The Post

I was going to title this entry "Going Postal" but I could not find it in myself to sink that low.

Normally, I don't mind going to the post office. The consumer demographic is interesting to observe*, the stamps are pretty to look at and I've never had an employer give me a hard time about coming back late from an errand when that errand is the post office.** I've never gotten bad directions from a mail carrier and the counter employees are cheerful and easygoing.

Except at the Squirrel Hill branch of the Pittsburgh post office. Conducting business there is an experience in aggravation akin to trying to navigate through Milan Malpensa airport.*** No amount of people watching can eliminate the bad taste of conducting business in this branch.

There exists a set of undefined, completely arbitrary and random rules as to how a customer is supposed to function while inside the confines of this particular office. The only order I have been able to determine is that if you are a middle aged, monied male you could get away with murdering all the patrons, piling their bodies into a pile and setting the corpses on fire and the staff would not blink an eye.

Or, in a less extreme example, bypass the line altogether, dump enormous package and bag of mail on the counter and demand a specific employee. Be sure to count off where your place in line would have been, if you were actually the type to participate in such a bourgeois custom. Manage to conveniently ignore the last woman in the line while counting, she must be invisible. Proceed to leave the lot in a pile on the counter in order to spend several moments banging on the heavy, wooden, "employee's only" door while yelling. Return to counter and hover over the postal employees, asserting

Be not young or female and step up to the empty station without first being called. You will be screamed at, then sent back to the line, where you watch while the screaming employee throws the packages from a prior customer into the waiting bin and storms off for a smoke.

Just as your turn comes, a third, yawning, employee will wander out, announce that she is tired but can't seem to nap and that she needs cash. Instead of going outside to the ATM across the street, she hands her debit card to her coworker, who swipes and hands her some bills.

I hate the place.

* Today there was an elderly man and a middle-aged woman holding the forms and various other paraphernalia necessary to obtain a passport. The elderly man was applying for his first passport. I wondered where he would be traveling. A son in the military? A cruise? A late-in-life desire to see the world? Or a casio junket to the Falls?
** I suspect that is a more a function of being successful at choosing more relaxed employers. My current boss, for example, happens to be a fan of packages and packing material, so he has a tendency to overlook long absences in the middle of the day when the employee in question has business to conduct at the neighborhood post office.
*** Minimal signage and what is posted is in direct contradiction with reality. Truly awful customs agents.

Nothing

1. Defines stupefying like learning that the priest that taught me in high school, gave me a job when I returned from graduate school burned out and unemployed, and officiated at my wedding ceremony, has run off with the church secretary.

Learning that he may have been the catalyst for the secretary's divorce, finalized a mere six weeks before the two ran off together, is equally stupefying.

2. Defines momentarily terrifying like watching a tire, still attached to the rim, fall from the expressway above, bounce all over the road, somehow miss multiple vehicles (including mine, which I paid off last month) nearly run over a pedestrian on the sidewalk and roll down the street.

3. Nothing defines annoying as much as listening to the woman two seats away alternately tsk, sigh and comment (loud enough to be distracting, quiet enough that I could not eavesdrop) her way through the movie J and I were trying to watch this afternoon, at the Regent Square Theater. Running into her in the bathroom afterwards was also annoying, as I was still in the mood to give her a hard time.

I Have the Answers

I was going to write a detailed entry about the number of strangers who walked up to me today and asked me seemingly random questions, but I can only remember two incidents. I know there were more. It feels as if there were more. But I can only remember two and only one really stands out.

Stranger One asked possibly the most random question I will ever get from any individual. Which is saying something, because I have fielded some really weird questions over the years.

We were standing near the front of the bus, waiting for it to stop, when she turned to me and asked “Is tomorrow Thursday or Friday?

Sadly, I had to pause and really think about what she was asking me. For a moment I found myself pondered the question about what day it was today and what day it would be tomorrow. And for a moment, I was not certain how to answer her question.

When I responded that tomorrow was a Thursday, she remarked that it was strange, because it felt like today was a Thursday. I found myself agreeing with her premise. A week in which one must pause to determine what day it is, is a long week indeed.

The Unwell Elevator

The elevator at work is "not well". This is not my phrasing, this is how my boss decided to describe the series of events that lead to the malfunction of the elevator - while I was inside it.

Every morning I go through the front door, check the alarm system* and walk down the hall to take the elevator to the upper floor.

Every morning this winter I have stepped on the elevator, noticed how c.o.l.d it is inside, press the button for the second floor and wait for the machine to rise and the doors to open

This morning I followed the routine, except the machine most definitely did not rise and open. Instead it started up towards the second floor, dropped with a teeth-jarring shudder, paused for too long and began heading down. To the basement.

Slightly perturbed by this turn of events, I pulled out my cellular phone and called the only coworker I was certain would be in the building at that time**. He was rather amused when I explained to him that I was calling from the elevator and that I appeared to be stuck. As we were discussing my options, the doors open and I stepped out into the basement.

My coworker was kind enough to tell me which door I needed to go through to get out of the basement and was waiting for me at the office back door.

When informed that the elevator has decided to stop working in rather dramatic fashion, my boss printed up a sign and taped it to the front door. Part of the sign reads:

"The elevator is not well. We think it has a cold".

Which was accurate in its way. The hydraulic fluid froze.

*I have set off the alarm three times since I started this job, much to my embarrassment and the amusement of my boss. Now I review the code in my head before I enter the building, just in case.
**I work with night owls. It was almost 8:45 and only one coworker was there. Most of them show up between 9 and 9:15 and leave around 6:00 in the evening.

Around a Year Ago...

...now, I walked out of the third floor satellite office of Lab Corp, having involuntarily offered up my blood in the continuing quest to determine why I was waking up in the middle of the night sweat-drenched and shivering.

There were two stores on the first floor of the building, a Tomasina bridal salon and an art gallery called the Art Loft. With the rest of the day ahead of me and no place to be, I decided to step into the gallery take a look around.

The Art Loft had several cases of artisan jewelry, the kind of dear little pieces made out of "found objects" such as old typewriter keys. Funky, fun, occasionally moving, intentionally inspiring pieces.

What caught my eyes was a series of cuff bracelets and small pendants. Both the bracelets and the pendants were stamped with quotes or a single word. The intent was to impart the wearer with a sort of invisible armor to aid them in getting through the day.

As I looked at the pieces, I thought about the misery of the past weeks. About the worry I pushed down deep, in a desire not to be overly dramatic about the short gauntlet of tests various doctors were putting me through. About how nice it was to feel that I was at the end of the pass through the gauntlet, not any wiser, but reassured that I did not have TB, thyroid issues or, most frightening because of my family history, lymphoma.

I purchased two pieces that day. A thin, sterling sliver cuff bracelet stamped with a quote attributed to Socrates, "Wisdom begins with wonder", and a small pendant stamped with a single word, "STRENGTH".

I convinced myself that I needed these pieces, to remind me that I was fine and would remain fine. To remind myself that the emotional cost of gaining wisdom was worth the wondering.

As I walked out of the store, up towards my car, I thought about my friend Bill. I had not written to him in the past weeks, not wanting to add worry about my health to his all ready heavy load of burdens. I was looking forward to getting good results from this final round of blood tests, forward to writing an email telling him of my adventures in medicine, that I was not perfect, but I was as close to fine as my doctors could determine me to be.

I never got a chance to send that email. Between that day and March 12, my friend Bill put a loaded shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I know, distinctly, which gun he used to end his life. I saw it sitting in his apartment four months earlier.

Harsh, is it not, the way I describe my friend's death? Harsh of me to not gloss over his violent journey from life to death? To refuse to speak in code, to say that he "passed away suddenly" or "took his life" or "committed suicide".

My friend lied to me. For years. Lied about the reasons surrounding his divorce. Lied about the reasons he was no longer permitted to talk to his son. Lied about his mental health.

My friend suffered from bipolar disorder. Like J's cousin-in-law, he refused to take medication consistently. Refused to stay in therapy. Drank to much. Became violent and abusive during the lows. And was somehow successfully able to hid this from employers, friends and most family.

Like J's cousin, my friend's wife decided she had enough. Was tired of the violence and the abuse. Was tired of watching their child suffer. While he was away on a free lance assignment, she told him not to come home. She didn't love him any more.

J's cousin-in-law and my friend took their respective lives within three weeks of each other, using the same method, under similar life circumstances. The catalyst for J's cousin-in-law was receiving divorce papers. For Bill, it was learning that he was responsible for his ex-wife's legal bills.

I say catalyst, but really, the catalyst occurred long, long before those events. It was made when they refused to stay on their medication. Refused to continue with therapy. Brought into the ridiculous cultural notion of how men should behave. Men don't get depressed. Men don't go into therapy. Men don't take medications.

I have written of my own difficulties with depression. I know, intimately, what it feels like to be suicidal. I know the kind of toll it takes on the people I love, the ones who love me. I know the burden that J carries in loving me, even in my mad, hopeless, depressed states*, charges me to do the very best I can to keep myself healthy mentally.

I have been angry with Bill for almost a year. For lying to me. For making the people he was supposed to love and protect the most suffer. For killing himself.

