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| Tuesday, February 28, 2006 |
| Putting the "pity" in pityriasis. |
It was the fall of 2002. Newly graduated and away from home for the first time, I drew myself a hot bath on a rare night at home. Sinking into the depths of the murky water, (I was living with my brother after all, it’s not like the bathtub was actually clean), I leaned back and started daydreaming.
My boyfriend of a month was coming down to visit me that weekend. Boyfriend. Hmmm. Was that entirely accurate? We weren’t officially a couple, but it felt like something more. We hadn’t even had sex yet, which was somewhat atypical behaviour on my part. ( I had always thought it was ridiculous when characters on TV talked about “taking it slow” and “waiting.” To me, “taking it slow” should refer to foreplay, not needless mental and physical torment.) But I hadn’t seen him in three weeks, and we’d finally have the chance to spend the night together.
I mused these thoughts over, carefully shaving my legs. The countdown had begun. It was Monday. I sighed contentedly, a smile on my face.
And then I saw it. It was red. It was scabby. It was huge. It looked like ringworm. And it was located suspiciously close to my genitals.
I jumped out the bath, trying to calm my fears. Eczema, perhaps? (I’ve had eczema since I was born, and I’m one of the lucky 10% of the population who hasn’t outgrown it, as the doctors always assured my parents I would.) But that just didn’t seem right. I never get eczema anywhere except on my hands and face, and this wasn’t itchy. More than anything, it burned. Maybe it was just ringworm. Hell, considering how close this new affliction was to my nether regions, I would be happy to discover that it was just ringworm.
Worried, I went to bed. "It will be gone in the morning," I told myself.
I woke up the next day, forgetting about my new red scabby friend. It wasn’t until I jumped in the shower after work that night, that I discovered that my new red scabby had multiplied and populated my entire pubic bone with his offspring.
The boyfriend called that night. “I’ll see you on Friday night? I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he said, “And Danny’s gone for the weekend. If you want, we can stay at his place, since his bed is bigger,” he added suggestively.
It was dire times. And dire times call for dire measures.
I called my mom.
I told her I had a rash, carefully omitting its centre of origin. “It’s probably just your laundry detergent, and stress from moving,” she assured me. “Wash your clothes with a different kind of detergent and I’m sure it will go away.”
By Wednesday, the scabs had spread up above the waist of my jeans. Each of the scabs was about the size of the quarter, except for Scabby, who was about the size of a piece of salami. Apparently he was the commander in charge of the army of red blotches taking over my body.
I officially started to freak out. I convinced myself that I was going to die of some weird sexually transmitted disease and avowed to myself that I would never be promiscuous again. The next time I had sex, I would be married! Or dead! (Not that you can have sex while dead, but this the rash prevented me from rationalizing and realizing that the corpses don’t choose to be involved in necrophiliac activity.)
“Andrew, I need your help,” I pleaded my brother. “I don’t have a doctor in the city, and I don’t know what to do.” I pulled up my shirt to show him the Christmas tree shape the spots had begun to form across my ribs and back.
“Uhhhh,” Andrew said, worried, “I’ll take you the Medi-centre.”
When we got to the Medi-centre, we were told the wait was 4 to 5 hours. “You might as well go home, unless it’s an emergency,” the nurse at the desk told us. The line-up was winding out the door and onto Jasper Avenue.
On Thursday morning, I woke up to discover that my nipples had been the latest victim of the red rashy terror. What was next, my face?! And Scabby was still alive and well, terrifyingly close to my genital region, changing shades and starting to turn white at the edges. Here I was, just moved away from home, eighteen, falling in love, about to see my new boyfriend for the first time in three weeks (not to mention potentially be nude in front of him for the first time ever) and I was covered with a rash that could only be generously described as marginally more attractive than genital herpes.
Andrew took one look at my stomach and the look on my terrified face, and got on the phone with his doctor. My brother is usually of the quiet persuasion compared to me, but I heard him raise his voice. “She needs to get in to see someone today,” I could hear him saying aggressively, “this is her only day off work and it can’t wait. . .I know, I know. I know you aren’t taking any new patients, but this is an emergency. . .” I began to sob. The rash had officially become an “emergency.”
That afternoon, thanks to my brother, I went to my doctor’s appointment. “This doctor is actually retired,” the receptionist told me, “but came in since we are really busy today.”
When the doctor walked in, I suddenly understood by what the receptionist meant by retired. The guy had to be at minimum 80 years-old. His hair was white and barely there, his hands and face were wrinkled, his voice wavered when he talked, and his couldn’t hold himself steady.
