Dissection

We've reached the point in Bio lab where we've started to dissect animals, if you consider crayfish and earthworms animals. Although I was a total tomboy as a kid - building tree houses, throwing apples at people's houses, ringing doorbells and hiding - I've always been girlie enough to be squimish around bugs and worms and other nasty species. I actually had to drop out of girl scouts at the age of 8 after running into a dead garden snake. That did it for me, no more scouting.

Touching the earthworm in lab tonight proved to be impossible. I let my lab-partner handle the earthworm while I dissected the crayfish. I am a Swede after all, and Swedes eat these bastards every August during "kraftskiva", with shots of akvavit, snaps and lots of drunken singing. But tonight in lab, I was facing the crayfish sober......


The nasty crayfish and the nasty earth worm. My lab partner took care of the earthworm.

Cat scratch

Kompis the cat tested positive for Bartonella (aka "cat scratch disease"). Bartonella is a group of bacteria that goes into the cat's red blood cells and cause inflammatory reactions in various tissues, most commonly in the respiratory system, skin, ocular tissues, and gastro-intestinal tissues. Luckily, Kompis has no symptoms at all so he might just be a carrier. Nevertheless, we have been instructed to give him antibiotics - azithromycin - once a day for 21 days. That should take care of business.

Humans can catch Bartonella diseases from being scratched or bitten by an infected cat. Good thing our Kompis is a true sweetie. Except for when we try to squirt azithromycin into his mouth. Kompis scratched for his life and Sean and I bled and bled. We kept our bloody hands lathered with antibiotic soap under hot water while singing 'row-row-row your boat' three times. That should take care of business.

Still sleepy

This morning I managed to get a seat on the C train during rush-hour. It takes some serious skills to do that. I fell asleep, of course, within a few stops. I woke up at 86th street with my head resting on a stranger's shoulder. That feels pretty weird, let me tell you. But why would this woman let me sleep on her shoulder...? Why not move away like everyone else does when someone gets too close?

I kind of forgot about this little incident as I sat in my Bio recitation class later on in the day, when suddenly, a woman in the seat in front of me took a dive - nose first, arms by her side, face smashed against the floor. She had fallen asleep in her chair and as a result she had slid off it. It was great.

The whole class turned around when they heard the 'thump' but I had seen it as it happened.
"Oh my God are you ok?!?" the teacher exclaimed, though she remained fixed to the blackboard.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," the student said, still on the ground, "I'm just really, really tired, so sorry..." and she climbed back into her seat.
"Do you need water??" the teacher asked, trying to help.
"No, no, I'm sorry, I fell asleep, I'm sorry."

The student looked really embarrassed and the class didn't know what to do so the teacher just continued lecturing and everyone went back to taking notes. I wanted to laugh sooooooo bad. But instead, I tapped the sleepy student on her shoulder and offered her a tic tac. She took it.

Lbs

I passed my annual physical exam with a healthy grade. But it didn't start out too well when the doctor entered the room and said whooooah when he looked at the EKG print out. What? What? What? "Nothing, your heart rate is just really slow."

My heart rate was 50 beats per minute and my blood pressure was 100/70. This means I'm barely alive. I hardly have a pulse. A slow heart rate is fine if you're a cyclist or a runner, but I'm neither. What's going on? No wonder I fall asleep every time I sit down, chin-to-chest style, my heart is on vacation. I sleep on the subway, I sleep in my bio class, I sleep everywhere. One time I fell asleep standing up.

What's even worse than not having a pulse is that I've gained weight since last year. I'm not supposed to be able to gain weight. "Well, you're not 20 years old anymore." What tha' f-ck?? That shit doesn't apply to me. It should not apply to me. ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh...

Mad old

Since going back to Bio-class a few weeks ago, I've been completely devoid of any writing capabilities or random community observations. I just can't believe I'm at Hunter again. I wish I could keep it a secret - I'm really not still in school - but it's hard when constant studying has become such a big part of life. I always make sure I tell my 20-year old classmates the following:

1) I'm a post bacc student
2) I have had a real job
3) I have a job now (although it doesn't feel that real)
4) I'm old
5) I'm only taking this class because I have to
6) I graduated from college in 1998

This usually kills any potential friendships.

Fight

Posh and Becks live upstairs from us. They're not the real Posh and Becks, but they could be. They always seem like such an annoying perfect couple, and they make much more money than we do and their apartment is super dope. They live in the duplex part of the brownstone which is the rich people's part of the brownstone. In a way, they're quite irritating.

Anyway, yesterday there was a crack in Posh and Becks land - a fight! First, some commotion. Then, some screaming. Posh: "YOU'RE A FUCKING COWARD!!" Becks: "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" Wow. Even though it is disturbing to listen to another couple's anger, this was pretty cool. It might be ok to yell like that when you're 20 years old and drunk as hell and fighting with your boyfriend you've had for a month and will dump in a week. But when you're Posh and Becks??

This little incident made us realize, once again, that we are an awesome couple. A fabulous well-balanced couple. We might not have a set of matching wine-glasses, or even matching cups and plates, but we do know how to behave like grown-ass adults. For the most part.

Phew

An unattended 'Dora the Explorer' backpack on the Hoyt-Schermerhorn subway platform stirred up the evening commute, for some.

"Is this your bag?" an anxious looking man asked a father standing close by with his son. It's a pink Dora bag, of course it was not. "Whose bag is that? Does anyone know??" the man called out. A couple of people shook their heads, but nobody owned up to the bag. "Well," the anxious man continued, "you know what they say: 'if you see something, say something'." And off he went, up the stairs, to get help.

Damnit, I thought to myself, is this going to cause one of those police investigations? That's totally going to delay the trains, and I'm one stop away from home. Why would there be a bomb in a pink backpack at Hoyt-Schermerhorn, a station which name nobody can even pronounce? I was waiting for the speakers to go "due to a police blahblahblah" but before that happened, the awesome G trained rolled in.

As I stepped inside and waited for the doors to close, one lone police officer approached the bag. He poked the bag with his finger. When nothing happened, he unzipped the top flap and looked inside. Nothing. He then swung the bag onto his shoulder and headed for the stairs.

And then the rest of us had to ride the G train listening to the all too familiar announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a message from the New York City Police Department, if you see a suspicious package or activity on the train or on the platform, please don't keep it to yourself, tell a police officer or an MTA employee" ...and you know the rest.