This weekend I made my first ever batch of hummus. Pretty good if I do say so myself. I used Tahini like real hummus makers do. I've been meaning to do this for a while, but I finally got around to it Saturday afternoon. After I made hummus I diligently washed my large food processor and set it in the drying rack to be put away at its earliest convenience.
Well, that time came sooner rather than later because my roommate had her mentee (the 11-year-old girl she mentors) over to make dinner that night. They needed the food processor box off the table, so I decided the processor was dry enough and could safely be put away. Emphasis on the 'safely'...I'm foreshadowing here....
My roommate even offered to do this for me. Sweet girl. But, it was my mess, and it was my job to put it away so I painstakingly put the pieces back in the styrofoam they came in and, with one exception, I had them in their proper places. The once exception was the cheese grater/cutter circular blade. This is where it gets dicey, folks (and I mean dicey. literally). If you have a weak stomach read no further. This means you, Sarah Ray.
I start sliding the styrofoam and all of the pieces inside the box and am doing a pretty good job so I let go of the pieces and allow them to slide the rest of the way into the box. Well, apparently I did not do a very good job of getting my finger out of the way because in an instant I feel a sharp pain and realize the cheese slicer is a whole lot sharper than I ever imagined. Sharp enough to cut off the tip of a finger, that's for sure. Because that's what it did. I cursed, ran to the kitchen, stuck my finger under the cold water, and assessed the damage. Meanwhile, my poor roommate and this cute-head 11-year-old are confused and freaked out because they have no idea why I'm cursing, running, and bleeding.
Quickly I explain: I just cut the tip of my finger off. I think I might need to go to the ER. We deliberate over this for a moment. Decide it's a good idea and I put my calm, nurse face on. I calmly tell them they must find the tip of my finger in the box. NOT something anyone ever wants to hear. But they did it like champs. Holding it in my hand was rather surreal. I knew it had once been a part of me, but it looked like it was silicone; like it was fake, or, non-viable, as the ER doc would later describe it.
I had them put together a bag of ice, I put my plastic piece of finger inside the bag of ice, and off we went. We decide to go to the Urgent Care near our house. Good idea, I think. I'm not in danger of losing life or limb here, I've only lost a portion of a part of a limb. It's fine. But when we get there it's CLOSED!!! What??! Ridiculous. It's 6:30pm on a Saturday night. Saturday nights are when things get urgent, Urgent Care!
I often come up with extreme scenarios in my head. You know, test myself to make sure if I were ever in a desperate situation I could survive. I do this when I'm hiking: What would I do if I were alone in the woods and attacked by a bear? OR What would I do if I got in a plane crash in the middle of the woods and had to survive for a long time like the the book Hatchet? Sometimes I ask myself: If I were to have an accident, which hospital would I choose? Well, here was my chance to put my weird habit to use. Because I had to make a choice. Denver Health or Porter? Denver Health is where all the gun shot wounds and ruffians end up. Not that I care, but it means the wait times are going to be longer, so I choose Porter. Good choice. I got right in!
The doc enters. He's very nice. He asks me some questions, tells me he won't be sewing my non-viable finger tip back on, and sends the nurse in to numb me up and we get started. Nurse Maggie is also very nice. We develop a great little rapport while I'm there. She numbs my whole finger, which apparently has been known to make grown men cry, and she praises me for taking it like a champ. I like being praised when I go to the doctor. It's like getting a lollypop or a sticker or something. Only it's the grown up version.
After this, EMT Kevin comes in. He introduces himself: "Hi, my name is Kevin, and I'll be irrigating your finger". I introduce myself: "Hi, my name is Megan, and I'll be letting you do that". He cleans it, puts some stuff on it, and wraps it. At which point Nurse Maggie reenters and I tell them both my finger looks like a penis. Which it did! I'm only calling it like I see it. Kevin laughed. Maggie was a bit taken aback I think. Sorry Maggie.
After this, they let me go. I leave, sign some papers now that I have useable hands again and realize I'm bleeding through my bandage. Awesome. So I go back in. They rewrap, make me sit there for a half an hour, and release me assured I will not be bleeding out.
All in all a rather hilarious experience. I really enjoyed pretty much every part of it. I even went out that night afterward. Granted, I apparently was a bit more frazzled than I thought because I forgot my coat and lost my debit card at some point (and I never lose anything). However, I have been given ample opportunity to flip people off, which is nice.
My one regret? Not receiving any stitches. That, and the fact that they threw away the tip of my finger without so much as an offer to say farewell. That bit of my finger has been with me since birth. And now it's gone. In the trash. Disregarded as a "non-viable" piece of tissue. Tragic.
All in all I'd say I had a pretty great weekend. Lots of laughs. A good story. And good company.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Never Ever Have I Ever....
This morning as I was driving to work I had a lot of time to think. This is because my normally 20-25 min commute took me over an hour. Because it snowed quite a bit this morning. And because regardless of how much people in Colorado drive in the snow, they still don't know how to drive in the snow! And because Denver doesn't really know how to plow roads. And because we are so environmentally cautious that we use small pieces of sand and tiny rocks to provide traction on our roads rather than salt and other harsh chemicals. Which is why myself and about 90% of other drivers on the road have chips or cracks in their windshields which in turn impair our vision, which in turn makes us even worse at driving in the snow.
