Of course I missed some of my "phil-isms" in my previous post, so here I will add to the list. Again, please add ones I've missed in the comments.
1. Polishing the turd. I first heard this in a software development context. At a previous employer (whose acronym might stand for Amalgamated Diversified Corporation) there was a group of rogue software developers who were considered by the IT group to be a bunch of hacks. This rogue group had developed a relatively simple document management system which they themselves considered technology similar to the 1969 moon landing in complexity and scope. And they kept adding goofy little features to it. So the IT group referred to this incessant need to accessorize their system as "polishing the turd".
I've extended - er, generalized - the term in many ways. For example, when you have a task that you are 90% finished with, that last 10% can be a real pain in the ass to finish. So I refer to the last 10% of a long, tedious task as "polishing the turd". Or if you're in a team environment, and you start a task then hand it off to someone else to complete, they are "polishing your turd". If you're creative you can work it in to many situations.
2. If you have to eat a turd, don't dawdle. Replaces "let's get this over with" in a much more colorful way.
3. Drinking from a firehose. Pretty commonly used these days, though I don't believe it used to be. Just another term for being overwhelmed. I have also heard the variant, "I'm drinking from a firehose - not getting much and what I do get hurts".
4. You ask him what time it is and he tells you how to build a watch. Also heard this one first at good old Amalgamated Diversified Corporation. This is a typical response you get when you ask an Engineer a question about something in their field of expertise - especially if you show even a hint of interest. I guess they (we?) just can't help themselves (ourselves). Yes, I'm an Engineer. Many Engineers suffer from Aspberger's Syndrome, so they won't notice the glazed eyes of their poor listener. I guess you have to sacrifice something to withstand 3 years of calculus and physics.
5. I'd rather slide naked down a 50-foot razorblade - or I'd rather stick an icepick in my forehead The former is from a Matt Groening book; the latter I made up (I think). Expressions used when wanting to escape from a bad situation - usually group meeting related.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Death Toll Update
10-21-06 - 1 dead mouse found in basement, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
10-23-06 - 1 dead mouse found in basement, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
Well, the pace is slowing a bit. I'm down to 1 dead mouse every other day. That brings this season's total to 12. Last year I killed about twice that.
10-23-06 - 1 dead mouse found in basement, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
Well, the pace is slowing a bit. I'm down to 1 dead mouse every other day. That brings this season's total to 12. Last year I killed about twice that.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Phil's Catalog of Metaphors, Similes, Analogies, and Stupid Sayings
In my job I am frequently called upon to explain fairly complex technology to laypeople. It is because of this that I share with Ross Perot the penchant for reliance on metaphors, similes, analogies, and frankly, silly sayings. It is my intention to try and capture these sayings in this post. So what follows, in no particular order, are as many of these "Phil-isms" as I can think of. If I've missed some, please add them in the comments.
1. If the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. This one has many uses. If you find someone stuck in a creative rut, it may help them to break free from it. As often happens in the technology world, developers find what they think is the niftiest tool ever and use it for everything, even when it is clearly not warranted.
2. Sometimes you're the bug and sometimes you're the windshield. Used as a bring-down for someone who needs to be reminded about humility. Conversely can be used to cheer someone up when they're down.
3. Sometimes you need to burn the ships. A reference to 16th century Spanish conqueror Cortez, who found that his men fought harder if the ships they'd sailed to Mexico in had been burned, thus cutting off any possible retreat. This is frequently used with bravado during organizational process change, to communicate that there is no going back so don't fight us on this one.
4. That's a solution in search of a problem. Technology is frequently developed without a business problem in mind, so a problem is invented to sell the technology. Best example - digital cameras in phone. Customer: "Wow, I didn't even know I wanted a camera in my phone." Designer: "You don't, but it fit and marketing thought they could sell it."
5. Boiled frogs Ah, the parable of the boiled frog (perhaps a French proverb?). Maybe this is from the bible. I don't know, frankly, where this came from. I found the most succinct description on allaboutfrogs.org. If you put a frog into a pot of boiling water, it will leap out right away to escape the danger. But if you put a frog in a kettle filled with cool pleasant water, then gradually heat the kettle, the frog will not be aware of the threat until it is too late. Al Gore uses this story in An Inconvenient Truth.
The point? One must be aware of gradual dangers just as one must be aware of sudden dangers. It depends on how big you want to go with it. It could be the gradual erosion of worker's rights and benefits. Damn those giant corporate monoliths! It could also explain the catatonic expressions of workers in America's cubicle farms. It's enough to make you grab any random rush hour driver and scream "Jump out of the pot! Before it's too late!" Thinking of the boiled frog makes me want to kill myself. Or change jobs.
6. Bucket of crabs I just recently learned this one and have just begun working it into my repertoire. This story is this: you have a bucket of crabs, and one of the crabs on top tries to crawl out of the bucket, the others below it will pull it back down. I heard this one in a class purportedly on how to implement organizational change. The message? If you want to implement change, people will try to drag you down? I thought that was pretty dumb. I see this as more of a "watch your back" kind of thing. Success breeds jealousy. In many cases, it holds leaders back. They don't want to be the crab dragged back to the pack. That's why it's hard to be a leader. If it was easy to be a leader, everyone would do it. And there'd be no one to lead.
7. Shut off the water. This is a story I heard while working at a previous employer. An executive, we'll call him Dave, inherited a group of managers whose previous boss, beloved by all, had been "downsized". We'll call the downsized executive Jerry. Jerry was a tyrannical micromanager - so much so, that none of his direct reports - all managers themselves - was capable of making a decision without Jerry's input. In other words, Jerry was making all the decisions.
These managers were responsible for a continuing operations process that was in disarray. And every minute it continued to be in disarray, it caused the company to lose even more money. While Dave explained the gravity of the situation to these managers - layoffs, plant closings, etc - they didn't seem to understand. So he said, "Look, it's like you come home from work and there's water all over the kitchen floor. The kitchen sink is clogged and the faucet is running. What should you do first?"
After a short silence, one of the managers quipped, "Get a mop," which elicited laughter from the rest of the managers. But not Dave. Dave said, "No. You shut off the g***amn water."
So what's this one good for? I'm not really sure, I guess. I guess this is one that may mean more to me than anyone else. To me it means that bad business processes need to be stopped ASAP. Cleaning up while the mess is still being made is a waste of energy.
8. If you want to run with the dogs, you can't play with the puppies. This sounds like it came right from the mouth of Ross Perot. It didn't - well, I didn't hear it from him. I heard it from one of my older brothers - though he doesn't remember saying it. So maybe I made it up. Who knows?
To me it means - "if you want to be considered an adult, you have to act like one." Or, if you want to be a leader in your industry, don't act like one of the little competitors.
9. The one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. Reference to a short story I read in 8th grade by H.G. Wells entitled The Country of the Blind. Usually when I refer to it I mean it to be having a partial skill that no one else around you has. However, in the story, a perfectly sighted man arrives in a place where everyone is blind. Only the concept of sight has no meaning to the people, so they think he's nuts. While he works to show them his "better way", they only become more resolute. It's probably a topic for an entire blog posting.
10. My pants are tenting! An obviously vulgar expression of excitement over an idea or situation. Used entirely in social situations. Not useful in a work setting. And only useful for men, until the running joke is established with a group of women. Once in on the joke, it's very funny coming from a woman.
1. If the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. This one has many uses. If you find someone stuck in a creative rut, it may help them to break free from it. As often happens in the technology world, developers find what they think is the niftiest tool ever and use it for everything, even when it is clearly not warranted.
2. Sometimes you're the bug and sometimes you're the windshield. Used as a bring-down for someone who needs to be reminded about humility. Conversely can be used to cheer someone up when they're down.
3. Sometimes you need to burn the ships. A reference to 16th century Spanish conqueror Cortez, who found that his men fought harder if the ships they'd sailed to Mexico in had been burned, thus cutting off any possible retreat. This is frequently used with bravado during organizational process change, to communicate that there is no going back so don't fight us on this one.
4. That's a solution in search of a problem. Technology is frequently developed without a business problem in mind, so a problem is invented to sell the technology. Best example - digital cameras in phone. Customer: "Wow, I didn't even know I wanted a camera in my phone." Designer: "You don't, but it fit and marketing thought they could sell it."
5. Boiled frogs Ah, the parable of the boiled frog (perhaps a French proverb?). Maybe this is from the bible. I don't know, frankly, where this came from. I found the most succinct description on allaboutfrogs.org. If you put a frog into a pot of boiling water, it will leap out right away to escape the danger. But if you put a frog in a kettle filled with cool pleasant water, then gradually heat the kettle, the frog will not be aware of the threat until it is too late. Al Gore uses this story in An Inconvenient Truth.
The point? One must be aware of gradual dangers just as one must be aware of sudden dangers. It depends on how big you want to go with it. It could be the gradual erosion of worker's rights and benefits. Damn those giant corporate monoliths! It could also explain the catatonic expressions of workers in America's cubicle farms. It's enough to make you grab any random rush hour driver and scream "Jump out of the pot! Before it's too late!" Thinking of the boiled frog makes me want to kill myself. Or change jobs.
6. Bucket of crabs I just recently learned this one and have just begun working it into my repertoire. This story is this: you have a bucket of crabs, and one of the crabs on top tries to crawl out of the bucket, the others below it will pull it back down. I heard this one in a class purportedly on how to implement organizational change. The message? If you want to implement change, people will try to drag you down? I thought that was pretty dumb. I see this as more of a "watch your back" kind of thing. Success breeds jealousy. In many cases, it holds leaders back. They don't want to be the crab dragged back to the pack. That's why it's hard to be a leader. If it was easy to be a leader, everyone would do it. And there'd be no one to lead.
