Checking In

Just checking in to say–Sorry I’ve been scarce. It’s probably not over quite yet.

Weekend was wonderful. I enjoyed having a weekend off–the first since fall break, I think. I enjoyed spending time with the family–getting more exercise than I have all semester while doing Dance Praise and chilling at Martha-ma-buh’s.

By the grace of God, I’ve got my proposal done. Now I just have a project presentation, a manuscript, a talk on Omnivore’s Dilemma, and a couple of tests. Oh, and I have to catch up on 11 hours of work over the next four days. So, if you don’t see me for a while–or only hear from me briefly–that’s why.

My last day on the job is December 13 (Santa Lucia Day!)–and then maybe I’ll have a few more hours for you (if I’m not frantically trying to cram in some extra dietetics hours.)

All I can say is, that thing about knowledge being inversely correlated with perception of knowledge better be right–’cause otherwise I’m in big trouble. There sure seems to be an awful lot about nutrition that I don’t know yet.


Thankfullest Thursday

Thanksgiving falls on Thursday-home of my “Thankful Thursday” blog post-imagine that!

And this Thanksgiving I have much to be thankful for. But I think I’ll only share one thing.

I’m thankful for the new addition to my parent’s home.

I and my six siblings grew up (and were homeschooled) in an 1100 square foot home with three bedrooms, 1.5 baths, and an unfinished basement. When Anna and I were on the cusp of our teenage years, we partially finished the basement to include a couple more non-compliant bedrooms. Mom and Dad moved to the room that had previously been occupied by the two of us (the 10×12 “Master bedroom”), leaving their old room free as a “school room”.

Mom has been sketching up potential additions for at least 10 years now. But the time has never been right, or there have been delays of one sort or another. But this last year, my parent’s finally got what they’ve been wishing for for years.

Here’s what they got:

  • A guest bedroom
    The room they vacated now serves as a guest bedroom. Finally, after so many years, they can open their homes to family and friends who are visiting. They can offer their guest to room to missionaries on furlough.
  • A space to entertain
    For years, my parents made do with hosting “home groups” in the church fellowship hall and doing family get togethers at everyone’s house but theirs. No longer. They now have a space where they can invite the whole clan to join them (indoors).
  • A new couch
    In twenty-five years of marriage, my parents have never owned a new couch. They have lived on hand-me-downs from family and friends, biding their time until they could own some new furniture. Now they have four new couches–ones that they picked out. Mom could decorate the new house however she chose–instead of having to work around the gold or rust colored monstrosity someone gave them (that they were very thankful for, despite its unfortunate color, by the way).
  • Space of their own
    As a young child, I remember when my mom would lock herself into the bathroom to have a few almost quiet moments to herself. I remember being loaded into one of our parade of station wagons to “go for a drive” in the evening so Mom could get out of the house. I remember Mom leaving 10 year old Anna in charge for 15 minutes so she could go on a walk to have a few moments to think. Mom’s “personal space” was also the school room, and Mom and Dad’s bedroom doubled as Dad’s office. Now they both have offices of their own, and a master bedroom that they can really retreat to.
  • Allergy relief
    Most of my family suffers from seasonal and/or perennial allergies, making wall-to-wall carpeting a nightmare. Despite tearing out all the carpeting we could (with hardwood floors in a couple of upstairs bedrooms, linoleum in the kitchen and dining room, and cement in the basement), we still had little relief. The living room had only subflooring beneath the carpet–subflooring and mounds of accumulated dust. Now the guest bedroom is the only carpeted room in the house, and allergy sufferers can breathe a little clearer.

My parents never complained that they sacrificed personal space, the opportunity to entertain, the privelege of decorating according to their own taste. They were raising children–and they considered that a high and holy calling. They invested their time, their money, their home, and their lives into us kids. Mom didn’t have time to make quilts when we were growing up–she was too busy clothing us. She didn’t have time to disciple women–she was too busy teaching us. Dad didn’t have money to buy a fancy projection system–he was too busy paying for our living expenses. He didn’t have time to do landscaping–he was too busy with the vegetable garden and fruit trees, feeding us.

I’m so very thankful for my parents, for all they’ve done for us. And I’m so thankful that after all those years of sacrificing for us, they’ve gotten their fancy house.


