Burning, cutting, and... bombing?

Think the only danger to me at my job is burning myself or cutting myself? While I have learned the hard way that these are absolutely valid concerns, here in New York City, they're not the only ones.

Click here to find out what else I now have to worry about.

Yup - girls are as good as (and are sometimes better than) boys

During college, I babysat these three adorable little girls for a colleague whom I worked with at Dana. She would work during the day while I would watch her kids, and then we'd switch places and I'd go to my shift at 4:30 p.m. after she got home.

One day the four of us decided that we wanted to go on a bike ride. The youngest one, Mackenzie, was just about four years old, and wanted to ride in the seat attached to the back of her mom's bike, which I was planning to ride. The problem was that the tire was busted, and needed to be changed. Her mom bought a new tire, but hadn't yet put it on the bike, so I found the tools needed to change the tire and went to work while Mackenzie watched.

After a bit, even though I had the right tools, I began to struggle with the too-tight bolts. And Mackenzie, who had been cocking her head and watching me the entire time from a car seat on the floor of the garage, thought she had the solution to the problem. I'll never forget what she said:

"Miss Erika? We need a boy."

As soon as those words hit my brain, I spun around, dropped the wrench, and looked at her as if she just let loose with a string of swear words.

"NO. WE. DO. NOT!!" I practically yelled, and saw her eyes bug out of her head. The bike ride was nearly all but forgotten as I scooped that girl out of that car seat, plopped her in my lap on the grass outside of the garage, and emphasized to her that girls can do ANYTHING boys can do, citing examples such as Sally Ride and Geraldine Ferraro. (This stuff was coming from the girl who would regularly wear a T-shirt that said, "YEAH! I run like a girl... I throw like a girl... I jump like a girl... 'cause girls kick butt!") And to prove it to her, I then went to work on that bike tire like my life depended on it. And you know what? I went to work later that day after a nice bike ride to and from the neighborhood park hoping that that little girl would never again think she couldn't do something just because she was a girl, and not a guy.

That's why it just pisses me the hell off when a guy thinks he can do something better than a girl just because he's a guy.

We got some new tabletops at my coffee shop today, and I nominated myself to go around, unscrew the old table tops from the bases, and screw on the new ones. When I got to the second table, a guy yelled at me from the corner, "Want some help with that?" That was fine because this is commonly called, "being a gentleman." I politely declined, said "thanks anyway" and went to work unscrewing the old tabletop.

After watching me a bit, he then calls out, "Be careful - don't strip the screws." Now I'm irritated. I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to strip the screws, and I tell him so, though still politely. Even though I know I'll eventually be able to unscrew the screws, it was still a bit of a struggle for me to wrench that first one out of the wood. But I did it just fine. That didn't seem to deter the guy, who, when he saw me struggle with the second one, stood up, walked over to me, and actually placed his hand over mine, locked eyes with me, and very gently said, "Here. Let me do it."

OH NO HE DIDN'T. But yes. Yes, he did. So I sat back and watched this guy unscrew the screws mostly because I'm too stunned to do anything else and must remain professional because I am at my workplace. "Is he trying to impress me?" I think. Talk about your all-time greatest backfires! Dude - you're not going to impress a girl by treating her like a weak idiot.

Nevertheless, he got the screws out just like I would have, and I thought that was going to be the end of it. But no, he wanted to help finish the job, as he was still standing by the table base when I rolled out the new tabletop with a cup full of newer, albeit mismatched screws that I scrounged up.

Without asking, he started rifling through the screws in the cup and chose a few pretty long ones. I told him that I was thinking of using the shorter, fatter screws for a tighter fit, but he said he thought the longer ones would work better. So again, without asking and without my permission, he just went ahead and started screwing in the new screws into the new tabletop. After he was done, he looked at me with a satisfied smile and said, "There. All done."

Then he flipped the table over. And we both looked down to see the tips of four screws poking right through the top of the store's brand-new tabletop.

