fuzzbean.net

I am proud, for the first time in a very long time, to be an American.

Yes, we can.

Come on, California. Please don’t ruin this. Everyone deserves to marry someone they love.

I know that more than a few of you have participated in some blister-heavy activities over the course of your lives, while the worst I’ve done has been dance classes with a week in between them. I have three popped blisters and a few smaller, deep unpopped ones on my hands. I’m going back to crew tomorrow night. What the hell do I put on the popped ones that can stand up to some serious oar friction? Moleskin? Liquid bandage? Just wear the blood like a badge of honor? Help!

(The popped ones, for the record, are on my thumbs between the base and the first knuckle and on my palm just below my pinkie finger.)

Seattle Parks and Recreation has some pretty neat things, among them a crew program.  Sunday I flopped around in a swimming pool for ten minutes while fully clothed (which was simultaneously far less difficult and far more unpleasant than I expected) and then today was my first day on the water in a good four or five years.  Some weird things - they count seats from the stern of the boat, rather than the bow, and they had me on a starboard oar rather than a port.  And I’ve forgotten most of the terminology, which makes cross-translating a pain in the ass.

Having said that, I kept up fairly well and never really felt like I was dying; my technique is sloppy but improved massively even over the 90 minutes we were out there; I need to use my legs more; both coaches had good things to say about me; and my hands look like hamburger.  That part’s going to be rough.  And I don’t think I’ll be able to use my arms tomorrow.  The next practice is Thursday.  I need to do something about my raw patches before then.

And life otherwise.  Well.  It goes, which is about the best that can be said about it.  I feel pretty amazingly shitty about missing PYM this year.  I still need to convert my license and plates to WA, find a yoga studio, and finish my bookshelves so I can finally unpack properly.  I should buy school supplies which means I need to remember what they are - I know by the end of college I had a fairly refined system worked out but I’ll be damned if I can remember what it is.  I think 5×5 graph paper and clipboards and colored folders were involved.  The farmer’s market down the street is great; the weather on a fairly regular basis isn’t.  I have a bed.   I made this zucchini ricotta cheesecake thing for dinner two nights ago and it was good.  I miss the tomato lady at the Culver City Farmer’s Market.  I miss my yoga studio.

I miss a lot of things.

Hit a band van pulling out from a parking spot.  Van-fucking-tastic.

Today’s conversation with Jeff Goldblum:

“Um…P1, please…thanks.”

Imagine, if you will, your intrepid if sporadic-at-best blogger at the ALA convention. The one that’s full of librarians. I will be a librarian in not very long, so it is good for me to hang out with my peeps and learn the lingo.

Picture, if you will, your friendly and terribly-well-blending-in blogger wandering the exhibit hall, faintly footsore and in need of sustenance. The hall is a large and confusing place full of vendors, some of whom offer things for sale and some of whom offer things for free and some of whom offer things that can only be looked at and lusted over without the option of actual obtainance and keepage. Not all of the things are clearly marked, so one must be very careful about what things one yoinks lest one wants to have angry Penguin representatives chase one down with a Taser. Many of the things offered are alcoholic (those are usually free, on the grounds that drunk people buy more stuff). I cannot imagine that this increases the rate by which things that are not meant to be yoinked fail to be yoinked.

Picture, if you will, your humble but excessively-attached-to-overused-literary-devices blogger finally giving up on said overused literary devices and beginning to refer to herself in the first person.

Any second now she’ll do it.

Any second.

I wander out of the exhibit hall, footsore as mentioned and overwhelmed by crowds as well. I had spotted a few cafe-booths while wandering but my spatial sense had checked out for the evening (this was a bit of an issue when I had to find my car at 1 a.m.) An information desk looms before me. I walk past.

I reverse abruptly. If I were a cartoon, there would have been one of those grey motion-blur thingies. It was that abrupt.

In front of the information-booth lady lies a book. It is the ALA convention, so this is not all that surprising.

The book in question is a largeish blueish-black paperback. It’s not actually very standoutish.

I walk up to the information-booth lady. I stammer slightly as I point at it and ask, “Wh-wh-where did you get that?”

“Oh,” she says, “some lady left it here. She didn’t want it.”

“Oh,” I say. I wipe some drool off my chin and try to stop caressing its gleaming cover.

I point at the author’s name. “He’s just a really amazing author. He’s one of my favorites.” I wipe more drool off.

“Do you want it?” she asks.

I try not to seize it from her. I feign disinterest. Poorly. “You mean you don’t? You’re serious? I can have it?”

“Yup!” she says. “I started reading it and then figured out it was a children’s book. I don’t read children’s books. Did he write any books for grownups?”

Your slavish devotion to arbitrary age categorizations is MY TOTAL WIN, I think. I do not say it. Librarians are polite. I am polite.

