What are the odds on this? Exactly 30 days from the date of my last bout with a stomach flu, I take on yet another strain. Just hours after my last post, the Little One and I meet my husband for lunch at our favorite Indian restaurant. Oh, the foreshadowing . . .
I simply cannot emphasize how rancid it is to throw up Indian food. Much Indian food. Now, I would be happy to wield my slicing command of adjectives on you with this one but if you're an avid reader, which I know some of you are, you deserve to be spared that warm & chunky-soured curry blowing its way upward and outward like cops on a meth lab door. I could expound but I'd like you all to keep your lunches down to process through the common channels.
To be continued . . .
Friday, January 27, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
What's More Fun Than A Chimp With 8 Hands?
So, the day before yesterday I almost clicked "Save as Draft" before I flipped over to Outlook right quick. Yeah.
I had a Yosimite Sam fit and dealt a few more than the, "Frick'nFrack'nRazzi'm . . . " old Sam would have if he were in my shoes.
Aaaaaaanyway.
I prefer reporting my good consumer experiences far more than the Chronicals of Hell I continue to sample as a result of purchasing a Toshiba laptop 13 months ago. I won't bore you with the details, but I will say, Toshiba has effectively robbed ALL of you from at least 3 pieces of my mind in print since I began this blog. Yeah. Rally with me.
I'll have to recall the last post that blipped out of existence later today because right now, the Little One is attacking this keyboard like a 9 handed chimp.
To be continued . . .
I had a Yosimite Sam fit and dealt a few more than the, "Frick'nFrack'nRazzi'm . . . " old Sam would have if he were in my shoes.
Aaaaaaanyway.
I prefer reporting my good consumer experiences far more than the Chronicals of Hell I continue to sample as a result of purchasing a Toshiba laptop 13 months ago. I won't bore you with the details, but I will say, Toshiba has effectively robbed ALL of you from at least 3 pieces of my mind in print since I began this blog. Yeah. Rally with me.
I'll have to recall the last post that blipped out of existence later today because right now, the Little One is attacking this keyboard like a 9 handed chimp.
To be continued . . .
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
The Faces of Love
Those who know me are aware of the haunting I'll do from time to time at the local Good Will store and it's cousin shops. Today, I just decided it'd been long enough since my last skitter through and the little one and I decided to take the stroller through the sacred second-hand gallery of chance.
I pick up a Blue's Clues VHS and head to the front to pay. No major treasure score today.
The wheelchair-bound woman working the register is about my age, plump as a ripe tomato. She casually refers to her price sheet, her finger trailing down its laminated length, scanning for "Kid's Videos" which turn out to be $1.48 each. She pokes two buttons on the cash register as a white-bearded black man interrupts the transaction.
"Shhhckewwzmee," he begins. Working his lips best he can, he utters an intelligible but earnest question of the cashier. An edge of impatience cuts the room when she answers, "What?" in the same tone a 4th grader might respond to a wise guy on the playground.
The man adjusts the bill on his cap as if to cue himself to repeat his question in a different language. He offers the words more slowly and deliberately this time, "I-sh wanna g'no fy'c'n take dad shhhckooder ow side fo m'wive come in."
He wanted to drive the motorized scooter outside to the car in the parking lot for his wife. The cashier was clearly uneasy but gave him the, "Yyeah, I guess that's ok." As he mounted the steed, our friendly cashier mumbled to me, with a sentencing eye roll, that she thought he must be drunk.
The old man fired up the scooter and, as quickly as he'd entered, he was on his way out--full scooter throttle. He was making good time toward the door.
"BAM!" The sticker on the door read, "Pull". He backed it up.
Another customer coming in tried to help him out by holding the door open, which he proceeded to lurch toward, make contact with, and become briefly wedged within. I left the store moments later through the "Push" set of doors on the other side, as he and other customer freed the scooter from the doorway and the rumpled rug. Almost to my car, the old man bee-lined past me in the parking lot driving toward his wife who was waiting next to their car a few rows back.
His wife could not have weighed one cookie less than 400 pounds.
