Twelve Years Ago

I was living in DC at the time, working for a graphic design firm. I was walking to the office and stopped in the little corner store to get my then-usual quart of milk that I was drinking every morning. The news was on a small TV but the sound was off. So I wasn't really sure what I was watching. I watched for a few minutes, as the building was burning and smoke was filling the sky.  I asked the guy behind the counter what it was all about.  He said he has just turned the TV on and wasn't sure himself.  It seemed too fake to be real.

I entered the office and sat down at my desk. Nancy, the Production Manager, frantically came in the office and asked, "Have you heard?" We started receiving phone calls as rumors began to fly around DC. At first we heard that a plane had landed on the steps of the Capitol Building. And then we heard it had landed on the Mall. And then we heard another was headed towards the White House, just 10 blocks away.

My boss, the principal designer, brought a small television from her home upstairs (the business was in the combined basement apartments of two townhouses). We watched as the first building collapsed, and then the second. And we were told a plane had crashed in rural Pennsylvania (40 miles from my parents' house) and another had crashed into the Pentagon.

The TV news was telling America that the Pentagon was located in DC. My parents, not knowing exactly where I was working in relation to the Pentagon (which is actually in Virginia), called me at work, frantic. The phone lines had been jammed, and it took them a few hours to get through to me. I can't imagine how panicked they must have felt.

Outside the window, people in suits were walking home. Some seemed to be strolling casually, others were running. This was about 11:00AM. All of us at the design studio wanted to go home as well. No one knew if it was over, if it was just the first wave, if there was more to come. I lived and worked 10 blocks from the White House. Anything seemed possible.

I wanted to go home, pack a bag, and drive to my parents' house. We heard rumors of streets being blocked, so that no one could get out of the city. Was it worth the effort? Was it even safe to go outside or travel? Were there gases or poisons in the air? Would I get stuck if I tried to drive anywhere?

My boss wouldn't let us leave. "Nancy's husband is out of town, Dop and Chris both live alone. I don't see the point". So we stayed at work all day, but didn't actually do any work. I think my boss - an unmarried woman in her 40's - just didn't want to be alone either.

I left work at 6:00 and walked home. I turned on the television and watched the same scenes over and over and over and over. Each time, it sunk in a little deeper, made me a little sadder.

That night, a group of friends and I all sat outside on the sidewalk in a big circle with candles. We held hands, we cried, and we prayed. The world as we had come to know it was now changed forever. We figured nothing would ever be like it was.

And it still isn't.  But we'll get there.

The "Noodle Under The Fingernail" Story

I used to tell this story in bars, asking a group of men to each put in $5 and that if they cringed or flinched in any way before the end of my story, their $5 was mine.  If they didn't react at all, I'd pay them $5.  And I am proud to say that I never once paid a single person.  The story goes like this:

I never would have guessed that something as mundane as doing the dishes could result in minor surgery (but leave it to me to find a way).  I was living in a house with two roommates during college.  One of the roommates had boiled pasta a few nights before and left the pot on the stove containing a few now-dried noodle stragglers.  I couldn't take looking at it any longer so I decided to just wash it and put it away.

Looking back, what I should have done was just reboil some water in the pot to loosen the noodles.  But I didn't think that far ahead, so I set forth to scrubbing them out.  Stuck they were, so I tried scraping them out with my fingers.  Well, as I was scraping, one of the hard noodles broke off and slid  . . . wait for it . . . under the index fingernail on my right hand!  (This is usually where most people cringe.)  It hurt like HEEEELLLLLLLLLLLL.  It ended up breaking off under the nail so that I couldn't even get to it.  I tried soaking my finger in salt water, then peroxide, then just plain old hot water, hoping to soften the noodle up, somehow hoping it might just slide out on its own.  Alas, it wouldn't soften or budge.   

