I've decided to leave AOL. This does not mean I'll be leaving blogging!
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Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Victimization 101
Studies have shown that people are attracted to a field for a reason. I read somewhere that over 80% of psychologists have their own mental health issues. I wouldn't doubt it. I have found that people in mental health typically have one of two views of the world: either they are the victim or the advocate.
Today we had a planned water main shut down at work. We notified staff ahead of time and chose the time of day when there were the least amount of clients scheduled. Two of my teams typically take Friday's off so that also was a bonus. This is a building where it looks really great from the outside but since my tenure we have had multiple power outages, heat failure, and leaks. The staff have worked through it all.
Once the email about the planned water shut off went out you would have thought I announced the sky was falling. Doctors showed up in my office telling me it was a health hazard. Supervisors told me it was "demoralizing" because by expecting staff to work without facilities sends the larger message that the organization doesn't care about their employees. Are you freaking kidding me?? It is a two hour planned event. Two hours. What was even worse was the people who were complaining weren't even scheduled to work on Friday.
We have had the first floor of the building under construction due to failing foundation for over a year. The water main issue is actually progress forward. I did due diligence and followed things up with admin then wrote a detailed email citing that we only had 4 clients scheduled (which is a whole 'nother issue due to the low volume) and that they should not take this personally. Really, I don't spend my nights awake thinking, "How do I make so and so's life a living hell?" I didn't write that specifically, but it was a more diplomatic way of saying thank you for sharing your concerns but get-over-it, grow some kahunas, and choose your perception. You could choose to see this as a negative or you could see this as a positive that construction is moving forward!!! I also stated that if people had medical problems I would be more than happy to help problem solve things with them. The clients were notified (all 4 of them) and I would provide bottled water, hand sanitizer, port-a-potties, and arrangements with neighboring businesses for those two whole hours!!! I ended the email with, "I choose to assume good intent and expect my team members to do the same." All was quiet on the Western front after that....until this morning.
I got not only a call from our CEO, but OSHA and the State Department of Health. However, this individual did not leave a name because they feared "retribution." What the??? Are you freaking kidding me?? Can you say, passive aggressive? I have since spent the day writing letters to the powers that be, giving a heads up to PR, and working with the facilities director. Of course, everything is in compliance. All I need is for the news media to show up. I seriously wonder if this person thinks they are a huge victim or an advocate? Personally, I believe true advocates will take accountability and leave their name.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Hoosier, Officially
Well, it took me almost 6 months but I finally can say I'm a Hoosier. I'm not certain that is something to be proud of, especially as I watched them cut up my one good drivers license photo on my Utah license. But, at least now I'm legal.
It took me 6 separate trips to this stupid place and multiple website visits just to get this feat accomplished. My first trip was on a Monday while we were still engaged and I was trying to pick up a handbook so I could study. Closed. Closed? On a Monday? Yup. Trip two was to finally get the handbook.
Trip three was to get the actual license. They checked me in nicely, looked over all of my identification and sat me down to take the test. It still baffles me as to why its important to know you cannot park within X amount of feet of a fire hydrant. I get it as to why but I have yet to see even the most OCD person get out of their car with a measuring tape to double check the specific amount of feet. I passed the test and thought I was in like Flynn. Nope. Didn't have my birth certificate or passport. Of course those were back in the safe deposit box in Utah so I had to delay things until my trip home at Christmas.
Safe deposit boxes usually contain things that you do not want to send in the mail or you could have just any random person go get. Nope, it had to be me. Why I didn't think of this before I moved is beyond me. They were quite nice about denying me a license at that point in time. I would imagine it would be an awful job to work at the DMV with everyone screaming at you. I was internally rageful, but held it in as I knew it was not that specific person sitting in front of me's fault for the stupid confusing website instructions.
Trip four was back again on a Monday. I blame me for forgetting this part. By now I'm getting smart and actually decided to transfer my title at the same time. That took some coordination, but I got a letter from the bureau stating that they got it from my lienholder. Trip five was Tuesday morning. I got in line and realized that I forgot my social security card. Back home. Trip six was 20 minutes later with me bringing in everything but the kitchen sink and boy I am glad.
"Sales tax? I don't see when you purchased the car. Do you have a statement of salestax?" The tightly blond bad permed 20 year old with Wet N' Wild pink lip gloss smacked her gum at me. I wickedly pulled out last years statement from my folder o' tricks. Yup, they never put this on the website, but I was prepared.
"Huh. Ok, what about proof of insurance?" This was an easy one. The dual was on.
"And I'll need proof of your residence here through the mail." I handed her a phone bill.
"This won't count. Its not from a government agency." She smiled. Not to be defeated, I produced the letter from that DMV branch stating that my title was in.
"Will this do?" I sweetly asked knowing that I had just claimed my victory. She slowly, at a snails pace, hand pecked my information into the keyboard. Hey, if she sped it up it just meant she had another angry customer to serve.
As my reward, I got to go stand over by the blue backdrop and wait for them to say, "One, two" Click/flash "three." I think they teach them how to do this just to get the hideous photos.
I walked out of there with a new license and license plate in hand. My theory was that it was the State's advantage to keep as much confusion up around the process so they could screen potential residents for their persistence, problem solving, and gusto. But then I went to Wendy's for lunch.
Wouldn't you know the only white person there was the manager, which is a sad statement of our country, but that is only an observation. This woman flew about in a mad frenzied rage appearing very busy doing menial tasks. It was very important that the trays were all stacked up by the garbage. Then she would fly back through the kitchen screaming, "coming through!" Somehow she then remembered she forgot step two in bringing the trays back to where the food was, so she flew back to get them. The employees are watching her mumbling under their breath as they go about their tasks. She then informed everyone she would be taking orders.
Now I've seen this process go very smoothly at other Wendy's. An employee will come out with a carbon pad, take your order, and then either hand them to the line cooks or call them in on their headset. Seems this woman couldn't quite get the concept. She was taking our orders down on a regular pad of paper, tearing off thepaper and handing it to the customer. There was no communication with the line cooks or calling it in, eventhough her headset was hanging around her neck. She took her job very seriously, but unfortunately her customers and employees did not. The snickering continued. I began to wonder if this person passed the DMV test. At that time, one of my fellow Wendy's patrons turned to me and said, "This is prime example of why we do not work in fast food."
That afternoon I took my car in. I asked for them to do a quick check on a couple of things but to also put my new plate on my car. As I drove out I noticed I only had one of my old Utah plates on my passenger seat. Where was the other one? Still on my car. On the front I'm a Utah girl and the back I'm Indiana. Again, did these people pass the DMV test?
It took me 6 separate trips to this stupid place and multiple website visits just to get this feat accomplished. My first trip was on a Monday while we were still engaged and I was trying to pick up a handbook so I could study. Closed. Closed? On a Monday? Yup. Trip two was to finally get the handbook.
Trip three was to get the actual license. They checked me in nicely, looked over all of my identification and sat me down to take the test. It still baffles me as to why its important to know you cannot park within X amount of feet of a fire hydrant. I get it as to why but I have yet to see even the most OCD person get out of their car with a measuring tape to double check the specific amount of feet. I passed the test and thought I was in like Flynn. Nope. Didn't have my birth certificate or passport. Of course those were back in the safe deposit box in Utah so I had to delay things until my trip home at Christmas.
Safe deposit boxes usually contain things that you do not want to send in the mail or you could have just any random person go get. Nope, it had to be me. Why I didn't think of this before I moved is beyond me. They were quite nice about denying me a license at that point in time. I would imagine it would be an awful job to work at the DMV with everyone screaming at you. I was internally rageful, but held it in as I knew it was not that specific person sitting in front of me's fault for the stupid confusing website instructions.
Trip four was back again on a Monday. I blame me for forgetting this part. By now I'm getting smart and actually decided to transfer my title at the same time. That took some coordination, but I got a letter from the bureau stating that they got it from my lienholder. Trip five was Tuesday morning. I got in line and realized that I forgot my social security card. Back home. Trip six was 20 minutes later with me bringing in everything but the kitchen sink and boy I am glad.
"Sales tax? I don't see when you purchased the car. Do you have a statement of salestax?" The tightly blond bad permed 20 year old with Wet N' Wild pink lip gloss smacked her gum at me. I wickedly pulled out last years statement from my folder o' tricks. Yup, they never put this on the website, but I was prepared.
"Huh. Ok, what about proof of insurance?" This was an easy one. The dual was on.
"And I'll need proof of your residence here through the mail." I handed her a phone bill.
"This won't count. Its not from a government agency." She smiled. Not to be defeated, I produced the letter from that DMV branch stating that my title was in.
"Will this do?" I sweetly asked knowing that I had just claimed my victory. She slowly, at a snails pace, hand pecked my information into the keyboard. Hey, if she sped it up it just meant she had another angry customer to serve.
As my reward, I got to go stand over by the blue backdrop and wait for them to say, "One, two" Click/flash "three." I think they teach them how to do this just to get the hideous photos.
I walked out of there with a new license and license plate in hand. My theory was that it was the State's advantage to keep as much confusion up around the process so they could screen potential residents for their persistence, problem solving, and gusto. But then I went to Wendy's for lunch.
Wouldn't you know the only white person there was the manager, which is a sad statement of our country, but that is only an observation. This woman flew about in a mad frenzied rage appearing very busy doing menial tasks. It was very important that the trays were all stacked up by the garbage. Then she would fly back through the kitchen screaming, "coming through!" Somehow she then remembered she forgot step two in bringing the trays back to where the food was, so she flew back to get them. The employees are watching her mumbling under their breath as they go about their tasks. She then informed everyone she would be taking orders.
Now I've seen this process go very smoothly at other Wendy's. An employee will come out with a carbon pad, take your order, and then either hand them to the line cooks or call them in on their headset. Seems this woman couldn't quite get the concept. She was taking our orders down on a regular pad of paper, tearing off thepaper and handing it to the customer. There was no communication with the line cooks or calling it in, eventhough her headset was hanging around her neck. She took her job very seriously, but unfortunately her customers and employees did not. The snickering continued. I began to wonder if this person passed the DMV test. At that time, one of my fellow Wendy's patrons turned to me and said, "This is prime example of why we do not work in fast food."
That afternoon I took my car in. I asked for them to do a quick check on a couple of things but to also put my new plate on my car. As I drove out I noticed I only had one of my old Utah plates on my passenger seat. Where was the other one? Still on my car. On the front I'm a Utah girl and the back I'm Indiana. Again, did these people pass the DMV test?
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Inspiration Angst
Googling yourself can yield interesting results. For example, I found my agenda item for Utah's Social Work Licensing Board as a public record, family history my uncle researched, and apparently I'm a Tulane board alumni representative. What was the most interesting discovery was a link to a blog/website that listed my name. Thank God I recognized the person.
