Boom de Yada

I love the whole world, too.

An old addiction

I have several addictions that drive my day to day living. Some are relatively new, such as WoW. The internet, another addiction, really only morphed into it's current state of daily need sometime around the time I turned 15 or 16.

One, however, has been around since the age of near 3.

Books. Reading. Oh, yes.

Be it reference book, work of fiction, biography, horror, children's, compilation or stand alone work. From the time that my mother first sat me down and started teaching me how to read in Spanish, I have been ensnared. Possibly even before then. There are tales of me as a very young child throwing tantrums because my brothers withheld a book with the taunt "You can't even read yet!" What did I want with them? Who knows, but it drove me to learn, apparently.

I do have my preferences, but most are somewhat mutable. It's more like one day I might crave one type more than another, much like having a craving for good spaghetti one day and fantastic hummus the next.

I am grateful to the many enablers that I am friends with when it comes to this particular addiction. Many, in fact, who hale from the same clan. Some have introduced me to authors such as Paulo Coelho, who's body of work I have been slowly accumulating and appreciating. Going to their homes offer countless opportunities to pick up a book from a neat stack to begin while curled up under a quilt, often accompanied by a good cup of coffee. Or perhaps an already great visit is made even nicer by being handed a work of vampire fiction that occupies an evening with delightfully disturbing imagery.

Addiction is nothing to be made lightly of, perhaps. But this is one that I wouldn't mind plaguing my loved ones. After all, there are so many books I'd like to share....

Back home

Finally, I'm home. Back to my computer, back to my couch.

The last several days served their purpose of covering massive amounts of testable medical knowledge, and I'm proud to say that I attended the vast majority of the lectures and actually stayed awake. Go, me.

Of course, I'm now feeling that nervousness that I always feel when I spend a large amount of time hearing about all the possible things that can go wrong with an apparently healthy human body. Particularly, I am trying to reassure myself that I don't, in fact, have a clot in my left leg. But it hurts! And I've been flying all day after spending hours sitting in lectures!

Damn the DVT lectures.

At any rate, I wish all fathers a happy day with their loved ones. I'm looking forward to spending time with mine and my oldest brother in a few hours. But for now, shower, couch, and sleep. I will share my tales later.

One shot kill

Monday, it seemed that my destiny was work, followed by food and blessed sleep. It was a call day, and while not extremely busy, it was the kind of day where all the work was dumped on your lap mere hours before the shift was going to end. "No karaoke tonight", thought I.

Sometime during the day, Karrie (a karaoke cohort, as well as friend in general), began to text me. "Tip tonight?" No, unlikely. "Karaoke tonight?" Probably not this week. "What time are you off?" Too late in the evening, probably, and I'm going to be tired, get the rest of the posse, but count me out.

Slightly earlier than anticipated, but still rather late in the evening, I was sleepily making my way back home. The phone rang.

"Gigi, we're singing this!" The line filled with the voice of Peter Cetera, crooning about being my hero and fighting for my honor. Damn. I like that song. It always makes me thing of The Karate Kid (although it was actually the theme of part II). Sigh. I guess sleep will have to wait.

I arrived to the Tipp and joined the gang. The decision had already been made in my mind that there was to be no alcohol for me. No food within the last hour = no drink. Simple, but effective rule to keep me out of trouble. Coke, water, and singing seemed like a recipe for some good times, and I was correct.

Enter James. Damn you, James. James is one of my partners, and he is always a fun addition to karaoke. Good voice, interesting conversation, and he knows how to cheer. It wasn't far from closing time, and he offered to get drinks, to which I pointed to my water glass and declined.

He returned to the table with 2 handfuls of shots. Shots. Now, the adult thing to do would have been to firmly say, No, thank you. Let someone else put that thing away. I started to do so. And yet, I drank it in the end. Oh, not a good idea.

Within a few minutes, my stomach let me know exactly how it felt about my choice of calories. It had a very low opinion about it. In fact, it wanted nothing to do with it and was going to exercise it's right to veto very, very soon. Thankfully, closing time was at hand, and I began to beat a hasty retreat. Apparently my face didn't do a very good job of concealing what was going on, because several of the party expressed concern. "Let's get some food." "Let's go to IHOP, you'll feel better after you eat." No, James, you bastard (love you anyway), that was a good idea before you brought me a shot. I got into the car, trying to control the hypersalivation that signals that was starting to take place. I arrived to my apartment, and my stomach proved that it does not threaten idly.

Life lesson (which, honestly, I've learned enough times that you'd think this would never, ever happen again): Don't drink on an empty stomach, no matter why, or who is handing you the drink. You will face consequences if you do.

Random link: An interesting article about the 5th taste, umami.

Cryin'

I walked into the house, and I called out for my mother. Her response was so slight that I didn't hear it until I had walked through the kitchen and set foot on the stairwell. Even then, it took me a moment to realize that she was in the den, downstairs.

