I get bored with people who only post complaints on their blogs, and I'm afraid that what you're about to read belongs in that yawn-inducing "I-hate-it-when" category. But my story is also a bit of a moral dilemma, so I'm giving myself a pass.

It's about one of my classmates. I'm going to call her Sasha. I met her over the summer in general chemistry. I have to say, I've hated her from the beginning.

Our professor liked to randomly call people to the blackboard to work through homework problems. One day early in the semester he chose a girl who's so shy I actually thought she might start crying when he called her name. She worked through the problem with much pausing and wringing of hands and her answer was something like 0.2 moles.

The professor congratulated her on a job well done and the girl started to return to her seat when Sasha raised her hand.

Professor: "Yes?"

Sasha: "I got 0.21 moles."

I swear to God she said that. Her answer was literrally within one HUNDREDTH of what the shy girl had written on the board.

Professor (exasperated): "That's the same answer, Sasha."

So... not a good first impression. And she continued to unimpress me every single time I interacted with her.

Last fall she showed up at school with rolling luggage. I am not a fan of people who carry their books around in rolling luggage. It just seems ridiculous. But the books are heavy, so I guess it's somewhat understandable.

There have since been many unintentionally funny classroom entrances as Sasha comes barrelling down the steps into a lecture hall: bam-BAM! bam-BAM! bam-BAM! And she's usually moving at top speed because she's obsessed with sitting in the very first row. Always. And always in the aisle seat. In biology it took a lot of effort, too, because there was a class just before ours. So Sasha had to fight through the exiting students while pulling her rolling luggage in a frantic attempt to get to the front of the classroom before anyone else.

I honestly thought it was OCD, until someone pointed out that sitting in the front row is a great way to get professors to remember you. I personally think that it's just a great way to get professors to remember how fucking annoying you are. But whatever. In Sasha's case that's wholly appropriate.

So one day I decided to fuck with her. I got to biology early and stood next to the door. But I got distracted for a split second and Sasha flew past me and got her seat. So then the following week I sat in on the class that was prior to ours. That way I was already inside the room. GENIUS! (I started to regret my plan when I realized that the international relations professor who taught that class really put a premium on class participation; luckily he never called on me.)

So when that class ended, I got up out of my seat and made my way to the front row. (I figured that sitting in that seat during the international relations class would probably have been pushing my luck. Plus it would have required getting there a little too early.) The T.A. was sitting in that seat and he was responding to questions from several students. By the time he was done, it was just me and Sasha standing there. He thought we were students of his.

T.A.: "Can I help you?"
Sasha: "We're in the next class."
T.A.: "Oh. This is a popular seat, I guess."

Touche.

There was an empty seat next to that one, so I guess Sasha was a little shocked when I took the aisle seat.

Sasha: "Aren't you going to sit next to your friend?" She motioned towards Lisa, who was sitting two chairs down.
Me: "No."

Sasha was clearly unhappy. She threw herself down in the second chair, and after about thirty seconds had passed she sighed and turned to me.

Sasha: "Are you left-handed?"
Me: "Yes, I am."

That shut her up. The astonishing thing about this little bit of chutzpah was that, yes, the aisle seat was a lefty desk. BUT SASHA IS RIGHT-HANDED!!

So, that's my complaint.

And here's my dilemma: Sasha wants to be in the book club. And she doesn't want to read the Flaubert book (because "it's too long!"); she -- I shit you not -- wants to read this.

Of course I told her no -- that a dozen other people were already hundreds of pages into the Flaubert book. But she's still going to come to the meeting. AT MY HOUSE. She's going to eat my fondue and sit on my furniture. I knew trying something new wasn't going to work out for me.... WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW???

 

Sometimes, when I feel the urge to eat junk food, I look at this photo. And sometimes that stops me. But other times I think, "He looks cold. He should eat some cake."

Then, after I've stuffed myself, I look at this photo (same guy). And that cheers me up, because no amount of starvation and exercise could ever make me look like that. That shit has to be genetic.

 

Did I tell you guys about the time I got $50 for having sex with a guy in a motel in New Jersey?

I feel like I did blog about that once... before I told my friends that I had a blog. At which point I erased all kinds of dirty stuff (which pissed Jana off). So, friends, proceed with caution. You've been warned.

It's really not as gross a story as it sounds. Uhm... well, maybe it is. This was almost ten years ago now. I'd just gotten back to New York from a summer waiting tables at a Missouri Steak 'n Shake. So, as you can imagine, I was more than a little sex-starved.

I literally dropped my luggage off on the bare mattress in my dorm room, turned on my heel and went downtown. At that time, there weren't many bars I felt comfortable in, because I was underage and didn't have a fake ID. So while I was walking around on Christopher Street (the only part of gay New York I was familiar with back then) I ran into this really cute guy. We hung out on some random stoop and chatted. He was quiet and sweet and completely my type.