This individual came into my life by chance. She was a volunteer at a social work agency I worked for and was interested in the field. I offered to have her sit in and assist with my females group for young teens struggling with substance abuse issues. Word spread that I was open to having co-facilitators and I had 4 or 5 these volunteers during my 5 year tenure with the agency. They were bright young women, dedicated to creating change, and incredibly reliable. I always made it a point to include them in the content planning and we always debriefed after the marathon sessions. The females were filled with drama and the groups were like mini soap operas for 90 minutes. Every single one of my volunteers ended up going back to school for their Masters of Social Work.
A couple of them became dear friends and colleagues. We would go to dinner after group to then share our more personal lives. I always looked forward to those Thursday nights.
This morning as I ran the search and came across the link, I found her profile on a social activist website. She listed her favorite books, her passions, her hobbies, and then her teachers/mentors. I was listed there. I couldn't believe it. What an incredible honor. Jeniece was someone who loved working with the homeless, did domestic violence work in Uganda and found her own spiritual path. She does things that I only wish I had the courage to try.
It made me realize how much people of slight chance can have such an incredible impact even without intention. My mentors continue to shape me even if I haven't spoken with them in years. Their voices are internalized.
One of them, Jane Parker, continues to give me inspiration to this day. I remember when I was complaining to her that my career felt stupid, more like common sense, and yet when I gave talks at conferences people wrote down every point I made. Her response was, "Honey, just because its easy for you doesn't make it less valuable for others. It just tells me you are in the right field and you are a natural. Let them pay you for what you are worth." She was also the one who reminded me, "Honey, that's why God invented Tide," when she found yellowing antique lace curtains. She never gave up. Not then. Not now. Not even after she lost the love of her life last year.
Another also from graduate school, Lynn Pearlmutter, made a casual observation one day that became a creed for me. It was election time and I had signed up to run for vice president. She said, "In such a woman dominated field dedicated to social justice, isn't it interesting that 90% of leadership positions are held by all the men?" I immediately erased my name and entered the race to be president. I won.
As my life moves forward I realize that very few of my mentors are outside of my profession. I do not have homemaker role models, besides my mother, who even now is the bread winner of the family. That makes me sad. I don't find inspiration in this role and yet to be a mother and wife are two of the greatest roles imaginable. As my biological clock continues ticking I realize that I'm entering a world of angst. Where is the inspiration?
This individual came into my life by chance. She was a volunteer at a social work agency I worked for and was interested in the field. I offered to have her sit in and assist with my females group for young teens struggling with substance abuse issues. Word spread that I was open to having co-facilitators and I had 4 or 5 these volunteers during my 5 year tenure with the agency. They were bright young women, dedicated to creating change, and incredibly reliable. I always made it a point to include them in the content planning and we always debriefed after the marathon sessions. The females were filled with drama and the groups were like mini soap operas for 90 minutes. Every single one of my volunteers ended up going back to school for their Masters of Social Work.
A couple of them became dear friends and colleagues. We would go to dinner after group to then share our more personal lives. I always looked forward to those Thursday nights.
This morning as I ran the search and came across the link, I found her profile on a social activist website. She listed her favorite books, her passions, her hobbies, and then her teachers/mentors. I was listed there. I couldn't believe it. What an incredible honor. Jeniece was someone who loved working with the homeless, did domestic violence work in Uganda and found her own spiritual path. She does things that I only wish I had the courage to try.
It made me realize how much people of slight chance can have such an incredible impact even without intention. My mentors continue to shape me even if I haven't spoken with them in years. Their voices are internalized.
One of them, Jane Parker, continues to give me inspiration to this day. I remember when I was complaining to her that my career felt stupid, more like common sense, and yet when I gave talks at conferences people wrote down every point I made. Her response was, "Honey, just because its easy for you doesn't make it less valuable for others. It just tells me you are in the right field and you are a natural. Let them pay you for what you are worth." She was also the one who reminded me, "Honey, that's why God invented Tide," when she found yellowing antique lace curtains. She never gave up. Not then. Not now. Not even after she lost the love of her life last year.
Another also from graduate school, Lynn Pearlmutter, made a casual observation one day that became a creed for me. It was election time and I had signed up to run for vice president. She said, "In such a woman dominated field dedicated to social justice, isn't it interesting that 90% of leadership positions are held by all the men?" I immediately erased my name and entered the race to be president. I won.
As my life moves forward I realize that very few of my mentors are outside of my profession. I do not have homemaker role models, besides my mother, who even now is the bread winner of the family. That makes me sad. I don't find inspiration in this role and yet to be a mother and wife are two of the greatest roles imaginable. As my biological clock continues ticking I realize that I'm entering a world of angst. Where is the inspiration?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Ex Factor
A few weeks ago I sent out links to my wedding album design and photo montages created by our incredible wedding photographer. I didn't think twice as I scrolled through my AOL address book inserting email addresses left, right, and center. Usually I would think that such an act would be incredibly self centered to send out a mass email that essentially screams: look how happy I am and how gorgeous I am!!! At least this is the caddy side of me that would be commenting about any other post-bride's mass email of photos, "Humph, she's just trying to rub it in and relive her day. Move on, honey! Your time has come and gone!"
However, I really wanted to share the excellence of my photographer and my cousin, make up artist to the stars. When he was finished with me I looked like me only kicked up a notch Emeril style. Bam!
At any rate a week or so passed and I was checking my email. I had received several emails from relatives asking about how I was doing in Indy and some from friends who were unable to attend. There was one that stuck out like a sore thumb. Cue stage right to enter the ex factor.
"Hello! Congratulations! I knew that you were engaged, but I didn't know when you were actually getting married. You look so beautiful in your photos and your dress looks amazing. When did you get married? Te-Mika and I married on October 22nd...."
Oh. My. God. There I was sipping my Sunday java with my husband sitting across the table from me. I think my grin on my face was beginning to make me resemble the Cheshire Cat. J noticed.
"What's up?" He casually asked noticing the extreme affect shift.
How does one explain that you accidentally emailed the guy to ripped out your heart, stomped on it, threw it in the microwave on high to let it wilt like bad roses, put it back in your chest and whispered sweet nothings? The Ex. The one you learned more than your share of karmic life lessons with and swore you earned nothing but good romantic ju ju for decades to come. The one you would casually spit on the ground before announcing his name in public. The-one-who-shall-not-be-named!
"Uhh." I so eloquently began and then tried to sound casual. "Remember when I sent out the email with links to our album last week? I guess I thought my address book was more current than it was. I just got an email back from insert bastard's name here."
J's eyebrow lifted ever so slightly and you could tell he was trying to play it cool too.
"He apparently got married as well and sent me links to his wedding website. Her name is Te-Mika." Te-Mika? What kind of a name is Te-Mika? I began to envision a wedding in the jungle room of Disneyland. This is especially relevant as this Ex and I had had several conversations about how names can label you. Like for instants, on resumes long before you even meet the person which was an important issue for social justice and racism. He was shocked to learn that names like Charone and Sheree were common in Utah, but they belonged to white people. This ex had a history of always dating people with white sounding names.
"Huh. Really?" J responded. By now I was so extremely curious, I was linking to their website.
"Orange? Orange bridesmaids dresses???" I exclaimed embracing the inner caddy female. "Roses. Peach roses." I couldn't help but announce the details I found so anti-my taste. I realized how ugly I was sounding so I added, "She does look beautiful." And she did.
"So, I realize this is a rhetorical question: are you going to be forwarding this link to the girls, the ya ya's?" J asked referring to my friends who saw me through this miserable mess of a break up.
"Absolutely in a heartbeat."
However, I really wanted to share the excellence of my photographer and my cousin, make up artist to the stars. When he was finished with me I looked like me only kicked up a notch Emeril style. Bam!
At any rate a week or so passed and I was checking my email. I had received several emails from relatives asking about how I was doing in Indy and some from friends who were unable to attend. There was one that stuck out like a sore thumb. Cue stage right to enter the ex factor.
"Hello! Congratulations! I knew that you were engaged, but I didn't know when you were actually getting married. You look so beautiful in your photos and your dress looks amazing. When did you get married? Te-Mika and I married on October 22nd...."
Oh. My. God. There I was sipping my Sunday java with my husband sitting across the table from me. I think my grin on my face was beginning to make me resemble the Cheshire Cat. J noticed.
"What's up?" He casually asked noticing the extreme affect shift.
How does one explain that you accidentally emailed the guy to ripped out your heart, stomped on it, threw it in the microwave on high to let it wilt like bad roses, put it back in your chest and whispered sweet nothings? The Ex. The one you learned more than your share of karmic life lessons with and swore you earned nothing but good romantic ju ju for decades to come. The one you would casually spit on the ground before announcing his name in public. The-one-who-shall-not-be-named!
"Uhh." I so eloquently began and then tried to sound casual. "Remember when I sent out the email with links to our album last week? I guess I thought my address book was more current than it was. I just got an email back from insert bastard's name here."
J's eyebrow lifted ever so slightly and you could tell he was trying to play it cool too.
"He apparently got married as well and sent me links to his wedding website. Her name is Te-Mika." Te-Mika? What kind of a name is Te-Mika? I began to envision a wedding in the jungle room of Disneyland. This is especially relevant as this Ex and I had had several conversations about how names can label you. Like for instants, on resumes long before you even meet the person which was an important issue for social justice and racism. He was shocked to learn that names like Charone and Sheree were common in Utah, but they belonged to white people. This ex had a history of always dating people with white sounding names.
"Huh. Really?" J responded. By now I was so extremely curious, I was linking to their website.
"Orange? Orange bridesmaids dresses???" I exclaimed embracing the inner caddy female. "Roses. Peach roses." I couldn't help but announce the details I found so anti-my taste. I realized how ugly I was sounding so I added, "She does look beautiful." And she did.
"So, I realize this is a rhetorical question: are you going to be forwarding this link to the girls, the ya ya's?" J asked referring to my friends who saw me through this miserable mess of a break up.
"Absolutely in a heartbeat."
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Bless this Yolk O Lord
"Which eggs are we using?" J asked pointing to our recent addition of two dozen eggs in our fridge due to miscommunication and solo shopping trips.
"Use the ones that expire first." I pulled out the ones that J bought. "Honey, you bought religious eggs."
"What? They were from Trader Joes."
"The have Psalm 118:24 on the inside of the carton."
"They were Dutch eggs. They were farmed in Wisconsin."
"Great. Not only are they religious, but they're Lutheran eggs."
Yup, Catholics have the honey trade down by the monks, but those Lutherans have the corner on the egg market.
"Use the ones that expire first." I pulled out the ones that J bought. "Honey, you bought religious eggs."
