In fact, my interview tonight really wasn’t another interview. It was a chance to meet the other manager and pick up some menus to study (there are only four!!) and learn the dress code and find out that I’m shadowing someone tomorrow night and then I’m on my own starting Friday.
Seriously? Do they know me?! What about me screams ready-to-jump-into-the-fire-after-only-4-hours-of-practice?? I’m supposed to bedipping my toes, dammit!
And oh god, tomorrow morning I have to go out and buy waitress shoes. You know – those fugly black things that are comfortable but also attempt to be somewhat fashionable. And I’m not talking comfortable enough to walk around the mall for a bit – I’m talking comfortable enough to pound, fast-paced and confidently, back and forth across the floor of a busy bar for multiple hours without rest. I threw my old pair out a couple of years ago thinking I’d never need to own anything so hideous ever again, but turns out I was mistaken.
Not Katie’s actual shoes.
These boots, without a doubt, need to be made for walking – not for looking cute. And if I’m going to be honest, I don’t want them to look cute anyway because I don’t want to cry when I spill balsamic vinaigrette or a Sicilian Sunrise martini all over them and they get that distinct, gritty, restaurant smell.
If you’ve worked in food service, you know what I’m talking about.
So anyway. I’m nervous. When it comes to the technicalities – hand-writing the orders, counting the change, remembering which tables are mine – I’m really only so-so. Maybe not even that anymore.
But the people? That’s where I’m good. There will be live music, wine, a coffee bar… and did I mention live music? It’s exactly where I’d want to be if I weren’t… you know… working.
Katie’s actual new place of employment.
And that could be good or bad.
But hopefully good. At least for now. Needless to say, this won’t put me on the fast-track to becoming holiday letter-worthy. But it’s something. And that’s probably all I really need right now.
I don’t want to hold off celebrating until after I find out whether I got hired, because there’s a possibility that I didn’t get hired and then we’d feel weird drinking the champagne. Well, I wouldn’t feel weird – I hardly ever do. But you might feel awkward drinking a celebratory type drink around a failure of a human being, and I’d really like to spare you the embarrassment.
But you know, the fact that I made it through my first job interview since early 2008 without falling on my face or sporting massive pit stains really is a feat in itself. And I’ll tell you what – after over 6 years of holding salary positions and living in cubicle land, interviewing for a part-time waitress/bartending job was cake.
I just plopped myself down at the bar, filled out the application, and had a quick chat with the manager. Nope, no 3 hour interviews here!
(Though I’d be lying if I said she didn’t express a tiny bit of disbelief when she read my past three employers were Plexus Logistics International, CDM, and the Civil Engineer Squadron at Moody Air Force Base. I told her she could call any of them – our breakups were amicable. So Jason, if you’re reading this, please be nice to Nancy or Danielle if one of them calls. Oh, and please don’t tell them about this blog!)
I was so relieved on my walk back to the car, awed by the difference between this experience and an interview for a job I had back in 2007. We had just moved to North Carolina, and I was eager to work in a real office building with a lobby and an elevator and key card access and clacking heels and pencil skirts and people bustling through the halls with rolled up maps and plans.
It seemed so grown up.
A couple of days before the highly anticipated interview, I noticed a small, unobtrusive-yet-slightly-odd bump on the back of my leg just below my bum. Don’t ask how I noticed it. I just did. I didn’t think about it again until the next day when it was distinctively larger and sore. It had an elliptical red shape surrounding it, and all I could think after living in this strange and exotic land of the Sandhills for only a couple of months, was this. is. not. right.
Not at all.
So I did what any American 20-something with a computer and internet access would do. I Googled it. And the results were terrifying.
I found myself inundated with photos of spider bites. More specifically, spider bites of the Brown Recluse. I will spare you the photos here, but if you haven’t heard of the Brown Recluse, do yourself a favor and forget I ever mentioned it. Do not, under any circumstances, Google it. You have been warned.
Of course I ran off for an emergency visit to my doctor who, after his idiotic intern who should have spent more time studying her med books and less time applying lipstick determined it was a pimple, verified that it was, in fact, a spider bite but NOT that of the recluse. He wrote me a prescription, told me it was going to get worse before it got better, and sent me on my merry way.
