Smelly

So I'm pretty sure whomever was stocking cosmetics at the K-Mart was wearing a perfume that my grandma used to wear--White Diamonds, maybe? The fragrance followed me throughout the store and back home; closer sniffing reveals that it's all over my lipstick tube, and now all over my hands.

It's not a bad smell, but I only want scents lingering on my person that I have deliberately applied, and preferably not ones that keep evoking memories of the 1980s. Actually, I think this one might be doing double-duty: remember those Designer Imposter fragrances in the 90s?* It's possible I, or someone near me, had a synthetic version of this scent as well.

I need to go wash my hands again.

*Blogger thinks that "imposter" is misspelled; apparently "impostor" is more common, although Merriam Webster admits the former as a variant of the latter. Isn't that crazy?

Under Pressure

People. NaBloPoMo is almost over. Although it has become nearly habitual by now to make sure I have a post in before the end of the day, it's really not getting much easier. Still, it has been an interesting experience, and certainly nothing compared to other crazy experiments I've undertaken in this space.

Champaign continues to delight. This afternoon, we even met up with my aunt and uncle, who live in Indiana and were driving through on their way home from Bloomington. They treated us to lunch at a cafe downtown, to which Ellen and I walked from her house. We walked through a park, and the weather was surprisingly mild and nice-smelling.

Now we're off to evening festivities. Tomorrow, I bus back bright and early to the city, where I'll meet my friends to drive back home--and try to accomplish a lot by the end of Monday. Did December completely sneak up on anyone else?

Public Service Announcement

I'd like to remind everyone that this soup is quite delicious and fast. Eating it over brown rice makes it feel like a real meal.

However, I'd also like to remind you to WEAR GLOVES when cutting chillies. Seriously. If you have sensitive skin like mine, even a serrano can do you wrong. Last night I had finished preparing and eating the soup when a patch on the back of my right hand, and along the sides of a couple of fingers, started to tingle and then burn. It took me a minute to realize what it was, but as the burning continued and became painful, I asked the Internets for help.

They said things like alcohol and--somewhat horrifyingly--bleach. The closest thing I had to alcohol was Scope, so I poured that over the back of my hand, rubbed it around, and then rinsed it off. It made me smell minty, but only helped for about 45 seconds, so I returned to the Google. One person suggested lime juice, and, despite the fact that it had begun looking brown and shrivelly weeks ago, I actually happened to have one in my fruitbowl. I cut it open and was pleasantly surprised to find it both juicy and smelling decent, so I squeezed it over my hand and let the juice sit on my skin for a while before washing my hands again. That seemed to do the trick, for which I was very grateful; it's surprising how bothersome such a burn can be.

Tonight a friend and I went to see The Dark Knight, which opened at the Riverview this weekend and packed the place out. I did think I was better able to appreciate the villain's character (and, oddly enough, the sound design) this time around,* although there was still far too little of Christian Bale for my liking.

Other things I was loving today:

• Waking up to sunshine on snow
• Seeing my first cardinal of the season
  
• My new Capilene long underwear
• Sweet potato fries at the Longfellow
  

*Oddly, I can't find any report on my experience the first time around. I'm pretty sure it was a Wednesday evening in July, and my mom and I went together.

Balmy

Today was gorgeous here. We hit a high of 68° today--and tomorrow's predicted high is 72°! In November. I headed outside to go running in only shorts and a tank, but returned after half a block for my long-sleeved Capilene, fearing the breeze. I needn't have worried, however: I took it off after the first mile or so, and didn't need it at all for the next eight, during which I could feel the sun warming my skin--I even worked up a bit of a sweat.

Near the end, I stopped to take some pictures, partly because I wanted to document the autumnal beauty of the greenway, and partly because I was tired after an hour and a half of running. In this picture, I look like I'm about to be overrun by a horde of bikers. They have plenty of room, but the trail does get crowded on days like these. I don't much begrudge the late-fall crowds; we're all trying to take advantage of the few remaining days before the air starts hurting our skin and lungs. I do always get a bit testy, however, in the spring, when the weather begins to warm up and the same bike path I've been riding to school all bitter winter becomes glutted with the recreational crowd. Fair-weather bikers! Still, as I've said before, one of the things I love most about this city is its crazy outdoorspeople. There were a lot of runners and bikers around the lakes today--but I'll hardly be alone when the snow starts to fall, either.

For the moment, my windows are open, and I'm not at all chilly. It's wonderful to smell the breeze, and even to hear the traffic. As I told my dad earlier, it feels like September--or August!

Riding

People! I just got back from the most incredible bike ride.

I thank you all sincerely for your exam encouragement, in comments on my last post, e-mails, and phone calls. However, I must say that at the moment I'm feeling particularly indebted to Ellen, who this evening e-mailed something along the lines of, "You haven't left the house in three days? You should really ride your bike!"

