I have never been so acutely aware of my own age. I have never felt so young or so old.
In India last summer I spent mornings caring for old people in a nursing home and afternoons teaching math and reading to little girls.
Now I spend my days providing therapy to kids in elementary/middle schools and evenings assessing old people in hospitals. (I took a second job in which I complete mental health assessments for elderly patients before they are admitted to nursing homes).
I never sought out kids or old people, by the way. They found me. I originally wanted to spend my volunteer abroad experience doing something related to animal rescue, but one thing led to another through a series of events that is still hazy to me. As for my jobs--I hoped to work with adults and university students. But I took what I could find in a tough economy.
I believe there is a reason I'm meant to work with these populations right now, because I don't believe in coincidences. I don't clearly understand yet what the reasons are, but the first stage in all of this has been a lot of reflection.
I feel like I've officially entered what is considered to be the peak of life. People in their 20's, 30's, and 40's are expected to be the most competent. That's why they send us to work with kids and old people in the first place. We have the most intact cognitive abilities and physical prowess. We're old enough to know some things about some stuff but not so old that we forget our names or go around asking strangers if the moon is made of green cheese.
But in many ways, I still feel like such a small child. When I do hospital assessments, I don't feel old enough to be helping make placement decisions for someone who is exponentially more experienced than I am (even if they are insisting they are a 20-year-old waitress at a Shoney's in North Dakota).
I usually still just feel like I should be sitting at the kiddie table at their Thanksgiving dinner, dribbling milk and potatoes down my face while they tell grown-up stories and remark each year that they cannot believe how big I've grown. What can I possibly have to offer them? (I feel the same way during family therapy sessions when I am expected to offer parenting advice).
But then when I'm working with kids, I feel so old. And I know I'm too young to say I feel old, but let's face it, a brand new generation somehow managed to emerge during all those years I spent chatting on AIM. I'm officially "out of touch." Who knew that teachers don't use chalk boards or white boards anymore? They use smart boards. It's all digital. A kid had to explain this to me last week. I still don't get it.
I inevitably reflect on my own childhood a lot, spending so much time with kids. Kids see the world so differently. They are nourished with an endless supply of imagination. They create entire worlds in their heads that are as real to them as anything else. I was so struck by this quality when I started working with them. I recognized it so immediatly. Because it's so familiar. I used to have it.
People can retain youthful qualities as they grow up, of course, though often they don't. I'm lucky to still be playful and goofy. But it's completely different than how it used to be. It used to be enough for me to happily pass hours and hours just fantasizing about living in Fraggle Rock. There are so many qualities of childhood that you just can't take with you.
I was caught off-guard a few weeks ago when a sixth-grader asked me if I still believe in Santa Clause. I thought anyone his age would know by now. Shouldn't he know by now? But I'm never going to be somebody who ruins other peoples' magic.
"Yes," I told him. "I do."
"Oh," he said. "I don't."
I thought I must look like an idiot. But then I thought about it later. If he knew the truth, if he really knew it, without a doubt, he would have to know that every adult knew it too. He wouldn't have asked. He's still struggling to hold on to some small piece of the magic and the ease of believing that will soon be ripped out of his grasp completely.
Sometimes when I walk beside one of my kids, I feel strangely self-conscious and embarrassed, just for being an adult. Because everyone knows that kids are way cooler than adults. Or at least, adults know that. Kids still think its cool to grow up. They don't yet know, and probably won't until years later when they look at their own kids with the same inevitable distance of age, that right now they are the lucky ones.
(Anyone else having an age crisis? Feeling weirdly young or weirdly old? I'd love to know I'm not the only one).
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Friday, March 16, 2012
It's the Climb
This week was spring break for Doug and the schools where I do therapy. Technically I was still supposed to schedule and see clients, but enough of my clients' parents don't return phone calls/have had their phones shut off that I could justify going on a brief vacay.
I wanted to fly to Texas or L.A. to visit Ina/Stephen (we owe them a visit after they traveled ridiculous distances to visit us twice in a row when we told them the distance was too great for us to travel--"Guilt Trip 2012," we call it), but Doug said he had too much work to do (something about a phd?) and that I could only plan something within the limits of Iowa. (Story of my life, right?)
