This blog is part remembrance, part promises to myself for 2010.
Now, in light of the past three weeks, the other day I said, "I just want to put this year behind me." But last night, I realized a few things, responding to a message from my newly discovered family member, Brenda.
There was some bad in 2009: I was pretty sick for almost a month, to only a month later have my sweet Cate hospitalized with viral meningitis.....a week of anxious waiting and watching. Uncle Virgil. There have been issues with my own medical condition; there have been issues in my marriage, which in and of itself have brought about a sort of grief that I can only describe as--yes, the grief that death itself brings. My cousin Vicky described it to me today as 'having a marriage that may be suffering from a terminal illness.' Whoa. Dead on the money.
But looking back over 2009......the expression, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away" has taken on a whole new meaning.
For, in 2009--March, to be exact, I realized with wonder......March, which usually begins a season of remembrance of my mother (a remembrance that is bittersweet, my relationship with my mother considered)--a relationship with the best friend I ever had was restored to me. A relationship that was restored not as if seventeen years had gone by....but more like seventeen minutes. And with Rebecca came her husband Steve, her daughter Katie and her baby Joey. I got the wonder of how two people--best friends for four years in high school, across all the years and miles--have somehow, someway, known almost down to a 'T' what the other's life has been like. Or how she named her daughter Kathryn Elizabeth, and I have a Caroline Elizabeth and a Sara Catherine. Coincidence? I think not.
I got the excitement of coming back into her life during the last trimester of her pregnancy with Joey. I teased her mercilessly about having sympathetic pregnancy--and wasn't that Steve's job, not mine? As the time for Joey drew closer, I waited to hear doctor's reports, ultrasound results, and worried right along with her that this would not be an early and difficult delivery, as she had with Katie. And worry had never brought me such joy.
On July 2nd, at 8:19 in the morning, Joey came by scheduled C-Section--a whopping nine pounds, four ounces and a perfect early birthday present for his Mommy. Rebecca--ever the trooper--was sitting up in a chair within hours of the surgery, and if I didn't have enough happiness at the very moment this happened to last me a lifetime.....the nurse came in to her hospital room; Rebecca in a chair and me sitting on the bed holding the baby. The nurse did a double take and saw Rebecca in the chair. "Hey.....is she your sister?" We shared a look, and Becca said, "Not by birth....."
It doesn't sound like it would be a blessing.....but I went to the hospital to sit with a friend for a day while her husband had an eight hour surgery for what turned out--mercifully--not to be pancreatic cancer. Kelly and I walked all over that hospital campus all day, laughing about old times, our lives now, and I think there may have been a few tears, too. It's a day I'll always cherish.
I went on a vacation for the first time in years.....and while in a few ways it was a bust--weather, hello?--I will always, always be grateful for those seven days, because......
It was on this vacation that I realized--or rather, re-discovered: that in spite of what I call difficulty in my life right now......I am blessed beyond measure with a family who loves me more than I deserve. I have many, many moments from that trip polarized in my mind now......
......sitting on my cousin Caryn's couch watching Full Metal Jacket with her, Eric, and my Aunt Crys and Uncle Lee--and all the funny commentary that went along with it. And last night, when I really got to thinking about the bad times vs. the good times of 2009--it occured to me: Caryn, whom I still see in my mind's eye waiting for the bus with us when we were kids, or drinking pickle juice.....while I may have had a few anxious moments over my baby in 2009--how much greater than mine were hers? My little cousin has sat and watched her baby have chemotherapy. The realization was very humbling, to say the very least.
I have the memory of my Dad, me and Uncle Lee at the gun range on a freezing cold afternoon laying waste to Dad's targets--and about a hundred pounds of ammunition. For a shining moment, I was fifteen again: when I was firing my Dad's AR-15, I decided to go ahead and 'open up on it'--as he would say--and could hear his, "Wooooo-hoooooo! ROCK AND ROLL, LITTLE GIRL!!" over the gun fire, while my Uncle Lee laughed.
Since that vacation, I don't think a day has gone by that we don't all communicate in one way or another. I didn't realize how much I needed them.....I sure am glad Someone saw fit to show me. It has been an amazing source of strength and inspiration; and both a reminder and affirmation of my own opinion as to just how fiercely a family could and should love each other. Home and family is a place I can go where I can still hear, "Now, Cheri Lynn Morgan....." where I am still someone's 'little girl', 'baby girl', and when I say, "I guess I'll be getting on the road....." my Aunt Crys will say, "Not before you've had breakfast, young lady." Some things never change--thank God for that. (Home and family is also where I can go to get the best biscuits and gravy in the world--thanks, Aunt Crys!!--and the world's best chili dogs, which are in downtown LaFollette at a little hole in the wall--plus you can buy them for a dollar--yes, a dollar--thanks Aunt Ann and Vicky for pointing me in their direction.) Where someone--when I deserve it--will take me down a peg or two, then take my face in their hands, kiss my forehead, look me in the eye, and say, "I love you," and I know that they mean it.
I have almost a whole photograph album full of what I have to be grateful for, in 2009. Pictures of me and Rebecca with our families and our beautiful kids. Pictures of my family--one of those--on Facebook, me and my four younger cousins (eeeeuuuw, girls, I realized that I'm the oldest one in that picture by at least three months!! NOT fair, LOL....)--really, all of them like sisters to me--I look at that picture and think of all the little stinkers we were, and see us transformed into the lovely women we have become. And I marvel that between the five of us--there are ten kids to go around!! (And my God, girls, those kids have 23 of our chromosomes--look out, world!!)
So, in the closing days of 2009, I think of the blessings this year has brought.
In 2010, I will take the love that has been restored to me--in the form of my family, which includes Rebecca and her family--and pay it forward. I will throw myself wholeheartedly into the planning of our family reunion--the first in over a decade!!--that my family is having in July. I will work on building a relationship with Dorothy, my father's amazing wife, and who--when I called her to talk to her the other day, said to me--and I think it's the first time I've ever heard someone actually say this: when I told her that she was right and I was wrong, she said, "No, Cheri, it's not about who is wrong and who is right. It's about understanding." Those words meant alot. It also made me realize: I have been held to the 'who is right, and who is wrong' standard for so long now that I've come to being too quick to point it out, too.
I will take council and advice from those who love me--and I know who that is. I also know that I won't get a pat on the head and a 'there, there' when I am obviously wrong. I will be corrected when I go to these people.....and it may be ugly, LOL, it may not be--but I will get the truth.
I will not work so hard on hiding my own weaknesses.....I will hold them up to those I trust; it's only through getting them out in the open that I can turn those weaknesses into strengths, both by my own effort in working on them, and relying on the strength I get from others to turn them around.
The words from the following song describe much of the way I feel about how I feel about the year that is so quickly passing us by now, and what I will do in the year to come:
Half of my mistakes I made stone cold sober,
Half of my mistakes I made at closing time,
Half the time I never saw it coming till it was over,
Half of mistakes I made with love on the line.
Half of my mistakes I swear I should have known better
Half of my mistakes....were just amongst friends
You get a little distance on it, the truth is clearer
Half of my mistakes--I'd probably make them again.
And if I had it all to do over,
I'm sure I'd win and lose just as much,
But spend less time on right and wrong,
And alot more time on love.
Half of my mistakes I made cause I was moving too quickly
Half of them I made 'cause my heart was moving too slow
Nobody can tell you a damn thing if you ain't listening...
Half of my mistakes I made cause I couldn't let go (let it go)
And if I had it all to do over,
I'm sure I'd win and lose just as much
But spend less time on right and wrong,
And alot more time on love....
Half of my mistakes I'd give anything to change how it ended...
Half of my mistakes--God, I wouldn't change a thing.
You can lean too hard on regret, but I don't recommend it...
Cause half the good things in my life came from half my mistakes
Yeah, alot of good things in my life came from half of my mistakes....
Merry Christmas, all. And bring on 2010.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A hell of a man......
Note: These are my personal feelings and observations. Since it is very likely some of my family are to read this, I sincerly apologize if this hurts anyone or brings up something they'd rather not remember....it's not my intent. It's my tribute to him.....and I am very likely to digress along the way. What I write here is out of love to him.
I lost my Uncle Virgil this past week. And...even for a family as close as mine is, my reaction to his passing has, at times, been surprising even to me. I said to my cousin Vicky the day he passed that I wish I could cry right away at bad news--it's rare that I do. I've made up for it in the days since. When he died, I was mentally grasping at memories--anything--and for the first few hours as the news sank in, I was drawing blanks. They have since come flooding back......and all of them make me smile, even if I am smiling through my tears.
I was describing my Uncle Virgil to a very good friend of mine on the phone today. And this friend said, "He sounds like he was one hell of a man...."
That he was.
I was reminded of a verse I read in a book once, many years ago, when he died:
This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang......but with a whimper.
Although his military days were long behind him, I somehow always thought my Uncle Virg would go out with a bang. He went seemingly with a whimper, if I am understanding correctly.
A hell of a man who went through a hell of alot in his 71 years. My Uncle Virgil survived much in his life, including two combat tours to Vietnam. He had a stroke when I was ten. The doctors told the family he'd be a vegetable. Uncle Virg walked out of that hospital--with the help of a walker, yes--but he didn't look much like a vegetable, I am sure.
My earliest memories of him are of when I was a kid: Saturday nights and my Uncle Virgil, Aunt Tena, Uncle George, Aunt Lola, and various cousins--usually Dave, Dianne, Vicky and others around Aunt Lola's kitchen table playing poker. Of shooting BB guns off the deck of his house with my sister and my cousin Jeff, pinging them off an old tin roof of the barn across the narrow road in front of his house. Of shooting in the field across from his house with him, my Daddy, and my Uncle Lee.
When I was a teenager, hearing Dad tell him how I loved history and how I could talk about it for hours, he gave me a huge stack of history books. I still have them. They are now so precious to me. We argued politics during the Clinton Administration. I took him to a couple of VA appointments years and years ago, and he tried to convince someone he bumped into that I was his girlfriend. The memory makes me smile.
The minister who presided over the service for him made mention of--in our dying hours--God will send his angels to comfort us and to take us on this last journey we make. I believe this--my mother was convinced in her last hours that first a woman with long blonde hair--and then her grandmother--were there in the room with her. Her agitation with the rest of us--that we couldn't see them, too--was great. I'm sure they were there for my uncle, too; and the thought of what his angel might have said to him to make him follow also brings a smile.
I made mention of this to someone--someone who happens to be a Christian. The opinion of this person was that it's not angels at all.....it's the deterioration of the physical mind. I steadfastly refuse to believe this.....and found myself not for the first time at loggerheads with this person's opinion. But then.....my anger and irritation with this edict--that it is the physical and not the spiritual that causes a person to 'see things that aren't there'--turned to pity. What is faith if you can't have something hopeful to hold on to; in this case, the idea that God will give us ease in those final hours? Hope is supposed to be central to the Christian faith. Just as I have hope of Heaven; being only human, I do fear death a little. I pitied that, in spite of the faith this person is supposed to have, he believes that God would do nothing to make the end easier for us--since we have to make that journey without having a loved one--those we leave behind, to put an arm around us and cross over with us. Just as I have hope of Heaven and eternity, I have hope that God is going to send someone for me.
We who are left may not have an angel to guide us and help us through parting with the person we have lost--at least, not in the way our finite minds think of angels.
Our angels are in the form of our family. We are left behind when someone dies, but we are left behind with people who loved the departed as much as we ourselves did. Our families and loved ones are our touchstones to whom we have lost. We share the memories of that person, we share the love both for the deceased and for each other.
My angel was my father, who I watched lovingly pin his big brother's ribbons and medals on his chest just before the service began.
My angel was my Aunt Lola, who placed a Bible in her little brother's hands.
My angels were my cousins, some of whom I hadn't seen in years (and the irony here is--just like my mother in her final hours hadn't seen her grandmother in years....her grandmother was there to ease the pain at her passing) whom I shared memories of my uncle with.
My angels were family members I didn't even yet know I had: my cousin Jeff's wife, Brenda.
My angel was my sister......who I put my arm around, and who put her arm around me, as we leaned our heads together and looked for the last time on this Earth at Uncle Virg through our tears.
My angels were my Aunt Ann, who wrapped her arms around me in the parking lot of the funeral home, shushed me gently and said, "He's not hurting anymore, baby....."
My angels were all around me at the cemetery: Aunt Ann to my left, Amanda to my right, arms linked (Amanda, who used to run around at three years old telling us she'd give us an uppercut)--my Aunt Crys behind me, her arm around one of my shoulders, and Misty with her arm around the other. And Ginger, standing on the other side of Aunt Crys.
My angel was my Uncle Lee, kneeling to give my Aunt Tena the flag Uncle Virg earned.
My angel was my son, saluting his Aunt Tena.
My angels were the kisses, the hugs, and the 'I love yous' given to me by each and every member of my family in attendance.
My angel was Vicky--who called me only minutes after I got the news, who talked to me for about half an hour, and who gave me a truly heartfelt, "I love you, Cheri," before we hung up.
My angel was Rebecca, who emailed me to tell me she loved me and was praying for me.
So......God sent His angel for Uncle Virg, I am sure--because He certainly sent them to me.
Uncle Virgil--I love you. Every single memory I have of you brings a smile; every last one of them a bright spot that nothing can take away from me. And if you ask me--that is the measure of a life well lived. Perhaps your angel was someone you knew, just as Mom's was her grandmother. Maybe--and the thought brings a smile--Mamaw came and tugged your ear with a switch in her hand, just as she told me she used to do at your bus stop when you were a little boy.
And I hope you haven't strapped dynamite to any trees up there yet.
On the other hand, if God requires tree pruning services in Heaven--He's got one hell of a man for the job.
Again.......I love you. And I'll see you later.
I lost my Uncle Virgil this past week. And...even for a family as close as mine is, my reaction to his passing has, at times, been surprising even to me. I said to my cousin Vicky the day he passed that I wish I could cry right away at bad news--it's rare that I do. I've made up for it in the days since. When he died, I was mentally grasping at memories--anything--and for the first few hours as the news sank in, I was drawing blanks. They have since come flooding back......and all of them make me smile, even if I am smiling through my tears.
I was describing my Uncle Virgil to a very good friend of mine on the phone today. And this friend said, "He sounds like he was one hell of a man...."
That he was.
I was reminded of a verse I read in a book once, many years ago, when he died:
This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang......but with a whimper.
Although his military days were long behind him, I somehow always thought my Uncle Virg would go out with a bang. He went seemingly with a whimper, if I am understanding correctly.
A hell of a man who went through a hell of alot in his 71 years. My Uncle Virgil survived much in his life, including two combat tours to Vietnam. He had a stroke when I was ten. The doctors told the family he'd be a vegetable. Uncle Virg walked out of that hospital--with the help of a walker, yes--but he didn't look much like a vegetable, I am sure.
