Another benefit of working from my kitchen table most mornings is the things I can visually observe. So last week I mentioned that I heard the birds; this week, I'm watching the spiders. Now before you go getting all arachnophobic on me (I'm thinking of someone in particular here...), let me 'splain.
When I left Stockton, I was given the most adorable office/garden plant by my amazing coworkers. It's called a Dish Garden and contains what looks to be three different plants all cohabiting nicely in a little wooden bucket. (Incidentally, my coworkers must have known that I'm not so good with houseplants because it looks like they chose a relatively impossible-to-kill variety - the thing STILL doesn't need to be watered two weeks later!) Since the kitchen table is essentially my desk for the time being, I have the plant sitting right next to me so that when I'm trying to think of something productive, I can just look at it and meditate for a moment. It turns out I'm not the only one naturally attracted to the greenery. Spiders like it, too.
There is this one specific spider I've been watching all morning - he's just a little guy, eight legs and all that normal spider stuff, but boy is he acrobatic. I'm sure that whatever he's doing has some evolutionary/ecological purpose, but from this angle, it just looks like he's having fun. And why not?
I watched him crawl up the side of the pot and onto the leaves - I looked away for just a minute and when I looked back, there he was on top of the plant world! Right there on one of the highest leaves, looking down. And right before my eyes, he let out a piece of silk and descended back down to the table like one of those guys on Mission Impossible. It was pretty awesome to watch.
But the fun didn't stop there - I'm not quite sure how the mechanics of it work, but he just pulled himself right back up on that same silk strand. And I watched him do it back and forth a few times until finally, he decided to explore the table top a bit.
Now I should say that I'm not even a little bit afraid of spiders. I've definitely seen some that I didn't want to wake up to in the middle of the night - when I lived alone in my little Thoreau cabin, I learned more about spiders than I ever wanted to know. Like, for instance, apparently the Pine Barrens is home to a glow-in-the-dark variety of arachnid...and also a strange blue-purple one...and also ones that are the size of my fist. But we cohabited alright - our agreement was they could come in and hang out as long as they didn't bite me or my cat or wake me up in the middle of the night by crawling on my face.
And you know, our arrangement worked out quite well. I didn't kill them and they didn't bother me.
Anyway, so now I've got this little guy hanging out with me at the table - I was a little afraid I'd accidentally squish him, so I picked him up and put him back on the plant for awhile. I doubt he'll stay there, though - he's quite the international explorer.
t.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Computer-free Sundays
So when I was deciding how this work-from-home thing would actually work, I thought a lot about what small-biz owners the world over know all too well - that it can be almost impossible to separate business from pleasure, especially if you have a home office. When exactly do you stop working for the day? When do you stop working for the WEEK?
My theory about why this problem even exists is as follows: People who choose to work from home (and have that luxury) do so because they actually LIKE their jobs. People who choose to establish home-based businesses probably do so because they DISLIKED their former jobs enough to call it quits. In either case, I think it's a fair assumption that people with home offices are probably pretty happy with what they're doing; thus, it seems almost unnecessary to draw "arbitrary" lines in the sand about when you will stop working for the day or week or month. Why stop what you like doing?
Well, because it's healthy not to work all the time, that's why. So in an attempt to organize my week, I decided to strictly adhere to a new self-imposed rule - no computers on Sundays. Yesterday was the trial period and boy, it was HARD. Usually, my day starts around 5:30 or 6 (weekdays or weekends, doesn't matter), when I open my laptop and get to working. I use the term "working" loosely here, because I could be doing something that's actually productive...or I could be reading one of the gazillions of web-zines or blogs that I haunt on a regular basis. Either way, I really like my computer and I like my habit of greeting it early in the morning, bowl of coffee in hand and quiet all around (especially on a weekend, when hubby and dog and cat really don't get up until long after me).
So it was hard not to do that yesterday, especially since I hadn't slept well the previous two nights, during which time I finally got to finish reading that long-awaited Forbes laying on my coffee table. (Ahhhh, conservatism in the early morning hours...turns out it's just as disturbing as it is in the afternoon or evening, yet still completely informative for people fascinated by the psychology of billionaires...but I digress.) I was laying awake staring at the ceiling fan and wondering...worrying, really...what I would do with myself for the next couple of solo hours. So I just laid there until I fell back asleep and it turned out not to be so bad, getting a little shut-eye. And guess what? When hubby and his dog finally woke up, we laid there and had a nice long chat about random things...because I wasn't in the kitchen, on my computer, getting the morning coffee buzz by myself.
The rest of the morning went pretty much the same way - I even watched a bit of T.V., which I haven't done in ages. It turns out that when you're not glued to your computer screen, you can actually have some decent conversations with people...you know, your FAMILY, those people with whom you rarely interact during the week. We talked about all sorts of things and I'm sure I learned a new thing or two - I don't think we've had conversations like that in the time we've been married, actually. Just never happens. I found myself thinking, "So, THIS is what they mean by communication. Huh, whatdya' know? We're pretty good at it." The funny thing is that HE was on his computer some of the time we were talking because HE apparently doesn't have to observe the Computer-Free Sundays rule...
We had plans yesterday that included driving up to Bridgewater, so much of the afternoon was spent in the truck, at a restaurant, and then in the truck again. By that time, I was jonesing a little for technological interaction, so not having my laptop on hand, I reached for the old standby - the trusty iPhone. And then I looked at hubby, who looked back at me and said, "You're ridiculous." At which time I quietly put the phone back in it's place in my bag and looked out the window at the beautiful Jersey Turnpike view (if you're not familiar with the Turnpike, then please inject serious sarcasm into the previous statement). When we got home, I found myself wondering what to do, what to do. Hubby likes to sit outside and read the paper sometimes, so I tried that for about five minutes - didn't work because the allergens were a-swimmin' around my head and making me very uncomfortable. But hey, I gave it a shot. In the time that I WASN'T on my computer, I did laundry, brushed the cat (believe me, this is a serious undertaking), reorganized my closet, straightened up the house, and did some other stuff I can't remember. All without a headache because my eyes weren't strained from staring at a screen all day. Then we watched a Netflix movie that had been sitting around the house for far too long - it turned out to be "Public Enemies," that Johnny Depp movie about John Dillinger. Good stuff - I really liked it, but of course it didn't have a happy ending.
And then I went to bed, at which time I slept almost the whole night! Pretty amazing stuff.
But what really surprised me about the whole Computer-Free Sundays test run was what happened to me this morning. I keep a list of things I need to accomplish on each day during the week so that I know I'm doing everything I should be doing - I've found that when I'm not in a deadline-driven office environment, I have to create my OWN deadline-driven office environment to get anything done. But instead of jumping out of bed and going straight to the computer, at which I would normally sit for several hours before destinkifying myself and going out into the world, I stayed right where I was. In bed. And do you know what I heard?
I heard the coolest bird chirping away. It had this really rhythmic song pattern that I found myself drumming along to.
Why is this amazing? I hear birds every morning, so what was different about this one?
Well, I'll bet you that same bird (or family of birds, as it turns out) has been singing that same rhythmic song outside my window for weeks, but this was the first time I actually HEARD it. I wasn't in a rush to do something else; in fact, I seriously considered making it a Computer-Free Monday, too (but that wouldn't be practical). I heard that bird and I couldn't get up because I liked listening to it so much.
Eventually, I did get up and I'm in my usual position right now - sitting at the kitchen table with my bowl of coffee (this morning, it quite literally is a bowl with a handle on it) and my laptop, no T.V. in the background (I detest daytime television especially), and a snoring dog in the next room. But guess what? I can still hear that bird outside my kitchen window. He and I are friends now - we're making plans to hang out tomorrow morning and probably for the rest of the week. I asked him how the fam was and he says the kids are alright.
t.
----------
P.S. (at about 12:30pm on Monday): Speaking of the wily ways of nature, I just witnessed the most fascinating thing at my kitchen window. I heard very recently that spiders are good to have around if you've got problems with stinkbugs (which we do, like everyone else in our great state right now). I just snapped a pic of a spider dangling down on its little silk rope, where it had captured a stinkbug twice its size. I felt kinda bad taking a picture of the bug's demise, but it's nature - whatdya' gonna' do? Who am I to mess with the natural order of things? Anyway, it made for some pretty interesting viewing - it took a loooooong time for this spider to have its way with the stinkbug, but had its way it DID. Now both are gone somewhere, one digesting the other no doubt. I've always liked spiders. Now I know why.
t.
My theory about why this problem even exists is as follows: People who choose to work from home (and have that luxury) do so because they actually LIKE their jobs. People who choose to establish home-based businesses probably do so because they DISLIKED their former jobs enough to call it quits. In either case, I think it's a fair assumption that people with home offices are probably pretty happy with what they're doing; thus, it seems almost unnecessary to draw "arbitrary" lines in the sand about when you will stop working for the day or week or month. Why stop what you like doing?
Well, because it's healthy not to work all the time, that's why. So in an attempt to organize my week, I decided to strictly adhere to a new self-imposed rule - no computers on Sundays. Yesterday was the trial period and boy, it was HARD. Usually, my day starts around 5:30 or 6 (weekdays or weekends, doesn't matter), when I open my laptop and get to working. I use the term "working" loosely here, because I could be doing something that's actually productive...or I could be reading one of the gazillions of web-zines or blogs that I haunt on a regular basis. Either way, I really like my computer and I like my habit of greeting it early in the morning, bowl of coffee in hand and quiet all around (especially on a weekend, when hubby and dog and cat really don't get up until long after me).
So it was hard not to do that yesterday, especially since I hadn't slept well the previous two nights, during which time I finally got to finish reading that long-awaited Forbes laying on my coffee table. (Ahhhh, conservatism in the early morning hours...turns out it's just as disturbing as it is in the afternoon or evening, yet still completely informative for people fascinated by the psychology of billionaires...but I digress.) I was laying awake staring at the ceiling fan and wondering...worrying, really...what I would do with myself for the next couple of solo hours. So I just laid there until I fell back asleep and it turned out not to be so bad, getting a little shut-eye. And guess what? When hubby and his dog finally woke up, we laid there and had a nice long chat about random things...because I wasn't in the kitchen, on my computer, getting the morning coffee buzz by myself.
The rest of the morning went pretty much the same way - I even watched a bit of T.V., which I haven't done in ages. It turns out that when you're not glued to your computer screen, you can actually have some decent conversations with people...you know, your FAMILY, those people with whom you rarely interact during the week. We talked about all sorts of things and I'm sure I learned a new thing or two - I don't think we've had conversations like that in the time we've been married, actually. Just never happens. I found myself thinking, "So, THIS is what they mean by communication. Huh, whatdya' know? We're pretty good at it." The funny thing is that HE was on his computer some of the time we were talking because HE apparently doesn't have to observe the Computer-Free Sundays rule...
We had plans yesterday that included driving up to Bridgewater, so much of the afternoon was spent in the truck, at a restaurant, and then in the truck again. By that time, I was jonesing a little for technological interaction, so not having my laptop on hand, I reached for the old standby - the trusty iPhone. And then I looked at hubby, who looked back at me and said, "You're ridiculous." At which time I quietly put the phone back in it's place in my bag and looked out the window at the beautiful Jersey Turnpike view (if you're not familiar with the Turnpike, then please inject serious sarcasm into the previous statement). When we got home, I found myself wondering what to do, what to do. Hubby likes to sit outside and read the paper sometimes, so I tried that for about five minutes - didn't work because the allergens were a-swimmin' around my head and making me very uncomfortable. But hey, I gave it a shot. In the time that I WASN'T on my computer, I did laundry, brushed the cat (believe me, this is a serious undertaking), reorganized my closet, straightened up the house, and did some other stuff I can't remember. All without a headache because my eyes weren't strained from staring at a screen all day. Then we watched a Netflix movie that had been sitting around the house for far too long - it turned out to be "Public Enemies," that Johnny Depp movie about John Dillinger. Good stuff - I really liked it, but of course it didn't have a happy ending.
And then I went to bed, at which time I slept almost the whole night! Pretty amazing stuff.
But what really surprised me about the whole Computer-Free Sundays test run was what happened to me this morning. I keep a list of things I need to accomplish on each day during the week so that I know I'm doing everything I should be doing - I've found that when I'm not in a deadline-driven office environment, I have to create my OWN deadline-driven office environment to get anything done. But instead of jumping out of bed and going straight to the computer, at which I would normally sit for several hours before destinkifying myself and going out into the world, I stayed right where I was. In bed. And do you know what I heard?
I heard the coolest bird chirping away. It had this really rhythmic song pattern that I found myself drumming along to.
Why is this amazing? I hear birds every morning, so what was different about this one?
Well, I'll bet you that same bird (or family of birds, as it turns out) has been singing that same rhythmic song outside my window for weeks, but this was the first time I actually HEARD it. I wasn't in a rush to do something else; in fact, I seriously considered making it a Computer-Free Monday, too (but that wouldn't be practical). I heard that bird and I couldn't get up because I liked listening to it so much.
Eventually, I did get up and I'm in my usual position right now - sitting at the kitchen table with my bowl of coffee (this morning, it quite literally is a bowl with a handle on it) and my laptop, no T.V. in the background (I detest daytime television especially), and a snoring dog in the next room. But guess what? I can still hear that bird outside my kitchen window. He and I are friends now - we're making plans to hang out tomorrow morning and probably for the rest of the week. I asked him how the fam was and he says the kids are alright.
t.
