Hahaha !

You Are the Middle Finger

A bit fragile and dependent on your friends, you're not nearly as hostile as you seem. You are balanced, easy to get along with, and quite serious. However, you can get angry and fed up with those around you. And you aren't afraid to show it! You get along well with: The Index Finger Stay away from: The Pinky

What Finger Are You?

My note: This is so inaccurate it's funny.. I'm just reveling in the fact that I can post a picture of the middle finger on my blog. :)

Good Decision

You know you made a good choice in the car to buy when your significant other's 14-year-old son says:

"Your car is hecka cool. I want you to drive me to a dance in it."

(pumping fist) Yes !

Bleeding from WHERE ?!

One of two calls on Monday was for a woman in distress. Our patient was experiencing a gynaecological bleed so severe that it rendered her temporarily unconscious. Because the call to 911 was made from a cell phone, our corporate ERT was not dispatched until an employee flagged down Security, and after the Fire Department was already on scene.

Rick, Jeff and Rakesh headed there anyway, to assist with traffic control, while I stayed behind to finish some important work. They told me the story afterward.

The Incident Commander for this call was a relatively new Security employee, barely of legal drinking age. In the debrief after the patient was taken to the hospital, he attempted to describe the patient's issue.

"Well, she had a... uh... she was bleeding. Uh... bleeding...." (gesturing towards mid-section) "From her.. uh.... woman area."

Yeah. From her woman area, alright.

Rakesh, a fellow EMT and eternal realist, looked at the uncomfortable, red-faced Security officer, and said,

"Dude, it's called a vagina. She had a vaginal bleed. Ok ?"

I so wish I were there to see the look on the officer's face.

A Little Piece of Metal

This little piece of metal seems unassuming, but it is much more than meets the eye.

It's a key. Not just any key, but the key.

The key to our new home. The key to our new life, together, as a family.

I have dreamed of this day, that I would hold this little piece of metal, and today, that dream has come true.

It's the key not just to our home, but to our future.

It is now time to step through that door.

Protective

There are some things about parenting, I've been told, that you never truly understand until you are a parent yourself. I remember hearing this from my own parents, and from others in the past as they were recounting stories of their experiences with their children. I never truly understood the power of that statement until Saturday night.

Daniel, who is 14, is well aware of his father's rules. If he is out on a weekend evening, he must call Danny before 10pm. And he must wrap up his activities around that time so he can be picked up. This is how it's been ever since he was old enough to go out with his friends, or his "homies" as he calls them, into the evening hours.

Saturday night, Danny and I were at his parents' house, socializing with family members. Daniel was at the carnival at the local high school with his friends. As the evening wore on, Danny attempted to call Daniel to see where he was. Unfortunately, his calls went straight to voice mail.

And they kept going to voice mail.

No answer. No response.

At 10:00, we got into the car, and headed to the carnival. We waited by one of the exits, to see if we could locate Daniel and his friends, but they were nowhere to be found. We even drove around to the Jack in the Box nearby. Still no Daniel.

Danny was angry. He thought his son was being a punk and trying to escape his rules by pleading innocence that his phone had died or was turned off. But I wasn't angry. My reaction was completely different. I was scared.

What if something had happened to him ? What if some of the older teenagers that filled this carnival had given him and his friends trouble ? What if he'd been hit by a car ? What if.... all these scenarios started running through my head. I was petrified.

At 10:25, he finally called. He'd had his phone off to preserve the battery. He'd meant to call. He hadn't checked the time. But, at least he was safe.

When my own father used to yell at me for not calling, or for showing up late, I always thought he was being ridiculous. Of course I was fine. Of course I could take care of myself. Why did he need to be so controlling ? There was no need to worry, right ?

As a teenager, I never understood why he was so damned protective.

Now, I do.

