The tale of Sneaky Baby-- Part 2

[Might I offer you a slice of Part 1?]

I truly, honestly hope our birth story doesn't turn out to be this dramatic. I feel like this whole day could be split up like a season of "24." Oh, what the hell.

The following takes place between 5pm and 7pm.

(WOW, was that overkill or what.) (And yes, that is a toe picture as requested by many. Sorry to those of you who would rather melon-ball out their eyes than look at it.) (Scroll, scroll, scroll. Scrolling heals all.)

Relatedly, I do have to warn you that this next installment is absolutely disgusting.

I had just stayed up all night, squeaked out a professional portfolio at the last minute, nailed an interview, came home to find my foot on the verge of decomposing, and found myself completely and unexpectedly pregnant. Whee.

For the third time in as many hours, I endangered my life by getting behind the wheel of a car on absolutely zero sleep and entirely too much caffeine. Time to haul this toe to the hospital.

Once there, the receptionist advised me to go straight to the ER. They set me up with a hospital bed and assured me a doctor would be there shortly.

I cannot express how slowly the next fifteen minutes went by. I was delirious from sleep deprivation, delirious from shock about Sneaky Baby, and deliriously in need of having my husband by my side.

I remember wild scenarios passing through my head... the doctor would say, "I'm sorry, we have to give you antibiotics to save your foot, but the baby won't make it." And my inner Mama Grizzly would snarl, "THEN CUT OFF MY GODDAMNED FOOT." (...to save our new little sesame-seed-sized sac o' cells. Quite the dramatic inner dialogue, as usual, and complete with alliteration.)

I looked up to see Jason rush into the room, and it took everything I had to not burst into tears. There is nothing like seeing your rock, your partner in crime (aHEM), your sweet, handsome fella whose smile dissolves all stress from your body... there's just nothing like seeing that person as a "dad" for the first time.

He thought I was really upset about my toe. Funny.

I decided I couldn't break the news to him in this cold, sterile, public setting. Instead, I buried my face in his chest as he stood next to my bed. He stroked the back of my hair, I melted into him, and time ceased to pass.

Perky Dr. Linda broke the hypnosis as she introduced herself, and promptly started baby-talking to my "poor, poor wittle toe."

She gave it a few pokes and decided we needed to cut it open. Urrrf.

My options were: I could get a super-effective numbing shot in a nerve between my toes, or risk less thorough numbing with a shot on top of my toe.

I don't know about you, but a needle going between my toes and deep into my foot is a prettt-ty horrific prospect. I decided I'd had enough for that day, and convinced her to shoot me up on the top.

Shot. Then,

Scalpel.

Slice.

HOLY FLAMING F***BALLS OF SEARING PAIN.

I'd forgotten that I'm some breed of drug-resistant freak, and usually need a double-dose of Novocain at the dentist. So much for having "had enough that day."

For some reason, I was more freaked out about another syringe to the foot than putting up with this pain. So I tried to keep my hyperventilating silent, and crushed the living dickens out of Jason's hand.

Dr. Linda wasn't done. She grabbed a miniature version of food tongs, and shoved one tong sideways 1/4-inch into my new toe-hole. The other remained on top.

barbecue anyone? [from]

She squeezed the tongs together in a quick, repetitive "snipping" motion and made her way all around the edge of the toe-cano. Several times.

This lady was a TOE-JUICING MACHINE.

Dr. Linda then explained that the next step would be to "pack" my nice new toe cavity with a long strip of gauze. She splayed the wound open with the barbecue tongs and started packin' that sucker.

I don't think I've ever been so close to passing out in my life. All this, and still no sleep from the day before. I looked down at the hospital bed, and at the gore-soaked pile of gauze next to my foot. I thought about the fact that I'd be back in a hospital bed in 9 months, equally sleep-deprived, and in a hell of a lot more pain.

Jason's crushed hand was holding out amazingly well.

"Alllll done!" Dr. Linda broke out of her silent toe-juicing zone and happily chirped her completion. She stripped off her gloves and looked squarely into my haggard, bloodshot eyes.

She said she had some "girl" questions to ask me. I knew where this was going, and my heart tried to explode out of my chest as I contemplated Jason having to find out this way.

But, bless her baby-talking, toe-juicing soul, she continued, "Would you like to have him go outside while we talk?"

