19th Hole and 20 Questions

Today my family attended a funeral.  A family friend of ours lost a battle with cancer.  My brother and I grew up with the kids while our parents bonded over tales of swim team at the 19th hole.  Ross was an incredible guy so it wasn't surprising when we showed up to the viewing and the line stretched out rooms and down hallways.  There we stood trying to identify people our family knew from decades past.  Most of these individuals were my parents' age and didn't recognize my brother or I in our adulthood.  In our boredom of waiting to pay our condolences, my mother and I began to identify the bad face lifts and my brother began a game of 20 questions.  In grief, you look for distractions or humor or both.  One of our funniest moments is when a family friend stopped my brother to ask who the "lovely lady" was with him.  As he turned shades of crimson, my brother flatly remarked, "my sister."  Ooh, yeah, what a great date idea!  A viewing!

Holiday Spirit

Yesterday my Mom and I ran last minute errands for Christmas and stopped to have lunch.  We talked about what gifts we still need to pick up, whos making what for which party, which dog is the culprit for eating the christmas lights off the tree (whole bulb and wires inluded), and what the wrapping status was on the presents.

Apparently the other night my parents were drinking their festive boxed wine and while my mother was choosing gift wrap, my father was stewing.  The more tipsy they became the worse things got (no surprise here.)  She was hoping that she actually gave the right present to the right recipient and actually as the night wore on she finally gave up on even signing their names, but resorted to their initials.  While I snickered at this one imagining my cute female cousin opening up my brothers boxers, I didn't realize this was the best part.

My Dad was stewing (we like to call him Chuckles).  Chuckles was downing the elegant chablis wine getting more and more upset about the neighbors.  They went out of town for the holiday and in the meantime all the flowers/plants/gifts have been arriving at my parent's.  The neighbor does not like the dogs barking and my father takes it personally although will not do anything to actively stop the noise.  It got to the point where my Dad marched over in the night (or stumbled as the case may be) to take the delievery notices off the door and proceeded to unwrap the gifts at his house.  Once my mother realized what was happening she scolded him and took the delievery notices back to their house and put it in their mailbox (no way to get them back) and attempted to put the bows back on things. 

Ah, can you feel the love?

The Perfect Gift

Have you ever found the perfect gift for someone?  You know, the experience where you cannot wait to give them the gift?  You start dancing around like you need to pee as they are attempting to untie the ribbon and you are thinking, "Just cut the damn thing because you are taking too long!"  I found that gift.

One of my dearest friends has a passion for single malt scotch and women who drive stick shifts (how he and his wife now have automatics in their garage is beyond me.)  Every quarter or so he dresses up in his kilt, shows educational videos on the different regions of Scotland, and cons our graphic designer from work to be the pourer for a high end Scotch for a fun fun tasting among friends. 

When I first found the dessert plates with different old (perhaps made up) labels of Scotch on the faces, I knew I found THE gift.  However, the pragmatic side of me left them at the store somehow convinced that I could find an equally wonderful gift without breaking the bank. 

This is when my logic side is damned because I wandered the city for the next few weeks finding nothing that would compare and kept dwelling on why I didn't follow my gut in the first place and buy the plates to begin with!!!  I went back and got the plates.

When he opened them this week I was estatic.  He loved them.  He had never seen them.  He had them on display in his office (not really acceptable in Mormon Utah to have ceramics tooting the wonderfulness of liquor in the office).  However, he could get away with it as he is the chaplain who is known for his off colored remarks and jovial passion about spirits made from peet.

The next day he came in letting me know that he thought the plates were too special to serve any food off of them.  He was going to make a shelf and have them on display.  I assumed this was at his house near his Scotch shrine, however I wouldn't be surprised if I found the plates between the life sized print of Rembrant's "Prodigal Son," and the photo of him with the Dali Lama in his office.

Postal Pressure

Its the time of year that friends and family send their yearly tidings of joy via Mr. Postman complete with a stamp that has some trendy artistic rendition of the season.  My first card arrived yesterday.  Its actually one of the cards I really look forward to every year.  This family is just plain classy.  Simple black and white photographs and a printed message on thick paper and pretty ribbon.  I actually save this card every year and have a small collection of them in a box downstairs. 

I find that people send a variety of cards:   There are the ones from your insurance agent who you don't know from Adam.  The cards that seem cheap and rushed through.  The family picture postcard (usually from my milkman inspiring guilt for me to leave a big holiday tip so he can feed all of the starving children his wife pumped out standing by the milk truck).  The cards from your girlfriends who also scrawl their new boyfriend's name at the bottom, however you've never met the guy and seriously doubt he truly wants to send you "season's greetings with love."  And then their are those who really come heart felt.  They are the ones with personalized inscriptions that really capture your relationship to the sender, what they mean to you, and real wishes that there could be more time spent over coffee sharing lives.

I try to send cards every year, but I find that my numbers are dwindling as my inscription gets more lengthy.  They are usually sent towards the end of the month only because I am a procrastinator.  I have tried several methods of trying to keep on top of this holiday tradition:  I have kept cards from years past and sent them cards the following years.  I once read to write cards the afternoon of Turkey day, but this year I was busy baking tasteless rolls.  Although none of these methods work for me, I still subscribe to "Real Simple" magazine for the helpful hints that may or may not get the ball rolling.

All in all, holiday cards are little gifts that arrive M-Sa from friends that mean more to me than any wrapped scarf or pair of earrings could ever give.

The Price of Happiness

One roll of papertowels shreaded while I was at work:  $1.38

Four pairs of shoes chewed up:  $250.00 (rough estimate)

Two bottles of "Natures Miracle" miracle solvent:  $20.00

Toys that were supposed to be chewed instead of the shoes:  $80.00

Gas to travel back and forth from work extra times:  $60.00

Orchid chewed up because spanish moss is FUN!:  $ unknown as it was a housewarming gift (sorry Aunt Liz!!)

One X-Pen to barricade the kitchen:  $80.00 (returned as it didn't work, he's determined to sit in the window to look out)

Home Depot project of plywood, felt stickies, foam tape, and cinder blocks to replace the X-Pen:  $40.00

Absolute glee when I come in the door, a cold nose, and a fuzzy body:  Priceless

(I won't even begin to account for my Petco bill, adoption rescue fee, or food)

Won't C'ya Be My Neighbor?

Let me first preface this entry by saying that I have some great neighbors.  They aren't the Wysteria Lane-chaining-people-in-the-basement types.  In fact I have almost a "nice" war going on with one of them. 

The ones to my west and I are in the who can do nice things for the other one first race.  It currently is centered around the garbage cans.  For the past 3 weeks it is a race to see who will take out both of our garbage cans and then bring them back in.  For the record, I look like the sucky neighbor.  Instead I have this really nice older gentleman in really poor health dragging my trash up and down my hill!  Ok, so then I thought I would make him brownies or bread or something only to find out that he is diabetic plus has chronic pain and the meds he takes makes him lose his appetite.  His grown adult son is so very proud of the new job he got he actually brought me one of his bonus's (it was free tickets to a home show, but still it was a big deal to him.)  Yup, bottom line, I suck.

The neighbors to the east of me are a bunch of science geeks.  All book smarts, practical smarts, ecological smarts, but not a lot of people smarts.  These individuals bike uphill in the snow to preserve the ozone.  They are also the ones responsible for getting me set up on the wireless goods.  (Yea!)  They also do projects simply to test their hypothesis if they can actually do it.  Last spring the two guys got on top of my roof with their climbing gear to help clean out my gutters (they were securing themselves with harnesses from my chimney simply to improve their rock climbing skills simultaneously.) 

