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Place your ad here for only $15.00! Reach thousands of writers and visitors! CLICK HERE
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I am a Certified Medical Assistant with over 10 years of diverse experience in the medical field. Specialties I have worked in include, but are not limited to: Obstetrics and Gynecology, Internal Medicine, Pediatrics, Urology, Physiatry, Urgent Care, and Otolaryngology. I am fluent in Medical Terminology, and have taken college level courses in Microbiology, Biochemistry, and Anatomy and Physiology. I also hold a BA in English. In addition to seeking freelance work, I am also looking for a permanent full-time Technical Writing position in the Biotech industry. I have extensive experience with PubMed, and am also well-versed in the ACEOM guidelines, the Official Disability Guidelines, GMP, and ISO.
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MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS:
- I have won two collegiate awards in creative writing.
- I created a user-friendly database of evidence-based medicine guidlines, which I notated in proper AMA format, and distributed to physicians and other medical practicioners with whom I was working at a small peer review company.
- I achieved Dean's List status on three occasions.
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MY NEWS:
I have recently relocated to the San Francisco Bay Area. I am most readily contacted by email at: monicaarce2000@gmail.com. Thank you so much for stopping by, and I hope to hear from you soon!
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MY FAVORITE LINKS:
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MY RESIDENCE INFO:
City: SF Bay Area
State/Country: CA
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BOOKS PUBLISHED:
Cold air seeped through my thin sweater as I slammed the car door, prompting me to second guess my decision to leave my coat behind. It was the only coat I owned. I knew that if I’d brought it with me, it would end up reeking of cigarettes for the next week. Showing up at work Monday smelling like a cheap bar would not be very professional. I decided to leave the coat where it was, neatly folded in the back seat. The entrance was only a short walk away. I wrapped my arms around myself and quickened my pace.
There were the customary pair of cop cars out front, lying dormant like two sleeping guard dogs. “Automatic CAUTION Door,” warned the small, circular yellow signs on either pane of glass. “Do Not Stand In Doorway,” warned another. This was in bold red with white block letters. It was on the right hand door, just beneath the yellow sign. The doors opened sharply at my approach, saluting me as I passed through.
Once inside, my ears were filled with the noise of a blaring stereo system. Kids were crowding the lanes, laughing and talking loudly. I watched beyond them as heavy black spheres collided with innocent-looking, white-painted pins. The smell of stale popcorn mingled with that of sweaty leather bowling shoes worn once too often by nervous adolescents on their first dates.
Beyond the lanes was the karaoke lounge. It was separated from the bowling area by a small wooden door with many windows. In one of the windows was a small black sign written in bold white lettering: “Absolutely No One Under the Age of 21 Permitted in the Bar. No Exceptions.” I entered. There was eight-year-old Rosie, as usual, playing on the psychedelically colored carpet at her dad’s feet.
The room was as crowded as it was most Fridays. I glanced at my watch. It was only nine thirty, and already most of the tables were filled. I scanned the room for my friends. They were sitting at the long table right next to the stage, which was distinguished from the carpeted area by a large square of linoleum. I walked over to Cheyenne and Steve. Danny was there, in his usual Stetson and boots. He stood up with all the sincere grandeur of a country gentleman, reaching out to shake hands with me, topping off the gesture with a sharp nod. Cheyenne jumped out of her seat and hugged me.
‘Kira! Long time no see!”
Against my own five foot eight, somewhat bulky frame, Cheyenne’s birdlike body felt quite delicate. My chin came to rest on top of her lemon yellow curls. Even in the dark of the bar, I could see the quarter-inch growth of brown roots. The light citrus scent of her shampoo mingled with the embedded smell of stale cigarette smoke. I felt oafish and clumsy against her, afraid that if I returned her embrace at a fraction of its strength, she would collapse in a pile of porcelain rubble at my feet.
“How ya doin’?” she said, pulling away from me at last.
“I’ve had a hellatious week.”
“I sowwy. What happened?” Cheyenne had a habit of speaking babytalk, which could either be endearing or irritating, depending on my mood. I didn’t feel like going into the details of my life with her or anyone else that night. “Oh, the usual. I’m alright. It just sucks to be me right now,”
Cheyenne laughed, which is what I’d expected.
“Hey,” Steve said, as he drew me into an embrace. He pressed me tightly against his six-foot frame for several moments. It made me slightly uncomfortable. Not because I didn’t enjoy it, but because I enjoyed it too much. The muscles of his arms forged an iron barrier against all that might harm me. I couldn’t help but nestle more deeply into their protection. He always had a light, clean musk scent; the kind which lingered far beyond the post-workout shower. I’d always loved the honesty of it. The fact that he never bothered with cologne made its sensuality all the more real.