The day of the interview arrived. Sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience and interest in the company is not a comfortable situation. Now imagine sitting in a conference room for 3 hours while a different person comes in each hour to grill you about your education, experience, and interest in the company when sitting is the most profoundly physically painful thing anyone has ever asked you to do.
Ever.
Oh, and you just spent an hour-and-a-half driving to get to the interview.
My bum was on fire. And I was afraid to stand to relieve it between interviewers lest I burst into tears and run crying from the building and for ever after be remembered as the candidate who cried because her butt hurt. Oh no. I was stronger than that.
So why was I telling this story?
Oh yeah. The interview yesterday was easy. Too easy. I’m a little worried. But I’m going back tonight to meet with the other manager. Apparently a second opinion is in order.
I can’t say I blame them because I am a sketchy character.
Here’s hoping they don’t figure that out until after I’m hired.
Today I’ve committed myself. And no, I’m not currently surrounded by men in clean white coats who are coming to take me away.
I’ve committed myself to applying for a job. Not a job job, but just a job. You know, something that will get me out of the house and interacting with creatures who walk on less than 4 legs and don’t lick my face by way of greeting.
It’s the kind of job I’ve done before – back when I was still going to school and thought I was working towards something better.
Turns out that “better” is a state of mind.
If only I’d known that before all those student loans, huh?
There are several things I plan on doing before I muster the nerve to go out and let someone tell me whether or not I’m good enough. I still need to finish this blog post, work out, shower, start some laundry, and make myself somewhat presentable for immersion in the outside world. It’s been awhile, but I’m pretty sure I remember that the outside world doesn’t appreciate bare feet, outdated glasses, and dog hair covered peacoats. So these things I need to remedy before I leave.
And while I’m doing these things, I know the fear will start to creep into my system. I’m a fairly confident person. I’m not easily shaken. But what if – what if – this is the time when they finally tell me to grow up? They don’t want me for this job? I have too much experience? Why on earth would you want to come back to this when you’ve had some of that?
I won’t know what to say. Maybe for the first time ever.
And that scares the hell out of me.
So please wish me luck. For the sake of mulligans. Do-overs. New beginnings. Whatever you want to call it. This isn’t something I want to do forever. I’m just dipping my toes. But apparently I’m dipping them with my socks on because, like I said, the outside world – especially the food service industry – doesn’t appreciate bare feet.
So apparently this is what happens when I’m dumb enough to leave piles of clean, folded laundry on the sofa.
And apparently Capone must think he’s part bird since he created himself a little nest.
And apparently the nice, *cough*expensive*cough* dog beds I bought them just aren’t good enough. Which I don’t understand, because I have fallen asleep on those things. I’m not kidding.
And if that’s not sexy, I don’t know what is.
Maybe this:
(Photo taken with my camera phone. Sorry for the blur!)
Oh yeah.
Need a closer look?
(Photo taken with my camera phone. Sorry for the blur!)
All I can say is, if there were such thing as a Playbitch magazine, I’d be rolling in it.
The title of this post has nothing to do with the post itself, but I’m bad at titles so we’re just going to go with this. Fifty points to the first person who names that movie. (I’m not sure what the points are good for, but I’ll work that out eventually. We’re all in this together.)
Today I’m going to tell you something, but first I want you to promise not to give me that look when I say it.
You know which look I’m talking about. That look. The look that effortlessly rolls from surprise to horror to pity in approximately .8 second.
I see that look every time I tell somebody this something. And even though I can’t see you through the internet (wouldn’t that be creepy), I’m absolutely certain that I would be able to feel that look as all 9 of you read my words and simultaneously send it through your screens and across the wires and through my fingers and straight into my soul.
It’s that powerful.
And in return, I promise you that this something I’m going to share really doesn’t warrant the look. It doesn’t. It’s not that bad, and it certainly doesn’t deserve your pity, for crying out loud.
So here it is.
Ready?
I NEVER WENT TO PROM.
There. I said it.
Did that make you feel icky?
It seems to make people feel icky. Like they don’t know how to react. Like I just told them I have 3 nipples. Which I DON’T.
(But if I did, maybe I would’ve had a better shot at going to prom, eh?)
Okay, maybe not.