After the pain eventually became unbearable (12 hours later when I hadn't been able to sleep because my finger felt like the size of a light bulb), I drove myself to the emergency room of the local hospital.  The ER staff was amazed.  While I laid waiting for my physician, the entire ER staff - one or two at a time - would come in just to look at my finger.  Apparently, it was amazing!  Somehow, they had all gone their entire professional careers and never once had a patient who had a broken piece of spaghetti stuck under his fingernail.  Imagine that!  

The ER doctor finally showed up, shaking his head in disbelief.  He thought for a second on hot to treat this wound, then said he would have to do a digital block (numb the whole finger from the knuckle down) and then scrape underneath the nail to remove the obstruction.   Needles don't typically scare me, so I said go for it.

After three shots around the knuckle (and the obligatory warning of a sharp pain from the doctor) I laid for fifteen minutes while the Novocaine took effect.  He asked me to tap my finger on the table to see if it was numb and it certainly felt that way to me.  The doctor then attempted to scrape under my fingernail with a small pair of forceps.  But my finger wasn't THAT numb and I could feel it so he immediately stopped.   

He sat back, thought for a minute, then scowled.   

He looked at me.   

He looked at my finger.  

He scowled again.  

Then he said to me, 

"I want to do this with the least amount of pain caused to you as possible."        Me:  Thank you for taking me into consideration.
"We're going to have to numb your finger again."  Okay, that's fine.
"And it's going to be very painful."  Well, I hate to be wimpy about it but this really does hurt. 
"Oh, you're not being wimpy at all.  Remember, things shoved under fingernails was a form of torture during wartime."  No kidding, I can see why.
"What you're not going to like is where we have to inject the Novocaine."  Where?
"We have to inject it next to the injury."  Meaning ... ?
"We have to inject it under the fingernail itself.  And I'm not going to lie to you, it is going to hurt like hell."

OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod!  A needle going under my fingernail!?!?!  If I could feel those forceps how in the world was a needle going to feel?  After my initial panic, I did what I do every time I am faced with a situation that seems out of my control: I take a deep breath and give the task over to the universe to handle.  I trust that it's just something I have to go through and I may as well just accept it.  

I held onto the bar alongside the bed with my left hand.  He asked me to squeeze his hand with the remaining fingers on my right and I braced myself.  I'll tell you now, even to this day, after 16 hours of tattooing, open heart surgery and a myriad of other health-related quirks, never in the history of my life have I ever voluntarily experienced such physical pain.  I felt so sick to my stomach that I couldn't breath.  The room spun, I got tunnel vision, and I almost fainted from the pain itself.  

After the injection, he lifted my nail and scraped the underside of it with the forceps, then flush out the end of the finger with a syringe.  He then popped my nail back into place and plunged my finger into an iodine mixture.   

Then, I vomited.

I was drenched with sweat at this point.  He then administered a tetanus shot (which I frankly didn't even feel compared to what had just happened), allowed me to rest and sent me to the pharmacy for a prescription of cephalaxin and acetamenophin.  

It was by far the most pain I had ever experienced.  The next day, I advertised for a new roommate.

That'll be $5, please.

Throwing My Life Away

Last week, I began undertaking the task of scanning in every photo in my scrapbooks and storing them digitally on removable drives.  Just photos, not cards or ticket stubs or receipts or all the other accumulated stuff one (read:me) puts in a scrapbook.  And I've decided to only scan photos of people, not pictures of places I've visited because very similar shots can easily be found online these days.

It's a bit of a time-consuming project, so now might be the only chance I have to do this.  The scanning itself isn't necessarily what takes time - it's the recollections:  studying each photo, gingerly prying it out of the sticky glue-hands of the pages, reading each card, fondly recalling each movie from its stub or each play from its program.  It's amazing the memories I have amassed through these books.  And it's not easy to part with them.  My first scrapbook began in 1985 - it's one of my oldest possessions.

I've gone through life  not really collecting things or hoarding items.  Since about '85, if an item didn't fit into the scrapbook, I didn't keep it.  About 10 years ago, I bought a muck box from IKEA in which to store life's important papers like tax stuff, passport, and medical records (Kevin has dubbed it "The Cube of Importance").  I guess my next goal will be to go through that and scan those items as well.  I like the idea of being paperless, be it copy paper or photo paper.

