Today marks five years since I hugged my grandmother. Even though it's been that long, tears well up in my eyes whenever I think about Maman, and our parting. I was leaving for the Gambia, for what was supposed to be a two-year stint in the Peace Corps. And she was dying. We all knew that to be the case, though, being my grandmother and loving me to pieces (as grandparents are prone to do), Maman talked about seeing me in a couple of years. Our tears revealed the truth - that we both knew that this would be the last time we'd see one another.
I left for my new adventure with fear in my heart, knowing that I would have to deal with the news of Maman's passing in the near future, and that I would have to deal with it alone. Early on in my Peace Corps training, I asked what the procedure would be. How would I, living in a mud hut in a village a few hours from Banjul, find out that my grandmother had passed to the next world? I was told that Peace Corps personnel would drive to the village and tell me. And so, I became attuned to the sound of cars. Not those running along the south bank road, which cut through our village. But the ones that left the road for the dirt paths of the village.
Any time I heard a car in close proximity, my heart plummeted to my stomach. But the fear was soon allayed by the sound of the car's occupants getting out and speaking in Mandinka to others in my compound, or continuing their drive to the main road. Then, one day in August, as I was cleaning my hut, a car stopped right outside. And I knew. The Peace Corps person didn't even have to open his mouth before I burst into tears.
I left the Gambia in September 1998, less than three months after arriving. In that time, my world changed. I came back to a place where people seemed whiter and fatter than when I'd left. That was, of course, just my perception. I also came back to a family that had lost its matriarch, its center. That was more than perception.
For a long time, I told myself that Maman's passing had nothing to do with my leaving the Gambia. But it's hard to know if that's the truth. If not for my worries, maybe I would have been more willing to stay there, despite my misgivings about my role. I've also said, for the past 4.5 years, that I'm glad that I went to the Gambia and I'm glad I came back. While I'm sad that I wasn't able to be with Maman in the last days of her life, I ultimately see it as a good thing that I went to the Gambia. For even that short experience helped shape what came next, including becoming friends with the man I eventually married.
When I think of my grandmother, I think of a strong, selfless, spiritual woman. When I spent the night in my grandparents' room, I would see her praying, early in the morning, late at night. I remember once, being at the airport with her, and she asked me to hold her purse while she went to the restroom, because she didn't want to expose the prayer book in her purse to the dirtiness of the public restroom. It was something I thought strange at the time, but came to respect, the more I thought about it. She was the provider of unconditional love, and fruit peeled just-for-you. She proved me wrong when she outlived my grandfather by five years, reminding me of the stories I heard of her climbing over the garden wall while pregnant, to escape people on the hunt for Baha'is. She wanted us to achieve our wildest dreams.
I start running down the platform, to meet the blue line train.
And then I feel someone jumping on my back.
"No! Let me go! Stop!"
"This is Conducter Harris. We've got a situation here. I've got someone attacking a girl, on the platform."
I feel myself being pulled toward the tracks, right in front of the now-stopped train. His weight is pulling me closer and closer to the edge. He jumps, pulling me on top of him. But I grab a handle on the front of the train. I hold on, despite his bodyweight hanging from my neck.
"This is Harris again. The attacker and the girl are going down onto the tracks. Wait! She grabbed the front of the train. But I don't know if she can pull herself up. He's still holding onto her neck."
It's really nice of you to keep the higher-ups in the loop, Harris. But you think you could come help me? I can hover here in midair for only so long.
Strangers who call me "babe" or "hon," or any other term of endearment
Some years ago, I wasn't paying close attention while driving in stop-and-go traffic. Or, rather, I was paying attention to the hair of some pedestrians, rather than to the car in front of me. So, I hit the car in front of me.
Going rather slowly, I didn't do much damage (- to that car. The hood of my parent's car did a crumpling act). But it was a new bumper that I marred, so the driver's girlfriend, who was the owner of the car, wasn't too pleased. I hope I didn't negatively impact their relationship.
I still remember that when she called me, she called me "hon." Which I thought was pretty weird, considering we'd never met, and I had hit her car. And I certainly hadn't endeared myself to her.
I am STOKED to see Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle! Me, Sam, Drew, Lucy, and Cameron are going to hang tonight. Wahoo!
Check out the animated shorts at the above link.
Regarding the last anticipation, J.K. and Harry did not disappoint. I kept thinking about the book, even after finishing it.
