Chrissy's Blog

Brian and I were walking around the East Village trying to figure out what to eat. We decided to do Indian since I gave up meat for Lent. That really is a whole other post in itself.

Brian knew of an Indian place he had walked by before and had always wanted to go to. Brian has a thing about interior lighting and decorating. The place he wanted to go to had a bunch of chili pepper lights hanging from the ceiling. He couldn’t remember exactly where it was, but he wanted to walk by it before we went in.

It was lovely weather, so we wandered around until we found it. Brian realized as we were approaching that this was the place. We walk up and turn to face the restaurant. I notice that there is an upstairs and a downstairs and that there are four men standing outside. Two outside the upstairs entrance, two outside the downstairs entrance. We quickly realize that we are not standing outside of one restaurant, we are standing outside of four.

The four men see that we are there for dinner. So instantaneously they start yelling at us, trying to persuade us to come to their restaurant. I could hardly make out what they were saying, just that they were all trying to usher us into their specific restaurant. They were very much like paparazzi on a red carpet, all vying for our attention. I was very confused and started laughing hysterically, because I simply didn’t know what else to do. I turn to Brian who is also dumbfounded and trying to not laugh.

“You pick one,” he says to me. I look at him confused and overwhelmed. “JUST pick one!” he says again.
“Uh, okay. Upstairs?” I say. We start walking up the stairs as the two downstairs men start yelling at us, telling us they’ll give us free wine, better tables, better food. I’m laughing and focusing my attention on those top stairs, where two more men stand yelling at us. I just go to the right. The man at that door quickly swoops us in and slams the door. Brian deals with the maitre’d, because I can’t breathe through my laughing.

We sit at the table, and I am trying to regain my composure, but I am just staring out the window, laughing. It was the most ridiculous and unexpected thing that could have happened on a simple night out for Indian food. Brain is laughing too, but I am in a shock. Throughout dinner, Brian attempts to make conversation with me. He would later recount to friends…

“She was shell-shocked. She couldn’t speak. All she kept saying was ‘How could this happen? Why did they choose buildings next to each other!? I don’t understand how this happened.’ Then we’d laugh.”

I’m still baffled at the situation of an Indian man deciding to open an Indian restaurant right next to three others and trying to drive each other out of business by hanging more and more chilli pepper lights from the ceiling. How does that happen?

Our food was very sub-par. In New York, I live within walking distance of the best Indian food in the city, so I have high expectations, and the food was not very good. But the experience? Worth every penny.

Team Occupy Ball Street

One of my New Year’s Resolutions was to exercise once a week. I take these things seriously. So my solution was to sign up for some sort of team sport. I figured if I dropped money and also had a group of people depending on me to show up, I might actually pull myself away from watching Law & Order long enough to be physically active.

So I signed up for dodgeball. Partially for the novelty of it, partially because it didn’t seem to require skill, and mainly because I didn’t believe people would be competitive about it. It’s dodgeball, a game made famous in elementary school gymnasiums and a Vince Vaughn movie.

I enlisted in a group in New York called New York City Social Sports. A man I dated last summer told me about it and how it had changed his life. He posts about it on Facebook nearly constantly and was religious about going to his games. It’s a good concept really (similar to my beloved Pac-12 summer softball league). You sign up for a team, you play, you go out for drinks afterwards. Fun! Although it ended up defeating the purpose of my New Year’s Resolution, as we typically spent more time drinking low-quality beer instead of actually being physically active. Darn you alcohol, you’ve bested me once again.

I also learned that some people take dodgeball very seriously. Very, very, very seriously. Luckily, none of those people were on my team. But, that whole National Dodgeball Championship scene in Las Vegas in the aforementioned Vince Vaughn movie? That’s a real thing, and I met a lot of people who actually compete in it annually. These people throw those rubber balls hard, and they have strategies. Our team was rag-tag and our main goal was to get the other team out. One of the most notorious dodgeballers (his nickname is The Hulk, swear to God) eventually sat us down and went over strategy with us.

