I finished one of the books I received as a Yule gift: American Gods. It's a fascinating read, and I highly recommend it. One of many powerful paragraphs that caught my eye is this:
"She has power, true, but it's hunger-magic, cunt-magic. It has kept her alive in this land for so long, but for everything else she uses her sharp eyes and her mind, her height and her presence."
So much is said and unsaid in this paragraph that it makes me shudder every time I re-read it.
Back in my college days, as we wended our way through post-modern feminism and feminist philosophy, I was often lambasted for my fundamental denial of the feminist position as valid. The only thing that feminism has served to do, I argued, is seperate women from their inherent power base. Feminism - early, modern, or post-modern - has taken everything away from us and given us nothing in return. We have willingly - excitedly, even! - given up our power as a Mystery and chosen to become grounded and mundane. I could go on and on about what we, as a gender, have sacrificed and how those sacrifices have poisoned our culture, but it is something earthier that compels me here.
Cunt-magic. How long has it been since I practiced it? I can't say for certain, but I know that it's been so long that I can't remember the last time. Seems that I, too, have forgotten my power, have denied my Divinity. Apparently, I, too, have relied on my mind and presence to dictate my actions and to control my little eco-sphere. I, too, have squelched the power of my hunger so often and so thoroughly that I am surprised when it emerges and have to take a few moments to recognize it for what it is. I've been brainwashed - again! - without even realizing it!
The good news is that I'm pretty sure it's not too late. I still remember when just the thought of sharing my gifts was a source of joy; I still remember when sex was a ritual of amazement and hunger, when I fed my soul as eagerly as I fed another's. Sitting here typing, I'm fairly certain that I remember how to work that magic; I'm sure that the Mystery is even now awakening and clawing its way out of the shallow grave of subversion in which it was subconsciously interred.
Hunger-magic. Cunt-magic. Stand aside and kiss my ass, Dr. Laura. I'm bringing out the big guns.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
My Only Talisman
My son is currently in the Police Academy, having been hired by the limping agency built to protect America's Finest City. For many years, San Diego Police Department was the vanguard in this area: fantastic training, full-or-better staffing, a good Chief, and a great reputation for service and civility. Now, after the City's financial crisis (due to criminal mismanagement), the agency is horribly understaffed and losing more officers every day. Now, the officers of this once-revered agency are the lowest paid in the County. Now, the ratio of officers-to-citizens on any given shift is approximately 1:1500. To put this in perspective, the police department of the city in which I live has a ratio on any given shift of approximately 1:7.
My son, perhaps not fully aware of the danger these facts represent in reality, is so excited to start work. And he will be a very good officer, of that there is no doubt. He is smart, capable of making good decisions under pressure, and he genuinely loves people.
Many years ago, when I first allowed his natural curiosity about firearms to blossom and started bringing him to the range with me, he greatly enjoyed the beauty, functionality, and raw power of my treasured Springfield Armory 1911 A-1 .45 semi-auto. As a matter of fact, he and the weapon have always seemed perfectly matched. Come to find out, SDPD allows their officers to carry .45s on duty (my Department does not).
So, when considering what gift to present to Steven this year at Christmas, the answer came as obvious, fitting, and right. Unfortunately, it didn't get to be a surprise, as Steven announced a few months ago that he was going to buy himself a .45. I told him that it was unnecessary, as he would soon have a trusted friend in his armory. He, of course, was stoked.
In October, his mother (MSU's ex), who is not thrilled about Steven's current career choice, cornered me at Sandy's bridal shower and stated, "So, you're giving Steven a gun." It was a challenge, of sorts, or so it seemed from her tone and stance. And I, not sure what she wanted the outcome of this conversation to be (did she want me to change my mind? Did she want to intimidate me into withholding my gift? Did she want me to say something to ease her mind about the whole thing?), nodded affirmatively and simply said, "Yes." A look of dark rage crossed her face before she turned and stomped out of the room, leaving me confused and feeling a consuming pity for her. She is not a warrior, she is not a sheepdog. She runs from the sound of the guns. She will not - ever - understand. And I think she may be angry at me because she believes that it is my influence that has inspired Steven to walk this path. Her fear for the safety of her son obliterates her knowledge of who he is. It is not I who made him so, but I think it may be easier for her to believe that it was.
On Christmas Eve, though it was not necessary, I stripped and cleaned my treasure - the best of my modest armory! - for the last time. This task I undertook with heart and soul, infusing my fierce love for my son into each moving part and polishing the exterior steel with every ounce of righteousness and courage I could muster. I allowed my hands to move steadily and unthinkingly in their work, as they have so many times before, so I could focus all of my strength and all of my faith into the creation of a talisman so functional that it need not ever be overtly used. And as I lovingly returned the 1911 to its silicone-infused storage bag and placed it in its lock-box for its journey, I gave my treasure my last instructions: be always true.
Then I wrapped it in festive paper and tied the keys to the lock on the ribbon.
As if Christmas wasn't weird enough already, I cried big, gulping sobs when Steven opened his gift. Sandra, incredulous, asked, "What's wrong?" And all I could say was:
"It's my favorite gun."
She shook her head and looked at her husband, perhaps hoping he would be able to shed some light on her step-mother's sudden bizarre behavior (please keep in mind that this may have been the second or third time in her lifetime that she has seen me shed tears). I took a deep breath and tried to explain. I told everyone about the short and strange conversation with MSU's ex that day back in October, and shared my feeling that Sandra and Steven's mother seemed to be angry with me and was projecting all her fear and frustration onto this powerful, yet inanimate, object. With information gleaned only from her stance, tone, and eye contact, I felt that she saw my gift as more than just an acceptance of Steven's choice to become a law enforcement officer in one of the most dangerous and understaffed Cities in the nation; she saw it as an encouragement, as my blessing, as my cheerful wave to the Grim Reaper who she obviously feels is waiting greedily for Steven's advent onto the streets. I honestly believe that she feels my gift seals the deal.
At this point, Sandra was still looking at me in a rather bemused way. Still crying, I said, "Okay, I'll get to the point."
The point is, I wasn't able to explain to their mother why I made the decision I made. It would have been just as easy - and less a sacrifice! - had I let Steven buy his own duty weapon. I wasn't able to explain to her that I am not giving Steven a gun, I'm giving him the best that I have. I'm giving him my only talisman, a charm that he has held often in circumstances of joy and the jovial psuedo-competition of the range. I'm giving him the thing that has been, since the first day he held it, an extension of his body, of his will. And with it, I'm giving him a simple prayer and invocation: May you always have time to decide justly. May those decisions always be righteous. May the tools you have be sufficient unto the evil you encounter. May it never be necessary for this instrument of my love for you to clear leather in the line of duty, but know that when it does it will be always true.
"That's it," I said helplessly. "I'm giving him my favorite gun. I'm giving him the best I have."
And perhaps I was able to telepathically relate my feelings, for Sandra smiled and nodded her head. Maybe she'll be able to explain it to her mom.
My son, perhaps not fully aware of the danger these facts represent in reality, is so excited to start work. And he will be a very good officer, of that there is no doubt. He is smart, capable of making good decisions under pressure, and he genuinely loves people.
Many years ago, when I first allowed his natural curiosity about firearms to blossom and started bringing him to the range with me, he greatly enjoyed the beauty, functionality, and raw power of my treasured Springfield Armory 1911 A-1 .45 semi-auto. As a matter of fact, he and the weapon have always seemed perfectly matched. Come to find out, SDPD allows their officers to carry .45s on duty (my Department does not).
So, when considering what gift to present to Steven this year at Christmas, the answer came as obvious, fitting, and right. Unfortunately, it didn't get to be a surprise, as Steven announced a few months ago that he was going to buy himself a .45. I told him that it was unnecessary, as he would soon have a trusted friend in his armory. He, of course, was stoked.
In October, his mother (MSU's ex), who is not thrilled about Steven's current career choice, cornered me at Sandy's bridal shower and stated, "So, you're giving Steven a gun." It was a challenge, of sorts, or so it seemed from her tone and stance. And I, not sure what she wanted the outcome of this conversation to be (did she want me to change my mind? Did she want to intimidate me into withholding my gift? Did she want me to say something to ease her mind about the whole thing?), nodded affirmatively and simply said, "Yes." A look of dark rage crossed her face before she turned and stomped out of the room, leaving me confused and feeling a consuming pity for her. She is not a warrior, she is not a sheepdog. She runs from the sound of the guns. She will not - ever - understand. And I think she may be angry at me because she believes that it is my influence that has inspired Steven to walk this path. Her fear for the safety of her son obliterates her knowledge of who he is. It is not I who made him so, but I think it may be easier for her to believe that it was.
On Christmas Eve, though it was not necessary, I stripped and cleaned my treasure - the best of my modest armory! - for the last time. This task I undertook with heart and soul, infusing my fierce love for my son into each moving part and polishing the exterior steel with every ounce of righteousness and courage I could muster. I allowed my hands to move steadily and unthinkingly in their work, as they have so many times before, so I could focus all of my strength and all of my faith into the creation of a talisman so functional that it need not ever be overtly used. And as I lovingly returned the 1911 to its silicone-infused storage bag and placed it in its lock-box for its journey, I gave my treasure my last instructions: be always true.
Then I wrapped it in festive paper and tied the keys to the lock on the ribbon.
As if Christmas wasn't weird enough already, I cried big, gulping sobs when Steven opened his gift. Sandra, incredulous, asked, "What's wrong?" And all I could say was:
"It's my favorite gun."
She shook her head and looked at her husband, perhaps hoping he would be able to shed some light on her step-mother's sudden bizarre behavior (please keep in mind that this may have been the second or third time in her lifetime that she has seen me shed tears). I took a deep breath and tried to explain. I told everyone about the short and strange conversation with MSU's ex that day back in October, and shared my feeling that Sandra and Steven's mother seemed to be angry with me and was projecting all her fear and frustration onto this powerful, yet inanimate, object. With information gleaned only from her stance, tone, and eye contact, I felt that she saw my gift as more than just an acceptance of Steven's choice to become a law enforcement officer in one of the most dangerous and understaffed Cities in the nation; she saw it as an encouragement, as my blessing, as my cheerful wave to the Grim Reaper who she obviously feels is waiting greedily for Steven's advent onto the streets. I honestly believe that she feels my gift seals the deal.
At this point, Sandra was still looking at me in a rather bemused way. Still crying, I said, "Okay, I'll get to the point."
The point is, I wasn't able to explain to their mother why I made the decision I made. It would have been just as easy - and less a sacrifice! - had I let Steven buy his own duty weapon. I wasn't able to explain to her that I am not giving Steven a gun, I'm giving him the best that I have. I'm giving him my only talisman, a charm that he has held often in circumstances of joy and the jovial psuedo-competition of the range. I'm giving him the thing that has been, since the first day he held it, an extension of his body, of his will. And with it, I'm giving him a simple prayer and invocation: May you always have time to decide justly. May those decisions always be righteous. May the tools you have be sufficient unto the evil you encounter. May it never be necessary for this instrument of my love for you to clear leather in the line of duty, but know that when it does it will be always true.
"That's it," I said helplessly. "I'm giving him my favorite gun. I'm giving him the best I have."
And perhaps I was able to telepathically relate my feelings, for Sandra smiled and nodded her head. Maybe she'll be able to explain it to her mom.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
I'm Dreaming of a Wierd Christmas
It was such a strange Christmas this year. Still good, but very strange.
First, the Holiday Sing. This is my goofy annual holiday party where I make Hot Buttered Rum to get everyone lubed up and then make them sing Christmas carols with me. And it's a good time every year... kids everywhere, folks who would never have the chance to meet otherwise striking up meaningful conversations, and lots and lots of joyful noise.
The difference this year was that "the gang" was invited.
Which wasn't really a problem... except that the Las Vegas chapter showed up at 5 pm. Then some other folks showed up right after. Then a bunch of kids showed up (at least the kids helped finish the prep). The party wasn't even supposed to start until 7, but by that time most of the food was already gone. Which was weird.
Then, later, the gang hijacked my party and used it as a forum to induct the latest prospect. Again, it wasn't really a problem because it happened late in the evening after many of the guests had gone home. However, no one bothered to ASK me if it would be okay, especially considering that there were several people from work also at the party. And I had specifically told MSU that a condition of the gang being invited was that there were to be NO COLORS. It's apparent that that little tidbit somehow got neglected in the invitation process. Which was weird, but not really... considering.
Here they are, basking in their victory, after successfully commandeering my party. If only a few of them could take over so easily, imagine what they can do when all together????
But I got over it.
My eldest and her husband took my youngest from the party and kept her until Christmas. It was REALLY weird not having her around.
Christmas Eve I worked all day and was the Duty Officer to boot. The high point of the day was when I decided to clear the floor - I called down to Reception, told them that I was taking EVERY unit's duty, and told everyone still on the floor to go home. It was rather late in the day, so no one gave me too much trouble about it... and it felt like such a gift to see their eyes light up when I said "I've got your duty, go on home." So I had the entire floor to myself for 30 minutes until close of business. Totally weird.
When I got home, I found that Tamara was with her ex-boyfriend's family and wouldn't be home until the wee hours of the morning. Isabeau was still with Sandy and Jon. And Brittany went with her family. So it was just MSU and I on Christmas Eve, which was perhaps the weirdest part of the whole holiday... we didn't know what to do with ourselves, he and I. We just sort of milled about aimlessly, missing the kids. It was almost a relief to go to bed. This was about the time that I hatched a rudimentary plan to just blow off Christmas next year and take the family on a trip instead. Which was a weird thing to think.
