Connecting the Points

I've been on WeightWatchers for four days and I've already learned something important. I am a sugar junkie. Once I start, I can't stop! I cannot be a recreational user of sugar. Tonight I had an ice cream sandwich (3 points) and now I can't stop obsessing about what I should eat next. Last night I had a weight watchers ice cream, which led to four Snackwells cookies. I added up the points from 5 Halloween-sized candies a few days ago and it added up to 9 points! Almost half of my daily allowance gone in about two minutes. If I can stop binging on sugar I can lose this weight.

I suppose I could save up all my extra points so that I can continue to eat diet sugar, but, then I can't ever eat good food. Like the stuff that Ty cooks, or out to dinner without worrying about going over. Not to say that I haven't been eating good food. But, not like super good buttery, cheesy food. I've been eating whole foods cooked in healthy ways. Very responsible foods. Infinitely better than Nutrisystem foods, and therefore foods that have infinitely better shot at follow through. But in order to binge on pizza or bbq or wine, I can't be binging on sugar. And in order not to binge, maybe I just need not to start. Perhaps I am a sugarholic.

And I suppose I could exercise in order to continue to eat too much sugar. But since I hate exercising, this does not seem like a workable solution. A little bit of exercise goes a long way for my morale, but unfortunately makes my waistline go a long way too. I've tried to like exercising for the sake of exercising, it just doesn't work for me. I hate it. I dread doing it. I like doing stuff like biking, paddleboarding, hiking and walking, but at a leisurely pace, and that does not burn sufficient calories to negate all my sugar...as evidenced by my overweightedness.

So if all I have to do is lay off the sugar and then moderately watch what I eat so that one day a week I can not watch what I eat at all...this might be the solution. Writing about this has also helped ease the craving. Is this what is meant by coping skills? Hmmmm. Let's see if I can slim down using this theory. I have to remind myself that I want to slim down more than I want a shitty Snackwells devil's foodcake cookie. Or a KitKat. Maybe a good piece of chocolate is allowed on free day, or a well-made dessert, but at this point I have to cut myself off like the sugarholic I know myself to be. Fuck that sucks.

DOG is the way

I took care of a lady last night whose gastric band had slipped, causing her tremendous amounts of pain and a surgical emergency. She lived somewhere 2 hours inland from San Diego, and the hometown hospital where she was treated for 18 hours was clueless as to how to manage her. Her husband, a church pastor where she is the pianist, got scared because he saw the medical team treating the symptoms troubling her, but not the source. He had an intuition (divine providence as Glenn Beck would put it) that his wife's problems were grave, and that they were related to the gastric band. The man finally called her surgeon's office, which the hospital treating her refused to do, and the surgeon's on-call covering physician arranged an ambulance transport and emergency surgery after the two-plus-hour ride. I saw her briefly after the surgery was completed before I was off my shift and she looked good. It seems that she will live, and I am glad for her and her family.

I was more concerned, however, with the mechanics of my job than the substance of her unfortunate circumstances while I was managing her care as her nurse. The computer system was down for a scheduled tune-up, which to me is actually kind of fun because generally I am bored to death by the lack of action on the new floor where I am working. My only real engagement comes from the anxiety of being somewhere new and trying not to fuck up. The time passed quickly and the process of keeping this patient safe while having to simultaneously transcribe orders, override medications out of the dispensary machine, navigate new logistics that rely on a vacuum-tube system and carbon copies, get her admitted and then prepped physically and mentally for emergency surgery...it was a trip and oddly enjoyable when compared to my recent weeks of up all night with twitter and solitaire phone aps. (A Type-A sort of person would have used the time more constructively to at least clean the house, but alas, I am more akin to Type-F.)

I came home for the first time in a long time a little bit jazzed-up after work, so when I walked in the door and was greeted by Mae I decided to take her to the beach to play. I glanced out the sliding patio doors to check for sea gales, sharks and/or an oncoming tsunamis that frequently hamper my beaching in San Diego (ahem), and saw Roscoe and his Owner sitting close together at the top of the steps down to the beach. Now as a dog-lover and dog-coveter I knew that this was the sign of something being off. A dog doesn't stop at the top of the stairs to go down to the beach. A lab, as this dog is, has to be restrained from going down the stairs to the beach. That is unless the dog knows that the trouble going back up the stairs is too difficult a task. And a middle-aged woman does not sit on the ground with her dog unless she is seizing the moment with this dog as it is apparent that these are some of the last ones. I know this situation well. So I told Mae, "Let's go to the beach."

We approached Roscoe and Owner, and she said to me, "He's not doing well today." Without being prompted she worked herself up to tears telling me that he hadn't pooped in two days and he won't go down to the beach for the first time ever. She said he hadn't wagged his tail, and wouldn't budge from that spot. Almost thinking aloud she looked at me and declared, "I'm going to go get the car and pick him up and take him to the vet." I offered to wait with him and she obliged the offer. She took off up the hill and Roscoe decided that was enough motivation to get his ass in gear, and he started to follow her up a steep pitch. Mae and I coaxed him and told him it was okay to stay, but he wanted to be with his mom, and he started huffing and puffing, swaying almost, to follow her. Luckily Owner was only parked at the top of the street, if this tells you anything about her dedication to Roscoe, and Ros didn't have to go far to meet her again. She then picked up the dog's front and back ends to get him into her jeep. Her parting comment was, "Luckily the vet is a personal friend and I'm just going to go to his house." I wished her well and walked back toward the water.

