A storm came through at 8:30 last evening, filling the sky with an eerie, creamy gold-yellow light. It poured through the dining room curtains onto the floor. As I pulled apart the curtains in the front window to take a closer look at the sky, Axel leaned forward and viewed the world with wide eyes and J worried about tornadoes.
I want to write about the ongoing wrap up of work at my current position, but every time I sit down to craft an entry I have find myself sputtering incoherently with rage. Exquisite, homicidal, ferocious rage. The kind of rage that compels me to mix up "there" and "their", (as J pointed out to me in response to one of my recent rant-filled email missives), grind my teeth and come home with splitting, stress-induced migraines.
I have spent the past five working days being jerked around by an ersatz* manager (REAL manager was out dealing with a family crisis) who decided that part of the process of wrapping up my duties was to compel my co-workers to take on the sundry non-testing tasks under my domain. As the departing party, I have ZERO authority to compel anyone to do anything. Naturally ersatz manager was too busy to take on any of the tasks.
Although ersatz manager was busy, s/he** was not busy enough to provide me with work and insisted that put in a full eight hours even though I had absolutely nothing to do for 4.5 of the past 5 working days. Until this afternoon, when s/he repeatedly indicated that s/he expected me to work a full, eight hour day tomorrow (my last day), even though s/he is not the (pardon my Old English) fucking manager.
The moral of this story (and there have been other, unwritten indignities I'm too much worked up to write about) is that I shall never give two weeks notice, ever again.
*ersatz: substitute, artificial and often inferior; using substitute components.
**Trying to avoid gender. Just to clarify, ersatz manager is the same one alluded to in a previous post who is carrying on a "special friendship" with manager.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
When Odd Little Facts Drive You Crazy
Starbucks is closing 600 stores. A list of the stores slated for closure has been released to the general public.
Several years ago This American Life did a segment on a storefront in the Washington (D.C.) area. This storefront, a former pizza parlor whose owner maintained a larger-than-life presence in the community, was considered cursed. There was a murder, the parlor closed and the storefront became the setting for a series of highly unsuccessful businesses, even though the location was considered highly desirable. The conclusion of the story was the report that a new business was moving into the storefront. A Starbucks.
So is this Starbucks on the list?
Several years ago This American Life did a segment on a storefront in the Washington (D.C.) area. This storefront, a former pizza parlor whose owner maintained a larger-than-life presence in the community, was considered cursed. There was a murder, the parlor closed and the storefront became the setting for a series of highly unsuccessful businesses, even though the location was considered highly desirable. The conclusion of the story was the report that a new business was moving into the storefront. A Starbucks.
So is this Starbucks on the list?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Retirement
I'm a little bit off the ball on this one, but I would be remiss if I did not mark the passing of my favorite NHL player.
Martin Straka has not died, although it is going to feel a little bit like that to me when I take his autographed jersey to be cleaned and framed. For three years I have worn his size 52 to games. The cuffs are grimy and the numbers on the back are slightly black from incidental contact with a dirty car.
For years friends have teased me over my love of who J and I refer to as “my other husband”. Straka will never be listed among the greats – Gretzky, Lemieux or Crosby.
He was not a big guy. He was a small and swift skater, strong enough to take a hit, smart enough to know when one was coming.
He was not much of a fighter, although he could throw a punch. Hockeyfights.com has no record of any fights and the only time I recall seeing him tangle with an opposing player was during the 2006 Winter Olympics.
He was accident prone, breaking his leg (the same one, twice), multiple bones in his face and damaging his back within a 14 month span.
He was underrated. The first to be traded away when a team's payroll became too heavy, he bounced to six different teams in the span of his 18 year career in the NHL, half that time spent with the Penguins. He skated under the radar, with 257 goals, 460 assists and 717 points.
Straka was a player's player, I think. He showed up, he practiced, he played, he supported his teammates. I'll never be sure, since I never met him in real life. The closest I ever came was standing near the boards to watch him warm up, earlier this year.
I always said that once he retired, I would retire his jersey. Now that he has signed with HC Lasselsberger Plzen and effectively left the NHL, the time has come.
Martin Straka has not died, although it is going to feel a little bit like that to me when I take his autographed jersey to be cleaned and framed. For three years I have worn his size 52 to games. The cuffs are grimy and the numbers on the back are slightly black from incidental contact with a dirty car.
For years friends have teased me over my love of who J and I refer to as “my other husband”. Straka will never be listed among the greats – Gretzky, Lemieux or Crosby.
He was not a big guy. He was a small and swift skater, strong enough to take a hit, smart enough to know when one was coming.
He was not much of a fighter, although he could throw a punch. Hockeyfights.com has no record of any fights and the only time I recall seeing him tangle with an opposing player was during the 2006 Winter Olympics.
He was accident prone, breaking his leg (the same one, twice), multiple bones in his face and damaging his back within a 14 month span.
He was underrated. The first to be traded away when a team's payroll became too heavy, he bounced to six different teams in the span of his 18 year career in the NHL, half that time spent with the Penguins. He skated under the radar, with 257 goals, 460 assists and 717 points.
Straka was a player's player, I think. He showed up, he practiced, he played, he supported his teammates. I'll never be sure, since I never met him in real life. The closest I ever came was standing near the boards to watch him warm up, earlier this year.
I always said that once he retired, I would retire his jersey. Now that he has signed with HC Lasselsberger Plzen and effectively left the NHL, the time has come.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Ends and Odds
Fact about Pennsylvania I did not know until today: PA has more wooden roller coasters than any other state in the US. Fifteen to be exact.
I have nothing right now. I'm in that limbo time between jobs, waiting out the end of my notice at my current position, secretly disappointed that my employer decided not to shorten my two weeks. My fantasy of flying off to Madrid on a whim will remain unfulfilled. Or returning to Paris and trying to rent one of the Vélib' bicycles I saw workers installing last year and did not get an opportunity to try because the program was launched the day after I left.
There has been great drama in the city of Pittsburgh, in the form of the imminent sale of the Steelers to an investor outside the Rooney family. Reassuring articles profiling the buyer (a long-time Steelers fan with Pittsburgh roots) not withstanding, the general consensus in Pittsburgh is that 3 of the 5 brothers are greedy, selfish individuals who value making money (from racetracks and gambling) above tradition (the Rooney's have owned the team since 1933) who have seriously disappointed their long deceased, still beloved (by fans) father.
I have nothing right now. I'm in that limbo time between jobs, waiting out the end of my notice at my current position, secretly disappointed that my employer decided not to shorten my two weeks. My fantasy of flying off to Madrid on a whim will remain unfulfilled. Or returning to Paris and trying to rent one of the Vélib' bicycles I saw workers installing last year and did not get an opportunity to try because the program was launched the day after I left.
There has been great drama in the city of Pittsburgh, in the form of the imminent sale of the Steelers to an investor outside the Rooney family. Reassuring articles profiling the buyer (a long-time Steelers fan with Pittsburgh roots) not withstanding, the general consensus in Pittsburgh is that 3 of the 5 brothers are greedy, selfish individuals who value making money (from racetracks and gambling) above tradition (the Rooney's have owned the team since 1933) who have seriously disappointed their long deceased, still beloved (by fans) father.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Moving On
After four (FOUR!) interviews, several email exchanges and multiple phones calls, I sat down to craft a resignation letter to my current employer.
The downside of staying employed at various places for extended periods of time is that I had no idea what kind of resignation letter to write. Eager for advice, I looked up some examples. And, interestingly enough, most of the advice offered suggested saying nothing except “I resign, effective X date from Y position. Thank you”.
I can't explain why I find this to be revolutionary, but I do. Perhaps it is because after years of listening to others tell me that I must elaborate, finally someone, multiple someones, suggest that I get straight to the point.
As I perused the examples, I came across an article and three year long thread on giving immediate (as opposed to two weeks) notice. As I have fantasized quite often over the past year of walking out without notice, the thought that an employment expert would advocate giving same-day notice is tantalizing. I went for the standard two weeks instead.
And promptly walked into the situation described in the article. While my lab manager is surprised, he is very willing to let me work out the two weeks. However, he warned me that I may be leaving sooner than planned once my resignation reaches the upper levels of management.
The downside of staying employed at various places for extended periods of time is that I had no idea what kind of resignation letter to write. Eager for advice, I looked up some examples. And, interestingly enough, most of the advice offered suggested saying nothing except “I resign, effective X date from Y position. Thank you”.
I can't explain why I find this to be revolutionary, but I do. Perhaps it is because after years of listening to others tell me that I must elaborate, finally someone, multiple someones, suggest that I get straight to the point.
As I perused the examples, I came across an article and three year long thread on giving immediate (as opposed to two weeks) notice. As I have fantasized quite often over the past year of walking out without notice, the thought that an employment expert would advocate giving same-day notice is tantalizing. I went for the standard two weeks instead.
And promptly walked into the situation described in the article. While my lab manager is surprised, he is very willing to let me work out the two weeks. However, he warned me that I may be leaving sooner than planned once my resignation reaches the upper levels of management.
Friday, July 04, 2008
FYI...
Happy Independence Day!
And...
Wall•E is the possibly the cutest movie about anything I have ever seen. I was so taken away that the characters appeared in my dreams last night.
And...
Wall•E is the possibly the cutest movie about anything I have ever seen. I was so taken away that the characters appeared in my dreams last night.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Just Too Much
The problem with choosing a non-medicinal form of therapy for depression is that it is far too easy to get derailed when injured and much more difficult to force myself back into a routine that I know is good for me, especially when the derailment is followed with enough stress to push me back into a downward spiral.
Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.
My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.
Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.
It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.
The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.
In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.
And she wonders why I don't come home much.
As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.
I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.
Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?
On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.
Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.
I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.
Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.
*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.
Hobbled (literally, I could barely walk for several days) two weeks ago after a 20 mile bike ride by a massive, multi-day muscle spasm that pushed on the sciatic nerve, I was forced to stop exercising, pop ibuprofen and pray for relief from the pain. One of our friends, a licensed, non-practicing PT, was kind enough to run an ultrasound on the affected muscle, which bought me much needed relief and a very good, albeit embarrassing story, to share within our circle of acquaintances.
My self-esteem has taken a small beating as a potential job dematerialized after three intensive interviews. Asked to submit a technical writing sample “with some length” I spent part of my weekend holiday and late into the wee hours of Sunday crafting a sample that was non-proprietary. I received an email Monday morning that the potential employer would contact me shortly to set up a final interview – then nothing. Apparently my carefully crafted sample was a resounding disaster.
Normally I would not think too much of it. But emotionally vulnerable, weary of the various layers of crap at my current place of employment and simple physical tiredness have taken its toll on my psyche. Mysteriously vague emails from J were not reassuring. I returned home cranky and moody to discover J experiencing the same level of negativity as myself, without the spectator of depression hanging over his head.
It has been quiet for too long, which is the only reason I can come up with for J's father calling him before eight AM to complain that I had not yet send a thank-you note for my birthday gifts or for my in-laws attendance at the non-birthday party, held on my birthday, at my parents home ten days ago.
The party which was held in honor of my twin brother making it halfway through his second tour in the service of Operation-Whatever-the-Hell-the-Shrub-is-Calling-it-Now. My mother deliberately withheld the information that it was our birthday from the guests. Some knew, most did not. One friend, upon learning that it was our birthday, asked my mother why she had not mentioned it.
In turn, my mother chastised me for “asking for gifts” and said that I was too old to be behaving like that. As all I had done was tell the friend that I had spent the prior day celebrating early with J and some close friends, I found the conversation a tad bewildering. Later that evening she also told me that my shorts were ugly.
And she wonders why I don't come home much.
As I had not wanted anything to do with the party and only changed plans to make my parents happy, J knew that this complaint would make me irate. His attempt to withhold information about the conversation from me was an admirable, but unachievable goal when both of us are equally at odds with the universe. After venting my displeasure and suggesting that J's father needed to have his head examined* I pulled out the cards (as I had intended to write notes to everyone that week) and wrote out a thank you.
I realized after I sealed the envelope that I forgot to mention one of the gifts. No doubt he will be happy to have the additional ammunition in his next round of complaints about me.
Is it ironic that a thank you note from one of J's second cousins, for the graduation gift we gave to her four weeks ago, was in the mail today?
On the upside I spent this past weekend in Chicago. Photographs will be forthcoming (defined as whenever I get around to gathering all the equipment necessary to download the photos to my laptop). My first trip, ever, to such a lovely, lively city and I had a lovely tour guide, in the guise of Lisa and her friend Glenn, to show me around.
