Why I am flying back to America the next time I need an MRI

This blog post contains liberal amounts of swearing.  You have been warned.

Never, never, NEVER again am I getting an MRI in this country, I do not care what part of my body is falling off, it's not happening.

Some people are terrified of heights.  Some people are terrified of zombies.  Some people are terrified of being in a tidal wave.  I am terrified of all of those things, but I would happily make out with a zombie on the Empire State Building with a tsunami bearing down on me, as long as there were no needles involved.

I don't do needles.  I just don't.  I don't have a good reason to hate needles (unless being poorly socialized counts--thanks, former host mom!), I just do, with every fiber of my being.  It's not so much that I dislike them because they're uncomfortable and offensive on principle, my issues with needles jetpacks it over that line and into the realm of Absolute Blood-Curdling Panic-Inducing Terror.  I can't watch them on TV, I can't read about them in books, I can't see pictures of them, and I sure as hell can't experience them without epic panic attacks and complete meltdowns.  Heroin addicts boggle my mind, not because they're hooked on a drug that turns them inside out and melts their brains into glue, but because they play with needles all day and they're happy about it.  The upside of this situation is that I will never be a heroin addict.  The downside is that there are still needles in the world, and sometimes they come WAY TOO CLOSE.

As a child, I was that kid that took off screaming up and down the hall, required four nurses to hold her down, and could not be placated by even the most impressive lollipops.  One time after a doctor's appointment when I was nine or so, the nurse let it slip that I at my next yearly check-up, I would be getting a vaccine.  I worried about that shot every single day for the next year and  fell asleep on more than one occasion counting down the days until I had to go back to the doctor.  Unfortunately, this is not an over-exaggeration.  I don't fucking do needles.

I am still that child, except in a more adult body, which means instead of screaming now, I just cry if I'm not given enough emotional prep time. Vaccines I can more or less deal with, because I know what's coming and I have months before the appointment to mentally prepare myself for it.  I mean I still have horrible panic attacks where I start to sweat and I can't breathe and the whole world goes white, but at least I know it's coming.  In all of my life, there was only one time when I was okay with needles, as that was when I was lying in a hospital in Bolivia throwing up my guts.  It can be taken as a sign of just how sick I was that when the doctor told me, "We're going to put an IV in, you'll feel better."  I was like, "DO IT PLEASE."  So there it is.  I require either months of advance notice, or I just need to be that ill.  What you can't do is spring needles on me, because I flip shit.

Which is precisely what the MRI doctor did to me today.  I had already decided I disliked him on sight, just because his facial hair was awful, but when he threw in the "Oh, yes, hope you're fine with needles because you have to wear one," I freaked out, like actually freaked out and started crying in his office.  Tina does not do needles.  The doctor, and I quote, said, "After they put the needle in, maybe you should lie down for a few minutes.  You seem like the nervous type."  Yeah?  Fuck you, and the skinned hedgehog you glued to your face.

The nurses were equally as unsympathetic, although thankfully lacking in woodland creatures on their faces.  One who looked to be about seventeen, was a straight-up condescending asshole.  "Oh, just think about your last vacation."  "I didn't go on vacation."  "Where do you like to go on vacation?"  "I'm American, we don't fucking go on vacation and I do not want to fucking discuss fucking vacations when you're sticking a fucking needle in my fucking arm."  "I'm not sticking a needle in your arm.  I can't find your veins."  "That's because they're HIDING FROM YOU."  Then she stuck the needle in.  "There.  Now really, was that so bad?"  "Yes.  Yes it was.  And I hope a dinosaur sits on your rib cage and then asks you if it was really all that bad"  In case you were wondering, the nurses LOVED me.

