Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, November 26, 2003 Thanksgoing If you're British, or of British lineage post 1776, living in America, is it hypocritical and wrong to celebrate Thanksgiving? Sorry if you've heard this one before...it's time for my yearly soul searching on this topic. Be patient and give thanks it only happens once (or maybe a few times) a year.
I replay this over and over, hoping to find a clue or inspiration.
A bunch of religious outcasts (read: Bible Thumping Weirdoes) were not free to practice their fringe religion (read: Cult) in England, so they chartered a rickety merchant boat (read: Secondhand Church Bus) to a developing nation known for it's harsh seasons, difficult crop cultivation and hostile (even violent!) natives (read: America) to start new lives. To form a religious community where they were free to practice their beliefs without persecution, the prying eyes of the government and neighborhood gossip. (read: Jonestown or Branch Dividian Compound)
Is it any wonder my ancestors happily helped them load their gear on the ship? That they stood on the shore that morning, smiling and waving good-bye, enthusiastically wishing them well, "Cheers gang, best of luck, send a postcard" then under their breath "poor misguided fools, don't stand a chance in that 'New World' (air quotes) of theirs," then giving the Mayflower a hardy shove?
Walking home, talking amongst themselves...rubbing their hands dismissively. "Got rid of that lot."
"I give 'em six months. They'll be back."
"I heard the Adams girl, what's her name? Prudy? Pish? Posh? Is leaving in shame. Got Tangled up with that Beckham boy."
"I heard that too - he's gone off to Spain. And that Goody Johnson, I mean, who does she think she is? All her holier than thou 'I pray 10 hours a day' (air quotes) malarkey."
"Hear, hear. And Jacob Smartpants...a farmer?! Daft as a mad cow!"
"Ship's already nearly full of Hollanders - you know how 'they' are..." (knowing glances)
"Heh heh, though if that's part of their religion, maybe they're not so foolish!" (wink wink nudge nudge)
"I hear this Myles Standish chap has had some 'problems' (air quotes) in the military - rather questionable army tenure. 'Has' (air quotes) to leave if you know what I mean." (eyebrows raised, nods in knowing concern and dismissal)
"And just where is this Robinson bloke? I notice he's not on the ship. All well and good for him to organize this disaster, then send them on their way to the 'New World' (air quotes) with naught but a prayer and a crocodile tear...he's not the one crammed shoulder to shoulder for months on end in that broken down heap of a ship."
"Organize?! Organize! Why, he couldn't organize a piss-up in a brewery!"
(Hardy guffaws.)
"On that note, stop in for a pint?"
"I say amen to that!"
(More hardy guffaws.)
Okay, so I may have just explained a lot about my ancestors and why I am the way I am. (It's in my blood. At least we've evolved past the air quote gene - it's recessed into oblivion.)
And so, I feel hypocritical and a little blasphemous celebrating Thanksgiving. It seems more appropriate for me to celebrate the departure of the Puritans from England in September, a "Thanksgoing" celebration more in keeping with my nationality and heritage. Or maybe, at a stretch, a month prior, the Canadian "Thanksgiving" (air quotes) festivities, at least closer to the date of departure and more in line with my "Thanksgoing" idea.
Let me state loudly and clearly from the highest peaks of the Purple Mountains Majesty, I firmly believe in adapting to the customs of one's environment. If you choose to live in a country other than that in which you, your parents, your grandparents, etc. were born, you adopt, adapt, embrace, engage and blend. Period.
Let me yell across the fruited plains: America has been berry berry good to me and my family. I love America. I am thankful for America.
But. The British are thrust in a unique situation in America. There's a lot of history. A lot of issues. A lot of baggage. A lot of stuff. Being rid of the British is the very reason for a few cherished American celebrations (Thanksgiving, Fourth of July). There are no American holidays celebrating being rid of any other nationality. (Is someone working on that? I nominate France. I'm sure Canada would be in on that, too.)
Consequently, the British in America are in a bit of a uniquely awkward spot. In this case, if you are British, or of British descent, to follow my above "rules" of adaptation means you must be hypocritical. You must sacrifice some personal integrity. And come to terms with the fact that it was your people, your country, your kind who caused so much animosity that an entire nation, your now chosen nation, celebrates leaving you and independence from you. For hundreds of years these celebrations have been going on all across America. If you're British, and I mean of any British descent since July 4, 1776, how could you not take that just a bit personally or shamefully?
In another life, another job, I worked for a company that had many departments. There were several departments on my floor. My office was situated on the border of another department, so I got wind of a lot of their dirty laundry. The head of their department was a very smart, very hard working man. But he was so hated, so vile, so repugnant to his staff, that when he took a job 12,000 miles away, the department not only threw him a nice going away party, but then had an enormous blow out of a bash the week after he left. People were literally dancing and singing in the halls for weeks after his departure. I know he had a clue his staff detested him. He was not stupid. But I often wonder if he knew how happy, how overjoyed they were when he left. And was that a factor in his decision to leave? If so, no matter how much of a hardass he was, it had to hurt. At least a little. In the wee small hours of the morning when sleep won't come.
I always think of this, about him, when Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July roll around. To Americans, the British are that evil boss. I'm not saying the celebrations aren't justified. I'm in no way defending religious persecution or taxation without representation. But because I'm British, living in America, I'm like Scrooge looking at Christmas Future, watching people celebrate that I'm gone. But I'm there. Watching. They just can't see me. And it's a bit difficult for me to join in the festivities.
I know some other Britons do not have this issue. They gloss over it. Dismiss it with, "let them have their little celebrations, no harm could come of it, their frolicking and merriment will only make us look that much more civilized." Or, "yeah, that's why we left, better parties over here."
Or like my mother, embrace the whole thing whole heartedly. "Don't take it all so seriously and so personally dear. We can all stand to take time out to be thankful for what we've got." (Yeah. That irritates me sometimes, too. But she's right, and she means well.)
My parents do celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving. Not because they're really, really, truly so thankful they feel a need to celebrate twice, but because they're the only ones living in America and are always up for a family gathering. Off they trudge to Canada to the family members who never quite made it 'all the way.' Yeah. Ontario's "nice" yah sure, why go to America when Ontario's right here? Uncle Duncan, give it up, we all know about your little legal problem. Erm, challenge.
(And yes, we also celebrate St. Andrew's Day. In a big way. If you don't hear from me Dec. 1, suffice to say I paid appropriate tribute to St. Andrew. And I'm not talking kilt and woolly jumper, here. Besides, it's not all kilts, blue face painting and Brigadoon dance numbers, you know. No one provokes me with impunity. Ha! Take that yanks!
Giving thanks for the New World AND paying tribute to the patron saint of the old world in the same weekend...even though neither I nor anyone in my family is, or ever has been, Catholic (well, not for hundreds of years, anyway) Is it any wonder I'm horribly confused about my identity and holidays? See what I mean? See what I'm up against here? If you really think about any of this, really give it some serious thought, it's all weird.)
You many generations in America people don't know how lucky you have it. Or maybe you do. Comfy in your smug little New World and Founding Fathers celebration. Your zeal for independence in any form. It's been bred into you. You swell with pride at the site of the feast spread before you, the giant character balloons floating in the Macy's parade, hours of American football...yes, you have much history and pride for which to be thankful. It's yours and you deserve it. While you firmly planted Britons don't know how lucky you have it. No country full of people who hate you because of national history (yet insist on plastering your royality all over their media) - living in a place full of people who never, ever fail to pull out the whole, "The war's been over since 1776. We won. We kicked your blue-blooded ass all the way back to that puny little island" or "If it weren't for us you'd be speaking German right now" trump cards. Oh, sure, growing up with one foot in each nation sounds fun and exotic. But just you try to work out holiday celebrations. Dig deep to the roots and true meaning of the celebrations. Then dig deep into your soul and conscience. See how torn you are then, and get back to me on your conflicted feelings. And believe me, holidays are just the tip of a huge iceberg of conflicted feelings. Sorry. That's another blog. Or several. Issues. I've got issues.
Thanksgiving's different from the Fourth of July, that answer's obvious. No way. It's wrong for me to celebrate. Not because I am bitter or remorseful that America gained its independence, but because my family was on the other team. No, they didn't personally cause the trouble, but they didn't help, either. Things worked out okay in the end, but let's face it, at the time of conception of this holiday, my relatives had no cause for celebration, nor did they have any justification in sympathizing. It's not even as if my ancestors were on the first boat out when the whole war thing blew over. (they heard the beer was really thin and weak, impossible to get a decent cup of tea, the whiskey and gin were sub par, and there was no Harvey Nichols or Fortnum and Mason, so they stayed right there, thank you very much) So Fourth of July is a no brainer for me. Should be for anyone of British descent with ancestors immigrated to America post 7-4-76. (or 4-7-76) Quiet reflection on independence and what it means on a personal and global level, a sparkler or two, a quiet nod to both teams, and be done with it.
But this Thanksgiving thing. I mean, even in the broadest sense: Give thanks. Apart from the most innocuous bows to personal gratitude it all seems a bit contrived and shallow. If we're so darned thankful, shouldn't we be giving thanks every day? Wouldn't that be the true Puritan Way?
And in the bigger, global sense, isn't it a bit presumptuous, arrogant, even, to give thanks for things that aren't really ours in the first place?
Just an excuse to get together, eat a bunch of food, surreptitiously drink a lot of alcohol and argue about the difference between yams and sweet potatoes. Or maybe that's just my family. Celebrating the harvest, one split hair at a time.
My parents have adopted the "tradition" of each person having to list at least one thing for which they are thankful. With a few rules. Giving thanks for material possessions is not allowed. Nor is the easy option of "Family and friends." A nod to my "shouldn't we be thankful every day" stance. No, we're required to dig deep into our hearts, souls and brains and fish out something beyond the obvious or material for which we are truly grateful. Leave it to my parents to make us work for food. (They also make us make wishes - profound wishes - for the new year on New Year's Eve. Yeah. My family's a hoot. And yet still I wonder why HWNMNBS couldn't go through with marrying me.)
