Ruth Lydia Craley- 12/17/1919-05/06/2009

I have quite a few pictures of my grandparents, but this one is my favorite.
I don't know where it was taken; something tells me in their back yard but it could have been someone else's.
I like to think it was a Saturday afternoon. And not necessarily a special occasion, because my grandmother dressed like that all the time. For any reason, or no reason. Elegant, refined, coordinated. I didn't appreciate this during my scuffed sneakers and grass stained jean years, my flashlight tag and fort building years. Advice like: A dress only looks as nice as what you wear under it. (And what she wore under hers would garner a nod of approval from the Department of Homeland Security.) Or her desire to buy me white things. (A disaster waiting to happen.) She told me the world was a better place when ladies wore gloves and men wore hats. (I'd remind her about polio, and fallout shelters, and duck and cover drills.) I endured disapproving appraisals of my many haircuts. I resisted ironing things. I resisted 'rising and shining'. (She'd CLAP when she woke us up, too. AAARGH!)

Its funny how your grandparents, your parents, get more right as you get older. When I was considering quitting a job because someone there had it in for me, her advice was 'Be above reproach and outlast her.' My rival left three months later; I stayed for twelve years. When I had chosen the wrong college major, she knew it. When I struggled with my personal demons, she knew it. When I resisted all the colors I looked best in, she knew it. She knew what they should be. I was thirty years old before I realized she was right on that one. She and I didn't always agree but I knew two things; she wanted me to be true to myself, and she loved all of us fiercely.

At Christmas we decorated the place she would only briefly return to, hopefully, my dad and I laughing that the two least decorator-able family members were dispatched for the task. We did our best. I sat in her cozy apartment by myself for a long time trying to imprint the smell of it; soap and clean linens and eucalyptus in a china pitcher by the door. I was suddenly a seven year old sunk in deep comforters at the old house, drifting to sleep by the glow of the radio dial and some dreamily playing orchestra. Safe and warm, the soft Westminster chime of the mantel clock downstairs.

Mom-Mom, there are a thousand memories, and a thousand stories, but it all comes down to this; thank you for loving us and believing in us so much. We will miss you and ache for your loss, but you gave us the strong legs we stand on.

Band on the Run

Can you handle it?

Let me colorize teh sexy for you. The pants were red. The shirt? White satin with a red stripe. The dangly thing with the 'K' on it (which stood for the school and not my first initial, though I did secretly think it was cool that it was both) was black satin. The hat was 'white', that is, it started out white, taking on the aspect of a wad of dryer lint after a while, except where the red plume was nestled. There, it was pink. A good pounding of rain quickly made the hat look like a sodden bright red squirrel was taking liberties with it. At least the hat is clamped firmly on my head with a snazzy bead-tightened nylon strap.

Mr D. approached me during at-school band camp in the scorched dregs of August to ask me if I would like to learn to play bass guitar. In two weeks. Uh, sure. That might be more interesting than standing at attention holding one end of our school banner for the interminable duration of our 'field show'. I dutifully practiced.
And sometimes faked it a little. (Hey, I always LOOKED like I was playing. And I mastered the opening riff of the Barney Miller theme, not that I got to exhibit that particular talent much.)

It was someone's particularly sadistic notion that the bass player in our band should also be allowed to participate in parades. A large cart was constructed out of black-painted plywood that would hold an amp and a Kawasaki generator. This could be pushed by one of the 'runners', I would walk along beside it, and play.

There were a few logistics issues that seemed to escape the notice of virtually all of this brainchild's parents. First, the cart was large enough for human smuggling. A Kawasaki generator with a full gas tank weighs around 75 pounds. The amp, about 50. If we put the cart itself at around 50 pounds you have roughly 175 pounds on wheels being pushed by an 85-pound seventh grader who has to turn her head to one side at all times to minimize hearing loss from the roar of the engine and to avoid inhaling gas fumes.

Even if you turn it up to 11, there is really no drowning out what sounds like a push mower in a box with a bass guitar.

Christmas, 1986. Our band is marching down Main Street in our hometown. The streetlamps are decked out with tinseled candles, lights festoon the four blocks of downtown. They even adorn the small pine tree in a concrete pot on a wee concrete island at the convergence of two streets. A wee concrete island surrounded by potholes.

My cheerful plonk-faking through numerous Christmas carols is suddenly interrupted by a very definite tug on my power cord. I glance back toward my Flotilla of Sound and note the disconcerting absence of my cart pusher, my aide de camp, my tiny sherpa of soul. I step up on the concrete island. She's there, all right, frantically trying to dislodge the cart from a fissure in the street that has firmly claimed one of the wheels. I swing my guitar out of the way and help her. A distressing gap is widening between us and the last of the bass drums. The VFW is bearing down on us with grim and surprising speed and their banner bearers begin to wave at us, peevish expressions on their faces indicating their displeasure with our wanton disregard of their uniform and timely appearance before the review stand.

I back the cart up and with a desperate yank, its freed from the miry pit. There's just one problem.

A Fender bass has two things that make it hard to walk around with. One is the quite long neck. The other is the four giant keys at the top. I've never seen Adam Clayton or John Paul Jones have a problem with this. Though I would imagine neither of them ever stuck their guitar in a fully decorated Christmas tree.

I'm forever grateful to one of the Vietnam vets, who, being among the more sprightly of the VFW, jumped out of formation and helped disentangle the keys from the string of lights, freeing me but effectively rendering the bass out of tune and unplayable for the duration of the parade. We marched on, grim and silent, treating the audience to the throaty growl of gas-generated power.

The Infrequent Lover Returns

Ah, spring. So you're back. After a series of teasing drive-bys, abbreviated calls, you think you can just cruise back in here, drop some flowers on us, put your muddy boots on my table, and I'll just give you a big sloppy kiss and all is forgiven, eh? Do you think the red tulips in front of the post office make me forget how late you are? You have some trees to get to work on, so get busy. Maybe I'll drag out the grill for you. We'll see how you behave.