Friday I took trip to the Art Institute of Chicago to view its beautiful (temporarily limited) collection of Impressionists paintings. I sat in front of Georges Seurat's A Sunday on La Grande Jatte and listened to my thoughts bounce from the song Sunday in the Park with George to The Simpson's infamous interpretation of the same painting. I wandered through the other galleries to take some photographs.
I met up with Lisa and Glenn (at the Bean, natch) for dinner at Taste of Chicago and some blues. Saturday was some work in the morning for the failed job application, a trip to Shaler's for lunch, then off to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Cubs.** More fighting the mob at Taste of Chicago (I blame Stevie Wonder) for dinner and the sounds of the Orchestra Baobab at the pavilion.
Sunday was sleep, more writing, a plane ride home and the aforementioned late night.
*In all seriousness. He had a stroke last year and has gone from friendly control freak to petty and mean spirited.
**First time in recent memory that I actually saw a competitive baseball game.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Law of Averages Strikes Again
I'm sitting in Pittsburgh Airport.
There are massive thunderstorms rolling through.
The plane taking me to Chicago was delayed out of Baltimore until 7:35 PM. It took off from BWI around the time the thunderstorms began to roll through.
Original Departure time: 8:15 PM.
Current Departure time: 10:10 PM.
I suspect I'll still be in Pittsburgh tomorrow morning.
I remain a fugitive from the law of averages.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Things I an Happy About
- I have a job interview on Tuesday.
- I was recruited directly by the company.
- My former boss said she would hire me all over again.
- My credit card is paid off.
- My student loan is below 10K.
- Ping Pong and Lego Star Wars on the Wii. Lego Indiana Jones is next.
- I finally found software that will allow me to watch Ensemble c'est tout.
- I have the house completely to myself tomorrow.
- Barack Obama will be the next President of the United States.
- Fizzy Italian pink lemonade.
One interesting thing:
As a condition to the interview I had to agree to sign a non-disclosure agreement.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Dear Woman...
...Behind Me at the Starbucks in Market Square at 7:35 AM this Morning -
I'm happy you have a hobby. I have hobbies. I write for this little blog. I'm learning how to play Lego Star Wars on the Wii (or I will if I ever get the time. I've had the system almost a week and no time to play. But I digress...). I read. I go to the gym and ride my bike. I play with my cats and spend time with my husband. I'm sure there are other things I do that I just can't think of right now.
Your hobby? Passive-aggressively food and fat shaming complete strangers ahead of you in line, who happen to purchase a piece of low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake? NOT OK. NOT even close to OK. NOT even on the same planet, in the same solar system, in the same universe as OK.
I imagine you think I am stupid, which is why you raised concerns over my purchase of the low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake. I imagine you believe that I'm the sort of uneducated food consumer who can not reason out that a food item with the words "cream" and "coffee cake" in it is probably not as "low-fat" as it claims to be. It was so nice of you to consider my feelings by raising this issue with the baristas instead taking it up directly with me. We would not want to be rude after all. How wonderful that you are able to harness the awesome power of the series of tubes to go out to the Starbucks website and look up the caloric information for this specific piece and be able to whip it out while in line, as I was paying for my grande skim chai and low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake.
Do you know that I first contemplated the purchase of the artisan cheese danish? I shudder, nay, perish at the thought of your brain exploding in reaction to the notion that someone would actually buy and enjoy an item that, on any given day, exceeds the recommended fat allowance for a person of my gender and age.
Naturally, paying for my purchase was not enough to get away from you. Instead I had to stand and listen to your lecture on the Starbucks energy drink and its overabundance of calories whilst I waited for my grande skim chai. I kept waiting for your commentary on the drink I ordered, but tragically nothing came of it, at least not while I remained in the store.
Oh strange woman standing behind me in the Starbucks line, you are singularly the most rude person I have ever encountered. You have taken the top spot away from the friend of my in-laws, who upon hearing my comment that we lived near an excellent Italian bakery (in my old Pittsburgh neighborhood, not my current one), looked me up, looked me down, then said "You better stay away from that place or you'll lose your nice figure". He has been demoted to second place. Congratulations!
In closing, I owe you an apology. I said some not-very-nice things about you once I reached work. Instead of rising above your effort to shame me into putting down the pastry, my immediate response was to lower myself to your level with negative comments about your appearance. Which makes me equally wrong, even if you were not there to hear what I said. Please accept that my comments were made out of anger and I regret them. After some reflection I realized that your behavior spoke more about your personal insecurities then they did about my eating habits.
I'm happy you have a hobby. I have hobbies. I write for this little blog. I'm learning how to play Lego Star Wars on the Wii (or I will if I ever get the time. I've had the system almost a week and no time to play. But I digress...). I read. I go to the gym and ride my bike. I play with my cats and spend time with my husband. I'm sure there are other things I do that I just can't think of right now.
Your hobby? Passive-aggressively food and fat shaming complete strangers ahead of you in line, who happen to purchase a piece of low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake? NOT OK. NOT even close to OK. NOT even on the same planet, in the same solar system, in the same universe as OK.
I imagine you think I am stupid, which is why you raised concerns over my purchase of the low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake. I imagine you believe that I'm the sort of uneducated food consumer who can not reason out that a food item with the words "cream" and "coffee cake" in it is probably not as "low-fat" as it claims to be. It was so nice of you to consider my feelings by raising this issue with the baristas instead taking it up directly with me. We would not want to be rude after all. How wonderful that you are able to harness the awesome power of the series of tubes to go out to the Starbucks website and look up the caloric information for this specific piece and be able to whip it out while in line, as I was paying for my grande skim chai and low-fat strawberries and cream coffee cake.
Do you know that I first contemplated the purchase of the artisan cheese danish? I shudder, nay, perish at the thought of your brain exploding in reaction to the notion that someone would actually buy and enjoy an item that, on any given day, exceeds the recommended fat allowance for a person of my gender and age.
Naturally, paying for my purchase was not enough to get away from you. Instead I had to stand and listen to your lecture on the Starbucks energy drink and its overabundance of calories whilst I waited for my grande skim chai. I kept waiting for your commentary on the drink I ordered, but tragically nothing came of it, at least not while I remained in the store.
Oh strange woman standing behind me in the Starbucks line, you are singularly the most rude person I have ever encountered. You have taken the top spot away from the friend of my in-laws, who upon hearing my comment that we lived near an excellent Italian bakery (in my old Pittsburgh neighborhood, not my current one), looked me up, looked me down, then said "You better stay away from that place or you'll lose your nice figure". He has been demoted to second place. Congratulations!
In closing, I owe you an apology. I said some not-very-nice things about you once I reached work. Instead of rising above your effort to shame me into putting down the pastry, my immediate response was to lower myself to your level with negative comments about your appearance. Which makes me equally wrong, even if you were not there to hear what I said. Please accept that my comments were made out of anger and I regret them. After some reflection I realized that your behavior spoke more about your personal insecurities then they did about my eating habits.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
OK, I Lied
I can't bear to watch tonight's game. I tried. I failed.
Either way, raise your sticks one last time guys. You exceeded everyone's expectations.
Either way, raise your sticks one last time guys. You exceeded everyone's expectations.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Fleury, Hallowed be thy Name
If a team ever won a game based on the sheer will of a single player, then the Penguins won last night's triple overtime based on the will of Marc-André Fleury.
There is nothing I can say that has not all ready been expressed by a multitude of sports writers, bloggers and casual fans. I was not planning on watching Game 5. I was going to read quietly and go to bed.
Instead I stayed up until after 1:00 AM, with friends, witnessing a game I only dreamed about seeing and could barely stand to watch. I could not stand to watch a shot by Hall Gill go astray and break Ryan Malone's nose. I could not stand the look in the eyes of the normally stoic Sergei Gonchar, sidelined to the bench by a back injury.
But I watched it. All of it. All 110 minutes of it. And I'll do it again tomorrow night.
There is nothing I can say that has not all ready been expressed by a multitude of sports writers, bloggers and casual fans. I was not planning on watching Game 5. I was going to read quietly and go to bed.
Instead I stayed up until after 1:00 AM, with friends, witnessing a game I only dreamed about seeing and could barely stand to watch. I could not stand to watch a shot by Hall Gill go astray and break Ryan Malone's nose. I could not stand the look in the eyes of the normally stoic Sergei Gonchar, sidelined to the bench by a back injury.
But I watched it. All of it. All 110 minutes of it. And I'll do it again tomorrow night.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
My Finals Experience
Was marred by Mellon Arena's decision to arbitrarily enforce their “no cameras with lens greater than 3 inches” policy. I was not permitted to enter the arena with the camera, so J returned it to the car and sought out an official who clarified that enforcement was up to the discretion of security and that any camera that appeared “too professional” was not permitted in the arena.
This is the same camera I have been bringing into the arena for two years without issue. I am frustrated and disappointed that the lens of my camera, which meets NHL guidelines for amateur photography equipment at events*, was deemed a potential obstruction while fans carrying in full-sized cardboard + aluminum foil or blowup replicas of the Stanley Cup, large poster board signs and giant sized stuffed Penguins are given a pass. I am frustrated that the people who insist on standing, leaving or returning to their seats while the puck is in play are deemed not enough of an obstruction to warrant a confrontation with an usher, but my camera, which actually remains securely zipped in it's carrying case for 90% of the game, is an annoyance.
And to deem my camera as “too professional” would make the actual professional photographer who stood on the landing below us during the entire game, with her super telephoto zoom lens, laugh her ass off.
Then the Penguins had to go and make it worse by allowing the Red Wings to score a weak (it bounced OFF Fleury) go-ahead goal, thus giving the Detroit the motivation it needed to shut down the Penguins offense completely. The Penguins can learn a lot by studying Detroit's defensive plays. I predict that Detroit will wrap up the series at home Monday night and will be hoisting the Stanley Cup.
I'm OK with Detroit winning. They are a better, more experienced team. And Detroit fans are welcome back at Mellon Arena anytime. They did not boo our players, returned good natured taunting with the same and, most surprisingly, left the arena quietly at the end of the game. Although it may have been shock that kept them from openly celebrating.
*I know this because I looked up the guidelines and measured the fully extended lens before the Winter Classic.
This is the same camera I have been bringing into the arena for two years without issue. I am frustrated and disappointed that the lens of my camera, which meets NHL guidelines for amateur photography equipment at events*, was deemed a potential obstruction while fans carrying in full-sized cardboard + aluminum foil or blowup replicas of the Stanley Cup, large poster board signs and giant sized stuffed Penguins are given a pass. I am frustrated that the people who insist on standing, leaving or returning to their seats while the puck is in play are deemed not enough of an obstruction to warrant a confrontation with an usher, but my camera, which actually remains securely zipped in it's carrying case for 90% of the game, is an annoyance.
And to deem my camera as “too professional” would make the actual professional photographer who stood on the landing below us during the entire game, with her super telephoto zoom lens, laugh her ass off.
Then the Penguins had to go and make it worse by allowing the Red Wings to score a weak (it bounced OFF Fleury) go-ahead goal, thus giving the Detroit the motivation it needed to shut down the Penguins offense completely. The Penguins can learn a lot by studying Detroit's defensive plays. I predict that Detroit will wrap up the series at home Monday night and will be hoisting the Stanley Cup.
I'm OK with Detroit winning. They are a better, more experienced team. And Detroit fans are welcome back at Mellon Arena anytime. They did not boo our players, returned good natured taunting with the same and, most surprisingly, left the arena quietly at the end of the game. Although it may have been shock that kept them from openly celebrating.
*I know this because I looked up the guidelines and measured the fully extended lens before the Winter Classic.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
I Need to Read More of the Paper
Instead of hitting only the Editorial and Penguins/NHL sections and calling myself informed.
If I had read more of the paper on May 11, I would not have missed that CityReachers Pittsburgh is raising money to place copies of the New Testament in the Sunday Post-Gazette on September 7.
Pittsburgh themed copies of the New Testament, with a “front cover showing the Golden Triangle, a back cover photograph of Steelers kneeling in prayer and will include testimonies of well-known Pittsburghers”.
Because nothing says “Come to Jesus” quite like a photograph of the Pittsburgh Steelers.*
Fortunately, there are several readers who do peruse more of the paper and wrote letters to the editor, the first protesting the idea and threatening to cancel their subscription, the second praising the potential positive effect of essentially forcing the New International Version translation of the New Testament into the homes 250,000 subscribers.
I'm interested in seeing how this unfolds.
*I can't believe there does not exist a Pittsburgh Steelers last supper image somewhere on the Internet. In a city that turned Gary Roberts into a cult hero, not one photo shopped marvel of Big Ben as Jesus? Which begs the question – who do Steelers fans hold more sacred: Big Ben or Jesus?