7. Shut off the water. This is a story I heard while working at a previous employer. An executive, we'll call him Dave, inherited a group of managers whose previous boss, beloved by all, had been "downsized". We'll call the downsized executive Jerry. Jerry was a tyrannical micromanager - so much so, that none of his direct reports - all managers themselves - was capable of making a decision without Jerry's input. In other words, Jerry was making all the decisions.
These managers were responsible for a continuing operations process that was in disarray. And every minute it continued to be in disarray, it caused the company to lose even more money. While Dave explained the gravity of the situation to these managers - layoffs, plant closings, etc - they didn't seem to understand. So he said, "Look, it's like you come home from work and there's water all over the kitchen floor. The kitchen sink is clogged and the faucet is running. What should you do first?"
After a short silence, one of the managers quipped, "Get a mop," which elicited laughter from the rest of the managers. But not Dave. Dave said, "No. You shut off the g***amn water."
So what's this one good for? I'm not really sure, I guess. I guess this is one that may mean more to me than anyone else. To me it means that bad business processes need to be stopped ASAP. Cleaning up while the mess is still being made is a waste of energy.
8. If you want to run with the dogs, you can't play with the puppies. This sounds like it came right from the mouth of Ross Perot. It didn't - well, I didn't hear it from him. I heard it from one of my older brothers - though he doesn't remember saying it. So maybe I made it up. Who knows?
To me it means - "if you want to be considered an adult, you have to act like one." Or, if you want to be a leader in your industry, don't act like one of the little competitors.
9. The one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. Reference to a short story I read in 8th grade by H.G. Wells entitled The Country of the Blind. Usually when I refer to it I mean it to be having a partial skill that no one else around you has. However, in the story, a perfectly sighted man arrives in a place where everyone is blind. Only the concept of sight has no meaning to the people, so they think he's nuts. While he works to show them his "better way", they only become more resolute. It's probably a topic for an entire blog posting.
10. My pants are tenting! An obviously vulgar expression of excitement over an idea or situation. Used entirely in social situations. Not useful in a work setting. And only useful for men, until the running joke is established with a group of women. Once in on the joke, it's very funny coming from a woman.
Death Toll Jumps to 10
10-18-06 - 2 dead mice found in basement, heads crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetraps. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
10-19-06 - 2 dead mice found in basement, heads crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetraps. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
When will it stop?
10-19-06 - 2 dead mice found in basement, heads crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetraps. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
When will it stop?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Death Toll Rises to 6
10-17-06 - 2 dead mice found in basement, heads crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetraps. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
There seems to be no end to these little b*stards. More later.
There seems to be no end to these little b*stards. More later.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Missing Trap Update
Found it. No super mice. Cats must have toyed with carcass after death. Rotting corpse still not stinky.
10-15-06 - dead mouse found under ping pong table, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
10-15-06 - dead mouse found under ping pong table, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
Friday, October 13, 2006
The Missing Trap
10-13-06 - dead mouse found in hallway to bedrooms, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
But even more problematic, one of my Better Mousetrap brand mousetraps is missing.
Some background: I have 2 traps that I set out, about 12 inches from each other, in the basement. I will frequently arrive to find 2 dead mice, one in each trap. Which makes me wonder about the intellect of the 2nd mouse. The loud crack, followed by the motionlessness of his buddy, wasn't that a good indication that these darn traps may just be lethal, or at least injurious? Like they say, mice just cannot resist peanut butter. But who can? Really.
This morning one or both of the cats had dragged one of last night's kills to the hallway. But what of the other trap? Three thoughts come to mind:
1. The cats dragged it somewhere I haven't found yet. This might be okay, because eventually the smell of the rotting carcas will reveal its location. I just hope it's easy to reach.
OR
2. The trap snapped on the mouse's tail or other extremity. Then the mouse limped off somewhere and escaped the trap. If this is the case, I'll find the trap eventually, probably in 30 years when we finally move out of the house.
OR
3. We are breeding some kind of super-mice, capable of surviving a sudden blunt head trauma. Not only surviving, but perhaps even thriving, wearing the trap as a hat, or in mouse civilization, an alpha-male symbol of dominance. It is as if this mouse is saying "I'm immortal. Nothing can hurt me. See - I'm so tough I'm wearing a mouse trap as head accessory! Take that, man!"
I suspect it was #1, but I'm not going to rule out #3 until I find the trap.
But even more problematic, one of my Better Mousetrap brand mousetraps is missing.
Some background: I have 2 traps that I set out, about 12 inches from each other, in the basement. I will frequently arrive to find 2 dead mice, one in each trap. Which makes me wonder about the intellect of the 2nd mouse. The loud crack, followed by the motionlessness of his buddy, wasn't that a good indication that these darn traps may just be lethal, or at least injurious? Like they say, mice just cannot resist peanut butter. But who can? Really.
This morning one or both of the cats had dragged one of last night's kills to the hallway. But what of the other trap? Three thoughts come to mind:
1. The cats dragged it somewhere I haven't found yet. This might be okay, because eventually the smell of the rotting carcas will reveal its location. I just hope it's easy to reach.
OR
2. The trap snapped on the mouse's tail or other extremity. Then the mouse limped off somewhere and escaped the trap. If this is the case, I'll find the trap eventually, probably in 30 years when we finally move out of the house.
OR
3. We are breeding some kind of super-mice, capable of surviving a sudden blunt head trauma. Not only surviving, but perhaps even thriving, wearing the trap as a hat, or in mouse civilization, an alpha-male symbol of dominance. It is as if this mouse is saying "I'm immortal. Nothing can hurt me. See - I'm so tough I'm wearing a mouse trap as head accessory! Take that, man!"
I suspect it was #1, but I'm not going to rule out #3 until I find the trap.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Death Toll Update from Murder-tonka
10-11-06 - 1 dead mousefound in basement. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head. Victim found face down in Better Mousetrap brand mouse traps. Status: closed.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Death Toll
Tis the season. Now that it has begun to get cold at night, I have visitors in my basement again. So I thought I'd use the blog to publish my seasonal death toll. Sort of the same way the media tracks murders in the cities. So here goes.
10-3-06 - dead mouse found in hallway to bedrooms. Cause of death: predator, probably house cat. Victim found face up - likely posed by murderer to look like a break-in gone awry. Status: under investigation, low likelihood of being solved due to apathy.
10-8-06 - 2 dead mice found in basement. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to heads. Victims found with heads crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mouse traps. Status: closed.
Keep watching for further updates.
10-3-06 - dead mouse found in hallway to bedrooms. Cause of death: predator, probably house cat. Victim found face up - likely posed by murderer to look like a break-in gone awry. Status: under investigation, low likelihood of being solved due to apathy.
10-8-06 - 2 dead mice found in basement. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to heads. Victims found with heads crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mouse traps. Status: closed.
Keep watching for further updates.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
I am the Fat Lady - part 2
I've ridden my bike to work 4 times this summer. It's about a 50 minute long ride. Now that I'm more familiar with this ride my body has adjusted. I'm less tired when I get to work and less tired when I get home at night. My conclusion: I'm getting in better shape.
My last ride was memorable for the sheer speed. I took a slightly longer but flatter route to get to the bike path that heads downtown. And I was cruising, blowing by the older morning walkers and even a few of the morning bikers. I also took full advantage of my mountain bike on each slight curve and bump, standing and absorbing the bumps and curves with my knees and elbows.
I looked cool and was riding fast. Even passing people.
There is a spot where the bike path takes a turn and runs parallel to train tracks that lead directly downtown. When you make the turn you can see the buildings and everything, even though they are still miles away. That is also the spot where the path turns straight and flat. It's all paved so you can make great time.
I decided to see if I could shave a few minutes off the ride. There was no one in front of me (an no need to look behind - I was flying!) so I switched gears for maximum speed. With each change of gears I could feel the acceleration - the added wind in my face and the slight decrease in control.
"Two to go," I thought - meaning only 2 gears left until, well, there weren't any more gears to change to. I was breathing hard but it felt good.
"One more." I'm mouth-breathing now, but still feeling strong. The sun's out and there's an autumnal bite to the air.
"There." The last gear. I am blazing down this trail. No one in sight. I physically CANNOT go faster. My feet are spinning so fast I can barely keep them on the pedals, and I'm in the highest gear that exists on my bike. I enjoy the moment - feel the speed - enjoy the fusion of man and mechanics. What a beautiful feeling.
I momentarily think of Leo DeCaprio in Titanic, standing with arms in the air yelling "I'm king of the world!". I contemplate how difficult, but not impossible, this feat would be to achieve at this moment, at this speed, on this bike path. Of course I'd have to compensate for my bulky backpack, and move to the middle of the path (I usually stay to the right because I'm usually the slower traffic). Plus this mountain bike is much harder to ride "no hands" than my old French 10-speed I had in high school.
I maintain my maximum pace. "I can do this," I think. I am so caught in the moment - the beauty of the morning and of me going fast. This is the best feeling ever!
Vroom.
That was the sound of a guy passing me on the left. He was polite about it - quietly chirping "On the left" as he blew by. He had a nice racing bike, a backpack, and a tennis racquet. A f--king tennis racquet. As if to say "Not only am I kicking your ass on this bike path, but I'm in such good shape that whenever I get where I'm going, I'm going to park my bike and play an exhausting sport. Then I'll do whatever it is that I do all day, probably better than what you do all day, and ride my bike home tonight. And I may even play some more tennis after that."
