Posts Tagged ‘gingers’

Ginger. It’s a cookie. It’s a flavoring in my coffee. It’s the color of hair.  And importantly it’s a persons name.

The Ginger that I know is basically a concoction of all clichés rolled into a doughy young woman with freckles sprinkled in. Her pale skin only heightens the visibility of her Pippy Longstocking features. Her voice is bubbly but masks a stern punch that causes a little intimidation. An intimidation I find oddly endearing.  Ginger is my nutritionist. Ginger is a friend. Ginger is a fucking bitch.

There is only one day left till Thanksgiving. The stress of making small talk with my caustic relatives leaves me exhausted. The type of tired where you pre-rehearse answers to typical questions asked. “Well Grandma I haven’t worked at Blockbuster in over 10 years.” to “NOPE.. no girlfriend for me..(Gulp).”   Basically I just go from relative to relative in drabness and a little Winona Ryder swag to my mannerisms. All the anxiety of holidays makes it difficult to enjoy the wonderful food offerings from my hard-working mother. The way her deviled eggs carry a kick as if an aphrodisiac. Shoveling em in my mouth silently enjoying the mental orgasm. Cleaning up with a whiskey and seven and a belly full of tryptophan. That is Thanksgiving to me. Only 24 hours away.

Ginger. It’s a plant. It can be a spice in your food. Sometimes it’s the name of a crayon. But most importantly folks.  Ginger is a bitch.

My dialysis unit is quiet as i anticipate a tumbleweed  at any moment.  Patients enjoying their vacation out-of-town with relatives I’m sure? I feel a little abandoned by my peers as I’m left with the medical staff and a handful of  crazies. I scroll through my phone to a Selena Gomez song I have been listening to on repeat. Feeling a little embarrassed & old to be enjoying this Disney starlet. However monitoring the volume carefully so nobody can hear. I look around as the catchy fluff narrates the nurses every move. You have to entertain oneself somehow.

Distracted by people watching I take notice that Ginger had appeared in the facility. How I missed that auburn glow from her hair is beneath me?  How its flames wicker behind her pale head as she floats around the room. Her natural powdered face baptized with soft freckles. Her clothes puritanically wrapped upon her  figure teasing with the occasional midriff sighting. Ginger’s discreet sexuality just baffles my sexual orientation as I can’t help feeling enthralled. She is the Pines Facility Nutritionist on call. Someone who teaches you the importance of a renal failure diet. A diet that I joke is limited to ice cubes and dust.  A diet that NOBODY follows. I sometimes wonder why they even bother funding her program? Listening to her once a month bitch about the importance of staying away from pizza, chocolate & soda just makes patients loathe her. Somehow though? She manages to make eating healthy sound cute.

Ginger. It can be used medically. It is normally a yellowish or reddish-brown. It compliments sushi well. It’s a delicious beer. But most importantly folks. Ginger is MotherFucking Bitch!

Moments later I feel a stapled correspondence packet land on my thigh. Ignoring the content I greet Ginger with a typical wink and playful shoulder pat. It’s my way of flirting without coming off too creepy. Since flirting with a girl while plugged into a machine filtering your blood doesn’t rank high among romantic settings. Well? so says Shakespeare I bet. She softly brushes hair from her face and we discuss impending Thanksgiving plans. I bet she smells like strawberry bubble-bath I think as my eyes twine down her curves. I cant explain the crush that seizes over me? Normally I’m a little discriminatory towards the ginger race. Especially ones that are male. And importantly I’m gay. So why I exhaust energy flirting excessively can only mean I have great taste. Right?

My eyes end on her cute velvet flats and I compose eye contact again. There’s a stinging in my temples as I smile on and  listen to what she says. Occasionally chiming in on words catching my attention. “Awww so Pumpkin pies your favorite to eh? I praise. I can sense my dominant act of flirting has her snail trailing at this point. A ginger snail trail? I would normally shutter at the thought. But she is so wholesome I want to cuddle and do cute ginger things. I’m not sure what gingers do in their free time?  But I bet hers involves baking & playing The Sims. Perhaps dry humping too? I dunno? She composes herself like a kindergarten teacher. My thoughts are overly creative and i need to stop I realize.