Gratitude and giving thanks requires a lot of thought on my part this year.
What, apart from the innocuous, fills me with thanks and gratitude this year? Health? Nope, not this year: Broken ankle, whiplash, concussion, strained wrist, allergic reaction and subsequent newfound restrictions including my most favorite food on the planet. Prosperity? Guess again: Cutbacks at work, no new job, 401K in the toilet. Romance? Yeah, it's been a great year - more anguish and missing HWNMNBS, and dates with: a guy who dresses up as a Storm Trooper and a stalker. Should I really just be thankful I have a job in this economy? Well, let's see. I work on average 58 hours a week which, if prorated to an hourly rate, equates to a very dismal sum of money, but that's a moot point because I'm salaried and therefore do not get paid any more or less for the amount of hours I work, my boss is a complete, useless nincompoop, we have three vacant jobs on my team and I'm doing their work until the hiring freeze is lifted, and the one person who can help me got a boob job and hasn't been feeling well enough to function properly. That is when she isn't interrupted by a constant stream of visitors checking out the new tourist attraction on our floor. Yeah. Lot's to be thankful for about my job. Shelter? Please. Same old drafty, three and a half flights of stairs up apartment in desperate need of re-habbing (can you say avocado refrigerator?). Thankful just to be alive? My jury's out on that one. Until I know the confirmed alternative, I cannot make an informed decision.
If I could just see the glass half full instead of empty, you say. Yes. I suppose you're right. Let's re-address: Health? Hey, at least it was just a broken ankle, whiplash and concussion. He could have pulled a knife or worse, a gun. I'm lucky to be alive! I'm thankful my mugger only shoved me down a crowded flight of subway stairs! And I'm thankful they figured out what the allergies are, now I can avoid them and not suffer another attack! I am thankful for allergy scratch tests! Prosperity? At least I have a steady paycheck coming in. And my 401K has almost crept back to where it was pre 9/11. I'm managing on one income in a two income society! I am thankful for my paycheck! Romance? Hey! At least I had true love, once. I have fond and happy memories to last a lifetime. A lot of people never even get that. And I had few dates this year. Actual, bona fide dates. A lot of people had no dates this year. So what if one spends his spare time traveling to Star Wars conventions...so what if another turned into a stalker, he's giving me attention, right? I am thankful there are a few men who find me attractive and interesting enough to date. A job in this economy? Yes. I am thankful for that. I have been unemployed and I don't ever want to go through that again. Shelter? I have a roof over my head. So what if that roof occasionally leaks? So what if the building's been broken into and ransacked four times in the past year? So what if it costs me three times it's actual worth...I have a place to call home. Thankful just to be alive? Yeah. I guess. Whatever. I suppose I can continue to tow this party line until I have confirmation of the alternative.
See? This whole concept is too foreign for me to wholeheartedly grasp and hold dear.
I am thankful for Furry Creature. But he, my mother admonished me, counts as family and friends and therefore is disallowed from my debt of gratitude.
I am thankful for family and friends and few kind strangers who have helped me during my struggles with a broken ankle. I am thankful for "Kimmie" and her special (though annoying) encouragement and all the progress she's led me to achieve in physical therapy. (yes really. I am thankful for her. However I will be more thankful when I'm finished with her.) I am thankful for a fantastic orthopedic surgeon who helped me heal without surgery. I am thankful for my PayLess shoes which have seen more miles than any other pair of shoes I have ever worn. I am thankful for iPods and iTunes and musicians past and present who soothe my weary ears and brain. I am thankful for authors and books and Barnesandnoble.com. I am thankful for artists past and present who soothe my weary eyes and brain with visual feasts. I am thankful for Orange Pineapple Soy SlimFast (I'd rather be thankful for Strawberries and Cream SlimFast and how it tastes just like Frankenberry cereal, but I can't have it anymore, now that I have the little lactose issue.) I am thankful for fresh snowfall (even if I can't skate and ski this year). I am thankful for travel. I am thankful for email so I can keep in touch with far-flung friends and family. I am thankful for blogging and most of the blogworld.
I am thankful there are people who care about people and things other than themselves, in spite of overwhelming evidence to the opposite. I am thankful there are intelligent people with good ideas, good words and good resources to keep this planet moving forward, even if it's in small, seemingly insignificant ways. I think I used that one a few years back, but maybe no one will notice. Can't be any worse than the time my brother, unable to come up with the right things of thanks on his own, tried to pass off the lyrics to My Favorite Things as his things to be thankful for. Really. Lucky for him his inspired attempt at a sincere oral recitation was so funny even my parents cracked up and let him get away with it. He got all the way to wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings before my mother could no longer stifle herself and burst out laughing. He might have pulled it off had he left out the fly with the moon on their wings part. But, like so many other amateurs before him, he didn't know when to quit while he was ahead. Couldn't discern how much was too much. Got too carried away. Too full of himself. Forgot his roots. Overconfidence struck him down in his prime. Fell by the wayside faster than last season's American Idol.
Hmmmm. Raindrops. Roses. Whiskers on kittens. Woolen mittens. Brown paper packages tied in strings. Yeah. I'm thankful for all that. It just might work...
Happy Thanksgoing everyone. Have a good holiday to the Americans, drink smartly and avoid the haggis to the Brits. To everyone else, have a good weekend.
6:21 AM
Tuesday, November 25, 2003 Chore Boy (You Can Be My Slave) I have really great friends. Really. Truly. I know what a crashing bore it can be to make these exclamations. I can see your eyes rolling, feel you reaching for the Favorites menu to see what's going on over at sixapart.com But honestly. For everyone having a bad day, for everyone fed up with the human race, for everyone who thinks there are no decent people in the world, I know how you feel. I feel that way a lot, too. But please hear these words: There are a few wonderful people in this world, on this very planet. And I am lucky enough to know some of them and call a few of them friends.
My choice in men is, well, not to be trusted. I'm infamous for my dating history. It reads like a Greek tragedy with a little Shakespearean comedy thrown in now and then. But don't let this alter your perception of my ability to know really good, kind, caring, decent, funny, intelligent people. Somehow, in spite of my horrendous luck and taste in men, I have phenomenal luck and taste in friends. (This dichotomy puzzles me, too.)
Last night Bone picked me up from physical therapy, gave me a ride home, helped me drop off two garbage bags full of donation clothing in the charity drop box AND helped me with my laundry. So that my place won't look quite so horrible when my parents arrive next week. He has parents, too. (Small world.) Sometimes they visit him. He knows what I'm going through. Arthur is conveniently out of town. Not that he owes me for helping him when he was in a similar situation a few weeks ago. Just very interesting timing on his part...
The laundry room in my building consists of two washers and two dryers. For 50 apartments. You do the math. On top of rarely being able to squeak a load in, one of the washers has no hot water. One of the dryers is so hot it shrinks even the most industrial strength synthetic fiber. I learned early on it's actually a safety hazard: My nifty and very expensive but got on a great sale ski pants suffered at the tumble of that machine. The pocket zips melted together rendering the pockets unreachable. Not that it mattered. The actual material (a poly/spandex/lycra mix) was also melted. Yes. Melted. The fabric melted. And once they cooled, they were shrunk to a size suitable for a three year old. None of this was discovered until I suffered burns on my hands from retrieving them from the dryer. Yes. They were so hot coming out of the dryer I burned my hands. Though it was fortunate they hadn't cooled, because in their hand burning hot state, I was able to retrieve them before the molten button cooled, which would have permanently affixed them to the drum of the dyer. This Really Hot Dryer is convenient, though, for a massive load of towels.
Knowing getting time on the usable machines, let alone time for several loads, is a near impossibility, and knowing my current slow rate of mobility, Bone offered to help. He took me to the LaunderBar. The place he does his laundry. While enjoying a cocktail. Spin and sip. Bleach and belch. Sort and swig. Clothes and cosmopolitans. Wash and Whiskey. Rinse and rye. Yep. That winning combination of laundry and alcohol.
I do not frequent this establishment because it's way too far for me to drag my laundry. I usually try to manage with my building's sub-par machines and scary subterranean laundry room. But these are desperate times. Many heaps of laundry have accumulated. Bone's building actually has a nice laundry facility, but he traipses to the LaunderBar every few weeks. He likes the premise. Everyone has to do laundry, everyone hates launderettes, why not make it more pleasant for everyone and provide a full service bar? It's not a pick up joint, it's a launderette. No one expects you to be dressed in your spiffiest, after all, you're doing your laundry. At least that's what he kids himself into believing. Plus, I have to agree, the facilities are nice. It's not the usual horrendously awful place most launderettes are. A couple of computer stations to cruise the net, read your blogs or check your email. Two televisions, last night they were on Comedy Central. Cool magazines. Comfy chairs. And the bar. With friendly bar staff. And not too expensive drinks.
Yes. There is fluorescent lighting. But it's tasteful and not the K-Mart type of fluorescent lighting. (I agree with this bow to practicality in terms of actually doing one's laundry.) But there are no yellow or lime green walls. No 38 year old chipped Formica folding tables. No tiled floor so dirty if a garment drops onto it on its way out of a machine it has to be thrown away. No orange cracked vinyl seating with the padding long gone. No molded plastic chairs. No families of seemingly endless numbers of children running, screeching, sneezing their way around the machines. No vending machines filled with products you've never heard of or would ever buy. No permanently broken change machine. No staticky, not quite properly tuned in crappiest radio station in town blaring over the horrible speakers. No Enquirer or Weekly World News tabs five years out of date. Laundry nirvana? Well. Not quite. It's still a launderette. But, it's about as good as it can get. And Bone's taken home more than clean laundry from there. He once met a long term girlfriend there.