Then I had to walk around with the needle still in my arm so that the dye shit would go down to my knee.  It was supposed to be for only ten minutes, but forty-five minutes later I was still walking around in circles, anxiety juices going absolutely haywire.  Finally they put me in a room and told me to take everything metal on my body off, including bra and shorts.  I was like, "Cool, where's the smock."  "What smock."  "...I'm not taking my pants off if I don't have a smock."  "What?"  "I'm not walking around in my fucking underwear."  "There's a blanket in the machine room you can cover yourself with, if it bothers you.  You can grab it when you go in." "Allow me to rephrase.  I AM NOT FUCKING WALKING AROUND IN MY FUCKING UNDERWEAR YOU FUCKING BITCH.  GO GET THE FUCKING BLANKET.  THEN I WILL CONSIDER TAKING MY PANTS OFF."  So she did, and I did, and then I got to sit in a giant machine for twenty minutes with a goddamn needle bouncing around in my arm every time the machine vibrated.  Then when it was over, the nurse tried to take the blanket from me, and I was like "OH NO YOU FUCKING DON'T."  "Oh, that's right, you're the one with the blanket."  Yeah?  Fuck you, and the horse you rode in on.

Then they put me back in the room so I could put my pants back on, and as soon as that task was accomplished, I set out removing the needle from my arm.  The nurse walked in as I was peeling off the medical tape  and was like, "Um, can you not?"  I was like, "Listen bitch, you take this thing out of me right now or I will."  She took it out.  I could finally begin to calm down.

The kicker of it was that there's nothing wrong with my knee.  Hedgehog Face was like, "Yes, well, you have a bit of swelling on top of your knee, but that's not where your pain is.  There's also a bit of inflammation deep in the center, which I guess could cause problems  But your knee actually looks really good."  So it's back to the specialist for me on Monday.

To summarize:

Needle+attempts at forced nudity=NEVER FUCKING AGAIN.  I lost most of what should have been a productive paper-writing day to this shit.  Never, never, again.  Fuck everything.

My Psychotic Neighbors, Part III

Since the last time I posted, we've had a few updates on the crazy neighbors front. For starters, Mr. Schmidt apparently saw my camera in the window the morning I caught him messing with my bike--apparently, my potted sunflower didn't hide it nearly as well as I thought.  Needless to say, he was furious, but couldn't do anything to my bike about it.  The morning after I went to the housing people with the photos, Roommate's bike tires very suspiciously went flat.  Let's recap:

1)  Every time the Schmidt's were mad at me, my bike, and only my bike went flat. This immediately makes us think it was not the boys across the street, because of 1) timing, and 2) if you're a teenage boy making yourself look cool in front of your friends, you don't let the air out of only one bike.  Not when there's a second bike sitting two inches away.

2)  I started keeping my bike in the garden with a camera on it.

3)  Mr. Schmidt gets caught on camera messing with my bike.

4)  I go to housing people.

5)  My roommate's bike, which is located in the front of the house where the Schmidt's knew the camera was not, mysteriously goes flat.

So, I was logical.  And by "logical," I mean I cut out a picture of the camera off the box it came in, set it up as a dummy cam in my window facing the garden, and hung the real camera out the window to capture Roommate's bike.  Unfortunately it rained, so I didn't catch anything.

I found out from other neighbors that Mr. Schmidt spent a good part of last week telling them about the police report he filed against me.  If  such a report was filed, it is completely useless, for two reasons.  One, what I did was legal in Germany because the bike was on private property, and the camera was set up on my personal property. Therefore legal.  I know this because we checked out the legality of the situation, with lawyers.  Technically with law students, but they're lawyers waiting to happen, so whatever.  2)  The housing people not only know what I did, they applauded it and told me to keep up the good work.

However, in all likelihood that report never got filed, because if it had, the police would have been in contact with me by now.  In the off-chance it did get filed, it's still not a big deal, because I can go to the police and file a counter-report for racism--which is definitely NOT legal and about about ten times worse, especially because I have witnesses.

Such is my life.

