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Alive, Albeit Cold

I haven’t posted since my first week here in Pennsylvania. Oops. Thirteen and a half weeks in to living here, things are peachy. I’m glad our local laundromat has a Mega-Touch machine. I hate waiting for things to dry… I look forward to having my own washer and dryer again, as well as a functioning oven. Especially the functioning oven. Since it is difficult to cook, here, we’ve been eating a lot of not-so-healthy food. Ugh. Body is sad with me right now. Can’t complain, really, at least we have food and clean clothes!

Head gasket on the car went out, so we’re in the market for a replacement. We’re looking at a new Nissan or Kia because they are inexpensive, reliable, and tend to be fuel efficient… In the meantime, we are borrowing one of his dad’s three vehicles. I don’t have my Pennsylvania permit yet, but I should be getting it after Christmas…so when the roads aren’t treacherous, I’ll [finally!] be learning to drive.

I managed to land a job at my local Best Buy in early-to-mid October. For those unaware, Best Buy is a big-box electronics store. I know they’re slowly opening stores in the UK and in China, as well as Canada and Mexico… I applied to be a tech [Geek Squad? Ergh.] but was told that they weren’t hiring anyone to fill that position at that time, so they put me on the sales floor [computers, of course...and cameras]. I had no experience selling, but I quickly moved to the third best [in terms of numbers] in my department due to sheer knowledge. Having Jeremy around to answer questions that pop into my brain so I can be better prepared to answer customers’ stuff is convenient. Hah.
The environment is very obnoxious and high school-y, but whatever. It’s a paycheck…and I was hired making more than some people who have been there a year as well as more than people hired after me. Not a huge paycheck because they only give me part-time [full time hours since it is the holiday season], but I can’t expect too much right now.

I am considering going to school to get a PharmD to be a pharmacist. That commits me to six years of school, though, which is why I have not yet leapt into college/uni because that’s a pretty huge decision that I am not sure I am equipped to make. Pondering, pondering. That would make me a doctor, though [hah], and would guarantee at least $70,000 annually right out of college. Compared to other medical professions of the same skill level, pharmacists have the least amount of debt [re: student loans] and it doesn’t require, you know, fucking with a bunch of bodily fluids, or cutting people open, etc.

Thanksgiving was disastrous at best because his step-mother is crazy and selfish. I’ll just leave it at that.

Christmas is in two days…after I get out of work this evening, we’re setting off to go to Virginia for a couple days to spend the holiday with my family. My little sister is on the verge of crucifying me because she misses me. I suck at gifts, though, and I’m pouting at Jeremy because he ruined the surprise of his. :| Boo.
I hope the holiday goes well. I do believe we’re looking forward to a rave on New Years’ after we return from VA…I’ll have to double-check my work schedule to make sure I don’t open the next day, though.

Week I

It’s been a relatively uneventful first week here near Pittsburgh. I mean, yeah, there was the whole G20 Summit thing less than thirty miles away which kinda fucked up the roads here, but we stayed in this weekend so we weren’t really affected. The first few days were really warm during the day, and even somewhat into the evening, but autumn is creeping in at a leisurely pace. It rained all day on Saturday, which ruined our plans to bust out a projector and watch anime out on the side of the house with some friends.

My angst lies in the fact that I cannot begin learning to drive until three weeks from now…I have to be a resident of this state for a month before I can acquire a learner’s permit here. I have a Virginia learner’s, but you can’t practice on that, here, unfortunately…nor can I simply transfer it like one could simply transfer a full license. I don ‘t know that I will actually be able to do so then because of the weather here…we sometimes get snow before Halloween! With the way the roads are (very many hills and awkward turns coupled with pavement that could use some TLC) I wouldn’t feel comfortable trying to drive on that mess before I could drive on it in fairer conditions. So…fingers crossed that the weather stays reasonable for some time so I can get some practice in before treacherous conditions hit.

I’m desperate to find work…we need more space than we’ve got, here, and we can’t move until I’ve got a job and all that. I’m also desperate to avoid retail (I’d rather wait tables again–really!) but I’ll take what I can get, because we need to bolster, and then solidify, our budget so that we can save up for a security deposit and for the other things the household needs to be comfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not whining; I’m immensely happy I’m here, but this particular house we are in is lacking in very many ways–safety and sensibility being a couple of those ways. My parents back in VA are like, “Worry about school, first!” but I suppose they didn’t actually listen to the things I told them. With the school situation, I wouldn’t be starting until the spring semester at the earliest and in the meantime, we need to be saving money, damnit!

I don’t really know how I feel about the room-mate situation. I don’t think I care for it…at least, not in this case. Maybe it is his kid; it probably is. Or maybe it is just my absolute craving for genuine privacy…

Mary Washington Hospital, again

So, a week-ish ago, I had this bizarre swelling on my outer left thigh, about 2-3″ above my knee. (I bitched about this on the forum.) My dad freaked out and insisted we go to the hospital since I had no recollection of being bitten or smacking it on something. The swelling was quite large, quite hard, and hot. Like a good 3-5 degree at least (Fahrenheit, anyway) temperature difference in the local area as opposed to its surrounding flesh.

