The State House was pink last night.  They have special light filters (I assume they’re filters, but I’m not the State House lighting director), and they change the colors monthly (?). It’s pretty cool, makes driving around at night an adventure.  Also, everything available for purchase lately seems to have a pink ribbon on it, or it’s a Halloween, or Christmas (already?!?!?) decoration.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about raising money for breast cancer, and I stopped hating the color pink a while ago.

Let’s take a step back, though, October is obviously the month of Halloween, Breast Cancer Awareness month, the month of Oktoberfest etc.  It’s also DInosaur Month.  Poor dinosaurs are always getting lost in the shuffle, and if I hadn’t been at the library yesterday, I wouldn’t have known about it either. In celebration, I will now list a few fun dinosaur facts that people may or may not know.

There is no such thing as a Brontosaurus.  Remember growing up, that giant long-necked herbivore of the sauropod genus was always called a Brontosaurus?  Then, I stopped paying attention for a moment, and it became Apatasaurus.  I feel that not many people know why, because when a friend of mine was wearing a t-shirt with an Apatosaurus on it, and I correctly identified it, he was wildly impressed (dinosaurs are super-awesome).

The story goes, dinosaur nomenclature dictates that the first name given to a dinosaur is the correct one.  In 1877 Othiel Charles Marsh found a skeleton and named it Apatosaurus ajax.  Two years later, he found a similar skeleton and named it Brontosaurus excelsus, which means Thunder Lizard (clearly, he had been thinking up cool names in the interim, plus this skeleton was larger and more thunderous).  The only problem was the fact that the Thunder Lizard skeleton was incomplete– lacking a skull.  Marsh fashioned one according to what he believed it would have looked like, and wound up creating a massive skull to match the massive body.  The skull created was similar to the Camarasaurus:

Finally people stepped back and examined the skeletons and realized that they were actually the same, or similar enough to eliminate the need for two names.  The mighty Brontosaurus excelsus, actually had a puny little head, and all signage would need to be changed.

Getting away from sauropods, the largest of the stegosaurid armoured dinosaur or Stegosaurus has the smallest brain of all the dinosaurs– size of a walnut.  However, he has another things going for him that baffled scientists for years.  There is a large cluster of nerves in the hip/tail region, that led many to think that it was actually a second brain that controlled reflexes in the rear of the body.  This has been disproved, and Stegosaurus remains the just dinosaur with the smallest brain– although it was chosen as the state dinosaur of Colorado since that’s where it was first discovered.

If you would like to learn more about dinosaurs, I highly recommend The Modern Scholar Lecture Series: Behold The Mighty Dinosaur.

Dinosaurs rule.

*all pictures were taken by me at the Peabody Museum of Natural History in New Haven, CT– you should go there.

I’ve never had head lice. In elementary school, around first grade, we had The Big Lice Scare.  Someone brought the pests to school, and suddenly the coat room was a hazardous area; every itch was suspect; and I was convinced that it was only a matter of time before I was sent home with a tiny comb and a recommended brand of lice-killing fluid.  When it didn’t happen for me, I felt a bit left out, like I was missing some kind of rite of passage.

I feel like getting lice is one of those things that happens to everyone– like getting crapped on by a bird.  That hasn’t happened to me either, and I get very, very nervous when there are a lot of fowl around because as much as I want to get it over with, I really don’t want to get crapped on by a bird.  I just don’t want to have to deal with it even if it means I’m in the clear forevermore and can share anecdotes about getting crapped on with other people at parties.  I covet other peoples’ “I got crapped on by a bird stories” because it’s the perfect blend of pure indignation, and gross.  The the person can conclude with a statement that says how he or she was very upset in the moment, but has since learned that you just have to cope with events like these.  This makes the teller seem like he or she has “risen above” or conquered something, and other people identify and nod in solidarity.

I’ve spent entirely too much time thinking about this.

