Barefoot

I did something slightly nutty at work a few months ago. I agreed to do some work on the side as a favor to a doctor. One of my colleagues has been doing some great work recently, with a few publications and a lot of recognition and I wanted a piece of it as well. So when an enthusiastic doctor with a great project came along in need of help, I jumped on board. And when my managers didn't want to approve the project, I agreed to do it anyway, on the weekends.

Then, one weekend, I spent every hour of my son's nap time and few more in the evening working on this project in a desperate attempt to meet a Monday deadline.  By Sunday afternoon, my house was a wreck, I hadn't worked out, I hadn't finished the project, and I had an enormous to-do list that I hadn't even started yet hanging over my head.  "Wow, I can sure tell a difference on the weeks I don't clean," I said (passive-aggressively) to my husband.  Ever naive he responded, "It looks the same to me." Wrong answer. "I need a workout and I need to talk to Abbie," I said and grabbed my phone on the way out the door.

I explained the situation to her and in the process realized that it made no sense at all for me to cut back on my paid-time at work in order to spend more time with my child and then take on additional projects that had me working overtime on the weekends.  "What was I thinking?" I asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I know it isn't the money that drives you.  There is a word for what's motivating you, but I can't put my finger on it."
"I can't either, but it doesn't matter.  What matters is how do I get myself out of this without looking awful for agreeing to do something and not following through?"
So we came up with a speech and a few answers so I was ready in case the doctor thought I wanted to negotiate.  I headed home a much calmer woman than I had left.

On Monday, I rushed in to work for an early morning meeting, leaving Vince and Evan munching breakfast in their pajamas.  And as I expected, the doctor called. He had found some money to pay for my time, but I was ready with an answer, "I'm not really motivated by money. I don't work 100% time because I need to spend time with my son. I was motivated by the project, because I believe in it and I think it can help patients, but I can't do it. But I can help transition it to someone who has more time available to devote. I am thrilled you have funding for that. I'll work to make the transition as smooth as possible." He was gracious and understanding. He has a son the same age as mine and he missed the birth because he was working, he said he had paid a high price and learned the importance of family time the hard way.

On the way to pick up Evan after work, I called Abbie to report the good news.  While talking to her, I realized something else.  "It's true I wanted to help people, and I do believe in his project, but I think what really motivated me is that I wanted to be important." "That's it!" she said. "That's what I was thinking yesterday, but didn't know how to say." We hung up and I headed to the daycare playground.

"Mama!"
"Evan, where is your coat? Where are your shoes?"
Evan pedaled happily over to me on his little tricycle as his teacher rushed up to get to me first, "This is how your husband brought him in," she said. "No coat, no shoes." It was 40 degrees outside.  One of the little girls was crying she was so cold.  Evan was totally unfazed and happy as could be.  I was simultaneously appalled and yet somehow relieved. I am important. My son needs me. It was the best confirmation I could have I made the right decision for me and for our family.

Happy Halloween!

I'm stealing this story, so my apologies to the original teller...

We went to our neighbor's house for Halloween.  The hostess opened the door in a polyester wedding dress, full veil, curled tendrils of hair framing her heavily made up face with it's shockingly blue eye shadow.  Her pregnant tummy jutted out under the empire waste, lifting the hemline enough to display her bare feet.  "Ah, barefoot and pregnant," I see.  Her husband came in with camo suspenders, the Mormon equivalent of a wife beater t-shirt, and a bow tie. "We're a shotgun wedding," she responded.

My husband, asked, "Is that really your wedding dress?" I nearly died.  There is no way this woman got married in a polyester wedding dress that looked anything like the one she had on.   Ever polite, she launched into her story before I had time to apologize on his behalf.

"I actually got it on Craig's List.  I went over to this sweet, Mormon woman's house and when she saw me, she said 'I made it temple-ready, so it's all ready to go. ' (This means sleeves and a high neck).  And then I took off my coat.  I was wearing it when I got there, so she couldn't see my stomach.  When I took off my coat, she just went, 'OH.' Uncomfortable pause. 'Well, do you think it's still going to fit you?"  "Let's find out!" I said, and slid it on and had her zip me up.  'Yup. It fits! I'll take it!' She was mortified.  You don't want a pregnant woman to fit into your wedding dress, no matter who you are or what they are doing with it."

"Oh no!" I responded. "Did you tell her what you were going to do with it?"

