A Wee Bit of Reflection

It’s been a year since I started this little labor of love, my real-time coming of age tale. And oh boy, what a year it has been.

If you had told me last year that this is how I would end up, that this would have been my life, I would have laughed.

Going into my freshman year I was going to be the life of every party. I was going to be single. I was going to be an honor student, a super achiever. I was going to be neat.

Well, one of those things held true—I made dean’s list both semesters and landed the most rossome editor position ever (and I’ve already got my eyes and heart set on my next position). But neat? Single? Life of the party?

Not even.

I’m just as disorganized. I still fall asleep the moment I open a textbook. And while I’m fun to be around I’m never going to be the girl to get the party started. Instead, there have been plenty of times that I opted to stay in with a glass bottle of wine and some Hulu. And I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted that I’m a messy, semi-wallflower with narcoleptic tendencies.

And I’ve finally accepted my less-than-single status, too, which may have been harder than accepting that this co-ed isn’t the hardest of partiers.

Because while it seems almost nothing has turned out the way that I anticipated, I wouldn’t change a thing. And it took a night in Milly to make me realize that.

Saturday night ChiChi invited her nearest and dearest friends (and some randoms) to her new, gorgeous, big, old house (which is decorated exactly like her parents’ house) to properly warm it. Of course, Twin and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Twin brought Chihuahua. Green Bean and the Fertilizer were there with three of his friends from Boston.

We all went out to dinner at a place called the Pickle Barrel.

Then the ladies returned to ChiChi’s to pretty ourselves over a bottle of organic champagne I brought back from Paris.

The boys returned shortly after, along with ChiChi’s 2 roommates, so we mixed a tub of hunch punch and got the party started.

More people showed up later. We danced. We mingled. We drank.

I started my evening talking to an ex-Marine. We talked about men missing chunks of skull and the dangers of life after deployment (at which point I mentioned something Papa, always the insurance man, told me about military motorcycle deaths). Then I spent the rest of the evening talking to one of the Boston boys about their upcoming trip to Disney world, road tripping, cooking and being a crazy vegan. The more I talked with him the more pronounced my Yankee accent became. And when it came time to go to bed I threw myself on the most uncomfortable Ikea pull-out couch. The Boston boy happened to fall there, too.

Now before you begin chanting adulterer and demanding crimson “A”s, let me make fully clear that we did nothing, all of our clothes stayed on, and that I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

The next morning I woke feeling better than anticipated, downed my trademark hangover cure (warm lemon water and oatmeal), helped ChiChi clean a bit while listening to her gripe about her first 8am class the next day, then returned to the homestead.

So what did I learn from my 24 hours in Milly?

That my family and my roots are important to me. That I don’t dislike the Dirty Dirty as much as I always thought I used to. That I actually really like the Minimalist. That I really, truly and completely love food and that my current food-related ambitions are not ill-advised. And when I heard ChiChi talk about starting back to school I got a wee bit jealous. Jealous of 8am classes and papers and mounds of reading?

Yes. Because College is where I belong. College is where most of my life is now. Twin and ChiChi, and the rest of the gang, are always going to be massively important parts of my life, but College is now. And, as strange as this sounds, all the work that comes with it is just icing on the cake.

So, cheers, friends. To a good year past, and another good year to come.

Paris, Love

Oh Paris, how I love thee!

You’ll be happy to know that I was able to put aside my puppy problems and really enjoy my time in gorgeous, romantic, magical Paris.

Want some highlights?

Of course you do!

Instead of camping out at the local Best Western (because I’m pretty sure there was one in Paris) Papa decided that a family of 5 needed more than 2 standard rooms—we needed an apartment. So we rented a 3 bedroom, 3 bath apartment with 2 sitting rooms, kitchen, dining room and laundry room overlooking the Seine and Pont Sully (one of the bridges that leads to Ile St Louis).

Pretty freaking fantastic, right?

Another little tidbit about the apartment that’s worth mentioning—the woman who lived below us.