Little did he know that all the strategy was absolutely not sinking in. Why? Because we were already drunk. That was our strategy. It was to be our last game of the season. We had been brutally slaughtered in our previous games, and we knew there was no way we were making the playoffs. So we figured why not drink before the game? It might make the 50 mph rubber balls flying at us a little less intimidating. At this point, it really couldn’t hurt.

So there we are getting pointers from the Hulk, drunkenly trying to take it all in. The main strategy, which we had figured out fairly early in the season, was to try and take out the other team’s best players first. That way it is easier to pick off the weaklings at the end, the ones that can’t catch. Hopefully, if you are following this logic correctly, you’ve already figured out that this means that I am consistently the last one on my team left on the court. Hulk pointed out to me that the best thing to do in this situation is to back into a corner when it’s the other team’s turn to throw and go for a catch. It’s the only hope really, as my weak arm is never getting anybody on the other team out.

So naturally, the next game, there I stand, alone on the court, facing down four strong dodgeballers. I back into the corner, and I get ready to catch. I take a deep breath, hunch down, spread my arms for the oncoming slaughter, and pray.

You know, I think I would have actually caught one, but I was thrown off my game by the ball that hit me in the eye. And it hit me hard. How hard? It threw me back a foot so that I hit my head hard on the brick wall behind me. The other guy was out on a head shot rule, but I was also out as injured. I’m not exaggerating when I say I blacked out for a minute. I immediately got ice packs on it and sat out the rest of the game. Was it worth it? Absolutely! I met some great people and had a fun time every Wednesday night.

The day after battle, I went to work with some light bruising around my eye and a puffed up cheek scratched red from the friction of the ball. My co-workers would walk by me and ask, “What happened to you?”

Solemnly, I would reply, “Dodgeball.”

We’re awfully cute. I just felt compelled to share.

He took this on a subway ride one night before we went out. I’m so happy we’ve become friends this last year, and with his cousin/one of my dearest friends Zach visiting this weekend….it’s going to be amazing. Pure and simple.

http://blog.workisnotajob.com/post/14162125821/dreams-make-the-impossible-possible-dedication?5d470c28

I have always been an autobiographical writer. I don’t have the imagination of Roald Dahl or J.R.R. Tolkein. I can’t create worlds, and when I try, it’s never as good. My writing is at its best when I am writing from my heart. I am a storyteller of my own personal experiences. This last week I was at a bar with my Dodgeball teammates, and I was telling them a story from when I worked at the hospital in Reno. All eyes were on me. Everyone was laughing and staring at me with rapt attention. When my story concluded, my one teammate looked at me with wide eyes and said, “Do you have any more hospital stories?” I live for those moments.

I’ve been wanting to blog more, write about my life and my experiences. Like most writers, I am writing/perfecting stories in my head throughout the day. But something happens when I put myself in front of the computer.

I had kept a blog throughout high school and college, putting all my teenage angst and brand-new college experiences on the interwebs for all to see. This was before Facebook. Facebook has changed our world, how we view ourselves, how we can shape ourselves to be viewed by others. But when I was a college freshmen, it was a brand new thing, only available at mine and a handful of other universities. So I put my blog link on my about me.

I remember the moment blogging changed for me. It was the day before heading back to Reno for summer break, post-freshman year of college. My friends and I were all at a party, drinking beer, taking lots of pictures, saying our proper drunken goodbyes. At some point, a couple of my friends came up to me and told me that they read my blog.

Ah, how nice, I thought. My friends read and enjoy my blog! This is a new and exciting experience!

“So who’s the third guy?” they all asked me.

My heart sank. I knew exactly what post they were talking about. The one I didn’t think anyone was ever going to read. It listed three guys that I was flirting/involved/interested in? I don’t really remember the gist of it. But the third guy. I remember. I wrote about how I secretly cared for this person. How when he had a bad day, I wanted to make it better. How I desperately (at the time) wanted to be more than friends, but I didn’t want anyone to know about it. Now everybody knew about it! Throughout the night, different people came up to me asking me who it was. The very boy in question even came up to me and asked me who it was. But I was too young and self-conscious to simply say, “You.” I never approached blogging the same way.

