So this weekend has been kind of a bust. Wally threw up (I’m guessing the kennel gave him the wrong food), I threw up (being a girl stinks on occasion), and the rest of the time we spent rolling around on the bed, sofa, and carpet just moaning at each other. But at least we got that over with, and now we’re both feeling better.
And something really good happened this weekend. New York approved the gay marriage law. I try to stay away from political talk because few things incite so much anger and ruin as many friendships as politics, but this is an issue I feel very strongly about, so I don’t mind taking the risk. I am not only very much FOR gay marriage, I also truly believe that the political argument against gay marriage is not only ridiculous but blatantly prejudicial. And that combination—stupid and mean—makes me angry.
Let me be clear. I am talking about the POLITICAL argument against gay marriage. I have religious friends who are against it as a tenet of their faith, and that is not the opinion that I’m referring to. Even if my friends did not deserve respect for their faith, which they do, I am certainly not qualified to judge anyone’s religious beliefs. I personally disagree strongly with some of those beliefs for several reasons, but that is neither here nor there. Arguing about religion often turns into insulting someone's religion, and trashing someone’s faith is never my goal.
But, in any case, I’m not talking about the religious argument against gay marriage. I’m talking about the political argument against gay marriage. Oh, girl, you’re saying, how can you draw that line? Well, I’ll tell you how. It’s called separation of church and state, and it’s one of the founding guidelines of this country. Of course that separation is not always honored legally, and we could argue case-by-case if it should be (and if you don't believe in the separation of church and state, please stop reading, as I will no doubt make you very angry), but it is one of the Founding Fathers’ greatest and most enduring legacies. This separation gives us what the Fathers wanted, freedom. As long as our freedom does not encroach on others’ freedoms (ie, killing someone takes away their freedom to live), we are constitutionally guaranteed the freedom to believe what we want to believe and to live how we want to live. How proud are we as a nation of that concept? Millions of people have died valiantly and tragically to preserve that concept. And yet, somehow, the minute the topic changes to the legality of gay marriage, everyone seems to forget it.
Let’s be blunt: he marriage affected by laws such as New York’s is not religious marriage. It is legal, state-recognized marriage. God has been taken out of marriage in the eyes of the state—for better or for worse, who knows, but it’s been done nonetheless. The state recognizes marriages of all shapes, kinds, and prospects. If you’re a Muslim, legally you can marry a Hindu. Maybe it wouldn’t happen in a church with your traditional Catholic priest, but as long as you fill out the paperwork, and obey the law, your marriage will be recognized as a MARRIAGE by the state you live in, and granted the same rights as that couple married in a church. Pagans and aetheists, people completely outside of organized religion, can get legally married. An African-American can marry a Caucasian. An American can marry a person from Mexico—it’s complicated, legally, but it can happen. Two people past the age of childbearing can get married. A 30 year old can even marry a 16 year old, if her parents are fool enough to allow it. So let’s be very clear: marriage in the eyes of the state is not about God. It is not about age, religion, race, or nationality. Why, then, can you draw the line at this spot and say, no, marriage is about the gender of the persons participating in it?
Maybe it is, in the original legal language. However, the original lawmakers sure as heck didn’t write those founding laws with the concept of a Muslim from India moving here to marry a Jewish person from California, and yet, we have permitted ourselves to bend and adapt those original laws to allow for those possibilities. It was a question of freedom to do so—the answer to the question, is it fair and right for these two people to do this thing that they want to do. And no one raises a political red flag and says, “Wait, that’s not right.” Why, then, can’t we make legal adaptations to allow two people of the same gender to experience the same rights and protection as all the millions of other so-called “non-traditional” couples? As we said above, in a country where church and state are separated, the law is determined by logic and equality. How, then, can we see the laws allowing our international, interfaith couples as fair and just making sense, and not say the same for our gay couples?
The only answer to that question that I see is that there is still prejudice against homosexuality.
Think about it. If we dismiss the concept of religious morality as relevant, what are the other arguments? The only one we could possibly make to allow us to take away legal freedom is that the freedom up for debate, in this case gay marriage, infringes on the rights of others. And that argument is patently, and blatantly, untrue. Tell me, if my two gay male neighbors want to get married, what liberty does it infringe on? Who does it hurt? You or me? Not unless they come over and force either of us into a threesome, and if you believe that will happen, my argument for prejudice has been nicely proven, thank you. Gay couples being married takes away none of their neighbors’ civil liberties: they will still pay taxes, vote, continue on in their likely harmless lives with scarcely a difference made to anyone other than themselves. You know, like heterosexual couples do after they get married. When was the last time your heterosexual neighbors’ marriage directly negatively affected your life?
A lot of people say being a gay couple will hurt that couples’ children. First of all, there is something to be said for loving parents, no matter what gender, and how they can BENEFIT children, especially if they choose to adopt. Second of all, sure, hypothetically growing up in a family with same-sex parents could potentially hurt the children in terms of their emotional development. But there are no studies that prove that with any semblance of credibility. You know what studies show does definitively hurt children? Feeding them junk food or smoking around them. Are either of those acts illegal? I don’t think so. So why would we attack a parenting choice that is only a potential and brush aside choices that are certainly negative? Only because we don’t believe in the parents’ right to make that particular choice we attack. And the only reason we wouldn’t believe in the parents’ right to be a same-sex couple is because we are prejudiced against them.
Let’s be honest, the state of marriage in this country is pretty depressing. And maybe the conversation should be about how we should fix that. But that’s not what people are talking about, not really. It’s about whether or not gay couples should be allowed to jump into the murky pool of marriage and try to sink or swim just like heterosexual couples do with sometimes little to no forethought. How condescending is that? How dare we, the presumably heterosexual “majority,” discuss whether we should “allow” our fellow human beings to make the same choices we do? Somehow this patronizing, prejudiced, and politically completely unsupportable “dilemma” is our national narrative about the state of marriage. To me, this is unacceptable, and at the risk of going completely over the top with hyperbole, one of the worst aspects of our country.