I still rode fast, and did shave about 5 minutes off my best time. I suppose if I bought a cool racing bike I could do that too. Oh well.
My last ride was memorable for the sheer speed. I took a slightly longer but flatter route to get to the bike path that heads downtown. And I was cruising, blowing by the older morning walkers and even a few of the morning bikers. I also took full advantage of my mountain bike on each slight curve and bump, standing and absorbing the bumps and curves with my knees and elbows.
I looked cool and was riding fast. Even passing people.
There is a spot where the bike path takes a turn and runs parallel to train tracks that lead directly downtown. When you make the turn you can see the buildings and everything, even though they are still miles away. That is also the spot where the path turns straight and flat. It's all paved so you can make great time.
I decided to see if I could shave a few minutes off the ride. There was no one in front of me (an no need to look behind - I was flying!) so I switched gears for maximum speed. With each change of gears I could feel the acceleration - the added wind in my face and the slight decrease in control.
"Two to go," I thought - meaning only 2 gears left until, well, there weren't any more gears to change to. I was breathing hard but it felt good.
"One more." I'm mouth-breathing now, but still feeling strong. The sun's out and there's an autumnal bite to the air.
"There." The last gear. I am blazing down this trail. No one in sight. I physically CANNOT go faster. My feet are spinning so fast I can barely keep them on the pedals, and I'm in the highest gear that exists on my bike. I enjoy the moment - feel the speed - enjoy the fusion of man and mechanics. What a beautiful feeling.
I momentarily think of Leo DeCaprio in Titanic, standing with arms in the air yelling "I'm king of the world!". I contemplate how difficult, but not impossible, this feat would be to achieve at this moment, at this speed, on this bike path. Of course I'd have to compensate for my bulky backpack, and move to the middle of the path (I usually stay to the right because I'm usually the slower traffic). Plus this mountain bike is much harder to ride "no hands" than my old French 10-speed I had in high school.
I maintain my maximum pace. "I can do this," I think. I am so caught in the moment - the beauty of the morning and of me going fast. This is the best feeling ever!
Vroom.
That was the sound of a guy passing me on the left. He was polite about it - quietly chirping "On the left" as he blew by. He had a nice racing bike, a backpack, and a tennis racquet. A f--king tennis racquet. As if to say "Not only am I kicking your ass on this bike path, but I'm in such good shape that whenever I get where I'm going, I'm going to park my bike and play an exhausting sport. Then I'll do whatever it is that I do all day, probably better than what you do all day, and ride my bike home tonight. And I may even play some more tennis after that."
I still rode fast, and did shave about 5 minutes off my best time. I suppose if I bought a cool racing bike I could do that too. Oh well.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
I am the Fat Lady
About 7 years ago I hurt my back. In retrospect, it wasn't really that bad. I went to a chiropractor, and over the course of 6 months he adjusted me and taught me how to take care of it myself. (I was not going to be one of those people who is addicted to his chiropractor, by god!)
I soon began a morning stretching and light workout regimen that I continue to follow 7 days a week to this day. I spend 45 minutes to an hour doing this every day. It is to the point that I miss it if I don't do it. (I also floss religiously, but that's another story.)
During that same time my wife and I joined Weight Watchers. Well, she joined WW and I participated vicariously through her. In the program I dropped about 20 pounds, most of which is still off.
Of all this I am proud. This pride gets me out of bed an hour earlier than I need to be each morning. And it is with this pride - this hubris, if you will - that I must now introduce the Fat Lady.
Being a creature of habit, I drive nearly the same route to work each day, on a county road through a couple of suburbs before entering the highway and becoming one of the faceless thousands idling life away, alone in our cars heading to work, on our state and federal highway system.
Ah, the priceless solitude of the commute!
Most days I half listen to talk radio while trying to remember which meetings I haven't prepared for. Some days I opt for music on one of the many, many Clear Channel stations - homogeneous pop/rock for the mindless and intelligence challenged.
But some days - rare ones - I provide a color commentary to my drive. On these days I'm in an inadvertant good mood, giddy with the realization that I've survived another day, another night, another layoff at work, another whatever. It was on one of these rare days that I encountered the Fat Lady.
It was about 8:15am on a crisp sunny morning. I don't remember the date or even the season, but I remember seeing first the silhouette then the detail of a clearly overweight woman, perhaps in her mid-50's, walking vigorously along the sidewalk. She was wearing generic gray sweatpants and matching sweatshirt. Neither fit well. In fact, they appeared to have been purchased in another fashion era, probably before she'd gained all the weight that was now straining most of the elastic in this outfit.
My running commentary noted all of these facts.
"You go, girl!" I said clearly to myself and the Fat Lady as I passed her. I don't think she knew I was talking to her - seeing as my windows were rolled up and she was on the opposite side of the street. But her puffy red face nodded an expression to me that said, "I need to be doing this. I don't care what you think."
Quick digression: What is the best kind of exercise? The kind that you'll do.
The Fat Lady disappeared from my thoughts until the next morning's commute. At about the same time and place we encountered each other again. She was, if anything, walking even more vigorously than the day before, arms flailing at her sides in an odd, uncoordinated, not-syncopated-with-her-gait way. Her face was red and beads of sweat were visible on her temple.
So surprised, was I, that I broke from my talk radio induced coma to comment, "Good for you, Fat Lady!"
The Fat Lady and I continued our weekday encounters for months. Each day I commented, "Good for you, Fat Lady!" even though, after some time, the "Fat Lady" part didn't apply as much. In fact, I came to enjoy her success at sticking with her regimen as much as I enjoyed sticking with mine. I felt pride for her.
I have since changed my route to work and don't see the Fat Lady anymore. This, however, is not the end of my story.
Last Friday I decided that, what with gas being 3 dollars a gallon and all, and that I live so close to a bikepath that runs practically straight to my office, and that the office has a locker room with a shower, that all of these reasons make it clear that I need to ride my bike to work. All 10 or so miles of it. Good for the planet. Good for my health.
I have a decent mountain bike - it's not great, but it works for me. I ride with the kids frequently in the summer. And with my morning stretch and workout regimen, I feel that I'm in pretty darn good shape, by golly! Further, I've made the ride before, just to see if I could, and I reached the office in a bit under an hour. On a sultry 90 degree day, no less. This, by comparison, would be a cakewalk. Perhaps I'll go shopping for my fulti-colored, skintight Discovery Channel nylon biking shirt.
As I rode last Friday I was trying to think: this is good for my health; and this is good for the planet. What I really concluded was: this damn path is so flat that I never get to coast; and this backpack is heavier than I thought. And I wish all these Lance Armstrong wannabes would stop whizzing by me.
I made it to work in 50 minutes. I showered and was at my desk a good half hour earlier than usual. My legs were a bit tired, but not any worse than when I used to play basketball. All in all a positive experience.
At the end of the day I braced for the ride home. My legs hadn't quite recovered, and it appeared to be much warmer outside than in the morning (of course). So out I went.
I was doing fine until the old lady passed me. She wasn't really that old, I suppose, maybe 60, tops. But she blew by me with relative ease, and kind of gave me a look from the corner of her eye - a look that said, "You go, Fat Guy!"
Bitch! I busted my ass to catch her. But I didn't. I still had several miles to go and decided that it was more important to pace myself and make it home than to suffer the indignity of calling my wife for a ride. So I'm telling you now (and told myself then) - I could have passed her if I'd wanted. Really.
I'm riding again tomorrow (weather permitting). And I vow that old lady will not pass me again. I am not the Fat Lady.
I soon began a morning stretching and light workout regimen that I continue to follow 7 days a week to this day. I spend 45 minutes to an hour doing this every day. It is to the point that I miss it if I don't do it. (I also floss religiously, but that's another story.)
During that same time my wife and I joined Weight Watchers. Well, she joined WW and I participated vicariously through her. In the program I dropped about 20 pounds, most of which is still off.
Of all this I am proud. This pride gets me out of bed an hour earlier than I need to be each morning. And it is with this pride - this hubris, if you will - that I must now introduce the Fat Lady.
Being a creature of habit, I drive nearly the same route to work each day, on a county road through a couple of suburbs before entering the highway and becoming one of the faceless thousands idling life away, alone in our cars heading to work, on our state and federal highway system.
Ah, the priceless solitude of the commute!
Most days I half listen to talk radio while trying to remember which meetings I haven't prepared for. Some days I opt for music on one of the many, many Clear Channel stations - homogeneous pop/rock for the mindless and intelligence challenged.
But some days - rare ones - I provide a color commentary to my drive. On these days I'm in an inadvertant good mood, giddy with the realization that I've survived another day, another night, another layoff at work, another whatever. It was on one of these rare days that I encountered the Fat Lady.
It was about 8:15am on a crisp sunny morning. I don't remember the date or even the season, but I remember seeing first the silhouette then the detail of a clearly overweight woman, perhaps in her mid-50's, walking vigorously along the sidewalk. She was wearing generic gray sweatpants and matching sweatshirt. Neither fit well. In fact, they appeared to have been purchased in another fashion era, probably before she'd gained all the weight that was now straining most of the elastic in this outfit.
My running commentary noted all of these facts.
"You go, girl!" I said clearly to myself and the Fat Lady as I passed her. I don't think she knew I was talking to her - seeing as my windows were rolled up and she was on the opposite side of the street. But her puffy red face nodded an expression to me that said, "I need to be doing this. I don't care what you think."
Quick digression: What is the best kind of exercise? The kind that you'll do.