----------
P.S. (at about 12:30pm on Monday): Speaking of the wily ways of nature, I just witnessed the most fascinating thing at my kitchen window. I heard very recently that spiders are good to have around if you've got problems with stinkbugs (which we do, like everyone else in our great state right now). I just snapped a pic of a spider dangling down on its little silk rope, where it had captured a stinkbug twice its size. I felt kinda bad taking a picture of the bug's demise, but it's nature - whatdya' gonna' do? Who am I to mess with the natural order of things? Anyway, it made for some pretty interesting viewing - it took a loooooong time for this spider to have its way with the stinkbug, but had its way it DID. Now both are gone somewhere, one digesting the other no doubt. I've always liked spiders. Now I know why.
t.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
What am I looking for?
Well, after three days of lounging around the house in a pain med-induced coma, I'm definitely looking for a way out of here. I'm not conscious enough to do any actual work, but I'm conscious enough to be bored out of my mind. My day is essentially broken up into two parts:
Part One: Laying in bed with my cat, staring up at the ceiling
Part Two: Laying in bed with my cat, staring at a computer screen
Both have gotten old.
For some reason, I have this unbelievable urge to WRITE, to produce something semi-useful so that at the end of this week, I can look back at my recovery and say, "Hey, I was pretty productive." Doesn't look like it's going to happen.
Strangely enough, with all this "free" time on my hands, I've had no desire to turn on the T.V. In fact, I think I hate T.V. - it's really just background noise, but there's enough of that in my head, so why bother?
There's this vast part of me that's grateful for the silence in the house during the day. Then there's this oh-so-tiny part of me that is going absolutely nuts...and I think that part is winning.
It's 9:42 and far past my normal bedtime, but I've slept so much today, I don't know that sleep will come easy tonight. Besides, I've been having such weird dreams, I'm not sure I'm eager to get back to sleep anyway. I'm sure they'd make great stories if I could remember them long enough to write them down when I wake up.
Well, the battery is going to die on my computer and I'm far too lazy to get up and plug it in, so I suppose that's it for tonight. Perhaps I'll have better news tomorrow.
t.
Part One: Laying in bed with my cat, staring up at the ceiling
Part Two: Laying in bed with my cat, staring at a computer screen
Both have gotten old.
For some reason, I have this unbelievable urge to WRITE, to produce something semi-useful so that at the end of this week, I can look back at my recovery and say, "Hey, I was pretty productive." Doesn't look like it's going to happen.
Strangely enough, with all this "free" time on my hands, I've had no desire to turn on the T.V. In fact, I think I hate T.V. - it's really just background noise, but there's enough of that in my head, so why bother?
There's this vast part of me that's grateful for the silence in the house during the day. Then there's this oh-so-tiny part of me that is going absolutely nuts...and I think that part is winning.
It's 9:42 and far past my normal bedtime, but I've slept so much today, I don't know that sleep will come easy tonight. Besides, I've been having such weird dreams, I'm not sure I'm eager to get back to sleep anyway. I'm sure they'd make great stories if I could remember them long enough to write them down when I wake up.
Well, the battery is going to die on my computer and I'm far too lazy to get up and plug it in, so I suppose that's it for tonight. Perhaps I'll have better news tomorrow.
t.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Well, it HAS been awhile, hasn't it?
I've been getting lots of questions about what I'm up to lately, so I thought I'd post a little update for those who are interested.
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
Q: What are you up to, Tara?
A: Quite a lot - thanks for asking! Please read on for details...
Q: I heard you were leaving Stockton - is it true?!?!
A: Why yes, it IS true. My last day is May 6, so if you happen to be around campus, stop by and say Aloha!
Q: But aren't you sad about leaving?
A: I am. But as a wise person once said, all good things must come to an end. I have enjoyed my 10 years there, but it's time to give someone else a shot at the job.
Q: What will you do for food?!
A: I will most likely continue to eat a lot of apples and drink a lot of coffee. I don't expect my leaving Stockton will change that at all.
Q: But how will you PAY for food?
A: With money, which of course I will earn at all my other endeavors. If not, there's always scavenging (a highly underutilized and under-appreciated form of sustenance).
Q: I heard you were building a business - is it true?
A: Yes, it is. I've been a freelancer for more than eight years but I just officially registered with the state. It's called Triple Threat Freelancing, LLC and I'm working on my website right now (www.triplethreatfreelancing.com).
Q: But what will you do in the meantime? Businesses aren't built in a day!
A: True, but I've got it covered. I've been working with a wonderful nonprofit and a fantastic small business, and I plan to continue doing that for some time.
Q: What's the nonprofit?
A: New Jersey Coalition Against Sexual Assault (NJCASA; www.njcasa.org); I'm the new AmeriCorps Coordinator.
Q: What's the small business?
A: The Philadelphia International Music Festival (PIMF; www.pimf.org); I do a bit of everything.
Q: Anything else?
A: I have some writing and editing contracts here and there. But they're top-secret...for now. And I'm an adjunct at Atlantic Cape Community College - I believe I may be teaching a couple of classes at Stockton in the fall, too.
Q: But what about medical school? Didn't you say you were going to do that?
A: Yes - yes, I did. Plans have changed slightly, though.
Q: WHAAAATTTTT?! After all that nonsense about changing direction and becoming a world-famous neurologist?
A: I've changed direction again and have decided to pursue a doctorate in neuropsychology, which will allow me to do the same type of work without the time and expense of medical school.
Q: What made you decide that?
A: I'm turning 30 this year. I've been taking stock of my life and what's important to me lately and I realized that I don't want to miss out on my marriage and family for the next ten years.
Q: OK, well that all sounds okay. Will we still hear from you?
A: Yes. I never really go away - I'm like the plague that way (you know, except for the whole fleas-on-rats thing).
t.
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
Q: What are you up to, Tara?
A: Quite a lot - thanks for asking! Please read on for details...
Q: I heard you were leaving Stockton - is it true?!?!
A: Why yes, it IS true. My last day is May 6, so if you happen to be around campus, stop by and say Aloha!
Q: But aren't you sad about leaving?
A: I am. But as a wise person once said, all good things must come to an end. I have enjoyed my 10 years there, but it's time to give someone else a shot at the job.
Q: What will you do for food?!
A: I will most likely continue to eat a lot of apples and drink a lot of coffee. I don't expect my leaving Stockton will change that at all.
Q: But how will you PAY for food?
A: With money, which of course I will earn at all my other endeavors. If not, there's always scavenging (a highly underutilized and under-appreciated form of sustenance).
Q: I heard you were building a business - is it true?
A: Yes, it is. I've been a freelancer for more than eight years but I just officially registered with the state. It's called Triple Threat Freelancing, LLC and I'm working on my website right now (www.triplethreatfreelancing.com).
Q: But what will you do in the meantime? Businesses aren't built in a day!
A: True, but I've got it covered. I've been working with a wonderful nonprofit and a fantastic small business, and I plan to continue doing that for some time.
Q: What's the nonprofit?
A: New Jersey Coalition Against Sexual Assault (NJCASA; www.njcasa.org); I'm the new AmeriCorps Coordinator.
Q: What's the small business?
A: The Philadelphia International Music Festival (PIMF; www.pimf.org); I do a bit of everything.
Q: Anything else?
A: I have some writing and editing contracts here and there. But they're top-secret...for now. And I'm an adjunct at Atlantic Cape Community College - I believe I may be teaching a couple of classes at Stockton in the fall, too.
Q: But what about medical school? Didn't you say you were going to do that?
A: Yes - yes, I did. Plans have changed slightly, though.
Q: WHAAAATTTTT?! After all that nonsense about changing direction and becoming a world-famous neurologist?
A: I've changed direction again and have decided to pursue a doctorate in neuropsychology, which will allow me to do the same type of work without the time and expense of medical school.
Q: What made you decide that?
A: I'm turning 30 this year. I've been taking stock of my life and what's important to me lately and I realized that I don't want to miss out on my marriage and family for the next ten years.
Q: OK, well that all sounds okay. Will we still hear from you?
A: Yes. I never really go away - I'm like the plague that way (you know, except for the whole fleas-on-rats thing).
t.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Customer service...the good, the bad, and the ugly
I think I may have found my writing niche - customer service in health care. Or perhaps the lack thereof. I don't know about you, but it seems to me that it might not be so awful to go to doctors if perhaps they were a bit nicer to you.
Let me contextualize. I have chronic sinusitis, and I'm absolutely positive it's worse than it actually sounds. Have you ever had a sinus infection? You know that feeling when your head is all stuffy, your face hurts, and you've got a sore throat from all the post-nasal dripping? You know how sometimes it makes you dizzy and a little bit nauseous, maybe tired and achy? Welcome to my world. Chronic sinusitis is like that ALL THE TIME. I suppose it's got its benefits - after awhile you get so used to constant pain, pressure, and dizziness that the flu feels like nothing at all. So it toughens you up, even if you don't want to BE toughened up.
Anyway, I've been on the lookout for a good Ear, Nose, & Throat doc for some time and one day, I stumbled upon an ad in a local publication touting this one particular doctor and her state-of-the-art method for ridding patients of sinus pain and pressure. Of course I thought to myself, "I got to have me some of that!" so I called her office, made an appointment five weeks away, and waited.
Finally, the day of my appointment came. I was so excited at the prospect of getting rid of the sludge in my face, I couldn't wait to meet her! I showed up early because I knew there'd be tons of paperwork to fill out, so I did all of it, took it proudly to the window, and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait.
An hour and a half past my appointment time, to be precise. An hour. And a half.
To say that I was frustrated would be an understatement. This doctor came with a great reputation and obviously her office was buzzing with people who also couldn't wait to see her. But an hour and a half? That's a bit extreme, don't you think? When she finally came into the exam room, there was no apology, no acknowledgment even that I had been waiting way longer than expected. In fact, I didn't even get a smile. After we were finished, I left with another appointment set for this week. I was irked because I had missed another important appointment while waiting to see this doctor, but I was so glad to have the prospect of sinus surgery on my horizon that I waited anyway. I thought it would be worth it.
My follow-up appointment was originally scheduled for this past Tuesday, so I took another day off of work (having already missed more than my sick days because of constant illness over the last three weeks). A half an hour before my appointment, the receptionist calls and says the doctor has to cancel. I missed another day of work for this, but okay...So I rescheduled for today.
So guess what? I took another day off of work to go to my appointment today. I was cheerful and tried not to be too put off by the poor customer service so far. I went in a bit early and waited. Do you see where I'm going here? I waited another 45 minutes past my appointment time when I FINALLY got the chutzpah to leave. I calmly walked out to the receptionist desk and told the woman there that I couldn't wait any longer. I made it clear that I knew it wasn't her fault, but I was upset because of all the waiting I'd already had to do for this doctor. I didn't want to seem like a nasty or constantly angry patient, but come on!!!! I explained to her that I'd missed three days of work (and other appointments) because this doctor either didn't consider her patients' time to be as valuable as hers OR because she couldn't actually accommodate new patients, as I had been led to believe.
So was I being unreasonable?
No, I don't think I was. I even let her keep my co-pay (which she was going to keep anyway). I left there so angry I could have cried - in fact, I did tear up a bit (sometimes I let my frustration get the best of me). I had wasted so much time and hope on a doctor who just didn't seem all that interested in her patients. Maybe it's because I was new. Maybe it's because she was too busy. Maybe she just happened to be having a bad couple of weeks.
If it had been an isolated incident, I would have gotten over it and continued to go back. But it wasn't isolated - it seems to be this woman's M.O. and that's just a shame. By my calculations, I wasted three sick days; about six hours just waiting, filling out paperwork, and driving to the office (she's about 45 minutes away from my house); at least one tank of fuel driving back and forth; and an unmeasurable amount of emotional energy. All for nothing. I know, I could have just sat and waited some more - then, at least the trip wouldn't have been for nothing, right? But here's the way I see it - you shouldn't do things because you feel cornered into them. I got tired of feeling like I was just a couple of dollar signs to this woman - her receptionist clearly didn't care that I was leaving (and she basically told me so). You know why? Because I'm sure there's five more patients waiting in line behind me who will gladly take my spot. And that's fine with me - I'll find another doctor. I know good ones exist - my family doctor is a great example of how to feel respected and heard as a patient.
I was so angry about the whole situation. I thought about writing a letter to the editor or driving back to the office to tell her what poor customer service skills she had. But to what end? Like Alex pointed out, she still got my copay and she'll probably still bill the insurance company for a visit that never happened. So I opted for focusing on the GOOD customer service I experienced today.
For example, I had to take my car to get fixed at a collision shop (I hit a deer a few months back and tore the grill off the front of my car). Not only did Bogg's Collision in Woodbury treat me well, they actually charged me LESS than the quote and had it done sooner than expected. They were communicative, very nice to speak to, and reasonable. THAT was superior customer service.
And I went to Family Dollar today to get Rosie some more of her tennis sticks (they're made out of the same stuff tennis balls are, but they're sticks so they're easier to pry from her grip). They only had one left, so I asked the cashier if they would get anymore in, and she very cheerfully told me that yes, they would be getting more in. And when I asked her to help me get some tomato cages unstuck from each other so I could buy four instead of the entire box, she gladly assisted. THAT was excellent service, too.
So customer service matters. It even (maybe especially) matters in health care. People don't go to doctors to talk about how well they are, do they? No, they typically go because they're miserable, in pain, sick, whatever. So shouldn't doctors be kind and appreciative of their business? Because just like there's five more people to take the spot of one disgruntled ex-patient, there's about 100 doctors to replace every one I decide doesn't fit the bill.
t.
