As I grow older, I realize just how foolish I was in my earlier years. I remember being 15 and thinking I knew everything. My parents, especially my mother, were so retarded. They didn't understand anything that I was experiencing.
By the time I was 18, I was ready to take on the world. I was an ADULT after all, and a registered voter. The world was mine for the taking. Then came college. That meant freedom. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I had no rules but my own. If I wanted to stay out all night, I could. If I wanted to consume many, many beers, I could. If I wanted to run around with "bad boys," I could. Then Chemistry 103.
Dr. Glanville, the needle to pop my fantasy bubble, loved "common knowledge" questions. These were questions that showed up on exams that were never discussed in lecture nor mentioned in the text. As the name implies, they were simply common knowledge. Everyone should know what acetylsalicyclic acid is. Apparently, I didn't know as much as I thought I did because I had no idea what the scientific name for aspirin is. The elemental make-up of the inside of the Alaskan Pipeline, even after all these years has evaded my common knowledge. As a result of my ignorance and inability to absorb chemistry, the 36% cumulative grade prior to the final exam slapped me in my honor roll face.
During college, all five years of it, I learned a bit more about life and the consequences of my actions. I began to realize that maybe I didn't know everything there was to know. The year after I graduated from college was a tremendous learning experience. With degree in hand and my whole life ahead of me, I packed my truck and drove across the United States. I ended up smack in the middle of Seattle, Washington and the height of the grunge scene. It was very cool.
Although I arrived in Seattle knowing not a soul, I did have a name and a phone number of a friend of a friend. Unfortunately, he was out of town when I rolled into town. I spent the first three days in a crappy hotel called "Candy Land." Before you ask, yes there were candy canes along the pathways and two giant ones crisscrossing right in front of the office door.
I could go on and on about the adventures enjoyed while in Seattle. Like the time some crazed home owner pulled out the shotgun, or the time when the crazy woman came into the bookstore where I worked, or the man who wanted to pay me $1000 to perform frottage, or the trip to Crater Lake, or the trip to Mt. Saint Helens, or, or, or. There were so many.
The point is that while living in Seattle in a mouse infested apartment, I learned that I wasn't the reason the sun rises and sets each day. I learned what it is really like to be broke and hungry.
After the best year of my life, I returned to Virginia and worked for the GOVERNMENT. I accepted a position as a Probation and Parole Officer. There are some crazy stories associated with that chapter of my life. Trust me when I say there are some very bad people in the world and sometimes ignorance is best.
During my power days, I was privy to the lives of some very unfortunate people. I saw how they lived every day. Some folks live and work in harsh environments. Life isn't always pretty. Sometimes life kicks you when you are down and then spits on you for good measure. There was this one fellow......but that's for another time.
Then the practice marriage, a cancer scare, three moves, a death and another death, a birth and a new man. He, the most wonderful man on the planet, my husband, came with two children and all the baggage associated with an ex-wife and an ugly divorce. Then, another health scare, a wedding, another move, and another move, and another move to a foreign country, a deployment, another health scare, another move and another deployment. Basically, life happened.
All of this life complete with the Wednesday night at 10:00 p.m. surprises that blindside you (My sister and I call them God's Pop Quizzes) resulted in the person I am today. Actually, I feel pretty good about myself (except for all the adipose tissue "FAT" building up on my body) and am enjoying life for what it is. I try not to take everything so seriously and have embraced the ability to life at certain situations where several years ago, I would have become angry.
The other day, I was sitting with a small group of twenty-something women. They were full of vigor and that I-Know-Everything-And-You-Can't-Tell-Me-What-To-Do attitude. Ah, I remember it fondly. I just sat there and smiled at them, laughing to myself. Oh, how little they know. There's just no reasoning with that mindset.
Then, I started thinking. Here I am at thirty-something and looking at these twenty-somethings and knowing they don't have a clue. I wonder, do forty-somethings look at me and think the same thing? I came to the conclusion that certainly they must. And with that, a burst of understanding, an epiphany, I am so looking forward to getting older. I want to come as close to self-acceptance as I can get. I want to be able to relax and enjoy the simply things in life. I want to appreciate all that I have taken for granted. I want to not worry so much about what people think. To me, it seems all those things come after time. I used to have negative connotations associated with aging, but not anymore. I think it will be wonderful.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Have a Nice Trip. See You Next Fall.
The most wonderful man in the world called me last night. As my husband has been moved forward (to Kuwait) he has been unable to use the computer or a telephone as regularly as he had while in Iraq. Not being able to open my email and see a message from my husband nearly every day is quite deflating. But not nearly as deflating as the one-two punch he delivered last night.
Not only will he not be coming home this week as anticipated, he just might be delayed longer than the previously thought latest date. POOH! I guess it's my own fault. I had gotten my hopes up.
Over this past weekend with anticipation of his immanent arrival, I washed all the blankets and sheets. I did laundry for two full days. My house is clean, clean, clean. When he came home for R&R back in October, one of the first things he did was check the inside of the refrigerator. Unfortunately, I hadn't been as diligent about the refrigerator shelves or drawers as he would have liked. So, this past weekend, I made sure to wash out the drawers. It's a good thing, too. Did you know that old lettuce becomes stronger than plaster when refrigerated for three months? And epoxy-glue has nothing on month old, dried on fruit juice.
My Superman also has this thing about ice cubes. He needs lots of them on hand. As ice is really no big deal to me, I have let the ice tray empty. That is something I cannot have my husband see after all this time in the desert. Making Ice was added to my son's task list.
I wanted everything just right for my husband. Nothing was going to side-track me. Unfortunately, something did. While carrying a giant load of laundry downstairs, I took a tumble. No, I wasn't barefoot nor was I wearing slippery socks. I had on rubber soled boots. But, there I was slip sliding down a spiral set of concrete stairs.
Ever heard Eddie Murphy talk about his Aunt Bunny? In his skit, he tells how she tries to brace herself as she takes a tumble down the stairs. Lots of wailing, "Oh, Lord, please help me!!" That poor woman. I know exactly how she felt.
On my way down, somehow my right leg twisted behind me and my heel whacked me on the head. The inside of my knee hit every stair. The rail did nothing to stop my fall. I think it added to the number of bruises on my body. I crash landed at the bottom of the steps (on the concrete basement floor) and just knew my leg was broken.
"OW! OW! OW! OW!" was all I could say for several minutes. Perhaps my children would rush to my aid. NO. Perhaps my faithful and loyal dogs would investigate the tremendous clatter. NO. I sat there, alone in my agony. I could barely move. Then, my stomach joined the act. I thought I would vomit. That's when I just knew I was in serious trouble. I was afraid to try to get up.
Eventually, I did. Amazingly, nothing was broken, but I sure was bent. It's been four days now, and I'm still having troubles walking. It's now to the point where it hurts to move after I've been stationary for a bit.
Thank goodness I didn't really brake my leg. It would have been a royal pain in the buttocks to have a full-leg cast and crutches hobbling around. Can you see me trying to walk three terriers on crutches? What a sight that would be.
Not only will he not be coming home this week as anticipated, he just might be delayed longer than the previously thought latest date. POOH! I guess it's my own fault. I had gotten my hopes up.
Over this past weekend with anticipation of his immanent arrival, I washed all the blankets and sheets. I did laundry for two full days. My house is clean, clean, clean. When he came home for R&R back in October, one of the first things he did was check the inside of the refrigerator. Unfortunately, I hadn't been as diligent about the refrigerator shelves or drawers as he would have liked. So, this past weekend, I made sure to wash out the drawers. It's a good thing, too. Did you know that old lettuce becomes stronger than plaster when refrigerated for three months? And epoxy-glue has nothing on month old, dried on fruit juice.
My Superman also has this thing about ice cubes. He needs lots of them on hand. As ice is really no big deal to me, I have let the ice tray empty. That is something I cannot have my husband see after all this time in the desert. Making Ice was added to my son's task list.
I wanted everything just right for my husband. Nothing was going to side-track me. Unfortunately, something did. While carrying a giant load of laundry downstairs, I took a tumble. No, I wasn't barefoot nor was I wearing slippery socks. I had on rubber soled boots. But, there I was slip sliding down a spiral set of concrete stairs.
Ever heard Eddie Murphy talk about his Aunt Bunny? In his skit, he tells how she tries to brace herself as she takes a tumble down the stairs. Lots of wailing, "Oh, Lord, please help me!!" That poor woman. I know exactly how she felt.
On my way down, somehow my right leg twisted behind me and my heel whacked me on the head. The inside of my knee hit every stair. The rail did nothing to stop my fall. I think it added to the number of bruises on my body. I crash landed at the bottom of the steps (on the concrete basement floor) and just knew my leg was broken.
"OW! OW! OW! OW!" was all I could say for several minutes. Perhaps my children would rush to my aid. NO. Perhaps my faithful and loyal dogs would investigate the tremendous clatter. NO. I sat there, alone in my agony. I could barely move. Then, my stomach joined the act. I thought I would vomit. That's when I just knew I was in serious trouble. I was afraid to try to get up.
Eventually, I did. Amazingly, nothing was broken, but I sure was bent. It's been four days now, and I'm still having troubles walking. It's now to the point where it hurts to move after I've been stationary for a bit.
Thank goodness I didn't really brake my leg. It would have been a royal pain in the buttocks to have a full-leg cast and crutches hobbling around. Can you see me trying to walk three terriers on crutches? What a sight that would be.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
What Really Matters?
Number one on my list "Things I Must Do Before I Die" is go on safari and see wildebeest in their natural habitat. As far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to go to the Serengeti, Masai Mara and Ngorogoro Crater. Thinking about Kenya and Tanzania brings a calm serenity to my heart. It would be a dream come true to be able to go. Being that I now live in Germany, Africa is that much closer.
I looked into the cost of a few safaris. There are several to Kenya, several to Tanzania, several to South Africa. Usually though, there were limitations to one country or another. I had faith that before our tour in Germany ended, the safari of a lifetime would reveal itself to me.
Because I want this to happen, I was motivated to find a job that would ease the expense of the trip. It has taken me three years of substitute teaching to finally save up enough money for my husband, the most wonderful man in the whole wide world and me to Africa. That's three years one year of substituting at a high school and two years in elementary school. One year of adolescent attitude and two years of small children with glue and glitter. I have even spent several days with the pre-K group. I like to call them "pee-pee pants" because that sometimes happens during nap time. In addition to substitute teaching, I worked for Installation Access Control making sure soldiers and their families as well as authorized visitors had the proper identification to be allowed onto post. I did all of this not because I had to, for I am lucky enough to be supported by a fabulous husband. I did it because I wanted to earn the travel money myself. I didn't want my husband or my family to go without for my life-long dream.
Africa...Africa...Africa...
Recently, I came across THE SAFARI. It is exactly the safari I have always wanted. It covers both Kenya and Tanzania and includes the three places I want to see before I die; Serengeti, Masai Mara, and Ngorogoro Crater. The price was just right. I even went so far as to run out and get vaccinated for Typhoid and hepatitis A. I still need Yellow Fever and Malaria. I even put aside extra money to pay for the individual visas needed to enter each country. This is it. This is AFRICA.
