Finals That Violate the Terms of the Geneva Convention

what I probably looked like on Wednesday

The Sports Sociology final was a breeze, but I was so agitated about the final that was to follow it that I really didn't have the opportunity to enjoy it or to savor its ease.  It was a combination of multiple choice (few enough that it wasn't worth bothering with a scantron), fill-in-the blank, short answer, and short essay. Nothing on it should have stymied anyone who had either done half the reading and/or had shown up for most sessions of the class.

The Physics and Mechanics of Fractures was every bit the grizzly bear of a final that I had feared it might be, but I had covered the material thoroughly. I don't see how anyone who isn't either a certified genius or at least slightly OCD or both gets through classes like The Physics and Mechanics of Fractures. We walked into a classroom with every lighted surface posting an xray of a bone of some sort, most of which had been fractured in some way or another. Most of the test -- and the most heavily weighted portion -- involved identifying the form of fracture and elaborating on how each might have occurred. The remainder of the test was a short section of single-sentence answers and five short essay questions.

I did the single-sentence answer questions and the short essays first, assuming that those were the most likely to trip me up, and it made sense to tackle them while the test preparation I had done was most fresh in my mind, since they were simply single-anser, right-or-wrong questions. I did those with relative ease, reserving time to review them at the end to ensure I hadn't made any careless or stupid errors.

I was  doing fine with the xray identificaton/elaboration questions in both a practical and in a psychological sense until the next- to-last question, at which point I felt as though I had given this professor all I had to give and needed to quit before I could no longer resist the urge to climb to the writing surface of  my desk and scream at the top of my lungs.  I possibly could have quit the exam at that point and still aced it, or at least the course probably aced the course,  but it would have been cutting things entirely too close, and I had worked too hard to give anything up over a momentary lapse of sanity.  Moreover, I felt that none of  thought my classmates -- even the ones of whom I'm not all that fond-- deserved the disruption that such behavior would have created.

I looked at the clock, saw that I still had fifty-eight minutes to finish, so I put my head on my desk. (The professor approached and stood next to me but said nothing. I don't know if he was concerned for my well-being or thought I might be engaging in a creative form of cheating. I breathed slowly and deeply for about two minutes. I then went on to answer the two final questions, the first  of which was about a torsion or spiral fracure, which occurs when torque or twist is applied, typically to one or more of the body's longer bones. Because the twist is applied to part of the bone, compressive forces are naturally occurring on the remainder of the bone.  (If the entire bone twisted, what would likely result would be a dislocation, which, while painful, heals much more quickly than does a spiral fracture.)  This contrast is what causes the fracture. The bone featured in the xray was a child's bone. A child's spiral or torsion fracture is a red flag for child abuse, but other causes may exist, including certain sports injuries. (We saw one X-ray in class in which a child playing centerfield in baseball jumped for a high fly ball; on descent, the prongs or whatever one might call the things sticking out on the surgace  of his cleat were caught in the chain link fence. The boy fell with his front toward the ground, creating the torsion fracture. That was one nasty fracture. The fracture in this particular x-ray we saw on the exam was of the lower two bones in the arm - the radius and the ulna.  This one raised immediate red flags, but abuse shouldn't be an automatic conclusion. A child's arm could be caught in something, or another child could have done the twisting; peer-against-peer, it's assault or a silly bit hazardous childhood accident, but not child abuse.  My guess was that it was a gymnastics or cheerleading injury. (Cheerleading starts early now, which you know if you watch many of the "reality" series on TLC.)  It looked as though the child's hand was planted firmly on a surface that wouldn't allow the fingers and hand to rotate with the arm when the child either rotated her own body or her body was rotated by someone else.  I explained my hypothesis on that particular xray and went on to attack the final question.

The final xray question was one of the easiest questions on the test for anyone who looked closely. For those who did not look closely, the xray resembled an earlier MRI in which a bone was not broken but severe soft-tissue damage was present. In the case of this xray, the soft tissue (ligament and tendon) damage was also present, but a closer look revealed that the ligament had pulled off a decent-sized portion of the lower fibula, which is the outside bone of the lower leg.  When torsion or twist of an ankle is sufficiently strong, part of the bone may be pulled off as well. This is known as an avulsion fracture.  Many people will tel you that a sprain is actually worse than a fracure. While I'm not downplaying the potential severity of a sprain, a fracture is very often accompanied by soft tissue damage, i.e. a sprain. Thus, breaking a bone does not necessarily in any way protect a person from soft  tissue injury. (What does happen with the avulsion fracture, however, is that it is treated more aggressively, i.e. complete immobilization, depending upon the size of the piece of bone pulled away, and non-use of the injured body part. If all sprains were treated so aggressively, all but the most severe would heal thoroughly without further intervention or trouble.) In the case of this particular xray, the  fibula was broken entirely through, and mild displacement occurred. Had the patient been a child, most likely surgery would have been indicated, as a growth plate was involved. Since it was an adult, the disfigurement would have been considered mild enough to avoid surgery. In would have been anesthetized and pushed into place as close as could be done manually, then casted temporarily until swelling went down, then recasted tightly with a more permanent (six-to-eight-week) cast.

One short essay question concerned the difference between a green-stick fracture and a hairline fracture.  I couldn't even understand why this would have been on the test, but in speaking with classmates after the test, some were confused about the distinction.  A hairline fracture is a crack of a bone. It's not a complete break. Sometimes it goes through the bone, and sometimes it merely affects a portion of the bone's diameter. A green stick fracture, on the other hand,  is something that happens most typically to children.  Children's bones are often supple, like green sticks or limbs on a tree in the spring, You can take a green stick and bend it;  while one side is broken, the other side, usually the underside, remains intact. A hairline fracture is detectable only in an xray. a greenstick fracture is obvious to anyone, as the two ends of the bone stick up, making it appear almost as a joint where there is not one. (A compound or open fracture can occur with a greenstick fracture, greatly complicating matters.) The treatment for a non-compound greenstick fracture involves applying local anesthetic or drugging the patient with narcotics or even a light general anesthetic, then basically physically forcing the bone back into place, applying a temporary cast, and applying a tight cast as soon as most of the welling has gone down.  The two kinds of fractures -- hairline and greenstick -- have very little in common.

I finished the final two essay questions with twelve minutes to spare, which gave me ample time to go over the short answer and fill-in-the-blank portions of the test to double-check for careless mistakes, of which there were none.

However much the final distressed me, I was calm compared to many of my classmates. In fairness, many had more at stake than I did. Some were master's degree candidates who were obtaining master's degrees because they didn't get into medical schools on their initial tries and were hoping that the master's degrees would give them the necessary boost to enable them to gain admission.  Some young women were crying during the exam. The males were less emotional, but I did see a great deal more persiration than would have been seen in a typical class session. When I mentioned to a few of them my desire to climb atop my desk and scream at the top of my lungs, eveyone there said either that they could relate or that they wish I would have done so because it might have bought them additional time while the prof was calling campus security so that the men in white coats could come to cart me away in a straightjacket.