But, after a quick rant to myself about how much this drive was going to suck and a quick prayer that I would not be dying today, I resigned myself to the fact that my drive was going to be longer than usual and that I should just embrace the snowy wonderland and inch along in the parking lot with the rest of Denver. It's slightly comforting to know that we were all in it together. I felt bonded in some way to the people around me. In fact, I even found myself cranking the radio and singing loudly to Lee Ann Rimes - "How Do I Live". It was magical. I felt inspired. And I'm fairly certain I was at least inspiring a few people around me. I made sure to put on a good show with lots of facial expressions and expressive hand movements. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I should be using my water bottle as a microphone, the song was over.
I've been thinking a lot about my driving habits this lately. Mostly these thoughts started because I began getting annoyed at myself for how cautious I am when it comes to yellow lights. I almost always slow down instead of speeding up. Which, I think is what you're supposed to do, but it sure makes me annoyed when I stop and then wait for the light to turn red exclaiming "I could have made it!!!!". And then I have to wait. And wait. And wait...... Until it turns green all the while chastising myself for yet another failure to gun it when I should have.
PLUS I would really like to receive one of those red-light tickets in the mail. Let's be honest, we've all seen them hanging on our friends' refrigerators. When I see these hanging I ultimately begin to believe that person is just a little bit cooler. The red light ticket is like a badge of honor. It always catches you doing something funny or looking guilty, etc, etc. And I WANT one!!! Not that I want to pay the ticket (another thing about Denver is that their ticketing system is exorbitant), but one red-light ticket isn't going to break the budget and I think it would be well worth the slight monetary inconvenience.
So what have I been doing lately? I've been pushing my luck with the yellow lights. I haven't gotten quite so desperate as to outright run a red one, but I've been cutting it just a little closer than usual. Living on the edge a little, you know? It's exhilarating! I feel so alive every time that yellow light comes on and I have to make the decision: should I stay or should I go? And I GO. I gun it! I live without regrets. And if I happen to run a red light one of these times because I pushed it a little too hard, then I'll receive my shiny reward in the mail. And let's all hope I'm doing something really awesome in that picture.
I have a friend who is a very nervous car rider. She told me the other day that I am one of less than 5 people she feels safe with in the car. I know this should be a complement. I am a safe driver! Yippee! But I felt disheartened. I felt insulted. I felt she was being unfair. I don't want to be the safest driver on the road! I'm 27 years old for goodness sake! I don't have a child in the back seat! I want to live a little dangerously.
But let's be honest. I'm going to continue to be a safe driver. I've never even been given a speeding ticket for goodness sake! But I am going to play a little closer to the edge with those yellow lights. I want one. JUST ONE red light ticket. To hang on my fridge and prove to myself and everyone around me that I'm a little dangerous.
So don't worry. I won't be a stupid driver. I won't g-chat on the road (that's right, I was just sitting here at the office and a friend started g-chatting me while driving!). I don't live that close to the edge. But when I finally get my badge of honor and am able to proudly display my accomplishments, I'll let you know. Until then.....
But, after a quick rant to myself about how much this drive was going to suck and a quick prayer that I would not be dying today, I resigned myself to the fact that my drive was going to be longer than usual and that I should just embrace the snowy wonderland and inch along in the parking lot with the rest of Denver. It's slightly comforting to know that we were all in it together. I felt bonded in some way to the people around me. In fact, I even found myself cranking the radio and singing loudly to Lee Ann Rimes - "How Do I Live". It was magical. I felt inspired. And I'm fairly certain I was at least inspiring a few people around me. I made sure to put on a good show with lots of facial expressions and expressive hand movements. Unfortunately, by the time I realized I should be using my water bottle as a microphone, the song was over.
I've been thinking a lot about my driving habits this lately. Mostly these thoughts started because I began getting annoyed at myself for how cautious I am when it comes to yellow lights. I almost always slow down instead of speeding up. Which, I think is what you're supposed to do, but it sure makes me annoyed when I stop and then wait for the light to turn red exclaiming "I could have made it!!!!". And then I have to wait. And wait. And wait...... Until it turns green all the while chastising myself for yet another failure to gun it when I should have.
PLUS I would really like to receive one of those red-light tickets in the mail. Let's be honest, we've all seen them hanging on our friends' refrigerators. When I see these hanging I ultimately begin to believe that person is just a little bit cooler. The red light ticket is like a badge of honor. It always catches you doing something funny or looking guilty, etc, etc. And I WANT one!!! Not that I want to pay the ticket (another thing about Denver is that their ticketing system is exorbitant), but one red-light ticket isn't going to break the budget and I think it would be well worth the slight monetary inconvenience.
So what have I been doing lately? I've been pushing my luck with the yellow lights. I haven't gotten quite so desperate as to outright run a red one, but I've been cutting it just a little closer than usual. Living on the edge a little, you know? It's exhilarating! I feel so alive every time that yellow light comes on and I have to make the decision: should I stay or should I go? And I GO. I gun it! I live without regrets. And if I happen to run a red light one of these times because I pushed it a little too hard, then I'll receive my shiny reward in the mail. And let's all hope I'm doing something really awesome in that picture.
