What a way to start a Sunday morning. My coffeemaker died. Looks like the heating element finally called it quits, probably from being left on all day too many times and having water spilled over it like a baptism every once in a while in my 4 AM waking stupor. But, hey, nine years. Not bad for the modern small appliance.
Of course, shopping for a new one is definitely in the near future. I was looking for same on web-pages, and in the Sunday ad circulars which outnumber the actual news portion of the Sunday paper by 3:1. There are many options, too many for this woman who just wants two cups of coffee in the morning. I was amused by a 4-cup coffeemaker, tiny toaster oven and little griddle combination. Given my tendency to not always be mindful/fully conscious first thing in the morning, what do you think the life expectancy of such a nifty little item would be in my kitchen?
The search continues. In the meantime, my minor caffeine addiction needed to be satisfied. This being the first morning without the proper equipment, the results were disappointing. Boil water, steep coffee in tea pot for five minutes (tea lovers, forgive me), filter through fine sieve and serve. It lacked its usual robustness and left too much fine coffee sludge at the bottom of the cup for my tastes. Next experiment will no doubt include the original coffee filter system in some way.
However, this cannot go on. I may be a morning person by nature, but this coffee-making improvisation requires too much thinking at an hour when I'm lucky to be able to find the kitchen light. I need my sunrise mud and I need to not think about it beyond spoon coffee, pour water and hit button. Simple stuff. It will happen again and probably before the week is out. Trust me.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Friday, October 06, 2006
Cookie-cutter me
One of the best jobs I ever had was working in a hospital for a medical laboratory. It paid relatively well and I enjoyed my work. I was required to wear a uniform of sorts of white pants, clean shirt of choice (no t-shirts with logos, slogans, philosophies, etc.) and a lab coat over the whole thing. I did this job for six years and didn't mind it at all. Even after the lab lost its contract with the hospital and I took a position within lab walls which was clerical in nature, I still wore the uniform. I liked it. It delineated lab from home, work from play.
Eventually, I adapted to wearing regular or civilian clothes to work again and wore them happily over the next 12 years. I liked wearing civies. I liked dressing for work, picking and chosing the clothes du jour. I never wore anything off the wall and the choices were always mine. Unemployment in 2004 into 2005 brought dressing for any work to a screeching halt and my wardrobe stagnated due to lack of need and funds. When I finally returned to the workforce in late 2005 in a temporary position, I found that, while there were folks who preferred to dress to impress, they were in the minority. Yep, I was somewhat overdressed for the office casual environment I was in, but I was so happy just for the opportunity to dress for work again, I didn't care.
Finally this year, I entered a job that I again enjoy. It was in a healthcare setting, but was a clerical position. All went along merrily in this originally temporary job, with me still happily dressing in my own clothes, until September. In August, when I went from temporary to permanent, I was informed that, even though my patient contact time would be minimal to none, all office staff were expected to wear medical scrubs.
Scrubs! Those boxy-looking, drawstring tightened, four sizes allegedly fit all, please don't make me wear them articles of cotton sheeting clothing. Never mind that they present a professional appearance during those brief moments when the patients might see me. I was unhappy with having to conform, to look like everyone else. I kept being reminded of that "Twilight Zone" episode where they made everyone look the same. There was no style, no distinctness of being.
I found myself looking through catalogs and web pages full of uniforms and, while I was warming to the idea of wearing a uniform again, I was still slightly pleased by the fact that I couldn't find scrub pants that would fit. I have long legs and was finding that women's scrubs weren't long enough and men's scrubs, while long enough, wouldn't fit my girlish hips. I hit upon making my own, but only measured once and cut once. Sewn with no room for a redo, I found I had made a pair of scrubs pants that will be ready for me to wear in about ten pounds.
