ER was boring today. Ovarian cyst and knuckle stitches were the most exciting cases today. Woot. But Dr. Szkrybz and I have come to an understanding. He sees me as a little more intelligent than the patients that come in, and I see him as an accomplished doctor. But we "hate" each other in a respectful way.We both know that people who come in are fat, stupid, drug seekers, or all of the above. He also said 60% of them don't even pay. The hospital writes off millions a year because of worthless people.
Geez, the world is silly.
Things have been nothing above mediocre, but certainly many a times under the fact. Haven't had a good day in a while. Maybe it was because of that OChem test?
I've been restless lately. Too much unchanneled energy, and I don't know what to do with it. I want to go do something, but don't really have anyone to go with. No one wants to go anywhere anymore. Maybe restless is just the problem. I haven't been able to laze around, chill or have fun so I'm going cookoo.
I also think I miss someone. Can't tell who, but there are times when your chest aches and misses someone or something. Maybe because I haven't seen/ spent time with him in a while? Or maybe I'm lonely and homesick.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
I went yard sales today.
I loved Saturdays with my dad. After my morning cartoons and lunch, we'd go biking around the neighborhood or go hunting for garage sales.
I remember we went to this house on a hill for a garage sale run by a kind old lady. We looked around at random things that were scattered about and I gravitated to the corner full of kid related toys, books, and junk. I picked up a brass piggy bank, and my dad can tell that I wanted it. "Go ask her how much it is." He always tried to get me to do things myself, build social confidence, that sort of thing. She told me it was 25 cents, and I ran back to my dad to ask for money. He gave me a quarter from his pocket, and I paid the nice lady. She crouched down so she was eye level with me, and dropped the quarter into the empty piggy with a clunk. "Here's a start to your collection. Here, have some books too. My grandson never reads these anymore." She handed me about 5 books. I looked at the book on top and the cover had what looked like a bunch of skeletons having a barbecue.
I love how I remember these little insignificant childhood memories.
I remember we went to this house on a hill for a garage sale run by a kind old lady. We looked around at random things that were scattered about and I gravitated to the corner full of kid related toys, books, and junk. I picked up a brass piggy bank, and my dad can tell that I wanted it. "Go ask her how much it is." He always tried to get me to do things myself, build social confidence, that sort of thing. She told me it was 25 cents, and I ran back to my dad to ask for money. He gave me a quarter from his pocket, and I paid the nice lady. She crouched down so she was eye level with me, and dropped the quarter into the empty piggy with a clunk. "Here's a start to your collection. Here, have some books too. My grandson never reads these anymore." She handed me about 5 books. I looked at the book on top and the cover had what looked like a bunch of skeletons having a barbecue.
I love how I remember these little insignificant childhood memories.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Not quite the swan either.
They did a great job with planning this year despite how unprepared it felt only a few days before the trip. Just the right amount of lunch meat, and a surplus of things that could be kept a while longer. Extra food and money in the end. Yay.
No major incidents, disasters, or mishaps in general. I had my speculations about the trip, and strangely, things worked out in opposites. There were some things I expected to be annoyed about, but turned out okay. Vice versa, there were some things that really got under my skin that I would not have expected to. Oh well.
The sands reminded me of the beach. The grains between your toes, and how it molds to the contours of your feet. That was nice.
No major incidents, disasters, or mishaps in general. I had my speculations about the trip, and strangely, things worked out in opposites. There were some things I expected to be annoyed about, but turned out okay. Vice versa, there were some things that really got under my skin that I would not have expected to. Oh well.
The sands reminded me of the beach. The grains between your toes, and how it molds to the contours of your feet. That was nice.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
"Where are we going?"
I was kidnapped away from my after school cartoons by my mom one day after kindergarten. We passed the turn in for our house and kept driving. We turned onto a dirt road and when I looked out the window, I saw fenced goats, sheep, ostriches, and all sorts of farm animals. My mom stopped in front of an old one story house, with a backyard orchard, and when I got out of the car, I heard the tinkling of piano keys reciting a simple but pretty melody.
My mom knocked softly and we walked in. I immediately saw 2 grand pianos; one that was old and brown, and another that was a gorgeous jet black and stretched on to the back corner of the room. The student sat at the brown one, and an old lady with a hunchback about the age of 80 sat at the concert one. When the student's lesson was over, the old lady pulled over a step stool, and gestured to me. I sat on the piano bench with my feet resting on the stool, and I was her piano student for 8 years following.
