Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Fun With Politics
A few fun pics I've come across lately, catering to left-wing political humor...if you enjoy, then good...if not, then well, sorry (not really, but...)
Monday, November 29, 2010
And The Band Is Still Playing
I recently purchased a children's book for Bryony at Goodwill, by notable children's book author and illustrator John Steptoe. As I was reading the book flap about this young man, I was startled to discover that he was written about in the past tense, indicating that he was deceased. This morning I did a little online research to discover that he indeed had died in 1989, according to Wikipedia "of unknown causes." Another article indicated that he had died "after a long illness." These expressions, meant to throw the reader off, are familiar to me. If you've ever seen the made-for-HBO movie "And The Band Played On" (based on the book of the same name by Randy Shilts) you might remember that during the early days of the AIDS epidemic, phrases like these were used to explain away the deaths of celebrities and the wealthy elite when their families were too ashamed to admit the actual cause of death.
Sure enough, after more searching, I found that author John Steptoe had died of "complications due to AIDS", according to his 1989 obituary in the New York Times. What I don't understand is why, if in 1989 (when HIV and AIDS were still incredibly taboo with all the social stigmas of the day attached) the truth behind his death was made public, in 2010 some outlets still are trying to cover it up? It was very easy for me to find out the true cause behind his death; anyone writing a Wikipedia article on him could have found the NY Times article or any number of other articles to reference for their entry. I wonder if we are still living in an age where some people see HIV and AIDS as ways to stigmatize.
In the early 80s when the public health community first started seeing signs of a new disease that primarily seemed to be affecting the gay community, the government and much of society brushed aside concerns about what would become known as GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency), or in the gay community "Gay Cancer." It didn't take long for the scientific and public health communities to realize that this was a not a gay disease, but a human disease that could affect anyone. The move to rename GRID to AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) was made, and HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) was identified as the viral strain that eventually led to AIDS. Although it took time, the U.S. and the world started to wake up. Young heterosexual people began to die of AIDS, celebrities succumbed, the Gay Men's Health Crisis was established, the AIDS quilt took shape, AIDS prevention programs sprung up worldwide. And, while it took some time, death rates attributed to AIDS started to decline. Much of this had to do with the increase in antiretroviral drugs which prolonged the lifespan considerably (and often indefinitely) of someone living with HIV/AIDS, but the infection rate tapered off over the years, too. And with fewer people becoming infected and dying, the money for prevention programs started to dry up and many observers declared that the AIDS crisis was over. There were studies and anecdotal evidence that many young people were not afraid of becoming infected with HIV because of the abundance of "cocktail" drugs available to keep them alive; safe sex and safe intravenous drug use fell by the wayside.
In recent years, we've seen HIV/AIDS rates spiking in communities that don't have the same social capital as the gay community, or that are so unprepared for high infection rates that there has been a communication breakdown simply due to the sensitivity of the subject matter. In the last ten years or so, HIV/AIDS rates have spiked in the black community, particularly amongst black women. There are stories of married black men going "on the down low", or having secret gay sex with other men, and then passing various STD's (sexually transmitted diseases), including HIV, to their wives. Young black girls in poorer areas are not always exposed to the facts of safe sex and HIV/AIDS prevention, and so many of them enter into sexual relationships in their teen years with boys who have not had protected sex with previous partners. The rates of infection are spiking.
The other group hit by recent increases in HIV infections, believe it or not, are seniors. These are folks who have been in committed, monogamous relationships their entire adult lives. Then, their partner dies and they find themselves back on the dating scene again. In their day, you didn't talk much about things like sex and condoms and disease prevention, mainly because you didn't have to; you had one partner and you stuck with that person (presumably) only. Now, even seniors are more promiscuous than they might have been in their youth and in turn, they are contracting and spreading disease amongst themselves. It's a tough situation; how many grandpas and grandmas really want to talk about their sexual practices and health to anyone, let alone each other or their doctors?
I really don't know why I've gotten off on this incredibly long tangent about AIDS. This commentary really just was meant to point out that even in 2010 we still have lingering stigmas associated with HIV/AIDS, and I'm not sure why. Even more, I wonder how much damage this does to people who might otherwise seek out prevention or treatment advice. When will we get our heads out of the sand? For the John Steptoes and the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of other people who have succumbed to this awful disease, I feel a need to make a plea: Get rid of the stigma, for true, unbiased knowledge is the only way we're going to defeat this disease.
Sure enough, after more searching, I found that author John Steptoe had died of "complications due to AIDS", according to his 1989 obituary in the New York Times. What I don't understand is why, if in 1989 (when HIV and AIDS were still incredibly taboo with all the social stigmas of the day attached) the truth behind his death was made public, in 2010 some outlets still are trying to cover it up? It was very easy for me to find out the true cause behind his death; anyone writing a Wikipedia article on him could have found the NY Times article or any number of other articles to reference for their entry. I wonder if we are still living in an age where some people see HIV and AIDS as ways to stigmatize.
In the early 80s when the public health community first started seeing signs of a new disease that primarily seemed to be affecting the gay community, the government and much of society brushed aside concerns about what would become known as GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency), or in the gay community "Gay Cancer." It didn't take long for the scientific and public health communities to realize that this was a not a gay disease, but a human disease that could affect anyone. The move to rename GRID to AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) was made, and HIV (Human Immunodeficiency Virus) was identified as the viral strain that eventually led to AIDS. Although it took time, the U.S. and the world started to wake up. Young heterosexual people began to die of AIDS, celebrities succumbed, the Gay Men's Health Crisis was established, the AIDS quilt took shape, AIDS prevention programs sprung up worldwide. And, while it took some time, death rates attributed to AIDS started to decline. Much of this had to do with the increase in antiretroviral drugs which prolonged the lifespan considerably (and often indefinitely) of someone living with HIV/AIDS, but the infection rate tapered off over the years, too. And with fewer people becoming infected and dying, the money for prevention programs started to dry up and many observers declared that the AIDS crisis was over. There were studies and anecdotal evidence that many young people were not afraid of becoming infected with HIV because of the abundance of "cocktail" drugs available to keep them alive; safe sex and safe intravenous drug use fell by the wayside.
In recent years, we've seen HIV/AIDS rates spiking in communities that don't have the same social capital as the gay community, or that are so unprepared for high infection rates that there has been a communication breakdown simply due to the sensitivity of the subject matter. In the last ten years or so, HIV/AIDS rates have spiked in the black community, particularly amongst black women. There are stories of married black men going "on the down low", or having secret gay sex with other men, and then passing various STD's (sexually transmitted diseases), including HIV, to their wives. Young black girls in poorer areas are not always exposed to the facts of safe sex and HIV/AIDS prevention, and so many of them enter into sexual relationships in their teen years with boys who have not had protected sex with previous partners. The rates of infection are spiking.
The other group hit by recent increases in HIV infections, believe it or not, are seniors. These are folks who have been in committed, monogamous relationships their entire adult lives. Then, their partner dies and they find themselves back on the dating scene again. In their day, you didn't talk much about things like sex and condoms and disease prevention, mainly because you didn't have to; you had one partner and you stuck with that person (presumably) only. Now, even seniors are more promiscuous than they might have been in their youth and in turn, they are contracting and spreading disease amongst themselves. It's a tough situation; how many grandpas and grandmas really want to talk about their sexual practices and health to anyone, let alone each other or their doctors?
