A few months ago I picked up a book entitled "A Whole New Mind -- Why Right Brainers Will Rule The Future." In it, author Daniel Pink describes a historical imbalance between left-brain thinkers and workers (sequential, concrete, detailed, measurable, linear) and those dominant in right-brain thinking (abstract, contextual, simultaneous, empathetic, spatial). From his perspective, long gone are the days when the CPA's and engineers rule the professional landscape and reap all the glory. Rather, Pink sees the growing need for designers, inventors, teachers and storytellers.
I find the premise and content to be pretty compelling stuff and tend to agree with Pink most of the time. As is usually the case with prophetic & theoretical texts of this sort, I fear that when you push for a pendulum swing you run the risk of going too far. I like the idea of putting an imbalance back into balance. But, if we fully abandon the left brain and move to the extreme of a predominantly right-brain world, we might have pretty objects, creative stories and spiritual exploration, but will we still have running water, sturdy bridges and people who know how to fill out forms in triplicate? I'm just sayin . . . gotta value both.
One of the key chapters in the book focuses on the importance of design. Now I'm a sucker for design. I'll buy something that might not work or taste good, but if its wrapped in a cool package, I'm all for it. Pink included this list outlining how regular people, who aren't professional designers, can incorporate a design aesthetic into their everyday lives. The list comes from Karim Rashid and his "Karimanifesto" guide to life and design. I liked it so wanted to share with the three people who irregularly and infrequently link to my blog. You know who you are . . . . Enjoy!
1. Don't specialize
2. Before giving birth to anything physical, ask yourself if you have created an original idea, an original concept, if there is any real value in what you disseminate
3. Know everything about the history of your profession and then forget it all when you design something new.
4. Never say "I could have done that" because you didn't.
5. Consumer experiences, not things.
6. Normal is not good.
7. There are three types of beings -- those who create culture, those who buy culture, and those who don't give a shit about culture. Move between the first two.
8. Think extensively, not intensively.
9. Experience is the most important part of living, and the exchange of ideas and human contact is all life really is. Space and objects can encourage increased experiences or distract from our experiences.
10. Here and now is all we got.
Amen.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
Practicing My Superhero Moves!
It was a beautiful Fall weekend in Minnesota. My good buddy Sunny and I had a little hang time on Sunday where we skipped about town and partook in some of my best activities. Oh, and her real name is not Sunny. I'm just protecting her identity before I place a smattering of images containing her face all over the world wide web. Aren't I nice?
One cannot unleash devilish hi-jinks and general mayhem on unsuspecting citizenry on an empty stomach. Thus, our first stop was brunch at 20.21. Not your standard greasy spoon, 20.21 is Wolfgang Puck's white table cloth restaurant at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. Typically, you might me and my crew at places like Hot Plate or The Egg and I, but not today. Today was a different day. Today was special. Today, Sunny had a gift certificate and we were aiming to cash it in. Yee Haw!! A $30 per plate brunch buffet is no problem when you have a gift certificate. On a scale from 1 to 10 with 1 being 'god awful I think I got e-coli' and 10 being 'ultimate deliciousness so good I would sell my soul for some more,' I would rate 20.21's brunch as a ho-hum 7.5. The service and setting were posh, no doubt. The sugar and creamer set were aesthetically pleasing, sparse and modern architecturally inspired tableware. The food was just o.k. It's the kind of place you take out-of-town guests if you want to impress them with your fine taste and disregard for the current economic recession. For all others, might I suggest the McCafe at McDonald's?
But, where else can you go for Sunday brunch and see a cool, stylized picture of Mao? Well, maybe China, but not in MN . . .
After eating our fill of fancy food, we hit the sculpture garden. It was here that we practiced our superhero powers. If you don't believe me, just take a look. We lifted heavy spoons with huge cherries:
Then we undertook deadly kung fu maneuvers. Remember kids, don't try this at home:
SCARY!
Shortly after frightening small children and fluffy pets with our stealth and cunning, we changed out of our capes and tights and picked up some Caribou. That's right. We grabbed not one, but two Caribous with our bare hands. Sarah Palin, eat your heart out. Sunny's so tough, she got herself a large one!
As weariness crept upon us, our adventures took us to picturesque Minnehaha Falls. We kicked back just soaking up the lovely Fall scenery. Again, more hero powers were put to the test as we listened in on the private conversations of several park patrons. It isn't our fault. The acoustics are crazy and sometimes people don't talk as softly as they should. I will spare you these final pictures. But, rest assured, the day was glorious. Thanks for the good times Sunny. I had a blast!