Christmas morning, Tamara was the only one here. We had decided to do our family Christmas after the trip down south for dinner, so Sandy wouldn't have to mobilize at the butt-crack of dawn. We did our stockings, but again it was so strange without all the kids here. MSU's sister called to impose upon us for something at the last minute, which forced us all to rush to get ready and make a side trip before arriving at Grandma's at 11 to open presents there before moving on to MSU's ex-wife's house for dinner. Yes, you read that right. At Thanksgiving, she decided to have Christmas at her house. Her exact words were, "It's about time I did my part." Not in a position to argue, we all agreed she could have Christmas at her house this year. Which was... well... weird.
So, presents and egg nog at Grandma's, where we would normally stay for dinner and fellowship. Upon arriving, I realized that I had forgotten that my niece and nephew were in town and had awkwardly forgotten gifts for them as well. In a chaotic, unorganized flurry, gifts were opened and we all prepared to once again travel to another location. Christmas started to feel like a work day: rushing around, not sure if I've remembered everything, and trying desperately to fit every necessary event into a finite amount of time.
Off to MSU's ex's we went. She had obviously bitten off more than she could chew with this rather ill-concieved plan, and was noticably un-festive when we arrived. Despite the fact that she didn't have to cook anything (everyone else brought the whole dinner, including the ham), she managed to make whatever drama she was feeling the focal point of the day. Which, of course, was decidedly unholiday and pretty damn weird. We hurried through dishes, more presents, and a rather insincere holiday toast before once again packing up the car and heading out.
Back to our house we went. By the time the kids arrived to celebrate our Christmas and open gifts, everyone was tired, cranky, and already ready to get back in the car and go home. Gift opening was once again chaotic, with no rhyme or reason to it (which means I didn't get pictures and was unable to monitor what gifts came from whom so thank you notes go to the right folks), and I started sobbing when my son opened my gift to him, which I will explain as well as I can in the next post. Of course, everyone thought my inappropriate display of emotion was weird.
Then, suddenly, the house was empty again. My children were gone. It was very, very weird.
And I can't help but come back to the idea that perhaps a family trip next year would be better than this horrible rushing around. With what I spent on Christmas this year, we easily could have taken a nice trip to Idyllwild or the Redwood Forest, even Disneyland. Yes, it would be weird... but after this year, I have redefined the word.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
New Family Photos!!
We haven't had a new family portrait taken in a LONG time.
And still haven't. I took these with the timer. :-)
A la Familia!
And still haven't. I took these with the timer. :-)
A la Familia!
Monday, December 24, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Out of Nowhere...
... it just happens. A moment of grace. I try to take the time to memorialize each one, because they are so rare, so glorious, so unexpected, and so very treasured.
MSU: Gang meeting. Gone until at least 10:00pm.
Tamara: Movie night with friends. Home very late.
Isabeau: Sleepover at a friend's house. Home tomorrow.
Which left me with Brittany, and I had planned to get her to help me do some last minute prep for the Holiday Sing. But...
Brittany: Called into work. Home at 9:oo.
And there it is. At least four hours of blissful solitude. The silence in this house right now is positively ethereal. I can make what *I* want for dinner. I can do anything... or nothing.
Today I am grateful for unexpected solitude.
MSU: Gang meeting. Gone until at least 10:00pm.
Tamara: Movie night with friends. Home very late.
Isabeau: Sleepover at a friend's house. Home tomorrow.
Which left me with Brittany, and I had planned to get her to help me do some last minute prep for the Holiday Sing. But...
Brittany: Called into work. Home at 9:oo.
And there it is. At least four hours of blissful solitude. The silence in this house right now is positively ethereal. I can make what *I* want for dinner. I can do anything... or nothing.
Today I am grateful for unexpected solitude.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Twice in One Day? She Must Be... Home
Update: It's after noon and I am still in my robe. I have absolutely no inclination to dress further than this.
Update: Thanks so much, those of you who have asked about my ongoing gastroenterological issues. I went to the Primary Care clinic on Friday, and was actually seen by MILITARY STAFF, which was a nice change. The doctor took a lot of time with me, we talked about ALL of my symptoms (even the ones that don't seem related or make much sense), and I had several vials of blood drawn for tests - CBC, cancer screening, test for h. pylori which is a bacterial infection that often causes ulceration of the stomach. I was referred to the Naval Medical Center for an upper GI (yuck) and colonoscopy (double yuck), which has been scheduled for January 15th (the earliest appointment available). I''m taking that whole day off from work too, even though I'll probably be finished and on the raod by 10:00 am... I just don't think I'm going to be in any shape to excercise patience with humanity after being invaded with cameras through two of my most prized and protected orifices.
Doc said that it sounds like an ulcer with a small chance that there might be a tumor or some other kind of lesion. She gave me "Nexium," which is "the little purple pill" that is advertised on some TV stations. It is supposed to inhibit the production of stomach acid and has actually also been proven to help heal existing ulceration of the stomach and esophagus. I was stoked and made the mistake of trying to eat like a normal person for a couple of days after starting the medication. Apparently, my trouble does not rest solely with acid production or ulceration, because the Nexium does diddly-squat for the pain and pressure I feel after eating even a tiny amount of food. But a girl's gotta eat, so I keep trying. I still have a lot of body fat to burn, so I'm not really worried about caloric intake at this point. Ha!
I tired to call yesterday to get the results of my labwork... If I have that h.pylori infection, I want to go back to get the antibiotics as soon as possible. After spending about twenty minutes on the phone trying desperately to say whatever the magic phrase is to actually be allowed to leave a message for my doctor (what an unreasonable request!!!) I finally was able to leave a message for the Triage Nurse, who is supposed to call me back within 72 hours. No matter that I could feasibly bleed to death in that time. But I am guessing that THEY would have called ME if the mysteries of my blood had revealed something to be concerned about or requiring further action.
So, for the time being, I'm back to square one. Barely any food, lots of pain and pressure, no information, and no sleep.
Update: I got all the Christmas wrapping finished! Well, at least the gifts that are available to be wrapped are wrapped. There is still a bit of shopping to do. Nothing like the last minute to ensure that our friends know we care about them by thoughtfully selecting their gifts! Ha!!
Update: For some time, I thought it was only the toilet in my bathroom that's possessed, but new information has surfaced that indicates that the entire room is possessed. I wish whatever entity it is would do some cleaning every once in awhile instead of just flushing toilets and opening cabinets. Hey, how about dumping some Ajax in that bowl before you flush it next time, Howdy??? Once you get that cabinet open, why not just put some of that crap on the counter away before you scuttle off to Purgatory to wait until it's time for your next toilet-flushing session??? Just a thought. I can't decide if I should do a house-cleansing or try to teach it how to use the bowl brush.
Update: Thanks so much, those of you who have asked about my ongoing gastroenterological issues. I went to the Primary Care clinic on Friday, and was actually seen by MILITARY STAFF, which was a nice change. The doctor took a lot of time with me, we talked about ALL of my symptoms (even the ones that don't seem related or make much sense), and I had several vials of blood drawn for tests - CBC, cancer screening, test for h. pylori which is a bacterial infection that often causes ulceration of the stomach. I was referred to the Naval Medical Center for an upper GI (yuck) and colonoscopy (double yuck), which has been scheduled for January 15th (the earliest appointment available). I''m taking that whole day off from work too, even though I'll probably be finished and on the raod by 10:00 am... I just don't think I'm going to be in any shape to excercise patience with humanity after being invaded with cameras through two of my most prized and protected orifices.
Doc said that it sounds like an ulcer with a small chance that there might be a tumor or some other kind of lesion. She gave me "Nexium," which is "the little purple pill" that is advertised on some TV stations. It is supposed to inhibit the production of stomach acid and has actually also been proven to help heal existing ulceration of the stomach and esophagus. I was stoked and made the mistake of trying to eat like a normal person for a couple of days after starting the medication. Apparently, my trouble does not rest solely with acid production or ulceration, because the Nexium does diddly-squat for the pain and pressure I feel after eating even a tiny amount of food. But a girl's gotta eat, so I keep trying. I still have a lot of body fat to burn, so I'm not really worried about caloric intake at this point. Ha!
I tired to call yesterday to get the results of my labwork... If I have that h.pylori infection, I want to go back to get the antibiotics as soon as possible. After spending about twenty minutes on the phone trying desperately to say whatever the magic phrase is to actually be allowed to leave a message for my doctor (what an unreasonable request!!!) I finally was able to leave a message for the Triage Nurse, who is supposed to call me back within 72 hours. No matter that I could feasibly bleed to death in that time. But I am guessing that THEY would have called ME if the mysteries of my blood had revealed something to be concerned about or requiring further action.
So, for the time being, I'm back to square one. Barely any food, lots of pain and pressure, no information, and no sleep.
Update: I got all the Christmas wrapping finished! Well, at least the gifts that are available to be wrapped are wrapped. There is still a bit of shopping to do. Nothing like the last minute to ensure that our friends know we care about them by thoughtfully selecting their gifts! Ha!!
Update: For some time, I thought it was only the toilet in my bathroom that's possessed, but new information has surfaced that indicates that the entire room is possessed. I wish whatever entity it is would do some cleaning every once in awhile instead of just flushing toilets and opening cabinets. Hey, how about dumping some Ajax in that bowl before you flush it next time, Howdy??? Once you get that cabinet open, why not just put some of that crap on the counter away before you scuttle off to Purgatory to wait until it's time for your next toilet-flushing session??? Just a thought. I can't decide if I should do a house-cleansing or try to teach it how to use the bowl brush.
Taking a Stand
Well... not really. It's a minor defiant act at best.
I called in sick today. I am really sick, and have been for a while. But generally I try to power through minor illnesses because taking time off means having to go back even more behind than usual. But not today. Today I am invoking my right to stay home when I am not feeling 100%. Today I am invoking my right to using sick time for mental health. Today I am rebelling against a society that pumps OTC medication so we can ignore the signals our bodies graciously give us and go to work when we are SICK. Today I'm taking care of ME and everyone else can just bugger off.
Until the kids come home, anyway. But that's hours from now!!
I called in sick today. I am really sick, and have been for a while. But generally I try to power through minor illnesses because taking time off means having to go back even more behind than usual. But not today. Today I am invoking my right to stay home when I am not feeling 100%. Today I am invoking my right to using sick time for mental health. Today I am rebelling against a society that pumps OTC medication so we can ignore the signals our bodies graciously give us and go to work when we are SICK. Today I'm taking care of ME and everyone else can just bugger off.
Until the kids come home, anyway. But that's hours from now!!
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Reminded
My job as a parent is not to shelter my children from the harsh realities of life. My job as a parent is to prepare them for those realities. Doing my job correctly and consistently means that my children will deal with sorrow, conflict, fear, and failure in ways just as appropriate as the ways they deal with joy, abundance, and success. It's a very difficult job, because it means that I have to allow them to be hurt. I have to allow them to fail. I have to allow them to face their fears and conquer them, no matter how many times it takes. I have to allow them to know the truth. And I have to answer unbelievably difficult questions, wipe away tears of shame and sorrow, tend to cuts, abrasions, contusions, broken bones, and head trauma, and bite my tongue completely after the magic words "Use your best judgment" have already left my mouth.
Recent blog discussions have reminded me about the day I knew that I didn't have to "parent" my eldest any more.
In September of 2001, I became really, really ill. It started with back pain and the next day blossomed into a shuddering fever. MSU was traveling that week - to Florida, if memory serves - and I had a Internal Affairs investigation going on at work and really couldn't take time off. I figured I must have hurt my back somehow, and didn't think much of it until I came home from work that second day and fell into a sleep akin to coma without even a second thought for my children (then 11 and 3 - my eldest was already living on her own at that time and my son was staying with his mother), who were left on their own recognizance for the entire evening. The next day, at about noon, I realized that I could no longer understand what people were saying to me. I could see their mouths moving and hear their voices, but I couldn't comprehend what it all meant. That was when I realized I was really sick.
I don't remember driving to the Emergency Room, but I did. I don't remember if I had to wait in the waiting room for the prerequisite three hours before being taken back to a bed. I do remember laying on the bed and shivering uncontrollably. The corpsman assigned to me kept piliing on warm blankets, but I couldn't get warm. I remember that the blankets were so heavy on top of me that I could barely move. People kept coming in and out, looking at the clipboard with my information on it, and muttering. Men and women in khaki uniforms kept trying to make me touch my chin to my chest (I couldn't without excruciating pain that cannot be described. I've had babies, y'all, and childbirth can't touch this on the pain scale). I remember being rolled onto my side and being held down by several people, then a bizarre radiating sensation in my back (lumbar puncture, I found out later). All of these memories are somewhat obliterated by the encompassing confusion and pain that was the status quo for this day and several thereafter.
A Captain came in to see me, which confused me even more. The Naval Medical Center San Diego is a teaching hospital, and it's rare to receive care from anyone above the rank of Lieutenant. She began giving instructions to the small battalion of people who were in my little space, and I was concentrating very hard on her. I remember she said, "Quarantine."
She came to my bedside (which had turned into the E-ticket ride due to my uncontrollable shaking) and told me (several times, until I understood) that I had meningitis. She told me that I could not be allowed to leave. And suddenly my brain worked just fine, because I had kids that needed to be picked up from school and daycare and I couldn't be quarantined. I told her so.
And I will NEVER, EVER forget what happened next. In that haze of sickness and confusion, the next few moments were crystal clear and happening in slow motion. The Captain turned to a nurse and said, "Look at the records and get the address. We'll have to call HHSA to have someone take the kids to Polinsky."