I made the decision not to go to the housing people yesterday and tell them about Roommate's bike--mostly because I have this giant paper taking up all of my attention and I don't have the energy to both write it and fight with the Schmidt's.  In any case, things have settled down--their style is they freak out for two weeks, then are quiet for a month.  But the housing association has already explicitly told me that when Schmidt-Terror-Time rolls around again, the story is over and the Schmidt's will be kicked out.  Al and I have started taking bets on when this will occur--I say by the end of the year, he says before December.

IN HAPPIER NEWS!

This time next week, I will be in IRELAND!  With CLAIRE!  BIKING AND SHIT!  I am so ridiculously excited, and so simultaneously ridiculously terrified because there is so much I have to do between now and then--write paper, turn in insurance forms, get MRI, discuss MRI, job interview, pack, correct and doctoral dissertation, etc etc etc ad infinitum.

On that note, I'm going to go kick this paper's ass some more.  Have my favorite song of the day.  I don't know why I can't get this song out of my head, but I can't.

My Psychotic Neighbors, Part II

Hey all!  There's been some updates on the crazy neighbors situation, so I figured I'd blog it for the interested masses, also known as my mother.

So, a recap of the present situaton because my last post was long and arduous:

Tuesday:  I take shower, Mrs. Schmidt hits ceiling, as you do.

Wednesday:  Someone has let the air out of my back tire.  Schmidt's freak out when I ask about it.

Thursday:  Nice neighbor comes by to inform us our neighbors are racist assholes. Roommate and I go to House People.  House People are way nice, agree this situation is retarded.  Call the Schmidt's to let them know.

Friday:  Someone has let the air out of my back tire, again.  Al comes over with his bike pump, we determine for certain it is not my wheel.  I buy a camera because I have had it UP TO HERE.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday:  Nothing out of the ordinary happens.

Tuesday:  Camera catches Mr. Schmidt fucking with my bike.  I decide to sit on the photos for a few days and think.

Wednesday:  Do lots of reading outside.  Nice Neighbor gives me applesauce.


Today:  I showed Al the pictures of Mr. Schmidt, just to get a second opinion, because I knew what they looked like to me, but Lord knows embellishment and exaggeration are pretty much my way of doing things.  To my surprise, he agreed with me that the pictures were really suspicious, and it most definitely appears as though my neighbor is doing something to my bike, the question is, what?  So we marched down to my bike, he inspected it, and determined that someone had unscrewed the cap to the back tire.  Seeing as you have to screw it, it's not something that jiggles out of place while biking.  Fine.  Not close to the end of the world, but it still left me with the conundrum of what to do about it.

After much debate, I decided to go to House People again today.  Al suggested waiting until I have something more solid and threatening the Schmidt's with the photos in the meantime, but as he also pointed out, I'm American--we don't talk about dropping bombs, we just drop bombs, bitches.

So I went to the House People and they were more than amazing about the whole situation.  I told them I'd set up the camera, caught some weird pictures, and I'd like their opinion on it.  They were totally shocked by the photos, complimented me on the camera idea, and questioned the intelligence of the Schmidt's.  They asked for the photos by email and called the Schmidt's to yell at them.  Which was a pretty hilarious conversation, mostly because Mrs. Schmidt kept insisting her husband has never touched my bike, while House Lady stared at the pictures in front of her and tried not to laugh.  I was instructed to carefully document in writing everything that happens--because if anything else does happen, they'll have zero qualms about kicking the Schmidt's out.

So, that's what I'm doing.  The camera will continue to go up and any verbal encounters I have with them will be both written down and recorded.  My plan is to just stay calm, stay quiet, and let the Schmidt's punch themselves in the face.

Here is my sword.  It is not my fault if you walk into it, idiots.

My Psychotic Neighbors

For the record, my roommate has requested my interpretation of this story multiple times, but I always wanted to wait until the story was over before I blogged about it.  I see now that the story will never be over.  So Ima just blog about it, yeah?