If I had read more of the paper on May 11, I would not have missed that CityReachers Pittsburgh is raising money to place copies of the New Testament in the Sunday Post-Gazette on September 7.
Pittsburgh themed copies of the New Testament, with a “front cover showing the Golden Triangle, a back cover photograph of Steelers kneeling in prayer and will include testimonies of well-known Pittsburghers”.
Because nothing says “Come to Jesus” quite like a photograph of the Pittsburgh Steelers.*
Fortunately, there are several readers who do peruse more of the paper and wrote letters to the editor, the first protesting the idea and threatening to cancel their subscription, the second praising the potential positive effect of essentially forcing the New International Version translation of the New Testament into the homes 250,000 subscribers.
I'm interested in seeing how this unfolds.
*I can't believe there does not exist a Pittsburgh Steelers last supper image somewhere on the Internet. In a city that turned Gary Roberts into a cult hero, not one photo shopped marvel of Big Ben as Jesus? Which begs the question – who do Steelers fans hold more sacred: Big Ben or Jesus?
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Notes From the Finals - Game 1
There is a restaurant at the Waterfront that will never receive my patronage again. Not because their meals are a pale imitation of the southern style barbecue I enjoyed during my brief time in South Carolina. I ended up with a case of food poisoning and am spending the first game of the Stanley Cup finals on my couch, alone, while J enjoys the game with good friends, wings and beer.
If the first period is any indication, the Detroit Red Wings are a very worthy adversary and it would be an honor if the Penguins lost the Finals to such a team*. The Red Wings played a flawless first period and were robbed of a goal due to a terrible goaltender interference call by the referees*.
As fantastic as the Red Wings are, I am a fan of one of the coolest organizations in the NHL. The executives opened Mellon Arena, lowered the JumboTron and charged fans $5.00 a person to watch the game on a very big screen. All proceeds from the entry fee are going to the Mario Lemieux Foundation. Thirteen thousand fans have taken the organization up on the offer. Versus was considerate enough to show a couple of shots of the fans in the arena, madly waving white rally towels.
*Real fans acknowledge when the other team is better and also acknowledge terrible calls that fall in their team's favor. Realistically, I have genuine doubts that the Penguins can pull off four wins against the Red Wings and will not be too pained to see Detroit take the Stanley Cup.
If the first period is any indication, the Detroit Red Wings are a very worthy adversary and it would be an honor if the Penguins lost the Finals to such a team*. The Red Wings played a flawless first period and were robbed of a goal due to a terrible goaltender interference call by the referees*.
As fantastic as the Red Wings are, I am a fan of one of the coolest organizations in the NHL. The executives opened Mellon Arena, lowered the JumboTron and charged fans $5.00 a person to watch the game on a very big screen. All proceeds from the entry fee are going to the Mario Lemieux Foundation. Thirteen thousand fans have taken the organization up on the offer. Versus was considerate enough to show a couple of shots of the fans in the arena, madly waving white rally towels.
*Real fans acknowledge when the other team is better and also acknowledge terrible calls that fall in their team's favor. Realistically, I have genuine doubts that the Penguins can pull off four wins against the Red Wings and will not be too pained to see Detroit take the Stanley Cup.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Comfort
Can be found, at the end of a day in which I wonder why I bother interacting with humanity-at-large, by reading that even David Byrne has stupid accidents that break bones.
Humanity-at-large was in fine form in the Pittsburgh area today. Humanity as defined by the middle aged businessman who insisted on taking up all of his seat and half of mine on the bus this morning, forcing me to pretzel my upper body away from his elbows for the duration of the ride. I am amazed anew at how much space an average sized person can take up. And at the sense of entitlement that this man had, as he seemed to expand even further as we rode into town. I felt very little regret when I accidentally stepped on his foot on the way out the door.
Humanity is also defined as the middle aged woman I encountered this afternoon. She became slightly miffed when I could not tell her if her bus had passed by and repeatedly ignored my attempts to get away from the smoke of her cigarette by repeatedly moving closer to me.
And now the gods have gotten even with me for stepping on that man's foot by forcing me to trip over a loose, defunct telephone line wire running across the floor of the spare room door. Twice.
Humanity-at-large was in fine form in the Pittsburgh area today. Humanity as defined by the middle aged businessman who insisted on taking up all of his seat and half of mine on the bus this morning, forcing me to pretzel my upper body away from his elbows for the duration of the ride. I am amazed anew at how much space an average sized person can take up. And at the sense of entitlement that this man had, as he seemed to expand even further as we rode into town. I felt very little regret when I accidentally stepped on his foot on the way out the door.
Humanity is also defined as the middle aged woman I encountered this afternoon. She became slightly miffed when I could not tell her if her bus had passed by and repeatedly ignored my attempts to get away from the smoke of her cigarette by repeatedly moving closer to me.
And now the gods have gotten even with me for stepping on that man's foot by forcing me to trip over a loose, defunct telephone line wire running across the floor of the spare room door. Twice.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Quick Hits
- I'm tired. Really tired. And a little bit sick. A little too much celebrating this weekend.
- In case you don't have NBC or Versus... the Penguins are going to the Cup! I'm going to a Stanley Cup final game!
- We attended a wedding in Williamsburg, VA this past weekend. Bride and groom were married at the Jamestown Church and the reception was held at the Shield's Tavern in Historic Williamsburg.
- It appears that the Penguins will be playing the Red Wings. Detroit is up 4 - 0 early in the second period.
- New bedroom furniture (and mattress) arriving sometime tomorrow.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Burned Out?
I took a sick day today, a necessary measure to preserve my mental health as my stress and anxiety levels have been going up in increasing increments over the past several weeks. I've made multiple mistakes this week that indicate that unless I take a day off very soon, I am going to be suffering significant burn out.
When I woke up and decided to stay home, I used the awesome powers of the Internet to verify that I had no work waiting for me. That pleasant, confident feeling that I could take a day to get my head in order guilt free lasted until approximately nine A.M., when I called my manager to let him know I would be out.
Now it is nearly two hours later and I'm still near tears and my frustration and anxiety have increased even more. Suffice to say, it was not the most pleasant conversation. I found myself being called accountable for issues I thought I had resolved and communicated, including one item that wasn't my responsibility to begin with, but that I set up and taught the item's owner (as I was running out of time and had to leave by 4:00 PM yesterday) how to do, so he could do his job. And communicated to the project manager what I had done. And he (the task owner) did not do it. And I am to blame. Even though my manager told me “don't worry about it, I'll take care of it”.
I cried a little, because as much as I like to think I am some tough feminist woman, I am such a girl. I pulled up my resume and reactivated one of my job search accounts. I edited and refined and threw it out into the wild to see if I could trap an unsuspecting employer into granting me an interview.
But the tape in my head, the one that likes to turn on in such times, tells me that I am wasting my time. That no one is interested in hiring an almost 35 year old woman with such a spotty and inconsistent resume. That for all my varied skills and education, I am not valuable enough of an employee for anyone. Because I prize having some type of a life above ambition, I have basically killed any opportunity to move forward into something interesting.
So, yes, I am burned out. And I'm not sure what to do about it. Advice (seriously) appreciated.
When I woke up and decided to stay home, I used the awesome powers of the Internet to verify that I had no work waiting for me. That pleasant, confident feeling that I could take a day to get my head in order guilt free lasted until approximately nine A.M., when I called my manager to let him know I would be out.
Now it is nearly two hours later and I'm still near tears and my frustration and anxiety have increased even more. Suffice to say, it was not the most pleasant conversation. I found myself being called accountable for issues I thought I had resolved and communicated, including one item that wasn't my responsibility to begin with, but that I set up and taught the item's owner (as I was running out of time and had to leave by 4:00 PM yesterday) how to do, so he could do his job. And communicated to the project manager what I had done. And he (the task owner) did not do it. And I am to blame. Even though my manager told me “don't worry about it, I'll take care of it”.
I cried a little, because as much as I like to think I am some tough feminist woman, I am such a girl. I pulled up my resume and reactivated one of my job search accounts. I edited and refined and threw it out into the wild to see if I could trap an unsuspecting employer into granting me an interview.
But the tape in my head, the one that likes to turn on in such times, tells me that I am wasting my time. That no one is interested in hiring an almost 35 year old woman with such a spotty and inconsistent resume. That for all my varied skills and education, I am not valuable enough of an employee for anyone. Because I prize having some type of a life above ambition, I have basically killed any opportunity to move forward into something interesting.
So, yes, I am burned out. And I'm not sure what to do about it. Advice (seriously) appreciated.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
This Was Supposed to be a Post About Girls in White Dresses...
Then hockey got in the way.
The Post Gazette sports writers and fans who have been following the Penguins have been providing some truly priceless exchanges between Penguins and Rangers players.
Exhibit Number 1:
"I just told him I wanted to fight," Laraque said, shrugging. "I wanted to change the momentum."
Orr's response?
"He just said, 'C'mon, Georges, it's 3-0. I can't,' " Laraque said.
Exhibit Number 2:
“According to EN reader Nick Porto, Pierre McGuire, the NBC analyst stationed between the benches, said Sean Avery make a remark to Crosby near the benches during a television timeout. Hal Gill responded, "You know what? You just weren't hugged enough as a child. That's why you have issues."
----------------------------------------
I'm also realizing, for the sake of my sanity, that I am going to have to stop reading the New York Times Slapshot blog and sports articles, at least in the short term.
There is the sheer sexism in spelling Crosby's first name as "Cindy". The accusations that Crosby and Therrien are whiners. The (invalid) complaints about Crosby diving. All of these statements are familiar. All of them stem from fans who must resort to impugning a player's character because they have nothing legitimate to add to the conversation.
But sometimes, I wonder. Am I watching the same game? Do his detractors actually watch him play? Do they notice that the one thing Crosby does above all others is keep going? He never, ever stops moving when on the ice. He lowers his center of gravity when he curves around a net, protecting the puck. He constantly hones moves such as this in practice.
Which makes these latest accusations, coming from Straka (and Jagr) especially painful as I have great respect for the talent and work ethic of two men who contributed an enormous amount during their time with the Penguins.
My attire when attending Penguins games is an game-worn, autographed Martin Straka jersey. Straka is my favorite player, no matter what team he is a part of. But if this is how is going to chose to play the game - to act out from emotion instead of calling on his talent and skill to score goals and win games- then allow me to be the first to suggest that it is time for him to hang up his skates and for me to frame his jersey and place up on the wall. In a matter of seconds he managed to throw away the ten years worth of good will he built up as a member of the Penguins organization. The fans booed him when he stepped onto the ice today.
But whose fault is it, that I am disillusioned by a player I so admire? Mine, actually. I put Straka on the pedestal. I need to take him off it now.
And now, just for the sake of showing my intended post...
Without the blue satin sashes. With white patent leather shoes, white socks, white gloves and crowned with white flowers and veils.
Today was the first holy communion and confirmation of J's oldest niece. This is the second of three first communions I will be required to attended, as J's youngest niece will go through the ritual in another two years. And two years from now I will be disturbed, once again, by the girls in white veils.
I hate this custom. It burdens a group of eight year old girls with social and sexual connotations that they are too young to understand. Most of the parents have no idea about the symbolism behind the veil. They argue tradition without fully understanding why they are arguing in tradition's favor.
I was pleasantly surprised when J's brother, a priest, agreed with my objections, for essentially the same reasons. He also added an angle I had not thought of. Simple economics. Some families cannot afford to purchase such a dress (or suit) for a single occasion. Buying a nice outfit the child can wear to church or other occasions is less of a waste and prevents parents from turning a religious celebration into a competition.
The Post Gazette sports writers and fans who have been following the Penguins have been providing some truly priceless exchanges between Penguins and Rangers players.
Exhibit Number 1:
"I just told him I wanted to fight," Laraque said, shrugging. "I wanted to change the momentum."
Orr's response?
"He just said, 'C'mon, Georges, it's 3-0. I can't,' " Laraque said.
Exhibit Number 2:
“According to EN reader Nick Porto, Pierre McGuire, the NBC analyst stationed between the benches, said Sean Avery make a remark to Crosby near the benches during a television timeout. Hal Gill responded, "You know what? You just weren't hugged enough as a child. That's why you have issues."
----------------------------------------
I'm also realizing, for the sake of my sanity, that I am going to have to stop reading the New York Times Slapshot blog and sports articles, at least in the short term.