My earliest memories of him are of when I was a kid: Saturday nights and my Uncle Virgil, Aunt Tena, Uncle George, Aunt Lola, and various cousins--usually Dave, Dianne, Vicky and others around Aunt Lola's kitchen table playing poker. Of shooting BB guns off the deck of his house with my sister and my cousin Jeff, pinging them off an old tin roof of the barn across the narrow road in front of his house. Of shooting in the field across from his house with him, my Daddy, and my Uncle Lee.
When I was a teenager, hearing Dad tell him how I loved history and how I could talk about it for hours, he gave me a huge stack of history books. I still have them. They are now so precious to me. We argued politics during the Clinton Administration. I took him to a couple of VA appointments years and years ago, and he tried to convince someone he bumped into that I was his girlfriend. The memory makes me smile.
The minister who presided over the service for him made mention of--in our dying hours--God will send his angels to comfort us and to take us on this last journey we make. I believe this--my mother was convinced in her last hours that first a woman with long blonde hair--and then her grandmother--were there in the room with her. Her agitation with the rest of us--that we couldn't see them, too--was great. I'm sure they were there for my uncle, too; and the thought of what his angel might have said to him to make him follow also brings a smile.
I made mention of this to someone--someone who happens to be a Christian. The opinion of this person was that it's not angels at all.....it's the deterioration of the physical mind. I steadfastly refuse to believe this.....and found myself not for the first time at loggerheads with this person's opinion. But then.....my anger and irritation with this edict--that it is the physical and not the spiritual that causes a person to 'see things that aren't there'--turned to pity. What is faith if you can't have something hopeful to hold on to; in this case, the idea that God will give us ease in those final hours? Hope is supposed to be central to the Christian faith. Just as I have hope of Heaven; being only human, I do fear death a little. I pitied that, in spite of the faith this person is supposed to have, he believes that God would do nothing to make the end easier for us--since we have to make that journey without having a loved one--those we leave behind, to put an arm around us and cross over with us. Just as I have hope of Heaven and eternity, I have hope that God is going to send someone for me.
We who are left may not have an angel to guide us and help us through parting with the person we have lost--at least, not in the way our finite minds think of angels.
Our angels are in the form of our family. We are left behind when someone dies, but we are left behind with people who loved the departed as much as we ourselves did. Our families and loved ones are our touchstones to whom we have lost. We share the memories of that person, we share the love both for the deceased and for each other.
My angel was my father, who I watched lovingly pin his big brother's ribbons and medals on his chest just before the service began.
My angel was my Aunt Lola, who placed a Bible in her little brother's hands.
My angels were my cousins, some of whom I hadn't seen in years (and the irony here is--just like my mother in her final hours hadn't seen her grandmother in years....her grandmother was there to ease the pain at her passing) whom I shared memories of my uncle with.
My angels were family members I didn't even yet know I had: my cousin Jeff's wife, Brenda.
My angel was my sister......who I put my arm around, and who put her arm around me, as we leaned our heads together and looked for the last time on this Earth at Uncle Virg through our tears.
My angels were my Aunt Ann, who wrapped her arms around me in the parking lot of the funeral home, shushed me gently and said, "He's not hurting anymore, baby....."
My angels were all around me at the cemetery: Aunt Ann to my left, Amanda to my right, arms linked (Amanda, who used to run around at three years old telling us she'd give us an uppercut)--my Aunt Crys behind me, her arm around one of my shoulders, and Misty with her arm around the other. And Ginger, standing on the other side of Aunt Crys.
My angel was my Uncle Lee, kneeling to give my Aunt Tena the flag Uncle Virg earned.
My angel was my son, saluting his Aunt Tena.
My angels were the kisses, the hugs, and the 'I love yous' given to me by each and every member of my family in attendance.
My angel was Vicky--who called me only minutes after I got the news, who talked to me for about half an hour, and who gave me a truly heartfelt, "I love you, Cheri," before we hung up.
My angel was Rebecca, who emailed me to tell me she loved me and was praying for me.
So......God sent His angel for Uncle Virg, I am sure--because He certainly sent them to me.
Uncle Virgil--I love you. Every single memory I have of you brings a smile; every last one of them a bright spot that nothing can take away from me. And if you ask me--that is the measure of a life well lived. Perhaps your angel was someone you knew, just as Mom's was her grandmother. Maybe--and the thought brings a smile--Mamaw came and tugged your ear with a switch in her hand, just as she told me she used to do at your bus stop when you were a little boy.
And I hope you haven't strapped dynamite to any trees up there yet.
On the other hand, if God requires tree pruning services in Heaven--He's got one hell of a man for the job.
Again.......I love you. And I'll see you later.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Doctors and other dumbasses.......
Now--let it be said here that I absolutely do not believe all doctors are dumbasses. And granted.....they have, on the average, about three minutes to spend with a patient. And there's no doubt--there are patients who are living proof that Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest (and I'm going on the assumption here when he said 'the fittest'--he meant they had some modicum of intelligence as WELL as being sound in terms of evolution) was a load of shit.
But sometimes.....
Today was the second time in a week I have been turned away from my doctor's office as 'there's so much flu.....' and try Urgent Care or my ER. (Um--and you think these places have less flu because.......?)
So I made my way to Urgent Care--not so affectionately called a 'doc in the box' by my sister. Usually, I am pretty pleased with the treatment I get there. They always give me the opportunity to just get it over with and take the shots: one for each cheek--ceftriaxone, and dexamethasone. Antibiotic for the infection (and in my case right now, that would be 'infections', plural....vacation's hangover: sinuses, bronchitis, ears, and kidney/bladder--in other words, I'm just f---ed) and steroid for the swelling and inflammation in my face, throat and ears. And--even if it's up in the air whether or not I'll sleep for three or four days (steroids)--at least I'll be awake and stir crazy without the throbbing in my head, and I can pop my ears again already.
Again, my emphatic disclaimer--not all doctors and/or healthcare professionals are morons. But--I have met more than a few in my day that I have wanted to sucker punch in the head--in the head because I already suspect: a blow to the head won't do too much damage.
But a trip to the doctor's office or an ER is ALWAYS good for sheer entertainment value. I'm serious here......ask anyone who works in healthcare. My sister calls me with some of the most fantastically funny and stupid shit I've ever heard.
For example, where else will you see a person who is covered from head to toe in tattoos faint dead away because the nurse drew a little blood?
I once watched as Bill--in with a patient with the door open--and she was about four drinks past giving a shit what HIPAA was, if she even knew such a demon existed--examining a patient who was obviously near less than conscious, and she dumped the contents of her purse onto the exam table--which was complete with about a dozen pill bottles and a fifth of what appeared to be Beefeater gin. Bill began picking up pill bottles and handing them back to her.......and that's when the lady slid off the table into the floor. Bill helped her up and came out into the admit area, shaking his head. And whispered to me, "Booze, hydrocodone, alprazolam, Prozac......and that's all I saw!!" I looked at him in disbelief. "Uhhh.......911, dear." He looked at me. "You think?" I closed my eyes and nodded.
One of my favorites: my Dad, admitted to the cardiac floor with chest pains a few years ago--after suffering a near-fatal heart attack the year before --was brought--IN THE HOSPITAL--fried chicken for dinner. On that one, I wasn't so nice. At seven months pregnant and incapable of bullshit, I snatched it away from my protesting father, taking it to the nurse. "Fried chicken for a cardiac patient? Really?" I went up the road to a grocery store with a salad bar and brought back a salad. Dad was less than amused.
In labor with my first child....I was being wheeled into the delivery room, which was full of doctors, as I'd had an episode with my heart, and Christopher was beginning to show signs of distress. So--there was the doctor, nurses, a resident, cardiologist, perinatologist and three pediatricians for the baby as I was wheeled into the delivery room. And one of them--in a chipper voice that made me want to rip out his vocal chords--asked, "How are you feeling today?" Not nice that time, either. Irritated and tired after 21 hours of labor, I pushed myself up on my elbows and bellowed, "Well, I've had better days!!" He's lucky he didn't get, "Come here and let me show you, asshole!" because that's definitely what I was thinking. I also didn't get it that everyone in the room thought that my 'better days' comment was hilarious.
I have to say--when Cate was in the hospital with meningitis.....the doctor who was in the Northside-Cherokee ER: what he lacked in bedside manner he more than made up for in the brains department. And the doctors at Scottish Rite--there, boys and girls, are some people who have definitely got their shit together. VERY impressive staff there. Outstanding. However, I was less than blown away by her pediatrician--who, in a follow up appointment asked first (I assumed she'd read the chart the hospital faxed over....but that's my fault, 'assume'--and therefore made an ass of me...) "Why did they think she had meningitis?" And I did it.....the eyebrows went up, and there was more than a hint of sarcasm. "Ahhhh......a positive spinal tap result?" Call me crazy.
And--if some of my nursing professors are correct--and some of them are doctors, kids-- and readily admit: my opinion and esteem of doctors will wax and wane in my career.
It's really not meant on my part--at least, not always. I am sure--and Carey will probably back me up.....my brain works fast, and sometimes, my mouth works faster. (My father's diagnosis of this is cerebral rectumitis.....) But Carey--my fellow nursing student, will probably attest to this: I have probably made a professor or two a little nuts. For example, with my mind on four tracks one morning in class (one on the professor, one reading over my notes making more mental notes, taking notes, and processing the big picture in my head--and believe me, I got tired just explaining that--walk a mile in my shoes).....I was jerked out of my four-track mind with this statement from the professor--lecturing on the autonomic nervous system: "Reflexes never reach the brain."
Huh? What? But what about.........?? I went quickly back up through the notes and looked up, frowning at my own understanding--or apparently, my lack thereof. Dr. Bern looked at me. "Cheri, are you with me?" "Aaah....no. If reflexes don't reach the brain, why does lack of a reflexive response or a hyperactive response sometimes indicate something is seriously FUBAR'ed in the central nervous system and the brain?" Deer in the headlights look from the professor, which gave way to a thoughtful look, nodding of the head, and the maddening answer I've been given since I was three years old: "That's a good question....."
But--I digress.
Urgent Care just got a fabulous little device in their waiting room called a zero-gravity chair. In the hour and fifteen minutes I sat in the waiting room, I saw three different people, all flushed and glass-eyed with obvious fever, sit in the zero-gravity chair. The receptionist--whom I vaguely know from school (and is that still an acceptable title?)--and I will admit, her heart was in the right place--having seen the symptoms I signed in with, and probably because of the obvious wince on my face--said, "Honey, you might feel better in the zero-gravity chair....."
And I might get the swine flu FROM the zero-gravity chair.....!!! Of course I didn't say it aloud. I smiled and assured her I was fine.
I was amused and disgruntled at the same time with even being there: this far into life, having had three kids and more bladder and kidney infections than I can count, why, oh why, can't I just call doctor and tell them the piss pipe is acting up again--Bactrum, please? I'm about to pay $20 for you to tell me what I already know.
But, alas, this isn't to be. I took the little cup and very generously parted with my pee-pee, and went in to wait for the doctor.
Dr. Bradford was there tonight, and she gave my Mountain Dew a dirty look (remember, I stipulated that patients, including yours truly, is prone to the asinine. Hey, it's fluids, right? I'm just hoping now that my kidneys will prove to be among Darwin's aforemenioned 'fittest'....) I like Dr. Bradford. She's from the Ukraine, even if I think I did get off on the wrong foot with her the first time I saw her. I remarked on her accent--which is beautiful--and she asked me to guess where it was from. I guessed Russian, which was close, but no cigar. She was pleased that I got the vicinity, but less than thrilled at my verdict that would have confused her with what she obviously thinks of as those dirty Ruskies. Apparently, there is a Russian/Ukranian rivalry that hearkens back to Romanov Russia...which was also Romanov Ukraine--so the tsars might be the reason I hit a nerve. I digress again.....see, those steroids are already kicking like a mule....
Dr. Bradford has seen me enough to know that I don't fuss alot, and I will always take the shot ("Tech zhe szhot......") and calls me 'Tough girl...." ("Tuff gull......" I get a real kick out of her accent, guys.) And she examined me, and tonight it was me who almost fell off the exam table....
And, like I said, I'm stoic. She listened to everything and then started beating on my back in the general vicinity of my kidneys (I'm wondering at this. I've had doctors--when visiting for a kidney infection--who do everything from the lightest palpations, asking "Hurt here?" to a firm massage around.
Dr. Bradford placed the side of her fist to my back, reared back and before I could say a word--delivered a sound, "Whack!!" to her fist that was placed over my poor kidney, and the air in my chest left in a rather loud, "D'oh!!" What the hell? Do we now diagnose kidney infections not only by the nasties that show up in the specimen--but by gauging our reaction to a sucker punch to the back? I see it now: diagnostic criteria for severity of a kidney infection: a wince means we'll be back in the saddle (ouch--the thought of a saddle makes me ache) after a couple of glasses of cranberry juice. A dead faint would be grounds to put you on a transplant list.
But, apparently I fell somewhere in the middle. Zhe szhots and zhe Bactroom for me. ('Ahh, you tuff gull, I szhend zhe nus in vwith zhe szhots, mmmm? And I vrite you prescreepshun for the antibeeotics, too, yesh? You be better szhoon.....")
But sometimes.....
Today was the second time in a week I have been turned away from my doctor's office as 'there's so much flu.....' and try Urgent Care or my ER. (Um--and you think these places have less flu because.......?)
So I made my way to Urgent Care--not so affectionately called a 'doc in the box' by my sister. Usually, I am pretty pleased with the treatment I get there. They always give me the opportunity to just get it over with and take the shots: one for each cheek--ceftriaxone, and dexamethasone. Antibiotic for the infection (and in my case right now, that would be 'infections', plural....vacation's hangover: sinuses, bronchitis, ears, and kidney/bladder--in other words, I'm just f---ed) and steroid for the swelling and inflammation in my face, throat and ears. And--even if it's up in the air whether or not I'll sleep for three or four days (steroids)--at least I'll be awake and stir crazy without the throbbing in my head, and I can pop my ears again already.
Again, my emphatic disclaimer--not all doctors and/or healthcare professionals are morons. But--I have met more than a few in my day that I have wanted to sucker punch in the head--in the head because I already suspect: a blow to the head won't do too much damage.
But a trip to the doctor's office or an ER is ALWAYS good for sheer entertainment value. I'm serious here......ask anyone who works in healthcare. My sister calls me with some of the most fantastically funny and stupid shit I've ever heard.
For example, where else will you see a person who is covered from head to toe in tattoos faint dead away because the nurse drew a little blood?
