Friday night we had school function for both students and their families. The band consisted of one of our students and three adult males. The lead singer of the band was a slightly overweight, white male in his late fourties. He was wearing a t-shirt tucked into a pair of horrific jeans that he probably got in 1992. The sight was so bad I couldn't even look at the band. I had to just turn the other way and listen. The other band members looked normal, but the fat guy had to tuck in that shirt into those jeans. Someone needed to tell him.
This true story leads to the following question:
Who have I become?
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Dad Award
Saturday, October 18, 2008
If only...
One of my students drew a picture of Homer Simpson for me. After school a student asked if he drew it because I looked like Homer. A different girl responded, "Well, if you were fat, and yellow... I guess I could see the resemblance."
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Visit to the Emergency Room
Since my initial blog I’ve had some inquiries regarding my trip to the emergency room. So for all of my loyal blog reader(s) I decided to finish the story for you.
I had a stomach flu with a fever and was sick for four straight days. During the week I had called the advice nurse multiple times, and was becoming very accustomed to the automated system, and the standard advice nurse questions. (No, I’m not crapping blood). I called the last morning and scheduled an appointment with the doctor, but I decided going in might just be a hassle and canceled the appointment within minutes of setting it up. Finally, I just agreed to see a doctor. However, it was getting late in the day so said she just called me back on the phone. She chastised me for not coming in sooner, and then told me to come in to the lab for tests. They wanted a blood sample, and a stool sample. Despite feeling awful, and being a little disgusted by the idea of that, I drove myself to the hospital.
I arrived to discover the lab was closed. Quite disturbed I hobbled to the emergency room. I drove all the way here maybe I could at least get an IV before I go home. I waited in a short line and asked the guy at the counter the most important question, “How much is it going to cost me for my visit?”
“Your copay will be $35.”
“Go ahead and sign me up.”
I couldn’t believe how quickly my name was called. Less than fifteen minutes from my arrival I had blood drawn, and a plastic tube hanging out my arm ready to receive the IV. $35 well spent. Unfortunately, it was over an hour until I was in a bed, in the hallway, talking to a doctor. Eventually, the nurse came and hooked up my IV so I was on my way to being hydrated, the main goal of my visit. The nurse also gave me a little white pill to swallow, and a plastic jar for the stool sample. The jar looked very similar to the jars used for a urine sample. Holding the jar I looked at him and said, “you have to have pretty good aim I guess.” He laughed and then pondered a solution. He returned with a big plastic tub so I could poop in that and then scoop it into the jar. Um… yeah, that didn’t seem to make the activity seem any more pleasant.
I never completed the sample, because that little white pill worked too well. I thought Imodium AD was strong, not compared to this thing. I won’t go into any more details on that subject.
Once the old man left the adjacent room (you can read about him under the label “initial blog”) a firefighter rolled in a shirtless, drunk Mexican guy covered in blood. I looked over to see this poor guy with blood all over his face, and chest, and listened to the paramedic verbally berating him as he took him into the room.
“Did you have some fun today? Good party?”
The incoherent drunk did not respond to the harassment, but he did provide me some entertainment before I left the hospital.
It turned out he had not suffered a major injury, but after excessive drinking his blood thinned, and he was suffering from a severe bloody nose. All that blood had come from his nose. Wow. I listened as the white people tried to talk to him in Spanish. The whole exchange was funny, but I’ll give you a couple of highlights.
During the first interrogation the nurse yelled, “cuantos cervezas?” He answered, “un dia.” I thought this was hilarious. It was probably true. From the looks of it he was probably drinking for an entire day. Then later they brought in someone else and asked him the same question, “cuantos cervezas?” This time he answered, “cuatro.” Four? Maybe four cases. He continue to mumble in broken Spanish. Very little he said was intelligible. Another firefighter stopped by and recognized him, and even alluded to a tattoo he had on his arm. I guess our drunk nose-bleeder was an emergency room regular. Later he was shouting for help and no one was around. I looked in and saw more blood dripping off his body. We made eye contact and he said, “Amigo. Ayudame.” So I rolled my IV down the hall and called nurse over for him.
At this point I didn’t really feel much better. I asked the nurse if he could speed up the IV going into me. It just works on gravity so he raised the height of it. Once the majority of it was gone I went home. I missed the Lakers/Celtics game, but I left hydrated. I went in to work the next day at lunch so I could teach my last two classes, but I left the arm band on my wrist from the ER to validate my morning absence.
I had a stomach flu with a fever and was sick for four straight days. During the week I had called the advice nurse multiple times, and was becoming very accustomed to the automated system, and the standard advice nurse questions. (No, I’m not crapping blood). I called the last morning and scheduled an appointment with the doctor, but I decided going in might just be a hassle and canceled the appointment within minutes of setting it up. Finally, I just agreed to see a doctor. However, it was getting late in the day so said she just called me back on the phone. She chastised me for not coming in sooner, and then told me to come in to the lab for tests. They wanted a blood sample, and a stool sample. Despite feeling awful, and being a little disgusted by the idea of that, I drove myself to the hospital.
