GETTING HIGH AT HOME
Like about half of Amarillo, I came down with the flu yesterday. It's an upper-respiratory, hacking, snuffling, achy, stopped-up misery--sort of like a supercharged cold, with an overall punk feeling. I don't like it, but I've had worse.
Last night I thought it would help me sleep if I took some Sudafed and unstopped my congested nose and sinuses. Bad idea. Anybody out there remember what the main ingredient of crystal meth is? That's right, good old Sudafed. I had taken it before and had no problem, so I didn't give it a second thought. Just popped a couple of tabs and jumped in bed. And jumped, and twitched, and tossed around. I couldn't go to sleep. My mind was racing all night long and wouldn't shut down. Not going anywhere, just spinning. The last time I checked the bedside clock, it was after 4:30. By that time the meth rush had worn off, so I dozed until 8:00 or so, when the phone rang to inquire we could deliver Meals on Wheels today. No, thanks.
I checked the package when I got up and, sure enough, it warned, "If nervousness, dizziness, or sleeplessness occur, discontinue use and consult your doctor." I skipped the part about the doctor; what could he have told me, other than "You stupid broad!" I read a little farther, and it also said not to take this product if you have diabetes (check!), high blood pressure (check!) or difficulty in urination due to an enlarged prostate (uh, no, guess not).
So today I have been just toughing it out. Drug-free. There must still be a little meth still buzzing around my body because I haven't been able to nap. Dunno about tonight. Can anybody recommend a good downer?
Monday, February 28, 2005
Cheap Monkeys
Today's Medical Monday is a little different. I am going to explain how AIDS started because of cheap monkeys. I heard this on NPR, so I really do think this is how it started. Not by people eating monkey brains, or having sex with monkeys, or anything like that. It all started in a laboratory, but it wasn't a government conspiracy or alien agenda. It was just a mistake.
A lab was making some sort of vaccinations. I don't remember what kind, but just regular measles or chicken pox vaccines, the kind people take every day. Most labs use a few kinds of monkeys, but one lab decided to use a different kind of monkey. I don't remember if they got these monkeys from the wild, or if they were domesticated, but they were carrying monkey AIDS. The monkey AIDS got mixed in with the vaccine, and entire towns in Africa were exposed to AIDS.
They didn't have any symptoms for years and years. Meanwhile the people who had been vaccinated were exposing other people left and right, so by the time anybody realized there was a problem they couldn't narrow it down to the original group. They could tell it was spreading through sexual contact, and that it was similar to monkey AIDS, so people started thinking it started because people were having sex with monkeys.
Now you know.
Today's Medical Monday is a little different. I am going to explain how AIDS started because of cheap monkeys. I heard this on NPR, so I really do think this is how it started. Not by people eating monkey brains, or having sex with monkeys, or anything like that. It all started in a laboratory, but it wasn't a government conspiracy or alien agenda. It was just a mistake.
A lab was making some sort of vaccinations. I don't remember what kind, but just regular measles or chicken pox vaccines, the kind people take every day. Most labs use a few kinds of monkeys, but one lab decided to use a different kind of monkey. I don't remember if they got these monkeys from the wild, or if they were domesticated, but they were carrying monkey AIDS. The monkey AIDS got mixed in with the vaccine, and entire towns in Africa were exposed to AIDS.
They didn't have any symptoms for years and years. Meanwhile the people who had been vaccinated were exposing other people left and right, so by the time anybody realized there was a problem they couldn't narrow it down to the original group. They could tell it was spreading through sexual contact, and that it was similar to monkey AIDS, so people started thinking it started because people were having sex with monkeys.
Now you know.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Learn Something New Every Day
I was checking out a web site about English slang. One entry made me really cackle. The definition of Gilbert is a small ball of nasal mucus. That is my maiden name. Where they ever came up with that bit of slang is a mystery. Not sure if I really want to know where it came from.
Another thing I just learned was the latest breakthrough in panty hose technology. I was at the other Evil Empire, WalMart, and saw a row of spray can pantyhose. It wasn't this exact brand, but the idea is the same. What?
I was checking out a web site about English slang. One entry made me really cackle. The definition of Gilbert is a small ball of nasal mucus. That is my maiden name. Where they ever came up with that bit of slang is a mystery. Not sure if I really want to know where it came from.
Another thing I just learned was the latest breakthrough in panty hose technology. I was at the other Evil Empire, WalMart, and saw a row of spray can pantyhose. It wasn't this exact brand, but the idea is the same. What?
Saturday, February 26, 2005
The Evil Empire
I think everybody here would agree that the real Evil Empire isn't North Korea or Iran. The real Evil Empire is right here in the USA. It's called the IRS. This year, I can joyfully tell them to kiss my ass.
I remember the good old days, when I was a student and hardly made any money. Just enough to pay for the necessities of life: gas, alcohol, and concert tickets. Back then I could fill out the 1040EZ form, and was able to check that I was exempt from taxation. Taxes were for losers and adults. Not cool people like me. Then I made the mistake of leaving school and joining the workforce full time. I still remember the first time I filled out my tax form and line F wasn't greater than line D. I wasn't going to get my spring bonus. They actually wanted me to send them money. What insanity was that? I still remember my exact thoughts. "Fuck this, hello trash can."
That was how my relationship with the IRS went bad. At first they were patient. I don't know if they even realized I had stood them up. I wasn't too worried. Eventually, they started sending me letters wondering where their money was. Even though it started as a small amount of money, there is apparently something called interest, that ballooned the balance to an unholy amount I was never going to pay. Since that day long ago when I threw my tax papers in the circular file, I've moved about a dozen times and got married twice. Still they tracked me down.
At first they just sent an occasional letter, letting me know they were watching me, waiting for their money. Those letters joined the original tax forms in the trash can. Eventually they figured out I wasn't going to send them any money. Not unless they sent somebody to my house to break my kneecap or something. I was perfectly happy pretending nothing had ever happened. Unfortunately, they weren't so happy. And they had an evil plan. Since that fateful year, I had adjusted my tax withholding strategy, so I was enjoying my usual spring bonus every year.
Then one year, instead of my expected spring bonus, I got a thank you letter from the IRS. They finally realized that they could get their money by just keeping my spring bonus. Assholes. That was my money and I wanted it. On the bright side, I was able to adjust my tax strategy a little better and they ended up only getting $50 or $100. Even if I wasn't getting my spring bonus, at least they weren't going to get all their money until about 2014.
Then last summer they sent me another letter. They were tired of waiting. They either wanted all their money right then, or they were going to start sucking the money directly out of my paycheck every week. Apparently the IRS was sneakier than I thought.
My husband called to explain that if they were going to start taking money out of my paycheck we might as well move right into the nearest homeless shelter because we didn't have any extra money for them to take. He was able to convince the lady on the phone that any payment would be a severe hardship. She looked at my file and actually agreed. Plus, she told him that since the original incident had been so long ago, there was a time limit. If they didn't start taking my money by the end of last year, they would have forget about the whole thing. No more stealing my spring bonus, no more sending me mean letters, no taking money out of my paycheck.
So this year, for the first time in ages, I'm expecting my spring bonus any day now. Ebay here I come. I see a new tarot deck, some crystals, and probably something chocolate in my future.
I think everybody here would agree that the real Evil Empire isn't North Korea or Iran. The real Evil Empire is right here in the USA. It's called the IRS. This year, I can joyfully tell them to kiss my ass.
I remember the good old days, when I was a student and hardly made any money. Just enough to pay for the necessities of life: gas, alcohol, and concert tickets. Back then I could fill out the 1040EZ form, and was able to check that I was exempt from taxation. Taxes were for losers and adults. Not cool people like me. Then I made the mistake of leaving school and joining the workforce full time. I still remember the first time I filled out my tax form and line F wasn't greater than line D. I wasn't going to get my spring bonus. They actually wanted me to send them money. What insanity was that? I still remember my exact thoughts. "Fuck this, hello trash can."
That was how my relationship with the IRS went bad. At first they were patient. I don't know if they even realized I had stood them up. I wasn't too worried. Eventually, they started sending me letters wondering where their money was. Even though it started as a small amount of money, there is apparently something called interest, that ballooned the balance to an unholy amount I was never going to pay. Since that day long ago when I threw my tax papers in the circular file, I've moved about a dozen times and got married twice. Still they tracked me down.
At first they just sent an occasional letter, letting me know they were watching me, waiting for their money. Those letters joined the original tax forms in the trash can. Eventually they figured out I wasn't going to send them any money. Not unless they sent somebody to my house to break my kneecap or something. I was perfectly happy pretending nothing had ever happened. Unfortunately, they weren't so happy. And they had an evil plan. Since that fateful year, I had adjusted my tax withholding strategy, so I was enjoying my usual spring bonus every year.
Then one year, instead of my expected spring bonus, I got a thank you letter from the IRS. They finally realized that they could get their money by just keeping my spring bonus. Assholes. That was my money and I wanted it. On the bright side, I was able to adjust my tax strategy a little better and they ended up only getting $50 or $100. Even if I wasn't getting my spring bonus, at least they weren't going to get all their money until about 2014.
Then last summer they sent me another letter. They were tired of waiting. They either wanted all their money right then, or they were going to start sucking the money directly out of my paycheck every week. Apparently the IRS was sneakier than I thought.
My husband called to explain that if they were going to start taking money out of my paycheck we might as well move right into the nearest homeless shelter because we didn't have any extra money for them to take. He was able to convince the lady on the phone that any payment would be a severe hardship. She looked at my file and actually agreed. Plus, she told him that since the original incident had been so long ago, there was a time limit. If they didn't start taking my money by the end of last year, they would have forget about the whole thing. No more stealing my spring bonus, no more sending me mean letters, no taking money out of my paycheck.
So this year, for the first time in ages, I'm expecting my spring bonus any day now. Ebay here I come. I see a new tarot deck, some crystals, and probably something chocolate in my future.