So I say, yay New York!! You don’t have to agree with me, and I hope I haven’t offended anyone. But I, for one, am thrilled that what I consider sanity has prevailed. Love is great, and it should be celebrated, and honored with equality.
And ok, back to the sofa for me.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Weekend Manifesto
It is Friday night. This weekend I have no social plans. That's right, NOT A ONE.
This is very exciting to me, actually. Last weekend was physically and emotionally exhausting and I haven't had so much of the relaxation lately. To add to it, this weekend I have several excuses to be a slug. First, I am dogsitting Wally, who is probably my favorite living creature:
He's grown up since this picture, but he's still a little walking stuffed animal. We will spend all weekend cuddling and spooning and rubbing his tummy, and I can NOT wait til the snuggling begins.
Wally Full-Size
This is Wally's idea of heaven:
No, really, he lets you hold him like that. For HOURS.
Excuse number two: (turn away guys!!) I will be cramping like mad, and the sofa will be my friend.
Anyway, one of the things that has made me laugh really hard this week is that Chris told me he had bought me some "Annie reinforcements" to eat in his and Cary's apartment while I'm with Wally. Cut to me arriving and seeing that on the counter are, among other things, two boxes of Kraft's Macaroni and Cheese and a box of Junior Mints. I love that this is how he sees me.
At first I thought I'd feel guilty about eating these offerings. Recently I've been trying to be super healthy. Working out and eating well--no processed foods here! And I'm seeing results. Pants are looser, pot belly is smaller. Despite all this, today I had a patient ask me if I was having a boy or a girl. W.T. F. An empire waist does not equal maternity top, people!!! But in a way I'm appreciative. Because after hearing that I figured, bring on the boxes!!
Seriously. A girl has a right to a weekend spent in her pajamas hugging a dog and eating candy and artificially orange pasta. Especially when her patients think she's pregnant and her love interests remain resolutely UN-interested even though she's skinny and really trying hard to tune down the social awkwardness.
So. With that said, Wally likes to lie like this:
And this weekend I will be joining him in that position, and I am proud of it.
Hope you all enjoy your weekend too!!
This is very exciting to me, actually. Last weekend was physically and emotionally exhausting and I haven't had so much of the relaxation lately. To add to it, this weekend I have several excuses to be a slug. First, I am dogsitting Wally, who is probably my favorite living creature:
He's grown up since this picture, but he's still a little walking stuffed animal. We will spend all weekend cuddling and spooning and rubbing his tummy, and I can NOT wait til the snuggling begins.
Wally Full-Size
This is Wally's idea of heaven:
No, really, he lets you hold him like that. For HOURS.
Excuse number two: (turn away guys!!) I will be cramping like mad, and the sofa will be my friend.
Anyway, one of the things that has made me laugh really hard this week is that Chris told me he had bought me some "Annie reinforcements" to eat in his and Cary's apartment while I'm with Wally. Cut to me arriving and seeing that on the counter are, among other things, two boxes of Kraft's Macaroni and Cheese and a box of Junior Mints. I love that this is how he sees me.
At first I thought I'd feel guilty about eating these offerings. Recently I've been trying to be super healthy. Working out and eating well--no processed foods here! And I'm seeing results. Pants are looser, pot belly is smaller. Despite all this, today I had a patient ask me if I was having a boy or a girl. W.T. F. An empire waist does not equal maternity top, people!!! But in a way I'm appreciative. Because after hearing that I figured, bring on the boxes!!
Seriously. A girl has a right to a weekend spent in her pajamas hugging a dog and eating candy and artificially orange pasta. Especially when her patients think she's pregnant and her love interests remain resolutely UN-interested even though she's skinny and really trying hard to tune down the social awkwardness.
So. With that said, Wally likes to lie like this:
And this weekend I will be joining him in that position, and I am proud of it.
Hope you all enjoy your weekend too!!
Thursday, June 23, 2011
A short deep thought
We have a patient at work who is super cute. He is a nice man in his late eighties, and he has pretty advanced dementia. He is the definition of "pleasantly confused." My favorite story comes from his wife, who told us how one afternoon after watching the Masters Golf Tournament on television, he turned to her and said, "I had no idea we lived on such a nice golf course."
This patient is very sweet and nice in his dementia, but he really is no longer who he was. He is very somnolent, and falls asleep within seconds--sometimes while he is doing his exercises or while i am dressing him. Occasionally he will burst forth with some hint of his old personality, such as when I asked him how he was and he replied, "Oh, fat, lazy, and ornery, how are you?" But most of the time he is just sort of....there.
This leaves his wife. At first glance a sweet, typical little Southern lady, she has a will of iron. She is his sole caregiver and she is always there for him, encouraging him and interpreting for im. She tells me what his normal routine is, what she thinks will help him do better, what he likes and what he's thinking. After I asked him to do an exercise where he squeezed his hands like he was revving a motorcycle, she brought in a picture of him in his younger days on his harley (he was very handsome, by the way). She is basically his emissary, singlehandedly preserving his self even as it is but ensuring that we all know who he is beneath the dementia.
So here's the deep thought. They've been married over 50 years, she does EVERYTHING for him EVERY day (cleans his rear end three times every day, for example), and she never speaks of him with anything less than affection and respect. Part of it is surely the fact that she is a wonderful person. But I can't help but believe that part of it is also because of who he was. He must have been a good man and a good husband for her to cherish, protect, and care for him like she does. To have earned that dedication.
Doesn't that make you wonder if someone would do the same for you? Doesn't it make you want to be a better person--because even if there is no one to do that for you, you would still be the kind of person who would inspire that devotion?
Also, isn't love amazing??
Ok, that is all. Enjoy your night.
This patient is very sweet and nice in his dementia, but he really is no longer who he was. He is very somnolent, and falls asleep within seconds--sometimes while he is doing his exercises or while i am dressing him. Occasionally he will burst forth with some hint of his old personality, such as when I asked him how he was and he replied, "Oh, fat, lazy, and ornery, how are you?" But most of the time he is just sort of....there.
