Lovely drive today, arriving at our D.C. hotel around 4:30. We found a series of oldies stations all the way from Greensboro, up through Richmond and into the District, so the Mister and I cranked it up and sang along with the likes of Manfred Mann and Kansas and Queen for hours. The children seemed especially grateful for their earphones.
Immediately upon our arrival, we realized that we've chosen a particularly popular weekend to visit Washington.
If you've ever driven in from I-395 up from Arlington, you'll remember that the first thing you see is the tip of the Washington Monument looming majestically in the distance. Even more remarkable, today was the official Cherry Blossom Kite Festival, right on the monument's grounds. Imagine the famous structure surrounded by literally hundreds of gorgeous kites - some with the patriotic stars-and-stripes, some with breathtaking butterfly wings and ribbons...it really was an amazing sight, and I can't do it justice with words. And of course I don't have pictures, because I had insisted on driving the car into the city on account of being a ginormous control freak.
The other main attraction in D.C. tonight is "the big game". I had no idea which big game, but when we checked in this afternoon, we commented on the crowds, and the front desk clerk informed us that everyone was here for the big game. Our hotel is around the corner from the Verizon Center, and apparently the big game is being held over there.
What game? I know this is the Final Four weekend, but those loons are all in New Orleans. Football season is months away, and it's still too early in the season for anybody to be spun up about soccer or baseball. Gymnastics? No, that's not really a game, although it's fun to watch and imitate flatulence when they stick a hard landing. I racked my brain trying to figure out what else it could be - maybe NBA?
We tried to have dinner in the hotel restaurant, but we could barely elbow our way into the side door, and it was packed with loud drunk people in red jerseys. As I studied the crowd and their silly face paint and get-ups, it dawned on me - these people are hockey fans! Our hotel - and actually most of the District - is full of people here to watch the Washington Capitals play the Montreal Canadiens - based on the fervor of the fan base, this is apparently an important match-up.
I know next to nothing about hockey, so I was initially annoyed and feeling rather superior to these scores of maroons full of beer and bad words. Then it occurred to me that bellowing "Rocky Top" while choosing to wear prison orange and white every weekend from August until Christmas probably doesn't give me much room to scoff.
We made our way around the corner to an Asian restaurant called Wok 'N Roll, which too was jam-packed with red jerseys but we went ahead and grabbed the first table available. Dinner was great, and we were pleasantly surprised to learn that the establishment is situated in the former Surratt boarding house - the place where Lincoln's assassin(s) allegedly plotted their crime.
They make really great sushi there too.
31 March 2012
30 March 2012
HC Tour 2012 - Day One
Herein you will find the first entry regarding our American History and Culture Tour 2012. Daily entries are the goal, but I'm not making promises.
After a busy morning of last-minute prep, we made it onto the highway by early afternoon. We've rented a crossover vehicle with 3rd row seating so as to avoid having to flog the children on the side of the road for bickering. So far so good. But we did happen upon a less-fortunate family whose mother had just pulled off onto the emergency lane and was in the process of yanking a child out as we passed by. I suspect that our kids previously thought that "don't make me stop this car" was an empty idle threat, but they got kind of bug-eyed and somber when they saw it is a viable option.
We made three stops today; two times for caffeine and bathrooms, and then the other for dinner. While many people opt for McDonald's or a tidy BP station for their road trip bio breaks, I myself have an affinity for truck stops. You know, the kind where the cashier announces via PA system that Linda B. can now use Shower 12. The kind where you can buy Tammy Wynette CDs for $4.99, along with beef jerky and Goody's headache powders and random little glass figurines of unicorns and hummingbirds.
Truck stops have certainly evolved in recent years. I was surprised to see that one could purchase a wide array of high-tech audio/video equipment, hunting supplies and a decent wardrobe all in one spot. Given the fact that our second stop was just north of Charlotte, they also offered a wide array of NASCAR attire and memorabilia. I would have given anything to have my camera with me when the Mister tried on a knockoff driver jacket with a bunch of sponsor logos all over it.
(Speaking of NASCAR, our GPS took us off of I-85 and up U.S. 29 for about 15 miles, where we had the unexpected treat of seeing Charlotte Motor Speedway up close. I felt my redneck genes twitch happily as we drove by - I think the Coca-Cola 500 just went on my bucket list.)
At my insistence, we had an early supper at Daddy Joe's BBQ Beach House in Gaffney, S.C. I found this place a couple of years ago while traveling for work; as a formally trained and official Memphis-in-May barbecue judge, I always feel compelled to try out new places. Especially in the Carolinas, where they use extra vinegar and not that icky sweet ketchupy stuff. So anyhow, I dragged my family off of the highway to Daddy Joe's tonight, and it was as good as I remembered. If you're ever near Gaffney and you're looking for a fine pulled pork sandwich, get off at exit 92 and go about a mile; Daddy Joe's is in a crappy shack on the left, next to the Rite Aid.
One last observation; we have booked rooms with 2 double beds in each hotel where we will be staying over the next 9 days. I am disheartened to see how awfully big the Boy has gotten; he literally just fell out of the bed he is sharing with his daddy a minute ago while he was dozing off. I should probably call ahead to our next destination and see about getting a rollaway...
After a busy morning of last-minute prep, we made it onto the highway by early afternoon. We've rented a crossover vehicle with 3rd row seating so as to avoid having to flog the children on the side of the road for bickering. So far so good. But we did happen upon a less-fortunate family whose mother had just pulled off onto the emergency lane and was in the process of yanking a child out as we passed by. I suspect that our kids previously thought that "don't make me stop this car" was an empty idle threat, but they got kind of bug-eyed and somber when they saw it is a viable option.
We made three stops today; two times for caffeine and bathrooms, and then the other for dinner. While many people opt for McDonald's or a tidy BP station for their road trip bio breaks, I myself have an affinity for truck stops. You know, the kind where the cashier announces via PA system that Linda B. can now use Shower 12. The kind where you can buy Tammy Wynette CDs for $4.99, along with beef jerky and Goody's headache powders and random little glass figurines of unicorns and hummingbirds.
Truck stops have certainly evolved in recent years. I was surprised to see that one could purchase a wide array of high-tech audio/video equipment, hunting supplies and a decent wardrobe all in one spot. Given the fact that our second stop was just north of Charlotte, they also offered a wide array of NASCAR attire and memorabilia. I would have given anything to have my camera with me when the Mister tried on a knockoff driver jacket with a bunch of sponsor logos all over it.
(Speaking of NASCAR, our GPS took us off of I-85 and up U.S. 29 for about 15 miles, where we had the unexpected treat of seeing Charlotte Motor Speedway up close. I felt my redneck genes twitch happily as we drove by - I think the Coca-Cola 500 just went on my bucket list.)
