When it comes to vegetables, I am approximately four years old. Up until a few years ago, I would only really eat broccoli, carrots, corn, beans, potatoes, and occasionally squash or peas. Mushrooms were okay on pizza or in the form of my mom's stuffed mushrooms. Other than that, it wasn't on my plate and it certainly wasn't going in my mouth.
There are foods that I say that I don't like but have no actual memory of eating. Where did I learn to hate beets? Did I ever even taste a beet? If I did, I don't really remember it. Or was it the smell? Or the way my moms hands were always stained red from slicing them up? Recognizing that I may not be eating something for no discernible reason is only the first step in the process. This realization does not automatically release all of the fears and disgust I have for beets, but it can serve as a catalyst for making an attempt to taste one.
Honestly, it started with brussel sprouts. I have no recollection of eating brussel sprouts, being served brussel sprouts, or even seeing a brussel sprout in my childhood. I think the only reason I knew they existed was from TV, and all the TV shows were of kids not wanting to eat their brussel sprouts. Then one day, my roommate cooked them as a side dish with dinner. Lightly steamed, tossed with butter and salt and pepper, they were delicious! Like little baby cabbages! Crunchy and buttery and wonderful! Brussel sprouts joined my list of approved vegetables and I made them whenever I could get my hands on some. Not everyone was a fan of the simplicity. My boyfriend would always eat one or two, then roll the remaining sprouts onto my plate (which wasn't really a problem for me...). That is, until I found this little beauty of a recipe. That recipe will make anyone in the world love brussel sprouts!
Finding a local farmers market has been a huge bolster to my vegetable intake. Everything just tastes better when it's local and fresh! I added asparagus to my repetoire when I discovered that they were not bitter when you wrap them in prosciutto and pan fry them! Now I'll eat them lightly steamed with salt and pepper as well. Cauliflower roasted in the oven with a little curry powder and olive oil? I'll eat an entire head of cauliflower like that! Mash it up and it's a great potato substitute.
The most recent addition to my palate is tomatoes. I consider this a particularly amazing feat since tomatoes have been on my hit list for the longest and produced the most heinous of faces and intense picking apart of my food. It started with a taco. I put a few chunks of sweet cherry tomatoes fresh from the farmers market on and took a bite, half expecting to turn around and spit it out into the garbage. It was good! They were sweet and cool and juicy, a great contrast with the salty beans and spicy meat. Now tomatoes can be found in my salads and on my burgers. Most of the time they are eaten, with the exception of those really bad restaurant tomatoes.
Learning to try new things has been challenging. Overcoming the immediate reaction of disgust is immensely difficult, and it often requires a large amount of willpower to continue the action of eating the vegetable in question. Sometimes I just don't have it in me. But more importantly, sometimes I do. I'm gaining the resolve to set aside my preconceived notions and attempt to taste something for the first time all over again, and to form a new opinion.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
I'm on the Registry
When I was 18 years old, a little boy in my church fell very ill. He went downhill quickly and it became apparent that he was going to need a bone marrow transplant to have a fighting chance. None of his family was a match. We moved as quickly as possible, but by the time we got a bone marrow drive organized, he had passed away. We held the drive in his honor. I was proud to give a little vile of blood and put my marrow on the Nation Bone Marrow Donor's list. You can join the registry at 18 and remain on the list unless you withdraw your name, contract a disease that disqualifies you, or you turn 60. Bonus points: they now put you on the registry with a simple cheek swap, no needles!
I keep my information updated through Be the Match in case I am someone's match. I feel glad knowing that my information is there, in case there comes a time when my match needs me, and I can only hope that if one of my family members or myself ever needs it, our match will be there too.
Seeing the story about Amit reminded me of all the reasons why I'm on the registry, but also compelled me to share my story. The fact of the matter is finding a match for a persons bone marrow is much more difficult than a blood type match. There are many other markers that doctors look for. There are currently 10,000 people in need of a life saving bone marrow transplant and only about half will receive one. Ethnicity plays a part in finding a match. In Amit's case, his quest for a match and the social media movement to support him has uncovered the fact that South Asians are desperately under represented in the National Bone Marrow Registry. On the Be the Match website right now, there is a video advocating for more African American representation. His story started a grassroots movement and colleges everywhere sponsored bone marrow drives. Check out the twitter hashtag #iswabbedforamit
Regardless of your ethnicity, I feel it is vitally important that we grow this list. Have you ever donated blood? Have you donated your childs' cord blood? Are you registered as an organ donor? Consider adding bone marrow donor to your list. Be sure to visit the links I've provided. Be the Match has great case studies from people who have donated and received transplants, giving you a realistic view of what happens when you are a match. I'm a proud member of the registry. Who will join me?