Last weekend they decided to "build" a barbeque.  This consisted of rocks, dirt, wood, and the grill off of one of their trucks they are constantly rebuilding.  I didn't know this at the time and came home to my whole house smelling like a forest fire.  Hello?  Charcoal?  Ever heard of it?  I was furious (of course after it took me about 2 hours to figure out what it was, stop going outside to smell around the house, and turn off my swamp cooler).  I poked my head over the fence and asked them to put the fire out.  They did, but they also apologized I didn't get a proper invitation to come join the fun.  The next day I found that my lovely aspen pads I so proudly replaced in the spring, are now permanently saturated with the smell of smoke.  Its a good thing its fall.  However, in all my sustained rage I marched over there to tell them again to not ever do that again and that they are welcome to use my BBQ from my porch anytime.  They apologized profusely and asked if I wanted to see the wedding photos.  So, yours truly (sans wedding gift or belated card) sat down to look at photos of their modest beautiful wedding at some National monument and feel like a horse's ass.

I figure by now, I'm on eternal garbage duty for both sides.

I'm a Carrie, You're a Big

My boyfriend is addicted to "Sex and the City."  He actually told me tonight that he would have to call me once the episode was over. 

I actually have all 6 seasons on DVD.  I tried to share my enthusiasm two years ago this Christmas.  I was snowed in at his parent's house and brought my first season.  His mother sat with us and actually watched the anal sex episode.  Not a good time.  I can't even tell you how many shades of crimson I turned.  As I went off to work the next few days he apparently tried to understand my passion for the show.  I would get messages like this:

"I can't believe you think guys are like this.  There is no way."

"Are you kidding me?!  These women treat these guys like crap!  Please tell me these are not your role models."

He stopped watching after episode 3.  This was ok for me.  I was tired of trying to defend the analytical Carrie, the sexually charged Samatha, the idealistic romantic Charlotte, and the cynical playing the man's game Miranda.  He was not the typical guy.  So my explainations of, "But you see, you aren't the typical guy," didn't go very well.  He could conceed to that point...kind of.

Almost a year later we embarked on the journey of exploring women celebrating their "fabulousness" in NY.  It happened to coincide with the "fabulous" cable deal, "fabulous" new tv, "fabulous" re-runs of the first season a la The Girls, and the not-so-fabulous me being post-op at his place.  Maybe he was taking pity on me, maybe he was pitching some serious woo, but whatever it was, we got to attempt to change his view.

Tonight I was told, "Season Two, episode 21 is on 'Old Dogs, New Dicks' is on!  Charlotte is dating an uncircumsized guy, Miranda is dating Steve, and did I tell you how great Big is?  He is a funny, cool guy.  I mean, really, what is there not to like about him?  And by the way, you are just as neurotic as Carrie, did you know that?" 

Huh.  I've created a monster.  Last summer all the rage, according to CoJo was tee shirts that read, "I'm a Carrie," or "I'm a Samantha."  Perhaps men will begin to embrace their guilty addictions of "Despirate Housewives" or "Sex and the City."  Before you know it, there will be a fashion rage of guys wearing tee's saying things like, "I'm a Big." 

Well, maybe not that phrase.  I think women would read WAY too much into a tee shirt that had that phrase on it...

Ring a Ding Ding

This week I've been focusing on human resource issues.  The big focus the past few days has been doing pre-screening interviews for a position.  What it usually involves is a lot of phone tag.  Because of this delight, I get to experience a lot of different voice mail options people choose.

1.  Just the phone digits as the intro.  Good points:  simple, to the point, factual.  Bad points:  I'm constantly stammering because I'm double checking the number to make sure I got the right residence.  Result:  people thinking I'm stupid, inarticulate, and wouldn't want to work for me.

2.  The phone tree.  Haven't people figured out how annoying these things are when they are trying to reach customer service, let alone, an individual?  When I'm trying to call my bank or a doctors office I suffer through them, but I refuse to go through the pain for other reasons.  Result:  I think they are people avoidant or hyper-organizational (aka obcessive compulsive) and wouldn't want them working for me.

3.  Honesty.  Ok, I have to admit, I have this one but I haven't encountered it yet on my recent quest.  I am so tired of people leaving message after message when it is clear I have not called them back so therefore I don't want to talk to them (huh, maybe I should have a phone tree.)  So, after listening to my girlfriends message, I followed suit.  "Hi, you've reached me.  I'm either not home or I'm screening my phone calls.  Leave a message."  Isn't that what we're doing anyway?  I run to the caller ID everytime and decide by the third ring if I have enough energy to talk with this person...usually I do.  However,  I also realize this is not a professional message therefore if I'm looking for a job they get my cell number not my home.

4.  The baby.  Unless your name is Grandma, NO ONE THINKS THIS IS CUTE.  I want to throw up everytime I hear some stupid toddler repeating their ever so proud parents prompting of "leave a message," which usually sounds more like, "weave messsge."  I write this as a plead to all of those stay at home moms writing blogs about their newborns to please, PLEASE resist the temptation of putting little Suzie on the voice mail.  I work for a pediatric facility and even I do not think this is cute!!!  You will forever alienate your single friends or set up some strange mommy neighborhood competition to see who's child is more developed to actually enunciate the words!!!  Don't do it. 

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Last week I attempted a good faith effort to improve my department's morale and held a retreat.  The planning committee was shocked when I actually asked them to plan stuff that was meaningful and work related.  Their first agenda included things like board games, walk, movie, mingle time.  I sent them back to the drawing board thinking how would I explain to my CEO that it was worth a day of salary dollars for 30 people. 

We did the usual ice breakers (which are stupid, by the way because you should know everyone already), a team building scavenger walk (I compromised on this one yet still added more of a point to the activity), and other stuff.  When I refer to the "other stuff" I'm talking about all of the touchy-feely things mental health people get off on.  We had to "process."

We themed the retreat:  transisitions.  Also known as:  Get over it already, the bus has come, left the station and now you are just being dragged behind it.  Processing how all of the transistions affected them over the past few years took awhile.  People brought objects to make things safe.  I saw everything from pantyhose (my job is a good fit) to a flag (I feel freedom at work to get paid to do something I love) to my personal favorite, a sign mocking our mission written in barbed wire font (I think my boss is a bitch).  

We are a family centered organization.  Note:  I have to explain constantly to my employees that the term, "family," does not mean their personal family, but the patients and families we serve and therefore gives us money.  To them, business is a foreign concept.  However, not to cause a scene in front of the group when I saw the barbed wire thing I pulled a non-commitmal, "Hum. Interesting." 

In the afternoon we did the color code test.  If you have ever taken this test, it seems to be more of a parlor trick than others, but its what they decided (another concession on my part).  I am the only red personality in my whole department.  Reds are the decision makers, the power guys, the action people.  However, I am a close second of blue.  Blues are the do-gooders, the morally just, and the intellectuals.  The Whites are the peace keepers.  They tend to be boring, quiet, and their motto is very Rodney King-esque.  The Yellows are motivated by fun.  Fun, fun,fun!  People people, flashy, a bit funny, and a bit inconsistent, but Fun!  I only have one yellow in my department and wouldn't you know, she is the only one besides me who can't figure out why everyone is so invested in feeling stuck.  Afterall, being stuck isn't fun!

Nope, wouldn't you know it I have a whole department of blue/whites.  They feel bad, know that they are justified in feeling bad, and won't tell anyone outright because they wouldn't want to rock the boat.  I actually had someone say, "You can't put a timeline on my grief."  Ohhkay, well sister it has been 2 years!!!  Kleenex called and they want to put you on the board of directors because you alone increased their stock value!!!  Winnie the Pooh called and wants you to play the part of Eeyore in their next Heffalump movie!!  (Ok, why I even know there is a Heffalump movie is scary, but I blame it on the line of work I'm in.)  Point is:  get over it!

