Well, not all the time. But sometimes.
The Hubby is sick - head cold. The kids have had the sniffles for a week or so; I knew our turn was coming. Started yesterday with a text message saying his nose was stuffed and he felt "woozy." He asked if I felt the same. I did not.
Did my usual Tuesday night thing - which now includes leaving work 30 minutes early to beat the traffic. He arrived home at 9:00 - the same time we got home from the dance studio - and went straight to bed.
I did not go straight to bed. I did not go to bed until 10:30. I had work to do.
So tonight, he calls me sounding all sad and draggy. Cub Scouts was canceled because the pack leader was sick, so what was he supposed to do with The Girl?
"Get her upstairs to dance as usual."
"Well, I'm not going to be able to go get food. I feel horrible. I'm going to bed when I get home."
"That's okay. Are you taking The Boy home or are you leaving him for me?"
"No, I'll take him but I can't get food. I'm going to bed."
"Just worry about him and you. I'll take care of The Girl and I."
"Okay, but I'm going straight to bed when I get home."
Gee, I wonder if he went straight to bed? Well, apparently not judging by the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. The dishwasher is six inches to the right of the sink, yet somehow the dishes never seem to get any farther than the sink - in a big, messy pile no less.
Okay, fine. You're sick. I understand. Stop whining about it, take some cold medicine and move on.
Because that's what I have to do. "You didn't come to bed early last night." Uh, no. See there was still work to be done. Put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher (empty it first). Get the mail. Enter the day's receipts in Quicken. Unpack the school bags. Make sure the homework was done (it wasn't - not last night and not tonight). Pack lunches (because the church hall, which they use as a cafeteria, flooded in mid-November and won't be usable until after Christmas so no hot lunch service). Pack the school snacks. Make sure there are clean clothes for tomorrow. Feed the dog. Let the dog out for the last time (has to be around ten because his bladder won't make it until 6:00 a.m. otherwise and he'll get you up at 3:00 a.m.).
You get the point.
See, here's the thing that after 12 years of marriage and 2 kids he still doesn't understand: Mom doesn't get to be sick. Ever. There is always work to be done and unless Mom is on her deathbed, Mom has to keep going. No rest for the wicked.
I'm not even asking him to change and ignore his illness. You're sick, right, got it. Go to bed and let me get on with what I have to do. Don't play stupid and ask dumb questions such as "Why didn't you go to bed early?" Because I can't. The work must be done. The kids are not going to pack their own lunches - yet.
And don't strain my sympathy either. It's a freaking head cold. Not the bubonic plague. Man up and stop sniveling.
Or perhaps I should say "woman up."
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Tip for the Married Men
Don't tell you wife that you're going to spend $500 on snow tires for your car and put it on the American Express, and then go spend $300 on new tires, pay cash, and expect her to be all happy about it.
Just don't.
Trust me on this one.
Just don't.
Trust me on this one.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
My Horrible No Good Very Bad Day
I've never enjoyed a Friday less than yesterday.
At 9:10, one of our QA engineers came up to me as I was speaking to two other friends at work, stuck out his hand, and said, "I just wanted to say it was good working with you." The three of us were confused. "Are you leaving?" I asked in a puzzled tone. The guy hefted a black garbage bag in response and said, "I've been laid off. Me, three other people, and a few across other departments." Flabbergasted, I went looking for the head of Development, the CEO's younger brother and a guy I've been friends with for 10 years. He was walking another employee, brand new SQL Server developer who moved from Philly to take a job with us to his desk. He shook his head, and said, "In a little bit."
I went to my boss's office. The other members of my department filtered in and she shut the door. "There's been a cut," she said. "Pretty deep."
The CEO addressed the company at precisely 11:30. At 9:00 a.m. a reduction in force had been executed that resulted in the loss of approximately 20% of our staff domestically. With our clients slashing costs and jobs (our clients being all these wonderful financial institutions reeling from the mortgage crisis as well as the stock market turmoil), our sales forecasts were down, and management decided we needed to take action to ensure the company would not only survive, but be strong and ready to rebound by retooling to focus on client service. Ironically, while our clients cut costs and jobs, they will be relying even more on our software because while the jobs may get cut, the regulatory and reporting requirements will not. By focusing on making our clients happy, the CEO said, we will ensure that in 18 months, about how long they are predicting this current situation will last (and these are smart guys - they were right back in 2002 about the 9/11 fall-out), we are ready to storm out of the gate again. We were assured that the RIF portion of the plan was over, and those of us remaining were being counted on to be part of the team to pull us through. We were also assured that a reduction in benefits, such as health coverage, was not being contemplated nor were we going to be asked to pay for a portion of our benefits. Both the CEO and CFO described those as "sacrosanct," although the CFO said they will continue to aggressively shop to make sure our benefits package gives us the most bang for the buck.
Mercifully, the CEO does not follow the AIG example. Our Christmas party, usually quite a lavish affair, was canceled, with the CEO feeling it would be "inappropriate" in the aftermath of a massive layoff. Hear, hear.
Along with the RIF, they unveiled a massive restructuring plan, some of which was very familiar because we've been talking about it in Development for a while, but some of which was quite new. Two guys I work with are leaving their current positions to return to their roots in Client Support - where they will be fabulous, actually, but still.
When the dust settled in the early afternoon, unofficial losses stood around 43 people, somewhere between 20 and 30 percent of the company. One of those losses was a woman I have worked with and called a friend for 10 years - she had been with the company for 11. Clearly, seniority was no protection from the scythe of economic practicality.
Fortunately, nobody in my department was cut, and Development's losses in general were pretty light. That meant I wasn't saying good-by to too many close friends. But in a small company, almost everybody is a "friend," with the possible exception of a few folks who hadn't been with us very long. The mantra of the day was, "How are you?" "Well, I'm still here." It wasn't a particularly comfortable response. As I said to the CEO, "So this is survivor's guilt, huh?" He hugged me in response. The COO and I gave each other a strong hug as well (yes, we are not a huge company and I am that close to our CEO and COO).
Hugs, in fact, were running high all over the company. After work, there was an impromptu gathering at the bar down the street, appropriately named Finnegan's Wake, for our own Irish funeral. Even my friend in TS who never drinks had a Guinness. Our toast was appropriate, "To us, to the future, to our friends who are gone." The most senior developer, a guy who has been with us for almost 20 years and who was floored that a member of the "10 year club" had been let go hugged everybody as he left. We filtered out by ones and twos. I left with a guy from QA who has become a very good friend in the year he's worked with us. "This is the worst Friday ever," I said. We parted at the parking garage with another hug.
Some cynics who read this would say this is only the start, but despite the fact that I've disagreed with the CEO, CFO, and COO over the past couple years, I believe they are men of integrity and they told us the truth. There will be no more RIFs, always barring unforeseen economic catastrophe (like going out of business, which I don't anticipate) and they will not touch our benefits package. And yes, looking at their faces yesterday morning I believe this was as hard on them as the rest of us. And like them, I believe we can and will come out of this a leaner, stronger, better company. We did it after 9/11, we can do it again.
But man, Monday never looked so good.
At 9:10, one of our QA engineers came up to me as I was speaking to two other friends at work, stuck out his hand, and said, "I just wanted to say it was good working with you." The three of us were confused. "Are you leaving?" I asked in a puzzled tone. The guy hefted a black garbage bag in response and said, "I've been laid off. Me, three other people, and a few across other departments." Flabbergasted, I went looking for the head of Development, the CEO's younger brother and a guy I've been friends with for 10 years. He was walking another employee, brand new SQL Server developer who moved from Philly to take a job with us to his desk. He shook his head, and said, "In a little bit."
I went to my boss's office. The other members of my department filtered in and she shut the door. "There's been a cut," she said. "Pretty deep."
The CEO addressed the company at precisely 11:30. At 9:00 a.m. a reduction in force had been executed that resulted in the loss of approximately 20% of our staff domestically. With our clients slashing costs and jobs (our clients being all these wonderful financial institutions reeling from the mortgage crisis as well as the stock market turmoil), our sales forecasts were down, and management decided we needed to take action to ensure the company would not only survive, but be strong and ready to rebound by retooling to focus on client service. Ironically, while our clients cut costs and jobs, they will be relying even more on our software because while the jobs may get cut, the regulatory and reporting requirements will not. By focusing on making our clients happy, the CEO said, we will ensure that in 18 months, about how long they are predicting this current situation will last (and these are smart guys - they were right back in 2002 about the 9/11 fall-out), we are ready to storm out of the gate again. We were assured that the RIF portion of the plan was over, and those of us remaining were being counted on to be part of the team to pull us through. We were also assured that a reduction in benefits, such as health coverage, was not being contemplated nor were we going to be asked to pay for a portion of our benefits. Both the CEO and CFO described those as "sacrosanct," although the CFO said they will continue to aggressively shop to make sure our benefits package gives us the most bang for the buck.
Mercifully, the CEO does not follow the AIG example. Our Christmas party, usually quite a lavish affair, was canceled, with the CEO feeling it would be "inappropriate" in the aftermath of a massive layoff. Hear, hear.
