Baubles the Meerkat

Baubles the Meerkat is proof that there is a god and he is hilarious.

A few weeks ago some friends and I went to the Honolulu Zoo. When we walked up to the meerkat exhibit, there was a big sign from the zookeeper to the side explaining that one of the meerkats, Baubles, was "a bit challenged" but noted that he is okay and not to worry about him. "If you see Baubles looking a bit unsteady on his feet, nothing's wrong it's just his way."

So we're thinking, okay, a meerkat that maybe falls over if he tries to do that standy thing that they do? That's not a big deal. Which one is Baubles? But at that moment it became extremely clear which one was Baubles, as he came a-baubling around the corner at just that moment and baubled all around the enclosure while we were there.

This meerkat has some kind of neurological disorder that apparently makes him think he is a pirate with peg legs on a ship in very unsteady seas. He rocks back and forth and constantly wobbles and falls over. He also can't stop very quickly and runs into things a lot.

Think that's sad? It was not sad. It was hilarious. He obviously doesn't seem to mind at all, and apparently he can still be a normal, happy meerkat. He just looks like he's really drunk and takes a little longer to do things. The thing that makes it really hilarious, though, is how everything the zoo says about him sounds like the way you talk about the one jerk in your group of friends. "Oh yeah, Baubles? Yeah Baubles is kinda... Like, you know. He's just Baubles. Nothing you can do about that guy." It somehow takes this poor handicapped animal from kind of sad level to I'm-going-to-hell-for-laughing-but-I-can't-stop level.

Please enjoy this KHON video of Baubles baubling about. My favorite note from this, "They think that like maybe he is sick or something or you know but he is just like that." HAH-HAAAAAAA! (Note: if the wrong video is displayed for you, you can view the correct one here!)

youwillgetnothingandlikeit

I've been sick for about five weeks now, and I can't help but wonder if this was kicked off by my near-drowning in two foot deep water. Maybe there's sand in my lungs or something. Maybe there's a thin crust of salt and minerals. Maybe there's a little tree in there and pretty soon I will have to move into a giant pot of soil to keep breathing. Either way it sucks lots and lots, primarily because I've had to start ranking my responsibilities from most to least important and cutting things off the bottom first to preserve my precious energy. What gets put at the bottom are all the things I want to do, the middle are things I maybe don't want to do but will be in trouble if I don't do, and the top are things I cannot get away with not doing.

So far I have taken off the entire bottom of this list with several deep chunks taken out of the middle, which are now causing me issues. The really disheartening thing is that my boss/professors frequently overrate the importance of the tasks they give me, which lead to weekends like this last one where I spent eight hours at work in which I did absolutely nothing because I was given the wrong event times. I spent another four hours running errands for my RIO to meet a deadline that it turned out did not actually exist. The end result of this was having to skip out early on a friend's birthday dinner and skip the Honolulu AIDS Walk entirely, which you may remember I have been excitedly planning for over two months. Even after explaining to several people that I needed to do as little as possible in the days leading up to the walk so I would not relapse again in the meantime, I was ladened with unnecessary BS and ended up falling into a nasty bout of bronchitis the night before the walk. I spent the day of the walk sleeping, coughing, and being extremely sad. (and if the person who asked me to run the RIO errands reads this, I am not blaming you, you didn't know what it would entail-- I'm blaming the ridiculousness of the offices involved, those asshats)

Unfortunately the extremely high expectations of my boss and the dependence of my RIO on me to take care of everything have meant that, more often than not, my classes have to be the thing that gets cut so I can rest between other crap I have to do. This means that, despite doctor's notes and a letter from the disability office at my uni explaining my recurring illness, a couple of my profs are more than willing to ignore an entire semester's worth of good work, good attendance, and general good studentness for a handful of what should be 100% excused absences over the last two weeks. As it also turns out, my uni does not require profs to make attendance exceptions for medical leave even if you're registered with the disability office for it, with the explanation that if you're not "healthy enough" to be a student then you don't deserve to pass. Though I'm not in danger of failing anything, it's pretty upsetting to spend three months busting ass and then in two weeks suddenly drop a full letter even though I didn't miss any actual work. I could have just screwed around those three months to the same effect. It's like when you're playing Scrabble and you're winning due to your excellent vocabulary and strategic skills, then right at the end of the game the other jerk plays "quetexz" or some shit on a triple letter space after spending the whole game time prior to that playing three letter words, texting, and watching Spongebob on the TV behind you. Maybe it fits the rules and all but to say that your mouth-breathing opponent is the better player isn't really fair.

