When I Grow Up...

Roger Craig. Aside from having two first names, this former all-pro NFL running back sports a dubious distinction that only a proud few can cram onto their resumes - for several months in the late 80's he was my number one hero...bar none. Nevermind that I was small, slow, untalented, six or seven years old...and white - I was going to be the next Roger Craig...and there was nobody who could tell me otherwise. While the Niners weren't necessarily my team, they were the team at the time and it seemed that everywhere you turned you caught a glimpse of the high stepping running back who made a home 5 yards behind Joe Montana. While Montana was the star, it was to Craig that I deferred when I stumbled upon that inevitable question that every seven year old faces after someone finds out the important stuff like how old they are and what grade they are in...what the hell was I going to be when I grew up?

Unfortunately, in between the Pro Bowls and Super Bowl rings, Roger's glamour eventually faded in my eyes. It could have been at the time when I was contemplating a career change, as the next Ultimate Warrior, or perhaps it was just jarred from my subconscious during an aggressive turn on the seesaws. Regardless - somewhere amongst the endless days of milk cartons and single file lines, Roger became an afterthought and I moved on to bigger and better. But didn't we all? Aren't we supposed to?

While the characters can change from year to year and child to child, every kid at some point has (or at least deserves to have) someone or something that they want to be when they grow up. Perhaps you were the young astronaut in training, the fashion designer, or the police officer. Perhaps, like me, your dreams of joining the professional wrestling circuit were delayed along with your continually promised growth spurt. In any event, the aspirations of a child provide the opportunity for creativity, development of tangible goals, and conversation starters for unimaginative adults. While somewhere in our subconscious we likely all knew that we wouldn't be the first President of Mars or the next He-Man, the audacity of those goals allowed room for significant achievement should we fall short.

Roger Craig high stepped back into my head last week - somewhere between my brown bagged lunch and a daily check of the calender for the day that would follow. Leaning back slowly in my pleather chair and staring at the unwavering excitement of "Thursday", the feelings of self doubt began to creep in. What is Roger doing today? Have I really gotten that far off track? How long will it be until seven year old me saunters through that door, whispers softly to beckon me closer, then violently knees me in the groin? I was going to be an NFL star for crying out loud - what the hell happened?

What happened indeed. Rare are the few who live out each day fulfilling what has been their lifelong dream of being a certified public accountant...or a human resource manager. For the rest of us, the life we lead is a far cry from the life we once dreamed. It's not lesser, or even lower...it's just...different. So for those of us who have reached that realization, where do we go next? When we stop idolizing Roger Craig and start idolizing Greg from accounting, what are we to expect of ourselves? Sure, perspectives change and lifetime goals are adjusted - a house on the beach might become a two year old with a good car seat and that's certainly as it should be. But does that mean we should stop dreaming about what could be? I'll never be Roger Craig, but isn't it important that I continue to test myself by setting goals that I might never achieve? Are you really ready to say you're all grown up?

As Roger Craig galloped from my mind's eye once again, I returned my thoughts to "Thursday". While the realities of life would not be forgotten, the vague plan of a future career began to formulate - cruise ship captain. I would sail to only the finest destinations with the pleasantest of passengers - and I'd have a kick ass hat to boot. There's a chance this career change may never materialize, but the idea is still there and I won't act quickly to banish it. Besides, nobody ever asks me how old I am anymore...

"You Can't Outsmart the Fox"

My Mother’s Day was celebrated with a family cookout and fishing along the creek. As Mom and I stood casting for trout she cheekily reminded me of an embarrassing situation that occurred when I was 16 years old. “Tell me again about the time you were arrested at Pinchot. That story amuses me.” My brother immediately interjected in his all-too-familiar mocking tone, “Ha ha. I remember that. Didn’t that warden want to send you to jail? I would have sent you to jail. PA’s lakes and rivers are no joking matter!” To which I annoyingly replied, “No, I did not go to jail… nor was I arrested…but I did have to pay a fine… and worst of all our High Life was confiscated.” Of all the stupid illegal things I did as a teenager, my friends and family will always remember me as the kid who got busted for fishing without a license.

This is how my crime went down: Every year, a group of kids from my high school rent cabins at the local state park. It is one of those quintessential high school weekends with copious amounts of alcohol, drugs and stupidity. A few of us arrived early Friday to claim our positions in the cabin. We still had plenty of sunlight so decided to head to the lake for some fishing. Ali, Mike and I were of the age requiring a fishing license. Mike had a legitimate license and three poles. Ali had never been fishing and was eager to learn so Mike grabbed the rods and I snatched up the tackle box and we all raced for the shoreline. Kendra fetched the stereo, dope and a beer and sauntered behind. She was more interested in dancing to David Bowie than in capturing innocent fish.