At my insistence, we had an early supper at Daddy Joe's BBQ Beach House in Gaffney, S.C. I found this place a couple of years ago while traveling for work; as a formally trained and official Memphis-in-May barbecue judge, I always feel compelled to try out new places. Especially in the Carolinas, where they use extra vinegar and not that icky sweet ketchupy stuff. So anyhow, I dragged my family off of the highway to Daddy Joe's tonight, and it was as good as I remembered. If you're ever near Gaffney and you're looking for a fine pulled pork sandwich, get off at exit 92 and go about a mile; Daddy Joe's is in a crappy shack on the left, next to the Rite Aid.
One last observation; we have booked rooms with 2 double beds in each hotel where we will be staying over the next 9 days. I am disheartened to see how awfully big the Boy has gotten; he literally just fell out of the bed he is sharing with his daddy a minute ago while he was dozing off. I should probably call ahead to our next destination and see about getting a rollaway...
28 March 2012
Travel Plans, Phase One
We are preparing to head out on this year's Spring Break outing, and for the first time in forever, I will be heading north instead of south. I know, I know, it's completely out of character for me to spend vacation time or dollars to be anywhere other than a beach or a lake.
But it's time for us to expose our progeny to some History and Culture, and so we are heading to D.C. and Williamsburg. I did some pre-planning a few weeks ago, booking hotels and estimating reasonable miles per day travel. I'm doing all I can to prepare in advance, because I'm reserving that last day prior to departure for a pre-emptive family conference and meltdown.
You see...we will be DRIVING.
Please understand - we are a loving foursome that generally enjoys one another's company. But somehow, when we are forced into extended togetherness, we end up bickering and sniping about important things like "stop looking at me!" and "get off my side of the seat!!"
And the kids are even worse. Stay tuned...
But it's time for us to expose our progeny to some History and Culture, and so we are heading to D.C. and Williamsburg. I did some pre-planning a few weeks ago, booking hotels and estimating reasonable miles per day travel. I'm doing all I can to prepare in advance, because I'm reserving that last day prior to departure for a pre-emptive family conference and meltdown.
You see...we will be DRIVING.
Please understand - we are a loving foursome that generally enjoys one another's company. But somehow, when we are forced into extended togetherness, we end up bickering and sniping about important things like "stop looking at me!" and "get off my side of the seat!!"
And the kids are even worse. Stay tuned...
22 March 2012
Mildred
A few posts back, I talked about my maternal grandmother's obsession with health and vitamins, and I promised to write more about her soon.
It's soon.
I'm not entirely sure where to start, and my preface to this post is that what you are about to read is true to the best of my knowledge and belief. Mildred's story is my own blended concoction of fact and muddy memory.
Other than the fact that she was born in the Appalachian foothills in 1916, I don't really know much about her childhood. I do know that she had sisters and brothers with whom she was reasonably close throughout her lifetime and that they grew up mostly poor. I do know that her daddy was a mean S.O.B. but he died before I was born. I did have the inestimable good fortune to know my great-grandmother Ruby, who died when I was about ten. Ruby was addicted to Garrett's snuff and would frequently spit in various receptacles ("spitcans") around the house as well as right into the sink. Ew.
Mildred left the hills and went to business school in her late teens and in short order became secretary to a local attorney. That attorney went on to become a prominent state senator and community advocate, and Mildred remained his loyal assistant until he died in office in 1965.
She briefly married a laborer from Georgia who fathered my mother in 1940 and then they apparently went their separate ways. I don't know squat about any of that. I'm sure it's more interesting than I know (short marriages usually have some kind of juicy story), but anyway, I don't know what it was. I do know that he worked in Roosevelt's Civilian Conservation Corps at some point before they got married. That is the sum of what I know about my maternal grandfather.
So anyway, after the state senator died, Mildred went to work as a secretary for another attorney who eventually became our U.S. congressman and held that office from 1965 until his death in 1988. (While I'm generally an advocate for term limits, he was an excellent leader and plus he was good to my family.) Mildred worked for him continuously and then, when his son was elected to fill his vacant seat, Mildred went to work for the son as well. My sweet nutty grandmother worked until she was gently encouraged to retire in 1998 - at age 82.
Why on earth am I telling you so much about her career? BECAUSE IT WAS AWESOME! My grandmother loved her work more than most people love breathing. She taught me the importance of loving what I do to earn a living and how it means all the difference between contentment and frustration. She taught me that it is a good thing to care about the people you work with and develop friendships with them that surpass nine-to-five.
Mildred wasn't your average secretary, mind you. Yes, she was an "executive assistant" who typed and copied and took shorthand and scheduled appointments for her boss, but she was so much more than that.
You might be surprised to know that East Tennessee is a prime destination for immigrants from around the world, particularly for refugees and those in need of political asylum. A big part of Mildred's job was to assist these folks with immigrant visas and citizenship applications. True to her nature, she took these folks under her wing and established long and deep friendships with many. They brought her gifts from around the world and helped tend to her in her retirement years and they just plain old loved her.
(Remind me to tell you about Thanksgiving at Mildred's some time. That will have to be a post unto itself.)
Before you get the idea that it was all sunshine and roses with Mildred and me, let's set the record straight. She drove me completely crazy. Not just with the vitamins (see the earlier post), but with her badgering about adolescent hygiene and annoying penchant for calling me "Lee-Laura". She gave my little sister an even more irritating nickname, which I can't repeat under fear of death. Most frustrating of all was her insistent refusal to acknowledge that my mother was severely mentally ill - not just moody and irresponsible.
My face flushes with shame even now when I think of the times that I shouted at Mildred and told her to get out of my room, leave me alone, go f... yourself. Maybe I didn't actually say that last one, but I sure thought it sometimes. Not only did she bug me to pieces, I was also frequently embarrassed by her - her goofy orangey-red hair and her latest Camaro. She flirted with every male in a 20 foot radius, and she had this ridiculous way of hooting when she laughed (especially while flirting) that would make me want to smack her and say, stop with the hooting already! Rather than money or some other fun present, she would celebrate my birthdays by giving me butt-ugly slips and extra-tan pantyhose.
So here I am, thinking and writing about her nine years after she died. Her work ethic and her nutty love for pretty much everybody she met are things that I aspire to emulate, along with her faith and constant craving to study God's word. She is the person who taught me it is OK to underline and actually write notes all over your Bible - apparently it's not a sin, despite what some might say.
And I'm actually missing the hooting and the vitamins. A little bit.
http://www.seymourherald.com/obituaries/2003/May/26/5337/
It's soon.
I'm not entirely sure where to start, and my preface to this post is that what you are about to read is true to the best of my knowledge and belief. Mildred's story is my own blended concoction of fact and muddy memory.