Ever see people with dogs in little suitcases on airplanes? Well most of the time (when people can afford to shell out the $100 for a bag and $120 each way to bring the dog onboard) those bags are Sherpa Bags and the woman who lived below the apartment—Gayle Martz—just happened to invent them.

All the celebrities carry them, so you know she’s made a pretty penny. Actually I’m positive she’s made a pretty penny because she made a point of telling us that she owns homes in southern California, NYC and Paris.

Life outside the apartment was pretty great, too.

We wined.

We dined.

We champagned.

We strolled down small cobelstone streets lined with adorable shops selling everything from glass figurines (Twin’s present), wines from a vineyard in Dirty Dirty’s sister city in France, every kind of kitchen dish and utensil imaginable (including knives that say “pizza” in the blade), to mountains of spices.

Though my favorite store was easily Shakespeare and Company.

It's quite possibly the most famous English bookstore in all of France and was once a favorite spot of Hemingway's.

We saw the last stage of the Tour de France, which was lovely despite the fact that Contador won.

No one likes a bitch, Contador.

And I even got to drag the family through the Louvre for a few hours, all the while impressing them with my newly acquired art history knowledge.

^On the other side of this wall is only the Mona Lisa. That attention whore.^

Though the highlight of my trip was my personal picnic in my favorite park—Place de Vosges.

What made this picnic so wonderful?

I got to explore the city by myself in search of a pita full of falafel, which I ate on a bench in the sun while watching some of the cutest kids run around the park.

Why is it that children screaming is so much less annoying when they’re speaking French?

Overall, it was a fabulous trip that I wish had lasted longer, especially since the real life that I returned to is far from thrilling or even pleasant.

Mother refuses to do anything about Luke. And I have to miss a trip to ChiChi’s beach condo with all my friends because I’m having my surgery then.

Super fun, right?

Brotherly Love

So I’m in Paris. The City of Lights. The City of Love. One of my favorite cities on earth.

But still I’m a tad down.

Why you ask?

Puppy problems. No, this is not my way of saying trouble with puppy love or anything of the sort. I’m talking about my dogs—Rocky and Luke.

As I’ve said before, these dogs are my loves, but especially Rocky. The more he ages the more he becomes the cutest, disgruntled old man-dog. He walks around and sulks. He barks. He won’t let you help him on to his chair when his hips hurt him too much to jump, no matter how badly he wants to get up. He sleeps a lot. But the second I get on the couch with a certain blue blanket he’s right there by my side, curled up in the nook of my legs with his little head resting on my knees. And the second I get out a treat he’s the first one sitting at my feet, looking up at me with his big blinky eyes.

I’ve had him for ¾ of my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Luke, too. He’s one of the happiest, most charming dogs ever. He’s always excited to see you. Always willing to play. And not nearly as neurotic as Rocky was at his age.

^Yes, this is a supper old picture. He has gotten much better looking since then.^

That is why what happened Tuesday night absolutely breaks my heart.

Rocky and Luke got into a fight. But this wasn’t their normal fight where they bark and growl and nip a little until one of them walks off. This was a big, huge, ferocious fight. But the worst part is it was completely unprovoked.

Luke was lying on his pillow. Rocky and Mother walked past. Luke lunged at Rocky and grabbed him by the throat.

I’ll skip the details because, frankly, I can’t bare to think about them. The gist is that the fight went on for about 15 minutes and I honestly thought Rocky was going to die.

I had never seen this side of Luke before. Sure, I knew he had a ferocious side based on the multitude of dead chipmunks and salamanders he was constantly leaving on our doorsteps, but never in a million year did I think he would turn that on my beloved Rocky. But as I sat in Mother’s bathroom, where we had Rocky sequestered after the fight, watching him shake and pace and refuse to fall asleep despite the Benadryl we gave him, I was informed that this was not the first time this had happened. A week or so earlier Luke had done the same thing. It was not nearly as intense of an attack, and a few quick hits with a magazine and Luke released. While the details of the first fight didn’t scar me too much, the knowledge of it and the fact that this behavior of Luke’s was becoming a habit was traumatizing to no end.