I arrived to discover the lab was closed. Quite disturbed I hobbled to the emergency room. I drove all the way here maybe I could at least get an IV before I go home. I waited in a short line and asked the guy at the counter the most important question, “How much is it going to cost me for my visit?”
“Your copay will be $35.”
“Go ahead and sign me up.”
I couldn’t believe how quickly my name was called. Less than fifteen minutes from my arrival I had blood drawn, and a plastic tube hanging out my arm ready to receive the IV. $35 well spent. Unfortunately, it was over an hour until I was in a bed, in the hallway, talking to a doctor. Eventually, the nurse came and hooked up my IV so I was on my way to being hydrated, the main goal of my visit. The nurse also gave me a little white pill to swallow, and a plastic jar for the stool sample. The jar looked very similar to the jars used for a urine sample. Holding the jar I looked at him and said, “you have to have pretty good aim I guess.” He laughed and then pondered a solution. He returned with a big plastic tub so I could poop in that and then scoop it into the jar. Um… yeah, that didn’t seem to make the activity seem any more pleasant.
I never completed the sample, because that little white pill worked too well. I thought Imodium AD was strong, not compared to this thing. I won’t go into any more details on that subject.
Once the old man left the adjacent room (you can read about him under the label “initial blog”) a firefighter rolled in a shirtless, drunk Mexican guy covered in blood. I looked over to see this poor guy with blood all over his face, and chest, and listened to the paramedic verbally berating him as he took him into the room.
“Did you have some fun today? Good party?”
The incoherent drunk did not respond to the harassment, but he did provide me some entertainment before I left the hospital.
It turned out he had not suffered a major injury, but after excessive drinking his blood thinned, and he was suffering from a severe bloody nose. All that blood had come from his nose. Wow. I listened as the white people tried to talk to him in Spanish. The whole exchange was funny, but I’ll give you a couple of highlights.
During the first interrogation the nurse yelled, “cuantos cervezas?” He answered, “un dia.” I thought this was hilarious. It was probably true. From the looks of it he was probably drinking for an entire day. Then later they brought in someone else and asked him the same question, “cuantos cervezas?” This time he answered, “cuatro.” Four? Maybe four cases. He continue to mumble in broken Spanish. Very little he said was intelligible. Another firefighter stopped by and recognized him, and even alluded to a tattoo he had on his arm. I guess our drunk nose-bleeder was an emergency room regular. Later he was shouting for help and no one was around. I looked in and saw more blood dripping off his body. We made eye contact and he said, “Amigo. Ayudame.” So I rolled my IV down the hall and called nurse over for him.
At this point I didn’t really feel much better. I asked the nurse if he could speed up the IV going into me. It just works on gravity so he raised the height of it. Once the majority of it was gone I went home. I missed the Lakers/Celtics game, but I left hydrated. I went in to work the next day at lunch so I could teach my last two classes, but I left the arm band on my wrist from the ER to validate my morning absence.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Bridge to Bridge
We started running at 9:00am. I should have known it was going to be a long day when toward the end of the first mile an old guy passed me wearing a shirt that read, "start slow, and tapor off from there." Then during the 2nd mile I was passed by a guy pushing a stroller. Lots of people were going by me, and I was not going by lots of people. Fighting through a chest cramp, my pace was slow and arduous.
I finally passed a few people while going up the steep hill, but I think they passed me right back when we returned to flat ground. Then after three miles I had a cramp so bad in my right side I took a break to walk. I wondered, "Where were the bands, the music, and the people chearing me on?" I searched for motivation within, as two more guys pushing strollers ran by me.
I turned the corner and saw the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge. A 7,000-foot bridge should not be one's destination. When I can see the finish I want to know that the end is near. That thing is visible from a pretty good distance.
I knew at some point the race would split and particpants would choose the 12 kilometer option or the 7 kilometer option. They need to make that decision come sooner. After three miles is not the best time to present a struggling particpant the following options: Continue straight and jog a few hundred more yards and stroll on into a relaxing finish, or turn right and continue to endure over four more miles of pain. Choose wisely, and choose now. I turned right.
I said earlier this week, "Once I get through the first two miles the rest is easy." Not true today. I eventually hit the four-mile mark, which was my toughest mile of the day. I'm still trying to figure out how many miles it was from the four-mile marker to the five-mile marker.
This was my first time running the Bridge to Bridge. I had heard of the race years ago, but never participated. I didn't even know that "Bridge to Bridge" was actually just the short name of the race. The colloquial shortcut consistantly used by particpants because nobody wants to say the race's entire name, "The Bridge to Bridge and then make a U-turn and keep running, haha." See, it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
Actually, the U-turn at the Golden Gate was inspiring. My body was feeling better and I even picked up the pace (slightly). Now, I was headed back toward the finish. It was comforting seeing a slew of people that were still behind me, and some of them even looked like they were struggling more than me.