Ali took to the casting like monkeys take to trees and within five minutes she had actually caught herself a nice 10-inch sunfish. To many that would be grounds for laughing, but what was most impressive was how she caught it. There was no lure on that line, only an empty hook. Unfortunately, Ali ‘Who needs bait?’ K.’s celebration was short-lived due to the arrival of a dwarf-sized, overweight and bald PA Fish and Game warden. Boss Hogg accusingly interrogated us, “Just what do you kids think you’re doing?” Mike insolently replied, “Well, I think it’s pretty obvious. We’re fishing and she’s dancing,” pointing towards Kendra. She gave a sarcastic wave and belted out the chorus to China Girl, throwing in a few pirouettes for effect.

The game warden demanded to know our ages. Mike curtly told him 16. In unison, Ali and I coyly answered 15 while batting our eyelashes (knowing full well we were at risk of being fined). He then asked to see Mike’s fishing license. “Jesus didn’t need a fishing license!” he shouted in his best Mr. T. voice, before cooperating. The fish police saw Ali’s car and inquired as to who owned it. Mike claimed the vehicle. He ordered us to stay put and returned to his truck. A few minutes later a state trooper with flashing lights arrived on the scene. “Oh my god. Did this guy really just call for backup?” Ali laughed. The warden waved in the car and turned to face us. In the most menacing voice a short fat man can conjure, he growled,“You little weasels better not lie to me because I’m the fox. And guess what? You can’t outsmart the fox!” He then demanded that Mike follow him towards a tree 20 yards away, thus preventing any collaboration of stories between the culprits.

This entire time I am thinking why is Boss being such a royal dick and I wish I was high because this scenario would be even more hilarious! I mean this guy called for backup on three fishing teenagers. The other trooper informed us he called in the plate numbers and discovered the vehicle belonged to Ali. She was told to identify herself. By this time, Kendra’s DB dance party had rudely been interrupted and she grudgingly joined the rest of the girls for the investigation. This scene of demanding honesty, respect and IDs continued for another few minutes until the officer spotted our visible case of Miller in the vehicle. Damn! I knew we shouldn’t have driven the hatchback.

Meanwhile, a quick thunderstorm passed thru and Mike was left to endure it under a tree with the fox. The poor guy was soaked…and totally innocent. In the end, our beer was seized, our car searched for marijuana and Ali and I each were slapped with a $50 fine for fishing without a license. I tried to convince the trooper that I thought it was a Fish for Free Day but since it wasn’t, he didn’t bite. The fox kept reminding us that we were getting off easy since he could have fined us more for lying to an officer.

In retrospect (and by that, I mean a half-hour later) we knew we were stupid. Of all the places to fish without a license, we chose a highly patrolled state park. It was also foolish not to hide our beer. Although, we were lucky the corrupt trooper was thirsty because he just took the alcohol and gave us the obligatory “you shouldn’t drink underage” lecture. That day I did learn a valuable lesson. When it comes to fishing and having blatantly visible alcohol in your car, “you can’t outsmart the fox.” But when it comes to illegal drugs, the weasel wins (our dope was hardly hidden, resting in the middle of the car consul with only a Johnny Cash cd covering it).

After recapping the story to my mother, she simply sighed and smirked. “Oh the joys of adolescence.” Indeed Mom, indeed.

The Kissing King?

I love a good guy story. Back in my single days, I used to do some wild and crazy things. I will be the first to admit that with women, I could be a total ass. I assure you this was not because I thought I was god’s gift to women, but because most of my time if I was hooking up with a girl...I was totally hammered. In my 5 years of college (too short), I did a lot of damage...especially considering that the majority of my time was spent locked down with a steady girlfriend. Some of my close friends still don’t believe my stories, but in my new monthly addition to SixTalkingHeads, I plan to open up the storybook of my sexual adventures. We will start with my first kissing experience with the opposite sex and work our way up to the final glory days...being single in college. I promise to tell the whole truth and nothing less. If you stick with me, you will realize that my stories are so pathetic that I couldn’t dream of making them up. Some of these stories can get a little "detailed," so if you are easily offended….PLEASE DON'T READ THEM! Don’t complain - I won’t edit them. Now let’s begin my trip down memory lane, starting with the year of sixth grade.