So Tuesday night while Mother, Brother and I were gathered in the bathroom watching as poor Rocky walked in circles, boasting a bloody eye, cuts in his ears, puncture wounds on his quickly swelling neck and a tail that was firmly tucked between his legs, we made the heart wrenching decision that we couldn’t keep Luke.

At the time the decision wasn’t too difficult. I was mad at Luke and only concerned with Rocky’s health and wellbeing. Not a single other thing crossed my mind. So of course it seemed reasonable that since it appeared Luke was going to continue attacking Rocky we should protect the obvious (vulnerable and pitty-worthy) victim.

But then Tuesday turned into Wednesday. And I saw Luke out in his yard lying by the gate, just waiting for us to come get him. I saw him start jumping with excitement anytime we walked out the door. And when a potential adopter came over to meet him I saw how wonderfully charming and good looking he is. And my heart broke even more.

I don’t want to give him up (or worse, put him down if we can’t find a new family), but we don’t have any other options. Mother knew all along that Luke shouldn’t be with other Jack Russells (his breeder apparently warned the rescue, who warned Mother’s friend, who warned her). And it is in no way fair to make Rocky spend the last few years of his life as Luke’s potential punching bag.

All this heartbreak is why I spent the entire 1.5-hour car ride to the airport, the 2 hours of waiting at the airport and various parts of our 8-hour flight crying. I’m trying to persevere (and find a home for Luke from overseas) for the sake of my trip (and Papa who is constantly concerned with our fun levels), but it’s difficult.

These dogs are like my brothers.

PS-I'll try to make my next post more upbeat and about Paris.

Uh Oh

I realize it’s been quite a while since I’ve updated you on my summer shenanigans. That’s not for lack of excitement, though. Believe me, there has been plenty going on.

Papa and co came for a birthday/Father’s day visit.

We laughed. We cried. We went out to dinner and Papa didn’t trust that where I told him to park the car was safe so he moved it half way through the meal.

Only a few short days after Papa flew back up to VAB Brother, his friend Spencer Pratt* (SP) and I hopped in Brother’s sensible Volvo sedan and drove the long 10 hours (it was 11 hours for us because Brother loves to stop a lot) up to join him. The next day the 3 of us and Papa jumped in his equally sensible, but slightly more masculine Rover and drove up to DC to pick up Westchester and take in a Mets v Nats game.

The Mets won. We were happy. We were tired.

The next 2 days (which included the 4^th) were spent getting too much sun on the beach with the neighborhood families.

I think everyone of Sister’s posse got (or pretended to get) stung by a jellyfish. While this was going on the parents were drinking coconut rum.

It was a good day.

Brother and SP drove home the next day while Westchester and I did some shopping and entertained LilBro** and a friend of his in our hotel room. By entertained I mean drank a handle of Sailor, no sexual favors included.

Westchester left a couple of days later and I made my way down to the Boro.

Just like last time I invaded the Minimalist’s castle (which is the same borrowed castle as last time), but without any of the silly fears. And once again we spent (probably) far too much time laying in bed watching Deadliest Warrior. And once again, we were quite happy with that.

Once difference from last time is that this weekend was full of belated birthday celebrations. The Minimalist’s 21^st birthday was the 5^th so in honor of the momentous day I gave him a nice bottle of whiskey. And in honor of my less momentous birthday he swallowed his masculine pride and walked in Victoria’s Secret to buy me a gift card (because he knows I love undies but also knows that if he had bought me any it would have been a tad creepy [and probably the wrong size]). After that he also swallowed some fake chicken at Boba House, my favorite vegetarian restaurant. He swore he would never go there, even refusing when ManLove wanted to go.

I was grinning like a fool, to say the least.

I returned to the Dirty Dirty Monday after 12 days away.