Let me contextualize. I have chronic sinusitis, and I'm absolutely positive it's worse than it actually sounds. Have you ever had a sinus infection? You know that feeling when your head is all stuffy, your face hurts, and you've got a sore throat from all the post-nasal dripping? You know how sometimes it makes you dizzy and a little bit nauseous, maybe tired and achy? Welcome to my world. Chronic sinusitis is like that ALL THE TIME. I suppose it's got its benefits - after awhile you get so used to constant pain, pressure, and dizziness that the flu feels like nothing at all. So it toughens you up, even if you don't want to BE toughened up.
Anyway, I've been on the lookout for a good Ear, Nose, & Throat doc for some time and one day, I stumbled upon an ad in a local publication touting this one particular doctor and her state-of-the-art method for ridding patients of sinus pain and pressure. Of course I thought to myself, "I got to have me some of that!" so I called her office, made an appointment five weeks away, and waited.
Finally, the day of my appointment came. I was so excited at the prospect of getting rid of the sludge in my face, I couldn't wait to meet her! I showed up early because I knew there'd be tons of paperwork to fill out, so I did all of it, took it proudly to the window, and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait.
An hour and a half past my appointment time, to be precise. An hour. And a half.
To say that I was frustrated would be an understatement. This doctor came with a great reputation and obviously her office was buzzing with people who also couldn't wait to see her. But an hour and a half? That's a bit extreme, don't you think? When she finally came into the exam room, there was no apology, no acknowledgment even that I had been waiting way longer than expected. In fact, I didn't even get a smile. After we were finished, I left with another appointment set for this week. I was irked because I had missed another important appointment while waiting to see this doctor, but I was so glad to have the prospect of sinus surgery on my horizon that I waited anyway. I thought it would be worth it.
My follow-up appointment was originally scheduled for this past Tuesday, so I took another day off of work (having already missed more than my sick days because of constant illness over the last three weeks). A half an hour before my appointment, the receptionist calls and says the doctor has to cancel. I missed another day of work for this, but okay...So I rescheduled for today.
So guess what? I took another day off of work to go to my appointment today. I was cheerful and tried not to be too put off by the poor customer service so far. I went in a bit early and waited. Do you see where I'm going here? I waited another 45 minutes past my appointment time when I FINALLY got the chutzpah to leave. I calmly walked out to the receptionist desk and told the woman there that I couldn't wait any longer. I made it clear that I knew it wasn't her fault, but I was upset because of all the waiting I'd already had to do for this doctor. I didn't want to seem like a nasty or constantly angry patient, but come on!!!! I explained to her that I'd missed three days of work (and other appointments) because this doctor either didn't consider her patients' time to be as valuable as hers OR because she couldn't actually accommodate new patients, as I had been led to believe.
So was I being unreasonable?
No, I don't think I was. I even let her keep my co-pay (which she was going to keep anyway). I left there so angry I could have cried - in fact, I did tear up a bit (sometimes I let my frustration get the best of me). I had wasted so much time and hope on a doctor who just didn't seem all that interested in her patients. Maybe it's because I was new. Maybe it's because she was too busy. Maybe she just happened to be having a bad couple of weeks.
If it had been an isolated incident, I would have gotten over it and continued to go back. But it wasn't isolated - it seems to be this woman's M.O. and that's just a shame. By my calculations, I wasted three sick days; about six hours just waiting, filling out paperwork, and driving to the office (she's about 45 minutes away from my house); at least one tank of fuel driving back and forth; and an unmeasurable amount of emotional energy. All for nothing. I know, I could have just sat and waited some more - then, at least the trip wouldn't have been for nothing, right? But here's the way I see it - you shouldn't do things because you feel cornered into them. I got tired of feeling like I was just a couple of dollar signs to this woman - her receptionist clearly didn't care that I was leaving (and she basically told me so). You know why? Because I'm sure there's five more patients waiting in line behind me who will gladly take my spot. And that's fine with me - I'll find another doctor. I know good ones exist - my family doctor is a great example of how to feel respected and heard as a patient.
I was so angry about the whole situation. I thought about writing a letter to the editor or driving back to the office to tell her what poor customer service skills she had. But to what end? Like Alex pointed out, she still got my copay and she'll probably still bill the insurance company for a visit that never happened. So I opted for focusing on the GOOD customer service I experienced today.
For example, I had to take my car to get fixed at a collision shop (I hit a deer a few months back and tore the grill off the front of my car). Not only did Bogg's Collision in Woodbury treat me well, they actually charged me LESS than the quote and had it done sooner than expected. They were communicative, very nice to speak to, and reasonable. THAT was superior customer service.
And I went to Family Dollar today to get Rosie some more of her tennis sticks (they're made out of the same stuff tennis balls are, but they're sticks so they're easier to pry from her grip). They only had one left, so I asked the cashier if they would get anymore in, and she very cheerfully told me that yes, they would be getting more in. And when I asked her to help me get some tomato cages unstuck from each other so I could buy four instead of the entire box, she gladly assisted. THAT was excellent service, too.
So customer service matters. It even (maybe especially) matters in health care. People don't go to doctors to talk about how well they are, do they? No, they typically go because they're miserable, in pain, sick, whatever. So shouldn't doctors be kind and appreciative of their business? Because just like there's five more people to take the spot of one disgruntled ex-patient, there's about 100 doctors to replace every one I decide doesn't fit the bill.
t.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Procrastination be damned!
My name is Tara and I am a bonafide, dyed-in-the-wool procrastinator. In fact, I'm probably procrastinating right now, although off the top of my head I can't think of anything else I should be doing. Which may be the problem.
I was just scanning my email when I came across this very interesting (and timely) article about procrastinators. It's certainly not the first time I've read something about procrastination, but it IS the first time I've read anything about procrastination potentially being a psychological disorder. And hey, why not?
See, in this article two experts talk about how procrastination is really just symptomatic of a chronic misjudgment of time, inability to make decisions, and failure to take responsibility for one's life. I can't really argue with any of that (although I think it's a stretch to call it a disorder in and of itself). Although I'm rarely late for things, I do have a tendency to misjudge how much time I have to complete a task or how much time it will actually take me to do that task. I'm one of those dreadful people who keeps all of her clocks ten minutes ahead of time so that I feel like I'm running late just so there's enough pressure for me to light a fire under my own ass. Anyone who knows me also knows I'm TERRIBLE at making decisions - I mean positively paralytic when it comes to deciding on Special K or Fruity Pebbles (because I always WANT Fruity Pebbles but I know they're worse for me than Special K, so there's always this internal battle going on in the cereal aisle).
I'm definitely a chronic procrastinator. So what's a girl to do?
Well, when that girl is getting ready to start working for herself (i.e., depending entirely on her own ability to drum up jobs and meet actual deadlines), that girl panics.
She thinks, "OMG, self, what the hell were you thinking?"
And then she goes into self-preservation mode and starts blogging instead of addressing the actual problem.
I will say that I've been much more proactive than I typically am when I decided that working for myself was the way to go - I've gotten linked up with a bunch of freelance organizations, I've already gotten a few side jobs to help pay the bills, and I've EVEN saved a little cash as a failure-cushion. But I have a feeling there's still much ground to travel before I REALLY and truly except the fact that I'm screwed if I don't get a little dose of self-discipline.
I'm pretty sure procrastination is showing up in other areas of my life, too. In fact, I'm positive of it. You know that six-figure student loan debt I've wracked up? Well, I have found many ways over the year to defer payment to my debtors (legitimately, of course), but really all that means is that I'll be paying off my education well into my 70s.
And I managed to put off serving jury duty for ten years and in three different counties until I just didn't have any good excuses anymore and you know where I ended up? Camden. I guess that's what happens when you put things off unnecessarily.
So that brings me to question what else I'm putting off. What else am I not acknowledging because I don't have the strength-of-character to deal with it? Good question. I think I'll think about it tomorrow.
t.
I was just scanning my email when I came across this very interesting (and timely) article about procrastinators. It's certainly not the first time I've read something about procrastination, but it IS the first time I've read anything about procrastination potentially being a psychological disorder. And hey, why not?
See, in this article two experts talk about how procrastination is really just symptomatic of a chronic misjudgment of time, inability to make decisions, and failure to take responsibility for one's life. I can't really argue with any of that (although I think it's a stretch to call it a disorder in and of itself). Although I'm rarely late for things, I do have a tendency to misjudge how much time I have to complete a task or how much time it will actually take me to do that task. I'm one of those dreadful people who keeps all of her clocks ten minutes ahead of time so that I feel like I'm running late just so there's enough pressure for me to light a fire under my own ass. Anyone who knows me also knows I'm TERRIBLE at making decisions - I mean positively paralytic when it comes to deciding on Special K or Fruity Pebbles (because I always WANT Fruity Pebbles but I know they're worse for me than Special K, so there's always this internal battle going on in the cereal aisle).
I'm definitely a chronic procrastinator. So what's a girl to do?
Well, when that girl is getting ready to start working for herself (i.e., depending entirely on her own ability to drum up jobs and meet actual deadlines), that girl panics.
She thinks, "OMG, self, what the hell were you thinking?"
And then she goes into self-preservation mode and starts blogging instead of addressing the actual problem.
I will say that I've been much more proactive than I typically am when I decided that working for myself was the way to go - I've gotten linked up with a bunch of freelance organizations, I've already gotten a few side jobs to help pay the bills, and I've EVEN saved a little cash as a failure-cushion. But I have a feeling there's still much ground to travel before I REALLY and truly except the fact that I'm screwed if I don't get a little dose of self-discipline.
I'm pretty sure procrastination is showing up in other areas of my life, too. In fact, I'm positive of it. You know that six-figure student loan debt I've wracked up? Well, I have found many ways over the year to defer payment to my debtors (legitimately, of course), but really all that means is that I'll be paying off my education well into my 70s.
And I managed to put off serving jury duty for ten years and in three different counties until I just didn't have any good excuses anymore and you know where I ended up? Camden. I guess that's what happens when you put things off unnecessarily.
So that brings me to question what else I'm putting off. What else am I not acknowledging because I don't have the strength-of-character to deal with it? Good question. I think I'll think about it tomorrow.
t.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ash Wednesday...and all that
Today is Ash Wednesday. Know how I know? Because there's a priest in the hallway outside my office drawing on people's faces. Know how else I know? Because all day today, I've been looking at people who evidently didn't think ahead and got their faces drawn on early this morning, only to find that ashes pretty much liquify and run down your face after you've been sweating all day. What can I say? I know some pretty sweaty people.
So here's what happened.
I was getting that oh-so-familiar hunger for chocolate delighfulness around 3:30, so I felt up my pockets to see if I could dig up change for some peanutty M&Ms. Lucky for me, I had a couple of bucks so I ambled on out into the hallway to haunt the vending machine (which happens to haunt me just about eight hours a day). I saw the priest talking to some sorority girls and commending them for organizing some religious hullabaloo in honor of Ash Wednesday (my guess is they were repenting mightily for whatever they did on Fat Tuesday). I didn't think much of it...until my second trip out to the vending machine for another bag of M&Ms (it's been a rough day). As I was trying to slip by the priest unnoticed, I suddenly felt his eyes on me - you might say it felt as though the very eyes of God were drilling into my ravenous, chocolate-hungry soul. For a moment, I wondered if he had noticed my first trip to the machine and if so, was he judging me for what was obviously a bad case of gluttony? I mean, gluttony is a sin, right? I think those big stone blocks had something to say about it.
Now listen, I'm not a religious person. I believe in God, though, so when I pass a nun or a priest, you better believe I put on my "I'm behaving" look and walk on by just as sweetly as I can. But I will tell you that priests (more so than nuns) make me feel a little slimy - I don't know if it's all the scandal that surrounds them or if it's all the scandal that surrounds my aberrant chocolate-eating behaviors, but whenever I pass a priest, I feel like I should go take a shower. I feel like I'm being JUDGED.
So it got me thinking, this whole middle-of-the-hallway judgment thing that was happening to me - why is it that the priest is staring ME down as I walk innocently by, as if to ask me why I haven't been saved from my hedonistic ways? Why is it that when an Orthodox Jew or Muslim walks by, he just politely smiles and nods at them? I've got a theory...
There is a certain degree of political correctness in a priest acting respectfully towards someone who is CLEARLY of a religion that is diametrically opposed to Catholicism. I'm one of those people who thinks the basic tenets of all religions are essentially the same - there is certainly something beautifully fascinating in the details of each, but altogether, everyone just wants the world to be a shiny, happy place, right? (Except for the nutjobs, of course.) But there is absolutely NO political correctness in letting someone who is clearly a heathen pass un-accosted by the Catholic church's holy recruiters. I think there are two things at work here:
1. The priest basically has no hope of saving the Orthodox Jew or Muslim and he knows it. They're going to hell and he knows that, too. Still, he can be nice in his pity for their damned souls because he knows his chance of recruiting them is slim to none. And why would he want to anyway? The Jews killed Jesus (and apparently ate babies) and the Muslims are all violent, American-hating freaks.
2. The priest does know, however, when he's looking at a potentially Christian sinner. I'm conspicuous in my lack of religious attire. In fact, I might as well be a hooker as far as he's concerned. "Look at that skirt, so far above her calves!" he's thinking, all the while calculating his approach and how he can successfully use the least amount of energy in making me feel the greatest amount of guilt. Well, this is what I imagine is happening anyway.
So basically, because I choose not to wear my deity on my sleeve (which is an interesting analogy, given my sudden interest in getting the great, fat Buddha tattooed down my entire arm), I am fair game. And all of a sudden, I am drowning in the judgment of the Catholic Campus Ministry priest's stare. I can feel it on my back, and if I'm not mistaken, he was checking out my ass, too.
