Had a great visit with Erica and Tanner. They are gone. Just listening to some podcasts: basically radio shows you listen to over your computer. NPR has been doing this series called "Story Corp Podcasts." You can go to one of their traveling audio booths and have a conversation with a loved one which is recorded. They feature one story a week on NPR. (To listen to the stories click this paragraph.)
Brent does not like it when I listen to these stories because they make me cry. The stories are generally one to five minutes long, and feature inter-generational pairs. The story that made me cry today was about a woman talking to her husband for the last 30 minutes before he died on 9.11.2001. She died in the most recent plane crash in New York.
I was on the phone that morning as well. I had called my friend Nancy in NYC to make sure that Andre, her husband, was ok. She said he was fine and then we proceeded to have a normal conversation. She could see the towers on fire from her office. I asked about the dogs. It seemed so surreal. (Click this paragraph or the last to hear Beverly Eckhert tell her story.)
We both remember the conversations we had that morning.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
4.02.2009
1.07.2009
my personal trainer fired me
At 50 bucks an hour he was not cheap. We started working out together in the fall of 2007. I found him on the internet, where all personal trainers live.
He was a little guy, maybe an inch taller than me and he most likely weighed half as much as me. He was gay and he did not share personal information with me. Perhaps he was jaded by so many past clients; people’s lives in whom he had become emotionally invested, only to have those people stop training with him. I can’t say as I blame him.
I would get to the local gym above a local grocery store at 8 am. Everyone knew everyone there just like Cheers; it was a comfortable place to workout. I would hop on the treadmill, starting out slowly. Immediately he would put the thing on an incline not dissimilar to that of Mt. Everest, and have me trying to run up the hill. I persisted, decreasing the incline anytime he walked away. I was not allowed to hold on either, at that height. After 12 minutes of this we would step over to the weights.
I could tell he was alternately impressed at my strength and disgusted at my sloth.
During one session I actually thought I was going to throw up right there in the gym. I rushed to the bathroom and left. It felt horrible.
Now, I don’t like to work out. I don’t run for the fun of it, I don’t push myself to fatigue. And I find people who do to be a bit strange.
Then the nutrition lessons began. Two veggies, one protein for dinner, maybe throw in a starch. A chicken breast with nothing on it the size of my fist for dinner. He even gave me a hand out.
For goodness sake people, I have gone to school for 20 years of my life, I read like a fiend, I know what to eat. Thanks. No really.
He took me down to the grocery where he interrogated me about what I was eating. He held the ice cream in my face and yelled to me that it was killing me.
That is where he lost me. Really, no more ice cream ever? Really? Who was he kidding? Not me.
I started my new job and then could no longer come at 8 am. I emailed him to reschedule. He told me he was getting Washington into shape one person at a time. Since he never emailed back, I guess he was doing it one person less at a time.
A few months ago I almost literally ran into him on the street. He ignored me. It took me a second to recognize him, and then he was gone.
I made my new trainer promise not to fire me.
He was a little guy, maybe an inch taller than me and he most likely weighed half as much as me. He was gay and he did not share personal information with me. Perhaps he was jaded by so many past clients; people’s lives in whom he had become emotionally invested, only to have those people stop training with him. I can’t say as I blame him.
I would get to the local gym above a local grocery store at 8 am. Everyone knew everyone there just like Cheers; it was a comfortable place to workout. I would hop on the treadmill, starting out slowly. Immediately he would put the thing on an incline not dissimilar to that of Mt. Everest, and have me trying to run up the hill. I persisted, decreasing the incline anytime he walked away. I was not allowed to hold on either, at that height. After 12 minutes of this we would step over to the weights.
I could tell he was alternately impressed at my strength and disgusted at my sloth.
During one session I actually thought I was going to throw up right there in the gym. I rushed to the bathroom and left. It felt horrible.
Now, I don’t like to work out. I don’t run for the fun of it, I don’t push myself to fatigue. And I find people who do to be a bit strange.
Then the nutrition lessons began. Two veggies, one protein for dinner, maybe throw in a starch. A chicken breast with nothing on it the size of my fist for dinner. He even gave me a hand out.
