Yesterday, I received the bookcase, computer desk and office chair that I had ordered from Staples.com. Today, I assembled them. All-buh-myself!
I knew it would be a challenge, given my lack of coordination and even more prominent lack of strength. It wasn't terrible though; but it did take a good part of my morning. The desk was surprisingly not that difficult - I did the whole thing with the screws and that little L-shaped screw-tightening-thing. Does that little dohickey have a name? It's da bomb. I felt like MacGyver.
The chair wasn't so easy though. It took me a good hour and a half. Things didn't fit, some parts were uneven. I came close to giving up, but muscled through it. I finally finished and sat on my creation. At which point I looked down and saw the packet with the chair warranty information. And a flyer that said:
"Buy this chair assembled for an additional $5!"
$5? I could have bought it assembled for $5?! Why was this piece of information INSIDE THE BOX? Shouldn't they have had this somewhere on the website? Or at some point *before* I completed my order? Oh man! I still feel proud that I did it myself (although there will always be a hint of fear that it will fall apart when I sit on it). But $5 is definitely in the zone where I would've bought it ready made.
At least I have a chair to sit on to watch the debates tonight.
Thursday, September 30, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
rain rain go away
What a dreary day. I definitely have seasonal affected disorder (SAD). I didn't want to get out of bed and have been feeling blue all day. It's hard to stop the deluge of negative thoughts when they start. I began to freak out about this career switch. I have no job. I can't cook and found myself seriously staring at the TV dinners in CVS yesterday before deciding to get some take out. CVS -- not even the grocery store - that's how lame I am.
I am scared I won't get into medical school. The statistics are pretty frightening - something like 1 out of 3 applicants doesn't get in. That doesn't mean they don't get in to their top choice schools. It means they don't get in period.
It's impossible to operate under a regime of fear, so I am wholeheartedly trying to remain as optimistic as possible throughout this process. But there are days, or moments within each day, where I find myself going through the ever-growing list of What-Ifs. What if I don't get in? What if I do get in and then realize it was the wrong decision? What if I have to move far away for school? I can occupy an entire day with What Ifs.
But these are the risks I have to take. How can you be certain that any career is the right career? There is no crystal ball that can guarantee your choices to be correct. All I know is that I tried something for a while, and I was pretty good at it. But it didn't make me happy. I didn't have the desire to learn more about my field and continually challenge myself. I do think medicine will offer me that. I really hope it will.
I'm not delusional in the sense that I think it will be easy work and will offer me never-ending intellectual stimulation. Far from it. I've seen the frustration it causes my parents. I could write an essay on the problems I see with the field from the week that I worked in my father's office. I know that I will not come close to making what I made in the last 3 years for another 10 years, at least. I know I could have chosen 1 million less stressful paths, but I did not. I made my decision, and I need to see where it takes me. I feel like I've jumped in feet first to a pool of ice-cold water. It takes a long time to adjust, but at some point it will feel comfortable.
I can't thank my friends and family enough for their encouragement and support. I talk my mom's ear off every single day about my concerns (which is also the primary reason that I had such huge phone bills and gave T-Mobile the boot. Yay for number portability!)
I've also heard my fair share of discouragement. Some people have been zealous with comments about the difficulties of getting in, the horrors of med school, etc. I do appreciate your openness and concern. But to be honest, I don't really need it right now. I'm fully aware of the dangers of my choices.
Too many 'what ifs' and not enough 'if nots'. Make Jack a Dull Boy. Red Rum!
I am scared I won't get into medical school. The statistics are pretty frightening - something like 1 out of 3 applicants doesn't get in. That doesn't mean they don't get in to their top choice schools. It means they don't get in period.
It's impossible to operate under a regime of fear, so I am wholeheartedly trying to remain as optimistic as possible throughout this process. But there are days, or moments within each day, where I find myself going through the ever-growing list of What-Ifs. What if I don't get in? What if I do get in and then realize it was the wrong decision? What if I have to move far away for school? I can occupy an entire day with What Ifs.
But these are the risks I have to take. How can you be certain that any career is the right career? There is no crystal ball that can guarantee your choices to be correct. All I know is that I tried something for a while, and I was pretty good at it. But it didn't make me happy. I didn't have the desire to learn more about my field and continually challenge myself. I do think medicine will offer me that. I really hope it will.
