So, as you might have noticed, it's been a while since I've written anything. Mostly because 2010 grabbed me by the tail and swung me around a few times for fun.
I lost my awesome job not more than a month after I'd gotten it. One moment they were asking me if I'd be okay with coming on permanently. The next, I was apparently not to come back the next day. The good news is that it didn't take me too long before I found a new position working for an imaging company... contracted with the US Navy. While not the most glorious work - or even the most rewarding (what, I get to say "I labeled something!" at the end of the day?) - but the pay's all right, my coworkers are super-awesome, and the benefits (that I just started) are REALLY hard to beat. So while I may get grumpy from getting up at the crack of dawn, it's a good job. And really, I'm just happy to HAVE a job.
Nephew Number 2 arrived shortly after I got my new job, and it was both lovely and startling to see my eldest brother's family grow so quickly. Pictures of the girls remind me that they're growing up, and stories of Nephew Number 1 remind me that - crikey, he's a teenager already. This being the little boy I remembered who couldn't blow his own nose. Now he's getting tall and filling out and discovering girls. Where did the time go?
As I write this, aforementioned brother is approximately one month away from returning from the Middle East. Pictures and stories and the occasional holiday Skype conversation have showed changes in him too. He's thinner, quieter (if that was possible), more confident. And a lot more tan. I think he's where he's supposed to be. Job-wise, if not location-wise. I think it'd be better for him if he was home with his family, but that will come very soon. It's hard to believe he's only been away for a year. It seems like so much longer.
Other brother and his lady are growing and changing too. I wasn't the only one 2010 hit with a stick, and they've risen to the challenge with grit and determination in the face of adversity. They've taken direct hits and not just moved past them, but branched out around them into arts and paths previously unexplored. Z's crafting has developed in leaps and bounds, and she has found a career in writing. She's always rather possessed a gift for it, and it's inspiring to see her take it to the next level. A, on the other hand, took to music. His band released an entire CD's worth of damn fine music and I would be more than happy to point someone in his direction for a purchase. I've listened to it, it's good, it has my recommendation.
The folks? Well, the folks have been holding their own. Their community has suffered a series of blows that they've risen to correct with love and compassion. J and I went to visit them for Thanksgiving, and it was good to see them in their element for a while. There's something... wholesome about the land on which they live.
As for me? J and I have a new housemate living in the third bedroom. It's great to have someone here, especially as awesome as he is. He's neat, clean, quiet, respectful, funny, a good cook, and has similar interests to J and I. He fits in well. I have another four-legged friend as well, who shall only be known as Boris, and his strange toilet-paper-tube-loving nature add a bit of levity to our house. Shiko is curious, but completely unwilling to tangle with him, which relieves me a little; I'm tired of worrying that one pet might try to eat another.
But life goes on, otherwise. Much as it usually does. People are born, people die, the rains come, the rains go. Today it's sunny and warm. I think I shall make the most of this year, starting now.
January 17, 2011
August 17, 2010
Full Belly, Empty Throat
I'm hungry.
Which is funny, because if tried to eat something right now, I'd probably make myself ill from how full my belly is. I've eaten already, see. Two sandwiches - one PB&J, one PB&Honey. A KitKat bar. And a full bottle of water I guzzled down in an attempt to fill up my stomach. Oh, and let's not forget I had breakfast, too: a full bowl of Cheerios with skim milk and a glass of OJ to wash down my vitamins.
I find myself craving food. not just any food, FLAVORFUL food. I'm tired of bread and peanut butter and bananas and water and bland bland bland. I want soda. I want fries. I want a bacon-lettuce-tomatoe sandwich with avocado and mayonnaise, dripping with juices. I was chocolate and sugar and texture. Oh yes, texture. A mix of light crisp with squish behind it. The bread for the B.L.T. toasted, with the avocado ripe and squishy. Peanut-butter M&M's, with the crunch of the candied shell followed by the yielding creamy interior. A KitKat bar with the soft chocolate coating, hiding a delightfully light crispy cookie. Thick milk. Fizzy soda. These things I desire.
But I am not actually hungry. I have a full stomach. At least, it feels full. Ish. But I hunger still. It's higher in the stomach, deep down in the esophagus, a pit, a bubble of air that cries out for satisfaction from empty calories and fattening foods.
Hunger is one of the most basic needs of the living creature. The hypothalamus will not be denied. So how do I fight this war?
If I give in, I feel guilty, and know I have done my body a disservice.
If I hold out, I feel miserable and hungry and anxious and grumpy. My head hurts and stomach growls.
It is a war I do not yetknow how to win.
Which is funny, because if tried to eat something right now, I'd probably make myself ill from how full my belly is. I've eaten already, see. Two sandwiches - one PB&J, one PB&Honey. A KitKat bar. And a full bottle of water I guzzled down in an attempt to fill up my stomach. Oh, and let's not forget I had breakfast, too: a full bowl of Cheerios with skim milk and a glass of OJ to wash down my vitamins.