Now don’t get me wrong – I don’t go around just spouting out this tasty tidbit to anyone willing to listen. I’m only telling you now because I want you to know me, and in order for that to happen, we need to just put everything out on the table.
My divulgence of this information usually follows one of those let’s-reminisce-about-high-school conversations, which inevitably leads to talk of school dances and eventually the ultimate school dance experience, which just so happens to be p-r-o-m. And the person with whom I’m having the high school reminiscing conversation will tell me about how he rented an orange tux with tails and a top hat ala Dumb and Dumber or how she almost lost her virginity in the limo on the way to the post prom party and oh-boy-I-will-never-drink-Jäger-again-because-you-wouldn’t-believe-the-things-it-made-me-do and all of this sucks because just when the stories are getting good, they look at me all expectantly because they know that I, of all people, must have some crazy story to tell and of course I have to ruin it all by saying, “I never went to prom.”
And then I get the look.
And of course, the look is quickly followed by an exasperated, “Why?!”
Well, because I wasn’t asked. And I didn’t really see the need to go out and buy a gown and have my hair done just so my mom could take pictures of me with some friends in front of the fireplace and then drive the Bonneville to a dance where I’d sip peppermint schnapps from a flask and watch people grope each other under the seductive vocal influence of K-Ci & JoJo.
It just wasn’t in the cards.
If it makes you feel any better, I did go to homecoming all 4 years (twice with a date and twice without), and I managed to have a decent time – even senior year when my date (who didn’t even go to my school) had to have his jaw wired shut the day before due to a flag football playing injury. Flag football. So we had to write notes back and forth on a cocktail napkin all night and I was the girl with the hot-but-oddly-quiet date who really didn’t have much to say, but by God was he nice to look at.
And I will say this, even though it might make some of you uncomfortable: I don’t regret not going. I don’t! I’m hoping this life will bring me plenty of other amazing experiences (and it has so far), so I don’t need to dwell on the fact that I didn’t complete an apparent high school rite of passage.
I still got the diploma, didn’t I?
And I honestly don’t think it’s affected my overall success as an adult.
That said, I’ve decided I need to find a part-time job this coming week because I’m getting a little stir-crazy and I’m tired of not making any money and Libras are social creatures, but I’m having a hard time deciding:
Should try to find something in retail, or should just suck it up and go back to waiting tables?
Though it is kind of fun watching the confused looks on my dogs’ faces as they slip and slide across the yard.
When I assess the gray skies, icy roads, and pine tree boughs drooping under the weight of ice and snow, I come to 2 conclusions:
1) Global climate change is not a myth, and
2) I’m not leaving the house. Ever. Again. (Unless someone wants to buy me a pair of snow pants, long johns, mittens, a scarf, and a hat. I’ve somehow managed to purge these items from my wardrobe since my days of living in Minnesota, which is a bummer because I think the only fun thing to do in this weather is find a proper hill and go sledding, but that’s only if you own snow pants and have access to a warm mug of hot chocolate when you get home. And I just so happen to have a little something called Snickerdoodle hot chocolate. And if you ever visit me, I might just share some with you.)
It’s days like these when I wish I’d thought ahead about other home projects that we’ll need to finish before we can ever hope to sell this place. Like painting.
Is it one of those mundane DIY home projects that seems pretty self-explanatory and this is a complete waste of my time?
Well, it might be because I have this insane habit of complicating things and a fear of making concrete decisions, but in my experience, painting a room always turns more laborious and time-consuming than I originally presume. But I have improved significantly over the past few years, and now I can knock out an average size room by myself during a long afternoon.
First, the tools. To paint a room in your home, you will need:
Paint – Have an idea of the room dimensions when you go to the paint store. The clerk will be able to tell you how many gallons you need to cover around 2 coats of paint. I honestly don’t really have a preference when it comes to brand, but keep in mind that almost any paint color can be matched to almost any paint brand. You will also need to pick a color and sheen. The shinier the sheen (i.e. gloss, semi-gloss, satin, eggshell, etc.), the more imperfections in your wall tend to show through. That’s why I’ve learned to pick “flat” as my sheen for the walls. I think I picked eggshell for the kitchen, simply because glossier sheens do tend to wipe down easier.