Mrs. Meltzer was very very old and ripped farts that smelled like sewage. But her sight reads were performance ready. The appearance of her fragile body did not reflect the strength that remained in her hands and fingers. In the near decade that she was my teacher, I collected certificates, ribbons, and trophies from various guilds and competitions. People started remembering my name when it would show up on rosters and programs.
Our family was very close to the Meltzers. She would give us pomagranates from her trees when they were of season. It was the first time I ever ate pomagranate. We got to know her neighbor, who would sell us fresh eggs from their farm every week. We were with Mrs. Meltzer when her husband died. She tried to teach me how to knit. I visited her at the hospital when she had her first collapse.
But I hated piano because I was forced into it and never had a choice otherwise. I always fell behind on theory work. I hated having to practice everyday. I'd warm up with the scales, chromatics, arpeggios, chords and triads. And then played the Bach inventions, the Suzuki, and performance pieces. I hated Bach. He was Baroque and needed fixing. But even after all that, only 25 minutes would've gone by, and on the 26th minute, my mom would yell at me to remind me that she had a clock and wooden spoon in front of her.
We sent Mrs. Meltzer christmas cards every year after we moved away, and and always got one back in the same handwriting that usually gave me my weekly practice assignments. I was able to be much less disciplined because of our moves, and never found a piano teacher quite like her again. In high school, I finally had the guts and persistance to tell my mom how much I hated piano, and that I'm too old for her to drag me into the car anymore anyway. And so, my piano "talents" died away since then, and our several thousand dollar upright just collects dust, but I didn't care.
My freshman year of college, my mom got a christmas card back from one of Mrs. Meltzer's sons instead. I found out that she had died in February 2007 at the age of 93, after she had arranged her Piano Scholarship Fund. On days that I didn't cry at the piano bench, I forgot that she was my piano teacher and thought of her like an old aunt.
My mom knocked softly and we walked in. I immediately saw 2 grand pianos; one that was old and brown, and another that was a gorgeous jet black and stretched on to the back corner of the room. The student sat at the brown one, and an old lady with a hunchback about the age of 80 sat at the concert one. When the student's lesson was over, the old lady pulled over a step stool, and gestured to me. I sat on the piano bench with my feet resting on the stool, and I was her piano student for 8 years following.
Mrs. Meltzer was very very old and ripped farts that smelled like sewage. But her sight reads were performance ready. The appearance of her fragile body did not reflect the strength that remained in her hands and fingers. In the near decade that she was my teacher, I collected certificates, ribbons, and trophies from various guilds and competitions. People started remembering my name when it would show up on rosters and programs.
Our family was very close to the Meltzers. She would give us pomagranates from her trees when they were of season. It was the first time I ever ate pomagranate. We got to know her neighbor, who would sell us fresh eggs from their farm every week. We were with Mrs. Meltzer when her husband died. She tried to teach me how to knit. I visited her at the hospital when she had her first collapse.
But I hated piano because I was forced into it and never had a choice otherwise. I always fell behind on theory work. I hated having to practice everyday. I'd warm up with the scales, chromatics, arpeggios, chords and triads. And then played the Bach inventions, the Suzuki, and performance pieces. I hated Bach. He was Baroque and needed fixing. But even after all that, only 25 minutes would've gone by, and on the 26th minute, my mom would yell at me to remind me that she had a clock and wooden spoon in front of her.
We sent Mrs. Meltzer christmas cards every year after we moved away, and and always got one back in the same handwriting that usually gave me my weekly practice assignments. I was able to be much less disciplined because of our moves, and never found a piano teacher quite like her again. In high school, I finally had the guts and persistance to tell my mom how much I hated piano, and that I'm too old for her to drag me into the car anymore anyway. And so, my piano "talents" died away since then, and our several thousand dollar upright just collects dust, but I didn't care.
My freshman year of college, my mom got a christmas card back from one of Mrs. Meltzer's sons instead. I found out that she had died in February 2007 at the age of 93, after she had arranged her Piano Scholarship Fund. On days that I didn't cry at the piano bench, I forgot that she was my piano teacher and thought of her like an old aunt.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Freshman 15 and a 2.75
I love looking back at older times. And when I say "love" I mean "cringe". Old pictures, Xanga posts, soveniers,.... It's strange how, at the moment, you look at yourself and think you're acceptable. I mean you're accepted in the niche, so you accept yourself.
