Surgery and Commonly Asked Questions

After seemingly endless weeks of freaking out and studying, APs AND SATs are finally over. For me, at least.
Huzzah!

I had my Peroneal Groove Deepening procedure done almost a month ago, and I wanted to talk a little bit about that. I've done a lot of internet research on it, and the most helpful things have been reading blogs by people who have had the same or similar surgeries, so I thought I might offer the same help to someone, hopefully.
I know I haven't talked a lot about what the initial issue was, so here goes:

I've had ankle troubles for about three years. It mostly began when I started to play Ultimate pretty seriously. That sport is no good for your body- it makes you fall in love with it, and then physically tears you to pieces because of all the running, jumping, laying out, falling, colliding, sudden turns and bursts of energy. That's what makes it awesome.
We went to my doctor on several occassions over this three year period to check out what was up. I didn't have a podiatrist at the time, and was simply told that my tendons were inflamed and strained. I was told to ice, milk my achilles (this is a sort of weird massaging technique that releases fluid trapped around the tendon. It feels sooo nice), and wear a brace when I needed it. I took to using my brother's old ASO brace, which we've since found out was too big for me anyways. My pain persisted, and I tended to walk with a slight to pronounced limp, depending on the day. One of the issues was that I had pain and inflamation in both of my ankles and tendons. Sometimes they alternated seasons, and other times they would both hurt at once. Looking back on it, it seems like we should have realized something was wrong. This November, after doing the Acadia Challenge (nine peaks in one day- awesome!), one of my friends noticed the my right ankle clicked and grinded when I turned, pointed, and flexed my foot. This after having twisted and rolled the same ankle before donning my brace while hiking. He suggested that it could be pieces of cartilidge wearing down on each other in my ankle. We went back to my doctor two or three times after this. My doctor did a few ankle adjustments, which involved "whipping" my foot back into place, as it was sliding around to places it wasn't supposed to slide to. This would help for a very short period of time, and then the clicking would return. My doctor agreed that it could be a cartilidge issue, and so I was ordered an MRI in December. First of all, MRIs suck. I'm not clausterphobic, which didn't matter anyways, since I only had to stick my leg into the tunnel. However, I'm apparently very wiggly, even when I think I'm sitting perfectly still. Second of all, my MRI came back negative for any problems. According to the test, my ankle was perfectly normal. Even though it wasn't. For anyone going through ankle issues, listen carefully: MRIs don't always show an issue. If an MRI comes back negative, and you're still having pain, you need to pester your doctor, because MRIs can't always see what's wrong. I was told to take about 1600 Mg of Ibuprofen every day for inflammation, and after about three weeks of simply accepting that it was all in my head, a friend (and my mother) pushed me to call my doctor again, and take him up on his offer to be referred to a specialist.
I was incredibly shy and nervous going to see the podiatrist. I was worried that I would again not receive a solid diagnosis. I didn't want to waste anyone's time. At the office, after explaining my history of ankle problems and my symptoms, they took a few x-rays and had me perform a few strength tests. The podiatrist explained that the issue was most likely that the groove in my fibula where the peroneal tendons sit was not deep enough, and so the tendons were sublexing- popping and sliding in and out of place, which caused the pain, the clicking, and the grinding. I was given a new, better fitting ASO brace, and was told that while bracing it would certainly help for now, I was only one bad sprain away from completely sublexing. Full sublexation is when the tendons slide completely out of place, in front of the renticulum, which is a small piece that covers your tendons. We talked for a little while about surgical options, and I walked out of the office that day certain that I had to have the surgery at some point. It was made clear that the problem would not go away on its own.
My surgery went smoothly. I was put on valium beforehand, as I have severe needle-induced anxiety. Because of this, we decided to take advantage of my doped-up state, and we also took care of all of the vaccinations I would need before college at the same time. I remember very little from that morning, only that the shots were very quick, and saying a few very funny, very loose-lipped things to my parents. I also vaguely remember getting into the hospital gown, having the IV put in, and subsequently asking if the doctors put any "happy stuff" into my IV. They said no, but I definitely don't believe them. The last thing I remember, in an almost dream like way, is them putting a mask on my face, and saying, "Don't struggle, it's just oxygen".
The next thing I remember is coming to full consciousness, being told, "we put the chapstick right here, so you can have it when you need it."
My ankle had been wrapped up nicely in a splint-style cast, and the IV was still in my hand (which only freaked me out a little bit. I think I was too tired to care). I didn't feel any pain in my ankle. The doctor hadn't put a block into my ankle, as they often do with these types of surgery (a block is something that will block all nerve reception on the area for an extended period of time), but they did apparently give me some novacaine, which unfortunately wore off.
The next few days were hazy. I was on Percocet for about a week after, and it made me fall asleep constantly. I didn't feel like I was loopy at all, but visitors told me that I wasn't making much sense. Some people say that they were able to be up and about for a few hours at once just a couple of days after a similar surgery, but I took a little bit longer. I kept on having hot flashes, a sort of "hangover" I was told, from the anesthesia. Everything's better now, and I was able to forego any sort of pain medication about two weeks after surgery.
One note my doctor gave was that when he got into my ankle, they discovered that the issue wasn't that my groove wasn't deep enough. The problem was that there wasn't a groove at all. It was pretty much miraculous that my tendon didn't have any tears in it, and I got very lucky.
A couple of things about the post-op + FAQ, especially for anyone reading who has had/will have a similar surgery:
-I have temporary nerve damage in my toes, and also in my heel. I can't always feel things touching my toes, and it feels like pins and needles sometimes. This is caused by a few things, like the tourniquet they used in surgery, and also just general screwing with the nerve system in your feet. It's healing. Nerves heal at about 1 mm/day. So it takes a bit.
-How many stitches?
-I had about eight or ten. The scar/incision is about four inches long, and curved.
-Does it still hurt?
Well, yeah. But not nearly as much as it did. Now it really only hurts when I do stupid stuff, like fall on it (don't do that), or when I do my stretches
-How is the range of mobility after surgery like this?
-Not good. I'm doing the stretches prescribed to me by my podiatrist- I've been told to write the alphabet with my foot. The first few times, I got to around H and then gave up. The pain was excruciating and exhausting. But after just a few days of getting to Z, it got easier. I've also found that it doesn't hurt (well, it does, but figuratively it doesn't) to use your hands to stretch the foot a little farther than you're comfortable with.
-What about the strength in your surgery leg?
-Ewie. It's awful. My calves, which have always been incredibly muscular and bulky, are now mismatched so severely, they look like they came from two different bodies. I've heard this gets better, but for now, the chicken-legged flabby flob of muscle freaks me out.
-When are you getting off of crutches?
-I don't know, stop asking. I'm only weight bearing as of this week. I still don't know about my projected full recovery, as we're planning in installments with my doctor.
-How much do crutches suck?
-actually, the worst thing about crutches is how people like to take them and play with them. It's funny once. And then it's just annoying. Please, guys. At least ask first. Because I sort of definitely need those things to walk with.

