Thursday, March 29, 2012

Animal behavioral psychology fail

I got the bright idea that maybe my two cats didn't need two litter boxes, considering that for the last 10 months they have only used one box while completely ignoring the other.  Only once that litter was changed (after one week) and the box no longer smelled like their territory would they change to the second box, and even then they'd used the second box exclusively until it was cleaned out, and... rinse and repeat.  Seemed logical that their preference for shared commode space needs not a second box, right? 

Two mornings after downsizing to one box I awoke to the usual meow-fest of breakfast expectations.  Sadie, in her supposed food-deprived inner-brat-unleashing mood, went sniffing at the trash can.  I pulled her away.  Three minutes later she hops into the trash.  I lift her up from under her armpits and find her peeing.  Yes, peeing.  And the fact that she is dangling from my hands above the trash can makes no difference in the outflow.  She even looked up at me with a mmrrrrp.

So I lowered her back down into the trash to finish her business.  And sighed.

Once she hopped out of the trash I swept her up and deposited her in front of the litter box.  It is of note that the location of this box was unchanged from prior.  Sadie gave it one eighth of a passing glance and skipped away.  A peek inside the box indicates that it had not been touched in the last couple days.  I grab Merus, and we went through the same routine of deposit, semi-glance, and depart.  *Sigh*  Okay, you win.

I grab the second box, fill 'er up, leave it in the middle room and place both cats directly in front of it.  Here you go, ya' little worms.  Ignore it at your leisureMutter mutter mutter.  Sadie uses the opportunity to attack Merus from behind -- a regular occurrence separate from the litter box issue.  So Sadie got to cool off in the next room with the door shut.  Merus uses the newly restored litter box, rearranging the fill to her little heart's content.  A few meows from Sadie were audible through the door, then the sound of her pawing at the open bag of litter which is stored in there.  Aw, crap.  [Pun unintended.]

I'm a little fearful that Sadie needs/wants to go again.  I pull her out of the room and away from the extra litter, lickety split.  Merus is still finishing up her time in the sandbox.  So I place Sadie next to the old box, and again she ignores it.  Merus finally takes leave, and I throw Sadie in front of the new box.  It smells like cat piss, so Sadie's interested.  She heads on in and voids something -- I don't care what it is so long as it is deposited where it needs to go.  Sadie spends a good five minutes making her own rearrangements.  Sadie exits the box.  Merus returns again to the new box, goes inside and voids the opposite of whatever she left just a moment ago.  (The only reason I know this is their rearrangement/scratching patterns are audibly different when it comes to pee and poop.  Aren't I lucky gal to know such things?)  Merus exits.  Sadie enters AGAIN.  I'm thinking, You only weigh 6 or 7 pounds!  How could you hold so much??  Regardless, apparently she does.

The kittehs finally relax, and all seems restored to normal.  Another five minutes later and Merus starts sniffing at the trash can, probably wondering why it smells like Sadie's rear end.  And so a layer of balsamic vinegar is spread across the top of the trash to mask any remaining feline scent.  At least I buy the $3.99 vinegar instead of the $10.99 vinegar.  And at least Sadie was polite enough to go into a contained space for waste instead of, say, on a piece of clothing on the floor.  Yet I will never forget that image of Sadie dangling in space, looking up with a chirp while a solid stream flowed strong.

Kitteh mama fail.  Lesson learned.


Who, me?  Silly human.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

T-minus two months

In exactly two months from today I will have graduated.  That's 8.7 weeks.  Sixty-one days. 

I'll spare you the minutes and seconds....

Now instead of rolling my eyes when asked how school is going I get to yell "ALMOST DONE" and slap the table for emphasis.  I'm smelling the barn, people!

To celebrate, a much overdue kitteh video:


The first week of my last (last!) affiliation went well.  The whole outpatient TBI (traumatic brain injury) thing turned out to be acute inpatient rehab for stroke and TBI.  Fine by me.  I did not get an actual rehab experience, so this will really round out my abilities.  For those unfamiliar, acute rehab means patients are just medically stabilized, needing lots of therapy, and able to tolerate three hours of therapy every day.

What is also means is that my first day consisted of aphasias (inability to interpret and/or say words), emotional lability (spontaneous crying or anger that was inappropriate to the context), missed therapy due to code brown (i.e. poop), suctioning (cleaning mucous out of a tracheotomy), craniectomies (a portion of the skull removed due to excessive brain swelling so patients must wear a helmet at all times when out of bed), and pushers syndrome (a patient with stroke whose brain, for unknown reasons, very strongly pushes with the non-affected arm and leg, causing the patient to constantly lean toward their affected and often flaccid arm and leg).