My mom loves this one picture of my first day in 4th grade. I thought I was so in style. My school wear wardrobe consisted of 3 pairs of overalls (one long panted and 2 short (striped khaki and denim)), a myriad of skorts, only 1 pair of jeans, wind breaker pants, and tourist t-shirts. Toronto, Sydney, Vietnam, Key West, San Diego,...None of which I ever actually visited. Well, I had a power ranger shirt too, but the boy that stood in line behind me made fun of it, and I only wore it in the house afterward. Actually, maybe "style" never was a worry until near the end of 5th grade anyway.
I found a note from my first boyfriend and it was written in some gai azn wai dat I kan't B-leev I kuld even reed. I think I lost a chunk of my intelligence during that time. I was so stinking gasian in 8th grade. I hung out with asians that already started drinking, and doing little crimes. I threw my first egg at a house that halloween. I found a mix CD that a friend had burnt me, and it was asian rap, techno and k-pop. Ewww. Well, my dad moved us around a lot and it was really hard to be selective about friends when you went to 3 different middle schools in 2 years.
I still have some leotards in my closet from gymnastics. For high school, we moved again to a little podunk town where the only development was a Dairy Queen. Ironically, I was shunned from the asian group in high school. (Thank goodness, because they get drunk, fight, and shoot each other out there) High school was great. I made great friends that I still cherish and had the first boyfriend I don't regret.
I just untagged myself from various Facebook pictures from my first year in college. Too many frat parties, random apartments, late night outings, 6th street evidence, and toilet stops. That's what I've heard you're supposed to do as a Freshman. It was cool, fun, crazy, stupid. Alcohol was just a beverage. I remember every night, and didn't ever really get "shwasted." Just a floaty feeling, like when you're sick and on NyQuil. Kinda. It was another niche, another thing to do. It came with embarassing stories and gossipable drama.
Grow up: I hear that's what you're supposed to do eventually. We get bored a lot now, sit around, and be lame. Meh.
My mom loves this one picture of my first day in 4th grade. I thought I was so in style. My school wear wardrobe consisted of 3 pairs of overalls (one long panted and 2 short (striped khaki and denim)), a myriad of skorts, only 1 pair of jeans, wind breaker pants, and tourist t-shirts. Toronto, Sydney, Vietnam, Key West, San Diego,...None of which I ever actually visited. Well, I had a power ranger shirt too, but the boy that stood in line behind me made fun of it, and I only wore it in the house afterward. Actually, maybe "style" never was a worry until near the end of 5th grade anyway.
I found a note from my first boyfriend and it was written in some gai azn wai dat I kan't B-leev I kuld even reed. I think I lost a chunk of my intelligence during that time. I was so stinking gasian in 8th grade. I hung out with asians that already started drinking, and doing little crimes. I threw my first egg at a house that halloween. I found a mix CD that a friend had burnt me, and it was asian rap, techno and k-pop. Ewww. Well, my dad moved us around a lot and it was really hard to be selective about friends when you went to 3 different middle schools in 2 years.
I still have some leotards in my closet from gymnastics. For high school, we moved again to a little podunk town where the only development was a Dairy Queen. Ironically, I was shunned from the asian group in high school. (Thank goodness, because they get drunk, fight, and shoot each other out there) High school was great. I made great friends that I still cherish and had the first boyfriend I don't regret.
I just untagged myself from various Facebook pictures from my first year in college. Too many frat parties, random apartments, late night outings, 6th street evidence, and toilet stops. That's what I've heard you're supposed to do as a Freshman. It was cool, fun, crazy, stupid. Alcohol was just a beverage. I remember every night, and didn't ever really get "shwasted." Just a floaty feeling, like when you're sick and on NyQuil. Kinda. It was another niche, another thing to do. It came with embarassing stories and gossipable drama.
Grow up: I hear that's what you're supposed to do eventually. We get bored a lot now, sit around, and be lame. Meh.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Explore
86, 87, 88, 89.....Male, female, female, female, male.....white eyed, wild type, wild, wild....
Days when we had to count fruit flies and then separate them into male/ female and their different mutations in genetics lab was always a drag. I found it boring, and nothing of a fascination.
Today I worked at Explore UT for CNS and showed kids Drosophila and their different mutations. "Ewww!" they'd say. "These don't have wings! They look like ants! What happened to them?!" They were so excited to see fruit flies. I explained to them that we mutated their parent's DNA with x-rays or chemicals, and now their children are different from the normal flies.
"Wow, DNA, like in X-Men?!"
"Uh, yea! Just like in X-Men. If I mutated your mom and removed the DNA for arm development, you might not have arms, just like how these flies don't have wings." They would grab their shoulders with worry in their eyes, and I'd reassure them with a smile that we don't do that for real, although we could. Even the grown ups were amazed by these simple genetic experiments.