Yes, so it seems that appropriately seasonable weather has finally found its way to the Outpost. Hard on its heels came The Tourists. The incidence of bright yellow license plates increases around 3pm on a Friday and you know They are coming. They are easy to spot; strolling slowly down Main Street arm in arm, gazing intently at everything. They say things like "Its SO PRETTY here." Or, "Where's the Diner?" (Answer, smack in the MIDDLE OF TOWN but you don't want to eat there. Go to Harland's on Pearl.)

I resent them, a little. Oh, I'm glad they are here. They are the bigger part of our economy, especially these days. But I feel like I just hiked up a giant mountain of suck known as Winter, clawing my way hand over hand with the promise of soft green grass and 70 degree afternoons at the top, only to be met by a carload of looky-loos who drove up the other side and stand gawping at the vista and complaining about the lack of a Starbucks. Where were you in the iron grip of February, when everything was brown and gray and the cold was a lingering torment even under layers of fleece? Where were you when the wind strafed the canyon with relentless daggers of ice and the snow fell up? Enjoy our town, but understand that we don't just enjoy this weather; we earned it.

I'm making an effort to be less crabby. This lingering malaise of non-specific anxiety is getting tiresome and I think its time to spend my energies in more worthwhile pursuits. Apparently there is some need for a person to work on the 'comedy' portions of our upcoming women's chorus anniversary concert. Some have intimated I should do this. Frankly, its terrifying. I much prefer being funny to distract or irritate and not on cue and for others. People say I should do standup. What I hear them say is 'You should go about naked, and see what kind of response you get.' It couldn't be any more stressful or potentially humiliating. Maybe stress and humiliation is the better part of comedy, but its always better when its someone else's comedy. So we'll see. Since the better part of both my employed and social life of late seems to be observing humans in the act of mistreating each other, the well of funny is running a little shallow and silty.

Well, its 81 degrees and I suppose I should get out and mingle with the off-worlders, bless their turnpike-driving hearts. Hope your day is splendid!

Welcome to Monday. Please keep your hands and feet inside the car at all times.

I woke up this morning to my cat pressing a bottlecap against my forehead.

Good morning, frisky little bastard. Yes, 06:11 is a fantastic time to play chase-the-Smirnoff-Ice-cap and a bagless furry teabagging. Thank you.

*sigh*

Its one of those days where I wish I could fake cramps or something and beg off school and spend the rest of the day curled up on the couch watching the stories and eating artfully extruded cheese out of a can. I walked a whole bunch this weekend and the general opinion of my joints this morning was that I'm a hateful bitch who must be punished. I glossed them with so much ActivOn that I could have slid noiselessly into a wetsuit. (While the suit wearing doesn't appeal overmuch, the speargun as an accessory does indeed.) My attitude can best be described, in the words of another distinguished cat, as 'crabilated'. But never fear; I'll be taking to the highways of the Twin Tiers this week and I am almost certain my visits to cities far and wide will yield some amusement. In the meantime, I have posted new adventures From the Back of the Bus....

Psych Transport

Well I’ve had this damn sinus infection for three weeks now and I was downtown and thought I’d go to the hospital but I couldn’t hardly stand up and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get out of the car at the hospital so I drove home and came back up the ramp and I was just sitting here and all of a sudden I couldn’t hold my head up (dog barks) SHUT THE F**K UP! (dog stops) so right I should give him any more cigarettes? F**k him. He smokes his and mine too and I have to buy him more and he never pays me back, that rotten son of a bitch. I should quit smoking? F**k you! Okay so I guess I can go with you but I’m not getting on that damn stretcher that’s how they get you, you know, so we can walk down the ramp hold me up now, hey you are nice and warm I’ll hold on to you okay oops be careful I don’t know if I can make the steps I’ll just sit here on the bench no, okay, I had better lay on the stretcher because now I feel sick to my stomach -- do you have a bucket? Well you’d better get one because as soon as this thing starts moving I’ll be making a mess of this place.I’ll tell ya, it never gets any better, the patches was what they give me and the damn stuff makes me throw up the first thing the doctor did was try to take away my cigarettes but Jesus Christ, I’m bi-polar already, can you imagine what I’d be like if I couldn’t smoke? I only smoke a little, maybe three or four a day, and some pot, that’s it, then I stopped, they give me a prescription for the patches but how do you get the stuff? You’d think they’d give a person a disability check on time for Chrissakes. I was down to see Fred, and I told him, I can’t deal with your shit anymore, I had the nurse talk to him, I don’t know what she said but he was bawlin’ when she got done. It’s a hell of a thing living on social security, but my car runs on air, so at least I don’t have to worry about that.


Note: This call was dispatched as a 'near syncopal episode'. This post is, to the best of my memory, a transcript of the breathless, pauseless, unbroken monologue of our patient.

Surviving the New Economy

*sigh*

Tuesday, 5:40am. I'm staring at the ceiling fan. I'm rather fond of this fan, especially in the stuffy summer months, and its just as well, because I've spent a lot of time inspecting it. There's a bit of dust on the blades I should climb up and remove before we start using it.

Lately, every night begins and ends the same way. I fall asleep like I haven't slept in days. I sleep soundly for better than half the night.

I wake up in clutching, mindless, irrational terror. Scarcity, "what ifs", work angst, generalized anxiety, mental accounting of the vague and terrifying variety.

I'm kinda tired of it. Here's a list of nice things that happened today.

1. I woke up with my face snuggled in a warm cat. When I lifted my head he put his paw on it as if to say, no no, sleep, and planted a kiss on my forehead.

