A Grain of Salt

Sleep Disorders

So. After a long round of trying to find a place willing to evaluate my sleep for free (it's for an article, not an actual sleep problem), I was thrilled last night when someone called me from a sleep disorder clinic to tell me they had a last-minute opening in their Fremont office. Could I be there in two hours? I immediately agreed.

I'll admit: I've always liked the idea of being hooked up to electrodes. An MRI would have been even better (who cares about claustrophobia when you get to see the inside of your brain!) but for now, the electrodes would have to suffice.

I'm not sure what my point in this post is except to say that as a result of my sleep study, I am really, really tired. First, I was sleeping in a strip mall. There was a mortgage office next door and a Safeway across the parking lot. A Holiday Inn would have had a more relaxing atmosphere. Second, I didn't get hooked up to all the electrodes till just after 11pm, which is almost past my normal bedtime. This wouldn't have been a problem if the technician hadn't bid me good night with the sentence, "I'll wake you up around six." That, combined with the fact that I had electrodes on my head, chest and calves, bands around my chest and ribs, a oxygen monitor on my finger, and two plastic tubes up my nose, made it very difficult to sleep. (Not to mention the fact that I had performance anxiety -- there was a camera in the bedroom so that the technician could monitor my position.)

So when she came back to my room at 5:59 am, on the dot, I was not at my finest. Nor do I feel like I'm at my finest right now, nearly twelve hours after the wakeup call.

But at least I got hooked up to electrodes. I haven't gotten the results of the analysis yet, but suffice it to say, I'm excited.

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Meteorologists Gone Wild

It's a nasty day here in Oakland, with heavy rain predicted all the way through the weekend. I'm trying to ignore it, though, because I think that complaining about what is probably the 10th day of rain all year will be proof that I have gone west-coast soft. Oh, no! It's gloomy out for the SECOND DAY IN A ROW! This is bull shit!

I will say, though, that I've been checking weather.com a lot since I was supposed to go down to Big Sur this week and had to cancel because of rain. And I noticed, on my latest visit, that there are flood and wind advisories for both Oakland and Big Sur right now. I read them through, partially out of curiosity and partially because I probably should be doing something else, and noticed that both of the warnings end with rather dramatic statements. "BE SURE TO SECURE ANY LOOSE OBJECTS AROUND YOUR HOUSE TO PREVENT THEM FROM BECOMING FLYING PROJECTILES," says the wind one (they're written in all capital letters, which gives them an additional sense of urgency). The flood advisory has an even better kicker: "MOST FLOOD DEATHS OCCUR IN AUTOMOBILES. BE ESPECIALLY CAREFUL AT NIGHT AND NEVER DRIVE INTO FLOODED ROADWAYS," it says. "TURN AROUND DONT DROWN."

Yikes. So now I'm torn: Do I keep playing it off like a little rain is nothing and allow my garbage cans to sit on the sidewalk untethered? Or do I buy into the advisories, lock down in the house, and bolt down the iron bench on the front porch, lest it come crashing through the window?

Part of me wonders whether this sort of weather is the stuff of meteorologists' dreams: I mean, you spend most of your days getting to say things like, "Mostly cloudy, with a chance of showers." It's not all that often that something juicy comes up, like a flood warning -- and if I were a weather writer, I'd want to milk it. "AFTERNOON RAIN LIKELY. IF OUTSIDE, CLOTHING ALMOST GUARANTEED TO GET WET. TO ALL YOU FELLAS, GRAB AN UMBRELLA."

Maybe that last line was more Rihanna than Storm Field, but you get the point.

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Where the hell has she been?

Despite rumors to the contrary, Saltines, I have not run away to New Zealand in hopes of avoiding professional responsibility and nasty commenters on Salon. No, I am here -- but just barely, having recently returned from two weeks in the American midwest: One was spent with teenage latin freaks, the other with Christian Magicians.

Both were, as you can probably guess, interesting experiences. I should definitely tell you, considering the recent effects of Fergalicious on my mental health, that the Latin lovers were selling a tshirt that said "Vergilicious." Yes, that's right. They sold so many that they had to take special orders.