“Where did the rash start?” he asked me after examining the tree mosaic on my ribs.
“Ummm, here,” I said shyly, pointing to my hip bone.
“Can I see it?” He looked equally nervous and afraid. (Yes, I’m sure that in 40 years of practicing medicine the guy had seen plenty of weird shit, but that really doesn’t make anticipating and seeing a possible STD on a young girl any more appealing.)
I pulled down my skirt and panties. He glanced quickly.
“Okay, you can pull them back up. I’ll be right back.”
He left the room. I watched the clock. 2 minutes passed. Maybe he had to pee? 5 minutes passed. Hmmm, maybe this is so horrible they have to get a specialist to handle it? 10 minutes passed. Maybe the sight of my malformed skin killed the old guy? 20 minutes passed. I’m dying of AIDS! Oh mother!
God and I were starting to make a solid deal when the doctor finally re-entered the room, holding a lofty textbook in his arms. With shaking hands, he sat down silently and turned the pages. He pointed at a picture. (Shit, he had to give me a photo illustration? I’d see myself in the mirror before. Really, this was unnecessary. I wish he’d just tell me that I’m dying and that I’ll never have sex ever again and get on with it!)
“It’s pityriasis rosea,” he told me. “It’s a virus. It starts with a large area of skin called the Herald patch, and works its way up the body forming a Christmas tree shape. It's not contagious. It’s pretty rare, but I’ve seen it a couple of times before. But your case is particularly severe.”
“So, how did I get it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Nobody really knows what causes it.”
Great. “So, how do I get rid of it?
“It will go away with time,” he told me. (I was relieved. Maybe it would be better by tomorrow? The boyfriend would never have to know!) “It should be gone in about six weeks,” he continued, before finishing with the best part, “eventually, the rash spots will turn scaly and white, and then fall off.”
So, I didn’t have an STD. That was a bonus. But my entire body, including my genital region, had been infiltrated by some mystery rash with no known cure only a week before my long-distance boyfriend, who I was going to have sex with for the first time, was coming to visit? How was I going to explain this? Better yet, how was I possibly going to pass this off as sexy?
Fuck.
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posted by Jess at 7:29 PM | Permalink |
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| Monday, February 27, 2006 |
| Lists for Monday |
Things You May Not Know About Me:
1. I check craig’s list at least once a day to see if I’m a “missed connection.”
Actually, that was a lie. I stare intensely at strangers on the streetcar, then check craig’s list at least three times a day to see if I’m a MC. I never am.
2. I own 11 dresses and 15 skirts, but only 4 pairs of jeans.
3. I tell people I’m allergic to strawberries. But really, I just don’t like them.
4. I have stayed overnight at the largest squat in Europe. I slept in a graffitied loft with only three walls and 11 Finnish boys from punk hardcore bands for warmth, and awoke in the morning to a vegan breakfast.
5. I took highland dance lessons for 8 years. It is a completely useless skill. Except, of course, when you are drunk and happen to be passing by a bagpiper during the Fringe who is packing up for the night, and he looks disheartened, so you bombard him with requests to play a strathspey and reel, until he looks at your with the light of recognition in his eyes, and happily busts his chanter and pipes back out and you begin to dance for him and the intoxicated crowd, and earn the nickname Ingrid, which isn't a Scottish name at all.
But other than that, it’s a completely useless skill.
6. My middle name is Wynne. (Pronouced “win”). It means “pale or fair-skinned.” It also means that my parents have a sense of humour.
7. On two separate occasions I have dislocated one of my ribs. On both occasions, I was merely at the driving range with my dad.
8. I work as a resume advisor at my university. Students come in to see me, and I’m expected to criticize their resumes using a ‘sandwich technique.’ That is, I’m expected to say something positive about their resumes combined with a constructive critique.
For example:
“Well, you put your name on your resume, that’s awesome! Unfortunately, there is no way in hell you are going to get a job with this piece of shit.”
Or:
“Good job on using 12 point font! However, there is no way in hell you are going to get a job with this piece of shit.” (Just joking. I’m actually really nice at work and my clients like me. I even edit the resumes with a pink pen, because I think it makes me seem a notch nicer than I really am.)
