Category Archives: social interaction

The time with the ignorant barista

I love coffee. It’s a life-giving substance that makes mornings survivable. No seriously, all those memes with people and animals looking like surprised zombies who stuck their finger in a wall plug accurately describes the first hour of my days. This all started when I was a child with a beautiful plastic tea set. It had flowers on it. My dad would put watered-down coffee in the cups during “tea time.” I sometimes wonder how smart it was to give a 4-year-old coffee, but it lead me to this brown elixir of life, so I’m not going to question it.

I keep trying to quit buying Starbucks. My wallet hates that place. Alas, I am only human, so I found myself in line at a Starbucks not too long ago. The woman in front of me was on her phone when the barista called her up to the counter. She didn’t respond. The barista tried again. Still nothing. Did this woman actually want coffee? I tried to hide my annoyance when I leaned in to tell her she was next. Still no response. Time for a shoulder tap, which produced excellent results. She apologetically explained she was deaf, leaving me feeling rather sheepish about my frustration.

I wasn’t the only frustrated party, it seems. This woman started her conversation with the barista by explaining that she is deaf in one ear and has a cochlear implant in the other. She needed direct eye contact from the barista and for him to speak slowly and clearly. He mumbled what was obviously not understanding while looking down at the register. I stepped up, looked her directly in the face, and asked if she needed some help with educating this barista. She smirked the whole time I ordered her drink for her.

While we were waiting for drinks, with direct eye contact and slow, clear speech, a feat that isn’t even close to difficult, I told her how impressed I was with her ability to advocate for herself and state her needs. She told me how her invisible illness forced her to be candid with every person she interacted with in order to survive in this world. Apparently that didn’t always work. She said her doctor’s office still doesn’t remember her limitations, despite explaining them six times. Well doesn’t that just fill you with confidence? It takes 2 minutes to skim a chart and special needs like that are usually highlighted. Trust me, I’m a nurse.

After we got our drinks and wished each other well, my brain went down a long, winding rabbit hole. Invisible illness is something I’ve dealt with personally, including the ignorance of others, and it can be isolating. I wanted to elaborate in this blog post, but the issue is too complicated. It would cheapen the experience to try to break it down. I truly believe this is one of the most important conversations I’ve covered in this blog.

*For one example of a truly ignorant person, see my blog post “The time I was frozen” from November 2018.

The time Vikings were warm and fuzzy

I love the smell of rain. I once ventured out in a rainstorm smelling the air with the vigor of a pig snuffling in a field of truffles. The sneezing fit that followed aside, I was filled with a warm, fuzzy feeling of content. It was the kind of cozy usually brought on by watching the rain come down while sitting in my recliner with a blanket and a cat on my lap. Except I got wet. Much like my cat, I’m not a fan of feeling like a drowned rat.

I recently volunteered at Northwest Viking Fest with my partner. True to authentic Viking weather, it rained off and on most of the weekend. I drove up to the festival after work on Friday, my sense of dread building with every falling raindrop. Just when I thought I had made it to the festival site, I found my directions were wrong. After cursing my phone for daring to lose service in the middle of the forest, I drove up and down the road until I found a beacon of light in the darkness. Like the moth that later chased my flashlight, I zoomed to the casino that was illuminating the night. I let out an ironic laugh when the kind security guard told me the festival was only 3 driveways away. So I drove up and down the road again, unable to find this illusive driveway. Just as I was returning to the casino, a rain cloud hanging over my head like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, my boyfriend pulled into the parking lot like a knight on a red horse (the color of his vehicle). He hugged me while I cried out my frustration. Then he told me how worried everyone had been about me because I am part of the tribe, even though some of them I had only seen once or twice. Just like that, all my negativity faded and I felt the warm fuzzies.

The first thing my partner showed me upon my highly anticipated arrival was the giant pop-up tent that I would be sheltered in while selling tickets for his axe throwing experience. My mental picture of being cold and wet the whole weekend began to fade. Then he showed me the back of his truck, which had a mattress pad already set up for us to sleep on. Any leftover trepidation I had dissolved. I fell asleep peacefully and dry, filled with warm fuzzy feelings while cuddled up to my boyfriend.

On Saturday morning, I awoke to my beloved smell of rain mixed with evergreen trees. I was uncharacteristically cheerful for such an early hour. I hoped out of the truck and savored the squish of the soft but not muddy grass beneath my bare feet. The warm fuzzies started again when several friends passed by and told me how glad they were that I arrived safely. I even got multiple hugs. I spent the whole day talking. To customers. To performers. To other volunteers. The whole atmosphere was the exact opposite of the Seattle freeze. It felt like applying chatty lotion to my soul, which dried out from the frosty attitudes of Seattleites when I attempt to converse with someone I haven’t known my whole life. I found my people!