When I was a freshman in college, I lived in one of the oldest dorms.  We had about six shower stalls for 25 girls which resulted in a ridiculous early morning line of girls trying to get their shower before classtime.  Before I got wise and realized that no one in my 8am Bio class would care if my hair was a bit flat, I queued up in the bovine line and patiently waited my turn.  The one day I actually did this before getting wise, was the day I stood next to this girl, Rami.  She was a giant of a female, with a deep voice, and a slightly dopey expression.  She was nice enough, but I had no interest in extending our interaction past smiling and nodding, and I’m sure she thought of me as one of the two girls who ate too much pizza.

Her shower tote was a white basket similar to the one that my roommate had, but when I glanced at it the only thing I could see was a giant bottle of Nix laying unashamedly on the top.  Rami has lice? I thought as I’m sure I squirmed slightly away from her. Rami has had lice recently, and it still continuing treatment?  Rami keeps something else that she uses in the shower in an old Nix bottle and doesn’t see that that is bound to make people ask questions?  Am I finally going to get lice freshman year of college when actually getting lice would be the most ridiculous thing in the world?

I didn’t get lice from standing next to Rami in the shower line, but I did tell everyone who would listen that she carried around Nix, and surreptitiously watched her to see if she spent more time than usual scratching her head.

Now it is fall once again.  The weather is turning cold; I’m craving stout beer and fish and chips; and my allergies are acting up.  With the allergies comes the itchy eyes, itchy nose, and apparently itchy everything. I have been scratching constantly lately and feel like I’m making people nervous with my twitching and fidgeting.  Naturally, the first thing I thought was that I must have lice, but I don’t have lice, I will never have lice.  I’m perfectly pleased with that, but will always worry.

Despite my mother’s best efforts, I have a very healthy body image and attitude toward food.  My diet is not particularly healthy, but I don’t restrict, starve, or throw up, I just eat like an adolescent boy.  I’m also not fat– never have been, never will be because: I don’t often overeat, I enjoy exercise and being active, everything is fine in moderation, and I don’t want to be fat and rarely do things I don’t want to do.

It’s this moderation philosophy that is really the reason for my success, and the reason I flatly refuse to eat or drink diet anything.  It’s a waste of money, and rarely have I ever found diet something that actually tastes good.  For as bland as my diet of boxed pasta and frozen pizza is– it’s certainly more appealing than some kind of low-carb, low-cal monstrosity that just tastes like chemicals and just makes you feel sad after eating it.

The world, I’ve come to realize, does not share my view, and my obvious femininity seems a burden when asking people in the service industry for what I actually want.  This hasn’t happened as much lately, but for a while it seemed like everytime I went out for food or drink, someone wanted to give me diet or “lite”.  I went out for beers with a bunch of guys once and there was deal on a bucket of domestics.  We split the bucket with me getting Budweiser– naturally when the waitress came back, she served me Bud Light.  I got into a fight with the girl working the Erbert and Gerbert drive-thru about my soda after I took a drink and discovered that it was Diet Coke rather than regular.

“This is diet,” I told her, “I ordered regular.”

“Sorry,” she dumped it out and began re-refilling the cup with diet.

“No!” I yelped, “I don’t want diet, I want the real stuff.”

“What?  Like you want a bottle?”

“No, I want regular Coke, not diet.”

She just looked blank.

I tried again, “I want regular Coca-Cola, Coca-Cola Classic, not Diet Coke, regular Coke– that red one there, not the silver.”

Finally she understood and gave me what I wanted, but I’ve been apprehensive about going to drive-thrus since then.

Since I’ve been working downtown, I’ve been very remiss about bringing a lunch.  I don’t really get terribly hungry mid-day, but it’s nice to go outside, and also nice to have a bit of a snack.  At first, I went to Farmstead and got delightful $10 sandwiches made of artisanal cheeses and felt very good about my choices.  Then one day I consumed both the Cheesemonger sandwich, and Macaroni and cheese that was so delightfully oily it kept slipping off the fork.  Then I felt a bit sick.  Now, I’ve been going to Dunkin Donuts and getting my large iced coffee and a bagel.