Does God hate me because I'm speaking so disrespectfully of a priest? Nah, probably not. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like most of them, either.
t.
So here's what happened.
I was getting that oh-so-familiar hunger for chocolate delighfulness around 3:30, so I felt up my pockets to see if I could dig up change for some peanutty M&Ms. Lucky for me, I had a couple of bucks so I ambled on out into the hallway to haunt the vending machine (which happens to haunt me just about eight hours a day). I saw the priest talking to some sorority girls and commending them for organizing some religious hullabaloo in honor of Ash Wednesday (my guess is they were repenting mightily for whatever they did on Fat Tuesday). I didn't think much of it...until my second trip out to the vending machine for another bag of M&Ms (it's been a rough day). As I was trying to slip by the priest unnoticed, I suddenly felt his eyes on me - you might say it felt as though the very eyes of God were drilling into my ravenous, chocolate-hungry soul. For a moment, I wondered if he had noticed my first trip to the machine and if so, was he judging me for what was obviously a bad case of gluttony? I mean, gluttony is a sin, right? I think those big stone blocks had something to say about it.
Now listen, I'm not a religious person. I believe in God, though, so when I pass a nun or a priest, you better believe I put on my "I'm behaving" look and walk on by just as sweetly as I can. But I will tell you that priests (more so than nuns) make me feel a little slimy - I don't know if it's all the scandal that surrounds them or if it's all the scandal that surrounds my aberrant chocolate-eating behaviors, but whenever I pass a priest, I feel like I should go take a shower. I feel like I'm being JUDGED.
So it got me thinking, this whole middle-of-the-hallway judgment thing that was happening to me - why is it that the priest is staring ME down as I walk innocently by, as if to ask me why I haven't been saved from my hedonistic ways? Why is it that when an Orthodox Jew or Muslim walks by, he just politely smiles and nods at them? I've got a theory...
There is a certain degree of political correctness in a priest acting respectfully towards someone who is CLEARLY of a religion that is diametrically opposed to Catholicism. I'm one of those people who thinks the basic tenets of all religions are essentially the same - there is certainly something beautifully fascinating in the details of each, but altogether, everyone just wants the world to be a shiny, happy place, right? (Except for the nutjobs, of course.) But there is absolutely NO political correctness in letting someone who is clearly a heathen pass un-accosted by the Catholic church's holy recruiters. I think there are two things at work here:
1. The priest basically has no hope of saving the Orthodox Jew or Muslim and he knows it. They're going to hell and he knows that, too. Still, he can be nice in his pity for their damned souls because he knows his chance of recruiting them is slim to none. And why would he want to anyway? The Jews killed Jesus (and apparently ate babies) and the Muslims are all violent, American-hating freaks.
2. The priest does know, however, when he's looking at a potentially Christian sinner. I'm conspicuous in my lack of religious attire. In fact, I might as well be a hooker as far as he's concerned. "Look at that skirt, so far above her calves!" he's thinking, all the while calculating his approach and how he can successfully use the least amount of energy in making me feel the greatest amount of guilt. Well, this is what I imagine is happening anyway.
So basically, because I choose not to wear my deity on my sleeve (which is an interesting analogy, given my sudden interest in getting the great, fat Buddha tattooed down my entire arm), I am fair game. And all of a sudden, I am drowning in the judgment of the Catholic Campus Ministry priest's stare. I can feel it on my back, and if I'm not mistaken, he was checking out my ass, too.
Does God hate me because I'm speaking so disrespectfully of a priest? Nah, probably not. I'm pretty sure he doesn't like most of them, either.
t.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The incredible burping dog
I have a dog that burps. There's nothing inherently unique about this fact, unless you consider that she pretty much intentionally does it in my face. Lots of people (usually dog trainers and the like) say that dogs aren't motivated by anything other than instinct when they act. I disagree.
My dog burps in my face because she can and because she thinks it's funny. Sometimes she also farts while staring at me.
At first, I thought maybe I was being a little sensitive. See, my dog (until very recently) has never really liked me all that much. She's a daddy's girl and can regularly be found curling up lovingly at my husband's feet, shoving her face into his armpit and falling asleep, sticking her nose in his ear and trying to wake him up. You know, that kind of cute, doggy-type thing. On the other hand, she can typically be found growling at me if I get too close to her for any reason (although her growls have really turned into a sort of high-pitched whining because she knows she'll get in trouble for actually growling). Unless food or toys are involved, she generally wants very little to do with me - except that recently, she has decided that I am her perfect playmate and she assaults me at all times of the day with her strange red Martha Stewart rope toy. But I digress...
The long and short of it is that I have a very gassy dog who enjoys making public displays of her gassy-ness, generally in the direction of my face. Like when, approximately ten minutes ago, she stood in the middle of the living room floor (I'm home sick again today), stared at me (all the while wagging her tail), and burped very loudly and very intentionally. I'm pretty sure I heard her chuckle after that.
And sometimes when I refuse to respond to her cries for attention, she deliberately turns her back on me and farts. Tell me that's not intentional.
My dog hates me. Still, she's pretty amazing at performing feats of gas that are difficult even for my dad.
t.
My dog burps in my face because she can and because she thinks it's funny. Sometimes she also farts while staring at me.
At first, I thought maybe I was being a little sensitive. See, my dog (until very recently) has never really liked me all that much. She's a daddy's girl and can regularly be found curling up lovingly at my husband's feet, shoving her face into his armpit and falling asleep, sticking her nose in his ear and trying to wake him up. You know, that kind of cute, doggy-type thing. On the other hand, she can typically be found growling at me if I get too close to her for any reason (although her growls have really turned into a sort of high-pitched whining because she knows she'll get in trouble for actually growling). Unless food or toys are involved, she generally wants very little to do with me - except that recently, she has decided that I am her perfect playmate and she assaults me at all times of the day with her strange red Martha Stewart rope toy. But I digress...
The long and short of it is that I have a very gassy dog who enjoys making public displays of her gassy-ness, generally in the direction of my face. Like when, approximately ten minutes ago, she stood in the middle of the living room floor (I'm home sick again today), stared at me (all the while wagging her tail), and burped very loudly and very intentionally. I'm pretty sure I heard her chuckle after that.
And sometimes when I refuse to respond to her cries for attention, she deliberately turns her back on me and farts. Tell me that's not intentional.
My dog hates me. Still, she's pretty amazing at performing feats of gas that are difficult even for my dad.
t.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Resignation
Although the news hasn't really hit the airwaves yet, my life has just changed drastically. After much thought and flip-flopping, I officially resigned from my position at Stockton today. It won't be effective until mid-May because I don't desire to make anyone else's life more difficult in the middle of an academic semester, but now I have a deadline by which to make some important decisions.
Oh, how I've tossed and turned over this decision. My entire professional career has been built at that school, and I can't begin to describe the wealth of relationships I've built there. It's been home for so long, I'm not quite sure what life will be like without it. One thing's for sure - it's already scarier. I have no immediate job prospects, although I'm completely confident in my ability to continue making a living. I hope to write more, edit more, and most of all, teach more. I have found that teaching is where I am most comfortable - it allows me to connect with students in more significant ways than I currently do and it's such a great thing to know that you've got SOMETHING useful to offer the world. I don't expect to pursue a teaching certificate, but I will certainly look for as many adjunct instructor opportunities as I can throughout my immediate area and beyond. And, of course, I'll continue to plod through my pre-med studies at a snail's pace.
It's difficult to explain - I feel like I've been watching the long, slow death of my current profession for some time now and it's been brutal. My entire life has been built around my field - my self-esteem has, at least to some degree, hinged almost entirely on what I've been able to accomplish professionally and academically. It's scary to think of moving on finally.
But I'm also completely intrigued by what might be possible now. I suppose I owe a lot of my evolution as a person to Alex for being so supportive of every decision I've made in the time that we've been together. Not once has he told me NOT to do something; in fact, he's pushed me to really think about what I love to do and how to make it into a career. So that's what I'm doing, I suppose.
It's going to be weird, looking at everything I do this semester as the last time I'll do it at Stockton. It will be even stranger to see someone else in my chair, in my office, probably with the horrible fluorescent lights on instead of the cozy little cave-lighting I've created. It will be weird to go to the school only as a student and not as an employee with the benefit of an office, a little plot of land in academia to call my own.
I'm just being self-indulgent and reminiscent now :) I've got a great deal of heartburn (both literal and figurative), so I suppose I'll take some Pepto and go to bed. Good night, all.
t.
Oh, how I've tossed and turned over this decision. My entire professional career has been built at that school, and I can't begin to describe the wealth of relationships I've built there. It's been home for so long, I'm not quite sure what life will be like without it. One thing's for sure - it's already scarier. I have no immediate job prospects, although I'm completely confident in my ability to continue making a living. I hope to write more, edit more, and most of all, teach more. I have found that teaching is where I am most comfortable - it allows me to connect with students in more significant ways than I currently do and it's such a great thing to know that you've got SOMETHING useful to offer the world. I don't expect to pursue a teaching certificate, but I will certainly look for as many adjunct instructor opportunities as I can throughout my immediate area and beyond. And, of course, I'll continue to plod through my pre-med studies at a snail's pace.
It's difficult to explain - I feel like I've been watching the long, slow death of my current profession for some time now and it's been brutal. My entire life has been built around my field - my self-esteem has, at least to some degree, hinged almost entirely on what I've been able to accomplish professionally and academically. It's scary to think of moving on finally.
But I'm also completely intrigued by what might be possible now. I suppose I owe a lot of my evolution as a person to Alex for being so supportive of every decision I've made in the time that we've been together. Not once has he told me NOT to do something; in fact, he's pushed me to really think about what I love to do and how to make it into a career. So that's what I'm doing, I suppose.
It's going to be weird, looking at everything I do this semester as the last time I'll do it at Stockton. It will be even stranger to see someone else in my chair, in my office, probably with the horrible fluorescent lights on instead of the cozy little cave-lighting I've created. It will be weird to go to the school only as a student and not as an employee with the benefit of an office, a little plot of land in academia to call my own.
I'm just being self-indulgent and reminiscent now :) I've got a great deal of heartburn (both literal and figurative), so I suppose I'll take some Pepto and go to bed. Good night, all.
t.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Families
You can't live with 'em...and you can't shoot 'em. Just kidding. Of COURSE you can shoot 'em - you just better have a real good escape route.
I jest. Over the last few months, lots of things have changed in the Fayter-Ronda household. Little things. Things that most people wouldn't even notice on the outside. After a bit more than a year in our humble abode, I can say that we've finally REALLY settled in. While it felt like home from the moment our realtor showed us the little rancher on a corner lot, it's really OURS now. (Well, not according to Chase, who still demands those pesky mortgage payments every month...but I digress.) After two Christmases, an anniversary, and about five major snow storms, it's safe to say we love it here.
In the three years since Alex and I have been married, dozens of people have asked us when the babies will start coming, and that question popped up only more frequently after we bought the house. People don't seem to accept the fact that we're very happy with what we've got - there's Sydney, of course, who we wish was here more often but who is always here in spirit with her purple bedroom and (ghastly) teeny-bopper posters. Sangha the Neurotic has taken his rightful place on all the windowsills, while Rosie the Nutcase continues to terrorize the very friendly neighbors with her incessant barking and peeing. It's a happy little home we've got here.
So what does THAT have to do with families?
Well, they change a lot. Recently, Alex reunited with his dad and stepmom after some years apart and Syd finally got to meet her "long-lost grandfather" (as she continues to call him). I think we are all quite happy to say that our families got a little larger. And we finally trekked up to see Alex's mom, sister, and nephew over the holidays, after more than a year of only emails (can you tell we're very irresponsible kids?) - I was especially pleased to meet the ten cats and two dogs (because, really, who DOESN'T need more animals in their extended families?).
It made me think about my own family and how good we've got it. I live close to the area where I grew up, having been more than satisfied to settle myself down here and build my career. I see my parents regularly (and I thoroughly enjoy the company of their two rambunctious new pups). Sydney knows my family pretty well by now and seems to have found her place in the brood easily - they love her, she loves them, it's all one big happy family.
It makes me feel bad for people who don't really HAVE families and even worse for people who DO have families but neglect them. I suppose sometimes those folks come around to finding out what's really good in life...but it seems more often than not that they don't. Maybe they prefer to suffer. Maybe they're the type of people who always want what they haven't got.
Or maybe (and this is just a theory), they're the kind of folks who get what they want and find that it isn't enough, that there's still something missing. It's hard not to get angry at people who tend to miss what's right under their noses. They take for granted the people who invite them into their lives and try to make them a part of something bigger - they think, perhaps, that the crackers will always be on the table and the vodka will always flow freely. But it seems to me that human families operate on the same Darwinian principle as every other thing that breathes - it's survival of the fittest. We sometimes forget that in an evolutionary sense, we have to give our families a REASON to let us be part of the pack. For most families, the reason is obvious - we depend on and trust each other to be part of the same support system. It makes sense, then, that once you remove yourself from the support system (intentionally or otherwise), you get squeezed out. No one needs you anymore, and you end up an isolated individual in a world where the collective functions most efficiently. And isn't that a sad story?
In a larger sense, it would appear that the family survives where the individual does not. I'd hate to be that one lone ranger.
More next time, folks...
t.
I jest. Over the last few months, lots of things have changed in the Fayter-Ronda household. Little things. Things that most people wouldn't even notice on the outside. After a bit more than a year in our humble abode, I can say that we've finally REALLY settled in. While it felt like home from the moment our realtor showed us the little rancher on a corner lot, it's really OURS now. (Well, not according to Chase, who still demands those pesky mortgage payments every month...but I digress.) After two Christmases, an anniversary, and about five major snow storms, it's safe to say we love it here.
