"He looks so white, my friend is afraid people are going to think she's her own kid's Asian babysitter."
"You know that's my worst fear about the kids H and I will (hopefully) have one day. If somebody mistakes me for the ayah, I am going to LAY THE SMACK DOWN."
"I doubt that's going to happen. Not when you're calling out their Indian names."
"That is exactly why I want them to have those; maybe then they'll feel a desire to connect with the culture. Right?"
"Dude, your hopes are so high. You're talking about your future children connecting with culture when you're not even married yet. Lower your expectations about those kids."
"So I should just hope they'll learn a little of the language?"
"Cadiz, when you become a parent, you'll be ecstatic if your kid will flush the toilet."
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
we are so blessed
UPDATE: My mom is recovering well from last week's surgery to remove the offending cancer and has returned to full-time work (probably earlier than she should have). The results from the lab are promising; the doctors believe they got it all.
The five days of waiting for results were more agonizing than I can describe. The woman who normally has a limitless supply of smiles and good cheer was noticeably withdrawn and silent. It was as if some sad, blue shadow of my mom had taken over her body and could only muster the energy to humor us with a positive attitude once in awhile. It was heartbreaking, and there was nothing anyone could do to make it better.
I just want to thank each and every single person who sent out a good vibe, prayer or hopeful thought our way. On days like this, love certainly can seem to work wonders. And, as with any medical condition, we must be vigilant and take things one day at time. But for now, things are looking pretty hopeful.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
and when they say "E.D.," they're talking about the Emergency Room (Department), not that other thing
Last month I started a new career at the hospital. In that time I have learned:
1) The fastest way to lose fat and gain muscle is to run around for eight hours a day, pushing 350-pound patients on beds.
2) People who are asked to wear masks to protect other people in the waiting area from what might be a highly contagious flu believe they are suddenly not contagious as soon as they enter the department where their test will be conducted and remove their masks.
3) The public cannot seem to grasp the concept of covering their hacking mouths with the crook of their elbows.
4) Parents do not realize that paying a babysitter to watch your healthy child/infant for an afternoon while you get an outpatient test done is WAY CHEAPER than the medical care your healthy child/infant will need after catching something from an ignorant person coughing all over your child/infant.
5) There is NEVER enough hand sanitizer.
6) Or soap and hot water.
7) Hospital employees GET THE FLU, TOO. And double the patients with half the staff makes for a little longer wait. Bring a crossword puzzle and be a little considerate.
8) The more unhealthy the cafeteria item, the faster it will sell out to the employees.
9) There's way less hanky-panky (from what I've seen, anyway) in the hospital than they show on one-hour television medical shows, but nearly as much drama as on the tube.
10) Wearing scrubs every day saves about 20 minutes of standing in front of the closet in a daze in the morning.
1) The fastest way to lose fat and gain muscle is to run around for eight hours a day, pushing 350-pound patients on beds.
2) People who are asked to wear masks to protect other people in the waiting area from what might be a highly contagious flu believe they are suddenly not contagious as soon as they enter the department where their test will be conducted and remove their masks.
3) The public cannot seem to grasp the concept of covering their hacking mouths with the crook of their elbows.
4) Parents do not realize that paying a babysitter to watch your healthy child/infant for an afternoon while you get an outpatient test done is WAY CHEAPER than the medical care your healthy child/infant will need after catching something from an ignorant person coughing all over your child/infant.
5) There is NEVER enough hand sanitizer.
6) Or soap and hot water.
7) Hospital employees GET THE FLU, TOO. And double the patients with half the staff makes for a little longer wait. Bring a crossword puzzle and be a little considerate.
8) The more unhealthy the cafeteria item, the faster it will sell out to the employees.
9) There's way less hanky-panky (from what I've seen, anyway) in the hospital than they show on one-hour television medical shows, but nearly as much drama as on the tube.
10) Wearing scrubs every day saves about 20 minutes of standing in front of the closet in a daze in the morning.
Monday, November 02, 2009
no one appreciates the sun until it gets cloudy outside
Last Thursday, my mom had surgery to remove the cancerous bits they had found in her previous test. The doctors will send the sample to a lab, where they will put a dye on it and slice it up to look at under the microscope. If they don't believe they've got it all, they will have to go back in and try to get the rest. Any other decisions--about radiation or any other forms of action--will depend on these results, which won't be available for at least five days.
She didn't allow me to take the day off, but because of my new working hours (11:30 am to 8 pm), I was able to see her into surgery before my shift, take a break when they were wheeling her out to the car and get home in time to help my dad make sure she was resting comfortably. And she didn't allow me to take the next day off, either. Of course, during that alone time she managed to do a week's worth of laundry, clean the whole house and call around to the bakeries to see if they could make H's favorite pie for his birthday the next day (key limes are apparently out of season during Halloween). She also dug out her "Trick or Treat" embroidered longsleeved tee to wear when giving out candy. When left to her own devices, this woman will do anything but rest.
My brother is in agony because he couldn't swing coming home (as if she would have allowed it anyhow), and sent a gorgeous bouquet instead. My mom stuck with the party line "Why did you spend your money?!," but I could tell she was touched. I know that's not enough for the kid; we learned at an early age that being present is worth so much more than anything money buys--my mom was at my brother's side 24 hours a day for every single night he's spent in a hospital, often sleeping in a chair for weeks at a time. And boy did that make her feet swell. That's the kind of stuff we'd like to do for her, if only she'd let us.
I'm having a hard time seeing her like this. If you ask anyone who knows her, my mom is the sunniest, most warm person to be around. The doctors and the patients adore her. And hell, a handful of people she works with who are our age refer to her as "Mom." but in the days after the surgery, she's been a little down. I can tell her energy level has taken a hit, and she's actually been sleeping more than four hours a night. I explained to her that I learned (from a reliable source, the '80s animated show Muppet Babies* "Scooter's Uncommon Cold" episode) that when you're sick, you need lots and lots of rest so young Kermit, Piggy and the gang can fly around inside your body in a tiny spaceship and help your immune system fight off the bad guys. All I got was a chuckle and a wan smile. It's killing me that all our love and jokes aren't enough to make this cancer go away.
This futility-of-love-against-life-threatening-illness seems to be a running theme in my life.
*Dude, Muppet Babies had a ridiculous premise, but it was awesome. Am I right or what?
She didn't allow me to take the day off, but because of my new working hours (11:30 am to 8 pm), I was able to see her into surgery before my shift, take a break when they were wheeling her out to the car and get home in time to help my dad make sure she was resting comfortably. And she didn't allow me to take the next day off, either. Of course, during that alone time she managed to do a week's worth of laundry, clean the whole house and call around to the bakeries to see if they could make H's favorite pie for his birthday the next day (key limes are apparently out of season during Halloween). She also dug out her "Trick or Treat" embroidered longsleeved tee to wear when giving out candy. When left to her own devices, this woman will do anything but rest.
My brother is in agony because he couldn't swing coming home (as if she would have allowed it anyhow), and sent a gorgeous bouquet instead. My mom stuck with the party line "Why did you spend your money?!," but I could tell she was touched. I know that's not enough for the kid; we learned at an early age that being present is worth so much more than anything money buys--my mom was at my brother's side 24 hours a day for every single night he's spent in a hospital, often sleeping in a chair for weeks at a time. And boy did that make her feet swell. That's the kind of stuff we'd like to do for her, if only she'd let us.
I'm having a hard time seeing her like this. If you ask anyone who knows her, my mom is the sunniest, most warm person to be around. The doctors and the patients adore her. And hell, a handful of people she works with who are our age refer to her as "Mom." but in the days after the surgery, she's been a little down. I can tell her energy level has taken a hit, and she's actually been sleeping more than four hours a night. I explained to her that I learned (from a reliable source, the '80s animated show Muppet Babies* "Scooter's Uncommon Cold" episode) that when you're sick, you need lots and lots of rest so young Kermit, Piggy and the gang can fly around inside your body in a tiny spaceship and help your immune system fight off the bad guys. All I got was a chuckle and a wan smile. It's killing me that all our love and jokes aren't enough to make this cancer go away.
This futility-of-love-against-life-threatening-illness seems to be a running theme in my life.
*Dude, Muppet Babies had a ridiculous premise, but it was awesome. Am I right or what?
Sunday, November 01, 2009
the ring hunt
H and I have never been what most people call "conventional." From how we met to how we conduct ourselves in daily life, we don't always do things the way everyone else expects us to.
Take our engagement, for instance: One Sunday morning, as I was watching the Indian Show and H was making brunch, he came over to the couch with some delicious pancakes and a diamond ring, which he'd had in his possession for more than a year. Everyone who knew us well was aware of that, which meant that anytime we went to a remotely romantic place, people anticipated a proposal. But H really wanted to take me by surprise, so an engagement over Bollywood hits and Sunday pancakes was perfect. I hadn't even processed what was happening until after I'd already answered the question.
The guy is pretty crafty. In the past I've gotten a handmade board game, a laser etching on the back of my iPod, a Legend of Zelda puzzle map and all kinds of other creative, thoughtful gifts. His great-grandmother's ring (hand-cut and made in Germany somewhere around 1919) was too big for my finger and the inside of the band was a little flimsy, so he took it to Jeweler's Row to be re-sized and fortified. The first time I came to the condo after he got it back, H was nowhere to be found and I opened the door to this:
Back to the pillow.
Sure enough, there was a little brown box under all that stuff. I was glad I hadn't cheated.
Take our engagement, for instance: One Sunday morning, as I was watching the Indian Show and H was making brunch, he came over to the couch with some delicious pancakes and a diamond ring, which he'd had in his possession for more than a year. Everyone who knew us well was aware of that, which meant that anytime we went to a remotely romantic place, people anticipated a proposal. But H really wanted to take me by surprise, so an engagement over Bollywood hits and Sunday pancakes was perfect. I hadn't even processed what was happening until after I'd already answered the question.
The guy is pretty crafty. In the past I've gotten a handmade board game, a laser etching on the back of my iPod, a Legend of Zelda puzzle map and all kinds of other creative, thoughtful gifts. His great-grandmother's ring (hand-cut and made in Germany somewhere around 1919) was too big for my finger and the inside of the band was a little flimsy, so he took it to Jeweler's Row to be re-sized and fortified. The first time I came to the condo after he got it back, H was nowhere to be found and I opened the door to this:
Hanging in the hallway in front of the door was my "mission: to find the ring." It reminded me of the recent Mystery issue of WIRED (my favorite magazine), with random letters in different colors to offer hidden clues. The green letters happened to spell out Fourth from the right. I was also instructed to keep his iPhone close by in case I needed any help.