I keep my information updated through Be the Match in case I am someone's match. I feel glad knowing that my information is there, in case there comes a time when my match needs me, and I can only hope that if one of my family members or myself ever needs it, our match will be there too.
Seeing the story about Amit reminded me of all the reasons why I'm on the registry, but also compelled me to share my story. The fact of the matter is finding a match for a persons bone marrow is much more difficult than a blood type match. There are many other markers that doctors look for. There are currently 10,000 people in need of a life saving bone marrow transplant and only about half will receive one. Ethnicity plays a part in finding a match. In Amit's case, his quest for a match and the social media movement to support him has uncovered the fact that South Asians are desperately under represented in the National Bone Marrow Registry. On the Be the Match website right now, there is a video advocating for more African American representation. His story started a grassroots movement and colleges everywhere sponsored bone marrow drives. Check out the twitter hashtag #iswabbedforamit
Regardless of your ethnicity, I feel it is vitally important that we grow this list. Have you ever donated blood? Have you donated your childs' cord blood? Are you registered as an organ donor? Consider adding bone marrow donor to your list. Be sure to visit the links I've provided. Be the Match has great case studies from people who have donated and received transplants, giving you a realistic view of what happens when you are a match. I'm a proud member of the registry. Who will join me?
Monday, October 3, 2011
Fall Cleaning
Technically, I am a little late for the Spring Cleaning crowd, but it's better late than never!
I am not a neat person by nature. Being tidy and organized is something that I have to work on and training myself to become a cleaner person is hard. It requires that I choose between spending my day off on my butt in front of the computer or spending my day off with a pair of gloves and a bottle of vinegar in my oven. Today, cleaning finally won.
When I was a kid, my room was always a disaster. Putting away clean clothes meant stacking them on the floor in front of the dresser. Books and notebooks and papers started off stacked but eventually fell over and covered the floor. I could rarely see the floor in my bedroom save for a path to the bed itself. My closet doors were perpetually open with clothes and stuffed animals spilling out of the shelves. My poor parents were always on me to clean my room since it was basically a fire hazard. Ever seen that show, Hoarders? That's pretty much what my bedroom looked like. Even as a kid, I liked my stuff.
Disclaimer: I'm going to state for the record that moving in with someone early into a relationship is a very bad idea. So is sharing a bank account. Just saying.
After a bad breakup (that I sometimes refer to as The Divorce), I had to sit down and go through all of the stuff that we had accumulated throughout the two years we lived together. I walked away with nowhere near as much stuff as I contributed, but I got to keep all of the debt. Because I was older and had more/better credit, the Kohl's charge card, the Target charge card, and the regular credit card were all in my name. Through the relationship, payments were made from OUR account, but once the relationship was over, the payments came from MY account. I also ended up paying for the damages to the apartment (to the tune of $600) since my ex and former roommate refused to contribute.
Since The Divorce, I am sensitive to boundaries in relationships. I have my stuff that I paid for and his stuff that he bought to keep at the apartment or at his house for me to use, and there are a few things that are in the grey area of 'ours', but nothing major. We don't live together and we definitely don't share a bank account. I am sure he ends up paying for more than I do between eating out and trips to Disneyland and the beach, but neither of us is keeping track of the exact dollar amount and I do my best to chip in when I can. I am still paying off some of the debt that I took away from The Divorce, but I am finally feeling like all of this is manageable.
Learning to let go of stuff since then has been more difficult. Learning to trust that my relationship is not going to explode into a property war is difficult. Stuff doesn't break up with you and leave. Stuff is there when you're sad and stuff doesn't abandon you.
