Nemesis

Nemesis: 1. A source of downfall or ruin. 2. An implacable or unbeatable foe.

We all have our own personal nemesis (or multiple, "nemeni"?). As a true human beings, most of us can claim to have been self destructive at one time in our lives or another, or in many cases, on a constant basis. We most likely continually face obstacles that at times do seem unbeatable.  On the general stage of the human condition twists and turns our various plot points often exceeding tolerable levels, but most of us are programmed to "stay positive", "buck up", "put our best foot forward" (enter optimistic cliche here). Or at least fight our battles without constant complaint. Who the hell wants to listen to constant kvetching? Who would admit that there are forces out there that can just kick our asses,  have the power to reduce us to blithering imbeciles, to behave completely irrationally or immaturely even though consciously we should really know better? Mea culpa. On too many occasions, I fear.  I've had the opportunity to evaluate my nemeni as this week I've been presented with some recent, some from long ago. And continue to fight the urge to return to nemesis habits.

As some of you know I quit my 31 year nemesis tobacco habit the end of September. Cigarettes were my relaxation and also my problem solvers. I used tobacco to calm me at moments of huge anxiety and also when I was at my most laid back. I smoked while talking on the phone, I smoked after every meal, I smoked while walking outdoors, I stood in front of public buildings in all kinds of weather, puffing away. In fact, there really wasn't a time when I wasn't smoking, except asleep. And hell if anyone was going to tell me to stop. Smokers are stubborn. Some non-smokers believe that people who partake of tobacco are just plain stupid. The fact is that smokers were lulled into thinking that it would be easy to quit when they began their cigarette journey. That by just having a cig on occasion wouldn't get them hooked. But nicotine is so insidiously addictive. Sooner than later a "casual smoker" finds themselves buying packs. Rituals are created. A lifestyle is born. And no amount of good natured advice against the habit is taken seriously. In fact if anything, scorn just makes a smoker more militant. I've found that unless a smoker really wants to quit and just ditches the addiction, the only other thing that might make them seriously consider dumping it is when they get their "serious illness" diagnosis. And even then, it might take degrees of seriousness. As I said before, smokers are some of the most stubborn people I know.  

It was my 2nd round with breast cancer (yet another nemesis) that made me quit. And even then it was because the reconstructive surgeon refused to take me as a patient that I did. So it was really vanity that make me stop my love affair with tobacco. Was it hard to quit? Not as hard as I'd expected. There were much more difficult things to endure than losing that habit. Two and a half months after quitting I can say that the few triggers I still have are not horrible. I am really glad not to be a slave to them. I don't have to be a pariah, or to get jumpy in airplanes. I don't have to run outside of restaurants after the last bite. There's little chance of starting again. That would require going out and actually purchasing a pack, and I'm simply too lazy to do that. So...one nemesis down.

Deer are another nemesis. They're just rats with antlers up here in The Gold Country. We have simply too many of them and not enough natural predators. They aren't Bambi. They are the worst thing you ever want to hit with your car, especially in November and December when they are in rut, making them even worse targets as they chase each other all over the roads. Some residents think they are being virtuous by feeding roaming herds that come through their property. They are NOT. Four years straight we hit bucks on the main road heading into town. On the first occasion we hit a buck, then hit a pole, then a fence, then did a 360 and finally ended up facing oncoming traffic. And passing motorists can be so kind. Their concern wasn't for our safety, oh my no, they wanted to know what WE were going to do about the deer we killed by wickedly attacking it with our car. On another memorable incident, I tried to avoid hitting one who was racing traffic, lost control of the vehicle, hit a wall at 40 mph and rolled the car. We ended up hanging upside down held in by the seat belts, thinking the car was on fire because of the smoke from the air bags exploding open. Thankfully the power windows still worked and we were able to climb out the passenger window. Needless to say, that car was totalled. 

We went for a stretch of lucky time with no subsequent deer encounters. I suppose I just got cocky.  One must never assume cockiness with deer. I know this now. Yesterday, my husband had gone out front and rushed back in telling me to be very quiet, but I MUST come outside and see this. In our driveway, there was sitting a live doe. She stared in desperation back up at me looking down on her from our front porch. I knew instantly that there was something really wrong, deer don't just sit there and stare back. Both me and my husband got our cameras out and took some pictures. Then I just stopped and looked into her eyes. I tried to tell her it was ok but it was a lie even in telepathy. I moved closer to her and she tried to move away but she couldn't get up, both hind legs were broken. As I knew our city Animal Control was closed on the weekend (de-funded by budget cuts, EVERYTHING CRAPPY IS BECAUSE OF BUDGET CUTS!) the city cops were called. A half hour later an officer arrived, assessed the situation, waited for another officer to arrive with a lower caliber gun, and one pop later the deer was duly "dispatched".  I was indoors, but the sound of that gun going off made me nuts. I had a sudden anxiety attack on the spot. The nice cop came back to the door. He was sympathetic, but due to liability issues, they were not allowed to remove the carcass from my property. I could call County Animal Control and see if they could help me out. Oh but of course they couldn't. We live out of their jurisdiction. I could call some local yokels who would charge me $80 to take it out of my driveway if I really needed it out of the way before Monday. No thanks. I put an appeal out on Facebook, free venison if someone would haul it off themselves. Weren't there ANY hunterish people out there who could use a fresh kill? Guess not, because as of Sunday evening, the damn thing is still in my driveway. I can't even drag it out to the street, because then I'd get fined for littering/causing a road hazard as the local law knows it's their bullet.  I'm not going to allow the "budget cuts" excuse let this thing rot on my property. Tomorrow it's war.

I'm not a stalker. Let me just put that out there before going on. I must admit when I was much younger I did participate in some stalkery behavior, but let's just blame it on the irrational nature of lust/unrequited infatuation. These days as a middle aged adult, it's hard to find enough enthusiasm to even get out of bed in the morning, never mind obsessing over old flames. I no longer wonder "what-if". I KNOW "what-if", and it 'aint pretty, no matter how perfect a world it could have been. That said, there's always Google. Don't any of you tell me you haven't looked up old lovers and steadies. I don't care how blissful your marriage is, you've all gone there. It may be just to satisfy curiosity, or you may justify it for altruistic reasons (ie: just want to see if they are still alive/happy/married/how many kids/aged well) or maybe you are all really weird obsessives. I will admit to Googling a few of my old flames, I've even friended most of them on Facebook. But there was one elusive person who I was either convinced was dead, or made it a point to have no online presence. I dutifully looked them up on a every other yearly basis since we had the ability to do internet searches. I never went as far as paying for any of those "background searches", there was no way I could go there, but several months ago I did send a Facebook message to this person's brother, with little expectation of a response. I haven't lived anywhere near this person, hadn't since '92, so there was also no way of physically expanding my query. In fact, I'd pretty much figured that if this person wasn't dead, they just really wanted to be left alone. Any disturbance from me would likely be unwelcome.  By sending a message and my phone # to the brother at least I could allow that person to decide to contact me. And honestly, I thought that person had chosen not to. I had left the message months ago. Until I got a FB friend request three days ago. From my long ago nemesis/unrequited infatuation. Whoa.