For goodness sake people, I have gone to school for 20 years of my life, I read like a fiend, I know what to eat. Thanks. No really.
He took me down to the grocery where he interrogated me about what I was eating. He held the ice cream in my face and yelled to me that it was killing me.
That is where he lost me. Really, no more ice cream ever? Really? Who was he kidding? Not me.
I started my new job and then could no longer come at 8 am. I emailed him to reschedule. He told me he was getting Washington into shape one person at a time. Since he never emailed back, I guess he was doing it one person less at a time.
A few months ago I almost literally ran into him on the street. He ignored me. It took me a second to recognize him, and then he was gone.
I made my new trainer promise not to fire me.
6.03.2008
pet worms
This is another piece I wrote for class...it is funnier now...
I woke up around midnight with the thought that my bum was itching and I had no earthly idea why such a thing would be happening because I was up until then unacquainted with my bum.
Now how could that be asks the reader, don’t we all go to the bathroom everyday? And isn’t she part of everybody?
And to the reader I say yes to both questions, with the caveat that my bum and I had a don’t ask, don’t bother me relationship which until now had served us well. But unfortunately, my bum had taken this midnight moment to break our truce.
It was not long after noticing my bum that I realized that our relationship had escalated quickly. My bum needed a lot more of my attention at that moment than I really felt ready to give to it. But to anyone who has ever had an itchy mosquito bite much less an itchy bum you will realize the immediacy of my need to scratch vigorously and find some alternative relief.
We moved into the kitchen, where I scooped a very large glob of white yogurt onto a wash cloth, which I then proceeded, post haste, to sit down on. With the yogurt in place, the itching assuaged for the moment I turned to that great equalizer, the internet, for more information about what could be causing this inconvenience at two in the morning. There, I learned with the help of the masses that three possibilities existed: yeast infection, hemorrhoids, or pin worms.
A yeast infection is a rather common occurrence for women and causes itching in the general “privates area.” And while I had experienced my share of these infections, I tried to convince myself that I did indeed have a yeast infection, mainly because the other two options were unthinkable: hemorrhoids was something only people in commercials ever got and worms coming out of my bum was the only thing I could think of that would be worse than actually having an itchy bum.
I proceeded to read more about the potential worms. Pinworms are often traded among small children who go to kindergarten and the worms live out their lives in the darkest and possibly most un-inviting (unless you are into that kind of thing) part of a human body: your anus. At night the worms leave their cozy abode to come out and lay eggs. This is typically when a person begins to notice that the worms have begun to co-habitate with you in your private areas. Typically children scratch themselves because of the itching caused by the worms and thereby the pinworm eggs find their way under the fingernails of these children. Unless the kids are treated, this cycle continues and often adults working with children also get them.
The fact that my 18-year-old roommate worked at a kindergarten came to mind slowly, as I was falling asleep.
The next morning I wasted no time in calling the English-speaking doctor. Her receptionist only spoke German. Below is my side of the conversation I had with her about my little problems:
“Hi, my name is Nicole Harkin. I am experiencing a minor discomfort in my private area and would like to see the doctor as soon as possible.”
“Um no, three weeks from now will not do. I would prefer to see the doctor about my private privates problem today. Would that be possible?”
“Perhaps I can come in and just wait in the waiting room?”
“I would prefer to talk to the doctor about it.”
Upon arriving at the doctors office and waiting the requisite three hours to see the doctor, I informed her that I had pinworms. As any self-respecting German doctor would do, though, she sent me home not with a prescription, but with a roll of scotch tape. To make sure I actually had pinworms, I was to tape this to my private areas to see if I caught any worms that night while attempting to sleep.
I was less than pleased with this outcome, needless to say. Luckily, about an hour later there was a worm sighting. I will not bore you with the details, but suffice to say I called the doctor’s office as soon as possible and picked up the prescription equally quickly.
The rest of the day was spent washing everything I owned in very hot water, as directed by the internet. I scrubbed the kitchen, and cut my fingernails, very short.