Stuff is also not love. My things can provide a slight comfort in the fact that they are there when I am looking for them, but they are not a good replacement for human companionship. Connecting with people on any level is risky. Friends can betray you, boyfriends come and ago, even family members can go off the deep end. None of these things is a good excuse to isolate yourself. And while it can be difficult to open up and share yourself with another person, you have to find the gumption to risk it all on a gamble that this time it will all work out.
I can't say I have no regrets in my dating history, but I'm working on it. Life is a work in progress. It's not over til the fat lady sings.
Monday, August 15, 2011
My Eyes
I wear glasses. It is a predominant feature of mine, and people who don't know me describe me as "the girl with the glasses". It is also a rather sore spot of mine.
When I was very little, before I was in school really, I used to sit close to the tv. My parents always said that I would hurt my eyes if I sat too close, but the truth was I sat close because I already couldn't see. I had no way to articulate this because that was just how it always was. I didn't know what it was like to not have to squint or sit up close. I'm pretty sure I got my glasses in first grade. I remember picking them up from Walmart and wearing them out of the vision center. I was sitting in a shopping cart and staring at everything. Everything was so very sharp! The signs had distinct edges and the letters were crisp and clean! Outside was amazing! Trees had leaves! I always knew they did, but they were a blur of green, and these were hundreds of tiny individual green leaves! It was amazing.
At first, I was okay with them. I didn't get teased too much and the one kid who called me four eyes on the playground actually got made fun of for making such a lame joke. One day I was called to the nurses office in the middle of class. I was very confused, it never seemed to be good to get called out of class. One of my classmates was in the office, distraught, because she had just found out that she needed glasses. I was one of very few that had them, so they called me in to talk to her. I told her about all the different frames there were in all different colors and I let her try mine on to see how she looked in the mirror. I remember making her laugh and I felt great that I could help someone else like that.
I grew to hate my glasses as time passed, since I was still one of few who wore them, and it seemed like none of the popular girls had them at the time. I used to take them off for school pictures and hide them behind my back. As time went on, my vision got worse. Every year I went for my exam, I had to get a new prescription. It seemed endless.
I remember hearing about Lasik Eye Surgery. My heart jumped for joy! A cure for bad eye sight! At this point I was still a minor, the procedure was still considered "new" in the scientific world, and it was massively expensive. Nevertheless, I asked my ophthalmologist about it at my next appointment. He was an excellent doctor and took my inquiry very seriously. He explained the procedure and the risks, and told me that I would not even be a candidate until my vision stopped changing for at least three years. I was a little disappointed, but it became a little ray of hope that someday, I could have perfect vision and throw away my glasses for good.
In high school I had contacts that I dutifully wore everyday. Many people didn't know I had bad vision until it came time for sleepovers or those fateful days when a contact tore or got lost and I was forced to use my glasses. I managed the best I could and was grateful for the contacts for the time being. My vision did not stop changing until college. Finally it settled at an impressively bad -8.50 in the left eye and a -9.00 in the right (this will only mean something to people who pay attention to their prescription...). For a couple years I didn't do anything about it. Then one day, a coworker mentioned she had had the procedure several years prior and still had 20/20 vision. I oozed with jealousy and tackled her with questions. Another coworker and friend overheard and expressed her desire to have the surgery as well. We agreed to go for a free consultation together the following week.
I talked to my parents about it. I was broke, and although the price had dropped significantly, I couldn't afford it alone. My parents agreed to help me pay and I was ecstatic. It was finally happening!
The day of the consultation was exciting. We got off work and went straight to the doctors office, giddy with excitement. They kept us together for all the tests and we got to sit together throughout everything. Everyone in the office was kind and no one was wearing glasses! The first test uncovered the fact that I had a very small astigmatism in my right eye. Nothing to be concerned about, the nurse said, so small it wouldn't affect the surgery. We filled out a bunch of paperwork and finally got to see a real doctor.
I think my friend went first and she passed with flying colors. She was cleared for surgery and we were in full of celebratory mode. Then it was my turn with the doctor. It felt like he was taking forever looking at my eyes. I couldn't wait to go call my parents and tell them when my surgery was going to be. I just wanted him to say it was going to be okay! The nurse had explained that because my vision was so bad, they would have to remove a lot of the cornea and it may not even bring me to 20/20. I was nervous. I was worried that my eyes would be unfixable.