Along with the RIF, they unveiled a massive restructuring plan, some of which was very familiar because we've been talking about it in Development for a while, but some of which was quite new. Two guys I work with are leaving their current positions to return to their roots in Client Support - where they will be fabulous, actually, but still.
When the dust settled in the early afternoon, unofficial losses stood around 43 people, somewhere between 20 and 30 percent of the company. One of those losses was a woman I have worked with and called a friend for 10 years - she had been with the company for 11. Clearly, seniority was no protection from the scythe of economic practicality.
Fortunately, nobody in my department was cut, and Development's losses in general were pretty light. That meant I wasn't saying good-by to too many close friends. But in a small company, almost everybody is a "friend," with the possible exception of a few folks who hadn't been with us very long. The mantra of the day was, "How are you?" "Well, I'm still here." It wasn't a particularly comfortable response. As I said to the CEO, "So this is survivor's guilt, huh?" He hugged me in response. The COO and I gave each other a strong hug as well (yes, we are not a huge company and I am that close to our CEO and COO).
Hugs, in fact, were running high all over the company. After work, there was an impromptu gathering at the bar down the street, appropriately named Finnegan's Wake, for our own Irish funeral. Even my friend in TS who never drinks had a Guinness. Our toast was appropriate, "To us, to the future, to our friends who are gone." The most senior developer, a guy who has been with us for almost 20 years and who was floored that a member of the "10 year club" had been let go hugged everybody as he left. We filtered out by ones and twos. I left with a guy from QA who has become a very good friend in the year he's worked with us. "This is the worst Friday ever," I said. We parted at the parking garage with another hug.
Some cynics who read this would say this is only the start, but despite the fact that I've disagreed with the CEO, CFO, and COO over the past couple years, I believe they are men of integrity and they told us the truth. There will be no more RIFs, always barring unforeseen economic catastrophe (like going out of business, which I don't anticipate) and they will not touch our benefits package. And yes, looking at their faces yesterday morning I believe this was as hard on them as the rest of us. And like them, I believe we can and will come out of this a leaner, stronger, better company. We did it after 9/11, we can do it again.
But man, Monday never looked so good.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
On My 35th Birthday
Okay, so I'm a week late. So sue me.
On this rather landmark occasion, I figured I'd take some time to reflect. I did not feel this need at 30; in fact, 30 passed with very little fanfare. Thirty-five is something different. It's not that I'm freaked out about being 35. But it's a little weird - I've officially moved into a new age demographic. I can no longer check the "18-34" box on surveys. Now it's the 35-50 box. I'm not longer the target market (officially at least) for cars such as the Ford Focus or sub-compacts. Now I'm the target market for Volvo (although I'd much prefer the upcoming Chevrolet Camaro, but I digress).
It's kind of a weird feeling.
So where am I in life? Well, professionally I'm in a pretty good place. I just celebrated 10 years with a good company. I make a decent buck (more than my parents ever made), work with people I like and respect, and who (I believe) like and respect me. I enjoy my job, despite the occasional stress caused by idiocy. I'm where I thought I ought to be in my mid-30s, so "check" on the whole "professional satisfaction" line.
On the family side, I must admit I pretty much have stereotypical "American life." Husband, two kids, house in the 'burbs, two cars, a dog. Even had a minivan until last spring. My husband still finds me attractive. My kinds are smart, kind, relatively well behaved, and much cuter than they have a right to be considering the gene pool. Check on family.
Health-wise, aside from the MS, I'm in pretty good shape. My blood pressure is good, weight is good. Because of my mother I've started yearly mammograms, but as expected the baseline showed nothing. Rarely is there anything wrong beyond standard germs brought home by children in school and daycare. Check on health
Spiritually, I'm comfortable. I've moved beyond the funk of 2007 to an acceptance and relative peace. I don't rail against God and the universe, but I don't expect everything either. Check on spirituality.
So every thing's idyllic and there are no problems, right? Well...
The Hubby still finds me attractive, which is a good thing - up to a point. Guys, I have to ask - what is it with you a sex?!? Never mind, don't answer. But I would have thought that at age 44 we could get beyond adolescence. Let me give you a tip, gentlemen: Women do not find constant groping attractive or desirable. My butt and boobs were not put there to be squeeze, rubbed, ground up against, fondled, or whatever ever five minutes. The Hubby will actually say, "I don't think I've groped you today." Oh yeah, that's so romantic! I also do not find the oogling as I get changed or out of the shower attractive. In fact, I find it disconcerting and a little degrading - like I'm a real-live Playboy pinup (with smaller boobs). Whatever happened to a simple hug or kiss? Not that I don't get them, but even those turn into a bad B-movie (or C-movie) grope-fest, complete with tongue. Eww.
Of course, I'm now absolutely convince that The Hubby is going through a mid-life crisis. First, there is sex. If he doesn't get some every couple of days, he becomes petulant and crabby - just like a child. Last Sunday, I got blasted for my "constant negative attitude" and how it "ruins everything." All because I threw a ruined piece of French toast in the garbage, grumbled about how making French toast is messy (um, it is), got slightly irritated when The Girl then complained about the quality of the French toast I had just served, signed when she then fed the dog off her plate, and then said, "Well, here take my plate - I don't think I'm going to have time to eat anyway" - which was true because it was now 9:10 and we had to leave for church in slightly more than an hour, and I still hadn't showered. He blew a gasket. "God, you're always so negative!" This only a week after he had told me what a good mood I'd been in for the last couple months.
Oddly enough, the minute he got some action (not because I wanted it, mind, but because I was sick of his thinly disguised "You're not taking care of me" attitude), he was all rainbows and sunshine again. My negativity? Hardly. Of course, most of our sex these days is obligatory, not enjoyable. It's like a timer - if more than 2 days go by without a roll in the hay, he gets petulant - and petulant is the best word for it. I find living with a petulant 44-year old to be tiresome, so I give in. Sex is just another weekly chore (or daily chore) for me to check off. Oh, and on the same day that I got told how selfish and negative I was, I finished the laundry and ironed shirts, I emptied and re-loaded the dishwasher, I made dinner, I made the kids' lunches, and I ran the vacuum. He sat and read the freaking paper. Nice.
Then there's the car. Last spring the minivan died. Since we had wound up swapping cars a couple years ago, he got to pick out the new one. Instead of the relatively fuel efficient Civic, Malibu, or Dodge Caliber we discussed, he chose a Dodge Magnum. It's a station wagon - a muscular looking one (my mother's Caprice Classic it ain't) - but a wagon. It gets maybe 26 mpg highway; about 23 mpg average per tank, and costs $60/week to fill. At least the Hemi version wasn't available. It's Inferno Red. That in and of itself is not problematic; since I've known him he's always had white or silver cars, and a bit of color is always nice. But the latest thing he wants?
Racing stripes.
I'll give you a minute.
Yes folks, you read it right - racing stripes. For an hour earlier this week, I was treated to a barrage of questions about racing strips. Thick or thin? Body panel stripe or no? White, black or silver? Solid or broken?
Here's an answer - I don't fucking care.
Guys, sorry - I don't get racing stripes. I mean, on the right car they look cool I suppose, but it's not my thing. Neither are flames.
How much is this going to cost? No idea. Will it exceed our $100 limit? Probably. Will we wind up getting them? Of course - because the alternative is a cranky spouse. Oy vey.
Me, I just want some peace. Some time where I'm not being groped like a high school student in the backseat of a car. I weekend free from toting kids to soccer, or running to the Boy Scout store, or trying to keep a 6-year old boy quiet in church by myself. A week where I don't have to run home, run to soccer, run to dance, grab McDonald's, make sure the homework is done, make school lunches, and I collapse into bed feeling like I never stopped moving - and then have to satisfy a grown man who really ought to be able to cope without a night of nookie. I don't need this every week. But one would really be nice.
In the great grand scheme of things, this is small potatoes. Overall, life at 35 is pretty good and I'm pretty happy. But oh, the things that just make me want to run off to the Bahamas - alone.
Gotta run now. Because I need underwear for the Boy, laces for the soccer shoes, and tile for the kitchen. Target and Lowe's await.
On this rather landmark occasion, I figured I'd take some time to reflect. I did not feel this need at 30; in fact, 30 passed with very little fanfare. Thirty-five is something different. It's not that I'm freaked out about being 35. But it's a little weird - I've officially moved into a new age demographic. I can no longer check the "18-34" box on surveys. Now it's the 35-50 box. I'm not longer the target market (officially at least) for cars such as the Ford Focus or sub-compacts. Now I'm the target market for Volvo (although I'd much prefer the upcoming Chevrolet Camaro, but I digress).
It's kind of a weird feeling.
So where am I in life? Well, professionally I'm in a pretty good place. I just celebrated 10 years with a good company. I make a decent buck (more than my parents ever made), work with people I like and respect, and who (I believe) like and respect me. I enjoy my job, despite the occasional stress caused by idiocy. I'm where I thought I ought to be in my mid-30s, so "check" on the whole "professional satisfaction" line.
