Delta Flight 1175

I had an interesting flight from Salt Lake to L.A. 

Upon boarding, I see one of my best friends parents sitting in the front row. I stop to talk for a bit, running through a quick 5 minute Q&A session on the latest of their growing family and the constant inconsistencies of mine, before I get herded to the back as the flight attendant was preparing for takeoff. 43F, a window seat, is where I plopped down, surprised that I had the whole row to myself. Hell yes. Nothing is better than a window seat when departing from Salt Lake City. The sky was clear and crystal blue with the Wasatch range, perfectly blanketed in white, in sight...obstacle free.

But the euphoria only lasted seconds as I see an older couple rushing on board and hustling to my side. The man looked warm. Not kind and adorable, but literally warm, hot...not cold. He was dressed in a purple flannel and plaid button up which covered a very high white turtleneck. His mustache was neatly trimmed and highlighted his thinning chin strap. I immediately noticed he was a strong nose breather.  I bet he is a sweat-er. I started sweating just watching him stow his baggage.

His wife, followed closely behind him and looked like she had spent too many years in the direct gaze of the sun. She was prematurely wrinkly, a vision that was an immediate motivation to up my SPF dosage. Her hair was sculpted into a messy half ponytail and rainbows glittered against the cabin ceiling as light reflected off her blingin' jewels, I only imagined they were weighing her hands down tremendously.

Before the two even had their seat belts fastened, the arguing began.

"William! I can't believe that you would say something like that to me! I am not mean, I am not even rude to you and you talk to me like that! After all that bullshit we just went through. You are lucky that I am as patient as I am."

"Oh don't give me that! I needed to send that email. It was my project and you just can't help sticking your nose into my business! You nosy little twit."

Their voices were loud. So loud that I couldn't even hear the announcements over the speaker. I pretended to read my magazine... 

"You spent 4 goddamn hours trying to send that shit. On dial up? Had you sent it from AOL, it would have gone through and that is all I was suggesting. Any person on earth, in fact you ask anyone on this plane and I am positive they would have told you to try AOL. After 4 goddamn hours! And I can't believe your behavior at the party last night. You were not nice to me!"

"Well, I was merely giving you feedback. You wouldn't shut up about your birthday and I know the guests were sick of you. No one will come over anymore if you pull that shit."

"Sick of me! No, they were sick of your negativity!"

"My negativity! Give me one example of my negativity!"

"Ok, how about the time you...."

And so it went for 1 hour. They seemed to have no qualms that they were screaming at each other in the company of a full flight. I wondered if they felt awkward with strangers all up in their business or if this is just how they argue; in public. Often their 'discussion' turned muffled when William would address his not-so-stable wife face-to-face and I couldn't quite make out what they were bantering about. After the first fifteen minutes, I was over the annoyance and had moved onto the intrigue. I wanted to get to the bottom why she was so mad at William. Why was William so annoyed with her behavior? Was she Bipolar? So I slumped a bit and inched my ear closer to the nucleus. 

"Example #2, you wanted examples boy, so I am giving them to you. Example number two is you never acknowledge when you are wrong. You always think you are right which just isn't true."

The heat in her voice was ablaze. Although his was loud, he remained calm and collected. And she just kept going...

"We wasted all day so you could send that slow ass email. Your mother was irate...we were 6 hours late to her house! Imagine how she felt!"

William just stared straight ahead, a blank look in his eyes. I speculated that this was his meditation pose, tuning out the screeching voice.

"Example number 3...You never validate the positive things I suggest. I have good ideas too you know."

William finally clues in...and rebuttals.

"Let me tell you something. You don't let people finish their thoughts. You talk and talk and talk but you never let others pitch in. It is an aspect I can not stand about you. You need to listen when others speak."

I couldn't agree more! Stop cutting him off! I suddenly was on team William. I could sense the hurt in her face, this had struck a nerve. 

"This is the only constructive criticism I have heard William..."

A few moments pass. William reached into the pocket of his seat and pulled out two wrapped chocolate chip cookies. He handed one to his wife and they both stripped the plastic off their treat slowly and silently. I needed to use the bathroom but didn't want to disturb the first moment of peace since boarding so I patiently waited. Then when William popped the last bite into his mouth, I turn to make my move.

"Would you mind terribly if I snuck out?", I said getting my first eye contact with the couple. 

"I wouldn't mind at all," he smiles.

I expected them to stand up and move to the side, like normal people, but they simply shifted their hips and legs to the left. I half chuckled as I assumed they would move no further. Really? But I am old? I wondered if I would ever outgrow this maneuver, stepping over adults, using the armrest and seats as props as if I was in a playground. I glided into the aisle and scooted to the lavatory, luckily without a roundhouse kick to one of their faces.

When I returned, again I expected an attempt to make my re-seat easy, but they remained still. My right leg lifts high into the air as my cowboy boot gently lands in the small crevice aside Williams left leg. I reach my arms forward and in a rock-climb grasp, I grip the plastic knobs that decorate the ceiling. My other leg shortly follows as I stealthily make my way back to the beloved window seat, my knees bundled to my chest. Williams face lights up and asks if I am a real life cowgirl.

I didn't know what to say. Eww William. What a weird question. Suddenly, I no longer cared who won the fight. You are on your own buddy.

And as if my bathroom break had been the consolation they needed, William and the wife whose name was never mentioned (or screamed rather) were carrying on a civil conversation.

"Do you remember where we parked? I hope the keys didn't fall out of my bag,"she grins. 

"Yeah, I think it is in lot B." His fingers now tapping her knee instead clenched tight in a fist.

She hadn't finished eating her cookie and as she nibbled on the corner of it, I saw her break a little piece off and pass it to William, the very man who thinks she talks too much. He took it graciously and even leaned his head into her shoulder.

As I glanced out over the glowing red rock that surfaced the rocky hills of California, I smiled thinking how funny it is to witness the worst and best moments of complete strangers. These people were no doubt strange, and as William tried to carry on more conversation with me, his bizarreness grew. I even smelled something offensive in his breath and a chill covered my skin as his exhales forcefully left his nostrils. But, it made me appreciate how easily they were willing to put the negative and annoying antics behind them. Good idea. I thought. Leave that baggage behind, leave it in the past...at least for the remainder of this flight.

An appropriate perspective, I think, as we fly into a brand new year...

Mele Kalikimaka...

Life is far too short to spend time away from the people you love the most. In good holiday cheer...I unexpectedly crashed the Christmas party.

Surprise Jules!

The siblings didn't even know...

"I'll be hommmme forrrr Chrissstmassssssss...You can count on meeeeeeee"

I hope you are all finding warmth this chilly season. As they say on the island...

Mele Kalikimaka

me ka Hau'oli Makahiki Hou

The Good Life

Life on the island...

