A Pound of Flesh (April 3, 2010)

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Hypodermic_Needle

Eddie and I have done the responsible thing and taken out life insurance policies. I know, how grown up. I am all for security and planning. In fact that’s my MO in most situations. The problem is that life insurance companies won’t just take your word for it that you’re in good health. They require a quantifiable risk assessment.

So this morning at 8AM, bright and early this fine Saturday, Eddie and I had to allow a hurried little Asian man into our home for a battery of tests. I didn’t mind the urine sample, height and weight check – especially not the weight check as I officially weigh 7 pounds less than I did my senior year of high school – and BP screening. However, near the end, we came to Boop’s dreaded phobia – giving a blood sample.

I realize this is nuts. I am 31 years old and have had blood drawn numerous times. I have been prodded, poked and injected without so much as the slightest negative consequence. But these types of things are called phobias for a reason – they are irrational. My head knows the bloodletting will be brief and can’t possibly be worse than the anxiety in my own head, but my racing heart and sweaty palms are having none of it.

I made Eddie go first. Ok, the tech seemed to know what he was doing. And then it was my turn. As I could have predicted, Eddie’s attempts to calm me down and make me forget involved a good deal of loud, senseless jibber jabber. I get what he’s trying to do and it’s sweet, but the white noise only makes me more anxious. My particular brand of neuroticism requires absolute silence.

I started to sweat and my cheeks flushed. But I didn’t cry. Oh yes, I almost always do that. At the 2007 ADA Health Fair and Screening, you could identify me in the crowded room by the sound of my blubbering. Not sobbing is a small victory for me today.

I can never determine what it is I hate the most, but I verily believe it’s the heat that rushes to the spot where the needle prick occurs. There is something so unnatural about having anything protrude from the inside of your elbow. I will spare you the stories of the psychic collapse that occurs when I need an IV. The thought that runs through my mind is basically an endless loop of, “There is something hot sticking out of my arm. Take it out! Take it out!” I never settle into it. Clearly, I am every health professional’s worst nightmare.

Not only am I weird, but when placed in this position, I throw around a heap of attitude too. When the tech asked me to settle down because I was making him nervous, I not so politely told him what he could do with his hypodermic.

When I was 19 years old, I attempted to conquer my fear in what I thought was a super cool way, by getting a ginormous tattoo of the Chinese symbol for soul/spirit on my back. Boy did that backfire. It was excruciating, and the only reason I didn’t call it off was because my vanity was stronger. I couldn’t walk around half finished. I downed a few shots and took about 10 bong hits before the work started – and I still squealed like a stuck pig. At least I have some sweet body art as a legacy.

In any case, I made it through another trauma today, but I must continue to brace myself. It’s not over. I am supposed to undergo a TB test for a new job I have accepted next week. Can’t wait!

Moving Lessons (April 1, 2010)

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moving1

I think that part of the reason people (like me) view moving as an unbearable chore is because each relocation has its own distinct personality. You can plan and prepare yourself into an oblivion, but until the thing takes off, as Forrest Gump’s Mama once said, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Honestly, were my new apartment not such a fabulous upgrade, I would have preferred to stay put. But after five days of personal injury (cuts and bruises), internal wounds as a result of standing up to the cable company, cleaning, organizing and yes, a little bit of crying now and then, these are the lessons I take away from this round of life roulette:

1. Just because your new handyman sounds like a middle-aged Soviet relic on the phone, doesn’t mean he is.

In this case, voices were deceiving. Hello Roy! Young, buff and hot, with natural red hair and freckles (I realize “hot” and “freckles” are typically an oxymoron, but I swear it’s true!). Not to mention he’s knowledgeable, quick and laughs at my jokes. I will have to resist the urge to break things on purpose.

2. Wherever you think your cat couldn’t possibly be, that’s the place where you ought to look first.

See: aforementioned bouts of crying. Jordan, my six year-old kitty, is hardly what you might call brave. As the movers and Comcast techs did their thing, he went into hiding, so well in fact that I believed he had gotten out. Even the usual go-to method of sussing him out (shaking his bag of cat food) produced nary a sound. I panicked. I ran all over the building, even took a frantic turn around the block (figuring in my insanity that Jordan had learned how to use an elevator during his flight). Hours later, after I had posted a sign in the vestibule begging for information as to his whereabouts, and long after all workers had left, Jordan sauntered out, chill as can be, from under the dishwasher. Under the dishwasher! There is about 6 inches of space there. I still don’t know how he managed it. All’s well that ends well.