Which is how we ended up in Lansing, Iowa, tiniest of small towns, located along the upper Mississippi River.
(All the pictures I post will be ones I found online, as Doug and I are the last two Americans who do not own cameras).
I'm guessing Lansing does not get many tourists, judging by the looks of shock and awe on the faces of the Lansingites when we told them we came all the way from Iowa City. Also because Theresa, the real estate agent who owns the town's only hotel (four rooms) had locked up and was literally on her way out the door when we arrived. She apologized by saying it had not occurred to her to check if anyone had made reservations for the night.
But we caught her just in time and she gave us our key, and we realized that our key did not work just in time to watch her pull away for the night. Which was kind of charming in a way, because it made me feel like I was traveling in a foreign country, because things always go wrong when I travel in foreign countries, like the time I had to hitchhike down a mountain with a drunk driver or the time I got molested by a drunk transsexual on a 12-hour train ride.
Anyway. We ended up getting a hold of Theresa and she came back and let us in to our room, which was surprisingly nice considering how shoddy the building (and every other building in the town) looked, and even included a large bath tub with jets, of which we would take full advantage.
After we got settled we walked across the street to have dinner at Milty's, one of the town's three restaurants, where Theresa was also eating dinner with her family. An hour later we were back in our hotel room checking Facebook, having officially run out of things to do in Lansing.
The next day we drove several miles south to go hiking up through the Effigy Mounds, a 2,526 acre Monument including more than 200 American Indian Mounds overlooking the Mississippi. It was kind of unexpectedly amazing, and we enjoyed views like this:
That night we crossed the bridge over to Wisconsin for dinner at the "Great River Roadhouse," officially marking Wisconsin the eleventh state that Doug and I have visited together, and also marking the best strawberry daiquiri of my life, which left me too bloated to eat more than half a piece of pizza but was well worth it. Check out these sweet chandeliers:
The next day we enjoyed the lunch buffet at another of Lansing's three restaurants, which consisted of pizza heated up from the day before. Then we visited the town's shops, which proved to be difficult because, from the outside, it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between shops that were thriving and those that were abandoned decades ago.
Lansing Variety turned out to be the most thriving:
We walked out with many odds and ends that it had never before occurred to us that we needed such as: an apple slicer, mechanical pencils, plastic Indian figurines from Doug's childhood, and plastic dinosaurs that my clients will be able to use in their play to symbolize aggressive family members. I had to write a check to cover Doug's Indian figurines because credit cards were not accepted and Doug hadn't believed me when I told him to get some "cash back" before we left for Lansing. (He figured there would be an ATM in the hotel lobby. Ha!)
We were rung up by this very man wearing those same measuring tape suspenders, who offered that one method of payment would be for him to give us an envelope in which we could mail him the cash later.
And then, as a finale, we went to drive up Mt. Hosmer--a bluff located right in Lansing that I'd read has a beautiful tri-state view from the top. Only one problem... the drive was roped off for the winter. And it was basically the only reason I chose Lansing in the first place. There was no way I was going to leave Lansing without experiencing my tri-state view, damnit, so we proceeded to climb up to the top of the bluff, all 450 feet of it. Because if Harriet Hosmer did it, why couldn't we? (The bluff was named after Harriet Hosmer, a sculptor who won a footrace to the summit of the hill during a steamboat layover in the 1850's).
I was actually glad we climbed it, in the end. It made the following view feel all the more spectacular. (Although unfortunately, I had that obnoxious Miley Syrus song, "The Climb," stuck in my head the whole way up... "There's always gonna be another mountain... It's not about what's waiting on the other side... "It's the cliiiiiiiimb."
I wanted to fly to Texas or L.A. to visit Ina/Stephen (we owe them a visit after they traveled ridiculous distances to visit us twice in a row when we told them the distance was too great for us to travel--"Guilt Trip 2012," we call it), but Doug said he had too much work to do (something about a phd?) and that I could only plan something within the limits of Iowa. (Story of my life, right?)
Which is how we ended up in Lansing, Iowa, tiniest of small towns, located along the upper Mississippi River.
