A Gift

The following poem was a gift from my friend, Ben Dower.  He is an amazing poet, and I've been begging him for years to write one about me. So finally, we reached an agreement: I would play this game he (and my sister, coincidentally) loves, and bake cookies, and we'd all hang out, and then I could have my poem. So after much anticipation and a delicious adventure through Cataan, here is what I received today (he says the inspiration for the title came from a previous blog entry, by the same name):

White Chocolate

Tell me, where do you get off
speculating about your identity,
wondering if you would be a better dancer
if only you had a more rhythmic coloration connotation
implying that your curves are somehow misplaced,
as though only Africa had earned that voluptuous continental silhouette.

For surely someone ought to have warned you
that such superfluous speculation only leads
to bubbles bursting, internal detonation,
and a complete crash in consumer confidence.

The lost love between a girl and her onomatopoeia
should never be interrupted by anything less than phonaesthetic perfection.

But enough about your laughter
and a smile that needs no hyperbole.

Such elusive excellence evades description,
leaving me struggling to pin you down with worldly adjectives,
that leave my love-struck soul free
to wander, exploring your lips and curvature of your left shoulder
pretending to be a philosopher-king, tracing
enlightenment in your contours, wondering how so much joy
can come from a single source
and finding the emotion difficult to quantify.

But forget Descartes, what about a-la-carte!

For like a perfect pastry platter, oft' tasted but never duplicated
you are filled with the most delicious of internal contradictions.
Take one part master chef and flambé over liquid liberalism,
with a pinch of the suffragette movement, and a thoroughly diced
impressionist painting for looks, an eternal sunset entrée on the tongue.

The subject of much desire, yet never wanting for preeminence,
you are to be coddled only at the greatest risk, lest you boil over
and scald the perpetrator with a self-evident independence
that need not be declared.

So let us not pull up your roots
to speculate about whether your genetics
might be better choreographed. Plant
metaphors are all inherently sexist anyway.

And while I would gladly abandon all worldly pursuits
liberate myself from all senses save one,
if you only chose to envelop me someday,
for now in this silent moment
simply enjoying these Platonic relations,
the knowledge of your existence
leaves me content to hunger forever
reveling in the simple knowledge
that you exist.

The "F" Word

Not THAT one, silly. I'm talking about a different dirty word: feminism. I say this because some of you (you know who you are) just got put off from reading this entry. You're not alone. In sadly many circles, the idea of feminism is considered negative. Many women the world over shy away from calling themselves feminist; yet, when asked, will say that they definitely agree that women in the same job positions as men deserve the same pay, and equal respect. Uh, hello? That's what feminism is.

So here's a link to an article from one of my favorite bloggers: feministe (where the “e” at the end still stands for “Everything Else that is tangentially related to feminism at best”). This one's a commentary on an article the author found on female sexuality, and definitely does a really good job of expressing how I've always felt about the objectification/sexualization of the female form. If you're feeling lazy/uninterested, I put the part I found most pertinent right here in my blog entry. Otherwise, I really encourage you to go check it out. Please? You'll feel smarter.

Shocking, absolutely shocking, that when women are raised in a culture that equates the female body with sex itself, that positions the female body as an object of desire, and that emphasizes that being desired is the height of female achievement, women will see sex as a process primarily centered on male attraction to women, and will get off more on being wanted than on wanting.
Shocking, too, that when “naked chick” is cultural shorthand for “sex,” women will look at naked chicks and think “sex.”
It’s not narcissism. It’s a lifetime of experiencing the world secondarily, and seeing ourselves through male eyes; it’s the lack of agency and power that comes with being an object to be looked upon.
...
Women are sexual objects. Unlike men, we aren’t taught to have the same actor mentality; that is, we aren’t sexual agents, and we don’t dictate the heteronormative* sexual narrative in the same way that men do. Sex itself is constructed with women on the receptive end: Men penetrate, we’re penetrated. That isn’t just biology, it’s culture. It sounds ridiculous, but there are other ways that we could talk about and understand sex. I had a professor in college who suggested that maybe men don’t penetrate women, women envelop men. We all laughed, and I still think it sounds silly, but her point wasn’t lost on me — how we discuss and understand sex, and all the social and cultural baggage we throw onto it, influences what we believe to be hard, scientific, biological facts about how our bodies work and what our bodies do.

*heteronormative = the view that heterosexuality is the normal sexual orientation, and the subsequent marginalization of non-heterosexual lifestyles.

"Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at."
--John Berger, Ways of Seeing

Yet another list

Things that are bothering me right now

Ones I can (and will) fix
My Friday section from 3-4
My legs are suuuper hairy. And I wore a dress today…oops

I'm not eating very well lately

i have to pee

my computer's about to die.

Ones I’ll just have to deal with (for now)
I reallllly miss all my Mills ladies (plus Brandon and Tomas)
I want more break! Can we go back to break please?
It’s been um…2 months since I’ve seen Caitlin. Which is a LONG time. And I don’t know when we’ll see each other next…not ok.

UT cafeterias have "ethnic" nights...which I thought I escaped from Mills

One of the "ethnic" food nights is "soul food"...which is on the calendar with a giant Africa next to it. PC FAIL

Things that are making me happy
Obama is already becoming the best prez ever!
I like my roommate ☺
I actually enjoy the dorms
UT is full of beautiful people—and sometimes I feel like one of them :D
The sweet freshman in my astronomical observations class who shared his planisphere with me
I’m starting to like, and feel like I’m a part of, UT

Edit: I am proud to say that i took care of ALL of the things on my bothersome list. :D

Fail.

Things that belong in a parfait
Plain yogurt
Strawberry yogurt
Real granola
Strawberries (preferably sliced or chunked)
Raisins (a few, if they mix well with the granola)

Blueberries, provided they are ripe and juicy. And not sour

A walnut chunk or two. Either that or some nice big clumps of granola


Things that do not belong in a parfait
Crumbled up Nature Valley bars mascarading as granola
Grapes
Unidentifiable white flavorless fruitlike blobs
Pink pineapple-like fruit

Take note, UT.

ow.

I'm sitting on my couch right now, feeling awkwardly sore, sipping an odwalla, in the same clothes I've been wearing since Thursday. How did I get here, you ask? Let's see...

I think I'll start with the consultation, which happened a few days before new year's eve. We're not even going to get into the PPD research study I almost tried. 

Ever since last summer, my parents have been telling me I needed to get my wisdom teeth out. I knew it had to happen, I just wasn't all that excited about it. We sort of considered doing a research study where I would get paid, but we weren't positive I'd get actual pain meds (as opposed to a placebo), and it was confusing and I would have had to spend the night and...yeah. I'm scared enough of doctors' offices, etc. as it is. 

So this winter break, we went to a local dentist's office around the corner from my house.  The first thing we learned is that thanks to a spiffy genetic mutation, I only have three wisdom teeth. This is actually awesome news.  Why does that make a difference, you ask? Well, let me elucidate you. 

Wisdom teeth removal surgery is infamous for the "chipmunk cheek" aftereffect.  I learned that this was caused by the removal of the bottom wisdom teeth, whose growth affects the nerve running along the jawline. I was informed that since one of my bottom wisdom teeth just sort of...never happened (thanks, mom & dad!), I would have a sort of lopsided chipmunk effect. Which was fine with me, since half as much chipmunk also means half as much pain. :D

They walked us through everything, warning us about all possible side effects (or so we thought), showing us my x-rays and going over the whole half chipmunk effect and all that. They used a cgi program to show how they would go into my mouth, cut a flap of gum off from over the bottom wisdom tooth, pull it out, and replace it with a little marshmallow-looking thing that would dissolve naturally along with the sutures they would use to resew my gums back together. Awesome.

It all sounded fine, and they were being really nice and informative. The only problem was, they advised me to have it done as soon as possible, because the longer I waited, the deeper the roots would get. Ergo, I was supposed to have the operation before school started up in January.  Which meant I had to set aside a whole weekend to recovery. I finally settled on this one, setting the date for Thursday.

Before we go any further let me tell you something about myself. I really, really, really don't like shots. Like, at all. The pain doesn't bother me nearly as much as the knowledge that layers of skin and muscle and vein are being punctured with a hollow needle that will pump me full of something foreign. I understand that it's probably a good foreign thing, but still. You get the idea.

The big day arrives, so my mom drives me to the office. We go in, and in like, oh, say, a second or two, they call my name. I go into the back room, trying super hard not to psych myself out. Which is difficult considering they had trays of stuff, considerately covered by paper towels etc, but still, it was hard (for me) not to notice the FOUR SYRINGES underneath a paper towel on the counter. I had a mini-freak out before deciding that those were for my jaw, after I was knocked out. I knew for a fact they would give me anesthesia through an IV, so I'd be unconscious for the whole procedure. The problem there was that even an IV needle creeped me out. Thank god they promised they'd do it after they gave me laughing gas.