I don’t like hospitals. Gee, is that news?
The closest one to me is the closest one I went to a year and four months ago for a surgery that ended up being unnecessary (see my eight million posts bitching about that). That time, they were so adamant about blood and urine samples–none of which evidently helped their diagnosis–and asking if I was, “sexually active,” or if there was any risk that I was knocked up. I didn’t really wanna steel myself for all that at five in the morning, but what the hell. We get there…the place is dead. There are like two people in the waiting room of the ER, and maybe 5-6 patients back in the exam rooms, none of whom where in a critical state. It was bizarre, because I’ve never seen that place so empty.

I was taken to triage quickly, which was nice…except for the nurse didn’t pay attention to the information I had to give her. I gave a full rundown of symptoms from onset and through progression till the then-present time. I gave her my full medical history plus two generations prior. Both sides have issues with blood clots, and I’m on birth control. I didn’t really think it was one, but I don’t have the tools to diagnose that myself…if I did, I wouldn’t be at the damn hospital, I’d go to my very pleasant and easygoing walk-in and demand a prescription for coumadin. The chart she was looking at said I was allergic to penicillin…I am most certainly not allergic to penicillin, and I have no idea where they got that, and I told her to clear it as well as adding to my *-caine allergy list and adding a fatal specification. She simply left, “Lidocaine,” without anything else. I gave her not only the name of my birth control pill, but its brand alternative (I take a generic) AND its dosage (0.4mg norethinedrone, 35mcg ethinyl estradiol). She simply writes, “Birth control pills.”
I’m not a doctor. I’m not a nurse. I’m not a PA, an LPN, or even the receptionist. I’m eighteen, just out of high school and pondering pursuing a PharmD degree…and I’m pretty fucking sure that not all birth control pills are the same, function the same, have the same interactions with drugs, etc. No, just kidding, I know this to be a fact. It seems somewhat negligent to me not to be specific on the chart when I am giving the dosage and weird chemical names.

From there, they had me go straight to an exam room. (I hate patient gowns, btw.) The doctor eventually comes in and asks me what’s wrong. Er…isn’t that noted on the chart? I explain all of it to him. He looks at it, taps it with a fingertip and goes, “Wow, how weird. I’m betting infection or allergy.”
…Betting!? My insurance isn’t paying your goofy ass to bet! Diagnose me! Let me also tell you that at this point no urine or blood had been collected, nor would they be.
I explain that I can’t say what it is although I don’t really have any particularly good reason to have a localized infection. He shrugs and goes, “Well, we’ll give you some Cephalexin.” “…that’s an antibiotic.” “Yep! Smart lady. Come back if it worsens.” “I’m here because I don’t want it to worsen. No tests have been performed! I’m sorry, but did you look at my chart? I have a family history of clotting problems and I am on a COCP. I’m here because that’s something I haven’t entirely overlooked.” He begrudgingly orders an ultrasound/doppler of my leg.

Meantime, my dad’s out in the waiting room because I hadn’t had the chance to go from triage to tell him. I asked a nurse to go out to the waiting room and tell him to come back–gave a name, a description, etc. She disappears for five minutes and comes back, “No one is out there.” Well, since the doors to the waiting room were literally right around the corner, I call bullshit…no one takes that long to do something so simple. “I need a phone,” I told her. “He’s got my cellular, but it’s long distance.” She gets me one of the hospital ones so I won’t be charged an arm and a leg to phone him. I call, ask if anyone had been out there. No one, he was trying to figure out how to play Solitaire on my phone. I told him, as the nurse told me, to go to the reception desk, give them my name and room, and let him back (since I had made a request for him to come back). He goes up, they say, “Go see security.” Then I’ve got some jackass guard knocking on my door, turning on all my lights, “HEY UH THERE’S SOME GUY–” “Yeah, he’s my father, and I requested his presence nearly a half hour ago. Do you all communicate? …send him back.” So I’m able to get him caught up on the situation before I’m whisked away for my ultrasound.

It comes back inconclusive; there are no clots (thankfully), but there was a massive amount of fluid built up in my leg. (I’d been there for 3.75 hours now…) I requested my dad come back again, and again with the goddamn security, except this guy was way more obnoxious. It sounded like he was punching on my door…He goes, “SECURIT–” and at that point I was just frustrated as all hell because I was getting nowhere with a diagnosis, they kept harassing my dad who I requested back there–and if a visitor goes back once, then they are supposed to be admitted again freely as long as I don’t say otherwise. I respond before he opens the door, “Why are you harassing him? And me? He’s my DAD. He’s been allowed back here, I asked for him, and he’s been back here. There’s no reason you’re doing this outside of being difficult. What are you doing? I don’t see you keying in your walkie-talkie, I see you reaching for my light switch which I want off.” He radios up, my dad comes storming in moments later and is like, “You guys really need to either hand out visitor badges, learn to memorize faces, or communicate better. She’s an adult, but she’s still my kid, and if she calls up ASKING for me then you should really let me back here.”