I remember Dr. Baptiste had said he forgot how fascinating his job is until a student in the OR sees him operate on a beating heart and says "cool". "Oh yea, I forgot that it is pretty cool."
Kids are bright and still have so much to learn and be fascinated about. I hope they all get the chance.
Days when we had to count fruit flies and then separate them into male/ female and their different mutations in genetics lab was always a drag. I found it boring, and nothing of a fascination.
Today I worked at Explore UT for CNS and showed kids Drosophila and their different mutations. "Ewww!" they'd say. "These don't have wings! They look like ants! What happened to them?!" They were so excited to see fruit flies. I explained to them that we mutated their parent's DNA with x-rays or chemicals, and now their children are different from the normal flies.
"Wow, DNA, like in X-Men?!"
"Uh, yea! Just like in X-Men. If I mutated your mom and removed the DNA for arm development, you might not have arms, just like how these flies don't have wings." They would grab their shoulders with worry in their eyes, and I'd reassure them with a smile that we don't do that for real, although we could. Even the grown ups were amazed by these simple genetic experiments.
I remember Dr. Baptiste had said he forgot how fascinating his job is until a student in the OR sees him operate on a beating heart and says "cool". "Oh yea, I forgot that it is pretty cool."
Kids are bright and still have so much to learn and be fascinated about. I hope they all get the chance.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A penny for your thoughts, a dime for mine.
When I was about 5 or 6, my parents always fought. I remember it got dangerously close to divorce, and the police visited the house a few times. They fought over everything. Little things that would escalate to a night at a hotel or weekend at my grandmother's house.
One night, my dad and was listening to his Creedence Clearwater Rivival CD, and after jumping up and down on the bed and dancing to Suzy Q, I Put a Spell on You came on. After a few minutes, my mom comes in and tells him to turn it off. Of course, he asks why, and she says that she doesn't want me listening to this trash. "What trash?" and she walks over to the player, takes out the CD and walks out. My dad called her back and said some stuff about his property, and he's tired of her bitching. There was an exchange of unkind property and property of self comments and suddenly, the entertainment console starting getting flung off the shelves. The CD player was thrown off, the surround sound was thrown, the VHS player, the karaoke... I was kinda confused about that fight.
But then I knew exactly what was going on, and exactly why they originally fought. It wasn't Creedence Clearwater. I put it together from the various things and other mini fights that occured in the house, but I was never accosted and informed about any of it. I don't know about everyone else, but I feel like my cognition was underestimated when I was younger. We never bring up that time of my life though.
Everyone has their own opinions and points of view, and things just can't work when the opposite view isn't understood or at least heard. That's how arguments begin, families fall apart, gangs form, wars rage.
My mom asks me for advice and opinions a lot now that my dad's in San Antonio, I'm in Austin, and my brother and her in Fort Worth. Family of 4, divided into 3. She told me over the summer that she believes I'm old enough to know about and have input in the family's affairs now. Well that's nice. 20 is a good age to officially know about what goes on in the family. I wasn't even informed that I'd be bleeding out my vag when I was of puberty age.
One night, my dad and was listening to his Creedence Clearwater Rivival CD, and after jumping up and down on the bed and dancing to Suzy Q, I Put a Spell on You came on. After a few minutes, my mom comes in and tells him to turn it off. Of course, he asks why, and she says that she doesn't want me listening to this trash. "What trash?" and she walks over to the player, takes out the CD and walks out. My dad called her back and said some stuff about his property, and he's tired of her bitching. There was an exchange of unkind property and property of self comments and suddenly, the entertainment console starting getting flung off the shelves. The CD player was thrown off, the surround sound was thrown, the VHS player, the karaoke... I was kinda confused about that fight.
But then I knew exactly what was going on, and exactly why they originally fought. It wasn't Creedence Clearwater. I put it together from the various things and other mini fights that occured in the house, but I was never accosted and informed about any of it. I don't know about everyone else, but I feel like my cognition was underestimated when I was younger. We never bring up that time of my life though.
Everyone has their own opinions and points of view, and things just can't work when the opposite view isn't understood or at least heard. That's how arguments begin, families fall apart, gangs form, wars rage.
My mom asks me for advice and opinions a lot now that my dad's in San Antonio, I'm in Austin, and my brother and her in Fort Worth. Family of 4, divided into 3. She told me over the summer that she believes I'm old enough to know about and have input in the family's affairs now. Well that's nice. 20 is a good age to officially know about what goes on in the family. I wasn't even informed that I'd be bleeding out my vag when I was of puberty age.
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