Now....while all of this is happening, my wonderful husband has been suffering with probably the worst case of hemorrhoids of all time. He has agonized in his private hell for as long as I have known him, usually silently. On occasion when the flare up is particularly severe, he casually mentions his discomfort to me. His being in Iraq under stress and existing on a diet of MREs and mess hall food hasn't help his situation much.
His R&R time could have been more relaxing, but his hiney hole wouldn't let up. Instead of hanging out at home or receiving a massage at the local spa, my husband was in a doctors office bent over an exam table. When the doctor saw the extent of my husband's reason for scheduling the appointment, he exclaimed, "Holy Smokes! No wonder you are uncomfortable!"
The doctor advised my husband to immediately schedule an appointment for surgery and rectify the problem. My husband's only question was, "Can I be well enough recovered to go back to Iraq in a week?"
The doctor shook his head. To which my amazing husband responded, "Well then, I'll have to wait until I come back in the spring." That's a man. He chose to return to Iraq and continue the good fight even though he could have had the surgery to save his hiney hole from falling off delaying his return by 10 days at most.
So now, time for his return draws near. The returning soldiers are allotted a brief period of time to re-integrate back into the community before being allowed to take leave. The clock starts ticking when they physically return to Schweinfurt. This is all good, but for those returning later than the main body, their time gets pinched in the end. Everybody has to be back to work by mid-April.
My husband, the most wonderful man ever, my reason for waking up each day, is one of those late arrivals. Because he has been so miserable for so long, I have scheduled a follow-up doctor's appointment to have his hiney hole fixed once and for all.
The re-integration time period is mandatory. The doctor's only do surgery on Mondays and Wednesdays. He needs a bare minimum of two weeks of recovery time. Even if my husband were to get into surgery on the very first available Monday, the timing cuts it too close. I am just unwilling to take my husband to Africa with his hiney hole out of wack.
I explained the time line to him and he gallantly offered to postpone the surgery until after Africa. He has waited for so long. There is no way I am going to make him wait one second longer than necessary.
The safari will not be happening this spring.
To my absolute amazement, this isn't as disappointing as I might have thought. I love my husband so much, much more than I ever could have imagined loving another person, that canceling a trip of a lifetime in a minor set back. It pales in comparison to postponing a surgery that will alleviate his pain.
People claim that you know you love someone when their happiness means the world to you. I never experienced the extent that feeling until I cancelled my dream safari. I just wish everyone could know the feeling of true love.
I looked into the cost of a few safaris. There are several to Kenya, several to Tanzania, several to South Africa. Usually though, there were limitations to one country or another. I had faith that before our tour in Germany ended, the safari of a lifetime would reveal itself to me.
Because I want this to happen, I was motivated to find a job that would ease the expense of the trip. It has taken me three years of substitute teaching to finally save up enough money for my husband, the most wonderful man in the whole wide world and me to Africa. That's three years one year of substituting at a high school and two years in elementary school. One year of adolescent attitude and two years of small children with glue and glitter. I have even spent several days with the pre-K group. I like to call them "pee-pee pants" because that sometimes happens during nap time. In addition to substitute teaching, I worked for Installation Access Control making sure soldiers and their families as well as authorized visitors had the proper identification to be allowed onto post. I did all of this not because I had to, for I am lucky enough to be supported by a fabulous husband. I did it because I wanted to earn the travel money myself. I didn't want my husband or my family to go without for my life-long dream.
Africa...Africa...Africa...
Recently, I came across THE SAFARI. It is exactly the safari I have always wanted. It covers both Kenya and Tanzania and includes the three places I want to see before I die; Serengeti, Masai Mara, and Ngorogoro Crater. The price was just right. I even went so far as to run out and get vaccinated for Typhoid and hepatitis A. I still need Yellow Fever and Malaria. I even put aside extra money to pay for the individual visas needed to enter each country. This is it. This is AFRICA.
Now....while all of this is happening, my wonderful husband has been suffering with probably the worst case of hemorrhoids of all time. He has agonized in his private hell for as long as I have known him, usually silently. On occasion when the flare up is particularly severe, he casually mentions his discomfort to me. His being in Iraq under stress and existing on a diet of MREs and mess hall food hasn't help his situation much.
His R&R time could have been more relaxing, but his hiney hole wouldn't let up. Instead of hanging out at home or receiving a massage at the local spa, my husband was in a doctors office bent over an exam table. When the doctor saw the extent of my husband's reason for scheduling the appointment, he exclaimed, "Holy Smokes! No wonder you are uncomfortable!"
The doctor advised my husband to immediately schedule an appointment for surgery and rectify the problem. My husband's only question was, "Can I be well enough recovered to go back to Iraq in a week?"
The doctor shook his head. To which my amazing husband responded, "Well then, I'll have to wait until I come back in the spring." That's a man. He chose to return to Iraq and continue the good fight even though he could have had the surgery to save his hiney hole from falling off delaying his return by 10 days at most.
So now, time for his return draws near. The returning soldiers are allotted a brief period of time to re-integrate back into the community before being allowed to take leave. The clock starts ticking when they physically return to Schweinfurt. This is all good, but for those returning later than the main body, their time gets pinched in the end. Everybody has to be back to work by mid-April.
My husband, the most wonderful man ever, my reason for waking up each day, is one of those late arrivals. Because he has been so miserable for so long, I have scheduled a follow-up doctor's appointment to have his hiney hole fixed once and for all.
The re-integration time period is mandatory. The doctor's only do surgery on Mondays and Wednesdays. He needs a bare minimum of two weeks of recovery time. Even if my husband were to get into surgery on the very first available Monday, the timing cuts it too close. I am just unwilling to take my husband to Africa with his hiney hole out of wack.
I explained the time line to him and he gallantly offered to postpone the surgery until after Africa. He has waited for so long. There is no way I am going to make him wait one second longer than necessary.
The safari will not be happening this spring.
To my absolute amazement, this isn't as disappointing as I might have thought. I love my husband so much, much more than I ever could have imagined loving another person, that canceling a trip of a lifetime in a minor set back. It pales in comparison to postponing a surgery that will alleviate his pain.
People claim that you know you love someone when their happiness means the world to you. I never experienced the extent that feeling until I cancelled my dream safari. I just wish everyone could know the feeling of true love.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
When's the Next Bus?
Over the past few days many, many soldiers have returned to our little community. They are weary, tired and very appreciative of Welcome Home hugs. I have made it a point to be available for Welcome Home ceremonies as the buses pull into town. For the most part, the buses are arriving on a three or four hour schedule. The Welcome Home ceremony lasts about 3 minutes. So, the huggers (folks like me who are there for support and not because our husbands are scheduled to arrive on that particular bus) wait and wait. But the waiting is worth it. Each soldier I hug and whisper "welcome home, I'm so glad you're back" into his ear, brings me one soldier closer to holding my husband. Besides, most of the soldiers I actually hug are young, single men who have no family waiting at the ceremony for them. They need a show of appreciation too and I'm glad to do it.
I am delighted to see them line up in formation and march into the building. They stand at attention, at ease, and then are dismissed. Pandemonium of hugs and kisses and tears of joy commence at the command "Dismissed". It really is a sight to see. Pride and love fill the room and I am thrilled to be a part of it. Even if it means sneaking cat naps throughout the night, at most getting three hours of sleep before the next bus arrives, I'm grateful. Although I haven't known any of the soldiers personally, I love each and every one of them. They are my family and just having them back feels good.
I am delighted to see them line up in formation and march into the building. They stand at attention, at ease, and then are dismissed. Pandemonium of hugs and kisses and tears of joy commence at the command "Dismissed". It really is a sight to see. Pride and love fill the room and I am thrilled to be a part of it. Even if it means sneaking cat naps throughout the night, at most getting three hours of sleep before the next bus arrives, I'm grateful. Although I haven't known any of the soldiers personally, I love each and every one of them. They are my family and just having them back feels good.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Hey, What About My Backyard?
Being that I live in Germany, I am limited to the television programming provided by American Forces Network (AFN). There is a broadcasting agreement between AFN and our host nation which does not allow for regular commercials to be shown. Instead, we get informative commercials, things like the history of our states and capitals and the growth and development of the United States. Although it is rare, sometimes a program with regular commercials slips through. Today was one of those days. While watching 20/20 (the use of video cameras in all facets of our society), I saw commercials other than the informative kind. Crayola, a financial investment company and several agencies wishing contribution for Tsunami relief.
Tsunami relief? Celebrities and assorted do-gooders have joined forces to solicit donations to help the survivors of the Tsunami that impacted Indonesia and other countries on the other side of the world. Makes me wonder. What agencies were developed and what celebrities banded together to support a campaign to collect money to aid those Americans impacted by the hurricane which wrecked Pensacola, Florida? That natural disaster left many people without homes and power and yet I did not see any humanitarian welfare agencies sponsor a concert to benefit those families. Perhaps, there were and me being in Germany kept me isolated from those efforts.
It just seems to me that other countries expect the United States to provide financial aid for every ailment under the sun. I don't recall Indonesia, any African country or southwest Asian country providing any funds to support the rebuilding of the California homes destroyed in mudslides. Those folks in Florida sure could have used an extra twenty bucks in the wake of their hurricane. Let's not forget the thousands of acres and homes and schedules disrupted by the fires that swept over Colorado and California. Although I don't have much sympathy for folks living in trailer parks in Kansas, Nebraska or Oklahoma (they're just asking to get blown away by tornadoes), I don't see any foreign nations rushing to their aid. How many euros have been contributed to the prevention of homelessness by France?
Let's talk about the fleecing done by Germany. The Army posts in Germany contribute to the local economy. Not only do Americans spend money in shops, restaurants, nightclubs and taxi-cabs, but also employ many, many German nationals. Military posts are provided with additional security (especially during deployments) by private security companies. Those companies bill the US government to pay for the guards monitoring the installations. Talk about getting fat off the backs of others. Germany bills the US at a rate double what the guard really earns. For example, the security company receives 20 euro an hour for a guard who is paid 10 euro an hour, of which 41% is taxed by the German government. Additionally, under the Standard of Forces Agreement (SOFA) employment opportunities which could be filled by American spouses and other dependents, are offered to local nationals. Certain positions are required to be filled by a German national. Being a military dependent precludes access to employment opportunities. Funny how that's against Equal Opportunity Employment rules in the United States.
It just seems to me that everyone wants American money and American help, but don't want to give or help in return. That is pretty crappy. Just consider how the local economy of towns nearby to military posts would be impacted if the US military decided to leave. Germany didn't want anything to do with Iraq and let's not forget about France. How bad would the euro suffer if there were no dollars being spent in Germany, Belgium, Italy, or France? Europe sure has embraced McDonald's and Disney.
Imagine the reaction by the UN if President Bush stood up one day and said, "Okay gentlemen, the United States is withdrawing all support from Europe and Asia. Effective immediately, Korea is on its own. No American help will be provided to Afghanistan. Former Eastern Block countries, you will have to solve your own problems. As a matter of fact, the borders of the United States of America are closed to all immigration. Effective immediately all American dollars currently being provided by our government will be stopped. All of those dollars will now be spent own within our own borders. We have enough problems at home that we don't need to sort out yours. Good luck to you and goodbye."