Anyway, having had an afternoon of crashing computer programs and obnoxious comments on Salon to deal with, my creativity is somewhat wiped. But I am alive, and I did survive both Indiana and Tennessee. No small feat. And I'm looking to put up a new issue -- so if you've got stuff, send it my way.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Fergalicious

First of all, I should explain my whereabouts for the past while -- I was on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, sailing in shark-infested waters. No, I'm not kidding -- I'm working on redoing the website for a program called Stanford at Sea and therefore tagged along with the students and professors for the final two weeks of their five week journey. There is a lot to say about this experience, but I can boil down the main point: I don't like it. I don't like boats, I don't like sailing, and I don't like the wide open ocean. The trip, therefore, was something of a challenge -- though in an ironic twist of fate, it turns out that I don't get seasick. So while I kept seeing students run upstairs so that they could retch off of the back of the boat, I was able to sit in my bunk area editing video. It makes me feel like I should give someone my inner ear.

But anyway, I'm back now and let me tell you, land never looked so good. The only problem is that I've started listening to music again (you weren't supposed to use iPods on the boat) and my latest pop song du jour is Fergie's aptly named "Fergalicious." It is a horrible song. Horrible! Even to my undiscerning ears, I can tell you that this is a song that is epic-ly bad, complete with cheesy rhymes, bizarre tempo changes, and a refrain that misspells "Tasty." ("T to the a to the s-t-e-y- girl you taste"?) But, as could perhaps be expected, I can't get it out of my head.

I'm sure it doesn't help that I keep listening to it every time I exercise/go running -- but still. So I wanted to ask you, Saltines, if you could either a. recommend better workout music to me or b. come up with some alternative lyrics to "I'm Fergalicious/I be up in the gym just working on my fitness." Because really, they're quite dreadful.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Conflicting Interests

So as most of you don't know, I recently joined Gold's gym, since it's the only gym in my new neighborhood. I'm not such a fan of the classes -- they tend to focus around aerobics, and something about the bouncing and the arm pumps makes me feel like I'm back in my parents' house in the early 1990s, doing Jane Fonda workout videos. (I went through a phase.)

Last week, though, I went to a class that I actually found effective -- it had a lot of abs and was run sort of as a circuit. I was sore for two days afterwards. This, I thought, was the good stuff.

But when I went back yesterday, the teacher did something I think was totally out of line: she broke us up into two-person teams and told us that as we went around the circuit, we would be competing in a race. And, what's more, in order to win we had to be touching our teammate for the entire time. If you stopped touching? You had to start again at the beginning.

Let me be clear: I hate touching people. Especially people in gyms. Anyone who read this blog in the fall of 2004 knows that yoga partner exercises were a great source of horrified inspiration for me. So I was standing there, listening to her explain the circuit, wondering if anyone would notice if I slipped out the door.

I decided to stay b/c I wanted to actually exercise -- but further problems arose when we got ready to start and it became obvious that my partner, an older-looking Asian gentleman, either didn't fully understand her instructions or just hadn't listened to her. He went over to a step to prepare to do dips, but when I walked over to join him, he walked over to another step -- thinking, perhaps, that I was crowding his space. You can imagine his confusion, then, when she said "Go!" and I reached out to hold his hand.

For reasons still unclear to me, he seemed amenable enough to holding hands while we were actually doing the exercise (probably because I continued to follow him from step to step until he acquiesced). But every time we switched stations, a comical chase ensued with me running behind him trying to reach for his hand before the teacher could see that we had broken contact. This continued around the entire circuit until we were at the second-to-last station and a light-bulb went off. "Oh," he said, as we lay side-by-side on our backs, hands touching, doing hamstring curls. "It's a race!"

At this point, his spirits became much more energized. Still holding hands, we ran to our final station -- the step -- and went through a series of 60 toe touches that, if I do say so, was inspirational in its speed and dexterity.

And yes, dear Saltines, you correctly anticipated the outcome of my competitive streak: despite our early confusion, we won. Big time.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Shattered Dreams

Remember when I used to blog? I do. Those were the glory days, before I started writing for another blog, Broadsheet and began to hate the idea of putting my writing out in public. (It is much nicer to get comments on the Salt blog from my dad than from anonymous Salon readers, let me just tell you.)

