Zombies, Skeletons, and Cholera, Oh My!

(Caution: not for the very squeamish.)

It's been one of those weeks.  The Unconsecrated are roaming infecting people, forensic anthropologists are solving gruesome murders, and another epidemic is killing tens of thousands by ghastly dehydration.  No, I'm not watching the news or bringing you a breaking story of the zombie apocalypse, I'm just sharing my reading and television watching for the week.  This week, for two of my library science classes, I have been reading The Forest of Hands and Teeth by Carrie Ryan, and The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson.  On top of this I have been watching Bones, which my friend Libby recommended, and I am really enjoying (if I can say that without sounding creepy).  So my week has gone something like this: 

"I look death in the eye.

Her fingers are all broken; some have bone pushing through the flesh.  Her arms are ragged yet she flings herself at me with a passion that will not end until her body is too spent to stand and still she will crawl onward."

Okay, horrible, especially since once being bitten by an Unconsecrated (read: zombie) there is no chance at all of not becoming one yourself.  So to lighten things up, I switched a non-fiction account of the cholera epidemic in London in 1854,

"The cholera toxin ultimately disrupts one of the small intestine's primary metabolic roles, which is to maintain the body's overall water balance. . . .the cholera toxin tricks the cells into expelling water at a prodigious rate, so much so that in extreme cases people have been known to lose up to thirty percent of body weight in a matter of hours."

Dying by dehyrdation while all the water is sucked out of your body but you are still lucid, and your heart tries to pump think blood with no water through your body, is pretty high up on the list of ways you don't want to die.  And though I'm not especially squeamish about description, hearing about the "rice-water" fluid that gushes from the victim while trying to eat my oatmeal was a bit much even for me.
Unfortunately, part of my reading through the Bible plan has me in Leviticus.

"If the offering is a burnt offering from the flock, . . .he is to offer a male without defect.  He is to slaughter it at the north side of the altar before the Lord, and Aaron's sons the priests shall sprinkle its blood against the altar on all sides.  He is to cut it into pieces. . ."

Ick.  So not helping.     

So I decided to watch something on Nexflix online.  I couldn't find anyhing that sounded right, but then I decided to start the first season of Bones, and got hooked.  The first episodes weren't too gruesome, but right as I texted my brother saying I liked the show, a particular corpse situation was just too creepy.  Not not helping! 

So right now I am feeling very surround by death, dying, and the undead.  Thankfully right now the sun is out, I know that if I get cholera by some bizarre circumstance, I can survive it by rushing to the hospital and being rehydrated (which is good, because I can't look at drinking water the same way right now.)  About dying there's not much I can do except trust God, and as for my Z-day plans. . .well, hmmm, maybe better just hope that doesn't happen anytime soon. And that I find some lighter books to read!

Beware, Vampires--We wait with Bated (Garlic) Breath

Spring break this year was a mixture of vampires, after-dark egg hunt fiascoes, and homing pigeons. (This is also, no doubt, the plot of a new genre-bending mystery novel, coming soon to bookstores near you.  Seriously, after Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter, is this really so far-fetched?)

Break started with my mom lost in the depths of the Twilight series.  She wanted to read a book critiquing the worldview of Twilight, but decided that in all fairness she couldn't read that without reading the books first.  She started the first one at 8 p.m. on a weeknight, and finished at 3 a.m., without even a break for a drink of water.  By the time I came home, she was devouring the 3rd and 4th books.  She is how happily reading the criticism of the books.

I promptly suggested that we watch the first movie together over break.  It was rather fun (of course), though she insists that Robert Pattinson is gross looking (maybe you had to mourn him as Cedric Diggory in Harry Potter to connect with his Edward Cullen).  But while all was fine with those watching our vampire flick, little did we know that trouble was brewing elsewhere in the house. . .

Lukas had been kindly entertaining Clara and her friend E. for much of the break--playing soccer with them, laser tag, and boardgames, and as we watched Twilight they were making lots of noise and laughing in the kitchen.  This was annoying in and of itself, as the climax of a movie is something less climactic when you can't hear the lines for the giggling and yelling from the other room.  But when they came charging in during the last five minutes, vampires wouldn't be the only ones to want to flee the room.