I have a friend who is a very nervous car rider. She told me the other day that I am one of less than 5 people she feels safe with in the car. I know this should be a complement. I am a safe driver! Yippee! But I felt disheartened. I felt insulted. I felt she was being unfair. I don't want to be the safest driver on the road! I'm 27 years old for goodness sake! I don't have a child in the back seat! I want to live a little dangerously.
But let's be honest. I'm going to continue to be a safe driver. I've never even been given a speeding ticket for goodness sake! But I am going to play a little closer to the edge with those yellow lights. I want one. JUST ONE red light ticket. To hang on my fridge and prove to myself and everyone around me that I'm a little dangerous.
So don't worry. I won't be a stupid driver. I won't g-chat on the road (that's right, I was just sitting here at the office and a friend started g-chatting me while driving!). I don't live that close to the edge. But when I finally get my badge of honor and am able to proudly display my accomplishments, I'll let you know. Until then.....
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sleepless nights and Michael Jackson gloves
I can't sleep. It is 10:39pm and I tried to go to bed at 9:15 like a good girl because I have to go back to work after my 4-day weekend!
Ugh.
I blame this on my grossly inactive weekend. And by grossly, I mean gross. My roommate and I were sick. Holed up in the house. Quarantined if you will. And I did nothing but eat, sleep, read stupid Francine Rivers books, and watch Gillmore girls. I did make myself get out of the house at least once a day just to say that I had, but one of those outings included walking to McDonald's to buy french fries, coming back to make cookies, and then eating my weight in them. Gross.
So now I'm sitting here tap tap tapping away in my Michael Jackson gloves (the white gloves I sleep in because I have to put on an extra-moisturizing hand lotion and let it sink in all night by wearing gloves to sleep because it is so stupidly dry here). Why am I still wearing my gloves to type in, you ask? Great question. Because I didn't want to take them off and ruin 2 good hours of soaking my hands have already gotten by washing my hands so I can type. I mean, Roxy (my computer) has been through a lot (not with me, but with someone else. she's refurbished...she get's around), but I don't think she deserves to be smeared by lots and lots of moisturizing hand lotion. She doesn't seem to be having any problems with the dry air. Although, the gloves are making it a little bit tricky to type. I actually consider it a small miracle I'm doing as well as I am. I think I can attribute it to the holes in the ends of both of the gloves' middle fingers. They get around too....
Anyway. I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep and failing so I was entertaining myself with coming up with new blog posts. Probably because I got up to go to the bathroom earlier, told my roommate I couldn't sleep, and she suggested I should read some boring literature. And she said it in a British accent. Which made it even better. And I guess the idea stuck so I decided to write some literature of my own. Wait, can you call a blog literature? (BTW I did take off a glove to go to the bathroom. Although, I only minimally washed my hand afterward. Is that gross? Sorry Roxy....)
And now I don't know what to write about. I was going to write about Red Light tickets. But I fear it's a little late for that. I think I've pretty much used up all of my literary space talking about sleepless nights and Michael Jackson gloves. So maybe I'll end here. There was really no point to this blog. Other than to entertain me while I couldn't sleep. So I suppose I'll trudge back up my stairs, hit the bathroom again (can't sleep on a full bladder....), and attempt to sleep again. It is 10:55pm. I have wasted 16 whole minutes. The bathroom and another minimal hand wash might take one more. That's almost 20 minutes. And the longer I (10:56) continue to ramble, the more time I'll take up and inevitably the more tired I will become, right? At least I will be able to stop running blog post ideas through my head. I'll probably go back to trying to form sentences in Spanish in my head. Which is how I entertained myself the other night when I couldn't go to sleep. And I wonder why I've been having weird dreams lately. (10:57)
Thanks to a quick edit it is now exactly 11pm. I like nice round numbers. For the Win.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
So a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar...
Oh my sweet baby Moses lying in a basket made of reeds! (I wanted to say sweet baby Jesus, but I am trying to stop saying that...something about not taking the Lord's name in vain....) It has certainly been a long time since I have written a blog. But lately people have really been stroking my ego and saying things like "You're a good writer" and "Yours was one of the only blogs I followed" and "You're so funny". And now I'm stroking my own ego by shamelessly writing those complements in my blog so that all of you can read them. Assuming you people will still read this thing.
Let me explain my extended absence:
1. I have not been pursuing my doula-liciousness for a while. This is not because I don't love the work, but more because I don't like being on call. That's not to say I wouldn't take another client, I'm just not pursuing it whole-heartedly. So it's not that I'm not doulaing it anymore. It's just that I'm really happy doulaing other things that don't include being a doula all the time.
2. I haven't seen the world in a particularly funny light for the last few months. I have been seeing it as more of a dimly-lit room rather than as a room full of funny. So I haven't really been able to write about funny things that happen because, well, they just haven't seemed that funny.
BUT......
I'm back! And I'm not going to pretend this blog is about doulaing anymore. Let's face it, it never was in the first place. And the best news is: The world is funny again. Which is really great for me, and now for you. Life is as it should be.
Speaking of things that are funny, let me regale you with a story (yes, I had to look that word up to make sure I was using it correctly). It involves Christmas parties, tacky sweaters, mistletoe headbands, and extreme bowling.
