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mkasp73
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Name: Mare
Interests: Writing, sketching, reading, photography, customizing, using billions of post-its, things/events with meaning, finding good music, a good game, learning more about everything, finding the time to actual do all of this... I also enjoy breathing.
Expertise: I know how to stalk public institutions for paying jobs.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Research
Message: message meEmail: email me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  mkasp73
Member Since:
6/29/2004
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| When my parents visited for my birthday, they left me with ten
bellpeppers, two dozen eggs, two cartons of tomatoes and a bag of
apples. "Remember how you wanted lots of bellpeppers last year?" said
my mom. "Well, I remembered." Nevermind that I had wanted to make
stuffed bellpeppers for a class potluck at the time. I eyed the produce
and said, "I guess I can manage that."
Well, a week and a half later, I've realized that I can't. One of the
egg cartons has expired, a few bellpeppers are moldy, and after
sniffing at my 1L jug of milk, I've come to terms with letting it go.
However, I've learned how to make a pretty nifty omelette in the
meantime.
I walked into the room after purging the fridge and thought, "This
smells like a shower." Then, because I tend to say exactly what I
think, I said, "This smells like a shower." My roommate gave me a funny
look and continued drying her hair. It brought to mind a memory from
last winter break.
"Can you pick up your sister from school in a few minutes?" asked my
mom. My sister is ten and a half years younger than me, and currently
goes to my old middle school. I was instantly smitten by
memories... primarily, those of waiting for my mom forever, all while
being bitten by ants under a tree. I said yes, even though I was in the
middle of a shower and my mom had been shouting through the door.
I battled parents and suburbia for a parking spot, and my sister danced
up to the car. She yelped when she saw me and immediately motioned to
her friends. "Well, my SISTER is here now, so SHE'll be driving me home
now!" She hopped in with the ridiculously huge luggage she calls a
school bag, and I proceeded to pull away from the school. Every so
often, she'd see a friend, and shout in my ear. "Can you honk the horn?
That's --insert random name--!!!"
I took a quick glance at the orderly houses and soccer-mom vans. "No."
She gave me a look. It clearly said, "I would expect this from Mom, but
you?"
I was stuck in traffic, surrounded by cars and a mob of kids, none of
whom knew how to use a crosswalk correctly. All the while, I had to
battle my sister, who insisted on rolling down the window, sticking her
head out, and waving to her jaywalking pals. "Stop that! You'll get
your head sideswiped!" She rolled her eyes at me. Do you remember that
scene from The Simpsons, where Nelson gets his comeuppance? He "ha-has"
the wrong fellow, and is forced to walk down the city street, pants
down, as the man honks at him from behind, screaming, "Wave to the people! Blow them kisses!" while the poor kid just sobs. It felt something like that, except my sister was the one waving, and I was the one sobbing.
As an aside, I don't recall middle school being this hectic. Perhaps
that's why my parents would wait, anywhere from 20-40 minutes after
school had ended, to eventually pick me up. In my mind it had a
zen-like peace. Siddhartha and his bodhi tree, that's how I likened my
moments spent afterschool. Except, of course, with ants.
And now, we get to the point of this memory. Once we had pulled away
from the war-zone and the windows safely closed, my sister took a
dramatic sniff of air. "What IS that?" she said. Note how she talks in
caps, much like any other pre-teen. I didn't smell anything wrong.
"I... I think it's coming from YOU!" she exclaimed. I took offense. "No
way, I just took a shower! My hair's still wet, too." "Ah," she said,
bobbing her head wisely. "That's exactly it. You smell like a shower."
I paused a moment, to digest that. Timidly, I said, "Isn't that
supposed to be... good?" "NO," she said, emphatically. "It's nasty."
I've taken many a shower since then, but walking into my room today is what brought this memory rushing back. | | |
| Seeing as Spring Break is nearly over and I seem to always need an
excuse to leave the apartment, I called up a friend to see how she was
doing. In the off chance she herself was lounging about with nothing in
particular planned, an opportunity to leave said spider-infested
apartment (see entry below) would present itself. Here's how that went.
Me: Hello!
Her: Hey.
Me: I haven't seen you in awhile! How are you?
Her: I'm good, I'm good.
Some small talk, and then, a pause.
Her: So... what do you want?
Me: Excuse me?
Her: What did you want me to get you?
Me: ...hold up, I just called to see how you were doing!
My mind raced as I tried to figure out just how I had built up this strange expectancy with a mere phone call. Was I really so obnoxious? Did people see me as being grabby?
Then, it all clicked into place.