When I spoke to my mentor, another red/blue split, later in the week she said, "Well that explains a lot.  You need diversification in that rainbow you've got over there."  Yup, mixing blue and white (depending on the hues of course) could wind up being a really drab light grey-blue.  (Again, not fun!) 

Mormon Mardi Gras

I have been working out at Camp Williams part of the time.  For those of you in the dark, this is the evacuee site for Utah.  About 300 or so remain, which is a far cry from our expected 2000.  These poor individuals have been plucked off of roofs, rescued from the convention center, or survived the Superdome.  There is no rhyme or reason to who was brought here.  This is the poorest of the poor, mostly African American, Baptist, single, disabled, from East New Orleans.  They have witnessed atrocities of people getting their throats slit, bullet-ridden bodies, rotting corpses, babies dehydrated, and the elderly raped.  I have heard a lot. 

In my opinion, the media has treated these individuals like zoo animals.  Everywhere you turn a camera is being stuck in their faces.  African Americans are a novelty here in Utah.  Which is unfortunate.  However, they should remember they are people not the newest attraction.

I have been to East New Orleans once.  We were warned not to go there because of the crime and because I was White.  A group of students went to a nightclub and I was invited because I was the girlfriend of an African American.  I stuck out like a sore thumb.  Our night ended because there was a violent fight on the dance floor.

It boggles me how people are opening up their homes to others.  I realize everyone is assuming good intent, but really what we really need is some caution.  For one, you don't know if these individuals are the perpetrators or the victims at the convention center.  You don't know if they are the looters or the rapists. 

I spent all day Sunday trying to procure things like eyeglasses, dentures, shower chairs, hearing aids, etc. I also helped set up a mental health clinic, a triage group to go out to the dorms, and some group debriefings.  When we presented our plan to the State, we were told we needed buy off.  From who?  They really didn't know.  The problem is they didn't know who was in charge.  Was it FEMA? Health and Human Services? Red Cross? Governor’s office?  Dept of Homeland Security?  No one knew.  It was the same disorganization that the Nation is seeing on a smaller scale.  Too many good intentions, not enough leaders.

Efforts were concentrated the past few days on playing concierge.  How do we get people outta here if they have ANY connection outside of Utah.  You can imagine quite a few do and they were pretty baffled by the mountains.  However, some I spoke with told me they were staying here.  It was clean, pretty, and we were nice to them.  They liked the mountains (although didn't believe they were real at first) but they didn't exactly know where they were on the map.  No one told them they were coming to Utah.  One guy remarked he thought it was a really long plane ride to get to Houston.

I wonder when will the novelty wear off?  I wonder when Utah will realize we have just inherited a lot of poor, homeless, disabled people...I mean, we really didn't take care of the ones we have already.  When will the LDS church realize these individuals are strong in their faith base and they don't have a bunch of new converts?  When will the evacuees discover our liquor laws and find out that Fat Tuesday is not a National holiday?  What will happen then?

Mormon Mardi Gras.  They throw Books of Mormon everytime someone yells, "Preiate C'ya." and shows off their garments.  Everyone is hyped up on caffeine free coke and kool aid vs. alcohol.  They could have Harry Connick, Jr. do a special number jazz style of "I am a Child of God."  And instead of parade floats, they could do hand carts!!!  Oh wait, that already happens...Days of 47. 

 

Denouement

The word, "denouement," is French.  It means the events following the climax of a drama or novel in which such a resolution or clarification takes place  For some reason I thought my 30th birthday would signify a denoument in my life.  I couldn't have been farther from the truth.  I haven't achieved resolution or clarification about anything. 

29 was a traumatic birthday for me, more so than 30.  It was the end of my twenties and I only had one year left to cling to the idea of being young and free.  I did a lot in that decade.  I graduated from undergrad and graduate school.  I moved in and out of my parents house about 8 times.  I was a vet tech, a pastry chef, and a social worker.  I lived in three different cities and figured out how to live on $80 a month.  I figured out who I didn't want to be with romantically and I figured out who I did.  I found incredible friends and I realized that some were only there for a little while. 

On the otherhand, there are things I am glad to be rid of that I did in my twenties.  Skills I acquired:  how to do a keg stand, how to play the politics of a sorority, how to drink and dial ex-boyfriends, and how to do late night last minute school projects.  There were many mornings I would stand in the shower and cringe of embarressment of whatever I did the night before. 

I wonder what my thirties will bring.  Perhaps it will bring more self-confidence and less shower anxiety. 

Angels Among Us...

I have heard from a number of friends in NOLA either by phone or email.  I've decided to share an email from a friend who is a NICU nurse at Ochsner Hospital.  Here is her story...

HELLO 
 
I am at Ochsner. I am well and dry, well sweating not dry. NO water up her but it is rising around us. I am sending this message to all of you because I know that you may speak to my family and you could tell them that I am well, just hot. We have no power except for red outlets so no ac, tv or any lights in the bathroom. Try shaving your legs in the dark, ha ha . I am in a tank top and shorts that I have worn for 2 days. I am washing my clothes in the dirty water. I even showered int the brownish red water. Who cares it was dark and I did not see it, besides it felt so cool. We have no ice that is edible. We are going to be on 20/20 on Thrusday at 9 pm. I have a pt gown on and am feeding the most beautiful baby girl. I have greasy hair and I look like sh..---You understand. I am well and joking about things. I have not seen my house but I know that I am unable to talk with Chris. He stayed home and then evacuated yesterday. I spoke with his aunt in TX wwhere he is going and she said that he is going there and my house has damage but she does not know how much. I hope that all of you are safe and I am thinking of you. 
 
We have started sending pts out to TX, AL, and Baton Rouge. The nurses in BR came down and brought us ice chest full of clean ice and cold drinks. They came to get the kids and they saw what we were dealing with and the felt sorry for us. They ROCK!!! We are going to be helping out in the hospital. I am so glad that I have adult experience. I may need it. Well got to go. 
 
LOVE YOU ALL, 
 
 
Have a great day or night whatever it may be.

Thar She Blows

So Katrina was officially erased off of my list of possible future girl names (not like it was ever seriously on it).  But truly, there is nothing to describe the feeling of seeing footage of your ex-boyfriend's apartment flooded.

New Orleans has a special place in my heart as I lived there for my 18 months of graduate school.  I remember hurricanes coming and going.  The one I remember the most is Georges in '98.  By the time the "G" names got around I was getting to be a seriously seasoned boat driver (a.k.a. my Subaru floating down a street hoping my tires would make contact with something solid underneath it to propel it anywhere but into the car next to me).  Flooding was not unusual for the city.  I sloshed through campus in knee high water or a bit deeper a couple of times to class and once had to climb in through a window.  I also remember watching the freshmen take there ever so charming dorm decor of inflatable couches, float on them and then try to catch the bumper of a passing car down the "river." 

During most hurricanes, the joke of the locals is just to sit it out and drink.  I wasn't complaining.  But then Georges was on his way.  It was the same scenario of THE worst-possible-situation.  The Weather Channel may have had its special radar, but if you were a local you watched an old guy by the name of Nash with his dry erase board plotting the hurricane hour by hour.  Nash knew it all!  He was more accurate than technology and he even predicted it hitting Gulfport in the last bit.  I'm sorry to hear Nash died not to long ago.

I think that hurricanes are the worst of the disasters only because you become an information junkie.  The Weather Channel or news is on 24/7.  You don't sleep very well and are really worried that you missed something if you aren't watching it for some reason.  Hour by hour, your anxiety builds wondering if you will be hit.

When the city was told to evacuate, the students from out of town were truly stuck in their dorms.  Some parents flew their kids home last minute, others rented cars and carpooled inland.  I thought I was in trouble when my friends who were bonafide locals decided to flee, but I knew I was in trouble when Nash dropped his marker and just said those who stayed had no hope.  A group of us (UT, CA, MD, TN, NY) had decided to stay mostly by default. 