(All the pictures I post will be ones I found online, as Doug and I are the last two Americans who do not own cameras).
I'm guessing Lansing does not get many tourists, judging by the looks of shock and awe on the faces of the Lansingites when we told them we came all the way from Iowa City. Also because Theresa, the real estate agent who owns the town's only hotel (four rooms) had locked up and was literally on her way out the door when we arrived. She apologized by saying it had not occurred to her to check if anyone had made reservations for the night.
But we caught her just in time and she gave us our key, and we realized that our key did not work just in time to watch her pull away for the night. Which was kind of charming in a way, because it made me feel like I was traveling in a foreign country, because things always go wrong when I travel in foreign countries, like the time I had to hitchhike down a mountain with a drunk driver or the time I got molested by a drunk transsexual on a 12-hour train ride.
Anyway. We ended up getting a hold of Theresa and she came back and let us in to our room, which was surprisingly nice considering how shoddy the building (and every other building in the town) looked, and even included a large bath tub with jets, of which we would take full advantage.
After we got settled we walked across the street to have dinner at Milty's, one of the town's three restaurants, where Theresa was also eating dinner with her family. An hour later we were back in our hotel room checking Facebook, having officially run out of things to do in Lansing.
The next day we drove several miles south to go hiking up through the Effigy Mounds, a 2,526 acre Monument including more than 200 American Indian Mounds overlooking the Mississippi. It was kind of unexpectedly amazing, and we enjoyed views like this:
That night we crossed the bridge over to Wisconsin for dinner at the "Great River Roadhouse," officially marking Wisconsin the eleventh state that Doug and I have visited together, and also marking the best strawberry daiquiri of my life, which left me too bloated to eat more than half a piece of pizza but was well worth it. Check out these sweet chandeliers:
The next day we enjoyed the lunch buffet at another of Lansing's three restaurants, which consisted of pizza heated up from the day before. Then we visited the town's shops, which proved to be difficult because, from the outside, it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between shops that were thriving and those that were abandoned decades ago.
Lansing Variety turned out to be the most thriving:
We walked out with many odds and ends that it had never before occurred to us that we needed such as: an apple slicer, mechanical pencils, plastic Indian figurines from Doug's childhood, and plastic dinosaurs that my clients will be able to use in their play to symbolize aggressive family members. I had to write a check to cover Doug's Indian figurines because credit cards were not accepted and Doug hadn't believed me when I told him to get some "cash back" before we left for Lansing. (He figured there would be an ATM in the hotel lobby. Ha!)
We were rung up by this very man wearing those same measuring tape suspenders, who offered that one method of payment would be for him to give us an envelope in which we could mail him the cash later.
And then, as a finale, we went to drive up Mt. Hosmer--a bluff located right in Lansing that I'd read has a beautiful tri-state view from the top. Only one problem... the drive was roped off for the winter. And it was basically the only reason I chose Lansing in the first place. There was no way I was going to leave Lansing without experiencing my tri-state view, damnit, so we proceeded to climb up to the top of the bluff, all 450 feet of it. Because if Harriet Hosmer did it, why couldn't we? (The bluff was named after Harriet Hosmer, a sculptor who won a footrace to the summit of the hill during a steamboat layover in the 1850's).
I was actually glad we climbed it, in the end. It made the following view feel all the more spectacular. (Although unfortunately, I had that obnoxious Miley Syrus song, "The Climb," stuck in my head the whole way up... "There's always gonna be another mountain... It's not about what's waiting on the other side... "It's the cliiiiiiiimb."
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Feeding the Bite
The new generation has officially never heard of *NSYNC or the Backstreet Boys. Last week I officially became the lame-o who laughs awkwardly and says "I feel so old..." to someone who doesn't know what the hell I'm talking about. Kill me.
I finished my final training course for my job, a whopping two-part finale, ten hours total, of how to defend myself in case of an attack. Not so relevant for me as a child therapist, as I think I could take on an elementary-aged kid in most duels (not to show off or anything), but eveyone else there who works with the adult, mentally disabled population had many stories to share of being attacked, including one guy who had his thumb broken between our first training and our second one and came back in a cast.