I find myself craving food. not just any food, FLAVORFUL food. I'm tired of bread and peanut butter and bananas and water and bland bland bland. I want soda. I want fries. I want a bacon-lettuce-tomatoe sandwich with avocado and mayonnaise, dripping with juices. I was chocolate and sugar and texture. Oh yes, texture. A mix of light crisp with squish behind it. The bread for the B.L.T. toasted, with the avocado ripe and squishy. Peanut-butter M&M's, with the crunch of the candied shell followed by the yielding creamy interior. A KitKat bar with the soft chocolate coating, hiding a delightfully light crispy cookie. Thick milk. Fizzy soda. These things I desire.
But I am not actually hungry. I have a full stomach. At least, it feels full. Ish. But I hunger still. It's higher in the stomach, deep down in the esophagus, a pit, a bubble of air that cries out for satisfaction from empty calories and fattening foods.
Hunger is one of the most basic needs of the living creature. The hypothalamus will not be denied. So how do I fight this war?
If I give in, I feel guilty, and know I have done my body a disservice.
If I hold out, I feel miserable and hungry and anxious and grumpy. My head hurts and stomach growls.
It is a war I do not yetknow how to win.
August 09, 2010
Loss For Words
I blog.
WHY do I blog?
I suppose it's partly because it's an outlet. Once upon a time, when I communicated pretty much strictly via email to long-distance friends (because I hate talking on the phone), I would write miniature novels to masses of recipients. Many of my friends appeared to appreciate these, and I got a few compliments on my writing style when it came to certain subjects, like being in the center of seven seperate wildfires whilst living in the mountains. I would write about the day, in all its simplicity, calling forth as much imagery as I could possibly muster and weaving it into a magnificent tapestry of something otherwise altogether negligible. I turned dreams into self-introspections explaining why I felt a need to reconnect with people, and described harrowing adventures of life in the mountains - complete with guns, bears, and wayward tourists.
But then - post college - something happened that put an end to those enormous emails. It took one simple sentence. And only one person to say it. Someone said they were too long, and "nobody reads them". Granted, I realize logically that this is a blanket statement. Also, the person who said it was kind of a nitwit who suggested that I find someone better than my then-boyfriend, who is my now-Fiance. I am deliriously happy with my choice of mate. So if she was wrong about that, what else could she be wrong about?
But at the time, it didn't matter. At the time, I was in such a delicate state emotionally (both because I was STILL angry about my previous breakup and because I was beginning to exhibit my first symptoms of depression) that it shattered my self confidence as a writer. I stopped writing emails altogether. The few that required responses got single-line replies. My depression - which, at the time, was still completely undiagnosed - worsened ever so slightly. My self-worth was tied to the belief that people cared what I had to say, that my opinion- no, my perspective mattered. That I had something worthwhile to contribute. And with the simple comment that my emails were "tl/dr", that belief was cut deeply. No longer were my long insights or observations, my carefully woven tapestries, my recounting of adventures... no longer were they worth anything.
What followed was a long period of silence. I did eventually go back to emailing folks, but only sporadically and only ever very few people. Eventually I stopped the entire habit of writing anything in emails, and only ever replying. Replies were as long as needed, or as long as felt appropriate, and so questions of "are you free this weekend" were only a few sentences, where requests for an opinion on this or that subject matter might involve more explanation. It was lonely-ish, because I felt disconnected somehow. But my "Need To Be Liked" program was strong enough to overcome my desire to express myself... and so disconnected I remained.
Eventually I discovered forums. It was like live chat but didn't require people to be on at the time. It was like writing emails, but nobody I really cared about would read them. It had upsides and downsides. And then, of course, there were trolls. How can anyone forget internet trolls? Lurking behind every corner, waiting to be completely full of idiocy in an otherwise perfectly fine forum. It wasn't satisfying. I wasn't connecting with my friends, but I still couldn't get past the irrational fear that nobody wanted to know anything about me (which is how I interpreted the "you write frigging novels" comment).
That's when I finally ventured onto MySpace. I could write a tiny little update. My status, as it were. Nobody had to look at it. It was optional. But there I was. You know, in case anybody cared. *insert emo here* In more seriousness, it helped me decide that it was okay to let people know how I was without it being an enormous stew of words. And then I saw that MySpace had a place to blog. I went for it.
And now, years later, here I am.
So... NOW why do I blog?
I don't actually know who reads my blog. Could be friends, could be family, could be a few random strangers. Some people blog for a living writing about completely random stuff, but their stuff is usually funny, and mine isn't always. I don't anticipate being famous from my blog (like, ever), but it's comforting to think that maybe, just maybe, a few people who DID like reading my overly-long emails will be happy reading them here, in sort of a non-intrusive, archived format.
Maybe.
You know, if anyone cares. ;P
WHY do I blog?
I suppose it's partly because it's an outlet. Once upon a time, when I communicated pretty much strictly via email to long-distance friends (because I hate talking on the phone), I would write miniature novels to masses of recipients. Many of my friends appeared to appreciate these, and I got a few compliments on my writing style when it came to certain subjects, like being in the center of seven seperate wildfires whilst living in the mountains. I would write about the day, in all its simplicity, calling forth as much imagery as I could possibly muster and weaving it into a magnificent tapestry of something otherwise altogether negligible. I turned dreams into self-introspections explaining why I felt a need to reconnect with people, and described harrowing adventures of life in the mountains - complete with guns, bears, and wayward tourists.