So I went from having a serious case of the notgivingafucks about how this semester went to feeling completely cheated that my careful work to make sure I still maintained GOOD grades is now ruined. I could've followed my heart and just fucked off completely, but no, I decided to be good and responsible, which I should know by now never works out for me. The day I don't have lunch so I can get somewhere on time? Everyone else will be late. The day I stay up late to make sure all my homework is done? They won't collect it that day in class. If I come in early to help with something? It will already be done. Being responsible never seems to actually benefit anyone, and in fact it usually works out to my disadvantage. So I scrapped being nice last year, I think this year I'm going to scrap being responsible. This should work well.

Say Yes To Poisoned Apples

A side note that was omitted from my last post is that I have been on/off very sick and okay for the last two weeks. Today I finally sucked it up and went to the doctor for antibiotics, but I got the one doc at the health center who thinks I'm an insane hypochondriac. I got the meds but she always makes me feel like I'm lying to her. As soon as I start talking to her I start to think I just imagined two weeks of fevers and coughing, or that I didn't REALLY bash my nose last weekend. I don't know how she does this but I'd like to learn.

So anyway, sick. And because I've had a fever there's a severe limit to what I can do, so I've mostly been doing only things I can do while laying down. That includes TV, video games, and the Internet. The weird thing is that these are the only three things I usually do with my time, only normally I do them sitting upright instead of curled up on my bed frowning and squinting because my eyes are all fever sore. But to my great amusement there have been multi-hour marathons of one of my favorite shows recently: Say Yes to the Dress.

If you've never seen it, the premise is simple. It follows the sales people in a high end NYC bridal salon as they attempt to pick the right wedding dress for each client. That's it. Every episode they'll show three to five brides picking out dresses with friends/family gushing over how beautiful they look. Nothing interesting really happens, and there are not real plots. And it is probably the best show on TV right now.

My medical anth prof loves this show. He justifies it like he does all other weird hobbies of his: "It's very anthropological." While he may be stretching a bit in this case, he is right about one thing; it's really interesting to see how different families treat this process. Each one tends to be different, with some doting on their little princesses and some tearing apart every dress like it's directly responsible for the Holocaust. The best part is that all the dresses look the freaking same. Never have I seen so many wildly polarized emotions over a series of almost identical objects. I saw one woman show her sister what I swear was the same damn strapless a-line lace dress over and over for twenty minutes and the sister's range of reactions could have won her an Oscar if this had actually been a movie about the Holocaust and/or high school sports.

So for a week now I've been sitting here coughing and sniffling watching people cry tears of joy/horror at a bunch of nearly identical strapless white gowns. It's amazing. I can't stop watching because I can't figure out what's really going on. What is it about the dress they pick, the one that makes them cry in the store and say "This is the dress!" between sobs, that makes it ANY different from the others? I feel like Jane Goodall trying to decipher gorilla behavior. Though occasionally there's a bride who's like me and doesn't really get the whole dress shopping *thing* and the sales people are always so puzzled and frustrated by them, which is extra funny somehow.

I've heard the word "princess" so many times in the last week, though, that the word has lost all meaning. I'm so tired of hearing it, in fact, that I now have a very specific plan in case I ever do get engaged. I'm going to go to Kleinfelds and tell the sales lady I don't want to look like a princess, I want to look like the evil queen. The reason is because the evil queen actually looks like an adult, for one. Something about grown women excitedly yelling "I look like a princess!" just sounds weird to me, it's like saying "I look like a child! My ideals have not changed since I was four!" Come on, ladies, let's upgrade from Exiled Teenager to Woman Who Runs The God Damn Kingdom. On top of that she's beautiful, too, in a way that lets you wear red lipstick instead of boring nudes. And I'm pretty sure Snow White's skin was supposed to be paler than those dresses anyway, which I guarantee would make her look like a pasty naked mermaid in that generic white strapless number. But if they ask me why I'm going to tell them "Because fuck Snow White, that's why."