Still, there are emotions involved in this process, some I didn't expect.  It's one thing to see an old picture of yourself, it's quite another to theoretically walk back through your life year after year and relive memories, see old dear faces, and read words from someone that - at the time - were so heartfelt, but now are completely forgotten.

When the time comes, it will be hard for me to put the scrapbooks in a bag and launch them down the trash chute.  In part, I will feel a bit cleansed of clutter, but another part of me can't help feeling that despite all my care to make sure I've scanned every photo, I will be, quite literally, throwing my life away.

Stanley Tucci Smile

I love me some Stanley Tucci.  Always have.  I think he's a smart actor and he usually makes really good choices ("Space Chimps 2", "Burlesque" and "Jack the Giant Slayer" notwithstanding).  I like him every time I see him.

Recently, The BF and I watched our copy of "The Hunger Games" in which Tucci plays Caesar Flickerman, the on-air personality that hosts and commentates on the games during their runs.  And when I saw Tucci in character during this movie, I kept wondering what was so different about his face from his normal, handsome mug.  I remember he discussed the use of "lifts", which are something like very strong pieces of tape used to pull the skin back and are then hidden under the wig.  And since I was already aware of that, I knew that wasn't it.  It puzzled me for a long time, and then it hit me:  his smile.  Or, rather, his smirk.

A quick Google image check of Tucci and you will notice that he rarely smiles showing his teeth.  He is a closed smiler (it's a real thing).  The website, She Knows Love, (don't ask how I know about it), says that men who are closed smilers could be men who don't like their teeth.  But to jank up the tabloid factor, SKL also says that closed smilers could be hiding something from you or just be  out-and-out lying about something.  But then, isn't that what actors do??

In the rare photo of Tucci smiling with teeth, it does look like his teeth are a little small, which I guess is what makes Flickerman's choppers seem so incredibly big on Tucci's face.

I'm looking forward to "Catching Fire" and the other projects with which Tucci is involved.  Teeth or no teeth, he remains one of my favorite living actors. 

Plus he's married to Emily Blunt's sister, so how cool is that!

Freedom Fries

The recent practice by gay bars of boycotting Stoli Vodka to protest Russia's anti-gay policies, despite the fact that Stoli has been a longtime supporter of gays and gay events across the country, caused me to  think back about 11 or 12 years ago when America was being... well, American... and doing what it does best:  protesting something we didn't completely think through beforehand.  I know there are lots of choices on this subject, but this time, I am speaking specifically about the issue that started in the Capitol cafeteria.  The concept stretched across the United States where businesses and communities were in opposition to France's opposition of the US's opposition to Iraq: changing the name of french fries to freedom fries.

This change in nomenclature was another in a string of hollow symbolic gestures performed by Americans to show how patriotic we are.  We purchased bottles of French wine and dumped them out, apparently harkening back to the idealism of the Boston Tea Party (despite the fact that the tea was actually stolen and not purchased).  French toast became freedom toast.  And the Paris Las Vegas Hotel, which was built to look like Paris, removed all France's flags for three months in protest (but they left the 540 foot Eiffel Tower in place - I guess you really can put a price on patriotism).

But what gets me are the fries.  In order to strike back at the French for not supporting our war in Iraq, we changed the name of a product that is grown in Idaho and was invented in Belgium.  We protested a country by taking a stand against something that had nothing to do with that country.  But since we were protesting France, not for their opposition to freedom but for their opposition to the war, shouldn't we have called them Terrorist Fries?  Or Weapons of Mass Destruction Fries?  Given the fat content and the fact that Americans are the most obese people of all first world countries per capita, WMD fries would probably be a very appropriate name.

I think a good assignment for any cub reporter today would be to do some research on those businesses that adamantly changed the name from french fries to freedom fries, and revisit those businesses to find out if they stuck with that name.  And if they didn't stick with it, find out when they changed the name back to french fries and, more importantly, why.  And find out if those businesses showed any real support for the troops by sending care packages or supplies to the troops, rather than just change the name of a side dish.