Personally, I'm tired of being taken advantage of. I'm tired of having to defend my nationality. I'm tired of being a dirty, rich capitalist American. Relationships should be give and take. I'm tired of my country always giving and everyone else taking.
Tsunami relief? Celebrities and assorted do-gooders have joined forces to solicit donations to help the survivors of the Tsunami that impacted Indonesia and other countries on the other side of the world. Makes me wonder. What agencies were developed and what celebrities banded together to support a campaign to collect money to aid those Americans impacted by the hurricane which wrecked Pensacola, Florida? That natural disaster left many people without homes and power and yet I did not see any humanitarian welfare agencies sponsor a concert to benefit those families. Perhaps, there were and me being in Germany kept me isolated from those efforts.
It just seems to me that other countries expect the United States to provide financial aid for every ailment under the sun. I don't recall Indonesia, any African country or southwest Asian country providing any funds to support the rebuilding of the California homes destroyed in mudslides. Those folks in Florida sure could have used an extra twenty bucks in the wake of their hurricane. Let's not forget the thousands of acres and homes and schedules disrupted by the fires that swept over Colorado and California. Although I don't have much sympathy for folks living in trailer parks in Kansas, Nebraska or Oklahoma (they're just asking to get blown away by tornadoes), I don't see any foreign nations rushing to their aid. How many euros have been contributed to the prevention of homelessness by France?
Let's talk about the fleecing done by Germany. The Army posts in Germany contribute to the local economy. Not only do Americans spend money in shops, restaurants, nightclubs and taxi-cabs, but also employ many, many German nationals. Military posts are provided with additional security (especially during deployments) by private security companies. Those companies bill the US government to pay for the guards monitoring the installations. Talk about getting fat off the backs of others. Germany bills the US at a rate double what the guard really earns. For example, the security company receives 20 euro an hour for a guard who is paid 10 euro an hour, of which 41% is taxed by the German government. Additionally, under the Standard of Forces Agreement (SOFA) employment opportunities which could be filled by American spouses and other dependents, are offered to local nationals. Certain positions are required to be filled by a German national. Being a military dependent precludes access to employment opportunities. Funny how that's against Equal Opportunity Employment rules in the United States.
It just seems to me that everyone wants American money and American help, but don't want to give or help in return. That is pretty crappy. Just consider how the local economy of towns nearby to military posts would be impacted if the US military decided to leave. Germany didn't want anything to do with Iraq and let's not forget about France. How bad would the euro suffer if there were no dollars being spent in Germany, Belgium, Italy, or France? Europe sure has embraced McDonald's and Disney.
Imagine the reaction by the UN if President Bush stood up one day and said, "Okay gentlemen, the United States is withdrawing all support from Europe and Asia. Effective immediately, Korea is on its own. No American help will be provided to Afghanistan. Former Eastern Block countries, you will have to solve your own problems. As a matter of fact, the borders of the United States of America are closed to all immigration. Effective immediately all American dollars currently being provided by our government will be stopped. All of those dollars will now be spent own within our own borders. We have enough problems at home that we don't need to sort out yours. Good luck to you and goodbye."
Personally, I'm tired of being taken advantage of. I'm tired of having to defend my nationality. I'm tired of being a dirty, rich capitalist American. Relationships should be give and take. I'm tired of my country always giving and everyone else taking.
Friday, January 28, 2005
On Behalf of the United States Army, We Regret To Inform You
My little community sent over 1/3 of its population to Iraq and many, many of those soldiers have either been wounded or killed. I have been extremely lucky in that I have only known one of those injured soldiers and better yet, I have not known any of the deceased soldiers. That's not to say that I don't know their friends and families. Each of the fallen has had an impact on our community, even the young 19 year old, single soldier with no wife or children. Although his biological family resides in the states, his Army family in Schweinfurt grieves tremendously. Without a doubt, his Army family remaining in Iraq and his extended Army family all over the world grieve at his passing.
By no means do I claim to be a close personal friend of the wounded soldier that I do know. I still know him. I have spoken with this man on several occasions. I know his wife. I know his son. I know the spouses of the soldiers who worked with him. I know friends and neighbors of the soldier and his family. This man and his family are part of my Army family and I grieve for them.
What hits even harder is that this man, this soldier is a nice person, a good man. He is a good soldier. Additionally, he is a physically impressive man. Big, masculine, gruff, macho, impervious, John Wayne type with the aura of indestructibleness. When he was wounded several months ago, the news was hard to take. His injuries were severe. A bullet ricocheted, entered his neck and did major damage to his mouth, throat, and neck. It was touch and go for awhile. Thankfully, he recovered.
Typical for so many soldiers, he wanted to go back to his men, his soldiers, his Army. He wanted to get back to Iraq. Once he recovered, although he did not have to return to Iraq, he went. Thoughts and prayers went with him.
Our little community was rocked this week. That same soldier, the one who had too close of a call, was hit again. An RPG found its target. He sustained severe injuries; head wound, open fracture to the hand and an open fracture to his leg. He survived, but lost his leg. His gunner sustained fatal injuries.
I can't even begin to entertain what his wife is going through. This is the second time her husband has escaped death. Even now, his prognosis is questionable.
He didn't have to go back. He could have stayed here in Germany. I suspect remaining in garrison, while the troops endured wasn't an option for him. Hopefully, he'll recover from these injuries and be able to return to active duty. He is a career soldier. The military seems to be working with amputees and allowing good soldiers to stay good soldiers.
I haven't yet categorized how I feel. I haven't yet come to terms with the emotional impact. I had lunch yesterday with a friend who knows the family. I had lunch today with a friend who's close with the family. The news is just so horrible that it doesn't seem real.
My heart aches for this soldier and his family and their friends.
What do you say to your friend whose husband nearly died a few months ago and now has nearly escaped death again, minus a limb?
By no means do I claim to be a close personal friend of the wounded soldier that I do know. I still know him. I have spoken with this man on several occasions. I know his wife. I know his son. I know the spouses of the soldiers who worked with him. I know friends and neighbors of the soldier and his family. This man and his family are part of my Army family and I grieve for them.
What hits even harder is that this man, this soldier is a nice person, a good man. He is a good soldier. Additionally, he is a physically impressive man. Big, masculine, gruff, macho, impervious, John Wayne type with the aura of indestructibleness. When he was wounded several months ago, the news was hard to take. His injuries were severe. A bullet ricocheted, entered his neck and did major damage to his mouth, throat, and neck. It was touch and go for awhile. Thankfully, he recovered.
Typical for so many soldiers, he wanted to go back to his men, his soldiers, his Army. He wanted to get back to Iraq. Once he recovered, although he did not have to return to Iraq, he went. Thoughts and prayers went with him.
Our little community was rocked this week. That same soldier, the one who had too close of a call, was hit again. An RPG found its target. He sustained severe injuries; head wound, open fracture to the hand and an open fracture to his leg. He survived, but lost his leg. His gunner sustained fatal injuries.
I can't even begin to entertain what his wife is going through. This is the second time her husband has escaped death. Even now, his prognosis is questionable.
He didn't have to go back. He could have stayed here in Germany. I suspect remaining in garrison, while the troops endured wasn't an option for him. Hopefully, he'll recover from these injuries and be able to return to active duty. He is a career soldier. The military seems to be working with amputees and allowing good soldiers to stay good soldiers.
I haven't yet categorized how I feel. I haven't yet come to terms with the emotional impact. I had lunch yesterday with a friend who knows the family. I had lunch today with a friend who's close with the family. The news is just so horrible that it doesn't seem real.
My heart aches for this soldier and his family and their friends.
What do you say to your friend whose husband nearly died a few months ago and now has nearly escaped death again, minus a limb?
Monday, January 24, 2005
Actually It's the Son Who Knows Best
My son, he'll be 18 in June, is currently unemployed. Why a physically capable young man isn't working is something I just can't understand. I have encouraged him to get a job. Granted, most available positions in our community are fast food places, but one does what one has to in order to earn some cash.
Well, recently a Help Wanted sign popped up at Subway. This is a wonderful opportunity. It's less than a 10 minute walk from where we live. My son could ride his bike there in less than 5 minutes. He'd be able to ride his bike on regular streets with street lights. His last summer job was a 15 minute bike ride on a back rough road with no lights whatsoever. At night, it's very dark. But this Subway job sounds perfect.
I guess -job- is the operative word because my son has yet to rush right over there and pick up an application. Keep in mind, he wants to go to Holland for three days. I have no objection to him going on a short trip with his friend, provided that he pay his own way. Yikes! That condition put a damper on the getaway weekend plans. The train ticket alone would cost him over $100. Then he'd have to spend money on lodging (even a rat-hole hotel costs money) and he'd need to eat something. Since Europe doesn't require it's citizens to wait until the age of 21 to consume alcohol, I am perfectly aware my son has intentions to drink many beers and other assorted spirits. That certainly would cost money too.
Since this weekend in question is this coming Friday, I inquired to the status of the plans. He has decided that the trip would cost too much money and he can't afford it right now.
Then I did the logical thing....I suggested he get a job. And, don't forget, Subway is hiring. There is that Help Wanted sign clearly posted for all to see. I have no doubt my son would be hired on the spot. Our little community is about to be inundated with over 4,500 soldiers in the next couple weeks. Those soldiers are going to be hungry and Subway is the place to go. We don't have much of a selection and with the euro to dollar exchange rate being as lousy as it is, there is even less of an affordable selection.
Apparently, what sounds reasonable to an adult sounds utterly ridiculous to a teenager. He looked at me as if I were purple with golden tassels swinging from my candy cane horns. Getting a job wouldn't make it any easier for him to take a trip because he would have to work. Oh, of course, getting a job means you actually have to go to work to earn that paycheck that allows you to be able to afford to take trips.
According to the son, he'll never be able to go on a weekend excursion. He has no money so he won't be able to afford it. He can't get a job because then he won't have the time to take a trip. I guess the ideal would be for him to get paid to enjoy his leisure time. Silly me for thinking otherwise.
It must be nice to live in ignorance.
Well, recently a Help Wanted sign popped up at Subway. This is a wonderful opportunity. It's less than a 10 minute walk from where we live. My son could ride his bike there in less than 5 minutes. He'd be able to ride his bike on regular streets with street lights. His last summer job was a 15 minute bike ride on a back rough road with no lights whatsoever. At night, it's very dark. But this Subway job sounds perfect.
I guess -job- is the operative word because my son has yet to rush right over there and pick up an application. Keep in mind, he wants to go to Holland for three days. I have no objection to him going on a short trip with his friend, provided that he pay his own way. Yikes! That condition put a damper on the getaway weekend plans. The train ticket alone would cost him over $100. Then he'd have to spend money on lodging (even a rat-hole hotel costs money) and he'd need to eat something. Since Europe doesn't require it's citizens to wait until the age of 21 to consume alcohol, I am perfectly aware my son has intentions to drink many beers and other assorted spirits. That certainly would cost money too.