There is the sheer sexism in spelling Crosby's first name as "Cindy". The accusations that Crosby and Therrien are whiners. The (invalid) complaints about Crosby diving. All of these statements are familiar. All of them stem from fans who must resort to impugning a player's character because they have nothing legitimate to add to the conversation.
But sometimes, I wonder. Am I watching the same game? Do his detractors actually watch him play? Do they notice that the one thing Crosby does above all others is keep going? He never, ever stops moving when on the ice. He lowers his center of gravity when he curves around a net, protecting the puck. He constantly hones moves such as this in practice.
Which makes these latest accusations, coming from Straka (and Jagr) especially painful as I have great respect for the talent and work ethic of two men who contributed an enormous amount during their time with the Penguins.
My attire when attending Penguins games is an game-worn, autographed Martin Straka jersey. Straka is my favorite player, no matter what team he is a part of. But if this is how is going to chose to play the game - to act out from emotion instead of calling on his talent and skill to score goals and win games- then allow me to be the first to suggest that it is time for him to hang up his skates and for me to frame his jersey and place up on the wall. In a matter of seconds he managed to throw away the ten years worth of good will he built up as a member of the Penguins organization. The fans booed him when he stepped onto the ice today.
But whose fault is it, that I am disillusioned by a player I so admire? Mine, actually. I put Straka on the pedestal. I need to take him off it now.
And now, just for the sake of showing my intended post...
Without the blue satin sashes. With white patent leather shoes, white socks, white gloves and crowned with white flowers and veils.
Today was the first holy communion and confirmation of J's oldest niece. This is the second of three first communions I will be required to attended, as J's youngest niece will go through the ritual in another two years. And two years from now I will be disturbed, once again, by the girls in white veils.
I hate this custom. It burdens a group of eight year old girls with social and sexual connotations that they are too young to understand. Most of the parents have no idea about the symbolism behind the veil. They argue tradition without fully understanding why they are arguing in tradition's favor.
I was pleasantly surprised when J's brother, a priest, agreed with my objections, for essentially the same reasons. He also added an angle I had not thought of. Simple economics. Some families cannot afford to purchase such a dress (or suit) for a single occasion. Buying a nice outfit the child can wear to church or other occasions is less of a waste and prevents parents from turning a religious celebration into a competition.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
I Am Not a Prude
I don't have issues changing in front of other women in the locker room. The time when I have found the being naked in front of a bunch of other women fraught with peril has passed. Granted I had to join a gym to get over it, but over it I am.
However, I am getting increasingly irritated by my gym's failure to repair the faucets in the private showers. All three of the private stalls are out of commission, forcing the women who use that particular locker room to use the open showers instead. As the gym will be moving to a new building in less than a year, the maintenance staff has zero motivation to make repairs.
Which means there are going to be a lot of angry people on the bus for the next few months, especially the unlucky individuals who are forced to sit down next to my sweaty, smelly self.
However, I am getting increasingly irritated by my gym's failure to repair the faucets in the private showers. All three of the private stalls are out of commission, forcing the women who use that particular locker room to use the open showers instead. As the gym will be moving to a new building in less than a year, the maintenance staff has zero motivation to make repairs.
Which means there are going to be a lot of angry people on the bus for the next few months, especially the unlucky individuals who are forced to sit down next to my sweaty, smelly self.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
So Sweet
The Penguins recently put out a "fanciful" team picture as a desktop wallpaper. It was on the Pittsburgh Penguins website for a very brief period of time before someone decided to take it down. Which is a pity, because it is a great team photograph.
Even Sergei Gonchar has a smile.
h/t The Sidney Crosby Show for posting the photographs.
Even Sergei Gonchar has a smile.
h/t The Sidney Crosby Show for posting the photographs.
Spring Ride
J and I went for a twenty mile bike ride yesterday, on a new (to me) portion of the YRT, along the Youghiogheny River. I successfully managed to avoid breaking bones in my hand by turning the ceiling fan off before changing out of my pajamas.
There were not as many houses on the this portion. Simply miles of blooming forest, teeming with large -flowered trilliums, wild violets and bluebells on one side and the river filled with fishermen (and women) and boaters on the other. In between were abandoned buildings and closed coal mines.
There were not as many houses on the this portion. Simply miles of blooming forest, teeming with large -flowered trilliums, wild violets and bluebells on one side and the river filled with fishermen (and women) and boaters on the other. In between were abandoned buildings and closed coal mines.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Still Tired – a Meandering Post
I'm still tired, the natural consequence of the overtime I put in on Saturday and cramming three days worth of work into two on Monday and Tuesday.
As tired as I am, it has not stopped me from reflecting on my disastrous “girl date” on Saturday evening. I'm still alternating between amusement, indignation and (if I am honest) indulging in a little bit of self-pity. All while trying to keep up with a work schedule that promises to be busy and highly stressful until mid-June.
That strange sense of déjà vu, of seeing what should be an enjoyable evening with an interesting person go completely off the rails. The gender has changed, the goal has changed, the ending is the same.. All these married years later, I still find it difficult to connect with women on a social level.
And I am indignant, insulted really. Tiresome it is, to be lectured on the ticking of my biological clock, with little regard to the reasons behind the choices I have made. Tiresome it is, to be judged on how much (or how little) alcohol I chose, once again ignoring the reasons behind those decisions.
With all this in my head, I stopped work for a few minutes to step outside into the sunshine. With a whopping $3.80 in my checking and $6.25 in bills and quarters, I head the long way towards Starbucks.
First I passed a panhandler, Dot. Dot comes every day and sits near the abandoned McDonald's on Forbes and Wood. She says “God bless you” to everyone who passes her by, whether they give or money or not. When she collects what she needs daily to supplement her welfare income, she goes home.
I give her a dollar.
Next is the abandoned Foto Hut and an empty lot. The lot has been empty for two or three years. Before the building was emptied and the roof fell in, it was a used bookstore. Now a chain link fence blocks the lot from the street.
Someone has hung an urban art installation on the fence, a series of cut out books with photographs of the building, deeds and other written pieces of Pittsburgh history. Someone else has removed some of the books. The rest will most likely be gone tomorrow, when I am able to return with my camera. This small tribute to Pittsburgh's past is surprising and touching and makes me wonder whether there are more moments like this erected about the city.
Later, on my way home from the gym, I look out the bus window and see two more panhandlers, street people actually. One is a woman who looks shell shocked, as if she cannot believe that she is sitting on a street asking for money. The other is an older man, one I have seen before. A second man walks past him, then turns around comes back to put a dollar in his cup.
I watch this homeless man for what seems like several minutes. He lifts the cup to his face and peers intently into its short depths. His face registers no emotion. He considers the contents and places the cup firmly back on the ground. And he waits.
As tired as I am, it has not stopped me from reflecting on my disastrous “girl date” on Saturday evening. I'm still alternating between amusement, indignation and (if I am honest) indulging in a little bit of self-pity. All while trying to keep up with a work schedule that promises to be busy and highly stressful until mid-June.
That strange sense of déjà vu, of seeing what should be an enjoyable evening with an interesting person go completely off the rails. The gender has changed, the goal has changed, the ending is the same.. All these married years later, I still find it difficult to connect with women on a social level.
And I am indignant, insulted really. Tiresome it is, to be lectured on the ticking of my biological clock, with little regard to the reasons behind the choices I have made. Tiresome it is, to be judged on how much (or how little) alcohol I chose, once again ignoring the reasons behind those decisions.
With all this in my head, I stopped work for a few minutes to step outside into the sunshine. With a whopping $3.80 in my checking and $6.25 in bills and quarters, I head the long way towards Starbucks.
First I passed a panhandler, Dot. Dot comes every day and sits near the abandoned McDonald's on Forbes and Wood. She says “God bless you” to everyone who passes her by, whether they give or money or not. When she collects what she needs daily to supplement her welfare income, she goes home.
I give her a dollar.
Next is the abandoned Foto Hut and an empty lot. The lot has been empty for two or three years. Before the building was emptied and the roof fell in, it was a used bookstore. Now a chain link fence blocks the lot from the street.
Someone has hung an urban art installation on the fence, a series of cut out books with photographs of the building, deeds and other written pieces of Pittsburgh history. Someone else has removed some of the books. The rest will most likely be gone tomorrow, when I am able to return with my camera. This small tribute to Pittsburgh's past is surprising and touching and makes me wonder whether there are more moments like this erected about the city.
Later, on my way home from the gym, I look out the bus window and see two more panhandlers, street people actually. One is a woman who looks shell shocked, as if she cannot believe that she is sitting on a street asking for money. The other is an older man, one I have seen before. A second man walks past him, then turns around comes back to put a dollar in his cup.
I watch this homeless man for what seems like several minutes. He lifts the cup to his face and peers intently into its short depths. His face registers no emotion. He considers the contents and places the cup firmly back on the ground. And he waits.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
I Spent All Day in Front of a Computer...
...to come home and spend more time in front of a computer, as tired as I am. Because life has been a little too interesting to allow events of the past several days to pass without commentary.
Hockey:
The Penguins are now 3-0 in Playoff Round 1 and looking towards wrapping up the best of seven series in Ottawa on Wednesday night. The highlight of the series was Game 1, when 41 year old Gary Roberts challenged two Senators to a fight, had to be forcibly removed from the ice by two linesmen and amassed 16 minutes in penalties with 12 seconds left to play.
The Cult of Gary Roberts is strong in Pittsburgh.
Well known Rangers pest Sean Avery inspires a new interpretation on rules about screening the opposing goalie, nicked named “The Avery Rule”. Points to Avery for creativity.
Locally:
Rumor has it that the explosion that destroyed two houses in the North Side was not caused by natural gas. It is a slow spring in Western Pennsylvania.
H/t and personal to Jay: While I fully acknowledge that a gunshot in the head is the most effective way to dispatch meteorite zombies, it does not have the same panache as beating them on the head with a pool cue in rhythm to Queen's Don't Stop Me Now.
U.S District Attorney Mary Beth Buchanan will retry Dr. Cyril Wecht. Wecht's first trial ended in a hung jury. Why is the District Attorney wasting her time with this?
Personally:
I had a girl date on Saturday. I met a new friend for dinner and to see a band play 70's and 80's AM radio covers.
While the evening started out innocuously enough I'm not sure whether I'll hang out with her again. During the course of the evening she announced that she was a pothead, alternately grilled and lectured me on my childlessness and pressured me about my conservative drinking habits.
FYI - Most disgusting email subject in my Spam folder to date: “Used g-strings for sale”. Uh, no thanks.
Hockey:
The Penguins are now 3-0 in Playoff Round 1 and looking towards wrapping up the best of seven series in Ottawa on Wednesday night. The highlight of the series was Game 1, when 41 year old Gary Roberts challenged two Senators to a fight, had to be forcibly removed from the ice by two linesmen and amassed 16 minutes in penalties with 12 seconds left to play.
The Cult of Gary Roberts is strong in Pittsburgh.
Well known Rangers pest Sean Avery inspires a new interpretation on rules about screening the opposing goalie, nicked named “The Avery Rule”. Points to Avery for creativity.
Locally:
Rumor has it that the explosion that destroyed two houses in the North Side was not caused by natural gas. It is a slow spring in Western Pennsylvania.
H/t and personal to Jay: While I fully acknowledge that a gunshot in the head is the most effective way to dispatch meteorite zombies, it does not have the same panache as beating them on the head with a pool cue in rhythm to Queen's Don't Stop Me Now.
U.S District Attorney Mary Beth Buchanan will retry Dr. Cyril Wecht. Wecht's first trial ended in a hung jury. Why is the District Attorney wasting her time with this?
Personally:
I had a girl date on Saturday. I met a new friend for dinner and to see a band play 70's and 80's AM radio covers.
While the evening started out innocuously enough I'm not sure whether I'll hang out with her again. During the course of the evening she announced that she was a pothead, alternately grilled and lectured me on my childlessness and pressured me about my conservative drinking habits.
FYI - Most disgusting email subject in my Spam folder to date: “Used g-strings for sale”. Uh, no thanks.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
Harm's Way
As promised, some of the mural seen on Saturday while walking through Oakland.
And a little bit of fun:
And a little bit of fun:
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Saturday
J and I went for a walk yesterday. Although still chilly, the air was too fresh, the sun too sunny, to remain inside with a clear conscience.
But first we decided to go for a little drive. To a friend's house to drop off our first payment for playoff tickets and a Jordan Staal bobble head doll. Then to a used car dealership, to take a look at a 1999 Porsche Boxster that caught J's eye earlier in the week.