And that night was spent hanging out on Adult’s porch listening to Grill Master teach ChiChi’s Frenchie*** incorrect English. Or just say outrageous things to here. My favorite:

GM: “If you hang out here too much you’ll shoot your friends and bury them in the backyard.”

F: looks confused

GM: “Why am I like this? Maybe because when I was younger my father put dimes in a sock and beat me with them. But don’t worry, I got used to the bruises and learned to hide in the closets.”

Why that’s not exactly something to joke about it was ridiculously funny because all Frenchie understood was “dimes,” “father,” and “hide in the closest,” leading her to believe Grill Master was Looney Toons because his father hid his money in the closet.

I think you just had to be there.

This all seems like fun, but not terribly noteworthy summer fun, right?

If this was the whole story it sure would have been, but there’s more.

About a month ago I went for my yearly physical, which revealed that I had abnormal cells on my cervix. This find lead to another test, which turned into a biopsy, the day before leaving for Vagina Bitch. I was supposed to get my results the 7^th, but that date has come and gone and I’m still waiting. And I’m still nervous.

I probably shouldn’t be (I’m young, healthy with no known family history of cervical cancer), but I am. I can’t help it.

So during all this family, friendly, sunny fun I’ve had this little gnawing thought at the back of my mind. Not fun.

But really more than nervous I’m just ready to know. Once I know I can get out of this horrid limbo situation I’ve been living in. And we all know how I feel about limbo…

*Spencer Pratt-I call him this not because he shares any of SP’s qualities, but because they once both sported flesh-colored beards.

**LilBro-a fellow GuilCo sophomore-to-be who reminds me unbelievably of Brother, especially when drunk

***Frenchie-ChiChi’s mother is the definition of Francophile and somehow managed to find a teenage French girl to stay with them for a month a few years ago. Well, the girl has come back for another month-long visit.

(Im)mature for Your Age

I want to preface everything I’m about to say by proclaiming my love for Sister and Stepmother, but…

There are some things about Sister that bug the crap out of me. And most of them are tied to her inability to act her age.

Age: 9 and ½

Offenses: drinking out of sippy cups, having to have special food made for her because she refuses to eat what the rest of the family eats, not being able to use a knife, thinking her height is an excuse to not get things for herself, needing to bring toys to restaurants, talking like a baby, not being able to walk the 1 block to the bus stop alone…

The list goes on, but those are the only things I can think of right now.

Now, I realize that my childhood was very different than her’s. I had an older sibling (Brother is 2.5 years older) and a single Mother, so I guess I developed some independence earlier than most, but still.

By the time I was her age I certainly wasn’t drinking out of sippy cups or having my own dinners prepared. I was traipsing all over my neighborhood to visit friends with my only restriction being the time I had to be home (usually 5:30). And once we moved (when I was around 7) Brother and I were expected to walk the 3-quarters of a mile home from school everyday…by ourselves. I never even remember being allowed to bring towns to Church, so restaurants were definitely out of the question.

At the age of 6 I flew from the Dirty Dirty to the Big Apple to visit my grandparents by myself. At the age of 7 I (with the help of Brother) escaped from mall cops. Around age 8 I knew how to, and regularly did, cook myself scrambled eggs. Mother leaving Brother and I home alone for an hour or two at a time was not a terribly uncommon occurance.

Like I said, Sister and I grew up differently. With a single Mother who was putting herself through school (again) we were forced to be more independent as she had less and less time to dote on us. And with an older brother I was expected to mature at the same rate as him.

Stepmother is a stay-at-home mom and Sister is an only child.

Night and day, I understand.

But this morning when Stepmother left to do errands Sister expected me to make her breakfast. She balked when I suggested that she was fully capable of pouring her own bowl of cereal. That certainly wouldn’t have flown in my house.

So I gave her a step-stool and told her to call me if she was injured.

Memory Lanes

Sunday ended up being a trip down memory lane. And it offered varying degrees of enjoyment and sadness.

Twin was in town and invited ChiChi and I to partake in her usual Sunday evening ritual—family dinner. With the prospect of spending the evening with her parents (especially her wonderfully hilarious father, Jumpin JT), her brother and his new girlfriend, we happily accepted.