Taped to the ceiling were what seemed like hundreds of envelopes, each attached to a colored ribbon and a folded piece of paper with a number on it. It looked amazing and daunting at the same time. I was trying to figure out what "fourth from the right" could possibly mean in this setup, as well as overthinking the colored letters in the first clue. I figured H had some sort of candid camera recording me, so I kept yelling out things like "I'M NOT GETTING IT!" and "I NEED HELP!" I wasted a lot of time trying to solve the first clue before realizing it was a simple reference to the candles in the bathroom.
We'd never lit the votives in this candleholder, but it looked so pretty, we should do it more often. Fourth from the right! I blew it out and grabbed some tweezers to pull out the candle base.
It took a lot of maneuvering to take a picture of this while the wax was still melty.
In the dryer was a very thoughtful (and challenging!) crossword puzzle all about me, things I like, phrases I say and whatnot. Apparently, H is a very good listener and actually remembers stuff that comes out of my mouth. Some of which I don't recall myself. Several boxes within the puzzle were shaded yellow, and those letters fit the six-letter word scramble at the end that would get me past the next clue.
The mouse had a Post-it that said "Shake me." That six-letter scramble from the crossword unlocked the computer.
This one would have been tricky if I didn't know that H had originally set up a camera to alert us when people who come to check out our home are done (otherwise we'd be stuck outside for HOURS; the realtors never call to tell us they're done). I figured out the webcam had been moved behind the computer stand.
And when I looked into it, the iPhone vibrated and I saw my own face in the app.
There was another frame with the next clue. I misinterpreted the E.T. part of it and called my parents' house. I assumed they were in on it, but Mom and Dad were no help. So I went into the living room and started yanking down envelopes. Starting with the green ribbons, of course.
I was told later that the "phone home" part of the clue corresponded to the numbers hanging off the ceiling--the only ones of use for the next clue were the numbers in my parents' home telephone number.
The green-ribbon envelopes happened to be those numbers; they all had puzzle pieces inside. I opened all the rest, just in case.
The puzzle looked like the accent pillow on the bed. I couldn't help but run over there and grab it, looking inside and underneath, but stopped myself from actually cheating. I put together the photograph and taped it together (a trick I learned from Angel07's Amazing Race Party).
Yep, it was definitely a detail shot of that accent pillow. I flipped the puzzle over:
Back to the pillow.
Sure enough, there was a little brown box under all that stuff. I was glad I hadn't cheated.
The ring seemed nicer than I had remembered. Not bad for being 90 years old, eh?
And it fit much better, too!
H was sitting downstairs in a common area that entire time. He had seen me walk in, but didn't realize I spent 20 minutes chatting with cc on the phone before coming up the elevator. He didn't, in fact, have any cameras on me (which is a shame, because I sort of hammed it up for an audience of nobody), and was kind of worried why it was taking so long. In the box was a note telling me to email him when I was done. When I did, he came upstairs and put the ring back on my finger, where I suspect it'll be for a very long time.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
the big c
"Hey ma, you think I could leave my hair down for an entire double shift without it driving me bananas?"
"What's wrong with those clips? They keep the hair out of your face. And they make you look like a little girl. I like them."
"That's probably the reason why everyone is so flabbergasted when they find out I'm 31 years old, not 21, mommy. Not that I mind."
"Nobody can guess my age, either."
"I hope that means I've inherited the genes that keep you in shape, being able to work those insane hours and still look great. Not a lot of people's moms are as healthy as my mother."
"Your mother has cancer."
I debated ending this post right there, but realized it'd probably hit like a suckerpunch. And while that's not how I found out that my mom has breast cancer***, this evening was the first time the big c tiptoed into an everyday conversation and took it down. Which sure felt like a fist to the gut.
My mom's a tough lady. She tried to keep this from us for as long as possible, but when her doctor called the house while we were chilling on the couch watching Bidaai (I call it the "light girl/dark girl" Hindi soap opera), it was hard to keep to herself anymore. As much as I wanted to smack her for suffering by herself back then, I would have straight-up wrung her neck if she had fake-smiled through a Stereotactic MRI, biopsy and next week's lumpectomy without telling us kids. You know, so we wouldn't worry.
I've been trying to keep from falling apart--mainly by cramming as many hours onto my timesheet as possible. And training on two very different jobs in various areas is a pretty good distraction. It's easy to pretend this cancer thing is just a nightmare I had last month, and that the glue that holds my papier-mache world together is still just as impervious to cracks as ever. Especially if I can walk past her office a dozen times a day and hear her talking on the phone or laughing, normal as ever.
She works in the hospital, too. She understands that they caught her cancer early, that it's likely they can cut it out and it's possible that they can keep it from coming back. We all realize how TREMENDOUSLY LUCKY we are to have early detection in our corner with the water bottle. Not every person gets that kind of fighting chance. We are so so so very grateful. But this thing is scary as hell.
My brother is having panic attacks. For his entire life he has always been the one in jeopardy, the one people toss and turn worrying about. He has absolutely no coping skills to deal with feeling so powerless, terrified and being too far away for a hug. All I can offer him in the way of comfort is a welcome sign to our side of the fence.
For all of her usual "no-big-deal" nonsense, this has been one situation where I saw a hole in my mom's toughguy veneer (hell, the lady watched my kid brother yank out every last tube from his body in the middle of an ICU night, need four grown adults to hold him down, then be clinically dead for several minutes before coming back to us. And she kept her cool until it was all over). Now she is afraid, and that scares me half to death.
My new shared office is next-door to the office of the hospital's Breast Care Coordinator. I'm running all over the place all day, so that means I pass her pink-ribbon nameplate fourteen kajillion times each shift (twice that if I'm working a double). And every time I see it, I want to knock on the door and crack that Breast Care Coordinator's ribs with gratitude. Because she's been with my mom every single step of the way so far, holding her hand and making smalltalk throughout painful surgical procedures, explaining the situation to her in excruciating detail and giving her books to read (but not allow us to see, too frightening). Most of all, she's given my tough, strong-willed mother the opportunity to put down the armor and let it all out, which is something I don't have the power to ever offer her.
Up until today, I haven't let myself really feel the enormity of this disease. It truly is a different sort of snaggletoothed beast when it's going after the woman you love most on this earth. I came very close to losing it the day I saw the NFL players with their pink towels, cleats and helmet stickers, but something about how casually my mother said she has cancer with a sad smile just laid me out flat tonight. I'm so thankful I'm the only one awake so I can work my way through this box of Kleenex unabashedly. Tomorrow I'll have to get it together. I'll have to be able to walk around past office doors all day with a smile on my face, normal as ever.
Tomorrow I'll put on some of my mom's armor. She's going to need backup for the fight.
***Oh and by the way, she doesn't want me to advertise this news, so if you know her in real life, please pretend that you don't know. I realize this is easier asked than done. Thanks.
"What's wrong with those clips? They keep the hair out of your face. And they make you look like a little girl. I like them."
"That's probably the reason why everyone is so flabbergasted when they find out I'm 31 years old, not 21, mommy. Not that I mind."
"Nobody can guess my age, either."
"I hope that means I've inherited the genes that keep you in shape, being able to work those insane hours and still look great. Not a lot of people's moms are as healthy as my mother."
"Your mother has cancer."
I debated ending this post right there, but realized it'd probably hit like a suckerpunch. And while that's not how I found out that my mom has breast cancer***, this evening was the first time the big c tiptoed into an everyday conversation and took it down. Which sure felt like a fist to the gut.
My mom's a tough lady. She tried to keep this from us for as long as possible, but when her doctor called the house while we were chilling on the couch watching Bidaai (I call it the "light girl/dark girl" Hindi soap opera), it was hard to keep to herself anymore. As much as I wanted to smack her for suffering by herself back then, I would have straight-up wrung her neck if she had fake-smiled through a Stereotactic MRI, biopsy and next week's lumpectomy without telling us kids. You know, so we wouldn't worry.
I've been trying to keep from falling apart--mainly by cramming as many hours onto my timesheet as possible. And training on two very different jobs in various areas is a pretty good distraction. It's easy to pretend this cancer thing is just a nightmare I had last month, and that the glue that holds my papier-mache world together is still just as impervious to cracks as ever. Especially if I can walk past her office a dozen times a day and hear her talking on the phone or laughing, normal as ever.
She works in the hospital, too. She understands that they caught her cancer early, that it's likely they can cut it out and it's possible that they can keep it from coming back. We all realize how TREMENDOUSLY LUCKY we are to have early detection in our corner with the water bottle. Not every person gets that kind of fighting chance. We are so so so very grateful. But this thing is scary as hell.
My brother is having panic attacks. For his entire life he has always been the one in jeopardy, the one people toss and turn worrying about. He has absolutely no coping skills to deal with feeling so powerless, terrified and being too far away for a hug. All I can offer him in the way of comfort is a welcome sign to our side of the fence.
For all of her usual "no-big-deal" nonsense, this has been one situation where I saw a hole in my mom's toughguy veneer (hell, the lady watched my kid brother yank out every last tube from his body in the middle of an ICU night, need four grown adults to hold him down, then be clinically dead for several minutes before coming back to us. And she kept her cool until it was all over). Now she is afraid, and that scares me half to death.
My new shared office is next-door to the office of the hospital's Breast Care Coordinator. I'm running all over the place all day, so that means I pass her pink-ribbon nameplate fourteen kajillion times each shift (twice that if I'm working a double). And every time I see it, I want to knock on the door and crack that Breast Care Coordinator's ribs with gratitude. Because she's been with my mom every single step of the way so far, holding her hand and making smalltalk throughout painful surgical procedures, explaining the situation to her in excruciating detail and giving her books to read (but not allow us to see, too frightening). Most of all, she's given my tough, strong-willed mother the opportunity to put down the armor and let it all out, which is something I don't have the power to ever offer her.
Up until today, I haven't let myself really feel the enormity of this disease. It truly is a different sort of snaggletoothed beast when it's going after the woman you love most on this earth. I came very close to losing it the day I saw the NFL players with their pink towels, cleats and helmet stickers, but something about how casually my mother said she has cancer with a sad smile just laid me out flat tonight. I'm so thankful I'm the only one awake so I can work my way through this box of Kleenex unabashedly. Tomorrow I'll have to get it together. I'll have to be able to walk around past office doors all day with a smile on my face, normal as ever.
Tomorrow I'll put on some of my mom's armor. She's going to need backup for the fight.