This leaves his wife. At first glance a sweet, typical little Southern lady, she has a will of iron. She is his sole caregiver and she is always there for him, encouraging him and interpreting for im. She tells me what his normal routine is, what she thinks will help him do better, what he likes and what he's thinking. After I asked him to do an exercise where he squeezed his hands like he was revving a motorcycle, she brought in a picture of him in his younger days on his harley (he was very handsome, by the way). She is basically his emissary, singlehandedly preserving his self even as it is but ensuring that we all know who he is beneath the dementia.
So here's the deep thought. They've been married over 50 years, she does EVERYTHING for him EVERY day (cleans his rear end three times every day, for example), and she never speaks of him with anything less than affection and respect. Part of it is surely the fact that she is a wonderful person. But I can't help but believe that part of it is also because of who he was. He must have been a good man and a good husband for her to cherish, protect, and care for him like she does. To have earned that dedication.
Doesn't that make you wonder if someone would do the same for you? Doesn't it make you want to be a better person--because even if there is no one to do that for you, you would still be the kind of person who would inspire that devotion?
Also, isn't love amazing??
Ok, that is all. Enjoy your night.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Mis Hermanas Part Three.
This is taking way longer than I expected. How dare real life events interfere with my blogging?
If you're still interested, here we go.
In the morning, as we were waiting for Ginny, we had time to play with the German Shepherds. One of them had found a rock, and she decided it was the perfect size for playing fetch. She and her friend had discovered a good game. If the rock was thrown, she would chase it, and the friend would hang back and let her pick it up, then run along next to her, gnawing at her neck as if she wanted the rock. Clearly they were sisters. Once they realized we were up for playing, the dog with the rock would inch forward towards us, drop the rock, and back away, keeping her eyes on the rock. The belief was palpable in her eyes. If she stared at the rock long enough, it would levitate and fling itself across the yard. It was our moral duty not to disappoint them. Unfortunately, despite my father the baseball lover’s attempt to teach his female children to throw, neither Cary nor I have anything remotely resembling aim. We throw like men, not girls, but somehow in the opposite direction of where we intended. Those dogs followed that rock into the puddle, headfirst into a wall, and even into a pile of other rocks. They were very dedicated.
When Ginny got there, we walked down to the dock on Lake Atitlan. While there are many professional-looking boats, the only acceptable way to get across the water to San Pedro is in these blue motorboats that look like recycled bathtubs. You hand the man 25Q, toss your bags in the front, and climb onto the bench seats. In case you’re wondering, I downsized from my gigantic duffel to an overnight backpack, which is good, cause my duffel probably would have sunk it. The thirteen year old at the wheel revs the motor and you take off like a drag racer. The lake is wide, deep, and choppy, and the only acceptable speed is full out. I spent the whole time clinging to the side of the boat, torn between laughing with exhilaration (I LOVE going fast over water—jet skis, ski boats, you name it) and mentally running through my list of irreplaceable items that would be lost when one of our huge BOOOMs coming over the other side of a wake wave inevitably shattered the bottom of our noble vessel. We’d waited to the afternoon to cross, and the clouds were obscuring most of our view, but slowly San Pedro appeared out of the mist, its concentration of buildings looking almost like a coral reef rising directly from the water and crawling up the side of the volcano. Ginny pointed out our hotel, to our left, white and square, jutting out over the lake like a cruise ship. Improvably, we docked at the newly built wooden pier, and embarked on San Pedro.
My first experience of San Pedro was that Ginny knew the banana bread lady. She will tell you she is not the most social person ever, but, honestly, if the lady selling banana bread on the dock squeals “Hola!” and throws her arm around your neck because she is happy to see you again, you may have corned the market on social. Banana bread is huge in San Pedro. Multiple little ladies in their Mayan gear sit on corners, all using the same catchphrase: “Pan de banana, banana bread!” They’re like the baseball stadium vendors of Guatemala. It is amazing to me how you can say the same thing so many times with exactly the same inflection, especially when it’s so cheerful. We had some banana bread on our climb up Indian Nose (see below) and it singlehandedly saved my life, so I remember it fondly.
Ginny tells me San Pedro is immensely popular with expatriates. Apparently backpackers have a habit of falling in love with place and simply staying, the most enterprising of them opening hostels or restaurants. The place has an organic feel; there is one main road and it creeps and crawls through town so much so that I was tempted to trail a ball of yarn behind me so I could find my way back out through the labyrinth. At one point we turned and walked through a three-foot tunnel created by two walls. When I asked Ginny if this was the main road, she was like, um, duh. To get to the hotel, the road turned into a path that went directly past a pasture with a rusting lawnmower and two emaciated horses. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but my parents went to visit her a few months before us, and it was greatly entertaining to imagine them having the same experience as us. My parents are wonderful people but they think Hampton Inn is roughing it. I would have paid money to see my boat-phobic mother survive the trip across the lake, and the image of my parents carrying their bags down that path by the horses makes me giggle.
Hotel Mikaso was by far my favorite place we stayed. Multiple stories, with an open air courtyard filled with climbing birds of paradise, it is a treasure trove of balconies and patios, all of which look out to the lake. Due to some environmental concerns, the lake’s water level has risen this year, and it laps at the base of the building, so again you feel like you’re on the cruise ship the hotel resembles. We took lots of time to just sit on the lounge chairs, and for the first time the trip felt like a tropical vacation.
That night we went out. In our first stop, an American style sports bar, we showed up just in time to see the Celtics lose, whoops. Then we headed to a restaurant, and got serenaded by two traveling minstrels—their title, not ours. Thin, hippy-ish, and English, they were clearly two crazy lovebirds working out a dream. He was very talented; she was, um, mediocre. Even super-positive music-lover Ginny, who instantly became their number one fan, had to admit, “She’s dead weight.” Lol. At that restaurant we made friends with an American, who was taking a summer-long sabbatical before entering business school. Cary was appropriately supportive but later admitted his proposed school was pretty second-tier. Another point against him: that story about his crazy day yesterday where he went kayaking and got hideously lost because he did some mushrooms that were stronger than he’d expected. (Cary: “He would be going into a joint MBA/JD degree.”) He was nice though. And later I got to touch his chest! He had a nice six-pack, even if I only got to see it because he was trying to prove he’d been shot in the chest while fighting off a mugger in Boston (MA was an unexpected theme of this trip). I may not be a city ER OT, but I think a gunshot wound sustained at close quarters should end up being larger than a freckle. At the time, I pretended to believe him—it’s been a long time between six packs for me.