What happened next was far beyond the realm of possibility. I was worried he would say it wouldn't work, and what he actually said was far worse.
"You have a detached retina in your right eye. You need to see a specialist and have surgery first thing tomorrow."
What? I have a what? What could happen?
"You can go blind."
Suddenly, my vision didn't seem so bad. Blind? I couldn't go blind. I felt sick, my head swimming. We went to the lobby and the nurse tried to call the specialist, but the office was closed. They gave me the number as well as the doctors cell phone number and sent me home with specific instructions. I had to see that doctor as soon as the office opened in the morning.
I called the doctors cell at 5am, panicked. He referred me to another doctor since he wouldn't be in town and once again urged me to get there as quickly as possible. I called the other office when they opened and was told to come in as soon as I could, I wouldn't need an appointment, they would move other people around. My mom picked me up from work and off we went. It was a whirlwind. This doctor took one look and sat down with me and my mom, telling us that he agreed with the Lasik doctor and sort of describe what was happening.
I have myopic eyes. Basically, my bad vision is cause by the fact that my eyes have stretched into an oval shape, moving the point of focus off of my retina. Because they are so stretched, my retina had stretched with it and developed tiny tears or holes. The vitreous fluid in my eye was able to get behind my retina through these holes and lift it off the back of my eye. It was causing irregularities in my vision so slight that I hadn't given them a second thought. The surgery was done with a laser. It would essentially burn my retina back into place, creating a barricade of scar tissue around the holes, hopefully keeping the retina in place in the future. The alternative surgery if this one did not work was to install a "buckle" in my eye to hold it in place, which would limit my vision much more severely.
I had the surgery right there in the office. I was given numbing eye drops and the warning that it would feel like pinching. It sort of did feel like pinching, but with a hot poker in the very center of your head. Every time the laser fired, I could see the veins on the back of my eye in the reflection of the light. It took a few months to fully heal. Bright lights caused excruciating pain.
Luckily, I only lost a few degrees of peripheral vision in my right eye. I go to the retina specialist every year for a check up and every year I hold my breath, hoping and praying that everything is still okay. I will be forever thankful to the man who caught the detachment and the man who preformed the surgery. For now, everything is in its rightful place, and I have become somewhat of an advocate for retina awareness. If you have bad vision, I highly recommend that you ask your eye doctor if you are at risk for retina detachment. They should be able to see any signs of thinning (which I have in my left eye and we watch closely), or tearing. They should also be able to tell you what things to watch out for, as they may be signs of retina detachment.
After all of this, I still hate my glasses. I wish I weren't blind in the shower and didn't trip of the vacuum if I risk going to the bathroom at night without them. I still hold out hope that someday, technology will catch up with my eyesight, and I will be able to have a successful Lasik procedure.
When I was very little, before I was in school really, I used to sit close to the tv. My parents always said that I would hurt my eyes if I sat too close, but the truth was I sat close because I already couldn't see. I had no way to articulate this because that was just how it always was. I didn't know what it was like to not have to squint or sit up close. I'm pretty sure I got my glasses in first grade. I remember picking them up from Walmart and wearing them out of the vision center. I was sitting in a shopping cart and staring at everything. Everything was so very sharp! The signs had distinct edges and the letters were crisp and clean! Outside was amazing! Trees had leaves! I always knew they did, but they were a blur of green, and these were hundreds of tiny individual green leaves! It was amazing.
At first, I was okay with them. I didn't get teased too much and the one kid who called me four eyes on the playground actually got made fun of for making such a lame joke. One day I was called to the nurses office in the middle of class. I was very confused, it never seemed to be good to get called out of class. One of my classmates was in the office, distraught, because she had just found out that she needed glasses. I was one of very few that had them, so they called me in to talk to her. I told her about all the different frames there were in all different colors and I let her try mine on to see how she looked in the mirror. I remember making her laugh and I felt great that I could help someone else like that.
I grew to hate my glasses as time passed, since I was still one of few who wore them, and it seemed like none of the popular girls had them at the time. I used to take them off for school pictures and hide them behind my back. As time went on, my vision got worse. Every year I went for my exam, I had to get a new prescription. It seemed endless.