Primer – If you’re painting over a bold existing wall color, you’ll want to start with a coat (or 2) of primer. Paint experts will probably recommend that you use it regardless. We always use it on our ceilings after we remove popcorn, because the bare drywall soaks it up like a sponge. And we’d rather the drywall soak up inexpensive primer than paint. Nowadays you can actually get paint that’s mixed with primer, but I have yet to try one of those products.
Paint Key & Stir Sticks – Seems obvious, but you’ll be surprised at how often people forget these two items. The paint key is a little metal tool used to open the paint can (also works well as a bottle opener), and the stir sticks are those wooden sticks used to stir the paint if, like me, you buy the paint with the intention of using it right away but instead let it sit in your laundry room for weeks before you build up the energy to actually clear out and paint a room. Most paint supply stores will provide these items at no charge.
Roller & Tray – Pick a decent roller handle and a package of nice-quality rolls. I don’t use the foam rolls, and I pick something that says it’s made for smooth surfaces. Because… you know… my walls are smooth. And I hate cleaning paint trays. So. Even though it is arguably the less eco-friendly option, I buy the thin, disposable tray liners that sit inside a regular paint tray. Just think of how much water I’m saving by not spending an hour trying to wash out a tray!
Paint Brush/Edger – This is for painting around your trim. I’ve used one of those flat edgers before, which tends to work pretty well. However, it’s annoying if you get too much paint on it (which happens to me a lot), so nowadays I prefer this perfect little short-handled brush to paint around the trim.
Paint edger
Short-handled paint brush. This is the Wooster “Shortcut” brush, and I picked it up on a whim at the Home Depot paint counter. This baby handled like a PRO. I could easily cut-in around the trim without getting any paint ON the trim itself. The best part? I saved a ton of time and money from not having to use painter’s tape.
Painter’s Tape (optional) – With the use of a brush like the one above, I strongly urge you to try painting around the room without using tape. However, if you still feel the need, splurge on something called Frog Tape over the typical blue tape. I found that frog tape peels off much more cleanly with a lot less paint seepage.
Tip: Remove the tape before the paint completely dries – it’s less likely you’ll peel your paint off with the tape.
Drop Cloth (optional) – You can easily avoid drippage by not overloading your paint roller, but if you want to be on the safe side, invest in a drop cloth to protect your floors.
Helpers (optional) – These can make or break a project. You decide whether it’s worth the risk.
So here’s what you need to do to have a perfectly painted room:
1. Clear out the room. If some furniture is large, you can just push it towards the middle. But the emptier the room, the easier it is to paint. Also be sure to remove your light switch and outlet cover plates. It’s very simple to do with a screwdriver, and your finished room will look much cleaner by painting under the switch plates rather than over them.
2. Fill-in any holes in the wall with mud and a putty knife. No, not mud from your backyard. I love, love love this DAP Fast ‘N Final Lightweight Spackling putty. It’s the consistency of cool whip or a light frosting, and is SO easy to apply. It goes on incredibly smooth and you can paint right over without even sanding! It’s perfect for me, since I’m terrible at planning ahead. (Although the reviewers on Amazon beg to differ. Maybe I’m just a spackling pro?)
3. Open up your paint, give it a good stir, and use your short-handle brush or edger to start painting around the trim. I fill a small container with paint so I can easily carry it around the room with me rather than continuously running back over to the gallon bucket to fill my brush. You’ll want to paint smoothly around every window and doorway, and also along the ceiling (or crown molding) and baseboards, and even down the inside corners of the room and around all of the light switches and outlets. Also get any narrow spaces (like between a doorway and a wall) that are too narrow for the roller. Basically, you’re outlining the entire room where it will be difficult for the roller to reach.
Yes, it’s tedious. No, it’s not fun. But get some good music crankin’, put on your big boy/girl panties, and muscle up.
THEN, do it again. That’s right – you’re going to want to do 2 coats of this trim paint to ensure even coverage. Don’t worry, though – the second coat goes much more quickly than the first. You probably won’t need to worry about drying time. By the time you finish the first coat, the place where you started will likely be dry enough to start round 2.
