Calves are sore. Eyes are tired. Body is exhausted and reminding me that I am too old for a weekend of almost non stop, party type activity.
It was for a good reason. My brother was married in a very lovely, gaffe-filled Catholic ceremony on Saturday afternoon. The organist forgot that the Matron of Honor* would not be in the procession and kept playing for several minutes after the bridal party had finished walking down the aisle. The bride and her father began walking down the aisle too early. The priest (a last minute substitution as the pastor was ill) called the bride by the wrong name. Twice.
There were two second readings, as the cantor pointed out the incorrect passage the first time. The priest walked up to the podium at the conclusion of reading 2.1, flipped the pages to the correct passage and had the reader complete 2.2.
Due to the Matron of Honor's immobility, she was unable to get the bouquet back to the bride after the vows had been completed. She passed the flowers off to me and I dashed across the altar, behind the back of the priest giving communion, to hand them back to the bride.
And the priest forgot their last name while introducing the newly married couple.
I was “that girl” during the reception and ready to celebrate, not only my brother's marriage, but that I managed to escape (for the present) the economic downturn that lead my former employer to decide to close the Pittsburgh office at the end of this month. I danced, I flirted with the small children, I tricked couples into showing off some moves. I stole into the bridal sweet with my SIL, my aunt and two members of the bridal party to decorate the rooms.
Then J and I stumbled back to our room, where J made me drink several glasses of water before he would allow me to go to sleep. I woke up three hours earlier then intended, not in the best of shape, but in better shape then I deserved considering my excesses of the prior day.
* Matron of Honor broke her leg on New Year's Eve and is in a cast – not a traditional plaster cast but one of those wicked frame contraptions with pins extending from the frame into her leg, to hold the bones into place. The name of this type of cast escapes me.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
To Offset the Mushiness of the Previous Post
Dear Two Women ahead of me at the bus stop this morning,
I don't understand it, this irrational fear of moving to the back of the bus. This fear that makes you dump yourself and all your belongings (in the space clearly marked "No items may be put in this area") smack in front of the doors. Thus blocking the other six of us from getting on the bus in any semblance of an orderly fashion.
The back is a bit of a strange country. Those two steps up can be treacherous to navigate and the people who sit back there? Terrifying. Imagine, all those different races and genders sharing seats! Those headache inducing hair colors of black, brown and blonde! Those blinding wedding bands and hoop earrings! Those radical winter coats of black and brown.
If you are so dead set on standing at the front of the bus, for goodness sakes, get on last and save the rest of us the headache.
And to the young woman whose feet I stepped on whilst trying to maintain my balance - I apologize.
I don't understand it, this irrational fear of moving to the back of the bus. This fear that makes you dump yourself and all your belongings (in the space clearly marked "No items may be put in this area") smack in front of the doors. Thus blocking the other six of us from getting on the bus in any semblance of an orderly fashion.
The back is a bit of a strange country. Those two steps up can be treacherous to navigate and the people who sit back there? Terrifying. Imagine, all those different races and genders sharing seats! Those headache inducing hair colors of black, brown and blonde! Those blinding wedding bands and hoop earrings! Those radical winter coats of black and brown.
If you are so dead set on standing at the front of the bus, for goodness sakes, get on last and save the rest of us the headache.
And to the young woman whose feet I stepped on whilst trying to maintain my balance - I apologize.
Happiness is a Purring Cat
And a President for which I can be proud.
I received an email this morning from a non-American friend asking if I watched the inauguration of (my) new king, which made me laugh. I had to admit to him that it did seem a little bit like a coronation, with the chanting masses and mass celebrations. I also observed that it was very un-American, these mass displays.
I watched the inauguration at work, streaming CNN starting at 10:00 am Tuesday morning. As I worked on finishing up some test parameters I listened to the anchors chatting about the crowds and the weather. Occasionally I would switch to a different live stream, some of them without audio.
Work stopped at 11:30, as the majority of us watched the ceremonies take place. Watching Hilary Clinton walk the halls as a former first lady, I could not help but think how close she was to being the first woman POTUS.
But what struck me the most was how conscious and aware President Obama was in those moments, as he took the oath of office and made his speech. From all directions I hear “live in the moment”, but I had never see an example of what it is to do that, to live in the moment, until I saw him take the oath of office.
I did not exhale until the oath was complete. Then it was done and I recalled the words of my friend referenced above. “Well done. Lot of work ahead”.