9. I hate carbonated beverages. When I buy pop, I open it up and let it go flat before I drink it.
10. I have a birthmark shaped like a heart on my stomach.
Things You Know About Me:
1. I'm a narcissist. |
| posted by Jess at 7:50 PM | Permalink |
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| Sunday, February 26, 2006 |
| Caught. Red-hearted. |
under helicopters of desire. . . says:
I don't feel like i could write my way out of a paper bag these days. Hell, I can't even come up with a non-cliched suitable metaphor for my recent inability to turn phrases into anything readable.
canice // if you find yourself caught in love. says:
you mean even for blogs?
under helicopters of desire. . . says:
when was the last time I wrote anything decent on my blog?
canice // if you find yourself caught in love. says:
you are generally a pretty good storyteller
canice // if you find yourself caught in love. says:
your need for a boyfriend is becoming evident though
under helicopters of desire. . . says:
my need for a boyfriend? What?!
canice // if you find yourself caught in love. says:
hahha hold on
canice // if you find yourself caught in love. says:
"If we were in love, we'd find random city gardens in the middle of winter. I'd crawl into the flower beds, not caring about the mud on my freshly washed jeans, and we'd take uninspired pictures and call them art." aiya |
| posted by Jess at 11:48 PM | Permalink |
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| Saturday, February 25, 2006 |
| Happy Endings |
Disclaimer: I posted every single one of my pictures from New York. There are a lot. I also wrote half-ass captions. But, if you want, here they are to enjoy in their entirety.
When I left for New York, it had been a long week at school. I really needed the vacation.
Saturday
After a night out on the town (after a 16-hour train ride), Chloe and I awoke in the morning to see David Berry waiting for us at the front desk. We went out for a long walk in Central Park.
West Side! (West Side Central Park).
Dave and Sean John in Times Square.
Adam (from Tennessee) telling Chloe, "You are the most beautiful girl in the world." However, when we made Adam play Scrabble with us, and Chloe played GOOP, he insisted it wasn't a word, and told her she couldn't make up words, even if she is "so darn cute." Adam also told me I was the second most prettiest girl in the whole world.
David was the third.
Tony was an employee at the hostel, originally from Egypt.
Adam, Chloe and I, on the subway on the way to Brooklyn.
Chloe and I.
Luca and I. (Luca is from Italy and doing an internship in New York right now).
Luca, myself and Tyler. (Tyler is from Massachussetts, and started working at the hostel while we were staying there. He shared a room with us, and wore his shoes to bed. Chloe offered him consolation cookies in the morning.)
We Are Wolves.
Lorenzo (also from Italy, he is a student in New York and plans on living with Luca) and Chloe.
A new friend Chloe and I made on the subway.
This was our favourite subway station.
Sunday
Chloe conned me out of bed early Sunday morning with promises of coffee and Scrabble.
She won.
Later in the day, we went for a long walk through Central Park.
Then we hopped on the subway and went down to the Pier.
Dave was waiting for us at the hostel when we got back. Even though we were exhausted, we decided to go out for President's Day. (Edit: Chloe wants me to clarify that President's Day was on Monday. Regardless, we went on Sunday night because the next day was a holiday). Mainly because the pub up the street was named "Ding Dong."
And we weren't going to pass up the opportunity to say we went to a place called Ding Dong.
Tony came out with us too.
The thing about peeing is that it can get really boring. (I'm trying to justify taking pictures of myself while urinating.)
Monday
We decided to start the week with cupcakes at the famous Magnolia Bakery. (As featured in the SNL "Narnia Rap" skit).
Waiting in line was worth it.
Dave prepares to take the first bite.
They were delicious.
Wall Street.
Waiting for the Staten Island Ferry. Chloe couldn't handle any more cupcakes.
We spent the night hanging out at the hostel.
Tuesday
In the afternoon, we stood in line to get Broadway tickets.
Then we went for Italian food, bummed around Greenwich, and went out for coffee.
Times Square at night.
The Producers was hysterical.
These signs are all over New York. Apparently they have a choking problem there.
Even though Luca had to worked the next morning, we convinced him to come out with us.
John (who is from Vancouver, but currently lives in Toronto) and Chloe.
Wednesday
The United Nations.
We're tourists. Can you tell?
Emily (from Toronto, another Ryerson student, who I stood in line for at a bar once and randomly recognized...check out my January entries and see if you can spot Emily), Chloe and Zach (from Australia, who stopped in New York on his way to South America).
Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge.
That night we practiced the fine art of subway surfing.
After dinner, we went to CBGBs.
Dave, Emily, Chloe, Meagan (another Australian who was headed to Ohio for an internship), and Zach.
The Teeth!
It was definitely one of those nights.