"Yes, but I don't know what's worse, 'I'm going to defile your wedding dress by using it for my shotgun wedding or use it as a Halloween costume to dress up like it's a shotgun wedding'. Most uncomfortable Craig's List exchange ever!"

In a Second

I wrote this July 2010, but since this day really wasn't about me, I never posted it, so I am now in the hope that having two items published this weekend will motivate me to come back here again soon.

Most changes in life seem to come about in slow motion, without any climactic moment. I look back over my life over the past few years and see how much I have changed and how much my surroundings have changed. But there are a few threshold moments when people cross from one state in to another and life will never be the same again and in those moments, life's drama can be overwhelming.

It started with my best friend's husband calling and saying that they were at the hospital and had been there all night and asked if I could let the dog out. He told me not to worry, they were just keeping my friend at the hospital to watch her. She had some early labor contractions (she isn't due for 5 weeks) and they just wanted to keep her under observation for a while longer. We checked on their shitzu and waited to hear more news. I sent a text, updating the status of the sweet little dog. The response, "Thanks my mom is going to get her" which meant that child birth had started and they were staying at the hospital. I called her mom immediately for an update, "Yup, this baby is coming today, Lins! I am so nervous, I can barely sit in my seat. I'm driving back from Idaho right now. I just hope I get there. I'll keep you posted."

I sat down like the wind had been knocked out of me. Vince looked over at me, "That's great!" he said.
"I know. I am just overwhelmed," I said.
"Why?"
"I'm not ready."
"What do you mean you aren't ready? This can't be a surprise. You clearly knew this was coming."

Of course I knew this was coming. I've been looking forward with anticipation to meeting this little boy. My friend has been waiting for this day and is incredibly well prepared- far in advance. The showers were thrown, the nursery ready, the pediatrician chosen, the birthing classes finished. Thank god my friend is someone who likes to meet her deadlines well in advance! And I have been an observer and occasional participant through all of it. Which is why I was baffled to find that I continued to find myself crying throughout the day.

"What's wrong?" Vince asked as I broke into tears over lunch.
"I'm just shocked. I mean, they should both be fine. It's early, but at her appointment this week they said she is one week from full term. So they should be ok. I am sure they will be ok."
"Then what's wrong?"

Everything. It was too soon. I know how prepared my friend likes to be. If I was in shock, she must be having an out of body experience at this point. I was sure of it. This was not how she wanted this to unfold. And for my part, I was nervous on her behalf, and on behalf of her little boy. That's what I was feeling and what I was'supposed' to be feeling. But what I wasn't supposed to feel, were the other emotions clamoring up and catching me off guard.

Why isn't it my turn?
We are no longer the same.
My best friend is a mom and I'm not. What if I never am? What if this is where our path divides and suddenly her life is absorbed into things I can't relate to- like potty training- and there isn't room left for us?
How will we spend time together?
Why couldn't I be first?
It's never going to be the same again.

I was horrified at myself. Here in the biggest moment of my friend's life I was worrying about me. And my place in her life and her place in mine. And the place of children in my own life. I am scared of having children and scared of not having them.

Part of what is funny about this wave of emotion is that my friend started talking about all of these fears, before she even tried to have a baby. "What if it changes everything? What if I lose my friends? What if I can't relate to people anymore? What if they can't relate to me?" We discussed this repeatedly and I always reassured her. "That will never happen. You are you and will continue to be you. You will make new 'mommy friends' and you will stay in touch with your old friends too." I never once doubted this would be true, but just in case we came up with plans to make sure that her present identity wouldn't be swallowed up by mommy-hood. We have a 'no-baby-talk' policy at book club, so that everyone at least once a month can relate to the same topic. We have a monthly get-together with the gang of girls where we are all on the same footing, mothers or not. I was amazed at her preparation, for anticipating all the fears that were only now hitting me and suddenly overwhelmingly real.

I kept running to the phone with every text, waiting for news. Finally, a text from the grandmother reporting time of arrival and size of the new little life. I cried again, with relief, happiness, and anxiety. And then the phone rang. It was Abbie.
"Oh my god, oh my god! How are you?" I asked, my voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I keep crying," I confessed.
"You and me both," she said.
"I'm not ready!" I said, "so, I can only imagine how you feel."
"You have no idea. There was one point during all of this where I turned to K and said, 'Is this not the most surreal day of your life?'"
Hearing her talk, knowing she was really ok, feeling the flood of relief hit me, I realized how afraid I had been that something would go wrong and that she wouldn't be ok. Hearing her be herself, with her down-to-earth sense of humor, that had me both laughing and crying, another wave of relief hit me. She was still herself. I was still myself. And while everything was different, my anxiety about losing my best friend quietly receded.

