Quote of the week:

“They'd have to shoot me to get me back to Illnois."

~Abraham Lincoln upon going to WDC to become president

Monday, February 25, 2008

Christianity at its Finest

This was supposed to post last Friday. I emailed it to myself, and it didn't transfer. When I got home, it was nowhere to be found. If you just understood that, I'm very frightened for you.

The Westboro Church, led by the inbred Phelps family is back at their anti-gay antics. You may have heard of their plans to picket the funerals of the shooting victims of last week’s massacre at Northern Illinois University. Now the plan to carry it further by going to the University to picket. What is the gay tie in to the shootings, you may be asking? There is none. But in their twisted brand of Christianity, this shooting is the result of God’s revenge and anger at gays and lesbians. C’mon, can’t you connect those dots?!

This group has been picketing funerals of gay men and anyone who died from AIDS related conditions for years. They came to prominence when they picketed Matthew Shepherd’s funeral with their usual megaphones, and placards “God hates Fags”, as well as a number of other ‘catchy’ phrases. Of late, they’ve expanded their funeral picketing to service men and women who have died in the line of duty serving our country. Again, using the same anti-gay rhetoric and transferring it onto the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Again, you see the connection, don’t you?!

Groups have wanted to travel to Dekalb, to combat this group’s actions. NIU has respectfully asked people to not do so here:

They suggest ways in which you can best support them against the hate mongers.

I have had first hand experience with this group. They came to Chicago to picket Broadway United Methodist Church, because the head minister was a (straight man) gay supportive minister who’s ministry involved many social justice issues. There were enough people to create a ‘barricade’ two people deep, surrounding the church property. Although I didn’t attend the actual worship service, it was one of the most meaningful ‘religious’ experiences I’ve ever been a part of. God needs some new spokespeople.

This post could be a corrolary to Sid's post of the past weekend here: http://surgeonsblog.blogspot.com/2008/02/funnyman_24.html

Monday, February 18, 2008

Too Thin Skinned?!

I have 3 different blog entries started, very disparate in theme and content. None of them are gelling well enough (in my mind) to keep on topic in a coherent thread. If you are a repeat reader, you know that keeping on topic in a coherent thread is already an issue for me. I tend to jump to non-sequitors, as though I’d never been introduced to the concept of segue. This has been bugging me for going on two weeks now, so I’m going to plow through and get it off my cyber chest.

Let me preface this with saying that I am pretty thick skinned. I can take a lot of crap, and let it roll of my back. I can joke around with the best of them. In fact, I enjoy a good sparring match of exchanging barbs, matching wits with a sharp opponent. I find it invigorating.
I have friend/acquaintance—someone who used to be a vendor of mine when I held other positions. We became friends through our business dealings. I see her anywhere from 1-3 times during the year at national meetings occasional customer calls. She and another former vendor with whom I’m friendly are hard core republicans. We’ve had many a friendly debate over beers, dinner, emails, with one of my favorite retorts to her being, “At least none of our armed service personnel ever lost their lives because Bill Clinton got a blowjob.

About a year ago, she sent an email to both of us, that really torqued my spark plugs. It had to do with bush, and specifically contained some of his anti-gay rhetoric. It hit me on a particularly bad day—I don’t remember why specifically it was bad, but it was. I sent off a return missive, essentially questioning how she could call me her friend, and vice/versa while supporting these policies in particular which were blatantly discriminatory. (I will note, that she is not married, but is considered ‘common law’, because she’s been living with the same man for many years). I iterated how she had the same rights of marriage without the piece of paper which were specifically being denied gay people. I said a lot more, but this was the primary issue.

I came back to the office last Monday, after being out sick for a week. In going through my emails, there was one forwarded from her, of “22 Ways to be a good Democrat”. I’m not going to list them all here, if someone really wants the list, I’ll email it to you. There were three that made my blood boil, and I know it wasn’t a holdover from the 103° F temperature.

6. You have to believe that gender roles are artificial, but being
homosexual is natural.
7. You have to believe that the AIDS virus is
spread by lack of funding/
19. You have to believe that homosexual parades
displaying drag, transvestites, and bestiality should be constitutionally
protected, and manger scenes at Christmas should be illegal.
It went on to
things from abortion rights, to misogynistic comments, etc.

This is the typical bullshit that is spewed out by those rightwing nuts like chris matthews, ann coulter, etc.

This was the wrong day for me to get this email. (I’m not sure there is a ‘right’ day to receive it. I was pissed, I was disgusted, I was offended . I spend too much of my time and energy combating the ignorance of strangers. I don’t have the energy to combat the ignorance of ‘friends’. I did NOT send off a missive this time. I merely replied with, “Please do NOT send me anything else of this nature.”

The other republican (guy) vendor she sent it to, sent a reply to her initial email with, “Randy!?!?!”, certain that this would hit me where it counts.
I’m struggling with this. A week has passed. My anger has not dissipated. I’m not certain that I can forget this. I fear this may have irreparably damaged the friendship. How do I remain friends with someone who takes pride in an administration and laws whose purposes are to deny me the rights that she is granted by the Constitution; who so vehemently defends the only president in our nation’s history who wants to make an amendment to said constitution with the sole intent of ensuring the denial of civil rights to gay people?