3. Off-street parking is not, after all, what it’s cracked up to be.

Our garage spot is about six feet wide, nothing more, and sandwiched between two stone pillars, with the remote garage sensor sticking out of the right hand side. In all my years of frustratedly parking on City streets, getting parking tickets, wandering blocks away from my destination, at least I never scratched my car. Yet I did so after a mere three days of living here. And we’re not talking about a small line either. It’s a nasty, deep cut to the driver’s side rear door. Goodbye $500 to repair a two week-old car. Eddie was understandably furious with me, and I am taking my lumps. Ironically, Rogers Park appears to have ample, non-zoned side street parking. I may avail myself of that in the future. Be careful what you wish for.

4. Finally, and most importantly, a lesson I seem to re-learn with each move: Comcast sucks. They are not to be trusted, and when the installer is on site, watch him/her like a hawk!

Jordan’s MIA routine caused Eddie and I both to take our eyes off the ball. Though the brand new condo building we moved into is cable ready, the clown tech who came on Saturday needed no less than three hours (!) to set up our services. This was a simple move and transfer, so I did smell a rat, but was too preoccupied with hunting for my baby. Once he finally finished, he hightailed it out the door, without asking me to sign anything confirming receipt. Another suspicious move. Three hours later, all services went down.

On Tuesday, when Comcast was finally able to get someone else out to have a look, it was discovered that the first tech had installed a bunch of software on my desktop, Comcast branded, and totally unnecessary given that this was a transfer, which compromised Internet Explorer and Windows. The company was very pleased with itself for giving me a “courtesy” waiver on the installation, and a $25 credit on my bill. This however did not spare Eddie from having to move all our files to an external hard drive, before wiping the system clean and reinstalling every single program. As I write this, the process remains unfinished, although I am mercifully back online.

I think now the worst is over, and the marvelous upshot is that my new place, my new community, and the weather are just perfect. I am locked into a 18-month lease, but wish for the moment that it were at least 60 months. I do not want to think about moving again for a long time.

Holy crap! I won! (March 25, 2010)

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iwpa_award_seal

Back in January, the Editor-in-Chief at StreetWise, Suzanne Hanney, told me she’d like to nominate two of the pieces I wrote for the paper last year for Mate E. Palmer Communications awards, sponsored by the Illinois Woman’s Press Association. At the time, I thought she had gone daft. I had been a freelance reporter for all of about five minutes when she told me I actually had a shot of winning such an accolade. I spent a sizeable amount of time in 2009 honing a reputation as a go-to journalist for Chicago’s burgeoning urban agriculture business. But considering that my previous reporting experience consisted of theater criticism for the Lincoln Park High School newspaper, I figured I still had a ways to go before earning the right to trophies. But is always nice to be nominated for something, and Suzanne has been a critical mentor in my development as a writer. I can never thank her enough for all she’s done.

So imagine my great astonishment as I returned from the gym Tuesday afternoon and opened a letter from the Association. I had to read it several times over before anything made sense. It seems the good ladies of journalism decided to make me the State’s winner in the Special Articles: Agriculture, Agribusiness, Aquaculture category. Really? Wow!

Pleased as I am, I did have to take a moment to appreciate the irony. Ms. Concrete Jungle herself, lover of all things urban and high culture, wins a media award for writing about farming. True enough that the farming takes place within City limits, but it’s agriculture. If there is such a designation, I have what the horticulture set might refer to as a “black thumb.” I couldn’t even keep a cactus alive when I was living in Bensenville. But I suppose that’s life, isn’t it? Full of surprises.

