Quality Advice from Dr. G

27 Apr
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SPROUT! I want a Brussels Griffon. I want one real bad.

The above dog has nothing to do with this post, other than the fact that I took it at work, and this story also takes place at work. Honestly, I’m just trying to lure you in to read my blog, because I’m sly like that.

So the worst part about working in Veterinary Medicine is the people, the clients that inevitably come with their dogs. Ironic, right? People get into this field, because they want to spend their day with animals. Yet so much of the time is spent dealing with people. And people, in general, aren’t that pleasant.

Some people are wonderful though. Like Dr. G. He’s my favorite doctor at our clinic. He’s older, so a lot of us call him “Pops” which has always been a goal of mine…to have an old man friend whom I call Pops. He’s a lifelong Yankees fans, so we’re always discussing our teams. He continuously attempts to bring me to the dark side, make me a Yankees fan. With other Yankees fans, I find this sort of thing annoying; with Dr. G, it makes me smile.

He’s also the only doctor that doesn’t lose his temper, that doesn’t freak out at clients, never blames any one else if things go wrong. His interactions with clients are legendary. For example:

“Dr. G, is my dog going to die?”
“Well, yeah, one day. We all are. I just don’t know when your dog will die.”
“What am I supposed to do?!!?!”
“Stop worrying about your dog so damn much.”

He’s the only one who can get away with saying this sort of thing.

A couple of weeks ago, we had a client who was persistently calling the front desk, driving us all insane. She was sobbing about how her main vet had left the practice, how someone in her building told her the food she fed the dog was garbage, how she was a single mother and couldn’t afford vet bills. Basically, she called to complain about things that don’t concern me, and I can’t fix. She just wanted someone to whine to.

Finally, she stopped in to the clinic and demanded to speak to a doctor. She was crying and yelling, but she didn’t want an appointment. We only had Dr. R and Dr. G available. Dr. R was doing an emergency emesis, so I approached Dr. G. He rolled his eyes and said, “Oh, these fucking idiots.” Then he straightened his embroidered scrubs and asked, “So, how do I look?” I gave him the nod of approval, and he headed out there.

20 minutes. This woman ate up 20 minutes of an important man’s time. She ranted. She cried. She whined. He sat there. He nodded. He told her his food recommendations. It did not look like fun.

Eventually she left, and I followed him back into the treatment area.

“That was amazing, Pops. I don’t know how you handled that woman for that long.”
“Let me tell you something I learned a long time ago,” he began. All of treatment turned to listen to the wise, old doctor. “It takes two people to argue. One person can complain and cry and scream all they want, but if you sit there calm, you aren’t in an argument, you aren’t upset. The second you raise your voice and give in to anger, they’ve won. They pulled you into a fight. So I listened to that woman’s crazy rant. And even though I sat there for 20 minutes and could only think, ‘Go fuck yourself, you crazy bitch,’ I didn’t say it, and she didn’t get to win.” All of treatment erupted in laughter and applause.

I lose my temper with clients every once in a while, but I’m really trying the Dr. G method of dealing with it. It really does work. I’m not as good at it as Dr. G is, but I suppose I have 40 odd years to perfect my craft.

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26 Before 26: Drink an Old Fashioned

24 Apr

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

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a beer and whiskey girl through and through. I keep a nice big bottle of Maker’s Mark on my desk, and the majority of the time my drink orders are either beer, Manhattan, Whiskey Ginger Ale, or Maker’s on the rocks. So it comes as a surprise to a lot of people that I have never had an Old Fashioned. So close to my beloved Manhattan, yet not quite.

People also find it surprising that it took me so long to knock this off the list. After all, I go out for drinks quite a bit. I frequent cocktail bars, and an Old Fashioned isn’t an obscure drink. When it comes to my list though, I have many lovely friends who see it and immediately put claims down on some of the things. So I’ve held out on a lot, saving them for certain people, certain times of year, certain events. But time’s a-wastin’, and I have a pretty hefty list on my hands.

But one of my oldest and dearest friends, Danguole, was coming to New York for a visit, and she laid claim to this one. Only because I love her so, I reserved it for her.