I was too jittery to drive home, so I jogged the distance, which is about two miles. I was dressed and wearing appropriate shoes for the jog, as finals are no place to be worried about making a fashion statement, although running home after the last final exam was the furthest thing from my mind when I dressed myself that morning.  Once I got inside the door, I essentially collapsed in the entryway. my family is used to theatrics, so no one contemplated calling 9-1-1 or any such thing. My dad did walk over and check me out to ensure that my heart was beating and that I was breathing.  He put me in a recliner because he said breathing is easier if one's chest is elevated slightly. I eventually found sufficient energy to climb the stairs, get into the shower (I would never place my sweaty body on my precious bedding. My family's furniture is one thing, but my own bedding is another matter entirely.) I threw on the first nightgown I could reach in my closet and crawled into bed with wet hair.

That's the last clear memory I have. At various points, one or the other parent came into my room, presumably to ensure I was still alive and to give me drinks of water, lemonade, or 7-up.  All my plans of debaucherous beach parties went right down my shower drain unless the parties were held without me. Frankly, if they went on in my absence, I was and still am too tired to give a rip. someone must have driven to campus to retrieve my car, because I noticed it in the garage this morning. At a few pointsI woke up just enough to reply to interesting posts, but then went right back to sleep.

Maybe tomorrow I'll be up to going to the beach, but as for today, I'll walk no further than the mini-refrigerator in my room, which contains only drinks. (I'm roach-phobic.) If I eat anything, it will be because someone brings it upstairs to me or piggybacks me downstairs.

My body feels as though I ran a full marathon with no preparation whatsoever. My dad says it's temporary and I will eventually return to normal. This is not his area of specialty, but then again, I've never heard of anyone becoming permanently disabled from a difficult final exam, so he's probably correct in this instance.

I'm reasonably certain that if I had to take a class as intense as The Physics and Mechanics of Fractures every quarter, Lindsay Lohan and I would eventually end up as roommates in one rehab facility or another. I don't know what my substance of abuse of choice would be, but I'm confident there would be one to which I was addicted, and it wouldn't be orange juice or Skittles.

I'm not feeling quite like sleeping again yet, so I may take on  another ASK ALEXIS column.  The response from my first column was so overwhelming that it would be morally wrong for me to ignore the masses who are in such desperate need of up-to-the-minute information on the topic of sex. [Note: there isn't a font that denotes irony.]

ASK ALEXIS: Advice About Sex .. . from someone who knows nothing about the subject

First we had Ann Landers .. .

then along came Dear Abby

followed by the wit and wisom of Dr. Ruth

and we must not forget our present resident expert in everything from addiction to the murder of the week, Dr. Drew Pinsky . . .

and now you have, for your personal edification, the anti-expert, Alexis, with her new column, Ask Alexis

              (Scroll through the intro directly to the column if you're the impatient type.)

Half a bottle of Guinness can accomplish only so much when I'm facing the MoFo Killer Final tomorrow, so I'm going to have to make do with the 3.5 hours of sleep I've gotten unless a miracle happens. I probably should've taken something stronger than an ale, as in a benzo, but once I've consumed the alcohol, a Klonopin or Ativan is out of the question, at least as far as my Dad is concerned and, for that matter,  in retrospect, as is Dr. Conrad Murray or whatever the doctor's name was who prescribed milk of amnesia to Michael Jackson on top of whatever he might already have consumed.  I don't have benzodiazepenes at my disposal, and there's probably a good reason for that, as at this point I'd be willing to take my chances. Guinness' health benefits or not,  it probably wouldn't be a good idea for someone my size to take the chance of having both in her system, even in half-life capacity.

Hence (Detectives and former detectives in Boulder, Colorado, thought only Patsy Ramsey, late mother of the late Jonbenet, used the word hence, but I, too use it on occasion. At some later date I'll blog about how the murder of the little beauty queen traumatized me, but not tonight.  If I wish to  have even a prayer of  of going back to sleep, I need to stay away from that and similar topics.)   I must find a way to entertain myself that does not interfere with the sleep of others in the house. If I were my brother, I would make my way on down to the living room and start pounding on my mom's 10-foot Steinway, but I'm not so lacking in common courtesy as my brother, so I'll blog instead.

This is the first and perhaps only (depending upon various circumstances, including how long it takes my mom to come across it; my dad would be amused and would encourage me to continue writing it) column about sex by someone who knows only what the high school and college biology courses (college biology touches upon the topic ever so lightly, as it's assumed everyone in the class knows everything by that point),  textbooks, and the Internet say. . . and everyone knows that if it's on the Internet, it has to be true.  Since I haven't announced this column in advance, I obviously haven't received any letters asking for advice. Guess what? Half the newspaper and Internet columnists around don't receive letters, or at least not the ones they want, so they make them up, which is precisely what I intend to do, except that I'm openly admitting it.

Think of me as the female version of Dr. Drew back when he was still a virgin and before he had any education.  Everyone has to start somewhere.  Sometimes learning as one goes is the very best way to learn. God help anyone who takes my advice seriously, or, even worse, follows it. That's my official disclaimer.  I don't even know enough to make up any interesting questions off the top of my head, so pardon me while I cruise the web momentarily, steal questions from someone else's site, and paraphrase them so that, in a legal sense, they're not technically plagiarized.

                                  ASK ALEXIS    (first edition)

Question #1:

Dear Alexis,

    Is it possible that I am allergic to my husband's sperm?  Two to five days after almost every time I have intercourse with my husband,  I develop symptoms somewhat similar to a urinary tract infection, yet testing consistently reveals that no urinary tract infection is present. The symptoms, incidentally, are frequent, painful, and severely burning urination, urinary urgency,  vaginal itching, and irregular bleeding in the general region.  Despite the absence  of test results indicating a UTI, my family physician always gives me an antibiotic injection and a prescription for ten days' worth of oral antibiotics. The doctor, who is also my husband's doctor, always sends with me a prescription for oral antibiotics for my husband as well. 

     I don't know if this is relevant, but the physician, who is my husband's doctor,  is a personal friend of my husband.  My husband, the doctor, and a few other gentlemen recently replaced our "couples" Bible study on  Thursday nights with a male-only Bible study night. They've chosen to study the Bible at a  tavern on the edge of our our city that has been rumored to be a front for a bordello, but  I know in my heart of hearts that such is not possible in this fine, upstanding city in which we make our home.   My husband says the best thing any of us can do to dispel rumors of this business'  house of ill-repute status, and such is our Christian dity,  is to show up weekly with their Bibles and let their light so shine that others may see it and know the truth about this establishment and its benign nature.

     What do you think, Alexis? Do I need to see an allergist for further testing? Furthermore, is my doctor psychic? How does he know that my husband needs antibiotic therapy without seeing him in a medical setting?

Signed,
Hunka Hunka Burning (with Burning being the operative word) Love

Alexis' Answer:

Dear Burning,

I'm not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but the rare allergy you suspect may be more common than you suspect, and it may be related to your husband's Thursday night "Bible study." (Who would've ever thought that studying the Bible could be such a hazardous and allergy-provoking activity?) If I were you, and I'm not you, so take this advice for what it is worth, which may be very little, I would reinstate "couples" Bible study on Thursday nights.  You might wish to focus your next evening  of study on Exodus 20:14  from the King James version; adjust for other translations of the Bible to find Commandment #7, Protestant version.

Regarding your doctor's extra sensory perception, he is most definitely seeing your husband in a different light than you are seeing him, though  the source may not necessarily be any form of psychic awareness.

In terms of visiting an allergist, I would instead invest in a visit to an epidemiologist who is an MD (not all epidemiologists are MDs), an internist, a gynecologist, or possibly all three, and insist upon a complete  testing panel for communicable diseases including HIV and all forms of hepatitis andSTDs.  Your husband would do well to seek similar testing. One never knows what pathogens may be picked up on toilet seats, in hot tubs, or in various other out-of-the-way places.