After that bar, we went to another one. I should mention at this point that we were drinking (UVA student, Vandy student—of COURSE we were drinking) and, in the spirit of full discretion, my sisters can drink me under the table. Somehow the Savage family genetic predisposition to high tolerance skipped me entirely. I get wasted every time I visit home, since my parents go through a bottle and a half a night and I get tipsy after half a glass. Cary and Ginny have good, strong livers. I’m a lightweight. And through the power of poor decision making, I was matching them drink for drink.
So take it with a grain of salt when I tell you that at this bar were three of the hottest men I have EVER seen. I will say that Cary and Ginny have confirmed my impression—they were so beautiful we moseyed over and charmed our way into their dart game (and no, not because we are good at darts—see rock discussion above). To make them even sexier—they were BRITISH. With British accents. Swoon. One of them, whose name I can’t spell, not only looked like a movie star but was half Welsh and half Italian. So unfair, right? Anyway, he made up the rules to this dart game on the spot but was too drunk to keep them straight; the fact that I ended up NOT losing is a testimony to the flexibility of his rules. But who needs short-term memory when you’re that gorgeous??
We finally got kicked out of the bar, and made our way back to the hotel. And the next morning (which was a good four hours later) Cary and I got up and attempted to hike. Stay tuned for the next installment, in which our heroine fights an epic battle between her dignity and her lungs.
If you're still interested, here we go.
In the morning, as we were waiting for Ginny, we had time to play with the German Shepherds. One of them had found a rock, and she decided it was the perfect size for playing fetch. She and her friend had discovered a good game. If the rock was thrown, she would chase it, and the friend would hang back and let her pick it up, then run along next to her, gnawing at her neck as if she wanted the rock. Clearly they were sisters. Once they realized we were up for playing, the dog with the rock would inch forward towards us, drop the rock, and back away, keeping her eyes on the rock. The belief was palpable in her eyes. If she stared at the rock long enough, it would levitate and fling itself across the yard. It was our moral duty not to disappoint them. Unfortunately, despite my father the baseball lover’s attempt to teach his female children to throw, neither Cary nor I have anything remotely resembling aim. We throw like men, not girls, but somehow in the opposite direction of where we intended. Those dogs followed that rock into the puddle, headfirst into a wall, and even into a pile of other rocks. They were very dedicated.
When Ginny got there, we walked down to the dock on Lake Atitlan. While there are many professional-looking boats, the only acceptable way to get across the water to San Pedro is in these blue motorboats that look like recycled bathtubs. You hand the man 25Q, toss your bags in the front, and climb onto the bench seats. In case you’re wondering, I downsized from my gigantic duffel to an overnight backpack, which is good, cause my duffel probably would have sunk it. The thirteen year old at the wheel revs the motor and you take off like a drag racer. The lake is wide, deep, and choppy, and the only acceptable speed is full out. I spent the whole time clinging to the side of the boat, torn between laughing with exhilaration (I LOVE going fast over water—jet skis, ski boats, you name it) and mentally running through my list of irreplaceable items that would be lost when one of our huge BOOOMs coming over the other side of a wake wave inevitably shattered the bottom of our noble vessel. We’d waited to the afternoon to cross, and the clouds were obscuring most of our view, but slowly San Pedro appeared out of the mist, its concentration of buildings looking almost like a coral reef rising directly from the water and crawling up the side of the volcano. Ginny pointed out our hotel, to our left, white and square, jutting out over the lake like a cruise ship. Improvably, we docked at the newly built wooden pier, and embarked on San Pedro.
My first experience of San Pedro was that Ginny knew the banana bread lady. She will tell you she is not the most social person ever, but, honestly, if the lady selling banana bread on the dock squeals “Hola!” and throws her arm around your neck because she is happy to see you again, you may have corned the market on social. Banana bread is huge in San Pedro. Multiple little ladies in their Mayan gear sit on corners, all using the same catchphrase: “Pan de banana, banana bread!” They’re like the baseball stadium vendors of Guatemala. It is amazing to me how you can say the same thing so many times with exactly the same inflection, especially when it’s so cheerful. We had some banana bread on our climb up Indian Nose (see below) and it singlehandedly saved my life, so I remember it fondly.
Ginny tells me San Pedro is immensely popular with expatriates. Apparently backpackers have a habit of falling in love with place and simply staying, the most enterprising of them opening hostels or restaurants. The place has an organic feel; there is one main road and it creeps and crawls through town so much so that I was tempted to trail a ball of yarn behind me so I could find my way back out through the labyrinth. At one point we turned and walked through a three-foot tunnel created by two walls. When I asked Ginny if this was the main road, she was like, um, duh. To get to the hotel, the road turned into a path that went directly past a pasture with a rusting lawnmower and two emaciated horses. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it, but my parents went to visit her a few months before us, and it was greatly entertaining to imagine them having the same experience as us. My parents are wonderful people but they think Hampton Inn is roughing it. I would have paid money to see my boat-phobic mother survive the trip across the lake, and the image of my parents carrying their bags down that path by the horses makes me giggle.
Hotel Mikaso was by far my favorite place we stayed. Multiple stories, with an open air courtyard filled with climbing birds of paradise, it is a treasure trove of balconies and patios, all of which look out to the lake. Due to some environmental concerns, the lake’s water level has risen this year, and it laps at the base of the building, so again you feel like you’re on the cruise ship the hotel resembles. We took lots of time to just sit on the lounge chairs, and for the first time the trip felt like a tropical vacation.
