Ladies and gentlemen, we will be taxiing for a few minutes, so please remain in your seat with your seat belt securely fastened* until the aircraft has arrived at the gate.
For those of you who call Denver/Rapid City/Washington D.C. home -- on behalf of the flight crew, welcome home. For you rootless transients who move every few years and don't really call anyplace home anymore -- um, you qualify for a free upgrade to United Economy Plus.
Portable electronic devices may now be turned on.
*The line about keeping seat belts fastened is probably the third-most-ignored instruction in the history of aviation. The top two:
#2: "Please take a moment to review the card in the seat pocket in front of you, which describes the safety features of this aircraft."
#1: "Maybe a hydrogen-filled blimp isn't such a good idea."
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Packing for Tokyo 101: Pop quiz, hotshot
No. 2 pencils only. You will have three hours to complete this section.
Step 1: Gather every item of clothing you own.
Step 2: Assign each item to one of the following categories:
1) Goodwill: I don't want this anymore. Why do I even own this?
2) Take on the plane: I'll need this within 30 days of arriving.
3) First shipment: I don't need this right away, but I'll need it within three months, I think.
4) Second shipment: I'll need this at some point in the next three years.
5) Storage: I want to keep this, but I don't need it in Japan.
Categories 1 and 2 are fairly easy. (You'll have access to laundry, if that helps -- you can pack for a week and then wash everything four times.)
Category 3 is pretty much everything else you wear day-to-day, so again, not too hard.
4 and 5 are the toughies. Putting the Patrick Roy jersey in category 5 was a no-brainer, but asking yourself what clothes you need for three years is asking what your foreseeable future will be, and who knows? Will I need an evening gown? A suit? The white go-go boots that make such a great Halloween costume when paired with this mod dress? If I take the boots, do I need to take the white lipstick too?
And then there are the more existential questions: What kind of person do I want to be for the next three years? Do I want to keep dressing like a quasi-professional, or should I just live in jeans and CafePress T-shirts? Do I need 8 pairs of black slacks? (In D.C., the answer is no -- you should have at least 10 pairs.) Do these pants look exactly like ones that Stacy has, and is it creepy to take over Stacy's job AND dress just like her? (Moot point, it turns out, because the pants don't fit, but it's still a good question.)
Finished? Good. Now repeat this process for EVERYTHING YOU OWN.
Step 1: Gather every item of clothing you own.
Step 2: Assign each item to one of the following categories:
1) Goodwill: I don't want this anymore. Why do I even own this?
2) Take on the plane: I'll need this within 30 days of arriving.
3) First shipment: I don't need this right away, but I'll need it within three months, I think.
4) Second shipment: I'll need this at some point in the next three years.
5) Storage: I want to keep this, but I don't need it in Japan.
Categories 1 and 2 are fairly easy. (You'll have access to laundry, if that helps -- you can pack for a week and then wash everything four times.)
Category 3 is pretty much everything else you wear day-to-day, so again, not too hard.
4 and 5 are the toughies. Putting the Patrick Roy jersey in category 5 was a no-brainer, but asking yourself what clothes you need for three years is asking what your foreseeable future will be, and who knows? Will I need an evening gown? A suit? The white go-go boots that make such a great Halloween costume when paired with this mod dress? If I take the boots, do I need to take the white lipstick too?
And then there are the more existential questions: What kind of person do I want to be for the next three years? Do I want to keep dressing like a quasi-professional, or should I just live in jeans and CafePress T-shirts? Do I need 8 pairs of black slacks? (In D.C., the answer is no -- you should have at least 10 pairs.) Do these pants look exactly like ones that Stacy has, and is it creepy to take over Stacy's job AND dress just like her? (Moot point, it turns out, because the pants don't fit, but it's still a good question.)
Finished? Good. Now repeat this process for EVERYTHING YOU OWN.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Sayonara D.C., konichiwa Tokyo!
FAQ questions about my impending move to Tokyo ...
I heard you're moving to Japan, is that true?
Um, yes, see above.
WHY??
Because it's freakin' TOKYO, that's why. Not good enough? OK, here goes: I love Tokyo. I've always wanted to be an expat. And the perks are great. In short -- this is a dream come true.
When?
Not sure of the exact dates yet, but most likely Nov. 9 is my get-on-the-plane date.
Why so fast?
I'm filling a vacant job in Tokyo; like any job, they'd like the new person to start as soon as possible. When you look at it that way, five weeks isn't unreasonable. But it IS a short amount of time to get everything together.
So you're still working for Stars & Stripes?
Yes
But didn't you have some fancy-schmancy job in D.C.?
Yep, I was the assistant managing editor. Still am, for a few more weeks. And it made me really unhappy. I enjoy editing; I don't enjoy writing evals and making schedules and sitting in meetings. I'm not suited to management -- I dread confrontation, I have no interest in being a mentor or a coach. I just want people to do the damn work, and do it well, and not have to play mind games to coax them to do that. At first I was excited about the AME job: "my name is on the masthead!" But I've come to realize that being on the masthead means exactly one thing: I get a lot of spam.
Did you get, like, demoted or something?
On an org chart, yes -- I took a job two pay levels below mine But they key difference is -- I asked for the new job, interviewed for it, sweated it out just like any other candidate. I wasn't pushed out. I pulled the rip cord and bailed out.
Are you selling your house?
Yes. Unless Brian says no. Let's say, 90 percent yes.
Why do you all care so much about my house? You want to buy it?
Are you taking your car?
Nope -- it would be useless in Japan, because they drive on the left. I'll sell it to Carfax before I go.
You must have a lot to pack, huh?
I have NOTHING to pack.
The good news is, the Army is handling that for me. They just show up, pack up everything, and take it away to be shipped.
The bad news is, the Army is handling that for me -- so there are sure to be a few snafus.
How long will you be there?
My contract is for three years. The general opinion is that's horibly unfair, but here's how it works: the military spends a lot of money to ship me overseas;in return, I have to agree to work off the debt. This is exactly how military academies work -- we give you four years of college free, you give us four years in uniform. It's also exactly how human traffickings rings work, except I was led to believe our way involves less prostiution.
So, within the first year, if I leave I have to reimburse the cost of my move, plus move myself back to the States. Between one and three years, the move costs are forgiven, but I have to pay for the return move. After three years, I can come home on their dime, or extend my stay.
Are you living on a base?
Thank GOD no -- what's the point of moving to Tokyo and then living exactly like you do at Minot AFB? I'll be in base housing for a while, but I should be able to move onto the economy soon.
I'll have access to the base commissaries and exchanges, and I can attend festivals there, shop, hang out with people who speak English.
Aren't you scared to live in Tokyo?
A little bit. I worry about not being able to communicate, and about getting lost. But I have lots of people there to help me, so no, not freaked. Mildly freaked.
Can I come visit you?
Of course! I'd love that. But give me a while -- I'll be living in an MWR hotel until I find an apartment, so that's not condiucive to guests. And I need to figure out the city myself first before I start playing tour guide. But then -- by all means, come see me!
I'll update this list as more come up.
I heard you're moving to Japan, is that true?
Um, yes, see above.
WHY??
Because it's freakin' TOKYO, that's why. Not good enough? OK, here goes: I love Tokyo. I've always wanted to be an expat. And the perks are great. In short -- this is a dream come true.
When?
Not sure of the exact dates yet, but most likely Nov. 9 is my get-on-the-plane date.
Why so fast?
I'm filling a vacant job in Tokyo; like any job, they'd like the new person to start as soon as possible. When you look at it that way, five weeks isn't unreasonable. But it IS a short amount of time to get everything together.
So you're still working for Stars & Stripes?
Yes
But didn't you have some fancy-schmancy job in D.C.?
Yep, I was the assistant managing editor. Still am, for a few more weeks. And it made me really unhappy. I enjoy editing; I don't enjoy writing evals and making schedules and sitting in meetings. I'm not suited to management -- I dread confrontation, I have no interest in being a mentor or a coach. I just want people to do the damn work, and do it well, and not have to play mind games to coax them to do that. At first I was excited about the AME job: "my name is on the masthead!" But I've come to realize that being on the masthead means exactly one thing: I get a lot of spam.
Did you get, like, demoted or something?
On an org chart, yes -- I took a job two pay levels below mine But they key difference is -- I asked for the new job, interviewed for it, sweated it out just like any other candidate. I wasn't pushed out. I pulled the rip cord and bailed out.