We ended up at this bar that used to a strip club. It was called Happy Endings.
Dave and Emily.
Chloe and I high-fiving one another after we successfully busted into the basement and started doing shots of tequila. It was one of those nights.
Thursday
On my last night in New York, I decided to stay up all night, instead of getting up at 5 am to catch my train. Meagan, Zach and Chloe kept me company and we went back down to Greenwich. Chloe and I have an affinity for gnomes these days.
The Aussies insisted that we go to New York's token Aussie pub.
Meagan, Chloe and I.
I slept the whole way home. |
| posted by Jess at 7:17 PM | Permalink |
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| Monday, February 20, 2006 |
| It turns out I hate rashes. Who would have thought? |
Okay, I'll admit it now.
My New Year's resolution to date only guys with beards was a terrible idea.
My chin is red and in constant need of moisturization. |
| posted by Jess at 10:13 PM | Permalink |
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| Friday, February 17, 2006 |
| Gone, give a damn? |
So, somewhere in between the hectic nature of this week and the slowed down pace of tonight, I guess I totally forgot to tell some people* that I'm going to New York.
Tomorrow.
For a week.
*Sorry if you are one of these people. E-mail me if you want a postcard of forgiveness. Or sexual favours. Although I can't promise I'll provide on the latter. Unless, of course, you have a beard. (And manage to find your way through my gauntlet of other ridiculous and unreasonable expectations.) |
| posted by Jess at 1:27 AM | Permalink |
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| Tuesday, February 14, 2006 |
| . . .to lust with raging lungs! |
Single people are notorious for getting upset as February 14th draws near and declaring through blogospheric rants about how utterly insipid and pointless a "holiday" it is.
Most notorious for getting upset about Valentine's Day are the notoriously single people.
On Valentine's Day, bitterness is an obligation for the single.
I, however, have always hated the day, regardless of my current state of romantic entanglement or disentanglement, as it may be.
When I was 16, my boyfriend bought me roses, but hid behind his best friend while he gave them to me, for fear I would hit him. (Flowers die. I find that giving them as a gift in a romantic context is slightly offensive, yet strangely accurate.)
When I was 18, my long-distance boyfriend couldn't drive to Edmonton to see me, because he had to work.
That same year, I had made a deal with my brother that I would disappear for the night. I watched him slice havarti cheese and arrange it on a plate in the shape of a heart. He got his girlfriend two cards: one funny, and one romantic. He bought her champagne. He framed a photo that I had taken of them for my photography class. (I had used my entire black room time that week at school to make sure the print was perfect, even though the negative was over-exposed.) He put on a belt, trimmed his goatee, tucked in his shirt and lit candles.
I disappeared.
I spent the evening with three guys named Dave: Big Dave, Big Gay Dave, and gay Dave. (That's right. I spent my Valentine's Day with three guys named Dave, two of whom were gay, and two of whom willingly call themselves "big" as a prefix to their actual name.)
Every year on Valentine's Day, my mom sends me a card. Last year her card read, "Somebody loves you!" (And if you don't know my mom, what this actually means is, "At least somebody loves you!")
In grade 2, I accidentally gave the card that my mom put in my lunch for me to my teacher (because back then, your mom always wrote you a card to give to your teacher). The whole class found out about it and I was mortified. I still get embarassed thinking about it.
Your mom sends you a card every year regardless, flowers die and boyfriends have to work.
I'd rather get a potted plant because you were walking down the street, the sun was shining, you had your new favourite song stuck in your head, it was a Tuesday afternoon, and you suddenly thought of me. And maybe you saw one of those stupid little dogs in a matching sweater and booties, and that made you smile too. And you knew I'd make fun of you for thinking the dog was cute, when in fact I'd secretly think the dog was cute too. But you'd know that. You'd know that I secretly think those stupid little dogs in matching sweaters and booties are adorable.
So you'd bring me home some African violets. Those suckers live forever. |
| posted by Jess at 12:06 AM | Permalink |
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| Sunday, February 12, 2006 |
| Further proof that I'm a huge nerd. |
While I was waiting in line Friday afternoon to catch the bus to Ottawa, there was a guy about my age who kept staring at me. I appreciated the llamas on his toque, and the skates around his neck, but I wasn't too compelled to reciprocate the fascination.
However, when I scored the very last seat on the bus, I noted that he was sitting only a few rows in front of me. Interested, I decided to start studying him, since I had five hours to waste.
