Even though I just got back from the UAE, I had to fly to Montreal today. I'll be here 3 weeks. I won't comment on the fact that OTHER consultants take a week off for just doing a three week engagement overseas, except to say I am obviously doing something wrong.
I had to fly Delta because my stupid company is cheap and they are our "preferred" airline. Why, I don't know. I've flown them 10 times in the past year and every time the trip turned into a shit show.
Today was no different. Back in the day, before my wonderful little company got bought out by a shitty large company, we always flew direct to our destination. But no. I had to fly through Detroit so my company could save $200 (less the $30 baggage fee that I wouldn't have had to pay taking the direct flight because it would have been with United, and shit, I spend so much time on their planes I think I have employee status). My flight out of Denver was delayed an hour and half and I arrived in Detroit 10 minutes before the flight to Montreal was taking off (remember the good old days when they would let you on as long as you were there before the flight's take off time?).
So I'm sitting on this plane full of aggro people who are missing their flights. And then, for some reason, it took like a billion years for them to open the door. I was in a window seat (HATE the window seat) and was tired from getting up at 4 in the morning and then listening to this shit of a 3 year old cry for the entire 2 1/2 hour flight (plus the hour we spent on the runway). I wanted off the plane, so I was trying to maneuver myself as close to the aisle as possible by hunching over the middle seat. I was wearing sunglasses.
Suddenly, this woman behind me goes "Oh my god...Drew Barrymore?" I start looking around the plane. Then I realize she's talking to me. Everyone behind her started shoving forward to see what was going on. I was like "Lady, if I were Drew Barrymore, do you really think I'd be flying on this shit plane?" She was like "but you look JUST LIKE Drew Barrymore" (which is totally false). Then the bitch grabbed a piece of my hair and pulled it. I was like dude what the fuck are you doing? and she was like "you are just so cute!". I was like get me off this fucking plane before I kill someone.
Then, on my rescheduled flight to Montreal I swear the stewardess was hitting on me. I was sitting on the aisle. I asked for some orange juice when it was drink time and when she handed it to me I thanked her. She was like "Oh, thank you for saying thank you. I really appreciate it." I was like um, okay. Then she leaned down and whispered in my ear "I can give you some extra pretzels as long as you don't tell any of the other passengers". I was like "thanks, but I don't want any pretzels" and then she says "Wow! You sounded just like a doctor when you said that!" Finding that comment completely random and insane, I responded "I am a doctor actually. I have a PhD in astrophysics." And then she said "That sounds so exciting! Maybe you can do my chart later!"
Ech. Then she winked at me when she was collecting up the used cups. I had to pretend to be comatose for the rest of the flight even though these two fucking kids behind me were being noisy and kicking the back of my seat (note to parents - do not bring your kids on a plane unless you've sedated them first). When I deplaned she shook my hand and said "It was a real pleasure having you on board".
No, really. The pleasure was all mine.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
prologue
Here's the first chapter of my book. It's long, I know. The rest of the book is funny. This chapter is just meant to explain why I started doing physically challenging activities (e.g. doing the swim from alcatraz to san fran, even though I didn't know how to swim).
Comments are welcome, even if they are negative. I need some motivation to start writing again...
It was 4 a.m. I hadn’t slept for three days. The only noise was the sound of the waves sliding into the rocks at the base of the cliff below my apartment, and the strange robotic purr of the CPM (continuous passive movement) machine to which my right leg was strapped.
I was sure that I was going to die.
*****
Eight years earlier, I had been in a motorcycle accident on my way to take an exam during my senior year in college. I broke my right arm, three ribs, and had a serious concussion. After the accident I waited for 2 weeks to go to the clinic on campus, when the pain in my arm had become almost intolerable. The doctor informed me that I had broken it, and that he would need x-rays to see how bad the damage was. He was going to re-break my arm and possibly would have to do a more serious surgery, depending on how bad the fracture was.
I had no medical insurance. As soon as the doctor left the examination room, I did too. Except for a slight deformity in shape my right arm got better and went back to normal. My head and ribs were fine a few weeks after the accident, and 6 weeks later I was running again, though my arm was still painful for a few months.
I graduated from college and began working a stressful job. I deal with stress by exercising, and so was logging many miles before and after work. I would go through a cycle of knee pain, visits to a doctor, and various diagnoses. The pain was hard to describe to the doctors, and the best analogy I could give them was that it felt like there was a broken bottle somewhere inside my knee.
The doctors weren’t sure what that meant, but they all provided similar diagnoses. The most popular was over training. The second was tendon problems common in women runners. I would ease up on training, take aspirin, and things would get better. For a while.
Then in 1999 I decided to run a marathon. Though I’d run longer distances, I had never done an official race. I jumped into an ambitious training schedule and that’s when things went really wrong.
This time, the pain in my knee didn’t go away when I eased up on running. Then my leg started to collapse, the most memorable time at work, while I was walking by a table full of my peers with a lunch tray full of food that went flying.
I went to see a doctor who told me I was too old to run competitively. I later found out his specialty was in knee injuries caused by golf. I’m not sure how you can injure your knee playing golf, unless you get drunk and fall off the cart. He told me to stop running, and that things would improve.
They didn’t. My leg was collapsing more frequently. My partner went from being amused every time I fell over, to being annoyed. My personal trainer suggested I see a friend of his, a physical therapist named Chris Kuhn. Chris said he could help me, but wanted an x-ray of my knee first.
I went back to my doctor, and asked for an x-ray. He refused my request, saying the problem was in my tendons and that an x-ray would not provide any useful information. Chris was astounded when I told him this. He wrote a note to my doctor stating that he couldn’t treat me without the x-ray.
Grumbling under his breath, my doctor sent me over to the x-ray department, where they took shots of both my knees at all kinds of angles. A half hour later, I was escorted into an examination room, and my doctor turned on the white light board on the wall to display the x-rays. He pulled the films out of the envelope and began slapping them on the board.
“You see?” he would say, giving me only a second to look before he pulled each film off the board and tossed it carelessly on the counter. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
Then he got to the x-ray that showed both my knees from the front. I’m not an expert in reading films, but even I knew something was not right with the lateral side of my right femur. The bottom part of the distinctive knuckle at the end of the femur was…missing.
The doctor paused for a minute, staring intently at the film. He said “Excuse me,” and walked out of the office. I never saw him again.
A new doctor came in a few minutes later. He rubbed his chin and stared at the film. “We need to operate as soon as possible on this,” he said, pointing at the x-ray of my right leg before pulling a calendar out of the pocket of his white coat.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Your leg is broken!” He paused, perhaps taking in my surprise at this announcement. “How long ago did this happen?”
I thought for a few minutes. “I don’t know,” I finally said.
“How could you BREAK YOUR LEG and not KNOW?”
“I fell on some steps two years ago, maybe it happened then?” I asked. The stair incident occurred in Athens after I had attended a wedding ceremony with endless toasts of ouzo. I had slipped on a marble staircase while stumbling into my apartment building at 5 in the morning, in the dark. In my inebriated state I had been unable to find the light switch for the hallway.
“This could NOT have been caused by a fall on steps. This is a MAJOR injury. You had to have had a traumatic accident. Surely you can remember breaking your leg!”
“Hm.” Another minute went by. The doctor stared at me in exasperation, while I tried to think of something. Then a picture flashed in my head of the side of my right leg covered in a disgusting purple bruise that took weeks to go away.
“Well, I was in a motorcycle accident.” I started to show him my twisted arm, but he was intent on writing the first useful piece of information I had provided in my patient file.
“Okay, how long ago was that?”
“Eight years ago.”
The doctor stopped writing, carefully placed his pen on my file, and turned to look at me.
“Did you say…eight years?”
“Um, yeah.”
“So. You have had a broken leg for…eight years?”
“I guess. Uh. I did go see a doctor. I’ve seen a few doctors over the years when I’ve had pain from running. But they all said my knee was fine.”
“Running? You’ve been running?” He asked, in the same tone he might have used if I had told him I had been eating small children as an afternoon snack.
“Well. The doctors said I could run.”
He rubbed his forehead and took up his pen. “How much do you run?”
“Not that much.” He gave me a skeptical look. “Um, maybe six miles.”
“A week?”
“A day.” I decided not to mention that I went for much longer runs on the weekend.
He rubbed his hand across his face. He looked like a man whose brand new Mercedes has just been rear ended by an uninsured motorist. He quickly scoured the counter that held my patient file, and, once located, ripped open his calendar as if it were a candy bar.
“Look. We need to get you into surgery immediately! I have an opening on Thursday. Hopefully your insurance company will be able to authorize the operation in 48 hours. I’ll tell them it’s an emergency.”
While I was adjusting to the idea of having knee surgery in three days, on pizza Thursday, when I would walk down to Pizza My Heart after work and eat slices of pizza until I was about to explode, the doctor stood at the white board talking about shaving bone off of my knee cap, making a plug to fill in the missing bone, and cleaning up any bone spurs. It all sounded so easy. I figured I would be back in the gym in a week, cycling until my knee had healed enough to go back to running. I figured I might even make pizza Thursday if I scheduled the surgery early in the morning.
*****
But as I was slowly coming to consciousness in the recovery room after surgery, my doctor’s face loomed over me. The news was not good.
“It was a mess,” he said. “There was nothing I could do. Your meniscus was detached. Your ACL, PCL, and LCL are shot. I did the best that I could. You need to go see a specialist.” Before I could ask what he meant by “specialist”, since I assumed HE was a specialist, he was gone.
I arrived for my post op appointment a week later, hoping for some good news. Instead, my doctor told me that he had spoken to some knee specialists about my case and they all said it was futile. The size of the bone plug that I needed to replace my missing femur tip was one problem. My removed meniscus could not be replaced. My tibia was also damaged due to my broken femur smashing into it after my meniscus, the coward, rolled itself up and out of the way.
“Alright, so what am I going to do?” I asked, interrupting his jargon laced tirade. There was no point in him continuing as I had no idea what he was saying to me. Because I had had to go into surgery so quickly, and had been busy at work after missing a day for surgery, I had not even had a chance to find out what a meniscus was. And, at the time, it didn’t sound that important.
“Your only option is a rod.”
“Rod?” I asked. All I could picture was a skinny piece of metal with a star at one end like a magic wand. I imagined waving it over my knee, fixing the mess.
“The rod is inserted between your tibia and your femur. It will provide protection for your bones until you can get a mechanical knee.”
“Well, when will that be?” I had always been under the impression that a knee replacement was easy. They just pop the mechanism in and you resume life as if you didn’t have a bionic joint.
“We don’t put them in people under 45.”
“Forty five?” I thought for a second, trying to remember how old I was. “That’s fifteen years from now!”
“People who are active will wear a mechanical knee out in 18 months. Every time you replace the knee, you lose more bone, so your right leg will get shorter and shorter. We will not do a knee replacement in someone your age.”
“What’s active?” I asked, thinking maybe I would curtail my running, avoid the rod, and go straight for the fake knee.
“People who walk more than 2 miles a day are considered active.” I thought about my office complex, and how I routinely walked that distance in a day going to meetings. That would leave no leftover mileage for walking on the beach, or even to Pizza My Heart, a mere 87 steps down the cliff from my apartment. My heart sank.
Denial seemed like a possible recourse. “What if I do nothing?”
“If we don’t put the rod in now you won’t have enough bone left to get a mechanical knee when you’re 45. Your leg will deteriorate until it can’t support your weight anymore. You won’t be able to walk.”
“So, how much will I be able to bend my knee with the rod in?” I asked, picturing now a kind of flexible, slinky like contraption slid over the ends of my bones, like a spring. I wondered if it would make a noise when I walked. I imagined a sound like a didgeridoo every time I took a step, and smiled. The software engineers I worked with would be so jealous.
The doctor didn’t say anything for a minute. He picked up my chart, carefully flipping the previous pages over the page he had been writing on, and closed the folder. He stood up.
“You won’t have a knee. We take it out. The rod will prevent you from being able to bend your leg at all.” He told me to schedule another appointment to see him, and then disappeared with my chart.
I sat on the exam table until the nurse came in to clean the room for the next patient. She seemed surprised that I was still there. I was running the pads of my fingers over the edge of the white paper pulled across the table. It hurt my fingers, but I couldn’t stop.
*****
The next few months signaled the end of my relatively easy and happy existence. The insurance company mailed me a brochure that was titled “A Change of Life”, written for people who have to adjust to physical handicaps. I tore it into little pieces, threw the pieces on my kitchen table, and then hammered them with my fist until they all fell on the floor.
The constant sharp pain in my knee failed to improve even as the surgery scars healed. Because I have an allergy to most pain medication, the only thing I could do was ice my knee and down aspirin, one week consuming 200 of them. This caused me to vomit blood any time I ate spicy food or didn’t eat for a few hours. I was moved off of my project at work, and was forced into a program management role that didn’t require any physical exertion beyond typing.
My partner tried to be supportive, but as time went on, the situation became harder for him to deal with. He was traveling a lot for business and often unable to help. Since I was not able to drive, I would end up stranded at home, missing work and doctor appointments. The only mechanism I had to deal with stress was running, and I didn’t know what to do instead. My hair started falling out.
The next communiqué from my insurance company informed me that my doctor had made a mistake taking my meniscus out. They wanted to know if I was going to sue him for malpractice. Lawyers from my insurance company began calling day and night. After a number of conference calls, I convinced them that I didn’t want lawsuit money, I wanted my knee fixed, and that they had to help me find a doctor who could do that.
I was lucky to be living in San Francisco, where there is a high concentration of very talented and famous orthopedic surgeons. I spent three months going from surgeon to surgeon. Most of them agreed to see me because they were forced by my insurance company. I would go through a series of range of motion exercises with these doctors, they would look at my surgery report and x-rays, and then they would say they couldn’t help me.
One doctor prepared for my visit by stripping the flesh off of a sheep’s leg. When I got to his office he showed me exactly how the knee worked. I watched the tendons flexing as he bent the sheep’s knee, following his technical explanation of what was going on because by then I had done hours of research on knees. After seeing his demonstration I had a much better understanding of why my problem was so difficult to solve. I felt a glimmer of hope as the doctor told me about the experimental surgeries he had been doing on sheep (they have a similar knee to humans). But the meeting ended with the same phrase I heard from all the doctors before.
“I can’t help you,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying not to cry as I collected my x-rays, surgery report and patient file.
Suddenly he said, “It’s a long shot, and your insurance probably won’t cover a visit, but I know a doctor who has done some meniscal replacements. There are only two doctors in the US that are doing them. One is in Atlanta. But the other one is here.”
And that is how I ended up in Dr. Douglas Blatz’s office.
*****
My first meeting with Dr. Blatz went really well, until the end, when he said “The surgery is considered experimental. Your insurance company won’t cover it. It’s expensive. And very risky. You’re older than other patients I’ve done the replacement for. There’s a high rate of rejection of the meniscus, it’s 60%, and if you reject, you have to get the rod put in so the surgery will have been for nothing. I’m also concerned about your inability to take pain medication. You’re going to need something to manage the pain, and you will have chronic pain for the rest of your life, and may have to walk with a cane and wear a brace on your leg.” He stared at my patient file, I suspected because he didn’t want to look at me. “I really don’t think I can help you.” As he said that, he seemed to be physically bracing himself for an onslaught.
“Well, can you cut my leg off?” I blurted, having spent the past month trying to come up with a solution that didn’t involve my leg bones being fused together with a titanium rod. Amputation was the only solution I had been able to come up with that would still allow me to do sports and walk somewhat normally.
He stared at me, incredulous. “I am not going to cut off your leg.”
“Fine.” I spoke to him dismissively, in a “thanks for wasting my time” tone, as all the doctors before had done to me. “Can you recommend a doctor that will?” I put the tip of my pen on the notepad I carried with me to every appointment, ready to write down yet another name.
“There is no doctor in the US that would cut off a healthy limb.” He looked at me, perturbed.
This final rejection, after months of trying to not lose hope that something could be done, caused me to snap. “I’ll go to Mexico then.” I said, and then I started crying, and couldn’t stop. Joe, Dr. Blatz’s assistant, handed me a fistful of Kleenex, most of which fell on the floor. I put on my shoes, embarrassed that I was behaving like a two year old throwing a tantrum. Dr. Blatz stared at me.
“Would you really go to Mexico?”
“Yes!” I bawled, trying to wipe the snot off my face because I thought it was making me look less angry and serious.