I once watched as Bill--in with a patient with the door open--and she was about four drinks past giving a shit what HIPAA was, if she even knew such a demon existed--examining a patient who was obviously near less than conscious, and she dumped the contents of her purse onto the exam table--which was complete with about a dozen pill bottles and a fifth of what appeared to be Beefeater gin. Bill began picking up pill bottles and handing them back to her.......and that's when the lady slid off the table into the floor. Bill helped her up and came out into the admit area, shaking his head. And whispered to me, "Booze, hydrocodone, alprazolam, Prozac......and that's all I saw!!" I looked at him in disbelief. "Uhhh.......911, dear." He looked at me. "You think?" I closed my eyes and nodded.
One of my favorites: my Dad, admitted to the cardiac floor with chest pains a few years ago--after suffering a near-fatal heart attack the year before --was brought--IN THE HOSPITAL--fried chicken for dinner. On that one, I wasn't so nice. At seven months pregnant and incapable of bullshit, I snatched it away from my protesting father, taking it to the nurse. "Fried chicken for a cardiac patient? Really?" I went up the road to a grocery store with a salad bar and brought back a salad. Dad was less than amused.
In labor with my first child....I was being wheeled into the delivery room, which was full of doctors, as I'd had an episode with my heart, and Christopher was beginning to show signs of distress. So--there was the doctor, nurses, a resident, cardiologist, perinatologist and three pediatricians for the baby as I was wheeled into the delivery room. And one of them--in a chipper voice that made me want to rip out his vocal chords--asked, "How are you feeling today?" Not nice that time, either. Irritated and tired after 21 hours of labor, I pushed myself up on my elbows and bellowed, "Well, I've had better days!!" He's lucky he didn't get, "Come here and let me show you, asshole!" because that's definitely what I was thinking. I also didn't get it that everyone in the room thought that my 'better days' comment was hilarious.
I have to say--when Cate was in the hospital with meningitis.....the doctor who was in the Northside-Cherokee ER: what he lacked in bedside manner he more than made up for in the brains department. And the doctors at Scottish Rite--there, boys and girls, are some people who have definitely got their shit together. VERY impressive staff there. Outstanding. However, I was less than blown away by her pediatrician--who, in a follow up appointment asked first (I assumed she'd read the chart the hospital faxed over....but that's my fault, 'assume'--and therefore made an ass of me...) "Why did they think she had meningitis?" And I did it.....the eyebrows went up, and there was more than a hint of sarcasm. "Ahhhh......a positive spinal tap result?" Call me crazy.
And--if some of my nursing professors are correct--and some of them are doctors, kids-- and readily admit: my opinion and esteem of doctors will wax and wane in my career.
It's really not meant on my part--at least, not always. I am sure--and Carey will probably back me up.....my brain works fast, and sometimes, my mouth works faster. (My father's diagnosis of this is cerebral rectumitis.....) But Carey--my fellow nursing student, will probably attest to this: I have probably made a professor or two a little nuts. For example, with my mind on four tracks one morning in class (one on the professor, one reading over my notes making more mental notes, taking notes, and processing the big picture in my head--and believe me, I got tired just explaining that--walk a mile in my shoes).....I was jerked out of my four-track mind with this statement from the professor--lecturing on the autonomic nervous system: "Reflexes never reach the brain."
Huh? What? But what about.........?? I went quickly back up through the notes and looked up, frowning at my own understanding--or apparently, my lack thereof. Dr. Bern looked at me. "Cheri, are you with me?" "Aaah....no. If reflexes don't reach the brain, why does lack of a reflexive response or a hyperactive response sometimes indicate something is seriously FUBAR'ed in the central nervous system and the brain?" Deer in the headlights look from the professor, which gave way to a thoughtful look, nodding of the head, and the maddening answer I've been given since I was three years old: "That's a good question....."
But--I digress.
Urgent Care just got a fabulous little device in their waiting room called a zero-gravity chair. In the hour and fifteen minutes I sat in the waiting room, I saw three different people, all flushed and glass-eyed with obvious fever, sit in the zero-gravity chair. The receptionist--whom I vaguely know from school (and is that still an acceptable title?)--and I will admit, her heart was in the right place--having seen the symptoms I signed in with, and probably because of the obvious wince on my face--said, "Honey, you might feel better in the zero-gravity chair....."
And I might get the swine flu FROM the zero-gravity chair.....!!! Of course I didn't say it aloud. I smiled and assured her I was fine.
I was amused and disgruntled at the same time with even being there: this far into life, having had three kids and more bladder and kidney infections than I can count, why, oh why, can't I just call doctor and tell them the piss pipe is acting up again--Bactrum, please? I'm about to pay $20 for you to tell me what I already know.
But, alas, this isn't to be. I took the little cup and very generously parted with my pee-pee, and went in to wait for the doctor.
Dr. Bradford was there tonight, and she gave my Mountain Dew a dirty look (remember, I stipulated that patients, including yours truly, is prone to the asinine. Hey, it's fluids, right? I'm just hoping now that my kidneys will prove to be among Darwin's aforemenioned 'fittest'....) I like Dr. Bradford. She's from the Ukraine, even if I think I did get off on the wrong foot with her the first time I saw her. I remarked on her accent--which is beautiful--and she asked me to guess where it was from. I guessed Russian, which was close, but no cigar. She was pleased that I got the vicinity, but less than thrilled at my verdict that would have confused her with what she obviously thinks of as those dirty Ruskies. Apparently, there is a Russian/Ukranian rivalry that hearkens back to Romanov Russia...which was also Romanov Ukraine--so the tsars might be the reason I hit a nerve. I digress again.....see, those steroids are already kicking like a mule....
Dr. Bradford has seen me enough to know that I don't fuss alot, and I will always take the shot ("Tech zhe szhot......") and calls me 'Tough girl...." ("Tuff gull......" I get a real kick out of her accent, guys.) And she examined me, and tonight it was me who almost fell off the exam table....
And, like I said, I'm stoic. She listened to everything and then started beating on my back in the general vicinity of my kidneys (I'm wondering at this. I've had doctors--when visiting for a kidney infection--who do everything from the lightest palpations, asking "Hurt here?" to a firm massage around.
Dr. Bradford placed the side of her fist to my back, reared back and before I could say a word--delivered a sound, "Whack!!" to her fist that was placed over my poor kidney, and the air in my chest left in a rather loud, "D'oh!!" What the hell? Do we now diagnose kidney infections not only by the nasties that show up in the specimen--but by gauging our reaction to a sucker punch to the back? I see it now: diagnostic criteria for severity of a kidney infection: a wince means we'll be back in the saddle (ouch--the thought of a saddle makes me ache) after a couple of glasses of cranberry juice. A dead faint would be grounds to put you on a transplant list.
But, apparently I fell somewhere in the middle. Zhe szhots and zhe Bactroom for me. ('Ahh, you tuff gull, I szhend zhe nus in vwith zhe szhots, mmmm? And I vrite you prescreepshun for the antibeeotics, too, yesh? You be better szhoon.....")
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Let's define terrorism.......
But first.......read this article from the Daily Nebraskan. It's relatively short, and small wonder. With the blatant stupidity this article spews, she probably can't write more than 500 words at a time:
http://www.dailynebraskan.com/opinion/root-speculating-misguided-facts-about-fort-hood-tragedy-won-t-help-1.2060702
(And this first is just a little supposition and smart ass on my part--her name: Rhiannon Root. 'Rhiannon'--this explains alot about her parents, to my mind. Celtic goddess......ah, hippie sorts. Which would explain the political ideologies of their daughter--Dumbocrat. Unfortunately for her readers, it didn't skip a generation.)
In this article, Ms. Root would have us drink the 'This man was simply misunderstood' Kool-Aid. And like the Kool-Aid drank by Jim Jones' brainwashed devotees........"it's a little bitter-tastin'."
She tries to draw a parallel between the Oklahoma City bombing--which, make no mistake, WAS terrorism........and the Columbine shootings with Fort Hood, and on the Columbine example, methinks she was pulling examples out of her ass, because her brain--I hope--knows better.
Americans, who live in the shadow of 9/11, have suddenly--mistakenly--adopted the idea that all terrorism is religiously motivated, and the examples she gives are simply not the case. Terrorism is also politically motivated--Oklahoma City--and it was confessed as such by Timothy McVeigh himself.
Columbine? Come now. That was neither politically nor religiously motivated--Columbine was senseless, mindless violence. Terrorism? To the kids in the school that day--it probably seemed as such. But terrorism, to my mind, has to have a motive, and their motive seems to have been their 'poor me' attitude at being lumped into the so-called Trenchcoat Mafia........teenage anger and rejection run amok.
Her reasoning is laughable. 'Were the Irish Catholics blamed when McVeigh bombed the Oklahoma City federal building?' No.........and neither did McVeigh stand on the sidewalk saying, "Agnus Dei" or reciting the Litany as he watched the building come tumbling down. And, as far as I know, there are no archdiocese here in the U.S.--or abroad--that preach the destruction of the 'infidel'--and their definition of 'infidel' is just as all-encompassing as that of Islam. (Although they give us the less sinister label of 'Protestant.')
And, as far as I have read, and as much as I watched the news when it happened, I didn't hear any of the Columbine kids report that Dylan Klebold--Jewish--yell, "Mazel Tov!" before he started firing shots.
Terrorism is also politically motivated. The reason it is so hard to define, when those who adhere to Islam carry it out, is because they invoke the name of God before they do their evil deeds. I believe that many Muslims themselves have mistakenly adopted the idea that their faith is the reason they wage 'jihad' against us.
My reasoning for this......I'm not suggesting that it's NOT religiously motivated, by those who carry it out. But those who are BEHIND it--the ones like Bin Laden and al-Zawahari, who are too cowardly to strap on a bomb--it's not religiously motivated at all. Their faith is what they hide behind--it's what they rally 'their people' around......it's how they brainwash the poor, largely uneducated parents in Middle Eastern countries and territories (like in the occupied territories) to send their young boys--AND girls (hey, they're not good enough for education, property, or equal rights of any sort.......but they're good enough to carry out the work of Allah)--religion is how the ringleaders in groups like Hamas, Hizbollah, and al-Qaeda get parents to literally send their children to their deaths.
.......and these people are too ignorant (and in this case, I don't mean that word in a derogatory way; I mean that they are kept ignorant by those who would 'do what is best' for them) to realize that these evil doers think no more of the future of the Middle East than to kill its youth. They glorify the cause to the parents--their children will be martyrs, doing the true work of God.
You can see--a little--a parallel in this: in the poor parts of this country (and I bring this up because many of the terrorists--9/11 hijackers included, until they got their hands on Bin Laden's money) are from poor families.......the Taliban for instance: Afghanistan, second to Bangladesh, was THE poorest country in the world at the time the Taliban took power. In our own country, in the poorer parts of the country--Appalachia comes to mind--you find people who are just as fundamentally Christian as these radical Muslims. Fortunately for us, churches in those parts preach to prove their faith by drinking strychnine and handling snakes--they test their faith and do what they believe is God's work, too......but they will only kill themselves in the process.
And now--many educated Muslims, too, have drank the aforementioned Kool-Aid of the radical clerics and imams: this is for the glory of God. Major Hasan is an example of one of these educated Muslims.
But the motivation of the leaders of so-called radical Muslim terrorist organizations? Their motives are simple. Politics. Hizbollah and Hamas want the destruction of Israel--they want what they perceive as their 'homeland' back. And with the establishment of their state comes power......after all, they helped set in motion the events that will restore their homeland to them.
In the case of al-Qaeda, I haven't decided. I am beginning to be of the opinion that while Bin Laden recruits his thugs with religious epithets--his motivations may be NEITHER political nor religious. His may be--like Columbine--senseless violence. Bin Laden was all too happy to take our 'infidel' money and weapons when Afghanistan was fighting the Soviet Union; and, by his own admission, he did it when we were funding Iraq (his fellow Muslims) to kill Iranians--(other fellow Muslims--and the Iranians, under the Ayatollah, enforced the type of Islam Bin Laden likes to preach, whether he adheres to it or not. It seems he would have rushed to their aid.) And if you need a history reminder--the Soviet-Afghan War (1979-1989) and the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988) were occuring practically simultaneously. And while it could be argued that Bin Laden chose to fight the Russians over the Iranians and/or Iraqis because the Russians were the 'godless pigs' that they were, I think it's more than that: with the United States backing him--and we were--he knew that if the Russians were thrown out, after their government collapsed, he (Bin Laden) could gain more in Afghanistan.
So yes.......Fort Hood was terrorism. And it WAS religiously motivated terrorism. But religiously motivated terrorism is something that power-hungry monsters have created--by making their own people believe that murder is the true work of God (and in doing so, making the rest of us believe this is ALL their faith teaches)--they hide behind their faith, and they do it in the most cowardly way.
http://www.dailynebraskan.com/opinion/root-speculating-misguided-facts-about-fort-hood-tragedy-won-t-help-1.2060702
(And this first is just a little supposition and smart ass on my part--her name: Rhiannon Root. 'Rhiannon'--this explains alot about her parents, to my mind. Celtic goddess......ah, hippie sorts. Which would explain the political ideologies of their daughter--Dumbocrat. Unfortunately for her readers, it didn't skip a generation.)
In this article, Ms. Root would have us drink the 'This man was simply misunderstood' Kool-Aid. And like the Kool-Aid drank by Jim Jones' brainwashed devotees........"it's a little bitter-tastin'."
She tries to draw a parallel between the Oklahoma City bombing--which, make no mistake, WAS terrorism........and the Columbine shootings with Fort Hood, and on the Columbine example, methinks she was pulling examples out of her ass, because her brain--I hope--knows better.
Americans, who live in the shadow of 9/11, have suddenly--mistakenly--adopted the idea that all terrorism is religiously motivated, and the examples she gives are simply not the case. Terrorism is also politically motivated--Oklahoma City--and it was confessed as such by Timothy McVeigh himself.
Columbine? Come now. That was neither politically nor religiously motivated--Columbine was senseless, mindless violence. Terrorism? To the kids in the school that day--it probably seemed as such. But terrorism, to my mind, has to have a motive, and their motive seems to have been their 'poor me' attitude at being lumped into the so-called Trenchcoat Mafia........teenage anger and rejection run amok.
Her reasoning is laughable. 'Were the Irish Catholics blamed when McVeigh bombed the Oklahoma City federal building?' No.........and neither did McVeigh stand on the sidewalk saying, "Agnus Dei" or reciting the Litany as he watched the building come tumbling down. And, as far as I know, there are no archdiocese here in the U.S.--or abroad--that preach the destruction of the 'infidel'--and their definition of 'infidel' is just as all-encompassing as that of Islam. (Although they give us the less sinister label of 'Protestant.')