So D and I went bar hopping around the city. I decided to take her to Beauty Bar where for $10 you get a cocktail and a basic manicure. We plop down at the bar, and I announce that we want two Old Fashioneds and two manicures. The burly man behind the counter let out an overdramatic grunt, curled himself up into a ball behind the bar and started complaining that he couldn’t remember how to make an Old Fashioned. I felt bad and showed him the recipe on my phone, but he scoffed at me and sulked off to grab some glasses. He was the most pouty tattooed, 300+ pound man I have ever encountered, and when he plopped the drinks in front of us, our jaws were kind of on the ground.

Beauty Bar "Old Fashioned"?

Admittedly I have never had an Old Fashioned before, but what’s it doing in a martini glass? Why is it pink? Was that a Vodka bottle I saw him pouring into the shaker? D, who has more experience with the Old Fashioned than me, confirmed my suspicions. It was not an Old Fashioned. Not at all. Not even close. We don’t know what it was.

So after getting our manicures from two heavily coked-out beauticians (it was a weird and interesting night indeed), we headed to a couple of other bars, eventually landing at Raines Law Room.

Raines is one of my favorite bars in the city. It’s a speakeasy, but not too speakeasy. No real gimmicks, just a dimly lit bar with dashing bartenders and amazing cocktails.

Raines Old Fashioned.

Now that’s more like it. It was fantastic. It had that good punch of whiskey, tempered by citrus notes. We ordered a couple more fancy shmancy cocktails and eventually ended up at a dive bar with some not so fancy shmancy drinks. But the night of my first Old Fashioned was one to remember.

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Kyoto

7 Apr

Gion Street

Leaving Yoshino was sad indeed. Brett and I wish we could have spent considerable more time there, but the fact of the matter is, we wish we had considerable more time to spend in Japan. It was around that point in our trip (halfway through) that we decided that we would need a couple of months at least to really soak in the amazing country we were so blessed to visit. So we called back to the United States, quit our jobs, and started planning a pizza food truck operation based out of Tokyo.

Kidding! But we all need our dreams.

We had another Ryokan booked in Kyoto, but I was desperate to spend some time in Nara. Nara has a number of large parks, fields with holy deer, and old palaces. I wanted to rent bikes and explore the countryside. We had the lovely English-speaking man at our Yoshino Ryokan call our Kyoto Ryokan to see if we could cancel. They told us that they had a 100% cancellation fee. So to Kyoto we went.

I was determined to make the best of it, but I was a little bitter about not getting to go to Nara. Kyoto, however, turned out to be wonderful. I’ve lived in a number of different places, and I’ve done my fair share of traveling. At the ripe age of 25, I have learned that I need a mid-size city. I adored Prague and Vienna, but was underwhelmed by London and Berlin. I still daydream about returning to my beautiful Seattle, while New York continues to feel like a layover to me. Tokyo was an exciting place to visit, but walking the streets of Kyoto, I knew it was a place I could see myself living in.

Our Ryokan wasn’t quite as authentic and awe-inspring as our Ryokan in Yoshino, but it was still charming with beautiful gardens and delicious food. After checking in, Brett and I stopped in at an ice cream shop across the street. I got a green tea/vanilla swirl cone while he opted for cherry blossom (which just tasted like cherry to me.) We began to wander around. You can’t walk a couple of blocks in Kyoto without tripping over a shrine/temple.

The temples/shrines were obviously impressive. But I began to experience the “Cathedral Condition” that I had experienced while traveling in Europe. When you first get to Europe, all the medieval churches are awe-inspiring with the Gothic architecture and intricate glass stained windows. But after entering your 20th European church, you lose that awe and think, “Yep, this is a church.” The shrines and temples in Japan were foreign enough to me that they made me ooh and aah throughout the trip, but they became less and less of a focus.

Brett and I then headed down to Gion Street, a traditional street with cobblestones, paper lamps, and geishas. The walk there was almost more worth it though. We stopped into a number of cute shops, one where I bought beautiful handmade earrings and a hair clip both made out of old kimono material. We wandered down alley ways. People passed us on bikes. We guffawed at a restaurant called “What Beef?” We wandered alongside a small creek. It felt like home.

The sun was setting, so we headed back to our Ryokan for dinner. Our dinner was fantastic and similar to our dinner in Yoshino, but again, not as extensive and grandiose. We had plans to go see some sort of a light show at a nearby shrine after dinner. But we decided to just “rest our eyes” for a couple of minutes after dinner. As it always happens in that situation, we slept straight from 7pm until 7 the next morning. We were sad to miss out on the shrine, but we obviously needed our rest.

