Yesterday I was confronted with a cruel reality: my vacuum had finally, after almost eight years, officially lost its sucking power. I tried cleaning the filters from dust and dog hair, which had always worked in the past, and tinkered with some other stuff but ultimately had to admit defeat; if I wanted clean floors and peace of mind, I'd have to suck it up (ha!) and buy a new vacuum.
As I began to re-coil the cord for the last time my mind began to review all of the apartments we've cleaned together, and all the emotional energy I've expended via my faithful Bissell. This vacuum was the first appliance I bought for my first apartment when I moved to Colorado for graduate school in 2006. It then supported me through five other apartments in Denver and one in Longmont before making the trek to Kansas; an appliance so critical to my daily operations that it was one of the only items I kept with me in the car instead of loading it onto the moving truck. Second only to Charlie, and two entities closely linked; one sucking up the hair that the other supplies by the billions.
Why do I hold my Bissell so dear one might ask? Cleaning has always been an extremely therapeutic activity for me. Often my friends would marvel at my OCD-level of cleanliness. It remained impossible to explain until one day when Chris and I had a particularly nasty fight about my inability to let him help me clean the apartment. It was then I realized that my obsession with cleaning was my way of dealing with emotional turbulence. As long as my environment was clean my mind could be calm. Most importantly, I was only one good vacuum session away from turning chaos into stability. Cleaning was the one serene activity maintained throughout a rocky childhood. No matter who I was with, father, mother, grandparents, aunts/uncles, etc, cleaning was always a routine and comforting activity that I took on with zeal; turning emotional turmoil into serenity with no more than the wave of a vacuum wand. We'd turn up the music and work laboriously until the place was immaculate, and we'd have the satisfaction of directly observing the fruits of our labor.
That being said, Bissie and I have been through a lot. Many a day I vacuumed away negative emotions, allowing the energy, and often tears, flow out of me as I fervently pushed the vacuum about; sometimes even slamming it into walls and whipping the cord around for an extra release. As the environment became clean, so did my mind and I could once again think clearly, rationally. Bissie was always there to let me push it around for my own comfort, alleviating me through changing environments and jobs, my oldest sister's death, the frustration of rapidly accumulating Corgi hair, the challenges of dieting and weight-loss, the fear of panic attacks, and worst of all, my first real heart break which unfortunately no amount of vacuuming would heal.
With this realization in mind I went to Wal-Mart to buy Bissell a replacement, and though I've been more emotionally stable since moving to Kansas then I can ever remember being in the past, I got a heavy-hitter; a Hoover prepared to contend with anything my emotional life throws at it. Shit, I may even be prepared to get my heart broken again. Another plus: it utilizes the best technology and equipment to rid my home of its copious amounts of dog hair!
I've not written for a long time, so allow me to fill everyone in; since 27-Jan-2014 I've changed jobs and am now a Production Supervisor. For the first time in my life I 20+ direct reports across compounding, equipment and component prep areas. I don't expect that to mean anything to anyone, but what it does signify is that from 1700 to 0700 on my 'On' days I can be found in any corner of the plant taking care of various issues and activities for one of the three areas. Fourteen hours seems more like four and I absolutely thrive off of the fast and high stress environment. There is way too much excitement to get tired; regardless, at 0800 I sleep like the dead despite sunshine and the noise of the day walkers with the aid of an eye mask and ear plugs.
Since this promotion is the first step on my way up to the Big-Dog's League of upper management it is essential that I perform exceptionally, and once again the only obstacle I find standing in my way is my old archetypical friend: The Shit-Talker. My inner Shit-Talker has gotten me into trouble since the day I could open my mouth and make sounds. Indeed, my Mother delights in sharing stories of my youth where my complete lack of filter has led to both her extreme embarrassment and entertainment. This time however, if not tempered by the light of self-awareness, this aspect of my personality will cast my professionalism into doubt and will authentically endanger my chances of obtaining my career aspirations.