Words to Live By

My company's Emergency Response Team was fortunate enough to have been graced with the services of our fearless leader, Lance, for a period of approximately two years. In that time, we learned a great deal from his 20+ years experience as a volunteer firefighter and fire captain. One of Lance's great catch-phrases was what he used to illustrate the importance of gloves and other such personal protective equipment. "Keep the goo off of you," he always said. That was our motto.

At every call that involved bodily fluids, and at every educational opportunity we attended, this phrase was repeated. It was ingrained into the very root of our medical knowledge base. It became automatic, just as instinctual as the way all of us jump when we hear the alert tones on the radio. It was a part of us, and a part of our response.

"Keep the goo off of you." We lived and breathed it.

Two weeks ago, a patient of ours had fainted in a conference room, and in the process, had lost bladder control. Our ever-reliable, enthusiastic teammate Rick responded with the utmost of efficiency and assumed patient care. Unfortunately, since his medical bag had been stowed in his pimped-out Jeep, many of his gloves had disintegrated.

Not a good thing to happen when a patient in a condition such as this needed attention.

In his ever-resourceful way, Rick managed to borrow a set of gloves off another responder, and continue with his most excellent care of the person in need.

The next day, Rick and I were chatting at my cube, when Rakesh appeared with a beautiful gold-colored gift box. He presented it to Rick with the utmost of flair. Rick opened it, with a look of confusion on his face, and peered at the contents.

Inside the box, there were two small bottles.

Hand sanitizer.

And Rakesh, with a million-dollar smile, saying,

"Keep the goo off of you."

Priceless.

Yeah, Right !

According to CNN Money's article on Net Worth Killers, an individual or family should never spend more than 2.5 times their yearly income on a living space.

Obviously these jokers have never seen prices in the Bay Area.

Even the cheapest, crappiest condominium in Fremont is more than three times our yearly income. If people here in the Bay Area followed that rule, nobody would own anything, and we would all be renting forever.

My friends and family in Toronto are absolutely flabberghasted when I tell them what we paid for our modest, 25-year-old townhouse with 3 bedrooms and a 2-car garage. But that's what people pay around here. And that's a reduced price from a year ago. It's tough to fathom, but that's what the land and dwellings are worth, in the best state in the country, with some of the best weather and best activities around.

We vowed that we would never be in a "house prison", where we could not go on vacation, do the activities that we like to do, or go on the little adventures we enjoy so much. What we paid is significant, but it will not cramp our style like some of our friends, who are prisoners in their own home, unable to afford even a dinner out.

The fully-detached houses around Danny's parents' are well over $600k, and had we considered one of those, we would have been prisoners ourselves. But our townhouse, an end unit, has most of the benefits of a fully-detached, with the extra perk of the HOA doing all the yard work. So that is perfectly fine with us.

This house will not be a prison. It will be a castle. Our castle.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

The mountain of paperwork sat ominously before us. On the god-knows-how-many pages of undecipherable legalese, it was written, in essence, that we would be signing our lives away for the next thirty years. Yes, of course, we will pay the mortgage. Yes, of course we'll end up paying 2.5 times the loan amount in the end due to interest. But short of winning the lottery, or sitting Danny at the slot machine for the next 10 years or so, we have no choice.

So we signed.

And signed.

And initialed.

And signed.

One hour later, my index finger had a dent in it. My pen was squeezing out its last bit of ink. We were both exhausted. But we'd done it.

We'd signed. And in a week or so, we will be homeowners.

I am excited, scared and nervous all at the same time.

We will have a home. Our home. Our sanctuary, where we can unwind after a hard day, eat dinner together as a family, and go to bed every night knowing that this is our own space.

Two weeks ago, the prospect seemed so far away. And now, it's just around the corner.

A new home, a new family, a new life. That is worth almost any price, including a sore finger and a good chunk of our paychecks.

We're ready for it. Bring it on.

Warning

Excessive consumption of frozen margaritas, and other such tasty treats, may cause one to believe that Spongebob Squarepants is descending from the Las Vegas skyline, attacking tourists and biting their butts.



Have mercy on me, Spongebob. Please !