I'm not delusional in the sense that I think it will be easy work and will offer me never-ending intellectual stimulation. Far from it. I've seen the frustration it causes my parents. I could write an essay on the problems I see with the field from the week that I worked in my father's office. I know that I will not come close to making what I made in the last 3 years for another 10 years, at least. I know I could have chosen 1 million less stressful paths, but I did not. I made my decision, and I need to see where it takes me. I feel like I've jumped in feet first to a pool of ice-cold water. It takes a long time to adjust, but at some point it will feel comfortable.
I can't thank my friends and family enough for their encouragement and support. I talk my mom's ear off every single day about my concerns (which is also the primary reason that I had such huge phone bills and gave T-Mobile the boot. Yay for number portability!)
I've also heard my fair share of discouragement. Some people have been zealous with comments about the difficulties of getting in, the horrors of med school, etc. I do appreciate your openness and concern. But to be honest, I don't really need it right now. I'm fully aware of the dangers of my choices.
Too many 'what ifs' and not enough 'if nots'. Make Jack a Dull Boy. Red Rum!
Sunday, September 26, 2004
tar-jay
Nothing like a day spent shuttling between Costco and Target in a Volvo station wagon. I doubt there is anything that can make a single person feel more lonely than spending time in an everyday-low-price superstore (EDLP, an actual term used by retail analysts, for those trivial-pursuiters out there). I'm sure my parents were disheartened that it was their 24-year old daughter contemplating whether to buy the Halloween Oreos with orange filling, rather than their non-existent grandchild.
It wasn't really that depressing though. How can you not love shopping at Target?! That place is so amazing. You can convince yourself of your need for any item that you come across. My dad bought an electric flosser. I treated myself to a super-absorbent hair towel. Each individual item is so inexpensive that you feel you are being quite frugal. And then when you check out, it is virtually impossible to comprehend how everything adds up to over $200.
They are building a Wal-Mart next door to the Target, and it should open sometime next year. Mind you this is in the same complex as Costco. It may be too much for me to handle. It is not an exaggeration to say that I go to Costco every time I am home. My parents go once a week, at least. It has gotten to the point that when we need milk at home, we do not go to the grocery store that is 5 minutes away. We head over to Costco. And our Volvo station-wagon? Newly purchased, with the express consideration of moving significant amounts of cargo from the nirvana of bulk shopping.
On the way home, we passed a man holding up a sandwich board advertising a new "Christian Operated Pest Control Service!"
Well, there's a doozy for you. First, I feel really bad for the people who have to hold up sandwich boards. I'm sure I sound overly saccharine in the Miss-America-I-Want-World-Peace sort of way, but whatever. That job sucks. It's one thing to be doing it on the streets of New York City. This poor man had to hold this sign up on the shoulder of a relatively busy intersection in the suburbs. That has to be taxing. I wish him a better job.
Second (and much more appropriate for directed sarcasm), a Christian Operated Pest Service? Are they better than non-Christian services? I guess a Muslim operated one would be a little too "Hey! Look at me!" a propos the Patriot Act. What kind of services would this Christian company offer? Baptism before fumigation? Little confession booths for the ants? Oh no, I'm laughing out loud at the mental image I've provided for myself. If you haven't figured it out yet, I am the type of person who laughs at my own (often unfunny) jokes, before I can even say the punchline.
Apologies if I've managed to offend any Christians. Don't worry though, we're all people of the book .... People of the book, join hands!
It wasn't really that depressing though. How can you not love shopping at Target?! That place is so amazing. You can convince yourself of your need for any item that you come across. My dad bought an electric flosser. I treated myself to a super-absorbent hair towel. Each individual item is so inexpensive that you feel you are being quite frugal. And then when you check out, it is virtually impossible to comprehend how everything adds up to over $200.
They are building a Wal-Mart next door to the Target, and it should open sometime next year. Mind you this is in the same complex as Costco. It may be too much for me to handle. It is not an exaggeration to say that I go to Costco every time I am home. My parents go once a week, at least. It has gotten to the point that when we need milk at home, we do not go to the grocery store that is 5 minutes away. We head over to Costco. And our Volvo station-wagon? Newly purchased, with the express consideration of moving significant amounts of cargo from the nirvana of bulk shopping.
On the way home, we passed a man holding up a sandwich board advertising a new "Christian Operated Pest Control Service!"