The Fat Lady disappeared from my thoughts until the next morning's commute. At about the same time and place we encountered each other again. She was, if anything, walking even more vigorously than the day before, arms flailing at her sides in an odd, uncoordinated, not-syncopated-with-her-gait way. Her face was red and beads of sweat were visible on her temple.
So surprised, was I, that I broke from my talk radio induced coma to comment, "Good for you, Fat Lady!"
The Fat Lady and I continued our weekday encounters for months. Each day I commented, "Good for you, Fat Lady!" even though, after some time, the "Fat Lady" part didn't apply as much. In fact, I came to enjoy her success at sticking with her regimen as much as I enjoyed sticking with mine. I felt pride for her.
I have since changed my route to work and don't see the Fat Lady anymore. This, however, is not the end of my story.
Last Friday I decided that, what with gas being 3 dollars a gallon and all, and that I live so close to a bikepath that runs practically straight to my office, and that the office has a locker room with a shower, that all of these reasons make it clear that I need to ride my bike to work. All 10 or so miles of it. Good for the planet. Good for my health.
I have a decent mountain bike - it's not great, but it works for me. I ride with the kids frequently in the summer. And with my morning stretch and workout regimen, I feel that I'm in pretty darn good shape, by golly! Further, I've made the ride before, just to see if I could, and I reached the office in a bit under an hour. On a sultry 90 degree day, no less. This, by comparison, would be a cakewalk. Perhaps I'll go shopping for my fulti-colored, skintight Discovery Channel nylon biking shirt.
As I rode last Friday I was trying to think: this is good for my health; and this is good for the planet. What I really concluded was: this damn path is so flat that I never get to coast; and this backpack is heavier than I thought. And I wish all these Lance Armstrong wannabes would stop whizzing by me.
I made it to work in 50 minutes. I showered and was at my desk a good half hour earlier than usual. My legs were a bit tired, but not any worse than when I used to play basketball. All in all a positive experience.
At the end of the day I braced for the ride home. My legs hadn't quite recovered, and it appeared to be much warmer outside than in the morning (of course). So out I went.
I was doing fine until the old lady passed me. She wasn't really that old, I suppose, maybe 60, tops. But she blew by me with relative ease, and kind of gave me a look from the corner of her eye - a look that said, "You go, Fat Guy!"
Bitch! I busted my ass to catch her. But I didn't. I still had several miles to go and decided that it was more important to pace myself and make it home than to suffer the indignity of calling my wife for a ride. So I'm telling you now (and told myself then) - I could have passed her if I'd wanted. Really.
I'm riding again tomorrow (weather permitting). And I vow that old lady will not pass me again. I am not the Fat Lady.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Garbage Everywhere
As you read in a previous post, I recently had some problems with water in my basement. Consequently, I had to toss out a bunch of stuff that was destroyed by the water - a bunch of boxes, board games, and an old area rug (5' x 8'). None of these items was cherished, but it did get me to thinking.
In the city where I live, residents are responsible for contracting for their own garbage removal. We have 3 services from which to choose, and not surprisingly, they compete vigorously for our business. Last year we switched services and, in the process, added a second garbage can for an extra $7/month. I don't know exactly how large the cans are, but suffice it to say that they are the largest ones we could get. Collectively they are somewhat smaller than a small dumpster, but not by much.
"Phil," you say, "why do you need so much trash capacity?"
When we did the deal, we still had the greenhouse. (My property, at time of purchase, contained a house, a shed, and a greenhouse.) The greenhouse was rickety, contained broken glass, and was a haven for hornets and wasps nests (and I think the little bastards had a meth lab in there!). I had debated with my wife about how to dispose of the greenhouse - she preferred getting a dumpster while I preferred a cheaper option, any cheaper option. The dumpster would cost in excess of $400. Once I found out about the second garbage can option (cost $84/year), I had my cheaper option. So I systematically dismembered the greenhouse and over the course of several weeks last summer disposed of it through the trash.
I am just now beginning to feel the guilt over this move. Read this article about landfills. I found it very eye-opening. The bottom line is this: Landfills are never usable land once they've been landfills.
Think about this - how close would you want to live to one of these? And this - what if you had to properly dispose of all of your own garbage on your own property? It would certainly make you think twice about all the stuff you buy. Do you really want Happy Meals for the kids? Will the toys ever decompose?
I'm sure any public health official will tell you that public landfills, compared with citizen-based garbage disposal, have been a huge advancement in waste disposal. However, if you project humanity out another 10,000 years, all humans will be living on landfill. We'll probably also have our 3rd cancerous arms removed at birth.
Here's my challenge: I will start making purchasing decisions based on recyclablility and minimal packaging and reduce my "garbage footprint". Will you?
In the city where I live, residents are responsible for contracting for their own garbage removal. We have 3 services from which to choose, and not surprisingly, they compete vigorously for our business. Last year we switched services and, in the process, added a second garbage can for an extra $7/month. I don't know exactly how large the cans are, but suffice it to say that they are the largest ones we could get. Collectively they are somewhat smaller than a small dumpster, but not by much.
"Phil," you say, "why do you need so much trash capacity?"
When we did the deal, we still had the greenhouse. (My property, at time of purchase, contained a house, a shed, and a greenhouse.) The greenhouse was rickety, contained broken glass, and was a haven for hornets and wasps nests (and I think the little bastards had a meth lab in there!). I had debated with my wife about how to dispose of the greenhouse - she preferred getting a dumpster while I preferred a cheaper option, any cheaper option. The dumpster would cost in excess of $400. Once I found out about the second garbage can option (cost $84/year), I had my cheaper option. So I systematically dismembered the greenhouse and over the course of several weeks last summer disposed of it through the trash.
I am just now beginning to feel the guilt over this move. Read this article about landfills. I found it very eye-opening. The bottom line is this: Landfills are never usable land once they've been landfills.
Think about this - how close would you want to live to one of these? And this - what if you had to properly dispose of all of your own garbage on your own property? It would certainly make you think twice about all the stuff you buy. Do you really want Happy Meals for the kids? Will the toys ever decompose?
I'm sure any public health official will tell you that public landfills, compared with citizen-based garbage disposal, have been a huge advancement in waste disposal. However, if you project humanity out another 10,000 years, all humans will be living on landfill. We'll probably also have our 3rd cancerous arms removed at birth.
Here's my challenge: I will start making purchasing decisions based on recyclablility and minimal packaging and reduce my "garbage footprint". Will you?
Monday, July 17, 2006
Stealing from Myspace
I have a myspace account. I don't use it - I use this blog instead. But I do liberally "borrow" material from Myspace, if only because I think some of it is fun. Below please find 50 (or so) questions and my answers.
1. Have you had sex in the last week?
Yep.
2. Have you kissed someone in the last week?
Yep.
3. If yes, did you like it?
Yep.
5. What is the last thing that you drank?
Diet A&W
6. Who is the last person you think about at night?
??? Depends on the night.
7. Elvis or James Dean?
Neither.
8. Who is one person you can't stand from high school?
Myself.
9. What grade did you make in college algebra?
An "A" - when I took it in high school.
10. If you could have sex w/ one person right now who would it be and why?
My wife. Because we fit.
11. Are you still in love w/ any of your ex's?
Can't even remember ex's.
12. Do you like someone right now?
Yep. My wife - if that's what you're getting at.
13. Who is your freebie?
And a freebie would be?
14. Do you think lesbians are hot?
Dumb question. People are hot or not hot based on their looks and personality, not their sexuality.
16. What is your fav alcoholic drink?
Fuzzy Navel.
17. Fav non alcoholic?
Mountain Dew.
18. If you could have one wish what would it be?
That all the bombs and guns would just stop working. And for people to learn to disagree and walk away.
20. Do you know what tofu is?
A soylent-based product. I mean soy-based product.
21. Have you ever eaten it?
Not on purpose.
22. Do you know what a colonoscopy is?
Unfortunately.
23. Have you ever had one?
Yep.
24. Do you know who plays at least a small part in every Adam Sandler movie?
Other than Adam Sandler, no.
25. Do you want to go back to high school?
Never. Not even briefly, to right wrongs. Nope.
26. Who is your arch enemy?
Lex Luthor. Motherf*cker!
27. If you could go back to one time in your life and change something, would you?
Maybe. Depends on the rules. If madcap hilarity ensues, then yes.
28. This is for guys and girls - Do you or have you ever read Cosmo?
It's a viable and inexpensive source of softcore porn for teenage boys with teenage sisters, with built-in plausible deniability. But no, I haven't and don't.
29. Have you ever watched the Britney Spears movie?
Britney Spears made a movie?
30. Do you listen to Lindsay Lohan?
Only when she's saying lines in a movie.
31. Your favorite color?
Blue.
32. Paul Walker or Ryan Phillippe?
And these guys are famous people?
33. Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera?
Musically - neither. Sexually - I'll pass on both.
34. Smurfs or Carebears?
As targets in a firing range, either will do. Quick dirty joke: What's blue and Sticky? Smurf cum.
35. Favorite ex?
Nope.
36. Do you want platinum or gold for your wedding band?
Gold.
37. Have you ever paid to have your eyebrows waxed?
Sounds harrowing. No.
38. Do you shave your back?
Sounds harrowing. No.
39. Have you ever watched porn and thought it was funny?
Yes. But not on purpose.
40. Have you ever flashed someone?
Just what would I be flashing? Genitalia? Cash?
41. Who is your best friend?
My wife.
42. How many children do you want to have?
3
43. Are you pro-choice or pro-life?
Pro-choice.