The Kissing King?

Back in the 6th grade, the cool thing to do was called the French Kiss. I grew up in a middle class area where the cool kids seemed to grow up a little faster than the rest of us. That’s not to say that the cool kids were knockin’ boots by age 11, but I’m sure some of the girls who ended up pregnant in high school fooled around a little more than the rest of us early on.

The French Kiss became wildly popular because the cool kids decided to have a party where spin the bottle was the game of choice. Unfortunately I wasn’t one of these so called “cool kids,” so I didn’t make the initial cut. I remember the Monday after the first kissing party like it was yesterday. The rumors were flying around the hallways. Did you hear that Matt kissed Jen three times…with tongue! Whoa, this was big! There was even a rumor circulating that one lucky couple had to make out in the closet because the bottle landed on them five times! The word was that a breast may have been touched. I still don’t know to this day, because French Kissing alone was beyond anything I had ever experienced.

A few weeks after the big bash, my neighbor (one of three triplet girls!) decided to throw a Halloween party. Since I was fortunate enough to be their neighbor, I ended up making the coveted guest list. Considering my neighbors' parents were a little more relaxed than mine, I thought there was a chance I could get some action. As I indicated earlier, “action” in the sixth grade was defined as French Kissing. Parties back then consisted of a few people sitting around, drinking soda, and eating junk food while watching Bryan Adams on MTV. My parents were anti-cable at the time, so this definition of a party was good enough for me.

About halfway through the night, one of my classmates from middle school (we will call her Jen) showed up at the party. Jen had been fortunate enough to be invited to the cool kids party the month before, and she already had a reputation for being a kissing slut. For the inexperienced young male that I was, Jen was a goddess. Unfortunately, that definition didn't exactly make Jen a supermodel. Back in the sixth grade, Jen weighed around 110 and had a chest a stripper would die for. That’s probably because 110 back then equated to a cool 200 in high school. I honestly could care less because at the time, I wasn’t even concerned about tackling 2nd base. One base at a time was good enough.

As the night progressed, I realized Jen was into me. I remember her sitting on my lap that night (god she was heavy - keep in mind at the time I probably weighed about 80 pounds sopping wet). Knowing Jen’s reputation from the previous party, I figured I was in. Then, it was time for me to make my move to cool kid paradise. If I could just land this babe for the night, I would be set for the rest of my middle/high school years. My older 8th grade neighbor told me you had to establish yourself early in middle school or good luck trying to make a name for yourself. Considering I wasn’t a jock and I wasn't extremely gifted, I really didn’t have much of a fighting chance. Fortunately, God was nice enough to put this pig right in my lap - I knew needed to take advantage of it.

As Jen and I continued to talk and get closer, I figured I would ask her “out.” Back then “going out” meant you were boyfriend and girlfriend. Believe it or not, Jen actually said yes and I knew I hit the jackpot! We continued to watch MTV and as the party began to fade I knew I had to make my move to seal my name in the middle school hall of fame. A few minutes later, Jen leaned over and told me she had to go. Since nobody was around I went in for my first kiss. Considering I had never kissed a girl before, the French kiss may have been a little too much for me to master. I remember going in for the kiss, locking lips, and letting my tongue fly. The kiss felt like it lasted for 10 years, but in reality it was probably 2.3 seconds. This was just enough time for me to seal the deal and lose my first base virginity. After our kiss ended, Jen said goodbye and left the party. On my way home to my house I remember explaining the story to my best friend - he thought I was a God. I had done it! I was the first person in my group of friends to kiss a girl, and the best thing about it was that I got some tongue action!

That night was probably the best night of my young life. I went to bed dreaming of my first real girlfriend. What would be next, 2nd base? 3rd? The possibilities were endless. Since the party was on a Friday, Saturday and Sunday were possibly the longest days of my life. All I could think of was getting back to school so I could finally claim my newfound fame. Since the party was the big bash of the weekend, I knew I would clearly make the top story. As I arrived to school Monday morning, the halls were a little more silent than I imagined. I don’t know if I expected a banner or a plaque with my name on the wall, but when I arrived Monday morning nothing had changed. "Don't panic," I told myself. The story hadn’t made it around school yet - I just needed to give it a little time.