And I couldn't be happier. 

Well, maybe if I were already graduated, but let's not dwell on those details.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

NYC Half race report

In the final 1/4 mile.
It always amazes me just how much the acts of sitting or concentrated thinking inevitably take a toll on your body.  For me it came in the physical form of piriformis muscle spasms, a bit of iliotibial band friction, and some refueling of patellofemoral issues that I have not felt since I started running again in January 2010.  As a result I expected a slow race, something around 8 minutes per mile, or a total time of 1hr 37min (whereas my PR was set at this race last year at 1:32:52).  The Old Ladies (my knees) would have full reign to lead the way.

The week break between affiliations and the completion of the paper could not have come soon enough, and while I made sure it was chocked full of rehab-myself-back-to-life kinds of things I figured I could get myself back to feeling normal, even if performing like normal was no longer on the table.  This week included concentrated efforts with a foam roller and a tennis ball, eating real food (veggies!), and mandating improved volume of sleep.  I also used the time off from affils to get in runs that I prefer -- returning to the Long Path for last weekend's long run, and doing big hill repeats on Thursday.  Both those runs felt demonstrably better than the last 8 weeks, though I felt like I was learning how to lift my legs all over again.  Oh, right, THAT's how it's supposed to go...

So Sunday morning I got into the bathroom line in my corral at the race's start, making an effort to look around me.  I figured since The Old Ladies were dictating the day's outcome, and with my mind somewhat cynical as to the result, that I should tune into the observational aspect of it all.  Take it all in.  Actually see what was going on around me since I wasn't going to dash off into a frenzy.  Had some nice chats with fellow runners in my corral.  Everyone was in good spirits despite the cow herd atmosphere from having 15,000 runners squeezed into a half mile stretch of one lane for a half an hour.  Lifted a knee up towards my chest since my hips were feeling a little tight, accidentally bopping a fellow runner in the butt in the process.  "Oops, sorry.  Nice to meet you!"  She just laughed, "Likewise!" 

Apparently The Old Ladies had some cards up their sleeves.  The first mile went fast, which is my normal race start, though sub-7 minutes was a surprise.  Calm down.  Find a cruising speed.  I felt like I relaxed into it, only to pass mile 2 at 13:40.  Oops.  Hmm.  Breathing felt okay, knees felt okay.  Go by effort.  Keep it reasonable.  Still 11 miles left to go.  Miles kept passing at an average 6:50-ish pace. 

Mile 7 took us out of Central Park, heading south on 7th Ave towards Times Square.  When it opens up so wide it easy to feel like you've slowed down just because of the new orientation of passing objects.  Closed my eyes for a few steps to insure myself that I was running my own pace; opened them to see others pulling away ever so slightly.  Good -- don't get swept up into others' over-eagerness.  Hit mile 8, where 42nd St meets the West Side Highway, at 56 minutes.  Just keep cruising.  Just keep cruising.  (Channeling Ellen Degeneres from Nemo?  Hell yes!) 

Things keep trucking along.  I'm surprisingly not dying.  The Old Ladies feel surprisingly good.  Maybe it was the relief from pressure to perform than allowed me to perform better?  Whatever it is, its working.  I'm using every water station, eating my goos on time, staying in my usual race patterns.  I hit mile 10 at ~1hr 10min.  Then it occurs to me.  Just don't f*** it up, and you could break 1:30:00.  N-E-V-E-R in my distance running adulthood did I think I could break 1:30:00.  Pep talk time.

Somewhere around mile 12 the highway dives underground.  And its slightly downhill.  Watch check: holding steady.  I let my stride open up and use the downhill for all its worth.  Zoom!  Passing people.  Hoping to gain as much of a cushion as possible.  Forcing myself to breath in rhythm with a wide open mouth.  Think Olympic cross country skiers trying to get more oxygen so their mouths are agape like they are crying out in pain.  I, as a viewer, am usually distracted from the awkwardness of this by the snot and spit goobers dangling from their mouth and upper lip.  I, as a runner, hope that this is not the case for me....