The same situation has been somewhat occurring in the last year. Boys that I’ve dated or become involved with tell me they’ve read my blog, found the link on facebook, or that they googled me and found articles I’ve written elsewhere. I’ve always appreciated it immensely, especially when they gush about liking it (how flattering!), but then I find myself sitting down to write a blog and worrying about every person I’ve dated ever or been friends with ever or briefly met ever reading my blog and judging me.

I love writing that is honest, that discusses serious emotion, complicated situations. This is the kind of writer I want to be. I just don’t know if I’m brave enough to do it.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/derekgavey/4917447111/

Let me introduce you all to a new holiday! It’s January 23rd!

In Brian’s family, they celebrate that day every year. Why? The real question is why not. I thought it was a little strange at first as he explained to me that they all got together, dressed in silly costumes and toasted the day. Sometimes his family would have a murder mystery dinner party, sometimes they’d play poker, and sometimes they’d play strip yahtzee. Living in New York, Brian decided to throw his own January 23rd event in the West Village at a karaoke bar.

An amalgamation of people showed up, some of us wearing silly hats, all of us ready to drink and sing. Highlights included Brian’s falsetto “Kiss” by Prince, “A Whole New World” with a very deep, baritone singing as Princess Jasmine, and my rendition of “Just a Friend” by Biz Markie (if I do say so myself.)

By the end of the night I was sold on the holiday. It was a day to celebrate and have fun with friends. One could argue that most weekends/birthdays/random Thursdays can represent the same thing. But what makes holidays so special anyways? Aren’t they all just another day in the calendar year? Sometimes I feel pretty burnt out on other holidays. Christmas never seems to live up to the heartwarming hype that we are bombarded with. Halloween comes with an enormous amount of pressure to find a costume that makes you look attractive/creative/entertaining, and you have to find a party to go to with equally attractive, creative, entertaining people. Valentine’s Day used to be fun, but I’ve been bombarded with heart-shaped things for the last month, and I kind of want to just get it over with.

January 23rd is different. It’s a secret among us few elite. No special decorations, no traditions, special recipes, stupid songs. Just. Have. Fun. With your friends! With your family! With some random lonely dude who sings a mean “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at a karaoke bar.

As I headed out that night, I promised Brian that I too would carry on the memory of January 23rd from that day on. He told me, “Our motto is ‘spread the word.'” Okay, he kind of drunkenly slurred it, and I’m pretty sure he made it up then and there. But the fact that January 23rd has no motto makes it all the better!

I don’t think it’s any secret that I form attachments to strange things. Like when I yawn, this weird creaking noise comes out of the deepest recesses of my throat. I just love it!

So I’ve fallen in love with a train. I guess the love has been there for a while, but it was a couple of drunken weekends ago that I professed my love to poor Gian. I believe I casually asked him what his favorite train was. He doesn’t have one. He asked me what mine was.

“The R! I love the R! It’s just the best! No train can beat it! I love its dirty floors. I love its horrible color scheme! I LOVE THE R!!”

And I do. Sometimes I will walk far out of my way so that I can get to an R train. On my return from Philadelphia this last weekend, my bus dropped me off right by the E train which would have quickly taken me home. Nope! I walked the extra 10 minutes to the R train. And after a weekend out of New York City, when I saw that yellow circle round the corner, my heart sprang to life. It’s my R.