And I was out from under my 17 blankets in a heartbeat, staggering toward the door. People were restraining me (not too difficult, given my condition), and I was screaming, "Give me a phone! Give me a phone or I swear to God I'm walking out of here!" In retrospect, this day represents the pinnacle of my murderous potential - can you imagine? Of course, they would have been justified in using force to stop me, which again wouldn't have been very difficult. But the fact is, MY KIDS AREN'T GOING TO POLINSKY. Over my dead body, y'all.
They brought me a phone, and I managed to dial my eldest daughter's number, but was unable to speak coherently to her. I gave the phone to the most trustworthy-looking corpsman that was restraining me. I trusted in him and in all Higher Power. I had to.
Of course, I don't know the course of events after that except by hearsay. What I do know is that Sandra picked up the kids, rearranged her schedule so she could care for them and for our animals, found a way to get in touch with John even though she had NO IDEA where he was or why, contacted my mother, and made time to bring the kids to the hospital everyday to see me. She laughed and smiled and made fun of me with the kids while I was trapped in the "baby koala room" (quarantine), held the family and the house together for two days until John was able to get home, and parlayed as my advocate with medical personnel. Somewhere in the middle of this she made arrangements for someone to substitute for her class, take care of her home and animals, and rearrange all of her priorities. All this at the tender age of 21.
What I didn't know at the time is that the corpsman I trusted to give her the information about the kids told her that I was dying, and in fact only had hours to live.
She didn't wallow in fear and grief. She didn't cry - well, not until much later - or dither about in confusion. She took quick, decisive action, notified the appropriate people, and stepped up to the plate to help any way she could while enlisting others to fill in the gaps. She did it by herself, with no parental guidance whatsoever, because MSU and I were both incommunicado for those first days. She did it without lying to her younger siblings, and managed to tell the truth without scaring them.
It wasn't during those five days in the hospital that I knew, because I was pretty much incapable of knowing anything. But I remember my relief when she picked up the phone, because I knew that one way or another, she'd take care of it. And when I found out later that she had taken care of it under the strain of believing that I was dying right in front of her eyes, I knew.
With Sandra, at least, I've done my job.
Recent blog discussions have reminded me about the day I knew that I didn't have to "parent" my eldest any more.
In September of 2001, I became really, really ill. It started with back pain and the next day blossomed into a shuddering fever. MSU was traveling that week - to Florida, if memory serves - and I had a Internal Affairs investigation going on at work and really couldn't take time off. I figured I must have hurt my back somehow, and didn't think much of it until I came home from work that second day and fell into a sleep akin to coma without even a second thought for my children (then 11 and 3 - my eldest was already living on her own at that time and my son was staying with his mother), who were left on their own recognizance for the entire evening. The next day, at about noon, I realized that I could no longer understand what people were saying to me. I could see their mouths moving and hear their voices, but I couldn't comprehend what it all meant. That was when I realized I was really sick.
I don't remember driving to the Emergency Room, but I did. I don't remember if I had to wait in the waiting room for the prerequisite three hours before being taken back to a bed. I do remember laying on the bed and shivering uncontrollably. The corpsman assigned to me kept piliing on warm blankets, but I couldn't get warm. I remember that the blankets were so heavy on top of me that I could barely move. People kept coming in and out, looking at the clipboard with my information on it, and muttering. Men and women in khaki uniforms kept trying to make me touch my chin to my chest (I couldn't without excruciating pain that cannot be described. I've had babies, y'all, and childbirth can't touch this on the pain scale). I remember being rolled onto my side and being held down by several people, then a bizarre radiating sensation in my back (lumbar puncture, I found out later). All of these memories are somewhat obliterated by the encompassing confusion and pain that was the status quo for this day and several thereafter.
A Captain came in to see me, which confused me even more. The Naval Medical Center San Diego is a teaching hospital, and it's rare to receive care from anyone above the rank of Lieutenant. She began giving instructions to the small battalion of people who were in my little space, and I was concentrating very hard on her. I remember she said, "Quarantine."
She came to my bedside (which had turned into the E-ticket ride due to my uncontrollable shaking) and told me (several times, until I understood) that I had meningitis. She told me that I could not be allowed to leave. And suddenly my brain worked just fine, because I had kids that needed to be picked up from school and daycare and I couldn't be quarantined. I told her so.
And I will NEVER, EVER forget what happened next. In that haze of sickness and confusion, the next few moments were crystal clear and happening in slow motion. The Captain turned to a nurse and said, "Look at the records and get the address. We'll have to call HHSA to have someone take the kids to Polinsky."
And I was out from under my 17 blankets in a heartbeat, staggering toward the door. People were restraining me (not too difficult, given my condition), and I was screaming, "Give me a phone! Give me a phone or I swear to God I'm walking out of here!" In retrospect, this day represents the pinnacle of my murderous potential - can you imagine? Of course, they would have been justified in using force to stop me, which again wouldn't have been very difficult. But the fact is, MY KIDS AREN'T GOING TO POLINSKY. Over my dead body, y'all.
They brought me a phone, and I managed to dial my eldest daughter's number, but was unable to speak coherently to her. I gave the phone to the most trustworthy-looking corpsman that was restraining me. I trusted in him and in all Higher Power. I had to.
Of course, I don't know the course of events after that except by hearsay. What I do know is that Sandra picked up the kids, rearranged her schedule so she could care for them and for our animals, found a way to get in touch with John even though she had NO IDEA where he was or why, contacted my mother, and made time to bring the kids to the hospital everyday to see me. She laughed and smiled and made fun of me with the kids while I was trapped in the "baby koala room" (quarantine), held the family and the house together for two days until John was able to get home, and parlayed as my advocate with medical personnel. Somewhere in the middle of this she made arrangements for someone to substitute for her class, take care of her home and animals, and rearrange all of her priorities. All this at the tender age of 21.
What I didn't know at the time is that the corpsman I trusted to give her the information about the kids told her that I was dying, and in fact only had hours to live.
She didn't wallow in fear and grief. She didn't cry - well, not until much later - or dither about in confusion. She took quick, decisive action, notified the appropriate people, and stepped up to the plate to help any way she could while enlisting others to fill in the gaps. She did it by herself, with no parental guidance whatsoever, because MSU and I were both incommunicado for those first days. She did it without lying to her younger siblings, and managed to tell the truth without scaring them.
It wasn't during those five days in the hospital that I knew, because I was pretty much incapable of knowing anything. But I remember my relief when she picked up the phone, because I knew that one way or another, she'd take care of it. And when I found out later that she had taken care of it under the strain of believing that I was dying right in front of her eyes, I knew.
With Sandra, at least, I've done my job.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Attack of the Hormones from Mars!!!!!!
Here is yet another post that contains way too much information...
Two days in a row now - yesterday and today - I was just sitting at my desk at work, doing mundane work-related tasks, not thinking about anything but work, when BAM!!! I was overcome by overt, extreme sexual arousal. I'm not just talking horniness, here. I mean full-blown, everything-is-suddenly-swelled-up-and-sensitive, even-the-friction-of-my-clothing-is-excruciatingly-pleasurable, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal. And from there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump into FantasyLand, which of course only made matters immediately and urgently worse.
WTF??????
I've had an attack of The Hornies at work before (who hasn't??), but this is something really new and different. I mean, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal is obvious!! To everyone!! And my only choices were 1) stay in my cubicle and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself, or 2) walk through the maze of cubicles and people to the restroom and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself. Because the obvious solution to the problem was - obviously - out of the question. And, God help me, if someone had touched me they'd have gotten a whole lot more than they bargained for.
So again, WTF???? Is this some new and "exciting" symptom of encroaching menopause? Has my body's betrayal escalated from merely submitting to gravity to now actually having sex without me?? Has my poor, overtaxed brain finally snapped and succumbed to some little-known (and evidently exhausting) mental illness? Or is my little brain just working out some stress the only way it knows I'm going to respond to for sure????
Anyone else ever have this experience? I am truly mystified.
One thing's for sure... I'm wearing black clothing again tomorrow!!
Two days in a row now - yesterday and today - I was just sitting at my desk at work, doing mundane work-related tasks, not thinking about anything but work, when BAM!!! I was overcome by overt, extreme sexual arousal. I'm not just talking horniness, here. I mean full-blown, everything-is-suddenly-swelled-up-and-sensitive, even-the-friction-of-my-clothing-is-excruciatingly-pleasurable, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal. And from there, it was just a hop, skip, and a jump into FantasyLand, which of course only made matters immediately and urgently worse.
WTF??????
I've had an attack of The Hornies at work before (who hasn't??), but this is something really new and different. I mean, just-on-the-verge-of-orgasm arousal is obvious!! To everyone!! And my only choices were 1) stay in my cubicle and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself, or 2) walk through the maze of cubicles and people to the restroom and hope for a moment of privacy to compose myself. Because the obvious solution to the problem was - obviously - out of the question. And, God help me, if someone had touched me they'd have gotten a whole lot more than they bargained for.
So again, WTF???? Is this some new and "exciting" symptom of encroaching menopause? Has my body's betrayal escalated from merely submitting to gravity to now actually having sex without me?? Has my poor, overtaxed brain finally snapped and succumbed to some little-known (and evidently exhausting) mental illness? Or is my little brain just working out some stress the only way it knows I'm going to respond to for sure????
Anyone else ever have this experience? I am truly mystified.
One thing's for sure... I'm wearing black clothing again tomorrow!!
Monday, December 10, 2007
A Short Rant
I have a foster child. "Foster" in the truest sense of the word, as she is staying with us not because she doesn't have parents of her own, but because she needed a safe haven in order to succeed. She has a mother and a father (they are divorced), and as far as I know, her mother continues to collect child support from her father regardless of the fact that the child hasn't resided with her since late August. None of that cash is being kicked down to us.
I'm not complaining! Though I didn't realize that we would be expected to be responsible for her in every sense, she really is a joy to have in the house. And since I've been responsible for everything from visits to the doctor to transportation to verbal judo with the school counselors on her behalf, I have come to feel very, well, motherly toward her.
She recently announced that she wanted to have her navel pierced. She is 17, and cannot have the procedure without parental consent. Being the not-so-proud owner of a navel piercing scar from a navel piercing gone horribly awry, I tried to talk her out of it. I showed her the scar. I showed her statistics about how many people get horrific infections from navel piercings, and how difficult it is for them to heal. I told her horror stories about getting the rings caught on waistbands and shower scrubbies. You'll note that I'm using derivatives of "horror" a lot with regard to this topic. For good reason! I hoped she would change her mind. She didn't.
And at the end, I forbade it. I told her that she would be able to get her navel pierced on her 18th birthday, if she so desired, but that I would not authorize it beforehand.
MSU just called and told me that her mother had called him and "authorized" the navel piercing and that he is taking her, as we speak, to "see about that."
Anyone else wanna dupe me today? Apparently it's pretty easy!
I'm not complaining! Though I didn't realize that we would be expected to be responsible for her in every sense, she really is a joy to have in the house. And since I've been responsible for everything from visits to the doctor to transportation to verbal judo with the school counselors on her behalf, I have come to feel very, well, motherly toward her.
She recently announced that she wanted to have her navel pierced. She is 17, and cannot have the procedure without parental consent. Being the not-so-proud owner of a navel piercing scar from a navel piercing gone horribly awry, I tried to talk her out of it. I showed her the scar. I showed her statistics about how many people get horrific infections from navel piercings, and how difficult it is for them to heal. I told her horror stories about getting the rings caught on waistbands and shower scrubbies. You'll note that I'm using derivatives of "horror" a lot with regard to this topic. For good reason! I hoped she would change her mind. She didn't.
And at the end, I forbade it. I told her that she would be able to get her navel pierced on her 18th birthday, if she so desired, but that I would not authorize it beforehand.
MSU just called and told me that her mother had called him and "authorized" the navel piercing and that he is taking her, as we speak, to "see about that."
Anyone else wanna dupe me today? Apparently it's pretty easy!
Friday, December 07, 2007
I Am Duly Chastised
Advice from Eric Francis to me (see below). How crappy do you think I feel now about trying to put MSU on a gang budget???????
Basically, you have everything going for you. But in order to feel the wealth and abundance that are available, you need to let go of any attachments you have to scarcity and poverty. If you feel like you are lacking, you will be unlikely to notice the wealth, both spiritual and material, that is available. If you feel like you must withhold, you will be unlikely to share in the generosity that is available at this moment. Don't take too long to make up your mind about whether this is really true. You have done plenty of intense pondering the past week or so, and you have broken the issue down to its most basic philosophical tenets. But these are not idle or academic theories you are working with; the question really amounts to whether your relationships benefit everyone involved. You must insist that they do, and be ready to receive what comes to you as a result.
Basically, you have everything going for you. But in order to feel the wealth and abundance that are available, you need to let go of any attachments you have to scarcity and poverty. If you feel like you are lacking, you will be unlikely to notice the wealth, both spiritual and material, that is available. If you feel like you must withhold, you will be unlikely to share in the generosity that is available at this moment. Don't take too long to make up your mind about whether this is really true. You have done plenty of intense pondering the past week or so, and you have broken the issue down to its most basic philosophical tenets. But these are not idle or academic theories you are working with; the question really amounts to whether your relationships benefit everyone involved. You must insist that they do, and be ready to receive what comes to you as a result.
Today I Am Grateful...
... for much needed rain.
... for an extremely safe car with new tires and transmission and brakes systems that are customizable to wet weather.
... for my dogs, who desperately needed snuggle time this morning and would not take "no" for an answer.
... for co-workers who know where to find a "What Would Chuck Norris Do?" poster.