I only rode about six miles, around the lake and back, but it was fantastic. The fact that I forgot my camera is probably just as well, as I would have been stopping every few feet, and as it couldn't have come close to capturing the evening's splendor anyway. If I could have bottled just this evening's air, or accurately captured only the shadows of the leaves cast on the huge houses around the lake, you'd hardly have believed it. If you had been there, in person, with me, as the evening sun glinted off the kayaks and the cool breeze smelling like warm bark wafted past us, you still wouldn't have believed this evening. That's how amazing it was. A few times a year, I'm convinced that this really is one of the best places on earth to live; tonight was one of them.

When I got home, I had a shirt full of gnats. Funny how a tank top is a perfect scoop when you're leaning over your handlebars.

Now back to work; according to my schedule I'm supposed to finish my first essay tonight. I've written 11.5 pages so far, but am not finished yet. I'm hoping that having finally started squeezing words onto the page my second and third essay will come more easily, but I'm not holding my breath.

Adding slightly to my stress level is the fact that my pointer has started going nuts, traveling slowly or frantically across the screen to lodge in either the lower left or upper right corner. Sometimes I can pry it free and make it work (often by leaning hard on the pointing stick while working the touchpad with my other hand); other times I give up and navigate using the keyboard. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, it behaves normally.

Back to work.

Days 15 & 16

Day 15
Breakfast: Oatmeal with raisins and soy milk; nectarine
Snack: Apple and peanut butter
Lunch: Vegetable-tofu curry; grapes
Snack: Apple and peanut butter
Dinner: Pasta salad; cherries
Later, at the street festival: Sugar-free (strawberry and pina colada) shave ice

Day 16
Breakfast: Puffins with soy milk; gluten-free toast with sugar-free blueberry spread; cherries
Lunch: "Haystacks" (Mine were black beans, brown rice, chopped greens, black olives, and salsa on Fritos)*
Dinner: Roasted butternut squash risotto; dressed mixed greens with toasted pecans and grapes; cherries

Friday Favorite
There is this little place in downtown Palm Springs, on Palm Canyon just south of Amado, that I love. It's where my brother bought me that bead necklace for "like, a buck," and where yesterday I found this fabulous ring ($5, because it was "old sterling") and necklace ($4, because when she rubbed it, it didn't smell like formaldehyde, which I learned is the tell-tale sign of Bakelite. If it had been Bakelite, it would have been expensive; as it is, it only looks like it, and was cheap!):
I don't know what the store is called, but I do know that the woman who seems to co-own it is named Mindy and that her daughter is April. In fact, last night, she remembered me from the last time I'd been in, saying, "You have a sister named April, right?" I whole-heartedly recommend checking it out if you're ever in town.

Finally, the Fourth
Independence Day doesn't tend to be one of those sentimental holidays for many people. But I remember the first one, eating popsicles and catching fireflies on my front porch before biking to see the fireworks; the next one, where he got a ticket at the last minute and flew to Columbus the night of the Fourth--we missed the fireworks, but had a nice little picnic on a floating dock before driving the hours back to BG; and the one after that, where we climbed the hill behind my parents' house and watched four cities' fireworks displays from the top of the world. I think he used to think it was silly the way I would remember those things.

Sometimes I think forgetting would be easier.


*As Mandy has said, it's cultural. Plenty of my "non-card-carrying" friends are still all about the haystack.

Day three

Breakfast: Cornmeal "mush" and fresh strawberries glazed with sugar-free jam
Snack: Half an apple
Lunch: Mujadara, crudites, and hummus
Snack: Dates and almonds*
Dinner: Taco soup with corn chips

I totally meant to post a Friday Favorite yesterday, and then I forgot! Anyway, here it is: my current favorite lip balm, Alba Botanica's Un-Petroleum Plant Powered Lip Care in tangerine. Jojoba oil, SPF 18, smells like a bag of Skittles (and tastes nice, too!). Awesome.

Also: I only heard about it today, but those of you in the news loop probably already know that the Red Cross is out of money and is having to borrow in order to assist flood and disaster victims in the Midwest. You can donate here; select Disaster Relief Fund.

*This is pretty much my favorite healthy dessert-substitute ever. Sweet, crunchy, and satisfying--with lots of fiber, and no refined sugar.

Oscillation Overthruster

Tuesday night, I went over to a friend's apartment to help her put together her new Ikea bed. To be fair, she admitted after we had started that she had asked a boy first--and that when she told her neighbor she was going to assemble it, the friend asked if she had a boy to help her. However, it should come as no surprise that we totally rocked the Ikea bed assembly, by ourselves. We were able to admit our (few) mistakes and work collaboratively, even sharing my screwdriver until she found hers.

