Squatter Evangelism

I want a squatter toilet.  With a Bidet.

http://www.slate.com/id/2264657/

Hell Month

As Hell Month comes to a dragging close, I feel inclined to explain my "prolonged" absence and attempt to begin September anew.  August is typically difficult for me no matter what; it's the month where summer student projects realize their failure to culminate properly, when grant money comes in, when last years money must be spent or be lost to the government, when deadlines abound, and when I realize that I have been dawdling all summer and must reclaim some kind of focus.  This August, however, has been particularly acerbic.

I have not written much since July because my emotional mind has been inhabiting a very dark place.  It appears that I did not actually recover from my PWD phase until very recently.  Since I have not cried for a mind-boggling four-day continuum -- with the exception of M&L's wedding yesterday, which does not count -- I think it's time for a celebratory return to the real world.

This August, everything came crashing down.  My baby brother alone and unhappy in his new college surroundings; summer student projects failing to culminate; the complete revamping of my journal papers, which would be fine except for that the longer it takes my boss to edit them, the less likely it is that I will have their publication on my graduate school C.V.; weddings of those dear friends who decided last-minutely not to attend my own or send a gift, or a card, or even acknowledge an intent to do so, but who expect my attendance at showers, bachelorette parties and their special days (and, yes, I know exactly how that sounds); the sickening regrets about my own wedding that I seem to hunt down, which is its own special kind of painful and stupid act; the desperate need to get H.K. on my health insurance, which has been delayed by the marriage certificate fiasco, the name-changing social security card fiasco and the title and registration DMV fiasco that is guaranteed to occur; the realization that I am, Crohn's wise, exactly where I was last year at this time and somewhat terrified that it will all begin to replay at any moment, and the major anxiety that last year will fully repeat itself and I will not get into school again, even though I'm more qualified than 90% of applicants in the country (yes, I know exactly how that sounds, too).  This is do-or-die year.  If it doesn't happen now, it's not going to.

There have been several instances of tummeh turbulence that put my Crohn's panic into play.  Namely, a weekend out in Seattle with dear friends where eating out twice a day, despite my greatest efforts -- and I was very careful... excepting the alcohol -- sent me into a painful reenactment Monday evening.  Secondarily, the immense stress I've felt deep into the dorsal horn of my spine makes even butter a dangerous contender.  'You're doing so well,' I tell myself, 'don't throw it all away in the name of gustatory freedom.'  And it's so much more easily said than done.

Sleep?  None to be had.  Exercise?  Fluctuating with the consistency of supermarket produce quality.  Meditation?  Intimidatingly unsuccessful unless there is alcohol involved.

I need something good to happen here.  In the mean time, I am at least escaping from the grasp of beastly depression.

how we are hungry

No one in my line of work ever says, "It's so beautiful - so meaningful - what you're doing."  People don't look at graphs and n's and alpha values and feel the shell harboring their emotions crack.

I have to.  Every so often, I have to hunt for a study that is so powerful, and so beautiful that my jaw clenches and my eyes swell.  If I don't, I break under the politics of science.  I rarely find one.

So many years spent choreographing souls, extending life in my arms and dancing disease out of existence.  Science is not like dance.  No one ever reaches through the laminate of graphs and methodology to find the empathetic compassion of a fellow scientist.

I need to know that it can be so powerful - so beautiful - what I'm doing.

Apparently, it can be, and I lose sight of it:

What you do makes my jaw clench and my eyes water, though.

You see the day to day, deadlines to keep grants, shooting mice in the stomach with needles, and training new med school idiots who are clearly beneath you.

My second host mother, E, had the most warm, loving, wonderful parents. Her tall, strapping, powerful father slowly began to shake more and more each day until he was diagnosed with Parkinson's. All of a sudden this strong man was made to feel like an incapable child in his own body, leaving his tiny, frail wife to treat him like an infant. He felt emasculated and helpless.  He went on the most top-notch medication known at the time in order to control his uncontrollable shaking and ended up having psychedelic nightmares every waking and sleeping moment of the day. Waking up, shitting himself from fear, literally seeing a wrecking ball smashing through the room, muscling his weak body over his wife to protect her from his delusions.

