27 Before 27

16 Sep

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I’m 26! And I had an amazing transitional week from 25 to 26. The Saturday before my birthday, I invited a hodgepodge of friends to a small gathering at a West Village bar. I’ve been in New York for two years now, and I was touched to realize that I have such an amazing group of people who love and support me. It was one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had, and I still get warm, fuzzy feelings thinking about that night. My phone still can’t take pictures, so the only real picture I have from that night is the one my friend Kristina took of all the Vet office co-workers that were there.

What was amazing about my birthday was that I had my vet office friends, my softball friends, my soccer friends, my Seattle friends, my Think Coffee friends, my roommates, my crazy dentist office friends, etc. At one point my new man companion made a comment that all of my friends were so different from one another, but the one thing they all had in common was that they were all warm, kind, fun people. I feel I’ve done well for myself.

However, I have not done well for myself as far as my 26 before 26 list goes. I only completed 12 things. And many of the items left behind were not so difficult that I have a good excuse for not doing them. But I will do better this year, I will focus, and I hopefully won’t wait until December to knock the first one off.

One thing I decided to do was to roll over the unfinished items to the new list. But I’ve starred them below to keep track of which ones are taking me the longest.

1. Read Moby Dick– It’s a classic. It’s considered one of the great, defining American novels. I know all the basics about it, but I’ve never actually read it. It’s so monstrous and intimidating, but I owe it to American literature to read it.

2. Eat pork belly– I’ve heard it’s delicious. My former life as a vegetarian for eight years makes me somewhat standoffish when it comes to meat which is why I’ve never had it. A funny note, I mentioned to a co-worker of mine that I was putting it on my list, and he told me that pork belly was so four years ago and not in culinary vogue anymore. Oh, New York, you crazy, nonsensical place.

3. Write a fan letter*- Last year when I put this on the list I thought I was going to write one to Tina Fey. However, at this point in time, I would like to write one to Ira Glass! That dashing nerd! We’ll see.

4. Get a professional massage- I’ve had plenty of amateur ones, but I think I’d like to get the real deal. I work hard. I deserve it.

5. Donate blood- It’s such a simple thing that could mean so much to someone, but I’ve never done it, because blood used to freak me out. With my new career as a Vet Tech, it doesn’t bother me. In fact, it’s kind of neat.

6. Do some gardening*- Ya know, I actually did sign up for a volunteer gardening project in the Lower East Side, but when I showed up, I was actually assigned to re-paint jungle gym equipment, so I did try. But I failed.

7. Anonymously pay someone’s tab*- Does the fact that I haven’t completed this make me a selfish person incapable of helping my fellow man, or am I just really poor and can’t afford it? Something I should really think about and fix one way or another.

8. Be an extra in a movie or tv show*- I live in New York. I need to make this happen and become immortal on the silver screen.

9. Take a boxing class- I’ve always thought it would be fun. I’m a scrawny girl, but I’d like to become capable of beating someone up.

10. Visit a new baseball stadium- I’ve been to 6 of the 30 major league baseball stadiums, and I think it would be a hoot to see them all. So I’ve decided to put this on my list from now until I’ve completed them all.

11. Do a juice cleanse- I’m trying my darndest to be healthy. But I struggle with staying away from beer, whiskey, pop tarts, pizza, cheese, french fries, Oreos. Need I go on? I’d like to try one of those three day juice cleanses and see how it makes me feel. So many people swear by them.

12. Go hiking*- Such a simple one, but I live in New York. I hear there’s hiking on Staten Island, but that feels like a cheap cop-out. I’d rather go on a hike where I can see something naturally stunning.

13. Pluck my eyebrows*- I told a close friend that this was on the list, and he looked at me surprised. Sigh, yes, I have lovely eyebrows, but is there a chance they could be even more improved!