Roscoe's day may be at hand, this was obvious. I hope it isn't, but I recognized in him a dog that isn't sure it's all worth it any more. I thought how lucky Roscoe is in a sense that someone can end his suffering so readily, and I wondered how Owner was wrestling with her role as his decision-maker. And then I questioned my judgement of the situation. I could be wrong about the prognosis. Roscoe could maybe be propped up with some steroids and antibiotics, just like what just happened in the last two weeks to my grandfather.

My grandfather was sent home from the hospital for his third pneumonia in a year on steroids and antibiotics...and on hospice care. He has end-stage emphysema that has stolen his quality of life for a long time now. Over the course of two or three years, he has shrunk down to a 115-pound 6'0" tall 86-yr-old man who can't hear unless someone is shouting at him, who lives 22 hours of each day in a lazy-boy recliner in front of soap operas and baseball games in closed-captions, who has fallen multiple times and who has developed pressure ulcers on his butt from so little physical activity and such poor nutrition. And now he has lung cancer. But, the decision was finally made: no more. To my utter dismay, this decision has caused terrible strife between my grandfather, my grandmother, and their children. They all love each other, but they all doubt each others motives and sincerity, and no one wants to be the one to wave the white flag. I suggested it two crises ago, but was met with silence. It was finally the physician at the hospital who sat the family down and said, it's time. No more. Even my mom, who I have been talking about the inevitability of my grandfather's situation (in fact the inevitability of all of our situations) for years, had difficulty with discontinuing medical treatment.

Now I realize that I have a unique perspective on death and dying. I've seen what it looks like and I know that the process of it sucks. It's painful and anxiety-provoking. But I also know that once someone dies, they no longer suffer, and they get other bonuses such as not having to work or pay bills or exercise. No matter what happens to their consciousness (in my opinion, nothing) I can say with all certainty that the dead person doesn't give one shit about any of it. They are relieved from the bullshit that this life has engineered for us. They don't have to contemplate going down the stairs to the beach.

And so this lesson repeats itself over and over in nature. In flora and fauna, there is no avoiding death if something has the experience of being alive. This is an undeniable truth of existence, and therefore nature should command our respect. Nature, the natural course of events, should not try so violently to be avoided. I learned this lesson today. I didn't learn it from the piano-playing church pastor's wife who was almost killed in her effort to undo a lifetime of unconsciousness that led to 250 pounds of lard ass. And I can't teach it to a bunch of grown-ups who won't acknowledge the inevitable. Today I was able to experience a universal truth with a dog who loved his Owner and decided that he wasn't going down the steps.

France in Retrospection

I had a wonderful fantastic vacation. Sitting in San Diego, where the weather is beautiful and where I have a second swing at summer time, it's hard to feel the forlornness that accompanies the back-to-work reality post-vacation. But France was so good.

In trying to come up with my single favorite part of the trip, it's really the totality of the experience that ranks as the shiniest highlight. It was in a word, (practically) perfect. I say that in light of watching a man die and feeling helpless to assist in his rescue. I feel compelled to mention the unfortunate incident because it was indeed a very traumatic and sad occurrence; to pretend it didn't happen denies the humanity of all of us that participated in the moment, and disrespectful to the man himself. However, France also offered this experience to me and for that I accept it and am grateful.

But I think a new standard for measurement of a vacation is going to be this trip. When the trip is a dream fulfilled, the end of a wondering and longing, and teaches the traveller something about themselves, that's a tall measuring stick. I feel the fullness of all those sensations, though. And I think the traveller in me is still in her infancy. There is more to enjoy in this world than I have here to fore dared to acknowledge.

One terrifically surprising revelation was that on any given day, I'd rather visit a church than a museum! It's the damnedest thing. I'm just not a museum person, especially an art museum. The art does not communicate with me. I respect the ability that allows someone to reproduce something that their mind intended, and I try to dissect the technique that could have been used to accomplish the art. But there is no emotional reaction to hardly any of it, and I couldn't really tell you what's good and bad, and what I like and don't like. I know that all that religious painting just irritates my sensibilities, and so I start thinking about how much I loathe religion, which is definitely not what was the intent.

And I tried out the art museums in France and Italy. In Rome, Ty and I paid 16 euro to get into the National Museum of Modern Art, but that was mostly to enjoy some air conditioning. What I took away from the museum was that I could probably fling my own feces on a white canvas and smear it around and it would be considered art. (In fact I've tried versions of this at work a couple of times, and it's just called a mess.) In Nice, I went to the Musee de Matisse, where I learned that Henri Matisse had an unhealthy life-long obsession with a modestly attractive Ukrainian woman who was not his wife. I found the Musee d'Orsay quite pretentious though it was the best of the bunch. And the Louvre was just overwhelming and underwhelming all at the same time. It wasn't DaVinci Code good, that's for sure, and I like IM Pei's pyramid a lot.