Well, there's a doozy for you. First, I feel really bad for the people who have to hold up sandwich boards. I'm sure I sound overly saccharine in the Miss-America-I-Want-World-Peace sort of way, but whatever. That job sucks. It's one thing to be doing it on the streets of New York City. This poor man had to hold this sign up on the shoulder of a relatively busy intersection in the suburbs. That has to be taxing. I wish him a better job.
Second (and much more appropriate for directed sarcasm), a Christian Operated Pest Service? Are they better than non-Christian services? I guess a Muslim operated one would be a little too "Hey! Look at me!" a propos the Patriot Act. What kind of services would this Christian company offer? Baptism before fumigation? Little confession booths for the ants? Oh no, I'm laughing out loud at the mental image I've provided for myself. If you haven't figured it out yet, I am the type of person who laughs at my own (often unfunny) jokes, before I can even say the punchline.
Apologies if I've managed to offend any Christians. Don't worry though, we're all people of the book .... People of the book, join hands!
Saturday, September 25, 2004
shukriya
Last week, I gave up on my search for used furniture and decided to buy a new mattress set. I ordered a relatively inexpensive set (from Mattress Discounters, which I found amusing because they went bankrupt 2 years ago, and were being advised by my group at Blackstone). Anyway, cheap mattress = mushy mattress. I prefer firm beds, so now I'm kicking myself for being too stingy. I've also managed to give myself psychosomatic back pain as a result of the mattress. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
After I got the mattress, I needed to go buy bedding. So I headed to a department store, where I instinctively headed for the shoe department before the home department. I am a sucker for shoes, and especially shoes on sale! I convinced myself that I needed this great pair of black boots. As I headed to the checkout counter, I was greeted by a reincarnation of Mr. Bean. The sales associate was a strange older man, with a bowtie and a British accent. And a penchant for small talk.
Oh small talk, how thee frustrates me. Sometimes I just don't want to deal. Please just take my credit card and let me be on my way. He took my card, looked at it, then asked if I was half-Greek. He explained his question by telling me "Sophia is greek for wisdom." Hmm. I'm glad you know the etymology of my name. I didn't quite understand the half-greek though. Why only half? What did he think my other half was?
I told him no, that I was from India. Oops, opened another avenue for questioning. "Where?" Standard answer: "My mother is from Bombay."
He looked off into the distance, as if picturing an exotic land of elephants and spices, and said "Yes, yes, the west coast." (I was tempted to nod and give him the West-Side! hand signal, but refrained). I nodded, and then signed the receipt.
"Thanks!" I said.
"Shukriya." he responded. What? Man! It always catches me off guard when people do that. What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to respond in English or Hindi? Break into bhangra? I did what I thought best. Booked it to the bedding department.
I am back in NY this weekend for a little R&R, and to pickup the very many items I absentmindedly left here when I moved up to Boston. I took the Chinatown bus (again), but was very pleasantly surprised when I learned they moved their terminal to the South Station bus depot in Boston. No more waiting on the sidewalk in Chinatown! Yay! (N.B., they did increase their prices to $15.)
After a fun night out partying with some friends in the city, and an unnecessarily early train ride back to Long Island this morning to help my mom pick out a cell phone, I find myself in the best possibile situation: sitting with my wireless laptop in front of the television in my parent's room, updating my blog.
I watched Bring it On, which never ceases to amuse me. Also, during my channel surfing, I discovered that Kirk Cameron has a Catholic inspirational talk/interview show on the Church Channel. I mean, it's not really called the Church channel, but you know what I'm talking about. It's always sandwiched between something like the Food Network and movie channels.
After I got the mattress, I needed to go buy bedding. So I headed to a department store, where I instinctively headed for the shoe department before the home department. I am a sucker for shoes, and especially shoes on sale! I convinced myself that I needed this great pair of black boots. As I headed to the checkout counter, I was greeted by a reincarnation of Mr. Bean. The sales associate was a strange older man, with a bowtie and a British accent. And a penchant for small talk.
Oh small talk, how thee frustrates me. Sometimes I just don't want to deal. Please just take my credit card and let me be on my way. He took my card, looked at it, then asked if I was half-Greek. He explained his question by telling me "Sophia is greek for wisdom." Hmm. I'm glad you know the etymology of my name. I didn't quite understand the half-greek though. Why only half? What did he think my other half was?
I told him no, that I was from India. Oops, opened another avenue for questioning. "Where?" Standard answer: "My mother is from Bombay."