Reawakening

Almost seven years ago, I landed back in Utah, unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to breathe with no idea of what I would do next.  I had whittled my entire life down to two suitcases and six boxes, but in spite of that, I had several things that were no longer of use to me: a wedding ring, photo albums of happy years in multiple cities, sentimental notes and cards.  I tossed all of them in a box, labeled it "Emotional Baggage" and had my stepdad tuck it away in some dark corner, until I had both a home to put it in and a heart to make some decisions about what to do with it. 

I have a home now, one that is currently covered in dust from a remodel of the basement, and I have a heart that is full with the love of a happy two year old boy and his joyful father.  The basement remodel means that we are losing the tiny bit of storage space we once had and so I am in the throws of an urge to remove from my life as much clutter and waste as possible.  If I haven't used it recently, I want it out!    

 This urge got me thinking about the other box I have waiting in the dark corner in a storage unit across town. 

A few weeks ago, I went to an Indigo Girls' concert.  When I was in junior high and high school, this was my band. I loved them.  The first day of 9th grade I wore one of their concert t-shirts to school and a future friend of mine commented that he was sure I was an "FLA" member (Future Lesbians of America).  Into my twenties I loved them.  They make me think of camping, road trips with friends and my sister and my mom. They were my companions and the way to and from school and then to Japan and across Europe. I introduced them to my ex, who liked them as well, but commented, 'You know, they really use a lot of cliches in their lyrics'.  I was determined to not let this ruin them for me, but I failed.  I listened to one of my favorite songs and counted 7 cliches before I gave up and all at once,  my love affair was over. In one of my many moves in my twenties I packed up their cds and never bothered to unpack them when I arrived at my destination. 

So, this summer, when my sister suggested we go to their concert, I was ambivalent. But, it was outdoors with a picnic and wine and her company and friends in the mountains. So, I went.  And it was amazing to see them, in person, exactly like I remembered them from tape covers when I was 14 years old. I was so energized by hearing all my old songs, by feeling the ghost of me in my awkward teenage years awaken that I couldn't sit down. I walked up and down the green mountain side, while the July sun set.

"Krantzy!" I heard someone call out my high school nickname and turned to find a friend of mine fthat I hadn't seen since I was known as Krantzy, although she had made a few different efforts to reach out to me through common acquaintances and facebook. "I can't believe it!" She said. "I thought that was you, but here- at Indigo Girls' concert?! You introduced me to the Indigo Girls!"

She was a sweet, sweet girl, who became a lovely woman. I hadn't meant to shut her off.  In high school, she had had a bit of a crush on me, that made me a little uncomfortable, but that was hardly her fault. I did after all introduce her to the Indigo Girls, and the closest thing I had to a boyfriend in high school was my delightful, gay friend Dave, and I never said anything to her about feeling uncomfortable.  

"You know, there aren't many people from high school I see anymore," she said. "I just felt different after high school and the connections just fell away, but I always wanted to see you and wondered how you are. You really made an impact on me."  See what I mean? She is a sincere, lovely woman, who then went on to introduce me to her partner of 14 years. 14 YEARS.  What an accomplishment for any relationship.  I'm jealous, to be honest. 

I got teary hearing her story and seeing her happy and meeting her partner and wondered why I had cut off my friendships, hers among many.  The same way I just put the Indigo Girls CDs in the box again and never bothered to open them,  I have a history of doing that with friends too.  I take one from each era of my life: A from junior high, D from high school, K from college, L from Sweden, L from Boston and they are the inner circle, my source of strength. This has been my means of surviving and moving on to the next part of my life.  But I regret the people I have hurt by doing this and there are several people whose absence has left a mark on my life. 

Listening to the music and singing along with my sister like we used to when I would drive us to school made me aware of the parts of me that connected me back to my old self.  I didn't really like many parts of that old self.  She was insecure, overweight, saddled down with sadness, by turns euphoric with the Holy Spirit and then riddled with guilt when she wasn't.  She was exhausting and it was a hard battle to learn to love this body that I shared with her. To peel off the dowdy clothes, the extra pounds, the religious garments, and the envelope of sadness and after doing so, I didn't want there to be ties to that life.  But there they were, in the music, in my sister, in the face of an old friend who had also come into her own and it seemed possible that perhaps I could do the same, that I could keep what was valuable and interesting and cast off what wasn't.  It seemed like it was time to clean out what I didn't need in those storage boxes and re-embrace what was worth keeping. 