A Manifesto Against Sunglasses

I hate sunglasses.
Proportions of emotion,
disgust lies joy sadness
surprise
hidden
secret
behind the lenses you wear
so casually,
in which I can see my reflection-
another reason, by the way,
that they should be abolished.
Humans weren't meant to see
the expressions they make as they're talking.
You're wearing sunglasses,
and all of the feelings
spattered onto my face
are overbearing,
my expressions a parade of facades.
Thanks to you.

But most importantly,
I squint when I look up
into the sun
while I'm talking to you
because I can't convincingly
avoid your eyes
while you're wearing sunglasses,
and I'm telling you
I'm sorry.

Brain Spit

There are new computers in our library, and they're pretty sweet. The only problem is that the screens are enormous. I hate the feeling that someone can read exactly what I'm typing without my knowing it. It's probably why they got the larger screens, actually. That way they know when kids aren't working. Yesterday's barefoot day was a success. I only got reprimanded once, by a very sweet hall monitor, who told me that the school could get charged a massive fine. I just told her I'd put my shoes on in my next class, and I never saw her again. I understand why OSHEA would have an issue with it. But I honestly don't think anyone would go and rat me out to the officials. Recently overheard from a level two science class doing research in the library: "Know what's sad? I don't even know how to look up a book." "These pants are like, size ones. I'm a nine." (whyyyy?) "Umm, way to work with me." "Umm, way to be a Taylor." "Umm, way to copy my hair color." "I'm not going blonde." I'm pretty sure one of the girls over at the other computer table is high. It's not an attractive look for her. My mind is everywhere this morning. But I'm feeling so fly, like a G6, probably because I biked to school this morning. Excercise in the morning is supposed to be really good for you.

Barefoot- One Day Without Shoes 2011

I never liked wearing shoes very much. I have a clear memory of one instance, actually, when I threw a temper-tantrum when forced to wear sneakers to go to the folk festival. "But summer's not over yet!" I had explained, tears streaming down my face. We play disc barefoot. I hike barefoot (sometimes. My podiatrist doesn't like this so much). Anything I can do in shoes, I believe I can do barefoot. Which is why I love today. Today, TOMS Shoes puts on a day for global poverty awareness, called One Day Without Shoes. It's exactly what it sounds like. The idea is that by going one day without shoes, you create enough hubub to tell people about the point of it all- thousands, maybe millions of people around the world go every single day without shoes. And while I fully support the barefoot lifestyle, that's just not alright. In many of the countries where this is a prevalent issue, not having shoes may lead to things like soil-transmitted infections, serious cuts, sores, and abrasions, and could also impact a child's education. You can read more about it on the TOMS website. So I've gone shoeless today, and I feel like I'm living on the edge. I wore flipflops this morning, just to get to our car, and to bring to school. I took them off before I got to the door of the school, and the water from the rain and the snow chilled the bottoms of my ankle braces (I'm now wearing both of them). I planned my outfit to most subtly allow me to go barefoot. This includes long pants and a more attractive top, the idea being that people will look UP instead of DOWN. Why all of this disgression? It's against our school dress code, apparently, to go barefoot (Which, by the way, is why so many kids in these countries need shoes. So they can go to school.), and I can see why. It's cold up here. People need shoes. And you don't relaly want 2,000 teenagers bouncing around barefoot all the time. Not that 2,000 of us would. I don't think that too many of my teachers will care today, and some of them might even get behind the idea. But I brought those flipflops just in case some one especially stuffy comes by and insists that I'm committing some travesty by not wearing shoes. If I could do this (almost) every day, I would. What I really should invest in is a pair of these. At first glance, it almost looks like you're wearing shoes. On the note of being barefoot, I'm going to campaign a little bit. The idea of going barefoot is gross to some, and there IS a reason why TOMS sends shoes to people in third world countries. There are times when you should wear shoes. There are gross things you can get. But what about barefoot running? It's pretty darn good for you. Also, if you've never tried walking around barefoot somewhere, I'd recommend it. There's this serious satisfaction when people ask, "Are you...barefoot?", and you can just smile and say, "Yes...yes I am".