Then the tunnel ends -- uphill.  Damn.  So logical, yet I hadn't anticipated.  Hoped the hill wouldn't kill my chances.  Pulled back my effort a smidgen in hopes that I don't completely stall at the top.  Finally crest the hill.  Check my watch.  Figure there's 800m left, with just enough time so long as I haul ass like I've never hauled before.  I start my surge.  Round a corner to see the actual "800m to go" sign.  Damn.  Or rather, duh: 13.1 miles, not 13 even.  Check my watch.  Sh*t sh*t sh*t sh*t.  Stop cursing.  Go go go go go.  Everything starts to take forever.  I am acutely aware of the signs demarcating the remaining distance.  400m.  With 1min 30sec and counting.  I can see the finish.  Go go go go.  200m.  My arms are punching forward in ways reminiscent of running track in high school.  (Whoever thinks you don't use your arms when running has never truly run before.  Get a bear to chase you.  You'll be using your arms.  Oh yea.)  F*** f*** f*** GO GO GO....

Running in desperation.  Arms riding high, manic Wallace & Gromit face, shirt and visor dripping with sweat.  How does #2751 look so calm??  No fair.
I'm over the final timing device.  My watch says 1:29:56.  Nathan was waiting just beyond the fence.  I'm heaving, mustering 2-inch steps at maximal effort, eyes wide in manic frenzy.  Seems to take 5 minutes to get over to him.

Me: "MY WATCH SAYS 1:29:56!"

Nathan: "What?"

Me: *gasp*heave*stumble* "I THINK *gasp* I BROKE *heave* 1:30:00!  MY WATCH SAYS 1:29:56!  *gasp* I DIDN'T THINK *gasp* THAT WAS POSSIBLE!"

Nathan was following by text updates to know when I neared the finish.  Two seconds later he got the text saying 1:29:54, an average of 6:51 per mile.  I am too wired to cry, but everyone reads it on my face as I slowly plod down the reception line.  Finisher's medal.  Heat shield.  Sticker to hold on the heat shield.  Finishers' photos.  Medical tent (wrap those Old Ladies with ice!).  Food and water bag.  Everyone sees me smiling.  They all smile back.

Nathan actually guess that I would break 1:30:00.  He is actually quite good at anticipating finishing times for everyone he knows.  Luckily he never tells me his predictions until afterward.  I don't know how he foresaw this.  Maybe he was hopeful for me.  Maybe he saw more relief from the past week than I registered.  Maybe he simultaneously aligns the constellations and makes a deal with whoever/whatever deals out chi. 

Everyone else around me also ran something around 1:30, and many were much faster than my time.  Many consider running sub-1:30:00 to be a normal occurrence.  But to break that barrier for the first time despite all the mega-stress of finishing school and the history of my knees?  I am blatantly, unapologetically, annoyingly satisfied with myself.  I am also much more reassured as to the possible outcome of Bear Mountain in May.  Graduate school did not kill me.  I've come out the other end ahead in terms of my knowledge, my skills, my knowledge of self, my desire for life.  Hazzah!  In yo' face, grad school!

Aaaaaand here's where I start sticking my tongue out at an intangible, invisible entity while dancing around like a crazoid for whom you'd never guess has a BFA in dance.  The irony is not lost on me. 

Friday, March 16, 2012

OH HAPPY DAY!

Remember, folks, writing in all caps means YELLING!  Because today is A DAY TO YELL!   

YEAAAAH!
 The last week, our so-called break between third and fourth affiliations went something like this:

type-type-type-swear-type-erase-erase-type-type-type-type-reformat-type-edit-edit-swear-curse-DAMN-YOU-FRIGGIN'-STATS-SOFTWARE-type-reformat-type-type-edit-type...

Monday's presentation was a success.  Not nearly as intense and picky of feedback as I remembered from observing last year.  I did not mind at all.  Tuesday was a 13-hour marathon of re-running stats for improved accuracy, finishing the discussion section, and editing the entire dang-gone thing for APA style, grammar, and content.  The APA style part took literally the entire time, with 10 hours of work by one group member (while the rest of us finished other sections) and a 3-hour group edit going from start to finish.  Sixty four pages.  Didn't get home until midnight.  Oy... 

Last night we received the final feedback from our primary adviser, which (THANKFULLY!) was a few minor grammar edits or dividing an epic 4-line sentence into two smaller sentences.  I was so used to working on research every day in some capacity that I didn't know how to have a normal evening.  Ended up creating the title page, approval signature page, and re-writing the abstract from 350 words to 150 words (as is the limit set by the Graduate Center).