Actually, to say that I acted irrational all those years ago would be an understatement. I could probably beat the rap by blaming it on hormones. but I know now that is just a big fat lie. I would have done ANYTHING for this person, and often did. I behaved badly. I behaved nicely. I behaved like a psychopath. I stalked, cajoled, cried. I gave myself freely. I schemed, I lied. I thought I could never find another person so charming, so sexy, such a perfect match and I was willing to forgive them all their flaws to just share even a moment with them. Many say it's not important to dwell in the past, but how can I possibly deny the all I am, how I got to "here" by not dealing honestly with the "who I was"?

But I have moved on. Just because I get a wee bit stalky online doesn't mean that I still pine for anybody. I am married to a man who deserves the Presidential Medal of Honor for dealing with the battlefield of me. And who has stuck around for the long haul. I doubt any normal person would have the fortitude to do the same, never mind choose to have a family with me! Nevertheless, my stomach started feeling fluttery when I heard this past world person's voice. They were only allowed to speak for a short moment but promised to call back. During the wait I felt all the old psycho teen giggly schoolgirl feelings returning with a vengeance . I wanted to come off calm and collected, mellowed and wiser, not reduced to my own embarrassment. I was becoming the high strung, easily distracted person I thought I had left behind long before menopause. No this would not do. NOT DO AT ALL. I would be strong. I would be the person I'd earned. And just like quitting smoking, it really wasn't all that hard to do. Nemesis person and I had over an hour of phone conversation. They were just as charming as ever. It was a lovely time. We both remembered things about us, which in itself is lovely as thirty years time has passed since we first met. And I cannot in any way continue to call this person my nemesis anymore. There are far too many other things like deer and cancer that continue to be my obstacles, but nothing that can't be beaten. I write this while listening to music from our time together (not intentionally, it just comes up on IPod random, like it's reading my brain) and realise I now have a very important thing that I didn't have way back in those chaotic days of unrequited intensity. I have discipline. And I AM truly glad that the ex-nemesis person is still alive.

Happy HOLIDAYS! 

After The Barbaric Chamber

Welcome to my gripe session. I'm not going to mince words because this is just too dreadful and with Halloween looming, I want you to enjoy all the gory details of what I have had to go thru. I figure "The Breast Cancer Adventure" is just about as scary and stupid as any modern horror film out there. And boy howdy, we're just getting started.

I have always been truly befuddled that our history is full of amazingly creative ways to torture, maim and kill, but up until recent times, we still were "bleeding" with leeches and basically trying to avoid the "vapours" when it came to actually saving lives. I still believe that we're just getting started, nobody should be friggin mutilated when removing cancer. And then deliberately killing off every healthy cell to make sure the cancer is indeed gone? I'm having a really hard time getting my head around this. As I sit here, 1 week and 3 days post mastectomy/reconstruction, I have to say that this just sucks.

I really resent the Hollywood types who have gone thru what I have and just "brush over" this part..."I had a mastectomy and reconstruction and now everything is just peachy". OH BULLSHIT. Did they have no pain? Were they lucky enough to have no bloody scars? "compromised" skin? Did they hate waking up every morning because their whole chest and arm muscles feel like they've been on the torture rack? Of course not. They're too busy blowing sunshine up our asses. The whole cancer culture is "Look on the bright side...you're still here". Yeah, BUT. You can take all that positive attitude crap and shove it you know where.

So the deal is I have a patch of "compromised skin" on my right boob. (read bloody, unhealed, gross) and both surgeons are concerned about it. So concerned that I have been condemned to the hyperbaric chamber on a daily 90 minute session. For the first 10 mins they raise the pressure and I have to constantly swallow and do other stuff so my ears don't blow out. Then for most of the time I just watch TV("Scream 3", stupid, very stupid) while having 100% pure oxygen circulating around me, rendering me completely flammable. The last 10 minutes I "decompress" by doing the opposite, again so my ears don't blow out. All the while I'm in a clear plexiglass coffin. Thank goodness I'm not claustrophobic. Noted side effect: Even more tired and lazy than I was before. I feel like my life is being saved just so I can be completely useless.  Just wait till we start chemo...joys.

Writing this just took everything outta me. Back to bed.

Trying to Get Over Myself

My daughter hates that I put out all my personal stuff out into the forever interwebs for everybody to know. She believes that human events should be private and dealt with in quiet, just family or maybe with just yourself. Because she's oh so strong that way. She can keep her head up in all kinds of tough situations. My daughter would make a great British person. She has a terrific stiff upper lip. My daughter was also lucky enough not to inherit all the chronic crap I did, such as depression, diabetes, breast cancer, the whole "wheel o disease". I think she would be surprised to know that I am not famous for anything. This blog has a few loyal followers, but not a worldwide audience by any stretch of the imagination. Nor will it ever. Therefore there should be no reason for shame on her part. I'm not spilling any of HER secrets. (Not that I really know any to begin with) But allow me to apologise in advance to you, daughter, if anything I write here offends your delicate sensibilities, or is cringeworthy. This is my catharsis. This is the way I deal with the light and the heavy. And yes, I am kinda heavy these days.

Dealing with my impending mastectomy has been generally easy, until today. I woke up after having some really gnarly dreams. Up to now I've allowed myself only two times per day to feel sorry for myself and I really only used one if any. I've tried to entertain myself in comedy, cooking (came out disgusting, don't ask) giving TLC to our cat who's recovering from fatty liver disease, and NOT SMOKING. And even being a non-smoker wasn't shitty until today, 12 days after having my last cig. So WTF?? Not that I would go out and buy a pack. I don't get replacement tits if I do, so it's really a big no-no. But why today to feel like an emotional train wreck? I don't get it.

When I was doing nails I learnt a really good lesson. If I had a problem, I would go to work and no matter what, I'd have a client that day who had a way worse one. Maybe that's the issue here. I'm holed up in my house and have no one to compare my misery to. And I have to face this crap without the usual crutch I hid behind for so many years.

I like to call this the "Breast Cancer Theme Park". I go to the "Cancer Pavilion" for all my cancery needs, including the "Chemo Experience" and the "Oncologist Patience Ride". There is also "Diagnostic Village" where I go to "Scan land". Included in admission of course is "Serious Surgery Way" where the Drs are efficient but lack any sense of humor that I can detect.

Let's get this straight. I'm not brave. I'm scared shitless. And I'm still angry. I could talk to a million other breast cancer survivors and still feel totally alone. I feel invaded. I'm not a surgery fan. I never liked the idea of fake boobs on anyone. Now I HAVE to get them. SHIT. AND fucking chemo too. Blech.

I guess I'm not a big fan of radical change. Strange coming from a self proclaimed "progressive".

OK I feel a little better.


  

THE LATEST POOP

OK here's the latest poop on me. I'm writing it HERE because I don't want to have to repeat myself.

It looks like I'll be around for a goodly longer time than expected. This is what I know to date: My PET scan and MRI both show that my breast cancer has yet to go on the scenic tour. It is still put up at the left tit motel. This is a very good thing. It means that I am NOT riddled with cancer. It will be easy to remove. AND I get some really perky new tits. Yeppers, it's really all good.

As I've related in past postings, I have the BRACA gene mutation which gives me an 85% higher chance for recurring breast cancers in my lifetime. I have decided on a radical mastectomy which all my doctors agree is a wise choice. I met with the reconstructive surgeon today and my situation is a bit more complicated than just throwing a couple of silicone bubbles in place of what was. All that will get me is, well, what looks like what is. After losing all the weight, I am rather deflated. So my Cancer Adventure involves the "Inflate O Boob Ride". YAY! The surgeon inserts expanders. Then I get to come into the office and get "inflated" to whatever size I choose. After the "Inflate O Boob Ride" is over, he removes the expanders in another "minor surgery" and then I get to heal all up.