I really don't know why I've gotten off on this incredibly long tangent about AIDS. This commentary really just was meant to point out that even in 2010 we still have lingering stigmas associated with HIV/AIDS, and I'm not sure why. Even more, I wonder how much damage this does to people who might otherwise seek out prevention or treatment advice. When will we get our heads out of the sand? For the John Steptoes and the hundreds of thousands (millions?) of other people who have succumbed to this awful disease, I feel a need to make a plea: Get rid of the stigma, for true, unbiased knowledge is the only way we're going to defeat this disease.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
I'll Second That! Or, Maybe I Won't
Many of you might resent the fact that I'm devoting a blog post to this subject, but for me and many others that I know, the topic of weight is one that has had a lasting impression on us our entire lives. As a kid, my weight fluctuated as I kept growing up and out (and then in again, and then out, and...). As a teen, I dieted, purged (yes, I was one of those girls), starved, gave up, and then repeated the cycle. By my first year of college, I had starved myself to a thinness so shocking to my mother that she threatened to yank me out of school if she didn't see signs that I was dieting healthily. Then, as an adult, I started the fluctuation cycle again, envying all my thin friends in their skinny jeans and wrap-around long sweaters. In 2002, I started a diet/exercise regime that got me down to a size 4 comfortably (size 2 if I was willing to suffer a bit and only eat fruit that day), but also involved daily 2-mile runs, 3-mile bike rides and fruit cups for dinner. Moving to Michigan introduced me to extreme winter weather (aka limited outdoor exercise) and well, BEER (aka laden-with-calories-yummy-beverage). Now I am somewhere between a size 6 and 8, depending on the cut. Am I happy with that? Not exactly. I'd love to be a trim, toned size 4 again. But while I enjoy a daily run, I'm not going to succumb to eating like a gerbil to fit into those sized 4 jeans again.
Having said that, I feel like I've found the answer to my eating dilemma. I've heard this advice spoken a million times by dieticians, models, etc., but I never really put into practice. It wasn't until being at a friend's house for dinner that I realized the truth to it all. My friend, a 5'9" uber-slender beauty (and yes, she's had a kid and managed to fit into her skinny jeans within days of giving birth!) is a wonderful cook, always experimenting with new ethnic recipes. When I'm at her house, I'm likely have to peanut-sauce-covered Chinese long beans, Thai butternut squash, and tofu and veggie curry all on the same plate. It's oh-so-very-yummy and I always get so excited about the obscene yumminess of it all that inevitably I have seconds on some--or all--of it. But my friend and her husband always only eat one serving of everything, and sometimes they don't even finish that. So then I always feel a little piggy and greedy and mortified as I'm shovelling the last spoonfuls down my throat.
My friend's husband is French (well, his mother is, and he speaks fluent French and has spent a lot of time in France). My friend also speaks French and has spent time in France. I realized that they really do follow the traditional French diet--eating slowly and eating only one portion. Americans are bad about savoring our food. We enjoy tastes, but we tend to eat fast and furious, eating MORE as a way of enjoying flavors, rather than eating slowly. We then end up full and uncomfortable, our buttons on the verge of bursting, our food babies only matched by our food comas. How nice would it be to eat small bites, letting those wonderful flavors penetrate our taste buds while we enjoy the warm conversation of our loved ones. To allow our stomachs to become naturally satisfied as the food settles in for digestion, rather than the American tradition of snarfing down food and then eating more before you have a chance to become satisfied.
Last night, we made some incredibly yummy and decadent portabello stuffed ravioli with a creamy mushroom alfredo sauce. Polished off with red wine (I know, creamy dishes should have a white wine, but I already had a red open and it suited the meal anyway) it was such a delightful meal. As I was heading back to sit down with my second helping, I realized I didn't really need it. Before I could eat any of it, I jumped up, scraped everything back into the pot and sat down to enjoy the rest of my wine. I felt satisfied both in my belly and in my mind. What a novel concept--satisfied, not full!
So, maybe if I keep this up, I'll fit back into those size 4 pants yet.
Or, maybe I should wait until after Thanksgiving dinner.
Having said that, I feel like I've found the answer to my eating dilemma. I've heard this advice spoken a million times by dieticians, models, etc., but I never really put into practice. It wasn't until being at a friend's house for dinner that I realized the truth to it all. My friend, a 5'9" uber-slender beauty (and yes, she's had a kid and managed to fit into her skinny jeans within days of giving birth!) is a wonderful cook, always experimenting with new ethnic recipes. When I'm at her house, I'm likely have to peanut-sauce-covered Chinese long beans, Thai butternut squash, and tofu and veggie curry all on the same plate. It's oh-so-very-yummy and I always get so excited about the obscene yumminess of it all that inevitably I have seconds on some--or all--of it. But my friend and her husband always only eat one serving of everything, and sometimes they don't even finish that. So then I always feel a little piggy and greedy and mortified as I'm shovelling the last spoonfuls down my throat.
My friend's husband is French (well, his mother is, and he speaks fluent French and has spent a lot of time in France). My friend also speaks French and has spent time in France. I realized that they really do follow the traditional French diet--eating slowly and eating only one portion. Americans are bad about savoring our food. We enjoy tastes, but we tend to eat fast and furious, eating MORE as a way of enjoying flavors, rather than eating slowly. We then end up full and uncomfortable, our buttons on the verge of bursting, our food babies only matched by our food comas. How nice would it be to eat small bites, letting those wonderful flavors penetrate our taste buds while we enjoy the warm conversation of our loved ones. To allow our stomachs to become naturally satisfied as the food settles in for digestion, rather than the American tradition of snarfing down food and then eating more before you have a chance to become satisfied.
Last night, we made some incredibly yummy and decadent portabello stuffed ravioli with a creamy mushroom alfredo sauce. Polished off with red wine (I know, creamy dishes should have a white wine, but I already had a red open and it suited the meal anyway) it was such a delightful meal. As I was heading back to sit down with my second helping, I realized I didn't really need it. Before I could eat any of it, I jumped up, scraped everything back into the pot and sat down to enjoy the rest of my wine. I felt satisfied both in my belly and in my mind. What a novel concept--satisfied, not full!
So, maybe if I keep this up, I'll fit back into those size 4 pants yet.
Or, maybe I should wait until after Thanksgiving dinner.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Meow Mix
So we did end up bringing in the kitten last night. It was getting rather chilly out and we just couldn't imagine her spening another night out there (and yes, it's a girl, after all!). So after hours camped outside our apartment door, I finally picked her up, brought her inside and promptly bathed her in the kitchen sink. Of course, she hated it at first, but by the end of the process I had a calm, clean, towel-swaddled kitty looking up at me.
Since we didn't know what, if any, diseases she might have, we had to keep her secluded from Greg House. Bryony and I kept going to visit her in the bathroom where we had set her up with water, food and a litter box. She mewed and purred. Bryony fell in love and I felt a little taken by her, too.
Somewhere during the course of night, however, reality started to sink in. Another cat? More vet bills? As it is, we're single-handedly financing our local vet with Greg House's monthly treatments, and Kika's old age issues have required several visits in the six months that we've lived here. The idea of getting a new kitten spayed, vaccinated, possibly declawed and treated for goodness-knows-what-else was overwhelming. Especially since we're currently a one-income family trying to pay off debt and save for hard times that might lie ahead. Suddenly the last thing I wanted was a new cat in the picture.