I wake up each morning to the sound of birds forcefully chirping in my ear. It is a nice change to that of the annoying alarm clock we all dread. I roll over from my most comfortable side-lying, fetal position and peek one eye open...slowly followed by the other. Rays of sunshine beg to filter through the blinds and I suddenly realize I am being bathed in a pool of golden beams. I gaze outside to see whispers of clouds dance over the hills, sneaking from one side of the island to the other. I take a few deep breaths and watch the trees bend to the rhythm of the trade winds, enthralled that their limber limbs don't snap in half. Both my smile and arms stretch as I race out of bed to greet the sunrise and the fresh morning air.

I sit on the front porch and lace up my no-longer-supportive sneakers promising my knee and ankle joints only a few more miles on these bad boys and then I will replace them. The walk down the hill pales in comparison to the agony that is endured when making the ascent, but nonetheless, it is taxing. I walk down backwards, forward in zigzags, and sometimes I eve

n bear crawl so as not to wear down my joints and plummet face first to my death. It is all worth the struggle because this is where I go... 

Mana Road...for miles and miles

Mana road winds and curves and turns throughout breathtaking country landscape. It is a labyrinth of incredible views that border the mighty Mauna Kea. I could easily forget that I am walking...as I inch my way farther along this half-paved/half-dirt path that leads into a fantastical wonderland. One day, I walked (without a single pause) for four straight hours, fearing that if I turned around prematurely, I would miss out on a sight even more stunning, even more brilliant. I wanted each bend in the road to offer more so that I could open my arms and cradle it. It feels so real as it lays right in front of me...but still fake enough...with its untouchable dignity. Finally, my hips give in and I am forced to make the trek back to civilization. Even the thirst in my throat and the uneven tan lines from my t-shirt can't get me to turn around...it is always the ache in the joints that force the return. The hundreds of roaming cows silently stalk my walk, I am sure they are confused and bedazzled at this bandanna-wearing speed walker they see each morning...

And of course I have the ascent to look forward too.

I stand at the bottom of the hill, level with the stop sign. My body is steady but my head is arched up in order to see the top. If I don't think about the pain, if I muscle through the fatigue, if I breathe in and out in sync with my strides, it really isn't that bad. When I concentrate on the burning in my lungs and the stitch in my side...I notice I slow down. So, without further ado, I jolt light a lightening bolt. I stare at my feet and focus on my breathing. 

Hundreds of seconds pass and I glance at the house I want to buy....

FOR SALE

...and I tell myself that as soon as I can stay working for longer than three months, I will start saving some money to make my first down payment...and I will paint the trim red maybe?

Each day I count my progress in mailboxes. The first green one, the second green one, the third black one, the last gray one, and finally, all at once...the blue house and the fence made of lava that marks the official end. I will defeat this hill in one long stride...even if it takes me all December long. I stumble back into the house and gulp some water as I try to suck more oxygen into my bloodstream. I brew some tea and sit in the African Hut that stands like a palace in the front yard. (I hope Susan and Marius don't mind when I sneak away the blue prints for my new house down the street...it will be a neighborhood of African Huts.)

I have really good friends and one really good cousin so during my month long stint here on the island, I will have three sets of visitors. The first pair...The (soon to be) Fords.  Ashleigh, one of my closest friends from Northwestern...a fellow baby deliverer...and her fiance Ben came for a little post-engagement tropical getaway. Here you see us posing in front of a very weak Rainbow Falls. So weak, that I decided to sit right in front of the trickle that leaked down the mossy cliff. We all need to be honest with ourselves and realize that Ben only asked Ashleigh to marry him to get closer to me...it has never been a secret, we have known it all along. So from the whole Ford gang...Happy Holidays! This is our family photo.

Just moments before this snapshot, the three of us ducked our way into a 25 mile lava tube that stretches across the dormant lava field just north of Hilo....with only one single flashlight. Ashleigh flicked the light off to give us a taste of how it would feel if the batteries were to go dead. Pitch black, stale air blanketed my skin and a chill ran down my spine. Had the light really died on us, I was certain I would never see the sun again. Oh, but it didn't stop us from going further. We wanted to see how far back we could get and were blown away with how incredible lava tubes are. It is a coal colored tomb of  kryptonite.

Just in the mood to climb everything these days...

Much to Ben's dislike, Ashleigh and I had our noses deep into the Twilight series, a four book series that tells a story of vampires and star crossed lovers. For a Mormon author and high school level make-out scenes, it really does have me in a tight head lock. I have been roped! I told myself that I would allow for the guilty pleasure of reading the first one on the long flight over here, but not a second longer. I had intentions of diving right into the plethora of National Geographic magazines that Susan and Marius collect. I even tried to convince myself that studying for the GRE would happen. Butttt, we got lucky and found the second book New Moon on sale for very cheap. So much of our beach scenes looked like this...

Edward...I would love it if you would just bite me already.

A week came and went and The Fords hopped a flight back to snowy Chicago while my good friend Annie was making the exact reverse commute. She was leaving the freezing Midwest heading towards the best vacation of her life.

Annie and I are good friends from my days at DePaul University. We laugh at the same things and enjoy ourselves a good blueberry smoothie, but our ideas of vacations differ greatly. Where as I love to hike down into things, only to be excited about hiking back up, Annie likes to drive to them leisurely. And where Annie thinks nothing would be cooler and sexier than getting a lounging tiger colorfully tattooed onto her left thigh, I couldn't be more frightened with any other activity. So, our worlds of vacations meshed and this is what we came up with.

Playing in tide pools and watching sea turtles glide through the silky water. Forgetting towels at the beach thus drip-drying in the hot sun while observing an obese family from Texas fight over the one shower. One day, we saw this tiny little surfer and I told Annie that I can't wait to have a daughter so that I can make her be cute and make her surf. Annie asks if we can go to a luau and I tell her no because the first (and last) luau I attended was when my Dads' 1918 Knucklehead Harley Davidson was stolen from the cane fields on Oahu. The Mai Thais are weak and they rarely have vegetarian options. "But I want to see Hula Dancers and Flame Throwers," she whines.

Tiny Surfer

I ignore her while I strike up conversation with a very attractive local, who is carrying a long board and a paddle. He explains this hobby of 'paddle boarding' to me (where you stand tall on the floating, elongated plastic and paddle, sort of like the canals of Venice) and my intrigue extends beyond his perfectly sculpted biceps and brown wavy hair. In my head I ponder how he would be a perfect addition to my tiny surfing family and just the essential ingredient for my soon-to-be surfing children. In a bold move that only humid air can induce, I write my number on old receipt and slip it under his windshield wiper. (workin' it...you go girl) I hope that he calls me for a lesson on the open seas. Annie hopes that, on the side of extreme sports, his job includes dressing in hula skirts and tossing balls of fire, so that maybe he could sneak us into one of his weeknight showings.

The clouds part ways and Thursday marks a perfect night for star gazing on top of a world famous Observatory so we head toward the moon. Mauna Kea beckoned for us to reach its peak while the sun slowly disappears into the grasp of the Pacific. This was one hill Annie didn't mind climbing. The reward was worth the later felt butt cramps. 

The rooftop of the Hawaiian Islands

Eventually I broke down. Tis the season I thought. When else would Annie get to see her tribally tattooed men squat while bravely juggling sticks enfuego? To the luau.