Even now, writing this story, I sometimes notice my bum again, and th en start to get worried that I might be having a re-occurrence. The symptoms are rather like psychosomatic pinworm symptoms.
Luckily, with the prescription the pinworms moved out quickly and my only advice to the reader is to remember to wash your hands very thoroughly, especially if you spend anytime near children or near people with children.
I woke up around midnight with the thought that my bum was itching and I had no earthly idea why such a thing would be happening because I was up until then unacquainted with my bum.
Now how could that be asks the reader, don’t we all go to the bathroom everyday? And isn’t she part of everybody?
And to the reader I say yes to both questions, with the caveat that my bum and I had a don’t ask, don’t bother me relationship which until now had served us well. But unfortunately, my bum had taken this midnight moment to break our truce.
It was not long after noticing my bum that I realized that our relationship had escalated quickly. My bum needed a lot more of my attention at that moment than I really felt ready to give to it. But to anyone who has ever had an itchy mosquito bite much less an itchy bum you will realize the immediacy of my need to scratch vigorously and find some alternative relief.
We moved into the kitchen, where I scooped a very large glob of white yogurt onto a wash cloth, which I then proceeded, post haste, to sit down on. With the yogurt in place, the itching assuaged for the moment I turned to that great equalizer, the internet, for more information about what could be causing this inconvenience at two in the morning. There, I learned with the help of the masses that three possibilities existed: yeast infection, hemorrhoids, or pin worms.
A yeast infection is a rather common occurrence for women and causes itching in the general “privates area.” And while I had experienced my share of these infections, I tried to convince myself that I did indeed have a yeast infection, mainly because the other two options were unthinkable: hemorrhoids was something only people in commercials ever got and worms coming out of my bum was the only thing I could think of that would be worse than actually having an itchy bum.
I proceeded to read more about the potential worms. Pinworms are often traded among small children who go to kindergarten and the worms live out their lives in the darkest and possibly most un-inviting (unless you are into that kind of thing) part of a human body: your anus. At night the worms leave their cozy abode to come out and lay eggs. This is typically when a person begins to notice that the worms have begun to co-habitate with you in your private areas. Typically children scratch themselves because of the itching caused by the worms and thereby the pinworm eggs find their way under the fingernails of these children. Unless the kids are treated, this cycle continues and often adults working with children also get them.
The fact that my 18-year-old roommate worked at a kindergarten came to mind slowly, as I was falling asleep.
The next morning I wasted no time in calling the English-speaking doctor. Her receptionist only spoke German. Below is my side of the conversation I had with her about my little problems:
“Hi, my name is Nicole Harkin. I am experiencing a minor discomfort in my private area and would like to see the doctor as soon as possible.”
“Um no, three weeks from now will not do. I would prefer to see the doctor about my private privates problem today. Would that be possible?”
“Perhaps I can come in and just wait in the waiting room?”
“I would prefer to talk to the doctor about it.”
Upon arriving at the doctors office and waiting the requisite three hours to see the doctor, I informed her that I had pinworms. As any self-respecting German doctor would do, though, she sent me home not with a prescription, but with a roll of scotch tape. To make sure I actually had pinworms, I was to tape this to my private areas to see if I caught any worms that night while attempting to sleep.
I was less than pleased with this outcome, needless to say. Luckily, about an hour later there was a worm sighting. I will not bore you with the details, but suffice to say I called the doctor’s office as soon as possible and picked up the prescription equally quickly.
The rest of the day was spent washing everything I owned in very hot water, as directed by the internet. I scrubbed the kitchen, and cut my fingernails, very short.
Even now, writing this story, I sometimes notice my bum again, and th en start to get worried that I might be having a re-occurrence. The symptoms are rather like psychosomatic pinworm symptoms.
Luckily, with the prescription the pinworms moved out quickly and my only advice to the reader is to remember to wash your hands very thoroughly, especially if you spend anytime near children or near people with children.
10.20.2007
Leaving Berlin
In the weeks leading up to my departure from Berlin all of my friends commented that they did not think that everything in my room was going to fit into my bags. I earnestly disagreed, to no avail. Packing one bag after every such discussion, I just did not believe that they could not believe that all of the stuff would fit. Eventually, of course, it all did.