But then - post college - something happened that put an end to those enormous emails. It took one simple sentence. And only one person to say it. Someone said they were too long, and "nobody reads them". Granted, I realize logically that this is a blanket statement. Also, the person who said it was kind of a nitwit who suggested that I find someone better than my then-boyfriend, who is my now-Fiance. I am deliriously happy with my choice of mate. So if she was wrong about that, what else could she be wrong about?
But at the time, it didn't matter. At the time, I was in such a delicate state emotionally (both because I was STILL angry about my previous breakup and because I was beginning to exhibit my first symptoms of depression) that it shattered my self confidence as a writer. I stopped writing emails altogether. The few that required responses got single-line replies. My depression - which, at the time, was still completely undiagnosed - worsened ever so slightly. My self-worth was tied to the belief that people cared what I had to say, that my opinion- no, my perspective mattered. That I had something worthwhile to contribute. And with the simple comment that my emails were "tl/dr", that belief was cut deeply. No longer were my long insights or observations, my carefully woven tapestries, my recounting of adventures... no longer were they worth anything.
What followed was a long period of silence. I did eventually go back to emailing folks, but only sporadically and only ever very few people. Eventually I stopped the entire habit of writing anything in emails, and only ever replying. Replies were as long as needed, or as long as felt appropriate, and so questions of "are you free this weekend" were only a few sentences, where requests for an opinion on this or that subject matter might involve more explanation. It was lonely-ish, because I felt disconnected somehow. But my "Need To Be Liked" program was strong enough to overcome my desire to express myself... and so disconnected I remained.
Eventually I discovered forums. It was like live chat but didn't require people to be on at the time. It was like writing emails, but nobody I really cared about would read them. It had upsides and downsides. And then, of course, there were trolls. How can anyone forget internet trolls? Lurking behind every corner, waiting to be completely full of idiocy in an otherwise perfectly fine forum. It wasn't satisfying. I wasn't connecting with my friends, but I still couldn't get past the irrational fear that nobody wanted to know anything about me (which is how I interpreted the "you write frigging novels" comment).
That's when I finally ventured onto MySpace. I could write a tiny little update. My status, as it were. Nobody had to look at it. It was optional. But there I was. You know, in case anybody cared. *insert emo here* In more seriousness, it helped me decide that it was okay to let people know how I was without it being an enormous stew of words. And then I saw that MySpace had a place to blog. I went for it.
And now, years later, here I am.
So... NOW why do I blog?
I don't actually know who reads my blog. Could be friends, could be family, could be a few random strangers. Some people blog for a living writing about completely random stuff, but their stuff is usually funny, and mine isn't always. I don't anticipate being famous from my blog (like, ever), but it's comforting to think that maybe, just maybe, a few people who DID like reading my overly-long emails will be happy reading them here, in sort of a non-intrusive, archived format.
Maybe.
You know, if anyone cares. ;P
August 05, 2010
Wedding Worries
The Fiance and I were waiting until the other weddings were over to start our plans. It made the most sense. How stressful would it be to plan our own wedding while balancing our participation in another? Not to mention that it might detract from the spotlight of our dear friends who were much closer to their wedding date!
Im and Jess' wedding was last weekend and went off without a hitch. So much awesomeness. I knew they would make it precisely fit them, choosing things that suited not only their individual tastes but also tailoring the entire celebration to be very "them". Which was just so unbelievably awesome I can't even begin to describe. Everything, from location to dresses to the wine to the supremely cool photobooth, had a vibe of quirky sweetness that was distinctly like their relationship.
Now, with them off to their honeymoon and enjoying the first week of their new married lives, privately indulging in the wonders of a beautiful far-away island paradise, the planning, participation, and incredible efforts have come to an end.
Which means now it's our turn.
And dear heaven, where do we start?
We spoke a bit about this on the long (long!) drive home. What would the ceremony be like? Who would do what and where? Where should it be held? Where would we like to honeymoon? What should the dress look like? Some of it was easy. It helped having recently attended two weddings, to get an idea of what worked well and what didn't. The concept of the food+lodging+venue all being one place had much appeal, as did the hilarity and fun of the photobooth. We narrowed down a time, and an area (distance-wise) we'd like to look at. But everything is so vague... unformed.
Fiance is a hermetic. He likes his rituals filled with symbolism and meaning. I'm a shaman. It has to *feel* right. How do I plan that out? What does it look like? What should *I* look like?
I have to step back and remind myself of what I told the other brides: at the end of the day the two of us will be married, and that's all that matters. The rest is just gravy. And good gravy, I've hardly started the planning, and this is how I'm feeling?
If you see my sanity, tell it to come home, okay?
Im and Jess' wedding was last weekend and went off without a hitch. So much awesomeness. I knew they would make it precisely fit them, choosing things that suited not only their individual tastes but also tailoring the entire celebration to be very "them". Which was just so unbelievably awesome I can't even begin to describe. Everything, from location to dresses to the wine to the supremely cool photobooth, had a vibe of quirky sweetness that was distinctly like their relationship.
