Block that News!

I voted for Hillary in our primary.  Come November, I will be voting against McCain.  I have never been able to muster much enthusiasm for Obama.  He is just gaming the system.  But I wll probably contribute to his campaign, because the idea of McCain as president is just plain scary.

I don’t get it.  When it was Hillary vs. Obama, the New Yorker ran articles that said all these good things about Hillary, but tried to make them sound bad.  Now  their articles cite bad things about Obama but try to make them sound good.  Can you spell m-i-s-o-g-y-n-i-s-t?

Time to tune it all out.  Now it is just another pizzing contest.  Wake me in November.

I Feel Bad About My Foot

I think I have a heel spur.  My right heel feels bruised, hurts worse in the morning, then subsides to a dull ache later in the day.  I can walk on it fine, but I also complain about it.  A co-worker suggested it might be a bone spur.

After a little Internet research, I think he is right.  But now what?  I hate going to the doctor.  Or maybe I should say, I hate going to MY doctor.  Every time I call there or go there, I am treated… oddly.  One time his nurse yelled at me.  Another time I had to defend my right to schedule an appointment, by reciting all the home remedies I had already tried, to three different people:  the phone nurse, my doctor’s nurse, and the doctor himself.  The last time I was there, I smirked at his haircut – I could not help it!  It was really, really bad!  And my daughter was just there and reported he is still wearing his hair like that! - and now I am afraid to return.

My general rule is, the less one has to do with mainstream medicine, the better.  Many years ago, I brought to my ob-gyn’s attention my right nipple, which was itchy and kind of funky looking.  She gave me an anti-fungal cream, which helped, but she also wanted me to see a surgeon, “just to be sure.”  And she recommended one.

What a weirdo.  While he was examining my breast, a nurse stood by the door.  He smirked at her, and I wondered if this guy had been fingered (ha ha!) for inappropriate behavior with female patients while their breasts were exposed.  Whatever.  He did not think there was anything wrong with my nipple, but offered to do a biopsy. 

“But that would be disfiguring,  he explained.  “Or you could go to a dermatologist, who can perform a needle biopsy.”

Can’t he do a needle biopsy?  Or are his fine motor skills so retarded that he can only hack at breasts in a disfiguring manner?  Needless to say, I got the hell out of there, and eventually my nipple returned to normal.

My experience with surgeons is, If your only tool is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.  After my appendectomy, the surgeon (not the same one as above) suggested I also have my gall bladder removed because the CT scan showed I have gall stones.  Even though I don’t have gall bladder attacks.  I’ve never gone back there, either.

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  My doctor.  So, why don’t I find a different doctor?  I don’t know how.  Asking friends has led me to several doctors that I could not stand.  Even my current doctor is liked by others I know.  The only way I can bring myself to change doctors is to move, and relocation is not imminent.

I’m big on the wait-and-see philosophy of health care, though.  So I will wait and see if my heel gets worse.  And even then, it has to be bad enough to impair my regular life.  Right now, the pain is not keeping me from doing anything, so I will try a few home remedies, maybe an orthotic (if I can find one that works with Earth shoes) and go from there.

Mental Health Day

I frequently don’t sleep well, but lately my insomnia has been worse than usual.  Tuesday night, while tossing and turning into the wee hours of Wednesday morning, I contemplated taking a “mental health day”.  Ordinarily, I don’t do this because 1) I feel too guilty doing so, and 2) like cocaine, it might become a habit that’s hard to break.  Fortunately (?), my digestive system spiraled out of control and provided me with a legitimate excuse to stay home.  After all, if I am going to spend the day in the bathroom, it might as well be my own.

While fantasizing about a day off, I imagined all the things I could do, given a little free time.  The reality was I did not feel up to doing much at all.  By afternoon, my ailments had improved, so I moved some furniture around.  From years of living alone, I have learned how to move furniture without actually lifting, and I succeeded in swapping out the dining room and family room.  I like the results, but not the side effects:  I suffered a muscle spasm in my back.

