Healed: Tibetan Soup Stock

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

-Roasted and ready to go.-

They had warned us about the altitude sickness, but I had assured myself that my strapping twenty-eight year old physique and mental acuteness could overcome something as trivial as natural response. Turns out, not so much.

My head was throbbing like I had just survived a Skrillex concert having been duct tapped directly to a two story subwoofer. Rising to over 11,000 feet (about 3500 meters) Lhasa is one of the highest cities in the world. If you're not from there, then you'll quickly notice the drop in partial pressure of oxygen. There isn't really less oxygen, but since there's less pressure in the atmosphere, it's not as tightly bound in the air. Imagine that instead of drinking water from a cup you poured it on the floor and like the animal you are you're licking it up. There's the same amount of water, it's just not as neatly compact as at sea level. This means you're drawing in significantly less air in Lhasa.

The result is a feeling of being hungover after a night when the next morning you look at the bottles strewn about the living room and wonder how you're still alive. Heahache, dizziness, aching muscles, and a gut punch of nausea are all common symptoms. I was feeling all of it, as were the rest of the people in my tour group and when we checked into our hotel at two in the afternoon more than a few people went straight to bed (or broke into the canisters of oxygen, which were available for $12 in the mini-bars).

Missed Valentine: Triple Chocolate Cookies

Tuesday, February 19, 2013

-Yes it's a late V-Day post. Stop with the rolling your eyes and frickin' read.-

Dear Brian,

So you're at field training this entire month with the army in the middle of nowhere Kentucky (though "nowhere" might be too general a description for that state) working on building your medical skills. It's noble of you and I'm proud of you, and even though I know you're bitching about it we both know part of you loves the military camaraderie and the fact that you get to build your knowledge base. It sorta makes it worth all the physical training and three in the morning.

I get to sleep at three in the morning. So, you know, ha ha.

I'm proud of you for what you do for your career, your education, and the fact that you do this for me, too. Alas, we both know I hate when you leave. I never handle it well.

Remember the first time you were going to be gone for three months? The night before you left I had a panic attack so bad I earned myself a hospital visit where the doctor drugged me higher than a cat on a car trip and put me on oxygen because I was hyperventilating so bad my heart almost popped like a kernel of corn over an open flame.

We both know I'm much better now. I only have a small bout of depression and get a tiny void that I try to fill with sex (insert dirty pun here) in the days before you leave, and with bottles of wine and too much exercise when you're actually gone.

Bias: Orange, Beet, Pineapple, and Carrot Juice

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

-Winter produce in warm hues.-

Okay, so I have to come clean.

I've been juicing.

I juice almost every day. Sometimes twice. It's becoming a problem.

When I first encountered the idea of juicing I thought the concept was vile. People gluging down chunky slurries of parsley, cucumber, and spinach. All ingredients I love, but having them pureed into a fine green trickle just sounded vile. The semi-noxious smell produced by all that mangled vegetal flesh sitting in the juicer's repository didn't help, either.

Monies: Best Brownies

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

-And I do mean best, bitches.-

I'm really glad I got a job because suddenly all of this happened:

Car Repair: $450, and that's the You've Been Our Customer For 8 Years rate. What with house hunting I cannot afford to buy a car, so I am doing everything in my power to keep my 11-year old Hyundai running. I take it in every few months for a check-up so that mid-adventure on the highway it doesn't explode in a ball of fire and trap me in the burning wreckage of fiery steel.

It's not a huge concern. Sorta. Really, the damn machine is just getting old. Every time I take it in they discover another piece is more decrepit than an empty Blockbuster Video. Soon it'll need a bed pan and hospice care just so I can drive myself to the nearby gun store to buy some shells for when I have to take the poor girl out back and shoot it between the eyes to put it out of its misery.

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