Which brings me back to the surgery room. So a nurse came in and told me to lay down in the chair, and they laid me all the way back. She put a laughing gas mask over my nose and told me to breathe deeply, and relax.  Which would have been easier if I hadn't been freaking out. I had assumed that the laughing gas mask would cover my nose and mouth, but it turned out to be just this little teensy thing over my nose. Which smelled funny.

The nurse told me I should be able to feel it after a minute or two, which...didn't happen. I asked if there was a specific way I should breathe to make it work better, like in through my nose, out through my mouth? maybe? but she glossed over my question with a, "Just breathe normally, same as you always do. Deep breaths."

So I was taking as many deep breaths as possible, because I sure as hell did NOT want to feel anything when the IV went in. About this time, the doctor walked in. He asked how I was doing, and what I'd had for breakfast this morning, to which, of course, my answer was, "nothing." which is what he wanted to hear. Since nobody wants to throw up during surgery.

The doctor told me that he'd cranked up the laughing gas to 100%, but I still felt exactly the same. He took my right arm and asked a nurse for a rubber band, any rubber band, and then reassured me that he wouldn't trick me about the IV, that we were "gonna stay friends through this whole thing." As he wrapped the rubber band around my arm, just above my elbow. tightly.

It was about that time that the nurse asked me If I was feeling the laughing gas, and I felt someone put rubbing alcohol on the crook of my elbow (is that what you call it? the crook? whatever). I said no, not yet, because I was honestly freaking out and even though i heard a chuckle in my throat as I answered, nothing seemed the slightest bit funny to me. I've heard from everyone else who's had laughing gas that you feel weird, or light-headed, or everything is hysterical.

And for the record, Susana, I did think about you, but I don't think I was high :/

So here I am spazzing about how the gas is NOT working, and I felt them pour some cold liquid onto my arm, and the nurse yet again asked me if the gas had taken effect as I felt a pinch on my elbow.  When I answered the nurse "not really," the doctor said, "well let me ask you another question: did you feel the IV?" my answer: "no, thank god."

It was about this point when I was wondering if anything was actually going to effect me. I hadn't felt the laughing gas and the anesthesia didn't seem to be doing anything either. Well, ok, I did feel a little weird. I felt them take my wrists and strap them to the chair, which was a little frightening, but I figured it was all part of the procedure. 

I felt like I blinked or dozed off for a second, and then I felt kind of funny. I thought, "maybe the laughing gas is finally taking effect..." but when I relaxed a little, I realized it wasn't laughter, it was tears.

That's right, I WAS FUCKING SOBBING.  It was about then that I realized that we were post-op, and it was all over. I overheard a nurse saying they should wait until I calmed down before letting my mom see me, which I would have argued had I not been busy trying to stop freaking out.  I sat up, but couldn't really focus. It was actually kind of annoying, me sitting there sobbing with them in the same room trying to simultaneously ignore me and wait out my crying jag. 

I guess I outcried their patience, because they finally brought my mom in anyway, explaining that "Sometimes people, girls especially, have emotional reactions to the anesthesia."  Which is cool and all, but how nice would it have been if they had warned me beforehand that it was totally possible (and normal) for me to cry after? I sure as hell wouldn't have been as upset if I had just known what was going on.

My mom looked pretty upset too, but they suggested she go get the car ready and waiting by the doors downstairs so the nurse could wheel me out. Let me tell you, that was probably the most awkward elevator ride of my whole life.  It was very obvious that none of the nurses really knew what to do with me and couldn't figure out why I hadn't stopped crying, so it was just sort of quiet in the elevator. Besides my occasional sobs. 

Anyway, the crying part didn't stop until I got home...after a few hours. I was sort of in and out of consciousness, numb and nauseous, thanks to el vicodin. Apparently I, much like my mom, do NOT react well to hydrocodone and so had to take anti-nausea pills along with it to prevent myself from vomiting.  At least it also made me sleep?

So that's basically it. All in all, I guess it could have been worse. I've been lounging around the house, bored out of my skull, with a dull pain on one side of my face. thank god for MTV and milkshakes! I think I'll go take a bubble bath.

  don't i look pleased? 

hey, guess which cheek it is! I'm rather proud, it's pretty hard to tell.

Will came over yesterday, which was a nice break from the monotony. only problem was: he effing cracked me up! which made my jaw hurt. but i just used more meds and ice and i was fine in no time. he also made me a super tasty milkshake, "with love."

oh and the bubble bath was lovely, thanks for asking.

update: today, sunday, i ate real (non-liquid) food for the first time!! it was tasty chef boyardee. and one of the stitches sort of half came out, so it feels like a hair tickling the roof of my mouth, constantly. boy i cant wait till it just dissolves already...

More later, maybe.