He said “I believe you.”
Then he said “Okay. I’ll do the surgery.”
****
It seemed that everything would fall into place after the decision was made to do the surgery, but the complications were just beginning. Like a car with a broken transmission, I needed replacement parts. Dr. Blatz had to find a cadaver meniscus, tendons, and bone plug that matched my physical profile. That meant I had to wait around for someone to die.
I was sent to have an x ray where a metal disk was placed on my knee. By comparing it against my knee they determined how big the replacement meniscus needed to be so they could put in an order at the organ donation bank. As an engineer I was surprised there wasn’t a more scientific way to do the measurement, but was starting to realize how brute force orthopedic medicine is.
Though it’s common today, in 2000, when I had this surgery, putting a cadaver meniscus into someone’s knee was a big deal. The tissue has no blood flow, and putting dead tissue that came from one body into another body is risky. Even if you make it past the first 6 months without being one of the unlucky 60% who reject the dead tissue, there is still a risk for the rest of your life that the tissue will go bad. Any infection in the rest of your body, strep is a common culprit, can spread to this dead tissue, because it’s vulnerable. Once it’s contaminated, it has to be taken out because it can kill you in a very short period of time.
These things weighed heavy on my mind as the months continued. I carried a pager around with me at all times because once the donation meniscus came in, Dr. Blatz would have insert it within 24 hours. Not knowing when I might get called in I quit drinking completely and tried to eat only small meals in case I had to get to surgery.
At work my manager was giving me jobs that were way beneath my skill set because he was worried I would have to leave for surgery in the middle of a big software release. Work was as important to me as running, and I was failing there too.
Things were falling apart in my relationship as well. My partner had never had a serious illness, and the worst medical experience he had was when the US Army removed his four wisdom teeth. Instead of cutting me some slack, he made me feel worse, commenting that it was my fault my knee was destroyed so I should stop sulking about it.
One afternoon I got the call. They had found a meniscus and a bone plug. I later found out from a doctor who attended my surgery that the bone plug had come from a guy shot in New York City. The meniscus was from a 17 year old girl who was killed in a car accident in Miami.
That night my partner and I went to a restaurant in San Francisco called Top of the Mark. It was one of our favorite places to go, and we knew the members of the jazz band that played there. I requested a few happy Sarah Vaughn songs and picked at my dinner. When the plates had been cleared, my partner took my hand. I was hoping for some words of encouragement and support. Instead he said “Look, I didn’t sign up for this program.”
I don’t fault him for this as he had personal goals different from mine and those differences were magnified by my medical disaster. He was working sometimes 20 hours a day trying to prepare his start up company for an initial public offering. Having yet one more thing to deal with on top of the pressure at work was hard for him. Further, he just didn’t understand physically what I was going through.
I made the situation worse. Instead of trying to talk about my pain and anxiety, I pretended I was fine. I didn’t give him a chance to help. I shut him out and decided I would handle things without him.
The bright spot in my life was my personal trainer, Tom Mendell, and my physical therapist, Chris Kuhn. Both of them created a plan to help me train for my surgery. It’s surprising to me that most doctors don’t recommend physical therapy before surgery. I recuperated much faster than my doctor expected because I went into surgery in great physical shape.
Tom trained me for free, as my medical bills were piling up and I didn’t have a lot of spare cash. He also acted as my shrink, and friend. He would leave notes of encouragement on my desk at work (the gym where he worked was owned by my company) and would do little things like bring me goldfish crackers when I was having a bad day. Chris Kuhn also did many, many hours of free physical therapy for me, and I always left his clinic feeling more confident that I could face the challenges that were ahead. Though Chris worked really long hours, he would always take the time to answer my emails and phone calls, no matter how trivial.
Throughout my training I was motivated by the thought that, in a few months after the surgery, I would be able to run again. Dr. Blatz was gently tried to disabuse me of that notion, and mentioned frequently that I would have to wear a brace for the rest of my life to protect my knee any time I did any kind of physical activity. He recommended I take up swimming as soon as I was able to be active again, but swimming seemed boring and I continued to visualize myself running. I was certain that with Chris and Tom’s help I would be back to normal a short time after the surgery.
I invited both Chris and Tom to my surgery, but the hospital wouldn’t let Tom attend since he didn’t have a medical degree. Chris was present, and said he would never again watch a surgery performed on someone he knew. At one point Dr. Blatz was inserting titanium screws into my femur to hold the bone plug in place. He was up on the operating table, cranking on a screw, when it snapped. Based on Chris’ explanation, I had a picture in my mind of trying to put together some piece of furniture from IKEA. It sounded funny to me, but Chris said it was horrifying.
The surgery, scheduled for 3 hours, had taken 6 and a half. I had asked Joe and Dr. Blatz to not say anything negative to me in the recovery room while I was not quite conscious, because that had a detrimental impact after the first surgery. I woke up with Dr. Blatz’s assistant Joe standing over me. He looked exhausted. I was afraid.
Then Joe smiled at me. He said “I think you’re going to be okay kid.”
****
I got up to my room, where I was supposed to stay for the next three days. Dr. Blatz had decided to insert a local of morphine in my knee, even though I’m allergic, because he was afraid that the pain would be too overwhelming. And after bugging them for 4 hours, I got the nurses to bring me two Tylenol, for which the hospital charged me $8.
My partner came to see me that evening. I was uncomfortable, and vomiting from the morphine. He put his head down on my bed, exhausted from work. Finally he said “If you aren’t going to talk to me, I’m going home.” He left.
That night was one of the worst of my life. The nurses had failed to fill the ice machine for my knee. About 5 hours after the surgery I was in excruciating pain. I had to share a room with 3 other women, and one of them cried the whole night because she had just had a mastectomy.
The next morning, at 7 am, I told the nurse I wanted to be discharged because the hospital was just adding to my misery. Joe had just been in to see me, and was furious that the nurses had failed to keep my knee iced. It had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe. I was strapped into the CPM machine because I had gotten tendon replacements, and you have to keep bending your knee, otherwise the tendons don’t stay supple and you lose range of motion. That was another major complication of the surgery. With a bone plug, you aren’t supposed to weight the bone or move it, but if I wasn’t in the CPM the tendons would lose flexibility. Dr. Blatz had cautioned me that it was going to hurt, but I could not have imagined what that meant until I experienced it.
I went home the day after surgery, even though my partner had already made plans to leave for a business trip. He was feeling bad because I was in pain and there was nothing he could do.
My knee was a bloody, disgusting mess. Pus leaked out of the surgery scar and it looked like someone had dumped a bottle of baby shampoo down my leg. My upper thigh had a huge hematoma where my leg had been clamped down to the operating table. If that wasn’t bad enough, I held Tupperware bowl full of vomit at all times because I had no control over when my stomach would suddenly decide it needed to egress.
I had a soft cast that went from my ankle to my hip, and was unable to get up the narrow stairs in the apartment that went to the bedroom on the second floor. So my partner brought a bed downstairs for me, and set it up next to the back wall of the apartment, which was all glass, with a view of Monterey Bay. I could see the local otter playing with the surfers in the ocean outside the window in an area called “the punch bowl” as I lay in bed, strapped into the CPM.
The downstairs bathroom had no shower, so I couldn’t take a bath when I got home from the hospital, and I couldn’t close the door all the way because my straightened leg was too long to fit in the bathroom.
In some ways it was a relief that he was leaving, as I didn’t think there was anything else I could do to make myself less attractive.
*****
The days after my partner left were a blur of sleeplessness and pain. My body felt like it was turning to stone because every muscle was tensed in response to the thudding discomfort. It felt as if someone was jack hammering my knee. My femur coursed with an electrical sensation that ran through the bone into my thigh. There was a sickening crunch every time the CPM forced my knee to bend 20 degrees. A rash had spread from my scalp to my face, neck and stomach from the allergic reaction to the localized morphine. I wanted to take some benedryll but was unable to get to the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet.
At night I would lay in the dark, because the only downstairs light had a switch on the floor that I couldn’t reach. The ice had run out in my ice machine the day after my partner left and I realized I had forgotten to ask him to buy more. As the dark descended over the room faces would seem to appear from behind the furniture, or I would hear noises from upstairs. Awash in paranoia, I constantly worried at night that someone was in the apartment with me.
I had a feral cat named Prickly Pete, and during my first day home she hid somewhere upstairs, terrified of me, the CPM, and a large balloon arrangement my team from work had sent. By the early morning hours of my second day home, she was emboldened enough to sneak down stairs and assess the situation. Sensing the balloons, which were drooping from helium loss, were sleeping, she snuck up on the kitchen counter and then dived into the middle of the arrangement, popping the balloons. I huddled under my comforter, certain someone was shooting at me.
The first two days home by myself I was focused on getting through the next hour, and that kept me going. By the third day, I couldn’t focus anymore. I was exhausted, the pain seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and the isolation was filling me with despair. I had my surgery during Thanksgiving week, so the few people that I knew in the area were away or with family. In my impaired state I was convinced there was no one I could call to help me.
****
3 a.m., day 3.
This is all your fault, I thought to myself. If you hadn’t had a motorcycle. If you had insurance. If you hadn’t been so fucking proud of yourself running through the pain. If you had pushed your doctors instead of accepting their diagnoses because that’s what you wanted to hear.
Now everything is gone. Your career is going to go to shit and you’ll never be able to pay your medical bills. You won’t be able to leave your job because you’ll never get insurance again. Your partner is going to leave you. The only thing you’ve always succeeded in, running? Well, that’s gone too. You’ll never walk like a normal person. You’re going to reject the meniscus, and this will have all been for nothing. The pain is never going to go away.
It will never be morning.
*****
In military strategy it is advisable to attack your adversary in the early hours of the morning because that’s when people are the most vulnerable. This strategy is borne out by scientific studies that show as the night gets darker, before the sun rises, people are slower to respond to the world around them, and their decision making abilities deteriorate.
At 3 a.m. on day 3 I decided I was going to kill myself. The thought of enduring even 10 more minutes of the pain was unbearable, and I knew I had lost or fucked up everything that mattered to me. The only way to stop the pain was to stop everything.
I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around the room. How was I going to do it? I glanced over at the ocean, 40 feet below the cliff where my apartment building sat. At the bottom of the cliff were many large rocks.
In the short time I had lived in that apartment at least one tourist had died on the cliff, walking too close to the edge. The grass appeared solid but, underneath, was unstable. I’ll jump off the cliff, I decided, and began the slow process of un-strapping my leg from the CPM.
I got myself to the side of the bed, reached for my crutches, and then realized something. I couldn’t get to the cliff. My apartment was on the second story of the apartment building, and I couldn’t negotiate the steps down to the cliff with the soft cast. There was a service elevator, which I had taken up after my surgery, but it required a key that was kept in the manager’s office. On the first floor.
Cursing, I looked around the room again. In the dark I could see the balloon arrangement, now decimated by Prickley. The thin ribbons tied to the balloons would not be strong enough to strangle myself with, I determined. I had 20 Tylenol, but given the amount of them I was taking a day, I knew that would do nothing. I thought about the kitchen. I didn’t have any sharp knives or small electrical appliances to electrocute myself with because neither my partner nor I knew how to cook. I thought for a moment that I could electrocute myself with the CPM, but it was too big to carry and too big to fit into the kitchen sink, the only receptacle I could get to that could be filled with water. I didn’t have poison, razors, or even a lighter.
I had nothing.
I started to cry. Through my tears I could see the waves picking up in the ocean. It was now 4 am. In another hour the surfers would be showing up at the punch bowl. I was filled with hatred for them, walking leisurely down the beach with their boards, floating out in the water, and then having breakfast on the boardwalk at Zelda’s before carrying on with their lives. They would be driving cars, working, going to the gym, eating pizza at Pizza My Heart, hanging out in the evening with their partners, talking and laughing. I would be sitting alone, doing nothing, unable to leave the confines of the bottom floor of my apartment.
Then I noticed something. Just a few feet off shore, a school of dolphins was swimming in the surf. There were at least 30 of them, maybe more, fins bobbing in and out of the water as they played in the rolling waves. At that moment the sun appeared, a faint yellow line on the edge of the ocean, gradually rising and making the dolphin fins glow.
That’s what I’ll do, I thought to myself.
I’ll swim.
Comments are welcome, even if they are negative. I need some motivation to start writing again...
It was 4 a.m. I hadn’t slept for three days. The only noise was the sound of the waves sliding into the rocks at the base of the cliff below my apartment, and the strange robotic purr of the CPM (continuous passive movement) machine to which my right leg was strapped.I was sure that I was going to die.
*****
Eight years earlier, I had been in a motorcycle accident on my way to take an exam during my senior year in college. I broke my right arm, three ribs, and had a serious concussion. After the accident I waited for 2 weeks to go to the clinic on campus, when the pain in my arm had become almost intolerable. The doctor informed me that I had broken it, and that he would need x-rays to see how bad the damage was. He was going to re-break my arm and possibly would have to do a more serious surgery, depending on how bad the fracture was.
I had no medical insurance. As soon as the doctor left the examination room, I did too. Except for a slight deformity in shape my right arm got better and went back to normal. My head and ribs were fine a few weeks after the accident, and 6 weeks later I was running again, though my arm was still painful for a few months.
I graduated from college and began working a stressful job. I deal with stress by exercising, and so was logging many miles before and after work. I would go through a cycle of knee pain, visits to a doctor, and various diagnoses. The pain was hard to describe to the doctors, and the best analogy I could give them was that it felt like there was a broken bottle somewhere inside my knee.
The doctors weren’t sure what that meant, but they all provided similar diagnoses. The most popular was over training. The second was tendon problems common in women runners. I would ease up on training, take aspirin, and things would get better. For a while.
Then in 1999 I decided to run a marathon. Though I’d run longer distances, I had never done an official race. I jumped into an ambitious training schedule and that’s when things went really wrong.
This time, the pain in my knee didn’t go away when I eased up on running. Then my leg started to collapse, the most memorable time at work, while I was walking by a table full of my peers with a lunch tray full of food that went flying.
I went to see a doctor who told me I was too old to run competitively. I later found out his specialty was in knee injuries caused by golf. I’m not sure how you can injure your knee playing golf, unless you get drunk and fall off the cart. He told me to stop running, and that things would improve.
They didn’t. My leg was collapsing more frequently. My partner went from being amused every time I fell over, to being annoyed. My personal trainer suggested I see a friend of his, a physical therapist named Chris Kuhn. Chris said he could help me, but wanted an x-ray of my knee first.
I went back to my doctor, and asked for an x-ray. He refused my request, saying the problem was in my tendons and that an x-ray would not provide any useful information. Chris was astounded when I told him this. He wrote a note to my doctor stating that he couldn’t treat me without the x-ray.
Grumbling under his breath, my doctor sent me over to the x-ray department, where they took shots of both my knees at all kinds of angles. A half hour later, I was escorted into an examination room, and my doctor turned on the white light board on the wall to display the x-rays. He pulled the films out of the envelope and began slapping them on the board.
“You see?” he would say, giving me only a second to look before he pulled each film off the board and tossed it carelessly on the counter. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
Then he got to the x-ray that showed both my knees from the front. I’m not an expert in reading films, but even I knew something was not right with the lateral side of my right femur. The bottom part of the distinctive knuckle at the end of the femur was…missing.
The doctor paused for a minute, staring intently at the film. He said “Excuse me,” and walked out of the office. I never saw him again.
A new doctor came in a few minutes later. He rubbed his chin and stared at the film. “We need to operate as soon as possible on this,” he said, pointing at the x-ray of my right leg before pulling a calendar out of the pocket of his white coat.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Your leg is broken!” He paused, perhaps taking in my surprise at this announcement. “How long ago did this happen?”
I thought for a few minutes. “I don’t know,” I finally said.
“How could you BREAK YOUR LEG and not KNOW?”
“I fell on some steps two years ago, maybe it happened then?” I asked. The stair incident occurred in Athens after I had attended a wedding ceremony with endless toasts of ouzo. I had slipped on a marble staircase while stumbling into my apartment building at 5 in the morning, in the dark. In my inebriated state I had been unable to find the light switch for the hallway.
“This could NOT have been caused by a fall on steps. This is a MAJOR injury. You had to have had a traumatic accident. Surely you can remember breaking your leg!”
“Hm.” Another minute went by. The doctor stared at me in exasperation, while I tried to think of something. Then a picture flashed in my head of the side of my right leg covered in a disgusting purple bruise that took weeks to go away.