Other than the fact that she was born in the Appalachian foothills in 1916, I don't really know much about her childhood. I do know that she had sisters and brothers with whom she was reasonably close throughout her lifetime and that they grew up mostly poor. I do know that her daddy was a mean S.O.B. but he died before I was born. I did have the inestimable good fortune to know my great-grandmother Ruby, who died when I was about ten. Ruby was addicted to Garrett's snuff and would frequently spit in various receptacles ("spitcans") around the house as well as right into the sink. Ew.
Mildred left the hills and went to business school in her late teens and in short order became secretary to a local attorney. That attorney went on to become a prominent state senator and community advocate, and Mildred remained his loyal assistant until he died in office in 1965.
She briefly married a laborer from Georgia who fathered my mother in 1940 and then they apparently went their separate ways. I don't know squat about any of that. I'm sure it's more interesting than I know (short marriages usually have some kind of juicy story), but anyway, I don't know what it was. I do know that he worked in Roosevelt's Civilian Conservation Corps at some point before they got married. That is the sum of what I know about my maternal grandfather.
So anyway, after the state senator died, Mildred went to work as a secretary for another attorney who eventually became our U.S. congressman and held that office from 1965 until his death in 1988. (While I'm generally an advocate for term limits, he was an excellent leader and plus he was good to my family.) Mildred worked for him continuously and then, when his son was elected to fill his vacant seat, Mildred went to work for the son as well. My sweet nutty grandmother worked until she was gently encouraged to retire in 1998 - at age 82.
Why on earth am I telling you so much about her career? BECAUSE IT WAS AWESOME! My grandmother loved her work more than most people love breathing. She taught me the importance of loving what I do to earn a living and how it means all the difference between contentment and frustration. She taught me that it is a good thing to care about the people you work with and develop friendships with them that surpass nine-to-five.
Mildred wasn't your average secretary, mind you. Yes, she was an "executive assistant" who typed and copied and took shorthand and scheduled appointments for her boss, but she was so much more than that.
You might be surprised to know that East Tennessee is a prime destination for immigrants from around the world, particularly for refugees and those in need of political asylum. A big part of Mildred's job was to assist these folks with immigrant visas and citizenship applications. True to her nature, she took these folks under her wing and established long and deep friendships with many. They brought her gifts from around the world and helped tend to her in her retirement years and they just plain old loved her.
(Remind me to tell you about Thanksgiving at Mildred's some time. That will have to be a post unto itself.)
Before you get the idea that it was all sunshine and roses with Mildred and me, let's set the record straight. She drove me completely crazy. Not just with the vitamins (see the earlier post), but with her badgering about adolescent hygiene and annoying penchant for calling me "Lee-Laura". She gave my little sister an even more irritating nickname, which I can't repeat under fear of death. Most frustrating of all was her insistent refusal to acknowledge that my mother was severely mentally ill - not just moody and irresponsible.
My face flushes with shame even now when I think of the times that I shouted at Mildred and told her to get out of my room, leave me alone, go f... yourself. Maybe I didn't actually say that last one, but I sure thought it sometimes. Not only did she bug me to pieces, I was also frequently embarrassed by her - her goofy orangey-red hair and her latest Camaro. She flirted with every male in a 20 foot radius, and she had this ridiculous way of hooting when she laughed (especially while flirting) that would make me want to smack her and say, stop with the hooting already! Rather than money or some other fun present, she would celebrate my birthdays by giving me butt-ugly slips and extra-tan pantyhose.
So here I am, thinking and writing about her nine years after she died. Her work ethic and her nutty love for pretty much everybody she met are things that I aspire to emulate, along with her faith and constant craving to study God's word. She is the person who taught me it is OK to underline and actually write notes all over your Bible - apparently it's not a sin, despite what some might say.
And I'm actually missing the hooting and the vitamins. A little bit.
http://www.seymourherald.com/obituaries/2003/May/26/5337/
21 March 2012
Monstrous Mother
So I'm watching the news this week and a story comes on about a 14-year-old girl who died - DIED - from drinking two Monster energy drinks.
Immediately I flash on multiple instances of me caving in to the Boy's pleas for a Monster, a RockStar, or one of the other iterations of apparently canned crack. "Sure, buddy", I've said time and again, "but just one, OK? I don't think they're good for you."
Not good for you? Well, in my own defense, I wasn't aware that they can be fatal, but in my heart I know that I often sacrifice parental good judgment in the name of being his pal.
And who wouldn't want to be his pal? He's funny, smart and good-looking, plus he loves Jesus and his Mom and Dad. He's an avid reader and gamer and skater and tae-kwon-do-er, and I just plain old think he's cool.
But he doesn't need a pal - he needs a mom. A mom who won't buy him death in a can anymore, because she loves him more than her own life.
Immediately I flash on multiple instances of me caving in to the Boy's pleas for a Monster, a RockStar, or one of the other iterations of apparently canned crack. "Sure, buddy", I've said time and again, "but just one, OK? I don't think they're good for you."
Not good for you? Well, in my own defense, I wasn't aware that they can be fatal, but in my heart I know that I often sacrifice parental good judgment in the name of being his pal.
And who wouldn't want to be his pal? He's funny, smart and good-looking, plus he loves Jesus and his Mom and Dad. He's an avid reader and gamer and skater and tae-kwon-do-er, and I just plain old think he's cool.
But he doesn't need a pal - he needs a mom. A mom who won't buy him death in a can anymore, because she loves him more than her own life.
16 March 2012
Mental Gymnastics
I would like to propose creation of a new professional sport. While it doesn't require much athletic ability, the level of endurance required is significant. One must be ready to participate for hours, even days, at a time - with no breaks for rest or nature's call.
What is this fearsome activity? you ask. Why, it's none other than MENTAL gymnastics! It's the latest mind game that you can play whenever you want, and especially when you don't. Once you get sucked in, it's nearly impossible to disengage, and real pros like me can even do it in our sleep.
Perhaps you've tried it yourself on an amateur level. One popular version includes replaying arguments and disagreements over and over and over in your mind, with each iteration featuring a snappy new retort from you that renders your opponent defenseless.
Another frequent example is the exhausting attempt to envision all possible negative outcomes to any given situation. If you worry about the right one hard enough, you can prevent it from happening.
I suppose the best word for all this mind goop is "worry". Dang it. I don't want to be a worrier. Worriers are so annoying. Why can't they just relax and take things as they come? Now I'm worried about how I became such a worrier.
Truth is, worry is just another word for "fear", and as I've been taught time and time again, fear is the absence of faith. Fear and faith cannot occupy the same thought.
Sooooooo, on that note, I think I've got some faithing to do. Beats heck out of worrying.
What is this fearsome activity? you ask. Why, it's none other than MENTAL gymnastics! It's the latest mind game that you can play whenever you want, and especially when you don't. Once you get sucked in, it's nearly impossible to disengage, and real pros like me can even do it in our sleep.
