Nuha’s doctor’s appointments are always a source of excitement. As anxious first-time parents we always want to know how much weight our child has gained, and whether she is over or underweight for her age group. Of particular interest to me is how much taller she has gotten, and what percentile she fits into as compared to her peer group. If she is to have a successful career as a college basketball player at a top school (I’m thinking Lady Vols at Tennessee, or the Tar Heels at UNC, although nothing would be more satisfying than to see her set records at my alma mater, UVA), she’s going to need some height.
But the most eventful part of the doctor’s appointment is always the point when she has to be administered her shots. This week, she was supposed to get multiple shots, for everything from the flu to the diptheria, tetanus, and pertussis vaccines. Saeeda and I spent time prepping her – playing with her to soothe her nerves, giving her some milk to settle her, and generally holding her to encourage her to relax. When the nurse showed up with the ridiculously long needles all ready, I did what any stalwart, strong-willed father would do – I handed the baby to Saeeda and hid in a corner.
Luckily for me, the nurse was too far along her preparation process to wait for Saeeda and I to fight out which one of us would hold Nuha down while looking into her large, pleading eyes as the shots were administered. Saeeda was closer, and I was hiding behind one of the office cabinets, so it would have to be Saeeda.
The first shot into Nuha’s thigh wasn’t fun. That’s when Nuha went from “la la la, the world is a great place right now, I wonder when I’m up for my next feeding” to “WHOA, mother$%^&*# what the hell was THAT?!” The nurse didn’t waste any time, discarding the spent needle and picking up the next shot in one swift move. This next one went into Nuha’s other thigh. That’s when Nuha realized things were seriously wrong with her world, and that her mom was not doing anything about. Cue the trembling lower lip, rapid expansion of her eyes, and the flow of dishearteningly large tears.
Saeeda’s face crumbled as our daughter pleaded with her mother to make the pain stop. And just when we hoped things would get better, the nurse picked up the third needle and administered it back into the first leg. That’s when Nuha's cries turned to the whimpers of a wounded animal, and I sensed Saeeda was going to lose it. Time for action!
As the nurse left the room, I moved in from behind the cabinet and scooped Nuha into my arms. “It’s ok babe, daddy will take care of you,” I whispered. Nuha looked at me and I could clearlyt read the accusation in her eyes – “You're supposed to take care of me! Why did you let me suffer so much pain?” I had no answer for her, so I simply turned Nuha to face her mother. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said. “Mommy is bad, very bad. Daddy will take care of you though.”
I got a cold, murderous look from Saeeda, but I didn’t care. I was just being the stalwart father, always there for my baby daughter.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Supervising Kids
Nuha is getting to the age where objects around her are no longer to be simply observed, but to be touched, tasted, and thrown around. This makes it entertaining to watch her explore everyday items, such as our TV remotes, because she treats them as if they were alien technology meant to perform unimaginable tasks. For example, she’ll pick up the remote gingerly with both hands, look at it wide-eyed, and start turning it in different directions. After several minutes of this examination, and when she realizes that simple observation will not be enough to understand the remote's purpose, she does the only thing left – stick it as far into her mouth as possible. A cute activity quickly turns not-so-cute when you have to wipe off kid-slobber from sticky buttons every time you go to change channels.
Her other favorite activity is playing with paper napkins, because of their texture and the sound they make when crinkled. I put this fascination to great use this past weekend, when Saeeda left me and Nuha alone to run some errands. Now that I was in charge of supervision, I faced a dilemma. I badly wanted to read the newspaper (something I hadn’t done in a really long time), but also had to watch the baby. So I solved both problems in one shot. I read the paper, and gave the back page of it to Nuha to play with, correctly assuming that she would treat it like one huge paper napkin.
It was great. I got to read the Financial Times while Nuha went to town on the paper, crunching it, ripping it, throwing it, and picking it back up again to repeat the cycle. A half hour flew by like it was nothing. I had just finished reading the last page when I looked down at my daughter, and realized the folly of what I had done. You see, the Financial Times is printed on orange paper, and its ink isn’t exactly permanent (you’d think that a paper like that would be of a little higher quality, no?). At my feet sat my daughter, with her hands and mouth turned black from the ink, and with little strips of newspaper hanging from her lips.
My first thought wasn’t, “I wonder if this ink is toxic” or “I wonder if she swallowed any paper,” but “Oh $#%!, Saeeda is going to kill me.” Now in all fairness, the next two thoughts were centered around the toxicity of the ink and the ingestion of paper. But initially all I knew was that Saeeda was coming home any minute, and my daughter looked like a crazy clown.
I sprung into action. All shreds of newspaper were immediately removed from within reach of my daughter and discarded. The baby was quickly spirited to the bathroom for a complete scrub down. While she squealed murder I attempted to wash her hands and face, and to make sure that there was nothing inside her mouth. In my enthusiasm, I managed to completely drench her clothes. So then it was off to the changing table to change her into a new outfit, and then finally back to her playmat in the living room. Knowing that she had just changed out of wet clothes I cranked up the heat in the room, because the last thing I needed was for her to catch a cold.
It was only five minutes later that Saeeda returned. She walked into the living room and paused, surveying everything. Ohmygod she knows, I thought to myself. I don’t know how but she knows!
“It’s really warm in here,” she said.
I struck a casual pose as I tried to wipe some dried slobber from the TV remote. “Oh yeah?” I asked nonchalantly. “Honey, I think it’s just you – you just came in from the outside.”
She waited, hesitating, processing what I was saying. Something didn’t feel right to her. She looked at Nuha, who by now was busy playing with her stuffed bunny rabbit. She looked at me. I felt a bead of sweat start to form. Could she tell that Nuha was in a new change of clothes? Could she spot that last smudge of ink on her pinky that I had been unable to remove? Was I in trouble?
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess so,” and headed to our bedroom to sort through her shopping.
I sighed in relief, as my daughter munched on her bunny, oblivious to what had just happened. Crisis averted.
Her other favorite activity is playing with paper napkins, because of their texture and the sound they make when crinkled. I put this fascination to great use this past weekend, when Saeeda left me and Nuha alone to run some errands. Now that I was in charge of supervision, I faced a dilemma. I badly wanted to read the newspaper (something I hadn’t done in a really long time), but also had to watch the baby. So I solved both problems in one shot. I read the paper, and gave the back page of it to Nuha to play with, correctly assuming that she would treat it like one huge paper napkin.
It was great. I got to read the Financial Times while Nuha went to town on the paper, crunching it, ripping it, throwing it, and picking it back up again to repeat the cycle. A half hour flew by like it was nothing. I had just finished reading the last page when I looked down at my daughter, and realized the folly of what I had done. You see, the Financial Times is printed on orange paper, and its ink isn’t exactly permanent (you’d think that a paper like that would be of a little higher quality, no?). At my feet sat my daughter, with her hands and mouth turned black from the ink, and with little strips of newspaper hanging from her lips.
My first thought wasn’t, “I wonder if this ink is toxic” or “I wonder if she swallowed any paper,” but “Oh $#%!, Saeeda is going to kill me.” Now in all fairness, the next two thoughts were centered around the toxicity of the ink and the ingestion of paper. But initially all I knew was that Saeeda was coming home any minute, and my daughter looked like a crazy clown.
I sprung into action. All shreds of newspaper were immediately removed from within reach of my daughter and discarded. The baby was quickly spirited to the bathroom for a complete scrub down. While she squealed murder I attempted to wash her hands and face, and to make sure that there was nothing inside her mouth. In my enthusiasm, I managed to completely drench her clothes. So then it was off to the changing table to change her into a new outfit, and then finally back to her playmat in the living room. Knowing that she had just changed out of wet clothes I cranked up the heat in the room, because the last thing I needed was for her to catch a cold.
It was only five minutes later that Saeeda returned. She walked into the living room and paused, surveying everything. Ohmygod she knows, I thought to myself. I don’t know how but she knows!
“It’s really warm in here,” she said.
I struck a casual pose as I tried to wipe some dried slobber from the TV remote. “Oh yeah?” I asked nonchalantly. “Honey, I think it’s just you – you just came in from the outside.”
She waited, hesitating, processing what I was saying. Something didn’t feel right to her. She looked at Nuha, who by now was busy playing with her stuffed bunny rabbit. She looked at me. I felt a bead of sweat start to form. Could she tell that Nuha was in a new change of clothes? Could she spot that last smudge of ink on her pinky that I had been unable to remove? Was I in trouble?
“Hmm,” she said. “I guess so,” and headed to our bedroom to sort through her shopping.
I sighed in relief, as my daughter munched on her bunny, oblivious to what had just happened. Crisis averted.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Lady in Black
We all have a strange coworker. I know I’ve had my share. There was that guy in my first job who used a backscratcher at work (basically a two foot long pole with a hand attached to the end, used to reach hard to access places on your back). But rather than use it occasionally, this dude would permanently be scratching his back, and he would therefore just leave the backscratcher inside his shirt, sticking out his neck while he worked. Then there was the guy on a project in New York who flossed his teeth obsessively, but was also ridiculously absentminded, so he’d walk around the office with pieces of floss string still hanging from his mouth. You think I’m being absurd, but I swear I’m telling the truth.
And now there’s the Lady in Black. I take the train in to work every day, and that’s where I see her. Dressed all in black (or, at best, varying shades of gray), head to toe. I’ve been taking the train to Abbott since August, and not one day have I seen her wear something of color. It’s all high-end clothing too – a fashionable jacket, a smart dress, shiny shoes, and a designer handbag. But everything is always in gray/black. She has straight, jet black hair, and wears large sunglasses every day. We live in Chicago, where it seems that we're currently getting only 3 hours of daylight, but still she wears these shades. Even her “accidental accessories” are all black. These are the random items in her possession that she should have no chromatic control over. Items such as shopping bags or newspapers or snacks – but these too are always black. She sucks color from everything around her.
The kicker is that I’ve never seen her smile either. As if looking like a female agent from the Matrix weren't enough, she's stern-faced to boot. Once the train deposits us near Abbott, we board company shuttles that take us to the corporate campus. Countless times I’ve held doors open for her, and countless times I’ve seen others do the same. But she won’t smile. It’s gotten to the point where I just want to sidle up to her and tell her a really good, funny story. Everyone laughs at my funny stories. But will she? I don’t know that, and it’s killing me. I mean, wouldn’t she be the greatest test of my ability to amuse others? But what if I failed? What if I told her my funniest story, and she just stared at me, unsmiling, my face reflecting back at me off her sunglasses?
I can’t do it. But I need to make her smile. I have to.
And now there’s the Lady in Black. I take the train in to work every day, and that’s where I see her. Dressed all in black (or, at best, varying shades of gray), head to toe. I’ve been taking the train to Abbott since August, and not one day have I seen her wear something of color. It’s all high-end clothing too – a fashionable jacket, a smart dress, shiny shoes, and a designer handbag. But everything is always in gray/black. She has straight, jet black hair, and wears large sunglasses every day. We live in Chicago, where it seems that we're currently getting only 3 hours of daylight, but still she wears these shades. Even her “accidental accessories” are all black. These are the random items in her possession that she should have no chromatic control over. Items such as shopping bags or newspapers or snacks – but these too are always black. She sucks color from everything around her.
The kicker is that I’ve never seen her smile either. As if looking like a female agent from the Matrix weren't enough, she's stern-faced to boot. Once the train deposits us near Abbott, we board company shuttles that take us to the corporate campus. Countless times I’ve held doors open for her, and countless times I’ve seen others do the same. But she won’t smile. It’s gotten to the point where I just want to sidle up to her and tell her a really good, funny story. Everyone laughs at my funny stories. But will she? I don’t know that, and it’s killing me. I mean, wouldn’t she be the greatest test of my ability to amuse others? But what if I failed? What if I told her my funniest story, and she just stared at me, unsmiling, my face reflecting back at me off her sunglasses?
I can’t do it. But I need to make her smile. I have to.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
My French nephew
Last week was chaotic in the Khan household. Not only did my small two-bedroom Chicago apartment play host to my parents (visiting from Karachi), but it also tried to valiantly accommodate my sister, her husband, and 18 month old son (all visiting from London). The last time we had all been together was almost three years ago at my sister's wedding, and at the time there were no children in the mix. With new additions to the family for both my sister and I, it was wonderful (and crazy busy) to have everyone in one place last week.
My favorite moments, by far, revolved around interaction with my nephew. First of all, the litte dude is HUGE. Easily in the 99th percentile for his age group, his mother is forced to buy clothing meant for 3 year olds. Second, he is a typical little boy - virtually indestructable. And finally, he's endearingly weird.
While most children are happy giving parents fits about what they will and will not eat, my nephew will voraciously devour anything in sight (which may, now that I think about it, explain his size). While most children start getting sleepier as evening turns into night, my nephew acts as if he's just chugged a 16 oz. can of Red Bull. This is obviously quite the problem for us in my apartment, because there aren't very many clear pathways for a kid to zoom around in. We eventually resolved this by moving as much furniture as we could against the apartment walls, so that by 10:00pm, when my nephew first started to crave the need for speed, he was able to run full tilt from end to end in our apartment without injuring himself (given his size, this was probably a good thing for our furniture too, as I'm not sure what would have borne the brunt of the punishment). When tired from all the running, and in an attempt to catch his breath, my nephew would ocassionally go sit inside the refrigerator to cool off. Once recovered, the breakneck sprinting would resume, until finally about 11pm he would start to run out of gas, and would sputter to an abrupt stop.
My favorite memory of him from this trip, however, will be listening to him try to communicate with us. As would be expected of an 18 month old, he has a limited vocabulary. What would move me to fits of laughter would be his enunciation of this vocabulary, specifically because he would insist on pronouncing his words using a French accent. This imparted a bizarrely haughty demeanor to all his attempts at communicating with us.
"Shoes" became "shuss," "food" became "fewt," and my favorite, "potty" became "pottay." Actually, that last was pronounced as two words "po" and then "tay." Which is a great way to tell someone that you need to use the facilities. "Excusez-moi Monsieur? Ou est le po-ttay?" Gives the message such a sophisticated touch. Especially when we'd be getting ready to leave to see Chicago for the day, and he would cycle through all of his words with us. Even now, several days after my last interaction with him, I find myself pretending that he is speaking to me before I leave home for the day.