We got our provisions of rental movies, water, alcohol, and food and hunkered down.  We were set until our dorm advisors found us and evacuated us by Tulane's president's orders to another dorm.  Our new "home" was the glass palace.  It looked like a small version of the Hyatt in NOLA.... a vertical evacuation lined with glass.  Yeah, that made no sense to me at all considering my residence was stone and 3 stories up, but whatever. 

I called my mom and grandmothers and off we went.  Our comfy space was the hallway where they never turned the lights off.  (Think of an elementary school hallway with the hard linoleum and florescent lights.) I thought of going back, but I am too much of a rule follower to the point that we turned our hated suite-mate in to the RA's and she was brought back. 

I remember watching the windows shift from being concave to convex in seconds and wondering when they would burst.  I watched the goal post of the practice field sway like it was a flower stem in the wind.  It was a rough few days. 

They fed us packed lunches of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches 3 meals a day.  I have to say the best part was finding another graduate student in our program in the building who let us stay with her for awhile...no more hallway. 

When the skies cleared, we weren't able to leave (much like those in the Superdome now).  Talk about stir-crazy.  It didn't make sense for us to be locked in while the sky looked perfectly blue.  In the end, I think I did sneak out back home.  It was a relief to see my windows in tact, doors locked, and no water damage.  It was a great feeling.

I can't imagine how my friends feel now.  I've been told they cannot return for another week according to marshal law, and they still aren't certain what they have to return to.  Just like me, they are scouring the video footage for landmarks and street signs, trying to see if it is in their neighborhoods or some place they recognize under the murky cafe au lait poisoned water.  There are three friends in particular that I hold deep in my heart and I am truly grateful to have heard from them.  They are safe and coping the best they can. 

Vulnerability of disaster strikes all races, classes, ages, and gender.  It has a tendency to almost "wipe the slate clean," which is hard to do in such a regal city like New Orleans.  I have never been in such a polarized place of the haves and have nots.  Looting is enraging, but not surprising. 

My heart breaks every time I see the footage, learn more statistics, hear more stories, and make that personal connection.   The city, and those who know it, will never be the same.

Hit the Road, Jack

It took a week, but my brother and I decided that you cannot return home or whatever concept is related to it.  Living together as adults was a disasterous experiment.  And in the end, it was good he left before our semi-relationship was sacrificed further.  It does take two to tango and in this accountability, I realized that I assumed a lot.

Assumption #1:  Living together will mean we will spend more time together.  Not so much.  He never came home Friday night and the most I saw him Saturday was 10 minutes before and after he took a shower.  When he was home, he was secluded in his room with video games.  We never did have dinner together or even watch television. 

Assumption #2:  My brother has matured.  See the video game comment above.  Also you could have buried my illusions in the piles of clothes on the floor.

Assumption #3:  We can communicate.  Yeah, do you count the minutes when he's standing with his hand on the door leaving?

On Monday night he came home, stood as far away from me as possible, and announced he was moving out.  I already knew this because my Father and I had just hung up the phone.  Dad was wondering why my brother called him in tears wanting to crash on the couch.  All I did was ask that his room be picked up by tonight.  Man, I'm such a meanie!

My brother's biggest argument was that I acted too much like a mother to him.  I was too concerned about his life (however, it is hard not to be when he dumps his whole life drama on your lap the first night he's there).  What is the funniest part to me is that he decided to return home to Mom. 

Brotherly Love

"There once was a woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many guests she didn't know what to do." 

 

This is my newest situation. Somehow while I was braving the awful Midwest heat index last weekend, my brother accidentally moved in with me. Its rather odd, I'm not going to lie. He called Saturday and asked if he could "rent the garage" for his stuff.  He apparently decided to terminate his lease so he could move to a better place, but didn't realize there was a gap in time...3 weeks or so. When I asked where he was planning on staying, he didn't know. Ah, so the real issue emerged!  Having his bed and whatnot in my garage and him homeless didn’t make any sense.  So of course, I invited him to stay.  He got the keys from my parents and I came home to his official residence being my back room for the next bit.

 

This was a lot to handle as I have not lived with my brother since I was 19 or 20. You have to understand that my brother doesn’t really call me unless there is a major life crisis.  Dad is in the hospital.  I’m thinking of breaking off my engagement.  Those kind of things, so when I got the call Saturday I had a little post traumatic response going on. However, he is my brother and I will always be there to help.  I’ve also always wanted us to be closer so I’m hoping this time together will be bonding. 

 

To make things a bit more complicated, one of my dearest friends showed up on my doorstep last night about 10:15 needing a place to crash for a couple of days. She is now on the aerobed in the third bedroom downstairs. She will be with me until tomorrow night.  However, she is not the point of this entry so I’ll move along…Even though I had been up since 3 AM MDT to catch flights and I had a rough day at work, I still couldn't sleep very well. Psychologically trying to wrap my brain around so many people in my space was difficult.

 

Although a decade had passed, some things hadn’t changed.  He still had laundry piles around the bedroom and a basket to be washed in the basement.  He had jimmy-rigged his Nintendo/Game Cube/X-Box/Evil Male Time Robbing Machine so that it could be eye level while he was in bed.  This was done by precariously stacking the TV on top of a stool on top of a few cardboard boxes.  His toothbrush was randomly placed in the shower although my toothpaste was half gone.  Instead of empty coca-cola cans, there were beer bottles.

 

Other things hadchanged.  He asked if I needed something when he went to the store.  He was so appreciative of letting him crash at my place.  He gave me privacy when I wanted to talk to my boyfriend on the phone.  In fact he was so concerned that he didn’t want to interfere with the way I did things he was always checking if I usually sleep with the A/C on or what time I usually got up in the morning. 

 

It was strange to realize he wasn’t the personification of my little brother I had in my head.  He is a grown man with real grown up problems, but someone who always knows that his big sister will be there on the playground to stick up for him no matter what.

I take thee...

Once a month I get together with nine fantastic women for a book group.  It is not like some book groups where the literature is just an excuse to get together and gossip.  We actually discuss the book.  Last night was our 7-year anniversary. 

 

The group spans about a 40-year age gap and life experience.  We have social workers, nurses, a bookkeeper, a writer, a teacher turned mom, an entrepreneur, and a couple of individuals who work at a local university.  These women have traveled the world, hiked mountains in Africa, married their soul mates, survived tragedy, saved lives, had children, some divorced and remarried, and have been the strength of their families.  I am very proud to be part of this group.

 

Last night we discussed The Mermaid's Chair by Sue Monk Kidd over a variety of hors d’oerves, wine, and a sinful dessert.  I began reading it because I loved The Secret Life of Bees.  It wasn’t such an easy read in comparison.  As one of the women remarked, it was a mix between The Thorn Birds and a pressured second-book deal for the author.  I thought it was ok, but the more we discussed it, the more I realized I had strong feelings about it. 

 

We posed questions among ourselves of things like:  What would be a deal breaker for a relationship?  What is the significance of Jessie referring to her lover by his monk name vs. his given name when she was talking to her husband?  These all seemed like benign questions the literature stirred up for us and in the process of answering them, we revealed secret parts of ourselves to the group. 

 

And then a passage was read that involved the protagonist marrying herself in some stupid ocean ritual before she went back to her husband.  What the???  Oh, the women in the group thought this was wonderful and I thought it was contrived, cheesy, and counterfeit.  Marrying yourself?  Either you’re for the home team or you aren’t.  How can you marry yourself when you don’t spend any time by yourself?  This woman went from her husband of many years to a monk lover back to her husband!!!  The only time spent by herself was at her monk’s sanctuary while she was waiting for him!!  Being in serial relationships does not allow you to court yourself, get to know you, and then commit to always being faithful to yourself and not abandoning your principles.

