Me, struggling with proper Sanskrit spelling of Yoga pose: p-a-r-i-v-r-r- what the hell?!?
Brit Boy: Don't you wish Yoga was invented by the English?
Me: Oh, hell no!! Then it'd be all stuffy. And there's no way the Kama Sutra would've been developed.
Brit Boy: Well, aside from that...
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
I will not let my personal tragedy interfere with my ability to do good hair.
Stress [stres] -noun
-physiology. a specific response by the body to a stimulus, as fear or pain, that disturbs or interferes with the normal physiological equilibrium of an organism.
-physical, mental, or emotional strain or tension.
Apparently I'm stressed. This isn't really news to me, but waking up in the middle of the night with a pounding/racing heart and then not being able to return to sleep is a new development. Well... over the past couple of weeks, I guess. It's that age-old "life" thing that's getting in the way of me living my life. Funny that.
So, what does this mean? Better living through chemistry. Hopefully this will stop the middle of the night panic attacks (which is apparently what the waking up with a racing heart is). My only question is, "Can I chase the meds down with an Old Fashioned?"
-physiology. a specific response by the body to a stimulus, as fear or pain, that disturbs or interferes with the normal physiological equilibrium of an organism.
-physical, mental, or emotional strain or tension.
Apparently I'm stressed. This isn't really news to me, but waking up in the middle of the night with a pounding/racing heart and then not being able to return to sleep is a new development. Well... over the past couple of weeks, I guess. It's that age-old "life" thing that's getting in the way of me living my life. Funny that.
So, what does this mean? Better living through chemistry. Hopefully this will stop the middle of the night panic attacks (which is apparently what the waking up with a racing heart is). My only question is, "Can I chase the meds down with an Old Fashioned?"
Saturday, January 3, 2009
What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas.
Upon arriving in San Francisco from Las Vegas, I had a number of things I needed to attend to. Number one on the list? Go to the hospital.
See, apparently not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. After one night in Vegas, my left arm was sore, red, and swollen. It got progressively worse during our stay, until it was throbbing with pain and demanding I see a medical professional. Thing was, there's not many hospitals that are easily accessible from the casinos. So I waited until we got to San Francisco.
Well, the doctor in San Francisco was unimpressed with my reasonings for not seeking medical attention earlier. "Right, they don't have any medical care in Vegas," he said to me as I'm lying on a gurney. All I can do is give him a look.
"Ceullulitis," the doctor says flatly. You've got cellulitis." I look at him in shock. "But I don't have any fat dimples on my legs. How can I have cellulitis?"
"Not cellulite. Cellulitis," he says. "You need IV antibiotics. Actually, you're not far from being admitted to the hospital. You should've come in earlier."
So there I was. Just arrived in San Francisco, lying on a gurney in the emergency room, IV antibiotics flowing into my body. While a homeless man who seems to have lost his cane is yelling at the nurse about having to pee. And about losing his cane. And being hungry. And about losing his cane. And about being hungry. He seemed to be a broken record.
I was rather happy to have remembered my iPod and a book.
See, apparently not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. After one night in Vegas, my left arm was sore, red, and swollen. It got progressively worse during our stay, until it was throbbing with pain and demanding I see a medical professional. Thing was, there's not many hospitals that are easily accessible from the casinos. So I waited until we got to San Francisco.
Well, the doctor in San Francisco was unimpressed with my reasonings for not seeking medical attention earlier. "Right, they don't have any medical care in Vegas," he said to me as I'm lying on a gurney. All I can do is give him a look.
"Ceullulitis," the doctor says flatly. You've got cellulitis." I look at him in shock. "But I don't have any fat dimples on my legs. How can I have cellulitis?"
"Not cellulite. Cellulitis," he says. "You need IV antibiotics. Actually, you're not far from being admitted to the hospital. You should've come in earlier."
So there I was. Just arrived in San Francisco, lying on a gurney in the emergency room, IV antibiotics flowing into my body. While a homeless man who seems to have lost his cane is yelling at the nurse about having to pee. And about losing his cane. And being hungry. And about losing his cane. And about being hungry. He seemed to be a broken record.
I was rather happy to have remembered my iPod and a book.
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