Despite a morning that promised to make today longer than any other horrendously long day in this neverending week, I found surprisingly numerous graces as the day progressed. It could be because I prayed this morning fervently that graces be made blatantly obvious since my pessimism promised that the challenges would certainly be so. And they were. Third day in a row for CRRT, two patients undergoing last-ditch efforts to save their life. I'm ashamed to admit that I contemplated how either patient's death would mean less work for me. What a horrible thought to have surface when I could have been thinking that my work could potentially allow this person to live. CRRT has lousy success rates and these patients are nearing the end anyway, but it saddens me to know where my thoughts were today. I wish (and I pray) that I might have an optimistic spirit, easily seeing the grace and wonder in my day rather than having to beg God to give me glimpses of it. Still, my prayers were answered (despite my negativity and shameful pondering). The sunrise was beautiful this morning after a night of uninterrupted sleep (a rarity this week). I got to take a snack break mid-morning which included Krispy Kreme. Not my ideal snack considering how health-conscious I'm pretending to be, but it tasted good. My lunch tasted wonderful after a morning of queasiness. It was cooler today than it has been which meant that I got to roll the windows down on the way home and listen to my brand new mix CD courtesy of a Harry Potter fan site (lame, I know, but still a grace for the day). I was motivated enough to go on a run which didn't feel like a grace during and immediately after, but does now that I'm showered and relaxed. And I get to have etamame for dinner tonight after remembering for the second Friday in a row to eat sans meat. And more grace in the anticipation of hanging out with Mary tomorrow. See, for as many lousy moments as I could choose to focus on, it was an okay Friday.
Moving on to a totally different subject which has burdened/amused me for a while: why is it that the working world seems to have no concept of work ethic or awareness of time? It's like people get hired and suddenly decide that it's okay to show up 6 minutes late every day or leave 7 minutes early because the time clock still rounds to the nearest quarter hour. It might not seem like 6 minutes should be a big deal, but what are they gonna do in that extra time that couldn't wait? Or why is it that everyone seems to think that a 30 minute lunch means that you get 5 minutes to get your food, thirty minutes to eat, five minutes to finish your crossword puzzle and 5 minutes to get back to work? Seriously, if I went by coworker time, I'd have a 45 minute lunch-break every day. This isn't news to me. Every job I've ever had involved some employee taking advantage of their supervisor's inattentiveness and/or apathy to stretch breaks, push tardiness, and slack off in general. I wouldn't have expected any differently of Colin and Ryan, the two high school wonder boys who threw tree parts at moving lawn mower blades. And probably I could let the Regis painters slide because I'm currently of the opinion that boys never grow up, so even if I was appalled at their laziness and miscreancy, nobody else was. Besides, all those boys made me look great. But I would expect a little maturity, respect and hard work from those people who are old enough to know better and whose life style requires a salaried position. I would fire all their butts. Or at least threaten pay cuts. That's why nobody would ever put me in a managerial position and why I'd never accept one.
Well, that's all for the ranting except my lasting wonder at what would possess someone to think that just because someone doesn't answer their phone at 11:30pm that they are clearly in danger (not asleep) and should be rescued by a well-meaning brother who incessantly rings the doorbell at 12:30am (yes, a.m.) causing the dogs to bark just as incessantly. Just call back in the morning, hello bonjour! I mean, I don't fault her for caring, but her methods hint at madness.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
They would of course dump the perfect model they were with
As I sit in my room plagued by thin walls, loud voices and an early Mass in the morning to look forward to, I am left to think about that which my mind always wanders to late at night after I've just finished watching a chick flick. Actually that which my mind always wanders to regardless, but I'm trying not to dwell. Then again, if you're a melancholic (and trust me, melancholics dwell), why fight it.