Me: Oooh, you mean for my birthday!
It was only the memory of this exact, same friend asking me the exact,
same question for my last birthday that helped me figure it out. It
never really gets through to me that my birthday is just around the
corner. And, I never seem to remember what it is I need, or want, for
that particular occasion. I should start carrying a list around.
I racked my brain for a bit, before I settled uneasily on, "a
documentary," whereafter she and I browsed through Amazon.com for a
suitably specific definition of "a documentary." Specific enough to
buy, that is. After some fruitless searching, I threw up my hands and acknowledged that, "Harry Potter is also quite nice."
If you're reading this now, I've got a yen for ThinkGeek.com, jackets and pressure cookers! 
***
As an aside, my spider count is up to 7 as of 5:15am today. At least
I'm starting to see some different species! I was beginning to think
that there was an egg sac somewhere in the apartment. However, my other
theory, that a portal to the spider nebula has opened up underneath my
bathroom sink, is still in the running.
| | |
| 3am. And I just took out the trash. Here's the story on that. It gets icky, and you've been warned.
Last night, as I was on the phone with an old friend, I lay back
against my bed and happened to glance up. A moving shape against
the stuccoed ceiling directly above my bed. "Spider!" I yelled.
"Call me back in five." Without another thought, I threw aside my cell
phone and began The Hunt.
The Hunt is simple. I find a spider. I catch it. I release it back into
the wild. It came with risks, of course. If I poked the spider the wrong way
and it dropped, I'd be stuck searching my bed sheets for the thing for
a heck of a long time. If I accidently smushed it, its carcass would be
stuck there, forever, and I would certainly never have the guts to
clean that mess up.
Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against spiders. My freshman year, I
let one live comfortably enough under my bed for most of the year. I
once went jogging and returned home covered in old spider webs and
their dead victims. A trip to the laundry machine and a quick shower
cured that without much fuss. No, no, I just hate having them
unaccounted for. Ever see that movie, Arachnophobia? This one guy
almost ate a dead spider in his cereal! Now, that's an infestation. Plus, I really love cereal.
It just so happened that I had just finished a Gatorade. Perfect. And,
this particular species of spider seemed to have something against the
fight/flight reflex. Like a helpless fawn, it simply froze in place as
I lumbered toward it and clumsily captured it within a bottle of my
electrolytically-balanced leftovers. A few pokes with a newspaper, and
it fell neatly into place. I tossed my hair in triumph. Done and done!
I probably wouldn't have celebrated so soon had I known what was
coming...
It was about 1am, and I didn't feel particularly keen on leaving the
apartment in the middle of the night to release a spider. I dropped in
a few leaves from my long-dead flower arrangement, loosely capped the
bottle, and stuck it on the kitchen table for the morning. My friend
called back, life resumed as usual.
The next morning... or rather, afternoon... I stretched, put on my
glasses, and dragged my laptop onto my bed for my daily dose of e-mail.
Yes, this is a regular regime, and yes, it's geeky. I glanced at my
desk and did a double take. Another spider!
The last one had been a wimp compared to this one. It was probably the
size of a nickel and it was sitting on my desk, scuttling with an
alertness its predecessor had never known. Before it made its way down
my desk and under my bed, I searched my room for something, anything,
to catch this new guy. The Gatorade bottle was in use, currently
housing Spider #1. I was about to smack the thing with a newspaper, a
la Garfield, when I found an old coffee cup hidden in my trash. Wincing
in distaste, I fished out the cup and trapped Big Momma. I covered this
new one with a weighted newspaper and left it next to the Gatorade
bottle.
Big Momma
Later that night, which would be tonight, right before bed, I sleepily
opened my door and literally had to brush the cobwebs out of my face. While I was
left to ponder what on earth it was I had just stepped through, Big Daddy made
an appearance, racing across my bathroom floor with an agility Speedy
Gonzalez would have been proud of. I had nothing left to trap it with,
and it was too fast and large to ignore. Unfortunately for Big Daddy,
the cabinet that housed my aerosols was directly behind me. I whipped
around, grabbed something that looked toxic, and sprayed the thing with
half the can. It had its death throes next to the newly discovered Spidey Juniors,
and they received a large dose of Chemical X as well. By the time I
realized that a puddle of the stuff was on my bathroom floor, and that
I had in all likelihood inhaled a great chunk of this spider-killer, I,
at last, read the label.
Insect repellent.
Who knew? A supposedly harmless chemical had taken out a huge spider in
a matter of minutes. I suppose the arachnids decided that a life spent
repelling
insects was a life in vain? Decided to spaz out and die out of sheer
depression? All I can say is, DEET is scary stuff.