Friday, February 25, 2005
THE LIBRARY LIZARD
THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT-TIME
I became completely hooked by an audio version of Mark Haddon's novel, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" (Recorded Books, 2003, 4 cassettes) and could hardly wait go walking so I could listen to more of it. I don't know how it "reads" but listening to it is a gripping experience.
What makes the novel so unusual is that its hero and narrator is a 15-year-old autistic English boy named Christopher. We are immediately taken into his strange world and his attempts to make sense of it. Christopher is a genius at math and reads far above his age level, but he hopeless at dealing with people and the ordinary routines of daily life. We learn this from his matter-of-fact narration of events in his life. He struggles with rages and terrors and copes by groaning, barking, screaming, hiding, or doing complex math problems in his head. He cannot adjust to the slightest variation in his daily routine, can eat only certain foods, and cannot stand contact with anything yellow or brown. He goes to a "special-needs" school, where he struggles to fit in with a mentally retarded student body.
The plot moves along on two basic lines. The first is a mystery, the gruesome "murder" of a neighbor's dog by means of a garden fork. Christopher is the first to discover the impaled dog, is initially blamed for its death, and resolves to solve the mystery by applying mathematical reasoning and the techniques of his hero Sherlock Holmes. The other plot covers a series of events in Christopher's life that reveal to the reader--although not to Christopher--just how much his condition has shattered his parents' lives and their marriage.
The book stays in character throughout. Everything we learn, we learn through Christopher and his imperfect understanding of the world around him. We are told only what Christopher sees and thinks, but gradually the truth of what is going on becomes blindingly obvious. The suspense sometimes becomes almost unbearable, as we watch Christopher blunder obliviously along and we wince at what is about to happen.
For all that, it's an engaging story, not as dark as I may have made it sound here. There are many amusing moments, and the book ends on,if not a happy note, at least a hopeful one.
THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE DOG IN THE NIGHT-TIME
I became completely hooked by an audio version of Mark Haddon's novel, "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time" (Recorded Books, 2003, 4 cassettes) and could hardly wait go walking so I could listen to more of it. I don't know how it "reads" but listening to it is a gripping experience.
What makes the novel so unusual is that its hero and narrator is a 15-year-old autistic English boy named Christopher. We are immediately taken into his strange world and his attempts to make sense of it. Christopher is a genius at math and reads far above his age level, but he hopeless at dealing with people and the ordinary routines of daily life. We learn this from his matter-of-fact narration of events in his life. He struggles with rages and terrors and copes by groaning, barking, screaming, hiding, or doing complex math problems in his head. He cannot adjust to the slightest variation in his daily routine, can eat only certain foods, and cannot stand contact with anything yellow or brown. He goes to a "special-needs" school, where he struggles to fit in with a mentally retarded student body.
The plot moves along on two basic lines. The first is a mystery, the gruesome "murder" of a neighbor's dog by means of a garden fork. Christopher is the first to discover the impaled dog, is initially blamed for its death, and resolves to solve the mystery by applying mathematical reasoning and the techniques of his hero Sherlock Holmes. The other plot covers a series of events in Christopher's life that reveal to the reader--although not to Christopher--just how much his condition has shattered his parents' lives and their marriage.
The book stays in character throughout. Everything we learn, we learn through Christopher and his imperfect understanding of the world around him. We are told only what Christopher sees and thinks, but gradually the truth of what is going on becomes blindingly obvious. The suspense sometimes becomes almost unbearable, as we watch Christopher blunder obliviously along and we wince at what is about to happen.
For all that, it's an engaging story, not as dark as I may have made it sound here. There are many amusing moments, and the book ends on,if not a happy note, at least a hopeful one.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
ACTUAL QUESTIONS ASKED OF TELEPHONE INFORMATION OPERATORS
from "anvari.org"
C= Caller and O = Operator.
C: I'd like the number of the Argoed Fish Bar in Cardiff, please.
O: I'm sorry, there's no such listing. Are you sure you have the spelling
correct?
C: Well, it used to be called the Bargoed Fish Bar but the B fell off.
C: I'd like the number of the Scottish knitwear company in Woven.
O: I can't find a town called 'Woven'? Are you sure?
C: Yes. That's what it says on the label - Woven in Scotland.
C: I'd like the RSPCA please.
O: Where are you calling from?
C: The living room
C: The water board please.
O: Which department?
C: Tap water
O: How qre you spelling that?
C: With letters.
C: I'd like the number for a Reverend in Cardiff, please.
O: Do you have his name?
C: No, but he has a dog named Ben.
C: The Union of Shopkeepers and Alligators please.
O: You mean the Amalgamated Union of Shopkeepers?
C: Er, yes.
On one occasion, a man making heavy breathing sounds from a phone box told
the worried operator:
"I haven't got a pen so I'm steaming up the window to write the number on."
(These happen to be in England, but they sound like some of Ruth's callers.)
from "anvari.org"
C= Caller and O = Operator.
C: I'd like the number of the Argoed Fish Bar in Cardiff, please.
O: I'm sorry, there's no such listing. Are you sure you have the spelling
correct?
C: Well, it used to be called the Bargoed Fish Bar but the B fell off.
C: I'd like the number of the Scottish knitwear company in Woven.
O: I can't find a town called 'Woven'? Are you sure?
C: Yes. That's what it says on the label - Woven in Scotland.
C: I'd like the RSPCA please.
O: Where are you calling from?
C: The living room
C: The water board please.
O: Which department?
C: Tap water
O: How qre you spelling that?
C: With letters.
C: I'd like the number for a Reverend in Cardiff, please.
O: Do you have his name?
C: No, but he has a dog named Ben.
C: The Union of Shopkeepers and Alligators please.
O: You mean the Amalgamated Union of Shopkeepers?
C: Er, yes.
On one occasion, a man making heavy breathing sounds from a phone box told
the worried operator:
"I haven't got a pen so I'm steaming up the window to write the number on."
(These happen to be in England, but they sound like some of Ruth's callers.)
Pet Peeves
There are a few things callers have been doing that I just need to vent about. Mostly it's little things, but they bug me. I don't know why, but some people feel the need to keep pushing buttons on their phones even after I'm on the line with them. Do you know what I say to people who do that? Click, that's what I say. If you ever think about putting me on hold while you answer your other line, do you know what you're going to hear when you come back? A dial tone. And then there are the people who think I'm going to wait while they finish talking to their friends, or giving their order at the drive-thru. Do you think I'll wait? No, I don't think so, either. There are also people who call wanting the phone number of the electric company, or cable company, or whatever, but don't know which one services their area. Let me tell you a secret. I don't know either. You should find out something like that before you call. Or there are the people who, when I tell them I have the number of Joe's Tavern on Main, ask me if I will give them the number. Um, yes, what a brilliant idea. Give people the number they ask for. I'll have to suggest that to management.
Now, there are also things I'm tempted to do to the callers. I would have to be drunk or high, or want to get fired to do them, but it's fun to think about doing it. When someone calls and asks if I have the number for Joe's Tavern on Main, I'm tempted to just say yes and hang up. Sometimes people will ask if there is a McDonald's on Park. I would do the same thing, just say yes and hang up. Sometimes, when people ask for a taxi, taxidermist numbers also show up. What a temptation. Or I could give people numbers for a veterinarian hospital instead of Mercy General, or a pet groomer instead of hair salon, because they all tend to come up together. Oops, my finger slipped.
Just in case anybody from work reads this, which is theoretically possible because I check the blogs on my sidebar during my breaks on the computers at work, no, I don't do any of this stuff. Really, I don't. Well, if anybody puts me on hold, I figure they don't really want the number that bad and hang up, but other than that, no, I don't. No matter how tempting it is, I am nice and helpful, as perky as a a big cup of Folgers.
There are a few things callers have been doing that I just need to vent about. Mostly it's little things, but they bug me. I don't know why, but some people feel the need to keep pushing buttons on their phones even after I'm on the line with them. Do you know what I say to people who do that? Click, that's what I say. If you ever think about putting me on hold while you answer your other line, do you know what you're going to hear when you come back? A dial tone. And then there are the people who think I'm going to wait while they finish talking to their friends, or giving their order at the drive-thru. Do you think I'll wait? No, I don't think so, either. There are also people who call wanting the phone number of the electric company, or cable company, or whatever, but don't know which one services their area. Let me tell you a secret. I don't know either. You should find out something like that before you call. Or there are the people who, when I tell them I have the number of Joe's Tavern on Main, ask me if I will give them the number. Um, yes, what a brilliant idea. Give people the number they ask for. I'll have to suggest that to management.
Now, there are also things I'm tempted to do to the callers. I would have to be drunk or high, or want to get fired to do them, but it's fun to think about doing it. When someone calls and asks if I have the number for Joe's Tavern on Main, I'm tempted to just say yes and hang up. Sometimes people will ask if there is a McDonald's on Park. I would do the same thing, just say yes and hang up. Sometimes, when people ask for a taxi, taxidermist numbers also show up. What a temptation. Or I could give people numbers for a veterinarian hospital instead of Mercy General, or a pet groomer instead of hair salon, because they all tend to come up together. Oops, my finger slipped.
Just in case anybody from work reads this, which is theoretically possible because I check the blogs on my sidebar during my breaks on the computers at work, no, I don't do any of this stuff. Really, I don't. Well, if anybody puts me on hold, I figure they don't really want the number that bad and hang up, but other than that, no, I don't. No matter how tempting it is, I am nice and helpful, as perky as a a big cup of Folgers.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Time To Poop
Today's Medical Monday comes from a book called Moon Time: The Art of Harmony with Nature and Lunar Cycles, by Johanna Paungger and Thomas Poppe. This is how the book says to get rid of constipation. In the morning, before you get out of bed, lay on your back and lift your right knee up and pull it toward your chest. Hold it like that for one minute, then do the same thing with your left knee, and then pull up both knees for a minute. This is supposed to stimulate your intestines to start moving the food down and out.
As always, I don't guarantee this will work any better than carrying a rabbit's foot or just jumping up and down vigorously.