I Hate College Mail

I'm never giving my email address to a college again. And if I could go back in time, I would probably not give my address to CollegeBoard, either. I keep getting all of these mass emails from colleges in like, North Dakota that I've never even heard of and certainly am not interested in. They say things like, "Rebecca, you are important to Fordham University", or "Three reasons why Northeastern is a good match for you" (one of which is that they feel that they are a good match for me. Yeah, that sounds plausible and well-researched). Probably my favorite so far is from Emmanuel College, an email with the subject, "I've chosen you". Firstly, since when does a college assume a first person pronoun? Secondly, I wasn't aware that colleges were around in the Pokemon realm, or that Emmanuel was a cult. Pick your choice, because it's got to be one of the two. Awful, creepy email subjects aside, the content of these emails (which I rarely open anymore) is almost richer. They usually contain offers for pamphlets (*More on this later) or quizzes that I can receive or take that will presumably show me a good match for my college choice, or tell me what major I should look into. Always claimed easy, personalized, and time-efficient, these quizzes will supposedly show me "more about myself and why ____(insert college name here)___ is a good fit for me!" Woohoo. As if the entire forest chopped down and shoved into my mailbox from these schools wasn't enough. (This is the *). I started receiving college mail as soon as I finished my first round of PSATs last year. It's not even like I'm that good of a student. In fact, my GPA is sort of crummy, probably because I write on here during my study hall instead of doing real work. But I test well, so if that's what they're looking at, well of COURSE they want me to go to their school. If I'm to be honest, some of the school mail has been helpful. I like getting stuff from Colby. But I've never gotten anything in the mail from the colleges I'd really like to go to, like Carlton or St. Anselms. And I certainly get enough from dumb All-Girls colleges. Simmons once sent me three envelopes in one week. The mail that really catches my attention though, are the student-involved ones. So there you have it, collegeboard. If you want my application, universities, send me a newsletter. Not "5 reasons you'll love Catholic University of America". In other, more exciting news (and less grumpy), I finally applied for a job. Just one. I should probably be applying for lots more, but I really want this job. It's at a local plant nursery, and it's Perfect. Capital P. It's closed in the winter, my busy season, and it smells like mulch. Can you say BestJobEver? It sounds really promising. I've been told to call in a few weeks just to remind them I exist, because that's when they'll be hiring.

Six-Word Memoirs

"For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn"

Six word stories are tricky to master, but as soon as you get into a rhythm, I think they're pretty wonderful and fun to write! I could write them for hours, I think. Or at least one hour, before I got distracted.

Six Word Memoirs:

I'm a bit long winded, so...

Pardon me, pass the parmesan cheese.

I make up words. They understand.

I nan cever weep kords straight.

Ummmm, I, um, don't, um, know.

It is always the right time.

Can't I have five more minutes?

IsmushwordstogethertogetineverythingIneedtosay. It's kindof hard to read.

Everyone wipes tears. But not blush?

I think it'll take more time and brewing to actually come up with anything profound.

The Question

The Question

"Have you ever been in love?"
he asks me.
I am seventeen,
and to myself I think,
softly,
that each one of us
trips into love
over and over and
over
again in our lifetimes,
until,
just once,
the universe grants us the magic
to make it work.
Aloud
I reply, softly,
"I don't know."
When he presses,
I explain
that one may never know
if they have been in love
until the end of one's lifetime,
in the same way
that one cannot say which
flower smells the sweetest
until they have sniffed a good many.
I think the elderly much wiser
and glad, even,
to know whether or not
they have ever been in love.
Perhaps it's why old,
wrinkle-etched faces
always look so decidedly happy
or so decidedly
sad.

Privelege and Bragging.

I have a permanent library pass during my study hall, thanks to my membership on the debate team. I think the general idea is that the debate kids will use this to their researching advantage, and use their time to better their cases, but this rarely happens. But that doesn't mean time is entirely wasted. Oh, no. Once in awhile I even crack open a book and do my homework.
There are a good number of perks that go along with this pass. Firstly, that the librarians do particularly like all of us, and so they feed us regularly. But secondly, and perhaps sweeter, is seeing the privelege in action. That is, watching all of the annoying, make-out-in-the-hallway type kids get refused entry.
It's satisfying, and probably inflates my ego more than is necessary.

A War Against Vegetables

Yesterday's squash soup-making extravaganza was successful. But it took forever.
Sometimes, I forget how easy-yet-difficult it is to make things. For instance: Yesterday, I forgot that it's really super hard to peel squash. It took me more than an hour to do just one squash. Just. One.
And maybe I'm particularly uncoordinated when it comes to squash, but I'm pretty sure it's the squash's fault, because it's all like, "Not only is my outer layer thick AND smooth, but if you leave me peeled for more than 4.589302 seconds, I'm going to sweat sticky stuff aaaaall over your hands. Haha, screw you."
But peeling the squash is only the second hardest part about this recipe. The first hardest is the onions.
Yes. Onions. We have a bit of a love-hate relationship. On one hand, they're delicious, especially when they're mixed with squash and curry and pureed. But on the other hand, they're so mean that they make me cry. I have tried everything, it seems, or at least everything that's been suggested to me to fix my alliumphobia. This involves two things- First, freezing the onion. Supposedly this freezes the cells and thus causes cleaner cell breaks when chopping. And secondly, putting the onion underwater. Neither one works.
I've given up my waged war, and given into the fact that I will simply be doomed to be a weepy chef for the rest of my life.
What brought me on this entire tangent was a peculiar smell coming from my hands. I forgot yesterday that my recipe doesn't actually call for garlic, and so I grabbed a few cloves and was about to mince them when I realized my mistake. It's a pretty big mistake, actually, because everytime I touch garlic, my hands retain the smell for a good week or so. I've also given up on this front.
I'm so French that I surrender to vegetables in my kitchen.
But it is good soup.