Are you selling your house?
Yes. Unless Brian says no. Let's say, 90 percent yes.
Why do you all care so much about my house? You want to buy it?
Are you taking your car?
Nope -- it would be useless in Japan, because they drive on the left. I'll sell it to Carfax before I go.
You must have a lot to pack, huh?
I have NOTHING to pack.
The good news is, the Army is handling that for me. They just show up, pack up everything, and take it away to be shipped.
The bad news is, the Army is handling that for me -- so there are sure to be a few snafus.
How long will you be there?
My contract is for three years. The general opinion is that's horibly unfair, but here's how it works: the military spends a lot of money to ship me overseas;in return, I have to agree to work off the debt. This is exactly how military academies work -- we give you four years of college free, you give us four years in uniform. It's also exactly how human traffickings rings work, except I was led to believe our way involves less prostiution.
So, within the first year, if I leave I have to reimburse the cost of my move, plus move myself back to the States. Between one and three years, the move costs are forgiven, but I have to pay for the return move. After three years, I can come home on their dime, or extend my stay.
Are you living on a base?
Thank GOD no -- what's the point of moving to Tokyo and then living exactly like you do at Minot AFB? I'll be in base housing for a while, but I should be able to move onto the economy soon.
I'll have access to the base commissaries and exchanges, and I can attend festivals there, shop, hang out with people who speak English.
Aren't you scared to live in Tokyo?
A little bit. I worry about not being able to communicate, and about getting lost. But I have lots of people there to help me, so no, not freaked. Mildly freaked.
Can I come visit you?
Of course! I'd love that. But give me a while -- I'll be living in an MWR hotel until I find an apartment, so that's not condiucive to guests. And I need to figure out the city myself first before I start playing tour guide. But then -- by all means, come see me!
I'll update this list as more come up.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
I suppose I should finish this story
It's been almost two months since Syracuse and I faced down the copper room, but the following takes place between 12 p.m. and 6 a.m., two days later.
It's just after midnight; I'm in the freezing lobby of Friendship Animal Hospital. I'm flipping through People, which seems the wrong thing to be doing, when my cat is wheezing and gasping for air, but I can't just sit here doing nothing for one more minute.
For the past two days I've been waiting for the other shoe to fall; when I wake up, when I come home from work, I go looking for her, and I'm not entirely expecting her to be alive. She's not, really; she's huddled in a corner of the basement, refusing food, refusing water, urinating on herself. She slept in the bathtub Monday night; sometime Tuesday she came down to the basement. I don't know if she went all in one trip or if she went a few feet at a time, which is all she seems capable of. It breaks my heart to think of her dragging herself down two stories over the course of 10 hours.
I try everything -- baby food, KFC, Wheat Thins, Hawaiian bread -- all her favorites. She turns away with reproachful disdain. The cardiologist has told me to hide her medicines in treats, but she rejects them, so three times a day I pry open her jaw and force the pills down. She fights it a little, but she's mostly resigned -- this is just one more indignity she's suffering. I call the vet again, and again, and get the same answer: give her 72 hours, until the Lasix kicks in, and she'll be fine.
Wednesday night starts out much the same, but she suddenly becomes restless, moving every couple of minutes, and her breathing becomes labored. I call the Annapolis emergency vet and get a series of unhelpful answers: they can't say if that's bad unless they see the cat. They can't say whether I should bring her in. They don't know of a closer ER. I give up. I find an ER in Northwest. I pick Cuse up to crate her and nearly fling her into the air; she's lost at least three pounds.
At the ER I move away from the front desk to avoid a German shepherd and the next client accidentally cuts in front of me. Her cat has a sore food. In my mind I go ballistic -- she's wasting time on a SORE FOOT when Syracuse is DYING -- but I say nothing, it's not her fault. The receptionist takes one look at the increasingly pathetic Syracuse and bumps her to the top of the triage list. I am vindicated in this pointless war of mine, but there's no thrill in victory. I don't want to be at the top of the list. I want my cat to be OK. In a corner a man and a woman pace and fret; their dog has been in the OR a long time now. The other patients avoid their eyes, then give them sympathetic glances when they look away. I talk to the owner of the cat with the sore foot. I read the magazine. I feel bad for the couple with the dog.
The vet finally comes out and he looks like Keith from "Scrubs," or maybe I only think that because he's wearing navy scrubs. He's kind and calm, and wants to keep Syracuse overnight. He's given her IV Lasix and an oxygen tent, and he thinks she'll be fine. OK. I ask what fine means, if she'll go back to being a normal cat.
I am expecting him to say yes. I'm expecting that in the morning I'll take her home, the IV will have done the trick, and I'll give her heart meds for the next eight years or so. Since the crisis begins, this is what I've thought will happen. I'm calm and unemotional; this is a hurdle, and an expensive one, but it's worth it to have my cat back. I hand over my credit card without flinching (outwardly).
He says yes, she'll probably go back to being a normal cat, and he says best-case scenario, she'll live another three to six months.
A sledgehammer hits me between the eyes and the tears come hard and fast. My brain cannot absorb the idea; my tongue cannot form the word. MONTHS. Months? "Six months," Tom Cruise says in my brain, "It's nothing. It's a hockey season."
My cat will be dead in less time than it takes to award the Stanley Cup.
Keith takes me back to see her; I'm shocked to see she's in a cage. It makes sense -- where else would they put the animals? I guess I was expecting something like the preemie incubator my sister slept in for the first six weeks of her life. I slip my hand under the oyxgen tent and scratch her head; she doesn't react. I tell her I love her, and I'll be back for her in the morning.
I walk back through the icy lobby; nobody there will meet my eyes. The couple with the dog in surgery give me a sympathetic look and then turn away. I'm the one everybody pities now.
As I shoot across Rock Creek Park I think about the vet's last question to me: If she arrests, should they rescuciate her? I told him yes. But as I wind across Military Road I rethink it; how many times will we relive this night? Even if her lungs clear, her heart will fail before the end of the year. I can't put her through this again, and I can't keep her alive in pain just to prolong the inevitable and put off my grief. I think about calling, withdrawing my consent to rescucitate, but I hesitate; I don't want to make this decision at 3 a.m.
Three hours later, there is no decision to make. The woman on the phone is polite but detached; she's made this call too many times. Syracuse isn't breathing, her heart isn't beating. The vet asks if they should intubate; I picture the intubations I've seen on ER and say no. She says Syracuse didn't suffer; I wonder wildly if they would say that even if she did. The woman is eager to get past the emotional part and on to the logistics: do I want to see the body (no), do I want her cremated (yes), do I want the cremains (no). She says, in what I'm sure she thinks is a reassuring way, that I don't need to come in, they'll send me a bill. I'll be thrilled to receive an invoice for shoveling my pet into a furnace, I'm sure.
Farewell, little Syracuse. You brought me a lot of joy and I hope I gave you a good life.
It's just after midnight; I'm in the freezing lobby of Friendship Animal Hospital. I'm flipping through People, which seems the wrong thing to be doing, when my cat is wheezing and gasping for air, but I can't just sit here doing nothing for one more minute.
For the past two days I've been waiting for the other shoe to fall; when I wake up, when I come home from work, I go looking for her, and I'm not entirely expecting her to be alive. She's not, really; she's huddled in a corner of the basement, refusing food, refusing water, urinating on herself. She slept in the bathtub Monday night; sometime Tuesday she came down to the basement. I don't know if she went all in one trip or if she went a few feet at a time, which is all she seems capable of. It breaks my heart to think of her dragging herself down two stories over the course of 10 hours.
I try everything -- baby food, KFC, Wheat Thins, Hawaiian bread -- all her favorites. She turns away with reproachful disdain. The cardiologist has told me to hide her medicines in treats, but she rejects them, so three times a day I pry open her jaw and force the pills down. She fights it a little, but she's mostly resigned -- this is just one more indignity she's suffering. I call the vet again, and again, and get the same answer: give her 72 hours, until the Lasix kicks in, and she'll be fine.
Wednesday night starts out much the same, but she suddenly becomes restless, moving every couple of minutes, and her breathing becomes labored. I call the Annapolis emergency vet and get a series of unhelpful answers: they can't say if that's bad unless they see the cat. They can't say whether I should bring her in. They don't know of a closer ER. I give up. I find an ER in Northwest. I pick Cuse up to crate her and nearly fling her into the air; she's lost at least three pounds.