And, as far as I have read, and as much as I watched the news when it happened, I didn't hear any of the Columbine kids report that Dylan Klebold--Jewish--yell, "Mazel Tov!" before he started firing shots.
Terrorism is also politically motivated. The reason it is so hard to define, when those who adhere to Islam carry it out, is because they invoke the name of God before they do their evil deeds. I believe that many Muslims themselves have mistakenly adopted the idea that their faith is the reason they wage 'jihad' against us.
My reasoning for this......I'm not suggesting that it's NOT religiously motivated, by those who carry it out. But those who are BEHIND it--the ones like Bin Laden and al-Zawahari, who are too cowardly to strap on a bomb--it's not religiously motivated at all. Their faith is what they hide behind--it's what they rally 'their people' around......it's how they brainwash the poor, largely uneducated parents in Middle Eastern countries and territories (like in the occupied territories) to send their young boys--AND girls (hey, they're not good enough for education, property, or equal rights of any sort.......but they're good enough to carry out the work of Allah)--religion is how the ringleaders in groups like Hamas, Hizbollah, and al-Qaeda get parents to literally send their children to their deaths.
.......and these people are too ignorant (and in this case, I don't mean that word in a derogatory way; I mean that they are kept ignorant by those who would 'do what is best' for them) to realize that these evil doers think no more of the future of the Middle East than to kill its youth. They glorify the cause to the parents--their children will be martyrs, doing the true work of God.
You can see--a little--a parallel in this: in the poor parts of this country (and I bring this up because many of the terrorists--9/11 hijackers included, until they got their hands on Bin Laden's money) are from poor families.......the Taliban for instance: Afghanistan, second to Bangladesh, was THE poorest country in the world at the time the Taliban took power. In our own country, in the poorer parts of the country--Appalachia comes to mind--you find people who are just as fundamentally Christian as these radical Muslims. Fortunately for us, churches in those parts preach to prove their faith by drinking strychnine and handling snakes--they test their faith and do what they believe is God's work, too......but they will only kill themselves in the process.
And now--many educated Muslims, too, have drank the aforementioned Kool-Aid of the radical clerics and imams: this is for the glory of God. Major Hasan is an example of one of these educated Muslims.
But the motivation of the leaders of so-called radical Muslim terrorist organizations? Their motives are simple. Politics. Hizbollah and Hamas want the destruction of Israel--they want what they perceive as their 'homeland' back. And with the establishment of their state comes power......after all, they helped set in motion the events that will restore their homeland to them.
In the case of al-Qaeda, I haven't decided. I am beginning to be of the opinion that while Bin Laden recruits his thugs with religious epithets--his motivations may be NEITHER political nor religious. His may be--like Columbine--senseless violence. Bin Laden was all too happy to take our 'infidel' money and weapons when Afghanistan was fighting the Soviet Union; and, by his own admission, he did it when we were funding Iraq (his fellow Muslims) to kill Iranians--(other fellow Muslims--and the Iranians, under the Ayatollah, enforced the type of Islam Bin Laden likes to preach, whether he adheres to it or not. It seems he would have rushed to their aid.) And if you need a history reminder--the Soviet-Afghan War (1979-1989) and the Iran-Iraq War (1980-1988) were occuring practically simultaneously. And while it could be argued that Bin Laden chose to fight the Russians over the Iranians and/or Iraqis because the Russians were the 'godless pigs' that they were, I think it's more than that: with the United States backing him--and we were--he knew that if the Russians were thrown out, after their government collapsed, he (Bin Laden) could gain more in Afghanistan.
So yes.......Fort Hood was terrorism. And it WAS religiously motivated terrorism. But religiously motivated terrorism is something that power-hungry monsters have created--by making their own people believe that murder is the true work of God (and in doing so, making the rest of us believe this is ALL their faith teaches)--they hide behind their faith, and they do it in the most cowardly way.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The price of political correctness.....
Last week, the price of political correctness was 13 dead and 30 wounded soldiers. The body count is off on purpose--the piece of shit who did it doesn't count.
I have been somewhat surprised--although, I shouldn't be--at what the American public seems to assume about life in the military. I have heard the statement, "How could that happen there? Everyone on a base has a gun." False.
"We have thousands of Muslims who serve faithfully in the United States Armed Forces.......must they give up their right to privacy?" True--we have thousands of Muslims who serve faithfully........but WHAT right to privacy?? You take the oath, you forfeit it. We're willing to die for our country--but we give up our rights. Think about that. You get to keep yours--we don't.
What I am happy to see is that, in spite of Obama's exortations to 'not rush to judgment'--the public and the media are calling it what it is: terrorism. Nothing more, and nothing less. What I hope is that the 'investigation' that Obama will launch will NOT convince some of the dimmer ones among us that Major Camel F----- didn't 'contract' PTSD from counseling patients. PTSD isn't like the clap or the flu, kids. I do, however, hope that he contracted PTSD from the brave young woman who put his sorry ass in a coma......still running TOWARD him firing her weapon after having taken two bullets. YOU GO, GIRL!!! (The fact that his assailant is a woman is just icing on the cake to me.......Allahu akhbar.)
Political correctness has no place in the military. It is a destroyer of camaraderie, of brotherhood. I served with Muslims--and I agree: if this man WAS harrassed, the harrasser would have been run out on an Article 92 before you could say 'court martial'. Discharge Under Less Than Honorable Conditions. It simply is not done. During my time in the service, we were initiated into the 'don't ask, don't tell' implemented by Clinton. The armed services weren't asking--but you bet your ass they were TELLING--and not a damn thing was done about it, contrary to what Clinton insisted upon. At least two high ranking officers at Tinker were asked to resign their commission for making a stink when someone in their command--who wasn't 'asked'--but he propositioned people in his own squadron. The squadron was mine, and the propositioner was an E-4. A Senior Airman, because he was a homosexual, and because Clinton thought it was his 'right' to serve........cost a full bird Colonel and a Major General their commission......because both the Colonel and the General basically told the powers that be that their commander in chief could take their commissions and shove it up his ass, since he had such sympathy for those who like to take it in through the out door.
This Airman worked in what we call 'Life Support'--kinda like the facility that the massacre at Fort Hood was carried out in. Deployments overseas were made more difficult.......because of his blatant disobedience to 'don't tell'--he was very forward about his sexuality.......no one wanted to sleep in the same tent as this guy. No one wanted to share a barracks room with him. That sort of disruption has no place in the military......it sure as hell doesn't have one in a combat zone.
Harrassed? I don't think so. I have seen and experienced firsthand how we have to accommodate Muslim beliefs, when we are on THEIR soil, at the request of THEIR government, for THEIR protection. We have to be reverent of prayer times. In Saudi Arabia, my FEMALE ass had to walk around in 120 temperatures with my damned sleeves down--no skin showing!!--so as not to offend their philosophies. And if I did decide to go off base (just a couple of times)--it was the veil for me. And I'm here to tell you: hijab sucks.
We, as a military, are observant of their customs, their beliefs. This piece of shit may have been born in our country.........he took taxpayers' money, went to medical school, avoided deployment, made subversive speeches and presentations; tried to treat his patients with Islamic epithets......and gunned down those he swore to serve with. To protect......not only in the military, but what about his Hippocratic oath? 'First do no harm'? What about that?
Tolerant of them--both on their soil, and on our own. In the name of, and under the auspices of, political correctness. Fort Hood is how we have been repaid for our sensitivities.
Political correctness killed 13 people last week. Let's see how many more people it claims before our government FINALLY wakes up and realizes PC's gotta go--or Muslims who truly live by the PEACEABLE teachings of their faith stand up, speak up, and out the monsters among them.
I have been somewhat surprised--although, I shouldn't be--at what the American public seems to assume about life in the military. I have heard the statement, "How could that happen there? Everyone on a base has a gun." False.
"We have thousands of Muslims who serve faithfully in the United States Armed Forces.......must they give up their right to privacy?" True--we have thousands of Muslims who serve faithfully........but WHAT right to privacy?? You take the oath, you forfeit it. We're willing to die for our country--but we give up our rights. Think about that. You get to keep yours--we don't.
What I am happy to see is that, in spite of Obama's exortations to 'not rush to judgment'--the public and the media are calling it what it is: terrorism. Nothing more, and nothing less. What I hope is that the 'investigation' that Obama will launch will NOT convince some of the dimmer ones among us that Major Camel F----- didn't 'contract' PTSD from counseling patients. PTSD isn't like the clap or the flu, kids. I do, however, hope that he contracted PTSD from the brave young woman who put his sorry ass in a coma......still running TOWARD him firing her weapon after having taken two bullets. YOU GO, GIRL!!! (The fact that his assailant is a woman is just icing on the cake to me.......Allahu akhbar.)
Political correctness has no place in the military. It is a destroyer of camaraderie, of brotherhood. I served with Muslims--and I agree: if this man WAS harrassed, the harrasser would have been run out on an Article 92 before you could say 'court martial'. Discharge Under Less Than Honorable Conditions. It simply is not done. During my time in the service, we were initiated into the 'don't ask, don't tell' implemented by Clinton. The armed services weren't asking--but you bet your ass they were TELLING--and not a damn thing was done about it, contrary to what Clinton insisted upon. At least two high ranking officers at Tinker were asked to resign their commission for making a stink when someone in their command--who wasn't 'asked'--but he propositioned people in his own squadron. The squadron was mine, and the propositioner was an E-4. A Senior Airman, because he was a homosexual, and because Clinton thought it was his 'right' to serve........cost a full bird Colonel and a Major General their commission......because both the Colonel and the General basically told the powers that be that their commander in chief could take their commissions and shove it up his ass, since he had such sympathy for those who like to take it in through the out door.
This Airman worked in what we call 'Life Support'--kinda like the facility that the massacre at Fort Hood was carried out in. Deployments overseas were made more difficult.......because of his blatant disobedience to 'don't tell'--he was very forward about his sexuality.......no one wanted to sleep in the same tent as this guy. No one wanted to share a barracks room with him. That sort of disruption has no place in the military......it sure as hell doesn't have one in a combat zone.
Harrassed? I don't think so. I have seen and experienced firsthand how we have to accommodate Muslim beliefs, when we are on THEIR soil, at the request of THEIR government, for THEIR protection. We have to be reverent of prayer times. In Saudi Arabia, my FEMALE ass had to walk around in 120 temperatures with my damned sleeves down--no skin showing!!--so as not to offend their philosophies. And if I did decide to go off base (just a couple of times)--it was the veil for me. And I'm here to tell you: hijab sucks.
We, as a military, are observant of their customs, their beliefs. This piece of shit may have been born in our country.........he took taxpayers' money, went to medical school, avoided deployment, made subversive speeches and presentations; tried to treat his patients with Islamic epithets......and gunned down those he swore to serve with. To protect......not only in the military, but what about his Hippocratic oath? 'First do no harm'? What about that?
Tolerant of them--both on their soil, and on our own. In the name of, and under the auspices of, political correctness. Fort Hood is how we have been repaid for our sensitivities.
Political correctness killed 13 people last week. Let's see how many more people it claims before our government FINALLY wakes up and realizes PC's gotta go--or Muslims who truly live by the PEACEABLE teachings of their faith stand up, speak up, and out the monsters among them.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Musings for the mentally interesting....
It's the title of my blogspot......today it's also the title for my blog.
It's not often I talk--in-depth, anyway--about life with a mental illness. And that's because.....in some small way, I refuse to acknowledge it: it's there, yes......I take medication for it, yes......but I don't let it be an excuse to slow me down, nor do I use it to garner special treatment. It's taken some time, but I've come to accept it as something I'm going to have to learn to live with.....and I am STILL learning, every day, four years after the diagnosis.
Four years ago, after six months of what my current doctor calls a 'mixed' state (and this is an expression that amuses me......'mixed'. Mixed drinks......mixed nuts. Yeah, that's what I was--mixed nuts. I couldn't figure out if I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry or chicken choke someone.......and I mean, just wring their frigging neck.)....after six months of this, I was diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder. For six months and medication changes by the score, I was pretty much FUBAR, and that is a perfectly accurate description. I wasn't able to drive, leave my house alone--I almost couldn't leave my house, period. Three doctors, and diagnoses of everything from major depression with agoraphobia, panic disorder, OCD.....endless. The medications went from Wellbutrin to Lexapro to Prozac to Zoloft to Elavil--and ALL of them caused side effects that ranged from roller coastering emotions (Wellbutrin--I'd go on one minute about how FABULOUS life was, only to be in tears five minutes later and asking what is it all for??) Lexapro actually caused--and I realized this after Abnormal Psychology and studying a DSM-IV--aka the Psych Bible--that when I was taking Lexapro, clinically speaking, I was experiencing mild psychosis. Finally, Bill's Aunt Cindy encouraged me to see her doctor--something I will always be grateful to her for: my current doctor had me straightened out within a month. After listening to my history--moreover, after hearing that my mother had been prescribed Lithium--and taking into consideration my reaction to antidepressants (which, as it turns out, is classic bipolar--antidepressants make you WORSE) her diagnosis was type 2 bipolar disorder. She did something almost unheard of--took me off the Elavil cold turkey--took it AWAY from me, in fact. I was sent home with two mood stabilizers, clonozepam (and ordered to TAKE IT--I had been reluctant to take Xanax because of fear of the addiction factor. The anxiety showed--I had lost a hideous amount of weight, and I narrowly missed hospitalization simply for emaciation).....and appetite stimulants, with orders to put on five pounds before she saw me again in two weeks--or else.
As much as I would love to argue with that diagnosis--I can't. It fits. My mother had it--although I suspect Mom's was worse than mine, for reasons I will not go into here; except to say she was once hospitalized, and the day she got home, she flushed her Lithium. There is a strong biological element to bipolar disorder. Furthermore, her father was at one time in his life an alcoholic, and it's believed that many bipolar patients self-medicate with alcohol. Mom, devoutly religious, did not fall into this habit.......although I have to say, there were times I wish she had.
Although the medication was wreaking havoc emotionally, my body had become dependent on the Elavil, and the cold turkey withdrawl wasn't always pleasant--physically speaking. I was sweaty, cold, nauseous and weak. But.......after the fifth day without it, I began to feel like someone had taken a pipe wrench and loosened something before a pressure valve blew; by the end of seven days, I could eat a full meal and go back for a snack a little later, and by the end of ten days, I was sleeping through the night again and even napping during the day, after all the months of sleep deprivation. I could also concentrate enough to read--very welcome indeed.