14. Go skinny dipping*- This is a really difficult one to make happen, because you can’t really just call someone up and say, “Hey, you wanna go get naked and jump in some water?” It’s just got to happen on its own. I guess I should start hanging out by bodies of water more frequently and be the creep in the corner slowly hinting that we all get naked and jump in.

15. Go scuba diving*- Likewise difficult to accomplish in New York, but I should really stop using that as an excuse. The whole point behind my list is to have easy things alongside more challenging ones. Things that will force me to step out of my comfort zone.

16. Go sailing*- So, who’s got a boat? Anyone, anyone…

17. Join a book club*-  Although I scoff at my undergrad degree, I really did love being an English major. I think joining a book club would be a grown-up extension of that.

18. Go to a hockey game*- I really tried! Last winter I was dating a hockey fan, and we kept on making plans to go that just never worked out. Then at some point I realized the only reason I was still with him was because I still wanted to go to a hockey game. That’s wrong. So I broke up with him. Then I was single, and I STILL didn’t go to a hockey game.

19. Go to roller derby- I wish I had the guts to join a roller derby team, but for now I’ll settle with watching other girls be violent and awesome.

20. Go to a dog show- I like dogs, a lot. But I’m not sure if I’ll love this or hate it.

21. Tango Lesson- I love dancing. I’m also really bad at it. The one time I took salsa lessons when I was 21, the stranger I was partnered with got very frustrated with me and told me in exasperation, “You have to let someone else lead for a minute!” I’ll never forget that.

22. Visit a whiskey distillery- I’ve been to many beer breweries, and it’s always fun. And if there’s one thing that I love more than beer, it’s whiskey.

23. Attend service at a synagogue*- Isn’t Yom Kippur this week? What is that?

24. Go to a gun range*- Bang Bang Bang.

25. Play the drums*- I recently went to a jazz club and the drummer in the band was a woman. I admired her.

26. Lie down and listen to a classic rock album and do nothing else*- This one is sooooooo easy. Why on Earth haven’t I done it. No. good. excuse.

27. Eat chicken and waffles- I’d never even heard of this supposedly common brunch option until I moved to New York. Apparently there are a lot of really great places. And I love me some brunch!

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Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on love and life from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Strayed

7 Sep

I get a weekly email from a website called brainpickings.org. I don’t have a lot of time to dedicate to the site, but every Sunday an email with the best articles of the week arrives in my inbox. I like to sip coffee on my Sunday mornings and peruse it. The woman who curates it is always fascinated by learning, creating, the universe, science, literature, life. It’s a weekly email I’d recommend to anyone.

I’ve taken a lot of her book recommendations, and this one is by far and away my favorite that I’ve read. “Dear Sugar” was an advice column on the website “The Rumpus.” But it isn’t your average advice column. Mainly because instead of giving advice in some cheesy, overdone way, she usually tells a story from her life that relates, how it changed her, what she learned, what her advicee should take away.

So many times when reading this book, she took my breath away at the simplicity of her logic. One early advice letter basically just asked her “What the fuck?” over and over again. To which she wrote a very eloquent letter about the abuse she experienced as a child and how she spent her adulthood asking that very same question to herself on repeat. She concludes the letter.

“Ask better questions, sweet pea. The fuck is your life. Answer it.”

I devoured this book. I’ve lately taken to writing in my books: starring favorite passages, underlining fun turns of phrases, adding my thoughts in the margin. In college, they called this “active reading.” Thanks Bachelor’s Degree! But I didn’t write in this book at all. Why? Because I couldn’t put it down. I didn’t want to take the time to find a pen. I wanted to get to the next page. This book is pure beauty.

The book concludes with one of my favorite letters. A 22-year-old fan asks Sugar what she would go back in time and tell the 20-something Sugar about life. My favorite quote:

“The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether or not you should shave your arms or not. These things are your becoming.”

It’s eerie when you read something, and it’s like the writer’s all of a sudden looking out at you from between the lines and seeing a part of you and not just seeing a part of you, but telling you what that part is, what it could be, what you should let it become.