Since this weekend in question is this coming Friday, I inquired to the status of the plans. He has decided that the trip would cost too much money and he can't afford it right now.
Then I did the logical thing....I suggested he get a job. And, don't forget, Subway is hiring. There is that Help Wanted sign clearly posted for all to see. I have no doubt my son would be hired on the spot. Our little community is about to be inundated with over 4,500 soldiers in the next couple weeks. Those soldiers are going to be hungry and Subway is the place to go. We don't have much of a selection and with the euro to dollar exchange rate being as lousy as it is, there is even less of an affordable selection.
Apparently, what sounds reasonable to an adult sounds utterly ridiculous to a teenager. He looked at me as if I were purple with golden tassels swinging from my candy cane horns. Getting a job wouldn't make it any easier for him to take a trip because he would have to work. Oh, of course, getting a job means you actually have to go to work to earn that paycheck that allows you to be able to afford to take trips.
According to the son, he'll never be able to go on a weekend excursion. He has no money so he won't be able to afford it. He can't get a job because then he won't have the time to take a trip. I guess the ideal would be for him to get paid to enjoy his leisure time. Silly me for thinking otherwise.
It must be nice to live in ignorance.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
The Beginning of the End
The year of Operation Iraqi Freedom II is rapidly coming to an end. Our little community is beginning to see advanced party redeployment of soldiers. We are also beginning to see spouses returning from the states. Now that the soldiers are scheduled to come, those folks who couldn't make it on there own are returning to their homes from having been being taken care of by relatives.
Our community is also seeing lots of pregnant women who weren't that way when their husbands left. That sure will make for an interesting Welcome Home surprise. But, it's not just the wives who have found love outside their marriages. Several wives have received "Dear John" letters from their soldier husbands downrange. It seems that some female soldiers have been keeping some male soldiers warm at night. I guess bunkers must get lonely.
Personally, the whole situation is mingboggling. Do these people really think that their marriages will be better off for having violated the sanctity and trust of a marriage? What's even more amazing to me is that they were tempted in the first place.
I love my most amazing husband more than anything. He was deployed in February 2003 for Operation Iraqi Freedom I. He redeployed long enough to pack up our household, move to another post and prepare to deploy again for Operation Iraqi Freedom II in February 2004. He's been gone for most of our three year tour.
And yet, everything I do, I do with him in mind. Okay, maybe not everything. When I'm scrambling eggs or picking up dog poop in the yard, I'm not thinking about him. I'm thinking this sucks and that goes for both cooking and picking up poop. But every television show I watch, every time I think about a new piece of lingerie, every time I sign onto the computer, every time I walk the dogs, every night when I go to bed, every time I change my sheets, every time I check my mail, every time I purchased a new pair of shoes, and every miserable minute I spend in the gym, I'm thinking about him. Not even for a split second have I ever had the notion to partake in extra-marital activities. How could a woman entertain the idea of a sexual liaison while her husband is dodging bullets and IEDs? If I try really, really, really hard, I maybe can see how a male soldier might be interested in a fling downrange, but to send a "Dear John" letter home. What's that? Throw away a marriage and betray the person you love because you were too weak a person to stand up with morals for a year. That's just too ridiculous.
Actually, considering soldiers were able to receive a minimum of 14 days for R&R, spouses didn't have to be separated for an entire year. I had to wait just over 8 months to visit with my most wonderful husband. Is eight months too long to wait for a life time of happiness? Apparently for some people it is. The bigger picture is 8 months within a 30 to 40 year marriage is a blink of an eye. Could a romp in a stranger's bed or a romp on a cot in a tent really be worth it? I don't think so.
Honey....I hope you are reading this..... :)
Our community is also seeing lots of pregnant women who weren't that way when their husbands left. That sure will make for an interesting Welcome Home surprise. But, it's not just the wives who have found love outside their marriages. Several wives have received "Dear John" letters from their soldier husbands downrange. It seems that some female soldiers have been keeping some male soldiers warm at night. I guess bunkers must get lonely.
Personally, the whole situation is mingboggling. Do these people really think that their marriages will be better off for having violated the sanctity and trust of a marriage? What's even more amazing to me is that they were tempted in the first place.
I love my most amazing husband more than anything. He was deployed in February 2003 for Operation Iraqi Freedom I. He redeployed long enough to pack up our household, move to another post and prepare to deploy again for Operation Iraqi Freedom II in February 2004. He's been gone for most of our three year tour.
And yet, everything I do, I do with him in mind. Okay, maybe not everything. When I'm scrambling eggs or picking up dog poop in the yard, I'm not thinking about him. I'm thinking this sucks and that goes for both cooking and picking up poop. But every television show I watch, every time I think about a new piece of lingerie, every time I sign onto the computer, every time I walk the dogs, every night when I go to bed, every time I change my sheets, every time I check my mail, every time I purchased a new pair of shoes, and every miserable minute I spend in the gym, I'm thinking about him. Not even for a split second have I ever had the notion to partake in extra-marital activities. How could a woman entertain the idea of a sexual liaison while her husband is dodging bullets and IEDs? If I try really, really, really hard, I maybe can see how a male soldier might be interested in a fling downrange, but to send a "Dear John" letter home. What's that? Throw away a marriage and betray the person you love because you were too weak a person to stand up with morals for a year. That's just too ridiculous.
Actually, considering soldiers were able to receive a minimum of 14 days for R&R, spouses didn't have to be separated for an entire year. I had to wait just over 8 months to visit with my most wonderful husband. Is eight months too long to wait for a life time of happiness? Apparently for some people it is. The bigger picture is 8 months within a 30 to 40 year marriage is a blink of an eye. Could a romp in a stranger's bed or a romp on a cot in a tent really be worth it? I don't think so.
Honey....I hope you are reading this..... :)
Saturday, January 15, 2005
How Much Is That wildebeest In The Window
My absence from my blog is easily explainable. I bought Zoo Tycoon last week and have been building zoos ever since. It's incredibly addicting. I started building a zoo at 8:00 pm and was up until 2:00 am. Not only did I dream about what kind of fencing I needed to keep giraffe from escaping, I dreamed about making sure my zoo visitors had enough drink stands and restrooms to keep them happy. Then, my brain went into overdrive and I woke up at 6:00 am and was wide awake and ready to build more zoos. I decided that I needed to accomplish something that day, so I went to the gym for a little over an hour. Once I returned home, I jumped into the shower and immediately went back to the computer for more zoo exhibit building. I didn't even dry my hair. Not only that, but I also ignored the hunger pains. I told myself I'd get something to eat after one more exhibit was productive. I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 11:30 am. I had been building since 8:00 that morning. The next time I looked at the clock, it was 3:00 pm. Okay, just one more attraction, then I'll stop. My kid came home from school and I finally got off of the computer around 4:00 pm because I had a meeting to attend. If that's not obsessive behavior, I don't know what is. I will say that playing Zoo Tycoon has given me a new appreciation for zoo admission fees. I have yet to build a zoo where I can actually get into the black. Even starting with a half a million dollars, my zoos operate in the red. That's with charging $32.75 per adult and $6.00 for a hamburger. Never again will I complain about how much a day at the zoo costs. I'll be happy to drop $7.50 on a soda and $9.75 for a hotdog. Of course fries are $8.50. They need to be. It's all good.
I've been able to limit my crack-like zoo addiction somewhat. I make sure I get all of my household chores completed before firing up the D drive. Even so, I have talked myself into putting off grooming my dogs. The poor things were looking way too fuzzy. Rag-a-muffins, definitely. So, I broke down and shaved them today. And wouldn't you know, the temperature must have dropped 20 degrees since yesterday. Their little naked bottoms must be freezing. They sure get to their business quickly, though. No dilly-dallying. Pee pee and come back inside. Momma didn't raise no fools.
Anyway, between the Mahjong Towers II and the Zoo Tycoon, I haven't really done much since my last posting. Well, I take that back, I spent one whole afternoon in the Passport office. That was a nightmare. To live in a foreign country as a dependent of the military, one has to have a SOFA stamp in their no-fee passport. SOFA is not a comfortable couch. It's a Status of Forces Agreement stamp. That means we fall under a different category of long-term resident status. Some how when we ordered our passports (mine and our children's), the government neglected to stamp my passport, but stamped our children's. So, two years ago, when we first arrived in Germany, I went to the passport office and patiently suffered through the bureaucratic red tape and got a SOFA stamp. Well, sometime over the last two years, the regulations have changed and the paper SOFA stamp that was previously issued is no longer valid. It must be replaced by a new SOFA stamp.
So, off to the passport office. Unfortunately, that portion of the office doesn't open until 1300 hours (1:00 pm). The ID card portion opens at 0800. Luckily, when I do work, I sometimes fill in for the woman who works in the office next door to the ID card section. The women who work in that office know me and made an exception for me. They allowed me to sign the Sign In sheet several hours early. Technically, they aren't even supposed to put that sheet out until 1130. I was #2 on the list and they told me to come back no later than 1300. No problem.
Wrong, problem. Apparently, that list went missing. There were at least 15 people in the waiting room all claiming they had signed the list prior to the first person on the new list, who signed in at 1215. Pandemonium. Folks were not happy. I really did try to keep my patience. It lasted longer than it would have had I been a regular person and not a colleague. I finally received my SOFA stamp around 1500 (3:00). Definitely, the passport office is not run like a tight ship. That ship is so full of holes that even the rats have abandoned it.
And the new SOFA stamp? The one so important that it had to replace the old SOFA stamp. The only difference I can tell is that the new stamp is on a green piece of paper and is laminated. No wonder people roll their eyes and groan when they have to deal with government agencies.
By the way, the January edition of True Story is available at your local news stand. It's merely a suggestion that you run out an pick up a copy. Be sure to check out the editor's comments about the "Army Wife's Marriage Guide, Military Style". Since I wrote it and was paid for it, I think I've earned bragging rights.
----Scully, thanks for the kick in the pants to get busy and write something. I'm so glad you're watching out for me. ---
----Dead, you are correct in the used to. Perhaps, after I sell a few more manuscripts, you could become my editor. What is it that you do for a living, anyway? ---
I've been able to limit my crack-like zoo addiction somewhat. I make sure I get all of my household chores completed before firing up the D drive. Even so, I have talked myself into putting off grooming my dogs. The poor things were looking way too fuzzy. Rag-a-muffins, definitely. So, I broke down and shaved them today. And wouldn't you know, the temperature must have dropped 20 degrees since yesterday. Their little naked bottoms must be freezing. They sure get to their business quickly, though. No dilly-dallying. Pee pee and come back inside. Momma didn't raise no fools.
Anyway, between the Mahjong Towers II and the Zoo Tycoon, I haven't really done much since my last posting. Well, I take that back, I spent one whole afternoon in the Passport office. That was a nightmare. To live in a foreign country as a dependent of the military, one has to have a SOFA stamp in their no-fee passport. SOFA is not a comfortable couch. It's a Status of Forces Agreement stamp. That means we fall under a different category of long-term resident status. Some how when we ordered our passports (mine and our children's), the government neglected to stamp my passport, but stamped our children's. So, two years ago, when we first arrived in Germany, I went to the passport office and patiently suffered through the bureaucratic red tape and got a SOFA stamp. Well, sometime over the last two years, the regulations have changed and the paper SOFA stamp that was previously issued is no longer valid. It must be replaced by a new SOFA stamp.