2. I had a cup of tea.

3. The sun is out.

4. I actually laughed at work.

5. I like my socks. Good socks today.

Yeah, I'm hanging on by my fingernails. Underneath me is my old, currently broken down car, a career I don't want, a future that is murky and uncertain, and an impending 39th birthday.

But hey. There's also this. And this is about the only thing that's keeping me from hiding under a blanket with a bag of cookies and the cat.

25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or
drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important
than food, and the body more important than clothes? 26Look at the birds of
the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your
heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27Who
of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was
dressed like one of these. 30If that is how God clothes the grass of the field,
which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more
clothe you, O you of little faith? 31So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we
eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' 32For the pagans
run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need
them. 33But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these
things will be given to you as well. 34Therefore do not worry about
tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.

Rollin' with the EMS Homies

Hey! I posted, though its over here at yonder blog, my blog for all things medical and some things icky.

I keep this place and that there place separate despite the Husband's strident pleas that I combine all. I do this because not everyone wants to hear stories about death and poop.

This one involves neither, I promise.

Overheard at ITLS

I took this excellent course last weekend, after a feverish three days of reading as much of the textbook as I could in 72 hours while still sleeping and giving a full time job due diligence. It was a great weekend, having practical time alongside Paramedics and RNs as well as EMTs from other stations was an excellent opportunity to sharpen skills, learn new things, and share what works with people from other departments. Even through I didn’t ‘get a weekend’ rest-wise, I came back Monday morning with my Patient Care batteries recharged. Hearing one of my former EMT instructors say how proud she was of her ‘graduated students’ reminded me what I like about doing this ‘free job’ I’ve got.

As usual, there were occasions for a few laughs.

During a lecture on ‘Patients Under the Influence’ our instructor told us a lot of things about what is going on in schools that convince me that I made the right decision limiting my children to the four legged, fur bearing variety. Apparently the ‘new and improved kegstand’ involves inverting oneself while beer is inserted into the anus. It would seem the alcohol crosses into the bloodstream faster and one can get drunk more quickly on less beer. Good grief, people. I feel like I’m taking a walk on the wild side when I eat a sleeve of Sprees and drink a Pepsi. Many questions spring to mind, as well, including but not limited to:

What about the carbonation?
Is there a separate keg for people who want their beer the old fashioned way?
Is there a surefire way to differentiate same that doesn’t involve sniffing the tap?
If you can actually stand on your hands and let someone do that without falling over (or, even more compelling, do it YOURSELF) is there a better outlet for your talents that might be in some way financially lucrative? Oughtn’t you check this out?

We’re all shooting the breeze during lunch on day 3 of class, discussing other training opportunities. A student (who is frequently an instructor) was telling us about Wilderness EMS, and I said we should have that this summer. I volunteered to be the ‘S’Mores Officer’ for the weekend.

(I realize the last couple of anecdotes seem unrelated. Bear with me.)

Said student went on to say that when he took Wilderness EMS the ‘patient’ he had to ‘keep alive’ in his scenario was hypoglycemic and unconscious, and that they had considered ‘putting chocolate up his butt’ as a possible solution.

There was a moment of silence while this was considered. Then I said,
"I guess that would be like a ‘S’mores Stand’. Though I don’t recommend using the graham crackers." (general laughter)

Aaaand…..scene.

Oh, and I passed. Not as high a grade as I’d like but I’m obsessive about such things. So if you wreck in the 'Boro on a Wednesday night, if you'd keep your injuries around a B+, I'd appreciate it.

You can keep your Strunk and White......

The authority for all things English in my world has always been this:In middle school, junior high, and high school, Warriner's was my calculus. It was my holy book. My participles did not dangle, my modifiers were not misplaced, and my sentences were rigidly diagrammed with the help of a yellow ruler I kept clipped in my ring binder. My math skills may have been par to slightly sub-par, but when it came to words, I was double shifting. I was using all the crayons in the box. I was reading four years above my grade level. I 'hear' awkward sentence structure like an out of tune piano, a skill that earned me the silent treatment for two weeks in college after I red-penned the living hell out of a paper a friend asked me to proofread.

The Text Messaging Age has been hard on me. I know I'm not the only one who picks up on the general slippage in language skills. Whole blogs are dedicated to woefully written notes and unnecessary punctuation. Bloggers more popular than I have discussed it at length.

I may have upped the ante this morning with my email to the Wall Street Journal. I was glancing over the headlines when I saw this.

Treasurys? It leapt off the page, assaulting me with its wrongness. I read the article, thinking perhaps the title was put on later, by an editor, perhaps, but no, the author used 'treasurys' again. So I did what any other right thinking person would do at 9:15 on a Friday morning.

I emailed him and pointed out his error.

I didn't expect a reply, but I'd made an effort to pull the grammatical dress hem out of the pantyhose of the Wall Street Journal and that was enough for me. Imagine my surprise when Andrew Peaple emailed me right back.

Wsj style I thnk. Thanks for your comment though. (sic)

Seemed nice enough, he did, and since he replied to some random woman in a backwater town and acknowledged her picky observation, never mind the research that probably went into the article and the thousand things he had to understand to discuss the topic intelligently. So I emailed him again.

Ah. I forgot that sometimes the papers do things a little outside of Warriner's English Grammar. My husband is a writer/editor and I've been on the receiving end of his "Oh God, why didn't I see that" a few times so I just wanted to do you a solid and mention it.

Have a great day!

(See what I did there? Its called the benefit of the doubt. Even though I felt a little like Cindy Lou Who being told her Christmas tree had a light out and was being taken in for repairs.)

He sent back:
Thank you. Stay in touch!

By the way, I'm british, so am constantly wrestling with american spellings....

Again, a sweetie. A sweetie who is also capricious with capital letters and blames his fine country of origin, which aside from using words like 'banger' and 'pram' and throwing the odd 'u' in words that don't need it doesn't play fast and loose with the rules. So I'm still left with the feeling that all writing, even in the august Wall Street Journal, is on the skids.