Earlier this week, while searching for something else, I came across a couple of his emails. And I felt the loss of my friend, the way I could not feel it for the past year. This morning, while riding into work, I started talking to J about Bill, after refusing to say anything about his death for almost a year. I started to cry.

And the woman across the aisle, the one who I thought had a mean face, she handed me two tissues so I could wipe the tears from my eyes.






*Hyperbole, people. Coping mechanism.

Debate

I've been following, with interest, the increasingly contentious debate over whether vaccinations cause autism. Last week's special court ruling denying three families compensation from the federal vaccine-injury fund is considered a significant victory by the pro-vaccination camp.

The ruling came on the heels of a February 8, 2009 article published in the Sunday Times Online, revealing that the leader of the never replicated, now discredited 1998 Lancet study concealed and falsified data to create the appearance of a link between autism and the MMR vaccination.

My interested in the debate is more than academic, as I am part of the 0.01% of the population who had a severe allergic reaction to the first dose of the MMR vaccination and, on the advice of the family doctor, never received the second booster shot. As such, I must rely on herd immunity to protect me from getting sick.

I can't say that my life has been complicated all that much by the fact that I have minimal to no immunity to these three diseases. But there have been several minor inconveniences over the years and the increasing number of otherwise educated and rational parents who have elected to not vaccinate their kids because they fail to understand the concept of risk, leaves me a little bit angry with them.

There has been the inconvenience of having blood drawn done my junior year of high school, after a classmate caught rubella* from a distant cousin. To protect the school population from a potential widespread outbreak, the members of my class were advised to get a booster shot.

Except I can't have the booster. Instead my brother** and I had our blood drawn and sent to the CDC to be tested for immunity. If our immunity fell below a specified level, we would be quarantined and not permitted to return to school for several weeks, as we were not only potential victims, we were also potential carriers.

The tests came back at the lowest acceptable level of immunity. We able to continue attending school.

A year later I had to submit a signed affidavit from my doctor attesting that I was allergic to the vaccination, in order to attend the college of my choice. Four years later I had to get a second affidavit in order to attend graduate school in a different state.

Minor inconveniences. As much as I would like to visit England, it is not an option right now because the rate of measles infections is steadily rising and herd immunity is falling, putting me at potential risk for infection. I have to commit to being more aware of the types of infectious diseases occurring in the places I would like to visit, in the United States and abroad.

Minor inconveniences. An outbreak in Pittsburgh would mean voluntary quarantine to protect myself and members of the immune suppressed population from exposure. Good thing I have the capability of working from home.

I understand and respect the arguments from those who elect to delay vaccinations until their children are a little bit older or spread out the shots in order to mitigate any potential reactions. I even agree with them. I might not have had such a bad reaction to the MMR if I had just had the M, then the other M, then the R.

I have near zero compassion for parents who outright refuse to vaccinate their kids. I believe them to be short-sighted and selfish with no sense of obligation to contributing to the greater good of the general public. Their demand for scientific absolutes is unreasonable. There is no such thing. In science or in life.

*Her vaccination failed. Which is rare, but does happen.
**My twin brother also had a severe allergic reaction to the first shot. Both of us had a high fever of several days duration and hives. He also had convulsions. Less you think a high fever is not a big deal, I must remind you that it lasted several days and we were 13 months old.

Under my Skin

I started snowboarding again, after a six year hiatus from the activity. The hiatus was partly due to an increasingly distant and frankly irrational fear of ski lifts and partly due to a period of financial difficultly.

Because of the hiatus, I have had to relearn everything, from how to properly fit and strap in my boots to how to get on and off ski lifts, I spent the better part of the two hours I was out on Saturday practicing on a beginner's slope called School Haus.

I am a hyper conscientious beginning snowboarder. I am the type of individual who warns the party behind her on the ski lift that there is a 99.9%* chance I will fall coming off the lift. When I do fall, I don't dawdle, I get my partially strapped-in body out of the way as quickly as I can.

When riding, I go to the least populated parts of a slope, usually unpopulated because the terrain is icy, lacks a decent layer of powder or is otherwise not conducive to a successful run. If I should happen to fall (a given), I am not taking other skiers and snowboarders out with me.**

I cannot, however, control the actions of other people on the slopes. I cannot, for example, force the father who was so busy looking down at his un-helmeted daughter while teaching her to ski that he forgot to look in front of him, from nearly colliding with me.**

That we did not collide was a minor miracle, considering that he came into my left field of peripheral vision so suddenly that I had no other choice but to stop my board, as I am not fast or skilled enough to veer the board out of their way.

Near collisions on the beginner's slope are a given, since everyone on the slope is (theoretically) learning how to ski/snowboard/get down the slope without falling down, in one piece. The general etiqutte in such situations is to apologize, check for injuries and move on.

This individual, however, was disinterested in following the general etiqutte. Instead he informed me that New York state law dictates that skiers have the right-of-way*** and went on his way with his daughter , skiing underneath the curved edge of my board.

As no one was injured, I should have let the incident go. But I could not. Instead his comment left me angry and deflated and seriously considering whether I wanted to continue investing the time, effort and money into trying to learn, only to be picked.

I tried cutting him some slack, as he was a parent and could have been a little bit shook up. As I look seventeen years old, in my bright blue jacket and funky hat. As he could have been having a bad day. But I could not shake my anger at his absolute sense of entitlement, that those ahead of him, on the slopes or in life, will merely sense his presence and get out of his way.

After several minutes of sitting on the slope, thinking, listening to J rave about my improvement and rant about mean people sucking, I finished the run down the hill, unstrapped myself from the board and we headed for one of the intermediate slopes, with a faster moving quad lift.

I fell while getting off the lift. I fell once on the way down. I managed to keep the front of the board pointed forward and the edges parallel to the slope. It was the best run I've had in years.

* I actually successfully got off a lift once. Seven years ago.
** I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, that he did not see me, even though a small, petty part of me suspects that he did it intentionally.
*** The state law says no such thing. Skiers (including snowboarders) are required to look upslope when merging into a new trail and pay attention to what is in front of them. J, who was higher up on the slope watching me, confirmed that the man and his daughter came up from behind.

Job Fair

Today it was my turn to participate in the “torture the new employee” at work. The new employee in question was myself and the task was to spend long hours in the student union of a local university collecting resumes from the soon-to-be-graduated-and-unemployed and the not-graduating-yet-seeking-internship students.

As we are not hiring, my company took a low-key approach to recruiting students, which meant a black and white, single page printout about the company, a stack of business cards and plenty of one-on-one interaction. Some of the recruiters went all out. Big displays. Interesting swag. The construction company to the left of me, specializing in big projects*, handed out thin, three sided rulers, each side marked using a different measurement system. There were pens, notepads, keychain flashlights and gym sacks. Miniature traffic cones. Popcorn.

I chatted with the students, gave out business cards, gathered resumes and tried to be reassuring. I wished them luck in their search. I referred one young woman, out of college for a year and struggling to find employment, to my former boss as a possible contact for employment. I gave a second woman a list of references to aid her in her search for an internship in QA. I even did a little of recruiting for one of our clients.

It was gratifying and frustrating. It was gratifying to the excitement and nervousness in the face of the students. It was frustrating to have to say over and over that we were not hiring, I did not know when we would be hiring, I'm really sorry that you are having so much trouble finding something but that will not change my answer.

And it was fun to have one student ask if the software would aid in fighting a “Cloverfield like monster attack? Or aliens? Will it help fight against aliens?”

*You know those giant earthmovers and dumptrucks you see along highways under construction? The kind with wheels the size of a small house? They did those kind of projects.

Poison

The weekend started off auspiciously, with a Friday night Penguins game, complete with chicken fingers and fries with a side of barbecue and honey mustard dipping sauce. The hard lemonade was a nice compliment to the salt and grease. And my poor Penguins, (who will most likely miss the playoffs this year*), played a stellar, sixty minute game against the Columbus Blue Jackets.

It was a chunk out of a wheel of Giant Eagle double crème brie with herbs that nearly took me down for the rest of the weekend. With J at his parents for most of the day and I at loose ends, I decided that brie with cracked pepper crackers and black olives would be a perfectly respectable lunch.

I continued to believe this even after a close examination of the wheel of cheese showed a slightly brown coloring on its normally snowy white surface. I continued to believe this after slicing into the cheese revealed a slightly runny interior instead of the firm texture I've come to expect out of a wheel of Giant Eagle double crème brie with herbs. The odor was a little more brie-ish than usual, the flavor a little bit stronger.

Having eaten very smelly, very strong tasting cheeses before, I was not put off by the appearance and smell as much as I should have been. After all, there was still several weeks left before the passing of the sell by date.

Lunch finished, I continued enjoying my day of sloth (the only one available for the next several weekends) by watching home improvement shows (Eighteen THOUSAND dollars to renovate a bathroom?) and stretching out the folding of a basket of laundry over two hours. J and I see a play and go out for what turned out to be an infuriating dinner for reasons I shall not digress to discuss.

