For the love of corn, it's hard to believe how much time can slip by between posts. It's not just leaving pieces of my consciousness here that fall by the wayside.
At the risk of coming off as a really conceited woman, I have to compare myself to Dr. Einstein for a moment. Like him, I seem to limit myself to fewer passions the more immersed I become. I guess it's primarily a matter of how much time one has, really. Unfortunately for me, I don't believe there will ever be a Nobel Prize in my cards. On the other hand, it's unlikely I'll ever have to worry about forgetting to visit the restroom during such intellectual pursuits that I end up pissing my pants.
Work has devoured a huge chunk of time and energy. When you pick a career like mine, you cannot simply be "half there". It is physically demanding, full of multi-tasking, and requires a tremendous amount of patience. If lacking in any one of these areas, you'll be kicked through the exit before long...
...and I'm glad for the latter. Not long ago, a new technician joined our staff, and she did have the physical endurance and a quick mind. She was sorely lacking in the patience department and to make matters worse, she blew way too much energy on being a bossy, underhanded bitch. My job, which I loved, deteriorated into something draining, a place I dreaded to go. The technician in question had left the veterinary field for three or four years to become a guard at a Washington State Penitentiary. I can only say that in many ways, it must have suited her well. I think it also rubbed off on her to such a degree that she took that prison mentality with her to our clinic, turning the place into a living hell, at least for me.
And I thank the Five Gods of Wutai that before three months were up, she was outta there.
Heh. At the same time, two other technicians took a leave of absence to undergo surgery (and left within a day of one another). This turned a technical staff of five into a technical staff of two.
Some interesting things resulted. I always knew that my supervisor and I have had the sort of personalities and work habits that work together like a dream. As a matter of fact, the other technicians decided I was somehow "the pet" and I received preferential treatment (despite the fact that I had the least desirable work schedule due to my lack of seniority!) What had happened, in fact, was that the other three techs had formed something of a clique, and let me tell you, it's a very interesting situation indeed when the size of the clique is three-fifths of the technical staff. Especially when one of those three was the aforementioned prison witch.
It created tension within our department and reached to Specialty department within our hospital.
Immediately after the tyrannical new hire left (during the period in which the other two techs went on leave)...well, there is no question that the two of us who remained became very, very busy. However, we quickly created a system in which we worked very efficiently, and despite the fact that we were undeniably exhausted at the end of some days, the friction was gone.
The doctors, who were understandably worried about the drastic reduction in staff, quickly discovered that things ran quite smoothly. My supervisor and I certainly discovered the stuff we're made of. As a matter of fact, we found ourselves having small discussions (in bits and pieces mind you; it was far too busy to sit down and chat--ever). We realized that we were working so hard--too hard, actually, to be able to carry on at such a pace forever--yet, we also kind of dreaded the time when the other techs returned. So much progress had been made: the tensions between our department and the specialty department had vanished. My supervisor was able to see that her organizational skills had, in fact, been dead-on right all along once the rebellion and resulting chaos was removed. I was allowed contribute more of my experience and know-how as well, and I got better at everything I did--blood draws, IV catheter placement, Xrays, surgical procedures, blood transfusions...everything. After fifteen years in the field, I knew I was good at what I did, but there is always room for improvement. God help you if you don't believe that.
Another thing we were able to implement was to take our two most experienced kennel assistants and train them as technical assistants (one has been through some classes in veterinary assisting and the other starts tech school this fall). The sense of pride that these two young women developed was (and is) obvious. We all respect one another. As a former instructor, I've had the chance to teach again. We are 95% of the way to being our own "dream team".
But...
One of the sick-leave techs came back this week...though she is far from able to do anything physically demanding. It will be many months before she will, and she is very, very frustrated about this. We find ourselves stumbling over one another and over the course of the past week, have had to learn how many things she is still unable to do. This has created a bit of stress for us all, since my boss and I have found ourselves being pulled back and forth to come to the rescue. I don't mean to bad-mouth the tech who had surgery. I am, however, only human, and this human is wishing there were a position within the clinic in which she could do the sort of work that would take her out of the treatment area, because the present situation has created a whole new set of hazards.
The other technician is supposed to return to work either this coming week or the week after, and she, unfortunately, has been "the unhappy one". Right now you can't have a clique of one, but sadly I know that it's all about to change. I wish I could believe otherwise, but after the better part of a year, I know better.
This job and this hospital mean the world to me. I have known these doctors nearly a decade, and in fact worked with them many years before everyone else in the general practice department. We are dear to one another. I was humbled beyond words when I was told how happy they were to learn I'd returned to the Portland area and wished to join their clinic. As such, I want our team to be the very best it can be, because I am certain it can be a real joy to work together. The past two months have proven this. However, labor laws make it very, very sticky when it comes to keeping jobs open for those with physical limitation, especially since one of them claims her surgery was due to an injury sustained at work, at our clinic.
I wish there could be family counseling for coworkers. Considering how much time everyone spends at work--in some cases, it is the majority of our waking time--I'm surprised that such a concept isn't an industry standard.
My supervisor and I are hoping that we can somehow take what we've learned over the past few months and used this to reshape the whole team dynamic accordingly.
Can it be done? I can't say it's probable, but I refuse to believe it's impossible, either. Regardless of what's happened, I know that the two of us have been able to carve our initials into the "material" that is our workplace, and whether or not it will be able to survive the return of the other technicians, we will remember these tough yet harmonious times with a good deal of fondness.
Now that you see how much energy it must have taken just to briefly summarize just a chunk of what's been going on since the last post, perhaps you can then imagine how it is that I've been truly otherwise occupied, yes?
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Friday, September 15, 2006
Of Cats and Signs and Dead Pioneer Women
Current mood: Mood Without a Name
Right now I'm thinking about Jasper--sweet, naughty, ever-hungry, sometimes annoying, irreplaceable Jasper--who, I might add, like my brother, sister, son, daughter and myself--will be joining one of HIS family members (Jane) when we move.