"Excuse me," he would say to me. "Are you sure you are ready to leave? Did you have your fewt? We will not be eating until lunchtime. Do you have your shuss on? Because it's going to be terribly inconvenient to walk around barefoot. Oh, and please make sure to void your bladder and bowel by using the po-ttay before we leave - there will be no clean facilities available for quite some time."
My favorite moments, by far, revolved around interaction with my nephew. First of all, the litte dude is HUGE. Easily in the 99th percentile for his age group, his mother is forced to buy clothing meant for 3 year olds. Second, he is a typical little boy - virtually indestructable. And finally, he's endearingly weird.
While most children are happy giving parents fits about what they will and will not eat, my nephew will voraciously devour anything in sight (which may, now that I think about it, explain his size). While most children start getting sleepier as evening turns into night, my nephew acts as if he's just chugged a 16 oz. can of Red Bull. This is obviously quite the problem for us in my apartment, because there aren't very many clear pathways for a kid to zoom around in. We eventually resolved this by moving as much furniture as we could against the apartment walls, so that by 10:00pm, when my nephew first started to crave the need for speed, he was able to run full tilt from end to end in our apartment without injuring himself (given his size, this was probably a good thing for our furniture too, as I'm not sure what would have borne the brunt of the punishment). When tired from all the running, and in an attempt to catch his breath, my nephew would ocassionally go sit inside the refrigerator to cool off. Once recovered, the breakneck sprinting would resume, until finally about 11pm he would start to run out of gas, and would sputter to an abrupt stop.
My favorite memory of him from this trip, however, will be listening to him try to communicate with us. As would be expected of an 18 month old, he has a limited vocabulary. What would move me to fits of laughter would be his enunciation of this vocabulary, specifically because he would insist on pronouncing his words using a French accent. This imparted a bizarrely haughty demeanor to all his attempts at communicating with us.
"Shoes" became "shuss," "food" became "fewt," and my favorite, "potty" became "pottay." Actually, that last was pronounced as two words "po" and then "tay." Which is a great way to tell someone that you need to use the facilities. "Excusez-moi Monsieur? Ou est le po-ttay?" Gives the message such a sophisticated touch. Especially when we'd be getting ready to leave to see Chicago for the day, and he would cycle through all of his words with us. Even now, several days after my last interaction with him, I find myself pretending that he is speaking to me before I leave home for the day.
"Excuse me," he would say to me. "Are you sure you are ready to leave? Did you have your fewt? We will not be eating until lunchtime. Do you have your shuss on? Because it's going to be terribly inconvenient to walk around barefoot. Oh, and please make sure to void your bladder and bowel by using the po-ttay before we leave - there will be no clean facilities available for quite some time."
Ah, to live in Europe. No wonder kids grow up multi-lingual there.
Monday, October 13, 2008
26.2!
On Sunday I ran the Chicago Marathon. I've detailed some of my running adventures before here , but by some miracle I was able to actually complete the training program and show up to toe the line with runners from all over the world. The start corral was crowded, and I was surrounded by athletes who were barely able to contain their nervous energy. Among them were people I knew - friends I had made during my many months of training runs. There was Aaron, the University of Chicago researcher with his trusty water bottle strapped to his hand; Seth, with the amazing midwestern ability to shrug off any amount of discomfort; and of course, Melissa, a constant source of energy and conversation for the group.
These were just three of the friends that I had made over ten months of running endless miles on the Lakefront Trail in Chicago. All of us - all 33,000 of us - were there for different reasons. Some wanted to set personal records, some wanted to run for a cause, and others wanted to run for the memory of a loved one. My reason for being there was admittedly selfish - a desire to "check the box" on that great list of Life's ToDo's, and to prove to myself that I could conquer my distaste for running.
The marathon did not disappoint. I was amazed by the sheer number of physically fit people around me - so many that it took over 15 minutes for me to cross the start line once the gun went off. All I saw ahead was a sea of bobbing heads and wondered who all these people were that were willing to endure such a gruelingly long distance. I don't know if I figured out the answer to that question in the five and a half hours it took me to complete the course. However, along the way I did manage to amass a set of memories that I will treasure for a long, long time:
- Hearing the national anthem play while thousands of people stood in hushed silence. There was something about the melodious strains, the early morning light, and the sheer silence of the crowd around me that made it a very special moment.
- Crossing the start line, and telling myself, "this is it - I'm not giving up until I'm done, come hell or high water." Crossing that line was my way of looking my age in the eye and saying "bring it on."
- Running into my friend Mansi the first ten minutes into the race. She was there snapping pictures, and I couldn't believe that we found each other between all those runnners.
- Experiencing Chicago's beautiful neighborhoods. As with any big city, one spends time confined to well worn locales. Running the Chicago marathon helped me experience this city's streets and avenues in a wonderfully intimate manner. I know that I'll quickly go back to walking the city briskly, head down, and looking up only to check street names, but for the duration of the run I was able to admire the texture and grit of Chicago like never before.
- Running with my training buddies. We lost Seth around mile 6, but Melissa and I managed to run together for 21 miles. I could never have run the race were it not for the constant partnership of someone running beside me. And God bless Melissa for her own non-marathon friends, who were waiting on the sidelines every 10 miles or so. We somehow managed to find them every time, and we would all run together as a big group until they would bow out and a new group of Melissa's friends would join us. The constant supply of fresh legs and energy kept our spirits up, especially when the temperature started rising and our legs started to weigh a hundred pounds each. One of these runners proved to be my angel, and ran the last quarter of the marathon with me, egging me on the whole way. And just as I crossed the finish line, he melted away anonymously.
- The hilarious signs. From the witty ("Marathon, a 10k with a 20 mile warmup" and "2.62? WTF?!") to the political ("Amy, you're a better running mate than Palin.") My favorite by far was one about two thirds of the way through - "Sure it hurts now, but keep pushing through. It'll feel a lot better in the end (that's what she said)."
- The adoring crowds. Bless their souls, every one of them. Each neighborhood had its own flavor of spectators cheering us on. In Lincoln park there were teens with their bands on the street, playing "Eye of the Tiger", in Boystown there were drag queens and men in cheerleader costume ready to make us laugh, in the West Loop there were homeowners with garden hoses to cool us down, in Chinatown there were dragon dancers distracting us, and near Bronzeville there were people with candy, snacks and treats for the starving runners. But most memorable of all were the cheering crowds for the last few miles of the race. It was as if each one of them had a stake in my completing the race.
By the time temperatures hit 84 degrees on mile 24, I hit the proverbial wall. There was no energy left in the tank and lead was coursing through my veins. I was tired, hungry, and just about ready to stagger to the sidelines when a lady saw me slowing down. She immediately started yelling at me. "Don't you dare quit now! Don't you dare!" she yelled. "I can see the determination in your eyes - dig deep and find that energy. You WILL finish this race, and you WILL finish it strong. Don't you dare quit!" I don't get emotional much, but I started sobbing like a baby - it could have been my depleted physical and emotional state, but I didn't care. She was saying things that I need to hear, and from that point on, I resolved to lumber on.
- Finishing the race. Arms raised, looking like a fool, relishing every second of the experience. Yes it took me 45 minutes longer than I had expected, but I didn't feel so bad. Experienced marathoners that were pace leaders had succumbed along the way because of the sweltering heat, so I didn't care that my pace had slowed down. Yes I hadn't set any records, but I had proven to myself that I could run this distance. And yes, in the grand scheme of things this will matter little, but knowing that I had the willpower to set a goal and see it to the end meant the world. My wife and daughter were there to greet me, and for the second time that day I broke down. I hugged Saeeda tight and just wouldn't let go. I'm sure she thought it wonderful that this immensely sweaty and stinky lunatic was hanging on to her, but I couldn't stop squeezing her. It took a couple of almost incrompensible "thank you for letting me do this" sobs, and a few kisses before I was ready to peel off. And my baby was a little annoyed at being woken from her nap, but I didn't care. Her father, a world-class athlete, was holding her in his arms, and that's what mattered.
So much in life is centered around making things easy, or finding shortcuts. Running a marathon is a way of returning to the basics. It provides no privileges to the wealthy, and no breaks for the accomplished. All, wealthy and poor, are treated alike because no amount of kicking and screaming is going to lessen the distance from start to finish. No matter your station in life, all you need is a good pair of shoes, a trusty friend, and a healthy dose of ignorance for what convention says is possible. Beyond that, it's just a walk in the park.
These were just three of the friends that I had made over ten months of running endless miles on the Lakefront Trail in Chicago. All of us - all 33,000 of us - were there for different reasons. Some wanted to set personal records, some wanted to run for a cause, and others wanted to run for the memory of a loved one. My reason for being there was admittedly selfish - a desire to "check the box" on that great list of Life's ToDo's, and to prove to myself that I could conquer my distaste for running.
The marathon did not disappoint. I was amazed by the sheer number of physically fit people around me - so many that it took over 15 minutes for me to cross the start line once the gun went off. All I saw ahead was a sea of bobbing heads and wondered who all these people were that were willing to endure such a gruelingly long distance. I don't know if I figured out the answer to that question in the five and a half hours it took me to complete the course. However, along the way I did manage to amass a set of memories that I will treasure for a long, long time:
- Hearing the national anthem play while thousands of people stood in hushed silence. There was something about the melodious strains, the early morning light, and the sheer silence of the crowd around me that made it a very special moment.
- Crossing the start line, and telling myself, "this is it - I'm not giving up until I'm done, come hell or high water." Crossing that line was my way of looking my age in the eye and saying "bring it on."
- Running into my friend Mansi the first ten minutes into the race. She was there snapping pictures, and I couldn't believe that we found each other between all those runnners.
- Experiencing Chicago's beautiful neighborhoods. As with any big city, one spends time confined to well worn locales. Running the Chicago marathon helped me experience this city's streets and avenues in a wonderfully intimate manner. I know that I'll quickly go back to walking the city briskly, head down, and looking up only to check street names, but for the duration of the run I was able to admire the texture and grit of Chicago like never before.
- Running with my training buddies. We lost Seth around mile 6, but Melissa and I managed to run together for 21 miles. I could never have run the race were it not for the constant partnership of someone running beside me. And God bless Melissa for her own non-marathon friends, who were waiting on the sidelines every 10 miles or so. We somehow managed to find them every time, and we would all run together as a big group until they would bow out and a new group of Melissa's friends would join us. The constant supply of fresh legs and energy kept our spirits up, especially when the temperature started rising and our legs started to weigh a hundred pounds each. One of these runners proved to be my angel, and ran the last quarter of the marathon with me, egging me on the whole way. And just as I crossed the finish line, he melted away anonymously.
- The hilarious signs. From the witty ("Marathon, a 10k with a 20 mile warmup" and "2.62? WTF?!") to the political ("Amy, you're a better running mate than Palin.") My favorite by far was one about two thirds of the way through - "Sure it hurts now, but keep pushing through. It'll feel a lot better in the end (that's what she said)."
- The adoring crowds. Bless their souls, every one of them. Each neighborhood had its own flavor of spectators cheering us on. In Lincoln park there were teens with their bands on the street, playing "Eye of the Tiger", in Boystown there were drag queens and men in cheerleader costume ready to make us laugh, in the West Loop there were homeowners with garden hoses to cool us down, in Chinatown there were dragon dancers distracting us, and near Bronzeville there were people with candy, snacks and treats for the starving runners. But most memorable of all were the cheering crowds for the last few miles of the race. It was as if each one of them had a stake in my completing the race.
By the time temperatures hit 84 degrees on mile 24, I hit the proverbial wall. There was no energy left in the tank and lead was coursing through my veins. I was tired, hungry, and just about ready to stagger to the sidelines when a lady saw me slowing down. She immediately started yelling at me. "Don't you dare quit now! Don't you dare!" she yelled. "I can see the determination in your eyes - dig deep and find that energy. You WILL finish this race, and you WILL finish it strong. Don't you dare quit!" I don't get emotional much, but I started sobbing like a baby - it could have been my depleted physical and emotional state, but I didn't care. She was saying things that I need to hear, and from that point on, I resolved to lumber on.
- Finishing the race. Arms raised, looking like a fool, relishing every second of the experience. Yes it took me 45 minutes longer than I had expected, but I didn't feel so bad. Experienced marathoners that were pace leaders had succumbed along the way because of the sweltering heat, so I didn't care that my pace had slowed down. Yes I hadn't set any records, but I had proven to myself that I could run this distance. And yes, in the grand scheme of things this will matter little, but knowing that I had the willpower to set a goal and see it to the end meant the world. My wife and daughter were there to greet me, and for the second time that day I broke down. I hugged Saeeda tight and just wouldn't let go. I'm sure she thought it wonderful that this immensely sweaty and stinky lunatic was hanging on to her, but I couldn't stop squeezing her. It took a couple of almost incrompensible "thank you for letting me do this" sobs, and a few kisses before I was ready to peel off. And my baby was a little annoyed at being woken from her nap, but I didn't care. Her father, a world-class athlete, was holding her in his arms, and that's what mattered.
So much in life is centered around making things easy, or finding shortcuts. Running a marathon is a way of returning to the basics. It provides no privileges to the wealthy, and no breaks for the accomplished. All, wealthy and poor, are treated alike because no amount of kicking and screaming is going to lessen the distance from start to finish. No matter your station in life, all you need is a good pair of shoes, a trusty friend, and a healthy dose of ignorance for what convention says is possible. Beyond that, it's just a walk in the park.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
We're "those" parents now
Having a baby keeps one busy. No matter how hard I plead with Nuha every evening that I need to update my blog, she simply wails until I relent and agree to change yet another poopy diaper. Not only does she require 100% of our time, she demands that we service her with a smile. One day I'll make her pay me back. Maybe by embarrassing her in front of all her high school friends by showing to pick her up in a spandex Spiderman costume. That'll show her.