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The Bronchiodilator and the Sea

There is a beach here you may have heard of called Sandys. It's notorious for having massive waves and extremely dangerous currents, so apparently it seemed like the best way to kick off spring break to two of my anth friends. We went and, under the assurances of my strong-swimming friend, I agreed to go out into deep water.

I knew this would only be a bad idea of I ran out of breath by over exerting myself in the water; I'm a good swimmer and there were plenty of body boarders and surfers out that could help someone in case of rip. I used all my fancy asthma meds before I left for the beach and tied down the sides of my suit before getting in the water. With waves like this you go in with your suit too tight and come out with it loose- I've learned this one the hard way. Tie your suit down well.

Anyway, so we go out. And out. And soon the body boarders are starring at us as we swim past them, wondering what the hell we're doing all the way out there. I'm fine until we've been out for about forty minutes, and then I start to have to breathe a little harder. No biggie, I think. I'll go in now before I really need to, just to be safe.

Lesson I have learned: once I have any trouble breathing, it is already too late.

Going back in is the hardest part. I felt fine, though I was progressively struggling for breath, and was keeping on top of the waves. Then I got to the shore break and, unlucky for me, a series of extra tall waves came up on me. The water was now too shallow to ride them so I had to duck under, but at this point I was panting and the deep breath necessary to go under wasn't good enough. I surfaced hastily and got pushed under again. And again. I started to wonder what would happen if I passed out- would anyone notice? I managed to look over the water long enough to see a few fat tourists starring at me from the beach, not understanding what they were seeing. I started to feel foggy and wondered if anyone would be able to help. Then I felt my feet hit the bottom and I pushed up with everything I had, comic staggering out of the water as fast as I could. I only made it to the edge of the water before I dropped down in the sand, panting, covered in the wet sand from the shore break, hair in a giant matt all over my head. I caught my breath and sheepishly trekked down the beach to my towel, thoroughly embarrassed.

A few minutes later, my first friend came staggering toasted the towels, still dripping, covered in sand, and panting. "Did you see me almost die?" I asked. "Did you see ME almost die??" She replied.

A few minutes after that my other friend, covered in sand, still dripping, came running over, panting. "Did you see me almost die??" She asked. We traded stories and I mentioned how the first two of us has slowly dragged ourselves down the beach, embarrassed. My third friend shook her head. "As soon as I could put my feet down I just ran the hell out of there and didn't stop till I got here. It prolly looked like the ocean just vomited me up."

I think they were not as serious as I was about the true impending nature of my demise by drowning, but I didn't really want to emphasize how much I suck so I downplayed it significantly. I did learn several things, though, among them being the fact that I do not want to be the only idiot in the world to die of asthma duress brought on by overly ambitious outdoor sports. The other lesson is that holy shit drowning might be the worst way to die ever.

I told them how I wondered if anyone would notice I'd passed out and she laughed. "I just thought, 'well, this is it. I had a good run.'"

Nine More Weeks of Winter

In nine weeks I will graduate and I will NEVER HAVE TO DO THIS SHIT EVER AGAIN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE* and I cannot even tell you how excited I am. I was really excited about working full time because I've always preferred working all day to being in school all day but now I really don't want to do anything. I want to have some time off to do NOTHING for a while because I am burned the hell out. But I don't get to do that at all, actually, and odds are I'll end up with a job that doesn't have vacation time. So there's that.

Also, I think you can very easily absorb my feelings about everything by reading Pictures for Sad Children from the beginning. You don't have to read all of it to understand, but the first 100 or so comics pretty much sum me up right now. I used to think A Softer World was the saddest thing I'd ever read but Pictures for Sad Children definitely takes that cake. Stay in school, children, what else are you going to do?

In other news, I am seriously beginning to think Hawaiian tsunamis are fake bullshit things made up by Menehune Water Co to make people buy their entire stock all at once. How else could a wave slap the shit out of every island between Malaysia and California and nothing happens here? Fucking magic, that's how. That or this whole state is its own goddam Truman Show and they use tsunamis and weird racism to keep us from enjoying the island too much.


*Unless I go to grad school, and if I ever need to go to grad school I might as well just go up on a mountain and die because I can't imagine wasting any more of my precious finite life on this crap.