He looked off into the distance, as if picturing an exotic land of elephants and spices, and said "Yes, yes, the west coast." (I was tempted to nod and give him the West-Side! hand signal, but refrained). I nodded, and then signed the receipt.
"Thanks!" I said.
"Shukriya." he responded. What? Man! It always catches me off guard when people do that. What was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to respond in English or Hindi? Break into bhangra? I did what I thought best. Booked it to the bedding department.
I am back in NY this weekend for a little R&R, and to pickup the very many items I absentmindedly left here when I moved up to Boston. I took the Chinatown bus (again), but was very pleasantly surprised when I learned they moved their terminal to the South Station bus depot in Boston. No more waiting on the sidewalk in Chinatown! Yay! (N.B., they did increase their prices to $15.)
After a fun night out partying with some friends in the city, and an unnecessarily early train ride back to Long Island this morning to help my mom pick out a cell phone, I find myself in the best possibile situation: sitting with my wireless laptop in front of the television in my parent's room, updating my blog.
I watched Bring it On, which never ceases to amuse me. Also, during my channel surfing, I discovered that Kirk Cameron has a Catholic inspirational talk/interview show on the Church Channel. I mean, it's not really called the Church channel, but you know what I'm talking about. It's always sandwiched between something like the Food Network and movie channels.
Monday, September 20, 2004
moving pains
Bonjour Cambridge! And hello to the stress and aggravation of moving. I came up here only with clothing and essential items; I planned on furnishing my room once I arrived. I decided to see if I could find any bargains on used items by scouring Craigslist religiously. No dice. Used beds are kinda icky. I learned this the hard way after checking a few out.
So I am here without a bed, and without a clue as to what the future holds. Class starts tonight at 7:30 PM, which is taking some getting used to. It is such an odd time for class; I am not accustomed to night school (and no I am not getting my GED for those of you who find it funny to ask). I fear that I may actually forget to go to class since it's not what I'm thinking about in the evening.
This morning I chatted with some of the guys that I used to work with. Sometimes I really forget that I actually don't work there anymore. I was actually a bit sad; I often miss the comfort and security of having a job and the idea that I more or less know what to expect from my day. The surreality of my present is ovewhelming at times. At least I am getting a wireless signal from somewhere in the apartment; without internet I'd be utterly lost.
I also tried to update my resume today. I realized that most everything on there is irrelevant to the types of jobs I am applying for. How do I rephrase three years of work so that it positions me well for a field in which I have very little experience?
Today was also the first day of class for the undergraduates. And the new freshman. Who, as someone at lunch today pointed out, are class of 2008. 2008! They were born in 1987. I Love the '80's Strikes Back will mean nothing to them.
On a very bright note, I've been able to spend some good quality time with some friends who also just moved to Cambridge. Last night, we had crepes, cooked dinner and watched Six Feet Under and the Emmys. Just what the doctor ordered.
So I am here without a bed, and without a clue as to what the future holds. Class starts tonight at 7:30 PM, which is taking some getting used to. It is such an odd time for class; I am not accustomed to night school (and no I am not getting my GED for those of you who find it funny to ask). I fear that I may actually forget to go to class since it's not what I'm thinking about in the evening.
This morning I chatted with some of the guys that I used to work with. Sometimes I really forget that I actually don't work there anymore. I was actually a bit sad; I often miss the comfort and security of having a job and the idea that I more or less know what to expect from my day. The surreality of my present is ovewhelming at times. At least I am getting a wireless signal from somewhere in the apartment; without internet I'd be utterly lost.
I also tried to update my resume today. I realized that most everything on there is irrelevant to the types of jobs I am applying for. How do I rephrase three years of work so that it positions me well for a field in which I have very little experience?
Today was also the first day of class for the undergraduates. And the new freshman. Who, as someone at lunch today pointed out, are class of 2008. 2008! They were born in 1987. I Love the '80's Strikes Back will mean nothing to them.
On a very bright note, I've been able to spend some good quality time with some friends who also just moved to Cambridge. Last night, we had crepes, cooked dinner and watched Six Feet Under and the Emmys. Just what the doctor ordered.