That night we went out. In our first stop, an American style sports bar, we showed up just in time to see the Celtics lose, whoops. Then we headed to a restaurant, and got serenaded by two traveling minstrels—their title, not ours. Thin, hippy-ish, and English, they were clearly two crazy lovebirds working out a dream. He was very talented; she was, um, mediocre. Even super-positive music-lover Ginny, who instantly became their number one fan, had to admit, “She’s dead weight.” Lol. At that restaurant we made friends with an American, who was taking a summer-long sabbatical before entering business school. Cary was appropriately supportive but later admitted his proposed school was pretty second-tier. Another point against him: that story about his crazy day yesterday where he went kayaking and got hideously lost because he did some mushrooms that were stronger than he’d expected. (Cary: “He would be going into a joint MBA/JD degree.”) He was nice though. And later I got to touch his chest! He had a nice six-pack, even if I only got to see it because he was trying to prove he’d been shot in the chest while fighting off a mugger in Boston (MA was an unexpected theme of this trip). I may not be a city ER OT, but I think a gunshot wound sustained at close quarters should end up being larger than a freckle. At the time, I pretended to believe him—it’s been a long time between six packs for me.
After that bar, we went to another one. I should mention at this point that we were drinking (UVA student, Vandy student—of COURSE we were drinking) and, in the spirit of full discretion, my sisters can drink me under the table. Somehow the Savage family genetic predisposition to high tolerance skipped me entirely. I get wasted every time I visit home, since my parents go through a bottle and a half a night and I get tipsy after half a glass. Cary and Ginny have good, strong livers. I’m a lightweight. And through the power of poor decision making, I was matching them drink for drink.
So take it with a grain of salt when I tell you that at this bar were three of the hottest men I have EVER seen. I will say that Cary and Ginny have confirmed my impression—they were so beautiful we moseyed over and charmed our way into their dart game (and no, not because we are good at darts—see rock discussion above). To make them even sexier—they were BRITISH. With British accents. Swoon. One of them, whose name I can’t spell, not only looked like a movie star but was half Welsh and half Italian. So unfair, right? Anyway, he made up the rules to this dart game on the spot but was too drunk to keep them straight; the fact that I ended up NOT losing is a testimony to the flexibility of his rules. But who needs short-term memory when you’re that gorgeous??
We finally got kicked out of the bar, and made our way back to the hotel. And the next morning (which was a good four hours later) Cary and I got up and attempted to hike. Stay tuned for the next installment, in which our heroine fights an epic battle between her dignity and her lungs.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Happier Thoughts
Thank you for your kind comments :) They were appreciated!
Sad news first: my Mema has in fact passed on. She is in a better place. And I am sure she is rolling her eyes at us making such a big fuss down here.
I am trying to focus on the good, and take happiness in the small things. And to keep finding the humor in life. Which is why I wanted to share a small fact about my current life and see if it brings you as many giggles as it does me.
I have obese cats.
Seriously. Yesterday was their yearly check-up (note: I cannot BELIEVE it has been a year with the penguin babies!! seems like just yesterday I was fuzzball-less!) and while I walked in feeling all proud of myself since I was out-catlike-reflexed my cats and got them both in their carriers in about 30 seconds flat, I left feeling like a horrible mother. Last year at this time, Lulu was 7 lbs and Lele was 6 lbs. Yesterday, Lulu was 10 lbs and Lele was 9 lbs. Doesn't sound so bad, especially when you think about my parents' cat who weighs 17 lbs, but then I did the math; both of them have gained approximately half their original body weight in the space of a year.
Whoops.
Pause for Minkie-cat cameo (Parents' Cat):
Have you ever seen obesity look so cute?
ANYWAY.
The vet was nice. I am feeding them within her recommended level, but apparently my babies have slow metabolisms. And are super lazy. They are sitting here next to me sleeping to prove it. So it is up to me, the responsible adults, to slim their waistlines.
Like most women, I have issues with food. The main one is that, for all that my parents installed good morals in me, they also taught me that food is a reward. My mother is the originator of the famous concepts that you can only eat cookies in even numbers (1 cookie is never permissable) and that if you break a cookie, the calories fall out. Wisdom for the ages. Chocolate is my coping mechanism and my happy place. It's bad. So when it comes to being responsible for other beings' food, I tend to err on the side of too much because it feels like less food equals less love. It's so warped!! And it's not fair to my cats. I'm really counting on a sane co-parent to save my kids from my food issues in the future.
Also, since I've yet to convince them soft penguin bellies are made to be rubbed, they might as well be smaller. :)
So we have a plan, and not one that involves calling Michelle Obama to get information on her healthy kids initiative, although that was my first thought. I'm reducing the amount of food and we've changed from Indoor Health formula to Healthy Weight formula. If you've never fed a cat, you might be interested to know you can't just switch willy-nilly between different kind of foods. You have to titrate in the new stuff to slowly get their systems used to it. So while my cat food container is only partly full of Indoor Health formula, I don't want to pour in the Healthy Weight formula to mix quit yet. Which is why I left the new bag of food on the counter. Which is why I had to stop my yoga routine to investigate the rustling noises that indicated a certain bag had been discovered by certain felines. Which is why I had to hide the bag in my small kitchen. Which is why I had to send my friend a text message that said, "Remind me to take out the diet cat food before I turn on the oven again."
Oh well. You gotta laugh.
Have a good night :)
Sad news first: my Mema has in fact passed on. She is in a better place. And I am sure she is rolling her eyes at us making such a big fuss down here.
I am trying to focus on the good, and take happiness in the small things. And to keep finding the humor in life. Which is why I wanted to share a small fact about my current life and see if it brings you as many giggles as it does me.
I have obese cats.
Seriously. Yesterday was their yearly check-up (note: I cannot BELIEVE it has been a year with the penguin babies!! seems like just yesterday I was fuzzball-less!) and while I walked in feeling all proud of myself since I was out-catlike-reflexed my cats and got them both in their carriers in about 30 seconds flat, I left feeling like a horrible mother. Last year at this time, Lulu was 7 lbs and Lele was 6 lbs. Yesterday, Lulu was 10 lbs and Lele was 9 lbs. Doesn't sound so bad, especially when you think about my parents' cat who weighs 17 lbs, but then I did the math; both of them have gained approximately half their original body weight in the space of a year.