In "The Holiday," the old actor (whose name and character name I could look up rather quickly, but it doesn't matter for the moment) describes what the film world calls a "meet-cute." That moment when the guy and the girl encounter each other for the first time in a way that is memorable enough to spark a relationship but hopefully just mundane enough to make it seem actually possible. My favorite meet-cute in movies thus far I think has been the bar scene in Hitch, which could maybe be realistic enough to actually happen to somebody, but not to me. Anyway, the point of bringing up meet-cutes is that every time I watch a movie with one in it, I start to think about ones that might happen in my own life. And every time I think about it, I get depressed at how boring my life is and how few new people ever enter for more than a few minutes. The fact is I suck at meeting new people because I crave comfort. And any friends who would be just daring enough to force me to meet new people (and who I would actually trust to show me a good time in the process) are either in Colorado, Texas or Connecticut doing very little meeting new people of their own. It has occurred to me that a successful meet-cute, and in fact the entire point of one, succeeds because the people least expect it and so meeting this intriguing new person has just enough of a hint of the unknown to be exciting, but none of the expectation so as not to be disappointing.
Still, when you dwell as much as I do, the expectation creeps in there just the same. Only it's a very pessimistic expectation, and one that I am too much of a sissy to act on should the occasion arise anyway. I've just typed a whole lot of words to get the point across that I have very little hope for romance in the near future. I have very little hope for it in the far future as well, but I'm trying to live as much in the present as I can. As I watch my friends get engaged and married, I'm left with movie and book scenes running through my head. Wondering when someone might hold me for twenty minutes without any selfish thought; wondering when I might finally have couch time; wondering when someone could be anywhere in the world and chooses to be with me because life is better with me by his side; wondering when I could love someone so much that I ache for them; just wondering and wondering (when Eric's gonna be nicer). I had to put that in there. And now, with that line, the nostalgia (can you be nostalgic for the future?) is gone and I'm ready to try to sleep through the noise. I think they went outside anyway and at least the outer walls are thicker than the inner walls. Good night.
In "The Holiday," the old actor (whose name and character name I could look up rather quickly, but it doesn't matter for the moment) describes what the film world calls a "meet-cute." That moment when the guy and the girl encounter each other for the first time in a way that is memorable enough to spark a relationship but hopefully just mundane enough to make it seem actually possible. My favorite meet-cute in movies thus far I think has been the bar scene in Hitch, which could maybe be realistic enough to actually happen to somebody, but not to me. Anyway, the point of bringing up meet-cutes is that every time I watch a movie with one in it, I start to think about ones that might happen in my own life. And every time I think about it, I get depressed at how boring my life is and how few new people ever enter for more than a few minutes. The fact is I suck at meeting new people because I crave comfort. And any friends who would be just daring enough to force me to meet new people (and who I would actually trust to show me a good time in the process) are either in Colorado, Texas or Connecticut doing very little meeting new people of their own. It has occurred to me that a successful meet-cute, and in fact the entire point of one, succeeds because the people least expect it and so meeting this intriguing new person has just enough of a hint of the unknown to be exciting, but none of the expectation so as not to be disappointing.
Still, when you dwell as much as I do, the expectation creeps in there just the same. Only it's a very pessimistic expectation, and one that I am too much of a sissy to act on should the occasion arise anyway. I've just typed a whole lot of words to get the point across that I have very little hope for romance in the near future. I have very little hope for it in the far future as well, but I'm trying to live as much in the present as I can. As I watch my friends get engaged and married, I'm left with movie and book scenes running through my head. Wondering when someone might hold me for twenty minutes without any selfish thought; wondering when I might finally have couch time; wondering when someone could be anywhere in the world and chooses to be with me because life is better with me by his side; wondering when I could love someone so much that I ache for them; just wondering and wondering (when Eric's gonna be nicer). I had to put that in there. And now, with that line, the nostalgia (can you be nostalgic for the future?) is gone and I'm ready to try to sleep through the noise. I think they went outside anyway and at least the outer walls are thicker than the inner walls. Good night.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A word in edgewise
I never understood that saying, "trying to get a word in edgewise." I don't know who decided that you needed to add the "edgewise" to make people understand that you were trying to get a word in, but I'm not sure it was necessary.