A few bummers. I have to lose the nipples. And pain. I'm scared shitless that they will be unable to properly medicate me, as they completely failed after hip surgery and more recently with an upper GI and colonoscopy. These concerns have been related to the Dr. but there will most likely be a need for serious written instructions to everyone concerned. I don't want any fuck-ups. Oh, and I still get the "Wonders of Chemo Experience". Blech. Yes the hair still goes away. I will still wear crazy wigs. I really hope it doesn't make me constantly nauseous, because that is one of the worst feelings besides chronic pain.

I am still a non-smoker. It is Friday night and I had my last cig on Monday morning. I have used no nicotine replacement therapy. There were some visual issues the first couple of days, but in terms of physical withdrawals, they were really minimal. The psychological triggers are still strong, especially after a meal or driving certain places. I know these feelings are temporary and one day soon I will be passing the small throng of smokers stuck outside in the miserable weather and just feel sorry for them. For anybody who is interested in getting rid of the slavery of smoking, I suggest Alan Carr's book "Quit Smoking the Easyway". And that is all I'm going to pontificate on the matter because I refuse to become an ex-smoker asshole hypocrite.

I love you all so much for your caring and kind thoughts, prayers and words. You have no idea how blessed I am to have you all in my life. Thank you from the bottom of my sassy little heart.


 

The End of A Long Ass Friendship

I've informed many of you what's happening in my life right now. For those of you who might not have gotten the news, the stage 0 breast cancer I had in 2005 which was really a big nothing has returned with a vengeance. This time it has presented itself in a lump and also in a lymph node. This is what I know at this moment. I will need a radical mastectomy (both tits) , reconstruction (new tits) and then chemotherapy. Both surgeries can be done at the same time with one really important caveat. I MUST QUIT SMOKING. And I MUST DISPLAY ENTHUSIASM ABOUT QUITTING SMOKING TO THE RECONSTRUCTION SURGEON or he will not accept me as a patient. Okey dokey. Word heard. I could just ignore the reconstruction and wake up totally mutilated. Ehhh..not an option I'm afraid. I'm just too vain. But giving up my long white buddies? The friends I have purchased for 31 years? The stinking thing I really happen to like sucking on must go away? WOW. Those of you who have never had a smoking addiction have no clue how difficult this is. Those of you who have quit and badger me also have no clue about my fondness for the action of smoking a cigarette, the rituals built around the action, the day to day usage which has (in my mind) helped keep me sane. Or has made me insane when I could not conveniently have access to them. So instead of a puff, I take a deep breath and try to describe how and why I got here in the first place.

I didn't start out smoking cigarettes. I hated them. My mother smoked for years. I got a burning cherry stuck inside my nose when I jumped on her lap the wrong way when I was about 5. You'd think that would foster my distaste at an early age. the stank permeated our clothes, the house, the cars, everything. Then she just suddenly quit. She said she stopped inhaling and just went from there. (not an option for me, sadly) I tried one of her leftover cigs when I was 14 and it was miserable. Yes I had the predictable coughing fit and subsequent green face, and it didn't help that the pack was probably pretty stale by then. But there was something much more interesting to smoke...pot. And I could do that.

And so it went. I smoked pot occasionally with my friends. The old pot was pretty low grade, mostly shake and seeds, as compared to the "super pot" on the market now. We'd smoke a couple of joints and get silly. We'd walk around the neighborhood and just zone out. It wasn't a regular thing, I never went to school high or sold it. When I was 16 I started hanging with a different bunch from high school. If there was pot, that was the first choice of smoking. But they smoked cigarettes too. Long menthols which were cool going down, not chokey at all. I'd get a head rush from them. I would bum cigs whenever I got together with these folks until I realized I should contribute and I then bought my first pack, Benson & Hedges Menthol 100's. They cost 65 cents. And now is where I start to sound like an old 60's educational film: It didn't take long to get me hooked. Maybe a week. I remember very clearly standing at a bus stop in Westwood, lighting up a cigarette, taking a puff and not getting the head rush anymore. I thought to myself, I'm addicted to cigarette smoking. I'm really gonna regret this one day. But our teenage selves are immortal! Who the hell cares about the future? Cig smoking made me new friends in the girl's bathroom at school. I chatted with all kinds of lively people over years and years of dead butts. I don't even want to think about how many I've smoked over the years. It's too terrifying.

So today is THAT day I predicted at that Westwood bus stop. Not that cigarettes are the direct cause of my cancer. I have a genetic pre-disposition to breast and ovarian cancer. I certainly don't imagine it helped. And there are so many positive reasons to quit especially in these p.c. days, where even one whiff of cig smoke could cause someone to cough exaggeratedly before they get into their polluter car as  response to my bad habit. Plus being a smoker pretty much bans me from just about everywhere, including open spaces like Central Park, or the sidewalks of town, even friggin bars. AND I got stink eye in Vegas casinos too... and it's still legal to smoke THERE. Needless to say the cost. They are a lot more expensive than the originally affordable 65 cents a pack, even if I order online from the Indian Reservation in Seneca NY. Man, if I could have all that cig dough back... Oh, I'm not even gonna go there. Regrets are for losers.

I've got 4 cigs left. What to do afterwards? I'm fidgety with my hands. My husband made the predictable tawdry response (men!) Knit? (I suck at that) Clay?(Even worse in Art School) Write more?(fiction? seriously?)  Photoshop? I don't really suck at that, perhaps I will do more of that. I must find another way to reward myself. Cigarettes played a very important part in placation. I would do a job and when I deemed it completed, I had a smoke. Should I employ a masseur to be readily on hand? Smoking was also a good boredom chaser. If I was in a situation that was just way too dull, a cig would at least give me something to do. I suppose I should learn to use my new phone camera photo apps better. There are a lotta "shoulds" involved here. "Shoulda coulda woulda" Loser words, too.

I figure if legendary filmmaker and die-hard smoker Jon Waters could quit, anyone can. He was a major chainer. He wrote about how nasty he realised smoking was after he stopped doing it. I'd really like to get to that place. Not that I want to be an asshole to smokers. I hate THOSE people, the ones who used to smoke and now get all up into people who still do, big hypocrites. I just don't want to "like" it anymore. In contemporary TV and film it's always so easy to tell who the villain or the drunk is...it's the smoker. I don't want to be categorised as evil because I have a nasty habit. And I'm awfully tired of standing outside of wherever, whenever, in the elements, missing out on everything, all just because I need to smoke a freaking cigarette. So, long white friend who really is not my friend, was never designed to be my real friend, just a fake friend who wants to suck money and life out of me, consider our relationship OVER. Because I want new tits. (After I finish my last 4.)

