cheerios for dinner

As anyone who has come within several miles of Emmie, my golden retriever, knows, she has wickedly bad breath. Like, Queens fish market bad. We’ve tried everything, too - from Dentabones to liver-flavored toothpaste (yeah, that went over well) - but nothing seems to quell the malodorous fumes.

Currently we’re trying out PlaqueBlast - this supposedly natural, so-safe-humans-can-use-it, plague-dissolving substance that claims it will improve the air quality of your house in as little as 30 days. All you have to do is apply 2 squirts on front left, front right, back left, and back right teeth each, 3 times daily. Hah. Right.

Today was maybe the third time in about 4 months I’ve tried using the spray on Emmie. Here’s why.

First, let’s consider the masses and dimensions of the contenders at hand. (We’re going to use metric because that’s what the MCAT uses.) I am approximately 45 kg and Emmie is about 30 kg. I am 162.6 cm tall with minimal muscle mass, and she is about 50 cm tall with 85 parts muscle, 6 parts slobber, and 9 parts fur. (You don’t have to study physics to know I’ve already lost this battle.)

Second, let’s review how much Emmie enjoys liquids touching her face and ingesting things that are not meat or doughy carbs: somewhere on the order of “not at all”, between “shit no” and “like a Barça Fan takes to Real Madrid”.

Anyway, the gloves were tapped and DING - it was on. I was optimistic that she had forgotten her previous encounters with PlaqueBlast, but remind me to never try optimism again. I tried everything from guillotine chokes to full Nelsons to pinning her down pancake style, with “tried” being the key word. As if her raging anxiety weren’t enough, after I would finally immobilize her, I had to find the coordination to pry open her mouth, aim the crappily manufactured spray bottle, and hold my breath for dear life.

Alas, this fight only amounted to me being flung round the living room for 20-some-odd minutes. And her breath still makes my eyes water. Dog Breath - 3; Allie - 0.

Emmie did not care to offer any post-match remarks, for she was too preoccupied with spazzing the hell out. Emmie is under the impression that all maladies, especially having a bad taste in her mouth, will be best soothed by furiously rubbing her back/rump on the couch and carpet. Her breath may not smell like roses, but at least she makes up for it in brains.

Dear Ms. Hamilton,

I’m so sorry for not calling you since January 2011. Maybe if I had kept in touch better I would have known you were sick. I hope that, if you weren’t able to avoid hospitals, you at least had plenty of visitors and paper to draw with. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have helped in some way, and I should have let you known I was thinking about you when I was.

The world lost a great teacher, person, artist, and friend. I can’t quite describe, at least with my current vocabulary, just how much I appreciated a person like you in my life. If it weren’t for you, I’m not sure I’d have survived high school.

Thank you for not only teaching me how to see the world, but also how to make it more beautiful. Thank you for always being honest, with your critiques and your stories. Thank you for always letting us into your life. Thank you for the notes and getting me out of every English class you could. Thank you for always caring, about Art Club and Amnesty, about your “chickadees”, their lives, dreams, and worries. Thank you for teaching us to do the same for others. Thank you for showing me the best art museums and galleries in New York. Thank you for giving me so many reasons to smile. Thank you for not letting me not be an art major. Thank you for being forgiving with deadlines and always giving me the time I needed to “figure it out”. Thank you for always taking the time to understand us when few others would.

I’ll really miss you, Ms. Hamilton. And I certainly won’t ever forget you. I don’t think I could even if I tried. And I promise I’ll start drawing again - I won’t let your wisdom go to waste.

Love,
Allie

P.S. If the art gestapos of the Colonial SD decide to 86 the art program, please, please, please look into haunting their asses. Let me know if I can help.

Source: John R Gist

“Art is the only discipline that teaches the eye to see.”
http://rosemaryhamiltonpaintings.com/

This is an ode to my Nikes, which were retired today upon the arrival of my new, navy blue New Balance kicks. You must understand that I rarely buy footwear besides the dollar flip-flops they sell at Old Navy and that I am a huge proponent of sneakers (have you seen my gait?). Although I am happy I will no longer be collecting pebbles/rain/dirt/sidewalk detritus through the holes in my soles, I’m sad to say good-bye to my Nikes. We’ve been through a lot together.

These Nikes carried me through my entire time at Swarthmore. They’ve raced Theresa through Parrish Hall and the Science Center. They kept my feet warm during the battery of medical tests I endured junior year. They provided relief to my post-snowboarding toes and to my flip-flop-massacred arches. They walked along the Cliffs of Moher, through the tidepools of Inis Moor, and down the streets of Galway and Dublin. They beaned an ex-boyfriend (with his permission) when he confessed to lying. They stood with me through all of the shows I was able to see those last two years of college. They endured every dropped rotten tomato at the farm and helped me schlep those goddamn pumpkins. They traveled the San Francisco Bay Area and put up with TSA’s ridiculousness. They accompanied me on many important walks with friends and Emmie. They manned the accelerator on all of my road trips and kept me comfortable during hours of shadowing. They’ve walked through national parks, museums, and ghettos.