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor comes back saying, “Yeah, no clots…just fluid buildup. I’m gonna get you that kephlex and get you discharged.”
…an hour later…
Nurse finally comes in with discharge papers with a(n incorrect) diagnosis of cellulitis, a prescription for Cephalexin, 800mg Ibuprofen, and Vicodin. Then I had to go play twenty questions with the damn discharge woman who was trying to get info about my parents to harass them about medical bills. I was pissed…I could hardly walk when I left, they knew that, and they discharged me anyway. Grawr.
Also, they prescribe Vicodin like candy. That so didn’t call for Vicodin…the pain wasn’t THAT damn bad. Even if it did, if they looked at my chart, they would know that such narcotics make me nauseous and sick.

On a separate note, one of the times a nurse came to check on me, I asked her if we could look at my electronic chart together to see what my blood type is because, embarrassingly, I do not know my blood type. My mom’s long since forgotten and my dad never knew. Mary Wash should’ve known, though, considering they took an obscene amount of blood from me in May 2008 and that whole, y’know, cutting me open to remove organs thing. As far as I’m aware, before they do surgery they’re supposed to type you if there’s no record of it in case there’s a complication. Sure, theoretically they could just keep O- on hand for everyone, but that’s rare and expensive. So we look together, and the spot where that information would be stored was blank. She goes, “Oh, they must not have done any bloodwork.” “Miss…they took well over a pint from me, they certainly did bloodwork because we know what my white count was. I don’t know if they didn’t type me or if they didn’t enter it in the computer, but I had surgery…” and she looked pretty alarmed.
That place is amazing in that it hasn’t been shut down for malpractice.

Utility of the Appendix

Generally, we know the human appendix to be a vestigial organ whose only function is to sometimes get infected to the point of perforating and subsequently rupturing. Mine was removed over a year ago because of the suspicion that I was suffering a case of appendicitis…although that turned out to be slight inflammation due to its screwed up location in my body (its proximity to my uterus/fallopian tubes/ovaries) which allowed it to suffer from a ruptured ovarian cyst.
My father’s was removed about thirty years ago, now, because he had contracted appendicitis and ruptured. His subsequently became infected due to a half-assed cleanup and he spent three months quarantined in a clean room.

Other animals have appendices, too. Theirs, however, aren’t always for internal decor. In those species, it serves a role in aiding digestion by harboring bacteria which help to break down consumed articles.

There are some folks out there who are arguing the function of the human appendix. They insist it is, “useful and promising,” according to Yahoo’s Science section.
tl;dr version: “Lol, maybe Darwin was wrong and it serves the same purpose as in some of the few animals who have one. Basically, it helps us digest stuff…just like the cecum does, which it is attached to.”

If that was true, wouldn’t everyone who has had their appendix removed experience less ease in digestion? That isn’t to say it would be difficult or highly unpleasant, but wouldn’t they experience some change? I’m not a doctor or scientist, but it seems pretty ridiculous to insinuate that it wouldn’t cause some change. I didn’t experience a change, my dad didn’t experience a change…everyone else I know who had the procedure done did not experience a change.

If it served a real function in humans and simply has yet to be naturally phased out due to non-use, don’t you think the medical field would’ve figured it out, yet? We’ve had what is considered to be ‘advanced’ medicine for a while, now…why is it that someone is trying to challenge it (without presenting any actual evidence outside of speculation, of course!) now?
OH. Perhaps that’s because it has already been shown to be useless outside of potentially causing a problem for your insides, such as in Moglet’s mom, recently.

Foolishness like this makes me want to be like House when I, “grow up.”

Moving!

Finally, FINALLY!

Phix and I set a date. :D September 19th he’s going to drive down here and get my stuff and … squee!

I haven’t been able to find a job here. Not even luck with temp agencies. I’m going to continue harassing the temp agencies, however, since I’ll still be here for about a month. >< You know, income is fine, too, even if it isn’t a great amount.

We were aiming for September 4-5. However, due to some stuff that we didn’t really anticipate AND because of me, we pushed it to two weeks beyond that.