What did surprise me was how the event turned into a bizarre time-warp--not the sort of "How is it possible that we've been trying to put this bed together for five hours?" time warp that mechanical tasks sometimes involve, but a far more pleasant one.

When I entered her apartment building, it was clearly the middle of winter, with sheets of ice on the sidewalks where the snow had temporarily melted and then frozen solid when the temperatures dropped to the single digits that morning. But as we started assembling the bed, it somehow began to feel like summer. Her building has radiant heat, so she actually had her windows open to admit a cool breeze. I stripped off two of the three layers I'd been wearing under my big coat, wearing just a T-shirt for the first time since I was in California. As we worked harder, she even turned on her overhead fan. The smell and gentle stirring of the breeze, the faint street sounds, the bare arms, and the manual labor made the evening feel far more like one in the middle of summer than winter.

Between two days of hard winter schoolwork and teaching, it was a very pleasant vacation, even if illusory.

Tea time

I love coffee. I love the way it smells and tastes and I used to love the way it made me feel. Lately, however, I'm wondering if it has stopped loving me back.

Ever since I went off it (and all caffeine) over Christmas, it has affected me strangely--or maybe I've just been better at noticing its effects. Last week, I realized that two nights in a row, I'd had trouble falling asleep. If there's one thing I've always been good at, it's sleeping, so I found the situation rather disturbing. Both days, I'd had coffee in the morning. The next two days, I didn't--and didn't have any trouble sleeping.

So yesterday morning, wanting a little morning lift, and craving the taste--but not the jolt--of an Americano, I instead ordered tea--Mighty Leaf's Vanilla Bean. And my goodness, was I impressed. Ordinarily, I order tea (herbal) when I'm at the coffee shop at night and don't want any caffeine; I'd never ordered it in the daytime. But I did it again today, and think I may be a convert. I definitely experienced a nice lift, and felt energized without the jittery-ness and distractability that coffee seems recently to induce. And I floated down gently, imperceptibly, without the malaise that comes with a coffee buzz wearing off.

I've heard tea-drinkers talk about these things--as I've sipped my coffee. Somehow the little tea bag tag poking out of their to-go cups always seemed a little pretentious; I don't know why. I do think, however, that it may be time to extend my pinkie finger and join them.

Acclimating

Today I stepped outside and realized that I could smell the air and that my skin didn't hurt. It was really quite lovely. I discovered later that then, at 2:30, it had been 14 degrees. Yesterday's high was 6° and Sunday's was -4°, if that puts things into any perspective.

I stayed inside almost all weekend, though a friend did brave the weather Saturday night to come over for dinner (pumpkin curry soup (the ingredients were already in my pantry...) and cornbread), and then we headed out to see The Golden Compass, which was most disappointing. Sadly, several of my favorite stars and a fortune's worth of digital effects couldn't save this film from its screenplay and directing.

I didn't leave at all Sunday, and even though I had my heat cranked up all day, I still captured this window ice on my tallest north-facing window:



In other news, I booked a ticket to Seattle for my upcoming 10 year high school reunion, and, as both the event itself and my own inclinations could easily predict, I have been doing some soul (and face) searching. This is what I looked like on the day I graduated from high school:

The more I look at this photo, the more strange it seems that it's me. The picture on my debit card was taken shortly after this one, and my friends here laugh whenever I pull it out to pay--I have so much hair, and am so cute!

And I used to think that I didn't look that much different than I did in high school. Witness, in fact, this photo from this blog's own archives, taken in the first semester of my time at BG, just over three years ago:
The resemblance to my high school self is striking, no?

Unfortunately, I don't think it's just the hair that's different now (I first cut it short in Paris in 2000, and it has been many lengths since then--the longest of which you see above). Many things have changed my face and body since I graduated, from the three marathons I've run to last summer's bike accident, which slightly altered the contours of my chin. But I'm afraid the biggest one is grad school. I feel like the past three years have not been kind to me, hollowing out my cheeks, giving me wrinkles, and making me a bit haggard.

I took this picture when I got my hair cut in November:

Tell me the truth, Internets. Do I look unduly aged by the past decade? Will my former classmates have to hide their shock and dismay?

I know I'll be able to pass as the same person if I keep smiling (which still seems, thankfully, to come fairly easily). That may be my only hope.

P.S. For further comparison, and so you don't think I'm making this up, here's a picture I snapped this afternoon when I got back from school, feeling particularly haggard:


Ahhh, you see what I mean about smiling, don't you?

Three things that are not related

...The last of which is disturbing. Reader beware!

1. Doing laundry in Minnesota in December means that the stain spray I store in my car had frozen solid, and that when I removed my fleece from the dryer where it had been tumbling on the "no heat" setting, it had frozen crunchy.

