And his name was Angel...

Earlier today, I found myself crammed into a 4 by 4 foot square room with a man named Angel. I’d only known Angel for about 10 minutes, but our relationship progressed rapidly inside that little sound-proof room.

“Are you feeling well today?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. How nice of him to ask.

“Have you been to Europe or Canada in the last three years?”

“No.” I’ll be there soon though, I thought.

“Have you ever had sexual relations with a man that has had sexual relations with another man?”

Say what?

I’ve often heard of people hesitant to give blood. They give many excuses: the needles, the possibility of passing out, the blood. No one warned me about Angel and his sexually explicit questions.

Lucky for me, I’ve had no prostitutes, mad cow disease or anything else of that nature in my past. Angel gave me the nod and the paperwork, and I moved on to round two: Vitals.

Another 4 by 4 foot room but this time, a nurse with curly black hair and a warm smile.

“You’ve never given blood before?” she asked.

“First time for everything,” I shrugged.

Good answer. She beamed and told me I had a great attitude and pulled out what looked like a white-out tape dispenser. I breathed a little easier and felt my shoulders relax, and she started to swab my index finger with some sanitizing solution. I vaguely wondered why and heard her say something about a little prick. That’s when I realized that the dispenser she was lowering toward my finger did not dispense white out. Or tape. I didn’t actually know what it dispensed, only that it would make me bleed. My shoulders tensed back up.

True, blood was the reason I was there. True, I fully expected to be jabbed in the arm with a needle in a few minutes. But no one had mentioned the prick. And certainly not the dispenser of the prick.

Her hand was holding mine hostage, and the looming dispenser descended. There was no stopping it. I winced before the thing even touched my skin and looked away.

Cla-click.

Ouch.

A crimson bead appeared on my fingertip. The nurse slurped it up with a clear, skinny tube. I was mesmerized. She pressed against my finger and milked my little blood bead until the tube filled up. I’m pretty good at bleeding, I noticed.

A band-aide, temperature check and blood pressure reading later, Angel was back with more questions. This time, at least, we were open of the blood bank bus, and I was reclining in a cup-shaped chair.

“Apple or apple strawberry?” he asked.

Tough question.

“Apple strawberry,” I said.

I lay there awkwardly with my feet and head at the same elevation and sipped on my juicy box while another nurse tapped at the veins in my left arm. She seemed calm. Too calm. Like I was just another student waiting to donate blood. I was not just another student. I was a first-timer.

But this nurse worked quietly, offering no explanation. Chills crawled up my spine as I watched her smear a yellow substance on my skin. She Velcro-strapped a belt around my arm so tight that it cut off the circulation. But maybe that was the point. Or maybe not. Suddenly I was longing for Angel and all his questions.

Then the nurse put a red stress ball in my hand and walked away. Was I that obvious?

She came back and fiddled with my arm some more.

“Squeeze this for three seconds,” she motioned to the stress ball.

Finally, some instruction.

“Are you ready?”

“Uh, I guess,” I said quizzically.

She told me I could look away, and I did gladly. More chills. Someone pressed a pause button on my heart. Big breath in…

“Mosquito bite,” she said.

Must have been one of those giant African mosquitoes.

But it was over fast, and just like that I was donating blood. I sighed in relief and watched the blood pumping out of my body through another clear tube. Pins and needles tickled my left hand, and I asked Angel if loss of feeling was normal. He loosened the circulation strap, and the pins and needles disappeared.

Four minutes later, I slurped the last of my Mott’s apple strawberry, and the nurse told me I was done. She wrapped a “Give Blood” bandage around my mosquito bite a little too tightly, and I got up to leave.

Angel came over for one last time. Our 35-minute relationship was coming to an end almost as rapidly as it began. He handed me an oversized T-shirt and some Oreos as a parting gift, and somehow I felt like I should reciprocate. A hug, maybe? Uh, we weren’t that close.

I walked to the door, and looked back briefly. Our eyes met one last time.

“Congratulations,” he smiled.

“Thanks,” I said back.