Friday, September 17, 2004
life is a mystery
Maybe not so much life, but at least my blog. Weird phenomenon of the moment: My home computer is old and somehow has developed a resistance to Internet Explorer. So we have to use Netscape instead. Not that I really paid attention to differences in browsers. But let me tell you. Netscape sucks. Half the time it can't open certain web pages, and the other half of the time it screws up whatever is to be displayed.
That being said ... Netscape can't display my blog. It used to, but now it doesn't. When I load it up, the screen is blank. I'm really hoping this means that my blog wasn't magically erased in cyberspace. If it is, then I guess all this writing is pretty futile. If not, it means I have no way of checking which posts have actually shown up and which have not. Or whether someone has hijacked my blog and is writing profusely on the subject of teletubbies, or some other such alien force field.
So if you are reading this, then that's good. I feel like this is the blogging equivalent of "If a tree falls in a forest and noone hears it..."
Today my friend invited me to open a Google g-mail account. I got punched for g-mail, awesome! (Lame Harvard joke for those of you who are wondering what I'm talking about). I'm in a secret society that offers 1 gig of memory and advertising related to the text of my e-mails. Why I keep getting advertisements about male escort services, I'm not sure!
Many thanks to D. for inviting me to participate in this elite cyber clique. Extra special thanks for inviting me, because of the following reason: A few months ago, my brother was able to open a g-mail account. He had three invitations he could share with friends. I asked him but was denied. He chose to invite his friends over me. That's ok though. When it comes to the family, he is the weakest link. Goodbye! OK, I'm just kidding.
Back to Cambridge on Sunday. How did I go from itching to get out of Cambridge every second I was there, to not being able to wait to get back? I never thought I would've switched over, but dare I say that I am really enjoying myself and excited about the coming year in ye olde 02138.
That being said ... Netscape can't display my blog. It used to, but now it doesn't. When I load it up, the screen is blank. I'm really hoping this means that my blog wasn't magically erased in cyberspace. If it is, then I guess all this writing is pretty futile. If not, it means I have no way of checking which posts have actually shown up and which have not. Or whether someone has hijacked my blog and is writing profusely on the subject of teletubbies, or some other such alien force field.
So if you are reading this, then that's good. I feel like this is the blogging equivalent of "If a tree falls in a forest and noone hears it..."
Today my friend invited me to open a Google g-mail account. I got punched for g-mail, awesome! (Lame Harvard joke for those of you who are wondering what I'm talking about). I'm in a secret society that offers 1 gig of memory and advertising related to the text of my e-mails. Why I keep getting advertisements about male escort services, I'm not sure!
Many thanks to D. for inviting me to participate in this elite cyber clique. Extra special thanks for inviting me, because of the following reason: A few months ago, my brother was able to open a g-mail account. He had three invitations he could share with friends. I asked him but was denied. He chose to invite his friends over me. That's ok though. When it comes to the family, he is the weakest link. Goodbye! OK, I'm just kidding.
Back to Cambridge on Sunday. How did I go from itching to get out of Cambridge every second I was there, to not being able to wait to get back? I never thought I would've switched over, but dare I say that I am really enjoying myself and excited about the coming year in ye olde 02138.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
in suburbia
I love the suburbs. And the Pet Shop Boys. In a few years, I shall be the woman in the large SUV who can’t drive. A soccer-mom in training.
Two weeks ago it was tax-free week in New York. Yet another excuse for me to go shopping. So I went to the gravitational center of Long Island – and all of suburbia for that matter. The mall. You need to mentally brace yourself before entering such a place; it is just utter madness.
Too many teeny-boppers. Too many kids with unlimited access to their parents’ credit cards. I found myself in the eye of the storm when I went to the denim department at Bloomingdales. My goodness. What a scene. I thought it slightly disturbing to see 13 year olds buying $150 jeans that revealed more than they covered. They were so young -- the insanity! What happened to the days when your parents took you shopping at 13 and spending more than $30 on a pair of jeans seemed ridiculous?
Oh, and what is this new trend of tube top dress things? I saw a very cute one, but I thought it was a skirt. I couldn’t figure out why it looked so funny as a skirt until I saw a girl wearing it as a dress. Man oh man.
Seeing so many young girls together reminded me of the movie “Mean Girls.” I thought about a group of my girlfriends at that age. We certainly had our shares of fights and backstabbing, but it was so unbelievably petty when I reflect on it.