After several moments, Cheyenne raised her razor-thin, jet-black eyebrows at me. I pulled away from Steve. She looked away and drew an emaciated “feminine” cigarette from its pack. I sat down next to her. Danny reached across the table with a light. She lightly touched the flame with her cigarette, holding his eyes for several moments as she did so. He smiled.
“You want a beer?” Steve offered.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Steve grabbed a glass I could only assume was clean, and poured some of the lime-green looking substance into it from the plastic pitcher. The black light bounced off everything it touched, wreaking havoc with the natural color scheme. In addition to the discolored beer, my white shirt suddenly became electric purple.
It was always so dark in that bar. What few light particles there were had to fight through clouds of smoke. I scanned the room for more familiar faces. There were the Carsons, Kevin and Alison. They raised their beer glasses to me and smiled, and I returned the gesture. So civilized those two. I think they were the only couple in the place who both had professional, white-collar jobs. Almost everyone else’s collar was much more colorful.
Frankie was up at the microphone, belting out “My Way” at the top of her lungs, though there are Basset hounds out there with a better sense of pitch. Several newcomers in the audience used this opportunity to “freshen up” in the restroom, order another drink from the bar, or socialize among themselves. No one really enjoyed Frankie’s singing. All of us who knew her did our best to be polite and attentive, because she was one of us: The Regulars.
I tried to distract myself from the horrible assault on my ears by searching for more familiar faces. There were Billie Sue and Brett, decked out in blue jeans, cowboy boots, big belt buckles and Stetsons. They gave me a big, friendly wave. I waved back. I lifted the glass of beer to my lips. I nursed it hungrily, having all faith that the liquid inside would drown both the tensions of a hectic week--and the awkwardness of being here for the first time without Tony.
“So what are you singin’ tonight?” Cheyenne asked.
“I don’t know,” I lied. I always sang the same stuff. I had a repertoire of about seven songs which I’d practiced and perfected, and I usually put in about five of them as requests. If it was a slow night, I might get to sing all five. If it was really slow, and I stayed until closing, I might sing as many as seven. On crowded nights like tonight, I usually only got about three.
I opened up the songbook to make my selections, and scanned the pages that I’d nearly committed to memory. I lingered over some in the hopes that there might be something special there I’d not noticed before; perhaps a new song, or a song that I’d always wanted to sing, but hadn’t had the nerve. Or a song that simply seemed to suit my mood that particular evening. As nothing seemed to fit these categories, I took five small white slips of paper and filled them with songs so familiar, I felt I’d written them myself. Amanda was working tonight. I was pleasantly surprised at this, as I’d thought she’d taken a job elsewhere. I set my song request slips on the table next to her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around.
“Oh my god, how are you!” she said as she threw her arms around me. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”
“I know. I thought you weren’t coming back. The last few times I’d been here, Gwen had been running the show.” I was still holding onto her. Her long, dark hair was dancing across my arms. I reached up and stroked it gently.
“No, I’m still here. Gwen just needed some extra cash, so I let her take the show for awhile. But I’m back!” She pulled away from me and forced a smile.
“Oh?” I replied. “Well, it sounds like the two of you are getting along, then.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I’d regretted saying them. After all, what business was it of mine whether or not Gwen and Amanda were getting along?
The question made Amanda smile a little harder.
“Oh, we get along just fine. Really.” She smoothed my hair, which seemed to melt her smile into one of genuine pleasure. Just then, Frankie had put her number out of its misery. The audience was applauding with enthusiastic relief. Amanda gave me a quick peck on the cheek, lifted her microphone and turned toward the audience.
“Alright, Frankie! Good job on that one! Up next we’ve got Cheyenne, coming up for her first time tonight…” I walked back to my seat, knowing that Cheyenne would want my full attention.
I’m not sure how it was that we’d all started coming to this place. Tony and I had always loved to sing. I had done some vocal training, and he’d been in several bands in college. We’d always talked about creating our own music. He played keyboard, and I could write pretty decent lyrics. We made a few attempts at the work, but our lives always interfered. The few times I got the chance to sing with him, people would come up to us afterwards and tell us how much they enjoyed the performance. They always said what a sweet couple we were.
“Why are you only doing three songs?” they’d ask. “These other performers aren’t nearly as good as you are.” I didn’t have the heart to tell them it was because we weren’t dedicated enough to write more than three songs. Neither one of us was willing to starve for our art. We were in school to become professionals, we’d always tell ourselves. Other kids fell by the wayside. They’d get cast in a play, or their band would get a recording contract….and they’d be on the next bus to wherever some supposed agent (or agent’s brother, cousin, etc.) told them their dreams would come to fruition. Tony and I were beyond that.
