A Chill in June

I’m a morning person. Hopefully not the annoying kind (do those exist? Nah...) but yes: unapologetically, involuntarily, proudly a morning person. And, as a morning person would, I love it.

Usually, when I wake up, I stretch out a bit, smile at the morning sunshine, and think “ahhhh, what a beeeeeaUtiful day!” Obnoxious, perhaps, but WONDERFUL. I tend to wake up in a good mood and my heart beats quickly because I get excited to start a new day (I know, I know – you night owls have permission to punch me for that last comment).

But I admit: as great as being a morning person can be, sometimes I just want to sleep-the-FUCK-in… and I can’t. CURSES! When I wake up, I am UP. I’m pretty awful at lazing in bed past 9 in the morning… I just feel horrible, like I’m wasting the most motivating and precious moments of my day and my morning buzz will not allow it. I am extremely attune to the sun, so even when I have total darkness, I still know the sun is up and cannot – or rarely can I – sleep past 8… MAYBE 830am on a particularly relaxing morning.

As a morning person, that first hour of the day is probably my favorite: very little can go wrong – I mean, what’s so bad about a hot shower, Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee (my favorite), and a little upbeat music? That said, first-thing in the morning, there are very few things I HATE. But one thing that really PISSES me off is an ice cold shower (along with forgetting to buy milk the night before – that stinks, but at least I can only blame myself!).

Taking an ice cold shower in the morning is like ordering a steak when you’re starving, and being slapped in the face with a raw piece of meat instead. It’s like curling up for a good night’s sleep and then having the drummer who lives upstairs start banging away (this, too, has occurred during the past two weeks in my lovely new apartment). An ice cold shower is like going to get a massage and having glass rubbed on your back instead. It’s jumping into a hot tub and having all the water slowly drain out while the wind picks up. Taking an ice cold shower in the morning is like…taking an ice cold shower in the morning: it’s purely and simply AWFUL.

For the past two weeks, I have spent most of my mornings cursing the universe when, after a horrible night’s rest, I turn the hot water in the shower on full-blast – no cold water – and my hopeful palm-up hand is greeted with drops of liquid ice. Each morning, I let the shower run for several minutes, staring at the shower head with puppy-dog eyes, hoping it will have mercy on my shivering body and grant me the hot water it so selfishly withholds… but no. As I stand there, my morning-sunshine mood slips coldly down the drain with the water, and I get angry. Ice cold water = ice cold MOOD!

When there is a problem I cannot control, I try very hard to shake it off, accept it as quickly as possible, and then deal with it with as much of a smile (and maybe even with a laugh) as I can muster. I don’t like complaining (ok, ok I KNOW I do sometimes! Go ahead, put me in my place…) and I don’t like when other people complain (I’ll put you in your place too, beyotch). So, I decide to suck it up and get in the raining ice storm that has replaced my hot shower sanctuary, and do my best to just DEAL with the unfortunate circumstances. “Come on Tavel, you are better than the cold shower and you can deal with this! People deal with much worse! Don’t be a wimp.”

Well, this is basically how taking a cold shower works. I pout for a few minutes, periodically touching the water after a few prayers assuming that this will change my fate. But when it doesn’t, I decide I’m going in – like jumping into the ocean in Maine just after winter; you don’t want to do it, but you know there might be something exciting and beautiful about it – MIGHT be. Maybe it’ll be fun and refreshing?! Ha. NOPE. It sucks.

Once I’m in… I think about how much it sucks over and over again (because clearly this is productive and mature and will solve the problem). And then I get my game face on and grab the shampoo with conviction. (FUCK YOU, SHOWER.) I have figured out the most efficient way to deal with a cold shower is to step out of it, put the shampoo, conditioner, AND soap on at the same time, then systematically jump in and out of the drops of cold that tense of my entire body and make me hate my life every few seconds. I’ll have a moment – every morning – when I think… ok Rachel, this isn’t too bad… you can do this. And then I’ll realize how much soap I still have to wash off and that I was supposed to shave my legs too. As the water drips under my arms and down from my wet hair, I am reminded of how much a cold shower can KILL a perfectly good morning, and I go back to my silent cursing through chilled convulsions.

After all soap and shampoo has been rinsed off, I contemplate being bold and shaving my legs, but quickly determine that would be suicide. I shut off the water, appreciate the brief moment when the cool bathroom air actually feels warm, and wrap myself in my towel with the hate for cold showers reverberating between the tile walls. Cold water continuously drips off my hair and down my back, and I congratulate myself for making it through another bad-mood inducing ice cold shower that I pay a hearty sum for, let me tell ya…

When I walk out of the bathroom, I think – at least I have my hot coffee to wash this all away! But no. I have learned that a cold shower lingers all day like a bad kiss (luckily, I can’t remember the last time I had one of those). It spins the mornings I once loved into a knot of dread and not even a little Beyonce on the radio can warm me up.

But this morning was different. This morning, I slept until 7am for the first time in two weeks. I walked to the bathroom and turned the shower on, expecting the usual downpour of angry cold drops and I got… warmth. I stepped in, confused and distrusting, and showered in constant panic that the warm drops would be replaced by cold ones at any moment. But they did not betray me this morning. Instead, they comforted me. And I smiled in my happy, warm shower because, on this cold and rainy morning, the universe was on my side.

I got ready for the day, and felt fabulous. When I walked outside, the cold drops poured on me there instead. But I had a hot shower this morning -- they’re not so bad.

I popped open my umbrella and began walking...