When we got up this morning, I suggested to Adam that we look for no-kill shelters in the area that might take in the cat. He seemed a bit relieved and I realized we were on the same page. I looked online and found a shelter about fifteen minutes away. We packed Miss Kitty away in the kennel and shepharded her to the shelter, where they promptly turned us away due to overcrowding. We ended up at Animal Control, just around the corner from our apartment, where they set her up in a cage of her own, amongst a handful of other cats and kittens. I specifically asked how long she had before her time was up, and the woman said there was no set limit; many of the animals had been there for several months. I was grateful, particularly since Miss Kitty is cute and very friendly. I just hope her health checks out.
Now we are home living our lives as usual and I am wondering how she's doing there. I'll bet she's sorry she ever landed on my doorstep. I just hope one day she's adopted by someone amazing who will thoroughly love her. Maybe then Miss Kitty will forgive us.
Since we didn't know what, if any, diseases she might have, we had to keep her secluded from Greg House. Bryony and I kept going to visit her in the bathroom where we had set her up with water, food and a litter box. She mewed and purred. Bryony fell in love and I felt a little taken by her, too.
Somewhere during the course of night, however, reality started to sink in. Another cat? More vet bills? As it is, we're single-handedly financing our local vet with Greg House's monthly treatments, and Kika's old age issues have required several visits in the six months that we've lived here. The idea of getting a new kitten spayed, vaccinated, possibly declawed and treated for goodness-knows-what-else was overwhelming. Especially since we're currently a one-income family trying to pay off debt and save for hard times that might lie ahead. Suddenly the last thing I wanted was a new cat in the picture.
When we got up this morning, I suggested to Adam that we look for no-kill shelters in the area that might take in the cat. He seemed a bit relieved and I realized we were on the same page. I looked online and found a shelter about fifteen minutes away. We packed Miss Kitty away in the kennel and shepharded her to the shelter, where they promptly turned us away due to overcrowding. We ended up at Animal Control, just around the corner from our apartment, where they set her up in a cage of her own, amongst a handful of other cats and kittens. I specifically asked how long she had before her time was up, and the woman said there was no set limit; many of the animals had been there for several months. I was grateful, particularly since Miss Kitty is cute and very friendly. I just hope her health checks out.
Now we are home living our lives as usual and I am wondering how she's doing there. I'll bet she's sorry she ever landed on my doorstep. I just hope one day she's adopted by someone amazing who will thoroughly love her. Maybe then Miss Kitty will forgive us.
Friday, November 19, 2010
I Tawt I Taw a Putty Tat
When we got home last night, Adam informed me that there was a little black kitten hanging around the complex, nearly begging to be taken in. Despite both of our acclamations that we would never have another cat after Greg House, Adam admitted that this little black kitty was "tugging at his heartstrings" and then I of course raced outside to find it.
He crawled out from underneath a car and came right up to me, all meow-y and cute. He even let me pick him up. I knew for the sake of our household I couldn't take him inside at that moment, but ooo, did I want to! He was SO adorable.
I finally put him down and watched him run off with a larger orange tabby. Am I really going to do this?, I thought to myself. We don't want more cats. They spray, they claw at carpet and furniture, they jump on countertops, they use litterboxes. All things I don't like. All things dogs, for the most part, don't do. And we want a dog in the near future, not another cat.
Adam and I hashed out all the reasons we shouldn't take in the kitten--more vet bills, altercations with Greg House, etc, etc. But in the end, who the hell are we kidding? As with all of our other pets, they have found us, not the other way around.
We are becoming cat people. Prepare to assimilate. Resistance is futile.
Meow.
He crawled out from underneath a car and came right up to me, all meow-y and cute. He even let me pick him up. I knew for the sake of our household I couldn't take him inside at that moment, but ooo, did I want to! He was SO adorable.
I finally put him down and watched him run off with a larger orange tabby. Am I really going to do this?, I thought to myself. We don't want more cats. They spray, they claw at carpet and furniture, they jump on countertops, they use litterboxes. All things I don't like. All things dogs, for the most part, don't do. And we want a dog in the near future, not another cat.
Adam and I hashed out all the reasons we shouldn't take in the kitten--more vet bills, altercations with Greg House, etc, etc. But in the end, who the hell are we kidding? As with all of our other pets, they have found us, not the other way around.
We are becoming cat people. Prepare to assimilate. Resistance is futile.
Meow.
Motherhood Makes Me Want To Vomit
Bryony, Janice and I travelled four hours north on Tuesday to spend a few days with Janice's friend Paula and her parents. It was a nice escape from Killeen for me, and the weather was nice--if a bit windy--which made for some great birding. Paula and Janice are both wildlife biologists and so they got my butt back in shape...at least in terms of getting out my binos, field guide and going out to search for birds.
Bryony had a great time, too. She was surrounded by people who were really receptive to her, so she got lots of attention. Oh, and there were two large, friendly labrador retrievers, so she had some furry playmates to add to the fun. Many a moments were spent watching Bryony get swatted in the face by a long, furry tail or seeing her lying lazily in the arch of a pup's abdomeen as he curled sleepily on the floor. Both of us girls had lots of fun.
Yesterday morning, Janice took Bryony to the backyard to push her in the baby swing that hung from the tree (the owners of the house have many grandchildren and great-grandchildren so they were all prepared with toys galore!). I stayed inside to straighten things up, but meandered over to the window at some point to watch. My daughter was laughing her head off, having the time of her life as Janice pushed her once, twice, and once again, back and forth, back and forth. My first feeling was happiness to see my kid so alive with joy and delight. My second feeling was serenity to have a few quiet moments to myself. My third feeling was annoyance that I was spending said "quiet moments" watching my kid rather than reading a book or having a cup of tea or attaining world peace or whatever. My fourth feeling was a realization that the reason I couldn't tear myself away from the window was because my stomach had been doing flip-flops, then somersaults, then all-out volcanic eruptions as I watched what seemed to be the swing's increasingly closer approach to the tree trunk. In my mind's eye, I just saw my baby swing SPLAT! into the tree and everytime she'd rock back and forth, I felt my nerves attack my skin with little daggers that made me bristle and cringe. I knew rationally that Janice would never let my baby crash into the tree, but being inside the house, not in control of the situation, I felt helpless and sick. I literally wanted to vomit. I willed myself away from that window but my feet wouldn't budge. At some point Paula asked me how I was enjoying "some time to myself" and I made a lame joke about using it to watch my daughter. I couldn't admit to her my irrational fear that in the 20 feet away from me that Bryony was, something awful was going to happen.
I finally forced myself away from the window and sat down to watch tv, but the image of the swing swaying, slanted toward the tree trunk stayed in my mind and I couldn't relax. Not until they came inside, unscathed, Bryony's nose a rosy red from the morning cold, her mouth stretched into a large, toothy grin. Janice said she'd noticed Bryony rubbing her little hands together, so she'd decided it was getting too cold for her, so they'd come inside. This perceptive woman is the same person I had feared would allow my child to swing into a tree trunk? Have I gone insane?
Kinda, I think.
I've gone mother.
Bryony had a great time, too. She was surrounded by people who were really receptive to her, so she got lots of attention. Oh, and there were two large, friendly labrador retrievers, so she had some furry playmates to add to the fun. Many a moments were spent watching Bryony get swatted in the face by a long, furry tail or seeing her lying lazily in the arch of a pup's abdomeen as he curled sleepily on the floor. Both of us girls had lots of fun.
