Injuries

At this point, it goes way beyond “accident prone.” After my latest injury (assuming I snapped the muscle in my right calf,) I have come to a new conclusion. Weird stuff happens to me.

This goes way beyond clumsiness, since it is not just strange injuries, but health issues as well. The most ironic thing about it is that I am so cautious and I don’t have an adventurous/athletic bone in my body. Just watch videos of our childhood vacations for proof. Climbing on rock formations, a frightened young Ann scoots on her butt up the rocks one by one, while Meg (6 years younger) charges forward yelling back at me to hurry the heck up. I will point to those same videos for documented proof of one of my random injuries in the corn fields of Iowa where I sprained my ankle just standing around (no, you can not see the video, it’s incredibly embarrassing.) Sure, I played Field Hockey, but I sat on the bench most of the time because I was scared of the other players, and because I usually had sprained ankles.

As far as I can remember things started when I was little, when I broke my wrist falling out of a wagon – yes a wagon, the little boxes on wheels that are only 6 inches off the ground. My mom obviously thought it unlikely, too, because she didn’t take me to the hospital for three days. I also started having chronic UTI infections, yielding multiple antibiotics and trips to the hospital when I was very young. Through testing in college I would come to find that the culprit is that I have a humongous bladder and a teeny urethra, which is the perfect storm for UTI’s, fun stuff. At age 12 I had possibly the worst case of Chicken Pox in history. Seriously, my friend who also had them at the same time came over to visit and she was visibly scared of me. You couldn’t touch a place on my face where there was not a pock – I looked like and felt like an ogre. No, actually Shreck was hotter than me.

Had some stitches and I will make that short. Paul angered me so I jumped in the air, hit head on cabinet and bled all the way downstairs to find my mom. Also smashed my giant chin onto side of pool when I lifted myself up on the side to try to shoot down as quickly as possible to the bottom of the deep end. Busted chin, freaked out life guard.

In Middle School, as if braces and a self inflicted hideous perm were not enough, I also caught lice at Summer Camp. Lice that had to be cut individually out of my hair by my mom because my hair was “too fine” to catch the eggs with that little lice comb. Mom and I were up for about 4 hours one night sitting in the floor of my room, proving once again that a Mom will do just about anything for her child. This reminds me that Mom needs an extra big Mother’s day gift this year because I never properly thanked her for that 4 hours of agony she endured so that I could go back to school without bugs in my hair.

Middle School also brought the fated campout in Erin Tracey’s back yard, during which we “snuck out” to meet boys and hide from the useless Anchorage cops. Hiding from cops means that you squat in people’s bushes, bushes that contain poison ivy from which my Umbro’s provided me little defense. What does poison ivy on your butt and thighs look/feel like? You don’t even want to know. It got me out of gym for a week or so, though, so maybe I avoided another ankle sprain and getting nailed in the face with a dodgeball or two.

High school can be summed up in two words. Ankle Sprains. Field Hockey coach hated Ballet instructor, and vice versa because they each blamed the other on my weak ankles. I blame running the cross country course – hated that more than ankle sprains (perhaps subconsciously…..?)

In college I busted my head open on the bunk bed in my dorm room and needed stitches. Of course my biggest concern, other than that I felt my brain bounce off my skull when my head hit, was that they were going to have to shave my hair for the stitches. The nurse had mercy on me and worked around my hair so that I didn’t have to be bald for my next date party. Phew. At UK I also broke my foot coming out of Atomic Café, falling off the side of my shoe because I missed a step. Ok, so it was technically a “break in the pavement.” Whatever, I still broke the damn foot and had to be carried into my apartment by Lindsay’s boyfriend who was sweet enough not to laugh when I broke into hysterical crying as soon as the boys I didn’t know got out of the cab.

More recently I cut my hand, and in the process nicked the tendon, near my left thumb. I was cooking, but don’t jump to conclusions, it wasn’t a knife. I decided to try to fit more trash in the can, so pushed the contents down with my hand, thereby slashing myself with the lid of an opened tin can. Nice. I ran around screaming and bleeding and Samantha dashed around my feet freaking out while I talked to the 911 operator. Hospital visit and hand surgeon consultation resulted.

After this newest injury which resulted from a simple jog up a couple of stairs, I have concluded that I am either being punished for something, or I have just experienced all of my injuries and illnesses in my first half of life and from now on I will have a peaceful existence.

And though I know you are still thinking about it, you absolutely may NOT see that video from Iowa. It is highly classified.

Facebook Attack on the President

Recent “hilarious” copy and paste recurring Facebook Status:

DEAR LORD, THIS YEAR YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTOR, PATRICK SWAYZE. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE ACTRESS, FARAH FAWCETT. YOU TOOK MY FAVORITE SINGER, MICHAEL JACKSON. I JUST WANTED TO LET YOU KNOW, MY FAVORITE PRESIDENT IS BARACK OBAMA. AMEN

Really?

I mean first of all, we all know that Patrick Swayze is not your favorite actor. Yes, we all enjoyed Ghost, who doesn’t love a sweet ghost trying to avenge his death and save his fiancé from an evil banker? And I don’t know a woman who doesn’t get all tingly at the sight of gigolo Johnnie wooing a virgin teenager named “Baby” in our all time favorite dancing movie. However, brave battle with cancer or not, he is NOT your favorite actor, so I call your bluff.