FWIW.

Its paid for, but please don't......

I finally got to ride in our sweet new ambulance Tuesday night. After countless bone jarring ambulance transfers in a 4WD vehicle that would have eventually resulted in breasts I could kneel on, we got a 2WD that offered a smooth ride and steps you can negotiate with a wide butt and short legs without looking like you just fell off a Mardi Gras float. Yaay for me!

It still has that 'new ambulance' smell, which is kind of like the 'new car' smell, if new cars came with extrication tools and the smell cost about $160,000 extra. Everything is shiny and unused.

We set off with a patient onboard who had difficulties that were not of the elimination variety, so I was alarmed when she had a whispered conversation with the nurse on board that ended with said nurse saying, "You have to POOP?" This was followed with a reassuring explanation of how very close we were to our destination, a place where she could do what needed done, possibly even without three onlookers in close quarters. This reassurance lasted exactly 45 seconds. I was at the head of the cot so I couldn't hear much of what was being said, only "Right NOW? Are you sure?"

A bedpan (which I prayed to the Patron Saint of Inopportune Defecation was actually IN the storage bin) was located, and we pawed through the layers of straps, tubing, non washable and very vulnerable-looking wool blankets, and ether blanketing to get to the patient and slip it in place.

Have you ever gotten on an elevator and experienced that awkward silence that settles in after the doors close? Or been witness to the 'party lull' where everyone stops talking at the same time for no particular reason? I would submit to you that these experiences run a distant seventy-third to dropping trou so you can poop in front of strangers in a moving vehicle.

We got the patient sorted out, then field tested something called the 'Power Vent'. (Ambulance manufacturers, whoever thought of a ceiling-mounted fan that sucks smells out of the back so they can hover malevolently over random municipalities, THANK YOU. It works like a champ.)

And nothing cheers up the staff of my favorite ER like walking in with a big red biohazard bag and saying, "Do you have someplace I can put this?" I wish I had one for them every day.

Here we go again

Crap.

Here, I walk out of a movie that I couldn't stand, and pull up to the computer to have a little fun while I wait for it to be over, and I discover that once again I've managed to offend someone.

I made a comment on someone else's blog that had nothing to do with Canada. Only that a couple of folks from Canada had gotten hurt in a motorcycle accident. I didn't imply that being from there had anything to do with them having an accident. They could have been from Toledo. They could have been from Cheesequake, New Jersey. (Its a real place, one of my favorite towns EVAR.) They could have been from Pocatello, which is either in Iowa or Idaho. I think Idaho.
As it happens they were from Canada. I'm sorry.

I once took a Canadian Politics class in college that I absolutely didn't need because:

1. I had a small crush on the professor (an occasional adjunct at Queens University)
2. I knew absolutely nothing about your system of government and very little of your history outside of the bit of Irish history that overlaps it and that at one time you had a PM named Trudeau and a couple of Brians. I got a free subscription to McLean's and a B+.

I was busted for shoplifting in Montreal once. They were lenient. I was four years old. I was sent as a youth delegate to a missions conference in Niagara Falls when I was 17 and I conducted myself with utmost decorum despite the fact that our chaperone dropped us off at the hotel and went back to Buffalo to hang out with his daughter. We had a very good pizza, went on the Maid of the Mist, and sang a lot of songs about Jesus.

So gentle Canadians, polite Canadians, warmly dressed Canadians, please accept my apologies.

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended,

That you have but slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme,

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon we will mend.

Febru-wha?

Its what now? The 18th?

Jeez.

Wednesday night again; I'm at the ambulance building waiting for potential wreckage and mayhem from the snow/sleet/freezing rain/plague of frogs NOAA has sort of accurately predicted. So far, only one call, a person whose wreckage and mayhem was of a pulmonary variety.

Just spent a couple of hours with a sweet person who never fails to share details about people that I really don't want to know. I still haven't figured out how to say, "um, I don't want to hear this" without offending, so I spent the last twenty minutes making what I hope is a 'please stop talking' face. She's done now, and has gone home.

My thoughts have been limping, cripply, and unfunny lately, hence the recent blog-hiatus. I can't claim any personal Dark Night of the Soul (I almost spelled that Dark Knight of the Soul, which would imply some deep searching of Christian Bale, an activity I could completely get behind, even with his anger issues and whatnot. Hey-- who hasn't had the sudden overwhelming urge to give a pesky AD a South Philly shoeshine during a particularly tense scene of Batman-emoting. We've all been there.)

I'm sorry, I was just distracted by a commercial wherein a gentleman wearing a seemingly unnecessary headset just declared "We're going to make America skinny again, one slap at a time!" There's no way to understand that statement that doesn't disturb me.

Where was I. Batman. Christian Bale. Souls. ShamWow eyebrow SlapChop guy. Oh, right. Winter

ennui.

I'm trying to recall what I've been doing with myself the last few weeks. Other than mainlining Jan Karon novels and eating multiple bowls of Malt-o-Meal fake Froot Loops, nothing comes to mind. Surely my winter has amounted to more than discount cereal and Christian chick-lit.

Not so far. Here's a quick list of the rest:

1. Battlestar Galactica on Netflix

2. Snow

3. Subzero cold

4. Work

5. More subzero cold

6. Fire banquet

7. More cold

8. A bit more snow

9. A Super Bowl or something

I have reconnected with a lot of high school friends on Facebook. That's been fun, though if I knew how many of them stood at the ready with pictures of me in glasses with Hubble telescope-sized lenses and big hair I might have mashed the 'Ignore' button a few more times.

Seriously, though, while I love talking to old friends I caught myself OD-ing on nostalgia a time or two. And we all know its a short stroll down Memory Lane to 'What I Have Done and What I Have Failed To Do' Street, which dead ends on 'Middle Age Panic' Circle, with its declining property values and tacky landscaping.