***Oh and by the way, she doesn't want me to advertise this news, so if you know her in real life, please pretend that you don't know. I realize this is easier asked than done. Thanks.
Monday, September 28, 2009
a colonoscopy is way more comfy than the symptoms of what it might detect
In all of my life, I have never actually seen someone die. However this afternoon, at about 1 p.m., I got hella close. A patient was gurgling and gasping for breath two feet in front of me. I cannot describe the exact color her face turned, but it was most definitely in the royal-blue family. All we could do was make her a little more comfortable and send for some licensed clinical help on the double. I won't go into details about the circumstances because of confidentiality, but I will share this: This patient wasn't much younger than my mom (read: too young for this kind of incident) but she hadn't seen a doctor in more than 35 years.
Take care of yourselves, folks. There are a lot of you out there (ahem, people who gave me my genetic material) who spout utter-crap statements like "nothing's going to happen to me" or "I'll just take this pill and lower my cholesterol" or "I've already lived my life" as excuses to avoid being inconvenienced for the sake of their health, and THOSE PEOPLE NEED TO BE FLOGGED. Seeing that woman today, barely hanging on through such misery, makes me shake my fist at all those who take their good health for granted until it's too late.
BEING SERIOUSLY ILL IS AN AGONIZING EXPERIENCE. Would you like me to have my brother elaborate on the kind of time and pain it requires to recover from having your ribcage sawed through on multiple occasions with something with the horsepower of my dad's chainsaw? Why would you allow that to happen if you could avoid it? As much as I cherish cheeseburgers (and I love my cheeseburgers), even I can admit that at some point it's simply not worth it.
There are so many terrible things in this world you can't prevent; why not do something about the stuff you can? Your family will thank you.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
the big reveal
This is the story about how I met H, and how you might have known him all this time, too.
MAY, 2005
I started this web log on March 7, 2005, partly because I had been reading other people's work and was inspired, and partly because I needed an outlet to replace the four-hour conversations I was used to having every day (dungeon hours meant I was only available when my friends and family were either at work or asleep). And I didn't want anyone to forget about me.
Around that time, a popular blog written by An Intern In New York named Andy was featured as a Blog of Note. One of the links in his sidebar took me to Jazz...In Strange Places, and Jasmine's "100 things about me" post. I identified with a lot of her list, particularly her love for Nancy Drew novels. So at 2:42 a.m., I left her a comment about the girl detective, chocolate and cats.
Apparently another new blogger, Jon, found Jasmine's 100-things list simply by clicking the "Next Blog" button at the top of his screen, and at 3:41 a.m., he left a long comment lambasting the previous commenters as well as himself. Normally I would have gotten angry, but something about his self-deprecating tone made me hesitate to tear into him about how the Internet was supposed to be about supporting people, not bringing them down (funny how naive I was back then). I went over to his blog and made a case for old Nancy, who really was a pioneer for her time. He replied that he was glad I didn't take it the wrong way and that he was only trying to be funny, not a jerk.
JUNE 2005
After that, we all started commenting on each other's blog posts. Along with Jasmine, Jon and I, there were Omar, Syar, and several other bloggers who have come and gone in the last four and a half years. Soon, Jon wrote his own "100 things" post. My response to it was jon, honestly. i won't even try to explain just how much you scare me. So many things on that list could be said about me, too, except the part about his HATING being barefoot (I'd be barefoot all the time if it weren't for snow). I was impressed at how many of his priorities lined up with mine, what with all the love for siblings, loyalty to friends, mutual appreciation for tv, etc. There were also some bizarre things on the list, like the fact that we've both dreamt of being shot and how he drove from New York to California making only four stops. One of those stops? My hometown. To me, it was a sign.
The comments started adding up, however, and after a few months it was obvious that Jon and I were practically conversating with each other in the comments. One night in the dungeon, Blogger broke down and I realized just how much I missed hearing what Jon had to say. I emailed him, saying it had been nice of him to keep me company all those nights when I was convinced the one-eyed man was going to hack me to bits and stuff me into a utility closet.
SEPTEMBER 2005
I had met Jasmine in person that summer (it's important to note here that at this time it was still perceived as sort of creepy to meet people "from the Internet" so that was kind of a big deal). I tried to get information about what she thought of Jon, whom she had met in California, and she confirmed he's as cool as I suspected. In September I saw Jasmine again in New York when I went to visit Alexandra, and we went out to dinner and to a club.
Those four days had been the longest I'd gone in six months without communicating with Jon, and it was killing me. A few weeks earlier, he had conveniently given me his phone number by sending me a photo from his phone. Alexandra and I had been bar-hopping, and obviously discussing the bizarre long-distance infatuation I had with him as well as the improbabilities of it going anywhere (again, dating someone you'd met "online" at that time mostly meant going through something like match.com, which had a bad connotation because of a friend's bad experiences). With every drink, the urge to contact Jon was getting harder and harder to resist.
NOVEMBER 2005
Text messages led to phone calls, phone calls led to plane tickets, and Jon arrived at Chicago's Midway airport November 4. We went to my favorite all-night diner and then I dropped him off at his hotel. I went back to my parents' house, sad that I hadn't heard trumpets and birds singing when we first saw each other and the next morning I called cc in tears because I thought we didn't have a *connection* in real life. He had been shy and reticent; I was unsure and still processing how different he is from the guys I had always pictured myself dating (i.e. he's not an Indian boy). Both of us were acting really awkward. Jon and I had discussed the implications of this meeting and agreed that it had to happen, that we had to find out sooner or later. And if we didn't have chemistry we could always be good friends. So with that in mind, I picked him up and showed him the sights, starting with hot dogs at Portillo's and a trip to the then-named Sears Tower.
Somewhere after lunch and before we got to the top of the tower, the good old rapport surfaced through the nerves and the tension and we fell into our normal banter. I liked the sound of his voice and that I could actually see the expression on his face. I especially enjoyed hearing the exotic "o" sound he pronounced as in "honestly" (which I pronounce in the midwestern style, "haanestly"). As soon as I forgot about my expectations, things went right back to the lovely way they always had been.
There was a suspiciously short line on the way up to the Sears Tower, and surprisingly few people in the observation deck. It was so dark and clear, we could see lights all the way out to a couple of states. There were a few times I thought he was going to kiss me as we looked out over the glittering city, but I'm really glad he didn't--I would have lost all respect for the guy.
I brought him back to his room and stayed to watch the ten-minute film he had made in college on his laptop. He stars in it as well, and I think I fell in love with him even more after seeing how he looked in college, bright orange corduroys and all. We didn't feel like going to a bar or a club, so we sat through the only thing on tv: It was a Hitchcock film, his only screwball comedy, called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. We laughed about the ridiculous plot and how everything was magically resolved as Mrs. Smith crossed her skis at the end. If only life were that simple.
I went out to California a month later and he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. We've talked for several hours every night since, and have only gone one five-day stretch over the last four years without at least a text message back and forth. I must admit, we haven't yet run out of things to say. And I hope we never do, because today he asked me to spend the rest of my life talking to him, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
MAY, 2005
I started this web log on March 7, 2005, partly because I had been reading other people's work and was inspired, and partly because I needed an outlet to replace the four-hour conversations I was used to having every day (dungeon hours meant I was only available when my friends and family were either at work or asleep). And I didn't want anyone to forget about me.
Around that time, a popular blog written by An Intern In New York named Andy was featured as a Blog of Note. One of the links in his sidebar took me to Jazz...In Strange Places, and Jasmine's "100 things about me" post. I identified with a lot of her list, particularly her love for Nancy Drew novels. So at 2:42 a.m., I left her a comment about the girl detective, chocolate and cats.
Apparently another new blogger, Jon, found Jasmine's 100-things list simply by clicking the "Next Blog" button at the top of his screen, and at 3:41 a.m., he left a long comment lambasting the previous commenters as well as himself. Normally I would have gotten angry, but something about his self-deprecating tone made me hesitate to tear into him about how the Internet was supposed to be about supporting people, not bringing them down (funny how naive I was back then). I went over to his blog and made a case for old Nancy, who really was a pioneer for her time. He replied that he was glad I didn't take it the wrong way and that he was only trying to be funny, not a jerk.
JUNE 2005
After that, we all started commenting on each other's blog posts. Along with Jasmine, Jon and I, there were Omar, Syar, and several other bloggers who have come and gone in the last four and a half years. Soon, Jon wrote his own "100 things" post. My response to it was jon, honestly. i won't even try to explain just how much you scare me. So many things on that list could be said about me, too, except the part about his HATING being barefoot (I'd be barefoot all the time if it weren't for snow). I was impressed at how many of his priorities lined up with mine, what with all the love for siblings, loyalty to friends, mutual appreciation for tv, etc. There were also some bizarre things on the list, like the fact that we've both dreamt of being shot and how he drove from New York to California making only four stops. One of those stops? My hometown. To me, it was a sign.
The comments started adding up, however, and after a few months it was obvious that Jon and I were practically conversating with each other in the comments. One night in the dungeon, Blogger broke down and I realized just how much I missed hearing what Jon had to say. I emailed him, saying it had been nice of him to keep me company all those nights when I was convinced the one-eyed man was going to hack me to bits and stuff me into a utility closet.
SEPTEMBER 2005
I had met Jasmine in person that summer (it's important to note here that at this time it was still perceived as sort of creepy to meet people "from the Internet" so that was kind of a big deal). I tried to get information about what she thought of Jon, whom she had met in California, and she confirmed he's as cool as I suspected. In September I saw Jasmine again in New York when I went to visit Alexandra, and we went out to dinner and to a club.
Those four days had been the longest I'd gone in six months without communicating with Jon, and it was killing me. A few weeks earlier, he had conveniently given me his phone number by sending me a photo from his phone. Alexandra and I had been bar-hopping, and obviously discussing the bizarre long-distance infatuation I had with him as well as the improbabilities of it going anywhere (again, dating someone you'd met "online" at that time mostly meant going through something like match.com, which had a bad connotation because of a friend's bad experiences). With every drink, the urge to contact Jon was getting harder and harder to resist.
So I texted him: How screwed up is it that you can miss someone you're [sic] never even met?The texts kept coming, and I kept giggling in the corner, until Jasmine--who hadn't been aware of our email love affair--said, What are you laughing about so much, Cadiz? Is Jon the one text messaging you? I was so flabbergasted that she'd guessed* that I asked him what I should tell her.
He replied: Only slightly.
His reply: That you and I are text messaging each other tonight...and that you are carrying my baby :)
What I said next: That's cool, as long as you understand one thing: The children will have Indian names.