 

I have done the affair thing and I have done the serial relationship thing.  During that time in my life I thought I knew what I wanted and who I was.  In reality, I hadn’t a clue.  Its like Julia Roberts in “The Runaway Bride” where she likes her style of eggs the way her current fiancé likes his eggs.  She doesn’t know!!  It wasn’t until I made the conscious decision to really commit to myself and be alone for a while that I discovered I really liked myself.  I am independent, ethical, interesting, and smart.  I enjoy being by myself. 

 

People fill up their lives with people because they are afraid of being alone.  Its one thing to be lonely and another to choose to be alone.  I have felt lonely in a crowd and in a relationship.  To choose to be alone is empowering.  It is a state of being, not a feeling.

 

The more I talked, the louder I became, and the more I gestured.  Apparently I was very passionate about this.  When I finally stopped a few were laughing at me and others just had an expression of confusion/concern.  Ok, well it hit a button for me.  A big, red, flashing button that said, “push me.”  I had to stop and wonder why it got hit.

 

As I sit in limbo land of this current relationship I have to wonder what is at stake.  Am I being faithful to myself by staying and sticking out the waiting period or am I self-sacrificing?  As a friend put it, “I know there is a right decision out there, but it will only be apparent in the future.”  No wonder my button got pushed.  What’s even more ironic is that I’m waiting for the stupid ritual of declaration of dedication…not by me, but by someone else.  My button didn’t get pushed, it got hit by a ton of bricks.

 

Today I head back to the land of cornfields and tent revivals.  One of my employees asked if she should get the officepool going again.  I came home from Hawaii to find one posted about my pending engagement.  She was joking and I just shook my head.  The reality is I’m already married…to myself. 

Hello, my name is...

On Saturday I went to a baby shower for my cousin who is married to a guy from Columbia but they now live in Toyko.  (Did everyone get that?)  My aunt hosted it and I got to see relatives that only come out for big family events like showers or funerals...this was a much happier time. 

The shower was lovely.  I usually hate showers.  You typically do not know a lot of people, there is a lot of polite conversation over finger food, and you generally feel rather self-conscious about the wrapping of your gift. 

Not with this shower.  Everyone was meshing well and the conversation turned to blogs.  Does everyone know "lucy's spleen?"  Did you know that readers are sending money to "suburban bliss" to go to a bloggers conference?  What about the protest of "dooce" and her elimination of comments?

And then I had a funny experience.  One of the women in the room turned to me and said, "Wait a minute, don't you have a blog?"

I began to feel the blood drain out of my face as I quickly mentally scanned the content of my entries and felt flattered all at the same time.  This woman knew me before she knew me! 

She said it was funny that on her blog (a la inspiration of my cousin, same as my story) she had a quiz of how well people knew her.  Turns out her readers scored higher than her own family or boyfriend.  (As soon as I get her site, I will link it to mine.)

Every once in awhile I scroll down to see how many readers have checked out my entries.  It always amazes me.  I guess I just want to thank my readers.  Thanks for being interested, sending comments/emails, and coming back.  :-)

Editorials Unsolicited

This week I had my quarterly visit with my psychiatrist.  I realized I had very little to talk about in therapy as my life has been going relatively smoothly.  No lightening bolts have hit, no lotteries won; you get the picture.  Really how is it that a 15 minute time slot can really be operationalized into more than just a med check? 

I  brushed over work issues and the politics involved to which he responded, "Your job is too emotional."  I think he realized I was stonewalling so he began to ask about what my boyfriend was up to and how the relationship was going.  I simply mentioned that he was on the palliative care consulting service this month for his rotation.  His face contorted like he had sucked on a lemon.  So much for the blank page theory of Dr. Freud.  I reassured him that actually my boyfriend was finding enjoyment in his work this month and he also really enjoyed working on the hemetology/oncology service as well.  At that point in time he hit me with this social commentary:

"You guys are a match made in heaven.  Both of you are drawn to situations that are truly utterly hopeless."

I couldn't help but laugh.

Time Traveler

As one of my dear friends said, my bad luck with traveling a la boyfriends is over.  Hawaii was a success.  We had a great time snorkeling at Shark's Cove, sea kayaking with the sea turtles, hiking the rainforests, and hanging out in the quaint town of Haleiwa.  For all intents and purposes, it was amazing.

I was astounded how well we did around each other.  There never was a time where I needed alone time.  I didn't scare him off with my tantrums (and there was one when we were snorkeling and I was pushed up against the reef in low tide by the strong current.)  He reframed me as a mermaid with her siren call luring men into their deaths.  Really I was cursing him under my breath, screaming into my snorkel tube, and trying to blame him for me following him out to sea (even if it was by my own volition.)  Talk about psychotic optimism on his behalf. 

Several friends (mostly guys) predicted that it would be the trip I would get engaged.  Not so much.  There were conversations about marriage (go figure, all initiated by me) that were left in a high degree of vagueness.  

Typical Conversation:

Me:  What are we doing?

Him:  I don't know.

Me:  What are the obstacles?

Him:  I don't know.

Me:  This isn't very reassuring.

Him:  I'm sorry you feel that way. We are getting married.  I love you.  I told you I was slow.

Me:  Evolution is faster than this relationship.

He will then go into a scientific explaination of why that statement isn't true, how time is relative, and if he's really on a roll, he'll bring in quantum physics vs. Neutonian physics into the conversation.  Don't get me wrong, part of his charm that I love is his geek speak, its just kind of hard to take when I know I'm working with matters of the heart.

We looked at the pictures from our trip at a family dinner party the night before he went back to Indy.  His Mother and Grandmother both asked where the ring was, I just shrugged my shoulders thinking they were asking the wrong party.  Easy to ask because if you look at the pictures in this entry, they are very romantic.

I hate to admit I'm one of "those" girls.  Where the hell is my ring?  It becomes more apparent as now every single one of my girlfriends is married or newly engaged.  (This all occurred within the past couple of months for me to be the last one standing by the way...I lie, two are still relatively single.)  Don't get me wrong, it is not a race to the altar...the only one I'm racing is myself and the strange ticking of my biological clock. 

The more I bring up the marriage thing the more I begin to feel like the crocodile in "Peter Pan" stalking Captain Hook.  Tick tock, tick tock.  He says he's aware of my clock and has been for the past 2 years. 

Time is a funny thing.  It can work to your advantage, like building excitement before a trip.  Or it can be a disservice, like when you are late.  He is typically late because he is slow or distracted.  I am typically late because I overestimate what I can accomplish in a small amount of time.  Perhaps our relationship is "late" because of all of these reasons.  I just wonder how much more time it will take.  In nicer terms, he is on "island time" which is typical of the Hawaiian lifestyle...fitting with this entry I suppose.

Aloha.

 

Rappin' about Rap

I'm a closet hip hop fan.  Its not a secret that I have various artists in my collection, but I never listen to it around others.  Number one, I feel too old and number two, I feel too white.  Nothing like a 29 yr. old jamming out to Eve in the not so diverse Salt Lake. 

For any of you who have seen "Office Space" all I can think of is that scrawny white guy rapping (kind of) to "Damn it feels good to be a gangsta" in his car and then quickly turning it down when he passed an African American.  Yeah, not so much.  The movie drives me nuts, but that scene is funny.  I've thought a lot about this issue of rap/hip hop and have mostly approached it from a sociological/feminist analysis.  I think I over-intellectualize it so it seems more rational to me.

I've been told that rap actually stands for rhythmic american poetry.  Whether that is true, I haven't a clue.  They say that most of the sales of rap come from young white teenage boys.  This is not to say that the Black culture isn't purchasing the music, they are, but just think who really has the economic power to buy the cd's. 