But I have something I must share: I've started going to hip hop dance classes at a place called Newstyle Motherlode. Their brochure has a picture of a man doing a breakdancing freeze on his head. They are serious. The dance class, fortunately, does not involve much head-standing, but it does include an enthusiastic teacher named Corey who is, perhaps not coincidentally, an amazing dancer. Me? Not so much. l love dancing, don't get me wrong, but I'm not about to star in a hiphop brochure.

But I say that with hindsight. Because the thing is, when I went to my first class with Corey, I was in the very back row. And it was a crowded class, so I couldn't see my reflection in the mirror. For a second this was frustrating, but then I realized something beautiful: I could see Corey in the mirror. I could feel my body moving. Ergo, I could look at Corey's reflection, feel my body move, and pretend that I was him.

It might seem hard to imagine yourself as the best dancer in a class of people made up of people actually wearing Reebok dance shoes. But it wasn't, Saltines. As I danced, I developed elaborate fantasies of a talent scout walking by our class, catching sight of me, and saying to themselves "Man, that girl can move." After class they'd hand me their business card and the next thing you know, I'm training people for Dancing With the Stars.

I was so enraptured by this vision of myself as dancer extraordinaire that I bought a ten-pass and started attending classes with names like "Reggae Away," always positioning myself in the back directly behind other people to keep up my illusion.

And it worked . . . until last Friday. Corey's class was less crowded than usual, and the woman in front of me kept moving out of my line of sight so that I could have clear view of myself in the mirror. Polite, perhaps, but in this case, soul-shattering -- it only took about thirty seconds of catching sight of my awkward shoulder pops, my jerky body rolls, all set to an up-tempo version of Prince's "When Doves Cry," for me to realize that a talent scout is never going to approach me after class. If anyone is going to approach me, it might be a small child, waiting for their "Kids' Hiphop Class" to begin, who notices my attempts and tells me, with the straightforwardness/rudeness that only children are allowed to get away with, that I should stop trying so hard.

But I don't really care. Because the class is fun, there's always a crowd, and next time, I'll pick a different person to stand behind.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Beware the Rogue Seal

Okay, so this may be old news to anyone living in the Bay Area, but for those of you who don't, I present to you this article from the San Francisco Chronicle about a rogue elephant seal, nicknamed Nibbles, that has taken to attacking harbor seals, dogs, and unsuspecting people. Nibbles, whose nickname is far cuter than its murderous intent, weighs 2,500 pounds.

I also would like to point out, oh Nibbles-hardened San Francisco dwellers, that since I last checked this story on Tuesday, the San Francisco Chronicle (link above) has added a VIDEO clip of Nibbles attacking a seal.

Oh Nibbles. I shudder to think of what he's done to the weaners.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

My new life philosophy

You know how there are people out there who have decided not to have children because they think there are already enough kids in the world, and so instead they're going to adopt? I've decided that's how I feel about Ikea furniture.

Who's got a used desk chair for me?

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Killer Bees

Hey Saltines. Sorry about that "two month silence" thing -- I was moving, freaking out, and am just now feeling settled in enough to share with you my latest cause of stress: swarms of angry bees.

I am not kidding. The other day I was working in my new office -- which is lovely, I'll have you know -- and glanced out the window across the street. I noticed a large swarm of something, something that looked a lot like bees. I stared at it for a while, wondering to myself how I could possibly be seeing what I thought I was seeing: namely, thousands upon thousands of flying insects, flying in a big circle that stretched across four parked cars. I even went so far as to tell myself that it was a pollen whirlwind, despite the fact that there was no wind, there was no obvious source of pollen, and, as far as I know, pollen whirlwinds don't actually exist.

Unfortunately, my delusion was shortlived -- they were definitely bees. I know this because I saw a guy on a bike start up the block, take a look at the swarm, and turn around and bike away. Fast. But maybe it was just a temporary bee swarm?

Not so much. The bees, after disappearing into an unknown location, appeared again later that afternoon -- this time much closer to my window. So close, in fact, that they flew directly over my roof, in the general direction of my lawn.

This is horrifying, Saltines. But not as bad as what happened next: yesterday, which was the day after the original sighting, the bees reappeared. Yes, that's right -- I looked out the window to see the same bee swarm in the same spot -- only this time, it looked bigger.