Yesterday morning, Janice took Bryony to the backyard to push her in the baby swing that hung from the tree (the owners of the house have many grandchildren and great-grandchildren so they were all prepared with toys galore!). I stayed inside to straighten things up, but meandered over to the window at some point to watch. My daughter was laughing her head off, having the time of her life as Janice pushed her once, twice, and once again, back and forth, back and forth. My first feeling was happiness to see my kid so alive with joy and delight. My second feeling was serenity to have a few quiet moments to myself. My third feeling was annoyance that I was spending said "quiet moments" watching my kid rather than reading a book or having a cup of tea or attaining world peace or whatever. My fourth feeling was a realization that the reason I couldn't tear myself away from the window was because my stomach had been doing flip-flops, then somersaults, then all-out volcanic eruptions as I watched what seemed to be the swing's increasingly closer approach to the tree trunk. In my mind's eye, I just saw my baby swing SPLAT! into the tree and everytime she'd rock back and forth, I felt my nerves attack my skin with little daggers that made me bristle and cringe. I knew rationally that Janice would never let my baby crash into the tree, but being inside the house, not in control of the situation, I felt helpless and sick. I literally wanted to vomit. I willed myself away from that window but my feet wouldn't budge. At some point Paula asked me how I was enjoying "some time to myself" and I made a lame joke about using it to watch my daughter. I couldn't admit to her my irrational fear that in the 20 feet away from me that Bryony was, something awful was going to happen.
I finally forced myself away from the window and sat down to watch tv, but the image of the swing swaying, slanted toward the tree trunk stayed in my mind and I couldn't relax. Not until they came inside, unscathed, Bryony's nose a rosy red from the morning cold, her mouth stretched into a large, toothy grin. Janice said she'd noticed Bryony rubbing her little hands together, so she'd decided it was getting too cold for her, so they'd come inside. This perceptive woman is the same person I had feared would allow my child to swing into a tree trunk? Have I gone insane?
Kinda, I think.
I've gone mother.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
The Nanny Diaries
I'm feeling a need to write something a bit more light-hearted since my posts have taken a more serious (or even depressing) tone of late. My friend Janice (my former roommate in Oregon, 2007) is in town visiting us, which has been GREAT. In the short time that she's been here, we've had a picnic (which Adam has been begging for years for us to make time for and it just never happened), a nature hike at a nearby natural area (which we hadn't yet made it to in the six months that we've been here) and she also helped me narrow my search for my next laptop computer. Having Janice around is not only fun; it's also productive.
She asked me last night how I manage to keep this blog updated so frequently (truth be told, I wish I had the fortitude to blog daily, but I'm grateful that I can usually manage 1-2 times per week). She said she couldn't imagine having enough material to write something as often as I do. I laughed and told her about my nasty little habit of writing blog posts in my head at the most inappropriate times--on the toilet, while breastfeeding, in bed when I should be sleeping, driving, eating, etc...little does she know that I actually jot down a list of topics so that I don't lose the thoughts that I have when I sit down to write. Yes, it's become a bit of an obsession.
This evening, while Adam and Janice gleefully watch Josh Brolin as "Jonah Hex" I decided that I'd write a little bit about my time as a baby-sitter for uptown Manhattanites during the mid-late 90s when I was in college at NYU. My then-roommate, Katya, had been working for the agency for a year or so by the time I got hired. She assured me it was a fairly easy way to make some pocket money and she was right. The agency charged the clients $12/hour; we sitters got to keep #8/hr, and the remaining $4/hr went to the agency. In addition, the client was responsible for paying for our subway fare to their apartment and then, if it was after 8pm, cab fare home. Katya instructed me on the stealth of riding my bicycle to the client's house so I could pocket the subway and cab fare as extra money. It was awesome. Some of the clients even paid for us to get take-out for dinner. When the parents didn't have you arrive till 6:30 or 7pm and the kids went to bed at 8pm, it felt like you were getting paid really well to work the easiest non-job ever.
But...there were times when you felt like you earned every single penny of your compensation. Between crazy parents, messed-up kids and weird situations, nannying in Manhattan could sometimes take on a life of its own. For instance, there was the potato incident...I was baby-sitting for a 10-year old kid, we'll call him Bobby. He lived with his mother and new stepdad, who Bobby didn't really like very much; he took his feelings about his new stepdad out on the hockey goal set up in his bedroom, where he insisted that I take up a stick and try to block his shots. At $8/hour, it was rare for me to refuse to play with one of my charges. One particular night, however, I arrived in time for his mother, an overly-thin, sharp-nosed, somewhat attractive fake-blond, to tell me to finish getting Bobby's dinner ready so that she could get ready for an evening out with her husband. I tried to take over dinner-making duties, but Bobby insisted that he could make the baked potato himself. I tried on several occasions to help him but he started to make a fuss and the step-dad, ever trying to please his new stepson, instructed me to let Bobby have a try. So I did. Dinner was ready just as the parents were about to leave the apartment and Bobby, sticking a large piece of baked potato in his mouth, spits it dramatically and starts coughing and spewing saying that it tasted awful. His mother flies over to the table, grabs the uncooked potato and flies into a rage, yelling at me and her husband, "This isn't cooked! How could you expect him to eat this? There are three adults in this house; couldn't one of you figure out how to cook a potato?!" Then she flounced angrily from the room. Boy. Bobby happily didn't eat his potato that night and at the first chance, made his way into his room to play hockey. His mother seemed sheepish when she got home later that evening (I'm assuming her husband told her what had happened) but she didn't apologize. Typical.
Then there was the ultra-nice couple with the brand-new baby who barely cried; he just cooed and slept the entire time I sat for him and it was great...especially because his parents would always leave a $20 for me to order takeout. But they were uber-nice to a fault...particulary when they would always suggest that I spend the night at their place "rather than go home at 12 o'clock at night! We've got plenty of room for you to stay here!" The first time I sat for them and they suggested it, I thought they were just worried about my well-being, seeing that I was a young woman travelling through the streets of Manhattan on a weekend night. But then, with each subsequent visit to their place, the persistent urgings to stay overnight became more insistent. I remember mentioning to Katya that I would be baby-sitting for these clients and the first thing she asked was, "Do they always try to get you to stay overnight?" I was floored; they had tried to get her to stay, too. We decided that this trendy young couple (they lived in the Union Square area and were artists) were wannabe swingers and looking for a willing partner for their menage trois.
Katya had some really scary situations of her own, but one was so incredibly awful that she called home to our dormroom to seek advice from me and our other roommate (who also worked for the agency at times). Katya had gone to a new client's home to sit for their two-year old daughter. Upon the parents leaving, Katya played with the little girl and then started to get her ready for bed. It was around this time that the little girl ran into her parent's room, climbed up on their bed, flung herself down and told Katya to "tickle my p*^&^y!" Katya was floored. What???? She thought--hoped--she had misunderstood the little girl. When she asked the girl to repeat herself, the two-year old repeated exactly what Katya thought she'd said. Katya didn't know what to do. After all, where does a two-year old learn that language or that request from? Her parents? Is dad a molestor? Katya knew that the family had recently taken a trip with relatives and some full-time nannies; could any of them have abused her? Katya called our dormroom in a panic to seek advice. Should she confront the parents? But what if one of them were the molestors and did something to her? She frantically gave us the address where she was, and we assured her that even if the parents were cornered it was highly unlikely that they'd try to harm her. After hanging up, we sat and waited...for hours for her to come home. Despite all of our earnest efforts to reassure her, we were concerned for her safety and for that of the little girl, too. Finally, several hours later Katya arrived home. She told us the story of how she tentatively confronted the parents about their daughter's inappropriate comments and behavior, and how the mother ruefully admitted that she would tickle her daughter "down there" while changing her diaper and call her private area "your little p&*%y!." Katya was shocked but managed to just nod her head through it all and get home. After telling us about how the drama unfolded, she promptly left a detailed message on the answering machine of the agency so the owner would know what happened. We found out later that this family was bumped off the client list permanently. In hindsight, I wonder if this was enough. If this little girl was being molested by her mother, shouldn't the police have been involved?