I received an email this morning from a non-American friend asking if I watched the inauguration of (my) new king, which made me laugh. I had to admit to him that it did seem a little bit like a coronation, with the chanting masses and mass celebrations. I also observed that it was very un-American, these mass displays.
I watched the inauguration at work, streaming CNN starting at 10:00 am Tuesday morning. As I worked on finishing up some test parameters I listened to the anchors chatting about the crowds and the weather. Occasionally I would switch to a different live stream, some of them without audio.
Work stopped at 11:30, as the majority of us watched the ceremonies take place. Watching Hilary Clinton walk the halls as a former first lady, I could not help but think how close she was to being the first woman POTUS.
But what struck me the most was how conscious and aware President Obama was in those moments, as he took the oath of office and made his speech. From all directions I hear “live in the moment”, but I had never see an example of what it is to do that, to live in the moment, until I saw him take the oath of office.
I did not exhale until the oath was complete. Then it was done and I recalled the words of my friend referenced above. “Well done. Lot of work ahead”.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Today – A Quick Study in Contrasts
This afternoon I watched Barack Obama become the 44th President of the United States.
This evening I opened a letter from my dental insurance provider. The letter informed me that they would pay $280.00 towards my $1550.00 periodontal bill. This, I should note, is actually less than what I pay out yearly for the insurance.
I hope, really, that change has finally come.
This evening I opened a letter from my dental insurance provider. The letter informed me that they would pay $280.00 towards my $1550.00 periodontal bill. This, I should note, is actually less than what I pay out yearly for the insurance.
I hope, really, that change has finally come.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Problem with Deleting Photos from Flickr...
Is that they got deleted off the blog as well.
At least I know what my weekend project will be.
At least I know what my weekend project will be.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Privilege of the Bus Rider
One of the blogs I frequent has a post up about the federal government investing in making cities more walkable and generally building up a public transportation infrastructure. The reasoning? More walkable cities reduce drunk driving incidents.
Reading the comments was a bit surreal. I was struck by the amount of push back by self-identified, progressive feminists resisting the idea of using public transportation in that a city with a decent, late night system and foot-accessible streets. There is legitimate criticism over the goals of MADD, as it has turned into a neo-prohibition organization, but that did little to undercut the tone of “rather drive drunk then ride the bus or hail a cab”.The unconscious privilege and downright social snobbery over riding the bus left me cold.
I'm not talking about the readers who have experienced harassment, including one who was mistaken for a prostitute and propositioned repeatedly while waiting for the bus. It is a legitimate fear and one incident would be enough, I think, to put me off riding the bus at night for some time.
Rather it is the classist comments about not wanting to wait, to share space on the bus/el/T/metro/subway late at night with dirty, crazy, homeless, or poor consumers of public transportation that were off putting. I've shared space with crazy in a lot of different settings. The crazy I've seen on the bus is not half as frightening as the crazy I've seen in my working life.
With respect that “the plural of anecdote is not data” for myself or any of the posters, aware of my own privilege that leaves a white, conservatively dressed, on the downside towards middle age woman reasonably safe on the mean streets of Pittsburgh, the worse that has happened to me after six years of taking public transportation is repeated falls on the sidewalk near my stop (never salted until after the weather stops), waiting in frigid weather for a bus that never showed, witnessing the ranting and rude behavior of angry motorized scooter guy and a verbal screaming match between a driver and a rider shortly after I started riding the bus.
The kindness I have witnessed outweighs all the falls on an icy sidewalk. From drivers who saw me coming down my street and waited for me. From one who, when forced to let us off in in the middle of a lane, stepped into traffic to ensure that we made it to the curb safely. From another who risked being reprimanded to get me near my destination – even though it was my fault for taking the incorrect bus. I have experienced fellow passengers retrieve my dropped gloves and offer me cough drops when I was sick. And offer to buy me a cup of hot tea at McDonald's on that frigid night when the bus never showed. And my personal favorite, fearless older women haranguing young men about their inappropriate behavior and lack of deportment towards other citizens on the street.
I've had to adapt. Remember to pack hat, gloves and scarf in my bag and wear my long coat in winter, so I am warm enough on cold nights. Remember to pack novel, notepad and pen for long waits and delays. Carry some cough drops and tissues. Say good morning and good night to the drivers. Relax.