Saeeda and I spent the last week on vacation in LA. Saeeda had left two weeks ago, with her mom helping with the baby on the flight over. I joined the family later, spent a week in LA, and then we all returned to Chicago together. So the return trip was the first time I had ever traveled with an infant. It also marked the first time I became "that parent" with the baby who slows everything down.
See, in my past life I was a high-powered tech consultant, flying from city to city on a weekly basis. I was cool. I was hip. I knew which belt buckle to wear so that it wouldn't set off the detectors. I knew exactly which order to place my belongings for screening at the security checkpoint. Laptop in a bin by itself, followed by laptop bag, followed by my carry-on luggage, and end with shoes and jacket in another bin. This way I retrieved my most valuable belonging first, placed it back in the laptop bag as that came through, then put on my shoes and jacket before heading on my way. Less than 3 minutes start to finish.
Here's how things play out now. Saeeda and I struggle to squeeze the baby stroller through the narrow Disney-land lanes at the security checkpoint. We get to the screening area, then need to spend ten minutes disassembling the Transformer-like contraption that is the stroller (see my post here on how long it took me to assemble the damn thing). We then struggle with the diaper bag, which we don't realize has bottles of water in it for Nuha's milk. The water bottles need to be tossed, which takes some more fumbling. Starting to get embarrassed at how long this is taking, I simply start flinging stuff onto the belt for screening. I almost toss the baby into the x-ray machine before my wife stops my arm in mid-swing. My daughter looks at me accusingly ("hey, free x-rays!" I think to myself). I walk through the detector, only for alarms to go off because I haven't emptied my pockets. Embarrassed and defeated at having made such a rookie mistake, I step back and run into the passenger behind me so that I can sheepishly empty my pockets into a tray.
With our security screening adventures over, Saeeda and I make it to our gate and start boarding the plane. Now we have to navigate the narrow plane aisle in search of our seats while carrying Nuha in a baby seat. Nuha, suddenly claustrophobic, decides its time she is taken out of the car seat and lets out a piercing cry. I look at her and plead with her to hang on, which does no good. Now the tears and the flailing start, while I try mightily to hold on to the car seat. I silently curse the passengers ahead of us blocking the aisle as they take their own sweet time trying to figure out why a gargantuan suitcase won't fit into the tiny overhead bin. When I see them try to shove the luggage in for the fourth time, I feel like yelling at them, but am saved by the flight attendant who gently admonishes them and tells them that they need to gate check their bag. In-flight Twister ensues as those passengers try to get by me while I hold a car seat with a squirming, squealing infant. As I maneuver the car seat, I clock a seated gentleman squarely on the head - afterwards I can't tell whether he is unconscious or simply resting his face on his copy of of the Wall St. Journal. I glance at my ticket, praying to God that our seat is coming up. No such luck - we're the absolute last aisle on the plane, just before the bathroom (I bet the airline does that on purpose - stick parents with stinky babies by the stinky bathroom and no one will notice).
Now attracting evil glares from every passenger, my wife and I (who have become "those parents" with the screaming baby) apologize our way through to the back of the plane and to our seats. We slowly shed all our gear - the diaper bag, our carry ons, my wife's purse, food for the flight, reading material for the flight, jackets, base for the car seat and then finally the car seat with Nuha still ensconced within. The moment we set her down, she stops crying, and looks up and gives us an angelic smile.
I'm so wearing that spandex Spidey costume in front of her friends.
Saeeda and I spent the last week on vacation in LA. Saeeda had left two weeks ago, with her mom helping with the baby on the flight over. I joined the family later, spent a week in LA, and then we all returned to Chicago together. So the return trip was the first time I had ever traveled with an infant. It also marked the first time I became "that parent" with the baby who slows everything down.
See, in my past life I was a high-powered tech consultant, flying from city to city on a weekly basis. I was cool. I was hip. I knew which belt buckle to wear so that it wouldn't set off the detectors. I knew exactly which order to place my belongings for screening at the security checkpoint. Laptop in a bin by itself, followed by laptop bag, followed by my carry-on luggage, and end with shoes and jacket in another bin. This way I retrieved my most valuable belonging first, placed it back in the laptop bag as that came through, then put on my shoes and jacket before heading on my way. Less than 3 minutes start to finish.
Here's how things play out now. Saeeda and I struggle to squeeze the baby stroller through the narrow Disney-land lanes at the security checkpoint. We get to the screening area, then need to spend ten minutes disassembling the Transformer-like contraption that is the stroller (see my post here on how long it took me to assemble the damn thing). We then struggle with the diaper bag, which we don't realize has bottles of water in it for Nuha's milk. The water bottles need to be tossed, which takes some more fumbling. Starting to get embarrassed at how long this is taking, I simply start flinging stuff onto the belt for screening. I almost toss the baby into the x-ray machine before my wife stops my arm in mid-swing. My daughter looks at me accusingly ("hey, free x-rays!" I think to myself). I walk through the detector, only for alarms to go off because I haven't emptied my pockets. Embarrassed and defeated at having made such a rookie mistake, I step back and run into the passenger behind me so that I can sheepishly empty my pockets into a tray.
With our security screening adventures over, Saeeda and I make it to our gate and start boarding the plane. Now we have to navigate the narrow plane aisle in search of our seats while carrying Nuha in a baby seat. Nuha, suddenly claustrophobic, decides its time she is taken out of the car seat and lets out a piercing cry. I look at her and plead with her to hang on, which does no good. Now the tears and the flailing start, while I try mightily to hold on to the car seat. I silently curse the passengers ahead of us blocking the aisle as they take their own sweet time trying to figure out why a gargantuan suitcase won't fit into the tiny overhead bin. When I see them try to shove the luggage in for the fourth time, I feel like yelling at them, but am saved by the flight attendant who gently admonishes them and tells them that they need to gate check their bag. In-flight Twister ensues as those passengers try to get by me while I hold a car seat with a squirming, squealing infant. As I maneuver the car seat, I clock a seated gentleman squarely on the head - afterwards I can't tell whether he is unconscious or simply resting his face on his copy of of the Wall St. Journal. I glance at my ticket, praying to God that our seat is coming up. No such luck - we're the absolute last aisle on the plane, just before the bathroom (I bet the airline does that on purpose - stick parents with stinky babies by the stinky bathroom and no one will notice).
Now attracting evil glares from every passenger, my wife and I (who have become "those parents" with the screaming baby) apologize our way through to the back of the plane and to our seats. We slowly shed all our gear - the diaper bag, our carry ons, my wife's purse, food for the flight, reading material for the flight, jackets, base for the car seat and then finally the car seat with Nuha still ensconced within. The moment we set her down, she stops crying, and looks up and gives us an angelic smile.
I'm so wearing that spandex Spidey costume in front of her friends.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
The defining crisis of our times
If you haven’t been living under a rock, then you’ve heard of the financial world’s collapse over the last two weeks (if you have been living under a rock, then congratulations - as Jon Stewart said, yours is the only real estate that has appreciated in value). Starting with Bear Stearns, the list of firms where the destruction is absolute is mind-boggling. Merrill Lynch, AIG, Freddie Mac, Fannie Mae, Goldman, Washington Mutual. And who knows which firm is next? In essence, you have what I believe is the defining crisis of our times, and not the War on Terror, nor the Rise of China.
The reason is simple – the Subprime Crisis has affected every level of the economy, and will impact the lives of individuals in every wealth bracket. That can’t be said of the War on Terror, an event that is highly relevant for military families and the war industry, but almost irrelevant for the majority of Americans, who still struggle to locate Iraq and Afghanistan on a map, and wonder what we are doing so many, many miles away from home.
The Rise of China had had a more pervasive effect on the American people, no doubt. It is hard to go one day without purchasing something that is not either made in China, or relies on components that were made in China. But outside of the economy, what difference is China making? Are we experiencing a cultural impact? An intellectual impact? The Olympics were widely hailed as China’s coming out party – despite China’s decade-long stranglehold on cheap manufacturing, it took an event as grand as the Summer Olympics for China to make a public impression on the outside world. “Hey!” China was saying. “Look at us – we matter!” This despite its long pace of breakneck growth, and increasing influence in foreign affairs.
No, it is the Subprime Crisis that has fundamentally changed, or is about to fundamentally change the way we live our lives. Homes are no longer safe economic shelters, loans for everyday purchases are disappearing or becoming harder to obtain, jobs are vanishing en masse as firms collapse, and most importantly, the global ripple effects form this crisis continue to magnify the pain. And I don’t even want to begin talking about how our retirement wealth is evaporating before our eyes, or how the phrase “consumer confidence” has descended into irrelevance.
The Great Depression, the Cold War, and now the Subprime Meltdown. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this generation’s defining crisis.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Faisal's Miracle Hair Gro - only $29.99 if you call now!
Many of you have kindly informed me over the years that I am losing my hair. I don't know if you derive pleasure from pointing out the ever-increasing patch of empty real-estate atop my head, or if you are just concerned that I may actually enjoy sporting the Captain Picard look. Nevertheless, I have decided to do something about it. This weekend I spent countless hours in my lab, pulling together a chemical concoction destined to blow Rogaine clear out of the water. Like any good scientist, I needed a human subject for testing purposes. My 3 month old daughter was sitting at arm's length, and since I didn't need to worry about her signing any consent forms, I went to town on her scalp. You'll agree from the results below that I have a winner. Please feel free to submit your order requests in the comments section. Satisfaction guaranteed.
The unsuspecting victim, before Miracle Hair Gro:
The satisfied customer, after Miracle Hair Gro:
The unsuspecting victim, before Miracle Hair Gro:
The satisfied customer, after Miracle Hair Gro:
Sunday, August 24, 2008
How to screw up an important presentation
My friend Kunal and I recently gave an important presentation to a group of senior leaders at Abbott. This presentation marked the culmination of several weeks worth of furious work, and was designed to get buy-in from upper-management for an initiative our teams had been working on. There were several reasons that this presentation was critical:
I honestly don't know how we made it through that hour. However, despite our miserable start we must have said something right, because as we sat slumped in our chairs, exhausted and relieved that we had finished, our managers congratulated us on a job well done. It was all I could do not to break out into tears right there and then. As I wiped at the welling moisture in my eyes I silently thanked God for continuing to provide a few more weeks worth of paychecks. Thank you God. Thank you.
- The project promised to bring attractive revenue to Abbott, and as such was a topic of interest to upper-management - one that had to be presented in a precise, methodical, and detailed manner.
- The collaboration between our two teams (mine and Kunal's) had yielded great results, and we wanted to highlight the potential to work on future projects in the same manner.
- This was an opportunity for Kunal and I to shine, impressing our seniors with the thoroughness of our work, and thereby enhancing our visibility within the circles we moved in.
- On the elevator ride down to the meeting room Kunal turned to me and wondered if there was going to be a projector in the room. I realized I had not bothered to check.
- Kunal and I arrived late to the presentation. All senior leaders were already present and seated around the table, waiting for us. Our tardiness was a result of getting pulled-in at the last minute to make changes to our presentation slides. Changes that we should have reviewed with our immediate managers hours (if not days) before the meeting.
- There was no projector in the room. We did not have printouts for our slides.
- Upon seeing the assembled management team, I decided to busy myself with introductions, as Kunal agreed to go hunt for a projector. Before the door closed behind him, I saw him run frantically in a circle outside the meeting room, before sprinting towards the elevator. Where he was going, I had no idea, but I now had to stall until he returned.
- I decided to introduce myself to everyone in the room, but this didn't take long. Naturally, I then decided to introduce everyone to everyone else, not thinking how many of these individuals already knew each other.
- With introductions complete, I started to wonder if I should break out into an interpretive dance routine when I was mercifully saved - one of the managers asked if anyone else had heard about Abbott's"greening initiative and the drive to cut down on printer paper waste."
- For the next ten minutes I became the most inquisitive student of the environmental impact of Abbott's printing output. I passionately wanted to understand why such an initiative had not been implemented earlier. I asked questions both simple and complex. I took notes. I brought up philosophical and political objections. I think I started losing people when I made the topic a metaphor for the search for extraterrestrial life.
- We were now fifteen minutes past the meeting start time, when God took mercy on my soul, and in ran Kunal, sweaty, out of breath, and with shirt untucked. Who he had killed to obtain the projector, I did not know, and did not care. My life depended on getting the presentation going.
- The power cord for the projector now had to be snaked under the table, between the legs of the assembled party, and into the outlet that lay embedded in the floor, positioned conveniently under the exact center of the table. I think I tackled aside the Alliance Management Director for Oncology in my eagerness to get that cord plugged in.
- As I wove my way, on hands and knees, between the legs of people that could fire me without skipping a beat, I had a sickening realization. The power cord was not long enough to make it to the outlet
- I re-emerged from beneath the table, dust bunnies hanging from my face, only to see Kunal's hopeful face turn despondent as I shook my head.
- Kunal and I then scrambled to reposition the projector precariously on the side of the table closest to a wall outlet. This meant pushing aside the Director of International Business Development and stretching the power cord taut so that it just made it to the wall. With the projector supported on the table in a Rube Goldberg-esque manner, and with its power cord stretched at waist-high level to the wall outlet, we had succeeded in effectively blocking all exit from the room.
- All attention now moved to powering on the projector. In our hurry, we pressed the On/Off button multiple times, so that the projector kept powering on and powering down. Kunal and I glared at each other as our hands performed kung-fu techniques on the projector in a vain attempt to get it turned on. Being the more gracious person, I decided to cede and sat down - no sooner had I done so than Kunal succeeded in turning on the infernal device.
- We had never hooked up our laptops to the version of projector in front of us, so another five minutes ticked off the clock as we attempted to bring the slides up on the screen in the room. A picture would appear on the projection screen for a fleeting second, vanish, then reappear, all as Kunal pressed the correct key combination, followed immediately by the wrong key combination in an attempt to get things started.
- Just as I began to mentally calculate how many months of savings I had stashed away, and what non-essential expenses my wife and I could cut away to stretch until I found a new job, Kunal's face lit up. The presentation was on the screen, and we were ready to roll.