A Little Lost in Old San Juan

When you’re one of five kids, you often find yourself lost in the shuffle. In general, this is ok; it’s given me thick skin and taught me to be patient and independent (among other things, like how to eat quickly and how to “suck it up” because nobody cares - ha). I get it. But never did I expect my dear, loving family to actually lose me, like a sock on laundry day.

I know I jokingly complain about the woes of being part of a big family, but really, I love it and I wouldn’t want it any other way (hear that mom?!). My mom used to think that I wished I was an only child but she was way off. I just wanted to feel like an only child once in a while. It’s hard to feel special when you live with four other people that are just as special (what?! Yes, I wanted to be MORE special!). I always felt like a kid who needed a lot of love – more than my brothers and sisters needed – and I found I could get it from friends and tiny moments, like my nightly ritual of curling up next to my dad when he got home from work and talking – just me and him – while he watched his Boston teams play and went through the mail.

I remember one crisp, fall day when my brother Nate, with his perpetually runny nose, complained that he needed a tissue. My mom called me over. I, excited that my mom needed me and just me for something, came running over. She took the bottom of my pink mini-mouse t-shirt (which I loved because it actually had glitter on it!), dragged my skinny little body towards my brother, reached up to his nose with the corner of my favorite t-shirt in her hand, and told my brother to “blow!” As she pressed my favorite shirt against his crusty green nostrils, I felt completely let-down, not to mention disgusted. THIS is what I had been reduced to?! A tissue?! I wanted to be so much more to her. Siiigh (hehe). I think that moment pretty much sums up how it could feel to be from a big family.

In my parents’ defense, they did a great job. I joke about these moments, but really, they are amazing parents and did their best to make us all feel uniquely appreciated and valued. (Just had to say it before my sob story got too annoying…)

However, at no point in my upbringing did I feel as invisible as I did one beautiful day in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. I would have been happy to be a tissue for my brother that day because at least it would have meant I was noticed!

My family decided to take our annual spring break trip to Puerto Rico, where my parents had gone for their honeymoon about fifteen years earlier. I was in fifth grade, and my brother Roberto (Robo) was less than a year old. Life was crowded and chaotic in the two hotel rooms the seven of us shared, but the sun and sand kept us happy and everyone was getting along relatively well (I say this because I like to think that I was never “intentionally” ditched…Keep reading.)

We set aside one day to get a guided tour of Old San Juan, which was – as I remember it – colorful and vibrant, and somewhere I’d love to visit again as an adult. We were walking around the streets on a tour with another family. Of course, it’s hard to keep track of all the kids so my parents trusted us and let us take care of ourselves (this was how things worked). The tour was going well; the guide spoke to us in his thick accent and I didn’t listen, I just let my imagination wander as I took in the new surroundings. Somewhere between La-La Land and my mom’s enamored expression as she relished in the scenery and rhythm of the city, everyone disappeared.

I must have been in my own dream world when the tour moved on without me. Even as a little kid, I felt intoxicated (hmm, little kid… intoxicated… I don’t this works) by the sights, sounds and smells of travel to foreign places. At some point, with all the people and all the noise, I realized I was all alone. For anyone who’s seen that anti-smoking commercial where you watch fear and panic spread across the face of a little boy who suddenly realizes he has been abandoned by his mother, that’s about what happened to me. (That commercial makes me cry every time – when I’m alone. What a pathetic sap I've become, huh?)

I looked around the historical house we were in. It was clear that I had been left behind. I quickly walked outside and found myself surrounded by strangers in a city I knew nothing about. No Tavels. I walked up the street and down the street and thought about what I had been taught – to stay in one place – but felt too overcome with panic to stay still without trying to find them first. They had to be nearby – right? RIGHT?!

I couldn’t find a recognizable face anywhere. At about this point, with my little heart racing under an oppressive sun, I did what most little girls in this situation would probably do: I started to cry. I looked around and cried some more. I was so scared! Then, on a nearby street corner, I saw a police man. I crossed the street and ran up to him, crying, and explained that I had lost my family and needed help finding them. He – with minimal English – was, luckily, a good guy. He listened to me, told me not to cry, and said we’d find them. Then, he took my hand and we began walking around the streets of Old San Juan looking for my large family in every tourist attraction in the area. I began to imagine what would become of my life if I never found them, but I trusted the police officer. (What if I had asked the WRONG person for help?) He walked me up one street, down another, and then into a big old church…

While it felt like at least 30 minutes, it couldn’t have been more than 15 minutes that had passed since I lost my family. But when we walked into that church, beyond the shadow cast by sunshine that beamed through the doorway, there they were. I could only see their backs, but those six backs filled me with relief.

At the front of the church was my entire family. I’d love to give this some sort of religious significance but I guess that’d be a stretch, huh? Heh. They were all staring up while they listened to the guide talk. I let go of the officer’s hand, ran up to my mom and hugged her, crying. I was angry and flustered. I told her she had forgotten me – my biggest fear – and I was hurt and relieved. I think my little heart broke when I realized that NOBODY had even noticed I was gone! My mom took me under her arm and comforted me. She seemed confused. I just couldn’t believe that she hadn’t even noticed I’d gone missing, and neither had any of my siblings, the people I was constantly trying to look out for! I thanked the police officer and he smiled and disappeared through the sunlit doorway without saying a word. For the rest of the afternoon, I paid close attention to staying near my family, happily becoming one of the many again, as we wandered the streets of the city that had swallowed me up.