At the ER I move away from the front desk to avoid a German shepherd and the next client accidentally cuts in front of me. Her cat has a sore food. In my mind I go ballistic -- she's wasting time on a SORE FOOT when Syracuse is DYING -- but I say nothing, it's not her fault. The receptionist takes one look at the increasingly pathetic Syracuse and bumps her to the top of the triage list. I am vindicated in this pointless war of mine, but there's no thrill in victory. I don't want to be at the top of the list. I want my cat to be OK. In a corner a man and a woman pace and fret; their dog has been in the OR a long time now. The other patients avoid their eyes, then give them sympathetic glances when they look away. I talk to the owner of the cat with the sore foot. I read the magazine. I feel bad for the couple with the dog.
The vet finally comes out and he looks like Keith from "Scrubs," or maybe I only think that because he's wearing navy scrubs. He's kind and calm, and wants to keep Syracuse overnight. He's given her IV Lasix and an oxygen tent, and he thinks she'll be fine. OK. I ask what fine means, if she'll go back to being a normal cat.
I am expecting him to say yes. I'm expecting that in the morning I'll take her home, the IV will have done the trick, and I'll give her heart meds for the next eight years or so. Since the crisis begins, this is what I've thought will happen. I'm calm and unemotional; this is a hurdle, and an expensive one, but it's worth it to have my cat back. I hand over my credit card without flinching (outwardly).
He says yes, she'll probably go back to being a normal cat, and he says best-case scenario, she'll live another three to six months.
A sledgehammer hits me between the eyes and the tears come hard and fast. My brain cannot absorb the idea; my tongue cannot form the word. MONTHS. Months? "Six months," Tom Cruise says in my brain, "It's nothing. It's a hockey season."
My cat will be dead in less time than it takes to award the Stanley Cup.
Keith takes me back to see her; I'm shocked to see she's in a cage. It makes sense -- where else would they put the animals? I guess I was expecting something like the preemie incubator my sister slept in for the first six weeks of her life. I slip my hand under the oyxgen tent and scratch her head; she doesn't react. I tell her I love her, and I'll be back for her in the morning.
I walk back through the icy lobby; nobody there will meet my eyes. The couple with the dog in surgery give me a sympathetic look and then turn away. I'm the one everybody pities now.
As I shoot across Rock Creek Park I think about the vet's last question to me: If she arrests, should they rescuciate her? I told him yes. But as I wind across Military Road I rethink it; how many times will we relive this night? Even if her lungs clear, her heart will fail before the end of the year. I can't put her through this again, and I can't keep her alive in pain just to prolong the inevitable and put off my grief. I think about calling, withdrawing my consent to rescucitate, but I hesitate; I don't want to make this decision at 3 a.m.
Three hours later, there is no decision to make. The woman on the phone is polite but detached; she's made this call too many times. Syracuse isn't breathing, her heart isn't beating. The vet asks if they should intubate; I picture the intubations I've seen on ER and say no. She says Syracuse didn't suffer; I wonder wildly if they would say that even if she did. The woman is eager to get past the emotional part and on to the logistics: do I want to see the body (no), do I want her cremated (yes), do I want the cremains (no). She says, in what I'm sure she thinks is a reassuring way, that I don't need to come in, they'll send me a bill. I'll be thrilled to receive an invoice for shoveling my pet into a furnace, I'm sure.
Farewell, little Syracuse. You brought me a lot of joy and I hope I gave you a good life.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
The copper room
2 p.m. Monday: I am bored. And frantic. And bored. To distract myself, I look across into the other room. The walls are painted peach, with a darker accent wall. I imagine the paint color is called dried apricot, or maybe copper pot. The large copper lamp, obviously expensive, casts a warm glow. The sofa is black, leather, maybe even Italian leather. It's a nice room, far nicer than any other room in this building.
I will give anything not to go into that room.
I am standing in the room across the hall, a utilitarian room with white walls, a paper towel dispenser and two phone jacks. I am leaning on the surgical steel table. My right arm is resting atop 11 pounds of cat, my fingers urgently scratching her head.
She is purring. She is panting. She is suffocating.
The copper room is too nice. Too soothing. This is the room where you wait and hope, and hope in vain. This is where the word "humane" becomes a horrible, hostile word. This is where you play God. This is where you choke on a sob as you nod. This is where you decide if you want to say your goodbyes and then leave before the end comes, or if you want to see this life all the way through.
I don't know the answer. I stayed with Zach until the end. I changed my mind just as the poison slid into his vein. I realized it was too late. I realized that believing in death with dignity is one thing; carrying out that belief is quite another. A second later his long and complicated life was over and I gasped and sobbed "I'm so sorry" as the finality of my decision sank in. He purred til the end. That was the worst part -- that cat loved and trusted me even though I'd only had him for a month.
I've had Syracuse for seven years. Since she was eight weeks old. And I cannot kill her today.
Two days ago she was fine. Now she is lying motionless in the base of her carrier, purring not in happiness but in distress. She is soaked with urine. I cleaned her up as best I could with paper towels, but they didn't help much. Other than her hindquarters, she is an ideal patient today. And it's breaking my heart, because she can't even summon the energy to hiss.
One week ago I finally crossed "Syracuse vet" off my to-do list. Distemper shot? Check. Claws clipped? Check (long overdue) Anything else? Well, she's been pulling out clumps of fur lately. The vet was reassuring; it's probably allergies. The weather -- downpours followed by long dry spells -- has bred pollen galore. The vet said he's seeing worse allergies than usual this spring and based on my Zyrtec use this year, I agreed. He said he could give her oral prednisone or pills. I thought back on the time I discovered her pill stash -- a week's worth of antibiotics that she hid under her tongue, pretended to swallow and then spit out behind the dryer -- and I chose shot.
It was such an innocuous conversation. Neither of us had any idea that in the next few seconds we would trigger a ticking time bomb.
The prenisone stopped the fur-pulling.
It also triggered heart failure.
5 p.m.: I have been sent to the Annapolis Mall (excuse me, the Westfield Shoppingtowne at Annapolis, which just rolls off the tongue) to "get a cup of coffee" while the cardiologist does an ultrasound. I have been here for two hours. This is what I have learned today: men's polos are 1/2 off at The Gap. Red Robin's burgers are mediocre. There are people in this world whose profession is "cat cardiologist." None of these people work in D.C.
I am sitting in the food court, flipping through Glamour and pointedly wiping the ice cream off my arm. I am directing angry thoughts at the parents of the child pounding his spoon onto his ice cream four feet from me. They are ignoring me, or perhaps they are not telepathic. I have turned the volume on my ringer all the way up and all four of us jump when it rings.
The medical term is hypertrophic cardiomyopathy -- the left ventricle of her heart is twice the size it should be. The defect has been lurking there for years, waiting for the perfect stressor to kill my cat.
The prednisone was just the excuse it needed. Her heart stopped pumping fluid properly, so the fluid filled her lungs and chest cavity. She is struggling to breathe.
The doctor is wonderful (side note: every vet I've worked with has been a far more thorough, caring and compassionate doctor than any doctor I, as a human, have had. I can't help but wonder if this is because pets don't have HMOs). He assures me that no one could have known about the defect without a chest X-ray, that I am not to blame for pushing for the prednisone. (And, he emphasizes, neither is my vet.) He compares it to high school football players who drop dead doing wind sprints because nobody tests a 17-year-old for heart disease. He says that in a roundabout way the prednisone fiasco is a good thing, because we caught it early. Otherwise she might have just dropped dead a few months from now. He says she's responding well to treatment and she doesn't need to be admitted.
He wants to recheck her in four months. That means he thinks she'll be around in four months.
Monday, 9 p.m.: She's not out of the woods yet. She's still not eating, and she's lethargic. The doctor says the first 72 hours will be the worst. She's on four medications; she'll be on some of them for the rest of her life. One drug is taking care of the fluid in the lungs, but the heart defect cannot be repaired. I am now the owner of a chronically ill animal.
But we dodged the copper room. And I will take a defective cat over a euthanized one any day.
I will give anything not to go into that room.
I am standing in the room across the hall, a utilitarian room with white walls, a paper towel dispenser and two phone jacks. I am leaning on the surgical steel table. My right arm is resting atop 11 pounds of cat, my fingers urgently scratching her head.
She is purring. She is panting. She is suffocating.