44. Republican or Democrat?
Neither, but I vote against the Republicans.
45. What religion (if any) are you?
None.
47.Do you think that the tobacco companies should pay for people's medical bills?
No, but we should tax the living sh*t out of them to pay for smokers who can't afford insurance.
48. What scares you
Darth Cheney. My kids in the military. Ignorant leadership. Fundamentalist Christianity. Fundamentaism [any religion].
49. What makes you happy?
Laughter. Piles of money. Spare time.
50. If you could have one person in your bed tonight who would it be?
My wife. (Am I boring yet?) And she's not even looking over my shoulder.
1. Have you had sex in the last week?
Yep.
2. Have you kissed someone in the last week?
Yep.
3. If yes, did you like it?
Yep.
5. What is the last thing that you drank?
Diet A&W
6. Who is the last person you think about at night?
??? Depends on the night.
7. Elvis or James Dean?
Neither.
8. Who is one person you can't stand from high school?
Myself.
9. What grade did you make in college algebra?
An "A" - when I took it in high school.
10. If you could have sex w/ one person right now who would it be and why?
My wife. Because we fit.
11. Are you still in love w/ any of your ex's?
Can't even remember ex's.
12. Do you like someone right now?
Yep. My wife - if that's what you're getting at.
13. Who is your freebie?
And a freebie would be?
14. Do you think lesbians are hot?
Dumb question. People are hot or not hot based on their looks and personality, not their sexuality.
16. What is your fav alcoholic drink?
Fuzzy Navel.
17. Fav non alcoholic?
Mountain Dew.
18. If you could have one wish what would it be?
That all the bombs and guns would just stop working. And for people to learn to disagree and walk away.
20. Do you know what tofu is?
A soylent-based product. I mean soy-based product.
21. Have you ever eaten it?
Not on purpose.
22. Do you know what a colonoscopy is?
Unfortunately.
23. Have you ever had one?
Yep.
24. Do you know who plays at least a small part in every Adam Sandler movie?
Other than Adam Sandler, no.
25. Do you want to go back to high school?
Never. Not even briefly, to right wrongs. Nope.
26. Who is your arch enemy?
Lex Luthor. Motherf*cker!
27. If you could go back to one time in your life and change something, would you?
Maybe. Depends on the rules. If madcap hilarity ensues, then yes.
28. This is for guys and girls - Do you or have you ever read Cosmo?
It's a viable and inexpensive source of softcore porn for teenage boys with teenage sisters, with built-in plausible deniability. But no, I haven't and don't.
29. Have you ever watched the Britney Spears movie?
Britney Spears made a movie?
30. Do you listen to Lindsay Lohan?
Only when she's saying lines in a movie.
31. Your favorite color?
Blue.
32. Paul Walker or Ryan Phillippe?
And these guys are famous people?
33. Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera?
Musically - neither. Sexually - I'll pass on both.
34. Smurfs or Carebears?
As targets in a firing range, either will do. Quick dirty joke: What's blue and Sticky? Smurf cum.
35. Favorite ex?
Nope.
36. Do you want platinum or gold for your wedding band?
Gold.
37. Have you ever paid to have your eyebrows waxed?
Sounds harrowing. No.
38. Do you shave your back?
Sounds harrowing. No.
39. Have you ever watched porn and thought it was funny?
Yes. But not on purpose.
40. Have you ever flashed someone?
Just what would I be flashing? Genitalia? Cash?
41. Who is your best friend?
My wife.
42. How many children do you want to have?
3
43. Are you pro-choice or pro-life?
Pro-choice.
44. Republican or Democrat?
Neither, but I vote against the Republicans.
45. What religion (if any) are you?
None.
47.Do you think that the tobacco companies should pay for people's medical bills?
No, but we should tax the living sh*t out of them to pay for smokers who can't afford insurance.
48. What scares you
Darth Cheney. My kids in the military. Ignorant leadership. Fundamentalist Christianity. Fundamentaism [any religion].
49. What makes you happy?
Laughter. Piles of money. Spare time.
50. If you could have one person in your bed tonight who would it be?
My wife. (Am I boring yet?) And she's not even looking over my shoulder.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Trip to Albert Lea
For reasons I won't go into here (because they are mired in the everyday minutiae of life), I had a chance to bring my family to Albert Lea. Of course Katie's been there several times, but the boys haven't been in a couple of years, and, frankly, they slept through the trip last time. Megan remembered some of it, but not much.
We started our trip south of town at Halverson Elementary School.
This is the door I remember going in every day after the bus dropped us off.
This is the door the teachers came in. It looks like this is the main entrance now.
Then we went to the farm. The new owner appears to be doing some major renovation.
Notice the power line has been moved, as has the front door. Hmm, good for him/her.
Here's Southwest "Middle" School, in my day known as Southwest Junior High. Not much seems to have changed, except it's a middle school now.
And finally, to finish the school pictures, we went to the High School. Here is where the high school used to be. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Photo is taken from the parking lot. It's going to be an auxiliary lot for the Albert Lea Medical Center.
Here is the Post Office. Nothing different here.
Just check out the state of disrepair the Broadway is in. Think of all the movies you saw there! What a damn shame! I waited in line to see Star Wars there. And Mandingo! And Popeye. Broadway sucks now. Most of the shops have something in them, but it's easy to see that it's not the city center anymore. Hasn't been for 20 years I imagine.
I'd love to hear from some of you native Albert Leans on this. Has anyone else been there lately? Oh my god, it's really sad. My kids do have a better appreciation about where I grew up, but wow, what a difference.
We started our trip south of town at Halverson Elementary School.
This is the door I remember going in every day after the bus dropped us off.
This is the door the teachers came in. It looks like this is the main entrance now.
Then we went to the farm. The new owner appears to be doing some major renovation.
Notice the power line has been moved, as has the front door. Hmm, good for him/her.
Here's Southwest "Middle" School, in my day known as Southwest Junior High. Not much seems to have changed, except it's a middle school now.
And finally, to finish the school pictures, we went to the High School. Here is where the high school used to be. It almost brought a tear to my eye. Photo is taken from the parking lot. It's going to be an auxiliary lot for the Albert Lea Medical Center.
Here is the Post Office. Nothing different here.
Just check out the state of disrepair the Broadway is in. Think of all the movies you saw there! What a damn shame! I waited in line to see Star Wars there. And Mandingo! And Popeye. Broadway sucks now. Most of the shops have something in them, but it's easy to see that it's not the city center anymore. Hasn't been for 20 years I imagine.
I'd love to hear from some of you native Albert Leans on this. Has anyone else been there lately? Oh my god, it's really sad. My kids do have a better appreciation about where I grew up, but wow, what a difference.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Inside the Actors Studio with Me
Here are the questions that James Lipton asks each guest at the end of the show (Inside the Actors Studio) and my answers:
1. What is your favorite word?
Glazed breasts and sticky buns. So many, many connotations.
2. What is your least favorite word?
Shizzle. What the f**k is that derived from?
3. What turns you on?
Glazed breasts and sticky buns.
4. What turns you off?
Seeing mediocrity awarded with acclaim.
5. What sound or noise do you love?
My wife and kids laughing. Anyone laughing.
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
The sound of anything that comes in contact with styrofoam raises the hairs on my neck.
7. What is your favorite curse word?
Are you kidding? Are you f**king kidding?
8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
Celebrity writer - a writer who IS a celebrity, not a writer who writes about celebrities.
9. What profession would you not like to participate in?
Pediatric Oncology.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? To me: "Ha, you were wrong. And don't worry. Jim Bakker, Jerry Falwell, and Pat Robertson will never be here.
You'll be staying in the 'Glazed Breasts and Sticky Buns' wing. Enjoy!"
1. What is your favorite word?
Glazed breasts and sticky buns. So many, many connotations.
2. What is your least favorite word?
Shizzle. What the f**k is that derived from?
3. What turns you on?
Glazed breasts and sticky buns.
4. What turns you off?
Seeing mediocrity awarded with acclaim.
5. What sound or noise do you love?
My wife and kids laughing. Anyone laughing.
6. What sound or noise do you hate?
The sound of anything that comes in contact with styrofoam raises the hairs on my neck.
7. What is your favorite curse word?
Are you kidding? Are you f**king kidding?
8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?
Celebrity writer - a writer who IS a celebrity, not a writer who writes about celebrities.
9. What profession would you not like to participate in?
Pediatric Oncology.
10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? To me: "Ha, you were wrong. And don't worry. Jim Bakker, Jerry Falwell, and Pat Robertson will never be here.
You'll be staying in the 'Glazed Breasts and Sticky Buns' wing. Enjoy!"
Things You Don't Want a Co-Worker to Say to You
1. I think I saw someone run into your car.
2. Someone in HR accidentally emailed your salary to everyone in the company.
3. I'd like you to be in charge while everyone else in the department is on vacation.
4. You left your magazine in the first stall.
5. Did you hear? They've laid off X people today. And, on a completely unrelated topic - your boss is looking for you.
6. I'd like you to speak at the all-hands meeting.
7. I think I saw the CEO run into your car.
8. I'm pretty sure I ate your lunch from the fridge. You can have mine. Oh wait, I forgot mine.
9. So you're wearing red underwear today?
10. When I masturbate, I think about you.
2. Someone in HR accidentally emailed your salary to everyone in the company.
3. I'd like you to be in charge while everyone else in the department is on vacation.
4. You left your magazine in the first stall.
5. Did you hear? They've laid off X people today. And, on a completely unrelated topic - your boss is looking for you.
6. I'd like you to speak at the all-hands meeting.
7. I think I saw the CEO run into your car.
8. I'm pretty sure I ate your lunch from the fridge. You can have mine. Oh wait, I forgot mine.
9. So you're wearing red underwear today?
10. When I masturbate, I think about you.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Watching Time Go By
Date: Memorial Day 2006
Time: 9:11am
Setting: my bedroom, curtains drawn
This isn't going where you think. A few months ago, I bought Katie a new alarm clock. More convenient than the famed "Clapper", this alarm clock projects the time onto the ceiling directly above the bed. So, to see the time, you must only lay on your back and stare at the ceiling. (Which has led us to timing activities that really shouldn't be timed - nudge, nudge, wink, wink. But that topic is for a different time...)