On the family side, I must admit I pretty much have stereotypical "American life." Husband, two kids, house in the 'burbs, two cars, a dog. Even had a minivan until last spring. My husband still finds me attractive. My kinds are smart, kind, relatively well behaved, and much cuter than they have a right to be considering the gene pool. Check on family.
Health-wise, aside from the MS, I'm in pretty good shape. My blood pressure is good, weight is good. Because of my mother I've started yearly mammograms, but as expected the baseline showed nothing. Rarely is there anything wrong beyond standard germs brought home by children in school and daycare. Check on health
Spiritually, I'm comfortable. I've moved beyond the funk of 2007 to an acceptance and relative peace. I don't rail against God and the universe, but I don't expect everything either. Check on spirituality.
So every thing's idyllic and there are no problems, right? Well...
The Hubby still finds me attractive, which is a good thing - up to a point. Guys, I have to ask - what is it with you a sex?!? Never mind, don't answer. But I would have thought that at age 44 we could get beyond adolescence. Let me give you a tip, gentlemen: Women do not find constant groping attractive or desirable. My butt and boobs were not put there to be squeeze, rubbed, ground up against, fondled, or whatever ever five minutes. The Hubby will actually say, "I don't think I've groped you today." Oh yeah, that's so romantic! I also do not find the oogling as I get changed or out of the shower attractive. In fact, I find it disconcerting and a little degrading - like I'm a real-live Playboy pinup (with smaller boobs). Whatever happened to a simple hug or kiss? Not that I don't get them, but even those turn into a bad B-movie (or C-movie) grope-fest, complete with tongue. Eww.
Of course, I'm now absolutely convince that The Hubby is going through a mid-life crisis. First, there is sex. If he doesn't get some every couple of days, he becomes petulant and crabby - just like a child. Last Sunday, I got blasted for my "constant negative attitude" and how it "ruins everything." All because I threw a ruined piece of French toast in the garbage, grumbled about how making French toast is messy (um, it is), got slightly irritated when The Girl then complained about the quality of the French toast I had just served, signed when she then fed the dog off her plate, and then said, "Well, here take my plate - I don't think I'm going to have time to eat anyway" - which was true because it was now 9:10 and we had to leave for church in slightly more than an hour, and I still hadn't showered. He blew a gasket. "God, you're always so negative!" This only a week after he had told me what a good mood I'd been in for the last couple months.
Oddly enough, the minute he got some action (not because I wanted it, mind, but because I was sick of his thinly disguised "You're not taking care of me" attitude), he was all rainbows and sunshine again. My negativity? Hardly. Of course, most of our sex these days is obligatory, not enjoyable. It's like a timer - if more than 2 days go by without a roll in the hay, he gets petulant - and petulant is the best word for it. I find living with a petulant 44-year old to be tiresome, so I give in. Sex is just another weekly chore (or daily chore) for me to check off. Oh, and on the same day that I got told how selfish and negative I was, I finished the laundry and ironed shirts, I emptied and re-loaded the dishwasher, I made dinner, I made the kids' lunches, and I ran the vacuum. He sat and read the freaking paper. Nice.
Then there's the car. Last spring the minivan died. Since we had wound up swapping cars a couple years ago, he got to pick out the new one. Instead of the relatively fuel efficient Civic, Malibu, or Dodge Caliber we discussed, he chose a Dodge Magnum. It's a station wagon - a muscular looking one (my mother's Caprice Classic it ain't) - but a wagon. It gets maybe 26 mpg highway; about 23 mpg average per tank, and costs $60/week to fill. At least the Hemi version wasn't available. It's Inferno Red. That in and of itself is not problematic; since I've known him he's always had white or silver cars, and a bit of color is always nice. But the latest thing he wants?
Racing stripes.
I'll give you a minute.
Yes folks, you read it right - racing stripes. For an hour earlier this week, I was treated to a barrage of questions about racing strips. Thick or thin? Body panel stripe or no? White, black or silver? Solid or broken?
Here's an answer - I don't fucking care.
Guys, sorry - I don't get racing stripes. I mean, on the right car they look cool I suppose, but it's not my thing. Neither are flames.
How much is this going to cost? No idea. Will it exceed our $100 limit? Probably. Will we wind up getting them? Of course - because the alternative is a cranky spouse. Oy vey.
Me, I just want some peace. Some time where I'm not being groped like a high school student in the backseat of a car. I weekend free from toting kids to soccer, or running to the Boy Scout store, or trying to keep a 6-year old boy quiet in church by myself. A week where I don't have to run home, run to soccer, run to dance, grab McDonald's, make sure the homework is done, make school lunches, and I collapse into bed feeling like I never stopped moving - and then have to satisfy a grown man who really ought to be able to cope without a night of nookie. I don't need this every week. But one would really be nice.
In the great grand scheme of things, this is small potatoes. Overall, life at 35 is pretty good and I'm pretty happy. But oh, the things that just make me want to run off to the Bahamas - alone.
Gotta run now. Because I need underwear for the Boy, laces for the soccer shoes, and tile for the kitchen. Target and Lowe's await.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Peace at Last
As I write this, it is 10:00 p.m. The kids are in bed. The Hubby is in bed. The Hubby thinks I should be in bed.
I clearly am not in bed.
There is no noise. The TV is off. No music. Even the dog is quiet. Nobody clamoring for my attention. I even turned my DS off, resisting the temptation to practice my MarioKart skills.
It's kind of nice.
It occurs to me that I don't get enough of this. At work, there is no quiet. I was off sick Monday and found out I am apparently indispensable to the smooth running of the development shop. I know this because the pile of work on my desk Tuesday morning was twice as big as it was on Friday, there were a slew of emails in my Inbox, and two voice mail messages (nobody calls me - nobody). At home there is no quiet. There is always a kid or a husband needing attention, always some chore to be done.
I've gotten fairly good about not letting the stress get to me. Stress is bad for people with MS. I'm working on letting it go. (Yes, yes, I know - it's a work in progress.)
Quiet always bothered me. I came from a noisy home as a child (four kids, what do you expect?). I'm a parent - too much quiet means that somebody is doing something he or she shouldn't. As a student in college, quiet meant I heard the arguments of the person in the next room, or the, um, nocturnal activities of the person above me just a little too well.
But right now, quiet is good. I can think, I can write. The Hubby and I embarked on a mission to go through our five boxes of books in the basement and get rid of the stuff we don't need. Along the way I found some stuff I've been looking for - some for quite a while.
I've always mourned/griped/bitched about the fact that I get no time to myself. I do not get to go out. I do not get to do things by myself. I do not get to write. There's always something else to be done.
But perhaps I've found the answer: Just wait until everyone goes to bed. Yeah, The Hubby will probably complain because he's in bed without me. Tough. This is my time. Time to drink some tea, surf the 'Net, maybe do a little creative work. Revel in the quiet.
Of course, I may also just go to bed.
I clearly am not in bed.
There is no noise. The TV is off. No music. Even the dog is quiet. Nobody clamoring for my attention. I even turned my DS off, resisting the temptation to practice my MarioKart skills.
It's kind of nice.
It occurs to me that I don't get enough of this. At work, there is no quiet. I was off sick Monday and found out I am apparently indispensable to the smooth running of the development shop. I know this because the pile of work on my desk Tuesday morning was twice as big as it was on Friday, there were a slew of emails in my Inbox, and two voice mail messages (nobody calls me - nobody). At home there is no quiet. There is always a kid or a husband needing attention, always some chore to be done.
I've gotten fairly good about not letting the stress get to me. Stress is bad for people with MS. I'm working on letting it go. (Yes, yes, I know - it's a work in progress.)
Quiet always bothered me. I came from a noisy home as a child (four kids, what do you expect?). I'm a parent - too much quiet means that somebody is doing something he or she shouldn't. As a student in college, quiet meant I heard the arguments of the person in the next room, or the, um, nocturnal activities of the person above me just a little too well.
But right now, quiet is good. I can think, I can write. The Hubby and I embarked on a mission to go through our five boxes of books in the basement and get rid of the stuff we don't need. Along the way I found some stuff I've been looking for - some for quite a while.
I've always mourned/griped/bitched about the fact that I get no time to myself. I do not get to go out. I do not get to do things by myself. I do not get to write. There's always something else to be done.
But perhaps I've found the answer: Just wait until everyone goes to bed. Yeah, The Hubby will probably complain because he's in bed without me. Tough. This is my time. Time to drink some tea, surf the 'Net, maybe do a little creative work. Revel in the quiet.
Of course, I may also just go to bed.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Go See "The Dark Knight"
When it comes to movies, some things happen very seldom for me. I rarely regret spending every penny the trip costs, including snacks. I rarely see a movie where I have nothing to quibble over. Finally, I rarely see a movie in the theater and when it's done I want to get right back in line.
Last night, I hit the trifecta.