So I tread lightly and carefully, dreaming of Spring and more interesting tidbits to bring to my readers. Even my intrepid customers have been pleasantly banal, no amorous canines or strangers who urge me to wear their slippers. I close my eyes and imagine tulips tightly furled against the dark, frozen soil, the yards hiding fragrant lilac bushes, the stalks of mountain laurel that will line these roads in riotous display in a few short months. I dream of green, the dark blue-green of the pines, the soft yellow-green of new grass, the lush green of the canyon under the heavy heat of August, laced with butterflies, with its smell of sun-baked green that rises in waves and washes over me like sleep. My desperation in the dark and freezing night does not delay it a moment. People....

...green is coming.

Getting all up in it

According to the Washington Post, Obama exercises 45-60 minutes a day, every day, no matter how busy he is. He scopes out gyms in cities and the Secret Service 'convinces' the owners to open early or stay open late, so he can get some time in.


Somehow, I doubt its hard to resist them, when they ask.





While I admire it, his dedication to the whole fitness thing, it sort of makes that
'Yes We Can' thing seem a little annoying. A little gym-teachery, if you like. I can see him in a golf shirt and knee shorts and those little slouchy socks, with the folded arms and benevolent bemusement, explaining to an athletically challenged ninth grader (perhaps one with glasses and newly applied orthodontia) that if she keeps her eye on the ball, she doesn't have to worry about getting hit in the head with it, truly. He'd probably even say, "Look." and make that intensely concentrated 'I'm going to explain it to you again' face.

Weirdly, when I try too hard to imagine it, he morphs into this guy. So I try not to try too hard.







Trying not to try is a bit of a credo for me. If I had to pick a president that personified my own fitness policy, I'd probably fall somewhere in between here








and here. (That's Bill before his ticker suggested he back off on the In-n-Out Burgers. The other guy? William Howard Taft. He got stuck in a bathtub once. Awesome!)

Still, I guess I need to do better. We've been called on to roll up our sleeves and dig in. So my walking challenge starts on February 1, where I will be undertaking to walk 30 minutes a day, every day, from February 1 to March 31, thanks to these folks, who are in Nome, Alaska and don't tolerate any guff about it being too cold, since they live in the land of perpetual frozen-bits-falling-off danger. I'll keep you posted on my ventures into the frozen tundra, and I'll be honest about the days when I stay inside and do this instead.

Its a (freakishly small) world after all

Recently I was reading a blog I subscribe to where the author was lamenting having said something that hurt someone's feelings. She described herself as someone who takes pains to be kind, and not do things like that, but despite her best efforts, failed in this one instance. I remember thinking, 'Man, I hate when that happens.'

No one likes to admit doing something dumb, thoughtless, and unkind.

I did something dumb, thoughtless, and unkind.

A few weeks ago I was stuck at the ambulance station. On New Year's Eve, to be exact. It was cold, I didn't want to be there, and I was passing the time watching TV, which I rarely do, Twittering and doing paperwork, waiting for something bad to happen so I could justify my presence there.

Jeopardy was on, which I haven't seen in forever, and I made fun of one of the contestants. I said mean things about how she looked, despite the fact that I know being on TV sometimes makes people look not-themselves, and despite the fact that my own appearance on TV when I was 17 was laughably awkward.

I have no excuse. It was simply unkind. Sometimes we forget that people we see on TV are actually PEOPLE. And I am glad that this particular person saw what I had written and called me on it, because I was reminded of that important lesson.

So formally, I apologize to Isis Uptown for the things I said. I have no excuse and a world of life experience that reminds me I should know, and do, better.

The road goes ever on and on....

....sometimes, I wish my several readers could pile in the van with me when I'm on the road.

Not just because your presence would alleviate the boredom that causes compulsive license plate memorization and the effort to sing entire Broadway shows, but because some of the special, shimmery weirdness of certain moments is lost in translation when I bring them home to you.

I have a miniature one of these in my purse. I keep it there to jot down things that happen or that I see, so I can bring them to you later. A combination of various illnesses, travel, and the Apocalypse Now-like disorientation that accompanies Christmas (without as much psychopathic demagoguery or Marlon Brando) prevented me from writing out of my wee composition book. As I turn the pages, I find the following gems:

Archibald Pothole State Park. LOL!! This was less funny when I looked it up and discovered that the Archibald Pothole is a geological formation and NOT a guy named Archie Pothole.

Do Not Taunt Happy Fun Christmas I stopped for lunch in Shamokin Dam at your run-of-the-mill Chinese buffet, but it didn't take me long to figure out that this one had very, very special music for the Christmas season. Or rather, someone locked a group of aspiring Chinese pop stars in a room with a handful of 'Christmas phrases' and encouraged them to write some songs, accompanied by holiday-tinged drum machine tracks that said less 'Happy Holidays' to me and more 'Gitmo punishment cell'. Every song sounded like the instruction manual to electronics bought at the dollar store. I accepted a special dose of karma in a version of 'O Happy Day' that was obviously learned phonetically by non-speakers of English. I am abundantly repaid for walking around circa 1985 singing '99 Luftbalons' in German.

The Twisted Bitterness of the Non-Fat I popped into a local coffee shop on a very cold, miserable day to treat myself to something hot. I placed my order and chatted with the barista while she made it, and just as she was fitting the lid on the cup a woman walked up to the counter.

"What did you just make for her?" she said, jerking her thumb in my direction.

"Hot chocolate," the barista replied.

"I figured it was too good to be true. Give me a fat free, sugar free, vanilla soy latte."

The hell? I was sort of dumbfounded. WHAT was too good to be true? Had she hoped to lick the little metal pitcher? Was she going to offer to go halfsies? Why was she so angry?