Then he pulled out his wallet and showed me photos of his wife.

Being nineteen and extremely horny, this didn't bother me like it should have. Nor did it bother me when he suggested that I get into his car. However, I did get nervous once we started driving through the Lincoln Tunnel. I didn't say anything, though. In my head I was calculating the risk versus the reward. Just how far was I willing to push it to get naked with a man? At that point in time, pretty damn far.

He took me to a dirty little motel off some NJ freeway. I remember that he was really nervous that someone would follow us. I hoped that it was fear of the wife rather than fear of potential witnesses to my eventual murder. Once we were alone in the room, though, I calmed down. He was very gentle and never pushed me to do things I wasn't comfortable with (which was pretty much everything). I remember two things about the sex: he was really into feet, and he kept asking me to talk dirty (which I was far too shy for). He got me stoned, and after we were done he suggested we go get a pizza.

Once we drove back into the city he asked where I wanted to go, and I said anywhere was fine. "Well that makes it easy for me, but I'd better let you off near a subway station." He had changed his mind about the pizza, I guess. I was still really high, so luckily he knew how to get me to my train. At which point he handed me a wad of money and said "I'm not offending you, am I?"

Now I don't want to say that the pot made me take that money. Frankly, it was poverty that made me take it. But I wasn't proud of myself for it. As I got out of his car, he leaned over and said "I'll be at the same place at the same time next Saturday if you want to do this again."

Fearing that the sex+money combo would prove addictive, I stayed away from Christopher Street for the next month.

 

My new friend (I'm going to call her Pamela from now on) came back to the clinic this morning and told us she had a seizure earlier this week.

The details are kind of hazy. There was some confusion at first because she kept claiming she had had a stroke when she meant to say seizure. She was hospitalized for a couple days, so the doctor I work with filled out some forms to get access to her medical records. It's one of the many difficulties in treating the homeless -- they usually have several different doctors and none of their information is centralized.

Pamela said the seizure happened when she ran into her brother on the street. "It's just all the stress from everything that's happened," she said. "But I put it in God's hands now." Personally, I'm concerned that the seizure may have been due to some type of recreational drug use, which I truly truly truly hope is not the case.

She was in much better spirits this week, though. And she's adopted a very sweet blind man who lives in her shelter. He lost his vision when he was shot in the head last year. He needs a lot of help. He's scared of everything and everybody. He's not used to being handicapped yet, and he said some people have taken advantage of him (stealing his Vicodin and other heinous stuff like that). So Pamela's looking out for him. It was incredibly sweet seeing them together. At one point during his appointment he started freaking out that he'd lost his California ID, and Pamela kept telling him "Don't get down, now. You gotta keep your spirits up."

I love this woman.

 

I've written a lot on this blog about my dad. And I've wasted a considerable amount of time and money in analysis trying to sort through my feelings about him.

But I'm over that. My dad is, sadly, a crazy person. That's all there is to it.

Exhibit A:

My mom recently ran into my ex-stepmother at a restaurant and they got into a little chat. A couple days later my mom brought up "the dog incident."

"What dog incident?"

"Oh, you remember. That's why they ended up getting a divorce."

"No. I never heard this. I remember her dog, though."

My stepmom had had a little shih tzu since college. He was probably around 9 or 10 when she married my dad.

"What are you talking about? What happened?"

"Oh, her dog kept digging holes in the yard. And you know how he is about his yard. So he took Colleen outside one day and made her watch him shoot the dog with a shotgun."

WHAT. THE HOLY. FUCK.

Everything about that story is sickening! The elderly dog. Forcing his wife to watch. The shotgun.

Exhibit B:

At Christmas I went to see my dad and his mother (who now lives with him). At one point I noticed a double-barrel shotgun leaning against the back door.

"What's that for, Grandma?"

"Oh... there's this cat that drives your dad crazy. It gets into the yard and messes things up."

My dad's yard is flat, rectangular, and grassy. It's not like he's got some Martha Stewart shit going on out there.

"What's he going to do? Blow it to pieces?"

My grandma groaned. "I guess so."

Exhibit C:

When I told my maternal grandfather this story, he said "Well you remember what he used to do to the kittens, don't you?"

Dear lord.

"No! He did what to WHOSE kittens!?!"

"Oh God it was awful. When you was little and your cat'd have kittens, your dad used to kill them with a shovel. Beat them to death with a shovel. It was so terrible... I couldn't believe it."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yesterday as I was talking to my sister about this, I said "He's trying to cover up his natural urge to kill people, I guess."

She replied "Well at least he still realizes he needs to cover that urge up."

 

I went on a run with my sister today. For those of you wondering (and you know who you are) her goiter situation seems to be under control. She stopped taking her medication because of side effects; she's been trying to regulate things herself through her diet.