In the three years since Alex and I have been married, dozens of people have asked us when the babies will start coming, and that question popped up only more frequently after we bought the house. People don't seem to accept the fact that we're very happy with what we've got - there's Sydney, of course, who we wish was here more often but who is always here in spirit with her purple bedroom and (ghastly) teeny-bopper posters. Sangha the Neurotic has taken his rightful place on all the windowsills, while Rosie the Nutcase continues to terrorize the very friendly neighbors with her incessant barking and peeing. It's a happy little home we've got here.
So what does THAT have to do with families?
Well, they change a lot. Recently, Alex reunited with his dad and stepmom after some years apart and Syd finally got to meet her "long-lost grandfather" (as she continues to call him). I think we are all quite happy to say that our families got a little larger. And we finally trekked up to see Alex's mom, sister, and nephew over the holidays, after more than a year of only emails (can you tell we're very irresponsible kids?) - I was especially pleased to meet the ten cats and two dogs (because, really, who DOESN'T need more animals in their extended families?).
It made me think about my own family and how good we've got it. I live close to the area where I grew up, having been more than satisfied to settle myself down here and build my career. I see my parents regularly (and I thoroughly enjoy the company of their two rambunctious new pups). Sydney knows my family pretty well by now and seems to have found her place in the brood easily - they love her, she loves them, it's all one big happy family.
It makes me feel bad for people who don't really HAVE families and even worse for people who DO have families but neglect them. I suppose sometimes those folks come around to finding out what's really good in life...but it seems more often than not that they don't. Maybe they prefer to suffer. Maybe they're the type of people who always want what they haven't got.
Or maybe (and this is just a theory), they're the kind of folks who get what they want and find that it isn't enough, that there's still something missing. It's hard not to get angry at people who tend to miss what's right under their noses. They take for granted the people who invite them into their lives and try to make them a part of something bigger - they think, perhaps, that the crackers will always be on the table and the vodka will always flow freely. But it seems to me that human families operate on the same Darwinian principle as every other thing that breathes - it's survival of the fittest. We sometimes forget that in an evolutionary sense, we have to give our families a REASON to let us be part of the pack. For most families, the reason is obvious - we depend on and trust each other to be part of the same support system. It makes sense, then, that once you remove yourself from the support system (intentionally or otherwise), you get squeezed out. No one needs you anymore, and you end up an isolated individual in a world where the collective functions most efficiently. And isn't that a sad story?
In a larger sense, it would appear that the family survives where the individual does not. I'd hate to be that one lone ranger.
More next time, folks...
t.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Addicted
Imagine that you're addicted to something - I mean REALLY addicted, not just a fly-by-night, "OMG, I'm SO addicted to that new T.V. show" kind of thing. Now imagine that someone told you it was possible to cure yourself of this addiction (I know, I'm starting to sound like a tele-evangelist, but stay with me here - I promise not to ask for money or first-born children). What if you believed this person right from the start? What if it wasn't an imminent truth that you would be addicted to this one thing FOREVER? What if it seemed obvious that you could get rid of the monkey on your back and send him off to a third-world jungle thousands of miles away where he would never again see civilization?
This scenario is exactly the kind of thing I think about when I hear people say, "Once an addict, always an addict." I can't tell you how much it pains me to hear someone say, "Yep, I'm an alcoholic and I'll always be an alcoholic, but at least I can stop drinking." It seems so important that we pathologize addictive behaviors, that we create a complete co-dependency between The Addict and The Great and Powerful Healer, that we beat into the head of this addict the fact that there really is no way to get rid of this thing, this internal drive to over-consume whatever it is that's being over-consumed.
But if you started the conversation out differently, then wouldn't you think more hopefully about the situation? If you (The Addict) were never told that you now had this new title that would follow you throughout your life, wouldn't you be more inclined to believe that whatever problem has beset you is temporary? Wouldn't you believe in yourself more?
Just a thought...
On another (semi-related) note, I'm continually shocked and irritated by people who are addicted to themselves. There are a whole lot of people who seem to think only of their own well-being and I wonder how that happens. Childhood traumas? Other addictions? A refusal to grow up and mature? I'm not sure, but it's sad, the degree to which narcissism has taken over our lives. Especially when people are narcissistic to the detriment of the people to whom they should be the closest.
Perhaps there's redemption even for these folks, though. Maybe at some point they will have that wonderful moment of clarity when the light bulb turns on and everything is illuminated (to borrow the words of a certain awesome writer). I suspect that if that moment comes, though, it will be intensely painful for the person who looks back at his life and realizes just how much hurt he has caused to those people who loved and trusted him the most.
I think this new kind of reality works on the same principle as Plato's cave theory - once the prisoner realizes he is imprisoned by his own inability to see beyond the inside of the cave, once he sees that he's not actually a prisoner but can walk towards the doorway to the outside world, he'll be blinded by the light of that release. And (to borrow the words of another famous icon) I pity the fool who waits until old age to find these things out, because the longer it takes to get to the doorway, the more it will hurt to walk outside.
t.
This scenario is exactly the kind of thing I think about when I hear people say, "Once an addict, always an addict." I can't tell you how much it pains me to hear someone say, "Yep, I'm an alcoholic and I'll always be an alcoholic, but at least I can stop drinking." It seems so important that we pathologize addictive behaviors, that we create a complete co-dependency between The Addict and The Great and Powerful Healer, that we beat into the head of this addict the fact that there really is no way to get rid of this thing, this internal drive to over-consume whatever it is that's being over-consumed.
But if you started the conversation out differently, then wouldn't you think more hopefully about the situation? If you (The Addict) were never told that you now had this new title that would follow you throughout your life, wouldn't you be more inclined to believe that whatever problem has beset you is temporary? Wouldn't you believe in yourself more?
Just a thought...
On another (semi-related) note, I'm continually shocked and irritated by people who are addicted to themselves. There are a whole lot of people who seem to think only of their own well-being and I wonder how that happens. Childhood traumas? Other addictions? A refusal to grow up and mature? I'm not sure, but it's sad, the degree to which narcissism has taken over our lives. Especially when people are narcissistic to the detriment of the people to whom they should be the closest.
Perhaps there's redemption even for these folks, though. Maybe at some point they will have that wonderful moment of clarity when the light bulb turns on and everything is illuminated (to borrow the words of a certain awesome writer). I suspect that if that moment comes, though, it will be intensely painful for the person who looks back at his life and realizes just how much hurt he has caused to those people who loved and trusted him the most.
I think this new kind of reality works on the same principle as Plato's cave theory - once the prisoner realizes he is imprisoned by his own inability to see beyond the inside of the cave, once he sees that he's not actually a prisoner but can walk towards the doorway to the outside world, he'll be blinded by the light of that release. And (to borrow the words of another famous icon) I pity the fool who waits until old age to find these things out, because the longer it takes to get to the doorway, the more it will hurt to walk outside.
t.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Nirvana doesn't live here anymore...
I don't know what I was thinking. Somewhere between six years ago and September 2010, I forgot the intense physical and mental demands of yoga and decided I needed to restart my practice.
I must have been crazy. It truly was the longest 72 minutes of my life.
Despite my strong desire to help people, I am not-so-secretly repulsed by most of their habits. Besides being shoved into a smallish, 80-degree room with too many people ready to pray to the yogic gods, I happened to be squished between TWO people with major garlic-breath issues. If you know me at all, you know that I hate garlic - I don't care about the health benefits because I can't get past the smell, especially when it's emanating from someone's pores. (Much to Alex's dismay, garlic has been permanently banned from the Ronda household.) It's more distasteful to me than any blood and guts I may have seen in the E.R. - it's even worse than the liver smoothies we made in Bio lab last week (ask me about that later). So to be shoved between two people who took VERY seriously the prescribed breathing techniques while bending themselves into nine million directions was truly a nightmare.
Add to that the loud gulps of water from the lady down the row, the grunts and moans from people who insisted on pushing themselves too hard, and the RIVERS of sweat pouring down my face, and you've got the 72 minutes from hell, all wrapped up in a neat little Buddha-bellied package.
Here's a secret not too many people know about me - I don't sweat. Never have. Might have something to do with my utter laziness at life and complete unwillingness to push myself to any physical degree. But this class had me begging for mercy. I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn't hold even the most basic pose for longer than 30 seconds - yet another reminder of how out-of-shape I really am. Of course, that aggravation grew exponentially as sweat got in my eyes, on my glasses, down my back and into places that should never be sweaty.
And that was a GENTLE yoga class.
By the time we got into savasana, I was completely ready to give up on life - guess they call it "corpse pose" for a reason. I was laying there staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the low background music (and the leftover pants from the guy to my right), and thinking deeply...about McDonald's. All I could think about was getting out of that studio and to the nearest Mickey D's for my very favoritest bad-for-me treat - the old standby, Number 11. A fish fillet (surely made of some indeterminate mixture of cheap frozen fish), deeply-oil-soaked fries, and a vanilla milkshake (also of a questionable source). I kept thinking that if I could just get out of there alive and with most of my limbs intact, I was going to spite all of those perfect little yogis by patronizing an ugly old corporate demon who probably chains small children in Malaysia to the deep fryers in an effort to maintain a constant stream of employees to satisfy the ever-increasing cravings of the Malaysian masses for Big Macs and new frozen Frappe-Latte-Chinos.
Yep, I'd get them all.
When we finally got up from being dead for a little while, we sat lotus and did a little mini-meditation thing. That's when it happened - every class ends with a big, loud "Om" moment, during which everyone simultaneously sounds their vocal gong before leaving. I sat and stared at everyone around me, completely wrapped up in their New Age self-importance, and wondered what 15th dimension I'd accidentally tripped into.
You know, yoga's good for people and the teacher whose studio I choose to patronize is wonderful at what she does - you can tell that she believes in it with every fiber of her being. But sometimes it's hard to get past the hipness of it all. People who spend lots of money on recycled-rubber mats and humanely made clothing, but who at the end of class traipse out to their Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi???). There is this element of pseudo-perfection that doesn't seem to jive with the real principles behind yoga. And I despise people like that more than I dislike garlic, if that gives you some hint as to my gut reaction to them.
When I left class, I drove right over to Mickey D's and got what I went for. Sure, I knew it was going to make me feel like puking; I knew I'd regret it later because I'm trying (while not trying at all) to lose weight and feel better. But I still did it because I felt like, after all that jazz, I needed to feel like ME again - the me that doesn't take care of herself and doesn't care. The me that doesn't need to look perfect or have the perfect mat or effortlessly move from pose to pose without breaking a sweat.
The me that will doubtlessly be back in class again next Monday, because THAT me knows this is perhaps the most challenging thing I've done in years and that all that irritation from all those innocent garlic-breathed people is really just a big lesson in patience and focus.
And no McDonald's next time.
t.
I must have been crazy. It truly was the longest 72 minutes of my life.
Despite my strong desire to help people, I am not-so-secretly repulsed by most of their habits. Besides being shoved into a smallish, 80-degree room with too many people ready to pray to the yogic gods, I happened to be squished between TWO people with major garlic-breath issues. If you know me at all, you know that I hate garlic - I don't care about the health benefits because I can't get past the smell, especially when it's emanating from someone's pores. (Much to Alex's dismay, garlic has been permanently banned from the Ronda household.) It's more distasteful to me than any blood and guts I may have seen in the E.R. - it's even worse than the liver smoothies we made in Bio lab last week (ask me about that later). So to be shoved between two people who took VERY seriously the prescribed breathing techniques while bending themselves into nine million directions was truly a nightmare.
Add to that the loud gulps of water from the lady down the row, the grunts and moans from people who insisted on pushing themselves too hard, and the RIVERS of sweat pouring down my face, and you've got the 72 minutes from hell, all wrapped up in a neat little Buddha-bellied package.
Here's a secret not too many people know about me - I don't sweat. Never have. Might have something to do with my utter laziness at life and complete unwillingness to push myself to any physical degree. But this class had me begging for mercy. I grew increasingly frustrated that I couldn't hold even the most basic pose for longer than 30 seconds - yet another reminder of how out-of-shape I really am. Of course, that aggravation grew exponentially as sweat got in my eyes, on my glasses, down my back and into places that should never be sweaty.
And that was a GENTLE yoga class.
By the time we got into savasana, I was completely ready to give up on life - guess they call it "corpse pose" for a reason. I was laying there staring at the dimly lit ceiling, listening to the low background music (and the leftover pants from the guy to my right), and thinking deeply...about McDonald's. All I could think about was getting out of that studio and to the nearest Mickey D's for my very favoritest bad-for-me treat - the old standby, Number 11. A fish fillet (surely made of some indeterminate mixture of cheap frozen fish), deeply-oil-soaked fries, and a vanilla milkshake (also of a questionable source). I kept thinking that if I could just get out of there alive and with most of my limbs intact, I was going to spite all of those perfect little yogis by patronizing an ugly old corporate demon who probably chains small children in Malaysia to the deep fryers in an effort to maintain a constant stream of employees to satisfy the ever-increasing cravings of the Malaysian masses for Big Macs and new frozen Frappe-Latte-Chinos.
Yep, I'd get them all.
When we finally got up from being dead for a little while, we sat lotus and did a little mini-meditation thing. That's when it happened - every class ends with a big, loud "Om" moment, during which everyone simultaneously sounds their vocal gong before leaving. I sat and stared at everyone around me, completely wrapped up in their New Age self-importance, and wondered what 15th dimension I'd accidentally tripped into.
