On Humanitarian Effort

Let's start with a little history:
Zach, my lovely boyfriend, had discovered a zit behind his ear.  Upon picking it, it burst.  Following the initial outpouring of internal fluids, it started to bleed.  Feeling behind his ear, pulling his hand away, discovering blood upon his finger, he extended it towards me and stated, "Look! I'm bleeding!" I leaned towards it disgustedly, eyeing and sizing it up, and promptly licked it.  I laughed, after the shock passed from his visage, he laughed, and we all had a good time.

It was a blustery day, and I was walking across campus, away from my last class and towards the library. As my eyes surveyed the scene that lay before me (mostly dead trees and muddy, spotty green ground), my ears were filled with the upbeat dance music that, from my iPod, threaded through the earphone cord, commonly found its way into my cerebellum.
My gaze, catching a large, white RedCross truck, was coincidentally paired with a swell of music and crash of cymbals.  And I thought to myself, "I should really donate blood."  and the next thought, "well, I've got time now!" and I headed over.
The volunteer staff was more than happy to see me, and helped me with a smile.  I was set up with a number and a "I make a difference!" sticker, somehow mistakenly labeled with my middle name, "Catherine".  After a short wait, a nurse led me to a small curtained room, where I was pricked with a needle and my blood tested for abnormalities (very high hemoglobin level!) The nurse then left me to answer several questions about my lifestyle (including vacations spent outside of the U.S., sexual history, and contact with others).  One particular question caused alarm, "Have you had contact with someone else's blood in the last year?" I could not tell a lie. Yes.
I indicated to the volunteers that I had completed the survey, a nurse came back into the room, interrogated me about the blood contact: "Tell me what happened."
"..well, my boyfriend was bleeding the other day, and I, uh, well I licked it to be funny."
Her face pulled into a grimace, "Yeah, you can't donate blood for a year."
At least I now know how to act altruistic without actually being such.

The Golf Stream's LAST CHANCE

It all started in the summer of 2009, when I bought my, shall we say "cute" '97 white Volkswagen Golf.  I was tempted by it's, "cuteness" and lunged at the opportunity when I talked the seller out of a measly two bills ($200, for you less up to date).  I was excited that I owned a vehicle, and couldn't care less that the gas light blinked on right as I drove out of the previous owner's drive.  I putted (pun intended) over to the nearest gas station and shoved the nozzle into the tank.  As I began to fill, the gas machine kept automatically turning off, like the tank was already full.  Becoming a little concerned, I called the seller, and a man on the other line chuckled, "Oh, the gas light has been broken for ages. The tank should be full"
And the was just the beginning.
That very afternoon, the car stalled, died, and simply refused to start back up, let alone run again.  After many failed attempts to restart my vehicle, she finally sputtered to life, and I drove the ol' girl home.
Thinking she needed rest (as well as fearing for my life and pride), I didn't touch Golfy again until later that week.  A second rendezvous out on the town, led my poor sorry body into the middle of a major intersection, where again, my car died.  I just sat in the car and cried.
After having a mechanic take a look under the hood, and take off with a stack of Benjamins in his back pocket,  I packed all of my belongings into the car, and began the 12 hour voyage to Portland, OR where I would be attending college. Only the gods know how my little car made it all the way, for when we finally saw Portland on the horizon, my car's muffler fell off.  Another mechanic, another neat sum, and my car was "good as golden"(maybe that cheap gold plated crap--don't tell my car I said that).
My car lasted for some time during those first months in puddletown, possibly due to the fact that I tried my very best (and all to Jamie's (my sister and roommate at the time) chagrin) to NEVER DRIVE, EVER. Fun fact: it lasted that first winter, although I barely did, as heater in the car didn't work, and I drove everyday to work and school.
It wasn't until the spring time was blossoming that my car decided to give out once more.  Smoke billowed out of the engine, and I had my car towed (thanks to roadside assistance, I love you USAA!) to a mechanic, where it was discovered that I needed a whole new set of tubes in the dang thing.
It on it went, my car knowing the mechanic for what he was, an estranged family member that we frequently visited to check up and spent time with.
And now we come to this, the final straw in my adventures with my little Golf Boy:
I had recently spent a handsome amount making my car driveable to the cold chills of SLC, and it had made it there and back with next to no problems (the check engine light isn't a problem, right? Especially when it turns on and off, right?)
My less-than-trusty steed and I had driven my boyfriend and I to a local English pub to meet some friends.  A fun time was had by all, and as the night grew late, the more constant were our yawns, and we decided to high-tail it home.  Out of the goodness of our hearts, we had encouraged others to ride with us.  We all trudged out of the warm, light into the cold night, and we looked longingly back at the yellow glow that was the bar.  We located my parking space, I stuck my key in the lock, turned the key, opened the door, and my alarm when off.
and off
and off
and off
and off
I didn't even know I had an alarm.
and off
and off
and off
people were yelling from their cars, passerbys were laughing, openly, an old woman with a handkerchief on her head leaned out of an upstairs window and angrily informed us her baby was trying to sleep (exaggeration).
I tried everything I could think of to turn it off, keys turning frantically, locks pushed up and down, emergency lights flashing, trunk hatch unlatched.
My car has a feature that locks the engine when the alarm has been set off, so I couldn't, try as I may, start her.
Eventually the alarm was silenced, and I tried to back away slowly, locking the door as I left. The alarm sounded again
again
again
again
again
until finally it was silenced.  We thought the battery may be exhausted from sounding the car so loudly, and tried to jump it, to no avail, that action just set the alarm off once more!
more!
more!
more!
Finally, my oh-so-trusty friends and I pushed the dumb thing to a safe locale, and left it there.