One cannot unleash devilish hi-jinks and general mayhem on unsuspecting citizenry on an empty stomach. Thus, our first stop was brunch at 20.21. Not your standard greasy spoon, 20.21 is Wolfgang Puck's white table cloth restaurant at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. Typically, you might me and my crew at places like Hot Plate or The Egg and I, but not today. Today was a different day. Today was special. Today, Sunny had a gift certificate and we were aiming to cash it in. Yee Haw!! A $30 per plate brunch buffet is no problem when you have a gift certificate. On a scale from 1 to 10 with 1 being 'god awful I think I got e-coli' and 10 being 'ultimate deliciousness so good I would sell my soul for some more,' I would rate 20.21's brunch as a ho-hum 7.5. The service and setting were posh, no doubt. The sugar and creamer set were aesthetically pleasing, sparse and modern architecturally inspired tableware. The food was just o.k. It's the kind of place you take out-of-town guests if you want to impress them with your fine taste and disregard for the current economic recession. For all others, might I suggest the McCafe at McDonald's?
But, where else can you go for Sunday brunch and see a cool, stylized picture of Mao? Well, maybe China, but not in MN . . .
After eating our fill of fancy food, we hit the sculpture garden. It was here that we practiced our superhero powers. If you don't believe me, just take a look. We lifted heavy spoons with huge cherries:
Then we undertook deadly kung fu maneuvers. Remember kids, don't try this at home:
SCARY!
Shortly after frightening small children and fluffy pets with our stealth and cunning, we changed out of our capes and tights and picked up some Caribou. That's right. We grabbed not one, but two Caribous with our bare hands. Sarah Palin, eat your heart out. Sunny's so tough, she got herself a large one!
As weariness crept upon us, our adventures took us to picturesque Minnehaha Falls. We kicked back just soaking up the lovely Fall scenery. Again, more hero powers were put to the test as we listened in on the private conversations of several park patrons. It isn't our fault. The acoustics are crazy and sometimes people don't talk as softly as they should. I will spare you these final pictures. But, rest assured, the day was glorious. Thanks for the good times Sunny. I had a blast!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Miss Manners Hates Me
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about etiquette. What is deemed appropriate and respectable and what is considered impolite, disrespectful or otherwise rude – these questions are plaguing me. Torment over my likely infringement of tried and true social practices handed down from Queen Victoria to Martha Stewart leave me drenched in anxiety. I fear Miss Manners or Dear Abby would scowl and wag their skinny index fingers at me in disapproval if they knew the secret I am all too ashamed to admit. What is that secret, you ask? I’m a bad, bad person. I’ve done terrible things.
After nearly six months post-nuptials Mr. Oz and I still have about half of our wedding thank you notes left to send. I am a thank you note offender. Bless me Father, for I have sinned . . . Can I just say twelve Hail Mary’s and six Our Father’s and get on with my penance already? I know I’m not Catholic, but with all the guilt I feel, I might as well be.
I’m usually fairly prompt about stuff, ya know. I hardly ever pay my bills late. When invited to a party, I’m usually one of those guests that show up a few minutes early or, at the very least, right on time. I try to bring the host or hostess a gift. Nice bottle of wine. A loaf of crusty bread . . . ya know, the good stuff. Beyond my natural proclivity for timeliness, I’m also pretty fond of writing notes. I like the feeling of pen on paper. The flow of ink, its stained impression on a blank canvas, always leaves me with a sense of contentment. Finally, I can speak for Mr. Oz and myself when I say that we really, really are appreciative for all the nice gifts and well wishes we received. So, what’s my deal? I just can’t seem to get my act together on this front. Why? Why do I find this so damn difficult?
In an attempt to give me the benefit of the doubt, you might consider the fact that we just don’t have the necessary supplies handy. Maybe we are fresh out of note cards or envelopes. The post office ran out of stamps. Alas, that is not the case. We have a stack of cards, plenty of envelopes and postage.
After some soul searching I’ve come to a single conclusion. In short, I blame technology.
