A Little About Me

When I was very young I loved to draw.  I created a number of characters and made my own comic books, coming up with stories to put the characters in.  At the same time, I also kept a notepad filled with all sorts of story ideas.  I envisioned continuous story lines that would evolve over the course of a number of issues.  Then I had other story lines planned out for when the previous ones reached their conclusions.

As time went on I realized that my drawing output could no longer keep up with the tales I was concocting.  I found myself drawing Part 3 of a six-story arc, yet writing story ideas that I wouldn't be able to get to for months.  That was when I began to see myself more as a writer then an artist.  I continued my passion for art but also started writing a lot more.  I wrote short stories and screenplays based on brand new characters.  I experimented with different genres and really fell in love with writing.

I've completed the writing portion of two children's books and have looked into how to go about getting them published.   Revisiting my original love, drawing, I am working on illustrating them as well. Unfortunately, once again, I am finding that the artwork is taking a lot more time to finish.

Not-so-Emergency Room

A few weeks ago I woke up on a sunny Sunday morning to the sounds of birds chirping, kids playing outside, the distant hum of a lawn mower, and my own scream of agonizing pain. It literally felt like something had exploded inside of me. Was I dying? Had my appendix burst? Was it just really bad gas?

I got up a paced around my room frantically. I tried stretching and doing crunches; anything to relieve the pain. Unfortunately, nothing worked. It was clear that this wasn't something that was going to simply go away. It wasn't your typical morning Charlie horse or leg cramp. This was going to require medical attention.

I called my mother and tried to explain that I was in excruciating pain, but I could barely speak. My father raced to the hospital at about 80mph. Notoriously a slow driver, I wish I could have better enjoyed seeing him race through red lights and take turns on only two wheels. Sadly though, I was fully reclined in the passenger seat, clutching my stomach. I'm pretty sure it was the first time I had cried since seeing The Lion King in the theater.

My father pulled up to the emergency room entrance, blatantly disregarding the "Ambulance Only" sign.  He dropped me off and then sped off to find a parking spot.  I hobbled into the ER, bent over like a figure 7.  Barely able to speak, I told the guy at the desk that I needed help.  He simply handed me a clipboard and told me to have a seat and fill out the paperwork.  I looked at him dumbfounded and then reluctantly sat down in the waiting area.  There were maybe three other people in the entire room.  No one appeared to be in any immediate need for assistance.  I did my best to fill out the four pages of questions and then returned it to the guy at the front desk.  Again, I told him that I was in a lot of pain, but he simply told me that they would get to me momentarily and I'd have to wait my turn.

My dad frantically entered the room and tried to explain that I needed help, but the helpful male nurse told him that there were a lot of people ahead of me.  Again, I counted three, and two of them were most likely family members of the one person who was there for assistance.

Finally they called me over the desk, where another nurse, this one female, took my temperature and blood pressure.  She then began to read from the paperwork I filled out and ask me every question I had just answered.  I asked why they had me fill out the paperwork if they were just going to re-ask me every question: name, age, current prescriptions, insurance provider, etc.  "Your handwriting is very sloppy", was her response.  It was the first time I ever wanted to punch a woman.  Through the entire exchange I was bent over in agony.  I couldn't even tell you what she looked like because I'd been staring at the floor the entire time.  

My dad almost lost it and told her that he could answer every question for me.  She ignored him and continued to ask me to translate my answers.  I screamed something in agony and they called security.  

The dofe of a security guard came wobbling over and tried to look intimidating.  "It's a kidney stone", was his diagnosis. "Great", I thought to myself, "Now we can finally go home.  The security guard just diagnosed the problem!"  He went on to say that he had a kidney stone a few years back and was in the waiting room for three hours before he was treated.  How comforting.  What excellent bedside manners.  I couldn't believe the pain didn't just miraculously disappear right then and there.

I waited about another ten minutes before a nurse finally came out and brought me into the ER.  It was another hour before I was finally hooked up to an IV and given pain medication.  The security guard was right.  It was a kidney stone.  I spent the entire day at the hospital and was finally released around 8pm.  I wanted to tell the security guard that he was in the wrong profession but unfortunately there was a new shift on duty.  Maybe next time.

Intro

I had an English teacher who used to tell my class the same joke everyday. He'd say, "knock knock."

And then we'd ask, "who's there?"

"It is I," he always answered in his loud, booming, over-dramatic voice.

Then, when it was our turn to ask, "it is I who?" he always interrupted us with a frustrated, "oh, just another grammar joke."

Anytime anyone else told the joke and answered, "it's me," he would scold the person by saying that there is no me, only "I".  No one ever understood what he was talking about, and sadly he retired my junior year in high school without ever explaining the joke. 

Fast-forward 15 or so years. While reading the chapter in Grammar Snobs about Who vs. Whom, I feel like I finally solved the mystery.  By asking "who is there?", his correct grammatical response was "it is I".  If we asked, "whom is it?" then his correct response would have been, "it's me."  I guess I never knew the rule.  Not sure why he never explained it?  Perhaps he was hoping one of his students would one day figure it out?

"It is I" is a line that me and my friends have repeated for years.  It's become a real inside joke between us.  I actually called a number of them yesterday with my discovery and they all agree that the teacher was trying to get one of his students to explain the rule to him.  Maybe I would have gotten an A?