"Oh," was all he managed to utter as I tried my hardest not to laugh right in his face. "Well maybe we should try the smaller screws."

"Ya think?" I thought while giggling to myself.

So to his credit, or maybe to not look like a complete jackass, he flipped the table over and put in the short, fat screws I suggested in the first place.

But then, to make matters worse, he turned the table right-side up, turned the screwdriver upside-down, and pounded on the table in an attempt to hammer down the raised wood splinters on the tabletop caused by the screws going right through the surface. All he succeeded in doing was make dozens of indents in the tabletop over and over.

So it was no surprise to me that after he was finished "helping" me, he quickly gathered all his stuff and high-tailed it out of there. I, however, spent a good amount of time re-telling the story, showing the proof to my colleagues, and laughing.

What more can I say, Mackenzie? When it comes to virtually anything, girls are as good as (and are sometimes better than) boys. Never forget that.

What more could a dog want?

Even though I definitely feel like New York is now my home, that still doesn't negate the fact that the Toledo area will always be my home.

And even though Brent and I stopped by for just a short visit this past weekend, I have to look forward to the fact that in two months, we'll be back for what will be a much-needed and well-deserved vacation.

We went to Ohio for the quick trip to drop off our baby - our pup. Even though I actually shed a tear or two at the airport thinking about how much I was going to miss Chloe Belle, because of what will undoubtedly be a crazy schedule for the next few weeks with my going to school and Brent continuing to work, we didn't think we'd have enough time to spend with her. We wanted her to be around people (my dad's auto plant closed for a few weeks and my mom often works from home) and not stuck in an apartment for hours all day.

So she's going to spend days running after squirrels in my parents' backyard, having an opportunity to be petted by more people, and eating all the bones she can handle after my parents' cookouts. Sounds like a great life for a dog!

One of my scariest scenarios ever does have a happy ending, thank God

Before these last two weeks, I had a bit of working knowledge about the seven stages of grief - mainly from an episode of The Simpsons when Homer ate what he thought was the poison portion of a blow fish and went through all seven stages in a hilarious seven seconds - but never had them directly apply to me. That changed on May 7, when I found a lump in my breast . Though my story concludes with a happy ending, this account in no way is meant to diminish the horrible news that could have been that other people have to deal with every day.

I wish I would have been able to blog about this issue as it was going on, but I honestly didn't want anyone - including myself - to deal with it or worry unnecessarily. So I'm posting it now in retrospect in this admittedly too-long post.


Thinking back these past two weeks, of course my first reaction was shock and denial (phase 1). I told myself that this wasn't a lump - it was something that felt lumpy, but was totally normal because there obviously was something just like it on my other breast in the exact same place, right? Nope.


But after confirming to myself that this was so not normal -with help from my mom - the only pain and guilt (phase 2) I felt was pain - physical pain because I was messing with it by constantly checking to see if maybe I had been mistaken and maybe it was just some weird thing that went away on its own. Nope.


And though I think I skipped anger and bargaining (phase 3) I most definitely spent a chunk of time on phase 4: depression, reflection, and loneliness.


And I can pinpoint the exact moment phase 4 punched me in the face.


It was during my appointment at West Side Radiology - an appointment I made after my OB-GYN confirmed just a few days prior that I did have a lump and should get it checked out. When I met with my OB-GYN, she said the doctor at my follow-up appointment would use ultrasound equipment to take a breast ultrasound to see if the lump was something harmless, like an enlarged node or something that could potentially be more serious, like a tumor.


After what seemed like eons later (which in reality was two days) I finally went to my follow-up appointment to hopefully get good news. It wasn't. And I knew that it wasn't OK when the nurse who did the ultrasound came back with the doctor, who did the ultrasound again, and told me that yes, it was a mass.


"What does that mean? It's a tumor?" I remember asking in a voice that seemed to be too small to be my own because while I was lying on the table with one arm over my head, I was also tugging at my hair in an attempt to distract myself from the tears that threatened to spill out in front of the doctor and nurse.