So, off to the passport office. Unfortunately, that portion of the office doesn't open until 1300 hours (1:00 pm). The ID card portion opens at 0800. Luckily, when I do work, I sometimes fill in for the woman who works in the office next door to the ID card section. The women who work in that office know me and made an exception for me. They allowed me to sign the Sign In sheet several hours early. Technically, they aren't even supposed to put that sheet out until 1130. I was #2 on the list and they told me to come back no later than 1300. No problem.
Wrong, problem. Apparently, that list went missing. There were at least 15 people in the waiting room all claiming they had signed the list prior to the first person on the new list, who signed in at 1215. Pandemonium. Folks were not happy. I really did try to keep my patience. It lasted longer than it would have had I been a regular person and not a colleague. I finally received my SOFA stamp around 1500 (3:00). Definitely, the passport office is not run like a tight ship. That ship is so full of holes that even the rats have abandoned it.
And the new SOFA stamp? The one so important that it had to replace the old SOFA stamp. The only difference I can tell is that the new stamp is on a green piece of paper and is laminated. No wonder people roll their eyes and groan when they have to deal with government agencies.
By the way, the January edition of True Story is available at your local news stand. It's merely a suggestion that you run out an pick up a copy. Be sure to check out the editor's comments about the "Army Wife's Marriage Guide, Military Style". Since I wrote it and was paid for it, I think I've earned bragging rights.
----Scully, thanks for the kick in the pants to get busy and write something. I'm so glad you're watching out for me. ---
----Dead, you are correct in the used to. Perhaps, after I sell a few more manuscripts, you could become my editor. What is it that you do for a living, anyway? ---
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Subjunctive Guessing
After failing Chemistry and Statistics, I had to re-evaluate my scholastic choices. I had considered English, but a semester of Chaucer and a semester of Shakespeare did nothing to stimulate my interest. Instead, I opted for Sociology, just one step above Liberal Arts in the now-you-are-qualified-to-wait-tables category of higher education.
In spite of this decision, I have still maintained my love for grammar and sentence construction. Spelling is not among my strengths. Thank goodness for SpellChecker, even though it doesn't always work. Inasmuch, when I see blatant grammatical errors, I shake my head and give into the temptation to correct those errors.
"I could care less." Most people think this is a statement about how little they are concerned about a particular issue. Actually, the statement implies that it would be possible to care less, meaning you do, in fact, care. The proper usage would be "I couldn't care less." meaning you are already at the bottom of the caring barrel.
"He has a better car than me." No, actually, "He has a better car than I." The second part of the sentence is understood and therefore acceptable to leave out of the conversation. The whole thought is "He has a better car than I have." Including the second portion of the sentence clearly indicates "I" is the proper pronoun. It would be erroroneous to say, "He has a better car than me have." However, I'm certain a few Neanderthals would choose to speak in such a manner.
Subjunctive Tense. This is the surreal tense of a language. It indicates the "what if" factor and identifies the hypothetical. What if it were to rain today? The hypothetical aspect allows for the improper usage of the subject "it" with the verb tense "were". It a certainty, it is incorrect to say, "It were my job to rake the leaves."
By studying a foreign language, I have learned the grammar of my own language much better than attending high school English class. All that poetry reading has done little to improve my ability to communicate either by the written word or by the spoken word. I have yet to use "Tiger, tiger, burning bright" in day to day conversations. Additionally, I rarely have cause to discuss the finer qualities of Grecian pottery. That in itself precludes the need to recite Ode to a Grecian Urn. Now, math class did lend itself into my study of language in that I have wandered off on a tangent (not a cotangent or sine or even a cosine).
The reference books regarding the finer points of the English language usually have an example of the proper use of the subjunctive tense. One of the most frequent examples of subjunctive is the If I were you...
That's all fine and dandy when speaking of an activity. My latest English grammar text also uses If she were to go, there might be trouble.
I'm hoping the readers of this blog, namely Ken Wheaton especially, will be able to assist me in the follow conundrum. What pronoun is proper when the sentence, instead of using if I were you... uses a she or a he? Which is proper? If I were her... or If I were she... As I have been unable to find a reference book which specifies this particular situation, I have simply avoided the problem. I stick with If I were Johnny... and eliminate the pronoun completely.
The second grammar issue that gets under my skin is the Guess What.
As guess is a verb and the subject is the understood you, the sentence Guess what should be a statement or a command, thereby ending in a period. Unfortunately, every children's book I have ever read (and that's a vast amount) uses Guess what as a question ending with a question mark. Guess what?
If someone were (hypothetical usage of the subjunctive tense) to say Guess what, the response to that is usually, What? Questions are normally answered by a statement, not another question. Statements directing someone to do something may generate a question to clarify. For example, Joe says, "Tell me something." Timmy asks, "What?"
Isn't that basically what Guess what is saying? Tell me something.
What, by itself is a question. What? What do you want? What is that giant black thing crawling on your shoulder? Even if a possible ending is added, for example, Guess what I did today at school, it is still a command. You tell me what I did today at school. That is definitely not a question. It would sound ridiculous to make it a question. You tell me what I did today at school? Clearly Guess what is deserving of a period. Why do my editors continue to place a question mark at the end of my dialogue when I use a period? Huh? Why, Ken why?
In spite of this decision, I have still maintained my love for grammar and sentence construction. Spelling is not among my strengths. Thank goodness for SpellChecker, even though it doesn't always work. Inasmuch, when I see blatant grammatical errors, I shake my head and give into the temptation to correct those errors.
"I could care less." Most people think this is a statement about how little they are concerned about a particular issue. Actually, the statement implies that it would be possible to care less, meaning you do, in fact, care. The proper usage would be "I couldn't care less." meaning you are already at the bottom of the caring barrel.
"He has a better car than me." No, actually, "He has a better car than I." The second part of the sentence is understood and therefore acceptable to leave out of the conversation. The whole thought is "He has a better car than I have." Including the second portion of the sentence clearly indicates "I" is the proper pronoun. It would be erroroneous to say, "He has a better car than me have." However, I'm certain a few Neanderthals would choose to speak in such a manner.
Subjunctive Tense. This is the surreal tense of a language. It indicates the "what if" factor and identifies the hypothetical. What if it were to rain today? The hypothetical aspect allows for the improper usage of the subject "it" with the verb tense "were". It a certainty, it is incorrect to say, "It were my job to rake the leaves."
By studying a foreign language, I have learned the grammar of my own language much better than attending high school English class. All that poetry reading has done little to improve my ability to communicate either by the written word or by the spoken word. I have yet to use "Tiger, tiger, burning bright" in day to day conversations. Additionally, I rarely have cause to discuss the finer qualities of Grecian pottery. That in itself precludes the need to recite Ode to a Grecian Urn. Now, math class did lend itself into my study of language in that I have wandered off on a tangent (not a cotangent or sine or even a cosine).
The reference books regarding the finer points of the English language usually have an example of the proper use of the subjunctive tense. One of the most frequent examples of subjunctive is the If I were you...
That's all fine and dandy when speaking of an activity. My latest English grammar text also uses If she were to go, there might be trouble.
I'm hoping the readers of this blog, namely Ken Wheaton especially, will be able to assist me in the follow conundrum. What pronoun is proper when the sentence, instead of using if I were you... uses a she or a he? Which is proper? If I were her... or If I were she... As I have been unable to find a reference book which specifies this particular situation, I have simply avoided the problem. I stick with If I were Johnny... and eliminate the pronoun completely.
The second grammar issue that gets under my skin is the Guess What.
As guess is a verb and the subject is the understood you, the sentence Guess what should be a statement or a command, thereby ending in a period. Unfortunately, every children's book I have ever read (and that's a vast amount) uses Guess what as a question ending with a question mark. Guess what?
If someone were (hypothetical usage of the subjunctive tense) to say Guess what, the response to that is usually, What? Questions are normally answered by a statement, not another question. Statements directing someone to do something may generate a question to clarify. For example, Joe says, "Tell me something." Timmy asks, "What?"
Isn't that basically what Guess what is saying? Tell me something.
What, by itself is a question. What? What do you want? What is that giant black thing crawling on your shoulder? Even if a possible ending is added, for example, Guess what I did today at school, it is still a command. You tell me what I did today at school. That is definitely not a question. It would sound ridiculous to make it a question. You tell me what I did today at school? Clearly Guess what is deserving of a period. Why do my editors continue to place a question mark at the end of my dialogue when I use a period? Huh? Why, Ken why?
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Perfect Practice Makes Perfect
I was able to successfully play a low G, low A, B, C and D. Transitioning to E caused problems and by the time I hit F, my lips gave out. I spent over an hour trying to master the scale and it's apparent I need more practice.
Mary Had a Little Lamb sound more like Mary Took Her Lamb to Slaughter. But, hey, it was recognizable. I was thrilled that I had managed as well as I had. In my delight, I called my mother. She's responsible for this new adventure. Unfortunately, she wasn't home so my musical attempt has been forever recorded on her answering machine.
Later, when I called her back. She reassured me that I was loved. That, and I needed to practice a whole bunch more.
Mary Had a Little Lamb sound more like Mary Took Her Lamb to Slaughter. But, hey, it was recognizable. I was thrilled that I had managed as well as I had. In my delight, I called my mother. She's responsible for this new adventure. Unfortunately, she wasn't home so my musical attempt has been forever recorded on her answering machine.
Later, when I called her back. She reassured me that I was loved. That, and I needed to practice a whole bunch more.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Pipes, Grace Notes And Dying Ducks
| Although my birthday isn't until March, my mother sent my birthday present with the Christmas presents. She enjoys making me suffer with temptation. I think she has a bet going about how long I can stand it before I give in and open the birthday presents. Turns out, I lasted longer than she did.