For the first few days, however, I found myself angry.....today, I say this not out of anger, I say it out of honesty: I spent alot of time growing up on the receiving end of my Mom's outbursts--very likely triggered by the illness she had. And now.......she'd passed it on to me--some of my very own. It was a bitter pill to swallow (actually, it's four bitter pills to swallow, once a day at bedtime.) I was resentful. And I wanted to fight it, wanted to deny it, wanted to forget about it. NOW I am thankful for the doctor's orders.......because they were that she was to see improvement in two weeks, or in the hospital I went. And improvement she saw.....at the end of a month, encouraged at my progress but still a little concerned at my lack of affect, she suggested adding an antidepressant. (This took some serious convincing. It took another month of visits to even get me to utter the word 'antidepressant'.) After assuring me that the mood stabilizers would keep the antidepressant in its place, I reluctantly agreed. Unlike before, the Effexor she gave me didn't cause a swift, severe (and severely undesirable) reaction--I called her on day five of it and told her I didn't think it was doing shit. "Keep taking it....." her answer. And after about two weeks, I literally woke up one morning, and someone had turned the lights on, and put all the colors back. I sat up in bed and was looking around.....what the look on my face must have been, God only knows, because Bill said, "What? What's wrong?" And I said, "Nothing....for once. I think........I'm better."
Yes.......I was better. But--bipolar disorder (I refer to mine as Bipolar Lite--most of the fun, most of the guilt, but no five point restraints, no antipsychotics, no little birdies calling me)--bipolar disorder is a chronic illness, and it's likely I will be treated for it for the rest of my life. As I approach middle age, one of two things will happen on the old bipolar pendulum--it'll dwindle and stop (hey, it takes alot of energy to be crazy, and the doctor says there is the possibility that I will quite literally get too old for that shit) or..........there is the chance it will worsen. (I did a semester long project on schizophrenia in Abnormal Psych class. Men usually develop it in their late teens/early twenties. Women are closer to thirty, and the chances of developing it spike again around menopause. Schizophrenia and menopause........that speaks to me, and it says 'justifiable homicide.')
All this being said....as I mentioned, mine is a chronic illness. I have setbacks, and unfortunately, my temperament and 'wiring', for lack of a better word doesn't allow for much to go wrong before I do get a setback. My psychiatrist is wonderful in that she agrees that I should take just what keeps me functional........and happy. For the most part, I am both. But there are still days when 250 mgs a day of Lamictal doesn't keep the edge off. There are days I am volatile; and it is worst when I am under pressure. I can organize, prioritize, put everything in its place and get busy........that doesn't mean I won't give a good tongue lashing (and not one that you'd enjoy) to anyone who gets in my way.
On the flip side of that........there are days when I'm those sad bastards you see in the Cymbalta commercials (God, I hate those commercials......probably because I belong in one.....but the part at the end, "Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help." Is that really supposed to make us feel better? I mean.......yeah, depression hurts. Cymbalta probably CAN help--so can a Drain-O sandwich.) And I can say that because when I was on the Lexapro, I got curious as to the culinary properties of Drain-O. Talk about something that would cleanse the palate.....I can joke about it now, but the truth is, at the time, it was very real, it was very frightening, and the thoughts were very uninvited. And the harder I'd try to make them go away, the worse they got.
And right there--I have one of the answers: I have to just go with it. I'm going to have bad days, and accepting it is much easier than fighting it. Fortunately, sans Lexapro, my bad days no longer include taking into consideration whether I will have my Drain-O en croute or tartare. Ironically, the panic attacks also stopped when--upon feeling one creep up on me--I would STOP fighting it.....and simply say, "Oh, f--- it!! Go ahead then......let's get this over with." Do I want to live with bipolar disorder--no. But I DO want to live, so it looks like we're going to have to be roomies.
I can take the medication, and I can do what the doctor says.......but there are days when you ARE just along for the ride. While I have learned to tell myself--and be accepting in the knowledge--that this too shall pass.....it's not always so easy for those around me to understand. And there are days when I fight it, and fight it hard--the urge to stay in the bed, the urge to get in the refrigerator and eat my way out, the urge to go spend oodles of money on something ridiculous (with me, books and clothes). And this mentally fighting with yourself wears you down, and it makes you tired......and cranky. I'm not always easy to live with when I'm like this--but I'm up, I'm fighting, and I'm accomplishing things. That's what I want. Maybe this will make sense: sometimes the illness wears me down.......and I have to do the same right back. Because after several days of these mental Olympics, I will start to WANT to do things again. I just have to keep reaching for it.
Having addressed all these things, I would like to insert here a few words of advice. For all of you inclined to tell people like myself to 'cowboy up'--please go be a rodeo clown. Because you sound as stupid as they look. While there is--and a good psychiatrist will admit this; mine does--such a thing as mental illness that is self-inflicted via drug and alcohol abuse....that is not always the case. I would give almost anything to be 'normal'--granted, that is a very subjective term. We may be a horrifying pain in the ass to live with sometimes......but I speak for myself, and I'm pretty sure I speak for a few I know who struggle with naturally -acquired mental illness: this is not who we are. We are people who are overly sensitive, are too easily hurt by things, and have so much love for others that it is almost toxic to ourselves and our psyche, if that makes sense at all. We want to be everything to everyone, and we WILL do it--no matter the cost, and the cost is ourselves. In spite of what life has dealt us.......we are more attuned to the little things, and I think, can find beauty in more things than do others. If it IS the bipolar that makes me these things.......I think that it's quite possible that sometimes, in some ways, the good just may outweigh the bad.
It's not often I talk--in-depth, anyway--about life with a mental illness. And that's because.....in some small way, I refuse to acknowledge it: it's there, yes......I take medication for it, yes......but I don't let it be an excuse to slow me down, nor do I use it to garner special treatment. It's taken some time, but I've come to accept it as something I'm going to have to learn to live with.....and I am STILL learning, every day, four years after the diagnosis.
Four years ago, after six months of what my current doctor calls a 'mixed' state (and this is an expression that amuses me......'mixed'. Mixed drinks......mixed nuts. Yeah, that's what I was--mixed nuts. I couldn't figure out if I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry or chicken choke someone.......and I mean, just wring their frigging neck.)....after six months of this, I was diagnosed with type 2 bipolar disorder. For six months and medication changes by the score, I was pretty much FUBAR, and that is a perfectly accurate description. I wasn't able to drive, leave my house alone--I almost couldn't leave my house, period. Three doctors, and diagnoses of everything from major depression with agoraphobia, panic disorder, OCD.....endless. The medications went from Wellbutrin to Lexapro to Prozac to Zoloft to Elavil--and ALL of them caused side effects that ranged from roller coastering emotions (Wellbutrin--I'd go on one minute about how FABULOUS life was, only to be in tears five minutes later and asking what is it all for??) Lexapro actually caused--and I realized this after Abnormal Psychology and studying a DSM-IV--aka the Psych Bible--that when I was taking Lexapro, clinically speaking, I was experiencing mild psychosis. Finally, Bill's Aunt Cindy encouraged me to see her doctor--something I will always be grateful to her for: my current doctor had me straightened out within a month. After listening to my history--moreover, after hearing that my mother had been prescribed Lithium--and taking into consideration my reaction to antidepressants (which, as it turns out, is classic bipolar--antidepressants make you WORSE) her diagnosis was type 2 bipolar disorder. She did something almost unheard of--took me off the Elavil cold turkey--took it AWAY from me, in fact. I was sent home with two mood stabilizers, clonozepam (and ordered to TAKE IT--I had been reluctant to take Xanax because of fear of the addiction factor. The anxiety showed--I had lost a hideous amount of weight, and I narrowly missed hospitalization simply for emaciation).....and appetite stimulants, with orders to put on five pounds before she saw me again in two weeks--or else.
As much as I would love to argue with that diagnosis--I can't. It fits. My mother had it--although I suspect Mom's was worse than mine, for reasons I will not go into here; except to say she was once hospitalized, and the day she got home, she flushed her Lithium. There is a strong biological element to bipolar disorder. Furthermore, her father was at one time in his life an alcoholic, and it's believed that many bipolar patients self-medicate with alcohol. Mom, devoutly religious, did not fall into this habit.......although I have to say, there were times I wish she had.
Although the medication was wreaking havoc emotionally, my body had become dependent on the Elavil, and the cold turkey withdrawl wasn't always pleasant--physically speaking. I was sweaty, cold, nauseous and weak. But.......after the fifth day without it, I began to feel like someone had taken a pipe wrench and loosened something before a pressure valve blew; by the end of seven days, I could eat a full meal and go back for a snack a little later, and by the end of ten days, I was sleeping through the night again and even napping during the day, after all the months of sleep deprivation. I could also concentrate enough to read--very welcome indeed.
For the first few days, however, I found myself angry.....today, I say this not out of anger, I say it out of honesty: I spent alot of time growing up on the receiving end of my Mom's outbursts--very likely triggered by the illness she had. And now.......she'd passed it on to me--some of my very own. It was a bitter pill to swallow (actually, it's four bitter pills to swallow, once a day at bedtime.) I was resentful. And I wanted to fight it, wanted to deny it, wanted to forget about it. NOW I am thankful for the doctor's orders.......because they were that she was to see improvement in two weeks, or in the hospital I went. And improvement she saw.....at the end of a month, encouraged at my progress but still a little concerned at my lack of affect, she suggested adding an antidepressant. (This took some serious convincing. It took another month of visits to even get me to utter the word 'antidepressant'.) After assuring me that the mood stabilizers would keep the antidepressant in its place, I reluctantly agreed. Unlike before, the Effexor she gave me didn't cause a swift, severe (and severely undesirable) reaction--I called her on day five of it and told her I didn't think it was doing shit. "Keep taking it....." her answer. And after about two weeks, I literally woke up one morning, and someone had turned the lights on, and put all the colors back. I sat up in bed and was looking around.....what the look on my face must have been, God only knows, because Bill said, "What? What's wrong?" And I said, "Nothing....for once. I think........I'm better."
Yes.......I was better. But--bipolar disorder (I refer to mine as Bipolar Lite--most of the fun, most of the guilt, but no five point restraints, no antipsychotics, no little birdies calling me)--bipolar disorder is a chronic illness, and it's likely I will be treated for it for the rest of my life. As I approach middle age, one of two things will happen on the old bipolar pendulum--it'll dwindle and stop (hey, it takes alot of energy to be crazy, and the doctor says there is the possibility that I will quite literally get too old for that shit) or..........there is the chance it will worsen. (I did a semester long project on schizophrenia in Abnormal Psych class. Men usually develop it in their late teens/early twenties. Women are closer to thirty, and the chances of developing it spike again around menopause. Schizophrenia and menopause........that speaks to me, and it says 'justifiable homicide.')
All this being said....as I mentioned, mine is a chronic illness. I have setbacks, and unfortunately, my temperament and 'wiring', for lack of a better word doesn't allow for much to go wrong before I do get a setback. My psychiatrist is wonderful in that she agrees that I should take just what keeps me functional........and happy. For the most part, I am both. But there are still days when 250 mgs a day of Lamictal doesn't keep the edge off. There are days I am volatile; and it is worst when I am under pressure. I can organize, prioritize, put everything in its place and get busy........that doesn't mean I won't give a good tongue lashing (and not one that you'd enjoy) to anyone who gets in my way.
On the flip side of that........there are days when I'm those sad bastards you see in the Cymbalta commercials (God, I hate those commercials......probably because I belong in one.....but the part at the end, "Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help." Is that really supposed to make us feel better? I mean.......yeah, depression hurts. Cymbalta probably CAN help--so can a Drain-O sandwich.) And I can say that because when I was on the Lexapro, I got curious as to the culinary properties of Drain-O. Talk about something that would cleanse the palate.....I can joke about it now, but the truth is, at the time, it was very real, it was very frightening, and the thoughts were very uninvited. And the harder I'd try to make them go away, the worse they got.
And right there--I have one of the answers: I have to just go with it. I'm going to have bad days, and accepting it is much easier than fighting it. Fortunately, sans Lexapro, my bad days no longer include taking into consideration whether I will have my Drain-O en croute or tartare. Ironically, the panic attacks also stopped when--upon feeling one creep up on me--I would STOP fighting it.....and simply say, "Oh, f--- it!! Go ahead then......let's get this over with." Do I want to live with bipolar disorder--no. But I DO want to live, so it looks like we're going to have to be roomies.
I can take the medication, and I can do what the doctor says.......but there are days when you ARE just along for the ride. While I have learned to tell myself--and be accepting in the knowledge--that this too shall pass.....it's not always so easy for those around me to understand. And there are days when I fight it, and fight it hard--the urge to stay in the bed, the urge to get in the refrigerator and eat my way out, the urge to go spend oodles of money on something ridiculous (with me, books and clothes). And this mentally fighting with yourself wears you down, and it makes you tired......and cranky. I'm not always easy to live with when I'm like this--but I'm up, I'm fighting, and I'm accomplishing things. That's what I want. Maybe this will make sense: sometimes the illness wears me down.......and I have to do the same right back. Because after several days of these mental Olympics, I will start to WANT to do things again. I just have to keep reaching for it.
Having addressed all these things, I would like to insert here a few words of advice. For all of you inclined to tell people like myself to 'cowboy up'--please go be a rodeo clown. Because you sound as stupid as they look. While there is--and a good psychiatrist will admit this; mine does--such a thing as mental illness that is self-inflicted via drug and alcohol abuse....that is not always the case. I would give almost anything to be 'normal'--granted, that is a very subjective term. We may be a horrifying pain in the ass to live with sometimes......but I speak for myself, and I'm pretty sure I speak for a few I know who struggle with naturally -acquired mental illness: this is not who we are. We are people who are overly sensitive, are too easily hurt by things, and have so much love for others that it is almost toxic to ourselves and our psyche, if that makes sense at all. We want to be everything to everyone, and we WILL do it--no matter the cost, and the cost is ourselves. In spite of what life has dealt us.......we are more attuned to the little things, and I think, can find beauty in more things than do others. If it IS the bipolar that makes me these things.......I think that it's quite possible that sometimes, in some ways, the good just may outweigh the bad.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I AM LEO!! HEAR ME......meow......
I had a very interesting, very long, and, at times, very heated conversation with my father the other night. And the conversation was about yours truly, and the way I 'come across' to others. It was very eye-opening on my part........I never would have thought that I can come across as less than benevolent; and while I admit I was hotter than a two dollar pistol at the end of the conversation, now I am grateful for it. I find myself jerking the reins in and pulling on the bit just a little harder before I launch into a reaction.
And then......a few nights later, I spent an evening with Becca, who loves me dearly in spite of my less-than-congenial-sometimes personality (not that Daddy doesn't--he does.) We got together to watch our high school loves--Duran Duran!!--and as we poured into the JUST RELEASED!! DVD, we just HAD to go through the literature that always comes with those things. And she was reading aloud the liner notes while we were making big plates of yummy Chinese food. Long story short, when she was reading the descriptions of the band members--written by themselves--she came to the following about Roger Taylor: "Stubborn and insecure......typical Taurean."