I had never been so happy to see my family, and I realized, amidst the medieval walls of El Morro, that even though it can feel, at times, like I am no more than a tissue for my brother’s runny nose, my family really does care about me. When I shifted my perspective just a little, I realized that perhaps I was the one who had lost track of them, not the other way around.

Baby Eli

As long as I’m willing to write about nothing and anything, there should always be a million things to write about. There are! St. Maarten, Miami, Austria, inner musings, questions, answers… life! But I often end up waiting for the entry to smack me in the face, giving me no choice but to sit down and type away. I have had SO much going on since I last wrote (and, really, all winter). It’s been an amazing stretch with so many rich stories kneaded nicely into it. But those will have to come out some other time, on some other day when it feels right…

For now, I am preoccupied by other thoughts as I sit at home during an unusually quiet night, with one [extremely] little guy on my mind.

My cousin Paul and his wife Stephanie started a blog in October to track the remaining seven-month journey to the birth of their first child, Eli, who was due this May. The first photos are sonograms – a fuzzy black and white preview of their un-born universe. The blog entries ooze excitement and capture the curiosity and anticipation of new parents-to-be through humor and informative updates.

They talk about Eli becoming a high-fiver like his dad, and quote him asking if he can be “so bold as to say [he is] not a fan of John Adams” (his mom is a flautist and piccolo player for the Metropolitan Opera, and apparently not a fan of the John Adams opera she was playing for at the time). Paul, an editor/journalist, eloquently captures his emotions and joy without ever referring to them directly, like his deep and intense thoughts are brushed onto the words with a feather. The blog entries are witty and cute at first, written with quirky humor and matter-of-fact observations as Eli tracked his own growth.

Each entry was written in the first-person “by” Eli, but the blog has since become the eternally hopeful and equally fearful diary of two new parents watching their first child struggle against the challenges of his under-developed body. The blog starts out in Eli’s voice, but his story took an unanticipated turn when Stephanie’s blood pressure rose to dangerous levels. When she was told she would have to have an emergency C-Section to protect her own health, she knew everything she imagined - and barely had time to imagine- was about to change. Eli’s blogging-voice would have to be temporarily silenced.

Little Eli has yet to use his vocal chords, which are irritated and raw from the breathing tubes that have become part of his daily fight to grow and develop. He was 1lb 11oz when he was born. Now his parents have taken back the reins of the blog. No They use it to track Eli’s life in the NICU - his surprise-"home" - yet the tone remains playful. Poor little guy can’t do anything for himself yet, except kick his legs around and captivate his parents with his delicate silence. But that can’t stop his personality from growing. Even though he could easily fit in the palm of his parents’ hands, his presence is big and powerful. The blog somehow holds Eli's personality like it's a cup from which we can all drink; if only Paul and Stephanie were allowed to hold him, like other parents hold their newborns…

Every few days, I tune into the blog to check on Baby Eli, as he has become known. I have been impressed by the overpowering optimism that spills out of Paul and Stephanie’s updates, despite continuous hurdles. But as I read the blog tonight, I was reminded of little Eli’s fragility. I can feel Paul and Stephanie’s hoping and wishing, and feel them cling to every piece of news wondering which direction it will blow them. Their strength is unwavering, even while small cracks form in is foundation. As Eli undergoes yet another lung collapse, another blood transfusion, and another surgery, they continue to track Eli’s life one blog entry at a time. As Paul reflects, a blog that was originally intended to share information with family and friends about his and Stephanie’s new life as parents has unexpectedly become their source of comfort and support, as people tune in and share well-wishes, trying to get closer and closer to Eli who remains untouchable.

Right now, Paul and Stephanie’s entire world fits into a tiny plastic crib in the NICU of a New York hospital, and they can only feel the warm reality of their child's body through two circular holes after intensely washing their hands and arms like a surgeon and wearing hospital gowns like they’re patients. But, as the obvious becomes clear: they love him. And he’s theirs, no matter what.

In Stephanie and Paul’s world, they began the “Meet Baby Eli” blog while a beautiful and healthy baby was still safely seven long months away. Stephanie probably expected she would re-read the blog months later, remembering the anticipation, the excitement, the calm before the beautiful storm in a world before Eli that she’d quickly forget ever happened. He’d probably be sleeping peacefully nearby. Maybe the blog would come in handy when Eli became old enough to understand that his parents had a whole life before he was born… Now one whole life has become their world.

When I found out about Eli being born prematurely, I thought of my best friend, Lisa. Eli immediately ran into obstacles, as did Lisa, who too was born three months premature. Lisa had all sorts of health problems growing up, and I met her on the first day of first grade when I was three and she was five (she was the oldest in the class, I was the youngest). Growing up with Lisa, I remember the limitations she had on what she could eat, the medications she had to take daily, the medications she couldn’t take, and the allergies – the most memorable of which was salt – with which she had to live. I remember going to her house and hating the salt-less pretzels her mom used to give us out of a giant clay hippopotamus (ha); as a kid I hated those flavorless pretzels, but as an adult, I prefer them.

I told Paul and Stephanie about Lisa, and how her first days and early years involved the most challenges. She was always small and always had little things she had to deal with as a kid that no other kids seemed to worry about, like monthly blood tests to check her red and white blood cell counts, and the beige sock she used to have to wear to control the swelling in her ankles that occurred after she accidentally ate too much salt. And I remember her calling me before the monthly blood tests, when I'd comfort her even though she didn't seem scared, and I admired her for doing something every month that I dreaded so much and rarely had to experience.

But even though Lisa, often called a “Miracle Baby,” was born with a world of challenges, she never complained, and never made her feel weak. In fact, she has become one of the most amazing and strongest people I have ever met. I have no doubt in my mind that Eli will be strong and become an incredible person, too. And I can’t wait to watch it happen.