I’m looking for opinions people. What to do? Am I being too sensitive? Do I let this one roll off and go back to before? If I do, am I comprising my integrity? Where do you draw the line? © rle/wtf

Thursday, February 14, 2008

It Was Bound to Happen

It was bound to happen

The law of averages, my general luck (or absence thereof), it was merely a matter of time. Today was infusion day. Travis, my favorite hottie phlebotomist comes in to set up my IV. The famed Travis who has never had to do a second needle stab on me with my tiny, rolly, shitty veins for blood draws in the nearly 10 years I’ve been going to this medical practice, and two years of infusions (or has it been 3? Time flies when you're getting poked and prodded.). He comes in, straps the rubber band on my upper (right) arm, feels around for a good vein. (He’s the only person I’ve even known who can make searching for a vein for a needle stick into an erotic experience—but I digress.) He finds two possibilities, but is tentative. “We’re going for the one in the crook of the elbow.” He gets in, some blood surfaces in the catheter. But as he pulls the needle from the cath, nothing. He plays with it for a bit, moving and juggling, but the vein’s not cooperating. With resignation, he laments, “I’m going to have to try another vein.”
“Hey, it was bound to happen sometime. Don’t worry Travis, you’re still my favorite!” He goes to the left arm. I hate it in the left arm, as I’m a lefty. Also, when one of the other nurses took a blood draw last week, when I was in with my strep throat, she used the left arm. It still had some residual hematoma from that needle stick. But he liked that vein. So he went in. Success.

When my doc finally got in. The throat looks good. I tell him a bout passing out at home after my steam shower to sweat out the toxins. I’m mildly chastised for doing the steam shower, with instructions to not ever do a steam, with a fever, unless I totally load up on fluids before and after, and make sure someone is with me. (Even though it DID sweat out most of the toxins. I quit drenching the sheets in bed.) I’m sure sprawled out naked on my kitchen floor was not a pretty sight.

Cupid’s bow missed me (as usual). But I got poked by Travis twice for Valentine’s Day. IT could be worse. ©wtf/rle

Monday, February 11, 2008

Colonel Mustard in the Kitchen With a Floor Tile

Colonel Mustard, in the Kitchen, with a Floor Tile

WASTHTR*-2008, Vol 2

My birthday wasn’t supposed to suck this year! I know, because I specifically placed that order myself. SOMEBODY’S NOT LISTENING!! I had all these plans of documenting the festivities of my birthday here in this blog.

Instead, I spent February 6, in bed, all hot and sweaty—and NOT in a good way--alone. From a recent post, you already know about me masking up for the airplane trips. I got home. A week goes by, no ailments nor infirmities. YAY me! YAY masks that made me look like a geek. You did your job. Last Monday at work, I was exhausted--just wiped out. Enough so, that I thought to myself, “When I go home tonight, I’m going to walk the dog, nuke some dinner, and crawl in bed.” This is so much NOT my SOP. My neck was really getting stiff on my right side. I didn’t make any connections. In the middle of the night, Monday night/Tuesday morning, I awaken with my right neck lymph gland swollen up like a goiter, with the left side trying to keep up. My throat feels like there’s a gangland rumble going on with switchblades and bowie knives as the weapons of choice. It hurts to swallow. It hurts to breathe. Every action sends a stabbing pain in my throat. Additionally, my whole body aches from head to toes. I have a low grade temp (99.2 F)I wait it out until 10:00 am, to call and try to get an appointment. with Dr. K, that day. They can get me in at 1:40.
He comes in. I tell him I feel like shit, and that I think he needs to do a throat culture. He quizzes me about when my last IgG infusion was (mid January). He looks at my throat and says, “I don’t need to do a culture. You have strep.” I argue with him that I cannot accept that diagnosis, as I’m not going to be sick this year on my birthday (tomorrow). Stupid body. Stupid throat. Fucking strep! CVID, I loathe you! My three month run without antibiotics, is about to end. As par usual, I get a shot in the ass, and put on orals (Z-Pack this time). For the next three days and nights, my temperature roller coasters between 99-103 F. I keep drenching the sheets.
Now, to the part of the story you’ve been waiting for. Thursday morning, I decide to take a steam shower, to see if I sweat out the rest of the toxics myself, and break this fever for good. Fifteen minutes taking a regular shower and the steam shower. I get out, dry off, and wrap the towel around me. I don’t put on the robe yet, as I’m still damp. I go to the kitchen, deciding that I want to make a protein smoothy, as I’ve not really eaten in 2 days. I’m standing at the counter, adding blueberries, banana, and orange to the Waring Blending. All of a sudden, I realize, that I need to sit or lie down. I start wobbling toward the bedroom. The next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor of the kitchen, naked, towel behind me, feeling really, really dizzy and a bit disoriented. I pull myself up, holding the wall and furniture, until I reach the bed. I call my neighbor, and ask her to check in on my in a bit, as I almost fainted. It was then I touched my forehead and pulled back a bloody hand. Blood wasn’t running down my face in rivulets like it did on the back side in this post http://randomthawghts.blogspot.com/2007/11/professor-plum-in-dining-room-with.html

I guess I must have passed out after all. I don’t remember hitting the floor, especially hitting it with my head. I’ve got a nice goose egg that’s now turning purplish-greenish-yellow (too bad it’s not closer to Easter) and nice bloody scab, dead-center just above my right eyebrow. It doesn’t throb, but hurts even if lightly touched. If it leaves a scar, I figure it can only enhance my butch factor. “Kitchen floor, you wanna piece of me?!” Who the hell am I kidding? You got a piece of me. Just out of spite, I’m NOT washing up the blood stain. This birthday totally sucked wad.

*Weird Ass Shit That Happens To Randy

© rle/wtf