Today's Medical Monday comes from a book called Moon Time: The Art of Harmony with Nature and Lunar Cycles, by Johanna Paungger and Thomas Poppe. This is how the book says to get rid of constipation. In the morning, before you get out of bed, lay on your back and lift your right knee up and pull it toward your chest. Hold it like that for one minute, then do the same thing with your left knee, and then pull up both knees for a minute. This is supposed to stimulate your intestines to start moving the food down and out.
As always, I don't guarantee this will work any better than carrying a rabbit's foot or just jumping up and down vigorously.
GETTING HIGH AT THE HOSPITAL
A few days ago I had to take my brother Gene to the hospital for a test, wait for him there, and drive him home. For those of you who don't know, Gene is a walking medical disaster who always has something going haywire with him. This time it began when he went to one of his many doctors with some complaint which I've forgotten, and the doctor ordered an abdominal MRI and, from it, tentatively diagnosed a kidney cyst. This doctor then sent him to Doctor #2, a urologist, who was dubious about this diagnosis and ordered a CAT scan, which showed no problem with the kidney but seemed to indicate something unusual about the pancreas. So Doctor #2 sent him to Doctor #3, a gastroenteroligist whom I will call The Gastro Guy.
Naturally, the Gastro Guy had to do his own test, which involved running a tube down Gene's throat, through his stomach, hang a right at the gall bladder, and peek into the pancreas. We had to be at the hospital promptly at 12:30 p.m., so of course it turned out to BE 3:30 before he showed up.
In the meantime, while we were waiting, we were entertained by a large family in the cubicle next to Gene's. Not exactly a cubicle, but a bed sectioned off by curtains. This was an older Mexican lady (I say "older," meaning about my age) being reassured by her husband, several grown kids, and a few grandkids. It was such a sweet family. Everyone was telling her everything was going to be fine, not to worry, it was just a simple test, etc. Some of this was in English, some of it in Spanish, and much of it in that back-and-forth mixture that is common around here. It is amazing how they can switch languages in the same sentence. And just before the nurse came to wheel her off, they all joined in a long prayer in Spanish--I think it was both an Our Father and a Hail Mary. It was really pretty touching.
I wondered if Gene felt somehow left out. I was the only family there. My other brother didn't come over from Oklahoma City, and his son didn't come up from Dallas. As for me, I was just whining, "I'm bored out of my skull--how long do they expect us to wait?" And grumbling, "I bet this is all a big waste of time." And as for praying, all I did was to say, when they finally came to take him away, "Thank God!"
He was gone about half an hour, and when he got back he was pretty high. In a few minutes the Gastro Guy popped in and talked to us. Gene asked him, "How did it go?" And he said, "Well, just fine, but I didn't find anything." Gene said, disbelieving, "Nothing?" Big shrug from the Gastro Guy: "I don't know what your other doctors saw--maybe a shadow."
Yeah, right. Shades of Groundhog Day. I guessed we were going to have six more weeks of winter.
Gene talked to him a little more, and then he left and Gene napped. He had to stay an hour for the anesthesia to wear off, so I had nothing to do but sit around and listen to the Mexcian family. For some reason Mama was still gone, and they were wondering why. Then finally here came the nurse, wheeling her back in. They all started talking at once--"Mama, how are you! How do you feel! What did the doctor say?"
Mama sounded a little high herself--"He say I'm gonna have a baby." They all started giggling, and her husband said, "No, you're not gonna have a baby." But she stood her ground, and said clearly, "Yes, the doctor say I am pregnant." One of the daughters asked, "What kind of baby are you gonna have, Mama?" And she said, "A boy." They all laughed again, and the husband said, a little exasperated, "No, you're not gonna have a baby!" She started getting a little drowsy at this point, her voice trailing off, but she informed them,"I'm gonna name him Martinez."
Later the doctor came by and I heard him tell her family that she had ulcers and was to stop taking Celebrex. Huh. No baby.
Gene woke up about the same time and asked me, "When is the doctor coming in? What did he find out?" I was amazed. All that time he had been talking to the doctor, he had been off on Cloud 9 and didn't remember any of it. So I told him, "He said he didn't find anything. He said you need to lose 20 pounds and about three doctors."
A few days ago I had to take my brother Gene to the hospital for a test, wait for him there, and drive him home. For those of you who don't know, Gene is a walking medical disaster who always has something going haywire with him. This time it began when he went to one of his many doctors with some complaint which I've forgotten, and the doctor ordered an abdominal MRI and, from it, tentatively diagnosed a kidney cyst. This doctor then sent him to Doctor #2, a urologist, who was dubious about this diagnosis and ordered a CAT scan, which showed no problem with the kidney but seemed to indicate something unusual about the pancreas. So Doctor #2 sent him to Doctor #3, a gastroenteroligist whom I will call The Gastro Guy.
Naturally, the Gastro Guy had to do his own test, which involved running a tube down Gene's throat, through his stomach, hang a right at the gall bladder, and peek into the pancreas. We had to be at the hospital promptly at 12:30 p.m., so of course it turned out to BE 3:30 before he showed up.
In the meantime, while we were waiting, we were entertained by a large family in the cubicle next to Gene's. Not exactly a cubicle, but a bed sectioned off by curtains. This was an older Mexican lady (I say "older," meaning about my age) being reassured by her husband, several grown kids, and a few grandkids. It was such a sweet family. Everyone was telling her everything was going to be fine, not to worry, it was just a simple test, etc. Some of this was in English, some of it in Spanish, and much of it in that back-and-forth mixture that is common around here. It is amazing how they can switch languages in the same sentence. And just before the nurse came to wheel her off, they all joined in a long prayer in Spanish--I think it was both an Our Father and a Hail Mary. It was really pretty touching.
I wondered if Gene felt somehow left out. I was the only family there. My other brother didn't come over from Oklahoma City, and his son didn't come up from Dallas. As for me, I was just whining, "I'm bored out of my skull--how long do they expect us to wait?" And grumbling, "I bet this is all a big waste of time." And as for praying, all I did was to say, when they finally came to take him away, "Thank God!"
He was gone about half an hour, and when he got back he was pretty high. In a few minutes the Gastro Guy popped in and talked to us. Gene asked him, "How did it go?" And he said, "Well, just fine, but I didn't find anything." Gene said, disbelieving, "Nothing?" Big shrug from the Gastro Guy: "I don't know what your other doctors saw--maybe a shadow."
Yeah, right. Shades of Groundhog Day. I guessed we were going to have six more weeks of winter.
Gene talked to him a little more, and then he left and Gene napped. He had to stay an hour for the anesthesia to wear off, so I had nothing to do but sit around and listen to the Mexcian family. For some reason Mama was still gone, and they were wondering why. Then finally here came the nurse, wheeling her back in. They all started talking at once--"Mama, how are you! How do you feel! What did the doctor say?"
Mama sounded a little high herself--"He say I'm gonna have a baby." They all started giggling, and her husband said, "No, you're not gonna have a baby." But she stood her ground, and said clearly, "Yes, the doctor say I am pregnant." One of the daughters asked, "What kind of baby are you gonna have, Mama?" And she said, "A boy." They all laughed again, and the husband said, a little exasperated, "No, you're not gonna have a baby!" She started getting a little drowsy at this point, her voice trailing off, but she informed them,"I'm gonna name him Martinez."
Later the doctor came by and I heard him tell her family that she had ulcers and was to stop taking Celebrex. Huh. No baby.
Gene woke up about the same time and asked me, "When is the doctor coming in? What did he find out?" I was amazed. All that time he had been talking to the doctor, he had been off on Cloud 9 and didn't remember any of it. So I told him, "He said he didn't find anything. He said you need to lose 20 pounds and about three doctors."
Sunday, February 20, 2005
STICK-IN-THE-MUDS GET UNSTUCK
Your Dad and I have decided we must shake ourselves up and get out of the house. Our default setting is to sit around listening to talk radio (both of us), obsessively read blogs (me), and power-nap in the recliner (him). I am not as bad about this as he is because I do my dog-walking, visit Margery next door, and go to the library with my lady friend Ted. But he is a major-league slug.
We pulled the weekly "Get Out" section from the newspaper and stuck a pin in it. It landed on "National Cutting Horse Competition." For those of you who are ignorant Yankees or effete Eastern liberals, this is not some bizarre Texas Panhandle thing where you chase down horses and slice them up with a Bowie knive. A cutting horse is one that has been trained to go into a herd of cattle and "cut" one of them out to be branded, vaccinated, ear-marked, dosed, sent to the sale barn, or whatever. Since cattle have a strong herd instinct, this is no easy job. The steer or heifer has but one thought in mind--to get back in there with the gang.
We went to the arena where this was happening. It was a fascinating competition. The herd was at one end of the arena, and the rider guided his horse into the middle of it. Other riders were there as well, to keep order when the whole herd might get rambunctious and bolt for the fences. The rider would somehow (we could never actually spot how) indicate to the horse which steer he wanted, and then the horse would take over on his own. He would squeeze in among the cattle and nudge a few to one side, then force the chosen one out into the open.
Once it dawned on the steer that he was out there on his own, all hell would break loose as he tried to get back--and this is where the cutting horse's skill comes in. The steer runs this way and that, dodges here and there, always angling to get back to the herd. The horse stays between him and the herd and matches him step for step, feint for feint, turning on a dime. The rider is just along for the ride. If he touched the reins and tried to guide the horse, they would both be disqualified. The rider's only duty is to stay aboard a bobbing, weaving horse that, to make matters more difficult, is hunkered down on its front legs most of the time.
Each rider has two minutes and thirty seconds to perform, and judges score them on some scale I can't begin to understand. But this is serious competition, and it brings horse people from all over the country, pulling expensive trailers and flashing big diamonds and saucer-sized belt buckles. Some of these trailers have plush living quarters at the back for the horses, and slightly-less-plush quarters in front for the humans. There is big money involved here. If your horse is a winner, his or her value has just soared and so has that of the offsping.