This story goes way way back to when I first moved in, when Roommate warned me that our neighbors, let's call them the Schmidt's, were "a little weird."  As a general rule though, I like to reserve judgement on people until they do something to me.  At which point I judge--swiftly, irrevocably, and Jesus will convert to Scientology before I forgive them.  Not the most sparkling of my personal qualities, but it's how I roll. 

At the beginning, the Schmidt's seemed nice enough.  Sure they were married but lived in two different apartments, and sure Mrs. Schmidt's head was two different colors, but those were really just slow clicks on the crazy meter--if my former au pair family was Chernobyl, my neighbor's brand of crazy was a Three Mile Island postcard. And when the Schmidt's sold me their cool bike for a really really low price, I went so far in my brain as to think maybe Roommate had just misunderstood them.

Such is life.  You think your neighbors are nice people, and then it's all FUKUSHIMA, BITCHES. 

Part I: No virtue?  Get screamed at.

I think the impetus for Mrs. Schmidt's first epic meltdown was the fact that I got a boyfriend and (Dad, skip this part) he stays over sometimes.  I mean, she'd been calling Roommate "cheap" for months, but I think she was holding out hope that I was virtuous.  On that fateful morning, the second Al and I un-virtuously stepped out my door, Mrs. Schmidt when batshit on our asses, screaming at the top of her lungs, accusing us of having moved furniture around in the middle of the night, the volume of which I understood to be approximately as loud as a Mach 5 taking off at an AC/DC concert.  The only problem with her accusation was that Al and I didn't get home until over an hour after we were supposedly fung shui-ing my room--at which point we immediately passed out because it was late and we'd been at a party.  All of which I tried to explain to Mrs. Schmidt calmly and rationally, but there's no being rational after Liam Neeson has released the Kraken, at that point it's just Swim Faster Than The Unfortunate Guy Next To You time.  For the next couple days, from the moment I stepped in the house, the Schmidt's would throw open their doors and hurl abuse at me all the way up the stairs.  I can't swim very fast, so I was just silent and dignified.

(Dad, you can read again)

Part II:  Washing clothes?  Get wet, then screamed at.

Eventually everything quieted down, until I made the bad decision to wash my clothes at 11 PM, which I had been doing for months, mostly because in the hustle of uni I would totally forget until long after the sun had gone down.  After the machine was done, I beebopped down the stairs to the basement and opened the door to the machine, completely unprepared for Niagara Falls to unload itself on my pajama pants because that's generally not what washing machines do.  Instantly soaked below the knees, I stared at my dripping clothes and wondered why the fuck the washing machine had just vomited copious amounts of water on me.  After a few seconds, I looked at the wall and realized that someone had torn the plug out of the socket and thrown it unceremoniously on the floor.  

That was all well and good, except I still had a load of soapy clothes in the machine, with the extra addition of my wet pants.  I plugged the machine back in.  The blinking lights came on: there were nineteen minutes left in the cycle.  Thinking the problem was solved, I came back downstairs a half hour later, only to find that, once again, the plug had been pulled.  I plugged it back in.  Four minutes left in the cycle.  This time I sat in the basement and decided to wait for the machine or my neighbor, whichever one decided to finish it first.

Knowing that I was in for another scream fest the next morning, I barely slept that night.  Sure enough, as soon as I opened my door, the Schmidt's were on me like a pack of wolves, if that pack consisted of only two creatures and one of them had a bi-colored head.  You would think I had murdered their child, so intense was the screaming.  As usual, I answered in calm tones, and then ignored it.  But it got kind of tough--poor Roommate got sucked into the drama this time, and as the days went on, the insults the Schmidt's hurled at me got increasingly racist--they told me to go back where I came from, and asked Roommate what kind of filth had she let in the house. Roommate and I decided to use our collective powers and be the neighbors that fight back, in all likelihood probably the first ones to do so.  We went to the housing association, filed complaints, and talked to lots of official people.