Being a non-working day, Katie slept in, as she is want to do. I was already up with the kids, but came back in to dress for the day. For some reason, I jumped back into bed with Katie.
"What are we doing today?" she asked.
"I don't know." I lay next to her, staring at - you guessed it - the time projected on the ceiling. The digital readout said 9:11.
Owen popped into the room. "What sleeves should I wear today?" Which is his way of asking if he should wear long or short sleeves. Katie motioned for him to join us on the bed, which he did. He too stared at the ceiling time.
"What do you want to do today?" Katie asked Owen. Then the clock "flicked" to 9:12, which we all acknowledged with a brief pause in our conversation. Just a slight hesitation, not a conscious pause.
He told us (I don't even remember now weeks later) and Katie told him to go get Jackson and have him come to our room, which he did. But not before more brief pauses at 9:13, 9:14 and 9:15.
Jackson entered and Katie motioned for him to join us on the bed. 9:16. "What do you want to do today, Jackson?"
"Cool," he stared up at the time on the ceiling. "How does that work?" Katie pointed to her nightstand, then ran her hand through the projection to show him how it worked. 9:17. He giggled when it switched.
The 3 of us stared for a few more minutes, blurting "there" or "oh" when the clock changed. We couldn't take our eyes off the clock.
Finally we asked Jackson to go get Megan so we could see what she wanted to do. Owen rejoined us, this time under the sheets, followed in short order by Jackson (also under the covers). Then Megan entered, staring incredulously at her 2 brothers and her parents, laying abreast and tucked snugly into our bed, staring rather intently at the ceiling in a semi-darkened room.
"What are you guys doing?"
"Staring at the clock," I said. "There it goes," we all said as it jumped to 9:20 the second I finished saying the word "clock".
Megan laughed at us, not with us.
"What do you want to do today?" Katie asked Megan.
Megan smushed her way onto the bed with us. We now lay 5 abreast in our queen sized bed. 9:21. We all grunt acknowledgement of the time change.
For the next few minutes we chat about the day - we decide on Over the Hedge and a bike ride. Each minute we stop and acknowledge the time change, either with a surprised giggle or a new convention, first put forward by Jackson, where the first one to say the new time got to ... well, say the new time. It was its own reward.
9:32
"Okay, everyone be quiet until 9:33," I say, mostly because I like to make rules. The room goes silent. You can feel the anticipation. Waiting. Waiting.
Owen can't handle it and giggles. Jackson shushes him.
More waiting. "Wow, long minute," I think.
9:33. The room erupts with laughter. Belly laughs. No, hernia-inducing laughs. We laugh to release the pent up anticipation. We laugh at ourselves. I mean, how silly is this?
After a few more minutes, Megan departs. She's finally decided she's too cool for this - she's almost a teenager now, you know.
At 9:50 we are ready to leave. "We can't go until 10:00" I declare. "Just think of all those digits changing all at once."
"Cooooool." I had Jackson convinced.
"Ten more minutes in bed. I'm in." Katie was onboard.
"9:51" Owen won that minute - and he was in too.
Did you know that 9:56 - if you disregard the colon - is the same rightside up or upside down? We discovered this.
The time change to 10:00 came quickly, it seemed. We all enjoyed it, and shouted with glee. I imagined Megan shaking her head in disbelief in her bedroom. But we'd been watching the clock for nearly an hour, and saw the ten o'clock hour be delivered and projected on the ceiling. Nothing beats that.
Yeah, we liked the movie and the bike ride. But I will always remember that, on Memorial Day 2006, we all sat in bed and watched the time go by for almost an hour. Does life get any better than that?
Time: 9:11am
Setting: my bedroom, curtains drawn
This isn't going where you think. A few months ago, I bought Katie a new alarm clock. More convenient than the famed "Clapper", this alarm clock projects the time onto the ceiling directly above the bed. So, to see the time, you must only lay on your back and stare at the ceiling. (Which has led us to timing activities that really shouldn't be timed - nudge, nudge, wink, wink. But that topic is for a different time...)
Being a non-working day, Katie slept in, as she is want to do. I was already up with the kids, but came back in to dress for the day. For some reason, I jumped back into bed with Katie.
"What are we doing today?" she asked.
"I don't know." I lay next to her, staring at - you guessed it - the time projected on the ceiling. The digital readout said 9:11.
Owen popped into the room. "What sleeves should I wear today?" Which is his way of asking if he should wear long or short sleeves. Katie motioned for him to join us on the bed, which he did. He too stared at the ceiling time.
"What do you want to do today?" Katie asked Owen. Then the clock "flicked" to 9:12, which we all acknowledged with a brief pause in our conversation. Just a slight hesitation, not a conscious pause.
He told us (I don't even remember now weeks later) and Katie told him to go get Jackson and have him come to our room, which he did. But not before more brief pauses at 9:13, 9:14 and 9:15.
Jackson entered and Katie motioned for him to join us on the bed. 9:16. "What do you want to do today, Jackson?"
"Cool," he stared up at the time on the ceiling. "How does that work?" Katie pointed to her nightstand, then ran her hand through the projection to show him how it worked. 9:17. He giggled when it switched.
The 3 of us stared for a few more minutes, blurting "there" or "oh" when the clock changed. We couldn't take our eyes off the clock.
Finally we asked Jackson to go get Megan so we could see what she wanted to do. Owen rejoined us, this time under the sheets, followed in short order by Jackson (also under the covers). Then Megan entered, staring incredulously at her 2 brothers and her parents, laying abreast and tucked snugly into our bed, staring rather intently at the ceiling in a semi-darkened room.
"What are you guys doing?"
"Staring at the clock," I said. "There it goes," we all said as it jumped to 9:20 the second I finished saying the word "clock".
Megan laughed at us, not with us.
"What do you want to do today?" Katie asked Megan.
Megan smushed her way onto the bed with us. We now lay 5 abreast in our queen sized bed. 9:21. We all grunt acknowledgement of the time change.
For the next few minutes we chat about the day - we decide on Over the Hedge and a bike ride. Each minute we stop and acknowledge the time change, either with a surprised giggle or a new convention, first put forward by Jackson, where the first one to say the new time got to ... well, say the new time. It was its own reward.
9:32
"Okay, everyone be quiet until 9:33," I say, mostly because I like to make rules. The room goes silent. You can feel the anticipation. Waiting. Waiting.
Owen can't handle it and giggles. Jackson shushes him.
More waiting. "Wow, long minute," I think.
9:33. The room erupts with laughter. Belly laughs. No, hernia-inducing laughs. We laugh to release the pent up anticipation. We laugh at ourselves. I mean, how silly is this?
After a few more minutes, Megan departs. She's finally decided she's too cool for this - she's almost a teenager now, you know.
At 9:50 we are ready to leave. "We can't go until 10:00" I declare. "Just think of all those digits changing all at once."
"Cooooool." I had Jackson convinced.
"Ten more minutes in bed. I'm in." Katie was onboard.
"9:51" Owen won that minute - and he was in too.
Did you know that 9:56 - if you disregard the colon - is the same rightside up or upside down? We discovered this.
The time change to 10:00 came quickly, it seemed. We all enjoyed it, and shouted with glee. I imagined Megan shaking her head in disbelief in her bedroom. But we'd been watching the clock for nearly an hour, and saw the ten o'clock hour be delivered and projected on the ceiling. Nothing beats that.
Yeah, we liked the movie and the bike ride. But I will always remember that, on Memorial Day 2006, we all sat in bed and watched the time go by for almost an hour. Does life get any better than that?
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Why I don't write for a living
I'm not sure what's gotten into me this evening. Nostalgia, perhaps. I dug out my writing folder from college. It contains my collected works, at least the ones that I have on paper. I have more on my hard drive, and on floppy, each backed up and stored in random (and unknown to me at this moment) locations throughout my house.
I don't think I'm the typical writer type. I don't read much - relatively speaking. My wife and daughter read constantly - annoyingly so on occasion. I listened to Stephen King's On Writing on CD (his autobiography, not one of his horror stories) and he recommends that any aspiring writer read constantly. If you have 15 spare minutes, he suggests, you should fill it by reading. That doesn't work for me.
What really inspired me to even begin writing was the promise of a high school course taught by one of the most revered teachers at Albert Lea High School (Mr. Cooper) called "Humor and Satire". My older siblings raved about it. I've never heard such hearty laughs. "That's for me," I thought.
Sadly, mine being the era of declining enrollment, that course was no longer offered by the time I could take it. But Mr. Cooper did teach a creative writing course, so I snagged it instead. He remembered my siblings being a creative bunch but did not burden me with their baggage (I remember meeting my 6th grade teacher and he told a friend of mine that his brother had been in his class a couple of years before and that my friend had "big shoes to fill". It deflated my friend, always having to hear about his wonderful older brother. Since that day I've always really appreciated teachers who treat each sibling independently.)