Isn't Jane a cool name for a cat? Really, how many felines have you met named Jane? Do you know the origin of her name? Of course you don't, but I'll tell you whether or not you care to know.
Some years ago, Amanda and I drove up to Mt. Hood (damn, what a bee-yoo-tee-full place, by the way). We were hiking around poking at things, checking out rocks and plants and whatnot...the usual hiking around stuff.
We stumbled upon an old, weathered sign which had long fallen from its post and lay there, looking sort of sad. It seemed to be staring skyward...moaning to the sun and clouds, questioning its own existence, wondering if there's a God.
The sign lay in a location not too far from the Pioneer Woman's Grave (a kind of morbid-sounding historical landmark, honoring someone whose headstone I never saw and whose name I didn't know).
I believe she was a sort of Unknown Soldier of the Westward-Ho days, enduring the bumpy pilgrimage in a covered wagon, and probably died during childbirth or from frostbite or consumption...maybe all three...you know, the kind of stuff people succumbed to back in those days.
It still beats the hell out of me why anyone in their right mind would have taken a covered wagon to an elevation of six thousand feet...man, those horses or mules had to be tired.
Maybe the whole bunch of them died because they were lost. Maybe the Pioneer Woman went first, which is why she had a grave...maybe the rest of the party was eaten by bears or wolves; maybe they ate each other. Maybe the Pioneer Woman ate everyone else and then buried herself...
...but I digress.
The old sign that Amanda and I discovered, however, did have a name: Mineral Jane West. Is that cool or what? It sounds like a kind of Annie Oakley name, summoning visions of a curvaceous, shotgun-blasting, pistol-twirling, tough-talking young woman in a cowgirl getup who could pick a thimble off a picket fence at 300 yards...however the sign's origin was, as it turned out, a rather unglamorous one.
A jane is a kind of dirt service road and west...well, that's a location. Thus, it was just an old, weathered, sad piece of wood laying on the western slope, a sign that at one time indicated something of meaning to forestry crews.
Loving people that we are, as a gesture of deep and abiding respect and selfless mercy, we "rescued" that sign and took it home...and probably could have been sent to prison for doing so. It hung proudly on the wall of my balcony and remained there after I moved out and my kids stayed on until the lease expired and the apartment was vacated.
My daughter--perhaps the most the sentimental person of the bunch (hmmm--I wonder which side of the family THAT comes from?)--felt great fondness for that token of happy times, so Mineral Jane West went with her when the remaining members of our little household dispersed. Besides, as I previously mentioned--it was cool, very much so.
When Amanda and Josh came for their kitten (one of Jasper's three sisters--also the best one, I might add)...they were faced with the dilemma of what to call her. She had an interim name...I always, always name my orphans...who doesn't? To be perfectly candid, though, it beats me if I can recall what name I used. I rescued a lot of kittens, so I recycled quite a few names.
Wait a minute! I remember! I called her "Pixie" and actually, she was the only kitten I ever bestowed that name upon.
At some point (I can't recall whether it was before or after she made the 700 mile trip to her new residence), the kitten was named Jane, inspired by that sign Amanda and I found on one of our beloved hikes on "our" beloved mountain.
Back to Jasper and Jane...of course, when we move back to PDX, he won't actually live with his sister. I'm certain, however, that they will meet again.
But let's not get all mooshy about this. Hell, these cats even know each other. I can see it already: there will be the perfunctory, tentative, mutual nose-sniffing, followed by the dilated eyes, frozen stance, tail lashing from side to side in very slow motion and an indeterminate amount of staring.
After that, things will get kind of rude. They will bristle and they will hiss. One cat will attempt to make him/herself taller than the other, and shorter of the two will get sort of flat but never take its eyes off the tall one.
At some point, the Tall One may take a swat at the Short One (or the Flat One, whichever name you prefer). This is accompanied by the typical low-volume, high-pitched growling. Such festivities can continue for quite some time; if the Tall One is food-motivated, the stalemate may be resolved by emulating the sounds of Meal Time.
The worst, worst, WORST thing anyone can do is to suddenly snatch up either cat to circumvent harm.
Because Harm Will Come.
Students, refer to term one, Animal Behavior, Topic: Redirected Aggression. The interloper should wash the resulting scratches for fifteen minutes and remember the lesson. Any severed digits must be kept cold and brought along to the hospital for possible reattatchment. The Observer should make sure to have plenty of thick towels handy when attempts are made to remove one cat from behind the stove and the other cat stuck to the ceiling by its claws.
You, the brilliant (present/former) students that you are, already know this.
Amanda and I already know this. I think we were both born knowing this already.
Thus, the advice given above is for the well-intentioned but headed-for-disaster population I refer to as The Unknowing.
It's really kind of amusing to imagine someone more naiive in such a situation, being all misty-eyed, eagerly anticipating the reunion of kittycat siblings, thinking it will be a momentous, tearful occasion...only to be met with the sobering reality of what cats REALLY do when they "reunite" after not sharing the same air space since age nine weeks.
As a matter of fact, I hate to break it to you all, but anyone who saw "Milo and Otis"...that darling movie, narrated by Dudley Moore, starring a caramel-colored kitten and an ever-worried looking little pug...hmm...my experience tells me that upon finding one another after growing up and adding to the pet population explosion...Milo probably would have gotten all cat-like on Otis, delivering a well-aimed scratch at the hapless dog's brachycephalic face...so much for THAT happy conclusion.
Reality--harsh, merciless bitch that it can be--had no place in such a cute little kitten-and-puppy-who-get-
lost-in-the-big-scary-world-but-manage-to-find-each-other-movie. It would have traumatized a lot of little kids.
Or made them laugh their butts off.