And without a doubt, this dinner was exactly as it used to be. Twin’s brother said highly inappropriate things. Her mother only freaked out about them cussing and talked to the dogs like they were people. And Jumpin JT talked about how difficult his job was and his newly acquired Warhol poster. ChiChi found fuzz in every single bit of her food (she, as always, was the only one). I chatted with her mother about Real Housewives of New Jersey (her favorite is Teresa). And Twin’s brother’s girlfriend was…nice.

After dinner the Triplets (as we’ve once again been called) ventured over to Adult’s house so we (minus me) could have a drinky-drink before heading back down memory lane in the form of an All Get Out show,

Back in the day this would have been the highlight of my month. I would have carefully picked out an outfit that was functional and hot as hell without looking like I was trying too hard. I would have bought a new pack of smokes for the occasion and gone out of my way to chat it up with the All Get Out boys.

Not this time. I didn’t carefully pick out an outfit (though I did still look pretty good) nor did I buy any smokes. Rather I almost forgot about it entirely.

About half way through the walk from Adult’s to the place they were playing I was hit by a brick in the form of a massive realization—I didn’t even want to go to the show. I knew they people that were going to be there.:

Kids that certainly acted their age. People I didn’t want to see. Other people I used to go to school with that I semi-intentionally stopped talking to when I left for college.

And I knew what my night would consist of:

Forking over money I don’t have to watch bands I don’t like. Walking outside between bands to watch underage kids chain-smoke. Standing in a too crowded room while said immature kids tried to be friends with the bands.

And you know what?

I was completely right.

Within minutes of getting there I was…angry. Everything about that scene was rubbing me the wrong way.

The other 2/3 of the Triplets felt the same way so we went back to Adult’s house until AGO went on. Even then, Twin and ChiChi only stayed for a few minutes.

I was determined to get my money worth so I stayed the entire time. And they were great, as usual.

It was their first song, though, that I remember most.

They played my favorite—Lucky Bastard—but this time it hit me in a completely different way.

“We always want more,” “I love my neighbor more than he loves his wife,” “I want to go home.”

Yeah, this got me.

I often jokingly lament my lack of a home. And it’s not just because I want a set of All Clad pots and pans or that cool futon from Target. It’s because this little flower needs somewhere to spread her roots.

None of Papa’s houses are my home. The Dirty Dirty isn’t my home anymore. The Big Apple certainly isn’t my home, despite my many wishes. And as much as I love the Boro, it still isn’t my home.

I used to want to live a transient Kerouac-style life. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that just won’t work for me.

I need somewhere to return to. I need a constant.

I don’t have that now.

Maybe this is another part of growing up—learning to let go of things like that and go with the flow.

If so, I think I need a remedial course.

Bad News

You know Papa's beach house? The house that allowed my Spring Break to be as drunkenly, independently awesome as it was?

Well, it burned down Sunday night.

Before you begin sitting shiva, you should know it didn't burn to the ground. There are still parts left, but it's pretty bad.

^All the units^

^The back^

^Our front door^

^The site of many passed out nights^

^Where I cooked my first vegan meals and mixed such delicious/deadly drinks^

^Westchester and Roomie's room^

^Where the porch used to be. Take notice of the living room furniture.^

Get the full story here.

We're planning on rebuilding, but as you can guess it'll take a while.

Dog Barf

Sorry for my absences recently (I feel like I’m saying that a lot). I’ve been…somewhere doing something I’m sure. At the moment I feel like dog barf.

Why dog barf?

Because you know what’s in shit. You know what caused shit. Dog barf, on the other hand, is a complete mystery.

I’m chalking it up to a good ole fashioned hangover and blaming warm beer, keg beer, unset Hello Jello, vodka and old tequila mixed, and a little bit of Hennessy plus a night of dancing, getting sweated and stepped on (hello possibly re-broken foot. Is this the 3^rd or 4^th time we’ve met?), too many cookies and not enough water, and my constant state of stress and sleeplessness for my current state of dog barf.

