Monday, April 7, 2008
Happy 75th
I heard today on NPR that today is the 75th anniversary of the repeal of prohibition. Drink up!
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Sometimes the Universe...
…is a fucking bitch, with a twisted sense of humor.
Author note: If you've not read the previous post, this one will make less sense. Hell, it may make no sense if you've read the previous post. Just so you know, intrepid reader, I am going to be processing my grief (or some of it) by writing here on this blog.
I am NOT a morning person. I used to have no problems getting up when I needed to do so. But these days, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. I relish weekends so I can sleep in. I would take Euckie out before going to bed to empty her bladder, so she would not need to go out at 7:00 am. She usually let me sleep until around 9:00, before putting her paws up on my bed to get me up. This morning (Sunday). I wake up at 7:30. Wide awake. I lay back down. I’m not nodding off. FUCK YOU universe! Funny joke. Ha Ha. I’m not laughing.
So, I get out of bed. I don’t walk Euckie. I don’t fill her water and food bowls. I don’t fix us our Sunday morning eggs. What I do, after I have my coffee and breakfast, is re-bag almost 40 LBS of dog food, that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago. I took it to Anti-Cruelty to donate in Euckie’s name.
The thing I hate most about grief is how it hits you at strange times, triggered by completely unrelated, innocuous events. Yesterday was in the 60’s—the first time we’ve hit those digits this year. My parents drove up for the day. That was a genuine surprise. Well, it was a surprise Friday night when Mom called and asked if I was going to be around on Saturday. If so, they were going to come up for the day. My relatives are not necessarily known for their overt displays of affection or compassion. So, this was pretty monumental. I even got nice notes from my brothers. Sometimes my family surprises me in good ways.
When they left to go back home, I walked them outside to their car. As it was our first great Spring day, I decided to take a walk—I decided to take ‘our usual Euckie walk.” I didn’t expect a stupid walk to make me tear up. I take the repackaged dog food to Anti-Cruelty. I’m driving home. I’m on LSD (Lake Shore Drive, NOT the hallucinogenic), heading north. Radio is playing-Oldies station. “To Sir With Love”, the song from the TV movie in the early 70’s with Sidney Poitier. I know it. I’m singing along. “…who taught me right from wrong, weak from strong, that’s a lot to learn…” I fucking lose it. I’m driving and sobbing. It’s not even a goddamn song about a dog. WTF is wrong with me?!? I felt so fucking stupid, and embarrassed. The only good thing is that I was alone in the car. The mind and heart of grief plays tricks on the soul of grief.
An odd coincidence that I realized is that it was this same week, 13 years ago, that Ficus (the dog, not the plant) was put to sleep. WTF is it about the beginning of Spring and my dogs? Another thing that I’m pissed at the universe with is: It’s finally Spring. You make my poor dog suffer walking on ice in 20 below Chicago winter, you can’t give her at least some days of good Spring weather to enjoy before you start mis-firing her synapses?!
I’m re-reading “Dog Years”. I’m telling you people, buy this book! But I don’t think I’ll read this one on the train for the work commute. I want to try and keep my composure at least in public settings.
Author note: If you've not read the previous post, this one will make less sense. Hell, it may make no sense if you've read the previous post. Just so you know, intrepid reader, I am going to be processing my grief (or some of it) by writing here on this blog.
I am NOT a morning person. I used to have no problems getting up when I needed to do so. But these days, I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed. I relish weekends so I can sleep in. I would take Euckie out before going to bed to empty her bladder, so she would not need to go out at 7:00 am. She usually let me sleep until around 9:00, before putting her paws up on my bed to get me up. This morning (Sunday). I wake up at 7:30. Wide awake. I lay back down. I’m not nodding off. FUCK YOU universe! Funny joke. Ha Ha. I’m not laughing.