My little sister is freaking out…she’s very upset that I’m moving. She seems to have this idea that me moving means I’m running away from her and my parents and that I’m not her big sister anymore. To a six year old, this has to be petrifying. She’s been crying a lot since we explained it to her…so I felt bad, and I wanted to give her some more time to come to terms with it (with me here). She’s supposed to be doing school stuff soon–once my parents decide whether to send her or home-school her, that is–so hopefully she’ll be distracted and busy with that. She came down here, crying, to my room the other day while I was sleeping…crawled into bed with me and clung to me and said that I’m a, “mean sister for ‘running away’,” and that she’s, “mad at Jeremy,” and, “please sister don’t go today!” …yeah. It makes a person feel pretty bad, so I’m trying to ease her into it. I don’t want to wait, but I don’t want her to get depressed or anything. That’s no way for a little kid to have to be.
My parents are melancholy, but they knew it was coming…they aren’t criticizing, they’re just like, “You don’t have to move out yet if you aren’t ready,” which is a sharp contrast to some drama from a couple months ago, buuut…yeah. I’m ready, I’m excited.

I wanted to postpone a week, but there’s Otakon staff stuff going on that weekend, so it isn’t really a good time. Meh.

I can’t bring my desk because we don’t have enough room (even disassembled it is a beast) both hauling and in the house, yet so I’m leaving it with my parents. They said they can bring it up in the van when they come to visit. That’s cool, I like my desk…I’m not going to pine for it, but it’ll be nice if I can have it again eventually. The only big thing I’m bringing is my futon..everything else is clothing and small stuff that I need to pack up.

Once I’m settled, I will be spamming applications for jobs up there. And theeeen once I decide what I want to uh, “be when I grow up,” so to speak, I’ll be looking into schools.

I’m sure most of you know the feeling, but it is really bizarre to be packing when you’re the only one in the house doing so…

fashionista

Fact: I really never thought I would comment on fashion twice in the same blog.
…fuck.

Continuing my search for work-wear, because I haven’t had the funding for the pieces I like, and when I have the funding, I can’t find pieces I like. Why are simple, classic, nicely tailored button-down shirts so amazingly hard to find? Oh, that’s right…because some moron with a limp tape measure slung ’round his neck said so. Instead of classy, tasteful pieces that are generally flattering on most people, you’ve got these awkwardly cut-and-sewn pieces of trash with exorbitant price tags. Yeah, and people wonder why my wardrobe is jeans/tees/tanks with a couple dresses tossed in?

I will now air my grievances.

High-waist anything. Jeans. Slacks. Shorts. Maybe it’s just because I was born in ‘91 and literally grew up in lower-rise [and not show-everything low-rise, because I have dignity] everything. I feel comfortable in things that sit at my hips. I’m used to it and because I absolutely loathe tucking shirts in.
Think about it. The high-waist trend is something that is really only suitable for one group of people–the relatively tall, thin. “But Jenn, you’re 5′9″ (a touch more than 175cm) and only 108lbs (49-ish kilos). This is for you!” Bzzt, no. I am thin but I have hips–which kills the deal, because to rock this you need basically no hips. High-waist anything are not meant for women with hips! It does not minimize, if that’s the illusion you seek.
Other people, I see, are embracing the high-waist thing as a form of gut-control. Let’s try to keep it tamed and define a waist in a pair of awkwardly-cut pants! If you want real waist definition from clothing…you need to obtain a tailored corset…plus, there’s the posture benefits. High-waist jeans = ew.I hate to use the term, “mom jeans,” but seriously…

Leggings/Footless Tights. I don’t imagine the ’80s has a return policy… Words cannot describe my enmity of leggings. They are not acceptable as a replacement for a pair of pants, stockings, or whatever. Leggings are only suitable for loungeware, yoga, pilates and other forms of exercising as well as layering in the wintertime, under your jeans or whatever where they won’t be seen, for a little extra warmth. If you want to wear a slinky dress and not show too much leg, well I guess you just need to get a longer dress or don a pair of the eight million other forms of stockings/tights/whatev.
People wear these as if they are okay to subsistute for slacks…like to wear to work, like to an office with at least a Business Casual dress code. Leggings are neverrr appropriate for the workplace unless, that is, you are a tortured model or fitness instructor.
Think of the adage, “Spandex is not a right…” this is true, because what are most leggings largely made of? No one needs to see the definition of your cellulite in canary yellow, thanks. And stirrups. Don’t even get me started on stirrup leggings. I don’t know what’s wrong with you that your pants don’t wear right unless there’s a strap under your heel…but maybe you should reconsider. Get some proper pants or invest in some quality stockings. Footless tights are unattractive for the same reasons as cropped pants, which I will later list.

Buffalo Plaid. I love tasteful tartan. I criticize the bastardization of plaid that is what we know as, “Buffalo Plaid.” Buffalo plaid, in case you amazingly don’t know is basically a checkered pattern [yes, like a checkerboard or Chess board]…but instead of only being like red-black-red-black, it’s red-redblack [woven together]-black-redblack-red.
Right now, it is disgustingly trendy. It is everywhere. From Wal-Mart to KOHL’S to Forever21 to BCBG to the trendy über-designers I have two pairs of pajama bottoms from two years that are buff. plaid, before the craze…and I’m just sick of seeing it everywhere. It is not plaid! It’s a slightly retarded checkerboard! Get over it already! The excess to which it is sold and worn makes it gaudy and intolerable…especially the neon ones that are becoming popular. I understand that Burberry is outrageously expensive, but you can still do plaid without looking like a jackass.
The old Scots would flay you…and I would be waiting to award them with a tasty haggis.