My worst baby-sitting experience ever was while working for a family I'll call the Smiths. They comprised a mother and her two daughters (dad was never mentioned so I never could tell if he was deceased or just absent). Katya had baby-sat for them several times in the past but had eventually begged off after the elder daughter, Maria (she was thirteen) requested that Katya sit with her in the bathroom while she bathed. Katya explained that Maria was a voluptuous 13-year old and seemed to want a little too much attention from Katya while bathing. Eventually, I was called to baby-sit for the girls. The younger daughter, Sarah, was a delight. She was outgoing, playful and, well, normal. Maria, however...there was always an overly sexual quality to Maria that was geared toward exhibitionism or inappropriate conduct that left me unnerved. After the first time I sat for them, the mother, upon coming home for the night, gave me an earful in the kitchen about how difficult it was to raise two daughters and how there were some issues they were going to counseling to sort through. Way more than I was expecting to hear from a parent or wanted to know, but I guess everyone needs to get things off their chest from time to time, even if it's just to the baby-sitter.
One night I was schedule to baby-sit for the Smiths and when I arrived, two young women I didn't recognize were there. It turned out that Ms. Smith had hired a Spanish au pair for the summer to watch over the girls since they were off from school. It was the au pair's evening off (hence, my presence) and she had her friend, a fellow Spanish au pair, over to hang out. Ms. Smith informed me before leaving that they had been experiencing some technical difficulties with their desktop computer and were expecting a computer technician (or "techie" as she called him) to come over to work on it. She said it was a young guy who had come over several times before so she felt comfortable with him being in the apartment, even in her absence. After Ms. Smith all went well for awhile. The au pairs, despite having the evening off, invited me and the girls to hang out with them, listening to music and just chatting. It was a nice evening, very low-key and fun, that I barely noticed when Maria said it was time for her to go take her shower before bed. After all, she was almost 14 years old and I trusted her to know when she needed to bathe. She stripped down naked in front of all of us in all her glory and made a point of exposing every inch of herself to us. I asked her to please head to the bathroom for her shower and she obeyed. Once she was out of earshot, the au pair cocked an eyebrow at me and confided that she had some very deep concerns about Maria's behavior, especially since Ms. Smith either didn't notice it or just tried to ignore it. Just then, the doorbell rang. The techie! Sarah ran to answer the door, and just as she started to open it Maria flounced out of the bathroom, fully naked, to expose herself to the computer technician! All three of us caretakers gasped and hustled her back into the bathroom just in time. She had a look of smugness on her face as if she had known exactly what she was doing. I managed to disentangle myself from that situation long enough to show the technician to the computer he was supposed to work on, then partially closed the wooden door to the den behind me.
After both Maria and Sarah were showered and ready for bed, we all spent a little more time in the au pair's room listening to her tell stories and joke around. At some point, Maria made an excuse to quickly go to the kitchen, but none of us thought much of it. It was only after five or more minutes had gone by that we realized she had not returned.
"Where's Maria?" one of us asked the group. We checked her bedroom, the kitchen, Sarah's room the bathroom...no Maria. Then, we noticed that the door to the den was firmly shut. I had a mental image of my leaving the door slightly ajar when I had left the technician earlier. I went into panic mode and tried to open the door, which had been locked. The au pairs and I were frantic at this point, banging on the door, ordering Maria to open it. The au pair finally managed to find a key to the door, unlocking it and opening the door to a sly-looking Maria hovering seductively over a very uncomfortable-looking young technician. We all three ascertained from the scene that he had not accepted her advances, but rather seemed more scared than turned on. We hauled Maria out of the den and insisted that she go to bed and not leave her room for the rest of the night. I tried to come up with ways to tell her mother what had happened. I even hoped that the au pairs would help me, but they ended up leaving to go to a nightclub before Ms. Smith returned home, so the onus was on me. How do you tell a woman her daughter is sexually permiscuous? Did Ms. Smith already know? Was this conversation going to cost me my job at their home? Did I even care?
In the end, my 19-year old self chickened out and didn't tell Ms. Smith anything, hoping that Sarah, or the au pair, or perhaps even the technician might fill her in on what happened. My adult self now realizes that not only was it my responsibility to tell her, it was in Maria's best interest that her mother know. I often wonder how that family is today and who Maria turned out to be. I often wonder if my cowardice might have cost Maria the one opportunity to get the help she so very much needed.
The kids I baby-sat for in that time period--from the babies to the teens--are anywhere from teenagers to young adults now. I can barely imagine those young children being the men and women of graduating high school and college classes, the fresh-faced entrants into the working populace, future mothers and fathers themselves. Time has a way of flying by, and I just hope that despite my missteps, I was perhaps able to make some positive impression on their young lives.
She asked me last night how I manage to keep this blog updated so frequently (truth be told, I wish I had the fortitude to blog daily, but I'm grateful that I can usually manage 1-2 times per week). She said she couldn't imagine having enough material to write something as often as I do. I laughed and told her about my nasty little habit of writing blog posts in my head at the most inappropriate times--on the toilet, while breastfeeding, in bed when I should be sleeping, driving, eating, etc...little does she know that I actually jot down a list of topics so that I don't lose the thoughts that I have when I sit down to write. Yes, it's become a bit of an obsession.
This evening, while Adam and Janice gleefully watch Josh Brolin as "Jonah Hex" I decided that I'd write a little bit about my time as a baby-sitter for uptown Manhattanites during the mid-late 90s when I was in college at NYU. My then-roommate, Katya, had been working for the agency for a year or so by the time I got hired. She assured me it was a fairly easy way to make some pocket money and she was right. The agency charged the clients $12/hour; we sitters got to keep #8/hr, and the remaining $4/hr went to the agency. In addition, the client was responsible for paying for our subway fare to their apartment and then, if it was after 8pm, cab fare home. Katya instructed me on the stealth of riding my bicycle to the client's house so I could pocket the subway and cab fare as extra money. It was awesome. Some of the clients even paid for us to get take-out for dinner. When the parents didn't have you arrive till 6:30 or 7pm and the kids went to bed at 8pm, it felt like you were getting paid really well to work the easiest non-job ever.