I honestly don't know how we made it through that hour. However, despite our miserable start we must have said something right, because as we sat slumped in our chairs, exhausted and relieved that we had finished, our managers congratulated us on a job well done. It was all I could do not to break out into tears right there and then. As I wiped at the welling moisture in my eyes I silently thanked God for continuing to provide a few more weeks worth of paychecks. Thank you God. Thank you.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Awkward medical issues
*gasp*
Ah, fresh air.
Man, what a set of two weeks it's been. Work has been crazy - Abbott is finally getting a return on what they pay me. I say "finally" because my sales rotation didn't really count as work. Sure, I was away from home 9-5, but I never really put my MBA-honed skills to work. Business development (my current rotation that started three weeks ago), is completely different. 10-12 hour days, the constant burden of meetings and email, spreadsheet analyses, analyst reports, powerpoint hell - the whole nine yards.
On my current team, I'm the least accomplished (as well as the most recent) addition. I'm the rookie that knows diddly squat, and the Directors around me are fully aware of this fact. Their way of remedying my lack of knowledge is to hand me a project and let me sink or swim. These past two weeks I felt like I'd been haplessly treading water, barely breaking the surface enough to grab a lung-full of air before going back under. But I made it. With some much needed support from fellow newbies, I finally turned in a deliverable that did a half-way decent job of explaining why Abbott should pursue a certain business opportunity in the prostrate market. Reflecting back, I find certain things a little awkward. Like the fact that I now consider "prostrate" to be a market.
Breakfast foods is a market. Athletic shoes is a market. A man's prostrate gland? When did that become a market? But in business, as I've come to realize, everything can be packaged in a way that creates a market around it. The market for casual underwear. The market for cool whip. Perhaps even the market for toilet flush-handles. However, what makes things especially awkward in the healthcare industry is that some medical conditions can be difficult to discuss without giggling (or sometimes wincing), in front of your boss. I came close to doing this several times recently, as it is hard to discuss a man's urination problems, or the invasive surgical procedures designed to correct these conditions, without wanting to cross your legs in empathetic pain. Ouch.
But this project wasn't as bad as some of the work I did while I was at Pfizer. I distinctly remember sitting down regularly with the Viagra marketing group to see how my consulting team could assist them with their information needs. Inevitably talk would move to how effective certain ED meds were in giving men the sexual satisfaction they needed, and what side effects turned these men off, and how to measure the happiness level of spouses. The problem was that the entire Viagra marketing team consisted of women. Seven women and Faisal would sit around a conference table, earnestly discussing the sexual advantage of taking a pill that lasted 36 hours vs 3 hours, or how the quality of the erection was paramount, or how useful it was that a specific pill could also boost urine flow.
Awkward. Really awkward.
Ah, fresh air.
Man, what a set of two weeks it's been. Work has been crazy - Abbott is finally getting a return on what they pay me. I say "finally" because my sales rotation didn't really count as work. Sure, I was away from home 9-5, but I never really put my MBA-honed skills to work. Business development (my current rotation that started three weeks ago), is completely different. 10-12 hour days, the constant burden of meetings and email, spreadsheet analyses, analyst reports, powerpoint hell - the whole nine yards.
On my current team, I'm the least accomplished (as well as the most recent) addition. I'm the rookie that knows diddly squat, and the Directors around me are fully aware of this fact. Their way of remedying my lack of knowledge is to hand me a project and let me sink or swim. These past two weeks I felt like I'd been haplessly treading water, barely breaking the surface enough to grab a lung-full of air before going back under. But I made it. With some much needed support from fellow newbies, I finally turned in a deliverable that did a half-way decent job of explaining why Abbott should pursue a certain business opportunity in the prostrate market. Reflecting back, I find certain things a little awkward. Like the fact that I now consider "prostrate" to be a market.
Breakfast foods is a market. Athletic shoes is a market. A man's prostrate gland? When did that become a market? But in business, as I've come to realize, everything can be packaged in a way that creates a market around it. The market for casual underwear. The market for cool whip. Perhaps even the market for toilet flush-handles. However, what makes things especially awkward in the healthcare industry is that some medical conditions can be difficult to discuss without giggling (or sometimes wincing), in front of your boss. I came close to doing this several times recently, as it is hard to discuss a man's urination problems, or the invasive surgical procedures designed to correct these conditions, without wanting to cross your legs in empathetic pain. Ouch.
But this project wasn't as bad as some of the work I did while I was at Pfizer. I distinctly remember sitting down regularly with the Viagra marketing group to see how my consulting team could assist them with their information needs. Inevitably talk would move to how effective certain ED meds were in giving men the sexual satisfaction they needed, and what side effects turned these men off, and how to measure the happiness level of spouses. The problem was that the entire Viagra marketing team consisted of women. Seven women and Faisal would sit around a conference table, earnestly discussing the sexual advantage of taking a pill that lasted 36 hours vs 3 hours, or how the quality of the erection was paramount, or how useful it was that a specific pill could also boost urine flow.
Awkward. Really awkward.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
The birthing pain equivalent - trying to negotiate a car deal
Saeeda went through a lot during the birthing process. Any wife will attest to the pain of pushing out a baby, and when I ask mine, she asks me to imagine squeezing a tennis ball out of my nostril. The painful analogy is apt - watching her struggle in the hospital made it clear that there was nothing as physically demanding and painful that I could ever do that would compare to her experience. But Saeeda, it turned out, had different ideas.
Soon after Nuha arrived, I was given a seemingly straightforward assignment: find us a new car. At the time I thought that this was a reasonable request - we haven't had a car in more than three years, and with Nuha's doctor's appointments and my job in the suburbs, we're going to need one. However, I didn't completely understand Saeeda's true intentions. She simply wanted to punish me for putting her through the labor process.
You see, car buying remains a process as pleasant as having a root canal. The players involved have not evolved much over the years, despite the fact that the internet has helped educate the average consumer to the point that there is little we cannot find out. Within seconds, we can learn the true price of a car, read reviews on experiences past customers have had with dealerships, or study common pitfalls to avoid.
But car salesmen don't seem to understand this. From the moment you enter a dealership you are marked, and are worked over by the sales person until you either give in and buy the car, or decide you've had enough and want to leave. Rarely are you ever able to make it in and out on your terms, which are usually to test drive the car and get a price quote. Instead you have to dance the dance.
I'm meticulous about my research, and throughout this car buying process I've tried to have the maximum amount of information at my fingertips. But yet I've still had to endure the sales person asking me what monthly payment I'm looking for (never negotiate the monthly payment), how much I'd like to put down (minimize the downpayment, especially when leasing), or if I was ready to buy today (absolutely not). I've still had to cool my heels while the salesperson handed me off to their manager, who always jovially asked me how he could help me, or what he needed to do to earn my business.
Any time I asked an intelligent question, I got responses along the lines of, "well, it's a complicated calculation, and the city tax only makes matters worse, but I can bump up the term of the deal and drive payments down ... but tell me, you like the car, right? It's a great car, isn't it?"
*sigh*
So often it's taken all my self-control not to be rude and tell them that guys, I've been in sales for the last year. I know all about soft-closes and getting buy-in. I studied this stuff in business school. I can tell when you're trying to get me to commit. I understand numbers - moving the term of the deal out will lower my monthly payments, but I'm just making lower payments for longer, which in the end adds up to a larger amount. Please, just tell me what price you're willing to sell the car for so that I can go to the next dealer and shop around.
After about four dealers, I decided I'd had enough, and I started making phone calls instead. This I'd highly recommend. Call up a dealership, ask for their Internet sales manager. Tell them exactly what you are looking for, and that you are going to buy within a week if you can get the right price. If you get the "come into the dealership, we'll talk then" song and dance, tell them you'll do so if you get the right price, and that you won't come in until you've shopped around. Find out the MSRP of the car they come back at you with, as well as their sale price. Don't bother with financing questions if you are looking to buy, or leasing questions if you are looking to lease. All you care about are those two numbers.
The MSRP is the number you will use when you call another dealer about the same car. You want them to quote you a car that has the same MSRP as that of the first dealer. That's the only way you'll be able to compare apples to apples - that way you know both dealers are quoting you prices for the same type of car with the same features. However, it's the sale price that will clue you into how good a deal you're getting. After three or so quotes, it's up to you - how much you enjoy bargaining and negotiating, and playing dealers against each other? Do you love it? Then keep shopping, otherwise go with the lowest sales price.
My entire paternity leave was consumed by this process. I swear I was at a breaking point towards the end. But finally, on Friday, it happened. The right dealer with the right price, with a decent sales rep - all of it came together wonderfully, and I walked out with a shiny new Lexus RX 350. A stretch for our budget, no doubt, but not having bought ourselves anything nice in three years has earned us the right to splurge a little (screw those student loan payments!). And we won't be driving long distances, given that we live in the city, so gas prices are not a concern. I can't tell you how much I've missed that wonderful new car smell!
It's almost like ... giving birth. You go through immense amounts of pain and curse at your spouse, but your baby, when it arrives, makes it all worthwhile. Thank you Saeeda, for making me understand.
Soon after Nuha arrived, I was given a seemingly straightforward assignment: find us a new car. At the time I thought that this was a reasonable request - we haven't had a car in more than three years, and with Nuha's doctor's appointments and my job in the suburbs, we're going to need one. However, I didn't completely understand Saeeda's true intentions. She simply wanted to punish me for putting her through the labor process.
You see, car buying remains a process as pleasant as having a root canal. The players involved have not evolved much over the years, despite the fact that the internet has helped educate the average consumer to the point that there is little we cannot find out. Within seconds, we can learn the true price of a car, read reviews on experiences past customers have had with dealerships, or study common pitfalls to avoid.
But car salesmen don't seem to understand this. From the moment you enter a dealership you are marked, and are worked over by the sales person until you either give in and buy the car, or decide you've had enough and want to leave. Rarely are you ever able to make it in and out on your terms, which are usually to test drive the car and get a price quote. Instead you have to dance the dance.
I'm meticulous about my research, and throughout this car buying process I've tried to have the maximum amount of information at my fingertips. But yet I've still had to endure the sales person asking me what monthly payment I'm looking for (never negotiate the monthly payment), how much I'd like to put down (minimize the downpayment, especially when leasing), or if I was ready to buy today (absolutely not). I've still had to cool my heels while the salesperson handed me off to their manager, who always jovially asked me how he could help me, or what he needed to do to earn my business.
Any time I asked an intelligent question, I got responses along the lines of, "well, it's a complicated calculation, and the city tax only makes matters worse, but I can bump up the term of the deal and drive payments down ... but tell me, you like the car, right? It's a great car, isn't it?"
*sigh*
So often it's taken all my self-control not to be rude and tell them that guys, I've been in sales for the last year. I know all about soft-closes and getting buy-in. I studied this stuff in business school. I can tell when you're trying to get me to commit. I understand numbers - moving the term of the deal out will lower my monthly payments, but I'm just making lower payments for longer, which in the end adds up to a larger amount. Please, just tell me what price you're willing to sell the car for so that I can go to the next dealer and shop around.
After about four dealers, I decided I'd had enough, and I started making phone calls instead. This I'd highly recommend. Call up a dealership, ask for their Internet sales manager. Tell them exactly what you are looking for, and that you are going to buy within a week if you can get the right price. If you get the "come into the dealership, we'll talk then" song and dance, tell them you'll do so if you get the right price, and that you won't come in until you've shopped around. Find out the MSRP of the car they come back at you with, as well as their sale price. Don't bother with financing questions if you are looking to buy, or leasing questions if you are looking to lease. All you care about are those two numbers.
The MSRP is the number you will use when you call another dealer about the same car. You want them to quote you a car that has the same MSRP as that of the first dealer. That's the only way you'll be able to compare apples to apples - that way you know both dealers are quoting you prices for the same type of car with the same features. However, it's the sale price that will clue you into how good a deal you're getting. After three or so quotes, it's up to you - how much you enjoy bargaining and negotiating, and playing dealers against each other? Do you love it? Then keep shopping, otherwise go with the lowest sales price.
My entire paternity leave was consumed by this process. I swear I was at a breaking point towards the end. But finally, on Friday, it happened. The right dealer with the right price, with a decent sales rep - all of it came together wonderfully, and I walked out with a shiny new Lexus RX 350. A stretch for our budget, no doubt, but not having bought ourselves anything nice in three years has earned us the right to splurge a little (screw those student loan payments!). And we won't be driving long distances, given that we live in the city, so gas prices are not a concern. I can't tell you how much I've missed that wonderful new car smell!
It's almost like ... giving birth. You go through immense amounts of pain and curse at your spouse, but your baby, when it arrives, makes it all worthwhile. Thank you Saeeda, for making me understand.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sales comes to an end. Finally.
Today I woke up at 6am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Today I had to run to catch the bus, making it just in time.
Today I had to endure a 60 minute train ride, squeezed between two very large passengers.
Today I was introduced to my new cubicle, which consisted of fading gray felt walls, dull gray cabinets, and a dark gray chair. And I was happy.
Yes, I was happy.
You see, today was my first day in my new rotation at work. After having spent a year in Sales, the powers that be finally deemed me worthy of a new assignment, and despite the hardships and inconveniences that I will be facing, I am grateful. I will finally get to do MBA-worthy things like attend meetings and answer email all-day long. I will have to read bulky PowerPoint presentations and eat cafeteria food. But after the hardship of sales, this is a welcome change.
Sales was hard. Not because it required feats of intellectual achievement, because it didn't. Sales was hard because I stopped wanting to be in an environment where the person I wanted to engage in a conversation usually thought I was an idiot, and not worthy of attention. Where the hardest part of my day consisted of ensuring the food I had ordered for an office lunch arrived on time. Sales was hard because I realized I never had the energy and determination of my colleagues, all of whom had the amazing ability to keep coming back, bad day after bad day. To them, the lifestyle and the importance of the product being sold was enough to overcome rude office staff. Not for me.
I've realized that I'd much rather spend my day filling out TPS reports. Well, maybe not quite. But I know that I don't mind a desk-job that has me staring at a computer screen as long as my mind is engaged in problem-solving. And that's what this next rotation, focused on business development and partnership management promises to be.
So I'll put up with getting up early, enduring a long commute, and sitting in a cubicle. Because I don't have to be in Sales anymore.