She called me the other night wanting to know what I thought about the present she sent. I didn't have any idea what she was talking about. We had squealed with delight over the phone about the gifts we had exchanged. I was at a loss. She said it was in a rectangular box. Oh, well there is a rectangular box marked "Happy Birthday." She told me to open it. Having been given permission to open my birthday present three months early, I ripped off the paper with gusto. To my surprise, it was something I have wanted for several years. A piping chanter kit! You might ask yourself, what's a piping chanter and why does it come in a kit? Well, it's the beginner practice pipe for bagpipes. I have wanted to learn to play the bagpipes and now I have the beginner's learning pipe. Yippie! The beauty of it is that my neighbor's won't even mind. The beginner's pipe does NOT include the bag and therefore has little volume. I quickly put it together and break open the instructions. I cover the holes and blow. It's a good thing it's supposed to sound like a dying duck. I think I might be a natural. Actually, what I was doing was squeaking very well. Anyone who has ever played a reed instrument will know about the squeak. Anyone who has ever listened to a beginner on a reed instrument will know about the squeak. I squeak well. But, hey, it was my first attempt. My second attempt wasn't much better. By the twentieth attempt, I accomplished a low G. Eventually, I managed the scale. I am so proud of myself. After the scale, I decided to turn the page. My heart sank. The first song on the playlist is Amazing Grace. Not Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, not Mary Had A Little Lamb, but Amazing Grace. I noticed these little tiny notes floating around that didn't make much sense. I'm no music wizard, but I can count how many beats to a measure and these guys weren't adding up. Back to the instructions. Turns out bagpipes are an instrument of continuous sound. There is no way to play a note louder than another or to differentiate between notes by taking a breath. "To enable true musical expression in pipe music short notes or grace notes are played throughout a tune to punctuate the music giving emphasis to certain notes or dividing two notes which are the same." Things just got harder. My son is thrilled with my new hobby. Now I can't complain about his lack of guitar playing ability during his practicing. As I blew my squeaks instead of tones, he just laughed. The dog, however, did not. She fled in terror at the sounds of the earth's destruction and took refuge under the desk in the other room. |
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Never Can Have Too Many Shoes
The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I admit it. I am a shoe junky.
I first began to suspect my fascination with shoes when I was a senior in high school. There was a store called The Wild Pair in the mall where I worked. I frequently visited the store but never bought. My mother would have had a heart attack had I worn some of those shoes home. That, and I always thought I was too fat to wear stilettos. I mean seriously, the whole point of stilettos is to make your leg appear long and lean. When your legs are fat, round and calves blend into ankles resulting in Cankels, no stiletto in the world will slim that mess down. Besides, balancing a large body on such a tiny stem is just plain dangerous.
There are certain shoes that a 16 year old girl should not wear regardless of how fat she is. Thigh-high patent leather boots and/or pumps with ankle straps are women who can at least gain access to establishments where that kind of footwear is accepted.
Now that I am older and slimmer (it's still a major issue for me) I can wear "those" shoes. Over this past summer, while in England, I bought a pair of thigh-high patent leather boots. I took a risque picture and sent it to my husband. He liked it and that was worth the price of admission. I even managed an excuse to wear them on one other occasion; Halloween. (see previous photo) Granted, thigh-high leather boots are not going to the movies shoes, but I'd love to try it. Of course, I'd need the super short skirt to go with them. Now my concern is that I am too old to pull off that look. Matronly women don't do micro-mini skirts and thigh-high boots.
My fascination with shoes has grown into an addiction over the past two years. There is a shoe store here in Germany called Deichman's. It is the Mecca of shoes. Whenever I enter that store, I hear harps and a choir sing. I also love that it's a self-serve place. No need to have an employee run back and forth to the store room. I can shop like a crazy woman. The very first thing I do is take off my shoes. I don't want to waste time putting on and taking off my shoes. Too many precious gems to try on.
They have ankle bootlets, pumps, strappy pumps, ankle strap pumps, mid-calf boots, knee-high boots, hitching boots, comfortable boots, fashionable boots, sandals, rhinestone encrusted party shoes, stilettos, shoes with buckles, shoes with steel heels, slippers and even the matching bag for most of the shoes. Being that I'm in Europe, the shoes are about 6 months to a year ahead of stateside fashion. Those "bowling" shoes were here long before they became popular in the states.
Deichman has a fabulous selection and the prices are affordable. That probably has been the single most factor to my addiction. With each new pair of shoes, there are 5 more just waiting to come home with me. I'd feel guilty buying 3 or 4 or 5 or 6 pair at a time, so I generally stick to just one pair about once a month. Just because I'm not buying all the shoes I'd like, doesn't mean I'm not trying on every single pair in the store. The store clerks have rolled their eyes at me more than once. I guess it's a good thing that my German isn't very good, else I'd be able to understand them when they comment on the crazy American woman acting like she's never seen a pair of shoes before. --Oh Great Shoe PooBah, I am your humble servant.--
As the Christmas shopping season is over and it's now time to rejoice and celebrate in the after Christmas clearance sales, my co-worker suggested I go to the Victoria's Secret website and check out the shoe sales. Oh my. That's like dangling a popsicle in front of a 5-year old on a hot summer day. There were three strappy stilettos that caught my attention. But which one to get? I have to limit myself to just one. Which one? Which One? Which ONE?
Just then a soldier walks into the office. Who better to ask for an opinion than a man? A female- companion starved soldier who's been in Iraq for the last 10 months to boot.
When asked, he said he needed a closer look to be able to tell if the shoes were good.
What did he mean? A closer look?
"If you look at them and say, 'they're okay' those aren't good. If you look at them and say, 'Yeah Buddy!' or 'Hellllllooooo' then they're a good pair."
He agreed, but needed to check out the buckle situation.
Guess which pair he picked.........Pair #2. He said with a grin.
And that's all she needed to make a decision.
As he left the office, he said, "Looks like somebody lucky is going to be enjoying those shoes."
He's right. My most wonderful, amazing husband. He'll get to enjoy all of the shoes that have found a new home in my closet while he's been gone.
I first began to suspect my fascination with shoes when I was a senior in high school. There was a store called The Wild Pair in the mall where I worked. I frequently visited the store but never bought. My mother would have had a heart attack had I worn some of those shoes home. That, and I always thought I was too fat to wear stilettos. I mean seriously, the whole point of stilettos is to make your leg appear long and lean. When your legs are fat, round and calves blend into ankles resulting in Cankels, no stiletto in the world will slim that mess down. Besides, balancing a large body on such a tiny stem is just plain dangerous.
There are certain shoes that a 16 year old girl should not wear regardless of how fat she is. Thigh-high patent leather boots and/or pumps with ankle straps are women who can at least gain access to establishments where that kind of footwear is accepted.
Now that I am older and slimmer (it's still a major issue for me) I can wear "those" shoes. Over this past summer, while in England, I bought a pair of thigh-high patent leather boots. I took a risque picture and sent it to my husband. He liked it and that was worth the price of admission. I even managed an excuse to wear them on one other occasion; Halloween. (see previous photo) Granted, thigh-high leather boots are not going to the movies shoes, but I'd love to try it. Of course, I'd need the super short skirt to go with them. Now my concern is that I am too old to pull off that look. Matronly women don't do micro-mini skirts and thigh-high boots.
My fascination with shoes has grown into an addiction over the past two years. There is a shoe store here in Germany called Deichman's. It is the Mecca of shoes. Whenever I enter that store, I hear harps and a choir sing. I also love that it's a self-serve place. No need to have an employee run back and forth to the store room. I can shop like a crazy woman. The very first thing I do is take off my shoes. I don't want to waste time putting on and taking off my shoes. Too many precious gems to try on.
They have ankle bootlets, pumps, strappy pumps, ankle strap pumps, mid-calf boots, knee-high boots, hitching boots, comfortable boots, fashionable boots, sandals, rhinestone encrusted party shoes, stilettos, shoes with buckles, shoes with steel heels, slippers and even the matching bag for most of the shoes. Being that I'm in Europe, the shoes are about 6 months to a year ahead of stateside fashion. Those "bowling" shoes were here long before they became popular in the states.
Deichman has a fabulous selection and the prices are affordable. That probably has been the single most factor to my addiction. With each new pair of shoes, there are 5 more just waiting to come home with me. I'd feel guilty buying 3 or 4 or 5 or 6 pair at a time, so I generally stick to just one pair about once a month. Just because I'm not buying all the shoes I'd like, doesn't mean I'm not trying on every single pair in the store. The store clerks have rolled their eyes at me more than once. I guess it's a good thing that my German isn't very good, else I'd be able to understand them when they comment on the crazy American woman acting like she's never seen a pair of shoes before. --Oh Great Shoe PooBah, I am your humble servant.--
As the Christmas shopping season is over and it's now time to rejoice and celebrate in the after Christmas clearance sales, my co-worker suggested I go to the Victoria's Secret website and check out the shoe sales. Oh my. That's like dangling a popsicle in front of a 5-year old on a hot summer day. There were three strappy stilettos that caught my attention. But which one to get? I have to limit myself to just one. Which one? Which One? Which ONE?
Just then a soldier walks into the office. Who better to ask for an opinion than a man? A female- companion starved soldier who's been in Iraq for the last 10 months to boot.
When asked, he said he needed a closer look to be able to tell if the shoes were good.
What did he mean? A closer look?
"If you look at them and say, 'they're okay' those aren't good. If you look at them and say, 'Yeah Buddy!' or 'Hellllllooooo' then they're a good pair."
He agreed, but needed to check out the buckle situation.
Guess which pair he picked.........Pair #2. He said with a grin.
And that's all she needed to make a decision.
As he left the office, he said, "Looks like somebody lucky is going to be enjoying those shoes."
He's right. My most wonderful, amazing husband. He'll get to enjoy all of the shoes that have found a new home in my closet while he's been gone.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
SANTA CLAUS: An Engineer's Perspective
Alas, as I have a degree in Sociology, I can't guarantee the engineering accuracy of the following calculations. But as a sociologist, I can say that science leaves no accounting for Christmas Magic. Come on people. Those who BELIEVE, RECEIVE.
There are approximately two billion children (persons under 18) in the World. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist religions, this reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the Population Reference Bureau). At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per house hold, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming that there is at least one good child in each. Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second--- 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can run (at best) 15 miles per hour. The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized Lego set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" reindeer could pull ten times the normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them --- Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the monarch). 600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second crates enormous air resistance --- this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft re-entering the earths atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 m.p.s. in 001 seconds, would be subjected to centrifugal forces of 17,500 g's. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.
I recently watched a nature program about the naturally growing mushroom in Lapland. Turns out the reindeer crave them and seem to enjoy the "far-out" effects. The indigenous people have also taken to snacking on the mind-altering mushroom for the hallucinogenic visions; particularly the ones were everything appears to be floating. It's easy to understand where the idea of "flying" reindeer came from.
There are approximately two billion children (persons under 18) in the World. However, since Santa does not visit children of Muslim, Hindu, Jewish or Buddhist religions, this reduces the workload for Christmas night to 15% of the total, or 378 million (according to the Population Reference Bureau). At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per house hold, that comes to 108 million homes, presuming that there is at least one good child in each. Santa has about 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west (which seems logical). This works out to 967.7 visits per second. This is to say that for each Christian household with a good child, Santa has around 1/1000th of a second to park the sleigh, hop out, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left for him, get back up the chimney, jump into the sleigh and get on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 108 million stops is evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false, but will accept for the purposes of our calculations), we are now talking about 0.78 miles per household; a total trip of 75.5 million miles, not counting bathroom stops or breaks. This means Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second--- 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-made vehicle, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second, and a conventional reindeer can run (at best) 15 miles per hour. The payload of the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium sized Lego set (two pounds), the sleigh is carrying over 500 thousand tons, not counting Santa himself. On land, a conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting that the "flying" reindeer could pull ten times the normal amount, the job can't be done with eight or even nine of them --- Santa would need 360,000 of them. This increases the payload, not counting the weight of the sleigh, another 54,000 tons, or roughly seven times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth (the ship, not the monarch). 600,000 tons traveling at 650 miles per second crates enormous air resistance --- this would heat up the reindeer in the same fashion as a spacecraft re-entering the earths atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer would absorb 14.3 quintillion joules of energy per second each. In short, they would burst into flames almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer behind them and creating deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire reindeer team would be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second, or right about the time Santa reached the fifth house on his trip. Not that it matters, however, since Santa, as a result of accelerating from a dead stop to 650 m.p.s. in 001 seconds, would be subjected to centrifugal forces of 17,500 g's. A 250 pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be pinned to the back of the sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force, instantly crushing his bones and organs and reducing him to a quivering blob of pink goo. Therefore, if Santa did exist, he's dead now.