Because of a knee surgery, I was using crutches. My American boyfriend, Brent, came to my rescue offering to help me return to the US in exchange for 5 weeks in Berlin. I told him to pack one bag, but bring two.
The morning of the flight, my friends Claudia and Matthias arrived in their VW. Brent and I had 8 bags between us and I could not help carry any of them down the three flights of stairs. I knew the bags exceeded every weight limit and felt guilty directing traffic.
At the airport, the airline employee thought all four of us were traveling because of all of the luggage. (The math works out this way: two travelers get two items of checked luggage each, plus one carry-on and one “personal item.” This, surprisingly, comes to a maximum of eight bags for two people.) The line to check in for the flight stretched almost to the entrance door of the airport. As we shuffled forward, an airline employee noticed me with the crutches and bags and motioned to us. She offered to send us through the extensive security check at the front of line, so that we could get through the line faster.
So, the baggage handlers hoist my 80 lb bag onto the table. The samsonite hard-sided luggage had to be sat upon the night before to get it to close. And now, under the pressure of the watching security guards it would not open. Here I am, crutches crashing to the ground, me standing on one leg, while pounding and simultaneously praying to the luggage gods to open the damn bag.
To my right Brent is opening his bags. The night before we had joked that if he put the condoms on top, then we would be checked by security. So there he is showing what seemed to be the whole world our contraception method of choice. The Germans cared not one bit.
Finally, I pound on my bag one last time, and flying out of the bag comes a glass of Slovenian facial mud I was bringing home for my sister. Glass and mud fly everywhere. I am embarrassed. They get it cleaned up and decide that they needn’t look through all of our bags.
Naturally, I have to re-sit on the bag to get it to close again.
We then step up to the German who is going to weigh our four pieces of checked baggage. Earlier in the year, the airline had lowered the weight limit for checked bags, and ours are well over the old limit, to say nothing of the new one. He says to me in English, “this is going to cost a lot.” I reply in German, “no it is not, because I purchased my ticket before the rules changed.” He sizes me up, and then says “50 euros.” Done. He then turns to Brent’s bags, one of which is filled with my belongings. These bags are equally heavy and Brent bought his ticket well after the weight limit was lowered. The German shakes his head and just lets it go.
Arriving in Newark, Brent and I parted ways. His ticket was to DC, but I was staying a night in Newark. I therefore had to figure out how to carry my four bags alone and with the crutches. Fortunately, asking a stranger to lug an 80 lb bag is not above me so this is what I did.
I stayed over night with friends in Newark. Finding the Amtrak station in the Newark Airport turned out to be an adventure itself. I had taken the train to the station a year previous so I knew it existed. We drove in circles, asked people, finally parked. Turns out you cannot drive up to it. You have to take the airport’s people mover. My friend Bob schlepped my crap onto the people mover, but I was on my own getting it off of it, and onto my eventual train.
This was a moment when I cursed my stuff and my friends for daring me to bring it all back to the States.
Mission accomplished. I got to DC, got the stuff off of the train, and there awaiting me was Brent. He had asked at the train station if he could meet me on the platform and had been turned down. Yet while he was waiting in front of the very large doors guarding the entrance to the platform (that he assumed opened only outward) he noticed an Amtrak employee walk right through them. She had no keys, no electronic pass-card, and no alarm went off. Telling himself, “this is exactly the sort of thing Nicole would do for me,” he barged through the doors towards the platform. His realization that the escalators from the platforms below ran only in one direction (up), did not deter him and before any passengers got to the escalator he ran down it backwards so he could meet me on the platform. I had already charmed (or conned) an Amtrak employee to take the bags off the train and loading them on a motorized cart.
The moral of the story: a good man is hard to find, but you can surely test his dedication with 320 lbs of luggage.
Because of a knee surgery, I was using crutches. My American boyfriend, Brent, came to my rescue offering to help me return to the US in exchange for 5 weeks in Berlin. I told him to pack one bag, but bring two.