Spring? And Curried Squash Soup.

This morning's walk from the student parking lot was frigidly horrifying. Or so I heard, as I'm lucky enough to get dropped off at the door.
It seems almost impossible for the windchill to be 25 below zero, because yesterday, temperatures were in the low 40's. It's almost unheard of in February, although not quite. Tomorrow the temperatures are supposed to pick back up to around 40. Not that I believe in all of that groundhog's day guff...but maybe Spring IS coming early.

I know I don't put many recipes up here...but tonight is a squash soup night, and I think it's about time that I express my true devotion to this delicious concoction. It's perfect, and spicy, and you can put sour cream on top. What more could anyone want?

Curried Squash Soup (adapted by memory from some Reader's Digest Cookbook):

1 Butternut Squash. A Big one, peeled, seeded, and chopped into 1/2 inch pieces.
1 Medium sized Yellow Onion. Or two, if it suits your fancy. Chopped.
2 Medium cooking apples. Macs are fabulous, but Braeburns add an interesting sweetness. Cored, peeled, and diced.
3 T butter or margerine
Curry. The recipe calls for a teaspoon or a tablespoon or something ridiculous like that. I just take a few handfuls and throw it in. I like my soup to be spicy.
A few pinches of Ginger
Four cups of Chicken Stock

Melt the butter in a relatively large pot or saucepan. Throw in the onion and sautee for about five minutes, or until tender and slightly browned. Add the squash, apples, curry and ginger, and cook, stirring (more like flipping), for about 10 minutes. Add the chicken stock, and bring to a full boil, then cover and simmer for 30 minutes.
Take everything, and puree it in a blender or food processor. Serve hot or cold with sour cream on top.

Tahdah! It takes awhile to prep, but is definitely one of the best dinners I've ever had.

An Examination of Valentine's Day, or, Stop Slobbering and Get To Class!

Ohh, Valentine's day. The holiday has befallen us once more.
It's a difficult holiday to appreciate if you don't have a significant other- unless you're extremely comfortable in your single-ness. I have a few points under this topic.
Firstly, I would point out that St. Valentine was a martyr. However, this doesn't entirely un-hinge the whole idea of valentine's day being about love. In fact, Valentine was martyred for secretly marrying Christians, who the totalitarian jerkwad in power, Claudius, was busy trying to persecute.
Secondly, I feel as if Valentine's day is the most celebrated holiday in high schools. My father, who teaches at a high school, told me that on many days, for birthdays, but mostly on Valentine's day, the office is barraged by an unending slew of flowers and chocolates and balloons. Woohoo, public school administration, your own personal delivery service! This makes me wonder if the front office lady who drawls names across the intercom several thousand times a year ever gets tired of Valentine's day. Maybe she thinks it's cute.
Point 2.5: The deliveries are only half of the bru-haha on Valentine's. More couples than usual seem to be slobbering all over each other in the middle of the hallway. It's a dangerous place out there. Already this morning I've seen way too many plushie hearts. I can understand most of it. Couples want to scream their love for each other for all the world to hear. But the making out/slobbering/gallonsofspit exchanges? We could do without that. Also, plushie hearts? What are you going to do with them after today, sleep with them? Generally a useless item, also sort of ugly.
But the chocolate and the flowers, those are great. And that is why I love Valentine's day. At least for the time being.
Thirdly, there's a certain population of teenaged girls, similar in dynamic to a ravenous, hate-filled wolf pack, who proclaim their displeasure of Valentine's day loud and clear. [Almost louder than the drawl of the intercom lady, reciting her never ending list of names throughout the day.]
It's all fine and dandy to not like Valentine's day. I don't blame you. I've been there and done that. But there's no reason to whine about it. Go ahead and throw your anti-love parties, I just don't want to hear about them. Go somewhere else with your negativity. Maybe you could even teach those slobbering couples a lesson!

The Busy Season and Brian Jacques

Tomorrow marks the end of speech and debate season for Maine. It's aaaalll over after that. Well, except for the strenuous fundraising for nationals, and for those who make it to nationals, and also the famed Debate Banquet in March.
This means that one acts have picked up in full. This year we're performing Cut by Ed Monk. It took us about three months of reading tacky scripts to settle on this one, but I'm pretty pleased with it myself. Our school has been known to do much more serious, dramatic one acts in the past, but we haven't been doing so well with those this year, so we thought we'd go for something a little more, as my director puts it, "hokey".
The cool thing about this one is that rather than having names, each character (except for the final director, a techie, Nick, Jack, Shannon and Jennifer) has a letter assigned to them, and you switch characters throughout the entire play. It's a challenge as an actor, because it forces you to examine how you're putting together a clear persona of one character, who could be the antithesis of another one you have to play in five minutes.
Character formulation is one of the most difficult things for me about acting. I'm not so much bad at it, but I have difficulty pinning down the precision in a character. For instance, how would this character stand, and what particular motions would they make? One might flick her fingers as she says something, while another might nod her head. So far, I haven't played a single character the same way twice. Eventually I'll settle down into each. Unfortunately for me, in this play, my letter ("A") doesn't go offstage once, meaning that I'll have to be perfectly in character the entire time. It will be exhausting.
Theatre season makes me busy, but it's the kind of busy I like. It's not a busy that has me rushing from place to place- on the contrary, on most days, I end up staying at school for several hours after the last bell has rung. It feels homey. I like knowing that I have to be on stage for two hours after school, to run the same section over and over again until I get it right. Everyone's got their niche, I suppose.

