Clearing the Mind

I've just realized that Sunday, August 26th is exactly two months from my last day here at Stanford Sierra Camp. Really, this place has been good to me when I stop being childish and admit the facts. It's beautiful and so I got a chance to actually live in a naturally gorgeous environment. No, I don't like hiking or skiing and I've only jumped in lakes here and there but I lived in a place that you can't imagine when you live your world tucked into brick and sidewalk and skyscrapers.

I grew up a lot though it isn't always obvious. I've learned to drive, shop and cook for myself. I can manage to pay rent and utilities. I came for two months and proved myself adult enough to decide to stay far from home (not an easy decision for me) and apply for and receive a permanent position here at camp and those two months turned into two years. And I met Mark which I must say isn't too shabby.

I'm having mini meltdowns in my head about my future after camp. I want to be excited about Colombia. I like to think of the idea of really having to do nothing but discuss with Mark what cafe will we sit at and read and people watch. Or of sitting on the beach in Cartageña (even if it is a 20 hour bus ride in South America). But then all I can think about is sitting on South American buses for 20 hours, of having to figure out how to communicate of maybe sometimes not knowing where we're going to sleep until it's time to sleep. Most world travelers relish that stuff. I never said I was one of those. I won’t even bother going into what I will do AFTER Colombia. Though I’m sure I’ll share my panic attacks about it in the not too distant future.

I'm at work today, Monday, which is my 'Friday'. I'm exhausted. I can tell you it's not a good idea to work 6 days in a row when it has only been a week and a half after an organ, however minor, has been removed. At one point I could feel the pressure starting to squeeze my head and I wasn't feeling so hot. I decided to go for a walk. What bad would come of it really?

I thought I'll just walk and turn around not too far from here but I ended up walking to Lily Lake, which is at the end of the road. It was pretty sunny and hot but I didn't want to stop. Instead of just following the loop and heading right back I decided to sit on the shore of the lake, which is pretty low due to the draught. As I was sitting there staring at the grasses in the lake two female mallards (all brown spots, no green head) swam pretty much right up to me and set themselves right next to me.

One of them was obviously the wary one as she eyed me for some time. The other started preening immediately. Eventually the wary one decided I wasn't going to chase them away. I wasn't...I was ready to watch a show they were so close! She started preening too. They would lift up their wings and the brightly colored feather underneath would show. They dip their bills into the water so gently. It seemed partly as if they were staying hydrated and it was also helping with the preening. They stretched their goofy legs and even scratched the back of their necks like dogs. It was so serene. It was exactly what my brain needed.

I felt pretty sad that I didn't have a camera with me...when do I ever? But at the same time I'll remember it in my head. It was as if this area was telling me not to forget how pretty it has been for me.

The Letter

I wanted to take a moment and share with you the letter I'm sending to the landlord along with our rent for September. In a strange way I'm proud of it. Probably because in a discussion with a co-worker it was described as 'polite but pissed'. Essentially I'm just annoyed and wanted to let someone know. That and I'm pretty bored. Anyway, here it is:

August 26, 2007

Dear Management of 970 Glorene Avenue,

I would like to take a moment to inform you of a minor yet highly frustrating incident that occurred on the evening of August 23rd. We had a guest unexpectedly drop in for a brief moment. Our guest had parked in what appeared to him in an unmarked, vacant parking space. Said parking space did turn out to be the space frequented by the Subaru Forester belonging to the man (as I am uncomfortable referring to him as ‘gentleman’) who lives in the single home.

As our guest was departing, taking a moment in front of our door, the man happened to arrive. He half-stepped out of his Subaru and rudely yelled out to our guest “Is that your truck?” Our guest, being a guest, politely replied, “Yes” to which the man rudely (again) told him to move it.

Now as I have resided here since May I am fully aware the residents of ‘The Village’ apartments have ‘their spaces’ as I too am guilty of enjoying parking in the same parking space everyday. However, I am also fully aware that upon signing the lease with Kimberly we were told that minus the spots marked A,B,C, & D, no spaces were officially assigned.

I suggest two possible outcomes:

1. Someone please remind the Subaru’s owner (who on frequent occasions parks his 2 vehicles crooked taking 3 spaces. That means 3 spaces, 2 cars, 1 person) to the fact that nothing is officially assigned and scolding or yelling at people is highly inappropriate. Especially when the people getting yelled at are guests of tenants who pay their fair share of rent each month.