Mostly, however, what we were watching was an anachronism. Very few ranches use cowboys and cutting horses this way any more. Like everything else, they have become mechanized and routinized, and if they need to do something to the cattle, they herd them along into a chute and have a vet deal with them there. But horse people have a strong sense of history, and they still prize a good cutting horse. Even if it's just for show.
Your Dad and I have decided we must shake ourselves up and get out of the house. Our default setting is to sit around listening to talk radio (both of us), obsessively read blogs (me), and power-nap in the recliner (him). I am not as bad about this as he is because I do my dog-walking, visit Margery next door, and go to the library with my lady friend Ted. But he is a major-league slug.
We pulled the weekly "Get Out" section from the newspaper and stuck a pin in it. It landed on "National Cutting Horse Competition." For those of you who are ignorant Yankees or effete Eastern liberals, this is not some bizarre Texas Panhandle thing where you chase down horses and slice them up with a Bowie knive. A cutting horse is one that has been trained to go into a herd of cattle and "cut" one of them out to be branded, vaccinated, ear-marked, dosed, sent to the sale barn, or whatever. Since cattle have a strong herd instinct, this is no easy job. The steer or heifer has but one thought in mind--to get back in there with the gang.
We went to the arena where this was happening. It was a fascinating competition. The herd was at one end of the arena, and the rider guided his horse into the middle of it. Other riders were there as well, to keep order when the whole herd might get rambunctious and bolt for the fences. The rider would somehow (we could never actually spot how) indicate to the horse which steer he wanted, and then the horse would take over on his own. He would squeeze in among the cattle and nudge a few to one side, then force the chosen one out into the open.
Once it dawned on the steer that he was out there on his own, all hell would break loose as he tried to get back--and this is where the cutting horse's skill comes in. The steer runs this way and that, dodges here and there, always angling to get back to the herd. The horse stays between him and the herd and matches him step for step, feint for feint, turning on a dime. The rider is just along for the ride. If he touched the reins and tried to guide the horse, they would both be disqualified. The rider's only duty is to stay aboard a bobbing, weaving horse that, to make matters more difficult, is hunkered down on its front legs most of the time.
Each rider has two minutes and thirty seconds to perform, and judges score them on some scale I can't begin to understand. But this is serious competition, and it brings horse people from all over the country, pulling expensive trailers and flashing big diamonds and saucer-sized belt buckles. Some of these trailers have plush living quarters at the back for the horses, and slightly-less-plush quarters in front for the humans. There is big money involved here. If your horse is a winner, his or her value has just soared and so has that of the offsping.
Mostly, however, what we were watching was an anachronism. Very few ranches use cowboys and cutting horses this way any more. Like everything else, they have become mechanized and routinized, and if they need to do something to the cattle, they herd them along into a chute and have a vet deal with them there. But horse people have a strong sense of history, and they still prize a good cutting horse. Even if it's just for show.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
In Case You Were Wondering
Maybe you've noticed a lack of crabbing and whining about working for the phone company. Want to know why? Because, as surprised as I was to find this out, I am actually good at it. Believe it or not, but the managers here actually tell you when you are doing a good job, not just sit around waiting for a chance to jump your ass. Every so often, a manager will listen in on my calls. They always complement me. The last time a manager listened to my line she actually complained because I was handling the calls so fast she had trouble writing all the information down. Sweet.
On the other hand, not every call is a joy for me. I still get callers who are rude, or can't speak English well enough to order a pizza, or don't have a clue what they are doing. I had a woman the other day who had to spell her mother's name for me, and spelled it wrong. Her own mother's name. I know how to spell my mom's name, and even how to spell her maiden name, but not this lady.
Then there are calls that should be easy, but never are. If you ever want to call a gas station, don't bother calling 411 for the number. Not many gas stations list their phone number by the brand of gas they sell. I hardly ever find a number for 'The Shell station on Oak' or 'That Conoco on Green; you know, the one next to McDonald's'. Either they just don't have a number listed because they don't want a bunch of idiots calling and wasting the clerk's time asking how much a loaf of bread costs, or their number is listed as Joe's Stop and Gulp, not Mobile or Phillips, no mater what the giant sign in front of the station says.
Hospitals also have a tendency to be hard to find. You would be surprised at the number of people who think they can call and get a hospital's phone number, without even knowing the name of the hospital. Hello? Even if it's the only hospital in town, that doesn't really help. I still have to sift through every business with any connection to medicine, including pharmacies, individual doctors, even veterinarians. Hardly any hospitals actually call themselves hospitals anyway. Usually it's Blah Blah Memorial, or Blah Blah Medical Center. If you ask me, any place with doctors and nurses, where people spend the night, should automatically be called a hospital. Anyplace with doctors and nurses that just pull splinters and give exams should be called a medical center. That's the way it would be in the Land of Ruth at least.
Maybe you've noticed a lack of crabbing and whining about working for the phone company. Want to know why? Because, as surprised as I was to find this out, I am actually good at it. Believe it or not, but the managers here actually tell you when you are doing a good job, not just sit around waiting for a chance to jump your ass. Every so often, a manager will listen in on my calls. They always complement me. The last time a manager listened to my line she actually complained because I was handling the calls so fast she had trouble writing all the information down. Sweet.
On the other hand, not every call is a joy for me. I still get callers who are rude, or can't speak English well enough to order a pizza, or don't have a clue what they are doing. I had a woman the other day who had to spell her mother's name for me, and spelled it wrong. Her own mother's name. I know how to spell my mom's name, and even how to spell her maiden name, but not this lady.
Then there are calls that should be easy, but never are. If you ever want to call a gas station, don't bother calling 411 for the number. Not many gas stations list their phone number by the brand of gas they sell. I hardly ever find a number for 'The Shell station on Oak' or 'That Conoco on Green; you know, the one next to McDonald's'. Either they just don't have a number listed because they don't want a bunch of idiots calling and wasting the clerk's time asking how much a loaf of bread costs, or their number is listed as Joe's Stop and Gulp, not Mobile or Phillips, no mater what the giant sign in front of the station says.
Hospitals also have a tendency to be hard to find. You would be surprised at the number of people who think they can call and get a hospital's phone number, without even knowing the name of the hospital. Hello? Even if it's the only hospital in town, that doesn't really help. I still have to sift through every business with any connection to medicine, including pharmacies, individual doctors, even veterinarians. Hardly any hospitals actually call themselves hospitals anyway. Usually it's Blah Blah Memorial, or Blah Blah Medical Center. If you ask me, any place with doctors and nurses, where people spend the night, should automatically be called a hospital. Anyplace with doctors and nurses that just pull splinters and give exams should be called a medical center. That's the way it would be in the Land of Ruth at least.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Smell This
For the next Medical Monday, I have a weight loss technique. Some scientists were studying weight loss. They ran a test studying the effect of different scents on weight loss. They had people who were trying to loose weight smell different things, and checked if any lost more weight than usual while smelling anything in particular. They thought you would loose more weight if you smelled something rank, like rotten eggs or old gym socks, but found out you would loose more weight if you sniffed something you liked. Actually, the biggest weight loss came when people were sniffing Fritos. Go figure. So all you have to do to loose weight is carry around a bag of Fritos and sniff it whenever you start wanting a snack. Just don't actually eat it.
For the next Medical Monday, I have a weight loss technique. Some scientists were studying weight loss. They ran a test studying the effect of different scents on weight loss. They had people who were trying to loose weight smell different things, and checked if any lost more weight than usual while smelling anything in particular. They thought you would loose more weight if you smelled something rank, like rotten eggs or old gym socks, but found out you would loose more weight if you sniffed something you liked. Actually, the biggest weight loss came when people were sniffing Fritos. Go figure. So all you have to do to loose weight is carry around a bag of Fritos and sniff it whenever you start wanting a snack. Just don't actually eat it.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
TYPOGLYCEMIA
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at
Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer inwaht oredr the ltteers in a wrod
are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the
rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit
a porbelm. ! Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by
istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas thought
slpeling was ipmorantt.
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at
Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer inwaht oredr the ltteers in a wrod
are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the
rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit
a porbelm. ! Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by
istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas thought
slpeling was ipmorantt.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Choices, Choices
My neighbor is getting married, and I need some help. There are two meals to choose from, and I can't decide which would be less repulsive. Either pork chops with mango chutney, or tilapia with coconut breading. Both sound revolting. I'm leaning toward the pork chops. After all, I could just scrape off the mango chutney if it is as appetizing as it sounds, but it would be harder to pry the coconut breading off the tilapia. Plus, I've actually tasted pork chops, but I have no idea what tilapia tastes like, with or without the coconut breading.
Why do people have to pick such nasty meals for their wedding reception? What's wrong with roast beef or chicken breast? I mean, pork chops would be fine, but what's up with mango chutney? Some sort of fish would be great, but tilapia? With coconut breading? Ew. I like the Hoosier reception my other neighbor had. Hamburgers or hotdogs, potato chips or Cole slaw. All decent American food, not fancy pants haute cuisine.
My neighbor is getting married, and I need some help. There are two meals to choose from, and I can't decide which would be less repulsive. Either pork chops with mango chutney, or tilapia with coconut breading. Both sound revolting. I'm leaning toward the pork chops. After all, I could just scrape off the mango chutney if it is as appetizing as it sounds, but it would be harder to pry the coconut breading off the tilapia. Plus, I've actually tasted pork chops, but I have no idea what tilapia tastes like, with or without the coconut breading.
Why do people have to pick such nasty meals for their wedding reception? What's wrong with roast beef or chicken breast? I mean, pork chops would be fine, but what's up with mango chutney? Some sort of fish would be great, but tilapia? With coconut breading? Ew. I like the Hoosier reception my other neighbor had. Hamburgers or hotdogs, potato chips or Cole slaw. All decent American food, not fancy pants haute cuisine.
THE LIBRARY LIZARD
I was going to call this occasional feature "The Library Mouse," in honor of a small rodent I once spied in the main reading room of the New York Public Library. However, since my librarying is now done in the Beautiful Texas Panhandle, "The Library Lizard" seems more appropriate. In this feature I will, from time to time, call attention to books I have found in the library that I think readers of this blog would enjoy.
