A Beautiful Mountain

Lately I've been dreaming of skiing. There's someone in my life that seems to help make all my dreams come true, and yesterday I got to ski (with my beautiful new skis) for the first time in 4 long years.

We woke up in a cozy cabin before dawn and drank a pot of french press coffee while piling on our layers.

The sun rose over our drive to Mt. Bachelor.

Fresh snow covered the road to the lodges.

And the sunrise followed us all the way there.

We skied for three hours until my legs felt like jello and then stopped for lunch at the upper lodge overlooking the ski lifts. It had started to snow, but we didn't stop until a few hours later when I became too tired, or lazy, or both, to get off the ski lift. As I missed the unloading point and rounded back toward the slopes, I really thought about riding it all the way down and calling it quits.

I love skiing.

Serve em' up Joe

Oregon's beers are strong and they taste so much better than the watery $7 a glass drafts they sell on the opposite coast. I would definitely add this to my list of reasons for my love for Portland. Not that I need to defend it.The beer buyer at the Union Square Whole Foods informed me that many of the small craft breweries in Oregon do not ship out of state because the quality could be compromised. We wouldn't want that, but I am sure compromised-quality Bridgeport IPA and Deschutes Mirror Pond would still beat out anything Vermont or Brooklyn has to offer. Knowing that this wouldn't be possible, I tried to consume my fare share while I had the chance. I enjoyed several on location in Bend, Oregon at the Deschutes Brewery with David after shopping for ski clothes. Yep, we earned those tasty pints. I also convinced high school friends in Portland to order a variety for the table because I couldn't leave out any of the five of my favorites being served on tap. I count this idea among my better ones. It was really a good plan and they all carried it out very well. Congratulations. How about another round.

Spirits Bright

I would be a miserable liar if I said the holidays, for me, were about anything other than food. This Christmas I entered the holiday food mecca for the third year running. The highlights are only partially photographed. I am a shameless carnivore, so the holy grail was the prime rib roast, cured for 5 days, rubbed with garlic and a sprinkle of magic, and roasted at a painfully slow setting until my lovely Christmas sweater was covered in David's drool. The roast was valiant enough to stand alone, but for added measure there were twice-baked potatoes accosted by butter and cheese, crab legs with a disticively spicy cocktail sauce, and a salad of mesclun and pomegranate seeds.

And that was just Christmas Eve. Before the taste of the roast had left my memory, there were the most beautiful salmon, mushroom bread pudding, a heartbreaking loin of lamb, and a breath-taking assortment of cheeses.

My stomach is small, and dessert was plenty, so I found myself in quite a predicament when faced with persimmon pudding AND cherry pie. It was one of life's tough decisions.

Emily, I don't think I'm in New York anymore

Because I haven't fallen out of bed once. In fact, I've woken up on a strange soft platform that extends well beyond my feet and past my stretched out arms. This curious piece of furniture doesn't even fill up the room.

I haven't heard one honking horn and it's actually dark at night. Really truly dark!

There are landscapes filled with trees and fog (no, not smog or that steam that comes out of the gutters and building tops).

There are big back yards where a handsome man chops wood because he can, and because inside there is a real working fireplace.
No, I'm definately not in New York anymore.

Paradise looks like:

After four months in New York, Portland really does seem like paradise. I blame it on the incredible contrast. Portland has just a little bit of everything good. It's a quiet, understated city near the mountains and the ocean. The climate is mild and the food is outstanding. The quality of the coffee makes having the addiction no fun once you've left. I love Portland too easily. I could get drawn in again and then find myself bored and soggy in no time at all.

Good Riddens

I am guilty of having felt excited when the MTA strike began on Tuesday. Since I spent the last 20 years in Oregon during the winter, I liken it to the rare glee of discovering a 1/4 inch of snow on the ground every couple years and having school canceled because of it. Except, there were no such benefits. In fact, like most other New Yorkers who were unlucky enough to need to be somewhere, I was punished. Silly New Yorkers.


You see, I have been dreaming of Portland every day since Thanksgiving. Something about eating holiday food and seeing David made me blissfully nostalgic for Christmas in Oregon. My expectation has been mounting and I have longed for every precious moment of fresh air, no honking horns, sipping Stumptown coffee in Coffee Plant, and eating lamb and Sally's berry pies. Last night MTA came very close to disturbing this dream. Very close.

I have experienced perfect timing before. This was bigger than perfect timing. This was borrowed time. It was the impossible moment when you simultaneously realize you are too late and just in time. I was told the former, but I knew that I would end up with the latter. And I did. But first let's back up.

At 4:30 p.m., one hour after finishing my last final, I was sitting in the lobby of my dorm with Emily waiting for the Super Shuttle I had reserved to JFK. The van was already 45 minutes late and I nervously gulped down my rum and ginger beer drink. It was day 2 of the MTA strike. Usually, 4 hours would be a gratuitous amount of time to get to the airport, but not today. Traffic was nearly stopped on every avenue and crosstown through-street. When I finally did get in the shuttle, it took 30 minutes just to turn two corners. I was going to miss my plane.