He dismounted the scooter and looked on as she worked herself into a seated position on the cart. He walked with her as the scooter's motor whined with strained gears, creeping across the parking lot, its tail end scraping the asphalt. About half-way back to the store, I hear him belt out, "Naw, muss be juss runnin oudda chargin."
The baby was all buckled into her Lazy-Boy, and I was wrangling the 'instant collapse' lever on her stroller behind the car when I noticed that the 'Little Scooter That Could' just wouldn't. The slight angle of the handicap ramp from the parking lot to the sidewalk was too much for the brave little scooter. He just done gave it all he had. Now, Husband wasn't about to leave his girl stranded. The old guy bowed up and put both hands on the back of her seat and started pushing his gal up the ramp--and by golly, I saw the last few moments of his love for her in my side-view mirror as he opened the door for her to the Good Will store. I was proud of him.
I pick up a Blue's Clues VHS and head to the front to pay. No major treasure score today.
The wheelchair-bound woman working the register is about my age, plump as a ripe tomato. She casually refers to her price sheet, her finger trailing down its laminated length, scanning for "Kid's Videos" which turn out to be $1.48 each. She pokes two buttons on the cash register as a white-bearded black man interrupts the transaction.
"Shhhckewwzmee," he begins. Working his lips best he can, he utters an intelligible but earnest question of the cashier. An edge of impatience cuts the room when she answers, "What?" in the same tone a 4th grader might respond to a wise guy on the playground.
The man adjusts the bill on his cap as if to cue himself to repeat his question in a different language. He offers the words more slowly and deliberately this time, "I-sh wanna g'no fy'c'n take dad shhhckooder ow side fo m'wive come in."
He wanted to drive the motorized scooter outside to the car in the parking lot for his wife. The cashier was clearly uneasy but gave him the, "Yyeah, I guess that's ok." As he mounted the steed, our friendly cashier mumbled to me, with a sentencing eye roll, that she thought he must be drunk.
The old man fired up the scooter and, as quickly as he'd entered, he was on his way out--full scooter throttle. He was making good time toward the door.
"BAM!" The sticker on the door read, "Pull". He backed it up.
Another customer coming in tried to help him out by holding the door open, which he proceeded to lurch toward, make contact with, and become briefly wedged within. I left the store moments later through the "Push" set of doors on the other side, as he and other customer freed the scooter from the doorway and the rumpled rug. Almost to my car, the old man bee-lined past me in the parking lot driving toward his wife who was waiting next to their car a few rows back.
His wife could not have weighed one cookie less than 400 pounds.
He dismounted the scooter and looked on as she worked herself into a seated position on the cart. He walked with her as the scooter's motor whined with strained gears, creeping across the parking lot, its tail end scraping the asphalt. About half-way back to the store, I hear him belt out, "Naw, muss be juss runnin oudda chargin."
The baby was all buckled into her Lazy-Boy, and I was wrangling the 'instant collapse' lever on her stroller behind the car when I noticed that the 'Little Scooter That Could' just wouldn't. The slight angle of the handicap ramp from the parking lot to the sidewalk was too much for the brave little scooter. He just done gave it all he had. Now, Husband wasn't about to leave his girl stranded. The old guy bowed up and put both hands on the back of her seat and started pushing his gal up the ramp--and by golly, I saw the last few moments of his love for her in my side-view mirror as he opened the door for her to the Good Will store. I was proud of him.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
How many dollars for a minute of your life?
This may end up sounding curmudgeony. I left a doctor's office today before treatment was rendered, but after being held in the examination chamber for more than 30 minutes. Now, hold on. Let's give you the back-story here. So I've got this 10:45 appointment for the little one (she's just 18 months old) with a dermatologist. Nothing life-threatening, just a lil' white spot on her arm that her dad and I thought we'd get looked at. The little one and I manage to beat the odds (if you've ever tried to get somewhere on time with anyone under the age of 3, you understand "the odds") arriving at the doctor's office 5 minutes before the appointment time. Now, again it's our first visit and we all know the "paper work" routine.
One of the women behind the sliding glass window gets me started with these few pages and I specifically ask her, "How is the doctor's schedule today? Is she running on time?" to which she replies, "Oh, yes. In fact just as soon as we get these filled out we'll get you right back there."