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Tricks

5 Sep

I have spoken here before about the sage advice of Dr. G. He’s just my favorite. Today I assisted him in a spay while he regaled me with stories of him traveling around the world to do a rare procedure known as a PU for various wealthy people’s pets. During the spay/story time, a receptionist interrupted to let him know that a client was on the phone about her dog’s persistent diarrhea.

“Jesus,” Dr. G muttered. “Tell her to wipe the dog’s ass, and leave me the fuck alone.”

Classic.

Recently, I found a book that the office manager started of Dr. G-isms. It’s a gold mine. You’ve got the traditional phrases that we hear all the time, like, “I should have been a mortician.” And you’ve got your situational quotes. In reference to expensive makeup: “It’s all just horse piss. Why don’t you buy a gallon of horse piss and put that on your face?”

But there’s one that I found in there that I simply can’t stop thinking about. I think it’s pure genius.

“You can’t just be a whore. You’ve got to be a whore with tricks.”

To me, this is such a good philosophy to life. Dr. G is one of the best veterinarians and the best surgeons in the country. But that’s not the only trick up his sleeve. He loves to cook and cook very gourmet meals. He’s an obsessive Yankees fan. He loves fish. Yep, fish. He has bowls of them in his office that he takes care of every day. He goes to special fish stores and gives them special fish food. Every year, he takes a week to volunteer at a camp in Colorado for terminally sick kids. He has whole other aspects to him besides being a sharp-tongued surgeon.

I guess this is something that has bothered me. My life has been at the vet office the last month or so. I spend all my time there. I’m looking into vet schools, looking into other volunteer options for animals. It’s become all consuming, and that’s not healthy.

I don’t want to just be a veterinarian. I want to be a writer too. I want to write novels (crappy or amazing, I don’t care), I want to see all the baseball stadiums in the country. I want to be a coffee snob all through Western Europe, then a beer snob through all of Eastern Europe. I want to play soccer AND softball. I want so much more out of life that I think I’ve even realized.

Sometimes it’s so easy to get caught up in something that seems bigger than yourself: a relationship, a job, even a hobby or a passion. But none of it is bigger than yourself is what I’m starting to realize. I’m not just a whore. I’ve got tricks.

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Eat, Pray, Poop

3 Sep

 

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Rusty Thomas

I don’t really have a good excuse for why I haven’t posted in so long, but I do have excuses. I’ve been working 50+ hours a week. I’ve been traveling to the beach. I’ve been playing soccer. I’ve had some time-consuming summer romances. I applied to post-bac pre-med programs (fingers crossed, fingers crossed!). I’ve read some good books (Cheryl Strayed is my hero). The memory card on my phone is corrupted, and it makes taking pictures extremely difficult. So when I finally put myself in front of my laptop to write a little something, my browser magically opens to Netflix, and I find myself drifting to sleep while watching either “Law and Order” or “Intervention.”

Like I said, no good excuses.

I will say, though, that I have written a number of posts in my head, taken a number of pictures for said posts (that become corrupted, damn you technology) but it just never made it on here. So I’m sorry. That’s that.

This post I’ve been thinking about for a week, when this cat came in. Rusty Thomas. I’m completely a dog person, but this cat stole my heart. He really is a special animal. All owners say that when they bring their pets in, but Rusty Thomas, he’s…different.

He came in as a new patient, he hadn’t eaten for a couple of days. We ran a bevy of tests on him, but nothing obvious seemed to be wrong. So our new doctor, Dr. L, admitted him for observation.

It turns out that the woman who brought him in, Iris, is actually the owner’s aunt. The owner of the cat is a teenage girl whose father died two years ago. Before he passed away, he gave his daughter this cat. Iris told us that they could not lose the cat. It would be too much loss for the family to take. We had to save Rusty Thomas.