I answered "YES" before she could even finish.

...

Okay, sorry amigos. I didn't realize this was going to turn into such a novel, but this exhausted mama needs to go to bed for the night. I promise this will get wrapped up next week! It gets a lot less gross, and a lot more happy, from this point on.

P.S. Dear Sneaky Baby reading this 12 years from now,
As a little bitty brand-new blastocyst, you were a freakin' CHAMP for putting up with all this. Good job. Love, Mom

The tale of Sneaky Baby-- Part 1

This story starts with a bump. A little, tiny bump.

Just kidding, not that one. That's not very "little" these days, anyway.

The bump I'm talking about appeared in September... on my toe. I had noticed a small, swollen red spot-- a bug bite? A super-sexy ingrown toe hair?

(Sorry Sneaky Baby, reading this 12 years from now. This is not a very cute beginning to your tale.)

A week later, the little bump had amassed into a gnarly red & purple welt with something that looked disturbingly... "pop-able" on top.

I didn't really have time to go to the doctor: I was doing a hardcore "whole food" detox where I had to cook everything from scratch, I was lifeguarding at 5AM, teaching swim lessons in the afternoon, and cramming for the two "grown-up" interviews I had within a few days.

Meanwhile, the toe bump kept growing. It was starting to make me limp a little.

The first interview went incredibly well. Afterwards, I kept plugging away at making a printed art portfolio for my next (graphic designer) interview. Horrifyingly sooner than later, it was the night before this interview and I still felt miles from "ready."

I kept working on the portfolio until 1am. Just kidding, I kept working until 4am.

Just kidding, I stayed up ALL EFFING NIGHT without a wink of sleep, sucking down coffee, frantically tinkering and rearranging images. I mean, it's just not possible to make a printed booklet look good enough for a job where you will make printed booklets.

With only two hours before my interview and fingers tightly crossed, I sent my file to Kinko's. Then (in lieu of a nap of course) I crammed, crammed, crammed for any answers this guy could possibly throw at me.

Dressed in the snazzy outfit I'd had planned for a week (thanks to mi amiga Kelley), I went to put on my high-heeled "lady" shoes.

Bad idea.

I just about YAKKED from the searing pain that shot through my toe when I tried to stand up. That sucker was pretty much rotting from the inside out at this point. (Not to mention I still had a healing broken toe on that foot as well.) But in my delirious state, there was no way I was changing shoes.

At this point I probably shouldn't have been driving, but I swung by Kinko's, picked up my rockin' portfolio, managed to avoid any car accidents, and ab. so. lute. ly. NAILED this interview. Like, to the point where we were discussing my starting date by the end of it. What the hell?! It's like I had a lucky charm or something (...wink.)

Back safely at home (again, Holy Lucky Charm Batman... don't ever drive on zero sleep) I took my shoes and tights off.

Oh dear.

My entire left foot was puffed up like it had tried to make sweet love to a rattlesnake. I had to go to the hospital and get antibiotics before this got into the rest of my bloodstream.

The thought of "antibiotics" spurred the first moment of clarity I'd had in about a week, and things started clicking into place. Like, how I (almost) never get sick, yet the other night I couldn't finish cooking my favorite dinner because the smell was making me gag. And how I'd cried about three times in the past week. And how... eh, I wasn't very good at keeping track of this, but it was probably about time for the ol' uterus to do its thing again. And it hadn't.

I had a feeling that antibiotics wouldn't be okay if... gulp. Yeah. The p-word.  I asked The Google and The Google confirmed: antibiotics and the p-word don't mix too well.

Luckily I had a peestick in the bathroom, and luckily I had some pee. I actually wasn't even nervous, because there was no way I was pregnant. That happens to grown-ups. That happens to people who have their shit together. That happens to people who have been trying and trying to get knocked up for months and then do handstands for an hour after hitting the sack. This test was just The Responsible Thing To Do, so I could confidently tell the doctor that, why, yes, I AM currently eligible for antibiotics even though I have been half-assing "natural" birth control for the past two years. Surely all my "symptoms" were easily explained by stress and lack of sleep.

See? Two lines. Totally... wait. Two lines. TWO LINES.

whammo. Look what my pee can do.

 I grabbed the towel hanging next to the toilet, wadded it into my face, and screamed "OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD" for a good twenty seconds.