My employer was patient, but still wanted to see me wearing scrubs like the rest of the staff. I finally found two sources, but only one came through. Land's End, bless them, make work chinos for the female figure that they hem to length. Ordered, paid for by my employer, I now had pants. They weren't scrubs, but because of the length issue, the chinos were an acceptable alternative. The tops were next; however, while I was really starting to feel like a uniform wasn't such a bad thing, extra monies for any kind of clothes shopping weren't there and the scrub tops had to wait. But, I found some at a bargain price yesterday and bought them.
So, I've come full circle. Yes, I still grumble just a wee hair, conforming not always easy for me, but oh, the upside of it all. I had forgotten how much easier uniform wearing is first thing in the morning. I had forgotten how much I preferred the delineation of job time from not job time. But perhaps most importantly, I had forgotten that while scrub tops and pants may make us appear the same, we are not. The distinctness of being still shines through and no amount of scrubbie threads will deter that. I saw that every day in the nurses and office folks I work with, but wasn't truly seeing it until today.
So, make me look uniform in the uniform I now must wear. Make me look like part of the healthcare setting I proudly work in and professional for the patients I now regularly see. Cookie-cutter me. Okay, so it's not really a verb. I'm still ready.
Eventually, I adapted to wearing regular or civilian clothes to work again and wore them happily over the next 12 years. I liked wearing civies. I liked dressing for work, picking and chosing the clothes du jour. I never wore anything off the wall and the choices were always mine. Unemployment in 2004 into 2005 brought dressing for any work to a screeching halt and my wardrobe stagnated due to lack of need and funds. When I finally returned to the workforce in late 2005 in a temporary position, I found that, while there were folks who preferred to dress to impress, they were in the minority. Yep, I was somewhat overdressed for the office casual environment I was in, but I was so happy just for the opportunity to dress for work again, I didn't care.
Finally this year, I entered a job that I again enjoy. It was in a healthcare setting, but was a clerical position. All went along merrily in this originally temporary job, with me still happily dressing in my own clothes, until September. In August, when I went from temporary to permanent, I was informed that, even though my patient contact time would be minimal to none, all office staff were expected to wear medical scrubs.
Scrubs! Those boxy-looking, drawstring tightened, four sizes allegedly fit all, please don't make me wear them articles of cotton sheeting clothing. Never mind that they present a professional appearance during those brief moments when the patients might see me. I was unhappy with having to conform, to look like everyone else. I kept being reminded of that "Twilight Zone" episode where they made everyone look the same. There was no style, no distinctness of being.
I found myself looking through catalogs and web pages full of uniforms and, while I was warming to the idea of wearing a uniform again, I was still slightly pleased by the fact that I couldn't find scrub pants that would fit. I have long legs and was finding that women's scrubs weren't long enough and men's scrubs, while long enough, wouldn't fit my girlish hips. I hit upon making my own, but only measured once and cut once. Sewn with no room for a redo, I found I had made a pair of scrubs pants that will be ready for me to wear in about ten pounds.
My employer was patient, but still wanted to see me wearing scrubs like the rest of the staff. I finally found two sources, but only one came through. Land's End, bless them, make work chinos for the female figure that they hem to length. Ordered, paid for by my employer, I now had pants. They weren't scrubs, but because of the length issue, the chinos were an acceptable alternative. The tops were next; however, while I was really starting to feel like a uniform wasn't such a bad thing, extra monies for any kind of clothes shopping weren't there and the scrub tops had to wait. But, I found some at a bargain price yesterday and bought them.
So, I've come full circle. Yes, I still grumble just a wee hair, conforming not always easy for me, but oh, the upside of it all. I had forgotten how much easier uniform wearing is first thing in the morning. I had forgotten how much I preferred the delineation of job time from not job time. But perhaps most importantly, I had forgotten that while scrub tops and pants may make us appear the same, we are not. The distinctness of being still shines through and no amount of scrubbie threads will deter that. I saw that every day in the nurses and office folks I work with, but wasn't truly seeing it until today.
So, make me look uniform in the uniform I now must wear. Make me look like part of the healthcare setting I proudly work in and professional for the patients I now regularly see. Cookie-cutter me. Okay, so it's not really a verb. I'm still ready.
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