Ow, ow, ow!  I iced it, laid on tennis balls, stretched, gulped down Advil - nothing seemed to help much.  By bedtime, the pain was tolerable but threatening to disrupt my sleep.  In the nightstand, I found some Vicodin leftover from a root canal I had two years ago.  Yeah, the label said, “Use before February, 2007″ but we all know that is just a suggestion.  The pill didn’t do much for my back, but boy howdy, did I sleep well!

Maybe I Will Stop Reading the New Yorker

I am listening to When You Are Engulfed in Flames, the latest from David Sedaris.  I am enjoying it very much and learning new things as well, such as it is possible to sprain ones asshole. 

BUT.  Many of the essays sound very familiar.  Initially, I assumed this new book had old material in it, which was a disappointing idea.  Musicians sometimes do that, pad an album with material they have recorded before.  And since I was listening to the book on CD, it felt very similar.

When I complained to my SO about it, he said, Maybe you read it in the New Yorker.  YES!  That’s it!  Many of the essays had appeared in the New Yorker.  That’s why they were so familiar.

This is not the first time I have had my book-reading experience ruined by my NYer habit.  A year or so ago, I checked out a new collection of short stories by Alice Munro from the library only to discover I had read almost all of them before.  Books list where the contents first appeared, so it was easy to discover where I had read them:  the NYer.  Damn them!

The summer Olympics are about to start.  I am of the opinion that each athlete participating in the Olympics should be allowed to compete in one, and only one, event.  And once a person has won a medal, any medal, they should not be allowed to compete again.  You had your chance to shine – now move over and let someone else have a turn.

I found myself feeling something similar about essays and short stories that are destined to be compiled into a book that also get space in a magazine.  Isn’t that double-dipping?  And greedy?  Hey, famous authors!  Pick one venue or the other, and give the rest a chance!

Meme of Firsts (Part 5)

And hopefully the final episode.

19. What was your first run-in with the law?

When I was a junior in college, I went to a local bar with a friend who had graduated the previous year and was in town for a visit.  I didn’t have a fake ID on me.  I think I didn’t have even a real ID on me at the time.  This was not a problem in this particular bar, where we proceeded to get pleasantly sloshed on a surprisingly small amount of beer.

It was cold outside, and upon leaving the bar, we were struggling with our coats.  One reason we could not get our coats on is we were laughing.  Turns out we were laughing too hard to notice the cop approaching us. 

While my friend fumbled with his driver’s license, the cop asked me how old I was.  “Twenty-one!”  He asked me my birth date.  “<month> <day> nineteen-fifty-uuuuuuuuh.”  I was too drunk to calculate what year I should have been born in order to be 21.

He wanted to know if we were driving.  “No, sir.”  Truth.  We had walked over to the bar from a nearby party.

“Since you’re not driving, I’m going to let you two go this time,” the cop said, then looked me in the eye.  “But next time, I’ll take you down to the station and we’ll find out how old you really are.”

20. When was your first detention?

First and only detention was in high school.  I was a junior, a math geek with a math teacher I could not stand.  No one could stand him, but my best friend claimed he had it out for her.

One day, she and I ditched school and rode the train downtown to go shopping.  The next day, Bad Math Teacher asked my friend for her pass back into class.  Of course, she had none.  He did not ask me, though.  After she left the classroom to report to the dean’s office, I sat there and seethed for about five minutes.  Then, with total adolescent loyalty and self-righteous abandon, I stood up, told the teacher to go to hell, and stomped out of class.

To make a long story short, the administration seemed inclined to overlook my behaviour – this teacher had been a problem from day one and he was not going to be back the following year – but Bad Math Teacher would not be mollified.  I had to apologize to him, after which he threw me out of his class.  I was transferred to the class of a math teacher I really liked (big punishment), plus had to serve a week of detention.

The other kids in detention were surprised to see me.  “What are you doing here?”  Apparently, my little bit of celebrity had not leaked down to the masses yet.

I just realized something.  I worked at the public library most afternoons.  I don’t recall detention impacting my work schedule.  Had I already quit for the summer by then?  It’s a big blank.

21. What was the first state you lived in?

The same state I was born in – Ohio.  I currently live in the state of denial.