So, I get out of bed. I don’t walk Euckie. I don’t fill her water and food bowls. I don’t fix us our Sunday morning eggs. What I do, after I have my coffee and breakfast, is re-bag almost 40 LBS of dog food, that I’d bought a couple of weeks ago. I took it to Anti-Cruelty to donate in Euckie’s name.
The thing I hate most about grief is how it hits you at strange times, triggered by completely unrelated, innocuous events. Yesterday was in the 60’s—the first time we’ve hit those digits this year. My parents drove up for the day. That was a genuine surprise. Well, it was a surprise Friday night when Mom called and asked if I was going to be around on Saturday. If so, they were going to come up for the day. My relatives are not necessarily known for their overt displays of affection or compassion. So, this was pretty monumental. I even got nice notes from my brothers. Sometimes my family surprises me in good ways.
When they left to go back home, I walked them outside to their car. As it was our first great Spring day, I decided to take a walk—I decided to take ‘our usual Euckie walk.” I didn’t expect a stupid walk to make me tear up. I take the repackaged dog food to Anti-Cruelty. I’m driving home. I’m on LSD (Lake Shore Drive, NOT the hallucinogenic), heading north. Radio is playing-Oldies station. “To Sir With Love”, the song from the TV movie in the early 70’s with Sidney Poitier. I know it. I’m singing along. “…who taught me right from wrong, weak from strong, that’s a lot to learn…” I fucking lose it. I’m driving and sobbing. It’s not even a goddamn song about a dog. WTF is wrong with me?!? I felt so fucking stupid, and embarrassed. The only good thing is that I was alone in the car. The mind and heart of grief plays tricks on the soul of grief.
An odd coincidence that I realized is that it was this same week, 13 years ago, that Ficus (the dog, not the plant) was put to sleep. WTF is it about the beginning of Spring and my dogs? Another thing that I’m pissed at the universe with is: It’s finally Spring. You make my poor dog suffer walking on ice in 20 below Chicago winter, you can’t give her at least some days of good Spring weather to enjoy before you start mis-firing her synapses?!
I’m re-reading “Dog Years”. I’m telling you people, buy this book! But I don’t think I’ll read this one on the train for the work commute. I want to try and keep my composure at least in public settings.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Euckie the WONDER(ful) Dog
This is a long post. It’s been a while since I’ve written. I hope you will bear with me and read through to the end—not for me, but for the subject of this post. The pictures here are of Euckie. She was my constant and faithful, loyal companion for almost 11 years. Yesterday, (Thursday April 3, 2008) I had Euckie put to sleep. This is her tribute.
I adopted Euckie from the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. They thought she was about a year old when I got her. She had been badly abused. One eye was smaller, and that ear was cocked differently from the other. This was a result of being hit or struck on her head from her abuser(s). My personal theory is that she was hit by or dumped from a car, as she totally wigged out if we crossed a busy, high trafficked street or road.
About 2-3 weeks ago, she had a seizure in the middle of the night. The past 3 nights in a row, she had seizures again, each one progressively worse. She seemed to be more impaired after each one. She knew something had happened, and it just freaked her out. Last night it took about 3 hours to ‘bring her down’.
When I called to make the appointment on Tuesday, I knew/felt in the pit of stomach that we were going to the vet, and I was going to come back home alone. Wednesday night, I made her eggs with cheese. Eggs for breakfast is--was a weekend treat for both of us. Instead of her usual one treat per night, she got one every time she went to the cabinet and stared up at the cookie jar with her treats. We had a great night until the last seizure that night—less than 24 hours after the previous one. I begged to the universe, “Let’s us get through Thursday without a seizure. Let this day be as good as possible for her.” This was of course before I knew what the outcome of the trip was going to be.
The vet said that the exam indicated that the seizures were neurological in nature, and that most likely were the result of a brain tumor, given her age and other symptoms. He said I could have had a CT or MRI done to confirm, and if confirmed, there was nothing that could be done.