No. I didn't meet anyone. Neither did he. We were on a mission. Laundry and a few drinks. There was one girl who might have been interested in Bone, but I think she was put off by his antic of sticking my pink Velcro curler in his hair. No, he doesn't have long hair. In fact, he has quite short hair. Hair so short I wouldn't have thought there would be enough to hold the curler. Which, to my eyes, made it even funnier. What was my pink Velcro curler doing at the LaunderBar? No, I didn't go with my hair in curlers. Please. I'm getting old and a bit eccentric and more apathetic every day, and I may be losing my mind. But I'm not at the going out with my hair in curlers stage yet.
Furry Creature loves to play with Velcro curlers. (they are great cat toys - and it's hilarious if one happens to stick to the cat - Furry Creature tries to play it off nonchalant, walking around as if everything's absolutely normal, "What pink/purple/green curler stuck to my back?") He frequently steals one from the bathroom, plays with it, rolls it around, carries it off somewhere, usually the laundry bin (where he likes to hide his treasures. Or thinks I'll wash them. All these years I'm not sure which) and then, as I do my laundry, I find my curlers.
So there, in my laundry, was a big, pink, Velcro curler. Bone was unfamiliar with the concept of Velcro curlers, so I demonstrated. Fascinated by the simplicity of the concept of the curler, and Furry Creature's desire to play with them, he tried it out. (Yeah, he's quite the metrosexual at times.) And it was about this time the cute little redhead came from the bar to transfer her laundry from washer to dryer.
Bone had noticed her at the bar earlier. I could tell he was taken with her. She was with a friend (female) and the two of them checked Bone out, too. And me. I'm sure they were summing up the situation, deciphering all the codes to figure out if we were a couple, siblings, cousins or friends. As the cute little redhead came into the laundry area, I saw her checking out Bone's behind (he's got a nice one) and watched her scoping-the-rest-of-the-package technique. She was impressed until she spied: The pink Velcro curler stuck on the front of his head. She was clearly singularly unimpressed. I think she's the type of girl who would think, "Nice bum. Let's check out the rest of the package...good shoes (but not so good as to be gay), great hands (no ring), shaved sometime this week, pretty eyes, pink Velcro curler stuck on his forehead...(scratch of record) No. Definitely not. I cannot see myself with a guy who would be seen in public with a pink, or any other color, Velcro curler stuck to his forehead. Next!" I'm sure she went back to her friend and relayed the whole sordid event. "He had a pink Velcro curler stuck on his head?! Ohmygod! How stupid! How embarrassing! Ewwww! What a dork!"
When we finished the laundry, Bone took me to pick up a few groceries. Something other than SlimFast and Lean Cuisine and melba toast. Something other than what can be acquired at 7-11. Something my parents will eat. And coffee. Thanks to Bone, I got the "right" kind - or at least the ground kind. I happily tossed the French Roast Beans in the trolley. Bone said, "Do you have a grinder?"
"A what?"
"A grinder. You've got whole beans. You need to grind them." I'm not a complete coffee moron, I realize coffee comes beaned or ground, but I didn't pay enough attention to the packaging to realize I'd selected beaned. The coffee people really should make the packaging between the two types more dissimilar. I'll bet plenty of seasoned coffee drinkers have been caught out the same way. But I suppose seasoned coffee drinkers would have a grinder at home. Still. Had it not been for Bone, I would have got home and realized my blunder, causing another trip to the grocery.
When we got home, he helped me drag the laundry and groceries up all my stairs, and then, and THEN, he changed my vacuum bag AND vacuumed the living room rug for me.
And now for the coup de gras: He cleaned the floor behind my bathroom sink and toilet. The place that's been nearly impossible for me to reach since I broke my ankle. They're tiny spaces, I've done my best with the duster and mop, but a proper cleaning of the areas requires getting down on hand and knees. Hands and knees is a very difficult position to assume with a broken ankle. Try it. Notice what your foot and ankle are doing. I can't do that. Yet. (I may have just hit on something here...something to do with all the crippled chick fetishists - painful or impossible for me to be on my knees...huh. I can't believe I just now thought of that. Man it's been a long time. So long I don't even think the obvious things about being on my knees. All I've thought about is how difficult it is to clean the awkward spaces in my bathroom. Man. I'm pathetic. How did this happen to me? Wonder if that means I'm a good girl now...no automatic impure thoughts when the subject of being on my knees comes up. Huh. See? Blogging is good for the soul.)
Sorry. Revelations hit when they hit, you know? So there Bone was, completely without my asking, he grabbed cleaning agents and in less than ten minutes cleaned up the places that have given me such trouble all these months. No, he wasn't still sporting the pink Velcro curler. Though it would have been funny if he were.
I know. Marry this man. I should. Were it not for the fact that we've been friends for ages I probably would. That is if he wanted to marry me. I won't get into why it would be a problem. Why it would never work. And all the complications that would evolve from a marital union between us. Let's just leave it at: Some friendships are perfect just the way they are and should never be tampered with romantically. We are both old enough, experienced enough and wise enough to know this.
So now, one more evening of last minute touches, my place will be almost parent ready. It's not perfect, it's not up to my usual standards, but, it is leaps and bounds better than it was a few days ago. I'm looking at this as part of the bigger picture of my healing process. I've put away, thrown away or otherwise cleaned away the remnants and vestiges of several months of handicapped living, self pity and apathy. It doesn't look as much like a woman with a broken leg who lives alone with her cat lives there.
If it looks like a duck, well, it's either a duck or a good decoy. Either way other ducks think it's a duck.
Sorry geek girls, believe me, I'm missing it too. I've taped the Roadshow for the past few weeks but haven't had a chance to get caught up with them. Don't ruin it for me! I hope it's been good. I'll get back into the routine soon.
Enough people have inquired/responded to the vegetarian/vegan issue that I am posting a link to a quick and easy protein calculator. I think many of you will be surprised at how little protein you should actually be consuming. Take that, Atkins devotees. 8:42 AM
Monday, November 24, 2003 It's review day! Woo hoo! Way to go!
It's like Christmas, Chanukah and an STD all rolled into one! You give, you receive. The full benefits and horrors won't be actualized for a few weeks, even months. You dread it and yet somehow, sadistically, you also look forward to it, hoping maybe this year it will be different. Maybe this year will be the year of the good review process.
You've been very good this year. You've worked really hard. You've been extra creative AND extra financially innovative (fiscal responsibility is your middle name around the office). You've worked many weekends, early mornings, lunch hours and late evenings. Your enthusiasm is unbridled. You've initiated improvement and action plans. You've actualized all your stated goals. You've pulled your elastic as far as it will go and met your stretch goals. You graciously (and usually without grumpy comment) help out other co-workers with their projects. You take time to patiently educate the slower members of the team. You've even helped other teams, teams not your own, when they were struggling and requested your special brand of creativity, innovation and tireless efficiency. You've tried to improve your office citizenship. You've kept your biting sarcastic remarks to yourself. You've become so good at pasting on your best phony smile before you walk in the door every morning most people don't even realize it's fake. Sometimes, you even kid yourself it's sincere. You've attended all the bonding events (you even brought "real" food, none of that "weirdo organic health crap you usually eat" to the office potlucks). You always clean the microwave after you use it and never leave your dishes, dirty or clean, in the sink.
You realize these are difficult times for the company and the nation. You understand the hiring freeze is a temporary fiscal requirement. You're in there doing your bit for company and country. You understand you are just damn lucky to have a job at all. You take this knowledge and apply it to your attitude. So much so that you happily take on the work of co-workers who have left and not been replaced. Without so much as thinking, "What's in it for me?" Because after all, you're just damn lucky to have a job at all. And you're a team player.
You strive to lead by example with your subordinates. You don't think of them as subordinates. They are your teammates. You don't assign projects you know they cannot handle. You don't get frustrated with their incompetence with some of their required skill sets. You have removed the word problem from your vocabulary. You see only opportunities and challenges. (This annoys the crap out of you but you strive to maintain company policy...lead by example...revise your attitude...blah blah blah...) You offer every possibility for education and training. You talk, really talk, with your teammates. You care deeply for them and understand their personal challenges outside the office. And how those challenges color their office performance. You are not quick to judge and stand behind them and their work. You are a team. A well oiled machine. A machine missing several key components. A piston, a crank shaft, a timing belt...but yet somehow, in spite of the missing pieces, you are still a shining model of efficiency and innovation. Yet you are too modest to accept any accolades for your superior leadership. You instead defer all credit to your team. Because you are a team player. This isn't about you. This is about designing and maintaining a smooth, steady workflow unit which results in a quality product.
And that is why, when the reviews are made, the results processed and tallied in HR, the final pay increase sums doled out, you will happily accept your lousy 2.1% increase and not weigh it against the published national rate of inflation. You won't even think about this. You won't even acknowledge this. Because you are a team player and just damn lucky to have a job at all.
8:56 AM
Sunday, November 23, 2003 What Do you Know? Even Cool People Break Up Last night I took a break from my mad dash cleaning (which is going well, thank you very much) to have dinner with friends. We chose a local Thai place. This is one of my favorite restaurants. Fantastic food, intimate but not weird if you're there with friends or by yourself, great service, hip but not pretentious or trendy, and they understand what vegetarian means. Plus they have great plum wine.
My friends and I and the other diners were enjoying a pleasant evening.
Until the über cool couple three tables from us started arguing. It started as uncomfortable harsh words. Then crescendoed to an out and out battle.
The sort of argument where everyone tries to politely pretend not to notice, but, because of the intimate atmosphere it's impossible to not notice.