Ginger. It can be a festive bread. It’s my grandmothers favorite smelling candle. Most commonly the carpet DOES match the drapes. But most importantly folks. Ginger is a bitch!

“So Kyle. Speaking of pumpkin pie. That is why I’m here to see you today.” she scolds as my heart flat lines. Her apparent arterial motive crushes all previous chemistry. I look down at the paperwork that had been weighing on my lap. THANKSGIVING ALTERNATIVES. The words practically rape all holiday excitement leaving my pupils dry. I recall a deja vu with this nutritional bible from a year ago.  Detailing the healthy Do’s and Don’t for the Holiday season. In aggressive BOLD COMIC SANS font it details the health risks of pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, gravy, yams and much MUCH more. Pretty much asking me to drink water and breathe air. But to have a wonderful Thanksgiving still. I feel setup I think? . A sexy woman is hired to crush a dialysis patients holiday spirits. Bah Humbug!  Manipulation by distracting with her unique beauty until the time of year she presents this nutritional bible of bullshit?  Jokes on her though, I’m Agnostic & gay. So her charm becomes shielded.  red flag!

The feeling of disappointment deepens and I listen on. Treating her the way I would my relatives. “So? What exactly am I suppose to eat? I ask glancing up at the TV as I turn on my male selective hearing. She continues on sounding as a PEANUTS adult. I hear the words “High potassium,” & “Entirely to salty.” I dismiss her kindly as i reflect on our fabled courtship. My anger towards Ginger magnifies as she suggest ” I eat an apple over pumpkin pie. And only a spoonful or so of mashed potatoes”. With every nutritional idea read I shutter with disillusionment. I feel as if the time has come to end my pretend relationship with Ginger.

I realize the importance of maintaining a healthy diet. Especially having renal failure I can feel the affects of high salted foods and how it effects my body negatively. The heavy bureaucracy of receiving a kidney are exhausting. A part of that being a monthly report card based on your current nutritional facts via blood work (Potassium, Phosphorus, etc). I realize that if I do follow this alleged bible that I’m following a pretty paved path to a kidney. Something that a lot of patients tend to ignore. I tend to be incredibly stubborn individual. And with a red-haired ginger forcing a limited diet during the BEST time of year. Well fuck? It’s excruciating.

Ginger. It’s a heartbreak. It’s ironically always a woman with red hair. Is a nutritionist with no holiday sympathy. But most importantly I learned. That Ginger is a bitch.

My dialysis technician Kris unplugs me as my run has come to an end. I watch on as the needles are carefully released from my left fistula. My voice barking on about my hate for Ginger and how dare she take Pumpkin Pie privilege away by force of papered guilt. Kris smiles on patiently as she waits for my vent to end. “And can  you fucking believe she said NO stuffing? I can’t believe I enjoyed her company.” I snarl in my queenly tone.

 “Damnit Kyle, shut up,” Kris finally interrupts. Angering me as I tend to love the sound of my voice. “Ginger normally only lectures YOU about your diet.” she continues. “Haven’t you thought it’s cause she is rooting for you?”  Once again I’m faced with a lesson learned. I’ve noticed this has become a theme with my dialysis adventures. I reflect on the fact that Ginger had only passed out those  sheets to the handful of patients. However, intimately going through the importance of my diet verbally. She hadn’t done that with anyone else that day.

My face feels warm with guilt. Guilt I can easily dismiss by the positive outcome of this particular situation.

Ginger. It’s the color of Garfield. The name of a Hollywood Starlet from the 50’s. My favorite flavor of Brandy. And most importantly folks. The name of a woman who cares.