I used to rail against people who would do things like that. But since I've made the decision to go to med school I've toned it down a bit. Because now people are associating me with "Western" medicine -- and I don't want to be the white doctor boy who turns up his nose at alternative treatments. Even though that's who I really am.

Tomorrow I'm going to tell you the real reason my dad's second marriage didn't work out. I just found this out recently and it's... well, let's just say that it could be the opening scene for the TV movie that will someday chronicle his spiral from regular crazy to serial-killer crazy.

 

Wow. I really sound dissatisfied in these blog entries. Luckily no one is reading them but me.

I finished my physics homework. And I just had a nice Tanqueray martini. So I'm feeling much better.

 

Is it possible that I've run out of steam? in this, the fourth semester of a 14-semester academic career? I've been banking on "this is only cyclic"... but I'm starting to feel that perhaps this is the end. My smarts department has become depleted. I had a finite amount and I've run through it and now I can't figure out any of these organic chemistry syntheses. Because it's over. I'm done.

I still go to class. Perfunctory note-taking. Right now I'm standing here at a computer terminal with 3-1/2 hours until I'm scheduled to make an appearance in chemistry lab... and I'm reading crap blogs. And writing a crap blog entry.

Because that's all I have left. Not asking for pity here -- just trying to face the facts. I've taken a detour towards Loserton. And not the old Loserville of 2001 -- where at least my crap job paid for my pot habit. I'm headed towards oblivion -- a place with none of the comforts of home.

I am losing weight, though. At least there's that.

 

I just drove the 5-mile route I've been running for the past two weeks and discovered that it's actually only 4.6 miles. I've been strutting around all proud of my < 9-minute pace -- but apparently I have nothing to be proud of.

I certainly can't be proud of the fried egg rolls I ate after watching Last Holiday with Jana. (Nor can any of us be proud of Queen Latifah, for that matter.)

Can I be proud of the fact that I spent 45 minutes working on physics? I guess that depends on whether or not I spend the rest of the evening getting drunk and watching Our Sons (which I TiVO'd earlier today).

 

A couple years ago my friend Molly and I were talking about how we loathe the thought of filling out forms that require us to fabricate "interests." I just hate that feeling of inadequacy I get when some application or online profile asks me what I like to do with my free time. Most people (like the random Friendster friend I just looked at) list things like "hiking" and "dancing" and "photography."

I don't know if people lie on those things, but I have a feeling that when someone lists "hiking" as an interest what they're actually saying is that they've walked on a dirt trail sometime in the last two years. Certainly when I say (as I always do) that "reading" is a great interest of mine, it's with a very loose definition for the word "interest." Although I fancy myself a reader, it's been a long while since I've actively pursued it as a hobby. And, if truth be told, it should always appear alongside (or below) "watching Roseanne reruns."

So, in the spirit of self-improvement, my friend Sarah and I decided to start a book club at school. I picked a highfalutin title (as I always do) and emailed the 50-60 students in my program. Around ten people replied that they were interested, and so a date has been set for a fondue party (just to underscore the pretentiousness of the whole endeavor) and a lively debate about the book.

Sarah is concerned that no one will show up but us; I, however, am much more concerned that they will.

(Maybe, if I make the fondue myself, I can put "cheese" down as a hobby?)

 

This morning I was volunteering at a homeless shelter medical clinic when suddenly one of the residents started screaming: "It's e-fuckin'-NOUGH already! Enough is e-motherfuckin-NOUGH! WHO TOOK MY DAMN CELL PHONE?!?"

A few minutes later I met The Screamer. I had a handful of forms for her to fill out so she could see the doctor, but she clearly wasn't in a paperwork kind of mood. Frankly, I was a little scared of her. She was shaking and she couldn't focus on anything. She wouldn't look me in the eye when I spoke to her. My first thought was "I really don't need this right now." There were a dozen other people who needed to see the doctor, and I was beginning to fall behind. I really wanted to cross The Screamer off my list and skip ahead to the guy in the wheelchair whose face had collapsed with the sudden onset of Bell's Palsy. But then tears started to slip down The Screamer's cheeks. I decided to give her a few minutes to calm down and then I called her into the office. She had stopped crying, but she didn't look much better. I sat next to her and started filling out her paperwork myself, asking her only the essential questions.

When we were done I asked her if she'd found her cell phone.
"Yeah, it was in Vito's pocket. He's playin' with it and put it in his pocket."
(Vito is a 4 year-old who lives at the shelter with his mom and older brother.)
"Well that's good. You feel okay now?"