Today was two-fold.  Step one: the final final final edit.  Scan the whole document a dozen times for formatting snafus.  Get the damn tables and graphs to go where we want them to go (*grumble*).  Attempt an appendix of documents used by the hospital.  Can the appendix when, after an hour's worth of attempts, we realize that every attempt to put it in creates formatting problems elsewhere, and decide that it is simply not worth it.  Get a table of contents, list of figures/tables, the document header and pagination to reflect two different sequences within one document (that was a first...).  Sixty seven pages all in all.
  
The 67 page monstrosity.
 Step two: prep for submission.  Run around the building getting signatures.  Complete student loan exit counseling in the process.  Meet with the dissertation clerk for approval of and notes for any corrections.  Only one to be made: a copy/paste of the title page from a format example accidentally left in "Department of History" instead of physical therapy.  Hah!  Fix the error.  Re-scan the document twice.  Create PDF.  Email PDF to advisers.  Drop off flash drive of PDF at the printers (because the Graduate Center requires fancy paper).  Printer does not have CDs, so go to a second printer to burn the PDF onto CD (it gets attached inside the back of the binding).  


Only a few steps remaining.  Pick up the two paper copies, get adviser and department chair signatures, get registrar signatures, and then make our official deposit.  That will be next week.  Luckily everything is ready and waiting for the trigger pull.   

I now can reclaim my evenings, my weekends, my FREE TIME, my SANITY, my mental processing capacity... basically, I can reclaim my life.  My last affiliation, the one I'm most excited about (traumatic brain injury!), will have no competition from the mentally and emotionally draining thesis.  I am SO SO SO SO relieved. 

You have no idea.

*bounce*bounce*bounce*bounce*

Oh right, its a day for YELLING! 

*BOUNCE*BOUNCE*BOUNCE*BOUNCE*BOUNCE*

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Nearly a third cat.

After having balled it together.
In celebration of an early spring.

My research group-mates and I were in the computer lab at school until 10:45 last night.  We started ~10:30am.  The last 3.5 hours were all editing, the four of us around a monitor with the Word document enlarged, slooooowly scrolling and making whatever changes we could catch.  Meaning: the final draft of the paper of evilness is done.  Hazzah! 

Didn't get home until just before midnight, didn't get to bed until close to 1am (apparently my third or fourth wind was kicking strong).  Woke at 7:30 this morning simply unable to sleep in, and found the temperature already in the low 60s with sun for miles.  Did a bunch of errands on foot while wearing shorts and a tee with the sleeves rolled up.  If it didn't hit 70 it certainly got close.  At a point I realized -- I didn't have to sit in front of a computer at all today, except if by choice for my own frivolous reasons.  The first day since last August where that was the case.  Oooooh my, did I relish the feeling!  I take the weather change as a personal omen than the paper, the close of the previous affiliation and upcoming start of the next (last!) affiliation are all headed in the right direction. 

To further celebrate the heat, I tackled Merus with the Furminator for a measly five minutes, and that pile pictured above was the result.  It was about two inches thick.  BEST cat investment EVER.  I think Merus lost a few pounds in the process as well.  I swear we nearly gained a kitten.  Tomorrow, Sadie.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Raisin in the sun

Affiliation #3 is complete.  I celebrated with just enough light cleaning to satiate my gotta-clean-and-purge-way-overdue-going-bonkers-but-need-to-clean-for-sanity nerves.  The icing on the cake was going to bed early, before 10pm.  That makes me much happier than it logically should.  This is Merus after returning home from Wednesday's follow-up with the vet.  I'd say that's about how I feel right now, sans the lumberjack purr (sawing away).

(via the craptastic camera on my outdated phone)


Sunday, March 4, 2012

Reminiscing of the stick

A few days ago my mom emailed a comic strip about a boy and his stick.  It reminded her of Nathan's escapade with a stick while hiking in the Catskills a couple months ago.  The sentiment is very much on point.


I allowed myself a few minutes this morning to catch up with some running blogs before getting to work on my thesis again.  Turns out one of the guys Nathan likes to follow, Nick Clark, encountered a big stick marking the top of a Colorado mountain.  (Scroll down about half way for the stick-hugging pictures.) 

Too bad Nathan and his stick, which he still has tucked away at home, missed Valentine's Day.  Nathan spent that week in Vermont and New Hampshire with John winter camping and cross country skiing.  What's that sound?  Oh.  Right.  That's me muttering away since I was (and still am) stuck in the city working towards the thesis deadline while Nathan went frolicking through the woods.  Don't worry, Nathan, I saved you the effort and awkwardness of alerting your stick of your infidelities with other sticks in other states.  Your has-been stick and I are now bonded in our bitterness.  So there.