The copper room is too nice. Too soothing. This is the room where you wait and hope, and hope in vain. This is where the word "humane" becomes a horrible, hostile word. This is where you play God. This is where you choke on a sob as you nod. This is where you decide if you want to say your goodbyes and then leave before the end comes, or if you want to see this life all the way through.
I don't know the answer. I stayed with Zach until the end. I changed my mind just as the poison slid into his vein. I realized it was too late. I realized that believing in death with dignity is one thing; carrying out that belief is quite another. A second later his long and complicated life was over and I gasped and sobbed "I'm so sorry" as the finality of my decision sank in. He purred til the end. That was the worst part -- that cat loved and trusted me even though I'd only had him for a month.
I've had Syracuse for seven years. Since she was eight weeks old. And I cannot kill her today.
Two days ago she was fine. Now she is lying motionless in the base of her carrier, purring not in happiness but in distress. She is soaked with urine. I cleaned her up as best I could with paper towels, but they didn't help much. Other than her hindquarters, she is an ideal patient today. And it's breaking my heart, because she can't even summon the energy to hiss.
One week ago I finally crossed "Syracuse vet" off my to-do list. Distemper shot? Check. Claws clipped? Check (long overdue) Anything else? Well, she's been pulling out clumps of fur lately. The vet was reassuring; it's probably allergies. The weather -- downpours followed by long dry spells -- has bred pollen galore. The vet said he's seeing worse allergies than usual this spring and based on my Zyrtec use this year, I agreed. He said he could give her oral prednisone or pills. I thought back on the time I discovered her pill stash -- a week's worth of antibiotics that she hid under her tongue, pretended to swallow and then spit out behind the dryer -- and I chose shot.
It was such an innocuous conversation. Neither of us had any idea that in the next few seconds we would trigger a ticking time bomb.
The prenisone stopped the fur-pulling.
It also triggered heart failure.
5 p.m.: I have been sent to the Annapolis Mall (excuse me, the Westfield Shoppingtowne at Annapolis, which just rolls off the tongue) to "get a cup of coffee" while the cardiologist does an ultrasound. I have been here for two hours. This is what I have learned today: men's polos are 1/2 off at The Gap. Red Robin's burgers are mediocre. There are people in this world whose profession is "cat cardiologist." None of these people work in D.C.
I am sitting in the food court, flipping through Glamour and pointedly wiping the ice cream off my arm. I am directing angry thoughts at the parents of the child pounding his spoon onto his ice cream four feet from me. They are ignoring me, or perhaps they are not telepathic. I have turned the volume on my ringer all the way up and all four of us jump when it rings.
The medical term is hypertrophic cardiomyopathy -- the left ventricle of her heart is twice the size it should be. The defect has been lurking there for years, waiting for the perfect stressor to kill my cat.
The prednisone was just the excuse it needed. Her heart stopped pumping fluid properly, so the fluid filled her lungs and chest cavity. She is struggling to breathe.
The doctor is wonderful (side note: every vet I've worked with has been a far more thorough, caring and compassionate doctor than any doctor I, as a human, have had. I can't help but wonder if this is because pets don't have HMOs). He assures me that no one could have known about the defect without a chest X-ray, that I am not to blame for pushing for the prednisone. (And, he emphasizes, neither is my vet.) He compares it to high school football players who drop dead doing wind sprints because nobody tests a 17-year-old for heart disease. He says that in a roundabout way the prednisone fiasco is a good thing, because we caught it early. Otherwise she might have just dropped dead a few months from now. He says she's responding well to treatment and she doesn't need to be admitted.
He wants to recheck her in four months. That means he thinks she'll be around in four months.
Monday, 9 p.m.: She's not out of the woods yet. She's still not eating, and she's lethargic. The doctor says the first 72 hours will be the worst. She's on four medications; she'll be on some of them for the rest of her life. One drug is taking care of the fluid in the lungs, but the heart defect cannot be repaired. I am now the owner of a chronically ill animal.
But we dodged the copper room. And I will take a defective cat over a euthanized one any day.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Gong Xi Fa Cai!
(That's Chinese for Happy New Year.)
I'm on the road again, this time in Singapore, to visit my friend Priscilla and her boyfriend, Keith, and to see more of Chinese New Year than the paper lanterns in D.C.'s meager Chinatown.
Yesterday was a fantastic day. We rode the MRT, Singapore's super-efficient subway, to Chinatown, where we met up with my friend Wes. By bizarre coincidence, Wes and his family, who live in Denver, are in Singapore right now too.
This is no two-block stretch hosting Benetton and Fuddrucker's. No, Singapore does Chinatown right, and yesterday -- NY Eve -- was its heyday. The streets were lined with vendors selling traditional CNY foods, decorations, silk cushion covers and bags, candy in bizarre flavors (cuttlefish, anyone?) and pigs made of every conceivable material, especially jade. (It's the Year of the Golden Pig, which only happens every few decades. The golden year means extra prosperity.) Thousands of Singaporeans thronged the area to do last-minute shopping, and the mood was festive and excited. We sampled Singapore's national dish -- steamed chicken and rice -- at a corner cafe and spent a few h0urs checking out the stalls and buying decorations meant to bring luck. And at lunch, I pondered the surreal concept of having lunch with one friend from Denver and one from D.C. -- and doing it on the other side of the world.
Then we headed for Clarke Quay, a former boat area along the river that's recently been revitalized into hipster central. It's gorgeous. Candy-colored restaurants and bars line the river, and the lucky riverside eateries have booths lining the riverbank and covered with huge domes to shield diners from the sudden showers that spring up. River taxis cruise up and down. A little further back, the inland restaurants -- protected from the rain by sky-high mushroom-like pods that light up at night -- provide chic and comfy outdoor seating and compete to out-hip each other. The hands-down winner in that category is Clinic, a restaurant with a hospital theme: the wall behind the host stand has lockers like a morgue, the outdoor chairs are made from hospital beds and diners eat in golden wheelchairs. We skipped that. Instead, we drank the evening away at Wine Garage, talking and people-watching, then had dinner at the Pump Room.
Just before midnight, we made our way back to Keith and Priscilla's eighth-story (or storey, as they spell it here) apartment, and watched the fireworks out the window.
On tap for today: the zoo, where I'm looking forward to seeing a lion dance.
Happy Lunar New Year!
I'm on the road again, this time in Singapore, to visit my friend Priscilla and her boyfriend, Keith, and to see more of Chinese New Year than the paper lanterns in D.C.'s meager Chinatown.
Yesterday was a fantastic day. We rode the MRT, Singapore's super-efficient subway, to Chinatown, where we met up with my friend Wes. By bizarre coincidence, Wes and his family, who live in Denver, are in Singapore right now too.
This is no two-block stretch hosting Benetton and Fuddrucker's. No, Singapore does Chinatown right, and yesterday -- NY Eve -- was its heyday. The streets were lined with vendors selling traditional CNY foods, decorations, silk cushion covers and bags, candy in bizarre flavors (cuttlefish, anyone?) and pigs made of every conceivable material, especially jade. (It's the Year of the Golden Pig, which only happens every few decades. The golden year means extra prosperity.) Thousands of Singaporeans thronged the area to do last-minute shopping, and the mood was festive and excited. We sampled Singapore's national dish -- steamed chicken and rice -- at a corner cafe and spent a few h0urs checking out the stalls and buying decorations meant to bring luck. And at lunch, I pondered the surreal concept of having lunch with one friend from Denver and one from D.C. -- and doing it on the other side of the world.
Then we headed for Clarke Quay, a former boat area along the river that's recently been revitalized into hipster central. It's gorgeous. Candy-colored restaurants and bars line the river, and the lucky riverside eateries have booths lining the riverbank and covered with huge domes to shield diners from the sudden showers that spring up. River taxis cruise up and down. A little further back, the inland restaurants -- protected from the rain by sky-high mushroom-like pods that light up at night -- provide chic and comfy outdoor seating and compete to out-hip each other. The hands-down winner in that category is Clinic, a restaurant with a hospital theme: the wall behind the host stand has lockers like a morgue, the outdoor chairs are made from hospital beds and diners eat in golden wheelchairs. We skipped that. Instead, we drank the evening away at Wine Garage, talking and people-watching, then had dinner at the Pump Room.
Just before midnight, we made our way back to Keith and Priscilla's eighth-story (or storey, as they spell it here) apartment, and watched the fireworks out the window.