Dog Dominance and the Brinkmanship of Ducks I had an appointment way out on the rim of the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon. I thought it'd be kind of neat; most of the houses out there are little cabins and I hadn't been out there in a while. The neatness wore off as the elevation increased and it began to snow. The weather gets crappy up there fast. I find the little dirt road, find the cute little cabin with the laughably narrow driveway, and park. The snow is coming down in earnest and as I climb the porch and greet my customer, she says she just wants to smoke a 'quick cigarette'. Um, okay. I shift nervously from foot to foot while she languidly draws on a cigarette the length of a CB antenna and tells me all about moving to Savannah, and I exclaim my wonder at her good fortune just loudly enough to mask the sound of my clipboard making contact with the skull of a patchy, smelly akita that has just mounted my leg. Its a bit like getting humped by a frat house sofa.

"Oh, " she said, smoking, "don't worry about him. He's just establishing dominance."

I put lawn furniture between myself and the dog and grab the screen door handle with a "WELL! Let's get started." After a torturously slow process and lots of asides that made me want to alternately go to church or take a nap, the customer looks out the window after another Springer-esque anecdote about her family and says, "Gee, you'd probably better go, hadn't you? Its getting bad out there. " Uh, yeah, thanks. I make a k-turn in the driveway, coming within an inch of her chimney and slide back out of her lane onto paved road, which is by now completely covered. Creeping down miles of empty road, with no company except steadily increasing snow and moaning, frigid wind, I am lost in thought. Then there are ducks. Right in the middle of the lane. They'll fly away. Won't they? WON'T THEY? I get within 10 feet and they are still both just standing there. Does duck sepukku usually involve the 1999 Dodge Caravan? I hit the brakes and skid around them. The ducks remain, gray shadows in the whirling snow.

I always forget to ask, but please stop on over to Humor Blogs.com, throw me a vote (or smiley me above) and check out the other folks (like Himself) who are ranked much, much higher than me because they always remember to shake what their mamma gave 'em. (Heck, sometimes they'll show it to you!)

Sick Day(s)

Oh, good lord. Is this the day I should be writing the post I should have written weeks ago, yet have either been to busy, too lazy, or too sick to write? To quote a blogger dear to me, I'm sure I don't know.

Anyhoodle, Friday night I left work, went to the grocery store, came home and made dinner, and ate, oblivious to the fact that my 96 hours of house arrest had begun. We started to watch a movie, and I tried to ignore the intensifying feeling that all was not well in my GI region. Grape juice and DiGiorno thin crust supreme is less tasty on the revisit, and I will now forever associate Plan 9 from Outer Space with the intense nausea and cramping of January Virus Weekend 2009. The only upside is that we got a crap ton of snow, none of which I had to shovel, and Himself went out to buy me tea and other nice things. I slept a lot, and generally did my best Beth in 'Little Women' impression. Only I didn't die. (Sorry about the spoiler, for those of you who haven't read it in the 141 years since its publication.)

I tried to do a few things to make me feel better, though I learned that if you are going to do your nails during a movie, you should pick one without subtitles. You miss things. Just sayin'. I mixed up a fancy organic masque sample I had and applied it to my pasty face in an attempt to 'pamper' myself. It smelled like potting soil, bad breath, and vaguely toxic art supplies. The cat eyed me warily, as if he was silently chanting some feline incantation of rebuke and protection.

Monday, I stayed home, since a shower still required a two-hour nap recovery. Watched the two movies that make me feel better; Little Women and Enchanted April. Took more naps. Came to work today because the view from my bedroom window was starting to make me feel a little insane. (Tiny beige house. Tiny beige house. Tiny beige house. A car! Tiny beige house. Tiny beige house.) Fortunately today involves mostly sitting and doing things with my brain, and I think I can handle it.

I promise to post again very soon. I have dog dominance, duck brinkmanship, and strange overhearings at the coffee shop to tell you about.

Exhibiting my meme-ory

I was tagged by fabulous fellow blogger Needless to Say for this ‘Seven Things’ Meme. I’m not sure if I did this one before, and I’m experiencing a medically induced laziness to check, so I’ll just off and do it again, shall I?

Seven things about me that I may or may not have shared previously in some form, known only by some family and a few friends who are probably sick of my stories and secretly think me a bit full of myself though they’d never say so because I have Many Endearing Qualities:

1. I was the lead singer in a terrible band in college. We did one show. There IS video evidence. Fortunately I lack the VHS to web technology to share it and ANYWAY you would never see it because, good God, its terrible. If I am really that awkward I should not leave the house.

2. I was on PBS in high school (Channel 12, for youse in Philly) fake sight-reading my way through Handel’s Messiah on live TV. I was sporting a red sweatshirt with a teddy bear on it, giant Jeanine-from-Ghostbusters glasses, with all my hair pulled back drum-tight with a giant tortoise-shell barrette. I’m right in the front row by the harpsichord so I got a lot of camera time and didn’t realize how painfully short bus I looked until my grandmother popped the tape in for all the relatives to see at a family gathering. They showed it EVERY Christmas Eve for years until Pavarotti and the Vienna Boys Choir became the go-to music program and the greater Philadelphia area was spared my dorkiness.

3. I own firearms and a sword and have been trained to use both.

4. I have socialized with people who were either expelled from this country or refused entry here. I had guns pointed at me and visited two different prisons on the same trip. I will likely never be hired by the Department of Homeland Security for these and other related reasons. I’m now slightly paranoid that this whole item has tripped some sort of flagging program and my blog will now be monitored.

5. I was once caught shoplifting in the Province of Quebec and was convinced that the store owner had the legal authority to imprison me because he had an accent. I was four years old.

6. I married the second person I ever dated. My husband married the first person he ever dated. We did not live together before we were married. We have been married for twelve years.