I distinctly remember one practical joke we used to pull on each other. Back in the day, if you called the Tampax 800 hotline, you could request a free sample of tampons to be sent to you. We used to call up and request samples sent to whichever girl was not in favor that week, in order to embarrass her. I can’t believe we thought that was clever. Or mean. Or even funny. I don’t know what we were thinking!
This past weekend I went to visit a friend of mine in DC, which was fun. One night, we were all in a car parallel parking, and the driver was having a hard time getting into the spot. My friend volunteered to fix the parking job. As he was fixing it, he went a little too fast and rammed into the car behind us. Where a rather large gentleman was sitting in the driver’s seat. It was the kind of moment where everyone freezes and says “Oh damn, this could get ugly.” Fortunately though, no damage done. Good thing, because I didn't want to whip out my can of whoop-ass. That's right. I did Tae-Bo. No, I’m just kidding. But boy did I love those Billy Blanks infomercials.
In other news, I am stuck in the middle of an awful book. I'm progressing at the rate of about 2 pages a day, but I can't bear the thought of not finishing it. At this rate, it may take a year to complete it. That being said, I need a really good book to follow this one in order to erase the pain. Any suggestions?
I’m headed back to Cambridge this week. I need to get me a jobby job.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
oh no.
Deep thought of the day: bad luck sucks. It starts off small, but then snowballs into wishing that you could crawl into a hole and never come out.
1) My Dad found my blog. Hi Dad! Not that there is anything wrong with him reading it, it just caught me off guard is all. On Friday evening, he asked me why I didn't tell him that his secretary had porn on the computer. I sheepishly asked "How did you know that?" And he responded that he "read my chronicles." I like how he said chronicles, since he is the only person to actually refer to the blog that way.
But now I feel guilty for having complained about working in his office. I loved it Dad. Last week was the most fun week of my life ever!
I feel a bit more self-conscious writing now though. Guess I can't write too much about my illegal extra-curricular activities. Or the fact that I have an illegitimate child. And don't know who the father is. Sorry Dad!
Oh yeah - to my brother - he found your blog too. If I'm going down, you're coming with me. (Just kidding. Though I'm serious about the fact that he found your blog). Are you sensing the passive agressive nature of conversation in my family?
2) I seriously busted my cell phone minutes last month. I had no idea since it's part of a family plan. I had never gone over prior to that because I had a job. And I could make phone calls from said job. No more of that. Though I never considered it when using my cell phone.
I screamed and yelled at T-Mobile and got a bit of money taken off the bill. And then I considered upgrading to more minutes. And that's when my head nearly exploded. To upgrade, I need to sign another 1-year agreement. But I don't get a new cell phone. Even though new customers to T-Mobile can get the same plan with a new phone ... and a $100 rebate! What? I called T-Mobile completely irate. This is the conversation I had with the apathetic customer service rep on the other end:
Me
So if I cancel T-Mobile today, then sign up for a new plan tomorrow, I get a rebate and a free phone?
Rep
Yes
Me
But you can't upgrade me and give me the rebate and free phone while keeping my number?
Rep
No
Me
Even though I've been a customer for 3 years?
Rep
Correct
Me
So a new customer gets all this stuff and I can't? What if I cancel the contract and sign up for a new one? Can you keep my same number?
Rep
No
Me
I hate you.
Rep
Have a nice day and thank you for using T-Mobile.
3) My Hotmail account is overflowing. I figured out how to download all my Hotmail to Outlook, so I did that. And then I deleted everything I had on Hotmail to free up space.
The problem? I still had Outlook open on the computer. It resynchronized to Hotmail, and seeing that I had no messages in Hotmail, deleted all the messages I downloaded. I didn't realize that I had it set such that Outlook mirrors Hotmail, not backs up Hotmail. Oh no no no. Now I have no messages anywhere! Important e-mails, phone numbers etc. that I've stupidly been keeping on e-mail? Gone.
Given my doozie of a day, I decided to be grumpy and am watching TV. As luck would have it, there is a 90210 marathon. And right now I'm watching the series finale - Donna and David's wedding. Eric Benet is serenading Donna and David. How weird is it when has been artists perform on TV shows? I think it's strange.
1) My Dad found my blog. Hi Dad! Not that there is anything wrong with him reading it, it just caught me off guard is all. On Friday evening, he asked me why I didn't tell him that his secretary had porn on the computer. I sheepishly asked "How did you know that?" And he responded that he "read my chronicles." I like how he said chronicles, since he is the only person to actually refer to the blog that way.