Iris is an eccentric woman, and at first, we all thought of her as a high-maintenance client. She brought in toys and blankets for Rusty T to have during his hospital stay, but she also brought a boombox with a Meditation CD. She claimed that while she did yoga and meditated, Rusty T would likewise meditate, and she requested that we play it for him.

Rusty Thomas continued to not eat. So, we were forced to insert a feeding tube into his esophagus, and four times a day, we make a paste like food and insert it slowly through his feeding tube. During this time, I like to take him out of his cage and place him on the main treatment table. He’s a good cat that just sits there while I prepare his feeding. I turn on the meditation tape, and we listen to a rather monotone woman talk about breathing, about letting go of thoughts and emotions. Rusty sits still, purring away, staring off into the distance. Our feeding time together is so peaceful.

He quickly became a joke around the office. Some started referring to him as the “yoga cat,” and Dr. S will holler with pent-up rage if he hears the meditation tape playing.

“If I have to hear that woman’s voice one more time, I’m going to break that boombox!” he’ll bellow. If anyone needs to get in touch with the Buddha, it’s that man.

But with all that mocking, this cat has had a noticeable effect on the office. Last Wednesday, I was doing his feeding, listening to the tape. The woman was telling us to breathe deeply, to focus on the breath, to feel the breath. I looked up to see everyone in the room quiet, not just quiet, but they were all breathing deeply, all in sync with each other and with the meditative instructions of the woman. The only sound was the rumbling purr of Rusty Thomas.

So we found a way to feed the cat, the only problem now was that he wasn’t pooping. We were waiting until he had a nice BM before we sent him home. At last, it came. And you have never seen a group of people happier about a cat pooping than our office on that day. He could go home to his new-age family that loved him.

He was discharged yesterday afternoon, but I fed him in the morning. It was 8:30AM, and the office was quiet. I was exhausted from working so much the last week. Since I was alone, I told Rusty Thomas how much I was going to miss him, and how happy I was that he was finally pooping. That fat cat curled up into my arms while I pushed a slurry of cat food into his tube. I put my head against his back and listened to the motorcycle-like thrum of purring. We breathed in and out together.

Oh, Rusty Thomas, I hope everything works out well for you in Yonkers. Namaste.

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Ear Cropping

17 Jul

People always ask me if my job is sad, or if it is hard to deal with the losses. It is. There’s no doubt in that. But most of the time, the animals are sick, tired, old, and they are ready to go. It feels natural.

But last Saturday, one of the cases we saw really got to me, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

We had a new puppy visit, a dog who had been picked up from the breeder the day before. Usually, these are happy appointments. Who doesn’t love an awkward and cheerful puppy? They jump all over you, they squirm, they get a confused look on their face when we take their temperature for the first time.

This puppy visit was a doberman. Doberman puppies are adorable. They have massive, club-like paws and soft muzzles. Unfortunately, they are often wearing the funny hats pictured above. Dobermans were originally bred to be guard and attack dogs. Owners started cropping their ears, so that attackers wouldn’t be able to grab onto them during an attack. Since then, it has become an AKC (American Kennel Club) standard for the breed. So the snobs of the world insist on keeping the tradition alive for appearances sake.

So nowadays, at the tender age of 7-12 weeks, doberman puppies (this is done in a couple of other breeds as well) are taken to a vet to have 2/3 of their naturally floppy ears cut off, stitched up, and taped to a Styrofoam cup on their heads. This is in hopes that their ears will eventually stand up on their own. If they don’t, further surgery is required. Again, let me reiterate that this is done for purely aesthetic reasons to comply with what the AKC says a doberman should look like.

So on Saturday, I held the sweet Doberman puppy while Dr. R cleaned the pus from the ear wounds and tried to remove the tape as gently as possible. The puppy screamed in pain and wiggled in my arms. It broke my heart. Hearing a puppy cry is always a sad, sad moment. But this stung especially, because it was so unnecessary. Dr. R explained to me that it is all because of the AKC’s standards and that most vets refuse to do the ear cropping procedure, herself included. It is even illegal in many European countries.

