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.

So I texted him: How screwed up is it that you can miss someone you're [sic] never even met?

He replied: Only slightly.

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.

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 ;)

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?'

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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!

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

we may all be in the same boat now, but the irresponsible people had a lot more fun

The facts are these:

I purchased a property in 2005 that was near the top of my affordability range for three main reasons:

a) It's across the street from dungeon headquarters--saving me hundreds of dollars on gas, rolls of quarters, parking tickets and commute time.

b) It's in an up-and-coming tony area; research predicted a very favorable return in a few years.

c) I had lived with my parents in suburbia for several years while my friends all partied in the city just so I could have enough money for a place of my own.

Unfortunately:

a) My field of business started to slump, and a hiring freeze shut me out of permanent employment there.

b) It was hard to find another full-time gig, so I rented the place out for only 3/4 of what I had to pay every month.

c) I landed a great job--only to be laid off exactly two months later, on my birthday.

d) H was laid off the very next day. It had to be a sign.

However:

a) I got in on a startup company with a solid client and a lot of potential for success.

b) H moved out here to be with me and I could actually live in the place I owned.

Despite all that:

a) I wasn't making nearly as much money and H had a hard time finding something here, so I put the place on the market.

b) My realtor talked me into making a lot of expensive upgrades, such as stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, etc. to help the place sell more quickly.

c) I had to furnish the place from scratch to make it show-ready.

d) The housing market bubble burst.

Then things really started going downhill at the end of last year:

a) H's industry tanked and he is underemployed.

b) Our big client's investors took a hit in the stock market and it canceled our contract--decimating (literally) our company. I was laid off and apparently the boss is continuing on with our smaller clients by working 24 hours a day with unpaid interns.

c) My industry is imploding I am competing with the best and the brightest in my field for few jobs, and haven't secured anything better than short-term projects.

d) H and I do not have health insurance.

e) But what we do have is a FAT mortgage, which unemployment does not begin to cover, let alone living expenses.

f) Everything I managed to save while living with my parents has drained away.

g) The condo association raised our hefty assessments by 10%.

h) So many people are hassling us to get married, even though we barely have enough cash to purchase enough Betty Crocker for a cupcake tower.

i) My place has been on the market for 13 months, and while we show it at least twice a week, we haven't even had a ridiculously lowball offer since the fall.

j) I am 30 years old and my parents are up at night worrying about my future as though I were still 18. My mom refuses to give up her double shifts despite the detrimental eye strain because they're constantly helping us out. Knowing that they are still trying to take care of me at a time when I should be helping them ease into retirement makes me die a little inside every time I think about it.

k) Sitting at home alone all day, sending resumes into a black hole of no/negative responses makes me feel more worthless by the hour.

l) And then there's Citimortgage. Let me just say that I have been filling out forms and sitting on hold for at least ten hours a week since January. I am convinced they are transferring me around and putting me off (such as making me do a lot of work to get into a programs that apparently do not apply to the unemployed, but not finding out that fact until THE END of the three-month application process). All the while I receive three to four calls a day from their automated machine asking me to call them. And I must repeat my history to every new person I talk to.

Something broke on Wednesday, when I finally got a hold of the Citibank representative assigned to my account, a "Ms. Golden," extension 1809501, who the day before had left me a message that it was imperative I call her by the end of the day, then left the office at about 1 p.m.

Ms. Golden informed me (in a fake-sincere tone) that while I had been "pre-approved" by Heather for the Obama-backed program and Citibank cashed that first discounted check to get it started three weeks ago, I was not actually approved. Oh, and I am now thousands of dollars delinquent on payments that Heather told me would be pushed back to the end of my loan if I made that payment that day (May 10, Mother's Day, when I should have been spending time with my mother instead of being on hold with the damn bank).

Golden said that "this is a very large company and all of these programs are rolled out by the government. These things take weeks to be approved. Some of them are discontinued and new ones are rolled out all the time." Heather had also given me a phone number to the MAU department (no one seems to know what that stands for), which I had been trying to call to determine if I was indeed qualified or not, and was told someone would call me back in week. Golden told me it had been my responsibility to call and find out if I was in fact approved. When I brought up the MAU department, she snapped, "The MAU department does NOT take outside calls. And the MAU department DOES NOT CALL ANYONE."

I lost it. Here was the third time in five months I had been told I was "pre-approved" for a program that turned out to be bogus. Another problem is that the mortgage I was given looks like a second mortgage, but it is actually in first lien position. Most Citibank representatives blow me off when they see "second mortgage" and dismiss my appeal without looking at it carefully enough to see that I only have the one.