Almost immediately following the end of the the infuriating dinner I began to fill unwell. I should have known better. This is the third time in a year I have purchased brie from Giant Eagle, to find out that it was bad weeks before the sell-by date. Only this time I did not have enough sense to throw the cheese out. Instead I ate it, and spent half the night very uncomfortable, drinking as much chamomile and ginger tea as I could possibly stand.

J, penitent for being the cause of the infuriating dinner, made me the tea.

*That, in short, explains why I have not been writing about them this year. With their two of their top defensemen shelved due to injury for most of the season and the constant changing of lines and shuffling of WBS players in and out of the lineup, it has been frustrating.

Still Employed

Exhibit 1: I receive an email from my former manager informing me of the impending closure of the lab at which I spent the past five+ years of my life working and left in July 2008 for a job with better pay, more responsibility and a fraction of the aggravation.

Exhibit 2: I message one of the former co-workers, who tells me that yes, all of them will be out of a job as of January 30. Former employer (owner) flies in on Sunday and sets up meeting with manager. Informs manager that he is shutting the lab down and that he will be making the announcement on Monday morning.

Employees gather in conference room on Monday morning, owner makes announcement. Employees leave lab in shock, go for coffee. Return to lab less than thirty minutes later, discover owner is gone. As in packed up and headed back to west coast office.

A happy hour is announced. Former employees are invited to join the newly unemployed at a South Side bar for conversation and commiseration.

All but one former employee appears for the happy hour. We are entertained with stories of the horror that was the final two weeks of the lab.

How the owner went AWOL after the announcement, refusing to return any emails, messages or phone calls until late into the second week, leaving the lab manager (who is also out of a job) to deal with the fallout.

It was the manager who determined that the laid off employees would not qualify for COBRA insurance*, figured out how to file for unemployment**, and ran resume improvement sessions. It was the manager who determined which equipment would be sent back to the west coast and which could be sold. It was the manager who had to endure, after two weeks of being completely ignored, a dressing down by the owner about not moving “fast enough” to get the equipment shipped and sold off.

They tell us about the sudden influx of work that forced most of the employees to test while packing up and shipping the most valuable equipment to back to the west coast and writing ads to sell the remaining equipment on craigslist. That, as late as Thursday, project managers on the west coast were requesting testers for projects.

There were also the passive aggressive attempts at revenge. The equipment put on craigslist was deliberately overpriced, to make it more difficult to sell, thus leaving the owner to deal with the removal any remaining pieces once the lease on the office space ran out. Instructions by the owner to remove sold pieces from the lab (which included a ping pong table and a full size refrigerator) were ignored. Because the demand for testers continued until the very last day, the lab manager was able to extend his employment for an additional two weeks, since he could not send any of the remaining equipment back.

As the account of common atrocities piled up, I was increasingly thankful that I left last July. I am acutely aware that the position I have might not last, that I may not get my contracted raises, that J might lose his job. But right now, I am very happy that I took a deep breath, sacrificed some of my time off and plunged into something new.

*Companies with less than 20 employees are not required to offer COBRA. What makes this detail interesting is the company had less that 20 employees when I left and I was offered COBRA. So not only did my former coworkers lose their job, my former employer elected to do the shitty thing and not offer them an opportunity to maintain their insurance coverage.

**I can't help but wonder if they will be screwed out of unemployment for the same reason they were screwed out of COBRA.

That Girl

Calves are sore. Eyes are tired. Body is exhausted and reminding me that I am too old for a weekend of almost non stop, party type activity.

It was for a good reason. My brother was married in a very lovely, gaffe-filled Catholic ceremony on Saturday afternoon. The organist forgot that the Matron of Honor* would not be in the procession and kept playing for several minutes after the bridal party had finished walking down the aisle. The bride and her father began walking down the aisle too early. The priest (a last minute substitution as the pastor was ill) called the bride by the wrong name. Twice.

There were two second readings, as the cantor pointed out the incorrect passage the first time. The priest walked up to the podium at the conclusion of reading 2.1, flipped the pages to the correct passage and had the reader complete 2.2.

Due to the Matron of Honor's immobility, she was unable to get the bouquet back to the bride after the vows had been completed. She passed the flowers off to me and I dashed across the altar, behind the back of the priest giving communion, to hand them back to the bride.

And the priest forgot their last name while introducing the newly married couple.

I was “that girl” during the reception and ready to celebrate, not only my brother's marriage, but that I managed to escape (for the present) the economic downturn that lead my former employer to decide to close the Pittsburgh office at the end of this month. I danced, I flirted with the small children, I tricked couples into showing off some moves. I stole into the bridal sweet with my SIL, my aunt and two members of the bridal party to decorate the rooms.

Then J and I stumbled back to our room, where J made me drink several glasses of water before he would allow me to go to sleep. I woke up three hours earlier then intended, not in the best of shape, but in better shape then I deserved considering my excesses of the prior day.

* Matron of Honor broke her leg on New Year's Eve and is in a cast – not a traditional plaster cast but one of those wicked frame contraptions with pins extending from the frame into her leg, to hold the bones into place. The name of this type of cast escapes me.

To Offset the Mushiness of the Previous Post

Dear Two Women ahead of me at the bus stop this morning,

I don't understand it, this irrational fear of moving to the back of the bus. This fear that makes you dump yourself and all your belongings (in the space clearly marked "No items may be put in this area") smack in front of the doors. Thus blocking the other six of us from getting on the bus in any semblance of an orderly fashion.

The back is a bit of a strange country. Those two steps up can be treacherous to navigate and the people who sit back there? Terrifying. Imagine, all those different races and genders sharing seats! Those headache inducing hair colors of black, brown and blonde! Those blinding wedding bands and hoop earrings! Those radical winter coats of black and brown.

If you are so dead set on standing at the front of the bus, for goodness sakes, get on last and save the rest of us the headache.

And to the young woman whose feet I stepped on whilst trying to maintain my balance - I apologize.

Happiness is a Purring Cat

And a President for which I can be proud.

I received an email this morning from a non-American friend asking if I watched the inauguration of (my) new king, which made me laugh. I had to admit to him that it did seem a little bit like a coronation, with the chanting masses and mass celebrations. I also observed that it was very un-American, these mass displays.

I watched the inauguration at work, streaming CNN starting at 10:00 am Tuesday morning. As I worked on finishing up some test parameters I listened to the anchors chatting about the crowds and the weather. Occasionally I would switch to a different live stream, some of them without audio.

Work stopped at 11:30, as the majority of us watched the ceremonies take place. Watching Hilary Clinton walk the halls as a former first lady, I could not help but think how close she was to being the first woman POTUS.

But what struck me the most was how conscious and aware President Obama was in those moments, as he took the oath of office and made his speech. From all directions I hear “live in the moment”, but I had never see an example of what it is to do that, to live in the moment, until I saw him take the oath of office.

I did not exhale until the oath was complete. Then it was done and I recalled the words of my friend referenced above. “Well done. Lot of work ahead”.

Today – A Quick Study in Contrasts

This afternoon I watched Barack Obama become the 44th President of the United States.

This evening I opened a letter from my dental insurance provider. The letter informed me that they would pay $280.00 towards my $1550.00 periodontal bill. This, I should note, is actually less than what I pay out yearly for the insurance.

I hope, really, that change has finally come.

The Problem with Deleting Photos from Flickr...

Is that they got deleted off the blog as well.

At least I know what my weekend project will be.

The Privilege of the Bus Rider

One of the blogs I frequent has a post up about the federal government investing in making cities more walkable and generally building up a public transportation infrastructure. The reasoning? More walkable cities reduce drunk driving incidents.

Reading the comments was a bit surreal. I was struck by the amount of push back by self-identified, progressive feminists resisting the idea of using public transportation in that a city with a decent, late night system and foot-accessible streets. There is legitimate criticism over the goals of MADD, as it has turned into a neo-prohibition organization, but that did little to undercut the tone of “rather drive drunk then ride the bus or hail a cab”.The unconscious privilege and downright social snobbery over riding the bus left me cold.

I'm not talking about the readers who have experienced harassment, including one who was mistaken for a prostitute and propositioned repeatedly while waiting for the bus. It is a legitimate fear and one incident would be enough, I think, to put me off riding the bus at night for some time.

Rather it is the classist comments about not wanting to wait, to share space on the bus/el/T/metro/subway late at night with dirty, crazy, homeless, or poor consumers of public transportation that were off putting. I've shared space with crazy in a lot of different settings. The crazy I've seen on the bus is not half as frightening as the crazy I've seen in my working life.

With respect that “the plural of anecdote is not data” for myself or any of the posters, aware of my own privilege that leaves a white, conservatively dressed, on the downside towards middle age woman reasonably safe on the mean streets of Pittsburgh, the worse that has happened to me after six years of taking public transportation is repeated falls on the sidewalk near my stop (never salted until after the weather stops), waiting in frigid weather for a bus that never showed, witnessing the ranting and rude behavior of angry motorized scooter guy and a verbal screaming match between a driver and a rider shortly after I started riding the bus.

