This is what my dear friend Joanne said to me when she helped me move to Philly. We both got a good laugh out of it. Angela the door mat? Hard? Whatev.
And yet, I realized this weekend, that it has happened. Gone is the girl who handed out free blueberry muffins to a homeless man. (Turns out, when you do that, he’ll try to steal kisses and go home with you. Then you have to call the police on him. And in the end, both you and the homeless man would have been better off without the muffin.)
This weekend, I went camping with some friends from grad school. I had invited along my good friend Katie who I know from church. At the time I hadn’t thought anything of it. I never thought that I was any different at church than I am anywhere else in life. I was wrong. Grad school Angela is a lot meaner than church Angela.
It’s not just the city that made me hard. It was the city, combined with the hell that is grad school. You get it from every side. The faculty, post-docs, and fellow grad students are all out to prove to you that you are stupid and worthless and you don’t belong there. Students respond to this in various ways. Some pretend to be too cool for everything. Some internalize it and agree with their tormentors, “Yes, I am stupid, I don’t belong here,” letting their spirits get crushed. Some drink. Heavily. Some may actually deal with it in a healthy way (though I’m not sure what that is). Me, I used to belong to the camp of, “Yes, I’m worthless” but have since gone on the offensive. At my previous job I was the sweet helpful girl, always looking to lend a hand. Now, at work, I wear the face of, “Look at me wrong and I’ll cut you.” I will tell you how you can and cannot treat me. I’m not taking crap from anyone.
I was proud of the new me. I felt I had finally developed the thicker skin my mom always spoke of when I was growing up and given to crying too easily. Grad school and Philly made me tough. Nothing could stop me now, I thought.
Today, in lab meeting, my boss referred to something I had done as ‘stupid’, the first time he ever applied that word to me. A year ago this would have crushed me, leaving me in tears. Today, in my mind, I responded, “Yeah, well, you don’t know what you are talking about.” In this instance, I think my hardness is good.
But what about when you don’t know how to turn it off? What about being stingy and harsh with your friends when you are supposed to be having a good time? What about turning the other cheek? How do you balance it? What is the saying? “Thick skin, tender heart”? How do you get there?
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Lockup: West Philly
I am a huge fan of prison documentaries. I tell everyone, “I can’t explain it, I’m just fascinated.” I also tell them that in the event I become wrongfully imprisoned, I’ll be prepared. I now know how to fashion a shank out of my toothbrush then safely stuff it up my bum so I can get it into the yard where all the riots occur.
I’m only half-kidding.
There was a period a few years back when I was starting to question where my life was going. Growing up I assumed I would have a certain life, one like my mom’s. Get married, have kids, buy a house, raise a family, the basic American dream. But that wasn’t happening for me. People at my church said things they figured were affirming and harmless. Things like, “You are trying your best to serve God. Because of that, He is going to bless you,” and “God wouldn’t put desires in your heart if He wasn’t going to fulfill them.” Hmmm. Those sure do sound nice, wouldn’t it be nice if they were true? The thing is, the more I studied the Bible, the less true those nice statements sounded. I got really stuck on Paul. Here is a guy that went all out for God. He sought to hear God and do His will. And Paul wound up in prison. In fact, through out the Bible a lot of God’s servants wind up in prison wrongfully. I couldn’t help thinking, “If God’s best for me is prison, I can do better than that on my own.” It also didn’t help that all my non-Christian friends seemed to be living charmed lives, realizing all the dreams I had held.
So I started doing things my way, by my rules. It wasn’t long before I was engaged to be married, my career was taking off, and I had fabulous friends to go out with. Except that it wasn’t perfect. I discovered that my fiancé was controlling and angry and the farther my career went, the more my coworkers resented me, and the going out gets old.
This was not going right. I had to fix this. I deserved better than this. I broke off my engagement, but that didn’t set things right the way I thought it would. Then my company got bought and they were rumors we were all going to be laid off.
“This is it,” I thought, “my way out.” I’d always wanted to go to grad school. Here was my chance to get out of town, start over in a new city, get things going in the right direction.
Again, it all looked so good, but it wasn’t. I had lots of new friends to go out with, and the parties were fun, but after the party I was left with endless hours of emptiness. I had managed to force my way into the lab I wanted, but if my previous coworkers had been an outer level of hell, my new labmates were four stories down. On top of that, nothing I tried in lab worked and I felt like the village idiot. My former success as a chemist felt like a distant fantasy.
After two years of this I was at the end of my rope. None of my happiness plans had panned out. I had lost all confidence, personally and professionally.
And I started watching Lockup.
I could relate. I felt trapped. I was stuck in a city that now felt dirty, cheap, and unsafe. My former job was gone due to the sale of the company, so there was no turning back. As for the future, well, my multitude of failures in lab were not pointing toward graduation.
On the show, an inmate spoke about learning not to look forward to his release date. At first it feels good to imagine life on the outside. But then you can see all the things you don’t have now. So you start to count the days, but then you realize you have a long way to go. A really long way to go. And the weight of your sentence crushes you. It’s better not to think about the future, just keep your head down and try to make it through another day. Except, in grad school, you don’t get a release date. Your sentence is indefinite.