After the procedure he told me that if she’d been his dog, he would have made the same decision, which at least helped me to feel that I’d made the correct decision, albeit a hard one—actually, the decision wasn’t hard. Following through was. My best friend G (and Euckie’s favorite human) went with me and was with us. We stayed with her, and I held her while she received the IV.
She was the most loving dog I have ever known. Although I’m biased, this is a sentiment that myriad people have said to me over the past 10 + years, time and time again. Last Thanksgiving, at Mom & Dad’s, my sister-in-law told me she’d never seen a dog so devoted to its master before. The devotion was mutual, but I’m certain she was better than I. She was the most loyal and faithful companion, and greatly loved by pretty much everyone who knew her. I think that the best testament of that is this. As I’ve come home and told two different neighbors, they broke down, crying, with me. It wasn’t just for my loss, but because they loved Euckie for the great and loving dog she was. That’s a testament to her, not to me. People consistently have told me, “she such a lucky dog to have gotten you.” That’s not correct. I’m the lucky one. We-I {the fucking strikethrough function isn't transfering on blogger-italics followed by bold indicates what should be a strikethrough replaced word} currently live in a Co op. When I was buying this place, before my offer could be accepted, I had to be interviewed and approved by the other owners of the building. (It’s one of the differences between a co op and a condo.) There had not been a dog in the building before, so we both had to be interviewed, and ‘pass the test’. After we were accepted and moved in, I was told that J my neighbor P’s son, kept asking, not when is the new man moving in, but “When’s the dog moving in?” Euckie was already in like Flynn. The jury was still out on me!
I think that she chose me as much as I chose her 11 years ago at Anti Cruelty. I had been going back every Saturday, after I moved to my first condo. It was almost two months of returning either seeing dogs that had already been adopted, or not ‘connecting’ with a dog. With Euckie, it was immediate. Here was this emaciated, anorexic, terribly frightened dog, with a crooked face and smile, who looked like a patchwork quilt. As one friend commented, “She looks like she was put together by committee!” She was an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. She was damned smart!
They had given her some name that just didn’t fit. I don’t even remember what it was, now. I used to be a florist. My dogs have been named after plants. My previous dog that I got after college (the first time) was named “Ficus”. I wanted to continue the tradition. Since my new vocation was healthcare, I wanted somehow to tie that in. Eucalyptus is a plant with healing properties. It’s native to Australia. It was a trifecta—plant, health, native origins! It was shortened to Euckie.
Here are a couple of my favorite Euckie Stories:
Not long after I got her, I took her downstate to Mom & Dad’s. She didn’t do well in the car the first few times. (I think she’d been dumped from a car.) But she came to love car rides, especially to Mom & Dad’s because she could be off the leash and run free. The first time we did that, I took her to my old high school, across the street, and she ran in the practice football field. I apparently was not keeping up with her, enough to suit her anyway. She began circling big and ‘herding’ me to get me to go where she wanted me to be.
She loved chasing squirrels. She almost caught them couple of times. Had she not been on her leash, I have not doubt that she would have. She’s the only dog I’ve ever seen who tried (and nearly succeeded) to climb a tree, while chasing a squirrel.
When Mom and Dad came up here after my first shoulder surgery, I was unable to sleep in my bed and was sleeping my recliner club chair in the living room. In the morning, I heard Mom, whispering, “Euckie, come here. Come here. It’s time for your walk.” (Euckie was always eager for her morning ‘constitutional’.) She had camped out beside my chair, and would not leave my side. It wasn’t until I told her it was ‘OK to go’, and I had to get up and take to the door, before she would go with Dad for her walk.