We did some research and found one that apparently claimed to be worth the $60. Set on the beautiful Kona shoreline, we stood in line behind old men donning Hawaiian shirts, mid-calf white socks and sandals. I scanned my fellow audience and noticed that we were perhaps the youngest attendees...by at least 20 years. Hope your happy with your stupid Luau Annie. How will we ever drink spiced rum and flirt when these are our options?!

We filed in and were lei-ed with the typical shell necklaces that were more plastic than authentic. We were shuffled towards a man wearing a Santa Hat who snapped a photo awkwardly posing. "People think we are lesbians. Especially because of your yellow dress and short hair," I whisper. We head straight for the 'open bar'. 

Ross, short for Rosbel, was our stout Samoan bartender for the evening. He told us that he would intensify our drinks if we wanted. I quickly slid my dixie cup in his direction knowing that they would have to be a bit stiffer in order for me to make it through the ultra-70's out Japanese M.C. We double-fisted our sweet, pineapple infused cocktails to our table and nestled in next to our retired Tommy Bahama-loving crew. After a long day in the sun, and a bit dehydrated, and pretty hungry, I found myself slurping the sugary drinks at rapid speed. Twenty minutes into the annoying "Alllllllooooooohaaaaaa!", I was slightly drunk. I needed food.

The crowd gathered around the Imu, which is the traditional Hawaiian pig roasting pit. After the slaughtering and slicing, the corps of meat is dumped into a hole, covered in banana leaves, and covered with burning lava rocks. It is left to slowly simmer. Two men in red Ferrari mumus unearthed what would be our dinner. I sat and watched as they unburied the porkster, completely gutted and spread eagle. People clapped and cheered while my stomach churned. At this point I had loosely wrapped my shell necklace around my forehead, Rambo style (maybe the effects of rum?) because I was bothered by the long droopiness of it. Looking nauseous and very grossed out by the pig picture I turned to find a 70-year old man winking and smiling at me. Ugh, luaus suck. I felt the gag reflex nearby. 

But then the flame throwers came out and everything terrible vanished. My eyes wouldn't dare blink in fear that I would miss something amazing. It was mesmerizing. The dancers were graceful and, if just for a second, I stopped thinking about what a waste of money this was. I was happy for a few moments...with my coconut-desert thing and my tropical entertainment.

And as if on cue, when the show was over and the curtain drawn, my stomach felt the effects of the pork that I forced myself to try. It was all crashing down on me; the sugary rum, the faux coconut, the meat that hasn't touching my stomach in years, the lack of water in my system. At first the spasms were light and sporadic, but as we walked to the car, they increased with both intensity and frequency. I knew betttttter, I thought...as I hugged the porcelain throne that night. Annie wasn't feeling so hot either. Luaus = not a good idea.

The views of Mauna Kea brought us back to life though and my love for all things Hawaiian was reinvigorated. I could get used to this.....

A sweet life...

The scene of Sustainability

                                                            

Let me set the scene for you...

The house is a quaint blue cottage nestled in the charming ranch town of Waimea, not too far from Kona, on the Kohala coast of the Big Island. More curvy than coastal, it is a haven of rolling hills and when I stand at the top of the large mound on which this house is perched, I look out to the great Mauna Kea, a dormant volcano that lingers a hefty 13,000 feet above sea level. Atop this mountain lies one of the worlds most respected observatories, where the night sky is aglow with the sight of every star in our galaxy. Long telescopes dart into the abyss, allowing the human eye close contact to such a mysterious unknown. 

The neighbors have close to a dozen horses and wild turkeys are a known nuisance. The mossy greens that decorate the foliage stand stark against the earthy browns that blend well in this environment. Trees speckle the foothills and line the streets and canopy the highway...their classifications range from all types of pine. A perfectly sculpted African hut manifests in the front yard. Decorated with a hint of Christmas, backgrounded with a subtle mini waterfall. A tiny oil lantern adorns the centerpiece of the table, lightly calling for someone (I wonder who?) to sit and drink some wine on its chairs.

Not your average scenery for Hawaii, I know, but stunning nonetheless. I woke to a chill in the air, similar to a damp Seattle. In the mornings, misty dew hovers until the bright pacific sun burns it away. The clouds that drape so elegantly over the hilltops disappear until the late afternoon temperatures draw them magnetically back, creating the feel of a steamy sauna. The sun is intense. It pummels my pale skin, coaxing color into every layer. A burn is inevitable. 

A short drive north will bring you (me) to a trail head that will lead the most beautiful hike I have ever taken...time after time. It remains my favorite after my 25 years on earth. The Waipio valley renowned for breathtaking, lush inlets encompassed by staggering cliffs is blanketed with black sand beaches. It is no joke when it comes to your calf muscles and its steep descent but the pain soon falls inferior to the sight, and it remains in daydreams for eternity. I shall tackle it yet again tomorrow...and numerous times throughout the month of December. It will renew my outdoor deprivation that New York snuck away from me, as quick as a subway car.

Waipio Valley and my new backyard

Of course,,,there are mosquitoes. I already count three bites on my feet.

The dump yard, where all garbage is collected and later sent to a landfill where tourists don't exist, is a quick drive from the house. Today, the yard was full of eager recyclers, queueing to tally up the cost of their recycled goods. A local non-profit collects certain marked bottles and cans and redistributes money to those that take the time to make it a priority. A large hairy man stood to my right as we both waited to sift through our buckets. The scent of aged beer wafted as he dug out what looked like thousands of old Coors bottles. Each time he bent over, his half-smirking butt crack peeked out to say hello. His belly was so big that when he bent over, face first into a sea of stale booze, he needed to lean slightly to his right so that he could reach. His buckets overflowed with glass of every color. The workers weighed him in at somewhere over 100 pounds because he got a whopping $38.92. Marius and I stepped up and received a measly $4.09. 

The drive back from the dump yard revealed multiple million dollar estates dotting the landscape, quite controversial with local land management. For years, Hawaiians have been screwed by the white investor who have been more than eager and willing to pillage their land. I have noticed from my last visit that development has trumped conservation. I was told that there is very little public beach front available...it is all spoiled by the classy and segregating resorts. Marius shared that this island, this particular town of Waimea, has the single highest cent per kilowatt ratio in the country...most likely the world. Meaning, that even though Hawaii sits on a gold mine of geothermal energy, an unbelievable source of renewable power, it does not tap it. The community breeds big time power companies who are unwilling to make the shift to more sustainable outlets.

Back at the house, two garden beds lay in rectangular fashion built by Marius' two hands, growing lettuce, fennel, carrots, beets, spinach and onions.  To the side of them sit three Japanese green tea bushes simply begging me to dry, crush and brew their leaves. And just behind those, is a large black coldrun of compost, peels and scraps of fruits and veggies mixing with the great nitrogen compound to create a unique fertilizing concoction. If the state of Hawaii isn't sustainable,,,Susan and Marius certainly are. 