22. Who was the first person to break your heart?

Hmmm.  I’m not sure anyone ever “broke my heart”.  Many relationships did not work out, but I don’t recall feeling brokenhearted about them.  I’m still brokenhearted about Buddy, though, a stray cat my daughter brought back from college.  He stole my heart, then was diagnosed with feline leukemia and tested positive for FIV.  He was so sweet.  I still miss him.

23. Who was your first roommate?

Judy.  (This was before people started replacing -y with -i at the end of names.)  I was a freshman and she a junior, having transferred in from a community college in order to be near her boy friend.  We got along okay, more so the first year we roomed together, probably because she was gone most weekends, visiting the boy friend.  They broke up, though, so our second year of forced cohabitation was not so smooth.  She was in panic mode about graduation and studied constantly and was always there.  I had become a hippie, smoking cigarettes (and worse!)  By the time she graduated, we didn’t have much in common.

Someone once described Judy as “a very nice girl, but toys in her head.”  and yet, she eventually married a doctor, bore him three kids, and now spends her leisure time skiing and playing golf and tennis.

24. Where did you go on your first limo ride?

It wasn’t a limo limo, but one time my dad hired a driver with a Town Car to take me to the airport so I could fly back to school.  There must have been a reason he couldn’t/wouldn’t make the three-hour round trip to Logan and back, but I don’t remember.

WHEW!  Done with this meme!  Now I can resume my regular life.

Meme of Firsts (Part 4)

Geesh, this is going on forever.

8. Who was your first grade teacher?

Mrs. Cowan, a petite woman with a giant purse.  For some reason, I didn’t like her much.  Did she yell too much?  That would have interupted my daydreaming.

I found school to be very boring, like a long car ride through Iowa.  Most of the time I drifted off to a world of my own.  That’s where I was when I was supposed to be learning how to tell time.  One day it occurred to me that I was really supposed to know this stuff, so that night I asked one of my older brothers to explain it to me.  Two minutes later, I got it.  Back to Dream World for me.

9. Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane?

Columbus to Akron, at age 7 I think.

Before I was born, my parents lived in Akron and became friends with another young couple with children.  The dads met at work and golfed together; the moms drank coffee and smoked.  We moved to Columbus, but the two families continued to be close.  After I was born, their daughter Twink and I became first friends.  (See #10 below.) 

Once the two of us were old enough, we would each spend a week at the others house during the summer.  This necessitated three two-way trips between Akron and Columbus in a two week period, during the pre-turnpike era.  One year, someone thought it would be easier if the two of us flew.  On a plane.  By ourselves. 

I don’t remember a lot about that trip, other than Twink got air sick (she was famous for motion sickness) and I had to sit by myself while a stewardess attended to her.  I can’t even tell you which city was the destination.  It must have been a small plane, though, and I have a vague memory of being met on the tarmac by the appropriate grownups, which seemed magical.

10. Who was your first best friend, and are you still friends with him/her?

See #9 above.  And yes, we are still friends, but not the kind to talk on the phone or even email on a regular basis, which is odd because we are both writers.  She sends out an xmas letter each year, and when I am in New Jersey or parts nearby, I visit.  But when we do get together, it is like we have never been apart.

11. What was your first sport played?

Does street ball count?  God, I am dating myself. 

In Ohio, the school system did not offer physical education, although occasionally, if we were good and the weather decent, we got to play dodge ball or Red Rover.  Those were more torture than sport.  After we moved to Illinois, I found myself in a one-piece gym suit several times a week, but I don’t remember what we did in that third grade gym class.  Out on the playground, we played kickball.

When did I learn softball and basketball?  I have three brothers, so there was always an abundance of sporting equipment, including a basketball hoop on the garage.  In third grade, my younger brother and I would play a version of baseball that involved one player per team, so by then I understood the rules.  (I always won, which made Joey cry.)  We moved again, to a town with a summer rec program, and there I played softball in an organized manner, with an umpire and everything.  So we’ll say softball.

12. Where was your first sleepover?

If by “sleepover” you mean sleeping at a friend’s house, see #9 above.  I loved the house Twink lived in then.  It seemed huge and it had an attic accessible by a steep staircase.  When they abandoned that place in favor of a modern split level, I was greatly disappointed.