Reading the comments was a bit surreal. I was struck by the amount of push back by self-identified, progressive feminists resisting the idea of using public transportation in that a city with a decent, late night system and foot-accessible streets. There is legitimate criticism over the goals of MADD, as it has turned into a neo-prohibition organization, but that did little to undercut the tone of “rather drive drunk then ride the bus or hail a cab”.The unconscious privilege and downright social snobbery over riding the bus left me cold.
I'm not talking about the readers who have experienced harassment, including one who was mistaken for a prostitute and propositioned repeatedly while waiting for the bus. It is a legitimate fear and one incident would be enough, I think, to put me off riding the bus at night for some time.
Rather it is the classist comments about not wanting to wait, to share space on the bus/el/T/metro/subway late at night with dirty, crazy, homeless, or poor consumers of public transportation that were off putting. I've shared space with crazy in a lot of different settings. The crazy I've seen on the bus is not half as frightening as the crazy I've seen in my working life.
With respect that “the plural of anecdote is not data” for myself or any of the posters, aware of my own privilege that leaves a white, conservatively dressed, on the downside towards middle age woman reasonably safe on the mean streets of Pittsburgh, the worse that has happened to me after six years of taking public transportation is repeated falls on the sidewalk near my stop (never salted until after the weather stops), waiting in frigid weather for a bus that never showed, witnessing the ranting and rude behavior of angry motorized scooter guy and a verbal screaming match between a driver and a rider shortly after I started riding the bus.
The kindness I have witnessed outweighs all the falls on an icy sidewalk. From drivers who saw me coming down my street and waited for me. From one who, when forced to let us off in in the middle of a lane, stepped into traffic to ensure that we made it to the curb safely. From another who risked being reprimanded to get me near my destination – even though it was my fault for taking the incorrect bus. I have experienced fellow passengers retrieve my dropped gloves and offer me cough drops when I was sick. And offer to buy me a cup of hot tea at McDonald's on that frigid night when the bus never showed. And my personal favorite, fearless older women haranguing young men about their inappropriate behavior and lack of deportment towards other citizens on the street.
I've had to adapt. Remember to pack hat, gloves and scarf in my bag and wear my long coat in winter, so I am warm enough on cold nights. Remember to pack novel, notepad and pen for long waits and delays. Carry some cough drops and tissues. Say good morning and good night to the drivers. Relax.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
To the Five People Who Read this Blog...
I've lost my sense of adventure and I need to find it.
I'm seeking suggestions on things to do that will take me out of my comfort zone and make me curious about the world around me again.
Thoughts?
I'm seeking suggestions on things to do that will take me out of my comfort zone and make me curious about the world around me again.
Thoughts?
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Recovery
A less disgusting, but boring entry about my healing mouth. Because my brain is a defective sieve, incapable of holding any of the items I want to write about and I have nothing else right now but a whine about my brother's cancelled bachelor party, which ruined my plans to have the house to myself for the weekend and a second whine about the Penguins, as they continue their painful slide into last place.
Monday
The stitches and stent came out, after a quick examination by the periodontist and the application of more topical Novocaine. There was another brief moment of panic when I accidentally scraped away some of the graft tissue, thinking it was excess packing. A brief tour of the internets reassured me that I had not done any damage and that the graft would be alright.
I turn down the offer to put the stent back in.
Tuesday
I met my hockey buddy for lunch at Pamela's. I have breakfast for lunch, crepe style pancakes stuffed with strawberries covered with brown sugar and sour cream. D orders a sandwich and fries. I'm still on the softer variety of foods to protect my sore palate and gums.
During our conversation I learn that D had the same procedure done on his two front teeth, sans packing or stent or prescription drugs to ease post-operative pain.
D ends up losing his ATM card and gets a parking ticket. I don't think he will be meeting me for lunch in my neighborhood anytime soon.
Weekend
Call off work on Friday to see if I can recover some of the sleep I've lost in the past several days. Lounge in bed and think about ways to get myself out of the house and interacting with people again. Decide to sign up for a four week class at the Pittsburgh Glass Center. The class meets on Sundays. I will be learning how to transfer photograhic images to glass.
Monday
The stitches and stent came out, after a quick examination by the periodontist and the application of more topical Novocaine. There was another brief moment of panic when I accidentally scraped away some of the graft tissue, thinking it was excess packing. A brief tour of the internets reassured me that I had not done any damage and that the graft would be alright.
I turn down the offer to put the stent back in.