  

Making Friends with the Neighbors

"I didn't tell you what happened at Subway," Vin said.
"There was this little girl in line- like 8 or so and she was trying to get her mom's attention and the mom just wouldn't listen. So the little girl grabbed a moth and held it by its wing and showed it to her mom.
'Look what I found, mom! Look! Look!'
And the mom wasn't really paying attention. Just said, 'Yuck' or something. So the little girl started playing with the moth and holding it up to her mouth.
'Look, mom! Look! I'm gonna eat it! What will you give me if I eat it?'
And the mom still wasn't fully paying attention and just said, 'Oh yuck. Don't eat it.'
And the little girl answered, 'I'm gonna eat it! I'm gonna eat it!'
So I answered, 'You are not gonna eat it. That's gross. No one eats moths.' And I turned to the mom and said, 'You should totally call that bet! She's not gonna eat it. Tell her what you'll give her if she eats it.'
So the mom laughed and said, 'Fine. I'll give you a dollar if you eat it.'
And the little girl looked at her mom, looked at me, looked back at her mom and asked, 'You'll give me a dollar if I eat it?'
And the mom shrugged and said, 'Sure' and laughed again.
And with that - she ATE it! She put it in her mouth and swallowed and then coughed on the month dust!'"
"What! You caused a neighbor kid to eat a moth in front of her mother?" I asked. "Oh my god. I am so glad I wasn't there. I would have died."
"I didn't think she would eat it. I mean who eats moths?" he laughed. "Bleh."
"What did the mom say?" I asked.
"She just shrugged and laughed."

Halloween

In the movie Mean Girls, the main character realizes that in “Girl World” Halloween is just an excuse to dress up slutty. I remember the realization I experienced watching this movie. "I know!" I thought. "Why didn't anyone tell me that before?"
This tradition about Halloween completely baffles me and I had never had anyone put it into words.

I remember seeing this the first time riding the bus through the college section of Boston on Halloween night. "Who are these girls?" I thought, watching out the bus window as troupes of mostly naked college women roamed from club to club. At the same time, I am sure part of me thought, "Hey! How come I'm not one of them?" It's the repulsion/attraction that is the oddest part of the sexy Halloween costume phenomenon. I was repelled by watching women who felt the need to dress up in ridiculously skimpy, overpriced outfits and freeze themselves in the middle of the night to compete for men who barely bother to put on anything interesting. And at the same time I thought, “Wow, some of those girls look great. I want to look like that.”

For the past two years I've gone out dancing on Halloween and found myself surrounded by girls in these costumes and each year thought, "I could do that. I could pull that off. That's what I'll do next year." So this year, I thought would be the year. Vin and I went from Halloween store to Halloween store looking at the costumes. "I'll be whatever you think is the sexiest," I said. "After all, I'm dressing up to look sexy for you," I told him - and myself. There were nearly-naked Tinkerbells, princesses, witches, nurses, etc. Vin looked at them and shrugged. "Come on, don't you want to see me as a sexy cop?" I asked. "It doesn't really do it for me," he answered. There was one costume in our entire survey of Halloween stores that he liked. It was the Gothic Angel that came complete with a ratty, black lace dress. I think it took him back to his high school days as a skater. "That would be hot," he said. "Uh, no," was my immediate response, which is when I should have admitted to myself that I was NOT interested in dressing up for him, but rather in dressing up for me.

His lack luster response made me start thinking, "Do men really not like these costumes? Is that possible?" And then he came back from a trip to California where he went to an Octoberfest party. The party organizers hired a group of Octoberfest girls in outfits that Vin referred to as 'leiderhosen', which were definitely not leiderhosen. They were little mini dresses that left lots of cleavage and leg exposed. And in the photos of the trip are pictures with each of his guy friends with enormous grins on their faces posing surrounded by 'Leiderhosen' girls. I laughed when I saw the pictures, relieved that I had been saved from convincing myself of an obvious fallacy.