For Tony and I, the only dreams we had were of how we could build a life together. I decided to be a nurse, so I could go wherever his career might take us. He wanted to be a computer tycoon: The next Bill Gates, or something like that. We’d talk all the time about where we would live, what schools we’d send out kids to, and, of course, how much money we’d make.
Our wedding was great. We were more than ready to be married. Not like a lot of those young couples who are so nervous, afraid they are making an irrevocable mistake. When it came time to march down the aisle, I had all my lines memorized. The priest was there in his black and white robe. A clear blue body of water lay behind him and before us. After we’d made our vows, we laughed together and drank champagne. And everyone told me that in my white silk dress, I looked just like a fairy princess.
“So,” Steve ventured. He took a long drag of his cigarette. “What do you hear from Tony these days?” Sometimes I wished Steve wasn’t quite so direct. Not that I found his directness invasive. Nor even rude, really. I only wish these belly flops he took into my personal life would come with some sort of warning.
“Not much. We really don’t talk anymore. Have you heard from him at all?” Steve took another long drag off his cigarette. He looked down at my shoes. “Yeah, I have, actually.”
“Oh?” I wasn’t as much surprised as I was intrigued. Steve and Tony had been friends long before I knew either one of them. They’d grown up together. Tony was involved in music and academics, while Steve excelled in sports. How they ever made a friendship out if it, I never quite understood.
Tony never had to try at school, and he got good grades. He had a natural talent with music. Girls seemed to flock to him, in spite of his small frame and average looks. Steve, on the other hand, dropped out of college, couldn’t carry a tune, and for the longest time could only get no one but Tony’s ex-girlfriends to date him.
Steve opted not to provide an answer to my questioning look, and instead took a swig of his beer. He was leaning in toward me, yet looking off in the distance at nothing in particular. Strange. Usually when something happens between a married couple, it’s those on the outside who feel awkward asking the questions. I felt like I was the one prying. I left it alone.
“Up next we’ve got Kira, singing her first song of the night.” I got up to head for the stage, glad to have the subject changed for me. The crowd was applauding loudly. There were a few cheers here and there as well, especially from the other regulars. They always expected a certain standard of talent from me, and I always did my best to deliver.
Amanda was holding her microphone up to her chest when I began, which I always took as a sign she’d be accompanying me. I liked that. She had such a great voice, and it was an honor that she’d felt so inspired to join me. She didn’t do that with many of the singers.
I watched the teleprompt as the small, neon pink boxes slowly disappeared from the electric blue background, indicating that the instrumental introduction was drawing to a close. I took a deep breath: “Oh, my life, is changing every day, in every possible way…” The audience started cheering at their recognition of “Dreams” by the Cranberries. It was a song I always sang for them, and they knew I sang it well.
“I know I’ve felt like this before…” Amanda’s sweet lyric soprano voice dancing over my dark colored alto melody. This is what I had come for. In that moment, I was in a different world. Nothing existed but me, and those people, and the music I was sharing with them.
My song finished much to soon, as it always did. Having to leave the stage after that kind of rush was almost painful. I was soothed somewhat by the fact that the audience was clapping wildly. They were impressed at the way I could flip my voice into that same Irish lilt that Delores O’ Reardon used. I didn’t have the heart to tell them how simple it was. I returned to my seat next to Steve, and took a healthy swig of my beer.
The bright red clock emblazoned with the beer logo read one am. I knew I’d have to be leaving soon, unless I wanted to stay for the one-thirty closing. I didn’t. I gathered my purse, stood up to go, and began saying goodbye to Steve and Cheyenne. Amanda glanced over at me, then whispered something to a tall, burly blond-haired guy I’d seen there several times before. He nodded, took the mike from her and headed over to the DJ table. Amanda walked over to me.
“Kira! Come with me for a minute. I want to show you something!” Amanda was as carefree and bubbly as a schoolgirl. She took me by the hand that was beer-free and let me to a small back room just behind the lounge. She closed the door, and spun around quickly, losing her balance and falling butt-first on the floor in the process. The demure grin on her face first burst into a look of shock, then quickly erupted into an outburst of giggles. I had to laugh at the spectacle. “Look!” With both hands, she pulled up her hair, and then shook it back down. I must have questioned her with my look. “I colored my hair! Can’t you see how red it is?”
