Burning, Waiting and Bleeding.

I hate to admit this, because it makes me less wife-able, but I am not a very good cook at all. Baking is a different story, though. I can make cookies and unhealthy sweets like nobody's business, make a mean smoothie, but when it comes to real food, I lack in those cooking abilities. I believe I even burned soup once (yes, it's possible).

So last Tuesday, I attempted what for me is impossible. To broil some chicken. Simple enough right? So I called up my momma, and she gave me some directions and made it seems so easy. Which is was, I am just...yeah. Anyways I put the tin foil on the pan, laid my defrosted chicken on it and doused it in Mrs. Dash. One thing my mom said was to move the oven rack higher, but not too close to the heating element. Well, mine was one below the top, so I moved it to the top one, without thinking that maybe it was too high up. So, I threw in my chicken and sat down on couch to wait for the timer. I got really into whichever of the 4 movies I own that I happened to be watching, that I didn't realize that the kitchen was full of smoke. Eventually, I turned my head and freaked out, seeing the foggy, polluted apartment. I ran over to the oven and opened it up, to see that the chicken wasn't as severely burned as I thought. I figured I'd take out the chicken, move the rack down one and then cook the other side of the chicken. So I grabbed two kitchen towels (since we have no oven mitts) and realized all too soon how bad of an idea it was. I barely got the chicken out without burning myself. I then, strategically, put enough padding of kitchen towel between me and the metal (or so I thought) and started to pull it out. I didn't have as good as a grip as I thought, so the weight of the rack caused it to slip out of my hand, so I had to re situate my hands and in doing so burned my right index finger, and the pain caused me to not only drop the rack inside the oven, but to let out a string of profanities of which I am not proud. But, I couldn't leave my chicken half cooked, so I quickly fixed the rack and flipped the chicken and put it back in. I ran my finger under cold water for a bit, and then went over and opened the door so the smoke would get out and then sat back down, this time paying more attention to watching the time that to the movie. My roommate comes in and gasps, waving out the smoke like a maniac. "Laura, it's okay I have the door open!" She turns around, "Oh! I thought you weren't here and something was just burning by itself!" "Nope, I just such at cooking." "Well, our oven also sucks." Which actually is true. It really actually does. Remember how I said my appliances are from the 80's? I wasn't kidding. 

By the way, after all that, my chicken tasted bad, so I threw it away.

Later in the week, I decided I was finally poor enough to donate plasma, upon discovering I had 20 bucks in my account (whoops). And this, like the rest of my life, could not be any harder than it was to do something so simple. 

I had gone in a couple days before, and they had told me that without an appointment and being a new donor, I'd have to wait 4-5 hours. So I made an appointment on Friday at 1:30.

On the day of my appointment, I decided that since I was riding the bus, I would have to give myself a good hour cushion between leaving and my appointment time. So the bus picked my up at the Veterinary Science Building at 12:35 (5 minutes late). This was the longest bus ride of my life. We went all around to each stops slower than usual since it had snowed that morning, and I kid you not, there was a small village on the bus. SO MANY PEOPLE. We didn't skip a stop. So part of me knew I was going to miss the transfer I needed to make from bus one to bus 5, the bus that took me to main street and the blood place from the transit center. I was right. I was so frustrated and went over to the bus time schedule and saw that, The next bus wasn't coming for another half an hour, so I was going to be late to my appointment. And there's nothing I hate more than being late to things. (Other than church. Judge away). So, I did what any person who hates being late would do. I decided to walk. Luckily, The transit center is only a couple blocks from Main Street (the only street I know in Logan). So I got there easy in about 5 minutes or so. But I was at 500 North and had to make it to 1000 North to the Blood Plasma place. 5 blocks in less than twenty minutes. In the snow.

I made it.

So I signed in, gave them my ID and Social Security card and sat down for about 20 minutes. They called me back to take a picture and have me read a binder about HIV/AIDS, Hemophilia, and other things that would make you unable to donate blood plasma. (such as having sex with a man who had sex with another man in the past 12 months, and other things of that nature). They sent me back to the waiting room for another 20 minutes or so, before calling me back to see if my blood was good enough.  I got in that mini room, with a lady across the counter from me who pricked the junk out of my finger. It hurt so bad. Then she proceeded to squeeze the blood of my finger into this little tube and put it in this mini machine to make sure I had enough iron and whatnot. Then she checked to see if my veins were good enough. Then she sent me to the waiting room again. 10 minutes later, they called me back to pee in a cup. I don't know why, but I did it anyway. Then went back to the waiting room. Got called back again with two other new donors, while a doctor lady read us the book we already had read. (The one about AIDS). Then I went to the waiting room one last time before they called me back for a physical. A full on physical. Where he listened to my lungs and heart, and felt my tummy and all that jazz. Finally, after that was over, we walked to the other room with all the beds and people hooked up to machines giving the plasma. I waited there for another 20 minutes, and then Garrett (my blood guy) took me to my own personalized bed. Now, everyone at the place kept telling me that the prick of my finger hurt worse than the needle going in. Um, BULL CRAP!!! That needle was BIG and it hurt like a MOTHER. The liars. Anyways, so they hooked me up to the machine and started pumping out my blood. And so it went on for half an hour, the machine took my blood transferred out the plasma, and then put the red blood cells and other stuff back in my system. I kept watching the container of plasma get fuller and fuller and it freaked me the crap out that I was taking that stuff out of my body! And that at one point that apple juice colored liquid was IN MY BLOOD. Such a weird realization I tell you. Even weirder, was when they put some water back into my system and it is FREEZING! you literally feel this coldness run up your arm and then disperse throughout your entire body. I was shaking. after being hooked up to this machine for about 45 minutes, a lady comes over and lets me free. Taking out the needle hurt almost as much as putting it in. She looked at me and said "Uh, you need some water. And some crackers. You don't look like you're doing too well." So I sat there while the guy fetched me my foodies (which were those orange crackers with peanut butter in the middle, AKA the jackpot) while the lady bandaged me up and waited for them to call my name.  They handed me a debit card that I get filled each time I go and then I was out the door into the cold to wait in the snow for the bus. I hadn't eaten my crackers yet, but as I started for the bus stop, I felt it like a wave over me that I was going down. I ripped open those crackers and down all six within thirty seconds. By the time I got home that night, it was almost 6. Yes, I went through a 5 hour ordeal. I needed a reward of some sort, so my friends and I headed to a snazzy little hipster pizza place where we had pizza with pulled pork and pineapples and were serenaded by men with beards and banjos. (Those alliterations though)