"Yes. It's a tumor," he said, then proceeded to tell me that it's most likely benign, and not the scary malignant, because of my age, and gave me all kinds of hopeful scenarios that would most likely play out after he did a biopsy of the lump.


Though that was supposed to be good news, all I focused on as a trudged home looking at my tennis shoes the entire way were the words "most likely." Though a few tears slipped out here and there, I waited until I got home until I let out a full-on hyperventilating cry that both surprised and frightened me. Those who know me well know that when given a potential situation, I always prepare for the worst. In this case, I was preparing myself for the highly unlikely scenario that the doctor would tell me I had X number of months to live.


Because of the time frame, I had very little time for the upward turn (phase 5) and reconstruction and working through (phase 6) because honestly during the past two weeks, I tried my hardest to ignore it. To forget about it. I didn't want to worry about it unless there was something to worry about. Brent made that quite hard, as he wanted me to research the possibilities and educate myself so I could ask the doctor educated questions, which I agreed was a good idea, but I just didn't want to deal with it.


But I did it anyway, and actually did feel a little better because most signs pointed to something that wasn't breast cancer. But I couldn't be sure until the doctor performed a biopsy. The afternoon of the minor surgery, Brent of course came with me to my appointment, and his presence meant everything. But it wasn't until he was told he couldn't come with me to the procedure that I got scared. But my nurse was amazing, made sure I understood everything that was going to happen, and reassured me over and over before it began.


It didn't really hurt, as I was lying on my left side and the area was numbed so the doctor could put in a big needle to thread a smaller needle through. I was OK right up to the point where he made the incision - which I couldn't feel. What I did feel, though, was the blood trickle down my back. That's when I started to cry, and was glad that I was facing a wall away from the doctor. What didn't help when he let out a very guttural, "Hmmmm."


Hmmmmm!?!?!


"Is everything OK?" I managed to ask him.


"Yes, it's just that the tumor is in a very difficult place behind a lot of tissue," he replied.


Great.


Nonetheless, he got two samples, and because it then began to really hurt, he stopped and said he got what he needed. After gingerly getting dressed, Brent walked me home with my care papers and I fully expected him to get me set at home and go back to work. But he pleasantly surprised me with news that he wasn't going to go back to work and was instead going to spend the rest of the day changing my ice packs, making me meals, helping me take my bath, and all-around being the best husband ever.


Even though I fully expected the results not to be available until after the long Memorial Day weekend (they were supposed to take 3 to 10 business days to come back) I called two days later, on a Thursday, in the hope that I would be able to have them on Friday. When I called the doctor's office, I got a receptionist, and explained what I was looking for. After a brief pause, she came back with, "Your results are on the doctor's desk."

"Sooooooo, can I have them then?" I asked.


"The doctor will call you. She always calls patients with test results," the receptionist said.


"I'm sure she does, but since I'm really nervous at this point and since I'll be going out of town tomorrow, can I have them now?" I asked.


"Are you going to be reachable tomorrow?" she asked. "Because if not, I'll have to let the doctor know that."


"OR YOU COULD WALK NEXT DOOR AND TELL ME WHAT MY TEST RESULTS ARE SINCE THEY'RE SITTING RIGHT THERE!!!!!" I screamed. In my mind.


What I really explained to her was that I was going to be in and out of reachability tomorrow, so it would be best for the doctor to call me back that day.


Less than 30 minutes later, the doctor called and said those magical words.


"It's benign."


That's when I let myself drape over the bed in relief to stare at the reproduced painting of Monet's waterlilies that hangs over my bed, which I put there because they make me happy. I then listened to her tell me that the tumor is not cancer, but is actually a fibroadenoma, which is a hard mass of benign tissue that forms for any number of reasons. It won't go away on its own, but has to be closely monitored in case it changes size or causes pain. But it's essentially harmless.