Cropped Pants. Yeah, yeah. Warm enough to get away with not wearing pants, too cool for shorts. The obvious solution is something in-between! Er…not necessarily? No one wants to wear something that shortens them or makes them appear to have so-called cankles, right? That’s what you’re doing when you wear cropped pants. Any type of pants or whatnot that falls between your knee and ankle, especially mid- to low-calf do not balance and streamline your proportion. Instead of drawing the eye up or all the way down to the ankle/foot, it’s falling between…which gives the illusion of shortening you. If you are dangerously close to cankles, this exaggerates the condition. If you’re wearing flats this is even worse; and definitely avoid highwaters-the pants that fall just a fit higher than they ought? Yeah, looks awkward as hell.. Just continue wearing pants. Don’t mention the combo of high-waist crops–or God will kill that kitten. I have honestly never seen someone who looks amazing in cropped pants.

Shapeless Dresses/Blouses/Shirts. A lot of women dislike empire-waist anything because they get, “Are you preg?” comments. Well, that would only be true if they were FAT and weren’t wearing it properly, but…why is it that something like an empire-waist dress is offensive just because its waist sits below the bust, drawing the line up? An empire piece is actually supposed to flatter most figures–it accentuates the bust and hides any features that you might want hidden [gut, weird hips, giant bum..whatever].
Somwhow, enter the horror that are all these drapey shapeless pieces of crap. They are often defined only at the neckline and then they just kinda float over your figure. I mean, great for shapeless people in bars, right? Pick someone up without them having a clue of your disfiguration. To me, this falls under False Advertising, which is evil. Anyone can dress in a way that is flattering for them that doesn’t require draping a sheet over themselves. Flowy arms are one thing; you’re a person, not an amorphous blob, correct?
My favorite pieces in this category have banded-bottoms. So, they’re completely shapeless [oh, and bubble-hems look sexy as part of a shapeless piece, too. Ergh] except maybe at the neck but then there’s this really tight band that hugs your waist/hips in a shirt, or legs in a dress. I don’t get why women don’t understand that they look stupid in these pieces?
These pieces are more likely to make a woman look pregnant than any empire waist that is tailored for an individual. Really, I could do more with a potato sack…at least it would be sturdy!

Harem Pants. This is newer this season and falls under the heading of more shapeless, awkward clothing. Drooping crotches and tapered legs with, otherwise, no shape. They belong in Aladdin and in I Dream of Genie and perhaps costuming, but NEVER real clothing. I don’t even have words to sum this up, so here’s a picture with three different ladies sporting them: NO.

Addition, Fri. Aug 14:
Deconstructed Denim. Would you buy a brand new car [direct from the manufacturer, to be clear] with a dull, uneven (perhaps even rusted) paint job? Perhaps a rusted tailpipe or muffler with a hole in it? Cracked windows? But it’s so cool! So fucking cool. It isn’t that I have a problem with a few rips in a pair of jeans, or that they’re faded from the sun or being washed eight thousand times…but it’s just that those battle-scars, so to speak, should come from those things–not from the factory. Why would you pay full price for a damaged or incomplete product? I’ve never seen/tried on a pair that claims to have that, “worn in,” feeling (they can manage that softness with shirts), either…they’re just as stiff as any other new jeans, they just have retarded, intentionally made defects. Some of them even come with the appearance of being dirty…like with brownish-yellow patches that are supposed to represent stains or something. I’m not buying a set of fine china that has seven broken pieces…and I’m not buying jeans that look like that right off the rack.

I mean, damn. I don’t really have anything in my brain right now, so I’ll probably add to this list one way or another.

We Can’t Serve You

Fact: Knee-jerk policies are my favorite.
This actually isn’t even the first time this has happened to us!

Phix and I went camping with some family of his over the weekend of the fourth. They had gotten to the site a night before we did, and requested that he [Phix] pick up some adult libations for them to enjoy. Here in Pennsylvania, beer and malt beverages that don’t count as wine/spirits aren’t available in supermarkets, convenience stores, or gas stations; instead, they are available from free-standing beer distributors. We arrive there and I suggest that I remain in the car since I am not of age to drink so they would not give him a hassle–since we’d been there, done that back in VA.

Let me pause to say that I’m not really into drinking. Phix is not really into drinking. I’m especially not remotely interested in the stuff that his parents requested. On top of that, he needed both hands to carry what he needed to get…but we also needed to pick up ice, which meant he needed me.

So we decide that I go in to get ice, which is up front. He went back to get what he needed to get while I remained up front to get the ice. He goes to the register and the cashier goes, “I need her ID too.”