The sort of argument that's so bad, so awful, so...well. Most of us have been there at least once. A relationship careening off track. A second date where the veil of mystery is lifted and you discover the true jerkness of the person. Even a first date gone horribly wrong. Whatever the case, as much as you're annoyed at being disturbed by the quarrel, you're embarrassed for both of them. Sure it's bad manners to argue in public. But if you've ever been on one date in your entire life, you realize, these things can happen. Most of us shudder in recognition of the feelings the couple are experiencing.
The seeming immediacy of the "problem." The urgency to be understood. The compulsion to hash this out right now, no matter where you are, who hears, or what the issue.
In the case of last night's couple, I was a bit surprised because they didn't seem "the type." They seemed perfectly matched. Expensive hair cuts, perfect posture, facial expressions that say, "I know a lot of things you do not. I am über cool. My life is not like yours and never will be." They brought along their best friends, Michael Kors, Marc Jacobs, Ermengildo Zenga . They drove up in a BMW Z4. We know this because they got the perfect parking place right in front of the restaurant (natch). These are people who live like people in über cool magazines. They're different from the rest of us.
Until they disagree. Which until last night, I thought was something people like this didn't do. At least not publicly. Disagreeing might be okay in the confines of their hip and trendy loft. The passion of disagreement might even offer some good moody photo ops for the monthly fashion spreads of their life. But argue? In public? Tacky. Never.
But guess what? They argue. They fight. They wrangle through the night. In fact, I would say this relationship cannot be saved.
Maybe it's one of those volatile relationships that feeds on negativity to give it life.
But by her hurt looks and his displeased looks, I would say not. I would say this is a relationship in jeopardy.
He was vehement in making his points. She was steadfast in her opinion.
Neither was willing to listen to the merits of the other's point of view.
The cause for the serious, loud and embarrassing argument?
Noodles. He felt wide noodles are the only choice for Thai food. She felt thin is the proper choice.
Dr. Phil would say the argument wasn't about noodles at all. Noodles were a catalyst, a tool to bring out underlying issues. And for the rest of us, us non über cool people, much as I hate to, I have to agree with Dr. Phil.
But in Über Cool Couple's case, I think the size of the noodle was in fact the true cause of the argument.
They had reached an impasse in their relationship. An issue so important, so vital to their lives and look that the only clear solution is to break up.
Which, right there in front of all of us, they did.
Noodles. The size of noodles.
He squealed away in the Z4, she was left standing on the sidewalk, sleek cell phone to ear, gesturing toward the squealing car.
Huh. Even cool people break up.
I wonder if he went to his buddy's place and drank and belched through a case of Bud, deciding there are a lot of gorgeous bangable women just waiting for him, he's better off without her, and stayed up all night watching ESPN?
I wonder if she went to her girlfriend's place and ate two gallons of ice cream and brownies, cried through a box of Kleenex deciding how to put the relationship back together, and stayed up all night watching Lifetime?
Friday, November 21, 2003
By popular request, my questions to the Universe in re Caught Blogging by Mom, Boss or Other I'm really glad to know I'm not the only one surprised by the surprise and fear this topic is suddenly generating. My steadfast response to those scared blogless after learning their boss or I.S. crew knows their blog habits? Duh. I hope you don't lose your jobs. But: Duh.
And for your convenience I've added the Fire Escape button
Tomb of the Unknown Stuff When you live alone, no matter how fastidious a person you are, you have a tendency to slack now and then. And when you live alone, break your ankle, spend four months on crutches and most of your home time in bed or on the couch, well, that tendency is amplified.
You let the laundry go a few heaps more than usual. You let the spent newspapers and magazines stack up. You keep the things you want or need on a regular basis out all the time rather than put them away every time you use them. You leave CDs, well, everywhere but in their usual alpha/chrono rack. You let that annoying soap scum film grow into something...well, something more than annoying soap scum film. You dust the places that show enough to bother you, but let the rest collect. Snow isn't the only thing stirred up when you shake your snow globes. You still use the Hawaiian print table cloth even though it's November and you've got a very lovely fall table cloth. Somewhere. You leave the suitcase from your weekend trip weeks ago still packed and parked in the living room. Sweep, Swifter and vacuum? Are you kidding? Broken ankle here! Besides, you're not walking all over the place, so how dirty can it be?
You know that place where you drop your stuff when you come in the door? You let the stuff sort of stay there. So that it's not so much stuff dropped when you came in the door as a monument to stuff. A Tomb of the Unknown Stuff. Weeks, perhaps months in the making.
You leave the travel brochures you ordered online to console yourself when you had to cancel your vacation scattered throughout your place because you are considering what fabulous place you'll go once you are up to a real vacation. You simply cannot put them away (because they don't have a place) or throw them away. So you don't actually remember requesting tourist information from the Malaysian Tourism Council. So you know you will not be going to Malaysia, at least in the next year. So what? (Sew buttons, I hear my grandmother chastising me. Sorry Grandmother. I know it's bad, but I'm a bad girl these days.)
You let the dry cleaning go a LOT longer than the usual weekly corner of the hall closet. You let it go so long it is now actually several of the laundry heaps, but it's merged with the other heaps, so much sorting is required. No, you don't usually allow your dry cleaning clothes mingle with your laundrette clothes. But you live alone, you've had a broken ankle, these things happen. The problem is with all that mingling going on, relationships have developed, socks doing blouses, skirts doing jeans...it's a veritable orgy in there. And by the looks of some of the heaps, they're starting to reproduce. The offspring? Bi-cleaning method clothes children. Blouses, socks and undergarments of fabrics you've never heard. Things you know you don't own and would never buy, much less know how to launder. Yet there they are.
So the cat makes wide berth around his usual favorite nap place under the bed. You know how cats are. It's got absolutely nothing to do with what might be living under there behind the stacks of books piling up for "easy reach." (This also speaks to another, more serious problem...buying books. Like an alcoholic hiding bottles around the house, I'm now hiding books. My enabler? barnesandnoble.com, the invalid's best friend - two items or more, free shipping!)
You know you should tidy up. You want to tidy up. You're a tidy person. Have been accused of being a bit of a neat freak in the past. (once or twice, really, it's happened) You occasionally make feeble attempts to put a few things away. You do a heap of laundry. You clean the bathroom sink. These are major accomplishments and you feel quite proud of yourself for doing them, telling yourself that you're on a roll, just a slow roll. What with your condition and all. And you live alone. Who sees it, and who cares? If friends drop in they know you, they know you're slightly incapacitated. They're your friends, they don't care. Sometimes their places look just as bad if not worse.
Then your parents decide to visit.
Panic. Pandemonium. Chaos.
Where can I find a smart clean bomb?
My parents won't care, really, but if I leave things as is, they'll immediately set to cleaning themselves. They'll call it "helping me out."
I'll call it systematically driving me insane.
So I have to do all this in four days. Before I leave town for the holiday. There go any weekend plans I had.
Quarters! I need quarters for laundry! Lots of quarters!
Anyone have any suggestions on how to unclog an apparently permanently clogged (or for some other reason very slow) sink drain?
Thursday, November 20, 2003 Permian-Triassic event (in other words, Metorite Hits Earth 251 Million Years Ago, 90% Feared Extinct. Or a new galactic freeway.)
6:29 PM
Allergies 11, Trillian 0.
Of Cheese I Blog
Itch. Itch. Scratch. My back is absolutely driving me crazy. "They" say it will only be a few days before the itching subsides. I've got some lotion to put on it to help speed the process, but try to put lotion on your own back. All over your own back. And then get dressed. For work. At least my eyes are almost back to normal. And I can breathe. And my heart's not racing as if I just ran a marathon.
The new allergy revelations are far from startling. I've suspected a shellfish or even full blown seafood issue since the iodine incident. (So why then did they introduce iodine into my bloodstream? You may ask. Me too. But they did, it happened, it's over, I've lived to tell the tale.) My doctors agree, because of the immediacy and severity of my iodine reaction on the scratch test, the culprit of my recent allergy trauma was probably shellfish. And since I don't eat fish, shelled or otherwise, not a huge deal for me to give it up for good.
No hardship for me there. I can go on living without shellfish with little or no impact on my daily life.
Even though I follow a strict vegetarian diet, sometimes people don't know or don't care what they serve to "special" diet people. I was most likely served something on the airplane or in the Heathrow restaurant that was "contaminated" with some form of shellfish product. (My doctor actually said "shell fish by-product" which set my mind soaring over shrimp and lobster by-products, which then led me down some unsavory roads, which grossed me out, so I'm sticking with shellfish as an all encompassing term.)
However, I'm in denial over the nut and dairy developments.
I've been a vegetarian since I was 15. It's not a hardship or even remotely difficult for me. I don't like "meat," and therefore do not miss it.
I have given veganism a few attempts, one very whole hearted for 18 months. Eggs are a bit of a problem, not because I like them scrambled, poached, sunny-sided or hard boiled, but because they are in a lot of foods. A lot. Places you'd never suspect. So basically, when you're a vegan, by choice or by health issue, dining anywhere other than your own home, with foods not prepared in your own kitchen, can be problematic.
I managed for the most part, but given my profession, which requires many food functions with clients and colleagues, it was at times difficult. The last thing I want to do is call attention to my "alternative foodstyle." When people discover you're a vegetarian, or "worse," vegan, they tend to either get up on their high meat eating, dairy loving horse and try to make you feel stupid and wrong for your personal choice, or, they feel guilty for consuming a huge hunk of steak in front of you. So I always try to keep my choices quiet. I don't want to argue and I don't want to make anyone feel guilty. It's my personal choice and I keep it quietly that way.
The problem, er, challenge with veganism I encountered, apart from the eggs in everything issue:
Cheese.
Soy "cheese?" Please. I'd sooner die.
I like cheese. Really like cheese. To Wallace (and Gromit) proportions.
I can learn to live without eggs, I could live without milk (very easily), I could live without butter (easily), I could live without ice cream (fairly easily), I could live without yogurt (with some effort),
But live without Cheddar, Roquefort and Swiss?