They were great shoes, and I (ironically) tip my hat to them.

RE: http://articles.philly.com/2012-03-18/news/31207687_1_tyler-clementi-dharun-ravi-bias-intimidation

Why?? PEOPLE. WHY. Excuse my French, but theres being an asshat - like when you don’t hold the door for someone, blow someone off without telling them, say something before filtering it through the sensitivity catch - and then theres being a certified D-BAG - like when you purposely humiliate someone. And Mr. Ravi falls into the latter category. Teasing or humiliating someone - especially about something like that - is pretty much the worst thing you can do to a person without actually killing them. Oh wait…

There is a special place in Kensington* for you to rot, Mr. Ravi.

Being “bullied” hurts more than any scrape or contusion you could possibly pull off, at least with Earth’s gravity. It might build character, sprinting muscles, and/or biting wit, but it’s going to scar a kid whether s/he realizes it or not. I know this because I was picked on.

I had it pretty lucky, too. The worst of it was in 7th grade, when two nightmarish and puberty-ridden girls spread a rumor that I was a lesbian because I wouldn’t tell them the name of the boy I liked. They would also make fun of me for other moronic things, too, like not shaving my legs (Mama Bear wouldn’t let me). Fortunately their words had little emotional effect on me and, to be honest, I wasn’t even quite sure what a lesbian was. But damn, the shunning was powerful.

Not a single person would talk to me for a while, they would never pass to me during lacrosse, and I certainly wasn’t allowed to sit at any occupied table at lunch. In my 12- year-old wisdom, I knew they were pissy little divas with minimal intelligence, so I never consciously took any of it to heart. Plus, I still had my best friend at home, so what difference did it make? I never even told my parents or teachers; I just sucked it up until they got over themselves forgot. But never once after that did I think positively of myself, or that people outside of my best friends would or should ever like me.

Self-deprecation and embarrassment can be humbling, but they can also be lethal. Enough of those two things, combined with sadness, can equate to a searing feeling of hopelessness. No one should ever, ever feel that way, especially at the suggestion of someone else. I don’t blame Tyler Clementi for a second. I truly wish he didn’t feel the things he felt, but unfortunately many people in this world aren’t very kind. I’m sorry, Tyler. Truly sorry.

Life sucks enough as it is. How could we possibly justify making it any worse for one another?

_____
*For you out-of-towners, Kensington is largely regarded most dangerous/scary neighborhood in Philadelphia.

I love old people. Consequently, I am sometimes guilty of old people watching (it’s like normal people watching but limited to those with liverspots, white hair, and wrinkles). Why do I do this? Well, my 62-year-old dad is the oldest person in my entire family (on both sides!) and sometimes I miss my grandparents.

From my experience I’ve noticed that there are few distinct personality types in the antiquated population. Among my favorite are the really sweet and caring ones, the grumpy and sarcastic ones, and the rich Bubbes with little coordination but plenty opinion.

Why this is relevant: today I braved the high-strung streets of Lower Merion so as to study at the little coffee shop (Townhall Coffee Company) that I’m currently sitting at. A little big ago, an older Jewish woman and her mother came into the store for a snack. In true fashion, it was hard to miss them. (Stereotypes gotta come from somewhere, right?) The daughter was mildly irritating, but the mother was wundaful - asking the barista tons of random questions, never ever staying on topic, and always speaking her mind on everything, from lunch at the synagawg to the architecture of the building. It was adorable.

Of course this is only adorable when the seasoned individual is not related to you or otherwise in your custody. I think I love the loaded little old yentas especially because they vaguely remind me of my Mom-mom. My Mom-mom was by no stretch of the imagination rich, but she did lead a very classy and fashionable life. She left for the big Boscov’s in the Sky before I really was able to understand how neat older people are to have in your life, but I guess life doesn’t follow a logical curriculum for its lessons. A mensch tracht und Gott lacht.

zayt gezunt,
Allie

Instead of telling you about the even remotely intelligent/deep thoughts I (might) have, here are 3 of my mental post-it notes from the past week.

1: Magnolias. My mama’s magnolia bush is just starting to bloom (thanks, Mother Nature, for the hot flashes). Have you ever smelled a magnolia flower? Their scent is very, very sweet - it smells like how candy tastes. Here is a picture of one from the garden:

2: Ridiculous things my MCAT studybook says: “One could argue that the difference between humans and cannoli is minimal, except, of course, that cannoli are much more delicious.”

3: Harmonicas are underrated and underused in music. They make such beautiful and heartfelt sounds. (e.g., 2-4-2011)

I am not one for TV shows. Sure, I love whenever I catch the occasional episode of Modern Family, How I Met Your Mother, The Middle, or Grey’s Anatomy, but I seldom get into watching shows on a regular basis. In general, I like movies much much more. My attention span just isn’t there for the short stories of TV shows. However, like with most arbitrary rules, there is an exception: The Lying Game on ABC Family. I’m ashamed to confess how much I like this show - it’s a teenage soap opera filled with impossibly pretty people and cars whose front left hubcap is worth more than I am - but it’s so. stinkin’. addictive.