NOVEMBER 2005
Text messages led to phone calls, phone calls led to plane tickets, and Jon arrived at Chicago's Midway airport November 4. We went to my favorite all-night diner and then I dropped him off at his hotel. I went back to my parents' house, sad that I hadn't heard trumpets and birds singing when we first saw each other and the next morning I called cc in tears because I thought we didn't have a *connection* in real life. He had been shy and reticent; I was unsure and still processing how different he is from the guys I had always pictured myself dating (i.e. he's not an Indian boy). Both of us were acting really awkward. Jon and I had discussed the implications of this meeting and agreed that it had to happen, that we had to find out sooner or later. And if we didn't have chemistry we could always be good friends. So with that in mind, I picked him up and showed him the sights, starting with hot dogs at Portillo's and a trip to the then-named Sears Tower.
Somewhere after lunch and before we got to the top of the tower, the good old rapport surfaced through the nerves and the tension and we fell into our normal banter. I liked the sound of his voice and that I could actually see the expression on his face. I especially enjoyed hearing the exotic "o" sound he pronounced as in "honestly" (which I pronounce in the midwestern style, "haanestly"). As soon as I forgot about my expectations, things went right back to the lovely way they always had been.
There was a suspiciously short line on the way up to the Sears Tower, and surprisingly few people in the observation deck. It was so dark and clear, we could see lights all the way out to a couple of states. There were a few times I thought he was going to kiss me as we looked out over the glittering city, but I'm really glad he didn't--I would have lost all respect for the guy.
I brought him back to his room and stayed to watch the ten-minute film he had made in college on his laptop. He stars in it as well, and I think I fell in love with him even more after seeing how he looked in college, bright orange corduroys and all. We didn't feel like going to a bar or a club, so we sat through the only thing on tv: It was a Hitchcock film, his only screwball comedy, called Mr. and Mrs. Smith. We laughed about the ridiculous plot and how everything was magically resolved as Mrs. Smith crossed her skis at the end. If only life were that simple.
I went out to California a month later and he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. We've talked for several hours every night since, and have only gone one five-day stretch over the last four years without at least a text message back and forth. I must admit, we haven't yet run out of things to say. And I hope we never do, because today he asked me to spend the rest of my life talking to him, and I wouldn't want it any other way.
Oh and if you haven't figured it out yet, H is Jon. And Jon is H. I love them both equally.
*Jasmine's response via twitter: @cadiz12 @jonmuller I knew it was Jon only because I know how funny he is. Also, your 1,000 questions about him were pretty transparent ;)
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
i don't have enough fingers and toes to count all the patients who come in with strokes or chest pains every day
"I just don't understand it! How did my cholesterol get all the way up to 285?"
"Could it be because you are addicted to CANDY?!?"
"Aw, c'mon, I never smoked and I barely drink; a little something sweet now and then is my only vice!"
"Now and then? Can I remind you of the cookies in your lunch bag, the popsicles and ice cream after dinner, and don't get me started on your daily peanut butter and jelly sandwich--there's one teaspoon of peanut butter and four of jelly."
"I only use a little bit of jelly! Just a tiny bit!"
"Blood work does not lie. Unless someone stuck an IV full of sugar into your arm while you were sleeping..."
"Don't exaggerate. Look, I'll just get this prescription the doctor gave me and you'll see how fast I bring my cholesterol back down to under 200."
"You can't just take a pill, you have to CHANGE YOUR HABITS. Peanut butter only every other day, just one cup of tea, stop eating so much bread, don't eat cashews by the can while you watch tv, and for God's sake stop with the candy. I've been telling you this stuff for the last ten years! Oh, and you're gonna start eating Cheerios every day."
"CHEERIOS? How about a cereal with a little more sugar?'
Monday, September 14, 2009
27--that's three nine year olds
Oh brother, of course the year I fail to post on your actual birthday is the year you decide to check in on my blog. But it was Saturday night, man! I have a life, you know. H and I were busy partying with mom and dad at a church-basement birthday bash for an 88-year-old. Yep, that's the kind of stuff you can look forward to in a few years. Live it up while you can.
I'm just kidding, the party was really nice. I was awestruck that my godmother, EB and 200 members of their clan all dressed in their grandmother's favorite color, teal (boys wore ties, girls Indian outfits), put together a slide show and gave heartfelt speeches about how phenomenal the guest of honor has been to them all their lives. During the festivities, mom turned to me and said, "When I'm 88, there will only be three of you." Any chance you can come home and take the heat off me for like five minutes?
It was odd for all of us to be together at Not Your Birthday party on your actual birthday. And because everyone was speaking in Gujarati, I had no idea what was being said. So I had about three hours with my own thoughts.
Yes, I'm wearing your old scrubs every day (and if you still think I'm going to pay you by the hour for using them, you can keep waiting for it). Even though you never worked in my department, people keep asking how you are and it's funny for me to be known as your sister instead of the other way around for once. One of the girls training me even said she was trained by you. I can't imagine you training anyone on anything other than obscure football regulations and video-game cheats (Up, Down, Up, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, A, B, A, B, Select, Start). But when I think about it, you've taught me a lot: about living life for the moment, not caring so much about what people think and not tripping over myself by trying to do *the right thing* all the time. I just haven't been a very good student. Oh well, we all have our roles.
Another thing mom said at the birthday party was how it was so nice that the 88-year-old got to hear how much her family respects and loves her. Those kinds of speeches are often only made at funerals and who knows if the person ever knew how much people cared while she/he was alive. You're too cool for school and all, but it means a lot to me that you're not too cool to say you love me back when I say it before hanging up. Because the biggest thing I've learned from having you as a brother is that time is precious, people grow up and go far away and that I shouldn't waste a single opportunity to tell the ones I love how much they mean to me.
Happy birthday, you big dork.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
aw snap, the Auntie Patrol is locked and loaded
So this morning at like 6am, A and I were up on one of the floors of the hospital to see a nurse about a patient, and I spotted one of the members of the Auntie Patrol sitting at a nurse's unit with her nose buried in a chart.
The good little Indian girl that I am (You MUST "time-wish" anyone who is more than ten years older than you after church, no exceptions), I went up to her and gave her a hug. But while she was stunned I took off for the other end of the ward, realizing that if I weren't so well-trained I could have walked right past her and she never even would have noticed me. Damn internal programming.
I called my mom during break and warned her about the run-in so she could prepare. "Oh no," was all she had to say.
A understood the implications of what went down and shook her head about the "way 'the community' works." It's only a matter of time before the rumor mill starts churning and my mom has to deflect talk about about what a shame, with my degree from that live-away-from-home university, it is that I am doing something that has nothing to do with said degree. I reminded her that I am still freelancing in my field and that I plan on more school as soon as I figure out what, and hello, BENEFITS? We don't have to make excuses to anyone. But I hate to have put her in a position where my parents will likely be judged. Because a) they didn't create this craptasticular economy b) letting me follow my own path actually made them better parents c) shit happens.
There's a chance the Auntie Patrol will exercise some discretion and refrain from slinging backhanded compliments about how getting into the medical field is such a great idea, even if it's so late, or casually mentioning that kids I used to babysit are already two years into medical school. But there surely will be commentary out of earshot. Who knows, maybe that's a good thing; it'll take their minds off wondering if my sexual orientation is the X factor keeping me from being married already.
I'm not terribly upset about this, because it's better than having one of them come in as my patient and see that I'm still working out the kinks on my stretcher-parking. Again, I know I don't have to explain myself to anybody. But seriously, what are the odds?
*"Time wish"= saying "Good [morning/evening]/Happy [Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year/Easter], Generic term for relation such as [Uncle/Auntie/Big Sister/Big Brother]." Those kids who did not act accordingly back in the day were perceived as snotty little brats who were not raised properly.
The good little Indian girl that I am (You MUST "time-wish" anyone who is more than ten years older than you after church, no exceptions), I went up to her and gave her a hug. But while she was stunned I took off for the other end of the ward, realizing that if I weren't so well-trained I could have walked right past her and she never even would have noticed me. Damn internal programming.
I called my mom during break and warned her about the run-in so she could prepare. "Oh no," was all she had to say.
A understood the implications of what went down and shook her head about the "way 'the community' works." It's only a matter of time before the rumor mill starts churning and my mom has to deflect talk about about what a shame, with my degree from that live-away-from-home university, it is that I am doing something that has nothing to do with said degree. I reminded her that I am still freelancing in my field and that I plan on more school as soon as I figure out what, and hello, BENEFITS? We don't have to make excuses to anyone. But I hate to have put her in a position where my parents will likely be judged. Because a) they didn't create this craptasticular economy b) letting me follow my own path actually made them better parents c) shit happens.
There's a chance the Auntie Patrol will exercise some discretion and refrain from slinging backhanded compliments about how getting into the medical field is such a great idea, even if it's so late, or casually mentioning that kids I used to babysit are already two years into medical school. But there surely will be commentary out of earshot. Who knows, maybe that's a good thing; it'll take their minds off wondering if my sexual orientation is the X factor keeping me from being married already.
I'm not terribly upset about this, because it's better than having one of them come in as my patient and see that I'm still working out the kinks on my stretcher-parking. Again, I know I don't have to explain myself to anybody. But seriously, what are the odds?
*"Time wish"= saying "Good [morning/evening]/Happy [Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year/Easter], Generic term for relation such as [Uncle/Auntie/Big Sister/Big Brother]." Those kids who did not act accordingly back in the day were perceived as snotty little brats who were not raised properly.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
home is where i'm at
Whenever I'm living outside my parents' home, I have a confusion about what to call it. If I tell my mom I'm coming to her house, she snaps Oh, so all of a sudden this isn't your home? And then when I call the condo "The Condo," H is like so this isn't your home? So I've decided that wherever I'm headed is Home, like the concept behind Air Force One.
The first week at the hospital is over. I was so exhausted that I spent the majority of my time back at the condo sleeping, which I'm sure was awesome for H, whom I barely got any time to talk to all week. We're heading to my parents' house today for barbecue and maybe even some baking, but I didn't roll out of bed until noon so my mother is annoyed. She wanted us to come over early. H wants us to stay here longer so he could spend time with me when my eyes are actually open. I just wanted to clear out 600-some unread posts on my google reader (I've now got it down to 11, thankyouverymuch).
One thing I did catch with my eyes open was the pilot of Glee. Then we went back and watched the Director's Cut version (which explains weird comments like "you changed out of your uniform?" when there weren't any), and I better understood the premise. Cc told me that the show would make me feel happy inside, and darn tootin, she was right. I even spotted Lauren from So You Think You Can Dance in the "Rehab" number. I think this show is going to be very entertaining. And sad as it sounds, few things make me feel happy inside like really well-done television.