Mortality and Death and Other Morbid Stuff People Never Want To Talk About

People really HATE talking about it. It's like death is just something that happens to OTHER PEOPLE and we'll deal with it when we have to, maybe. But when I mention the real possibility that I might not make it to my next century, nobody listens. All I ever get back is "You're a fighter, it'll be ok" or"Let's not talk about this now..." WTF? Everybody spouted off interminably when I was pregnant. I suppose the miracle of new life supplants the miracle of making room for that new life.  Even the death industry people speak in hushed tones, as if showing any kind of emotion may validate the fact that your loved one is actually, for-real, umm, dead. Or maybe they're just trained to expect mourners to act lively and they are to be the counterweight.  So I'm going to write about it just because I can. Don't read this if you choose not to, that's no longer my problem

I'm facing a good chance that I have breast cancer yet AGAIN. And this time it looks to be very aggressive.  I am waiting on a definitive answer from the biopsies they took on Wednesday, and of course during these long weekend days I've been doing probably way too much thinking.  Trying to make decisions about mastectomies, reconstruction, how big do I want my new boobs to be, how much pain will I have to experience, etc, etc, etc. But I'm also considering that the cancer may have spread. After all, I have lost a ton of weight and my Dr's have had no idea what was causing this. So of course I also go to the "fatal place".  What will I do then? 

I have always believed that every person deserves death with dignity. Ever since I saw my grandfather writhing with pain in the hospital from stomach cancer, shouting out to my dad for help, drugged out of his mind, hooked up to machines in a room that looked like the inside of the space shuttle. I was 13 then and I chose to stay in the waiting room for subsequent visits. My poor mother died alone in a hospital room as well, even though she had paid for home health care insurance. I suppose there is no way to truly guarantee that the dignified option will happen, but I sure as damn well don't ever want to be a permanent guest in a nursing home. Been there, done that, 7 days after I broke my hip. Interestingly, every employee I spoke to said that they had "plans other than being stuck there"...

I watched a documentary about a guy who had Lou Gehrig's disease and decided to go to Sweden to have a Dr assisted suicide rather than be a burden on his family as he declined. It was sad, but also rather liberating to watch. This gentleman made his own decision about his life and his death. How cool is that? And his wife honored his wishes all the way. This is a missive to all who say they love me as to what my wishes are. Please pay attention. I'm dead serious.

So if I do have inoperable cancer or treatment (chemo) is only gonna give me like 6 more months or something else just as useless,  I'll take a miss on that, thanks. My heart's desire is to travel. I will do as much as I can. I am so gone. Don't worry, I'll keep taking pictures with my phone camera and posting the best to Facebook. I'm not going to drop off the face of the planet. If anything, I will become more engaged, on a global level. It's going to be so cool.

When I get to the point where I simply cannot go any further, I'm STAYING HOME. Bring in hospice to keep me comfy, but don't drug me to oblivion. There are still snarky things to say and politics to follow.

And after...please cremate me. I know, being Jewish, I should have a plot all picked out and paid for. Let's get this straight. I HATE Hillside Memorial Park. Almost my entire family is buried there. The place gives me only crap memories. I don't give a rip that Al Jolson has a huge palatial fountain. Physical space is for the living, not my rotting carcass.  I have much more twisted plans for my disposal, Read on.

On the "Celebration of Life"...it's the new revamped funeral. Can we take a miss on that, too? You know how I hate trendy stuff. Just have a party. Keep it cheap. BYOB. Play my IPod on shuffle for music. I have only one request...please play "Funeral For A Friend" by Elton. If I can, I'll do some fairy magic for you all. That will be way cool. Eat, drink and be merry. And only dress in black if you usually do anyway.

Ash disposal (here comes the twisted part) Heheheheh. So those of you who really know me know that I love, love, love SNOW. So here's the deal. I could have made this really hard and forced you to watch the weather and check snow levels all winter like I do, but I realise you probably have more important things to do. Soooo.....Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES will my ashes box be left in the closet.( I will haunt the hell outta you if that happens.) You will drive up to Lake Tahoe, in the winter following my death, hopefully on a snowy day (there's at least gotta be snow on the ground) and scatter the ashes anywhere around the lake where you think you won't get caught disposing human remains. Easy. Don't save any ashes. And try not to pull a John Goodman, either, but know if you do I'm gonna laugh at you. So watch the wind.

So now I've written about the stuff NOBODY ever wants to talk about with me. Deal.





    

Another Long Waiting Weekend, Me and Angel

This is being written not to elicit pity or prayers or condolences. Writing is my catharsis, amongst other creative tasks. I could scream, throw things, weep, be still or get numb, all of which I have done the past few days, but nothing is more satisfying than actually concentrating on making something that comes from ME. That's just the way I roll.  This is simply the reason for all the cryptic Facebook status updates I've been posting, and I think being honest is the best way to answer for them. 

Back in 2005 I had my first mammogram. I was called back by the imaging center so they could get more films on a certain part of my left breast. After those were completed, I was brought into the radiologist's office where he showed me a magnified cluster of irregularly shaped cells. It looked really hinky to him and the next step was a biopsy. Not the most wonderfullest of procedures, but the results were called DCIS, basically stage 0 breast cancer. The cancer cells were stuck in a milk duct, probably had been there for several years. A simple lumpectomy would probably get rid of it.

I met with a surgeon who explained that they had to take a much larger piece of the breast around the cancerous cluster in order to get the largest margin to make sure that they got it all. So I went through with it, outpatient surgery, a little scar, no harm done. The surgeon said afterwards that they were successful in removing all the weird cells, and that I actually had 3 types of cancers in there, only one of which was a very aggressive type. I was then referred to an oncologist who recommended radiation therapy. I figured that if the surgeon said they got it all out, why bother with radiation? And I was pretty disgusted at being a product of the "cancer industry" at the time anyway. So I refused. Being a really cool oncologist, he said he understood, but he did suggest I take a test to see if I had the BRACA gene mutation. This is a hereditary gene thing, very common to Jewish women of Ashkenazi descent which increases the risk of breast and ovarian cancers to 85% in a lifetime. The test results came back positive. I have the BRACAI gene mutation. So this affected my entire game plan.

I toyed with the idea of being totally pro-active. Maybe I should just have a full mastectomy and get reconstructive surgery? Back in '05-'06 there weren't a lot of choices for decent cosmetic surgeons in my area. I ended up having consultations with doctors in San Francisco, the first who would do the mastectomy and the next who would do the reconstruction in the same surgery. My biggest fear is waking up and finding myself udderly mutilated. (pun intended). But the idea of having to travel all the way to San Francisco and then find a place to recuperate for two to three days was daunting. I decided that I was just going to let things be, get yearly mammos, and if I ever got cancer again, I would then get a new rack. And things did go swimmingly up to a couple of weeks ago.

A little digression....I am an insulin dependent diabetic. Have been since 1994. I also share my home with cats. I have done that for most of my life. At one point, we had a cat named Coco who was probably the most devoted to our family pet we ever had. One day she started looking ill. Being an observant pet person, I can tell when a cat isn't doing well. I took her to the vet and they did blood work. The next day they called and told me she had diabetes and that I needed to come in so they could show me how to give her insulin shots. They must have thought I was bonks because I just laughed on the phone. "I'm also on insulin" I told the poor vet tech. Needless to say, giving her her injections was no big whoop, and after a time, Coco didn't need the shots anymore. Cats can cure themselves of diabetes. I hope someone is studying this. They say that pets can take on the illnesses of their humans. I find it more and more true when I hear stories of people who have to give their dogs thyroid meds or prozac or whatever. Our bonds with our animals can be more than emotional.