But...there were times when you felt like you earned every single penny of your compensation. Between crazy parents, messed-up kids and weird situations, nannying in Manhattan could sometimes take on a life of its own. For instance, there was the potato incident...I was baby-sitting for a 10-year old kid, we'll call him Bobby. He lived with his mother and new stepdad, who Bobby didn't really like very much; he took his feelings about his new stepdad out on the hockey goal set up in his bedroom, where he insisted that I take up a stick and try to block his shots. At $8/hour, it was rare for me to refuse to play with one of my charges. One particular night, however, I arrived in time for his mother, an overly-thin, sharp-nosed, somewhat attractive fake-blond, to tell me to finish getting Bobby's dinner ready so that she could get ready for an evening out with her husband. I tried to take over dinner-making duties, but Bobby insisted that he could make the baked potato himself. I tried on several occasions to help him but he started to make a fuss and the step-dad, ever trying to please his new stepson, instructed me to let Bobby have a try. So I did. Dinner was ready just as the parents were about to leave the apartment and Bobby, sticking a large piece of baked potato in his mouth, spits it dramatically and starts coughing and spewing saying that it tasted awful. His mother flies over to the table, grabs the uncooked potato and flies into a rage, yelling at me and her husband, "This isn't cooked! How could you expect him to eat this? There are three adults in this house; couldn't one of you figure out how to cook a potato?!" Then she flounced angrily from the room. Boy. Bobby happily didn't eat his potato that night and at the first chance, made his way into his room to play hockey. His mother seemed sheepish when she got home later that evening (I'm assuming her husband told her what had happened) but she didn't apologize. Typical.
Then there was the ultra-nice couple with the brand-new baby who barely cried; he just cooed and slept the entire time I sat for him and it was great...especially because his parents would always leave a $20 for me to order takeout. But they were uber-nice to a fault...particulary when they would always suggest that I spend the night at their place "rather than go home at 12 o'clock at night! We've got plenty of room for you to stay here!" The first time I sat for them and they suggested it, I thought they were just worried about my well-being, seeing that I was a young woman travelling through the streets of Manhattan on a weekend night. But then, with each subsequent visit to their place, the persistent urgings to stay overnight became more insistent. I remember mentioning to Katya that I would be baby-sitting for these clients and the first thing she asked was, "Do they always try to get you to stay overnight?" I was floored; they had tried to get her to stay, too. We decided that this trendy young couple (they lived in the Union Square area and were artists) were wannabe swingers and looking for a willing partner for their menage trois.
Katya had some really scary situations of her own, but one was so incredibly awful that she called home to our dormroom to seek advice from me and our other roommate (who also worked for the agency at times). Katya had gone to a new client's home to sit for their two-year old daughter. Upon the parents leaving, Katya played with the little girl and then started to get her ready for bed. It was around this time that the little girl ran into her parent's room, climbed up on their bed, flung herself down and told Katya to "tickle my p*^&^y!" Katya was floored. What???? She thought--hoped--she had misunderstood the little girl. When she asked the girl to repeat herself, the two-year old repeated exactly what Katya thought she'd said. Katya didn't know what to do. After all, where does a two-year old learn that language or that request from? Her parents? Is dad a molestor? Katya knew that the family had recently taken a trip with relatives and some full-time nannies; could any of them have abused her? Katya called our dormroom in a panic to seek advice. Should she confront the parents? But what if one of them were the molestors and did something to her? She frantically gave us the address where she was, and we assured her that even if the parents were cornered it was highly unlikely that they'd try to harm her. After hanging up, we sat and waited...for hours for her to come home. Despite all of our earnest efforts to reassure her, we were concerned for her safety and for that of the little girl, too. Finally, several hours later Katya arrived home. She told us the story of how she tentatively confronted the parents about their daughter's inappropriate comments and behavior, and how the mother ruefully admitted that she would tickle her daughter "down there" while changing her diaper and call her private area "your little p&*%y!." Katya was shocked but managed to just nod her head through it all and get home. After telling us about how the drama unfolded, she promptly left a detailed message on the answering machine of the agency so the owner would know what happened. We found out later that this family was bumped off the client list permanently. In hindsight, I wonder if this was enough. If this little girl was being molested by her mother, shouldn't the police have been involved?
My worst baby-sitting experience ever was while working for a family I'll call the Smiths. They comprised a mother and her two daughters (dad was never mentioned so I never could tell if he was deceased or just absent). Katya had baby-sat for them several times in the past but had eventually begged off after the elder daughter, Maria (she was thirteen) requested that Katya sit with her in the bathroom while she bathed. Katya explained that Maria was a voluptuous 13-year old and seemed to want a little too much attention from Katya while bathing. Eventually, I was called to baby-sit for the girls. The younger daughter, Sarah, was a delight. She was outgoing, playful and, well, normal. Maria, however...there was always an overly sexual quality to Maria that was geared toward exhibitionism or inappropriate conduct that left me unnerved. After the first time I sat for them, the mother, upon coming home for the night, gave me an earful in the kitchen about how difficult it was to raise two daughters and how there were some issues they were going to counseling to sort through. Way more than I was expecting to hear from a parent or wanted to know, but I guess everyone needs to get things off their chest from time to time, even if it's just to the baby-sitter.
One night I was schedule to baby-sit for the Smiths and when I arrived, two young women I didn't recognize were there. It turned out that Ms. Smith had hired a Spanish au pair for the summer to watch over the girls since they were off from school. It was the au pair's evening off (hence, my presence) and she had her friend, a fellow Spanish au pair, over to hang out. Ms. Smith informed me before leaving that they had been experiencing some technical difficulties with their desktop computer and were expecting a computer technician (or "techie" as she called him) to come over to work on it. She said it was a young guy who had come over several times before so she felt comfortable with him being in the apartment, even in her absence. After Ms. Smith all went well for awhile. The au pairs, despite having the evening off, invited me and the girls to hang out with them, listening to music and just chatting. It was a nice evening, very low-key and fun, that I barely noticed when Maria said it was time for her to go take her shower before bed. After all, she was almost 14 years old and I trusted her to know when she needed to bathe. She stripped down naked in front of all of us in all her glory and made a point of exposing every inch of herself to us. I asked her to please head to the bathroom for her shower and she obeyed. Once she was out of earshot, the au pair cocked an eyebrow at me and confided that she had some very deep concerns about Maria's behavior, especially since Ms. Smith either didn't notice it or just tried to ignore it. Just then, the doorbell rang. The techie! Sarah ran to answer the door, and just as she started to open it Maria flounced out of the bathroom, fully naked, to expose herself to the computer technician! All three of us caretakers gasped and hustled her back into the bathroom just in time. She had a look of smugness on her face as if she had known exactly what she was doing. I managed to disentangle myself from that situation long enough to show the technician to the computer he was supposed to work on, then partially closed the wooden door to the den behind me.
After both Maria and Sarah were showered and ready for bed, we all spent a little more time in the au pair's room listening to her tell stories and joke around. At some point, Maria made an excuse to quickly go to the kitchen, but none of us thought much of it. It was only after five or more minutes had gone by that we realized she had not returned.
"Where's Maria?" one of us asked the group. We checked her bedroom, the kitchen, Sarah's room the bathroom...no Maria. Then, we noticed that the door to the den was firmly shut. I had a mental image of my leaving the door slightly ajar when I had left the technician earlier. I went into panic mode and tried to open the door, which had been locked. The au pairs and I were frantic at this point, banging on the door, ordering Maria to open it. The au pair finally managed to find a key to the door, unlocking it and opening the door to a sly-looking Maria hovering seductively over a very uncomfortable-looking young technician. We all three ascertained from the scene that he had not accepted her advances, but rather seemed more scared than turned on. We hauled Maria out of the den and insisted that she go to bed and not leave her room for the rest of the night. I tried to come up with ways to tell her mother what had happened. I even hoped that the au pairs would help me, but they ended up leaving to go to a nightclub before Ms. Smith returned home, so the onus was on me. How do you tell a woman her daughter is sexually permiscuous? Did Ms. Smith already know? Was this conversation going to cost me my job at their home? Did I even care?