It’s so senseless. I brought the newly bandaged puppy back to her owner. She was texting away on her iphone. She had a Louis Vuitton purse on the chair next to her. And I was bringing her back her newest accessory. Of course, it wasn’t my place to say anything. But all I really wanted to know was, aren’t floppy ears just as adorable? Isn’t this just as fashionable?

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The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera

10 Jul

I now find myself working a new schedule, Wednesday through Saturday. While this means that I can no longer play Pac-12 softball (please, let’s not speak of this sadness), it does mean that I have two weekdays off.

On this Tuesday, I let my hair go curly. Something I almost never do, because it often frizzes messily or hangs limply like overcooked spaghetti. But today, the planets aligned and my hair curled perfectly; bouncy, honey-colored ringlets falling down my back. So I had to leave my apartment, I had to show my curls to the world.

So I went to the West Village, to a bookshop that had been recommended to me, Three Lives & Company. Lately, I’ve been reading the biography of Elizabeth I. It’s interesting, but it hasn’t been able to pull me in. All those accounts of what happened, what might have happened, and what is no doubt rumors is dizzying, and the writing was as dry as a Wikipedia article. I found myself watching “Gossip Girl” on Netflix at the end of my days instead of curling up with a book. If this happens, it is safe to say that one is reading the wrong book as that show blows. It pulls you in, but it blows.

So I browsed the tiny store for about 30 minutes, until I resolved to buy this book. It has been on my literary to-do list ever since I arrived in my beloved Prague over five years ago. So I purchased the book and headed to a coffee shop. I finished the chapter I was reading about the death of Amy Dudley in Elizabeth I’s biography and picked up the Kundera.

Within the first few pages, I was in love. A lot of times when reading a book, I’ll rush through, read fast and loose so that I can move on to the next book on my to-read list. So many books, so little time. But it is such an amazing and distinct pleasure to find a book that makes me want to go slow, to savor every paragraph. Instead of doing laps in a pool, I’m swimming in a mountain lake on a hot summer day.

My mom always used to tell me that “Money comes, money goes, but money always comes again.” I have found this so true in life, but I’ve found it to be true with everything. After months of the daily grind getting you down, a friend agrees to fly to Japan with you. After weeks of feeling unhappy with your job, a new opportunity presents itself and you find a new passion with which you want to spend your life. After a couple of weekends of nothing interesting, you find yourself at a surprise Brunch birthday party, drinking pitchers of mimosas and laughing with new and old friends for hours. After a series of lackluster dates, a man you’ve known for months crouches down and runs his finger over your tattoo, and it shoots electricity straight to your knees. You remember you’re not the girl who is okay with merely a dinner partner but needs someone who can put your all too sturdy knees in check from time to time. And, finally after throwing “Fifth Shades of Grey” across the room and sighing “Spare me,” and half-heartedly reading a dramatization of the Borgias (what rotten people), and forcing yourself to read a historical book so that you can meet your self-imposed yearly non-fiction quota, you find yourself with an amazing book that you can’t stop thinking about, that you know will be dog-earred, pen-marked, and reread. So if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my book now.

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Crane

5 Jul

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I didn’t have any big plans for the fourth of July this year. I expected I’d get together with some amalgamation of friends, drink beer, sit in the sun, watch fireworks. It would be nice. But when my boss asked me to work the holiday shift, I sighed and said yes. This is life at the bottom of the totem pole.

So I worked 8am till 8pm on the fourth of July, and it was a relatively slow day. There was a rush between two and five where we had a slew of emergencies come in. We even performed a surgery, the name of which I can’t remember. In layman’s terms, we sewed a cut on a Vizzla’s nose under light sedation. Oh, we also saw a cat with ringworm. So we were all scrubbing ourselves like crazy and bleaching every inch of the hospital. I’m still itchy and constantly checking my skin for lesions. So far, so good!

