i am cheap, large, and topped with sour cream

Jason and I went to our local Bennigan's last night for dinner. We probably could have eaten at home just as easily and for less expense, but I was tired, hungry, a bit sore from standing on my feet all day and helping 300+-pound patients walk around, and I was not in the mood to cook dinner. Apparently, neither was Jason, so out we went.

We're creatures of habit: I ordered a "Turkey O'Toole", which is pretty much a hot turkey sandwich on a sliced soft pretzel, minus the salt sprinkles and with a little bit of honey mustard added. He orders Chicken Tenders. We both order a loaded baked potato as the side.

(Already, you might read into a lot of things about what I ordered. Healthy broccoli as a side? Hell no! Anyway, I digress...)

The food comes out after an okay wait, and our loaded baked potatoes? Tiny. Well, they seemed quite tiny to us, anyway. Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows how cranky I get when I am hungry, especially when you add being tired into the mix. I ask the waiter, "What's up with the tiny potatoes?" Waiter Dude shrugs and says, "I dunno. I guess potatoes come in different sizes. Sorry about that," and walks away.

I begin to FUME.

I keep staring at this potato, fuming because it is roughly 3/4 the size of my fist (and mind you, my hands are quite small) and nowhere near the size of the potatoes I'm used to getting from Bennigan's: big, butter-drippy, cheesy, bacony taters that are meals unto themselves. I'm fuming because of the size and over the Unfairness Of It All that I am paying about $9 for a turkey sandwich and a measly potato-wannabe.

Then, it hits me: this is EXACTLY the sort of thing for which I should be grateful. Why? Because I've grown up watching portion sizes get bigger and bigger. I've also watched my waistline get bigger and bigger (especially lately) because I, too, look for bigger and better and cheaper all the time. Sure, I'll lament over the Biggie-Sizing of restaurant and fast food meals, but when you actually listen to me and replace the monstrous portions with more reasonable ones, I kick and scream and sob, "It's not fair!" like a socialite getting sent back to serve the rest of her prison term.

In the end, we told the waiter we were dissatisfied, left a note expressing as much on our credit card receipt, and vowed to go someplace where the portion sizes were bigger for less money. That wasn't our exact thought, but it was the sentiment, for sure. We bellyached on the ride home about how the cost of one of our dwarf-sized meals at Bennigan's could have bought an entire feast of gooey queso and tortilla-wrapped goodness at Moe's instead. But inside my head, the wheels were turning.

I'm wondering why I pay money every month to places like Weight Watchers to help me lose weight, when I am also running around town, searching like a starved rat to find food that is both cheap and large. You know the expression: "you are what you eat". Does this mean I am both cheap and large? Well, um... YEAH. It's heading that way, anyway.

I'm thinking a lot today about this. I'm missing the open trail, which I haven't seen now for about 4 months. I'm thinking about smaller potatoes and better food and learning that "stuffed" is not an option to treat myself the best way I can. I'm thinking about a lot of these things.

More to follow. Me thinks there is a huge turn-around happening.

eternal peace

I've been fighting the urge all week to write something about Jerry Hadley. His death has left me, a person who had only heard him but never met him personally, sad and baffled. I decided to write something anyway.

I am still baffled, haunted.

I can tell you that his voice was one of the most beautiful I have ever heard. A friend sent me a mix tape with several operatic snippets and songs on it; included was a beautiful duet with soprano Ruth-Ann Swenson, "Stranger in Paradise" from the operetta Kismet. I remember thinking, what a perfect, ardently clear tenor voice. I must have listened to that duet a hundred times, and I never tired of hearing him.

I don't know how it must feel to be so severely, profoundly depressed, that the only option to consider is suicide. I can guess, and it makes my heart heavy. I lost a former patient of mine to suicide recently, a bright, beautiful young woman who was also deeply adored and who also believed that death was the only way out. I have often been plagued with the "if-only-I-had's" after I hear about friends who have killed themselves; even with Jerry Hadley, whom I never knew personally, I wonder about the power of a thoughtful, well-timed fan letter.

I do know, at least in part, the effect of living off of other people's opinions, as you do when you are a performer by career. Hadley had been getting some bad reviews within recent years, claims that the "bloom" at his upper registers had been taken off from taking on roles that were too heavy for his voice. A voice isn't like another instrument you can trade up or replace when broken... and I can only imagine how hard it is to be at the top of your game, adored by millions, and then be told that you are yesterday's news, a has-been. Add to that his constant struggle with depression, facing bankruptcy, and a recent divorce, and it added up to a mountain of hopelessness for him. Never mind the incredible impact he left on so many of us, or the potential to foster the next generation of singers through his teaching and coaching.

He is today's news, surely. He was taken off life support Monday, and he died today.

Rest in peace, Jerry. You are missed.