By lunch-time my ears were still wide open, but nothing had circulated. I guess since I didn’t have a chance to see my newfound love until the end of the day, I assumed nobody knew we were an item yet. Then, it happened. I remember it like it was yesterday. Out of nowhere one of my triplet neighbors came up to me and said, "Jen is breaking up with you." Less than 72 hours after the day of my life, my world came crashing down. I had reached the upper limits of popularity one night and was sitting back in loserville the next.

The rumor around school at the time was that my kissing wasn’t quite up to par. I heard that Matt, the dude she made out with the month before, was a little better at tonsil hockey than I was. Odds are my lack of kissing knowledge sent her running back to the guy who pleasured her the month before. The rise and fall of my popularity was extremely short lived; in 72 short hours I went from thinking I was going to be the next “it” kid, to once again being a normal kid in the middle of the pack. Luckily the details about my lack of kissing skills didn’t make it all the way around school that week. I’m sure another cool party happened the weekend after and there was something else that put my story to shame. At least I had my weekend of fame - too bad nobody really knew about it.

"Oneness"

This past weekend myself and 11 of my closest friends squeezed into a cozy apartment on the east side of Manhattan for fun, good times, and singing...hours and hours of singing. The soiree was one of our many rehearsals in preparation for our guest appearance at our old college a cappella group's ten year celebration.

For the last song of the evening, we sang Angel by Sarah McLachlan. Angel is a very deep and passionate song, overflowing with emotion and pensive reflection. This song required all of us to utilize staggered breathing, taking deep breaths, and projecting with not just our bodies, but our minds as well. In our college days, it was not uncommon to turn off the lights and stand in a circle with our arms around each other during rehearsals and even at concerts. This particular time was no different. Here's one recording of our rendition.

The song begins simply with held notes in a nice 6/8 feel. The soloist starts out gently with sol, mi, re, do, do, re: a powerful melodic introduction that solidifies the key center through the major pentatonic scale (minus la), and leaves the listener suspended on the re. The background vocals are always moving, giving the listener that sense of being on a small boat in the middle of the ocean...just rolling along in the water, towards some unknown destination. The group stays low-key during the verses with simple doo's for syllables. It is not until all the vocal parts sing the lyrics of the chorus with the soloist that the feeling of oneness surrounds the listener. The tenor line provides a nice harmony to the soloist by providing the underneath support, a third lower. The basses provide the rock solid foundation with the root of each chord, while the sopranos top off the sound giving each chord flavor and character. The altos hold down the fort by rounding out each triad. The second verse comes back stronger, with more vigor; the listener knows where he is being taken; he's been down that path before. Instead of rolling along listlessly in the water, the boat is driven this time, determined, storming ahead into the deep waters before returning the listener to the familiar shores of the chorus. And as the second and final chorus swells with intensity, a great feeling of unity, togetherness, and oneness envelopes everyone.

It was at this point in the song that I realized moments like these are what I missed most about performing in a college a cappella group. Sure, the wild after-parties were great and the drunken hookups weren't bad either, but what always stood out in my mind and what I have always longed for since graduation, was that feeling that we weren't just separate individuals destined to pursue our own selfish motives. We lifted our voices in unison (although not in "harmonic unison") and laid it all out. Singing the song was about being a part of something bigger than yourself...bigger than your fears, worries, failures and selfish goals. It was about letting it all go for the sake of everyone else, and losing yourself in old, familiar friends.

It was amazing how everyone else has moved on, leading exciting lives spread all over the country from LA to DC to Philly to NY. Perhaps what was more amazing, was that we all shared that common bond, a shared history of being a part of something special during our time at college (even if some of us never sang with the other). Our concert is in two weeks and I can't wait to be back on that stage...singing, dancing, beatboxing away and feeling that rush of being one with old friends.

Twenty-seven

This past week I reached a milestone in my life. No, I did not get married, purchase a house, or adopt a llama. It was an event of greater magnitude. On Wednesday, March 7th, I celebrated my twenty-seventh birthday. Twenty-seven. There I said it. And damn did it feel good! While this may seem trivial to some, I think it’s quite an accomplishment. Not because I’ve overcome a rare terminal childhood illness or am celebrating five years sobriety (sorry but my life doesn’t exactly constitute a Lifetime movie), but because more than ever before, I am content with who I am.

“Who is that, B?” Why, I’m glad you asked. I am a woman with no career, no house, no husband, no children, and no consistent flow of income. I’ll pause for a second, allow you to absorb the initial shock, and give you time to shut your gaping mouth. Some in their late-twenties may view this as a travesty. I on the other hand think it is a blessing! My aunt calls it the Peter Pan syndrome, but I just don’t think I am ready for the commitments and obligations involved in the above rites of passage.