Now, with them off to their honeymoon and enjoying the first week of their new married lives, privately indulging in the wonders of a beautiful far-away island paradise, the planning, participation, and incredible efforts have come to an end.
Which means now it's our turn.
And dear heaven, where do we start?
We spoke a bit about this on the long (long!) drive home. What would the ceremony be like? Who would do what and where? Where should it be held? Where would we like to honeymoon? What should the dress look like? Some of it was easy. It helped having recently attended two weddings, to get an idea of what worked well and what didn't. The concept of the food+lodging+venue all being one place had much appeal, as did the hilarity and fun of the photobooth. We narrowed down a time, and an area (distance-wise) we'd like to look at. But everything is so vague... unformed.
Fiance is a hermetic. He likes his rituals filled with symbolism and meaning. I'm a shaman. It has to *feel* right. How do I plan that out? What does it look like? What should *I* look like?
I have to step back and remind myself of what I told the other brides: at the end of the day the two of us will be married, and that's all that matters. The rest is just gravy. And good gravy, I've hardly started the planning, and this is how I'm feeling?
If you see my sanity, tell it to come home, okay?
July 19, 2010
What Happens in Vegas...
... stays on YouTube.
Or so I've heard.
So last week was a crazy whirlwind of preperation. So many plans were in place, and so much needed to be accomplished in order to pull them off smoothly. Packing was in order, and not just packing, but packing for a very different climate. Directions needed printing. The guest room needed to be habitable. All the random crap we had removed from the closet needed to be neatly shoved aside to make room. All this to be done by Thursday.
Thursday night: J and I grabbed our tickets and drove to the arena, finding our seats and grabbing a couple drinks. We awaited the arrival of two more guests as the opening band (a rather mediocre and forgettable group) played. They arrived just in time, and soon it was the four of us in the nosebleed seats - me, my fiance, my brother, and my sis-in-law - awaiting the band we all came to see: Tool. Nosebleeds or not, we still had an awesome view of the stage, and our seats were in the only row of benches that actually had something resembling a backrest. Weird thing about Tool, though: Maynard doesn't like to be out with the rest of the band on stage. The first song was nearly over when I finally spotted him, hanging out by the drummer but off a little ways such that he was in the dark; none of the lights touched him, he was just a spectral presence at the back of the stage with a black tee-shirt and baseball cap. Apparently that's just how he rolls.
After several awesome songs and the most brilliantly mind-numbing drum-offs I think I will ever see in my life, he closed the night with a special cynical middle finger pointed at Los Angeles by playing Aenima. Maynard has a lot of juju he throws into his songs, and it wasn't surprising that one of the other fans we chatted with described him much like a warlock in some fashions. He is actually quite the well-read and well-studied fellow, rather well-educated in his Crowley and other such authors, so I wouldn't be at all surprised that he does a bit of enery-play on the stage. So when the crowd sang Aenima with him, it became less a song and something between a chant and a prayer, which was a little scary when I thought about it... I mean, I live in one of those spots that would sink into the ocean if Maynard had his 'druthers. I think. I don't know. He's an odd fellow. Maybe he knows LA is as much disliked by the rest of SoCal as by himself.
Anyway. Got home late (much contributed to by ass-hattery in the parking garage) and stayed up even later talking and drinking rum-and-cokes (which were my lame substitute for buying my brother a drink in celebration of his long non-smoking run). In the wee hours of the morning we finally all crashed out, having squeezed as much face-time in as possible before bed. I pledged that I would buy my brother a REAL drink when I saw him again.
Friday morning I got up early, packed the last on my toiletries, and printed out my boarding pass. Brother and sis-in-law took me to the airport, where I breezed through security and waited for a bit, chatting with some random girl about my Rubix cube. We had a grand ol' conversation, during which she pointed out a group of ladies - ranging between 20 and 60 - all laughing and kicking up a riot in the bar nearby. We boarded right behind them, and I ended up sitting with them: turns out they were all celebrating one of the younger ladies' birthday. Specifically, her 21st birthday. And really, what better way to spend it than in Vegas?
I touched down in Vegas around noon after a great flight with a bunch of crack-up stewardesses. It only took me a little getting lost, but I did eventually find the rest of my group: the bridal party and bride, for whom we were in Vegas, celebrating her bachelorette party.
That evening we dined at a tasty buffet (with a chocolate fountain and ice-cream machine... yum!), got gussied up, and booked it to the New York New York to catch a show: Cirque du Soleil's "Zumanity". One HELL of a show of limber and muscular men and women in very little, doing all kinds of incredible performances of strength and flexibility. Having had very little sleep, I crashed early (the rest of the girls went exploring). We all slept in, had mimosas at the brunch buffet, then wandered around the forum shops. When we got back, we spent a good few solid hours in the pool, sliding down the waterslides and generally enjoying each other's company. Afterwards, we rinsed off and made our evening plans, but I started to feel under the weather. Sadly, I ended up staying in due to feeling ill, but when they all came back, they shared the pictures from the night's festivities with me.