I got caught you see, caught talking shit about my own Supervisor. Given my outlandish frankness, I did not make many attempts to hide my sentiments. I had my reasons for doing it, and mostly I thought it was going to earn me the trust and support of a couple of my more difficult employees. Today, however, the error of this strategy finally struck me and I have only to be extremely grateful that my Supervisor is one of the most amazing people I've ever known, and someone that I now see I had figured completely wrong (in itself a blow to my ego). They are someone from whom I will learn monumentally to my benefit since they lead by example and shutdown undesirable behavior by something simple, yet something I've never understood: Silence.
It is now clear to me that I must change my approach with these employees. Instead of enabling the drama of the past that I cannot change, I must learn to starve it to death with silence and non-reactivity. That is the idea, my first plan for a solution. I must meditate on this stoic approach to help guide me out of a behavior that does not come naturally to me. Simply put, if I don't want to be a Shit-Eater and fail in my ambitions, than I can no longer be the Shit-Talker. If one Talks Shit, one will most certainly Eat Shit. All one has to realize is that they, themselves, holds the fork full of the excrement they're about to feed themselves, and the only way to avoid taking the bit it to keep their mouths shut.
Do I expect to eat more shit throughout my life? Yes, old habits die hard and humans are nothing if not creatures of habit; but I feel I've finally eaten enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth, and I'll at least be less likely to partake of the ill-intended Shit Sandwich I've
crafted for myself.
On my way to work this morning I noticed a rather pitiful looking snowman; a half-melted Frosty left over from the snow we received just before Christmas. I have no idea where the idea came from, but as I came to a complete stop at the 4-way (I got a ticket at that very stop sign when I first moved to McPherson for not stopping, so I take special care at this particular intersection), I thought 'if I made a snowman, I would use dog turds as eyeballs.'
My Snowman would be smelling carrots amongst other, perhaps less pleasant, odors.
Acknowledging that this was a rather odd spontaneous notion, I asked myself why I had come up with it; the answer was painfully simple. Conventional snowmen ocular devices consist of two pieces of coal, which I neither possess nor know where to find. My dog Charlie, however, is teeming with potential snowman sight-givers and is always willing to make a donation to the cause.
In inner contemplation this is really about something much more profound; I love how these types of thoughts come on suddenly and keep me amused by my own mental meanderings. I find myself as odd as everyone else, which makes me a very interesting and formidable companion. This ultimately serves as the fundamental basis for my ability to maintain my own happiness, and its an attribute I will fight to keep sacred at all cost.
Flight 1 of 4: Thursday, December 19th Visakhapatnam to Bangalore
We left for the airport straight from the plant and I can't pretend that I was horribly sad to leave. Sure, there were things I would miss, largely the weather and food, but I had been working really hard and mostly felt burnt out and eager for my familiar routine that enabled me to deal with my typical amount of life stressors; without which burn-out comes on at an accelerated rate. So, with fond remembrances of the people I had met and places I had experienced, I sat waiting for the first of four flights and what would ultimately be the beginning of a 39 hour journey home.
Flight 2 of 4: Friday, December 20th Bangalore to Frankfurt
Though we arrived in Bangalore around 8:45pm on Thursday, our flight to Frankfurt was not going to leave until 3:40am, Friday, so we got some food then alternated sleep and walking around to kill time. Now, bare with me because things are about to get very personal, all for the sake of addressing a question that I've habitually pondered throughout my life: Why is the concept of shitting oneself so infinitely hilarious, even in the face of experiencing one of the most embarrassing scenarios a Human can endure?
I briefly mentioned in one of my previous posts that despite the exotic and extremely spicy cuisine my stomach remained a steel tank, retaining it's predisposition to clinical constipation. During my Indian tenure there were occasional noises and pains, but nothing to cause any alarm; mostly I just felt weak, nauseous or sated if my tummy was off, but I never felt like I'd have diarrhea. I had been very careful not to eat uncooked food or drink the water while there however, which is the typical culprit for such issues. Well, at the airport I had a sandwich with uncooked lettuce and onion on it and also drank a cucumber lemon iced tea drink (delicious!) likely made from native water, and I distinctly remembered thinking.....'hmm, maybe this will help relieve my constipation.' I would live to regret those words when my stomach began feeling queasy just as the flight began to board.