I regained my composure, and moved closer to her in mock seriousness to inspect her claim. Carefully taking a long tendril between my fingers, I drew it toward my face. I could feel her warm breath softly blowing through the fine hairs on my cheek. The smell of her perfume reminded me of the wild flowers Tony had picked for me on our first camping trip.
I tried to think of something clever and amusing to say, but I took one look at her—face bright red, trying with everything she had to mirror my seriousness—and fell beside her in fits of laughter. We laughed for what seemed like hours, neither one of us having any idea what—if anything—was so funny.
I let out a long, exasperated, relieved sigh. How right it felt to finally let go and laugh again. Amanda and I slowly regained our composure, occasionally becoming defeated by small eruptions of giggles.
“Life sucks, ya know?” I finally said.
“That it does.” She stroked my hair. We sat like that in silence for some time.
“I really do miss him.”
“I know, hon.” She pulled my head to her shoulder. “Sometimes people outgrow each other. Your dreams simply went different ways. You can’t blame him, just like he can’t blame you.” I let myself be comforted by these lines that people say when they feel that there is nothing else to chose from. There was something strangely reassuring in their commonality. I knew she meant well. They all meant well; everyone who saw this happen.
“Maybe I’ll try to join him. You know—when he eventually becomes old hat and tries to make a comeback?” I snickered slightly. Amanda pulled me closer.
“It’s alright, honey. I’ve got you.” How is it that some people know you need to cry, and are going to cry, long before you have any idea yourself? My tears ran down in rivulets on her freshly hennaed hair, falling gently on her pink button-down shirt. “Besides: With the kind of music Tony’s doing now, I doubt he ever will make a comeback!” I laughed a hiccuping laugh between sobs, which somehow made Amanda’s laugh even more soothing.
“Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.” Amanda stood up awkwardly. She stretched her hand out to me and helped me stand up. We both said our good-byes to the rest of the regulars, dispensed hugs and handshakes where they were appropriate, then headed out the back way into the parking lot. The night air had turned a bit colder and windier. Amanda and I put our arms around each other, trying in vain to brace against it. We got to my car and hugged. “You sure you’re ok to drive home?” she asked, as she always had.
“Sure. I’ll be fine. Thanks.” I smiled at her. She looked at me for some time. Her eyes were deep grey with understanding and concern--and something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She searched my face. I could only guess what she hoped she might find.
“Ok, sweetie. Goodnight.” She gave me a kiss as she left. I returned it as best I could. She smiled, which was a relief, then quickly walked back toward the building. I put on my coat. The lining was ice-cold from having been in the car all night. I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, shivering as I waited for the heat to kick in. I turned on the radio, hoping by chance to catch the voice that had once promised me it would always be mine to hear.
I watched as Amanda entered the building. She chose to ignore the red warning sign, pausing between the doors to look back at me. For several seconds, the entrance remained as open as a shocked mouth. She saw that I was still watching after her, and she smiled. I smiled back, lifting my hand in a small wave. The doors began to move toward her. She backed out of their way and gave a quick wave in return. As the doors closed she turned and continued back into the bar. I watched her disappear from behind the glass. I took one final look at the building, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove away.
Monica Arce
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“I truly feel that it doesn’t matter where you come from. You can be anyone you choose to be. We are all CEOs of our own lives.” –Monique Chandler Walker, MBA
Even before meeting Monique Chandler Walker in person, it is evident that this is a woman who possesses a unique blend of contagious, high-volume, motivational energy. This energy is so pervasive that one need only call her business phone and listen to the vibrant, articulate voice on her outgoing message to experience it. Instead of the politely passive wish that her caller “have a great day,” she encourages that caller to take charge of the day’s outcome, enthusiastically telling her, “you make it a great day.” This is a prime example of Ms. Walker’s basic belief that the responsibility for an individual’s success or failure lies solely with that individual.
“I feel that people choose to make detours in their lives. No one is responsible for my successes but me. No one is responsible for my failures but me. It doesn’t matter who you are. We all start off on the same road. The detour you choose to make is your decision.” The road taken by Ms. Walker has been one of hard work, determination, enthusiasm, and innovation which has led her to become the successful and educated corporate executive, athlete, entrepreneur, and pillar of the community she is today.
After finishing her bachelor’s degree in Business Marketing, Ms. Walker began a successful career in marketing and management. Using her outstanding drive and leadership skills, she quickly worked her way up the corporate ranks to the executive level. She then returned to school to earn an MBA. Her volunteer marketing promotions and endeavors have included marketing and promoting the Atlanta Beat, Atlanta’s team in the Women’s United Soccer Association. She has also worked closely with both the Atlanta Falcons and the Georgia Force Arena Football teams, and is currently a member of the Atlanta Sports Council; the organization fundamental in drawing to Atlanta such major sporting events as the 1996 Summer Olympics, the NFL Super Bowls XXVIII (1994) and XXXIV (2000), and the Women’s NCAA Final Four in 2003. She is also active in her local Chamber of Commerce.