So, for the next few weeks, I call this home. I will keep the fort tied down and anchored while Susan and Marius adventure around South Africa, crossing my fingers that another beam shattering, wall cracking earthquake doesn't hit while I am here. I have begun what I hope will turn into a marathon of purely enjoyable reading. I decided to kick it off with Twilight, the new 4 book rave starring all things high school. With shame I admit this: I started it yesterday and will finish it before I go to bed tonight....it is that good. I haven't read a book this fast since Roald Dahl's Matilda in the third grade (great read by the way). I am actually so into it, I picture my face as the main heroine having to deal with real life blood suckers. Is there really anything wrong with wanting to get bit by a vampire? I questioned Elizabeth when she said no...and now I am fully in favor.

There is certainly plenty of blood on this island to sustain even the newest local...

Rest In Peace American Turkey

Happy Thanksgiving.

My first thought today was focused on the high number of birds that have lost their life in preparation for the years most filling meal. Don't get me wrong, I am by no means an activist for poultry nor a lover of fowl. It was just what I was thinking, as I ready myself for another Thanksgiving at work - pumping out the butterballs. A slightly depressing day but at least I am not a turkey.

Turkey has never been my favorite. I am more drawn to the sides: Green beans, shrimp cocktail (and you don't eat this?) and of course the Carrot souffle. Not many people know what carrot souffle is because it is a family secret, a hidden gem that induces both salivating cheeks and love handles. I am not sure where the recipe originated, I think it was Aunt Glo? But it is the only tradition we hold onto in my immediate family. We waved goodbye long ago to going to church every christmas and just sometimes we send out holiday cards. I would rather lose a limb or have braid-length nose hairs than to pass a season without this delicious side dish (doubling as dessert).

Of course I will not reveal the ingredients as they are top secret. You have to marry me if you want it so think hard boys. I can share though that it is the finest combination of carrots and spices, blended to a creamy consistency and baked for 45 minutes, whipped to a perfected silky texture...no more, no less. It is the closest thing to heaven one will ever taste. My mom makes it the best. She practically does it with her eyes closed and talking on her blackberry. One year Sam and I were given the task. While blending the mixings, sam stuck the wooden spoon directly into the moving blender. By the laws of physics, we soon had carrot mush (minus the egg we forgot to add) splattered all over the kitchen cabinets along with one splintered spoon. I am surprised no one was rushed to the hospital for swallowing a wooden shard as we just cooked the lot.

Unfortunately, as duty calls, I will not have the pleasure of eating it this year as I will be busy attending birthday parties for people I don't even know. I am starting a new Thanksgiving tradition and it is called "eat what you have in the fridge". Looks like I will blend some beets, sprouts, old lettuce and a lemon into something unforgettable. 

What also crossed my mind is that one day, maybe soon, I will be have to cut the lifeline. I can't forever be just a participating eater in the feast. At some point, I will need to man the ship. Oh god, I fear when that time will come. How moms for years have been doing this baffles me. 

No need to feel sorry for me. Nope. I may be lonely but I am surely not alone. The Macy's 82nd annual parade is showcasing right in my backyard and an expected 3.5 million people are expected to attend. I generally don't care about this event but they have three brand new additions to their enormous balloon collection and one of them includes Buzz Lightyear. I would be a fool to pass up such a golden opportunity.

But really, don't feel bad for me. I will be flying tomorrow to Florida. (fun) I just heard on the news that the Long Island Railroad, the train I would take to the airport, is receiving multiple terror threats intended for this holiday weekend. So not only will I be eating nothing good today, but tomorrow I will be spending my entire paycheck on a taxi ride.

Honestly though, you shouldn't feel bad for me. Because even though none of them are clean, I have clothes. I tried to do all my laundry last night...which is every article I own...but I seemed to have lost my laundry card. Dirty clothes and Florida for my day late thanksgiving celebration.  Woe-is-me.

Please! Stop feeling bad. It is really not that awful. I just got a bill in the mail saying that my insurance isn't covering my checkup at the dentists office (the one I hate) like they said they would. Looks like I will never save money. So, I guess the bright side is that I have teeth? Right?

Forgetting all about these minor issues I have much to be thankful for this year. You have read this blog. My life is easy. My life is good.

But what I am really thankful for this year is what I witnessed yesterday. While walking home from the subway, I saw a tiny, very skinny old lady on a motorized cart("it's true what they say...they can serve a purpose"). She was rolling at lightning speed, much faster than any of the walkers, bee-lining straight ahead (going somewhere?) when all of a sudden she took a sharp turn right. The momentum made her pop a wheelie and had her gliding on the two side wheels for a good 5 seconds. Her limp body leaned so far over her armrest it looked like she may fall off. No expression of fear on her face. Her dark shaded sun glasses hid her eyes but I could sense that this was fun for her. Like a kid on a roller coaster. I was really tired but I laughed out loud all the way back to my apartment, so happy that I had just witnessed this.

I hope that you are all fasting for the meal that it yet to come. I will get my fill, of both side dishes and family, just a bit delayed and with the possibility of a hurricane instead of an avalanche. Perhaps I will learn why people choose to make Florida their home in the first place. Maybe they are thankful that each year they get rocked by tropical storms so as to make them appreciate what can not be swept away by bustling wind and stomping rain. Plus, they are close to Cuba.

Just maybe I will treat myself to something delicious like a blueberry smoothie...and another for seconds...and a third for dessert. Because when you are a party of one on the most consuming of consuming days, what else sounds better? Only carrot souffle.

Move over butt cheeks

It was a rough night at work.

I started off in the recovery room, the post-anesthesia holding cell, where all women who have c/sections must pass through. In other hospitals...or maybe I should say better hospitals, there is never more than one patient per nurse during the recovery phase; vaginal or c/section. This patient:Nurse ratio is standard as the likelihood of a patient bleeding after they deliver the baby can be relatively high given all our ridiculous interventions. After a cesarean section, where a large incision is made in your low abdomen, that likelihood increases even more.

In true Methodist fashion, they staff one nurse per 1-8 patients in the recovery room. Of course it is a staffing issue but it has shown to be a standard practice as, even on well covered nights, only one nurse is in there. 

The range of patients is vast. Some of the c/sections are scheduled and planned because their previous deliveries were via c/section, or the baby is breech, or the baby is macrosomic (too big to fit the intended way) or the mother has HIV and her viral count is too high for a normal delivery. I have even seen a few cases where the mother opts for the surgery, not even giving herself the opportunity or possibility to labor. I thought that was illegal, but maybe just highly advised against? Most of them though are unplanned due to non-reassuring fetal heart tones, arrested dilatation or failure to descend (I hate that term...it is so defeating), or the doctor has dinner plans and wants to make it home for the basketball game. 

Some have been placed under general anesthesia, the process of putting the patient completely to sleep due to emergent factors that couldn't wait for an epidural to be placed. If this is the case, the recovery process can take much longer. Grogginess and a heavy head is what they wake up to. It is really funny to watch. They will lift their head, try to open their eyes, mumble something as off the chart as "Is daddy in that house?", and then slump back down. It repeats a few times, which I enjoy. 