And with no more prompting than that, she told me her story. She moved down here from Fresno just before Christmas at the request of her brother. He's a recovering addict and he told her he'd found an apartment in Pasadena, was holding down a job for the first time in years, and that he wanted to have a relationship with her again. So she moved down here with $9,000. "I was stupid," she said. "I let him get to my money and he took it and split. He didn't have no apartment. Now I'm homeless. When I thought somebody took my phone, I just couldn't handle it. It's like, enough already, you know?" The tears came again.

I lied and told her that I understood. And I said she needed to look out for herself. It was a dumb thing to say; I really would have loved to refer her to a counselor -- but there wasn't anyone else there. Just me. And I'm not qualified to talk to people about problems like this -- but there I was, so I had to say something. "That's my problem," she said. "I never take care of myself. But that's gonna change." I asked her if she thought her brother was using again, and she said she knew for a fact that he was. "He told me he loved me and everything... but he just wanted my money." She took a deep breath and shook her head: "Never again. I'm through with my family."

"I know people who are addicts," I said. I thought of The Canadian. It's not really a fair comparison, but it's the closest I had. "It's hard to see somebody you love go through that -- but there's only so much you can do." "Yeah. I'm just gonna get myself out of this and then I'm through with them. I have to take care of me." I smiled, hoping that it would come across as reassuring. What else could I say?

Later, as I was making my way through the lunchtime crowd en route to my car, I caught her eye and she smiled at me. "Thank you," she said. I gave her shoulder a squeeze and returned her smile. "Feel better," I told her. Again -- what kind of advice is that? Feel better?!? How could she feel any worse?!? I kept telling myself I should have given her some money. Or I should figure out a way to do more for her. It's heartbreaking to see someone being punished for trying to do the right thing. But at least I was there -- at least I listened. Sometimes when I'm volunteering there I get caught up in trying to get every patient processed so they can all see the doctor before he has to leave. It's a good reminder that I need to always ask how people are doing, how they're feeling, before I ask them if they have Medicaid.

 

is the best!

 

I actually just wanted to have two postings in a row with presidential titles.

I managed to complete my homework last night. Except for one problem, which I frantically scribbled my way through during breakfast. "I should have finished this last night instead of going to bed," I muttered angrily.

That comment caused Drew to give me a sarcastic "Well sorry!" and storm off to the shower. "Why are you sorry," I asked. But I knew he was pissed because he was the one who had insisted I go to bed at 1am when I couldn't figure that problem out. Oh the petty little games I play. Damn him for paying such close attention to my every word!

We watched a fascinating PBS special on Eleanor Roosevelt last night (thus the entry title). It's pretty amazing that she was First Lady seventy years ago, and in 2006 we have a president who proudly talks about his wife like this:

"I find [Laura] to be the perfect wife of a governor," George W. Bush told the Dallas Morning News in 1995. "Instead of trying to butt in and always, you know, compete. There's nothing worse in the political arena than spouses competing for public accolades or the limelight."

MOTHERFUCKER! I'M SURELY GIVING MYSELF CANCER AS I TYPE THIS BUT I CAN'T HELP BUT INDULGE MYSELF IN THESE FEELINGS OF PURE WHITE-HOT HATRED FOR YOU AND YOUR STUPID FUCKING FAUX-TEXAN MANLY MAN BULLSHIT!

On an unrelated and decidedly less interesting topic, I got an iPod Nano today with a small collection of gift cards I've been saving up. And while I had resisted the iPod for a long time, assuming that I understood the technology and didn't have much use for it, I must admit that I stand corrected. Because I just found out that I can subscribe to podcasts of Le Show. FREE OF CHARGE.

 

I just started watching a 3-hour documentary on the History Channel about the life of Lincoln, because...

1.) I've been fascinated by his problems with depression since reading David Herbert Donald's biography.
2.) I want to know if Gore Vidal is going to broach the gay issue.
3.) I love to learn.
4.) I'm avoiding finishing my physics homework.
5.) I'm avoiding finishing my organic chemistry homework.

Okay. So I guess I can't really claim that #3 is true.

Physics is actually interesting (we're studying electricity). But that doesn't help. I just can't get myself to do it.

Classes started last week and I just can't get myself to do anything. I've even started running again just to avoid work. I'd rather run 5 miles than do 45 minutes of organic chemistry. I think part of the problem is that so much is going to happen this semester (because I have to start my med school applications) that I feel intimidated.

But I want to be an active person -- not a passive person.
I want to be someone who can get stuff done -- not someone who sits around watching reruns of The Tyra Banks Show on TiVO. (That episode where she officially ended her modeling career was E-M-B-A-R-R-A-S-S-I-N-G. She actually had a pair of Victoria's Secret angel wings hoisted into the air, signifying her "hanging up her wings." Oy.).
Okay so I just have to do it. I just have to do it. I'm gonna go do it now.

UPDATE: An hour later now. I still haven't done anything. But now I'm getting to work. Right now.