Perhaps you've tried it yourself on an amateur level. One popular version includes replaying arguments and disagreements over and over and over in your mind, with each iteration featuring a snappy new retort from you that renders your opponent defenseless.
Another frequent example is the exhausting attempt to envision all possible negative outcomes to any given situation. If you worry about the right one hard enough, you can prevent it from happening.
I suppose the best word for all this mind goop is "worry". Dang it. I don't want to be a worrier. Worriers are so annoying. Why can't they just relax and take things as they come? Now I'm worried about how I became such a worrier.
Truth is, worry is just another word for "fear", and as I've been taught time and time again, fear is the absence of faith. Fear and faith cannot occupy the same thought.
Sooooooo, on that note, I think I've got some faithing to do. Beats heck out of worrying.
10 March 2012
Springing Forward
Well, it appears that another "winter" has passed in Georgia - I use the term loosely.
The only significant snowfall in Georgia over the last decade was February 2011...during the EXACT same week that I'd taken the kids to see Ms. Julie and her family in SE Wisconsin - and also so they could see some snow.
Meanwhile, it snowed six inches back at the house in north Georgia, which is very nearly avalanche-worthy and certainly generated an enormous amount of excitement for meteorologists and schoolchildren alike. We watched it on the Milwaukee nightly news. Feh.
Seasons. I can't say there is a season I truly dislike, as they all have their high points.
Winter - I do love winter, but not so much when it is just chilly and rainy for four months. This should not be allowed to classify itself as "winter". This is henceforth to be known as "blecker". It is bleak and depressing and "blecker" is a good word for it. You should be required to have at least one reasonably crippling snow event in order to earn the badge of "winter".
(This one of the many things I miss about East Tennessee - you could always count on Momma Nature for one good snowstorm each January.)
Summer..ah, summer! Summer is utter joy for picnics with friends and boating on the lake and vacation with the family. Summer is going to the pool with the kids and making my grandmother's signature ginger mint iced tea.
Regrettably, I dislike everything else about summer. I am a round short woman, and I loathe being hot. Unless you're nekkid in front of a fan, or plopped in the water somewhere, there is nothing pleasant about being hot. The very best thing about being hot is cooling back off.
Fall...if I had to choose a favorite, I would have to say that fall is my favorite season. I lived in Tennessee for most of my life, and then Georgia for the last seven, so I am admittedly spoiled by the strumpet October colors of the Southeastern U.S. I am confident that Newfound Gap or Amicalola Falls on a crisp sunny day before the leaves drop is probably as close to heaven as we can see from this side.
And then there's SEC football...very nearly its own religion, if not for the fact that most of us have to be up early on Sunday for church.
But spring...SPRING! How can I be unhappy with spring?! Forget the itchy eyes and the runny nose. It is worth it - times infinity - to have my first Saturday afternoon on the porch today, watching the kids on the trampoline and smelling fresh-cut grass. It is extra-gratifying to have a beautiful spring being birthed on the heels of a crummy disappointing blecker.
So I will set my clock tonight to "spring" forward tomorrow and I am plain old ecstatic to be waking up to a gorgeous early spring Sunday where I get to go hang out with people who love me and love our Savior.
Maybe it gets better, but I can't imagine how that is possible.
The only significant snowfall in Georgia over the last decade was February 2011...during the EXACT same week that I'd taken the kids to see Ms. Julie and her family in SE Wisconsin - and also so they could see some snow.
Meanwhile, it snowed six inches back at the house in north Georgia, which is very nearly avalanche-worthy and certainly generated an enormous amount of excitement for meteorologists and schoolchildren alike. We watched it on the Milwaukee nightly news. Feh.
Seasons. I can't say there is a season I truly dislike, as they all have their high points.
Winter - I do love winter, but not so much when it is just chilly and rainy for four months. This should not be allowed to classify itself as "winter". This is henceforth to be known as "blecker". It is bleak and depressing and "blecker" is a good word for it. You should be required to have at least one reasonably crippling snow event in order to earn the badge of "winter".
(This one of the many things I miss about East Tennessee - you could always count on Momma Nature for one good snowstorm each January.)
Summer..ah, summer! Summer is utter joy for picnics with friends and boating on the lake and vacation with the family. Summer is going to the pool with the kids and making my grandmother's signature ginger mint iced tea.
Regrettably, I dislike everything else about summer. I am a round short woman, and I loathe being hot. Unless you're nekkid in front of a fan, or plopped in the water somewhere, there is nothing pleasant about being hot. The very best thing about being hot is cooling back off.
Fall...if I had to choose a favorite, I would have to say that fall is my favorite season. I lived in Tennessee for most of my life, and then Georgia for the last seven, so I am admittedly spoiled by the strumpet October colors of the Southeastern U.S. I am confident that Newfound Gap or Amicalola Falls on a crisp sunny day before the leaves drop is probably as close to heaven as we can see from this side.
And then there's SEC football...very nearly its own religion, if not for the fact that most of us have to be up early on Sunday for church.
But spring...SPRING! How can I be unhappy with spring?! Forget the itchy eyes and the runny nose. It is worth it - times infinity - to have my first Saturday afternoon on the porch today, watching the kids on the trampoline and smelling fresh-cut grass. It is extra-gratifying to have a beautiful spring being birthed on the heels of a crummy disappointing blecker.
So I will set my clock tonight to "spring" forward tomorrow and I am plain old ecstatic to be waking up to a gorgeous early spring Sunday where I get to go hang out with people who love me and love our Savior.
Maybe it gets better, but I can't imagine how that is possible.
07 March 2012
Kitty Love
We'd been in our new Georgia home for several months when we came to the conclusion that it was time to change our pet-free status. We decided to get a kitten, and there was a pet adoption event at the local Dodge dealership.
They were all so cute - so hard to decide! We narrowed it down to two; a striped gray and white tabby with sparkly green eyes and a ginger puff ball with a persistent demand for affection. How to choose...how to choose...
In the end, it was the Mister who made the tough call, and we took them both. After minimal debate, the tabby was creatively named Abby, and the ginger kitty was named Sandy. Over time, their individual personalities began to surface. Abby is not, shall we say, the brightest bulb in the box. Nor does she appreciate any attempts to pick her up and snuggle her. Physical affection is only permitted on her terms and according to her timing. Heaven help you if you need some kitty love and she isn't in the mood.
Sandy, on the other hand, is affectionate to a fault. She also doesn't care for being picked up much, but she loves to make biscuits on fuzzy blankets and drools with joy if you pet her concurrent to the biscuits. Early on, she demonstrated an overt preference to be an "outside" kitty, so many is the night that I've stood out in the rain or snow, calling "heeeeeeeere kitty kitty kitty kitty" in a ridiculous falsetto.