7. I’m a firefighter and an EMT. I do more EMT-ing than firefighting, mostly because half our firefighters hang out at the station and I’d have to have the power of by-location to get there in time to make the first or second truck. So I usually only end up going if it’s a huge fire and we dump the station. There aren’t many of those. But I have the nifty coat with my name on the back in yellow reflective letters, which still feels badass even though when I put the whole rig on with the boots and suspenders I am pretty sure that if you knocked me over I’d roll back and forth on the ground and yell "Hey guys! I CAN’T get UP!!" Like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story. But I’ve been on 107 ambulance calls this year. Of those, only five involved the patient being zipped into a plastic bag. (One stroke, one massive MI, one motorcycle vs. Various Stationary Objects, two suicides.)

I know I'm supposed to tag others, but since most of you have already done this one, feel free to throw interesting anecdotes into the comments, so I can break my big record of like, eleven comments on one post. Just make sure you vote for me so I can feel the love.

I know what I know, if you know what I mean.....

I usually pride myself on knowing, at least in a dim and rudimentary sense, about pop culture. True, the strength of my knowledge lies in the John Hughes era, but I am at least somewhat familiar with what's hot, enough that I could be filled with equal parts despair and amusement while trying to explain to my mother on the phone what a Wii is, and how its different from the last video gaming system she purchased and was familiar with (an Atari 2600).

Another gibbet of evidence that I'm creeping toward middle age (other than last week, when I bought birth control pills AND reading glasses at Walmart on the same day) is that I'm starting to let things go by. Things I realize I don't get and I'm okay with not getting.

1. WoW

In junior high I got together with a bunch of guys every other Friday night or so for a game. We all had our own dice, we all had folders full of sheets with our characters written out by hand in pencil. We sat together 'IRL' at a table, and a guy with a huge binder sat behind a trifold paper castle wall and determined our fate as we moved painstakingly painted lead figurines around on a piece of grid paper. We talked, ate Cheetos, and laughed our butts off. No one had seizures from playing 24 hours straight without sleep or food, though at least one bad movie was made about people taking it too far. By age 15, when we discovered things like extracurricular activities and the opposite sex, roleplaying tapered off sharply, with the exception of one live RPG excursion that ended in, as my doctor put it, 'The single worst case of poison oak he's ever seen" plus various minor blunt force and Ronsonol misfire injuries. (Hint: never run with a tiki torch.)

Today my Gmail ad du jour was from this company. Apparently, I can get a t-shirt with my 'Guild Tabard' on it. So when you do finally pry your ass out of the chair and grab a Big Gulp and a microwaved burrito, everyone can see what realm battlegroup and faction you belong to. Also: why your virginity is safe and secure.

2. Twilight

I didn't get it the first time, either. Did we have to start it all over again because Anne Rice found Jesus? (Be glad she did. Some of her pseudonymous stuff was, yikes. Just, yikes.)

3. Compulsive text messaging

Yeah, I use it. Mostly when I'm someplace too noisy to talk, and only when I have to tell Himself I'm on my way home. My one attempt to drunk text while at a friend's going away party ended in three very unintelligible and never sent messages that all started 'Hey bebby...' Which is probably why the party ended with breakfast at McDonald's at 7am. But is there really any reason why a guy has to stand around with a phone in his pocket that declaims "Apple bottom jeans and the boots WITH THE FUR" every twelve seconds? Does texting make you seem LESS like a 14 year old girl than just PICKING UP THE DAMN THING and talking to whoever it is that keeps sending you cryptic mini-missives that subject the rest of the free world to your questionable taste in music?

4. Tiny sweatshirts

I keep seeing girls in these sweatshirts that are basically a hood, sleeves, and about 8 inches of body, with a zipper that starts somewhere in the ziphoid process region. I beg anyone with mercy and sense to explain to me what the heck the point of this is, beyond making you look like you raided a toddler's closet.

5. The Hills

Is it a reality show? Is it a drama? Are there any other people in the world more in need of a savage kicking?

6. The Jonas Brothers

Methinks we've been here before. Let's see....

Oh, or



Or these guys, who disabled embedding so you'll just have to click on through to the otha side for all the hair-swinging goodness.

Look, I remember coveting my sister's Tiger Beat with Shaun Cassidy on the cover. I know from tweeny lust. But I look at these guys and all I see are the charter members of my high school Latin Club.





Hey, do a girl a favor and vote for me over to Humor Blogs, eh? While my husband hobnobs with the blogging elite I'm about five scrolls down the page. Its embarassing and precipitates haughty lectures from him about how I need to update my template and otherwise pimp myself out. I don't care if he's right. Its still annoying.

Not just a job, but an adventure

Ah, the station. I probably spend more time here than I should. In fact, I'm writing this here. Mostly because we have a big flatscreen monitor on the computer and the keyboard isn't full of crumbs like the one at home. (I'm not to blame. I'll leave it at that.)
Anyway, the station is a little like college. You sometimes share close quarters with other people of whom you have a certain fondness. A certain camaraderie. Okay, you tolerate them. Sometimes.

We don't have a live-in program or anything, so there isn't a full kitchen, though we do have a bunkroom that has been used now and again. I camp here myself in inclement weather, since I have a car that isn't the best handler in snow and ice. I'd rather be here already if its really bad out.

Some time ago it was decided that someone should be cleaning this place on a regular basis. I won't get into why. Just trust me. It was necessary. A price was negotiated, and the job fell to myself. I don't really mind it. Twice a week I chase away the cobwebs, wipe up the smudges, and clean the bathroom. This is a pretty uneventful experience about 98% of the time. Today was a two-percenter. I performed an intervention. Then left this note.