Now my right foot was hurting, but I kept on running. I finished strong. I made it.
After the race we went out for lunch and my brother-in-law asked me if I wanted to run a half-marathon with him.
"Why not? That was easy."
I finally passed a few people while going up the steep hill, but I think they passed me right back when we returned to flat ground. Then after three miles I had a cramp so bad in my right side I took a break to walk. I wondered, "Where were the bands, the music, and the people chearing me on?" I searched for motivation within, as two more guys pushing strollers ran by me.
I turned the corner and saw the beautiful Golden Gate Bridge. A 7,000-foot bridge should not be one's destination. When I can see the finish I want to know that the end is near. That thing is visible from a pretty good distance.
I knew at some point the race would split and particpants would choose the 12 kilometer option or the 7 kilometer option. They need to make that decision come sooner. After three miles is not the best time to present a struggling particpant the following options: Continue straight and jog a few hundred more yards and stroll on into a relaxing finish, or turn right and continue to endure over four more miles of pain. Choose wisely, and choose now. I turned right.
I said earlier this week, "Once I get through the first two miles the rest is easy." Not true today. I eventually hit the four-mile mark, which was my toughest mile of the day. I'm still trying to figure out how many miles it was from the four-mile marker to the five-mile marker.
This was my first time running the Bridge to Bridge. I had heard of the race years ago, but never participated. I didn't even know that "Bridge to Bridge" was actually just the short name of the race. The colloquial shortcut consistantly used by particpants because nobody wants to say the race's entire name, "The Bridge to Bridge and then make a U-turn and keep running, haha." See, it doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
Actually, the U-turn at the Golden Gate was inspiring. My body was feeling better and I even picked up the pace (slightly). Now, I was headed back toward the finish. It was comforting seeing a slew of people that were still behind me, and some of them even looked like they were struggling more than me.
Now my right foot was hurting, but I kept on running. I finished strong. I made it.
After the race we went out for lunch and my brother-in-law asked me if I wanted to run a half-marathon with him.
"Why not? That was easy."
I moved out of my parents' house
Yesterday I finally moved out of my parents house. They don't know yet, so don't tell them. I don't want them to be sad. I left the first time in 1998. 10 years ago. I started thinking about all the places I lived since. I took a couple minutes and jotted them down. 15. (Unless I missed one. If you lived with me somewhere that isn't on the list let me know.) The following is a summary of the last ten years of my life (not including the two other times I lived back at my parents' house), and in no particular order:
Long Beach, Santa Barbara (2), San Luis Obispo (4), Reno, Sacramento (4), Thousand Oaks (2), and San Jose.
With that kind of mobility one may asks: what constitutes "living" somewhere. I came up with the following parameters: I paid rent, and received at least one piece of mail at the address. My longest tenure was 12 months, and a few places were merely two or three months. I lived with some incredible people along the way, and have many stories I could share about each place. However, I won't do that here, but feel free to ask.
With that kind of history it is pretty obvious why I didn't call my bank and change my address every time I moved somewhere. It would have been a hassle. Despite having 15 other addresses since 1998 the address on my credit cards have always remained the same. Yesterday that changed.
I called the bank and said, "I would like to change my address." I gave her a new address in Sacramento, California. She entered it, and asked which accounts I wanted changed. I replied, "All of them." That was it. The woman on the phone acted like it was no big deal. Just typed it in. She didn't even say anything like, "Wow, after all these years, and all the moves, you're finally moving on from your parents' address?" All she said was, "Is that all you called for today?"
For her it was completely unceramonious.
Long Beach, Santa Barbara (2), San Luis Obispo (4), Reno, Sacramento (4), Thousand Oaks (2), and San Jose.
With that kind of mobility one may asks: what constitutes "living" somewhere. I came up with the following parameters: I paid rent, and received at least one piece of mail at the address. My longest tenure was 12 months, and a few places were merely two or three months. I lived with some incredible people along the way, and have many stories I could share about each place. However, I won't do that here, but feel free to ask.
With that kind of history it is pretty obvious why I didn't call my bank and change my address every time I moved somewhere. It would have been a hassle. Despite having 15 other addresses since 1998 the address on my credit cards have always remained the same. Yesterday that changed.
I called the bank and said, "I would like to change my address." I gave her a new address in Sacramento, California. She entered it, and asked which accounts I wanted changed. I replied, "All of them." That was it. The woman on the phone acted like it was no big deal. Just typed it in. She didn't even say anything like, "Wow, after all these years, and all the moves, you're finally moving on from your parents' address?" All she said was, "Is that all you called for today?"
For her it was completely unceramonious.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