I got a little irate. Golden was prattling on about how she was "trying to work with me, help me," but I was at the end of my rope. Everything they've been telling me for months has turned out to be a sham. So I likely did interrupt her. (To be fair, my phone connection was wavering in and out that day, so there was a delay--any of you who talk to me when I'm there know what I'm saying. So when I heard silence I would begin to speak and she'd think I was interrupting her again.) Each time our call was disconnected, it would take upwards of 20 minutes of being transferred around (even though I had her extension) for me to get a hold of her again, if at all.

"Miss," Ms. Golden said, "When you are ready to LISTEN TO ME and stop INTERRUPTING, then you can call me back." Click.

I cried for the rest of the day.

another beautiful day in this neighborhood

H and I are off to suburbia for the holiday weekend. It's been absolutely gorgeous here in Illinois the past few days. And we have to make the most of it before the weather gets spiked with humidity. Our plan? Hang out in a huge hole in my parents' back yard for the next few days.

If all goes well, there will be a lovely garden plot where the hole is and we will return triumphant to the city to show off our rock-hard muscles--just in time for summer. Let's hope it doesn't rain.

Cadiz and H, you are the last team to arrive. I'm sorry to tell you that you have both been eliminated from the Race

Way back in March, Angel07 celebrated her birthday in style--Amazing Race style. She and her man, Mark, did a fantastic job thinking up challenges and putting together a very fun day for all of us.

You long-term readers know how much I love CBS's The Amazing Race. In fact there has been much talk in the comments over the years about getting teams together and how well we'd all do against one another. H and I were so convinced we'd be a perfect team that we even filmed and submitted an application video a few years ago. However when we watch it now, it's easy to see why we never got a call. Regardless, he's great with directions and I'm an excellent driver (I know everyone says that, but my dad's training and years of weaving through traffic at high speed combined with constantly having to turn around has made me quite effective under pressure).

That gorgeous afternoon--60 degrees in Mid-March!--we got to Mark's house about 30 seconds before the final check-in time. Phew! However one half of the Wonder Twins (dressed in matching green-and-white stripedy shirts and black winter vests) kept us waiting anyway; apparently there are a few exits off the highway with the same name and she had taken the wrong one.

We received a RACE INFO packet containing maps, instructions that explained the CLUES, ROAD BLOCKS (for one team member) and DETOURS (for both team members), and a pen.

The race took place in a suburban area with which H and I had zero familiarity. Other teams knew it well, but we were confident we'd win handily anyway. We rarely miss an episode of the show and know all the pitfalls. This may have worked against us.

Mark gathered us all in his driveway and gave us the first clue which led to the big mailbox in the center of the cul-de-sac. Everybody took off running for that red-and-yellow envelope.

H and I sprinted toward the car, where we got in and opened the clue: "Make your way on FOOT..."

It was a number-to-letter puzzle. Other racers just ran to the park to sit down and figure it out, but H and I were already behind, so we solved it while we ran. Splitting the paper and doing it together was a pretty quick method.


Mark was at the first location, a children's park with picnic tables, a jungle gym and some really confused kids. We whispered the solution in Mark's ear. He gave us our next clue:

All of the envelopes, boxes and clues were clearly marked with TAR colors. These guys were not playing around.

We were the second team to get this 60-piece kids' puzzle. Apparently in our haste, we didn't see the pile of scotch tape dispensers on the other table. Only after we heard other teams using it did we get some, which really helped. But that put us in second-to-last place. On the back of the completed puzzle was the next clue:

We ran back to the car. I am much more out of shape than I thought; H got to the car while I caught my breath and picked me up on our way to Wendy's, where we got our first DETOUR, "Eat it or Play it."

In "Eat it" each team member had to gulp down a small Wendy's Frosty. That was out because H has lactose issues. "Play it" was a simplified game of war, conducted by A07 and the Kind Dentist. We got very lucky and won right away, putting ourselves ahead of several teams who were already there. A07 handed us the next clue:

We took off to the train station. The thing that sucks about scavenger hunts and the like is that the first team to get there wastes a bunch of time determining the exact location while subsequent teams just look for the cars and follow.

No matter, I had Eagle Eye H with me, who found a plastic Easter egg right away.

Luckily ours had keys in it; decoy eggs contained paper clips.

The next clue was in an out-of-the-way-place. Next to the station was the stadium for a local minor-league baseball team. There were several lots, which were pretty much empty, but spot #15 was off to the side. We had learned our lesson about showing other people the way and parked out of sight. There was a yellow-and-red box under a spruce tree that contained the next clue, a ROADBLOCK, and Mark was chilling on a lawn chair behind the tree.

H has definitely seen more American movies than I have, so he did the challenge. But they were tricky questions, such as "Which singer/songwriter composed the music for Princess Bride and Wag the Dog?" another neither of us can remember, and the one H got correct, "Name the actors who played the aliens in Earth Girls Are Easy," even though he hasn't seen the film. Mark gave us the next clue, which ended up being the root of our demise:

"Keep your eyes open for the "light" at the end of the tunnel."