He pulled out a book to read, but I wasn't quite sure what it was. (I'm always interested to see what other people are reading. My own bag for the bus contained the latest National Geographic magazine, Vegetarian Times and a thick volume about the Palenstinean conflict. Yes, I'm a dork.) He was intently reading the book for about 45 minutes.
A political book, maybe? My interest grew. No, it wasn't a political book, I decided, seeing the pictures. It might be a graphic novel?
Nope, wrong again.
It was an Archie comic. Pals and Gals Double Digest, to be exact. I proceeded to giggle in wonderment to myself for the rest of the bus ride.
I nearly approached him when the bus stopped at the halfway point for a break to ask him about the comic, but I lost my nerve. When he re-boarded the bus, he had a newspaper in his hands. "Oh, that makes sense," I thought to myself, "the comic was probably just something he grabbed in a rush on the way out of the door because he had nothing else to read." Opening the newspaper, he removed a section, and began reading it intently. What was it? I leaned in closer.
It was a flyer.
He proceeded to read the flyer from cover to cover, and neglected to read any other section of the newspaper.
I proceeded to creep out the girl next to me by laughing all the way to Ottawa.
When I woke up at Monique's place on Saturday morning, she had candes burning and breakfast laid out on the table. "I figured you'd be happier sleeping," she said, "and I'm happier cooking. So I got up this morning and baked you muffins!"
The day got even better when Monique took me to Parliament Hill, which is, as I told her, my equivalent to her Hockey Hall of Fame.
Except she didn't play the role of the reluctant girlfriend. She was happy to go see her new city too.
I was actually this excited to be at the House of Commons. I actually was skipping with excitement.
The Senate.
The Mock-u-library.
The House of Commons.
The comments I left in the comment box.
I've never really understood the unicorn statue.
The lion, on the other hand, I fully grasp the understanding of.
After we were finished checking out all the political stuff, we headed down to Jacques-Cartier Park for Winterlude festivities.
It was really cold outside.
We felt incrediably Canadian, standing out in the frigid air, eating poutine, drinking hot chocolate, being surrounded by snow sculptures.
However, after five minutes of feeling Canadian, I realized that was about all I could feel. My toes were numb, and Monique's fingers were frozen.
Lucky for us, wine is good for warming up with.
Monique's new roomate Celia. (Random fact: Celia is friends with Sasha. She offered to let Monique live with her when she was looking for a place to live. So basically, my friend's roomates is my roomate's friend.)
Kelly and Monique.
We headed to a local pub to play pool.
After sinking three balls in a row on my first turn, I couldn't hit anything. Kelly and I lost.
We ended up at some club downtown.
I would provide commentary, but I really can't remember this portion of the evening.
Anyways, there are two journalism schools in Canada. One is in Toronto, and one is in Ottawa. I randomly, for no specific or discerning reason, chose Toronto. (I had never been to either city before. In fact, this weekend was my first time in Ottawa). I've always wondered if I made the right choice.
Ottawa is a beautiful city, surpassing Toronto on that scale about 10 times. It also has a really different feel to it, almost small-town like. Ottawa is like Calgary, while Toronto is like Edmonton.
In conclusion, it's a good thing I like my cities to have a dirty under belly. |
| posted by Jess at 11:33 PM | Permalink |
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| Saturday, February 11, 2006 |
| Tumbleweeds and gay men, oh my! |
Monique and I just returned home from the movie theatre. Since my eyelashes have officially unthawed from the walk back (I'm in Ottawa, which is cold, but still has nothing on Cold Lake) I feel it's necessary to write a quick blog before I bunker down for the night.
Monique and Jess' Brokeback Mountain Movie Review:
"We laughed (inappropriately when a tumbleweed blew through the background of a particularly emotional scene featuring Heath Ledger), we cried (but only during the opening 30 seconds before the characters were even introduced, because the scene was of the Alberta prairies and we mutually miss home), but mostly, we just felt like falling asleep."
Remember kids- just because a movie is controversial, doesn't mean it's good.
Is it wrong that I was happy when Jack died, because I knew it meant the movie would be over soon? |
| posted by Jess at 1:07 AM | Permalink |
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| Wednesday, February 08, 2006 |
| I'd settle for a rooftop patio. |
What ever happened to screen doors?
Justin Urlacher claims the beer at Rexall Place tastes like licking screen door.
I remember the taste of screen door distinctly. On a warm summer evening in the waning light, I'd press my tongue up against the mesh, imprinting it with a waffle pattern. I'd pull my face away to be entirely fascinated by the spit bubbles still left in the screen.