After our Japanese style breakfast, we went our separate ways, Brett to explore some more temples, me to my Buddhism class.

After the class, I was in such high spirits. I felt refreshed and joyful. I was running late to meet up with Brett, but I couldn’t stop myself from wandering around the temple grounds a bit.

When I finally left the grounds, I was really running late when I passed a small shop full of stone carvings. There were intricate buddhist statues and shrines, and smaller knick knacks. A small owl statue caught my eye. I debated with myself for a minute outside the store, then just decided I had to have it, being late be damned. I poked my head in and inquiringly said, “Ohaiyo gozaimas?” The formal good morning.

In Japan, owls are symbols of good luck, and they ward off suffering. This guy wards off suffering from my dresser.

From behind a small work station came the tiniest, cutest, old Japanese lady. She had a little hunchback and maybe came up to my elbow. She was all smiles in greeting me and spoke rapid Japanese. I was in love with her instantly and would have put her in my pocket and brought her back to America if such things were possible.

I picked up my little owl statue and handed it to her along with the money to pay for it. With a blissful smile from ear to ear, she took the statue and began to wrap it up for me, still talking in nonstop Japanese. At one point, she turned to me, said something and started laughing at whatever joke she just made. Her little face and chuckle only made me chuckle. I said thank you and bowed to leave. She bowed and said thank you. I bowed and said thank you.

It was a bow-off.

I backed up toward the door, continuously bowing and thanking her, she waved and bowed, I laughed. Once outside, I was beaming. I turned to walk down the street when I saw a dashing Japanese man at a vending machine.

“Hi!” he said happily. He was also beaming from ear to ear and for a moment, I thought maybe that was his grandmother in that shop. I said hello in return and headed down the street toward the train station. A moment later, he appeared again at my side. He asked me, in rather good English, if I was on a trip, where I was headed, etc. I was skeptical. Was he trying to sell me something? Was he going to mug me? Seeing the confusion in my eyes, he asked me, “Would it be okay if I just walked with you?”

I was so taken aback my the simplicity of his request. But my heart skipped a beat for him, and of course I said yes. We walked and talked about a variety of things. His name is Hiyashi. He’s from Kyoto. “This is my city,” he told me proudly. We talked about baseball and Japan. I was sad to reach the train station where we would part ways. I told him it was lovely to meet him, and he wished me a wonderful trip. I entered the train station and committed myself to memorizing every detail of that morning.

Brett and I met back up at the Ryokan, gathered our things, and made our way back to Kyoto station to catch our bullet train to Tokyo. We had a baseball game to go to that night.

26 before 26: Attend a Meditation Seminar

4 Apr

Shunko-In Buddhist Monastery in Kyoto

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

Upon arriving in Kyoto, the man at the front desk of our Ryokan gave us a couple of English language magazines about different events and sites around the city. I quickly saw an ad for an English language meditation class at a Buddhist temple/monastery. I was hesitant, because the ad emphasized that the priest was American educated, and the picture of the class they provided showed all white people meditating. Every time I ran into white people in Japan, I felt frustrated, like they were ruining my experience. Perhaps they felt the same way upon encountering me. But the thing is, in a country of millions upon millions upon millions of Asians, if you find yourself in an area with 90% white people, you are doing something wrong.

Anyways, I decided to go for it. Meditation class was on my list after all, and any class I would take in New York would be just as WASPy. Brett wasn’t really interested, so I ventured across Kyoto myself eventually finding the temple grounds. The temple where the class was to take place was in a larger park with shrines, statues, more temples. It was a peaceful place to spend a morning, and as Brett and I got used to saying on our trip, “Buddha, Buddha, Buddha, Buddha, rocking everywhere.”

The class was an hour long, and, as expected, it was full of unsavory tourists. But Buddhism speaks a lot to inner peace and blocking out negative thoughts. So I just went right on ahead and blocked them out. The monk talked to us for about half an hour about the basic tenets of Buddhism. Impermanence, the middle way, and emptiness. It was rather enlightening (pardon the pun!). Once he gave us some of these things to think about, he lit an incense stick and asked us to use the techniques he discussed to meditate for 15 minutes.