When epidurals are used for pain management, it is the best situation. The catheter that sits in the little epidural spaces of the spine allows for constant medication to infuse providing longer lasting relief. The anesthesiologist can dose them up pretty quick pending they know what the hell they are talking about. Not to scare you people, but sometimes, they don't know what the hell they are talking about. Not too long ago, one of the anesthesia residents 'forgot' to administer duramorph, a strong narcotic that works like a charm. I found this out the hard way by trying to gently press on this women's uterus to check for bleeding. She slapped my arm hard enough that I was scared to ever check again. Maybe next time I will forget to administer his duramorph when he goes in for surgery.

Anyways, the other night I had three patients in the recovery room. This post delivery period should be, at most, 2 hours (in good hospitals) but the fear of bad post-partum care is high so we keep them longer to assure life after delivery. I was back and forth all night long monitoring the high blood pressures of two while pushing all sorts of narcotics in the IV for one. I was pretty tired when 6:30 came around. 

This is when I got a break from the recovery room for some action in the OR. And action it was. This patient had labored all day and finally made it to the grueling pushing stage. For 2.5 hours she grunted and bear-ed down to get that child out. No progress was being made. The head was stuck. So a c/section was called.

The woman was frantic. Feeling every contraction and bawling hysterically. When they would pass, she would smile and resume normal conversation. I swear, labor beings out the she devil in everyone.

We roll her back to the OR and gear her up for surgery. There is always the fear that after a patient pushes for an extended amount of time, the head of the baby will be so engaged in the pelvis, that an outsider will have to reach in and push the head through the belly...vaginally. I was not that person. Pam was. My job was to unfasten the safety belt that secured the patients legs to the table and position is just right so that an arm could comfortably make its move. As Pam gowned up, I squatted under the table to remove the belt and propped the leg for easy access. In this position, crouched down on the OR floor, I feel her Foley catheter bag (urine storage) rub against my arm. I set my knee down and realized it landed in a pool of blood. But the worst was yet to come.

In order to get a good hold and a sturdy position on the babies head, Pam (not a small girl) had to literally stand on her tows, shift her hips and SIT ON MY FACE. I am not sure if it was really all that neccesary, but as her butt cheek rubbed up against the left side of my face, I thought it better be. I am talking life or death. I was hearing some commotion, as I sit being sat on under the drapes and realize it must be a tricky grip. I couldn't retort as that would just be rude. I couldn't move or the sterile field would be tainted. I was helpless.

I am sure you could picture it...

 Almost time to go home. The clock reads 7:27 am. I have just been up all night, on my feet with a pain of what feels like a screwdriver slowly twisting into my heel. I am pretty hungry. But I know, because this is a change of shift delivery, I will be here way over my time. It smells a little bit like sour milk. My eyes are burning, my knee is sitting in a cauldron of someone elses blood, my arms are shaking because I am holding up the dead weight of a pregnant leg...and Pam's butt cheek just made long and direct contact with my face. 

Fun times.

Gotta get me some Melatonin

The night shift... a carcinogen.

I recently read a study conducted by Englands' National Health Service. It looked at the incidence of cancer in night shift workers and correlated the cause to suppression of Melatonin (also known as "the hormone of darkness"). You see, at night, when the sun is down and heads should be found resting on a pillow, your internal hormone production pumps this 'hormone of darkness' through the endocrine network, inducing a yawning domino effect. This is why people are (generally) tired at night and awake during the day. As nature intended, humans are a creature of daytime activity and nighttime snoozing. Its what is known as the circadian rhythm.

This poses a scary reality for the graveyard folk. This study shows that those who are awake at night and under the constant buzz of artificial light, have a much lower melatonin production thus throwing off the hormonal balance. Not only does this royally screw with sleeping patterns but melatonin is also known to suppress cancer growth. Less melatonin = less cancer fighting abilities.

Then of course there is also the problem that most night-shifters don't see the sun enough. We all know that the recommended daily dose of sunlight...for vitamin D production...is a must. Let's add that sleep deprivation slumps the bodies immune system, which is an MVP in warding off cancers. And it goes on and on. Of course, more research is necessary.

So in short...I am screwed.

Just three days ago I was up for 31 straight hours. My circadian rhythm has been placed directly into the garbage disposal. Even when exhaustion has hit me like an upper cut in the face, I still have a very challenging time falling asleep. I toss and turn. I turn and toss. It is excruciating. When I am awake and functioning in society, I notice that it is almost always under a constant haze. I never seem fully aware. More than once, I have caught myself having full-blown conversations with...myself...slightly confused about the situation. Hand gestures included. both times in broad daylight on the street.

When desperate, I will take a 5 mg (extra strength) melatonin supplement, natures remedy to insomnia...particularly when I am working to assure a well-rested RN. I love it. The strong stuff works immediately and I drift off. I try to use is as conservatively as possible. I can't be known as a "hormone of darkness" junkie. But what I have discovered is that it induces some crazy dreams. 

google calls them nightmares...see for yourself.

(A snippet of my dream yesterday)

I am in a very large vehicle, a suburban type, and it is slowly rolling down the street. There are houses one after another, side-by-side with green yards swarming with hundreds of people. American flags are swaying in the breeze and the people are waving to me in slow motion (my logic is that they are Mormon because there are no black people, they have the same face and most of them are kids). There is no one else in the car...I am alone...but not driving. The car is some how moving itself. Suddenly rows and rows of babies line the curbs...each of them hugging their neighbor baby. The car stops and I get out to pick one up, but they will not let go of each other. I turn to find a parent or responsible adult but see no one. I put the babies down, I get in the car and we drive off.

Flash forward to next scene. 

Now I am in a cave with cylinder shape holes in the tall dark walls. Again I am alone and I am attempting to repel down the wall. Fat juicy rats and squirmy mice start crawling through the openings.

Flash forward to next scene.

I am on a date with a tall, dark skinned man. We are at his apartment and I go to sit on the couch. I am not alone. His roommate is also sitting on the couch and his roommate is Adam Sandler.

Flash forward to next scene.

It is my wedding day and I am dressed in a beautiful gown. I guess I am marrying the tall, dark skinned man, but I am unsure and this really confuses me. My mom seems to be quite mad at me so she is not talking. My sister is not around because she is socializing with the guests. My bridesmaids are two girls that I am not really friends with and they are pushing me away from the mirror to put their own makeup on. Meanwhile, my hair looks greasy as if I just got done sweating a lot and my attempts to make it look better with bobby pins is failing. The whole time I am trying to recall the name of the man I am about to make the ultimate commitment to and it never comes to mind. I then realize...oh no...vows? I pull aside a friend of his...who I have never met and ask him if I am to write vows. He looks sacred by the desperation in my voice and answers...'yeah, I guess, that is what you do, right?'  I start to panic a bit. That is what I do?Do I do that? So I pull a paper towel out and start to write my vows for the man I apparently love and can't remember where we met, when we met, if he is funny, if I know his family, how long we dated.  I try to dig really deep but his face never comes into focus. 