I've seen another man, not much older than your parents, with a teenage child. But instead of looking his age, the stress from Parkinsons leaves him looking in his 70's, barely capable of continuing his accounting practice because it takes him over 5 minutes to write his name. He can't keep a conversation because the shakes take over and he can no longer concentrate. "It's a bad day," he says to me, when he can't even complete a sentence, asking me about his [business transaction].

My heart breaks. But you are doing something about it. Your blood, sweat, tears, frustration, stress, training...your life will contribute to the future. So other people won't go through life like this.
When I found out this is what your focus was, I heard my host mother in my head. "I don't wish this disease on anyone." She was on the verge of tears as she watched her father try to simply walk through a doorway with so much difficulty. I was so proud of you, and to even know you, right then and there.

Thank you, K, for reminding me that what I am doing can be so beautiful, and so meaningful.

marital resolutions

On July 10th, I got married.  On July 11th, I made a marriage resolution to never again cry over small things like having to buy a second marriage license because of a single ink slight or having to swim through endless legal bologna to change my name in all of the necessary systems, or the haunting mistakes surrounding the beginning of H.K. and me that have resurfaced in my conscience.  July 14th through the 19th, I failed my resolution.

Post wedding depression, I discovered, is actually a thing, like postpartem depression.  My business-week long PWD, however, had nothing to do with realizing I was trapped with this man, or with adrenaline withdrawal, or with no longer being the center of attention, as the classic syndrome characterizes.  My emotional imbalance came from recognizing that this man actually married me; he is the one who is stuck -- I successfully conned him into thinking I was the greatest thing on earth -- and I don't know what to do with that amount of happiness and fortune except worry that he will someday regain whatever rationale I've temporarily numbed, and want out.  And that is way, way too much paperwork to even think about...

I would like to think that I've come to my senses, and found a way to cope with being the most fortunate and undeserving twenty-something in the galaxy.

The wedding was beautiful, the guests were amazing, the "minister" could not have been better chosen and the adventure afterward was phenomenal.  There are no adequate descriptions.  It was all far too sweet and far too short.  I demand a replay.

As an aside, the top of the cake was devoured with no reservation over the course of the honeymoon.  Being covered in dark blue final frontier-like fondant, it died the Throughput a rich green color for the remainder of the trip.  Vegan cake was a brilliant decision, because other than the odd color I suffered no nausea/hot flashes/constipation or stabbing pain until the evening we returned home.  Success, almost.

romantic ruminations and rhubarb

H.K. and I answering a questionnaire and trying to figure how we're going to personalize our wedding ceremony:

HK: 'What do you most look forward to about life with this person?'  The summers. If you have seen Raga in a bikini you know what I'm talking about.
Raga: I said, "everything we haven't experienced yet."  I look forward to everything because I get to share or experience it with you.  ... and that is the lamest thing I've ever said.
HK: the question says, "most"
Raga: I know.  It's all the most.
HK: the summers aren't better?  I think the summers are better.
Raga:  I think I'm so painfully love-struck that it's all just a wash.

I know it sounds like we're having our own personal conversations here, but we're really on the same page.  Truly. 


It appears that I have eaten one-too-many salads of late, and my supposedly non-existent ileal stricture has beaten me down.  Therefore, I have taken a personal day today in order to mollycoddle my belleh in the interest of surviving (dare I say, enjoying) my wedding day.  My beloved cake chef is making the chocolate kahlua tier a vegan one .  In his honor, I will be dining on rice, chicken and the goodies featured below for the next eight days.

Here's what happened to that rhubarb I mentioned:

I may or may not but almost certainly did over-bake the crust, add sugar to the egg whites too quickly whilst beating the meringue, give up the meringue-beating too early and then forget that I had left it all in the oven after adding the meringue to crisp; but these rhubarb custard meringues were nonetheless delectable.

Grocery Days

I have a terrible habit.  Sundays are typically grocery days (interrupted by the occasional Tuesday when I find exceptional goodies at the farmer's market at work), and they are accompanied by excessive eating.

It has to do with having so many "new and exciting" foods in the kitchen.  These can either be items we have not seen for a year (rhubarb), or things we have been missing for 3 days -- their presence in my kitchen is exhilarating either way.  The bad habit is that I, in this recent Quasi-comfortable Tummeh Era, consistently oblige my urge to consume everything new. 