I remember hearing about Lasik Eye Surgery. My heart jumped for joy! A cure for bad eye sight! At this point I was still a minor, the procedure was still considered "new" in the scientific world, and it was massively expensive. Nevertheless, I asked my ophthalmologist about it at my next appointment. He was an excellent doctor and took my inquiry very seriously. He explained the procedure and the risks, and told me that I would not even be a candidate until my vision stopped changing for at least three years. I was a little disappointed, but it became a little ray of hope that someday, I could have perfect vision and throw away my glasses for good.
In high school I had contacts that I dutifully wore everyday. Many people didn't know I had bad vision until it came time for sleepovers or those fateful days when a contact tore or got lost and I was forced to use my glasses. I managed the best I could and was grateful for the contacts for the time being. My vision did not stop changing until college. Finally it settled at an impressively bad -8.50 in the left eye and a -9.00 in the right (this will only mean something to people who pay attention to their prescription...). For a couple years I didn't do anything about it. Then one day, a coworker mentioned she had had the procedure several years prior and still had 20/20 vision. I oozed with jealousy and tackled her with questions. Another coworker and friend overheard and expressed her desire to have the surgery as well. We agreed to go for a free consultation together the following week.
I talked to my parents about it. I was broke, and although the price had dropped significantly, I couldn't afford it alone. My parents agreed to help me pay and I was ecstatic. It was finally happening!
The day of the consultation was exciting. We got off work and went straight to the doctors office, giddy with excitement. They kept us together for all the tests and we got to sit together throughout everything. Everyone in the office was kind and no one was wearing glasses! The first test uncovered the fact that I had a very small astigmatism in my right eye. Nothing to be concerned about, the nurse said, so small it wouldn't affect the surgery. We filled out a bunch of paperwork and finally got to see a real doctor.
I think my friend went first and she passed with flying colors. She was cleared for surgery and we were in full of celebratory mode. Then it was my turn with the doctor. It felt like he was taking forever looking at my eyes. I couldn't wait to go call my parents and tell them when my surgery was going to be. I just wanted him to say it was going to be okay! The nurse had explained that because my vision was so bad, they would have to remove a lot of the cornea and it may not even bring me to 20/20. I was nervous. I was worried that my eyes would be unfixable.
What happened next was far beyond the realm of possibility. I was worried he would say it wouldn't work, and what he actually said was far worse.
"You have a detached retina in your right eye. You need to see a specialist and have surgery first thing tomorrow."
What? I have a what? What could happen?
"You can go blind."
Suddenly, my vision didn't seem so bad. Blind? I couldn't go blind. I felt sick, my head swimming. We went to the lobby and the nurse tried to call the specialist, but the office was closed. They gave me the number as well as the doctors cell phone number and sent me home with specific instructions. I had to see that doctor as soon as the office opened in the morning.
I called the doctors cell at 5am, panicked. He referred me to another doctor since he wouldn't be in town and once again urged me to get there as quickly as possible. I called the other office when they opened and was told to come in as soon as I could, I wouldn't need an appointment, they would move other people around. My mom picked me up from work and off we went. It was a whirlwind. This doctor took one look and sat down with me and my mom, telling us that he agreed with the Lasik doctor and sort of describe what was happening.
I have myopic eyes. Basically, my bad vision is cause by the fact that my eyes have stretched into an oval shape, moving the point of focus off of my retina. Because they are so stretched, my retina had stretched with it and developed tiny tears or holes. The vitreous fluid in my eye was able to get behind my retina through these holes and lift it off the back of my eye. It was causing irregularities in my vision so slight that I hadn't given them a second thought. The surgery was done with a laser. It would essentially burn my retina back into place, creating a barricade of scar tissue around the holes, hopefully keeping the retina in place in the future. The alternative surgery if this one did not work was to install a "buckle" in my eye to hold it in place, which would limit my vision much more severely.
I had the surgery right there in the office. I was given numbing eye drops and the warning that it would feel like pinching. It sort of did feel like pinching, but with a hot poker in the very center of your head. Every time the laser fired, I could see the veins on the back of my eye in the reflection of the light. It took a few months to fully heal. Bright lights caused excruciating pain.