On Sunday morning, I heard the pitter-patter of heavy rain on the truck roof before I even opened my eyes. My bladder immediately forced me to exit our cozy sleeping quarters. Thankfully my hair was in Viking braids, which minimized that drowned rat feeling. I was about to climb back into our red cave when my brain snapped to attention. Our pop-up tent, the super amazing one that was crucial to staying dry, had collapsed. It looked like a partially sunk sailboat floating sideways in the mud puddle that was beginning to form. The frame was broken in two places and unable to support the tent. Oh, and everything the tent had been protecting was soaked. There were actual puddles in my waterproof boots. My Viking dress was wet enough to ring out. My partner’s belt of leather pouches was drenched. Possibly the most troubling, the stack of waivers people signed before throwing axes, just in case they cut off a finger or something, fell apart when touched. For what seemed like an eternity, my partner and I stood frozen in place, still in our pajamas and barefoot, at a loss for how to proceed. One of our friends happened to be passing by and we alerted him to our predicament. It took less than 10 minutes before several people arrived to salvage the situation. Even though nobody was fully awake enough to actually speak, their actions said all I needed to once again get that warm fuzzy feeling. This is a group that looks out for each other. Three of us stood the tent up and held it in place while another duct taped the broken corner. Then he found a wooden beam to hold up the other side of the tent. We tentatively released our grip on the poles, waiting for the thing to crumble and die. It didn’t. Our tent was alive once again. Well, as alive as plastic can be. One could say we performed plastic surgery. I could have let all the setbacks ruin my weekend. But the fellowship I found made this one of the best weekends I’ve had in a long time.

The time we didn’t get trapped

I think the trees have it out for me. I don’t know why. Sure I drive a car, but I always recycle and compost and care about the environment. Maybe nobody has told any trees that. Or maybe trees are just cheeky sometimes. One balmy, summer day I was hiking with my partner and came across one of the most mischievous tree’s I’ve ever seen. I had wandered off the trail a little to pee when this tree ensnared my foot with its roots. When I tried to stand up, I found my foot was trapped under a root. I fell forward, pants still at my ankles, ass in full view of anyone who walks by, and face-planted into the dirt. I writhed around for a bit on the downward slope and was unable to even get my pants back up, let alone stand up. Just when the captivity was starting to cause me to panic, my partner had to yank my entangled foot to freedom before I managed to stand up. By this time, a few people had passed by and one offered his help, much to my chagrin. If my partner hadn’t been there, I would have had to accept the help of a complete stranger with my entire lower half exposed. Lets just say I’m no “stranger” to emotional hang-ups to random situations.

I was on my way to an appointment in a 16-floor building when I saw a woman hovering by the elevators without actually boarding one. With eyes wide like a hound dog, she asked sheepishly if I would ride the elevator with her. She was too scared of elevators to ride alone. Knowing there had to be some trauma there, I agreed to ride 8 extra floors with her. Upon entering the elevator, she grabbed the handle bar until her knuckles turned white and her hands cramped up. It turns out she had been stuck in an elevator three times in the past year. She said the worst time was when she was alone, the emergency call button wasn’t working, and her phone was dead. The minutes past like hours while her anxiety and claustrophobia steadily increased. By the time she was rescued, her breathing was labored and she was in such a panic that paramedics were called. She told this story so quickly that we still had 6 floors to go. I soothed her nervous fidgeting by showing her my phone had full bars and I could call for help immediately if anything happened. Also it has a really fun fish game on it. When we finally arrived at her floor she gave me a big hug and said she hoped her next riding companion was as understanding as I was. And I didn’t even have the chance to tell her my tree root, naked ass story. Not that it’s anything to brag about.

The time the dentist inspired me to travel

I’m absolutely terrified of the dentist. This is heart racing, jaw-clenching, anxiety-attack level fear. I usually deal with it by simply avoiding the dentist, which has wrecked havoc on my teeth. A few days ago, I cracked the temporary crown I haven’t been brave or wealthy enough to get a permanent on. With my pain levels rising, I finally called the first dentist who was open after work hours. I got lucky. They still use this miraculous substance called nitrous oxide. During my procedure, my brain went a lot of different places. Why does the English language insist we pet our pets? How many times can I use my new unicorn floaty in the lake this summer? How do celebrities keep from getting zits? When am I going to travel again?….