“Well, I was in a motorcycle accident.” I started to show him my twisted arm, but he was intent on writing the first useful piece of information I had provided in my patient file.
“Okay, how long ago was that?”
“Eight years ago.”
The doctor stopped writing, carefully placed his pen on my file, and turned to look at me.
“Did you say…eight years?”
“Um, yeah.”
“So. You have had a broken leg for…eight years?”
“I guess. Uh. I did go see a doctor. I’ve seen a few doctors over the years when I’ve had pain from running. But they all said my knee was fine.”
“Running? You’ve been running?” He asked, in the same tone he might have used if I had told him I had been eating small children as an afternoon snack.
“Well. The doctors said I could run.”
He rubbed his forehead and took up his pen. “How much do you run?”
“Not that much.” He gave me a skeptical look. “Um, maybe six miles.”
“A week?”
“A day.” I decided not to mention that I went for much longer runs on the weekend.
He rubbed his hand across his face. He looked like a man whose brand new Mercedes has just been rear ended by an uninsured motorist. He quickly scoured the counter that held my patient file, and, once located, ripped open his calendar as if it were a candy bar.
“Look. We need to get you into surgery immediately! I have an opening on Thursday. Hopefully your insurance company will be able to authorize the operation in 48 hours. I’ll tell them it’s an emergency.”
While I was adjusting to the idea of having knee surgery in three days, on pizza Thursday, when I would walk down to Pizza My Heart after work and eat slices of pizza until I was about to explode, the doctor stood at the white board talking about shaving bone off of my knee cap, making a plug to fill in the missing bone, and cleaning up any bone spurs. It all sounded so easy. I figured I would be back in the gym in a week, cycling until my knee had healed enough to go back to running. I figured I might even make pizza Thursday if I scheduled the surgery early in the morning.
*****
But as I was slowly coming to consciousness in the recovery room after surgery, my doctor’s face loomed over me. The news was not good.
“It was a mess,” he said. “There was nothing I could do. Your meniscus was detached. Your ACL, PCL, and LCL are shot. I did the best that I could. You need to go see a specialist.” Before I could ask what he meant by “specialist”, since I assumed HE was a specialist, he was gone.
I arrived for my post op appointment a week later, hoping for some good news. Instead, my doctor told me that he had spoken to some knee specialists about my case and they all said it was futile. The size of the bone plug that I needed to replace my missing femur tip was one problem. My removed meniscus could not be replaced. My tibia was also damaged due to my broken femur smashing into it after my meniscus, the coward, rolled itself up and out of the way.
“Alright, so what am I going to do?” I asked, interrupting his jargon laced tirade. There was no point in him continuing as I had no idea what he was saying to me. Because I had had to go into surgery so quickly, and had been busy at work after missing a day for surgery, I had not even had a chance to find out what a meniscus was. And, at the time, it didn’t sound that important.
“Your only option is a rod.”
“Rod?” I asked. All I could picture was a skinny piece of metal with a star at one end like a magic wand. I imagined waving it over my knee, fixing the mess.
“The rod is inserted between your tibia and your femur. It will provide protection for your bones until you can get a mechanical knee.”
“Well, when will that be?” I had always been under the impression that a knee replacement was easy. They just pop the mechanism in and you resume life as if you didn’t have a bionic joint.
“We don’t put them in people under 45.”
“Forty five?” I thought for a second, trying to remember how old I was. “That’s fifteen years from now!”
“People who are active will wear a mechanical knee out in 18 months. Every time you replace the knee, you lose more bone, so your right leg will get shorter and shorter. We will not do a knee replacement in someone your age.”
“What’s active?” I asked, thinking maybe I would curtail my running, avoid the rod, and go straight for the fake knee.
“People who walk more than 2 miles a day are considered active.” I thought about my office complex, and how I routinely walked that distance in a day going to meetings. That would leave no leftover mileage for walking on the beach, or even to Pizza My Heart, a mere 87 steps down the cliff from my apartment. My heart sank.
Denial seemed like a possible recourse. “What if I do nothing?”
“If we don’t put the rod in now you won’t have enough bone left to get a mechanical knee when you’re 45. Your leg will deteriorate until it can’t support your weight anymore. You won’t be able to walk.”
“So, how much will I be able to bend my knee with the rod in?” I asked, picturing now a kind of flexible, slinky like contraption slid over the ends of my bones, like a spring. I wondered if it would make a noise when I walked. I imagined a sound like a didgeridoo every time I took a step, and smiled. The software engineers I worked with would be so jealous.
The doctor didn’t say anything for a minute. He picked up my chart, carefully flipping the previous pages over the page he had been writing on, and closed the folder. He stood up.
“You won’t have a knee. We take it out. The rod will prevent you from being able to bend your leg at all.” He told me to schedule another appointment to see him, and then disappeared with my chart.
I sat on the exam table until the nurse came in to clean the room for the next patient. She seemed surprised that I was still there. I was running the pads of my fingers over the edge of the white paper pulled across the table. It hurt my fingers, but I couldn’t stop.
*****
The next few months signaled the end of my relatively easy and happy existence. The insurance company mailed me a brochure that was titled “A Change of Life”, written for people who have to adjust to physical handicaps. I tore it into little pieces, threw the pieces on my kitchen table, and then hammered them with my fist until they all fell on the floor.
The constant sharp pain in my knee failed to improve even as the surgery scars healed. Because I have an allergy to most pain medication, the only thing I could do was ice my knee and down aspirin, one week consuming 200 of them. This caused me to vomit blood any time I ate spicy food or didn’t eat for a few hours. I was moved off of my project at work, and was forced into a program management role that didn’t require any physical exertion beyond typing.
My partner tried to be supportive, but as time went on, the situation became harder for him to deal with. He was traveling a lot for business and often unable to help. Since I was not able to drive, I would end up stranded at home, missing work and doctor appointments. The only mechanism I had to deal with stress was running, and I didn’t know what to do instead. My hair started falling out.
The next communiqué from my insurance company informed me that my doctor had made a mistake taking my meniscus out. They wanted to know if I was going to sue him for malpractice. Lawyers from my insurance company began calling day and night. After a number of conference calls, I convinced them that I didn’t want lawsuit money, I wanted my knee fixed, and that they had to help me find a doctor who could do that.
I was lucky to be living in San Francisco, where there is a high concentration of very talented and famous orthopedic surgeons. I spent three months going from surgeon to surgeon. Most of them agreed to see me because they were forced by my insurance company. I would go through a series of range of motion exercises with these doctors, they would look at my surgery report and x-rays, and then they would say they couldn’t help me.
One doctor prepared for my visit by stripping the flesh off of a sheep’s leg. When I got to his office he showed me exactly how the knee worked. I watched the tendons flexing as he bent the sheep’s knee, following his technical explanation of what was going on because by then I had done hours of research on knees. After seeing his demonstration I had a much better understanding of why my problem was so difficult to solve. I felt a glimmer of hope as the doctor told me about the experimental surgeries he had been doing on sheep (they have a similar knee to humans). But the meeting ended with the same phrase I heard from all the doctors before.
“I can’t help you,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying not to cry as I collected my x-rays, surgery report and patient file.
Suddenly he said, “It’s a long shot, and your insurance probably won’t cover a visit, but I know a doctor who has done some meniscal replacements. There are only two doctors in the US that are doing them. One is in Atlanta. But the other one is here.”
And that is how I ended up in Dr. Douglas Blatz’s office.
*****
My first meeting with Dr. Blatz went really well, until the end, when he said “The surgery is considered experimental. Your insurance company won’t cover it. It’s expensive. And very risky. You’re older than other patients I’ve done the replacement for. There’s a high rate of rejection of the meniscus, it’s 60%, and if you reject, you have to get the rod put in so the surgery will have been for nothing. I’m also concerned about your inability to take pain medication. You’re going to need something to manage the pain, and you will have chronic pain for the rest of your life, and may have to walk with a cane and wear a brace on your leg.” He stared at my patient file, I suspected because he didn’t want to look at me. “I really don’t think I can help you.” As he said that, he seemed to be physically bracing himself for an onslaught.
“Well, can you cut my leg off?” I blurted, having spent the past month trying to come up with a solution that didn’t involve my leg bones being fused together with a titanium rod. Amputation was the only solution I had been able to come up with that would still allow me to do sports and walk somewhat normally.
He stared at me, incredulous. “I am not going to cut off your leg.”
“Fine.” I spoke to him dismissively, in a “thanks for wasting my time” tone, as all the doctors before had done to me. “Can you recommend a doctor that will?” I put the tip of my pen on the notepad I carried with me to every appointment, ready to write down yet another name.
“There is no doctor in the US that would cut off a healthy limb.” He looked at me, perturbed.
This final rejection, after months of trying to not lose hope that something could be done, caused me to snap. “I’ll go to Mexico then.” I said, and then I started crying, and couldn’t stop. Joe, Dr. Blatz’s assistant, handed me a fistful of Kleenex, most of which fell on the floor. I put on my shoes, embarrassed that I was behaving like a two year old throwing a tantrum. Dr. Blatz stared at me.
“Would you really go to Mexico?”
“Yes!” I bawled, trying to wipe the snot off my face because I thought it was making me look less angry and serious.
He said “I believe you.”
Then he said “Okay. I’ll do the surgery.”
****
It seemed that everything would fall into place after the decision was made to do the surgery, but the complications were just beginning. Like a car with a broken transmission, I needed replacement parts. Dr. Blatz had to find a cadaver meniscus, tendons, and bone plug that matched my physical profile. That meant I had to wait around for someone to die.
I was sent to have an x ray where a metal disk was placed on my knee. By comparing it against my knee they determined how big the replacement meniscus needed to be so they could put in an order at the organ donation bank. As an engineer I was surprised there wasn’t a more scientific way to do the measurement, but was starting to realize how brute force orthopedic medicine is.
Though it’s common today, in 2000, when I had this surgery, putting a cadaver meniscus into someone’s knee was a big deal. The tissue has no blood flow, and putting dead tissue that came from one body into another body is risky. Even if you make it past the first 6 months without being one of the unlucky 60% who reject the dead tissue, there is still a risk for the rest of your life that the tissue will go bad. Any infection in the rest of your body, strep is a common culprit, can spread to this dead tissue, because it’s vulnerable. Once it’s contaminated, it has to be taken out because it can kill you in a very short period of time.
These things weighed heavy on my mind as the months continued. I carried a pager around with me at all times because once the donation meniscus came in, Dr. Blatz would have insert it within 24 hours. Not knowing when I might get called in I quit drinking completely and tried to eat only small meals in case I had to get to surgery.
At work my manager was giving me jobs that were way beneath my skill set because he was worried I would have to leave for surgery in the middle of a big software release. Work was as important to me as running, and I was failing there too.
Things were falling apart in my relationship as well. My partner had never had a serious illness, and the worst medical experience he had was when the US Army removed his four wisdom teeth. Instead of cutting me some slack, he made me feel worse, commenting that it was my fault my knee was destroyed so I should stop sulking about it.
One afternoon I got the call. They had found a meniscus and a bone plug. I later found out from a doctor who attended my surgery that the bone plug had come from a guy shot in New York City. The meniscus was from a 17 year old girl who was killed in a car accident in Miami.
That night my partner and I went to a restaurant in San Francisco called Top of the Mark. It was one of our favorite places to go, and we knew the members of the jazz band that played there. I requested a few happy Sarah Vaughn songs and picked at my dinner. When the plates had been cleared, my partner took my hand. I was hoping for some words of encouragement and support. Instead he said “Look, I didn’t sign up for this program.”
I don’t fault him for this as he had personal goals different from mine and those differences were magnified by my medical disaster. He was working sometimes 20 hours a day trying to prepare his start up company for an initial public offering. Having yet one more thing to deal with on top of the pressure at work was hard for him. Further, he just didn’t understand physically what I was going through.
I made the situation worse. Instead of trying to talk about my pain and anxiety, I pretended I was fine. I didn’t give him a chance to help. I shut him out and decided I would handle things without him.
The bright spot in my life was my personal trainer, Tom Mendell, and my physical therapist, Chris Kuhn. Both of them created a plan to help me train for my surgery. It’s surprising to me that most doctors don’t recommend physical therapy before surgery. I recuperated much faster than my doctor expected because I went into surgery in great physical shape.
Tom trained me for free, as my medical bills were piling up and I didn’t have a lot of spare cash. He also acted as my shrink, and friend. He would leave notes of encouragement on my desk at work (the gym where he worked was owned by my company) and would do little things like bring me goldfish crackers when I was having a bad day. Chris Kuhn also did many, many hours of free physical therapy for me, and I always left his clinic feeling more confident that I could face the challenges that were ahead. Though Chris worked really long hours, he would always take the time to answer my emails and phone calls, no matter how trivial.
Throughout my training I was motivated by the thought that, in a few months after the surgery, I would be able to run again. Dr. Blatz was gently tried to disabuse me of that notion, and mentioned frequently that I would have to wear a brace for the rest of my life to protect my knee any time I did any kind of physical activity. He recommended I take up swimming as soon as I was able to be active again, but swimming seemed boring and I continued to visualize myself running. I was certain that with Chris and Tom’s help I would be back to normal a short time after the surgery.
I invited both Chris and Tom to my surgery, but the hospital wouldn’t let Tom attend since he didn’t have a medical degree. Chris was present, and said he would never again watch a surgery performed on someone he knew. At one point Dr. Blatz was inserting titanium screws into my femur to hold the bone plug in place. He was up on the operating table, cranking on a screw, when it snapped. Based on Chris’ explanation, I had a picture in my mind of trying to put together some piece of furniture from IKEA. It sounded funny to me, but Chris said it was horrifying.
The surgery, scheduled for 3 hours, had taken 6 and a half. I had asked Joe and Dr. Blatz to not say anything negative to me in the recovery room while I was not quite conscious, because that had a detrimental impact after the first surgery. I woke up with Dr. Blatz’s assistant Joe standing over me. He looked exhausted. I was afraid.
Then Joe smiled at me. He said “I think you’re going to be okay kid.”
****
I got up to my room, where I was supposed to stay for the next three days. Dr. Blatz had decided to insert a local of morphine in my knee, even though I’m allergic, because he was afraid that the pain would be too overwhelming. And after bugging them for 4 hours, I got the nurses to bring me two Tylenol, for which the hospital charged me $8.
My partner came to see me that evening. I was uncomfortable, and vomiting from the morphine. He put his head down on my bed, exhausted from work. Finally he said “If you aren’t going to talk to me, I’m going home.” He left.
That night was one of the worst of my life. The nurses had failed to fill the ice machine for my knee. About 5 hours after the surgery I was in excruciating pain. I had to share a room with 3 other women, and one of them cried the whole night because she had just had a mastectomy.
The next morning, at 7 am, I told the nurse I wanted to be discharged because the hospital was just adding to my misery. Joe had just been in to see me, and was furious that the nurses had failed to keep my knee iced. It had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe. I was strapped into the CPM machine because I had gotten tendon replacements, and you have to keep bending your knee, otherwise the tendons don’t stay supple and you lose range of motion. That was another major complication of the surgery. With a bone plug, you aren’t supposed to weight the bone or move it, but if I wasn’t in the CPM the tendons would lose flexibility. Dr. Blatz had cautioned me that it was going to hurt, but I could not have imagined what that meant until I experienced it.
I went home the day after surgery, even though my partner had already made plans to leave for a business trip. He was feeling bad because I was in pain and there was nothing he could do.
My knee was a bloody, disgusting mess. Pus leaked out of the surgery scar and it looked like someone had dumped a bottle of baby shampoo down my leg. My upper thigh had a huge hematoma where my leg had been clamped down to the operating table. If that wasn’t bad enough, I held Tupperware bowl full of vomit at all times because I had no control over when my stomach would suddenly decide it needed to egress.
I had a soft cast that went from my ankle to my hip, and was unable to get up the narrow stairs in the apartment that went to the bedroom on the second floor. So my partner brought a bed downstairs for me, and set it up next to the back wall of the apartment, which was all glass, with a view of Monterey Bay. I could see the local otter playing with the surfers in the ocean outside the window in an area called “the punch bowl” as I lay in bed, strapped into the CPM.
The downstairs bathroom had no shower, so I couldn’t take a bath when I got home from the hospital, and I couldn’t close the door all the way because my straightened leg was too long to fit in the bathroom.
