Cause & Effect.

Everything has a consequence.

For example:

This is what happens when you let your local 'foot-and-ankle-clinic-working' roommate paint your toenails. Yay zebra!

Aren't they fantasmical?

But this is what happens when you let your 'not-so-formally-trained-as-a-dermatologist' father come at you with a can of air duster and a Q-tip. And this was even a few days later.

The immediate consequences were too gruesome to document on my G-rated blog. We're talking blisters. Possibly even comparable to boils.

What is the difference between a blister and a boil anyway?

Huh. According to Wikipedia,  "a boil, also called a furuncle, is a deep folliculitis, infection of the hair follicle. It is almost always caused by infection by the bacterium Staphylococcus aureus, resulting in a painful swollen area on the skin caused by an accumulation of pus and dead tissue."

Okay. Maybe PG.

But I'm sure you're wondering why I allowed Daddy-O to freeze off my epidermis with liquid nitrogen anyways? The truth is: I'm still wondering myself.

Suffice it to say, I have bumps.

(Ha ha, Gem. Get your mind out of the gutter.)

I guess, technically, they're really flat warts. But that name grosses me out beyond all belief. So I prefer to call them 'bumps'. Tiny, colorless bumps on my hand and arm that nobody really notices except me.

Which is why I let strange men burn them off. (No offense, Dad.)

And yet, they keep coming back!

I've decided that the more I'm determined they must go, the more determined they are to come back. Stubborn little suckers.

Same thing with the diamond shaped mole I've had on my right arm for as long as I can remember. When I was little, I told my mom how intensely I detested it and, without fail, every time she'd try to convince me that it was a beauty mark.

Does this look like a stupid face to you???

Don't answer that.

So when I convinced her to fund a trip to the dermatologist, I thought my blemish free dreams had finally come true.

HA.

Don't ever dream. It always ends badly.

'Cuz here I am, a year-and-a-half later and the diamond shaped 'beauty mark' is making its reappearance. CURSES.

Somebody just chop off my arms and put me out of my misery.

Sleep on It

The other day, I was watching some mindless ABC television program documenting the lives of 'Sleep Eaters'. This parasomnia, or abnormal behavior, during sleep is a common occurrence among nearly a million Americans.

"We've had patients consume cat food sandwiches." an article relates, "They've put coffee grounds, Coca-Cola, and eggshells in a blender and consume it. They eat Elmer's Glue. They chew on chunks of frozen pizza and then try to swallow it. They're like sleeping zombies, just walking around headless. Except that they have a mouth to feed."

This is just awesome.

So here's my question:
Why in the mother of all sin can't I suffer from a parasomnia?

I will happily take any of the following:
1) Sleep exerciser
2) Sleep job searcher
3) Sleep chicken dancer

Let's face it.
That last one would be freakin' hilarious.

I can just see it now.

Actually, the parasomnia I'm really good at is turning off my alarm in my sleep.

Which is an increasingly alarming (excuse my pun) habit.

I'll awaken suddenly to Gem getting in the shower which, of course, means 'you have approximately 10 minutes before you should be ready and out the door'.

Commence cursing, sprinting, banging into walls, etc.

"How in the monkey did my alarm not go off AGAIN?!!", I'll wonder frantically.

Then I look down and see that I'm holding my phone.
Which means it did go off. And that I disabled the most annoying 'rooster crowing' alarm ever to have been invented by man at its highest volume...

in. my. sleep.

I should really get more than five hours of sleep per night...

That way, I'd be coherent enough to respond to my alarm and avoid intentionally vague emails from my ever-concerned mother warning against the 'evils of sin'. In this instance, sin equaling staying up late.

Well if the horns fit!

In other news, during my research on 'sleep eaters', I came across some very useful knowledge.

Apparently, though I may turn off alarms, I don't swallow spiders in my sleep.

"In order to swallow a spider in your sleep, a number of unlikely coincidences would all have to occur in sequence. You'd have to be sleeping with your mouth pretty wide open. If a spider crawled on your face and over your lips, you'd likely feel it, so a spider would have to approach you by descending from the ceiling above you on a silk thread. The spider would have to hit the target – your mouth - dead center to avoid tickling your lips. And if it landed on your tongue, a highly-sensitive surface, you would feel it for sure. So the spider would have to land at the back of your throat without touching anything on the way in. And then you'd have to swallow."

Now don't you feel better?

'Ze-bra'nd New Additions

Lately, I've been attracted to all things zebra.

Zebra accessories.

Zebra electronics.

Zebra interiors.

So when I found this little beauty of a chest hiding around a corner at my internship, I knew that it must soon be mine.

So I set it in the living room for all to admire and filled it with blankets. Talk about awesome AND functional.

Then I realized something: my zebra chest was all alone in a big-wide apartment of mainly traditional accessories. He'd stick out like a sore thumb in there all by himself!

So I made him some zebra pillow brethren.
Quadruplets to be exact.

Who cares that my living room is now a mixture of traditional colors, contemporary patterns and a splash of St. Patty's Day green? Look how happy they all look together.

Consistency is for old people!
Or at least people with money and know-how.

Plus, if there's anything I've learned during the past four months of endless interior decoration, it is that there are no rules. Just call it 'transitional' and no one will ever know you're full of bologna.