Today's pick is "Beating Back the Devil: On the Front Lines with the Disease Detectives of the Epidemic Intelligence Service," by Maryn McKenna (Free Press, 2004), 303 pages, with bibliography. If you like a book that you can read in brief snatches of time, put down, and go back to without getting lost, you will enjoy this one. Each chapter is a complete and separate story, with the link being its connection to the EIS, a group of field investigators within the Centers of Disease Control.
Most chapters describe a mystery they are sent to solve--for instance, an outbreak of a strange new gay-related disease in California in 1981, the origin of a cluster of drug-resistant "staph" cases, the spread of tuberculosis among cross-dressers in Baltimore and New York. Other chapters describe their involvement in the anthrax attacks of 2001, the genocide in Rwanda in 1994, early problems with the polio vaccine, and other cases. The doctors win some, lose some, but keep trying.
McKenna is a reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, and her beat is the CDC, which is headquartered there in Atlanta. The chapters in this book are expanded versions of earlier newspaper stories she did about the doctors who are CDC's "shock troops." These are great yarns, and she brings these doctors to life for the reader. A great read.
I was going to call this occasional feature "The Library Mouse," in honor of a small rodent I once spied in the main reading room of the New York Public Library. However, since my librarying is now done in the Beautiful Texas Panhandle, "The Library Lizard" seems more appropriate. In this feature I will, from time to time, call attention to books I have found in the library that I think readers of this blog would enjoy.
Today's pick is "Beating Back the Devil: On the Front Lines with the Disease Detectives of the Epidemic Intelligence Service," by Maryn McKenna (Free Press, 2004), 303 pages, with bibliography. If you like a book that you can read in brief snatches of time, put down, and go back to without getting lost, you will enjoy this one. Each chapter is a complete and separate story, with the link being its connection to the EIS, a group of field investigators within the Centers of Disease Control.
Most chapters describe a mystery they are sent to solve--for instance, an outbreak of a strange new gay-related disease in California in 1981, the origin of a cluster of drug-resistant "staph" cases, the spread of tuberculosis among cross-dressers in Baltimore and New York. Other chapters describe their involvement in the anthrax attacks of 2001, the genocide in Rwanda in 1994, early problems with the polio vaccine, and other cases. The doctors win some, lose some, but keep trying.
McKenna is a reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, and her beat is the CDC, which is headquartered there in Atlanta. The chapters in this book are expanded versions of earlier newspaper stories she did about the doctors who are CDC's "shock troops." These are great yarns, and she brings these doctors to life for the reader. A great read.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
OBEDIENCE TRAINING
Not long ago I saw a cartoon that showed a man and his wife standing at attention and saluting while their dog strutted before them twirling a swagger stick. The man was whispering out the side of his mouth, "I'm not sure Obedience School was such a good idea."
Actually, there's a lot of truth to that cartoon. Our dogs train us just about as much as we train them. Here are a few examples:
Mickey has me trained to keep his water bowl full. When it gets empty, he digs furiously in it and scratches his nails HARD against the dry bottom. I hear this fingernails-against-the-blackboard routine and come flying into the kitchen and fill his dish. After several repetitions, I am now trained NOT TO EVER LET THAT BOWL GO DRY. I check on it periodically throughout the day and if the level starts getting low, I take care of it immediately. I don't want to hear that hideous sound again.
I saw a dog training video that said you could get your dog to do something by giving him a treat when he did it. So I bought some Pup-a-Roni and began training Mickey to "sit." "Sit!" I would command. After several false starts, he caught on: sit, and you get a treat. But then after a while he began training me by coming over and sitting in front of me and looking up expectantly. What was I supposed to do? If I didn't give him a treat, then it would undo all that training. So I would get up and get him a Pup-a-Roni. You can guess the rest. Pretty soon he had trained me to fetch Pup-a-Roni's on command. The result is, now I can no longer order him to sit; he sits when he feels damn good and ready, and I had better hop to it when he does.
I usually open the door and let him out in the front yard to do his business before we go to bed. (For some unknown reason, we don't have a door from the house to the backyard.) Sometimes he wants to stay out there and smell stuff and bark and run into the street. Aha, Pup-a-Roni to the rescue! I yell "Treat!" and he comes running. I felt pretty smug about this. Guess I outsmarted that little booger! But pretty soon he began expecting that treat. Now he has me trained. He won't come in unless I sing out "Treat!" And I have to draw it out, singsong fashion--"Tree-e-e-eat!" Only then will he come loping in. Otherwise, he stands out there at the bottom of the porch steps and looks up at me, annoyed--"Can't she learn a simple command?"
Last night we went through this routine, and then he scratched at the door to go out again. What is this? Did he forget to pee or something? I let him out, only to have him stand at the bottom of the steps and look back at me. I had a sudden, sinking feeling--now he is going out so he can come back in and get a Pup-a-Roni.
I'm sure you are asking yourself, why would he go to so much trouble? Why not just "sit," since he would get the same result--i.e., a Pup-a-Roni. I am afraid the answer is pretty obvious. He isn't content with teaching me simple commands. He wants to see if I can learn more complicated behaviors. I had better hide that hula-hoop.
Not long ago I saw a cartoon that showed a man and his wife standing at attention and saluting while their dog strutted before them twirling a swagger stick. The man was whispering out the side of his mouth, "I'm not sure Obedience School was such a good idea."
Actually, there's a lot of truth to that cartoon. Our dogs train us just about as much as we train them. Here are a few examples:
Mickey has me trained to keep his water bowl full. When it gets empty, he digs furiously in it and scratches his nails HARD against the dry bottom. I hear this fingernails-against-the-blackboard routine and come flying into the kitchen and fill his dish. After several repetitions, I am now trained NOT TO EVER LET THAT BOWL GO DRY. I check on it periodically throughout the day and if the level starts getting low, I take care of it immediately. I don't want to hear that hideous sound again.
I saw a dog training video that said you could get your dog to do something by giving him a treat when he did it. So I bought some Pup-a-Roni and began training Mickey to "sit." "Sit!" I would command. After several false starts, he caught on: sit, and you get a treat. But then after a while he began training me by coming over and sitting in front of me and looking up expectantly. What was I supposed to do? If I didn't give him a treat, then it would undo all that training. So I would get up and get him a Pup-a-Roni. You can guess the rest. Pretty soon he had trained me to fetch Pup-a-Roni's on command. The result is, now I can no longer order him to sit; he sits when he feels damn good and ready, and I had better hop to it when he does.
I usually open the door and let him out in the front yard to do his business before we go to bed. (For some unknown reason, we don't have a door from the house to the backyard.) Sometimes he wants to stay out there and smell stuff and bark and run into the street. Aha, Pup-a-Roni to the rescue! I yell "Treat!" and he comes running. I felt pretty smug about this. Guess I outsmarted that little booger! But pretty soon he began expecting that treat. Now he has me trained. He won't come in unless I sing out "Treat!" And I have to draw it out, singsong fashion--"Tree-e-e-eat!" Only then will he come loping in. Otherwise, he stands out there at the bottom of the porch steps and looks up at me, annoyed--"Can't she learn a simple command?"
Last night we went through this routine, and then he scratched at the door to go out again. What is this? Did he forget to pee or something? I let him out, only to have him stand at the bottom of the steps and look back at me. I had a sudden, sinking feeling--now he is going out so he can come back in and get a Pup-a-Roni.
I'm sure you are asking yourself, why would he go to so much trouble? Why not just "sit," since he would get the same result--i.e., a Pup-a-Roni. I am afraid the answer is pretty obvious. He isn't content with teaching me simple commands. He wants to see if I can learn more complicated behaviors. I had better hide that hula-hoop.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
A MENTAL GAME
Christopher Caldwell introduced something new in a recent issue of the Weekly Standard. "It is a mental game you can play to bring the past ever closer," he wrote. "You take an event that seems recent, figure out the number of years since it happened, and then count back from there. Almost inevitably, you find that recent things happened longer ago than you think."
Some "for instances"--
Bill Clinton's 1992 election is closer to the 1970's than it is to the present.
Jimmy Carter's inauguration (1977) is as close to Truman's (1949) as it is to Bush's.
The beginning of Eisenhower's administration is closer to Queen Victoria's reign than it is to us.
FDR's arrival in Washington in 1933 is as close to Abe Lincoln's (1861) as it is to today.
And here's some more--
Woodstock (1969) seems like only yesterday, but it's closer to the Great Depression ("Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?) than it is to today.
The Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" (both 1963) are closer to the 1920's "Yes, We Have No Bananas" than to the hits of today.
The reason? Caldwell speculates it is because we look at things we've experienced as "alive" and things than happened before as "dead." We have a keen sense of what we've seen and think of it as "recent," while what we haven't seen is all jumbled together into "history."
Just for an experiment, take the year you were born, subtract that from 2005, and then subtract the result from your birth year. For instance, I was born in 1939. That will be 66 years ago next November. Let's see--66 years before 1939 was 1873. That means that when I was born, I was closer to the Battle of Little Big Horn (1876) than to the War in Iraq.
Ye gads! Am I THAT old?
Christopher Caldwell introduced something new in a recent issue of the Weekly Standard. "It is a mental game you can play to bring the past ever closer," he wrote. "You take an event that seems recent, figure out the number of years since it happened, and then count back from there. Almost inevitably, you find that recent things happened longer ago than you think."
Some "for instances"--
Bill Clinton's 1992 election is closer to the 1970's than it is to the present.
Jimmy Carter's inauguration (1977) is as close to Truman's (1949) as it is to Bush's.
The beginning of Eisenhower's administration is closer to Queen Victoria's reign than it is to us.
FDR's arrival in Washington in 1933 is as close to Abe Lincoln's (1861) as it is to today.
And here's some more--
Woodstock (1969) seems like only yesterday, but it's closer to the Great Depression ("Buddy, Can You Spare a Dime?) than it is to today.