In the end, my 19-year old self chickened out and didn't tell Ms. Smith anything, hoping that Sarah, or the au pair, or perhaps even the technician might fill her in on what happened. My adult self now realizes that not only was it my responsibility to tell her, it was in Maria's best interest that her mother know. I often wonder how that family is today and who Maria turned out to be. I often wonder if my cowardice might have cost Maria the one opportunity to get the help she so very much needed.
The kids I baby-sat for in that time period--from the babies to the teens--are anywhere from teenagers to young adults now. I can barely imagine those young children being the men and women of graduating high school and college classes, the fresh-faced entrants into the working populace, future mothers and fathers themselves. Time has a way of flying by, and I just hope that despite my missteps, I was perhaps able to make some positive impression on their young lives.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I Can Do Geek All By Myself
Am I the only person who totally feels like I put my foot in my mouth at every opportunity? Whether I'm attempting to sound clever at a business event, amongst a new crowd of friends, or even just with my everyday friends and family, I always seem to say something stupid that makes everyone tense up momentarily, right before they cast the sidelong glance at me that silently says, "Did you really just say that??"
Adam says I have no internal monologue, that my thoughts just seem to stream unchecked from my mouth as they come to my brain. But, I argue, I'm not tactless; I don't say things that hurt others' feelings or make them feel uncomfortable. No...I make sure to keep my conversation embarassing only for myself so that I'm the only one in the room that people feel sorry for. I have chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome.
Oh, let me list the ways...how about when I recently sent an email to a new friend (and someone whose work I really admire and am a big fan of) telling her that I'm "your fan, not a crazy, psycho stalker, but the fact that I felt a need to say that suggests otherwise." (Oy!) Or perhaps when my recently divorced friend who's been unlucky on the dating scene so far tells me that she's going on a dating hiatus to spend more time with herself, and instead of sympathizing with her I respond, "Maybe next time Adam gets on my nerves, I'll spend more time with myself, too...jk, my married life is actually really good!" (Rub it in, why don't you, brainiac!) Oh, and yes, the real beauty was when a dear friend who had a baby a few months ago confided that she's been too tired to be intimate with her husband, and I come back with "Really? I can't keep my hands off Adam! I'm so randy he says he's going to need a pinch hitter soon!" (Yes, I said that to her, and I just said it again here. Doh!)
I think I need to be one of those people who makes a year-long vow of silence, showing up on Oprah and Good Morning, America with my pen and paper to answer questions in the written word. Maybe if I had to take time to write things down, I'd give more thought to the lame things I say before anyone else has to hear (or read) them.
In the meantime, doesn't Best Buy have a Squad for people like me?
Adam says I have no internal monologue, that my thoughts just seem to stream unchecked from my mouth as they come to my brain. But, I argue, I'm not tactless; I don't say things that hurt others' feelings or make them feel uncomfortable. No...I make sure to keep my conversation embarassing only for myself so that I'm the only one in the room that people feel sorry for. I have chronic foot-in-mouth syndrome.
Oh, let me list the ways...how about when I recently sent an email to a new friend (and someone whose work I really admire and am a big fan of) telling her that I'm "your fan, not a crazy, psycho stalker, but the fact that I felt a need to say that suggests otherwise." (Oy!) Or perhaps when my recently divorced friend who's been unlucky on the dating scene so far tells me that she's going on a dating hiatus to spend more time with herself, and instead of sympathizing with her I respond, "Maybe next time Adam gets on my nerves, I'll spend more time with myself, too...jk, my married life is actually really good!" (Rub it in, why don't you, brainiac!) Oh, and yes, the real beauty was when a dear friend who had a baby a few months ago confided that she's been too tired to be intimate with her husband, and I come back with "Really? I can't keep my hands off Adam! I'm so randy he says he's going to need a pinch hitter soon!" (Yes, I said that to her, and I just said it again here. Doh!)
I think I need to be one of those people who makes a year-long vow of silence, showing up on Oprah and Good Morning, America with my pen and paper to answer questions in the written word. Maybe if I had to take time to write things down, I'd give more thought to the lame things I say before anyone else has to hear (or read) them.
In the meantime, doesn't Best Buy have a Squad for people like me?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
The Midday Special
When we were in Virginia visiting family a couple weeks ago, we were subjected to a bunch of jokes and riddles (and I even threw a few of my own in the mix) that were just good (or bad?) enough to share. Hope they tickle your ribs a bit.
Olympic skier Picabo (pronounced Peek-a-boo) Street has recently made a rather large donation to Cedars-Sinai Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. Upon the dedication, it will now be called "Picabo ICU."
Q: Why didn't Moses take snakes onto the ark?
A: Because Moses didn't build the ark; Noah did.
Riddle: I have two coins that total thirty cents, but one of them is not a nickel. What are the two coins I have?
Answer: A quarter and a nickel. I said one of them is not a nickel (the quarter) but the other one is.
Riddle: A plane carrying a father and his son crashes in the jungle. The father is killed immediately, but the son, badly injured, is rescued and taken to hospital. Upon reaching the ER, the attending doctor states, "I cannot operate on my own son." How is it possible for the boy to be the doctor's son?
Answer: The doctor is the boy's mother.
Q: What happened when the cannibal was late for dinner?
A: They gave him the cold shoulder.
Q: What did the frustrated cannibal do?
A: He threw up his hands.
One day a police officer was called to the local daycare center because one of the children was resisting a rest.
On another day the same police officer was called back to the daycare center because the teacher was cross-eyed; she was having trouble controlling her pupils.
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a swimming pool?
A: Bob
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs at the front door?
A: Matt
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a pile of leaves?
A: Russell
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs hanging on the wall?
A: Art
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs under a car?
A: Jack
Olympic skier Picabo (pronounced Peek-a-boo) Street has recently made a rather large donation to Cedars-Sinai Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. Upon the dedication, it will now be called "Picabo ICU."
Q: Why didn't Moses take snakes onto the ark?
A: Because Moses didn't build the ark; Noah did.
Riddle: I have two coins that total thirty cents, but one of them is not a nickel. What are the two coins I have?
Answer: A quarter and a nickel. I said one of them is not a nickel (the quarter) but the other one is.
Riddle: A plane carrying a father and his son crashes in the jungle. The father is killed immediately, but the son, badly injured, is rescued and taken to hospital. Upon reaching the ER, the attending doctor states, "I cannot operate on my own son." How is it possible for the boy to be the doctor's son?
Answer: The doctor is the boy's mother.
Q: What happened when the cannibal was late for dinner?
A: They gave him the cold shoulder.
Q: What did the frustrated cannibal do?
A: He threw up his hands.
One day a police officer was called to the local daycare center because one of the children was resisting a rest.
On another day the same police officer was called back to the daycare center because the teacher was cross-eyed; she was having trouble controlling her pupils.
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a swimming pool?
A: Bob
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs at the front door?
A: Matt
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs in a pile of leaves?
A: Russell
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs hanging on the wall?
A: Art
Q: What do you call a man with no arms and legs under a car?
A: Jack
Monday, November 8, 2010
Welcome to the World, Caylie Lucille!
Our family is overjoyed to welcome baby girl Caylie Lucille to the Riley and Berghorn families. You are a lovely, adorable thing and we cannot wait to meet you. Congratulations to Em and George on this very great creation. You done good, guys!