2. We ended up not even opening the carton of orange juice I'd purchased for brunch last weekend, and I generally try not to drink too much citrus juice (though I love it) because it tends to make me break out, but I finally opened it yesterday, and having a glass with breakfast makes me feel extremely luxurious.

3. On Wednesday, there was a vague bad smell in my apartment, seemingly localized in "the other room" between my living room and mini-hallway. It bothered me all day, and that night, having stayed up late grading papers and having just finished brushing my teeth and taking out my contacts, I decided to investigate. It seemed to be worst in the area around my rolling mini-filing cabinet, so I pulled it out a few inches from the wall. I gasped when I saw something dark against the wall, but was relieved to realize that it was just a small purse flashlight that had fallen behind the cabinet. When I leaned over to look on the other side of the cabinet, I didn't gasp--even though what I saw was four little mouse paws sticking out from under the edge. I did choke a little when I tried to move the cabinet and the paws moved with it, but recovered myself (after a thorough shuddering) and methodically removed the drawers of files and was then easily able to roll the cabinet away from the (extremely stationary) and now clearly noxious mouse. I didn't even have to talk myself through it out loud (as I have in the past--something along the brilliant lines of "You're okay, you're okay, you can do this, you're okay") as I put on my gloves, disposed of the body, and disinfected the floor for good measure. Apparently at least one of them found the poison my landlord left. I hope no more of them choose to die in my space--as cold-hearted as I may be.

Shuang Hur Supermarket

So tonight I finally made it to the massive Asian grocery store that's just three blocks from my house and which I had, quasi-inexplicably, never visited, despite its mellifluous name, Shuang Hur, which lodges in my brain and gets stuck on repeat, either relatively quietly in the background of my thoughts, or occasionally--like now, since it's typed on the screen in front of me--irresistibly tripping aloud off my tongue, and always accented in my bad approximation of the tonal languages that fascinate me in Asian films.

I never really thought about why I hadn't been into Shuang Hur (Shuang Hur, Shuang Hur...), despite having walked, ridden, or driven by it innumerable times. The Mexican grocery store next door to it is pretty great, too, but I didn't discover that until my first visit this summer. And yet I've been to the sketchy "Quality's Market" between them twice--ostensibly because they're open later, but probably, if I'm being honest with myself, because the other two had always alarmed me a bit. They're not easy to see into, and Shuang Hur has things like "live seafood" painted on its windows, with illustrations to match. Tonight, however, desiring tofu and having finally decided to seize the opportunity that is my wildly multi-ethnic and food-obsessed neighborhood, I chose to, in Dumbledore's words, "step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure" [1].

Upon entering, I was instantly accosted by a powerful odor--predominantly of the live seafood, but combined with all sorts of difference. Channeled immediately into the store by a barrier of produce stands and towering displays of canned coconut milk, lychee, and jackfruit, however, I quickly forgot the smell and walked, rapt, down each aisle of the largest Asian grocery I'd ever seen. In Lincoln, Ter and I used to shop occasionally at the tiny grocery abutting and apparently associated with the Thai House restaurant, a closet-sized affair crammed to bursting with cans and boxes and bags of tantalizingly unfamiliar aliments, some of which she (who spent a year in Thailand) used to delight in buying and having me try at home.

Shuang Hur, alternatively, was about the size of Ideal Grocery in Lincoln, or my Aldi in Bowling Green, with aisle after fully-stocked aisle of so many things I'd never seen before that I had to keep reminding myself to close my mouth. I surreptitiously snapped a few pictures with my phone, too (which cost me the last package of firm tofu, as I attempted to document the impressive selection and prices); I had to settle for the medium after letting another (very polite) fellow shopper take it. Unfortunately, my phone munched the pictures; I'm especially disappointed about losing my images of the large drink case with its "PLEASE DO NOT DRINK BEFORE BUY" sign and the meat counter with pork tongues and "honeycomb" (a quick googling of which reinforces my gladness to be vegetarian). I perused everything like a tourist, marveling at squid chips, coconut jellies, half an aisle of various teas, and even gallon jugs of red and green food coloring. Another quirky touch was the quite respectable showing of Mexican food and seasonings--though presumably not as large as it might have been were it not next door to at least two sizable Latino groceries.

I got two packages of water-packed tofu, two large cans of coconut milk, a big ginger root, a lime, a mango, and a box of Pocky, for $7. They take credit cards, and they're open until 7:00 during the week. I'll definitely be back for more grocery shopping, and will be adding it to the list of Attractions for Visitors (sign up now!).

I love my neighborhood.