Pausing again–when Jer was down in VA with me last time, my dad sent us to the store to pick up some food and a six-pack of beer for him. [Again--not stuff we would drink if we WANTED to...] The cashier demanded my ID as well, and I’m like, “Uh…no, sorry. First off, I don’t drink. Second off, this is for my dad [who I was on my cell phone with]. I prefer this pink lemonade here.” They refused to make the sale, so I left the cartful of groceries at the register and we went elsewhere.

“Why’s that?” Phix asks.
“You could be buying this for her, so I can’t sell to you. That’s the law,” she replies.
I chime in, “No…your store policy is not the law. Don’t confuse them…that’s irritating.”
“Well I’m not selling this to you unless she proves she isn’t a minor.”
“A minor? I haven’t been a minor for [at the time] four days. 21 isn’t the age of majority; but this isn’t for me.”
“I don’t know that.”
“How many people would bring the underage person they’re buying booze for into the store with them?”
She states, blankly. Phix says, “Alright, we’ll just go elsewhere and you’ll lose this $50 sale…however you like.”
“Alright, you g’on and do that, then.”

Part of me wants to be overly reasonable and say, “Okay, they’re just trying to save their asses.”
On the other hand…I’m annoyed because I don’t drink, would have MUCH better taste, and wouldn’t be stupid enough to accompany the person buying my underage-to-drink-ass booze. That’s a triple insult right there. And I get that there are young people who are stupid and desperate to be cool who will drink anything, but christ…at that answer, they’d just go elsewhere and buy it. Knowing that anyway, why not just make the sale? [I really would rather have some pink lemonade...] Seriously; just like with Kelsey’s idiocy–if Megg hadn’t supplied it, she would’ve found it elsewhere.

I especially love when people try to tout their store policies like their policy is the LAW. What about adults that have children? You can’t leave a child in the car by themselves, but if you bring them in now, you’re subject to refusal of service because of that.

My dad and I went into the aforementioned grocery store a couple weeks later, and he bought some beer there. We had the luck of getting the same cashier…I was a smartass: “Hey, remember me? This is my dad. Are you sure you don’t want my ID so he can buy his putrid drink? I mean, you don’t know if he’s my dad or anything.” She gave me an annoyed look. For the shock value, and because I’m an asshole when fucked with, “I mean, really…I don’t have my ID right now, are you still going to make the sale, or are you going to assume that I am blowing this guy for lukewarm beer? Or do you not want to go through the hassle of reshelving everything…? Hrm, I thought so.”

Early Celebration

Holidays exist to commemorate or celebrate some nifty occurrence or accomplishment or to honor the sacrifices made for us current folks by some previous folks.

Society [American, at least...alas, I am unworldly...] has Christmas on December 25, Halloween on October 31, Valentine’s Day [which is a joke, IMO] on February 14, and the US has their Independence Day on July 4. We also have Memorial Day and Labor day on certain days, and we have Pearl Harbor Day [Dec. 7] too.

Would we remember the losses of Pearl Harbor on December seventh, give or take a week? No. It is attended to on the seventh.

I do not condone celebrating holidays on any day other than the day on which the holiday is named. You don’t celebrate Christmas a week after for convenience–if you celebrate, that is. You don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day early. You also do not celebrate your country’s anniversary of sovereignty on any day other than upon which it was declared, goddamn it!

I do not describe myself as a patriotic person. I’m not. I actually entertain the idea of moving and expatriating rather often. However, it seems a little irresponsible, as a citizen or even just a resident, to do that. A town near the city in which I live in Virginia–where the first President’s childhood home was!–had their “Fourth of July” fireworks display on June 28th…wtf?
For the past few days I’ve been here in Pennsylvania–where such declarations were penned–people have been popping off their shitty little bottle rockets and other chintzy fireworks at all hours, literally, of the day and night. Right now, as I type, they pop pop pop [it's 11PM here]. At noon, they pop pop popped.

It is not July 4! Would you celebrate New Years’ early? No? Then stfu, damn it! You cannot choose when to celebrate holidays; they are non-negotiable dates…if you aren’t going to do it on its named day, then don’t bother.

Sing With Me!

Leeeegaaaaliiityyy!

Mufufu.

Um, so, as of about…four-ish hours ago I have been, in the eyes of American Law, a legal adult whose actions can be pwned with the full force of just ramifications! If we were elsewhere in the world, I wouldn’t be until later in the day–I was pushed out at 1:47pm, so, y’know…some places are OD and like to be excessively specific, and I would have ten hours–literally, from the moment I began that sentence, anyway–till I was legit.

People here get overly excited for it. I mean, I guess if you were an underage smoker the idea that you can buy your own cigs might be cool? I guess? Or if you were waaay into political science, the idea of being able to vote might give you a stiffy. Or if you were reeeeally wanting that tattoo and your parents said, “No, Jimmy! You can’t have that tattoo, <insert reasons here>.” Or if you’re so happy that your parents can’t really legally intervene/make decisions for you/etc [unless you're incapacitated and they're next of kin, of course, but that's different].