In some ways it was a relief that he was leaving, as I didn’t think there was anything else I could do to make myself less attractive.
*****
The days after my partner left were a blur of sleeplessness and pain. My body felt like it was turning to stone because every muscle was tensed in response to the thudding discomfort. It felt as if someone was jack hammering my knee. My femur coursed with an electrical sensation that ran through the bone into my thigh. There was a sickening crunch every time the CPM forced my knee to bend 20 degrees. A rash had spread from my scalp to my face, neck and stomach from the allergic reaction to the localized morphine. I wanted to take some benedryll but was unable to get to the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet.
At night I would lay in the dark, because the only downstairs light had a switch on the floor that I couldn’t reach. The ice had run out in my ice machine the day after my partner left and I realized I had forgotten to ask him to buy more. As the dark descended over the room faces would seem to appear from behind the furniture, or I would hear noises from upstairs. Awash in paranoia, I constantly worried at night that someone was in the apartment with me.
I had a feral cat named Prickly Pete, and during my first day home she hid somewhere upstairs, terrified of me, the CPM, and a large balloon arrangement my team from work had sent. By the early morning hours of my second day home, she was emboldened enough to sneak down stairs and assess the situation. Sensing the balloons, which were drooping from helium loss, were sleeping, she snuck up on the kitchen counter and then dived into the middle of the arrangement, popping the balloons. I huddled under my comforter, certain someone was shooting at me.
The first two days home by myself I was focused on getting through the next hour, and that kept me going. By the third day, I couldn’t focus anymore. I was exhausted, the pain seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and the isolation was filling me with despair. I had my surgery during Thanksgiving week, so the few people that I knew in the area were away or with family. In my impaired state I was convinced there was no one I could call to help me.
****
3 a.m., day 3.
This is all your fault, I thought to myself. If you hadn’t had a motorcycle. If you had insurance. If you hadn’t been so fucking proud of yourself running through the pain. If you had pushed your doctors instead of accepting their diagnoses because that’s what you wanted to hear.
Now everything is gone. Your career is going to go to shit and you’ll never be able to pay your medical bills. You won’t be able to leave your job because you’ll never get insurance again. Your partner is going to leave you. The only thing you’ve always succeeded in, running? Well, that’s gone too. You’ll never walk like a normal person. You’re going to reject the meniscus, and this will have all been for nothing. The pain is never going to go away.
It will never be morning.
*****
In military strategy it is advisable to attack your adversary in the early hours of the morning because that’s when people are the most vulnerable. This strategy is borne out by scientific studies that show as the night gets darker, before the sun rises, people are slower to respond to the world around them, and their decision making abilities deteriorate.
At 3 a.m. on day 3 I decided I was going to kill myself. The thought of enduring even 10 more minutes of the pain was unbearable, and I knew I had lost or fucked up everything that mattered to me. The only way to stop the pain was to stop everything.
I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around the room. How was I going to do it? I glanced over at the ocean, 40 feet below the cliff where my apartment building sat. At the bottom of the cliff were many large rocks.
In the short time I had lived in that apartment at least one tourist had died on the cliff, walking too close to the edge. The grass appeared solid but, underneath, was unstable. I’ll jump off the cliff, I decided, and began the slow process of un-strapping my leg from the CPM.
I got myself to the side of the bed, reached for my crutches, and then realized something. I couldn’t get to the cliff. My apartment was on the second story of the apartment building, and I couldn’t negotiate the steps down to the cliff with the soft cast. There was a service elevator, which I had taken up after my surgery, but it required a key that was kept in the manager’s office. On the first floor.
Cursing, I looked around the room again. In the dark I could see the balloon arrangement, now decimated by Prickley. The thin ribbons tied to the balloons would not be strong enough to strangle myself with, I determined. I had 20 Tylenol, but given the amount of them I was taking a day, I knew that would do nothing. I thought about the kitchen. I didn’t have any sharp knives or small electrical appliances to electrocute myself with because neither my partner nor I knew how to cook. I thought for a moment that I could electrocute myself with the CPM, but it was too big to carry and too big to fit into the kitchen sink, the only receptacle I could get to that could be filled with water. I didn’t have poison, razors, or even a lighter.
I had nothing.
I started to cry. Through my tears I could see the waves picking up in the ocean. It was now 4 am. In another hour the surfers would be showing up at the punch bowl. I was filled with hatred for them, walking leisurely down the beach with their boards, floating out in the water, and then having breakfast on the boardwalk at Zelda’s before carrying on with their lives. They would be driving cars, working, going to the gym, eating pizza at Pizza My Heart, hanging out in the evening with their partners, talking and laughing. I would be sitting alone, doing nothing, unable to leave the confines of the bottom floor of my apartment.
Then I noticed something. Just a few feet off shore, a school of dolphins was swimming in the surf. There were at least 30 of them, maybe more, fins bobbing in and out of the water as they played in the rolling waves. At that moment the sun appeared, a faint yellow line on the edge of the ocean, gradually rising and making the dolphin fins glow.
That’s what I’ll do, I thought to myself.
I’ll swim.
anonymous
I don't mean to be critical, but frankly I'm a little disappointed at the lack of creativity of some people who post comments to my blog.
Anonymous is so boring. Really. If you could be anyone you wanted, and have any name you wanted, would you seriously pick "anonymous"? Even something lame like "nemo" is better than that.
There are some web sites you can check out if you have a hard time thinking up a fake name. For example, there's a web site where you can find your pirate name (mine is Iron Grace Kid).
Or, send me three facts about yourself and I'll make up a name for you.
Or just keep posting things as "anonymous". Be boring. It's okay. Not everyone can be as exciting as me.
Anonymous is so boring. Really. If you could be anyone you wanted, and have any name you wanted, would you seriously pick "anonymous"? Even something lame like "nemo" is better than that.
There are some web sites you can check out if you have a hard time thinking up a fake name. For example, there's a web site where you can find your pirate name (mine is Iron Grace Kid).
Or, send me three facts about yourself and I'll make up a name for you.
Or just keep posting things as "anonymous". Be boring. It's okay. Not everyone can be as exciting as me.
Ragbrai
Blame it on the jet lag (can't believe I'm still jet lagged a week after my flight - I guess staying up for 40 hours straight and then not getting any sleep my first few days back was a bad idea). I've somehow let my dad talk me into doing a ride called Ragbrai.
The ride is across the state of Iowa. Okay, that's a lot flatter than where I usually ride here in Colorado. But. Given my travel schedule I don't know how much time I'll have to train on a real bike. And, I hate hate hate riding a bike in the gym. What's the point? You can't run anything over and there's no traffic to dodge. Boring.
Also, I only have a mountain bike. His name is max crash. Since I bought him in 2003 I have wrecked him countless times and suffered the following injuries:
-dislocated left shoulder
-fractured right wrist (twice)
-fractured left wrist (at the same time that I fractured the right wrist - that wasn't fun)
-broken toe, right foot (stupid ground hog ran in front of me)
-broken hand (it was healing from a previous break, I guess I shouldn't have been riding in the snow with a broken hand)
-road rash, right side of my body (fell into a ravine)
-bruise on my ass from the bike seat (should have lowered it before I went down a steep hill - my ass cheek looked like an eye with a big pupil in the center)
-other minor cuts and scrapes
Anyway, riding 70 to 100 miles a day on a mountain bike for a week should be interesting.
My ass hurts already.
The ride is across the state of Iowa. Okay, that's a lot flatter than where I usually ride here in Colorado. But. Given my travel schedule I don't know how much time I'll have to train on a real bike. And, I hate hate hate riding a bike in the gym. What's the point? You can't run anything over and there's no traffic to dodge. Boring.
Also, I only have a mountain bike. His name is max crash. Since I bought him in 2003 I have wrecked him countless times and suffered the following injuries:
-dislocated left shoulder
-fractured right wrist (twice)
-fractured left wrist (at the same time that I fractured the right wrist - that wasn't fun)
-broken toe, right foot (stupid ground hog ran in front of me)
-broken hand (it was healing from a previous break, I guess I shouldn't have been riding in the snow with a broken hand)
-road rash, right side of my body (fell into a ravine)
-bruise on my ass from the bike seat (should have lowered it before I went down a steep hill - my ass cheek looked like an eye with a big pupil in the center)
-other minor cuts and scrapes
Anyway, riding 70 to 100 miles a day on a mountain bike for a week should be interesting.
My ass hurts already.
Friday, February 26, 2010
adam and eve screed
Now that I've more or less recovered from my jet lag, caught up at work, and gotten my taxes somewhat in order...
The overarching theme of my trip to the middle east was, of course, religion. Everything in the country where I lived revolved around religion. There were two types of people. Those that were like wink wink, I'm a muslim, but I have no problem going to the tourist area to have a glass of wine and a cigarette. There were others that were so blatant about their religion that they would pray where ever they happened to be. Sometimes in my office I couldn't find a conference room because so many people were praying in them. Other times the one women's bathroom was locked so that someone could pray in there (this is annoying if only because there is always a mosque less than a block away from where ever I was working where people could go pray).
We had many discussions about religion. Personally, I think organized religion is bullshit. Just because you attend some religious service regularly does not make you a good person. And I would cite the first commandment, which is recognized in most religions: do not take god's name in vain. Some idiots believe this means don't use god's name as a swear word. It actually means don't ever say you, as a person, speak for god. I often pointed this out to my muslim counterparts with the argument that a person on earth can't possibly know or understand god's intent, if god even exists. So if a person tells you to do something because god said to do it, they are in fact committing a sin.
Further, on the 20+ hour flight home, I started thinking about this topic in more depth since I couldn't sleep (Lufthansa, for the record, is one of the worst airlines in the world, unless you are an underweight midget and can fit in those stupid seats).
The first part of the bible has to do with Adam and Eve. I started thinking that maybe it's a warning that everything else in the bible should be taken by the reader with a grain of salt. Because, what happens in that story is that Adam and Eve are perfectly happy hanging out until they gain the knowledge that they are naked, and then they feel ashamed. Compare that with the middle east where women have to cover up (in the emirates they even have to wear a black screen over their eyes). What this covering up does is to make women feel ashamed of their bodies.
So then god sees A&E covering up and he's like "dudes, what are you doing? oh shit, you ate one of those apples didn't you, even after I told you not to". Pretend, for a second, that the apple is religion. And that the religion drives the ideas that something natural (e.g. being naked) is cause for shame. Maybe what the story is trying to say is don't buy into religious beliefs because you will ruin paradise by creating artificial wrongs (e.g. being naked). Maybe god was pissed because he was like I designed things exactly the way I wanted them. And now you're going around saying shit is wrong when it was my original design.
And then what happens...someone else comes along as says "everything those guys believe is wrong, and I'm going to come up with a new set of rules" or "everything those guys believe is wrong, but they haven't taken it far enough". Suddenly stupid shit like the fact that muslim women can't wear nail polish becomes a religious law. Then other religions, like the christians, say that what the muslims believe is wrong. People start shooting each other over stupid shit that someone, NOT god, made up.
That's how paradise ends. Just like for Adam and Eve in the bible.
The overarching theme of my trip to the middle east was, of course, religion. Everything in the country where I lived revolved around religion. There were two types of people. Those that were like wink wink, I'm a muslim, but I have no problem going to the tourist area to have a glass of wine and a cigarette. There were others that were so blatant about their religion that they would pray where ever they happened to be. Sometimes in my office I couldn't find a conference room because so many people were praying in them. Other times the one women's bathroom was locked so that someone could pray in there (this is annoying if only because there is always a mosque less than a block away from where ever I was working where people could go pray).
We had many discussions about religion. Personally, I think organized religion is bullshit. Just because you attend some religious service regularly does not make you a good person. And I would cite the first commandment, which is recognized in most religions: do not take god's name in vain. Some idiots believe this means don't use god's name as a swear word. It actually means don't ever say you, as a person, speak for god. I often pointed this out to my muslim counterparts with the argument that a person on earth can't possibly know or understand god's intent, if god even exists. So if a person tells you to do something because god said to do it, they are in fact committing a sin.
Further, on the 20+ hour flight home, I started thinking about this topic in more depth since I couldn't sleep (Lufthansa, for the record, is one of the worst airlines in the world, unless you are an underweight midget and can fit in those stupid seats).
The first part of the bible has to do with Adam and Eve. I started thinking that maybe it's a warning that everything else in the bible should be taken by the reader with a grain of salt. Because, what happens in that story is that Adam and Eve are perfectly happy hanging out until they gain the knowledge that they are naked, and then they feel ashamed. Compare that with the middle east where women have to cover up (in the emirates they even have to wear a black screen over their eyes). What this covering up does is to make women feel ashamed of their bodies.
So then god sees A&E covering up and he's like "dudes, what are you doing? oh shit, you ate one of those apples didn't you, even after I told you not to". Pretend, for a second, that the apple is religion. And that the religion drives the ideas that something natural (e.g. being naked) is cause for shame. Maybe what the story is trying to say is don't buy into religious beliefs because you will ruin paradise by creating artificial wrongs (e.g. being naked). Maybe god was pissed because he was like I designed things exactly the way I wanted them. And now you're going around saying shit is wrong when it was my original design.
And then what happens...someone else comes along as says "everything those guys believe is wrong, and I'm going to come up with a new set of rules" or "everything those guys believe is wrong, but they haven't taken it far enough". Suddenly stupid shit like the fact that muslim women can't wear nail polish becomes a religious law. Then other religions, like the christians, say that what the muslims believe is wrong. People start shooting each other over stupid shit that someone, NOT god, made up.
That's how paradise ends. Just like for Adam and Eve in the bible.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
the end in the UAE...
Today was my last day of work in the UAE. I'm sad to leave, but happy to go home, even if it's only for a week (I head off to Canada for an engagement 28 February). The iraqi I work with brought his camera in today to take some pictures. This image should be familiar to everyone who knows me (when do I not have a coke in my hand?).
This pic was taken in the training room where I work and have had the team locked up doing architecture hell week for the past two weeks.
And this is the texas kid and the iraqi failing to take their last day of training seriously :DOne thing the iraqi said to me today is that they have an expression in his country: when a man teaches you something, you are his slave. Then he thanked me for teaching him. It was touching.
I am currently in my room waiting for Ireland to show up for my going away party. We decided it would be girls only. I'm hoping for a quiet evening so I can get up and go to the beach one last time tomorrow.
ETA to Denver Saturday evening, inshallah.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
robot talk
I have been totally stressed out at work for the past few weeks, trying to fit in about 30 days of training in two weeks. I've been keeping my poor engineers locked in a training room for 11 hours straight (I give them a 10 minute break at lunch to get food).
So today texas kid, who is by now very bored with training, kept asking annoying questions at the beginning of the training class. Finally, I lost my temper with him (besides doing training for 11 hours, I am spending 5 hours doing prep work for the following day, and supporting sales, and doing the usual admin stuff) and said "Stop being a little shit".
This hurt texas kid's feelings a lot. He decided that he wasn't going to speak to me anymore. So when I asked him a question, he typed his answer into google translator and then clicked on the sound button (it takes what ever you type in and reads it in a robot voice).
I found that exceedingly funny. So then I went to a different web site, that had a translator with a british accent, and typed in another question for him. And he responded through google translator again. Soon we were both finding new translators on the web with different accents.
No one else in the class thought it was very funny. But texas kid is speaking to me again.
So today texas kid, who is by now very bored with training, kept asking annoying questions at the beginning of the training class. Finally, I lost my temper with him (besides doing training for 11 hours, I am spending 5 hours doing prep work for the following day, and supporting sales, and doing the usual admin stuff) and said "Stop being a little shit".
This hurt texas kid's feelings a lot. He decided that he wasn't going to speak to me anymore. So when I asked him a question, he typed his answer into google translator and then clicked on the sound button (it takes what ever you type in and reads it in a robot voice).
I found that exceedingly funny. So then I went to a different web site, that had a translator with a british accent, and typed in another question for him. And he responded through google translator again. Soon we were both finding new translators on the web with different accents.
No one else in the class thought it was very funny. But texas kid is speaking to me again.
Monday, February 15, 2010
dolphin dinosaurs
Last night I had a dream that I was walking down a beach in Abu Dhabi with these boring white people from the suburbs. We came to a narrow part of the beach, where the way forward was cut off by a river feeding the ocean.
