LaurieWrites

Keep Your Carcasses at Home

If you can understand FedEx shipping rules, you can likely graduate from medical school and pass the bar in any state. They are very intense. Take a gander at some of the things you cannot ship in any circumstance (which spoils my plan to FedEx my ant farm and leaking packages. Ew.):

Prohibited Items:

You are prohibited from tendering the following items for shipment, and they will not be accepted:

1. Cash, currency, collectible stamps and coins.
2. Live animals, including birds, reptiles and fish, except via our Live Animal Desk (1.800.405.9052). (Edible seafood, such as live lobsters, crabs or other types of fish and shellfish for human consumption, is acceptable, provided the shipper is in compliance with all local, state and federal laws.)
3. Animal carcasses. (Animal heads and other parts for taxidermy may be accepted but must be properly packaged. This restriction does not apply to properly packaged meat or poultry products intended for human consumption.)
4. Human corpses, human body parts, human embryos, or cremated or disinterred human remains.
5. Shipments that require us to obtain a local, state or federal license for their transportation.
6. Shipments that may cause damage or delay to equipment, personnel or other shipments.
7. Lottery tickets and gambling devices where prohibited by local, state or federal law.
8. Hazardous waste, including, but not limited to, used hypodermic needles or syringes, or other medical waste.
9. Packages that are wet, leaking or emit an odor of any kind.
10. Live insects.

Disinterred human remains? I wonder what brought THAT up?!? Besides the plain "prohibited" stuff, there are also many other rules of...shipping. The most peculiar, I think, prohibits me from shipping a guitar or other musical instrument that's over 20 years old, that has a declared value of more than $500. They also won't allow me to ship my ostrich and emu eggs. That's a heartbreaker.

Anyway, I just thought that was all kind of peculiar.

Don't hassle me...

I'm local. This was on Bill Murray's t-shirt throughout much of "What About Bob", one of the greatest stupid comedy movies of all time. I took no photos on vacation this  year, except for this one and one more that didn't turn out of some crazy man in a bar. My cousin's girlfriend took some but not many. Very, very sad all 'round.

However, I saw this license plate in the parking lot (or "car park", in British terminology. I just finished another book set in England and I wish WE said "car park". Maybe I'll start, so people will have another reason to look at me funny.) and I thought it was fun. So, I took a photo of it. And there it is. And that is all.

the end of an era

This couldn't really be more appropriate for now.

vendredi 15 july

why babies really cry

because they have lost the intimacy

and the safety

they have known

and what they face

is life on their own

essentially alone

to deal with the unknown

and the dangers

of life in the world

and now

each of us

is like a yowling infant

thrust out of the safety we have known

leaving it because we've outgrown it

when you gotta go you gotta go

and a great adventure awaits

but it is the end of an era

the end of an era

the beginning of another.

Poor Girl's Spa Vacation

Meet the Reebok Body Trec.

This is the most insane exercise machine I've ever been on. They don't even make them anymore, apparently, because they are so insane. I can't seem to import a photo of it, and it's not much to look at. But oh baby, it works you OUT. It's almost like a regular elliptical machine, but it moves in much more of a hellishly climbing motion than the usual "supported running" of the regular elliptical. You can pick different terrain: Walk in the Park, Vail Pass, Himalayan Trek, etc. My special name for all of these is Mt. You Are So Screwed, because even the Walk in the Park is totally false advertising. I've never in my life walked in a park like that, a very BAD and EVIL park with unreasonably high hills. I maybe had a NIGHTMARE about a park like that once, but that's it. My God, the CLIMBING in this park. I was sweating within five minutes more than I ever have on a piece of exercise equipment, to the point where I was wiping the backs of my hands across the my eyes, so I could see, but even my HANDS were sweating, so I was just a blind, winded fake mountain climber/park walker with sweaty hands. It was completely gross.

So of course I had to go back five times. I got a week's pass to Gold's Gym in North Myrtle Beach this week, and I went five times. To understand the magnitude of this you would have to be familiar with my usual vacation workout routine. This involves extended hours of sleeping, copious hours of VH1 reality and retro shows, one spirited walk on the beach (not, like, one a day. Just one.) and then the back-breaking daily strength training routine of dragging a beach chair, a bag with (a sort of heavy) book and a couple magazines, and a towel, the 1/16 of a mile to the sand, where I'd flop on my towel, exhausted. Working for inertia is surprisingly tiring.

This year, for some reason, was different. I'd been in a groove with exercisebefore I left, as noted in the previous post, and decided I wasn't in any mood to literally roll back up the interstate. I knew it would just bum me out, thereby sending me back into a haze of onion dip and no workouts. This just will not fly this summer, like it has never "not flown" before. So I investigated gyms before I left, and called as soon as I got here to hook it up. I dubbed it the "Poor Girl's Spa Vacation, 2005", and although the week unfortunately sucked in some other fundamental ways that I can't quite yet process or articulate, this part was great.