I can’t pinpoint exactly who it was that told women that in order to succeed in life you should, “find a nice man, settle down, and raise a family.” Wait, that might have been my 7th grade home-ec teacher…and that was only fifteen years ago! But in my modern world this mentality does not apply. As I talk to more people, I’m learning they too are skirting society’s traditional standards.

I don’t feel I have to justify my life so much to my friends. They get it. By “it,” I mean my choice to live an independent and carefree lifestyle. Thankfully, even my parents get it. They are surprisingly supportive of my rather laidback philosophy on life. But it is older generations and other associates that have “special expectations” for me (let’s face it, in some cultures I could be a grandmother by now).

For example: Two weeks ago, I ran into an old classmate’s mother. She talked ad nauseam about her daughter, who is now a fifth-grade school teacher, is married, and has two kids. “Oh that’s great,” I lied, thinking I can’t imagine anyone I’d rather not be. The mother beamed. Then she surreptitiously glanced at my left hand, paused, and as if by obligation asked if I had any children yet. “No,” I replied, knowing she was secretly relieved I had not conceived a child out of wedlock. I offered no additional information. “Oh, well then, you’re seeing someone?” “Nope,” was my nonchalant response. “How old are you (she knows how old I am – the same age as her daughter)? Oh you’ve got a few more years. But you better not dawdle…Good luck with that,” she yelled back as she headed off to her AA meeting. Okay, that last part I’m making up, but I speculate that’s where she was headed. Can you believe people still used the word dawdle? And good luck with what, my reproductive organs or my quest to find a man who will marry me before it’s too late? Not once, did this woman inquire into what other things were going on in my life. Her one track mind said BABY and HUSBAND. See the idiots I am subject to as a single woman approaching (dare I say it) thirty.


But back to feeling good about myself…back to turning twenty-seven. In my nine years since leaving high school, I think I’ve got a lot to be proud of. I’ve graduated from college. I’ve pursued three (albeit short lived) careers. I’ve volunteered countless hours to worthy organizations. My debts consist of little more than a few thousand dollars in college loans. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve made some amazing lifelong friends. But most importantly, I’ve spent this time discovering WHAT I WANT OUT OF LIFE, not what others expect out of my life. So now, after acquiring twenty-seven years of infinite wisdom (and at the risk of sounding like a self-help book), I’m going to share some important lessons I’ve learned about myself and the world around me:

1. I don’t want to sit in an office for 8 hours a day, no matter what the pay.
2. Money sucks. Don’t allow it to control you. At the end of the day it’s only paper.
3. Marriage is a completely overrated and unnecessary archaic institution (unless of course your goal is citizenship, in which case it is perfectly acceptable). Although I haven’t experienced it, I’ve witnessed that taking that vow does not guarantee you will not cheat on, abandon, or fall out of love with your spouse. It only means you will be given some kitchen appliances that for the next eight years will collect dust in your basement. Living in sin is the way to go!
4. Families are important. Absolutely. But sometimes you will meet people who you feel so undeniably close to you cannot help but consider them relatives. Thus, defying the phrase, “blood is thicker than water.”
5. Mother nature has created some astounding works of art. Take time to relish her canvasses.
6. Don’t waste time and energy in a job or relationship just for the sake of comfort. People die every second. Wouldn’t you like to know your final moments were not in vain?
7. I am a dog person…who likes other dog people.
8. Challenge yourself physically, mentally, and emotionally.
9. Don’t underestimate the power of a warm smile, sincere laugh, or gentle touch.
10. Solitude is a special thing. Know when to take it and when to give it.
11. Secret is not a dirty word. No one is entitled to know everything about you.
12. People don’t have to agree with you. It is different individuals with contradicting opinions that make life so interesting. How boring would the world be if everyone thought like you?
    

Don’t misunderstand me, by no means am I claiming to have all the answers. In fact, I invite you to enlighten me with what you’ve discovered about life. My goal is only to convey that I think it is completely natural not to know what the future holds, or to even want to predict it. So be comfortable with who you are in the present, be that a father, wife, home owner, accountant, harpist, nomad, etc. If you are not, you might spend the rest of your life searching for the perfect destination only to learn there is no such thing.

Can You Handle It?