On tap for today: the zoo, where I'm looking forward to seeing a lion dance.
Happy Lunar New Year!
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Join the club
Today I'm welcoming two new blogs to my link list: Red Panda Zone, written by my friend Sadie, and Beat Incomplete, in which Tim attempts to blog about the song "Like A Virgin" EVERY SINGLE DAY. So far, so good. Check 'em out!
you can call me braceface
Rarely do I follow (because, rarely can I afford to follow) advice from the fashion mags, but I will take as gospel their rule on retro trends: if you wore it the first time, you're too old to wear it now. The downside of this rule is that I'm not crazy about being labeled "too old" for anything. Well, OK, I don't mind being too old to have my birthday party at McDonald's, and occasionally it can be a good excuse to get out of an unpleasant-sounding evening ("I'm too old to go to a GWAR show, but thanks for asking"), but I'm irked every time I see an ad for Gardasil and realize, I'm too old to be vaccinated against cervical cancer. Or read the subtitle on my friend Mary Ellen's column: "Career advice for twentysomethings." (God bless the person at the Post who took "advice for the under-30 crowd" off Carolyn Hax's column.)
The upside of that rule, of course, is that I have a perfectly valid reason not to fall victim to the hideous leggings virus that has infected America. (I've also spotted legwarmers on mannequins, but not on actual people. There seems to be an unspoken but ironclad stand being taken by the American public against allowing calf-enlarging tubes in cloying patterns to be forced upon us again.)
But I am making one exception, and sporting something I wore in the late '80s: braces.
A lot of things consipred to undo the painful orthodontia I was subjected to 20 years ago: my orthodontist's refusal to give me retainers because I was moving away; the sudden and inconvenient appearance of the wisdom teeth that he said would never be a problem; a bad genetic combination of wide teeth and a narrow jaw; age and time and loss of bone density and myriad other problems best described by people with DDS affixed to their names. And over the past two decades I slowly went from having straight teeth to not-so-straight teeth to an overbite and some crowding to teeth overlapping each other at weird angles to crossbites in two spots and constant headaches from TMJ caused by chewing on the right all the time.
A lot's changed since my first attempt at perfect teeth. Impressions now take about 30 seconds to set, down from 20 minutes. (I'm guessing that change was demanded by hygienists who were tired of being puked on [guilty].) The dental community woke up to the fact that wraparound bands, in addition to requiring four hours of sheer torture to apply, rotted peoples' teeth -- apparently not being able to brush anything but the tips for half a decade will do that. And some brilliant, blessed genius got the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was a less painful and obvious way to move teeth. A way that involved clear plastic trays, instead of bands and brackets and wires and rubber bands that shoot across the room when you try to talk to a cute guy.
So no, I don't have old-school braces. I have Invisalign. If you've ever had retainers, or used a night tooth-whitening system, you pretty much know how the trays (they're called aligners) look -- clear, hard plastic custom-molded to fit precisely onto my teeth. The magic is that they don't fit precisely -- they're a few millimeters off, so my teeth get pushed to fit into them. And every two weeks, after my teeth have moved enought to precisely fit into the aligner, I switch to a new one that pushes them a bit more.
I wear them all the time, except to eat. After six days, I've noticed a tiny bit of movement in my bottom teeth, along with a few unexpected benefits:
* Oral hygiene. I'm a sporadic flosser at best, and I've definitely been guilty of falling into bed exhausted without brushing my teeth. But now that popping my aligners onto unclean teeth means trapping the plaque and sugar and god knows what else on them for hours, I've become obsessive about brushing, flossing, mouthwash. And since I'm already doing all that every night, I might as well take off my makeup, too, and do a skin-care routine ...
* Weight loss. Of course I can snack. I just have to go to the bathroom, take out the aligners, clean them, eat the snack, go back to the bathroom, brush and floss, and put the aligners back in.
Needless to say, I haven't eaten between meals all week.
* Bad habits broken. For years I've tried to break my habit of picking and biting my cuticles, and worse, my lips. Nothing has worked -- until I snapped plastic trays over my teeth. I can't bite -- the trays get in the way. In six days, I'm about 90 percent cured of the habit. Invisalign: more effective than hypnosis!
In other news, today I've learned: Christmas trees were meant to be placed in their stand by two people. With an infinite amount of patience. Or one person with nine hands. Cats do not contribute anything to the process, except a pathetic meow when the tree topples onto them.
The upside of that rule, of course, is that I have a perfectly valid reason not to fall victim to the hideous leggings virus that has infected America. (I've also spotted legwarmers on mannequins, but not on actual people. There seems to be an unspoken but ironclad stand being taken by the American public against allowing calf-enlarging tubes in cloying patterns to be forced upon us again.)
But I am making one exception, and sporting something I wore in the late '80s: braces.
A lot of things consipred to undo the painful orthodontia I was subjected to 20 years ago: my orthodontist's refusal to give me retainers because I was moving away; the sudden and inconvenient appearance of the wisdom teeth that he said would never be a problem; a bad genetic combination of wide teeth and a narrow jaw; age and time and loss of bone density and myriad other problems best described by people with DDS affixed to their names. And over the past two decades I slowly went from having straight teeth to not-so-straight teeth to an overbite and some crowding to teeth overlapping each other at weird angles to crossbites in two spots and constant headaches from TMJ caused by chewing on the right all the time.
A lot's changed since my first attempt at perfect teeth. Impressions now take about 30 seconds to set, down from 20 minutes. (I'm guessing that change was demanded by hygienists who were tired of being puked on [guilty].) The dental community woke up to the fact that wraparound bands, in addition to requiring four hours of sheer torture to apply, rotted peoples' teeth -- apparently not being able to brush anything but the tips for half a decade will do that. And some brilliant, blessed genius got the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was a less painful and obvious way to move teeth. A way that involved clear plastic trays, instead of bands and brackets and wires and rubber bands that shoot across the room when you try to talk to a cute guy.
So no, I don't have old-school braces. I have Invisalign. If you've ever had retainers, or used a night tooth-whitening system, you pretty much know how the trays (they're called aligners) look -- clear, hard plastic custom-molded to fit precisely onto my teeth. The magic is that they don't fit precisely -- they're a few millimeters off, so my teeth get pushed to fit into them. And every two weeks, after my teeth have moved enought to precisely fit into the aligner, I switch to a new one that pushes them a bit more.
I wear them all the time, except to eat. After six days, I've noticed a tiny bit of movement in my bottom teeth, along with a few unexpected benefits:
* Oral hygiene. I'm a sporadic flosser at best, and I've definitely been guilty of falling into bed exhausted without brushing my teeth. But now that popping my aligners onto unclean teeth means trapping the plaque and sugar and god knows what else on them for hours, I've become obsessive about brushing, flossing, mouthwash. And since I'm already doing all that every night, I might as well take off my makeup, too, and do a skin-care routine ...
* Weight loss. Of course I can snack. I just have to go to the bathroom, take out the aligners, clean them, eat the snack, go back to the bathroom, brush and floss, and put the aligners back in.
Needless to say, I haven't eaten between meals all week.
* Bad habits broken. For years I've tried to break my habit of picking and biting my cuticles, and worse, my lips. Nothing has worked -- until I snapped plastic trays over my teeth. I can't bite -- the trays get in the way. In six days, I'm about 90 percent cured of the habit. Invisalign: more effective than hypnosis!
In other news, today I've learned: Christmas trees were meant to be placed in their stand by two people. With an infinite amount of patience. Or one person with nine hands. Cats do not contribute anything to the process, except a pathetic meow when the tree topples onto them.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Next I'll trash a Motel 6
Saturday night, 7:30 p.m.: I mention to Cory that I'm heading to New York in the morning. She says, "You're really living the rock-star lifestyle lately."
Fast-forward 12 hours: I'm perched on a plastic chair at the Greyhound terminal that is called Union Station, but is not really in Union Station, it's about two blocks away, and they are the longest blocks in the world when the weather is bad, which it always is when I go to New York. Bloomberg should ban me from crossing any bridge onto Manhattan. I'm soaked from head to toe from the walk in the rain. I'm eating breakfast from the restaurant in the terminal, which used to be a Hardee's but at some point became a generic Greyhound cafeteria that sells a variety of food that sounds better than it actually is, and an astonishing lineup of packaged junk food. My breakfast consists of:
1) Greasy bacon and a just-barely-edible egg on a stale, greasy biscuit.