In other, completely unrelated news, Brian Jacques died earlier this week. He was the noted author of the children's book series, Redwall. My brother and I were both very fond of the series as children, and for awhile Patrick would only go by the name Matthias. I felt more akin to Cornflower, and I would spend more secret hours in the backyard pretending to be her. It takes a very particular kind of writing to be able to connect with children well, and Brian Jacques managed it with a well-worn flair in which good always wins over evil, but you're hanging off the edge of your seat anyways. Well done, sir. Rest in Peace.

Goodbye Snow...Goodbye Spring?

It's snowing outside, again. According to the local statistics, we've more than doubled our average snowfall between December and January, but I just don't believe it. It is a snowy winter, but we usually get about this amoung. Averages just don't work with things like snowfall in Maine, because you can have years like last year, where there's almost no snow, and it tips the average. So there.
I've been looking forward to spring, to squishing my toes in cold mud and breathing moist air and playing frisbee and everything else good that comes at the end of winter. I don't mind winter, and in fact, I tend to like it. Until around this time of year. It's too much black and white and slush for my tastes. Too much salt and brisk cold and snowfall. Too much, too much, too much.
I dream of spring. Speaking of which, I recommend Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury for these sorts of melancholy moods.
Unfortunately, my spring will be delayed, because I'm due for surgery on my sublexed tendons and fibular groove in March. It's sort of explained here.
The issue isn't so much the surgery, but the recovery. I've seen reports of anywhere from 6 weeks to 6 months on that, but the consensus is that it's generally a crummy time for the type of person who has a subluxation syndrome. Apparently that person is usually an impatient athlete who wants to get back ASAP. Oh yeah. That's me. Yaaay. It's alright though, this will give me plenty of time to read everything that I've been meaning to read over the past year.

This is Not A New Year's Resolution, or, Sir, We're Lazy.

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. I know it's February, and I'm a little behind the ball on this post...
but I still just don't believe in them. It's sort of the same way I don't believe in diets. In each, you promise yourself to do something, either for a limited period of time, or permenantly, and in each, you end up stopping. I don't believe in the formality, because I believe in intent changes. So, I don't believe in New Year's resolutions. I do, however, believe in everyday resolutions.
Disclaimer: The following is NOT a New Year's resolution.

My family is super unhealthy. Especially this time of year. We're so inactive, and so busy that normal, healthy dinners fall by the wayside. Every night, we plop down in front of our screens and sit in the same room together for two hours, without saying a word to one another. It just seems all wrong to me.
My plan is to make my family healthier. Not just me, but my entire family. I hate the thought of seeing all of us turn into vegetables. Honestly, it makes me depressed. Which is why I'm doing something about it. The issue then lies in how I decide to go about this. It's much more difficult to say, "Hey, Mom, Dad, we're all lazy and fat, let's go run a mile!" than it would seem. Which is part of why I decided to officially create the first ever Pelletier odometer challenge. We're starting in April (or, they are. More on this later), when hopefully most of the snow is gone, and going to the end of September. The goal is to see who can get the most miles on their bicycle odometer. At first, this started out just between myself and my mom, dad, and brother. Then, after some online banter, an aunt jumped in. Then a cousin.
The competition just grew and grew, and now there are more than ten of us competing to win the pool of money (ten dollars for each contestant).
But that's just the beginning, and it doesn't quite solve the screen issue. This will take more effort on my part.

Adieu Empirical Formulas

Alas, interwebs. I must announce my defeat to you.

After a long and ruthless battle with me, it has finally won. I have finally succumbed to its power.

That's right. I dropped honors Chemistry.

Because it sucked.

January and February are notoriously busy. I know I say that about every month. And then we got to moles, which I could handle. But then... see now, I can't even remember what I left off on before departing the class. It was that confusing. Level 1 is much more comfortable.

Post Secret

Every year (since they began a few years back. So really only for three years), the Civil Rights Team at my school puts on a Post Secret. Don't know what that is? Go here.
So they run a Post Secret drive sometime in November, and in January, they take all of the accepted ones (as in, the best/ not inappropriate ones) and put them on a giant poster in the hallway. I can never get enough of Post Secret, so I absolutely love this. Everytime I pass the poster, I find a new one that I didn't see before! It's crazy.
The best of the best this year include (pictures soon):
"My ex is still in love with me" (as opposed to the thirty ones that say, "I'm still in love with my ex")
" I always overuse the school's paint. It's my way of saying thank you."
"I think I would look best with a beard."
And my personal favorite...
"I crashed my parents car into a pole."
How is that a secret? No, seriously. How the hell do your parents not know this?!

But I don't want to go outside. I want to bake cookies.

[In case anyone was wondering, it's still really flipping cold out.]

Last Friday was a justly called snowday for our region. It snowed hard all day and left us with upwards of eight inches. So, naturally, because of the snowfall, I had to cancel my plans with friends to go ice skating. Little did I know that ice skating (which soon changed to, "Let's go have a snowball fight!") was just a ploy to get me out of the house, because my friends threw me (an awesome, incredible, super fantastic) surprise birthday party! I completely wasn't expecting it, to the point that when they tried to drag me outside, I refused, and then was carried out of the door into the snowy abyss.
I have the greatest friends in the world, I'm pretty sure.

It's So Flipping Cold Out.