Among other things, I now know how to defend myself if you were to pull my hair (duck down to weaken your grip), grab my arm (use an element of surprise), or bite me ("Feed the bite").
"Feed the bite" is my new favorite term ever. What it means is that if someone were to bite your arm, for example, you should push your arm even more into their mouth. They will be forced to open their jaw to readjust, giving you the opportunity to pull out and flee.
"Once we had a client clomp down on a staff member's breast," our instructor shared. "How do you think you would feed that bite?" Let it be known that I am the only one who laughed out loud at this. And, if you're wondering, the answer is to hug your attacker against your chest. Sounds kind of sweet and motherly to me.
I told Doug about "feed the bite," and he used it the next time Ketos bit him and it worked. So there you go. Finally a strategy to protect ourselves from our kitten. I guess I gained something useful from these trainings afterall.
I finished my final training course for my job, a whopping two-part finale, ten hours total, of how to defend myself in case of an attack. Not so relevant for me as a child therapist, as I think I could take on an elementary-aged kid in most duels (not to show off or anything), but eveyone else there who works with the adult, mentally disabled population had many stories to share of being attacked, including one guy who had his thumb broken between our first training and our second one and came back in a cast.
Among other things, I now know how to defend myself if you were to pull my hair (duck down to weaken your grip), grab my arm (use an element of surprise), or bite me ("Feed the bite").
"Feed the bite" is my new favorite term ever. What it means is that if someone were to bite your arm, for example, you should push your arm even more into their mouth. They will be forced to open their jaw to readjust, giving you the opportunity to pull out and flee.
"Once we had a client clomp down on a staff member's breast," our instructor shared. "How do you think you would feed that bite?" Let it be known that I am the only one who laughed out loud at this. And, if you're wondering, the answer is to hug your attacker against your chest. Sounds kind of sweet and motherly to me.
I told Doug about "feed the bite," and he used it the next time Ketos bit him and it worked. So there you go. Finally a strategy to protect ourselves from our kitten. I guess I gained something useful from these trainings afterall.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Daily Dialogue Between my Head and my Heart
Heart: Hey.
Head: Hi.
Heart: I have a question.
Head: What now? Another basic math equation?
Heart: Nah. I was just wondering... should we forget about this whole therapy thing for a while and go back to school to get our MFA in creative nonfiction?
Head: Seriously? This again? I don't get why you keep nagging me about this. I thought you loved being a therapist.
Heart: I do! When I feel like I've made progress with a client I have a warm feeling inside for about an hour. It's lovely. But when I think about being a writer... I shake and cry and pound so fast that we can't sleep at night. Don't you think that means something?
Head: Maybe your arteries are just blocked from that week when Doug ordered pizza three nights in a row.
Heart: Very funny. Not.
Head: Look. Do you really think it's a good idea to take out more loans to get a second Masters degree that won't qualify us to do anything? What would our dad say?
Heart: Who cares? It sounds like fun and life is short. I think I read somewhere that all loans get forgiven after twenty-five years anyway.
Head: Are you sure you aren't just looking for an easy way to make friends and an escape from the real world because you find it scary?
Heart: Geez, you really cut to the core. No wonder we're a therapist.
Head: Look, our plan was to spend the next several years doing the therapy thing. We can't change our plan. Trust me. I'm the brains behind this whole operation.
Heart: But that was before our plan involved moving to Iowa City. Shouldn't Iowa City be the exception? All the great writers either taught or studied here. Flannery O'Connor, Robert Frost, Philip Roth, Kurt Vonnegut, John Updike...
Head: You barely know who John Updike is. Get off of Wikipedia.
Heart: Quit snooping around in my web history.
Head: Let's just go finish our progress notes and prepare for tomorrow's sessions. It's the end of the month. Our billing is due.
Heart: But don't you think it's just a little weird that we happened to end up living in the city of the university that has the most prestigious creative writing program in the world?
Head: Sure, it's a strange coincidence.
Heart: It's fate!
Head: Look, we've come too far with therapy not to see this through. We need to focus on our job. We need to keep working toward our license.