Lesson Learned..  now pass me an apple 😦

Advertisements

Expression on my face lies dead and cold as the camera blankly looks back. I’m guessing the person watching has decided to take their sweet ass time granting me access and my patience grows thin. The sky change blues and I nurse my iced Americano and distract myself by going through unread texts and Facebook notifications from the prior night. I’m welcomed with a beep as the slider door opens. I exhale a huge sigh and stumble in.

I keep my head down as I enter the unit to avoid eye contact, as today is an especially grumpy day. As of late, I have been pondering the word love. A word so frequently used I have been unable to define the definition in oneself. At my age and the trending topic of marriage and kids running all around, I feel late to the game. My history in relationships, I have only told three guys I love them. Three guys in total I have dated,  which allowed the vulnerability enough to even express such a toxic word. Have I become that jaded gay who once relished the idea to being a complete pessimist? My heart can’t take the injury of another end.

“Good morning,” is heard as I take my seat at 18.  Trevor; 27, walks over to me with a smile that goes unphased as my mood and deep thought is unwelcoming I’m sure. He makes route towards me as my focus goes directly to his scrubs and that bulge of his. I anticipate it has to be the most discussed topic amongst the girls, as its become the elephant in the room. Whenever he walks around and has conversation with the nurses, I swear I see their eyes just pan down met with the “Oh my lord,” expression slowly after.

“You don’t seem to be your perky self,” he proclaims as I just dismiss the obvious by flipping through my Blackberry and nod. Trevor is the veteran technician at the unit and the most liked. His vivacious attempt at everything is so charming it gives me a fucking headache. Trevor takes a seat next to me and prepares four needles to begin the morning.

Patty or.. Patricia I’m assuming,  is Queen Bee of dialysis by inhabiting the number “1” chair.  She wears the same navy blue, fleece sweatshirt every run and somewhat looks like an old english woman to me. She has light ginger hair and always wears sunglasses inside, which adds to her bitchy demure. Early on in my beginnings I was unfortunate to have her as a chair neighbor. After my first week of dialysis she had complained to the nurses about my loud iPod music (thank you Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and my laugh? Apparently both things where distracting her bitch ass from sleeping. This only led to me listening to more obnoxious tunes, which evidently drove to me being changed to seat 18.

Upon her red and green striped blanket I see a book. It lies open and pressed against her chest  as she sleeps. The book is in sync with every breath she takes, making it hard to focus across the room at the title. What can such a sullen woman read? I see the author Robyn Cook printed in large font upon a green cover. Still no title. My curiosity gains more momentum.

My utter distaste for this woman runs deep, yet with no real substance to why?  Am I being over critical to a woman who simple wanted sleep? or is the fact she’s a ginger add to the hysteria of a woman who’s so bleak she’s out for blood. I simply laugh to myself and continue writing in my journal.

“Trevor said you where grumpy as hell this morning,” Elsa;24, says with a smirk of curiosity as she comes to put the wall barriers around me.  The most embarrassing thing to deal with is the routine given upon having to pee. There is two ways one can approach the situation. 1) Being completely unplugged from dialysis and having a tech walk with you to the restroom. It adds more time to your overall four hours, and its frustrating for the techs. This technique is rare to see. 2) Having white shelfs on rollers brought out with a plastic odd-shaped container given, to somehow fit your dick in while sitting. Extremely frustrating.

The white walls are placed around me and Elsa makes it clear that she’s coming back to press my much-needed attitude adjustment. I struggle in my chair and get myself upright enough to allow pissing to commence. I have to watch out that I don’t move my left Fistula arm, in fear my needles would break out and cause one bloody fail. By achieving success I must arch my hips sideways (90 degrees) and push my body upright in a yoga pose using my right arm.  It’s the multitasking of both that is hard, not to mention the piss fright that’s given with the minor fact Dotti and Dennis are a thin wall away.

“What’s going on with you today?” Elsa asks as she clears away everything. “I’m thinking about love and my defeat  in keeping it,” i joke. Elsa perches herself up and shakes her head at my response. “Every experience of love is rewarding in its own right, whether negative or positive. she replies. “Plus you must not seek love as it will come to you.” Good point I think. When did Elsa suddenly become Maya Angelo? And how come she has nailed exactly what my problem was. Impatience.