... for a timely phone call that gives me a good reason to leave the office this afternoon.
... for MSU's company Christmas party that will allow me several hours of quality "me-on-me" time this evening.
... for fascinating friendships that continue to grow in exciting ways.
... for the efforts of my children to keep the kitchen clean... without being asked!
... for two hours of uninterrupted work this morning.
... for the leather coat that my mommy gave me that still - after all these years! - smells like her.
... for an extremely safe car with new tires and transmission and brakes systems that are customizable to wet weather.
... for my dogs, who desperately needed snuggle time this morning and would not take "no" for an answer.
... for co-workers who know where to find a "What Would Chuck Norris Do?" poster.
... for a timely phone call that gives me a good reason to leave the office this afternoon.
... for MSU's company Christmas party that will allow me several hours of quality "me-on-me" time this evening.
... for fascinating friendships that continue to grow in exciting ways.
... for the efforts of my children to keep the kitchen clean... without being asked!
... for two hours of uninterrupted work this morning.
... for the leather coat that my mommy gave me that still - after all these years! - smells like her.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Self-Control for the Hormonally Challenged
Things I wanted to say today - and didn't!!! Yay me!
"Hey D----, I'll move that stuff when MY BOSS tells me to do it. You can bitch, moan, and whine until the fucking cows come home and I'm still not going to take directives from you. So, for the time being, you can go ahead and shove all those case files as far up your fat ass as they will go."
"C------, if you make one more snarky, divisive comment in my class I will use something you've done for every example I give for the rest of the day. I'll start with that embarrassing little incident on the range a few months back and my grand finale will be the time I made you cry in D-Tac. How's that for divisive, you smarmy little ogre??"
"Ya'll don't mind if I just curl up in the fetal position on the floor for a couple of minutes until the Kung-Fu grip of my Raging Uterus from Hell eases up a bit? Thank you!!"
"GET AWAY FROM MY ROCKSTAR!!!!!!!!!!"
"S----, I really appreciate this whole little seduction scene you've got going in your mind, but you better get the fuck out of my space. Firstly, I wouldn't fuck you with my dog's cunt; and secondly, I'm about to start projectile vomiting because the combination of that cloying drugstore cologne you've bathed yourself in and your crypt breath is giving me vertigo."
"Now that you've let the whiny, lazy, incompetent one get her ludicrously demanding way once again, is it my turn?"
"So, basically you're saying that you're getting paid twice as much as I am, but you don't know how to do your job, so you'd like me to immediately drop what I'm doing to clean up this fiasco of liability that you've ignorantly created before someone else finds out about it. Is that about right?"
"Hey P--!!! Kiss my ass!!!"
"Hey D----, I'll move that stuff when MY BOSS tells me to do it. You can bitch, moan, and whine until the fucking cows come home and I'm still not going to take directives from you. So, for the time being, you can go ahead and shove all those case files as far up your fat ass as they will go."
"C------, if you make one more snarky, divisive comment in my class I will use something you've done for every example I give for the rest of the day. I'll start with that embarrassing little incident on the range a few months back and my grand finale will be the time I made you cry in D-Tac. How's that for divisive, you smarmy little ogre??"
"Ya'll don't mind if I just curl up in the fetal position on the floor for a couple of minutes until the Kung-Fu grip of my Raging Uterus from Hell eases up a bit? Thank you!!"
"GET AWAY FROM MY ROCKSTAR!!!!!!!!!!"
"S----, I really appreciate this whole little seduction scene you've got going in your mind, but you better get the fuck out of my space. Firstly, I wouldn't fuck you with my dog's cunt; and secondly, I'm about to start projectile vomiting because the combination of that cloying drugstore cologne you've bathed yourself in and your crypt breath is giving me vertigo."
"Now that you've let the whiny, lazy, incompetent one get her ludicrously demanding way once again, is it my turn?"
"So, basically you're saying that you're getting paid twice as much as I am, but you don't know how to do your job, so you'd like me to immediately drop what I'm doing to clean up this fiasco of liability that you've ignorantly created before someone else finds out about it. Is that about right?"
"Hey P--!!! Kiss my ass!!!"
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Beating a Dead Horse
If you think you're sick of this topic, imagine how I must feel.
It's 11:32 am, and instead of being at work I am home. I'm home because my youngest puked at school, and puking at school means instantaneous parental mandate to retrieve said child. MSU called me about 90 minutes ago to advise me that the school had called him as the Chosen One for the day. Confused as to why he would be calling me instead of going to get the little pukemonster, I asked him if he was going to get her. He said "I don't have any PTO (paid time off)."
My kids are my priority, definitely. And I don't mind going to get them at school when they are sick and should be home. But I'm very, very far behind at work right now, I was out of the office yesterday and will be out of the office tomorrow and have several pressing matters that really can't wait because then they stack up on other pressing matters until the whole thing is unrecoverable. In other words, today wasn't a good day for a surprise.
MSU asked, "So can you leave to go get her, or what?" "Well," I replied, "it's not a good day for me to have to leave. Is there any way you can use sick time to get her?" To which MSU snapped, "I TOLD you. I don't have any PTO. If I leave it'll be without pay. And I KNOW you don't want THAT."
(I'm pretty sure that whole sentence meant something completely different, but that's another topic.)
Just at that moment, I was hit with an understanding that I hadn't previously been privileged with: John works for an organization that allows vacation time and sick time to accrue into and come out of ONE "account," the PTO cache. I have seperate sick time and vacation time. He does not. And he foolishly, recklessly, and sophomorically used up all his PTO without even once thinking that HE might get sick... or *I* might get sick... or his MOTHER might get sick... or one of our CHILDREN might get sick, thus doing the intelligent thing and saving back AT LEAST 8 hours of PTO for a contingency.
Where did the PTO go, you ask? Three guesses, and the first two are just for show. That's right - it went to "MANDATORY TRIPS WITH THE GANG." Am I counting wrong (math was never my strong suit)? I'm counting TWO parents in this family, not one. Perhaps I just haven't mastered the "new math."
Last night, MSU was up until the wee hours trying to get a cheap airfare to Las Vegas for next weekend for another gang fiesta. The cheapest airfare he could find was $130. "Honey," I said, "it's a bad time for an unexpected expense. And I'm going to need your help next weekend because there are some conflicting activities and we have to get ready for the Holiday Sing the following weekend." MSU said,
(wait for it)
"It's mandatory. You'll need to change your plans or ask Damian and Laura to help you. Hey, wait a minute... why don't you just come with me??"
I didn't respond. Not because I was demonstrating a heretofore unknown level of self-control, but because I honestly was rendered speechless. I should have made the Sign of the Horns at him, but I just retreated quickly into the bedroom and the sancuary of mindless sleep.
The point of all of this is that I feel like I'm in one of those B movies where things just keep going down the most ridiculous story line possible and you're forced into suspension of disbelief because the characters are surprisingly well-acted. What next?? Who knows! But I guarantee that it will be almost excruciatingly ludicrous!!! And the thing that is most troubling is the fact that it has been MSU who has been harping at me about going to the doctor, and telling me I have an ulcer, and yelling at me to reduce my stress at work and/or go out on stress leave, and whining at me because I'm in pain and exahusted and really grouchy at the end of the day and he consistently fails to realize that the biggest contributor to my stress level IS NOT WORK.
BUT... MY HERO HAS ARRIVED.
RT, partially in jest, presented the idea that I allot MSU a gang budget. I give MSU a monthly gang allowance, and leave managing it to him. If I take this to the next level (this part of the plan is still being fleshed out), it might be possible - and even reasonable! - to give him both an allowance of money AND time. No rollover minutes, though. I think my initial proposal will be $100 per month and 80 hours per month and we can negotiate from there (though I don't think I'm going to budge much on the cash).
Anyone wanna take bets on how he's gonna react? I'm putting my $20 in the square that says he's going to be so incensed at being "treated like a child" that he'll refuse to even talk about it and I'll be forced to move all the money into my "emergency" account so he can't access it out of spite. Anyone have a different position?
It's 11:32 am, and instead of being at work I am home. I'm home because my youngest puked at school, and puking at school means instantaneous parental mandate to retrieve said child. MSU called me about 90 minutes ago to advise me that the school had called him as the Chosen One for the day. Confused as to why he would be calling me instead of going to get the little pukemonster, I asked him if he was going to get her. He said "I don't have any PTO (paid time off)."
My kids are my priority, definitely. And I don't mind going to get them at school when they are sick and should be home. But I'm very, very far behind at work right now, I was out of the office yesterday and will be out of the office tomorrow and have several pressing matters that really can't wait because then they stack up on other pressing matters until the whole thing is unrecoverable. In other words, today wasn't a good day for a surprise.
MSU asked, "So can you leave to go get her, or what?" "Well," I replied, "it's not a good day for me to have to leave. Is there any way you can use sick time to get her?" To which MSU snapped, "I TOLD you. I don't have any PTO. If I leave it'll be without pay. And I KNOW you don't want THAT."
(I'm pretty sure that whole sentence meant something completely different, but that's another topic.)
Just at that moment, I was hit with an understanding that I hadn't previously been privileged with: John works for an organization that allows vacation time and sick time to accrue into and come out of ONE "account," the PTO cache. I have seperate sick time and vacation time. He does not. And he foolishly, recklessly, and sophomorically used up all his PTO without even once thinking that HE might get sick... or *I* might get sick... or his MOTHER might get sick... or one of our CHILDREN might get sick, thus doing the intelligent thing and saving back AT LEAST 8 hours of PTO for a contingency.
Where did the PTO go, you ask? Three guesses, and the first two are just for show. That's right - it went to "MANDATORY TRIPS WITH THE GANG." Am I counting wrong (math was never my strong suit)? I'm counting TWO parents in this family, not one. Perhaps I just haven't mastered the "new math."
Last night, MSU was up until the wee hours trying to get a cheap airfare to Las Vegas for next weekend for another gang fiesta. The cheapest airfare he could find was $130. "Honey," I said, "it's a bad time for an unexpected expense. And I'm going to need your help next weekend because there are some conflicting activities and we have to get ready for the Holiday Sing the following weekend." MSU said,
(wait for it)
"It's mandatory. You'll need to change your plans or ask Damian and Laura to help you. Hey, wait a minute... why don't you just come with me??"
I didn't respond. Not because I was demonstrating a heretofore unknown level of self-control, but because I honestly was rendered speechless. I should have made the Sign of the Horns at him, but I just retreated quickly into the bedroom and the sancuary of mindless sleep.
The point of all of this is that I feel like I'm in one of those B movies where things just keep going down the most ridiculous story line possible and you're forced into suspension of disbelief because the characters are surprisingly well-acted. What next?? Who knows! But I guarantee that it will be almost excruciatingly ludicrous!!! And the thing that is most troubling is the fact that it has been MSU who has been harping at me about going to the doctor, and telling me I have an ulcer, and yelling at me to reduce my stress at work and/or go out on stress leave, and whining at me because I'm in pain and exahusted and really grouchy at the end of the day and he consistently fails to realize that the biggest contributor to my stress level IS NOT WORK.
BUT... MY HERO HAS ARRIVED.
RT, partially in jest, presented the idea that I allot MSU a gang budget. I give MSU a monthly gang allowance, and leave managing it to him. If I take this to the next level (this part of the plan is still being fleshed out), it might be possible - and even reasonable! - to give him both an allowance of money AND time. No rollover minutes, though. I think my initial proposal will be $100 per month and 80 hours per month and we can negotiate from there (though I don't think I'm going to budge much on the cash).
Anyone wanna take bets on how he's gonna react? I'm putting my $20 in the square that says he's going to be so incensed at being "treated like a child" that he'll refuse to even talk about it and I'll be forced to move all the money into my "emergency" account so he can't access it out of spite. Anyone have a different position?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
In Other News...
Update: I went to my Primary Care Clinic today, as my efforts to access my healthcare continued to fail despite numerous resources. I filed a complaint, seeking action, that the PC website, 411, and the NMCSD website had all not been updated with the new appointment access number for the clinic. The receptionist actually rolled her eyes at me. No matter.
No one could see me today, as this clinic apparently no longer takes walk-ins regardless of their status. And though my symptomology dictated "acute care," there were no "acute" appointments available until January. Sort of made me wonder if the definition of "acute" had changed. Anyway, I was able to access another clinic (even less convenient to me than my regular clinic) and get an appointment for the 14th of this month. Which will work just fine. I've survived this long!!
Update: I didn't get promoted again. And even though there has been plenty of movement in the Department, none of my transfers have been granted. The most recent promotee is a friend of mine and actually has a position currently that I would be interested in if I could assimilate my FTO duties into it, but when I presented this idea to the Deputy Chief, she was less than enthusiastic. I may submit a transfer for that position anyway, just to escape my current position. However, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me nor do I want to jump from the frying pan into the fire.
Aren't colloquialisms fun?
Update: MSU is driving me insane. Not necessarily with anything he's actively doing, but more with what he's refusing to acknowledge. "No, honey, I can't go on that ride with you all... we have kids and they have activities that you INSISTED that they participate in and SOMEONE has to get them there." "Sure, honey, I can write you a check for $178 for the Shaver Lake trip and another $210 check for your "patches," but I can't write a check for the deposit for the Yuma Prison Run trip because we have kids and bills and a mortgage and a trip to Japan that was promised our soon-to-be-graduating daughter and a finite amount of money coming in. Yes, I know that means you might not be able to get your reservation. Yes, I understand that this is a "mandatory" trip. Maybe you should augment our income by working a couple of per diem shifts in the OR at Grossmont?" Insert MSU's indignant rage at the suggestion here.