Blood wasn’t the only thing I lost today.

Farwell, Angel, man of many questions.

Soquetocky Anyone?

Last night, my roommate had an indoor soccer game. Indoor soccer, I’ve decided, is a hybrid sport: a soccer-raquetball-hocky combination. Soquetocky, perhaps, would be a more suitable name. Sounds a little like Japanese alcohol.

True, the rules and concept are similar to its outdoor counterpart. True the players wear shin guards and goal keepers bat down shots with big gloved hands. But some key things are missing: Grass. The game takes place on a court (OK, this might be obvious). Cleats. Players wear sleek tennis shoes instead. Throw-ins. A fuzzy soccer ball look-alike ricochets off the walls making throw-ins somewhat obsolete. Fouls. So apparently this rule still exists, although I saw multiple players slam each other into the walls without the slightest reprimand from a referee.

Who do we have to account for such quirks? Citizens of Newark.

According to the United States Indoor Soccer Association, indoor soccer dates back to 1885 at the Newark Roller Skating Rink. Glimmering beneath the rink’s electric lights, two teams faced off for the first ever recorded indoor soccer game. Since then, indoor soccer has developed into a full-fledged sport with its own rule-book, a professional league, an American league and a national championship. Not bad.

So why wasn’t I on the Soquetocky-bandwagon? For one—I’m not a big drinker, at least not of any Japanese liquor. Two: I run. Running does not require nor cultivate much coordination. Also, years of long-distance training = I can’t sprint to save my life. From there, simple logic prevails: If I have no skill, then I will hurt my team or perhaps myself trying to play, so I will cheer for my roommate instead.

Brain Surgery for Dummies

As a child, I struggled in some areas: pronouncing my R’s (Grandmother = Gwandmotha), understanding the permanence of gravity (I whole-heartedly expected to fly one day), choosing clothes that matched (my mom would argue that this one is still a challenge for me). One hurdle I remember distinctly: my left vs. my right.

Most of the time, I outright guessed. I had a fifty-fifty shot of success or shame. I remember uncomfortable prickles of panic during the pledge of allegiance. I switched hands half-way through just to be safe. And the Hooky Pokey—what was that all about? “Put your right hand in, take your right hand out, put your right hand in and you shake it all about”—easier said than done if you’re directionally challenged.

Then I discovered my body’s built-in cheat sheet—the L trick. A quick flash of my hands, and my index finger and thumb spelled out the answer to my directional woes. Normal L meant left hand, backwards L meant right hand. Not exactly brain science.

Unless maybe you’re a brain surgeon at Rhode Island Hospital.

According to a CNN article, three different doctors at the hospital performed brain surgery on the wrong side of their patient’s brain, the most recent incident occurring on Friday. In two cases, surgeons said patients were OK. But for the third, the mistake proved fatal.

Mixing up left and right as a child is embarrassing; mixing up left and right as an adult with an MD and a knife cutting into someone’s skull—nightmarish.

Even if the neurosurgeon did have a momentary brain lapse, what about the other 200 people that always seem to be in the OR during surgery? (I watch Grey’s Anatomy) Where were they when Dr. Dyslexic started to operate?

Perhaps the confrontation seemed too awkward. OK, there’s some truth to that.

Dr.: “What do you have for me today, Meredith?”
Eager-to-please intern: Left-side brain surgery, doctor.
Dr.: Right-oh
Intern: Uh, your other left doctor.

Whatever went wrong, the Department of Health fined the hospital $50,000 and is looking for ways to prevent a fourth mishap. Perhaps adding the L trick to the MCAT would be beneficial.

Regardless, there’s a lesson here greater than the difference between left and right: Don’t get brain surgery in Rhode Island.

Bark worth biting

We have miscellaneous snack basket in our kitchen, a jumble of foods of all ages and tastes. Earlier this week, I fished out an unidentified Ziploc baggy of pita chips—a near-fatal mistake.