My family kind of watched me go warily each morning, saying things like, "So...you're, um, going to the gym again?" and, "Wow, I'm so proud of your...determination," while clearly assuming that the borgs had stolen the real me and left this strange beast in her place. I liked getting out in the day early, snagging a cup of coffee on the way back and still getting in beach time. It felt all...healthy, and as alarming as that may be for me on some level, I suppose it's better than the alternative. I even met a woman on the machine next to mine, who is from my home town, and her name is Laurie too, which is odd because there aren't that many of us roaming around. We bonded over our newfound love for this crazy machine, the copious amounts of sweat that we'd never experienced before, and how nice people are down here compared to home (in general, exceptions being the rule, of course), so that was fun and we'll keep in touch.

Vacations, I guess, are whatever you want them to be, even if they're sometimes not at all what you want them to be. Even if they're sometimes no walk in the park.

Welcome to my newest means of torturing myself. It's brought to me by the good people at Reebok University.

It's offered as a class at my gym, taught by a perky blonde woman named April. Some stereotypes are stereotypes for a REASON. I mean, what happens? When a baby girl is born do parents know by looking at her, "Hey, she's gonna grow up to be 5 foot 4, 112 pounds, with a butt you can rest a beer on. Let's name her APRIL. Or Heather! Or AMBER! That lifelong plan to name her Martha after grandma is SO over!" Or, once a child is named April, or Heather, does she automatically transform into a looker?

I'm going too far with this. Yes, I'm stretching. However, I just had one of those moments, gathering all my equipment, looking up at this hot blonde aerobics teacher named April, when the world made sense. I smiled to myself, and shook my head, and went, "Yep."  Too good not to share. I tried the class for the first time on Friday, because I've been going to the gym a lot but want to avoid the boredom that typically sets in after a month of regular exercise. I'm sick of kickboxing for the moment, and step class every day will kill my knees over the long term. And yes, I would like to see the proof on the scale, which so far is moving way too slow for my liking. I think this will be good.

Because, it turns out, April is a good teacher. She knows her stuff. She led us through 50 minutes of resistance training with bands, free weights, those wacky, scary weight bars, and a step for a place to sit to do dips (which, in my execution, are more appropriately called "diplets" or perhaps "dribbles". ) and then abs. And all of this crazy fun takes place to a jacked up soundtrack of popular tunes, provided by Reebok, interspersed with WHISTLE CUES. This is called periodization, mostly because nothing is ever simple and must be called something complicated. This periodization "is a proven technigue for getting real results while keeping your choreographed workouts fresh without frustrating training plateaus."

It is also completely obnoxious. I never imagined myself working out to an aerobicized version of a Kid Rock or Coldplay song, and to tell the truth, I kinda had to put artistic integrity - and the whistles - out of my mind. But it does keep your ass in motion, which I guess means there's some kind of circuit benefit to it too. Interval training. Hallelujah.

I'm extremely sore today, which must mean something worked, unless I just broke myself again. And I think I'm going to see if I can drop in at Gold's when I'm in South Carolina, because if I take off a whole week I'm going to hate it when I come home.

Happy Little Panda

Panda love.

It's been years since the "panda watch" occupied the news all the time around here, so it was fun to check the Post home page this morning and find out that Mei Xiang had a baby! From what I read, it's extremely difficult for pandas to conceive. The female is fertile three days a YEAR. Hence, no market for panda condoms. And lots of frustrated boy pandas, because she wants nothing to do with him for another 362 days. "I said back on up, Tian Tian. Do you HEAR me? Do not even THINK of coming near THIS panda bear. Go on back to your bamboo pile and that silly TIRE. Back it on UP." Haha. Turns out Mei Xiang (say that three times fast) was artificially inseminated, and then they couldn't even tell if she was pregnant for sure, because false positive pregnancy tests are rampant in pandas. It's also very difficult for them to carry a baby to term, and then, once they've made it past those trials, to keep them alive for more than a few days after birth. The mom is in serious danger of crushing them accidentally! It makes me wonder if the universe really wants pandas to survive. I mean, why so difficult? Also, it seems that pandas are very crafty. They don't so much care if the little veterinarian people know if there's a panda in the oven or not. Keep 'em guessing. "Yes," Mei Xiang thought. "I will just CRADLE this nice APPLE here, and see the humans freak out with their video cameras and sonogram machines. Yessssss."

  Not really. But they do dig their down time. The Post article says that no one "dares go near" the mother and baby at "this delicate time", stating immediately thereafter that Mei Xian "weighs 250 pounds," which isn't terribly sensitive. I mean, can't a girl get some privacy?  I'm sure there's many a human mother who wishes no one would dare go near her either - no video cameras, no people waving, no one wanting you to pose for pictures while your INSIDES ARE SPLIT IN HALF. ; ) 

Here's a photo of a panda at the San Diego zoo who made it. Based on the odds, he rocks. He's tough as nails. Look at him - he'll take you out! Plus, how sweet he is. I do hope this new little one survives. 

Oh

Oh baby, the song of the day. I just can't keep up with it. Can't stop the music, ever - but also can't seem to stop the TIME from getting away from me. What with the packing and the getting ready to leave town (and I am SO ready to leave town) and the work that is so NEEDY, and at which I am feeling so incompetent...