Edited to add: There have been some wonderfully touching, haunting posts from Hadley's friends and colleagues, including this one and this one, as well as this one with a touching, more recent photo at the end.

happy anniversary

Three years ago today, I went to see Spiderman 2, ate melty ice cream, and spent hours on a boat dock with the most amazing man I had ever known. It was our first date. He had soft blue eyes that crinkled at the edges when he smiled, thick brown curls, and a goofy, easy laugh. We watched the moon rise over the lake, talked about our families, laughed over our missteps, and listened to each other with full hearts. Within a week, my heart was set on him, this man who seemed to come from out of the blue, who accepted me just as I was. We dreamed big dreams together.



Two years ago today, I wore white, stood before the people I love, and took into my hands the man that I love. He smiled at me, and his soft, crinkly-edged blue eyes were filled with tears. He put a ring on my finger. I put a ring on his. We danced and laughed and rejoiced and held each other so, so close. We started on this big, new adventure together, holding hands and jumping right in. We dreamed big dreams together.



One year ago today, we sat together, watching the stars from our hotel room, wondering over how fast time flies when you spend it with your best friend. We marveled over one year full of laughter, tears, growing pains, frustrations, miracles, and aching wonder. Both of us felt we'd each gotten the better end of the deal by marrying each other. I had a hard time remembering what life was like without him in it. We dreamed big dreams together.



And today, on our two year anniversary, I'm still amazed, and I feel like the luckiest woman alive. His eyes still crinkle when he smiles, and he still accepts me, just as I am. Through his eyes and his heart, I see, for the first time, the woman I was created to be, the beauty I was called to recognize, and the wife and best friend that I have longed to be since I was a little girl. I have seen him grow and fully embrace the man that he is. I have watched him love me and love others with a heart that leaves me in awe every time I see it in action. I am still continuously amazed at his integrity, his strength, and his authenticity. And I still think he is the most amazing, sexiest man I have ever and will ever meet.

And yes, we still dream big dreams together.



Happy Anniversary, Jason. I love you with all of my heart.

in case I haven't told you already

This guy is hilarious. Click on his blog to see how he went from this:



to this:



And if you're not completely supine on the floor afterward, read this about venturing out in public with the Waterfall, or this tidbit about eating a pigeon egg. Absolutely hilarious.

just call me Tom Hanks

My e-mail inbox has been curiously empty lately. It makes me a little sad, and maybe a little worried, as if I might have been e-mailing volumes of nasty-grams to all my contacts in my sleep. Or, that my computer is one of thousands that some dude hacked into with spamming software, and now no one wants to e-mail me because their inboxes are filled with mail with subjects like "vIaGGGRa makS U gRoWw loong.schloong!!!" and "loanzEZtoqualify".

My phone just broke, too. I can't hear anyone, though they can hear me frantically saying "hello? hello? can you hear me?". The speakerphone function works, except then I'm broadcasting my bidness to the world, and we end up all like "huh? whad'you say?" anyway. I'm going to try and get it fixed tomorrow.

Isolation really sucks. I think I'm going to get a volleyball, name it Wilson, and talk to it as I become one with the land.

dazed and confused, man...

I had to go to Office Depot today to get a professional portfolio. One of my last school projects to do before I claim my diploma is to put together a professional portfolio: cover letter, resume, a "philosophy of nursing", and any certifications we have managed to achieve during our short stint at UCF. Everyone was complaining that it seemed like a crap assignment: all employers want to hear is that you graduated your program and passed NCLEX, end of story. But since I have an interview coming up tomorrow, I thought I might actually do the assignment and have something snazzy to show the nurse manager when I walk in.

My new portfolio is black, shiny, and smells like the kiddie pool I had when I was five years old. In fact, the overwhelming smell of PVC is so potent that I think I might have made my neighbors high. I have page protectors that are protecting my all my professional pages inside, but I can't zip the portfolio closed around it, so my professional, protected pages are getting a little unprofessionally wrinkled. It's all like a vain attempt to be all professional and adult-like, and it is so unlike casual me that I've left it on the coffee table next to my copies of Bop! magazine and Bonne Bell lip gloss. Sometimes I pick it up to inhale its magical odors.

It's all a reminder that my time as a student is quickly coming to an end... in 6 weeks, to be exact. I finish my clinical rotation at the trauma step-down unit in a week, and papers, projects, and final exams are within weeks away. Originally, I'd imagined graduating with honors, trailing down the aisle in a blaze of glory with my classmates, and jetting off to some fantastic vacation in the Caribbean where I'd perfect my tan and sip mai tai's out of dainty glasses. Instead, I believe I will crawl, half-drunk and scraggly, up to the podium, grab my diploma, walk out, and collapse at home in a post-trauma heap and sleep for about 4 days straight, at least until I have to wake up and go to my NCLEX prep class.

out of the mouths of youth pastors

Jason and I visited our friends BJ and Cheryl for some good times before they pack their bags and head to the greener vistas of Portland, OR. BJ has been corrupting guiding young minds as the youth pastor at our church for about a year now, and he plays a mean Hammond-style keyboard and likes Friends almost as much as I do.