When my mother died, I inherited her pure bred persian cat Angel. He is a likeable fellow, good tempered, curious and loves people. My mom bought him as a kitten from a breeder, and he could have had any number of weird genetic personality problems, but we lucked out.  Other than the necessity of professional grooming services, he's been pretty low maintenance. Starting about a month and a half ago, this otherwise very heavy, solid fifteen pound cat started to lose weight. I really began to notice it after he got shaved for summer. There's no way you should be able to feel bones when you pet a six year old cat.

Back to me. Two weeks ago I was adjusting my tank top and felt a lump. It was just above the place I'd had the breast cancer. And I'm not talking a pebble size lump. I'm talking the size of a marble that kids trade away a week's worth of lunches for. WTF? I'd just had a mammo in June and it was clean!  I was just about to go to Las Vegas for Photoshop World. On Wednesday I went to the Breast Imaging Center. They did a ton of mammos of the lump site. After the radiologist looked over the films, it was decided that an ultrasound was in order. An ultrasound can detect if the lump is a mass or liquid filled. If it was indeed liquid filled, then it would in most cases be just a cyst, and they could drain it and all would be fine. BUT NO. It wasn't. I have to say that the staff is wonderful at our breast imaging center, they really care and understand. I expect they have seen the whole spectrum of emotions, but they still have the ability to deal with the patient as an individual. And they fast-tracked me for a biopsy. Based on my ultrasound, not only is the lump suspect, I also have something in a lymph node.  They did the biopsy and put a teensy metal marker at the sites for future surgical use. I was told that I would probably get the results by Friday. That was yesterday. I received no phone call regarding any results. I suspect that even if any results come in today, I won't get any notification until Monday.

Angel: I brought him to our local vet on Thursday. The Dr. was very concerned and did blood work. He called me yesterday and said that Angel's in liver failure. The good part is that it wasn't caused by any virus, but he really wanted to have an ultrasound done to find out what was happening. So we took Angel  to the state of the art animal hospital in Loomis, about 35 miles down the hill. Their staff is also amazingly caring, and I bet they see some heinous stuff, being a 24/7 emergency clinic. They did an ultrasound and ultimately a sorta biopsy on Angel's liver. The state of the art Dr told us that Angel might have lymphoma, (read CANCER) but that the test results could take a couple of days, and maybe by Monday we'd have definitive results. I broke down in the state of the art Vet hospital and a vet tech took me into an exam room. I blubbered my troubles to her and she just hugged me for a long time.  She also told me that kitty lymphoma is not necessarily a death sentence. It can be treated. And I know that breast cancer can be as well. But I still have so many questions. Will both me and Angel lose our hair? (He will most certainly look worse than me) Will we both be sick and vomiting?Or does his treatment involve just a pill? And mine?

It sucks that I have to make such decisions, but I really think it's time for that mastectomy, because the major emotion I have is anger. I'm really sick of this shit. (Fortunately we have a new set up here where I can get the mastectomy and reconstruction same surgery in our local hospital, so no having to travel to San Francisco.) I have so many things I love to do on my schedule. And I'm not letting this get in the way. For those of you who believe in the power of prayer, and if you're so inclined to include me and Angel in them, I have only one wish: For us to be HAPPY. No matter what. Thanks.

Piss Off Science Fiction Style.

So you just come twaddling into my universe wanting to make all nicey nicey after all this temporal time.  You say you're a "changed man because you've been married". Well isn't that special. Let me tell you about really long term time marriage.  It's turned me into the Monster Goddess from The Void. And oh boy, is she in rage.  How does she stoke that flaming hot anger that could make lesser planets vanish? She writes letters to her offenders.  Blindingly time twisted rants fueled by the most anti matter she can acquire.  And yes she does send them.  They hit.  Because she has learnt that words are the most important tool at her disposal.  Let the court of the Monster Goddess from The Void begin.  The offender is on trial. 

Lets look back into the time vortex to see the offender's deeds.  Why would the Monster Goddess ever consider letting such a snagwipe lowlife back into her universe? Why indeed.

Consider the evidence.  Once way back long ago and far away you were considered "friend".  The responsibility of "friend" entails a great deal of "trust".  Perhaps the Monster Goddess was naive in those faraway days.  Perhaps she believed that her "friends" would never do things to hurt her, her vaunted family or her universe.  The Monster Goddess knows better now.  Much better. Back to the evidence.  "The Hrant of Past Days" shows the trust I bestowed in said "friend" on many occasions to watch over her universe and all the entities who share them.  He was to "take care" of those entities, allowed to use the tools and comforts the universe provided but was also required to leave them in their former location unabused when said "friend" ejected himself.

Occasion one: On one return, the Monster Goddess was shocked to find that one of her treasured creatures called "cat, sub term Bob" was absent from her universe.  Cat, sub term Bob was not the type of creature to want to escape the universe into the cold world of the outer galaxy.  Said "friend" said he "left the front door open and he must have escaped".  The Monster Goddess found that to be hinky at the time because if that were true, other creature cat sub term Lucy who had a fondness for excursions to the outer galaxy would also be missing.  It took the Monster Goddess temporal time a month and a half to coax cat sub term Bob back into her universe, where he remained a neurotic wreck to the end of his cat sub term Bob existence.  The Monster Goddess only hopes cat sub term Bob has found a planet to his liking, where no more "supposed friends" toss him out to hostile invaders.

Occasion Two: Upon another return from other time travels, the Monster Goddess found her clothing in complete disarray. She can only imagine what said "friend" found interesting in there, him being a large human, much larger than the size of coverings.  Or was said "friend" allowing other females access to the Monster Goddess' wardrobe?  Very suspect.

Occasion Who knows how many times? Said "friend" has a horrible habit of not paying currency for items at retail establishments.  That is said "friend's" bad karma.  But to do it when being accompanied by other people including the Monster Goddess' DAUGHTER, is truly pissifying.  I am sending fireballs even as I write these words

The FINAL Occasion: Said "friend" decided that a stylus tool was more important for him to own than to stay in the Monster Goddess universe and made the husband of the Monster Goddess have to purchase a new one.  And to add much hurt to the issue, said "friend" LIED when he pretended to find the stylus behind a desk when it was really up his sleeve.  HOW STUPID DOES SAID "FRIEND" THINK THE MONSTER GODDESS IS??? (Monster Goddess is sending Daleks and Cybermen to wreak major havoc and purify her universe's borders from said "friend's" lingering putridity)

VERDICT: You will never have the honour of being welcome in the Monster Goddess's universe again. Every bridge you cross, whether it be physical or cyber, you destroy. Rest assured that you will be relegated to a planet where you are not forgotten, No, your legacy is guaranteed to be permanent in space and time. As people all over the galaxy remember and maybe even laugh about "THE SHIT YOU DID TO THEM".

END ENTRY. Return to universe. Shift parameters. No more thought of said "friend".

My Final Photoshop Class Project...(yeah I got an A...!)

On Dreams...

You could say I'm a dreamer. I spend more of my consciousness in the state of dreaming and after analysis than I do most daily tasks. Of the different kinds of dreaming I'm about to list, I have had them ALL, including precognitive dreams. They say dreams are only interesting to the dreamer, but lately I have been dreaming about socks and having to go back to high school. I know what that's about, you don't. I do believe that we create our own "dream symbols". I don't believe in a Freudian all fits one theory on symbology AT ALL. So don't be sending me banana pictures or any of that crap, cos I don't go there. If I'm gonna have a sexual dream, I guaratee it won't be in metaphoric imagery. And then I usually wind up thinking about that person for the rest of the day. (Eurgh eurgh!) So without further ado, I bring you some interesting facts about dreams:


10. Your brain is active when you dream. Yep, it doesn't go off when you go to sleep, even if you don't remember your dreams in the morning. 'Nuff said.