Alexis, otherwise known as #

Question #2:

Dear Alexis,

     I am a technical virgin, with heavy emphasis on the word technical, but I am not free from experimentation.   Recently, the object of my experimentation was an Oscar Mayer wiener.  Let this serve as a warning to all others:  an Oscar Mayer hot dog is not the ideal object for sexual experimentation, as the rest of my story will illustrate.

     During the course of my recent experimentation, the Oscar Mayer wiener (a large part of the problem may have been with the quality of the Oscar Mayer product; I haven't yet decided, but may seek compensation from the corporation for its role in my fiasco; have you any advice as to how best to pursue this through legal avenues?) )  broke. Part of the wiener I was able to remove manually, but the remainder of the wiener refused to be coaxed out.  

     I'm only sixteen, and do I not have my own insurance cards, so I was forced to tell my mother in order to visit the emergency room. My mother drove me to an E.R. in a city about 90 miles from where we live to in order to minimize the chances of my becoming fodder for local gossip. The wiener was removed with minimal fanfare, and I was sent home with computerized pre-fabricated printed  instructions concerning foreign objects in body cavities. (Is there any condition for which the hospitals' ER computers are not prepared to dispense advice on the spot?) With the distance between the hospital and my home, my anonymity was presumably protected. My mother, however, told my father, who made the mistake of mentioning it  to my brother. My brother says he only told two people, but those two people must have told at least ten people each, who in turn told maybe twenty each, with the end result being that by the following day, everywhere on campus that I went, I heard variations of the commercial ditty, "Oh, I'd Love To Be an Oscar Mayer Wiener."

     How can my dignity be restored, and how can I stop the "Oscar Mayer Weiner" song from being my personal theme song?

Signed,
Oscar's  former friend with benefits

Alexis' Answer:

Dear Oscar's former bestie,

First and foremost, if you think your dignity is compromised under your present circumstances, you have not yet begun to suffer the humiliation you will endure from  the resulting publicity should you take this one to the court system. For one thing, you will have an uphill battle in seeking to establish that the source of the problem was in any way related to the quality of the product. (If you don't believe me, purchase hot dogs of a few other brands and test the solidity of each in comparison to that of Oscar Mayer's wiener (but PLEASE don't test them in the manner you originally tested, i.e. experimented, with Oscar Mayer's wiener).  I wouldn't even try negotiating with the company with the hopes of reaching an out-of-court settlement. Do you really wish to be known as the reason all hot dog packages come with the disclaimer "not to be used as a sexual object" printed on the label?  

You caused the immediate problem youself, but the ones who turned it from a minor embarrassment into a life-altering experience were your father and brother. If I were to sue anyone, they are the ones I would sue, although I'm not certain on what grounds, and again, the very last thing you need at this point is additional publicity.  Just be aware that neither one appears to have your best interests at heart, and be sure that your mother is aware of this as well.

If your family is in a position to relocate, your father certainly owes it to you.  In this economy, however, such may not be practical or even possible.

I hesitate to recommend this, but  you have not mentioned graduation, so my assumption is that you were not an early high school graduate. My recommendation is that you get the hell out of your particular high school. Move in with a relative who is further away than the local rumor mill extends, or take a high school exit exam and attend an out-of-town college that accepts  exit exams in lieu of graduation.  In the event that big mouths run in your family,  ensure that your mother threatens your father and your brother with the worst consequences imaginable should either of them mention the particulars of your situation to  anyone else. Period. 

People in college won't be nearly so intrigued with this situation as are the students in your high school, but at the same time, surround yourself with students who know nothing about the incident, and just to be safe, don't take your new friends home with you for the weekend, as your father and brother may be slow learners.

P.S. There are commercially manufactured objcts known as vibrators and [this is probably a crude term, but I don't know of a proper term for the object] dildoes. You might be wise to invest in one. Multi-use products, such as produce and other foods, may be desirable for many purposes, but for the use you obviously are seeking, an object designed specifically for your intent is your safest bet.

Alexis, otherwise known as #


Anyone who wants to know anything about sex from someone who knows little to nothing about the subject should submit questions in the "comments" section of this blog. Otherwise I'll be forced to make up my own questions again.

Studying and Insanity; Great Video

         

I cannot study fractures any longer without every bone in my body spontaneously fracturing itself on the count of three. If I know enough to ace the final, great. If I don't, it was never meant to be. One can only study so much without becoming a psychopath or something worse. Since I just completed my psychopthology final, I'm an amateur expert on that topic as well. I can tell that I'm not yet a psychopath, but some form of insanity (of which psychopathology really isn't; it's more of  severe personality disorder that manifests itself in antisocial behavior) is heading my way and will surely strike me full force if I do not cease with studying immediately.

It's almost time for my next Guinness, or half-bottle of Guinness, to be more precise.  Without it, I don't think I can sleep without dreaming of spiral fractures of femurs or tibias, and spiral fracturs of any bone are not the stuff of which my ideal dreams are made. I have an early final and a late-morning final. Following that, I'll probably coe home, go inside my room, open the door, and scream at the top of my longs. Then I'll go to the beach no matter what the weather as long as a tsunami is not forecast.

On the sexually harassing professsor front, everything is in good hands. My pseudo-aunt passed it along to a colleague while she is out of town, so somoeone is monitoring everything and ensuring that no essential prior documentation is being buried somwhere. Furthermore, grading for the quarter has been taken out of the hands of the professor, somy friend will not suffr retaliation as a result of being a whisle-blower.

Good night, everyone. I'm now heading of for one of  my 2.5-times weekly buzzes.

Horny Professor Update

I received a text from the girl who was given a highly inappropriate essay question on her final exam. No one else in the class, to the best of her knowledge, was given the same question, and all other students received exams identical to one another. The professor of our Psychopathology class left the class to be proctored by a teaching assistant and walked with the girl to the appropriate dean's office so as not to lose valuable time. (I assume the student got out of taking the final exam, which was probably appropriate, as she was likely not in any mental state to perform at her optimal level on any test at that point.)

What the professor is alleged to have done is, in addition to an obvious violation of university sexual harassment policy, is apparently a violation of both Title IX and Title VII. I don't really know anything about Title VII (I'll have to look it up) but Title IX is the initial piece of legislation that banned, among other things,  sexual harassment in educational institutions receiving federal financial assistance. (The wording is, I believe, "No person in the U. S.  shall, on the basis of sex, be excluded from participation in,  be denied the benefits of, or be subjected to discrimination under any educational program or activity receiving federal financial assistance.") Since then, numerous school and workplace statutes have been enacted, further prohibiting sexual harassment.  In educational settings, I believe the laws apply beginning in fourth grade.

The dean immediately contacted the school's attorney who handles sexual harassment cases. She was   told she had the authority to confiscate all exams from any and all sections of the professor's course in question  without seeking a warrant because they were not the property of the professor but of the university. She was told to, before going to the professor's office, obtain a class list  of all students enrolled in the particular student's section of the course. She was told to check the stack of finals to ensure that the exam of the student in question was not being withheld.  If it was not included, security was to remove the professor from his office, lock the door, and not allow him to remove anything, including a briefcase or container of any sort,other than his own body.  She was to ask for all exams from all sections of the course that had been given up to this point, in addition to blank copies of future exams that were to be distributed later. If she failed to gain access to that for which she asked, she was then to contact the both the county sheriff, who was already on alert, and the university attorney, who was already in the process of typing a warrant for search of the professor's office, home, and car (home and car might very well be denied, but it wouldn't hurt to try). If the professor was not in his office, she was to have security block access to the door until a warrant could be obtained. Even though the office is university property, an erratic judge could rule that an illegal search had taken place, and even though it would probably be overturned on appeal,  it wasn't worth the argument when just waiting a few minutes for a warrant would take care of the problem.  It would be the best practice in the long run to err on the side of caution.