She evolved into quite the huntress, regularly paying her room and board with headless birds and disemboweled field mice. You couldn't really be mad at her - she is a pro, fearless to a fault. In the summer, she skinnies down to a lean and lithe hunting machine, and in the winter, she chubs up with a thick layer of fat and fur.
We have lots of hawks in our area, and I've long worried that one of them would swoop down in a fit of karma and carry the skinny summer Sandy away.
But instead, at 5 p.m. this afternoon, Sandy lost her life under the wheels of a neighbor, who was very nearly as distraught as we are. Sandy was forever dashing across the road in hot pursuit of wildlife or in response to my cat-calling (and yes, this cat would actually come when she was called.) Today she was sparring with another kitty on our street and bolted out in front of Ms. Jane's car far too quickly for any other possible outcome.
We have the indescribably good fortune to have kind neighbors who immediately came to the front door and gently broke the news. A couple of dear people encircled her little broken body while Dave and I approached...we made the kids stay behind at the house. I couldn't go all the way to the scene. I saw her head and soft white arm from a distance and I knew I couldn't take another step.
And so I thank God for my husband, who held her while she died and is handling all the necessary steps to conclude this awful chapter.
It is at these times that I swear I will never take in another pet - it is just too hard to say goodbye. You don't have to say goodbye if you never say hello in the first place.
But instead I will hold Sarah the Dachshund and Abby the Tabby tonight and be grateful for their place in our hearts. And be glad that we had our awesome killer cat Sandy for the years that we did. Love you, kitty.
They were all so cute - so hard to decide! We narrowed it down to two; a striped gray and white tabby with sparkly green eyes and a ginger puff ball with a persistent demand for affection. How to choose...how to choose...
In the end, it was the Mister who made the tough call, and we took them both. After minimal debate, the tabby was creatively named Abby, and the ginger kitty was named Sandy. Over time, their individual personalities began to surface. Abby is not, shall we say, the brightest bulb in the box. Nor does she appreciate any attempts to pick her up and snuggle her. Physical affection is only permitted on her terms and according to her timing. Heaven help you if you need some kitty love and she isn't in the mood.
Sandy, on the other hand, is affectionate to a fault. She also doesn't care for being picked up much, but she loves to make biscuits on fuzzy blankets and drools with joy if you pet her concurrent to the biscuits. Early on, she demonstrated an overt preference to be an "outside" kitty, so many is the night that I've stood out in the rain or snow, calling "heeeeeeeere kitty kitty kitty kitty" in a ridiculous falsetto.
She evolved into quite the huntress, regularly paying her room and board with headless birds and disemboweled field mice. You couldn't really be mad at her - she is a pro, fearless to a fault. In the summer, she skinnies down to a lean and lithe hunting machine, and in the winter, she chubs up with a thick layer of fat and fur.
We have lots of hawks in our area, and I've long worried that one of them would swoop down in a fit of karma and carry the skinny summer Sandy away.
But instead, at 5 p.m. this afternoon, Sandy lost her life under the wheels of a neighbor, who was very nearly as distraught as we are. Sandy was forever dashing across the road in hot pursuit of wildlife or in response to my cat-calling (and yes, this cat would actually come when she was called.) Today she was sparring with another kitty on our street and bolted out in front of Ms. Jane's car far too quickly for any other possible outcome.
We have the indescribably good fortune to have kind neighbors who immediately came to the front door and gently broke the news. A couple of dear people encircled her little broken body while Dave and I approached...we made the kids stay behind at the house. I couldn't go all the way to the scene. I saw her head and soft white arm from a distance and I knew I couldn't take another step.
And so I thank God for my husband, who held her while she died and is handling all the necessary steps to conclude this awful chapter.
It is at these times that I swear I will never take in another pet - it is just too hard to say goodbye. You don't have to say goodbye if you never say hello in the first place.
But instead I will hold Sarah the Dachshund and Abby the Tabby tonight and be grateful for their place in our hearts. And be glad that we had our awesome killer cat Sandy for the years that we did. Love you, kitty.
06 March 2012
A Semi-Pro Opinion about Health Insurance
(Important note up front: I am employed in the health insurance sector - specifically in privatized Medicaid and Medicare. Feel free to take my comments with large grains of salt and tequila as needed.)
What is this giant fuss about contraceptive coverage? I am astonished that this issue has gotten the media and pundit play that it has, yet here I am offering my own two cents.
Let's begin with a fundamental economic principle - there are costs associate with any purchase. Basically there ain't no free lunch. Somebody, somewhere is paying for everything we have in this country - be it clothing or shelter or food or health care. Health care is often referred to as a basic human right, but at the risk of infuriating pretty much everyone I know, I beg to differ.
Before you send me hate mail, let me clarify. I do believe it is a societal obligation for us as compassionate citizens of the wealthiest country in the world to ensure that everyone in our nation has access to quality health care.
As such, our tax system and annual budgeting process allots a certain percentage of all tax revenue to subsidize federal and state healthcare programs such as Medicare, Medicaid and the State Children's Health Insurance Program. Our government stretches each tax dollar until it squeaks to maximize health care access for persons that qualify for these programs. Remember too that Medicare revenue primarily consists of beneficiary contributions; your years of payroll contributions make up the bulk of the Medicare trust fund.
Thanks to healthcare reform, the eligibility criteria for Medicaid and other low-income programs will be expanded to include an additional and sizeable population segment. I'm not going to debate this topic in this post, but it is germane to my point that a whole lot more people will be covered in 2014 as a result of PPACA, and again, somebody will have to pony up the extra money to pay for it. Just pointing out a simple economic fact.
Now that we've established the payer for government healthcare (that would be YOU), you can rest easy knowing that the healthcare benefits covered under these programs are extraordinarily rich, often extending far above some benefit packages offered through employer-sponsored healthcare. And, with the exception of Medicare, they all include contraception.
Let's now talk about employer-sponsored healthcare...those of us who are lucky enough to have it are generally being asked to contribute more to the premium cost each year. It is a very rare occurrence these days for an employer to offer 100% employer-sponsored health benefits. Not only are the premium costs going up, but the benefits are often shrinking. Employers are faced with the annual challenge of figuring out what the company can afford to purchase, and the commercial insurance company is responsible for providing a menu of benefit packages from which the employer must choose.
Here's an analogy - if your company can only buy the cheeseburger and they ask you to pay for the fries, does it make any sense for you to be mad that you didn't get a ribeye? Have you been discriminated against? Moreover, does it make sense for the government to step in and FORCE your company to give you a ribeye without passing the additional cost along to you?
Obviously the issue is far more complex than that, but in the recent debate over contraception coverage, it is less about cost and more about principle. The government does not get to decide what employers choose to purchase for their employees. To paint the employers with a misogynistic brush is goofy and irresponsible; they generally don't buy condoms or Viagra either.