Sunday morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, cleaned up and packed, then checked out. The rest of the girls were flying out around noon; my plane wasn't due to leave until 9PM. I wandered the city, checking out the Bellagio lobby, the Conservatory, riding the tram, walking to the MGM Grand, taking pictures of the lions (and the cubs! squee!), and catching the monorail all the way back to the hotel. I grabbed my swimsuit, and spent two and a half hours at the pool, intermittantly sunning and swimming. Finally, getting really homesick and rather lonely (Vegas is NOT the kind of place I enjoy solo), I rinsed off, changed, and grabbed a shuttle to the airport. I looked for an earlier flight, nabbed one, and was home before 8:30PM.
A long, fantastic weekend, full of fun, sun, and awesome shows with awesome company. But I'm happy to be home now, snuggling with my dearheart. No hottie stripper, superstar rocker, or high-rolling gambler could ever take my sweetheart's place in my heart.
Or so I've heard.
So last week was a crazy whirlwind of preperation. So many plans were in place, and so much needed to be accomplished in order to pull them off smoothly. Packing was in order, and not just packing, but packing for a very different climate. Directions needed printing. The guest room needed to be habitable. All the random crap we had removed from the closet needed to be neatly shoved aside to make room. All this to be done by Thursday.
Thursday night: J and I grabbed our tickets and drove to the arena, finding our seats and grabbing a couple drinks. We awaited the arrival of two more guests as the opening band (a rather mediocre and forgettable group) played. They arrived just in time, and soon it was the four of us in the nosebleed seats - me, my fiance, my brother, and my sis-in-law - awaiting the band we all came to see: Tool. Nosebleeds or not, we still had an awesome view of the stage, and our seats were in the only row of benches that actually had something resembling a backrest. Weird thing about Tool, though: Maynard doesn't like to be out with the rest of the band on stage. The first song was nearly over when I finally spotted him, hanging out by the drummer but off a little ways such that he was in the dark; none of the lights touched him, he was just a spectral presence at the back of the stage with a black tee-shirt and baseball cap. Apparently that's just how he rolls.
After several awesome songs and the most brilliantly mind-numbing drum-offs I think I will ever see in my life, he closed the night with a special cynical middle finger pointed at Los Angeles by playing Aenima. Maynard has a lot of juju he throws into his songs, and it wasn't surprising that one of the other fans we chatted with described him much like a warlock in some fashions. He is actually quite the well-read and well-studied fellow, rather well-educated in his Crowley and other such authors, so I wouldn't be at all surprised that he does a bit of enery-play on the stage. So when the crowd sang Aenima with him, it became less a song and something between a chant and a prayer, which was a little scary when I thought about it... I mean, I live in one of those spots that would sink into the ocean if Maynard had his 'druthers. I think. I don't know. He's an odd fellow. Maybe he knows LA is as much disliked by the rest of SoCal as by himself.
Anyway. Got home late (much contributed to by ass-hattery in the parking garage) and stayed up even later talking and drinking rum-and-cokes (which were my lame substitute for buying my brother a drink in celebration of his long non-smoking run). In the wee hours of the morning we finally all crashed out, having squeezed as much face-time in as possible before bed. I pledged that I would buy my brother a REAL drink when I saw him again.
Friday morning I got up early, packed the last on my toiletries, and printed out my boarding pass. Brother and sis-in-law took me to the airport, where I breezed through security and waited for a bit, chatting with some random girl about my Rubix cube. We had a grand ol' conversation, during which she pointed out a group of ladies - ranging between 20 and 60 - all laughing and kicking up a riot in the bar nearby. We boarded right behind them, and I ended up sitting with them: turns out they were all celebrating one of the younger ladies' birthday. Specifically, her 21st birthday. And really, what better way to spend it than in Vegas?
I touched down in Vegas around noon after a great flight with a bunch of crack-up stewardesses. It only took me a little getting lost, but I did eventually find the rest of my group: the bridal party and bride, for whom we were in Vegas, celebrating her bachelorette party.
That evening we dined at a tasty buffet (with a chocolate fountain and ice-cream machine... yum!), got gussied up, and booked it to the New York New York to catch a show: Cirque du Soleil's "Zumanity". One HELL of a show of limber and muscular men and women in very little, doing all kinds of incredible performances of strength and flexibility. Having had very little sleep, I crashed early (the rest of the girls went exploring). We all slept in, had mimosas at the brunch buffet, then wandered around the forum shops. When we got back, we spent a good few solid hours in the pool, sliding down the waterslides and generally enjoying each other's company. Afterwards, we rinsed off and made our evening plans, but I started to feel under the weather. Sadly, I ended up staying in due to feeling ill, but when they all came back, they shared the pictures from the night's festivities with me.
Sunday morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, cleaned up and packed, then checked out. The rest of the girls were flying out around noon; my plane wasn't due to leave until 9PM. I wandered the city, checking out the Bellagio lobby, the Conservatory, riding the tram, walking to the MGM Grand, taking pictures of the lions (and the cubs! squee!), and catching the monorail all the way back to the hotel. I grabbed my swimsuit, and spent two and a half hours at the pool, intermittantly sunning and swimming. Finally, getting really homesick and rather lonely (Vegas is NOT the kind of place I enjoy solo), I rinsed off, changed, and grabbed a shuttle to the airport. I looked for an earlier flight, nabbed one, and was home before 8:30PM.
