Confessions

my rain boots, seen off the boardwalk

I have developed a problem with online shopping.

It began innocently enough. I needed rain boots. There are no clothing stores in town, but the two main food stores both have a second floor that's kind of like a small department store. Unfortunately, it seems most Alaskans are quite a bit bigger than I am. The stores do not stock anything small enough for me-- not even in the kids department. No sweat-- I headed to the online Mecca of shoe-shopping-- Zappos. I bought a quite excellent pair of rubber rain boots that brought me joy, warmth, and dry feet.

That was the gateway purchase.

I got a little carried away one cold Saturday night, huddled with my computer next to a broken, rattling heater. A week later, I received four boxes at the post office containing seven sweaters, four pounds of tea, six containers of vanilla caramel latte cappuccino mix, and a kettle.

No big deal, I told myself. It was just a one-time thing. It wouldn't happen again.

I was good for awhile, but when I saw that a bag of dried mango was $22 at the grocery store, I slipped a little. (That was the week I caved and spent $10 on a half-gallon of orange juice.) I googled dried mango and came across Nuts.com, a website that sells snack foods and other riches. Before long, the ER, the clinics, inpatient, and OB all knew where I was working in a given day based on the concentration of Nuts.com bags scattered throughout each department.

I started looking for websites that offer free shipping to Alaskan PO boxes (difficult-to-fulfill requirements). I began to frequent Kohls (free shipping on all orders over $75!), Sierra Trading Post (free shipping during select sales!), and Amazon (free shipping on orders over $25 if labelled as eligible for Free Super Saver Shipping...and you can sort your searches by this!). I always had an open order. I began to buy nonperishable groceries in bulk. I refused to admit I had a problem. "It's just Bethel," I'd say. "This is how you do things here." It's normal to go to the post office to pick up your tissues, your soap, your new Tupperware, your new small appliances, your coffee, your batteries, your beef jerky, your extension cord, your toilet paper...right?

My friend Susan was an enabler. She asked me to make a fudge cake one night, but I told her it would have to wait, as I was out of Baker's chocolate. "Don't worry," I told her. "I'll have chocolate coming in next week at the post office."

Her reply should have been a clue there was something wrong. "Is it bad that that sentence made complete sense to me?" she said. "I have to stop by the post office tomorrow; my salsa and crackers are waiting."

Last month, I hit rock bottom. I received a medium-sized box labelled Heavy - Handle with Care. Very excited at what new riches were in store, I high-tailed it home and clawed it open.

Yes, folks, your eyes don't deceive you. That is 8 pounds of graham crackers-- 27 sleeves, to be exact. Apparently I thought I needed graham crackers.

Are there support groups for this kind of thing?

The Perils of Poo, Part Two: The Poo Strikes Back!

(Disclaimer: the below story contains some bad words. Trust me, they are warranted.)

It started out innocently enough...I got blue-tagged again last week. This time it was because we hadn't plowed the way to the water and poop tanks. No biggie, right? We'd had a week of snow (those of you whining about Nemo can suck it), there was a lot there, it was reasonable!

We rationed water for a week. I took shorter showers and did no laundry. The dishes stacked up in the sink. Monday morning I took a shower, and everything seemed normal.

Monday night I came home from a trying ER shift to my neighbor standing outside my door. He told me I had a problem. Thinking he was being facetious, I started shouting about people at work. He cut me off and said, "No, you have a problem. Go into your house."

There was a lovely puddle of water extending from my water heater and pressure tank that apparently went through the wall into my neighbors' apartment and had flooded a closet. Also, my water pump was making a continuous grinding sound. It was not a happy sound.

No sweat. I called my property manager, who we'll call Charlie. Charlie's number was disconnected. Awesome.

My neighbors gave me a beer, and we began the process of tracking down our landlords, who are currently touring the Lower 48 in an RV. Eventually Charlie appeared, gave us his new number, surveyed the situation, shut off the breaker to my pump, and told me it was all my fault because I'd run out of water. I enquired a few times why, if I had run out of water, the main symptom was water flooding two apartments. He didn't have an explanation for this. I'd run out of water, and as Wednesday is Water Day, everything would be fixed on Wednesday.

Class, raise your hands if you believed this!

Yes, I didn't think so.