Typical what?? Oh, yes, Taurus, astrology--screw it--let's watch this thing!!
But fiddling around tonight on the web, I decided to look up Taurus, just for shits and giggles.
While I was at it, I figured: why don't I look up Leo? And that's all I knew--that I'm a Leo.
I read with fascination and then dawning horror: my God. THIS is me??
I realized, when I was very honest with myself........it IS me. Now, I'm not going to go running to read my horoscope every morning to see what 'house' I'm in, or what planet I'm aligned with this week, or what my sun is rising through, or any of that other happy astrological horseshit (and see, there I go!!) but it was, like the conversation with my father........revealing.
Daddy--grasping for the right word, and words failing him--had described my personality as sometimes........condescending. Now--he didn't MEAN it like that, but I was apparently having a Leo moment ('How dare you find fault with me??') and went roaring like the lion that I am. I went off with my bad self--and with my Daddy.
Not that all was bad with what I read of Leo:
Light side--Leos are generous, warm-hearted, creative, enthusiastic, broad-minded, expansive, faithful and loving. (And yes, I think it is fair to call me all of the above, for the most part.)
Dark side--Pompous, patronizing, bossy, interfering, dogmatic and intolerant. (Uh-oh. I think I see me there, too.) When you put it in THOSE words......
I had always seen it as having a take-no-prisoners attitude. We're not going to look for the problem--we're going to hunt it down and shoot it. Lead, follow, or get the hell outta my way. I've got this......stand aside. Theres' a method to MY madness--and there's not one to yours. Or, as my boss will say, "Uh-oh!! She's on a mission!!"--that's right. And get on the strike force or stand down.
So, perhaps this is something of an apology from me, if you are reading this and have ever felt like you got bit by the lion. Or burned by the fire--the sun being my planet and fire being my element, LOL.
I don't mean to be any of the above--not condescending, not pompous, etc. I like to think I relate well to others. But I have come to realize that I don't--I will listen to your problems, but I don't relate. Immediately, in my mind, I start analyzing a way to fix it. And sometimes.....it's not something that the speaker wants 'fixed'. They're only venting--something I should understand, since I vent on a daily basis. This blog is PROOF of my desire to vent.
Underneath all the bluster--under the lion's exterior is a kitty cat. While I will swell up in self-righteous indignation and scream bloody murder to anyone who will listen about those who have found fault with me--inside, I am cut to the core. And it's not because someone found fault with me--I ridicule those who hurt me so others won't see just HOW hurt I am. I'm not cut to the core with the criticism. Unfortunately (and honestly) I'm not always exactly hurt because I let YOU down--I'm hurt because I let ME down. I take failure very, very personally. And I promise--the way I beat myself up hurts MUCH more than when others do it. When I screw up, and when someone lets me in on that screw up, even while I am in the midst of full-blown, purple-faced hissy fit, there is a little girl inside wondering what can I possibly do to make this situation right? I don't do the right thing--apologize, acknowledge my failures.......I go right to seeing what did I do? What CAN I do?.........and go running off to hunt the problem down and shoot it. And that is NOT what is called for, once the proverbial damage has been done.
Reading back over this tells me a couple of things--one: I need to learn to accept criticism for my failures with a little more good grace. I'm not the first person who has screwed up, I won't be the last, and I daresay my failures are not the worst failures ever committed. Two: I need to quit trying so hard; and I need to quit setting such impossibly high standards for myself. My standards for me--with rare exception--is perfection. Anything less simply will not do. One of the things I need to quit trying so hard in is trying to make people like me--when I think real hard about it, when I try to make someone like me, all I succeed in doing is alienating them, and that is the LAST thing I ever want to do. (My father-in-law aside.) When I think even harder, I can pretty honestly say that with the exception of my father-in-law, and, (sadly)--my stepmother.........I don't think I have to work hard at all to make people like me. I really think that most people do find me likeable. I could be wrong--but I don't think so. (Correct me if I am, readers.) I'd be lying if I said I have regret about the resentment my father in law has for me--God knows, I have tried to prove myself to be the type of person who is good enough for his son, in more ways than one. I am finally learning to let go of the hope that this will ever happen, and I've finally realized that it is no fault of mine. My stepmother.......I DO, in fact, regret not having made a better relationship with her, and I am trying to find a way to fix this (co-dependency dies hard)--partly because I screwed it up, and I screwed it up big time; partly because I do owe her for taking such good care of my Dad. When I become angry--and here the lion reference comes in--I don't just verbalize the way I feel........I go for the throat.
So, my friends and family.......an apology from me; no, not just an apology: I am SORRY for things I have done to cause pain, and I am sorry that I come across as less than--for lack of a better word--sweet. Believe it or not--I am deeply disappointed when I fail the ones I love; and to Misty--I have probably been a pain in the ass over the course of this wedding planning. When I do something, though--I aim high. I dream big, and I dream in living color. When I get an idea about something--I don't nurture it; I don't 'expand' on it--it explodes, and it takes me up in the fireball. I don't understand it when others don't 'catch' my passion and zeal when I throw myself into something--and that's what I do. I THROW myself into things. I give it blood, sweat, and tears.........and it's because when I want something--either for myself or for someone else--I want it badly. And mediocrity is NOT something I aspire to.
On a lighter note, and in closing.........back to Roger Taylor and the typical Taurean.........I was bitterly disappointed to find out that Roger Taylor the Taurus, and me the Leo would be, astrologically speaking, a match made in Hell. His 'house of love'--or whatever--resides in Venus.........
.........mine resides in Uranus. I'm not EVEN going to go there, the irony is just too laughable...........except to say: when someone has pissed me off--it is a GREAT love of mine to stick it in and break it off in.......er, Uranus.
And then......a few nights later, I spent an evening with Becca, who loves me dearly in spite of my less-than-congenial-sometimes personality (not that Daddy doesn't--he does.) We got together to watch our high school loves--Duran Duran!!--and as we poured into the JUST RELEASED!! DVD, we just HAD to go through the literature that always comes with those things. And she was reading aloud the liner notes while we were making big plates of yummy Chinese food. Long story short, when she was reading the descriptions of the band members--written by themselves--she came to the following about Roger Taylor: "Stubborn and insecure......typical Taurean."
Typical what?? Oh, yes, Taurus, astrology--screw it--let's watch this thing!!
But fiddling around tonight on the web, I decided to look up Taurus, just for shits and giggles.
While I was at it, I figured: why don't I look up Leo? And that's all I knew--that I'm a Leo.
I read with fascination and then dawning horror: my God. THIS is me??
I realized, when I was very honest with myself........it IS me. Now, I'm not going to go running to read my horoscope every morning to see what 'house' I'm in, or what planet I'm aligned with this week, or what my sun is rising through, or any of that other happy astrological horseshit (and see, there I go!!) but it was, like the conversation with my father........revealing.
Daddy--grasping for the right word, and words failing him--had described my personality as sometimes........condescending. Now--he didn't MEAN it like that, but I was apparently having a Leo moment ('How dare you find fault with me??') and went roaring like the lion that I am. I went off with my bad self--and with my Daddy.
Not that all was bad with what I read of Leo:
Light side--Leos are generous, warm-hearted, creative, enthusiastic, broad-minded, expansive, faithful and loving. (And yes, I think it is fair to call me all of the above, for the most part.)
Dark side--Pompous, patronizing, bossy, interfering, dogmatic and intolerant. (Uh-oh. I think I see me there, too.) When you put it in THOSE words......
I had always seen it as having a take-no-prisoners attitude. We're not going to look for the problem--we're going to hunt it down and shoot it. Lead, follow, or get the hell outta my way. I've got this......stand aside. Theres' a method to MY madness--and there's not one to yours. Or, as my boss will say, "Uh-oh!! She's on a mission!!"--that's right. And get on the strike force or stand down.
So, perhaps this is something of an apology from me, if you are reading this and have ever felt like you got bit by the lion. Or burned by the fire--the sun being my planet and fire being my element, LOL.
I don't mean to be any of the above--not condescending, not pompous, etc. I like to think I relate well to others. But I have come to realize that I don't--I will listen to your problems, but I don't relate. Immediately, in my mind, I start analyzing a way to fix it. And sometimes.....it's not something that the speaker wants 'fixed'. They're only venting--something I should understand, since I vent on a daily basis. This blog is PROOF of my desire to vent.
Underneath all the bluster--under the lion's exterior is a kitty cat. While I will swell up in self-righteous indignation and scream bloody murder to anyone who will listen about those who have found fault with me--inside, I am cut to the core. And it's not because someone found fault with me--I ridicule those who hurt me so others won't see just HOW hurt I am. I'm not cut to the core with the criticism. Unfortunately (and honestly) I'm not always exactly hurt because I let YOU down--I'm hurt because I let ME down. I take failure very, very personally. And I promise--the way I beat myself up hurts MUCH more than when others do it. When I screw up, and when someone lets me in on that screw up, even while I am in the midst of full-blown, purple-faced hissy fit, there is a little girl inside wondering what can I possibly do to make this situation right? I don't do the right thing--apologize, acknowledge my failures.......I go right to seeing what did I do? What CAN I do?.........and go running off to hunt the problem down and shoot it. And that is NOT what is called for, once the proverbial damage has been done.
Reading back over this tells me a couple of things--one: I need to learn to accept criticism for my failures with a little more good grace. I'm not the first person who has screwed up, I won't be the last, and I daresay my failures are not the worst failures ever committed. Two: I need to quit trying so hard; and I need to quit setting such impossibly high standards for myself. My standards for me--with rare exception--is perfection. Anything less simply will not do. One of the things I need to quit trying so hard in is trying to make people like me--when I think real hard about it, when I try to make someone like me, all I succeed in doing is alienating them, and that is the LAST thing I ever want to do. (My father-in-law aside.) When I think even harder, I can pretty honestly say that with the exception of my father-in-law, and, (sadly)--my stepmother.........I don't think I have to work hard at all to make people like me. I really think that most people do find me likeable. I could be wrong--but I don't think so. (Correct me if I am, readers.) I'd be lying if I said I have regret about the resentment my father in law has for me--God knows, I have tried to prove myself to be the type of person who is good enough for his son, in more ways than one. I am finally learning to let go of the hope that this will ever happen, and I've finally realized that it is no fault of mine. My stepmother.......I DO, in fact, regret not having made a better relationship with her, and I am trying to find a way to fix this (co-dependency dies hard)--partly because I screwed it up, and I screwed it up big time; partly because I do owe her for taking such good care of my Dad. When I become angry--and here the lion reference comes in--I don't just verbalize the way I feel........I go for the throat.
So, my friends and family.......an apology from me; no, not just an apology: I am SORRY for things I have done to cause pain, and I am sorry that I come across as less than--for lack of a better word--sweet. Believe it or not--I am deeply disappointed when I fail the ones I love; and to Misty--I have probably been a pain in the ass over the course of this wedding planning. When I do something, though--I aim high. I dream big, and I dream in living color. When I get an idea about something--I don't nurture it; I don't 'expand' on it--it explodes, and it takes me up in the fireball. I don't understand it when others don't 'catch' my passion and zeal when I throw myself into something--and that's what I do. I THROW myself into things. I give it blood, sweat, and tears.........and it's because when I want something--either for myself or for someone else--I want it badly. And mediocrity is NOT something I aspire to.
On a lighter note, and in closing.........back to Roger Taylor and the typical Taurean.........I was bitterly disappointed to find out that Roger Taylor the Taurus, and me the Leo would be, astrologically speaking, a match made in Hell. His 'house of love'--or whatever--resides in Venus.........
.........mine resides in Uranus. I'm not EVEN going to go there, the irony is just too laughable...........except to say: when someone has pissed me off--it is a GREAT love of mine to stick it in and break it off in.......er, Uranus.
Friday, September 11, 2009
9/11.......
I do this each year, either talk about it with a friend, or write my memory of the day down. After all......it is a day of remembrance.
The two things that stand out to me now--before the attacks--was the beauty of the day. The other--I was hideously sick with tonisillitis. I thought what a pity this was--it would be a great day to take the girls--then 2 and 6 months old--to the park.
I was sitting on an exam table when I heard the commotion in the outside hallway. Just a minute later, the doctor came in to write my prescription. I asked him what the hu-bub was about. At that particular time, it was thought it was a small plane. I remarked, "Gotta love air traffic control."
I went out to pay my co-pay, and stood watching for awhile with the staff and other patients.....and saw the direct hit into the North Tower. And said, "THAT was no small plane." The doctor was standing there, nodding. One of the administrators remarked what were the chances....? And I said, "None. This is no accident."
I stood watching awhile longer, but the baby was getting fussy, and so I started home. I opened the driver's side door to turn on talk radio......locked the girls into their car seats, and as I fastened my seat belt.......the news came about the Pentagon.
I raced home, both because Cate was in an all-out scream and because I HAD to see it for myself. After Shanksville, and after the buildings fell, and after the President ordered all planes land--or be shot down--it occured to me, for the first time, so shocked was I--my God, they could be everywhere. And then--Christopher.
I got back in the car to go to his school.....and parents were just walking in, getting their kids, and walking out. Not signing out. Just.......getting them OUT.
Every year, I remember. I watch at least the ceremonies. I recall where I was that day, and I liken it to the Kennedy assassination--even my father, who can't remember what he ate for dinner last night, can tell you EXACTLY where he was when Kennedy was killed.
It still makes me feel as physically sick, eight years later, to see those images I saw on 9/11/01. I mourn the loss of life.....I mourn the last day of our nation as I knew it--September 10th.....I remember--and now I wonder--at a thought I had the night of September 10th--I was so sick, and I crawled into bed as soon as Bill got home, and I thought to myself......how warm and SAFE I felt. I don't think I'll ever feel that safe again.
I remember the courage of those who died on Flight 93....heroes in the truest sense of the word. I saw a documentary--after it had been pieced together what happened, through the messages and phone calls to families on the ground called 'No Greater Love'--in the words of Jesus, who said that there was no greater love than to lay down your life for your fellow man. And they did. They died--but by God, they died on their own terms. It is an enormous testament to the bravery and courage our country was founded on......they had that bravery and courage, even in the last minutes of their lives. If for only a little while, those hijackers knew the spirit of AMERICANS.....and those men and women saved the lives of people on the ground--how many? We'll never know. But I can't help but shake my fist a little in pride, when I think of what they did......for the guts they had, and the courage (and that word 'courage'--as good as it is, doesn't seem quite enough to bear up to the definition of what they did.)
All 3,000 are still in my prayers, as are the families, and those who tried to save them. The people we make out to be heroes, icons--football stars, movie stars (most recently, Michael frigging Jackson comes to mind)--if you want a hero--look to 9/11. Because God knows--we had more than a few that day.
I remember.