The first week at the hospital is over. I was so exhausted that I spent the majority of my time back at the condo sleeping, which I'm sure was awesome for H, whom I barely got any time to talk to all week. We're heading to my parents' house today for barbecue and maybe even some baking, but I didn't roll out of bed until noon so my mother is annoyed. She wanted us to come over early. H wants us to stay here longer so he could spend time with me when my eyes are actually open. I just wanted to clear out 600-some unread posts on my google reader (I've now got it down to 11, thankyouverymuch).
One thing I did catch with my eyes open was the pilot of Glee. Then we went back and watched the Director's Cut version (which explains weird comments like "you changed out of your uniform?" when there weren't any), and I better understood the premise. Cc told me that the show would make me feel happy inside, and darn tootin, she was right. I even spotted Lauren from So You Think You Can Dance in the "Rehab" number. I think this show is going to be very entertaining. And sad as it sounds, few things make me feel happy inside like really well-done television.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
shuteye does a body good
Sorry about the whinefest yesterday, and thanks for your comment, Supacoo. I got to sleep around 10:30 last night and it made an enormous difference in my outlook. And I'm starting to pick up on little things here and there (as they said I would), so that was nice. Today we were less slammed, so there was more time for chit chat; people do care to know what I'm about, after all. Though they don't readily seem to understand why my industry has become so bad that I'm willing to start this completely different job from scratch. I'm guessing it's been quite some time since they've been without steady work and/or healthcare benefits. Which is probably a good example of the job security.
I'm going to start taking advantage of my free hospital fitness center as soon as they can process the paperwork. Living in suburbia means no more booking it from one place to another on foot because I'm late, so I'll need the scheduled exercise. At 1:30 (when I get off these days), the place will be mostly empty!
I'm going to start taking advantage of my free hospital fitness center as soon as they can process the paperwork. Living in suburbia means no more booking it from one place to another on foot because I'm late, so I'll need the scheduled exercise. At 1:30 (when I get off these days), the place will be mostly empty!
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
here i am, back again
The way I'm feeling today is due to sleep deficiency (it's not easy to make yourself fall asleep by 9 p.m.) and fatigue from two days of feeling like a deer caught in headlights. On roller skates.
There are so many this-is-an-exception-to-the-rule-don't-write-this-part-down moments in the job I'm trying to learn that people say it takes a minimum of 90 days to get it all straight. Of course I assumed that amount of time did not apply to me; I expect myself to master things on the first or second attempt and not picking things up right away sends me into a shame spiral. This has happened at every job, and yet it catches me by surprise every time.
But this time I feel a sadness on top of the disappointment and confusion. I got smacked in the face by just how totally out of my element I am. During break someone was reading a gossip mag that mentioned something pertaining to my old career she thought was surprising. I saw an opportunity to show I'm not totally brainless (despite the number of times I ask people to re-explain certain things), so I shared some behind-the-scenes knowledge from my old job. The person um-hmmmed. I started to elaborate, but she cut me off with a comment about Heidi Pratt's boob job.
At that moment it was clear nobody in this new arena is going to give a blob of zebra poop about my old career or how good I had been in it. It's the feeling I'd get at Indian parties when some Uncle asked what I studied and when he heard that it wasn't medicine or law or engineering, he'd put on the death-in-the-family expression, say "that's nice beta" and start talking to somebody else as if I had wasted his time. As much as it really shouldn't matter, that shit makes me think of myself as a zero for a long time.
I realize that's silly and this is an adjustment. I'm sure I'll go through some kind of mourning period, too. But reality is nipping at my ankles. It's like I got caught in a loop right back to when I started this blog in 2005: living at my parents' house while barely covering a fat mortgage on someplace else, and working hours that designate the tv as my main extra-curricular companion. My conversations with H don't even benefit from a time-zone difference. But at least I'll get to see him on the weekends.
I am also looped back to where I was back in 2000, the place where I spent four years as a volunteer and another four years as a seasonal employee trying to convince myself that a career in medicine could be viable for me. I decided it couldn't and bucked my parents' expectations to go in my own direction. For years I busted my behind for peanuts, crap hours and no vacation time, hoping it'd eventually feel rewarding. In return, I got laid off three times in three years and had to vie against the best as well as the least expensive competition in my industry.
This time around, medicine seems more viable--what with all the real-world experience I have now--and at least I secured a steady part-time position. I had my shot at what I thought I wanted to be when I grew up, and it wasn't a cakewalk, either. I guess I have to throw the sense of entitlement I built up from working hard all that time into the trunk, lock it up and suck it up. It's nice that mom and dad have held back from saying they'd told me so.
There are so many this-is-an-exception-to-the-rule-don't-write-this-part-down moments in the job I'm trying to learn that people say it takes a minimum of 90 days to get it all straight. Of course I assumed that amount of time did not apply to me; I expect myself to master things on the first or second attempt and not picking things up right away sends me into a shame spiral. This has happened at every job, and yet it catches me by surprise every time.
But this time I feel a sadness on top of the disappointment and confusion. I got smacked in the face by just how totally out of my element I am. During break someone was reading a gossip mag that mentioned something pertaining to my old career she thought was surprising. I saw an opportunity to show I'm not totally brainless (despite the number of times I ask people to re-explain certain things), so I shared some behind-the-scenes knowledge from my old job. The person um-hmmmed. I started to elaborate, but she cut me off with a comment about Heidi Pratt's boob job.
At that moment it was clear nobody in this new arena is going to give a blob of zebra poop about my old career or how good I had been in it. It's the feeling I'd get at Indian parties when some Uncle asked what I studied and when he heard that it wasn't medicine or law or engineering, he'd put on the death-in-the-family expression, say "that's nice beta" and start talking to somebody else as if I had wasted his time. As much as it really shouldn't matter, that shit makes me think of myself as a zero for a long time.
I realize that's silly and this is an adjustment. I'm sure I'll go through some kind of mourning period, too. But reality is nipping at my ankles. It's like I got caught in a loop right back to when I started this blog in 2005: living at my parents' house while barely covering a fat mortgage on someplace else, and working hours that designate the tv as my main extra-curricular companion. My conversations with H don't even benefit from a time-zone difference. But at least I'll get to see him on the weekends.
I am also looped back to where I was back in 2000, the place where I spent four years as a volunteer and another four years as a seasonal employee trying to convince myself that a career in medicine could be viable for me. I decided it couldn't and bucked my parents' expectations to go in my own direction. For years I busted my behind for peanuts, crap hours and no vacation time, hoping it'd eventually feel rewarding. In return, I got laid off three times in three years and had to vie against the best as well as the least expensive competition in my industry.
This time around, medicine seems more viable--what with all the real-world experience I have now--and at least I secured a steady part-time position. I had my shot at what I thought I wanted to be when I grew up, and it wasn't a cakewalk, either. I guess I have to throw the sense of entitlement I built up from working hard all that time into the trunk, lock it up and suck it up. It's nice that mom and dad have held back from saying they'd told me so.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
desk jobs + unemployment + dvr = i'm soft, y'all
Yes, so my first full day of hospital work kicked my ass.
Obscure back and leg muscles I didn't know I had are already whining, and I've barely passed the 13-hour mark on the start of my day. Seriously, I probably sat down for a total of an hour (including lunch, during which my trainer, A, and I went for a walk outside).
I didn't have much of an idea of what I'd be doing, save for the fact that I'd shadow A and that a lot of people there think she's irreplaceable (she's switching to part-time so she can go back to school). A happens to have been my P.S. II (high school freshman science) lab partner. So we both knew the other wasn't a dummy, but not much else. However we had similar upbringings (she's Indian and Filipina) and as soon as she made sure I wasn't one of the freaks who've never seen Labryinth, we got along great.
Here's some stuff I learned today, which A says she still does*, even after nine years in the biz:
1) I don't have much clinical experience, as I've been a Manager of Reports all these years, not a licensed medical anything. So I really need an anatomy/physiology refresher and take an excavation trip into the recesses of my brain where I chucked all that medical terminology I learned at my old hospital job at the Breast Center, which was almost a decade ago. But you all can rest assured that everything I write will be spelled correctly. (Nurses don't have a dictionary handy, nor do they really have time for that nonsense.)
2) Things were moving and shaking so fast that I abandoned my tall skinny reporter's notebook somewhere during hour Two. God knows who walked off with the pen, anyway. I think I'm just going to observe for a week and then contemplate writing anything down.
3) I stopped counting the number of pairs of surgical gloves (for my own protection whenever I dealt with a patient) I put on and took off today somewhere around 38. That was before lunch. Every time you take them off you're supposed to wash your hands. Are you guys aware that you're should wash your hands with soap for 15 to 20 seconds? Have you ever timed yourselves? IT IS LONGER THAN YOU THINK. And speeding through the A-B-C song constitutes cheating.
4) I used to bitch about how taxing my old desk jobs were, being shackled to a desk for six hours at a time with knots in my back and aches in my head. It's an entirely different round-robin tourney when your body has to work nearly as hard as your brain and they both have to work TOGETHER. Plus, with a desk job you can at least check twitter.
5) Oh and those reports we slaved over day and night all the time? Nobody was going to maybe even die if we made the wrong call or were late or forgot something. Why the hell did everyone get so effing bent out of shape about that stuff? Oh, the ulcers I got started on back then...
Lastly, let me say that I have ABSOFRIGGINGLOUTELY NO IDEA how my mother, at her I-should-be-a-grandmother-by-now age, manages to put in 16 hours a day on four hours of sleep. I was on my feet for eight hours and practically collapsed upon entering the house. I didn't exactly want to make dinner, but felt like a jerk for even thinking about sticking my mom with it after such a day, which she faces more often than she should. For cheeseburgers' sake, woman, have I thanked you today?
As if on cue, as I typed that last bit, my mother called from her office to tell me to go to bed. It has become clear that A knows her stuff and I want to learn from the best, so I requested to work whenever she works--which is the 5 a.m to 1:30 p.m. shift. So guess who's setting her alarm for 3:30 right after she irons her scrubs?
I promise to catch up on the blogs this weekend when I'm back in the city with broadband access. Dialup refuses to acknowledge my Google Reader.
*Today we learned about trismus, after the obvious clarification that it wasn't a Christmas-related disease.