And now for a moment of apology.

I am sorry, dear readers, for not posting for (dare I say it) an entire month.

But you see, my days have gone something like this:
6:00AM - Wake up (or begin what will become the first of seven snooze button delays).
8:00AM - Be to work, ideally. Tardiness, however, may be overlooked should freshly baked goods be involved.
11:00AM - Spend an eternity looking for a parking spot. Trudge to campus. Die in class.
1:00PM - Grab a quick lunch. Drive to internship. Commence slave labors.
7:00PM - Drive home. Collapse on couch. Beg Gem to make food.
8:00PM - Play volleyball. Go country dancing. Swim. Light things on fire. General college life merry-making. Etc.
12:00AM - Contemplate going to bed. Decide to watch 'Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives' instead. Regret it all the next morning.

Rinse, Lather, REPEAT.

And so, can you blame me? I've really had the best of intentions.

But what would you do if you had the choice between sitting behind a computer another minute or running down and jumping into this:

Uh huh.

That's what I thought.

Dizzy Death

Last night, I learned why it's called 'country swing'.
In the very worst possible way.

Lacy-Hacy, Gem and I headed up for a night of twangy yee-hawin' at Studio 600 in SLC. We were giddy to escape the 'usuals' we've endured at The Center every Wednesday night for the past three months. Many so notorious that they've been nicknamed.

For instance, should you ever feel the need to submit yourself to the torture that is line dancing, I suggest you steer clear of 'Stinky' and 'Deputy'. Why? Well, Stinky's pretty self-explanatory and Deputy, he's a spittle spewer.

In any event, we arrived.

What you must know: I am no dancer. In any sense of the word.
In my mind, dancing is equivalent to running.

And I never run. Unless I'm being chased by a bear.

The problem? My legs don't move as fast as my mind thinks they can. It doesn't end well.

But back to my story.

I immediately plopped down on one of the chairs lining the walls, content to play with my new android smartphone the entire evening.

But if you've ever been country dancing, (poor shmuck) you know that (no matter how hard you might try) you WILL be asked to dance. Forcibly removed from your seat and planted in the center of the dance floor if you're at all resistant.

So naturally, I did everything in my power to look uninterested.
It didn't help.

After a few dances with Franz, the ever charismatic Peruvian, a mammoth of a fella towered over me, hand outstretched.

"Come on, girly.", he boomed.

Before I could think twice, he had pulled me to the center of the floor. And let me tell you, the guy was a madman. Flinging and twirling and spinning and flipping, I had no idea what was happening.

I must have been doing something right because at several points he leaned back his head and let out a resounding 'HOO!'. Not the owl type (*hoo, hoo*). I'm talking a 'everyone in the building/surrounding area would have heard that' beller.

Why? I'm not sure. I try not to question beefy men when they've got my life in their hands.

By the time I staggered back to my seat, Lacy-Hacy, Gem and Franz were applauding.

"Did you see what he just did?!", I gasped hoarsely.

They nodded back enthusiastically, grinning from ear to ear.

Their reaction wasn't at all a surprise. In the past I been known to stubbornly stick to my rule of 'no dips, no flips, no tricks'. But somehow, I'd been caught off guard.

By the time I had caught my breath and Gem and Lacy-Hacy had taken their turns with the 'one-man-wonder-ride-o-fun', he was back for round two.

I wasn't sure my nerves could take it.

Thinking myself prepared for what would come next, I confidently sauntered away. But boy, was I in for a surprise.

Instead of slowly dropping me into the familiar dips I was so fully expecting, hand securely supporting my neck, he picked me up and starting throwing me around a like a rag-doll.

Instantly, my brain realized that this just would not do.
The centrifugal force caused my headband to shoot across the room while my insides began to scramble. I began to very seriously understand that if he didn't put me down soon, I was going to hurl.

The closest thing I can compare it to is a carnival ride.
You know, the kind where you scream 'til you can't possibly scream anymore and plead for death to come quickly?

It seemed like an eternity before he finally put me back down.

Feeling very much as though I was still being twirled like a baton, I teetered slightly and slumped to the floor.

I'm surprised someone didn't yell 'timber'.

"You okay?", he questioned nervously.

It took every fiber of my being to orient my head and convince it to look upward.

"I think so?", I replied to all seven of him.

Either he pulled me to my feet or gravity was no longer a universal law, because somehow I was standing again.

"That ain't happening.", my legs told me as they turned to Jell-O.

"I think I'd better sit down.", I decided as I staggered back and forth like a drunken sailor.

Helping me back to my seat, he made a quick retreat to his corner, tail between his legs.

I'm not exactly sure all what happened next but I was coherent enough to recognize Lacy-Hacy's distinct laughter and Gem looking very concerned.

Wondering why people were dancing on the ceiling, I decided that my best bet would be to put my head between my legs. It seemed to work in the movies.

"Is she okay??", my assailant returned to question concernedly, my body gone limp.

"I think so...", Gem responded, flopping my head onto her shoulder.

"I'll be fine." I slurred, "Just make the room stop spinning."

And that, my friends, is how I gracefully exited the world of country swing. At least for the evening.

I had learned an important lesson.
One that I would not soon forget.

Namely, next time, I'm bringing Dramamine.