How... nurturing and maternal of me. (Fast forward to the present 33-weeks-pregnant where Sneaky Baby just gave me a guilt-inducing jab to the ribs).

It's like I had 50 brains with 50 sudden realizations all at once. "OHMYGOD. I'm not ready for this." "OHMYGOD. I get to see what Jason & I are like melded into one new little body." "OHMYGOD. It's in there right now." "OHMYGOD. Jason is going to die of happiness." "OHMYGOD. But I just accepted a full-time job PLUS a second part-time job." "OHMYGOD. My body is going to completely change --WAIT-- OHMYGOD. I get to finally have boobs."

But mostly: "OHMYGOD. Moms know everything and make everything better. I don't do that. That test has to be wrong somehow."

I felt like my heart was crushing between the amazement and protectiveness I felt for our little tiny offspring, and the paralyzing fear I felt that my life was changing forever and there was no going back.

I texted Jason (away at the gym) and told him I was taking The Gross Toe to the Emergency Room. He said he'd meet me there.

Thermoelectric and Heat Flow Phenomena in Mesoscopic Systems...DONE.

Super duper crazy happy news!

JASON FINISHED WRITING HIS DISSERTATION. His thesis. His PhD paper. His ultimate Physics final.

Five years of post-grad schooling; countless nights stuck in his windowless laboratory; 215 pages of cold, hard physics.

So maybe this is a bit of preemptive celebration, because there are a few more hoops he has to jump through before he gets to call himself "Dr. Matthews." He has to have a Board of Really Smart People with Foreign Accents and Beards read it over this week, and then he has his "Doctoral Defense" next Thursday. Whoo!

Although he's been working his tail off on writing it all summer, these past two weeks were especially insaneinthemembrane. At first, he was averaging about 5 hours of sleep per night.

At that point he was completely nocturnal. He'd go lay down on the couch in the afternoon, and turn to me with pleading, bloodshot eyes. He'd beg, "April, no matter what I say, I want you to wake me up in THREE HOURS. No 'fifteen more minutes.' Do whatever you have to do... even ice-water. Get me up."

Sorry, buddy, there's no way I could throw ice-water on that.

I'd dutifully wake him up, and he'd open one sleepy eye with a look of desperate anguish. Then he'd lay down the Kryptonite in a cute, sleepy voice:

"Cuddle?"
"Sweetheart, you're supposed to get---"
"Just five minutes?"
"But--"
"I miss sleeping next to you."

aaaaaaand BAM I was in his arms, and he was instantly making happy little snoring sounds.

Oh, MERCY, our future offspring will get away with anything if they inherit those puppy eyes.

Soon, the five-hour sleep average turned into just two hours a night. I'd try to wake him up, and he'd sleep talk something about "anisotropic thermoelectrics in four-terminal ballistic junctions."

The last three days (or should I say day-nights), he really got in a crunch and enlisted me to proofread every. last. page. So I got to dig through THIS for missed apostrophe's and little typos.

(Bahaha I just had to torment all you grammar OCD-ers out there-- apostrophes!!^^ I feel like I need to go wash my hands or something now.)

Anyway, I got to dig through every last page--twice--for little things like this:

I wish you could've seen the look on his poor, sleep-deprived face while he tried to figure out why I was "writing in Russian."

For now, he sleeps all he wants. I no longer have to stress about my failings as a sleep Nazi. Then once he's caught up, it's Power-Point time! Go Jason, Go!


Want to read more about his research? I tried to sum it up in English-for-humans here.

The kitchen sink can kill you

I almost never do dishes. You might be tempted to guess that this happens because I'm such an awesome cook, and Jason demonstrates his gratitude by cleaning up the kitchen every night after I ransack it.

WOW, that's really nice of you to guess that, you flatterer you. But I'm afraid the real reason is much darker; much more treacherous, and foreboding, and every other adjective for the word "sinister." I've seen what that sink and its shadowy cabinets below are capable of. I've seen what they can do... to a brave little beetle named Alazar.

This story takes place one painfully sleep-deprived night before a final presentation.

In architecture school, when you ask someone for the time, they don't say, "Ten-fifteen," or "Eight thirty-five," or even "Noon." They look deep into your soul with their darkened, hollow eyes, and robotically murmur something like, "86 hours 'til." 86 hours, that is, until the end of the world as they've come to know it. 86 hours until their 10-week-long project is due.