I usually listen to this music when I'm cleaning or needing some sort of energy (windows and doors shut however).  I dated an African American a few years ago.  I can honestly say I am out of touch with the scene and lingo.  When I was with him I was SHOCKED by how much violence, adultery, sex, anti-women lyrics he jammed out to.  I began to wonder if the music we listen to really reflects who we identify with.... I should have listened to my gut as he cheated on me several times. 

For the record, I mostly have pro-feminist power hip hop. 

 

Home Depot, round II through V

You can call me Ms. Queen of the Swamp Cooler.  I've now attempted to fix a leak in the water tubing with some sort of space age goo and tape (failed), re-did the tubing from the cooler to the main water line (complete with compression valves), and have bought other things to fix things like the water level, the mineral build up and something to do with the bearings. 

This is what kills me:  my father.  He is not Mr. Handy.  His idea of help is to  hand you the yellow pages.  However, before or after the fact when you are just pondering the project he tells you how easy it is to do yourself.  He'll even throw out a few terms that makes him look like he knows what he's talking about.

"Sure you just get the drill bit for the metal, get your hack saw, make sure you have roofing tar on hand, and that's all there is to it."  ~Dad

Uh huh.

However, when you ASK for his HELP he will tell you he is too busy, too old, or he already went through that part in his life.  The man won't even show up for supportive measures.  By the way, he's only 53 and when he says he's busy, that is code for I'm-watching-Golf TV/Food Channel.  It is the most maddening thing ever. 

In the meantime, I've been hanging out with Larry, the Home Depot guy dedicated to the swamp cooler section.  He helped me with the tubing and other how-to's all day yesterday (all 3 trips in the course of 6 hours.)  Larry has been great.

I'm certain this saga isn't over yet...

 

People say the darnest things...

I love quotations.  For a while I’ve been gathering them for scrapbooks or just great sayings that I put up in my office.  I go for the more original ones than those stupid “Achievement” or “Teamwork” or “Persistence” quotes with some stupid photo of a sunrise or other nature scene.  I find those to be just cheesy.

 

I’ve always loved quotes.  In junior high, I ran with the nerds.  They were my homies.  Yup, we were livin’ it up in the science lab!  Our idea of fun was to keep a running quote book that were random sayings taken completely out of context and written down in a spiral notebook.  A teacher finally confiscated it from us and we all got sent to the principal’s office.  I think that was my only time I ever got sent to the principal’s office.  But the real point of me telling you this is to show how much I love quotations.

 

About a year ago I rediscovered a paperweight in a store in Minneapolis.  I originally bought one for my girlfriend when she graduated from law school years ago and always regretted the fact that I never got one for myself.  I now have it sitting by my stapler.  It reads:  what would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?  What a great message!

 

Then there are those quotes that really just can’t fit anywhere although they ring in my mind.  I’ll keep the quotes anonymous. 

 

“Remember, there is no cure for stupid.” ~ A nurse from our E.R.  She was referring to the families who either come in for stupid reasons who think the condition requires emergent care as well as the families who come in after their own stupidity caused the child’s injury.  Think of the families who do things like let their child jump on trampolines surrounded by rocks.  Or let their child run barefoot by the lawn mower. Or let their child suck on hangers in department stores and then are shocked when it becomes lodged in the palate.  (All of these are true scenarios that have occurred multiple times in my 5 years of working in the ER.)  While this quote is funny to me, it is not appropriate for me to display in either a scrapbook or in my office.

 

“You can’t kill dead grass.”  ~ One of my best girlfriends from New Orleans.  I figure this must be a southern saying or something that her grandmother used to say.

 

“That ring is going to get a lot of use and it may as well be by you in the meantime.”  ~Grandmother referring to the family heirloom engagement ring my brother just got back from his ex-fiancée.  (My mother was trying the ring on at that moment.)  We’re not certain if she was referring to his dating habits/commitment issues or what, but it struck a funny bone in us.

 

“Its not medicine, its voodoo.” ~Boyfriend currently working on the newborn intensive care unit.  While it is very funny, it is also kind of true.  I think about the tiny babies getting stuck with needles, tubes, etc. I’m guessing that he will never become a neonatologist.  Again, it is not an appropriate quote for work.

 

People say funny things, whether it’s appropriate or not.  Be careful what you say because it might be immortalized in a quote book or in a blog!

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Ms. Home Depot Wannabe

I’m one of those people who become mesmerized the minute I walk into a Home Depot.  It is a store brimming with possibilities.  The smell of the lumber and tantalizing orange aprons just sets me spinning.  Before you know it I have some Cajun accent in my head from The Water Boy, “You can do it!”  I think I’m delusional.

 

The only section in the store that I feel remotely comfortable in is the Lawn and Garden department.  I know my perennials from my annuals.  I can weed with the best of them.  Anywhere out of this comfort zone and I’m one vulnerable chicka. 

 

Perhaps it was the masochist in me today, but I decided I was feeling well enough physically to completely devastate my self-esteem by thinking I could do a home project.  Actually I took on two.  I got my evaporative cooler ready for the summer and I decided to build a screen for one of my windows. 

 

The aspen cooling pads were a mere $2.67 x 3…match that with the new ladder I bought and that took the project up to $50.00.  Ok, so then I decide window screens can’t be that tough.  I needed to make a screen 36 x 36 (or at least this is what my father measured the night before.)  I bought the kit, the hack saw, fiberglass mesh, and some rolling tool thingy.  I had no idea what a hacksaw was until today.  This project was now up to about $60.00.  I figured, no time like the present so I bought aweed whacker as well.  Home Depot is not a cheap place to go. 

 

I got home and went straight to work.  I pulled down the old panels of my cooler looking like a pro.  There were big fat wires holding the old pads in place.  How do I get the pads out?  I was only five minutes into my new project (on my front lawn by the way looking ever so classy) when I had to break down and call Dad.  He was of no help.  I almost called my Uncle Dave (who is Mr. Handyman and currently is my hero), but I decided, no I was smart enough to figure this out!  I went back inside and read my Home Depot: 1, 2, 3  book.

 

While biding my time, I cleaned the swamp cooler on the new ladder I now had.  I hooked up the water from the basement and then went back out to look at the panels on my front lawn.  Yup, they weren’t fixing themselves. 

 

Ok, new tactic!  We’ll build the screen!  I went in, re-measured the space, and used my hacksaw to cut the metal frame.  I fit it all together and was feeling mighty good about myself even when I put the screen into the frame.  Then I go into my garage to put my trusty new tool away. 

 

I need to pause here to remind everyone that I am a new homeowner.  I still am learning things as it has only been 10 months.  That is my disclaimer.  So, I went into my garage and what do I find?  Oh, the original screen for the window.  Never saw it.

I took both to the window and again climbed up my ladder.  The new one I fashioned doesn’t exactly fit.  Well, the old one doesn’t exactly fit.  The house has settled a bit since construction in 1912.  I went with the old screen and put the one I built back into the garage. 

 

In the meantime, Mom showed up with chips, salsa, and beer.  (Go Mom!)  She looked at the panels on the front lawn and began to yank on the wire.  It popped out!  Why I didn’t think to do that…ok, well I did, but I was too much of a wuss and began to catastrophize things like I would poke an eye out.  When it was all said and done, both projects were done…just in time for the cooler weather and rain forecasted tomorrow.

The Land of Denial

I don’t do sick well.  (Nice pun to start the entry, eh?)  To be ill is to be a burden.  I mean, really it is my job to work with sick people, not be a sick person.  I’m not one to get a cold or a simple virus, oh no, when I get sick I do it with gusto.