Christoper Nolan's The Dark Knight, a follow-up to Batman Begins, is probably the most hyped movie of 2008. This might lead some movie-goers to fear for disappointment. Don't. From the first moments of film, to the final scene, The Dark Knight delivers on its promise and launches the "comic book" movie to new heights. This is not Tim Burton's Batman (or any of the awful versions with Val Kilmer or George Clooney). This is not The Fantastic Four. Nolan takes the gritty comic-book-as-cinema trend that started with Spiderman and goes beyond it, with an exquisite exploration of human drama and moral questioning that sucks you in, holds on tight, and doesn't ever let go.
The story of The Dark Knight is not what you would think of when someone says "comic book." Forget the BAM! THWAP! POW! Forget the cartoon-esque portrayal of heroes and villains. Nolan's story is as deep as they come. For while there is certainly a contest between "good" and "evil," the movie is one that constantly poses the question, "What do you do?" in situations where any decision is morally ambiguous. If you can only save one of two people, who do you save? If you have to choose one loved one to die, who would it be? If you must kill someone else to save yourself, would you do it?
These are tough questions, and are (I believe) one reason why this is not a movie for the younger set. The movie escapes an "R" rating because while there is a lot of explosions and gunfire, there is little vulgarity, no nudity, and no sex (in fact, only two kissing scenes, both pretty tame). But parents should not be swayed by the "PG-13." This is a movie that requires some emotional maturity; the questions asked are tough ones that young folks might find difficult to understand or process. (There is also Heath Ledger's chilling portrayal of the Joker, but I'll get to that in a moment.)
These questions are what elevate this flick beyond mere "comic book movie." It's a soul search. It constantly poses difficult questions and says, "What would you do?" And all the while, you are aware that whatever you choose, the consequences are awful - for yourself, for others, for society. There is even one scene that is a subtle, yet pointed, comment on current events with wiretapping - I'm sure you'll see it. Powerful stuff.
Add to this the fact that Batman is not a hero. The citizens of Gotham do not embrace him. Some do, but many do not. He is viewed as a vigilante, one who has contributed to the problem, not helped it. This is hammered home in the last lines of the movie, when Batman disappears into the night against the narrative, "He's not a hero. He does what is needed, he can take it. He is Gotham's protector, it's 'dark knight.'" Wow.
One of the marks of a great film is the lines - are they quotable. This film delivers. There are the funny lines, the ironic lines, the emotionally powerful lines. One of my personal favorites comes from Harvey Dent (played by Aaron Eckhardt): "You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." Absolute brilliance, giving that line to the man who will become Two-Face. Some of these lines you've seen in trailers:
Harvey: Any crazy ex-boyfriends I should know about?
Alfred: Oh, you have no idea.
Alfred: Will you be taking the Batpod, sir?
Bruce: Middle of the day Alfred? Not very inconspicuous.
Alfred: The Lamborghini then. Yes, that's much more inconspicuous.
Others, well, I'll leave you to discover them for yourselves (note to technical writers, there is a great line about reading the instructions).
So, plot depth? Check. Great dialog? Check. Action? Plenty, but it never overshadows the dialog, plot, or people. So that leaves, the characters themselves. Are they believable, are you drawn to them, are they truthful? In The Dark Knight the answer is yes, yes, a thousand times yes. The casting is nothing short of brilliant, and every character - primary or supporting - is a compelling force in the story.
Christian Bale reprises his part as Bruce Wayne/Batman and, as in Batman Begins, he nails it. He is believable as both the playboy billionaire and the dark, brooding anti-hero. Here is not the affable, slightly socially awkward Bruce Wayne/stolid Batman of Michael Keaton, nor the cold industrialist/sexually charged Batman of Kilmer, or the cartoonish Wayne/Batman of Clooney. Bale's Wayne/Batman is a troubled man, searching for peace and answers. If you want the back story though, go see Batman Begins, because there is no exposition here. Outwardly successful, Wayne is still trying to fill the hole left by his experiences of childhood and young adulthood. Batman is a dark alter-ego, not altogether admirable or heroic. Necessary? Perhaps. But emotionally positive? No. Batman allows Wayne to do things he would not necessarily do. Oh sure, Batman is no villain. He is definitely out to protect the citizens of Gotham. But is he an altogether positive force in Wayne's emotional life? Maybe, maybe not.
There are two people who recognize this more than Wayne himself. The first is loyal Alfred, once again portrayed superbly by Michael Caine. Caine's dry British wit lends a touch of levity to his insight, but he knows his master. "You must know your limits," he says early in the movie. Alfred is a moral compass (much like Aunt May in Spiderman, but without beating you over the head with morality), the one who sees Bruce's need for Batman, but keeps him from being consumed completely. Alfred makes his own choices in the movie, choices to protect the man he serves and loves. Are they the "right" choices? You decide, but Nolan admirably avoids giving second-fiddle status to a character that in the hands of a less astute director could become nothing but a foil.
Second is Bruce's love, Rachel Dawes (and thank you to whomever decided to replace Katie Holmes with Maggie Gyllenhall - well done). Rachel loves Bruce, but recognizes he is a broken man who is incomplete without his alter-ego - and alter-ego she is not altogether comfortable with and she is very direct about that. In the end, she must choose and choose she does knowing the consequences, but choosing anyway.
Two more secondary characters add depth to the story. Lucius Fox (the incredible Morgan Freeman), Wayne's gadget guy who manages both Wayne Enterprises and develops Batman's toys, is a man of colossal integrity. He supports Batman, but when Batman's methods cross his personal morals, he must also choose. And then there is Lt. Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), perhaps the one man in Gotham who sees Batman as an ally, albeit a dark and unpredictable one. Gordon is not a caricature of the ineffective policeman; he is a powerful, decisive, person - one of the true "good guys" - who also feels the sting of making choices.
And then there is District Attorney Harvey Dent (Eckhardt). Gotham's "White Knight." Fans of the Batman story know Dent's fate, which makes the moniker of "White Knight" terribly ironic. Critics have said that Dent doesn't get enough good lines, but the one line I mention above is enough. Eckhardt plays the highly ambitious and moral Dent to perfection, including exposing the one flaw that Joker plays on for his own cruel, twisted entertainment. Yes, Tommy Lee Jones did Two-Face, but this is a colder, less flamboyant Two-Face, a man with serious mental issues. Fodder for Joker's mill.
That leads me to the Joker himself. Oh my god, where to begin? As with many others, I was highly skeptical when the choice to cast Heath Ledger, the pretty boy of Ten Things I Hate About You and A Knight's Tale, as the fiendish Joker. To all those who doubted let me say this: Ledger may go down in cinematic history as the most perfect Joker of all time. So perfect in fact, that although Nolan clearly intended more movies with Batman-Joker story lines (you can tell that from the dialog, as well as the fact that Joker was always Batman's arch nemesis), Ledger's untimely death in January may prevent that, even though Bale is reportedly open to a third movie. The reason? It will be impossible to replace Ledger. In my mind, and I believe in other viewer's minds, Ledger is the Joker. No substitute accepted.
And he's chilling. This is not the overblown cartoon version of Joker as played by Jack Nicholson. The makeup is messy and imperfect, designed to provoke a reaction. To call this Joker "evil" is to shortchange him. He is not merely evil, he is amoral - the physical embodiment of pure anarchy. The law, the criminals - he plays them all for his own, twisted end. His sole goal is putting people in impossible moral predicaments and making them choose.
"Civilized people will turn on themselves to save their own skin," he says, and seeing otherwise moral people forced to make morally ambiguous choices, and thus prove his point, is his entertainment. "It's not about money" he says at one point, and his actions prove it. Pure anarchy is about no order - good or bad. Anarchy does not respect any rules. Anarchy is frightening in its purest form. And that is the Joker in this movie - pure anarchy. This character is the other reason this is not a movie for young kids. It is relatively easy for kids to understand villains or "bad guys." Ledger's Joker goes beyond the typical movie villain. He takes the other characters into a world where there is no "good and bad," and that world is terrifying. Thrilling, but terrifying.
The only thing that saddens me about The Dark Knight is knowing that what could have been may never be. Ledger's death last January almost guarantees that. Ledger reportedly got so far into this character that he became emotionally troubled himself, with insomnia and nightmares. After seeing his performance, no wonder. "Oscar-worthy" performance is another phrase that is highly overused, but I think it applies here. Ledger will almost certainly get the posthumous nomination. I don't know if he'll get the award, but make no mistake. As brilliant as the other actors were (and they were brilliant), Ledger's performance is the centerpiece of this movie. He is the puppet master who pulls everybody else's strings - Batman's, Dent's, Gordon's, Gotham's - and perversely enjoys watching the show unfold. Joker may well be the hallmark of Ledger's brief, but shining, career. All I can say is Mr. Ledger, where ever you are, I am sorry I ever doubted you.
In summation, I loved Peter Jackon's Lord of the Rings trilogy. But I could nitpick even some of Jackson's cinematic decisions (understand them, yes, but nitpick nonetheless). The Dark Knight leaves nothing to nitpick. It is, as they say, all that and a bag of chips. So even if you find yourself reluctant to see a "comic book movie," go get yourself the jumbo bag of popcorn and enjoy a truly brilliant emotional ride. I can almost guarantee you won't be disappointed.