It's always around this time of year that I begin to hate winter. It's not entirely that I'm out of things to do. No, there's plenty to do. In fact, I've comprised a list of things that I could do:

-Cross country skiing.

-Snultimate

-Ice skating

-Walking around aimlessly and see how much feeling I can lose in my extremities

-Hibernating with cocoa

-Studying

-Leveling up in the Frostbite game.

Clearly, most of these, with the exception of four, five, six and seven, are extremely limited when it gets to, say, below ten degrees.

There are all of those great public service people who come onto the morning news to talk about children's health and how easy it is to find great outdoor exercise for your kids, even in the winter. They lie. Unless you want your kids leveling up in the Frostbite Game. With the windchill today, it is thirty below. Owie. My hands felt crystallized after less than a one-minute walk from the door of the car to the door of the school.

When I was in eighth grade, I walked to and from school. In the spring and fall, I would even rollerblade the few winding blocks between my house and the school. In the winter, I would trek through the snowbanks, but only when I couldn't beg a ride from my parents (who, according to legend, were forced to walk to school with bare feet, uphill both ways with all of the neighborhood children on their backs). One day, unexpectedly, I was without a ride home, and so resorted to walking. Unfortunately, by some stroke of a universal loathing, this also happened to be the coldest day of the year. Twenty five degrees below zero, with the blistering windchill. And unfortunately for me, I not only was without mittens or a hat, but I also had to carry one of those big, bulky, tri-fold posters home. The idiot in me refused the offers of mittens from concerned teachers, and I trotted off in the direction of home. Well, halfway down the first street, the skin on my fingers clutching the posterboard were aching and pinching with the awful frigidness of the day. For another street or so, I transferred my hands, one holding onto the poster while the other balled up to try and regain warmth. This stopped working after awhile, and halfway between the school and home, I began to get frantic. Remembering that the air from my mouth is obviously heated more than the air outside, I began alternately stuffing as many of my fingers in my mouth as I could while trooping on, every step surging with a pinch of pain, because, of course, I also had no boots. To make matters worse, I didn't realize that as I was sticking my fingers in my mouth, I was also getting them wet, causing the cells in my finger tips to freeze more quickly. And so, as I embarked onto my home street, the home stretch, the final leg, I began to cry, certain that I wouldn't make it. My legs were tired and tingled with the cold, my feet numb, my fingers on that painful verge of numb that haunts nightmares- except for my thumbs, which sent me over that crying edge, because I couldn't feel them at all. I considered more than once just throwing my posterboard into a snowbank and fleeing home, but it was a very important project, and I wasn't about to let it go to waste.

And so, I cannot imagine what my mother might have thought when I finally arrived home. Unable to move my fingers enough to manage the doorknob, and too frozen to knock without pain, I pounded my forehead against the pane of the door.

What I must have looked like to her, a little fourteen year-old girl in a skirted uniform, nose and ears bright red, snot and tears running in tracks down my face that made hair stick to my skin, and fingers immobile, clutching a posterboard with the title, "Forensic Entomology".

So now you see, unless I find some remarkable change in personality that causes me to crave another level-up in the Frostbite Game, I have no other option but to hibernate inside.

Forgive me Play 60. But there's no way in Hell that I'm going outside...to Hell.

Ouch! Ouchie, Midterms, Let Go!

Haiku for Midterms

Oh midterms how I
hate thee and thine stressful days.
please, please let me go.

To diffuse the stress, I've found that this (Combined with stumbleupon) is an excellent way to study french and spend my (few) free hours:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtgmreAhqPs&feature=player_embedded#!

The Rat and Boot adventure.

Yesterday, my most wonderful parents drove me down to Amesbury, Massachussetts to pick up my rats from their foster home. We left around eight, supplied with enough Harry Potter for eleven hours, and a kennel full of fleece. I still can't believe my parents are crazy enough to do this for me.
Yes, Amesbury is just over the border from New Hampshire. But it's still a good three hour drive. Three hours!
After much consideration, I had decided to go with the two rats that had initially caught my eye, Madeline and Pimento.
The foster mother was a tiny middle aged woman named Ruth. Madeline and Pimento had only been there for one night, transported from a town just south of Boston. As we walked to the door, cat kennel in hand, I could hear what sounded like a full pack of wolves barking. It was terrifying to find out that this woman not only had several rats, plus the fosters, but perhaps four dogs, a new cat, and Heaven only knows what else. I didn't doubt her ability to take care of them, and indeed, she seemed very able, and very caring. But I couldn't imagine the time she must have had to put into these animals. After we came inside, past the door for the designated "rat room", Ruth opened up the door to the top cage, where I could see a recognizable dumbo-eared head poking out from inside the hammock. I had looked at the pictures of Maddy and Pimento so often that I could tell them apart with ease. They were much fatter in person- the pictures must have been taken when they were quite a bit younger. Ruth picked up Pimento, who isn't as shy as Madeline, and she handed her over to me. Pimento sniffed curiously, and then scampered up to my shoulder, where she burrowed through my hair and then sat, balanced. Rats like shoulder rides, and they'll stay there for awhile. Soon Ruth handed Maddy over to me, too, who was a little slimmer than the plump Pimento. She also sniffed, and ran up to my other shoulder. Soon they were both sitting together on my shoulders, while my parents signed a form. We pried them from their perch and put them into the fleece- filled kennel. The ride home seemed significantly longer than the ride down. It's always that way with road trips. As soon as they were outside of the foster home, Maddy and Pimento both got shy. I kept their kennel door open, assured that if they decided to roam out, there was no place for them to really go. For the most part, they stayed sleeping in the fleece at the back of the kennel. They did seem to like the oranges I gave them, but they didn't care for me too much.
On the way back, we stopped in Freeport at the L.L. Bean factory outlet for some hiking boots, my intended birthday gift from my parents. I've been having some serious ankle problems on and off for a few years, and they've gotten worse since the Acadia Challenge. And as I've been planning on doing a significant amount of hiking this year, my parents thought some mid-height boots were in order. I settled on these, eventually. They're lightweight, have super ankle support (wearing them feels so nice. I don't even need my brace), and are waterproof. Bad. Ass.
Back in the car, the rats were friendlier. I fell asleep at one point, and was startled awake when they both crawled out tentatively onto my lap.
They settled in pretty quickly at home- they've found the litter box, and love the hammock. I think I made it a little bit too comfortable, actually, because now they won't come out. They'll both need a couple of days to warm up, as they're quite shy around me or any other people.
All in all, it was a very successful rat and boot trip.