Shortly after this realization, that my life was striking similar to that of an inmate, my pastor gave a sermon on the life of Joseph. Joseph had some older brothers who were quite jealous of him, so they sold him into slavery. Then, due to more bad luck, Joseph wound up wrongfully imprisoned for a long time. Toward the end of the sermon, my pastor said, “Some of you may feel like you are in prison.” Does this guy read my mail, or what?
Finally, it dawned on me, I was in prison, thought not wrongfully so. I put myself here. Forging my own path and running away, had led me exactly where I was trying to avoid, prison. You can run the opposite direction from God. He’ll let you keep running as long as you like. Until it gets hot enough for you. Or you wind up in the belly of a fish. I realized, I’m not Joseph, I’m Jonah. And I’ve finally gotten the point. It’s time to stop doing things my way and start doing them God’s way.
I’m trying to do the things my pastor advised during a prison stay. Stay active by taking your opportunities, using your gifts, and being focused on others and point people to God. I think it’s working.
I now feel more like an inmate given special privileges for good behavior. Looking forward to my release date is still depressing. However, spending my days trying to be useful to others makes them more bearable. I feel I have a purpose now, that God put me in this situation for a reason. And some day, when I’ve learned what He planned for me, He’ll let me out.
I’m only half-kidding.
There was a period a few years back when I was starting to question where my life was going. Growing up I assumed I would have a certain life, one like my mom’s. Get married, have kids, buy a house, raise a family, the basic American dream. But that wasn’t happening for me. People at my church said things they figured were affirming and harmless. Things like, “You are trying your best to serve God. Because of that, He is going to bless you,” and “God wouldn’t put desires in your heart if He wasn’t going to fulfill them.” Hmmm. Those sure do sound nice, wouldn’t it be nice if they were true? The thing is, the more I studied the Bible, the less true those nice statements sounded. I got really stuck on Paul. Here is a guy that went all out for God. He sought to hear God and do His will. And Paul wound up in prison. In fact, through out the Bible a lot of God’s servants wind up in prison wrongfully. I couldn’t help thinking, “If God’s best for me is prison, I can do better than that on my own.” It also didn’t help that all my non-Christian friends seemed to be living charmed lives, realizing all the dreams I had held.
So I started doing things my way, by my rules. It wasn’t long before I was engaged to be married, my career was taking off, and I had fabulous friends to go out with. Except that it wasn’t perfect. I discovered that my fiancé was controlling and angry and the farther my career went, the more my coworkers resented me, and the going out gets old.
This was not going right. I had to fix this. I deserved better than this. I broke off my engagement, but that didn’t set things right the way I thought it would. Then my company got bought and they were rumors we were all going to be laid off.
“This is it,” I thought, “my way out.” I’d always wanted to go to grad school. Here was my chance to get out of town, start over in a new city, get things going in the right direction.
Again, it all looked so good, but it wasn’t. I had lots of new friends to go out with, and the parties were fun, but after the party I was left with endless hours of emptiness. I had managed to force my way into the lab I wanted, but if my previous coworkers had been an outer level of hell, my new labmates were four stories down. On top of that, nothing I tried in lab worked and I felt like the village idiot. My former success as a chemist felt like a distant fantasy.
After two years of this I was at the end of my rope. None of my happiness plans had panned out. I had lost all confidence, personally and professionally.
And I started watching Lockup.
I could relate. I felt trapped. I was stuck in a city that now felt dirty, cheap, and unsafe. My former job was gone due to the sale of the company, so there was no turning back. As for the future, well, my multitude of failures in lab were not pointing toward graduation.
On the show, an inmate spoke about learning not to look forward to his release date. At first it feels good to imagine life on the outside. But then you can see all the things you don’t have now. So you start to count the days, but then you realize you have a long way to go. A really long way to go. And the weight of your sentence crushes you. It’s better not to think about the future, just keep your head down and try to make it through another day. Except, in grad school, you don’t get a release date. Your sentence is indefinite.
Shortly after this realization, that my life was striking similar to that of an inmate, my pastor gave a sermon on the life of Joseph. Joseph had some older brothers who were quite jealous of him, so they sold him into slavery. Then, due to more bad luck, Joseph wound up wrongfully imprisoned for a long time. Toward the end of the sermon, my pastor said, “Some of you may feel like you are in prison.” Does this guy read my mail, or what?
Finally, it dawned on me, I was in prison, thought not wrongfully so. I put myself here. Forging my own path and running away, had led me exactly where I was trying to avoid, prison. You can run the opposite direction from God. He’ll let you keep running as long as you like. Until it gets hot enough for you. Or you wind up in the belly of a fish. I realized, I’m not Joseph, I’m Jonah. And I’ve finally gotten the point. It’s time to stop doing things my way and start doing them God’s way.
I’m trying to do the things my pastor advised during a prison stay. Stay active by taking your opportunities, using your gifts, and being focused on others and point people to God. I think it’s working.