"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
PS: Yes, the movie is 2 hours 32 minutes long. Your brain will simultaneously not believe you just sat through a 2.5 hour movie (because it flies along) and think it was much longer (because so much happens). Your bladder will not be so confused - especially if you get the 55-gallon drum soft drink. So go to the bathroom before the movie, and ration yourself on the Coke. Trust me on this one, because it is not a movie where you can just get up and take a potty break.
Last night, I hit the trifecta.
Christoper Nolan's The Dark Knight, a follow-up to Batman Begins, is probably the most hyped movie of 2008. This might lead some movie-goers to fear for disappointment. Don't. From the first moments of film, to the final scene, The Dark Knight delivers on its promise and launches the "comic book" movie to new heights. This is not Tim Burton's Batman (or any of the awful versions with Val Kilmer or George Clooney). This is not The Fantastic Four. Nolan takes the gritty comic-book-as-cinema trend that started with Spiderman and goes beyond it, with an exquisite exploration of human drama and moral questioning that sucks you in, holds on tight, and doesn't ever let go.
The story of The Dark Knight is not what you would think of when someone says "comic book." Forget the BAM! THWAP! POW! Forget the cartoon-esque portrayal of heroes and villains. Nolan's story is as deep as they come. For while there is certainly a contest between "good" and "evil," the movie is one that constantly poses the question, "What do you do?" in situations where any decision is morally ambiguous. If you can only save one of two people, who do you save? If you have to choose one loved one to die, who would it be? If you must kill someone else to save yourself, would you do it?
These are tough questions, and are (I believe) one reason why this is not a movie for the younger set. The movie escapes an "R" rating because while there is a lot of explosions and gunfire, there is little vulgarity, no nudity, and no sex (in fact, only two kissing scenes, both pretty tame). But parents should not be swayed by the "PG-13." This is a movie that requires some emotional maturity; the questions asked are tough ones that young folks might find difficult to understand or process. (There is also Heath Ledger's chilling portrayal of the Joker, but I'll get to that in a moment.)
These questions are what elevate this flick beyond mere "comic book movie." It's a soul search. It constantly poses difficult questions and says, "What would you do?" And all the while, you are aware that whatever you choose, the consequences are awful - for yourself, for others, for society. There is even one scene that is a subtle, yet pointed, comment on current events with wiretapping - I'm sure you'll see it. Powerful stuff.
Add to this the fact that Batman is not a hero. The citizens of Gotham do not embrace him. Some do, but many do not. He is viewed as a vigilante, one who has contributed to the problem, not helped it. This is hammered home in the last lines of the movie, when Batman disappears into the night against the narrative, "He's not a hero. He does what is needed, he can take it. He is Gotham's protector, it's 'dark knight.'" Wow.
One of the marks of a great film is the lines - are they quotable. This film delivers. There are the funny lines, the ironic lines, the emotionally powerful lines. One of my personal favorites comes from Harvey Dent (played by Aaron Eckhardt): "You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." Absolute brilliance, giving that line to the man who will become Two-Face. Some of these lines you've seen in trailers:
Harvey: Any crazy ex-boyfriends I should know about?
Alfred: Oh, you have no idea.
Alfred: Will you be taking the Batpod, sir?
Bruce: Middle of the day Alfred? Not very inconspicuous.
Alfred: The Lamborghini then. Yes, that's much more inconspicuous.
Others, well, I'll leave you to discover them for yourselves (note to technical writers, there is a great line about reading the instructions).
So, plot depth? Check. Great dialog? Check. Action? Plenty, but it never overshadows the dialog, plot, or people. So that leaves, the characters themselves. Are they believable, are you drawn to them, are they truthful? In The Dark Knight the answer is yes, yes, a thousand times yes. The casting is nothing short of brilliant, and every character - primary or supporting - is a compelling force in the story.
Christian Bale reprises his part as Bruce Wayne/Batman and, as in Batman Begins, he nails it. He is believable as both the playboy billionaire and the dark, brooding anti-hero. Here is not the affable, slightly socially awkward Bruce Wayne/stolid Batman of Michael Keaton, nor the cold industrialist/sexually charged Batman of Kilmer, or the cartoonish Wayne/Batman of Clooney. Bale's Wayne/Batman is a troubled man, searching for peace and answers. If you want the back story though, go see Batman Begins, because there is no exposition here. Outwardly successful, Wayne is still trying to fill the hole left by his experiences of childhood and young adulthood. Batman is a dark alter-ego, not altogether admirable or heroic. Necessary? Perhaps. But emotionally positive? No. Batman allows Wayne to do things he would not necessarily do. Oh sure, Batman is no villain. He is definitely out to protect the citizens of Gotham. But is he an altogether positive force in Wayne's emotional life? Maybe, maybe not.
There are two people who recognize this more than Wayne himself. The first is loyal Alfred, once again portrayed superbly by Michael Caine. Caine's dry British wit lends a touch of levity to his insight, but he knows his master. "You must know your limits," he says early in the movie. Alfred is a moral compass (much like Aunt May in Spiderman, but without beating you over the head with morality), the one who sees Bruce's need for Batman, but keeps him from being consumed completely. Alfred makes his own choices in the movie, choices to protect the man he serves and loves. Are they the "right" choices? You decide, but Nolan admirably avoids giving second-fiddle status to a character that in the hands of a less astute director could become nothing but a foil.
Second is Bruce's love, Rachel Dawes (and thank you to whomever decided to replace Katie Holmes with Maggie Gyllenhall - well done). Rachel loves Bruce, but recognizes he is a broken man who is incomplete without his alter-ego - and alter-ego she is not altogether comfortable with and she is very direct about that. In the end, she must choose and choose she does knowing the consequences, but choosing anyway.
Two more secondary characters add depth to the story. Lucius Fox (the incredible Morgan Freeman), Wayne's gadget guy who manages both Wayne Enterprises and develops Batman's toys, is a man of colossal integrity. He supports Batman, but when Batman's methods cross his personal morals, he must also choose. And then there is Lt. Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), perhaps the one man in Gotham who sees Batman as an ally, albeit a dark and unpredictable one. Gordon is not a caricature of the ineffective policeman; he is a powerful, decisive, person - one of the true "good guys" - who also feels the sting of making choices.
And then there is District Attorney Harvey Dent (Eckhardt). Gotham's "White Knight." Fans of the Batman story know Dent's fate, which makes the moniker of "White Knight" terribly ironic. Critics have said that Dent doesn't get enough good lines, but the one line I mention above is enough. Eckhardt plays the highly ambitious and moral Dent to perfection, including exposing the one flaw that Joker plays on for his own cruel, twisted entertainment. Yes, Tommy Lee Jones did Two-Face, but this is a colder, less flamboyant Two-Face, a man with serious mental issues. Fodder for Joker's mill.
That leads me to the Joker himself. Oh my god, where to begin? As with many others, I was highly skeptical when the choice to cast Heath Ledger, the pretty boy of Ten Things I Hate About You and A Knight's Tale, as the fiendish Joker. To all those who doubted let me say this: Ledger may go down in cinematic history as the most perfect Joker of all time. So perfect in fact, that although Nolan clearly intended more movies with Batman-Joker story lines (you can tell that from the dialog, as well as the fact that Joker was always Batman's arch nemesis), Ledger's untimely death in January may prevent that, even though Bale is reportedly open to a third movie. The reason? It will be impossible to replace Ledger. In my mind, and I believe in other viewer's minds, Ledger is the Joker. No substitute accepted.
And he's chilling. This is not the overblown cartoon version of Joker as played by Jack Nicholson. The makeup is messy and imperfect, designed to provoke a reaction. To call this Joker "evil" is to shortchange him. He is not merely evil, he is amoral - the physical embodiment of pure anarchy. The law, the criminals - he plays them all for his own, twisted end. His sole goal is putting people in impossible moral predicaments and making them choose.
"Civilized people will turn on themselves to save their own skin," he says, and seeing otherwise moral people forced to make morally ambiguous choices, and thus prove his point, is his entertainment. "It's not about money" he says at one point, and his actions prove it. Pure anarchy is about no order - good or bad. Anarchy does not respect any rules. Anarchy is frightening in its purest form. And that is the Joker in this movie - pure anarchy. This character is the other reason this is not a movie for young kids. It is relatively easy for kids to understand villains or "bad guys." Ledger's Joker goes beyond the typical movie villain. He takes the other characters into a world where there is no "good and bad," and that world is terrifying. Thrilling, but terrifying.
The only thing that saddens me about The Dark Knight is knowing that what could have been may never be. Ledger's death last January almost guarantees that. Ledger reportedly got so far into this character that he became emotionally troubled himself, with insomnia and nightmares. After seeing his performance, no wonder. "Oscar-worthy" performance is another phrase that is highly overused, but I think it applies here. Ledger will almost certainly get the posthumous nomination. I don't know if he'll get the award, but make no mistake. As brilliant as the other actors were (and they were brilliant), Ledger's performance is the centerpiece of this movie. He is the puppet master who pulls everybody else's strings - Batman's, Dent's, Gordon's, Gotham's - and perversely enjoys watching the show unfold. Joker may well be the hallmark of Ledger's brief, but shining, career. All I can say is Mr. Ledger, where ever you are, I am sorry I ever doubted you.