That is the slogan for the 52nd Annual Eastern Sports and Outdoor Show in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. It is the largest show of its kind in the US, and it is estimated that over a million people were in attendance throughout the 9 day period. This past week I had the special privilege of working the event. What an educational experience it’s been for me! I have seen more than my quota-for-the-year of mullets, missing teeth, smokeless tobacco products, and camouflage. For lack of a better description the “redneck male” was out in full force. And trust me, he CAN HANDLE IT!
My initial job was to sell beverages in the Wild West Hall, but after the umpteenth objection to the $4 frozen lemonade (a beer was only a buck more), my role quickly changed to silent observer. I’ve found this to be one of my favorite pastimes, especially when the subjects are people I know very little about. In this case, it is America’s predator – the hunter.

I should state that I grew up in a house of guns and I am not opposed to hunting. My dad is a hunter and everyone in my family likes to fish. On a scale of hard-core "redneck" hunters though, my dad falls around a 6, while most I’d place at a 9 or 10. These men wear shirts like: will hunt for food, there’s a place for all gods creatures…right next to the potatoes and gravy, whitetail deer hunting – feel the power, and my personal favorite welcome to America – now speak English! Yes, I saw that one on more than a couple bearded fellows. These men wear skunk-skinned caps and drink Miller Lite at 10am. Wait a minute, I drink Miller Lite at 10am…maybe I am a hunter after all! They have debates over which chew is better (I think the general consensus was Coppenhagen) and eat jerky the size of a turkey leg! They worship the NRA like it's their job, and I'd go so far as to say Charlton Heston might rank slightly higher on their totem pole than Jesus Christ. Yes, I was totally out of my comfort zone on this one, but loved every second of it.

The Outdoor Show showcases the latest and greatest equipment for archery, rifles, fishing, etc. and hosts over 500 outfitters that will take you hunting as close as Dauphin County or as faraway as Botswana. How shocked was I to hear how expensive a hobby (or rather, way of life) hunting can be? While proudly displaying his new crossbow and coyote caller (it makes 36 different sounds, my favorite being distressed fox pup) one man tells me these two items cost him over $1000. As if attempting to outdo him, another gentleman brags about the deal he just got for his Namibian safari - $7,900 for 1 week, excluding hunting license and trophy fees. The waterbuck or zebra will be an additional $1,500, but a baboon will run you only $100. Yet another boasts of his dream trip to Russia to bag a thousand pound brown bear. He was going to have to sell his wife’s Harley to finance the trip, but he assured me it would be worth it. I sure hope she feels the same. Meanwhile, I can't help wondering how many firearms (both legal and illegal) are in the show's parking lot.

There was no shortage of interesting sites at this show. One of my favorites was the All Things Camo booth (tuxedos, baby dresses, thongs…you name it, they’ve got it). The Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation was there, protecting elk…I think so they could shoot bigger ones in a few years. There was also a bass pond for the children to practice casting. Crossbow maintenance, fly fishing, deer butchering and archery demonstrations were a daily occurrence. The art of catching monster cats was supposedly a very informative presentation, and the geese calling contest in the main arena was not to be missed. I heard the winner was 16 and from Blair County. Go PA!

So what have I learned from this festive week of testosterone-filled, tobacco-chewing, beer drinking manly men convention? 1) Mossy oak is a type of camo brand. 2) Not all tree stands are of equal quality. 3) Larry the Cable Guy is a comedian. 4) Men do love to shop. They just have to be in the right environment. 5) I can handle it…well, most of it. 6) Lastly, there is a little bit of redneck in all of us! I’m going to try a little harder to embrace this new-found side of me.

So You Wanna Be A Nurse...

I thought I did too… until this past weekend when I had the opportunity to “shadow” one of my friends at a hospital in Pittsburgh. The hospital and my friend shall remain unnamed, since I’m pretty sure my being there violated more than a few state laws (HIPAA will be happy to know I did sign a confidentiality form).

My friend arrived at the ICU (Intensive Care Unit) with “potential nurse (i.e., me)” in tow a few minutes before 7pm. I was dressed for success with my navy scrubs and white Dansko shoes (apparently, Danskos are the unofficial footwear for nurses). Since the shift is 12 hours, it was also recommended that I bring some reading material. So here I am: scrubs, Danskos, book, magazine, obnoxiously large coffee…ready to save the world! Or so I thought. Nobody questioned my legitimacy and before I know it I am being briefed on patient conditions and the two-sizes-too small pants that Dr. Ray wears. “Seriously, you will not believe it! What is he thinking!?” the exiting nurse chided.