The funny part is that when I go to a church, or more accurately a cathedral, I feel the emotion intended immediately, despite the fact I don't believe in one iota of the dogma that inspired the desire in an architect to convey that reverent emotion to me. But it happens for me. I'm in awe that in the 1400's someone was able to build such a monstrous structure with beautiful stained glass windows as high as the sky. I'm immediately able to get to that place in myself where I simultaneously feel small, unimportant, and absolutely confident in my place in the scheme of things. I feel peaceful in those buildings, and connected to myself. This I think is more a credit to the builder than to the church. It's possible to admire a person's talents without admiring their motivations.

And so when I was in the Cathedral of Notre Dame and at St Peter's I really enjoyed myself. I didn't want to leave. I even thought about praying, but the fact that no one is listening on the other end ruins it for me. So I decided it was good enough to feel grateful for the moment and experience of it. It's the best that religion has to offer me, and I it.

There's so much more I could blather on and on about that happened in France. The food....the architecture....the people....trains, planes, music, hotels, streets, spontaneous tours, walking everywhere, wine, cheese, crepes, nutella... But those experiences were for me and for Ty. The fact that we finally did that together after 13 years and we did it well, did it the exact way that we wanted to, that is my most treasured experience of traveling to France.

Roman Holiday, Part Due: Happy Birthday to Me

I got some great advice from Ty's mother before we left, and that was to get tickets to museums and other attractions on the internet before going in order to avoid the queue (what we call "a line" in the States). So in thinking about what I wanted to do for my actual birthday, July 17th for those of you who've not yet marked it on your annual calendars, I decided that was as good a day as any to get back to my roots and go to the Vatican. So a couple days before we left for Rome, I bought tickets to go to the Vatican museum. Christine's advice to get the ticket ahead of time was priceless. Our scheduled entrance time was for noon. We left Casa Linnea which was about 10 blocks away at 11 o'clock. We took the longest route possible for those 10 blocks, then instead of the Vatican Museum, we first went and stood in the entrance queue for St. Peter's Basilica. They are different places and I didn't know this. So at 11:45 we reached the front of the queue for St. Peter's and the guy trying to sell us a headset for the guided tour finally realized we were in the wrong damned place. Did I mention that it was about 100 degrees out and there were approximately a million people there that day? The look on the guy's face said it all: we were screwed. We had to walk around a big large block, and as we got closer, the queue started coming into view. I decided that we shouldn't get in the line, we already had tickets. This was the right decision. There were probably 1,000 people in the queue, and with those tickets we were escorted to the very front of the line. Thank you Christine!

Now before anyone reads further I want to write a disclaimer. If you are sensitive about religion and God and all that nonsense...READ NO FURTHER. This is my blog and I can write what I want to on the internet. I'm not trying to offend anybody. I just think it's all bullshit and I have very little reverence for it. So if in reading this you will be inspired to offer complaints, tirades, or suggestions for my redemption, STOP READING NOW. I consider you fully warned and I'm going to be pissed if I start getting nasty comments about this blog entry.

So the Vatican Museum. Basically what I got out of the experience is an art expo that demonstrates that the Catholic Church is the biggest racket in the history of man. There were more priceless paintings, sculpture, frescoes, maps, furniture covered in precious metals, made by the most famous artists concentrated in one place than should be allowed. Because of this, there were the most pushiest, rude, smelliest group of humans who all made pilgrimages from across the globe to be among it. It was like a bunch of cattle, no better than Monfort's meat packing plant for sure when considering all the slaughter that's gone on in the name of God since those twelve apostles got together and decided to spread The Word. I swear, this Spanish-speaking dude even farted by us as Ty and I were taking a rest on a bench. I've never been so blatantly pushed out of the way by more people in my life. And you know what? Karma's a bitch, because I ended up eating right next to the two people who gave me the biggest shoves later on that day for lunch and dinner at two totally separate restaurants, God's honest truth (wink, wink).

We finally made it to the Sistine Chapel, right? After hours of walking through antiquities without air conditioning, with people pushing and farting, and we at last get to see the ceiling frescoes painted by Michelangelo. Now first of all, I again thought the Sistine Chapel was in St. Peter's Basilica. If they would have given out grades in catechism, I guess I would have flunked. Good for me, by the way. But we finally make it to this place of God, where Michelangelo was so inspired that he spent years finishing the ceiling of this very tall chapel on his back suspended on scaffolding, painting the most well known Christian art in history. There are signs EVERYWHERE in all languages saying no pictures and no talking. There are even guards there to enforce this. But do people respect this holy place? Hell no. People were talking at top volume, snapping tons of photos, and once again pushing and shoving their way through. This is not Godly behavior, and one more fact that proves to me religion is man's convention for social control and nothing close to the way to redemption. We had to leave as soon as we got in there because I was so uncomfortable being in an enclosed room with thousands of assholes and no ventilation. Fuck that place.