In summation, I loved Peter Jackon's Lord of the Rings trilogy. But I could nitpick even some of Jackson's cinematic decisions (understand them, yes, but nitpick nonetheless). The Dark Knight leaves nothing to nitpick. It is, as they say, all that and a bag of chips. So even if you find yourself reluctant to see a "comic book movie," go get yourself the jumbo bag of popcorn and enjoy a truly brilliant emotional ride. I can almost guarantee you won't be disappointed.
"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
PS: Yes, the movie is 2 hours 32 minutes long. Your brain will simultaneously not believe you just sat through a 2.5 hour movie (because it flies along) and think it was much longer (because so much happens). Your bladder will not be so confused - especially if you get the 55-gallon drum soft drink. So go to the bathroom before the movie, and ration yourself on the Coke. Trust me on this one, because it is not a movie where you can just get up and take a potty break.
Monday, July 7, 2008
What Pretty Spots You Have!
So I've discovered the main consequence (visually, that is) of these injections. A quarter-sized red spot at the injection site. I mean, I know the literature mentioned redness and swelling, but this is ridiculous. I look like I've got welts, as if I've slapped myself with a belt or something. But just on my legs - it doesn't seem to happen on my arms. What a lovely look down at the pool.
And how scary is this. I decided to try calling around to find out what I should do with this red, bio-hazard sharps container once it's full. All the web sites and phone numbers I was referred to (and that are included on an EPA pamphlet The Hubby picked up) are of no use. There is either no listings for my area, or I'm redirected to companies that want to sell me containers and mailers. Thanks, but I don't need to buy containers. I'll get one every month.
So I decide to call my municipality. Lady directs me to Allied Waste Disposal, the company that does our municipal trash pickup. They can't take bio-hazard containers. Fair enough, but then the girl says, "You can just dump the needles in a plastic milk jug or 2-liter pop container, and then tape the lid shut and throw it in your regular trash. That we can take." Excuse me??? Just what else are you putting in landfills?
So I swallow my pride and email the wife of the former religious ed director. She tells me that she just wraps her containers in tape - duct tape - to disguise them and hides them in her garbage, and that this is what the Allegheny County Health Department told her to do!!!!!!
Now, I am no medical expert, but it strikes me as odd that a county health department and a municipal waste company are so blase about this. I mean the friggin' EPA publishes literature specifically stating that this stuff should not be thrown in the garbage. A plastic milk jug? Yeah, that will hold up to needle punctures - NOT!
So now I'm a bit perplexed. I shall try calling the Health Department myself. If they actually confirm this idiocy (medical waste in the trash - really?), I will call one of these companies to see if I can just purchase the mailers.
And if I can't get a satisfactory answer, I just might be calling KDKA with a news scoop. Guess what Allied Waste is putting in your landfill? Story at 11.
Friday, July 4, 2008
The Summer That Never Was
It is the Fourth of July. I am sitting in my living room wearing sweat pants and a fuzzy fleece pullover. We are watching A Capitol Fourth because that is the only way we are going to see fireworks this year. It has been raining for two days, including a deluge yesterday while we were at Idlewilde Park. I'm thinking of firing up the wood stove - if only the wood wasn't so wet.
What is wrong with this picture?
Global warming my ass.
What is wrong with this picture?
Global warming my ass.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
PS: Who Knew?
On a totally unrelated note, who knew feather pillows stunk so badly? Had to throw out the one I bought for The Boy a couple weeks ago. It smelled like something the dog had crapped on - repeatedly. Blech!
One Week Down, X to Go
Almost one week ago today, I started the Rebif injections. So far I've done three. I was right - this is not the most fun thing I've ever done. That being said...
I must be brutally honest here. While I would prefer not to be doing this at all, the manufacturers really have made this as "painless" as possible. There is nothing to mix; the syringes come pre-filled. The need is ultra-fine (29mm), much smaller than the needle used for flue shots, and I don't think that is particularly painful. Banish thoughts of jabbing yourself and pushing the plunger down. All you do is cock the auto-injector, drop in the syringe, yank off the needle cap (this part occasionally doesn't work so well, but you can get the cap off manually if necessary), swab some alcohol, position the injector, push the button. A tiny prick and 10 seconds later, you're done. And actually, you don't really need to wait 10 seconds; when a series of black lines shows up in the injector window, the syringe is empty. No fuss, no muss. Blot the dot of blood, take the syringe out of the injector, throw it in the sharps container, go to bed.
Three doses in, I haven't noticed any side effects. I had achy knee joints the first two nights, but I have no idea if that was because of the meds or because, well, my knees are twice as old as the rest of me and ache in damp weather. Regardless, two Tylenol killed the pain enough for me to sleep like a rock. The regimen builds up the dosage slowly (8 mcg for 2 weeks, 22 mcg for 2 weeks, then 44 mcg) to minimize effects, but so far, so good.
And the syringes came with a sharps container. Now I just need to find out the rules on how to get rid of it.
So all in all, I'm thinking if you absolutely have to do this, this would be the preferred method. Now if I could just get the friggin' cap remover to work, I'd be golden.
Oh, and the kids? Well, that concern evaporated. I told The Girl a few days before the meds showed up. I had to make some phone calls in front of her, and I didn't want her to freak out about me talking about needles and injections. She took it pretty well and said as long as I wasn't going to panic, she wouldn't. Smart kid.
Of course, the following Monday night when the nurse showed up to do the injection training, both kids crowded around the dining room table. "Whatcha doing, Mama? Can I watch? Can I see?" It was kind of like a freak show at the circus. For the sake of my concentration, I sent them back to Webkinz World. Sheesh. Who knew watching me give test injections to an orange could be so fascinating?
Oh yeah, and my bp after all this was 100/66 and resting pulse 74, so clearly I was neither stressed at the time, nor am I at risk of falling over dead from hypertension.
There was also a moment of morbid humor. The first couple times, the needle was bent when I removed the syringe. However, the syringe was empty and there was no liquid on my skin or the floor, so I concluded it had successfully been injected. In musing over this, I remarked that at least I hadn't wasted $4,000. At The Hubby's blank look, I explained each dose was about $2,000. After a moment, he said, "Jeez, babe, the wheelchair would be cheaper." I was not amused. My boss was not amused. My friend at work, who admittedly has a rather black sense of humor, thought it was hilarious. Perhaps I just needed to look at it in retrospect, he said. Been almost a week; still not that funny.
Now for the irritating part. As I mentioned in my last post, I have told very few people - only you my gentle readers, family, my best friend (sort of) and a few folks at work. The Hubby, however, appears to have taken out a full page ad in the Tribune-Review. A long-time friend of his who visited last weekend, another guy he met in the Army, the former Religious Education director at the kids' school (who has probably told his wife), and I think both of the neighbors. I only found out about this because I was poking around trying to find out how to dispose of a sharps container, and he said, "Why don't you ask Maria?" Come to find out he was talking about me to Maria's husband, the Religious Ed guy. This is a man who won't put my picture on his desk at work or talk about me to co-workers because his relationship with his wife is "private."
I'm rather miffed about it. I mean I know all these folks. They are nice people. But this is my health. I'm the one who ought to be telling people about it, in my own time and in my own way. I have no idea how discreet any of these folks really are, so now I have to assume that they, in turn, have told other people. And frankly, I don't feel like being a topic of conversation for other people, some of whom are potentially people who I don't really trust all that much. Wonderful.
So on the plus side, injections not that bad (so far). On the negative side, I feel like I've lost control of who knows what about my personal life. I guess batting .500 ain't so bad.
I must be brutally honest here. While I would prefer not to be doing this at all, the manufacturers really have made this as "painless" as possible. There is nothing to mix; the syringes come pre-filled. The need is ultra-fine (29mm), much smaller than the needle used for flue shots, and I don't think that is particularly painful. Banish thoughts of jabbing yourself and pushing the plunger down. All you do is cock the auto-injector, drop in the syringe, yank off the needle cap (this part occasionally doesn't work so well, but you can get the cap off manually if necessary), swab some alcohol, position the injector, push the button. A tiny prick and 10 seconds later, you're done. And actually, you don't really need to wait 10 seconds; when a series of black lines shows up in the injector window, the syringe is empty. No fuss, no muss. Blot the dot of blood, take the syringe out of the injector, throw it in the sharps container, go to bed.
Three doses in, I haven't noticed any side effects. I had achy knee joints the first two nights, but I have no idea if that was because of the meds or because, well, my knees are twice as old as the rest of me and ache in damp weather. Regardless, two Tylenol killed the pain enough for me to sleep like a rock. The regimen builds up the dosage slowly (8 mcg for 2 weeks, 22 mcg for 2 weeks, then 44 mcg) to minimize effects, but so far, so good.