"What? They were from Trader Joes."
"The have Psalm 118:24 on the inside of the carton."
"They were Dutch eggs. They were farmed in Wisconsin."
"Great. Not only are they religious, but they're Lutheran eggs."
Yup, Catholics have the honey trade down by the monks, but those Lutherans have the corner on the egg market.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Kirkland Crack
If you haven't noticed yet, my husband is a huge fan of Costco. The man would wear a neon pink tee shirt in public with the slogan "I heart Costco." It is his home away from home. He has been known to fall asleep post call in the massage chairs with drool hanging off of his lip. Once when we were in Hawaii, cranky from the long flight and overwhelmed by traffic, he found the Costco and once in the warehouse, all was right with the world. His panic attack ceased and he was soothed by the mounds of bulk items.
I've often thought more of his grandparent's depression era mind set rubbed off on him. (i.e. If one is good, twelve are better.) If you doubt me, go through your relatives stuff. They are usually hanging onto things like sheets for a twin bed from 1956 because they may come in handy one day even though there are only king sized beds in the house. These are the relatives that won't pass up a good deal even though they don't need the stuff. "Of course we needed the 12 pack of industrial sized WD40. I saved $0.20 per canister!" However, I digress.
I have learned that it caused exquisite glee in this man if I conceed to buying things like large bricks of cheese or Christmas trees. However, what he really gets into is the Kirkland Signature brands. At first, when he cracked open a bottle of the Kirkland Signature champagne one evening I thought it was just plain tacky. Although I have to admit, I've become a convert to some things. Their alcohol truly is quite good and is their milk and their meat. Before long, I was buying things Costco style.
Last week on a chilly Monday morning I went out to start my car. It was running about as smooth as Oscar the Grouch's Jalopy. I ran in to wake my post call husband. In retrospect I really don't know what I was expecting him to do and I then chided myself for even turning to a man when I was a free thinking woman. He looked under the hood and concluded he knew nothing about cars in general. Why he even tried is beyond me. He tried to close the hood and instead injured himself. As he went back to the house shaking his fist and swearing profanities trying to find the first aid kit, I called the dealership. It was determined that I could safely drive it there and they would give me a ride to work. A Black guy named Elvis drove me to work.
Later that afternoon I went to go pick it up.
"Just out of curiosity, where did you last fill up your car?" The service manager asked as the technician brought me the keys.
"Costco." I said and immediately they grimaced. Not a typical grimace, but more like I poured salt and lemon juice onto a wound grimace. The technician even shook his hand like he had just picked up something hot or was indicating that some Latina woman had a hot body.
"It makes me shudder." The technician said. "Shudder." He repeated for effect.
"This is a performance vehicle." The service manager said. "Do you know what that means? That means you only feed it quality gas. BP or Shell only in this area. Long term filling up of Costco or whatever will cause serious carbon build up and shorten the length of your vehicle's life. And lets see, you only have about 21 days on your warranty."
The technician sucked in through his teeth wincing once again. I began to feel like someone just gave my car a diagnosis of lung cancer and I had been the one to buy it the cigarettes.
"I didn't know. I won't do it again. What do I do now?"
"Well, you go out to the corner, turn right, stop at BP and fill up hoping that the gas will mix. These are the only companies that add fuel boosters and cleaners to their gasoline."
"I HOPE?!??!" I repeated.
"Yup." He hands me the keys. "No charge for this one."
I left the dealership completely anthropomorphizing my car. I was apologizing to it aloud as I drove it to the gas station promising I'd take better care of it. HOPE??? I was also now getting angry and defensive about my husband's view of the warehouse palace. I came home and told him matter-of-factly what the verdict was without any inflection of my voice. He, however, obviously felt bad and guilty by saying, "I feel like I led you astray." I realized that my anger was unwarranted. He didn't know.
Two days later, it wouldn't even start. I watched as the towing company loaded it onto the truck again feeling sorry for how sad the car looked. SAD??? Its a car, for Christssake! I thought of it all alone in the parking lot waiting to be worked on the next day. I went inside to get Edgar to transfer all of my stupid feelings onto a live animal.
It was finished the next day and they replaced a few things that apparently also shorted out. Its now running like the race horse its supposed to be. But I'll tell you one thing, in this household, while we may still buy the Signature champagne, we leave the pumps alone.
I've often thought more of his grandparent's depression era mind set rubbed off on him. (i.e. If one is good, twelve are better.) If you doubt me, go through your relatives stuff. They are usually hanging onto things like sheets for a twin bed from 1956 because they may come in handy one day even though there are only king sized beds in the house. These are the relatives that won't pass up a good deal even though they don't need the stuff. "Of course we needed the 12 pack of industrial sized WD40. I saved $0.20 per canister!" However, I digress.
I have learned that it caused exquisite glee in this man if I conceed to buying things like large bricks of cheese or Christmas trees. However, what he really gets into is the Kirkland Signature brands. At first, when he cracked open a bottle of the Kirkland Signature champagne one evening I thought it was just plain tacky. Although I have to admit, I've become a convert to some things. Their alcohol truly is quite good and is their milk and their meat. Before long, I was buying things Costco style.
Last week on a chilly Monday morning I went out to start my car. It was running about as smooth as Oscar the Grouch's Jalopy. I ran in to wake my post call husband. In retrospect I really don't know what I was expecting him to do and I then chided myself for even turning to a man when I was a free thinking woman. He looked under the hood and concluded he knew nothing about cars in general. Why he even tried is beyond me. He tried to close the hood and instead injured himself. As he went back to the house shaking his fist and swearing profanities trying to find the first aid kit, I called the dealership. It was determined that I could safely drive it there and they would give me a ride to work. A Black guy named Elvis drove me to work.
Later that afternoon I went to go pick it up.
"Just out of curiosity, where did you last fill up your car?" The service manager asked as the technician brought me the keys.
"Costco." I said and immediately they grimaced. Not a typical grimace, but more like I poured salt and lemon juice onto a wound grimace. The technician even shook his hand like he had just picked up something hot or was indicating that some Latina woman had a hot body.
"It makes me shudder." The technician said. "Shudder." He repeated for effect.
"This is a performance vehicle." The service manager said. "Do you know what that means? That means you only feed it quality gas. BP or Shell only in this area. Long term filling up of Costco or whatever will cause serious carbon build up and shorten the length of your vehicle's life. And lets see, you only have about 21 days on your warranty."
The technician sucked in through his teeth wincing once again. I began to feel like someone just gave my car a diagnosis of lung cancer and I had been the one to buy it the cigarettes.
"I didn't know. I won't do it again. What do I do now?"
"Well, you go out to the corner, turn right, stop at BP and fill up hoping that the gas will mix. These are the only companies that add fuel boosters and cleaners to their gasoline."
"I HOPE?!??!" I repeated.
"Yup." He hands me the keys. "No charge for this one."
I left the dealership completely anthropomorphizing my car. I was apologizing to it aloud as I drove it to the gas station promising I'd take better care of it. HOPE??? I was also now getting angry and defensive about my husband's view of the warehouse palace. I came home and told him matter-of-factly what the verdict was without any inflection of my voice. He, however, obviously felt bad and guilty by saying, "I feel like I led you astray." I realized that my anger was unwarranted. He didn't know.
Two days later, it wouldn't even start. I watched as the towing company loaded it onto the truck again feeling sorry for how sad the car looked. SAD??? Its a car, for Christssake! I thought of it all alone in the parking lot waiting to be worked on the next day. I went inside to get Edgar to transfer all of my stupid feelings onto a live animal.
It was finished the next day and they replaced a few things that apparently also shorted out. Its now running like the race horse its supposed to be. But I'll tell you one thing, in this household, while we may still buy the Signature champagne, we leave the pumps alone.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Making Headlines and Taking Names
Oh yeah. Indiana is again soaring and I mean soaring in the limelight. Last week I heard our police department made the laughing stock at the Las Vegas National Gang Convention. (As in, are you freaking kidding me??? Your idiot govenor actually agreed to take thousands of California inmates in order to create jobs??? How desparate are you??? You do realize these gang members will now be your problem when they are released, right?)
Today "Armed and Famous" debuted on CBS right before the President's address (really, a whole night worth picking up a book and not watching TV at all...save the electricity.) If you haven't heard, this is a reality show that has only really stellar "A" list stars. They have been sworn in as Muncie, Indiana's police force. These individuals have firearms. You should be scared. This has all debuted simultaneously as Indianapolis's mayor just released his "safety first" campaign.
Muncie, Indiana. Really, quite the hot spot of crime. What? A broken headlight? A traffic violation? Perhaps a DUI if we're lucky. Ooh, high drama for primetime. Remember, this is a state where teeth are optional (and see exhibit A of the second/third/and other arrests on the show.)
And the stars of the show are: LaToya Jackson (yup, the freaky plastic surgery Jackson...oh wait, that's Michael.), Erik Estrada (as in Chips), a midget (of course you need to have a midget to make it a show...isn't that what all of the circus's wanted back in the 1920's? He also has a Napoleon syndrome with a delusional sex drive) a WWF female wrestler (sex appeal perhaps? dumb blonde?) and of course you've gotta love Jack Osbourne (who happens to be a dead-on marksman...freaky!)
Most of the individuals arrested by Erik are just commenting how handsome he is and calls him "Ponch." Good times, good times. This is the most action Muncie, Indiana has had since the medical center opened up the OBGYN wing.
Today "Armed and Famous" debuted on CBS right before the President's address (really, a whole night worth picking up a book and not watching TV at all...save the electricity.) If you haven't heard, this is a reality show that has only really stellar "A" list stars. They have been sworn in as Muncie, Indiana's police force. These individuals have firearms. You should be scared. This has all debuted simultaneously as Indianapolis's mayor just released his "safety first" campaign.
Muncie, Indiana. Really, quite the hot spot of crime. What? A broken headlight? A traffic violation? Perhaps a DUI if we're lucky. Ooh, high drama for primetime. Remember, this is a state where teeth are optional (and see exhibit A of the second/third/and other arrests on the show.)
And the stars of the show are: LaToya Jackson (yup, the freaky plastic surgery Jackson...oh wait, that's Michael.), Erik Estrada (as in Chips), a midget (of course you need to have a midget to make it a show...isn't that what all of the circus's wanted back in the 1920's? He also has a Napoleon syndrome with a delusional sex drive) a WWF female wrestler (sex appeal perhaps? dumb blonde?) and of course you've gotta love Jack Osbourne (who happens to be a dead-on marksman...freaky!)
Most of the individuals arrested by Erik are just commenting how handsome he is and calls him "Ponch." Good times, good times. This is the most action Muncie, Indiana has had since the medical center opened up the OBGYN wing.