Today I had to run to catch the bus, making it just in time.
Today I had to endure a 60 minute train ride, squeezed between two very large passengers.
Today I was introduced to my new cubicle, which consisted of fading gray felt walls, dull gray cabinets, and a dark gray chair. And I was happy.
Yes, I was happy.
You see, today was my first day in my new rotation at work. After having spent a year in Sales, the powers that be finally deemed me worthy of a new assignment, and despite the hardships and inconveniences that I will be facing, I am grateful. I will finally get to do MBA-worthy things like attend meetings and answer email all-day long. I will have to read bulky PowerPoint presentations and eat cafeteria food. But after the hardship of sales, this is a welcome change.
Sales was hard. Not because it required feats of intellectual achievement, because it didn't. Sales was hard because I stopped wanting to be in an environment where the person I wanted to engage in a conversation usually thought I was an idiot, and not worthy of attention. Where the hardest part of my day consisted of ensuring the food I had ordered for an office lunch arrived on time. Sales was hard because I realized I never had the energy and determination of my colleagues, all of whom had the amazing ability to keep coming back, bad day after bad day. To them, the lifestyle and the importance of the product being sold was enough to overcome rude office staff. Not for me.
I've realized that I'd much rather spend my day filling out TPS reports. Well, maybe not quite. But I know that I don't mind a desk-job that has me staring at a computer screen as long as my mind is engaged in problem-solving. And that's what this next rotation, focused on business development and partnership management promises to be.
So I'll put up with getting up early, enduring a long commute, and sitting in a cubicle. Because I don't have to be in Sales anymore.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
A citizen, finally
Those of you who follow my blog know that I've been on a long and tortuous path to citizenship that has lasted 14 years (depending on how you start the clock). I won't rehash, and you can read about some of the interim stages I've had to pass through here and here. However, it all came to a much-awaited end for me this past Wednesday, when I took my Oath of Citizenship at a downtown Chicago District Courthouse.
In a letter I had received two weeks ago, I had been told to "dress appropriately". Loathe to wear a suit in Chicago's 90 degree summer heat, I decided to go business casual before I left home, kissing my wife and baby goodbye. I'd be returning a changed man.
The courthouse and its interior were no different than any other government building anywhere in the world. It doesn't matter whether you are in sub-Saharan Africa, Communist China, or Democratic America. A government building is a government building - a place where good taste goes to die a slow, agonizing death, and where the facilities belie trends that were popular at least three decades ago. Drab concrete facades, ugly faux-marble tiling, fading carpeting asking to be put out of its misery - the list was endless. But I noticed little as I got to the designated courtroom and joined the line to present my papers.
I was expecting mostly Hispanic immigrants, given Chicago's sizable Latin American community, but in fact there were mutliple ethnicities present, with no one geography dominating. All waited nervously, fidgeting with their papers and straining to hear any instructions that the officers of the court called out to us. One dude in particular caught my eye, and I have to mention him here because of what has to be either sheer ignorance or huge cojones. The man in question was a balding Asian gentleman, in his sixties, who was wearing a white t-shirt and light-colored pants. You could tell that this was a man that had never really dressed himself, relying at various stages in his life for his mother, his wife, and what was clearly a sadistic set of children to lay out "appropriate attire" for him. I say sadistic, because this Asian gentleman was waiting to take the oath of citizenship to the United States of America wearing a t-shirt that said "Proud to be Canadian."
Like I said. Sheer ignorance or huge cojones.
Once we had all taken a seat, the judge entered the chamber, and congratulated us on making it this far. She said a few inspiring words and asked us to continue to strengthen this great nation with our diversity, and then asked all to rise as she adminstered the oath. Reciting after her, I felt no real emotion until we got to the last line. As I finished reciting the "so help me God", I realized that I was now a citizen. That I had attained that Holy Grail that many immigrants aspire to, but so few attain. I got a little emotional actually, considering the set of rights I had suddenly come to possess. Spontaneous clapping broke out soon afterwards, and those who had family in the stands dispersed to take pictures with their loved ones. The first stop I made was outside the courtroom, where volunteers had conveniently set up posts to allow us newly-minted citizens to register to vote. My first act as a citizen - doing something responsible. Woohoo!
All in all, I'm elated at the ability to breeze through airport immigration around the world, and cannot wait to test things out. However, benefits of US citizenship aside, my Pakistani identity is ingrained in my DNA, and I will remain a Pakistani-American. What is strangest to me, however, is that I will no longer be able to disdainfully blame "you Americans" whenever discussing disagreeable policies that US citizens have supported via their politicans. Instead, the phrase will have to become "we Americans" now. That's a lot of responsibility.
Anyways, enough with the deep talk. If you will excuse me, I need to go fill out my NRA membership form, and join the local chapter of the Minutemen. After that, I need to figure out which legislator to lobby to prevent these damn immigrants from taking jobs away from us hard working Americans. Go back where you came from buddy!
In a letter I had received two weeks ago, I had been told to "dress appropriately". Loathe to wear a suit in Chicago's 90 degree summer heat, I decided to go business casual before I left home, kissing my wife and baby goodbye. I'd be returning a changed man.
The courthouse and its interior were no different than any other government building anywhere in the world. It doesn't matter whether you are in sub-Saharan Africa, Communist China, or Democratic America. A government building is a government building - a place where good taste goes to die a slow, agonizing death, and where the facilities belie trends that were popular at least three decades ago. Drab concrete facades, ugly faux-marble tiling, fading carpeting asking to be put out of its misery - the list was endless. But I noticed little as I got to the designated courtroom and joined the line to present my papers.
I was expecting mostly Hispanic immigrants, given Chicago's sizable Latin American community, but in fact there were mutliple ethnicities present, with no one geography dominating. All waited nervously, fidgeting with their papers and straining to hear any instructions that the officers of the court called out to us. One dude in particular caught my eye, and I have to mention him here because of what has to be either sheer ignorance or huge cojones. The man in question was a balding Asian gentleman, in his sixties, who was wearing a white t-shirt and light-colored pants. You could tell that this was a man that had never really dressed himself, relying at various stages in his life for his mother, his wife, and what was clearly a sadistic set of children to lay out "appropriate attire" for him. I say sadistic, because this Asian gentleman was waiting to take the oath of citizenship to the United States of America wearing a t-shirt that said "Proud to be Canadian."
Like I said. Sheer ignorance or huge cojones.
Once we had all taken a seat, the judge entered the chamber, and congratulated us on making it this far. She said a few inspiring words and asked us to continue to strengthen this great nation with our diversity, and then asked all to rise as she adminstered the oath. Reciting after her, I felt no real emotion until we got to the last line. As I finished reciting the "so help me God", I realized that I was now a citizen. That I had attained that Holy Grail that many immigrants aspire to, but so few attain. I got a little emotional actually, considering the set of rights I had suddenly come to possess. Spontaneous clapping broke out soon afterwards, and those who had family in the stands dispersed to take pictures with their loved ones. The first stop I made was outside the courtroom, where volunteers had conveniently set up posts to allow us newly-minted citizens to register to vote. My first act as a citizen - doing something responsible. Woohoo!
All in all, I'm elated at the ability to breeze through airport immigration around the world, and cannot wait to test things out. However, benefits of US citizenship aside, my Pakistani identity is ingrained in my DNA, and I will remain a Pakistani-American. What is strangest to me, however, is that I will no longer be able to disdainfully blame "you Americans" whenever discussing disagreeable policies that US citizens have supported via their politicans. Instead, the phrase will have to become "we Americans" now. That's a lot of responsibility.
Anyways, enough with the deep talk. If you will excuse me, I need to go fill out my NRA membership form, and join the local chapter of the Minutemen. After that, I need to figure out which legislator to lobby to prevent these damn immigrants from taking jobs away from us hard working Americans. Go back where you came from buddy!
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Nuha reacts as her father explains how much a 4 year college will cost in 18 years
I try to explain to her that I can either pay my monthly TiVo membership fee, or contribute to a 529 Savings Plan for her. Unfortunately, unless she can figure out how to pause live TV, I'm keeping the TiVo membership...
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Separating the men from the boys. I think I might be a boy.
Four weeks ago I started formal training for the Chicago Marathon, which will be held in October later this year. For those of you who know me, I don't particularly enjoy running, unless it has a purpose. Evading a basketball defender to get to the hoop, tracking down a tennis ball for a return, and sprinting to accept a soccer pass all qualify in my book. Better yet, running to save my life from a crazed, armed mugger is the ultimate in running reasons. Jogging in a loop, voluntarily and with no purpose, doesn't quite make sense to me.
However, in January I sprained my ankle severely playing hoops, had to go to rehab, and was told to lay off any activity requiring side to side motion for a while. So I took up running to stay in shape. Since I'm a glutton for punishment, and I know how quickly I will lose in interest in an activity, I decided that I'd also set a goal of completing the Chicago marathon to keep myself motivated. So, as a novice runner who had never thought twice about what sort of shoes to wear before heading out for a jog, I decided to join a formal training program.
CARA - the Chicago Area Runners Association - has fit the bill nicely. CARA's training program lays out the mileage you are to run each week, with short and long runs mixed in. The "long runs" are group events (for motivation) that are held on Saturdays at 6am, close to where I live. Although the timing is brutal, I find it convenient to roll out of bed, change a poopy diaper, get milk spit-up on my shirt, put a fussy baby to sleep, and head out for a jog.
The problem is that these jogs have been getting longer and longer. This weekend we had to run 9 miles as part of our program, something which had me quite apprehensive. One reason was a lack of faith in my running ability - last week I was running my assigned mileage when I heard a loud "excuse me!" behind me. As per running ettiquette, I moved to the side to let this obviously gifted Olympian runner pass me by. Except that this professional runner was a woman pushing a jogging stroller with two kids tucked comfortably inside. And she was still outpacing me.
The other reason for my apprehension was the lack of the "runner's high" in my runs. I was discussing this with my friend Marvis the other day. We talked about how people fondly reminesced about the euphoric feelings that suffused their bodies as they ran, where their minds detached from the bodies and everything just went to autopilot. This state of being was where the meaning of life became clear. Not so for me.
Running those 9 miles yesterday, I felt *every* footstrike, gasped for breath the entire way, and had my body cussing me out with gusto. Either runners are lying through their miserable teeth when they talk about a runner's high - sort of like a survivor bias where painful memories of past experiences are painted in a good light to justify their participation - or these runners truly are high, from the weed they must be smoking before the run. I, unfortunately, don't know where to get any pot, nor do I want to set a bad example for my kid. Which meant that once the run was over, I limped back home, dreading next week's 11 miler and thinking that this was going to be one loooong training program.
I hate running.
However, in January I sprained my ankle severely playing hoops, had to go to rehab, and was told to lay off any activity requiring side to side motion for a while. So I took up running to stay in shape. Since I'm a glutton for punishment, and I know how quickly I will lose in interest in an activity, I decided that I'd also set a goal of completing the Chicago marathon to keep myself motivated. So, as a novice runner who had never thought twice about what sort of shoes to wear before heading out for a jog, I decided to join a formal training program.
CARA - the Chicago Area Runners Association - has fit the bill nicely. CARA's training program lays out the mileage you are to run each week, with short and long runs mixed in. The "long runs" are group events (for motivation) that are held on Saturdays at 6am, close to where I live. Although the timing is brutal, I find it convenient to roll out of bed, change a poopy diaper, get milk spit-up on my shirt, put a fussy baby to sleep, and head out for a jog.
The problem is that these jogs have been getting longer and longer. This weekend we had to run 9 miles as part of our program, something which had me quite apprehensive. One reason was a lack of faith in my running ability - last week I was running my assigned mileage when I heard a loud "excuse me!" behind me. As per running ettiquette, I moved to the side to let this obviously gifted Olympian runner pass me by. Except that this professional runner was a woman pushing a jogging stroller with two kids tucked comfortably inside. And she was still outpacing me.
The other reason for my apprehension was the lack of the "runner's high" in my runs. I was discussing this with my friend Marvis the other day. We talked about how people fondly reminesced about the euphoric feelings that suffused their bodies as they ran, where their minds detached from the bodies and everything just went to autopilot. This state of being was where the meaning of life became clear. Not so for me.
Running those 9 miles yesterday, I felt *every* footstrike, gasped for breath the entire way, and had my body cussing me out with gusto. Either runners are lying through their miserable teeth when they talk about a runner's high - sort of like a survivor bias where painful memories of past experiences are painted in a good light to justify their participation - or these runners truly are high, from the weed they must be smoking before the run. I, unfortunately, don't know where to get any pot, nor do I want to set a bad example for my kid. Which meant that once the run was over, I limped back home, dreading next week's 11 miler and thinking that this was going to be one loooong training program.
I hate running.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Hawkeye
I've noticed subtle changes in our behavior over the last few weeks, quite obviously as a result of Nuha's arrival into the world. We now live life in three hour bursts, necessitated primarily by the gap in Nuha's feeding times. We team up and split baby responsibilities to enhance productivity - Saeeda feeds the baby, I burp and change her, then whichever one of us can keep our eyelids propped open will put the baby to sleep. Finally, we now choose entertainment options that fit our schedules, such as using the Netflix movie delivery service over watching a movie in the theater.
But perhaps no change has been more dramatic than the heightening of my wife's senses. Like a superhero subjected to high doses of radiation, Saeeda has developed an enhanced sense of awareness that put's Peter Parker's Spidey Sense to shame. Her ability to hear subsonic sounds is mind-boggling. We can be watching a tv show in our living room, and in the middle of the ridiculously loud commercial break Saeeda will matter-of-factly announce that she hears the baby, and walk over to our bedroom to check on her. I'll skeptically grunt, and secretly congratulate myself on remaining comfortable rather than worrying needlessly - until, that is, I see Saeeda walk around with a baby just ready to wake up and be fed. Although I am jealous that I haven't developed this superpower, I am happy that at least one of us has. This is a good thing, because it means we're more aware of when Nuha need's attention.