America, stop being stupid.

Honor Thy Mother and Thy Father

Just a shout out to my parents on their 52nd wedding anniversary today.  The following is the speech I gave at their 50th anniversary: 

This day was not supposed to come.   My upbringing didn’t prepare me for this day.  We were never supposed to celebrate Mom and Dad’s 50^th wedding anniversary, because Dad wasn’t supposed to live long enough to see this day.  Now, that’s not me being mean or speaking out of turn.  The truth is that for all of Dad’s life, the odds were stacked against him – even from the very beginning.  He did not come into this world easily.  His mother was 15 years old when she gave birth to the first of her five children - a premature, underweight baby in a nowhere place called Deal, PA.  Dad was born a “Blue Baby”, a newborn whose blood is not oxygenated enough.  I don’t think we know how much Dad actually weighed at birth, or even how long he was . . . but his first bed was a sewing machine drawer.  Against all those odds, scrappy little Dad survived and grew.  But then, so did his obstacles.

 

He’s had more than a few scrapes in his life.  He once cut the end off of a finger.  He once didn’t duck fast enough while running through a low doorway and tore the top of his head open.  He once had surgical eye implants.  He once had two back-to-back surgeries – one quintuple bypass, the other on his intestines that had spent years turning gangrene.  And in case you didn’t know this, Dad’s been a bit of a smoker for more than the better part of his life.  See, he wasn’t supposed to live long enough to meet his first grandchild, let alone see the birth of his first great-grandchild 27 years later.  The point is, Dad has defied the odds his entire life and is here today to celebrate the 50^th anniversary of his wedding date.  We threw them a party for their 25^th Anniversary, because THIS day was not supposed to come.  We threw a party 10 years ago for their 40^th Anniversary because this day was not supposed to come.   

On June 23^rd of this year, Dad turned 74 years old.  Even though that’s still not THAT old, and despite everything, he’s outlived his father, who died at the age of 57, and has more than doubled the life span of his mother, who died at the age of 34.  He’s outlived both sets of grandparents and all 8 great-grandparents. 

But as impressive as this is, I do not totally credit Dad for this.  Because for more than 50 years, Dad has had Mom in his life, trying to make sure that despite his best efforts, he was as relatively healthy as he could be.   She’s been the brakes to his speeding car, the kill to his buzz, the pooper to his party.  She was the one who always knew when enough was enough.  

It’s never easy and rarely fun to always be the “responsible one”.  Every daredevil needs a soft place to land and who’s any softer than Mom? (Rim shot)  To him, she’s been the girl he wanted, the wife he needed, and the mother he no longer had.  I wonder who he would have been without her.  She’s kept him healthy and happy, and been possibly the best wife, mother, grandmother, and soon to be great-grandmother that God has placed on the planet.  She is the sun in the Troutman solar system, and we are merely planets orbiting around her.  

Now Mom, in sharp contrast to Dad, was not born to a teenager.  Her mother was a baby-making professional, having already given birth 6 times before Mom came along.  The 7^th of 9 children, Mom grew up in a two-bedroom house: girls in one room, boys in the other, and her parents probably – if they were smart – slept in the car.  And despite a gall bladder surgery, giving birth a few times, and super-gluing her fingers together, Mom has lived a relatively healthy life, free from the more harsh obstacles that have plagued Dad. 

 

I’m not naive enough to think my parents’ marriage was perfect.  I doubt you can get married in your late teens and stay married for 50 years without some huge disappointments along the way.  But the real “perfection” is the fact that they worked through whatever those disappointments were, to only come out stronger on the other side. They started a journey, made promises to each other, and stayed together through better and worse, richer and poorer, and in Dad’s case – sickness and health.

I never thought I would be lucky enough to not only have both of my parents in my life for all of my 47 years, but for them to still be married and in love with each other.  I’m grateful to God for His blessing.  I’m grateful to Dad for hanging in there.  And I am grateful to Mom, who I truly believe made it all possible.  