“Yes,” I say. “He’s written several. I particularly like Neverwhere and American Gods.”

She scrabbles for a pen and writes these down. I very suavely increase the firmness of my hold on the book and inch it closer to me.

“Thanks!” she grins brightly. And nods. “Go on. You can have it.”

The book disappears into my bag. It will be kept on my person for the rest of the day. Possibly for the rest of my life. It will earn me major geek points at the Metafilter meetup later that evening. It will need to be protected from theft and damage and those who would try to take it from me. The book is mine.

The book will not be released for thirteen weeks, two days, one hour, fifty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds at the time of its yoinkage.

It is The Graveyard Book, by Neil Gaiman. And it is mine.

Tomorrow I get to take a train from platform 9 3/4!

Dreams_of_wings and co. took me to see this amazing performance tonight, and it was absolutely an incredible experience. I haven’t seen so stunning a live show in a very, very long while.

If you’re in Boston and you can get tickets, GO!

At least, that’s the theory. On a clear day, anyhow.

Last weekend was spent in Seattle, successfully obtaining for myself a place to live. I found an apartment about three blocks from the edge of campus (so about a ten-minute walk from the building where all my classes will be). It’s pretty flash. More photos of the apartment and other things can be found here.

I also met my supervisor and several of my co-workers for next semester. Everyone seems cool, and my supervisor said that I should let her know when I move up and she’ll introduce me to her husband who rows at Greenlake. The office has the sexiest damn computers I’ve seen in years. Two monitors for everyone.

My apartment has hardwood floors and its own washer and dryer. And a huge kitchen made for having guests over. There’s a ballet studio geared for adult dancers a few blocks south, about a zillion places to get pho and other cheap eats within a few blocks, a used bookstore and clothing exchange about two blocks away, and more coffee than you can swing a cat at. There’s also a Jack-in-the-Box that is apparently drug deal central a few blocks up, and I’m strongly advised not to walk alone at night. Win some, lose some.

I’ve been reading Sunshine again. For about the sixth time. Something about stress, and it being utter, utter id-fulfillment.

I need cinnamon rolls.

University of Washington, in order to curb the number and severity of measles epidemics on their campus, requires all students to submit evidence of measles immunization or history of disease. One can submit original vaccination records, a letter on physician’s letterhead with dates of immunization, or have one’s physician fill out a form, provided by UW for one’s filling-out convenience.

I can’t find my vaccination records. I know they happened, because they had to, but I can’t find them. This is what comes of moving every six months.

The doctor who had charge of me when I was busy being immunized for things like measles lives and works in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I last saw him in June of 2001. My medical records have long since been moved into archives (but I have a copy of most of them. Except the immunization records. Of course.)

So it’s options 2 and 3 that we need to play with.

Step 1: Call medical center. Leave a message with the receptionist.

Step 2: Wait for call back.

Step 3: Get call back. Have long discussion with nurse about exactly what I need for UW to be happy.

“Your records have been moved into archives; we’ll need to have you come in for an appointment.”

“Um. I live in Los Angeles.”

“Oh. Well, then you’ll need to go to your physician to have blood drawn for a titer.”

“Um. UW says you can just fill out this form.”

“Yes, but you need to prove immunity, not just vaccination for nursing school.”

“Um. I’m. Um. I’m not going to nursing school. I’m going to library school.”

“Oh. Well, the note here says nursing school.”

“Um. I don’t know where she got that. Library. Definitely not nursing. Library.”

“Well, you’ll still need to go in to get blood drawn for the titer.”

“Look, I have the form Dr. M—– filled out and signed for my undergrad college. It’s got dates of immunization and everything.”

“Can’t you just send that to UW?”

“Uh, no. Bureaucracy. Can I send it to you with the UW form and you can see that seven years ago Dr. M—– said that I got immunized for measles on these dates and then fill out the new form?”

Deep sigh from the nurse. “I guess you can send that over and we’ll take a look at it and see if it’s okay.”

Step 4: Fill out top part of form.

Step 5: Scan form in using C’s computer. Email file to self.

Step 6: Convert UW file and old undergrad file to PDFs.

Step 7: Write a cover letter.

Step 8: Email PDFs and cover letter to a friend who can fax them from her computer. (I’m supposed to have faxing-via-email capability through work. I can receive but not send. I’ve spent entirely too long trying to get this fixed and have given up and now just email things to coworkers to fax out.)

Step 9: Wait. Wait. Wait.

Step 10: Get faxed, completed form back from doctor’s office via email.

Step 11: Strip out unnecessary pages from the emailed file. Print to PDF.

Step 12: Email PDF to coworker to fax to UW.

Three computers (including my coworker’s), four file formats, five hours, and six email/fax transmissions later I have sufficient evidence that I was immunized against measles to make the public health people happy.

I should have just forged the goddamn thing in the first place.