Yesterday, I examined the sign boasting of all of the varieties of cream cheese Dunkin Donuts has, most of them boasting of being reduced fat.  I asked the friendly worker “Is it possible to get a strawberry cream cheese that’s not reduced fat?”

“Of course,” he told me, and then promptly gave me reduced fat which I didn’t notice until I was back at work across the street.  It looked like Rose Balm, and tasted decidedly pink, so much so, that I threw most of it away.

Who wants to eat like this?  I suppose my mother does, but she seems to take very little joy in her food and sometimes brags about how she never gets hungry or “needs” to eat.  Of course, she’s a Republican and cannot be trusted to make good decisions, but I can’t assume that all consumers of diet food are Republican…

What I’m left with now, are the questions:

Did the man at Dunkin Donuts grab the wrong cream cheese by mistake?
Does Dunkin Donuts not, in fact, offer the flavored cream cheeses in any variety other than reduced fat?
Did the man at Dunkin Donuts misunderstand my question as others have in the past?
Does the man at Dunkin Donuts hate me and all others that come through the door, and want to exact some kind of small revenge?
Am I actually fat and have never realized it, but everyone else has been trying to tell me for years?

When I ran the Walt Disney World half marathon a year and a half ago, my dad kept pestering me over and over for what I thought my time would be.  It really does make sense that if you’re going to run in a race, your official time is important, but he just wouldn’t shut up about it.  In trying to organize the relay for the grog and dog job, team: The New Hotness needed to figure out how fast we could all run/eat a hot dog and chug a beer (well, we didn’t need to, but when you get a bunch of overachieving academics together, it’s just inevitable).  Yesterday was our dress rehearsal.

In preparation, I ate two hard-boiled eggs and did some deep knee bends.  We mapped out a course beginning and ending at Canadian Male Friend’s house where Wise Lawyer Friend would remain with the stop watch, and where the food and drink would be ready for each runner as he or she came back.  Having run a lot and quickly the previous weekend, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability to get around the loop in a timely way– less confident about my ability to eat and drink while winded.

Chinese Religious Scholar Friend went, and did very respectably; Early Christianity Religious Scholar Friend went and surprised us all with her speed despite having little legs, and Canadian Male Friend (Judaic Studies) ran the 1.25 miles before we even had a chance to get his hotdog and beer out onto the porch.

I got lost.

One of the streets on the route was not marked, and I added on an extra block plus minor backtracking and the extra time of standing there and looking for a familiar landmark, making my time the most pitiful of the bunch. My eating speed was adequate, but not enough to erase the shame of coming in dead last.

Later that evening, my parents called, and I let it go to voicemail.  I listened to my dad’s rambling and somewhat nonsensical account of his weekend running the Twin Cities Marathon, “Best time I’ve had in two years, Annie, so I’m real proud of that.  I feel good about it.”

Seriously, what are the odds?

Next weekend, I assume, the course will be clearly marked, so unless some local punks re-route things, it should work out fine.  I’m confident that if I get to the gym a couple times this week, I can work on my sprinting, and when the times comes, The New Hotness will win the day.

I used to be friends with this girl who suffered from depression. That’s how she always phrased it, “I suffer from depression.”  It was possibly the most annoying thing in the world, as if she pictured depression sweeping into her life like a comic book villain and making her suffer.  Considering the fact that we were in college, and everyone was depressed, I think she did it just to make herself sound slightly more special.  I was not fooled.

Now, I’m suffering from what seems to be insomnia. I say suffering from, because it has swept into my life like a comic book villain and is making me suffer. Also it seems unlike what I pictured insomnia to be.  Rather than toss and turn all night, like the person in the sleep aid commercial, I fall asleep quite easily almost as soon as I put myself to bed. The problem comes about 3am when I wake up, and cannot get back to sleep.  I then spend the rest of the night trying to will myself to fall back asleep, which hasn’t worked, and then berating myself for waking up at 3am in the first place.  Because this is the time when I wake up, I get tired earlier and earlier, sometimes crawling under the covers at 10:30pm.