As I was standing there looking at the river, trying to decide if I could wade across it, a pink dolphin surfaced. But it wasn't just pink, it also had these triangular plates on its back like a triceratops dinosaur. I was like "dudes, look at that!" but no one saw it.
Then, as I was getting my camera out, a giant sea monster that looked like the loch ness monster rose out of the water. This time everyone saw it. The monster came out of the water, gave me a huge smile, and then went under the water. Everyone was like "Oh my god!!! It's a monster!!!"
More monsters showed up. I was standing on the edge of the water, but every time a monster swam by me I couldn't take a picture with my camera. All the people behind me were yelling at me to take pictures, but whenever a monster showed up I was frozen.
Finally this kind of fat white guy came up to me and said "Look, if you don't take a picture, no one will believe us about the monsters". And I said "That's not true, I'll write a story and tell everyone about the monsters."
Then the guy said to me "No one will believe you." And I started to be less happy about seeing the monsters, and started to worry he was right.
Then I woke up.
As I was standing there looking at the river, trying to decide if I could wade across it, a pink dolphin surfaced. But it wasn't just pink, it also had these triangular plates on its back like a triceratops dinosaur. I was like "dudes, look at that!" but no one saw it.
Then, as I was getting my camera out, a giant sea monster that looked like the loch ness monster rose out of the water. This time everyone saw it. The monster came out of the water, gave me a huge smile, and then went under the water. Everyone was like "Oh my god!!! It's a monster!!!"
More monsters showed up. I was standing on the edge of the water, but every time a monster swam by me I couldn't take a picture with my camera. All the people behind me were yelling at me to take pictures, but whenever a monster showed up I was frozen.
Finally this kind of fat white guy came up to me and said "Look, if you don't take a picture, no one will believe us about the monsters". And I said "That's not true, I'll write a story and tell everyone about the monsters."
Then the guy said to me "No one will believe you." And I started to be less happy about seeing the monsters, and started to worry he was right.
Then I woke up.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
driving in wadi rum
A little video to share the experience of driving a jeep through the desert with a crazy bedouin.
great white sharks!!!!!
I just got this via email from my friend Patric. Check out the web site, very cool!
Greetings Shark Divers,
Shark Diver New Zealand is now official. After a few fits and starts the website went live last week and we are now booking divers from around the planet. We would like to introduce you to the planets next white shark cage diving and research site we call "Oceania."
Over the next three months I will be spending a lot of time at this new site with CEO Peter Scott and sending back regular video updates via our blog. Please help us spread the word by re-posting our press release and passing the news on to friends, photographers, and family members. Shark sites like these are becoming rarer as we lose animals to fishing pressures worldwide. Introducing the public to big charismatic mega fauna like the white shark changes perceptions and drives regional and local conservation efforts.
The unique white sharks at Oceania over the coming years will surprise both divers and researchers. What little we know about them is already rewriting the book on white sharks.
We have just begun another grand adventure. Join us.
http://sharkdivers.blogspot.com/2010/02/shark-diver-new-zealand-announces-new.html
Greetings Shark Divers,
Shark Diver New Zealand is now official. After a few fits and starts the website went live last week and we are now booking divers from around the planet. We would like to introduce you to the planets next white shark cage diving and research site we call "Oceania."
Over the next three months I will be spending a lot of time at this new site with CEO Peter Scott and sending back regular video updates via our blog. Please help us spread the word by re-posting our press release and passing the news on to friends, photographers, and family members. Shark sites like these are becoming rarer as we lose animals to fishing pressures worldwide. Introducing the public to big charismatic mega fauna like the white shark changes perceptions and drives regional and local conservation efforts.
The unique white sharks at Oceania over the coming years will surprise both divers and researchers. What little we know about them is already rewriting the book on white sharks.
We have just begun another grand adventure. Join us.
http://sharkdivers.blogspot.com/2010/02/shark-diver-new-zealand-announces-new.html
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
bedouin eyes
I am possibly the worst person ever.
So, the day that Ireland and I went to see Petra we met two guys in the 3 kings gift shop. They stopped us on our way in and gave us some tea (called bedouin whisky). Then they flirted with us. We just thought they were really bored. Bill Clinton had been to the shop when he went to Petra and they showed us pictures they took with him, which were pretty cool.
Then, on our way out, we stopped by the shop again so I could by some souvenirs for my sister's kids. The one guy Rhodie was waiting outside the shop for us. They gave us tea and sheesha for Ireland. They wanted us to meet them for dinner and drinks that night. But we wanted to go to the cave bar, which is the oldest bar in the world (2,000 years old) so we told them to meet us there.
Salame, the guy who liked Ireland, met us at the bar but said Rhodie couldn't come in because they don't allow the locals to be in the bar. He asked us if we wanted to go into the mountains. We were like why not, even though it probably seems unsafe that we were going off to the mountains with some guys we had just met.
We started driving, and driving, and driving more. We were way up on this mountain outside Petra. I was getting a little nervous. I was sitting in the front seat with Rhodie and I was like dude, where the hell are we going? He said "just wait, it's a surprise". I was thinking please don't let it be a surprise where I end up kidnapped or something.
We got to this very large boulder that had a door carved into the front of it. The wind was blowing really hard and it was freezing. Rhodie said "Come see this!" I got out of the car with him and we went into the boulder. There was a little room carved into the rock. He had put candles all over the room and put carpets on the ground. I was like hm, what is going on here?
He handed me a Petra beer. I cracked it open and took a swig. Then he said "I want to talk to you." I was like okay, what's up? He said "Ever since you came into my shop and I met you I have been thinking of you. I am in love with you." I was momentarily stunned. Then I said "Dude, give me a break. You get a million beautiful women coming through your shop. You're only saying that because I actually hung out with you, where as most of the other tourists know you are just doing your tourist thing."
Rhodie looked very agitated and upset. I didn't know what to do so I lit a cigarette and drank some more beer. He grabbed my arm suddenly, almost spilling my beer, and said "NO! I am in love with you! I will go where ever you go! It was fate that you came into my shop!"
I didn't know what to say, and, looking at him, I was under the impression that he did at least lust after me. I tried to think of something good to say but ended up blurting out "We can never be together!" He was like "Why????" and I said, hee, I know, it's horrible "Because I'm dying of cancer!"
Well, I did have cancer and could have died from it. Might still die from it.
He looked angry so I made myself start crying. I said "If you don't believe me, ask Ireland!" I was hoping, after I backed her stories every time we were in a bar, that she would be able to do the same for me. Rhodie marched me back to the car and demanded Ireland go into the cave with him. I gave her a look and hoped she could roll with my story.
Ireland did more than roll with it. She made herself cry hysterically. Then she said "I don't want to talk about it anymore (sniff sniff)". Meanwhile, I was sitting in the car with Salame, who was in love with Ireland. He said "she told me she had a boyfriend" and luckily I told the same lie about her boyfriend that she told him. Then I got out of the car and climbed up on a big boulder to look at the sky. There were a million stars out and I saw a few shooting stars. I finished my beer.
Rhodie came over to me after talking to Ireland and said "I believe you. I am sorry you are dying". I said "that's okay". Then he said "I like your shoes." I said "Thanks". He said "Can you buy me a pair just like them? But in blue not pink." I looked at him, not sure if he was joking. He said "I wear size 43."
Then we got into the car to go back to the hotel. There was a sad mood in the car because I was dying of cancer. They recommended some bedouin treatments, including camel milk. Yuck.
Finally Rhodie put on a CD that he had been waiting to play. It was Bryan Adams everything I do I do it for you or what ever the name of that song is. Ireland and I started laughing hysterically and didn't stop until we got to the hotel. Before I got out of the car Rhodie grabbed my hand and said "I love you. Do you remember my shoe size?" I said "Yes, 43, blue shoes."
Then Ireland, the bitch, sent a text message to Rhodie (he had given me his phone number and email). It said "thanks for a great evening!" and she signed it "Franki and Ireland". He thought it was from me, and so he responded with a text that said "Am I dreaming? I've found love and it's as a star's light so far, and yet so bright. I see you as an angel so please don't fly away rest your wings awhile, my love and promise me you'll stay. not for a while but for forever, I dream of us together. I wonder, are you real? or just another one of my crazy dreams. If you are my dream then I wish to dream more cuz your smile, makes my heart beat, like it never has before. These stars, should all belong to you, so i offer you my love but will that do? I've found love but will he(sic) stay long? love could be weak. but I dream that, ours will be strong. I love you my love and I am always going to do it,please never forget it my love! (sic)"
Ireland started texting him back, and he sent even more texts like the one above. I let Ireland write what ever she wanted and just ignored the responses even though she found them funny.
The last one, which came last night, said "I wrote your name in the sky, but the wind blew it away. I wrote your name in the sand, but the waves washed it away. I wrote your name in my heart, and forever it will stay. Kisses xxx" Ireland forwarded it to me, and so I sent her a text back that said "Tell him "I wrote your name on a Patchi chocolate, but then I ate the chocolate. The chocolate went into my stomach, and will be gone in a day. Forever in the sewage of Abu Dhabi it will stay."
Ech. Even when I leave the country and go on vacation the crazy guys still find me.
So, the day that Ireland and I went to see Petra we met two guys in the 3 kings gift shop. They stopped us on our way in and gave us some tea (called bedouin whisky). Then they flirted with us. We just thought they were really bored. Bill Clinton had been to the shop when he went to Petra and they showed us pictures they took with him, which were pretty cool.
Then, on our way out, we stopped by the shop again so I could by some souvenirs for my sister's kids. The one guy Rhodie was waiting outside the shop for us. They gave us tea and sheesha for Ireland. They wanted us to meet them for dinner and drinks that night. But we wanted to go to the cave bar, which is the oldest bar in the world (2,000 years old) so we told them to meet us there.
Salame, the guy who liked Ireland, met us at the bar but said Rhodie couldn't come in because they don't allow the locals to be in the bar. He asked us if we wanted to go into the mountains. We were like why not, even though it probably seems unsafe that we were going off to the mountains with some guys we had just met.
We started driving, and driving, and driving more. We were way up on this mountain outside Petra. I was getting a little nervous. I was sitting in the front seat with Rhodie and I was like dude, where the hell are we going? He said "just wait, it's a surprise". I was thinking please don't let it be a surprise where I end up kidnapped or something.
We got to this very large boulder that had a door carved into the front of it. The wind was blowing really hard and it was freezing. Rhodie said "Come see this!" I got out of the car with him and we went into the boulder. There was a little room carved into the rock. He had put candles all over the room and put carpets on the ground. I was like hm, what is going on here?
He handed me a Petra beer. I cracked it open and took a swig. Then he said "I want to talk to you." I was like okay, what's up? He said "Ever since you came into my shop and I met you I have been thinking of you. I am in love with you." I was momentarily stunned. Then I said "Dude, give me a break. You get a million beautiful women coming through your shop. You're only saying that because I actually hung out with you, where as most of the other tourists know you are just doing your tourist thing."
Rhodie looked very agitated and upset. I didn't know what to do so I lit a cigarette and drank some more beer. He grabbed my arm suddenly, almost spilling my beer, and said "NO! I am in love with you! I will go where ever you go! It was fate that you came into my shop!"
I didn't know what to say, and, looking at him, I was under the impression that he did at least lust after me. I tried to think of something good to say but ended up blurting out "We can never be together!" He was like "Why????" and I said, hee, I know, it's horrible "Because I'm dying of cancer!"
Well, I did have cancer and could have died from it. Might still die from it.
He looked angry so I made myself start crying. I said "If you don't believe me, ask Ireland!" I was hoping, after I backed her stories every time we were in a bar, that she would be able to do the same for me. Rhodie marched me back to the car and demanded Ireland go into the cave with him. I gave her a look and hoped she could roll with my story.
Ireland did more than roll with it. She made herself cry hysterically. Then she said "I don't want to talk about it anymore (sniff sniff)". Meanwhile, I was sitting in the car with Salame, who was in love with Ireland. He said "she told me she had a boyfriend" and luckily I told the same lie about her boyfriend that she told him. Then I got out of the car and climbed up on a big boulder to look at the sky. There were a million stars out and I saw a few shooting stars. I finished my beer.
Rhodie came over to me after talking to Ireland and said "I believe you. I am sorry you are dying". I said "that's okay". Then he said "I like your shoes." I said "Thanks". He said "Can you buy me a pair just like them? But in blue not pink." I looked at him, not sure if he was joking. He said "I wear size 43."
Then we got into the car to go back to the hotel. There was a sad mood in the car because I was dying of cancer. They recommended some bedouin treatments, including camel milk. Yuck.
Finally Rhodie put on a CD that he had been waiting to play. It was Bryan Adams everything I do I do it for you or what ever the name of that song is. Ireland and I started laughing hysterically and didn't stop until we got to the hotel. Before I got out of the car Rhodie grabbed my hand and said "I love you. Do you remember my shoe size?" I said "Yes, 43, blue shoes."
Then Ireland, the bitch, sent a text message to Rhodie (he had given me his phone number and email). It said "thanks for a great evening!" and she signed it "Franki and Ireland". He thought it was from me, and so he responded with a text that said "Am I dreaming? I've found love and it's as a star's light so far, and yet so bright. I see you as an angel so please don't fly away rest your wings awhile, my love and promise me you'll stay. not for a while but for forever, I dream of us together. I wonder, are you real? or just another one of my crazy dreams. If you are my dream then I wish to dream more cuz your smile, makes my heart beat, like it never has before. These stars, should all belong to you, so i offer you my love but will that do? I've found love but will he(sic) stay long? love could be weak. but I dream that, ours will be strong. I love you my love and I am always going to do it,please never forget it my love! (sic)"
Ireland started texting him back, and he sent even more texts like the one above. I let Ireland write what ever she wanted and just ignored the responses even though she found them funny.
The last one, which came last night, said "I wrote your name in the sky, but the wind blew it away. I wrote your name in the sand, but the waves washed it away. I wrote your name in my heart, and forever it will stay. Kisses xxx" Ireland forwarded it to me, and so I sent her a text back that said "Tell him "I wrote your name on a Patchi chocolate, but then I ate the chocolate. The chocolate went into my stomach, and will be gone in a day. Forever in the sewage of Abu Dhabi it will stay."
Ech. Even when I leave the country and go on vacation the crazy guys still find me.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
red roses
I got back to my hotel after being in Jordan for 4 days to find a floral arrangement of 24 red roses courtesy of my hotel. Thanks to the Merid! I guess you missed me...
Friday, February 5, 2010
sand, snow, salt
I knew it would be an adventure to go to Jordan with Ireland.
Last night I met up with Ireland in Dubai. We had to fly out to Petra at 8 am, so we swore we would just go out to dinner and then go to bed early (we were crashing at a friend's place). 11:30 rolled around, and we were still at this restaurant/bar called Barasti. I knew, in the cab home, that in 5 hours I would not be having a pleasant time.
Woke up with a hangover, got on the flight, and 4 hours later we landed in Jordan. Luckily Ireland changed some money when we arrived so that we could buy visas. I kept telling her she was wasting her time as there was sure to be an ATM after we got through customs. There wasn't. Then we had to faff around with the rental car guys for over an hour to get our car (which is a nice car, a Peugeot, that's manual, hooray! we call it the grey ghost). The idiots did not fill the car with gas, so as we left the airport the tank was on empty. The one thing they did do was give us a GPS. And they warned us that the road to Petra might be closed. I was like "Why?" and the guy said "Much snow". Ireland and I looked at each other. He said "You are not the only white visitors we are happy to see".
"No probs on the gas", I said to Ireland. "We'll just stop at the first petrol station." That was a bit further from the airport than I thought it would be. I was actually getting worried. The station had one pump and only took cash. If Ireland hadn't changed money we would be sitting on the side of the Dead Sea Highway with a car that didn't run. Though, it took us a while to explain that we wanted gas for the car. You'd think the guys at that station had never seen tourists. The whole time he was filling the tank we were getting hammered with rain. I was like this could be an eventful road trip.
As we made it 50K from Petra, with rain, and some fog, but no snow, we started joking around that the guy was wrong about the snow. Then I took the turn off for Petra. Suddenly, we went from a multi-lane highway to a winding mountain road. We started seeing snow. I was like, hm, I hope this car is front wheel drive. We got to a stretch of the road where the snow was over a foot deep. Ireland and I were like "you have got to be f*king kidding!" I was wearing flip flops and a fleece. Ireland was wearing a thin sweater. I was worried the car would go off the road and we would have to push it out in our pathetic UAE appropriate clothes.