The reasons I love this train are manifold:

1. The aforementioned color-scheme. Unlike the sterile blue of most MTA trains, the R train retains this orange/yellow/brown theme. Sound hideous? It kind of is. But those colors are warm, and it does my soul good to see them.
2. The seats are situated so that more people get a chance to sit down. Trust me, I’ve done the math. Also, some of the seats face forwards as opposed to sideways. Getting one of these seats on my morning commute brightens my entire day.
3. It goes through three boroughs. Queens, Manhattan, and Brooklyn. Typically wherever I am going, I can take the R. Sometimes it is out of the way or takes longer than other trains, but I simply don’t mind.
4. It goes local through Queen. Some people might consider this a draw-back, but to me I get some extra time with whatever book I’m reading.
5. The music is the best. There’s the group of small Mexican, mariachi men. There’s the couple that play the accordion and carry their baby for pity. Brian is writing an article about the girl in the following video. When he showed it to me, I immediately squealed with glee, because I knew it was the R train. This is what happens on the best train in NYC. I’ve ridden them all, and none come close to the R in my heart.

A couple of weekends ago, my co-worker Jess texted me to let me know that a theatre in New York was showing Beauty and the Beast in 3D. Jess and I tend to get in heated and profoundly ridiculous debates. We’ve fought over whether Bert and Ernie can be considered humans. We’ve fought over the flavor vanilla (I’m a fan, and she’s not). But our most intense debate was over Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid. I think B&B is the best Disney love-story. She thinks LM is.

She’s nuts.

She claims that B&B isn’t a good love story, because the beast is a monster who essentially kidnaps her. She believes that Belle falling in love with him is creepy, because he is of a different and unclassifiable species. But at least he’s a mammal! Ariel is also of a different species, and can we talk about how shallow Prince Eric is?! He never speaks to Ariel. He likes her, because he found her semi-naked on a beach. There is no debate that he is the most attractive of the Disney princes, but he’s also a tool.

I digress.

I made plans with my friend Kayla to go to the Ziegfield theatre to see B&B 3D on Sunday after I got out of work.  I texted her, and there was a miscommunication of dates, and she was unavailable. The movie was going to start in about half an hour, and it was my only free day that week. I texted Gian, but it wasn’t enough notice for him. So I went by myself.

The Ziegfield theatre is an old-fashioned theatre in Midtown. They have large swooping stairs, elephant statues lining the walls, and each of the bathroom stalls have their own private sink. Fancy!

So I took myself on a lovely me-date. Shouldn’t you occasionally show the ones you love just how much you care? Shouldn’t you love yourself? Shouldn’t you spend an afternoon treating yourself like a Queen? Yes, yes, yes.

I bought myself popcorn, a soda, and sat in the fifth row, which is my favorite row in movie theatres. Seeing the movie on the big screen for the first time in something like 20 years was incredible. I felt like a little girl again. I also had chills down my spine throughout the movie. The music! The drawings! The library he gives her! The Little Mermaid is pretty good, but Beauty and the Beast is definitely the best.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/moriza/96724309/

I’ve gone out pretty much every night for the last couple of weeks. Not necessarily out partying. Sometimes I go to a friend’s apartment for dinner, sometimes I play poker with some softball friends, and sometimes I’m eating Jambalaya in the East Village with my nearest and dearest.

A cold finally caught up with me, but it didn’t stop me from going out every night last week. I was exhausted and sniffly. So Friday night (despite having spent the entire day in bed reading/watching “Intervention”), I had to call it an early night and leave the bar a bit after midnight.

I was standing at the subway platform, mindlessly staring down the track. I felt happy. I like where things are heading. I don’t know how I ended up here, but it feels right. I am trying to teach myself to not worry about the unknowables and just enjoy the wonderful present. And after a couple of years of discontentment, I’m basking in the glow of now.

In my tipsy/sniffly/exhausted/blissful haze, I realized that I was staring at a man walking down the platform towards me. He was attractive, and when I realized what I was doing, I quickly looked away. He kept walking toward me, and I looked back to realize he was waving and had an adorable grin on his face. He had his ipod in, and I had mine. I looked around to see who he was waving at. That’s when he stopped about two feet in front of me: smiling, waving, just…standing there?