Fast-forward to Wednesday. Fortunately, I had the day off, my first day off in awhile. I eagerly awaited the arrival of the Poop Truck and the water truck. Around 2 pm, I finally heard the grinding of the truck idling. I looked out the window and saw the Poop Truck Man struggling with my Poop Tank Heater. He couldn't get it out.

CRAP.

(literally)

I pulled on my Carharrts and ran outside in time to see his back - he'd just blue-tagged me again: frozen septic. I'm starting a blue tag collection.

After much investigation, it seems that the outlet to my Poop Tank Heater went bad. I stole some electricity from my neighbors, thawed the poo, enjoyed how shitty my apartment smelled (literally), got Charlie on the phone, and got the Poop Truck back. As I was coming back from all this, my neighbor shouted at me, "You're so full of shit it took two trucks to haul it all away!!"

Sad, but true.

They filled my water tank, and I called Charlie back to prime the pump and get things running again. Charlie came over, banged on things for awhile, and then made his patented "AHA!!" sound that I've come to dread. I've gotten to know Charlie's AHA's. I heard them a lot during the saga of my broken heater that began with my carbon monoxide poisoning. Charlie's AHA means he thinks he's figured out the problem, and it's so small, so minuscule, so simple that he'll have it fixed in 5 minutes flat and life will be happy again.

Class, raise your hands if you trust this!

Didn't think so!

We spent the next hour pouring water into the pump, turning the faucets on and off, playing with the pressure gauge, flipping the breaker on and off, and watching the water leak out of the pipes. He finally concluded the pump was bad and that it was actually quite fortunate that I'd "run out of water" (please note: I did not run out of water) as otherwise, the entire house would have been flooded to no return.

Charlie told me to do my dishes, flush the toilet, take a shower, and then shut off the pump for the night; he'd replace it tomorrow. He left, and I pulled out some nice fresh pajamas! (Living large!) I got all ready to shower. I was so excited! I turned on the water...and it fizzled down to a drizzle, and then stopped. No more water. No shower! No clean dishes. No flushing! Nothing.

I shook my tiny fist for a few minutes, and then broke into my neighbors' apartment to steal some water.

Apparently the shit smell in my apartment is turning me into a thief.

BLAME THE POO!!

Caribou - It's What's for Dinner

Please note: this image came from the
website backcountrytaxidermy.com

A few weeks ago, a friend's husband gave me some caribou he had shot. It's been living in my freezer ever since...waiting...

Please note the duct tape.

This week I finally bit the bullet and tossed it in the fridge to defrost. Determined NOT to work on my day off (the novelty!), I began researching caribou recipes. Shockingly, my current cookbook collection doesn't quite cover game recipes (Mark Bittman, you have failed me - "How to Cook Everything"? Yeah, right. Try "How to Cook Everything You Can't Buy in Bush Alaska")

Next stop - my favorite internet recipe resource - epicurious. A search for caribou yielded one recipe: Rockin' Moroccan Stew...a vegetarian recipe. Huh?!? A search of the page revealed that the last line of the recipe reads, "Make sure you have a few camels standing nearby to add some North African ambience. A moose or caribou will do."

NOT helpful. Also - since when are there moose in North Africa?

Next try: a phone call to a friend who has eaten all kinds of crazy foods. He's eaten moose! He's lived in Maine! He MUST know how to cook caribou!

Not so.

Finally, in desperation, I turned to my friend Google. I found lots of websites discussing proper butchering and curing of "bou" meat. (Look at me using the lingo!)

Marinading.

After sifting through websites that purported to be helpful ("8 Tips for Cooking Game Meat" included helpful hints like #2 "Drink more," #5 "Use expensive cookware," and my favorite, #8 "Accompany everything with bacon jalopeno macaroni and cheese.") I wound up at a website called CDKitchen with a very simple roast caribou recipe. Apparently marinade is key.

Marinade, man!

Marinade.

After a night of marinading, I smothered it in sauce and roasted it at a low temperature. Combined with some yummy split pea soup and mashed potatoes (fried in bacon grease...) it was a feast, AK style!

Please ignore the blackened goo on the bottom.
Turns out I need a real roasting pan.

leftover mashed potatoes

...my next-door neighbor saying, "MMM!"

Ah, the smell of toasted poo in the morning...

Okay, it's time to get real. It's time to talk about poo.