Monday, January 1, 2007
Proof of Premature Insanity
For years I have lived under the assumption that I am feminist, hear me roar. I also believe that you can tell a lot by just looking at what books people have in their houses. This theory was later supported when I watched an amateur detective reality show On Demand for the Discovery channel.
On my bookshelves I have a few Gloria Steinem's literary accomplishments, Transforming a Rape Culture, The Bitch in the House (a collection of essays), and Bitch by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Do you see the theme emerging? I also have a wide variety of therapy text books, a few of my very favorite novels, the complete works of Shakespeare, a collection of children's books, and some other spiritural/self-help selections. One of my best friends noted that he would hate to be next to me with one of my Bitch books and his sister (a specialist in anti-terrorism) on an airplane.
When I got back to Utah for Christmas my mother made the comment that I must be ready for a child. I felt a little dumb founded at first until I looked at the evidence.
1) I brought Edgar. It actually was cheaper for us to fly the dog than to board him, so that could be explained. We first thought about putting him in the cabin with us. So after trying to get him to sit still so we could measure the dog and a Petco search I arrived home with a very cute (but not Paris Hiltonesque) carryon. Edgar became accustomed to it and we were very happy. When I called the airline to confirm his passanger status, they told me that it was a no go. There apparently is a rule that only 2 dogs are allowed in the cabin at a time and he would have to go cargo. I vowed I would find those bastards that thought their fido was more cabin worthy than my Edgar. I then began to fret about Edgar in cargo. Would he be warm? Would he get lost? Would he be scared? J pointed out that a few hours in a box would be better than days in a small kennel (aka box).
2) Edgar sent my parents "Dear Santa Paws" letters. Ok, in all fairness I did the first one in jest after a few glasses of port the same night we set up the Christmas tree. J was the one who created Edgar's own email account (Edgar-dog@comcast.net). And HE was the one who did the second letter (although I did help with the content.)
3) Edgar arrived in a very cute red turtleneck sweater. (See the cold argument from point 1.) It is winter and I didn't think too much about it to be honest. My brother and I used to dress Henry, our first Scottie, up in old tee shirts and little boys whitey-tightys (with the tail out the hole) and parade him around the neighborhood on walks. Henry felt fancy. Edgar's sweater was a definite step up. The vet initially cleared him up to 32 degrees. When we checked into the airport here in Indy, we had a very concrete thinker airline employee "helping" us.
"It says its 28 degrees in Salt Lake right now." She informed us and then just stared.
"Uh huh." I said, failing to meet her logic. "Outside its 28. He'll be in the plane."
"28 degrees." She repeated Rainman style. "This says 32." Pointing to the health certificate.
"We had no formal discussion. Its winter. Its cold. I'm certain he'll be fine. You can call the vet." J could hear the irritation in my voice and began to rub my back.
"28 degrees is different from 32." She repeated showing her brainiac skills. I wasn't about to point out that it was 28 at 5:00 PM and it would drop by the time we actually got to Salt Lake so she would then have to take that into consideration. Edgar in the meantime is panting away furiously as the damn sweater is making him hot.
She ended up calling the vet and then putting her on the phone with me. I wasn't the one who had a problem and needed her to clear things up. However, I was the one talking with her. Thank God, Dr. Cara seemed dumbfounded as much as I was. J later pointed out that the airlilne representative was just doing her job. Whatever.
One of those bastards with some stupid maltese checked in ahead of us as the carry on. The sinile man kept telling me about a dog, "you know, the kind that General Patton had," was the meanest sons-of-bitches he ever saw in his neighborhood and by the way, what kind of dog do I have?
3) Edgar's crate was decorated. See point #1's argument about getting lost on the airline. I read online that if you can make the crate look rediculous, it will stand out and will be less likely to get lost. I spent a worthy $30 at the craft store and drank some home brew listening to Christmas carols getting it ready the night before.
However, what really remained was some crazy looking lady with her pampered pooch in a red sweater and rediculously decorated crate who wrote letters in colored marker with her left hand on behalf of her dog to a fictitious character derived from another fictitious character who chimney dives. What looked out of place was me holding a feminist book. Was this foreshadowing? Was I going to be one of those moms who come to soccer games in matching jerseys and healthy snacks like oranges for the whole team? Was I going to become a master of doing my daughter's hair in fancy braids when all I can do to my own hair is a ponytail? Maybe it was just projection on my parent's behalves? They were the ones who had the letters posted to the fridge much like a grand childs.
Standing in the airport watching the various looks of "oh how cute" to sheer horror as I held Edgar, it dawned on me. I just looked at J and said, "Oh my God, I'm turning into one of those ladies. But I'm not old enough to be one of those crazy old ladies."
He said, "Hon, you aren't turning into one, you already are one of those ladies, you are just a bit premature with your craziness."
On my bookshelves I have a few Gloria Steinem's literary accomplishments, Transforming a Rape Culture, The Bitch in the House (a collection of essays), and Bitch by Elizabeth Wurtzel. Do you see the theme emerging? I also have a wide variety of therapy text books, a few of my very favorite novels, the complete works of Shakespeare, a collection of children's books, and some other spiritural/self-help selections. One of my best friends noted that he would hate to be next to me with one of my Bitch books and his sister (a specialist in anti-terrorism) on an airplane.
When I got back to Utah for Christmas my mother made the comment that I must be ready for a child. I felt a little dumb founded at first until I looked at the evidence.
1) I brought Edgar. It actually was cheaper for us to fly the dog than to board him, so that could be explained. We first thought about putting him in the cabin with us. So after trying to get him to sit still so we could measure the dog and a Petco search I arrived home with a very cute (but not Paris Hiltonesque) carryon. Edgar became accustomed to it and we were very happy. When I called the airline to confirm his passanger status, they told me that it was a no go. There apparently is a rule that only 2 dogs are allowed in the cabin at a time and he would have to go cargo. I vowed I would find those bastards that thought their fido was more cabin worthy than my Edgar. I then began to fret about Edgar in cargo. Would he be warm? Would he get lost? Would he be scared? J pointed out that a few hours in a box would be better than days in a small kennel (aka box).
2) Edgar sent my parents "Dear Santa Paws" letters. Ok, in all fairness I did the first one in jest after a few glasses of port the same night we set up the Christmas tree. J was the one who created Edgar's own email account (Edgar-dog@comcast.net). And HE was the one who did the second letter (although I did help with the content.)
3) Edgar arrived in a very cute red turtleneck sweater. (See the cold argument from point 1.) It is winter and I didn't think too much about it to be honest. My brother and I used to dress Henry, our first Scottie, up in old tee shirts and little boys whitey-tightys (with the tail out the hole) and parade him around the neighborhood on walks. Henry felt fancy. Edgar's sweater was a definite step up. The vet initially cleared him up to 32 degrees. When we checked into the airport here in Indy, we had a very concrete thinker airline employee "helping" us.
"It says its 28 degrees in Salt Lake right now." She informed us and then just stared.
"Uh huh." I said, failing to meet her logic. "Outside its 28. He'll be in the plane."
"28 degrees." She repeated Rainman style. "This says 32." Pointing to the health certificate.
"We had no formal discussion. Its winter. Its cold. I'm certain he'll be fine. You can call the vet." J could hear the irritation in my voice and began to rub my back.
"28 degrees is different from 32." She repeated showing her brainiac skills. I wasn't about to point out that it was 28 at 5:00 PM and it would drop by the time we actually got to Salt Lake so she would then have to take that into consideration. Edgar in the meantime is panting away furiously as the damn sweater is making him hot.
She ended up calling the vet and then putting her on the phone with me. I wasn't the one who had a problem and needed her to clear things up. However, I was the one talking with her. Thank God, Dr. Cara seemed dumbfounded as much as I was. J later pointed out that the airlilne representative was just doing her job. Whatever.
One of those bastards with some stupid maltese checked in ahead of us as the carry on. The sinile man kept telling me about a dog, "you know, the kind that General Patton had," was the meanest sons-of-bitches he ever saw in his neighborhood and by the way, what kind of dog do I have?
3) Edgar's crate was decorated. See point #1's argument about getting lost on the airline. I read online that if you can make the crate look rediculous, it will stand out and will be less likely to get lost. I spent a worthy $30 at the craft store and drank some home brew listening to Christmas carols getting it ready the night before.
However, what really remained was some crazy looking lady with her pampered pooch in a red sweater and rediculously decorated crate who wrote letters in colored marker with her left hand on behalf of her dog to a fictitious character derived from another fictitious character who chimney dives. What looked out of place was me holding a feminist book. Was this foreshadowing? Was I going to be one of those moms who come to soccer games in matching jerseys and healthy snacks like oranges for the whole team? Was I going to become a master of doing my daughter's hair in fancy braids when all I can do to my own hair is a ponytail? Maybe it was just projection on my parent's behalves? They were the ones who had the letters posted to the fridge much like a grand childs.
Standing in the airport watching the various looks of "oh how cute" to sheer horror as I held Edgar, it dawned on me. I just looked at J and said, "Oh my God, I'm turning into one of those ladies. But I'm not old enough to be one of those crazy old ladies."
He said, "Hon, you aren't turning into one, you already are one of those ladies, you are just a bit premature with your craziness."
Monday, December 18, 2006
Leaning Tower of Tree-sa
Last Thursday I came home and found our Christmas tree had arrived. J and I debated about getting a tree considering we will be home in SLC, but it is our first Christmas together. The tree was freshly cut from Oregon and was wrapped in twine and a bag. J had assessed that given our type of tree stand, we would need to drill a hole in the bottom of the trunk. This of course required us to go find a bit the size of the pole. By 8:45 I was ready to call it a night hoping that we could push off the tree drama until the next day. However, after I was reminded of the countless parties, Christmas Carol play, and other scheduled events I realized the tree couldn't be postponed. I truly was a grumpy Grinch while my husband was so excited about the tree he was doing everything but tap dancing. What finally elevated my mood was his pleading as well as then opening up the mail shipping order slip. J had sent a message, "To Edgar-dog. Remember that there are differences between inside trees and outside trees." It was silly, but it made my heart melt (or in the Grinch's case, grow two sizes too big.)
In my pajamas, we went to the hardware store. (I really wasn't kidding when I said I was ready to call it a night.) We found the bit. On our way home, J was asking about doing the lights too that evening. I told my overzealous husband to not get too committed as I was already anticipating the drama. I have had girlfriends whose engagements have almost come to a halt due to a Christmas tree whether it be the tree, the lights, the decorations, etc.. My reality was far from my husband's idealized romantic notion of Christmas.