The Beatles' "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" (both 1963) are closer to the 1920's "Yes, We Have No Bananas" than to the hits of today.
The reason? Caldwell speculates it is because we look at things we've experienced as "alive" and things than happened before as "dead." We have a keen sense of what we've seen and think of it as "recent," while what we haven't seen is all jumbled together into "history."
Just for an experiment, take the year you were born, subtract that from 2005, and then subtract the result from your birth year. For instance, I was born in 1939. That will be 66 years ago next November. Let's see--66 years before 1939 was 1873. That means that when I was born, I was closer to the Battle of Little Big Horn (1876) than to the War in Iraq.
Ye gads! Am I THAT old?
Monday, February 07, 2005
Medical Monday: Do What With A Lemon?
In honor of Drink Race 2000, I think my first Medical Monday post should be a hangover cure. As with all my Medical Monday information, take this with a grain of salt. I don't know if this works or not. I never drink enough to get a hangover, so I couldn't test it. So anyway, you can cure a hangover by rubbing a lemon half in your armpit. How this is supposed to work is beyond me, but I heard it on NPR, so I'm sure it's true. I don't know if you have to rub it into each armpit, or if you can just pick one.
Now for a hangover producer, cherry bombs. I didn't have enough time to make these before Drink Race 2000, but they would have been perfect. Take a bottle of Marichino cherries and pour out the liquid. Pour in enough Everclear to cover the cherries. Cover it and put it in the refrigerator. Let it sit for a month to marinate. These are dangerous in the wrong hands. Label the bottle so you don't accidentally put one on a sundae or shake.
One other hangover cure, also not tested by the Daily Cud staff, is to drink a bunch of pickle juice. I think I would rather rub a lemon on my pit.
In honor of Drink Race 2000, I think my first Medical Monday post should be a hangover cure. As with all my Medical Monday information, take this with a grain of salt. I don't know if this works or not. I never drink enough to get a hangover, so I couldn't test it. So anyway, you can cure a hangover by rubbing a lemon half in your armpit. How this is supposed to work is beyond me, but I heard it on NPR, so I'm sure it's true. I don't know if you have to rub it into each armpit, or if you can just pick one.
Now for a hangover producer, cherry bombs. I didn't have enough time to make these before Drink Race 2000, but they would have been perfect. Take a bottle of Marichino cherries and pour out the liquid. Pour in enough Everclear to cover the cherries. Cover it and put it in the refrigerator. Let it sit for a month to marinate. These are dangerous in the wrong hands. Label the bottle so you don't accidentally put one on a sundae or shake.
One other hangover cure, also not tested by the Daily Cud staff, is to drink a bunch of pickle juice. I think I would rather rub a lemon on my pit.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Saturday, February 05, 2005
And The Winner Is
Drink Race 2000 was a success. At least the Drink Race 2000 punch was a success. I thought people would bring their own liquid refreshment, but no, they all wanted punch. There were 12 people, counting me. 2 only tasted the punch. One was a designated driver, and the other one was my husband, who is a strict whiskey man. The other 10 drank the whole thing. A fifth of Triple Sec, a fifth of Sloe Gin, a fifth of Asti, and a gallon of sherbert. The grocery store hosed me because they didn't have any orange sherbert, just rainbow, but that made it look even more festive. Sort of like the glitter on my nail polish.
Since there were 10 people drinking the punch nobody really got drunk, but we drank enough to enjoy the movie, which is saying something. If we had been taking shots of tequila every time somebody died I think we all would have ended up shitfaced, but who wants 12 staggering drunks lurching around their livingroom? I decided to use coffee cups for the punch, with umbrellas, no less.
And then after the movie we had birthday cake. German chocolate, yummy. We had a big bucket of some kind of fancy trail mix and a bunch of microwave popcorn for during the movie, but nobody wanted the popcorn. That just means there's more popcorn for me later.
Drink Race 2000 was a success. At least the Drink Race 2000 punch was a success. I thought people would bring their own liquid refreshment, but no, they all wanted punch. There were 12 people, counting me. 2 only tasted the punch. One was a designated driver, and the other one was my husband, who is a strict whiskey man. The other 10 drank the whole thing. A fifth of Triple Sec, a fifth of Sloe Gin, a fifth of Asti, and a gallon of sherbert. The grocery store hosed me because they didn't have any orange sherbert, just rainbow, but that made it look even more festive. Sort of like the glitter on my nail polish.
Since there were 10 people drinking the punch nobody really got drunk, but we drank enough to enjoy the movie, which is saying something. If we had been taking shots of tequila every time somebody died I think we all would have ended up shitfaced, but who wants 12 staggering drunks lurching around their livingroom? I decided to use coffee cups for the punch, with umbrellas, no less.
And then after the movie we had birthday cake. German chocolate, yummy. We had a big bucket of some kind of fancy trail mix and a bunch of microwave popcorn for during the movie, but nobody wanted the popcorn. That just means there's more popcorn for me later.
9 Days Of Freedom
Not only is today Drink Race 2000 day, it is the start of my vacation. Let's hear it for vacations! Plus, not only is this my vacation, next week is my birthday. Let's hear it for 40! I'm not one of those people who insist on being 39 until they retire and start sucking up Social Security. I'm going to be 40, and I like it. In Will Wheaton's blog he had an entry where he talked about finally being completely happy with his life, and I feel the same way. Not everything is perfect, but perfection is highly overrated.
If you can't enjoy where you are right now in your life, what are you doing about it? Just whining and pouting? Some things you just can't change. Learn to live with it. Find something that makes you happy and run with it. Don't like your job? I've got a news flash for you, Lincoln freed the slaves. Don't like your house? Redecorate, move, vacuum. Something, anything. If you're not happy, don't wait for some Fairy Godmother to come wave her magic wand and make it all better. Prince Charming isn't coming.
Not only is today Drink Race 2000 day, it is the start of my vacation. Let's hear it for vacations! Plus, not only is this my vacation, next week is my birthday. Let's hear it for 40! I'm not one of those people who insist on being 39 until they retire and start sucking up Social Security. I'm going to be 40, and I like it. In Will Wheaton's blog he had an entry where he talked about finally being completely happy with his life, and I feel the same way. Not everything is perfect, but perfection is highly overrated.
If you can't enjoy where you are right now in your life, what are you doing about it? Just whining and pouting? Some things you just can't change. Learn to live with it. Find something that makes you happy and run with it. Don't like your job? I've got a news flash for you, Lincoln freed the slaves. Don't like your house? Redecorate, move, vacuum. Something, anything. If you're not happy, don't wait for some Fairy Godmother to come wave her magic wand and make it all better. Prince Charming isn't coming.
THE DETRITUS OF A LIFE
I was driving home from the library when I noticed an "Estate Sale" sign in a front yard and a bunch of cars parked all up and down the street. Naturally, I tromped on the brakes.
I don't know how many times I have tried to swear off garage sales. It is like swearing off cigarettes or gossiping or any other persistent bad habit. I always backslide. I know I already have a house full of junk, but I can't resist. One time I got a big box of hundreds of country-and-western cassette tapes for $4. Another time I got a full set of barely used T-Fal pans free, because the lady knew me. You never know what you might find. It might even be something you can use.
However, I had forgotten one thing--estate sales are depressing. They are a way of getting rid of all the junk Mom and Dad have accumulated over the course of 80 years or more on earth, after you have put them in the nursing home or under the grass. It is all stuff that they treasured too much to pitch out, but that their kids wouldn't have if you beat them over the head with it.
It is so sad to browse through this stuff and listen to it scream out to you about their lives. Look at these old vinyl LP's of Lawrence Welk and Guy Lombardo. You can see Mom and Dad sitting there, tapping their feet and feeling romantic. But oops, what's this! "Knockers Up!" by Rusty Warren. One of the original "party albums," all the rage back in the 1950's or 1960's, when couples used to get together at somebody's house and get a little naughty drinking beer and listening to comedy albums. Tame stuff by today's standards, but pretty shocking back then.
Apparently Mom and Dad were into a little more than Champagne Music. The devils.
On to the kitchen. Look here--a big box full of yellowed Tupperware. Gazillions of teenyweeny plastic containers for saving a tablespoon of peas or a dollop of mashed potatoes. One for taking deviled eggs to the picnic. A huge bowl for salads. A weird looking one with a domed lid--oh, yeah, that was for keeping a head of lettuce fresh in the refrigerator. And what do you bet, she had a Fridgedaire and called it "the icebox." Obviously, this lady had lots of friends and they all had Tupperware parties and called her up and begged, "You don't have to buy anything, just come!"
And judging from the contents of another box, her best friend must have been the Avon Lady. Jars of half-used stuff, tubes of pink lipstick, and hundreds of free samples. Her friend always had a lot of free samples left over and shared them with her, and then she felt obligated to buy something from next month's catalog and she got more free samples with her purchase and pretty soon . . . . All this stuff looks really old. What happened to her friend? Did she die? Move away? Go to work at Wal-Mart? No matter, she already had a lifetime supply of cosmetics.
The worst part is the clothing. Dad's old suits and ties and yellowed white shirts that you had to iron. Snappy, dust-covered fedoras. Stacks of gimme caps. Plaid, shortsleeved sports shirts that you have to iron. Khakis that you have to iron. Didn't these people ever hear of Permapress? A loud Hawaiian shirt, obviously never worn--To Dad, on Father's Day. And her stuff. Lots of polyester pants suits in pastel colors. I bet she really sweated in them in this climate. Several dressy dresses, polyester again, also pastel colors, the kind you wear to church. Bet she went to Sunday School, too. Lots of size 14's and 16's. Never lost that weight she put on having babies. Dozens of shoes, some of them highheels, lightly worn, the others those old-lady shoes with the soft leather and built-up heels. She wore the heck out of these but never threw them away. Had a bad bunion on the big toe of one foot. No sneakers.
I will spare you the books (religious, self-help, romance novels, mysteries), the furniture (nice stuff), the tools (handyman stuff), several signed paintings of flowers and fruit. You get the idea.