But for now, I'll continue to read about it, one "Meet Baby Eli" blog entry at a time. You never know waht the next blog entry might say...

Six Firemen, My Apartment

This weekend, I learned that there are two kinds of firemen: the kind that actually save you, and the kind that think you are a raging hypochondriac who doesn’t know how to work a carbon monoxide detector. I encountered the latter on Saturday evening – six of them.

Before Sunday, I thought firemen were pretty sexy. Especially the tall, dark and handsome over 6-foot, athletic ones (what? I’m not picky). The idea of having six firemen in my apartment was a positive one. Well, let’s just say this has changed!

For the past month or so, I have been feeling weird. Just weird, I’m not sure how else to describe it. For one thing, I have felt bizarrely light-headed and dizzy – almost constantly. I also had some other crazy symptoms but you get the idea. When my roommate started to feel the same way, and friends that hung out in our apartment complained of feeling a little dizzy, accompanied with chest pain, I started checking WebMD (I check that site all the time...and it scares the CRAP out of me! I have to force myself NOT to sometimes, despite my natural investigative inclination). I had no answers but a list of horrible options. Then, after all my years of watching medical reality shows (I LOVE Mystery Diagnosis! It’s like solving a mystery every time!), I decided to check my carbon monoxide detector – the one that had been in my apartment before I moved in. Well, sure enough, there was no battery. Simple solution!

I checked carbon monoxide exposure symptoms online and (go figure) they all matched up TOO perfectly! (Darn you internet!) Yes, I know carbon monoxide is deadly, so I hypothesized that perhaps it was some other sort of gas leak (my apartment is above 3 restaurants), or the presence of a very small amount… Either way, I promptly purchased a new battery for our carbon monoxide detector AND our smoke detector, opened all windows, scheduled my annual physical at the doctor, and prayed that my light-headedness would go away.

Well, it didn’t (and hasn’t). I did find out that I am borderline-anemic (was as a little kid too, but don’t think much about it) and still have a heart murmur and an irregular heartbeat though! And they checked me for a pulmonary blood clot which, as fun as it sounds, I was very excited to find out I do not have! Hooray! But other than that, I am all set! I was even told my cholesterol is perfection! (I’m giving way too much information out here. Hmm.) Life went on, albeit with my head feeling like it was attached only by a tiny string to the rest of my body. I had officially confused my doctors and myself… until Sunday afternoon.

My friend Naomi was over because we both had separate potluck dinners to bake for, and were using my kitchen. I was baking a homemade pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream to bring over and enjoy with some rower friends. At some point, Naomi mentioned feeling a little dizzy and sleepy. I am pretty used to it by now (which is not a GOOD thing), so I told her about my weird symptoms and how I am convinced there is some gas leaking into our apartment. I already had the super come check it out (let’s be honest – Albert the Albanian thinks we are completely insane. He even told my roommate this later when he bumped into her on the street. Ha. The man is actually pretty hilarious. He offered to sleep on our couch and see if he got dizzy, but he said maybe it was a dead mouse or something... uh, ok Albert... He also kept saying he didn’t smell any gas! I tried repeatedly to explain that many gases, like carbon monoxide, are odorless… but that was just a lost cause). Anyway, while my pound cake was baking, what happens? The freaking CARBON MONOXIDE detector goes off.

Awesome.

This was both good and bad. At first, I was excited. I could actually PROVE there was some gas in my apartment (there definitely was no smoke). But then I realized, I don't want a gas leak in my apartment -- and I DEFINITELY don't want to be inhaling carbon monoxide! We only had a functioning carbon monoxide detector for two weeks and had been keeping all our windows open (in the winter with horrible heating – not fun at all, trust me, brr). I figured maybe it took that long to accumulate enough of the gas to trigger the alarm. Maybe it’s just a minor leak, but the detector was noticing SOMETHING, right?! I was getting affirmation?

Earlier that week, we had Albert the Albanian super come to check things out, and we had called our landlord to see if we could get the air tested just to be sure, but neither was any help. So, after talking with Naomi, she convinced me to contact the FDNY just to ASK what they suggest we do in this situation. Well, the website directed me to 311 (information)… so I called.

The operator at 311 asked me what the problem was. I told her that I had been feeling weird for a few weeks (I explained my symptoms) and had been suspicious of a gas leak or carbon monoxide, and then, with a brand new battery, my carbon monoxide detector was going off. I was simply asking if there is any way we can have someone (ONE guy) come in and make sure there is no gas leak. She asked for my address… I was like errr, ok, and gave it to her. Then, she said “Ma’am, are you experiencing any symptoms, like chest pain and dizziness/lightheadedness?” I said yes, and yes… She said “please hold for one second.” After hearing her say multiple numbers and something in code mixed with static and beeping, she came back. “Ma’am, you have symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning and you’re alarm is going off, which is an emergency… I’ve contacted 911 and they’re sending the fire department over right now.”

GAHHHH…. What?!?! BAHH!!!

I got flustered. “Uh wait, you just sent the fire department over? I think I just need one guy… are they coming in a truck?” (for some reason, the truck made this all more painfully humiliating.) I felt the mortification building within and was looking at Naomi who was beating some fresh whipped cream for me while I was on the phone… “Ma’am, this is an emergency and if you have carbon monoxide, you have to get out of the apartment and into an ER immediately. The fire department will be over in 5 minutes. Is there anything else I can do for you?” HAHA. What?! NO! Why did this feel so funny to me? This is dangerous stuff! I hung up and explained to Naomi the situation. What had I done?! She assured me I did the right thing and was totally relaxed about it. I was just laughing and preparing myself for complete humiliation.

