I guess the most logical way to attack it would be chronologically.
After settling in a bit in Astoria, Mike and I took up residence at his sister's apartment for a week while she and her boyfriend were away on vacation in Mexico. Same thing any sane person would do if someone offered free reign their upper west side apartment for a week. Easier commute to work, awesome neighborhood, awesome apartment without any roommates to bug you.
Everything was going fine. I was making Mike dinner for when he got home from work, he was enjoying it (yay, I finally cooked for my chef boyfriend and he actually liked it!). I find the trick is not to have him looking over my shoulder. As long as he's not around, my cooking anxiety is kept to a minimum. So one night I made some really awesome vegetarian chili (see: http://allrecipes.com/Recipe/Wicked-Good-Veggie-Chili/Detail.aspx for recipe). We were sitting on the couch and out of nowhere my nose starts to bleed a little bit.
No big deal, I think, because I've grown up with nosebleeds. Once I even had one right as I was supposed to blow the kickoff whistles at a kids' soccer game I was reffing and the parents and players had to wait a couple minutes for me to get it under control.
But this time, it wasn't stopping. I was pinching the bridge of my nose over the sink when my nose literally started pouring blood. I yelled for Mike and he moved me to the tub. It was like that scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho."
A pool of blood accumulated at my feet, splashing up a little bit with each drop. It wasn't stopping. After about fifteen minutes of continuous severe bleeding and Mike's frantic Googling and running back and forth from me to the computer, I decided it was time to call my folks. It was 12:30 a.m. my time... They'd be getting ready for bed. A couple rings on the receiver, and I had to remind myself not to sound panicked. But Dad picked up, I completely lost it. "Dad!?" "Shawno, what's wrong?!.... Bev!" They were frantic, telling me to pinch the bridge of my nose, put ice on it... I coughed a bit of blood. Handed the phone to Mike. Dropped the foil-wrapped hamburger in a baggie he'd given me as a cold compress and got light-headed and started to sway. After Mom and Dad gave him the go-ahead, Mike said, "We're calling 911." After protesting, then looking down at the puddle of blood, I let him.
The cops came first. They told Mike I looked familiar, asked the poor kid a lot of questions about whether there was an "injury," and what happened. The paramedics came next. They asked me if Mike hit me or if I fell. Seems like they don't see many of these types of things that don't involve domestic violence. They took my blood pressure, which was high. The medics asked me a lot of questions and somehow I calmed down and the bleeding finally stopped. My feet were splattered with it. I was sitting there, hunched in the bathtub of my boyfriend's sister, in my pajamas with no bra on completely dazed. While I refused a ride to the hospital in an expensive ambulance, the color began to return to Mike's face. After we cleaned up, he forced me to eat an apple and drink a bottle of water. He held my hand and stayed awake until I fell asleep, which was not soon after everything had settled down. The whole next day I felt weak and had three subsequent smaller nosebleeds.
Needless to say, VERY SCARY. And I feel bad that Mike had to be the one to deal with it all. I'm OK now though, and attribute it to a combination of dry air and dehydration.
Aside from having serious walnut reactions and nosebleeds, I feel pretty OK. I'm getting familiar with my neighborhood and roommates, and I've recently revisited a Paul Simon album, Rhythm of the Saints, from my youth. I remember it being pretty prominent around age 4 but then my dad stopped listening to it for whatever reason. It was funny because I just randomly heard, "The Coast" from the same album and all these crazy nostalgia and memories started flooding back. It's like returning to the neighborhood where you were born, or tasting a dessert your mom used to make when you were young, before she became too busy to bake. You don't really remember it until you experience it again.
So anyway, that's on my MP3 player now. And I'm pretty much loving it.
Other thing worth mentioning, I got a job here: http://www.organicavenue.com/products/index.php
I was looking for part-time work and stumbled upon it on craigslist. Not really thinking much of it, I sent my resume and got called in for an interview the next day. Apparently they need help not only in the store itself but with their blog, newsletter and some educational text around the store. So I come right in handy. I start on Friday. Hooray cute little organic shops with resident dogs, eccentric bosses and a discount for me. I'll likely be working 6 days a week, but it'll be worth not being broke and ceasing this silly "asking parents for financial help" thing I had going on.
At the end of the day, my room is hopelessly unequipped. I have yet to get a dresser and therefore the big green monster suitcase sits in the corner with all kinds of clothes that can't be hung piled up in it. Nothing on the walls... Every night I hear the elevated train, which is less than a block away, roaring by. In the morning one of my roommates gets up at 5 to get ready for work, the other directly after him. I hear someone talking on the street, a car honk its horn, the recycling truck going by, a siren.... Needless to say I bought earplugs today and I'm considering a sleep mask. Hopefully they'll work without making me miss my own alarm.
One last story:
This morning it was pouring rain, there was slush on the ground from yesterday's snow storm and I couldn't find a goddamn umbrella anywhere in the house. Reluctantly, I yanked out my ugly, big, bright red Columbia raincoat with the fleece lining and bill on the hood for the trek to and from the train. I really had no other choice. I just hoped my bag wouldn't get too wet on the way, and I cinched up the drawstrings around my face. When I arrived at my stop, I still had enough time for coffee and I'd remembered to bring my Pike Place Starbucks mug so I walked down Astor to grab some. Opened the door, I was dripping with rain, pulled down my hood to expose my already frizzy hair and fogged up glasses. I handed the cashier my cup and asked for drip (with room, for gosh sakes!), and he looked at the cup, looked at me, and asked me if I'd gotten to mug in Seattle. "Yup," I said... The mug has the original Starbucks logo of the less attractive mermaid:
He asked, "Are you from there?" and I replied yep once again. He told me he was from Oregon and turned to his coworker, who was obviously an east-coast type. "This is what people look like where I come from." "Soaking wet?" "No, she doesn't use an umbrella but she's got a good raincoat instead and she brought her own cup." The coworker looked at him like, "So what?" and then said, unenthusiastically, "That's pretty hardcore."After that incident I realized a little bit how I'm not sticking to my Northwest roots. This was one of the three days a week I actually remember my own mug, and I haven't worn that old coat since last spring. Maybe I need to stop trying to be so wannabe fashionable and umbrella-toting and remember where I came from once in awhile.
OK end of epic post. Thanks if you got through it.
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