It went well…at first. I focused on my breathing. I let my mind wander up and down, left and right, releasing negative thoughts and focusing on myself. Then, my leg went numb. Sitting in that lotus position is not very comfortable. Fun fact, this is why yoga was invented. Buddhist monks wanted to stretch and increase circulation before sitting down to meditate for long periodsof time. I, however, did not do yoga before the meditation, and at some point all I could think about was my numb leg. I tried to refocus on my breathing on my inner self. Nope. Leg. Pain. Needles. No blood circulation. At last when he rang the bell to pull us out of the meditation, I threw my legs in front of me, wobbling them up and down.

Deep meditation is a skill to be practiced and honed. Perhaps I should take a yoga class or two. My monk told us to think of meditation as a prevention, not a cure. It’s a way to strengthen your mind in order to deal with trying times. Despite my leg failure, I did leave the temple feeling elated, relaxed, refreshed, able to take in the day more clearly.

I have been studying Buddhism for roughly the last two years. I found it at a difficult point in my life where I was losing myself. It helped me find my way back, and it’s made me much happier and calmer. Being in Japan only emphasized how much more I want to study the philosophy. The Japanese are so gracious, giving, and selfless. It’s admirable, and I believe a reflection of their religious history.

Yoshino

1 Apr

A candid of Brett saying "Home Sweet Home" in front of our Ryokan in Yoshino.

I honestly don’t know where to start when it comes to documenting my trip to Japan. I just finished updating my paper journal, and it took 20 pages. 20 pages! I’ve never written that long in my journal in my entire life, and I still feel like I didn’t describe enough. Japan was incredible. I loved every minute of it, and I could easily live the rest of my life there. Alas I am back in dirty, rude New York, and Japan feels like a distant dream, an unreal Utopia. So I suppose I’ll just have to begin with the unexpected highlight of the trip, Yoshino.

Brett and I wanted a real Japanese experience, and we knew that meant venturing out of Tokyo for a while. Our original plan was to go to Nara for a night, and Tokyo for a night. I found some authentic looking Ryokans (traditional Japanese inns), and Brett had the concierge at our Tokyo Marriott make the reservations.

We leave Tokyo on a bullet train to Kyoto, then South to Nara. Upon arriving in Nara, we decided it would be best to drop our bags off at our Ryokan (I was warned it was “a bit” outside the city) before renting bikes and seeing the city. We found a tourism office, gave the man the address, and asked how to get there. In broken English, he showed us a map, pointed at a stop called “Yoshinoyama” and said “Three more train, two hour more.”

We were a bit confused, but if that’s where we had to go, that’s where we would go. We took the trains deeper and deeper into the countryside. The mountains, the old traditional homes, the rivers, it was beautiful and not wasted time. At some point, we realized we were the only ones left on the train. We looked at the map and saw that the train only went as far as Yoshino. The map indicated we had to take a “ropeway” to “Yoshinoyama.” We had laughs aplenty about what on Earth that meant. We did our best Japanese imitations:

“You get on boat…You paddle for life.”
“You watch for crocodile.”
“You grab rope…You hold on…We pull rope.”

When we got to Yoshino, we saw a man in a suit who ran up to us. We showed him our Ryokan paperwork. He bowed, grabbed our bags and threw them into the back of a van with the name of the Ryokan on it. He had been waiting there for us. The ropeway turned out to be Japan’s oldest gondola, and it looked like it. We were very, very thankful we didn’t have to take it. Our ride up to the Ryokan was terrifying. 40mph on a thin, gravel mountain rode. Although, the view was breathtaking. This was NOT in any tourist book. We were heading deeper into the mountains, passing shrines and temples. We entered what was itself a large wooden shrine with a traditional inn attached to it.

We were greeted by another Japanese man who was wearing a suit you might see on a butler from the 1920’s. I think he might have even had a pocket watch. He was accompanied by an elderly Japanese woman in a kimono. We changed into provided slippers before stepping onto the tatami matted floor. The Japanese man spoke fairly decent English. He checked us in, asked us what time we wanted dinner and breakfast to be served to us, and showed us there the public mens and womens spas were.

Our little old lady took us to our room. It was palatial. We had a full bathroom, an entry way, a luggage room, a sitting room, and the main room where we found a low wooden table and two seats. She didn’t speak a word of English, but talked to us in Japanese while making gestures. She had us sit down, and she served us the most delicious cup of green tea I’ve ever had. She bowed and left the room. It was then that we exploded in exclamations of excitement.