…and BOOM. My intoxicated, euphoric brain had hit upon a serious topic, which I was not in the right mental state for. That thought morphed into vivid memories of me traveling the globe when I was younger and more carefree. My recollections were so strong it was like reliving all the adventures. Then again, I was under the influence of a dissociative anaesthetic, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic.

Before my dentist appointment, I killed time by visiting a local gluten-free bakery for a pastry and coffee. The tables were full, so I braced for a chill and asked if I could share a table with two older women. I was relieved to find they were friendly and very chatty. I soon learned that neither of them is from Seattle. Go figure. Anyway, Rose* was a best friend and caregiver for her aunt Betty*, who was getting up there in years and needed a companion for her complex medical issues. Rose was a former travel agent, back when the profession was lucrative and in-demand. We shared travel stories from around the globe and it felt so good to remember who I used to be. I’ve faced some medical challenges myself and don’t feel as confident in my ability to travel. I told Rose I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to travel like I used to. I loved staying in hostels and immersing myself into different cultures. While I did do activity tours like scuba diving and horseback riding, I liked seeing some less touristy spots too. The logistics involved seemed more overwhelming to me now that I’m not 20 anymore. Rose smiled while Betty chimed in with what I needed to hear. They were getting ready to leave on an international cruise for 30 days. Betty then told me she is a dialysis patient and is able to do this because the ship has its own fully staffed dialysis unit. Rose explained that part of her job used to be navigating these challenges and helping people see the world. The two ladies had been on over 10 cruises together already and just kept coming back. As they were leaving, she told me never to give it up.

I was worried I might grow out of traveling one day. It had been a series of youthful escapades for me in the past. I might have to adjust my expectations, but I can still see the world. I haven’t grown out of my fear of the dentist, so I refuse to give up on traveling!

 

*names have been changed

The time I found my people

I never dated much in college. I was a socially awkward curvy girl with low self-esteem and a chronic case of word vomit. So not much has changed. Throw in the fact that I live within the confines of the Seattle Freeze, and my perpetual single status was inevitable. So I wasn’t prepared when the unexpected happened. I was sitting at the coffeehouse on my college campus when a casual acquaintance I knew through a school club plopped down beside me on the heavily loved couch I was perching on. He didn’t waste much time before asking me if I wanted to go swing dancing with him sometime. I stared blankly at him for a minute while my mind caught up to what was happening. In that time, his nerves got the best of him causing his verbal diarrhea to flare up. He began telling me about the sweater he was wearing, made for him by his grandmother. It had a wolf howling on it and he told me the exact thread count of the sweater. Recognizing the signs of a nervous babbler, I rescued him by saying I wanted to focus on school. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we didn’t really have much in common and I wasn’t interested. We never really hung out after that, but I know he is happily married. He just needed to find his people.

I recently volunteered in the first aid tent at a Renaissance Faire. I got to help people with cuts, heat exhaustion, and even anaphylaxis, all while wearing a corset. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Part of the whole experience was camping on the festival grounds, along with every other vendor and volunteer. The community atmosphere was as refreshing as the Aloe vera I spread over my entire body. There is no Seattle freeze within the Renaissance Faire, just camaraderie and fun with like-minded people. So I let my guard down and allowed myself to just be the amusingly awkward, nerdy person I love to be.

Once the festival ended for the day, the vendors and volunteers gathered for some after-hours fun. I was walking from my tent to the meeting spot when a woman joined me on the path. I instinctively reached for my phone, as most Seattleites do, before remembering I was free to chat. Without even asking her name, I told her about what was in my head. My roommate had found a cat she wanted to adopt after losing her beloved furbaby Thundercloud to old age. She had a lot in common with the 10-year-old rescue cat and wanted to give her a loving home. The only thing standing in the way was the adoption fee. I had decided earlier that day that I would pay it for her. It seemed like it was a relationship that was meant to be. I told all of this to my new nameless friend. By the time I was finished, I expected her to give me a passive-aggressive response and put in her ear buds. But she didn’t! She liked the story and thanked me for sharing it.

So I babbled, just like my coffeehouse friend had. It was about a cat, not a wolf, but close enough. I also have no intention of making a sweater using cat fur (though I know that’s been done). I’ve learned that random, often awkward, chatter is ok when I’m surrounded by my people. Maybe that’s the key to thawing the Seattle freeze?