I now feel more like an inmate given special privileges for good behavior. Looking forward to my release date is still depressing. However, spending my days trying to be useful to others makes them more bearable. I feel I have a purpose now, that God put me in this situation for a reason. And some day, when I’ve learned what He planned for me, He’ll let me out.
Monday, June 9, 2008
The rise and fall of my utopian mass spec society
A month ago something amazing happened. A lab mate called me into a room down the hall. “I want to show you something,” he said. He led me next to the newest mass spec our PI had bought and said, “This is yours,” gesturing to the new ion trap. I couldn’t believe it. “Seriously?” I asked. “Yup,” he confirmed. “No, seriously?” I asked. “Yes, I’m totally serious,” he assured me. “You’re lying to me,” I accused, certain this was some mean trick. “No, it really is yours. Take good care of it,” he told me and left me with my new baby.
This was too amazing. I had waited three long years for this moment, certain I would always be considered the idiot grad student, too stupid to be trusted with the pH meter. But now my moment had come. And she was all mine. I kept her a secret for two days, reveling in the excitement of uninterrupted instrument time, a first in my graduate school career.
I had plans for this mass spec (MS). You see, most of the instruments are ruled by surly grad students and post-docs who offer unlimited instrument time to their friends, but screw over everyone else in the lab. If something goes wrong with an instrument, they instantly point fingers at whomever they like least, regardless of whether that person had anything to do with it. And if you should make a mistake with their instrument, look out. The whole lab is going to hear about it and they will never let you forget it.
But not my mass spec. It would be different. Everyone would get equal opportunity to use it. I would train anyone who wanted to learn. We would all work together and the result would be increased productivity and a boost in lab morale and my PI would finally be proud of me. This was my chance to show them all how it’s done.
Things started out well. We were sharing and getting data and we all got as much time on it as we wanted. See, I thought, and you all said it couldn’t be done. Look at me changing the world (my world anyway, a little bit). I should have known that kind of perfection can’t last.
After almost a full month of mass spec utopia a chemist in the lab asked me if he could use the instrument. He said he had run his compound on another mass spec before but that MS was in use and my instrument was idle so I figured, What’s the harm? And look at me being so accommodating, I share with everyone. Carried away by my own kindness I showed him the basics then left him to his work, neglecting to ask what was in the sample he planned to run. He had run it before, right?
Dun, dun, dun…
I received an e-mail the next morning from the lab mate who had bequeathed to me the MS. He questioned, Did I know the source was crusted over with salt? Something bad must have been run on the MS. Crap. Maybe he’s wrong or exaggerating.
I hurried to the MS to see for myself. Holy crap. I’d never seen such a source in real life. It was like the scary pictures they show you in mass spec courses of how bad it can get if you use the wrong buffer. What was in his sample? By now the chemist had heard about his foul up and he entered the room. “So, what was in your sample?” I asked, trying to sound calm, and not-surly. “I had my compound dissolved in PBS,” he replied. Oh. My. God. For those not in the lab, PBS is Phosphate Buffered Saline. I will always remember the early days of my mass spec training with my boss warning me gravely, “Never, ever, put phosphate buffer on a mass spec.” Right. To drive home the point for those of you who have no clue what an MS is, this was akin to sticking a metal pot in the microwave; everyone KNOWS you don’t do that. I mean, do you ask your guests when they enter your kitchen not to put anything metal in the microwave? No, because you assume they know better. All I could think was, How could you do this? But that’s not nice. Angela is the nice compassionate grad student who doesn’t yell. “Okay, I’m gonna need to clean this and replace some parts,” I told him in the nicest most not-yelling way I could muster.
So, for the rest of the day I cleaned and sonicated, and cleaned and sonicated, and switched out parts, trying to get the sensitivity back to where it was before. As I took apart fittings salt crumbled out onto my bench. As I used a fine wire to scrape out white chunks of who-knows-what I though, Fine, the surly grad students have a point. I went to them for advice. “You just have to be a bitch about it. Tell them they can’t use it,” they told me. While I rebelled against such notions, having been the victim of them before, I have to admit it was tempting. Simply banish the offender. Maybe, but I wouldn’t do it without my boss’s approval. So I fired off an e-mail to my PI, asking what he wanted me to do, praying he would recommend banishment.
Days later I got his reply, “I admire your collegial attitude. We should maintain a system that is open to all. You simply need to be more careful in monitoring its use.” Great. Cause I have nothing better to do than monitor other people’s work. What a giant suckfest I have created.
So, in the time since Saltfest08 I have been trying to come up with a system that will work for everyone. It’s not going well. And I feel like a huge jerk. Partly for getting upset with the offending party. And partly for believing in utopia, which, almost by definition, is doomed to fail.
So the record is: The System: 1, Angela: 0. But I’ll be back. And hopefully next time I’ll have a happier ending to my story.
This was too amazing. I had waited three long years for this moment, certain I would always be considered the idiot grad student, too stupid to be trusted with the pH meter. But now my moment had come. And she was all mine. I kept her a secret for two days, reveling in the excitement of uninterrupted instrument time, a first in my graduate school career.