2) Lukewarm tea, from a Styrofoam cup. The cashier accidentally gave my tea to another customer, who brought it back, and the cashier threw it in the trash, and I said the tea was supposed to be mine, and she pondered the situation for a few seconds and said, "You know what? I'm going to make you a new one." That totally should be their slogan. Greyhound Food Service: We Don't Give You Food We Fished Out Of The Trash.
So I'm eating my hey-it's-food biscuit and drinking my not-from-the-garbage tea and hoping my jeans dry very soon and I remember Cory's comment, and I laugh and laugh. Out loud.
Which, in a Greyhound terminal, looks not out of place in the slightest.
Fast-forward 12 hours: I'm perched on a plastic chair at the Greyhound terminal that is called Union Station, but is not really in Union Station, it's about two blocks away, and they are the longest blocks in the world when the weather is bad, which it always is when I go to New York. Bloomberg should ban me from crossing any bridge onto Manhattan. I'm soaked from head to toe from the walk in the rain. I'm eating breakfast from the restaurant in the terminal, which used to be a Hardee's but at some point became a generic Greyhound cafeteria that sells a variety of food that sounds better than it actually is, and an astonishing lineup of packaged junk food. My breakfast consists of:
1) Greasy bacon and a just-barely-edible egg on a stale, greasy biscuit.
2) Lukewarm tea, from a Styrofoam cup. The cashier accidentally gave my tea to another customer, who brought it back, and the cashier threw it in the trash, and I said the tea was supposed to be mine, and she pondered the situation for a few seconds and said, "You know what? I'm going to make you a new one." That totally should be their slogan. Greyhound Food Service: We Don't Give You Food We Fished Out Of The Trash.
So I'm eating my hey-it's-food biscuit and drinking my not-from-the-garbage tea and hoping my jeans dry very soon and I remember Cory's comment, and I laugh and laugh. Out loud.
Which, in a Greyhound terminal, looks not out of place in the slightest.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Requiem for my curls
Of all the odd things that have ever happened to me -- and there've been quite a few -- one of the strangest happened in the aftermath of an ill-advised super-short haircut. I hated it instantly, and avoided mirrors until it started growing back.
At long last it was long enough to risk a trim, and not having learned my lesson about hasty hair decisions, I went to a mall salon whose only virtue was being close to the place I was housesitting. The stylist chatted away about the great lunch she'd just had, which included two margaritas.
So when she said "You have naturally curly hair!" I thought it was just the tequila talking.
Cause I wouldn't have spent a big chunk of the '80s with spiral-perm tubes piled on my head like Medusa's snakes if I had natural curls.
But a few weeks later, I couldn't deny it: she may have been drunk, and unable to cut straight, but she was right about the curls -- and all this happened just as every third woman in the country started wearing The Rachel.
So for a decade now, I've been plagued by curls that really aren't. There's a handful of ringlets, in odd spots, but most of my tresses are just ill-defined kinks and frizz. And that was BEFORE I moved from bone-dry Colorado to humidity-drenched D.C., where I found myself with two equally unfashionable options: spend an hour flat-ironing my hair every day, only to have my efforts mostly undone as soon as I stepped outside, or look like Roseanne Roseannadanna.
I'm sure you can guess which one I chose.
And then: light at the end of the tunnel. I met my friend Rachel for dinner during a downpour. I showed up looking like a Fraggle. Rachel showed up with sleek, shiny, perfectly straight hair -- exactly the way mine looked every day. For five seconds.
Her secret? Japanese straightening.
I've had my hair straightened before, and it never really took. If possible, it looked worse. But this is different -- special chemicals, not just perm solution, and at the step in a perm where the stylist puts in rollers, in Japanese straightening, the stylist straightens the hair with a tiny ceramic iron, in tiny sections, rather than just combing the solution through.
As you might guess, this is not cheap. Was it worth it to be rid of my curls? Oh yeah, you betcha.
Four hours and a few hundred dollars later, I'm back to being a straight-haired girl. It's been a week now, and I can't say enough how much I love my hair. It's super-soft, and shiny, and looks like I spent hours in a stylist's chair on a movie set, when really all I did was wash and comb it. I've spent maybe five minutes styling it all week. And it lasts until the hair grows back in, so I'm in the clear for a year.
Whoever invented this: arigato!
At long last it was long enough to risk a trim, and not having learned my lesson about hasty hair decisions, I went to a mall salon whose only virtue was being close to the place I was housesitting. The stylist chatted away about the great lunch she'd just had, which included two margaritas.
So when she said "You have naturally curly hair!" I thought it was just the tequila talking.
Cause I wouldn't have spent a big chunk of the '80s with spiral-perm tubes piled on my head like Medusa's snakes if I had natural curls.
But a few weeks later, I couldn't deny it: she may have been drunk, and unable to cut straight, but she was right about the curls -- and all this happened just as every third woman in the country started wearing The Rachel.
So for a decade now, I've been plagued by curls that really aren't. There's a handful of ringlets, in odd spots, but most of my tresses are just ill-defined kinks and frizz. And that was BEFORE I moved from bone-dry Colorado to humidity-drenched D.C., where I found myself with two equally unfashionable options: spend an hour flat-ironing my hair every day, only to have my efforts mostly undone as soon as I stepped outside, or look like Roseanne Roseannadanna.
I'm sure you can guess which one I chose.
And then: light at the end of the tunnel. I met my friend Rachel for dinner during a downpour. I showed up looking like a Fraggle. Rachel showed up with sleek, shiny, perfectly straight hair -- exactly the way mine looked every day. For five seconds.
Her secret? Japanese straightening.
I've had my hair straightened before, and it never really took. If possible, it looked worse. But this is different -- special chemicals, not just perm solution, and at the step in a perm where the stylist puts in rollers, in Japanese straightening, the stylist straightens the hair with a tiny ceramic iron, in tiny sections, rather than just combing the solution through.
As you might guess, this is not cheap. Was it worth it to be rid of my curls? Oh yeah, you betcha.
Four hours and a few hundred dollars later, I'm back to being a straight-haired girl. It's been a week now, and I can't say enough how much I love my hair. It's super-soft, and shiny, and looks like I spent hours in a stylist's chair on a movie set, when really all I did was wash and comb it. I've spent maybe five minutes styling it all week. And it lasts until the hair grows back in, so I'm in the clear for a year.
Whoever invented this: arigato!
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Uneasy lies the head that wears the plastic crown
Like straight-leg jeans and red wine, Halloween is something I usually like more in the abstract. I love the IDEA of dressing up in a clever yet sexy costume and going to parties with spiked cider and good candy (no hard, bland peanut butter things in orange and black waxed paper), but the cleverest costume I've ever had was devil horns with a blue dress -- an idea I stole from someone else -- and the party thing depends on someone actually HAVING said party.
So I usually find myself marking All Hallow's Eve by buying way too much good candy and hoping in vain for trick or treaters.
Tuesday, Melissa brought in a handful of 40-cent plastic tiaras, so half the women in the newsroom spent the day with tiaras shoved at odd angles into our hair. I really enjoyed mine, because the added height solved the problem of people not being able to see if I'm at my desk, and who hasn't wanted to be a princess?
I went out for a walk at lunch and quickly noticed I was getting a lot of second glances. At first I thought, these boots were TOTALLY worth $150. Then I remembered I was wearing a Barbie-Corvette-pink plastic tiara.
I suppose in other cities, this would be unremarkable. In New York, it's probably the least weird thing happening on any street at any given moment. In San Francisco, they're everyday attire (for the men, anyway). But D.C. is not really a city given to whimsy.
If you ever find yourself in that situation, tell yourself this: Tiaras are not for shrinking violets. You can't wear one while looking at the sidewalk and shrinking into your coat. Throw your shoulders back, look the world in the eye and work it.
Otherwise, you'll look ridiculous.
So I usually find myself marking All Hallow's Eve by buying way too much good candy and hoping in vain for trick or treaters.
Tuesday, Melissa brought in a handful of 40-cent plastic tiaras, so half the women in the newsroom spent the day with tiaras shoved at odd angles into our hair. I really enjoyed mine, because the added height solved the problem of people not being able to see if I'm at my desk, and who hasn't wanted to be a princess?
I went out for a walk at lunch and quickly noticed I was getting a lot of second glances. At first I thought, these boots were TOTALLY worth $150. Then I remembered I was wearing a Barbie-Corvette-pink plastic tiara.