It ended up not being necessary.  The final exam of the student in question was open on the professor's desk. The chief of security reached for it as the professor did likewise, it was torn at the staples, but the chief of security was successful in securing the student's complete final exam as well as the stack of all finals from the course. The professor would not produce the finals from another section of the course that had yet to be given, but they were found when the warrant was obtained and the search took place.

The student learned all this after the fact. From this point on, the matter will likely  be handled confidentially, although the student has the right to know how the issue is resolved, and if the university itself doesn't wish to be sued by the student in question, it will keep her apprised to the maximum extent allowed by law. She hasn't yet learned for sure that no other exams confiscated contained the same essay question as hers, but even if it were in a few others, and all belonged to females, the charge would still stand.  The professor is, in addition to being a sexual deviant, an idiot.

Because she's not working much, I'm going to ask (because the student has asked me to do so) my pseudo-aunt to represent the student's interests as representation is necessary in the early stages.  All that would be necessary now would be firing off a few letters to ensure that the university discloses everything it is legally allowed to disclose to the girl. Additionally, a motion should possibly be filed to gain access to the horny professor's personnel file to determine if a pattern existed of which the university was aware. Beyond that,  if it becomes full-blown litigation, the student will  want to turn the case over to a Gloria Allred-type.

My pseudo-aunt has been ill and is going on a brief vacation starting tomorrow afternoon and will be gone until the weekend. I took the liberty of typing out an initial letter for her to look over, make necessary changes as she sees fit if she's up to it, and fax to the university administration. I wouldn't even ask her to involve herself in this except that she totally gets off on this sort of thing. It's right up her alley. The student has given me permission to involve my pseudo-aunt and to give my pseudo-aunt her cell number. My pseudo-aunt won't send a letter without talking to the student personally.

If there's no history of this sort of behavior with the professor that the university has ignored or covered up, the student will be satisfied with appropriate discipline of the professor, which would  ideally be termination or transfer to another campus with both formal warning and/or censure to the professor and proper notification to the administration of the professor's new campus.

Tomorrow I study all day for my monster class. On Wednesday I take my first final early and my second final late in the morning. Then I am blessedly finished with everything academic, except to the extent that one considers peering into a microscope academic. If the truth is to be told, I'll probably do a whole lot more delivering slides from one office to another and  mixing the right additives into various workers' coffee than peering into any microscopes. At some point between July and mid-August, I'll become such an expert at preparing all the various coffees, espressos, lattes, and whatever else  there are that I'll be qualified to work at Starbucks before the summer is over. My new name will be "Alexis, the Latte Girl."

A Perverted Professor?

One student in my Psychopathology class had just taken a final in another class -- one that had soething to do with addictions.  One of the essay questions she was asked to answer was the following: If you had to give up either sex or mood-altering substances in any form, including the auto sexual method, or any and all mood-altering substances for the rest of your life, which would you choose, and why? The girl said she's always suspected the professor was a complete pervert, and this question confirmed her suspicions. Then she asked around among others in the class, and in the twenty  of twenty-four or so students she was able to ask, her test was the only one containing that question. She said the professor was very specific in handing out tests. The tests of students other than hers that she asked were identical. We all encouraged her to contact a dean today before tests could be destroyed. She's taking a chance on her grade being lowered, but she already has one B on her record, so she's not risking ruining a perfect GPA, plus she's scored 93 or higher on every other test or assignment, and she's confident she nailed this exam (including the invasive question), so the professor would have a tough time  justifying giving her anything less than an A. The key is that the dean has to act quickly.

The professor in our Psychopathology class, who  is a department chair,  accompanied her to the appropriate dean's office to ensure that she was seen promptly and that prompt action was taken. (I initially thought he was kind of a jerk, but I think my first impression was wrong.) Chances are that the test would be destroyed or hidden as soon as the professor had a chance to read it. Quick action needed to be taken. If either her final exam came up missing or all the exams disappeared, that in and of itself would be damning for the professor's case.

My finals in Psychopathology and Asian American Queer Studies were mildly fun. Both were multiple essay. Grades should be posted by Thursday on both of them.  Some of the statistics quoted in Asian American queer Studies literature are astounding to the point that they would be or are offensive to some, so I won't mention them here. Suffice it to say that  Asian cultures in general are not gay-friendly, and one from one of such cultures would not expect a welcome from family and friends upon emerging from the closet. Our course focused on eastern Asian cultures as opposed to the Mideast and the subcontinent, but I can't see either of those locales being much more -- and perhaps even less -- open and affirming concerning homosexuality.

Other than the prison interviews, Psychopathology was always a blast, and comparing notes on prison experiences was fun. I was the only person in the class whose interviewee had to be cuffed and led back to his cell mid-interview. After the fact, it seems rather funny.

I have only Sports Sociology, which should be fun, or, at the very least, painless,  first on Wednesday. I brushed up on readings and notes tonight. Tomorrow I will devote to the Mother of All Finals: The Mechanics and Physics of Fractures.  My dad was looking over the course materials and quizzing me, and he says I'm ready,but I am taking no chances whatsoever.

Human Sexuality: The Next Dr. Ruth Westheimer or Female Incarnation of Dr. Drew

One of the classes I'll be taking this fall will be Human Sexuality. It's a prerequisite to many pre-med programs, and an easy one at that. So despite my lack of experience in the area, I may become the female Dr. Drew or the modern equivalent of the ancient (or no longer with us, may she rest in peace if such is the case) Dr. Ruth Westheimer. I've only heard about Dr. Ruth, never having seen any of her actual work. I think we've all seen plenty of Dr. Drew these days even if all we do is channel surf. He's become an expert on virtually everything. I wouldn't be surprised to hit the weather channel button and find him there discussing Tropical Storm Andrea.

I have seen several clips of another lady, Sue Johanson, on her program, Talk Sex with Sue Johanson.   At first I found the program practically roll-on-the-floor funny, because Ms. Johanson looks like she's someone's grandmother and probably is, yet she was discussing sexual topics  in very graphic detail with roughly the same demeanor as one might expect of someone in her age demographic if she were
talking about knitting, quilting,or the finer points of baking pies with lattice crusts. As I paid more attention, I realized there was considerable substance to what she said. I say that with the disclaimer that I have absolutely no experience in the matters she was discussing, and for all I know every single thing she said could have come from conversations with lunar aliens. The funniest part of the program was when she would reveal a different sex toy every week, which had been personally tested by a member of her staff or crew. she would discuss the sex toy's pros and cons and give it a numerical rating.  My brother isn't so easily amused by all things sexual, and when I showed him a few of the clips, even he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. In my old age, presuming I've had experience in the domain by that time and haven't run off to a nunnery, I want to be Sue Johanson.