As a pediatrician, poo holds a very important place in my life. We talk about poo a lot - how many times? What color? Hard or soft? Formed or liquid? Any blood? Can I help you poo better? Let's try these medicines! Are you SURE you're not constipated?

And let's not forget my fascination with poo. It blows my mind. Think about it - no matter what you ingest - potato chips! beef stew! candy! pork rinds! anything! - your intestinal tract is so freakin' smart that it extracts whatever it needs and then is able to turn it all into the same substance - POO. It blows my mind! How fascinating is THAT?!?!

I suppose it's appropriate that, given my long-term fascination, I now live in a place where the health of your Poop Tank can be an important part of your life. No, I'm not using a euphemism for your colon. I actually mean a Poop Tank - some call it a sewer or a septic tank, but let's be honest here - it's a Poop Tank. Here's a photo of mine:

This photo was taken in warmer, happier times, when the average temperature was 40 degrees, and my poo was always happy and warm. (Yes, warm poo is happy poo.)

I suppose I should back up. There's no sewer system in Bethel (not so easy to engineer that in the tundra), and most houses are also not on public water. That means that you get your water delivered and your septic contents hauled - you can choose between twice weekly, weekly, bi-weekly, and monthly. I get water weekly, which means Wednesday is Water Day! It is very exciting - I do all my dishes and laundry and take a nice long shower right around Tuesday...Water Day is such a great day that there's even a local song about it called - you guessed it - Water Day.

This beast is my water tank:

This system works very well, except for one thing. It's sometimes...uh...shall we say...COLD here. (Who knew, right?) Some houses have their tanks inside, but most have their tanks outside and covered with foam insulation, like mine. I have a water pump that circulates water in and out of the house every 3 minutes and 54 seconds. It's really loud and sounds like a garage door opening every time, but you get used to it pretty quickly. Now, the Poop Tank is another problem. I'm sure you get where I'm going with this...

A few weeks ago, I woke up one fine Wednesday morning to this tag on my door:

My Poop Tank had frozen.

Turns out, I was supposed to have a Poop Tank Heater. Yes, a Poop Tank Heater. They exist.

After a few conversations with my property manager, we tracked down my missing Poop Tank Heater, and The Best Next Door Neighbors in the World helped thaw out my poo and got the water people to come suck it out of my Poop Tank. Here's a photo of my Poop Tank Heater:

It's heavy! Here's another one of it in action:

Now, apparently the trick is getting your poo warm but not too warm, especially on Water Day. Worst case scenario: your home will be flooded with what I like to call eau de poo. That would be bad.

I'm learning a lot here.

R&R Strikes Again!

My apartment is, shall we say, quirky. The prior tenants were fond of getting drunk and punching holes in the walls and ripping the kitchen cabinets down. (Seriously - every single door had a hole in it.) The landlords made a lot of repairs before I moved in, but we keep finding new things that need maintenance. A heavy wind blew all the insulation out from under the house, and my pipes froze two weeks ago. The pump that brings fuel into the house had a leak and a loose switch that was propped up with a folded-up piece of paper. Those issues have both been fixed, but the heater upstairs has been on the fritz for awhile. The property manager finally figured out why. This is what he pulled out of the heater's fan:

Please note the Carhartt logo on his jacket.

That, my friends, is what my family used to call a "blooper." It is the top of an R&R bottle - the stopper that makes the liquor come out more slowly, in "bloops." It was jamming up the fan on my heater, which is now purring like a kitten, keeping my upstairs toasty warm, sans blooper.

59 Bottles of R&R on the Tundra...

A few days ago, I went on a walk on the tundra boardwalk, intending to get some fresh air and maybe take a few pictures. Instead, I found a new game to play: Count the R&R Bottles!

You see, R&R is the most popular alcohol around here. It stands for Rich & Rare Reserve (yes, I know that's three R's, not two) and is a "fine" Canadian whiskey. According to the website, it is "Full-flavoured and peppery with creamy maple syrup, clean oak, hints of rose petals, dark fruit, and tangy oranges." According to my esteemed colleagues who have taste-tested it in a purely academic pursuit, it is a cross between melted-down licorice and cough medicine. However, it has one unique characteristic that redeems it above all else: it is dirt cheap.

