Let's say you have something you need to take care of that requires a specific item. You know you brought that item with you to work, but can't remember where you put it. And so you root through your purse and coat pockets, and then Eureka! there it is. And even better, it's in there with another thing that you thought was missing. So, two things in your coat pocket. One thing you need, another thing you thought you'd have to replace. Now, which item do you carry with you most of the way to your destination? Who guessed the 'missing' item? Dude, your brain works just like mine. Which is to say, not well. If at all. 

I still haven’t done those family posts like I said that I would. And now, in an attempt to get to other letters of the alphabet in a timely fashion, they have officially become lists. Lord knows I’m a slacker. But anyway, on to the lists. These lists are things that I think of as the “Top 10 Best” in each family. Maybe there are things that you think are better, but I’m in charge here, and these were the things that I could think of. We’re going to just do them and move on, for now anyway, because I have been avoiding them for nigh to two weeks due to lack of inspiration despite rich material. If, perhaps, you wanted something more? Sad to say that you can’t always get what you want. But you probably knew that. The Rolling Stones certainly did.

Schrock Family

1. Playing washers
2. Putting together puzzles
3. Camping
4. Corn on the Cob
5. Grandma reading the Christmas story according to Luke
6. Scrabble Blitz, especially with Dick watching and grousing
7. Teasing the cows
8. S’mores, hot dogs and root beer burping contests around the campfire<
9. Grandpa always asking “How’s my girlfriend?”
10. Picking, snapping, shelling, etc. vegetables with grandma

Sohar Family

1. Strudel
2. Getting rained out at Tall Timbers
3. Playing Uno with grandma, especially when she cheated
4. Daddy and Frank ‘singing’ the Nestle’s jingle
5. Listening to everybody talk about who lived where and who lives there now<
6. Playing mancala with all of the cousins at once
7. Holding hands and reciting “Grandpa Sohar’s prayer”
8. Walking in the creek at the Tree Farm
9. New Year’s Eve parties
10. Grandma pulling ears on birthdays

My Immediate Family

1. Sharing napkins (not always clean ones)
2. Conversation derailed by the presence of a bird
3. Christmas Eve breakfast
4. Using old (clean!) Windex bottles as water guns
5. “Funny Ranch” (aka Blue Cheese)
6. Playing Parcheesi, Sorry, Apples to Apples, etc.
7. Going to the zoo
8. Water fights while washing dishes
9. Camping, with the official donuts
10. Sunday evening phone calls

And that’s that. See? There’s enough there for real posts, but somehow, I couldn’t. I think the issue is that I wanted them to be as good as the memories, and I am not a Pulitzer Prize winning author. G is for Granola will be next.


I read:
The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan (Really good science writing about human interaction with 4 different plant species: apple, tulip, marijuana and potato.)
The Girl With No Shadow by Joanne Harris (Story of a French woman and her children, their run-in with those who wish them ill, and a splash of Aztec mythology. I love magical realism. I truly do. Also? This was the sequel to Chocolat, which meant it had some of my favorite characters ever.)

To Whom It May Concern:

You. You over there who is checking Craigslist for volunteer opportunities. When you respond to them, please keep one thing in mind. This is not a time to include a resume. I don’t want to read your resume. Promise. I have no intention whatsoever of looking at it. Save yourself some time and protect yourself from my annoyance, don't attach it to your email when you ask me what you have to do to get started in our program. I will not read it, and the reason for that is simple: I don't care. This is a volunteer position. Regardless of whether or not the angels sing when you commit yourself to tasks, we will take you. We need volunteers. Your resume isn't really all that relevant. Unless you list "correctional facility" as your employer from 1983-2005, we will likely have no problems, you and I.

But your resume? I have a problem with it. I have to use our company’s webmail and attachments tend to freak our server out a little. In this way, I suppose, I am somewhat impressed by your resume since it has the power to make my computer stop for up to five minutes if I dared to open it, but it is a fear-based thing. And that’s going to start our relationship off on the wrong foot.

I am convinced that what will start out our relationship right is a clear understanding of what a resume is and what it is for. To that end I suggest the following: a resume is designed to show a potential employer your marketable skills. The first key word here is the word *employer.* We are obviously not going to be your employer. As a volunteer you will receive no salary. We have no intention of paying you. Even if you saved the world in 2006. You can save it again in 2008 and we still won't pay you. The second key word is *marketable.* Since we’re not (as previously stated) intending to pay you, we’re not checking whether you are marketable. We don’t actually need you to be. So, congratulations on having a resume. No one needs it. Except maybe you, when you apply for a real job. You know, one with pay? One that asks for a resume and cover letter to be submitted to HR? Cause that, if ever, would be the time to whip it out. Thank you for your consideration.

Signed,

Megan Sohar

I have never been more excited. That was the best speech *ever.*  Completely and totally rocked. And he pulled it off so well. I am continually impressed by Matthew Rhys' abilities as an actor. 