I sat down and waited through the normal boarding hullabaloo and safety videos; I was miraculously left alone in a row of three seats so I was relieved at not having to disturb others if my stomach did decide to act up, and excited at the prospect of lying down to sleep. Things seemed to have settled down until we taxied to the runway. It hits like a ton of bricks; don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, the cold sweat the breaks on the brow when you realize there is a unmistakable possibility that you're going to shit your pants. Immediately the thoughts began to stream by: We're taxiing so there's no way to get up, if I did they'd have to stop the plane and we'd lose our position in line for take-off. And, worse yet, I was wearing the only pants I'd have access to for the next 2 days since I had to check my bag due to the extra weight all the brass deities I'd bought added to my luggage. Oh sacred Ganesh, please help me now! Perhaps if I did shit my pants, the stewardess could supply me with new pants? Where the pants would materialize from I had no clue, nor did I care, I was just hoping they kept some around for such occurrences. Maybe I could fashion a pair out of Lufthansa blankets, or borrow something from another passenger?
As the cramps peaked so did my anxiety, my breaths coming in controlled and focused lamaze class-like huffs. I didn't know whether I had 5 minutes or 5 seconds until the inevitable event, but I had to admit to myself in that moment that I would very likely shit myself somewhere between 0 and 10,000 feet; I paused and began to laugh, which didn't help the situation, but I couldn't help myself; this was f*$^ing hilarious! I made it by the way, my prayers to Ganesh answered.
After that the flight was incredibly uneventful until I awoke from my slumber and decided to have a look out of the window. I was confronted with a sight I was not expecting, glorious snow capped peaks, the likes of which I hadn't seen since peering out over the continental divide in Colorado. Breathtaking and tear-provoking. I hit the flight status button on the TV so that I could see where we were; I didn't recognize any of the city's names so I wrote one down and later discovered that we were near Sukhumi, Georgia and were flying across the Black Sea. I was astounded by the beauty and made a mental note to come back for a better look if I ever had the opportunity.
Flight 3 of 4: Friday, December 20th Frankfurt to Chicago
We were late coming into Frankfurt and I already had a tight connection. I made it to security as my next flight was supposed to start boarding so I asked the attendant how far Gate Z69 was, to which she replied 'very far;' awesome, I proceeded to haul ass to the terminal proclaiming many 'excuse mes!' and 'coming throughs!' along the way. When I reached the gate I saw that the inbound flight hadn't yet arrived and we were also still waiting for the crew to report for duty, so our departure would be delayed. I sat back and felt very thankful for the opportunity to get some exercise. I also took the a few moments to capture the massiveness of the bi-level 747.
Once we finally took off, after a two-hour delay, I stayed awake long enough to eat lunch and chat up my neighbors. Then I took two Xanax, and aspirin, donned my earplugs and eye mask and covered myself up with two blankets. I woke up 9 hours later just in time for our snack, hahaha; truly the ideal flight!
First ride on a double-decker 747, the best part of which is that you hardly ever feel turbulence!
Flight 4 of 4: Friday, December 20th Chicago to Wichita
After clearing customs I headed to the my final flight of the trip, feeling extremely relieved yet exhausted. Nothing, and I mean nothing in the entire world, could have prepared me for what happened next. Now, I kindly ask you to stay with me because unless you're a fellow Hospirian you cannot fully appreciate the significance of this event. Also bear in mind that I had then been traveling for 36 straight hours, for work, and had not performed any of my usual personal hygiene rituals one would perform within that length of time; I'd also narrowly escaped having to fashion an airline blanket as a skirt, going commando no less.