Or

2. The Management purchase some spray paint and either assign all the parking spaces in the lot or at least clearly mark what can be considered guest spaces and distribute a letter to that fact.

Thank you kindly,


Jamie
Resident

I signed my full name of course, just took it off for the blog. I mean, it's going in with our rent check so I'm obviously not worried that they'll figure out who wrote it. No way...I want to be a known rebel! You know the "I-hate-suburbia-and-I'm-starting-to-get-over-Northern-California-rebel".

The Scar

Who designed this place? You'd think California was Detroit. This entire state is designed for you to possibly fail in living if you don't own and operate your own vehicle. Public transportation is a joke. Seriously. When comedians make fun of fat Americans driving the .03 miles to Del Taco in their Chevy Suburban, they're talking about Californians.

Mark thinks I hate public transportation and that I'm one of those people who will drive anywhere and everywhere. But that's not true. I grew up in NYC. I enjoyed the swooping of a MetroCard. I was a MetroCard snob. You know, you get to the turnstile and you're ready to swoop it through and hear that beep and you didn't even have to slow down the pace. And god forbid the person in front of you doesn't have the right momentum and they get denied at the turnstile and you have to stop short lest you walk right into them. But you smile if they are in the turnstile next to you and as you continue your swooping they walk right into the metal bar. And think of all the great reading you get done on your commutes. The only thing that really sucked was the 1 train going uptown at 59th street at 8 in the morning. Dear God.

That and I got a lot of walking done. I was pretty fit during the Summer of '05. I'm actually amazed at how fit I was. I'm getting teary eyed.

Anywho...

So one of the many changes I had to make out here was learning how to drive. Now I enjoy driving out here because it's new to me and really, what can go wrong when there is only one road to drive. But let's face it. I'm still new, not always confident, and I definitely have some rage problems. But I was doing pretty good until....



This is Suby. Suby is our (and by our I mean Mark's) 1991 Silver Subaru Legacy L wagon, 184,000 miles, power windows, power locks, three cracks windshield, radio only beast of a car. And sometimes the driver door will actually open without you reaching out the window.

She's been great to us. She handles Fallen Leaf Road like a charm (the one lane, two-way nightmare that is the only way to work) She tops out at about 45mph uphill, and she's got tons of cargo space. There wasn't much wrong with her until:

August 4th, 10am.

Now I know I was driving and part of me was telling me "maybe you shouldn't try this" but on the other hand I had a jerk in a luxury vehicle behind me who wasn't going to move, and a retard Stanford kid (because only retards get into ivy league colleges, as long as they've got the cash) had parked the camp 'Town Run Truck' in the middle of the freaking road. Even though it was check out day and everyone needed to drive down this road. So I gassed it and pushed through.
A massive terrible noise was heard and the 'TRT' moved a little and I ended up with this.

Now Mark was pretty livid, understandably, and I was pretty annoyed because if I would've just told the retard to move his f'ing truck, none of this would've happened. But weeks have gone by now and we've just accepted it as another phase of Suby's life.

So, needless to say, I'm not a good driver, and I really don't plan on driving very much in my future especially if someone else can drive. And I'm sure Mark will be stoked when we live somewhere that allows the thought of me driving to be put to rest and I can get a monthly pass instead.

Missing: Gallbladder

And they say you don't get what you ask for. As the summer goes on and I get more and more impatient with these so-called 'guests' (because doesn't that word imply that you want them there?) I keep wishing that sick days were like vacation days and you could really just take them whenever you wanted. Especially since I have an insane amount of sick time. But calling out sick to spend time with your sweetie (in the words of Carrie) doesn't really work when you both work at the same place and everyone knows you're full of it.

Sunday Noon: Mark and I go out to lunch with his assistant to Burger Lounge. An extremely popular grease bucket that serves up huge and fairly inventive 1/2 pound burgers and has insanely good shakes. And well, if that ain't bad enough we got some fries too. Now mind you, Mark and I shared the shake and fries which went unfinished, as did my burger but I knew I was setting myself up for trouble.

2am on Monday: I wake up with some wicked stomach pains. I pop some tums and try and roll over because I was thinking that this is what happens when idiots like me eat like a truck driver.