In no way do I think Limbaugh was right to trash that law student in a public forum, but I also think that the media and people with ulterior motives have made a mountain out of mouse poop. The three-thousand-dollar cost estimate is absurd, but just for fun, let's say there was some substance to it. Is it really appropriate to make employers pick up the $3000 tab?
If there's a compromise to be had, I say we put prior authorization requirements on contraception so it can be prescribed as a covered benefit for medical necessity indications - not recreational prophylactic protection. What a long and windy post!
What is this giant fuss about contraceptive coverage? I am astonished that this issue has gotten the media and pundit play that it has, yet here I am offering my own two cents.
Let's begin with a fundamental economic principle - there are costs associate with any purchase. Basically there ain't no free lunch. Somebody, somewhere is paying for everything we have in this country - be it clothing or shelter or food or health care. Health care is often referred to as a basic human right, but at the risk of infuriating pretty much everyone I know, I beg to differ.
Before you send me hate mail, let me clarify. I do believe it is a societal obligation for us as compassionate citizens of the wealthiest country in the world to ensure that everyone in our nation has access to quality health care.
As such, our tax system and annual budgeting process allots a certain percentage of all tax revenue to subsidize federal and state healthcare programs such as Medicare, Medicaid and the State Children's Health Insurance Program. Our government stretches each tax dollar until it squeaks to maximize health care access for persons that qualify for these programs. Remember too that Medicare revenue primarily consists of beneficiary contributions; your years of payroll contributions make up the bulk of the Medicare trust fund.
Thanks to healthcare reform, the eligibility criteria for Medicaid and other low-income programs will be expanded to include an additional and sizeable population segment. I'm not going to debate this topic in this post, but it is germane to my point that a whole lot more people will be covered in 2014 as a result of PPACA, and again, somebody will have to pony up the extra money to pay for it. Just pointing out a simple economic fact.
Now that we've established the payer for government healthcare (that would be YOU), you can rest easy knowing that the healthcare benefits covered under these programs are extraordinarily rich, often extending far above some benefit packages offered through employer-sponsored healthcare. And, with the exception of Medicare, they all include contraception.
Let's now talk about employer-sponsored healthcare...those of us who are lucky enough to have it are generally being asked to contribute more to the premium cost each year. It is a very rare occurrence these days for an employer to offer 100% employer-sponsored health benefits. Not only are the premium costs going up, but the benefits are often shrinking. Employers are faced with the annual challenge of figuring out what the company can afford to purchase, and the commercial insurance company is responsible for providing a menu of benefit packages from which the employer must choose.
Here's an analogy - if your company can only buy the cheeseburger and they ask you to pay for the fries, does it make any sense for you to be mad that you didn't get a ribeye? Have you been discriminated against? Moreover, does it make sense for the government to step in and FORCE your company to give you a ribeye without passing the additional cost along to you?
Obviously the issue is far more complex than that, but in the recent debate over contraception coverage, it is less about cost and more about principle. The government does not get to decide what employers choose to purchase for their employees. To paint the employers with a misogynistic brush is goofy and irresponsible; they generally don't buy condoms or Viagra either.
In no way do I think Limbaugh was right to trash that law student in a public forum, but I also think that the media and people with ulterior motives have made a mountain out of mouse poop. The three-thousand-dollar cost estimate is absurd, but just for fun, let's say there was some substance to it. Is it really appropriate to make employers pick up the $3000 tab?
If there's a compromise to be had, I say we put prior authorization requirements on contraception so it can be prescribed as a covered benefit for medical necessity indications - not recreational prophylactic protection. What a long and windy post!
04 March 2012
A Collection of Sundays
1969 - I am the cutest little girl in the Presbyterian Sunday school kindergarten class and the smartest one too - this according to the teacher who also happens to be my mommy. We are getting ready to close the class in our prayer circle and I am horrified and furious to see that some other cute and smart little girl has stepped in front of me and is holding my mommy's hand and sticking out her tongue at me. I have a very un-Christian conniption fit.
After church we go to the country club for Sunday buffet, where an odd musical ensemble including an accordion plays such hits as "Our Lady of Spain". It is here that I learn I love black olives and smoked oysters, plus the black olives fit on my fingertips. I am bored out of my mind so I run around the River Room with all the other hooligans until we exasperate our parents into finally leaving.
1975 - my parents have divorced and my mother decides we will now be Episcopalian. This is OK with me because there are some cute boys at the Episcopal church, plus I like all the hoopla and pageantry. I go through confirmation and am officially a Christian - I have a piece of paper that says so. My mom smacks me hard on the leg in church one day for brushing my long blond hair during the service because I am getting ready to go up and make communion and I want my hair to look good in the back. I had that one coming.
1981 - Mom doesn't feel like going to church anymore, so we don't. I am more than just a little pissed off at God because if he loved me so much, how exactly did my mom get so sick and my family so torn up? Since He hasn't kept up His end of the bargain, I'm done with Him and His bogus weekly rituals.
1987 - I am on my own and can't be bothered with church. Oh sure, I believe He exists and I will tell you I'm a Christian on account of me being confirmed back in the 70s and baptized when I was a baby. But I spend most Sundays hungover and just waiting for noon so I can meet my friends for Sunday football and all-you-can-eat pizza and beer at Mr. Gatti's. It is becoming harder to look in the mirror - I am getting more and more lost by the minute.
1993 - Things in my heart are grim and sad, and I find myself back in my childhood church, weeping in the third row. I am surrounded by people who have been "good" and have earned their right to sit in church on Sundays, but I lost that right a long time ago. I haven't been good for well over a decade. There is a cavern in my ribcage, full of rage and shame.
1995 - I am beginning to come back to church with no particular routine or expectation. Some Sundays I'm there, and some Sundays I'm not. I don't want anybody to expect me or count on me - that way, I won't let them down. But something at church fills up the cavern with good things like cautious hope. Plus I can hear the lessons now - I am actually learning from each sermon and thinking about them during the week.
April 19, 1998 - I am not in church on this particular Sunday as I am on my way to Jamaica to honeymoon with the Christian husband I found on the Internet. Laugh if you want, but through the opportunities provided in the Information Age, I got to know his heart long before I saw his face or felt his touch.
1999 - It is Mothers' Day Sunday, and we are standing up front in church, offering our son to the reverend for baptism. The baby has just spit up all over my pink suit but at least he appears to be puke-free when I hand him over. It is surreal that I am standing here with this man and this baby. I am not good enough.
2001 - Again we present a child, this time a daughter, to a man of the cloth for baptism. We have become Methodists; my childhood church was just that...MY church...and we thought it important to find a place that would be ours. It is at this church where I begin to grasp the notion that NOBODY is good enough and there is no such thing as "degrees" of sin. We have a fantastic Sunday school teacher named Tom, who can "dumb down" the complexities of Christian beliefs so that I can understand and even accept them.