This the stuff humor is made of. As I've said before, "funny" doesn't happen when things go right.
Nope.
When life is at its most amusing, it's always a comedy of errors.
Right now I'm thinking about Jasper--sweet, naughty, ever-hungry, sometimes annoying, irreplaceable Jasper--who, I might add, like my brother, sister, son, daughter and myself--will be joining one of HIS family members (Jane) when we move.
Isn't Jane a cool name for a cat? Really, how many felines have you met named Jane? Do you know the origin of her name? Of course you don't, but I'll tell you whether or not you care to know.
Some years ago, Amanda and I drove up to Mt. Hood (damn, what a bee-yoo-tee-full place, by the way). We were hiking around poking at things, checking out rocks and plants and whatnot...the usual hiking around stuff.
We stumbled upon an old, weathered sign which had long fallen from its post and lay there, looking sort of sad. It seemed to be staring skyward...moaning to the sun and clouds, questioning its own existence, wondering if there's a God.
The sign lay in a location not too far from the Pioneer Woman's Grave (a kind of morbid-sounding historical landmark, honoring someone whose headstone I never saw and whose name I didn't know).
I believe she was a sort of Unknown Soldier of the Westward-Ho days, enduring the bumpy pilgrimage in a covered wagon, and probably died during childbirth or from frostbite or consumption...maybe all three...you know, the kind of stuff people succumbed to back in those days.
It still beats the hell out of me why anyone in their right mind would have taken a covered wagon to an elevation of six thousand feet...man, those horses or mules had to be tired.
Maybe the whole bunch of them died because they were lost. Maybe the Pioneer Woman went first, which is why she had a grave...maybe the rest of the party was eaten by bears or wolves; maybe they ate each other. Maybe the Pioneer Woman ate everyone else and then buried herself...
...but I digress.
The old sign that Amanda and I discovered, however, did have a name: Mineral Jane West. Is that cool or what? It sounds like a kind of Annie Oakley name, summoning visions of a curvaceous, shotgun-blasting, pistol-twirling, tough-talking young woman in a cowgirl getup who could pick a thimble off a picket fence at 300 yards...however the sign's origin was, as it turned out, a rather unglamorous one.
A jane is a kind of dirt service road and west...well, that's a location. Thus, it was just an old, weathered, sad piece of wood laying on the western slope, a sign that at one time indicated something of meaning to forestry crews.
Loving people that we are, as a gesture of deep and abiding respect and selfless mercy, we "rescued" that sign and took it home...and probably could have been sent to prison for doing so. It hung proudly on the wall of my balcony and remained there after I moved out and my kids stayed on until the lease expired and the apartment was vacated.
My daughter--perhaps the most the sentimental person of the bunch (hmmm--I wonder which side of the family THAT comes from?)--felt great fondness for that token of happy times, so Mineral Jane West went with her when the remaining members of our little household dispersed. Besides, as I previously mentioned--it was cool, very much so.
When Amanda and Josh came for their kitten (one of Jasper's three sisters--also the best one, I might add)...they were faced with the dilemma of what to call her. She had an interim name...I always, always name my orphans...who doesn't? To be perfectly candid, though, it beats me if I can recall what name I used. I rescued a lot of kittens, so I recycled quite a few names.
Wait a minute! I remember! I called her "Pixie" and actually, she was the only kitten I ever bestowed that name upon.
At some point (I can't recall whether it was before or after she made the 700 mile trip to her new residence), the kitten was named Jane, inspired by that sign Amanda and I found on one of our beloved hikes on "our" beloved mountain.
Back to Jasper and Jane...of course, when we move back to PDX, he won't actually live with his sister. I'm certain, however, that they will meet again.
But let's not get all mooshy about this. Hell, these cats even know each other. I can see it already: there will be the perfunctory, tentative, mutual nose-sniffing, followed by the dilated eyes, frozen stance, tail lashing from side to side in very slow motion and an indeterminate amount of staring.
After that, things will get kind of rude. They will bristle and they will hiss. One cat will attempt to make him/herself taller than the other, and shorter of the two will get sort of flat but never take its eyes off the tall one.
At some point, the Tall One may take a swat at the Short One (or the Flat One, whichever name you prefer). This is accompanied by the typical low-volume, high-pitched growling. Such festivities can continue for quite some time; if the Tall One is food-motivated, the stalemate may be resolved by emulating the sounds of Meal Time.
The worst, worst, WORST thing anyone can do is to suddenly snatch up either cat to circumvent harm.
Because Harm Will Come.
Students, refer to term one, Animal Behavior, Topic: Redirected Aggression. The interloper should wash the resulting scratches for fifteen minutes and remember the lesson. Any severed digits must be kept cold and brought along to the hospital for possible reattatchment. The Observer should make sure to have plenty of thick towels handy when attempts are made to remove one cat from behind the stove and the other cat stuck to the ceiling by its claws.
You, the brilliant (present/former) students that you are, already know this.
Amanda and I already know this. I think we were both born knowing this already.
Thus, the advice given above is for the well-intentioned but headed-for-disaster population I refer to as The Unknowing.
It's really kind of amusing to imagine someone more naiive in such a situation, being all misty-eyed, eagerly anticipating the reunion of kittycat siblings, thinking it will be a momentous, tearful occasion...only to be met with the sobering reality of what cats REALLY do when they "reunite" after not sharing the same air space since age nine weeks.
As a matter of fact, I hate to break it to you all, but anyone who saw "Milo and Otis"...that darling movie, narrated by Dudley Moore, starring a caramel-colored kitten and an ever-worried looking little pug...hmm...my experience tells me that upon finding one another after growing up and adding to the pet population explosion...Milo probably would have gotten all cat-like on Otis, delivering a well-aimed scratch at the hapless dog's brachycephalic face...so much for THAT happy conclusion.