We walked into a nearly empty showroom, the majority of the staff gathered around a desk talking. The salesman who rose to greet us was an older man, nicely dressed in a well pressed polo shirt and crisp pants. On first impression, he appeared to be the standard equivalent of the modern day used car salesmen.
Upon further interaction, we learned that this man was the sales equivalent of the anti-Christ, coming on smooth and sophisticated while simultaneously attempting to sow discord. His technique consisted of the full press hard sell with a combination of insults, flattery and transparent attempts to play J and I off against each other.
I did the only thing that I could under this assault. I played the dim, whiny and much beloved wife.
I snuggled up to J and carefully fixed the collar on his coat and the scarf around his neck. When the salesman asked me what it would take for me to “let” J have the car, I said he would have to teach me how to drive it, then complained that he had not taught me how to drive his Miata. Sensing an opening, the salesman asked if J intended to teach me to drive. J said “no”.
While J talked engines and spark plugs I went over the car, opening every possible door, sitting in the passenger's seat, running my hands across the body and frame and peering into the two trunks. My inspection of the car (which was in excellent shape) made the sales guy uncomfortable to the point that he started closing trunk lids and doors and moving both of us away from the vehicle, into his office for further discussion.
In the office, the salesman returned to J's refusal to teach me to drive. He said HE could teach me in fifteen minutes, he had a guaranteed system. J tried to contain his laughter as I enthusiastically thanked him for his offer. As the conversation turned to finances, we learned that we could not get an estimated payment unless we agreed to buy the car.
After much coaching, J was able to convince the salesman to write down some rough numbers. As we were leaving, I was asked if I thought J would purchase. Still in character, I smiled sweetly and told the man that since J had “let” me buy the car I wanted, I certainly was not going to stop him from purchasing the Boxster, but that the decision was ultimately his. We shook hands and left the showroom.
Off to Oakland we went, for a walk around the urban neighborhood, with several stops to take photographs of some of the new murals. Pictures coming soon.
But first we decided to go for a little drive. To a friend's house to drop off our first payment for playoff tickets and a Jordan Staal bobble head doll. Then to a used car dealership, to take a look at a 1999 Porsche Boxster that caught J's eye earlier in the week.
We walked into a nearly empty showroom, the majority of the staff gathered around a desk talking. The salesman who rose to greet us was an older man, nicely dressed in a well pressed polo shirt and crisp pants. On first impression, he appeared to be the standard equivalent of the modern day used car salesmen.
Upon further interaction, we learned that this man was the sales equivalent of the anti-Christ, coming on smooth and sophisticated while simultaneously attempting to sow discord. His technique consisted of the full press hard sell with a combination of insults, flattery and transparent attempts to play J and I off against each other.
I did the only thing that I could under this assault. I played the dim, whiny and much beloved wife.
I snuggled up to J and carefully fixed the collar on his coat and the scarf around his neck. When the salesman asked me what it would take for me to “let” J have the car, I said he would have to teach me how to drive it, then complained that he had not taught me how to drive his Miata. Sensing an opening, the salesman asked if J intended to teach me to drive. J said “no”.
While J talked engines and spark plugs I went over the car, opening every possible door, sitting in the passenger's seat, running my hands across the body and frame and peering into the two trunks. My inspection of the car (which was in excellent shape) made the sales guy uncomfortable to the point that he started closing trunk lids and doors and moving both of us away from the vehicle, into his office for further discussion.
In the office, the salesman returned to J's refusal to teach me to drive. He said HE could teach me in fifteen minutes, he had a guaranteed system. J tried to contain his laughter as I enthusiastically thanked him for his offer. As the conversation turned to finances, we learned that we could not get an estimated payment unless we agreed to buy the car.
After much coaching, J was able to convince the salesman to write down some rough numbers. As we were leaving, I was asked if I thought J would purchase. Still in character, I smiled sweetly and told the man that since J had “let” me buy the car I wanted, I certainly was not going to stop him from purchasing the Boxster, but that the decision was ultimately his. We shook hands and left the showroom.
Off to Oakland we went, for a walk around the urban neighborhood, with several stops to take photographs of some of the new murals. Pictures coming soon.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Mercyhurst Does Me Proud*
My Alma mater, Mercyhurst, made the Post Gazette today for doing something radical.
At the request of the Student Government, college officials invited all three Presidential candidates to speak to the student population and surrounding community. Hilary Clinton is the first candidate to accept the invitation and will speak on campus this evening.
What makes this invitation “radical” is that two of the three Presidential candidates (Clinton and Obama) are pro-choice. Inviting them to speak on the grounds of a Catholic institution in the Diocese of Erie runs counter to diocese's “pro-life**” policy
Bishop Trautman announced that he would not be attending Mercyhurst's graduation ceremonies in protest. In what can only be described as a veiled threat, the Bishop stated “I am open with to meeting with [college President] Dr. Gamble in the future to ascertain how the Catholic identity of Mercyhurst can be better clarified”.
Translation: I will be meeting with Dr. Gamble and giving him a definitive smack down for daring to subvert the authority of the Church. If he steps out of line again, his tenure as college President will be short and swift.
Dear Bishop Trautman – the day your representatives stop referring to Gannon University as “THE Catholic college of the Diocese of Erie” and actually pay more than lip service in support of any Catholic grade, middle or high school outside the county of Erie is the day that I will consider giving you the benefit of the doubt. You are one of the key reasons I no longer set foot in a Catholic church, except under duress***.
Dr. Gamble, to his credit, refused to rescind the invitation, maintaining that it was extended to all candidates in accordance with a long standing policy of not supporting or opposing any political candidate, and in protection of the college's non-profit status.
I'm pretty certain how this little standoff will play out, and it will not be in the favor of academic freedom or intelligent discourse, to the detriment of the students. Mercyhurst will be forced to put into a place a policy that effectively prevents any candidate from speaking on campus. To protect their non-profit status.
Email link here if you feel like throwing a little bit of love Dr. Gamble's way. Be sure to choose the Thomas Gamble whose department is President.
*All apologies for the deliberate bad grammar.
**Only as far as abortion and contraception go. If you are pro-war, pro-death penalty, pro-corporate welfare, (enter your pro that really is an anti here), you get a pass from the diocese.
***Duress, in this case, means I will attend mass when not attending would only create more trouble.
At the request of the Student Government, college officials invited all three Presidential candidates to speak to the student population and surrounding community. Hilary Clinton is the first candidate to accept the invitation and will speak on campus this evening.
What makes this invitation “radical” is that two of the three Presidential candidates (Clinton and Obama) are pro-choice. Inviting them to speak on the grounds of a Catholic institution in the Diocese of Erie runs counter to diocese's “pro-life**” policy
Bishop Trautman announced that he would not be attending Mercyhurst's graduation ceremonies in protest. In what can only be described as a veiled threat, the Bishop stated “I am open with to meeting with [college President] Dr. Gamble in the future to ascertain how the Catholic identity of Mercyhurst can be better clarified”.
Translation: I will be meeting with Dr. Gamble and giving him a definitive smack down for daring to subvert the authority of the Church. If he steps out of line again, his tenure as college President will be short and swift.
Dear Bishop Trautman – the day your representatives stop referring to Gannon University as “THE Catholic college of the Diocese of Erie” and actually pay more than lip service in support of any Catholic grade, middle or high school outside the county of Erie is the day that I will consider giving you the benefit of the doubt. You are one of the key reasons I no longer set foot in a Catholic church, except under duress***.
Dr. Gamble, to his credit, refused to rescind the invitation, maintaining that it was extended to all candidates in accordance with a long standing policy of not supporting or opposing any political candidate, and in protection of the college's non-profit status.
I'm pretty certain how this little standoff will play out, and it will not be in the favor of academic freedom or intelligent discourse, to the detriment of the students. Mercyhurst will be forced to put into a place a policy that effectively prevents any candidate from speaking on campus. To protect their non-profit status.
Email link here if you feel like throwing a little bit of love Dr. Gamble's way. Be sure to choose the Thomas Gamble whose department is President.
*All apologies for the deliberate bad grammar.
**Only as far as abortion and contraception go. If you are pro-war, pro-death penalty, pro-corporate welfare, (enter your pro that really is an anti here)
***Duress, in this case, means I will attend mass when not attending would only create more trouble.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
I Am Lazy
A. What I planned on doing over my three day weekend:
Get blood drawn for a final round of blood tests.
Clean out closet.
Make pile of clothes for tailoring
Make pile of clothes for charity.
Iron.
Clear out my study, dust shelves and wash floor.
Clean bathroom.
Clean out spare room.
Bag clothes and other items (that have been sitting in spare room for weeks) for charity.
Laundry.
B. What I accomplished over my three day weekend.
Got blood drawn from a final round of blood tests.
Laundry.
C. What I did instead of the majority of list A:
Spent most of Friday after blood draw sleeping (the nurse took 5 vials of blood).
Took J to Seviche for dinner on Friday night.
Watched Ocean's 11 on Friday night.
Attempted to locate and purchase a enameled dutch oven on Saturday afternoon.
Watched Ocean's 12 on Saturday night.
Breakfast at Eat N' Park in Sunday morning.
Attended Penguins game. Took many photographs of all time favorite player, Martin Straka, during warm ups. Yelled at fans who refused to sit down while puck was in play.
FYI: I don't know why the photographs are blurry. I think I need to get the lens checked.
Some scoreboard text messages from the last two games:
"Chuck Norris wears Malkin pj pants".
"Gary Roberts counted to infinity twice".
"Captain America wears Gary Roberts Underoos".
"the forecast finally says fleury!!"
Get blood drawn for a final round of blood tests.
Clean out closet.
Make pile of clothes for tailoring
Make pile of clothes for charity.
Iron.
Clear out my study, dust shelves and wash floor.
Clean bathroom.
Clean out spare room.
Bag clothes and other items (that have been sitting in spare room for weeks) for charity.
Laundry.
B. What I accomplished over my three day weekend.
Got blood drawn from a final round of blood tests.
Laundry.
C. What I did instead of the majority of list A:
Spent most of Friday after blood draw sleeping (the nurse took 5 vials of blood).
Took J to Seviche for dinner on Friday night.
Watched Ocean's 11 on Friday night.
Attempted to locate and purchase a enameled dutch oven on Saturday afternoon.
Watched Ocean's 12 on Saturday night.
Breakfast at Eat N' Park in Sunday morning.
Attended Penguins game. Took many photographs of all time favorite player, Martin Straka, during warm ups. Yelled at fans who refused to sit down while puck was in play.
FYI: I don't know why the photographs are blurry. I think I need to get the lens checked.
Some scoreboard text messages from the last two games:
"Chuck Norris wears Malkin pj pants".
"Gary Roberts counted to infinity twice".
"Captain America wears Gary Roberts Underoos".
"the forecast finally says fleury!!"
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Small Swift Birds
I've had a lot to write about in the past several weeks. I've had a lot to write about and very little to say. Emotionally I am tired, numb and discovering that there is a limit to the amount of distressing information I can process at one time before I shut down.
I lost a friend to suicide two weeks ago. A second, untimely death in a period of three weeks. I lost my friend and I am having a difficult time mourning his loss. I'm having a difficult time thinking anything good about him, and I know that there was a great deal of good. He loved me like a younger sister and watched over me during the brief time I spent working in South Carolina ten years ago. He loved his adolescent son. He was incredibly literate and had a quick, sharp wit. He was self educated. He embraced J as his own and enthusiastically blessed our relationship.
He was also terribly flawed. At his worst, he was verbally abusive, emotionally intrusive and pushy. He had very little respect for other people's physical and emotional boundaries. He was stubborn, impulsive and self destructive. These flaws cost him his marriage and created a rift between himself and his son.
He tried to seek redemption and make amends. To his ex-wife, to his child, to his friends. It was not enough. The trauma of unemployment, of near homelessness, of debt, of estrangement from his son, of a million other things he never talked about, it wore him down and wore him out.
There has been no explanation for how he died, no invitation to his memorial service. On some level his siblings blame his friends for his death. Because we should have know he was clinically depressed. We should have known he stopped taking his medication in September and ceased meetings with his therapist. His family knew the signs, why didn't we?
We did not. So my friend left, like a small swift bird. One day we looked, and could not find him anywhere.
I lost a friend to suicide two weeks ago. A second, untimely death in a period of three weeks. I lost my friend and I am having a difficult time mourning his loss. I'm having a difficult time thinking anything good about him, and I know that there was a great deal of good. He loved me like a younger sister and watched over me during the brief time I spent working in South Carolina ten years ago. He loved his adolescent son. He was incredibly literate and had a quick, sharp wit. He was self educated. He embraced J as his own and enthusiastically blessed our relationship.