2006 - We have moved from my hometown to the Atlanta area, and we have found a Presbyterian church that fits us well. Not too big, not too small - just right. The pastor is lively and enthusiastic, and we have begun to make some friends. I still don't really want to be accountable for weekly attendance, but now I've got people who notice when we aren't there.
2010 - Our former pastor has moved on to another church, and after a long year of searching for a new pastor, we find ourselves listening to a lanky country boy with an irrepressible cowlick. He is brilliant - combining genuine salt-of-the-earth humility with theological depth that leaves me wanting to learn more and more. From him, certainly, but mostly from his Savior Jesus Christ, who also just happens to be my Savior too.
Today, 3/4/12. I am not in church today due to recovery from surgery and am heartbroken about it. I love my church more than I can say, and I crave the company of my church family. I used to make fun of my Southern Baptist great grandmother who regularly referred to people as "Brother Smith" or "Sister Sue" - that brother-and-sister crap was a hoot. But I think I get it now - my life is full of wonderful new sisters and brothers who are walking this daily walk of faith alongside me. We share in each others' celebrations and heartaches, in our trials and our successes. And it's all so genuine and sincere - no Kool-Aid.
These days, I am a women's Bible study leader. Talk about irony. Each week, I find myself poring over Scripture and study guides to prepare a lesson that brings the women of our class closer to Jesus.
*******
I used to mitigate my quiet internal guilt about not going to church with the fact that you don't have to go to a church to be a Christian. This is completely 100% true.
And there are plenty of churches and pastors and priests out there who give church a bad name. There is no excuse for those people. Plus it gets confusing.. Baptist, Presbyterian, Lutheran, Methodist, Episcopalian, dunk or no-dunk...there are too many choices and so it becomes easier just not to choose. As a Pres-Episco-Method-byterian, I'm here to tell you that, as long as the denomination of your choosing recognizes the Bible as the inspired and authoritative Word of God, and that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, the rest is paperwork.
I want everyone to have what I have - a growing relationship with Jesus Christ, nurtured through friendships, shared study and opportunities to serve the world in His name. It just doesn't get any better than that.
After church we go to the country club for Sunday buffet, where an odd musical ensemble including an accordion plays such hits as "Our Lady of Spain". It is here that I learn I love black olives and smoked oysters, plus the black olives fit on my fingertips. I am bored out of my mind so I run around the River Room with all the other hooligans until we exasperate our parents into finally leaving.
1975 - my parents have divorced and my mother decides we will now be Episcopalian. This is OK with me because there are some cute boys at the Episcopal church, plus I like all the hoopla and pageantry. I go through confirmation and am officially a Christian - I have a piece of paper that says so. My mom smacks me hard on the leg in church one day for brushing my long blond hair during the service because I am getting ready to go up and make communion and I want my hair to look good in the back. I had that one coming.
1981 - Mom doesn't feel like going to church anymore, so we don't. I am more than just a little pissed off at God because if he loved me so much, how exactly did my mom get so sick and my family so torn up? Since He hasn't kept up His end of the bargain, I'm done with Him and His bogus weekly rituals.
1987 - I am on my own and can't be bothered with church. Oh sure, I believe He exists and I will tell you I'm a Christian on account of me being confirmed back in the 70s and baptized when I was a baby. But I spend most Sundays hungover and just waiting for noon so I can meet my friends for Sunday football and all-you-can-eat pizza and beer at Mr. Gatti's. It is becoming harder to look in the mirror - I am getting more and more lost by the minute.
1993 - Things in my heart are grim and sad, and I find myself back in my childhood church, weeping in the third row. I am surrounded by people who have been "good" and have earned their right to sit in church on Sundays, but I lost that right a long time ago. I haven't been good for well over a decade. There is a cavern in my ribcage, full of rage and shame.
1995 - I am beginning to come back to church with no particular routine or expectation. Some Sundays I'm there, and some Sundays I'm not. I don't want anybody to expect me or count on me - that way, I won't let them down. But something at church fills up the cavern with good things like cautious hope. Plus I can hear the lessons now - I am actually learning from each sermon and thinking about them during the week.
April 19, 1998 - I am not in church on this particular Sunday as I am on my way to Jamaica to honeymoon with the Christian husband I found on the Internet. Laugh if you want, but through the opportunities provided in the Information Age, I got to know his heart long before I saw his face or felt his touch.
1999 - It is Mothers' Day Sunday, and we are standing up front in church, offering our son to the reverend for baptism. The baby has just spit up all over my pink suit but at least he appears to be puke-free when I hand him over. It is surreal that I am standing here with this man and this baby. I am not good enough.
2001 - Again we present a child, this time a daughter, to a man of the cloth for baptism. We have become Methodists; my childhood church was just that...MY church...and we thought it important to find a place that would be ours. It is at this church where I begin to grasp the notion that NOBODY is good enough and there is no such thing as "degrees" of sin. We have a fantastic Sunday school teacher named Tom, who can "dumb down" the complexities of Christian beliefs so that I can understand and even accept them.
2006 - We have moved from my hometown to the Atlanta area, and we have found a Presbyterian church that fits us well. Not too big, not too small - just right. The pastor is lively and enthusiastic, and we have begun to make some friends. I still don't really want to be accountable for weekly attendance, but now I've got people who notice when we aren't there.
2010 - Our former pastor has moved on to another church, and after a long year of searching for a new pastor, we find ourselves listening to a lanky country boy with an irrepressible cowlick. He is brilliant - combining genuine salt-of-the-earth humility with theological depth that leaves me wanting to learn more and more. From him, certainly, but mostly from his Savior Jesus Christ, who also just happens to be my Savior too.
Today, 3/4/12. I am not in church today due to recovery from surgery and am heartbroken about it. I love my church more than I can say, and I crave the company of my church family. I used to make fun of my Southern Baptist great grandmother who regularly referred to people as "Brother Smith" or "Sister Sue" - that brother-and-sister crap was a hoot. But I think I get it now - my life is full of wonderful new sisters and brothers who are walking this daily walk of faith alongside me. We share in each others' celebrations and heartaches, in our trials and our successes. And it's all so genuine and sincere - no Kool-Aid.
These days, I am a women's Bible study leader. Talk about irony. Each week, I find myself poring over Scripture and study guides to prepare a lesson that brings the women of our class closer to Jesus.
*******
I used to mitigate my quiet internal guilt about not going to church with the fact that you don't have to go to a church to be a Christian. This is completely 100% true.
And there are plenty of churches and pastors and priests out there who give church a bad name. There is no excuse for those people. Plus it gets confusing.. Baptist, Presbyterian, Lutheran, Methodist, Episcopalian, dunk or no-dunk...there are too many choices and so it becomes easier just not to choose. As a Pres-Episco-Method-byterian, I'm here to tell you that, as long as the denomination of your choosing recognizes the Bible as the inspired and authoritative Word of God, and that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, the rest is paperwork.