We ate excellent pizza and wings, then headed to Blockbuster to rent a video. After watching our selection, The Pursuit of Happyness, we decided it was very appropriate to chew some anti-hypertensive pills and drink vodka, because the movie was 2 hours' worth of an honorable guy who never, ever, ever seemed to get any breaks, toting around his equally-honorable and very cute son. Every ten minutes, Will Smith's character would get screwed over, and our knuckles would get just a little whiter. Still, it was a good movie, and at the end, Cheryl turns to me and remarks, "You know, I think I liked that movie because they didn't feel the need to use sex and violence to make it interesting."

BJ looks up and, without missing a beat, says, "But sex and violence are the best parts."

Prepare ye for the next generation of youth who will always know what to seek in wholesome entertainment, thanks to BJ...

how I know he'll be an incredible daddy

Our cat Missy has a fetish for plastic. Specifically, she likes to find the plastic, eat it, and then produce it again to let us know that she ate it earlier, along with some of her regular cat food. We don't know why she does it, or what specifically about plastic, which she is compelled to eat, makes it so much more tasty than, say, canned tuna, which she will not eat and will actually huff at if you open a can for her. Never in my life have I met a cat who didn't go completely ga-ga over canned tuna.

So the other day, I start hearing that familiar gulck gulck sound - just say the word gulck repeatedly out loud, and you'll know what it sounds like - and I start running to the chair where Missy is, ready to produce her half-digested ball of plastic and cat food. I'm frantically looking for something disposable to catch the kitty puke, because once that gulck sound starts, you have a 3-5 second window before the goo comes out of her mouth (and onto the furniture, the carpet, etc.). I'm just about to put an old blanket under her mouth when out comes Jason's cupped hands, directly under her nose, and he catches the kitty barf. With his bare hands. He did it again about 10 seconds later, too. I tell you, people, that is dedication. Fast forward however many months/years, and that is a dad unafraid of any kid's upset stomach ("do it in Daddy's hand, okay? In Daddy's hand.") Even I was unwilling to sacrifice the purity of my hands to the Barf Goddess, and heck, that's what I'm getting a degree in.

It's really touching though. In a weird, slightly gross sort of way.

avoiding the blog

Yeah, I'm doing it again. The last time I was avoiding the blog was through my miscarriage, but truly, there are no tragic events to explain how little I've been writing. Here are all the excuses I could think up, most of them somewhat pathetic:

1. I'm really busy. Not so busy that I can't waste hours playing Bejeweled, looking at my Facebook page, or blindly stare at my month-at-a-glance calendar, seeing all the things I must do but not actually do them. But busy.

2. My sleep schedule is all out of wack. I do my directed practice clinicals at ORMC on weekend nights, go to classes and my community clinicals during the weekdays, and have the occasional rehearsal or worship service thrown in there. I don't think clearly on such an irregular schedule.

3. Ever since we borrowed my friend Dan's bad-ass Canon Rebel XTi, photo-taking has never been the same. If you look on my Flickr page, look at my Colorado photos, then look at pretty much any other set of photos to see what I mean. Now that we've returned the camera to Dan, the idea of using my old camera, the one that has to think for 3 or 4 seconds if it REALLY wants to take a photo, is somewhat depressing, so I have no photos with which to pepper the posts of my blog.

4. I have fallen off the bandwagon, WW-wise and running-wise. Fallen off is incorrect: more like "taken a flying leap while giving the finger". (What a lovely image.) And for reasons #1 and #2 listed above, I've been short on motivation to jump back on. I really want to post that I bought the next size down, or show a cool picture (taken with my new boyfriend, the Rebel XTi) of myself looking all svelte, but in reality, my jeans that were falling down now fit okay. Hmmmm. I mean, the scale only shows about 7 pounds up, but it's still disconcerting about the jeans.

5. Speaking of reason #4, did you know that the floor where I do my clinicals has one of those Otis Spunkmeyer cookie ovens, as well as a whole case of frozen cookie dough pellets in the freezer? And that they bake them pretty much every shift I am there? And that they all come equipped with TRACTOR BEAM FORCE?

6. I'd like to be posting that I have graduated. I have not. I'd like to say that I am pregnant. I am not. (And please, unless you want something stapled to your head, don't ask me if I am.)

End of whine. I'll try to communicate better instead of wasting time. To solve issue #3, listed above, here's a picture of Jason at age 4 to stave off any boredom. I think it's cute.

whoops

So I got this pretty new blogger template, right? And I didn't realize that putting up the new template meant that all my links got erased. So if you were linked from my page and you are no longer linked, it just means I lost you and need you back, so leave a comment or something and I'll link ya.