And here's another gripe about it. Do I believe in any of the dogma? No. Do I have respect for a religion that systematically oppresses women, rapes children, and steals from its faithful? No. But I was in their church, in their museum, so I showed respect by not talking and not taking one picture. I would like to have a photo of Michelangelo's greatest work, who wouldn't? But I wasn't supposed to and so I didn't, which is more than I can say for most of the people there. The Sistine Chapel was the single biggest disappointment so far.

But here's how I know that karma does in fact exist. I'm sitting down having lunch in some air conditioning across the street from the Vatican Museum. And who walks in but this huge old lady who literally shoved me in the back while going through a single-person doorway to exit the Sistine Chapel. Was she really that concerned about losing her group? She couldn't even lose me. So I mean-mugged her something awful and I felt better.

It was then about 4pm, and Ty and I decided we still needed to go see St. Peter's Basilica. So we left the comfort of the air conditioning but didn't make it far before my shoes that I bought and specifically wore 10 times before Europe to break in, broke down in the heat. I can't explain it. They are awesome shoes with great support, but in that heat, my heels started rubbing like a son of a bitch. So, I made my second trip in Rome to the Farmacia for some band aids. Well, this didn't even really help that much. So I decided to suck it up, look like a German, and buy some socks for my sandals. That was my first birthday present, Adidas socks from Foot Locker in Rome. Kinda funny.

The queue at 4 pm on Saturday to get into St Peter's wasn't that long, so our timing ended up working itself out for the best just by chance. The sun was still beating down, however, and at that hour the shade was almost enough to cover the area of the queue...but not quite. So we're waiting to go through the metal detector and the baggage x-ray (how's that for holiness?), and these Indian people decide that they don't need to wait in the sun any longer and cut right in front of us as Ty and I are just about to be relieved into the shade. Well this Italian lady was not having any of that and started having a full blown meltdown at them. Whether or not they understood her words, they certainly understood her message, but did they go to the end of the line? No. They simply waited in the shade for the Italian lady to pass and then cut in front of the people behind her. What fucking assholes?! Another example of religion bringing out the "best" in people all the way around the globe.

So that's enough with the bagging on the Catholic church. I think it's enough for me to say that inside the Basilica it was incredibly beautiful and austere, all visitors must cover their knees and shoulders, "and all the bits in between" according to our Palatine tour guide. There were people there actually for the purpose of praying and giving confession in areas roped off with guards protecting their sanctity to worship there. Bernini's altar was incredible, and the light shown through the top of the dome like a spotlight to the mosaic floors. If only I could have heard the organ being played, I would have been taken back completely to the sentimental childhood place that I have for the Catholic church. But, right outside those roped off places were wooden boxes with slits for an "offering." My thought was that the church should be "offering" $100 bills to all its faithful as penance for ripping them off for 2010 years. Start liquidating some of that artwork in the museum next door rather than asking for an offering.

The final bizarre aspect of St. Peter's Basilica were all the dead people above ground in glass coffins. Yeah, they were popes, but...that's just creepy.

So, I checked off my list Checking in with Catholic Roots for my birthday. It was then time to drink. Our Palatine tour guide had recommended getting a truly delicious meal in the Piazza Campo di Fiori. Of historical note, this is where the philosopher Giordano Bruno was burned alive during the Inquisition for the devil's idea that the earth revolved around a sun. Similar in audacity only to this century's claim that humans descend from apes. It was fitting then, that we head over and enjoy ourselves there. We passed a street fair featuring ping-pong by the Tiber River where I got my first real birthday presents, two beautiful leather purses for the total cost of 40 euro. Hot diggity!

At Campo di Fiori, we sat down at a place called Hosteria Romanica. I hadn't had gnocchi yet, so that's what I ordered, in a tomato sauce that came with meat on the bone (squeamish about that) but delicious anyway. Ty and I were enjoying the large crowd that was gathering in the square complete with fire eaters and singers accompanied by karaoke Eric Clapton and Bobby McFerrin tunes, when who is seated next to us? The other large man that gave me a full on shove at the Vatican. I kid you not, people. That karma...she's a bitch. Well after my carafe of wine, I notice that these two people are speaking Italian, English, and then something else, so I lean over and ask them where were they from? The guy is a real gem and replies, "Guess." That started up a great long conversation with them. Turns out they were from Brazil, and they were also *physicians (in the States they're called radiology technicians), so we had a full discussion about health care disparities the world over. The conversation started lagging so Julio changed the subject and asked me, "That Vatican...it was quite crowded today, don't you agree?" That bastard fucking remembered pushing me out of the way! I could not believe it. I played it cool though...and asked the waiter for the check. I was feeling pretty cool as I was walking past him on my way out, when I caught my toe on a cobble stone and very nearly fell flat on my face right next to him. Karma...what a bitch.