And the syringes came with a sharps container. Now I just need to find out the rules on how to get rid of it.
So all in all, I'm thinking if you absolutely have to do this, this would be the preferred method. Now if I could just get the friggin' cap remover to work, I'd be golden.
Oh, and the kids? Well, that concern evaporated. I told The Girl a few days before the meds showed up. I had to make some phone calls in front of her, and I didn't want her to freak out about me talking about needles and injections. She took it pretty well and said as long as I wasn't going to panic, she wouldn't. Smart kid.
Of course, the following Monday night when the nurse showed up to do the injection training, both kids crowded around the dining room table. "Whatcha doing, Mama? Can I watch? Can I see?" It was kind of like a freak show at the circus. For the sake of my concentration, I sent them back to Webkinz World. Sheesh. Who knew watching me give test injections to an orange could be so fascinating?
Oh yeah, and my bp after all this was 100/66 and resting pulse 74, so clearly I was neither stressed at the time, nor am I at risk of falling over dead from hypertension.
There was also a moment of morbid humor. The first couple times, the needle was bent when I removed the syringe. However, the syringe was empty and there was no liquid on my skin or the floor, so I concluded it had successfully been injected. In musing over this, I remarked that at least I hadn't wasted $4,000. At The Hubby's blank look, I explained each dose was about $2,000. After a moment, he said, "Jeez, babe, the wheelchair would be cheaper." I was not amused. My boss was not amused. My friend at work, who admittedly has a rather black sense of humor, thought it was hilarious. Perhaps I just needed to look at it in retrospect, he said. Been almost a week; still not that funny.
Now for the irritating part. As I mentioned in my last post, I have told very few people - only you my gentle readers, family, my best friend (sort of) and a few folks at work. The Hubby, however, appears to have taken out a full page ad in the Tribune-Review. A long-time friend of his who visited last weekend, another guy he met in the Army, the former Religious Education director at the kids' school (who has probably told his wife), and I think both of the neighbors. I only found out about this because I was poking around trying to find out how to dispose of a sharps container, and he said, "Why don't you ask Maria?" Come to find out he was talking about me to Maria's husband, the Religious Ed guy. This is a man who won't put my picture on his desk at work or talk about me to co-workers because his relationship with his wife is "private."
I'm rather miffed about it. I mean I know all these folks. They are nice people. But this is my health. I'm the one who ought to be telling people about it, in my own time and in my own way. I have no idea how discreet any of these folks really are, so now I have to assume that they, in turn, have told other people. And frankly, I don't feel like being a topic of conversation for other people, some of whom are potentially people who I don't really trust all that much. Wonderful.
So on the plus side, injections not that bad (so far). On the negative side, I feel like I've lost control of who knows what about my personal life. I guess batting .500 ain't so bad.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Lemons and Lemonade
Isn't that how it goes - or something along those lines?
For those of you who are unfamiliar with my saga, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
Sorry.
The past nine months have been quite a roller coaster. Vertigo lead to a preliminary diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. After consultation with a specialist, that diagnosis was put on hold until after a second MRI in April. But now it's official.
I have MS.
It still feels a little weird to say. So weird, in fact, that I have not told very many people at all outside my family of course. My boss, one friend at work, and my HR rep, just to make sure I didn't have to do anything special with my insurance. But beyond that, I find myself strangely unwilling to make a formal announcement to any of the people who knew what I was going through in the fall.
Part of this is because, I'm sure, that the natural first reaction will be, "Oh god, I'm so sorry." Yet that's not really what I want and I think perhaps I can't deal with repeated expressions like this, no matter how heartfelt. See, as devastated as I was last fall, I'm not now. Really. Honest to god, I'm okay. When the doc told me, he had a med student shadowing him for the day. She kept looking at me as though she was expecting me to dissolve into hysterics. I think even he was a little surprised at how calm I was.
But see, I've already done the hysterical bit - last fall. I've had nine months to more or less accept this probability. I say probability because somewhere in my heart of hearts, I knew this was not going to turn out to be "nothing." By the time the doc actually got around to saying, "Yes, you have MS," my initial reaction was relief. No more wondering, no more guessing, no more test after test trying to figure it out. This is what your problem is. Here is the course of action we are going to take. The uncertainty of it all was far worse than the reality. I'm the kind of person who can deal with almost anything if I have facts and a plan of action.
Last fall, I had only the shock of the initial diagnosis - How can this be happening to me - I don't have any family history of this! - and then uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not. Wait and watch. It was unnerving. But now, I have the three things The Hubby says are essential to any journey: a map, a plan, and a list.
Don't get me wrong. This is going to suck - big time. It's going to suck because the only approved treatments for MS are self-injections. The medication I am going to take is called Rebif - a three-times-a-week subcutaneous injection. You get little pre-filled syringes via the mail, and there's a handy little auto-injector to administer the dose. Fun wow, right - NOT. Most people experience flu-like symptoms until their bodies adjust. Common (but rare - of course) side effects are depression, increase in liver enzymes, and increase in white blood cell count. Basically, if I feel like slitting my wrists, I turn yellow, or bleed like a stuck pig every time I nick myself, call my doctor. Wonderful.
Best part of all? There is currently no cure for MS. That means, of course, that I get to do this until a) they come up with an oral treatment, b) they find a cure, or c) I die. Whichever comes first. Yippy skippy doo.
Oddly, The Hubby had a harder time adjusting to the news that I did. He was so certain last fall that it would turn out to be nothing. Then I think he had convinced himself that even if it did turn out to be MS, I wouldn't actually need treatment. After all, he has a friend who has had MS for 15 years. He doesn't take anything and firmly believes none of the drugs actually work. I respect that, but I think I'll take a medical professional's advice. Especially since I enjoy walking, being independent, and seeing - all things that could be gone the moment damage occurs to the "right" nerve.
Fortunately, I have a good doctor and a good insurance plan. I got a call the following day from MS Lifelines, an organization that provides support, payment help, and training for MS patients. I received the auto-injector and a travel kit a few days later. By the end of the week, I had a letter saying that the prescription was approved by my insurance carrier. That last is important because believe you me, this shit is expensive. Costs run anywhere from $1,500-$2,000 per dose. Total costs can be as high as $18,000 per year. Me? I'll pay $40 every three months for a prescription co-pay (have I mentioned lately that my employer provides kick-ass health insurance?). That's one worry I don't have to deal with.
So now as I await the call from the nursing agency to arrange training, I'm only left to worry about a few things. For example, used needles are bio hazard waste. How the hell do I get rid of those? I mean, my municipal garbage service is pretty good, but I don't think they take used needles. Of course, as my aunt pointed out there are thousands of diabetics doing insulin injections every day. There has to be a procedure. Duh, why didn't I think of that?
Thinking about diabetics has also prevented me from feeling too sorry for myself. I only have to do this three times a week. Diabetics do this every day. Who's got it easier? In the words of Fox news, we report, you decide.
Then there's the bigger worry. How do I tell my kids and what do I tell them? It's not like they won't know what's going on. They're pretty smart, but still only 8 and 6. My aunt suggested talking to a support group for ideas, but if I'm reluctant to talk to friends, I'm sure not ready to talk to strangers. And how much do they really need to know? I don't want hide things and pretend it's all fine, but I don't think I really have to launch a dissertation on the workings of the central nervous system either. At least the doc was able to address one of my big concerns - MS doesn't appear to be hereditary (you think I would have figured that out on my own, seeing as nobody in my family has ever been diagnosed). He said the chances of one of them developing MS was "extremely low." Good to know.
So there you have it. Ultimately, this will be horribly unfun, and I'm sure some days will suck. But I'll make it - I have to, there just isn't a choice. I've got too much life left to live.
But it's a good thing I like lemonade.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with my saga, let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
Sorry.
The past nine months have been quite a roller coaster. Vertigo lead to a preliminary diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. After consultation with a specialist, that diagnosis was put on hold until after a second MRI in April. But now it's official.
I have MS.
It still feels a little weird to say. So weird, in fact, that I have not told very many people at all outside my family of course. My boss, one friend at work, and my HR rep, just to make sure I didn't have to do anything special with my insurance. But beyond that, I find myself strangely unwilling to make a formal announcement to any of the people who knew what I was going through in the fall.
Part of this is because, I'm sure, that the natural first reaction will be, "Oh god, I'm so sorry." Yet that's not really what I want and I think perhaps I can't deal with repeated expressions like this, no matter how heartfelt. See, as devastated as I was last fall, I'm not now. Really. Honest to god, I'm okay. When the doc told me, he had a med student shadowing him for the day. She kept looking at me as though she was expecting me to dissolve into hysterics. I think even he was a little surprised at how calm I was.
But see, I've already done the hysterical bit - last fall. I've had nine months to more or less accept this probability. I say probability because somewhere in my heart of hearts, I knew this was not going to turn out to be "nothing." By the time the doc actually got around to saying, "Yes, you have MS," my initial reaction was relief. No more wondering, no more guessing, no more test after test trying to figure it out. This is what your problem is. Here is the course of action we are going to take. The uncertainty of it all was far worse than the reality. I'm the kind of person who can deal with almost anything if I have facts and a plan of action.