But oh my goodness, the look on Scotty's face as Kevin gave it made me melt. The look on Kevin's face when he gave it made me melt more. Oh the amazing-ness.  And the fact that this will be among the first, if not the first, homosexual partnership ceremony on network television! Oh tolerance. We've come so far in embracing difference. Let's see more of that, shall we?

Next week is the season finale! With cliffhangers! Oh my! Love, love, love that show.

 

And it's sad. Lots of condiments, though. Oh and that orange? I ate it for lunch.

The Schrock, Sohar, and my family posts are coming. Probably one over the weekend. Maybe. Don't hold your breath. It's bad for you. 

I am currently reading The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan. I have a sudden and irrepressible interest in science-based books. About a month ago I read a few medical science narratives, more recently I read a book that discussed the planets, and now this book about plants. This is not so much a sudden desire to be a scientist, as it is an information and not being in school thing. The issue here, I believe, is four-fold.

1. I have time to research things that interest me. People I have lived with can testify to my tendency to “go look things up.” But now, instead of a quick Google between paper-writing sessions, I can actually take the time to read whole books on topics I am curious about.

2. I am no longer bombarded daily with new information. As such, I have to go out and get books on “weird topics” in order to learn new things. And I love learning new things, as evidenced by this post over here.

3. I love a good story. Science narratives deliver. Whereas a science textbook tells you the most it can in as little space as possible, sticking to the driest of facts, a science book like The Botany of Desire sets out to tell you a story about four plants. And it does it by weaving together science, history, and storytelling. And I love that creativity. Granted, there are four well-ordered, scientifically-researched chapters, one for each plant, but still, a story for each.

4. I never really took classes on science. So in the interest of new information, I’m reading science books. I took a bajillion classes on literature types. If you offered me a book about 19th century British literature, I would hit you over the head with it. Seriously. Don’t tempt me.

And honestly, the things that I have learned! In the first chapter about apples, I learned that the apple's birthplace is believed to be in Kazakhstan. And also that Johnny Appleseed brought apple trees to Ohio, yes, but not so that settlers could have apples to eat. The apples from the trees he peddled were generally too sour to eat, and so they were used for ciders. And cider, in the days before refrigeration, was by necessity alcoholic. So, it was like a door-to-door homegrown bar service. How’s that for “Johnny Appleseed, Amen.” If we had known, we’d have never sung it.

One of the departments I work for celebrated my birthday yesterday.  This was a particularly singular experience.  In the same way that I have had only one surprise party, I have only celebrated my birthday in April once.  This is because my birthday is in September. See, all this came about because of a conversation about my parents.

"Have they come to see you yet?" queried one of my colleagues, looking at me over a ham sandwich. 
"Oh yes," said I.  "They've been here twice, once a few weeks ago and once in September for my birthday."
"Your *birthday*?" squawked my colleague in tones of dismay.  "You mean we missed it?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so," said I, completely unperturbed.

And that was the end of it.  Or so I thought.

Then yesterday we had a meeting, followed by lunch (Paid for by the department! Squee!), followed by an announcement.

"Megan?"
"Yes?"
"We have something for you."
(Cue small brown bag.)
"Oh? Umm?"
"For your birthday. Well, we know it's not your birthday, but like, your un-birthday. So happy un-birthday? Cause we missed it?"
"Oh! Thank you!"

And then there was jewelry in the smaller brown box that was in the bottom of the small brown bag. Slightly over-sized, earthy-looking, jewelry in the box.  And yea, most verily, my shock that strangers would know so exactly what to get me was complete. But then again, it looks quite a bit like what I always wear, so maybe they look at my ears and wrists more than I had originally thought. Though, it bears saying that if I had been asked on Monday how often I thought my colleagues looked at my ears and wrists I would have said, "Never."  So, there's one in the "proven wrong" category.

And so, dear reader, I leave you with a picture of Alice. Who also had a very merry un-birthday once. Though hers had a maniacal rabbit and a tea set, and mine had, well, dust bunnies and water bottles.

I will be talking about some of you anyhow.
That’s because the next post on the list is: F is for Family. It will be held in three parts.

Part one will be about the Schrock Family
Part two will be about the Sohar Family
Part three will be about my immediate family

Part one is scheduled for early next week. In the meantime, there may or may not be posts on various riveting topics such as:

Chicago Weather!
My Pathetic Shoes!
Pink Line Trains!
Cell Phones!
Jewelry Design!
My Two Favorite TV Shows!
Local Parks!
How The Leave Comment Section Works!
Why I Take Late Lunches!

 "Talent is an adornment; an adornment is also a concealment."