Update: My 17-year-old daughter is having more and better sex than I am. And that's just wrong on so many levels.
Update: I have a new crush! Oh, it's been so long since I was actively crushing (see original post here) that I had forgotten what a magical and portentious thing it really is. This crush is sooooooo much better, though. This one is actually worthy of the intensity of "crushing." Yes, I know how juvenile and goofy I am. I'm a passionate person, so gimme a break already!!
Update: I think I'm addicted to Diet Rockstar. Two o'clock rolls around and I can feel that monkey squirming around on my back like he's on fire. Lucky for me no one thinks to monitor that soda machine down in the cafe (it's been mentioned by several people that I probably shouldn't be augmenting my natural spazziness with "organic" speed). I've got my connection, baby. And I know the Coke Man comes to fill the machine every Tuesday.
mmmmmm. Diet Rockstar.
No one could see me today, as this clinic apparently no longer takes walk-ins regardless of their status. And though my symptomology dictated "acute care," there were no "acute" appointments available until January. Sort of made me wonder if the definition of "acute" had changed. Anyway, I was able to access another clinic (even less convenient to me than my regular clinic) and get an appointment for the 14th of this month. Which will work just fine. I've survived this long!!
Update: I didn't get promoted again. And even though there has been plenty of movement in the Department, none of my transfers have been granted. The most recent promotee is a friend of mine and actually has a position currently that I would be interested in if I could assimilate my FTO duties into it, but when I presented this idea to the Deputy Chief, she was less than enthusiastic. I may submit a transfer for that position anyway, just to escape my current position. However, I don't want to bite the hand that feeds me nor do I want to jump from the frying pan into the fire.
Aren't colloquialisms fun?
Update: MSU is driving me insane. Not necessarily with anything he's actively doing, but more with what he's refusing to acknowledge. "No, honey, I can't go on that ride with you all... we have kids and they have activities that you INSISTED that they participate in and SOMEONE has to get them there." "Sure, honey, I can write you a check for $178 for the Shaver Lake trip and another $210 check for your "patches," but I can't write a check for the deposit for the Yuma Prison Run trip because we have kids and bills and a mortgage and a trip to Japan that was promised our soon-to-be-graduating daughter and a finite amount of money coming in. Yes, I know that means you might not be able to get your reservation. Yes, I understand that this is a "mandatory" trip. Maybe you should augment our income by working a couple of per diem shifts in the OR at Grossmont?" Insert MSU's indignant rage at the suggestion here.
Update: My 17-year-old daughter is having more and better sex than I am. And that's just wrong on so many levels.
Update: I have a new crush! Oh, it's been so long since I was actively crushing (see original post here) that I had forgotten what a magical and portentious thing it really is. This crush is sooooooo much better, though. This one is actually worthy of the intensity of "crushing." Yes, I know how juvenile and goofy I am. I'm a passionate person, so gimme a break already!!
Update: I think I'm addicted to Diet Rockstar. Two o'clock rolls around and I can feel that monkey squirming around on my back like he's on fire. Lucky for me no one thinks to monitor that soda machine down in the cafe (it's been mentioned by several people that I probably shouldn't be augmenting my natural spazziness with "organic" speed). I've got my connection, baby. And I know the Coke Man comes to fill the machine every Tuesday.
mmmmmm. Diet Rockstar.
Monday, December 03, 2007
TriCare Prime to the Rescue!
My family has military healthcare. Which, generally, has been a real blessing. I pay $460.00 PER YEAR to insure my family. That includes free prescriptions and no copays.
The downside is that, living in San Diego, it's pretty tough to actually access my healthcare system because of the number of active duty and retired military living here. Going to the Naval Medical Center is an all-day affair, because it take HOURS to find parking. Making an appointment for non-urgent care is something that has to be planned months in advance. And God forbid you have an emergency! The only time I didn't spend four hours in the waiting room of the ER was when I appeared with meningitis and was whisked immediately to the quarantine room. I once asked for a suture kit while waiting in the ER with one of my children... it truly would have been easier to just do it myself (they didn't give it to me).
They do the best they can, and I'm usually impressed with the quality of care I receive. It cost me $17.00 to have each of my children (and that was with the services of midwives, not doctors). If we need immunizations, we can just walk into the clinic and get them. I can access mental health systems, plastic surgery, rheumatology, state-of-the-art oncology, drug and alcohol rehabilitation, mammography, and every other specialty you can think of only 30 minutes away and without a referral.
Until last week.
As mentioned in a comment, I've been troubled with gastrointestinal distress lately. As mentioned, MSU is a former Navy Corpsman, Operating Room Technician, and Diver Medic. MSU is pretty sure I have an ulcer. I blew him off until about a week ago, when I presented with a classic and scary symptom of a bleeding peptic ulcer. Which, of course, can kill a person. Which, of course, gave me the motivational boost I needed to actually get myself checked out and stop assuming that the problem would solve itself once things at work changed a bit.
I called the appointment line for the TriCare clinic that is assigned as my Primary Care Provider and was surprised when it just rang and rang and rang. No message, no queue, no tones or a "disconnected" recording. I tried several times with the same result.
Next, I went to the website and attempted to make an online appointment. No appointments were available. Apparently ever.
Then, I linked over to the Naval Medical Center website and looked for clinic information that way. The telephone number they had on the NMCSD website was the one for the clinic BEFORE they got the number that is now, evidently, defunct.
Then, I called Information. They gave me the number I had tried first. So, of course, I tried again. Same deal: just rang and rang and rang.
So, Wednesday evening, after work, I am going to drive to the clinic as a walk-in. I haven't been as a walk-in since my active duty days (active duty in uniform always get priority), but I figure if no one can get in touch with the clinic for an appointment, I'm a shoe-in to be seen right away.
WTF??
The downside is that, living in San Diego, it's pretty tough to actually access my healthcare system because of the number of active duty and retired military living here. Going to the Naval Medical Center is an all-day affair, because it take HOURS to find parking. Making an appointment for non-urgent care is something that has to be planned months in advance. And God forbid you have an emergency! The only time I didn't spend four hours in the waiting room of the ER was when I appeared with meningitis and was whisked immediately to the quarantine room. I once asked for a suture kit while waiting in the ER with one of my children... it truly would have been easier to just do it myself (they didn't give it to me).
They do the best they can, and I'm usually impressed with the quality of care I receive. It cost me $17.00 to have each of my children (and that was with the services of midwives, not doctors). If we need immunizations, we can just walk into the clinic and get them. I can access mental health systems, plastic surgery, rheumatology, state-of-the-art oncology, drug and alcohol rehabilitation, mammography, and every other specialty you can think of only 30 minutes away and without a referral.
Until last week.
As mentioned in a comment, I've been troubled with gastrointestinal distress lately. As mentioned, MSU is a former Navy Corpsman, Operating Room Technician, and Diver Medic. MSU is pretty sure I have an ulcer. I blew him off until about a week ago, when I presented with a classic and scary symptom of a bleeding peptic ulcer. Which, of course, can kill a person. Which, of course, gave me the motivational boost I needed to actually get myself checked out and stop assuming that the problem would solve itself once things at work changed a bit.
I called the appointment line for the TriCare clinic that is assigned as my Primary Care Provider and was surprised when it just rang and rang and rang. No message, no queue, no tones or a "disconnected" recording. I tried several times with the same result.
Next, I went to the website and attempted to make an online appointment. No appointments were available. Apparently ever.
Then, I linked over to the Naval Medical Center website and looked for clinic information that way. The telephone number they had on the NMCSD website was the one for the clinic BEFORE they got the number that is now, evidently, defunct.
Then, I called Information. They gave me the number I had tried first. So, of course, I tried again. Same deal: just rang and rang and rang.
So, Wednesday evening, after work, I am going to drive to the clinic as a walk-in. I haven't been as a walk-in since my active duty days (active duty in uniform always get priority), but I figure if no one can get in touch with the clinic for an appointment, I'm a shoe-in to be seen right away.
WTF??
Friday, November 30, 2007
Another Girl School Failure
Today I looked in the mirror and realized that my hairline has receded so far back that I have a fivehead instead of a forehead. So I went on a pilgrimage for a talented stylist who could hide that vast expanse of head.
You can see the results above.
Isabeau and I found "Elements," a newer salon in the urban renewal area of my city. They, fortunately, take walk-ins, so in we went. And Darcie, a tiny and lovely young lady, was assigned to update my 'do. Truly, there wasn't a stylist in the place who wasn't young, tiny, and lovely, with one hardly-worth-mentioning exception of a superlatively coiffed and handsome young man. Which made me feel old, frumpy, and horribly ungirly right off the bat.
I told Darcie what my issue was, and also advised her that I DON'T "do" my hair. What you see is what you get. I shower in the morning, apply a dollop of cream to tame the frizzies, and out the door I go. Sometimes I take one extra step and throw the whole mess up into a ponytail. I told her that she could do whatever she wanted to my hair - she's the professional, after all - but it had to be something that doesn't have to be "done."
Bless her gorgeous, young, and smooth-skinned heart, Darcie chose instead to do her best to bring this head into the New Millenium. And I gotta admit, it looks great.
BUT... it took her (a professional) 45 minutes to straighten JUST THE FRONT of my hair (the back, that you can't see, is still the untamed mass of curls I was born with), using 5 different styling products, a blowdryer and a round brush, a flatiron, and a curling iron. You'll notice that the bangs she cut so artistically DO NOT cover my fivehead, but DO cover one eye (one eye that I will presumably need to do my job, drive, and take care of my house and children). Perhaps the most important consideration is that there is no way in Hell that I will EVER take the time to do this to my hair. Which I thought I explained in great detail BEFORE we started.
But here we are. I have entered GirlWorld but I'm pretty sure I won't be staying long. Only until my next shower.
**Sigh**
Every year I swear I'm not going to go overboard at the holidays.
This year, I even went as far as to notify all family members that they would each receive ONE present and one present only this year. Plus stockings, of course.
Well, today I am (penultimately) finished with Christmas shopping, and DAMN if I didn't manage to STILL spend over $2K.
Tama: I planned in advance for her gift, because it's something she needs (and wants). $800.
Isabeau: I planned in advance for her gift as well, but given the cost of Tama's gift, I really feel like I have to get her something else. Her gift so far: $50.
MSU: One gift turned into 5. $270.
Steven: His gift is my Springfield Armory MilSpec 1911. Original cost: $900. I will give it to him and then take it away to send it to the factory for hard chroming. $200 plus about $100 for shipping.
Sandra and Jon: I almost didn't get them anything, given the the past year has pretty much revolved around them financially. Pewter and glass salt and pepper grinders: $40. Plus the gift for this year's "Sheep Wars" (don't ask): $20.
Brittany: Tough to shop for a kid who's only been with us for a couple of months, but I think she'll be really happy. $80.
MSU's mom: $25. It's a Secret Santa and that's the limit.
The other three family members for Secret Santa that I haven't shopped for yet: $75.
My folks: They never want anything but photographs. Tama's Senior picture reprints: $142. Isabeau's school pictures: $40. Neither of these have arrived yet, so shipping at the last minute: $40.
The Annual Harrison Holiday Sing Starring the Von Crapp Family Singers: At least $400 every year.
Stocking stuffers: socks, underwear, little beauty and grooming items, a tiny digital camera for Isabeau, pink breast cancer chip clips, pink breast cancer chap stick, toothbrushes, dog treats, keychains, small electronic gadgets, etc: $1034.
**sigh**
The good news?
I had a great time shopping. :-)
This year, I even went as far as to notify all family members that they would each receive ONE present and one present only this year. Plus stockings, of course.
Well, today I am (penultimately) finished with Christmas shopping, and DAMN if I didn't manage to STILL spend over $2K.
Tama: I planned in advance for her gift, because it's something she needs (and wants). $800.
Isabeau: I planned in advance for her gift as well, but given the cost of Tama's gift, I really feel like I have to get her something else. Her gift so far: $50.
MSU: One gift turned into 5. $270.
Steven: His gift is my Springfield Armory MilSpec 1911. Original cost: $900. I will give it to him and then take it away to send it to the factory for hard chroming. $200 plus about $100 for shipping.
Sandra and Jon: I almost didn't get them anything, given the the past year has pretty much revolved around them financially. Pewter and glass salt and pepper grinders: $40. Plus the gift for this year's "Sheep Wars" (don't ask): $20.
Brittany: Tough to shop for a kid who's only been with us for a couple of months, but I think she'll be really happy. $80.
MSU's mom: $25. It's a Secret Santa and that's the limit.
The other three family members for Secret Santa that I haven't shopped for yet: $75.
My folks: They never want anything but photographs. Tama's Senior picture reprints: $142. Isabeau's school pictures: $40. Neither of these have arrived yet, so shipping at the last minute: $40.
The Annual Harrison Holiday Sing Starring the Von Crapp Family Singers: At least $400 every year.
Stocking stuffers: socks, underwear, little beauty and grooming items, a tiny digital camera for Isabeau, pink breast cancer chip clips, pink breast cancer chap stick, toothbrushes, dog treats, keychains, small electronic gadgets, etc: $1034.
**sigh**
The good news?
I had a great time shopping. :-)
Monday, November 26, 2007
Just Another Way I'm Making a Difference.... NOT!
