Battle Scars

Needles. I hate 'em. I hate going to the doctor, 'cause half the time they want you to get blood taken. I mean, I know it's nothing. Just a little prick, some minor nerve sensations, not too much pain (certainly no more than I inflict on myself on occasion), so what's the big deal? "What's the big deal?" says the five-year-old in my subconscious that got stuck over and over for half an hour. "I'll show you what the big deal is! Hah-hah!"

So I felt a little ridiculous when I had an anxiety attack during my physical. In the end, I suppose it worked out for the best. At least my doctor knows I'm not kidding when I say I don't like the needles. The people at the clinic, though... They really must think I'm joking. I have no other explanation. Didn't I tell them I needed their best person? Small veins, nervous patient...

In the end, it took three technicians and two tries for them to vamp the blood they needed from me. I managed to hold still while they were searching for the vein in my arm, but boy did it take a lot of self control. Yeurgh.

I will say this, though: Needle bruises are more colourful and swollen than fencing bruises. As battle scars go, they're much more visible. But I'll take fifty fencing bruises over a single needle bruise any day of the week. I like my metal a quarter inch thick and capped with a rubber tip or electric push-button, thanks very much.

Choose your weapon...

I have found a new weapon with which to combat my somewhat more frequent bouts of bad humour, and it is yellow. Bright, glorious, Hufflepuff, fuzzy, happy yellow. I am making a scarf out of it. If I'm feeling a little out of sorts, all I have to do is pick up the needles and knit two or three rows of sunshiny happiness, and I feel much better.

In other news, it looks like grad school is a little further off than anticipated. As I suspected, I'm low on higher level English courses, and in order to be a credible candidate, I need to take five full courses, one in literary theory, two at the 400 level, and two at the 500 level, to prove to the committee that I'm serious. At the end of it, I'll be able to say to them, "Look, I've essentially done what's required of an English major, and here are all my lovely marks and references." It's getting to the end. I'll get started, whittle away at it, but the earliest I can apply is for admittance in January 2006, and that's if all the scheduling works out.

But, on the other hand, it gives me more time to save, pay down the mortgage, and quite possibly take a vacation or two!

Wolves eat up competition

As most of you know, I entered a piece in the Western Showcase Creative Arts and Crafts Fair again this year. The piece in question was a gift, and so is no longer in my possession, but I borrowed it back for Stampede. I have only one thing to say: I get to keep the ribbons!

Mates took first in class (framed mounted cross stitch of animals), and first in section (all cross stitch). I am VERY HAPPY! Of course, now I sort of want to finish something for next year. With all my spare time? Not likely. Hobbies are for fun, for the journey, not the final product, although the final product is nice to have. Any pressure to complete something for next year is entirely self-inflicted.

Anyhow, yay for me!

Cravings

Living alone and doing all my own grocery shopping means that I have more motive, means and opportunity to give in to cravings. Motive: Now I can! Means: Hey, it's all my own money, I can spend it how I like. And opportunity: It's me pushing the shopping cart, and everything that's in it is for me too!

This week, it was All-sorts. Went to the bulk foods and scooped out a little bag of them. I know I shouldn't, empty calories and all that, but damn, even though they're a little stale, they're so good. But I do have some self control. Last week, I finally gave in to my craving for KD. Bought a box, cooked it, ate it, and thought to myself, "There we go. Now I don't crave it any more. And I probably won't for several weeks, if not months. Urgh..." Note to self: I can no longer eat a whole box by myself. Save some for leftovers.

I get cravings for the strangest things. You will rarely hear me talk about dying for chocolate or ice cream. I crave some things that are bad for me (the two above, and Pringles are the ones that crop up most often), but I also crave tomatos, cherry tomatos especially. Or shrimp. I'll go nuts for them on occasion as well. Orange juice comes up every once in a while. And sometimes I absolutely, positively must have cashews.

It's not just food. I'll also crave a dose of Hugh Jackman, but since I purchased the X-Men set, I can satisfy that one anytime I want. I'll be desperate for Pride and Prejudice too, which is also no longer a problem (I have the best sister). Unfortunately, there's a burning desire for due South building inside me, but I shall resist, or maybe rent a disc, if I can find a video store that does so.

I won't even talk about music. And let's just forget about books.

What is it in the human psyche that makes us want some things to the exclusion of others? Why must we have things, and why do these wants stick with us, almost take us over in some cases? Strange, strange. I guess we all have, in some way, addictive personalities. It's what we choose to get addicted to, and how often we allow ourselves to indulge, that defines us.

Having had a week to process the event, it now seems hilarious.

Monday was a very... bad day for me. I don't believe I returned to consciousness before 5 pm, and really don't remember going to work. However, I do remember going to vote, if only because the drive from work succeeded in bringing me a couple of centimetres closer to actual thought. Having not received (and still haven't, mind you) my voter information card, despite four weeks of trying, I had my driver's license out and ready, and proceeded to my polling station. I handed the card to one of the guys there, and he looked up at me. "I know you," he said immediately. "You're the Fencing Queen."

GAH! Not being very awake, I replied, "I am. How do you know that?"

"Oh," he said, handing my license to his compatriot to check against their list, and getting my ballot ready, "sometimes we play soccer after you guys."

So, I am the Fencing Queen. I'm sure Catherine Dunette and Nora O'Malley would have something to say about that, but I guess on campus, I'm the closest thing. This makes me smile. It makes me feel like I'm justified in my choice of blog title.

I must keep reminding myself that over 99% of the population of this city has no idea who I am, and doesn't care. This is very difficult when I keep running into strangers who know me by sight...