As anyone who knows me will attest, I rarely let people get words in, edgewise or otherwise, especially on the phone. I realize that part of that is because I have phone-phobia (not like arachnophobia, totally different) and that if I keep talking, I'm in control. But I also think that I love to talk to people who think that what I say matters. The reason that I have to make this distinction (as opposed to just loving to talk) is my experience at "work" this last week. At King Soopers, I felt very connected with everyone right away. They asked about me and my background and school and hobbies and family, and conversation was a very comfortable part of the day. I knew that they would listen to whatever it was that I was saying and be interested. However, at Immanuel, it's been substantially more difficult to feel like I fit in and therefore more difficult to have conversation. So far, I've eaten lunch four days in a row with the same people and I think I've maybe spoken for a combined 5 minutes. That's about 2 1/2 hours of me not talking (it should be 2 hours, but I swear nobody in the working world has any sort of work ethic or integrity or awareness of time). The joy of conversation is completely lost on these people. They don't hardly talk with each other, who they've worked with every day for the past however many months or years. They just sit and eat the lunch and make an occasional comment about the weather or something else in the news and then back to silence. They certainly don't ask me anything about myself and after a few attempts, I've stopped asking about them. I never thought that I'd prefer silence to conversation, especially during a lunch break in an otherwise painfully boring day, but I do because their conversation is more painfully boring than the silence. Too late to make a long explanation short, but essentially I don't talk with these people because I don't feel like what I say matters.
Imagine the joy of being with someone day after day who enjoys hearing what you have to say. I once told my neighbor that I hate that I talk so much and that I know that God gave us two ears and one mouth and she said, "Michelle, if everybody listened twice as much as they talked, nobody would say anything. Somebody has to do the talking." And I think I'll do the talking. I just need to find people to talk to. Coco was a good ear tonight, just letting me have at it without interruption. And that, like pretty much everything else in my life, reminds me of how much I want to get married and love someone and be loved by someone so much that all these little things that matter to me will be fulfilled. But that's a blog for another time. Especially because Friends is on and if there's one thing I love to do more than talk, it's laugh.
As anyone who knows me will attest, I rarely let people get words in, edgewise or otherwise, especially on the phone. I realize that part of that is because I have phone-phobia (not like arachnophobia, totally different) and that if I keep talking, I'm in control. But I also think that I love to talk to people who think that what I say matters. The reason that I have to make this distinction (as opposed to just loving to talk) is my experience at "work" this last week. At King Soopers, I felt very connected with everyone right away. They asked about me and my background and school and hobbies and family, and conversation was a very comfortable part of the day. I knew that they would listen to whatever it was that I was saying and be interested. However, at Immanuel, it's been substantially more difficult to feel like I fit in and therefore more difficult to have conversation. So far, I've eaten lunch four days in a row with the same people and I think I've maybe spoken for a combined 5 minutes. That's about 2 1/2 hours of me not talking (it should be 2 hours, but I swear nobody in the working world has any sort of work ethic or integrity or awareness of time). The joy of conversation is completely lost on these people. They don't hardly talk with each other, who they've worked with every day for the past however many months or years. They just sit and eat the lunch and make an occasional comment about the weather or something else in the news and then back to silence. They certainly don't ask me anything about myself and after a few attempts, I've stopped asking about them. I never thought that I'd prefer silence to conversation, especially during a lunch break in an otherwise painfully boring day, but I do because their conversation is more painfully boring than the silence. Too late to make a long explanation short, but essentially I don't talk with these people because I don't feel like what I say matters.
Imagine the joy of being with someone day after day who enjoys hearing what you have to say. I once told my neighbor that I hate that I talk so much and that I know that God gave us two ears and one mouth and she said, "Michelle, if everybody listened twice as much as they talked, nobody would say anything. Somebody has to do the talking." And I think I'll do the talking. I just need to find people to talk to. Coco was a good ear tonight, just letting me have at it without interruption. And that, like pretty much everything else in my life, reminds me of how much I want to get married and love someone and be loved by someone so much that all these little things that matter to me will be fulfilled. But that's a blog for another time. Especially because Friends is on and if there's one thing I love to do more than talk, it's laugh.
Monday, July 2, 2007
My eyes
I've always wanted to record different reactions that I get about my eyes, so I've decided to record the good, the bad, the ugly, the flattering, and the bizarre.
Here is a good way to bring up my eyes if you are noticing them for the first time:
Me: Did you have any questions about the prescription?