Obscure back and leg muscles I didn't know I had are already whining, and I've barely passed the 13-hour mark on the start of my day. Seriously, I probably sat down for a total of an hour (including lunch, during which my trainer, A, and I went for a walk outside).
I didn't have much of an idea of what I'd be doing, save for the fact that I'd shadow A and that a lot of people there think she's irreplaceable (she's switching to part-time so she can go back to school). A happens to have been my P.S. II (high school freshman science) lab partner. So we both knew the other wasn't a dummy, but not much else. However we had similar upbringings (she's Indian and Filipina) and as soon as she made sure I wasn't one of the freaks who've never seen Labryinth, we got along great.
Here's some stuff I learned today, which A says she still does*, even after nine years in the biz:
1) I don't have much clinical experience, as I've been a Manager of Reports all these years, not a licensed medical anything. So I really need an anatomy/physiology refresher and take an excavation trip into the recesses of my brain where I chucked all that medical terminology I learned at my old hospital job at the Breast Center, which was almost a decade ago. But you all can rest assured that everything I write will be spelled correctly. (Nurses don't have a dictionary handy, nor do they really have time for that nonsense.)
2) Things were moving and shaking so fast that I abandoned my tall skinny reporter's notebook somewhere during hour Two. God knows who walked off with the pen, anyway. I think I'm just going to observe for a week and then contemplate writing anything down.
3) I stopped counting the number of pairs of surgical gloves (for my own protection whenever I dealt with a patient) I put on and took off today somewhere around 38. That was before lunch. Every time you take them off you're supposed to wash your hands. Are you guys aware that you're should wash your hands with soap for 15 to 20 seconds? Have you ever timed yourselves? IT IS LONGER THAN YOU THINK. And speeding through the A-B-C song constitutes cheating.
4) I used to bitch about how taxing my old desk jobs were, being shackled to a desk for six hours at a time with knots in my back and aches in my head. It's an entirely different round-robin tourney when your body has to work nearly as hard as your brain and they both have to work TOGETHER. Plus, with a desk job you can at least check twitter.
5) Oh and those reports we slaved over day and night all the time? Nobody was going to maybe even die if we made the wrong call or were late or forgot something. Why the hell did everyone get so effing bent out of shape about that stuff? Oh, the ulcers I got started on back then...
Lastly, let me say that I have ABSOFRIGGINGLOUTELY NO IDEA how my mother, at her I-should-be-a-grandmother-by-now age, manages to put in 16 hours a day on four hours of sleep. I was on my feet for eight hours and practically collapsed upon entering the house. I didn't exactly want to make dinner, but felt like a jerk for even thinking about sticking my mom with it after such a day, which she faces more often than she should. For cheeseburgers' sake, woman, have I thanked you today?
As if on cue, as I typed that last bit, my mother called from her office to tell me to go to bed. It has become clear that A knows her stuff and I want to learn from the best, so I requested to work whenever she works--which is the 5 a.m to 1:30 p.m. shift. So guess who's setting her alarm for 3:30 right after she irons her scrubs?
I promise to catch up on the blogs this weekend when I'm back in the city with broadband access. Dialup refuses to acknowledge my Google Reader.
*Today we learned about trismus, after the obvious clarification that it wasn't a Christmas-related disease.
Monday, August 31, 2009
a new, old leaf
After eight months of riding the freelance rollercoaster without health insurance, I officially start a new job tomorrow--and it's completely out of the field to which that I've devoted the last decade of my life.
It's sad for me to leave my career, but I'm still hoping to keep a toe in the pond of my withering industry by doing projects here and there because the new job is supposed to be part-time once I've been trained. We'll have to see how that goes. But if this ends up being a real goodbye, I won't be heartbroken. A long time ago I had visited the dungeon's illustrious tower on a school field trip and turned to a friend and said, "I'm going to work here someday." And I did. Sure, I sort of referred to it as a torture chamber (out of love, of course), however it really was quite an experience and I learned so much. So I'll have no regrets.
Today I went to an eight-hour new-employee orientation and got so indoctrinated about stuff like biohazard safety precautions and the perils of breaching confidentiality that I'm terrified to divulge details beyond that I'm working as a liaison between the paperwork people and the clinical professionals in a hospital. At least that's what I think I'm going to do; the department is in transition and no one is sure what this position is going to morph into.
While this is a new step, I'm falling back into some old patterns: a) I'm going to spend most of the time at my parents' house in suburbia while H stays in the city so we'll be back to long distance, though 40 miles is much better than 2,000. b) I'm slated to be working nights 2:30 to 11 p.m., which to some of you will sound awfully familiar. Perhaps I have always been destined to work nights.
But there's a definite plus: Even though I don't have any official medical training, I get to wear scrubs, so that adds another 20 minutes of sleep in the morning that I'd normally waste trying to figure out what to wear. Score!
It's sad for me to leave my career, but I'm still hoping to keep a toe in the pond of my withering industry by doing projects here and there because the new job is supposed to be part-time once I've been trained. We'll have to see how that goes. But if this ends up being a real goodbye, I won't be heartbroken. A long time ago I had visited the dungeon's illustrious tower on a school field trip and turned to a friend and said, "I'm going to work here someday." And I did. Sure, I sort of referred to it as a torture chamber (out of love, of course), however it really was quite an experience and I learned so much. So I'll have no regrets.
Today I went to an eight-hour new-employee orientation and got so indoctrinated about stuff like biohazard safety precautions and the perils of breaching confidentiality that I'm terrified to divulge details beyond that I'm working as a liaison between the paperwork people and the clinical professionals in a hospital. At least that's what I think I'm going to do; the department is in transition and no one is sure what this position is going to morph into.
While this is a new step, I'm falling back into some old patterns: a) I'm going to spend most of the time at my parents' house in suburbia while H stays in the city so we'll be back to long distance, though 40 miles is much better than 2,000. b) I'm slated to be working nights 2:30 to 11 p.m., which to some of you will sound awfully familiar. Perhaps I have always been destined to work nights.
But there's a definite plus: Even though I don't have any official medical training, I get to wear scrubs, so that adds another 20 minutes of sleep in the morning that I'd normally waste trying to figure out what to wear. Score!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
fruits of the garden
I realize that I haven't posted any pictures of how the garden is doing:
July 2:
My mom's friend got her some solar-powered lights that have these nylon flowerpetals that spin with the wind. They give the place a nice splash of color. However, I may have put them together wrong because the lights do not turn on.
July 24:
Please excuse the weeds.
We also had red and yellow peppers, but they were planted in a small on-the-ground patch nearer to the house and THE BUNNIES got them. See why the maximum security was necessary?
The zucchini is always monstrous, as you can see by the foliage. We've been giving them away all over the place.
I always forget to take pictures of the stuff we pick before it's all cooked up and eaten. I prefer the green beans to the yellow.
August 6:
The burpless cucumbers have been delicious.
The tomatoes have yet to redden on the vine. I'm sure we'll have them lined up on the windowsill to ripen any day now.
Okra. Which I can only get H to eat in a gumbo, but that's it. Hey, you take what you can get.
Cut up, they look like little stars.
Why do they always say "two peas in a pod" I have yet to see pods with only two peas in them. Do I have the saying wrong?
We're not sure what that rounded-bottom gourd/squash thing is on the right, but it tasted good!
July 2:
My mom's friend got her some solar-powered lights that have these nylon flowerpetals that spin with the wind. They give the place a nice splash of color. However, I may have put them together wrong because the lights do not turn on.July 24:
Please excuse the weeds.
We also had red and yellow peppers, but they were planted in a small on-the-ground patch nearer to the house and THE BUNNIES got them. See why the maximum security was necessary?
The zucchini is always monstrous, as you can see by the foliage. We've been giving them away all over the place. 
I always forget to take pictures of the stuff we pick before it's all cooked up and eaten. I prefer the green beans to the yellow.August 6:
The burpless cucumbers have been delicious.
The tomatoes have yet to redden on the vine. I'm sure we'll have them lined up on the windowsill to ripen any day now.
Okra. Which I can only get H to eat in a gumbo, but that's it. Hey, you take what you can get.
Cut up, they look like little stars. 
Why do they always say "two peas in a pod" I have yet to see pods with only two peas in them. Do I have the saying wrong?
We're not sure what that rounded-bottom gourd/squash thing is on the right, but it tasted good!Friday, August 14, 2009
the legend continues
Today I turn 31. In about an hour, give or take ten minutes.
My brother called me last night, around midnight, and a little tipsy. He was trying to come up with a new name to call me, and decided on Ethel. He ended the conversation with a suggestion that I address everyone today with "Howdy." And he gave detailed instructions on voice inflection and delivery. You should see the stuff he comes up with when he's on surgical pain medication.
We are about to hop on a train to suburbia to see my parents and tonight we'll be enjoying the stylings of Yo-Yo Ma under the stars at Ravinia. But I just had to post a picture of what I got from H:
Since he downloaded the original Legend of Zelda for the Wii, I've been playing quite a bit of it (you know, in between attempts to find a job and whatnot). I nearly beat the game when I was 12, but it's taken awhile to get caught up. So H made a puzzle of the map for the game with the help of his good friend Eric all the way from New York, who has access to a super-rad laser. It burned the image of the map into the wood and then cut out all the pieces to H's puzzle specifications. It's a crutch to help me beat the game, but of course I have to work for it. More pictures to come.
Thank you all for your birthday messages and wishes!
Love,
Cadiz
My brother called me last night, around midnight, and a little tipsy. He was trying to come up with a new name to call me, and decided on Ethel. He ended the conversation with a suggestion that I address everyone today with "Howdy." And he gave detailed instructions on voice inflection and delivery. You should see the stuff he comes up with when he's on surgical pain medication.
We are about to hop on a train to suburbia to see my parents and tonight we'll be enjoying the stylings of Yo-Yo Ma under the stars at Ravinia. But I just had to post a picture of what I got from H:
Since he downloaded the original Legend of Zelda for the Wii, I've been playing quite a bit of it (you know, in between attempts to find a job and whatnot). I nearly beat the game when I was 12, but it's taken awhile to get caught up. So H made a puzzle of the map for the game with the help of his good friend Eric all the way from New York, who has access to a super-rad laser. It burned the image of the map into the wood and then cut out all the pieces to H's puzzle specifications. It's a crutch to help me beat the game, but of course I have to work for it. More pictures to come.
Thank you all for your birthday messages and wishes!
Love,
Cadiz
Sunday, August 09, 2009
at the very least, i'd been training for it since i learned to change the channel
I'm sure no one is keeping track, but it's been more than a month since my last post. What can I say? My dvr, Netflix queue and TCM/AMC are in need of constant attention. I used to feel guilty about all the tv I watch until a friend argued that I'm just soaking up all of that information and I will surely do something with it...someday.