I recently watched a nature program about the naturally growing mushroom in Lapland. Turns out the reindeer crave them and seem to enjoy the "far-out" effects. The indigenous people have also taken to snacking on the mind-altering mushroom for the hallucinogenic visions; particularly the ones were everything appears to be floating. It's easy to understand where the idea of "flying" reindeer came from.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Do Men Make Passes at Women Who Wear Glasses?
When I was 15 years old, I developed a love/hate relationship with my glasses. I loved being able to see, but hated how I looked in glasses.
Go back through your old yearbooks and fashion magazines to the early 80's and check out those jumbo, owl-eye glasses. Yuck. My glasses, which I thought were the best looking I could find, had maroon plastic frames. Remember Sally Jesse Raphael and her signature jumbo red frames?
Even thinking they were tolerable, I hated my glasses. I suffered the personal degradation until I was nearly 18 years old. My mother, thankfully, worked at an optometrist's office and got a good price on contacts. I was in like Flynn.
Contacts were wonderful. I could see and didn't have to have hideous glasses sitting on my face, however, they came with their own problems. They had to be cleaned. These were the kind that had to be removed every night, washed and allowed to soak in the sterilizing wash. Well, I quickly fell into the bad habit of not doing what I was supposed to do. I'd wear my lenses for days before taking them out for a sterilizing bath. Then, I committed the biggest NO NO of contacts wearing rules. I wore them to Chem Lab. Yep. Wouldn't you know we would be working with 6 molar hydrochloric acid that day. Can you say corneal acid burns? As a result, I returned to wearing glasses (granted I had progressed to more stylish wire frames by then) for two weeks while my eyes healed. At least I didn't blind myself.
Technology improved over the years and lenses could now be safely worn for longer periods of time. Not long after Extended Wear lenses, I was introduced to the newest sensation in contacts. I embraced Disposable lenses with glee. I did not, however, embrace the cost of maintaining disposable lenses. By this time, I was a poor, poor college grad living in a mouse infested apartment with no furniture. I could barely make my rent even with having three jobs. Dropping a couple hundred bucks on a month's worth of disposable lenses was not in my thrifty spender manual. So, the pair of lenses that should have been tossed into the garbage after a week, two weeks at the maximum, lasted me nearly three months. But hey, I did take them out once a week to clean them.
Eventually, I landed a good job and could not only afford my rent, I could also afford groceries, a car payment, an insurance payment, a phone, cable television AND contacts. Life was good.
I should have left well enough alone. But noooooooo. Not me. I have to keep on picking and picking.
Seduced by the dark side, I inquired into Lasik Eye Surgery. I had heard all the wonderful "It's amazing!" stories. My id whispered "do it. do it. do it. do it." "Luke, I am your father. Come join me. It is your... destiny."
I admit, I jumped on that band wagon with a flourish. I was looking forward to being able to see anytime of the day or night, whether or not I had contacts in. No more eye drops, no more cleaners, no more month purchases of new lenses, no more eye checkups and no more glasses. I would save lots of money in the long run. This was going to be GREAT.
NOT!
If you are considering eye surgery, keep on considering it. I am the poster child for DO NOT DO IT! LASIK IS BAD.
I listened to folks tell me the procedure is painless. Let me tell you...THEY LIE. The procedure does hurt in spite of the eye numbing drops.
Imagine a science fiction film where the hero, abducted by aliens, is strapped to a surgical table. The hideous looking probe descends from above. Our hero's eye has been forced open by some sort of steel contraption and is helpless against the slowly advancing probe. The probe gives birth to a two foot needle as it inches closer and closer to the hero's eye. A droplet of sweet dribbles down the hero's cheek. His mind screams in terror.
That's what it's like.
I was all strapped in, ready to go, my eye securely held open by some sort of forceps device. The doctor tells me to look up. A tiny metal claw slowly advances toward my eye. All I want to do is close my eye and turn my head away. A metal claw is going to touch my eyeball for goodness sake. Wait! Wait! Wait! Is it too late to reconsider?
Then the claw sets down right smack on top of my cornea and retracts; it's job complete. It has marked my cornea with pie wedge markings allowing for easier to lining up of the flap after the laser cuts chunks out of my cornea.
A ring descends onto my eyeball and the doctor says "You might feel some pressure." Yeah, RIGHT. Some pressure. A more accurate warning would have been, "Okay, you might feel as if your eyeball is being crushed and will burst at any moment. The intense pressure you experience will momentarily cause your vision to cease to function. That's right, you are going to go completely blind."
The next thing the doctor says is "Now your are going to hear a buzzing sound. That's the blade cutting the flap." He should have said. "Now that you are completely panicked about being blind, let me fire up this chainsaw and stick it in your eye."
Once the flap is cut, the torturous ring o' incredible pressure is removed. The next eye assault device is a stainless steel hook. "When the flap is pulled back, your vision will go blurry and you'll see splashes of colored light." This should be okay, except that my vision was already blurry. I can, however, clearly see the hook poking my eyeball. I would have really liked to have closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the flap of epithelial cells slide across my eyeball. Sure enough, there was a crazy kaleidoscope of colors swirling and twirling around. That's when I'm told to look into the little red light. What little red light? I don't see any red light. I see splashes of purples and blues churning around bursts of white and yellow sparkles. There is no little red light.
"Keep your eye still. Focus on the little red light. You will now hear the laser." THERE IS NO LITTLE RED LIGHT! Wait, wait, wait. Is it too late to reconsider?
"Okay, that's all done. Now for the next eye."
When it was all said and done and I was bandaged and given really ugly sunglasses, I was sent on my way. I was told I would see a noticeable difference by the next morning. Again, they lie.
My vision was just as blurry the next morning. I had just spent $3000 to see and I couldn't. I should have bought bigger boobs instead.
Eventually, my eyes adjusted, well one eye adjusted. The other (the left) never did adjust. Apparently, some alterations were needed. So, back to the laser. Luckily, my flap hadn't affixed itself completely so there was no need for the torturous ring o' incredible pressure. More looking into the nonexistent little red light and presto!
I still can't see. Perhaps there is a slight wrinkle in the flap itself. Perhaps a tiny air bubble.
Perhaps I find a different doctor.
The next doctor did his best to fix the problem. I even ended up with six teeny tiny stitches in my eye to secure the flap in place. After all of that, I still can't see properly out of that eye. But now, my vision isn't correctable with contacts or glasses. I see a ghost image and there's nothing that can be done about it. Oh, yeah, and I have serious halo effect at night, a loss of depth perception especially at night and I still have to use eye drops because of the chronic dryness. I used to be able to shoot a mean game of pool, but not anymore.
It's been three years since the fiasco and my right eye, my good eye is now going bad. Working in front of a computer has forced my eyes to work harder than they should. My good eye is now farsighted and my left eye is still bad; 20/300 bad. The good news, according to my most recent eye exam (a week ago) is that the ghost is correctable. I just have to have special lenses made to compensate for the significant warping on my cornea. The combined correction between my warped nearsighted left eye and my farsighted right eye is to such a degree that the effect would make me nauseous. It's been suggested to correct one or the other at this time and wait a while before correcting the other.
I'm still going to end up wearing glasses. I should have stayed with them in the first place and spent the three grand on something else, like bigger boobs. At least those would serve a function in the dark.
Go back through your old yearbooks and fashion magazines to the early 80's and check out those jumbo, owl-eye glasses. Yuck. My glasses, which I thought were the best looking I could find, had maroon plastic frames. Remember Sally Jesse Raphael and her signature jumbo red frames?
Even thinking they were tolerable, I hated my glasses. I suffered the personal degradation until I was nearly 18 years old. My mother, thankfully, worked at an optometrist's office and got a good price on contacts. I was in like Flynn.
Contacts were wonderful. I could see and didn't have to have hideous glasses sitting on my face, however, they came with their own problems. They had to be cleaned. These were the kind that had to be removed every night, washed and allowed to soak in the sterilizing wash. Well, I quickly fell into the bad habit of not doing what I was supposed to do. I'd wear my lenses for days before taking them out for a sterilizing bath. Then, I committed the biggest NO NO of contacts wearing rules. I wore them to Chem Lab. Yep. Wouldn't you know we would be working with 6 molar hydrochloric acid that day. Can you say corneal acid burns? As a result, I returned to wearing glasses (granted I had progressed to more stylish wire frames by then) for two weeks while my eyes healed. At least I didn't blind myself.
Technology improved over the years and lenses could now be safely worn for longer periods of time. Not long after Extended Wear lenses, I was introduced to the newest sensation in contacts. I embraced Disposable lenses with glee. I did not, however, embrace the cost of maintaining disposable lenses. By this time, I was a poor, poor college grad living in a mouse infested apartment with no furniture. I could barely make my rent even with having three jobs. Dropping a couple hundred bucks on a month's worth of disposable lenses was not in my thrifty spender manual. So, the pair of lenses that should have been tossed into the garbage after a week, two weeks at the maximum, lasted me nearly three months. But hey, I did take them out once a week to clean them.
Eventually, I landed a good job and could not only afford my rent, I could also afford groceries, a car payment, an insurance payment, a phone, cable television AND contacts. Life was good.
I should have left well enough alone. But noooooooo. Not me. I have to keep on picking and picking.
Seduced by the dark side, I inquired into Lasik Eye Surgery. I had heard all the wonderful "It's amazing!" stories. My id whispered "do it. do it. do it. do it." "Luke, I am your father. Come join me. It is your... destiny."
I admit, I jumped on that band wagon with a flourish. I was looking forward to being able to see anytime of the day or night, whether or not I had contacts in. No more eye drops, no more cleaners, no more month purchases of new lenses, no more eye checkups and no more glasses. I would save lots of money in the long run. This was going to be GREAT.
NOT!
If you are considering eye surgery, keep on considering it. I am the poster child for DO NOT DO IT! LASIK IS BAD.
I listened to folks tell me the procedure is painless. Let me tell you...THEY LIE. The procedure does hurt in spite of the eye numbing drops.
Imagine a science fiction film where the hero, abducted by aliens, is strapped to a surgical table. The hideous looking probe descends from above. Our hero's eye has been forced open by some sort of steel contraption and is helpless against the slowly advancing probe. The probe gives birth to a two foot needle as it inches closer and closer to the hero's eye. A droplet of sweet dribbles down the hero's cheek. His mind screams in terror.
That's what it's like.