This day was not supposed to come.  But I am humbly thankful that it did.

Titanic 2.0

So wait...

There's some rich dude in Australia who has nothing better to spend his money on than a full scale replica - furnished and all - of the RMS Titanic?  And I am just now hearing about it?

It seems dude (businessman Clive Palmer) has even created his own cruise line called Blue Star Line, a tip of the hat to the original Titanic's company, White Star Line.  The new version of the ship is being built in China and is scheduled to make its maiden voyage in April 2016, mirroring the same trek the original ocean liner made from Southampton to New York.  I'm not altogether sure how I feel about this.  It seems like it will be just one big, really expensive Disney ride.  The real joy of history is to "walk in the footsteps of". 

I'm personally not a fan of recreations.  If I am standing in a room where, I am told,  Washington or Lincoln once stood, I want to be sure I am looking at the same things they were, perhaps standing on the same floor if that's possible.  During a visit to Springfield, IL a few years ago, I paid a visit to the Old State Capitol in downtown.  I was standing in Representatives Hall, the room where Lincoln delivered his infamous "House Divided" speech; even being told by the guide where Lincoln had sat while he was a state representative.  It wasn't until a person on the tour asked about changes to the building that the guide admitted that while the original stone exterior was stored and rebuilt, the interior was completely reconstructed in 1966.  I instantly felt shafted.  I was not, after all, standing in the same room as Lincoln; that room had been demolished.  The authenticity was compromised.

So now I wonder how Titanic II is going work out.  I think it will only really work if everyone was told that they could only dress in period costumes for the duration of the cruise.  Something will be spoiled by being on the deck of the Titanic, surrounded by the images we've only ever seen in photographs, and seeing a teenager in a Bieber tee shirt texting on her iPhone.

Booth Cemetery Plot

During my recent trip back to Maryland, I made a quick sidestep into Baltimore to see the Booth Family plot in Green Mount Cemetery.  All who know me know of my fascination with Abraham Lincoln, specifically the event of his assassination and the days both leading up to and following.  For years, I have been absorbing as much information as possible: reading books, visiting locations, talking to other assassinationphiles.  The more I learn about the event, the more questions arise about more than meets the eye.  Lately, my interest has been re-piqued by a new blog I found called BoothieBarn.  The owner/author of the blog is a school teacher who believes that all of us who are interested in this topic should be known as "Boothies" after the assassin, John Wilkes Booth - said to be the most handsome man in America at the time.  The BoothieBarn site is chock full of information that I devoured in one afternoon.

But back to my trip to the cemetery.  Immediately after JWB's body was recovered and his autopsy complete, he was buried under a floor in the Old Washington Arsenal Penitentiary, a site now occupied by Fort McNair in SW Washington, DC.  Four years following the assassination, JWB's older brother, Edwin Booth, petitioned then-President Andrew Johnson in 1869 for the body so that it could be interred in the Booth family plot in Green Mount, a 20' x 30' plot of land which houses 4 generations of the Booth family.  Johnson, knowing he would not be re-elected to the presidency, permitted the transference.  JWB's body was buried in the middle of the night without fanfare of any kind in an unmarked section of the plot for fear of both retribution or celebration.



Most people erroneously believe that JWB is buried to the far lower left of the plot. Check out the photo and you will see a small, unmarked tombstone in the lower left corner of the plot, with flowers and some sardonic pennies sitting on top of it.  When I visited, there was even a note from someone placed at that stone - a note from a woman, forgiving JWB for his actions.  What these same people don't realize is that this particular stone is actually the footstone for JWB and Edwin's sister, Asia.  Each grave in this plot has a headstone and a footstone.  Asia's headstone is in the lower center with a cross.  To the right of her headstone are the footstones for Junius Brutus and MaryAnn Booth, the parents of the Booth children.  Others buried in this plot are children Rosalie Booth and Joseph Booth, and Joseph's wife Cora and son, Edwin (named after Joseph, Asia, and JWB's older brother).  Also here is Richard Booth, Junius' British father, and three Booth children who died of cholera, were previously buried on the family farm in Harford County, MD, but later moved here: Mary Ann, Elizabeth, and Frederick - all three in unmarked graves.