You: No I don't. You have really cool eyes. How much is the copay?
Notice how you don't dwell on it, you don't repeat yourself, you don't stare awkwardly. Just continue the conversation please. If you can't imagine my eyes being legitimate and think they must be contacts, please follow this dialogue:
Me: Hi, I'd like to return these library books and see if I have any fines.
You: Okay. Hey, are those contacts?
Me: No, they're my real eyes.
You: Really, they're neat. Let's see here, it looks like you returned these within the grace period so you don't have any fines.
Me: Great, have a nice day.
Again, no dwelling. If I tell you my eyes are real and you don't believe me, keep it to yourself. Don't ask how they got like that (I stuck pins in my eyes when I was little); don't ask if I see like a normal person (well, I don't notice a difference when I take these eyes out and put in my "normal" eyes); don't ask if people ask me about them all the time (if you did, it probably means others have too). These are all questions that I have to answer over and over and over. I don't know how to answer them. And if people keep staring there's only so much awkward smiling you can do before they feel bad about asking. It's nicer for everyone if you just don't say anything or keep your comments to a nice simple "That's cool."
Reactions vary, but the ones I hate most are the ones where people say, "hey, you'd be great as Catwoman," or "I bet you see great in the dark," or "they should take your eyes and put them on a movie poster, just your eyes." I've had people run away. I've had people question if I was a mutant. I had one lady at Walgreens who wanted to pay me like a circus act for entertaining her. Fortunately, the lady behind her in line talked her into buying a paper heart for the American Heart Association instead. It was the most awkward dollar transaction that I've ever been a part of. One time I even had somebody propose. He said, "Seriously, those are your real eyes? Will you marry me?" I kid you not.
So, understandably, I get tired of answering for my eyes. Yes, I like them, I think they make me unique. I wouldn't trade them and I know there are people out there who think they are perfect and beautiful, but I wish people would stop asking about them. Or at least keep your comments brief and believe me when I say "No, they're my real eyes. I was born this way." If anybody would know, I would.
Here is a good way to bring up my eyes if you are noticing them for the first time:
Me: Did you have any questions about the prescription?
You: No I don't. You have really cool eyes. How much is the copay?
Notice how you don't dwell on it, you don't repeat yourself, you don't stare awkwardly. Just continue the conversation please. If you can't imagine my eyes being legitimate and think they must be contacts, please follow this dialogue:
Me: Hi, I'd like to return these library books and see if I have any fines.
You: Okay. Hey, are those contacts?
Me: No, they're my real eyes.
You: Really, they're neat. Let's see here, it looks like you returned these within the grace period so you don't have any fines.
Me: Great, have a nice day.
Again, no dwelling. If I tell you my eyes are real and you don't believe me, keep it to yourself. Don't ask how they got like that (I stuck pins in my eyes when I was little); don't ask if I see like a normal person (well, I don't notice a difference when I take these eyes out and put in my "normal" eyes); don't ask if people ask me about them all the time (if you did, it probably means others have too). These are all questions that I have to answer over and over and over. I don't know how to answer them. And if people keep staring there's only so much awkward smiling you can do before they feel bad about asking. It's nicer for everyone if you just don't say anything or keep your comments to a nice simple "That's cool."
Reactions vary, but the ones I hate most are the ones where people say, "hey, you'd be great as Catwoman," or "I bet you see great in the dark," or "they should take your eyes and put them on a movie poster, just your eyes." I've had people run away. I've had people question if I was a mutant. I had one lady at Walgreens who wanted to pay me like a circus act for entertaining her. Fortunately, the lady behind her in line talked her into buying a paper heart for the American Heart Association instead. It was the most awkward dollar transaction that I've ever been a part of. One time I even had somebody propose. He said, "Seriously, those are your real eyes? Will you marry me?" I kid you not.
So, understandably, I get tired of answering for my eyes. Yes, I like them, I think they make me unique. I wouldn't trade them and I know there are people out there who think they are perfect and beautiful, but I wish people would stop asking about them. Or at least keep your comments brief and believe me when I say "No, they're my real eyes. I was born this way." If anybody would know, I would.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)