After a few phone calls to reassure my husband, parents, and in-laws, I just stayed on the bed for awhile, thinking of the bullet I dodged. I then prayed to thank God that I never had to go through acceptance and hope (phase 7), and wondered how other people do it. They are people much stronger than me.

It took more than a 18 months, but finally. I'm home.

My visit with my mom this past weekend was a blast.


On her first full day in New York, we took a nice walk in Greenwich Village, saw where I'd soon be attending class at NYU, and ended up at Brent's work, where he took us up to the conference room on the top floor of his building that overlooked lower Manhattan.


Afterward, we had a great dinner at this tiny, Italian place called Max's, which makes homemade pasta.

The next day was my birthday celebration, which was awesome.


Mother's Day was great this year because, of course, I got to spend it with my mother. To celebrate, I made a smorgasbord of deliciousness for dinner and then took my mom to a Broadway play. Though it ended up not being my favorite, we couldn't deny the dancing was phenomenal.


Then came a revelation on Monday after a dinner at Angelo's Pizza and before my mom and I headed to my basketball game, where she proceeded to videotape about a minute of our combined four games. In that minute, I swear she captured about 99 percent of the mistakes I made during those games - including turning over the ball and falling down while going in for a layup. She completely missed even seeing the actual layups I made along with the almost 3-pointer, and more importantly, failed to get them on videotape so I can prove to my husband that I can too play basketball. My dad rocks at videotaping anything. My mom... not so much. (Here's my team. Except for a smiling Rob, don't they look like an excited bunch? Well they are when they're not completely beat!)


Anyway, my revelation came when my mom and I traveled to Brooklyn to finally go to the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory, where they hand-make the ice cream. And yes, it was delicious, but it was also far away, and I had to ride an unfamiliar J train.

But the factory is right off a pier on the river, so while we ate our ice cream - in waffle cones, naturally - we sat down by the river and gazed over at the island that is Manhattan. I thought I'd feel peaceful at the waterfront, but instead I felt weirdly uncomfortable, like the feelings that were nagging me when transferring to a train I had never ridden before. At that time, I thought it was because there was a very real potential of getting lost, and I H.A.T.E. being lost and loathe all the helpless feelings that go with it.


But then I realized that I felt uncomfortable because I was in unfamiliar Brooklyn looking at what's become a familiar Manhattan. I was looking at my home and I felt uncomfortable because I wasn't in it.

Those suspicious were confirmed when we got off the train in Manhattan and headed toward my basketball game in a neighborhood I knew well. I felt better because things looked familiar. And oddly enough, though it goes against everything I believed before moving here, I felt safer, which is a feeling I get more often than not in New York - unless I'm riding the subway alone after midnight. (Did it once - will never do it again.)


I walk my dog around my neighborhood at 10 or 11 p.m. every night and though I'm aware and alert, I've never been fearful. In a city with a population that has grown in the past year by more than the entire population of Toledo, it's hard to be anywhere alone. And because I don't drive anywhere and am rarely in a cab (which I take in lieu of the subway if I'm going home after midnight on strict orders by my husband) the constant potential to be in a car crash has virtually diminished. I feel safe here because it's become familiar.

Never thought I'd say it, but when I refer to home now, I mean New York City.

I spent $21 in New York City and all I got was this delicious cheeseburger

On New Year's Eve 2004, I found myself in Chicago with a friend, and the two of us were having dinner with two of his friends at a nice steakhouse. It was my first time spending a good amount of time in a city any bigger than Toledo, and everything about it just felt weird, uncomfortable, and different.

For one thing, I was absolutely shocked when the bill came for the four of us. With appetizers, entrees, and one round of drinks, the bill came to just more than $300. Up until that point in my life, that bill represented the most I'd ever spent on one dinner, and I was embarrassed that my steak contributed to that exorbitant amount.