But now I feel guilty for having complained about working in his office. I loved it Dad. Last week was the most fun week of my life ever!
I feel a bit more self-conscious writing now though. Guess I can't write too much about my illegal extra-curricular activities. Or the fact that I have an illegitimate child. And don't know who the father is. Sorry Dad!
Oh yeah - to my brother - he found your blog too. If I'm going down, you're coming with me. (Just kidding. Though I'm serious about the fact that he found your blog). Are you sensing the passive agressive nature of conversation in my family?
2) I seriously busted my cell phone minutes last month. I had no idea since it's part of a family plan. I had never gone over prior to that because I had a job. And I could make phone calls from said job. No more of that. Though I never considered it when using my cell phone.
I screamed and yelled at T-Mobile and got a bit of money taken off the bill. And then I considered upgrading to more minutes. And that's when my head nearly exploded. To upgrade, I need to sign another 1-year agreement. But I don't get a new cell phone. Even though new customers to T-Mobile can get the same plan with a new phone ... and a $100 rebate! What? I called T-Mobile completely irate. This is the conversation I had with the apathetic customer service rep on the other end:
Me
So if I cancel T-Mobile today, then sign up for a new plan tomorrow, I get a rebate and a free phone?
Rep
Yes
Me
But you can't upgrade me and give me the rebate and free phone while keeping my number?
Rep
No
Me
Even though I've been a customer for 3 years?
Rep
Correct
Me
So a new customer gets all this stuff and I can't? What if I cancel the contract and sign up for a new one? Can you keep my same number?
Rep
No
Me
I hate you.
Rep
Have a nice day and thank you for using T-Mobile.
3) My Hotmail account is overflowing. I figured out how to download all my Hotmail to Outlook, so I did that. And then I deleted everything I had on Hotmail to free up space.
The problem? I still had Outlook open on the computer. It resynchronized to Hotmail, and seeing that I had no messages in Hotmail, deleted all the messages I downloaded. I didn't realize that I had it set such that Outlook mirrors Hotmail, not backs up Hotmail. Oh no no no. Now I have no messages anywhere! Important e-mails, phone numbers etc. that I've stupidly been keeping on e-mail? Gone.
Given my doozie of a day, I decided to be grumpy and am watching TV. As luck would have it, there is a 90210 marathon. And right now I'm watching the series finale - Donna and David's wedding. Eric Benet is serenading Donna and David. How weird is it when has been artists perform on TV shows? I think it's strange.
Thursday, September 02, 2004
cookies, with a hint of botox
Here's the situation: The old secretary was super disorganized. And Ms. Type-A 2004 right here took a hold of the reins and completely reorganized the office last week. I made specific folders for things to be filed in. At the end of every day, she was handwriting a lits of patients that came in. No more. I set up a computer file to manage all of that. And many such other examples.
The secretary came back from vacation today. Last night, my Dad told me I had to come in today and tell her that she had to follow my system, and if she didn't like it, to take a hike. Obviously he was being a bit melodramatic, but nonetheless he did want me to speak with her. Oh boy. Now, some forty-something woman is not going to want to be taking orders from me. Veruca Salt, I am not. I wonder how this will work itself out. I've got my money on everything reverting to the old system and all my work for the week being placed in the circular file (there's some lame corporate humor I haven't used in a while). Serves me right for thinking I can try to fix things that people prefer to leave broken.
Yesterday one of the other doctors brought his 12 year old daughter to the office. I think it was Indian doctor bring your confused daughter to work day. She was actually adorable and was eager enough to help me alphabetize stuff. Later in the day, some patients were sitting in the waiting room and looked at us. Then a woman pointed at her, looked at me and said "She is your daughter? Very beautiful!"
Oh maaaaaaaaan. A 12-year old daughter? Me? Really? I've crossed the threshold into possible-motherhood resemblance. A 2-year old, even a 5-year old I could understand. But 12? Just great. I am solaced by the fact that this patient was like 100 years old and had thick glasses on. Doesn't change what she said though.