When it seemed things couldn't get any more sporty, fog set in. I literally could not see more than 5 feet in front of the car. The wind was blowing us around on the snow and I skated, more than drove, the road. I came around a bank of snow some guys had made clearing the road manually with shovels. Some idiots (Ireland called them muppets) had left their car in the middle of the road, without their lights on, and were taking pictures in the snow. The car was white. It's a miracle I didn't hit it. Ireland started to get aggro with the woman on our GPS, who kept advising us "Follow the direction of the road" as I was sliding around trying to keep the car on the road. Finally Ireland screamed "shut up you stupid tit!" to the GPS and then she ripped it off the windscreen. I was like "I will kill you if you throw the GPS out the window!" because it appeared she was about to do just that. The GPS did not get thrown out the window. We left it in the car tonight and it's probably frozen solid.
Eventually we made it to Petra and our hotel, which is fab. My room overlooks the ruins, but the wind is howling so loudly outside it seems like there's a hurricane about to blow everything away. Ireland got a room on the opposite wing and it's quieter, but without the view.
We thought to go down to the ruins but it there was torrential rain and the wind was blowing so hard that it hurt to stand in it. The guys at the hotel advised us to wait until tomorrow as Petra is a canyon and not the place to be when it's raining/windy. Instead we went into town and bought two absolutely hideous hats (we're calling them our Petra caps) and a fleece for Ireland who didn't bring a jacket (though she has 5 tank tops, because apparently she didn't believe the weather forecast that said it was 36 degrees F here). As we walked through the streets cars would honk at us. A guy approached us as we headed to the only ATM in Petra and he said "I love you! I am so glad you're here! Please stay with me because I love you!" Ireland said "It's nice to arrive somewhere and have an instant fan club".
We drove around for a bit more, but it was starting to snow/sleet so we went back to the hotel. Every time we got out of the car to take a picture the wind was so strong we could barely walk. We decided to get a facial. Weirdly, I think the woman at the spa thought we were a couple because she booked our facials at the same time, in the same room. That was a recipe for disaster. I laughed hysterically through my facial. Ireland kept saying "You aren't taking our couples therapy seriously!"
The woman and man doing the facials were trying not to laugh at us. At one point we both had this green sludge on our faces, and this Carpenter's song came on. I don't know what the name of it is, but it has a refrain that goes "sha la la la". Ireland sang the refrain very quietly and I could not stop laughing. They turned the music to a different track, which was a christmas song, and I laughed even harder. Then this woman was scrubbing my face with something and I said "Is that Dead Sea Salt?" and I don't know why, but that made Ireland and I laugh more. When she started massaging my face she did this thing where she was wiggling my nose, and at that point I went into hysterics and could not stop laughing for the rest of the facial, even after she slapped me hard on the shoulder and said "You! Need! To! Relax!" Ireland said she will never do a spa treatment with me again because I laughed too much. And, Ireland waited until we got to dinner to tell me I had green face mask all over the rim of my right nostril. Gross.
We had a great dinner, and I was propositioned by a bedouin, who told Ireland he would give her 20 camels and a trunk of gold for me. We teased him and then he said he would show us the gold. Ireland got excited, but I was like "I don't think I want to live in a tent". Then the bedouin said that he drinks two cups of camel milk every day because it improves his "virility" and that's how he has 3 wives. He wanted me to meet him tomorrow to drink camel milk. Also, he said that I am responsible for bringing the worst weather ever to Petra, but that he wants to keep me because I make it rain (could be true, they've had record rain fall in Abu Dhabi this year also).
I told him I couldn't go unless he promised I could have a glass of wine every night. Wrong thing to say. Turns out he makes wine. Ech.
If I'm never heard from again, assume either I've blown away in the canyon at the Petra site, or that Ireland has sold me to bedouins and is now the happy owner of 20 camels.
Tomorrow should be an exciting tour through Petra. I hope.
Last night I met up with Ireland in Dubai. We had to fly out to Petra at 8 am, so we swore we would just go out to dinner and then go to bed early (we were crashing at a friend's place). 11:30 rolled around, and we were still at this restaurant/bar called Barasti. I knew, in the cab home, that in 5 hours I would not be having a pleasant time.
Woke up with a hangover, got on the flight, and 4 hours later we landed in Jordan. Luckily Ireland changed some money when we arrived so that we could buy visas. I kept telling her she was wasting her time as there was sure to be an ATM after we got through customs. There wasn't. Then we had to faff around with the rental car guys for over an hour to get our car (which is a nice car, a Peugeot, that's manual, hooray! we call it the grey ghost). The idiots did not fill the car with gas, so as we left the airport the tank was on empty. The one thing they did do was give us a GPS. And they warned us that the road to Petra might be closed. I was like "Why?" and the guy said "Much snow". Ireland and I looked at each other. He said "You are not the only white visitors we are happy to see".
"No probs on the gas", I said to Ireland. "We'll just stop at the first petrol station." That was a bit further from the airport than I thought it would be. I was actually getting worried. The station had one pump and only took cash. If Ireland hadn't changed money we would be sitting on the side of the Dead Sea Highway with a car that didn't run. Though, it took us a while to explain that we wanted gas for the car. You'd think the guys at that station had never seen tourists. The whole time he was filling the tank we were getting hammered with rain. I was like this could be an eventful road trip.
As we made it 50K from Petra, with rain, and some fog, but no snow, we started joking around that the guy was wrong about the snow. Then I took the turn off for Petra. Suddenly, we went from a multi-lane highway to a winding mountain road. We started seeing snow. I was like, hm, I hope this car is front wheel drive. We got to a stretch of the road where the snow was over a foot deep. Ireland and I were like "you have got to be f*king kidding!" I was wearing flip flops and a fleece. Ireland was wearing a thin sweater. I was worried the car would go off the road and we would have to push it out in our pathetic UAE appropriate clothes.
When it seemed things couldn't get any more sporty, fog set in. I literally could not see more than 5 feet in front of the car. The wind was blowing us around on the snow and I skated, more than drove, the road. I came around a bank of snow some guys had made clearing the road manually with shovels. Some idiots (Ireland called them muppets) had left their car in the middle of the road, without their lights on, and were taking pictures in the snow. The car was white. It's a miracle I didn't hit it. Ireland started to get aggro with the woman on our GPS, who kept advising us "Follow the direction of the road" as I was sliding around trying to keep the car on the road. Finally Ireland screamed "shut up you stupid tit!" to the GPS and then she ripped it off the windscreen. I was like "I will kill you if you throw the GPS out the window!" because it appeared she was about to do just that. The GPS did not get thrown out the window. We left it in the car tonight and it's probably frozen solid.
Eventually we made it to Petra and our hotel, which is fab. My room overlooks the ruins, but the wind is howling so loudly outside it seems like there's a hurricane about to blow everything away. Ireland got a room on the opposite wing and it's quieter, but without the view.
We thought to go down to the ruins but it there was torrential rain and the wind was blowing so hard that it hurt to stand in it. The guys at the hotel advised us to wait until tomorrow as Petra is a canyon and not the place to be when it's raining/windy. Instead we went into town and bought two absolutely hideous hats (we're calling them our Petra caps) and a fleece for Ireland who didn't bring a jacket (though she has 5 tank tops, because apparently she didn't believe the weather forecast that said it was 36 degrees F here). As we walked through the streets cars would honk at us. A guy approached us as we headed to the only ATM in Petra and he said "I love you! I am so glad you're here! Please stay with me because I love you!" Ireland said "It's nice to arrive somewhere and have an instant fan club".
We drove around for a bit more, but it was starting to snow/sleet so we went back to the hotel. Every time we got out of the car to take a picture the wind was so strong we could barely walk. We decided to get a facial. Weirdly, I think the woman at the spa thought we were a couple because she booked our facials at the same time, in the same room. That was a recipe for disaster. I laughed hysterically through my facial. Ireland kept saying "You aren't taking our couples therapy seriously!"
The woman and man doing the facials were trying not to laugh at us. At one point we both had this green sludge on our faces, and this Carpenter's song came on. I don't know what the name of it is, but it has a refrain that goes "sha la la la". Ireland sang the refrain very quietly and I could not stop laughing. They turned the music to a different track, which was a christmas song, and I laughed even harder. Then this woman was scrubbing my face with something and I said "Is that Dead Sea Salt?" and I don't know why, but that made Ireland and I laugh more. When she started massaging my face she did this thing where she was wiggling my nose, and at that point I went into hysterics and could not stop laughing for the rest of the facial, even after she slapped me hard on the shoulder and said "You! Need! To! Relax!" Ireland said she will never do a spa treatment with me again because I laughed too much. And, Ireland waited until we got to dinner to tell me I had green face mask all over the rim of my right nostril. Gross.
We had a great dinner, and I was propositioned by a bedouin, who told Ireland he would give her 20 camels and a trunk of gold for me. We teased him and then he said he would show us the gold. Ireland got excited, but I was like "I don't think I want to live in a tent". Then the bedouin said that he drinks two cups of camel milk every day because it improves his "virility" and that's how he has 3 wives. He wanted me to meet him tomorrow to drink camel milk. Also, he said that I am responsible for bringing the worst weather ever to Petra, but that he wants to keep me because I make it rain (could be true, they've had record rain fall in Abu Dhabi this year also).
I told him I couldn't go unless he promised I could have a glass of wine every night. Wrong thing to say. Turns out he makes wine. Ech.
If I'm never heard from again, assume either I've blown away in the canyon at the Petra site, or that Ireland has sold me to bedouins and is now the happy owner of 20 camels.
Tomorrow should be an exciting tour through Petra. I hope.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
sand storm
It wouldn’t have been fair for me to be in the UAE for so long without experiencing a sand storm.
Today I woke up to a loud wind. I looked outside and the trees around the merid were leaning in the wind. The air was so full of sand and dirt that it was almost like a fog. I walked down the street and spent 20 minutes trying to find a cab. It was hideous. I got to work and washed my face but my clothes were covered with sandy dust.
Then at lunch texas kid and I walked to lunch and the wind was blowing so hard it almost knocked me over. I got sand in my eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. It was disgusting. Everyone is walking around looking dusty. The floor of the office building is treacherous because of the mix of sand and marble tile. I’ve almost slipped twice on the stairs.
The wind seems to be getting worse. I’m heading to Dubai in a few hours because I fly from there to Jordan tomorrow. I hope the weather improves.
I don’t like sand storms.
Today I woke up to a loud wind. I looked outside and the trees around the merid were leaning in the wind. The air was so full of sand and dirt that it was almost like a fog. I walked down the street and spent 20 minutes trying to find a cab. It was hideous. I got to work and washed my face but my clothes were covered with sandy dust.
Then at lunch texas kid and I walked to lunch and the wind was blowing so hard it almost knocked me over. I got sand in my eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. It was disgusting. Everyone is walking around looking dusty. The floor of the office building is treacherous because of the mix of sand and marble tile. I’ve almost slipped twice on the stairs.
The wind seems to be getting worse. I’m heading to Dubai in a few hours because I fly from there to Jordan tomorrow. I hope the weather improves.
I don’t like sand storms.
Friday, January 29, 2010
creative management
I've been mentoring two guys at work, trying to train them to teach classes. They are both not serious about their careers, and total screw offs at work. So annoying. I can yell at them or do other stuff, but since I'm not their manager, I have limited power over what I can do to them.
So, they were supposed to give training classes Wednesday and Thursday to some people internal to my company. They did a horrible job. When they were able to answer a question from the students, they gave the wrong answer. They hadn't gone over the software exercises and couldn't get things to work. It was a disaster, and after the class on Wednesday I was so depressed I wanted to quit my job.
I yelled at them Wednesday night, and they did do better on Thursday. But still. The class was horrible. I was stalking around outside the building where the class was held because I couldn't listen to them anymore, smoking and plotting how to kill the two of them, when their manager came out. I had a short word with him about their performance. He also was upset, and asked me what we should do. I was like "dude, I am out of ideas."
Moments later, an idea hit me. Their manager is a pretty passive guy. He never yells at anyone, and didn't want to yell at them about their abysmal performance. So I suggested to him that he call the boys and myself in for a talk after the class was over, and yell at all of us together for the horrible job they had done. I said that he should really yell as if their poor performance were my fault. He thought it was a great idea.
Then, as the afternoon wore on, I kept coming up with more and more ideas of what he should do and say in the meeting. He was really getting into it and wrote notes down on a piece of paper so we could script the whole meeting. He couldn't yell at someone in real life, but if he thought he was faking it, he was able to do it. I was hoping that he would be able to pull it off.
After the class we all got pulled into a conference room. I decided to look at the floor so I wouldn't laugh. The manager started out yelling at everyone. The two guys were shocked. Then he yelled at me. I pretended that I was about to cry because I was really about to laugh. Then he went absolutely insane and started yelling and screaming so much that his face turned red and he was spitting all over the place. It was awesome.
One of the guys, who is in his late forties and who speaks english as a second language, tried to defend himself (bad mistake). But he was rattled from getting yelled at so, in my favorite part of the meeting, he said "I know there was a large boob in my presentation", meaning, that he had a mistake in his presentation (he picked up the expression boo boo from me, which I say when I want to annoy Ireland). The manager, who also speaks english as a second language, screamed at him "There were MANY large boobs in your presentation!" I thought I was going to have to bite through my lip to keep from laughing.
The manager had fun yelling at me. He said totally insane stuff like "if you don't do what I say, you will fear me because I am like a gorilla!" After the meeting was over he told the two guys to leave so he could talk to me in private. We laughed for about 10 minutes. I was in tears I was laughing so hard which was great because the guys thought I had been crying.
In any case, the guys were in shock and it will hopefully make a difference in their work performance. We'll see what happens next week.
So, they were supposed to give training classes Wednesday and Thursday to some people internal to my company. They did a horrible job. When they were able to answer a question from the students, they gave the wrong answer. They hadn't gone over the software exercises and couldn't get things to work. It was a disaster, and after the class on Wednesday I was so depressed I wanted to quit my job.
I yelled at them Wednesday night, and they did do better on Thursday. But still. The class was horrible. I was stalking around outside the building where the class was held because I couldn't listen to them anymore, smoking and plotting how to kill the two of them, when their manager came out. I had a short word with him about their performance. He also was upset, and asked me what we should do. I was like "dude, I am out of ideas."
Moments later, an idea hit me. Their manager is a pretty passive guy. He never yells at anyone, and didn't want to yell at them about their abysmal performance. So I suggested to him that he call the boys and myself in for a talk after the class was over, and yell at all of us together for the horrible job they had done. I said that he should really yell as if their poor performance were my fault. He thought it was a great idea.
Then, as the afternoon wore on, I kept coming up with more and more ideas of what he should do and say in the meeting. He was really getting into it and wrote notes down on a piece of paper so we could script the whole meeting. He couldn't yell at someone in real life, but if he thought he was faking it, he was able to do it. I was hoping that he would be able to pull it off.
After the class we all got pulled into a conference room. I decided to look at the floor so I wouldn't laugh. The manager started out yelling at everyone. The two guys were shocked. Then he yelled at me. I pretended that I was about to cry because I was really about to laugh. Then he went absolutely insane and started yelling and screaming so much that his face turned red and he was spitting all over the place. It was awesome.
One of the guys, who is in his late forties and who speaks english as a second language, tried to defend himself (bad mistake). But he was rattled from getting yelled at so, in my favorite part of the meeting, he said "I know there was a large boob in my presentation", meaning, that he had a mistake in his presentation (he picked up the expression boo boo from me, which I say when I want to annoy Ireland). The manager, who also speaks english as a second language, screamed at him "There were MANY large boobs in your presentation!" I thought I was going to have to bite through my lip to keep from laughing.
The manager had fun yelling at me. He said totally insane stuff like "if you don't do what I say, you will fear me because I am like a gorilla!" After the meeting was over he told the two guys to leave so he could talk to me in private. We laughed for about 10 minutes. I was in tears I was laughing so hard which was great because the guys thought I had been crying.
In any case, the guys were in shock and it will hopefully make a difference in their work performance. We'll see what happens next week.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
breaky jakey
Two nights ago Jakey was attacked by a UED (uninsured exploding deer).Which is odd because that same day I was telling people in my office that I was worried that something was going to happen to my car.