The result: the Schmidt's were no longer allowed to smoke outside of their apartments, and we were no longer allowed to wash at 11 PM.  A few days later, we got a letter from the association mildly scolding us because not everyone appreciates our taste in music, so could we please turn it down.  We interpreted this as the association misunderstanding the Schmidt's complaints about us, seeing as how our music volume (and taste) had never entered the equation.  I can't blame them for the misinterpretation though--sometimes it's hard to pay attention to what Mrs. Schmidt is barking, because you're too busy staring at her bad dye job.

At this point I made the decision never to speak to the Schmidt's unless I had set up my microphone to record the conversation.

Part III: Hygiene?  Get air let out of tires.

Fast forward to last week.  The Schmidt's had spent the better part of a week slamming their doors so hard our apartment would rattle, so Roommate and I knew a storm was brewing.  Then one night, as I was taking a shower, Mrs. Schmidt started banging on her ceiling with a broom.  The next morning, I discovered that someone had let all the air out of my bike tires and stolen the little pieces that keep the air in.  On my way to the bike shop, I got to thinking--didn't someone take the screw out of my gearbox that one time, so I couldn't shift?  And didn't that happen the last time the Schmidt's and I had an argument?  And the time before that, hadn't someone pulled the wires out of my bike light?  I double-checked with Al, and yes, he distinctly remembered asking me about my gearbox and my neighbor's screamfest from the night before in the same sentence.  So this was at least the second, probably the third, time that my bike had been fucked with after the Schmidt's had a meltdown.

So I knocked on Mrs. Schmidt's door, and asked (politely) if they knew anything about my bike.  Mrs. Schmidt flipped out and slammed the door in my face.  Mr. Schmidt followed suit a few minutes later and told me how stupid and unwarranted my accusations were.  For the record, I accused no one--all I did was ask if they knew anything about it.

The next day, a neighbor from the apartment next to us came over to let us know how sorry she felt for us, that the Schmidt's had terrorized everyone who'd lived here for the last twenty-five years, and that she'd like me to know that after I approached them, the Schmidt's had called me some word that I didn't understand, but from the expression on Roommate's face, I judged it to be pretty bad.  Later that day, the two of us headed back to the housing association and told them about the doors.  They were very, "Yes, yes, door slam=bad."  Then I told them about the name my neighbors had called me, and all the things they'd called me before that.  And how every time they got mad at me, something happened to my bike.  The situation did a 180, lots of phone calls got made, I was given the number of people to call, and to make a long story short, the housing association recommended I file a police report for racism.  This impressed me greatly, seeing as I still didn't (and don't) understand what exactly that word means.

Part IV:  Spycams?  Get one.
I decided to take the weekend to think about the racism report.  The next morning, I woke up to find that once again, all the air had been let out of my back tire.  Al came over with his bike pump, we checked the tires, and eventually determined that no, it was not my tire, someone was doing this deliberately.  So, I did what any rational, well-adjusted adult would do: I went out and bought a tiny black webcam and a USB extension chord.  Using a handy-dandy program a friend had recommended, I effectively turned my new webcam into a spycam.  I set it up so it has a good view of my bike, turn the program on, and every time the picture changes, the program takes a snapshot and saves it to my computer.

The first two days I got zilch.  But this morning, I discovered that around 8 AM, Mr. Schmidt spent a solid twenty seconds leaning down, examining my bike, and messing with it.  Unfortunately, nothing was wrong with the bike when I got it out later.

So, that's my goal.  I need hard proof of the Schmidt's abuse and/or vandalism, either in the form of photographs or a recorded screaming fit.  My goal is to get them kicked out of their apartment and end the reign of terror they've been carrying on in this building for over twenty years.  Schmidt's didn't count on me when they decided to be racist bipolar douchenozzles.

Not dead, I swear

Hey all!

Once again, I am locked in the sharp talon-y grip of a paper, this one having something to do with something, I haven't really gotten to that part yet.  But I'm working on a long (real) blog post about all the drama with our neighbors.  They say that Germany's greatest enemy is it's neighbor--highly ironic when you consider the history of this country, but also completely applies to our current situation.  To make the upcoming long story short, my neighbors are batshit, I'm probably filing a police report for racism on Monday, I bought a spycam and I know how to use it.