The moment I opened the little plastic bag, a poignant garlicky odor erupted that would have stopped a vampire dead in his tracks. I consider myself warned. I also consider myself idiotic, because I started munching anyways. I could have been chewing on a clove of garlic. My roommate, sitting about 10 feet away, swiveled in her chair to look at me with a crinkled nose. I kept on. The garlic bombs were surprisingly tasty. My breath, however—deadly.

About 10 minutes after snacking, the garlic lingered. I searched for a piece of gum to no avail and then turned to other tactics. I nibbled on a piece of bread. Tasted like garlic bread. I tried Wheat Thins. Garlic Thins? I drank a glass of soda, no good. I drank a class of cranberry juice cocktail. Garlic and cranberries—definitely no good. I chomped on some nerds, a tootsie roll pop and other assorted Halloween leftovers. Taste o’ garlic remained. I ate an entire burrito for dinner, came home and brushed my teeth, twice. The garlic prevailed.

I might as well have chewed in a piece of bark.

No, really.

According to researchers at Wm. Wrigley Jr. Co., bark from Magnolia trees can wipe out bad breath by killing odor-causing bacteria. The article explains that most bad breath results from bacteria that break down proteins in our mouth.

In preliminary tests of nine Wrigley employees, the tree bark showed promising potential. Mints with the bark extract killed 61 percent of malodorous bacteria. Regular mints only kill about 3.6 percent of bacteria in that time. Gum with the bark extract also showed increased breath-fighting powers, killing 43 percent of bacteria in 40 minutes compared to the 18 percent kill rate of regular gum.

Despite these hopeful results, scientists said it will be a while before any Magnolia bark gums are commercially available. Fear not any fellow UF students. Magnolia trees are closer than you might think. Those tall, shady trees in the Plaza of the Americas—jackpot. And as an extra bonus, with all the organic-living, vegan-eating individuals that seem to conglomerate in this area, no one will even think twice if you break off some bark for an after-lunch palette cleanser.

No Power Rangers, no Rugrats, no fun for toddlers

As a child, I secretly dreamed of becoming the pink Power Ranger. We had a lot in common. Her name was Kimberly, and she fought off evil clad in a pink pleather jumpsuit. I liked pink. When she wasn’t fighting crime, Kimberly practiced and perfected complicated gymnastic tricks. I, too, was a gymnast, a level four out of something like 12 levels total. I never made it to level five. Clearly, pink pleather was my destiny. I could envision my face flashing across the TV screen to the theme song, “Go, go Power Rangers!”

Despite my fond childhood memories of Kimberly, a recent study concluded that my superhero idol is not fit for young children. University of Washington researchers found that children age 3 and under who watch violent TV shows like Power Rangers are more likely to have attention problems in the future. The study defined violence as fighting, hitting, threats or other violence central to the plot or main character.

Along this line of thought, the Power Rangers aren’t the only heroes who researchers say must go, go. Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? Banished. Same with Simba and the rest of his Lion King gang. Hakuna matata? Not if you’re 3.

The study doesn’t stop there. Researchers advise parents not to let toddlers watch any show that isn’t explicitly educational. Goodbye Rugrats, so long Flinstones, hello…Barney?

Yes, that’s right. Researchers said the big purple dinosaur who wants to give everyone a “great big hug and a kiss from me to you,” is a better influence than kick-butt Kimberly. Sure, the squeezable dinosaur can sing. Sure, he isn’t afraid to hold hands or show his true feelings. But the real question that I think researchers neglected—can Barney fight off villains in skin-tight pink pleather? I think not.

Never too old for a fieldtrip!

Fieldtrips are a pain in the butt—and I don’t mean figuratively—I mean my butt actually hurts.

My health and fitness writing class (shout out!) traveled to IMG Academies yesterday, which is basically an athlete boarding school in Sarasota. From the moment our 20ish-person class boarded a monster 56-passenger charter bus instead of the mini bus we requested (we all had our own row), I knew it was going to be an awesome trip. Our bus driver, also known as Vin Diesel, told us to “Holla” at him if we needed anything. Right on.