On this particular night, it was 3 AM, and I was horrified to find myself at FIVE HOURS 'til. I'd gotten one hour of sleep the night before, and only three the last few nights before that. I was frantic. The design was great, but now everything had dissolved into a frenzied flurry of trying to trace all my final drawings onto a large posterboard.

I'd laid out the final poster onto the largest flat surface in our apartment: the kitchen floor. I was flinging pens, running back-and-forth to the printer, and trying not to cry (not a pride thing, I just didn't want to smudge the ink.)

At around this Five Hours 'Til landmark, I felt my brain starting to lose its grip on reality. You know when you're lying in bed, halfway asleep, and you're vaguely aware of the random-ass chaos your subconscious is churning through? I had those spinning, echoey, nonsense thoughts racing through my head even though my eyes were open-- like somebody flipping through TV channels.

Stacy, can't you see, you're just not the girl for meee

Outside, beyond the vaguely schizophrenic goings-on within my own head, my apartment was undergoing its own strange transformation. It was time for the Bug Parade.

I didn't think much of the first few little creatures that crawled across my poster. But they kept coming. And coming. Soon, there were consistently at least five insects skittering across my poster at any given moment, and I was full-on tripping out like Dumbo during that weird, drug-induced "Pink Elephants" interlude.

At "Three hours 'til" (5 AM), out lumbered The King of All The Bugs. His name was Alazar, and he was a monstrous, gleaming black beetle. He was so large that each step he took made a scratching noise on my poster paper. I was so sleep-and-Bug-Parade-stoned that his bumbling gate easily hypnotized my weakened mind; I hummed my version of "Stacy's Mom" to him and smiled admiringly at his majestic waddle.

Then he majestically waddled across the section of the poster I needed to finish, and slapped me back into reality.

"Sorry, Your Highness, you've got to go for a little ride now," I apologized, and blew at him as hard as I could.

He bounced and skittered loudly across the kitchen floor, and came to a halt below the counters under the kitchen sink. His life was about to change forever.

Within milliseconds of skidding to a stop, THE BIGGEST BLACK WIDOW I'D EVER SEEEEEEEN pounced onto Alazar, King of All The Bugs. I shrieked.

The two of them blurred into a tangle of creepy black legs as I sat, frozen in shock. One of them started making a loud clicking noise, presumably Alazar's battlecry, and I sprung into action. I sprinted into the bathroom.

Once there, I froze with the realization that I had no idea why I'd gone to the bathroom. I looked around. Somewhere in my mind, I thought a can of hairspray was a great idea.

It wasn't.

I blasted the SH*T out of our leggy friends with hairspray, and the spray separated the two bewildered bugs a few inches from each other. I grabbed the longest stick I could find (a yardstick-- thank youuu, architecture supplies close at hand), and contemplated the spider's fate.

I don't like killing things, but Venomous Vicky had to move on to the afterlife that night. Too many small children lived nearby, and I had a grim responsibility to perform. I smooshed her giant creepy body flat onto the floor, whispering "sorrysorrysorry I'mreallysorryVicky OHGOD sorrysorrysorry." Possibly the creepiest I've ever looked/sounded in my whole life, right there.

I turned my attention to Alazar. He was in a horrifyingly disgraceful state, considering his royal ranking: the sticky hairspray had attached every last thing nearby to his body, and a ruthless combination of hairs and carpet fibers had wrapped his legs tightly to his body.

Oh, the guilt.

I grabbed a piece of paper, and tried to scootch him onto it with a pencil. Being the Vicious Warrior King that he was, he grabbed the pencil with his giant beetle-y chompers and held fast. I now had a pencil with an accidentally straight-jacketed King of All The Bugs hanging from the end of it.

With another pencil, I tried to pry the fibers off of his body. They didn't budge. In fact, if I pulled any harder I was sure that I'd rip his body off of his pencil-clamping jaws.

I had to give him a bath.

I took him to the bathroom sink, and held him under the faucet. I resumed my creepy habit of whispering "sorrysorrysorrysorry YourMajestyKingAlazar sorrysorryOHGOD sorrysorry" as I tried to gently pull off his ill-fitting sweater. It wasn't working.