Tea time

After finishing our tea, we decided to walk around and explore a bit before dinner. The mountain air was crisp and clean, and everything was quiet. It felt so good to be far away from the city on my vacation. We returned in time to be seated for dinner in our own private dining room that was reserved for “Mr. and Mrs. Boldemann” which we both got a kick out of.

To say our meal was incredible would be too easy. It was a lesson in Japanese cuisine, culture. It was tempura, sashimi, ramen, fresh fruit, fresh vegetables. Just when we thought the meal had ended, our little Japanese lady would bring more dishes in. A lot of the time I had no idea what I was eating, but each dish was so beautifully arranged, so fresh and delicious.

Not even all our dishes. Some had been cleared away.

After dinner, we headed to our rooms which had been turned down while we were dining. They had pushed the small table aside and laid out two futon mattresses with large, fluffy comforters. “Of course!” we said to each other. We changed into the bathing robes that had been provided us and went to our respective spas. It was still dinner time, so my spa was empty. I was somewhat grateful since I was a little uncomfortable being naked around a bunch of cute, old Japanese ladies. I stripped down, showered, and got into the spa. It was so relaxing, but after the day I’d had, I felt myself nodding off after only a couple of minutes. So I put my robe back on and headed to the room.

Brett hadn’t returned yet, so I turned off all the lights in the room and stared out the window, up to the stars. I had an amazing night’s sleep.

The next morning we both got up early to wander around Yoshino. I wandered some of the country roads and found my way to a hillside graveyard with views of the mountains. So quiet, so beautiful. Upon returning we headed down to breakfast which was just as extensive and amazing as dinner had been. That morning we had taught ourselves a couple of phrases of gratitude. Oishikatta! That was delicious! Gochisosamma! What a feast!

After breakfast, we reluctantly packed up our bags and prepared to take our multiple trains to Kyoto. It was with heavy hearts that we left. We both fell in love with Yoshino. It was an authentic Japanese experience that we feel very privileged to have had. We only wished we could have stayed longer.

The rest of the trip, we kept saying to each other, “We’ll always have Yoshino.”

Being Vegetarian

20 Mar

For Mardi Gras, Brian and I went to a Creole place in Hell’s Kitchen. For a reasonable admission fee, there was an all-you-can-eat Cajun buffet, Hurricane drinks, and a live Cajun band. It was a hoot!

After I had gorged myself on fantastic jambalaya, I set to work on the crawdads. This requires both hands. Since we were standing, Brian held my plate as I ripped their little bodies in half and devoured their insides. Fat Tuesday is such a lovely holiday.

“I’ve decided to give up chips for Lent. What are you giving up?” Brian asked me. I looked up at him quizzically, crawdad juice running down my arm, my mouth stuffed.
“I’m not religious. I haven’t given anything up for Lent since I was a teenager.” I told him.
“You have to give up something. How about alcohol?”
“Who are you kidding?”
“Coffee?”
“I don’t drink it that often to begin with.”
“C’mon! You have to give up something.”

So I thought about it on my way home that night. Maybe meat? I was a vegetarian for 8 years after all. And my diet of late has been unhealthy in the predominance of the presence of meat. Yeah. I’ll give up meat!

Fast forward one week. Brian and I are on a quest for some food in the Lower East Side.

“I know a really great Mexican place near hear,” Brian says.
“Do they have vegetarian options? I decided to give up meat for Lent.”
“What?! That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You wanted me to give up something!”
“Yeah, but not something stupid. Meat is delicious. Why are you doing this to me?”

So, as I write this, I am at the halfway point. 20 days down. 20 to go. And it sucks. How on Earth did I do this for 8 years? Why did I do this for 8 years? In the last 20 days, I feel like I’ve missed out on so much. I feel like my diet is severely lacking. Meals are not nearly as filling or satisfying. I respect anyone who has the commitment to live a vegetarian lifestyle, but, whoa, it is not for me. It’s not that I eat a ton of meat, but I eat enough that I am certainly noticing its absence.