 

I’ve been known to catastrophize and then minimize my symptoms.  I’ve also been known to think that I have made up my symptoms.  I begin to think I’m a hypochondriac or worse, I begin to self-diagnose a la the DSM-IV.  Surely it’s better to have malingering disorder and be crazy than to actually need surgery, right?  Typically I go through the illness and then after wonder if I exaggerated symptoms. 

 

These are my typical thoughts:  Did I really need that knee surgery? (Even though I kept dislocating it every time I swam.)  Did I really have that much pain to be prescribed painkillers and go to the ER? (Even though I was sent for an appendectomy and kept inpatient for 5 days.)

 

My current, and yes, greatest is:  “Did I just imagine the blood in my urine?”  Surely I’m making this up right?  This all began last Friday night when I seriously stared into the toilet bowl for about 5 minutes wondering if I was supposed to be having accompanying pain.  I gave it another hour.  Nope, still blood.  Huh.  I began to self-assess.  (This is a dangerous proposition for someone who is used to medical trauma and knows that the nurses make fun of the stupid reasons people think they need the ER.)  Yup, I had an airway, circulation and I was breathing, ok so I must be fine! And then doubt set in.  I know!  I’ll call my doctor boyfriend (never mind that he lives 2000 miles away)!  He didn’t seem that concerned so I waited until morning when I asked my Mom.  She was extremely concerned.  Ok, so my ER viewpoint is a bit skewed, I’ll admit it. 

 

Long story short, I have been in and out of the doctors, on medication, finally felt the pain, given more pain meds, had blood work, CT’s, referrals to specialists, etc..  I’m really not supposed to be at work right now, but I keep thinking I’m not that sick.  They aren’t really certain what is wrong with me except that my tests are all abnormal.  (I keep thinking they will say, “We didn’t find anything,” but they don’t.)  Ok, so it’s a little scary because my Grandmother just died from bladder cancer and my boyfriend already saw his ex-girlfriend through a kidney transplant.  But really, I don’t feel that sick. 

 

What does really settle in is the emotional piece.  I think I’m different.  Other people get sick, I don’t.  I’m not certain how much to share with people.  Apparently I look sick (keep getting comments), but I can’t stand the pity.  I’ve seen chronic illness cause divorce, bankruptcy, grief, and dependence (whether on the medical system, loved ones, or medication).  I don’t want any of that…then again, who does?  (See, this is where the catastrophizing piece comes in.)

 

I tried staying home Monday.  I was tempted to go out and garden, so then I felt guilty that I stayed home.  I could hear my Mother’s voice, “If you’re sick enough to stay home, you are sick enough not to go play.”  However, when I spoke to my doctor she thought I should be home.  (Doing what?!?) 

 

I don’t have a solution…they haven’t come up with a medical test for that one yet.

The Power of Trees

Today we had an Arbor Day celebration here at work.  I have to admit, I never knew there were so many grown men so passionate about trees.  The State arborist actually wrote a poem for the kids and researched out what tree could be planted in all 5 states we cover as a hospital.  The kids were given a copy of the poem with some tree seeds on their lunch trays.  When I heard that these zealots were coming I couldn’t help but have a vision of some big burly forest ranger dude with graying hair in a ponytail and some teacup poodle dog named Muffin.  Why Muffin, you ask?  Well really what else are you going to call a small dog owned by a burly guy?  (And I just assumed a guy who wrote poetry was sensitive and wouldn’t have his masculinity called into question by owning small pets, wearing the color lavender, and proud that he could make a mean quiche.)

 

My director was ecstatic about the new plans of this celebration.  Someone from the Mayor’s office, the governors wife, city and state arborist and some wanna be Josh Grobin guy showed up with the media.  We shuffled kiddos into the playroom and they messed around with glitter as official proclamations were read. Made me wonder, these guys do know it’s a children’s hospital, right?  Proclamations mean nothing when you are 6 years old.  I began to snicker to myself in the back of the room at this point in time while I wondered which ranger would be bursting into song with the set up cheesy synthesizer by the podium.  The gov’s wife looked a bit plastic as she took the stage.  Mary-Kay (perfect name) showed up in her pink suit with her pink matching pumps and pink lip-gloss.  She read her note cards with the official seal on them and wouldn’t you know the kids kept playing with the glitter.  There was one girl who was wheeled into the playroom by her mom.  She couldn’t have been more than 11 and she was a double amputee with both legs gone.  She sat through the readings looking small in her wheelchair and gown.  She never looked up, that is, until the Josh look-a-like began to sing.  She first began to look at him in awe (I have to admit, his voice was amazing) and then she began to cry silent tears. 

 

The whole ceremony culminated with a gazing ball being placed on top of a tree in our courtyard.  The pine has bright colored ribbons with laminated cards tied to various branches.  Each card has a child’s handwritten wish upon it.  Things like:  “I wish my headaches would stop.”  “I wish my Mom could have a happy marriage.”  “I wish I had a house with a back yard.”  But the most common one on there is, “I wish I could get cured and go home.” 

 

In high school I had a friend who hated signing yearbooks, but would do so in a very passive aggressive manner by wishing you well on obscure holidays.  My Sophomore yearbook I was wished a happy Arbor Day (today) and my Junior year I was wisheda happy Flag Day.  Incidentally I will always remember it is June 14th.  I used to think these various holidays were pointless, strange days established by the government for some odd reason.  Arbor Day never really meant anything to me.  Today it took a different meaning when I watched the pomp and circumstance actually reach the heart of a child.

Professional Parties

It’s amazing to me how people always identify themselves as human doers vs. human beings. Take for example last Friday night. I flew out to visit my boyfriend and on the agenda was a party with the group of residents in his profession. One would think there are other things to talk about than work, but I kid you not, those conversations never happened. I was actually quite nervous about meeting his colleagues and attendings, for some unknown reason.

 

The first thing that struck me is that people were happy to see I really existed.  Nothing like a long distance relationship to really get people guessing if someone actually has a girlfriend or is just super creative with photo shop for those pictures on the mantle.

People usually begin conversations with the typical: so-what-do-you-do question.  However, how do you interject yourself into a conversation when everyone does the same thing (with the exception of you)?

 

"So how is it that I didn't even get asked what was wrong with my own patient when they were coding last night?" One intern mused to her colleague. "I mean, I KNOW that this patient has congenital cardiac blah blah blah and yet, they insist on seeing the chart.  I ended up just sitting behind the oxygen tank not even feeling a pulse when the whole thing was happening.  Its like I got pushed out of the way." (Me thinking, gee, assertive skills is obviously not her strong suit, but not about to tell her that.)

 

"Oh I know what you mean, I actually was running a code on a patient when some stupid nurse decided to try barking orders.  I actually had to identify myself as someone who knew more than she did." (Me thinking, gee, you should have chosen surgery as a specialty...)

 

Most of the individuals would begin talking to my boyfriend and then eventually asked how long I was going to be in town. It shocked me that they were surprised when I said, 48 hours.  Hello? They all know how long a "golden weekend" is. Only once during the whole evening did one person ask what I did. When I began to tell him my title he actually dazed off in the middle of it and mumbled something about finding chips before he wandered off.  I'm not kidding here. Yup, doctors and their social skills at their finest.

 

I really tried to seek out the spouses and significant others of the doctors hoping to find some common ground. However that ended up being more of a daytime TV interview session.

 

Me: "So are you from here?"

Spouse: "Yup." or "No I was in forestry in California but I couldn't stand being away from so-and-so.  I left home and moved across the country and have been in retail ever since."

Me: "How did you guys meet?"

Spouse: Various stories of college, quick marriages/house buying/relocation before residency.