Roman Holiday, Part 1: When in Rome I Don't Do as the Romans Do

Last weekend we went to Rome. This happened over my 32nd birthday. We left on Thursday afternoon from Nice. We arrived at the Rome airport which was about 30 minutes outside of the city toward the Mediterranean coast after a flight which took less than an hour. Upon getting off the airplane, we set about the task of getting to our booked bed and breakfast, Casa Linnea. I had it in my mind that we were going to take public transportation, but when we went to the "tourist information" window in the terminal we were promptly booked on a shuttle. I think this was because my first attempt at Italian was ridiculously bad and the guy automatically knew we would hopelessly fumble around for an apartment building in a neighborhood that wasn't a tourist area. In the end we were glad to have an air conditioned transport that took us strait to the door. On the ride over, the driver took a very small detour to show us St. Peter's Square which was terrifically beautiful. Our B&B was about 10 blocks from the square. During the transport my first observations were of the "Roman Nose" and how beautifully dressed everybody was. I definitely did not blend in with the natives.

We pulled up to what appeared to be an apartment building. There was a label by a doorbell, however, that read Casa Linnea so we were relieved to have found it. A German girl named Cornelia, or Constance, or Corrina, or some name that started with a C booked us in. We promptly met Claus, the Swede who was sharing the apartment with us. It was very cute, and our room was quite comfortable. The cable television didn't really work, but, if that's the worst complaint then that's not too bad. Claus was with his girlfriend Erica, and their three adult children who were on holiday. C-girl gave us a map with all the sights marked on it and directions to the Metro station. When we asked about where to eat nearby she didn't really have a recommendation, so we had to explore.

What we found was an awesome neighborhood. (C-girl could have told us this, maybe she did and I didn't catch it.) As mentioned before, it was off the tourist path, so there was a bit of a local feel. An impromptu market formed one street (Via) up from us with dresses, purses, belts, sunglasses, etc. with other specialty food shops, a knife and sword shop, and best of all, a gelato stand. We tried looking for a restaurant, and after trying to get a table at a couple of places we ended up at the ristorante on the corner, called San Marco.  Ty ordered pizza and I ordered a rigatoni with sausage, sage and some type of grated cheese. It was terrific! I attempted Italian again and accidentally ordered white wine instead of red wine, but was actually glad in the end. We decided to eat there the next night too.

The next morning we set out for an adventure. Neither of us are super experienced travelers, having opted more often for resort-style luxury than do-it-ourselves accommodation. But we decided it looked easy enough to get on the Metro and take it to the Colosseum. On our way to the Metro we found the Tribunali, which we assumed was some type of courthouse. It looked busy, the streets around it were lined with small "smart car" sized vehicles and scooters. At least in that respect, we might fit in with our scooter, though I would never ever ever want to drive in Rome.

At the Colosseum, we were immediately approached by an American trying to get us to sign up for a tour. I was skeptical at first, but again in the end, I was glad that we forked over the $40 E for the tour because there were no signs describing what the hell we were looking at nor to contextualize some of the most fascinating shit in human history. The purchase also included a tour of the Palatine hill. That was also fortunate due to lack of signage. As we were touring through the Colosseum, it began to get really hot. Our tour guide in fact suggested that we all go have a long lunch in some air conditioning and get out of the heat. He recommended that we come back to the Palatine Hill for the last tour at 5:30 that evening. Ty and I thought that was a good idea, but instead of sticking around we decided to go to the Trevi Fountain and cool off.

This was a mistake. I assumed that people would be partying IN the fountain, but as it turns out, that's not allowed. So while it was beautiful and magnificent, we ended up walking for over an hour in probably 98 degree humid heat to a fountain that we couldn't get in where there were also about 2,000 people. This was not a relief from the heat in any fashion.

Just about to jump in any way.

It was then required that we find some AC. I have definitely inherited a "sweaty gene" from my father, and when I reach a certain temperature I start my own fountain. This was happening the entire time we were in Rome. It was like I was at a concert or something and had my most groovy groove happening, but all I was actually doing was walking at a leisurely pace. So we went from cute restaurant to restaurant, but did not find air conditioning until we passed by a McDonald's. It was the best crispy McChicken I've had in years. One thing of note though, they charge for ketchup. That's a little weird.

After I'd regained some glandular composure, we decided that we were close enough to the Pantheon and had enough time before the 5:30 Palatine Hill tour to continue our hellish trek. The city was not built on a grid, that's for sure. Grids must have been too easy for these very industrious, intelligent and ambitious Romans. We did our very best impression of tourists with our map, backpack and Ty's hat. But any way, we eventually guided our way to the Pantheon. Here we needed a tour guide. It was very confusing that a building named the Pantheon on the outside became the Basilica of St Mary and the Martyrs on the inside. It was also two very different architectural styles. The best explanation we could come up with was that the Christians were into recycling, one of their more virtuous tenets, I guess. Or else they were in a hurry, or lazy.

We ran out of water at the Pantheon, a crisis in consideration of my "problem." We started looking around for our next $5 bottle of water when we noticed something at first strange, then thought to be gross, then known as the next miracle. People were filling their water bottles out of the fountains! I went up to an American and asked him if he was a glutton for some giardia or what? and he replied it was as pure as the rain from the sky. I was skeptical, but also damp, so I decided, When in Rome.... This ended up being one of the coolest discoveries of our trip! There are little flowing water fountains all over the place, and they come from Roman aquifers that are thousands of years old but still work to deliver cool, clean, good-tasting water. Who'd have known?