Well maybe that day has come and gone. Last week, one of those marketing focus-group research companies called me in to sit on a panel on REALITY TELEVISION. I got to discuss tv, and at the end of the night somebody handed me an envelope full of cash.
It was as though I'd found my calling! How I would love to make a salary (with benefits!) yeah-ing or nay-ing tv proposals. I explained why a show about community theater would work best when focused on the lovable scamps from Nebraska instead of the trying-too-hard 15-minuters from Connecticut. With examples, of course: I managed to reference not one but SEVEN other reality-television gimmicks in the course of the fifteen minutes I spoke. And there was even a 12 Angry Men moment during which I convinced half the table that a particular idea would be a flop because it had even less sincerity than Rock of Love. I'm pretty sure I was born to do this.
Sad as that sounds, I've had a renewed sense of purpose all week and have been scrambling to harness it into something tangible. And I'm going to start just as soon as I get caught up on The Colbert Report.
Well maybe that day has come and gone. Last week, one of those marketing focus-group research companies called me in to sit on a panel on REALITY TELEVISION. I got to discuss tv, and at the end of the night somebody handed me an envelope full of cash.
It was as though I'd found my calling! How I would love to make a salary (with benefits!) yeah-ing or nay-ing tv proposals. I explained why a show about community theater would work best when focused on the lovable scamps from Nebraska instead of the trying-too-hard 15-minuters from Connecticut. With examples, of course: I managed to reference not one but SEVEN other reality-television gimmicks in the course of the fifteen minutes I spoke. And there was even a 12 Angry Men moment during which I convinced half the table that a particular idea would be a flop because it had even less sincerity than Rock of Love. I'm pretty sure I was born to do this.
Sad as that sounds, I've had a renewed sense of purpose all week and have been scrambling to harness it into something tangible. And I'm going to start just as soon as I get caught up on The Colbert Report.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
and i'm sure i'm not the only one who feels this way
When celebrities die, I feel sorry for their families. But when I heard Michael Jackson passed away, I truly felt a sadness though I'm not nearly his biggest fan. I was trying to explain this to H--who enjoys his music but doesn't feel much of a connection--and I wasn't able to put it into words.
But this afternoon as I sat and watched coverage of Michael Jackson's memorial service, I realized what it is: The guy is a big part of my personal soundtrack. Thriller and Bad were some of my first beloved cassette tapes, and I'm pretty sure my brother and I could still re-enact the choreography (and the dialogue) of Smooth Criminal. It's probably why my first impulse when I heard of Michael's death was to send him a text message.
During those long summer days after The Dukes of Hazzard was over and my mother had threatened bodily harm if my brother called her at work ONE MORE TIME to say how bored he was, there wasn't much to do but pop a movie into the old Betamax machine. Soap operas are hardly entertaining for a fifth-grader and a first-grader stuck inside without cable until 2:45. Especially when the first grader a) didn't like to read b) could only tolerate one board game a day c) ALWAYS decided on the film/entertainment even when pretending it was my turn and d) had an Approved Watching List of just three movies: Home Alone, Troop Beverly Hills and Moonwalker.
We watched Moonwalker a lot.
It didn't end there. He made me cut off the fingertips on one of my white gloves and put sequins on it to go with the white sock/black shoe ensemble required for video dancealongs. And though I was always reading a book, it was cute to look up and see his little legs imitating the steps. I smile just thinking about it.
My brother has been home visiting for about a week, and he's coming to stay at my place to hang out and catch up. It was a treasure last Christmas to find Troop Beverly Hills in the dvd bin at (of all places) the hardware store, but it made a phenomenal stocking stuffer. It'd be great to get Moonwalker and watch it with my brother one more time. Though I doubt he'll dust off any of those old moves. Well, maybe the spin, if I'm lucky.
The only example I can think of to put the passing of Michael Jackson into perspective for H is that it's a little like how it'll feel for him when longtime baseball announcer Vin Scully dies. H grew up listening to Vin call the games for his favorite team and says it's just not the same with anyone else at the mic. We've never actually met these people, but experiencing what they do best has become like a delicious, familiar smell: One whiff, and you're right back in your 1989 living room, laughing as your brother shuffles his feet, hoots and grabs his crotch in time to the television. It's not like the new music Michael Jackson might have made would be the same by any means, but acknowledging that he will never sing another song just solidifies the fact that those lazy summer days of dancing around are truly gone forever.
But this afternoon as I sat and watched coverage of Michael Jackson's memorial service, I realized what it is: The guy is a big part of my personal soundtrack. Thriller and Bad were some of my first beloved cassette tapes, and I'm pretty sure my brother and I could still re-enact the choreography (and the dialogue) of Smooth Criminal. It's probably why my first impulse when I heard of Michael's death was to send him a text message.
During those long summer days after The Dukes of Hazzard was over and my mother had threatened bodily harm if my brother called her at work ONE MORE TIME to say how bored he was, there wasn't much to do but pop a movie into the old Betamax machine. Soap operas are hardly entertaining for a fifth-grader and a first-grader stuck inside without cable until 2:45. Especially when the first grader a) didn't like to read b) could only tolerate one board game a day c) ALWAYS decided on the film/entertainment even when pretending it was my turn and d) had an Approved Watching List of just three movies: Home Alone, Troop Beverly Hills and Moonwalker.
We watched Moonwalker a lot.
It didn't end there. He made me cut off the fingertips on one of my white gloves and put sequins on it to go with the white sock/black shoe ensemble required for video dancealongs. And though I was always reading a book, it was cute to look up and see his little legs imitating the steps. I smile just thinking about it.
My brother has been home visiting for about a week, and he's coming to stay at my place to hang out and catch up. It was a treasure last Christmas to find Troop Beverly Hills in the dvd bin at (of all places) the hardware store, but it made a phenomenal stocking stuffer. It'd be great to get Moonwalker and watch it with my brother one more time. Though I doubt he'll dust off any of those old moves. Well, maybe the spin, if I'm lucky.
The only example I can think of to put the passing of Michael Jackson into perspective for H is that it's a little like how it'll feel for him when longtime baseball announcer Vin Scully dies. H grew up listening to Vin call the games for his favorite team and says it's just not the same with anyone else at the mic. We've never actually met these people, but experiencing what they do best has become like a delicious, familiar smell: One whiff, and you're right back in your 1989 living room, laughing as your brother shuffles his feet, hoots and grabs his crotch in time to the television. It's not like the new music Michael Jackson might have made would be the same by any means, but acknowledging that he will never sing another song just solidifies the fact that those lazy summer days of dancing around are truly gone forever.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
all we've got to give is love and hard labor
When my parents bought this house 21 years ago, one of the draws was the raised garden in the back. In the southeast corner, it gets plenty of sun and it's regularly yielded delicious veggies from zucchini as big as my thigh to sweet cherry tomatoes. It's just not summer without hanging out in the back yard, working on the garden.
But this patch was in need of a major rehab. For one, my parents have cobbled scrap wood onto the sides to keep it together, and their efforts to keep out THE BUNNIES haven't always been successful. The entire corner is on a slope, and heavy rains wash a good chunk of the dirt away; they ended up putting about ten bags of high-quality soil onto it every year. Plus, the rocks and gravel from the bottom have slowly risen through the ranks due to years of frost heave.
H and I thought it'd be a nice project to build a sturdier, more level garden for my mom, even though our gardening knowledge tops out at how much we like to eat what grows there. But with a little Internet research and several trips to the hardware store, we began.
WEEK 1:
We hadn't banked on the four corner posts being buried deep and rooted in cement. We also did not estimate there would be THAT much dirt packed so tightly.
We had to buy a bigger, sturdier wheelbarrow. This was by far our best investment; it paid for itself about tenfold. This is about a quarter of the way dug out.
This was the FIRST dirt pile. It is difficult to describe how big it was. I am 5'3" and the peak of this came up to my shoulder. But H's youth spent building bike-riding dirt ramps came in mighty handy. Our method was to fill the wheelbarrow, push it into the center of the yard, take a running start up a ramp in the dirt and dump it without getting flipped over or dragged down.
It took us all weekend just to dig out the hole (taking breaks for the rain, of course). This is a little more than halfway done. We had to start another pile when it became too hard to get the wheelbarrow to the top of this one.
One major goal was for the new garden to be level instead of sloping with the hill. We weren't sure how far down to dig, but we knew it'd have to be deeper on the right side. It ended up being about 12-15 inches deep on the right and 6 or 7 inches on the left. H dug out the left side a little farther because my mom wanted the garden to be bigger.
WEEK 2:
It rained. We spent the whole weekend at the garden center coming up with a game plan. We ordered the bricks, which would be delivered the next week.
WEEK 3:
If we'd started building the garden at the depth we'd dug to, the brick wall wouldn't even show over the edge of the hole and it'd be less effective at keeping out THE BUNNIES. So we had to fill back in. Sigh. This was slightly less difficult as digging out--only because the dirt was no longer packed so tight. But after the rain it got packed anyway. This is the view from the top of the pile to the ground.
There were A TON of rocks in the dirt. So we built this "sifter" to pick them out, which was extremely time-consuming. My mom kept trying to help with the shoveling, but I was worried about her back so we gave her this job. It was just as hard, but didn't have as much heavy lifting. When it became apparent we wouldn't have time to sift it all, this dirt was designated to be "topsoil."
This is about a quarter of the way into filling the hole with the first pile. To put this in perspective, we calculated that (with two half-trucks of topsoil, plus the ten bags a year of peat moss my parents have added over the years) H and I had dug out FOUR THOUSAND POUNDS of dirt. And then we had to put most of it back into the hole.
Making it level was H's personal mission, so even though I'm in this photo I can't take much credit for all the work (it took forever) to get it all even. At this point, we had filled in most of the hole and started to tamp down the part on which the bricks would lie. We called my mom's friend's husband who is a bricklayer and he said that would be a good idea, as well putting down a layer of pea gravel and sand under the bricks.
The person who helped us at the garden center had said we didn't need the gravel or sand, but at that point we'd rather have been safe than sorry if the whole thing sank or collapsed after a few seasons of hard rain. Plus we trusted the bricklayer more than the clerk at the store.
After the project was finished, it came to light that the bricklayer thought we were building a patio, not a garden wall. We could have just laid the bricks down on the grass because "it's not like people were going to walk on it." Lesson learned. But we would have sat down and cried if the whole thing fell apart later, so we don't regret the extra work to get it right. Hundreds of measurements have confirmed that it is indeed perfectly level.