However, other assassination scholars, including information on BoothieBarn, will tell you that while JWB's name does appear on the Booth Family tombstone, his grave is actually not marked.  JWB is believed to be buried behind the obelisk in the patch of grass with no other form of acknowledgment.

And while I was standing in that space the other day, I experienced a feeling I never had in a cemetery before.  Now, I've been in LOTS of cemeteries.  I've been researching my dad's family tree for about 10 years and with the exception of court records, tombstones are the most reliable sources of names and dates.  But while standing in this space, I realized that as fictional or real John Wilkes Booth has always been to me, I was now standing just 6 or so feet away from him.  It struck me that despite him dying 99 years before I was even born, his body and mine were now only a few feet apart.  I had never had that realization before.

It was amazing. 

Welcome To Miami!

Over the next several weeks, I will be sharing my opinions about Miami and what we have experienced since our relocation here on June 1st.  Today though, the 1972 Miami Dolphins team is visiting The White House for its official Super Bowl Congratulations, which brings up one such issue we have experienced here:  Miami Time.  The fact that accolades are being lauded to the Dolphins 40 years after their victory is demonstrative to how long it takes to get anything done in this town.  The word mañana (Spanish for "tomorrow") is a very popular word here. 

There is absolutely no rush to get anything done here.  For example: I scheduled to have our cable and internet installed in our new apartment the same day we moved in.  I was very clear that it was an installation.  The technician arrived 4 hours late without any of the equipment he needed to perform the install - despite the appointment being an INSTALLATION.  He came back the next day to install as I was unpacking.  After he left, I realized the remote didn't work properly.  It took exactly 1 week to get another remote.  

I know, I know - first world problems!  But still...

It took The BF several days to get the key fob to properly work for the parking garage, despite him making several phone calls each day about the subject.  And last week, I got a call about a resume I submitted the first week of June.

There are many more examples of how no one here seems to think timely response of any kind is of value.  And it's almost as if Miamians think it's cute or something.  Because if you do complain about anything, you hear the infuriating retort, "Welcome to Miami!"

And we (The BF and I) are not the only ones who experience this.  My new doctor who hails from DC mentioned it to me in our appointment last week.  The pharmacist at CVS who moved to Miami from Chicago in January also finds it frustrating.  And The BF's boss, who moved here earlier this year from New York, is also baffled by how anything gets done here.  So if you are a transplant from any place else in the country, you'll most likely find Miami's schedule off by several days.   

I guess eventually we will adjust to it, perhaps sooner than later.  After all, I wrote this post last Wednesday and I am only getting around to posting it today.  

Welcome to Miami!

Tie A Yellow Ribbon

This weekend, I am heading back to Maryland to see my family for the first time since March.  Since then, I

• Saw the pre-Broadway runs of "Jekyll & Hyde" and "Big Fish", as well as the national tours of "Anything Goes", "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" and "Catch Me If You Can"
• Visited Miami for the first time
• Fought the flu
• Fired an employee and hired my replacement
• Attended several Taco Tuesdays
• Had an amazingly fun going away party at Mary's Attic
• Saw the Chicago Shakespeare Theater production of "Henry VIII"
• Went to a Cubs Game
• Attended my final Wish Ball
• Went to Seattle
• Went to Alaska on my first cruise
• Bawled my eyes out when I left my job
• Moved to Miami
• Spent a week with the world's best dog in NYC
• Visited Grant's Tomb
• Got trapped in an elevator
• Went to a strip club
• Spent a weekend in Disney World
• Made new friends

 I wonder what my family will want to talk about first?

Have a great weekend!!