Tiny Talk Tuesday: Wednesday Edition

Okay, so not only is it not a Tuesday, she’s also not exactly tiny. But Grace is still my baby sister, so I’m stretching the bounds a bit:

We were sitting around talking about turkey and plans for tomorrow, when Grace suddenly stopped us all to interject a comment.

She covered her mouth in shame: “But I forgot the word!”

We all tried to help her out, asking questions, trying to get her mind going in the right direction.

“It’s the chemical in turkey that makes you sleepy,” she finally said.

“Tryptophan,” I told her.

“That’s right! I kept think ‘fan slap’,” she said. “I knew it was doing something mean to the fan.”


I’m not sick, just reactive

I left work early on Friday and Saturday, skipped church and life group on Sunday, and skipped work and classes on Monday on the basis of some rather vague symptoms: headache, runny nose, sore throat, lethargy, and general malaise. Actually, what really had me worried was the way I was flushing hot and cold, feeling like I was breathing fire and my eyes were going to explode. The best thing we could come up with to explain my symptoms was flu.

Except that I definitely got my flu shot in the beginning of October. So if I had flu, it was a “non-compliant” strain. Which means the last thing I wanted to do was expose anyone to myself.

The difficulty with my little diagnosis was that my temperature never really got that high–high for me, but 99 at tops. What’s more, I only flushed hot and cold in the afternoon and evening. I didn’t have any problem with flushing in the morning. Friday it started around 2, Saturday around 4, Sunday at 8.

So I was sitting at the computer when the flushing started at 3 yesterday–and a lightbulb started flashing in my mind. Friday I took my meds around 6.
Saturday I took them around 8.
Sunday I took them at noon.
Monday I took them at 7.
“Just a minute,” I thought. “When did I start taking the different brand of that one med?”

I opened the bottle and counted out the remaining pills. 25. Add one for Monday, one for Sunday, one for Saturday, one for Friday, one for Thursday. 30. A full bottle.

So Thursday I switch brands for one of my medications–and starting on Friday, I start flushing 8 hours after taking my morning medications.

I’m not sick. I must be just reacting to one of the “inactive” ingredients in the new brand.

So I’ve called my pharmacist and she’s supposed to be receiving a faxed ingredient list for the new medication today. Once I get it, I can compare ingredients and maybe figure out what the problem ingredient is (which may enable me to avoid adding prescriptions that contain it.) Then, I’ve got some options.

  1. I can live with the flushing.–Not happening. If you’ve ever experienced flushing (similar to that experienced with high doses of niacin), you know that it’s not fun. Now imagine flushing that starts every afternoon and keeps going for at least FIVE hours (the longest I’ve made it before falling to sleep in exhaustion.) Yeah. Putting up with it is not an option.
  2. I can go to name brand meds.–At a cost of only $30 copay to my current $10. And that’s assuming the name brand doesn’t contain the “inactive” ingredient I’m reacting to.
  3. I can switch pharmacies.–I can call around to all the pharmacies in town to see who is supplied by Mylan (the maker of the version I know I don’t react to) and transfer my prescription there.

It’s a bummer that I’ll have to change pharmacies. I really like my pharmacists, and the ability to shop while my prescriptions are filled. I have my pharmacy on speed dial. But I’m going to have to say goodbye and find a new one.

But until I’ve got that all figured out, since I can BY NO MEANS discontinue this prescription, I’ll be red every afternoon. So if you see me looking hot and bothered, don’t worry, I’m not sick (and I’m not a sicko)–just a little reactive.


Thankful Thursday

It’s been a while since I’ve written one of these–not because I haven’t had opportunity to be thankful, but because my life has been too full to share it.