I slowly took my hand out of my pocket, raised it up, and waved back at him. That’s when he gave me the most triumphant high-five of my life. And through The Clash playing loudly in my ears, I heard him yell, “Yeah!” as he walked away.

It was such a good moment. It was as if the universe heard me thinking, “I’m happy!” and sent me a big “Good for you!”

I didn’t chase after him. He didn’t come back and talk to me. But that moment was so pure and wonderful. I hope he was feeling as happy as I was at that moment.

11-week-old Frenchie named Bailey

One of the most common reactions people have when I tell them that I work at a vet clinic is “Oh man, I could never do that. I love animals too much, and I could never deal with putting them to sleep.”

This is such a crazy response to me. I love animals, and I want to be around them. My answer is always a cheesy, “Well, it’s just the circle of life, ya know. You put a really great dog to sleep, and you feel sad, then a cute puppy comes in the door, and you remember how wonderful the world is.”

I worked 12 hours today, and my day started and ended with an adorable French Bulldog puppy named Bailey. Her owner had to go in to the hospital, so she is boarding with us. Throughout the day, somebody was always holding her, coddling her. I kept her up at the front desk for a while where she gnawed on a highlighter. It was so cute I thought my eyeballs were melting out of my head.

The day was fairly busy, and it was the first day that my new tech-in-training status was out in the open. I still work reception during the week, so there was a lot of teasing. As I carried a smelly stool sample into the lab, another receptionist said, “Aw, soon you’ll get to search poop for parasites.”

I smiled and shrugged, but what I wish I’d said was, “I’d rather deal with poop that people’s poopy attitudes!” And that’s the truth.

I ran to drop off some charts in Dr. S’s office when I passed Dr. G holding the Frenchie puppy. He placed the pup in my arms, and I held her while her nose got cleaned and she got a shot or two. I kissed her on the head, she licked my cheeks, I handed her back to a real tech and headed to the front desk.

Later, I was again walking through treatment when a scrubbed-up tech put a large bloody thing in my face.
“Oh God! What is that?” I shrieked.
“It’s the mass Dr. S just removed from that poodle! This will soon be your job!”
“Oh joy!”

Around 7, a man called the office. It was the owner of the poodle who had surgery.
“How’s my baby doing?”
“He’s doing great. They were able to take the mass out, and now he’s curled up in a ball napping.”
“Fantastic. We’ll talk to Dr. S. in the morning.”

The last appointment ran late. The dog had to be sedated to obtain some x-rays, and he was having a hard time waking up from the medications. I sat at the front desk with the Frenchie pup napping in my arms, reading a book on animal handling one of the vets lent me. At long last, the final appointment leaves. I return the pup to her cage and head to treatment to ask Dr. J if I can head home. A kennel staff runs towards me.
“Get Dr. S on the phone! Now! A dog is dying!” He turns around and runs into the back.
“Which one?!” I yell after him. But he’s gone. I run to the phone.
“Dr. S? There’s something wrong. They need to talk… for you to tell them… someone’s dying.” I connect the phones in the treatment area, standing there helpless as the poodle from the surgery before struggles for life.

“I need you to breathe for him,” Dr. J tells me. She quickly shows me how to use the machine, and I watch as my hands pump air into the tiny, fury body. All I can think about is how I had half an hour earlier told the owner that his dog was fine. Dr. J is taking bloods, x-rays, injecting meds, monitoring the heart. My mind is struggling to take it all in, understand what she is doing. I find myself envious of her expertise and anxious for the day when I have it as well.

Eventually Dr. J sighs.

“You can stop the breathing. He’s gone,” she tells me. I do and can’t look away from the lifeless body.

But at some point I do look away. I take a deep breath and decide to go home. As I leave, I stop by the pup’s cage. She looks up at me sleepily, and I whisper a goodnight.

It was a sad day, because someone’s best friend died. It was a happy day, because someone’s new puppy squirmed and snuggled with all of us. Maybe some people could never really work there. But for all the ups and downs, I love what I do.