Sure enough, four minutes later, I heard my buzzer ring. Like a responsible New Yorker, I said hello and pushed listen instead of letting the people in right away. What I heard was “OPEN THE DOOR!” No friendly “hello, we’re the very large firemen you ordered, could you please let us up? Why thank you!” (I guess they’re trained to respond quickly to emergencies or something… Hehe.)

I opened my door in anticipation of the firemen and found that I had panicked everyone in my building. All my neighbors were running out of their apartments to find out what was going on, who had called 911, and was there a fire?! The Puerto Rican woman and her teenage son across the hall walked out and asked “what happened?! Did you call?” I said “YES, it was me!! But I only called 311 because my carbon monoxide detector went off and we’ve been feeling weird for weeks! I just wanted to check the air… I didn’t call 911!” To my surprise she said, “Yeah, ours has been going off too… and so have some people’s downstairs…” OK, hold up… Doesn’t ANYONE realize this is SERIOUS?!

By the time I had put this information together, there were SIX enormous firemen in my extremely small apartment, decked out in full fireman-garb with axes, oxygen tanks, and a whole lot of impatience (why WHY WHY!?!?). Naomi was still beating the cream, my pound cake was still baking, and I was officially humiliated.

The following interaction took place between 5:11pm and 5:12pm after six firemen filed into my tiny hallway. It was one fireman-filled minute.

Fireman 1: “DID YOU CALL?”
Me: “Uh, yes, but I called 311… I didn’t mean for you all to come but…uhh… so my carbon monoxide detector was going off…”
[Fireman 3 pulls my carbon monoxide detector off the wall.]
Fireman 2: “There’s no carbon monoxide in here…”
Fireman 3: “Are you baking?”
Me: “Uh yes…but, wait, how do you know there is no carbon monoxide?”
Fireman 2: “Because you see this little device? [he shows me a small device] Trust me, this would be going off if there was…”
Fireman 4: “Your carbon monoxide detector is broken.”
Me: “That little thing would go off…? Errr… What? Wait, it’s broken?”
Fireman 4: “Yeah, get a new battery.”
Fireman 2: “Yeah, there’s no carbon monoxide in here.”
Me: “But, the battery is brand new… I got it two weeks ago…”
Fireman 5: “What are you baking? Cake?”
Fireman 6: “Got any extra cake? Smells good. He he he.”
Me: "Well, it's still baking otherwise I'd give you some!"
Fireman 4: “Yeah, no carbon monoxide. Maybe it’s just from the oven being on.”
Me: “How are you so sure so quickly? It’s been 30 seconds and we have all the windows open? I’ve been having weird dizzy symptoms that get worse when I’m home… and my roommate too…and...”
Fireman 6: “We can get an ambulance here in 30 seconds, do you want an ambulance?”
Me: “What?! NO! No no…”
Fireman 4: “Yeah, well there’s no carbon monoxide being detected right now. So get a mew detector, get a second one, and call us if two go off.”

And just like that, they were OUT the door… Gone!

I stood in my doorway and looked at Naomi in shock. What the HECK just happened?! I was SO embarrassed – and that doesn’t happen easily. (Hehehehe. Oh MAN it was horrible!). She was still beating the cream, which was peaking and almost done. My pound cake was just about ready, and I was late for the 6pm potluck. My stunned neighbors watched as the firemen stomped back down my 5 flights of stairs and left as quickly as they had arrived. I had created a scene. I HATE scenes. As they left I awkwardly said to the last guy, “sorry about being on the top floor… he…he…he?” (a sorry attempt to celebrate the fact that nobody was actually dying, which I thought was supposed to be a good thing, but they seemed disappointed!). Fireman 6: “Yeah, we’re used to it…Enjoy that cake.”

To make matters worse, I learned that not only had I caused a scene in my building, but these firemen arrived in a giant fire engine with lights and alarms BLAZING on my busy street. This was not my fireman fantasy. And I thought I did everything right, everything a responsible adult should do! And they treated me like I was crazy. Well, I FELT crazy! But, I did not call 911! I really just wanted to get one guy – ONE guy – to confirm that there was no gas in our apartment and now I was left with more questions, like “if there’s no gas, why are other people’s alarms going off?” and “why do I still feel dizzy?” But those firemen came in, assessed the situation, and got the hell out of there as quickly as possible. I didn’t have a chance to get any answers. They had such quick, blunt resopnses to all my questions and seemed to care more about what I was baking than how I was feeling! But man, it was pretty hilarious. And I give them credit for responding so quickly and even bringing the oxygen and axes with them (oh GAWD... I'm still blushing). Too bad I still have to show my face in the building.

Hey, at least the pound cake didn't burn! Yummy.

Bee-zzz

There is one thing and one thing ONLY that I do not welcome with the onset of warm weather: stinging insects (and an abundance of roaches, which I don’t even want to write about because they disgust me so much).

There is something about the erratic behavior and that buzzing sound of insects that fly and sting (bees, wasps, hornets, etc) that just scares me. I have been stung a couple of times that I can remember.

Once, I was playing soccer with my siblings and friends in our backyard and I slid to kick the ball, landed on my forearms, and felt a pinch in my left arm. I looked, and there it was – a giant bee sticking out my arm (GAHHH!). I vividly remember it wiggling its butt into my skin, and my grabbing it (screaming) and throwing it as far away as I could, only to find that a black and white stinger (perhaps the same one, just broken?) was still sticking out of me.