Reality--harsh, merciless bitch that it can be--had no place in such a cute little kitten-and-puppy-who-get-
lost-in-the-big-scary-world-but-manage-to-find-each-other-movie. It would have traumatized a lot of little kids.
Or made them laugh their butts off.
This the stuff humor is made of. As I've said before, "funny" doesn't happen when things go right.
Nope.
When life is at its most amusing, it's always a comedy of errors.
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
Horroscopes
Sagittarius
November 22 - December 20
"A rosy glow over your recent career successes could cause you to congratulate yourself over your growing bank account. This trend should continue for a while, dear Sagittarius, if you keep on working as you have and maintain a positive and optimistic attitude. Your relationships with others around you, particularly your significant other, should be especially warm and loving right now. This should prove to be a thoroughly gratifying day. Use it to your advantage."
My response can be summed up in two words:
AS IF!!!
November 22 - December 20
"A rosy glow over your recent career successes could cause you to congratulate yourself over your growing bank account. This trend should continue for a while, dear Sagittarius, if you keep on working as you have and maintain a positive and optimistic attitude. Your relationships with others around you, particularly your significant other, should be especially warm and loving right now. This should prove to be a thoroughly gratifying day. Use it to your advantage."
My response can be summed up in two words:
AS IF!!!
Friday, August 18, 2006
more ugh...
The good news is that the air compressor in my Nissan went belly-up due to a manufacturer defect...or whatever it was that caused it to roll over and die before its time. Thus, I have been spared the expense of the inspection to determine whether or not I'd have to PAY for the inspection, plus the problem itself is covered under warranty. The bad news is that this truck used a quarter-tank of gasoline just driving from the dealership home and back again.
The good news is that the rental agent was a sweetheart and in act of kindness due to my rather unenviable situation, waived the gasoline charge. Considering the size of the truck (and thus, the gas tank) and the price of gasoline, that was a very nice thing to do. Thank you, Carlos.
I was shuttled to the dealership, waited around another hour or so, and was informed that they did not have the part for my car and they would have to order it. Nice. So now I was gas-guzzling truckless and my car was still out of commission.
Well, not quite.
It is still driveable; it is just an overly-warm but driveable car. Now I have to wait for the part to arrive next week, and I will have to set yet another appointment to have the part installed.
I'm beginning to feel ill.
3:45 PM - 0 Comments -
The good news is that the rental agent was a sweetheart and in act of kindness due to my rather unenviable situation, waived the gasoline charge. Considering the size of the truck (and thus, the gas tank) and the price of gasoline, that was a very nice thing to do. Thank you, Carlos.
I was shuttled to the dealership, waited around another hour or so, and was informed that they did not have the part for my car and they would have to order it. Nice. So now I was gas-guzzling truckless and my car was still out of commission.
Well, not quite.
It is still driveable; it is just an overly-warm but driveable car. Now I have to wait for the part to arrive next week, and I will have to set yet another appointment to have the part installed.
I'm beginning to feel ill.
3:45 PM - 0 Comments -
Saturday, December 13, 2003
The Air Conditioner Story--A True Account of Stupidity and Strength
Obviously, if the events pertaining to the household small appliance in question did not involve some form of calamity or another, I wouldn’t waste my time writing about it (or yours, reading the same).
Therefore it is safe to assume something unusual happened in my life, and it involved—what else?—an air conditioner. Here we go:
It was the Sunday before Memorial Day, 2002, and I was still working swing shift as a technician at the hospital. I usually got up around one PM and left the house at 2:30 or so to head for work. The weather was beginning to warm up, and since my bedroom is the warmest room in the house (presumably because the water heater lives in my closet, and there is some kind of hot water pipe that runs at a diagonal from the water heater to elsewhere in my home, thus serving as a sort of a radiator. At least this is what I assume the situation to be, since, when I walk across the bedroom floor barefoot, there is a distinctly warm “path” about a 14” across and several feet long. It’s nice in the wintertime, but as soon as the weather warms up, I’m in trouble.
Thus it happened that particular Sunday afternoon, that I had taken my shower and found myself cooking in my robe. I decided to haul my little 5500 BTU Goldstar Air Conditioner out of the closet. With the benefit of hindsight, I would have chosen a different time to install this marvel of engineering, but it was hot and sticky and I was uncomfortable.
I take the air conditioner out of the bedroom window every year around the first part of November when the rains have begun. Since I live upstairs, there is no feasible way to put one of those tarp-like gizmos over the machine to keep the water out and the dry in, so I’ve really had no other choice than to take the unit down and put it away until the following year. I wish I didn’t have to do it because it’s a real pain in the ass trying to find a place to put something that has no business in a wardrobe, but nevertheless, that is just where it goes every autumn through late spring. Move over shoes, out of the way dresses: you’ve got company. It makes an already tight space into an impossibly cramped space (or lack of space, really).
The time had arrived to take the Goldstar out of storage. Whether or not I had to take action right then and there, when I was supposed to be getting ready for work, is another matter altogether, and one I didn’t care much about when it was 95 degrees in my bedroom.
I’ve gotten pretty good at putting the air conditioner up and taking it down—practice makes perfect. I have white fiberglass awning which fits on either side of the unit, and foam weather stripping to make a nice seal. This sounds professional enough. But it’s also where “professional” ends. In order to hold the thing in place, I close the window down tightly (there is a lip across the top of it so that it stays in place when the window is closed) and while pulling down on the top of the window with one hand, I take a cordless screwdriver and run a 2 ½” brass drywall-type screw directly through the window frame and into the sill (or whatever the side of the sill is called). This has always worked perfectly, and since it’s a metal window frame (gasp!) I just re-use the pilot hole from the year before.
Still in my robe, I did all of this, and plugged the air conditioner in and turned it on. Ahh! That felt better already!