Secondly, and most importantly, did you really just state in front of God and Facebook users that you wish the President of the United States were dead? I mean that is what you are saying in your not so cleverly sarcastic way. God gets your sarcasm, I mean, he is God after all, and I doubt he thinks it’s funny.

In my darkest hours during the Bush administration, and there were many, I never at any point wished him dead. Impeached? Maybe. Lost in the wilderness for a while and rendered unable to perform his duties as President? Perhaps. But never dead. He is a father, a husband, a son, a human. And whatever our differences, I am sure that he was trying to do his job and make the best decisions that he deemed necessary.

So for your lies and your insult to the President of the United States, may God and Patrick Swayze have mercy on your soul.

Amen.

Why do bees chase people when people are obviously much larger?

A Study by Ann London

Few things strike as much fear into my heart as seeing a bee or wasp floating aimlessly through my peripheral vision. The way those bastards fly around, it’s like a tornado…which direction will the venom filled flying fuzzball take next? But why the fear? As humans we are much larger than they are, we have more control of our movements, we are stronger, smarter. “They are more scared of you than you are of them” my teacher would always say as I ran from them, arms flailing, on the playground. But in my opinion, that is bull shit. For something so small, a bee’s sting hurts, and a wasp, don’t get me started. I would rather have a doctor inject me with a shot of acid. Those little monsters know that I am scared, they enjoy it, and that is my theory as I embark on my journey to answer the question proposed in the title of this essay.

Now, I am fairly certain that I would have studied bees and hive behavior at some point in my schooling, but whether it was in High School (I would have been writing notes to friends) or College (same story except blatantly talking to them in those giant lecture classes,) the knowledge didn’t stick.

According to Wikipedia, “Bees are flying insects closely related to wasps and ants, and are known for their role in pollination and for producing honey and beeswax”….blah, blah, blah. Everyone knows that. What I was most interested to read in their analysis was “there are nearly 20,000 known species of bees in seven to nine recognized families.” What? Where are all those little nasty beasts hiding out? I am going to have to buy a bee keeper’s suit and also a smoke kettle to sit by me at the pool (because I can’t let that suit ruin my sun tan.)

In support of my theory, I read about a bee in New Zealand, which has figured out a way to open a spring loaded flower to reach the nectar. This flower typically is only opened by birds, however the bees have been observed “biting the top off the buds, then pushing with their legs, occasionally popping open the buds to allow the bees to harvest the nectar and pollen.” Seriously, bees are smart, and clearly have opposable thumbs if they can work all that out.

Apparently Bees’ ancestors were Crabronidae, no not a sexually transmitted holiday, but a type of insect which eats other insects. So, one could conclude that when bees chase us they are really trying to eat us, but I won’t go there…

According to my research, most native bees in North America do not “chase” people, they simply might be attracted to a perfume or brightly colored clothing. So to avoid them I guess I will have to contact my uncle to borrow hunting gear such as camouflage and/or deer piss to wear instead of my perfume. They rarely attack and only if directly threatened. (See they know the difference so they are smart little buggers.) However, Africanized bees, which have been introduced to North America by mistake from labs (when I find the scientists responsible I will paint their lab coats with pollen and stick them in a field of wild flowers) are much more aggressive. These “Killer Bees” are highly defensive of their hive, and will attack after even a very small perceived threat and with little notice. Regular “European Bees” take 30 seconds before they would consider attacking to protect their colony. Killer bees don’t take time to think about it, they just jump you.

There are some precautions about these gangster bees that I have found common in my research:
If you encounter Africanized honey bees:
• Run away as quickly as possible. Protect your head, especially your eyes and mouth. Africanized bees will chase for up to a quarter of a mile.
• Get inside a secure, enclosed structure, such as a car or building, before attempting to remove any stingers. A chemical called an "alarm pheromone" is released when bees sting. It draws more bees to the victim.
• Do not attempt to fool the bees by hiding or "playing dead" if you are stung. The bees will continue to sting you.
• Do not jump into water, such as a swimming pool. Africanized bees will wait for a victim to surface.
• If you are with someone who cannot run away from the bees, cover them with a blanket, tarp, or other material. This will not prevent bees already on the victim from stinging, but it could prevent additional injury. Do not stay with the victim -- the bees will turn their attention to you. Run for help.
• Do not throw rocks or other objects at a hive.
Ok, on that last one, if you throw a rock at them then you deserve to be stung, dumb ass. But on the rest of those…so you are telling me that there is really nothing I can do once these suckers are after me? We all know I can’t run so I would be the person under the tarp left for dead.

I will concede that there is no firm evidence that bees bother me simply to see the fear in my eyes, however they definitely suck more than I already thought they did. The other day I was headed to work, smiling as the spring sun kissed my cheeks. A golf ball sized bee buzzed out of the bush by my driveway and tried to zoom towards my car to get in with me. Even if I have disproven my theory about these creatures, I still maintain that I heard him laugh as my terror forced me to collapse in the seat and slam the door in his furry little face.