9. Animals dream, too. After all the YouTube videos out there of puppies doing cutesy things whilst asleep, I think you've already figured that one out. BUT: Reptiles and other cold blooded animals we don't think do dream...(I'm not so sure about that, I think more important research on snake dreaming is needed.)

8. Weed and dreams. Many pot smokers report having no dreams, yet after they quit, the same ex-stoners report extremely vivid and intense dreams. Most vivid dreams take place during REM sleep, so the logical scientific question is "Does marijuana (THC) affect REM sleep?" According to a 1975 study, cannabis DOES reduce REM sleep, and a REM rebound effect upon withdrawal from THC. Whoaaa...

7. Epic Dreams. These are extremely vivid and can be life changing. These dreams are so compelling that they often generate a greater awareness of your natural surroundings and give you a fresh, new perspective on an aspect of life. The epic dream can remain with you for years. People who experience these dreams often report a continuous story line that constitutes an enirely different and ongoing life.

6. Gender differences in dreams. (too many boring stats in this one, gonna try to sum it up.) Men usually dream as men. Women can go either way. Men's dreams (I'm guessing straight men here, it's not specific) are reported to include more violence, cars, and roads. Women's dreams tend to last longer and include more emotional content. For those of you who think we are all dreaming of sexual conquests all the time, think again; On average, 8% of people's dreams contain sexual activity. That's it, pervs. Men tend to dream about unknown or public places and their dreams often feature strangers, whilst women often dream of enclosed bodies of water, such as lakes, pools and ponds. NOT THE BACK OF THE CAR! Of course this data is based on general percentages and is NOT TRUE FOR EVERYONE.

5. Sleep paralysis. Yuk. Let's just say it sucks. Food for thought on this before we leave, though...people who claim alien abductions....are they just experiencing this horrendous paralysis?


4. Nightmares vs night terrors. Read Ernest Hartmann's books. He's done the work on this. Common adult nightmares are commonly being chased by a male figure, while children face animals or fantasy creatures. (My usual nightmare takes place in a parking lot at the business end of a gun, but that is based on a real experience) Night terrors are quite different from nightmares. They occur diring the first hour or two of sleep and during the non-REM cycle. Loud screaming and thrashing are common. The sleeper is hard to awake and usually remembers no more than an overwhelming feeling or a single scene. Night terrors are much less commmon than nightmares. Children from the ages of 2-6 are most prone to night terrors and they affect about 15% of all children. (I have a new-agey theory about children and terrors, but I'll not bore you with that here)


3. Famous Dreams. This is soooo cool! I'm going to copy the whole thing for you because it's so dang interesting!

Dreams have often been credited with influencing world-changing events. Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein after having a dream about the monster, saying that she "saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion." (Whoa...) Elias Howe was a sewing machine pioneer who greatly influenced the product in the middle of the 19th century. He is recorded as saying that he had a vivid dream about a group of cannibals that were preparing to cook him. They were dancing around a fire, waving their spears up and down. Howe noticed that in the head of each spear there was a small hole, which ultimately gave him the idea of passing the thread through the sewing needle close to the point, not at the other end. It was a major innovation in making mechanical sewing possible. The scientist Friedrich August Kekule' discovered the seemingly impossible chemical structure of benzene (C6H6) after having a dream about a group of snakes swallowing their tails. (go figure on that one, chem nerds) James Watson and Francis Crick discovered the structure of DNA. Watson later reported that the idea came to him after dreaming of a series of spiral staircases. (Yes, I get this one.) A few days prior to his death, Abraham Lincoln discussed a dream with his wife in which he previewed a dead body wrapped in funeral vestments surrounded by hundreds of mourners. He claims to have been told by a soldier that the president had been assassinated. (And I told a special friend to make a book based on a dream where I actually saw their book, could flip the pages, smell the damn ink....PAY ATTENTION, DAMMIT!)

2. Chronic snoring can lead to a sleep disorder. Not sleep apnea but something wierder....Many indidviduals who experience chronic snoring are suffering from an REM sleep disorder. People who snore regularly do dream, but will not remember the dreams as often as normally sleeping individuals. They often will develop an REM sleep disorder, which is characterized by not experiencing any paraylsis when they sleep, thus causing the sleeper to physicially act out in their dreams. Such behaviors often include talking (mea culpa) yelling (mea culpa) punching, kicking, jumping out of the dang bed, arm flailing (mea culpa) and even grabbing (mea culpa ONCE). The person will remain sleeping while acting out their dreams and will not remember the activity or dream the next day. Oy. It''s my meds, folks, I'm positive it's the meds.

1. Vivid dreams help you learn. Blah, blah, blah, learn more about REM sleep if you want. REM sleep activates the area of the brain that we use for learning. REM sleep is also associated with increased protein in the brain. Go google Ontogenetic Hypothesis of REM sleep for more info.


"When you dream, what do you dream about?" Moody Blues

Info from The Ultimate Book of Bizarre Lists

On The Ponies

(Lights rise up slowly to elderly woman in wheelchair.  Her head is down, obviously sleeping)

ELDERLY WOMAN: (head rises slowly) What? (long pause, she is coming out of her sleep slowly)  Who are you? (pause, she is trying to understand.) My daughter? Are you really? (She slowly looks to the side)  I had a baby once.  Do I still have a baby? Does she need me or can I still sleep a bit? (pause) Good.  I have trouble getting around, it's just too hard to take care of babies nowadays.  (her eyes are unfocused, and slowly close again for just a moment, then languidly open) I want my breakfast.  Where is my breakfast?  (pause) I did?  What the hell did I have? (pause) Did I like it?  Sometimes breakfast is pretty dull. (pause) Oh good, I liked it.  (her eyes close again, she takes a long breath. Then snappily she opens eyes, as if she is completely cognizant, looks front, voice changes to childish) Uh, you...you!  I want to go to the mooshic park.  Will you take me to the mooshic park?  (pause)  Oh you mean the music park? (pause) OH! The AMUSEMENT park....yes, that's what I used to call it, the mooshic park, because it sounded like my parents were saying music...hehehheh.
(she is becoming more physically articulate, more excited)  Excuse me? You've heard this before?  Tough crap. You get to hear it again.  (she takes a deep breath, eyes opening wider) We are going to the mooshic park.  I am so excited.  There was music, you know.  They played music on the...the...oh what the hell do you call it...(quick pause) oh yes, yes the carousel.  I was scared the first time my parents put me on it.  Yeah, very scared.  But I learned to love it.  It was the first thing we did when we went there.  Did I tell you there was an oil well on the street beside the mooshic park?  (pause) It WAS on Fairfax, not La Cienega. I KNOW that. (short breath)  Oh yeah, I remember when my parents sent me in the spook house alone, too. I was brave but I came out of that place in tears.  All that stuff was probably really fake looking but to a little kid, well, you know, because I did the same thing to my daughter, hehheheh. Yeah at the fair...heheheh.  I think it ruined Halloween for her forever. (pause)  They had other rides at the mooshic park too, I think a roller coaster.  But it was only there for awhile, probably wasn't safe.  (pause, she now speaks a bit pissily) Yes I KNOW I told you, humor me, I'm an old fart, damnit! (long pause, she is getting tired,) sigh  (eyes start to close, but open wide again) You wanna know what the best thing was for me, though?  Ay, yes you know, of course.  You know everything. It was the pony ride. (she sighs, but is excited) Yeah those poor little ponies, but I LOVED them.  It was a track, you know.  It wasn't like those lame pony rides now where they just go around in a circle.  How boring!  No, it was a real track, with a little house in the middle where they took care of the ponies. They put me on the pony and gave it a little whip and we trotted down the first part of the track, the pony would go slow.  By the way, can I have breakfast? (pause, she sighs) Sssss.  So the pony trotted slowly down the first part of the track, bumpitty bump bump.  It was really nice, I remember flags, too. Lots of colors. And I smelled cotton candy and horseshit.  And hay.  It was rare to smell horseshit and hay in Los Angeles...yeah, horseshit! Heheheheh.  ( pause) So then we'd be going along the track and sometimes it seemed forever, other times way too short...let's see, the track.  Yeah. The final stretch...the ponies were trained to go fast towards the end. Oh it was so awesome, feeling the wind in my hair, just racing on this pony, so cool, I always laughed...heheh.  I felt I was sooo free, it was so effortless...ahh...(Her eyes gently close as she says the last sentence)  I was so free.....(she lowers her head as if to return to sleep, sighs, coughs, then slowly opens her eyes again, raises her head) Who are you? (pause) Can I have breakfast?  (lights out)