However, as I examined the setup from a distance, it struck me that the window appeared to be closed somewhat askew, and I wasn’t sure why. I decided to remove the screws and straighten the window in its frame and re-screw the fasteners back into place. Easy enough.
The air conditioner, however, had different ideas. Or perhaps it was the air conditioner and the window frame conspiring to punish me for my repeated jury rigging. The window popped open about an inch or so, which was enough to permit the air conditioner to fall—from a second story window.
There went my plans.
“Shit!” I muttered as I ran outside and downstairs to survey what I expected to be the vaporized remains of my air conditioner. As a matter of fact, I expected to find it in something of a hole in the ground created by the impact. When I arrived at the spot, I was shocked to see nothing there. Huh? I looked up. To my disbelief, the air conditioner was hanging by its cord. I heard a humming sound and realized it was my downstairs neighbor’s window, vibrating from the air conditioner which now rested against the glass. For a moment I froze. What the hell? What to do? My brain kicked back into forward gear, and said, “turn the air conditioner off, dumbshit!” So I turned it off.
I was still in state of disbelief at the sight of this heavy object hanging by a thin cord—and that it had even continued to run, happily, even.
I dashed upstairs and realized that the front door had locked behind me when I went outside. I was wearing a robe, and that was it. My kids were both sound asleep (they keep terrible hours). I began banging at the front door, then ran downstairs and stood underneath Amanda’s window, shouting, “Let me in! Hurry! Help!”
The door finally opened, and Amanda, still half-asleep, looked at me as if I’d gone mad. I was standing on the porch, in my robe, panting. “come on! You’ve got to help me!”
“huh?” she asked groggily.
“Hurry, no time to explain, it’s the air conditioner, it fell out the window”, I shouted as we headed for my bedroom.
I have to admit, even though I was in a frantic state of mind, part of me detached itself from the rest of my quivering, stupid self, and beheld, with amazement, the sight of the window, which had slammed closed, on the cord, with just the plug on the inside of the frame, still attached to the power strip, pulled on its cord as tight as a piano string, plugged in to the wall outlet.
“We have to get this thing in!” I yelled.
“How?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know….carefully!” I replied, my voice shaking. “okay, here is what I need you to do. I am going to hold the plug as tightly as I can, and I need you to open the window. As soon as it’s open, I need you to help me, I need you to grab the cord.”
…and that’s what we did.
Let me tell you right now, when you are trying to hold the better part of one hundred pounds of steel and machinery by a puny little plug, it may as well weigh a ton. Nevertheless, I held on, and Amanda grabbed that cord, and together, we began slowly hauling the air conditioner back up, hand over hand. It began to sway, and I said, “Stop! Wait! We can’t let it do that. If it sways any harder it’s going to go right through that window downstairs.” (I can’t say I like our neighbors, and with good reason, which I am sure could make a story for another time. However, I did NOT want my air conditioner in their house by means of a huge hole in their window.)
I need to remind the audience (assuming I have one) that both Amanda and I were wearing only robes, and mine was coming open. Amanda noticed this and commented. “Who gives a fuck?” I yelled. “No one’s looking, let’s get this fucker back inside!”
The air conditioner seemed to get heavier by the moment, and our arms were beginning to tremble. Amanda complained that she thought her ribs were bruising from leaning against the window sill. I felt like my neck (which had sent me to the hospital only one week before) was about to go into another cramp. Amanda was nearly crying. “I can’t do this anymore!” she wailed, and I snapped, “Bullshit! Hang ON.” She shot me a look that could have killed, but didn’t let go, and after what felt like an eternity, the air conditioner was now just under the window frame.
“Amanda, please listen. I need you to hang on to the cord with all your might, so I can get hold of this thing and haul it up”.
She groaned and I swore and we both probably gave any passing neighbors quite a show with our lack of apparel and the absurdity of our task—like something from LaVerne and Shirley or I Love Lucy.
Amanda was just about to give up and let go, when I finally gave one last heave, and the Goldstar was back inside. When we were finished, Amanda had grooves in her rib area from leaning on the window frame and I had abrasions on my arms and scratches from the corners of the machine as I grappled with it as it hung precariously below the window frame.
We made it.
I proceeded to finish the task of installing the air conditioner, this time while Amanda held the window down, and the rest went without a hitch. I turned the unit on, and it hummed as happily as if nothing had ever happened. My room eventually cooled off (even though I was suffering from heat exhaustion from the struggle alone).
In all, I was about twenty minutes late for work. Luckily it was a slow afternoon at the clinic. I had one hell of a fish tale to tell when I got there.
I have since thought of contacting Goldstar and complementing them on building such a durable piece of equipment. Amanda and I have laughed at the thought of our fiasco becoming a commercial and making a nice little chunk of money for our efforts on that muggy May afternoon.
Maybe someday I’ll make that call. I won’t even have to tell the story again; all I need to do is point them to this page.
Therefore it is safe to assume something unusual happened in my life, and it involved—what else?—an air conditioner. Here we go:
It was the Sunday before Memorial Day, 2002, and I was still working swing shift as a technician at the hospital. I usually got up around one PM and left the house at 2:30 or so to head for work. The weather was beginning to warm up, and since my bedroom is the warmest room in the house (presumably because the water heater lives in my closet, and there is some kind of hot water pipe that runs at a diagonal from the water heater to elsewhere in my home, thus serving as a sort of a radiator. At least this is what I assume the situation to be, since, when I walk across the bedroom floor barefoot, there is a distinctly warm “path” about a 14” across and several feet long. It’s nice in the wintertime, but as soon as the weather warms up, I’m in trouble.
Thus it happened that particular Sunday afternoon, that I had taken my shower and found myself cooking in my robe. I decided to haul my little 5500 BTU Goldstar Air Conditioner out of the closet. With the benefit of hindsight, I would have chosen a different time to install this marvel of engineering, but it was hot and sticky and I was uncomfortable.