I jumped up and eylled “I got stung by a bee!” and ran in the house to figure out what the hell to do about it. I kept trying to pull the stingers out with my fingers, but I was failing. Someone grabbed a credit card and tweezers and used both to eventually get the stingers out about 15 minutes later, but by then, my arm was super swollen, and I was still out of breath from the soccer game and feeling dizzy and panicked by the situation. I apparently have a mild allergy, but I cannot tell how much of that reaction was mental.

Another time I got stung was pretty pathetic. I was sitting in the kitchen (a green-house style room, all glass) of our house upstate, innocently eating my breakfast. We often get lady bugs, flies, and wasps in the house – sometimes by the swarm. As I took a bite from my bagel, I felt a pinch and then a tickle on the back of my shoulder. It felt like a sting, but I couldn’t see the source when I tried to look at the spot that the stinging was radiating from. Then, sure enough (to my horror), a wasp slowly walked up the back of my shoulder onto the top of it, at which point I flicked it away (petrified) and ordered my dad to kill it. Hehe. (Ahhh, this story is giving me chills to write.)

Even though my stings were relatively minor incidents, I can attribute my little fear of stinging insects to a traumatic event I witnessed when I was seven or eight years old. (Not to mention the movie My Girl, which always reminded me of the real-life scene I had witnessed…)

My dad is from Boston. Dorchester (“Dah-chest-ah”), to be exact. He has two older brothers, one who lives in Estes Park, Colorado (the Abraham Lincoln look-alike – more on him another time) and the other who lives in…well, outside of…Boston.

It was a warm late-summer morning, and we were all visiting my grandma Bessie (she passed away a few years later) at her house in Wellesley, MA. I remember I was eating an egg-flavored Lender’s bagel (how delicious were THOSE?! Great, now I’m craving one…) in the kitchen, which was painted an old-fashioned 1950’s yellow-color, and had cabinetry and furniture to match. In the back of the kitchen was a doorway to the small garden, where my uncle Don was raking leaves.

Don, an ex-pilot and avid Celtics, Red sox, and Bruins fan, has a severe allergy to bees…

All of a sudden, in the calm of the morning sun, we heard Don yelling “AHH! Bees! I’ve been stung! Get help!” as he ran into the house. I, a bee-fearer, was stunned at what I saw next. My uncle ran into the kitchen and was followed by hundreds or thousands of angry BEES – an entire swarm. I had never seen this many bees, and they were clearly pissed off and in attack mode. My poor uncle was covered in them, and suddenly, the entire kitchen was FULL of bees. I remember the loud humming sound, and him screaming in pain and fear.

His wife, Carolyn, ran into the kitchen trying to help get the bees off of him and she yelled for someone to call 911. She started spraying some bee repellant all around the kitchen, and eventually – between her and my dad – they had killed enough bees to get him out of the kitchen without them following. I think she ran and grabbed an EpiPen to hold him, but with his allergy, he needed immediate emergency care as he had clearly been stung at least 50 times.

I just stood there, stunned, almost oblivious to the bees that didn’t seem to care about anyone in the room except my uncle, who they had successfully debilitated and almost made unconscious. He collapsed on the floor, and tried to crawl his way out of the kitchen, but was having trouble breathing. All we could do was wait for the ambulance to arrive as hundreds of red welts began to appear all over his body, which began to swell. We got ice and tried to stay out of the way as the bees retaliated – they had won their fight. Luckily, I believe just as he was beginning to seizure, the paramedics arrived and rescued him. He was rushed to the hospital, and returned later that day.

It was a scary experience for me, but much more so for my uncle and his wife. The poor guy was just doing some yard work, and accidentally managed to lift up a large rock, under which was a large bee hive. This signaled attack-mode for the little bees, and once they realized their target, there was no stopping them. After seeing his reaction and the viciousness of those bees (I know I know, they were just protecting their nest), I’ve seen what a few buzzing insects are capable of doing. Sure, they were just doing their job and usually tend to leave us alone… but bugs (in general) love me (for whatever reason – as one doctor put it, she thought I must have “delicious” blood). An exterminator once told me “I hate to tell you, but if they taste something they like, they’ll just forget the others and come back to you…” Great. I’m tasty?

There is nothing I love more than sitting by our pool upstate in the summer time, reading and sipping some iced tea in the surprisingly loud sounds of nature. But, unfortunately, I end up the landing pad for numerous insects, and often the occasional snack for them, which disrupts my perfect moment. Such is life, I know. But hey, what’s a blog for if it’s not to complain once in a while about things I can obviously do nothing about?!

Whenever you’re around me and there are bugs, don’t you worry – they’ll come to me and leave you alone. I'm like human insect repellant for other humans (do you follow that?). Especially after they get a taste of me; they always want more! And I mean, as much as I hate them, can I blame them? He he he… Bzzz.

The Fire at Rocky Bluff

When I was little, fire drills were a part of school life. I was the kid that took mental notes every time, the one that actually listened carefully to every word when safety instructions were given, the one who read that safety booklet on a plane within the first five minutes of sitting down every time I flew (it became a superstitious ritual until about two years ago). I’ve always been someone who silently makes sure I have a plan of action in case of an emergency. And by now I have learned that, in moments of panic, I tend to get a sudden wave of calm and clarity that is very hard to describe. It’s as if my mind quickly opens the file in my brain under “fire” or “car crash” (or whatever situation I am in) and starts reading and following the steps like my entire life has been preparing me for that test. I feel a heightened sense of responsibility (I don't know where this comes from), like I want to be in charge and keep everyone else calm and safe, and for some reason, I believe I can. My earliest recollection of this type of reaction dates back to when I was about seven years old and the smoke detector in our old beach house went off...