Luckily, I only lost a few degrees of peripheral vision in my right eye. I go to the retina specialist every year for a check up and every year I hold my breath, hoping and praying that everything is still okay. I will be forever thankful to the man who caught the detachment and the man who preformed the surgery. For now, everything is in its rightful place, and I have become somewhat of an advocate for retina awareness. If you have bad vision, I highly recommend that you ask your eye doctor if you are at risk for retina detachment. They should be able to see any signs of thinning (which I have in my left eye and we watch closely), or tearing. They should also be able to tell you what things to watch out for, as they may be signs of retina detachment.
After all of this, I still hate my glasses. I wish I weren't blind in the shower and didn't trip of the vacuum if I risk going to the bathroom at night without them. I still hold out hope that someday, technology will catch up with my eyesight, and I will be able to have a successful Lasik procedure.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Wedding
I'm baaaack! I've been MIA for the past ten days preparing for, flying to, and participating in my brothers wedding. My family is all in New England, so it's a long haul for me. But it was totally worth it!
My brother got married to an absolutely wonderful woman who I am proud to call my sister-in-law. They've been together for about three years, and he proposed on New Years Eve. He meant to propose right at midnight when the ball dropped in New York and everyone was celebrating and kissing, but he couldn't make it that long. He ended up proposing at about ten in the morning.
If you take away anything from that, you probably can imagine that he was a disaster before the wedding. He told us that he felt like a four year old, there was no past, and no future, only the current thing he was working on. It was like, "ok, it's time to eat dinner. Ok. Dinner is over, now it's time to go home." We couldn't even talk about the wedding details around him or he got flustered. His best man was our brother Matt, and his two groomsman were her brother, and his best friend from childhood. They were in charge of making sure he got there in one piece, in his suit, on time, and sober. I was a bridesmaid, along with her brothers girlfriend, and one of her best friends.
Being a bridesmaid was a definitely an interesting experience. It was about 100 degrees out with 100% humidity outside, but inside the barn was at least 110. Dressing the bride consisted of holding fans, dabbing her back and face, and trying to keep her calm. We put a big fan right under the skirt of her dress and had a small fan that we pointed at her neck and shoulders. It was strange, I have never been a bridesmaid before. It was a little haywire. There was a frantic search for a safety pin, scissors, and one of the bouquets went missing. And then all of the sudden, it was time.
The ceremony itself was short, and that was a blessing since we were all kind of waiting for someone to pass out. Everyone was crying, and my brother was practicing some serious yoga breathing to get through his vows, after which he mouthed the word "brutal" several times. All in all, it was beautiful and they got through it.
So there is our new complete family! I love Melinda and I'm so happy for my brother. It was such a beautiful day despite the heat, and our families seemed the mesh well and there was no drama.
The reception was one huge party. Dancing and eating and drinking. Right when it was getting unbearably hot, my mom produced a whole ton of squirt guns and the fighting ensued! And wielding the biggest squirt gun of all was my new sister, armed and dangerous, even in a wedding dress.
My brother got married to an absolutely wonderful woman who I am proud to call my sister-in-law. They've been together for about three years, and he proposed on New Years Eve. He meant to propose right at midnight when the ball dropped in New York and everyone was celebrating and kissing, but he couldn't make it that long. He ended up proposing at about ten in the morning.
If you take away anything from that, you probably can imagine that he was a disaster before the wedding. He told us that he felt like a four year old, there was no past, and no future, only the current thing he was working on. It was like, "ok, it's time to eat dinner. Ok. Dinner is over, now it's time to go home." We couldn't even talk about the wedding details around him or he got flustered. His best man was our brother Matt, and his two groomsman were her brother, and his best friend from childhood. They were in charge of making sure he got there in one piece, in his suit, on time, and sober. I was a bridesmaid, along with her brothers girlfriend, and one of her best friends.
The ceremony itself was short, and that was a blessing since we were all kind of waiting for someone to pass out. Everyone was crying, and my brother was practicing some serious yoga breathing to get through his vows, after which he mouthed the word "brutal" several times. All in all, it was beautiful and they got through it.
The reception was one huge party. Dancing and eating and drinking. Right when it was getting unbearably hot, my mom produced a whole ton of squirt guns and the fighting ensued! And wielding the biggest squirt gun of all was my new sister, armed and dangerous, even in a wedding dress.