The kindness I have witnessed outweighs all the falls on an icy sidewalk. From drivers who saw me coming down my street and waited for me. From one who, when forced to let us off in in the middle of a lane, stepped into traffic to ensure that we made it to the curb safely. From another who risked being reprimanded to get me near my destination – even though it was my fault for taking the incorrect bus. I have experienced fellow passengers retrieve my dropped gloves and offer me cough drops when I was sick. And offer to buy me a cup of hot tea at McDonald's on that frigid night when the bus never showed. And my personal favorite, fearless older women haranguing young men about their inappropriate behavior and lack of deportment towards other citizens on the street.

I've had to adapt. Remember to pack hat, gloves and scarf in my bag and wear my long coat in winter, so I am warm enough on cold nights. Remember to pack novel, notepad and pen for long waits and delays. Carry some cough drops and tissues. Say good morning and good night to the drivers. Relax.

To the Five People Who Read this Blog...

I've lost my sense of adventure and I need to find it.

I'm seeking suggestions on things to do that will take me out of my comfort zone and make me curious about the world around me again.

Thoughts?

Recovery

A less disgusting, but boring entry about my healing mouth. Because my brain is a defective sieve, incapable of holding any of the items I want to write about and I have nothing else right now but a whine about my brother's cancelled bachelor party, which ruined my plans to have the house to myself for the weekend and a second whine about the Penguins, as they continue their painful slide into last place.

Monday
The stitches and stent came out, after a quick examination by the periodontist and the application of more topical Novocaine. There was another brief moment of panic when I accidentally scraped away some of the graft tissue, thinking it was excess packing. A brief tour of the internets reassured me that I had not done any damage and that the graft would be alright.

I turn down the offer to put the stent back in.

Tuesday
I met my hockey buddy for lunch at Pamela's. I have breakfast for lunch, crepe style pancakes stuffed with strawberries covered with brown sugar and sour cream. D orders a sandwich and fries. I'm still on the softer variety of foods to protect my sore palate and gums.

During our conversation I learn that D had the same procedure done on his two front teeth, sans packing or stent or prescription drugs to ease post-operative pain.

D ends up losing his ATM card and gets a parking ticket. I don't think he will be meeting me for lunch in my neighborhood anytime soon.

Weekend
Call off work on Friday to see if I can recover some of the sleep I've lost in the past several days. Lounge in bed and think about ways to get myself out of the house and interacting with people again. Decide to sign up for a four week class at the Pittsburgh Glass Center. The class meets on Sundays. I will be learning how to transfer photograhic images to glass.

How I Spent the New Year

AKA – How to survive a subepithelial connective tissue graft with apologies if the details are too gory...

The day I had been dreading since last February arrived Monday. At 2:40 in the afternoon I entered the periodontist's office for a dental procedure called a subepithelial connective tissue graft. This is a very technical term for the barbaric necessity of having gum tissue removed from the roof of my mouth and grafted over gum recessed and root-exposed teeth in another part of my mouth.

The procedure is a preventative measure, to prevent infection, loss of tooth and/or bone and to avoid an even more painfully barbaric procedure called scaling and root planing, in which the periodontist removes bacterial plaque from below the gumline with a serious of instruments that would not be considered out of place in a medieval torture chamber. My mother was forced to have this procedure done and swore that she would let her teeth fall out before going through it again.

As I had to have a graft done on both sides of my mouth (lower right and upper left), I was given the option of splitting the procedure over two visits. I elected to get it over with all at once, afraid that the experience would be so bad the first time that I would not want to come back again.

The first step in the graft was the administration of 7.5 milligrams of Valium to ease my very quiet, but very real panic and the taking of an impression of the roof of my mouth to create a wax stent. As I waited for the Valium to take effect, the dental assistant talked me through the rest of the process, sent J out to get the prescriptions I would need and compared notes with me on migraines.

After twenty minutes, she carefully guided me to a second room and handed me over to a second assistant. Assistant number 2, covered my eyes with protective glasses, my body with protective paper and numbed the hell of ¾ of my mouth with a topical Novocaine solution, so the injections would not hurt as much. She waited five minutes, then numbed the surface of my gums again.

After an additional five minutes, the periodontist, an oddly charming and cheerful old Jewish man named Dr. Baumhammer began injecting Novocaine into my lower right and upper left gumline and midway between the hard and soft palate on the roof of my mouth.

(This particular injection, into the palate, is something I experienced at the age of twelve when I had four molars removed and stands out as one of the singularly most painful experiences of my life. I clearly recall, as heavily sedated as I was then, the oral surgeon saying “This will hurt and you will remember this one for the rest of your life”. Correct on both accounts).

After the first round of injections, Dr. Baumhammer stopped for five minutes. He explained that it takes approximately five minutes for Novocaine to reach its full effectiveness and he would be administer a second round of shots. Based on my reaction to the second round he would either start the procedure or wait longer and give me a third round of injections. At any point, if I felt the slightest bit of discomfort, I was supposed to signal him to stop by raising my left arm.

Aside from the injections, the procedure was close to painless. The only sensation I felt was of the surgical thread running against my lip as he stitched the grafted tissue into place and the donor site closed. The upper tooth was more difficult and he had to stop multiple times to give me more Novocaine (I lost track after the sixth shot), as I could feel the scalpel blade (no pain, just the blade) against my gum.

Finally he finished stitching up my poor mouth, covered the grafts with surgical packing and the donor site with the hard wax stent. I discovered that 7.5 milligrams of Valium was not enough to keep the tension out of my body, as I had to physically force my legs to relax. The assistant helped me sit up in the chair and sent J ahead to get the car.

While we waited, she prepared a small brown paper bag, into which she dropped after care instructions, an envelope with a prescription for an antibiotic, some gauze pads to staunch bleeding and some ibuprofen for pain relief. She escorted me down the elevator to the alley behind the building and handed me off to J.

I spent Tuesday and Wednesday “working” from home. Between Monday and today my face swelled up, I learned that Vicodin is an excellent painkiller, ibuprofen is equally excellent, baby food is absolutely disgusting and being restricted to soft foods only gets old quickly. My diet has consisted primarily of applesauce, chocolate milkshake, eggs (scrambled and poached), whipped potatoes and cream soups.

I also have an enormous blue bruise on the lower left side of my check and a small purple bruise under my left eye. I looked like I was punched. Hard. The bruises are the relic of the six plus shots of Novocaine into the upper left gumline. It has been interesting to see how people react when they see my face. More than one woman has winced and looked at me with pity and J says a couple of men gave him rather unfriendly looks.

The stitches come out on Monday.

On the Mountain - Part II

The lodge at the bottom of the north face of Mont Tremblant is surprisingly smaller then expected and sparsely furnished. It does not maintain the same sense of chaotic activity found at the top of Mont Tremblant or swirling around the restaurants and shops at the bottom of the south face. The large porch is empty of activity, as any warmth from the sun is offset by the bitterly cold wind.

I stopped at the small cafeteria to purchase yogurt, a cookie, a bottle of water. My appetite for the cookie disappears once I discovered that it was 400 calories and I was only able to eat 1/4 of it. I sat at one of the tables lined up against a row of windows, warmed by the sun, watching groups of skiers and snowboarders coming off the mountain and onto the lifts to reach the top once again.

I was alone. I was tired and keenly aware of the soreness in my ankles. With no shuttle available to take me back to the resort proper, I would have to take the lift back up to the top and board down the south face.

I am wary of lifts, having been hit on the back of the head by a chair when an attempt to get off one on a baby slope* went awry and falling off one while attempting to get in the chair, resulting in a mild concussion and a sore neck when my head hit the boards underneath the chairs. A deep breath, tighten my boots back up, strap myself back into the board and onto the lift. Struggle for several moments to get the safety bar down across my lap, out of the way of my board.

The ride up was long, the wind was harsh, the weight of the board dragged on my leg and they tired from dangling for so long without any support. My hands began to alternate between tingling and numb. A careful examination of my gloves revealed small holes on the sides, near the fingertips. Midway through the trip the lift slowed to a stop and I sat there, chair swinging in the wind, hoping that the lift would start back up and wondering how hard the ground was if I had to jump.

Off at the top, back onto the slopes. Fall shortly after getting off the lift and must quickly drag myself out of the way of the group coming off the chairs behind me. They cheer, relieved at my presence of mind to get out of their way.

Hands freezing, out of my bindings, inside the lodge to purchase some gloves. More sunlight pours through the window and inside is bustling. The gloves are expensive and made more so by the inclusion of a 2% resort tax on top of the 5% regional and the 7.5% provincial tax.

Retrieve board from the seemingly miles of racks of boards and skis in front of the lodge. Carry to a gentle slope and struggle to strap in - the bindings are new Flow bindings and I'm still learning how to set the straps properly and step in and out of them without falling over.

Once strapped in, I noticed that my left boot is tight, a painful sensation of a metal band clamping and digging into the front of my ankle. I take my foot out of the bindings, readjust and step back into the bindings. Still painful.

Fifteen minutes later and I'm still in pain and I still need to get down the mountain. I finally set off and begin the cycle of falling and getting back up all over again. The conditions on the south face slopes have deteriorated from use and the surface is rough and pebbly.