I wrote 2 stories that I remember for that class. I have since lost the paper versions and all that remains are the summaries, but I think it'll give you an idea of my work.
The first story was about a night lotman at a drive in theater. I literally plagiarized the first 2 or 3 paragraphs from a story my brother Ted left in his old bedroom (my bedroom my senior year of high school). Ted had been a night lotman at the drive in theater in Albert Lea and had a great start for the story. I asked him later where the rest of the story was and he said he'd never finished it, so I don't feel bad having stolen the first couple of paragraphs. Anyway, in the story, this night lotman is summoned to retrieve something from a storage room and while there he finds a peephole into the ladies' bathroom. He spies a gorgeous woman - I remember a line like "her breasts bounced to and fro like jello when one jiggles its bowl". He follows her back to her boyfriend's Trans Am, then pouts about his lot in life. After his shift, so late as to be near sunrise, the lotman arrives home to see the local news, where that same Trans Am has been destroyed in an accident. "Both passengers were killed" says the anchorman.
I think there was a word limit to the assignment so I killed her off. I do remember Mr. Cooper pinged me because she was the passenger and her boyfriend was the driver, so the correct line should have been "Both occupants were killed."
I thought I was being pretty risque for a small-town high school senior. I don't know what anyone else wrote, but I'm sure mine was pretty different.
The second story (made up completely on my own this time) was about an aging football player. He was an offensive lineman - a thankless position usually filled with relatively anonymous men. His assignment was to block the nearly unblockable man in the biggest game of the year. I remember setting the unblockable man up as a near mythical creature by having the anonymous o-lineman see him a crowded restaurant the night before the game. Our aging hero watched this nearly 300 pound man (that was a HUGE lineman for the 1980's) chase down and catch a fly using chopsticks while nimbly negotiating a crowded Chinese restaurant.
Our hero performed admirably on game day until a pileup late in the 4th quarter of a close game. Crazy things happen in those pileups on the goalline, you see. In this pileup, our hero's hand somehow ended up in the pants of the unblockable man. The unblockable man ejaculated on the hero's hand, right there in the pileup. I believe there was some kind of terrible pun in there:
Aging Hero, challenging Unblockable Man to a fight in the pileup: "Come on, man!"
In the words of our hero, "and he came, right there, on my hand."
Eww. Isn't that awful? In my defense, I was only 17.
Anyway, I've linked a story I wrote my senior year of college at the bottom of this post. My very last quarter in college I had 3 night classes - Computer Science 3400 - theory of algorithms, Art History - the films of Alfred Hitchcock, and Intro to Fiction Writing. An easy quarter by any measure. The story linked below was an afterthought I threw together 2 days before it was due. The class had only 2 writing assignments - a long short story and a short short story. Below is the short short story.
It's kind of a stretch for me. I'm definitely from the "write what you know" school of writing, so writing a story from a woman's perspective was a challenge. The professor, who was a woman, absolutely loved this story, much moreso than my long short story. I thought just the opposite. Anyway, if I get around to retyping the long short story I'll post that too.
Anyway, I really like the opening paragraph of this one. Click the link and enjoy. I had fun retyping it. I probably haven't read it for 15 years.
The Reunion by Phil Gonzalez, 1989
I don't think I'm the typical writer type. I don't read much - relatively speaking. My wife and daughter read constantly - annoyingly so on occasion. I listened to Stephen King's On Writing on CD (his autobiography, not one of his horror stories) and he recommends that any aspiring writer read constantly. If you have 15 spare minutes, he suggests, you should fill it by reading. That doesn't work for me.
What really inspired me to even begin writing was the promise of a high school course taught by one of the most revered teachers at Albert Lea High School (Mr. Cooper) called "Humor and Satire". My older siblings raved about it. I've never heard such hearty laughs. "That's for me," I thought.
Sadly, mine being the era of declining enrollment, that course was no longer offered by the time I could take it. But Mr. Cooper did teach a creative writing course, so I snagged it instead. He remembered my siblings being a creative bunch but did not burden me with their baggage (I remember meeting my 6th grade teacher and he told a friend of mine that his brother had been in his class a couple of years before and that my friend had "big shoes to fill". It deflated my friend, always having to hear about his wonderful older brother. Since that day I've always really appreciated teachers who treat each sibling independently.)
I wrote 2 stories that I remember for that class. I have since lost the paper versions and all that remains are the summaries, but I think it'll give you an idea of my work.
The first story was about a night lotman at a drive in theater. I literally plagiarized the first 2 or 3 paragraphs from a story my brother Ted left in his old bedroom (my bedroom my senior year of high school). Ted had been a night lotman at the drive in theater in Albert Lea and had a great start for the story. I asked him later where the rest of the story was and he said he'd never finished it, so I don't feel bad having stolen the first couple of paragraphs. Anyway, in the story, this night lotman is summoned to retrieve something from a storage room and while there he finds a peephole into the ladies' bathroom. He spies a gorgeous woman - I remember a line like "her breasts bounced to and fro like jello when one jiggles its bowl". He follows her back to her boyfriend's Trans Am, then pouts about his lot in life. After his shift, so late as to be near sunrise, the lotman arrives home to see the local news, where that same Trans Am has been destroyed in an accident. "Both passengers were killed" says the anchorman.
I think there was a word limit to the assignment so I killed her off. I do remember Mr. Cooper pinged me because she was the passenger and her boyfriend was the driver, so the correct line should have been "Both occupants were killed."
I thought I was being pretty risque for a small-town high school senior. I don't know what anyone else wrote, but I'm sure mine was pretty different.
The second story (made up completely on my own this time) was about an aging football player. He was an offensive lineman - a thankless position usually filled with relatively anonymous men. His assignment was to block the nearly unblockable man in the biggest game of the year. I remember setting the unblockable man up as a near mythical creature by having the anonymous o-lineman see him a crowded restaurant the night before the game. Our aging hero watched this nearly 300 pound man (that was a HUGE lineman for the 1980's) chase down and catch a fly using chopsticks while nimbly negotiating a crowded Chinese restaurant.
Our hero performed admirably on game day until a pileup late in the 4th quarter of a close game. Crazy things happen in those pileups on the goalline, you see. In this pileup, our hero's hand somehow ended up in the pants of the unblockable man. The unblockable man ejaculated on the hero's hand, right there in the pileup. I believe there was some kind of terrible pun in there:
Aging Hero, challenging Unblockable Man to a fight in the pileup: "Come on, man!"
In the words of our hero, "and he came, right there, on my hand."
Eww. Isn't that awful? In my defense, I was only 17.
Anyway, I've linked a story I wrote my senior year of college at the bottom of this post. My very last quarter in college I had 3 night classes - Computer Science 3400 - theory of algorithms, Art History - the films of Alfred Hitchcock, and Intro to Fiction Writing. An easy quarter by any measure. The story linked below was an afterthought I threw together 2 days before it was due. The class had only 2 writing assignments - a long short story and a short short story. Below is the short short story.
It's kind of a stretch for me. I'm definitely from the "write what you know" school of writing, so writing a story from a woman's perspective was a challenge. The professor, who was a woman, absolutely loved this story, much moreso than my long short story. I thought just the opposite. Anyway, if I get around to retyping the long short story I'll post that too.
Anyway, I really like the opening paragraph of this one. Click the link and enjoy. I had fun retyping it. I probably haven't read it for 15 years.
The Reunion by Phil Gonzalez, 1989
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Giving Blood
The following story is not meant to deter anyone from giving blood. Giving blood is an important service to the community and society. I've given blood on many, many occasions and the following story is an anomaly.
I've given blood "at the office" for years, since my brother's car accident (another story for another day). I mean, they come to my workplace and everything, how can you deny them? So this is the story of how I didn't give blood today - at least any blood they could use. I'll use actual names because, well, I don't know these people and I would testify in court (if I had to) that this is what really happened.
I showed up on time for my appointment and read the requisite warning message about giving blood (you can't give if you're HIV positive, for example. Duh!). Next, I made the short trek out to the "blood bus", a former school bus that the blood bank people converted into a "blood-mobile". Once inside, I met Natalya, a young (early 20s?) nurse? and endured many questions about my travels, my sex life, and several other personal choices. The questions border on the ridiculous. Consider:
-Between the years 1980 and 1996, did you collectively spend more that 3 months in any of the following countries: Britain, Germany, the Ivory Coast, Uganda, Madagascar, etc, etc, etc.
-Have you had sex with a man since 1977? (I presume they don't ask women this question.)
-Have you taken IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you had sex with someone who has taken IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you ever paid for sex?
-Have you ever paid for sex with someone who took IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you ever paid for sex with a doctor who prescribed IV drugs?
Okay, maybe that last one wasn't actually one of the questions, but it very well may have been. It's basically an exercise in a)Reading fast (Natalya's part); and b)Saying, "No" (my part). I'm not sure either of us was paying full attention. Anyway, once Natalya had checked my iron (43 - an acceptable score) and my blood pressure (124/88), I was ready to go.
I prefer the left arm for this procedure for no particular reason. So I settled in and let the process begin. Natalya and I continue our Question - "No" exercise. "Are you allergic to iodine or betadyne?" I'm asked. "No" So she wrapped a velcro belt around my upper arm and began the vein-finding process, which for me has always been easy. She marked spots around the vein with a Sharpie-brand permanent marker, then started swabbing the area with the io- and beta- dines.