You see, Bethel is "damp." That means that it is somewhere between "dry" and "wet" on the legality of alcohol. Most of the surrounding villages are completely dry, meaning alcohol is completely prohibited in all forms, making "hootch" production quite the business enterprise. (And also, "hootch" is fun to say.) In Bethel, it is legal to possess and consume alcohol, but there is no way to buy it - there are no bars, the restaurants can't serve it, and there are no liquor stores. You can bring it in from Anchorage, but that gets expensive pretty fast...thus, the popularity of R&R.

Additionally, PFD season is upon us. PFD stands for Permanent Fund Dividend; this is the famous "the government pays you to live in Alaska!" money that is distributed to every Alaska resident in late October. It comes from the oil money and varies each year; this year, the amount was $878. That means that every man, woman, and child who lived here during the calendar year 2011 received $878. (Alas, I do not yet qualify, as I have not been a resident for a calendar year.) It also means that that October is a joy-filled time full of PFD sales on expensive merchandise and lots of drugs, drunkenness, and debauchery that make the ER a glorious place to work if you love trauma and treating people high on interesting substances.

This brings me back to my original story: Count the R&R Bottles. Whilst wandering across the tundra boardwalk, I noticed quite a few empty bottles on either side of the walk. On a whim, I started counting. In the mile-and-a-half walk between Owl Park and Pinky's Park, I counted 59 empty bottles of R&R, among other litter. I made other very scientific observations as well:

Leslie's Very Scientific Observations Regarding R&R Bottles on the Tundra

1. R&R bottles were usually found between 1 and 6 feet from the boardwalk, but never more than 8 feet, suggesting that throwing an R&R bottle far after one has emptied it in the traditional fashion may be difficult.

2. R&R bottles can occasionally found in clusters of two, but never more than two. They are usually lone findings on the tundra.
3. The highest concentration of R&R bottles can be found around the benches set slightly off the boardwalk in the open tundra, not, interestingly, surrounding the covered pavilions that could perhaps offer some shelter from the elements.
4. The next most common findings were empty cigarette boxes, Vitamin Water, Rockstar/Monster energy drinks, and Powerade. No other type of alcohol container was found more than once.
5. The lowest concentration of R&R bottles was in the immediate vicinity of both parks, a reassuring finding. Interestingly, the concentration of other bottles and cigarette boxes remained constant, suggesting this finding would approach statistical significance if formal analyses were undertaken.

This ain't your Atlantic City boardwalk!

I live on the tundra now. Tundra is essentially a giant sponge on top of permafrost, soil that never completely thaws out. As you can imagine, this makes it difficult for trees to grow (which is why there are, sadly, no hottie lumberjacks). Tundra is very mushy, and as a result it is difficult to build roads and houses and buildings. Even lightweight off-road vehicles get stuck in the mud all the time. When I was in Dillingham, I remember laughing at the fact that it is actually easier to get around in the winter when things are frozen. It's easier to hop on your snow machine and drive 50 miles than to get on a plane. The people in remote villages use wintertime to stock up for summer!

In Bethel, as in many of the remote villages around here, they have built boardwalks as lightweight alternatives to paved roads. The boardwalks have become one of my favorite things up here. They cut across the tundra, forming shortcuts and links all across town. From certain parts of the boardwalk, you can see way out across the tundra. It's beautiful. I'm a fan.

Building on the tundra is a bit challenging, to say the least. Remember the permafrost? Well, if you build a house right on top of permafrost, the heat from the house will melt some of that ground. However, it melts unevenly, so the house will become unstable and fall down pretty quickly. The ingenious solution? All the buildings here are on stilts. Raising the house up also raises the heat up, so the permafrost below will stay frozen and stable. (I suppose it's a little more complicated than that, but that's as much as my non-engineering brain can comprehend.) A fun side effect is that the houses sway in the wind...and we get a lot of wind off the tundra! Lying in bed at night, you can feel everything swaying. It took some getting used to, but I like it!

And now please enjoy some Hipstamatically-enhanced photos from the boardwalk. I had a little too much fun photographing my shadow as it waved back at me.

So I have to tell you something...

We're going to deviate, briefly, from specific men to a post that highlights my least favorite phrase in the English dating world.

So I have to tell you something.

I'm not sure that I can really explain exactly how nausea-inducing that phrase has become.  I've asked around to some of my female friends, and let me tell you, it is always followed by a doozy.  Let's discuss.

Scenario 1:
Him:  So I have to tell you something.

Me: o.O

Him (paraphrased): I've been skipping work for the last 6 months, and lying about what I've actually been doing with my time.