As early as it seems, it's now time to schedule fall classes. Music courses (senior recital, junior recital, choral conducting, and accompanist for chamber choir) will make up the bulk of my schedule. the chamber choir accompanist thing is because I have to have a certain number of semesters of performance group participation. I've covered most of it with the a womens' a capella group and the musical theatre participation when I played Chava, but I still need another semester. there will be at least one more accompanist, and we can trade off attendance, which will be nice. The music will be stuff that I can sightread for the most part. If I'm ever sick and can't arrange coverage with the other accompanist, I have my mother upon which to fall back, since she won't be lecturing at that hour. I don't want to abuse my relationship to her, but it's nice to know that she will probably be available if needed.

I'm not taking classes this summer, as I have a few things already on my agenda, including recording voice-overs for the music producer of a Utah film making operation and completing a lab internship.  .Furthermore, I have senior recital in piano coming up, followed by a violin junior recital in  November, followed by a senior violin recital in March. If I'd known what I know now when I started the whole college experience, I would've skipped the piano performance major and just concentrated my efforts on violin, as the violin performance major is the one that's apparently going to make a difference on medical school applications, and the piano performance major at that point becomes, as Knotty's professor or academic advisor called it, "gilding the lily." Still, once I've come this far, it would be foolish to toss it out, and maybe the dual piano/violin performance thing really will make a difference "sometime and somewhere."  It seems that 4.0 math/science majors with dual degreesin violin (most of whom are Asian females) for some reason have a leg up on the competition when it comes to medical school admissions that dual math/science and piano majors do not. Still, the piano major cannot possibly work against me, and since I'm virtually ready for it, I may as well see it through to fruition.

I've also received  permission to use my mom or my Uncle Scott as my accompanist for my senior violin recital. My Uncle Scott is my preferred choice since it will not appear that I'm playing the nepotism card by using him, and if he has a date provided far enough in advance,he can be guaranteed of the time off. He will have third-year resident status by then, which will give him even greater priority in scheduling.  Actually asking him to play the music is not an imposition, as he is good enough to sightread anything I'm likely to throw at him.  I like the option of having my mom as a backup just in the event that his wife were to become ill, which happens once or twice a year. He would still feel obligated to show up unless she were practically at death's doorstep, but I would not want him to be at my senior recital if he were to be needed by his wife at the hospital. The odds are against her body choosing that specific time to become gravely ill, but still, I like the backup plan.  Many recital performers use students - in fact over the next two semesters I'm playing for a cello recital, a voice recital, a violin recital, and a flute recital, for all  of which I will be paid, to cover performance requirements. I'm not willing to use a student. We're all human, but a student is more human than most, and I don't want anyone manifesting his or her humanity at my senior recital. I have enough to worry about without having to concern myself with what performance jitters might do to my accompanist. My mom and my Uncle Scott are pretty much jitter-free.

My brain is again approaching the malfunction stage, which tells me I've probably studied all I should study tonight.  I have a late morning final tomorrow, followed by an early afternoon one, neither of which concerns me terribly. I'm prepared. I've studied all quarter, and I've done a decent review of material that I thoroughly committed to memory much earlier in the quarter. although right now it doesn't totally feel like it, I did most of the preparation almost two months ago. Other than my one really difficult course, I should have been able to walk into the classroom and nail each final without a review. My mildly OCD personality won't allow me to do this, of course, but other than for my Physics/Mechanics of Fractures class, the studying I'm doing isn't as intense as what most of my classmates are doing right now. When I was at the beach yesterday, my company consisted of nonstudents from my university. The few people I saw who were likely **** students on the beach yesterday had textbooks and notebooks open in front of them.

It's technically two finals down, two more to go tomorrow, and the last two, including the blockbuster, on Wednesday. Then it's celebration mode. I'd include a clip of Kool & the Gang's Celebration, but I've always disliked that song.

Alcoholic in the making?Better than a sexaholic, I suppose.

I took my final in "Interactions in Biomolecular Complexes," which was not nearly so difficult as it sounds.  I know degrees of difficulties in courses can vary from one institution to another. For example Cal State University- Fresno's Music Theory I is the equivalent to Music Theory II or even III on some campuses; who would've though such would be the case? Maybe the biomolecular complexes course is a real nail-biter on another campus, but I didn't find it all that hard. Then again, perhaps I'm growing immune to difficult classes. after Risk Theory last quarter and Physics/Mechanics of Fractures this quarter, I'm not sure what could be thrown at me that would cause me any greater loss of sleep. The grades are already posted -- the prof must have had an entire crew grading them, as it wasn't multiple choice -- and I aced it and the class.

My finals tomorrow are in Asian-American Queer Studies (again, I'm not joking; this is a real course) and Psychopathology.  Neither final scares me, but I'm not taking anything for granted. I've been studying since about 8:00 a.m. with only a very short break, and I've divided my time between the two courses. I'm taking another short break and grabbing something to eat, after which it's back to Physics of Fractures.

I have a final in Sports Sociology Wednesday, but it  doesn't worry me terribly. I'll study for it tomorrow night and Tuesday, but more out of superstition than any actual need. My Appalachian Music professor gave us the option of taking the final on the last class day if we didn't have any courses afterwards. He has a Form B of the final for those who take it on Tuesday so that sharing of information concerning the final will be of minimal benefit.  I took it on the day of the last class session. Tomorrow after my two finals I'll study for Sports Sociology, which will leave the entirety of Tuesday for me to once again obsess over the physics and mechanics of fractures. If I ever break a bone again, I'll drive  the orthopedist crazy with questions about the specifics of the fracture, and I'll want to analyze the x-rays personally.

I'm feeling as though it's time for another Guinness even though I just had one either yesterday or the day before. I can't remember. For once in my life, I'm going to exercise just a bit of self-control and lay off the Guinness until after all studying has been done on Tuesday. Then, just before bedtime, I'll down my customary half-bottle of Guinness with the hope that I will be able to sleep without dreaming about the various forms of fractures.

I think the one thing that is keeping me from turning into a full-fledged dipsomaniac is that I absolutely abhor the taste of all liquor, including Guinness. I have to plug my nose to get it down. If it tasted as good to me as either grape soda or root beer, I'd probably have been in and out if rehab as many times as Lindsay Lohan.

Which begs another question: what if, when I finally get around to having sex, which will probably happen in about 2020 at the rate I'm going (Jared's lame advances have no effect on me) I actually like it so much that I cannot resist it and hook up with anyone and everyone who has the proper equipment in working order and is not a completely grossed out jerk? I find it hard to imagine, but what if? At least I'll presumably have access to the very best in prophylactics. I hope such does not end up being the case, though, because, at least in a theoretical sense sense, I think monogamy at any given time is a good thing.  There's plenty of time to worry about that in the future, though. For now, I have a major final to pass.

Test Anxiety / Repressed Sexuality?

                                      La Tour-- People Are Still Having Sex
I was speaking on the phone this evening with the boy who had my name tattooed on his arm in order to avoid serving an LDS mission.  As I was explaining to him my nervousness related to my  "physics of Fractures" final exam, (keeping in mind that the toughest course he's taking this quarter is microbiology), he told me that with my intellect, I cannot be truly feeling anxiety over the content of the course in relation to the final exam. He said my problem is really repressed sexuality, i.e. sexual frustration, masking itself as uneasiness or a sense of foreboding concerning the final test in my toughest course. I told him he is so full of bullshit that it positively hurts and that he will have to come up with a more innovative line than that if he expects ever to hit anything past a single off me, much less get me to the boinking stage. He said that he would be a fool not to at least try. We ended the conversation there, as I had a call from my Strings professor coming in as I was speaking with Mr. Tattoo.