This morning, Eugene Koptev pled guilty to murdering his uncle/guardian. Prior to the brutal, planned, and utterly unforeseen stabbing of his uncle, Eugene was one of the most compliant kids I've ever supervised (he was a "courtesy supervision" kid from another county).
http://www.nctimes.com/articles/2006/07/12/news/top_stories/7_02_497_11_06.txt
We may never know an exact timeline of the events that transpired that night, nor the events that led up to it. Eugene never gave a statement during the investigation, and his guilty plea means that the "facts" of the offense won't be made public during trial. And I am reminded - as I was 18 months ago when Eugene's face was broadcast on the 10:00 news as a "wanted person" - that we never really know what's going on inside people. We never really know how close each of us might be to the event horizon.
When I received the subpeona, I was shocked and surprised. What on Earth would I possibly have to add with any testimony I can offer? He was compliant. Eugene was compliant up to the point that he stabbed his uncle while he slept and kept on stabbing his uncle/guardian as he tried to escape, going as far as locking himself in a bathroom with his cell phone only to have the door broken in half and pulled from the hinges in order to facilitate his final moments. He was compliant up until he stayed in the house for four days with his guardian's perforated corpse - and even invited several other youths over for computer games - before absconding to Whittier after learning that a real estate agent was coming to show the house. He was compliant until I saw his face on the 10:00 news and had to call his sending county to issue an warrant for his arrest. He was compliant until he bragged about killing his uncle on the Internet and told an online gaming buddy (who was nice enough to take him into his home until he realized what was going on and called the local jurisdicion) that he had killed his guardian in cold blood.
I'll save you the more disturbing - and I'll admit curiosity-arousing - details from the police reports, as they only serve to cloud the issue (and haven't been made public by trial). Let's just say that Eugene seemed to be at a loss for what to do after he had enacted his homicidal rage.
He was compliant really means: I had no fucking idea. No, this isn't about me, but... I had no fucking idea.
And isn't that my job? Isn't it my job to KNOW? Would Eugene's uncle be dead right now if I had been effectively doing my job?????? Because a person has to be seriously pissed off at someone to stab them repeatedly while they sleep. Think about it - how pissed would YOU have to be to stage weaponry in your guardian's bedroom and then steal into the room, retrieve your pre-placed knives, and stab him in the face and neck 15 times as he slept? Not only that, but actually continue your murderous pursuit as your uncle tried desperately to save himself? You'd have to be pretty pissed, right? Pretty disturbed, right? Pretty affected, yes????
Doesn't that seem like the kind of anger that I should have NOTICED??????
Like I sad, this isn't about me... except as a reminder that we never know how close any one of us is to the event horizon at any given time. How close am I?
How close are you?
http://www.nctimes.com/articles/2006/07/12/news/top_stories/7_02_497_11_06.txt
We may never know an exact timeline of the events that transpired that night, nor the events that led up to it. Eugene never gave a statement during the investigation, and his guilty plea means that the "facts" of the offense won't be made public during trial. And I am reminded - as I was 18 months ago when Eugene's face was broadcast on the 10:00 news as a "wanted person" - that we never really know what's going on inside people. We never really know how close each of us might be to the event horizon.
When I received the subpeona, I was shocked and surprised. What on Earth would I possibly have to add with any testimony I can offer? He was compliant. Eugene was compliant up to the point that he stabbed his uncle while he slept and kept on stabbing his uncle/guardian as he tried to escape, going as far as locking himself in a bathroom with his cell phone only to have the door broken in half and pulled from the hinges in order to facilitate his final moments. He was compliant up until he stayed in the house for four days with his guardian's perforated corpse - and even invited several other youths over for computer games - before absconding to Whittier after learning that a real estate agent was coming to show the house. He was compliant until I saw his face on the 10:00 news and had to call his sending county to issue an warrant for his arrest. He was compliant until he bragged about killing his uncle on the Internet and told an online gaming buddy (who was nice enough to take him into his home until he realized what was going on and called the local jurisdicion) that he had killed his guardian in cold blood.
I'll save you the more disturbing - and I'll admit curiosity-arousing - details from the police reports, as they only serve to cloud the issue (and haven't been made public by trial). Let's just say that Eugene seemed to be at a loss for what to do after he had enacted his homicidal rage.
He was compliant really means: I had no fucking idea. No, this isn't about me, but... I had no fucking idea.
And isn't that my job? Isn't it my job to KNOW? Would Eugene's uncle be dead right now if I had been effectively doing my job?????? Because a person has to be seriously pissed off at someone to stab them repeatedly while they sleep. Think about it - how pissed would YOU have to be to stage weaponry in your guardian's bedroom and then steal into the room, retrieve your pre-placed knives, and stab him in the face and neck 15 times as he slept? Not only that, but actually continue your murderous pursuit as your uncle tried desperately to save himself? You'd have to be pretty pissed, right? Pretty disturbed, right? Pretty affected, yes????
Doesn't that seem like the kind of anger that I should have NOTICED??????
Like I sad, this isn't about me... except as a reminder that we never know how close any one of us is to the event horizon at any given time. How close am I?
How close are you?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Today's Lesson
I know how to read Tarot cards. It's a silly thing, really. It's something I generally do as a gift to friends and family on the Sabbats, or when asked in special circumstances. As Yule approaches, I will do many readings for people who wish to discern direction in their lives.
So, today I was practicing on myself, which is more difficult than it seems. It's difficult to interpret the message of the Oracle when I could apply the general meaning to just about any situation in my life. It's especially difficult when there are messages that I am seeking, which often clouds the purpose of the layout and does not allow for objectivity in interpretation.
Reading the Tarot is much easier for others, as I am generally not privy to the obstacles, blessings, and challenges in their lives. Not all of them, anyway.
This is what I learned about myself today, presented as I would to whomever I was conducting the reading for (using a one-card spread designed to discern decisions that need to be made to fulfill one's purpose):
So, today I was practicing on myself, which is more difficult than it seems. It's difficult to interpret the message of the Oracle when I could apply the general meaning to just about any situation in my life. It's especially difficult when there are messages that I am seeking, which often clouds the purpose of the layout and does not allow for objectivity in interpretation.
Reading the Tarot is much easier for others, as I am generally not privy to the obstacles, blessings, and challenges in their lives. Not all of them, anyway.
This is what I learned about myself today, presented as I would to whomever I was conducting the reading for (using a one-card spread designed to discern decisions that need to be made to fulfill one's purpose):
Give up on trying to be "normal" and relax into your eccentricities.
You have a choice in regard to a possible sacrifice you might have to make for the sake of personal and spiritual development. Rather than a sacrifice of some thing, it will be a sacrifice of an outer layer of yourself that is no longer necessary nor appropriate.
The Oracle suggests and recommends that your unique experiences, the peculiar qualities of consciousness that you move through in a day, are not just the product of a skewed imagination. You have moved toward your purpose without much thought or will - as is the way of things! - but it is now time to recognize your impact, gifts, and personal power and manifest them consciously.
You are in some ways extra sensitive to the forces which move the weather, roll the tides, and speak through Nature. There is a purpose for your heightened awareness, and you must now determine the right use of these special skills of yours, without concern for the opinions of others. Pursue your studies or embark upon an apprenticeship, or just be more attentive to the way you make important decisions in your everyday life. Forget about fitting in or even being understood. The time for camoflauge has passed.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Clark Brothers
These guys are amazing. I mean amazing.
Just a band of brothers who grew up doing tent revivals with their dad... and here they are, competing on "The Next Great American Band" and tearing the roof of the sucker.
I've enjoyed The Clark Brothers since the beginning of the season... for their musicianship, for their passion, for the way they have me totally and uncompromisingly convinced of whatever it is they're demonstrating in that performance... and because I've never seen ANYTHING like that slide guitarist. I didn't know that instrument could even do that stuff.
But the reason this particular performance is so meaningful to me is because I'm not a fan of the Rolling Stones in any way, shape, or form. But The Clark Brothers heard something completely different in this very dark and belligerent song, and brought it to glorious, mesmerizing, and enchanting life. And for just a few moments, I believed.
Just a band of brothers who grew up doing tent revivals with their dad... and here they are, competing on "The Next Great American Band" and tearing the roof of the sucker.
I've enjoyed The Clark Brothers since the beginning of the season... for their musicianship, for their passion, for the way they have me totally and uncompromisingly convinced of whatever it is they're demonstrating in that performance... and because I've never seen ANYTHING like that slide guitarist. I didn't know that instrument could even do that stuff.
But the reason this particular performance is so meaningful to me is because I'm not a fan of the Rolling Stones in any way, shape, or form. But The Clark Brothers heard something completely different in this very dark and belligerent song, and brought it to glorious, mesmerizing, and enchanting life. And for just a few moments, I believed.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Love My Car, But...
I love my nimble German car. It is powerful, sleek, uber-safe, and a total blast to drive. I've never kept a car as long as I've kept this one - I usually get tired of them long before the warranty even runs out. Not this one, though. This one fits me like a glove, even better than its predecessor, the BarbieMobile (1985 380SL convertible).
In the early 1980's Mercedes-Benz stopped handcrafting each auto that left the factory, and started mass-producing the bodies. While this move made MBZ far more importable and far more accessible to "the average Joe," they (in my opinion) compromised much of their reputation for automotive excellence and grand customer service.
Make no mistake - the power plants of current MBZ autos are just as amazing as the ones made in the before-the-pre-fab days. MBZ DOES NOT skimp on the blood and guts of the vehicle. But I gotta say that the nickel-and-dime crap is really starting to bug me.
MSU and I have a running joke that anytime I take my car in for service, it's going to cost $400.00. Doesn't matter why I took it in. Oil change? $400.00. Palm Tree tactical incident requiring a new passenger side mirror? $400.00. Headlamp replacement? $400.00. Of course, this is an exaggeration - oil changes don't cost $400.00. But they always find something else that needs to be fixed, thus bringing the total to $400.00 or more.
Yesterday I realized that I needed new tires, and I needed them NOW. Rather than take the car to MBZ for the tires (thus incurring a service bill of $400.00 or more), I took it to the friendly little family-run tire shop about five blocks away from my house. 20 minutes and only $200.00 later, I had a beautiful set of perfectly balanced Goodyears on my nimble German car. However, the tire guy advised me that I needed an alignment and that it couldn't wait. Unfortunately, they don't do alignments at the friendly little tire shop.
So, girding my loins for the $400.00 bill, I took the car straightaway to the local MBZ Service Department. I asked for the necessary alignment and also asked that they fix the passenger side lock, which has been ratcheting strangely for the past two days. The estimate? You guessed it - $400.00.
30 minutes later, Rick the Service Advisor called to tell me that the passenger side door lock sensor is failing and that it is compromising my security system. Of course! And that, naturally adds another $400.00 to the service estimate.
The point of this tirade is this: I don't care if my windshield wipers "sense" moisture and begin to swipe automatically. I also don't care if my headlights "sense" darkness and switch on automatically. There is a little computer that resides somewhere in the inner abyss of my engine compartment that calculates how many miles I have to travel before my next service is due, and not only tells me 1000 miles beforehand, but also tells me WHICH service and WHY, and I can assure you that I don't care about that. I don't care that I can unlock or lock my car, activate my security system, open my sunroof and windows, or start my climate control all with a touch to my remote-entry key, or that my car will "sense" when it is being compromised and lock itself automatically if left unlocked. I don't care that my glove compartment and center console are climate-controlled. I don't care that all my radio controls are located on my steering wheel, nor do I care that I can set everything from my seating preference to the language and brightness of my display panel with just a flick of my thumb. NONE of these things encompass the reason I bought this car, nor the reason I love it so much. And ALL of these things are the reason that my nimble German car is nickel-and-diming me to death.
In the many years that I've owned this vehicle, I have NEVER had a problem with the engine, drive-train, or any other "mechanical" system. Besides routine service, I've taken the car to the shop only for "luxury" systems problems and have spent thousands of dollars replacing sensors, tiny shock absorbers, and motors for seats, mirrors, windows, and automatic shades. For some reason, "Luxury vehicle" has come to mean "stupid electronic gadgets" instead of "handcrafted mechanical perfection," even though that mechanical perfection remains the hallmark and distinction of Mercedes-Benz. And it breaks my heart to no end to know that MBZ felt that - just to be competitive! - they had to compromise the inherent beauty of their machines to feed the egos of the yuppie masses who want the "status symbol" but don't understand what "luxury" really means.
:sigh:
I love my nimble German car. But I just spent most of the money I had saved for Christmas on a stupid door lock sensor that I don't want or need.
Grrrr.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Surprise! Another Relapse!
I've been doing fairly well with my Dr. Laura epiphany. Much better than I expected to do, as a matter of fact.
In general, it's paid off big in a lot of little ways. I'm less stressed at home because I'm letting things go and not nagging about help. MSU is more prone to doing things without being asked because I praise him copiously every time he does something that helps me. The kids are doing better because their dad is not as grouchy all the time.
But today is another story. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak.
I've mentioned before that MSU joined a gang. Foor the past six months, the gang has increasingly encroached on our family time, family duties, and family finances. MSU is now spending an average of two nights per week with his "homies" and also joining them for breakfast every Sunday at a place that's local to the rest of the folks, but 60 miles away from our house. Now, a gaggle of "mandatory" rides have been scheduled, at least once per week and sometimes twice. These rides are all-day affairs. And then there are the "mandatory" all-club trips, usually four days at a time and approximately $500 a pop. I think I mentioned that the last relapse I had was indirectly linked to the gang as well, as MSU never would have bought that stupid (and in the shop AGAIN) bagger had it not been for his association with his club.
So, now if I want to spend time with my husband - thereby practicing my Dr. Laura epiphany - I have to spend time with the gang, too. And if I want to go on the rides on the weekends, I have to spend the entire week trying to get my weekend chores done, not to mention having to farm out the kids and arrange rides to work for the two older girls. And buy gas and food and booze. And spend my precious weekends with practical strangers - fun folks, yes - when I really just want to curl up in my PJs and putter around the house.