Tuesday
I met my hockey buddy for lunch at Pamela's. I have breakfast for lunch, crepe style pancakes stuffed with strawberries covered with brown sugar and sour cream. D orders a sandwich and fries. I'm still on the softer variety of foods to protect my sore palate and gums.
During our conversation I learn that D had the same procedure done on his two front teeth, sans packing or stent or prescription drugs to ease post-operative pain.
D ends up losing his ATM card and gets a parking ticket. I don't think he will be meeting me for lunch in my neighborhood anytime soon.
Weekend
Call off work on Friday to see if I can recover some of the sleep I've lost in the past several days. Lounge in bed and think about ways to get myself out of the house and interacting with people again. Decide to sign up for a four week class at the Pittsburgh Glass Center. The class meets on Sundays. I will be learning how to transfer photograhic images to glass.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
How I Spent the New Year
AKA – How to survive a subepithelial connective tissue graft with apologies if the details are too gory...
The day I had been dreading since last February arrived Monday. At 2:40 in the afternoon I entered the periodontist's office for a dental procedure called a subepithelial connective tissue graft. This is a very technical term for the barbaric necessity of having gum tissue removed from the roof of my mouth and grafted over gum recessed and root-exposed teeth in another part of my mouth.
The procedure is a preventative measure, to prevent infection, loss of tooth and/or bone and to avoid an even more painfully barbaric procedure called scaling and root planing, in which the periodontist removes bacterial plaque from below the gumline with a serious of instruments that would not be considered out of place in a medieval torture chamber. My mother was forced to have this procedure done and swore that she would let her teeth fall out before going through it again.
As I had to have a graft done on both sides of my mouth (lower right and upper left), I was given the option of splitting the procedure over two visits. I elected to get it over with all at once, afraid that the experience would be so bad the first time that I would not want to come back again.
The first step in the graft was the administration of 7.5 milligrams of Valium to ease my very quiet, but very real panic and the taking of an impression of the roof of my mouth to create a wax stent. As I waited for the Valium to take effect, the dental assistant talked me through the rest of the process, sent J out to get the prescriptions I would need and compared notes with me on migraines.
After twenty minutes, she carefully guided me to a second room and handed me over to a second assistant. Assistant number 2, covered my eyes with protective glasses, my body with protective paper and numbed the hell of ¾ of my mouth with a topical Novocaine solution, so the injections would not hurt as much. She waited five minutes, then numbed the surface of my gums again.
After an additional five minutes, the periodontist, an oddly charming and cheerful old Jewish man named Dr. Baumhammer began injecting Novocaine into my lower right and upper left gumline and midway between the hard and soft palate on the roof of my mouth.
(This particular injection, into the palate, is something I experienced at the age of twelve when I had four molars removed and stands out as one of the singularly most painful experiences of my life. I clearly recall, as heavily sedated as I was then, the oral surgeon saying “This will hurt and you will remember this one for the rest of your life”. Correct on both accounts).
After the first round of injections, Dr. Baumhammer stopped for five minutes. He explained that it takes approximately five minutes for Novocaine to reach its full effectiveness and he would be administer a second round of shots. Based on my reaction to the second round he would either start the procedure or wait longer and give me a third round of injections. At any point, if I felt the slightest bit of discomfort, I was supposed to signal him to stop by raising my left arm.
Aside from the injections, the procedure was close to painless. The only sensation I felt was of the surgical thread running against my lip as he stitched the grafted tissue into place and the donor site closed. The upper tooth was more difficult and he had to stop multiple times to give me more Novocaine (I lost track after the sixth shot), as I could feel the scalpel blade (no pain, just the blade) against my gum.
Finally he finished stitching up my poor mouth, covered the grafts with surgical packing and the donor site with the hard wax stent. I discovered that 7.5 milligrams of Valium was not enough to keep the tension out of my body, as I had to physically force my legs to relax. The assistant helped me sit up in the chair and sent J ahead to get the car.
While we waited, she prepared a small brown paper bag, into which she dropped after care instructions, an envelope with a prescription for an antibiotic, some gauze pads to staunch bleeding and some ibuprofen for pain relief. She escorted me down the elevator to the alley behind the building and handed me off to J.
I spent Tuesday and Wednesday “working” from home. Between Monday and today my face swelled up, I learned that Vicodin is an excellent painkiller, ibuprofen is equally excellent, baby food is absolutely disgusting and being restricted to soft foods only gets old quickly. My diet has consisted primarily of applesauce, chocolate milkshake, eggs (scrambled and poached), whipped potatoes and cream soups.