Sorry, it's been one of them head-exploding weeks, where I just want a farmhouse in the country and eight kids and a couple dogs and honest work that keeps my hands in the garden and the sink...yes I said that....Take my NOW card...Call Gloria Steinem. I don't care. Whatever THIS is...I don't want it. I don't want any of it. I just want it all to stop.

Except for the music, of course. That's fine. And as usual, it's what's been keeping me sane, these past few days of bombings and memorial services and trying to get my mind around packing, which I am soso bad at, and meetings and people needingneedingneeding whatever it is that I really don't think I have, but I'll try to give it, cause that's just the kind of girl I am...

"You Raise Me Up" - they played this at my friend Sandy's memorial service today, and her little granddaughter sang along with the guitar player, and I didn't understand why everyone around me wasn't sobbing.

"Lodi" - I'm still stuck on this song. It's comforting me.

"Superior", Girlyman - I can't sing it all the way through without crying but it's worth it.

"Sometimes I Just Have to Say Your Name", del Amitri, How I love this band, and I don't even know why.

"I Was Country When Country Wasn't Cool" - Shut up. I grew up with the Mandrell Show, and I downloaded this song last week, along with Reba's "Fancy", if you must know. It still makes me smile. And I was, you know.

"Luka", Suzanne Vega - When I was in graduate school, I lived across from the street from a law student who hated Dayton, and that was all he talked about. But I talked to him anyway, as unbearable as he was, because he had the cutest dog. Her name was Luka. They lived on the second floor.

"Hendersonville", Last Train Home - It's about Johnny and June Cash, and it's a heartbreaker. But it's beautiful. Eric Brace is one of the most amazing men ever to walk the planet. I love him. I have no idea why they don't have a US record deal. That sucks.

"Whenever You're On My Mind", Marshall Crenshaw - I love this song. Love Marshall.

"Second Hand News", Fleetwood Mac. Genius.

"Feel Good Inc." Gorillaz. Yeah, yeah...I'm a sheep. It's a good tune.

GAH, for fuck's sake. "Trapped in the Closet" is on the tv. Could this madness stop, please? R. Kelly is still trapped in the damned closet. Please let him out by the time I return to the land of digital cable. Thanks.

London Calling

Interesting article from the Post about camera phones capturing the London bombings.

I'm trying to limit my news intake on this because too much gets to me more quickly these days, quite frankly. However, I'm reading enough to get the impact (whatever you can from across an ocean - which isn't much, really) and of course, one article leads to another and then another and sooner or later I'm crying at my desk.

There's something even more painful and touching in what keeps being reported as the "stoicism" of the British people. When I read in the paper yesterday that Condolieza signed the condolence book at the British Embassy in D.C. with "They shall not have died in vain," I thought of a woman my age, a few thousand miles away, getting on the train to go to her job, maybe freaked out about being late and maybe grabbing some coffee, and then being blown up five minutes later. "How is that not dying in vain?" I ranted at my parents last night. I just don't think I'd consider myself a martyr for the cause if that happened to me (and, you know, I was by the waterfall in heaven playing rummy with my Nanny and reflecting on it...) I think I'd think that I was just going to work, for God's sake, and got supremely unlucky. I'd likely be seriously pissed off that I didn't call in sick, and that I never got to do the myriad of things I wanted to do with my life, including marry John Cusack, cruise on the Disney Fun Ship, and see another president in office in my country (could 2008 be FURTHER AWAY? Not that I WANT to be 37, mind you. I'm torn about the 'wishing my life away' thing). It's all very complicated, and senseless, and sad. And the talking head says the same things, about the "bringing to justice", (or, in his wounded diction,"jushtish," which is why my ears are STILL bleeding this morning) and the "hunting down and capturing", and the "we will not let them win." It just seems to me like that has so little to do with the lady on the train. But I guess if we keep thinking it does, then most of us will keep quiet and keep buying toys and sedatives and baseball tickets, and it'll all be good.

Anyway, there's a somewhat small gallery of photos taken on cell phones in the aftermath of the bombings in the article I linked at the top. As a newly obsessive taker of cell phone photos, I couldn't help but contrast the silly ones I take with the ones in the gallery. And I had to pray for a second that I can always stick with silly - but I guess you never know.

London

The BBC is a good source of news.

W. is in London for the G8 Conference and had this fresh insight: "The war on terror continues." And besides being grammatically incorrect (it's a war on terrorISM, maybe. I don't think we're fighting hysterical fear. His maybe, but nobody else's), which is what I always think when I hear him say this, I couldn't help but think that if someone's "winning", it isn't us.

MSNBC just reported that London's tube system has more security cameras than any public transit system in the world, which underscores that cameras can't stop bombs. One of my first thoughts was that I was glad I don't take the Metro very often, given its general state of disarray. But I guess this kind of thing can happen anywhere, which really isn't so comforting either. Bottom line - more people dead unnecessarily, another city battered. It's just so, so sad.