Once upon a time a friend had a Christmas party that was undefined attire-wise, so my other lovely friend (who shall remain unnamed) and I decided to wear tacky Christmas sweaters. Well, maybe I should say Christmas outfits instead of sweaters. See attached picture (I guess she's not remaining unnamed). The party ended up being kind of fancy and we felt we didn't really fit in so we decided to go make our own fun. Those outfits (including my mistletoe headband) couldn't be wasted!
Recently we've really enjoyed playing shuffleboard. So we decided to hit up a local bar that boasts an excellent shuffleboard table. Bumpers and all. Kind of like bowling as a small child (which we'll get to a little later). [Side note: I apparently like to use a lot of parentheses. Which makes me a little self-conscious. But not enough to where I plan to stop using them]. I digress...So we go to this bar. And we get a couple drinks. And we play shuffleboard. Well, I played one game of shuffleboard. Because an 80-year-old man named Lefty (who, coincidentally, I don't believe was actually left handed) kicked my tail!
Tail between my legs, and left to my own devices, I made friends with three boys who were standing near me. And by boys, I mean men. I may be an LKL (and if you don't know what that means, I'm not telling you), but I'm not gross. I don't pick up boys in bars. In fact, boys shouldn't be in bars. Which is nice alliteration. However, I did have my first experience with a MAN picking me up in a bar. Somehow he ended up with my number. (Probably because I gave it to him). Why not? If you can't give out your number when you're wearing a mistletoe headband, when can you give out your number? Am I right?
Long story short, he texted me a week later and asked me out. As another side note to the men of this world: take my advice and call a girl to ask her out. I know it's scary. But it shows confidence and I am much more likely to say yes if you actually call me rather than texting me. Apparently it didn't bother me enough to say no, though (I mean....a girl's gotta eat!), so we went out to dinner. And then on a whim we went bowling. Which was awesome! I was wearing a skirt and didn't have any socks, so I took off my hot pink CFM shoes, put on my fleece-lined tights I had in the car, and went for it. No bumpers, but lots of black lights! I love that my bug-infested rental shoes had glowing laces.
We bowled three rounds, made friends with the cool kids next to us who had their own shoes, balls, and ball slings (I'm not sure what that last thing is, but it was kind of neat), and then went our separate ways. But first I had to take off my tights because the crotch was riding down almost to my knees. First time usage. They hadn't quite been stretched out. My date did not know this was happening. But it sure was uncomfortable. And really funny to me all at the same time. I blame the tights on my consistently decreasing score. The lower the crotch went, the lower my score fell. Anyway, the date was fun, but I don't think we're on the same page about some important matters so I don't think it's going to go anywhere.
But here's to new experiences. May I have many more in 2012. I'm not sure I want to give my number out in a bar anymore, but maybe I'll go skydiving. That seems like a good use of my time and energy.
I will end with one more quick little quip (that's the 3rd word I've looked up to make sure I'm using it correctly), and consequently one more piece of advice. Last night I was at another bar. I ordered a hot chocolate. It was particularly delicious. As I got up from the stool, a very drunk man asks "What are you drinking?" I exclaim excitedly "Hot Chocolate!!!". His response "You're really attractive". "Thank you." I say and turn around and whisper "Let's go." to my friend. Great intro, drunk man. Yet another example, men, of what not to do to win over a pretty lady. Especially if you're saying it in a drunken slur. A nice complement, but it doesn't mean much when you abruptly blurt it out and I know you're seeing me through beer goggles. But hey, Happy New Year!
The end. I hope this was sufficiently entertaining. Until next time....
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Nurses make the worst patients
Recently I went on a little backpacking trip with my old backpacking camp: Young Life's Wilderness Ranch. My guide partner and I took a group of Baylor's finest Young Life leaders out for the best week of their lives and brought them back with a small going away present.
Giardia.
Affectionately known as the G Rock.
Because it rocks your socks off. And not in a good way.
This is not an easy feat, mind you. I am a little bit proud of us. I guided for two summers without ever receiving this little friend, and after one week back on the trail, he's decided to make a home in my tummy. And I'm pretty sure he's made his home in the tummies of all my new Baylor friends as well. Neat.
For those of you who know what giardia is and are thinking "ew. gross. why are you telling me about this?", you can stop thinking less of me and forever labeling me as the giardia girl because I didn't have the normal symptoms, ok. Hopefully you catch my drift and I don't have to tell you what that means. But you can stop judging me now.
I am, however, really proud of my excellent nursy skills because I correctly diagnosed myself even when the Nurse Practitioner listened to my symptoms and didn't actually believe I had it. She ordered a test anyway, and low and behold, it came back positive. HA! I WIN! Slash, I lose. Because you never really win when you have giardia.
On a side note, I am also proud of my excellent nursy skills because I totally fixed some guy's dislocated finger the other day in the park! Yes! Two nurse points in one week! Winner!
Back to the story.
So the NP prescribes me this antibiotic. An antibiotic I am to take in one dose. Four pink horse pills all at once. Yikes! Not my idea of a good time. I gag them down all the while considering what havoc they're going to wreak on my body. I mean, they must be fairly powerful if they're going to knock out the bacteria that's been eating away at my insides for a month in one fell swoop. Right? Right. My stomach is now upset because of the medication and my mouth tastes like I'm lapping up the inside of a tin can continually. Yuck.