I had plans for this mass spec (MS). You see, most of the instruments are ruled by surly grad students and post-docs who offer unlimited instrument time to their friends, but screw over everyone else in the lab. If something goes wrong with an instrument, they instantly point fingers at whomever they like least, regardless of whether that person had anything to do with it. And if you should make a mistake with their instrument, look out. The whole lab is going to hear about it and they will never let you forget it.
But not my mass spec. It would be different. Everyone would get equal opportunity to use it. I would train anyone who wanted to learn. We would all work together and the result would be increased productivity and a boost in lab morale and my PI would finally be proud of me. This was my chance to show them all how it’s done.
Things started out well. We were sharing and getting data and we all got as much time on it as we wanted. See, I thought, and you all said it couldn’t be done. Look at me changing the world (my world anyway, a little bit). I should have known that kind of perfection can’t last.
After almost a full month of mass spec utopia a chemist in the lab asked me if he could use the instrument. He said he had run his compound on another mass spec before but that MS was in use and my instrument was idle so I figured, What’s the harm? And look at me being so accommodating, I share with everyone. Carried away by my own kindness I showed him the basics then left him to his work, neglecting to ask what was in the sample he planned to run. He had run it before, right?
Dun, dun, dun…
I received an e-mail the next morning from the lab mate who had bequeathed to me the MS. He questioned, Did I know the source was crusted over with salt? Something bad must have been run on the MS. Crap. Maybe he’s wrong or exaggerating.
I hurried to the MS to see for myself. Holy crap. I’d never seen such a source in real life. It was like the scary pictures they show you in mass spec courses of how bad it can get if you use the wrong buffer. What was in his sample? By now the chemist had heard about his foul up and he entered the room. “So, what was in your sample?” I asked, trying to sound calm, and not-surly. “I had my compound dissolved in PBS,” he replied. Oh. My. God. For those not in the lab, PBS is Phosphate Buffered Saline. I will always remember the early days of my mass spec training with my boss warning me gravely, “Never, ever, put phosphate buffer on a mass spec.” Right. To drive home the point for those of you who have no clue what an MS is, this was akin to sticking a metal pot in the microwave; everyone KNOWS you don’t do that. I mean, do you ask your guests when they enter your kitchen not to put anything metal in the microwave? No, because you assume they know better. All I could think was, How could you do this? But that’s not nice. Angela is the nice compassionate grad student who doesn’t yell. “Okay, I’m gonna need to clean this and replace some parts,” I told him in the nicest most not-yelling way I could muster.
So, for the rest of the day I cleaned and sonicated, and cleaned and sonicated, and switched out parts, trying to get the sensitivity back to where it was before. As I took apart fittings salt crumbled out onto my bench. As I used a fine wire to scrape out white chunks of who-knows-what I though, Fine, the surly grad students have a point. I went to them for advice. “You just have to be a bitch about it. Tell them they can’t use it,” they told me. While I rebelled against such notions, having been the victim of them before, I have to admit it was tempting. Simply banish the offender. Maybe, but I wouldn’t do it without my boss’s approval. So I fired off an e-mail to my PI, asking what he wanted me to do, praying he would recommend banishment.
Days later I got his reply, “I admire your collegial attitude. We should maintain a system that is open to all. You simply need to be more careful in monitoring its use.” Great. Cause I have nothing better to do than monitor other people’s work. What a giant suckfest I have created.
So, in the time since Saltfest08 I have been trying to come up with a system that will work for everyone. It’s not going well. And I feel like a huge jerk. Partly for getting upset with the offending party. And partly for believing in utopia, which, almost by definition, is doomed to fail.
So the record is: The System: 1, Angela: 0. But I’ll be back. And hopefully next time I’ll have a happier ending to my story.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
I am so frickin' perfect, who wouldn't want to know my God?
Back in college I had an atheist friend who was somewhat disillusioned with relationships. He told me one day, "Every friend I have ever had has let me down." This initiated the expression of my fix-it gene that I inherited from my mother. I made a vow to myself that I would never let him down. I figured in this way he would see the love of Christ and be moved to accept Jesus and then we could spend eternity in heaven together being BFFs. You can probably guess how this turned out. I disappointed him and as a consequence of my imperfection Jesus could not save him. Just kidding. I did let him down, but he wound up coming to Christ later on when he met his future wife. He now has babies and is happy, or so I hear. I figure we'll catch up as BFFs in heaven.
Anyway, you would think that with time I would grow in wisdom and maturity and recognize the naivete in such quests. You would think.
I recently found out a (former?) friend has been telling people that I am lousy. That I hurt her (which is true) and therefore no one should trust me or believe anything I say (I hope that's not true). I did hurt her, more than once. Each time, when I realized what I had done, I apologized and asked her forgiveness, hoping we could still be friends despite the fact that I can be a twit. Each time she assured me that we were cool and everything was fine. So finding out that she has been telling people I am a creepizoid really upset me. But maybe not for the reason you might think.