He was also terribly flawed. At his worst, he was verbally abusive, emotionally intrusive and pushy. He had very little respect for other people's physical and emotional boundaries. He was stubborn, impulsive and self destructive. These flaws cost him his marriage and created a rift between himself and his son.
He tried to seek redemption and make amends. To his ex-wife, to his child, to his friends. It was not enough. The trauma of unemployment, of near homelessness, of debt, of estrangement from his son, of a million other things he never talked about, it wore him down and wore him out.
There has been no explanation for how he died, no invitation to his memorial service. On some level his siblings blame his friends for his death. Because we should have know he was clinically depressed. We should have known he stopped taking his medication in September and ceased meetings with his therapist. His family knew the signs, why didn't we?
We did not. So my friend left, like a small swift bird. One day we looked, and could not find him anywhere.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
A Good Easter to be A Penguins Fan
As St. Francis Central Hospital finally comes down:
As Evgeni Malkin tops 100 points in the season.
And the Penguins move into first place in the Atlantic Division by beating the New Jersey Devils 7-1.
Happy Easter.
As Evgeni Malkin tops 100 points in the season.
And the Penguins move into first place in the Atlantic Division by beating the New Jersey Devils 7-1.
Happy Easter.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
In Honor of Mister Rogers
Mr. McFeely has requested that we wear our favorite sweater on March 20.
Unfortunately, my favorite sweater is not fit for public consumption. So my second favorite will have to do.
Unfortunately, my favorite sweater is not fit for public consumption. So my second favorite will have to do.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
In Pittsburgh, Even the Buildings are Stubborn
After repeated failures to take down St. Francis Central Hospital via controlled collapse, contractors have thrown up their hands and will be imploding the building the morning of March 22.
Filing under "Penguins" as the demolition of the building will enable construction on the new arena to move ahead.
Filing under "Penguins" as the demolition of the building will enable construction on the new arena to move ahead.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
End of the Saga
I am hoping that this is the last post on the state of my health. I can't seem to find a way of framing what is happening to me in a manner that takes in the broader issues of class and income. It seems petty to whine about the time, the expense, the stupid lectures when there are so many people in the United States without access to decent health insurance and/or reliable doctors.
Except I could not turn off the interior monologue, which became louder when the forms to appeal company X's refusal to approve a chest CT scan arrived in the mail. Seeing the phrase “suspected malignancy” in print is demoralizing. Waiting for information on procedures is demoralizing.
The arguments with Insurance Company X over which procedures are medically necessary, the trips for consults, MRI's and CT scans, the lecture from my mother over refusing contrast, all of this is making me weary. In between I've also had annual visits to the dentist and the optometrist and a consult with a periodontist. I have spent more time in medical offices in the past six weeks then I have in the last ten years.
It is not over quite yet, but it is close. My scans are normal. My blood work is normal. My x-rays are normal. I have orders for physical therapy on my left shoulder, to strengthen the tendon. I have an estimate for two gum grafts, to fix the recession on two of my teeth. And I have a GP who thinks that I have been through enough – and that I am normal.
Except I could not turn off the interior monologue, which became louder when the forms to appeal company X's refusal to approve a chest CT scan arrived in the mail. Seeing the phrase “suspected malignancy” in print is demoralizing. Waiting for information on procedures is demoralizing.
The arguments with Insurance Company X over which procedures are medically necessary, the trips for consults, MRI's and CT scans, the lecture from my mother over refusing contrast, all of this is making me weary. In between I've also had annual visits to the dentist and the optometrist and a consult with a periodontist. I have spent more time in medical offices in the past six weeks then I have in the last ten years.
It is not over quite yet, but it is close. My scans are normal. My blood work is normal. My x-rays are normal. I have orders for physical therapy on my left shoulder, to strengthen the tendon. I have an estimate for two gum grafts, to fix the recession on two of my teeth. And I have a GP who thinks that I have been through enough – and that I am normal.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Right Wing Clash of the Titans
Forward:
My sense of humor and writing abilities are off tonight. I want to write a post about the significance of the fight brewing between McCain and Donohue, but I just don't have it in me right now. I'm worn out from worry and the various battles I have had to fight in the past few weeks.
Meet Pastor John Hagee. Pastor Hagee, an evangelical and pastor of a Texas “mega-church” recently endorsed John McCain as his Presidential candidate of choice. Pastor Hagee's pastimes include suggesting that natural disasters are the demonstrable wrath of God (ala Hurricane Katrina) and that Harry Potter will turn adolescents towards the occult.
And Hagee is an anti-Catholic in a vocal, the-Catholic-church-is-the-anti-Christ-and-caused-the-holocaust, way.
Equally vocal in protesting McCain's acceptance of Hagee's endorsement is professional victim, whiner* and head of the Catholic League, Bill Donohue. Bill Donohue enjoys spending his time seeking out anti-Catholic bigotry, leaving no straw un-grasped. Recent victories included a protest against the display of a chocolate crucifix titled "My Sweet Lord", a boycott of all forms of The Golden Compass and complaining about Kathy Griffin's 2007 Emmy acceptance speech.
A politician caught out for playing both sides of the field? Time to get out the popcorn toppings. Butter, salt, cinnamon or hot pepper?
*Writing a series of novels using the organizational structure of the Catholic church as a model is not anti-Catholicism. It is whining. Contrast this with having half your relatives disown you because of your religious tradition or a co-worker offer to marry you “so you'll be saved”.
My sense of humor and writing abilities are off tonight. I want to write a post about the significance of the fight brewing between McCain and Donohue, but I just don't have it in me right now. I'm worn out from worry and the various battles I have had to fight in the past few weeks.
Meet Pastor John Hagee. Pastor Hagee, an evangelical and pastor of a Texas “mega-church” recently endorsed John McCain as his Presidential candidate of choice. Pastor Hagee's pastimes include suggesting that natural disasters are the demonstrable wrath of God (ala Hurricane Katrina) and that Harry Potter will turn adolescents towards the occult.
And Hagee is an anti-Catholic in a vocal, the-Catholic-church-is-the-anti-Christ-and-caused-the-holocaust, way.
Equally vocal in protesting McCain's acceptance of Hagee's endorsement is professional victim, whiner* and head of the Catholic League, Bill Donohue. Bill Donohue enjoys spending his time seeking out anti-Catholic bigotry, leaving no straw un-grasped. Recent victories included a protest against the display of a chocolate crucifix titled "My Sweet Lord", a boycott of all forms of The Golden Compass and complaining about Kathy Griffin's 2007 Emmy acceptance speech.
A politician caught out for playing both sides of the field? Time to get out the popcorn toppings. Butter, salt, cinnamon or hot pepper?
*Writing a series of novels using the organizational structure of the Catholic church as a model is not anti-Catholicism. It is whining. Contrast this with having half your relatives disown you because of your religious tradition or a co-worker offer to marry you “so you'll be saved”.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
A Little Bit of Spam Zen
Caught by the Google spam filter earlier this week:
The header:
“hockey games by 2009. The Penguins will sign a temporaryPakistan's capital to express their solidarity asknown as, "Kiwi 1960", suggests that the man's first”.
The footer:
“In the wake of Jacques Chirac's announcement that hehelp.New York based Human Rights Watch has issued a statementNHL: Penguins to remain in Pittsburgh”.
Who knew that Jacques Chirac and Human Rights Watch were instrumental in keeping the Penguins in Pittsburgh? It certainly explains all those mysterious midnight meetings held in New Jersey between Ed Rendell and the NHL.
Query: is there something wrong with me giggling every time I receive a pitch for a male enhancement product? And for scratching my head over the eHarmony ads?
The header:
“hockey games by 2009. The Penguins will sign a temporaryPakistan's capital to express their solidarity asknown as, "Kiwi 1960", suggests that the man's first”.
The footer:
“In the wake of Jacques Chirac's announcement that hehelp.New York based Human Rights Watch has issued a statementNHL: Penguins to remain in Pittsburgh”.
Who knew that Jacques Chirac and Human Rights Watch were instrumental in keeping the Penguins in Pittsburgh? It certainly explains all those mysterious midnight meetings held in New Jersey between Ed Rendell and the NHL.
Query: is there something wrong with me giggling every time I receive a pitch for a male enhancement product? And for scratching my head over the eHarmony ads?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Rage
This is not about me. This is not my story. This story belongs to J and J's family. My only role is to stand on the periphery and be silent. Listen, but not speak. Keep whatever little wisdom and counsel I think I can impart to myself.
There was a tragedy this past week. A member of J's family died, by his own hand. He was mentally ill for almost 30 years. So deeply ill that he refused to believe it, refused to acknowledge it. So deep in denial that all attempts to get him help were rebuffed. So bad that in the end, at the end, his own children did not feel safe.
His illness was a secret from almost everyone until almost the end. Until first his children, then his wife, decided they had enough. Thinking that he had nothing left he killed himself.
Now J's family questions everything. They say that he was a stranger, that they never knew him. They wavier between thankfulness that he did not hurt anyone else and rage at the cruelty of his act.
And they cry. Even the men, they cry.
There was a tragedy this past week. A member of J's family died, by his own hand. He was mentally ill for almost 30 years. So deeply ill that he refused to believe it, refused to acknowledge it. So deep in denial that all attempts to get him help were rebuffed. So bad that in the end, at the end, his own children did not feel safe.
His illness was a secret from almost everyone until almost the end. Until first his children, then his wife, decided they had enough. Thinking that he had nothing left he killed himself.
Now J's family questions everything. They say that he was a stranger, that they never knew him. They wavier between thankfulness that he did not hurt anyone else and rage at the cruelty of his act.
And they cry. Even the men, they cry.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Another Reason for Healthcare Reform
My GP has admission privileges to multiple hospitals in the Pittsburgh area.
She retired from one of those hospitals recently. She still retains privileges at several other hospitals and is still practicing.
The hospital [thoughtfully] notified all insurance providers in the area that she had retired.
The insurance companies, in turn, removed from the preferred/approved provider lists.
Because she is no longer on the lists (even though she is still practicing), my insurance will not authorize the CT scans she ordered.
Her office assures me that they are working diligently to have the situation rectified.
Gods forbid this happen to someone with serious medical issues.
She retired from one of those hospitals recently. She still retains privileges at several other hospitals and is still practicing.
The hospital [thoughtfully] notified all insurance providers in the area that she had retired.
The insurance companies, in turn, removed from the preferred/approved provider lists.
Because she is no longer on the lists (even though she is still practicing), my insurance will not authorize the CT scans she ordered.
Her office assures me that they are working diligently to have the situation rectified.
Gods forbid this happen to someone with serious medical issues.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Health - the Sequel
Today I had my shoulder examined by an orthopedic surgeon at UPMC Sports Medicine. According to the scheduler I spoke with last week, my doctor is an authority on shoulders, that is almost all he does and he is very good at it. According to several of his biographies, this particular doctor is also an assistant professor at the University of Pittsburgh Medical School and one of the Penguins' team physicians. According to one of our friends, who works as a sales representative for a company that produces joint replacement parts (seriously), he is highly respected and has his interns do a lot of the work.
I liked him. He was very clinical and extremely professional, almost to the point of coldness. Yet he managed to come across as a nice man, possibly due to the fact that he had to tie the back of my gown closed.* Which he did, in a very professional, business-like manner and surprisingly gentle manner.
He had an intern with him, also a man, whose primary function seem to be to observe and neatly print out the doctor's scripts.** I found the interaction between the two highly entertaining, as I sensed that the intern was restraining a large part of his personality in deference to the authority in the room.
The diagnosis was a torn rotator cuff, severity to be determined upon the completion of the MRI. Fraying will mean physical therapy, a hole or significant tearing will surgery. I was instructed to call and leave a message with his secretary after I had the MRI, as he suspected that the damage was minor and would only require physical therapy, which meant I would not have to see him again.
The MRI is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
And insurance continues to be a headache. As my first round of blood tests was (tragically) normal, my GP has decided to send me for a set of CT scans, just to be thorough. My attempt to schedule the scans was thwarted when I was informed that my insurance required pre-authorization. No magic number, no appointment.
*Moment Number One: I was instructed before the exam to tie the gown halter style around my neck, so my shoulders would remain bare. Somewhere between the telling and my brain's translation, the idea that I also needed to tie the back of the gown was lost.
**Moment Number Two: The script for my MRI was made out to my GP. I politely pointed out to the intern that my GP would probably disagree with the need to have an MRI and perhaps he could correct the name. Which he, highly embarrassed, did immediately.