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I’m not excited. That last bit there is really nice…For years, I’ve been acting as the mediator of the family. Just last night, we went grocery shopping, and they had a row in the store. Wth? I’m not fond of yelling. It isn’t that I can’t /deal/ with yelling, I can; but I’ve been dealing with it for the better part of a decade; the idea of being able to leave and forge my own peace and quiet gives me, metaphorically of course, a stiffy. I’m not barging out the door yet, but I do plan to in the relatively near future when we get our finances straight–this isn’t an, “OMG I HATE YOU,” move, rather a, “Okay…I need my space now so I can think and develop myself and my mind in an advantageous way. Your silliness is feeling a little stuffy, and I need to breathe a bit, thank you much!” [Admittedly there are times where I feel like it might end up being a more rawr-like situation, I keep coming back to the more reasonable one.] And even if I wasn’t moving/planning to, the idea that I could be in the midst of being yelled at for <insert ridiculous random reason here, such as the grass isn’t purple> and just…leave for a bit without anyone getting any stupid ideas like trying to dub me a runaway. [No, that has not happened to me.]

On top of that, I can vocalize without concern that Phix + Me = ^_^! Not that we had a whole ton of concern before-’-specially considering one of the things my parents aren’t ridiculous about is adoring him xD–but there was the possibility that they could change their minds, or that someone could say no, or some trouble would ensue although there is no evidence that anything that trouble could be stirred over was going on. I live in a particularly ass-backwards state–the AoC is still 18 while in about 34 of the 50 other states it is 16. ‘Sodomy’ laws are still on the books [including both oral and anal, if you're so inclined] although the Supreme Court is like, “Stfu you can’t actually prosecute under those.” Fifteen really will get you twenty although simultaneously five can get you…one? And although that fifteen year old is dressed like a streetwalker like it is actually her job, and is a bit too knowing, etc.
It’s funny–the AoC in Virginia used to be 16 but it was changed shortly after my birth. Virginia’s little slogan claims that it, “is for Lovers,” although gay marriage isn’t legal here.

It’s foolish how those laws are based. In the time between when I was still legally ‘17′ and the clock struck and I became legally ‘18′ I learned nothing; I gained no wisdom or ability to protect myself, make better decisions based on being an informed person, etc. To be blunt: if he was here last night and–again, I said this is to be blunt–fucked my brains out [which he wasn't because he was in PA having to sleep so he could go to work in the morning], and random interested party wanted to make the law go rawr, he could’ve gotten in crazy trouble! But you know, now, it would be perfectly fine although I am the same person, same mentality, etc. And it should be fine because I am an educated, intelligent young person who does not get herself into situations without being aware of their consequences, etc. I’m healthy, I don’t smoke or do any drugs; I don’t get into trouble–I even pay taxes! My point is that it should’ve been just as fine if it would have happened last night, too, because I was then as I am now.
Like somehow, overnight, my ability to make judgments has changed.

But I will be traveling up to Pennsylvania later today. Nevermind the mischief. I’ll be up there for about three weeks–from then until Otakon, and then I will be back in dull Virginia after the conclusion of the fun madness that is the convention.

Cheers, you all. :]

Acrylic – A Lesson!

When I worked in the restaurant we worked with some pretty harsh chemicals to make sure that, you know, surfaces/tools/etc. were sterile and safe. We had gloves, yes, but when they only hit your wrist it doesn’t do much if you have to plunge your hand into said solution.

I don’t really care for cosmetics, but I do like my nails. And I like to take care of them. I actually detest having them done in a salon, which is weird I guess for someone who is almost obsessed with them. I’ve typically kept them in impeccable shape/health–except for the fact that said chemicals plus constant handwashing required in a restaurant leaves hands sad. The caustic stuff was causing my nails to soften and weaken and even peel, which, of course, pissed me off. Washing hands every five minutes or so leaves hands painfully dry.

By my graduation, my hands still hadn’t recovered entirely from the stuff although I hadn’t worked there in almost three months at that point. As a treat, I went to go get gel extensions to kinda shield my natural ones from the abuse of typing, cleaning, etc. Before any procedure or whatever, I like to look up what is used and what’s going to be done.

I get to the salon I picked and the nail tech started working on my hands. Now, a set of gels was $45 and a set of acrylics $30. I picked the gels because from what I can tell/have read/have seen on others, they are a higher quality extension that will ultimately damage your nail less. Now, any tech that isn’t a failure shouldn’t ever damage your nail, but accidents happen sometimes. Since I already wanted gels, I went with that.
[For those of you who don't know, which I assume is probably the majority...xD...an acrylic nail is one sculpted using acrylic powder lifted out with a brush dipped in a monomer to turn it into an odd, putty-like consistency. It's then tapped on and shaped on around the natural nail until it cures and is hard. Gels are applied similarly, but the gel is literally a /gel/--it is like the consistency of..say..cherry pie filling, sans the actual cherries--and it is brushed over the nail similar to how normal lacquer is and it is then cured under a UV lamp. It's thinner and more flexible than an acrylic which is bulky and ridiculous.]