All I can say right now is that everyone in this house is lucky today, because - guess what? - MSU is not home. He's - guess where? - with the gang. And I sat in traffic for two fucking hours on the way home today because his stupid Harley is in the shop - guess why? - leaking oil all over the place and he HAS to be on a motorcycle to go play with his little gang friends and this morning he took mine. Without asking. And I've been going along with my Dr. Laura project, letting him "do his thing" so his "emotional needs can be met," while I'm doing EVERYfuckingTHING else and he's enjoying his second (or third? Fourth? I've lost fucking count) childhood and pretending - again! - that he's free to abdicate his responsibilities because he KNOWS I'll do it for him. All this because I'm sooooooo fucking SUPPORTIVE these days.
Have I mentioned that I'm the primary breadwinner in this house? Anyone noticed me blogging about any wonderful long weekend vacations taken away from my familial responsibilities with friends that MSU barely knows (Okay, the 3-Day counts, but that's beside the point) as "stress-relief??" Remember any posts about me having all kinds of "extra" cash in my budget for "mandatory" luxuries other than the fucking roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, or food in our bellies? Suddenly, MSU's idea of a romantic getaway is fucking Vegas Bike Fest. Yes, THAT is the trip I took this year, and not necessarily because I WANTED to... I HAD to in order to take a trip with my husband. And instead of enjoying our kid-free hotel room, I fell asleep ALONE every night we were there only to be rudely awakened in the wee hours of the morning by his drunken stumbling, muttering, and puking. Now THAT'S romance, folks. That's a trip worth remembering!!
(okay, yes, I had some fun. But that's also beside the point.)
And the man has the gall to complain that he hasn't "gotten any" this week. Hey, pal, head's up! YOU WEREN'T HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
::::sigh::::
And now that I've ranted, I can go back to the Dr. Laura Project with renewed zeal. At least THIS relapse is (so far, anyway) wholly contained within this sacred blogging space. Hey, I'm learning!!!
In general, it's paid off big in a lot of little ways. I'm less stressed at home because I'm letting things go and not nagging about help. MSU is more prone to doing things without being asked because I praise him copiously every time he does something that helps me. The kids are doing better because their dad is not as grouchy all the time.
But today is another story. The squaw that stroked the camel's sac, so to speak.
I've mentioned before that MSU joined a gang. Foor the past six months, the gang has increasingly encroached on our family time, family duties, and family finances. MSU is now spending an average of two nights per week with his "homies" and also joining them for breakfast every Sunday at a place that's local to the rest of the folks, but 60 miles away from our house. Now, a gaggle of "mandatory" rides have been scheduled, at least once per week and sometimes twice. These rides are all-day affairs. And then there are the "mandatory" all-club trips, usually four days at a time and approximately $500 a pop. I think I mentioned that the last relapse I had was indirectly linked to the gang as well, as MSU never would have bought that stupid (and in the shop AGAIN) bagger had it not been for his association with his club.
So, now if I want to spend time with my husband - thereby practicing my Dr. Laura epiphany - I have to spend time with the gang, too. And if I want to go on the rides on the weekends, I have to spend the entire week trying to get my weekend chores done, not to mention having to farm out the kids and arrange rides to work for the two older girls. And buy gas and food and booze. And spend my precious weekends with practical strangers - fun folks, yes - when I really just want to curl up in my PJs and putter around the house.
All I can say right now is that everyone in this house is lucky today, because - guess what? - MSU is not home. He's - guess where? - with the gang. And I sat in traffic for two fucking hours on the way home today because his stupid Harley is in the shop - guess why? - leaking oil all over the place and he HAS to be on a motorcycle to go play with his little gang friends and this morning he took mine. Without asking. And I've been going along with my Dr. Laura project, letting him "do his thing" so his "emotional needs can be met," while I'm doing EVERYfuckingTHING else and he's enjoying his second (or third? Fourth? I've lost fucking count) childhood and pretending - again! - that he's free to abdicate his responsibilities because he KNOWS I'll do it for him. All this because I'm sooooooo fucking SUPPORTIVE these days.
Have I mentioned that I'm the primary breadwinner in this house? Anyone noticed me blogging about any wonderful long weekend vacations taken away from my familial responsibilities with friends that MSU barely knows (Okay, the 3-Day counts, but that's beside the point) as "stress-relief??" Remember any posts about me having all kinds of "extra" cash in my budget for "mandatory" luxuries other than the fucking roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, or food in our bellies? Suddenly, MSU's idea of a romantic getaway is fucking Vegas Bike Fest. Yes, THAT is the trip I took this year, and not necessarily because I WANTED to... I HAD to in order to take a trip with my husband. And instead of enjoying our kid-free hotel room, I fell asleep ALONE every night we were there only to be rudely awakened in the wee hours of the morning by his drunken stumbling, muttering, and puking. Now THAT'S romance, folks. That's a trip worth remembering!!
(okay, yes, I had some fun. But that's also beside the point.)
And the man has the gall to complain that he hasn't "gotten any" this week. Hey, pal, head's up! YOU WEREN'T HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
::::sigh::::
And now that I've ranted, I can go back to the Dr. Laura Project with renewed zeal. At least THIS relapse is (so far, anyway) wholly contained within this sacred blogging space. Hey, I'm learning!!!
An Overwhelming Task
I’m supposed to be writing a timeline/brief for a multi-agency symposium regarding service provision to dual-jurisdiction youth and “where the system(s) fail.” I’m not.
Where does one start with such a project? Especially without pointing fingers, laying blame, or making excuses? To approach case management form a “systems” view is to analyze how we’ve intruded into people’s lives, offering “intervention” and often setting up an already dysfunctional and barely cohesive family to publicly fail.
What are the tools I have available for intervention? Well, I have motivational interviewing, which is supposed to allow me to gather the most information from my meetings with the smallest amount of effort, teaching, or criticism. Information gathered in this way is inherently suspect, as there is no guarantee that the interviewee is telling the truth, revealing ALL information requested, or has an adequate understanding of his/her own needs. Information gathered this way is touted to allow the client to explore his or her own ambivalence toward change, in order to facilitate intrinsic motivation to mediate their own behavior. Sounds good, right? And it would be – in an ideal population.
I have Evidence-Based Practice, which is a research-based approach to what works and what doesn’t work in systems ranging from the medical field to social services to law enforcement. Using information gathered from the motivational interviewing processes, I can assess a client for needs and risk, and then match services to the needs and to the risk factor. Of course, I would also want to match services based on responsivity as well – offer intervention in the native language, in accordance with certain special physical or mental health needs, or based on financial viability or transportation costs. Evidence-based practice shows us that “appropriate treatment” (treatment that matches risk, needs, and responsivity) works. Again, we have to assume that the information gathered is accurate and comprehensive, that families have been honest about their needs, that my assessment of the risks is objective and fair, and that I have enough experience, intuition, and creativity (not to mention time) to ensure that I am not over-servicing nor underservicing the client. Because over-servicing makes things worse. And under-servicing makes things worse. Duplication in services makes things worse.
I have traditional tools, such as intensive supervision, punitive sanctions, removal from the home/community, and Fourth Amendment waivers. These “traditional” tools, believe it or not, increase recidivism (depending on how recidivism is measured), and are therefore commonly held, from a multi-systemic point of view, to fit into the category of what doesn’t work. Do we rely heavily on these traditional tools? You bet.
So where, exactly, does the system fail these kids and their families? The case being reviewed in this symposium has been a dual-jurisdiction kid since he was ten years old. His mother is a methamphetamine user who has been “in recovery” for four years. His father has a new family and can’t be bothered with his mentally-ill and understandably angry firstborn. The kid has been in foster care, juvenile hall, residential treatment, day treatment, and special education. Despite comprehensive services, he continues to commit crimes, generally crimes of opportunity and impulse. Despite intensive supervision, he continues to fail academically and demonstrate habitual truancy. Despite punitive intervention, including custodial sanctions, he continues to abuse controlled substances and has stated that he is not interested in ceasing his drug use. Despite psychological services and psychotropic medication, the youth has failed to respond to cognitive behavioral restructuring and continues to hurt people without thought or remorse.
And now I am tasked with positing a theory about where the multi-systemic approach has failed.
:::::sigh:::::
I will have to come back to this question at a later date. I am overwhelmed at the moment.
Where does one start with such a project? Especially without pointing fingers, laying blame, or making excuses? To approach case management form a “systems” view is to analyze how we’ve intruded into people’s lives, offering “intervention” and often setting up an already dysfunctional and barely cohesive family to publicly fail.
What are the tools I have available for intervention? Well, I have motivational interviewing, which is supposed to allow me to gather the most information from my meetings with the smallest amount of effort, teaching, or criticism. Information gathered in this way is inherently suspect, as there is no guarantee that the interviewee is telling the truth, revealing ALL information requested, or has an adequate understanding of his/her own needs. Information gathered this way is touted to allow the client to explore his or her own ambivalence toward change, in order to facilitate intrinsic motivation to mediate their own behavior. Sounds good, right? And it would be – in an ideal population.
I have Evidence-Based Practice, which is a research-based approach to what works and what doesn’t work in systems ranging from the medical field to social services to law enforcement. Using information gathered from the motivational interviewing processes, I can assess a client for needs and risk, and then match services to the needs and to the risk factor. Of course, I would also want to match services based on responsivity as well – offer intervention in the native language, in accordance with certain special physical or mental health needs, or based on financial viability or transportation costs. Evidence-based practice shows us that “appropriate treatment” (treatment that matches risk, needs, and responsivity) works. Again, we have to assume that the information gathered is accurate and comprehensive, that families have been honest about their needs, that my assessment of the risks is objective and fair, and that I have enough experience, intuition, and creativity (not to mention time) to ensure that I am not over-servicing nor underservicing the client. Because over-servicing makes things worse. And under-servicing makes things worse. Duplication in services makes things worse.
I have traditional tools, such as intensive supervision, punitive sanctions, removal from the home/community, and Fourth Amendment waivers. These “traditional” tools, believe it or not, increase recidivism (depending on how recidivism is measured), and are therefore commonly held, from a multi-systemic point of view, to fit into the category of what doesn’t work. Do we rely heavily on these traditional tools? You bet.
So where, exactly, does the system fail these kids and their families? The case being reviewed in this symposium has been a dual-jurisdiction kid since he was ten years old. His mother is a methamphetamine user who has been “in recovery” for four years. His father has a new family and can’t be bothered with his mentally-ill and understandably angry firstborn. The kid has been in foster care, juvenile hall, residential treatment, day treatment, and special education. Despite comprehensive services, he continues to commit crimes, generally crimes of opportunity and impulse. Despite intensive supervision, he continues to fail academically and demonstrate habitual truancy. Despite punitive intervention, including custodial sanctions, he continues to abuse controlled substances and has stated that he is not interested in ceasing his drug use. Despite psychological services and psychotropic medication, the youth has failed to respond to cognitive behavioral restructuring and continues to hurt people without thought or remorse.
And now I am tasked with positing a theory about where the multi-systemic approach has failed.
:::::sigh:::::
I will have to come back to this question at a later date. I am overwhelmed at the moment.
Monday, November 19, 2007
My Baby is Married!!
Our eldest and her fiancee tied the knot on October 22 in San Sebastian, Spain. They enjoyed their overseas honeymoon, and returned to SoCal on November 1 to zoom into a civil ceremony (to make it legal) on the 2nd, then to party all night on the 3rd.
Here are two "engagement" photos (taken after the wedding!!)
Here they are in Spain!!!
Here are two "engagement" photos (taken after the wedding!!)
Here they are in Spain!!!
And here is a photo of their civil ceremony on the San Diego Bay:
Maybe I'll be a grandmother soon!! Ha!!
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Curiosity Killed the Cat (and a few others)
I've realized that I am often a victim of my own curiosity.
The fact that I'm naturally really nosy is one of the reasons I'm so good at my job (on the rare occasions that I get to actually do my job, that is). I like to research things. I enjoy digging up stuff. I really get off on getting up in people's grilles. My dream job has always been "Basement Hag" at the CIA... you know, the research person that everyone has to come to, but no one really wants to because she works in a dark, creepy basement and mutters to herself all the time and never brushes her hair. Yes, that is my dream.
Anyway, the Internet has given a whole new dimension to my nosiness. I can find out all kinds of things on the Net! Don't believe me? Google your own name and see what you come up with. Google your address, your significant other's name, your driver's license number, your hometown. Google your telephone number. Reverse search your cell phone number. Each search will open up even more avenues to nosiness. The Internet is a beautiful thing.
Here's the thing, though: I generally find things (if I'm really looking) that I didn't really want to know. Not necessarily with work searches (in that situation, I pretty much want to know everything, even if it's ugly), but with personal searches and research, I often find things that haunt me. Things that prove that if you give people an opportunity to suck, they will usually take it and run with it. Things that allow me to second-guess myself and my judgment. Things that make me sad, suspcicious, and incredulous. Things that enable me to be even less trusting than I already am.
Ok, so I deserve it, right? That's what I get for being so nosy, right?? Of course I do and of course it is. The infamous "they" say that "ignorance is bliss," and sometimes "they" are absolutely right.
The fact that I'm naturally really nosy is one of the reasons I'm so good at my job (on the rare occasions that I get to actually do my job, that is). I like to research things. I enjoy digging up stuff. I really get off on getting up in people's grilles. My dream job has always been "Basement Hag" at the CIA... you know, the research person that everyone has to come to, but no one really wants to because she works in a dark, creepy basement and mutters to herself all the time and never brushes her hair. Yes, that is my dream.