My mom had bought a 3 lb. canister of peeled garlic cloves (don't ask me why).  Lukas had decided it would be funny to pay the girls to eat a whole clove of garlic.  He ate one too (at least he doesn't lead others where he won't follow. . .not that it's a place worth going to at all).  Then they came charging in to breathe on us.  Gross!  Julia and I complained loudly, my mom got sidetracked wondering why the Twilight vampires aren't bothered by garlic, crosses, or sunlight, and of course the normal chaos of our house ensued.

 

On Saturday, a group of us adult gals had decided it would be fun to go to the Adult Egg Hunt at Queeny Park.  This is a nighttime event during which hundreds of adults go running through the woods to pick up plastic eggs (paying for the privilege, of course).  Our group consisted of my mom, Aunt Debbie, Aunt Pat, our friend Melinda, and me.  My mom was looking forward to it as a fun event with friends, "It's not about the prizes" she announced beforehand.  Like heck it's not, I thought, competition here I come!

When we got there, my mom's heel had been hurting all day.  "You run ahead to pick up the tickets," she told me. "I'll slowly make my way over there." Oh, this is a great start.  She's going to go running through the woods?  We're never going to get any eggs! I wailed to myself.  We we got our group together, we decided to split up based on style.  "I'll go with Aunt Pat!" I cheerfully volunteered--she had called us to ask if we had a strategy earlier in the day.  I was torn between being a dutiful daughter, or playing this game the way I wanted (but feeling guilty about it).  Playing won.  See ya!   

The crowd gathered in the waiting area as it approached eight o'clock.  They had told us beforehand that it might not start exactly at eight, and they would give instructions before sending us off.  So as it hit eight I bent down to retie my shoelaces.  Some guy gave a whoop and everybody started running.  I straightened up, and everyone in our group exchanged bemused glances, and we slowly started walking. "Were we supposed to start?" "I don't think so."  "No one's calling us back." "Too late now." "They can hardly disqualify everybody."  And so we joined the rush.  Turns out adults can't follow instructions any more than little kids.

After the first rush into the woods, with no eggs in sight, we came upon swathes of them, lying in piles.  The rules state that you can only have 10 eggs plus 1 golden egg (which was actually a camo egg in our events--turns out people like to drop fake ones, so they keep what it will look like a secret).  8:05, and Aunt Pat and I already had at least ten eggs each (we had lost the rest of our group in the confusion).  Now what?  Well, keep searching for the "golden" egg, and decide which eggs to keep.  I decided that a strategy was in order for deciding which eggs to keep.  Each egg had a plastic number taped on it, ranging between 001 and 080. 

 Theory #1: High numbers are good.
    So we wandered through the woods, replacing our eggs with higher numbers.  But we found lots of them.
Theory #2: Rare numbers are good.
   So we replaced our eggs with those that we felt we had seen less often.  But it was still only between twenty to thirty minutes into the hunt.
Theory #3: Low numbers are good.
    This happened after I found a number 001.
Meanwhile, I keep wondering, how creative are the designers? Did they pick predictable numbers, like 10 or 25? Or weird numbers?  Did they spread them out, or did they just go 1, 2, 3, 4 are winners?  If *I* were running the hunt. . . but of course I wasn't.  How much thought had they put into this?
Theory #4: Underlined numbers are good.
    Forty minutes into it I found the first underlined number. Oho!  Jackpot! So it's not the numbers that make you a winner, but that each underlined number corresponds to a type of prize! Wow, and they just dumped them all the same place.  Here's another! And another!  I felt really really good about this theory.  You could only redeem 3 eggs for prizes; I wondered how we would choose.  We met up with Debbie, Melinda, and mom, and they all picked up lots of underlined eggs too.   