My fear is, what if she's right? I mean, she's got a point, I screwed up more than once. I have a long history of really hurting the people I love most. Why should anyone trust me? Worst of all, what kind of Christian does that make me? In Christian circles we like to complain about the bad hypocritical Christians that give us a bad name. The whole,
"The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door and deny him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable." - Brennan Manning
Yeah, that bad Christian, that's me. I'm the jerk. Even worse, I've participated in the bad Christian bashing. That makes me like a double hypocrite, which has gotta be the worst kind. Why should my friend want to follow Christ when, instead of showing the love of Christ, I'm letting her down? Over and over again.
But maybe (probably?) there is a flaw in my philosophy. What brand of Christianity am I trying to sell here? I pretty sure that, "Once you get saved you will be perfect," is not in the Bible. The Bible does tell us to confess our sins to one another (James 5:16), which kind of implies there will be sinning going on.
So maybe it's not about being perfect so that others will be saved. We know we don't get saved because we are good enough, no one is. So why should someone else's salvation be based on whether I am good enough? Maybe it was small-minded of me to think that God's ability to impact people's lives would be limited by my flaws. Maybe I should look back at what happened 10 years ago and learn something (i.e. grow in wisdom and maturity): God saved my friend because of who He is, not because of my foolish attempt to earn someone's salvation.
So where does this leave my dear friend? Well, I'm sorry she feels so hurt by me. I didn't mean to hurt her. I do still want to be her friend, but I get the distinct impression she doesn't want to be mine. And that's okay. I just have to trust God to take good care of her. Maybe she will come to Christ in spite of me. And then we can be BFFs in heaven together.
Anyway, you would think that with time I would grow in wisdom and maturity and recognize the naivete in such quests. You would think.
I recently found out a (former?) friend has been telling people that I am lousy. That I hurt her (which is true) and therefore no one should trust me or believe anything I say (I hope that's not true). I did hurt her, more than once. Each time, when I realized what I had done, I apologized and asked her forgiveness, hoping we could still be friends despite the fact that I can be a twit. Each time she assured me that we were cool and everything was fine. So finding out that she has been telling people I am a creepizoid really upset me. But maybe not for the reason you might think.
My fear is, what if she's right? I mean, she's got a point, I screwed up more than once. I have a long history of really hurting the people I love most. Why should anyone trust me? Worst of all, what kind of Christian does that make me? In Christian circles we like to complain about the bad hypocritical Christians that give us a bad name. The whole,
"The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door and deny him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable." - Brennan Manning
Yeah, that bad Christian, that's me. I'm the jerk. Even worse, I've participated in the bad Christian bashing. That makes me like a double hypocrite, which has gotta be the worst kind. Why should my friend want to follow Christ when, instead of showing the love of Christ, I'm letting her down? Over and over again.
But maybe (probably?) there is a flaw in my philosophy. What brand of Christianity am I trying to sell here? I pretty sure that, "Once you get saved you will be perfect," is not in the Bible. The Bible does tell us to confess our sins to one another (James 5:16), which kind of implies there will be sinning going on.
So maybe it's not about being perfect so that others will be saved. We know we don't get saved because we are good enough, no one is. So why should someone else's salvation be based on whether I am good enough? Maybe it was small-minded of me to think that God's ability to impact people's lives would be limited by my flaws. Maybe I should look back at what happened 10 years ago and learn something (i.e. grow in wisdom and maturity): God saved my friend because of who He is, not because of my foolish attempt to earn someone's salvation.
So where does this leave my dear friend? Well, I'm sorry she feels so hurt by me. I didn't mean to hurt her. I do still want to be her friend, but I get the distinct impression she doesn't want to be mine. And that's okay. I just have to trust God to take good care of her. Maybe she will come to Christ in spite of me. And then we can be BFFs in heaven together.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
The Rabies Story
For those of you who missed it the first time around, here is the rabies story.
So there is a homeless guy we'll call 'Oscar' who lives on my front porch part-time. (If he lived there all the time he technically wouldn't be homeless, right?) Oscar is French, generally harmless and, when he is sober, is almost lucid. He gets along with women pretty well, but is somewhat less tolerant of men. For example, one time my friend Steven replied, "Oh yeah?" rather innocuously to something Oscar said. Apparently this was highly offensive to Oscar who gave Steven quite a tongue lashing about respect. So my basic plan with Oscar is to keep him happy. Smile, nod, and go along with whatever he might say, even though I usually don't understand him.
Sometimes I'll see Oscar daily, then he'll disappear for weeks or months. Once, after being gone for a few months I saw him on the porch again. "Oscar! I haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been?" I asked. "Oh," he replied in his gravelly French accent, "I've been in the suburbs. I stay with my girlfriend out there. I can't take the city anymore. It's too dirty here. Trash everywhere. And you know what?" "What Oscar?" "There are too many crazy people around here. I can't take it anymore." Two things in this conversation struck me. 1) How sad has my life gotten that Oscar can find love and I can't? 2) Oscar is complaining about the crazy people? Hmmm.
Anyway, this past January I was walking to school when I saw Oscar with a dog about a block from my place. "Oscar, is this your dog? I've never seen him before," I say. "Yeah, I found her in the street. Pet her," Oscar tells me. Okay, in retrospect, I know that following Oscar's directions doesn't sound bright. But I've never had a run-in with a dog before, and the only rule that comes to mind at the moment is, "Keep Oscar happy, go along with it." Plus, there is the fact that my entire life I have been obedient to a fault.