If it weren’t for the speed and efficiency of email, my Facebook wall-to-walls, instant messaging, texts and cell phones, we would still live in an age where writing and mailing letters was both the preeminent and the most practical form of communication. The habit of physically scratching our fondest regards to loved ones and acquaintances would be so cemented into our everyday lives that posting another three dozen thank you cards would be a small task happily accomplished. Remember when we used to have pen pals? I do. I’d write a 4, 5, maybe 6 page letter on my fabulous pink, Strawberry Shortcake stationary. Shoot that bad boy off and wait patiently for a reply some 2 to 4 odd weeks later. I did this with joy in my heart knowing my words, the paragraphs I took such care in crafting, were winging their way across the continent. Today, writing letters blows. Who the hell cares anymore? I almost NEVER get a real letter in the mail. And, if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’m surprised stationary stores and pens still exist. The US postal service is old school just barely hanging on to its last shred of dignity. Today, it’s all about faster, easier, sound bite comments sent through the Internet ether. Today we are all business. Yesterday we had heart. The romance is dead people.
I’m not here to make excuses for myself (o.k., well, only a little bit), but I’m telling you, we are all caught in the middle of a war between what was and what is and my wedding thank you notes just happen to be the casualties. The propriety and dignity of days gone by is slowly fading. Nostalgia is for suckers. If you are among those waiting for your thank you card, know that I will continue to fight the good fight until it rests safely in your mailbox. I won’t rest until this battle has been won!
Now, excuse me whilst I go download more IPhone apps. A girl has got to do, what a girl has got to do.
After nearly six months post-nuptials Mr. Oz and I still have about half of our wedding thank you notes left to send. I am a thank you note offender. Bless me Father, for I have sinned . . . Can I just say twelve Hail Mary’s and six Our Father’s and get on with my penance already? I know I’m not Catholic, but with all the guilt I feel, I might as well be.
I’m usually fairly prompt about stuff, ya know. I hardly ever pay my bills late. When invited to a party, I’m usually one of those guests that show up a few minutes early or, at the very least, right on time. I try to bring the host or hostess a gift. Nice bottle of wine. A loaf of crusty bread . . . ya know, the good stuff. Beyond my natural proclivity for timeliness, I’m also pretty fond of writing notes. I like the feeling of pen on paper. The flow of ink, its stained impression on a blank canvas, always leaves me with a sense of contentment. Finally, I can speak for Mr. Oz and myself when I say that we really, really are appreciative for all the nice gifts and well wishes we received. So, what’s my deal? I just can’t seem to get my act together on this front. Why? Why do I find this so damn difficult?
In an attempt to give me the benefit of the doubt, you might consider the fact that we just don’t have the necessary supplies handy. Maybe we are fresh out of note cards or envelopes. The post office ran out of stamps. Alas, that is not the case. We have a stack of cards, plenty of envelopes and postage.
After some soul searching I’ve come to a single conclusion. In short, I blame technology.
If it weren’t for the speed and efficiency of email, my Facebook wall-to-walls, instant messaging, texts and cell phones, we would still live in an age where writing and mailing letters was both the preeminent and the most practical form of communication. The habit of physically scratching our fondest regards to loved ones and acquaintances would be so cemented into our everyday lives that posting another three dozen thank you cards would be a small task happily accomplished. Remember when we used to have pen pals? I do. I’d write a 4, 5, maybe 6 page letter on my fabulous pink, Strawberry Shortcake stationary. Shoot that bad boy off and wait patiently for a reply some 2 to 4 odd weeks later. I did this with joy in my heart knowing my words, the paragraphs I took such care in crafting, were winging their way across the continent. Today, writing letters blows. Who the hell cares anymore? I almost NEVER get a real letter in the mail. And, if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’m surprised stationary stores and pens still exist. The US postal service is old school just barely hanging on to its last shred of dignity. Today, it’s all about faster, easier, sound bite comments sent through the Internet ether. Today we are all business. Yesterday we had heart. The romance is dead people.
I’m not here to make excuses for myself (o.k., well, only a little bit), but I’m telling you, we are all caught in the middle of a war between what was and what is and my wedding thank you notes just happen to be the casualties. The propriety and dignity of days gone by is slowly fading. Nostalgia is for suckers. If you are among those waiting for your thank you card, know that I will continue to fight the good fight until it rests safely in your mailbox. I won’t rest until this battle has been won!
Now, excuse me whilst I go download more IPhone apps. A girl has got to do, what a girl has got to do.
Monday, October 13, 2008
I Got Specs Appeal
Accessories are fabulous. Would you agree?
If you follow my blog ramblings then it will come as no surprise that I loves me some purses, shoes and miscellaneous flair. Yes, I said flair but not like the TGI Friday's kind. Oh no. I hate THAT flair.