We originally ordered enough bricks for a three-tiered wall. As we started industrial-strength-glueing the stones, we thought it would look better/be harder on THE BUNNIES if we made it four layers. And when we went back to the garden store, our bricks were on sale! So we purchased enough for the last layer and got back the difference in price on the ones we had bought earlier, a savings of nearly $200!
Finishing the wall (it was nearly dark, but we got it done) made me jump for joy. Kudos to H who was able to pull off this action shot with very little ambient light.
WEEK 4:
Raining. Again. We bought more seedlings because the original ones were starting to wilt in their containers. This project was taking longer than expected.
WEEK 5:
We finally filled the garden back up with dirt, then topped it with "sifted" dirt. If we were going to do this again, we would have stopped and thought longer before grabbing the shovels--the highest-quality dirt actually ended up at the BOTTOM of our new garden. But because my parents had added so much soil over the years, we hope that it will still be good.
We spent a lot of time thinking about how we were going to protect the garden from THE BUNNIES. In estimating the amount of bricks, we miscalculated just a little and ended up two bricks short. This became the "doorway" (we didn't want my mom to have to climb in and out over the poultry netting). We fashioned this "gate" out of heavy-duty steel shelf-mounting rails and a screen-door protector. It's going to take some damn intrepid THE BUNNIES to get into this garden.
After the netting and stakes (we piled more dirt against the netting so THE BUNNIES can't climb up and under it) were in place, it was time to plant! We placed plastic stepping stones in strategic places for kneeling and walking.
Let's hope it grows.
But this patch was in need of a major rehab. For one, my parents have cobbled scrap wood onto the sides to keep it together, and their efforts to keep out THE BUNNIES haven't always been successful. The entire corner is on a slope, and heavy rains wash a good chunk of the dirt away; they ended up putting about ten bags of high-quality soil onto it every year. Plus, the rocks and gravel from the bottom have slowly risen through the ranks due to years of frost heave.
WEEK 1:
We hadn't banked on the four corner posts being buried deep and rooted in cement. We also did not estimate there would be THAT much dirt packed so tightly.
We had to buy a bigger, sturdier wheelbarrow. This was by far our best investment; it paid for itself about tenfold. This is about a quarter of the way dug out.
This was the FIRST dirt pile. It is difficult to describe how big it was. I am 5'3" and the peak of this came up to my shoulder. But H's youth spent building bike-riding dirt ramps came in mighty handy. Our method was to fill the wheelbarrow, push it into the center of the yard, take a running start up a ramp in the dirt and dump it without getting flipped over or dragged down.
It took us all weekend just to dig out the hole (taking breaks for the rain, of course). This is a little more than halfway done. We had to start another pile when it became too hard to get the wheelbarrow to the top of this one.
One major goal was for the new garden to be level instead of sloping with the hill. We weren't sure how far down to dig, but we knew it'd have to be deeper on the right side. It ended up being about 12-15 inches deep on the right and 6 or 7 inches on the left. H dug out the left side a little farther because my mom wanted the garden to be bigger.WEEK 2:
It rained. We spent the whole weekend at the garden center coming up with a game plan. We ordered the bricks, which would be delivered the next week.
WEEK 3:
If we'd started building the garden at the depth we'd dug to, the brick wall wouldn't even show over the edge of the hole and it'd be less effective at keeping out THE BUNNIES. So we had to fill back in. Sigh. This was slightly less difficult as digging out--only because the dirt was no longer packed so tight. But after the rain it got packed anyway. This is the view from the top of the pile to the ground.
There were A TON of rocks in the dirt. So we built this "sifter" to pick them out, which was extremely time-consuming. My mom kept trying to help with the shoveling, but I was worried about her back so we gave her this job. It was just as hard, but didn't have as much heavy lifting. When it became apparent we wouldn't have time to sift it all, this dirt was designated to be "topsoil."
This is about a quarter of the way into filling the hole with the first pile. To put this in perspective, we calculated that (with two half-trucks of topsoil, plus the ten bags a year of peat moss my parents have added over the years) H and I had dug out FOUR THOUSAND POUNDS of dirt. And then we had to put most of it back into the hole.
Making it level was H's personal mission, so even though I'm in this photo I can't take much credit for all the work (it took forever) to get it all even. At this point, we had filled in most of the hole and started to tamp down the part on which the bricks would lie. We called my mom's friend's husband who is a bricklayer and he said that would be a good idea, as well putting down a layer of pea gravel and sand under the bricks.
The person who helped us at the garden center had said we didn't need the gravel or sand, but at that point we'd rather have been safe than sorry if the whole thing sank or collapsed after a few seasons of hard rain. Plus we trusted the bricklayer more than the clerk at the store.
After the project was finished, it came to light that the bricklayer thought we were building a patio, not a garden wall. We could have just laid the bricks down on the grass because "it's not like people were going to walk on it." Lesson learned. But we would have sat down and cried if the whole thing fell apart later, so we don't regret the extra work to get it right. Hundreds of measurements have confirmed that it is indeed perfectly level.
We originally ordered enough bricks for a three-tiered wall. As we started industrial-strength-glueing the stones, we thought it would look better/be harder on THE BUNNIES if we made it four layers. And when we went back to the garden store, our bricks were on sale! So we purchased enough for the last layer and got back the difference in price on the ones we had bought earlier, a savings of nearly $200!
Finishing the wall (it was nearly dark, but we got it done) made me jump for joy. Kudos to H who was able to pull off this action shot with very little ambient light.WEEK 4:
Raining. Again. We bought more seedlings because the original ones were starting to wilt in their containers. This project was taking longer than expected.
WEEK 5:
We finally filled the garden back up with dirt, then topped it with "sifted" dirt. If we were going to do this again, we would have stopped and thought longer before grabbing the shovels--the highest-quality dirt actually ended up at the BOTTOM of our new garden. But because my parents had added so much soil over the years, we hope that it will still be good.
We spent a lot of time thinking about how we were going to protect the garden from THE BUNNIES. In estimating the amount of bricks, we miscalculated just a little and ended up two bricks short. This became the "doorway" (we didn't want my mom to have to climb in and out over the poultry netting). We fashioned this "gate" out of heavy-duty steel shelf-mounting rails and a screen-door protector. It's going to take some damn intrepid THE BUNNIES to get into this garden.
After the netting and stakes (we piled more dirt against the netting so THE BUNNIES can't climb up and under it) were in place, it was time to plant! We placed plastic stepping stones in strategic places for kneeling and walking.
Let's hope it grows.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
m.i.a. for a little bit longer
Okay so I have to make this one quick; my dad's niece, her husband and 1-year-old are taking their first States-side tour from Dubai. They will be the first and only blood relatives we've had for a visit since my Nani lived with us for a year in the mid-'80s, so I've been in suburbia for the last several days overseeing the completion of home improvements that have been languishing unfinished for decades. (Seriously, if you want to finally get that box of tiles in the basement up onto the kitchen backsplash, just tell your dad that some long-lost relatives are flying in and you'll be amazed how fast it gets done.)
As for Citibank, I finally realized that they don't give a flying monkey dung about helping me; why would they lower my payments when they can pile on the late fees instead? I took out a loan from the only reliable bank in town, Mom & Dad LLC, got current and as soon as the family visit is over I'm going to try and get into one of those programs some other way. And find myself any kind of job with health insurance (those of you who are covered but have been putting off going to the doctor, get your heads out of your behinds and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES). I've promised my dad that I will never speak to a Citibank representative ever again. I have thirty days, starting next week.
But I have about thirty seconds left to be on the computer--my childhood bedroom is not going to clean itself.
As for Citibank, I finally realized that they don't give a flying monkey dung about helping me; why would they lower my payments when they can pile on the late fees instead? I took out a loan from the only reliable bank in town, Mom & Dad LLC, got current and as soon as the family visit is over I'm going to try and get into one of those programs some other way. And find myself any kind of job with health insurance (those of you who are covered but have been putting off going to the doctor, get your heads out of your behinds and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES). I've promised my dad that I will never speak to a Citibank representative ever again. I have thirty days, starting next week.
But I have about thirty seconds left to be on the computer--my childhood bedroom is not going to clean itself.
Monday, June 01, 2009
meet me at the flagpole after school
To all of you who emailed me privately, thanks so much for the support. And those of you who thought I didn't properly convey the utter WTF-ness of the firey hoop-jumping spectacle I've been put through the last few months by Citibank, I'm sorry. It was a lot longer and had more curses in it, but toward the end I started thinking about people out there who have it so much worse and dialed down the bitchfest a little.
I've logged in another three hours on the phone with them today, starting at 8 a.m. when they called. The first person spent 15 minutes describing this program I can get into and what I need to do to get into it and then at the very end realized it only applies to people who have regained employment and need a break to catch up.
I was transferred around, found out my credit score actually IS in the toilet now and then was told I need to re-fax my proof of unemployment AGAIN. Then the number was rejected by the fax machine. Good times. Also that woman who said paying that money would clear my account of delinquency? No one seems to know who she is, and if I try to get them to rectify the situation, it's going to be a She said/She said thing resulting in me being screwed.
I have a bunch of of other, much more sunny things to post about (the hole in my mom's back yard, EB's wedding) coming up, but they'll have to wait until I get away from the dialup. In the meantime I'm thinking of writing the president a letter about how this bailed-out behemoth is using the billions it got. And for an extra-curricular activity to my full-time job of being on hold with them, I'm gathering a posse to kick Citibank's collective ass. Who's with me?
I've logged in another three hours on the phone with them today, starting at 8 a.m. when they called. The first person spent 15 minutes describing this program I can get into and what I need to do to get into it and then at the very end realized it only applies to people who have regained employment and need a break to catch up.
I was transferred around, found out my credit score actually IS in the toilet now and then was told I need to re-fax my proof of unemployment AGAIN. Then the number was rejected by the fax machine. Good times. Also that woman who said paying that money would clear my account of delinquency? No one seems to know who she is, and if I try to get them to rectify the situation, it's going to be a She said/She said thing resulting in me being screwed.
I have a bunch of of other, much more sunny things to post about (the hole in my mom's back yard, EB's wedding) coming up, but they'll have to wait until I get away from the dialup. In the meantime I'm thinking of writing the president a letter about how this bailed-out behemoth is using the billions it got. And for an extra-curricular activity to my full-time job of being on hold with them, I'm gathering a posse to kick Citibank's collective ass. Who's with me?
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