The Good Doctor

One of the stresses of life, at least for me, is finding a new physician.  It's always a crap shoot as to what I'm going to find.  Whether I am moving to a new city or even if I develop a new ailment that requires a specialist, I am always concerned with finding the perfect doctor.  Because for me, it's more than finding a doctor who knows what he's doing; I also have to actually like the person.  My goal is for us to build a professional relationship, a partnership where we can both be my health advocate.  I need someone who is straight with me, honest with me, and not afraid to get in my face and hold me accountable.

I will say that I have been pretty fortunate in the doctor department.  There have been 5 physicians in my life who have helped get me through some difficult times:

• Dr. Joel Taubin was my GP for the 10 years I lived in DC.
• Dr. Mark Nelson was the cardiothoracic surgeon during my quadruple bypass in 2005.
• Dr. Mark Stolar was my GP for the 8 years I lived in Chicago.
• Dr. Donald Lloyd-Jones remains my cardiologist since 2005.
• Dr. John Hefferon was the orthopaedist during my shoulder arthroscopic surgery in 2011.

Whether it was something as trivial as a sore toe or as convoluted as a sternum infection, these physicians proved to me (whether quickly or not so) that they actually cared about ME, that we were partners in my good health, and that the responsibility of my continued good health was in my hands.

Don't get me wrong - this is a very short list from the unfortunately large group of doctors I have seen in my adult years.  For example, both of the cardiologists I had while living in DC sucked: one removed me from all medications once my health "seemed" to be improving (which then only caused more problems), while the other one completely misdiagnosed me with cardiomyopathy (which I've never had), telling me to prepare for a transplant (which I didn't need), and instructed me to never take an aspirin (which I do every day).

Why bring this up  now?  Because it is doctor time again in my life.  With my recent diagnoses of shingles, I needed to find a new GP in a new city with no one to ask for a reference and no real starting point.  It's tricky.  I am at the mercy of my insurance carrier's website and my own research.  It's the virtual version of opening up a phone book and just dropping my finger on a name.  

But I did find one here in Miami and had my first appointment with him this week.  In short, I like him.  He's originally from DC and is a relative newcomer to Miami, just like me.  This has already created a bond.  And he loves to communicate by email, which is something I have almost had to force some of my doctors into over the years.  The jury is certainly still out and time will tell, but it feels like we are off to a good start.

Saturday Night TV

Saturday nights as a kid were different than in my 'tween years.  Before the age of 10, Saturday night TV consisted of The Mary Tyler Moore Show at 9:00, The Bob Newhart Show at 9:30, and my beloved Carol Burnett Show at 10:00.  Sometimes at 9:30, we would switch channels to watch reruns of The Adventures of Superman series.  But mostly we kept it on CBS because I didn't want to miss a second of Carol Burnett.

God, how I loved that woman (and still do).  When her show went off the air in 1978, I remember it being one of the first, big disappointments of my life.  I used to copy all the characters they created on the show.  My family still, now and then, will let out a zinger we heard on the show ("Yoohoo, have you got any pretzels?");  stuff so good it sticks with you for years and years.   Mr. Tudball and Mrs. Wiggins.  Eunice, Ed and Mama.  Stella Toddler.  Watch any of those clips and try not to laugh.  Better yet, catch a blooper reel and watch them laugh at themselves.  That's probably more fun.

After years of solid entertainment, all three of those shows would be off the air within a year of each other.  So what's a kid of 11 supposed to watch then?  Along comes "The Love Boat" and "Fantasy Island".  And I was not appeased.  Every Saturday night at 9PM, I'd be plopped in front of the TV set to make "another run" with the Gopher, Doc, Isaac, Julie and the Captain, as well as their guests on the Pacific Princess.  Same with Fantasy Island.  I could never invest myself in these shows.  Perhaps I was getting older and losing interest in Saturday night TV, but these shows just were not entertaining to me.  I didn't know the word shlock then, but if I had, I would have used it for these replacements.

What is interesting is that the first set of Saturday night shows were all originals, a comedy troupe based around one main person.  And they were excellent television.  The latter two shows were huge ensemble shows with relatively small casts who may or may not be involved in the show at any length.  Guest stars were the real attraction to these two.  What is also interesting is that both of the latter two shows were attempted to be revived in 1998, with "The Love Boat: The Next Wave" and "Fantasy Island" - both of which only last 1 year before cancellation.