You know, yoga's good for people and the teacher whose studio I choose to patronize is wonderful at what she does - you can tell that she believes in it with every fiber of her being. But sometimes it's hard to get past the hipness of it all. People who spend lots of money on recycled-rubber mats and humanely made clothing, but who at the end of class traipse out to their Volvos and Lexuses (Lexi???). There is this element of pseudo-perfection that doesn't seem to jive with the real principles behind yoga. And I despise people like that more than I dislike garlic, if that gives you some hint as to my gut reaction to them.
When I left class, I drove right over to Mickey D's and got what I went for. Sure, I knew it was going to make me feel like puking; I knew I'd regret it later because I'm trying (while not trying at all) to lose weight and feel better. But I still did it because I felt like, after all that jazz, I needed to feel like ME again - the me that doesn't take care of herself and doesn't care. The me that doesn't need to look perfect or have the perfect mat or effortlessly move from pose to pose without breaking a sweat.
The me that will doubtlessly be back in class again next Monday, because THAT me knows this is perhaps the most challenging thing I've done in years and that all that irritation from all those innocent garlic-breathed people is really just a big lesson in patience and focus.
And no McDonald's next time.
t.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Help, I'm married to a spendthrift...
I know, it sounds underwhelming. I can assure you it's not. Follow my lead here...
Over the last few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to rid my mattress of the dog-piss stench that I'm pretty sure has taken on a life of its own.
I tried carpet cleaner (it's not just for carpets, you know). Didn't touch it.
I went to PetSmart and bought a spray bottle full of my very favorite pet-odor neutralizing agent, Nature's Miracle. Although it's certainly proved itself miraculous in the past, it just barely scratched the surface.
In desperation, I dumped more Nature's Miracle on the mattress and mixed it up with a nice big pile of baking soda, which has always worked for me before. Can you guess what happened...or better yet, what DIDN'T happen?
In a last-ditch appeal to save the Stearns & Foster, I asked Alex to try using an industrial-strength carpet machine on the bed - he did. And it didn't work.
I am led to two possible conclusions: 1) My dog has toxic pee and I will obviously need to get a Hazardous Waste symbol shaved into her side, OR 2) The urine has soaked very deeply into the mattress, in which case I will probably have to buy a new one.
Why does this have anything to do with my spendthrift husband?
Well, as wonderful as he is in so many ways, he has far more material needs than I. Yesterday I arrived home at 9pm to find a bummed-out Alex - the elliptical machine we bought from a guy on Craig's List for $100 broke. The whole thing didn't break, but something semi-critical to its operation broke - the display, a wiring harness, whatever the hell is inside those things.
When stuff like this happens, my instinct is usually to say, "We'll get it fixed," or (if need be), "We'll live without it for awhile."
Not so with the Hubster. He wants his elliptical and he wants it NOW.
I understand his pain - he uses the machine on a daily basis and has lost quite a bit of weight over the years through a regular exercise routine. When someone GAVE us an unbelievably nice (and new) treadmill, we bought the elliptical and set up a mini gym, in which he works out all the time. I get the terrible sense of loss he must be feeling at the sudden inoperativeness (inoperability??) of his beloved elliptical.
And yet...for some reason, I'm more concerned about obtaining a mattress on which I can sleep without nightmares of drowning in dog piss or being eaten by the mighty monster living deep inside the foam core under me.
Of course there is also the fact that Thanksgiving is coming up, which means we have to buy plane fare for Syd to get to and from the southern region of the U.S., where she lives most of the time.
And there is this camping trip that hubby arranged as part of our anniversary celebration in two weeks.
Not to be ignored is the tiny little issue of shodding our feet with wearable shoes, keeping a roof high and dry over our heads, and occasionally consuming edibles.
Don't misunderstand me - Alex has made many sacrifices over the years and he generally does not go out and buy things for himself, even though I know there are some things he wants more than anything in the universe. He is always careful to place the needs of others first and he does have a good sense of priorities - of course his daughter visiting us for the holidays and of course our traveling anniversary celebration is more important than a new elliptical. Still, it's hard NOT to sense his dissatisfaction with the way things are sometimes, and it's REALLY hard not to feel bad about it. Which then has the residual effect of making me grumpy.
I know there is poverty in the world and Alex and I certainly aren't the face of it - we generally live comfortably within our means. The problem is that for Alex, "within our means" has a slightly different ring to it. He's notorious for "needing" nice things, although admittedly he has picked up some very nifty cheapskate tricks from his feet-on-the-ground, realistic wife. I'm proud of his progress, but I wholeheartedly curse his need to REPLACE rather than FIX things. When I bring this maddening habit to his attention, though, I am immediately labeled with that great scarlet letter - N. For nag, of course.
I don't like being thought of as a nag, especially since if it was up to me, I would buy him everything his gigantic heart desires - he takes care of me well and I can't complain about that. But I sure do wish instead of having that giant N plastered on my chest, I could have a big S, Supergirl-style - S for Savior or Saint, S for Sane or Sensible, maybe even S for Sagacious or Shrewd.
But no. I get the N. Always with the N.
Alex, I love you, but you drive me batty sometimes. I know your dream life includes a lot of nice things around you, but in my dream world there is only you and a piss-free dog and a not-morbidly-obese cat in a small cabin in the woods.
Who needs STUFF anyway?
I have a feeling I'm going to be trying this vinyl-cover-for-the-mattress thing today. And I have a feeling it won't work. Then what? Only time (and money) will tell. I know one thing - if I have to replace this mattress again, I'm getting the cheapest one they've got. AND the vinyl cover.
t.
Over the last few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to rid my mattress of the dog-piss stench that I'm pretty sure has taken on a life of its own.
I tried carpet cleaner (it's not just for carpets, you know). Didn't touch it.
I went to PetSmart and bought a spray bottle full of my very favorite pet-odor neutralizing agent, Nature's Miracle. Although it's certainly proved itself miraculous in the past, it just barely scratched the surface.
In desperation, I dumped more Nature's Miracle on the mattress and mixed it up with a nice big pile of baking soda, which has always worked for me before. Can you guess what happened...or better yet, what DIDN'T happen?
In a last-ditch appeal to save the Stearns & Foster, I asked Alex to try using an industrial-strength carpet machine on the bed - he did. And it didn't work.
I am led to two possible conclusions: 1) My dog has toxic pee and I will obviously need to get a Hazardous Waste symbol shaved into her side, OR 2) The urine has soaked very deeply into the mattress, in which case I will probably have to buy a new one.
Why does this have anything to do with my spendthrift husband?
Well, as wonderful as he is in so many ways, he has far more material needs than I. Yesterday I arrived home at 9pm to find a bummed-out Alex - the elliptical machine we bought from a guy on Craig's List for $100 broke. The whole thing didn't break, but something semi-critical to its operation broke - the display, a wiring harness, whatever the hell is inside those things.
When stuff like this happens, my instinct is usually to say, "We'll get it fixed," or (if need be), "We'll live without it for awhile."
Not so with the Hubster. He wants his elliptical and he wants it NOW.
I understand his pain - he uses the machine on a daily basis and has lost quite a bit of weight over the years through a regular exercise routine. When someone GAVE us an unbelievably nice (and new) treadmill, we bought the elliptical and set up a mini gym, in which he works out all the time. I get the terrible sense of loss he must be feeling at the sudden inoperativeness (inoperability??) of his beloved elliptical.
And yet...for some reason, I'm more concerned about obtaining a mattress on which I can sleep without nightmares of drowning in dog piss or being eaten by the mighty monster living deep inside the foam core under me.
Of course there is also the fact that Thanksgiving is coming up, which means we have to buy plane fare for Syd to get to and from the southern region of the U.S., where she lives most of the time.
And there is this camping trip that hubby arranged as part of our anniversary celebration in two weeks.
Not to be ignored is the tiny little issue of shodding our feet with wearable shoes, keeping a roof high and dry over our heads, and occasionally consuming edibles.
Don't misunderstand me - Alex has made many sacrifices over the years and he generally does not go out and buy things for himself, even though I know there are some things he wants more than anything in the universe. He is always careful to place the needs of others first and he does have a good sense of priorities - of course his daughter visiting us for the holidays and of course our traveling anniversary celebration is more important than a new elliptical. Still, it's hard NOT to sense his dissatisfaction with the way things are sometimes, and it's REALLY hard not to feel bad about it. Which then has the residual effect of making me grumpy.
I know there is poverty in the world and Alex and I certainly aren't the face of it - we generally live comfortably within our means. The problem is that for Alex, "within our means" has a slightly different ring to it. He's notorious for "needing" nice things, although admittedly he has picked up some very nifty cheapskate tricks from his feet-on-the-ground, realistic wife. I'm proud of his progress, but I wholeheartedly curse his need to REPLACE rather than FIX things. When I bring this maddening habit to his attention, though, I am immediately labeled with that great scarlet letter - N. For nag, of course.
I don't like being thought of as a nag, especially since if it was up to me, I would buy him everything his gigantic heart desires - he takes care of me well and I can't complain about that. But I sure do wish instead of having that giant N plastered on my chest, I could have a big S, Supergirl-style - S for Savior or Saint, S for Sane or Sensible, maybe even S for Sagacious or Shrewd.
But no. I get the N. Always with the N.
Alex, I love you, but you drive me batty sometimes. I know your dream life includes a lot of nice things around you, but in my dream world there is only you and a piss-free dog and a not-morbidly-obese cat in a small cabin in the woods.
Who needs STUFF anyway?
I have a feeling I'm going to be trying this vinyl-cover-for-the-mattress thing today. And I have a feeling it won't work. Then what? Only time (and money) will tell. I know one thing - if I have to replace this mattress again, I'm getting the cheapest one they've got. AND the vinyl cover.
t.
Friday, September 24, 2010
No, I'm not dead.
I was just on hiatus from blogging for awhile. But, ahhhhh, it's good to be back in the blogosphere, where nothing is as it appears and there is much fun to be had peering into the little windows of other people's lives.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.
I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)
But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."
I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...
Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.
I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).
I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:
"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."
I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.
t.
Yesterday was my birthday. I am an indeterminate age, at least to my growing body of students. When I taught my first class at Atlantic Cape this fall, I assured my all-freshman audience that I was indeed old enough to be teaching the class. No one believed me, but rather than entertain a discussion about my actual age, I pointed out that it was irrelevant anyway because someone thought me experienced enough to teach the class and someone thought they were intelligent enough to be in the class, so in our own respective ways we both hold critical roles and age has nothing at all to do with them. Yeah, it was a weasel's way out, but guess what? I adore them and I think they like me pretty well, so in the end it doesn't matter much.
I caught myself reflecting on age yesterday, as birthdays are wont to make me do. It's strange to spend so much time working at a college and to feel so far afield of what students like these days. It wasn't THAT long ago I was one of them, was it? But there's a lot of difference between then and now, I guess, because I can't make heads or tails of guys wearing skinny jeans or girls bringing back the absolute worst trends of the 80s. (Look, kids, I was there and although I will never get tired of The Breakfast Club or Pat Benatar, from what I remember, I can assure you there's an absolutely valid reason that side-ponytails and leg warmers went the way of the dinosaur.) But that's okay because they don't get my pop culture references, which at least in my own age group, are still funny and, dare I say, even a little kitschy. (Can you believe that kids born in the 90s don't even KNOW about She-Ra?! And I will never get over the fact that they don't know about the 50-lb "cell phone" Zach Morris looked so cool using. Don't even get me started on Carmen Sandiego...broke my heart, that one did.)
But then, in the midst of my contemplation, I started thinking about how my parents probably felt the same way as they got older. And maybe my grandmother and her mother did, too. I guess this is what they meant by "getting old."
I don't really feel old. I mean, except every time I sit in class as a too-old pre-med student surrounded by freshmen who wear silly bands and had AP Calculus just last year. But other than that, I'm a spring chicken...
Probably the hardest thing to deal with as I get a little older each day is the fact that I am now THAT woman - not that cute girl in the back of the class who wore a size zero; oh no, not THAT girl...ever again, sadly. Nope, now I'm THAT woman who sits in the front of every class so she can take copious amounts of notes and actually SEE the board. Yes, I'm THAT woman who gets aggravated at the incessant tap-tap-tap of little tiny Droid keyboards all over the classroom, transmitting messages from desperate 18-year-olds making plans with other desperate 18-year-olds to get hung over for class tomorrow morning.
I'm THAT woman who talks about her husband and her stepkid and her dog and her cat and her adorable little suburban house with a green lawn and a picket fence (okay, well actually it's a split-rail, but do THEY know the difference?).
I'm THAT woman who until now didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life but who, now that she's decided, is hyper-focused on making the dream a reality and trying her best to enjoy it along the way. Do you know, I think I might actually be learning to LOVE science? After years of studying soft disciplines like literature and philosophy and counseling, I am actually becoming passionate about molecules and amino acids.
So I guess what I'm saying is that it's hard sometimes to sit with people much younger than me, whose lives are so very different from mine, and think what all those "old" people probably used to think about me:
"Don't be so desperate to have people love you. Enjoy your time on earth without giving your integrity and self-respect to people who don't respect themselves, let alone you. Don't let someone who broke your heart destroy your ego or your joy. Because one day, you'll wake up and find that you've matured, that you're actually a grown-up with grown-up thoughts and a lot less time to worry about what other people think, and that even though you're not that old, you're finally old enough to know better. You might not want a picket fence or a stable life or a dog - you might want a life on the road with a pet iguana to keep you company - but you'll find SOMETHING that you want enough to drive yourself all the places you wouldn't (or couldn't) find the energy to go as a younger person, and all the rest of it - the drama and time wasted and hours spent in misery over some person or other - just doesn't mean what it used to. You might even be happy."