On Super Dooper Customer Service

When I was in my late 20's I worked for TWA in the reservations department.  I was only there for about 9 months because the pay was so miniscule, but in that amount of time, I learned how to deal with the public in amazing ways.  Now back then, our calls were not only monitored, but we had time limits on each call as well.  That makes it pretty tough to get all "warm and friendly".  But I have a strange gift (amongst all my other talents).  I am a mimic.  Yep. I can mimic an accent within 4 seconds of hearing it.  So by accepting calls from all over the country, I was able to start talking like the caller without seeming to mock them or sound strange.  I'd get the Kentuckian who'd ask me where I was from?  "California, suhh?" "Mah goodniss, ah thawt ya was frum rahht nixt dooah" "Yup, sahh"  and so it went.  I went very quickly to being rated number 2 in an office of 200 souls, all doing the same thing, making airplane reservations, answering stupid questions, etc.  And as a res agent, we had to know EVERYTHING.  We had a HUGE manual we kept near our consoles and it was added to daily by updates, policy changes, eventually just becoming shredder fodder.  But you never knew if the next caller would ask THE QUESTION THAT YOU COULDN'T INSTANTLY ANSWER WHILE BEING MONITORED.  Ooooh. Busted.

During my tenure at TWA, katrillionaire and asshole extraordinaire Carl Icahn owned the airline.  I remember hearing about him buying a 1.5 million dollar racehorse as I was staring at my check reflecting on the $6.75 an hour less taxes and the partial payment for TWA school. Later on I learnt that making people pay to go to school to work for a specific company is illegal, but good ol Carl looked at humans and saw dollar signs. (I went bankrupt on his ass anyway.)  Every policy they enacted seemed to whittle down our earnings potential.  I also found out after I quit that the New York res office was making double what we were.  I could have stayed and enjoyed the benefits of almost free travel and actually had some money to spend once we got to where ever.  But such was not to be.  I did get a RT flight to NYC and took my folks to London, their first out of the US experience (besides Tijuana), so I guess I got my money's worth. 

But I digress.  The point of this particular blog is to tell a different story.  As some of you have followed, we got stuck in NYC this last December because of the GREAT BIG BLIZZARD.  (Truckee and Tahoe residents would laugh their asses off) Our going home flight was delayed twice because of no visibility/ice/whatever.  Fine with me, another night was no big whoop.  But after the second cancellation, I tried for four hours to ring the airline, to no avail.  I wasn't even allowed to HOLD!  Just booted off. So I wrote them a frantic e-mail.  No response until the next day, another night in NY.  (Still no big whoop, really, we were having a fine time.)  Finally, a nice lady called from the airline and told me that we would not be able to get another flight until the 1st. And now with a 45 minute plane change in Long Beach. HUH?  January 1st?  Another 5 days?  We were originally booked to go home on the 26th.  Yikes.  But I'd looked at other airlines and they were all booked up, too, some until the 7th, and because we had no advance purchase, we'd have to buy one-way tickets at the price of at least 1 grand each.  The hotel was completely understanding in our plight, made me a deal on the remaining days because New Year's eve rack rate is normally $600.00. DOUBLE YIKES!  As it was they only charged me an addl $1100 which was mighty Christian of them.  They could have said tough luck and we'd have been trolling the streets of NYC (Which was filling up with New Year's eve revelers from all over the world) trying to find shelter. I did the math and even despite the extra thousand, it was still worth it to stay.  So again, a bit of pissiness, but no super big whoop.  Same nice room, same fun stuff, good eats, extra time with the kids, all was right with the world.  We made our flight on the 1st, got home and both of us immediately got sick.  Yucky whoop.

Now I am getting to a point here, really. During my illness I had a bit of time to fester on the airline situation.  We got bumped from the next logical flight, which would have been on the 7pm nonstop on the 28th. They put us on a flight for next year.  Hmmm.  Other people must have screamed loud to get some compensation, especially ones who had to sleep in the airport.  What about me?  It still cost the big buck to stay in the city, I was screwed, too. (whimper, whimper, heheh) So in a fit of "justice for all" I called the res office to see what they could do for me.  The first agent I got was a piece of work.  This woman should NEVER be working with the public in ANY capacity.  After politely explaining our situation to her, with righteous indignation she asked me "Do you want me to believe that you expected the airline to remove those lucky passengers who had booked their tickets months in advance and now had flights already booked for the 28th to put YOU on the plane?" huh? Well, yeah, I did.  I guess I'm selfish that way. I booked my flights months before as well. I replied to the agent "I was looking for some sort of compensation for the money I had to spend staying in the city..." She immediately suggested I go to the website and "write my complaints to my little heart's content" in the "contact us space".  I told her I used to work for TWA and we never treated passengers that way.  She loudly repeated her original disbelief that I would be SO STUPID as to think that they would simply bump already ticketed passengers to accommodate me. She said that the airline had fulfilled their responsibility by putting us on the next AVAILABLE flight.  She then told me she was ending the call and promptly hung up on me.  WOW.  People gotta know, you DO NOT EVER HANG UP ON ME.  I was not using vulgarities or calling her mother names.  Yes, my voice had reached fever pitch, but that was a response to her nastiness. A call back was definitely in order.  Next "available flight" be damned.

I took a few calming breaths and redialed.  I immediately asked for a supervisor, only because I didn't want to have to go thru the same crap.  The agent asked for our res number, and I again explained the situation.  She immediately put me on hold to find a supervisor.  She came back on after a short bit and said that she would have to look for another supervisor, the one she just talked to wasn't too sympathetic. Huh? Another hold, and then success.  Without going through a lot of wordy detail, I eventually got exactly what I wanted. Two free roundtrip flights to wherever the airline travelled to.  And this agent was so sweet.  She totally sympathized, she was patient, she was just a pleasure to deal with.  Even if I hadn't gotten exactly what I wanted, I simply couldn't holler at her.  She was just too kind.  I immediately kicked off a complimentary e-mail on the website, making sure to spell her name right. I know those commendation letters are important.  I still have a file full of them from TWA. 