Oh, and to boot, I can't have any lactose for a month. Because apparently the G Rock can cause permanent lactose intolerance and if I stay away from it for a month maybe I'll be spared from being a lactard for the rest of my life. Cool. So now my mouth tastes like metal and I can't even enjoy my morning latte. It's the best part of waking up/working at a coffee shop and I can't even partake! Nor can I have cheese. Or butter. It's been two days and I'm pretty sure every pitcher of milk I steam and every cheesy bagel sandwich I make beckons me to come back to it. And then laughs in my face when I tell it I have to stay away from it for a while. But just for a little while, I say. Don't worry, my friend. I will never let you go!
This is my nightmare. And I have spent the last two days whining about it to anyone who will listen. And now I am continuing to whine about it on a blog that I know at least 70 some-odd people will read. And I'm sorry. Only not. Because I imagine you at least got to laugh a little at my misfortune which ultimately makes up for the whining. Right?
Love and Kombucha (for the probiotics, of course).
And milk.
And cheese.
And butter.
And cream cheese.
And sour cream.
And milk chocolate.
And cottage cheese.
.............................
..................
...........
.....
..
.
Giardia.
Affectionately known as the G Rock.
Because it rocks your socks off. And not in a good way.
This is not an easy feat, mind you. I am a little bit proud of us. I guided for two summers without ever receiving this little friend, and after one week back on the trail, he's decided to make a home in my tummy. And I'm pretty sure he's made his home in the tummies of all my new Baylor friends as well. Neat.
For those of you who know what giardia is and are thinking "ew. gross. why are you telling me about this?", you can stop thinking less of me and forever labeling me as the giardia girl because I didn't have the normal symptoms, ok. Hopefully you catch my drift and I don't have to tell you what that means. But you can stop judging me now.
I am, however, really proud of my excellent nursy skills because I correctly diagnosed myself even when the Nurse Practitioner listened to my symptoms and didn't actually believe I had it. She ordered a test anyway, and low and behold, it came back positive. HA! I WIN! Slash, I lose. Because you never really win when you have giardia.
On a side note, I am also proud of my excellent nursy skills because I totally fixed some guy's dislocated finger the other day in the park! Yes! Two nurse points in one week! Winner!
Back to the story.
So the NP prescribes me this antibiotic. An antibiotic I am to take in one dose. Four pink horse pills all at once. Yikes! Not my idea of a good time. I gag them down all the while considering what havoc they're going to wreak on my body. I mean, they must be fairly powerful if they're going to knock out the bacteria that's been eating away at my insides for a month in one fell swoop. Right? Right. My stomach is now upset because of the medication and my mouth tastes like I'm lapping up the inside of a tin can continually. Yuck.
Oh, and to boot, I can't have any lactose for a month. Because apparently the G Rock can cause permanent lactose intolerance and if I stay away from it for a month maybe I'll be spared from being a lactard for the rest of my life. Cool. So now my mouth tastes like metal and I can't even enjoy my morning latte. It's the best part of waking up/working at a coffee shop and I can't even partake! Nor can I have cheese. Or butter. It's been two days and I'm pretty sure every pitcher of milk I steam and every cheesy bagel sandwich I make beckons me to come back to it. And then laughs in my face when I tell it I have to stay away from it for a while. But just for a little while, I say. Don't worry, my friend. I will never let you go!
This is my nightmare. And I have spent the last two days whining about it to anyone who will listen. And now I am continuing to whine about it on a blog that I know at least 70 some-odd people will read. And I'm sorry. Only not. Because I imagine you at least got to laugh a little at my misfortune which ultimately makes up for the whining. Right?
Love and Kombucha (for the probiotics, of course).
And milk.
And cheese.
And butter.
And cream cheese.
And sour cream.
And milk chocolate.
And cottage cheese.
.............................
..................
...........
.....
..
.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Britney Spears and Lady Antebellum
Really, Britney? You spell your name like that? Dear Wikipedia: Did Britney's parents decide to spell her name like that or did she decide it was going to make her look cooler if she changed it?..............
(Brief interlude while I actually go ask Wiki)
Apparently Britney's birth name is Britney Jean Spears. I only believe her name was originally spelled that way because her middle name is Jean. Nobody would change their name to Jean to be cool. Believe me. My middle name is Jo. Which, maybe if you're a country singer is cool, but not if you want to be credited with "influencing the revival of teen pop during the late 1990s". Thanks Wiki. You have ALL the answers.
Apparently this means I spelled her name wrong when I put it in my Facebook status today. Which I only care about because I hate making stupid spelling/grammatical errors in my status updates. (And in related news, apparently Facebook is still not recognized as a real word in the dictionary because Firefox tells me it's spelled wrong. But Firefox recognizes the word Firefox as being spelled correctly. Hmmmmm......)
In other news I went to the garden center today to buy some plants to finally start my garden. Mind you, I am not incredibly late doing this. Just a couple weeks. The frost date is May 14th in Denver, so I couldn't even think about planting the little guys until then.
I made many new friends at the garden center. Mainly vegetables. And Adam. My new high school buddy. Adam was SO helpful. I aimlessly wandered the aisles looking for the vegetable section for quite a while before I found Adam. He asked if he could help me and I thought to myself 'aren't you a little young to be working? There have to be child labor laws against this type of thing'. But as it turns out, Adam was quite knowledgeable. Or else he pretended to be knowledgeable. Either way, he helped me pick out some great seedlings.