I also have an enormous blue bruise on the lower left side of my check and a small purple bruise under my left eye. I looked like I was punched. Hard. The bruises are the relic of the six plus shots of Novocaine into the upper left gumline. It has been interesting to see how people react when they see my face. More than one woman has winced and looked at me with pity and J says a couple of men gave him rather unfriendly looks.
The stitches come out on Monday.
The day I had been dreading since last February arrived Monday. At 2:40 in the afternoon I entered the periodontist's office for a dental procedure called a subepithelial connective tissue graft. This is a very technical term for the barbaric necessity of having gum tissue removed from the roof of my mouth and grafted over gum recessed and root-exposed teeth in another part of my mouth.
The procedure is a preventative measure, to prevent infection, loss of tooth and/or bone and to avoid an even more painfully barbaric procedure called scaling and root planing, in which the periodontist removes bacterial plaque from below the gumline with a serious of instruments that would not be considered out of place in a medieval torture chamber. My mother was forced to have this procedure done and swore that she would let her teeth fall out before going through it again.
As I had to have a graft done on both sides of my mouth (lower right and upper left), I was given the option of splitting the procedure over two visits. I elected to get it over with all at once, afraid that the experience would be so bad the first time that I would not want to come back again.
The first step in the graft was the administration of 7.5 milligrams of Valium to ease my very quiet, but very real panic and the taking of an impression of the roof of my mouth to create a wax stent. As I waited for the Valium to take effect, the dental assistant talked me through the rest of the process, sent J out to get the prescriptions I would need and compared notes with me on migraines.
After twenty minutes, she carefully guided me to a second room and handed me over to a second assistant. Assistant number 2, covered my eyes with protective glasses, my body with protective paper and numbed the hell of ¾ of my mouth with a topical Novocaine solution, so the injections would not hurt as much. She waited five minutes, then numbed the surface of my gums again.
After an additional five minutes, the periodontist, an oddly charming and cheerful old Jewish man named Dr. Baumhammer began injecting Novocaine into my lower right and upper left gumline and midway between the hard and soft palate on the roof of my mouth.
(This particular injection, into the palate, is something I experienced at the age of twelve when I had four molars removed and stands out as one of the singularly most painful experiences of my life. I clearly recall, as heavily sedated as I was then, the oral surgeon saying “This will hurt and you will remember this one for the rest of your life”. Correct on both accounts).
After the first round of injections, Dr. Baumhammer stopped for five minutes. He explained that it takes approximately five minutes for Novocaine to reach its full effectiveness and he would be administer a second round of shots. Based on my reaction to the second round he would either start the procedure or wait longer and give me a third round of injections. At any point, if I felt the slightest bit of discomfort, I was supposed to signal him to stop by raising my left arm.
Aside from the injections, the procedure was close to painless. The only sensation I felt was of the surgical thread running against my lip as he stitched the grafted tissue into place and the donor site closed. The upper tooth was more difficult and he had to stop multiple times to give me more Novocaine (I lost track after the sixth shot), as I could feel the scalpel blade (no pain, just the blade) against my gum.
Finally he finished stitching up my poor mouth, covered the grafts with surgical packing and the donor site with the hard wax stent. I discovered that 7.5 milligrams of Valium was not enough to keep the tension out of my body, as I had to physically force my legs to relax. The assistant helped me sit up in the chair and sent J ahead to get the car.
While we waited, she prepared a small brown paper bag, into which she dropped after care instructions, an envelope with a prescription for an antibiotic, some gauze pads to staunch bleeding and some ibuprofen for pain relief. She escorted me down the elevator to the alley behind the building and handed me off to J.
I spent Tuesday and Wednesday “working” from home. Between Monday and today my face swelled up, I learned that Vicodin is an excellent painkiller, ibuprofen is equally excellent, baby food is absolutely disgusting and being restricted to soft foods only gets old quickly. My diet has consisted primarily of applesauce, chocolate milkshake, eggs (scrambled and poached), whipped potatoes and cream soups.
I also have an enormous blue bruise on the lower left side of my check and a small purple bruise under my left eye. I looked like I was punched. Hard. The bruises are the relic of the six plus shots of Novocaine into the upper left gumline. It has been interesting to see how people react when they see my face. More than one woman has winced and looked at me with pity and J says a couple of men gave him rather unfriendly looks.
The stitches come out on Monday.
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