In the end, I couldn't bring myself to even try on any of the costumes. I was baffled to find that I couldn't do it and that I wanted someone else, in this case Vin, to fully convince me it was a good idea. And when he failed to do it, I was frustrated. Why do I need someone else to convince me to dress like a slut if I am doing this for myself? And why do I want to dress like a slut in the first place? After a month of thinking about this, I still don't have an answer. In the end, I settled on a cat costume, composed mostly of clothes I already had.

On Halloween, emails and text messages from friends showed they were getting cold feet about their costumes. I asked Abbie what she had decided to be, "Wouldn't you like to know!" she responded. "I just went and got a costume, but you'll have to wait and see. It's great!" I wondered which sort of sexy character she was going to be this year. When the door opened and she walked in that night, I didn't recognize her. She was draped head to toe in a sheet with two holes for the eyes. She danced like a loon on the dance floor, her sheet flying in all directions. "I decided to bag all of it this year. Forget the stress of those costumes. I don't want to work that hard. I get why some women find the burka liberating!" she said, twirling around in her sheet.

I called my uncle after Halloween. "Your mom said she had a great time at your party," he said. "She said you looked like no cat she had ever seen. She said there are some things you just don't want to see your daughter wearing."
"Marc," I responded, "she has no idea what the alternatives were like."

Grandma Alaska

One of my favorite books is called The Big Love by Sarah Dunn. The December I spent in Utah trying to muster enough strength to begin to make a decision about what would be good for me, rather than what would be good for Yuval, Abbie and I went down to Southern Utah. She had just finished reading this book and handed it off to me as a light, chick-lit read. I ended up laughing out loud, and Abbie would ask, "Oh, which part are you reading?" and I'd read her the page or the paragraph. After a dozen times of this happening, I just ended up reading the entire book out loud to her.

The protagonist is a formerly-religious young woman discovering dating and love as a newly non-religious, completely neurotic adult. What I loved about this protagonist is that she was so similar to me and what I loved about the book is that it read like sitting down and having a series of long talks with a close friend, or soon to be close friend.

One of the elements of the book that I related to entirely and had never heard expressed in writing was the Grandma Alaska dilemma. In the book, the protagonist finally sleeps with the man of her fantasies, but instead of actually describing the scene, she steps away from the action and apologizes. She explains that Grandma Alaska is her religious grandma, whose name, by the way, is not actually Alaska, and that Grandma Alaska will read this book and be so proud of her granddaughter for having written it. She knows that if she wrote a sex scene into the book, Grandma Alaska would clearly read it and she can't write about having sex knowing that Grandma Alaska will read it, and so, as long as Grandma Alaska is alive, there will be no sex scenes to speak of and the reader is just going to have to imagine one for herself.

My response to this is two-fold. First, I think, you have got to be kidding me! You are an adult and a writer and you need to get over Grandma Alaska and actually write. How can an artist limit themselves and their work like that? That seems weak and rather shameful. The other part of me wants to slap the author on the back and say, "You too? Man, I dream about writing a book, but the only way I can imagine doing that is as a "novel" with a pen name. I mean, what would my aunt Jaydene who spends all her time doing genealogy for the Mormon church and researching religious composers say if I wrote how I really talk, let alone how I really think? She's so sweet, she'd buy a copy of my book to support me and then have to remove it from her house as inappropriate reading material. I mean, I don't think she's seen a Rated-R movie in her life."

I don't know how to handle my own Grandma Alaska dilemma. I do dream of writing a novel, but it does seem so frightening to put my wholly improper self down in words. I don't know if I could stop worrying about Grandma Alaska.

Where does the time go?

I walk around baffled these days. I am busy all of the time and yet, am accomplishing what feels like absolutely nothing. It's the banal trap of modern existence; I seem to be spending so much time not letting life pass me by, that it appears life is passing me by.

I found myself eating "dinner" (baby carrots and hummus) at 9:00 tonight in the Target parking lot and breathing deep. I'd been to The Home Depot about an hour before to buy Round II of mouse traps. Apparently, the mice in my house (newly discovered as of yesterday) laugh in the face of the Tomcat brand mousetraps carried at Target and all my neighborhood grocery stores. They licked every little bit of peanut butter off the traps and then scampered away carefree. They've set up camp around the trashcan under my kitchen sink. I am utterly horrified that I have to decide to either kill them or live with their tiny little poop and it turns out, murder is easier to bear than poop. So I stocked up on two new types of mousetraps, ran to the liquor store for tequila (it's Cinco de Mayo tomorrow), and then Target for Margarita mix, and before I knew it, it was 9:00 and I was eating dinner in my car.