What was more shocking to me, however, is that the two guys I was with - who grew up in Queens, New York - saw the bill, laughed, and said it was "weak" for four people. At that time I thought they were absolutely nuts.

Fast forward to May 9, 2009, at my birthday dinner with myself, my mom, and my husband at a nice steakhouse in New York City. We too ordered an appetizer, one round of drinks, and one steak entree each. Because we knew the dinner would end with a free chocolate treat (and that my mom was planning on bringing cupcakes to my birthday party at Bar 9), we decided against dessert. And the bill came to more than $200 for the three of us.

I had déjà vu when I saw the bill because once again I was shocked. But this time, I was shocked that I, in all sincerity, was the one calling that bill "weak" for three people.

It's unfortunate, but living here for nearly two years has desensitized me to the fact that it's no longer shocking that a lunch of two burgers and a shared regular-sized fries and diet coke at Five Guys costs more than $21. Now don't get me wrong - I'm pissed when I have to fork over that much money for a burger when back in Ohio I could just order my favorite Jr. Bacon cheeseburger off the 99-cents menu at Wendy's. Sure I'm pissed, but I'm not surprised.

I think what's helped the most in my desensitization process is working at the coffee shop, where I see the same customers day in and day out. And that includes the woman who comes in and orders two large dry cappuccinos (read: espresso with very little milk, but mostly just foam) and pays just under $10 for them. Every day. People here just expect - and accept - that living in New York City requires them to pay a ridiculous amounts of money for everything - even their daily coffee.

I guess this means I've jumped on the bandwagon. I wonder what my husband would say if I actually came home wearing Jimmy Choo shoes or toting a Prada purse. Eh, if he says anything (not that I'd EVER do that. Come on.) I'd just show him this post and say, "When in Rome..."

Checking off yet another item under my "Something To Do Before I Die" list!

Though my potential serious health issue is still on my mind, I pushed it to the back of my mind yesterday so I could (hopefully) enjoy my 27th birthday!

And enjoy it I did.

It began by my waking up to the intoxicating smell of an omelet breakfast complete with bacon and sliced-up kiwi on a plate right under my nose held by my husband, who woke up early to make me breakfast in bed.

Things just got better from there.

Brent, mom, and I went for an awesome bike ride along the river, then topped it off with a Starbucks Strawberries and Cream Frappuccino, which I only drink on my birthday because it comes with a terrible, yet delicious 15,982 calories.

Then we relaxed in front of my TiVo'd season finale of "Hell's Kitchen" and took our time getting ready to go out to dinner at a mysterious place Brent made reservations for a month ago.

It ended up being at BLT Prime, where I ate steak that literally melted in my mouth. It was amazing!

Afterward, my mom and I went on a mysterious mission at Whole Foods, where she insisted that she needed to buy a cake for my friends and I to enjoy. At a bar. Yeah. So I convinced her that mini, one-bite cupcakes were a better way to go. Mmmmmm. Cupcakes and beer.

And yet they were a hit not only with my friends who showed up at Bar 9, which is two blocks from my apartment, but random people who saw that we had cupcakes and made friends with the birthday girl. Gotta give them credit for that!

Now I probably wouldn't have chosen the hole-in-the-wall bar that is Bar 9 if I was just choosing a bar for my birthday party based on my preference. But we were at Bar 9 because my closest friend in New York, Janine, lives next door to an all-guy cover band, save for their lead singer, who is a girl. I've seen them perform a few times, and although they are a newer band, they are pretty awesome. And since their lead singer was going to be out of town for a gig they booked, they asked Janine if she knew anyone who could sing, and she suggested me solely on the basis that I once told her that I loved to sing. Maybe I should have elaborated to her that I love to sing... by myself... in the shower or car. Yikes.

Though I was more nervous about this than almost anything else in my life, I studied their song list because I knew I'd hate myself if I passed up the chance to sing lead vocals in a band. So I did it, and ended up singing lead vocals to "Basket Case" by Green Day. And it was awesome! But I attribute that to the fact that I had many friends cheering for me in the audience - mostly from my basketball or football team. (The photo to the left is of my basketball team plus some random guy raising his arm behind us with his girlfriend. Weird.)