Sitting here at my desk, I keep feeling random contractions in my abdominal area. I can only conclude it's the aftershocks of yesterday's pilates class. She killed us. We all staggered out at the end of the hour. The good thing was that, due to my fatigue, I was soundly asleep by 9:30 pm, which made it easier to get up for my 5 am conference call this morning. (Yeah, Hawaii wasn't really considered when this national call was put into place. But it's okay - it's my special time.)
I just crossed paths with a mirror for the first time today since my hair dried. My conclusion is that, for once, I'm having a good hair day. Too bad the HUGE red ZIT on my cheek ruins the overall presentation.
This past week has been full of good things, mostly in the form of phone calls:
- Surprise call at work from a friend, whom I haven't seen since his wedding last summer.
- Surprise call at home from another friend, whom I haven't seen since my wedding last summer.
- Call from my mom, saying that she's coming through Honolulu on her way to the mainland (and the rest of my family), from China. And, you guessed it, I haven't seen her since a few days after my wedding last summer. Yay! I get to see my mom! It will be a few weeks shy of a year since we were together. Probably the longest I've gone without seeing her, regardless of where I've been living. Just in the nick of time. Because even though I'm now a married woman, and this is the year I turn thirty, I'm still a girl who needs her mommy.
I was diagnosed with asthma when I was around eight. It coincided with the news that I was allergic to my favorite foods - pecans, cantaloupe, strawberries, tuna.... Oh, how I cried, when I was told that these morsels would be off limit to me. As you might have deduced, my asthma was triggered by allergies. It was also induced by exercise. (I think that's why I was oh-so-very couch-potato-like for many years. To the point that when I decided to get off my butt and try out for the soccer team my senior year of high school, and had to get something signed by a PE teacher, I was reminded that soccer entailed running. And she wasn't even my teacher. And I hadn't had PE for more than a year. But I digress - sharing with you the magnitude of my reputation for walking “the mile” every week is amusing, but not the point of this entry.)
So, the asthma - my mother remembers it otherwise, but in my memory it resulted in many a calls to my parents to pick me up from school early, due to asthma attacks. Or not even leaving the house to begin with. Heat triggered my attacks as well, and living in New Orleans, going to school in classrooms lacking air conditioners, or even ceiling fans at that point.... well, you get the picture. I also got pretty good at pretending to have, or self-inducing, asthma attacks, when I didn't feel like being in class. But whenever possible, I tried to avoid having severe attacks.
Severe attacks meant Quibron. *chills* Whenever my breathing (or lack thereof) got truly out of control, I started to panic. Not just because I couldn't breath. But because the administering of Quibron was near. Even now, probably 20 years after my last spoonful of the grossness, it makes me shudder. The flavor was disgusting. So much so that I can't even describe it. And that's why my asthma attacks were often accompanied by tears, and pleas to my parents to not put that spoon in my mouth. But since they loved me, and wanted me to continue breathing, they forced me to open my mouth and then swallow that swill. This was then usually followed by my eating dill pickles, as a strange side effect of the Quibron was a craving for pickles.
I eventually finagled other prescriptions - usually smaller doses of pills meant for adults. These often made me stay up all night, or gave me gas. But I didn't care. Yes, I will swallow all the pills necessary, just don't make me take Quibron. A side effect of these later medications was a clean room by the time my parents woke up.
I now rarely have asthma attacks, and when I feel like I'm moving toward one, I use the handy inhaler. I realized just now, as I took a puff (which is what reminded me of the above), that this is the first inhaler that is legally mine. For the past ten years, I've scammed them from the other members of my family with asthma. You think I would just get a prescription, but because I don't really have problems, I don't usually think about getting one.
As for Quibron, it seems that today's children are free of this threat. I couldn't even find the drug in my electronic Physicians' Desk Reference. I found it at Drugstore.com, but only in tablet or capsule form. So, if my kids ever have asthma, and complain about whatever meds they have to take, I can just tell them that in my day it was Quibron, and there is nothing more evil.
Just read that McDonald's is calling upon its meat suppliers to reduce their use of antibiotics. This puts a smile on my face. While it doesn't directly impact me, it makes me feel better about what my loved ones eat.
I just hope there will be a significant reduction in antibiotic levels, not just one that looks good on paper. Since McDonald's is involved, this could revolutionize the food industry. Naive dreaming?