Al and I are going to Kassel tomorrow to run around, so I'll definitely update with that and then hopefully fill you all in on the Batshit Neighbor story soon afterwards.

Hooray!

Adios!

Bitch Papers, and other stories

Once again, apologies for my extend absence.  I am writing the Bitch Of All Papers, and it's kicking my ass.  I'm a horribly slow writer as it is, but once I have to write in German, I feel like I have to drag the words out of my skull kicking and screaming.

I don't have much new or interesting to report because I've literally been locked in a room for the last four days working on this paper (which, incidentally, still isn't finished).  But Al and I did take a break two days ago to go run around in the woods and try to find castle ruins.  We were unsuccessful at finding ruins, highly successful at getting lost and having to tromp through a cornfield in the darkness.  It was a blast.  The best part was when we stumbled across a pen of sheep, and discovered that Al can baa convincingly enough to fool the sheep into having a conversation with him.

I did make it to the doctor.  I have an MRI scheduled for later in the month, but the doctor said his suspicion is that something in my knee is getting stuck, and can't move properly.  That's all well and good, except my MRI is schedule for four days before I go to Ireland, which means I won't find out what's wrong with me until after I come back, at which point I will probably have made my knee that much worse for having cycled around a country.  Meh.  It'll be fine.

Since I covered the Olympic Opening Ceremonies, I only felt it right to make a short list of my favorite parts of the Closing Ceremonies.  Here goes:

--The audience miscounting down the Big Ben chimes at the beginning, and giving up at 8.

--London Taxi fashion, covered in newspaper.

--That Batman and Robin survived the tragic Taxi explosion.  Thank goodness, we need Joseph Gordon-Levitt to come back for the next movie.

--The bikers wearing what I interpreted to be bright orange KKK hats.

--All the people with light bulbs on their heads.

--The building of what I thought was an elephant out of clouds, but which turned out to be John Lennon's face.

--Russell Brand not singing, and thank God for that, because he's a tool.

--The techno octopus.

--Learning that Taio Cruz is British.  Who knew?

--Spice Girls.  Enough said.


New favorite song of the day!  Julia Nunes and Walk Off The Earth team up to cover FUN.  Yay!

Adios!

Some interesting things

Here are some interesting things that have happened to me in the last few days:

--I officially got insurance.  After all my paperwork went in, I suffered three hours of more or less complete panic after receiving a letter two days later saying they weren't sure whether I, a student, qualified for student health insurance in Germany.  I immediately headed over to the insurance office on campus, but because this is me we're talking about, they decided to close for the entire month of August.  Joy.  So I went to an office in the city, where I explained my long and complicated story to a very bewildered lady.  She wound up calling the people who sent me the letter to be like, "WTF?"  Turns out, all they coveted was a signed copy of my transcripts...because that makes sense.  Bewildered Lady faxed that copy, and my health insurance card arrived the next day.  Booyah.

--I made biscuits.  They called for buttermilk, which I did not have, so I tried the milk and lemon juice method.  Didn't actually work.  Used milk with lemon juice in it in the biscuits.  Still ate them.

--We saw Dark Knight Rises (in English) and CHRIST was it kick-ass.  I don't even like Batman, but I'm glad I somehow got talked into seeing it.  Holy creepy voices, Batman, Bane was the scariest thing ever.  I did find it pretty ironic that the bad guys were basically Occupy protesters rocking AK-47s.  Also, Joseph Gordon-Levitt.  Enough said.

--Boy and I are going to POLAND in a week and a half!  YAY!

--British Friend moved to Prague, and I am very sad, but we had a really nice going-away grill party for her.  

--My remaining papers are kicking my ass.

And that's about it.  Hope everything is well with you guys!