I Want This Day To Last Forever

Over the last four days I have:

-Applied for graduation
-Been approved for graduation in absentia
-Bought my cap & gown
-Registered for commencement
-Applied for a field school in Costa Rica
-Given a presentation on the early 90's cholera epidemic in Venezuela
-Written a paper
-Aced a Japanese test

Today I got accepted to the field school. Then I got a call from HR at a company I had applied to a month ago. They'd filled the position already but said they would keep my resume on file, which I normally assume is bull but here they were calling me said they needed someone and I seemed right. Unfortunately they needed someone full time NOW and I can't do that plus be in school and working at my internship, so I had to decline. But they did say they would keep my stuff on file for another six months. Uh, wow?

The icing on this day is that when I got home I got a call from work telling me not to come in because my boss was out sick.



God I love everything about this week so far. Let's see how long it can keep up this way, shall we? I have a paper due tonight, then midterms tomorrow and on Friday. I am optimistic.

The Story No One Wants to Hear

A little over three weeks ago I started dieting and going to the gym again. Now I've spent a lot of my life working out, but I've never been on a diet before. I've never felt like I needed it because, despite the fact that I've been steadily gaining weight for the last few years, I was crazy skinny before so I was just coming into normal size. The problem was that I was not used to that. I've spent my whole life thus far having size 00 jeans fall off me in the fitting room. There are a couple of brands that made a 0 or 00 that fit me, so I've only ever owned maybe four pairs of jeans at any given time-- and you can forget about any other kinds of pants.

So when those smallest-of-the-small-size pants started to be too small for me, I didn't even realize what was happening for a long time. I've outgrown things, yes, but never in my life have I ever been too heavy to wear something. I was so used to being tiny that once I was no longer tiny I didn't even notice. It wasn't until my skinny jeans couldn't get over my hips at all that it hit me: I was getting chubby.

An interlude here to say that all the people who just rolled their eyes or got offended because that's still a small size and I don't understand what it's like to be REALLY big, I should shut up and be grateful, etc: Go play in the street.

Anyway, the moment I realized this was when I came home one day and peeled myself out of my previously relaxed-fitting bootcut jeans into a much more comfortable pair of sweatpants. That's when it dawned on me-- "These are FAT PANTS. Holy crap I have fat pants. I have to wear fat pants."

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that not being a size 0 makes you fat. But when all your pants give you muffin top such that you stopped wearing fitted shirts to hide it and the only thing that fits right is your sweatpants? Those are fat pants. And on someone who's barely five feet tall with a short stubby little torso, a size 2-4 is starting to look chubby. Yeah the size is small, but so is the rest of me. Proportionally it doesn't look small at all.

So I decided to do something about it. I calculated my basic metabolic rate, figured out how many calories I needed a day to maintain, and tried to stay around 500 calories beneath that. I made an effort to keep my calories from fat as minimal as possible and to avoid simple carbohydrates more than once a day. I made sure to spread out my food over the day instead of eating two big meals and a snack like I normally do. I already walk about 45-70 minutes a day to get around, so I added going to the gym 2-3 times a week as time permitted. Since my stamina was really low (mostly from my asthma) I started off just on the elliptical and recumbent bike and, when that got easy, I added some weight training. I never spend more than an hour at the gym.

So now, at a little over three weeks of this, I didn't feel any better. I didn't think I looked any different. Until this morning, I wanted to wear long pants but the only clean ones I had were a pair of extremely unforgiving high-waisted American Apparel skinny jeans... A pair that had ceased to fit over my hips months ago. So I tried them and... POW. Fit perfectly.

I want to share my success with people but, like my original frustration with my weight, no one wants to hear it. People will congratulate me and all but generally hearing about it being easy for me makes other people feel bad. I think Ryan North is right on here when he says "dieting is about commiserating" and no one wants to hear someone going "GUYS LOOK WHAT I DID EASILY" especially when no one thought I was chubby in the first place.

Anyway, so the final punctuation on what I'm sure has been a wholly infuriating read for most of you is this: Today I rushed home from dinner with my boyfriend so I could make it to the gym before they closed because I didn't want to skip a day. When I was adding my workout to my log I realized I hadn't really eaten much today. So on my way home I stopped at the store and got a package of little chocolate donuts as a reward, and also to make sure I got enough calories today.



Now you all hate me, thank you, goodnight.