The two things that stand out to me now--before the attacks--was the beauty of the day. The other--I was hideously sick with tonisillitis. I thought what a pity this was--it would be a great day to take the girls--then 2 and 6 months old--to the park.
I was sitting on an exam table when I heard the commotion in the outside hallway. Just a minute later, the doctor came in to write my prescription. I asked him what the hu-bub was about. At that particular time, it was thought it was a small plane. I remarked, "Gotta love air traffic control."
I went out to pay my co-pay, and stood watching for awhile with the staff and other patients.....and saw the direct hit into the North Tower. And said, "THAT was no small plane." The doctor was standing there, nodding. One of the administrators remarked what were the chances....? And I said, "None. This is no accident."
I stood watching awhile longer, but the baby was getting fussy, and so I started home. I opened the driver's side door to turn on talk radio......locked the girls into their car seats, and as I fastened my seat belt.......the news came about the Pentagon.
I raced home, both because Cate was in an all-out scream and because I HAD to see it for myself. After Shanksville, and after the buildings fell, and after the President ordered all planes land--or be shot down--it occured to me, for the first time, so shocked was I--my God, they could be everywhere. And then--Christopher.
I got back in the car to go to his school.....and parents were just walking in, getting their kids, and walking out. Not signing out. Just.......getting them OUT.
Every year, I remember. I watch at least the ceremonies. I recall where I was that day, and I liken it to the Kennedy assassination--even my father, who can't remember what he ate for dinner last night, can tell you EXACTLY where he was when Kennedy was killed.
It still makes me feel as physically sick, eight years later, to see those images I saw on 9/11/01. I mourn the loss of life.....I mourn the last day of our nation as I knew it--September 10th.....I remember--and now I wonder--at a thought I had the night of September 10th--I was so sick, and I crawled into bed as soon as Bill got home, and I thought to myself......how warm and SAFE I felt. I don't think I'll ever feel that safe again.
I remember the courage of those who died on Flight 93....heroes in the truest sense of the word. I saw a documentary--after it had been pieced together what happened, through the messages and phone calls to families on the ground called 'No Greater Love'--in the words of Jesus, who said that there was no greater love than to lay down your life for your fellow man. And they did. They died--but by God, they died on their own terms. It is an enormous testament to the bravery and courage our country was founded on......they had that bravery and courage, even in the last minutes of their lives. If for only a little while, those hijackers knew the spirit of AMERICANS.....and those men and women saved the lives of people on the ground--how many? We'll never know. But I can't help but shake my fist a little in pride, when I think of what they did......for the guts they had, and the courage (and that word 'courage'--as good as it is, doesn't seem quite enough to bear up to the definition of what they did.)
All 3,000 are still in my prayers, as are the families, and those who tried to save them. The people we make out to be heroes, icons--football stars, movie stars (most recently, Michael frigging Jackson comes to mind)--if you want a hero--look to 9/11. Because God knows--we had more than a few that day.
I remember.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Parents' Code of Conduct.......
I have known Bill since I was 14, and with the exception of a couple of years, have been with him ever since. First my buddy, then my boyfriend, and then marriage, and all of the benefits that go along with that......parenthood being one of those benefits.
And three children later, we can see we are partners in yet another sense of the word: prisoners of war; and the only other prisoners held captive as long as we have been are those who were held in Stalin's gulags. The Greenway Gulag. I like it.
Our captors? Our children.
The Code of Conduct was instilled in me long ago by the unsmiling faces and tyranny of my drill sergeants. The Parents' Code of Conduct is one that I have earned the right to abide by.
1) I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.
Parents: I am a parent, fighting an uphill battle with the little people, whom I will never understand. I was NOT prepared to give my life (or my sanity,) but it appears that I will.
2) I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.
Parents: I will never surrender of my own free will--I no longer have one. I WILL surrender the members of my command to Grandma, if just for an hour of peace.
3) If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every attempt to escape and help others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.
Parents: I'm already captured, and I've been here for 15 years. Resisting by all means available is up to and including the use of duct tape and crazy glue: duct tape to bind their hands and feet--not to mention shut them up; crazy glue to attach them firmly to the ceiling. I escape every chance I get-- usually to go to the grocery store. I will take special favors any way I can get them.
4) If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.
Parents: I AM a prisoner of war. I will keep faith with Bill. But I will throw him under the bus for every sanction we attempt to impose on our captors when they cry 'foul'--I don't give a damn if he's my comrade or not. I'm senior....but I relinquish command when Daddy gets home. I will obey his lawful order of 'go get the paddle' and will drag the offending child--kicking and screaming--to their just reward.
5) When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.
Parents: When questioned, now that I am a prisoner of war, I give only, "Because I said so." I will evade answering further questions because it pisses them off. My oral statement: "You just wait until your father gets home....." disloyal to all parties involved--to my captors, for obvious reasons. Disloyal to Bill for obvious reasons, too: let HIM deal with them for awhile.
6) I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.
Parents: I will never forget I am a parent--(how could I? They're waging WWIII upstairs) fighting for peace of mind and therefore not responsible for my actions, dedicated to whatever will get me an hour alone with a good book and a hot bath. I will trust in my God--actually beg him down on my knees--to please move the clock a little faster: bedtime is at 9:00.
And three children later, we can see we are partners in yet another sense of the word: prisoners of war; and the only other prisoners held captive as long as we have been are those who were held in Stalin's gulags. The Greenway Gulag. I like it.
Our captors? Our children.
The Code of Conduct was instilled in me long ago by the unsmiling faces and tyranny of my drill sergeants. The Parents' Code of Conduct is one that I have earned the right to abide by.
1) I am an American, fighting in the forces which guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.
Parents: I am a parent, fighting an uphill battle with the little people, whom I will never understand. I was NOT prepared to give my life (or my sanity,) but it appears that I will.
2) I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command, I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.
Parents: I will never surrender of my own free will--I no longer have one. I WILL surrender the members of my command to Grandma, if just for an hour of peace.
3) If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every attempt to escape and help others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.
Parents: I'm already captured, and I've been here for 15 years. Resisting by all means available is up to and including the use of duct tape and crazy glue: duct tape to bind their hands and feet--not to mention shut them up; crazy glue to attach them firmly to the ceiling. I escape every chance I get-- usually to go to the grocery store. I will take special favors any way I can get them.
4) If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which might be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.
Parents: I AM a prisoner of war. I will keep faith with Bill. But I will throw him under the bus for every sanction we attempt to impose on our captors when they cry 'foul'--I don't give a damn if he's my comrade or not. I'm senior....but I relinquish command when Daddy gets home. I will obey his lawful order of 'go get the paddle' and will drag the offending child--kicking and screaming--to their just reward.
5) When questioned, should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.
Parents: When questioned, now that I am a prisoner of war, I give only, "Because I said so." I will evade answering further questions because it pisses them off. My oral statement: "You just wait until your father gets home....." disloyal to all parties involved--to my captors, for obvious reasons. Disloyal to Bill for obvious reasons, too: let HIM deal with them for awhile.
6) I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.
Parents: I will never forget I am a parent--(how could I? They're waging WWIII upstairs) fighting for peace of mind and therefore not responsible for my actions, dedicated to whatever will get me an hour alone with a good book and a hot bath. I will trust in my God--actually beg him down on my knees--to please move the clock a little faster: bedtime is at 9:00.
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Facebook Witness Protection Program.......
Or, FWPP.....which is almost like the noise your computer makes when someone sends you an instant message in what has to be the best thing that has happened to stalkers since binoculars were invented. I am referring, of course, to Facebook.
And is it creepy that I'm listening to Media Player on shuffle and just as I started this blog, 'Every Breath You Take' started up? I shit you not......God has a FANTASTIC sense of humor.
And so, I'm hiding out here in my blog, (Mission Impossible theme here, maestro).....not wanting to do something so unchivalrous as unfriend someone--and yet reconsidering the definition of both 'chivalry' and 'friend' before I make any decisions and/or conclusions.
It's interesting to watch: with Facebook minimized (so she can probably tell I'm typing something, just not to her, which has got to irritate the living shit out of her--and I'm just enough of a bitch to get a perverse amusement from this)--although, at the same time, I keep getting "FWPP, FWPP, FWPP...." ("Shit, shit, shit....") "FWPP, FWPP, FWPP....." ("Get a clue, get a life, get someone else's phone number....")
And the little icon in the task tray reads, "New message from _________!!" Apparently, the administrators of Facebook don't think that "FWPP, FWPP, FWPP...." will suffice.
FWPP, FWPP, FWPP is kinda like the sound my heart makes when it's pounding........
Too bad for the offending party--MY definition of 'chivalry' was predominantly shaped as the United Nations defined it in their 1947 Charter.
But somehow--unfortunately--I get the feeling that Chivalry as it pertains to the Laws of International Armed Conflict aren't appropos here. ('Armed conflict' conjures some brilliant ideas--pun intended--unfortunately, it wouldn't be international.)
So I guess you'll find me--or not, which is the point--in the Facebook Witness Protection Program.
And is it creepy that I'm listening to Media Player on shuffle and just as I started this blog, 'Every Breath You Take' started up? I shit you not......God has a FANTASTIC sense of humor.
And so, I'm hiding out here in my blog, (Mission Impossible theme here, maestro).....not wanting to do something so unchivalrous as unfriend someone--and yet reconsidering the definition of both 'chivalry' and 'friend' before I make any decisions and/or conclusions.
It's interesting to watch: with Facebook minimized (so she can probably tell I'm typing something, just not to her, which has got to irritate the living shit out of her--and I'm just enough of a bitch to get a perverse amusement from this)--although, at the same time, I keep getting "FWPP, FWPP, FWPP...." ("Shit, shit, shit....") "FWPP, FWPP, FWPP....." ("Get a clue, get a life, get someone else's phone number....")
And the little icon in the task tray reads, "New message from _________!!" Apparently, the administrators of Facebook don't think that "FWPP, FWPP, FWPP...." will suffice.
FWPP, FWPP, FWPP is kinda like the sound my heart makes when it's pounding........
Too bad for the offending party--MY definition of 'chivalry' was predominantly shaped as the United Nations defined it in their 1947 Charter.
But somehow--unfortunately--I get the feeling that Chivalry as it pertains to the Laws of International Armed Conflict aren't appropos here. ('Armed conflict' conjures some brilliant ideas--pun intended--unfortunately, it wouldn't be international.)
So I guess you'll find me--or not, which is the point--in the Facebook Witness Protection Program.
Labor Day....
Around here, they don't call it that for nothing.
We usually tackle a project (or six) on this long weekend--since I worked the last two days, my part came in today when I went upstairs and sorted out that cat's cradle of crochet yarn in my closet, and said adieu to those clothes that I must now admit: I'm NEVER going to fit into them again--even if, in the words of my BFF's husband and buddy Steve--I started a diet in which I mainline meth and crack cocaine.
In fact, it's likely I'll never even fall into the single digits in dress size--three pregnancies--two of which were eight pounds plus--will do that to you. The hips laugh at me in the mirror and say, "Hell no we won't go." My goal is to at least zip my pants without the assistance of power tools. I'm almost there--almost.
The next order of business, I suppose, should be my office. I've already decided I'm moving it--to my closet upstairs. My children will never allow me to have one that looks like it won't be condemned by the Health Department. I've decided that my closet will be my new safe haven. There's not a room in this house that hasn't been overtaken by Bill and/or the kids. It used to be the kitchen (thanks, guys) but now Christopher can cook a little, and even Cate can microwave, so that's now been overrun as well. I get to go clean up after Christopher scrambles eggs--the boy spreads salmonella all over the counter when he cracks open an egg....
And last--tonight after the kids have gone to bed: the nightmare that is the playroom. Since they are outgrowing the days of playsets, it's all fodder for the Salvation Army. The only thing I will allow them to keep is their Littlest Pet Shop stuff--and I will look regretfully at it and wish I had all THAT money back. Most of the space will be replaced with the desks Bill is going to build next weekend for them. I may even be kind and hook up my old computer, if I can reload the system with the disk that came with it.
.....it may be a simpler solution than moving my office.
So--a more adult-friendly house; less kiddie crap laying around. No more skinny-girl clothes; I'll stop torturing myself.
Ciao for now.
We usually tackle a project (or six) on this long weekend--since I worked the last two days, my part came in today when I went upstairs and sorted out that cat's cradle of crochet yarn in my closet, and said adieu to those clothes that I must now admit: I'm NEVER going to fit into them again--even if, in the words of my BFF's husband and buddy Steve--I started a diet in which I mainline meth and crack cocaine.
In fact, it's likely I'll never even fall into the single digits in dress size--three pregnancies--two of which were eight pounds plus--will do that to you. The hips laugh at me in the mirror and say, "Hell no we won't go." My goal is to at least zip my pants without the assistance of power tools. I'm almost there--almost.
The next order of business, I suppose, should be my office. I've already decided I'm moving it--to my closet upstairs. My children will never allow me to have one that looks like it won't be condemned by the Health Department. I've decided that my closet will be my new safe haven. There's not a room in this house that hasn't been overtaken by Bill and/or the kids. It used to be the kitchen (thanks, guys) but now Christopher can cook a little, and even Cate can microwave, so that's now been overrun as well. I get to go clean up after Christopher scrambles eggs--the boy spreads salmonella all over the counter when he cracks open an egg....
And last--tonight after the kids have gone to bed: the nightmare that is the playroom. Since they are outgrowing the days of playsets, it's all fodder for the Salvation Army. The only thing I will allow them to keep is their Littlest Pet Shop stuff--and I will look regretfully at it and wish I had all THAT money back. Most of the space will be replaced with the desks Bill is going to build next weekend for them. I may even be kind and hook up my old computer, if I can reload the system with the disk that came with it.
.....it may be a simpler solution than moving my office.
So--a more adult-friendly house; less kiddie crap laying around. No more skinny-girl clothes; I'll stop torturing myself.
Ciao for now.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Deep thoughts.....
I can't seem to find an entire topic to talk about today, so I'll just write about some of the things that have crossed my mind since we last spoke.
Now--my mind is a big place to get lost in. Medication hasn't changed the frequency at which this happens, either. And when I DO get lost in there, I'm not responsible for what I think.
For some reason, running errands doesn't do much to make me want to take responsibility for what I think.
All that being said--here you go, folks. Some of the things that have sprung--uninvited--into my head the past couple of days. Although they're uninvited, I'm always glad they showed up. Usually they make me laugh out loud, and that makes the people around you wonder what you're up to.......and what girl doesn't want to seem mysterious?
--'Do you want a piece of me?!'--yikes. Talk about your loaded questions.