One night I decided to use this time, and actually got quite a bit of reading done, but after about an hour of that, I attempted to try sleep again.  I couldn’t fall back to sleep, but was even more exhausted than usual the following day.  I’m convinced that laying in bed resting my eyes, must be slightly more restful (even though it’s extremely frustrating) than laying there reading.

I read a lengthy article about this problem years ago before it became a problem for me, and I’ve tried some of the tips it mentioned, and some that have worked for me before:

• Go to bed at the same time every night and get up at the same time every morning– With the exception of the nights when I just cannot keep my eyes open past 10:30, I’ve managed to do this pretty well.  I’m going to start trying a bit harder.
• Exercise– been doing that regularly, and in the past it has worked for me (sometimes), not so far.  The problem with me and exercise, is that it makes me need less sleep, so I guess if I keep it up, I may still be waking at 3am, but that will be less of a problem.
• I’ve been using my S.A.D. sunlamp, which was seriously miraculous last spring when I was mired in a similar situation.
• I read that you’re supposed to keep away from TV and computer screen at least 30 minutes before you want to fall asleep because something about the images stimulates your brain and it takes a while to calm back down– so I’ve been doing that.

None of these is working so far, and I suppose my next recourse could be to cut out caffeine, but then how the hell am I supposed to be alert after only 4 hours of sleep?  I certainly don’t want to take sleeping pills– Judy Garland, plus I really like the idea of being able to function successfully without any assistance from Western medicine.

So, friends, if I start yawning in the middle of a story or anecdote you are telling, please don’t think I’m bored, it’s just that I’ve been up since three.

The design scheme in my apartment is sort of “found objects/ whatever was free at the time.”  This has resulted in me decorating with a lot of things I found in the basement: among them empty window frames, empty picture frames, and windows that are clearly no longer functioning as windows.  I’m pleased with the way it’s all come together, but have expressed for quite a while how nice it would be to have a door no longer functioning as a door to use as part of my decor.

The problem with doors is not the fact that they’re hard to come by– in fact, there are dozens just lying on curbs around Providence (for some reason), and every time I see one I exclaim to Jewish Friend (who always happens to be with me when I see these doors), “Jewish Friend!  Can we strap that to the roof of your car?”  She always says no, and I remain doorless.

Today, I woke up to the sounds of more workmen tearing apart the abandoned house.  Three of them have been showing up daily to cut down trees, and do god knows what to the interior of the house.  They park three giant vehicles in the driveway, but are usually quite gracious about moving them when I demand it.  I don’t mind these guys so much because they haven’t placed a giant dumpster in the driveway, and some of the tree pruning they’ve done has really made it easier to see the street when I’m backing out.

I walked to work this morning, so their being there was a non-issue.  I had a fairly easy day of work, and for lunch, took myself for a walk around downtown and to my favorite used book store to pick up some more vintage Nancy Drew Mystery Stories.  I bought an iced coffee, spoke on the phone to Jewish Friend who’s been out of town for a couple days, and solidified plans to go to a movie tonight for free. On the walk home, I got whistled at by a man leaving the coin-op laundry, and then he promptly backed into a pole, which made me chuckle.

All of this was very nice, but made all the better by the fact that when I got home, I found the abandoned yard, the one that has caused me so many headaches, piled high with doors!  There are eight, to be exact.  It’s a shopping bonanza.  Naturally, I picked out the best one, and dragged it into my apartment– rather difficult to get a door through a doorway– but I pulled it off.

In all of my eagerness to acquire a door, I neglected to think about what I would do if I actually had one, but I’m not even worried about that.  I could even go back out there, grab a couple more, and make some kind of room divider– possibilities are endless with a yard full of doors.

I mentioned recently that the Grog and Dog Jog is coming up and I’m very excited about it.  I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to unite my loves of beer and running, and I seriously can’t believe I never thought of something like this before– but no matter. 