All I keep thinking about is a book my paternal grandmother once sent me called "Killer Bees" (her logic in picking this present is still unclear, but thoughts of killer bees have haunted me ever since). Staring out my window I started imagining friends and loved ones trying to come visit me in my new place, only to accidentally step on a baby bee and then get attacked by this giant swarm. And then die a horrible, puffy death on my stoop, with me unable to drag their bodies inside for fear that I, too, would get attacked. Dreadful.

But before saying what happened next, I want to emphasize one thing: I did not WANT to call 911 about my giant bee swarm. If I had been in New York, it would have been a perfect, perfect opportunity to call 311, the local non-emergency line, which is my favorite number ever. But I didn't have a choice. A quick google search on "oakland department of bee control" turned up nothing. (Neither, for that matter, did a news search for "Oakland killer bees.") So using the logic that, while not c urrently an emergency, a bee swarm could attack an allergic child and CAUSE an emergency, I dialed 911. (I also immediately felt bad about it.)

But I shouldn't have felt too bad. I mean, first of all, who's calling 911 at 2:30 on a workday. And second, the woman I spoke to was royally unhelpful. When I told her that I was calling with a non-emergency, i.e., a bee swarm, she suggested that I "call a beekeeper." Yes. A bee keeper. That or "a pest control company."

I started to explain to her that these weren't actually *my* bees, but rather neighborhood bees -- by which I mean that I shouldn't have to pay for their removal. But then I realized that getting into a discussion about financial responsibility was perhaps not the best thing to do with a 911 responder, so I hung up and googled pest control. Found a company. Called them. They had no idea what to do, either and suggested that I call a city department for non-emergencies.

That sounded promising, so I gave them a call. After wading through a truly weird phone tree ("To report a dead animal, press 1. To check on the status of a juvenile offender, press 2") I spoke to another police officer, who also suggested that, guess what? I get myself a bee keeper. Seriously, people. A beekeeper? Why would I do that? Don't beekeepers already HAVE their own bees? Why would they want mine? And aren't they, as a group, not the sorts of people who would respond to emergency bee calls by fumigating them?

But I was left with no choice. I googled "oakland beekeepers" and called the first number that popped up. Unfortunately, it wasn't so much a beekeeping business as just some guy's answering machine, with absolutely no mention of bees. (In fact, I don't know if he was a beekeeper at all.) Which makes it especially funny that I left the following message:

Uh, hi. I'm calling with a bee problem? There's a huge flock of bees outside my window - I live in Oakland -- they're not MY bees, per se, so I don't want to have to pay someone to get rid of them. But I called 911 and they told me to find a beekeeper so, uh, I called you. And I'm not really sure that they're bees, exactly, but there's definitely a swarm of stinging insects, so if you could call me back, that'd be great. I'd really like them to go away. Thanks.

So far, he hasn't responded. But for what it's worth, the bees also haven't come back. Here's hoping.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.

Loose

Hi Saltines. It's been a long couple of weeks 'round these parts, including way too many conversations about relative pronouns, a few forays into the ablative absolute, a bunch of feminist blogging, and research into brain nutrition. But I haven't gotten into a single fight with a mechanic, and I have gone to a hip hop dance class. So I think things are on the upswing.

But that's not what I wanted to write about right now. What I want to write about is "Say it Right," that song by Nelly Furtado that's on 94.9 all the time. I just downloaded it, and well, you know what? I think it's fantastic. And it's opened up a bigger question that I'm hoping someone out there will be able to help me answer: what is the deal with Nelly Furtado? Does she have a "genre"? I mean, this is the same person, presumably, who gave us that horrible "I'm like a bird" whiney song that played approximately 50 times a day a few years ago -- but then came back last year with "Promiscuous Girl." Along the way, "Turn off the light"? And now this new hip hop/dance-y song? And wasn't she some sort of Australian soap opera star at some point?

No, apparently not. (A quick wikipedia search just happened, during which time I realized I was talking about Natalie Imbruglia.) Turns out that Furtado is Canadian, born to Portugese parents, and seven days younger than I am (and I haven't even put out *one* album yet! for shame!). She apparently likes to experiment with different styles, once played in a Portugese marching band, and intends to come out with an album entirely in Spanish. Which makes me think I'm going to start getting her confused with Shakira.

But whatever. Back to my coffee.

This is the blog for Salt Magazine.