HowohHow Does A Tournament Go?

My birthday was Saturday, meaning that I spent it at a debate tournament. Not as altogether bad as it sounds. I pretty much spend most of my time with the debate team anyways (more than twelve hours every Saturday, plus an extra, I dunno, four hours during the week). It must have been the birthday mojo or something, but I slept especially well on the bus and woke up feeling refreshed. For those of you who don't know, this is an unusual happening. We all (about thirty of us every week) clamber into our uncomfortable seats on the bus around five in the morning, give or take a half an hour, come rain, come sleet, come snow. Only some of us bring blankets, and the Freshmen haven't figured out what sleep means yet. Sometimes the bus doesn't have enough heat. Sometimes, like last week, it has way too much. Other times the bus driver is dangerous, or someone throws up, or... the list goes on and on. But I think you might understand my point. The debate bus, while a wonderful forced-bonding experience, isn't the most comfortable of places.
To those of you who have never experienced a debate tournament, this is how it goes (at least for us...):
Of course, as I explained above, we all get on the bus around five thirty, on average. After a half an hour of driving, we stop in Newport for Dunkin' Donuts. This is half because we need sustenance, and half because at this point, those who haven't written cases should start writing them. Just kidding, we really just need our caffeine. Add another two hours of driving, and we've arrived. By this time it's light out and most of us have woken up. We arrive at the school, and those of us who wear our pajamas on the bus scurry to a bathroom to change. It's usually about this time that I get a stomach ache. I don't know what it is, and I've tried everything, but I almost always get a stomach ache at debate tournaments. After this, there's a few things that could happen. If you're feeling diligent and motivated, you might work on your cases or go "talk to a wall" (Practice your speech by..well, talking to a wall). But more often than not, a group of us from our school and other schools will scavenge up a deck of cards and begin fierce games of President, ERS, or MAO. This goes on until postings. To be short, postings are just the printed pairings. As in, who are you going up against, in what room, what side you're arguing, etc. As soon as they go up, everyone hurries off to their rounds. It's something of a lather, rinse, repeat cycle from there. We usually have four rounds in a tournament, dispersed with cards, apples to apples, or attempting to *break the schematic. Somewhere in there is a longer break for lunch, and after the fourth round is a long period of waiting while Tabulation tallies up scores and determines placings. Awards usualy come in about an hour, sometimes not for an hour and a half, depending on the complications of the tournament. After awards, we change back into bus clothes and board back on for a long ride home, broken up by an hour stop for dinner at a sandwich shop or Whole Foods.
All in all, it's a good day, if a long one. My team's day is a bit different and a bit longer than others, because we're one of the northern-most teams. Other teams only have to travel a half an hour to most tournaments, if that.
We tend to do pretty well- we're currently the leading school in our state, but we're closely followed by Cape Elizabeth. They do speech. Lots of it.
We swept on Saturday, claiming first in Congressional, a second in Public forum, and a first in Lincoln Douglas (that was me! I still blame birthday mojo).

*Breaking the Schematic is a term for when a student (or someone else) takes the postings, and off of a few base conjectures, figures out the results of the matches and the scores of everyone involved. It's addicting, and highly logical.

More OBE, or, Rosie the Riveter, or, You are Sixteen, Going on Seventeen.

I'm still filled with a good bout of OBE.

But it's not entirely detrimental to my state of being- in fact, it can be put to relatively good use. Which is why, on a Tuesday morning, I'm sitting with a list of eighteen places to apply for jobs. I'll be a big kid soon, it's time to enter the work force.

Yeah, Rosie, sure we can. But only after many hours of rigorous application filing and looking clean and professional and practicing firm handshakes (which, by the way, is something I've never gotten the hang of. It doesn't mean I'm a flimsy person- it just means that my fingers hurt). Yesterday at Petco (looking for a few rat supplies. More on that later), I went up, attempting my, "I am professional. Can't you read the words 'hire ME!' stamped across my forehead?" ploy for the first time, and asked, I thought very maturely, if they had applications available. The cashier looked at me for a second, and then informed me that it's all online, and, "You have to be eighteen to work here."

Oh. 'Kay then. Is it really that easy to tell that I'm not eighteen? It's not like as soon as I turn eighteen I'll magically be an adult, and capable of the rigors of working at Petco. Yeah, yeah, I know all of the legal stuff. There's probably some liability there just in case you get your head pecked to a nub by some parakeet (one of which, by the way, was loose at the time of my visit. They were running around with a net trying to catch it). But seriously. One year? When he said "eighteen", I almost threw myself on the ground and stomped my feet and almost shouted, "It's not fair!". Maybe that's the difference between sixteen and eighteen. Or sixteen and seventeen, take your pick. Oh well. So far, Tim Hortons looks like a good option. Also, Dunkin' Donuts and Charlotte Russe. I don't think I'm prissy enough for a job at Charlotte Russe, but it's worth a shot anyways.