If by “sleepover” you mean a half dozen giggling girls staying up all night, I think the first one would have been in junior high, at someones house.  I can’t remember who or where or much of what, other than I truly tried to stay awake all night and got so tired I started hallucinating right before passing out around dawn.

13. Who was the first person you talked to today?

Person?  Do pets count?  I yelled at the dog, I yelled at the cat.  I did not yell at the rabbit because he is impervious to most noises, even the roar of the vacuum cleaner.  Unless someone calls me, the first person I will talk to will be my SO when he comes over for a little afternoon delight.  Or my neighbor, as I have been cat-sitting and he plans to stop by sometime today to get the house keys.

14. Whose wedding were you in the first time?

My older brother Bill.  I was surprised they asked, and I think they were surprised I accepted.  And that is the only wedding I have been in, besides me own.  Huh.

15. What was the first thing you did this morning?

Let the dog out of her crate, after unsuccessfully trying to convince her to go back to sleep.

16. What was the first concert you ever went to?

I assume we are talking pop/rock concert.  I think the answer is the Animals and Herman’s Hermits.  Together!  My friends were fans of the former, me the latter.  Or did I attend a HH concert earlier?  I think so, maybe with a friend and MY DAD.  For some reason, I thought we would have to have a chaperon to get in, so my dad, who wore a suit and tie almost everywhere except the golf course, sat through the screamfest.  What a guy!

17. What was your first tattoo or piercing?

When I was a teenager, the only way to get pierced was to either have your family doctor do it (the recommended method) or talk a stalwart friend into using a darning needle and an ice cube.  I was too embarrassed to do the former, too chicken for the latter.  Later, when jewelry stores and hair salons started piercing ears, I marched down to the local jeweler for my piercing, free with the purchase of a pair of earrings.  I was twenty-three.

Still no tattoos.  I’m waiting for a really vibrant red to be developed.

18. What was the first foreign country you went to?

Canada.  In fact, my son and I went there this summer, to Niagara Falls, which got my dad talking about the time we went there as a family.  I have next to no memory of this trip, except a vague one about a wax museum.  I was 17 and In Love, so all my mental capacity was probably consumed with thoughts of my boy friend.  But I also have a vague memory about going there when I was younger, and feeling really uncomfortable about crossing the border into a foreign land, like I was leaving my home turf.  Dad doesn’t recall this trip, though.  Oh, I also remember crossing back into the US and being asked by the customs guy where I was born.  Gee, that was so long ago… Columbus?

Okay, I’m done for now.  More later.

Meme of Firsts (Part 3)

Continued from previous posts….

4. What was your first job?

Wrangler at a summer camp.  My first introduction to this camp was when a friend asked if I wanted to attend with her.  I assumed she did not want to go without knowing someone.  Looking back, maybe they were looking out for my religious education, as this was a religion-based camp.  (Think Billy Graham.)  But it was also fun.  Located on a lake in northern Wisconsin, the camp provided the usual activities – swimming, canoeing, archery, crafts, trampoline(!), burro riding, etc.  My friend did not return, but I continued to attend.  Some activities they added included sailing, skiing, and HORSEBACK RIDING.  They had me at neigh.  At age 15, I managed to talk my way into a job taking care of the animals.  The first summer, the burros were my primary responsibility.  Besides feeding them and cleaning up after them, I also brushed them and led the campers on burro rides through the mosquito-infested woods.  The following year, I graduated to the horses and teaching the campers the parts of the horse, saddle, bridle, etc. and leading them on rides.  For a horse-crazy teen, this was the perfect job.

The hours?  Pretty much all day, everyday.  The pay?  Five dollars a week, plus room and board, the first year.  The second year, they upped my salary to $10.

5. What was your first car?

A 1965 Corvair, white with black vinyl interior.  This car had the engine in the rear, the gear shift on the dash (no parking gear, so you had to put it in neutral and apply the parking brake), bench seats so six skinny-assed teens could fit into it, no prob.  This was my mother’s car, and when she passed away, the car was my inheritance.  I loved that car.

Once the fan belt broke, and my mother had such a hard time finding a replacement that when she did, she bought two.  That spare belt came in handy one spring when I was driving home on the NY Thruway and the belt broke again.  When a mechanic showed up, I handed him the spare, he fixed the car on the spot, and we were on our way.