It occurred to me that if I was getting such a slimy presentation from someone who so recently was officially a good Mormon boy (he can't have learned it all in the relatively brief interval since he desecrated his body with my name unless he had a really good teacher, and my brother, who would have been the logical choice to have coached him in the techniques of hitting on girls, certainly would not have fed him such lines, since he would have known that they were to be used in attempt to lure his twin sister into the sack).

As a postscript in text form, I told the guy, Jared, that he needs to finish law school, medical school, dental school, optometry school, an MBA program, or, at the very least, mortician school or clown school before I would even entertain such a discussion with him, and even then I offered no guarantees as to conjugal privileges.  His texted response was that my standards are ridiculously high.

Is there any limit to the lengths to which guys will go to get as far as they can with girls? Is it depravity, or is it normal eighteen-year-old male hormones doing what they do best? My brother may very well behave this way when in pursuit of what every guy his age apparently wants, but I've certainly never seen that side of him. For that matter, for the most part he was pursued in high school far more than he was the one in pursuit, and keeping his ERA as low as possible while his team scored runs was, as far as we in the family knew, more important than the magic score of the other variety. Then again, we in the family may have been quite naive concerning both Matthew's priorities and his purity. Who the hell knows other than Matthew himself? He's a red-blooded American boy.
     

I just didn't think Jared could transform so fast from someone committed to sexual purity until marriage into someone who makes shamefully lame attempts to get the goods from a girl. Perhaps the sexual purity thing was nothing more than an act in the first place. Maybe Mormon boys are just as horny as any other eighteen-year-old males. They either just hide it better or deal with it in different ways.

I'm clueless in this regard. I admit it. Regardless, I'm not putting away my textbooks because I fall for the idea that relieving  sexual tension will get me the "A"  I desperately need in "Physics of Fractures."

                                                             

Exploding Head! Guinness and Beach Time!

I've studied until my brain can retain no more information.  More studying would be pointless if not counterproductive.  It's time for my 2.5 times per week half bottle of Guinness. My parents go along with it in that limited quantity provided that I drink it at home, remain at home for four hours after, and that I drink it when my dad is home or coming home shortly so that the remainder does not go to waste. They can set whatever stipulations they want, because I could get it elsewhere if I needed to do so. as long as their requests are reasonable, however, I'll abide by them.

Tomorrow morning, if I wake up in time, I'll  go sit on the beach for awhile before my early afternoon final. Afterwards, I'll be joined on the beach by a few friends.  Sunday should be foggy, so I'll put in a couple hours reviewing for Monday's finals and for the dreaded "Physics of Fractures" final, although I'm not sure how much more I can commit to memory without my head exploding, the one consolation to that is that, should the head explosion thing actually happen, and should it involve any fractures of bones in my skull, I'll be able to define the problem precisely once I see the x-rays. I  know the material.

                                             not me, but it could be

Finals Are Nearly Upon Me

                                            classic metacarpal fracture

I'll have to disrupt my temporary obsession with taking down Walmart to prepare for finals, which are imminent. My first final this year is on Saturday afternoon, of all times, which is a lovely way to spoil a perfectly good weekend.  I then have two finals on Monday and two on Wednesday. I don't have to go through the motions of a final in my Strings class because the professor said the time would be better spent preparing for my violin senior recital, which will happen next February. The time will actually be spent preparing for my most difficult final exam, but my Strings professor doesn't need to know that.

The only final that scares me at all is the one for my "Physics of Fractures" course. It's my very last final, which is good because I have more to with which to prepare for it. It's not good, because I have more time to stress out over it. Regardless, it will be finished for better or for worse in less than a week. The stakes are high, as the difference between an A and a B could have tremendous financial implications in terms of graduate awards.

The "Physics of Fractures" class is  usually a first-year (or even a second-year in some schools) medical school course. My academic advisor wanted me to take it, knowing it was a huge gamble. It could either ruin my GPA or  boost my graduate standing in terms of the degree of difficulty of my overall course program.  Getting a B certainly won't ruin my chances of getting into med school, as even in med school I could easily afford to get a B in the class without even a chance of being tossed from a program, but getting less than an A would destroy my 4.0 GPA and take me out of the running for any major graduate awards.  Since my parents can afford to pay for my med school tuition and had planned to do so anyway, it was probably worth the risk to take the course, but right now it's giving my stomach major butterflies. I think everyone in the class feels the same way for different reasons. My mastery if the subject matter is as solid as is that of any other student in the class, but anyone can blow a final.  I don't know why I would walk into the classroom and forget everything I've ever learned, but I don't wish to be overconfident. The one consolation is that no matter what my performance is on the final, the lowest possible grade I can get in the course is a B.

After I take the final Wednesday, you can ask me anything you want about the various aspects of fracturing any bone in the human body and I should be able to give you an answer as thorough as anyone could give who has not completed a residency in orthopedic medicine. It actually would be useful information even were I to go into law. If I were a prosecuting attorney, for example, in a child abuse case, I could use the information to take apart an expert witness who is providing shaky testimony for the defense as to how a fracture of a bone in a child's body occurred; the ability to ask the proper follow-up questions to shady testimony would be powerful. I could and still might call a rebuttal witness, but taking a witness apart on the stand would have a greater impact.. Another attorney would have to be thoroughly schooled by an orthopedic physician  surgeon, and even then might not have the ability to ask decimating folllow-up questions. If I were practicing civil law, it would give me an excellent foundation for determining whether to take a tort case in which a fracture was involved, or whether to take on the defense of such.

It's not a wasted class at all. It's just risky.  I'm younger by at least four years than anyone else in the class. Many are taking it as a grad course in order to have a second shot at getting into med school.

Meanwhile, I'm relying  upon Pepto-Bismol as my primary source of nutrition. This, too, shall pass.

screwed up sleep schedule, but all is good

                                     great though relatively short-lived TV show

I reiterate the thesis of my previous post,which was, in essence, that Walmart is quite possibly the anti-Christ. At this point I cannot give more details as to my reasons for speaking out so strongly, as even under the relative anonymity of this blog, and though the situation in question does not pertain directly to me, I cannot risk jeopardizing any possible resolution  that may be in the works by sharing details. If this situation changes and I am at liberty to disclose specifics of the matter, I will waste no time in giving you full information supporting my stance.

It goes without saying, of course, that you are free to disagree with me and to furnish your entire house, stock your pantry, fill your bathroom, laundry room, backyard, and what ever other segment of your abode or your life with items purchased from Walmart and we can still be friends and colleagues. You can have a Sam Walton shrine in your living room, bedroom, bathroom, or front yard, and I would totally defend your right to do so, while I might clandestinely question your sanity ever so slightly. For that matter, you may have philosophical opposition to the general practices of the late Sam Walton and his minions yet, for practical reasons, have financial, geographical, or other logistical  reasons you must shop at Walmart or at one of its sister stores. That, too, I totally respect. You have no need to explain anything to me. It is simply my wish to leave no ground uncovered as to the intensity of my views on the matter.