Whoops.
Pause for Minkie-cat cameo (Parents' Cat):
Have you ever seen obesity look so cute?
ANYWAY.
The vet was nice. I am feeding them within her recommended level, but apparently my babies have slow metabolisms. And are super lazy. They are sitting here next to me sleeping to prove it. So it is up to me, the responsible adults, to slim their waistlines.
Like most women, I have issues with food. The main one is that, for all that my parents installed good morals in me, they also taught me that food is a reward. My mother is the originator of the famous concepts that you can only eat cookies in even numbers (1 cookie is never permissable) and that if you break a cookie, the calories fall out. Wisdom for the ages. Chocolate is my coping mechanism and my happy place. It's bad. So when it comes to being responsible for other beings' food, I tend to err on the side of too much because it feels like less food equals less love. It's so warped!! And it's not fair to my cats. I'm really counting on a sane co-parent to save my kids from my food issues in the future.
Also, since I've yet to convince them soft penguin bellies are made to be rubbed, they might as well be smaller. :)
So we have a plan, and not one that involves calling Michelle Obama to get information on her healthy kids initiative, although that was my first thought. I'm reducing the amount of food and we've changed from Indoor Health formula to Healthy Weight formula. If you've never fed a cat, you might be interested to know you can't just switch willy-nilly between different kind of foods. You have to titrate in the new stuff to slowly get their systems used to it. So while my cat food container is only partly full of Indoor Health formula, I don't want to pour in the Healthy Weight formula to mix quit yet. Which is why I left the new bag of food on the counter. Which is why I had to stop my yoga routine to investigate the rustling noises that indicated a certain bag had been discovered by certain felines. Which is why I had to hide the bag in my small kitchen. Which is why I had to send my friend a text message that said, "Remind me to take out the diet cat food before I turn on the oven again."
Oh well. You gotta laugh.
Have a good night :)
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Who Looks Forward to Monday?
Well, other than people who LOVE their job.
I'm looking forward to Monday, because the weekend will be over. And before I feel bad about wishing time away, let me tell you that this weekend has been really, really rough. Warning: read only if you are in a mood to be at least slightly depressed.
My grandmother is dying. She is 86, so it is not a giant tragedy in the theoretical scheme of things, but it sucks in practice. It has been one of the greatest blessings of my life to have grown up with all four grandparents alive, fairly healthy, and physically/emotionally present. It's been awesome, but of course this has its downside, mainly, like getting used to having them around, and finding it very upsetting when they aren't able to be any more. The first loss came about seven years ago, when my dad's mother passed away from cancer. As cancer deaths go, it was fairly quick and peaceful, and I was fairly removed from the process, as my grandfather fiercely guarded her privacy and didn't allow me to see her the last few weeks of her life. It was very disconcerting, to all of a sudden have one of my favorite people in the whole world, not just my family, suddenly not be there anymore (I don't exaggerate how wonderful she was--for her eulogy, the minister substituted her name for the word "love" in Corinthians 13, and it was pretty darn close to accurate). The loss was slightly mitigated by the fact that my grandfather has since remarried, to one of my second favorite people in the whole world, and we grandkids got an incredible "bonus-Mema" to even out the 4 person standard.
My mom's dad passed away last year. It was a little less tragic in that he was older, and had been declining, and actively complaining about stil being alive, for years, but traumatic in its own ways I won't really go into. In this case, as well, I was a bit removed, and didn't see him for the last few months he was here.
This grandparent loss in a lot of ways has been the hardest. Through my whole life, this Mema has been an eternal presence. It's not always been for the better, she has a sometimes contentious relationship with my mom, and she is not exactly the sweet grandma you see on tv (I vividly remember being so excited to show her how well I could play Chopsticks on the piano, and she giving me this giant smile and saying "Oh, I've always thought that was the most annoying song in the world, haven't you?" Hmph.) but I love her. Short, quirky, and feisty, she was the grandparent who was at every Christmas dinner and every school event. Despite loads of family drama and more health problems than you can shake a stick at (breast cancer multiple times, skin cancer, three hip replacements--and no, she's not a tripod, she broke 1 hip replacement--etc, etc), she took everything in her stride, and just kept going on, traveling and socializing without seemingly any worries in the world, our personal family Energizer bunny.
A few weeks ago, the Energizer bunny got knocked over. Her congestive heart failure flared up and she went into acute renal failure. They tuned her up and discharged her, and while for the first time in her life she was unable to live independently, it seemed like she was stable. I had a bad feeling in my gut, though. I don't claim to be psychic, but having seen her a few weeks ago when she was still weak from an UTI, and hearing about these health problems, I had a really bad sense of the future. And while normally I am relieved to hear I am always right (because I am always right :) this time, I was not so happy. I got a call on Thursday night that the doctor had said Mema might not make it through the night.
Although I debated going to Norfolk that minute, I hate leaving my coworkers with no coverage, and put a half day in on Friday, driving home like a bat out of hell (which, to be fair, is only a few miles faster than my normal speed) at noon. And Mema was still there. She is actually still here, but only in body. Having a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, I can't believe she is here, and that she was as alert as she was for so long. Multiple systems are failing or have failed, and as she is DNR and is refusing any treatment to prolong her life, it has to be just a matter of time. Unfortunately, one thing that is not failing is her sense of pain, and managing it has proven to be difficult. She is finally on a morphine drip, and seems finally to be out of it enough to not feel the pain anymore.
So, that is awful. She has always been so with it, but this weekend she was confused and agitated, and distracted by the waves of pain that kept hitting her. After a good long ugly cry on Thursday--you know, the kind that sends your cats running for cover with each loud, honking noise-- I've made my peace with my grief over the pure loss of my Mema, but there are so many other things to struggle with. It is so hard to watch someone you love be in pain. And the situation is doubled because of how much my mother is suffering, watching her mother suffer. Watching them, they make a good case for euthanasia. Obviously politically it is hard to endorse something that can be so terribly abused, but personally? I'd be hard pressed to judge the nurse for giving a little too much morphine.