But, the damage isn't that bad.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
artwork
Ireland and I were sitting at the onetoone beer garden having a bit of a piss up (and somewhere, the bouncer smiles) because we both had the longest, worst week ever (except for the previous week, etc.) when suddenly this little girl ran up to me, and handed me the piece of paper you see to the right.Ireland was like "What, you don't have a picture for me?" The little girl looked at me. I said "She's kind of mean, isn't she?" The little girl ran away.
We both looked at the picture. I said "Maybe it's a secret message from an alien space craft that has managed to recruit a small child to deliver their very important communication to me. I hope I can decipher it."
Ireland said "I think it's a picture of your hair." Touche.
Then, in a very boring meeting today, I happened to look over and see the texas kid with his shoes off. He's always copying me and trying to be as cool as me. So I drew a picture of his feet with a bad smell coming from them (center right). Then he drew a picture of me (leftish centerish) showing me being sweaty (because I don't wear deodorant and walk to work, which takes over an hour) spouting off about my two favorite subjects, EA and SA.So I drew a picture of him (bottom leftish) making fun of him because I have to tell him the same thing 10 times before he remembers it. Then he drew me (top right) pretending I fart in the office, when really it's him that's always farting. So I looked over at him and saw him slumped over in his chair, half asleep. So I drew him on the bottom right saying that he didn't have a spine.
At that point Ireland took our paper away, and didn't give it back until the meeting was over. Which is good, because I had no intention of taking notes.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
party at the merid
Someone has thrown a party to end all parties at the merid. I went out on my balcony today to watch the sun rise only to find someone had thrown all of their furniture out of their room.Rock on.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
polo
On Friday Ireland and I went with a group of people to watch a polo game between UAE and Palastine. We stayed in Dubai for the weekend, for free because of my hotel points, in a five star Sheraton.
I just realized this weekend that everyone I work with is independently wealthy. These guys show up for parties and stuff driving Mercedes and porsches, even the kids who are in their early 20s. And they all talk about boarding school and shopping at Gucci for suits. It’s weird.
Ireland straightened my hair so I would look somewhat presentable. I wore a pink dress I bought 10 years ago for $15 at an outlet store, my grey flip flops, and a little sweater that Ireland picked out for me. Everyone else was wearing designer clothes. To sit in the grass. Hm.
The polo game itself was fun. You get to sit in the grass about 10 feet from the field (though, most of the people at the game were in the stands on the other side of the field). During the match the horses and the ball sometimes ended up very close to the spectators in the grass.
The game lasted for only about 2 hours. I was kind of disappointed. After I figured out what was going on it was interesting to watch. I had a horse that I really liked because he was badly behaved. He got taken out after the beginning of the game to rest (they play half a game and then switch horses).
We had gotten there an hour before the game started, but then the game started late (middle eastern time). Then we decided to keep eating and drinking (over the course of 6 hours 8 bottles of champagne, 4 bottles of white wine, 3 bottles of red wine, and one bottle of rose and vanilla vodka were consumed), and before we knew it the sun was going down. The palastinian polo players ended up parking their range rovers and sports cars right next to us (we were, at that point, 9 single girls) and they came over and asked us for some food. One player, named Mohamed, wanted me to go to some party with him. I was like “uh, no thanks”, prompting him to spend the next 45 minutes telling me how rich he was until finally Ireland noticed my hand waving and told the guy to go away.
One of the girls that was at polo with us used to be the world champion at wake boarding. I talked with her for a long time. She has a friend named Squash who is going to climb everest this year. We compared knee scars.
After polo we went to a place called the Irish Village. That’s when the night got a little chaotic. We met some guy who was in a band who couldn’t decide which girl to hit on so he tried making the rounds with each of us. Some bad behavior was going on as one of the brits started ordering shots. I was sitting at the end of the table, since I was the oldest, trying to make sure we didn’t get kicked out or arrested.
Finally, Ireland and I decided we were tired and we went back to the hotel, thinking we could have a night cap in the lounge there, called Moods. If you saw the advertisements for Moods through out the hotel you would think it was a rocking joint. It was actually full of really old men and prostitutes. It was so depressing we just stole some matches and left.
Ireland and I are going to Petra in a few weeks, and I really glad because I was going to go by myself. It should be fun!
I just realized this weekend that everyone I work with is independently wealthy. These guys show up for parties and stuff driving Mercedes and porsches, even the kids who are in their early 20s. And they all talk about boarding school and shopping at Gucci for suits. It’s weird.
Ireland straightened my hair so I would look somewhat presentable. I wore a pink dress I bought 10 years ago for $15 at an outlet store, my grey flip flops, and a little sweater that Ireland picked out for me. Everyone else was wearing designer clothes. To sit in the grass. Hm.
The polo game itself was fun. You get to sit in the grass about 10 feet from the field (though, most of the people at the game were in the stands on the other side of the field). During the match the horses and the ball sometimes ended up very close to the spectators in the grass.
The game lasted for only about 2 hours. I was kind of disappointed. After I figured out what was going on it was interesting to watch. I had a horse that I really liked because he was badly behaved. He got taken out after the beginning of the game to rest (they play half a game and then switch horses).
We had gotten there an hour before the game started, but then the game started late (middle eastern time). Then we decided to keep eating and drinking (over the course of 6 hours 8 bottles of champagne, 4 bottles of white wine, 3 bottles of red wine, and one bottle of rose and vanilla vodka were consumed), and before we knew it the sun was going down. The palastinian polo players ended up parking their range rovers and sports cars right next to us (we were, at that point, 9 single girls) and they came over and asked us for some food. One player, named Mohamed, wanted me to go to some party with him. I was like “uh, no thanks”, prompting him to spend the next 45 minutes telling me how rich he was until finally Ireland noticed my hand waving and told the guy to go away.
One of the girls that was at polo with us used to be the world champion at wake boarding. I talked with her for a long time. She has a friend named Squash who is going to climb everest this year. We compared knee scars.
After polo we went to a place called the Irish Village. That’s when the night got a little chaotic. We met some guy who was in a band who couldn’t decide which girl to hit on so he tried making the rounds with each of us. Some bad behavior was going on as one of the brits started ordering shots. I was sitting at the end of the table, since I was the oldest, trying to make sure we didn’t get kicked out or arrested.
Finally, Ireland and I decided we were tired and we went back to the hotel, thinking we could have a night cap in the lounge there, called Moods. If you saw the advertisements for Moods through out the hotel you would think it was a rocking joint. It was actually full of really old men and prostitutes. It was so depressing we just stole some matches and left.
Ireland and I are going to Petra in a few weeks, and I really glad because I was going to go by myself. It should be fun!
kung fu cab
I had the weirdest, most disconcerting experience I've had since I got here in a cab last night.
Ireland and I spent the weekend in Dubai so we could go to watch a polo match (more on that later). We called a cab last night when we were ready to leave Dubai. We had stopped by Ireland's friend's place to drop something off. Normally the cabs come within 5 minutes of a call. Our cab didn't show up. Ireland called the cab service back and they said the driver had tried to ring her but she hadn't answered our phone. We knew this was BS for numerous reasons, the most important being we were sitting on a balcony eating strawberries and the balcony overlooked the only entrance gate to the apartment complex and we didn't see a taxi come in.
They sent another driver. He was a young kid with greasy curls. And he was rude. Ireland had to yell at him to get him to listen to her directions to her apartment (this is actually a common thing with male drivers/female passengers here). After Ireland got out I asked him to take me to the merid. To put things in perspective, there's even a merid sign on the highway showing which exit to take to get there. There isn't a person in the world who doesn't know where the merid is (especially since it's right next to the abu dhabi mall - it's like not being able to find the washington monument).
This kid claimed he didn't know where to go. I was like fine, and started to give him directions. He ignored me, and drove down a side street, where there was a man smoking next to his car. The cabbie rolled down his window and said something in urdu. I only picked up a few words because he was talking so fast. Then he started backing up. I was like "dude, what are you doing?" and he said "this man is going to the meridien so I will follow him". I told him I could give him directions but he held his hand up like "stop talking blondie".
I don't know why, but I started to get a bad feeling. I was trying to remember if the smoking man's car had driven past us while I was helping Ireland get her bag out. And, I remembered the cabbie talking on the phone. Normally they do that when they don't know where they are going, and they get directions. But obviously this kid was talking to someone who wasn't giving him directions.
And then some strange man shows up on the side of the road to take us to the merid.
We got close to the merid, and turned on electra street. The merid is where electra dead ends. You have to go either right or left. Left goes to the merid (there are signs) and right goes out to the highway. You have to drive at least 3 miles before you can turn around.
I was watching closely as we headed towards the dead end. At the last second, the car we were following went right. The taxi driver cut a car off to follow. I was sitting in the back seat between the two front seats watching what happened. I was like "no, left" and the driver said "he goes right" and I said "go LEFT". The taxi driver ignored me. We were getting closer and closer to the dead end. So I stood up in the back seat and put my face right next to the driver's face and yelled "F*ing go LEFT f*ing NOW!" Then I put my hand out like I was going to grab the wheel.
The driver made a sudden turn left. We almost hit a concrete barrier, which would have been a bummer for me since I was now standing up in the back seat leaning in to the front seat. And normally I would never use a bad word in public because you can get arrested. The fact that the driver said nothing to me about my language was a little disconcerting.
We pulled into the merid parking lot and the driver drove right by the entrance and started trying to take a one way side road that paralleled the road the car we had been following was on. I was like "what the F are you DOING???? Stop the car!" He stopped the car and said he couldn't see where the entrance to the merid was (yeah, those neon signs and the fact that it's the most lit up thing in the tourist area make me wonder how anyone could miss the entrance). I told him to let me get my stuff out and I looked at the meter to see how much money I owed him.
The screen that's supposed to have his name and taxi number was blank.
It could be that he was a new kid and they didn't have him officially registered as a driver. And he was trying to rip me off (not uncommon) by driving me 6 miles out of my way. But the fact that his phone had been blinking with a call since we split off from the other car made me wonder what was going on since the man we were following was some stranger he "met" on a side street.
Anyway, I'm going to be a lot more careful when I get in a cab. This pak I work with thinks I was almost kidnapped. I was like "Dude, if anyone tries to kidnap me I'll tell them I know kung fu. And then I'll say I'm going to chop socky them if they don't take me where I want to go." He processed that for a minute and said "I don't know what kung fu is." I was like "Karate." And he said "If anyone's trying to kidnap you, say karate instead of kung fu so they understand you."
Noted and remembered.
Ireland and I spent the weekend in Dubai so we could go to watch a polo match (more on that later). We called a cab last night when we were ready to leave Dubai. We had stopped by Ireland's friend's place to drop something off. Normally the cabs come within 5 minutes of a call. Our cab didn't show up. Ireland called the cab service back and they said the driver had tried to ring her but she hadn't answered our phone. We knew this was BS for numerous reasons, the most important being we were sitting on a balcony eating strawberries and the balcony overlooked the only entrance gate to the apartment complex and we didn't see a taxi come in.
They sent another driver. He was a young kid with greasy curls. And he was rude. Ireland had to yell at him to get him to listen to her directions to her apartment (this is actually a common thing with male drivers/female passengers here). After Ireland got out I asked him to take me to the merid. To put things in perspective, there's even a merid sign on the highway showing which exit to take to get there. There isn't a person in the world who doesn't know where the merid is (especially since it's right next to the abu dhabi mall - it's like not being able to find the washington monument).
This kid claimed he didn't know where to go. I was like fine, and started to give him directions. He ignored me, and drove down a side street, where there was a man smoking next to his car. The cabbie rolled down his window and said something in urdu. I only picked up a few words because he was talking so fast. Then he started backing up. I was like "dude, what are you doing?" and he said "this man is going to the meridien so I will follow him". I told him I could give him directions but he held his hand up like "stop talking blondie".
I don't know why, but I started to get a bad feeling. I was trying to remember if the smoking man's car had driven past us while I was helping Ireland get her bag out. And, I remembered the cabbie talking on the phone. Normally they do that when they don't know where they are going, and they get directions. But obviously this kid was talking to someone who wasn't giving him directions.
And then some strange man shows up on the side of the road to take us to the merid.
We got close to the merid, and turned on electra street. The merid is where electra dead ends. You have to go either right or left. Left goes to the merid (there are signs) and right goes out to the highway. You have to drive at least 3 miles before you can turn around.
I was watching closely as we headed towards the dead end. At the last second, the car we were following went right. The taxi driver cut a car off to follow. I was sitting in the back seat between the two front seats watching what happened. I was like "no, left" and the driver said "he goes right" and I said "go LEFT". The taxi driver ignored me. We were getting closer and closer to the dead end. So I stood up in the back seat and put my face right next to the driver's face and yelled "F*ing go LEFT f*ing NOW!" Then I put my hand out like I was going to grab the wheel.
The driver made a sudden turn left. We almost hit a concrete barrier, which would have been a bummer for me since I was now standing up in the back seat leaning in to the front seat. And normally I would never use a bad word in public because you can get arrested. The fact that the driver said nothing to me about my language was a little disconcerting.
We pulled into the merid parking lot and the driver drove right by the entrance and started trying to take a one way side road that paralleled the road the car we had been following was on. I was like "what the F are you DOING???? Stop the car!" He stopped the car and said he couldn't see where the entrance to the merid was (yeah, those neon signs and the fact that it's the most lit up thing in the tourist area make me wonder how anyone could miss the entrance). I told him to let me get my stuff out and I looked at the meter to see how much money I owed him.
The screen that's supposed to have his name and taxi number was blank.
It could be that he was a new kid and they didn't have him officially registered as a driver. And he was trying to rip me off (not uncommon) by driving me 6 miles out of my way. But the fact that his phone had been blinking with a call since we split off from the other car made me wonder what was going on since the man we were following was some stranger he "met" on a side street.
Anyway, I'm going to be a lot more careful when I get in a cab. This pak I work with thinks I was almost kidnapped. I was like "Dude, if anyone tries to kidnap me I'll tell them I know kung fu. And then I'll say I'm going to chop socky them if they don't take me where I want to go." He processed that for a minute and said "I don't know what kung fu is." I was like "Karate." And he said "If anyone's trying to kidnap you, say karate instead of kung fu so they understand you."
Noted and remembered.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
the talking toilet
I was working at a customer site when I happened on this sign. Weirdly, I had seen the sign many times, but only really looked at it today.Seriously? A talking toilet?
Monday, January 11, 2010
hot desking
The texas kid and I were in the dubai office waiting for a meeting to finish so we could head back to dhabi. We had left at 5 in the morning, done a full day of work, and were now stuck in the office for what would turn out to be another 2 hours before we could go home. We were sent down to an area where there were some open hot desks so we could do work.
It was as if everyone in the room knew that texas kid and I had no intention of working. We found two seats next to each other, but there was a plastic partition between us. We pretended that it was a bullet proof partition, and shot at each other with our fingers.
Then I decided I should do some work. I was answering an email when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flurry of movement. I looked over at the texas kid to see what was going on. He had shoved a kleenex partially up his nose, so it flared out at the bottom, and he was shaking his head rapidly from side to side. I started laughing and put my head under my desk in the hopes that no one would notice. That squished my stomach, so while I was under my desk I sent tk a text message that I had to fart.
When my text dinged on tk's phone, he was so startled he jumped, and he farted. That made me laugh again. He sent me a text saying "you scared the fart out of me". Both of us put our heads down on our desks so no one would notice us in hysterics.
I figured that I shouldn't look over at tk anymore, and that I should answer some emails. I sat back up in my chair and started typing. My hand felt weird, and when I looked down I saw an ant crawling across it. I almost screamed. Instead, I sent a text to tk saying "I'm being attacked by an ant!" He looked over at me and I held up my hand, and then acted like the ant was killing me. By this point neither of us could stop laughing, so we decided we should leave the office, and find some food. We were probably about to get kicked out anyway.
As we were leaving, tk, who had been making fun of everyone's american or aussie accent, whispered "I'm going to pretend to be american" and then as we were walking out the office door he said, really loudly in a pakistani southern accent "We need to round them all up and send them back to Texas, I reckon".
We were still laughing about that on the way home. I'm sure the taxi driver hated us. One of us would say "ant" or "texas" and we would both laugh like idiots.
The sad thing is, I'm 16 years older than tk. And I'm supposed to be his mentor.