The morning of the flight, my friends Claudia and Matthias arrived in their VW. Brent and I had 8 bags between us and I could not help carry any of them down the three flights of stairs. I knew the bags exceeded every weight limit and felt guilty directing traffic.
At the airport, the airline employee thought all four of us were traveling because of all of the luggage. (The math works out this way: two travelers get two items of checked luggage each, plus one carry-on and one “personal item.” This, surprisingly, comes to a maximum of eight bags for two people.) The line to check in for the flight stretched almost to the entrance door of the airport. As we shuffled forward, an airline employee noticed me with the crutches and bags and motioned to us. She offered to send us through the extensive security check at the front of line, so that we could get through the line faster.
So, the baggage handlers hoist my 80 lb bag onto the table. The samsonite hard-sided luggage had to be sat upon the night before to get it to close. And now, under the pressure of the watching security guards it would not open. Here I am, crutches crashing to the ground, me standing on one leg, while pounding and simultaneously praying to the luggage gods to open the damn bag.
To my right Brent is opening his bags. The night before we had joked that if he put the condoms on top, then we would be checked by security. So there he is showing what seemed to be the whole world our contraception method of choice. The Germans cared not one bit.
Finally, I pound on my bag one last time, and flying out of the bag comes a glass of Slovenian facial mud I was bringing home for my sister. Glass and mud fly everywhere. I am embarrassed. They get it cleaned up and decide that they needn’t look through all of our bags.
Naturally, I have to re-sit on the bag to get it to close again.
We then step up to the German who is going to weigh our four pieces of checked baggage. Earlier in the year, the airline had lowered the weight limit for checked bags, and ours are well over the old limit, to say nothing of the new one. He says to me in English, “this is going to cost a lot.” I reply in German, “no it is not, because I purchased my ticket before the rules changed.” He sizes me up, and then says “50 euros.” Done. He then turns to Brent’s bags, one of which is filled with my belongings. These bags are equally heavy and Brent bought his ticket well after the weight limit was lowered. The German shakes his head and just lets it go.
Arriving in Newark, Brent and I parted ways. His ticket was to DC, but I was staying a night in Newark. I therefore had to figure out how to carry my four bags alone and with the crutches. Fortunately, asking a stranger to lug an 80 lb bag is not above me so this is what I did.
I stayed over night with friends in Newark. Finding the Amtrak station in the Newark Airport turned out to be an adventure itself. I had taken the train to the station a year previous so I knew it existed. We drove in circles, asked people, finally parked. Turns out you cannot drive up to it. You have to take the airport’s people mover. My friend Bob schlepped my crap onto the people mover, but I was on my own getting it off of it, and onto my eventual train.
This was a moment when I cursed my stuff and my friends for daring me to bring it all back to the States.
Mission accomplished. I got to DC, got the stuff off of the train, and there awaiting me was Brent. He had asked at the train station if he could meet me on the platform and had been turned down. Yet while he was waiting in front of the very large doors guarding the entrance to the platform (that he assumed opened only outward) he noticed an Amtrak employee walk right through them. She had no keys, no electronic pass-card, and no alarm went off. Telling himself, “this is exactly the sort of thing Nicole would do for me,” he barged through the doors towards the platform. His realization that the escalators from the platforms below ran only in one direction (up), did not deter him and before any passengers got to the escalator he ran down it backwards so he could meet me on the platform. I had already charmed (or conned) an Amtrak employee to take the bags off the train and loading them on a motorized cart.
The moral of the story: a good man is hard to find, but you can surely test his dedication with 320 lbs of luggage.
8.02.2007
Dirty Underwear and Parents
The Second to Last Meeting
A high school classroom filled with anxious teenagers and anxious parents listening to a teacher go on and on about a trip to Germany over the upcoming Christmas holiday. It is not the most interesting meeting, but to me it seems important.
Then my Dad gets up and walks out. I thought it strange when he brought the book to the meeting, but then this behavior.
I get up to find him after having waited 5 minutes to make sure he had not just gone to the bathroom. The meetings were mandatory after all.
I find him on the floor leaning against the lockers reading his book.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“Reading my book. What does it look like I am doing?”