Like any good fieldtrip, we popped in a DVD, Love Actually, and half the class promptly fell asleep. Time flies when you’re sleeping, that and when your gigantic bus is weaving through traffic like a souped-up Mustang GT in the Fast and Furious. We made good time for a car—a little over two hours. For a charter bus—we flew.

After getting lost for about half an hour (another hallmark of a true fieldtrip), we rolled up to IMGA and piled out in our sweats in tennis shoes as if, just maybe, we were athletes and not journalists. If anyone made this mistake at first, we definitely straightened them out later.

IMGA is one a complete alternate world. This place breeds super athletes. From age 12 to graduating high school senior, students live on the resort-like campus, and their life seemingly has two focuses: First (and I do mean first priority), their sport. Second, school.

When students aren’t in class at one of the four schools on campus, they are on the tennis court, the soccer field, IMGA’s impressive gym, or wherever else their specific sport may demand. IMGA specializes in tennis, basketball, baseball, soccer and golf. Aside from being coached by some of the best in their individual sports, these student-athletes receive other training. They hone mental skills and concentration with special exercises to condition the mind. They take acting and improve classes to learn communication skills—critical to athletes often interviewed by the press. They have an individualized eating regimen and sometimes report their daily diet to a nutritionist for evaluation.

Athletic excellence is almost down to a science at IMGA, one that cranks out powerful results. The number of college-bound IMGA graduates that leave with an athletic scholarship—85 percent.

Perhaps I too could have been a collegiate athlete had I attended IMGA, I thought. Then our class got the chance to participate in an IMGA warm-up. Never before have I felt so out of shape and uncoordinated. The 36-year-old (could have been 25-year-old) trainer with blond highlights and curly surfer-bum hair lined our class along a strip of rubber track and directed us in various hopping, lunging, and arm-waving exercises. He even threw in some ballet moves. Hence the butt pain. Then Mr. Athletic told us to skip. This is when I realized that I may very well have been an IMGA dropout. I cannot skip, at least without looking like I’m having a seizure while running. Where would my IMGA class standing be—the bottom 15 percent.

Forgetting is Forgiven

For my fifth grade science project, I attempted to prove the grade-school girl mantra: Girls rule, boys drool. How? A battle of short-term memories.

After actually going to the library (gasp!) and checking out several books on short-term memory, I devised a test to score my classmates’ memories. The exam consisted of several exercises which tested their ability to recall long numbers, pictures and other random information shown to them briefly. All in all, this was a step-up from the previous years’ science project: Which brand of popcorn pops the most kernels? I ate a lot of popcorn that year. And for those wondering, Orville Redenbacher is your man.

Despite my scientific aspirations, the project didn’t win any awards (My best friend, however, won first place. She tested which brand of nail polish stayed on her fingers the longest without chipping—riveting). I don’t remember my specific results, although instinct and 21 years of interaction with boys lead me to believe that girls won.

Regardless, an article in the October issue of the American Scientist suggests that the winners of my fifth grade project might actually be the losers. According to two recent studies, forgetting is a good thing.

First—forgetting conserves energy. A study of students at Sanford showed that students who forgot irrelevant facts needed less effort to remember information that actually mattered. Efficient or just lazy?

Second—forgetting improves short-term memory of important details. For this finding, researchers impaired the long-term memory of mice and tossed them in a maze (If PETA only knew). They found that mice with weakened long-term memory had exceptional short-term memory and better chances of finding their way out of the maze. When one type of memory shut down, the other excelled.

In humans, the article equated this concept to forgetting someone’s name. Blanking on this long-term memory fact simply makes room for a more vital short-term memory fact, like where you left your car keys. This is great, unless maybe you’re on a date. Wait—I take that back—the scenario is actually perfect. As soon as you do mix up your date’s name with another girl, you might need those car keys for a quick getaway.

So there you have it. Someone actually came up with a scientifically based excuse for being absent-minded. Maybe it’s the fifth grader in me, but I have a sneaking suspicion these studies were authored by men. The good news—two can play this game. Oh, you don’t like romantic comedies? Must have slipped my mind.