Lifestyle changes

I had my third and final “University” meeting in Pasadena today — the Kize’s attempt to indoctrinate us inculcate the corporate values in its new employees. As I’ve mentioned previously, I’m thoroughly indoctrinated inculcated. But I think they need some work getting their message straight. All well and good to lecture us for 30 minutes on the merits of exercise, how important it is to “live the Thrive message” and set a good example for our patients . . . but then they serve us cookies and quiche cups and coconut shrimp and egg rolls?

Don’t get me wrong — the food rawked. I ate my fill. And now I’m way too bloated to participate in the Kize’s triathlon.

D.

When the rush is over

I once bought a decoupage placard that read,

When the rush is over, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
I’ve earned it, and no one is going to keep me from it.

Kinda funny considering I was 9 or 10 when I bought it. Well, I no longer see the appeal of a nervous breakdown, unless it’s the temptation of relinquishing all adult responsibilities. Isn’t it odd, though, that no one says “Aunt Jane had a nervous breakdown” nowadays? It’s as if a disease vanished overnight.

I’m tired — not only from the long commute, but also from the strain of yapping at headhunters on the phone and constantly thinking about priorities (good weather? good educational opportunities for Jake? medical care for Karen? money?) and wondering “Am I too old?” (and wondering, “Shall I eat a peach?”) and swinging from one day thinking I’ll have to choose between several attractive offers to the next day thinking no one will make an offer. It’s enough to make anyone sigh. Repeatedly.

But no, I don’t want that nervous breakdown anymore.

But a vacation sure would be nice.

D.

No padding

I’m relatively thin right now — a byproduct of the Santa Rosa stress factory, that recent stomach bug, and being in a car three hours a day (less time to be stuffing my face). So my butt lacks padding. This became painfully obvious by the fourth hour in the airport. Yes, my plane got delayed. I wouldn’t mind those “arrive two hours early” rules quite as much if they would get me in the air on time. But no, at SFO (San Francisco International), departure times are suggestions.

Today, for example, I arrived two hours early, and was pleased to note that my flight to Burbank was on time. The boards continued to list it as “on time” fully five minutes after the departure time had passed. No plane, no word as to what had happened. The nervous nellies among us milled about. The seasoned travelers continued farting around on their laptops, oblivious to the delay. Finally, the boards were corrected to read a departure time of 5:00 (original departure time, 3:15 PM), but that was still just a suggestion. I don’t think we made it into the air until 6 PM.

SFO has one runway. ONE. So there’s always a hell of a line-up to the plate. When we finally made it in line, we had 11 planes ahead of us, and it must have taken 20 to 25 minutes to get those planes into the air. How does an airport get “international” status with only one runway? That’s insane.

I could have flown out of the Santa Rosa airport, but I would have had to fly into LAX, which is a nightmare all unto itself. Maybe next time, if there is a next time, I’ll try that instead. The way I did it was the only way I could swing a one-day turnaround (I’m coming home tomorrow evening), thus conserving precious paid time off days.

Anyway, I made it. I’m here in Burbank, spitting distance from Bob Hope’s Airport, enjoying my exceptionally spacious hotel room at the Airport Marriott. I had dinner tonight with one of my pals from residency, and tomorrow I’ll have a no doubt low stress interview with folks who are, by several different accounts, cool people. That’s not the worrisome part. The worrisome part is flying back to SFO.

D.

wiped

I finished early today, mostly because this was my last day of IT training and the instructor covered the afternoon’s material in record time. I figured I would get home correspondingly early, but the traffic was not cooperative. Highway 101 in particular was a bitch, a parking lot from Petaluma to Rohnert Park. You wouldn’t think sitting on your ass would be tiring, but there’s something about traffic that really takes it out of me. When will the Japanese invent cars that do all the driving for you? At least then I could put the time to good use.

I’ve decided I want too much out of life. While I’m thankful I have a great job at a time when having ANY job is a blessing, I want more time for my family, too. The little pleasures . . . like making a good dinner for them. Tonight, since I still managed to get home 20 minutes earlier than usual, I was able to make a pasta puttanesca. That’s a dish a guy can be proud of! Not like last night, when I fixed ’em some sausage. Might as well make Hamburger Helper.

And I want to write, and I want to read my books, and I want to study for the Sleep Medicine boards exam, which is only an option in 2009 and 2011. (After 2011, I would need to do a one year sleep fellowship AND take the test to get board certification.) I want to work on my blogs and my medical website and I want the muse to wake up and I want, I want, I want. I’m telling you, I want too much. And I need to start thinking about the job search, since the current gig is temporary, and if they don’t find me a permanent spot in the system I could find myself in dire straits next August.

This weekend, I’m going to see if I can find some audiotapes on sleep medicine. If so, at least I can put my three hours or road time per day to good use.

How do people do it?

D.

Worry wart

I worry about making a living — maybe not two months from now or six months from now, but two or three years from now? Anything can happen.

I worry about hostile competition, and all the grief they can cause.

I worry about the fact that outside of my own family, I never know who to trust. (I can’t help it. Paranoia runs deep in my blood.)

I worry about the fact that I’m having a harder time remembering whether it’s “who to trust” or “whom to trust.” All I remember is that sometimes, the answer is counterintuitive, and that it depends largely on the structure of the clause.

I worry about my son’s future.

I worry about OUR future.

I worry about my blood pressure. Yes, this is counterproductive.

But most of all, I worry about President Sarah Palin.

What are you worried about?

***

Anyone up for live-blogging tonight?

D.

Settling in

As you can see, we now have internet access. Life is good again . . . we have tossed aside our mental crutches and can now bound blithely through the interwebs.

Here are some early observations from Week #1.

(more…)

lolmunch

D.