Ms. Walker runs marathons for local charities. When asked what inspired her to get involved in running for charity, she replies that she actually began training for marathons “on a dare. My dad once jokingly said that I couldn’t run two miles. I ran two miles that day, and then he said, ‘Ok, champ. What are you going do next?” I told him, ‘I’m going to run a marathon.’ He casually said ‘Yeah, right: You just ran two miles, and now you’re going to run twenty-six.’” Ms. Chandler says that this comment inspired her to immediately join The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s “Team In Training” ® program, which provided her with five months of marathon training in exchange for work in raising money to find a cure for these diseases. This was five years ago, and Ms. Walker is still running.
Although it was family pressure, and especially her father’s direct challenge, which prompted Ms. Walker to become an athlete in the first place, it is the knowledge that she can make a difference in the lives of others that inspires her today. “I run for children in the state of Georgia who have lymphoma or leukemia. So, I’m doing something for someone else. I’m making it to the finish line for them.” Her next goal as an athlete is to work cycling, already a favorite hobby of hers, into her charitable athletic endeavors.
In addition to her accomplishments as a runner, Monique holds certifications in both kickboxing and personal training. She has used the training she received in earning these certificates to formulate her own exercise class, which she has dubbed “Ultimate N R G.” She describes it as “an awesome blend of kickboxing and boot camp-style aerobics.” Ms. Walker shares Ultimate N R G with residents of battered womens’ shelters throughout the Southeast. Her goal, she says, is to “get them moving, uplift their spirits, and increase their self-esteem.” Ms. Walker has also taught the class to property management companies, schools in both Georgia and Florida, and churches throughout the southeast.
In addition to her dynamic career as a marketing executive, Monique travels throughout the Southeast hosting motivational seminars for women’s retreats, college campuses, athletic centers, inner city youth centers, and churches. The crux of her message is that individuals can and should make the most out of whatever resources they are given in life. She credits her family with having instilled this idea in her at a very early age, and uses something many are familiar with—a child’s weekly allowance—as an example.
“I remember that my dad would give us (Ms. Walker and her older sister and younger brother) ten dollars for an allowance. Three dollars went to mom for food, and three dollars went to dad for room and board. We would put a dollar in the church (offering plate) on Sundays, and we had three dollars to spare. Every weekend we went somewhere as a family. At lunchtime, dad always bought lunch and a snack for every body. At around ten, my brother would want a treat. Dad would say “son, you can buy your treat with your three dollars.” So, my brother never had any money. I would hold on to my three dollars, and at twelve o’clock, and then the treat that I had wanted at ten, my dad would include with my lunch. So, I always had money.” Because she had learned to delay her gratification, she was able to receive the reward she’d wanted without losing any of her resources in the process.
Ms. Walker credits her father; a construction worker, avid athlete and sports fanatic; with instilling her with the raw material for success: “My dad has been athletic all his life. Every male in the family on my dad’s side was athletic. If you were a Chandler and weren’t athletic, no one knew you.” Ms. Walker says that it was the Chandler name, and not her own desire, which prompted her to join the cross-country and volleyball teams in high school. At the time, she didn’t push herself to be active in the competitions, because they did not inspire her. Many would see that kind of pressure to live up to the family name as a negative. Most people would rebel against the pressure of the family name, and not get involved in sports ever again.
Then again, Ms. Walker is not most people. She manages to see the best in every situation. She doesn’t see the pressure to live up to the family name as a burden. She sees it instead as a challenge. “My dad always challenged me. I never understood why, because I was a little kid. Every time I presented something (that I wanted to do) to him, he would challenge me with it to see how far I could take it.” She continues to take on her father’s challenge, incorporating it into every aspect of her life.
Monique Chandler Walker’s goal now is to inspire other women to challenge themselves in the same way her father has challenged her, and the way she has learned to challenge herself. Her motivational, uplifting seminars teach women everywhere how to do just that. She would love nothing more than to show you how you, too, can “make it a great day.”
Monique Chandler Walker lives in suburban Atlanta with her husband. She continues to work as a Marketing Director for Precise Background Investigations, Inc., and plans to run the Boston Marathon in the near future. She is available for motivational speaking and fitness seminars, and may be contacted by email at ultimatenrg@yahoo.com, or by telephone at (770) 262-4968.
-Monica Hislop Arce
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