On a quick side note, I am incapable of writing while listening to music. So I just made a big sacrifice and turned off my awesome Pandora station.
So there I am at the garden center. I really didn't know what I wanted to plant so I told Adam I was in the market for some vegetable seedlings and he took the reigns. "Well, here we are in front of the squash. Would you like some squash?" "Why yes! Yes I would! I want both zucchini AND spaghetti squash. Thank you!". "How about peppers? Do you want some peppers?" "Well, I had forgotten about peppers, Adam. But yes! I certainly do want peppers!"
If only Adam could get a glimpse of the inner workings of my mind. He had no idea the recipes he was sparking into creation as he suggested his smorgasbord of vegetable delight.
I started gaining confidence as I imagined the possibilities: "How about tomatoes? I would love some tomatoes." "Well, we have a lot of tomatoes. They're all over there. Would you like me to get you a cart?"
What a nice young man! He is going to make some pretty lady so very happy one day.
He brings the cart and we start picking my seedlings. I tell him I would like some grape or cherry tomatoes. But I am still fairly new to the gardening business so I asked Adam to pick my plants for me. I told him we could name them all. He REALLY got into it! First up: Jeffrey. I think Jeffrey was the warm up. The names got better from there. However, I like Jeffrey for the grape tomatoes because they're cute and small and Jeffrey reminds me of a little boy.
Next up I asked for some normal size tomatoes. Adam got a little spark in his eye. "You should go for the celebrity tomatoes because then you can name them Britney Spears!!!". Well all right, Adam! I like your style!
This name game thing was going to be better than I thought! On to the peppers. Pedro the jalapeno (because he will be used in my salsa). I'm pretty sure he'll grow up to be a Spanish speaking pepper. Then came Edna the bell pepper. I'm not sure where that came from. It was Adam's idea. I think he named her that because she is a Lady Bell pepper. I may or may not have changed her name to Lady Antebellum. I thought it was more appropriate. Don't tell Adam.
Then came Mario the spaghetti squash because he's from Italy and Charles the zucchini squash because he's an aristocrat squash. We thought Charles was very appropriate. Well, Adam wanted to name him after Prince William. I decided Prince Charles was better. Sorry Adam. After all, these are going to be my plants. I think I should get the trump card.
However, you did win one round. You talked me into fertilizer. Which is probably a good idea. But I still kind of hate the idea of paying for a bag of poop.
After my cart was full of poop and veggies, Adam walked me to the checkout counter, had a hilarious interaction with a senior citizen, and then helped me carry my poop to the car. I was glad to know that our conversation didn't lack once outside the store. There's always the possibility that you hit it off inside the walls of a place and then once outside those walls everything turns awkward. Believe me. It happens. Mostly when I try to be real friends with my regulars at the coffee shop where I work. Never works out. Pure awkwardness.
But Adam and I bonded once again over his interaction with the little old lady. "Guess what today is?" He says to me, drenched in sarcasm. "Senior Citizen discount day. Every Tuesday. I love it." Then we talked about how I have at least one of those interactions every day and I tell him that I work at the coffee shop a couple blocks away. Maybe he'll come visit me sometime. Maybe not. He's probably too young to drink coffee. And the magic probably wouldn't be the same outside the garden center. So, farewell Adam! Wish me luck with my new friends. We'll speak of you often with pride in our bellies and laughter in our hearts.
Yep. Pride in our bellies. Whatever that means.
AND in totally unrelated news, my first client is due very soon!!! I'm so excited to be a part of her and her partner's birth experience. They are truly a delight! My next post might just be about my first birth attended as a doula. Stay tuned!
(Brief interlude while I actually go ask Wiki)
Apparently Britney's birth name is Britney Jean Spears. I only believe her name was originally spelled that way because her middle name is Jean. Nobody would change their name to Jean to be cool. Believe me. My middle name is Jo. Which, maybe if you're a country singer is cool, but not if you want to be credited with "influencing the revival of teen pop during the late 1990s". Thanks Wiki. You have ALL the answers.
Apparently this means I spelled her name wrong when I put it in my Facebook status today. Which I only care about because I hate making stupid spelling/grammatical errors in my status updates. (And in related news, apparently Facebook is still not recognized as a real word in the dictionary because Firefox tells me it's spelled wrong. But Firefox recognizes the word Firefox as being spelled correctly. Hmmmmm......)
In other news I went to the garden center today to buy some plants to finally start my garden. Mind you, I am not incredibly late doing this. Just a couple weeks. The frost date is May 14th in Denver, so I couldn't even think about planting the little guys until then.
I made many new friends at the garden center. Mainly vegetables. And Adam. My new high school buddy. Adam was SO helpful. I aimlessly wandered the aisles looking for the vegetable section for quite a while before I found Adam. He asked if he could help me and I thought to myself 'aren't you a little young to be working? There have to be child labor laws against this type of thing'. But as it turns out, Adam was quite knowledgeable. Or else he pretended to be knowledgeable. Either way, he helped me pick out some great seedlings.
On a quick side note, I am incapable of writing while listening to music. So I just made a big sacrifice and turned off my awesome Pandora station.