I liked him. He was very clinical and extremely professional, almost to the point of coldness. Yet he managed to come across as a nice man, possibly due to the fact that he had to tie the back of my gown closed.* Which he did, in a very professional, business-like manner and surprisingly gentle manner.
He had an intern with him, also a man, whose primary function seem to be to observe and neatly print out the doctor's scripts.** I found the interaction between the two highly entertaining, as I sensed that the intern was restraining a large part of his personality in deference to the authority in the room.
The diagnosis was a torn rotator cuff, severity to be determined upon the completion of the MRI. Fraying will mean physical therapy, a hole or significant tearing will surgery. I was instructed to call and leave a message with his secretary after I had the MRI, as he suspected that the damage was minor and would only require physical therapy, which meant I would not have to see him again.
The MRI is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
And insurance continues to be a headache. As my first round of blood tests was (tragically) normal, my GP has decided to send me for a set of CT scans, just to be thorough. My attempt to schedule the scans was thwarted when I was informed that my insurance required pre-authorization. No magic number, no appointment.
*Moment Number One: I was instructed before the exam to tie the gown halter style around my neck, so my shoulders would remain bare. Somewhere between the telling and my brain's translation, the idea that I also needed to tie the back of the gown was lost.
**Moment Number Two: The script for my MRI was made out to my GP. I politely pointed out to the intern that my GP would probably disagree with the need to have an MRI and perhaps he could correct the name. Which he, highly embarrassed, did immediately.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Soup with Nuts
The New York Times is running a blog on migraines this month, with several well known authors (and a famous musician) each taking a turn discussing the different ways they learned to cope with migraines and other headache disorders. The comments have been fascinating and aggravating.
In an anti-harmonic convergence, I woke up last night with my first full blown migraine in almost a year. The intense pain coupled with extreme nausea made it difficult for me to get up. Since the only available remedy at the intense pain/nausea stage is to sleep the rest of the headache off, I went back to sleep, first on the downstairs couch, then back to the bed. In between the transfer J bought me a glass of warm water and some ibuprofen as a barrier against more pain.
The headache made us late in our search of local entertainment today. We started with two stops in the Strip District. Our first stop was at The Enrico Biscotti Café for a late breakfast of pizza topped with blue cheese and cranberries, biscotti and goat cheese canolli. The smells in the cafe were amazing and I wished (not for the first time today) I had grabbed my camera to take some photographs of the reclaimed warehouse interior.
Next was a stop at Pennsylvania Macaroni Company for some cheese. Penn Mac and Trader Joe's are the two places in which J and I have to establish a set spending amount beforehand, less we go into debt buying out the cheese counter. The best part about Penn Mac (and Trader's Joe) is that all the people in the store are happy because they are purchasing good food.
On our way back we passed a table full green Pittsburgh wear, in anticipation of St. Patrick's Day. My favorite was a kelly green t-shirt with the logo “It's good to be a Penguins fan”.
Next up was a stop at O'Bannon's Oriental Carpets, to show J the “School of Fish” carpet that inspired me to give him a small fish rug for Christmas. We had a good time looking at the other carpets in the store, all of them insanely expensive, handwoven woolen wonders.
Our final stop was a walk down Carson Street as participants in the Fourth Annual South Side Mid-Winter Soup Contest. Armed with a spoon and an appetite, for five dollars and the donation of a canned good, we were able to sample the soups from twenty of the South Side's restaurants and vote for our favorite. The most unusual combination came from the 17th Street Café, a Bacon bleu cheese and apple soup that was surprisingly good. We thought we were hard core toting our own spoons until we saw a woman carrying her own spoon and mug.
In an anti-harmonic convergence, I woke up last night with my first full blown migraine in almost a year. The intense pain coupled with extreme nausea made it difficult for me to get up. Since the only available remedy at the intense pain/nausea stage is to sleep the rest of the headache off, I went back to sleep, first on the downstairs couch, then back to the bed. In between the transfer J bought me a glass of warm water and some ibuprofen as a barrier against more pain.
The headache made us late in our search of local entertainment today. We started with two stops in the Strip District. Our first stop was at The Enrico Biscotti Café for a late breakfast of pizza topped with blue cheese and cranberries, biscotti and goat cheese canolli. The smells in the cafe were amazing and I wished (not for the first time today) I had grabbed my camera to take some photographs of the reclaimed warehouse interior.
Next was a stop at Pennsylvania Macaroni Company for some cheese. Penn Mac and Trader Joe's are the two places in which J and I have to establish a set spending amount beforehand, less we go into debt buying out the cheese counter. The best part about Penn Mac (and Trader's Joe) is that all the people in the store are happy because they are purchasing good food.
On our way back we passed a table full green Pittsburgh wear, in anticipation of St. Patrick's Day. My favorite was a kelly green t-shirt with the logo “It's good to be a Penguins fan”.
Next up was a stop at O'Bannon's Oriental Carpets, to show J the “School of Fish” carpet that inspired me to give him a small fish rug for Christmas. We had a good time looking at the other carpets in the store, all of them insanely expensive, handwoven woolen wonders.
Our final stop was a walk down Carson Street as participants in the Fourth Annual South Side Mid-Winter Soup Contest. Armed with a spoon and an appetite, for five dollars and the donation of a canned good, we were able to sample the soups from twenty of the South Side's restaurants and vote for our favorite. The most unusual combination came from the 17th Street Café, a Bacon bleu cheese and apple soup that was surprisingly good. We thought we were hard core toting our own spoons until we saw a woman carrying her own spoon and mug.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Dear Media,
Especially Maureen Dowd...
Enough commentary on the Clinton's marriage. Enough "conversation" about what Senator Clinton should or should not have done to deal with her husband's multiple extramarital affairs. Enough snark about how a vote for HRC will only put her husband back in the White House. Enough discussion over her inability to "control" him. And God forbid that even one of you admit that maybe, just maybe, Senator Clinton accomplished something using her own considerable talents.
Marriage is difficult enough to negotiate on the private stage in which J and myself conduct our relationship. I can't imagine what it must be like to try maintain a relationship on such a public stage, for so many years.
So you who decries the divorce rate, you who complains that we live in a society that does not value marriage or family, you who cannot conceive of the myriad of ways in which a marriage can thrive, it is time for you to shut, the fuck, up.
Really.
Enough.
Enough commentary on the Clinton's marriage. Enough "conversation" about what Senator Clinton should or should not have done to deal with her husband's multiple extramarital affairs. Enough snark about how a vote for HRC will only put her husband back in the White House. Enough discussion over her inability to "control" him. And God forbid that even one of you admit that maybe, just maybe, Senator Clinton accomplished something using her own considerable talents.
Marriage is difficult enough to negotiate on the private stage in which J and myself conduct our relationship. I can't imagine what it must be like to try maintain a relationship on such a public stage, for so many years.
So you who decries the divorce rate, you who complains that we live in a society that does not value marriage or family, you who cannot conceive of the myriad of ways in which a marriage can thrive, it is time for you to shut, the fuck, up.
Really.
Enough.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Stumbling Across Odds and Ends
I've got nothing right now. The most exciting things currently happening in Pittsburgh are a winter storm warning and the sudden, surprise deterioration of the Birmingham Bridge.
Oh yes, and the demolition of St. Francis Central Hospital (future home of the Penguins) is not going well. At all. As in the company is having a bit of trouble bringing the building down without the use of explosives. All that Pittsburgh steel is turning out to be a challenge to the demolition experts
There have been small pleasures. Last night's subplot of the Simpson's included the voices of graphic novelists Art Spiegelman (Maus), Daniel Clowes (Ghost World) and Alan Moore (Lost Girls). The highlight was a cartoon promotion poster of Lost Girls hanging behind the novelists.
I think next year I want to spend my vacation in a tree house. Or how about a night in the Icehotel?
Oh yes, and the demolition of St. Francis Central Hospital (future home of the Penguins) is not going well. At all. As in the company is having a bit of trouble bringing the building down without the use of explosives. All that Pittsburgh steel is turning out to be a challenge to the demolition experts
There have been small pleasures. Last night's subplot of the Simpson's included the voices of graphic novelists Art Spiegelman (Maus), Daniel Clowes (Ghost World) and Alan Moore (Lost Girls). The highlight was a cartoon promotion poster of Lost Girls hanging behind the novelists.
I think next year I want to spend my vacation in a tree house. Or how about a night in the Icehotel?
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Flickr
When I started this blog I was using Picasa (now owned by Google). Then I switched to a Macintosh and was no longer able to access my account from a Macintosh. So I switched to Flickr.
I don't use it very often, now that Picasa has been integrated into the rest of Google's applications. I still have an account at Flickr, which I use primarily when I need access to digital images for work. The most popular photograph is also one of the worst I have ever taken - a candid shot of Sidney Crosby on the ice after the last home game of his rookie season.
I don't use it very often, now that Picasa has been integrated into the rest of Google's applications. I still have an account at Flickr, which I use primarily when I need access to digital images for work. The most popular photograph is also one of the worst I have ever taken - a candid shot of Sidney Crosby on the ice after the last home game of his rookie season.
As has been well publicized in the past several weeks, Microsoft is planning a hostile take over of Yahoo and all of it's holdings, including Flickr. Reluctantly, I have decided to take down the majority of the photographs in the upcoming weeks, including the Sidney Crosby photo.
Some would see this as a premature reaction to Microsoft's bid and that Yahoo will prevail. I'm not so sure. While the Federal Government has expended an enormous amount of time and resources in anti-trust lawsuits against Microsoft, there is absolutely no reason for me to believe that they are anything other than pro-business - the larger the business the better. Recent court decisions (Supreme and otherwise) do little to reassure me that the little people; whether that be a woman suing under EEOC or a small business, can prevail.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
I Thought I Would Let you Know...
That I am beginning to despise Maureen Dowd as much as I despise Ann Coulter.
And Stanley Fish rocks.
That is all.
And Stanley Fish rocks.
That is all.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Support Ron Paul!
I present this gem from a recent letter to the editor in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette:
“[Ron Paul] has five more delegates than rambunctious Rudy”.
Which would make 6 total delegates for Ron Paul to Rudy Giuliani's 1, and 6 total delegates against Giuliani's 2 at the time of Giuliani's withdrawal from the Republican primary.
Hee.
“[Ron Paul] has five more delegates than rambunctious Rudy”.
Which would make 6 total delegates for Ron Paul to Rudy Giuliani's 1, and 6 total delegates against Giuliani's 2 at the time of Giuliani's withdrawal from the Republican primary.
Hee.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Musings
One : Hockey on Versus sucks. West scored on East within the first 30 seconds of the game's start because Rick DiPietro, who graciously agreed to allow Versus to wire him with a microphone, was distracted by questions and forgot that he was supposed to be tending goal.
Two: Am I the only person who thinks the Whopper Freakout commercials reveal more about how violently self-entitled some of the “victims” are as opposed to the popularity of the sandwich?
Three: The Pittsburgh Penguins will be opening the 2008/2009 season against the Ottawa Senators in Stockholm, Sweden. J and I are still debating on whether to go to Munich for Oktoberfest, which conveniently ends on October 5th, one of the two days the Penguins are playing in Stockholm. I'm trying to convince J that a couple of days in Munich and a Penguins/Ottawa game would be an excellent vacation.
Four: What is it about male nude sculptures, that every single blessed last one of them in the Carnegie Museum of Art has a fig leaf covering their genitals? There were two exceptions, but both pieces had lost their penis at some point. I asked J, as representative of men everywhere, if seeing a full set (so to speak) would make him feel inferior.
J rolled his eyes.
Two: Am I the only person who thinks the Whopper Freakout commercials reveal more about how violently self-entitled some of the “victims” are as opposed to the popularity of the sandwich?
Three: The Pittsburgh Penguins will be opening the 2008/2009 season against the Ottawa Senators in Stockholm, Sweden. J and I are still debating on whether to go to Munich for Oktoberfest, which conveniently ends on October 5th, one of the two days the Penguins are playing in Stockholm. I'm trying to convince J that a couple of days in Munich and a Penguins/Ottawa game would be an excellent vacation.
Four: What is it about male nude sculptures, that every single blessed last one of them in the Carnegie Museum of Art has a fig leaf covering their genitals? There were two exceptions, but both pieces had lost their penis at some point. I asked J, as representative of men everywhere, if seeing a full set (so to speak) would make him feel inferior.
J rolled his eyes.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
I Don't Know Why...
... I love this story, but I do.
In England, a farmer built a mock-Tudor castle, complete with turrets and a cannon. And concealed the structure with hay bales for four years to get around a zoning law which restricted the land to agricultural use.