Whilst on my Staycation I undertook an epic quest to find the perfect pair of eyeglass frames. My criteria for this particular accessory was as follows:
A) Suits my face shape
B) Does not pinch or otherwise constrict my nose, ears or general facial area
C) Color and shape are befitting my personal taste and rock star lifestyle
D) NO Sarah Palin look-alike specs
E) Adds major DRAMA without tragic consequences or geek factor
F) Contains dark Harry Potter-like magic charms allowing me to conjure spirits from the outer dimension, banish unsightly back fat and fill my coffers with gold dabloons (ahoy matey).
OK, so I was willing to give a little on that last one, but seriously, this was a tough job!
After trying on about a gazillion pairs of frames, annoying the store clerk with my continuous demands for "more drama" and eliminating nearly all of them due to their inability to make me look super cool and hot, I landed on these bad boys. What d'ya think?
I have to wait a week for the optician to grind down my lenses. Apparently I am almost legally blind (-925 if that means anything to ya) so I have to pay extra to have my lenses "thinned" out as much as possible. In exchange for this pricey add-on I get to avoid a major Coca-Cola bottle, inhumanely large googly eyeball effect. Yeah for me! I'm looking forward to the day when they make glasses with built in laser beams.
I'll post pictures of me sporting my new glasses so you can see the final effect. Sans laser beams, of course.
If you follow my blog ramblings then it will come as no surprise that I loves me some purses, shoes and miscellaneous flair. Yes, I said flair but not like the TGI Friday's kind. Oh no. I hate THAT flair.
Whilst on my Staycation I undertook an epic quest to find the perfect pair of eyeglass frames. My criteria for this particular accessory was as follows:
A) Suits my face shape
B) Does not pinch or otherwise constrict my nose, ears or general facial area
C) Color and shape are befitting my personal taste and rock star lifestyle
D) NO Sarah Palin look-alike specs
E) Adds major DRAMA without tragic consequences or geek factor
F) Contains dark Harry Potter-like magic charms allowing me to conjure spirits from the outer dimension, banish unsightly back fat and fill my coffers with gold dabloons (ahoy matey).
OK, so I was willing to give a little on that last one, but seriously, this was a tough job!
After trying on about a gazillion pairs of frames, annoying the store clerk with my continuous demands for "more drama" and eliminating nearly all of them due to their inability to make me look super cool and hot, I landed on these bad boys. What d'ya think?
I have to wait a week for the optician to grind down my lenses. Apparently I am almost legally blind (-925 if that means anything to ya) so I have to pay extra to have my lenses "thinned" out as much as possible. In exchange for this pricey add-on I get to avoid a major Coca-Cola bottle, inhumanely large googly eyeball effect. Yeah for me! I'm looking forward to the day when they make glasses with built in laser beams. I'll post pictures of me sporting my new glasses so you can see the final effect. Sans laser beams, of course.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I Have A Dream
I'm looking for a little dream interpretation help from the blog-o-sphere. Usually, I don't remember my dreams, but last night was a notable exception. I must have left the zone of R.E.M sleep and, in the early morning hours, slipped into the fuzzy border town between full on slumber and wakefulness. It was in this fog of unconscious consciousness that I experienced what could only be considered an ominous and bizarre vision. Kick back and relax for I shall now try to describe this odd dream.
It began with me at work. I was roaming the hallway but there were no lights on. Everything was very dark, dim and shadowy. It didn't feel scary, just no lights. Then I noticed that everyone, including me, had green shirts on. All with varying shades and tones of green. Hmmmm. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, it was announced (or I just knew) we were celebrating a Jewish festival of sorts. There were large tour buses waiting outside to carry all employees to an undisclosed location to celebrate this festival. Again, it was declared (or I just knew) that Oprah Winfrey was scheduled to be at this festival. I walked outside and, on my way to the buses, I started to climb a rather large pyramid. Not sure why I had to do this or where the pyramid came from. The pyramid was rough and covered in rocks and sand. It was quite steep which made my climb very difficult. In fact, I could only walk half way up the side of the pyramid before I was forced to stop. I simply could not make it any higher. Then I looked up and saw that Oprah was at the top of the pyramid and she was walking down to greet me. We met at the half way point where Oprah proceeded to welcome me and give me a big, warm hug. It was AWESOME!