This morning I had some time to reflect on what makes good customer service.  Why do I take my car to the most expensive garage in the county? Because I know these guys will do it right in the first place, not treat me like a dipshit, and do little free favors for me between times.  (Reference Rat Nest in My Engine on fb)  Why do I shop online at Zappos for shoes? Because shipping is free both ways and I can try the shoes on in the comfort of my home.  I know they pad the price, but it's worth it for me.  Why do I shop at local boutiques instead of driving 45 minutes down the hill to the department stores? Because the salespeople treat me like a welcome guest.  They are beyond polite.  They are gracious and helpful and make shopping (which I really detest) a pleasure.  These things make commerce palatable.  The following does not...

My bank was bought up by another large bank (rhymes with lack of GRACE).  They recently sent me a booklet announcing their new fee structure.  Free checking is a thing of the past.  But it mentioned "linking" accounts to avoid being feed.  Ok, so I called them.  Got some sort of outsourced call center, think it may be India, but not really sure.  The first guy I talked to gave me a run around of epic proportions.  I had a headache after the call was completed and was not sure if he did what I thought he said he did....decided to call again to make sure.  This second guy was all "Yes maam!"  I don't think he understood a word of what I was saying, but when I asked him if my accounts were indeed linked, he replied with a cheery but vacuous "Yes maam!"  Alrighty then.  I guess I will wait to see if I have been wrongfully feed on my upcoming statement and them just take my lazy ass into the bank and bitch to the manager. 

People gripe about outsourcing all the time.  I don't necessarily agree with keeping all manufacturing jobs in the US.  This country is addicted to cheap Chinese and Malaysian goods.  The middle class could never afford to shop for US made merchandise even if the workers were paid minimum wage to make them.  And judging by all the cheap knockoffs of designer purses we saw on Canal street in NYC that were being sold in droves, the situation is just going to get worse for those in the goods producing industries.  But I have A BIG PROBLEM with the outsourcing of important call-center jobs, such as in banking and finance.  This is my MONEY we're talking about, and just like I DON'T GET HUNG UP ON, I DON'T LIKE MY MONEY MESSED WITH.  No matter how many times the agent asks me if there's anything else he can be doing to be helping me on this fine day, I just don't quite believe he has helped me at all.  I have an idea to improve customer service in these important industries, that if taken up on, would bring all those jobs back to our shores, pronto.  Big Banker CEO dude, listen up, consumer talking to you.  Instead of "managing your portfolio online" or "having your administrative assistant (or "admin" as it's shortened to now) take care of it for you", do yourself a favor.  Call your own damn call center with an important question.  Write down the answer and then call it again.  See if the second person gives you the same answer.  I'll bet you your ergonomic desk chair that they don't.  Try it for a third time just for kicks. Three's the charm....usually, but I'll betcha not in this instance.  I'll be taking your marbled desk, too.  And your admin.

On The First Day

So...this is my first blog.  Weblog, to be precise, but in this hyper energy world, we have to shorten everything to at least one syllable...hence "blog".  I have been inspired to write this by my aunt who has handsomely chronicled the interesting happenings in her life with discipline every Friday.  I doubt I will have such regularity in posting, so if I ever get a following they will have to wait with baited breath for my golden words to drip all over their screens. Ha!

The specific reason for this particular post is to not usurp my aunt's current blog with my own spin, but twirl around in my own personal environment, bringing to birth My Own Damn Blog. Without further ado, here is important information. http://casamurphy.blogspot.com/2011/01/sandpaper.html go ahead and read it now before going any further. Really.  You need to.

Allrighty then.  If you haven't got it yet, I am the baby of my Aunt's blog. This is not a pity party.  If you want to feel sorry for someone, go find someone pitiful, I 'aint yer gal.

I blithely went to live with my adopted family.  My new parents were good about making me aware that I was adopted.  It was never a stigma, there were many other adopted kids in school with me.  My new mom (let's call her Fay, for kicks) told me a few things that I have no memory of.  When they picked me up from the adoption place, my hair was long and curled with ribbons, to make me look more attractive, I guess.  Fay immediately had my hair cut to look like the Pennsylvania Dutch Boy, and asexual.  Her reasoning was that she was going to have to deal with more important stuff than doing my hair everyday.  (I grew my hair down to my butt in my late 30's, she hated it.)  She also told me that when they first brought me to our new home, I said "Ooooh!" at the first sight of each room.  They had had the place designed by an interior decorator of the day and I guess seeing shiny purple satin and red velvet plush wallpaper was cool to a two and a half year old.  In fact I never questioned my mother's design choices until much later when I brought a snobby friend home to visit and she told me my parent's bedroom looked like a bordello.

My new parents also told me that when they came to the adoption place to see the selection, I was the only one there.  The coiffed adoption lady came up to me and said "These people are your new mommy and daddy." Whatever. I think I was more interested in the new toys in the playroom to give a rat's ass. So much for freedom of choice.  I've come to the conclusion that the adoption people were very pushy.

This is what I do remember about adoption day...We had a picnic on the grounds.  I don't remember what I ate, but it was tasty.  I remember there was a fountain with a couple of kids under a big umbrella.  They stood over a pond with real fish in it.  My new dad held me up to see the fishies.

Flash backwards: Other memories, shady but still there.  A dark place where I was hollering; for someone to hold me, because I was wet, I was hungry, I was scared.  Then, a brighter place with a new crib, an awesome toy closet and psychedelic green grass outside.  A lot of external hollering sometimes, but I was too into whatever plaything to care.  A reddish roof.

Flash forwards again: If you're tired of flashing, put your clothes on and stop acting stupid.

There was an ubiquitous letter in the adoption papers my parents gave to me when I was around 12 giving some very "general" explanation of why the adoption happened and basic heights and weights, etc. I knew damn well that there was way more to it, and planned to find out once I reached my maturity. Don't forget, back in 1966 people just didn't talk about those "nasty little details". (And I guess they also made shit up to make themselves feel better) Never had a friggin "Kiddie pool" either! Me and my friends had to sneak into the nearest Ramada Inn to enjoy those chlorinated waters.

My birth father Barry contacted me about 2 yrs after I reunited with my birth mother, Sheri. A mutual friend had told him that I had been found and he called me. Our daughter Marlene was still a baby, we met him and his wife at the Biltmore Hotel downtown. He and I still talk and he came up here once to see me in a play. He's a great guy, takes good care of himself, loves to work (satellite engineer) and still fabulously good looking. He looked like Richard Geere when he was young.

But now we get to the thing that pees me off the most...I don't care who you are or what fabulous family you get adopted into. There are still emotional scars. You may not realise it as a child, but when you hit adolescence it comes out swingin'. I love my adoptive parents very much, miss them alot, grateful for what I have, and what they did for me. In the cosmic scheme I'm sure it was meant to be. But I could have stayed in the birth family and not have been a bother to my grandmother. My father's family had offered to raise me, but grandma would have nothing of it. And they seemed a very together unit to me. They had "family circles" every weekend and were very close. My grandma on Barry's side is 99 and still doing relatively well. So, there's a wee bit of resentment on my part that I was booted out for vanity's sake.

Oh yeah, the wedding should be very interesting...