I was all strapped in, ready to go, my eye securely held open by some sort of forceps device. The doctor tells me to look up. A tiny metal claw slowly advances toward my eye. All I want to do is close my eye and turn my head away. A metal claw is going to touch my eyeball for goodness sake. Wait! Wait! Wait! Is it too late to reconsider?
Then the claw sets down right smack on top of my cornea and retracts; it's job complete. It has marked my cornea with pie wedge markings allowing for easier to lining up of the flap after the laser cuts chunks out of my cornea.
A ring descends onto my eyeball and the doctor says "You might feel some pressure." Yeah, RIGHT. Some pressure. A more accurate warning would have been, "Okay, you might feel as if your eyeball is being crushed and will burst at any moment. The intense pressure you experience will momentarily cause your vision to cease to function. That's right, you are going to go completely blind."
The next thing the doctor says is "Now your are going to hear a buzzing sound. That's the blade cutting the flap." He should have said. "Now that you are completely panicked about being blind, let me fire up this chainsaw and stick it in your eye."
Once the flap is cut, the torturous ring o' incredible pressure is removed. The next eye assault device is a stainless steel hook. "When the flap is pulled back, your vision will go blurry and you'll see splashes of colored light." This should be okay, except that my vision was already blurry. I can, however, clearly see the hook poking my eyeball. I would have really liked to have closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see the flap of epithelial cells slide across my eyeball. Sure enough, there was a crazy kaleidoscope of colors swirling and twirling around. That's when I'm told to look into the little red light. What little red light? I don't see any red light. I see splashes of purples and blues churning around bursts of white and yellow sparkles. There is no little red light.
"Keep your eye still. Focus on the little red light. You will now hear the laser." THERE IS NO LITTLE RED LIGHT! Wait, wait, wait. Is it too late to reconsider?
"Okay, that's all done. Now for the next eye."
When it was all said and done and I was bandaged and given really ugly sunglasses, I was sent on my way. I was told I would see a noticeable difference by the next morning. Again, they lie.
My vision was just as blurry the next morning. I had just spent $3000 to see and I couldn't. I should have bought bigger boobs instead.
Eventually, my eyes adjusted, well one eye adjusted. The other (the left) never did adjust. Apparently, some alterations were needed. So, back to the laser. Luckily, my flap hadn't affixed itself completely so there was no need for the torturous ring o' incredible pressure. More looking into the nonexistent little red light and presto!
I still can't see. Perhaps there is a slight wrinkle in the flap itself. Perhaps a tiny air bubble.
Perhaps I find a different doctor.
The next doctor did his best to fix the problem. I even ended up with six teeny tiny stitches in my eye to secure the flap in place. After all of that, I still can't see properly out of that eye. But now, my vision isn't correctable with contacts or glasses. I see a ghost image and there's nothing that can be done about it. Oh, yeah, and I have serious halo effect at night, a loss of depth perception especially at night and I still have to use eye drops because of the chronic dryness. I used to be able to shoot a mean game of pool, but not anymore.
It's been three years since the fiasco and my right eye, my good eye is now going bad. Working in front of a computer has forced my eyes to work harder than they should. My good eye is now farsighted and my left eye is still bad; 20/300 bad. The good news, according to my most recent eye exam (a week ago) is that the ghost is correctable. I just have to have special lenses made to compensate for the significant warping on my cornea. The combined correction between my warped nearsighted left eye and my farsighted right eye is to such a degree that the effect would make me nauseous. It's been suggested to correct one or the other at this time and wait a while before correcting the other.
I'm still going to end up wearing glasses. I should have stayed with them in the first place and spent the three grand on something else, like bigger boobs. At least those would serve a function in the dark.
Let the Consequences Begin
Looking through my mail last night, I discovered an envelope with a German stamp. Either it would be a bill, a notice or solicitation from the phone company or... I'll take what's behind door #3......notice of a traffic violation.
The notice, naturally, is 100% in German, but I know what it says. Although it was addressed to my husband, I know it was for me. Basically, it translates like this:
Dear Registered Owner,
On such and such date, the vehicle registered to you was observed proceeding through such and such intersection against the light. If the driver of the vehicle was you or someone you know, respond to this summons.
Sincerely,
The German Authorities.
I have no excuse. I did it. So, I take my notice of law violation to the Provost Marshal's Office and speak with my colleague. I was prepared for the big fat fine and the 30 day suspension of operator's license. But, lucky me. I crossed the white line at exactly (and I mean EXACTLY) the same time the light turned red. Had I crossed even a tiny fraction of a second later, I would be facing a BIG FAT fine and a operator's license suspension. Had I been traveling the speed limit, I wouldn't have been as lucky. Good thing I was speeding through the intersection when I did. I only will have to pay a big fine. Not even a big fat fine and certainly not a BIG FAT fine.
My colleague, the German liaison for the Provost Marshal, handles traffic violations all the time. He asked if I would like to have the photograph of me crossing the line and the secondary confirming photograph taken a split second later. It's not really necessary. I know I ran the red light. The second photograph might be something funny to see. My son pointed directly at the camera as it flashed the second time. My colleague said he wanted to see that picture so he would hold onto my admission paperwork until the photo arrives. I suspect it will ultimately end up on the Wall of Shame eventually.
If you are interested...the minor fine for this violation is 50 euro + 20 euro administration fee. Over all, the 70 euro ($100) is a sweet price to pay considering what I had been facing.
The notice, naturally, is 100% in German, but I know what it says. Although it was addressed to my husband, I know it was for me. Basically, it translates like this:
Dear Registered Owner,
On such and such date, the vehicle registered to you was observed proceeding through such and such intersection against the light. If the driver of the vehicle was you or someone you know, respond to this summons.
Sincerely,
The German Authorities.
I have no excuse. I did it. So, I take my notice of law violation to the Provost Marshal's Office and speak with my colleague. I was prepared for the big fat fine and the 30 day suspension of operator's license. But, lucky me. I crossed the white line at exactly (and I mean EXACTLY) the same time the light turned red. Had I crossed even a tiny fraction of a second later, I would be facing a BIG FAT fine and a operator's license suspension. Had I been traveling the speed limit, I wouldn't have been as lucky. Good thing I was speeding through the intersection when I did. I only will have to pay a big fine. Not even a big fat fine and certainly not a BIG FAT fine.
My colleague, the German liaison for the Provost Marshal, handles traffic violations all the time. He asked if I would like to have the photograph of me crossing the line and the secondary confirming photograph taken a split second later. It's not really necessary. I know I ran the red light. The second photograph might be something funny to see. My son pointed directly at the camera as it flashed the second time. My colleague said he wanted to see that picture so he would hold onto my admission paperwork until the photo arrives. I suspect it will ultimately end up on the Wall of Shame eventually.
If you are interested...the minor fine for this violation is 50 euro + 20 euro administration fee. Over all, the 70 euro ($100) is a sweet price to pay considering what I had been facing.
My feelings exactly
When four of Santa's elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones, Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.
Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where.
More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.
So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor.
He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?"
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas
tree.
Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her Mom was coming to visit. This stressed Santa even more.
When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where.
More stress.
Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked, and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.
So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of apple cider and a shot of rum. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hidden the liquor, and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the cider pot, and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor.
He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw end of the broom.
Just then the doorbell rang, and irritable Santa trudged to the door. He opened the door, and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas tree.
The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas, Santa. Isn't it a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Where would you like me to stick it?"
And so began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas
tree.
Monday, December 20, 2004
Military Wives
The good Lord was creating a model for military wives and was into his sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared. She said, "Lord, you seem to be having a lot of trouble with this one. What's wrong with the standard model?"
The Lord replied, "Have you seen the spec on this order? She has to be completely independent, possess the qualities of both father and mother, be a perfect hostess to four or forty with an hour's notice, run on black coffee, handle every emergency imaginable without a manual, be able to carry on cheerfully, even if she is pregnant and has the flu. She must be willing to move to a new location ten times in seventeen years. And oh, yes, she must have six pairs of hands."
The angel shook her head, "Six pairs of hands? No way."
The Lord continued, "Don't worry, we will make other military wives to help her. And we will give her an unusually strong heart so it can swell with pride in her husband's achievements, sustain the pain of separations, beat soundly when it is overworked and tired, and be large enough to say "I understand" when she doesn't, and say "I love you" regardless.
"Lord," said the angel, touching his arm gently, "Go to bed and get some rest. You can finish tomorrow."
"I can't stop now," the Lord said, "I am so close to creating something unique. Already this model heals herself when she is sick, can put up six unexpected guests for the weekend, wave goodbye to her husband from a pier, a runway, or a depot, and understand why it's important that he leave."
The angel circled the model of the military wife, looked at it closely and sighed. "It looks fine, but it's so soft."
"She might look soft," replied the Lord, "but she has the strength of a lion. You would not believe what she can endure."
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her fingers across the cheek of the Lord's creation. "There's a leak," She announced. "Something is wrong with the construction. I am not surprised that it has cracked. You are trying to put too much into this model."
The Lord appeared offended at the angel's lack of confidence. "What you see is not a leak," he said. "It's a tear."
"A tear? What is it there for?" asked the angel.
The Lord replied, "It's for joy, sadness, pain, disappointment, loneliness, pride, and dedication to all the values that she and her husband hold dear."
"You are a genius!" exclaimed the angel. The Lord looked puzzled and replied. "I didn't put it there."
The Lord replied, "Have you seen the spec on this order? She has to be completely independent, possess the qualities of both father and mother, be a perfect hostess to four or forty with an hour's notice, run on black coffee, handle every emergency imaginable without a manual, be able to carry on cheerfully, even if she is pregnant and has the flu. She must be willing to move to a new location ten times in seventeen years. And oh, yes, she must have six pairs of hands."
The angel shook her head, "Six pairs of hands? No way."
The Lord continued, "Don't worry, we will make other military wives to help her. And we will give her an unusually strong heart so it can swell with pride in her husband's achievements, sustain the pain of separations, beat soundly when it is overworked and tired, and be large enough to say "I understand" when she doesn't, and say "I love you" regardless.
"Lord," said the angel, touching his arm gently, "Go to bed and get some rest. You can finish tomorrow."
"I can't stop now," the Lord said, "I am so close to creating something unique. Already this model heals herself when she is sick, can put up six unexpected guests for the weekend, wave goodbye to her husband from a pier, a runway, or a depot, and understand why it's important that he leave."
The angel circled the model of the military wife, looked at it closely and sighed. "It looks fine, but it's so soft."
"She might look soft," replied the Lord, "but she has the strength of a lion. You would not believe what she can endure."
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her fingers across the cheek of the Lord's creation. "There's a leak," She announced. "Something is wrong with the construction. I am not surprised that it has cracked. You are trying to put too much into this model."
The Lord appeared offended at the angel's lack of confidence. "What you see is not a leak," he said. "It's a tear."
"A tear? What is it there for?" asked the angel.
The Lord replied, "It's for joy, sadness, pain, disappointment, loneliness, pride, and dedication to all the values that she and her husband hold dear."
"You are a genius!" exclaimed the angel. The Lord looked puzzled and replied. "I didn't put it there."
Sunday, December 19, 2004
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