Getting back up becomes excruciating, the left boot digs painfully deep into my leg every time I try to get back to my feet, and the pain makes it more difficult to get back up. I become increasingly tired and must stop often. I can not get enough momentum going and must stop, unstrap my bindings and walk because the surface is too flat for forward movement.

In the end. I must hike down the last trail, difficult to do boots designed to fully limit motion in the foot and ankle. I am not alone, as I have run into J and his brother again. J takes my board from me and insists on carrying the rest of the way down.

I am exhausted when I reach the bottom. My body trembles and my ankles ache. We sit for a while in a café decorated to look like a Parisian corner bar. I eat a brownie and drink hot tea and talk to two residents of Tremblant.

On Friday J hands me a small bag containing one blue and one red Mont Tremblant. I take a moment to carefully apply a sticker to my board. I earned this one.

On the Mountain - Part I

I've had a difficult time finding the energy to sit down and write about my ride down the mountain. My left ankle is still sore, a souvenir from my recent trip to Quebec. I felt a strange, painful popping sensation earlier this evening, which makes me suspect that I may have done more damage then garden variety shin splints. J claims that spending all afternoon and a good portion of the evening sitting on the floor while constructing a Lego house is the cause and that I will be fine in the morning.

We split the drive over two days on the way up to Mont Tremblant. Day one was uneventful and included a stop in Wilkes-Barre to see the Baby Penguins play. Day two included an errant GPS, resulting in a ferry ride across the mostly frozen Ottawa river, a drive through the backwoods of Quebec and a surprise viewing of the Steelers game.

I only made two runs down Mont Tremblant, one down the north face, one down the south, both on the same day. I did not plan on making only two runs, but in a moment of forgetfulness I went down the wrong (north) face and was forced to return to the top and make a second run down the correct (south) facet

As I am an extremely inexperienced snowboarder, the first run took forty-five minutes and included frequent stops and falls on a mixed of groomed powder and pebbly ice pellets. By the time I reached the bottom of the face (and realized I had come down the wrong side) I was sweating, wet and my ankles ached.

In need of a break before getting back on the lift, I made my second, more fatal mistake of the day, and loosened my boots.

Stay Tuned...

Photos and commentary from Quebec trip coming soon. Right now I'm still recovering from driving all night.

How to Snowboard

1. Fall off while attempting to get off ski lift. Hit head on boards, end up with concussion. Stop snowboarding for six years.
2. Six years later... agree to go on ski vacation with spouse.
3. Buy a pair of barely used boots (Boots A) and bindings off of eBay.
4. Purchase a used snowboard, bindings and boots (Boots B) from spouse's boss.
5. Go to nearby, family-style ski resort offering free passes, to practice.
6. Put on Boots A.
7. Walk around.
8. Practice maneuvering snowboard with one foot out of binding.
9. Discover metal-band-digging-into-ankle sensation is unbearable and sit down in the snow to pull boots off feet.
10. Watch as spouse re-laces and reties boots.
11. Cry when spouse glares at you after almost fall over him while is is re-lacing boots.
12. Put boots back on. Walk around. Continue maneuvering with one foot out of bindings.
13. Experience return of metal-band-digging-into-ankles sensation. Decide sensation is unbearable. Unlace top of boots, stow board and walk back to the car.
14. Switch out Boots A for Boots B.
15. Walk back up to resort. Retrieve board. Head towards baby slopes.
16. Skip escalator and walk to top of slope.
17. Push self up into standing position.
18. Begin down slope.
19. Fall down.
20. Push self back up again.
21. Continue cycle until reaching bottom of slope. Trudge back up hill.
22. Repeat.

Lately

I've been feeling angry, impatient and I'm having difficulty maintaining control. I'm struggling to determine where these emotions are coming from and how best to deal with them.

Actually, I know why I'm feeling the way I am. I'm having trouble letting go of the reasons.

Unfortunately, this is the exact combination of volatility that makes me withdraw and pushes me into depression. Intellectually knowing this does not make it any easier to cope.

I Know Everyone has Seen this Video...

But I found a version that puts the whole interview in its appropriate context. I especially liked the part at the beginning of the proclamation when she "deem[s] this fowl creature worthy of a pardon".

Fowl. Foul. Get it? Hee.

You Know...

I was going to go off on a rant about the latest asinine comments coming out of the Vatican via the mouth of Cardinal Stafford, but I don't have enough energy to give it the proper take down it deserves.

Except to say that describing President-Elect Obama as "apocalyptic" is about as loud of a dog whistle as I have heard coming out of the church in a long time.

I Cave

And go vain for one post. Because I've got nothing else to talk about right now. The temperature went from sixty to thirty overnight and there is snow on the ground.

I intentionally went shopping in a mall on Sunday. One of those old fashioned enclosed structures that sells overpriced goods and services. I was lured. Because this was no ordinary mall. This was the mall of high end shops extraordinaire. Nordstrom's, Kate Spade, Burberry and Tiffany's. Yes, a Tiffany's in a suburban Pittsburgh mall!

It was the promise of a merino and model blend sweater (on sale!) from Martin + Osa, and a well fitting undergarment (most emphatically not on sale) from Nordstrom's that lured me in. The scent of fresh Louie Vuitton leather, a comfortable overpriced beanbag chair from LoveSac (The BigOne is large enough to use as a bed), the sparkling diamonds at Tiffany's.

I tried on clothes. I wandered. I spent too much money on unmentionables. I resisted Godiva chocolates and factory cheesecake. It felt like a vacation.

It was a vacation of sorts, as I try to spend as little time as possible in malls. I exclude the cutting of my hair at a Regis salon in the mall near my home because A. I get my hair cut far less often then the industry standard of every six weeks, B. Regis is less expensive then the majority of independent stylists in the Pittsburgh area and C. I've had my hair done at Regis salons in cities all over the United States and had a positive experience at every single one of them. Which I can not say about a certain Pittsburgh based chain who consistently and without fail butchered my hair every single time I visited. The final straw cut was so awful that I walked into a Regis the next day and paid full price for a stylist to fix it.

And when I was finished, I got in my car and drove across town during the Steelers game. Because as any self-respecting resident of this city knows, the best time to go anywhere in the city and get there quickly is during a Steelers home game. Although a true Pittsburgh resident would not be running errands. They would be glued to their television or freezing in their nosebleed seats at Heinz Field.

David Byrne as Minor Deity and the Cat Came Back

I say upfront that my ability to form coherent, interesting sentences seems to have taken a holiday with the last round of viruses. I hope for the return of my full facilities soon, as this odd feeling of dullness is becoming an irritant in my life. I can not seem to create or comprehend the world around me.

J and I went to see David Byrne at the Carnegie Music Hall in Oakland on Friday night. We stopped to have a drink at the Panther Hollow Inn, half a sandwich at Camille's and a short stroll through the neighborhood before the show.

Stopping at PHI was a bad idea. As the majority of PHI's sales are in the form of stiff drinks and beer, smoking is not only permitted (due to an exception in the law), it is actively encouraged. Unfortunately this last round of virus', which started with a case of food poisoning and evolved into step throat + a massive sinus infection with a finish of bronchitis have lowered my tolerance for cigarette smoke to z.e.r.o. As I have spent the better part of the last four weeks at home, forgoing the gym, outings with friends and hockey games, I'm not very keen (what a quaint word, "keen") to be sick again anytime soon. My list of tolerable venues grows ever shorter as an increasing number of bars and restaurants in the Pittsburgh area apply for an exception to the smoking ban.

Bah.

We wandered briefly around Oakland. It was warm and the streets were crowded with students and fellow concert goers. The city is celebrating it's 250 Anniversary with a Festival of Lights and some prominent Oakland buildings were lit with abstract designs and film of wild animals in hotel rooms. On our way to the hall a couple asked us for directions and I resisted the impulse to send them to the Carnegie Music Hall in Homestead instead. Submitting to my better angel did little to aid the large number of attendees who confused the two venues and arrived after the show was well underway. Late enough for Byrne, to note their arrival in between songs.

David Byrne as minor deity, attired in white shirt, white pants and white shoes to match his toned down (but still slightly flamboyant) white pompadour hair. The band, backup singers and dancers were also dressed completely in white, which lent an on-vacation-resort-wear vibe to the evening.

Oakland's Carnegie Music Hall is a tiny, high, tight venue used mostly for lectures. The music reverberated through the hall, filling it with sound without feeling too loud. The temperature rose quickly, from the heat of so many bodies packed so close together and I could see how uncomfortable the band was by the end of the show.

My favorite part was the end, watching the expressions of pleasure and disbelief cross his face as he listened to the applause from the audience, completely in the moment.

As for poor kitty, she is back at home, perfectly healthy (in better health than myself actually) and pain-free after a through cleaning and extraction of her lower left canine tooth, which had a lesion large enough to expose the nerve.

The Day After

I'm tired this evening, after staying up until 1:30 am to watch the remaining returns and the speeches. I don't think I have fully processed the enormity of what we, as United States citizens, have achieved by electing Barack Obama as our president.

When I logged into my email this morning I had two messages from non-American friends.

“Congratulations. Well done. Lot of work ahead” one wrote.
“Yes, yes there is” I replied.