I don't know what it about fire alarms that gets me happy. I guess it's because the only time I experienced a legitimate one was in college, when someone's mattress caught on fire, but no one got hurt. All the other times, the fire alarm going off has amounted to a fire drill.
Maybe it's that I forgot to grow up? Fire alarm = leaving the classroom = good? A minute ago, the emergency lights on the wall started flashing, accompanied by a piped-in voice, asking for our attention. I was all ready to pick up my bag and head outdoors to the glorious sunshine.
Dashed! The voice proceeded to inform us that there had been a false alarm on the second floor, triggered by construction. Being many floors higher, we didn't hear the false alarm. In a matter of seconds, my hopes rose and then fell. Have to stay inside. Shucks.
I just got the word - my book is in. My local bookstore, across the street from my office, just called to tease me. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix has arrived. But, as they pointed out, they can't give it to me until Saturday. They definitely know how to get a girl eager with anticipation.
It was nice to get the call for two reasons:
1) I am comforted that, even though I'm out here in the middle of the Pacific, my reunion with Harry will not be delayed.
2) It is reassuring to know that the people at the bookstore are not living under a rock. Which can be the only defense of the bookseller I heard about on the news this morning - who started selling the book already, saying he didn't know he wasn't supposed to.
Today, so far, has been rainy and grey. (I must add the grey, because rainy here does not necessarily mean grey.) BUT, I often listen to a Seattle radio station while at work. And while it may be rainy and grey here, at least it's not 63 friggin degrees, in the middle of June, in the middle of the day. Ha!
Sorry to those of you that may be experiencing weather in the sixties. I'm just trying to make myself feel better about the grey, that makes me want to go to sleep under my desk. I've been up since 5 am.
What's the story with the spam re. septic tanks? The majority of spam I see has to do with deception. Not just on the part of the individual/company sending the e-mail. But also on the part of the sucker. Oops, I mean buyer:
What happened? I think I drank too much water, and it went to my breasts by mistake.
My penis has always been this size. Maybe it just seems bigger because of your osteoprorisis. It makes you shrink, you know.
Yes, I have a PhD, an MD, and a JD. I know I'm only 23, but I started very young.
Oh sure, let it loose in our toilet. We just got a new septic tank.
??!! I am very sceptical of any company that solicits business via spam. I guess there are people who respond to such advertising, but I don't think I know them. I think people who pop organ-enhancing pills half think they won't work, so if nothing happens, or if something doesn't go quite as they expected, they just roll with it. Or if you pay $50 bucks for a degree that other people spent a few years and thousands of dollars on, can your really be disappointed that they got the job instead of you?
But when your property stinks to high heavens, you're not just going to sit around. You're going to sue the pants off someone. (And not let them use your toilet.)
I think I must be missing something with these septic tank messages. Either they're legitimate and there's a huge group of wealthy people looking for new septic tank offers via their Inboxes. Or they're code for something else. Or there's some other deception I have yet to discover. Anyone have any insights?
What I want to know, that I've yet to see covered in any of the monkeypox articles - why, on God's green earth, are we importing rats into the country?!
Everyone's concerned about the prairie dogs. But everything I read says they were infected by a Gambian Giant Rat. (Thank goodness I never crossed paths with one of those while I was in the Gambia.)
Rats are ick. Giant rats are super-ick. And last I checked, our rat population was doing just fine, thank you, without reinforcements from other countries.
I feel frazzled. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's that when I was getting dressed this morning, I felt like I grew a third buttock, or had become six months pregnant overnight. Or maybe that little elf has been in the closet again, shrinking my clothes. Okay, stuffed weight issues in corner and got dressed in some of my looser clothing.
Other issue - fire ants having a party in my eye sockets. Itchy, itchy, itchy! My eyes are puffy, and I'm having to refrain from gouging them out. My chest feels constricted. Apparently, paradise is not free of allergy problems.
My consolation is that I just used my snazzy pill cutter that Kaiser gave me a few months ago. Don't want my antihistamine sending me under my desk for a nap. Yay for sharp gadgets!
It makes me uncomfortable to be in an elevator with a man muttering, F%@#ed up! into his phone.
My husband and I often joke about my neverending list of worries. One of those is the above, just brought to my attention today - being trapped in a small space with a seemingly volatile person.