Friday, November 5, 2010
Great Expectations
Oh, how I have missed thee, dear blog! It has been nearly two weeks of non-posting, and I have sincerely thought about you, craved you, and created virtual posts the entire duration. But, I must admit that in my absence, I have had wonderful travels, seeing family for the first time in almost a year, and visiting my little house and dear friends who I miss everyday. While it is hard to be away from them all once again, I am happy to be with Adam once more, and to you, dear blog.
Tonight, I started thinking that maybe I'm a modern-day Mrs. Haversham. Perhaps I expect too much and can't let go of the image of my life that I once built up in my mind: me, successful career woman ably balancing marriage, parenthood and profession. I see other people do it so well, I wonder why it just doesn't work out for me. I'm in a place I never thought I'd be in--unintentionally unemployed, at home with my child longer than I planned, in a place with few social or professional prospects. Today my mind went to dark places that unnerved me enough that I am forcing myself to accentuate the positive...eliminate the negative, and all that corny nonsense.
Actually, my travels were so so very good that the entire time I had plans to write my first post-travel blogpost about "Gratitude". Gratitude for all the things I do have, despite the lack of some things that I really, really want. And so, in keeping with my aim to obey Bing Crosby, here is the post that I promised myself I'd write. I think it will be good for me to get my head into the light a bit, and it'll also let you guys know that I've not succumbed to strictly whining, bitching and complaining about my present situation. There are good thoughts in this head of mine, too.
Anyway, during my travels, I had occasion to speak to a really good friend of mine who is going through her own personal obstacles, primarily in the relationship department. It was this commentary from her that totally perked up my ears for the first time, allowing me to leave the depths of my self-pity and think about someone else's lot for a bit.
She said, "Lauren, I know it's been really hard for you to not have a job right now after you've worked so hard to get one. But when I look at your life, I see a wonderful husband, a beautiful daughter and great family and friends. Maybe you're at a point where you're just not supposed to have everything all at once, and you have to just focus on the things that you DO have. I know how it feels, because I've been thinking the same thing about my life. I have a wonderful job that I love, great family and friends, awesome pets...but I don't have anyone to come home to at night, and that's hard. But I'm thinking that maybe I'm not supposed to have it all at once right now, and this is my chance to really focus on and appreciate the things that I do have."
It was a bit more religious and new-agey than I'm used to subscribing to (I tend to believe that we all make our own destiny within the confines of the hand of cards we're dealt, not that some higher power is pulling the strings determining our fate). However, there was some merit to what she was saying. What's the harm in putting aside thoughts of desperation, anger, failure and resignation and replacing them with more positive sentiments about the great things in my life? After all, I do have so many wonderful things to be grateful for, proud of and happy about, and I am all of these things.
Later in my travels, I spoke to another friend about the wisdom of my previous friend's comments, and she laughed appreciatively, saying, "Funny you should bring that up, because it doesn't look like I'm going to ever have kids and I'm really sad about that. But I'm trying to remember that I have a great job, a wonderful husband and extended family, friends that I love...and so if kids don't ever come, I'm still lucky to have the life I have."
It was a tough pill for me to swallow. Here I have been consumed with self-pity and anxiety and desperation for months because of my current state of joblessness while a good friend is dealing with the idea of never having the children she so much wants. Not even a close call. A job--some job--will one day come to me, I know it. But for her to never experience what it is to have a child, an experience that she really wants...I felt so sad for her. It put my own situation into much clearer perspective.
And so, with that, I will list the many wonderful things in my life for which I'm eternally grateful. These are in no particular order, mind you. And thanks to my friends who support me, guide me, and set me straight. Love you.
Bryony
Adam
Extended family
Greg House and Kika (and Shabbi, wherever she is)
My girlfriends
My guy friends
My (and my family's) health
My education
My experiences
Adam's employment
My ability to travel to see family and friends from time to time
My freedom (legal, literal and figurative)
I'm trying to let go of some of my expectations about my life, and focus on being happy with the "what is" instead of being sad about the "what isn't". It's a work in progress.
Tonight, I started thinking that maybe I'm a modern-day Mrs. Haversham. Perhaps I expect too much and can't let go of the image of my life that I once built up in my mind: me, successful career woman ably balancing marriage, parenthood and profession. I see other people do it so well, I wonder why it just doesn't work out for me. I'm in a place I never thought I'd be in--unintentionally unemployed, at home with my child longer than I planned, in a place with few social or professional prospects. Today my mind went to dark places that unnerved me enough that I am forcing myself to accentuate the positive...eliminate the negative, and all that corny nonsense.
Actually, my travels were so so very good that the entire time I had plans to write my first post-travel blogpost about "Gratitude". Gratitude for all the things I do have, despite the lack of some things that I really, really want. And so, in keeping with my aim to obey Bing Crosby, here is the post that I promised myself I'd write. I think it will be good for me to get my head into the light a bit, and it'll also let you guys know that I've not succumbed to strictly whining, bitching and complaining about my present situation. There are good thoughts in this head of mine, too.
Anyway, during my travels, I had occasion to speak to a really good friend of mine who is going through her own personal obstacles, primarily in the relationship department. It was this commentary from her that totally perked up my ears for the first time, allowing me to leave the depths of my self-pity and think about someone else's lot for a bit.
She said, "Lauren, I know it's been really hard for you to not have a job right now after you've worked so hard to get one. But when I look at your life, I see a wonderful husband, a beautiful daughter and great family and friends. Maybe you're at a point where you're just not supposed to have everything all at once, and you have to just focus on the things that you DO have. I know how it feels, because I've been thinking the same thing about my life. I have a wonderful job that I love, great family and friends, awesome pets...but I don't have anyone to come home to at night, and that's hard. But I'm thinking that maybe I'm not supposed to have it all at once right now, and this is my chance to really focus on and appreciate the things that I do have."
It was a bit more religious and new-agey than I'm used to subscribing to (I tend to believe that we all make our own destiny within the confines of the hand of cards we're dealt, not that some higher power is pulling the strings determining our fate). However, there was some merit to what she was saying. What's the harm in putting aside thoughts of desperation, anger, failure and resignation and replacing them with more positive sentiments about the great things in my life? After all, I do have so many wonderful things to be grateful for, proud of and happy about, and I am all of these things.
Later in my travels, I spoke to another friend about the wisdom of my previous friend's comments, and she laughed appreciatively, saying, "Funny you should bring that up, because it doesn't look like I'm going to ever have kids and I'm really sad about that. But I'm trying to remember that I have a great job, a wonderful husband and extended family, friends that I love...and so if kids don't ever come, I'm still lucky to have the life I have."
It was a tough pill for me to swallow. Here I have been consumed with self-pity and anxiety and desperation for months because of my current state of joblessness while a good friend is dealing with the idea of never having the children she so much wants. Not even a close call. A job--some job--will one day come to me, I know it. But for her to never experience what it is to have a child, an experience that she really wants...I felt so sad for her. It put my own situation into much clearer perspective.
And so, with that, I will list the many wonderful things in my life for which I'm eternally grateful. These are in no particular order, mind you. And thanks to my friends who support me, guide me, and set me straight. Love you.
Bryony
Adam
Extended family
Greg House and Kika (and Shabbi, wherever she is)
My girlfriends
My guy friends
My (and my family's) health
My education
My experiences
Adam's employment
My ability to travel to see family and friends from time to time
My freedom (legal, literal and figurative)
I'm trying to let go of some of my expectations about my life, and focus on being happy with the "what is" instead of being sad about the "what isn't". It's a work in progress.
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