"Huh." I think to myself. "That's good. So by 11:30, we'll be sliding through Wendy's. Perfect."
The paperwork was easy and quick. Less than 10 minutes later, we're up. Down the hall, room 3, in we go left with instructions to get the baby down to her skivies and assured that the "doctor will be right in".
The baby was patient for 10 minutes on the exam table. She occupied herself for another 10 minutes climbing on the chair, testing the cabinet doors and peeking through the blinds. At 11:25 she's trying to open the exam room door to leave, I presume. She begins to cry the "hungry cry". She plops herself on the floor. She gets up. She reaches for me, still crying the Hungry Cry.
It's 11:28 and I've had it. The baby's hungry, she's crying (it's her well-established lunch time). I start to think about what the doctor might feel her time is worth. I'm more than likely to agree with any amount she'd throw on the table. Then I remembered the notice posted to the left of the "receiving window" which stated very certainly that if you were more than 15 minutes late for any appointment, your appointment would be rescheduled. I hear casual chatter and laughter from the hallway outside.
The lavender jumpsuit the baby was wearing went right back on. I had time to snap all 20 snaps, gather our things and walk to the front of the clinic with no sign of the doctor. I stopped at "the window" and asked the same receptionist to send us the $15 co-pay because the baby was starving, we've been here more than 45 minutes and we're just not waiting any longer reminding her politely that we'd asked if the doctor was "on-time". Taken aback she starts, "Well, the doctor is just right there."
I said, "She's starving. We're going."
Now, this is not PMS rearing it's head. This is not a short temper. This is principle. This is our life. Granted, the dermatological appointment wasn't life or death and was probably low priority. No bleeding or disfigurement . . . but why not just "suggest" a time for us to show up instead of making an appointment.
A few years ago, I learned something that stuck with me about being on time. Wayne McKamie said, "If you're late getting somewhere, with very, very few exceptions, I'd ask you to look back and honestly say to yourself, 'So what was more important than getting here on time?' Sleeping? Web-surfing? Taking just one more non-emergency phone call?'." And McGraw throws in, "It's just arrogance. You're telling me that my time is far less important than yours."
Does this qualify as a rant?
One of the women behind the sliding glass window gets me started with these few pages and I specifically ask her, "How is the doctor's schedule today? Is she running on time?" to which she replies, "Oh, yes. In fact just as soon as we get these filled out we'll get you right back there."
"Huh." I think to myself. "That's good. So by 11:30, we'll be sliding through Wendy's. Perfect."
The paperwork was easy and quick. Less than 10 minutes later, we're up. Down the hall, room 3, in we go left with instructions to get the baby down to her skivies and assured that the "doctor will be right in".
The baby was patient for 10 minutes on the exam table. She occupied herself for another 10 minutes climbing on the chair, testing the cabinet doors and peeking through the blinds. At 11:25 she's trying to open the exam room door to leave, I presume. She begins to cry the "hungry cry". She plops herself on the floor. She gets up. She reaches for me, still crying the Hungry Cry.
It's 11:28 and I've had it. The baby's hungry, she's crying (it's her well-established lunch time). I start to think about what the doctor might feel her time is worth. I'm more than likely to agree with any amount she'd throw on the table. Then I remembered the notice posted to the left of the "receiving window" which stated very certainly that if you were more than 15 minutes late for any appointment, your appointment would be rescheduled. I hear casual chatter and laughter from the hallway outside.
The lavender jumpsuit the baby was wearing went right back on. I had time to snap all 20 snaps, gather our things and walk to the front of the clinic with no sign of the doctor. I stopped at "the window" and asked the same receptionist to send us the $15 co-pay because the baby was starving, we've been here more than 45 minutes and we're just not waiting any longer reminding her politely that we'd asked if the doctor was "on-time". Taken aback she starts, "Well, the doctor is just right there."
I said, "She's starving. We're going."
Now, this is not PMS rearing it's head. This is not a short temper. This is principle. This is our life. Granted, the dermatological appointment wasn't life or death and was probably low priority. No bleeding or disfigurement . . . but why not just "suggest" a time for us to show up instead of making an appointment.