Sleeping arrangements are a different matter. Whatever superpowers that Saeeda has gained, they do not stretch to the visible spectrum. She cannot, for some reason, see in the dark, which leads to extremely annoying bedtime habits. For one, the bathroom light must constantly remain on through the night so that it allows Saeeda to see the baby at periodic intervals. Not an unreasonable request, except for the fact that the lighthouse-strength beam from the bathroom bulbs falls right on my face, and the fact that I'm not allowed to shut the bathroom door a smidgen to blunt this blazing output doesn't really help matters.
For another, Saeeda must sleep right on the edge of our king-sized bed, practically hanging off all solid surfaces, so that her face is suspended into the baby's crib while her body is only nominally on our bed. She achieves this in part by pulling the crib so close to our bed that it is practically fused with it. Before the baby, our bed used ot be a beautiful place of rest and relaxation, where both our tall frames fit comfortably, and yet where we were simultaneously able to enjoy intimate proximity. Those days are long gone. While I continue to sleep in my normal spot, Saeeda now places herself in a small bundle at the foot of our bed, in the aforementioned, gravity-defying pose. I've included a little diagram in this post to help you understand how far apart we sleep now.
Saeeda tells me this is so that she can keep a watch over the baby. Again, why her powers do not extended to the visual senses, I don't understand. What I do know is that I miss my wife. Perhaps one day she will sleep near me again.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Disgusting no more
Not that I've been a parent long (8 days to be exact), but already I'm noticing the increased tolerance for all things decidedly unpleasant. Babies, as the parents amongst us will attest, are poop-generating mega machines. Laws of physics do not apply to them - they crap out more waste product than the amount of fuel they are provided.
Proof that my gross-out tolerance is inching higher came a few days ago while I was in a doctor's office, making my last sales call for the day. The call was typical - I walked in, reminded the receptionist who I was and what I was doing there (I've been in this office twice a month for the past 11 months, and she still doesn't remember me), and asked her if the doctors were ok on their samples. While she checked, one of the doctors came running out of the patient room and spotted me. "You!" she ordered. "You, come up help me!"
I had never met this doctor (there are several in the practice) so to make sure, I looked around and realized that the physician was definitely referring to me. After a split-second of thought to determine if I would be violating any rules, I decided I was ok, and I followed her into the back of the office. I was led into one of the patient rooms, where I was greeted by a nice, eighty-year old lady sitting on the examining table.
"Ok, I want you to hold her right ear open. Grip it tight and pull out on it," ordered the doctor.
I started to worry that I was going to hurt the elderly patient, but it was obvious from the doctor's tone of voice that she wanted me to do exactly as she said. So I grabbed hold of the patient's left ear, and yanked out on it. Surprisingly, the poor old lady didn't object, so I relaxed a little.
The doctor then positioned herself near the lady's left shoulder, and stuck some instruments into the patient's ear cavity while using a pen light.
"Hm," I think. "Just a normal ear exam." The doc just needed my help keeping the ear open.
Which is when the doctor started extracting golf-ball sized dollops of ear wax from within this lady's ear. I'm not joking about the size of these monstrosities. They were huge. And glistening. And colored an ungodly shade of orange.
My normal reaction would have been to instantly hurl out the contents of my stomach, which that day would have consisted of Panera Bread's excellent Sierra Turkey sandwich with chipotle mayo. That would have been a fun sight - me holding on to an old lady's left ear lobe while projecting vomit onto her and her doctor.
But that didn't happen. You see, in the eight days that I've had my baby, I've already been pooped and urinated on multiple times. I'm not counting the times that I've had half-digested milk regurgitated onto my clothes, nor the number of times that spittle has just been discharged onto my face. And the diaper changes - oh, the diaper changes! Baby crap starts out this tarry black color, then gradually makes its way across the color spectrum, making pit stops at dark green and mustard yellow. Baby books euphemistically describe the consistency of these discharges as "small, round, curd-like, about the shape and size of cottage cheese."
Needless to say, I've completely sworn off cottage cheese for the rest of my life. But at least my gross-out tolerance is way up.
Proof that my gross-out tolerance is inching higher came a few days ago while I was in a doctor's office, making my last sales call for the day. The call was typical - I walked in, reminded the receptionist who I was and what I was doing there (I've been in this office twice a month for the past 11 months, and she still doesn't remember me), and asked her if the doctors were ok on their samples. While she checked, one of the doctors came running out of the patient room and spotted me. "You!" she ordered. "You, come up help me!"
I had never met this doctor (there are several in the practice) so to make sure, I looked around and realized that the physician was definitely referring to me. After a split-second of thought to determine if I would be violating any rules, I decided I was ok, and I followed her into the back of the office. I was led into one of the patient rooms, where I was greeted by a nice, eighty-year old lady sitting on the examining table.
"Ok, I want you to hold her right ear open. Grip it tight and pull out on it," ordered the doctor.
I started to worry that I was going to hurt the elderly patient, but it was obvious from the doctor's tone of voice that she wanted me to do exactly as she said. So I grabbed hold of the patient's left ear, and yanked out on it. Surprisingly, the poor old lady didn't object, so I relaxed a little.
The doctor then positioned herself near the lady's left shoulder, and stuck some instruments into the patient's ear cavity while using a pen light.
"Hm," I think. "Just a normal ear exam." The doc just needed my help keeping the ear open.
Which is when the doctor started extracting golf-ball sized dollops of ear wax from within this lady's ear. I'm not joking about the size of these monstrosities. They were huge. And glistening. And colored an ungodly shade of orange.
My normal reaction would have been to instantly hurl out the contents of my stomach, which that day would have consisted of Panera Bread's excellent Sierra Turkey sandwich with chipotle mayo. That would have been a fun sight - me holding on to an old lady's left ear lobe while projecting vomit onto her and her doctor.
But that didn't happen. You see, in the eight days that I've had my baby, I've already been pooped and urinated on multiple times. I'm not counting the times that I've had half-digested milk regurgitated onto my clothes, nor the number of times that spittle has just been discharged onto my face. And the diaper changes - oh, the diaper changes! Baby crap starts out this tarry black color, then gradually makes its way across the color spectrum, making pit stops at dark green and mustard yellow. Baby books euphemistically describe the consistency of these discharges as "small, round, curd-like, about the shape and size of cottage cheese."
Needless to say, I've completely sworn off cottage cheese for the rest of my life. But at least my gross-out tolerance is way up.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
When copyright infringement goes too far
I'm starting to regain my senses somewhat, but I'm still amazed at the amount of sleep deprivation that occurs right after you bring your child home. Yesterday was the first time I found a few minutes to myself and turn on the TV to watch a little of the NBA finals. As I was watching the game the telecast cut away for a little bit to the "NBA copyright message." You know, the one where an announcer tells you that the following is a service of the National Basketball Association, and may not be rebroadcast without authorized permission, or else someone will come to your home and eviscerate you.
That made me think of one of the videos Saeeda and I had watched while we were in the hospital. Northwestern Memorial Hospital is one of the finest in the country, and its Women's wing caters to a discerning clientele. Each room has wonderful views of the city, a free wifi connection, and a huge flat screen TV. One of the channels on this TV is constantly tuned to educational programs for new moms - child safety at home, breastfeeding, bathing, etc. Each of these programs, however, is preceded with a stern copyright message that warns incarceration for unauthorized rebroadcast.
Incarceration? Really? Do they honestly think that someone is surreptitiously copying a breastfeeding video, smuggling it out of the country, and distributing it in the shady alleyways of Shenzhen, China? I can just picture it now: a highly organized ring of smugglers gets one of their female members pregnant, just so they get access to Northwestern's post-partum rooms, where a pretend "father" whips out a videocamera the moment the nurses leave, and quickly starts taping the images on the TV.
I'd feel bad for whoever buys the end product. Not only would they be getting an obsolete movie (is there really anyone in the world who thinks breastfeeding is a bad idea?), but they'd be getting a bad 90's version. The episode we watched sounded like it had been recorded down a toilet, with a horrible soundtrack and voiceover. All the women in the episode were wearing silly dresses with stuffed shoulder pads, and sported huge hairdos that I was convinced contained a spare change of diapers and a baby bottle or two.
Anyone watching on the other side of the world would be too distracted by the makeup on these women to focus on the breastfeeding and learn anything useful. But perhaps its because of this that Northwestern puts that warning in the beginning of its programs. You see, they've probably realized what a crappy video they've created, and would rather that their mistakes not be broadcast throughout the world.
That made me think of one of the videos Saeeda and I had watched while we were in the hospital. Northwestern Memorial Hospital is one of the finest in the country, and its Women's wing caters to a discerning clientele. Each room has wonderful views of the city, a free wifi connection, and a huge flat screen TV. One of the channels on this TV is constantly tuned to educational programs for new moms - child safety at home, breastfeeding, bathing, etc. Each of these programs, however, is preceded with a stern copyright message that warns incarceration for unauthorized rebroadcast.
Incarceration? Really? Do they honestly think that someone is surreptitiously copying a breastfeeding video, smuggling it out of the country, and distributing it in the shady alleyways of Shenzhen, China? I can just picture it now: a highly organized ring of smugglers gets one of their female members pregnant, just so they get access to Northwestern's post-partum rooms, where a pretend "father" whips out a videocamera the moment the nurses leave, and quickly starts taping the images on the TV.
I'd feel bad for whoever buys the end product. Not only would they be getting an obsolete movie (is there really anyone in the world who thinks breastfeeding is a bad idea?), but they'd be getting a bad 90's version. The episode we watched sounded like it had been recorded down a toilet, with a horrible soundtrack and voiceover. All the women in the episode were wearing silly dresses with stuffed shoulder pads, and sported huge hairdos that I was convinced contained a spare change of diapers and a baby bottle or two.
Anyone watching on the other side of the world would be too distracted by the makeup on these women to focus on the breastfeeding and learn anything useful. But perhaps its because of this that Northwestern puts that warning in the beginning of its programs. You see, they've probably realized what a crappy video they've created, and would rather that their mistakes not be broadcast throughout the world.
It's a girl!
Dear world,
By the grace of God, Saeeda and I were blessed with a baby daughter on Friday, the 13th of June at 7:29pm. Although initially reluctant to leave the comforts of her mother's womb, Nuha Maryam Khan arrived in one sudden push, weighing in at 6 lbs 15 oz. and stretched 20.5 inches long. One moment Saeeda and I were a happy-go-lucky couple with few cares in the world, and in an another instant we were parents, responsible for another life.
I had done my research beforehand, reading all the requisite guidebooks before the delivery. Among these were "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (overrated), "The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy" (great), and to balance things out "Mack Daddy: Mastering Fatherhood without Losing Your Style" (funny). But something strange happens to you at delivery. In the blink of an eye, you forget everything. Every last word you have read. Every last piece of advice you have heard. And in my opinion that is proof that the brain's capacity is not infinite. The moment that your child is born, your neurons overload so quickly and completely that they have no capacity to hold a single thought or memory. The result is that you transform into a quivering slob of choked up emotion, much to the benign amusement of the gathered nurses.
I think Nuha is going to be an introspective child. Upon arriving into this world, she took a good long look at her mother. Then she looked at her father, and finally, the doctor who had delivered her. I fully expected her to begin crying, but instead she continued observing the world around her. It's been almost 24 hours now, and the only sound we've heard from her is a brief "I'm hungry!" wail this morning.
But although Nuha is going to have her own traits and characteristics, I wonder how I'll guide her development. I spent last night's fitful sleep thinking about that. I know, for example, that I want her to break barriers. Whereas her mother prefers that this be in the form of a medical researcher discovering new cures for cancer (commendable, but so typically desi), I'd prefer that this be by way of being the first Muslim team captain to win the NCAA women's basketball championship. You know, something a little more ... hip.
I also know that I'm going to spend time embarrassing her. I know that I'll be that silly dad that cheers too loudly for their child at performances, or that father who insists on kissing his child goodbye in front of all her high school friends.
I'll also probably be that father who is completely wrapped around his little girl's finger, and serves as solace when her mother has categorically refused to give into her petulant child's immature demands. I'm going to be the ATM machine she uses for shopping sprees. I'll be the sucker that does all this in return for a bear hug.
I will definitely be the father that stands ready to kick the ass of any guy who dares to mess with her heart. I'd be happy if Nuha decides to remain single until she magically finds a perfect mate without ever having spent time "dating" (the supervised Islamic version or otherwise). But if not, I'm going to be the psycho father who silently stalks my daughter's love interest, and when he makes contact, just silently mouths "I'm watching you."
But for now, I'm going to be the father that changes some really poopy diapers, or that laughs hysterically every time his little girl burps after a feeding. I'm going to be the dad that gets excited when funny cartoon movies come out because he'll finally have someone to watch them with. I'm going to be the dad who takes enough pictures of his child that he fills up his laptop's ample hard drive.
Basically, I'm going to take advantage of all the advice, well-wishes, and prayers that each of you have sent our way. Hopefully, I'll have the ability to absorb all this information to become the best dad that I can be.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Still waiting...
No news yet. This baby continues to cling to its mother. Saeeda isn't that far removed from when she was originally supposed to have delivered (Monday), and it's quite normal for mothers to be off by several days from that calculated date. But her contractions have started, so it's only a matter of time.
So today I took the day off from work to stay home, and we tried to enjoy our few remaining, worry-free moments together. We took a leisurely bus-ride down to the neighborhood cafe for lunch, then a nice walk to the Borders store to browse through some magazines, then an expensive cab ride back home (anyone else notice how much more expensive cab rides are since they started tacking on the mandatory $2.00 fuel charges in Chicago?).
I got plenty of "me" time in, checking email, reading, and going to the gym. I've heard enough friends tell me to enjoy this time that I am trying my best to do so. What freaks me out a little is the expression that always comes across the faces of my friends who give me this advice - always a little wistful, always a little haggard, always a little sad. That worries me.
So today I took the day off from work to stay home, and we tried to enjoy our few remaining, worry-free moments together. We took a leisurely bus-ride down to the neighborhood cafe for lunch, then a nice walk to the Borders store to browse through some magazines, then an expensive cab ride back home (anyone else notice how much more expensive cab rides are since they started tacking on the mandatory $2.00 fuel charges in Chicago?).