I remember earlier that year, the fire department came to our school and we took turns sitting in the front seat of the fire engine. A fireman took my photograph while I wore his helmet. I think that’s around the time I decided (silently) that I might want to become a firewoman, despite the fact that i was by far the tiniest kid in my class. I also just really wanted a Dalmatian and thought the dogs came with the territory. The truck wasn't too shabby, either.

We learned the drill: stop, drop and roll! As we rehearsed on the floor of the music room, I remember giggling with my friends, thinking that it was all sort of fun to roll around like a puppy. We also learned to call 911. I was obsessed with the show “Rescue 9-1-1” for YEARS, which created horrible reenactments of real-life situations that always ended with the phrase “…so I called 9-1-1,” followed my a happy ending of some sort (and usually, a tearful paramedic). After a while, this became a common catch-phrase in the Tavel household. ("..so I CALLED 9111..." could be added to most sentences. Hehe.)

When you’re one of five (or four, at the time) and there is one television with one remote, the rule was simple: whoever got there first got to choose what everyone watched, and they could be as accommodating or as merciless as they wanted. But in the end, it was Sarah -- the BIG sister (apparently being #2 gave me no credit) who made the final decisions. Well, in the rare occasion that I had remote control (I think we are a family that gave true meaning to the device’s name), I would put it on any Discovery, Discovery Health, or crappy medical reality show that was on. And I must say that, in the end, I learned a lot from that "Rescue 9-1-1" show. By age 10, I felt fully capable of calling 9-1-1 and/or performing CPR or tending to someone who was gushing blood (medical training? Nah, I had seen enough re-enactments to have a good idea of things!). I always wanted to be the person who could save the day, the person who could step up and do what had to be done in a moment of panic. But mostly, I believed I just was that person, whether or not I wanted to be. I still do (and I want to be that person now).

On a wet and cool August day when I was seven or eight years old (tops), I was with my little brother and sister watching some Disney Show program while sitting on a ratty old mustard-colored couch, which my mom despised. We were enjoying a dreary afternoon at our old beach house in Greenport, Long Island while my mom took her daily siesta. At the time, my cousin Dora from Boston was staying with us for the summer (who you might remember from the post I wrote called “Crash” – she was in our car at the time of a five-car accident a couple years later). She was a great athlete (played college soccer and tennis) and would hang out with us and give us tennis lessons and organize soccer games and dance parties with our neighbors. Then there was the one time she did a striptease for me at the beach because I was in a bad mood and she was determined to snap me out of it (don't worry, I didn't really see anything), but I will leave that for another blog posting… (hehehe).

We also had an au pair at the time named Genoveva (pronounced "Hen-o-ve-va"). She was a very sexy (or so my mom described her, I was oblivious) and sweet girl from Madrid who happened to meet young men everywhere we went. Hmmm. Anyway, she was with us in our old beach house that summer, which had no heat. Believe it or not, the house could get pretty cold on damp, grey days, so my parents used to open the oven a crack and turn it on to heat the area around the kitchen. Additionally, we learned about a little Spanish tradition that day: storing used oil in the oven so it could be reused later. As you can imagine, these two little traditions did not mix well.

So there we were on the couch: me, and my two little siblings. I don’t remember where my older sister, Dora, or Genoveva were, but I knew my mom was on the second floor asleep. I have a very sensitive nose, and smelled something burning, but tried not to get nervous about it. Then the smoke detector went off. Now, this smoke detector went off a LOT. I remember we had a broom positioned nearby to slap it when it started beeping uncontrollably for no reason (I don’t think the power button worked). (Hehe, I just remembered a few incidents when we had to whack that thing until it popped off the ceiling to make it shut up, usually in the middle of the night. Ha!)

As soon as I heard the smoke detector, my heart jumped. Nobody was moving, so I decided to go look in the kitchen where I saw smoke coming out of the oven. My mind went into instant emergency-response mode. I remember my thoughts so clearly! The first thing I did was grab the cordless phone, in case I needed to call 911. Then, I went into the living room and suggested to my little brother and sister to go outside. They were confused. Then, I sprinted up the stairs, woke up my mom (who thought it was just another false alarm ruining her siesta – typical Argentine behavior, heh). But, as a mother, she would of course make sure everything was ok.

She jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs (I think she smelled the bad fumes too) and immediately headed towards the kitchen. I went back to the living room, got my brother and sister, and made them go outside in the rain with me. I remember pacing outside the house with heavy rain splashing around me, wondering if and when I should call 911 while my big white socks flopped around on the wet grass (I didn’t bother with shoes – who bothers with shoes in a textbook emergency situation!?). Then, I heard my mom scream, so I ran in the house…

There was chaos in the kitchen. Flames were coming out of the oven, and my mom, running on adrenaline, opened up the oven and saw a flaming pan of oil, which she instinctively grabbed and then DROPPED (at this point I was clinging to the telephone and desperately searching the kitchen for the fire extinguisher, which was behind the oven and unreachable). That pan dropped on the floor and burning oil splattered all around. My mom screamed again and cursed. Genoveva ran in with a cup of water and poured it on the fire. Horrible idea: it was oil. The fire spread across the floor, which luckily was some sort of tile that didn’t catch.