I want everyone to have what I have - a growing relationship with Jesus Christ, nurtured through friendships, shared study and opportunities to serve the world in His name. It just doesn't get any better than that.
OUCH
Summary of this post - I had my surgery yesterday and I am now a whiny helpless crybaby. Even I can't stand me. Not to mention that I could surely use a bath.
I forgot how difficult it is for the pre-op nurses to find a good vein in which to stick an IV. FOUR tries later, she finally got one to stay put on the side of my hand, below the thumb. Earlier attempts in the backs of my hands and my inner forearms have left me looking like a shameless pathetic junkie. At one point, the nurse chided me for having crooked little veins that are hard to stick. As if I have these veins just to make her day more difficult.
Fast forward to the recovery room where this sweet little demure Indian nurse kept barking at me to wake up and breathe, Lora lye. You must breathe deep breaths Loralye, or we will intubate you again, and we don't want that now, do we?! The various cords and leads plugging me into all of this equipment kept ratting me out when my breaths weren't deep enough to suit the Terror of the Taj Mahal. Beep - beep - BEEEEEP...shut up and let me rest, dang it!
When I had finally become oxygenated enough to suit Brahma Betty, they rolled me back over to the outpatient surgery waiting area where my husband, my son and my father were waiting.
I have to pause here for just a moment and restate that last sentence - where MY husband, MY son and MY father were waiting to see me, to make sure I was OK and to make sure I know they love me. Considering what a mess I used to be in the "men" department, having three generations of men that I love unconditionally smiling and waiting for me absolutely bowled me over. Blessed? Um, yeah.
Waiting now for the biopsy results to come back in the next few days and stretching my faith muscles to quell unreasonable anxiety. Our God is an awesome God, and whatever His plan for me may look like, He is my wonderful Counselor, Mighty God and Prince of Peace.
But meanwhile - I still say OUCH!!!!
I forgot how difficult it is for the pre-op nurses to find a good vein in which to stick an IV. FOUR tries later, she finally got one to stay put on the side of my hand, below the thumb. Earlier attempts in the backs of my hands and my inner forearms have left me looking like a shameless pathetic junkie. At one point, the nurse chided me for having crooked little veins that are hard to stick. As if I have these veins just to make her day more difficult.
Fast forward to the recovery room where this sweet little demure Indian nurse kept barking at me to wake up and breathe, Lora lye. You must breathe deep breaths Loralye, or we will intubate you again, and we don't want that now, do we?! The various cords and leads plugging me into all of this equipment kept ratting me out when my breaths weren't deep enough to suit the Terror of the Taj Mahal. Beep - beep - BEEEEEP...shut up and let me rest, dang it!
When I had finally become oxygenated enough to suit Brahma Betty, they rolled me back over to the outpatient surgery waiting area where my husband, my son and my father were waiting.
I have to pause here for just a moment and restate that last sentence - where MY husband, MY son and MY father were waiting to see me, to make sure I was OK and to make sure I know they love me. Considering what a mess I used to be in the "men" department, having three generations of men that I love unconditionally smiling and waiting for me absolutely bowled me over. Blessed? Um, yeah.
Waiting now for the biopsy results to come back in the next few days and stretching my faith muscles to quell unreasonable anxiety. Our God is an awesome God, and whatever His plan for me may look like, He is my wonderful Counselor, Mighty God and Prince of Peace.
But meanwhile - I still say OUCH!!!!
01 March 2012
Web MDon't
A couple of posts back, you'll see that I have some health issues that are culminating in surgery tomorrow morning. Looking forward to getting rid of the things that are causing me pain; not looking forward to the experience itself.
I'm not particularly scared about the procedure. Not my first rodeo. But foolishly I have been researching my condition on a couple of medical websites, and apparently I am facing certain infection, maiming, and probably death.
Don't get me wrong, I think these resources can be very helpful for looking up the spelling of a disease or the identity of a random pill. But in an attempt to cover all possible diagnoses and outcomes, these places are detrimental to hypochondriacs such as myself. It is perversely easy to turn a simple head cold into a brain tumor.
The best thing to do is to avoid perusing this information altogether, or at least talk with the doctor before jumping to conclusions. I imagine that doctors loathe these websites, since patients now have enough information to self-diagnose and then debate it with their physician. I bet they long for the days when the only widely-available healthcare information was what we learned from Johnny Gage and Dr. Brackett on "Emergency".
And while we're on the subject of televised health, how about those pharmaceutical commercials? Dry eyes? Restless legs? We've got a pill for that. Your job is to now go to your doctor and demand that they write you a prescription for it, whether you need it or not.
The very best part about these ads is the litany of potential side effects. I love how the voice-over runs through the gamut of disastrous consequences like an auctioneer. Concurrent with this list of maladies are scenes of happy, healthy people - it's a tad disconcerting to hear someone talking about paralysis while showing a clip of a grandma playing outside with the kids. And by the way, I think most men who have an erection for four hours or more would call the newspaper, not the doctor.
Ah, the information age. Ya gotta love it. That is, unless it gives you halitosis, kidney failure, blindness, eczema or hemorrhagic fever.
I'm not particularly scared about the procedure. Not my first rodeo. But foolishly I have been researching my condition on a couple of medical websites, and apparently I am facing certain infection, maiming, and probably death.
Don't get me wrong, I think these resources can be very helpful for looking up the spelling of a disease or the identity of a random pill. But in an attempt to cover all possible diagnoses and outcomes, these places are detrimental to hypochondriacs such as myself. It is perversely easy to turn a simple head cold into a brain tumor.
The best thing to do is to avoid perusing this information altogether, or at least talk with the doctor before jumping to conclusions. I imagine that doctors loathe these websites, since patients now have enough information to self-diagnose and then debate it with their physician. I bet they long for the days when the only widely-available healthcare information was what we learned from Johnny Gage and Dr. Brackett on "Emergency".
And while we're on the subject of televised health, how about those pharmaceutical commercials? Dry eyes? Restless legs? We've got a pill for that. Your job is to now go to your doctor and demand that they write you a prescription for it, whether you need it or not.
The very best part about these ads is the litany of potential side effects. I love how the voice-over runs through the gamut of disastrous consequences like an auctioneer. Concurrent with this list of maladies are scenes of happy, healthy people - it's a tad disconcerting to hear someone talking about paralysis while showing a clip of a grandma playing outside with the kids. And by the way, I think most men who have an erection for four hours or more would call the newspaper, not the doctor.
Ah, the information age. Ya gotta love it. That is, unless it gives you halitosis, kidney failure, blindness, eczema or hemorrhagic fever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)