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.
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
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