A long, fantastic weekend, full of fun, sun, and awesome shows with awesome company. But I'm happy to be home now, snuggling with my dearheart. No hottie stripper, superstar rocker, or high-rolling gambler could ever take my sweetheart's place in my heart.
July 06, 2010
Jobness!
I figured I owed people an explanation about my new job. Enough people have asked that I thought maybe I could get it all out in one fell swoop. So!
I got a call from my temp agency - which is apparently not a "temp" agency so much anymore but a perm-to-hire and/or direct-placement agency - about a job with a pathologist. At least, that's what I thought they said. Turned out to be for a lab that specializes in pathology-type stuffs. We'll get to that. Had a phone interview that went swimmingly, joking with the interviewer and relating on multiple levels, vetching about the dryness of Milton and sympathizing on generation gaps. At the end of it, he said I was one of the "5% of people who are fun to interview on the phone", and gave me a bunch of his contact info. A few days later I had a face-to-face interview, during which I got to be pround of my obessive need for organization and talk about obscure medical facts I learned from my dad and fiance. Eyebrows were raised in surprise. They complimented me a lot. We struck up conversations and had a blast. A few days later I was hired... for %25 more pay than I have EVER earned.
Things have settled in, but nothing is ever exactly the same each day. I've got a routine, sort of, since I need to basically get all the phone calls done by a certain point in the day in order to make contact with the vast majority of our clients, who are on the East Coast. The rest of the day is data entry... or, maybe it's copying. Faxing? No, filing. How about going through that old box of charts and finding out what the heck they were pulled for? Sure, boss, I can do that. And pull these charts: we need to ask for ICD codes. No problem. When you're done there, can you check with the lead scientist-doctor-lady to see where she's at with reviewing results? Don't forget to mark those charts as QNS. Oh hey, what have we here...
It's never dull. Things are always moving, and the system is malleable, evolving. The company is growing - and fast - so we're having to adapt and fill in gaps we didn't even know we had until someone asked, "hey, what about this?". The people here are awesome: smart, quick-witted, funny, educated, friendly, relaxed, and laid back without a hint of laziness. Everyone here is on top of their game. It's a hive of activity, with all the little bees bustling about their business to get the work done.
And the work is...
I would say glorious, but there is no glory here. Only what must be done, what SHOULD be done. Honor, perhaps. Thinking about it on the ride to work this morning, it occurred to me that I am part of the war on cancer.
The lab has two functions: cancer research, and cancer identification. The researchers research. It's what they do. The rest of us let them work, their brows furrowed in concentration as they work to perfect the test we use to identify cancer types. The rest of us test samples, identifying tumors for sources of cancer: this is based in the liver, this one in the stomach, this one in the lungs.
This is not what I do personally, but I am an integral part in making the process work. If there is in fact a "War on Cancer", the patient is the front line. They are the battleground AND the militia, the contested and the defense. The Oncologist is the General, the Pathologist his Strategist, both planning and ordering the best way to identify and counter the attacks. The labs are the arms manufacturers - creating the weapons to be used best on the battle ground - and the intelligence centers - cracking the codes, collecting information, and identifying the enemy. Our lab is of the latter kind. We take a sample of the tissue, when the doctors come up clueless as to where the origin of the cancer resides, and we run it against an enormous database of tumor samples to identify the type of cancer we're dealing with. Our accuracy is incredible.
We are the people in the back lines, in the little tent in the rear-base, listening in on the enemy's communications and triangulating their whereabouts. We find their base, so that the surgical strike-team can go in and attack the cancer directly, limiting the damage to the patient's system.
What we do is crucial.
And even though I'm far removed from the front line, even though I'm as far back in that little back tent as you can get, what I do is still very important to the process, and because of me the lab can run smoothly, swiftly cranking out accurate results to Oncologists so that the patient can get the right treatment that much faster.
THAT is my new job. And I am DAMN proud of it.
I got a call from my temp agency - which is apparently not a "temp" agency so much anymore but a perm-to-hire and/or direct-placement agency - about a job with a pathologist. At least, that's what I thought they said. Turned out to be for a lab that specializes in pathology-type stuffs. We'll get to that. Had a phone interview that went swimmingly, joking with the interviewer and relating on multiple levels, vetching about the dryness of Milton and sympathizing on generation gaps. At the end of it, he said I was one of the "5% of people who are fun to interview on the phone", and gave me a bunch of his contact info. A few days later I had a face-to-face interview, during which I got to be pround of my obessive need for organization and talk about obscure medical facts I learned from my dad and fiance. Eyebrows were raised in surprise. They complimented me a lot. We struck up conversations and had a blast. A few days later I was hired... for %25 more pay than I have EVER earned.
Things have settled in, but nothing is ever exactly the same each day. I've got a routine, sort of, since I need to basically get all the phone calls done by a certain point in the day in order to make contact with the vast majority of our clients, who are on the East Coast. The rest of the day is data entry... or, maybe it's copying. Faxing? No, filing. How about going through that old box of charts and finding out what the heck they were pulled for? Sure, boss, I can do that. And pull these charts: we need to ask for ICD codes. No problem. When you're done there, can you check with the lead scientist-doctor-lady to see where she's at with reviewing results? Don't forget to mark those charts as QNS. Oh hey, what have we here...