I take the air conditioner out of the bedroom window every year around the first part of November when the rains have begun. Since I live upstairs, there is no feasible way to put one of those tarp-like gizmos over the machine to keep the water out and the dry in, so I’ve really had no other choice than to take the unit down and put it away until the following year. I wish I didn’t have to do it because it’s a real pain in the ass trying to find a place to put something that has no business in a wardrobe, but nevertheless, that is just where it goes every autumn through late spring. Move over shoes, out of the way dresses: you’ve got company. It makes an already tight space into an impossibly cramped space (or lack of space, really).
The time had arrived to take the Goldstar out of storage. Whether or not I had to take action right then and there, when I was supposed to be getting ready for work, is another matter altogether, and one I didn’t care much about when it was 95 degrees in my bedroom.
I’ve gotten pretty good at putting the air conditioner up and taking it down—practice makes perfect. I have white fiberglass awning which fits on either side of the unit, and foam weather stripping to make a nice seal. This sounds professional enough. But it’s also where “professional” ends. In order to hold the thing in place, I close the window down tightly (there is a lip across the top of it so that it stays in place when the window is closed) and while pulling down on the top of the window with one hand, I take a cordless screwdriver and run a 2 ½” brass drywall-type screw directly through the window frame and into the sill (or whatever the side of the sill is called). This has always worked perfectly, and since it’s a metal window frame (gasp!) I just re-use the pilot hole from the year before.
Still in my robe, I did all of this, and plugged the air conditioner in and turned it on. Ahh! That felt better already!
However, as I examined the setup from a distance, it struck me that the window appeared to be closed somewhat askew, and I wasn’t sure why. I decided to remove the screws and straighten the window in its frame and re-screw the fasteners back into place. Easy enough.
The air conditioner, however, had different ideas. Or perhaps it was the air conditioner and the window frame conspiring to punish me for my repeated jury rigging. The window popped open about an inch or so, which was enough to permit the air conditioner to fall—from a second story window.
There went my plans.
“Shit!” I muttered as I ran outside and downstairs to survey what I expected to be the vaporized remains of my air conditioner. As a matter of fact, I expected to find it in something of a hole in the ground created by the impact. When I arrived at the spot, I was shocked to see nothing there. Huh? I looked up. To my disbelief, the air conditioner was hanging by its cord. I heard a humming sound and realized it was my downstairs neighbor’s window, vibrating from the air conditioner which now rested against the glass. For a moment I froze. What the hell? What to do? My brain kicked back into forward gear, and said, “turn the air conditioner off, dumbshit!” So I turned it off.
I was still in state of disbelief at the sight of this heavy object hanging by a thin cord—and that it had even continued to run, happily, even.
I dashed upstairs and realized that the front door had locked behind me when I went outside. I was wearing a robe, and that was it. My kids were both sound asleep (they keep terrible hours). I began banging at the front door, then ran downstairs and stood underneath Amanda’s window, shouting, “Let me in! Hurry! Help!”
The door finally opened, and Amanda, still half-asleep, looked at me as if I’d gone mad. I was standing on the porch, in my robe, panting. “come on! You’ve got to help me!”
“huh?” she asked groggily.
“Hurry, no time to explain, it’s the air conditioner, it fell out the window”, I shouted as we headed for my bedroom.
I have to admit, even though I was in a frantic state of mind, part of me detached itself from the rest of my quivering, stupid self, and beheld, with amazement, the sight of the window, which had slammed closed, on the cord, with just the plug on the inside of the frame, still attached to the power strip, pulled on its cord as tight as a piano string, plugged in to the wall outlet.
“We have to get this thing in!” I yelled.
“How?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know….carefully!” I replied, my voice shaking. “okay, here is what I need you to do. I am going to hold the plug as tightly as I can, and I need you to open the window. As soon as it’s open, I need you to help me, I need you to grab the cord.”
…and that’s what we did.
Let me tell you right now, when you are trying to hold the better part of one hundred pounds of steel and machinery by a puny little plug, it may as well weigh a ton. Nevertheless, I held on, and Amanda grabbed that cord, and together, we began slowly hauling the air conditioner back up, hand over hand. It began to sway, and I said, “Stop! Wait! We can’t let it do that. If it sways any harder it’s going to go right through that window downstairs.” (I can’t say I like our neighbors, and with good reason, which I am sure could make a story for another time. However, I did NOT want my air conditioner in their house by means of a huge hole in their window.)
I need to remind the audience (assuming I have one) that both Amanda and I were wearing only robes, and mine was coming open. Amanda noticed this and commented. “Who gives a fuck?” I yelled. “No one’s looking, let’s get this fucker back inside!”
The air conditioner seemed to get heavier by the moment, and our arms were beginning to tremble. Amanda complained that she thought her ribs were bruising from leaning against the window sill. I felt like my neck (which had sent me to the hospital only one week before) was about to go into another cramp. Amanda was nearly crying. “I can’t do this anymore!” she wailed, and I snapped, “Bullshit! Hang ON.” She shot me a look that could have killed, but didn’t let go, and after what felt like an eternity, the air conditioner was now just under the window frame.
“Amanda, please listen. I need you to hang on to the cord with all your might, so I can get hold of this thing and haul it up”.
She groaned and I swore and we both probably gave any passing neighbors quite a show with our lack of apparel and the absurdity of our task—like something from LaVerne and Shirley or I Love Lucy.
Amanda was just about to give up and let go, when I finally gave one last heave, and the Goldstar was back inside. When we were finished, Amanda had grooves in her rib area from leaning on the window frame and I had abrasions on my arms and scratches from the corners of the machine as I grappled with it as it hung precariously below the window frame.
We made it.