Me: O.o

Scenario 2: 
Him: So I have to tell you something.

Me: o.O

Him (paraphrased): My ex wife and child are living with me in a one-bedroom apartment.

Me: O.o

See what I mean?

Shall we explore some of the other excellent statements that come after "So I have to tell you something"?  Of course we should!

In no particular order.... (and not all of them are mine)

Him: I live with my Mom, brothers and 8 year old daughter.

Him: I may have been recently exposed to herpes.

Him: I haven't done this.  (Yes, that's in reference to what you think it's in reference to).

Him: I lied.  I don't really have a job.

Him: I want to have a relationship with you, but I want to see other people at the same time.

Him: I promise I own my own place, but I live with my Mom to help her out.  (Of course you do).

Him: I won't be able to see you for a while.  There's a bench warrant out for my arrest.

Him: I'm going to marry my other girlfriend.

Him: When I get too relaxed, I have a cardiac arrhythmia.

Him: I've joined the cheerleading squad.

All of this is classically met with:
Me: o.O

So, dear readers, what else do you have?  I need to commiserate some more with people who have experienced this too!  Comment with your best follow-ups to "So I have to tell you something"!

I'm not from around here.

Phone conversation between me and the woman at the electric company:

Me: Hello, I'm new to Bethel, and I'd like to set up an account at my new address.

(long pause)

Woman: Okay.

(long pause)

Me: so...ah...can I do that?

Woman: Yes.

(long pause)

Me: Okay. Um...how?

Woman: You have to come in.

Me: Okay. Well, I heard that I would have to put down a deposit. Can you tell me how much that will be?

Woman: Not without the address.

Me: Okay, I'll be living at 110 Owl Street.

(long pause)

(rummaging in the background)

(long pause)

Woman: 110 Ptarmigan, you say?

Me: No, Owl! Owl. 110 Owl.

Woman: No, Ptarmigan.

Me: Are you sure?

Woman: Yes.

Me: Okay, can you tell me how much the deposit will be?

(long pause)

(more rummaging in the background)

(long pause)

Woman: $748

Me: Whew! Okay, thanks. Where are you located?

Woman: We're in a small gray building.

(pause)

Me: Where? What is it near?

Woman: Near the police station.

Me: Is that near City Hall and the DMV?

Woman: No.


Me: Okay, what is it near?

Woman: It's on the highway.

(pause)

Me: Do you have an address?

(long pause)

(rummaging in the background)

(long pause)

Woman: 160 Eddie Hoffman.

Me: Great! Thanks so much!

<click>

Conceptual troubles

On my way here, I read a book called The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J Maarten Troost. It is the self-deprecating story of a man who moved to a remote atoll (a coral island) in the South Pacific for two years. As I read it, I marveled that our situations were somewhat parallel, if in reverse. (Inversely parallel?)

Over the past week, this passage has particularly resonated:

"We began packing...More difficult was my inability to imagine equatorial heat. 'I don't think you're going to need those,' Sylvia said, observing the wool sweaters I was packing.
"'I'm sure it will be a little cool in the evenings,' I replied. 'Particularly in the winter.'
"'I see. I think, perhaps, you might be having a little conceptual trouble with the idea of living on the equator.'"

Now, allow me to share with you the contents of my top dresser drawer at the moment:

Did you see them? Did you count them? No less than 12 tank tops and 9 T-shirts.

Now, please enjoy the only long-sleeved shirts and socks I brought with me for the month.

I haven't been warm since I landed here.

Additionally, this packing paradox has proved especially problematic the past week. You see, it has been snowing - on and off, just a dusting here and there - but enough that I've been REALLY wanting my full complement of warm clothes...and warm bedding...and warm hats and scarves and boots and gloves.

The colder it gets, the more uncertain the moving company becomes about (1) where all my stuff is, (2) when it will get here, and (3) why I am upset about this. The other new doc in town refers to our contact at the moving company as "the dingbat." She is disinclined to use the phone. She responds to about one in five e-mails. When she says "the 26th," turns out she actually means "the 2nd of the next month...maybe." She didn't think to tell Bethel Bob that I exist and that he'd be picking up and unpacking my shipment.

...which brings me to the sole silver lining of the day - Bethel Bob is awesome, as advertised. Stay tuned for tales of his epic awesomeness.