--I always promised myself I would never tell my kids 'I'll give you something to cry about.' Now--in modern times, that statement is the equivalent of 'I got your ass-whoopin' right here,' which is decidedly more funny. (On the other hand, had my Mom phrased it in the modern terminology, I probably would have laughed out loud--and then she would have given me something to cry about....reverting back to their terminology here, because it wouldn't have been funny.) But, I digress. Would I be reneging on that promise to myself if I said it to the kid behind me in line at the grocery store? Because I had his ass-whoopin' right there.
--If you call my house after a certain time, someone had better be dying or dead. Because if they're not--they will be soon. Can I get an 'Amen'?? Now--praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. (Okay, I will show mercy if gushing blood and/or projectile vomiting is involved--as long as you're gushing blood and/or projectile vomiting for a reason other than public--or private--intoxication.)
--Would you really trust the results of a pregnancy test you bought at the Dollar Tree? And if your answer to that question was 'yes'--I'll see you on the next episode of 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.'
--Walmart might take alot of shit for alot of reasons--but I've got to hand it to them this time: I saw a BRILLIANT marketing strategy in there today. A display over in the Health and Beauty section of KY's latest slick idea ('slick' being the operative word.) And--above the display, Walmart's gratuitous "WOW!" sign. Now--what, you may ask, is the brilliance of this? And it is this: just across the aisle from this was the paraphernalia you've no doubt seen advertised of late--parents bum rushing Walmart to get the things their precious darlings what they will need for their dorm room. I was suddenly visited with a vision of a soon-to-be college freshman slipping some of this down amongst the comforters and bath towels (how appropriate.) While I'm relatively sure that KY isn't on the supply list for Anatomy and Physiology class, it couldn't hurt (and according to the makers of KY--it won't!!) The 'WOW' above the display made the idea that much more amusing.....although, I don't think the 'WOW' comes until after the purchase. I think it comes somewhere just before the users start calling upon the name of the Lord--and not so that they will be saved from damnation--rather, so they will not get one of His smallest blessings from Heaven--an arrival that will dovetail nicely with final exams. (And yeah--they might also invoke Him in praise to KY....) I'm going to Hell.
Now--my mind is a big place to get lost in. Medication hasn't changed the frequency at which this happens, either. And when I DO get lost in there, I'm not responsible for what I think.
For some reason, running errands doesn't do much to make me want to take responsibility for what I think.
All that being said--here you go, folks. Some of the things that have sprung--uninvited--into my head the past couple of days. Although they're uninvited, I'm always glad they showed up. Usually they make me laugh out loud, and that makes the people around you wonder what you're up to.......and what girl doesn't want to seem mysterious?
--'Do you want a piece of me?!'--yikes. Talk about your loaded questions.
--I always promised myself I would never tell my kids 'I'll give you something to cry about.' Now--in modern times, that statement is the equivalent of 'I got your ass-whoopin' right here,' which is decidedly more funny. (On the other hand, had my Mom phrased it in the modern terminology, I probably would have laughed out loud--and then she would have given me something to cry about....reverting back to their terminology here, because it wouldn't have been funny.) But, I digress. Would I be reneging on that promise to myself if I said it to the kid behind me in line at the grocery store? Because I had his ass-whoopin' right there.
--If you call my house after a certain time, someone had better be dying or dead. Because if they're not--they will be soon. Can I get an 'Amen'?? Now--praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. (Okay, I will show mercy if gushing blood and/or projectile vomiting is involved--as long as you're gushing blood and/or projectile vomiting for a reason other than public--or private--intoxication.)
--Would you really trust the results of a pregnancy test you bought at the Dollar Tree? And if your answer to that question was 'yes'--I'll see you on the next episode of 'I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.'
--Walmart might take alot of shit for alot of reasons--but I've got to hand it to them this time: I saw a BRILLIANT marketing strategy in there today. A display over in the Health and Beauty section of KY's latest slick idea ('slick' being the operative word.) And--above the display, Walmart's gratuitous "WOW!" sign. Now--what, you may ask, is the brilliance of this? And it is this: just across the aisle from this was the paraphernalia you've no doubt seen advertised of late--parents bum rushing Walmart to get the things their precious darlings what they will need for their dorm room. I was suddenly visited with a vision of a soon-to-be college freshman slipping some of this down amongst the comforters and bath towels (how appropriate.) While I'm relatively sure that KY isn't on the supply list for Anatomy and Physiology class, it couldn't hurt (and according to the makers of KY--it won't!!) The 'WOW' above the display made the idea that much more amusing.....although, I don't think the 'WOW' comes until after the purchase. I think it comes somewhere just before the users start calling upon the name of the Lord--and not so that they will be saved from damnation--rather, so they will not get one of His smallest blessings from Heaven--an arrival that will dovetail nicely with final exams. (And yeah--they might also invoke Him in praise to KY....) I'm going to Hell.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Freud and Friends.....
Since my better half is hell-bent on not letting me sleep--unfortunately, not for fun reasons--I'm up again already, until he's had his fill of whatever the hell it is he's listening to downstairs. Actually, he's not only listening. Richter scales on the San Andreas are lighting up. Usually it's something like Pink Floyd or Jethro Tull, making the neighbors think he's on drugs. Tonight it's a newly discovered band a decidedly younger co-worker introduced to him....a band called Type O Negative, real-life vampires, he tells me.....and from the sounds of it, the neighbors NOW think he's on drugs AND has erected an altar to Satan in the basement, and is in the midst of Black Mass. So, not only am I expecting the police to show up.....but there might even be a Jesuit priest knocking at the door soon. I think I'm going to re-name him 'Regan', and I keep bracing myself to see him turn his head all the way around spewing pea soup.
Then there was the late-night text message from one of my friends....not the first I've received from her; but not for the first time since Friday night, I've found myself thinking about the three people who I am closest to--and Sigmund Freud.
I really am going somewhere with this. According to Freud, there are three distinct parts to one's personality: the id, the ego and the superego. (Admittedly, Freud had too many issues, too much time on his hands, and too much cocaine up his nose.) But I think I'm onto something here.
The Id, aka the pleasure principle. In my life, AKA Kelly. Kelly is the one who keeps me in touch with what Freud would call my primal instincts, even if she can't provoke me into giving in to them. (Lead me not into temptation; I can find it all by myself.)
The Ego, aka the reality principle. In my life, AKA Michelle. The one who has the ability to cut through the bullshit and tell it like it is.
The Super-Ego, aka the perfection principle. In my life--Rebecca by a long shot. Rebecca is the angel who sits on my shoulder; and how someone as fundamentally good as she is got mixed up with the fundamental turd I am is beyond me (actually, it's the Eighth Wonder of the World.) As is most relationships, I suppose that even in friendship--opposites attract. I wonder at it, but try not to question it too much--just realize that God really DOES love me--she is living proof.
Wait a minute........**listening**.......I don't hear the yawns of Hell beneath me anymore. The Exorcist must have arrived......
Then there was the late-night text message from one of my friends....not the first I've received from her; but not for the first time since Friday night, I've found myself thinking about the three people who I am closest to--and Sigmund Freud.
I really am going somewhere with this. According to Freud, there are three distinct parts to one's personality: the id, the ego and the superego. (Admittedly, Freud had too many issues, too much time on his hands, and too much cocaine up his nose.) But I think I'm onto something here.
The Id, aka the pleasure principle. In my life, AKA Kelly. Kelly is the one who keeps me in touch with what Freud would call my primal instincts, even if she can't provoke me into giving in to them. (Lead me not into temptation; I can find it all by myself.)
The Ego, aka the reality principle. In my life, AKA Michelle. The one who has the ability to cut through the bullshit and tell it like it is.
The Super-Ego, aka the perfection principle. In my life--Rebecca by a long shot. Rebecca is the angel who sits on my shoulder; and how someone as fundamentally good as she is got mixed up with the fundamental turd I am is beyond me (actually, it's the Eighth Wonder of the World.) As is most relationships, I suppose that even in friendship--opposites attract. I wonder at it, but try not to question it too much--just realize that God really DOES love me--she is living proof.
Wait a minute........**listening**.......I don't hear the yawns of Hell beneath me anymore. The Exorcist must have arrived......
This is my first time....
.....and I didn't ever think I'd hear myself say THAT again.
Inspired by the blog of an old friend and encouraged by both old friends and new, I decided to start my own blog.....at least it's someplace where, if I see responses, at least I know that someone is interested in what I have to say (in this day and age, 'someone' will probably include Big Brother; and I may find myself blogging y'all from the Gulag Archipelago.)
Monday is my Saturday. Sunday afternoons at about three, I lapse into daydreams of just how I'd like to spend my weekends off; but since this is a family-friendly blog for the most part, I will refrain from posting those daydreams, except to say that they are distantly related to something part Animal House and part Ferris Bueller's Day Off. And I don't know which is sadder: the fact that not only do I not have the energy to partake in my daydreams--or that what gets me really, REALLY excited is the prospect of spending a few extra hours in bed......
Alone. Sleeping.
Not that I won't have ANYTHING warm and masculine in the bed....Oliver is both. Kevin Costner once said he liked warm, soft, wet kisses that last for three days......my puppy could have satisfied him on the soft and wet part; unfortunately, Ollie has canine ADD and does well to keep it up for three seconds, much less three days. Oh, well. In the words of Meatloaf: Two out of three ain't bad.
If I've got daydreams at about three on Sundays, by four I find myself have gone from great golden daydreams to the poet laureate of the Home Depot.....Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I am. I'll have to post the one I wrote yesterday, entitled, "Ode To The Bastard On Aisle Ten." If I should suddenly jump up on the Special Services desk and do a recitation of one of my works--(think Tom Cruise in 'Cocktail', standing on the bar with his bad self) I swear to God I'll tell my boss it's the Tourette's Syndrome talking.
Four thirty--the angst is apparent. I dare not look out the front doors; the sight of the parking lot and Highway 41 will give me a nervous twitch in my neck, and I will just barely resist the urge to press my face up against the glass and lick it.
Four forty-five--(tapping the face of my watch; is this thing still working?)
When five o'clock FINALLY rolls around, those of us who were just standing in a suicidal stupor up front--alot like Jack Nicholson after a few days at The Overlook in The Shining--are suddenly sprinting for the breakroom; if it were the Summer Olympics (the Special Olympics?) we'd win the Gold. And win it again when we reach the break room, if there was such an event as the Olympic shoving match. Smoke is coming out of the time clock, overloaded at the repetitive furious punches of the first shift, and it sounds not unlike the signature 'beeping' that a fighter pilot will hear when he's about to get blown out of the sky by a missile. (Ironically, we just got a new time clock about a month ago--it's been repaired twice already.) Sometimes I can even hear the desperation in (again) Tom Cruise's voice in Top Gun--plane crash scene: "Eject....eject, eject, eject, eject, eject!!".......but instead of 'Watch the canopy!!' I have to watch the break room door: one could very well get their nose broken as it swings inward by late-comers to the bail-out ball--usually the poor schmucks who work all the way down in Lumber.
And here it is only 'Saturday' night--and I think I've had the highlight of my weekend: I drove with my sunroof open. Listening to music that drove my parents crazy (call me a rebel, but I still feel a little like I'm flipping the bird at what Mom wanted me to conform to when I hear Guns N Roses. It's undeniable that I'm the only Hell my Mama ever raised......can't say the same for Daddy. He had a couple of bumper crops long before I was planted.)
So, at least by my mother's standards, I've had me a wild weekend. I drove with the sunroof open. Five miles over the speed limit. Listening to Guns N Roses.......
.......on my way to a PTA meeting.
Inspired by the blog of an old friend and encouraged by both old friends and new, I decided to start my own blog.....at least it's someplace where, if I see responses, at least I know that someone is interested in what I have to say (in this day and age, 'someone' will probably include Big Brother; and I may find myself blogging y'all from the Gulag Archipelago.)
Monday is my Saturday. Sunday afternoons at about three, I lapse into daydreams of just how I'd like to spend my weekends off; but since this is a family-friendly blog for the most part, I will refrain from posting those daydreams, except to say that they are distantly related to something part Animal House and part Ferris Bueller's Day Off. And I don't know which is sadder: the fact that not only do I not have the energy to partake in my daydreams--or that what gets me really, REALLY excited is the prospect of spending a few extra hours in bed......
Alone. Sleeping.
Not that I won't have ANYTHING warm and masculine in the bed....Oliver is both. Kevin Costner once said he liked warm, soft, wet kisses that last for three days......my puppy could have satisfied him on the soft and wet part; unfortunately, Ollie has canine ADD and does well to keep it up for three seconds, much less three days. Oh, well. In the words of Meatloaf: Two out of three ain't bad.
If I've got daydreams at about three on Sundays, by four I find myself have gone from great golden daydreams to the poet laureate of the Home Depot.....Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I am. I'll have to post the one I wrote yesterday, entitled, "Ode To The Bastard On Aisle Ten." If I should suddenly jump up on the Special Services desk and do a recitation of one of my works--(think Tom Cruise in 'Cocktail', standing on the bar with his bad self) I swear to God I'll tell my boss it's the Tourette's Syndrome talking.
Four thirty--the angst is apparent. I dare not look out the front doors; the sight of the parking lot and Highway 41 will give me a nervous twitch in my neck, and I will just barely resist the urge to press my face up against the glass and lick it.
Four forty-five--(tapping the face of my watch; is this thing still working?)
When five o'clock FINALLY rolls around, those of us who were just standing in a suicidal stupor up front--alot like Jack Nicholson after a few days at The Overlook in The Shining--are suddenly sprinting for the breakroom; if it were the Summer Olympics (the Special Olympics?) we'd win the Gold. And win it again when we reach the break room, if there was such an event as the Olympic shoving match. Smoke is coming out of the time clock, overloaded at the repetitive furious punches of the first shift, and it sounds not unlike the signature 'beeping' that a fighter pilot will hear when he's about to get blown out of the sky by a missile. (Ironically, we just got a new time clock about a month ago--it's been repaired twice already.) Sometimes I can even hear the desperation in (again) Tom Cruise's voice in Top Gun--plane crash scene: "Eject....eject, eject, eject, eject, eject!!".......but instead of 'Watch the canopy!!' I have to watch the break room door: one could very well get their nose broken as it swings inward by late-comers to the bail-out ball--usually the poor schmucks who work all the way down in Lumber.
And here it is only 'Saturday' night--and I think I've had the highlight of my weekend: I drove with my sunroof open. Listening to music that drove my parents crazy (call me a rebel, but I still feel a little like I'm flipping the bird at what Mom wanted me to conform to when I hear Guns N Roses. It's undeniable that I'm the only Hell my Mama ever raised......can't say the same for Daddy. He had a couple of bumper crops long before I was planted.)
So, at least by my mother's standards, I've had me a wild weekend. I drove with the sunroof open. Five miles over the speed limit. Listening to Guns N Roses.......
.......on my way to a PTA meeting.
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