Lately I've been awake at odd hours. My dad says I'm running the risk of turning into one of those bizarre creatures who lives in his or her parents' attic or basement well into his or her (for whatever reason, these characters tend to be portrayed by the media as most typically male, but I suppose I could break a few barriers here)  forties and ekes out my meager existence by delivering newspapers (a dying occupation, if you haven't noticed, with the shift of news emphasis from print to Internet, so if my dad is even close to correct in his prediction of my future, I probably need to come up with a Plan B in terms of the eking out of my meager existence) while creating my own comic book superhero series complete with plastic action figures to be sold separately, or perfecting the formula for the ultimate expeditiously biodegradable yet functional toilet paper.

As far as I can tell, my dad's sole reason for his concerns in this regard are that I have had recent difficulty in sleeping through the night. My dad could solve this problem in a nanosecond by tossing an Ativan or Klonopin (or Tylenol PM, for that matter; melatonin  makes me toss my cookies) in my general direction on occasion,  but it gives him comparatively greater personal satisfaction to be able to elaborate on the oddness of my lifestyle to his friends and coworkers than to actually provide a viable solution to the problem. I could buy my own Tylenol PM if I really wanted to, as I'm a legal adult, and one doesn't, for that matter, need to be eighteen or over to purchase the stuff, but my mother prefers, because of my somewhat complicated medical history, that I not self-medicate even with over-the-counter remedies. Since my mother is generally an easy person with whom to coexist and one who makes few demands on me or infringements upon my personal liberties, I humor her in this regard. Furthermore, I've found Tylenol PM (or Motrin PM, for that matter, although NSAIDS wreak havoc on my already-too-efficient digestive system and thus are not a particularly viable option) works really well the first night I take it, but has increasingly diminished effectivity  on subsequent nights.

It's not such a problem for me, anyway. If sleep eludes me, I get up and look over schoolwork, then perhaps blog for a bit, until I eventually become sleepy.  Unless my dad gives me a benzo or a Lunesta when I have these wakeful times in the night, that's the way it's going to continue to be. He's just lucky I don't choose that time to play the piano. That's what my brother does if he can't sleep when he's home. It infuriates my dad, but my mom won't let him make Matthew stop playing, because she's so happy to have Matthew practice the piano at all that she'll tolerate it even at 3:00 a.m. Sometimes I think Matthew might actually be a little smarter than we've been giving him credit all along  for  being. He's like the kindergartner who figures out that if you behave like a complete asshole for the first three weeks of each school year, the dunderhead patrol squad will reward you with stickers, sugary treats, extra computer game time, etc.,  for the rest of the year just for behaving as a quasi-normal human being.

I'm growing sleepy, so the relative merits of Ambien versus Xanax are turning into a moot point.

Goodnight, all. I'll see you again at a more civil hour. Or then again, maybe I won't. I may next be communicating with you at another 4:00 a.m. as I take a break from my comic book artistry and composition. I'm not sure whether to go back to my old standby of Catholic Cat and Protestant Pup (they were cartoon characters whose lives I chronicled during the many hours of free time in kindergarten I had to kill each day while waiting around for my classmates to finish printing their h's and counting how many tiny kittens were in each box so that they could then count them cumulatively and come up with sums; there's got to be a better way to educate our youth, but if one is ever found, it probably won't be found by a Catholic educator) or to come up with something more sinister, such as Phaedra, the Patron (Matron?) Saint of Conflicted Sexuality.

boycott WALMART with renewed vigor

I can't really give my reasons for this right now, but I am rededicating myself and my efforts to the resolution not to shop at Walmart. Before, I was merely humoring my father in what I considered just one of his many eccentricities, which was a not entirely explicable loathing of Sam Walton and everything associated with the man.  Since then, I've learned that my father is just a wee bit less stupid than for which I have previously given him credit. Things have happened to cause me to join my father in his resolve to avoid Walmart at almost all costs.

By almost all costs, I mean that if I happen to have eaten at a Taco Bell -- and Taco Bell has an eerily quickening effect on my digestive system --- I will patronize the Walmart restroom if it's convenient to do so.  I'll make liberal use of the corporation's undoubtedly top-grade toilet paper. I'll flush numerous times to ensure that no amount of my germ-infested waste  is left for the next customer, or, then again, I may not flush at all; it just depends upon my mood. Next,  I'll use enough of the corporation's high-quality soap (which is probably the same stuff the Walmart janitors use to scrub the restroom floors and toilets, IF, and it's a big if , they scrub the floors and toilets at all) to rid myself of MRSA or whatever other pathogen  I may have picked up just from walking through a WalMart. I'll rinse the conceivably toxic cleaning products from my hands liberally, hoping all the while that the water flowing through the faucets hasn't been diverted from the toilet output to the sinks, and I'll make generous use of the paper towels or air-drying system,  or both if both options are available. When I get home, I'll need to take a steaming hot shower to sterilize myself.

On my way out, I will not make a purchase even if I'm practically bleeding to death and have to crawl across the street to a Kmart or CVS or Rite Aid to purchase BandAids or similar products.  None of my money is going to  WalMart unless the ghost of Sam Walton shows up at my house -- with or without bones; do ghosts have bones? -- and steals it, which, from what I've read about the man's business practices when he was alive, I would not consider to be beyond possibility.

all work and no play makes Alexis even duller than she normally is

                                                       Room Redecoration

My time at the beach today is what many unenlightened souls think college life is like all the time for anyone who attends a campus anywhere near the beach. I'm sure my paternal grandparents and all my Utah aunts, uncles, and cousins think I'm basically a dishwater -blonde Annette Funicello prototype  (may she rest in peace) without breasts. I don't really mind that university life  isn't total fun and games all the time (just half a Guinness when no authorities were looking ;) in part because on multiple occasions my broken body has been reassembled by doctors who did something besides party during their undergrad years. One can say a doctor will learn what he or she needs to learn in medical school, bud the undergrad years provide a tremendous foundation, and even some of the med school classes are taken during undergrad years now. (My Physics of Fractures class is a bona fide med school course.)

We played beach volleyball. We played it with a beach ball, which is the only way I can play volleyball, because a standard volleyball is too heavy for my fingers and even my wrists, and it's too easy for me to jam them in a game wite. teachers didn't like it when my uncle wrote uses h a regulation volleyball.  I've jammed both a finger and a wrist in high school P.E. volleyball. The physical education teacher wasn't happy when my Uncle Steve, my pediatrician, wrote excuses exempting me from any additional volleyball after the second minot injury occurred, but if fingers were wrists are injured, I lost money in those days because I was playing piano and organ for major $$. No one would ask the P.E. teacher to participate in an activity that seriously impacted her chances of being able to do her job successfully, not that she did it all that successfully, anyway. Now I'm not earning nearly so much money playing, and I don't have any Jane Lynch-style P.E. teachers breathing down my neck,  but I need my wrists and fingers to practice piano and violin.

I learned today that volleyball can be fun when I'm not constantly worried about being hurt. We played in the sand on the beach, so even diving for the ball wasn't an unsafe thing.

We had races in the sand and did a little swimming, but the Pacific off the coast of almost anywhere in California is more than a little frigid. After we finished everything else, we rinsed the sand off ourselves and swam in one of the campus pools. It was one with diving boards, so I even got to experience that momentary feeling of zero gravity. It's quite indescribable -- like nothing else.

Fortunately for my future patients (or clients should I end up in law school), I have no more of such days planned until finals are kaput. Then, with just the violin/piano practice, the lab internship, and a few musical gigs that I pick up on occasion to pad my savings account, there will be time for lots of beach days.