It was very dark and unseasonably warm. It was in the 60's or so during the day so standing outside in your pj's wasn't bad. There we were on our front stoop, hovering around the yellow porch light trying to decide scientifically where to begin drilling the hole and how to make it straight. "Go up the middle." That was my solution. It seemed straight enough to me when we put it flat on the cement. We practiced a bit on spare wood scraps and then began with the tree. That sucker was hard. I finally had the brilliant idea that perhaps the sawdust was getting in the way of making progress forward. Sure enough, it was. We would drill, then clear out sawdust, then drill again, etc etc etc. When we thought it was done, we hauled it inside to the stand. After some maneuvering, it stood...kind of. Well, it was more like leaning at a 45 degree angle and resting on the windows for support. I broke into a fit of laughter. This just made J more angry.
"Are you laughing at me?"
I'm rolling on the floor. "Nope, just the situation. Its just typical. I know you want things to be perfect."
"Yes."
"Its like the wedding. So many things went wrong, but who cares? It turned out perfect for us."
He concluded that he needed something to drink. So at 11:20 or so on a work night, we broke out some port and took the tree back outside. By now, Edgar is really confused with the activity.
We recalulated the angle to straighten the tree out and proceeded to drill and saw a little off the bottom for water uptake. At one point in time J pulled the bit out of the tree. I forgot that there was a LED light that glowed blue and helped navigate where you are drilling, but that's not what I saw.
"Wow! That drill bit is really hot! Its glowing!" I exclaimed.
"Al, its the LED light. Yup, back to the spontaneous combusting tree theory again for you."
We finally got the tree back into the house and into the stand. It was still a little crooked, but much much better. While I finished off the port, J began with the lights. I actually found a man who enjoys doing lights! My father used to be meticulous in this, but as he got older he just seemed bothered by the whole task but wouldn't give it up. He would be happy just winding one strand around and around the whole tree then calling it good. (I exaggurate, but not by much.)
As the night was winding down at 1:30, Edgar needed to go outside. J offered to take him. He came back in laughing.
"As if this night couldn't get any worse. Edgar pooped and while I was aiming for the garbage, his poop bag landed in the rain gutters." We decided to wait until the next day to fix that problem.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Making Merry
Today J's pager went off unexpectantly and early. I mean, cock-a-doodle-dog wasn't even up kind of early. He was on jeapordy call and wouldn't you know, someone got ill and he had to go in. I felt completely ripped off of a day with my husband.
We had plans, damnit. We were actually going to try and decorate the house for Christmas. Our tree still hasn't arrived, but we could do things like put up garlands, go find a wreath, actually have a fire in the fireplace since I hired the chimney sweep last week to give us a green light. But nooooo. Some stupid colleague actually broke the super-human myth that doctors are supposed to live up to and got sick enough they sent him home. (I keep telling J that this does in fact happen when he's hacking up a lung or swearing he'll steal some pedialite to keep himself hydrated from the children's hospital, but he doesn't listen and still believes he is superman with a pager and a stethoscope.) At any rate, I got left to make merry all by myself.
J and I have done some Christmas stuff. We made mulled wine last night. We made cookies this week. (Mind you, we have an odd assortment of cookie cutters so I made the usual snowmen and angels, but I threw in some Christmas rhinoceros and frosted them purple, much to J's horror of my unconventionality.) We also made a warm veggie stew on a cold winter's night (which actually was quite bland.) And yesterday we did brave the malls to go find a winter forest candle from Williams Sonoma for the house. Some Christmas stuff, but not a ton.
I decided I really needed some human interaction. Staying at home cleaning with the dog wasn't going to make my spirits bright and I could just see J's disappointed face if he were to come home post-call tomorrow morning and saw that I decided I needed a little bit of Christmas solo. I ended up calling my co-hostess from the turkey party. She's the only one I know that is only semi-non-medical or work related here. I suggested brunch. I quickly confined houndini and thought nothing of my messy house as I headed out the door.
It was a nice brunch. I felt girlie gossiping and whatnot over lattes. Just as I was ready to head home, she said, "Ok, so I should totally go run errands, but instead I'm going to invite myself over to your house."
I thought she was joking. Nope. I quickly did a mental scan of the dirty laundry on the floor, dishes half unloaded from the dishwasher, Edgar's toys everywhere, and J's papers all over the back room. She came over and began commenting on our decor.
"Its very neutral, but we could totally work with this." She exclaimed opening the doors into the master bedroom with the bed unmade. "I love the desk, but its not in a good place for it to be shown off. I really see that storage is an issue for you guys. Perhaps an armoir? What do you think about a warm beige paint to warm up the walls?"
I found myself a bit overwhelmed, making excuses why things weren't Martha Stewartesque. "We?" I thought.
"Its my inner designer." She proclaimed. "I watch a lot of cable and get my ideas from there."
With the ideas she was throwing around I thought J wouldn't even notice a few garlands over the fireplace.
We had plans, damnit. We were actually going to try and decorate the house for Christmas. Our tree still hasn't arrived, but we could do things like put up garlands, go find a wreath, actually have a fire in the fireplace since I hired the chimney sweep last week to give us a green light. But nooooo. Some stupid colleague actually broke the super-human myth that doctors are supposed to live up to and got sick enough they sent him home. (I keep telling J that this does in fact happen when he's hacking up a lung or swearing he'll steal some pedialite to keep himself hydrated from the children's hospital, but he doesn't listen and still believes he is superman with a pager and a stethoscope.) At any rate, I got left to make merry all by myself.
J and I have done some Christmas stuff. We made mulled wine last night. We made cookies this week. (Mind you, we have an odd assortment of cookie cutters so I made the usual snowmen and angels, but I threw in some Christmas rhinoceros and frosted them purple, much to J's horror of my unconventionality.) We also made a warm veggie stew on a cold winter's night (which actually was quite bland.) And yesterday we did brave the malls to go find a winter forest candle from Williams Sonoma for the house. Some Christmas stuff, but not a ton.
I decided I really needed some human interaction. Staying at home cleaning with the dog wasn't going to make my spirits bright and I could just see J's disappointed face if he were to come home post-call tomorrow morning and saw that I decided I needed a little bit of Christmas solo. I ended up calling my co-hostess from the turkey party. She's the only one I know that is only semi-non-medical or work related here. I suggested brunch. I quickly confined houndini and thought nothing of my messy house as I headed out the door.
It was a nice brunch. I felt girlie gossiping and whatnot over lattes. Just as I was ready to head home, she said, "Ok, so I should totally go run errands, but instead I'm going to invite myself over to your house."
I thought she was joking. Nope. I quickly did a mental scan of the dirty laundry on the floor, dishes half unloaded from the dishwasher, Edgar's toys everywhere, and J's papers all over the back room. She came over and began commenting on our decor.
"Its very neutral, but we could totally work with this." She exclaimed opening the doors into the master bedroom with the bed unmade. "I love the desk, but its not in a good place for it to be shown off. I really see that storage is an issue for you guys. Perhaps an armoir? What do you think about a warm beige paint to warm up the walls?"
I found myself a bit overwhelmed, making excuses why things weren't Martha Stewartesque. "We?" I thought.
"Its my inner designer." She proclaimed. "I watch a lot of cable and get my ideas from there."
With the ideas she was throwing around I thought J wouldn't even notice a few garlands over the fireplace.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
And You Wonder Why My Biggest Fear is Fire
A recent conversation at a local Starbucks enjoying eggnog lattes:
"So if we order the Christmas tree from Costco, it will arrive on the 12th and we can enjoy it until we head to Utah."
"Ok. But we have to take it down before we leave. Otherwise its a fire hazard."
An eyebrow raises, "Explain that. This is why we unplug the lights."
"Yes, but Christmas trees can spontaneously implode and burn up. I don't want our house to burn down while we are gone."
A smile begins to spread, "Again, Al, this is why we unplug the lights. No electrical source."
"But this is what my parents told me when I was little. The tree is drying up and can catch on fire easier." Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, they sounded ridiculous.
"Uh huh. Its already dead the minute it is cut down."
"But it takes up water."
"Yeah, not because its alive. Its osmosis. So your argument is that the tree is dead and drying up therefore it can spontaneously combust and cause a fire eventhough it doesn't have any electrical source going to it."
"Well, again, this is what my parents told me."
"Wait, Al, let me not freak you out or anything, but we have 2x4's in the walls everywhere in the house. We have wooden furniture. They could combust any second!" The sarcasm and teasing were dripping and his smile was wide.
"Huh. I can't believe I thought it was true for 31 years of my life."
Friday, November 24, 2006
Turkey Party
After my last entry, I got quite a few phone calls and emails about the turkey soiree.
"100 people?! You have got to be kidding?!!"
Nope, it went out to 100 people. However, only 10 showed. When the email went out announcing the Thanksgiving bash for the orphans, the program medical director responded that perhaps the host should be the official program's social chair as he has done such a great job arranging parties like Halloween and whatnot. The guy immediately responded that he wasn't the social chair, it really was his wife. This became a big joke, but she apparently didn't get it because when the story was relayed to her, she accepted it and asked about the tresury to hold such parties.
J and I were in charge of the turkey, stuffing, and cranberries. He spent most of Wednesday afternoon researching recipes. I also asked my dad for his recipe. We didn't make my dad's bird though as J felt he just couldn't compete with his and really wanted to start our own tradition. Fair enough. We brined the turkey in an apple herb solution, I made a wine butter basting sauce, stuffed the sucker with stuffing, and made 3 bags of fresh cranberries. This was all done with multiple calls to my family, whom I call 1-800-save-thanksgiving.
At 1:00, we packed up the poultry, Edgar, and other needed items to head to the west side of town. The bird was roasting, we were snacking, and actually watching Dr. Phil when the host arrived home from work. By 3:00 people were starting to show up. Edgar only snapped a few times at the other dog to establish dominance, but I was a mortified parent. The house was a bit smokey (due to the high high setting of the oven which I quickly fixed), and the wine was flowing. By the time the wine was flowing I truly didn't care when one person asked for free social work services and began to tell her story about trying to date her superior. The guys evesdropped and couldn't resist.
"You mean, you've been underneath him?" They chuckled while playing Mario Kart. That rather ended our semi-therapy session.
Our hosts had set up the dining room which rather resembled a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. We were one step up from using the ping pong table, but we did have a rather odd assembly of folding chairs, card tables, and what appeared to be Kmart furniture. This is where the snob in me came through. J and I had lovely linens we registered for our wedding. There wasn't a thought about even placemats or candles, however we did have crystal goblets. One person grabbed a roll of papertowels at the last minute for napkins. The table was incongruent to say the least. The host was extremely excited to use his electric carving knife on the bird; one of his wedding gifts. I'm an old fashioned use-a-regular-knife kind of gal, but whatever.