But for today, I’m thankful:

  • that seminar is done
    I received my criticism today–and it didn’t turn out that badly. My peers criticized me very lightly, my superiors more harshly but still kindly. Dr. Lee said that perhaps she held me to an even higher standard than normal because she sees that I am capable of critical thought and advanced thinking. I am honoured to be considered thus. I will receive a B in seminar–not so well as I would have liked, but I am pleased with it nonetheless. I will do even better next time.
  • that I know what statistical analysis will be done
    We have compiled the information we need and will have our final run of data by Tuesday. I would have liked to have done more analysis, but I am glad to know what we will be able to complete and what we will not be able to complete this semester. I have a sense of closure in regards to the data.
  • that the LDDA meeting tonight was a success
    The meal was wonderful, the company good. I met the dietitian who had worked with my sister at the Ambassador, and caught up with one of the University dietitians I had known long ago as an undergrad.
  • that my eyes can see, my ears can hear, and my mouth can speak
    The eyes that see now as in a glass dimly long for the day of the appearing of the Light. The ears that hear the echoes of a great tumult long for the day when the Victory shout shall be sounded. The mouth that now cries for the end of travail anticipates the day when it shall shout with joy. My unglorified body groans in its fallenness, awaiting in eager expectation the day when it too shall be redeemed. As long as my senses only touch this world, they remain illusory–but when they taste and long for heaven, they are awakened to new accuity. “The Spirit and the bride say ‘Come'”–and I cry, as a bride longing for her wedding night, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus!”

Angry and Elusive

I looked up from the table I’d been wiping to see that four male coworkers, and the male half of the one remaining couple left in the dining room, were staring at the tv screen. When I glanced towards the screen, what I saw had me race-walking to a remote to turn off the tvs.

I don’t know what makes tv producers think they can show naked women on television at 7:30 in the evening (or at any time for that matter), but whatever it is, they’re just plain wrong. I don’t care if they’re making a “mock-u-mentary” on Playboy bunnies–showing naked women is still not appropriate. I object on so many different levels. 1) Nudity (especially of the type I saw) should be classified as obscenity. It is inappropriate and vulgar. 2) The type of nudity that I saw (and that my male coworkers were glued to) objectifies females, reducing them to sex objects. This objectification is bad for both men and women–who find it increasingly difficult to have healthy views of their and others’ bodies, healthy attitudes towards sex, and healthy sexual relationships, partly due to this objectification. 3)
I saw this nudity on tv during “prime time”. Sure it may be cable, but don’t be so naive as to think that children don’t have access to cable tv at 7:30 in the evening.

No one–not adults, not children, not males, not females–should ever have to see such a thing on television.

I was still steaming about the nude playmate I’d just seen when a coworker asked me “How old are you, Rebekah?” Now realize, I’m not a very secretive person. My life is pretty much an open book. But today, and with this guy, I just really didn’t want to say. So I answered with an elusive “I’m in my mid-twenties.” “That’s about what I would have guessed,” he returned. “I’m not exactly a spring chicken myself.”

Yep, I’m sure you’re not. Nice try buddy, but that’s a strike out. I prefer mature men–and those who look away rather than look twice when a naked woman appears on a tv screen.


This meal brought to you by the letter P

I felt like cooking this evening–or more specifically like eating a hot, real meal this evening. And since my roommate (who doesn’t eat pork) is out of town, I made myself some pork.

I added a twice-baked potato that has been sitting in the freezer for a while–and some peas, which I absolutely love. Then the spirit struck me and I decided to whip up some instant pistachio pudding to go with it all.

It wasn’t until I’d finished reheating the potato and peas, whipping the pistachio pudding, and pan-frying the pork that I realized I was eating all p‘s. Pork. Potato. Peas. Pistachio Pudding.

Introducing, dinner. Brought to you by the letter P.

Plate of pork, potato, peas, and pistachio pudding

A quick note on pork: When I was young, I thought I didn’t like pork. After all, I was used to dry pork chops that required half a cup of applesauce per bite to make them palatable. (Not a bash on my mom’s cooking–she really is an excellent cook. It’s just the pork chops.) But then Mom started buying these picnic roasts–and I loved them. They were moist, tender, flavorful. They were great. Okay, so it wasn’t all pork that I disliked. Just chops. Then I discovered the quick read food thermometer. This is honestly the best kitchen tool since the electric carving knife (bread slicer, that is). I cook the meat to an internal temp of 155 F–and it’s moist and tender and has great flavor. Amazing, isn’t it? If you’ve never owned a kitchen thermometer, go get one. It’s pretty much the best thing you can do. Now you don’t have to burn your meat to a crisp to make sure that it’s done. Just check the internal temp real quick and pull it off the heat while it’s still good.

