Trying Something New: Pork Skins

The other day a friend offered me a taste of the snack that he had just purchased from a vending machine. The snack? Pork skins.

For those of you who don't know (I certainly didn't at the time), pork skins, or pork rinds, are fried or roasted bits of pig skin. The particular brand of pork skins that I was being offered were tossed in spicy seasonings and looked surprisingly non-disgusting.

As I am a big fan of trying new things, and an even bigger fan of all things spicy, I accepted my friend's offer and popped one of the fluffy, curled morsels in my mouth.

Initially, the flavor and texture of the pork skin was pretty good. The consistency was light and puffy like a Cheeto. As I went to swallow the snack, though, something terrible happened:

The saliva in my mouth seemed to rehydrate the thing. The airy, crunchy treat turned into a slimy wad of goo that stuck to the back of my throat. Suddenly, I became convinced that there was a fresh chunk of oozing pig skin swinging lazily beneath my uvula.

I was repulsed. I'm still recovering.

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What pork skins look like in your hand:

What pork skins feel like at the back of your throat:

Please! Take My Blood!

Today I will attempt to donate blood.

This makes me nervous, because my last three attempts to donate were unsuccessful.

Fail #1:

I went to a campus blood drive while I was in college. The nurse said my veins were difficult to find - an absolutely absurd claim; between my pale skin and prominent veins, finding a good vein on my arm to take blood from is about as challenging as finding an anaconda beneath a piece of Saran Wrap. The nurse then inserted the needle into my arm. When she didn't hit a vein, she began to dig around with the needle, poking and prodding with the same enthusiasm (and about the same delicacy) as a pig digging for truffles.

After about five minutes of this torture, the nurse finally declared me a lost cause and sent me home with a fresh bruise that stretched from my wrist to my armpit.

Fail #2:

I attempted to give platelets: a more time-consuming process than normal blood donation. They got the needle in okay but decided to halt the procedure when I began to shake uncontrollably and my skin turned the color of sun-bleached lettuce.

Fail #3:

I didn't even make it to the needle. Immediately after testing my blood for the appropriate iron levels, the nurse shook her head and told me I wasn't eligible to donate. Her tone was kind enough, but I knew what she was really saying: My blood was crap. It would be useless in life-saving, and it was a miracle that it was even keeping me alive. My blood was so insubstantial that if I got a paper cut, the blood would probably escape in a plume of red mist.

So wish me luck, friends; someone's life depends on it.

Lazy Sunday Hasty Photo

One of the many mysteries of my childhood:

Apparently, I went through a phase in my childhood where I was forced to wear a helmet and mittens. The photo is dated, "Fall 1983." This is no wintertime photo. So the obvious answer of, "Oh, her parents must have been preparing her for the highly competitive and dangerous world of Kiddie Bobsled Racing," is right out. Was it for my own safety? For the safety of others? We may never know the answer... and perhaps it's better that way.

I'd hate for any of you to get hurt.

You Down With APP?

Here is my latest piece of glorious artwork:

I call it Angry Pink Pterodactyl. I felt this was a fitting title because, if you look closely, you can see an angry, pink Pterodactyl in the drawing.