Once seated, one couple was very religious and had their own prayer between themselves while the rest of us expressed thanks that everyone was here and began to dig in. The food was warm, the gravy was actually decent, and the bird was moist. Unbelievable. We tried to keep the dogs quarantined and away from the table, but Houndini made a comeback and escaped 3 times. The last time he actually taught Bailey, the puppy, how to do it. I don't think our host was amused especially when her dog (who is tall enough to put his head on the table) ate a piece of turkey thus violating his food allergy diet.
After dinner, one of the residents actually had to go to work for the night shift, which left the rest of us to play Trivial Pursuit. The girl on my team, blurted out every answer she knew regardless of who's turn it was causing us to lose the game. By this time I was wearing thin. I was tired. It was only when the host turned on Weird Al Yankovick that I knew I needed to go home. Last time I checked, most guys lose their facination with Weird Al after the seventh grade, but not this doctor. He knew all the words to "White and Nerdy," or the pancreas song. His wife finally asked that he turn it down. The evening ended when "Grey's Anatomy" started and the residents settled in to watch arguing about who was cuter McDreamy or McSteamy, agreeing that McSteamy really was the epitome of a sugery attending, and laughing at the improbabilites of the medical cases as well as criticizing the medical decisions. We left and saw the way too early Christmas lights already turned on in various neighborhoods going home.
All in all, it was a Thanksgiving I will remember. It was our first turkey. It was our first community holiday, which is what the holiday is all about. Next year we will be down under in Australia for a wedding involving kilts during the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. Never a dull moment.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Gobble, Gobble
My father does a mean turkey.
When he retired years ago before returning to the workforce selling houses, he took on a new hobby of cooking. He took his new job very seriously. The man watched food tv non-stop, became proficent on the internet searching recipes and the weekly trip to the grocery store was a pilgramage. When my future kids become young adults, they will be talking about how nothing can beat grandpa's cooking.
My mom, who began the cullinary adventures of the household, thought my father's new obsession was a mixed bag. Yes, how wonderful it was to have him helping out, but dominating? This was the woman who piloted recipes for Junior League cookbooks and thought hosting 4 course dinners for Dad's business associates was fun. Not to rain on his parade, she watched my father "improve" on staples of the household like beef stew and then solicit applauding audiences for his ego. I tell you, she has a firm sense of self worth.
Thanksgiving has always been THE highlight of my father's year. He spends weeks planning for the holiday and literally has it down to a science. There are specific twists he incorporates into his feast. For instance, the cranberries have a dab of horseradish in them (amazing, let me tell you), and my maternal grandfather's turkey is now brined, smoked, and stuffed to golden perfection. Not once can I remember there being dry meat. My mother has incorporated Ginny's gravy science into lump free, sometimes giblet free (family joke), perfectly seasoned sauce.
Thanksgiving is the holiday my father looks forward to sharing with his siblings. The tables are formally set and it seems everyone looks forward to the event. Everyone brings something. One aunt has replicated my grandmother's sweet potatoes (which is hard to do as she was notorious for leaving out ingredients when giving you recipes), another always brings pies, and there is always a relish tray and rolls. I brought the rolls last year and they turned out TERRIBLE. (J and I were in the middle of fighting while I was making them. It was not a pretty holiday as I then sat in the kitchen complaining to Ginny and my aunts while he was off with his clan. Bad, bad news.)
I'm almost ashamed to say that this is my very first Thanksgiving away from home in my 31 years of life. I'm attempting to figure out how to create a new ritual in my marriage 1700 miles away from family. J and I thought it would be good to have Thanksgiving with some of his residency friends with whom we are particularly close.
I ordered a free range organic bird from Wild Oats (J obliged me on this one as although he is not a butterball guy, tyson should work just fine). I figured this was step one in trying to replicate Dad's piece de resistance and even my brother said, "Of course you're going to do Dad's turkey because its the best, right?" (However, J has been doing internet searches on other ways to prepare poultry.) I also began to collect things like gords (round two after Edgar ate the first batch) for decorations. One problem: his friends are either on call or working night float Turkey day while he actually has 4 days off in a row.
Another doctor's wife suggested that we combine efforts and do one together. Before I knew it she had planned the event with me as co-host for all orphans of the 100+ person program. This is not turning out to be the intimate gathering we had planned on nor will my 14 pound bird feed the lot of us. Last Friday night we went out with the festive couple and try to clarify the expectations around the event. I somehow lost this conversation and ended the night with her programming my cell phone number into her phone so we can divide up the dishes and plan. I'm still in denial about this.
After some talk, J and I have decided to host our original version of the holiday only on Friday while bringing some sides to Thursday's extravaganza. However, we have yet to talk to those for Friday's soiree.
While I have envisioned a quaint candlelit table with our wedding linens and perfect turkey, what I'm realistically expecting is a dried out bird that is three hours late. It will take years for me to live up to my parent's portrayal of the holiday and hopefully by then we'll be back in Salt Lake at their table.
When he retired years ago before returning to the workforce selling houses, he took on a new hobby of cooking. He took his new job very seriously. The man watched food tv non-stop, became proficent on the internet searching recipes and the weekly trip to the grocery store was a pilgramage. When my future kids become young adults, they will be talking about how nothing can beat grandpa's cooking.
My mom, who began the cullinary adventures of the household, thought my father's new obsession was a mixed bag. Yes, how wonderful it was to have him helping out, but dominating? This was the woman who piloted recipes for Junior League cookbooks and thought hosting 4 course dinners for Dad's business associates was fun. Not to rain on his parade, she watched my father "improve" on staples of the household like beef stew and then solicit applauding audiences for his ego. I tell you, she has a firm sense of self worth.
Thanksgiving has always been THE highlight of my father's year. He spends weeks planning for the holiday and literally has it down to a science. There are specific twists he incorporates into his feast. For instance, the cranberries have a dab of horseradish in them (amazing, let me tell you), and my maternal grandfather's turkey is now brined, smoked, and stuffed to golden perfection. Not once can I remember there being dry meat. My mother has incorporated Ginny's gravy science into lump free, sometimes giblet free (family joke), perfectly seasoned sauce.
Thanksgiving is the holiday my father looks forward to sharing with his siblings. The tables are formally set and it seems everyone looks forward to the event. Everyone brings something. One aunt has replicated my grandmother's sweet potatoes (which is hard to do as she was notorious for leaving out ingredients when giving you recipes), another always brings pies, and there is always a relish tray and rolls. I brought the rolls last year and they turned out TERRIBLE. (J and I were in the middle of fighting while I was making them. It was not a pretty holiday as I then sat in the kitchen complaining to Ginny and my aunts while he was off with his clan. Bad, bad news.)
I'm almost ashamed to say that this is my very first Thanksgiving away from home in my 31 years of life. I'm attempting to figure out how to create a new ritual in my marriage 1700 miles away from family. J and I thought it would be good to have Thanksgiving with some of his residency friends with whom we are particularly close.
I ordered a free range organic bird from Wild Oats (J obliged me on this one as although he is not a butterball guy, tyson should work just fine). I figured this was step one in trying to replicate Dad's piece de resistance and even my brother said, "Of course you're going to do Dad's turkey because its the best, right?" (However, J has been doing internet searches on other ways to prepare poultry.) I also began to collect things like gords (round two after Edgar ate the first batch) for decorations. One problem: his friends are either on call or working night float Turkey day while he actually has 4 days off in a row.
Another doctor's wife suggested that we combine efforts and do one together. Before I knew it she had planned the event with me as co-host for all orphans of the 100+ person program. This is not turning out to be the intimate gathering we had planned on nor will my 14 pound bird feed the lot of us. Last Friday night we went out with the festive couple and try to clarify the expectations around the event. I somehow lost this conversation and ended the night with her programming my cell phone number into her phone so we can divide up the dishes and plan. I'm still in denial about this.
After some talk, J and I have decided to host our original version of the holiday only on Friday while bringing some sides to Thursday's extravaganza. However, we have yet to talk to those for Friday's soiree.
While I have envisioned a quaint candlelit table with our wedding linens and perfect turkey, what I'm realistically expecting is a dried out bird that is three hours late. It will take years for me to live up to my parent's portrayal of the holiday and hopefully by then we'll be back in Salt Lake at their table.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Following Friends off Cliffs
Recently, and I mean within the last month or so, I have had more friends and family announce that they are relocating across the country. Its like there is something going on in the heavens (must check Zodiac) that is telling people that the "in" thing to do is uproot everything you think as comfortable and normal and start over. Really, from experience I can tell you that living out of boxes, getting lost in scary neighborhoods looking for grocery stores, and trying to find basic contacts like hairstylists, are not activities that people count off as fun. I actually think the stress inventory checklist actually rates moving as one of the top stressors outside of having a loved one die.
When I was younger I used to think it was a very romantic notion to just pick up your life and start over in a new town. I actually purposefully sought such opportunities after events like graduation or breaking up with someone, but eventually I landed back home. Its kind of like when you have no money and are out browsing through stores that you find the perfect pair of shoes that costs a bazillon dollars or the perfect outfit. You never find stuff when you are looking for it. Kind of like the opportunity to move.
My brother will be relocating to Las Vegas in the next few weeks. He's going down there with a job offer, a rented van, and a combination of hope and prayers. He doesn't have a place to live but also remains confident that there is a social group off of the strip. I get the feeling that he is ambivalent about this relocation.
My aunt and uncle will be moving to New York next spring. They will be close to other family members there and I think they just really love the area. I think the remaining sibilings in Salt Lake are trying to figure out how their absence will impact the care of my grandfather, which again is stressful. Ultimately, they are doing what feels right and that is great.
One of my closest friends is leaving Katrina's continued havoc and will be relocating from Louisiana to Houston. She is a newlywed and is really looking out for her future children. She wants them to be near family and to be in a place of more opportunity. Its kind of scary for her now though as they are in mid-change and while she has a job that is waiting for her, the house is now on the market and her husband is working with a head hunter.
My best friend and her husband just went through a week of hell trying to decide to take a job offer and move from Salt Lake to Dallas. The change went about extremely quickly and there were a lot of factors to weigh. They too will be near her family, but leaving his. Her masters degree is almost completed, but she will need to resume in a different program. This is of course, not to mention having her uproot her twins. For me, I have a selfish issue in the fact of I'm wondering when I will see her. This factor makes me sick to my stomach. However, the good news is most of the ya yas will now be in Texas/Lousiana for group visits.
Another friend moved to Appleton, Wisconsin right after finding out she was pregnant and only a short tenure at her dream job. It was a planned move with their two year old, but stressful none the less.
And yes, another friend just found out yesterday he is moving from DC to the Miami area. I haven't gotten the details yet, but I suspect he is welcoming a change and yet ambivalent about the terms.
And the most exciting and exotic move is my cousin with her Colombian husband relocating from Japan to Switzerland with their little one. That, my friends, is true culture shock.