Since coming out 6 years ago I haven’t really had much time single and alone. In fact, I would say after my four-year relationship ended, I immediately jumped from one 6 month relationship to another 6 months. If I do the math right , I have only technically been single roughly a year and half scattered upon that time. Was I allowing myself to settle and jump into anything that seemed delicious enough? Perhaps in order to achieve love and happiness i needed to cool my jets and allow the process to naturally come. Brilliant  you are young Elsa. Using time alone will help coordinate a mental check list of what I seek in a partner. I should not compromise anything anymore. I have decided to take the next year+ off from any relationship, and focus on Kyle. A sorta abstinent approach in order to find myself without the distraction of a relationship.

As i continue to scribble on, I notice that Patty has awoken and has started eating baby carrots. Must be 9:00 am I shrug. I have noticed that Patty does everything pretty routinely. She eats baby carrots and applesauce every run while making sure to not miss Quick Fix Meals with Robin Miller  on Food Network followed by E! News. She even sets her phone alarms for such events, which I find awfully cute.  I make eye contact to allow myself one fulfilling eye roll, as I tentatively listened to Peaches. Listening to her gives me this “fuck you attitude,” that would be best saved for when i work out. I look and see her book has moved, yet no title to be seen. *Rats.

I decide I’m going to watch Robin Miller, along with the bitch in chair 1. Overall these food shows are very addicting, yet frustrating too. They always so vague about ingredients needed.  “Please take your saffron from your cabinet and sprinkle on your clams.”  says the host in such a stepford wives manner. First of all Robin, what the fuck is saffron? I thought this was easy fix meals? And if so, why the hell are we making a clam alfredo pasta? I sigh, as i realize I will never be a kitchen wife. Such a trait seems pretty lost this late in my life. I will probably spend the rest of my days going out to eat or making chicken and rice.

My machine goes off as my entire run has come to an end. Travis slowly starts to unplug me, which is a process that takes about fifteen minutes. “What’s the story on Patty?” I ask, in hopes to add fuel to the already negative persona I define her in. “Oh, she is pretty new to this place,” he adds. “She has been here a year and she’s still struggling with the idea of dialysis. She is a pretty nice woman. Intense sometimes”  I feel  guilt bubbles in my stomach form.  He continues. “She is a nurse at Sacred Heart and usually works right after dialysis most days. So you can only imagine how tired and hard such a thing could be.”

I suddenly feel a wave of nauseousness as I start to analyze the situation at hand. I realize I have acted like a child this entire time and haven’t given this woman a benefit of the doubt.  The subplots that have defined our relationship start to slowly resolve themselves in my conscience. I realize now that she in fact, needed her sleep. That such a strong woman was able to juggle both work and dialysis, was something of inspiring to me.

Trevor takes out the last remaining needles, and covers them with gauze pad. I wear a plastic glove on my right hand and hold down both wounds with my fingers, to stop the bleeding. This process in my last task for my day.  I look at Patty, with what now is a face of sympathy and wrongdoing. She lies relaxed, glasses on and watches her E! News with a face of no emotion. I get up from my chair and make my way towards her. In doing so, I’m still pressing down on my needle entries. “Hey Patty, I hate to bother you.” I say as I feel the heat rush to my face. “I was wondering what Robin Cook book you where reading?” Patty slopes from her chair and removes her red and green blanket. “Oh.. she says,”…. “It’s called Crisis. a court room drama. “I usually have a love hate relationship with this author, and in this case..much hate. I would let you barrow it when I’m done, but I think I’m doing you a huge favor.”  she smiles at me.  We haven’t yet experienced a connection thus far, and I proudly let out a laugh. I feel relief. I engage her more with my presence in hopes that this will be new beginnings. “I hope you have a wonderful day,” i added as I slowly make it back to my chair to gather my belongings.

Lesson learned i thought as I made my way through the exit. Every day I come here appears to be something beautiful I leave with.

Kyle