Anyway, to add to it this is the severely dysfunctional side of the family--as opposed to the slightly dysfunctional side of the family-- and the dysfunction is in full force. There's the uncle who means well but is just plain dumb (I guess I should say socially unintelligent, but my patience has been tested), the aunt who is super needy and who should be tolerable since she is long distance but who has discovered text messaging and is proving 140 characters is plenty of time to be unnecessarily attention-seeking, the uncle who still hasn't forgiven my parents for the drama around my granddad's death and who never misses even the slightest opportunity to say something snide and belittling to or about them, the aunt who is a terminal one-upper ("Oh, Ginny is teaching English in Guatemala? Well, the last time I was in Central America I spent the whole time mixing concrete for the new school in a bucket with my feet!") and so on and so forth. Being forced to spend so much time with them is close to as painful for my mom as watching her mom be in so much misery. And watching her be in pain is painful.
And in the nature of things, I am the only daughter who could come home. I mean, it's getting ridiculous at this point. I don't consider myself tied to the apron strings; I have lived in lots of faraway places, and done cool stuff in my life, and at many other neutral, un-morbid times, my sisters have been the ones within driving distance versus me. Yet I have managed to be the only one there at the time for each one of these grandparent losses. Right now, Cary is in Seattle, Ginny is in Guatemala, and clearly neither of them can get to Norfolk as fast as I can from Charlottesville. It is purely bad timing, and while I am always happy I could be there, it is so hard to be there by yourself. I wanted my sisters.
And I wanted my significant other. Who, lest we forget, doesn't exist. And before you start saying, wow, can you make everything about being single, well, in this case, I stand by my sadness. Last year at my grandfather's funeral, Cary had Chris and Ginny had Dan, and I had no one. Clearly, I don't have "no one" in my life. Lucky as I am I have plenty of people to love and who love me, and I am grateful for each one. My friends have been heroic in being my rock, both by being awesome forces of light in my everyday life and in cases such as this weekend, where they let me hug and call and cry and act like a whiner as much as I needed, often despite the fact that they're dealing with their own hard stuff. But there is a difference; I don't have that person to whom I can say, I need you to come to Norfolk with me this weekend and sit in a hospital room watching my grandmother pass, and know without question they will be there. I don't have that person who is there solely to hold my hand after I finish holding my Mema's or my mother's. It's probably a selfish wish, but after a while, you start to wonder how many more traumatic life events you make it through without that kind of support. Or, how many positive events--moments like when we touched down in Guatemala, and Cary texted Chris, and Ginny texted Dan, and I...updated my facebook. Quite a bit of a disconnect. But what can you do?
So anyway, to add to the sadness, I got a phone call from one of my best friends telling me her bofriend's dog had died, suddenly. Seems like small potatoes in comparison to the grandmother, but damn, I loved that dog. He was a big goofy golden retriever who chewed my socks and jumped up on me, and he was just pure joyous love. I always called him my boyfriend. And my friend and her boyfriend loved that dog, and they are of course devastated. Having them be devastated, and me be devastated, was an awful lot to add to an already sad day. The ONLY good news is that, Lucky adds to our family friend who died two weeks ago of liver failure, which adds to my grandmother, and we may have hit the magic three, which yes, is what passes for good news right about now. And hopefully that means things will turn around.
Ok, so that is the story of my weekend. I feel so guilty for having left the family and coming back to Charlottesville, but there is always work, and Mema will never notice the distance. And I am so tired. My head has not stopped hurting and my heart has not stopped aching since that Thursday night phone call. It will be pretty nice to shelve personal stuff and freak out about work stuff for a few hours at a time. Warped, no?
Thank you for letting me journal (aka cry online). I appreciate it, and I appreciate you, and I know everyone is going through their own struggles, and I wish you the best with them. Feel free to call on me as I have called on you. hugs and best wishes.
I'm looking forward to Monday, because the weekend will be over. And before I feel bad about wishing time away, let me tell you that this weekend has been really, really rough. Warning: read only if you are in a mood to be at least slightly depressed.
My grandmother is dying. She is 86, so it is not a giant tragedy in the theoretical scheme of things, but it sucks in practice. It has been one of the greatest blessings of my life to have grown up with all four grandparents alive, fairly healthy, and physically/emotionally present. It's been awesome, but of course this has its downside, mainly, like getting used to having them around, and finding it very upsetting when they aren't able to be any more. The first loss came about seven years ago, when my dad's mother passed away from cancer. As cancer deaths go, it was fairly quick and peaceful, and I was fairly removed from the process, as my grandfather fiercely guarded her privacy and didn't allow me to see her the last few weeks of her life. It was very disconcerting, to all of a sudden have one of my favorite people in the whole world, not just my family, suddenly not be there anymore (I don't exaggerate how wonderful she was--for her eulogy, the minister substituted her name for the word "love" in Corinthians 13, and it was pretty darn close to accurate). The loss was slightly mitigated by the fact that my grandfather has since remarried, to one of my second favorite people in the whole world, and we grandkids got an incredible "bonus-Mema" to even out the 4 person standard.
My mom's dad passed away last year. It was a little less tragic in that he was older, and had been declining, and actively complaining about stil being alive, for years, but traumatic in its own ways I won't really go into. In this case, as well, I was a bit removed, and didn't see him for the last few months he was here.
This grandparent loss in a lot of ways has been the hardest. Through my whole life, this Mema has been an eternal presence. It's not always been for the better, she has a sometimes contentious relationship with my mom, and she is not exactly the sweet grandma you see on tv (I vividly remember being so excited to show her how well I could play Chopsticks on the piano, and she giving me this giant smile and saying "Oh, I've always thought that was the most annoying song in the world, haven't you?" Hmph.) but I love her. Short, quirky, and feisty, she was the grandparent who was at every Christmas dinner and every school event. Despite loads of family drama and more health problems than you can shake a stick at (breast cancer multiple times, skin cancer, three hip replacements--and no, she's not a tripod, she broke 1 hip replacement--etc, etc), she took everything in her stride, and just kept going on, traveling and socializing without seemingly any worries in the world, our personal family Energizer bunny.