Anyway, the Internet has given a whole new dimension to my nosiness. I can find out all kinds of things on the Net! Don't believe me? Google your own name and see what you come up with. Google your address, your significant other's name, your driver's license number, your hometown. Google your telephone number. Reverse search your cell phone number. Each search will open up even more avenues to nosiness. The Internet is a beautiful thing.
Here's the thing, though: I generally find things (if I'm really looking) that I didn't really want to know. Not necessarily with work searches (in that situation, I pretty much want to know everything, even if it's ugly), but with personal searches and research, I often find things that haunt me. Things that prove that if you give people an opportunity to suck, they will usually take it and run with it. Things that allow me to second-guess myself and my judgment. Things that make me sad, suspcicious, and incredulous. Things that enable me to be even less trusting than I already am.
Ok, so I deserve it, right? That's what I get for being so nosy, right?? Of course I do and of course it is. The infamous "they" say that "ignorance is bliss," and sometimes "they" are absolutely right.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Rock Star
I've said it before: I know what it's like to be a rock star. But the way I know rock stardom has to be - just has to be - so much better than the real thing.
For anyone who hasn't experienced the Breast Cancer 3-Day, it defies description. I like to call it Girltopia (though that's an inaccurate label, as there are plenty of men who participate as well). Maybe it's a matter of the sheer exhaustion that each walker and crew member is left with at the end of the day - exhaustion that remains at the beginning of the next day and permeates each person throughout the event until there is nothing left but simple humanity. Maybe it's the spirit united with thousands more in a common goal. Maybe it's people, having an opportunity to be their very finest selves, rising to the occasion with a force and energy that's palpable and more real than reality itself. Maybe it's magic.
Whatever it is, it keeps people walking, working, and giving of themselves far past the point where we expect folks to call it a day in their "normal" lives. Whatever it is, it boosts the spirit and feeds the soul. Whatever it is, I'm addicted to it.
For the past two years, I've participated in this event as part of the Route Safety Team, which is sort of like a motorcycle gang in pink. Instead of street terrorism, our M.O. is street smarts, street safety, street love. We stand at our stations, often hours at a time, and tend to the safety of the walkers as they cross busy intersections and wend their way through sometimes confusing route signage. When not on station, we patrol the route, looking for safety issues, walkers who need help, and offering motivation to people who are just trying to put one foot in front of the other for 20 miles each day. We give hugs. We tell walkers how far it is to the next rest stop or how close they are to camp and a hot shower. We give high fives. We tell jokes. We wear silly hats, tutus, kilts, short-shorts, and other goofy things, all in the name of giving the walkers a little inspiration to keep on going. We sing. We dance. Above all, we protect the safety and security of the walkers so they have one less thing to worry about in the midst of their blisters, their full bladders, their muscle cramps, and their friction burns. We ride out at sunrise and ride in well after sunset. We direct traffic, call ambulances and "sweep vans," find places that pose safety concerns and monitor them, and offer kind words, motivational speeches, healing human touch, and surreptitious stretching at red lights.
For this, we get rock star status. It's incredible really, to get so much in return for doing what comes naturally. We ride out of camp in the morning, and the walkers cheer. We ride into camp at night and the walkers cheer. We walk into clsing ceremonies, and the walkers cheer, cry, throw roses, run to hug us, and thank us profusely, heartwrenchingly, and with great conviction and passion. Why? I'm not sure. But I think it's because they know we are there... when they've passed one of us, they know another one of us will be just a block or two away, ready to smile, offer congratulations or a mile count, and assure them that they can keep going. And at the end, they're proud and incredulous at their own accomplishment, and overcome with emotion to see those friendly faces in a less arduous and painful circumstance.
That's how I felt when I was a walker, anyway.
So, "real" rock stars of the world, you got nothin' on me. You've got people throwing articles of clothing at you? Well, I watched a walker give a pair of clean, dry socks that she knew she'd need later to a walker who needed them now. You've got adoring fans who cheer your every move? I've got adoring fans who hug me even though I'm sweaty and smell bad, give me pins and small treasures that they made with their own hands, and thank me with tears in their eyes for standing in a series of intersections and telling them when it's safe to cross. You've got women who primp for hours to try to get a chance to throw themselves at you? I've got women who aren't afraid to come as they are and throw themselves into my arms because I know where a flushing toilet is. You dress yourself in black leather and tout yourself as the pinnacle of masculinity? I know for a fact that real men wear pink. You live in a palatial mansion because people will pay hundreds of dollars apiece to adore you in concert? I live, for four days per year, in a world where people fundraise for months in order to participate in an event that will change the lives of millions, that will wrack their bodies past pain, and that will go less noticed than your latest People Magazine cover, all for the satisfaction of saving lives - lives of people that they probably won't ever meet.
Sorry, Rock Star. I out-rock star you. I trump you with the force of 5800 spirits united in passion for eradicating the disease that took their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, wives, and friends - fathers, brothers, and husbands, too - before their time. I trump you with the vision of hundreds of "3-Day bustles" (fanny packs) trudging up a 30% grade at approximately mile 35. I trump you with my gratitude and my humility. I got rock star all over your sorry ass!!
And I love it.
The hardest part of the 3-Day isn't the hard work, the long days, the physical pain, or the heartbreaking reality of why we do it. The hardest part of the 3-Day is coming back to "real life."
For anyone who hasn't experienced the Breast Cancer 3-Day, it defies description. I like to call it Girltopia (though that's an inaccurate label, as there are plenty of men who participate as well). Maybe it's a matter of the sheer exhaustion that each walker and crew member is left with at the end of the day - exhaustion that remains at the beginning of the next day and permeates each person throughout the event until there is nothing left but simple humanity. Maybe it's the spirit united with thousands more in a common goal. Maybe it's people, having an opportunity to be their very finest selves, rising to the occasion with a force and energy that's palpable and more real than reality itself. Maybe it's magic.
Whatever it is, it keeps people walking, working, and giving of themselves far past the point where we expect folks to call it a day in their "normal" lives. Whatever it is, it boosts the spirit and feeds the soul. Whatever it is, I'm addicted to it.
For the past two years, I've participated in this event as part of the Route Safety Team, which is sort of like a motorcycle gang in pink. Instead of street terrorism, our M.O. is street smarts, street safety, street love. We stand at our stations, often hours at a time, and tend to the safety of the walkers as they cross busy intersections and wend their way through sometimes confusing route signage. When not on station, we patrol the route, looking for safety issues, walkers who need help, and offering motivation to people who are just trying to put one foot in front of the other for 20 miles each day. We give hugs. We tell walkers how far it is to the next rest stop or how close they are to camp and a hot shower. We give high fives. We tell jokes. We wear silly hats, tutus, kilts, short-shorts, and other goofy things, all in the name of giving the walkers a little inspiration to keep on going. We sing. We dance. Above all, we protect the safety and security of the walkers so they have one less thing to worry about in the midst of their blisters, their full bladders, their muscle cramps, and their friction burns. We ride out at sunrise and ride in well after sunset. We direct traffic, call ambulances and "sweep vans," find places that pose safety concerns and monitor them, and offer kind words, motivational speeches, healing human touch, and surreptitious stretching at red lights.
For this, we get rock star status. It's incredible really, to get so much in return for doing what comes naturally. We ride out of camp in the morning, and the walkers cheer. We ride into camp at night and the walkers cheer. We walk into clsing ceremonies, and the walkers cheer, cry, throw roses, run to hug us, and thank us profusely, heartwrenchingly, and with great conviction and passion. Why? I'm not sure. But I think it's because they know we are there... when they've passed one of us, they know another one of us will be just a block or two away, ready to smile, offer congratulations or a mile count, and assure them that they can keep going. And at the end, they're proud and incredulous at their own accomplishment, and overcome with emotion to see those friendly faces in a less arduous and painful circumstance.
That's how I felt when I was a walker, anyway.
So, "real" rock stars of the world, you got nothin' on me. You've got people throwing articles of clothing at you? Well, I watched a walker give a pair of clean, dry socks that she knew she'd need later to a walker who needed them now. You've got adoring fans who cheer your every move? I've got adoring fans who hug me even though I'm sweaty and smell bad, give me pins and small treasures that they made with their own hands, and thank me with tears in their eyes for standing in a series of intersections and telling them when it's safe to cross. You've got women who primp for hours to try to get a chance to throw themselves at you? I've got women who aren't afraid to come as they are and throw themselves into my arms because I know where a flushing toilet is. You dress yourself in black leather and tout yourself as the pinnacle of masculinity? I know for a fact that real men wear pink. You live in a palatial mansion because people will pay hundreds of dollars apiece to adore you in concert? I live, for four days per year, in a world where people fundraise for months in order to participate in an event that will change the lives of millions, that will wrack their bodies past pain, and that will go less noticed than your latest People Magazine cover, all for the satisfaction of saving lives - lives of people that they probably won't ever meet.
Sorry, Rock Star. I out-rock star you. I trump you with the force of 5800 spirits united in passion for eradicating the disease that took their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, wives, and friends - fathers, brothers, and husbands, too - before their time. I trump you with the vision of hundreds of "3-Day bustles" (fanny packs) trudging up a 30% grade at approximately mile 35. I trump you with my gratitude and my humility. I got rock star all over your sorry ass!!
And I love it.
The hardest part of the 3-Day isn't the hard work, the long days, the physical pain, or the heartbreaking reality of why we do it. The hardest part of the 3-Day is coming back to "real life."
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Decorated!!
I've finished decorating my bike for the Breast Cancer 3-Day, and am getting ready to take it on a "test run" to make sure that I've wired everything safely and securely. You can't really tell from the pictures (I was in a hurry!), but there are about 100 LED lights wrapped around parts of the bike, all of which I colored (with a permanent marker) pink because I couldn't find pink ones. All of the lights are battery operated (except for the blue LEDs that light my engine and wheels), so I have little power boxes zip-tied everywhere. The saddlebags have light garlands with little beads a flowers woven in. Cool eh??
Saturday, November 03, 2007
New Element Discovered!
I wish I knew who to attribute this to... pure genius, whomever you are!!
The recent hurricanes and gasoline issues are proof of the existence of a new chemical element. A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest element yet known to science. The new element has been named Governmentium.
Governmentium (Gv) has one neutron, 25 assistant neutrons, 88 deputy neutrons, and 198 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons.
Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert; however, it can be detected, because it impedes every action with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium can cause an action that would normally take less than a second to take over four days to complete.
Governmentium has a normal half-life of 4 years. It does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact,Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass.
When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium...an element that radiates just as much energy as Governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.
The recent hurricanes and gasoline issues are proof of the existence of a new chemical element. A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest element yet known to science. The new element has been named Governmentium.
Governmentium (Gv) has one neutron, 25 assistant neutrons, 88 deputy neutrons, and 198 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of lepton-like particles called peons.
Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert; however, it can be detected, because it impedes every action with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium can cause an action that would normally take less than a second to take over four days to complete.
Governmentium has a normal half-life of 4 years. It does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact,Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a critical concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as critical morass.
When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium...an element that radiates just as much energy as Governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
FireStorm
This is a photo I took Sunday night, looking due East from my home.
This photo I took this morning, looking SouthWest. This line of fire is only about 1/2 mile away.
Here we still sit. We have been in the "estimated evacuation area" since about 2:00 pm yesterday, but have not received formal notification of evacuation. Our neigbors to the east, less than 1/2 mile away, have been evacuated.
As I mentioned earlier to Jen, the saddest thing is that there is really nowhere to go. Our plan is to head north, out of the County entirely. But for now, we are staying with our home.
The air is filled with smoke and ash, and it gives the day a "total eclipse of the sun" feel. We sat in our backyard this morning and watched a line of fire race down the hill to the southwest of us, less than a mile away. Soon it will be able to cross the freeway again, as it will just have to travel under it. So far, the wind remains in our favor, at least for the line we can SEE.
The same fire (what has been named the "Witch Creek Fire") continues to burn to the northwest of us as well. Should the winds continue, we won't be so lucky from the north. We are feeling rather insulated (a dangerous rationalization, I know), as this little valley pocket that we live in seems to be untouched... everyone around us has been evacuated.
At this point, there isn't a part of San Diego County that isn't threatened by one fire or another (except those that have already burned). Over 300,000 people have been evacuated and over 1000 homes lost, many of them multi-million dollar custom homes. Currently, the ultra-posh communities of Rancho Santa Fe, Encinitas, Carlsbad, Del Mar, and Fairbanks Ranch are evacuated as the southwest head of the Witch Creek Fire, fueled by the Santa Anas, races around uncontained. Brand-new subdivisions to the far south are threatened by the Harris Fire, and Donovan State Prison is currently being evacuated. Many state prisoners are being utilized as fire crews.
I wanted to upload some of the pictures that I've taken over the past couple of days, but I don't have the driver for my camera on my laptop. Bad planning kicks me in the ass again!! I will edit this post later (hopefully) with some of the photographs... none of them are very good, though. Check local and national news sites for some of the more dramatic images... and the satellite photos from space are revealing as well. (Note... images are up, so it's obvious I edited, right???)
Pray for your brethren in Southern California who have already lost so much... and send your strength and courage to the brave men and women who have battled to save lives for two days, in some cases at the cost of an irrevocable impact on their own. We are blessed to be safe and healthy for the time being, and able to mobilize quickly should that status change. So many are not so blessed... and it is for them that my prayers and heart beg to be heard.
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