I even look a little like dog barf.

Yes, I did just take that this morning. Yes, I am still wearing last night’s dress.

If you can’t tell, yesterday was a rugby day, hence the Hello Jello.

Unfortunately, I made this batch on Friday night after having a drink or two so I think (and by think I mean definitely) I added too much Hello (vodka). That threw off the delicate scientific balance that is Hello Jello and I wound up with it on my hands the next morning when I went to take it out before the game.

It later got drank through a straw (bad idea).

From there I went to an off-campus party with some friends (including Arch Enemy). I danced. I drank. I’m pretty sure I had a nip slip or three. And Arch Enemy proposed…with my own ring. It fit perfectly, though (imagine that), so I took it as a sign and said yes. I think we’re going to Vegas after finals.

Rewind who knows how long.

I lost/blacked out and hid my purse containing my school ID and room key. So I’ve been living off the grid for a week now. The Minimalist’s parents were in town so we spent another Sunday afternoon at his brother’s house with them. The difference this time, though, was that Sunday became Monday and we hadn’t left yet. Him and I ended up sharing a quickly deflating air mattress in the living room after I ate ham

(super duper bad idea, I was sick till Wednesday), drank whiskey and had a heart to heart with his father. Yup, I’m that kind of girl.

We also went to dinner with them on Friday, though that meal was far less exciting. The only story-worthy happening was his father practically dancing on the table to the Indian music videos that were playing.

And his mother, who hates me less, invited me to Vermont in August. I, of course, intend to block out that commitment for the next couple of months.

I’m sure some other things have happened since I last wrote, but the only other noteworthy thing I can think of is…

I got an internship!

An awesome internship!

The greatest internship ever!

I’m going to be writing (yes, actually writing all by myself) a column for a food and culture magazine in my Dirty Dirty town.

What will this column be on?

The vegetarian and vegan food scene, of course!

Talk about made to order perfect.

I’m jazzed beyond belief and can’t wait to get home and start eating. And I don’t really have to wait that long to get home because May 6th is the magic day.

Yup, just 11 short days before my freshman year is over. And now I’m hyperventilating.

Off to find a paper bag to breath/barf into.

I Survived!

I’m now safely back in my dorm. I survived my first college spring break with minimal damage and no fights (though there was definitely some secret venting).

I know you’re all curious to find out just how wild this girl went so allow me to give you the highlights.

We drank a lot, though not as much as I thought we would. All the beer was gone, a good amount of the Sailor, the champagne went quickly, we put a dent in the vodka, polished off a bottle of wine from Papa, but we barely touched the tequila and I don’t think we really used any Triple Sec.

I’m not complaining, though. We did our best. Gave it the old college try. And now we have a ton to bring home so we can keep this semester going strong.

I cooked a lot, though not as much as I would have liked. I definitely wish I had a few more days with a kitchen. But this week was just what I needed to rekindle my love affair with culinary creations, so you’ll probably see me in the kitchen a lot more.

It appears that I have a new habit of passing out drunk in my bed, waking up blacked out, taking off my pants, and passing out somewhere else.

Mr. Jackson did a wonderful job as our sole source of testosterone. How he did it, I’ll never know. I wouldn’t want to be the only guy in a house full of girls for a week. But he was a trooper.

I developed quite a taste for dirty vodka martinis. And I developed a habit of making giant ones and finishing them quickly.

We made it down to the oceanfront one day. It wasn’t quite warm, but it was warm enough to lay in the sun for a while.

On Thursday, I drove the crew minus Mr. Jackson to Richmond to spend a few hours exploring (and pay a quick visit to Roomie-Dearest’s family). While there I finally bought one of those Cruella Deville-style cigarette holders.

I must say, it makes smoking so much more of a special experience. I may just have to smoke more often.

On our last night we headed over to the Big House (Papa’s house) for a little party. What did this party entail, you ask?