I suppose this might be my way of saying to my elders, "Thanks for all the advice I didn't trust you to give when I was a kid." And I'd probably also agree that yes, 50's the new 20 and you're only as old as you feel and age is just a number.
t.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Lukewarm beer & mediocre mousse
(As promised, Jelly, this one's for you...)
Last night I attended a Longaberger fundraiser to support breast cancer research and treatment - it was their annual Horizon of Hope event, and it's always a good time. For the past three years, my best friend and I have made an occasion of going. We play bingo, we buy 50/50 tickets, we do the auction thing...in other words, we spend a lot of money to lose a lot of different ways.
But I don't think that's why we go. She can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure this now-annual tradition has strangely become a big part of our friendship. Of course we care about ending breast cancer (doesn't everyone?), and of course we like to throw our support behind Angel, who's a Longaberger consultant and an all-around great gal. I don't believe, though, that either of us is altruistic enough to go with only those two goals in mind.
There's something most fundraisers have in common - the food, typical banquet fare prepared for a small army, is fairly bland; the company one must keep (especially when seated at a table of unfamiliar faces) is questionable; and you are almost guaranteed to lose every dollar you pay for those useless paper tickets they give you in return.
But there is something priceless in sitting next to your slightly tipsy (because you forced a cosmo upon her) BFF and her mom, doubled over in hysterics over the time you called her ten days before her birthday and cleverly teased, "Who's having a birthday today?", only to hear, "I don't know - who?!" in return. (Guess you had to be there - but seriously, it was hilarious. My uncertain response to her response was something like, "Um, yours?") Even when you're very slowly nursing a lukewarm Yuengling and taste-testing a mediocre, only slightly chocolaty mousse, that kind of laughter makes the whole event worthwhile. And of course the fundraisers must know that, because aren't there a million other ways to raise money? Yet, when all is said and done, it's valuable in more than one way to have a bunch of friends sitting around a large banquet room, battling it out over pig-in-a-pen bingo and talking trash.
Why does any of this matter? Well, because sometimes (just sometimes) I have a hard time remembering how Maureen and I got to be best friends. I frequently remember odd situations over which we've bonded - for instance, my favorite green khakis with the giant bleach stain on the ass (she was the only person nice enough to tell me about it...and that was before we even really knew each other). One of my favorite things about her is that she's the kind of person who doesn't give up on friends - she knew probably from the start that I wasn't really the BFF kind of gal. She didn't take offense to the fact that for an entire summer during which we worked together, I sat at a table all the way across from her during lunch because I'm a claustrophobic eater with a large personal bubble. She did, however, gradually coach me to move within easy speaking distance until finally I was sitting next to her at the lunch table.
Maureen is the kind of person who looks at you like "I want a hug" even when she knows you're not the hugging type. She keeps a respectful distance because she knows that eventually, you will have to cave to the unspoken demand. She will patiently wait until you come around to seeing that friendship is about more than being on the same page all the time. At least, that's what she did with me - and I'm not easy to love.
There aren't too many people with whom I would venture to a fundraiser where I am sure to be uncomfortable (you know, the whole personal space thing...), lose all my money, and eat less-than-gourmet fare for gourmet prices. But, Jelly, you know I'd do it for you :)
t.
Last night I attended a Longaberger fundraiser to support breast cancer research and treatment - it was their annual Horizon of Hope event, and it's always a good time. For the past three years, my best friend and I have made an occasion of going. We play bingo, we buy 50/50 tickets, we do the auction thing...in other words, we spend a lot of money to lose a lot of different ways.
But I don't think that's why we go. She can correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure this now-annual tradition has strangely become a big part of our friendship. Of course we care about ending breast cancer (doesn't everyone?), and of course we like to throw our support behind Angel, who's a Longaberger consultant and an all-around great gal. I don't believe, though, that either of us is altruistic enough to go with only those two goals in mind.
There's something most fundraisers have in common - the food, typical banquet fare prepared for a small army, is fairly bland; the company one must keep (especially when seated at a table of unfamiliar faces) is questionable; and you are almost guaranteed to lose every dollar you pay for those useless paper tickets they give you in return.
But there is something priceless in sitting next to your slightly tipsy (because you forced a cosmo upon her) BFF and her mom, doubled over in hysterics over the time you called her ten days before her birthday and cleverly teased, "Who's having a birthday today?", only to hear, "I don't know - who?!" in return. (Guess you had to be there - but seriously, it was hilarious. My uncertain response to her response was something like, "Um, yours?") Even when you're very slowly nursing a lukewarm Yuengling and taste-testing a mediocre, only slightly chocolaty mousse, that kind of laughter makes the whole event worthwhile. And of course the fundraisers must know that, because aren't there a million other ways to raise money? Yet, when all is said and done, it's valuable in more than one way to have a bunch of friends sitting around a large banquet room, battling it out over pig-in-a-pen bingo and talking trash.
Why does any of this matter? Well, because sometimes (just sometimes) I have a hard time remembering how Maureen and I got to be best friends. I frequently remember odd situations over which we've bonded - for instance, my favorite green khakis with the giant bleach stain on the ass (she was the only person nice enough to tell me about it...and that was before we even really knew each other). One of my favorite things about her is that she's the kind of person who doesn't give up on friends - she knew probably from the start that I wasn't really the BFF kind of gal. She didn't take offense to the fact that for an entire summer during which we worked together, I sat at a table all the way across from her during lunch because I'm a claustrophobic eater with a large personal bubble. She did, however, gradually coach me to move within easy speaking distance until finally I was sitting next to her at the lunch table.
Maureen is the kind of person who looks at you like "I want a hug" even when she knows you're not the hugging type. She keeps a respectful distance because she knows that eventually, you will have to cave to the unspoken demand. She will patiently wait until you come around to seeing that friendship is about more than being on the same page all the time. At least, that's what she did with me - and I'm not easy to love.
There aren't too many people with whom I would venture to a fundraiser where I am sure to be uncomfortable (you know, the whole personal space thing...), lose all my money, and eat less-than-gourmet fare for gourmet prices. But, Jelly, you know I'd do it for you :)
t.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Crickets, they are a-chirpin'...
I'm an early riser - not by choice, but by biology. Or something like that.
Which leads me to be here, in front of my computer at an obscene time trying to think of the brilliant thing I thought to write last night (but didn't).
Have you ever sat in front of a glaring computer screen and wondered what to do? With the billions of words and millions of pages the inter-web offers, and STILL you can't figure out what to watch or read or play?
My theory is this - there's just too much going on in the world. Things need to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n...it would be nice if everything didn't move at the speed of light so that I always felt the need to be doing or watching or reading or SOMETHING. And yet, I do believe it's impossible this way.
The last thoughts I had before falling asleep last night: I need to write a living will and I need to get new life insurance policies and I need to fill out new direct deposit forms and I need to eat breakfast (apparently at 9:30 at night) and I need to throw everything away because it's all too much to look at anymore and I need to tell my husband I love him before I fall asleep and I need to play with my cat more often because he's too fat and possibly unhappy and I need to buy those two things I forgot when I went food shopping today and I need to find a new novel to read and I need to start looking at that biology textbook and I need to pick up my prescription from CVS and I need to clean the house and I need to...STOP MOVING. I need to do nothing for awhile.
I need a vacation.
t.
Which leads me to be here, in front of my computer at an obscene time trying to think of the brilliant thing I thought to write last night (but didn't).
Have you ever sat in front of a glaring computer screen and wondered what to do? With the billions of words and millions of pages the inter-web offers, and STILL you can't figure out what to watch or read or play?
My theory is this - there's just too much going on in the world. Things need to s-l-o-w d-o-w-n...it would be nice if everything didn't move at the speed of light so that I always felt the need to be doing or watching or reading or SOMETHING. And yet, I do believe it's impossible this way.
The last thoughts I had before falling asleep last night: I need to write a living will and I need to get new life insurance policies and I need to fill out new direct deposit forms and I need to eat breakfast (apparently at 9:30 at night) and I need to throw everything away because it's all too much to look at anymore and I need to tell my husband I love him before I fall asleep and I need to play with my cat more often because he's too fat and possibly unhappy and I need to buy those two things I forgot when I went food shopping today and I need to find a new novel to read and I need to start looking at that biology textbook and I need to pick up my prescription from CVS and I need to clean the house and I need to...STOP MOVING. I need to do nothing for awhile.
I need a vacation.
t.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Airing out our grievances
August 18, 2010
Dr. XXXXXXX
Cross Keys Animal Hospital
2071 North Black Horse Pike
Williamstown, NJ 08094
Dear Dr. XXXX,
On August 16, my mother brought her 3 ½-year-old boxer, Molly, in because of very strange behaviors she was exhibiting, including inexplicably urinating around the house, stumbling, failing to recognize family members, losing her appetite and the ability to drink, losing her nerve function and possibly her eyesight, and becoming confused about where she was. You did blood tests and said that if they came back clean, there was a chance the dog had either a behavioral problem or brain cancer, the latter condition being somewhat common in boxers.
We waited 24 hours to get the blood test results back and when they were finally relayed to my mother over the phone, a vet tech suggested that the problem was behavioral and that my mother should hire a trainer. When you eventually called her back yourself, you acted as though you were completely unfamiliar with Molly’s case and made the same suggestion. By that time, Molly’s symptoms had worsened considerably. The problem was clearly NOT behavioral and she was clearly NOT in any shape to be transported to a vet hospital in the city and left there.
The service my parents received from you at Cross Keys Animal Hospital was despicable. If you had bothered to listen to what my mother was telling you, you may have been able to make some real recommendations rather than jumping from one extreme to another, especially since you were Molly’s primary vet and could have easily looked at her charts to see some of the other unexplained medical issues she’d previously encountered. In fact, if you had listened to the especially troubling symptom that my mother repeated to you over and over (completely colorless and odorless urine), you probably would have reached the conclusion that we did – her kidneys were failing. If you had bothered to actually speak to my parents this morning when they went through with the incredibly difficult decision to have Molly euthanized because she could no longer eat, drink, see, or stand well, you probably would have thought twice about your previous diagnosis. Since you didn’t seem to take it very seriously when my mother talked to you on the phone, perhaps seeing just how pathetically downhill Molly’s quality of life had fallen would have made you take a second look.
I’m sure you’re wondering what my objective is in writing you. It is simply this - I have lived and worked around animals my entire life and never have I witnessed anything so ethically unsettling as how you treated my parents and their dog when they needed expert advice and compassion the most. Molly was our family dog – she was an incredibly special part of my parents’ lives and those of our extended family and it was very hard to see such a young animal suffer so needlessly.
It was no easy decision to have Molly euthanized, but ultimately none of us believed that she deserved to suffer the debilitating effects of whatever she had anymore. When my parents brought her into your animal hospital, a vet tech took the dog, asked if they wanted to be in the room with her (they did not), and took her away. No vet ever spoke to my parents – not you, not any of your colleagues.
I do not blame you for Molly’s death, but I do blame you for treating my parents and our family pet with so little compassion and respect. Perhaps you are overworked or have achieved some degree of burnout in your career as a vet, but in either case, there is no excuse for being so detached from an extremely time-critical situation that required your attention. Given that the AVMA’s code of ethics is largely based on the Golden Rule, I would ask you the following question: How would you have felt if you’d been treated with little compassion or respect when a member of your family was in critical condition and time was of the essence?
I hope you will think of that the next time someone puts the life of his/her dog in your hands and you are too tired or burnt out to give them any real consideration. As it is, no one in my immediate or extended family will ever make the mistake of visiting your office again. I’m sure that won’t eat into your profit margin too much, but I hope it eats into your conscience a little.
Sincerely,
Tara N. Ronda
Dr. XXXXXXX
Cross Keys Animal Hospital
2071 North Black Horse Pike
Williamstown, NJ 08094
Dear Dr. XXXX,
On August 16, my mother brought her 3 ½-year-old boxer, Molly, in because of very strange behaviors she was exhibiting, including inexplicably urinating around the house, stumbling, failing to recognize family members, losing her appetite and the ability to drink, losing her nerve function and possibly her eyesight, and becoming confused about where she was. You did blood tests and said that if they came back clean, there was a chance the dog had either a behavioral problem or brain cancer, the latter condition being somewhat common in boxers.
We waited 24 hours to get the blood test results back and when they were finally relayed to my mother over the phone, a vet tech suggested that the problem was behavioral and that my mother should hire a trainer. When you eventually called her back yourself, you acted as though you were completely unfamiliar with Molly’s case and made the same suggestion. By that time, Molly’s symptoms had worsened considerably. The problem was clearly NOT behavioral and she was clearly NOT in any shape to be transported to a vet hospital in the city and left there.
The service my parents received from you at Cross Keys Animal Hospital was despicable. If you had bothered to listen to what my mother was telling you, you may have been able to make some real recommendations rather than jumping from one extreme to another, especially since you were Molly’s primary vet and could have easily looked at her charts to see some of the other unexplained medical issues she’d previously encountered. In fact, if you had listened to the especially troubling symptom that my mother repeated to you over and over (completely colorless and odorless urine), you probably would have reached the conclusion that we did – her kidneys were failing. If you had bothered to actually speak to my parents this morning when they went through with the incredibly difficult decision to have Molly euthanized because she could no longer eat, drink, see, or stand well, you probably would have thought twice about your previous diagnosis. Since you didn’t seem to take it very seriously when my mother talked to you on the phone, perhaps seeing just how pathetically downhill Molly’s quality of life had fallen would have made you take a second look.