And then I wake up. Nightmare? Borderline. First off, rows of babies hugging is some creepy business. They seemed premature and worm-like. Second, rats. Ewwwww. Third, getting married...to someone you don't know...when family is not there...with friends you don't like...in hair that looks like a buttery mess...and vows written on a paper towel? I have yet to have such a vivid dream turn to reality....it better be no indication of what my future holds.

And it wasn't the first. I would say it is one of many bizarre dreams surely induced by the disruption of my melatonin supply. 

As much as I love my night time coworkers, I am glad that I am on a 7 shift countdown. It was intriguing at first to be a night owl in a city that buzzes around the clock, but I am over it. How I long for early morning wake up calls and a non-carcinogenic schedule. 

What is keeping my head in the game is that in less than three weeks (17 days to be exact) I will be heading West towards one Big Island of Hawaii where I will gladly hang my stethoscope for 5 weeks and toss my melatonin pills in the big blue sea.  I will lay a towel on the sand, after riding a daytime wave, and soak in all the Vitamin D my white skin can handle. Perhaps I will eat breakfast in the morning and maybe even dinner in the evening. If all goes as planned, the conversations I have been having with myself can shift to wild turkeys who are much louder in response. 

Yes, I am strong. I can stand the carcinogen for a bit longer.

Tooth Decay

Now that the boots are unpacked, the job routine is in motion and the city buzz has become backdrop hum-drum to my own life soundtrack, I thought it was high time to see a dentist. 

Since my Grand Canyon spaced pearly whites started growing in, I have loved this particular checkup. We always complained when my dad would wake us, after falling asleep watching Spaceballs (the movie) or The Three Amigos, chocolate ice cream bowl in hand, and make us floss and brush. You know how painful that is...half asleep, eyes shut, trying not to let the toothpaste ooze down your chin. But nothing was more satisfying than hearing Dr. Poulson say "Yep, Yep, all looks great here, Jamie. What a nice set of chompers." And then, like clock work or a practiced script, I jumped from the chair and dug my plastic toy from the buried treasure chest and skipped out to admire how shiny my smile was from all the attention it had just received. 

It truly was a satisfying experience. The office staff knew us quite well and loved hearing about the latest in the Dwyer kids lives. I told them stories about my gymnastics coach and how Charlie was the most annoying little brother on the planet, and they always seemed to listen with astute ears.  They were super sensitive when cleaning around the gum lines, habitually letting me choose my favorite flavor of fluoride (cinnamon all day long) and were very patient every time I had to pick a new design for my frequently lost retainers. I think during the entire spectrum of my pediatric dental experiences, there was only one bad trip; the time I gagged on the retainer mold and barfed it up on my uniform shirt. Even the day Sam kicked me in the face right after we got braces, couldn't diminish the love I had for Dr. Poulson and crew. 

The day I turned 20, marked the day I could never return to such a peri-dontal paradise. They gave me one last treasure from the box and said "Enjoy the other side." From then on, I was forced into a world of grown-up molars. I had no idea it would be so traumatizing.

When the time finally came, I dug deep and found a dentist in the Chicago area. Desperate for someone who could offer the same gentle finesse, I struck gold and unraveled Taf Paulson D.D.S. Notice the name similarity? That was no mistake. The moment I saw her Holistic Dental Approach ad in the Conscious Choice magazine, I knew she was the one. (So, if your last name is Paulson and/or Poulson, you can floss me any day). Her staff was just as incredible. They became great friends of mine. Marlene, the secretary, and I would talk for 30  minutes at a time when she would call for my payments. (That's right. They were so good, that even though my insurance didn't cover the costs, I still kept going back. I was in love with Taf and Staff...no question.) I knew about their family members, bratty step-kids, vacation dream spots and previous jobs. They asked me about work, and dating and where I got my scarves. One of them even consulting me about fertility specialists and asked my advice on the best approach to getting pregnant (I guess that's not obvious.)

What made them so great? What made them rise above the rest?:

1.) They had Yogi Tea in the waiting room. Only the best tea on earth.

2.) They gave you safety goggles when they shined that bright, offensive light directly into your face. (Mere sunglasses but such a nice gesture...who else does that?)

3.) They used the tastiest cleaning substance (all natural) without the medieval pointy metal machinery which looks more like a weapon than a toothbrush.

4.) They dished me compliments, yet again, on such spectacular teeth.

But, the days of perfect report cards were over. What Taf and Staff discovered my first visit were not a complete set of un-decaying tusks, but 2-11 cavities. WHAAAAAAT?! This was a foreign language to me. I had always prided on the fact that I had gone a lifetime with not a single cavity in my mouth. I was shocked, slightly depressed and ready to dump the dentist forever. Taf was surprised too. She shook her head in disbelief and simply muttered "Looks, are certainly deceiving."

She took the time to show me, on there state-of-the-art equipment, where the cavities were and what they looked like. Microscopic cameras roamed the interior of my mouth like the little droids they send to explore the surface of mars. I saw all the crooks and crannies that led to deep crevices and grooves. And I thought I was a good brusher...that is, one that brushes well...30 solid seconds for each 1/4 of my mouth, but what I saw pointed in a different direction.

2-11? How can that be? Apparently, 2 were bad...and 9 were building. Provisions and decisions were made. Drilling took place under the security of my safety spectacles and the essence of Enya. (They even make the drilling enjoyable!)

So now I am in New York and what is a picky girl to do? Google it is!  I came up with a few options that seemed presentable. I called, secretly screening them all, judging the tone of the voice on the other end, and went blindly with the office that could squeeze me in the soonest. Dr. Gross (ugh) seemed legit. Educated at Columbia, I figured he was good. I asked "which Dr. in the office is your favorite?" to the guy on the other line. "Oh! (flamboyantly) Dr. Gross for sure." OK, it's a date.

The office was harder to find than substance in Sarah Palin's pursuit for VP (ohhh snap). I was late, per usual, and had I known how grueling of an escapade it was going to be, I would have gotten even more lost, and given up. The clerk was a biatch, the dental hygienist a Nazi and Dr. Gross a criminal. No smiles, no safety goggles, no friendly small talk, no PICTURES ON THE WALL! I bet most prison cells look prettier.

When I sat down for the cleaning, generally the best part, I mentioned to the lady that one of my upper right molars was particularly sensitive. "I think I brush too hard,,,leading to diminishing enamel?" She said she would be gentle but I think her definition of gentle, is my definition of cruel and pain-inducing. Not only was her machinery from the 1940's, but it was leaking and it seemed to leak all the way down my shirt. She raised the metal pick in the air as she tried to re-attach the tubing, and the pointy edge glistened in the light. I lost count because I nearly passed out, but I think she rolled the very tip of it on the most sensitive part of my tooth 7 or 8 times...me gasping each time. It was rough but nowhere near as rough as when she followed that act by sand blasting each tooth with a baking soda concoction. It was salty and excruciating. What got me through it was visual imagery; picturing myself in the arms of someone dark and handsome. She told me to spit and rinse and when I did, the sight of blood encouraged me to never return to such a hell hole. Neither of the Paulson/Poulson's ever withdrew a drip of my blood.