I cried hysterically all the way down Broadway. The driver didn't really speak English, but I interpreted his comments as "get a god damn grip lady." I didn't. We spent two hours circling Manhattan trying to make his other pickups only to find out that they had given up on him. I was the only rider in his 12-person van, we were wasting time looking for people who weren't home, and meanwhile every desperate person trying to get to the airport was frantically waving or pounding on the van. It felt like a scene out of a horror movie.

At 6:30 p.m., the last poor soul this driver was suppose to pickup got in the van. Pablo climbed in the way-back and the two of us, plus the driver, entered the Queens-Midtown tunnel at 6:43 p.m. My plane was leaving in 48 minutes and we were barely out of Manahttan. I had two large suitcases of presents, a case of my homemade pasta sauces on my lap, and my backpack overloaded. I struggled with opposing feelings of freedom and dread as we sped toward the Van Wick Expressway. Was it possible I could catch my plane on one of the busiest travel days of the year with all this stuff to bring through security? I called the Jet Blue hotline and they told me probably not. Oh, and by the way there was only one flight a day to Portland and the next one was sold out. I started to cry again.

It was 7:21 when we pulled up to the nightmarish scene at the Jet Blue terminal. My plane departed in 9 minutes and I had no idea how I was going to get my bags to the ticket counter, let alone convince them I should be able to board the plane. Pablo's plane departed in 24 minutes, but he was kind, or stupid enough to drag one of my bags inside for me.

And now we reach that impossible moment. It's 7:24 and the Jet Blue staff is telling me I missed the plane. I know as I pound my forehead against the counter that they are both right, and that they are wrong. Even they must know it because one of them has my boarding pass, another is putting tags on my baggage, and a third is crawling over the counter with a walkie talkie in one hand and my sleeve in the other.

We gate #7 one minute before departure and as she shouted Merry Christmas, the doors closed behind me. I realized that not a single person in JFK had checked my I.D. or asked me what the hell was in my 12 jars. I think this is as close as I will ever come to a Christmas miracle, or disaster.

Lesson 3: Definitely Drink Beer Before 6pm Final

Especially when you are certain your instructor wrote the exam drunk. The content is largely based on a powerpoint lecture she titled, and pronounced, "Griefing, Death, and Dying: How to deal with your patients' loses."

Here is an example of a question from the final exam in "Nurse/Client Therapeutic Interactions:"



"Your patient is delusional and is talking about his life as a locomotive driver. Which of the following shows therapeutic communication:

a) That must be an exciting career. How do you go about getting in to that profession?
b) Oh really? Would that be a coal or steam engine?
c) Sir, did you eat your breakfast? You're activing a little funny.
d) Mr. Patient, you were an accountant before you retired. Let me get your medication and we'll talk about this some more."




Not all of our classes are this pathetic. Three hours earlier, we were being tested on the symptoms of acute nephrosis, ruptured cerebral aneurysms, pancreatic cancer, peptic ulcers, and pulmonary edema, among other things. It wasn't my moment of glory, but I learned a lot and feel like I am closer to becoming a competent nurse.

But tonight I'm going to sit here and take lessons from the fat kid in Bad Santa: get a gorilla named Davey for Christmas that takes his orders from the talking walnut so it's not my bad thing.

And then tomorrow I'm going to study and finish this first semester just in time to get on my plane to Portland.

Lesson 2: Christmas is more fun than brain aneurysms

Sister opens a present. 3 hours and 18 minutes until final

Lesson 1: Partial Seizures

Countdown to Pathophysiology Final: 6 hours, 43 minutes


6 hours, 40 minutes


5 hours, 59 minutes

Borrowed or Stolen?

An ipod came into my life recently. It's not mine. I didn't covet it or beg for it, but I may not be able to help myself from doing so come time to give it back to its owner next week. He's stronger than me and knows where I sleep, so I expect he will try to get it back by force if no other methods work. I didn't know that by bringing it along to the computer labs last week I would be changing the very fabric of my alone time from that point forward. Why did I let myself get so attached to this slipperly little object that pipes the soundtrack of my life into my ears as I float along the crowded streets of New York? How will I ever surrender it to him?

And Day Dreaming

Yesterday I bought my first ever pair of skis. It has been nearly 4 years since I last set a ski on a mountain, but I am convinced that the sport will play an important role in my happiness. Already, the joy in owning a pair of gorgeous, although slightly abused, 2005 K2 T-Nine One Luv skis has added to the mounting expectation of winter break and the few days I will spend on Oregon's beautiful mountatins.



I believe part of my rediscovered interest in skiing has to do with living in a place where it snows everywhere, and not just on a surreal mountain top where you drive several hours out of a city to find another world. Of course, that's also nice. But I have begun to love the snow on the streets. When it's snowing, everything is completely calm and quiet. The ugly mess of cars and garbage cans is hidden by white. I thought I hated the winter. I was afraid of what would happen when New York started to get cold, but I think I actually love it. I just hope I can keep up this daydream until Spring.