But this dude knew what was UP. He wasn't King of All The Bugs for nothing, amigos. He began, meticulously, this motion that I can only describe as "petting himself" underneath the tangled fibers. And slowly, it seemed that they were loosening.

I acknowledged my inferiority in bug-freeing, set him in the bottom of the sink, and left to resume my architecture work. Ten minutes later, I returned to the bathroom to check on Alazar's progress.

At the bottom of the sink was an abandoned cocoon of maroon carpet fibers, and Alazar was triumphantly trying to sprint up the slippery sink walls.

YEAH F*** YEAH, ALAZAR. Ten minutes HAS to be some kind of hairspray-and-carpet-sweater world record. I was effing PROUD. WHAT A LITTLE STUDMUFFIN.

I offered him the pencil and he wisely (?) clamped on again. I took him back into the kitchen and put him underneath the refrigerator to recover in peace and dignity.

Oh, the adrenaline. I finished my poster in the remaining 2 hours like a champ. When Jason woke up, I proudly recounted The Tale of Alazar, King of Beetles.

He looked at my bloodshot, dilated eyes. He looked down at the fridge. He looked up.

"You... didn't put him outside?"

"JASON E. MATTHEWS. This poor tormented creature was just going for his innocent nightly stroll when he got tossed about in a windstorm, attacked by Venomous Vicky, sprayed down with foul, sticky, burning, suffocating toxins, wrapped up in a straightjacket, WATERBOARDED, and trapped in a frictionless pit. We shall harbor His Highness in our food-scrap-abounding, comfortably-heated apartment for the rest of his little life. HE IS A SURVIVOR.

"Also... you might want to wear boots, or squat on a chair, from now on when you wash the dishes... when *you* wash the dishes. Vicky's relatives want revenge against me."

Shudder.

And that's why I don't really like doing dishes anymore.

I should abandon my blog more often

I was such a grown-up this week! I ingested craploads of caffeine, averaged 5 hours of sleep a night, and MADE $#!& HAPPEN.


Exhibit A:                                                                                                                                                  

I revamped my professional portfolio! Want to see what Mrs. Matthews-er does for a living?*
*(by "for a living," I mean "is desperately seeking employment.")

clickety-click-click!

I managed to reel in my squirrel-with-ADHD personality for the most part, but by the time I made the "Get in Touch" page, my squirrely side had started to leak out. Oh, well.


Exhibit B:                                                                                                                                                  

To hold me over in the meantime, I got a job as a lifeguard/swim instructor, and signed up to volunteer at an animal shelter! I am SO on my way to becoming a functioning member of society.

Fun fact: Apparently lifeguards get fired if we wear our uniform off-duty, in public. But the internet doesn't count as public... right?

***

On another note: I saw one of my old Architecture School professors the other day, and confessed that I didn't have a job yet, but couldn't search outside of town because the Hubster is still in school here. Her advice?  Move out of town and leave him here if I was serious about a career in architecture.

Sorry, Prof, I'm way too whipped for that. I guess I'll just continue to harrass the small handful of firms here in town.

And as for all of YOU, amigos, please instruct all your rich relatives to commission lots of new construction projects here in Eugene, Oregon. Much appreciated.

What happens when my mom drinks Yerba Mate.

Holy moley, are you guys in for a treat today.

I've been waiting for an excuse to post The Funniest Email I've Ever Gotten (from the Mama Bear herself) and now that it's her birthday, I can finally justify it.

...she may or may not have consented to me publishing this.

Meh. Bygones.

So here's the backstory to this crazy email of hers:

• I had just emailed her about my phone not working because she hadn't payed the bills yet. (Spoiled brat, I know...! At least I wasn't married at this point yet?)
• She is a life-long coffee addict. She brews that s#!t stronger than espresso and drinks 5 cups a day.

Without further ado, you all can now catch a glimpse of where I "get it from" (and THEN some):

Hi April!

So sorry about the phone malfunction, I think it's really unfair they cut service off just because they don't get any money. 

I've just about had it with that company anyway, always demanding money for sound waves and pieces of plastic that just annoy the heck out of you anyway (except of course when I call). I'm sure they will come to their senses before too long and let us use the service for free, but until then I guess I will play their stupid little game!!!

Kelsey and I went to see "Jumper" last night.  It was pretty good but the camera was truly "jumpy" and I felt dizzy, like I'd been on a rollercoaster!  We just threw up in the popcorn bags, though, so it was all good.