I suppose in other cities, this would be unremarkable. In New York, it's probably the least weird thing happening on any street at any given moment. In San Francisco, they're everyday attire (for the men, anyway). But D.C. is not really a city given to whimsy.
If you ever find yourself in that situation, tell yourself this: Tiaras are not for shrinking violets. You can't wear one while looking at the sidewalk and shrinking into your coat. Throw your shoulders back, look the world in the eye and work it.
Otherwise, you'll look ridiculous.
My laugh for the day
The brilliant Fuggers at Go Fug Yourself, whose level of snarkiness I can only pray to someday attain, have outdone themselves:
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/go_fug_yourself/2006/11/the_fug_house.html
http://gofugyourself.typepad.com/go_fug_yourself/2006/11/the_fug_house.html
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The obligatory Mark Foley post
I've been issued a summons by the blogosphere PD for failing to write about the October Surprise of the century. It's apparently required by law for everyone with a blog. So:
First off, the disclaimers: what Foley did was a horrible abuse of trust and power, and my deepest sympathies go out to his victims (and they are victims, whether they think they are or not).
The media has been all over this story, and rightfully so (note to my colleagues: THIS is our role in society. Not Jen-Brad-Angie, or round-the-clock coverage of missing girls who happen to be pretty, white and wealthy, or water-skiing squirrels. We're the watchdogs, and we bring people like Foley into the harsh light of truth and demand accountability, when we're not distracted by Anna Nicole Smith.) But the cynic in me has to ask an uncomfortable question:
Would the story be getting so much play if the pages had been girls?
Obviously, I can't speak for any of the many people at any publication who make news decisions. I can only observe that I heard a few comments, the first day, along the lines of "Oh, I didn't realize the page was male," said in a way that implied "Whoa, this is way bigger than I thought."
Next question: Would the GOP have reacted the same way if the pages had been girls?
And: would the Washington Times have turned so fiercely on Hastert, demanding his resigntation, if the pages had been girls? This is, after all, a paper whose editor in chief once lamented that Bob Packwood had been forced to resign, when all he did was "kissed a couple of women who might have otherwise gone unkissed."
On the one hand, it's strictly an academic point. The pages weren't girls, and plenty of lawmakers from both parties have been forced out -- either by Congress or by their constituents -- for inappropriate sexual conduct. But it goes to a deeper question about the values of the people who brought Foley's behavior to light and the people who forced him out.
If those people feel Foley was wrong because he was taking advantage of an underage person -- any person -- who was in a clearly subordinate position to him, then bravo. You exposed a pedophile and took him down.
But if those people's biggest problem with Foley's conduct is that it involved people of the same sex, that's not only homophobic. It's also misogynistic, because if it's somehow worse that boys were involved, then it has to be better if it had been girls. That's the way rating scales work.
Pedophilia is pedophilia, and rape is rape. There's no sliding scale that traumatizes female victims less.
To the comment boards!
First off, the disclaimers: what Foley did was a horrible abuse of trust and power, and my deepest sympathies go out to his victims (and they are victims, whether they think they are or not).
The media has been all over this story, and rightfully so (note to my colleagues: THIS is our role in society. Not Jen-Brad-Angie, or round-the-clock coverage of missing girls who happen to be pretty, white and wealthy, or water-skiing squirrels. We're the watchdogs, and we bring people like Foley into the harsh light of truth and demand accountability, when we're not distracted by Anna Nicole Smith.) But the cynic in me has to ask an uncomfortable question:
Would the story be getting so much play if the pages had been girls?
Obviously, I can't speak for any of the many people at any publication who make news decisions. I can only observe that I heard a few comments, the first day, along the lines of "Oh, I didn't realize the page was male," said in a way that implied "Whoa, this is way bigger than I thought."
Next question: Would the GOP have reacted the same way if the pages had been girls?
And: would the Washington Times have turned so fiercely on Hastert, demanding his resigntation, if the pages had been girls? This is, after all, a paper whose editor in chief once lamented that Bob Packwood had been forced to resign, when all he did was "kissed a couple of women who might have otherwise gone unkissed."
On the one hand, it's strictly an academic point. The pages weren't girls, and plenty of lawmakers from both parties have been forced out -- either by Congress or by their constituents -- for inappropriate sexual conduct. But it goes to a deeper question about the values of the people who brought Foley's behavior to light and the people who forced him out.
If those people feel Foley was wrong because he was taking advantage of an underage person -- any person -- who was in a clearly subordinate position to him, then bravo. You exposed a pedophile and took him down.
But if those people's biggest problem with Foley's conduct is that it involved people of the same sex, that's not only homophobic. It's also misogynistic, because if it's somehow worse that boys were involved, then it has to be better if it had been girls. That's the way rating scales work.
Pedophilia is pedophilia, and rape is rape. There's no sliding scale that traumatizes female victims less.
To the comment boards!
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Elitists R Us
One aftereffect of my Big Adventure this summer -- along with my obsession with using chopsticks -- arrived in the mail a few weeks ago. Seems my trans-Pacific flights had piqued the interest of Northwest Airlines' frequent-flier gods, who bumped me up to Silver Elite status.
My membership in frequent-flier clubs has always been a bit of a reach -- I don't fly that often, and most of my Northwest miles came from a promotion cooked up by marketing execs on a coke bender, wherein you could get 40,000 miles if you switched your long distance plan to Sprint. (Shortly after I signed up, the promotion came to the attention of sober officials at Northwest, who promptly ended it, because who gives out that kind of miles?) But since there are no sporadic-flier clubs, I do the FF thing. (Technically, due to some courtesy title confusion, my mom does the FF thing. But I digress.)
So it came about that I'm spending a sunny but cold Saturday afternoon in Minneapolis, sipping premium tea and noshing snickerdoodles in front of a fireplace, nestled into a leather chair chronicling my adventures in high society courtesy of free Wi-Fi. Yes, I have gained access to the WorldClubs lounge. No longer must I walk past these frosted-glass doors with their "Members Only" signs and wonder how the other half lives. I'm living it.
(I was going to write "in front of a roaring fire," until I realized that a: that's a tired cliche, and b: it's not roaring at all. It's either a gas fire enclosed in what looks like a flat-panel TV screen, or it's a flat-panel TV screen showing an endless video loop of a fire.)
And I got bumped to first class for my flight to Rapid City.
Oh, but there's always a catch, and here it is: my Silver Elite status -- the preboarding privileges, the free upgrades to first class, the lounge access -- is only good until February, unless I make two more flights before the end of the year.
Denver for Thanksgiving will be one. The other? I don't care. I'll fly anywhere. I'll fly to Baltimore, for pete's sake, and take MARC back home. (According to DCist, United at one time really did operate a scheduled flight between D.C. and Baltimore. Why on earth anyone would spend an hour in a security line instead of driving 35 miles is a mystery. Maybe they were trying to get elite qualifying segments.)
All I know is, I MUST figure out how to keep my Silver Elite card. I'm never going back!
My membership in frequent-flier clubs has always been a bit of a reach -- I don't fly that often, and most of my Northwest miles came from a promotion cooked up by marketing execs on a coke bender, wherein you could get 40,000 miles if you switched your long distance plan to Sprint. (Shortly after I signed up, the promotion came to the attention of sober officials at Northwest, who promptly ended it, because who gives out that kind of miles?) But since there are no sporadic-flier clubs, I do the FF thing. (Technically, due to some courtesy title confusion, my mom does the FF thing. But I digress.)
So it came about that I'm spending a sunny but cold Saturday afternoon in Minneapolis, sipping premium tea and noshing snickerdoodles in front of a fireplace, nestled into a leather chair chronicling my adventures in high society courtesy of free Wi-Fi. Yes, I have gained access to the WorldClubs lounge. No longer must I walk past these frosted-glass doors with their "Members Only" signs and wonder how the other half lives. I'm living it.
(I was going to write "in front of a roaring fire," until I realized that a: that's a tired cliche, and b: it's not roaring at all. It's either a gas fire enclosed in what looks like a flat-panel TV screen, or it's a flat-panel TV screen showing an endless video loop of a fire.)
And I got bumped to first class for my flight to Rapid City.
Oh, but there's always a catch, and here it is: my Silver Elite status -- the preboarding privileges, the free upgrades to first class, the lounge access -- is only good until February, unless I make two more flights before the end of the year.