I mentioned that there were several parking lots at the Flyers' stadium, right? Some of them were cordoned off; more specifically the west-end lots were chained off. We headed to the west pell-mell and spent an UNGODLY amount of time driving/walking around lots that happened to be situated near an overpass, under which we could see the sun setting. I guess we overinterpreted the clue and were looking at the outside edge of the lots and near drainage pipes that could have been "tunnels." This took forever because we had to park the car and search on foot.

Unable to find the clue, we drove around again in a panic and almost hit an SUV coming around the corner who probably didn't expect anyone to be there. When we finally stumbled onto the next clue, it was (of course) at the first place we had stopped--and apparently walked right past somehow. A small plastic treasure box sitting at the base of the lightposts in the middle of the parking lot. There were several left, so we knew we were among the first to find it (this clue threw off a bunch of teams). We used the keys from the Easter egg to open it and get the next clue:

We headed back to Mark's house for what would be our final test. We were hot on the heels of the Wonder Twins, who at the last second changed from the left-hand turning lane to the right and took the other direction on the highway back to Mark's place. We continued to the left and went in what was the WRONG direction. This proved to be a big mistake, because traffic was building and we had to go all the way around before nearing the house.

When we did get there, we discovered the Wonder Twins arrived about 15 minutes before us and ultimately took first place. A few other teams had also finished the last challenge--a ROADBLOCK that I would do. However, pp and her boyfriend were still out there, so it wasn't over yet. My task? Match the country with its flag, a challenge often featured on the television program to see if racers could remember where they had been. This proved to be more difficult than I had imagined, especially because the last time I'd looked at an Almanac list of flags was probably in 1998. And there were eight more flags than spaces, some with only slight changes (like two for New Zealand with different-colored stars).

Kind Dentist was holding the answer key and telling us how many we each had wrong. I was hung up on Croatia, Kenya and Egypt. I should have changed them one at a time, strategically. D'Oh! As you can see, I had New Zealand (wrong-colored stars), Poland (the red is on the bottom), Belarus (not even close), England (much different than the U.K. flag) and Croatia (that's actually the Belarus flag) incorrect.

We came in last. It was a humbling moment for H and I, who thought we had this race in the bag. When I asked the Wonder Twin who completed that last challenge, I realized I never had a chance; she had been playing some sort of Facebook flag application game and locked it down in a matter of seconds. Who says Facebook is just a time waster?

Later we heard that two teams bypassed certain challenges altogether and just followed other teams. So technically we came in third to last. But it was a great experience. All that running around, navigating unfamiliar territory, putting our heads and hands together (however four adult hands are too many with a puzzle that small), there were plenty of opportunities to yell, but we kept cool and worked together despite the frustration. Which was comforting. Plus, we were able to redeem ourselves later with a couple rounds of Taboo.

One thing's for sure, though. I will never again look at Amazing Race contestants with disdain. Luck plays a much bigger part than I thought, and it's way more challenging than it looks on tv.

back, back from Cali, Cali

I had such a fabulous time in California. The first week, with cc and her family, made me feel as though I had just left the spa without even getting a massage (however we did get pedicures; I even splurged on the little flower design). Cc had such a bounty of delightful things to show me around San Diego, from her neighborhood (big ups to North Park/Hillcrest!) to Balboa Park and the world-famous zoo. Plus there was a lot of hanging out, a little WWE Monday Night Raw with b, shopping, and so much good food--not to mention the margaritas!

The first day I arrived, the temperature was near 90 degrees, so we decided to go to the beach. However I was not prepared for how cold the water was, so I only got in up to my knees. A few days later the temperature was dipping into the 50s. Cc said I saw the full spectrum of year-round SD weather in the span of a week.

We met up with one of H's sisters and her husband for dinner, and while I was the only one without my honey, somehow I was the target of the mariachi serenade. And then there was dessert: If you're in San Diego, be sure to check out Extraordinary Desserts. I've already had at least one dream about their Roasted Coconut Cream Torte, with more to come until I can get back there and have another piece. H's sister mentioned something about a crazy man who shot someone there a few years ago, but I'm telling you, those cakes are totally worth the risk.

At the end of the week, I hopped on the Amtrak to Los Angeles (the train goes by about 20 feet from the ocean in some spots) where H and his sister picked me up. We had a few very relaxing days with his family, during which I got to see a lot of adorable baby photos, spend quality time with his grandparents and have a few more In and Out Burgers--another thing I will probably be thinking about until I can get back there again.

But the main reason we were out in the Golden State was because H's buddy's sister asked him to photograph her wedding. She flew us out there and accommodated my trip to San Diego. During the event, I backed him up with another camera and was so busy I didn't have time to think about how I didn't really know anyone there.

Combined, we took about 2,200 shots that day. This is one of my favorites.