Then, the scene faded and I went back inside. I entered the ladies bathroom to "freshen up" before the festival. I was in one of the stalls and had just opened the door to exit when I saw a Latina woman with large spectacles standing in front of the sink. She was looking at herself in the mirror with her hands over her abdomen. She started talking about how she did not feel well. She kept repeating "I can't move. I can't move." Other women gathered around her to try and help. The woman said (or I just know) that she had recently given birth and was just now returning back to work. Suddenly, she pulled her hands away from her body and they were covered in blood. Her cries of "I can't move" continued. I was frozen and could not move.
Women ran out and called out for a doctor. There were doctors on one of the festival buses. Instead of doctors coming off the bus to help the woman, they pulled the woman onto the bus and placed her in the back on one of the long seats in a reclining position. Soon, the woman gave birth to ANOTHER baby. This baby was hiding inside her while the other baby, presumably its twin, was born weeks earlier. One of the doctors held the baby up by its feet. It looked blue and wrinkly. The baby began to cry.
I woke from my dream.
I ask you, what does this mean? The darkened workplace? The green shirts? The Jewish festival? The pyramid which I was only able to climb part of the way up? Oprah coming down to warmly greet me? The woman in the bathroom unable to move? My own paralysis when I saw her bloody hands? Then, the much delayed birth of the "other" twin? I wish I was making this up, but I am not.
Help. Someone once told me that every person or thing in a dream represents an aspect of the dreamer. If that is the case, I would be able to spot myself in all of these characters and places. Hmmmm. So, am I the green shirt? Am I the pyramid, the climber, Oprah or all of them combined? I'm sure I was the voyeur within the dream, but was I also the pregnant woman AND the new baby? I'm out of my league here people. Throw me some ideas.
Thanks.
It began with me at work. I was roaming the hallway but there were no lights on. Everything was very dark, dim and shadowy. It didn't feel scary, just no lights. Then I noticed that everyone, including me, had green shirts on. All with varying shades and tones of green. Hmmmm. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, it was announced (or I just knew) we were celebrating a Jewish festival of sorts. There were large tour buses waiting outside to carry all employees to an undisclosed location to celebrate this festival. Again, it was declared (or I just knew) that Oprah Winfrey was scheduled to be at this festival. I walked outside and, on my way to the buses, I started to climb a rather large pyramid. Not sure why I had to do this or where the pyramid came from. The pyramid was rough and covered in rocks and sand. It was quite steep which made my climb very difficult. In fact, I could only walk half way up the side of the pyramid before I was forced to stop. I simply could not make it any higher. Then I looked up and saw that Oprah was at the top of the pyramid and she was walking down to greet me. We met at the half way point where Oprah proceeded to welcome me and give me a big, warm hug. It was AWESOME!
Then, the scene faded and I went back inside. I entered the ladies bathroom to "freshen up" before the festival. I was in one of the stalls and had just opened the door to exit when I saw a Latina woman with large spectacles standing in front of the sink. She was looking at herself in the mirror with her hands over her abdomen. She started talking about how she did not feel well. She kept repeating "I can't move. I can't move." Other women gathered around her to try and help. The woman said (or I just know) that she had recently given birth and was just now returning back to work. Suddenly, she pulled her hands away from her body and they were covered in blood. Her cries of "I can't move" continued. I was frozen and could not move.
Women ran out and called out for a doctor. There were doctors on one of the festival buses. Instead of doctors coming off the bus to help the woman, they pulled the woman onto the bus and placed her in the back on one of the long seats in a reclining position. Soon, the woman gave birth to ANOTHER baby. This baby was hiding inside her while the other baby, presumably its twin, was born weeks earlier. One of the doctors held the baby up by its feet. It looked blue and wrinkly. The baby began to cry.
I woke from my dream.
I ask you, what does this mean? The darkened workplace? The green shirts? The Jewish festival? The pyramid which I was only able to climb part of the way up? Oprah coming down to warmly greet me? The woman in the bathroom unable to move? My own paralysis when I saw her bloody hands? Then, the much delayed birth of the "other" twin? I wish I was making this up, but I am not.
Help. Someone once told me that every person or thing in a dream represents an aspect of the dreamer. If that is the case, I would be able to spot myself in all of these characters and places. Hmmmm. So, am I the green shirt? Am I the pyramid, the climber, Oprah or all of them combined? I'm sure I was the voyeur within the dream, but was I also the pregnant woman AND the new baby? I'm out of my league here people. Throw me some ideas.