I might mention everything has a certain aroma one associates with the homes of the elderly. A subtle mixture of deodorizer, Ben-Gay, and cat piss.
But, as I said, you get the idea.
It started me thinking, though, and I am putting my kids on notice, herewith:
When I'm gone, take whatever you want. Then throw a match on the rest.
I was driving home from the library when I noticed an "Estate Sale" sign in a front yard and a bunch of cars parked all up and down the street. Naturally, I tromped on the brakes.
I don't know how many times I have tried to swear off garage sales. It is like swearing off cigarettes or gossiping or any other persistent bad habit. I always backslide. I know I already have a house full of junk, but I can't resist. One time I got a big box of hundreds of country-and-western cassette tapes for $4. Another time I got a full set of barely used T-Fal pans free, because the lady knew me. You never know what you might find. It might even be something you can use.
However, I had forgotten one thing--estate sales are depressing. They are a way of getting rid of all the junk Mom and Dad have accumulated over the course of 80 years or more on earth, after you have put them in the nursing home or under the grass. It is all stuff that they treasured too much to pitch out, but that their kids wouldn't have if you beat them over the head with it.
It is so sad to browse through this stuff and listen to it scream out to you about their lives. Look at these old vinyl LP's of Lawrence Welk and Guy Lombardo. You can see Mom and Dad sitting there, tapping their feet and feeling romantic. But oops, what's this! "Knockers Up!" by Rusty Warren. One of the original "party albums," all the rage back in the 1950's or 1960's, when couples used to get together at somebody's house and get a little naughty drinking beer and listening to comedy albums. Tame stuff by today's standards, but pretty shocking back then.
Apparently Mom and Dad were into a little more than Champagne Music. The devils.
On to the kitchen. Look here--a big box full of yellowed Tupperware. Gazillions of teenyweeny plastic containers for saving a tablespoon of peas or a dollop of mashed potatoes. One for taking deviled eggs to the picnic. A huge bowl for salads. A weird looking one with a domed lid--oh, yeah, that was for keeping a head of lettuce fresh in the refrigerator. And what do you bet, she had a Fridgedaire and called it "the icebox." Obviously, this lady had lots of friends and they all had Tupperware parties and called her up and begged, "You don't have to buy anything, just come!"
And judging from the contents of another box, her best friend must have been the Avon Lady. Jars of half-used stuff, tubes of pink lipstick, and hundreds of free samples. Her friend always had a lot of free samples left over and shared them with her, and then she felt obligated to buy something from next month's catalog and she got more free samples with her purchase and pretty soon . . . . All this stuff looks really old. What happened to her friend? Did she die? Move away? Go to work at Wal-Mart? No matter, she already had a lifetime supply of cosmetics.
The worst part is the clothing. Dad's old suits and ties and yellowed white shirts that you had to iron. Snappy, dust-covered fedoras. Stacks of gimme caps. Plaid, shortsleeved sports shirts that you have to iron. Khakis that you have to iron. Didn't these people ever hear of Permapress? A loud Hawaiian shirt, obviously never worn--To Dad, on Father's Day. And her stuff. Lots of polyester pants suits in pastel colors. I bet she really sweated in them in this climate. Several dressy dresses, polyester again, also pastel colors, the kind you wear to church. Bet she went to Sunday School, too. Lots of size 14's and 16's. Never lost that weight she put on having babies. Dozens of shoes, some of them highheels, lightly worn, the others those old-lady shoes with the soft leather and built-up heels. She wore the heck out of these but never threw them away. Had a bad bunion on the big toe of one foot. No sneakers.
I will spare you the books (religious, self-help, romance novels, mysteries), the furniture (nice stuff), the tools (handyman stuff), several signed paintings of flowers and fruit. You get the idea.
I might mention everything has a certain aroma one associates with the homes of the elderly. A subtle mixture of deodorizer, Ben-Gay, and cat piss.
But, as I said, you get the idea.
It started me thinking, though, and I am putting my kids on notice, herewith:
When I'm gone, take whatever you want. Then throw a match on the rest.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
NEWS FLASH! GEEZERS GO TO MOVIE!
Your Dad and I actually went to see a movie tonight, can you believe it? We do this maybe once or twice a year. Why don't we go more often? We have two multi-screen theaters right here in town, but the problem is that invariably we see such a stinker that we swear off going to the movies for months. We decided a few months ago that this was ridiculous and that we should MAKE ourselves go more often. So what happened? We began by going to see the football movie "Friday Night Lights," and I had to leave after 10 minutes because the shaky, hand-held camera shots made me ill. I got so woozy I thought I was going to throw up. I hadn't felt that way since I was a kid and always got carsick.
That put me off the movies for a couple of months. And there wasn't anything I really wanted to see anyway. Than this firefighter movie came around, Ladder 49, and I thought that would be really interesting since I used to be a volunteer firefighter. But for one reason or another, we kept putting it off. We finally went on the very last night it was showing--and guess what, the projector had broken down and they cancelled it, so we had to go back home and watch Bill O'Reilly.
Tonight we went to see "Sideways." It is about these two doofus loser friends who take a week touring the California wine country and trying to get laid because one of them is getting married the next weekend. I know, I know--it doesn't sound like our type of a movie. So, why did we go? Well, have you ever seen this really crabby conservative columnist on Fox News named Charles Krauthammer? (Doesn't that name just kill you?) He is a big favorite of your Dad's because he is always giving the Democrats hell about something, and last week he mentioned in passing that he had seen "Sideways" and that it was great. And since he is always right--far, far right--he has to be right about this.
So we went. And he WAS right. It is a fabulously funny, touching movie. And it has naked people in it. Right there on the screen. Full frontal. Hadn't seen that much hanging there in plain sight since The Full Monty. But mostly it gets you to caring about those two guys and feeling that you actually know them. One of those quirky movies that get under your skin and you don't easily forget.
So, am I telling you to go see it? Hmmm. I don't know for sure. It's one of those movies you either absolutely love, or come out of the theater shaking your head and muttering, "That's the DUMBEST thing I ever saw!"
Your Dad and I actually went to see a movie tonight, can you believe it? We do this maybe once or twice a year. Why don't we go more often? We have two multi-screen theaters right here in town, but the problem is that invariably we see such a stinker that we swear off going to the movies for months. We decided a few months ago that this was ridiculous and that we should MAKE ourselves go more often. So what happened? We began by going to see the football movie "Friday Night Lights," and I had to leave after 10 minutes because the shaky, hand-held camera shots made me ill. I got so woozy I thought I was going to throw up. I hadn't felt that way since I was a kid and always got carsick.
That put me off the movies for a couple of months. And there wasn't anything I really wanted to see anyway. Than this firefighter movie came around, Ladder 49, and I thought that would be really interesting since I used to be a volunteer firefighter. But for one reason or another, we kept putting it off. We finally went on the very last night it was showing--and guess what, the projector had broken down and they cancelled it, so we had to go back home and watch Bill O'Reilly.
Tonight we went to see "Sideways." It is about these two doofus loser friends who take a week touring the California wine country and trying to get laid because one of them is getting married the next weekend. I know, I know--it doesn't sound like our type of a movie. So, why did we go? Well, have you ever seen this really crabby conservative columnist on Fox News named Charles Krauthammer? (Doesn't that name just kill you?) He is a big favorite of your Dad's because he is always giving the Democrats hell about something, and last week he mentioned in passing that he had seen "Sideways" and that it was great. And since he is always right--far, far right--he has to be right about this.
So we went. And he WAS right. It is a fabulously funny, touching movie. And it has naked people in it. Right there on the screen. Full frontal. Hadn't seen that much hanging there in plain sight since The Full Monty. But mostly it gets you to caring about those two guys and feeling that you actually know them. One of those quirky movies that get under your skin and you don't easily forget.
So, am I telling you to go see it? Hmmm. I don't know for sure. It's one of those movies you either absolutely love, or come out of the theater shaking your head and muttering, "That's the DUMBEST thing I ever saw!"
This Just In : AMC- SAAB, BlockbusterVideo - AOK
Well, I don't have the heart to even watch the Barbarella movie yet. On the bright side, my husband suggested maybe Blockbuster has Death Race 2000. Yes, as a matter of fact, they do. So now I'm waiting to go to town with my husband and rent the DVD. So AMC can just kiss my ass. Drink Race 2000 is on, Baby. Oh, yeah, it's on.
Well, I don't have the heart to even watch the Barbarella movie yet. On the bright side, my husband suggested maybe Blockbuster has Death Race 2000. Yes, as a matter of fact, they do. So now I'm waiting to go to town with my husband and rent the DVD. So AMC can just kiss my ass. Drink Race 2000 is on, Baby. Oh, yeah, it's on.
It's my Party And I'll Cry If I Want To
It's official. AMC sucks ass and balls. My party's ruined. You can't have a Drink Race 2000 party without Death Race 2000, and you can't have Death Race 2000 if AMC dcided to show Barbarella. What the fuck AMC? Before bed last night I put the TV on AMC so at 3:30 we just had to wander into the living room (ok, my husband had to wander into the living room, but I was ok with that) and push the record button on the VCR. Then I decided to check the guide and make sure it was really the right channel and the right day. Thursday morning, check, AMC, check, Barbarella, che... What the fuck? Barbarella?
I checked the TV book. Thursday morning, check, AMC, check, Death Race 2000, check. Of course, occasionaly TV stations changed their mind about their line-up after sending it to the company that prints the guide up. After all, they print it up almost 2 months ahead of time. So I decided to go on-line and check the AMC home page. Thursday morning, check, AMC, check, Death Race 2000, check. The logical assumption was that obviously someone at either AMC or DirectTV reads the Daily Cud and they were just fucking with my mind. Those crazy bastards. Who do they think they're messing with?