Most of my day was taken up by the gentleman pictured above. Crane.

Crane is a bulldog. Crane is a hot mess. His owner is kind of a jerk, but he’s wealthy and travels constantly. So Crane boards with us often. So often that when Crane’s owner walks him into the clinic, all he has to do is unleash him and Crane marches straight to the back area of the hospital, through all the swinging doors and walks up to a cage and waits for us to let him in. He knows the drill. So on Tuesday when we heard a loud thump through the doors of treatment and heard labored, phlegmy breathing, we all just looked up and said, “Oh hey Crane.”

Where do I start with his issues? He’s not castrated, so he has prostrate issues and urinates everywhere. He has dermatitis in his face folds. His eyes give off this thick green discharge, as do his ears and nose. He overheats easily and makes creative breathing noises. He requires so much care. Most everyone at the hospital finds him amusing but chooses not to deal with him, because he is simply disgusting. The only one who really loves Crane is Christine who is out on maternity leave. So with her gone, I had to step up.

He requires treatments almost every hour of the day. He has different pills to take, different ointments, drops, cleaning routines. He’s nearly blind, so he doesn’t like to leave his cage. I often have to climb into his cage with him and scruff him by his folds to get his eye drops in. He hates having his face folds cleaned, but I must. Crane, I must!! So I have to wrassle his head still while he snorts and spews weird bodily fluids all over me, and I try my damnedest to get into those folds with some wipes which quickly turn brown and black from the debris that gets caught there. Crane is a full-time job.

After it slowed down on the fourth, I sat idly flipping through his chart, the catalog of issues, and I got to wondering how happy he can be. I thought I was alone in the hospital so I went over to his cage and squatted in front of it, just looking in at this disgusting, slobbering mess, thinking about his life.

But I wasn’t alone. Rob, a kennel staff member, was there. He was reading his book out of boredom when I asked him, “Do you think Crane’s happy?”
“Of course he is. It’s Crane. Why wouldn’t he be?”
“I don’t know. He’s gross and weird and has all these problems and no one pays attention to him. That’s gotta get him down.”
“He’s Crane, though. He is what he is, and he’s happy. He doesn’t know any better.”
I looked down at Crane, listening to the gurgling of his brachiocephalic trachea pushing air in and out with such effort. He thumped to the floor and started licking his paws, slobbering over them.
“He’s totally happy, Chrissy. C’mon, it’s obvious.”

So I let myself believe that, as I take the time to take care of Crane. Somebody has to love and take care of the messes of the world. Right?

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26 Before 26: Do Batting Practice

1 Jul

Just like Matt Kemp

In my 26th year of life, I am attempting 26 new things that I’ve never done before. Full list here.

Boy oh boy, I needed this.

One of the best and most pleasantly surprising things about my 26 before 26 endeavor has been the eagerness and enthusiasm of others to hear about it and to help me. I keep a copy of the list on my phone, and anytime anyone hears about it they immediately want to see it. They go through the list, laughing at some of the items and becoming overly excited about others. I haven’t been as diligent about my list, because life gets in the way. But a new friend from my soccer team, Dave, saw this on my list and insisted on taking me to the batting cages at Chelsea Piers. I was happy to go.

We went on a Wednesday night, after a crappy Wednesday day. I went into work slightly hungover and proceeded to have a bad luck day. I was mainly having issues with catheters. Catheters were so scary to me for such a long time, but once I got the hang of it, I felt so proud. But Wednesday, every catheter I put in would kink and I would lose the flow. It’s heartbreaking, to see the flash, to slowly insert the catheter, to pull the stylet…nothing. No blood. I’d pull the catheter out and see it had bended all weird. Everyone kept telling me that it sometimes just happens with catheters, but I would look down at the blown vein and beat myself up. I was having such an off day with those effing blue catheters.