In this ICU there are 10 patients and 6 nurses. The patient to nurse ratio is either 2:1 or 1:1 depending on the severity of the injury. On this day, my friend has 2 invalids. The first was an elderly man who fell down the basement steps and was being treated for a broken hip and hypothermia. If not for his bartender paying a visit, he probably would not be alive. He was discovered missing 2 days after the accident because he did not show up at his local VFW, where he typically drinks 7 Iron City beers, 3 times a day - that bartender deserves a big tip! The other patient was a 17 year old boy who shot himself in the head via the chin. While it didn’t kill him, it did leave him permantantly brain dead - it will only be a matter of days before his body quits on him. Other patients included: a stab victim, 3 car accidents, a hit and run, 2 more gun shot wounds and a girl who tried to commit suicide by mixing Drano, various painkillers and grapefruit juice. It is a common misconception that Drano will kill you. It will not. It will only burn your trachea and esophagus, making breathing and swallowing a living hell for the rest of your life.

Here is a run down of my 12 hours in the hospital: drink copious amounts of crystal light and crappy coffee, witness the ebb and flow of visitation, bathe and redress 6 of the 10 patients, read my book, help stock the supply room (and no, this is not the medication room – it really is difficult to steal drugs from there), update vital condition reports every 2 hours (every patient has their own computer - this is the checks and balances system that is in place to prevent mistakes), read my book, discuss the new HPV vaccine, tour the emergency room, take a nap in the on-call doctor’s office, read my book, watch the insertion of a feeding tube, go for an AM bagel run, and watch the admittance of a new patient. This was most interesting. He was a 30 year old male who was shot once in the stomach and once in the head. The staff assembled around him like ants to a crumb of bread. In truth, he had been sent to the ICU to die. The ER does this quite frequently – rushing hopeless causes out of their area into others - to keep their casualty numbers down. This affects their funding and national ranking. It doesn’t look good to the financial donors if excessive amounts of patients die in the ER every year. All hospitals do it.

The ICU floor is its own ward. Every wall is toilet paper white. There are no tranquil Impressionist paintings hanging in the rooms or fake dusty roses sitting at the nurse station. Mixed aromas of alcohol and filth permeate the already stale air, having a dizzying affect on me. The florescent lighting is dim and the constant beeping of drips is enough to put you in a trance [except for the venalators - they frequently go off like clown car horns announcing their arrival]. It takes me 2 hours before I realize I really don’t like it here. I can feel claustrophobia encroaching at an alarming rate and it doesn’t get any better when I have to dress myself in additional gown, gloves and mask to protect myself from MRSA (a hospital born infection that 1 out of 20 patients contract or carry in). This is not an ideal working environment for me!

Fortunately, others thrive on the sanitary appearance and for this I am grateful. I watch this team of nurses unite and provide excellent care for their patients. They are both cautious and compassionate and they perform even the most mundane task with incredible precision. They buy the patients soaps, shampoos and baby powder out of their own money because the hospital will not. They make mixed CDs and bring them in to brighten their spirits. They sit bedside and read the newspaper or a trashing magazine. I came into this unit expecting to see incompetence, cockiness and indifference from our medical system. While that might be the case with higher up management, it was not on the front line. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but I wouldn’t think twice about checking into this unit. That said, at $20 an hour, you couldn’t convince me to take this job. So while it was fun playing nurse in a real hospital, I think I’ll just stick to playing nurse in the bedroom!

Walkabout

My plan for this past Saturday was to hit Philly’s semiannual “Punk Rock Flea Market” for some unique holiday gifts that would give my teenage sisters some serious post-holiday street cred in school. I went for a while and saw a ton of potential gifts (GI Joe earrings!), but was soon overwhelmed by the sheer volume of hipsters. It was too nice out to be crammed in this dark room elbowing and craning to get a look at crates of records and knitted scarves. Groping toward daylight, I fell into the street and stumbled in whatever direction would get me away from the zoo for a bit of fresh air. When my eyes had adjusted to the light, I realized that I had never really been in this particular neighborhood. As an avid pedestrian, I like to think that I have seen a good deal of Philadelphia, so new pockets of the city always pique my interest. I decided to keep going in that direction until I found somewhere I had been before...