The first example I have of this occurred when I was in the first grade. The rules were specific, you do not move, talk to your neighbor, or in any other way divert your focus when it is time to pledge allegiance to the flag. Unfortunately, I was not feeling well one day and got sick. During the pledge. So, I stood at my desk, with my hand over my heart, and threw up on the back of the shoes of the kid in front of me. (He never forgot this, reminding me several times throughout the rest of the school year that I threw up on him. I honestly never understood why he was so upset, in my mind it wasn't my fault.) My teacher asked me, "Angela, if you were sick, why didn't you run over to the trash can?" I innocently and sincerely told her, "We aren't allowed to move during the pledge." She revised the rules that day. From that point forward students were allowed to leave their desks during the pledge if they should get sick. But I digress.
So, naive, obedient Angela reaches out to pet the little harmless looking yellow dog. Within seconds the bitch (she was female, I'm being accurate) has clamped down onto my fingers and is not letting go. Oscar is completely unfazed by my situation. "Okay, she's mean!" I exclaim and finally manage to yank my hand back. I tell Oscar that I've gotta go now and hurry on my way. Oscar helpfully tells me to have a good day.
As I'm walking, it occurs to me that my fingers really hurt. Eventually I look down and notice I am bleeding. Crap. I hope it doesn't get infected. What is first aid for a dog bite, I wonder. Then my mind starts to replay the conversation. "I found her in the street." What are the odds that the dog was current on her rabies vaccine? Probably not good. But, I'm not panicking yet. I get to work, check my e-mail, get things started for the day, then figure I should call student health and see if they have any advice on dog bite first aid. The girl on the other end of the phone sounds less relaxed though, "How long ago did this happen?" "About an hour and half," I tell her. "How fast can you get here?" she asks. "Um, I guess I can come right now," I say. Great.
At Student Health they set me to work scrubbing my wounds while my doctor Googles rabies. BTW, it doesn't inspire confidence when your doctor Googles your illness. "How did this happen?" the doctor asks me. Moment of shame. Yes, I am the idiot white girl from the suburbs who did what the homeless man told her to do. I tell her the story. She gives me the look I expected. This plays out over again every time a different nurse wanders in. They ask, I explain, the look. I'm beginning to think of changing my answer to, "Because I'm thupid. Still tarded!"
"Well," my doctor says, "it doesn't look like there were many cases of rabies in dogs in Philadelphia last year, so the odds of you getting the disease are low. Then again, if you do get rabies and don't get treated, rabies is always fatal. It's up to you, do you want to be treated?"
Honestly, there was a part of me that though, eh, what are the odds? Then I thought about how the conversation would go the next time I talk to my mom and inform her that I chose not to be protected against a fatal but preventable disease. I tell the doctor this. "Well, you don't have to tell her,' she says. True. But now I start thinking about Murphy's law. I'm thinking, if I don't get treated, I will most definitely get the disease. And then I will wind up breaking one of the few rules I live by, "Don't die a stupid death." It's not that I am afraid of dying. I just don't want everyone as my funeral thinking, "What kind of idiot gets sucked out by a rip tide/doesn't leave a house full of toxic and flammable fumes/ gets back in the shower after passing out in it once already?" (These are all scenarios that have invoked the Don't-die-a-stupid-death rule before.)
So, for the sake of preserving my reputation after death, I chose to be treated. The several mils of interferon gamma in the finger hurt like hell, but the vaccine shots (which they now administer in the arm) weren't so bad. So, I'm happy to say that I have not contracted or died of rabies, yet. And I have a new rule to live by, "Don't pet dogs, especially those owned by homeless people." I'm making an exception for Alfie though.
So there is a homeless guy we'll call 'Oscar' who lives on my front porch part-time. (If he lived there all the time he technically wouldn't be homeless, right?) Oscar is French, generally harmless and, when he is sober, is almost lucid. He gets along with women pretty well, but is somewhat less tolerant of men. For example, one time my friend Steven replied, "Oh yeah?" rather innocuously to something Oscar said. Apparently this was highly offensive to Oscar who gave Steven quite a tongue lashing about respect. So my basic plan with Oscar is to keep him happy. Smile, nod, and go along with whatever he might say, even though I usually don't understand him.
Sometimes I'll see Oscar daily, then he'll disappear for weeks or months. Once, after being gone for a few months I saw him on the porch again. "Oscar! I haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been?" I asked. "Oh," he replied in his gravelly French accent, "I've been in the suburbs. I stay with my girlfriend out there. I can't take the city anymore. It's too dirty here. Trash everywhere. And you know what?" "What Oscar?" "There are too many crazy people around here. I can't take it anymore." Two things in this conversation struck me. 1) How sad has my life gotten that Oscar can find love and I can't? 2) Oscar is complaining about the crazy people? Hmmm.