I hope you are sitting down right now, because I have some AMAZING NEWS.  Ready?  You're sitting down right?  Read this slowly, because it may be too much to take in initially.....






I     have      stopped           drinking                       coffee.



Are you okay?  Wake up, wake up!!!!  Jason, get her off the floor!!!!  

I have switched to Yerba Mate, a tea that is popular in Costa Rica.  It is supposed to give you energy without the jitters (but what if you like the jitters? just kidding, kind of). 

You probably think that I switched to Yerba Mate because I've been sick and throwing up, but actually I did it because of the obvious health benefits, AND because I was easily able to make the adjustment based on the diligent dedication to more evolving alternative lifestyle which I have embraced wholeheartedly. 

Dad, Kelsey and I are also bucking the system and have decided to be the pioneers of the Clothing-Optional Lifestyle, both at home and at school and work. Kelsey is actually pretty excited about not being a slave to fashion anymore!

You will be surprised how easy it is to get used to when you COME BACK HOME FOR SPRING BREAK!!!  Just think how much less you will have to pack :)

Okay, I'm sorry, I am trying to stop, today is going to be a fun day.

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                 Lots of Love,
                               Mom


Perhaps I should take a tip from her, and drink a cup of Yerba before every blog post from now on...? 

Happy birthday to my Mom!! She's weird in the most amazing ways and I love her more than the world.

Here's how NOT to combat jet-lag:

Write a blog post in a hysterically sleep-deprived state for all the world-wide-webbins to see.

Dear www,

It's me, again. Jason & I have had a long day. As in, literally, a 33-hour-long thanks to changing time zones. We stayed up packing & cleaning until 3AM, and woke up at 5AM to finish.

On our way out, we left Ruffles at the door of our helpful neighbor, with a note thanking him for being a friendly neighbor, and informing him that he should have a Merry Christmas, and of course, informing him of the plant's name. Fernadine, on the other hand, was given a solemn burial in the trash can (I told you, I have the Black Thumb of Death).

Checking in our luggage at the airport, they told us that we couldn't check three suitcases--only one suitcase per person! However, the typical loophole soon surfaced-- throw cash at them. $150, specifically. We agreed to pay the ransom for our poor suitcase, since there were probably more than $150 of clothes/books inside it. We went to a separate counter to pay the $150, where they suddenly declared that it was totally acceptable for us to check three bags. They said we didn't have to pay. Thank. Goodness.

We flew from Copenhagen to Frankfurt, Germany (I kept accidentally calling it Frankenfurter. Although, frankly, I like my version better.) ("Frankly." Get it? heh.) (Heh, heh.) (Heh. Might I remind you of the title of this post?) I LOVE the Frank(en)furt(er) airport. Old German men with Einstein moustaches pedal their luggage around on little rented bikes, and concession stands vend pretzels, sausages and beer. It's a circus, in the best stereotypically-German way possible.

Aaaand cue 11-hour transcontinental flight. It was fascinating to watch out the window as we chased the sunset westward across the globe. We passed time with Sudoku, movies, and laughing at each other for no reason other than sleeplessness (the best kind of laughing, don't you think?)

We were served strange German sandwiches towards the end of the flight, packaged together with potato chips and a Kit-Kat bar. That's a straight-up BUTTER SLAB sitting on that piece of bread there. Apparently the flight attendants had taken a liking to us over the 11 hours, because a steward returned back with a few extra Kit-Kat bars and a sly wink. Then he came back AGAIN, this time setting a complete package in front of Jason, silently pointing to the food, then to him, with a nod. We considered it atonement for the initial baggage battle in Denmark, happily stuffed the free food in our bags, and landed in San Francisco.

HOME TURF! As we waited for our luggage to circle by, a TSA employee led an adorably cheerful beagle around on a leash as he sniffed everyone's bags for contraband food (I think that I should clarify it was the dog doing the sniffing). They busted one befuddled German who had brought bananas into the States (God FORBID, I know.) The beagle approached our bags and I tried to reassure myself that we wouldn't get in trouble for the Friendly Flight Attendant Food Cache.

The little dog sniffed at our backpack. He took a step back, and tilted his head. After taking a few more cautious sniffs, he moved on. Apparently airplane meals don't quite register as food to his finely-tuned nose.