It's never dull. Things are always moving, and the system is malleable, evolving. The company is growing - and fast - so we're having to adapt and fill in gaps we didn't even know we had until someone asked, "hey, what about this?". The people here are awesome: smart, quick-witted, funny, educated, friendly, relaxed, and laid back without a hint of laziness. Everyone here is on top of their game. It's a hive of activity, with all the little bees bustling about their business to get the work done.
And the work is...
I would say glorious, but there is no glory here. Only what must be done, what SHOULD be done. Honor, perhaps. Thinking about it on the ride to work this morning, it occurred to me that I am part of the war on cancer.
The lab has two functions: cancer research, and cancer identification. The researchers research. It's what they do. The rest of us let them work, their brows furrowed in concentration as they work to perfect the test we use to identify cancer types. The rest of us test samples, identifying tumors for sources of cancer: this is based in the liver, this one in the stomach, this one in the lungs.
This is not what I do personally, but I am an integral part in making the process work. If there is in fact a "War on Cancer", the patient is the front line. They are the battleground AND the militia, the contested and the defense. The Oncologist is the General, the Pathologist his Strategist, both planning and ordering the best way to identify and counter the attacks. The labs are the arms manufacturers - creating the weapons to be used best on the battle ground - and the intelligence centers - cracking the codes, collecting information, and identifying the enemy. Our lab is of the latter kind. We take a sample of the tissue, when the doctors come up clueless as to where the origin of the cancer resides, and we run it against an enormous database of tumor samples to identify the type of cancer we're dealing with. Our accuracy is incredible.
We are the people in the back lines, in the little tent in the rear-base, listening in on the enemy's communications and triangulating their whereabouts. We find their base, so that the surgical strike-team can go in and attack the cancer directly, limiting the damage to the patient's system.
What we do is crucial.
And even though I'm far removed from the front line, even though I'm as far back in that little back tent as you can get, what I do is still very important to the process, and because of me the lab can run smoothly, swiftly cranking out accurate results to Oncologists so that the patient can get the right treatment that much faster.
THAT is my new job. And I am DAMN proud of it.
June 28, 2010
Augh!
Blah! Snarfblahgarble!
Which is to say, I've been busy, and I'm sorry!
No, wait. I'm GLAD I've been busy.
See, Sony and I parted ways at the end of May. So I found myself with an excess of free time. I was looking for jobs like crazy, while at the same time trying to find a way to fill up the time. The answer came in the form of my externship.
The next couple weeks were full of extra days at the clinic, where I successfully performed my first blood draw and two injections. As well as submitting Shiko to tortures hertofore unknown.
Let me explain.
My cat is crazy. Psycho. Insane. Loony. Feral with a side-salad and extra helping of posessed. She's nuts. And she's hostile. She's also longhaired, and needs to have her coat shaved during the summer so a.) she doesn't expire in the SoCal heat and b.) she doesn't shed ALL OVER EVERYTHING I OWN. Which she usually does anyway, but in the summer it comes in clouds of fluff that velcro to every. Possible. Surface.
So last year I'd dosed her up on tranquilizers and sent her to a groomer. The happy pills came from a vet I'd seen in Santa Cruz who'd had to gas the cat to get a frigging blood sample. (Morphine based painkillers? No effect. Tranquilizers? Took a swipe at the vet. Anesthesia gas chamber. Ohhh yeahhh.) So I kept them in reserve to give to her for events such as this. Two doses and she was unable to properly stand. Shipped her off to the groomer, who said they'd bathe her, shave her, trim her nails, and "express her glands".
Shiko wanted NOTHING to do with this, even drugged out of her mind. The best they got was shaving her. And she bit through the leather handler's glove. THROUGH IT.
So I figured, hey, they got the job done last year, let's take her there again. Drugged her up, dropped her off, and went to the clinic for a full day's work.
I got a call around noon. She'd laid open the groomer. They couldn't shave her.
I mentioned this to my coworkers. T said, "Bring her here!" I warned him she was NOT a cat to mess with, and he replied confidently that they'd be able to handle it. So, I picked her up at the groomers, and took her home to trim her nails quick-like, to give them a better chance.
She was PISSED. And going to trim her nails wasn't a great move, it turns out. Saucy wench bit through my nail on my right ring finger and scratched a good chunk from my right leg as I pinned her to the floor. Got the nails trimmed, though, and took her to the vet's office. Put her in the kennel immediately. Did not attempt to remove her from the crate, just stuck her in the kennel, crate and all.
The vet, T, and D sized her up. She was livid. I was now the enemy. Vet suggested we anesthetize her. We all agreed. She got out an injection that normally reduces cats to "cat shaped carpets", as T put it. I took her out, T scruffed her and held her down, D threw a towel over her head and patted her head to distract her, and the vet came in from the rear to inject her.
In one single motion, the vet administered the shot, and jumped nimbly back (nimble especially for a 50-something lady) from the wide-sweeping arms of a furious cat who had lept off the table two feet, screeching and spitting. T, still holding her scruff and rear, in one smooth motion tossed her into an open kennel, quickly locking the door.