I voted in my fifth Presidential election yesterday. J and I woke early and were in line to vote at 6:50 A.M. I passed the time before polls opened entertained by the looks of shock and dismay on the faces of poll workers and voters. They were surprised by the line.

There were three electronic voting machines available for use in my precinct. At 7:00 am the polls opened. At 7:05 one of the three machines broke down. At 7:10 I was at a machine, reading through my options.

I waited a few moments before pressing the vote button at the top of the machine.

Riding the buses into downtown and Squirrel Hill, I saw Obama supporters standing on street corners, holding enormous Obama/Biden 2008 signs and cheering. Cars honked as they passed by. The sun was shining and the spirits of the people out on the street was high for so early in the morning.

I went outside after lunch for a short walk. Instead of tension, the mood was festive, almost holiday-like. Young college students walked the streets proudly sporting I Voted Obama/Biden 2008 stickers.

It was dark when I left work, yet there were even more people out on the street, eating Ben & Jerry's ice cream. The bus stop was as crowded as I have ever seen it, enough people to fill two buses completely.

Instead of thinking about the election outcome, I thought about the Festival of Lights and wondered if the Cathedral of Learning was lit up. It was not, but the outside of the Carnegie Museum of Art sported a moose wandering across the facade.

Determined to stick to my media blackout plan, I stopped at the gym and went for a swim.

The plan lasted until 10:00 pm. J, curious about the results, pulled up CNN.com and began reading returns and projections to me out loud. Around 11:00 pm the Daily Show called the election for Obama and we switched to CNN to watch the speeches.

And I sat, stunned, until almost 1:30, watching the footage of U.S citizens celebrating in the streets.

Extraordinary.

I Can't, But You Can

David Bryne sent me an email. A bulk email, but an email nonetheless.

I'm so weirdly excited by this that I'm a little bit stupid right now. So stupid that I answered it. I know he will never read it, but felt as if I needed to reassure him that someone was listening.

From David Byrne:

I Can't, But You Can

Pardon the bulk mailing. I Can't Vote. I am an immigrant with a Green Card and, therefore, I am not eligible to vote in a federal election. FYI - I can get drafted (luckily, Daniel Berrigan burned my draft board's records) and I pay taxes, yet I cannot vote for President. On Election Day, I see my neighbors heading to the nearby elementary school to cast their ballots. The voting booth joint is a great leveler; the whole neighborhood - rich, poor, old, young, decrepit and spunky - they all turn out in one day.

But most of you can vote. What can I say? The Republicans have made us less safe than before 9/11, bankrupted this economy, started an illegal war they can't - and don't intend to - finish, removed what sympathy (after 9/11) and respect the world had for the US, and have robbed US citizens of many of their basic rights. Global warming? What's that? Science and education? Investment in our future? No, thanks - we'll stick with a good 'ole hockey mom. Ignorant, and fucking proud of it, as is always the case.

Although it looks like a shoo-in, it ain't over 'til Florida. And there are plenty of racists in this country who will vote against their own best interests. So please, get to your local elementary school, post office, town hall, or whatever, and cast your vote and make this a country we can all be proud of. We can get out of this mess, and life can be better than it is.

David Byrne
NYC

Apparently...

I have the face of a sixteen year old girl. At least that is what the (much younger) ticket seller at Loews seemed to believe, as he asked for identification before selling me two passes to Zach and Miri Make a Porno. J laughed while I showed my driver's license and paid for the tickets. And he continued giggling all the way into the theater.

On a side note, I have to share how much I love how Spielberg begins the opening scenes of Schindler's List. From the Germans collecting the names of Jewish citizens, to Oskar Schindler collecting names of SS officers in the club, the transition between drinking songs to the music and marching of war. The entire tone of the movie, the study of contrasts between poverty and decadence, the banality of evil, the increasing tension, all of these things and more are why I love this movie so very much.

Poor Kitty

I'm gearing myself up, mentally, for the well deserved tongue lashing I will receive from my cat's veterinarian when I call tomorrow to schedule an appointment for the oldest feline, Lucy Snowe*. Poor kitty has an infected tooth, needs a cleaning and has not been to the vet in three years.

In my defense, all three cats spend 100% of their time indoors, are very healthy (infected tooth notwithstanding) and have been taken to an open clinic to be vaccinated against rabies.

Same poor kitty is now hiding underneath the guest room bed, slightly woozy from the painkiller and very unhappy with with me for administrating the painkiller and antibiotic. The emergency vet prescribed the drugs to ease the infection in her tooth and to dope her up enough that she forgets it hurts when she eats. I caught her at the water bowl this morning and I'm going to put out some soft food to tempt her later today.

In the grand scheme of things, obsessing and spending considerable sums of money** on a thirteen year old, six pound Turkish Angora mix is a bad idea. With the economy diving ever closer to the bottom, I should be concerned about my retirement instead of squandering money on a cat. In fact, I should be embarrassed that I'm about to spend as much money as a month's rent to make sure that she feels better.

But I'm not. I'm thankful. I'm thankful that most of my friends are pet owners who understand the emotional benefit of outlaying large sums of cash to keep their feline and canine family members healthy. I'm thankful to have had so many years with a companion who serves as an anchor between my life as a single graduate student and my life now.

Like Lisa, I have looked at Lucy recently and realized that she is beginning the end of her life. At some point in the next several years I am going to have to make the painful decision to let her go. I'm not looking forward to that moment, to losing one of the constants of my life. But living creatures are never constant. Whether cat or dog or bird or human being, they grow, change and eventually leave us.

*Why yes, I'm a fan of Charlotte Bronte. Why do you ask?
**Cleaning a cat's teeth is expensive as they must be fully sedated with general anesthesia for the procedure.

Remedies

Remedy 1:

The waning days of this campaign have been tiresome. As Pennsylvania slips in and out of battleground status, the McCain ads have become increasingly negative and the rhetoric I am hearing has made me almost glad that my current battle with a massive sinus infection has stuffed my ears to the point that I barely hear myself speak, much less anyone else.

But I have found a remedy to the rhetoric. Every time I hear or read something completely asinine, I give money to the Obama campaign. I've only been doing this since October 10 and I have only made three donations, yet I feel as if I am doing something to combat the assholeness swirling around me.

My first donation came in the guise of a $15.00, long sleeved, Obama 08 campaign t-shirt. This purchase was precipitated by my accidental involvement in an email thread wherein the originator of the thread sent a link to a pro-Obama article, but forgot to BCC the recipients. As I was disinterested in a flame war, I sat back and practiced deep breathing in an attempt to lower my rising blood pressure. Yes, I should have hit the delete button, but I could not bring myself to look away from the train wreck.

It was the last message of the thread that provoked me to walk across the street to the Squirrel Hill Obama campaign office and purchase the t-shirt, as the sender stated “he looks good when he stands next to McCain on TV, and plenty of women will vote for him”.

Nice to know that a complete stranger has such a low opinion of women. The ritual of purchasing the t-shirt and chatting with the staff was soothing. “I know you are a Democrat” one staffers remarked as I waited behind a couple of middle aged women purchasing yard signs. “Because Democrats are patient, and you have that patient look about you”.

Fifteen dollars to Obama.

My second purchase was yesterday. Sick of the negative ads and given an opportunity to do a good deed, I trundled across the street to the campaign office, purchased $20.00 worth of swag in the form of a t-shirt, rally sign and buttons (including a “Steelers fan for Obama” pin) and mailed the entire bundle to a child in Canada.

Donation three came tonight, on the heels of one of my coworkers commenting that a vote for Obama was a vote for communism. Or was it socialism? The conversation began innocently enough, with him asking us if we were as ready for the election to be over as he was. Then it veered into crazy territory.

Presumably I will receive a special edition car magnet and possibly a t-shirt for my donation. When I suggested that I affix the magnet to a hidden spot on my right wing conservative B-I-L's car, as some sort of reverse voodoo curse, J rolled his eyes.

My only regret is that I did not do this sooner. I could have picked up a sterling silver Obama charm. Unfortunately, the website is sold out.

Remedy 2:

In addition to campaign fatigue, I have a sinus infection. Not just a little infection, but a full blown, head stuffing, ear clogging, sore throat, slowly losing my voice and developing a cough infection. So massive that I broke down and started taking full doses of day and night time cold medicines in the hope of mitigating some of the symptoms. I'm drinking so much water and herbal tea that I'm only sleeping three hours maximum at a stretch because that is the longest I can go without needing to use the bathroom. And I worry that one night I will not be able to wake up on time.

And none of it is working all that well. The cold medicine takes almost an hour to kick in and the effects last far less than the four hour claim on the box and makes me sick to my stomach. I'm having a little more success dealing with the sore throat with periodical doses of ibuprofen, but worry about how much damage I'm doing to my liver. The anesthetic throat drops are not all that numbing.

So tonight, in a last effort to bring myself some relief, I elected to experiment with a home remedy known as “irrigating the sinuses”. In other words, I shot warm saltwater up my nose.

I would not call it the most unpleasant experience, but the feel and taste of warm saltwater dripping down my throat into my mouth does not rank as the end all/be all of fun times. It did nothing to ease the pressure in my left ear, but did leave a pleasant tingling sensation and an urge to sneeze.