I rushed home to make brownies for a co-worker's birthday and while those were in the oven, I mixed up another batch for book club, did a batch of laundry, attempted to clean my room, set up a plethora of mouse traps, took out one batch of brownies, drizzled it with an attractive topping, and put in the second batch. I tried to cut the first batch of brownies and found that they weren't really brownies, so much as they were warmed brownie dough that had already cooled and then been decorated. I couldn't even get a knife through them. It just sort of balled up the dough like freshly turned mud after a hard rain. I started playing with the dough, since there was no sense preserving these non-brownie brownies. I absolutely love to bake and a brownie mix is something I use only in extreme cases, like today, so I find it particularly entertaining that I managed to screw it up. But what really kills me, is how happy I just made a little family of mice who have probably already discovered a warm mess of brownie dough in my kitchen trash can that came down like chocolate manna from heaven.

The moral of this story (besides that perhaps I shouldn't feel bad for giving my mice a last meal (I hope it's their last meal)) is that I need to quit something. Why must I celebrate every random holiday, agree to host book club, be the person to make something for my co-worker's birthday, and still work out 5-6 days a week? That's right, there is absolutely NO reason. If all it takes me to see this is a $3.00 box of ruined brownies, I'll consider this a cheap lesson indeed. We'll see.

Hunting for my dream job

I've been out of town three of the last four weekends this month. Two of these weekends were purely recreational, but one left me feeling more stressed rather than less. The other weekend was a weekend cat sitting for a friend of mine who had major surgery last week. She has two spoiled cats with a plastic fetish. A truely insane and frightening disorder, which causes them to hunt out and actually consume plastic in any form, but particularly plastic bags. I watched them with an eagle eye and safely kept them away from my grocery sacks and garbage bags. Little did I realize that my sexiest pair of three-inch silk heels was lined with plastic kitty-crack, until I glanced down at my shoes at work the next day and found the sole of my shoe, right around the peek-a-boo toe, missing. For those of you not into shoes, this means the one spot that is meant to draw your attention has been gnawed. I wore them into the office today anyway and found myself absent-mindedly tracing little kitty teeth marks around the edge of the plastic lining all around the silk. Somehow, in spite of the stress of guarding living animals from something that their instincts should clearly have prepared them to avoid, I found myself refreshed from the weekend.

I think in part it had to do with spending time at the hospital with my friend. She was in a morphine haze and remembers that I visited her only because of the sound of my chewed up heels clicking on the hallway as I escorted her to a follow-up x-ray. But I remember helping her sit up and transfer to her wheelchair, giving her a foot rub so some part of her body would experience something besides pain, listening to her ramble, reading her get-well cards to her because her eyes couldn't focus, and doing anything else I could to make her feel comfortable. I left the hospital incredibly light-hearted, realizing once again that I am the happiest when I am taking care of other people. Which was a lovely realization, particularly now, as I am trying to spend some time focused on identifying what I want to be when I grow up.

In the past, I never had to waste too much time pondering. It seemed like opportunities were constantly falling in my lap in the past. For example, I'd think, "I'd like to live in Israel" and life would answer, "How about an all expenses paid internship that you don't even have to apply for because no one else is on campus and we'll send anyone, just so we can have a program up and running?" Or I'd think, "I'd like to go back to grad school," and life would answer, "Why not in public health- we'll pay for it?" And I said, "Sure! What's public health?" Or how about a job in Israel, or a job in Salt Lake? I took both with less than a week or two off from the previous job. I needed a switch and there was the opportunity.

So, now, I need another switch and life has yet to hand me a game-show style life-changing gift. It turns out I may be at that point in my life where I need to go out and look for it. I'll be honest, I've been spoiled and at first I think I was a little put out, but now, I am looking around and thinking, "What is it I actually want out of life?" and "What will it take me to get there?" Surprisingly (to me anyway), thirty years on the planet hasn't done much to help me answer those questions. And so, leaving the hospital with my heart light it was enlightening to remember that taking care of people is something I really love. So, then, how do I apply this knowledge? Along with the knowledge that I love to write, I love to collaborate with people, oh, and I love to eat, but I am not really sure I should have a dream job that would involve eating. I might love that a little too much.