Wensleydale, Emmental, Havarti, Gruyere and Brie?
Are you mad? Are you daft? It's cheese I would miss!
So many, so varied, so wonderful to me...
Provolone, Mozzarella, Asiago, Romano,
Edam, Parmesan (when in Rome "parmigiano");
Feta, Fontina, Jack and Ricotta,
If you haven't tried them, you gotta;
The Superpower Cheddars of Wisconsin, Canada, and Great Briton,
The Supersmelly veins of Camembert, Limburger, Munster and Stilton.
And the bleus, oh the bleus, oh my please,
Screw the French and their politics, give me their cheese!
Bleu d'Auvergne, Bleu de Laqueuille,
Bleu de Gex, Bleu Des Causses,
and even Bleu de Septmoncel
And the traveling blues: Shropshire, Yorkshire, Buxton and Devon,
Dorset, Exmore and Oxford, oh! what Heaven!
And even the far-flung Maytag and Danish,
Cheese! Crumbled on every salad dish!
Cheshire, Lancashire and Lincolnshire...North we go on the run,
Double Gloucester, Double Worcester, cheeses twice the fun!
Mascarpone and Neufchatel...no one really knows what they are,
But spread them on crackers, they'll stretch your buffet budget far!
Creamed and cottaged, stringed and on fire,
I want cheese, I'm no vegan, my needs are dire!
Cheese, give me cheese! From cows, goats or camels,
Give me this glorious by-product of mammals!
Okay. Now that I've got that bizarre little Dr. Seussian tribute to cheese out of my system...this lactose issue might be a problem. It was my downfall before, it will catch me again.
The nut issue even more so. As a vegetarian, soy and nuts are my top two protein resources. I'm going to lay off the peanut butter (and grape jelly on melba toast) but still use nuts other than peanuts and see if there are any ill or dire consequences.
The food allergy thing comes as no real surprise. I'll adapt. Somehow.
I'm becoming more like Milhouse every day.
What's occurred to me in the bigger picture is 2003 has been my year for medical anomalies. I've got a file inches thick at my medical center, and most of it is less than a year old. Much of it less than 6 months old. If all of this had happened after January 1, 2004, I'd be taking out personal loans or hitting up my parents for thousands of dollars my health insurance didn't cover. (No, this is not a plea for socialized healthcare...) So I've made up my mind: Once this ankle is healed, that's it. No more accidents, illnesses or allergies. I don't want to and cannot afford to have any more health related issues.
Itching and scratching my way to a revised way of life.
9:40 AM
Reality Wednesday
Scratch Factor! Contestants are subjected to an allergy test.
Contestants are selected based on the severity of their previous allergic reactions. The more the severe the reaction, the more likely it will be that the contestant will be chosen to participate.
The host, a doctor specializing in allergies, is aided by assistants (Nurse Betty, "James" and Colleague Doctor)
The chosen contestants are summoned to the testing location. Upon arrival they are led to a changing area, given a hospital gown and told to disrobe from the waist up. After locking up their personal items, they are led to a waiting area where they join other contestants already donned in gowns.
Contestants are called one by one to private consultation rooms.
This week's leading contestant has recently suffered a virus like reaction to an unknown substance.
An injection of Benedryl cleared up a recent "attack" and thereby established the illness as a severe allergic reaction.
The lab assistant hands the contestant an eight page form listing 123 possible allergens (and several lines for "other"). The contestant is to check yes or no as appropriate to each substance known as an allergen to the contestant and provide "known reaction" in the space provided for the substances the contestant marked "yes" as known allergens.
The contestant reads each substance with interest and intrigue. She's no stranger to allergies, so many of the substances are not surprising to her. Others, however, leave her pondering and more than a bit concerned. Anethole? Cobalt(II) chloride hexahydrate (not I, not III)? Styrax? Toluene-2,4-diisocyanate? Is this a chemistry test or an allergy test?
The doctor appears and reviews the contestant's form.
We discover the contestant has established allergies of: Dust, mold, pollen, grass, ragweed, iodine, mushrooms and avocado. Her reactions are asthma, sinus and bronchial. The doctor is concerned about the iodine allergy.
We learn the contestant discovered this allergy while undergoing a routine cat scan a few years ago. The contestant had an instant anaphylactic reaction to the intravenous iodine dye. The doctor/host voices concerns about the extent of the reaction and leaves the consultation room to bring in a colleague for a second opinion.
The contestant, already slightly uneasy about the process, is viewed on hidden camera. We see her fidgeting, eyes wildly scanning the room for a way out. The contestant has two choices: Stay and endure the challenge, or leave, dressed only in a hospital gown and trousers. This contestant decides to stay. Other contestants are weeded out at this juncture.
The doctor/host returns with another doctor/hostess. They have also brought the contestant's full medical history, containing the details of the iodine anaphylactic seizure. They ask questions of the contestant, rapid fire, about the incident.
The contestant claims she doesn't remember many details other than having an instant and severe asthma attack and then waking up in the emergency room.
The doctors/host/ess are rubbing their hands in wicked desire for details. Once the event is hashed over in great detail, the doctors/host/ess are eager to begin the scratch test. Agreeing this is the contestant they've been waiting for - regretting the contestant wasn't on a few seasons ago, because, really, this test should have been administered right after the iodine incident.
The contestant is showing signs of nervousness. The doctors/host/ess summon Nurse Betty and instruct her to prep the contestant for scratching.
Round One! The object of this round is to catch the contestant off guard with a surprise attack.
Nurse Betty takes the usual tests: Temperature, blood pressure
Nurse Betty instructs the contestant to lie down on her stomach. The contestant obliges. The assistant opens the back of the hospital gown and rubs an ice cold liquid on the contestant's back.
Nurse Betty does not warn the contestant about the ice cold liquid. The contestant nearly levitates off the table in shock from the ice cold liquid on her back.
Round Two! The object of this round is to introduce the weekly hunk/babe and to allow the contestant ample opportunities for either suggestive innuendoes or double entendres or to make a complete fool of themselves in front of the weekly hunk/babe.
Nurse Betty leaves and returns moments later with another lab assistant.
James.
James is very good looking. When James enters the room the background music swells to a jubilous crescendo. James puts the viewers in a young Gary Cooper meets young Paul Newman frame of mind. (Trust us. It works. He's got "it." We're the producers. We know about this sort of thing. Just sit back and enjoy the show.) The contestant is stunned and embarrassed to come face to face with one such as James under circumstances such as this. James is very pleasant without being condescending. James is wheeling in a mobile cart full of vials of liquid and gleaming medical instruments. He introduces himself to the contestant and offers his hand in a handshake, then remembers the contestant's current state of dress and apologizes, "oops, sorry, I keep doing that lately. Sorry. Bad manners."
"No, actually, good manners. Maybe bad timing, but good manners," the contestant stupidly and uncharacteristically giggles back to James.
Nurse Betty senses the contestant is attracted to James and asserts her position of power. "She's prepped and ready, doctor/host is waiting to administer the test."
James wheels the cart (Mobile Allergen Unit, or, MAU) to the contestant's side. He engages the contestant in conversation. "So, what's been giving you trouble?"
"Not sure, peanuts are suspect, but possibly traces of shellfish on something I ate."
James grimaces knowingly. "Bad stuff. We're seeing a lot of that lately. Have you had trouble in the past?"
Contestant ponders. Trouble. Hmmm. The contestant has seen her share of trouble, but not of the peanut or shellfish type, so she says stupidly and uncharacteristically, "I've really always been more of a dust/grass/mold/pollen kind of girl."
"Asthma?" James inquires.
"Don't you know it. And how."
James explains that the MAU is equipped with both oxygen and three types of the most common asthma medications. The contestant need not be concerned (Ha!) regarding possible reactions. The contestant is lulled into a stupefied sense of security by James.
Nurse Betty and the doctor enter the room.
Round Three! The object of this round is to gross out the home viewing audience by poking the contestant with sharp devices.
James, Doctor/Host and Nurse Betty discuss the contestant's allergy history and debate the various scratch size options for optimal results but minimal reaction. They settle on two sizes. The smallest for the known allergen family, the larger for the unknown and more remote allergens. James removes two instruments closely resembling an afro pick. Yes. A 'fro pick. Several pointy prongs attached to a bar. James then systematically pokes the contestant with the 'fro pick. He reassures the contestant that in spite of how it may feel, these are microscopic pricks, no scarring will occur. He lays out a grid of dot scratches on the contestant's back.
While not exactly painful, this is not the most pleasant experience the contestant has endured. Particularly on her stomach. With one such as James.
Once James has a grid of dot scratches laid out on the contestant's back, Doctor Host announces it's time for the real fun to begin.
Round Four! The object of this round is to produce a "controlled" allergic reaction to a substance, thus pinpointing the exact source(s) of allergy in the contestant. This is the "danger" and endurance portion of the show.
James and Doctor/Host discuss various allergen families, referring to and selecting from the various vials on the MAU. James begins the allergen introduction procedure. A trace amount of substance is placed onto the open scratch wound thus introducing the substance (and possible allergen) to the contestant's bloodstream. This is where the real danger sets in. This is where the contestant's earn their prize.
As James swabs the allergens into/onto the scratch wounds, Nurse Betty writes the substance number (with a Sharpie®) directly onto the back of the contestant, above the scratch wound where the substance has been introduced.
The contestant is already beginning to squirm. She's itchy. And scratchy. And is starting to sniffle and cough.
The very instant Control Substance 371 is applied to the scratch Doctor/Host and James recoil in shock. "My God, will you look at that!" James a bit too excitedly for the contestant's liking exclaims. Doctor/Host says, "I bet that's our culprit. How are you feeling, contestant?"
"Itchy. Scratchy. Sniffly. Coughy..."
