + m_s

Where:

F₁ is the downward force created by elastic rebound of stretched-to-the-max, so-called 'extra-long' tights,

m_uw is the coefficient of friction of the surface of underwear, and

m_sis the coefficient of friction of the...um...skin under the underwear
(I don't think it sounds very scientific to say 'coefficient of friction of my butt'.)

After walking back to the office from my car, I am about 30 seconds away from being part of an America's Funniest Home Videos pants-falling-down montage clip. 

Recent technological advances have made it possible to share photos and music wirelessly. There is a rover collecting rock and soil samples on Mars right this minute. You can buy bacon chocolate. Please tell me why modern science is UNABLE to come up with a pair of tights that don't keep plunging towards the ground with every step I take, as if they are being acted upon by some gravitational anomaly that accompanies me wherever I go.

Maybe we can get Dr. Sheldon Cooper working on this.

Random bitching about the Grey's Anatomy season nine premiere with annotated photos and charts -- because I'm a scientist, dammit

I wish I knew how to quit you, Grey's.

Because, seriously (hah! get it?  'Seriously'?? bwahahahaha), this disrespect for both the characters AND your viewers is getting old. 

Yeah, I'm talking to you, Shonda Rhimes.

I've watched this show for going on nine years.  I've turned a blind eye to confusing timelines, to outrageous medical acts that would never happen (cut LVAD wires, anyone?), characters disappearing with little or no explanation (Erica Hahn????), and the preponderance of disasters (ferry crash/shooter in hospital/giant sinkhole/plane crash/bomb in patient), because I really love the characters.

More than you do, apparently.

The send-off you gave Mark Sloan?  Not. Good. Enough. Seriously. Really.

Oh, it was sad.  And I cried and cried, like you knew I would.  Here he is on his deathbed with his two best friends beside him, Derek and Callie:

Richard, Bailey, Jackson and Ben are waiting somberly outside. 

But who isn't at his bedside?  Who should be at his bedside, if you really cared about the characters?

Well, let me see. Oh, how about....

A. Sloane, Mark's daughter, and her baby?  Remember them? 

B. Julia, Mark's plot-device, eye-surgeon girlfriend?

C. Addison, his ex-flame? 

D. I dunno, maybe his parents???

Maybe I just think way too much about this stuff.

***********************************

And now onto the next subject.  Geography or meteorology, or both.

(This is what happens when you ask a scientific editor, someone who cares about both consistency AND scientific accuracy, to suspend her disbelief.)

(Yes, it drives people who watch TV with me crazy.)

(No, I don't think I'll stop any time soon.)

During the season premiere, we got to visit Cristina at the Mayo Clinic, in Rochester, Minnesota:

  

Please note that she is wearing a winter coat under her scrubs, with a fur-collared hood (A).  Also present are blowing snowflakes (B). (Well, OK, I drew those in myself, but only because this is a screen capture from a video [the things I do for you people, it's a wonder I'm sane] and you can't see them blowing around in the photo like you can on the video.)  Shorthand: brrrrr, it's winter, it's cold.

During the same time period, we got to visit April at her parents' farm in Ohio:

  

Please note that she is in shirtsleeves (A) and next to some sort of blooming shrub (B).  Shorthand: mmmm, it's nice and warm and summer-like. (She also has a pig on a leash and appears to be channeling Heidi, but that's another discussion altogether.)

OK, let's look at a map now:

Rochester, Minnesota, is in the extreme southeast of the state of Minnesota, which puts it roughly 500 miles away from Ohio.  And not 500 miles due north from Ohio either.  So I find it very suspect that it's deep winter temps for Cristina and flip-flop weather for April, at the same time. 

The plane crash was up in the mountains.  Even at that elevation there was no snow -- and the doctors are in light jackets, so it has to be at least late spring or early summer, say May or June, when the crash happens. (Holy Cats! I do think way too much about this stuff!)

At that point in the year, I don't think you still get blizzards in southern MN.  Let's check out what the climate charts say. (Yes, it's official. WAY. TOO. MUCH.)

(Sorry, scientific editors love charts.)

The only thing I can think of is that the writers, who are probably all from L.A., looked at a map and said, "Hey, Minnesota is practically Canada, it probably snows all the time up there and is full of ice and goofy midwestern stereotype people."  Seriously, Truly, it's the only explanation.

And it's STUPID.

Is it stupid enough that I'm going to stop watching? Oh, hell no. I'm hooked. Despite my bitching, Thursday night will find me curled up on the couch as usual in my PJs with wine and good supply of kleenex.

I don't know how to quit Grey's. It's like Brokeback Hospital.