Anyway, this past January I was walking to school when I saw Oscar with a dog about a block from my place. "Oscar, is this your dog? I've never seen him before," I say. "Yeah, I found her in the street. Pet her," Oscar tells me. Okay, in retrospect, I know that following Oscar's directions doesn't sound bright. But I've never had a run-in with a dog before, and the only rule that comes to mind at the moment is, "Keep Oscar happy, go along with it." Plus, there is the fact that my entire life I have been obedient to a fault.
The first example I have of this occurred when I was in the first grade. The rules were specific, you do not move, talk to your neighbor, or in any other way divert your focus when it is time to pledge allegiance to the flag. Unfortunately, I was not feeling well one day and got sick. During the pledge. So, I stood at my desk, with my hand over my heart, and threw up on the back of the shoes of the kid in front of me. (He never forgot this, reminding me several times throughout the rest of the school year that I threw up on him. I honestly never understood why he was so upset, in my mind it wasn't my fault.) My teacher asked me, "Angela, if you were sick, why didn't you run over to the trash can?" I innocently and sincerely told her, "We aren't allowed to move during the pledge." She revised the rules that day. From that point forward students were allowed to leave their desks during the pledge if they should get sick. But I digress.
So, naive, obedient Angela reaches out to pet the little harmless looking yellow dog. Within seconds the bitch (she was female, I'm being accurate) has clamped down onto my fingers and is not letting go. Oscar is completely unfazed by my situation. "Okay, she's mean!" I exclaim and finally manage to yank my hand back. I tell Oscar that I've gotta go now and hurry on my way. Oscar helpfully tells me to have a good day.
As I'm walking, it occurs to me that my fingers really hurt. Eventually I look down and notice I am bleeding. Crap. I hope it doesn't get infected. What is first aid for a dog bite, I wonder. Then my mind starts to replay the conversation. "I found her in the street." What are the odds that the dog was current on her rabies vaccine? Probably not good. But, I'm not panicking yet. I get to work, check my e-mail, get things started for the day, then figure I should call student health and see if they have any advice on dog bite first aid. The girl on the other end of the phone sounds less relaxed though, "How long ago did this happen?" "About an hour and half," I tell her. "How fast can you get here?" she asks. "Um, I guess I can come right now," I say. Great.
At Student Health they set me to work scrubbing my wounds while my doctor Googles rabies. BTW, it doesn't inspire confidence when your doctor Googles your illness. "How did this happen?" the doctor asks me. Moment of shame. Yes, I am the idiot white girl from the suburbs who did what the homeless man told her to do. I tell her the story. She gives me the look I expected. This plays out over again every time a different nurse wanders in. They ask, I explain, the look. I'm beginning to think of changing my answer to, "Because I'm thupid. Still tarded!"
"Well," my doctor says, "it doesn't look like there were many cases of rabies in dogs in Philadelphia last year, so the odds of you getting the disease are low. Then again, if you do get rabies and don't get treated, rabies is always fatal. It's up to you, do you want to be treated?"
Honestly, there was a part of me that though, eh, what are the odds? Then I thought about how the conversation would go the next time I talk to my mom and inform her that I chose not to be protected against a fatal but preventable disease. I tell the doctor this. "Well, you don't have to tell her,' she says. True. But now I start thinking about Murphy's law. I'm thinking, if I don't get treated, I will most definitely get the disease. And then I will wind up breaking one of the few rules I live by, "Don't die a stupid death." It's not that I am afraid of dying. I just don't want everyone as my funeral thinking, "What kind of idiot gets sucked out by a rip tide/doesn't leave a house full of toxic and flammable fumes/ gets back in the shower after passing out in it once already?" (These are all scenarios that have invoked the Don't-die-a-stupid-death rule before.)
So, for the sake of preserving my reputation after death, I chose to be treated. The several mils of interferon gamma in the finger hurt like hell, but the vaccine shots (which they now administer in the arm) weren't so bad. So, I'm happy to say that I have not contracted or died of rabies, yet. And I have a new rule to live by, "Don't pet dogs, especially those owned by homeless people." I'm making an exception for Alfie though.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The sun is actually shining today
Imagine that you have a great job that you enjoy doing and pays well and is located in a city that you thoroughly enjoy. Then imagine that you walk away from that for a job that pays a third as much such that after you pay your bills you've got $5 left over, so this requires you to live in a city where your safety is compromised daily. Oh and you suck at your job and get told you are an idiot on a regular basis. Think about what you might wish for in this situation.
The immediate thing that comes to mind would probably be for your previous lifestyle. That's not an option though, so you wish for things that might make your current situation more bearable, like a nice dinner out, or a trip home to see your old friends. Maybe you would wish for a vacation or some sexy shoes or, best of all, some good wine. Or perhaps it would be something as basic as Mom's cooking and a full night's sleep.
Oh, I've wished for them all. And I've had all those things. And, at the time, they definitely raised my level of satisfaction. But I want something more. Even when things were good, I wasn't happy. That's why I forsook my perfect life and came here. I told everyone my plan was this: earn a higher degree so I can get better a job and afford a place with a backyard so I can drink wine outside with my cat and my friends (clarification, I would share my wine with my friends, not my cat).