Thanks.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Staycation Part Deux
The Staycation continues and what a glorious week it has been! In addition to hitting the gym and working on my fitness, I engaged in activities of leisure such as a blissful manicure and pedicure combo, happy hour at the Happy Gnome, shopping and lunch with friends. Ahhhhh . . . the good life.
When one has such a week of luxurious, carefree time on their hands, it is important to take advantage and attend to some medical and dental check-ups. Perfect health and wellness being right next to Godliness on the "Top 10 Aspirational Goals List" of 2008, I had to oblige and do my part. If you are wondering what #3 is, well, let's just say it might involve plastic surgery and a whole lot of suction . . . not going there right now. I'll leave that for my next Staycation.
In my quest for the holy grail of health, I took my first ever trip to the dermatologist. While I have never had the need or seen a reason to go to a skin specialist before, I was startled out of complacency by stories from friends and friends of friends. A fair-skinned lass with a sad history of blistering sunburns and biological predisposition to moles and freckles sealed the deal. When I made the appointment, I wasn't sure what to ask for? Should I request a check-up? A skin review? An ala carte special peel and graft? I just didn't have the lingo down at all. A colleague suggested I schedule a full body scan which, simply put, is a head to toe look at my epidermis. No stone was left unturned. After a thorough exam, I came to realize that I had a lot more going on in the skin department than I could have ever dreamed possible. What's that you say Dr. Cho? I have a touch of psoriasis on my scalp? Hmmm. I just thought it was a dry patch of skin. Guess not. Seasonal eczema on my hands? Check. Dermatitis with a "touch" of Rosacea on my face? Yep. Got it. Anything else? Well, just for fun let's throw in a couple suspicious looking moles that had to be removed. Good gravy and biscuits people. I'm a walking dermatological case study. Luckily the good doctor didn't diagnose Leprosy. This would have put me over the edge. No severely disfiguring and painful disease from biblical times, thankyouverymuch.
OK, so the whole mole removal thing was pretty easy. If others out there have experienced it, they can attest to this fact. A little shot of local anaesthetic and I didn't feel a thing. There was one slightly disturbing part -- the moment when my tiny wound was cauterized and the pungent smell of my own burning flesh hit my nostrils. Not good. Even worse was the thought, later provided by my darling sister . . . "just think, that was what you would smell if you were ever burned alive!" Great. Thanks!!
After my procedure, I had this compulsion to do a Google search on 'mole removal.' See I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and am always looking for the symptoms, signs and cautionary tales related to diseases and conditions which may or may not befall me. In my quick Internet query, I found a few interesting sites. One of which boasted this picture:
Ahhhhhhh!!!!! I meant mole on my skin, not mole in my garden. This was incredibly frightening. For a mere instant, I was worried my harmless skin moles may erupt and burst with sharp teethed, pointy nosed vermin like this. My anxiety released upon realizing Google was just confused. Whew. Relief. Then I pictured the movie Caddyshack. A golf course groundskeeper, played by a young Bill Murray, dueling it out with a wily gopher. In my mind, the gopher was transformed into his burrowing cousin, the mole. The mole became the small, dark dots on my skin and Dr. Cho was Bill Murray trying to eradicate them from reproducing and spreading their vermin seed across my torso, neck, arms and legs. AAAHHHHHHHHHHH.
The whole skin slicing, flesh burning, Internet searching, mole imagining, Caddyshack remembering was super trippy. Must have been a lethal combination of anaesthetic and Starbucks mocha in my system. Careful not to mix these boys and girls. It leads to bad, bad visuals.
When one has such a week of luxurious, carefree time on their hands, it is important to take advantage and attend to some medical and dental check-ups. Perfect health and wellness being right next to Godliness on the "Top 10 Aspirational Goals List" of 2008, I had to oblige and do my part. If you are wondering what #3 is, well, let's just say it might involve plastic surgery and a whole lot of suction . . . not going there right now. I'll leave that for my next Staycation.