And just for the record, the internal temps for foods are as follows:

165 F Poultry, stuffing, stuffed dishes (with meat, seafood, poultry, or pasta), reheated foods
155 F Ground meat (except poultry), injected hams or roasts, ground seafood
145 F Seafood, Steaks/chops (of beef, pork, veal, or lamb), roasts (of beef, pork, veal or lamb)

Roasts should remain at 145 for 4 minutes. All other items should remain at the appropriate temp for 15 seconds.


Not. quite. yet.

After a quick look at my finances this afternoon, I have decided that I will not be buying a house. Yet.

I’ll be quitting my job in about a month, preparing for my clinical rotations (during which I’ll be paying for the privilege of working full time.) My budget assessment revealed only about $500 of leeway for January through September 2009. Which isn’t a lot. So, I probably shouldn’t try adding anything more to it right off.

Instead I’ll be transferring all my loose change over to a slightly less accessible account for now–and playing frugal to eke out a bit more throughout my internship. Things always come up, you know–babysitting, professional patient gigs, part-time jobs, withheld income taxes returned, organ donation (JK on that last one). And I might have estimated a bit high on some of my expenses.

So with a bit of patience, a bit of prayer, and some serious penny-pinching, I should be ready to start looking next fall.

Ten years ago I said I wanted to own a house by age 25. I’ve let that dream/goal/whatever fall by the wayside in my pursuit of an advanced degree. Now, as the time draws near and I rapidly approach my mid-twenties, I think I might be getting close–it’s just not. quite. yet.


Working Relationships

There’s nothing like working with someone closely to impose a illusion of intimacy into your relationship.

I know many, and know of many more, who spend so much time at work, and so much time with coworkers after work, that life and work become inextricably twined. I have never been one of those people. I am not one to “hang out” with my coworkers, or to “hang out” at work when I’m not on the clock. Work life is work life, and personal life is personal life.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t find myself in all sorts of intriguing working relationships.

Take T.S. We’re strikingly similar–and completely different. Both in our early twenties and working full-time at HSS. Both our father’s are “higher-ups” in the Housing chain of command. Except I’m a college graduate and he still hasn’t figured out what he’s majoring in. I’m assistant to the assistant managers–and he’s been recently demoted back to the dishroom. “I saw your dad today,” he tells me. “Did you see mine?”

J.H. is serious, responsible, and occasionally silly. “Hi, Rebekah” he says, for the fifteenth time today. We share a burrito and comment back and forth over the counter on what might be done to improve it. “A little more cilantro, a bit of lime, maybe some real chiles.” “But it’s not bad, really.” “It has potential. It just needs tweaking.”

J.B., a couple of months my junior, has taken to calling me “Young lady”–when he’s not calling me “Captain.” As in, “Thank you, young lady.” “You’ve made a mess, young lady.” “Yes, Captain.” Our first semester working together, we mock-fought continually, often calling upon our customers to resolve disputes. “Don’t you think this turkey looks anemic? –Yeah, that’s what I thought too!” Now he’s student manager every other weekend, letting me relax and catch up on paperwork. We confer anxiously over our lack of change, discuss theology and whether his girlfriend is justified in intending to break up with him, and waltz in the serving area after hours.

I knew A.S. for about a week before I asked him to marry me. Thankfully, he said no. Actually, I made his saying no a pre-requisite to asking him to marry me. Which he claims broke his heart. He’s been “wooing” me ever since, until I finally gave in to the offer of a greasy spatula. Our “relationship” is forever on the rocks since he does silly things like calling me (a TOTALLY liberated woman) “his woman” and since his girlfriend is definitely not fond of me. “Why don’t you ask REBEKAH? After all, you are engaged.” *Inject venom here.*

T.N. feels like a little brother, and I have to catch myself before scolding him like a big sister. “What are you doing wearing short pants like that on a day like this? You’re going to catch your death of cold.” He shares the trials of the PSAT, and I commiserate with my own stories from last year’s GRE. “So have you thought about what colleges you’re going to apply to?”

The student custodians came up from the facilities offices this morning to get something to drink. First a group of boys, then a group of girls. Jeff commented on the strangeness of it. “I mean, at OUR age?” I couldn’t help but agree. But then again, maybe my working relationships are a bit strange too.