Acting on my newfound motherly aura, I decided to make a second attempt at cookies. Chocolate chip with walnut to be precise. My mom looked at me like I was out of my mind. But I was determined. I dug out a handheld electric mixer that had never, ever been used. FYI, my family does not bake. The oven never gets used. Indian food -- at least the stuff my mom makes -- is made on the stove, not in the oven. So using a mixer and a bowl from 1976, I made chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
I wish I had some music to insert right here, when I tell you that my cookies were magnificent. I wasn't exactly sure how the Indian cookies I made last time really turned out, so I relied on my parents' and aunt and uncles' judgement. But chocolate chip cookies? I am quite the connoisseur. Dude, my cookies rivaled Mrs. Fields. And her husband David. They would sell like hotcakes in airports and highway rest areas. I was so proud of them that I put them in a tupperware bin and took them with me to the office today. Not even to share with people. Just to keep near. They are precious to me. Proof of my ability to create. Not purchase. Create. I don't even think I'll be able to eat the rest. I can give you one if I see you soon. I might even make some to send to my brother in Atlanta.
I know I'm overreacting. But I really, truly am this happy. Did you know that in the 3 years I lived in Manhattan, I lived in 3 different apartments? And in those 3 different apartments, I never once used the kitchen. Not once. Not the stove, not the oven, nothing. Perhaps the refrigerator to keep water cold and the microwave to heat up some Bowl Appetit! (for real, it's a Betty Crocker ready-made meal thing. I love the name so much). But never have I ever baked.
Don't worry, I won't become Martha Stewart or anything. Well, maybe on the insider trading side. But not the happy homemaker side.
I feel like seeing a movie and doing something normal. Working in this office and baking when I go home is so unlike me. I need to remove myself from this bizarro-world.
The secretary came back from vacation today. Last night, my Dad told me I had to come in today and tell her that she had to follow my system, and if she didn't like it, to take a hike. Obviously he was being a bit melodramatic, but nonetheless he did want me to speak with her. Oh boy. Now, some forty-something woman is not going to want to be taking orders from me. Veruca Salt, I am not. I wonder how this will work itself out. I've got my money on everything reverting to the old system and all my work for the week being placed in the circular file (there's some lame corporate humor I haven't used in a while). Serves me right for thinking I can try to fix things that people prefer to leave broken.
Yesterday one of the other doctors brought his 12 year old daughter to the office. I think it was Indian doctor bring your confused daughter to work day. She was actually adorable and was eager enough to help me alphabetize stuff. Later in the day, some patients were sitting in the waiting room and looked at us. Then a woman pointed at her, looked at me and said "She is your daughter? Very beautiful!"
Oh maaaaaaaaan. A 12-year old daughter? Me? Really? I've crossed the threshold into possible-motherhood resemblance. A 2-year old, even a 5-year old I could understand. But 12? Just great. I am solaced by the fact that this patient was like 100 years old and had thick glasses on. Doesn't change what she said though.
Acting on my newfound motherly aura, I decided to make a second attempt at cookies. Chocolate chip with walnut to be precise. My mom looked at me like I was out of my mind. But I was determined. I dug out a handheld electric mixer that had never, ever been used. FYI, my family does not bake. The oven never gets used. Indian food -- at least the stuff my mom makes -- is made on the stove, not in the oven. So using a mixer and a bowl from 1976, I made chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
I wish I had some music to insert right here, when I tell you that my cookies were magnificent. I wasn't exactly sure how the Indian cookies I made last time really turned out, so I relied on my parents' and aunt and uncles' judgement. But chocolate chip cookies? I am quite the connoisseur. Dude, my cookies rivaled Mrs. Fields. And her husband David. They would sell like hotcakes in airports and highway rest areas. I was so proud of them that I put them in a tupperware bin and took them with me to the office today. Not even to share with people. Just to keep near. They are precious to me. Proof of my ability to create. Not purchase. Create. I don't even think I'll be able to eat the rest. I can give you one if I see you soon. I might even make some to send to my brother in Atlanta.
I know I'm overreacting. But I really, truly am this happy. Did you know that in the 3 years I lived in Manhattan, I lived in 3 different apartments? And in those 3 different apartments, I never once used the kitchen. Not once. Not the stove, not the oven, nothing. Perhaps the refrigerator to keep water cold and the microwave to heat up some Bowl Appetit! (for real, it's a Betty Crocker ready-made meal thing. I love the name so much). But never have I ever baked.
Don't worry, I won't become Martha Stewart or anything. Well, maybe on the insider trading side. But not the happy homemaker side.
I feel like seeing a movie and doing something normal. Working in this office and baking when I go home is so unlike me. I need to remove myself from this bizarro-world.
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