You can see in the above photo that I opted out of using primer this time. The color I chose was darker than the other sample colors on the wall, and the walls were already fairly smooth. Plus, I was just plain lazy. But the Glidden interior paint (my first time using this brand) seems to be holding up pretty well! You can also see our ceilings were not-yet painted. Normally I would recommend painting the ceilings before the walls, but I am not the ceiling painter of the house and was tired of waiting, so I went ahead with the walls first.
4. Now that you’ve completed all of your tedious tracing, it’s time to color it in! Fill the deep part of your paint tray with the paint, load up your roller (but not too much – you don’t want massive paint drippage), and start applying it to the walls. I think it’s debatable about whether you should paint in a “W” pattern or straight up and down – in the end, you just want to make sure you get a nice, even look without any streaks or drips. I use the “W” method.
And again, you’re going to do 2 coats. If you took your time painting around the trim, this part should be a breeze. And the paint might look uneven as you roll it on, but pay attention as it dries – it should even out and you shouldn’t see any streaks when it’s completely dry.
Now is not the time to quit. You will get a decent shoulder workout. This may be the time you decide to crack open a motivational beer. When I feel like I want to quit because I’m covered in sweat and paint and my hands feel like they might snap off at the wrist, I know in my heart that it’s time for a beer.
In the end, it’s completely worth it. There’s a huge sense of satisfaction that comes from transforming sterile, hospital-like white walls into something warm that can highlight trim work, photography, art, or just makes you feel more at home.
But I will stand by my original assessment that HGTV is full of CRAP, and this is not something you would want to do over and over again if you don’t like the color. Choose wisely, my friends.
5. Clean, clean, clean! When you’re finished painting, you will be so tempted to just drop everything in the middle of the floor and call it a day. But cleanup isn’t so bad if you used a drop cloth and a disposable paint tray. The most important step is cleaning your paint brush. Run it under warm water while gently pressing and flattening the bristles on the bottom of the sink. Keep going until the water runs clear. THEN, give the brush some good whacks on the edge of the counter or on a paper towel. This will fluff the bristles back up and get your brush ready to use for the next go ’round.
Sooo… remember to fluff your brush by whacking it to get it ready for use. (Man, why can’t I seem to avoid porn references in this blog?? It’s like I don’t even have to try.)
I was actually going to go apply for jobs today. I was.
Not the you-better-make-sure-your-resume-is-perfectly-polished-and-printed-on-special-paper-so-it-stands-out-from-the-masses type of job, but the fill-out-a-generic-application-and-if-you-remember-how-to-spell-your-name-and-show-up-to-the-interview-wearing-something-other-than-jeans-you’re-hired type of job.
The plan was to just drive around until I saw something… inspiring.
But then I looked out the window and I saw this:
So I decided to sit in front of the fire and eat leftover quiche instead.
HEY. Do not judge me. Motivation is hard to come by these days, and until I buy myself a set of scrubs and refuse to change out of them even when I leave the house and forget how to put on makeup and lose my hairbrush and stop wearing bras, I’m not worried.
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been avoiding the use of photos in my posts for quite a while now. The reasons are painful and twofold:
1. My favorite lens is still busted. I don’t feel justified in sending it in to have it fixed until I have an actual job.
2. Since my computer broke when I went to Miami, I haven’t yet reloaded Photoshop onto it. My kitchen tends to be pretty dark when I cook (and has a weird mixture of recessed and under-cabinet lighting, which makes the photos look a little strange. I like to use Photoshop to fix the color.
But today? Screw it. I need some pictures in my life. It’s been far too long. So PLEASE ignore the strange colors.
I managed to find some photos of a recipe I made awhile back when we had guests from out-of-town. I’m sure they thought I was a complete nut, cooking away in the kitchen and pausing every few minutes to take a picture. Because, you know – I’m that good.
I tend to freak out a little when I have to make something for other people. Why? Because I have this annoying habit of screwing up in the kitchen. A LOT. But I’m usually good about laughing at myself when that happens, and Justin will eat just about anything. It’s a little different, however, when you have other people – other hungry people – depending on you for their sustenance as well.
So I made my “fall-back” company recipe that always goes over well if I have non-vegetarian guests. It’s actually my mom’s recipe, and I love how old-school it is.
Baby, it’s PORK CHOP TIME!
First, you’ll need a big ol’ one of these:
(Like I said before, please ignore the odd color of these photos. It’s the crazy lighting in my kitchen and lack of Photoshop.)