It was time to head back to the Palatine Hill. I didn't know why this was a place to be visited, but, I thought that maybe the Forum was there and I remember a little something about the Forum from the three or four days I attended my Western Civilization class as a freshman at Boulder. It was ringing a bell. Plus, we'd already paid for a tour. As we walked our way back through the muggy heat, we came across some ruins that a high-rise builder accidentally found as he started excavation for his luxury condos. D'oh! I also made my first of three stops into a Farmacia, this time for some baby powder. (Skirts are good for some things and not others.)

I had wrestled the map away from Ty's detouring ass and decided that we should walk by the Circus Maximus on our way back to the Palatine Hill. It was clearly marked on our map and not too far out of the way, or so I thought. I had visions of Charlton Heston racing his horse-drawn chariot and the unfortunate actor who's last credit was for getting trampled. I expected more crowds, broken down columns, and some type of tourist trap involvement. How I lamented when we found that not only did the Circus Maximus look like something out of an African track and field expo, there again were no signs, and to top it off, we walked the long way around the base of the Palatine Hill (no topographical component to our map) and there weren't any trees or shade or elevators. It wasn't even worth taking a picture. I handed the map back to Ty.

So the Palatine Hill. Pretty cool. Basically the birthplace of modern civilization. All you need to know really. We had a fantastic tour from a very funny and hot (in more than one way) South African dude. He finally gave us the long version of the legend of how Rome was founded, the Saga of Remus and Romulus. I won't recount it here as I'm tiring of typing. But the best part of this tour was that he made us feel that eating at McDonald's was the best decision we had made all day. He cursed the food around Rome as "tourist shitholes" and gave us some advice as to where to go for actual good food, Campo di Fiori square. He also advised us to quit trying to see all the sites and take back a Grappa on ice. We heeded all this advice. Stay tuned for Roman Holiday, Part Due: Happy Birthday to Me for the next installment. It's time to have some more dinner in Nice.

Jenny Balboa

Doing my best impression of the most famous Italian American, Rocky Balboa, on the Spanish Steps.

Getting Nice

After three hellish days at home leading up to my travel abroad (and not to mention 2 weeks of separation from Ty), I finally began my trip to Nice. I packed lightly in 3 bags to save room for souvenirs, called a cab and arrived at the San Diego airport early for the two-hour window prescribed for international flights. As usual, this does not apply to San Diego and I had 90 minutes to kill. I took a seat at Bloody Mary's, ordered a beer and a sandwich and mused over all the things that could potentially be disasterous consequences of this trip, such as an emotionally scarred dog, a plane crash into the icy Atlantic, and bankruptcy (in order of increasing seriousness).

The first flight to Chicago was longer than I anticipated but easy. The next leg of the trip was the 6.5-hr transatlantic flight to London that I was most nervous about. I am historically a nervous flier, mainly due to my lack of experience with it as a young person. My first flight was at the age of 17 to my senior class trip in Cancun. I've abated this fear and now fly 3-4 times a year, but, they are usually relatively short and uncomplicated trips. The flight to London is my most adventurous to date. Doing it solo didn't bother me too much. I feel pretty confident in my abilities to manage new situations, and being that English is spoken in England helped ease my nerves.

However, as I looked for my requested isle seat (for bathroom purposes), it dawned on me that it was in the second to last row of the 777. I don't especially like sitting in the back of planes because it seems that the turbulance is felt more. But whatever, I had my restoril in my pocket and swallowed half of it in preparation for an unconscious journey. Then my seat mate showed up. He was brown, and as I eavesdropped on his conversation on his blue tooth, he was speaking Arabic. Justifiably or not, my anxiety went from 5 to 9.5 on a scale of 10, and I decided that security was everyone's responsibility and therefore I would be doing my part, making sure that this gentleman didn't fiddle around in his shorts under a blanket and that his electronic devices were switched to the off position.

We landed of course, or I wouldn't be writing this. And I do feel a bit guilty about my reaction to sitting next to him and watching him like a hawk for 7 hours. But the real consequence of this was that I had sedated myself, then became extremely anxious, and did not sleep the entire flight. It was significantly turbulant at times and I felt every bump in the air.

I had a very tight connection in London. If the plane hadn't been late arriving, I'm pretty sure I would have missed the flight from London to Nice. Getting to the gate consisted of a short bus ride, so I was able to experience driving on the wrong side of the road, but other than that did not see much of England. That will have to be another trip. And if there was one thing I gained from the transatlantic flight to London was confidence that next time anything short of a plane crash will be a better experience.

I arrived in Nice at about 3pm local time, which by my calculation was about a 27 hour trip in total. I'd gotten about 90 minutes of sleep during that trip and I was significantly fatigued. Immigration at Nice was very easy to get through and my bag was waiting for me. Just on the other side of baggage claim, Ty was waiting for me. It was a really good feeling being together in Europe after the two+ weeks apart and we had a long hug in the airport. Ty took the bus to the airport and helped me with my luggage and escorted me to take the bus back to the Citadines, where we are staying. It was my first attempt at using French, and I paid for two bus tickets instead of one. The lady was very nice about it though and refunded my money once I realized that 8 euro was an expensive city bus ride.