So there I am at the garden center. I really didn't know what I wanted to plant so I told Adam I was in the market for some vegetable seedlings and he took the reigns. "Well, here we are in front of the squash. Would you like some squash?" "Why yes! Yes I would! I want both zucchini AND spaghetti squash. Thank you!". "How about peppers? Do you want some peppers?" "Well, I had forgotten about peppers, Adam. But yes! I certainly do want peppers!"
If only Adam could get a glimpse of the inner workings of my mind. He had no idea the recipes he was sparking into creation as he suggested his smorgasbord of vegetable delight.
I started gaining confidence as I imagined the possibilities: "How about tomatoes? I would love some tomatoes." "Well, we have a lot of tomatoes. They're all over there. Would you like me to get you a cart?"
What a nice young man! He is going to make some pretty lady so very happy one day.
He brings the cart and we start picking my seedlings. I tell him I would like some grape or cherry tomatoes. But I am still fairly new to the gardening business so I asked Adam to pick my plants for me. I told him we could name them all. He REALLY got into it! First up: Jeffrey. I think Jeffrey was the warm up. The names got better from there. However, I like Jeffrey for the grape tomatoes because they're cute and small and Jeffrey reminds me of a little boy.
Next up I asked for some normal size tomatoes. Adam got a little spark in his eye. "You should go for the celebrity tomatoes because then you can name them Britney Spears!!!". Well all right, Adam! I like your style!
This name game thing was going to be better than I thought! On to the peppers. Pedro the jalapeno (because he will be used in my salsa). I'm pretty sure he'll grow up to be a Spanish speaking pepper. Then came Edna the bell pepper. I'm not sure where that came from. It was Adam's idea. I think he named her that because she is a Lady Bell pepper. I may or may not have changed her name to Lady Antebellum. I thought it was more appropriate. Don't tell Adam.
Then came Mario the spaghetti squash because he's from Italy and Charles the zucchini squash because he's an aristocrat squash. We thought Charles was very appropriate. Well, Adam wanted to name him after Prince William. I decided Prince Charles was better. Sorry Adam. After all, these are going to be my plants. I think I should get the trump card.
However, you did win one round. You talked me into fertilizer. Which is probably a good idea. But I still kind of hate the idea of paying for a bag of poop.
After my cart was full of poop and veggies, Adam walked me to the checkout counter, had a hilarious interaction with a senior citizen, and then helped me carry my poop to the car. I was glad to know that our conversation didn't lack once outside the store. There's always the possibility that you hit it off inside the walls of a place and then once outside those walls everything turns awkward. Believe me. It happens. Mostly when I try to be real friends with my regulars at the coffee shop where I work. Never works out. Pure awkwardness.
But Adam and I bonded once again over his interaction with the little old lady. "Guess what today is?" He says to me, drenched in sarcasm. "Senior Citizen discount day. Every Tuesday. I love it." Then we talked about how I have at least one of those interactions every day and I tell him that I work at the coffee shop a couple blocks away. Maybe he'll come visit me sometime. Maybe not. He's probably too young to drink coffee. And the magic probably wouldn't be the same outside the garden center. So, farewell Adam! Wish me luck with my new friends. We'll speak of you often with pride in our bellies and laughter in our hearts.
Yep. Pride in our bellies. Whatever that means.
AND in totally unrelated news, my first client is due very soon!!! I'm so excited to be a part of her and her partner's birth experience. They are truly a delight! My next post might just be about my first birth attended as a doula. Stay tuned!
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Social Experiments
I've been very interested lately in conducting some highly specialized social experiments. I'm not sure if this is out of a need to engage my brain in some form of research or out of complete and utter (I almost just wrote udder) boredom, but whatever it is, it's rather fun.
It all started because I don't have a particular style to which I ascribe. One day I will wear jeans and a t-shirt, one day I will look like a hippie. I embrace my love for Colorado with a fleece and chacos, or I embrace my Missouri roots with an old school Chiefs (go Chiefs!) sweatshirt and some sweatpants. I've always wanted to learn how to look like a Hipster, but I'm still not quite sure what that means. My friend Kim tells me that to dress like a Hipster you have to wear all of your clothes and accessories at once. I think she's right.
Anyway, I work at a little coffee shop here in Denver and therefore see a whole lot of people each day. We don't have a uniform, so I wear whatever suits my fancy that day (or actually, I pick out my clothes the night before like a good little girl. partly because I'm anal and my closet is color coordinated, and partly because I really like getting up at the last possible second when I have to be at work by 5am). While at work, I began noticing a pattern. And the pattern was that people on a fairly frequent basis would comment on my clothing or hair style of the day. Mostly these people were my regulars, and mostly they were men. Older men. Married older men. Huh. I find this a bit confusing and more than a little creepy. My boss tells me that it's because married men are taught to notice details about their wives, and therefore notice things about their barista as well. Maybe. My friend tells me it's because they can't think of anything else to talk about and they don't want to just give me the normal "how are you today?" because that gets boring and cliche after a while, so they move on to a topic that is more in depth, but still not getting personal. Ok. I can believe that one.