A half hour passes. They keep checking to see if she falls over. Stubbornly vengeful, she does no such thing.
Eventually, they tell me to try to bring her out. I reach in, pick her up, and try to ignore the angry rumbling growls. I set her on the counter. She collapses. Apparently she was only tough while she had a wall to hold her up.
We move her into the surgery room, and plant her growling muzzle into a gas mask, where we proceed to pump her full of anesthesia. I grab the clippers and begin buzzing away. Yep, my first grooming experience and it's my own bleemin' cat. We get her shaved, nice and lion-cut, although the job's a bit uneven because - well, I did it, and I'm not real good at it yet. We lay her gently in the kennel, and I keep an eye on her. Every now and again, I see her still lying there, and I gently pet her. She growls. "Oh, you're doing okay then," I reason. Seems logical at the time.
Eventually she comes to, right about closing time. I hold out the open crate, which she walks into, if incredibly wobbly. Upon her arrival home, she emerges from the crate, and proceeds to fall over onto the floor, as dignified as possible.
Whee!
In other news, I have a new awesome job, but that will have to be for another entry.
Which is to say, I've been busy, and I'm sorry!
No, wait. I'm GLAD I've been busy.
See, Sony and I parted ways at the end of May. So I found myself with an excess of free time. I was looking for jobs like crazy, while at the same time trying to find a way to fill up the time. The answer came in the form of my externship.
The next couple weeks were full of extra days at the clinic, where I successfully performed my first blood draw and two injections. As well as submitting Shiko to tortures hertofore unknown.
Let me explain.
My cat is crazy. Psycho. Insane. Loony. Feral with a side-salad and extra helping of posessed. She's nuts. And she's hostile. She's also longhaired, and needs to have her coat shaved during the summer so a.) she doesn't expire in the SoCal heat and b.) she doesn't shed ALL OVER EVERYTHING I OWN. Which she usually does anyway, but in the summer it comes in clouds of fluff that velcro to every. Possible. Surface.
So last year I'd dosed her up on tranquilizers and sent her to a groomer. The happy pills came from a vet I'd seen in Santa Cruz who'd had to gas the cat to get a frigging blood sample. (Morphine based painkillers? No effect. Tranquilizers? Took a swipe at the vet. Anesthesia gas chamber. Ohhh yeahhh.) So I kept them in reserve to give to her for events such as this. Two doses and she was unable to properly stand. Shipped her off to the groomer, who said they'd bathe her, shave her, trim her nails, and "express her glands".
Shiko wanted NOTHING to do with this, even drugged out of her mind. The best they got was shaving her. And she bit through the leather handler's glove. THROUGH IT.
So I figured, hey, they got the job done last year, let's take her there again. Drugged her up, dropped her off, and went to the clinic for a full day's work.
I got a call around noon. She'd laid open the groomer. They couldn't shave her.
I mentioned this to my coworkers. T said, "Bring her here!" I warned him she was NOT a cat to mess with, and he replied confidently that they'd be able to handle it. So, I picked her up at the groomers, and took her home to trim her nails quick-like, to give them a better chance.
She was PISSED. And going to trim her nails wasn't a great move, it turns out. Saucy wench bit through my nail on my right ring finger and scratched a good chunk from my right leg as I pinned her to the floor. Got the nails trimmed, though, and took her to the vet's office. Put her in the kennel immediately. Did not attempt to remove her from the crate, just stuck her in the kennel, crate and all.
The vet, T, and D sized her up. She was livid. I was now the enemy. Vet suggested we anesthetize her. We all agreed. She got out an injection that normally reduces cats to "cat shaped carpets", as T put it. I took her out, T scruffed her and held her down, D threw a towel over her head and patted her head to distract her, and the vet came in from the rear to inject her.
In one single motion, the vet administered the shot, and jumped nimbly back (nimble especially for a 50-something lady) from the wide-sweeping arms of a furious cat who had lept off the table two feet, screeching and spitting. T, still holding her scruff and rear, in one smooth motion tossed her into an open kennel, quickly locking the door.
A half hour passes. They keep checking to see if she falls over. Stubbornly vengeful, she does no such thing.
Eventually, they tell me to try to bring her out. I reach in, pick her up, and try to ignore the angry rumbling growls. I set her on the counter. She collapses. Apparently she was only tough while she had a wall to hold her up.
We move her into the surgery room, and plant her growling muzzle into a gas mask, where we proceed to pump her full of anesthesia. I grab the clippers and begin buzzing away. Yep, my first grooming experience and it's my own bleemin' cat. We get her shaved, nice and lion-cut, although the job's a bit uneven because - well, I did it, and I'm not real good at it yet. We lay her gently in the kennel, and I keep an eye on her. Every now and again, I see her still lying there, and I gently pet her. She growls. "Oh, you're doing okay then," I reason. Seems logical at the time.
Eventually she comes to, right about closing time. I hold out the open crate, which she walks into, if incredibly wobbly. Upon her arrival home, she emerges from the crate, and proceeds to fall over onto the floor, as dignified as possible.
Whee!
In other news, I have a new awesome job, but that will have to be for another entry.
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