So I get up to let the dogs out this morning and check the TV. There's Jane Fonda in a space ship, not David Carradine running over pedestrians. I guess the opposite of LMAO (laughing my ass off) would have to be CMEO (crying my eyes out). I'm sitting here CMEO because AMC SAAB (sucks ass and balls). I have 2 days to come up with a Plan B, and don't have any ideas. Maybe I'll go ahead and watch Barbarella (I think my husband went ahead and started the VCR) and see if I can't come up with something.
It's official. AMC sucks ass and balls. My party's ruined. You can't have a Drink Race 2000 party without Death Race 2000, and you can't have Death Race 2000 if AMC dcided to show Barbarella. What the fuck AMC? Before bed last night I put the TV on AMC so at 3:30 we just had to wander into the living room (ok, my husband had to wander into the living room, but I was ok with that) and push the record button on the VCR. Then I decided to check the guide and make sure it was really the right channel and the right day. Thursday morning, check, AMC, check, Barbarella, che... What the fuck? Barbarella?
I checked the TV book. Thursday morning, check, AMC, check, Death Race 2000, check. Of course, occasionaly TV stations changed their mind about their line-up after sending it to the company that prints the guide up. After all, they print it up almost 2 months ahead of time. So I decided to go on-line and check the AMC home page. Thursday morning, check, AMC, check, Death Race 2000, check. The logical assumption was that obviously someone at either AMC or DirectTV reads the Daily Cud and they were just fucking with my mind. Those crazy bastards. Who do they think they're messing with?
So I get up to let the dogs out this morning and check the TV. There's Jane Fonda in a space ship, not David Carradine running over pedestrians. I guess the opposite of LMAO (laughing my ass off) would have to be CMEO (crying my eyes out). I'm sitting here CMEO because AMC SAAB (sucks ass and balls). I have 2 days to come up with a Plan B, and don't have any ideas. Maybe I'll go ahead and watch Barbarella (I think my husband went ahead and started the VCR) and see if I can't come up with something.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY IF YOU'RE LISTENING
Today is my Mom and Dad's anniversary. They have been dead over three years now, but I still observe it in my mind. It's an easy date to remember because they got married on Groundhog Day. They didn't plan it that way and I don't even know if people paid any attention to Groundhog Day in 1929. But for a long time now, it's been easy to remember when February 2 rolls around because TV, radio, and the newspapers have big features about Punxatawny Phil and his shadow, or lack of one. Then I think, "Oops, their anniversary is today--I better get a card." They never made a big deal of the day themselves, never exchanged cards or flowers or candy or anything, but they always REMEMBERED it. They would say, "It's Groundhog Day," and we would know they were remembering the day they got married, and we would take them out to the cafeteria or something.
If you had been there in 1929, you wouldn't have thought this marriage stood a chance. Mom was 17 and a highschool dropout, working as a telephone operator because times were hard and her family needed her wages. Dad was 20. He worked at the telephone company and didn't have a home of his own; he was a volunteer fireman because that way he could sleep at the fire station. His mother was dead and his father was an alcoholic. But Mom and Dad felt confident in the future because they had good jobs and a lot of friends, so they had no qualms at all about getting married.
They got married on their lunch hour at the Episcopal parsonage. Neither one of them was Episcopalian, but that was the closest preacher they could find. They did it on their lunch hour because they didn't want their friends to know about it. It was the custom back then, in that part of Oklahoma, for your friends to "chivaree" you on your wedding night. They would descend on the couple, interrupt their wedding night, make a lot of noise, have a party, maybe dress the guy up in some outlandish costume and drive him around town, and just generally raise all kinds of hell. Mom and Dad planned to sneak away after work and have a weekend honeymoon in a little town some 50 miles away, and they knew they couldn't do that if their friends--or at least Dad's friends--got wind of it. So that's why they got married on their lunch hour.
It worked like a charm. They had two whole days away from town, and when they came back, they were old married folks. They moved into a rooming house. They never got a chivaree. The closest thing was that Dad's friends on the police force made him climb a telephone pole and they handcuffed him to it with a "Just Married" sign. And his friends on the fire department made him go around the courthouse square with a roll of toilet paper, selling it piece by piece until it was all gone. (Yes, I know, that doesn't make any sense, but everyone thought it was hilarious.)
1929, what a time to get married. Before the year was over, the country was in the Great Depression. But they made it through the 1930's, then the 1940's, and so on until 2001 when they both just wore out and quit ticking. We gave them a big 50th Anniversary party, and then another one at 65. We had a small observation at 70, but by then we all knew they were running out of anniversaries, and time. By 2001 she was bedfast and he was on oxygen, and both of them were on home hospice care.
Not much we can do this year. I guess I could put some flowers on their graves, but I'm not really big on that, never have been. So I'll just salute Punxatawney Phil and send $50 to Meals on Wheels. That's enough to give meals to one person for a month, and I think they would like that. Happy Groundhog Day, y'all.
Today is my Mom and Dad's anniversary. They have been dead over three years now, but I still observe it in my mind. It's an easy date to remember because they got married on Groundhog Day. They didn't plan it that way and I don't even know if people paid any attention to Groundhog Day in 1929. But for a long time now, it's been easy to remember when February 2 rolls around because TV, radio, and the newspapers have big features about Punxatawny Phil and his shadow, or lack of one. Then I think, "Oops, their anniversary is today--I better get a card." They never made a big deal of the day themselves, never exchanged cards or flowers or candy or anything, but they always REMEMBERED it. They would say, "It's Groundhog Day," and we would know they were remembering the day they got married, and we would take them out to the cafeteria or something.
If you had been there in 1929, you wouldn't have thought this marriage stood a chance. Mom was 17 and a highschool dropout, working as a telephone operator because times were hard and her family needed her wages. Dad was 20. He worked at the telephone company and didn't have a home of his own; he was a volunteer fireman because that way he could sleep at the fire station. His mother was dead and his father was an alcoholic. But Mom and Dad felt confident in the future because they had good jobs and a lot of friends, so they had no qualms at all about getting married.
They got married on their lunch hour at the Episcopal parsonage. Neither one of them was Episcopalian, but that was the closest preacher they could find. They did it on their lunch hour because they didn't want their friends to know about it. It was the custom back then, in that part of Oklahoma, for your friends to "chivaree" you on your wedding night. They would descend on the couple, interrupt their wedding night, make a lot of noise, have a party, maybe dress the guy up in some outlandish costume and drive him around town, and just generally raise all kinds of hell. Mom and Dad planned to sneak away after work and have a weekend honeymoon in a little town some 50 miles away, and they knew they couldn't do that if their friends--or at least Dad's friends--got wind of it. So that's why they got married on their lunch hour.
It worked like a charm. They had two whole days away from town, and when they came back, they were old married folks. They moved into a rooming house. They never got a chivaree. The closest thing was that Dad's friends on the police force made him climb a telephone pole and they handcuffed him to it with a "Just Married" sign. And his friends on the fire department made him go around the courthouse square with a roll of toilet paper, selling it piece by piece until it was all gone. (Yes, I know, that doesn't make any sense, but everyone thought it was hilarious.)
1929, what a time to get married. Before the year was over, the country was in the Great Depression. But they made it through the 1930's, then the 1940's, and so on until 2001 when they both just wore out and quit ticking. We gave them a big 50th Anniversary party, and then another one at 65. We had a small observation at 70, but by then we all knew they were running out of anniversaries, and time. By 2001 she was bedfast and he was on oxygen, and both of them were on home hospice care.
Not much we can do this year. I guess I could put some flowers on their graves, but I'm not really big on that, never have been. So I'll just salute Punxatawney Phil and send $50 to Meals on Wheels. That's enough to give meals to one person for a month, and I think they would like that. Happy Groundhog Day, y'all.
Official Drink Of Drink Race 2000
I don't drink very often. I can't even remember when was the last time I was actually drunk. I don't like beer, and don't feel like wine, so I searched the house to see what kind of liquor we have so I wouldn't blow the Drink Race 2000 budget on booze. I found a full bottle of Triple Sec and a full bottle of Sloe Gin (made from the best sloe berries, whatever they are.) and invented a drink in honor of Drink Race 2000.
Official Drink Race 2000 Punch
Mix equal parts:
Triple Sec
Sloe Gin
Asti Spumante
Pour over orange sherbert and mix.
I also thought of a new rule for the drinking part of Drink Race 2000. Everybody is going to be on teams, rooting for the different cars. When anybody gets run over everybody has to drink, but then that car's team gets to make another team take a second drink. If they want, they can take the second drink themselves. Of course, you don't have to actually chug a whole beer or anything. I don't want people puking all over the livingroom or anything.
I don't drink very often. I can't even remember when was the last time I was actually drunk. I don't like beer, and don't feel like wine, so I searched the house to see what kind of liquor we have so I wouldn't blow the Drink Race 2000 budget on booze. I found a full bottle of Triple Sec and a full bottle of Sloe Gin (made from the best sloe berries, whatever they are.) and invented a drink in honor of Drink Race 2000.
Official Drink Race 2000 Punch
Mix equal parts:
Triple Sec
Sloe Gin
Asti Spumante
Pour over orange sherbert and mix.
I also thought of a new rule for the drinking part of Drink Race 2000. Everybody is going to be on teams, rooting for the different cars. When anybody gets run over everybody has to drink, but then that car's team gets to make another team take a second drink. If they want, they can take the second drink themselves. Of course, you don't have to actually chug a whole beer or anything. I don't want people puking all over the livingroom or anything.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Important Death Race 2000 Update
I made a mistake in my calculations. The movie doesn't start until 3:30 Thursday morning, not 4:30 Wednesday morning. That just gives me more time to look forward to it. I asked my husband if he was looking forward to it. He said yes, but I'm not sure if he's really looking forward to watching the movie as much as he is looking forward to me shutting up about it.
I made a mistake in my calculations. The movie doesn't start until 3:30 Thursday morning, not 4:30 Wednesday morning. That just gives me more time to look forward to it. I asked my husband if he was looking forward to it. He said yes, but I'm not sure if he's really looking forward to watching the movie as much as he is looking forward to me shutting up about it.
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