The first thing I noticed about Nice was that it was hot and humid. It's not like Africa hot, but it is warmer than the mild climate I've grown accustomed to in San Diego after a year living there. There is no shortage of people here, and we traveled along the Promenade de Anglaise which is the main avenue bordering the Mediterranean Sea. The beaches look rocky but clean, the water is a turqoise blue. Later today I intend to investigate the beaches further. Our apartment is like a small hotel room with a kitchenette. It is clean and well appointed, the fold out bed is much more comfortable than it sounds.

I took a nap for two hours, as I was starting to get that queasy sick feeling from being awake for too long. Ty woke me up and we went out for dinner. As we were leaving the building, we walked out at the same time as two of Ty's classmates that he has been spending time with prior to my arrival, Kelly and Alby. The three of them told me about our surroundings that include "Women of the Night" that post up at the end of our block and our neighbors with "loose morals" across the street that dance naked in open windows after drinking too much vin. I like this place already.

Kelly and Alby wanted Thai food, and I wasn't into that for my first meal in Nice. So we parted ways after walking about a mile. For a Monday night at about 8 pm, the town was hoppin'. Merchants spread out lunettes des soleil (sunglasses) and fancy purses (haven't learned that word yet), people are painting, braiding hair, and dogs with balls walk off-leash and shit where they please. Ty and I picked an open-air cafe and ate a relatively expensive meal (not surprisingly, I know). There I comitted my first faux pas and asked to take my leftovers with me. The waitor was quite agreeable, however, the hostess apparently gave him a dirty look over my shoulder. Oh well, now I have my salmon in basil sauce for lunch today.

We finished the evening with a long walk along the Mediterranean on the promenade. Again I was impressed by the crowds out at 11 pm on a Monday night. It also occurred to me how many people here were foreigners. I feel completely at ease in this country where I speak very little of the language. It also occurred to me how different this is back home. (Most) Americans would be very uncomfortable having as many foreigners speaking foreign languages on their turf. I am glad it is different here, and I wonder if more Americans would benefit from wearing the shoe on the other foot to see how it feels.

That's all for now. It's 10 am and Ty is at class. He will be back in two and a half hours and he has the day off for the holiday tomorrow, so we will be forming a game plan then. In the meantime, I think I might venture out and find some bread.

July 4th Fireworks

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBgsz5NsU_o

Three-North, Part 1: Life Ends and Death Happens

I am about to conclude six months of working on the Bone Marrow Transplant (BMT) floor. Next week will be my last, then three weeks in Europe, then to my next assignment. On the floor, there are also solid organ transplant patients, an open-heart sub-unit, colo-rectal surgery patients, and whoever else needs a place to sleep while ill.

My initial job while in nursing school was also on a BMT floor. I found that I adored most of the staff, invested in the patients, and eventually absolutely without any doubt understood that I could not be a cancer nurse. That was in 2006. When I graduated, I got a job working on a sister unit where I did my senior practicum for school. It was a community hospital and the floor where I learned to be a nurse took any poor (operative word) fool with trauma, stroke, or a heart attack. I learned to spot a train wreck from a mile away, and, purely out of self-interest and professional pride how to steer clear of the disaster. If someone was going to "crump," it wouldn't be with me as their nurse, one goddamned way or another. I learned that life wasn't fair, everyone deserves to be treated with compassion (even doctors), and to work smarter and harder.

That was a different experience than the long, drawn out suffering over months, followed by a miserable and painful death on the oncology floor. I appreciated that very much. Heart attacks are quick. Stroke patients go to rehabs and SNFs. Bones are set and eventually heal.  Better living through chemistry.  And best of all, my 12-bed unit was surrounded by ICU's on all sides. All signs point to hell?...Get them next door STAT. Good luck to you, vaya con Dios.

But if I think about things a little more critically, where I learned to care about patients was on the BMT floor. The patients were there and they were not going anywhere. My actions regarding a patient in the present had consequences with that patient in the future. I learned that it behooves all involved for me to make these interactions purposeful and pleasant.

And despite the fact that I perform heroic professional feats and create logistical miracles, the patient is having the worst day of their life. They are in unimaginable pain confronting the reality I will spend my lifetime avoiding, life ends and death happens. The challenge then becomes how to meet that patient where they are and walk beside them for the day's journey. That's the most I can do. It is the least that I can do. Some patients welcome my company warmly, and some overly rely on it. And others prefer to turn inward and experience the solitude that demands to be acknowledged. In this case my role is to protect that choice, my efforts appreciated or not, it does not matter.

The BMT floor is where I came to the conclusion that outcomes don't actually matter. Everybody dies, it's a matter of when and how. All that is guaranteed is the present moment. Whether the present moment is bringing pain, anxiety, challenges, laughter, exhaustion, healing or final breath, experiencing it is the task. Realizing that decisions from moment to moment come to bare, and consequences are inescapable, that's the thing. That's all there is, and the universe with a capital-U will use the energetic throughput. It's pretty simple, definitely not very significant, small in scope, and the very essence of this human experience. I feel grateful for each moment there.