[1] Book the sixth, chapter 3

Gambi, libri, gatti

So this morning I finally had my appointment at Student Health to see one of the sports docs about the leg that's been bugging me since the marathon. After listening to my symptoms and examining my legs, his diagnosis was a stress fracture, but he ordered a couple of X-rays to attempt to confirm. One on of them, he was able to point out a slight bump that he thought indicated "a nicely healing stress fracture" (it's been six weeks, after all). It turns out I did everything right as far as treatment--ice and ibuprofen early on, and then no running since the injury--but there's not really anything else I can do now, except to continue to stay off it. His recommendation was to avoid running until at least the first of the year, which, sadly, rules out Phoenix (and means I'll have to come up with some other way to deal with my SAD this winter).

Biking's still okay, though, and tonight I rode to the downtown library, for the first time in ages. Nicollet Mall is the main shopping drag downtown, with wide sidewalks and only two lanes of traffic, restricted to buses.* All the lights and Christmas decorations are up, and the crowds were out. Apparently the Holidazzle parades start this Friday night; I didn't go last year, but maybe this year I'll check it out. I returned home with the fourth, fifth and sixth H.P. books ('finished the last of #3 Monday morning), and Chelsey's right: the third book was definitely written for more mature readers, including its length--and the three I picked up tonight are veritable tomes. Today was my last day of classes until next Tuesday, so although I do plan to get lots of French done and get substantial starts on my final take-home essay exam and research paper in Art of Islamic Iran, I think a bit of escapism is also in order; I won't be traveling anywhere for Thanksgiving, so this will suffice.

Finally, my department is convinced I need a cat. My friend Paul, genuinely concerned, asked me a few weeks ago,"How will you survive graduate school without a cat?" Especially with the recent mice ordeal (I don't think I mentioned that as of Wednesday, my body count is up to a nice, round 10;** I'll spare you the details), a cat is sounding better and better. "Do cats need it to be warm?" I asked Anna. "Because my apartment can get a little cold."
"No--they have fur!" she responded. Then a few minutes later, she asked, "...How cold?" I can't really leave the heat machine on while I'm not home, but I don't think a kitty would freeze in my apartment. I'm on the second floor, after all--and the mice are doing fine.

My main worry, truthfully, is that I'm too neurotic for a cat. I'm not sure I can deal with being responsible for another life or sharing my space with one. And I'm slightly allergic. And poor. And don't like being covered in hair. And don't want to deal with messes or health problems or bad smells. But... it would be awfully nice to have a warm body to come home to.

*Including the city's new green hybrid buses.
** When she sees a couple where one is tall and skinny and the other is round, my friend says, "That's what I like to call 'the number 10.'"

Good news/bad news

Bad news: It snowed here on Monday. Not enough to stick, but a few flurries. It flurried again yesterday. And so it starts.

Good news: My man Dennis Kucinich (two words: vegan pacifist) offered a bill to impeach Dick Cheney. (I realize this isn't exactly "news" anymore, but I'm so glad someone is still interested in pointing out the evil in the White House that I wanted to mention it anyway.)

Bad news: I've lost two toenails in the past two weeks, both on my right foot, thanks to marathon-induced subungual hematomas. And my left leg is still bugging me.

Good news: This morning I was at school before 8:00 and was able to put together a PowerPoint presentation for today's 9:05 and 11:15 sections (with a minute or two to spare); now I am done teaching for another week!

Bad news: North Country Co-Op, my beloved West Bank source for soup, rolls, and farmer-direct eggs, has shut its doors, apparently permanently.

Good news: The smell of death in my apartment has diminished significantly. The Indian-ish garbanzo/tomato curry and brown rice I made yesterday has also helped mask it.

Bad news: The take-home essay that has been haunting me all week is due tomorrow, and still requires some significant work between now and then.

Good news: I fly to Seattle on Friday! I'm getting out of the Midwest for the first time since May! It's hard to communicate how happy this makes me. I get to fly! On a plane! Away from here! And see family and friends! Outside of Minnesota!

And, finally, speaking of happy, today the department held an informal luncheon to properly welcome one of this semester's visiting lecturers. I sat next to one of the professors with whom I have little contact (but about whom, oddly enough, I dreamed last night after seeing him in the office yesterday afternoon--I was his TA and he wanted me to haul and label boxes of stuff), but who is widely reputed to be charming and well-loved. The visiting lecturer will be teaching the survey course next semester (the one for which I TA-ed last semester), and the professor recounted team-teaching it with the professor I assisted last year, back when the U was on the quarter system (!). He described, in his cheerful Belgian accent, a headlong dash through Western art history. "We blew a projector bulb one day," he said, "and in the 10 minutes it took to replace it, I lost the entire Byzantine period!" Awesome.

Che profuma!*

I've had a fairly ridiculously sensitive sense of smell for as long as I can remember, and at fairly predictable intervals it's even more sensitive than usual.