Some Thoughts to Ponder


1. The throne on which
you are sitting delivers water at the rate of 1.6 gallons per flush.
2. Despite the impressive WHOOSH it makes when you pull the handle, it
is a LOW FLOW TOILET.
3. If you, in the course of business here,
believe that the payload you are delivering will not be sufficiently moved into
the sewage system of Our Fine Borough by 1.6 gallons of water, a mid-transaction
courtesy flush is in order.
4. The average human anus is approximately
the size of a dime. It does not require FIFTEEN YARDS OF PAPER to clean.
5. Should you experience a plumbing emergency worthy of intervention,
a plunger can be found across the street (in the firehouse) in the ladies
room. Knock first; it’s a one-seater.
6. Should I ever have to clear a
plumbing emergency like the one I found tonight, and the perpetrator does not
make an effort to solve the problem, and leaves it to me, and said perpetrator
can be positively identified, they might find what they left behind in the
pockets of their turnouts.

Brothers and sisters, this holiday season, if you stop at the station for a little 'You Time'....just make sure all systems are clear before you go about your day. That's all I'm sayin'.

Pleasing your Man

Whoo hoo, sounds like a spicy one, eh? I grabbed this the other day and stuck it in my draft file, aka the doomed to never be published if I don't do it now file (Still sitting on one about my first attempt at canning, making fundraiser 'bread in a jar' for an organization I've since quit, complete with disturbingly glistening photos.)

Since, let's be honest, we're all pretty much pretending to work today, I figured I'd make today a two-fer. Because this article, from the Fount of All Dubious Advice, needed to be mocked. The sister-in-law had one not long ago about whether its okay to cry at work. This one is equally insightful.

So this is what MSN believes one needs to keep one's man.

1. Your backing when he takes a risk. Guys need to keep in touch with adventure—why else would Man Vs. Wild be a TiVo staple? “When I wanted to switch careers, my girl said to go for it,” says Will, 30. “Having her in my corner gave me the courage to try.”


2. The right to keep Secrets. Why should he have to tell you his friend is having an affair, or that his cousin lost his job and hasn’t told his wife yet? If it’s not integral to your relationship, don’t feel threatened. His discretion shows he’s a grown-up.


3. A guilt-free boys’ night out. The cure for “girly-man” syndrome is contact with other high-fiving men. This may mean a trip to the bar or an Ultimate Fighting Championship—but it’s definitely without you, and that’s OK. “See me off with a smile,” says Al-Teriq, 38. “That trust is critical.”

4. The green light to actually have sex, should the opportunity arise, with someone on his Celebrity List of Five. And by all means, hop on Brad Pitt if you ever get the chance.

5. Some space when his team loses the big game. And you can save your “maybe next year” optimism; just give us time alone to weep.

6. A heads-up when you just need us to listen. Sometimes all you really want to do is vent to us about something. A simple warning in advance and we promise we’ll stay quiet and let you talk it out.

7. Patience when he says the wrong thing. Like when you ask, “How’s my hair?” and we say, “Fine,” instead of “Amazing!” Give us a break: We’re trying.

8. Big guffaws and tiny giggles. We like to hear laughter—preferably following one of our silly jokes. We know, we know: Chris Rock and Jerry Seinfeld we are not, but anything you offer will be very much appreciated.

9. Frequent (and enthusiastic) trips downtown. Yes, we all request this, but that’s because it really is that good. We’re happy to return the favor.

10. A GPS for the car. You want this too. It will end those “where the *#!? are we?” arguments once and for all.

11. The freedom to be himself. It’s important for people in a relationship to retain a sense of self, and for guys that’s achievable in some unexpected ways; leaving the toilet seat up or spending the weekend in boxers.
<><><><><><><><><>
Good God. Where to begin. First off, is changing careers really on par with staggering through the desert swathed in a t-shirt cooled with your own pee? If your job is that demanding perhaps your girl would do better to be in your corner while you go buy some term life and name her as the primary beneficiary. I'm so glad that going without pants is enough to help a man retain his sense of self, especially since he is apparently one missed trip to the bar and a denied celebrity 'do' list away from becoming a screaming queen, which would actually be good, since MY sense of self revolves around whether or not he can appropriately assess my hairdo and maybe if he did bat for the other team I'd get some honest feedback. I can't mock these separately because all together they form this giant ball of stereotypey goodness that just gets stuck in my intellect like cotton candy with hair in it. So here's my own list.

1. Let's not fancy up the reality of things by calling it a 'Celebrity List of Five'. Its a wank bank. You know he has one. He knows you know he has one. Better to not speak of such things. Also: Brad Pitt gives me the heebies and he's starting to look like an unkicked jack o' lantern that has been on the front step about a week too long. And given his present company, if you apply the 'you sleep with everyone that person has ever slept with' theorem we're talking about a sexual history roughly the length of the OED. So, no. Also, ick.

2. I'm all for frequent and enthusiastic trips downtown. After all, its less than a mile and that's where the restaurants are. And the post office. And the park with the disturbing statue. And 19 churches. After that, its all deer and trees.

3. He cares about your hair about as much as you care about fantasy football. There. You're even.

4. Don't ask him why the underwear is in the trash. Just leave it there. No, really. You have bleach but he has plenty. Just leave it there.

5. Don't get a GPS if you think he'll dink with it WHILE he's driving. Rims are expensive.

6. If you don't want to touch the seat to put it down, clean the bathroom. Otherwise, shut up about it.

7. Just empty his pockets yourself. At least you get to keep the money you find. Yeah, its irritating. So is picking bits of tissue off your black pants.

8. Men do like to hear laughter. Just maybe not right after they run to you claiming something is terribly wrong with their gums, when actually they just discovered that weird little connector between their top lip and the rest of their face.

9. Regarding the sex thing, have some.

10. Operate on the general principle that your man is not an ornament or an accessory. He does not exist to get you stuff. He is a person that you've been given the opportunity to care for in a way that you care for no one else. Remember that he is a human being with an immortal soul and should be cherished accordingly when you are arguing with him in the cat litter aisle at Walmart.