The Food Donations Continue

A certain theme has developed in my lifetime, a theme I'm not sure I should proud or ashamed of, a theme that I most assuredly benefit from, a theme, where complete strangers, regular strangers, and acquaintances alike feel the compulsion to bestow food upon me.
I was in my Popular Culture class (do not let the name fool you, this class is so boring it will not only put you into a deep sleep, but you may be in danger of a coma) this class happens every Tuesday and Thursday evening, promptly at 5:30p.m.  As I sat at my usual table, with my usual cohorts, a boy in the class selected the seat directly across from mine.  The fellow was tall, dark and strapping, a football player at my University.  As he sat and unbundled, he reached into his bag and a package of tinfoil appeared, which upon unwrapping revealed a half-eaten Chipotle burrito.  He dug into his dinner and my stomach rumbled in protest, my eyes the only organ of my body unjustly able to feast.  My mouth startled babbling away to my team members, as my eyes were unable to be torn away,
"That burrito looks so good."
"Guys, let's meet at Chipotle for our team project, I am so hungry."
"Does he have to eat it like that? Can't he see I am starving? Show some restraint, please."
As I continued to stare, and he continued to eat, the comments only grew more desperate and pleading.  Then, unexpectedly, the eating slowed, and then stopped.  He wrapped the tinfoil in on the burrito as if he were finished..oh the horror, the gall! My hand was thrown out to him in a mixture of pleading and warning--"Are you done with that..?"
The boy, taken aback, muttered a consent. And then, an offer. The burrito was slid across the table, into the loving hands of someone who truly cared for it, someone who would show it the respect it deserved. The boy was thanked somewhat gratuitously, and I think I told him "I would love him forever".

The next Popular Culture class rolled around, and that same boy walked into the class, a bit early like I was.  I turned to my friend laughing, "Every time I see that guy I think of Chipotle" as I turned back around, it was the boy's turn to laugh, as he revealed a second Chipotle burrito from his bag and stated, "I wasn't even that hungry when I bought this, and then I thought, well, I'll just give it to that girl if I can't finish it"
And that is exactly what he did.

Well This is Embarrassing.

Friday morning dawned cold and brisk in the foggy Southwest hills of Beaverton. 

I bundled up and trundled out to the bus stop where I watched in dismay as the bus bustled by, it's window's opaque with the breath and heat of its passengers.  

When the next bus lazily rolled to a halt in front of me, I boarded and chatted with the bus driver, paid my extra fees and found an empty seat. 

It was there in that threadbare seat, as I pushed a rubber headphone into my ear canal that I felt the first twinge of pain.  I pulled it out, confused, and pushed it in a second time.  Also, for a second time, pain.  

All during that first day, the uncomfortable ache just inside my ear swelled--
Until that night, it was uncomfortable enough that I couldn't sleep on that side.  

I grew worried. 

The pain grew. 

