South of the Border (or "The Smell of Frustration")

Today was a long day. I'm spending the Labor Day weekend in Seattle with my husband and another couple who happen to be semi-professional bargain hunters. These savings sleuths discovered that the cheapest way to get to Seattle would actually be via Vancouver, British Columbia....so away we went, passports in tow. [Please don't say "Why would you go to Seattle if you were in Vancouver?" I've heard that once or twice or thrice today...customs agent, border patrol, rental car clerk - all understandably confused by our travel plans.]

Well, my seat on the plane was in the first row of coach, directly behind first class. Many times the coach and first class seats are separated by an insulting half curtain, allowing the schmucks in coach to only get a glimpse of the flight attendant's navy nylons. Well, not today. Today I experienced a more insulting version of this middle class mocking. I've decided to call it "the impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro." Instead of half a curtain separating me from the good life, the upper echelon merely held me back with two curtain tiebacks that hung loosely in the middle of the aisle attached by one square of velcro, taunting me with paltry-ness. This barrier was easier to break than the ribbon at the end of a marathon (and not even as wide).

But just like in a marathon, the issue is one of stamina. My bladder was already going to be asked to persevere (do I really have to walk all the way to the back of the plane when there's a perfectly fine bathroom four rows ahead?). I was ready for that. The sneak attack came against my nostrils. You see, the head flight attendant (you may consider him the antagonist) was going to test my will in a way that I was not prepared for this morning. As the head flight attendant, you can apparently toe the line of "the impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro" without actually having to cross it. To do so, you simply roll your cart full of delicious smelling breakfast foods right under "the impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro". You see, the delectable and unattainable foods (including the cliche forbidden fruit) were the only things able to break this unstoppable barrier. And where does that leave them? You guessed it, directly next to me - the schmuck in coach that isn't even offered pretzels anymore. I too have to travel through four time zones and two mealtimes. But we coach passengers have a higher calling. We are called to endure. And so, as buttery croissants accosted my olfactory senses, I didn't budge. I looked directly to my left (see poorly crafted Microsoft Paint drawing below) and stared those baked goods in the face. "The impenetrable forcefield of loose fabric and velcro" may not have been able to hold these delicacies back, but I was able to hold back my desire for these delicacies. As "I Will Survive" played on loop in my brain, I finished a physiological marathon. I may not have been able to break through any ribbons at the end of it (the antagonist would have scolded me), but I finished nonetheless.

Epilogue:

We decided to wait until we crossed back into the U.S. to get food, as it's only about 25 minutes south of Vancouver. Unfortunately, we waited in line for almost three hours to cross the border. When we finally got across, we stopped at the first restaurant in sight: a Burger King. Now I smell like onion rings. My nose has justice.

If my ear was a pancreas.

In my line of work (let's just call it cancer research), I have to read a lot of academic papers about specific research experiments. In many cases, these papers are brimming with anatomical terms that I find slightly difficult to say with a straight face. I'm not the only one that gets a chuckle out of this at the office. One of my co-workers started a game inspiried by "Three truths and a lie", except it's with three anatomically correct terms and one made-up term. [I'm taking a risk in blogging about this. For one thing, you all might think my dork-meter just skyrocketed: she plays anatomy games at work?! And let's not forget my boss might read this blog. Then again, I think she finds the game amusing herself...]

Yesterday found me in a similar predicament, reading about a pancreas with my fellow "gamer". As it turns out, pancreases (or is that pancreai?) have heads, bodies, and tails. Who knew? Upon discovering this, my peer asks "What does a pancreas even look like?" My efforts to make the shape of a pancreas with my hands fell short. So did my verbal explanation: "It's like an oval that's not really an oval and it's sort of bulbous on one side and, well, tapered on the other...". Eventually, the conversation digressed to using another body part to describe this most elusive of organs. Which leads me to the title of my post: If my ear was a pancreas. And if my ear was a pancreas, the tail would be pierced. And I'd want it to wear pearls.