Last fall, I had only the shock of the initial diagnosis - How can this be happening to me - I don't have any family history of this! - and then uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not. Wait and watch. It was unnerving. But now, I have the three things The Hubby says are essential to any journey: a map, a plan, and a list.
Don't get me wrong. This is going to suck - big time. It's going to suck because the only approved treatments for MS are self-injections. The medication I am going to take is called Rebif - a three-times-a-week subcutaneous injection. You get little pre-filled syringes via the mail, and there's a handy little auto-injector to administer the dose. Fun wow, right - NOT. Most people experience flu-like symptoms until their bodies adjust. Common (but rare - of course) side effects are depression, increase in liver enzymes, and increase in white blood cell count. Basically, if I feel like slitting my wrists, I turn yellow, or bleed like a stuck pig every time I nick myself, call my doctor. Wonderful.
Best part of all? There is currently no cure for MS. That means, of course, that I get to do this until a) they come up with an oral treatment, b) they find a cure, or c) I die. Whichever comes first. Yippy skippy doo.
Oddly, The Hubby had a harder time adjusting to the news that I did. He was so certain last fall that it would turn out to be nothing. Then I think he had convinced himself that even if it did turn out to be MS, I wouldn't actually need treatment. After all, he has a friend who has had MS for 15 years. He doesn't take anything and firmly believes none of the drugs actually work. I respect that, but I think I'll take a medical professional's advice. Especially since I enjoy walking, being independent, and seeing - all things that could be gone the moment damage occurs to the "right" nerve.
Fortunately, I have a good doctor and a good insurance plan. I got a call the following day from MS Lifelines, an organization that provides support, payment help, and training for MS patients. I received the auto-injector and a travel kit a few days later. By the end of the week, I had a letter saying that the prescription was approved by my insurance carrier. That last is important because believe you me, this shit is expensive. Costs run anywhere from $1,500-$2,000 per dose. Total costs can be as high as $18,000 per year. Me? I'll pay $40 every three months for a prescription co-pay (have I mentioned lately that my employer provides kick-ass health insurance?). That's one worry I don't have to deal with.
So now as I await the call from the nursing agency to arrange training, I'm only left to worry about a few things. For example, used needles are bio hazard waste. How the hell do I get rid of those? I mean, my municipal garbage service is pretty good, but I don't think they take used needles. Of course, as my aunt pointed out there are thousands of diabetics doing insulin injections every day. There has to be a procedure. Duh, why didn't I think of that?
Thinking about diabetics has also prevented me from feeling too sorry for myself. I only have to do this three times a week. Diabetics do this every day. Who's got it easier? In the words of Fox news, we report, you decide.
Then there's the bigger worry. How do I tell my kids and what do I tell them? It's not like they won't know what's going on. They're pretty smart, but still only 8 and 6. My aunt suggested talking to a support group for ideas, but if I'm reluctant to talk to friends, I'm sure not ready to talk to strangers. And how much do they really need to know? I don't want hide things and pretend it's all fine, but I don't think I really have to launch a dissertation on the workings of the central nervous system either. At least the doc was able to address one of my big concerns - MS doesn't appear to be hereditary (you think I would have figured that out on my own, seeing as nobody in my family has ever been diagnosed). He said the chances of one of them developing MS was "extremely low." Good to know.
So there you have it. Ultimately, this will be horribly unfun, and I'm sure some days will suck. But I'll make it - I have to, there just isn't a choice. I've got too much life left to live.
But it's a good thing I like lemonade.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
I Love Summer
I sit here on a warm June night, on a cushy porch chair, dog lying beside me, typing away. Aside from the occasional passing car, I hear the call of night birds, some chirping from my rhododendron that is slowing losing its leaves (can birds nest in a rhododendron bush?), and the trickle of my neighbor's fountain. It is still and peaceful, not yet warm enough for fireflies.
God I love summer.
God I love summer.
Friday, May 30, 2008
I'm Such a Slacker
Yes, it's true. My last post was in November 2007. That's, um, 7 months ago. I can only plead Christmas, then New Year's, then, um, well..
Let's just call me a slacker.
So I'm on the phone with my best friend the other night and she says, "What happened to the writing?" I couldn't even think about what she was talking about. "The blog." Oh yeah, that.
I'm such a slacker.
I logged in for the first time in 7 months, read some of my past posts, and thought, "You know, I'm not half bad at this writing thing." So I'm back - for better or worse. And the topic today is Men.
Okay guys, start groaning. You ladies, you might be more sympathetic. As I read this, the hubby is stretched out, sound asleep, on the deck swing. All things considered, it's not a bad place to spend a sunny afternoon. But this sleeping man confuses me.
A friend of mine at work, a theater guy who describes himself as "having no boundaries," has been trying to help me understand. It's working - sort of. I mean, I still don't get a lot of things, but hey, at least I know they are common to the male gender and not just my bedroom. For example:
A couple months ago, the hubby got a bee in his bonnet about my wedding dress. It all started with me mentioning I've lost about 20 pounds in the past year (thank you, thank you). All of a sudden, "Where's your wedding dress? Wouldn't it be interesting to try it on and see if it still fits?" Uh, no? Not really interested. He badgered my brother about bringing it down from the old family homestead. My brother says, "What's with the wedding dress?" No idea. Well, that's not true. Truth is, I suspect the hubby of having fantasies - a fetish as the friend would describe them. Everybody I mentioned this to, including women, thought it was bizarre. Definitely a fetish - definitely about sex. I will never find out because once the dress arrived, I showed it to The Girl, and put it in the attic. I have pictures if I want to remember my wedding dress. I don't need to play dress-up.
Are men capable of touching their wives in a way that is not sexual? I mean honestly guys - there's a point at which touching becomes pawing. I really don't mind if you don't spend every minute with your hand on my, um, chest (trying to keep it G here, folks). Apparently men do not see a difference between holding hands and fondling. I do. 'Nuff said.
And here's the kicker. The Boy graduated from kindergarten today. So I made plans to take the whole day off and suggested the hubby might want to do the same. "What for?" he says. Well, to do something together, without kids - you know alone. Couple things. Like go out to breakfast, come home, have a little "fun" without having to lock the door to prevent unwelcome interruptions (so to speak). I would have expected some enthusiasm for that proposal. I got a shrug and "We'll see." Huh???
Even my friend doesn't understand that reaction.
Men complain about not understanding women. I've got news for you, guys. I'll be married 12 years this August. Been together for 14. I still don't understand this man of mine.
And I'm starting to think I never will.
Let's just call me a slacker.
So I'm on the phone with my best friend the other night and she says, "What happened to the writing?" I couldn't even think about what she was talking about. "The blog." Oh yeah, that.
I'm such a slacker.
I logged in for the first time in 7 months, read some of my past posts, and thought, "You know, I'm not half bad at this writing thing." So I'm back - for better or worse. And the topic today is Men.
Okay guys, start groaning. You ladies, you might be more sympathetic. As I read this, the hubby is stretched out, sound asleep, on the deck swing. All things considered, it's not a bad place to spend a sunny afternoon. But this sleeping man confuses me.
A friend of mine at work, a theater guy who describes himself as "having no boundaries," has been trying to help me understand. It's working - sort of. I mean, I still don't get a lot of things, but hey, at least I know they are common to the male gender and not just my bedroom. For example:
A couple months ago, the hubby got a bee in his bonnet about my wedding dress. It all started with me mentioning I've lost about 20 pounds in the past year (thank you, thank you). All of a sudden, "Where's your wedding dress? Wouldn't it be interesting to try it on and see if it still fits?" Uh, no? Not really interested. He badgered my brother about bringing it down from the old family homestead. My brother says, "What's with the wedding dress?" No idea. Well, that's not true. Truth is, I suspect the hubby of having fantasies - a fetish as the friend would describe them. Everybody I mentioned this to, including women, thought it was bizarre. Definitely a fetish - definitely about sex. I will never find out because once the dress arrived, I showed it to The Girl, and put it in the attic. I have pictures if I want to remember my wedding dress. I don't need to play dress-up.
Are men capable of touching their wives in a way that is not sexual? I mean honestly guys - there's a point at which touching becomes pawing. I really don't mind if you don't spend every minute with your hand on my, um, chest (trying to keep it G here, folks). Apparently men do not see a difference between holding hands and fondling. I do. 'Nuff said.
And here's the kicker. The Boy graduated from kindergarten today. So I made plans to take the whole day off and suggested the hubby might want to do the same. "What for?" he says. Well, to do something together, without kids - you know alone. Couple things. Like go out to breakfast, come home, have a little "fun" without having to lock the door to prevent unwelcome interruptions (so to speak). I would have expected some enthusiasm for that proposal. I got a shrug and "We'll see." Huh???
Even my friend doesn't understand that reaction.
Men complain about not understanding women. I've got news for you, guys. I'll be married 12 years this August. Been together for 14. I still don't understand this man of mine.
And I'm starting to think I never will.
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