Heart: Actually, I'd be thrilled to never have to deal with that licensing board again. They can take our license and shove it up--
Head: Hey, watch your language. You don't mean that.
Heart: Ugh, fine. We'll keep earning our license for now. But maybe next year? Or the year after?
Head: Um... don't you remember at the interview when we agreed to stay at our job for three and a half years? We can't go back on our word.
Heart: Everyone says things they don't mean at interviews. And that was just a verbal agreement. That shit's not legally binding.
Head: Okay, so let's say we quit our job, went back to school... again... then what? What the hell would we do after we graduated?
Heart: Take out more loans and spend some time focusing on our art?
Head: Oh man. You would be sooooo lost without me.
Heart: No, you're stupid and I don't need you!
Head: Uhhh... Have you forgotten what happened last time you made all the decisions on your own? Back when we were a teenager and I fell asleep for about ten years? Do you remember the guys we ended up dating? Ummm, yeah. You need me.
Heart: Oh shut up. You're so full of air.
Head: I refuse to talk with you when you're like this. We'll disuss this again tomorrow. Or later tonight if we can't sleep.
Heart: Fine!
Head: Fine.
*Door Slams*
Head: Hi.
Heart: I have a question.
Head: What now? Another basic math equation?
Heart: Nah. I was just wondering... should we forget about this whole therapy thing for a while and go back to school to get our MFA in creative nonfiction?
Head: Seriously? This again? I don't get why you keep nagging me about this. I thought you loved being a therapist.
Heart: I do! When I feel like I've made progress with a client I have a warm feeling inside for about an hour. It's lovely. But when I think about being a writer... I shake and cry and pound so fast that we can't sleep at night. Don't you think that means something?
Head: Maybe your arteries are just blocked from that week when Doug ordered pizza three nights in a row.
Heart: Very funny. Not.
Head: Look. Do you really think it's a good idea to take out more loans to get a second Masters degree that won't qualify us to do anything? What would our dad say?
Heart: Who cares? It sounds like fun and life is short. I think I read somewhere that all loans get forgiven after twenty-five years anyway.
Head: Are you sure you aren't just looking for an easy way to make friends and an escape from the real world because you find it scary?
Heart: Geez, you really cut to the core. No wonder we're a therapist.
Head: Look, our plan was to spend the next several years doing the therapy thing. We can't change our plan. Trust me. I'm the brains behind this whole operation.
Heart: But that was before our plan involved moving to Iowa City. Shouldn't Iowa City be the exception? All the great writers either taught or studied here. Flannery O'Connor, Robert Frost, Philip Roth, Kurt Vonnegut, John Updike...
Head: You barely know who John Updike is. Get off of Wikipedia.
Heart: Quit snooping around in my web history.
Head: Let's just go finish our progress notes and prepare for tomorrow's sessions. It's the end of the month. Our billing is due.
Heart: But don't you think it's just a little weird that we happened to end up living in the city of the university that has the most prestigious creative writing program in the world?
Head: Sure, it's a strange coincidence.
Heart: It's fate!
Head: Look, we've come too far with therapy not to see this through. We need to focus on our job. We need to keep working toward our license.
Heart: Actually, I'd be thrilled to never have to deal with that licensing board again. They can take our license and shove it up--
Head: Hey, watch your language. You don't mean that.
Heart: Ugh, fine. We'll keep earning our license for now. But maybe next year? Or the year after?
Head: Um... don't you remember at the interview when we agreed to stay at our job for three and a half years? We can't go back on our word.
Heart: Everyone says things they don't mean at interviews. And that was just a verbal agreement. That shit's not legally binding.
Head: Okay, so let's say we quit our job, went back to school... again... then what? What the hell would we do after we graduated?
Heart: Take out more loans and spend some time focusing on our art?
Head: Oh man. You would be sooooo lost without me.
Heart: No, you're stupid and I don't need you!
Head: Uhhh... Have you forgotten what happened last time you made all the decisions on your own? Back when we were a teenager and I fell asleep for about ten years? Do you remember the guys we ended up dating? Ummm, yeah. You need me.
Heart: Oh shut up. You're so full of air.
Head: I refuse to talk with you when you're like this. We'll disuss this again tomorrow. Or later tonight if we can't sleep.