While I would've loved to just leave that stinky mess forever and ever,
I figured it wasn't very sanitary of me. With a nose of steel and a lot
of paper towels, I cleaned up the insect repellent, spiders and webs,
and tossed them in the trash. After a second thought, and no doubt, a
second waft of repellent, I took the trash out, which is pretty much
why I'm still up at 4am mulling the state of the apartment, insect
repellent in general, and feeling really annoyed at spiders.
| | |
| Googling oneself is a narcissistic but necessary pastime. A young high school
girl realized she had her own, rather large hate group that way, a
surprise to her as she had always assumed herself to be a popular
enough person. The reporter covering the story had recommended that
everyone look themselves up now and then, if only to stay a step ahead
of the death threats.
So, I gave it a try.
The first time, which was a few years back, I found out that a
laboratory I had once worked in had presented my summer fellowship
project at a national andrology meeting. I was listed as the
secondary author. This was an example of a good surprise.
The next time I tried, which was last year, I discovered a spiel of
hate directed at my person for--get this--an article I wrote on
on-campus dining inspections. Of all the things I ever thought would
bear me ill will, telling people to relax over A- health
scores was not it. Comments ranged from my supposed love life to my
questionable intelligence. I was happy to note that not even one person
in the thread got a thing right, so at least they weren't stalkers.
This was an example of a nasty surprise.
Last night, I was exceptionally bored, so I gave Google and Yahoo! one
more whirl. The usual popped up. Some random high school honors.
A nearly decade old art competition. And, what's this? Xanga
entries!
This was how I discovered that even though I had assumed my articles
got next to no readers (with the exception of that funky dining hall
incident), there had been at least two, very kind strangers who had
thought them funny and/or thought-provoking enough to quote. One person
went so far as to retype my entire article to ensure readership. I'm
half tempted to leave these people thankful notes in their mailboxes,
but I'm worried that I'll just scare them away with my self-stalking
tendencies. "How did you find me?!" they would wonder. "Is your name
like a summons? If I type it, you will come? Ahhh!"
So, in the end, I will leave my thanks here, in the privacy of my own
Xanga, just as they had thought it fitting to leave theirs in their own
entries. Thank you for making my day, whoever you may be. And, for
future reference, the articles are available online for copy and
paste. 
| | |
| Recent events have led to the deaths of various health fads.
Apparently, a new study shows that eating fat is alright. You
won't be knocked off with cancer or cardiac disease, because it simply
doesn't matter in an eight year run. I, being the glutton for
pain that I am, found it sufficiently interesting to write about...
midterms week... and it has since become the bane of my
existence. (Please refer to xanga entry below for details.)
My editor, believing that health is a prime concern in sunny San Diego,
wanted me to be extra careful with it and she's since sent me enough
examples, data and quotes to bring about one conclusion to mind: I'd
stolen her baby. I hope I haven't. I really hate kidnapping.
As I sit in CLICS to type and read and starve in this library-ish "no
food" environment, I've found myself writing about the excellent
benefits of diet and exercise whilst sitting on my butt and smuggling
Valentine's Day chocolates into my mouth. I'm such a
hypocrite. Or
perhaps, it's an example of loving others more than myself! I
like the second view better.
Chocolate's so great,
chocolate's so grande.
I wish we had chocolate,
in every health store and fad.
That was brought to you by the creative power of chocolate.
Which brings me to another point. My mom makes a delicious
cabbage soup. She boils cabbage, pork, onions and potatoes in
water and seasoning for about half an hour, and voila! A clear
soup of yumminess. When I moved back to campus, I was resolved to
try and immitate her perfection. It looked easy, tasted alright,
and I wanted to take advantage of the weekly Farmer's market here on
campus.
In a moment of pique, I disdained the pork (raw meat and prices weren't
my cup of tea at that point in time) and brought home, if not the
bacon, the said cabbage, onions and potatoes... the seasoning of which
was taken from the dining halls. I put it together, cooked, and
it didn't taste cruddy. A miracle!
Overjoyed, I attempted to Google the true recipe in an effort to "spice
things up." What did I discover? CABBAGE SOUP IS A
FAD! It's a horrible, horrible, desperate measure diet fad.
Disproven I don't know how many times by doctors and incorporating some
sort of strange banana day cycle, I can't find a decent cabbage soup
recipe without anorexia warnings.
My later attempts at soup were ruined. I began to worry that it
was too watery, too bland, too indicative of some latent psychological
problem. I'm going back to greasy ol' cafeteria food.
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