Despite the fact that when this event was announced, I turned to Chinese Religious Scholar Friend and said “let’s do this”, and he said “yes”, getting together the rest of the team has been a bit of a challenge.  Canadian Male Friend has recently developed insulin resistance (or is on his way to developing it–I’m not a doctor) making the beer/hotdog part of the race a little sketchy; Curly-Haired Religious Scholar Friend will be out of town that weekend, Jewish Friend just scoffed at me when I asked her and said “There is nothing about what you just said that appeals to me.”

I persevered nonetheless, and just happened to find Early Christianity Religious Scholar stranded at Bed Bath & Beyond, I innocently asked her “Do you run?” She said, “sometimes”, and team The New Hotness was born.

The Grog & Dog Jog is a mysterious event as well, because the website gives little to no information.  Because I am all about this, and don’t want to miss the window of opportunity, I sent an email with 4 pertinant questions:

1. I have a tentative team of four– is that too many, too few, or just right? (Wild Colonial website doesn’t say how long the course is)

2. What time does it start/ what time would you like people to get there?

3. How much does it cost?

4. This is the most annoying pair of questions, and I apologize that I have to ask them– I’m a vegetarian, can I supply my own soy dog?  Also, another member of my team has insulin resistance and is low-carb– can he eat two hotdogs and skip the bun?

Despite all of the rather ridiculous restrictions my team has, we have successfully united, and my insulin resistant friend said that for me, he will eat a carby bun, and drink a carby ‘Gansett– good friend. He also may have to sneak off and throw up his carbs after consuming them.  In preparation for this event, I ran seven miles yesterday and figured out that I still can actually do an 8-minute mile (which surprised the hell out of me).  Next step is to get a pack of soy dogs and do a test run to see how long it takes for me to eat one and chug a beer after I’ve been doing some jumping jacks.

Everything is coming together.

Job #1 at fancy membership library, comes complete with a whole host of eccentrics that make the library into their second home.  Among them is a rather tragic creature named Catherine who is in every day for hours at a time, and sometimes volunteers in the gift shop.  I first met her about a year ago when she was in the staff room, and I assumed she was staff that I hadn’t met–so I introduced myself.

That simple social nicety mired me in a conversation about everything she had done educationally with her life since she was an undergraduate–  particularly her study of Old English (thank god, she didn’t give me an example).  Since all I had done was mention that I go to URI for Library and Information Sciences, I was shocked to be subjected to a lengthy lecture be someone who would thrive at a Renaissance Fair, but I listened politely anyway.

She is not a bad person, just a bit sad.  She scuttles around nervously, and at times seems grateful when you talk to her, and other times terrified.  She also brings the staff of the library treats on a regular basis, which I find odd, but appreciate.  One of her favorite treats is those coffee-flavored Nips Candies, which are delightful, but incredibly sticky.

So, I was eating one one morning, because I’m often bored at work and that starts me grazing on whatever confection is around– and I pulled out a filling.  I finally, after years of not, have health care through my new job at school.  Unfortunately, it includes doctor, and vision– no dentist.  Wise Lawyer Friend had informed me a while ago that the tech school about 20 minutes away has a dental hygienist program.  They’ll give you a cleaning, periodontal exam, x-rays etc. for incredibly cheap, and then you can turn around and bring all of that information to a real dentist who will fix what the students’ diagnose.

My first appointment was on Friday, and a rather nervous, but friendly hygienist-in-training, Erin, examined, and scraped, and poked around my mouth conferring with her instructor in horrifyingly medical terms and making me feel like I was the extra on a soap opera who plays “coma guy”.  I have never had any issues with the dentist, in fact, I used to love going to the dentist, so none of this really bothered me and I felt like I was learning a bit more about oral hygiene.

Then the instructor left, and Erin began the standard lecture that I get from all hygienists: “You need to floss”.  I’ve heard it before, over and over, and I know the routine.  Yes, I need to floss; I’m sorry that I don’t floss; I really mean to floss etc.  Erin, apparently goes to the “scare them straight” school of dental hygienistry because she seriously let me have it to the point of where I almost though she was going to start wiggling my teeth to convince me that they were about to fall out.  She used all of the scary vocabulary that the use in Listerine commercials usually along with a picture of evil mouth beasties and bacteria who exist only to make you into a toothless wonder.