Heart: Fine!
Head: Fine.
*Door Slams*
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Extra Firm
I hate flimsy pillows. I hate having to rotate my pillow every few hours because the corner on which I've been resting my head has become as flattened as a pressed leaf.
I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond last sunday, determined to finally invest in a quality pillow. I went around the pillow section pounding every pillow they had, but most had corners that flattened with a mere flick of my fingers. But I wasn't going to stop until I found one as firm as a brick. (There is no easy way to accurately test the compatibility of your head with a pillow at a store. More than once, I had to lay one on a shelf and bend over to rest my head on it when no one was looking).
Eventually I found the winner, labeled "extra firm." It kept its shape when I punched it.
But that night, I couldn't sleep at all. "What the hell is this?" I murmured in my half-asleep stupor around 4am. "A brick?" I threw my brick pillow to the floor (landed with a thump) and picked up my old, flimsy thing, a smile spreading across my face as my head settled back into it like an angel landing on a cloud.
If that's what it took to make me appreciate what I had all along, then I'm going to consider that $14.99 well spent.
I'm keeping track of all the books I read in 2012, because I'm curious to see how many books I read and I also want to track patterns in my reading habits. So far I've read eight, and I would highly recommend all of them. I'm listing them below, along with a key.
#&+ Without a Map by Meredith Hall
^)&+ Bossypants by Tina Fey
*&+ My Year with Eleanor by Noelle Hancock
*&(+ MWF Seeking BFF by Rachel Bertsche
%&+ Why I'm Like This by Cynthia Kaplan
%$&+ Five Men Who Broke My Heart by Susan Shapiro
*&(+ The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin
@!& The Fates Will Find Their Way by Hannah Pittard
* Memoir of a year-long project designed to change the reader's life in one specific arena
# Gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking but also hauntingly beautiful
$ Worried about author's husband divorcing her
% Unexpected subplot about infertility
^ Pee-your-pants funny
) Man-arms on the cover
@ Met the author last week
( Worried that if seen carrying book, people will think i'm depressed/pathetic/desperate
+ Memoir by a female
! Only piece of fiction on the list
& Relatable
I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond last sunday, determined to finally invest in a quality pillow. I went around the pillow section pounding every pillow they had, but most had corners that flattened with a mere flick of my fingers. But I wasn't going to stop until I found one as firm as a brick. (There is no easy way to accurately test the compatibility of your head with a pillow at a store. More than once, I had to lay one on a shelf and bend over to rest my head on it when no one was looking).
Eventually I found the winner, labeled "extra firm." It kept its shape when I punched it.
But that night, I couldn't sleep at all. "What the hell is this?" I murmured in my half-asleep stupor around 4am. "A brick?" I threw my brick pillow to the floor (landed with a thump) and picked up my old, flimsy thing, a smile spreading across my face as my head settled back into it like an angel landing on a cloud.
If that's what it took to make me appreciate what I had all along, then I'm going to consider that $14.99 well spent.
I'm keeping track of all the books I read in 2012, because I'm curious to see how many books I read and I also want to track patterns in my reading habits. So far I've read eight, and I would highly recommend all of them. I'm listing them below, along with a key.
#&+ Without a Map by Meredith Hall
^)&+ Bossypants by Tina Fey
*&+ My Year with Eleanor by Noelle Hancock
*&(+ MWF Seeking BFF by Rachel Bertsche
%&+ Why I'm Like This by Cynthia Kaplan
%$&+ Five Men Who Broke My Heart by Susan Shapiro
*&(+ The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin
@!& The Fates Will Find Their Way by Hannah Pittard
* Memoir of a year-long project designed to change the reader's life in one specific arena
# Gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking but also hauntingly beautiful
$ Worried about author's husband divorcing her
% Unexpected subplot about infertility
^ Pee-your-pants funny
) Man-arms on the cover
@ Met the author last week
( Worried that if seen carrying book, people will think i'm depressed/pathetic/desperate
+ Memoir by a female
! Only piece of fiction on the list
& Relatable
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Four Thoughts for Thursday
1). Went to pay for a $7 pair of shoes at a consignment store (was killing time before picking up my Chinese food next door, and was now late). Got stuck behind someone paying for a $50 purchase all in dimes.