I got plenty of "me" time in, checking email, reading, and going to the gym. I've heard enough friends tell me to enjoy this time that I am trying my best to do so. What freaks me out a little is the expression that always comes across the faces of my friends who give me this advice - always a little wistful, always a little haggard, always a little sad. That worries me.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
What is the name of the President of the United States?
Ok, so I'll come right out and say it. I passed the citizenship test. Woohoo! Now I need to wait for the results to make it to the desks of the powers that be, and for them to in turn assign the date for my oath ceremony. Then, once I'm finally a citizen, the first thing I will do will be to figure out what country I can vacation in next WITHOUT having to mortgage my soul to get a visa. Oh, sweetness. I can almost taste it. So close!
The day of my interview started well, since Saeeda thankfully decided not to go into labor. Confident that I would not be missing the birth of my first child, and would therefore not be in the proverbial doghouse for the rest of my existence, I took the second half of the day off from work to show up at Chicago's USCIS offices. Here, I was directed to a large hall on the 3rd floor of a massively ugly building, where there were at least a hundred other individuals waiting for the same thing that I was - the test itself.
Officers would magically appear from some hidden door, call out names, and gather the applicants to take them back through their magical door. My name was called 20 min. after I got seated, and I was led back into a nondescript office. My officer asked me to take an oath that I'd be telling the truth, asked me to take a seat, and then got started on the quiz.
Keep in mind that I had studied all week long from the USCIS study guide, and was ready for anything. Anything. I was not prepared, however, for the mind-boggling simplicity of the questions.
"What is the name of the place where the President lives?"
"What was the name of the boat that the Pilgrims came over in?"
"What is the capital of your state?"
"What is the constitution?"
"What is the name of the President of the United States?"
And so it went. At one point I started wondering who had thought up this process. You make an immigration applicant spend years in the system (ten years in my case), only to cap the journey with this? That's what it took to become a citizen? Ten years of excruciating, snail-paced, mind-numbingly complex form-filling (you think tax returns are bad? hah!), all to get to a 5 minute questionnaire that was ridiculously straightforward?
But all of that didn't matter, not to me, and not to the hopeful individuals waiting back in the hall outside. Individuals who in some cases had probably sweat blood and tears to get here. Individuals for whom English was a challenge, for whom memorizing Constitutional amendments was akin to learning Martian, for whom it was not important what the capital of their state was or what the names of the 13 original colonies were. For them, all that mattered was being allowed to become a recognized part of their adopted country, to enjoy the rights that many ignored willfully, and to be able to defiantly look the next xenophobe squarely in the eye and with nothing to fear.
To us, all it mattered was that we be allowed to become citizens.
The day of my interview started well, since Saeeda thankfully decided not to go into labor. Confident that I would not be missing the birth of my first child, and would therefore not be in the proverbial doghouse for the rest of my existence, I took the second half of the day off from work to show up at Chicago's USCIS offices. Here, I was directed to a large hall on the 3rd floor of a massively ugly building, where there were at least a hundred other individuals waiting for the same thing that I was - the test itself.
Officers would magically appear from some hidden door, call out names, and gather the applicants to take them back through their magical door. My name was called 20 min. after I got seated, and I was led back into a nondescript office. My officer asked me to take an oath that I'd be telling the truth, asked me to take a seat, and then got started on the quiz.
Keep in mind that I had studied all week long from the USCIS study guide, and was ready for anything. Anything. I was not prepared, however, for the mind-boggling simplicity of the questions.
"What is the name of the place where the President lives?"
"What was the name of the boat that the Pilgrims came over in?"
"What is the capital of your state?"
"What is the constitution?"
"What is the name of the President of the United States?"
And so it went. At one point I started wondering who had thought up this process. You make an immigration applicant spend years in the system (ten years in my case), only to cap the journey with this? That's what it took to become a citizen? Ten years of excruciating, snail-paced, mind-numbingly complex form-filling (you think tax returns are bad? hah!), all to get to a 5 minute questionnaire that was ridiculously straightforward?
But all of that didn't matter, not to me, and not to the hopeful individuals waiting back in the hall outside. Individuals who in some cases had probably sweat blood and tears to get here. Individuals for whom English was a challenge, for whom memorizing Constitutional amendments was akin to learning Martian, for whom it was not important what the capital of their state was or what the names of the 13 original colonies were. For them, all that mattered was being allowed to become a recognized part of their adopted country, to enjoy the rights that many ignored willfully, and to be able to defiantly look the next xenophobe squarely in the eye and with nothing to fear.
To us, all it mattered was that we be allowed to become citizens.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Priorities
Those of you that know my immigration history, know that I've been in this country since 1994. In those 14 years, I have largely self-navigated the morass of US Immigration rules and regulations, applying for all the right statuses, making sure all my paperwork was always in order, and always grinning and bearing the less-than-civil treatment I've received at the hands of every immigration officer at a US port of entry. But always, I've know that if I did everything properly; that if I forgave bored, racist officers their manners; that if I put up with all the "random" screenings and profiling; that if I set a good example and in doing so made a favorable impression on the behalf of other South Asian immigrants; if I did ALL that, I've known that one day I'd be rewarded with the opportunity to become a US citizen, and to become a full participant in the development of my adopted homeland.
That opportunity arrives tomorrow, Monday the 9th of June at 1:20pm, which is when the US Citizenship and Immigration Service has asked me to appear for my citizenship interview in Chicago. But by the type of great cosmic coincidence that make you admire God's sense of humor, Saeeda is due to give birth on Monday, the 9th of June.
Right. The birth of my first baby or US citizenship, which do I think is more important?
While I've made it clear to my wife that the only reason I married her was for the quicker path to citizenship, and that the kid is not going to remember if I was in the delivery room or not (honey, that's what Photoshop is for), I'm honestly walking around on eggshells at home, trying to make sure my wife doesn't laugh to hard in case she goes into labor. All garlic and ginger has been put out of reach (a coworker told me that these induce labor). All physical contact between us is strictly prohibited (hey, even though an internet board says that it is sexual contact that is supposed to induce labor, I'm not taking any chances - this morning I nodded hello to her and then flew out of bed before I could receive a good morning hug).
So the plan is to keep the USCIS appointment, and to hope and pray that Saeeda goes late. In the meantime, I'm busying myself with learning who my state senators are (Obama is one - that was easy), the term length for representatives (two years - a little harder), and that the amendments guaranteeing voting rights are the 15th, 19th, 24th, and 26th (wow, I had NO clue about that one). I can only hope that the interviewer, who will ask me ten verbal questions amongst other things, will ask me who the president and vice president are. Or what my state capital is. That I can handle.
Crap, I think I see Saeeda headed towards me. Gotta jet.
That opportunity arrives tomorrow, Monday the 9th of June at 1:20pm, which is when the US Citizenship and Immigration Service has asked me to appear for my citizenship interview in Chicago. But by the type of great cosmic coincidence that make you admire God's sense of humor, Saeeda is due to give birth on Monday, the 9th of June.
Right. The birth of my first baby or US citizenship, which do I think is more important?
While I've made it clear to my wife that the only reason I married her was for the quicker path to citizenship, and that the kid is not going to remember if I was in the delivery room or not (honey, that's what Photoshop is for), I'm honestly walking around on eggshells at home, trying to make sure my wife doesn't laugh to hard in case she goes into labor. All garlic and ginger has been put out of reach (a coworker told me that these induce labor). All physical contact between us is strictly prohibited (hey, even though an internet board says that it is sexual contact that is supposed to induce labor, I'm not taking any chances - this morning I nodded hello to her and then flew out of bed before I could receive a good morning hug).
So the plan is to keep the USCIS appointment, and to hope and pray that Saeeda goes late. In the meantime, I'm busying myself with learning who my state senators are (Obama is one - that was easy), the term length for representatives (two years - a little harder), and that the amendments guaranteeing voting rights are the 15th, 19th, 24th, and 26th (wow, I had NO clue about that one). I can only hope that the interviewer, who will ask me ten verbal questions amongst other things, will ask me who the president and vice president are. Or what my state capital is. That I can handle.
Crap, I think I see Saeeda headed towards me. Gotta jet.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
The most over-engineered products
I went to college. No, change that. I went to a good college. One of the best in the country, where I earned a degree in systems engineering with a minor in economic systems. I learned how to resolve complex thermodynamic problems, how to create virtual desktop environments using C++, and how to crunch differential equations for breakfast. In doing so, I sank four years of my life and thousands of dollars of my parents' hard earned money into getting a degree that I hoped was going to serve me well for the rest of my life.
Yeah, right.
Last weekend I tried to optimistically tackle the assembly of our baby's crib, it's swing, and the stroller. Not only were the instructions arcane ("Insert an M5 x 30 mm bolt through the opening in the opposite side of the upper seat tube, and tighten three quarters of a turn anti-clockwise using an Allen wrench"), but they were peppered with bold red warning symbols alongside statements such as "WARNING! Make sure that components click into place. Not doing so poses a serious hazard to your child's safety, and could result in permanent injury."
Exactly how was I supposed to keep a cool-head in situations like these? All I could do was obsessively ask myself, "Did I hear a click? Was that the right click? Did it click loud enough? What if it didn't? Will this kill my child?" Inevitably, I would disassemble and reassemble everything until I heard a loud enough click.
And then there was the stroller. This amazingly over-engineered product with levers and release buttons situated all over its body puts any Transformer character to shame. Touch one button with the right amount of pressure, and the device magically collapses into itself, in the process defying the laws of physics and taking up less room than should be possible. Flip another lever while stepping on another part of the stroller, and it instantly transforms into a sturdy device for transporting your child. The only problem is that the force, and the direction in which it has to be applied, is so precise that it takes you hours to master the proper techniques for opening and closing the contraption. My wife gave up after 30 minutes, which now means that I'm going to be the poor slob who will have to struggle with the stroller for the entire duration of my child's toddler years.
By the end of the day I was a sweaty mess, dehydrated and exhausted. This child better appreciate all that I'm doing for it.
Yeah, right.
Last weekend I tried to optimistically tackle the assembly of our baby's crib, it's swing, and the stroller. Not only were the instructions arcane ("Insert an M5 x 30 mm bolt through the opening in the opposite side of the upper seat tube, and tighten three quarters of a turn anti-clockwise using an Allen wrench"), but they were peppered with bold red warning symbols alongside statements such as "WARNING! Make sure that components click into place. Not doing so poses a serious hazard to your child's safety, and could result in permanent injury."
Exactly how was I supposed to keep a cool-head in situations like these? All I could do was obsessively ask myself, "Did I hear a click? Was that the right click? Did it click loud enough? What if it didn't? Will this kill my child?" Inevitably, I would disassemble and reassemble everything until I heard a loud enough click.
And then there was the stroller. This amazingly over-engineered product with levers and release buttons situated all over its body puts any Transformer character to shame. Touch one button with the right amount of pressure, and the device magically collapses into itself, in the process defying the laws of physics and taking up less room than should be possible. Flip another lever while stepping on another part of the stroller, and it instantly transforms into a sturdy device for transporting your child. The only problem is that the force, and the direction in which it has to be applied, is so precise that it takes you hours to master the proper techniques for opening and closing the contraption. My wife gave up after 30 minutes, which now means that I'm going to be the poor slob who will have to struggle with the stroller for the entire duration of my child's toddler years.
By the end of the day I was a sweaty mess, dehydrated and exhausted. This child better appreciate all that I'm doing for it.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Life's crunch periods
Yes, I know, I know. I've been gone for a really long time. And yes, there's not much in the way of excuses, other than to say that life decided to speed up in the past month, and in doing so has been throwing things my way that have taken priority over blogging.
For example, there has been extensive travel - to LA for my brother-in-law's wedding, back to Chicago, back to LA for more wedding events, and then straight on to Orlando for Abbott's National Sales Meeting. There has been backing out of contracts for the home we wanted to purchase (and therefore the restart of a housing hunt for us). There has been the tentative initiation of the training needed to run the Chicago Marathon in October of this year. There has been the fruitless search for my next assignment at work (the nature of a rotational program inevitably means that you find your own next gig). There has been a mad scramble to register for baby items, buy baby furniture, read baby books, take baby classes, and in general have this upcoming addition to our family take over our world before it's even here. Oh, and the need to buy a car has also made itself apparent.
So, in short, things have been busy. But in the midst of all this "busy"-ness I've come to the realization that putting pen to paper (or tapping keys on a keyboard), is a wonderful way to organize the thoughts swirling around my head and shove them into categories and containers where I can tackle them in a more orderly manner. Besides, my misadventures hopefully keep you guys entertained.
So I'm back, and will be posting as things promise to get even crazier in the days to come. Take care!
For example, there has been extensive travel - to LA for my brother-in-law's wedding, back to Chicago, back to LA for more wedding events, and then straight on to Orlando for Abbott's National Sales Meeting. There has been backing out of contracts for the home we wanted to purchase (and therefore the restart of a housing hunt for us). There has been the tentative initiation of the training needed to run the Chicago Marathon in October of this year. There has been the fruitless search for my next assignment at work (the nature of a rotational program inevitably means that you find your own next gig). There has been a mad scramble to register for baby items, buy baby furniture, read baby books, take baby classes, and in general have this upcoming addition to our family take over our world before it's even here. Oh, and the need to buy a car has also made itself apparent.
So, in short, things have been busy. But in the midst of all this "busy"-ness I've come to the realization that putting pen to paper (or tapping keys on a keyboard), is a wonderful way to organize the thoughts swirling around my head and shove them into categories and containers where I can tackle them in a more orderly manner. Besides, my misadventures hopefully keep you guys entertained.
So I'm back, and will be posting as things promise to get even crazier in the days to come. Take care!
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Why you should DEFINITELY memorize cab numbers
Now for the second, much more disturbing story.
Saeeda and I went to catch a movie on Friday night (Vantage point – wait for the DVD), and decided to take a cab on the way back home. The guy drove over the speed limit, and swerved across lanes multiple times. That in itself is not unusual behavior for taxi drivers in a big city, but it was dangerous nonetheless.