"Look! Her eyes!" Nurse Betty interrupts.
The contestant's eyes had been burning, watering and itchy, but she didn't think it was that noticeable. Apparently she was wrong. James asks Doctor/Host if he should administer eye drops. Doctor/Host agrees. The contestant would rather have Nurse Betty do this. She doesn't want James' first up close look into what she fancies as her normally rather beguiling eyes to be under these circumstances. So she pipes up and says, "No, they're okay, I really don't like eye drops."
To some this will seem like an heroic act of gutsiness and toughness. Others will roll their eyes at the contestant's vanity under such uncomfortable circumstances.
Doctor/Host feels it's prudent to now administer oxygen to the contestant, "just in case." Nurse Betty and James hook up an oxygen tube to the contestant's nose.
Let's recap: The contestant is laid out on an exam table, on her stomach, with a systematic grid of scratches on her naked back. Allergens have been swabbed onto the open wounds. Her eyes are bulging, red and watering, she's sniffling and coughing, and the weekly hunk has just strapped an oxygen tube into her nostrils.
James continues to administer substances, Nurse Betty marking off their control numbers. Doctor/Host making detailed notes on each scratch and reaction.
And then it happens.
Round Five! The object of this round is to put the home viewing audience on the edge of their La Z Boys, give them something to talk about at work tomorrow and to potentially kill the contestant.
The contestant has been growing ever more uncomfortable. The itches and scratches on her back have become the least of her discomforts.
The contestant is feeling queasy. The contestant is simultaneously getting dizzy. The contestant's hands are shaking. She's sweating but is freezing. The contestant is also noticing her heart rate. (right. how often apart from during strenuous exercise do you notice your heart rate?) The contestant puts up a good fight, but then when she thinks she's well past the usual breaking point and has secured first place in the endurance round, she says, "I don't feel well."
Doctor/Host says, "Nurse Betty, Benedryl!"
James produces a vile and needle from the MAU. James stabs the contestant with the needle. (It's later decided James has a "thing" for poking people with sharp pointy objects and introducing substances into the wounds.)
This is the last thing the contestant remembers before the room spun out of control and went black. Except that she may or may not have thrown up on Nurse Betty.
Round Six! Doctor/Host is talking quickly and harshly to James. The contestant blinks her swollen eyes open as best she can (not much). Doctor/Host says, "Contestant, contestant!"
"Ummhumph?"
"You've had a reaction to a few substances. We've got it under control, but you gave us a scare. You weren't kidding you're allergic to iodine."
"I'll say," James interjects, "I don't think you should ever be within 50' of a lobster or shrimp."
"And you better avoid peanuts, in fact nuts in general. And did you know you're allergic to eggs? Potassium and lactose aren't doing you any favors, either."
The contestant has barely regained anything resembling consciousness and is trying to make herself remember this information. While trying to pretend absolutely everything is normal, that nothing untoward has happened. She's trying to remember what time it was when she started feeling ill. She can't remember. She's hoping it was only a few minutes. She then realizes she has a full mask strapped over her face (she notices this only because she hears herself breathing like Darth Vader). And two IV's attached to the backs of her hands. And she's on her back. Which really itches. And her entire body feels prickly from the inside out. And the consultant doctor/hostess is also in the room.
The doctor/host/ess are at the contestant's side asking a barrage of questions. James is slightly behind, looking concerned and hunky.
The contestant does her valiant best to be upbeat and smiley (through her oxygen mask) for the cameras, the doctor/host/ess and oh yes, James.
The contestant must pass an oxygen capacity exam and reduce her heart rate before she will be allowed to collect her prize (allergy report and prescription) and go home.
Once the contestant passes these final tests, she is led to the changing area. Reports of her scratch test reactions have filtered into the changing area. Nervous contestants timidly ask her questions and seek advice for their own scratch tests. The contestant offers her knowledge and gives a few pointers to the contestants.
Her most useful piece of advice: Be sure to ask for James.
Trillian's Scary Prophecy of Doom Alert: Meat Loaf **Not Dead Yet and Let's Hope He Stays That Way** BUT, we're a little concerned...Much as Trillian hates "power ballads," she loves Meat Loaf. Trillian has burned through two cd's of Bat Out of Hell. Trillian had a lengthy discussion wherein she not only vehemently defended Mr. Loaf to several cooler than thou music snobs who barely knew of Meat's body of work, she also did a pretty darned good rendition of Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth (explaining one need only summon their inner Meat to properly sing the song) THE NIGHT BEFORE HE COLLAPSED ONSTAGE. Meat, please, please get well soon. 3:43 PM
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
This could be a very cool experiment/adventure/exercise in creativity. Bloggers, start your engines. Grid Blog 8:29 PM
Scared Blogless We're mostly all bloggers here - or at least we're all familiar with blogging.
Okay. Lowest common denominator: If you're reading this, you know what a blog is.
Okay. That's now established for some of the newer or slower members of the Universe.
What I would now like to establish is: Am I the only one confused and not the least bit sympathetic to the blog topic phenom of late regarding parents, bosses, wives, children or significant others finding and reading a personal blog?
This topic has popped up on nearly every blog I read in the past few weeks. Places I wouldn't even suspect. Blogs where this sort of thing generally doesn't appear.
While The Blog That Started the Whole World Talking makes for funny and interesting and cautionary reading in The Onion, the only response I had was, "Poor guy, but what an idiot, why did he use his real name in his url or blog title?" My feeling was justice was served to this guy for being stupid enough to use his real name and for underestimating the intelligence of his mother in terms of web use. I thought he was lucky it was just his mom and not the IRS looking for back tax payments or a spammer/frauder grabbing his name from his blog, his email address, his home address, his employer and perhaps in the worst case scenario, his social security number. I wrote it off as a tale of Darwinism in the blogspace.
But apparently I'm once again nearly alone in this opinion. Because on blogs far and wide The Blog That Started the Whole World Talking is being mentioned with sympathetic tones, and more than a few "I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT!!!!"s. Bloggers around the world are scampering to change their URLS and blog titles and cleaning out their archives. Blogger even has a new page devoted to (what I thought were obvious) blog cloaking techniques. The widespread panic and wide-eyed Yikes! I'm reading have been very surprising to me.
Um, did you all miss the memo about a little search engine called Google? Or the follow-up memo on protecting your internet privacy?
Perhaps I should be the first to warn you not to give out your social security number or credit card information. Perhaps you missed those memos, too.
But maybe I'm being harsh?
I ask this because sometimes what is blazingly obvious to me is not so to the rest of the world. Which inevitably leads to me being slammed for being overly critical of the human race or for missing a crucial point or aspect. And maybe this is one of those issues. So I present a few points and ask the Universe:
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would not tell or share with people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you, why do you include your name in your blog title or blog URL? You know, where the chances that someone will Google your name for fun or innocent curiosity are, well, pretty darned high?
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would not tell or share with people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you, why do you do it on a public blog? You know, where the chances that someone you know will stumble across it and figure out it's you writing it are, well, pretty darned high?
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would not tell or share with people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you, why do you use the email address everyone knows is yours? You know, where the chances that someone you know will stumble across your blog, not realize it's you until they see your email address and figure out it's you writing it are, well, pretty darned high? (Yahoo and Hotmail, to name a few, have free email accounts. Just in case you missed that memo, too. This provides an easy and free option for setting up an email account under a pseudonym or untraceable nick to you.)
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would not tell or share with people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you, why do you tell your parents, friends, co-workers that you blog? You know, where the chances that one of them who knows enough about you will be curious and intuitive enough to enter a few key personal search terms and find your blog are, well, pretty darned high?
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would not tell or share with people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you, why do you keep and maintain archives? You know, where the chances that someone will dredge up something embarrassing or unsavory, even a small comment, are, well, pretty darned high?
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would not tell or share with people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you, why would you set up your blog site on your office server or your parents' DSL account? You know, where the chances that your I.S. crew, your boss or your parents will obviously eventually find it are, well, pretty darned high? (and on this note, if you blog at work, do you really, honestly believe no one, especially the I.S. geeks and your boss, don't know it? Another memo you must have missed: Most employers track every website their employees visit. Daily. Hourly. On this note, for many blogging is the least of problems. If you think your employer or I.S. department isn't smart enough or is too busy to track your surf habits, guess again. And no, this is not paranoid rambling. It's a fact.)
If you are writing deeply personal thoughts and concerns on your blog, things you would share with a select few people whom you actually know, or minimally, things potentially embarrassing to you if anyone other than the select few read them, why do you do any of the above and why do you not consider the concepts of, "And they tell two friends, and they tell two friends, and they tell two friends, and so on and so on, and so on..." as well as the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon theory? Where the chances that someone will innocently link your blog to another friend because you mentioned a great shoe sale, and that person not only reads about the great shoe sale, but also your archives and Holy Belgium! by the band name you mention she figures out you're sleeping with her cousin's husband's brother, so she then sends the archive link to her cousin, who then sends it to all the guys in the band, who then send it to the wife of your boyfriend are, well, pretty darned high?
Lots of questions. One obvious answer. To me. The human race is doomed by our own stupidity.
Keep in mind, I'm the one who had a Virgin Pulse earphone condom stuck in my ear for hours and didn't realize it. I'm not sitting here thinking I'm brilliant and above the rest of you. I'm just very confused by the pandamonium, widespread panic and general "OHMYGOD I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT"s this is creating. You really never thought of it? Really? I always thought all of the above just went without saying.
Or maybe I'm not losing my mind at all. Maybe those synapses are firing at record speeds. Maybe I am actually way more savvy (or untrusting) than most people. That all these points which were so blatantly obvious to me when I began blogging were actually Einsteinian concepts.
I hope not. If so, we really are doomed. I hope it's just a slow blog week.