Denver for Thanksgiving will be one. The other? I don't care. I'll fly anywhere. I'll fly to Baltimore, for pete's sake, and take MARC back home. (According to DCist, United at one time really did operate a scheduled flight between D.C. and Baltimore. Why on earth anyone would spend an hour in a security line instead of driving 35 miles is a mystery. Maybe they were trying to get elite qualifying segments.)
All I know is, I MUST figure out how to keep my Silver Elite card. I'm never going back!
Monday, October 02, 2006
Literally and figuratively, my workplace is falling apart
Literally: An unknown substance (water? urine? liquid nitrogen?) gushed through the library ceiling, frying a computer and two printers and forcing the librarians to evacuate. On the upside, some quick-thinking soul rescued the editorial fax machine, which stopped working in, oh, I'll be generous and say mid-2002.
Figuratively: For years I've been plotting to usurp my boss. And suddenly, it happened, although I don't think him taking a job in a different office qualifies as a coup on my part. I exchanged many, many e-mails with co-workers about what would be different with me in charge. And then, two weird things happened.
One, I found myself in charge. And I started freaking out. There's no one to backstop me now. The difference between order and chaos, success and failure, is me. Some moments, I feel ready. Other moments, I long for a job that involves nothing more complicated than filing.
Two, I made an astonishing discovery. After clashing with my boss repeatedly on every conceivable topic, I thought I'd be thrilled to see him go. But no: I realized he'd become my nemesis. And I need a nemesis. What would Holmes be without Moriarty? Superman without Lex Luthor? Seinfeld without Newman? How could this have happened? (Chuck Klosterman explains the nemesis thing far more eloquently here.)
Or, to botch another analogy, he's the Benson to my Stabler. And if you think I have that analogy backward, on account of genders, you don't know my bawling-over-"Beaches" boss. That might be the better analogy. We disagreed, often and sometimes volatilely, over tactics, ideologies, etc., but we made each other better. And I find myself kinda missing him. Unlike Benson, whom I don't miss at the moment.
(And, like Stabler, I'd really enjoy grabbing a few people by the lapels and shoving them into walls when talking just doesn't do the trick. Unlike Stabler, I'm fazed by the possibility of civil litigation.)
P.S. You think I'm joking about the urine thing? I wish I were. Sewage has leaked through our ceiling several times. Also used water from an improperly sealed shower. Yes, there's a shower on the floor above ours. No, I don't know why.
Figuratively: For years I've been plotting to usurp my boss. And suddenly, it happened, although I don't think him taking a job in a different office qualifies as a coup on my part. I exchanged many, many e-mails with co-workers about what would be different with me in charge. And then, two weird things happened.
One, I found myself in charge. And I started freaking out. There's no one to backstop me now. The difference between order and chaos, success and failure, is me. Some moments, I feel ready. Other moments, I long for a job that involves nothing more complicated than filing.
Two, I made an astonishing discovery. After clashing with my boss repeatedly on every conceivable topic, I thought I'd be thrilled to see him go. But no: I realized he'd become my nemesis. And I need a nemesis. What would Holmes be without Moriarty? Superman without Lex Luthor? Seinfeld without Newman? How could this have happened? (Chuck Klosterman explains the nemesis thing far more eloquently here.)
Or, to botch another analogy, he's the Benson to my Stabler. And if you think I have that analogy backward, on account of genders, you don't know my bawling-over-"Beaches" boss. That might be the better analogy. We disagreed, often and sometimes volatilely, over tactics, ideologies, etc., but we made each other better. And I find myself kinda missing him. Unlike Benson, whom I don't miss at the moment.
(And, like Stabler, I'd really enjoy grabbing a few people by the lapels and shoving them into walls when talking just doesn't do the trick. Unlike Stabler, I'm fazed by the possibility of civil litigation.)
P.S. You think I'm joking about the urine thing? I wish I were. Sewage has leaked through our ceiling several times. Also used water from an improperly sealed shower. Yes, there's a shower on the floor above ours. No, I don't know why.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Nice try, dude
Stopped by the Ghetto Giant on the way home from work last night (it's a crummy, neglected store, hence the nickname; near, but different from, the Bang-Bang Giant, which had a recent shooting). I got in a line where the woman in front was just finishing paying; behind her was a woman with a teenage girl. I got behind them.
A guy carrying takeout containers came up behind me and said "Excuse me" (not polite excuse me, but you-made-me-miss-my-train-you-left-side-escalator-standing-jerk excuse me) and got in front of me. I assumed he was with the woman and the girl, and they'd decided once they got in line to get takeout and he ran back for it. So I let him through.
Then he tried to go around the woman. (Note: I would NOT have messed with this woman. Her motto probably is "large and in charge.") She put her hands on her hips, blocked him and said, with much sassy head-bobbing, "I don't THINK so."
Me: Is he with you?
Her: HELL no.
I gave him the shrug/upturned palms/raised eyebrows that are the international symbol for "What the hell?", and pointed behind me.
Shamed -- and rightfully so -- he slunk away to a different line. With no cutting, this time.
A guy carrying takeout containers came up behind me and said "Excuse me" (not polite excuse me, but you-made-me-miss-my-train-you-left-side-escalator-standing-jerk excuse me) and got in front of me. I assumed he was with the woman and the girl, and they'd decided once they got in line to get takeout and he ran back for it. So I let him through.
Then he tried to go around the woman. (Note: I would NOT have messed with this woman. Her motto probably is "large and in charge.") She put her hands on her hips, blocked him and said, with much sassy head-bobbing, "I don't THINK so."
Me: Is he with you?
Her: HELL no.
I gave him the shrug/upturned palms/raised eyebrows that are the international symbol for "What the hell?", and pointed behind me.
Shamed -- and rightfully so -- he slunk away to a different line. With no cutting, this time.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
finally! photos!
It's by no means all my trip photos (I've gotta spring for the premium flickr site), but here are a few Australia pics to whet your appetite:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/16115534@N00/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/16115534@N00/
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
update on trip photos
I FINALLY uploaded my photos into my laptop, and I have some great ones, including a shot of the Sydney Opera House that's postcard-worthy.
I totally intended to put them all in Flickr, caption them, e-mail them to people, etc. I did!
Cross my heart, my DSL has been down all week. As soon as Verizon gets the problem fixed, photos are my first priority.
I totally intended to put them all in Flickr, caption them, e-mail them to people, etc. I did!
Cross my heart, my DSL has been down all week. As soon as Verizon gets the problem fixed, photos are my first priority.
perspective, thanks to a packed train
Lately I've been frustrated at work -- I feel like I'm carrying the whole paper on my shoulders some days. I'm constantly fixing misspelled headlines, glaring factual errors, horrid cutline writing, and a whole lot of Journalism 101 stuff that the editors I supervise should be catching, or not committing in the first place. Plus I'm stumbling onto duplicated stories, outdated stories, etc., mostly through dumb luck, and I start my week writing corrections for the problems that occured on my days off. I feel like I'm juggling a thousand balls and if I drop one, they'll all come tumbling down. I should be able to hand these balls off to the copy editors, but not only can a lot of them not juggle, but they're throwing more balls into the mix.
Anyway.
This morning, I was struggling to stay upright on a lurching, crowded train when I realized -- courtesy of a waft of cheap whiskey -- that the guy standing next to me was drunk. And from the looks of his nose (Karl Malden had nothing on this guy), being soused at 9 a.m. is probably an everyday occurence for him.
Perspective point one: I may have to remind my desk way too often to use spellcheck, but at least I don't supervise anyone who routinely shows up to work staggering drunk.
Perspective point two, courtesy of Stacy: I have my up and down days, but at least I don't hate my job so much that the only way to get through the day is to consume a box of Boone's Farm for breakfast.
Anyway.
This morning, I was struggling to stay upright on a lurching, crowded train when I realized -- courtesy of a waft of cheap whiskey -- that the guy standing next to me was drunk. And from the looks of his nose (Karl Malden had nothing on this guy), being soused at 9 a.m. is probably an everyday occurence for him.
Perspective point one: I may have to remind my desk way too often to use spellcheck, but at least I don't supervise anyone who routinely shows up to work staggering drunk.
Perspective point two, courtesy of Stacy: I have my up and down days, but at least I don't hate my job so much that the only way to get through the day is to consume a box of Boone's Farm for breakfast.
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