4:30am: Tums ain't doing it. I'm sobbing in the living room wishing I could die. The pain is intense and it hasn't let up even a little. Mark comes in wondering what is wrong. Maybe it's bad gas, maybe it's food poisoning. He makes me some tea.

5am: I puke. One would think that after puking your stomach would go "And don't do that again!" and you would feel better and then wait a week or two and go grab another shake. But no, there was no relief to my pain. If anything I puked yet again and it hurt even more.

At a more normal hour Mark went to the supermarket and brought me the usual suspects: saltines, gatorade, ginger ale. I called work and said I doubt I'd be able to come in and I dozed off in the corner of the living room. All the while the pain NEVER CEASING. I think that was truly the amazing part. The pain never faded, I never thought "oh I'm getting better" I just kept puking and writhing in pain.

Around 4 in the afternoon on Monday, Mark decided that this obviously isn't norovirus (the puking/pooing bug that gave the smackdown to camp last year) and I haven't appeared to make any progress towards the "I'm not dying" side of the spectrum, so off the the ER we went..



Eventually the doctor came in, made no attempt to make eye-contact with me, didn't even bother to say hello to Mark, and quite unenthusiastically asked me a bunch of health-related-how-are-you-feeling-right-now questions as he punched in his answers on his laptop.

He seemed totally unconvinced that anything was wrong with me but since I had puked 4 times in 12 hours (with one last time to follow shortly after) he ordered some blood tests, a anti-nausea shot, and a ultra sound.

A wretched witch of an ER nurse stabbed me (literally) in the arm with my anti-nausea meds, which 3 days later I can still feel the pain in that arm, a former Grateful Deadhead type named Pablo drew my blood (yes I know, it's hard to find a vein on me) and the Ultra-Sound Technician REEKING of cigarette smoke squeezed some glue on me and announced with actual excitement that I had gallstones.

So I was kept overnight for observation with poor Mark curled up on a plastic chair. The next morning more blood tests showed that my liver was still in distress because my Gallbladder couldn't get it's act together so off to the operating room I went.


Basically a good gallbladder doesn't make stones, a bad one does. So you can actually have stones for some time (it seems like I have) and every once in awhile you can have some bad pain but it gets tossed aside as indigestion. But one day you can eat something, your stomach will say "Bring me the bile, Gallbladder!" (your GB stores the bile that your liver makes) and in an attempt to squeeze out some bile, which at this point has hardened into stones, a stone can get stuck in the exit ramp. And your GB will squeeze...and squeeze...and squeeze but the only thing that will happen is it will get angry and swell and a whole puking mess will begin. And once you have an 'acute' case, the GB has to go. So off mine went.

Now this has been a really long post already so I won't bother telling you THE HORROR that was the roommates at the hospital. For some time I had a room to myself but when someone else was in there HORROR doesn't even begin to cover it. I'll just briefly say that the first 2 days, if it can be said, were actually pleasant, my nurses being really nice, and Mark was a solid knight in shining armor, even having to clean up puke on his day off. He deserves a hug and a drink from everyone who sees him. And once it doesn't hurt for me to be squeezed because my belly is all swollen and angry I'm gonna give him a big squeeze myself.

Dropping some food knowledge

I once went to España for 5 weeks with the intention of learning the Spanish language, getting to know the culture and having a life experience. Even though I saw some beautiful things and made some friends I still keep in touch with I basically was extremely homesick and culture shocked and never spoke a work of Spanish outside of my class.

So this basically means the only experience eating tapas has been here in the States. So yes, I probably haven’t had the most authentic of tapas, but I am discovering that maybe I would’ve liked them (minus the shrimp still with eyeballs). I wanted to share with you this recipe that I’ve made twice so far and I pretty much want to have it all the time. I’d also like to note that Gruyère cheese is actually pretty tasty and you probably won’t find it in a hole in the wall supermarket but it’s essential to this Spanish Tortilla.

OH! The fun part is you get to flip this giant disc of egg back into the skillet. So break out your skillz!

Spanish Egg Tortilla
In Spain, a tortilla is a potato and egg omelet!