The fare was $5.85 by the time we pulled up to our apartment building. I had a brief internal debate over whether I should give the guy $6.00, therefore punishing him for the bad driving by giving no tip, or whether I should give the guy $7.00 (the amount I would have paid normally). I generally tip cabbies, because I know the hard work they put in, and how little they make. So despite my better judgment I gave him $7.00 and started walking away from the cab.
A yell from the cabbie caught my attention, and I turned around. Next thing I know, the cab driver is approaching me aggressively, and shoving a quarter in my hand. I ask him what that’s for, and he makes a face and says it’s my change. Confused, I asked him what the change is for. He says that the fare was $5.85, and I only gave him $6.00. I say that he is wrong, and that I gave him $7.00.
Despite this guy’s aggressive behavior, I ask him to count the money I gave him, because I’m still willing to give him the extra dollar. Of course, it turns out that he has counted incorrectly. He looks up at me sheepishly, and I say that in the future he should count the money properly, and walk away.
This sets him off. He charges at me, yelling and cussing at me that I can keep my dollar. I’ve walked into my building lobby by this time, where Saeeda is waiting for me, and this cab driver comes INTO my building, still yelling and swearing at me. Dangerous though his behavior is, and even though avoidance is the best approach, I lose it the moment he takes a step towards Saeeda.
Placing myself between Saeeda and him, I get in his face and yell at him to get out. But I’ve also managed to lose my temper by this time, and start swearing right back at him. Somewhere along the line we both realize that we’re Pakistani, and the Urdu curse words follow. One part of me is amazed at myself, but another is just waiting for him to touch me. The adrenaline kicks in, tunnel vision kills my perception of my surroundings, and my face is an inch away from his.
Saeeda told me later that it was only through our doorman’s intercession that no physical violence ensued. The doorman managed to push the guy out of our building, and Saeeda somehow managed to get me into our elevator.
I had trouble sleeping that whole night, because I could not believe that cab driver’s actions. If you don’t get tipped appropriately, you can yell, curse, flick off the passengers, whatever. You do NOT leave your car under any circumstance. This guy did it TWICE. Once to shove a quarter in my face, and another to confront me once he realized he had counted incorrectly and I had called him out on it. That he was unstable was obvious, but that was no excuse for his actions. I spent the night kicking myself for not remembering the guy’s cab number or company.
Luckily, our doorman had noted down these details, and I got these from him the next day. The city of Chicago has heard from me, and I fully plan to see this idiot taken off the streets before he causes some serious damage. In the meantime, make sure you memorize that four digit number. You never know when you’re going to need it.
Saeeda and I went to catch a movie on Friday night (Vantage point – wait for the DVD), and decided to take a cab on the way back home. The guy drove over the speed limit, and swerved across lanes multiple times. That in itself is not unusual behavior for taxi drivers in a big city, but it was dangerous nonetheless.
The fare was $5.85 by the time we pulled up to our apartment building. I had a brief internal debate over whether I should give the guy $6.00, therefore punishing him for the bad driving by giving no tip, or whether I should give the guy $7.00 (the amount I would have paid normally). I generally tip cabbies, because I know the hard work they put in, and how little they make. So despite my better judgment I gave him $7.00 and started walking away from the cab.
A yell from the cabbie caught my attention, and I turned around. Next thing I know, the cab driver is approaching me aggressively, and shoving a quarter in my hand. I ask him what that’s for, and he makes a face and says it’s my change. Confused, I asked him what the change is for. He says that the fare was $5.85, and I only gave him $6.00. I say that he is wrong, and that I gave him $7.00.
Despite this guy’s aggressive behavior, I ask him to count the money I gave him, because I’m still willing to give him the extra dollar. Of course, it turns out that he has counted incorrectly. He looks up at me sheepishly, and I say that in the future he should count the money properly, and walk away.
This sets him off. He charges at me, yelling and cussing at me that I can keep my dollar. I’ve walked into my building lobby by this time, where Saeeda is waiting for me, and this cab driver comes INTO my building, still yelling and swearing at me. Dangerous though his behavior is, and even though avoidance is the best approach, I lose it the moment he takes a step towards Saeeda.
Placing myself between Saeeda and him, I get in his face and yell at him to get out. But I’ve also managed to lose my temper by this time, and start swearing right back at him. Somewhere along the line we both realize that we’re Pakistani, and the Urdu curse words follow. One part of me is amazed at myself, but another is just waiting for him to touch me. The adrenaline kicks in, tunnel vision kills my perception of my surroundings, and my face is an inch away from his.
Saeeda told me later that it was only through our doorman’s intercession that no physical violence ensued. The doorman managed to push the guy out of our building, and Saeeda somehow managed to get me into our elevator.
I had trouble sleeping that whole night, because I could not believe that cab driver’s actions. If you don’t get tipped appropriately, you can yell, curse, flick off the passengers, whatever. You do NOT leave your car under any circumstance. This guy did it TWICE. Once to shove a quarter in my face, and another to confront me once he realized he had counted incorrectly and I had called him out on it. That he was unstable was obvious, but that was no excuse for his actions. I spent the night kicking myself for not remembering the guy’s cab number or company.
Luckily, our doorman had noted down these details, and I got these from him the next day. The city of Chicago has heard from me, and I fully plan to see this idiot taken off the streets before he causes some serious damage. In the meantime, make sure you memorize that four digit number. You never know when you’re going to need it.
Why you should memorize your cab number
I’ll start with the more innocuous (though no less harrowing) of the two stories that make it imperative that you ALWAYS memorize your cab number when you get in for a ride.
I was wrapping up a weekend trip to Austin, and some friends and I decided to share a cab to the airport. Because there were three of us, and there wasn’t enough room for my backpack, I placed it on the front passenger seat.
The ride to the airport didn’t take long, and pretty soon we were in line to get boarding passes. Which is when I realized that I had never picked up my backpack (which contained my laptop, amongst other valuables) from the cab. The feeling that hit me next was sickening – you know the one. Your head starts spinning, and no sooner does the world come back into focus that your stomach drops through to your groin. Anger hit next – anger for being an idiot and not being able to do something as simple as keeping track of my belongings.
Once I was somewhat more composed, I asked my friends what cab company our taxi was part of. Blank stares.
“Guys was it yellow, white, what?”
Blank stares. We didn’t even remember the color of the taxi, let alone the company name or the cab number. I ran out of the terminal, hoping beyond hope that the cab driver had realized he still had my bag, and had decided to wait curbside. No such luck. Instead, I ran into one of the people that are always yelling at you to move your car because the nation is at a perpetual Code Orange. Thankfully, the person I found was a nice lady who started calling the main taxi dispatch lines to see if a driver had reported the missing backpack. I was then put in touch with the airport lost and found department, which also came up empty. As I began to mentally reconstruct the gigabytes of personal information on my laptop, and whether it was worth taking a later flight so that I could recover my bag, one of my friends grabbed my attention.
“Did you hear that?” he asked. “What?” I replied. “Your name – they’re calling your name on the PA system.”
Breathless, we ran back into the terminal to the airline counter, where sure enough a lady cop, my backpack in her hand, was trying to locate me through the public announcement system. Amazed at my good fortune, I thanked God, and then offered to hug the cop. Then I thought better of it, since as a general rule, you don’t want to be excessively emotionally expressive around people who carry guns.
So the cab driver who had dropped us off turned out to be a good Samaritan, and left my bag with airport security. Still, if I had memorized the four digit, unique cab number in the first place, I could have had taxi dispatch instantly locate the cab and put me in touch with the driver.
So memorize that number next time you get in a cab.
I was wrapping up a weekend trip to Austin, and some friends and I decided to share a cab to the airport. Because there were three of us, and there wasn’t enough room for my backpack, I placed it on the front passenger seat.
The ride to the airport didn’t take long, and pretty soon we were in line to get boarding passes. Which is when I realized that I had never picked up my backpack (which contained my laptop, amongst other valuables) from the cab. The feeling that hit me next was sickening – you know the one. Your head starts spinning, and no sooner does the world come back into focus that your stomach drops through to your groin. Anger hit next – anger for being an idiot and not being able to do something as simple as keeping track of my belongings.
Once I was somewhat more composed, I asked my friends what cab company our taxi was part of. Blank stares.
“Guys was it yellow, white, what?”
Blank stares. We didn’t even remember the color of the taxi, let alone the company name or the cab number. I ran out of the terminal, hoping beyond hope that the cab driver had realized he still had my bag, and had decided to wait curbside. No such luck. Instead, I ran into one of the people that are always yelling at you to move your car because the nation is at a perpetual Code Orange. Thankfully, the person I found was a nice lady who started calling the main taxi dispatch lines to see if a driver had reported the missing backpack. I was then put in touch with the airport lost and found department, which also came up empty. As I began to mentally reconstruct the gigabytes of personal information on my laptop, and whether it was worth taking a later flight so that I could recover my bag, one of my friends grabbed my attention.
“Did you hear that?” he asked. “What?” I replied. “Your name – they’re calling your name on the PA system.”
Breathless, we ran back into the terminal to the airline counter, where sure enough a lady cop, my backpack in her hand, was trying to locate me through the public announcement system. Amazed at my good fortune, I thanked God, and then offered to hug the cop. Then I thought better of it, since as a general rule, you don’t want to be excessively emotionally expressive around people who carry guns.
So the cab driver who had dropped us off turned out to be a good Samaritan, and left my bag with airport security. Still, if I had memorized the four digit, unique cab number in the first place, I could have had taxi dispatch instantly locate the cab and put me in touch with the driver.
So memorize that number next time you get in a cab.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Patience and restraint
Let me set the stage for the letter above. It is Valentine's day, and Saeeda and I decide to go to the Second City theater in Chicago to watch some good comedy (Second City is where many of today's popular comedians got their start). This being the city, parking is a pain, and so we find ourselves following a street sign that says "Second City Parking." Except that, this being the city, the sign leads to a parking structure that gives cars barely any maneuvering room. We see signs for "Guest Parking" and follow the ramps up to the very top floor, park our car, and leave to enjoy the show.
Upon returning later that night, we find that access to this top floor is no longer available from the parking structure. We ask the clueless night attendant, who casually tells us that we parked in the wrong place. Second City parking, as the fading, barely visible, bent-out-of-shape sign clearly states, is on the ground floor. It is freezing cold, Saeeda is pregnant, and I now need to find someone to let me into what turns out to be resident parking for an adjacent building.
Long story short, I manage to get in, and get to the car. And I discover this lovely letter stuck in my windshield wiper. Let us deconstruct this letter together:
"I hope you have enjoyed my parking spot because you will never park in it again."
A strong, bold statement that sets the tone of the message right away. Sinister, because it doesn't quite state how I will be decapitated should I park in that spot again. Sarcastic, because of the "I hope you have enjoyed ..." Brilliant.
"You are welcome for my incredible patience and restraint"
More sarcasm, because I am supposed to be overwhelmed with gratitude at this point. And here's the most poignant part of it all - the writer is declaring their angelic nature by describing their incredible patience and restraint. Incredible, I tell you. Incredible.
Now let us step back for a moment. In sub-zero Chicago winter weather, some sorry, sad, sod of a person took the time to find quality lined paper and a good pen to neatly channel their rage into a two sentence message to me - a stranger who mistakenly parked my car in their spot because of a lack of proper signage. In all fairness, the garage had such low ceilings and tight turns that a tow truck would never be able to get in there to move my car. Which means that the person whose spot I took had nothing they could do about the situation, other than to try to convince me of their incredible patience and restraint that stopped them from ... what? Keying my car? Breaking in my window?
Some people just need to take a deep breath and relax before they put pen to paper.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Exactly how stupid do they think we are?
The other day I read a news report on how United is going to start charging passengers $25 to check a second bag. Yup, that's right. You will now have to shell out money if in case you are unable to pack your life into one regular sized bag. The kicker, however, was some statement from United that went along the lines of, "... by charging for bag checks, we will be able to keep base fares lower and offer more options to our customers." More options? What the $#%!?
This nickel and diming is ridiculous. How stupid do they think we as consumers are? Do they think we'll just sit back and let them rip us off like this?
It's almost like saying that banks should be allowed to charge you, like, $3 to take your own money out of the ATM. Or like saying that digital media companies should be allowed to dictate the device on which you play a song that you purchase from them fair and square. Or like ...
Wait a minute.
Maybe we are this stupid.
This nickel and diming is ridiculous. How stupid do they think we as consumers are? Do they think we'll just sit back and let them rip us off like this?
It's almost like saying that banks should be allowed to charge you, like, $3 to take your own money out of the ATM. Or like saying that digital media companies should be allowed to dictate the device on which you play a song that you purchase from them fair and square. Or like ...
Wait a minute.
Maybe we are this stupid.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Its going to be a ...!
If you haven't heard already, then I have some news for you. Saeeda and I are expecting our first child sometime in June. Yes, exciting stuff, and while we've both been overjoyed these last few months, I didn't realize how quickly our lives are about to change until this past Monday. That's when we visited our doctor for Saeeda's 22nd week appointment, and got to use ultrasound to see our baby chilling in it's mothers womb.There was something about seeing the tiny hands and feet, and seeing the baby turn this way and that to get away from the annoying ultrasound wand that finally made it hit home. Uh, dude? I heard a voice say inside my head. You're going to be, like, a father.
A father? Me? I can barely remember where I put my car keys, or how to properly slice a tomato, or whether the your bread plate sits to your left or to your right. And I'm going to be responsible for the safety and security of a whole new life? And the child is going to look to me for direction? Uh oh.
But thoughts like that are fleeting. I take solace in the fact that there have been countless other clueless dads throughout time, all of whom have learned to cope. It's not like babies come with an instruction manual. And "What to Expect when you're Expecting" doesn't count.
Our ultrasound technician also told us the gender of the child, which had both of us overjoyed. The problem now lies in the fact that my dad has asked that I not tell him the gender, and that he wants to be "surprised" at birth. The kicker being that my mother has said that she wants to know the gender the moment we find out. Exactly how I'm going to be able to keep this information from one parent and not the other, I'm not sure. Especially since my parents are slowly becoming tech savvy, and my dad at least has started reading this blog (Hello!).
I will try, however. Hopefully this blog post has been gender neutral the whole time...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
