Ick

Yesterday I learned that many people who are allergic to cockroaches are also allergic to coffee made from pre-ground beans. Why? Because roaches infest giant piles of coffee beans, and the FDA allows for a certain percentage of dried roach in pre-ground coffee. The best part of waking up? Not so much.

While this was an icky discovery, I wasn't too disgusted; we always use whole beans and grind our own.... Though, as I write this, I realize that I will never again be able to order coffee from a diner or use the tasteless-yet-convenient keurig. (Yet I also know that I probably will, and so my future self is repugnant to my present self.)

What I found more disturbing, however, was this: the same thing goes for chocolate. Roaches just love big ol' piles of cacao seeds.

Trace amounts of fecal matter, insect carcasses, and generally foul sh*t are federally permitted in processed foods, and they're all over our veggies too, as Ashley (whose blog is incredible) rightly pointed out. I know this, but it seems insidious to hide roach bits in my coffee and chocolate.

Under the covers

Me: I'm cold. I think I'm coming down with something.
n.o.c.: No you're not. You just want to use up your sick days.
Me: Nuh-uh.
n.o.c.: That's shady.
Me: Oh, stuff and nonsense. I'm really cold. Definitely getting sick.
n.o.c.'s *ss: Pbbbbbbbbbfffffffffffffffffftttttttttttttbbbbbbb
Me: Arrrrrrrrgh! Dear Lord! (retch, retch) I'm dying! (retch, retch, retch) Why would you do such a thing?
n.o.c.: I was warming you up.

I couldn't make this up if I tried

My mother and I were sitting in the OR waiting room today, quietly reading and minding our own business in general. The situation was awkward enough without talking to anyone else, since those of us who were prepped for surgery were wearing hideous gowns and paper caps and had been swaddled in heated blankets (the hospital wisely keeps the waiting room at a fresh 58 degrees). We'd been waiting for about an hour, when in came a sixty-ish woman, similarly attired but with an enormous nimbus of hair that completely filled her paper cap. She plopped down in an upholstered chair and promptly inquired what the rest of us were "in for" - like one might do in prision. I demured; I'd been reading Emily Post's biography and felt sure that Emily would caution against sharing such information. The woman to my left was in for a bum knee. The man across the way remained silent, broodingly pulling at the too-short hem of his robe. Undaunted, the woman continued, "Well, I'm here to get my vagina cysts removed, and they ain't putting me to sleep, neither."

eeeewwwwwwwwww!!!!!

Last year, I made a visit to the optometrist. I hadn't been in a while, and little things were starting to concern me. Like my inability to make out the identities of people more than ten feet
away. Or the realization that I could no longer read street signs. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I was diagnosed with 20/70 vision, and I picked out a pair of glasses.

Unfortunately, I seldom wear those glasses. I don't need them to read, I don't drive often, and I've found that smiling at every approaching blob works out better than my actual responses might if I knew the blob's identity. Also, I think of my glasses as an accessory - like a great belt or big earrings. No matter how cute (and the glasses are very cute), you just don't wear them everyday. If you did, they would cease to be kicky and become tired necessities, like headgear or my work identification tag.

So, most of the time I live in a slightly blurry world, and I don't mind it. Or I didn't mind it, until this morning, when I bent to pick up what I thought was a bit of lint or a leaf and it turned out to be A LIVING F*CKING ROACH, a conniving, evil, douchebag roach that stayed very still until my fingers closed around it. I nearly died from an epic case of the icks. I'm getting contacts immediately. I'm also coating our very clean and organically inclined apartment in all manner of toxins to ward off any other little beasts who might be feeling feisty in the warmer temperatures.

In other, far less disgusting news, the Christmas Cactus is having another go. For St. Paddy's day, I suppose. Sláinte!