Well, we go inside, and my stomach sinks when I see the banner saying "winning numbers."  Uh-oh.  Still, we had all made sure we had ten different numbers in our bags.  So we wait for the unveiling of the winning numbers.  It's something like 23, 46, 64, 73.  Not one of our 50 eggs is one of the numbers.  Stupid random non-strategic setup, I mumble.
  So we wait for the grand-prize drawing and the "second chance drawings," for those who didn't win anything.  This is a wait of 45 minutes.  They have the drawing, and we don't win (of course).  Then the host announces that they have more prizes to give away, on a first come, first served basis.  "Look at your tickets. . . if they end in a 2, 4, or 6, go claim your prize." 
Watching the remaining half of the room go running was probably the funniest part of the whole evening.  Not one of us had a ticket ending in 2, 4, or 6.  What are the odds?  There were lots of people who left without prizes, but groups who left without anyone winning?

Seriously.  We should get a prize for that.   



(Do I already have theories for next year?  You bet.
New Theory #1: Pick a range of numbers and collect ten in a row.   Then sit down and read a book.)

Odd Happenings

Well, my life has been a full mix of research and fun (and now class), with a few misadventurous bumps along the way.

Raccoon Barricade

I was walking back to my apartment around midnight after watching a movie with some friends (who live in the same apartment complex--I'm not that foolhardy), when I noticed a raccoon on the steps leading up to my apartment. Being the wise (aka cautious, fearful, timid, etc) person that I am, I backed off, having no desire to enter into a game of chicken with a raccoon, whose only option would be taking a flying leap at my face. So I stood by my car and did what any girl in my situation would have done--call a friend to talk about it.
So I got on the phone with Liz, who had just left, and explained my predicament. At which point, I realized that there were TWO raccoons peering through the slats at the top of the steps. Wow--no way I was getting past their stairblock! I tried things like jingling my keys, etc, but I didn't want to make too much noise and wake up the whole building. So I get the idea of turning on my car and hoping that the high beams would encourage the raccoons to abandon their fortifications. I do--and there is some movement, but they don't look ready to leave. What else could I possible do? Thankfully this remained a purely superfluous question, for a raccoon loped down the steps and around the corner of the building (into the woods that conveniently wrap right up to the apartment)--quickly followed by another--followed by three more. It was a strategic retreat, but with something of a parade about it. I stared in shock as this was happening, thinking, “Wow, I’m glad I didn’t try to charge in!” and wishing I could have gotten a picture. Who says suburbia is tame? Maybe we should be worried about the advance forces of the newly-formed RRA (Raccoon Republican Army).

Respawning Spider

We’ve all heard the phrase “art mimics life” but who knew videogames and reality were so closely connected?
The first time I found this spider in my bathtub, I bravely but squeamishly smashed it with toilet paper, and was subsequently very grossed out by the leg left flopping around (a la Pirates of the Caribbean’s dead hand). A few days later I find an identical spider right outside the tub, which I dispose of. This happens again after another few days. Now, I may not be a scientific genius, but I do know that lots of spiders hatch in the same place, etc. But that’s not the point. The point is, like World of Warcraft, you have a respawning monster that is killed and then appears in the same spot after a certain amount of time. It’s the same thing with this insidious arachnid.
Freaky, huh? Now if only I got bonus points for killing spiders.

A Conspiracy of Chairs

My summer class started this week, in what used to be GCB (General Classroom Building) but which now has a long, confusing name after a professor, which I refuse to use on principle. (I’ve called it GCB for three years now—they can’t go changing the foundation of my education this late in the game.) Anyhow, there are four floors, and each flight of stairs is broken up into two, with a landing between (as you change direction). In each landing (on both ends of the building) is a single plastic/metal chair—usually orange, green or brown—with a taped (and typed) sign that says “do not remove from stairwell.” Why? What could possibly be the use for such chairs? They are in between floors, so they can’t possibly be used to prop the doors open. Are they for people to rest on who get winded climbing flights of stairs, in a gesture towards complete non-discrimination? Do they have secret building-safety powers? Can they put out fires? What is the answer to this mystery?
One chair ended up right outside our classroom, probably by a student who took the signs lightly. The chair still sits there in ominous silence—but who knows if we’ll ever see that student again?