A few weeks ago, the Energizer bunny got knocked over. Her congestive heart failure flared up and she went into acute renal failure. They tuned her up and discharged her, and while for the first time in her life she was unable to live independently, it seemed like she was stable. I had a bad feeling in my gut, though. I don't claim to be psychic, but having seen her a few weeks ago when she was still weak from an UTI, and hearing about these health problems, I had a really bad sense of the future. And while normally I am relieved to hear I am always right (because I am always right :) this time, I was not so happy. I got a call on Thursday night that the doctor had said Mema might not make it through the night.
Although I debated going to Norfolk that minute, I hate leaving my coworkers with no coverage, and put a half day in on Friday, driving home like a bat out of hell (which, to be fair, is only a few miles faster than my normal speed) at noon. And Mema was still there. She is actually still here, but only in body. Having a rudimentary knowledge of medicine, I can't believe she is here, and that she was as alert as she was for so long. Multiple systems are failing or have failed, and as she is DNR and is refusing any treatment to prolong her life, it has to be just a matter of time. Unfortunately, one thing that is not failing is her sense of pain, and managing it has proven to be difficult. She is finally on a morphine drip, and seems finally to be out of it enough to not feel the pain anymore.
So, that is awful. She has always been so with it, but this weekend she was confused and agitated, and distracted by the waves of pain that kept hitting her. After a good long ugly cry on Thursday--you know, the kind that sends your cats running for cover with each loud, honking noise-- I've made my peace with my grief over the pure loss of my Mema, but there are so many other things to struggle with. It is so hard to watch someone you love be in pain. And the situation is doubled because of how much my mother is suffering, watching her mother suffer. Watching them, they make a good case for euthanasia. Obviously politically it is hard to endorse something that can be so terribly abused, but personally? I'd be hard pressed to judge the nurse for giving a little too much morphine.
Anyway, to add to it this is the severely dysfunctional side of the family--as opposed to the slightly dysfunctional side of the family-- and the dysfunction is in full force. There's the uncle who means well but is just plain dumb (I guess I should say socially unintelligent, but my patience has been tested), the aunt who is super needy and who should be tolerable since she is long distance but who has discovered text messaging and is proving 140 characters is plenty of time to be unnecessarily attention-seeking, the uncle who still hasn't forgiven my parents for the drama around my granddad's death and who never misses even the slightest opportunity to say something snide and belittling to or about them, the aunt who is a terminal one-upper ("Oh, Ginny is teaching English in Guatemala? Well, the last time I was in Central America I spent the whole time mixing concrete for the new school in a bucket with my feet!") and so on and so forth. Being forced to spend so much time with them is close to as painful for my mom as watching her mom be in so much misery. And watching her be in pain is painful.
And in the nature of things, I am the only daughter who could come home. I mean, it's getting ridiculous at this point. I don't consider myself tied to the apron strings; I have lived in lots of faraway places, and done cool stuff in my life, and at many other neutral, un-morbid times, my sisters have been the ones within driving distance versus me. Yet I have managed to be the only one there at the time for each one of these grandparent losses. Right now, Cary is in Seattle, Ginny is in Guatemala, and clearly neither of them can get to Norfolk as fast as I can from Charlottesville. It is purely bad timing, and while I am always happy I could be there, it is so hard to be there by yourself. I wanted my sisters.
And I wanted my significant other. Who, lest we forget, doesn't exist. And before you start saying, wow, can you make everything about being single, well, in this case, I stand by my sadness. Last year at my grandfather's funeral, Cary had Chris and Ginny had Dan, and I had no one. Clearly, I don't have "no one" in my life. Lucky as I am I have plenty of people to love and who love me, and I am grateful for each one. My friends have been heroic in being my rock, both by being awesome forces of light in my everyday life and in cases such as this weekend, where they let me hug and call and cry and act like a whiner as much as I needed, often despite the fact that they're dealing with their own hard stuff. But there is a difference; I don't have that person to whom I can say, I need you to come to Norfolk with me this weekend and sit in a hospital room watching my grandmother pass, and know without question they will be there. I don't have that person who is there solely to hold my hand after I finish holding my Mema's or my mother's. It's probably a selfish wish, but after a while, you start to wonder how many more traumatic life events you make it through without that kind of support. Or, how many positive events--moments like when we touched down in Guatemala, and Cary texted Chris, and Ginny texted Dan, and I...updated my facebook. Quite a bit of a disconnect. But what can you do?
So anyway, to add to the sadness, I got a phone call from one of my best friends telling me her bofriend's dog had died, suddenly. Seems like small potatoes in comparison to the grandmother, but damn, I loved that dog. He was a big goofy golden retriever who chewed my socks and jumped up on me, and he was just pure joyous love. I always called him my boyfriend. And my friend and her boyfriend loved that dog, and they are of course devastated. Having them be devastated, and me be devastated, was an awful lot to add to an already sad day. The ONLY good news is that, Lucky adds to our family friend who died two weeks ago of liver failure, which adds to my grandmother, and we may have hit the magic three, which yes, is what passes for good news right about now. And hopefully that means things will turn around.
Ok, so that is the story of my weekend. I feel so guilty for having left the family and coming back to Charlottesville, but there is always work, and Mema will never notice the distance. And I am so tired. My head has not stopped hurting and my heart has not stopped aching since that Thursday night phone call. It will be pretty nice to shelve personal stuff and freak out about work stuff for a few hours at a time. Warped, no?
Thank you for letting me journal (aka cry online). I appreciate it, and I appreciate you, and I know everyone is going through their own struggles, and I wish you the best with them. Feel free to call on me as I have called on you. hugs and best wishes.
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