But I also have to give credit to my mom, who stayed out with me until 2 a.m. when I was ready to walk home and get some sleep - much later than Brent lasted. She rocks! As did my birthday.

I guess 27 is my lucky number!

Thinking positive only leads to disappointment

Though I was looking forward to my 27th birthday, I felt a bit of hesitation because of the fear that history was bound to repeat itself.


Nonetheless, I was thinking positive yesterday evening. My mom was on her way to New York to spend the weekend with me, I was set to sing lead female vocals in a cover band, Brent made reservations at a secret locale for a dinner that he said I was bound to love, and a bunch of my friends were meeting me at the bar for a mini birthday party and my singing debut.

That's when I felt it. As I was soaping up in the shower, I my fingers grazed over something that I hadn't noticed before: A lump in my breast. Panicked, I started running my fingers over the same area - about an inch beneath my armpit - on the other side hoping to find a similar lump that would tell me that it's supposed to be there that would relieve me of my fears that this might be something to worry about. I didn't.


So I lept out of the shower, and very nearly streaked into the living room toward a very surprised Brent to ask him if he could feel something weird or if it was just my imagination. He felt it too, and so did my mom, who was also a bit surprised to arrive in New York to a "Hi, Mom! Good to see you! Could you do me a favor and feel my boob?"

Now this is me, and I have what can only be described as an exceptionally vivid imagination. This can be cool because my dreams are almost always wild and creative, and last the entire night. Yet it can also be a curse. Because they're so vivid, I sometimes confuse reality from what my mind has created while I was sleeping. And at least a few times a year, I'll have a serious nightmare that I wake up from screaming or crying or gasping for breath. I hate having to fall asleep after those because my dreams will weirdly pick up from where they left off when I woke up.

So of course after finding the lump and agreeing with my mom that I need to make a doctor's appointment, I went to sleep and dreamt of that horrific conversation some people have with their doctors where they learn that they have six months to live. The difference was, that person wasn't just someone on a commercial or in a movie. That person was me.

So while I was at work the next day, my mom being my mom looking out for her daughter called and made an appointment with my OB-GYN to have it looked at. The soonest emergency appointment they have? FOUR days from now. Crap. Looks like I have a bunch more sleepless nights ahead of me!

Hmmmm, what's worse? Being cheated on by a crappy boyfriend or putting myself in a position to be forced to watch "The Anaconda?" It's a toss-up!

Though it is already a day planned with jam-packed fun and being catered to, I AM SO NOT looking forward to my recent 27th birthday. Ever since I turned 19, EVERY SINGLE ODD-NUMBERED BIRTHDAY of mine ended up turning into a complete disaster.

One year, I found out that my boyfriend of two years had been cheating on me - with several girls - for awhile on the day I had ALL FIVE FINALS in college, causing me to skip several entire pages on my French exam in favor of running out into the hall toward the bathroom to bawl.

Two years later, I organized a disastrous trip up to Canada for my 21st birthday (who celebrates their 21st birthday in a country where the drinking age is 19?) where we not only got lost and were forced to walk miles in high heels at night, but we were almost detained and not able to return to the United States because one girl thought it would be best to tell the border control police that we were in the country to go to a casino - and not the strip club we had been at - and none of our stories matched. This was after we didn't stay for very long at the male strip club where we went because several of the girls were either uncomfortable with being around "The Anaconda" (which I can attest truly lived up to its name) or couldn't afford the alcoholic drinks we were required to purchase to be in the club. Though I pretty much waited until I was 21 to drink, all I had on that birthday was a ridiculous overpriced, fruit smoothie that the bartender said had alcohol in it.

And the list goes on.

Please let this be the birthday in which this admittedly weird history does not repeat itself!