 

There was a trend here:  no one really asked me questions and typically every spouse gave up something HUGE to be with their doctor significant other. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the war stories of who stayed up the longest on call, how many codes, how many admits continued with the residents oblivious to outside interests we call "life." No one remarked on hobbies, activities, interests, etc.. (Although we did have a couple of exciting moments when the host played the accordion while the attending accompanied him on the piano.) One would say the conversation was due to the one-dimensional aspect of being a medical resident, but even the spouses couldn't elaborate

 

It was like two separate parties going on.  The doctors were describing how hard it is being a resident and the spouses were talking about their version of the journey in supporting a doctor. I truly was the only one in the room with a professional career without being a doctor.

 

How do we define ourselves and why is it mostly centered around our profession?  We certainly must have learned this somewhere along the way.  Somewhere between grade school and adulthood, we stopped talking about what really interests us and began to talk about the other stuff that fills up our lives. I think its because its emotionally safe to give ourselves labels like "accountant," "teacher," "lawyer," and "doctor" vs. "skier," "poet," "musician." Somehow those latter things just don't hold the weight of being productive.  We measure ourselves by what we do; what we accomplish; And I have to admit that even I passed judgment on those who identified their focus as the person they loved, especially when perhaps I assumed, it wasn't themselves.

Travel Bug

I do not have good luck when it comes to traveling and boyfriends.  Sure, it seems like a good idea to plan a romantic get-a-way, but when it comes down to it I panic.  The only reason why I bring this up is because I just bought over a thousand dollars worth of plane tickets to go to Honolulu in June with my boyfriend.

The bad traveling vibe began when I was 18 and dating a guy from Arizona.  We went to Disneyland with a group of fraternity people.  The crux was meeting his mother and sisters who were competing in a cheerleading contest.  I would say the highlight of the trip was watching my friend trip out on acid to the sidewalk by Space Mountain.  The worst part was having his mother not like me and then having to spend an additional three days with her in Phoenix. 

I abstained from traveling with lovers until I went to Tulane with another guy when I was 21.  Tulane was his dream school.  I got in + he didn't = we broke up.  Ok, moving on.

I did travel quite a bit when I was dating guys from back east, although usually those trips involved meeting parents and it wasn't a joint venture so it doesn't count.  This entry is to solely focus in on traveling WITH the person not going to see him.

Ok, well there was this one time when I was dating interracially and it was my turn to join his family for Thanksgiving.  He had just gone through surgery so LorTab was his best friend.  We drove to his grandparents in North Carolina and it was a cultural exchange to say the least.  We were in very small quarters, I was definitely the only Caucasian around, and they were equally fascinated with my hair dryer as I was with the fact that they shot Sammy the Squirrel, stewed him up, and served him for breakfast.  We broke up that following January.

In 2003 my current boyfriend asked me to join him for a wedding out in Pennsylvania.  It was an old friend from high school marrying a girl with my same name.  I apparently went to school with the guy, but I didn't recognize him at all.  Here is where the trouble began.  What he neglected to tell me was that his ex-girl friend was going to be there as well.  I don't know if he just thought the ostrich maneuver (stick your head in the sand) was a good one or what.  We had the most outrageous fight complete with the ex wishing me "good luck" (they had dated for 8 years), me smashing a scotch glass, and both of us standing out in the rain reconciling. 

We decided to try traveling again!  Another wedding!  Chicago that August for a medical school friend.  What he again neglected to tell me was that it was an interracial marriage.  Ok, so that pushed some buttons for me.  Her Irish family was not so accepting of the gospel singing way-to-do of the wedding, but as I hear it, they are still quite happy. 

Sure, third time is the charm... In January 2004, we again decided to go to Tulane for an interview for his residency. (Its like deja-vu all over again.)  An awful fight precluded me getting on the plane (although I can't for the life of me remember what I was upset about now).  Neither of us went.

I have bad luck with New Orleans and men.  Even my girlfriends from there tell me to quit creating awful memories with such a great city. 

Then there was a time when I almost went to Jamaica with an ex.  It was canceled because I was back together with my current boyfriend.

And then we went to one last wedding last August.  It was in Minneapolis and we went all out.  Great food, incredible hotel, and a very unique union of sorts.  Another interracial, intercultural, etc, extravaganza.  Imagine a born-again Ethiopian marrying a Russian Orthodox.  As I hear it, they too are very happy.  Come to think of it, the only hard part of that whole trip was I wasn't feeling very well and he was exhausted from being post-call.

 So, this brings me to now.  In June he has 2 weeks off.  My aunt has offered us a place to stay in Honolulu near Diamond Head.  Hello?  We would be crazy not to take it.  The search was on for airfare and today I found it.  I paged him and we talked for a brief moment before I hit "confirm." 

At this point in time all I can do is hope for the best, save for spending money, get going on my work-outs, and hope that good intentions produce incredible results.

Weed and Feed: The Saga of a New Gardener

Yesterday I spent most of the day running errands with my Mom.  We did the typical things like go to lunch, the bank, the grocery, and shop around.  It was a pretty typical Saturday.  The one thing that differed was we also went to our local plant and garden shops.  Ever since I bought this house I've been pretty focused on my yard and garden.  In the middle of January I couldn't wait to buy hanging baskets in anticipation for May.  However, life is not all a bunch of roses especially if you have weeds.

I have spent countless hours feeling pretty stupid searching internet sites trying to identify my own species o' weeds (prolific little suckers).  I finally broke down and pulled one of the thousands out of my flower beds and took it to the "Master Gardener" yesterday.  There were about 4 other women with samples of grass, roots, bulbs, and weeds in various ziploc containers waiting to see Dave as well.  He is in his 60's and clearly Gregor Mendel is one of his heros.  He put my flowering weed under the magnifying lamp and began to consult his countless books. 

"It has purple blossoms."  I said trying to be helpful.

Dave looked up at me and peered through his bifocals, "I know that."

Ooh kay.  Sooorrry!

I began to think of other weeds I've battled last summer, "I also have something that looks like a lily pad."

"Yes, you don't want that either."

No kidding.

He went through the genus and species of each picture until he triumpantly opened the book and said, "Meet the weed."  There it was.  It looked harmless in the book, but he hadn't seen my yard.  Poor daffodils were competing for the sun with this weed. 

He then began to ask me how close the weeds were to my precious spring bulbs.  I didn't know.  I just explained that the weed was everywhere.  He then used my Mom as a prop.

"You Mother is the bulb.  Where is the weed in relation to your Mother?"  He began to move the now flacid weed in various proximities to my 5' Portugese decent maternal figure.

"Uh, its just everywhere."

Dave sighed and then began to tell me what I need to do.  "Go get a 20 oz coke bottle.  Enjoy." He paused for the dramatic effect. "Then cut the bottom of it off, put the bottle over the weed and use this."  He pulled some random poison off the shelf.  "However,you will not be able to do this today.  You need 5 days of sun to do this.  We are expecting precipitation tonight." 

In Utah in March that could mean anything from rain to inches of snow.

He then told me I needed to get a marker and put skull and crossbones on the bottle.  No kidding. 

Mom and I left feeling quite patronized.  We did go to another local favorite garden shop to replace a plant she recently killed by accident.  The poor thing was just hanging out of the garbage can when I got to her house that morning.  It was not a very dignified death.  Part of me wanted to go rescue it and nurse it back to health.  It was at that realization that I knew my maternal instinct was in overdrive.

Mom could kill things, I can't keep their growth under control.  Ah, the irony.

We wandered around the plants until we were overcome with a sweet fragrance.  It stopped us dead in our tracks.  A lemon tree.  It was a good height, it smelled good, it was unlike anything we've had before, and it didn't need cross-pollenization.  How cool would it be to be making chicken piccata and say, "Gee, I need a lemon.  I'll just go to the entry hall." 

We carefully loaded it into the Jetta and drove it home with the promise that if it looks like it isn't doing so well, Mom will find a new home with someone who can't kill it.  AKA me.