A few months ago I read the book, “Dog Years: A Memoir” by Mark Doty, which is a great book. I highly recommend it. At the time I didn’t realize it was preparing me for today, but in some ways as I read it, I knew that it was. Now it’s almost spooky. I have many pages ‘dog eared’—how apropos. At the end of chapter 1 he writes about his dog Beau. As this is not a critical article, nor a review, copyright infringement prohibits me from excerpting it. So GO BUY HIS BOOK, especially if you’re a dog lover! But he talks about how during his dark times, how his dog(s) gave him his will to live. I totally got that. Euckie did that for me, when my life was at its worst. I wish I could have conveyed that to her. She truly was my savior. One of the serendipitous things about reading the book when I did, is that it made me much more consciously aware that Euckie was getting older, and it caused me to spend more time with her. Instead of sitting at the computer constantly, I’d stop and play ‘tug ball’ with her when she’d bring a toy up to me. Or, I’d stop, and go sit or lie down with her on the floor and pet her. She was nearly 50 pounds, but she thought she was a lap dog. I later regretted that I got rid of that green leather club chair a couple of years ago, because that was ‘our chair’. We didn’t have a good sharing place after I gave that chair away. She made me a better human.
I had her--We had each other for almost 11 years. She outlasted a serious relationship and a few boyfriends. I will--do miss her terribly.
My quote on my home page is the perfect closing. I would just add, if there is anything I’m certain of, if there is a heaven, Euckie is one of those dogs.
Randy
I adopted Euckie from the Anti-Cruelty Society in Chicago. They thought she was about a year old when I got her. She had been badly abused. One eye was smaller, and that ear was cocked differently from the other. This was a result of being hit or struck on her head from her abuser(s). My personal theory is that she was hit by or dumped from a car, as she totally wigged out if we crossed a busy, high trafficked street or road.
About 2-3 weeks ago, she had a seizure in the middle of the night. The past 3 nights in a row, she had seizures again, each one progressively worse. She seemed to be more impaired after each one. She knew something had happened, and it just freaked her out. Last night it took about 3 hours to ‘bring her down’.
When I called to make the appointment on Tuesday, I knew/felt in the pit of stomach that we were going to the vet, and I was going to come back home alone. Wednesday night, I made her eggs with cheese. Eggs for breakfast is--was a weekend treat for both of us. Instead of her usual one treat per night, she got one every time she went to the cabinet and stared up at the cookie jar with her treats. We had a great night until the last seizure that night—less than 24 hours after the previous one. I begged to the universe, “Let’s us get through Thursday without a seizure. Let this day be as good as possible for her.” This was of course before I knew what the outcome of the trip was going to be.
The vet said that the exam indicated that the seizures were neurological in nature, and that most likely were the result of a brain tumor, given her age and other symptoms. He said I could have had a CT or MRI done to confirm, and if confirmed, there was nothing that could be done.
After the procedure he told me that if she’d been his dog, he would have made the same decision, which at least helped me to feel that I’d made the correct decision, albeit a hard one—actually, the decision wasn’t hard. Following through was. My best friend G (and Euckie’s favorite human) went with me and was with us. We stayed with her, and I held her while she received the IV.
She was the most loving dog I have ever known. Although I’m biased, this is a sentiment that myriad people have said to me over the past 10 + years, time and time again. Last Thanksgiving, at Mom & Dad’s, my sister-in-law told me she’d never seen a dog so devoted to its master before. The devotion was mutual, but I’m certain she was better than I. She was the most loyal and faithful companion, and greatly loved by pretty much everyone who knew her. I think that the best testament of that is this. As I’ve come home and told two different neighbors, they broke down, crying, with me. It wasn’t just for my loss, but because they loved Euckie for the great and loving dog she was. That’s a testament to her, not to me. People consistently have told me, “she such a lucky dog to have gotten you.” That’s not correct. I’m the lucky one. We-I {the fucking strikethrough function isn't transfering on blogger-italics followed by bold indicates what should be a strikethrough replaced word} currently live in a Co op. When I was buying this place, before my offer could be accepted, I had to be interviewed and approved by the other owners of the building. (It’s one of the differences between a co op and a condo.) There had not been a dog in the building before, so we both had to be interviewed, and ‘pass the test’. After we were accepted and moved in, I was told that J my neighbor P’s son, kept asking, not when is the new man moving in, but “When’s the dog moving in?” Euckie was already in like Flynn. The jury was still out on me!