“Why?”
“The meeting was boring.”
He had a point. But the meetings were mandatory and it was mandatory that my Dad behave because the guy I took German for, my high school crush, is in the meeting with his dad.
“Let me know when the meeting is over.”
Thanks Dad. Will do. And no more meetings for you.
The Final Meeting
Thinking that things could not go any worse at this meeting, I am relaxed.
The teacher asks if there are any final travel tips anyone wants to share before the trip. Linda, aka Mom, raises her hand. Yes, this is my chance to redeem myself. My Mom was a flight attendant for 15 years, my Dad is a pilot. We are part of the travel industry. This will be good.
Let me say now, that my Mom would oftentimes tell people that I was adopted.
“Mom, tell them the truth, I am not adopted.”
With a hand in front of her mouth, “She is a little sensitive about it.”
And with her at 5’11” with red nails and platinum blond hair - we did not look alike.
So, Linda raises her hand. I think, “This is good. She will redeem me from the fiasco Dad created.”
“Linda, what is your tip?”
“Well, when our family goes on vacation,”
Let me interrupt her now and also say at this point, that since 3rd grade I packed my own bags.
“Mom, you did not pack my bags the right way.”
“Well then you can pack the bags yourself from now on.”
Now on being the rest of my life. The woman was nothing, if not consequential.
Back to the travel tip:
“we take all of our old, ratty, stained underwear, and wear them one last time. Then we throw them away at the hotel so we have more room to bring back souvenirs.”
Yep, this is what she says to all of my friends and their parents. I try to crawl under my desk and think to myself “maybe I am adopted. How could she do this to me?” Oh, the laughs.
Years later, when I told this story as my most embarrassing story, she felt horrible. She still thought it a good tip. I pointed out that you cannot really save that much room with underwear, our asses were just not that large.
A high school classroom filled with anxious teenagers and anxious parents listening to a teacher go on and on about a trip to Germany over the upcoming Christmas holiday. It is not the most interesting meeting, but to me it seems important.
Then my Dad gets up and walks out. I thought it strange when he brought the book to the meeting, but then this behavior.
I get up to find him after having waited 5 minutes to make sure he had not just gone to the bathroom. The meetings were mandatory after all.
I find him on the floor leaning against the lockers reading his book.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“Reading my book. What does it look like I am doing?”
“Why?”
“The meeting was boring.”
He had a point. But the meetings were mandatory and it was mandatory that my Dad behave because the guy I took German for, my high school crush, is in the meeting with his dad.
“Let me know when the meeting is over.”
Thanks Dad. Will do. And no more meetings for you.
The Final Meeting
Thinking that things could not go any worse at this meeting, I am relaxed.
The teacher asks if there are any final travel tips anyone wants to share before the trip. Linda, aka Mom, raises her hand. Yes, this is my chance to redeem myself. My Mom was a flight attendant for 15 years, my Dad is a pilot. We are part of the travel industry. This will be good.
Let me say now, that my Mom would oftentimes tell people that I was adopted.
“Mom, tell them the truth, I am not adopted.”
With a hand in front of her mouth, “She is a little sensitive about it.”
And with her at 5’11” with red nails and platinum blond hair - we did not look alike.
So, Linda raises her hand. I think, “This is good. She will redeem me from the fiasco Dad created.”
“Linda, what is your tip?”
“Well, when our family goes on vacation,”
Let me interrupt her now and also say at this point, that since 3rd grade I packed my own bags.
“Mom, you did not pack my bags the right way.”
“Well then you can pack the bags yourself from now on.”
Now on being the rest of my life. The woman was nothing, if not consequential.
Back to the travel tip:
“we take all of our old, ratty, stained underwear, and wear them one last time. Then we throw them away at the hotel so we have more room to bring back souvenirs.”
Yep, this is what she says to all of my friends and their parents. I try to crawl under my desk and think to myself “maybe I am adopted. How could she do this to me?” Oh, the laughs.
Years later, when I told this story as my most embarrassing story, she felt horrible. She still thought it a good tip. I pointed out that you cannot really save that much room with underwear, our asses were just not that large.
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