Dr. Gross entered the room. Bald and overweight, his voice reminded me of one I had heard before. 

"So my dear, you are here for a checkup, huh? And Donna said you just moved here. Where from?"

Oh good! He seems nice enough. Maybe this will end on a good note! I mutter "Chi..." 

"What insurance do you have?" he interrupts. "Any pain in any of the teeth?" 

And than I realize that his voice is the same one I had talked to just days prior while booking this very appointment. He was the man who had recommended himself to me. Figures.

The X-rays they took showed no cavities. Not a single decaying tooth in the whole bunch. 

"Really? Because my last dentist, who was awesome, told me I had 11," I confusingly confess.

"Well you see, when you drill into a tooth you break the barrier...BLAH BLAH BLAH."

Essentially, what I grasped form his lecture, was that he would only drill if the tooth was hurting but not a second before. I could tell her was excited to get me out of there. Just pleased to bill my insurance for doing NOTHING. His remedy for my upper right sensitivity was to lacquer it up with a sealant that would close the gap between the gum and my natural enamel. 

"It will only cost you...uhhh....a fifty dollar co-pay."

What a thief. He just made that number up in his head!  The negative thoughts about this whole visit were flowing in my mind like rolling rapids. Sweet glimpses of Taf and Staff would make interruptions and when I sat alone in that gnarly clinic chair, I rolled my eyes wishing I was back in Illinois.

They painted the newest addition to my tooth on and sanded it down. "Welcome to New York! Buh-bye." Then he just walked out of the room...never to be seen again.

I felt robbed. I felt incomplete. Is this how it is? Is this why NO ONE else loves the dentist? I always wondered why I was the only person glorifying it all. I really sat and contemplated it. Were the Paulson/Poulson's the best it could get?

I recently received a voicemail from a friend that commented on my 773 area code. "So, I have noticed that you still have the Chicago phone number. I take that as a sign that your heart is still there?...mine too." The words sank heavy. At this point in my life, I can't exactly pinpoint where my heart is. I think it is wandering just like my body and will eventually find the way back to it's proper place as soon as that ideal location for mind, body and soul has been discovered. But just like my area code, one thing is certain, my dentist is not in New York City.

Stir It Up

I step out into the crisp Brooklyn air to view my first glimpse of morning rays. Half-limping to the subway, I get lost in the ramble of day workers making their commute - coffee cups and newspapers in hand - Manhattan bound. My eyeballs are half swollen shut, too tired from the chaos that ensued the previous evening, but I manage to inch, step-by-step, to the subway.

The train is packed.  45 more minutes of standing. Ahhh, today is the day I test my ability to sleep/stand. My desperate inquiry searches for vacancies only to find disappointment. People! Just feel sorry for me and give a girl a seat already. And then all of a sudden, one man does. I try to resist at first, as I tend to do when men are chivalrous, but my tired gaze is obvious and all I can think is what a nice man and how incredible that he is also a mind reader. Whether it was my tired face or my disheveled mismatched outfit that pinpointed my night shift demeanor, I do not know. 

I analyzed what it felt like to be heading home when everyone else was headed out. Fresh faces and well-rested bodies in ironed and pressed clothing infiltrated my surroundings, singling my limp limbs to a party of one. High heels and 'killer boots' border my blue striped havaianas. Jeez, I don't ever look professional. Scents of French perfume, vanilla lotion and pine aftershave wafted though the crowded car as people shifted awkwardly in their almost synchronized train waltz.

My attention turns to the various genres of reading material that flourish in their hands. One man is fixated on his iPhone, glued like a kid to a video game, deciphering a text message that looks to be angering him. A teenage girl, with high pigtails, dark eye-liner and knee-high socks reads a magazine that seems to be in Japanese. She smirks and laughs out loud. The man to her right is reading the bible. Now...that...is...boring. And that is all it took. My head drops back and I gracefully fall into a slumber, ebbing and flowing with the bobble of the railway. 

Even with the bombardment of busy work, I quite like my job. Give me enough dark chocolate and I easily triple my average 3:00 am energy. It is unsafe, most definitely, particularly with 4 unstable patients (normally, a nurse has no more than 2 in the baby factory), but when less is expected of you, you tend to discover ease hidden in the quandary. 

New York Methodist is in a state of constant disarray. It is one of the thousands of healthcare facilities that have been shafted in result of budget downsizing, like so many of it's national counterparts. Along with multiple buildings in this city, I have taken notice of the ever so subtle slant in the infrastructure as evidenced by the runaway IV poles that always make their way to the south end of the rooms. The walls have seen more jarring hits than state fair bumper cars and unfortunately it suffers from a slight fly infestation dilemma. The equipment is archaic. While listening to the rapid beat of their babies heart rate, patients also hear the static clammer through the decades-old fetal monitors. It baffles me that in the OR, instead of splurging on, lets say a properly working anesthesia panel, they opted for a state of the art stereo system...no joke...that plays non-stop Bob Marley.

One thing is certain though, it is not where you work, but rather with whom you work, that make the long hours and environment worth while. I would say around 90% of my fellow nurses are Jamaican bred. (Brooklyn is the new Kingston town) Some are old and the others young and if strung together, the mileage of dreadlocks could circle upstate at least three times. Everyone be straight up CHILLLLLLIN'...without a care in the world other than what jams 'they be playin' on the radio'. What would most likely drive a charge nurse to suicidal ideation in most facilities, just don't phase the Caribbean sistas' of labor and delivery.

The doctors, are of a slightly different thread. The Fiasconaro family are two Obstetrician brothers that wear jeans with their scrub tops and regularly smoke like chimneys between their scheduled C/sections. With their tan and leathered skin, they look as though they come straight from the cast of the Sopranos...as do all of their patients. I asked one of them where a certain patient was (as she was 100% missing from her room 10 minutes before her surgery). "Doll, let me show you." He walked me down the hall into the waiting room where she was sitting, in her gown, IV inserted and barefoot, shootin' the shit with her family. The funniest part...she was chomping on ice chips...a major no-no prior to any surgery. But, no one seemed to care and it didn't seem to matter. "Just a quick smoke and we will be ready to roll!"

It is safe to assume that this hospital has never received national accreditation for exceptional care (or even knows what is means and how you get it). There are signs all over reading "Eat Healthy. Stay Active. And ask us about surgical weight loss." Sort of like one step forward, two steps back when you're ask your 400 pound, nicotine addicted doctor about how to live healthy. Oh the paradox.

I am sitting on my quasi-front porch which is made up metal prongs not likely suited for human weight, watching the sun diminish in the sky, illuminating bright colors over the East River. For a mere second I forgot I was a.) in a bustling city and b.) on the 5th floor and thought nothing of it when I threw the yoke of my hard boiled egg over the railing. (On African busses...a normal thing to do, in New York high rises...not so much.) Luckily, it landed without notice, just next to the dog-walking couple. Can I blame it on delirium? 