So I headed to the batting cages to meet up with Dave. It’s a pretty good deal, really. $2ish for a token which gets you ten pitches. Dave went for the medium pitch cage, but I wanted to take whacks at the slow pitch softball cage since that is what I encounter in my Pac-12 softball team. There was a pair of girls who had rented the cage for an hour. They were dripping with sweat, taking turns in the cage. We got to talking with them, and they make it down to the pier once a month to rent the cage for an hour and go to town.

“We’ve got a lot of rage,” one of them told me breathlessly.

Once they left, I took my turn in the cage. It was much easier than actual softball. I knew exactly when the ball was coming and where it would be. I also didn’t have rows of Pac-12 dudes cheering me on. I love my Pac-12 dudes, but I want to do so well for them, I stress myself out. This time, it was just me and a machine. Somehow, nothing feels better then making contact with a bat, hearing that pop, imagining where that ball would go on a real softball field. Such a perfect stress release, and I made a mental note that I must rent the cage out sometime for myself.

Afterwards, Dave and I grabbed a beer at a bar next to the golf driving range. It was perfect weather down my the water, and it was hypnotizing to watch those golf balls sail out towards the water, like a meteor shower. A couple of Dave’s friends showed up so they could practice their golf swings for a tournament they put themselves through, known ominously as “The Cup.” It’s an epic battle amongst old college friends which never fails to entertain me when they start talking about it. There’s even a draft.

I told them that I’d never actually gone to a driving range, and maybe I should put it on my 27 before 27 list. But why put off until tomorrow what you can do today. They invited me to come along and hit a few. I was pretty horrible, but after they gave me a few tips, I don’t think I was so bad. It took a couple of swings before I finally hit the ball, but when I did, one of Dave’s friends Adam said something along the lines of “Yay bucket list.” It took me far away from the worries of a 22-guage catheter.

The next day, my shoulders were so, so sore. But I was relaxed, and 15 minutes into work, I had to place a catheter into a squirmy King Charles Spaniel. I got it right away.

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26 Before 26: Ride a Segway

23 Jun

In my 26th year of life, I am attempting 26 new things that I’ve never done before. Full list here.

Look at me in this picture. Do I have on a hot pink helmet? Yes. Am I standing upon one of the goofiest modern inventions? Yes. Do I look like a fool? Absolutely.

But is the Boston weather behind me practically perfect? Yup. Am I knocking another thing off my 26 before 26 list? Hooray, I am! Do I have the biggest grin on my face, ever? Of course! That’s the smile of someone having the time of her life.

Segways. Where do I start? This was so much fun. If you haven’t ridden one, I highly, highly recommend it. My sister, who accompanied me, was initially skeptical and a bit incredulous that she was spending a Sunday afternoon doing this. But I think she would agree that it was pure fun.

For some reason, when I thought about riding a Segway, I had my heart set on doing it in Boston. A year ago when I was visiting, my sister and I were waiting for a table at The Barking Crab, I saw a touristy, middle-aged couple, fanny packs and all, getting a private Segway tour of the city. I don’t know why I was so taken by those crazy machines, but I certainly was.

It’s all about balance. It feels a little awkward at first, and I would occasionally find myself accidentally moving backwards. But about 15 minutes in, I got my Seg-legs on, and it felt completely natural. Oh, it feels awesome to go 12 miles per hour by simply leaning forward. And dare I say it, but I was good! There was one lady in our tour group who kept running into the curb or running into other people. Amateur.

I felt like a celebrity. Everywhere we went, Copley Square, Beacon Hill, Boston Commons, crowds of people would whoop and holler at us. So many iphones flashing at me and my sexy red Segway. My sister even got cat-called from a car while we were making a left turn.

At the end of the tour, our guide took us to a concrete landing next to the water where we had 15 minutes to play around. We sped from one end to the other, did twirls around each other, and did a little synchronized Segway dancing.