I proceeded to finish the task of installing the air conditioner, this time while Amanda held the window down, and the rest went without a hitch. I turned the unit on, and it hummed as happily as if nothing had ever happened. My room eventually cooled off (even though I was suffering from heat exhaustion from the struggle alone).
In all, I was about twenty minutes late for work. Luckily it was a slow afternoon at the clinic. I had one hell of a fish tale to tell when I got there.
I have since thought of contacting Goldstar and complementing them on building such a durable piece of equipment. Amanda and I have laughed at the thought of our fiasco becoming a commercial and making a nice little chunk of money for our efforts on that muggy May afternoon.
Maybe someday I’ll make that call. I won’t even have to tell the story again; all I need to do is point them to this page.
Thursday, October 2, 2003
Behind Closed Doors
It occurred to me that perhaps one reason my imagination takes me to places I'd rather not go is that I heard and saw things as a child that most people never encounter.
When I was about four, my mother took my little brother and me on a rather brisk walk. I can recall my brother being in a stroller and my mother holding my hand as I walked alongside her. It was late afternoon and it was threatening to rain. At least that is how I recall it, because my mother must have said something to that effect.
My mother was upset. She did not drive. Thus, when things erupted at home, she had no way to flee except by foot. This was one of those afternoons.
My father had been drinking again. I didn't quite know this yet; I don't even know if I understood why we were out on a walk, which should have been a pleasant enough thing to do, but somehow I understood that there was a problem.
Eventually we returned home, and as we came in the front door and into the kitchen, I was horrified to see my father, face-down on the floor, in a small puddle of red liquid. It appeared to be blood. I knew about blood well enough; I had taken a tumble down the stairs at that very house and wound up with a nasty gash just over my eyebrow. It took several stitches to close the wound.
There lay my father, motionless. Rather than become hysterical, my mother said something like "Oh god, you bastard", and I recall feeling that this was a very strange way to react to someone laying in a pool of blood. Then I realized why my mother said what she did. It was ketchup. My father feigned an accident of some sort, presumably to scare my mother for attention. I don't really recall what happened next.
My brother and I shared a bedroom in that same house, on Bellflower Boulevard, near Alondra. It was an old Victorian style place, with an attic bedroom and dormer windows, and another part of the attic which had not been converted to any sort of room. It was kind of creepy, but that didn't stop us from exploring. Our bedroom was downstairs, and it had windows which seemed to be located rather high up on what I believe was the north wall. We would climb onto the headboards of our beds and look out the windows at the flashing neon lights of the shoe repair shop located not far from our house. It seemed we did this regularly: looking out the windows, watching the lights, and saying impish hellos to strangers as they walked past. I could smell the pleasantly sharp fragrance of geraniums and the heavier smell of the night-blooming jasmines which grew just under our bedroom windows. These were our precious few mischievious moments. We lived for those times.
There were many nights when my brother was not in the bedroom with me. Or perhaps I was not in the bedroom with him. What I do know is that he and I were separated by a door, and my father and brother were on the other side of that door. I can recall hearing my brother's screams. It was the most terrifying sound imaginable. I didn't know exactly what was happenening to him, but I knew that my father hated my little brother. Whatever was going on had to be horrible.
When I was five or six years old, we moved into another house. My bedroom was just next door to my parents'. To most kids this would be prime real estate bedroom-wise, but not for me. Sometimes my father's snoring filled the hallway--it wasn't an altogether awful sound....just kind of loud. It was the other sounds that bothered me--the sounds of ripping fabric, my mother's nightgowns. At the time, I knew it was my mother's bedclothes. I couldn't understand why my father was tearing them up. I thought he was pulling them out of drawers and destroying them to punish her. I could hear her quietly sobbing. I had no idea then that my mother was actually wearing the nightgowns and that they were being ripped from her body.
I guess you could say my father was a violent drunk. If we were lucky, he would just sit at the dinner table, or maybe on the sofa, watching the boxing matches, with his Brew 102, and simply pass out. Otherwise there was no telling what to expect.
At least once I saw my mother go to work with sunglasses on to hide a black eye.
My brother and I role-played as kids, so when we played house, my brother played the role--of all things--a battered wife. I was the understanding, reasonable friend. It was a strange game. I guess it was our way of reducing domestic violence down to our size, in a way we could understand.
I put such thoughts out of my head for a very long time--and then one afternoon at age 18, while at the health department with a friend who was there to get birth control pills, I heard the sounds of a child's shrill screaming issuing from one of the exam rooms. I broke into a cold sweat and ran from the building. I apologized to my friend and asked her if it was okay if I could just wait outside.
My brother, thank heavens, grew up to be a wonderful, gentle man. Neither of us became alcoholics. Sometimes we ruefully recall those bygone days of our childhood. We remember the the good times as well as the bad. Like most kids, we adapted to our situation as best we could. Our bond was what enabled us to survive the battleground that was our childhood.
My mother died fourteen years ago; my father died in February 2001. The nights of screaming, of crying, of ketchup blood and ripping nightgowns have long slipped into the past. However, somewhere in my soul, that scared little girl remains. I do what I can to try to quell her fears, as if she were my own child and not my childhood.
We do what we can to survive.
(comment on this)
10:35 pm
When I was about four, my mother took my little brother and me on a rather brisk walk. I can recall my brother being in a stroller and my mother holding my hand as I walked alongside her. It was late afternoon and it was threatening to rain. At least that is how I recall it, because my mother must have said something to that effect.
My mother was upset. She did not drive. Thus, when things erupted at home, she had no way to flee except by foot. This was one of those afternoons.
My father had been drinking again. I didn't quite know this yet; I don't even know if I understood why we were out on a walk, which should have been a pleasant enough thing to do, but somehow I understood that there was a problem.
Eventually we returned home, and as we came in the front door and into the kitchen, I was horrified to see my father, face-down on the floor, in a small puddle of red liquid. It appeared to be blood. I knew about blood well enough; I had taken a tumble down the stairs at that very house and wound up with a nasty gash just over my eyebrow. It took several stitches to close the wound.