As you may or may not know Hospira's corporate headquarters is located in Lake Forest, Illinois, north of Chicago, which is why when I saw who I thought I saw, I was not wholly surprised, because who I thought I saw was none other than Mike F&$@ing Ball, the CEO OF HOSPIRA!!! Seeing Bradd Pitt could not have provoked the adrenaline rush I was then experiencing. My immediate reaction was 'we're totally talking to him!' Are you kidding me?! I was, in that moment, a testament to the international presence and prominence of the company I believe in and work for, since I happened to be traveling from one Hospira site to another each half a world away from each other yet affirming the same fundamental mission: "Advancing Wellness through the right people and the right products." I reasoned that the worse I looked the more dedicated I was to the company; my ripe scent that of the Hospirian spirit! I won't give all of the details, but I will say this: Mike Ball is an incredibly affable and endearing man who contains no shred of the inflated egoism that has been displayed by many a pharmaceutcial CEO. Fate put me in that O'hare terminal that day; I am, and will always be, eternally grateful for the opportunity to become steadfast in my admiration for our corporations leadership.
All my life I've struggled with the difference between what I'm trying to accomplish and what people perceive I'm capable of based on my age and appearance. In every role I've had people tell me how young I look, insinuating that I can hardly know what real life is like, and making me feel condescended too in general. People can't tell by appearance, however, that I've supported myself since I was 17 years old and have had to work very hard to rise above my upbringing. Life taught me some very tough lessons earlier than they hit most people. The primary issue is that I was born old; always wise beyond my years and never able to convince others of my abilities, though admittedly not overly willing to try as my approval seeking days are behind me. This, combined with my ambitious nature, has led to a somewhat frustrating life; only in my recent role have I been given more responsibility, and even then it's extremely limited and I still do my share of grunt-work. Now, in stepping into my new position as a Compounding Production Supervisor I'll finally be taking that pivotal step in my career, from piss-on to not so much of a piss-on, haha, but I'm scared of this change; am I really ready for it?
I won't lie, there's a certainly a level of comfort that comes with being a piss-on. Ultimately, the final decision comes down to my boss, and I can elevate issues that I don't want to deal with myself. These practices will no longer cut it. I will soon be the people others go to to make critical decisions and look to for guidance, and while I'll still have my own manager, these responsibilities are expected of me. During my interview I made it clear that I both sought and felt comfortable with this level of responsibility, but when it comes time to make a call that will be the difference of 500G worth of product being accepted or rejected I'll likely feel some butterflies in my stomach, or vomit.
Regardless, I am prepared to own my decisions, good or bad, and take responsibility for my mistakes. I do this because I'm unwilling to hang my workers out to dry for any product lost on my shift. I'm doing this for the production personnel who bust their butt everyday for 12 hours and never feel supported or hear that their doing a good, and extremely important, job. I want to motivate the troops! I want to show them that attitude is a choice by walking in everyday with a smile on my face despite chaos and adversity, and telling them that their contribution to the company is absolutely critical. I want to improve the quality of Hospira's products by improving the morale on the production floor, to cultivate job satisfaction in my employees by understanding their underlying motivations. Granted, I realize there are some people who will not be responsive to my efforts, such people will never change and that's too bad. I don't have For the rest, however, I know I can turn negative to positive; that is my ultimate mission and it will require every ounce of serenity I have, it may even require that I excuse myself to some secluded corner, cry, and then come back to rally for the rest of the shift.
Will I make mistakes? Hell yes. Will I make million dollar mistakes? Not without trying my damn-est to get help first. Will my attitude elevation tactic work? I have no idea. Will I be able to maintain my own positive attitude while working a 12 hour over-night shift? Probably not, but I'm sure as hell going to try.
In short, I don't know if I'm ready, but I'm going to do it anyway.
Dog Days of India
Having been raised by a dog-fanatic, one extremely knowledgeable in all things breeds and behaviors, I've also acquired an interest in canines, and consequently it's not surprising that I've become extremely intrigued by what I'm calling 'India Dogs.' These dogs are everywhere, sometimes in packs, sometimes solitary. All of them look exactly the same except for their coloring, with what I immediately assumed were features akin to those of Australian Dingos. But what I find most interesting about them is their extreme expressiveness in looks and manners. Each morning on the commute to the site I observe these pooches trotting along the roads, sitting at bus stops, or hanging around food stands looking up expectantly. One gets the distinct impression that they have an agenda,
almost like they’re also headed to work and beginning their daily routine, which I found phenomenally amusing. India dogs have character! (And likely some have rabies) I kept trying to get a picture, but since I've mostly seen them while we're both in motion and headed to work, it’s proven quite difficult until I found one on the beach enjoying the Sunday morning sun. An Aussie has since confirmed what I initially suspected, they are Dingo-like in appearance. Now I'll await my mother's assessment.