“BAKING SODA! BAKING SODA!” I heard my cousin Dora yelling. Apparently, baking soda is one way to put out a fire. I saw her run into the pantry, find the box, open it and DUMP it on the burning oil. Pshhhhh.... success. Smoke was pouring out of the kitchen that my mom, babysitter, and cousin were in and I stood there staring until the smoke became uncomfortable, then I ran out of the house and watched.

It all escalated very quickly, from the moment the fire alarm went off to the moment my mom walked outside onto the porch. Once safely outside with the fire out, she started pacing with one hand on her hip and one hand covering her mouth. She was staring somewhat blankly ahead, trying to regroup while I kept asking "are you ok? mom? You ok?" She was fine -- just a bit shaken up, and she burned her fingers grabbing that pan.

Genoveva was all worked up and emotional. After all, she put a pan of oil in an oven that was on (she later ended up getting my mom’s bicycle stolen outside of our apartment – I think that was strike three, and she became the only au pair the Tavels ever fired. OOOPS, that’s definitely a bad pun… You know I love those! Hehe).

As I stood there in the rain with my brother and sister, my socks soaked all the way through and a chill working its way down my spine, I felt calm, a little scared, but safe. The smoke cleared and we were able to go back inside the kitchen, where a large black ring now marked the center of the kitchen floor from where my mom had dropped the flaming pan of oil. While I thought this was my “…so I called 911” moment, I was relieved that the phone call was never necessary.

But like the memory of this close call, that ring in the floor is still there.

Our President, Barack Obama

Today, along with millions of others around the world and around the city, I watched as Barack Obama took an oath to become the 44th President of the United States, the 1st African American one, and the 5th president in my lifetime (yep, had to look that up and make sure I had my numbers right – I’m such an amateur...). That sense of hope, unity, and determination for change that was felt on Election Day is in the cold air once again. Only this time it is more tangible, less idealized… more real.

For the first time at an event of such significance, Obama stumbled over his words and revealed imperfection seconds before officially being placed on the highest pedestal we can give him. It happened in the first several words of taking his oath. Then again, “stumbled” does not seem like the correct word. Stumbling implies losing one’s footing and almost falling -- he has not done this yet (and boy do I hope he never does!). It was more composed than that, like watching a video and seeing people’s mouths moving while the sound of their voices comes out just a millisecond later. That millisecond throws everything off, as if two slices of the same moment suddenly do not overlap and this misalignment causes a hiccup in time. In other words, it was as if Obama’s world, suddenly propelled by adrenaline and excitement, began moving a millisecond faster than reality, and he had to pause, reset, and settle back into the rhythm of the moment we were all a part of, which he was (luckily) able to do with a graceful grin.

But instead of taking away from the moment, his quick slip-up added a perfect and unexpected dose of reality to an otherwise surreal moment of unparalleled historical significance in his life: it was a reminder that he is human, that this event is real (as historical and built up as it might be on paper), and that there would be no magic potion to make our problems disappear (for better or for worse). Maybe he is even nervous, and can you blame the guy?! In a way, it was endearing and refreshing to see our supposedly unshakeable new leader quiver under the weight of his shiny new title. If anything, it only proved how significant this transfer of power really is to the man at the center of it all. I'd rather see a guy shake off a few nerves than watch the stoic composure of a robot-like politician.

Obama’s (once again) inspiring speech spoke right to us, not at us. It spoke up to us, not down to us. It reminded the world not just of what we want America to become, but of the America and Americans we have always been. We stand for so much good, we have incredible ideals, but we have been caught up in the wrong crowds and lost in the delivery of mixed signals. Sure, we have made a lot of mistakes (and not the kind you can sweep under a rug or forget). But we’re still the country we have always been. Now, we have our hope, we’ve gotten our change, and we’ve renewed our image. But this is only the beginning of making changes, of cleaning up our identity, of improving our (and the world’s) future. It's time to take the idealists seriously!

America needs to soul-search, to remember our past while envisioning how to attain our desired future. And we are ready to take responsibility again. We’re ready to own up to our place in the world, and give not just Americans but people from every corner of the globe something to believe in – because that’s what America has always symbolized: hope, dreams, possibility! And whether or not every bullet point on the political checklist gets checked off in the next four or eight years (highly unlikely), it is this restoration of our ideals, our principles, and our values that has pumped new blood into the heartbeat of America. Instead of shrinking to the challenges we now face, we feel ready to take them on! (Yeah, easy for me to say, I don't know the half of how to solve most of these problems... but whatever, I feel good about our leadership again! Yes we can!)

[OK ok, I'll settle down. I'm telling you, this whole "hope," "change," "yes we can" Obama thing is contagious! I've been bitten by the bug once again, and it feels kinda good!]

I don’t want to admit this, but as I sat in the conference room watching the CNN live-feed on a big screen TV, I couldn’t stop worrying that something horrible might happen. As morbid as it may sound, I kept imagining the horror of a bullet ripping through Obama’s neck followed by chaos in the crowd. Him being assassinated hadn’t crossed my mind until I was sitting there watching him on the big screen, noticing how suddenly vulnerable our embodiment of our future was about to become. His vulnerability seemed to outshine his power, and he suddenly seemed more human to me than presidential – but in a good way.

As soon as Obama’s speech was over and he was safely whisked into the background, I was able to appreciate that change had occurred, that we – the people of the United States of America – have finally given a new face, a new name, and a new dream to our future. We did it: we’ve made the change we (most of us) and the rest of the world (most of it) have been waiting for, and now we must discover exactly where it can and where it will take us.