In my quest for the holy grail of health, I took my first ever trip to the dermatologist. While I have never had the need or seen a reason to go to a skin specialist before, I was startled out of complacency by stories from friends and friends of friends. A fair-skinned lass with a sad history of blistering sunburns and biological predisposition to moles and freckles sealed the deal. When I made the appointment, I wasn't sure what to ask for? Should I request a check-up? A skin review? An ala carte special peel and graft? I just didn't have the lingo down at all. A colleague suggested I schedule a full body scan which, simply put, is a head to toe look at my epidermis. No stone was left unturned. After a thorough exam, I came to realize that I had a lot more going on in the skin department than I could have ever dreamed possible. What's that you say Dr. Cho? I have a touch of psoriasis on my scalp? Hmmm. I just thought it was a dry patch of skin. Guess not. Seasonal eczema on my hands? Check. Dermatitis with a "touch" of Rosacea on my face? Yep. Got it. Anything else? Well, just for fun let's throw in a couple suspicious looking moles that had to be removed. Good gravy and biscuits people. I'm a walking dermatological case study. Luckily the good doctor didn't diagnose Leprosy. This would have put me over the edge. No severely disfiguring and painful disease from biblical times, thankyouverymuch.
OK, so the whole mole removal thing was pretty easy. If others out there have experienced it, they can attest to this fact. A little shot of local anaesthetic and I didn't feel a thing. There was one slightly disturbing part -- the moment when my tiny wound was cauterized and the pungent smell of my own burning flesh hit my nostrils. Not good. Even worse was the thought, later provided by my darling sister . . . "just think, that was what you would smell if you were ever burned alive!" Great. Thanks!!
After my procedure, I had this compulsion to do a Google search on 'mole removal.' See I'm a bit of a hypochondriac and am always looking for the symptoms, signs and cautionary tales related to diseases and conditions which may or may not befall me. In my quick Internet query, I found a few interesting sites. One of which boasted this picture:
Ahhhhhhh!!!!! I meant mole on my skin, not mole in my garden. This was incredibly frightening. For a mere instant, I was worried my harmless skin moles may erupt and burst with sharp teethed, pointy nosed vermin like this. My anxiety released upon realizing Google was just confused. Whew. Relief. Then I pictured the movie Caddyshack. A golf course groundskeeper, played by a young Bill Murray, dueling it out with a wily gopher. In my mind, the gopher was transformed into his burrowing cousin, the mole. The mole became the small, dark dots on my skin and Dr. Cho was Bill Murray trying to eradicate them from reproducing and spreading their vermin seed across my torso, neck, arms and legs. AAAHHHHHHHHHHH.
The whole skin slicing, flesh burning, Internet searching, mole imagining, Caddyshack remembering was super trippy. Must have been a lethal combination of anaesthetic and Starbucks mocha in my system. Careful not to mix these boys and girls. It leads to bad, bad visuals.
Monday, October 6, 2008
My STAYcation
I will preface my post by saying that I am somebody who finds myself annoyed by people claiming to be super busy all the time. Everyone is tragically busy. I get it. It bugs! Here is just an example of what I'm talking about:
"Hey Sally (p.s. I don't really know a Sally), long time no see. How are you doing?"
Sally's response punctuated with eye rolling and deep sighs of exasperation, "Oh well, I just can't keep up. You know? Things are just CRAZY at work and with the kids and keeping the house clean and the laundry and then Fido needs to get his teeth cleaned and his coat groomed and then there's that family reunion and you know my aunt is going to make me plan the whole thing. I am just SO BUSY!"
My response -- notably with less enthusiasm and glee -- "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We should really get together sometime and catch up. I miss hanging out with you."
"That would be great. But, I just really have no idea when I could schedule something. There is just too much going on. How about we block some time in 2009 and play it by ear?"
"Sure. Sounds fantastic. I'll give you a call sometime after the New Year." Yeah right.
Yeah, yeah. We are all busy, right? I mean, isn't all relative to your particular point of reference? But, seriously folks. We all need to lay off the verbal diarrhea about our insanely busy lives. Enough is enough. I've had it. I say this with total love and compassion for those bogged down professionals and the over-stressed moms out there, cuz lord knows I don't know how you all do it. And, I'm not offering up this up as smug criticism or somehow trying to compete and say that no one can possibly be as busy as me. Not the case and not true. What I am offering is a social commentary around "busy" as a topic of casual conversation. People, this subject is officially played out. It's SO 1990's. I firmly believe "being busy" is today's catch all discussion starter (and ender) on par with "how's the weather?" It has lost all meaning and distinction given the fact that 9 out of 10 people are too damn busy give a damn.