I think that she chose me as much as I chose her 11 years ago at Anti Cruelty. I had been going back every Saturday, after I moved to my first condo. It was almost two months of returning either seeing dogs that had already been adopted, or not ‘connecting’ with a dog. With Euckie, it was immediate. Here was this emaciated, anorexic, terribly frightened dog, with a crooked face and smile, who looked like a patchwork quilt. As one friend commented, “She looks like she was put together by committee!” She was an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. She was damned smart!
They had given her some name that just didn’t fit. I don’t even remember what it was, now. I used to be a florist. My dogs have been named after plants. My previous dog that I got after college (the first time) was named “Ficus”. I wanted to continue the tradition. Since my new vocation was healthcare, I wanted somehow to tie that in. Eucalyptus is a plant with healing properties. It’s native to Australia. It was a trifecta—plant, health, native origins! It was shortened to Euckie.
Here are a couple of my favorite Euckie Stories:
Not long after I got her, I took her downstate to Mom & Dad’s. She didn’t do well in the car the first few times. (I think she’d been dumped from a car.) But she came to love car rides, especially to Mom & Dad’s because she could be off the leash and run free. The first time we did that, I took her to my old high school, across the street, and she ran in the practice football field. I apparently was not keeping up with her, enough to suit her anyway. She began circling big and ‘herding’ me to get me to go where she wanted me to be.
She loved chasing squirrels. She almost caught them couple of times. Had she not been on her leash, I have not doubt that she would have. She’s the only dog I’ve ever seen who tried (and nearly succeeded) to climb a tree, while chasing a squirrel.
When Mom and Dad came up here after my first shoulder surgery, I was unable to sleep in my bed and was sleeping my recliner club chair in the living room. In the morning, I heard Mom, whispering, “Euckie, come here. Come here. It’s time for your walk.” (Euckie was always eager for her morning ‘constitutional’.) She had camped out beside my chair, and would not leave my side. It wasn’t until I told her it was ‘OK to go’, and I had to get up and take to the door, before she would go with Dad for her walk.
A few months ago I read the book, “Dog Years: A Memoir” by Mark Doty, which is a great book. I highly recommend it. At the time I didn’t realize it was preparing me for today, but in some ways as I read it, I knew that it was. Now it’s almost spooky. I have many pages ‘dog eared’—how apropos. At the end of chapter 1 he writes about his dog Beau. As this is not a critical article, nor a review, copyright infringement prohibits me from excerpting it. So GO BUY HIS BOOK, especially if you’re a dog lover! But he talks about how during his dark times, how his dog(s) gave him his will to live. I totally got that. Euckie did that for me, when my life was at its worst. I wish I could have conveyed that to her. She truly was my savior. One of the serendipitous things about reading the book when I did, is that it made me much more consciously aware that Euckie was getting older, and it caused me to spend more time with her. Instead of sitting at the computer constantly, I’d stop and play ‘tug ball’ with her when she’d bring a toy up to me. Or, I’d stop, and go sit or lie down with her on the floor and pet her. She was nearly 50 pounds, but she thought she was a lap dog. I later regretted that I got rid of that green leather club chair a couple of years ago, because that was ‘our chair’. We didn’t have a good sharing place after I gave that chair away. She made me a better human.
I had her--We had each other for almost 11 years. She outlasted a serious relationship and a few boyfriends. I will--do miss her terribly.
My quote on my home page is the perfect closing. I would just add, if there is anything I’m certain of, if there is a heaven, Euckie is one of those dogs.
Randy
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:
http://www.niu.edu/LGBT/tragedy/RespondingToHate.shtml
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
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:
http://www.niu.edu/LGBT/tragedy/RespondingToHate.shtml
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.
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
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
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
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