India is HOT
It's winter here yet the average high has still been around 85 degrees. I broke a sweat while walking along the beach, and by simply sitting in the sun for too long at the hotel. Today I read in the paper that it's been unseasonably cool..... Needless to say, I'll think twice before heading over here in July/August.
Down Under
Aussies say 'reckon' a lot... Who knew? Also, they don't drink Foster's in Australia, it's marketed for the US. It's their equivalent to Natural Ice, haha. They do, however, eat Vegemite daily.
"Finger Lickin' Good"
Here are the fast food chains I've seen thus far: Domino's, Pizza Hut, KFC and Baskin Robbins. They seem to particularly like KFC, and I've even seen KFC knock-offs on the street (Konney's Fried Chicken). I've also heard that there's a McDonald's and a Subway. Oddly McDonald's in India is more of a family restaurant than a fast food joint, ideal for a Sunday night dinner. This amuses me. Though a bit disappointed, as long as I don't see a friggin' Applebee's or Olive Garden, I'm happy.
Swearing and Sex are Bad
I noticed upon arriving in Mumbai, and while walking on the treadmill and elliptizing, that they heavily censor western movies here. There are a lot of western movie channels, and I've been able to enjoy at least one of the Harry Potters movies daily; I find it strangely comforting. Anyway, the censorship seemed a little over the top, removing even the slightest reference to swear words and especially anything sexual. Therefore, I was shocked while watching 'The Ugly Truth' and they let slip a 'bullshit;' I then waited to see if they censored what I knew would follow. Sure enough they blocked out 'tits,' 'ass,' and 'blow job.' Interestingly, they also run banners at the bottom of the screen that state 'Smoking will kill you' when movie characters are smoking, which I first noticed while watching 'The Hobbit' and Bilbo was enjoying his pipe. Another banner provides a phone number to call in case people find the content of the film offensive and wish to file a complaint. While watching 'Cruel Intentions' I remember pondering how many calls they'd receive on that hotline, and also wondering if I'd actually get to hear any of the movie since I expected 95% of it to be censored out.
E6?.... Hit!
The view of the Bay of Bengal has looked like the set up for a game of Battleship for the last couple of days. Apparently there's a naval base here. Regardless, it's a bit intimidating.
Gingerbread Disco
One night while having some drinks my colleagues and I noticed that the beautiful Gingerbread house they had put up as a Christmas Decoration has disco lights flashing inside of it. Yet another example of how they go above and beyond with their decor here, these people know how to make everything colorful and fun!
After a week of being in India I've heard all of my co-workers express their extreme eagerness to leave and return to their loved ones back in the States and Australia. The typical reaction would be to agree, but I cannot because I'd be lying. Instead I get an uneasy feeling which fluctuates from gratitude to sadness; gratitude that I lead a flexible life that allows me to travel half way around the world with minimal impact on my responsibilities and the people in my life, and sad that I seem to be emotionally deficient in the eyes of my peers and lacking in 'loved ones'. I felt exactly the same way during the November all-staff meeting at Hospira. Our site manager asked how we'd feel if a 'loved one' received a Hospira drug in the hospital in order to inspire pride and care in ones work. My immediate thought was, that's easy because I'm alone, I don't have any 'loved ones.' That, of course, is completely untrue, but I found it exceedingly sad and disturbing that my initial reaction was to think of myself as completely alone in the world without people to care about, or people who care about me.
Anyway, both emotions originate from the fact that I live alone, nowhere near my family, and that I don't share my colleagues' enthusiasm for going home because I pretty much make wherever I am home, and whomever I'm with my family. People always seem shocked that I don't miss anything or anyone, and can't relate to how I live my life largely free of material objects and close family members. I keep myself free in this way because I'm extremely independent and I want, above all things, to be a world traveler. It would be folly to build steadfast roots anywhere that hinder my ability to leave home whenever I'd like. Indeed, I've always been uncommonly independent. In eleventh grade I was selected to attend a week-long government training rally called 'Girl's State' in Albany, NY in no small part because I was the only candidate excited to make the trip. It seemed odd to me to hear that others girls were unwilling to travel away from their familiar territory; I couldn't wait to see novel places and meet a group of diverse people. This independence culminated in my urge to move out of my Mother's house and support myself from the age of 17, working two jobs throughout my senior year of high school.