Fantasizing

Once and awhile it occurs to me that the reason I try to map out so much of my future is because I intend to do my best to keep what I already have.

Taking My Gloves Off

This post is dedicated to roommate #1, who has indured similar pain over the last week.

I hate group projects. I hate that they make me hate people that I wouldn't normally notice, let alone want to punch in the head because they're so damn stupid and worthlessly lazy. Sure, I can be both of those things too, but I try not to inflict them on others. Especially when their grades are at stake. The College of Nursing at NYU requires that students earn an 80% or better to pass all nursing courses. Most of the time, this policy seems to affect how strong the curve is or how easy the tests are rather than how hard we have to work. But again, I must protest to others deciding what grade I'm going to earn by how lazy, and stupid, they want to be.

My group's project is on sleep apnea. Sleep apnea is when you can hear your grandpa snoring tortuously all the way across the house. The reason he sounds so tortured is because his throat is closing and he's not breathing for 10 seconds or more at a time. It's also the reason he dozes in the laziboy all day, because the lack of oxygen and the gasping for breath all night causes disturbed sleep and fatique. Well, our nursing instructor wanted a poster out of us. A research poster. Because I am so obsessed with Adobe Illustrator, and also because I am a bit controlling, I decided to take over the poster assembly and leave the research to my group. In retrospect, it was a mistake- partly because it would've taken a fraction of the time to look up a couple articles instead, but mostly because I discovered how pathetic and lazy and stupid most people really are. One of the group members, let's call him Bamadulah Bazamy, pulled the blank document trick. He sent a totally blank document with an apology for sending it late. Amazing. I never got the real document. I made the poster without his blank document.

My roommate #1 endured worse. She thought she was better off because she got help with the glueing. Glueing does suck. And I was jealous that she had a little glue gnome working for her. But then she realized that her pathetically stupid, and worthless, group member/glue gnome (we'll call her Trixy Finion) glued the poster together wrong.

So group projects. How about them.

Releasing Pressure

This Christmas I plan to delight friends and family with my novice adventures in canning. My aspirations are to make it appear as though a jar of tomato sauce that has sat in a pressure canner (that I have never used) for two hours is indeed a gift. I realized that the unexpectedness of the whole foray into canning might cause a bit of confusion and I have to admit I did worry that the result would be more frightening than delightful. At one point my roommate #1 caught me in a moment of concern as I held my stethescope up to the exterior of the canner, listening for sounds of...canning.



Before I went to bed I shut off the burner. I watched as the pressure gauge slowly ticked down toward zero. My jars of spicy tomato sauce had survived the turbulent first time adventure in canning. They now proudly wear the labels you see above.

The Conclusion:

Canning takes forever and causes anxiety that is disproportionate to the end product. So please, if you find a jar of Lyndsey's under the tree, understand that it is not a lump of coal but a labor of you know what.

Can a day progress well after waking up and finding that your hard drive has been corrupted?

I asked myself this in the shower today at 6:12 a.m. My computer was protesting the long hours and many files I have imposed upon it over the last few days. The first final of my 15-month career at NYU College of Nursing was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. this morning, and I suppose it was greedy of me to think I could get one more hour out of my not-so-trusty iBook before the exam. I held it on my lap from 6:00 to 6:09 a.m. while the start-up wheel turned and turned in vain. I would have been much more furious had my roommate #2 not been there distracting me, puffy eyed and glowing, with her story of her boyfriend's proposal and other events that happened over the weekend.

By 6:41, I had David McCartney on the phone walking me through my last hope of a resurrection...to no happy outcome. I sulked with my thermos of Stumptown all the way down 2nd Ave in the snow while my roommate #1 tried to re-focus my attention on our quickly approaching final.

It wasn't until 1:45 p.m. that an Apple "Genius", or should I say Jesus, saved my ass and maybe a bit of my pesimistic soul. I am eating popcorn now, drinking Stella, and listening to George Bush smirking about our hospitable country. It's back to work and I do feel relieved that I haven't lost a week's worth of information on sleep apnea and aphasia. But I don't know, has my day progressed well?

Pet Bilirubin

My roommate's future pet is called Bilirubin. Or, no. Bili Rubin. Maybe even Bili Reuben or Billi Reuben. It will probably be a dog, because only dogs seem to deserve 2 names. I tried to convince her that she should adopt my Dad's hawk as her future pet. She told me I've been reading too much Harry Potter.

My Dad's hawk died the next day. His theory was the "poor bastard" (literally) hadn't eaten in weeks and that the deer meat he had been feeding it gave it just enough strength to die. This was an interesting theory. One that as a nursing student I would like to explore further. Just enough strength to die. If I was a romance novelist, I would have made it the title of my debut novel.