Here goes nothing. Dive, dive, dive!

**On another very exciting note, it looks like my rattie adoption has been approved! Yaaay! I'm waiting for the official e-mail, but all signs say go. Hooray, for Madeline and Pimento!

Hey, Chemistry. Screw You.

Supposedly we had a vaction about a week ago, but I don't remember it.
Only one week back, and I've been swept up enough that I honestly cannot remember vacation clearly. This has been, by far, the longest week in months. Not that it's been horrible, although Chemistry (The Bain of My Existence) has been giving me a run for my money. Actually, it's sort of kicking my butt right now.
Supposedly this thing they call chemistry is the basis for all of life. But seriously. I've been breathing, running, and certainly alive without having to know any of this for the last seventeen years. I'm not concerned about the synthesis reactions that oxygen causes. My heart doesn't race for lewis structures, except sometimes out of fear.
They always say that as long as there are tests in school, there will be prayer in schools. Well, as long as there is chemistry in schools, there will be prayer, but also rage-inducing frustration, and rage-induced murder.
Not that my teacher isn't great. She's fabulous. But...significant digits? Why didn't you just say "Walk the plank"? It's so much more straight forward.

LBC 2011: Day 1

Goal: Start out easy. Spit out of a second story window.

Check.
Not arrested.

Felt daring, and so decided to climb the stairs and spit out of the third floor window.
Still not arrested, but I'm pretty sure I heard it freeze and shatter in the air.

The Law Breaking Challenge of 2011

It's kind of a funny story...
In ten days, I will be seventeen. It turns out that you don't actually really get anything awesome when you turn seventeen. Y'know, like, when you're fourteen, it's the legal age of consent. When you're fifteen, you can have a permit, when you're sixteen, a license. When you're eighteen you can vote and actually be a citizen and buy cigarettes and porn. But seventeen? Nothing. Nonetheless, it seems so much cooler than sixteen that I'm bursting with Obnoxious Birthday Excitement (hereby referred to as OBE).
Last night at debate, we were discussing the new resolution (In the United States, juveniles charged with violent felonies ought to be treated as adults in the Criminal Justice system), and it came up that in the United States, most seventeen-year-olds are treated as adults already. In response to this fact, I burst out with OBE, saying "HEY! I'm seventeen in ELEVEN DAYS. Or, ten days and five hours..." And then, after a minute of thought, I made up my mind.
It went something like this...
"Guys! Let's go do illegal stuff! I have ten days and five hours before I'm treated as an adult LET'S GO!"
A: "Or we could just work on our cases."
B: "What kind of illegal stuff did you have in mind?"
I immediately blurted out, "Drugs!"
But not actually, because somehow, I don't think I would fit well into the role of heroin addict.

But all of this led to some interesting mind bubbling and brewing. I decided to fuel my OBE with a challenge. A good challenge, because I like them.

Welcome to the Law Breaking Challenge of 2011.
Haven't heard of it? That's because I made it up. In the next ten days, I will try to break as many laws as possible.
These may include, but won't be limited to:
-Not bringing a shotgun to church (in case of Native American attack)
- Driving (no license!)
- Walking outside naked at four in the morning
- Walking a dog on a leash more than eight feet long.
-Spitting out of a second story window

Ratties, or, Bicycle Around the World Day

Somehow December passed in a whirl- actually, it was more like a drive-by shooting, the way that it hit hard and sped by fast, leaving many moments gasping for more time and air.
Yeah, I finally breeched into that dreded time of adulthood when the holidays (that is to say, Christmas and New Years) are more stressful than they should be.
Despite this, Christmas was very nice. I got to see some family, sing good music, and I got a few nice things under the tree. It's funny. Every few years, sometimes two in a row, Mom or Dad will say, "I hope you guys aren't expecting a huge Christmas."
Even when they don't say it, I know that we've never had a huge Christmas. But it's okay, because I've never had a Christmas I've been unhappy with. Present-wise I tend to like practical things, so that's no big deal. And I know that it sounds trite, but I honestly like the day because it's one of the few days a year that my brother and I magically get along.
I was extremely excited to find a large wire cage, unwrapped under the tree this year. It's big enough for rats or guinea pigs or even a small bunny or a chinchilla or something. I've decided, after years of wanting them, to get a few rats. I browsed around our humane society and stumbled across the Mainely Rat Rescue. I've applied for Madeline and Pimento, a pair of rats listed there, and I'm crossing my fingers that the adoption papers get approved, because they're Sooo cute. So. Cute.
Along with that large (and inexpensive. Apparently they found it at a yardsale) gift, I also got some bike accessories, like an odometer and a bell for my bike (more on that later).

Speaking of which, today, according to my schedule calandar, is Bicycle Around the World Day. In honor of it, I would take out my bicycle...except I don't have snowtires. That could be problematic. So instead I'll just cheer on this noblest of noble days.
I have, however, found a quite spectacular way of biking in the winter...sort of. A friend of mine introduced me to the great sport of Bike Polo. There's a motley group, apparently, who play under the cover of the parking garage downtown. I haven't gone yet, because I still need to construct a good mallet (they all make theirs differently, out of broomstick handles or PVC pipes or plumbing).

So, a hoorah to those people, whoever and wherever they may be, who are biking around the world right now. You're honorable. Maybe someday I'll do it, too.
After I finish hiking the AT and saving the world.