She then pulls out the dapper dish [what the monomer and acrylic is typically contained in]. I was like, “Um…that’s acrylic.”
“Yeah, that acrylic!” my Vietnamese tech smiles. “You know!”
“Yes, I know…and that’s not what I asked for. I asked for gels, so we need to do gels. With the lamp?”
“Oh, I put gel on top. Make it stronger.”
“That’s…not a gel nail…that’s an acrylic with gel on top, which is not what I wanted.”
“Oh…”

Now…in a normal situation that would’ve been the deal-breaker right there, deception. However…I was stuck there, had no immediate ride, and if I just sat there for hours and had my dad show up to get me without nails being done, he would’ve been cross. So I bit my tongue and said, “I’ll go with the acrylics, but I want the acrylic price.” Really, this was an experiment to see if I liked extensions at all, and something to shield my natural nails from the typical abuse they receive.

Well, they looked cute at the expense of, you know, having a cuticle shredded by the careless use of a dremel! If you look at the picture I posted in the Gallery, my nails are visible on the edge of the diploma. They were a bit longer than I thought I wanted, but when they were done they were cute so I kept them that way. I didn’t have any trouble typing with my fingertips [not nail tips. that's bad!] or picking things up or opening cans. The only thing that got me was buttoning pants, but I overcame it.

Two days later, though, I started to have an awkward discomfort in my left ring and thumb, around, of course, the nail. They were lifting! Already! So I called the salon and was like, “Uh…hey guys? I’ve been taking care of my hands, I’ve been very careful with them, and they’re already lifting. I need to come in.” They agreed to fix it for free–well obviously, like I’m going to pay MORE for their fuckup? I go in and am like, “Look, you can hardly see it lifting, but I feel it and it is painful.”
“Oh, you want removed? That ten dollars.”
“Um…no, I don’t want them removed I want them fixed. But if I did want them removed because it is causing me pain it would not be ten dollars.”
“Oh we charge!”
“No. This HURTS. This is the first time I’ve had these things and I’ve taken really good care of them. They’re just as glossy and perfect in appearance. I’m not going to pay you guys more money because your technique is poor.” Two of the women look at my hands and say, “They fine! You no need.” Oh man…
“Um, no, they definitely aren’t fine. They hurt! I’m not asking for a new free set, but the length needs taken down and there’s all this bulk on the sides of these two that needs to be adjusted so it isn’t tugging. And if you aren’t going to do it, I’ll go to another salon and have them fixed and report you guys to the state board.” They understood that, at least. They did as I wanted–it didn’t even take five minutes for both hands, required no other restructuring or repainting. There, that wasn’t so hard–so wtf?

Two and a half weeks later, the rest of them started lifting as they should normally do after that amount of time. I definitely didn’t want them filled, so I went and got some pure acetone and stuff–I was out–to soak them off. Depending on the application and other shit, that can take anywhere from 10 minutes to 2 hours. Mine was about a half-hour for each hand…and it actually gets a little uncomfortable. I didn’t even end up getting ALL of it off. The vast majority, yes, is off…but there’s a very fine layer on the tops of each. I didn’t want to take any more off because my nails are extremely thin now–again, careless dremel…doesn’t seem like that much at the time, but…yeah.

So, I will never be getting that done again. I will also obviously never be going to that salon again [not even for pedicures] and I have done my part to inform applicable parties about their piss-poor practices and advice them not to patronize them. It sucks…some of the Viet salons around here do great jobs, but the one I used to go to sold theirs. And everyone I’ve been to since sucks…they don’t go by the books–which I typically don’t care about, but when it’s hurting me, um yeah. American-run salons typically charge a bit more in my area. What I need to do is just get the tools to do it all myself–I have maintenance stuff, but yeah.

Ladies, if you’re curious about them, just don’t waste your money. Even a crazy-pro nail tech can’t avert some of the problems that happen. For a false extension to be applied, the nail pretty much has to be buffed way down, which, in itself, is not good for you. If they fuck up and get your cuticle, that puts you at risk for infection. My nails aren’t /paper/ thin unlike some people’s end up, fortunately, and they will be natural for the rest of their time. I’m patiently waiting for them to grow back to their normal, healthy selves with extra doses of Vitamin A and Calcium. They’re growing pretty quick–when I soaked them off like three days ago I painted them and they’ve already grown out like 2mm. :D

[Also, just getting french-tip falsies looks trashy. It's banal and cheap. Don't have them look like a circus, but..seriously. French is overdone and icky.]