The awards luncheon will be held on Saturday, May 15th, and I will receive the honor in front of a sea of female journalists who have been in the game much longer than I. How humbling and awe-inspiring. I don’t do praise well, never have, so when the inevitable tears of embarassment materialize, I will have the support of my family to help me dry them. It means so much to me that Jen will be sitting at my table, because honestly, I wouldn’t be writing this post were it not for her. A little more than a year ago, I was languishing in corporate hell, nursing a dream, but doing nothing about it. Jen invited me to participate in this blog, then kicked me in the pants as often as needed until I found the guts to branch out.

As a winner of the 2010 Mate E. Palmer Communications Contest, I will have paid entry for a wider competition, sponsored by the National Woman’s Press Association (NWPA), of which I am also a member. Again let us pause to reflect on that idea that Boop will going womano y womano against seasoned Red state agriculture vets. It’s kind of hilarious.

I dare not develop a big enough head to think I will place at the national level. I still can’t believe something I wrote will be considered at all. But I feel pretty amazing today, not to mention vindicated. I chucked it all, literally – safety, salary, benefits and continuity – to enter into a new field, as it has fallen on hard times, and when I have to compete for bylines against people ten years younger than me, with twice the experience. But even more astounding than having the gall to take a risky plunge is the fact that it’s working.

I’ll be damned.

Trying to Understand America(ns) (March 23, 2010)

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DUMB+ASS%20AMERICANS!!!

http://www.rasmussenreports.com/public_content/politics/obama_administration/daily_presidential_tracking_poll

I don’t get it. I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend why Americans in general are dead set against health care reform. I know regular reader Mr. A. can’t wait to tell me it’s all about deficits and concern for our financial future. But I don’t buy it. Where was that concern with our dependence on foreign oil, which allowed countries we diametrically oppose ideologically, to price gouge us for the last four decades? Where was that abhorrence for non-budgetary spending when we went off to a pointless war in Iraq? How about during the criminally negligent Bush tax cuts during the same period? Why not call for some heads when the corrupt financial system nearly brought us to ruin?

How can it be something that is at long last beneficial to the regular Joe that has the crowds baying? I hate to sound like an elitist liberal snob, but have we as a nation lost the ability to understand what is in our best interest? I hear a lot of talk about how Democrats lost the “message war” on health reform last summer, about the time Sarah Palin started spewing her garbage about death panels. But perhaps I gave my fellow citizens too much credit in believing we had educated ourselves beyond that foolishness?

The bill (or bills) are not perfect. I will admit it. I wanted a public option. The changes we are set to implement attempt to build upon and fix the system already in place. That’s certainly better than nothing, but definitely stops short of the revolution some of us were hoping for. Yet and still, a majority of the nation opposes the legislation. It’s a head scratcher for certain.

Insurance companies will no longer be able to: cap your annual health care expenses, drop you when you’re sick, or flat out deny people with pre-existing conditions. Jobless college graduates will be able to keep their parents coverage until the age of 26. Sure, the plan has a cost, but it is more than paid for in long term savings and deficit reductions. We will never be able to say that about the hundreads of billions we have thrown down the Iraq drain.

So what is it? Are we afraid of change? Are the Republicans having to answer to the special interest groups and lobbyists who line their pockets? Are these the people being polled? Why doesn’t CNN ever call me? I don’t have the answers. I am thinking out loud here.

Anyone, anyone?

Shamrock Stomach Flu (March 20, 2010)

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Sick Stomach

Long, gross story short: something happened to my stomach and I have been unleashing gastronomic pyrotechnics since about 9:00 PM Thursday night. It continued all day yesterday, though I pride myself on having been able to participate in a phone interview for a job whilst flat on my back. It certainly sucked having to cancel my Friday night social plans, but as our regular blog followers may remember, I am running the Shamrock Shuffle tomorrow morning in Grant Park. I have exactly 24 hours to get my strength back.

Given that all I managed to keep down yesterday was snack size bag of Oreo cookies (at least my upset stomach has good taste), Step 1 is going to be eating healthy, light foods. No one can run an 8k on an empty stomach. Step 2 is rehydration via water and Gatorade, with a dash of ginger tea thrown in.

The change in the weather makes things more interesting too. After a near 70 degree day yesterday, I am presently watching snowflakes fall outside my office window. No matter, I like a challenge. Bring it Mother Nature. Bring on the remnants of stomach flu. I will run and I will finish in less than 50 minutes.

Wish me luck!