I woke up to surprise snow and I wasn't all too thrilled about it.

It doesn't get more grotesque than that iodine and bleeding out the side of the needle.

:(

My plasma.

The picture does not do these justice.

But this picture does them justice.

Laundry and grocery struggles.

These things literally just peeve me. They always have, even when I was at home. For whatever reason, when I started high school my mom just stopped doing my laundry. Just, out of the blue. I didn't understand it. She did everyone else's and just skipped mine. Like, I know I'm not the favorite kid because I don't believe in my curfew, but come on, I'm still pretty cool! Love me, dangit! I'd ask her why she skipped me and she says "you're grown up now!" Uh, what about Dad? He doesn't even go near the laundry room. (Yeah, I'm that kid. Pulling stupid arguments out of my butt to try and get my way). So if I wanted my clothes cleaned, I had to do it. Along with that, I had started buying my own food after I got a job. I did this because I wanted to be healthier, but also because my family hoarded the good stuff. We seriously would get fruit snacks or nutty bars one day, and they would be gone the next. I thought my family were all just hungry hippos, but I came to discover something else. One day I asked my sister to borrow socks and I opened her drawer to find at least 4 packages of Fruit Smiles and 2 pop tart packages nestled in there next to her undies! Little snack slut.

Anyways, at college things just got worse (of course). I go to the fridge and see a lack of chocolate almond milk (since my roommate drank a good 3 cups of it thinking it was hers for some reason?) or apple juice, I shudder. Then I go to my room to change and see I have 2 pairs of clean panties left. (I love to use this word because people are so uncomfortable with it and it makes me laugh. Haha, panties.) Upon seeing this, I start crying internally as I slide my phone open to call my brother so I can use his laundry services.

Now, groceries wouldn't be so bad if 1.) I wasn't poor 2.) I had a car and 3.) I didn't have to carry my grocery bags for a quarter mile. But, alas, my life is just not that easy. So when I see I have a need, I sadly pull out my back pack and wallet and trudge my way to the bus stop. The stop is across the street (which I almost get hit by a car while crossing almost every time at that because it's a surprise to drivers that they are at a college campus with lots of pedestrians in cross walks all the time.) and down a couple buildings. I have to sit and wait for about 15 minutes for the bus to come. Once I get on the bus, it's usually crowded with people to drop off. So for the next 20-45 minutes, we are starting and stopping. FINALLY, we get to the bus station, where the grocery store is right next to. I swear this place jacks up their prices because they know that the college kids that come here via bus are too lazy to get on another bus after getting to the station to go to Walmart. And they would be right. (the round trip to Walmart takes significantly longer, Today it took me 2 hours.)So I go in there, get lost for a while since none of their shelf placements make any sense to me, and then wait another 10 minutes for the bus to come back. From there, luckily the bus goes straight to the University first. I get off and have to make the journey to my apartment before my bags either rip, or my hands start to undergo major circulation problems. Usually, I can make it home before any issues arise, but sometimes as I get to the Institute parking lot 50 feet from my apartment, my bag rips, and my foods crashing down. Whenever this happens, I have to figure out a way to carry them all separately. It's also fun when my beverages roll around the ground and I am chasing them with these huge bags in my hands. I'm sure my neighbors and random bystanders get a kick out of it and go inside to laugh at me with their roommates.

Laundry though, is even worse. It has become the bane of my existence. Like I said before, I have a procrastination problem, so when I need to do laundry, I NEED to do it. I could go down stairs and pay for it, or I could go down the hill to my brothers apartment and do it for free. Oh the things you do when you are poor, just to save a few bucks. So I collect a mountain of clothes around the same general color, and start my way down the 60 outdoor steps, cross a street and then try to make it down the steep sidewalk without pulling a HotRod fall down the rest of the hill.It takes a lot of strategy actually. I finally get to his uncomfortably smelly apartment, and start my load. One load probably takes about 3 hours. I don't know why, but it does. To avoid smelling the stank, I usually go workout in the mean time, but when it's my undies being washed and dried, I have to stick around and bare it. The reason why it smells so bad, is the fact that one of Chet's roommates never does his dishes, so his leftover food just rots. He just pushes it aside until he needs to use that dish or pot again. Chet tried to give him a hint by putting all his dishes  in front of his door, but his roomie still didn't clean them. So there I sit on the couch, watching football until my panties are nice and dry, inducing vomiting at the same time. After they finish, I have to make my way up this freaking hill. I am already winded going up to my apartment from my brother's without carrying anything, so carrying a huge mound of jeans and such is exhausting beyond all reason. All to grab another set of clothes and do the process again. Yay.

Everyone, feel sympathy for me.

This is where my journey begins after my laundry is done. (Starting from my brother's apartment).This is a hill. a very steep hill. This picture does no justice to it whatsoever.

Then, I cross the road.

Hike up these steps.

Hike up a couple more steps.

And then I take a look around and see how far I have come. Good view though, right?