Finally, the needle prick. I hate the thought or sight of any foreign object entering my body. I always look away for the needle part. So I ask Natalya to tell me when the needle's about to go in so I can look away, and she complies. I stare out the bus window. It's sunny. Oh look, there's so and so going off to lunch. Hey, that's a nice c.....
PRICK!
There, that's not so bad. A little pinch, then I can start...
"Oops"
I hear Natalya mutter something under her breath. It couldn't have been "Oops," could it? Naah, I'll just keep looking out the window, then she'll tell me to squeeze my hand every few seconds and I'll be out of here in 10 minutes.
"Um..." Natalya is trying to get my attention. What was that I felt? Did she accidentally pull the needle out?!?
"Can you hold this?" Natalya is pressing a bloody gauze pad on my needle site. "The needle came out," she says sheepishly.
When I muster the courage to look, I notice there is blood covering the armrest where my arm rests and is dripping on the floor. My blood. Definitely not going into that plastic bag. Nope. It's right there on the floor.
A more senior nurse looks over and gives Natalya a "your patient is dripping blood on the floor" look, which Natalya responds with a "I think I fucked up" look. "Would you like some help?" asks the senior nurse.
The two nurses hurriedly cleaned up my bloody mess, while other donors watched helplessly, gently squeezing their blood neatly into their plastic bags. They hid their fear well. On more than one occasion both Natalya and the senior nurse asked me, with actual nurse-like concern, "Are you okay?" Each time I nodded vacantly.
I wish the story ended here. In retrospect, I should have stopped it right here. Karma, the gods, whoever, would be preventing me from giving blood on this day. But I persisted. I've seen the patients who use the blood at the hospital, and they are much worse off than I, so I should quit whining and switch arms.
"So, shall we give it another shot?" I ask the senior nurse. This induces a double-take. "You really wanna do that?" she asks. Buoyed by my visits to my brother's hospital room, I bravely declare, "yeah, sure."
So I switch arms and begin the process again. I try to make small talk with Natalya, whose confidence has noticeably sagged. Since she had to throw away the first plastic blood bag, she also now has to relabel all those little vials and get a new bag. It's awkward enough, so I say something about re-sticking the barcode labels onto the vials, and she grunts an unintelligible answer.
"Are you okay with me doing this again?" Natalya asks as we get to the needle part again. This is a moral dilemma, really. What I'd really like to say - what I would have said without inhibition - was "Um...NO BLEEPIN' WAY!" However, given her sagging confidence, I thought it might be bad for future donors if I said that. Plus, what a great guy I'd be for giving Natalya the confidence she needs to finish her assignments for the rest of the day.
"Yeah, sure," I blare confidently. I give her my "Go get 'em" look. Rah Rah. Phil, you're a great guy.
PRICK!
"Ow," I say involuntarily. "It burns."
Natalya persists. I can feel her feeling around for the vein with the needle. "Is that better?"
"Yeah, a little, I guess..." But Natalya never leaves my side. Now she's watching the bag. It's still empty. I can see some blood in the tube, but it's not making it to the bag. I check the armrest. So does Natalya, which is disconcerting. So much so she asks, with serious concern, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, sure," I mutter.
Natalya calls the senior nurse over again. Senior nurse proceeds to move the needle around in my arm and they watch the bag intently.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"You're not filling up the bag fast enough," senior nurse tells me. "We'll give it another minute."
Another minute goes by, with senior nurse and Natalya watching the bag. Senior nurse says to Natalya, "It's too slow, let's just stop." Then she looks to me and says, "I guess it's just not your day," and walked away.
Natalya took what seemed like forever getting the needle out of my arm. She mentioned that it was likely that this site would bruise and swell, and if it does I should ice it. Then she said, "Sorry."
So, to sum up, I got stuck with needles twice, bled quite a bit, but gave no blood today. I'll give blood the next time they visit my employer, but I can honestly tell you that I'm not brave enough to endure another blood letting at Natalya's hands.
I've given blood "at the office" for years, since my brother's car accident (another story for another day). I mean, they come to my workplace and everything, how can you deny them? So this is the story of how I didn't give blood today - at least any blood they could use. I'll use actual names because, well, I don't know these people and I would testify in court (if I had to) that this is what really happened.
I showed up on time for my appointment and read the requisite warning message about giving blood (you can't give if you're HIV positive, for example. Duh!). Next, I made the short trek out to the "blood bus", a former school bus that the blood bank people converted into a "blood-mobile". Once inside, I met Natalya, a young (early 20s?) nurse? and endured many questions about my travels, my sex life, and several other personal choices. The questions border on the ridiculous. Consider:
-Between the years 1980 and 1996, did you collectively spend more that 3 months in any of the following countries: Britain, Germany, the Ivory Coast, Uganda, Madagascar, etc, etc, etc.
-Have you had sex with a man since 1977? (I presume they don't ask women this question.)
-Have you taken IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you had sex with someone who has taken IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you ever paid for sex?
-Have you ever paid for sex with someone who took IV drugs not prescribed by a doctor?
-Have you ever paid for sex with a doctor who prescribed IV drugs?
Okay, maybe that last one wasn't actually one of the questions, but it very well may have been. It's basically an exercise in a)Reading fast (Natalya's part); and b)Saying, "No" (my part). I'm not sure either of us was paying full attention. Anyway, once Natalya had checked my iron (43 - an acceptable score) and my blood pressure (124/88), I was ready to go.
I prefer the left arm for this procedure for no particular reason. So I settled in and let the process begin. Natalya and I continue our Question - "No" exercise. "Are you allergic to iodine or betadyne?" I'm asked. "No" So she wrapped a velcro belt around my upper arm and began the vein-finding process, which for me has always been easy. She marked spots around the vein with a Sharpie-brand permanent marker, then started swabbing the area with the io- and beta- dines.
Finally, the needle prick. I hate the thought or sight of any foreign object entering my body. I always look away for the needle part. So I ask Natalya to tell me when the needle's about to go in so I can look away, and she complies. I stare out the bus window. It's sunny. Oh look, there's so and so going off to lunch. Hey, that's a nice c.....
PRICK!
There, that's not so bad. A little pinch, then I can start...
"Oops"
I hear Natalya mutter something under her breath. It couldn't have been "Oops," could it? Naah, I'll just keep looking out the window, then she'll tell me to squeeze my hand every few seconds and I'll be out of here in 10 minutes.
"Um..." Natalya is trying to get my attention. What was that I felt? Did she accidentally pull the needle out?!?
"Can you hold this?" Natalya is pressing a bloody gauze pad on my needle site. "The needle came out," she says sheepishly.
When I muster the courage to look, I notice there is blood covering the armrest where my arm rests and is dripping on the floor. My blood. Definitely not going into that plastic bag. Nope. It's right there on the floor.
A more senior nurse looks over and gives Natalya a "your patient is dripping blood on the floor" look, which Natalya responds with a "I think I fucked up" look. "Would you like some help?" asks the senior nurse.
The two nurses hurriedly cleaned up my bloody mess, while other donors watched helplessly, gently squeezing their blood neatly into their plastic bags. They hid their fear well. On more than one occasion both Natalya and the senior nurse asked me, with actual nurse-like concern, "Are you okay?" Each time I nodded vacantly.
I wish the story ended here. In retrospect, I should have stopped it right here. Karma, the gods, whoever, would be preventing me from giving blood on this day. But I persisted. I've seen the patients who use the blood at the hospital, and they are much worse off than I, so I should quit whining and switch arms.
"So, shall we give it another shot?" I ask the senior nurse. This induces a double-take. "You really wanna do that?" she asks. Buoyed by my visits to my brother's hospital room, I bravely declare, "yeah, sure."
So I switch arms and begin the process again. I try to make small talk with Natalya, whose confidence has noticeably sagged. Since she had to throw away the first plastic blood bag, she also now has to relabel all those little vials and get a new bag. It's awkward enough, so I say something about re-sticking the barcode labels onto the vials, and she grunts an unintelligible answer.
"Are you okay with me doing this again?" Natalya asks as we get to the needle part again. This is a moral dilemma, really. What I'd really like to say - what I would have said without inhibition - was "Um...NO BLEEPIN' WAY!" However, given her sagging confidence, I thought it might be bad for future donors if I said that. Plus, what a great guy I'd be for giving Natalya the confidence she needs to finish her assignments for the rest of the day.
"Yeah, sure," I blare confidently. I give her my "Go get 'em" look. Rah Rah. Phil, you're a great guy.
PRICK!
"Ow," I say involuntarily. "It burns."
Natalya persists. I can feel her feeling around for the vein with the needle. "Is that better?"
"Yeah, a little, I guess..." But Natalya never leaves my side. Now she's watching the bag. It's still empty. I can see some blood in the tube, but it's not making it to the bag. I check the armrest. So does Natalya, which is disconcerting. So much so she asks, with serious concern, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, sure," I mutter.
Natalya calls the senior nurse over again. Senior nurse proceeds to move the needle around in my arm and they watch the bag intently.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"You're not filling up the bag fast enough," senior nurse tells me. "We'll give it another minute."
Another minute goes by, with senior nurse and Natalya watching the bag. Senior nurse says to Natalya, "It's too slow, let's just stop." Then she looks to me and says, "I guess it's just not your day," and walked away.
Natalya took what seemed like forever getting the needle out of my arm. She mentioned that it was likely that this site would bruise and swell, and if it does I should ice it. Then she said, "Sorry."
So, to sum up, I got stuck with needles twice, bled quite a bit, but gave no blood today. I'll give blood the next time they visit my employer, but I can honestly tell you that I'm not brave enough to endure another blood letting at Natalya's hands.
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