6. Who was the first person to text you today?

The only text messages I receive are spam or phishing expeditions.

7. Who is the first person you thought of this morning?

Probably me.

Meme of Firsts (Part 2)

Continued from previous post…

2.  Do you still talk to your first love?

No, but the other day I woke up from a nap thinking about him.  On a whim, I googled his name.  He’s still married, still a minister (dodged that bullet), still 500 miles away.  He looks more like his dad, especially with the receding hairline.

3.  What was your first alcoholic drink?

Beer.  I was about 14 or 15, and my older brother was home from college.  For some reason, he thought it was a good time for me to learn to like beer, so he poured me a cold one.  I don’t think I drank more than a few sips.  Did not like it.  That changed once I reached college.  Of course.

Meme of Firsts (Part 1)

I tried to trace this meme to the source, but failed for lack of effort.  It’s a long meme, and I will probably get tired of writing before it is done.  Hence, the “Part 1″ in the title of this post.  But here goes:

1.  Who was your first prom date?

Define prom.  There were school dances, and I always made a point of asking a boy to the girl-ask-boy ones (I’m a girl, or I was, back in the day).  But if by “prom” we mean boy-ask-girl, end-of-year, floor-length-dress prom, my date for the evening was David.

David and I met at the summer camp where we both worked the summer before.  He was a camp counsellor, I was a wrangler, which means I cared for the horses and taught bratty campers the parts of the saddle before leading them on a short ride through the woods.  David was tall and in college and drove a VW Bug.  He asked me to marry him, and I said yes even though I was still in high school.

Fast forward to the end of the school year.  We had moved to a new state, far east of the Flatlands, and David had been a security blanket of sorts.  Maybe I didn’t make many friends in my new, soon-to-be-former hometown, but at least I was pinned.  And, by God, that boy friend was going to be my date to the senior prom, even if he had to drive nearly 900 miles to get there.

My mom made my dress from dotted Swiss (yellow?  did I really wear yellow?  it makes me look jaundiced), but it did not fit right, caving in at the bust line.  My hair was not right, either, sagging in the spring humidity.  On our way to dinner, I took us in the wrong direction and we were a half-hour late for our reservations.  We sat at a table for two while large groups of my classmates reveled all around us.  I was miserable.

The dance itself?  I don’t remember much about it except that one of my classmates had written a song for the occassion.  I was so impressed by that, and stunned that I knew so little about these people I was graduating with.  Suddenly, they seemed on the brink of adulthood, while I was still floundering in the swamp of adolescence.

Not long after that, I broke up with David, which really pissed off his mom.  Never mind that he was cheating on me.  I had already applied and been accepted to his college so, since this was 1970 when the schools were stuffed with young pimply men postponing the draft, off I flew in September, back to the Midwest, thank God.  He was still there, now a senior.  He wanted to get things started again, and when I would not cooperate, resorted to trying to make me jealous with his new girl friend.  I was happy to have him out of my life.

So, what was the question?

Back Home Again in Indiana

The problem with vacation is, after a week’s absence, you feel like you have been gone a month, and after a day back home, you feel like you never left.  Vacation is all new and spontaneous (at least, this one was), while the same old rut awaits when you return.

Anticipating some downtime, I took two bags of knitting, a bag of books, two kinds of playing cards, a DVD, and my laptop.  While I did some knitting and used the computer, everything else went untouched.  I guess that means it was a successful vacation.

The first night away from home, I get terribly homesick.  This vacation was no exception.  I also experienced two sleepless nights filled with vague anxiety; I had brought my problems with me.  By the third night, however, I began to sleep better (perhaps out of sheer exhaustion).

After about five days away from home, my thoughts begin to turn to returning.  I can’t think of a time in my adult life when I took a two-week vacation.  Never went far enough, I guess.  As it is, my internal clock says “Time to go home” after about a week.

I always schedule at least one day of rest before going back to work.  Because Nate wanted to drive straight through, I have two days.  Tomorrow is my first day back in the office, and I DON’T WANT TO GO.  I am so ready for retirement.  Except financially.  *sigh*