It was Sunday, two days into the affliction, when I realized that this was not any type of general pain, there was a focus.  The pain had an epicenter: a growth inside my canal that was..starting to impede my hearing. 

I called the clinic.  

On the phone with the nurse, I confessed: I hope it isn't, I donno, a pimple or something.  I would feel so silly. She laughed and scheduled me for that same day. 

My worry heightened.

In the room, the Physician entered, I tipped my ear towards the tiny pinpoint of light emanating from her otoscope  

She pulled my ear closer by the lobe, and squinted one eye to the magnifying lens, and stated simply, "I can't really see deep enought into the ear because of this zit that is in the way, it is pussing on my instrument".  She pulled her tool away and cleaned it off with her scrubs, her face scrunched in annoyance. 

-Sigh-

A Poem of Passion:

'Twas a bright sunny day, in my pretty town of Portland

I bustled down the street, my purpose important. 

In my arms, clutched tightly, I held my reverse-fade raw denim

In my mind, equally fixed-my dreams of stiches and hemmin'

I reached the Tailor's shop, the door thrown wide open

I strode in casually, confidently, there was no slow-pokin'

But to my surprise, as I looked left, and as I looked right

There was no one, not a single person in sight!

I awkwardly scuffled to the counter, looking for a bell

I wondered if the shop did indeed have its skills for sale. 

The search for help continued well past the counter

I spotted a back room, sewing machines, maybe the man with the power.

As I crept towards the setup, no sound had escaped my lips

My eyes, saw the Tailor's hands upon his seamstress' hips

She was pushed up against a wall, their intentions made known

From that tiny office, my feet followed by body flown.

In the heat of the moment (mine, not theirs)

My eye spied a motion sensor above that clothes' lair

In and out through that door my legs took me

In and out, trying to make that sensor see

Finally sensed, a loud beep sounded

The Tailor to the front, at last signaled, bounded. 

He was quite short with me, which I thought should be directed towards the pants

I shrugged, garment man--you get it where you can, who knows? It very well may be your last chance. 

Weirdest Day in the History of Weird Days:

It all started early in the morning, around 9:00 a.m..  I was sitting in my room, the heat of the day (a scorcher, 95 degrees, the hottest day in Portland recorded this year) already seeping in through the walls. My roommate entered my room, sleep evident in his drooping eyes and mussed hair.  He rubbed an eye with the back of one hand and the day began:
"The guy I had over last night stole my phone and my camera, and a bunch of stuff."
"Oh man, I'm sorry that really sucks, are you guys friends?"
"No, I met him at a party last night, he seemed like a chill dude so I invited him over.  When I woke up this morning, all my stuff was missing.  I have been tracking my phone online, I know where he is, would you drive me to go get him?"
"...oh, uh, yeah.  I am not getting out of the car."
--Important side note in story, I did not want to be involved in any sort of fight, and specifically did not wear shoes so I would not have to exit the vehicle.
And we were off! We ended up in a rundown part a town, at an intersection between two busy streets.  The offender was spotted at a bus stop, the car was pulled over, the roommate was out in a flash and confronting the thief.  I surveyed the entire spectacle in my rearview mirror.  As I inspected the situation, a thought flashed through my mind--man, that guy has a sweet bike.
No sooner was the thought conceived, the realization was also born--hey, that's my bike!
I sprang from my car, emergency lights ablaze, and stalked over to the guy in all my barefoot glory.
"This is MY BIKE.  You can't just take things that don't belong to you." (I have since concluded that confrontational statements need to be premeditated.) I walked my bike right back to my car and stuffed it in the hatch.
In the meantime, the man ran, the roommate followed, a punch to the face ensued, the backpack was searched, and the stolen articles were returned to the rightful owner.
We drove home, the roommate was subjected to a long diatribe about discretion on who was to be invited into our home.

The day continued at a summer work party of my cousin's held in Vancouver, where a balloon man approached me and told me he was about to engineer the best balloon structure I had ever seen, and I was not disappointed.

I then proceeded to win a cake.

Grape Eating Contest

The Rules:

No chewing

Whoever fits the most, wins. 

I have 15 grapes in my mouth. These aren't your regular home grown grapes, they are genetically modified monstrosities. He won with a whopping 17.

My coworkers (especially this one) take the cake.