Eighteen

I had jury duty a few weeks ago. I learned something from jury duty.

I learned that that as much as I think that I believe in the idea of presumptive innocence, I can't practice it in some situations. There is a limit to my ability to put my personal experience and assumptions aside when asked to sit in judgment on another human being.

Such as when the defendant is accused of sexually assaulting, with penetration, his very young daughter.

When the clerk read the charges out loud, he finished by acknowledging the heinous nature of the charges and asking the jury pool if anyone had reservations about serving in an impartial manner.

My hand went up immediately. One of fifteen or twenty out of a pool of close to fifty potential jurors. I felt sick inside.

I was potential juror number four. Sitting in the front row.

When called, I walked up to the desk and sat down, said hello. Looked at the district attorney and the defense attorney straight in the eye. Could not bring myself to look at the defendant.

My interview with the attorneys was one question long. The defense attorney asked me what prejudice I had, I replied with a single sentence.

"Because I was sexually assaulted when I was eighteen".

I was immediately excused.

I rarely talk about what happened to me when I was eighteen and I don't intend to do so here. But I realized, sitting in that room, listening to those charges, that I am still giving too much mental and emotional real estate to a man who does not deserve it.

Some things are not easily forgotten.

I also want to believe that I did the correct thing by being honest, that I gave the defendant a better chance at a fair trial. But there is no nobility in prejudice, especially when the guilt or innocence of another human being is at stake.

Since that day in the jury selection room, I have combed the newspapers, trying to find out what happened to the defendant. Did he get a fair trial? Was he exonerated or found guilty?

And did I do the right thing?

Fall Stories

1. I have the coolest doctor, ever. Bad allergies lead to significant breathing problems, which lead to a sinus infection, which lead my doctor to prescribe a steroid based inhaler, a course of antibiotics, an order to see an allergist and a set of instructions on how to make my home and office environment more bearable until it gets cold enough to kill all the remaining pollen.

The cool part came when she looked me straight in the eye and told me that I had to reduce the total number of books in the bedroom to three. When I looked at her in total shock (I had eleven books stacked next to the bed at the time of our conversation) she laughed and said "I have the best patients. Every patient I have given that instruction to has looked at me the same way you are looking at me right now."

2. Early darkness seems to have drawn the slightly eccentric out of their homes and out on to the streets, to linger at bus stops lecturing their fellow citizens about proper deportment on the streets.

I missed the initial incident that led to two black women lecturing a young, drunk, black man about the proper way to conduct himself as a salesperson on the street. (Bear with me. There is a point to identifying their race). As I approached the shelter I noticed that one of the women was smoking, so I elected to stand outside the shelter. But it was drizzling and I wanted to continuing reading one of the thirteen books (obviously I have not followed doctor's orders yet) that reside next to my bed, so I slipped inside the shelter and sat down next to the young man.

And was promptly assaulted by the distinct smell of beer. He was well on his way to drunk.

But he sat quietly while the two women lectured him, even when one of them said that his sales technique, which consisted of him saying "hey sweet baby, c'mere, I have some DVDs for youuuu" would scare white women like myself and a second woman standing in the shelter. *

Shortly after this statement, a bus came and took the two black women away. The young man slurred an apology for possibly scaring us, then tried to sell us a dvd. Failing that, he tried to get fifty cents off of us.

More buses started to pull up, three in a row. Mine was the third. As the first two pulled away, I noticed the third was not pulling up to the stop, so I began walking towards it. As I got closer I could hear the female driver shout for us to speed up and get on, before she was forced to let our young, drunk friend onto the bus.

I was shocked when she shut the door in his face and pulled away from the stop. Shock turned to relief when she explained (and other passengers verified) that he had been drunk, disorderly and had refused to pay the last time he rode her bus.

*Her exact phrase as she was explaining it to him, "No offense to you women; but if you talk like that a white woman, she is going to be afraid of you..."

A Collection of Random Randomness

1. Crazy people who argue about whether the dinosaur statue in Oakland is a rhinoceros or not make me edgy, especially when they attempt to involve me in their debate (thank you iPod with Bose in-ear headphones!) This pair rides my bus quite often, always sits in the last pair of seats in the back on the left-hand side and somehow believes that periodical ejaculations of "come awhnn" and "move bus, move" will make the bus go faster.

2. I think I witnessed a performance piece from my office window this morning. Across the street a group of college students took over a parking space, rolled out a section of fake turf carpet, set up a plastic table and chairs and a cast iron and wood park bench and proceeded to hang out in the space, playing cards, talking and entertaining visitors. I found myself wondering a. if they had put money in the meter and b. how they managed to score a parking space on Forbes Avenue in Squirrel Hill at noon-ish.

3. This afternoon on my way back downtown I actually listened to a young woman end every sentence with a question? Like this? You know? She was like, really into photography? And going to take pictures of a game on Sunday? And maybe [her friend] should come along?

4. Happiness really is a warm, purring, headbutting, cuddly kitty. And an empty house.

5. Chris Maverick.*

*He knows what this means.

Hockey Season

It is uncomfortably warm today, a bookend to yesterday's high humidity. The air is deeply saturated with pollen, making my over medicated self (inhaler + antihistamine/asthma pill) barely north of miserable. It has been one of those days when my clothes don't seem to fit properly – the bras are too tight, the t-shirts too small, the pants too snug. I could put on the same clothes tomorrow and everything will fit fine. Today though, I am uncomfortable.

J and I gathered with the rest of our merry group of Penguins fans last night to split up the season tickets. Every year I am amazed at how civilized it is. We sit around a table, order food and alcohol and proceed to calmly negotiate who will get each game. Every year every one at the table walks away happy.

There are some rules. D and B get the season opener, as they hold the account and must deal with the hassle of paying for the tickets. J and I usually get the last home game, as we buy in for the most number of games (15 this year). B also likes to attend any game that is giving away a bobble head doll, but willing to trade those games away in exchange for us giving one of the dolls to her. I love seeing all the Leafs fans in the Igloo, so one of the two Leafs games goes to J and myself every year. Everything else is open for discussion.

This year is a little bit different, as we initially gave up both Leaf games because of prior commitments. Ironically, one of those commitments fell through less than 18 hours after the ticket split, so now I am emailing and pleading for the October 18th game back.

Also different this year was the number of cross conference games we will be attending. The NHL adjusted to the schedule to ensure that each team plays every other team in the league at least once. So J and I will not only (hopefully) be attending our annual Leafs game (same conference, but whatever), we will also have an opportunity to see the Penguins play against Los Angeles, Minnesota, Edmonton and Calgary.

And, painfully, the Detroit Red Wings. J and I may sell the tickets to that one. It is not the Hossa deal. I still think that anyone who believed for a second that he would stay with the Penguins after the end of the season needed to step outside and get some fresh air. And stay outside until their head cleared. However long it would take.

I still believe it was a bad trade that netted zero long term prospects for success and resulted in the loss of two excellent forwards in Christensen and Armstrong.

Putting all of that aside, the most painful part of losing to the Red Wings in the Stanley Cup finals (because they were the better team) was that Ty Conklin could not find one damn team willing to pay him more more money then... Detroit.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

My Faith in Humanity...

...of the personal and the universal has taken a beating in the past week. So much so that I actually lost my normal reserve of self control towards friends of other political persuasions and called a Republican acquaintance a “raving lunatic asshole” after reading his “Democrats hate women” crack on Facebook. My friend took the full text of my comment down (his right, his page) but also seems to have reined in the snark some. Mind you, the crack came on the heels of a slam against Obama for not supporting a half brother in Kenya (who has stated he does not want Obama's assistance), one he never knew existed until several years ago.

I'm not ashamed of what I said. John McCain choosing Palin as his running mate makes me insane. It makes me insane that woman who got where she is because of the hard work and devotion of thousands of feminist predecessors is fully prepared to dismantle everything those women fought for.

It makes me insane that McCain chose Palin to pander to a segment of the population that is disaffected with the Democrats over the treatment of Hillary Clinton. It makes me even more insane to know that some people are going to fall for it.

It makes me insane to hear McCain and Palin and other Republican water carriers

And he might win. That is the most crazy making thought of all. McCain might win and my country will continue its right wing nutjob slide towards oblivion.

People suck.

Compounding my frustration is the fact that I did a favor for a friend a week ago and have received no acknowledgment for my effort. My follow-up emails have been ignored and I am feeling bruised and used. And not just a little bit pissed about it.

Throw in the postal employee who got angry and yelled at me for coming to his window before he was ready and the mean people who made YouTube take down all the McCain Barack Rolling videos and I'm just about ready to call it a night on the universe.

Laughing my *** Off

Because there have been too many moments in the past several days when I have just wanted to cry...

From the following delightful news:

1. Simon Pegg will be starring in an adaptation of Toby Young's How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. As a closet Graydon Carter fan, I loved Young's recounting of his disastrous stint working for Carter and Vanity Fair.

2. John McCain gets Barack Rolled!



As a side note, that one phrase at the beginning of the video is the most I have heard out of John McCain's mouth. I don't think there is any surprise about where my loyalties lie this election cycle.