It's not that I don't miss certain things and people, because I definitely do, particularly my dog Charlie, home Eden, co-workers at Hospira, and the guys I spin with at the YMCA; I have many friends and feel truly blessed for having each and every one of them. These people constitute my family. I used to feel profoundly guilty that biological family somehow always got left out of the assessment, but I realized that it shouldn't surprise me as I've lived at least one time zone away from where I grew up for over seven years. In that time I've become accustomed to not seeing them, therefore missing them is not a sensation I usually experience. Granted, at anytime I'd give my right arm to see my beautiful and funny Sister, her three amazing children, my loving Father and Step-Mother, and my tough-as-nails yet selfless Mother; but since these sensations are always with me, it doesn't come into my consideration of missing home while traveling. Thankfully they would never expect me to miss them in such a way, they know better, that I was born to be a wanderer and love regardless of our proximity. I take great comfort in knowing that they support and love me no matter where I am physically.
Even still, I struggle with society's preconceived notions of how people should always want to be near their family, and often need to reiterate to myself that I'm just not like most other people, that I am different. Most importantly, I need to let those feelings of guilt and self-resentment go and learn to embrace and love the strong person that I am; I was never meant to fit the typically mold.
Part 2: Some Things Never Change
Back home I struggle with the fact that I’d rather do my
normal night routine of Dinner, Walking Charlie, Reading/Meditation, Pogo.com
and Dessert. It sounds boring I’m sure,
but it’s a ritual I treasure to the point of addiction. Often I’ll refuse to make plans and/or flake
on tentative plans with friends, or allow them to come over but implement a strict
time limit in order to keep this ritual sacred.
During the trip I realized that I’ve brought that addiction half-way across the
world with me as I opt to spend my nights alone in my room with a Sudoku puzzle
and ThinkThin bar instead of having dinner and drinks with my co-workers. Perfect example, Thursday was a lot of peoples’
last night in Vizag so a group got together. Now I’ve come to really love these people,
but those feelings pale in comparison to my urge to go straight to my
room, put on my robe, turn on the perpetual Harry Potter movie on the WB, and
play Sudoku while eating my dinner and having a cup of tea. This complete aversion to nighttime social
functions has bothered me on and off for the last year or so, and as such I have
often contemplated its origin.
I’ve assessed that the probable root cause of my obsession
is, paradoxically, my extreme extroverted Type A personality. I spend 90% of my day with people; I love
people. I love interacting with them,
watching them, listening to them inconspicuously, contemplating their inner
thoughts and surmising their motivations; I even like to try and influence them
using positive thoughts, like trying to put a smile on their face simply by
visualizing them smiling. Consequently,
when I’m around people I emit massive amounts of energy and I rarely stop talking. It’s due to this hopeless extroversion that I
overwhelmingly prefer to keep my nights solitary; I simply need a couple of
hours to recharge my batteries and enjoy quiet and solitude. I once explained it to my friend this way: 'It’s not that I don’t want to be around you, it’s that I don’t want to be
around me anymore, I can only listen to myself talk for so long before I begin
to get annoyed and need to stop.' I realize how insane
that sounds, but when one is as self-aware as I am, it comes with the territory.
I did, at least, go down to say good-bye to my new
friend. Tomorrow night someone else is
leaving, and I promised not to eat so much at lunch so that I’d be hungry
enough to go out to dinner with her. I
can, at least, amend my schedule occasionally and definitely when I make a promise or commitment to a friend. I never allow myself to break a promise without severe consequences. Regardless, altering this habit requires an unusual degree of effort. Perhaps someday I will change, but I love myself too much to keep beating myself up over my natural inclinations; instead I choose to accept my preferences and seek friends who understand and do not judge my behavior.