Today I rode to school along Franklin, and experienced a veritable smörgåsbord of smells--in addition to the usual exhaust fumes, I smelled the bakery, cigarette smoke from a passing car, pedestrians' cologne and perfume, and spices and incense from small stores. The ride home, along the bike path, was even better; we had unseasonably warm and wonderful weather, and I rode slowly, savoring the smell of warm trees and sunshine, slightly tinged with smoke.

Then I got home, and as soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong. My apartment smelled, and not like warm trees and sunshine.

(Please feel free to stop reading here. Seriously. I'm sorry my posts have been so unpleasant of late.)

I had just been talking to the playwright-hippie-downstairs-neighbor outside, and when I told him I'd killed nine mice this weekend, he said, with conviction, "Oh, there are more."
"More?" I cried. "I killed NINE. Nine mice!"
"Based on how much poop we've been seeing as we've been moving, there has to be a lot of them." Then he revealed that they'd found a bag of cat food in the basement, and had thankfully removed it. Apparently not before, however, it had fed the colony they'd spawned, who had then moved north (to the killing fields of my kitchen).

After that exchange, it's definitely possible I was feeling extra-neurotic when I got to my own apartment and thought it smelled. That self-reflection was further reinforced when I proceeded through each room (after opening all the windows), sniffing everything (which is quite the experience when you're feeling olfactorily enhanced).

Once again, I knocked, grim and pale, on my neighbor's door. She came over and, happily for my sense of my sanity but unhappily for that of which the situation bodes, confirmed that the place smelled. At first, she didn't notice anything; after a few more sniffs, she wrinkled her nose.

"I think it smells of death," I suggested helpfully.

We confirmed that under my sink smells mouse-y... but it hasn't revealed itself as the locus of the stench, which seems to have intensified in the past few hours, despite the open windows (thank goodness for unseasonable weather). Those of you who have experience with these sorts of things know that this particular odor (death) eerily defies being pinpointed to a certain location.

This winter, there was a terrible smell in the TA office, and both I and the woman with whom I was TAing that semester were convinced it was something dead, despite the protestations of the other grads. Neither of us, sensitive sniffers notwithstanding, could locate the source, however. The office eventually (blessedly) stopped stinking, but it was only weeks later that a friend (accidentally!) found the corpse of the mouse who'd cuddled the warm power supply and met his end.

The possibility of this stench is why I haven't used poison on these little bastards, and now I appear to be stuck with it anyway. The injustice!

At my neighbor's suggestions, I called my landlord about it (and my discovery that, with my shoddily installed cabinets, there's a mysterious space behind my cupboards that I can't get to but the vermin apparently can). We had to laugh, though; he's both a man and a chain smoker, so he won't smell anything. Still, he does like to keep us happy. Here's hopin'.

*I finally learned in Italy that "Che profuma," depending on the punctuation, means both "What's that smell?" and "What a (nice) smell (mmmmmm)!"

Mom & April, you might want to skip this one, or, The Drama

So recently I've been hearing phantom scritchings and scratchings in my kitchen. That is, they were phantom until yesterday. Yesterday I came face to snout with the perpetrator, who was perched on the edge of the garbage can under my sink and who didn't even have the good sense to run after I opened the door. That is, until I shrieked; then he skittered back into the depths from whence he came. I sat back down at my computer, figuring I'd scared him away at least for a while, but moments later, there he was again and we replayed the scene.

Trembling, I knocked on my neighbor's door, and she was already scooping Sappho up as she asked, "You wanna borrow my cat?" We brought her over, and I was embarrassed at the state of my under-sink cupboard. I keep my recycling there, so it was crowded with paper bags. It was dusty, and my murine visitors had also left traces of their debauchery. Sapph did some stalking, but we decided to bring her back after I'd opened things up a bit.

I pulled out all the bags, took my recycling to the street, and cleaned and disinfected the cupboard floor and my trashcan (they had gnawed a hole in the bottom of the liner, apparently to get to the tasty coffee grounds and squash peels). With the formerly cave-like interior now bright, shiny, and smelling of Lysol (and, I hoped, replete with lingering cat memories; they'd had ample opportunity to see and hear Sappho), I closed the doors and sat back down to work.

But they came back. Once again, I threw open the doors and yelled. I left the doors open this time when I sat back down. It came back again.

So I knocked on my neighbor's door again, and this time we brought not just Sappho, but her litter box, food, and water; she was going to sleep over. I picked her up and dropped her in front of the sink, where she almost instantly detected the scratching and went into huntress mode. Meaning, she crouched in and just outside of the cupboard, staring, for at least an hour. Intently watching the mice run along the back of the cupboard.