Nonetheless, I am ready to move on. I get back to my instinctual revelation that this type of medicine isn't my professional glass slipper. I know that I bring something to the table that nobody else can, and bone marrow transplant gives me a unique perspective enriching my experience of life. But I just don't have the fortitude for the few successes out of many attempts. The God complexes that run these endeavors embarrass me.  So in light of this, life and death gets a bit heavy.

location, location, location

shit. so i'm not in Nice. my life is still pretty good. i have a great job, a fantastic apartment right on the water, i have a good dog, listening to music, sipping a beer, writing on the computer outside on my patio in beautiful weather. actually, this is the life i dreamed for myself a long time ago. so that's cool. trying to look on the positive side, and it's not hard. but i am not, after all, in Nice.

ty's been gone to Nice for less than 36 hours. i'm doing stuff that i wouldn't do if he were here to try and make the most of the 18 nights we'll spend away from each other. like i put The Hills on my netflix--the first 3 seasons. i ate a meatless dinner last night, and moved my blow dryer back into the master bathroom. two (or three) beers with dinner, and incredibly less calories probably. i went to bed at 8:30 last night and got up at 5 am this morning. tomorrow i'm going to a potluck with coworkers. that should be fun. i can eat the entire bag of potato chips without feeling any twinge of guilt. listen to music louder too, with more Lady Gaga, John Mayer and Jakob Dylan in the mix. ha! nonetheless, i am not in Nice.

i already know how much i take ty for granted. making sure that the dog gets walked before i leave in the morning for work is a twenty minute bitch. the only person who decides what and which quality of food i eat is me, so i have to cook (gasp!). i hate cooking. the dishes pile up pretty quick when there's no one else to blame, too. the time i waste at work on instant messenger with him has to be accounted for now. there is also an absolute-zero-style lack for someone on this continent who cares if i had a bowel movement today. no warm body in bed snoring, no gentle giant gettin my back when the shit doesn't go down as planned.

so on the balance, i might not be in Nice, but i am in san diego and that's a nice place too. oh and by the way i'm going to be in Nice in 15 days. but what it took me less than 36 hours to establish was that i'd rather be wherever it is that Ty is. and not because he makes my life logisitically easier by leaps and bounds. he does that and i love the shit out of him for it. it's just that i didn't know how much i don't like being without him. i think we spent about 8 days apart 6 years ago. hopefully the old saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder is still true, because up to now i wouldn't know. i can't imagine being fonder of anybody ever anywhere.

Open For Interpretation....

Last night I had the most vivid dream I might of ever experienced. The first thing that is odd is that I actually remember it, and it was so bizarre that I want to write it down for posterity. The mood of the dream was panicky, fearful, like I was trying to buy time to escape some impending doom. I was looking for Tyler, trying to meet up with him so we could flee something. I was sitting on a tree stump that was hollow enough that I was startled to find 2 rattle snakes chilling in. My dad was there and he went and got his shovel to kill the rattle snakes (which he used to actually do when I was a kid).

This is where it got weird. An older guy, can't remember who it was, came up to me shirtless and asked me to cut along his spinal column with a box cutter to release a snake that was trapped in his spinal column. I was hesitant, but the guy explained that the snake was causing extreme pain, and he was experiencing numbness and intermittent paralysis because of the snake, so he really needed me to do this for him. So I did. The guy didn't bleed, but there was a snake in his spinal column! It was black and shrivelled with green and blue specks on it. It jumped out of the guy's back and started to chase me and it was trying to bite me.

What does this mean? This is definitely one of those dreams that I would LOVE to have interpreted.

Eureka!

I woke up this morning with some great ideas. I've been joking around about my greeting card business that I'm going to start when Ty makes a zillion dollars as a tax attourney. This is mostly borne of my indignation at how expensive greeting cards are, and shitty greeting cards at that. Throw in a greeting card holiday like Mother's Day or Father's Day and several step-parents and step-grandparents, and I've got a $50 donation to Hallmark twice a year. I refuse to participate in Valentine's Day for that reason.

I've also made the New Years' resolution to send all my nieces and nephews (all step-s by the way) birthday cards this year. I made an xcel spreadsheet with all my family's birthdays, organized by the order they occur through the year, and so far so good. But what if I forget to look at the spreadsheet? I need a reminder. Or a personal assistant.

So it ocurred to me this morning, what if I combined these two needs into one service online? Folks can just click and send birthday cards to all their family members. And the website can offer emailed reminders to customers that a birthday or occassion is coming up with a link to cards they can purchase and have sent for them. OR, for a package price, a customer can schedule all their cards through a year and forget about it the rest of the year, they are covered! Using Paypal, there is the opportunity to add cash or a gift card.

A drawback I've considered is the signature. However, maybe there is some technology I could employ to either upload a signature or have people select from handwriting fonts.

I need to start designing my cards. My first challenge is to do my sister's wedding invitations. That will be fun...hopefully.

Domain name: www.howthoughtful.com? "Your the most thoughtful person you know, specializing in cards for 21st century relationships"