8:09 AM
Monday, November 17, 2003 And So Begins the Slide Into Oblivion It's possible I'm losing my mind. Or that I am in the throws of a nervous breakdown. Not that I'm terribly concerned about either of these possibilities. There are worse things than losing one's mind and being blissfully unaware. But consider this fair warning: this blog may turn into the diary and documentation of a woman losing her mind. Many will argue it already is...
But the possibility of losing one's brain function is cause for pause for thought. (that is while I can still give pause for thought...)
My ever on, never resting, multi-tasking, speeding like a bullet mind has been noticeably, well, less so lately. Ditto my usually super heightened and attuned bionic senses.
To wit: This morning's little "situation."
Co-worker with really obnoxious smelling coffee popped into my office. She does this a few times a week, and always on Monday morning. Her job is not exactly demanding. Apart from working for the She Devil of the office. (no, surprisingly, that's not me) But She Devil rarely shows her face in the office before 1:00 PM, so co-worker has a pretty easy time of it. Never arrives in the office before 9:30, even though her stated hours of operation are 8:30 - 4:30, spends her mornings on the phone with friends and family, procuring bagels, donuts and other food items, shopping the net...I'm not jealous, I wouldn't want her job or her life for any amount of money. However, from time to time she loses site of the fact that some of us, in fact most of us, come in early, stay late, work through lunch...because we're on deadlines or just have a lot of work to do. She is apparently oblivious to the fact that even though she's just arriving in the office and is "settling" in and "catching up" some of us have been here for hours and are smack in the middle of work - actually concentrating on projects and might not want to be interrupted.
She has developed a habit of coming into my office with an enormous mug of her smelly coffee (at least my sense of smell is still bionic) plopping herself in a chair apparently expecting me to drop everything and have a conversation. And yes sometimes, this is a nice break, and even though we have absolutely nothing in common except we both live with a cat, I do like her. And I know it's important to do a bit of socializing with colleagues...But, 10:00 on a Monday morning, when I've come in early especially to work on a project on a tight deadline during a very busy week of meetings is not the time I want to have a discussion about the squirrels knocking off the bricks on her rose bush cones.
I've tried diversionary tactics - to little avail. When she bursts in with: "Hiya! How was your weekend?" I've taken to offering an offhand, sarcastic and seemingly implausible response while not looking up from my work. "Oh you know, saving the Galaxy from Vogons" or "Nothing much, just a little work on my cold fusion project" or "The 187th Fleet was in for the weekend, you know how demanding those boys can be..." She rarely gets it. She has actually taken me seriously a few times. (The 187th Fleet was of particular interest to her...Cold Fusion and Vogons soared over her head.) But for some reason (perhaps further proof I'm losing my mind?) I continue this routine, holding out hope one day she'll "get it" and quietly leave when I don't encourage further conversation. I've been trying to dumb down the remarks lately, hoping against hope one of these times she'll actually realize I'm being sarcastic, that I am busy and am not in the mood or frame of mind to discuss her roses, new cookie recipe, church choir practice or the sale at Talbots.com. Talbots? .com?
I digress. I'm trying to vent this out of my system rather than at her or someone else in the office. She set off a domino effect of events that completely broke my chain of concentration and led me to the discovery that I may in fact be losing my mind.
Smelly Coffee Co-worker: Hey! How was your weekend?
Trillian: Jell-O shots, gettin' freaky in the hot tub, whips, chains, waking up with several men the names of whom I do not know...you know, the usual..
Smelly Coffee Co-worker: (ignoring or not understanding the remark) Oooooh, I LOVE those earrings! (Co-worker says this about three times a week. And yes, the compliments are nice, but because they are so frequent and over things like a basic pearl earrings they come across as lame attempts at conversation. Or co-worker doesn't get out much. Both are probably true.)
Trillian: Thanks! (pulling her tresses back to show off this time admittedly really great earrings)
Smelly Coffee Co-worker: Is there something wrong with your ear?
Trillian: Ever since that allergy problem my sinuses have been funny and my ears are popping.
Smelly Coffee Co-worker: So, is that thing in your ear supposed to help?
Trillian: Huh? (Reaching for both ears) What the....? (Discovers a small, clear, flexible plastic "muffler" in her left ear and pulls it out. Yes, pulls it out of her ear.)
Smelly Coffee Co-worker: (Stares aghast and concerned.)
Trillian: (Pondering the item) Oh. I know. This is from my earphones. Instead of those spongy cover things, the Virgin Pulse buds have this little flexible perforated condom glovey covering. (proffers earphone condom to co-worker) See?
Co-worker: Oh. I see. You know, I've got a lot to do today, have a good one! (beats a hasty retreat. Smelly Coffee Co-worker never has a lot to do.)
I suppose first and foremost I should be concerned the plastic condomy thing came off my earphone and lodged itself in my ear. Mere millimeters away from being stuck in my ear canal, potentially endangering my ear health or, minimally, my auditory response time. (Might there be a tidy sum of class action money in this for me? Mr. Branson? Yoooo hooo, paging Richard Branson...I need a job...your earphone left its condom in my ear...perhaps we can come to an "arrangement?")
But instead I am more concerned that hours passed since I removed the ear phones. Hours. And I didn't notice a piece of plastic lodged in my ear.
Scarier still is that I had been in the bathroom twice, brushed my hair, had several phone conversations (mobile and land) and DIDN'T NOTICE A PIECE OF PLASTIC LODGED IN MY EAR. Hours passed. HOURS. We're not talking small fragment of parsley on a tooth here, were talking plastic earphone condom lodged in my ear. I'm not surprised or angry that no one before Smelly Coffee Co-worker said anything, I mean, it's not a topic that's easy to bring up. "Pardon me, none of my business, but if it were me I'd want to know...you've got, well, there's, an, um, well, earphone condom in your ear." Yes, I can see it's not as easy as "tooth - parsley" or "Slip!" No, I can understand it's not the easiest thing to tell someone.
What's bothering me, and why I think I might be in the early stages of sensory dimming or dementia is the fact that I was completely oblivious to the earphone condom lodged in my ear for several hours. It's thrown me off what I thought was a fairly sharp game this morning. I'm trying to console myself with "better that Smelly Coffee Co-worker noticed than a client over lunch." But I know the best and most appropriate scenario would have been that I noticed it as soon as I removed my earphone. Or maybe, maybe, failing that, when I brushed my hair in the bathroom mirror. Seems like if I hadn't felt it by then I would have seen it.
Is this how it begins? Are nylon knee-highs fallen down around one ankle and a wig on backwards soon to appear on me without me realizing?
10:12 AM
Sunday, November 16, 2003 Lines! My lines!
One of my favorite bands swung through town last night. I've been looking forward to this concert for several weeks. It was actually a three band venue, two of the bands are favorites, one more long time so than the other.
Girls: If you want to be one of a few women in a crowded, smoky room of men over 28, CATCH THE MAVERICKS.
I'm not saying these smoking men over 28 years old are the types you would necessarily want to pursue...but sisters, let me tell you, they will pursue you. Don't let the little fact that these are the types of men who will pursue anything female stand in your way of a good night of ego boosting.
Three hours of non-stop pick-up lines.
If you have a wounded appendage, so much the better. Never, ever underestimate the number of men with a crippled chick fetish. I have found the number of men with this fetish to be staggering, alarming, and disconcerting.
What was irritating is that I was not there to troll for men, to change my numeric gestalt. No, I braved the wilds of a very small club on a Saturday night with only 10° of ankle mobility because I like the band and WANTED TO HEAR THEM.
These are actual lines and conversations that occurred over a three hour period. Nothing has been altered or enhanced.
Line one: "So do you come here a lot?"
(Only when there's a band I want to hear.)
"So you come here a lot?"
(On the occasion there's a band here I like, yes, I have been known to patronize this club. Speaking of patronizing...)
"So you like the bands tonight?"
(Yes. A = B, B = C so C = A.)
"Huh?"
(Yes, I like the bands tonight.)
"I'm here because I got free tickets. I've never heard of the bands."
(Well, you're in for a treat.)
"Are they good?"
(I like them.)
"But are they any good?"
Line two: "I like tall women."
(Hmmm. There are several here tonight. There's one over there, she looks to be about 5'10)
"I meant you. You're taller."
(I meant go try that line on someone else.)
Line three: "I'm the kind of guy your mother warned you about."
(I'm the kind of woman your therapist warned you about.)
"I don't have a therapist."
(or a sense of humor or irony)
Line four: "What's wrong with your leg?"
(Broken ankle - in re-hab, though.)
"So, you're getting better?"
(Yes!)
"Shame."
Line five: "So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
(Trying to hear one of my favorite bands.)
"Oh. Sorry. (Pause) So you like country music?"
(No, not categorically, but I really like THIS band. The one who just took the stage.)
"Oh. Sorry. (Pause) I like country music."
(Good for you. This is one of the few bands where good country music is not an oxymoron.)
"A what?"
(Oxymoron? You know, diametric opposite juxtaposition of adjectives and definitions?)
"Are they the third band?"
Line six: "Oooh, is that a broken leg?"
(Ankle, getting better, though.)
"Do you have crutches?"
(Not here, I got off them a month ago.)
"But you still have them?"
(Yes, but...)
"I've had this fantasy about a woman on crutches...."
Line seven: "Guess you couldn't wear your cowgirl boots with that bum leg."
(No, nor my Via Spiga trendy boots, nor my white vinyl go-go boots, nor my thigh high hooker boots...)
"Do you have cowgirl boots?"
(I have a pair of western inspired boots, but I don't think any real self respecting cowgirl would wear them.)
"I think more women should wear cowgirl boots."
(I'll tell all my friends.)
"Cool. Then when I see a woman in cowgirl boots she might be a friend of yours."
(How much have you had to drink? It might be time to stop.)
Line eight: "Does it hurt?"