There lay my father, motionless. Rather than become hysterical, my mother said something like "Oh god, you bastard", and I recall feeling that this was a very strange way to react to someone laying in a pool of blood. Then I realized why my mother said what she did. It was ketchup. My father feigned an accident of some sort, presumably to scare my mother for attention. I don't really recall what happened next.
My brother and I shared a bedroom in that same house, on Bellflower Boulevard, near Alondra. It was an old Victorian style place, with an attic bedroom and dormer windows, and another part of the attic which had not been converted to any sort of room. It was kind of creepy, but that didn't stop us from exploring. Our bedroom was downstairs, and it had windows which seemed to be located rather high up on what I believe was the north wall. We would climb onto the headboards of our beds and look out the windows at the flashing neon lights of the shoe repair shop located not far from our house. It seemed we did this regularly: looking out the windows, watching the lights, and saying impish hellos to strangers as they walked past. I could smell the pleasantly sharp fragrance of geraniums and the heavier smell of the night-blooming jasmines which grew just under our bedroom windows. These were our precious few mischievious moments. We lived for those times.
There were many nights when my brother was not in the bedroom with me. Or perhaps I was not in the bedroom with him. What I do know is that he and I were separated by a door, and my father and brother were on the other side of that door. I can recall hearing my brother's screams. It was the most terrifying sound imaginable. I didn't know exactly what was happenening to him, but I knew that my father hated my little brother. Whatever was going on had to be horrible.
When I was five or six years old, we moved into another house. My bedroom was just next door to my parents'. To most kids this would be prime real estate bedroom-wise, but not for me. Sometimes my father's snoring filled the hallway--it wasn't an altogether awful sound....just kind of loud. It was the other sounds that bothered me--the sounds of ripping fabric, my mother's nightgowns. At the time, I knew it was my mother's bedclothes. I couldn't understand why my father was tearing them up. I thought he was pulling them out of drawers and destroying them to punish her. I could hear her quietly sobbing. I had no idea then that my mother was actually wearing the nightgowns and that they were being ripped from her body.
I guess you could say my father was a violent drunk. If we were lucky, he would just sit at the dinner table, or maybe on the sofa, watching the boxing matches, with his Brew 102, and simply pass out. Otherwise there was no telling what to expect.
At least once I saw my mother go to work with sunglasses on to hide a black eye.
My brother and I role-played as kids, so when we played house, my brother played the role--of all things--a battered wife. I was the understanding, reasonable friend. It was a strange game. I guess it was our way of reducing domestic violence down to our size, in a way we could understand.
I put such thoughts out of my head for a very long time--and then one afternoon at age 18, while at the health department with a friend who was there to get birth control pills, I heard the sounds of a child's shrill screaming issuing from one of the exam rooms. I broke into a cold sweat and ran from the building. I apologized to my friend and asked her if it was okay if I could just wait outside.
My brother, thank heavens, grew up to be a wonderful, gentle man. Neither of us became alcoholics. Sometimes we ruefully recall those bygone days of our childhood. We remember the the good times as well as the bad. Like most kids, we adapted to our situation as best we could. Our bond was what enabled us to survive the battleground that was our childhood.
My mother died fourteen years ago; my father died in February 2001. The nights of screaming, of crying, of ketchup blood and ripping nightgowns have long slipped into the past. However, somewhere in my soul, that scared little girl remains. I do what I can to try to quell her fears, as if she were my own child and not my childhood.
We do what we can to survive.
(comment on this)
10:35 pm
Tuesday, September 2, 2003
Pausing for a breath in cleaning purgatory.
No fine motor skills left. I feel like I'm trying to type with boxing gloves on my hands.
But....
Amanda and I were cleaning buddies; she loaded up the stereo with her favorite CDs (a bunch of 80s songs--Morrissey, Erasure, XTC, Tears for Fears, Psychedelic Furs, Soft Cell, etc.) and we went to work. She armed herself with the EnviroSteamer, and I commandeered the vacuum extractor, bummer that it is for spot cleaning and upholstery, because I quite literally did the whole apartment on my hands and knees, stopping only to empty/refill the reservoir of the machine. Then I focused on the deck and stairs, pulling up dead vegetation and bagging it.
This reminds me of the time my dad polished one fender of my old Toyota, that oxidized blue little box of a car; lo and behold there was shiny, wedgewood blue paint under that veneer of dullness. Of course I couldn't drive around with one shiny bumper and the rest of the car looking like shit, so I spent the entire afternoon at my parents' place, rubbing and sweating and muttering profanities, because I had not planned on spending most of the day doing detail work. In the end, I was quite pleased with the results: a car that looked years newer than before.
The timing chain gear broke two days later.
But....
Amanda and I were cleaning buddies; she loaded up the stereo with her favorite CDs (a bunch of 80s songs--Morrissey, Erasure, XTC, Tears for Fears, Psychedelic Furs, Soft Cell, etc.) and we went to work. She armed herself with the EnviroSteamer, and I commandeered the vacuum extractor, bummer that it is for spot cleaning and upholstery, because I quite literally did the whole apartment on my hands and knees, stopping only to empty/refill the reservoir of the machine. Then I focused on the deck and stairs, pulling up dead vegetation and bagging it.
This reminds me of the time my dad polished one fender of my old Toyota, that oxidized blue little box of a car; lo and behold there was shiny, wedgewood blue paint under that veneer of dullness. Of course I couldn't drive around with one shiny bumper and the rest of the car looking like shit, so I spent the entire afternoon at my parents' place, rubbing and sweating and muttering profanities, because I had not planned on spending most of the day doing detail work. In the end, I was quite pleased with the results: a car that looked years newer than before.
The timing chain gear broke two days later.
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