I have often found that the thing that both helps my health and hinders my trust in the medical field is not a thing, and it is one and the same: doctors. Obviously they make the final decisions, order the labs, and are the top of the chain of command when I want more Tylox, please God can I have more Tylox. And yet they can be very bad at appearing to be people who have a genuine and positive interest in my care. Doctors are the sort of people who demand to know what you’re allergic to and then make funny faces when you say penicillin, because now they have to decide between a sulpha drug or something else entirely. They are not the sort who will talk sweetly to you while you are having your third IV threaded in. Those are nurses. And frankly, I like them better. You don’t have to sell your soul in order to talk to one.

In the scope of things, there are doctors, and then there are surgeons. Surgeons are generally, so far as my experience ranges, interested in being right and then proving it to you. I remember being told by the general surgeon after my spinal fusion that my incision looked exactly like he expected that it would. And then he left the room, and I was left thinking that I supposed I was glad that my skin did what he thought it should. If it hadn’t, what would he have done then? Or at the end of a long day when one of the surgical residents came by to say that the crushing pain I was feeling was totally expected, which is why I could have morphine if I wanted. My surgeon had known it would happen exactly like that, didn’t I remember being told? When my pain lessened in my hips, it was exactly on the timetable that my orthopedic surgeon had expected. And it’s not that I wanted them to be wrong, just that I had hoped that we could maybe talk about how it felt, or just commiserate, rather than have someone say, “Goodness, yes, I am quite aware that it does hurt very badly. And so you know, it is exactly to my calculations that it should. Well done you.”

In 2002, I discovered the difference between a doctor and a resident. The dividing line had less to do with experience as it did with exhaustion. I had a few run-ins with them that had mostly to do with a schedule that involved getting up and doing rounds at 5 a.m., and the resulting fog that this creates. One individual woke me by pulling the sheets off my feet and asking if they were still ‘weird.’ He was intelligent, he was thorough, and it seemed as though he would be better at his job if he didn’t also have eyes with enormous black circles underneath. I am convinced of this because I also saw him on an afternoon once and he was completely different. He totally had it in him to be interested, invested, and kind. But his schedule had totally beaten it out of him.

This week I went to West Egg, and sat near a pair of 3rd year medical students. They were discussing their classes, their study schedules (What on EARTH does neuroplastics mean? Anyone?), their rotations, and their summer internships. The one guy was mad about his current stint in OB/GYN because he doesn’t “do babies.” This is not eavesdropping. They were loud. And weird, since they announced at one point to the waitress that they were 3rd year med students. Mr. Neuroplastics was talking about how he had spent last summer in Mexico and had seen a motorcycle injury where, “The guy had hit the ground, like, really hard. And CSF was spewing out everywhere!” He seemed genuinely excited about it. And I promptly tuned them out. Because I do not get it. How can you eat an omelet and talk about cerebrospinal fluid? How? This is the dividing line between me and doctors, I think.

In closing, to the doctors: past, present and future, that have helped me in times of need, thank you. Most of you were as kind as you could manage to be. But to be honest, I wish I didn’t know so many of you.

 My aunt Cindy (who wrote me a letter, that came in the mail today! And she addressed it upside down!) has had a lifelong obsession with chocolate. I don’t know that I love it nearly as much as she does, but I do remember going to her home and eating Dove chocolate pieces. And then saving the wrappers, because they have cute little sayings. I still have one that says that every woman looks good in red. Which is so true. I love red. 

Oh and? I love, love, love Mayan Chocolate Ice Cream by Haagen-Daaz.  I wish I could afford it.

I submit the following photo.



And I will get away with it, basically because you're in the wrong state to:
a) defend yourself in a timely fashion
        or
b) threaten me with bodily harm


Oh and? What on EARTH were we doing? That can't have been Cornwall.  Notice also that we were doing that in a public place, with strangers in the background. *Shameless.*

I love books with a great and joyous abandon. I think it's always been that way. I can't remember not wanting to read. There have been phases, where I'd only read fantasy or science fiction, or only books set in India, or only the classics. I spent a surprising amount of time in that last "era" not finishing books. I can tell you with unshakable surety that I don't like William Faulkner. Yes, I know I probably should. But, oh my hell, I can't read him. I honestly don't get it. Who are these people, and why don't I understand what they are doing? That and more of the same to Thomas Wolfe, who wrote Look Homeward Angel.  I tried so flipping hard with that book. Stopped and restarted it 3 times, but no dice. Ernest Hemingway, however, is fine, if a little gory. Love me some Jane Austen, and Leo Tolstoy. Oh Anna Karenina. So good, and so long. 800+ pages of Russian intrigue. Love, love, love. Though I did discover that not all Russian intrigue is created equal. I found The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky to be downright awful, and stopped reading it after 85 pages.

 

 Let’s be honest here about Le Grand Plan. There are things that I am not prioritizing well, and some of those things I feel guilty about, but this blog is not one of them. So, since I don't have a great deal of drive, and there are no negative repercussions, here we are. I will be putting together the posts, but not necessarily in a timely fashion. It’s been a four-day lag as it is.