2). Scraped the ice off my windshield half-assedly, started to drive but couldn't see anything. Pulled into someone's driveway to finish scraping. Got out and looked up to see sign over garage that said, "Don't even THINK about parking here."
3). Reason #500 why I miss grad school: It used to be perfectly acceptable and expected to spend at least an hour a week sobbing in your supervisor's office when you felt like an incompetent therapist/human being. Feel like I shouldn't do this at my real job.
4). Got to thinking the other day about how the whole course of my life changed when I met Doug. Where I live, where I work, and everyone I meet from now on is totally dependent on the fact that I went to the birthday party of an acquaintance-- not even a friend, just an acquaintance-- my junior year of college (and gave my number to a guy I didn't even like at the time, mostly so he would go away). Keep that in mind next time you let someone flirt with you at a college bar.
2). Scraped the ice off my windshield half-assedly, started to drive but couldn't see anything. Pulled into someone's driveway to finish scraping. Got out and looked up to see sign over garage that said, "Don't even THINK about parking here."
3). Reason #500 why I miss grad school: It used to be perfectly acceptable and expected to spend at least an hour a week sobbing in your supervisor's office when you felt like an incompetent therapist/human being. Feel like I shouldn't do this at my real job.
4). Got to thinking the other day about how the whole course of my life changed when I met Doug. Where I live, where I work, and everyone I meet from now on is totally dependent on the fact that I went to the birthday party of an acquaintance-- not even a friend, just an acquaintance-- my junior year of college (and gave my number to a guy I didn't even like at the time, mostly so he would go away). Keep that in mind next time you let someone flirt with you at a college bar.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
You decide.
I've been waiting for three weeks now on two equally important e-mails.
One is from the literary agent who requested to read my manuscript and in whose hands all my hopes and dreams rest, fragile as a baby bird.
The other is from Kmart, who assured me I'll be the first to know when they restock the bowls that will finally complete my new dish set.
Which do you think will arrive first? I'm taking bets.
In other news, I went to the gynecologist yesterday at the university clinic. The nurse asked if I was okay with having a male med student in the room. I said it was fine, thinking back on how I once too was a student, observing therapy sessions of others (arguably a more vulnerable experience than a pap smear). I'm not gonna lie though-- it was weird. The doctor, nurse, AND med student were all across from where I lay exposed in the stirrups. And the doctor kept feeling around and pressing various parts of mine and saying to the student, "This is the cervix," "This is the pubis," "This is the clitoris," as the student nodded and said "Hmmmm." (It was actually a learning experience for me too). But yeah. Pretty sure I was this guy's first vagina model.
Was that blog appropriate? I debated it for a while but finally figured hey, a lot of people have vaginas. But I don't know. You decide.
Today a 3rd grader told me that I still act like a kid. I like to think it was my youthful spirit, but it might have just been that I was using putty to make farting noises.
One is from the literary agent who requested to read my manuscript and in whose hands all my hopes and dreams rest, fragile as a baby bird.
The other is from Kmart, who assured me I'll be the first to know when they restock the bowls that will finally complete my new dish set.
Which do you think will arrive first? I'm taking bets.
In other news, I went to the gynecologist yesterday at the university clinic. The nurse asked if I was okay with having a male med student in the room. I said it was fine, thinking back on how I once too was a student, observing therapy sessions of others (arguably a more vulnerable experience than a pap smear). I'm not gonna lie though-- it was weird. The doctor, nurse, AND med student were all across from where I lay exposed in the stirrups. And the doctor kept feeling around and pressing various parts of mine and saying to the student, "This is the cervix," "This is the pubis," "This is the clitoris," as the student nodded and said "Hmmmm." (It was actually a learning experience for me too). But yeah. Pretty sure I was this guy's first vagina model.
Was that blog appropriate? I debated it for a while but finally figured hey, a lot of people have vaginas. But I don't know. You decide.
Today a 3rd grader told me that I still act like a kid. I like to think it was my youthful spirit, but it might have just been that I was using putty to make farting noises.
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