I think I’ve figured out why. For one, the characters of the show are obscenely wealthy, so it’s interesting (at least to me) to see (and make fun of) how ‘the other half lives’. It’s like the King of Prussia mall is around Christmas time: damn frightening if you get too close, but fascinating to watch from afar. Secondly, the show does classify as a mystery. Some of it is predictable, but a lot of it is legitimately suspenseful! And finally, some of the characters are actually endearing. This not only means that the actors aren’t half bad, but also that the story does have relatable elements to it.

Good job, ABC Family. You lured in even the attention deficit cynic.

Don’t hate the playa,
Allie

Last week I drove to Pittsburgh to pick Kevin and a few of his friends up to bring them back to Philly. The Penna turnpike is downright fugly (effin’ ugly) and exhausting. I am in no rush to make that trip again. However, while I was there, I did get to go to Kevin’s African drumming and dancing class/club. That was AWESOME. At first I was scared I would be obviously terrible and ruin everyone else’s efforts, but once I decided to quit worryin’ and simply have fun with it, I caught on pretty quickly. Everyone should dance every day, and bang on drums if at all possible. It’s just good for the soul.

Kuwa vizuri,
Allie

I think there is a very important component to effective catharsis: validation. (I don’t feel like a walking, talking 1950s psychology textbook right now.) But really. Think about it. After you cry, rant, rave, or simply discuss your feelings, what is the element to the venting process that actually makes you feel okay, not just better? Getting things “off your chest” is a helpful analgesic for your psyche, but it’s having your feelings validated that promotes healing.

What do I mean by validation? I mean getting the affirmation that it is perfectly acceptable to feel the way you do. It can even be as simple and uncreative as hearing “yes, you’re allowed to feel that way.” I guess I can’t really speak for anyone else, but when I am told X emotion of mine is wrong, X is repressed under the indignant fault line that my grouchy ass sits upon. And, you know, after enough invalidation, pop goes the weasel and my testy tuchus soars off the Richter scale and into a deep sea trench of self-loathing, depression, and cruel wit. However, this proverbial eruption can be avoided if I am left to feel what I need to, and feel okay for doing so. I don’t need a pity party with black balloons and gray noise makers, just a box of “It’s Okay”-brand tissues. And as sure as gas prices will rise, I’ll be back on my feet in no time.

It may be presumptuous of me to assume that I am governed by the same psychological phenomena as everyone else, but I think this also applies to a great percentage of humanity. More people need to realize this.

On a site note, what makes validation even more potent is empathy. I don’t mean several rounds of misery poker or even sympathy, I mean empathy. (SAT word of the day!) According to the dictionary on my Macbook, empathy is defined as “the ability to understand and share the feelings of another”. In Cheerios terms, that means validation via “I’ve been there, too”. Obviously not everyone can offer empathy, nor is empathy crucial to mental convalescence, but its efficacy is astounding. More people need to realize this, too.

Hugs,
Allie

“Many people need desperately to receive this message: ‘I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.’”
— Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake

Realization of the day: the English expression “NP has it” (where NP = noun phrase; e.g., ‘rumor has it,’ ‘legend has it’) is pretty odd. Where in the world did that come from? How is it a pretty common phrase? I guess it’d be an idiom…but it’s pretty close to figurative language…

Now that I tutor someone in English as a second language, I am hyper-aware of simple yet unconventional phrases that would be impossible to perfectly translate. I still don’t know what to say if this one pops up, and I doubt Naver will either.

(Yes, just because I lost faith in linguistics because of optimality theory doesn’t mean I don’t think about syntax and semantics all the damn time.)

/bi wɛl/,
/æli/

Acquiring 8 more counterpoints to the argument “things will get better” in one night - check.

Emmie and Turkey forcibly breaking into my bedroom to jump on me/lick my face, and Turkey not leaving my side for the past 12 hours - check.

Pets just seem to get ya, even when people don’t.

Today I hung out with Gina, my best-friend-since-childhood, for twelve straight hours. We dined on a dime, walked around Valley Forge, talked about everything and anything and all that lies between, visited another friend, and laughed endlessly. It was the best mental health day ever.

I got home and, instead of falling asleep immediately like I planned, tried to tackle some email replies. I logged on to my computer and, instead of tackling said emails like I planned, watched the news playing on Channel 6. I learned about the Apple/Foxconn workers who cherish their $1.78/hour jobs and the deadly havoc currently taking place in Syria.

And so I go to bed with a heavy - and exceedingly grateful - heart.

sláinte,
allie

Despite the ease with which I become carsick, I find driving/being driven in a car (sans traffic!!!) to be very calming and even therapeutic. The same effect holds for being a coach bus or train passenger. I don’t know if it’s the constant motion or continual changes of scenery, the mental map-making or the promise of somewhere new, but I’ve found comfort on highways since 1989. Maybe that’s it. My parents brought me everywhere and anywhere since I was a newborn, so maybe it’s a psychological regression type of thing.

Besides adrenaline and snacks, I think that’s what kept me going yesterday. Maybe I should go for a CDL and not an MD.

love always,
allie