Maybe the chairs are in league with the raccoons.

3rd Annual End of the (School)Year Awards

(Aka "A Quick Catchup of the Last Few Months")

Most Misadventurous Hour: Believe it or not, there were some close runners-up, but this story pretty much takes the cake (or cookies, as it were).
Back in February, I woke up at around five a.m., and, debating on whether or not to get out of bed to go to the bathroom, I saw that the hall light was on, and thought I heard something. So I got up, and opened the door to find my roommate quietly but miserably crying. She was curled up on the bed in lots and lots of (physical) pain, so I sat with her, trying to be comforting. It was snowing outside, and Lukas was away for the weekend with the car. She's in pain relatively regularly, and it wasn't something that usually needs the doctor, but it was especially bad that night, so we were debating whether or not to take her to the emergency room. Well, I was sitting there on the edge of her bed, trying so earnestly to think her into feeling better, or sort of psychicly funnel some of her pain away, when I started feeling bad. Okay, I told myself, you're just being over-dramatic because you can't stand having the attention focused on someone else. But I kept felling a little weird. "Hang on" I told her. "I'm just going to go to the bathroom for a second. . ."
Well, the next thing she hears is a huge crash, and she drags herself into the bathroom (literally; she can’t even stand up straight) to find me unconscious on the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the tub. On my way down I must have grabbed the shower curtain, because it came down on top of me, and on its way down sheared the knob off the tub’s water supply completely off, and water is pouring out. (I should also mention that our shower doesn’t drain very well, and the shower curtain was blocking the drain, so that it was filing up). Poor, poor Sarah!
I came to after maybe 20-30 seconds, feeling really groggy, with Sarah hovering frantically over me. “I’m alright,” I kept repeating, which is always what I seem to say after passing out, and which is never really true. She helped me stumble back to my bed, and told me to lie down, as she rushed back to try to get the water to stop gushing out. She couldn’t even find the knob in the folds of shower curtain, and (understandably) started freaking out. “I’ll get it,” I mumble, starting up again. By God’s grace I didn’t pass out again, and I was able to somehow grab the knob and shove it back on. The water stopped, and we both collapsed in our tiny hallway, sobbing and laughing hysterically and desperately. We joked about calling the maintenance guy (with whom we already have a history of crazy repairs) and him finding us on the floor, in too much pain to get up, and him quipping something about needing an ambulance. So we prayed, and I grabbed a pack of frozen thin mints out of the fridge, which we went a long way towards finishing, and went back to bed.
The next afternoon Sarah was feeling marginally better, and Libby kindly took me to a weekend health clinic (student health care is closed on the weekend, which is always when I get sick), which had moved since the last time I went there, which turned into its own misadventure. As it turns out, I had a sinus infection (I seem to get that or bronchitis every semester). Later that week, our friendly neighborhood maintenance man came over to fix the shower, and he was shocked by what had happened to the knob, and even more so by the fact that we were able to get the water stopped again. Sarah told him the story, and he was really kind and concerned, but laughingly told her to tell me “to stay away from the bathroom” (see January’s entry).
So, people, if you have any stories to top that (I have no doubt that Kaelen can) send them my way! But that is certainly one of my most crazy moments, even with my general klutziness taken into account. (And why is it I always pass out in the most unglamorous situations? Why can’t a fold into a faint delicately like some Regency woman?)

Favorite New Book Series: The Honor Harrington Novels by David Weber

Best Parts of Having an Apartment: my own bedroom, space to have friends over, decorating, and getting to hang out with Sarah!

Worst Parts of Having an Apartment: construction, construction, construction, practical jokes about ball python in water supply, very short shower head, wildlife [ants, possums, raccoons, lizards, feral cats, etc.].