The only reason this does not send me into a state of catatonic bloating and pillow-burrowing is because I munch.  Like a squirrel.  Micro-portions of each of the newest and most exciting items from the grocery store are consumed over the course of Sunday, between Sunday-esque tasks such as laundry, vacuuming, cooking, and most recently, poolside bronzing and running. 

Although the Squirreling technique is helpful in confusing my tummeh into thinking I am treating it respectfully,  it is ultimately poor eating etiquette in that I eat so many different kinds of micro-portions.  I have found over the last decade, not surprisingly, that the wider array of foods I eat in a single day, the more uncomfortable (or nauseous, or in pain) I feel by the end (or over the next few days).

For the last three months or so, I have been running 3-6 days a week (note: this has lowered my weight even below what the last six months starvation did, and allowed a maintenance in that range -- I have not been this happy with my body since high school).  Over the last three, I began to notice an ache in my lower left abdomen during my run.  I disregarded this as side ache and was simply careful about drinking water beforehand.  Today, however, the pain was deeper and more distinguished, and I realized I had probably aggravated the Crohn's Baby. 

Today, therefore, I held back on the pressing urge to consume the newandexcitingitemsinmykitchen, and opted for an afternoon of cooking and a summer meal.  Cold cucumber soup with baguette, fresh pesto and tomato.  I am definitely not sitting here munching on leftover baguette and tomato...

Notice the new color in my diet!!

of fish, tutoring and Tudors

The child in a "UW" shirt manning the fish booth at the Marquam Hill farmers market today told me that his salmon was filleted.  My nausea had subsided for the moment and I was feeling indulgent.  Since skins were all that showed on both sides of the packaging, I assumed this equated to two smooching cuts.  I was confused, therefore, to find that the meat, upon unwrapping, was actually not but decapitated and de-bellied.  Having fished only once in my life -- to the disappointment of both myself and the fish as it was tossed half dead back into the stream because my mother didn't understand why we had to kill it -- I had no clue how to fillet a fish.

I took a four min tutorial, found my sushi knife and went at it.  Being both a noob and too lazy to find my knife sharpener, I mangled the poor thing to within an inch of... well, between my dulled-by-fish-spine knife and pulling the needle bones out with my fingers instead of kitchen tweezers, it was an anhydrous maceration and we'll leave it at that.

Fortunately, I cooked it supremely well and hid my mutilations beneath fish fats and seasonings.  The caramelized onion and rye loaf -- my other market indulgence of the week -- helped.  *please note that this time, the broccoli was cooked to perfection.  

For the day in general, it must be said that no matter how near-comatose or drained of motivation I am, I love teaching.  I miss coaching gymnastics, I frequently reminisce about assistant teaching biochemistry, and my enthusiasm soars when summer students come through our lab to do a project.  N&O arrived on Monday -- to-be high school seniors -- and I must admit that I found myself ill-prepared.  However, a morning's realization that despite coming from a math & sciences magnet school these kids had had no more neuroscience education than a brief chapter in anatomy class snapped me to my senses.  This would not begin at dopamine circuits; this would begin at defining a neuron.  And I loved it.  *I also loved that my coworker was there to provide entertainment and explanations when I needed to step aside to deal with my own data back-up


A most fulfilling day and delicious dinner were followed by the season finale of the Tudors (shout out to Kara).  Yes, I watched all 4 seasons religiously once I found out they existed.  Yes, it took me a while to adjust to the incredible amount of sex and exposed boobies but I got over it for the sake of historical film.  Yes, I love every historical film/series -- with the exception of Spaghetti Westerns -- for the sheer intrigue of the particular inaccuracies that are sacrificed by each director/ writer for the sake of modern appeal (which was brilliantly done by Ciarán Donnelly/ Michael Hirst in the Tudors).  Yes, I sucked H.K. into liking it, too.  Yes, I want all four seasons on blu-ray (come on, videogame riches...!).  And yes, I am pissed off that they ended the show without developing Edward, Mary or Elizabeth's reigns.  *of all the things that bothered me about this series -- and they are a huge discussion in themselves -- this was the greatest tragedy

Elsewise, I am a very happy lady with very bright upcoming weeks, and I am completely elated... if fatigued as hell.