A few years ago, I learned something that stuck with me about being on time. Wayne McKamie said, "If you're late getting somewhere, with very, very few exceptions, I'd ask you to look back and honestly say to yourself, 'So what was more important than getting here on time?' Sleeping? Web-surfing? Taking just one more non-emergency phone call?'." And McGraw throws in, "It's just arrogance. You're telling me that my time is far less important than yours."
Does this qualify as a rant?
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Blankety-blank
I've begun writing this entry now for the fifth time and each time I've floored the back-space button wiping the window clean. There's at least some pressure to write something entertaining in one's blog; and if not, at east some sort of worthwhile rhetoric, no? So, it's just me?
I doubt it.
Well, now, speaking of flooring the back-space button, here's something for ya:
What would I give to have the truly traumatic events in my life . . . erased from my memory? In retrospect, which memories of your own, if you could choose just one, would you have erased or at least blunted? Now, I say, specifically "in retrospect" because if you're reading this, and you can think of one, you obviously survived something of relative intensity or even horror. Since you've survived it, and you didn't die--has this memory served you in a positive way since or did it remain turning point from which there has been no return, keeping you arrested?
Would you take the "trauma pill"?
http://www.cnn.com/2006/HEALTH/01/14/trauma.pill.ap/index.html
So far, I'll keep even the traumatic events on my hard drive. I lived and even continue to thrive far beyond the reach of their haunting tentacles. Again, it's all relative and I think this sounds like a positively merciful pharmacological answer for many. Bioethics. What a tangle.
I doubt it.
Well, now, speaking of flooring the back-space button, here's something for ya:
What would I give to have the truly traumatic events in my life . . . erased from my memory? In retrospect, which memories of your own, if you could choose just one, would you have erased or at least blunted? Now, I say, specifically "in retrospect" because if you're reading this, and you can think of one, you obviously survived something of relative intensity or even horror. Since you've survived it, and you didn't die--has this memory served you in a positive way since or did it remain turning point from which there has been no return, keeping you arrested?
Would you take the "trauma pill"?
http://www.cnn.com/2006/HEALTH/01/14/trauma.pill.ap/index.html
So far, I'll keep even the traumatic events on my hard drive. I lived and even continue to thrive far beyond the reach of their haunting tentacles. Again, it's all relative and I think this sounds like a positively merciful pharmacological answer for many. Bioethics. What a tangle.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Sort Of Like Thong Underwear
My 'ole friend J spoke the truth in just and only the way J would. I began writing this blog with revolvers in each hand ready to do some serious shootin'. I'll just cut'n paste J's e-mail response to my "new blog":
Subject: RE: New blog
Lovely lovely.
You’ll develop a love/hate relationship with it.
Sort of like thong underwear.
xo
Seriously.
I've got plenty to say today, and I'll pin it up here a little later today. In the mean time, let me change into some "grannies".
Subject: RE: New blog
Lovely lovely.
You’ll develop a love/hate relationship with it.
Sort of like thong underwear.
xo
Seriously.
I've got plenty to say today, and I'll pin it up here a little later today. In the mean time, let me change into some "grannies".
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Two More Words
Well, the wily Mr. Markus, whose cunning has become lore hath responded with his "One Word"--and being rule-bending, line-walker he is, responded with two. I admit, I enjoyed actually reading the definitions of the words he sent--because I'm positive he read them before he sent them.
ardent: Displaying or characterized by strong enthusiasm or devotion; fervent: “an impassioned age, so ardent and serious in its pursuit of art” (Walter Pater).
and
emulous: Eager or ambitious to equal or surpass another.
You know what I always say, "Takes one to know one."
Current recreational reading:
"Toward A Psychology of Being" and "Religion, Values and Peak-Experiences", AH Maslow
What're you reading?
ardent: Displaying or characterized by strong enthusiasm or devotion; fervent: “an impassioned age, so ardent and serious in its pursuit of art” (Walter Pater).
and
emulous: Eager or ambitious to equal or surpass another.
You know what I always say, "Takes one to know one."
Current recreational reading:
"Toward A Psychology of Being" and "Religion, Values and Peak-Experiences", AH Maslow
What're you reading?
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