Ah, the taste of licking screen door.
I don't know why I'm feeling nostalgia for screen doors in the middle of winter, but I'm left wondering why all these new pre-fabricated homes lack screen doors. Even my parents replaced the screen door/heavy door combo on our nearly 20-year-old house with a fancy looking door that everyone has difficulty opening.
I mean, screen doors haven't outlived their use. They still let in a cool breeze in the evenings, and you can still hear the sounds of the neighbourhood activity outside. And more importantly, kids still need to lick screen doors so that when they finally taste the beer at Rexall Place, they know how to properly identify it. |
| posted by Jess at 12:13 AM | Permalink |
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| Sunday, February 05, 2006 |
| According to Brie, it was the best kegger ever. |
At 10 pm last night my Dad sent me a text message. "Have fun and be safe." Oh, Papa Bruce. I'm so sorry your only daughter is the type of girl who throws keggers.
The kegs, lined up in the kitchen and ready for action.
"Team Kegger." Canice and I. We've spent the last three weeks planning this kegger during our Wednesday night lectures. At least Joyce's online journalism class is useful for something.
Brie was in charge of making the 'girl kegs', because if it was up to me, everybody would have to drink beer. Thanks Brie!
Canice with the Texas Mickey, and the patented Canice picture pose. Sarah sold raffle tickets for the Texas Mickey all night. Thanks Sarah!
Sarah and Brie.
Brie and I look like such creeps in this picture, I love it.
Canice was in charge of music.
Brie was in also in charge of helping me out at the front door, and entertaining me while we waited for people to show up.
Julia, Brie and Mark.
Court and I.
The living room: before.
The living room: during. The turn-out for the night was impressive considering the pouring rain outside.
These two kids were the self-delegated official pumpers of the keg all night for us. In addition to keeping the beer situation under control, they also devoted themselves to flattering me as much as humanly possible to anyone who was willing to listen.
"Jessica is an amazing girl. Not only is she talented, smart, and beautiful, but she throw keggers too!"
"Uh, thanks guys. But how do you know I'm talented? Or smart for that matter? I think you're being rather presumptious."
"Oh, we just know."
Lucas and Katrina.
Tony and his friend. . .
. . .who requested to have his photo taken with me. I'm popular like that.
Also, I would just like to clarify that the dribble down the front of my shirt is the direct result of someone bumping into me. My habit of being entirely inappropriate at keggers somehow didn't come into play last night at all. I didn't even talk about beards once! (Although, at the start of the night, I told Canice's roomate Mark that I wanted a beer. He later confessed to me that he wasn't sure if I had said I wanted a "beer" or a "beard." He was well aware that either one was entirely possible.)
Canice and her sister.
Andy and Jessica.
Jake, Brendan, Charles and Carla.
A view of the crowd (with Sarah in the background, trying to seduce me.)
Carla, Tara and Robyn.
Sonja became a self-appointed beer pourer. Thanks for the help Sonja!
Katrina between the couple and the token semi-passed out girl.
And then the police showed up.
For the second time.
Actually, 4 cop cars showed up.
Needless to say, the night ended abruptly when Canice stood on a chair, teen movie style, and yelled, "The cops are here! Everybody get out!" and we proceeded to force everyone out into the pouring rain.
Overall, I would say the evening was a success.
Thanks to everybody who came for supporting the cause, and thank you to everyone who helped out in any way or form. It is much appreciated! |
| posted by Jess at 3:36 PM | Permalink |
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| Wednesday, February 01, 2006 |
| My ovaries love beer. |
Is it strange that I keep thinking that throwing a kegger is the ultimate act of gender equality? My ovaries won't stop me from loving beer (and charging over $800.00 to my credit card in the process)!
Speaking of which, my credit card is officially frozen.
And when I say frozen, I mean that in the most literal sense possible. Last night, I came home, dropped my credit card in a plastic baggie, filled it with water, and threw it in the freezer.
Conveniently, it now doubles as an icepack for my most-likely broken and still-swollen toe!
This kegger is either the most brilliant idea* I've ever had, or a disaster waiting to happen. I don't think there's a happy medium on this one.
*Is there something ethically wrong about the fact I wanted to throw a kegger in order to raise funds to go overseas and do volunteer work? Something just seems askew about the whole deal. Then again, I once knew a group of guys who threw keggers and then would send all the money to their sponsor child. If you're interested at all in what I'm doing in Vanuatu, check out http://www.yci.org |
| posted by Jess at 10:57 AM | Permalink |
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