Just a Little Fun for Labor Day

Regular posting to begin again soon as the Steelers are in season, the Penguins are about to begin training camp and it is fall, so the crazies will be returning to the bus lines.

Until then, courtesy of xkcd...

Exhausted

Last night I was so tired that when I went through my bag this morning at the gym to pull out my work clothes I discovered that I had three pairs of clean underwear, but no bra.

Technically I had a bra, the sports bra I was wearing underneath my workout clothes. The one that was about to get extremely damp and smelly from my workout. The one with a really thick band that dries really slowly and itches like crazy until it does.

A kind woman rescued me from potential sweaty or bra-less misery by loaning me a spare she had in her bag. It was too small, too loose and had no elastic left, but it was something. I wore it to work and as soon as I could, I bolted across the street to a truly awesome lingerie store to purchase one that fit.

Since I started this new job I have been going to the gym in the morning. I can't say that I enjoy waking up between 5:00 and 6:00 AM to pull on workout gear and catch the bus. In fact, I can sincerely state that I really hate it.

It is a combination of factors, the least which how damn early it feels. I'm not as tolerant of people's foibles that early in the morning. The bus is surprisingly crowded at 5:45 AM. Unfortunately it is not crowded with people, but people's stuff. I counted three seats this morning I could have sat in if the occupants had not decided to spread out their possessions and then go to sleep. And I'm giving them the benefit of the doubt with the sleeping.

Especially exasperating was one man located on an outer seat near the front of the bus. Not only did he refuse to move when the woman sitting in the inner seat rose to leave, he also refused to slide over and refused to move when I attempted to take the inner seat.

So I hit him in the head with my very heavy, very full gym bag when I squeezed past him and sat down. And I did not apologize for it. Even after I clocked him in the head he refused to move when I rose to get off the bus. I nearly hit him again. And I did not apologize to him for it a second time.

I hate the gym in the mornings. It is almost unbearably hot and incredibly loud. Hot because the Y turns the air conditioning down at night and there are no windows for ventilation in the cardio / weight rooms. Loud because there is a group of middle-aged men who scream comments and hold conversations with each other from opposite sides of the room. They are so loud that I can not drown them out with my Shuffle on full blast.

And now, I go to bed.

I'm Not Going to Pile on John Edwards

Because, as I've stated before, marriage is difficult enough lived in the private sphere of family and friends. Lived in the public eye, sometimes I think it must be fucking impossible.

Reading the comments and commentaries on other sites, I've noticed a distinct pattern of response to the news. They are, in no particular order:

1.John Edwards is an asshole for cheating on the Democratic Party while running for the presidential nomination and/or cheating on Elizabeth while she had cancer. It is fifty-fifty on which of these things is worse. I got the distinct impression from some remarks that the betrayal to his party was worse then the betrayal to his marriage.
2.Elizabeth Edwards is a horrible woman for knowing about the affair and continuing to support her husband and encouraging other to support him as well instead of booting him out on his ass.
3.John and Elizabeth's marriage is none of our business and we should stay out of it.

I've addressed response one before. If you place a man or woman on a pedestal, inevitably they will fall off it. Every single time. Edwards has taken responsibility for his actions, has admitted to hubris and fault and worked towards making reparations to his wife and children. He does not owe anyone else on this planet a damn thing. Including an adequate apology.

As for response 2, WTF? Either Elizabeth Edwards is a woman with her own agency or she is not. Her decision to remain in her marriage is hers alone to make and it is not for anyone else to condemn, condone or otherwise speculate. There is this insane notion in American society that every bound couple is required to have the same kind of marriage and anything outside the narrowest of boundaries is unhealthy.

I've lost track on the commentary of my marriage, primarily because I have learned to close my ears over the years. And there has been plenty of commentary on my un-wifely, inappropriate behavior. Refusing to be the only one responsible for the house keeping. Making J buy his own socks and underwear. Traveling solo. And uncounted other actions which scream of how fully uncommitted I am to my relationship.

Except for the whole standing up at an altar making vows in front of a hundred of our closest friends and family and trying my hardest to make it work even when it is hard. Even when both J and myself has screwed up royally, in ways that would be an absolute deal breaker in other relationships.

No, I'm not going to pile on John or Elizabeth Edwards. For those who would judge the Edwards because their own marriage is so flawless, I say congratulations. I'm glad you found your one-true-love and soul mate and never have to worry about conflict or your spouse's flaws.

Now leave the rest us alone to muddle through.

Dear Gods Above...

Please bring Hockey season back soon. One more story about how Big Ben had to leave Steelers training camp early for the second day in the row just might kill me.

Thanks.

Me.

Working Again

I finished my second day at my new job. It is chaotic right now – I started the same week that the company is releasing a new build, so I'm spending a lot of time reading documentation and harassing my new coworkers about obtaining access to the various things I need to access.

I see a couple of rough weeks ahead as I adjust to this new schedule and a new work environment and philosophy.

Although the length of the workday is about the same, the day overall is longer. I'm up earlier, before 6:00 AM, in order to get to the gym to work out and still leave myself enough time to catch a second bus to Squirrel Hill without worrying about being late due to traffic. I leave later then when I worked downtown, between 5:15 and 5:30 PM and change buses downtown. Changing buses in the afternoon is a risk, as anything later than 6:30 PM from downtown means throwing myself upon the mercy of the South Busway gods and waiting an hour or longer for transportation if I leave too late or the gods become angry.

I'm trying not to obsess over the inevitable delays and near misses that come with riding and transferring buses. Yesterday I watched one speed by as I walking down to the stop and had to wait for a later one. Later, as in 10 minutes. Today I managed to catch the earlier bus only to have the driver stop for a bathroom break near the T station. As I dashed out of the office and towards my stop this afternoon, I saw a bus pulling away from the curb and had to wait for the next one while quietly fretting.

I'm also not used to a new level of communication, with multiple, built-in redundancies for contacting each employee.

As tired as I am, I no longer feel as if I am being pressed into the floor every morning. I walk into a modern, bright open space with workstations at the appropriate height, chairs with an appropriate level of comfort and lots of natural, ambient light. My space is at the window, so I can peer down into the street and watch the people passing by and admire the shoes in the store across the street.

It was a good move.

A Long List of WTF's...

It was a good day. I went for a bike ride. I browsed through a bookstore. I spent some time in my favorite coffee shop, with a vegetarian pannini sandwich and a pot of Earl Grey with Lavender tea.

I also spent far too much time poking around the Internet, reading articles I would normally ignore. I made the mistake of diving into the comments at Slate and came out convinced that a large segment of the population who reads Slate is insane, Emily Yoffe is a scold and that my brain needed an acid bath.

Apparently I've had my head in the sand for far too long, because the “news” that John Edwards allegedly fathered a love child has been around for a year. This piece of “news” was published by that bastion of truth, The National Inquirer. The sources of this “news” are unnamed (therefore unverifiable) and another man has stepped forward to claim paternity of the love child in question.

None of the above was enough to stop Jack Shafer of Slate from calling Edwards a “sex hypocrite” for violating the sanctity of his marriage vows and lamenting the mainstream media's disinterest in the story, which he attributed to bias on the part of the liberal media. Apparently, since the media reported the arrest of Republican Larry Craig for soliciting gay sex in the stall of a bathroom, they are also duty bound to report on the unsubstantiated rumors swirling around John Edwards. Rumors which he denied when the National Inquirer broke the story last October and December. Rumors he denied again when the National Inquirer published a recent update.

I moved from the article to the comments, which left me desiring the above mentioned acid bath to remove the etchings of memory of my brief foray from my brain. After several hours and a visit to one of my favorite feminist/political/miscellaneous fun stuff blogs, I was able to stop the spinning in my head and figure out what really bothered me about the story. It was a hatchet job, full of “if”, “but” and “yet” statements and beautifully constructed gems, to wit “If Edwards had had no affair, he wasn't a hypocrite, not then and not now”. Language carefully constructed to call Edwards a philanderer without explicitly calling him a philanderer, to leave the reader with the impression that Edwards is a philanderer.

Oy, the mind spins.

Emily Yoffe (who called Edwards a “sanctimonious phony”, but I digress) continued her habit of acting sanctimonious towards her readers* with this response to a reader who wanted to smooth over a relationship after having a one night stand with a good friend's brother: “Look, I'm going to leave aside the question of one night stands, I just hope your not making a practice of them”.

If she is leaving aside the questions of one night stands, why is it necessary to make such a comment?

Moving on from the sanctimonious, the New York Times had an article today about brides paying for (and sometimes requiring) botox and other treatments, including breast augmentation and tooth bleaching, for their bridesmaids. While the times played off the brides gone amuck angle, I still found myself a little skeeved out by the idea that a bride could require and compel members of her wedding party to submit themselves to sundry beauty procedures.

Thankfully, I don't have any friends of the type mentioned in the article.

*Prime example: In response to a reader who was not interested in having kids and wanted advice on how to shut up members of the why-haven't-you-had-babies brigade, Yoffe took it upon herself to give the reader the “you might change your mind someday” speech.

I Love this Headline

Sticky situation averted as man tries to glue himself to British PM.