Which is exactly what I was thinking when my Korean neighbor knocked on my door. I opened to see him instantly thrusting a cup and bowl in my direction. His shy eyes turned towards the ground as he softly re-introduced himself. (Our first encounter was a slightly awkward 20 second moment in the hallway last week.) His few words in broken English made me want to package him up and place him on my shelf. 

"My name is Kim (slight bow...mysterious cocktail still in hand). I have here brought you some peach tea and strawberries. I work as graphic design in this building for more than fo' years. My girrfriend is two weeks here from Korea saying she offers you services." 

I take the gift and thank him.

Services? Services? Services? I ponder over and over. What does he mean by that? Laundry and cooking? Massage? Human trafficking? Is this a poisoned syrupy concoction? What have you dipped these strawberries in? Am I a loud neighbor and this is your way of remedying it? Oh no, I have nothing to give in return.

We chat for a few moments and he gently bows out. What a sweet offering from one of my many friendly neighbors. And who says you can't make friends in New York? Pok (the girlfriend) and I will be the best of friends when her 'services' show me how to pickle orange rinds like the ones brewing in this beverage. I can't wait until I can afford a 'thank you' card to slip under their door. 

The weather is migrating in the direction of my favorite time of year. The air is chilling and I see Fall right around the bend which always simmers the intensity within; a seasonal cool-down of my feisty summer blaze in order. I will light my harvest candle and know that even though I am tired and can't seem to fall asleep, there is ease with new friendly neighbors and...'dat evertin' is gonna be alrigh' mon.

The cost of a New York Minute

I am not exaggerating when I say that I spent $15 on laundry last night. New York is sucking my pockets dry...but today, those pockets are clean in every cents of the word. 

The only good news to counter with such aggravating assault on my finances is that I am no longer jobless. (Can I get a virtual high five?) You are reading the words, of the thoughts, from the fingers, of the newest addition to the naughty nurse crew at New York Methodist Hospital. Starting Monday night, I will be bringing into the world Brooklyn's next generation of hipsters and posh bike messengers. I can't say I will be all too surprised when they come out already donning their black, skinny jeans and vinyl belts; so quick to make their parents proud. Here are a few reasons why this job could potentially be very ass kicking...

1.) Brooklyn is one of the more diverse neighborhoods in the country. (Queens trumps it like the royal ace that she is, but this isn't a competition people) I am sure to find a cultural buffet within this particular facet of the big apple: crackheads, Hasidic Jews at least 3-4 times a shift, celebrities, first-time-parents, 8th-time-parents, really sick ones, really paranoid and dramatic ones, maybe a celebrity or two and everything in between.

2.) I will be working the night shift, which at first made me really nervous because I am worse at daytime sleeping than I am at updating this blog regularly, but I was assured by the nurse manager that the night crew is "green". This terminology within the field of nursing guarantees a fresh enclave of coworkers and an instant group of friends. What better place to work the graveyard than in the city that never sleeps? This may be a new beginning for the clubber in me that never was. Time to pump the jams...?

3.) Health insurance. with a lifestyle like mine, I can't believe I have gone over 9 months without it. Jamie + long boarding in crowded areas + biking with no helmet - health insurance + placing hands on dirty subway poles X previous exposure to illnesses that weakens immune systems = bad choice. But it wouldn't be the first one I have made and more than likely, not the last. 

4.) Timing. I start on September 8th and if I hate it (but shall we not be so negative to think that is even an option?), I only endure it for 12 weeks or so because my contract is done on December 6th. Ahhh the beauty. Someone actually had the nerve of saying I was "afraid of commitment". Now would we call it that? I won't even share with you (yet) where the next destination will be. You will have to stay tuned for the Winter update :)

5.) Shelter from the storm. My havoc is not close to the devastation that Gustav has left our southern half, but that all really depends on who you are asking. When I look at the pile of my belongings nestled in Sam and Scott's corner, I see nothing but a couple bags, a random shirt here, a pair of shoes there. I am sure if you were to ask the Mr. and Mrs. though, a different picture would be painted. I soon will be residing in a room of my very own. Free to sling a sock in any direction and able to tromp nude ad lib. I have been assured the space is tiny, but location is everything to a Manhattanite and my new digs really can't be topped. If by rare chance there is room for more than one human to fit, I extend an open invitation to you all. (One...or maybe half...at a time please.)

The adjustment process is still coming together. The nice woman I spoke with today at a bookshop I was perusing, mentioned that it took her FIVE years to acclimate to the craziness of the city. I was taken back by her comment and was just then hit by the unbelievable force this mega-center has on people. What effects will this have on me now and in the long run? I like to think that I am just keeping myself young, preserved in an invisible cocoon of adventure that will one day sneak from the clear blanket, into reality, willing to age like the rest of civilization. Could the constant honking of that bus and the eternal emission of exhaust be counter productive to my life long goal of living to 100? How many healthy cells is this costing me? I pondered this all day as I flirted with both pedestrian traffic and degrading air quality.

I saw where she was coming from when I thought about my first yoga class. It should have sent me on a fast back pedal to Chicago, recognizing all the signs of retreat. There is something about Union Square and downward dogging that just don't mesh and 'Natalie', the she-devil instructor herself, would be the poster child. Her tone and approach were all wrong. No one must have told her that being rude is actually anxiety producing...not reducing. And that criticizing her assistant, a fairly new student, is no way to build a class rooted in exploring personal fears. As she stood, gothic and scary in front of the class, demeaning everyone of us, I glanced around and laughed. Did anyone else notice her lack of niceness? Her un-soothing voice?  The judgment in her stare? No? NO! If her tone were actually a venomous snake, we would be rushing to the hospital. I am not sure any of the other benders even took regard. All she did was 'bullshit, bullshit, bullshit'...the type that loves the sound of her own voice.

So what do you do when you're mining for gold and you strike coal? You simply go elsewhere. Today I found a studio which introduced stretch back into my over-walked legs and subtly infused tranquility back into to my over-stimulated mind. All in a sanctuary that blissfully reminded me of my yogic upbringing.

If I continue to laugh out loud though, as much as I have the past week, I am sure to live long and strong. I saw a man with hair to his knees, on a pair of rollerblades, playing table tennis on the Hudson River. I counted his smile in minutes and it lasted an hour...that is how content he looked. With his shirt off and his man boobs exposed to the world, he was more carefree than most toddlers which made me twinge with jealousy as I struggled to breathe and jog by.

I foresee the next couple weeks being a rocky road of assimilation. I will be pulling more all-nighters in the next three months than all my years in college combined. But I have begun my preparation. I have read the tips that the wise Deepak Chopra has expensively revealed to the common folk and I am fully aware that warm glasses of milk and a fond addiction to sleep aids, are in my future. When those sleepless nights stir within your own sheets, know that a friend to make...is the friend awake. God bless free night time minutes...the one thing that New York can not charge me for.