(no response)
Yelling, "Does it hurt?"
(what?)
"Your leg, does it hurt?" yelling louder.
(Not too bad. It's a lot better.)
"What's wrong with it?"
(broken ankle)
"Oh. So it's only broken."
(Sorry to disappoint you, yes, only broken. Nothing serious, permanent or life threatening.)
"How long do you have to wear that?"
(Not sure, hopefully just another month.)
Coming in close, conspiratorially, "I have this little fantasy..."
(Coyly looking into his eyes, ...About doing it with a crippled chick?)
Blushing, "Yes. Yes. I'm bad. I know it's wrong. But I've always had this...this...desire, I can't explain it. I just want to do it with a crippled girl."
(Take a number.)
Stunned. "What?"
(You're not alone. In fact, you guys should form a club. You could meet at hospitals and re-hab centers.)
"You get a lot of guys hitting on you?"
(Yes, had I known this was such man bait I would have broken my ankle years ago. Or at least faked it.)
"Really?"
(Well, no, I was being sarcastic, I wouldn't have actually intentionally broken my ankle or faked it in hopes of attracting a man with a crippled chick fetish, but there are a lot of you. Perhaps you might want to do a little online research.)
"So, will you help me out with my fantasy?"
(No. I'm temporarily crippled, not temporarily brain dead.)
"That's not nice."
(Excuse me? You try to pick up a woman with a line about a crippled chick fantasy and you have the audacity to call me not nice?)
"Bitch."
(Yes. Have a nice day.)
Line nine: "Whew, you're a tall drink of water."
(So I've been told. At least once a week since I was 13)
"yeah, I suppose you do hear that a lot."
(feeling slightly bad about rebuffing what might be a nice guy. Sorry. Just seems like every jerk in the city is out to get me with their worst lines tonight.)
"Sorry. On behalf of the entire male population, I apologize."
(Thanks.)
"So how tall are you, anyway?"
(Trying to hide exasperation. Does it really matter?)
"No. I just wondered."
(I really want to hear this band.)
"Yeah, me too."
(to herself, So why the swut did you try to engage me in conversation during one of their best songs?)
Fortunately the band was very good. Even if you don't like country music check out The Mavericks, they're touring with The Thorns.
It's official! I have made very real, very huge improvements since beginning physical therapy!
Last night was progress evaluation night at physical therapy. Let's just say I'm on the Dean's list.
"Kimmie" all but did back flips when she took me through my tests and tallied the results.
I was pretty darned excited, too.
I have been working very diligently during my sessions, but more importantly, says "Kimmie" is all the obvious effort I've been putting into my homework.
It's true. I have been nearly neurotic about my exercises twice or more daily. While I'm in my office I work on my various flexes and side rolls. (don't ask. it requires live or video demonstration. suffice to say they're weird, they're difficult and they hurt). I have gone from only being able to move 2° to moving 10°. For those playing along at home, adjust your calipers 8°. For those who have never broken a bone or gone through physical re-hab, and are reading this thinking, "10°? This chick's excited about being able to move her ankle 10°? What the...?" THIS IS AN ENORMOUS STINKING DEAL. It's like 0 to 60 in seconds flat.
It's real, measurable progress. And lots of it. Okay?! It's a big deal!
"Kimmie" says I'm in the top percentage for recovery progress time. I'm right up there in the athlete category.
And I owe a lot of it to "Kimmie."
Not because she's a stellar physical therapist, but because I want to be rid of her so badly that I am extra motivated to rehabilitate my ankle and get the heck out of there. (I toyed with the idea that this has been her plan all along: Annoy the heck out of the patient so she works extra hard to be rid of you. But that's giving her too much credit for deviousness.)
And my health insurance changes (and therefore won't pay for my therapy) January 1.
And I just want this to all be over.
Lots of motivational factors.
The question on everyone's lips (well, a few lips): Will I ice skate this year? No way. I was holding out a glimmer of hope, but "Kimmie" said even if I make a near full recovery by January (doubtful, even at my Olympian rate), skating is hard on the strongest and healthiest of ankles. I should work on strengthening it for next year rather than pushing it this year. I have to admit defeat and agree with her on this point. It makes a lot of sense to me. After all the work I've put into this I am not going to risk re-injury. I'm disappointed, but realistically I didn't honestly think I'd skate this year. Or ski. So watch us have the most perfect skating and skiing season in history. Skaters and skiers: You have me to thank if we do.
As usual, the very minute I allowed myself a moment of sweet victory, a bit of feeling good about myself, along comes harsh reality to slap me in the face. After my evaluation, "Kimmie" strapped me into the "Special Bike."
On a regular bike next to me was an old codger of a man. Dressed head to toe in status logo gear. Stupid little shorts, pristine little white socks, and a swutting Semper Fi towel far too systematically draped around his neck showing off the logo. The sort of guy who has always fancied himself as the cat's meow. And who knows, maybe he was and is. I wasn't really judging.
Until this really sweet lady on the treadmill made a comment about the cooler weather and her arthritis kicking in. Codger Semper Fi Man yelled over his shoulder to her, "Then move to Arizona." A bit uncalled for, I thought. But I didn't know their relationship. I thought it was such a snotty remark that maybe they were friends and he was teasing her. So on I rode. Minding my own business. Strapped into the "special bike."
Codger Semper Fi Man growled, "You need to work harder. You're not even keeping up with me. I'm going 25 MPH. What are you doing?"
I thought he was talking to someone else, so I ignored him.
"Come on, put some muscle in it. You're barely moving!" he barked. Obviously to me.
Wanted to say: "You strap yourself into these swutting open air ski boots on this rickety rig and see if you hit 25 MPH, you mean old coot. I don't care if you were a Marine. You're on "Kimmie's" turf now, your brand of discipline doesn't work here. So leave us alone. And my father was a Marine and he's nice to people. He doesn't wear it like a badge. I bet you weren't even in the Marines. I don't see any battle wounds on those pretty little girly legs or arms of yours. I bet you were some sissy desk boy in Marines. If you were in fact a Marine."
In reality said: "Yeah, I know, I'm trying, though. It's not easy. I have made a lot of improvement..."
"That's 'improvement'? (yes, he made air quotes while riding) Were you in a coma to start?"
Seriously. That's exactly what he said.
What really annoyed me is that for all he knows I was in a coma to start.
Wanted to say: "Mind your own swutting business you old pretty boy poseur."
In reality said: "Almost, might as well have been a coma - broken ankle and whiplash. I came from nearly immobile to here in four weeks. I'm quite proud of myself."
"Bah!"
Bah? Okay Mr. Codger Faux Semper Fi Man with possible senile dementia. Whatever you say. After all, I'm the one on the "Special Bike."
But just you wait. You're old enough to have seen combat in at least three wars, but you obviously came out physically unscathed. I may not be a Marine but getta load of THIS! (In my fantasy sequence this is where I get all in his face (a la Large Marge) and point to my eyebrow scar, Psycho shower scene sound effect blaring.) You think I don't know pain?! Guess again old man. Guess again. 10 stitches by the age of five. And that's just how I warmed up. A little "initiation" to a life of pain and wounds. I've got Marine blood cursing through my veins so BACK OFF YOU PATHETIC OLD POSEUR.
So what if it's only an old swing set injury and not a shrapnel wound. Still. Garden play equipment can be pretty destructive when used improperly. And the scar is impressive when I raise my eyebrow either skeptically or wanton come hitherly. And when it's not camouflaged with concealer and eyebrow pencil. (She says: "One inch closer and you'd be blind!" He says: "One inch further and it would have missed me." Yeah. Me and Indiana. Speaking of senile dementia.)
"Kimmie" then announced from across the Socialized Room of Terror that my 20 minutes were up but if I wanted I could go another 5. I took the extra 5. I'm Marine tough. In capricious lipstick. Don't mess with me.
When she unstrapped me, Codger Faux Semper Fi Man was still riding. He bid me a look that I think was supposed to imply, "Lazy A*#."
Obviously he's just a mean old man making lame attempts at coolness in pathetic status logo gear. But why of all days did he have to get on my case? Why on the very day I had a great progress report? I'm not letting him get me down. Per se. But he certainly brought me back to reality. My little trip in Inflated Ego Land over my 8° triumph was short. Might have been nice to savor it at least until I got home and called everyone I know to excitedly share the news.
Oh, I still called a few people. But my tone was more Eeyore than Tigger. My parents lifted me back up a bit, they were jubilant - their reaction was akin to when I managed to make my first whole day without my bottle or begging for one. (I was four. I was brave. There had been "concerns." It was a really huge deal.) Frankie thinks I should celebrate with new shoes, even if I can't wear them. Not a bad idea, but I'm saving myself (and money) for an all out Shoe Extravaganza when I'm out of the aircast and can comfortably and realistically buy and wear real shoes. Arthur offered to help me retro-fit a stationary bike into a "special bike" for home use. Pondering that idea. He was a bit too enthusiastic about the idea. I can envision what he was envisioning - schematic drawings, power tools, and a Rube Goldberg rig resembling something out of Wallace and Gromit.
Who I really needed, the one person who would have made me forget about Codger Faux Semper Fi Man and my reality of a mere 10° of flexibility, the one person who would properly champion my efforts while pushing me to further is HWNMNBS. He's the one I needed. And wanted. I know. I need to be motivated and satisfied with and by myself. I know all the psychobabble. And it's all nicey-nice platitude designed to prevent single people from killing themselves.
Stupid Codger Faux Semper Fi Man. If he would have just kept his nasty old mouth shut I would have jubilantly left all pumped up on "Kimmie's" special brand of enthusiasm over my 8° triumph. But no. He had to bring me straight back to reality.
Urgh.
Still, 8 whole degrees in four weeks.
"Kimmie's" excited. My parents are proud. Oh wait. Those are both givens. Sort of control data. Swut.