I even remembered to regularly slather sunblock all over myself so that I was able to avoid ending the day looking like a boiled lobster.

I even had sufficient energy after my time at the beach to change my bedding and accoutrements. I prefer this comforter/sheet set to the previous one.

#

it's all good

        This is the current incarnation of my bed. I change the comforters and accessories avery couple of weeks.

I'm awake at this ridiculous hour because when I came home a little after 3:00 after my last class, I totally crashed. Several consecutive days of barely sleeping left me barely finctional. It was all I could do to make it upstairs to my room. I'm still even in the clothing I wore to school yesterday. I'm on top of my comfortoer with just a throw blanket for covers. It worked, though.

My parents are asleep in their own room. Dad is home, which made sleeping soundly a bit easier for me, although, to be perfectly honest, I'd sleep well with any strong body in the house. Some NFL offensive lineman, or  Omar Epps, or even Venus Williams,  would work just as well.  I just don't want to have to fight off an intruder with my mom as my only backup. She's not much stronger than I am.  I do have my dog here with me, which is also nice.

I'm going to shower and put on PJs and watch tV until I fall back asleep. If I don't go back to sleep, no big deal.

Finals are the week after next, which will be nice. I'll do a decent amount of studying to prep for them, but I'm already reasonalbly prepared. I have to go for a bit of overkilll when it comes to studying for exams.

I hope everyone has a nice weekend. I'm going to the beach with a few friends tomorrow, including the firend who has my name tattooed on his bicep.  I don't read anymore into the tattoo than the obvious intent, which was to gethim out of going ona Mormon mission, which it did. someday it may mean more, but not yet.

Nightmares NOT on Elm Street

I probably shouldn't be giving out so much information in a blog, but the relative anonymity combined with the basic goodness of the people who do know enough about me to find me make it OK to share. My dad has been out of town, and my brother is still away at college and will be for awhile because baseball season runs a bit late, so my mom and I have been bacheloretting (I reserve the right to invent words or new forms of them on the spot) it for a few days.  This is not a problem for the most part, but it makes sleeping a little difficult for me.

Specifically, sleeping at home at night without a male in the house, or (not to be sexist) at least without a female warrior such as my Aunt Andrea who could kick any armed intruder's butt, tends to bring on the nightmares for me. Monday night, or I think it was Monday, anyway (I'm growing sleep-deprived to the extent that discenring one day from the next is difficult) my Aunt Jillian called and had my psychiatrist, who's a close friend of the family and lives just a few blocks from us, come spend the remainder of the night. Last night I toughed it out. For tonight, Jillian sent her brother Tim to sleep over.  Incidentally, Jillian is home from the hospital and is on the mend.

I'm not sure what's happening tomorrow. Maybe I'll sleep perfectly well and it won't be an issue. Then again, maybe I won't. My dad will be home on Friday night.

This is something with which I must learn to deal. My dad or the other kind males who've either slept over or come to my house in the middle of the night can't be traveling to wherever I end up for med school or, in a worst-case scenario, law school.  I do OK in dorms, but it's not really normal to live in dormitories when you're in med or law school.  

Perhaps I'll find a trustworthy male roommate. It doesn't have to be just he and I, if the situation makes my parents feel awkward. We could get a three- or four-bedroom house, condo, or apartment, and have a combination of males and females. It's not like the days of Three's Company, when Jack Tripper rooming with two girls (in  separate bedrooms, no less) had to pretend to be gay to avoid the living situation being considered scandalous. 

I suppose the situation would be the same as it is now when the make roommate happened to be gone for the night, which he probably would be a least on occasion, but that would be better than being scared or having nightmares every single night.

I have a little while to work out that situation. Right now I just have t deal with what happens when my dad is out of town. I wish one of my male cousins (not one of the crazy fanatical LDS ones; I do have normal cousins as well) would attend my university and live with us (much cheaper than the dorms). He could come as go as he pleased as long as he agreed to come home at some point during the night on the nights my dad was out of town. It would be a good deal.

For now, I'm just glad Tim is here tonight. He just got here, so I can sleep now.

Our Journey Northward for Early Memorial Day Commemoration

My brother and I left at what is for me the crack of dawn (6:30 a.m.) to travel to Benicia, California. Benicia is in located Solano county, which is in the north portion of the eastern San Francisco Bay region, or the east portion of the north bay region. One of those two is right. I'm just not sure which one.  I believe Benicia was our state's first capital, or at least it was a state capital somewhere along the way.  It's just over a bridge from Contra Costa County in the bay area.  It's the place where our parents lived when our older twin brothers were born and died. Matthew and I never lived in Benicia.

We went there to place flowers on the combined grave sites of our twin brothers who did not survive infancy. Nicholas lived  for just a few minutes. Christopher made it for a few days before it became apparent that medical science was only postponing the inevitable, and my parents made the gut-wrenching decision to pull the plugs and stop medical intervention.

Matthew and I  had purchased daisies, tulips, and a single white rose for each brother yesterday. My mom always puts a single white rose on each side of the  grave in addition to whatever else she puts there. Our neighbors gave us dahlias and some pretty bluish purple flowers called anemones, along with hollyhocks, daffodils, and some pretty bluish-purple flowers called delphinium. We had a nice assortment.

We had brought basic gardening tools and cleaning products because we weren't sure what we'd find, but the place in general, and our brothers' section in particular, had been cared for very well. We did polish the gravestone and we distributed the flowers. We put a tiny American flag  on each side of the combined headstone. Our mom's family is somewhat military-oriented, with her dad and brothers all having been Air Force Academy grads.  We figure that among the four of us, had the other two lived, statistically speaking, one  of us would have gone into the military. Since it obviously wasn't Matthew or me, it would have been one or the other of them.  We haven't figured out which one it would have been, so we always give them both American flags.

We lingered a little longer at the grave site than we normally do. We talked about how things might have been - what it would have been like to have grown up with two older brothers -- what it might have been like to have grown up with  an older brother or two who might have faced serious disabilities as a result of their extremely early births had they survived. We even talked about how our parents might have stopped at two had they been blessed with healthy babies on their first try.  Life is a total roll of the dice in some regards, and one never knows how things will turn out no matter how painstakingly plans have been made.

This may be one of our last few trips here together with just the two of us.  Matthew has ruled out any possibility of pro baseball, which is a good thing, as he might have spent a year in rookie league and another year in single A league at most, but ultimately it would have led him nowhere. Medical school is a safer place on the roulette wheel on which to place his wager. We don't know where medical school might take us in a year or so. We're assuming we'll both probably be admitted somewhere in the U.S. I'll go one year earlier than Matthew, most likely.  In any event, we have only another year or so where we'll likely be living close enough to each other to make this trek together.

Then comes the issue of significant others. I'm in no huge hurry to marry either the guy who had my name tattooed on his arm or anyone else, but at some point within the next five years or so,  I  may feel differently. Matthew changes girlfriends the way normal people change their underwear, but one of these times, the next one will be THE one.  We'll still be twins with our special bond and womb-mate status, but it will be different. Depending upon our locations and situations, we may visit our brothers as a threesome or foursome, or we may each make the trip separately with our eventual significant others, or maybe even alone.

It was bittersweet, knowing a long-standing tradition is nearing its end. Something we have been doing more or less on our own since we were old enough to persuade someone other than our parents to drive us will happen possibly as few as  two more times.

Life moves forward for those of us who are lucky enough to be alive.