It is the little details, such as the couple keeping their son from attending school on the day he was supposed to draw a picture of his house, for fear that he would draw a building made of hay, that capture my imagination.
How did this couple, with their young children, manage to keep a secret for so many years? How did they receive mail or packages? How did they keep friends or family members from dropping by? What address did they use to do such things are file their taxes? The logistics are astonishing.
I can't help but admire the couple for trying to do an end run around the zoning laws to build such a complicated and large structure. I mourn a little bit that they will have to tear it down.
In England, a farmer built a mock-Tudor castle, complete with turrets and a cannon. And concealed the structure with hay bales for four years to get around a zoning law which restricted the land to agricultural use.
It is the little details, such as the couple keeping their son from attending school on the day he was supposed to draw a picture of his house, for fear that he would draw a building made of hay, that capture my imagination.
How did this couple, with their young children, manage to keep a secret for so many years? How did they receive mail or packages? How did they keep friends or family members from dropping by? What address did they use to do such things are file their taxes? The logistics are astonishing.
I can't help but admire the couple for trying to do an end run around the zoning laws to build such a complicated and large structure. I mourn a little bit that they will have to tear it down.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Change of Pace
Vosges Mo Bacon Bar. Chocolate with pieces of Applewood smoked bacon.
A most interesting taste experience. My tongue loved it. The rest of me could not quite accept the combination of chocolate and bacon at the same time. Half of the candy bar is sitting in the cupboard, waiting for another trial.
A most interesting taste experience. My tongue loved it. The rest of me could not quite accept the combination of chocolate and bacon at the same time. Half of the candy bar is sitting in the cupboard, waiting for another trial.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Health - Part I
I've had some time over the past several days to meditate on what it would be like to be genuinely poor, sick and missing even one of the resources I have available in order to obtain medical treatment. I have not experienced an epiphany during my mediations, just a re-realization of how difficult the health care system can be to navigate.
My first appointment was scheduled for 1:45 PM on a weekday afternoon. I have at least two follow-up appointments, also on weekday afternoons during working hours. In total I will be missing around 8 hours of work over a two week period, just to see my doctor.
I am not a salaried employee. I work for an hourly wage and taking time out of my required 40 hours is an inconvenience. However, I have options. I can take half a sick day or work longer on other days to make up the time. I can also elect to work fewer hours as my wage is high enough to offset the missing time in my paycheck. I will still be able to meet my bills.
My doctor works out of a clinic in a lower income neighborhood located outside the Pittsburgh city limits. She came highly recommended and makes seeing a physician a pleasant experience. She spends the first twenty minutes of every exam just talking. She is also half an hour away, no matter which form of transportation I elect to take, whether it is a bus, my car or a cab.
If I take the bus, I have to spend time studying the schedules, hope it shows up on time, hope that I don't arrive too early, hope that I don't wait too long, hope that I calculated correctly to miss the minimum amount of work. If I drive, I have to add in the cost of paying to park. If I take a cab, I have to calculate the cost of the trip. With any of these options I lose – either time or money. But it is my choice to make.
In addition to the prescriptions and the previously anticipated shoulder x-ray, my doctor order a chest x-ray, a blood draw and a TB test. More time spent, trying to get to a lab to get the blood work done, trying to find a location with decent hours to get the x-rays completed. Calculating how late I can arrive at work, how early can I leave, when can I make up those hours?
Filling prescriptions. First I am told that my doctor would have to call and authorize my allergy/asthma drug as “medically necessary”. Twenty-four hours later, via a phone call by the pharmacist, I am told that the doctor will have to file paperwork stating I have a formal diagnosis of allergies/asthma before the company will pay for the medication. Which will take at least two weeks, probably longer. If I want to start it right away I am going to need to ask my doctor for samples. Which means going across town again. For a medication that was unrestricted the last time I had the prescription filled.
What if I worked at a lower pay rate? What if my boss was not as sympathetic or flexible? What if the only option I had was the bus? What if I did not have a choice of doctor? Or labs? Or hospitals? Or pharmacy? What if I did not have enough money to pay for all those office visits? What would I do then?
My first appointment was scheduled for 1:45 PM on a weekday afternoon. I have at least two follow-up appointments, also on weekday afternoons during working hours. In total I will be missing around 8 hours of work over a two week period, just to see my doctor.
I am not a salaried employee. I work for an hourly wage and taking time out of my required 40 hours is an inconvenience. However, I have options. I can take half a sick day or work longer on other days to make up the time. I can also elect to work fewer hours as my wage is high enough to offset the missing time in my paycheck. I will still be able to meet my bills.
My doctor works out of a clinic in a lower income neighborhood located outside the Pittsburgh city limits. She came highly recommended and makes seeing a physician a pleasant experience. She spends the first twenty minutes of every exam just talking. She is also half an hour away, no matter which form of transportation I elect to take, whether it is a bus, my car or a cab.
If I take the bus, I have to spend time studying the schedules, hope it shows up on time, hope that I don't arrive too early, hope that I don't wait too long, hope that I calculated correctly to miss the minimum amount of work. If I drive, I have to add in the cost of paying to park. If I take a cab, I have to calculate the cost of the trip. With any of these options I lose – either time or money. But it is my choice to make.
In addition to the prescriptions and the previously anticipated shoulder x-ray, my doctor order a chest x-ray, a blood draw and a TB test. More time spent, trying to get to a lab to get the blood work done, trying to find a location with decent hours to get the x-rays completed. Calculating how late I can arrive at work, how early can I leave, when can I make up those hours?
Filling prescriptions. First I am told that my doctor would have to call and authorize my allergy/asthma drug as “medically necessary”. Twenty-four hours later, via a phone call by the pharmacist, I am told that the doctor will have to file paperwork stating I have a formal diagnosis of allergies/asthma before the company will pay for the medication. Which will take at least two weeks, probably longer. If I want to start it right away I am going to need to ask my doctor for samples. Which means going across town again. For a medication that was unrestricted the last time I had the prescription filled.
What if I worked at a lower pay rate? What if my boss was not as sympathetic or flexible? What if the only option I had was the bus? What if I did not have a choice of doctor? Or labs? Or hospitals? Or pharmacy? What if I did not have enough money to pay for all those office visits? What would I do then?
Monday, January 14, 2008
Dreadful Things to Come
My shoulder, the left one, the one that I did not abuse by hanging 25 pounds of textbooks off of all the way through high school and college, appears to be falling apart. It hurts when I sleep on it. It hurts to wrap a towel around me. It hurts when I swim. It hurts when I gesture.
I have an appointment with my GP on Thursday for a checkup. Partially to beg for drug renewals – Imitrex, Serevent and whatever prescription allergy medication my insurance will allow me to purchase which will not make me sleepy. Partially to have my skin checked, as I am a fair creature who burns easily and sport one scar from the removal of a melanoma on my arm. And partially to receive confirmation that my left shoulder will have to submit to the rigors of an x-ray, an MRI and a surgeon's knife in the near future.
I know I should have seen someone when it started acting up over a year ago. Over a year ago being the the fall of 2006. But I put it off. Because I knew that there would be x-rays and MRI's and a surgeon. And surgeons mean needles, needles to draw blood, needles to inject medication, needles placed temporarily under my skin into a vein to pump drugs and saline through my body.
I hate needles. Really hate needles. Hate enough that I refuse to give blood. Enough that, at the age of 16, I threw a tantrum when I was forced to return to the hospital so the tech could draw more blood to test for what turned out to be strep pneumonia. Enough that I waited a year longer than any sane person to see a doctor about my aching shoulder.
It does not help that I have come close to passing out multiple times. Or that the last time I had blood drawn my arm turned black and blue from my wrist to my elbow. Or that J has the same phobia but has managed to conquer it enough to give blood. I take comfort in the fact that he is a universal donor, so if I'm desperate he will provide.
You might think it was because I spent a fair amount of time in hospitals when I was a child. I had typical childhood ailments – removal of my tonsils, polyps removed from my adenoids (twice), tubes placed in my ears (three times). Except that I remember each of those trips and as far back as my memory can recall, I was all ready asleep when they inserted the I.V.
This time I will be awake and not sedated. Not a good combination.
I have an appointment with my GP on Thursday for a checkup. Partially to beg for drug renewals – Imitrex, Serevent and whatever prescription allergy medication my insurance will allow me to purchase which will not make me sleepy. Partially to have my skin checked, as I am a fair creature who burns easily and sport one scar from the removal of a melanoma on my arm. And partially to receive confirmation that my left shoulder will have to submit to the rigors of an x-ray, an MRI and a surgeon's knife in the near future.
I know I should have seen someone when it started acting up over a year ago. Over a year ago being the the fall of 2006. But I put it off. Because I knew that there would be x-rays and MRI's and a surgeon. And surgeons mean needles, needles to draw blood, needles to inject medication, needles placed temporarily under my skin into a vein to pump drugs and saline through my body.
I hate needles. Really hate needles. Hate enough that I refuse to give blood. Enough that, at the age of 16, I threw a tantrum when I was forced to return to the hospital so the tech could draw more blood to test for what turned out to be strep pneumonia. Enough that I waited a year longer than any sane person to see a doctor about my aching shoulder.
It does not help that I have come close to passing out multiple times. Or that the last time I had blood drawn my arm turned black and blue from my wrist to my elbow. Or that J has the same phobia but has managed to conquer it enough to give blood. I take comfort in the fact that he is a universal donor, so if I'm desperate he will provide.
You might think it was because I spent a fair amount of time in hospitals when I was a child. I had typical childhood ailments – removal of my tonsils, polyps removed from my adenoids (twice), tubes placed in my ears (three times). Except that I remember each of those trips and as far back as my memory can recall, I was all ready asleep when they inserted the I.V.
This time I will be awake and not sedated. Not a good combination.
Tell Me Again...
How good the people of Afghanistan have it now?
Because banning male tailors from measuring woman and calling for the return of public executions does not sound all that progressive.
Neither is naming a man acting police chief, but withholding the rank, authority, ammunition and money necessary to do the job properly.
As a contrast, this article and video on the return of big wedding celebrations, banned under the reign of the Taliban.
Because banning male tailors from measuring woman and calling for the return of public executions does not sound all that progressive.
Neither is naming a man acting police chief, but withholding the rank, authority, ammunition and money necessary to do the job properly.
As a contrast, this article and video on the return of big wedding celebrations, banned under the reign of the Taliban.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
A List of Things that are Going to Make my Head Explode
Any more comments bashing the current crop of Democratic presidential candidates on the following qualities:
- Gender
- Race
- Looks
- Lack of or Excessive Display of Emotions
- Age
- Type of Laugh
Friday, January 04, 2008
The NHL Winter Classic
I had a well organized, interesting post planned on our recent adventures in Toronto and Buffalo. Then I came down with the flu, courtesy of our one of our fellow travelers.
A Summary
A Summary
- The Hockey Hall of Fame – in which fans are permitted to kiss the Stanley Cup if they so desire and Bob Johnson's ring resides in the vault with the pieces of the old cup. Coolest statue was a giant bronze of this classic Ken Dryden pose.
- Dinner at Fran's Bistro – Funky, comforting home cooking. Excellent 5 cheese macaroni and cheese, adult shakes spiked with your liquor of choice and chili made with carrots.
- World's Biggest Bookstore – Huge. Located inside a fire engine red building on Edward Street. I walked out much poorer from the visit with every intention of returning again, with several hundred Canadian dollars in my pockets. Has everything plus some things I did not know I wanted and carries British publishers.
- The Steam Whistle Brewery & The Distillery – The brewery reminded me of Rolling Rock. The distillery was defunct, but the old buildings were amazing.
- The Border Crossing – In which our party demonstrates that the easiest way to distract a U.S. Custom's Agent is to mention that you are attending a major sporting event in the area, thus provoking the guard to ask “Really? How did you get tickets?” instead of the routine litany of questions.
- Wings at the Anchor Bar – A Buffalo institution and the home of the hot wing. The mild wing sauce was excellent.
- The Game – Seventy-one thousand plus screaming fans. Thirty degrees and snowing. It seemed as if sixty thousand of them were cheering for the Sabres. My first experience in hostile territory. The Capitals do not count as the Verizon Center is Mellon Arena southeast.
- The Win – In which Sidney, “...is a girl's name” Crosby manages to close the mouths and empty the stadium of sixty thousand Sabres fans by scoring the winning goal in a shootout.
- Lake Effect Snow – Seven hours from Buffalo to Pittsburgh. Six hours spent on unplowed, unsalted roads.
- The Flu – Inevitable.
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