After re-checking our luggage, we happily hurried to our last connection: from San Franscisco to Home Sweet Home Eugene, Oregon!!!! At this point, we had stayed up until 3AM according to our Sveedish internal clocks and were really, really looking forward to sleeping in our own bed.

Alas, it was not meant to be. The plane is delayed from 7:30PM to 10:30PM, and here I am, wrapping up an absurdly long blog post in a frantic attempt to stay awake.

Gack.

National Hug a Stressed Architecture Student Day

Today is National Hug a Stressed Architecture Student Day! (Well, at least on Facebook.) While I'd love to come visit all my Arch. friends slaving away at their desks, with hugs and chocolate-covered espresso beans, I'm stuck here in Sveeeden and I'm going to have to settle for a virtual hug. I'll preface this post by insisting that not a single word of it is made-up, nor even exaggerated (anecdotes sampled from friends' and my own experiences).

Let me briefly explain the setting of Architectural Education, for those of you who aren't familiar. Within a towering campus building dedicated to Architorture (and sometimes Arts/Art History), there are classrooms called "design studios." In each studio, every student has their own desk where they store their supplies and work on their projects. Often, a decades-old, tear-stained couch is tucked in the corner to provide relief from our voluntary insomnia.

Since I graduated, I've been wondering what, exactly, makes architecture school so stressful. I've met Law School students who pity us, for goodness' sake. I think the stress comes from the personality traits that Arch. school attracts into its exacto-blade talons.

First of all, most of us are crazy, OCD perfectionists.* Second, we are viciously competitive (yet strain to not let this show). Third, we have Jack-of-all-trades, Renaissance-Man brains that yearn to perfectly integrate every last detail and function of the building we're designing (down to the drain spouts and sidewalk curbs. One sleepless night, I was moved to tears by my friend's perfect perspective-drawing of her gutter outlets. I am. NOT. kidding.)

Every term, you picture your finalized project as The Grandiose Production to End All Grandiose Productions. As the ten-week deadline looms closer, the time-intensive reality of eating, other classes, and personal hygiene slowly chip away at your dreams. You struggle to keep them afloat by sacrificing sleep and social interaction. Suddenly, you realize you've allotted yourself five weeks of work... for the last two weeks. At this point, most people would admit, "Wow, my over-achieving goals for this project were so naive. This happens every term; I guess I'll just have to take it down a giant notch."

Architecture slaves students buckle down and say, "I'm going to have to take this UP a giant notch."

Well, HELLO, little snuggle buddy.

"Taking it up a giant notch" denotes an even more depressing priority shift. You draw an hourly schedule for the next two weeks, penciling in an optimistic four hours of sleep per night. You calculate that going home is about a 30-minute round trip, which, if sacrificed, could add 12.5% to this nightly sleep quota. You sleep on the aforementioned couch (which, as you have just learned in your ECS** class, is now approximately 20% dust mites/dust mite feces by weight).


Later, you dash home to collect a few changes of clothes, and every can of food out of the cupboards (mostly corn). You forget your toothbrush. Your roommate graciously brings it on her way to class, where you instantly shove it into your plaque-overrun mouth, and make noises that cause your studiomates to poke their heads above their computer screens to investigate... ehmm... who's watching something they shouldn't be.

You take showers at the school gym. The whites of your eyes slowly, but surely, become the same shade as the rest of your face. Coffee becomes a strategically-administered design tool. You pass out in your seat mid-sentence, and start sleep-talking about Sketchup.*** You try to drive home with one of your studiomates, and BOTH of you simultaneously fall asleep at a red light (aHEMMM, Kody & Adrian).

Much of this perfectionistic hysteria is fueled by the amazingly skilled people who surround you in studio. The selection process for Architecture School is a vicious one, and most who make it through are accustomed to being The Best of the Best. You arrive with a padded ego, only to be knocked flat on your back by the talent that joins you there.


At the same time, these people share a certain insanity that you once thought was your own sole burden to carry. Their attitude swoops up & down between killing themselves with criticism, and a taunting, playful arrogance. Their brains are on fire with creativity, leading to 4-AM studio dance-karaoke parties, exacto-knife-flinging contests, and jumping in the courtyard fountain to pull themselves through 48-hours straight of consciousness. Within a week, your shock and intimidation has morphed into a profoundly genuine enthusiasm for your classmates' success.