Wow. Is anyone getting turned on?
No? It’s just me?
Ahem.
This is a pork loin. So technically I made pork loin, not pork chops – but this recipe works just as well with about 4 chops.
And actually, I’m not positive if this is one loin split lengthwise into 2, or if this is 2 skinny loins. Hey, I just buy the meat and cook it. I don’t claim to be an expert.
So you see how it’s split lengthwise down the middle? Just chop each of these strips up into little pork medallions. They end up all small and adorable, and they cook much quicker this way than larger pork chops.
Here’s what else you need:
2 c. (about 3 slices) of bread, ripped into small cubes
2 Tbsp. chopped onion (or the equivalent of dry minced onion)
1/4 tsp. poultry seasoning
2 Tbsp. water
2 Tbsp. melted butter
1/3 c. Marsala wine (this is usually found in the grocery aisle with all of the cooking wines/vinegars)
1 (10 3/4 oz.) can of cream of mushroom soup
1. Go ahead and get your oven preheated to 350-degrees F.
2. Put some type of large skillet on the stove over medium-high heat, and grease it with a piece of fat from your pork.
3. When the skillet is good and sizzlin’, brown the medallions for a couple a minutes on each side. (Do this in batches if you can’t fit them all at once.) Once they’re browned, place them in a single layer in a shallow casserole dish.
*I actually should’ve had my skillet a bit hotter – you want the meat to be more brown than gray, and it should sear fairly quickly. You don’t want these to cook through on the stove because you’ll be baking them in the oven.
4. In a small bowl, combine the 2 cups of soft bread cubes, 2 tablespoons of onion, 1/4 teaspoon of poultry seasoning, 2 tablespoons of water, and 2 tablespoons of melted butter. Smush this stuffing-like substance together with your fingers, and press it firmly onto the tops of the pork medallions.
5. Combine the 1/3 cup of Marsala wine with the can of cream of mushroom soup, and spoon the mixture over each of the medallions.
6. Then just pop ’em in the oven for 30 minutes to an hour. I know – what a pain that I can’t give you an exact cooking time! But it really depends entirely on the thickness of your meat and the heat of your oven. I have a meat thermometer and cooked them until the thermometer said they were hot enough.
I actually thought I over cooked them because the temperature was quite a bit higher when I checked after about 40 minutes, but the beauty of these little loins is that they stayed nice and tender. They turned a pretty, golden-brown and still tasted delicious.
Though they weren’t quite this golden. Again, Photoshop, how I miss you.
Now, because I’m a complete dope and self-admitted domestiphobe, I totally forgot about sides until the last-minute. Luckily I found a couple of recipes that were really easy to put together.
Let me just say – I could eat these mushrooms every day for the rest of my life and not get sick of them. Oh, and they’re sooo easy to make. This whole dinner was crazy-easy to make. And judging from the fact that we didn’t have any leftovers, I’m thinking it was a hit.
If you were hoping this post was going to be about something other than the fear of needles, you might want to check a different site. One that charges by the month.
Today I got to experience the feeling of fluid leaving my body through a needle in one arm and fluid entering my body through a needle in the other arm. But not at the same time. And not for related issues. And not really for “issues,” since both were completely voluntary.
So no worries.
But the whole thing made me incredibly grateful I’m not one of those people who’s terrified of needles. I’m terrified of Sponge Bob Square Pants and those tubes of biscuits that pop open when you tear off the wrapper, but not needles. I actually had this discussion with a friend of mine not too long ago. Throughout her childhood, she faced inexplicable dread any time she had to go to the doctor to receive a shot or draw blood. And, much to her dismay, it hasn’t gotten any better as an adult.
Now – this isn’t just your run-of-the-mill, “I-can’t-stand-to-watch-when-the-little-silver-cylinder-pierces-my-epidermis” situation. This is bone-chilling, sweat-inducing, faint-worthy fear. The kind where she needs to warn the staff before-hand in case there’s an “incident.”
I’ll be honest – I didn’t fully believe my friend when she explained this challenge. I mean, as far as I’m aware, death (or even severe injury) by needle isn’t exactly a common occurrence. I thought maybe she was just being a bit of a baby.
Until I witnessed this fear today with my own eyes.