Favorite Class: Ancient World in Film with Barnes and Rautman: amazing, amazing amazing! (Plus fun getting to hang out with Marcus and Sam)

Most Stretching Experiences: Drawing class (really, it was one of the hardest things I have ever had to get through, but rewarding too), visit to the City Museum--I'm afraid of heights and apparently claustrophobic. Nuff said.

Under Construction

Right now I’m on spring break, so the only sounds in the background are the growls and thumps of video games, but for the last month or two most of my life has revolved around the sound of construction. Last year the apartment building next to mine burned down, and so I’ve been woken up every morning at 7:15 with the sound of nail guns outside my window. Now, for those of you responsible adults who are thinking “big deal,” let me remind you that I am a crazy college student, who, for various reasons (none involving partying) stays up rather late—“rather” being in comparison to those I know who stay up until 4 or 5 am. In any case, for the first two weeks of this torture, I walked around like a zombie, muttering dark curses on construction workers. Then, it started following me around. There is tons of construction on campus, and some of it is happening right outside one of my classes. It gets so loud that we can’t even hear whoever is speaking. In the meantime, the apartment complex apparently was forced by the state to put in more fire hydrants, a process that involved sectioning off most of out already limited parking, and digging a ridiculously deep trench right the in middle of our roadway. Most of it is now filled in with gravel, but on each end it is merely covered over with huge metal squares, with sound like thunder every time a car runs over them. We’re gotten used to it, but it always freaks visitors out (what was that?!!!).
One side effect of all of this is the dirt, which, you guessed it, turned to a greater amount of mud with every torrential rain we’ve had the last few weeks. At one point, I was running late to bring the car to Lukas, so I only slipped on my boots but didn’t bother to zip them up. Well, I make it down the steps, step into the muddy parking lot, and one of them flaps down into the mud. Just great, I think. As I bend down to zip it up, my new expensive purse slips into the mud. Fabulous. As I try to brush it off, Lukas calls, and I try to get my cell phone out of my pocket with my now-muddy hands.
Actually, I’ve been wondering how some people manage to make it to class still looking like something other than a drowned sewer rat. After twenty minutes in the pouring rain, my jeans were soaked up three-quarters of the way, rain had seeped into my boots (which were tucked into my jeans and came to my knees) and socks, and so much water collected on my backpack that it seeped all the way through to the bottom, ruining the bottom lines of my notes, and dripping down the back of my pants. And all this is with an umbrella, a raincoat, and a sweater! I’ve decided that I need to invest in one of those huge, ten-person umbrellas; forget the small individual sized ones, they just don’t cut it. I’ve felt superior in the past for using the small umbrellas that don’t take up the entire sidewalk, but forget that; desperate times call for desperate measures.
But back to my point. All this is, when put into perspective, merely irritating. But lately some tarps and window coverings on the new building haven’t been tied down well, and they make ghostly noises flapping, flapping (or perhaps “rapping, rapping”) at my windowpane. But these noises aren’t even regular, so I will be trying to fall asleep when a haunting whisper whips me back into awakeness. “’Tis the wind and nothing more,” or so I tell myself, but it is still dang distracting, especially when I’m reading a literary horror novel called House of Leaves.
As I left for break, my nostalgia made me feel like saying farewell even to those dastardly tarps, but I’m not sure how long that will last once I come back from break. Maybe the construction will be over. Or maybe I’ll find a raven at my window. Both probabilities are equally likely.

Crazy Day

Well, school starts tomorrow but I'm not sure I'm going to have enough energy to deal with it! Today definitely earns a nomination in my misadventure hall of fame.

Our car's alignment was all out of whack following our trip to SC, so my dad and Lukas dropped it off last night, so that we could get it this morning and head back to Mizzou. Well, this morning the place called, and said that our tires were old, filled with dry rot, and some other techno-lingo I didn't catch. (I guess I should mention that we got the alignment fixed two weeks before. How did our tires suddenly *noticeably* age seven years? I have no idea.) I had to go between holding, calling my dad at work, calling the place again, calling, my dad at work, price checking another place, etc. I should also mention that at this place all 3 guys working were named Jim, Joe, and John, and at first I kept forgetting just whom I was supposed to be speaking with. It turns out (of course) that another place had a by far better price, which was also going to be more of an ordeal.