AND, I’ve been cheating. I’ll tell myself, “I’m not religious. Who cares?” But I made the commitment to give something up, and I hate not following through on something. I had beef chili on Ash Wednesday. I had made a huge pot a couple of days earlier, and I didn’t want it to go to waste. I ate jambalaya last Friday with my friend John. But riddle me this. How can you expect me to go to Jones Cafe and NOT order the jambalaya? I’m pretty sure John would have disowned me, and John is one of my favorite people in New York. So, no. THEN, I had lotso meat on St. Patrick’s Day (more on that adventure in a later post). Also, I’m leaving for Japan soon (Have I mentioned that?), and I am NOT missing out on ANY culinary adventures.

I have learned to eat more vegetables, and I have seen how far I have come since reintroducing meat into my diet 2ish years ago. Man oh man, though. Easter Sunday is going to find me with a burger and fries. You can count on that.

26 Before 26: Read a book by David Foster Wallace

18 Mar

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

I know. I know. The David Foster Wallace book to read is “Infinite Jest.” It’s the one prominently displayed at just about every bookstore, and it is supposed to be all smart and wonderful and interesting and mind-blowing. But I’m going to be completely honest with you. It’s a huge book. Rephrase that. It’s a massive book. I do the majority of my reading on the subway and on my lunchbreak. I carry by book du jour in my purse and pull it out when I have a free moment. Holding that gargantuan book in my hands was making my shoulder hurt. So I opted for the more dainty “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men.” And I mean, what a title, eh?

It’s a book of short stories. Many of those stories are part of a series of interviews with men about their dating habits, sexual habits, fantasies. There are also a variety of short stories on other non-hideous-men related subjects. My overall feeling on this book is meh.

For one thing, it was kind of depressing. A lot of his characters are depressed, depraved, corrupt, conniving. There are those types out there, but it doesn’t really do my soul good to spend hours reading about them. I’d end up putting the book down and feeling awfully cynical which is something I try to avoid.

Secondly, his writing is often experimental. Perhaps this is why some people like him so much? Because he’s all outside the box and whatnot? For instance, there was one short story called “Octet.” The story is broken into eight sections, with lengthy quiz-style questions that are unanswerable. Questions about Man X and Man Y and their friendship and how things are affected by outside influences. At some point, DFW breaks down and talks about how he, as a writer, is failing with this piece. It is so shockingly bare and self-conscious, and it was kind of a cop out. I don’t know. I guess it felt like he was trying so desperately to impress the reader with his “unique” writing. That kind of thing always rubs me the wrong way.

I do feel like I should give DFW a second chance though. It’s apparent that he is a good writer, and he is smart. I really should read “Infinite Jest.” Now that I have a Kindle, there is no more need to fear the damage the book will cause my shoulder. My Kindle is as light as a feather. It’ll be a while till I get to “Infinite Jest” though. I just loaded it up with books to help pass the time on that 16 hour flight I’m taking in 5 days.

Some Indian Food?

16 Mar

image

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.

Dodgeball

13 Mar

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.”

The Poodle Room

11 Mar

I was working back in the treatment area of the clinic when Dr. S barged through the swinging doors.

“What the hell is that thing hanging up in Room 1?” he said to no one in particular. The techs and kennel staff looked around at each other confused. “That poodle picture on the wall! Where did it come from?! It is creeping me out! I’m trying to talk to a client, and I just keep staring at it. It needs to be moved!”

I vaguely remember one of our elderly clients coming in earlier in the week holding a large picture frame, wrapped in brown wrapping paper. I put her in the exam room with her dog. I remember her walking slowly, grasping on to a walker, so I offered to carry the picture for her.

“It’s a gift for the doctor’s!” she said with gleaming eyes. So I leaned it against the exam room table, never getting to see the actual picture. I had completely forgotten about it until Dr. S brought it up that day. As a technician, I don’t have to go into the rooms anymore, so I didn’t see the poodle picture and promptly forgot about it.

On Monday, I was back to working reception. I cleaned out room 1 for a client and led them around. I told them to have a seat, and I went to shut the doors. There are two on either side of the room. I shut the first one and jumped nearly half a foot back. There was the most terrifying poodle portrait I’ve ever seen, and it had been creepily waiting behind that door.

I slowly backed out of the room, not taking my eyes off of it. Likewise, it didn’t take its eyes off me. It reminds me of the portraits in cheap haunted houses. No one in our office can really stand it, except Dr. C who has the softest heart and truly loves all creatures great and small.

Needless to say, it has been moved to the deepest recesses of the office…in room 6…which we now call….the poodle room.

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