But, if that description is not enough for you all to picture the head, body, and tail of a pancreas, here's a diagram. (You should thank me now that this is a simplistic artist's rendering - there are plenty of pictures of the real thing out there on the internet.)

Also, if you're looking for more information on the pancreas, here's a great informational video.

Have Rock Band, will travel.

Ever since we bought Rock Band a couple of weeks ago, I've been hooked - especially on the drum set. I've discovered that after a certain amount of coaxing, my feet and hands can indeed work independently. I've also figured out how to avoid injury while drumming, and am proud to say I have been shin-split-free for three weeks. However, whenever I play with "newbies", I volunteer to sing. I like to give others the opportunity to try the instruments, and I've found that singing is the most awkward role for someone that doesn't know the song. This past weekend, however, I had another reason to grace the microphone with my dulcet tones...

I went to a friend's house in southwest Ohio over the weekend. She and her husband live in a quaint and quirky community full of brick houses holding happy families. As we decided to migrate to her basement for an introductory round of Rock Band, I couldn't help but notice a metallic sound coming from the house next door. My friend explained that the kids next door have a garage band. Until then, the thought that someone outside of the house might hear me singing had not crossed my mind. From that point on however, it was clear to me that we walked right into the middle off an epic Rock-off, vying for avenue-wide bragging rights (all in my mind, of course). I was going to show this two-bit hack ensemble, with their original songs and their red button-less instruments, what a band front(wo)man should really sound like. Not only was I going to put on a voice clinic, I was also going to demonstrate the ancient arts of unknown note triangulation and tambourine simulating. The battle went on for minutes. Improvisational shouting was heard. Unison bonuses were earned. And untold numbers of drum fills ended on green notes. You could cut the connection (to the Playstation) with a knife.

I'm not going to say who won the Rock-off; my bias is unavoidable. All I know is this: the garage band next door is currently looking for a new lead singer. Sorry, neighbors - I'm not quitting my day job.

I'm a Phelps Phan.

Well, it's safe to say I've got Olympic fever. Though not typically interested in two weeks of non-stop-sports, I've found a reason to pay attention: Michael Phelps. Why, you ask? It's not because he's an athlete representing our country at these monumental Olympic games. It's not because he trains here in Ann Arbor. It's not because he's making history right in front of our eyes, trying to solidify his title as one of the greatest Olympians in history.

No, I like Michael Phelps because he reminds me of my husband. Think about it. Periodic ridiculous facial hair. Often found screaming at the top of his lungs. A supportive "hugger". Now can you see the resemblance?

Two for two.

I just realized I could squeeze in a second post by offering up pictures of my potential subject matter. I give you the formidable Toonces and the devious Della:

The start of something...Garfield?

I've decided to enter the world of blogging. Up until now, I've just been a casual blog reader - is there a word for that? Casblogder? Through the years, the list of blogs I follow has grown - and so has my desire to pen one of my own. (Hey, that rhymed!) Only problem: I've been a bit intimidated to blog. For one thing, there's a tiny voice in my head saying "You don't have anything exciting to report." We aren't training to swim to England or anything. Good gravy, most of my posts will probably end up being about the not-so-epic battles between our quirky cat and rambunctious dog. It'll be Garfield revisited, except the dog will be the one eating the lasagna. Another reason I've been intimidated to blog is that I don't have a mastery of the cyberspace language. (I had to ask for clarification on 'zomg'. Seriously, what's with the 'z'?!) Am I foolishly trying to keep up with a trend that's out of my league? Lastly, I'm not sure if I can keep this up, and I'd rather not contribute to blog-cruft. While trying to come up with a name for this blog, I had a couple of ideas: randomcrap, theblogaboutnothing, ablogaboutnothing, blogaboutnothing, etc. (As you can tell from the prospective titles, I'm not too confident that I have intriguing things to write about...) ALL of these names were taken, and most of those blogs hadn't been updated since 2004. I don't want to be "that guy" with one blog entry to my name. My promise to you: I'll take this puppy down if I can't keep up with it.

There. One entry down, and hopefully many more to go.