I can't help but think of when parental figures would ask you, "If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?" No no, its not like doing anything crazy like doing drugs or running around with the wrong crowd, its just moving during the holidays. Oh wait, maybe that is a cliff...
When I was younger I used to think it was a very romantic notion to just pick up your life and start over in a new town. I actually purposefully sought such opportunities after events like graduation or breaking up with someone, but eventually I landed back home. Its kind of like when you have no money and are out browsing through stores that you find the perfect pair of shoes that costs a bazillon dollars or the perfect outfit. You never find stuff when you are looking for it. Kind of like the opportunity to move.
My brother will be relocating to Las Vegas in the next few weeks. He's going down there with a job offer, a rented van, and a combination of hope and prayers. He doesn't have a place to live but also remains confident that there is a social group off of the strip. I get the feeling that he is ambivalent about this relocation.
My aunt and uncle will be moving to New York next spring. They will be close to other family members there and I think they just really love the area. I think the remaining sibilings in Salt Lake are trying to figure out how their absence will impact the care of my grandfather, which again is stressful. Ultimately, they are doing what feels right and that is great.
One of my closest friends is leaving Katrina's continued havoc and will be relocating from Louisiana to Houston. She is a newlywed and is really looking out for her future children. She wants them to be near family and to be in a place of more opportunity. Its kind of scary for her now though as they are in mid-change and while she has a job that is waiting for her, the house is now on the market and her husband is working with a head hunter.
My best friend and her husband just went through a week of hell trying to decide to take a job offer and move from Salt Lake to Dallas. The change went about extremely quickly and there were a lot of factors to weigh. They too will be near her family, but leaving his. Her masters degree is almost completed, but she will need to resume in a different program. This is of course, not to mention having her uproot her twins. For me, I have a selfish issue in the fact of I'm wondering when I will see her. This factor makes me sick to my stomach. However, the good news is most of the ya yas will now be in Texas/Lousiana for group visits.
Another friend moved to Appleton, Wisconsin right after finding out she was pregnant and only a short tenure at her dream job. It was a planned move with their two year old, but stressful none the less.
And yes, another friend just found out yesterday he is moving from DC to the Miami area. I haven't gotten the details yet, but I suspect he is welcoming a change and yet ambivalent about the terms.
And the most exciting and exotic move is my cousin with her Colombian husband relocating from Japan to Switzerland with their little one. That, my friends, is true culture shock.
I can't help but think of when parental figures would ask you, "If your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?" No no, its not like doing anything crazy like doing drugs or running around with the wrong crowd, its just moving during the holidays. Oh wait, maybe that is a cliff...
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Potato, Pohtato, Let's Call the Whole Thing Off
Yesterday I attended my first system wide management meeting. They hold these monthly and I'm actually pretty used to going to these as I had them back in SLC at my old job.
Typically this is the meeting where big HR initiatives are given a sneak preview to the management along with "talking points" on how to really paint the picture of an opportunity, not a challenge. For instance, when you are telling staff that their insurance premiums are going up you can phrase it like they are getting an opportunity to further invest in their personal health. I wish I were kidding. Other things they cover is budget, patient care initiatives, strategic plans, and regulatory processes.
The best part of these meetings is the food. Typically, they feed you. One of the bonuses of being senior leadership. Its not really catered with a full meal, but back in Salt Lake I was always happy to see the carafe of Starbucks coffee, warm doughnuts, real milk, juice, and tea. I'd get my provisions, exchange niceties with folks and then settle into my comfy chair in the auditorium to then listen to a very well run meeting by the COO.
Given my small but recent past with this organization I knew not to hold my expectations too high. I was surprised to see some snacks actually provided. Chex mix and what looked to be a vat with a spigot labeled, "coffee" on the masking tape. There were also non-dairy powdered milk and crusty sugar packets. I passed the all so tempting snacks. I entered the very dim large auditorium which really made my high school auditorium look state of the art and went to pick my seat. It took me 2 times before I found one that wasn't broken. As I settled into my dingy green chair with springs very palpable, I noticed that the auditorium was really filled. For a company with only 3000 employees, they seemed to have had about 150 there. Its like they couldn't decide who was appropriate for the meeting. Turns out that everyone from directors to managers to coordinators to supervisors were included. With so many people, it was hard to maintain control of the group and multiple side conversations took off. The sign in sheet was a clipboard with a mylar smiley face balloon attached to it being passed from person to person. I was surprised to see the interim CNO/mental health CEO nurse run the show. Well, attempt to run the show. Where was the COO/CEO? We sat around for 10 minutes trying to do positive stories in patient care. I then heard how it is going to take 2 years for the chaplains program to complete a religious library and survey the staff needs. 2 years??? In the end, we never made it through the agenda and went over time. How in the world does this happen?
Perhaps my expectations are too high. I realize I can't compare apples with pomegranates, but holy cow! I find that the simplest things I ask about become the largest discussion without resolution. The other day I asked what the standard was on documenting disciplinary actions. This landed me in a philosophical debate about how corrective action works in a recovery model. I don't freakin care! Just give me the policy and forms and I'll make it happen!
I'm also finding that all of my meetings with mental health people turn into a therapy session. There is a lot of reframing, summarizing, and then asking how you feel about things. Nothing gets done. Am I one of those people? Good God do I miss the days when I had the no social skills medical staff. How long am I going to survive in this system?
Tuesday, November 7, 2006
Just When You Thought Utah Was Bad...
Everytime one of my friends from graduate school came to visit me out West the inevitable topic of Utah's backwards liquor laws came up. Private membership what? A sidecar really isn't a drink with brandy but an extra shot? What do you mean I have to finish one drink before I can order another? These are all typical questions that get asked.
When the Olympics debuted, the legislature acutally wisened up to the sound of cash pouring in vs. the word of wisdom and revised some of the laws. Note: some. I really couldn't specify which ones, but I do remember one drunk evening at the Zephyr with my brother being interviewed (drunk) by some foreign correspondent on camera. Liquor laws were such a hot topic, they actually did a feature on the issue.
I was so confused in my drunken state that I'm not certain if I actually looked at the interviewer or directly at the camera when answering his questions, which at the time I thought I was eloquent I'm sure. Looking at the camera seems to be rather lame looking directly into the lens, but that's probably what I did after a few vodka tonics....I also thought I was a hot dancer and was also captured on film. So now, somewhere in a European country visions of my terrible booty shaking, hips don't lie, I'm too sexy disco inferno, I live on tape in some back room of a video production house...or if I'm lucky, somewhere on the cutting room floor.
At any rate, I thought that once I left the State of Utah, life as an imbibing citizen would improve. I was so quick to jump and count my chickens before they hatched. It is true that you can buy alcohol in supermarkets and other locations that are not State owned in Indiana, however I was quite shocked and disappointed when I learned that buying liquor on Sundays is illegal. Hell, even in Utah you could buy beer in the grocery store on the day of rest.
Today, though, took the cake. I recieved an email from one of the local gourmet restaurants that advised me that they were canceling their wine pairing dinner tonight. Not that I was going, but I questioned the reason why. I read on to find that in Indiana it is illegal to sell alcohol on election days until after the polls officially close. Are you freaking kidding me??? How else are the losers going to soothe their defeat or the citizens toast the end of the mud slinging commercials?
Yes, my friends, in Utah the Democrats at least can sip their vino post voting.
When the Olympics debuted, the legislature acutally wisened up to the sound of cash pouring in vs. the word of wisdom and revised some of the laws. Note: some. I really couldn't specify which ones, but I do remember one drunk evening at the Zephyr with my brother being interviewed (drunk) by some foreign correspondent on camera. Liquor laws were such a hot topic, they actually did a feature on the issue.
I was so confused in my drunken state that I'm not certain if I actually looked at the interviewer or directly at the camera when answering his questions, which at the time I thought I was eloquent I'm sure. Looking at the camera seems to be rather lame looking directly into the lens, but that's probably what I did after a few vodka tonics....I also thought I was a hot dancer and was also captured on film. So now, somewhere in a European country visions of my terrible booty shaking, hips don't lie, I'm too sexy disco inferno, I live on tape in some back room of a video production house...or if I'm lucky, somewhere on the cutting room floor.
At any rate, I thought that once I left the State of Utah, life as an imbibing citizen would improve. I was so quick to jump and count my chickens before they hatched. It is true that you can buy alcohol in supermarkets and other locations that are not State owned in Indiana, however I was quite shocked and disappointed when I learned that buying liquor on Sundays is illegal. Hell, even in Utah you could buy beer in the grocery store on the day of rest.
Today, though, took the cake. I recieved an email from one of the local gourmet restaurants that advised me that they were canceling their wine pairing dinner tonight. Not that I was going, but I questioned the reason why. I read on to find that in Indiana it is illegal to sell alcohol on election days until after the polls officially close. Are you freaking kidding me??? How else are the losers going to soothe their defeat or the citizens toast the end of the mud slinging commercials?
Yes, my friends, in Utah the Democrats at least can sip their vino post voting.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Motivation what?
I am currently playing a game I like to call, "What's my job?" I'm now on my fourth week at work, but three of them have consisted of me in a conference room for 8 hours a day learning about things like cultural competency. Hellooo? I'm a social worker. Really what it boiled down to was CYA techniques big companies like to employ for risk management. If they prove you've received training on a topic like confidentiality, they can fire you faster vs. buying the "I didn't know" excuse. Its a good thing to have, but not when you are on the receiving end. This however, is not the purpose of my entry.
Yesterday I unpacked my office and figured out my email system. That pretty much took up the day. You see, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing. I have two executive secretaries so apparently I have a lot of meetings, but until I learn about those I'm rather clueless. The problem is, no one around me knows what I do because I'm supposed to be their leader and already know. The blind leading the oblivious.
Today I actually had two transition meetings with supervisees. One of my conversations went like this:
"So, you have four people directly reporting to you. All of them have very important jobs, but they can get monotonous at times. Tell me how you motivate your team." A nice way to start, I thought.
"Well, I don't really talk with them unless they screw up and their manager before trained them well so..." She looked at me sideways.
I tried to control my look of horror. Perhaps she misunderstood me.
"Supervision is an art. It involves feedback both positive and negative, but a really good supervisor keeps her team inspired. Tell me how you do that."
"Inspired?" Her brow furrowed.
Ok, my mental thesaurus began to spin while I was also calibrating her IQ level.
"Well, your staff are highly tenured, you know they have been here a while. Often times people will sit and stay for peace and pay. Does this make sense?" I paused and she nodded. "The years can often become blurred without innovation and support. Tell me how you positively reinforce their work and encourage them."
"Like I said, they don't really screw up..." She looked baffled like I had just handed her a quantum physics problem.