I realized though, I've already got that. Even now I am writing you from my backyard, sipping wine (AmRhein Sauvignon Blanc, nice balance of fruit and butter, perfect for early summer and blogging) while my cat throws up the toxic vegetation he just ate (his favorite pastime). And you know what, this isn't enough either.
What I really want is this: I am sitting here barefoot in jeans and a tee-shirt, my favorite attire, and I want to be accepted and loved the way I am. I don't want to be loved because I spent countless hours at the gym perfecting my rock hard bod (I didn't and I have what I describe as 'a natural body'). I don't want to be loved because I am so cultured and know just what to say at parties (Virginia wine and Hokie football is the extent of my culture and I spend most parties in the kitchen trying to be useful). I don't want to be loved because I'm so darned nice and giving and I bake amazing chocolate cupcakes (okay, I actually do these). I want someone to just think I am enough the way I am. I want someone to see the celulite and not mind so much. I want someone to hear me butcher the pronunciation of something French and not give me a look. And I want to be able to have a crabby day and say something I shouldn't and still be forgiven for it.
But, as I was making my list of wants, something occured to me. These are all the things Jesus offers. I am reminded of a song (can't remember the title, see, not cultured) that sings, "Sometimes the very thing you're looking for is the one thing you can't see." Romans 5:8 (I had to look this up, not one of those dedicated types who has scripture memorized) says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." God looked at me and said, "You've got flabby thighs, you can't speak a second language, and you are a selfish sinner who breaks my heart all the time. But I love you anyway."
You know, I titled this blog in the way that you nickname your fatest friend 'slim'. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is sunny in grad school. Maybe it took losing everything to see what I had.
The immediate thing that comes to mind would probably be for your previous lifestyle. That's not an option though, so you wish for things that might make your current situation more bearable, like a nice dinner out, or a trip home to see your old friends. Maybe you would wish for a vacation or some sexy shoes or, best of all, some good wine. Or perhaps it would be something as basic as Mom's cooking and a full night's sleep.
Oh, I've wished for them all. And I've had all those things. And, at the time, they definitely raised my level of satisfaction. But I want something more. Even when things were good, I wasn't happy. That's why I forsook my perfect life and came here. I told everyone my plan was this: earn a higher degree so I can get better a job and afford a place with a backyard so I can drink wine outside with my cat and my friends (clarification, I would share my wine with my friends, not my cat).
I realized though, I've already got that. Even now I am writing you from my backyard, sipping wine (AmRhein Sauvignon Blanc, nice balance of fruit and butter, perfect for early summer and blogging) while my cat throws up the toxic vegetation he just ate (his favorite pastime). And you know what, this isn't enough either.
What I really want is this: I am sitting here barefoot in jeans and a tee-shirt, my favorite attire, and I want to be accepted and loved the way I am. I don't want to be loved because I spent countless hours at the gym perfecting my rock hard bod (I didn't and I have what I describe as 'a natural body'). I don't want to be loved because I am so cultured and know just what to say at parties (Virginia wine and Hokie football is the extent of my culture and I spend most parties in the kitchen trying to be useful). I don't want to be loved because I'm so darned nice and giving and I bake amazing chocolate cupcakes (okay, I actually do these). I want someone to just think I am enough the way I am. I want someone to see the celulite and not mind so much. I want someone to hear me butcher the pronunciation of something French and not give me a look. And I want to be able to have a crabby day and say something I shouldn't and still be forgiven for it.
But, as I was making my list of wants, something occured to me. These are all the things Jesus offers. I am reminded of a song (can't remember the title, see, not cultured) that sings, "Sometimes the very thing you're looking for is the one thing you can't see." Romans 5:8 (I had to look this up, not one of those dedicated types who has scripture memorized) says, "But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." God looked at me and said, "You've got flabby thighs, you can't speak a second language, and you are a selfish sinner who breaks my heart all the time. But I love you anyway."
You know, I titled this blog in the way that you nickname your fatest friend 'slim'. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it is sunny in grad school. Maybe it took losing everything to see what I had.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Welcome to West Philly
Dear Readers,
Thank you for taking the time to check out my blog. I was reluctant to start this because I felt that it was somewhat narcissistic, "Oh, I have so many insightful things to say I simply must share it with the world!" But I rationalized it this way, this will help me to document a significant time in my life and keep my friends and family up to date without spamming them regularly. Plus, no one has to read this anyway if they don't want to.
So, when you are reading this blog while bored at work, I hope that at best you will find some redeeming value in it, and at least you will find some humor in it. I'm trying to.
Cheers,
Angela
Thank you for taking the time to check out my blog. I was reluctant to start this because I felt that it was somewhat narcissistic, "Oh, I have so many insightful things to say I simply must share it with the world!" But I rationalized it this way, this will help me to document a significant time in my life and keep my friends and family up to date without spamming them regularly. Plus, no one has to read this anyway if they don't want to.
So, when you are reading this blog while bored at work, I hope that at best you will find some redeeming value in it, and at least you will find some humor in it. I'm trying to.
Cheers,
Angela
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