Finally, one comes to the very edge of the cupboard, nose to nose with Sappho, and she pounces. I close my eyes, and when I look up, she has the little guy in her mouth. I run to the back door, fling it open, and frantically call to Sappho to come. She trots defiantly in the opposite direction. I open the front door, and am relieved that she exits and heads down the stairs to the basement. I cross the landing to my neighbor's apartment, knock on her door, and am breathlessly trying to explain what has happened when Sappho prances through the open door behind me and into the apartment, the mouse still in her mouth.

We both shriek and jump back, which may startle Sappho; she drops the mouse. It makes a beeline for the heat machine, from under which Sapph is unable to extricate it. My neighbor grimly cranks up the heat.

But the transported mouse seems to have vanished; Sappho gives up circling the heat machine and we get on the floor but are unable to locate the mouse. We figure if it is somehow still in my neighbor's apartment, Sapph will get it eventually. There are still mice in my apartment, so Sappho comes back to my place for the night.

I feared there would be corpses this morning (apparently she doesn't generally eat her catches), but when her yowls awakened me this morning I was relieved not to find any; last night's drama was plenty for me, and apparently one conquest was sufficient for Sapph. When I returned her to my neighbor this morning, we decided that traps would probably be more efficient.

Cravings

Oh, Internets, I want a cup of coffee. Last night I made toddy, and my whole kitchen still smells like it. Before that, my kitchen smelled from the half-pound of freshly roasted espresso beans I'd picked up from Dunn Bros on Sunday and used to make it.

Sunday was the last day I had coffee.

That's because Sunday morning I woke up with a sore throat. I had coffee at Dunn Bros later that morning, even though I knew I probably shouldn't--and did chase it with two gigantic mugs of herbal tea. But the sore throat stuck around, so I picked up a box each of Airborne and Cold-Eeze that evening and have been dutifully taking both. I've also been drinking a lot of water and herbal tea and avoiding sugar. And coffee.

I've been feeling headachy and fatigued, but I'm not actually sure how much of that is from fighting off a cold and how much is from not having coffee! I guess maybe I'll go take a tiny nap.

Reset

So yesterday the sun finally broke through, and I have photographic documentation.



In the evening, my neighbor, a friend and I went for a bike ride, farther west on the Greenway than I'd ever been before--clear to Hopkins. It was incredible.

I hadn't been feeling so good about my life--the seasonal depression seems to be starting early this year; maybe it's all the rain!--and even the break in the clouds wasn't cheering me up much. The fact that I haven't been able to run since the marathon, as my left leg is still giving me trouble, might be a contributing factor as well.

Whatever had been getting me down, a couple of hours on my bike proved an amazing antidote. The sunshine, smells, and conversation made me feel like a new person.

To top it all off, when we got back home, my neighbor's friend and I went to the Jasmine Deli for Vietnamese spring rolls, noodle soup, salad, and tea to warm us up after the refreshing ride. Perfect.

The Boundary Waters Report

On Monday at 4:00 a.m., Bryant and Bradley arrived. Two and a half hours later, Sunny and her brother Jonathan flew in. Colleen's flight was delayed, but she arrived later that afternoon to complete the canoeing contingent. We spent the rest of the day picking up our rented canoe, packing, and getting final supplies.

Tuesday morning we left before dawn, with the rented canoe strapped to Bruiser and Colleen's to her Honda. We stopped at Lake Superior and again in Ely, where we ate at a place called the Chocolate Moose.
That afternoon we put in at Snow Bank Lake, with Bradley, Sunny, Jonathan and Sebastian in one canoe and Bryant, Colleen and I in the other. That evening and the rest of the week we pretty much paddled until we hit the edge of the current lake, portaged to the next one, and repeated until we decided to stop and camp for the night.

The wilderness was incredibly gorgeous: the lakes were the cleanest I'd seen anywhere, the trees (the deciduous ones just beginning to turn) smelled fantastic, and it was exciting to see the wildlife (which included lots of loons, several bald eagles, a couple beavers, a handful of turtles, and--for Bradley and Sunny, anyway--a wolf). The best thing, though, was to be away from my (and everyone's, for that matter) cell phone, laptop, calendar, and even clock (our only way to approximate the time was by adding or subtracting several hours from the timestamps on Bryant and Colleen's digital photos). Watching the boys hang the food to protect it from the animals every night was also pretty great, though.

On April 14, when the trip was just beginning to take shape, Bryant was in Vegas and I was in Minneapolis, and we chatted about the trip. "Do you think there will be mosquitoes?" I asked. He presciently responded, "Uh... yeah, there will definately be mosquitoes... and portaging... and black flies... and maybe bears... and wind and rain and cold." I was excited about bears, but not about the other things, and asked what the nice parts would be. Bryant responded, "Mosquitoes, portaging, fishing, cooking on a campfire, outhouses without houses, few other people, no cell phones, moose, wild blueberries, skinny dipping, granite and conifers, flap jacks, clean smells, no showers, hard work." I suppose he was right.