I’m sure you’re wondering what my objective is in writing you. It is simply this - I have lived and worked around animals my entire life and never have I witnessed anything so ethically unsettling as how you treated my parents and their dog when they needed expert advice and compassion the most. Molly was our family dog – she was an incredibly special part of my parents’ lives and those of our extended family and it was very hard to see such a young animal suffer so needlessly.
It was no easy decision to have Molly euthanized, but ultimately none of us believed that she deserved to suffer the debilitating effects of whatever she had anymore. When my parents brought her into your animal hospital, a vet tech took the dog, asked if they wanted to be in the room with her (they did not), and took her away. No vet ever spoke to my parents – not you, not any of your colleagues.
I do not blame you for Molly’s death, but I do blame you for treating my parents and our family pet with so little compassion and respect. Perhaps you are overworked or have achieved some degree of burnout in your career as a vet, but in either case, there is no excuse for being so detached from an extremely time-critical situation that required your attention. Given that the AVMA’s code of ethics is largely based on the Golden Rule, I would ask you the following question: How would you have felt if you’d been treated with little compassion or respect when a member of your family was in critical condition and time was of the essence?
I hope you will think of that the next time someone puts the life of his/her dog in your hands and you are too tired or burnt out to give them any real consideration. As it is, no one in my immediate or extended family will ever make the mistake of visiting your office again. I’m sure that won’t eat into your profit margin too much, but I hope it eats into your conscience a little.
Sincerely,
Tara N. Ronda
Friday, August 13, 2010
A little zen, anyone?
I don't know why but I've suddenly got my zen-ishness back again. I read a very interesting blog post yesterday about the things we do to distract ourselves from the issues at hand - eating/gaining weight because somehow we don't feel like good people, reading a bunch of stuff just to read it and NOT do something else, hanging out online to feel a sense of social cohesion we might not feel in "real life."
All true for me.
So as I was reading, I was thinking, "What's so bad about being alone?" Nothing, really. I'm a pretty cool cat with some interesting thoughts - why can't I just dive into my brain and sit with it for awhile? Why do I (read: we) feel the need to be constantly on the move?
Funny that I should have this mini-revelation now, when I've just formalized my fall schedule and it leaves little "me" time, even to the imagination. Between working, teaching, doing the pre-med thing, and volunteering at the hospital, my week is beyond full. Whatever spare time there might be will be at least partially devoted to the hubster, the BFF, and the animules. Where do I come in?
Still, I think I like my schedule. I like the busy-ness of it because it means I will be at my most productive. I find it distracting NOT to have a busy schedule - then, it's easier for me to sit on my duff and wait around for someone to light a fire under me. But if I'm in a constant state of motion, the slowdown doesn't happen.
Which will eventually catch up to me, as it does every semester.
So how will I balance it all out? I think there are a couple of answers to that...
And best yet, you never know what a positive impact you might have on someone who isn't having such a great day, just by being nice.
Zen is such an overused term, but maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means that people know what they're striving for, even if they don't know how to get it. I think it's everywhere, though.
I've learned that my zen is peace of mind, created by making food from scratch, spoiling myself with a good juicy nectarine instead of McDonald's fries, spending that half-hour from 4 to 4:30am (before hubby is up) listening to the crickets and then falling back asleep. Sometimes it's strange things like getting an amazing deal on something I've waited to buy for months, or sitting at the hospital reception desk on a quiet Sunday night when no one is around but the security guard.
When that peace of mind is gone for awhile, I appreciate it all the more when it comes back.
t.
All true for me.
So as I was reading, I was thinking, "What's so bad about being alone?" Nothing, really. I'm a pretty cool cat with some interesting thoughts - why can't I just dive into my brain and sit with it for awhile? Why do I (read: we) feel the need to be constantly on the move?
Funny that I should have this mini-revelation now, when I've just formalized my fall schedule and it leaves little "me" time, even to the imagination. Between working, teaching, doing the pre-med thing, and volunteering at the hospital, my week is beyond full. Whatever spare time there might be will be at least partially devoted to the hubster, the BFF, and the animules. Where do I come in?
Still, I think I like my schedule. I like the busy-ness of it because it means I will be at my most productive. I find it distracting NOT to have a busy schedule - then, it's easier for me to sit on my duff and wait around for someone to light a fire under me. But if I'm in a constant state of motion, the slowdown doesn't happen.
Which will eventually catch up to me, as it does every semester.
So how will I balance it all out? I think there are a couple of answers to that...
- I'll be mindful of everything I do and try to enjoy it, even when it's unenjoyable.
- I won't waste time on non-productive activities, like procrastination.
- I will view personal time as productive, too - so when I feel like reading Alice in Wonderland, I will. No questions asked of myself.
- I don't know how it will work, and I'm okay with not knowing how it will work.
And best yet, you never know what a positive impact you might have on someone who isn't having such a great day, just by being nice.
Zen is such an overused term, but maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means that people know what they're striving for, even if they don't know how to get it. I think it's everywhere, though.
I've learned that my zen is peace of mind, created by making food from scratch, spoiling myself with a good juicy nectarine instead of McDonald's fries, spending that half-hour from 4 to 4:30am (before hubby is up) listening to the crickets and then falling back asleep. Sometimes it's strange things like getting an amazing deal on something I've waited to buy for months, or sitting at the hospital reception desk on a quiet Sunday night when no one is around but the security guard.
When that peace of mind is gone for awhile, I appreciate it all the more when it comes back.
t.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Accentuate the positive
Guess what? Two negatives make a positive in more than math.
A few minutes ago I started eating my celery with peanut butter, which I fully expected to hate, and I realized that it's not actually that bad. I don't like celery and I don't like creamy P.B. (I mean, REALLY - peanut butter is supposed to be CRUNCHY...), but together, they're bearable and even, dare I say, kind of tasty.
In contemplating my new discovery aloud, my office-mate pointed out that NEG + NEG = POS in a lot of areas. Her example: A lot of people like the beach (even grumpy old me), but how many people like the isolated elements? No one likes the sticky, salty humidity or getting sand all up in their whoosy-whatsits, but you put that sea air and the sand together and you've got yourself a fun time. Go figure.
So now I'm sitting here thinking about other ways I can accentuate the positive by adding the negatives. Take, for example, one of my major pet peeves: stupid people with driver's licenses. Add the first element ("stupid people") and the second element ("driver's license") and you end up with a sum that proves your superiority to two-thirds of the world's population. Who can't see the positive in that?
I think I like this new equation. In fact, I see this resulting in a good number of experiments (possibly videotaped for my readers' viewing pleasure)...
t.
A few minutes ago I started eating my celery with peanut butter, which I fully expected to hate, and I realized that it's not actually that bad. I don't like celery and I don't like creamy P.B. (I mean, REALLY - peanut butter is supposed to be CRUNCHY...), but together, they're bearable and even, dare I say, kind of tasty.
In contemplating my new discovery aloud, my office-mate pointed out that NEG + NEG = POS in a lot of areas. Her example: A lot of people like the beach (even grumpy old me), but how many people like the isolated elements? No one likes the sticky, salty humidity or getting sand all up in their whoosy-whatsits, but you put that sea air and the sand together and you've got yourself a fun time. Go figure.
So now I'm sitting here thinking about other ways I can accentuate the positive by adding the negatives. Take, for example, one of my major pet peeves: stupid people with driver's licenses. Add the first element ("stupid people") and the second element ("driver's license") and you end up with a sum that proves your superiority to two-thirds of the world's population. Who can't see the positive in that?
I think I like this new equation. In fact, I see this resulting in a good number of experiments (possibly videotaped for my readers' viewing pleasure)...
t.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
As yet untitled...
I am a fan of Lady Gaga. I did not used to be a fan of Lady Gaga. In fact, when my BFF had a Lady Gaga-themed party (to which I didn't go because there was 10 feet of snow on the ground and I was busy puking my guts up), I was very unclear as to why she would waste her time doing it. The kookiness of L.G. continued to elude me until, weeks after said BFF burned the CDs for me, I finally allowed myself to listen to them. It took a few days of playing and replaying them, absorbing the beats and deciphering the lyrics, before I got it.
I'm not a diehard fan, but I have a healthy respect for the young lass with a seemingly endless supply of freakish headgear. I don't find her particularly beautiful, although I'm pretty sure I'd sell at least half my soul to have a body like hers. No, she is not attractive to me in the typical sense. But she does have an attractive energy and sense of self.
Why am I thinking about this just now?
Well, this morning I was listening to my daily dose of Preston & Steve and they were discussing the forthcoming Vanity Fair article about L.G. Since MMR is most definitely NOT a pop station, they were a little critical of her, especially the whole quote about losing creativity through sex. They drew the very common comparison between her and Madonna and went on to discuss the crazy head accoutrements she's fond of wearing. It made me think...and here's the conclusion I arrived at.
Lady Gaga is a symbol. Sure, on the surface she represents the sort of standard drug- and sex-infused pop music with which our radio stations seem to be disturbingly preoccupied. But if you listen closely, you see and hear more. Rather than a mindless repeat of the earlier superstardom enjoyed by the likes of Madonna and her brethren, you are actually witnessing the rebirth of a genre in the form of someone who appears genuine in her self-confidence and lack thereof, her vulnerability as a young star, her passion for hedonism...and her willingness to admit her weaknesses.
See, what I got from listening to L.G.'s music over and over again was an open mind and the ability to release myself a bit from a self-imposed Victorian sensibility that bothers even me. I am someone who likes things to be right because they are supposed to be. I need no other reason to criticize someone than because what they say and/or do violates the natural order of things. I have an exceptionally strong distaste for people who break the rules. Granted, I like to break rules myself - but not the ones I see as universal.
An example: I hate when I send out invitations for something and no one RSVPs. Yes, it's a little rude and yes, it creates some confusion for me. But even more importantly, that's what RSVPs are FOR! It bothers me to no end that people do not use the cards for their intended purpose. This neglect ruins the order of things - why have RSVPs if no one is going to use them?!
Similarly, for weeks after receiving the L.G. CDs, I wouldn't let myself listen to them because in a weird way, I am a prim and proper gal with prim and proper ideas. I dislike people who are shameless about who they offend and how they portray themselves. It bothers me when I believe that someone has no self-respect because isn't that what makes humans different from animals, after all?
In fact, though, there are different kinds of self-respect. What I have found by repeatedly listening to and analyzing L.G.'s music is that the universe doesn't always need order. Sometimes it's okay to break outside your comfort zone and be a little bold. And anyway, who am I to judge?
The truth is that I judge myself as harshly as I judge others, and it's completely counter-productive. So thank you, Lady Gaga, for showing me the light.
However, I do not expect to change completely. I still don't like Snookie and I still think she's an overtanned troll who went crazy with the Bump-It.
The end.
t.
I'm not a diehard fan, but I have a healthy respect for the young lass with a seemingly endless supply of freakish headgear. I don't find her particularly beautiful, although I'm pretty sure I'd sell at least half my soul to have a body like hers. No, she is not attractive to me in the typical sense. But she does have an attractive energy and sense of self.
Why am I thinking about this just now?
Well, this morning I was listening to my daily dose of Preston & Steve and they were discussing the forthcoming Vanity Fair article about L.G. Since MMR is most definitely NOT a pop station, they were a little critical of her, especially the whole quote about losing creativity through sex. They drew the very common comparison between her and Madonna and went on to discuss the crazy head accoutrements she's fond of wearing. It made me think...and here's the conclusion I arrived at.
Lady Gaga is a symbol. Sure, on the surface she represents the sort of standard drug- and sex-infused pop music with which our radio stations seem to be disturbingly preoccupied. But if you listen closely, you see and hear more. Rather than a mindless repeat of the earlier superstardom enjoyed by the likes of Madonna and her brethren, you are actually witnessing the rebirth of a genre in the form of someone who appears genuine in her self-confidence and lack thereof, her vulnerability as a young star, her passion for hedonism...and her willingness to admit her weaknesses.
See, what I got from listening to L.G.'s music over and over again was an open mind and the ability to release myself a bit from a self-imposed Victorian sensibility that bothers even me. I am someone who likes things to be right because they are supposed to be. I need no other reason to criticize someone than because what they say and/or do violates the natural order of things. I have an exceptionally strong distaste for people who break the rules. Granted, I like to break rules myself - but not the ones I see as universal.
An example: I hate when I send out invitations for something and no one RSVPs. Yes, it's a little rude and yes, it creates some confusion for me. But even more importantly, that's what RSVPs are FOR! It bothers me to no end that people do not use the cards for their intended purpose. This neglect ruins the order of things - why have RSVPs if no one is going to use them?!
Similarly, for weeks after receiving the L.G. CDs, I wouldn't let myself listen to them because in a weird way, I am a prim and proper gal with prim and proper ideas. I dislike people who are shameless about who they offend and how they portray themselves. It bothers me when I believe that someone has no self-respect because isn't that what makes humans different from animals, after all?
In fact, though, there are different kinds of self-respect. What I have found by repeatedly listening to and analyzing L.G.'s music is that the universe doesn't always need order. Sometimes it's okay to break outside your comfort zone and be a little bold. And anyway, who am I to judge?
The truth is that I judge myself as harshly as I judge others, and it's completely counter-productive. So thank you, Lady Gaga, for showing me the light.
However, I do not expect to change completely. I still don't like Snookie and I still think she's an overtanned troll who went crazy with the Bump-It.
The end.
t.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)