INGREDIENTS

1/2 tbsp. Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1/2 cup chopped onion
1 (4-oz.) red potato, cooked and thinly sliced
4 eggs, beaten
1/2 tsp. garlic salt
Freshly ground pepper to taste
3/4 cup shredded Gruyère cheese
Chopped fresh parsley (optional)

DIRECTIONS
Prep time: 10 minutes
Cook time: 15 to 20 minutes

Heat oil in a 7- or 8-inch skillet. Add onions and cook over low heat for 10 minutes; add potatoes to skillet. Season eggs with garlic salt and pepper; stir in cheese and add to skillet. Let cook for a few minutes, then carefully lift edges and tilt skillet so uncooked egg can run underneath. When eggs are almost set, carefully slide onto a plate. Cover with skillet and invert eggs back into skillet. Cook for a few minutes more or until cooked through. Sprinkle with parsley and cut into wedges. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Makes 8 wedges.

Too much time to think

This is what I want to do. I want to high-tail it outta here. I'm tired of sitting around and stewing in my unimportance.

stag·nant [stag-nuhnt] –adjective
1. not flowing or running, as water, air, etc.
2. stale or foul from standing, as a pool of water.
3. characterized by lack of development, advancement, or progressive movement: a stagnant economy.
4. inactive, sluggish, or dull.

I'm a good worker. As lazy as I can sometimes be in my personal life I'll work hard when given hard work. Or at least I used to, I don't know anymore. I'm good at what I do. I have a different persona than the real me. I could memorize a customer's favorite coffeehouse drink and make it for him while he walked along the snaking line, piping hot and ready for him by the time he placed his order at the register. I can see a face one Saturday back in 2006 and when the same person approaches me this one Saturday in 2007, I know who they are, and I welcome them, as if I'm happy to see them. I have a 'good phone manner'. Whatever.

Where will these "skills" get me? I'm tired of the staples, the faxes, the emails, the filing, the not making any money. When will I feel like I'm actually contributing to something I care about or even remotely care about? Or when will I not have a small anxiety attack every time my alarm clock wakes me up for the day. I know everyone feels a little lost in life, but I'm devoid of direction. Or that's what it feels like right now.

As scared as I am of this trip to Colombia, I pray that it will make me stronger, make me kick my butt a little. Maybe I'll actually smile again without having to work too hard at it.

Enough of this. It must be the depressing lonely office I'm sitting in to cause all this. I'm going home, I'm going to my Lighthouse. He's always waiting for me.

Food Dammit!

Today has been sort of a cooking day for me. It's my Saturday and it's the one day Mark and I have off together so we usually make a big breakfast. I attempted to call The Mom to confirm my suspicions on how to make french toast. However she was apparently unavailable so I went in blind. And man, blind is tasty. After a couple of eggs, some heavy whipping cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla extract, and brown shuga I served up some tasty toast with scrambled eggs. Mark finished making the coffee on one of our still surviving french presses ( I think I see a theme! )and we feasted.

Dinner however has been another story. On may way home from my spin class, sweaty and stinky, I stopped at the fancy meat store because fancy meat tastes good and alas, it was closed. So while I went home to start blending some sofrito for the arroz, I sent Mark across the street to buy some not-as-fancy pork chops. Things are going good right?

I open our rice container only to discover a self sustaining ecosystem of flying bugs, spider webs, and oh yeah...rice.

So then it was my turn to run across the street to get the rice as I left the hombre to do some pepper chopping. I was back in a jiffy and we started dinner.....and we wait....and we wait...and now it's 8:36 at night, I'm ravenous because I actually raised my heart rate today and dinner, or more like this ridiculous rice, is still not ready. So here I am just letting you know...if you ever want to come over, I'd be happy to cook for you, just bring a snack.

The Ubiquitous First Post

Welcome! For years, since I left the island of Manhattan, I've written long winded emails entailing what 'adventures' I was having, creating, or falling into. Many of you if not all always seem excited to receive them. I thought I'd move into my 'keeping you updated' future.

Lori Mooney (hello my Bronx friends) has, from day one, asked me to create a blog. Then I started dating, and moved in with, a blogger (You can always visit Mark at http://bubbler.wordpress.com after you visit me) and suddenly I have an urge to share with you the most mundane things. This will allow me to share them with you at your leisure instead of forcing it into your inbox.

I hope you will visit often, comment (can you comment here) and enjoy. Miss you all but I'm glad you can all peek into my life via this page.