For those of you still in school, I know you'll ROCK Review Week over the next few days. For those of you who graduated before me or with me, I hope you're happily employed. And to all of you, I want you to know that going to Architecture School was like meeting 100 of my long-lost brothers and sisters. We're masochistic, music-obsessed, expensive pen-collecting, visually-driven freaks who reacted like Portland cement and water. And-- you know this-- the result is a lot of warmth and a permanent bond.

HUGS to you all.

*If you're an Arch. student, take this quiz. Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder, yes?!
**Environmental Control Systems. Here is a little song about the class's textbook. And I AM NOT KIDDING about the dust-mite fact... same goes for the pillow in your bed.
***Sketchup is a 3-D computer-modeling program. (And sadly, this anecdote was me... ask Jason and my dad.)

I should acknowledge that the whole 48-hour sleep deprivation isn't every Architecture student's experience. About 1-in-30 possess a magical talent for perfect focus, realistic expectations, time management, and knowing where to get illicit supplies of Ritalin (I kid, I kid). Seriously, these people astound me. And I suppose they can have a hug today, too.

A moment to savor

I think the long hours in the lab are getting to him. Jason finally--

as in, after seven years, FINALLY--

had an April moment.*









*e.g.: My phone has been known to hide inside the refrigerator.

Watch out, Sweden...

...I found a bike. Good ol' address-knowing, looks-like-Charlie-from-Lost neighbor let me in on this thing called Blocket (basically the Swedish version of Craiglist). I muddled my way through the website with Google online translation, and this cheap ad caught my eye:

Click here if you want to see what I was facing at that point. (And don't worry, those aren't in dollars!)

Well praise the Blocket gods (and the help of this website), it turns out the ad was posted by a dude in our same apartment complex! Jason & I met him at Willy's the next morning (of course Willy's, you guys know how I feel about that place). The bike only had one working tire, but we shelled out the couple dozen bucks and lugged it home.

Now, this is definitely not a titanium-framed speedster we have on our hands. It weighs the amount of a small car, and every surface has surrendered to the elements in brown, flakey rust. Google should have translated "Retro" as "completely oxidized."

At this point we had several name candidates:
Trusty Rusty. Iron Maiden. The Rusticator. And last, but not least... Ferrous Wheels. (We really crack ourselves up.)

Finally, Jason suggested "Rustito." Although there's nothing "-ito" about this thing, the name stuck to the bike just like all the magnets within its ten-foot radius.

I've had several concerned friends and family members ask me if I'm up to date on my Tetanus shots, just in case. Let me assure you: very few souls make it through Architorture school without a T-booster. Scale-model construction inevitably leads to the savory blend of 1) hallucinatory sleep-deprivation, 2) double-digit espresso shots, and 3) frantically-wielded exacto-knives.* (The university nurse will roll her eyes as she preps the needle and correctly guesses your major.)
*(Just kidding potential employers!!! I'm as punctual as a Nazi meter-maid and never, EVER abuse stimulants. You can also stop reading this blog now.)

Ahem... So having named the bike and confirmed it wasn't going to kill me, I needed to repair Rustito's back tire. The entire internet unanimously recommended (tell me how often that happens) that I'd best sell this bike to a museum rather than track down the needed part. I ignored this benevolent rationale and instead sent my dad a desperate plea for help an email, titled: "rare-foreign-bike-part scavenger hunt YAYYYYY!!!" ...Immediately after which I got an email from Jason, saying his friend had the valve piece I needed. Sorry, dad.

Riding around town, I'm discovering that this bike might not have much of an advantage over walking. If there's any sort of incline, I immediately break out in sweat trying to lug half my weight in iron up the... curb. If there's any sort of decline, the "pedal backward and pray"-style brakes fail against Rustito's massive momentum (p = m•v, my amigos, and there's a lot of 'm').

Those of you who know me (and my beloved car, Mrs. Sputtersworth), understand that all this only makes the bike more endearing to me. I'd check it as luggage on the way home, if only it were under the 50 lb. weight limit.

Here's Rustito in his home with the other bikes. Apparently they think he suffers from bike leprosy. Or they have a healthy fear of Tetanus.

Oh, Rustito. You and I will have many adventures together, during which I will grow the quadriceps of a Himalayan sherpa.