What a day. What a day. One day, when I have so, so much money, I will certainly buy one, and hopefully be on par with the most famous Segway owner of all.

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New Jobs Suck

12 Jun

Nail trims are the most dangerous things we do. Here’s proof.

My job as a technician isn’t new. I’ve been training at it for months. But, now I’m full-time. When they offered me the position a couple of weeks ago, they put me in the tutelage of my co-worker Christine who was due to give birth the first week of July. Dr. Z (the practice owner) very firmly told me that I had two months to “sponge Christine’s two years of college-level tech training and her 16 years of experience. You must become the best technician.”

One and a half weeks into my intensive training, Christine is out on bed-rest, and I am completely unprepared. I am a perfectionist. I hate not doing things well and starting a new job kills me. I hate being discombobulated and feeling useless.

Last week went really well. Christine is an awesome trainer. I was inserting catheters in pit bulls, intubating poodles, running ear swab cytologies, setting up ultrasound equipment and scrubbing in a dog for a nasty gastrotomy. I was feeling amazing. Drawing blood from the jugular vein of a cat? That ain’t no thang.

I don’t know what was wrong today. All I could think of is watching Mariner’s games where Felix Hernandez doesn’t pitch well. He’s such an amazing pitcher with exceeding talent, but sometimes things are off, and it gets into his head, and he pitches a shitty game. Today, I pitched a shitty game.

I made so many simple mistakes. I was tripping over myself, and I felt like I spent most of the day just standing around taking up space. It makes matters so much worse that Dr. S, the vet that once told me he’d help me in my path to becoming a vet tech and that he had complete faith in me, now wants me gone. He was happy when I quit, and I only got the tech position because of Dr. Z and Christine’s efforts. He glares at me. He snaps at me. But most of the time, he pretends like I’m not there. The man hates me for a lot of inconsequential and silly reasons. Stupid metaphor, but I feel like the dog that keeps getting kicked.

It got into my head. I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to criticism, and I’ll beat the shit out of myself mentally when I make mistakes. At some point in the afternoon I was running an ear swab cytology for Dr. R. I could not for the life of me focus the microscope. I kept checking the oil lens, readjusting, making sure the slide was in place. It just wasn’t happening, and Dr. S was standing nearby staring me down while flipping through his charts. I felt like crying. But I didn’t. I just kept focusing until I found the swabs I was looking for. But it took forever. Dr. R appeared at my side.
“How’s that slide coming? Got a yeast party for me?”
“Um, the left ear has tw0 to three yeast per field with occasional cocci, but I’m still checking the right ear. I’m so sorry it’s taking so long.”
“No worries. Listen, you are doing fine. It sucks that Christine had to leave early, but if you need help, I’m here. I’ve been exactly where you are. I can answer any of your questions.”
It was reassuring, but I hate being so helpless.

After that I held a Cairn Terrier for my co-worker Daryl to cut his nails. The dog started flipping out the second Daryl touched its paws. I tightened my grip and braced myself. This dog was going crazy. I had the dog in a muzzle and a headlock to keep him from biting us, but his foot got up under my arm and sliced me (see above.) I’ve been scratched a million times before, so I didn’t think anything of it until another technician Clive walked by.
“Woah, he got you!” I looked down at the gashes in my arm, gushing blood. No dog had ever broken skin before. Clive and Daryl started clapping.
“Welcome to being a technician! You are one of us now!” They patted me on the back and started to show me all their scars.

I’ve been staring at that stinging wound all day. I rolled up my sleeves on the subway so everyone could see.

I was a shitty barista at first, and my boss wouldn’t let me anywhere near a steam wand. Now I can make you gorgeous latte art and the silkiest milk imaginable. I was originally dead weight with the Mariners, but I ended up running my own kiosk and raking in hundreds of thousands of dollars for the team I love.

I am a technician now. It’s just going to take a while before I’m a really really good one. But I will be. I’ll be the Felix Hernandez of veterinary technicians.

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