We took out on Monday morning at Lake 4, having made a circuit that ended about a five-mile hike from the cars parked at Snowbank. We made another stop in Ely on our way out, and had the canoe back to campus with plenty of time to spare before they closed at 6:00. Everyone stayed at my place again Monday night, and by Tuesday evening were all gone, leaving me alone in my still-relatively-clean and suddenly quite empty apartment--wondering vaguely what I'd been thinking (and whether retraction would be possible), inviting people to a birthday party that I'd rashly decided to host here for myself and two friends tomorrow night.

If you're in the area, you are, of course, invited. It should be a good time.

All pictures courtesy of Bryant and Colleen; there were many more, and you should probably bug Bryant to post some.

Lucky me

Tonight I was supposed to see Oscar Wilde's Salome, one of the Fringe Festival shows, with three art history friends at a venue downtown. I borrowed my neighbors' big cruiser bike, and was doing well, about half a mile from the theater, until I tried to enter a driveway to ride on the sidewalk instead of the street. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I'm going to blame the bike's super-slick balloon tires for the freakish spin-out that happened next.

I stood up quickly, my sunglasses askew, feeling both stunned and foolish (I'm fine! What wipeout?) and wanting to make sure I was entirely out of the road. I tried to stand the bike up, and was afraid it was completely mangled until I realized that the handlebars had just rotated to the point that the tire was facing the seat. Then I realized that I was dripping blood. And that I had little chunks of tooth in my mouth. I spit them out and headed for the nearest building. (Doesn't that sound hardcore? It felt pretty hardcore, even as I felt ridiculously stupid.)

Inside, I got directions to the restroom and got a look at myself. There was a gaping gash just under my chin, and a quick look assured me that that bad boy wasn't going to close up on its own. Thankfully, other than some road rash on my bony parts--elbows, knees, and one hipbone (through the skirt(!)--discovered after the others)--the chin and tooth (a piece off the inside of my upper right first molar) were the only real damages. I went back outside, discovered I didn't have my phone, checked the scene without finding it, and was unlocking my bike while thinking about what to when a police officer came down the steps near me.

I approached him and asked him if he knew where the closest hospital or urgent care was. Actually, I think I babbled on about my University insurance and how I wasn't sure where I could go that would be covered and didn't know what to do. He told me Hennepin County Medical Center was just a few blocks from where we were, and that they were really good (they were where a lot of the bridge victims were taken a week ago). He said he'd be driving right by it, and offered to drop me off. "Is that legal?" I laughed, thinking of how having even an adult student in my car is grounds for termination from teaching. "Sure!" he said. "I'm just a citizen helping another citizen. The only difference is that I'm in a blue suit." I'm glad he was, and also that I'd gotten all cute for the play before splitting my face open. He was young--probably younger than me!--but drove a beautiful new-smelling Beamer and was super-nice about taking me right to the door of the hospital, and reminding me twice of where I'd locked my bike.

Once there, I was helped immediately by a triage nurse who took my blood pressure and the details of the accident before sending me to a large and friendly black woman for contact and insurance information. She asked what my job was ("You look like a reader!" "Is it my squinty eyes?" I laughed) and what nationality I was ("You look like New York," she said, "With your curly hair and all." I laughed again. "I like you!" she said.). I didn't cry at all until she asked for emergency contact information. Then I couldn't remember my parents' phone number, only Bryant's, and sort of fell apart. I did manage to come up with both numbers, and recover, and was sent to wait.

It took about two and a half hours for them to see me, and when I was called in, I got to go to the pediatric wing. That ended up being awesome, as my doctor was incredibly gentle and friendly and explained everything he was doing. Looking at my chin, he said, "It's a little bit smashed in there." "Smashed?" I laughed. "Yep. Smashed like a tomato," he said. "But it will come together really nicely. I've put sutures in much worse." He ended up putting in seven stitches, and chatted with me the whole time ("I'm allowed to talk?" I asked. "Yep! Just don't sing!" he laughed), about running, triathlons, and even Bowling Green, where he'd had a friend who played football. I left feeling infinitely better, with a bottle of Tylenol with codeine, and even able to bike home.

My jaw muscles are really sore (he said I probably dislocated my jaw a little bit and that the "little muscles all around it had torn some") but the actual wound feels fine and I'm trusting that it will either heal to invisibility or give me a hardcore scar to remind me of my first time getting stitches--and not to be stupid.

I have a dentist appointment for tomorrow morning, ironically enough--my first in about five years, and scheduled six weeks ago. I'm hoping they can do something about that chipped tooth while I'm in there. I'm also hoping I can open my mouth.