Lukas had to do most of the run-around, because he was more packed than I was, so that was worse for him. But then he calls me on the way to pick up Julia, and goes “Umm, I think the speedometer’s messed up. It says I’m going fifty and I’m definitely not going more than thirty-five.” He planned on going back to the place, but then figured out that it had gotten switched to kilometers per hour instead of miles.

Well, we drove down (it’s sort of sleeting in Columbia), got slightly unpacked, and then I ran to Wal-Mart. The first cart I picked, of course, had in alignment worse than my car’s, and I was almost unable to wrestle it into moving straight ahead. So I got another cart, and proceeded with my shopping. All went more or less well until I got to the Pringles. Lukas had asked me to buy some for him, and I had to sort through all the weird packaging and labels. Then, in my new semi-healthy phase, and debated buying some fat-free Pringles for myself, and realized with a sense of unfairness that the low-fat versions were double the price of the regular ones! Maybe that’s because of higher production costs, but I doubt it.

I got back from Wal-Mart, put up the groceries, and was ready to rest, completely unaware of the doom descending on me. Never, ever try to flush the toilet and switch the toilet paper role at the same time. Our toilet paper holder is a really cheap metal one that is always falling apart, and the spring sometimes catapults the two metal halves halfway across the room. In this case it hurled one half down the still-flushing toilet and out of sight. I’m sure you can image my horror. OCD people do NOT like to think of putting their hands into toilet water (even clean), not that there was anything to pull out anyway. Oh no, oh no, oh no, I thought, and then added wryly, so much for the money I saved at Wal-Mart. So after calling my dad (and my roommate) in panic, I reached the apartment maintenance guy who said that actually it would probably be fine, since it was just half of the holder. I eyed the other half and the spring as if it was going to leap down the pipe just to irritate me. He had me try flushing it, which worked (!), but then we had to wait for it to fill up to try and flush a wad of paper. Of course it took a century, so we made small talk about the weather, I gave a brief run through of my crazy day, and decided that the adage “a watched pot never boils” also applies to toilet bowls refilling. So, as of 8:50 tonight, I hope all my misadventures of the day are over. But you never know. Maybe the holder’s spring will come attack me in my sleep.

Really Late

[Yikes, it's been a long time since I've written! But, in my defense, I'm not sure than anybody is still reading this. Well, it's very old news now, but I am officially no longer a journalism major! I was so miserable in the J-school, and I am much happy as an impractical English major (with a journalism minor; I'm not quite away from the J-school yet).
Schoolwork is keeping me quite busy, though I'm only taking twelve hours I have a ridiculous amount to do before thanksgiving break.]

Okay, so that was also written a while ago. I've given up trying to go back, so once again I'm forced to summarize. (And once again, if anyone is still reading and caring about this, LET ME KNOW. I am one of those crazy people who only keeps up with things when she has an audience.)

Goodbye, Journalism.
Hello, English.

Out: Stitches
In: Scars

I'm through with attending class with bronchitis, speaking to 3 classes of strangers about living with OCD, and that dratted journalism paper.

Currently obsessed with: Heroes

(All my other shows are gone, and not returning anytime soon. Shower the Writer's Union with everything they want! Give them raises, pineapple on a platter, palaces--or at least a decent deal!)

If you want to hear really humorous trivia about 19th century embroidery, let me know. (Gosh, I am so weird. But it was for a school project. Honest. Or does that make it worse?)

Yeah, that pretty much brings things up to the present. Last night Sarah and I decorated our apartment for Christmas, which was a lot of fun. Thankfully neither of us was hospitalized (Me + rocking chair +hanging tacks at the top of wall + really really hard wall = likely disaster) Hmmm, maybe that's because Sarah pushed in almost all the tacks, while I held the string of lights and handed her tacks (though I kept walking away, still pulling on the lights. . .). Anyhow, fun times.