Now on Saturday night, The BF and I spend most of our time channel hopping to find anything good to watch, or we switch over to Netflix or get a RedBox.  But I miss fun, scripted television with the same characters week after week.  I still love to sit in my jammies and watch TV on Saturday night.  I just wish Mary, Bob and especially Carol were there with me.

Shingles Suck!

So let's go ahead and add shingles to my already long list of medical issues.  What I thought were three spider/bug bites that popped up last week have turned out to be shingles, a painful skin rash that has formed on the right side of my abdomen, wrapping around my side to my back.  And like every other medical issue I've contracted, it most commonly shows up in older people.  Thus strengthening my argument that I have the insides of someone 30 years my senior.

If a person is under 50 years old with a relatively strong immune system (like me), there is really only one way for shingles to activate:  stress.  So let me reflect on the last year or so of my life:

• Physically sought and moved a satellite office for my previous employer
• Managed the relocation and set up of the new headquarters for my previous employer
• Voluntarily left my job and relocated to Miami with The BF
• Handled the relocation of our place and the set up of our new apartment
• Continuing to look for new job in a new city

So after the last several months, this might be the most calm I have been, which might explain my defenses being lowered and shingles activating.  This is the explanation I am going with because it makes me understand it more. 

I will admit that it hurts to move, to sit, to walk, to everything.  Even a breeze blowing my shirt against my skin is excruciating. The pain subsides a bit when I lay down flat on my back - something I am never able to do for too long unless I am sleeping.  I understand that these occurences last a few weeks at a time.  I thought I would be able to go a few months without needing to find a new doctor in Miami.  Oh, well.

I'm still tan, though!

I'm Really Doing It This Time, I Swear!

I'm bringing blogging back.  Specifically, this here blog.  After more than a year hiatus (and even a few years before that), I've decided to bring back the blog for a few reasons:

1)  I have a lot - and I do mean a lot - of opinions.  And since I now live in a city where I know only 1 other person, I need some kind of outlet in which to share my thoughts.

2)  Said "only 1 other person" is the BF, who is no doubt tiring of being the sole ear to hear my rants.  The man deserves a vacay.

3)  This is a good way to stay connected, perhaps only 1-way, to my friends beyond the posts I put on Facebook.  I am going to try to no longer post personal opinion on there as those can sometimes trigger regretted exchanges. 

So feel free to check in and/or read on.  I'm really going to do it this time.

I swear.

My Case For Melissa McCarthy

Well, the Academy Awards are finally here.  And while all decisions have been made, envelopes sealed, scripts written, etc, I felt compelled to make one final plea in favor of a nominee.  No, this time the plea is not for Meryl, who is arguably the best actress of my generation if not ever.  This time, my plea goes out for proper recognition of Melissa McCarthy, nominated tonight for her incredible performance in Bridesmaids.

If you've seen the movie (and you really must), you'll agree that all the characters are well-written and acted.  But Melissa created something indelible in "Megan", the fight-club loving, nuclear engineer who doesn't give a crap what anyone thinks of her.  She's brilliant, brutally honest and more than a little sexually adventurous.  She steals every scene she's in, eating it up like a bad Brazilian lunch.

And yes, while tonight's favorite Octavia Spencer had some good lines and one killer scene in The Help, the character she played was already well-structured in the novel.  Melissa created a character from nothing, with only dialogue (some of which she improvised) to go on.  Much the same way Johnny Depp created a legendary pirate out of nothing (and was egregiously overlooked for it), Melissa's Megan will be a Hallowe'en costume that will be instantly recognized through time.

So there it is - I'm putting it out there:  Melissa McCarthy should win the Oscar, but won't.  I guess the good is that we all know who she is now, and that she is sadly wasting her time and talent on that crappy TV show, whose first and only episode I caught only after watching "Bridesmaids".  Tonight will be fun with friends, but I will feel a little sad for Melissa.