"Don't you dare shove that cake in my face!"
And here is my favorite picture of them. It was right after the ceremony, right before they walked down the aisle together, and it looks like the first breath they have taken in a week.
I am so proud of my brother, and so happy for him. I am excited for them, and I can't wait to watch them build a life together.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Fatherly Advice: Athlete's Foot
Growing up the youngest is tough. Growing up the youngest and the only girl is worse. I played rough and tumble with my brothers the best that I could, watching Batman and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and playing with legos, but in the end I was still wearing a dress. There were things my brothers and I just couldn't see eye to eye on until we were practically adults.
My parents are saints. I should probably start with that. After all, they kept us all alive this far, despite our best efforts. To this day they are an emblem of unconditional love and support. My mom tells me I have access to the best bank of all, the bank of M&P, Mom and Pop, when it comes to school expenses and doctor visits and vet appointments.
When I was young, my dad established Daddy Daughter Day. Every Saturday morning, I would get up early and my dad and I would drive thirty minutes to the closest YMCA where I would go to a swim class and he would use the gym. Afterwards, we would usually get some breakfast at McDonald's (therefore negating all that good healthy exercise) and head home for Saturday morning cartoons with my brothers and wait for my mom to get home from work. I have many fond memories of Daddy Daughter Day, and it was a special time that was just for me, not something I had to share with my brothers.
One of the biggest things I took away from these days at the Y was a fear of athlete's foot. I can't say that it is truly a fear, but more of a point of personal hygiene and gym etiquette that my dad felt was important. To this day, my bare feet do not touch the ground in a communal style bathroom/locker room. When I went away to college (however briefly), I brought shower shoes. It puzzles me that no one else appears to have this information at LA Fitness, which only reinforces my shower shoe habit.
Nearly every time we would go into our respective locker rooms, he would remind me to keep my shoes on because I didn't want to get athlete's foot. Now, as an adult, this little reminder still sounds off in my head when I enter the gym. I guess what I'm trying to say is "Dad, I was listening."
And he's a pretty smart guy. I have never had athlete's foot.
My parents are saints. I should probably start with that. After all, they kept us all alive this far, despite our best efforts. To this day they are an emblem of unconditional love and support. My mom tells me I have access to the best bank of all, the bank of M&P, Mom and Pop, when it comes to school expenses and doctor visits and vet appointments.
When I was young, my dad established Daddy Daughter Day. Every Saturday morning, I would get up early and my dad and I would drive thirty minutes to the closest YMCA where I would go to a swim class and he would use the gym. Afterwards, we would usually get some breakfast at McDonald's (therefore negating all that good healthy exercise) and head home for Saturday morning cartoons with my brothers and wait for my mom to get home from work. I have many fond memories of Daddy Daughter Day, and it was a special time that was just for me, not something I had to share with my brothers.
One of the biggest things I took away from these days at the Y was a fear of athlete's foot. I can't say that it is truly a fear, but more of a point of personal hygiene and gym etiquette that my dad felt was important. To this day, my bare feet do not touch the ground in a communal style bathroom/locker room. When I went away to college (however briefly), I brought shower shoes. It puzzles me that no one else appears to have this information at LA Fitness, which only reinforces my shower shoe habit.
Nearly every time we would go into our respective locker rooms, he would remind me to keep my shoes on because I didn't want to get athlete's foot. Now, as an adult, this little reminder still sounds off in my head when I enter the gym. I guess what I'm trying to say is "Dad, I was listening."
And he's a pretty smart guy. I have never had athlete's foot.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Meet Maggie
I would like everyone to meet the reason I am a cat lady. This is Maggie!
Right before I moved out of my parents house, my brother brought over a rescued kitten, no bigger than your fist. He was a gorgeous black and white kitten with big blue eyes, even if he was a little skittish around people.
When I moved out, I missed Tux, missed having that little fur ball curled up on my shoulder. A few months later, I adopted Maggie from a friend who found her in a dumpster behind her house. And I fell in love.
She was loving and snuggly and funny right off the bat. She learned how to use the litter box after only one accident and began to develop bizarre but adorable habits such as playing fetch and watching tv.
P.S. You should know that her full name is Minerva McGonagall. Maggie is just a nickname ;)
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