Four hours and thirteen miles later, I found myself in the general vicinity of Chestnut Hill, home to both Bobby McFerrin and my fellow talking heads, Jason and Melinda. I knew the area fairly well - it is essentially the northern border of the city. It seemed like a good place to call it quits. I had crossed some of the most impoverished areas of the city and was now in one of its wealthiest sections. There were quaint residential sections abutting Fairmount Park and vibrant business corridors like Chelten Avenue. I had a rib “sandwich” from the Rib Crib (I have never seen two more overwhelmed pieces of bread in my life) in the spot where the Battle of Germantown was fought in 1777. I did all the things, but mostly, I just walked. I felt the warm sun on my shoulders. Stretched my legs past their normal use for a day. Wasn’t in front of a computer or TV. I didn’t have to network. Just me and the city, it felt epic.

Passing through all the neighborhoods, I decided to recommit myself to something I had been considering for a few months prior to moving back to Philadelphia. I am going to buy a house. Maybe you’re thinking, “big deal,” and maybe it’s not a bid deal. But I’m a single 25 year old guy, make under 30k a year with no savings and ok credit, and while Philadelphia isn’t Manhattan, it remains an East Coast city and not exactly cheap. Location is probably the most significant of the sacrifices I’m anticipating; I’m sure there will be more. Still, I think it’s the right thing to do. Paying rent feels like I’m throwing money away and I don’t have an income bracket jump anywhere in the near future (unless Rupert Murdoch decides to buy this site). I’m not very good at saving, terrible in fact. Real estate isn’t a sure investment, but hey, it has to beat the mattress. Giving up the mobility of being a renter doesn’t seem like a big deal anymore, either; I have no more illusions of moving to the Andes to be a shepherd. As I’ve said before, I’m here for the long haul. I’m also pretty handy; maybe I can do some work to the house and a few years down the line sell the place for a nice profit. Wisely so or not, I’ve convinced myself, but I also know there are going to be sacrifices. Location will be the first and toughest adjustment for me...

Right off the bat I know I can’t afford anything in Center City (Philly’s 30 block by 30 block highly developed downtown area) and the hot neighborhoods that border it are probably out of the question as well. This was always a big tipping point for me when looking for apartments; farther out is cheaper, but is it still city living if you aren’t downtown? [fellow Penn Staters should now mentally cue the AW& Sons, “You’ve got to live downtown!” jingle] Everyone knows that Philadelphia mass transit isn’t something anyone wants to rely on to get around, and as a non-car-owner I would be at SEPTA’s mercy to get downtown. Would I still love living here if I couldn’t hit the Italian Market or my falafel place on South Street on a whim? My big walk yesterday actually helped put a lot of these issues to rest in a number of ways. First, there are a number of commercial areas throughout the city that have shopping, restaurants, neighborhood bars and would generally cover my day to day needs. Besides, as the owner of a home I’m sure will need lots of work, I imagine there will be plenty of things keeping me busy inside the house. Second, I noticed that PhillyCarShare is expanding all over the city. It is a newish organization that provides access to centrally located cars to its members for a reasonable hourly rate that includes gas, parking, and insurance. I’ve seen similar programs in other cities and it seems like a fantastic idea. Plus, some of the cars are Minis! It’s not something you would use every day, but I think it would come in handy any time the bus or train aren’t practical. Maybe location won’t be such a big deal.

I got some more reassuring news when I sat down to have a well earned beer with some friends, one of whom is a credit counselor, after my trek through NW Philly. Apparently, there is no shortage of money being offered to potential home buyers through various city, state, and federal programs. If you meet the qualifications of a low-income first time buyer and are willing to fill out mountains of paperwork, there is grant money to be had for closing costs, down payment, and renovations. And then there are the interest rates...something I claim no knowledge about, but seem to be kind of important. I’m not saying the house will be suddenly free, but in a city that has a pathological fear of losing its young people, it seems like I may even get the system to work in my favor. Lots of community groups offer counseling and assistance in navigating all of these options, and I plan on setting up my initial meeting first thing Monday.

I plan on writing about this as I go through the process. Maybe you have advice, or maybe it helps to know there is someone else giving it a go who might not be a typical home buyer. For now, I’m going to keep talking to people and keep walking. There is still so much of this city I have yet to explore, and I think that doing it on foot is the best way to get a feel for what areas I could live in and what areas have the most potential for growth. I anticipate there will be some good stories that come out of it, and hopefully...before too long...some housewarming gifts. Maybe next year I’ll be able to host Thanksgiving or my own punk rock porch flea market. I think this is going to be fun.