Deciding to turn this strange phenomenon into a game, I started a tally system. I wore a crazy headband rambo style and donned my funkiest pair of hippie jeans and headed to work with a new passion: to prove that I wasn't crazy; that old men really did comment on my outfit more than is necessarily comfortable. And to throw in a control group I added a tally column for women too. It was neck and neck all day, but eventually after 6 hours and 13 comments the men had it by a hair. 7 to 6: men to women. I wasn't crazy, but I was at least a little comforted that women were commenting too.
Having success in this experiment, I eagerly looked for new opportunities to entertain me. I even went so far as to ask the front desk man at my financial adviser's office if he ever conducted social experiments to see where people sat down when they entered the office (I think this made him very confused. apparently he doesn't entertain himself the way I do). You see, there are four chairs. Each perfectly arranged in a square so that you either have to sit uncomfortably close to someone or directly opposite them. Both are equally awkward. Believe me, there was a man sitting there when I arrived and I had to choose between the seat next to him (that felt a little too intimate) or the seat right across from him where I was guaranteed to either have to stare at the table in front of me the whole time or risk several instances of awkward accidental eye contact. He looked nervous and was dressed in a very nice suit. And so I amused myself with the thought of asking him if he was there for an interview and then telling him I was there for one too. And then laugh inwardly as he appraised my appearance (it was a t-shirt and chacos day). I would have said "oh man, maybe I should have dressed up more!. And then I would have kept an excellently straight face. Just to see what he would do. (yet another social experiment).
My financial planner saved me from the awkwardness and as we went back to his office, he told me that you could always tell someone was there for an interview because they were either reading the paper or looking at their phone. Apparently he likes social experiments too. And this guy was doing both, so his hypothesis proves true...at least in this instance.
Anyway, this has been long. We are now going to conduct a social experiment to see who made it this far. And the way we're going to do that is by looking at the stats of how many page visits this blog gets and how many page visits MY NEW WEBSITE gets. So click on it. Please! Google needs to start recognizing that it exists so that pregnant mamas can find me! Ok go!
It all started because I don't have a particular style to which I ascribe. One day I will wear jeans and a t-shirt, one day I will look like a hippie. I embrace my love for Colorado with a fleece and chacos, or I embrace my Missouri roots with an old school Chiefs (go Chiefs!) sweatshirt and some sweatpants. I've always wanted to learn how to look like a Hipster, but I'm still not quite sure what that means. My friend Kim tells me that to dress like a Hipster you have to wear all of your clothes and accessories at once. I think she's right.
Anyway, I work at a little coffee shop here in Denver and therefore see a whole lot of people each day. We don't have a uniform, so I wear whatever suits my fancy that day (or actually, I pick out my clothes the night before like a good little girl. partly because I'm anal and my closet is color coordinated, and partly because I really like getting up at the last possible second when I have to be at work by 5am). While at work, I began noticing a pattern. And the pattern was that people on a fairly frequent basis would comment on my clothing or hair style of the day. Mostly these people were my regulars, and mostly they were men. Older men. Married older men. Huh. I find this a bit confusing and more than a little creepy. My boss tells me that it's because married men are taught to notice details about their wives, and therefore notice things about their barista as well. Maybe. My friend tells me it's because they can't think of anything else to talk about and they don't want to just give me the normal "how are you today?" because that gets boring and cliche after a while, so they move on to a topic that is more in depth, but still not getting personal. Ok. I can believe that one.
Deciding to turn this strange phenomenon into a game, I started a tally system. I wore a crazy headband rambo style and donned my funkiest pair of hippie jeans and headed to work with a new passion: to prove that I wasn't crazy; that old men really did comment on my outfit more than is necessarily comfortable. And to throw in a control group I added a tally column for women too. It was neck and neck all day, but eventually after 6 hours and 13 comments the men had it by a hair. 7 to 6: men to women. I wasn't crazy, but I was at least a little comforted that women were commenting too.
Having success in this experiment, I eagerly looked for new opportunities to entertain me. I even went so far as to ask the front desk man at my financial adviser's office if he ever conducted social experiments to see where people sat down when they entered the office (I think this made him very confused. apparently he doesn't entertain himself the way I do). You see, there are four chairs. Each perfectly arranged in a square so that you either have to sit uncomfortably close to someone or directly opposite them. Both are equally awkward. Believe me, there was a man sitting there when I arrived and I had to choose between the seat next to him (that felt a little too intimate) or the seat right across from him where I was guaranteed to either have to stare at the table in front of me the whole time or risk several instances of awkward accidental eye contact. He looked nervous and was dressed in a very nice suit. And so I amused myself with the thought of asking him if he was there for an interview and then telling him I was there for one too. And then laugh inwardly as he appraised my appearance (it was a t-shirt and chacos day). I would have said "oh man, maybe I should have dressed up more!. And then I would have kept an excellently straight face. Just to see what he would do. (yet another social experiment).
My financial planner saved me from the awkwardness and as we went back to his office, he told me that you could always tell someone was there for an interview because they were either reading the paper or looking at their phone. Apparently he likes social experiments too. And this guy was doing both, so his hypothesis proves true...at least in this instance.
Anyway, this has been long. We are now going to conduct a social experiment to see who made it this far. And the way we're going to do that is by looking at the stats of how many page visits this blog gets and how many page visits MY NEW WEBSITE gets. So click on it. Please! Google needs to start recognizing that it exists so that pregnant mamas can find me! Ok go!
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