The time I didn’t breathe Helium

I am naturally an extremely lazy person. Actually I put a lot of effort into planning my day so I can be as efficient as possible with my adulting, and then revert back to a level of inertia that rivals the noble gases. Oddly enough, I can make my voice sound like I inhaled Helium without actually having to buy a balloon. The problem with indulging my slothful nature is that it’s expensive. Good thing I can save money on helium balloons.

This world, or at least in the USA, people have made millions by inventing things to make our lives easier. Too lazy to get out of the car? Use a drive-thru. Too lazy to go to the store? They all deliver now. How about cleaning the house? That’s what a maid service is for. And the list goes on. I will admit that, until recently, I would buy Starbucks every morning, then buy lunch at work, and then sometimes order food for dinner. Its not that I don’t like to cook. I would just rather sit in my recliner and have someone else cook for me. This behavior has improved a little since I realized my credit card was maxed out from my indulgences. I’m far too lazy to get a second job so I need to reign in the spending. This is gonna suck.

I found inspiration in the most random place: my uber driver. I was going to take the light rail from the airport, then bus from downtown to home. I had contracted my first ever ear infection and was battling nausea on the plane ride home. The bumpy, loud, overstimulating bus was just too much for me, so I called an uber from the light rail station. I think fate brought me the wisest uber driver. Originally from the Midwest, his four months in Seattle hadn’t frozen him yet. So we actually had a real conversation. He also seemed a little lonely and we all know how hard it is to make friends in icy Seattle. I soon crowned him king of thrifty. He rents the cheapest apartment he could find in Auburn and commutes up to Bellevue for his job as a server in a sushi restaurant. He uses uber to pick people up on his long commute home, giving his wallet some extra padding. That’s a whole lot of effort, but he plans his life around living beneath his means. He conserves money like I conserve energy. After this uber ride, I started making my own coffee and bringing my lunch to work. This has more to do with my credit card debt than having a life-altering conversation from an uber thrifter, but I still think he deserves some credit. I wish I could thank him but I didn’t get any contact info. And we all know I’m too lazy to call sushi restaurants in Bellevue until I find him. At least my idleness prevents me from being a stalker.

The time a stranger wasn’t my cat

I am a self-proclaimed crazy cat lady. My two cats are my best friends and I love them so much I actually miss them while I’m grocery shopping. Or at work. Or even on a sunny vacation! The last time I had a fuzzy craving I ran over and picked up one of them with such fervor that it took a couple minutes for me to realize I had stepped in wet, slimy, squishy barf. So then I had to choose between setting the cat down again and washing puke off my foot. It wasn’t any easy choice. Then again, I work with bodily fluids on a daily basis so my gross-o-meter wasn’t registering anything amiss.

We have a new intern at work and she has been a wonderful fresh perspective. We were joking around when she asked why someone was on the floor in the hallway. I was half way through telling her people are just quirky from the heat when it dawned on me that I am a medical professional working in a hospital and should probably be concerned. Sure enough, an older woman had parked her arse right in the middle of the hallway. She sat straight up, legs out straight in front of her, and appeared to be eating oatmeal with the grace of a ravenous one-year-old. The bowl was upside down behind her and oatmeal was in her hair, all over her face, and down the front of her pants. If my coworker hadn’t just shot me with a nerf gun I may have figured out sooner that it wasn’t actually oatmeal.

As I approached the woman, the unmistakable putrid smell of vomit finally tickled my nose hairs. It turns out that oatmeal was no in fact in her hair, on her face, and down her pants. There wasn’t even a bowl. That was just a large pile of vomit that looked like a bowl from inside my office. When I kindly asked if she needed any help she told me no and to go away. Something tells me she was a little embarrassed. Too bad it was about to get worse. The door to the elevator located about 10 feet from her opened and a boy somewhere between 6 and 9 years old decided the entire floor needed to know there was “stinky barf” everywhere. One of the doctors who works next door to me came to lend his aid and was swiftly rebuffed as fast as I had been. The sad thing is, she said she wasn’t embarrassed. She just needed go because she was supposed to be translating at a client’s medical appointment in a few minutes and didn’t have time to be sick. She then finished wiping all the vomit off herself, tried to stand up, got dizzy and collapsed backward right into the pile of vomit that I had mistook for a bowl earlier. Thankfully she then reconsidered her plans for the day and accepted our help.

For the record, it turns out she had in fact eaten oatmeal for breakfast. That seemed important to include.