Another one, which I often think of while waiting to cross the street, or while passing someone talking to themselves - is randomly being punched by someone not quite in touch with reality. Similar to the punching incident last week in Rhode Island. I guess I could expand my existing worry about being randomly punched, to include anyone, in touch with reality or not.
Yes, it's hard to be me. Must...quell...imagination.
With all the SARS in the air worldwide, we have all worked extra hours the past few months. In a paycheck of about a month ago, I was overpaid for my overtime. Interestingly enough, I didn't want the pay - I wanted the time.
But I filled out the right columns on the wrong-colored form (or was it the wrong columns on the right-colored form?), and along the line it was concluded that I wanted the money. And then somewhere further along the line, it was processed inappropriately - crediting me with more hours than I worked. So then I got a nice chunk of change. I didn't pay much attention to the calculations until last week. So then I questioned it.
Now I have to write a memo, asking that I be paid less than usual in my next paycheck. If I never got around to writing the memo, could I just keep the extra money?
My Jiminy Cricket says no.
Or would that be puddle?
Anyway, point is, some days, work sucks. Today was not one of those days.
I was busy, busy, busy. In an overall good way. I was up and showered before 6am, and then started working at home. And then I came in and worked even harder. It was the kind of day that got me praise from a coworker. It got me praise from my supervisor, too. But I think it's nicer to be recognized by one's peers for a job well done. Supervisors are supposed to give you words of encouragement. That's not part of the job description of your coworkers.
So, thirteen hours after I started working, I go home. Tired. But content.
Tuesday, I got a call that changed things. It was a conversation that started out mundane enough (How are you? How's work?). It was about to end in a mundane way (Okay, I should go...). And then, I heard, There's something I need to tell you.
Oh, oh.
It was the kind of news that takes a while to sink in. And then I cried. And later, I cried some more. I know that it will be okay - that we'll be okay - but it will probably take some time, and reorientation.
Yesterday, we had the day off for King Kamehameha Day. Yes, we get all the holidays the mainland gets. Plus some. Went snorkeling for a little bit - we were at the beach by 7am. Visibility wasn't great, but we still saw some awesome fish. It's times like that that I feel so very lucky to live here, swimming along, with these creatures of amazing color and grace casually moving under or past me.
This morning, I was pretty excited to log onto my Hotmail account and discover I had only 6 new messages in my Inbox. Maybe excitement is a little strong for the feeling, since at that point I was thinking that I would have only six messages to delete. Maybe surprise would better describe my feelings.
I used to never get junk e-mail, and then, I guess one day I met the wrong website and made the mistake of exchanging my email address with it. My need to delete has never been the same since. I don't have the horror stories of my friends who log on and have to delete hundreds of emails at a time, even with their junk filters on. But I still get my share of offers for things in my pants and shirt, and fake degrees. I'm not a fan of the filters, because I'm a control freak. I prefer to manually delete, so a friend's email doesn't get screened out by mistake.
Anyway, this morning, out of those six messages, only one was junk! How amazing is that?! Five out of six emails were legitimate, from people I know. This could be a very good day ahead of me.
In paying my bills today, I discovered that with this check, I am done paying the Perkins Loan for my Masters. It wasn't a big loan, but I just love that feeling of paying off debt. Especially for my educational loans, because when I first started paying them off, it seemed like I would never finish - that I'd be this little old lady paying a little bit each month for a degree that I'd earned for a job that I'd retired from 20 years earlier. Things seem so much more melodramatic when they're unfamiliar.
But now it's so rote to pay bills, it just becomes a big surprise to discover that one of them is paid off. Two loans down, one to go. Just 50 gazillion dollars left.
I was just thinking about the evolution of panty lines. When I was younger, my mother would encourage me to wear a slip, when she felt one was warranted, cautioning me that an overly visible panty line could attract unwanted attention. Maybe my mother's perception was skewed, but I think she was on target for the times. The times when panties covered a woman's bottom, or at least made the attempt. (I won't go into my feelings about panties that didn't succeed in that attempt.) The times when the stacks of panties in department stores weren't buttock-optional. The times when everything cute wasn't a thong.
Now, it's the invisible panty line that attracts the attention. (Or the panty line that closely conforms to one's butt crack. Or the top of a thong sticking out of one's pants, that yells, “Hey world, look at me! Fantasize about my underclothes!”) For this reason, I kind of like it when there is a hint of my panty line, indicating that this butt is covered.