The room was dark, and she was motionless on the loveseat recliner, the quiet even more unsettling given her usual exuberance when I come to visit. I gave her a kiss and a hug, settling into the other half of the seat. I had been afraid something like this might be waiting for me, as her voice on the phone had sounded wan.

Translated from the original Spanish:

G: What's the matter?
M: ... (begins to cry)
G: Did something happen?
M: (head shake) No.
G: Is it just sadness?
M: Yes, I'm full of sadness.
G: Me, too.

At this point, we curled up next to each other and settled into a good cry, neither of us needing to explain any further where from or why this sadness had struck, only silently understanding that we needed to shed the tears to help wash away the bitterness for a time, whatever the source.

After a bit, it came to my attention that there was no food readily available for dinner. No problem, let's order Chinese. The hold music was some kind of big band era swing, and so we held the phone up where we could both listen to it and danced, and laughed.

It's both thanks to my mother that it's never seemed too abnormal to swing so drastically from sadness to joy, and her fault that I've gone through life without really learning how to express the reasons for those changes from one way to another. Sometimes, you just need to cry your way back to being happy. At least, for a bit.

Making a clean sweep

I'm relishing the fact that I've got a few days off after my run of nights. And you know what makes it sweeter? The fact that I'm relishing it in an apartment that is minus about 6 trashbags (maybe more) of crap.

Rewind to Saturday.

Actually, rewind a bit further, to Thursday immediately after my 1st night of a 4 night streak. I was tired, and as I crept along 360 in the AM traffic I realized that I couldn't make it. No, sir. Not going to drive back to Dallas in the middle of this God-forsaken traffic. So I altered my route to the haven in Arlington known as "Mom and Dad's House". My mom and dad, oddly enough, live there.

So I pulled into the driveway, walked in, and announced my arrival as I always do. By screaming "Hola Mami! Hola Papi!" and slamming the door. If I don't, Mom freaks out that someone is breaking into the house when the alarm beeps. Thankfully they were up, and didn't mind the unannounced visit. I then let them know that I was about to pass out, at which my mom produced some pjs, gave me a towel, pulled out my toothbrush, and made me some breakfast while I took a shower. After that, I crawled into bed and passed out for a good 5-6 hours, when I woke up to a solid meal and hung out with my mom.

I'm a pampered kid. Mom washed my scrubs and white coat while I was asleep. One of the topics we wandered to was the state of my apartment. I am, unfortunately, a slob. I can pick up after myself when I'm a visitor, but in my own abode I let things accumulate to the point of dismay. At that time, we formulated a plan to help me tidy up in the near future. I love my mom.

So Saturday I drove myself back to Dallas, slept, and woke up at 2 PM to let my parents in, and we set to work. We emptied out bags of mail that have been in my apartment since 2005. We shredded patient lists that I had been hoarding for about the same amount of time. Ditto for old medical journals and magazines. The mountain of shoe boxes that I had in my closet has disappeared. The difference made after about of 4 hours of nonstop trash hauling is astonishing.

But the embarassing thing? It's still a mess. I need to finish up with all the clothes that are scattered on my bed, and I need to organize my books. I shudder to think what might be under my bed and dresser while I'm typing this. But I'm pleased, and with any luck it will be a task that will be completed tomorrow. I feel like a human being again, and less like a wild beast in it's den.

Stuck

Paralysis. That's one way to describe it. I am referring to something that seems to be happening to me recently and which I have had problems with throughout my life.

I am, at heart, something of a coward. If I think of a possible negative consequence of my actions or speech, it can be enough to render me incapable of completing a sentence coherently or even being able to think. It's a reason that, when I really should know, when it counts, I say "I don't know." It's why I can be in someone's company for hours, and be unable to have a meaningful conversation or provide any kind of outlet that a friend should be when you're having a crappy day. Instead, at the mere hint of trouble, I stutter out random facts or make pointless statements at such a rapid clip that it kills opportunities to be, you know, a friend. Not every time, maybe, but enough.

The thing is, there are a lot of good instincts and feelings there, too. Recently, though, it's felt like I hit the paralysis every time I'm about to just do what feels right. Because, unfortunately, even my best instincts and actions have been wrong, and I'm scared.

I envy dogs. A tail wag happens, and they don't consider the consequence. They lay their head on your lap because they love you and don't stop to worry about whether you really want them to. And you forgive a dog when it exasperates you, because you know that even when it does something wrong, it didn't set out to do it with bad intent. They are startled and saddened when they get a rebuke, but the fact that they forget it almost immediately isn't wrong, it's just their doggy mind. And it's completely ok.

Hmm. This is kind of a rambling post, and completely not what I set out to write. But I feel a little better, and that's the point for me.