By the end of the 2-hour appointment, I felt beaten into submission.  The only part that I did well on was my blood pressure– everything else got a failing grade: I don’t brush right, I don’t floss, I don’t use a flouride rinse– I’m doomed.

Now I have to go back in two weeks and let Erin clean the remaining three quadrants of my mouth, take x-rays, and take impressions (not because I need them, but because it is good practice for her). After this is all done, I can finally go to a real dentist, get my stupid filling replaced, and maybe score another lecture about flossing.

I will never eat Nips Candies again, no matter how bored or starving I am.

Since becoming friends with Joe Roch, I’ve been made a lot more aware of what’s going on with tv these days.  Typically, I listen intently as he describes how amazing Mad Men or Lost are, and nod like I will watch these shows (but don’t really plan to– sorry Joe).  One of his obsessions stuck in my head though– Project Runway.

“It’s really cool because they win based on talent, and make some really interesting clothes.” he insisted.

Ever since taking Home Ec (or, the more PC: Family and Consumer Sciences) in 8th grade, I’ve been a bit obsessed with sewing.  Both my paternal and maternal grandmothers were sewers– one made pillows, one made quilts (though they had made their own clothes back in the day), and I remember having an odd moment of panic when I moved out to Rhode Island and realized that I was buying a blanket for the first time in my life rather than just grabbing one of the 50 in the closet.  My skills aren’t much– I can make a kick-ass pillow in no time, but shirts and skirts are a bit more difficult.

“Do you actually get to watch them design and sew the clothes?  Do they explain what they’re doing?” I asked.

“Sure.” he blinked, “I really don’t know how to sew, but it’s fabulous to watch.”

So I watched the damn thing, and dug it quite a bit.  Now my head is full of dreams of making my own beautiful dresses and skirts and jackets and writing a strongly-worded letter to Old Navy saying “you carried all of these crap dresses that did not look good on me, so I just made my own!”

The problem is, patterns.  A while ago, I went through a phase similar to this one, and did come out with quite a few skirts and pillows.  Once I got sick of copying skirts that I already owned, I went down to Jo-Ann Fabrics and saw what they had to offer.  The pictures on the outside look good, but what you can’t tell from the colored-pencil drawing (or at least I can’t), is what the item will actually look like once you make it.  I spent a lot of time measuring twice and cutting once only to find that once I put on my creation, it looked… odd.

Most of these items hung in my closet never to be worn except around the house when I would try to convince myself that they didn’t look too silly. I could blame myself and my lack of skill, but I never attempted to do anything that I was uncomfortable with or hadn’t done before– the problem was the patterns were straight out of 1950 and not in a fun, vintagy kind of way.

Clearly, the answer is– I need to be more of a designer than a sewer.  I need a dressmaker’s dummy, and a full arsenal of the implements that allow one to make clothes that look good and wearable– or else I go back to copying designs that I’ve already bought.

I’m going to figure this out, and I have the first disc of the first season of Project Runway waiting at home to help me.

• Far too much reading is expected of me
• I am not getting the reverence and respect I deserve from the 1st years
• I should be doing the reading with this downtime that I have, but just cannot be bothered– that will most likely catch up with me very soon
• I have three of my four classes (maybe it’s all four–she’s very plain)  with a girl who’s name I cannot remember, but who seems to regard me as some kind of kindred spirit.  I worry about this because she seems very, very angry
• Mostly, I just want to read Nancy Drew books and other juvenile lit, then solve mysteries and have adventures
• Unlike previous semesters, I don’t have any obvious weirdos in any of my classes.  This worries me and makes me feel like I must be getting weirder and therefore less able to discern.  I mean, a lot of the people are odd, but with the exception of angry girl, who is easy to ignore, no one really stands out.
• I really have no idea how to write an annotated bibliography, which seems to be all one does in library school.