It was as if everyone in the room knew that texas kid and I had no intention of working. We found two seats next to each other, but there was a plastic partition between us. We pretended that it was a bullet proof partition, and shot at each other with our fingers.
Then I decided I should do some work. I was answering an email when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flurry of movement. I looked over at the texas kid to see what was going on. He had shoved a kleenex partially up his nose, so it flared out at the bottom, and he was shaking his head rapidly from side to side. I started laughing and put my head under my desk in the hopes that no one would notice. That squished my stomach, so while I was under my desk I sent tk a text message that I had to fart.
When my text dinged on tk's phone, he was so startled he jumped, and he farted. That made me laugh again. He sent me a text saying "you scared the fart out of me". Both of us put our heads down on our desks so no one would notice us in hysterics.
I figured that I shouldn't look over at tk anymore, and that I should answer some emails. I sat back up in my chair and started typing. My hand felt weird, and when I looked down I saw an ant crawling across it. I almost screamed. Instead, I sent a text to tk saying "I'm being attacked by an ant!" He looked over at me and I held up my hand, and then acted like the ant was killing me. By this point neither of us could stop laughing, so we decided we should leave the office, and find some food. We were probably about to get kicked out anyway.
As we were leaving, tk, who had been making fun of everyone's american or aussie accent, whispered "I'm going to pretend to be american" and then as we were walking out the office door he said, really loudly in a pakistani southern accent "We need to round them all up and send them back to Texas, I reckon".
We were still laughing about that on the way home. I'm sure the taxi driver hated us. One of us would say "ant" or "texas" and we would both laugh like idiots.
The sad thing is, I'm 16 years older than tk. And I'm supposed to be his mentor.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
nomad
Yesterday I was doing some work and I got a text from Ireland saying she was leaving a 1 year old's birthday party and coming to the merid, and did I want to meet her out? I agreed, and an hour later I was sitting in this british bar called the captain's table with two of her friends.
I didn't want to sit inside, so Ireland's friend L said "I'll find us a table outside". She left and came back in 5 minutes, not saying anything. An hour later this woman came in, wearing a really short leopard skirt, and told us we could have her table. I was like who was that and L said "oh, it's just a random". People from UK here are always talking to each other and being best friends even though the only thing they have in common is an accent. L calls them randoms. She had walked through all the outside tables until she heard a british accent, and then asked the people if we could have their table when they were done.
We went out to the table, and the people hadn't left yet. Much joking about us having to take the tab with the table. It was two older couples and a guy around my age, who decided to flirt with me. He's in construction, so I told him that I watch the cranes on the buildings going up on the island across from my hotel room. He looked at me and said "That's really stupid. Why don't you just watch tv?"
Then, as they were getting ready to leave after paying the bill, a guy at the table next to us, who was very inebriated, tripped and fell head first into a 3 foot concrete wall surrounding the patio we were sitting on. Ireland said "Oh bless!" There was blood everywhere. His friends tried to get him some ice, but the waiters told them to leave. Broken head guy stumbled off into the dark with a lot of blood pouring out of his nose and his forehead. His friends stayed at the table and kept drinking.
L was telling a bunch of stories about snogging. Ireland's other friend left to meet some guy. Catty conversation ensued about the girl who left. I was bored and watching for Macavity. He didn't come, but another cat did. These two prostitutes who were sitting on the aforementioned concrete wall with their, um, employer, picked up the cat and started trying to pet it. The cat was crying. I gave one of the prostitutes a packet of cat food and, seriously, she put it in her purse. I got mad and was like "dude, that prostitute is stealing food from the cat" and Ireland said "stop assuming she's going to eat it later".
Then one of the women from the party whose table we took came over and said "we're going to energy, come join us". I was like I really don't want to go to another bar, but then discovered that energy (actually NRG) is right next door to the captain's table. We joined the two couples and the construction guy. I'll just call him jug ears. Jug ears started telling me some scaffolding story but it was too hard to follow because he was drunk. When he found out how old I was he ignored me and started hitting on Ireland and L.
I turned to talk to the woman who had invited us over to NRG. Her name was Effy. She was definitely the piss queen, but so entertaining. She showed me some tattoos she had that were in places I really didn't need to see. Then she asked where I was from. I said "nowhere really" because the list was too long of where I've lived. She turned to her husband and said "Honey, guess what. This is a nomad." (though, it took me a few minutes to figure out she was saying "nomad")
Effy and her husband are well known here in Dhabi. They're super rich. Effy invited me to their summer house in Italy. I started talking to the husband of the other couple about skiing in Colorado (he goes to Aspen every year, and was leaving in a week for his trip). Effy got upset because she couldn't contribute to the conversation, so she patted me on the hand and said "but dear, you can go skiing at our summer cottage".
More brits came by the table. Effy was ordering champagne two bottles at a time. She would introduce me to who ever, and then said "And she's a nomad". She was smoking really skinny cigarettes and her makeup was kind of crazy. She kept pinching my cheeks and saying "You. Look. So. Healthy! I just want to pinch you!"
At some point there were about 20 people sitting at or milling around the table drinking free champagne. Effy decided, since we had every aspect of UK covered except for Scotland at our table, that I would have to be scottish. She taught me some expression which was apparently a very bad thing to say in scottish. Then she started introducing me to people as a scot. They would say "You don't have a scottish accent" and then Effy would say "that's because she's a nomad darling".
Like that explains everything.
Around 2 am I decided to leave because things were getting a little too insane, and there was now food involved. Effy's husband ordered food from somewhere and had them deliver it to our table. They were talking about going dancing after eating their snacks.
I got a text from Ireland at 1 pm today, saying she wished she had left when I did. She was just waking up.
Ah yes, to be old and responsible...
I didn't want to sit inside, so Ireland's friend L said "I'll find us a table outside". She left and came back in 5 minutes, not saying anything. An hour later this woman came in, wearing a really short leopard skirt, and told us we could have her table. I was like who was that and L said "oh, it's just a random". People from UK here are always talking to each other and being best friends even though the only thing they have in common is an accent. L calls them randoms. She had walked through all the outside tables until she heard a british accent, and then asked the people if we could have their table when they were done.
We went out to the table, and the people hadn't left yet. Much joking about us having to take the tab with the table. It was two older couples and a guy around my age, who decided to flirt with me. He's in construction, so I told him that I watch the cranes on the buildings going up on the island across from my hotel room. He looked at me and said "That's really stupid. Why don't you just watch tv?"
Then, as they were getting ready to leave after paying the bill, a guy at the table next to us, who was very inebriated, tripped and fell head first into a 3 foot concrete wall surrounding the patio we were sitting on. Ireland said "Oh bless!" There was blood everywhere. His friends tried to get him some ice, but the waiters told them to leave. Broken head guy stumbled off into the dark with a lot of blood pouring out of his nose and his forehead. His friends stayed at the table and kept drinking.
L was telling a bunch of stories about snogging. Ireland's other friend left to meet some guy. Catty conversation ensued about the girl who left. I was bored and watching for Macavity. He didn't come, but another cat did. These two prostitutes who were sitting on the aforementioned concrete wall with their, um, employer, picked up the cat and started trying to pet it. The cat was crying. I gave one of the prostitutes a packet of cat food and, seriously, she put it in her purse. I got mad and was like "dude, that prostitute is stealing food from the cat" and Ireland said "stop assuming she's going to eat it later".
Then one of the women from the party whose table we took came over and said "we're going to energy, come join us". I was like I really don't want to go to another bar, but then discovered that energy (actually NRG) is right next door to the captain's table. We joined the two couples and the construction guy. I'll just call him jug ears. Jug ears started telling me some scaffolding story but it was too hard to follow because he was drunk. When he found out how old I was he ignored me and started hitting on Ireland and L.
I turned to talk to the woman who had invited us over to NRG. Her name was Effy. She was definitely the piss queen, but so entertaining. She showed me some tattoos she had that were in places I really didn't need to see. Then she asked where I was from. I said "nowhere really" because the list was too long of where I've lived. She turned to her husband and said "Honey, guess what. This is a nomad." (though, it took me a few minutes to figure out she was saying "nomad")
Effy and her husband are well known here in Dhabi. They're super rich. Effy invited me to their summer house in Italy. I started talking to the husband of the other couple about skiing in Colorado (he goes to Aspen every year, and was leaving in a week for his trip). Effy got upset because she couldn't contribute to the conversation, so she patted me on the hand and said "but dear, you can go skiing at our summer cottage".
More brits came by the table. Effy was ordering champagne two bottles at a time. She would introduce me to who ever, and then said "And she's a nomad". She was smoking really skinny cigarettes and her makeup was kind of crazy. She kept pinching my cheeks and saying "You. Look. So. Healthy! I just want to pinch you!"
At some point there were about 20 people sitting at or milling around the table drinking free champagne. Effy decided, since we had every aspect of UK covered except for Scotland at our table, that I would have to be scottish. She taught me some expression which was apparently a very bad thing to say in scottish. Then she started introducing me to people as a scot. They would say "You don't have a scottish accent" and then Effy would say "that's because she's a nomad darling".
Like that explains everything.
Around 2 am I decided to leave because things were getting a little too insane, and there was now food involved. Effy's husband ordered food from somewhere and had them deliver it to our table. They were talking about going dancing after eating their snacks.
I got a text from Ireland at 1 pm today, saying she wished she had left when I did. She was just waking up.
Ah yes, to be old and responsible...
Friday, January 8, 2010
new expressions
Here in Abu Dhabi we've been making up our own expressions. Some of my favorites:
taking the number 11 bus - This was an invention of the Texas kid. It means walking (he says that legs look like the number 11). This expression is used to make fun of me because I walk everywhere. If someone offers me a ride, TK usually says "no, she's taking the number 11 bus". Then we both laugh, because no one knows what we're talking about.
pull my elbow - TK, again. It's an enhancement of sorts to the expression "pull my finger", which TK finds funny. You use this expression when you are about to dump a really crap job on someone, or when someone has dumped a crap job on you. For example:
me: TK, I need you to go to the printers and get a bunch of training material copied
TK: pull my elbow
posh totty - This is the invention of Ireland. It refers to the british women who hang out in bars dressed to the nines. You think they are going to be super classy, but then you start talking to them and they end up being trashy. Besides a person, a thing can be posh totty. For example, when M served us pink champagne, we said it was posh totty because pink champagne is trashy, yet expensive here
piss queen - This was mine, referring to the person who is the most inebriated at whatever social event we are attending.
divine cheese sandwich - At 530 one morning, as TK, Ireland and I were driving to Dubai for a customer engagement, we stopped at an Adnoc gas station to get food (the customer was in a remote location with no food nearby). I don't think eating gas station food is a good idea because it just seems gross. TK and Ireland got chicken sandwiches, and I got a cheese sandwich, which, on further inspection in the car, turned out to be white bread (like wonder bread) with one slice of orange processed cheese on it. And that's it (for the record, the sandwich only cost 60 cents). As I went off on a tirade about how disappointed I was, Ireland said "I'm sure it will be a divine cheese sandwich" which doesn't look that funny in print, but is very funny when said by someone with a thick Irish brogue. Now, we use the expression to describe situations or things:
Ireland: How was that white paper they gave you so you could figure out how that software integration is going to happen?
Me: It was a divine cheese sandwich (meaning, there was no useful information in the paper)
Paul - Once Ireland stayed with 3 of her friends in the Burg Al Arab. When you stay there, you get your own butler. Their butler was named Paul. They sent Paul off to do all sorts of silly errands for them. Now, when we want to send each other on joke errands, we'll call each other Paul:
TK: Paul, will you go make me some freshly squeezed orange juice without pips?
Me: Paul, my flip flops need a good scrubbing.
I know. We're having way too much fun here.
taking the number 11 bus - This was an invention of the Texas kid. It means walking (he says that legs look like the number 11). This expression is used to make fun of me because I walk everywhere. If someone offers me a ride, TK usually says "no, she's taking the number 11 bus". Then we both laugh, because no one knows what we're talking about.
pull my elbow - TK, again. It's an enhancement of sorts to the expression "pull my finger", which TK finds funny. You use this expression when you are about to dump a really crap job on someone, or when someone has dumped a crap job on you. For example:
me: TK, I need you to go to the printers and get a bunch of training material copied
TK: pull my elbow
posh totty - This is the invention of Ireland. It refers to the british women who hang out in bars dressed to the nines. You think they are going to be super classy, but then you start talking to them and they end up being trashy. Besides a person, a thing can be posh totty. For example, when M served us pink champagne, we said it was posh totty because pink champagne is trashy, yet expensive here
piss queen - This was mine, referring to the person who is the most inebriated at whatever social event we are attending.
divine cheese sandwich - At 530 one morning, as TK, Ireland and I were driving to Dubai for a customer engagement, we stopped at an Adnoc gas station to get food (the customer was in a remote location with no food nearby). I don't think eating gas station food is a good idea because it just seems gross. TK and Ireland got chicken sandwiches, and I got a cheese sandwich, which, on further inspection in the car, turned out to be white bread (like wonder bread) with one slice of orange processed cheese on it. And that's it (for the record, the sandwich only cost 60 cents). As I went off on a tirade about how disappointed I was, Ireland said "I'm sure it will be a divine cheese sandwich" which doesn't look that funny in print, but is very funny when said by someone with a thick Irish brogue. Now, we use the expression to describe situations or things:
Ireland: How was that white paper they gave you so you could figure out how that software integration is going to happen?
Me: It was a divine cheese sandwich (meaning, there was no useful information in the paper)
Paul - Once Ireland stayed with 3 of her friends in the Burg Al Arab. When you stay there, you get your own butler. Their butler was named Paul. They sent Paul off to do all sorts of silly errands for them. Now, when we want to send each other on joke errands, we'll call each other Paul:
TK: Paul, will you go make me some freshly squeezed orange juice without pips?
Me: Paul, my flip flops need a good scrubbing.
I know. We're having way too much fun here.
Monday, January 4, 2010
smurfs aren't sexy
I now understand why guys always get upset when women change their hair.
There I was yesterday, on the dreadmill, minding my own business, trying to avoid eye contact with the trainer. I kept seeing these white legs walking back and forth behind me in the mirror. I thought it might be someone upset that I way over extended my allotted time on the dreadmill.
But then suddenly, I was like I know those legs.
After I finished running I made my usual graceless exit off the tread, and came face to face with hot guy. I guess he was upset that I've ignored his presence for the past few weeks (I have other things to worry about these days) and he had been pacing behind me, trying to make eye contact. I was going to look at him and smile when suddenly I noticed his hair.
The nice grey with a few streaks of black had been transformed into what, under the fluorescent lights, looked like that weird coloring old ladies get when they are trying to make their grey hair more shiny.
I was like seriously, does hot guy have blue hair?
I should have looked at him, smiled, and thought to myself it doesn't matter what color your hair is honey. But all I could think is hot guy looks like a smurf.
Smurfs aren't sexy.
There I was yesterday, on the dreadmill, minding my own business, trying to avoid eye contact with the trainer. I kept seeing these white legs walking back and forth behind me in the mirror. I thought it might be someone upset that I way over extended my allotted time on the dreadmill.
But then suddenly, I was like I know those legs.
After I finished running I made my usual graceless exit off the tread, and came face to face with hot guy. I guess he was upset that I've ignored his presence for the past few weeks (I have other things to worry about these days) and he had been pacing behind me, trying to make eye contact. I was going to look at him and smile when suddenly I noticed his hair.
The nice grey with a few streaks of black had been transformed into what, under the fluorescent lights, looked like that weird coloring old ladies get when they are trying to make their grey hair more shiny.
I was like seriously, does hot guy have blue hair?
I should have looked at him, smiled, and thought to myself it doesn't matter what color your hair is honey. But all I could think is hot guy looks like a smurf.
Smurfs aren't sexy.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
new year, new chapters
I've spent the weekend working on my book. I put in extra hours last week at work so I wouldn't have to do anything except focus on writing some chapters.
If anyone is interested in reading, let me know. I have a bunch of new stuff that has only been read by me, and I'm not sure if it sucks or not.
I should also come up with some new year's resolutions. And plan my trip to Muscat so I can go diving with dolphins. I'm going to try to do that in the next few weeks.
If anyone is interested in reading, let me know. I have a bunch of new stuff that has only been read by me, and I'm not sure if it sucks or not.
I should also come up with some new year's resolutions. And plan my trip to Muscat so I can go diving with dolphins. I'm going to try to do that in the next few weeks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