One week from tomorrow we present and "defend" our research.  Three weeks from tomorrow we submit our final completed draft.  The end is in sight.  Merus has loved the extra lap time and has accepted her job weighing me down with lumberjack purring and open paws.  I'm looking forward to turning that lap time into nap time following some escapade of my own that reeks of normalcy.  Soon....

Saturday, March 3, 2012

The tusami.

The Gabster, ~72 hours old.
Her chubby cheeks photograph larger than they really are, though her face and barely existent cone head do look more like she's three weeks old rather than a three days.  I never saw the rest of her since since she was swaddled, though apparently her body looks like a legitimate newborn.  Nose like mama.  Upper lip like papa.  Temper like a Comrie (the nurses tried to blame the temper on Tim since he's red headed -- hah!).  Farts like a Buckholz.  Lower lip and jaw quiver competitive with hummingbirds.   Likes the world through squinty eyes.

All in all, eight pounds of wonderfulness.

I joked before leaving for KC that friends should batten the hatches, get the duct tape ready and start storing water.  No storms were predicted for the trip, but that never stopped Mother Nature before.  Since blizzard, earthquake and hurricane were already checked off the list, I figured a winter tornado or an Australia-sized comet or an alien invasion was next.

Turned out to be the year of the tusami.  Sic erat scriptum.

Saturday night we went to a mexican restaurant.  Good food, good times.  The waitress was spot on with her duties and knew the menu inside and out, though had absolutely not a clue as to beer and was prone to letter swaps in the same way I am.  Mom: "What do you have on tap?"  Waitress: "Biller Light, Mud Light... oh, wait, um..."  Nothing of our order got mixed up, so it was forgivable.  But it did set a tone of humorous clumsiness for the evening.

We talked of baby Gabby, of life as new parents, of news with each of us.  Mom asked if a woman a few tables away would qualify as the so-called Jersey Girl look she has read about but not seen in person.  I gave an adapted version of my redneck vs. hillbilly vs. hick vs. white trash lecture, though tailored to Jersey Girl vs. white trash.  (One day I hope to make a Venn diagram of my redneck vs. hillbilly vs. hick vs. white trash lecture, having been inspired by the Nerd Venn Diagram that rectifies the differences between nerd vs. geek vs. dweeb vs. dork.  But that's a different conversation for a different day.)

Then our waitress returned the credit card receipt for my dad to sign.  Dad reached across the table diagonally only to send a midwest-sized glass of ice water across the table.  I witnessed the entire event without blinking an eye.  The glass was full to something just shy of a liter, and the flood-turned-waterfall went straight for my mom's lap.  Mom froze and her eyes got big.  Sam, at Mom's right, started leaning away with an "Oh snap, look at 'er go!" look on his face.  Dad grabbed and uprighted the glass, though by then all the water was well on its way.  Kristin watched on from the far side of the booth with a half smile hidden by a cupped hand in surprise.  I yelled "Mom! Move!"  So she did -- and she started shoveling the ice and water towards Sam like a luau gone Red Cross disaster relief, delicate flick of the wrists and all.  Needless to say, the luau was not very effective for water redirection or for swimming.  Sam, with one butt cheek still lofted, now opted for his one eyebrow look of "Whaaa?"  I yelled "Mom!  Get up!  GET.  UP."  She grabbed her purse and coat and fought her way out of the booth to standing.

Half a beat passed before we all crumbled into laughter.  Ten full minutes of beat red faces (and we are German and Irish -- we can turn RED), crying, and hickuping in attempt to actually breathe.  Lots of reenacting.  The hostesses and other waiters kept peering over to make sure none of us blew a blood vessel and needed an ambulance.  I continued to spontaneously burst out into laughter on the drive home.  Usually this is met with eye rolling; this time it got everyone laughing again.

Back home we -- and by "we" I mean everyone excluding Mom -- pondered how to refer to that evening in the future.  "The year of the flood?"  "The year of the waterfall?"  "Tsunami?"  Mom started to chime in at that one, "The tusami..."  I cut her off, "Tusami?!?  That fits perfectly with the luau method."  So ensued another reenactment, and another round of gut busting laughter. 

Gabriella Marie, you've got yourself one helluva family over here.