A very pregnant twenty-something sat in the chair next to mine as I was getting my blood drawn. My attendant was filling the 2nd or 3rd little container with my blood, and I watched lazily as the dark red liquid ran up the plastic tube and entered the vial.
And then I felt it. Sheer panic. Not my own, but that of the girl next to me. She was squirming around and a look of terror entered her eyes when the nurse brought out the rubber blue strappy thingie while using a calm voice to explain, “Ssshhh, it’s just a tourniquet. Just a tourniquet.”
I mean, this girl was not playing. You can’t fake that kind of fear. I felt awful for her. It was clear she couldn’t help it. If there’s one thing to say about fear, it’s that it can’t be rationed with. They had to gently hold her down while they drew just one small vial of blood. She was done before me. She hoisted her ginormous belly on shaky legs, took one look at me, and said, “I don’t know how you can do that.”
So I said the one thing I could think of to try to make her smile.
I lifted my non-needle-pierced arm, pointed to the giant protrusion that was her stomach, and said, “I don’t know how you can do that.”
As far as I can figure, we’re all built to withstand different kinds of discomfort. We learn our limits of what we can endure and the reasons for which we’d stand to endure them. To me, the prick of a needle is like plucking your eyebrows – slightly uncomfortable, but nothing to get worked up about. But to others, it’s like Sponge Bob Square Pants running after them with an unopened tube of refrigerated biscuit dough. Nothing good can come of it.
Do any of you have a strange phobia? Feel free to share – it’s not like I can judge!
*Okay, since my post about my mom’s so-called “holiday” letter has stirred up some grumblings, I just – real quick – want to be clear: My mom has assured me that she did not intend the email to be a family holiday letter, but rather an update to friends and family about what had happened in their lives over the past year. Since I didn’t visit, it’s only natural I wasn’t in the letter. And I assured her, in turn, that I hadn’t intended my post to be a public slamming about her letter. The post was about ME and how MY resolution was inspired by her letter. Capiche?
Now back to your regularly scheduled post.
Oh. My. God.
Today I got THE notice.
You know which one I’m talking about.
And if you don’t know which one I’m talking about, you are still a young person and it’s possible that I hate you.
Not really.
But I could.
The notice I received was that a girl with whom I attended high school (HEY Ashley!) added me to the Class of 2001 Ten Year Reunion Group on Facebook.
Shit.
You know, it figures. Just when I realize I need to start getting things figured out, they pull this on me. It’s like, hey, why don’t you throw yourself into a room full of people who graduated at the same time as you and count how many are more successful than you – you know, the ones who actually have viable careers… children… Medals of frickin’ Honor. Whatever.
Like it’s a bad thing I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.
I mean, as far as I’m concerned, it’s my high school’s fault that I haven’t decided yet. You spent all that time teaching and preparing and counseling, but where’s the follow-up? Ten years after I graduated? Is a company going to invest time and money into training a new employee and then check back ten years later to see how he’s doing? I think not.
The reunion is in Omaha in the middle of the summer, so there’s basically no chance that I’m attending. I have too many other places to see to bother with Omaha more than once every couple of years. Although, the one redeeming benefit I could see in going is to show off the fact that my boobies finally grew in (quite nicely, I might add) when I was 18. Although I doubt anyone would recognize me anyway without my glasses and braces.
Bummer.
Truth is, I actually had a pretty fantastic graduating class. From what I remember. It’s just that I didn’t spend much time with them during my senior year. I was too busy hanging with the Best Buy crew (where I worked 25-30 hours per week). There were over 500 people in my class, so obviously I didn’t know all of them, but most of the ones I did associate with during school hours were pretty great people. And from what I can see on Facebook, many of them still are.
Interesting note: I met the guy who sat next to me during graduation for the first time at graduation rehearsal. It’s too bad – he seemed pretty nice.
Anyway. Do people still go to reunions anymore? It seems like with the invention of Facebook, I can happily sit in the comfort of my own home and quietly creep on my former classmates without actually having to talk to them. And anyone who wants to talk to me can just chat me up or drop in for a visit. I’m open like that.
True, Facebook stalking only allows me to see what my former classmates want me to see, but do I really want to see anything they don’t want me to see? Probably not.