OK, that was the preamble. Now on to the full amble:
I've decided to stop with all the busy-ness. No more running 100 miles an hour, spinning my wheels just to take two steps forward and then three steps back. The rat race has got me down my friends. Yes, I'm writing in ambiguous metaphors, but this seems very appropriate as my life lately could be viewed as a metaphor of the non-stop, go, go, go times we all live in. Today, I have decided to call a cease fire on the battlefield if only for a brief moment. I'm hitting the 'pause' button on the fast forward button of life and changing the frequency from commercial free, heart thumping, adrenaline rushing thrash rock to a calmer, more soothing station -- this week, I'm tuning into the easy listening and acoustic channels. Yep, still using the metaphors . . .
OK, all vague references aside, I needed some down time. Luckily about 2 months ago I blocked a week on my work calendar as I had the forethought to realize I might need to recharge and reconnect. I am taking, what the popular media has coined, a Staycation. A Staycation is a form of vacation, but instead of vacating for warmer climes or new adventures, one stays put. I am going nowhere fast and I am really enjoying myself. After only one full day of my first ever Staycation, I've made it to the gym, paid all my bills, made a dental appointment, did some grocery shopping, lounged about and did some pleasure reading and prepared a delicious homecooked meal which included . . . drumroll . . . fresh baked bread! Watch out Martha Stewart. I'm comin to getchya. I'm not exactly sure what tomorrow has in store for me which is precisely the point. Sure, I have some loose plans like maybe a manicure and pedicure, but no real deadlines or pressing concerns.
I could get used to this.
"Hey Sally (p.s. I don't really know a Sally), long time no see. How are you doing?"
Sally's response punctuated with eye rolling and deep sighs of exasperation, "Oh well, I just can't keep up. You know? Things are just CRAZY at work and with the kids and keeping the house clean and the laundry and then Fido needs to get his teeth cleaned and his coat groomed and then there's that family reunion and you know my aunt is going to make me plan the whole thing. I am just SO BUSY!"
My response -- notably with less enthusiasm and glee -- "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We should really get together sometime and catch up. I miss hanging out with you."
"That would be great. But, I just really have no idea when I could schedule something. There is just too much going on. How about we block some time in 2009 and play it by ear?"
"Sure. Sounds fantastic. I'll give you a call sometime after the New Year." Yeah right.
Yeah, yeah. We are all busy, right? I mean, isn't all relative to your particular point of reference? But, seriously folks. We all need to lay off the verbal diarrhea about our insanely busy lives. Enough is enough. I've had it. I say this with total love and compassion for those bogged down professionals and the over-stressed moms out there, cuz lord knows I don't know how you all do it. And, I'm not offering up this up as smug criticism or somehow trying to compete and say that no one can possibly be as busy as me. Not the case and not true. What I am offering is a social commentary around "busy" as a topic of casual conversation. People, this subject is officially played out. It's SO 1990's. I firmly believe "being busy" is today's catch all discussion starter (and ender) on par with "how's the weather?" It has lost all meaning and distinction given the fact that 9 out of 10 people are too damn busy give a damn.
OK, that was the preamble. Now on to the full amble:
I've decided to stop with all the busy-ness. No more running 100 miles an hour, spinning my wheels just to take two steps forward and then three steps back. The rat race has got me down my friends. Yes, I'm writing in ambiguous metaphors, but this seems very appropriate as my life lately could be viewed as a metaphor of the non-stop, go, go, go times we all live in. Today, I have decided to call a cease fire on the battlefield if only for a brief moment. I'm hitting the 'pause' button on the fast forward button of life and changing the frequency from commercial free, heart thumping, adrenaline rushing thrash rock to a calmer, more soothing station -- this week, I'm tuning into the easy listening and acoustic channels. Yep, still using the metaphors . . .
OK, all vague references aside, I needed some down time. Luckily about 2 months ago I blocked a week on my work calendar as I had the forethought to realize I might need to recharge and reconnect. I am taking, what the popular media has coined, a Staycation. A Staycation is a form of vacation, but instead of vacating for warmer climes or new adventures, one stays put. I am going nowhere fast and I am really enjoying myself. After only one full day of my first ever Staycation, I've made it to the gym, paid all my bills, made a dental appointment, did some grocery shopping, lounged about and did some pleasure reading and prepared a delicious homecooked meal which included . . . drumroll . . . fresh baked bread! Watch out Martha Stewart. I'm comin to getchya. I'm not exactly sure what tomorrow has in store for me which is precisely the point. Sure, I have some loose plans like maybe a manicure and pedicure, but no real deadlines or pressing concerns.
I could get used to this.
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