Papa and co, my posse, plus a handful of families from the neighborhood drinking a plethora of beers (Mr. Jackson fell in love with Michalob Ultra Lime Cactus) and a fully stocked bar all while playing beer pong and flip cup. Papa and I played two games (we won the first, lost the second). Then after a brief tutorial it was college vs parent when we played and won two games of flip cup. I drank too much. We introduced the adults to “Jesus Can’t Play Rugby” and taught them a few new beer pong rules. It was a great night.

But now I’m back in the real world, a little worse for the wear. And that real world means homework. I’ll start tomorrow.

Counting the Days

Praise Jesus and Allah and all their cousins!

At approximately 11:07AM I walked out of my last midterm into relative freedom. Spring break is still a few days away, but those few days will be filled with readings and short write-ups, not hours spent clicking through art history slides until I can’t close my eyes without seeing pictures of Transitional, Early and Late Classical Roman statues. No longer will I drive the Minimalist out of his own bed by listing off Egyptian tombs and artifacts.

^Imhotep, the stepped tomb of King Djoser from the Old Kingdom in Egpyt^

You know what I’m doing instead?

Reading interview transcripts of Quaker Conscientious Objectors during WW1 who volunteered to be semi-starved so the government could study starvation and rehabilitation. Creepy, right?

^Here’s one of the participants.^

Only slightly better than comparing cave paintings, but at least it’s something different.

Speaking of something different, there have been a few changes around the ole dormstead:

My rugby season has ended early. Very early.

It started when I would get short of breath at practice. I’ve always gotten short of breath (especially during sprints), but this was more than normal. I chocked it up to getting out of shape over Christmas break. Well, practice continued and my ability to breath continued to get worse. Very counterintuitive. So after spending the last part of far too many practices standing on the sidelines trying to get rid of the spots that were clouding my vision a equally-asthmatic ruggirl suggested that the cold must be aggravating my asthma.

Hell, the cold was aggravating all of me, but no other parts of my body were refusing to work. Damn asthma.

A week or so later a doctor confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed A) lots and lots of medicine (mainly steroids) that make it nearly impossible to eat soup, climb into bed and other things that require stability OR B) no more outdoor activity until the weather warmed. As much as I lovelovelove rugby I wasn’t willing to put myself through more meds just for the slim chance that they wouldn’t sap all my energy and I would be able to play.

So I’ve gone from bruise-sporting ruggirl to support staff. I carry water bottles, pump up balls, and keep time. Far less fun, but at least I’m not ditching the team like other girls.

I’m also trying veganism.

Why, you (and Mother) ask?

Why the hell not!

(To which Mother responded that I looked thinner than normal in some recent pictures. Mother has thought I have an aversion to food practically since I started making my own food choices. Me? An aversion to food? Really? Exhibit A: FoodBaby)

But frankly, I’m always up for a challenge. And anything involving food always peaks my interest. So with a little help from Fresh Market, a large handful of vegan blogs (especially Peas and Thank You), and the vegan station in the dining hall I’ll be saying “veganize me, Cap’n” for the rest of the week.

For the last few days of this little foodventure I’ll be on…Spring Break! Woohoo!

Roomie-Dearest, Frenchie, Mr. Jackson and Westchester are all accompanying me to Vagina Bitch for a week of drinking, me cooking amazingly wonderful and healthy food, and relaxation. Maybe 1 or 2 other things thrown in there, but you’ll just have to wait and be surprised about those.

The Minimalist and his crew are going to the mountains for their break. I was invited to go (and I know it would be ah-maze-ingly fun), but I kind of want to do my own thing (don’t take that as a sign of problems. Everything is better than ever. I promise.) And I don’t know if we could handle each other for a week straight. No need to put undo stress on our lovely little arrangement. (Though their house rental ends early, so he may come up with a friend anyway.)

So until Friday, when my posse and I get to escape the little brick boxes we live in, I’ll continue reading about starvation (while snacking on trail mix, of course) and dreaming of the free laundry and bathtub that awaits me.