"Valued. Tell me how you convey to them how you value them as well as the quality of their work." She looked more assured and I thought I had finally made my point. She thought for a moment and then said:
"Well once I bought them lunch." She looked pleased with her answer and smiled.
I must have looked a little stunned because then she added confidently, "...with my own money."
Yup.
I suggested we begin meeting weekly for "coaching" shall we say.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Cultural Competency
There are certain things that establishes culture. I'm not talking about race, religion, or gender. I'm talking about what differentiates each city and unites the people despite their other characteristics. Although I've only been here a short time, I've picked up on a few here in Indy.
1) Corn pesticide commercials are commonplace during the news.
2) John Cougar Mellencamp's birthday is regarded as an informal State holiday. BTW, it was last Saturday. If you do not like his music, do not listen to any of the radio stations in Indy because inevitably no matter if they are hip hop/jazz/rock/whatever, it is normal for "Shake Your Money Maker" by Ludacris to be followed by "Jack and Diane."
3) School speed zone signs are just there as decorations. No one actually follows them except the Utah native who has been flipped off numerous times as people zoomed passed.
4) Teeth are optional
5) The Pacer's shooting outside of a strip club coincided with their release of the "Its up to us," campaign to improve their image last week. This story in one form or another was the lead headline for DAYS just because there wasn't any other news.
6) Most everyone has worked for a factory or grew up on a farm
7) Peyton Manning endorses everything and is regarded as a local hero. (My husband did not know who this guy was in rounds and was made fun of until he called and asked me.)
8) If you are really cool, you have an official pace car from one of the past years Indy 500. People will stop you just to look at the car in parking lots.
9) Republicans rule here. Alas, I've moved to another Red State.
1) Corn pesticide commercials are commonplace during the news.
2) John Cougar Mellencamp's birthday is regarded as an informal State holiday. BTW, it was last Saturday. If you do not like his music, do not listen to any of the radio stations in Indy because inevitably no matter if they are hip hop/jazz/rock/whatever, it is normal for "Shake Your Money Maker" by Ludacris to be followed by "Jack and Diane."
3) School speed zone signs are just there as decorations. No one actually follows them except the Utah native who has been flipped off numerous times as people zoomed passed.
4) Teeth are optional
5) The Pacer's shooting outside of a strip club coincided with their release of the "Its up to us," campaign to improve their image last week. This story in one form or another was the lead headline for DAYS just because there wasn't any other news.
6) Most everyone has worked for a factory or grew up on a farm
7) Peyton Manning endorses everything and is regarded as a local hero. (My husband did not know who this guy was in rounds and was made fun of until he called and asked me.)
8) If you are really cool, you have an official pace car from one of the past years Indy 500. People will stop you just to look at the car in parking lots.
9) Republicans rule here. Alas, I've moved to another Red State.
Saturday, October 7, 2006
Desperate Housedogs
Yesterday marked the end of my first week at my new job. To celebrate the fact that I lasted 5 whole days, they reserved 2:00 - 4:00 for a welcome reception in my honor. I suspect it was really more so my employees could stop by and see who I was. I've only been in my building twice in the past week as they have had me in meetings, driving/getting lost around the city, and hobnobing with other management the rest of the time. I was looking forward to sitting in the staff lounge and see who showed up.
In between the party and meeting one of my program coordinators I decided to stop home for some lunch and to let Edgar out. I spent the morning in senior staffing, touring group homes (not the most uplifiting experience), and hanging out at the methadone clinic (very enlightening and entertaining). I got home and discovered houndini was back.
I will take accountability for this as my reinforcement methods were weak that morning because a) I was late, and b) I wanted to see if he was getting the concept and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Stupid me. Edgar had managed to chew up an orange highlighter on the white carpet, eat my thank you notes, destroy my jewelry box (no jewelry inside), and gnaw on a prescription bottle. As I was beginning my "bad dog" routine on Edgar, I mistook his closing eyes as him being sheepish. He then began to careen a bit and I realized something was off. He had a mushed yellow capsule stuck to his fur.
The pill bottle was his. It was the sedative the vet gave me just in case the card ride didn't go so smoothly, but since he was a dream dog we hadn't even cracked the seal. It seemed Edgar got a bit bored and pulled a Desperate Housewife move and o/d on the pills to help pass the time kind of like Lynette who started eating all of her children's Ritalin when she was coping (maladaptively, mind you) to being a stay at home mom when all she wanted to do was work in an office. I began to panic.
First I called work and explained to my boss, who happens to LOVE the addictions field, that Edgar and Lynette had some similarities and that I would not be in attendance of my own party as I was now rushing to the local pet ER. I left this all in a rambling message that no doubt probably left him rethinking his decision to hire me as my bits of crazy were just beginning to show. I then mapquested the one referral Ihad from our neighbor to vets and scooped Edgar off to the car.
I began to think about my previous life as a vet tech and remembering that this particular med caused dogs' blood pressure to drop and thus caused liver damage. I stepped on the gas a bit more firmly. The pet ER looked like a renovated funeral home, but whatever. The tech had hot pink hair, nose rings, and like most Indiana natives, reeked of cigarette smoke.
"I am a terrible mom," I announced handing the chewed up pill bottle to the tech while Edgar slept soundly in my arms like a limp rag doll, "We just moved and he pulled a houndini, ate a highlighter and these. I used to be a vet tech so I know how stupid you think I am as a pet owner, but he needs help and I'm beginning to think the worst like liver damage."
The tech and other customers looked at the crazy woman standing there. "These things happen." And she showed me into an exam room.
Edgar began to rouse a bit and would go from falling asleep to waking up, realizing where he was, shake with fear uncontrollably, and then drift back off to sleep. This happened about 10x before the vet came in. She called him a handsome fellow, examined him, reassured me, double checked the dosage/weight and announced she needed to call the prescribing vet for the exact amount of original pills. Great. Now both states would know I'm a neglectful mother. At least J wouldn't know. He was on call and wouldn't be home until tomorrow morning. I began to imagine the "I told you so's" regarding where the pill bottle was located and my terrible engineering skills for barricades.
Just as the vet came in my phone rang.
"Where are you? I came home for an hour nap and Edgars missing. Looks like he destroyed some stuff."
Great. "We're in the Pet ER. I'll have to call you back. Edgar overdosed."
"Is he ok? Are you ok?"
"Yeah. The vet's here. Let me go talk with her." I pretty much hung up on him.
The vet smiled and announced Edgar was within dosing range, but extremely high on that scale and we could be sent home with a steroid shot and promise of close observation until midnight.
I took Edgar, the sleeping puppy, home. The doped up dog curled up to my sleep deprived husband.
"I'm so sorry I let this happen. I promise I will be a very good mother of our future children."
He began to laugh. "Yeah, this is what we hear all the time in our ER. 'I don't know what happened. I left the room for a quick second while he was playing with the pills and then they were gone!'"
"You won't have to call social services on me, I promise." I said, " I really will be a good mom."
"Yeah, by that time you will probably be in charge of social services." He laughed.
In between the party and meeting one of my program coordinators I decided to stop home for some lunch and to let Edgar out. I spent the morning in senior staffing, touring group homes (not the most uplifiting experience), and hanging out at the methadone clinic (very enlightening and entertaining). I got home and discovered houndini was back.
I will take accountability for this as my reinforcement methods were weak that morning because a) I was late, and b) I wanted to see if he was getting the concept and gave him the benefit of the doubt. Stupid me. Edgar had managed to chew up an orange highlighter on the white carpet, eat my thank you notes, destroy my jewelry box (no jewelry inside), and gnaw on a prescription bottle. As I was beginning my "bad dog" routine on Edgar, I mistook his closing eyes as him being sheepish. He then began to careen a bit and I realized something was off. He had a mushed yellow capsule stuck to his fur.
The pill bottle was his. It was the sedative the vet gave me just in case the card ride didn't go so smoothly, but since he was a dream dog we hadn't even cracked the seal. It seemed Edgar got a bit bored and pulled a Desperate Housewife move and o/d on the pills to help pass the time kind of like Lynette who started eating all of her children's Ritalin when she was coping (maladaptively, mind you) to being a stay at home mom when all she wanted to do was work in an office. I began to panic.
First I called work and explained to my boss, who happens to LOVE the addictions field, that Edgar and Lynette had some similarities and that I would not be in attendance of my own party as I was now rushing to the local pet ER. I left this all in a rambling message that no doubt probably left him rethinking his decision to hire me as my bits of crazy were just beginning to show. I then mapquested the one referral Ihad from our neighbor to vets and scooped Edgar off to the car.
I began to think about my previous life as a vet tech and remembering that this particular med caused dogs' blood pressure to drop and thus caused liver damage. I stepped on the gas a bit more firmly. The pet ER looked like a renovated funeral home, but whatever. The tech had hot pink hair, nose rings, and like most Indiana natives, reeked of cigarette smoke.
"I am a terrible mom," I announced handing the chewed up pill bottle to the tech while Edgar slept soundly in my arms like a limp rag doll, "We just moved and he pulled a houndini, ate a highlighter and these. I used to be a vet tech so I know how stupid you think I am as a pet owner, but he needs help and I'm beginning to think the worst like liver damage."
The tech and other customers looked at the crazy woman standing there. "These things happen." And she showed me into an exam room.
Edgar began to rouse a bit and would go from falling asleep to waking up, realizing where he was, shake with fear uncontrollably, and then drift back off to sleep. This happened about 10x before the vet came in. She called him a handsome fellow, examined him, reassured me, double checked the dosage/weight and announced she needed to call the prescribing vet for the exact amount of original pills. Great. Now both states would know I'm a neglectful mother. At least J wouldn't know. He was on call and wouldn't be home until tomorrow morning. I began to imagine the "I told you so's" regarding where the pill bottle was located and my terrible engineering skills for barricades.
Just as the vet came in my phone rang.
"Where are you? I came home for an hour nap and Edgars missing. Looks like he destroyed some stuff."
Great. "We're in the Pet ER. I'll have to call you back. Edgar overdosed."
"Is he ok? Are you ok?"
"Yeah. The vet's here. Let me go talk with her." I pretty much hung up on him.
The vet smiled and announced Edgar was within dosing range, but extremely high on that scale and we could be sent home with a steroid shot and promise of close observation until midnight.
I took Edgar, the sleeping puppy, home. The doped up dog curled up to my sleep deprived husband.
"I'm so sorry I let this happen. I promise I will be a very good mother of our future children."
He began to laugh. "Yeah, this is what we hear all the time in our ER. 'I don't know what happened. I left the room for a quick second while he was playing with the pills and then they were gone!'"
"You won't have to call social services on me, I promise." I said, " I really will be a good mom."
"Yeah, by that time you will probably be in charge of social services." He laughed.
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