Is There a Doctor in the House?

For some reason unknown to me, our health center is closed on the weekends.  This seems very counterintuitive but I guess even nurses want to get crunk on saturday nights.  As a result of this, I had to go to the Knox County Hospital.  Unlike the people with bleeding fingers and crutches who kept me company in the waiting room, I just had a really itchy rash...seriously, it was really itchy.  I was skeptical of the KCH before this visit, but now I am pretty sure the doctors there got their degrees online to get a discount on "Grey's Anatomy" Halloween costumes.

Finally I got to see a doctor, I showed him my side and my arm where I was covered with red bumps and he just said "Hmmmmm" and pulled out his Iphone, searched "chicken pox," and compared the Google images to my arm.  I enjoy a shirtless cell phone picture of chicken pox taken in a dimly lit bathroom as much as the next girl, but preferably not when I'm having to pay for it.  After the picture of the cartoon dog with a thermometer in his mouth passed, Dr. #1 was convinced I had chicken pox.  Until he asked me if I had been vaccinated.  I have been.  So it wasn't chicken pox.  It was shingles!  It had to be shingles!  But Dr. #1 couldn't be sure so he had to go search for another doctor.  Several minutes later Dr. #1 returned with Dr. #2.  Dr. #2 said it couldn't be shingles because I didn't have a fever (go Dr. #2!  Way to check WebMD before coming in here!).  They gave up and decided to prescribe me steroids for my mystery rash.  I got four tubes of steroid cream from that prescription.  Enough for me and my rashy elephant.  

I'm pretty sure that as soon as I stop putting on the cream, the rash will come back.  I'm probably deathly allergic to something that I'm eating on a regular basis (so gummy bears, chocolate, or goldfish).  Or from my own google image search, I learned I could actually have Psoriasis, bedbugs, Gangrene, Perioral Dermatitis, or Leprosy.  Google is so handy in self-diagnosis!  I should go pre-med.  Unless my nerves become too damaged from the Leprosy.  Or I lose my arm from Gangrene.  

This is very similar to a medical experience I had at home.  One morning I woke up and my legs were covered in small circular bruises, so obviously I went to a doctor.  She asked me if I had put anything with small circles on my legs.

..........

No.  I did not press soccer cleats into my thighs, or a bunch of upside-down tacks.  But thanks for asking.

I was then told that I had to have blood tests done because it was possible that I had Leukemia, HIV, or Lupus.  It was like an episode of "House".  Next I'll have a seizure and they'll figure out that the medicine they've been giving me is actually causing kidney failure.  Needless to say, I'm actually fine, I just occasionally have outbreaks of small bruises.  Maybe I should try steroid cream.

God I Hope I Get It

Take it from a girl who knows.  Auditioning is hard.  Rull hard.  I know you sang a cappella in high school, and had the lead in Cinderella in elementary school, and you went to all those camps for "dance" where you ran in circles and rolled on the floor, and now that you're in college it's the perfect time to re-visit those lost talents.  You were AH-MAZING back then and nothing has changed...right?  Wrong.  So wrong.

I did showchoir in high school and we sang some songs a cappella so I figured I was a shoe-in for Take 5 (because obviously I am full of soul and coming from a suburb in Oregon, have much experience in jazz).  So I signed up for my audition slot at the activities fair and prepared my verse and chorus of a song.  I chose a song from Duffy because she's white and blonde like me, and has a rockin' voice like I pretend to have when I'm driving in my car listening to Beyonce.  I showed up to the audition all smiles and rainbows and sang my song, I know I wasn't the best person they heard but to keep some of my dignity let's pretend I wasn't the worst.

But the real kicker came when they asked me to scat.  I really wanted to be in an a cappella group, so I figured, "How hard can it be?  You just 'scooby dooby' to some notes."  The piano started playing and I channeled my inner Ella Fitzgerald, started swaying to the music, really feeling it and I was ready to let out the most rich, soulful 'ba da doo' you have ever heard in your life, when I actually opened my mouth.  This was my first mistake.  I sounded less Billy Holiday and more like a chipmunk on speed.  My voice went up about seven octaves and as I tried to squeak out sounds, I realized I wasn't even with the music, let alone hitting any notes.  Well if they're going to laugh at you anyway, might as well make them laugh with you.  I began to make up my own scat-song with good old verses like "why is this music still going? A dooby dooby" and "I'm trying really hard but I don't know what I'm doing" but don't forget "I don't have any more words, I hope this stops soon scat a ramma doo"  But the music kept going!  The pianist kept playing along, probably too busy being confused as to how I ended up in his audition room to notice my look of sheer panic.  When he finally did stop, I didn't notice and had to trail off with a "Oh I guess he stopped now doo-waaaaaa"  (with jazz hands).  Needless to say, I did not make it into Take 5.  But my roommate did.

Welcome Back to Kamp!

Around this time last year I was bright faced and hopeful about what college would bring.  I was looking forward to Old Kenyon parties, meeting cute guys, and freedom.  I didn't have too many friends and the humidity made my hair poof out like this:

The hair and the lack of friends may have been linked.

Now I'm back for a second year and things are basically the same.  Except I've learned that Old Kenyon is mostly just a good place to get beer spilled on you and make out with people you didn't want to, the cute guys are all gay, and I have all the freedom I want to decide between Walmart and Kroger.  Speaking of Kroger, apparently I look like the albino who works there.  This doesn't surprise me.  I haven't met her, but if you have tell her congratulations on her wedding and that Billy thinks the price for a six-pack of Natty Light is too high.  

I thought that by my Sophomore year I would know not to bring so much random shit with me.  But this is not the case.  My broom closet single in Caples looks like an episode of Hoarders, and I think Parents' Weekend is just an excuse for my mom to come up here and stage an intervention.  It's not that I don't want to clean my room, it's just that it's a vicious circle.  I'm at the point where I can't even enter my room, I can only take a HUGE step onto my bed to sleep at night.  I'm afraid the next step is taking in all the stray cats in Gambier and learning how to knit them sweaters. 

Help.

Now I do live in Wellness so becoming a cat lady isn't too much of a jump.  I may be the only one on campus living well for all I know.  I never see my hall-mates.  Never.  Not even in the bathroom.  So I have come to this conclusion:  Either 9th floor Caples is the Twilight Zone, or no one in Wellness bathes...or needs food.  However, I know I'm not the only resident of Caples because I can usually hear the normal people having fun on the floors below me.  For the first week back here I remained pretty vague about where I lived though, and my conversations went something like this.

Random Person:  Hey!  Where are you living this year?

ME:  Oh...north.

RP:  Oh hey, me too!  Where?

ME: ...Caples.

RP:  Nice, nice.  What floor?

ME:  YouknowIhavetogofluffyneedsanewsweater...bye!

But now that I've learned that the 9th floor is 8 flights of stairs too many, I have accepted my fate as a Wellness resident and allow people in the elevator to see what button I push.  If that's not maturity, I don't know what is.