Wrap Rage

A few weeks ago, I posted the picture at right on my Facebook account, stating that in order to open the package, I clearly needed the scissors inside.  Oh irony!  Funny to readers; not so to me.  

Attempting to unwrap a package that is seemingly impossible to unwrap can be a frustrating problem.  And not just for me - there is actually a diagnosis for the hatred, anger and exasperation one feels when not being able to open packaging:  wrap rage.  You know it's real because it has its own Wikipedia page!  

It's the immense, sweat-inducing fury we've all felt trying to open packages that are simply impossible to open easily: light bulbs, potato chip bags, boxes of cereal, medicines and (10 years ago) CD cases.  Have you ever found yourself standing in your kitchen, unfathomably frustrated — fuming, even — after several attempts to open a bag of something only to realize it’s more secure than Fort Knox?

Manufacturers say that their packaging is simply the safest way to ship and store their products, and ask for "consumer patience" when opening the goods.  Easy to say, impossible to do.  Besides that, it's wasteful.  Nearly 1/3 of American waste is packaging.

I've a longstanding joke about my health that "I've survived a car accident, a stroke, cancer, a heart attack, and open-heart surgery all before the age of 40: which means that one day I will probably choke on an M&M and kill myself".  However, I am going to amend this phrase to add "...if I first don't puncture an artery with a screwdriver trying to open a pack of pens."

Joseph Palmer: Beard Wearing Freak

Since December 1, 2014, I've been allowing my beard to grow out.  I've never done this before, having what equates to a 5-day growth on my face for most of the past 20 years of my life.  But since full, long beards are still considered stylish, I thought I'd give it a try.  There are obvious limits to me being able to change my look.  Short of gaining and losing a few pounds here and there, and plus a few more wrinkles, I have pretty much looked the same way since the mid-1990s.  I mean, it's not like I've been able to change my hairstyle.

While researching beard-care and products, and image-searching for beards I wanted to emulate, I came across the story of one Joseph Palmer - a veteran of the War of 1812 and a member of the short-lived Utopian community “the Fruitlands”. He was described as a kind and tolerant man, but life was not easy for Joseph Palmer after he moved to Fitchburg in 1830. People would openly insult him, throw rocks at him, regularly break the windows of his home, and even cross the street so as not to be near him when he passed by. Despite being a deeply religious and God-fearing man who regularly attended church services, Palmer was publicly denounced during sermons by his pastor, Rev. George Trask, and even refused communion.

What awful thing had this small town butcher done to warrant such persecution? Joseph Palmer’s crime was that he was the only citizen in Fitchburg, Massachusetts who chose to wear a full beard, which (contrary to my vision of the 1800’s being a beard grower’s paradise) had been out of fashion in the United States since the time of the Pilgrims.  Think about it.  Look at all the photos of American men during the 1700's and the early 1800's.  You won't find a beard among them.

Mr. Palmer was so reviled that in 1830, while walking out of the Old Fitchburg Hotel, he was attacked by four men who attempted to forcefully shave his beard on the grounds that his beard was immoral. Palmer was thrown on the stone stairs, and even though he was a muscular, 200 pound farmer, he was unable to repel the four men and resorted to stabbing two of his assailants in the legs with his jackknife. His attackers were only hurt badly enough to curtail their efforts, but Palmer was arrested and fined for committing an unprovoked assault. Even though he had the resources, he refused to pay the fine on principle, and was jailed as a debtor in the Worcester city jail. He spent over a year in prison, during which time he repelled two more attempts by jailers and prisoners who sought to shave his beard against his will.

Palmer would be quietly released thanks to the large amount of bad press that was generated by his story as it wound its way through the national newspapers, but he would refuse to leave until he could secure a proclamation that it was perfectly acceptable to wear a beard. He was never given that assurance, and he was eventually tied to a chair and carried out of the jail against his will.

Joseph Palmer achieved national celebrity status at the time, and used his position to contribute time and money to the Temperance and Abolitionist movements. He would go on to circulate in New England intellectual circles with Transcendentalists like Emerson and Thoreau, and even appears as the character, Moses White in the Louisa May Alcott’s Transcendental Wild Oats.

Palmer died in 1873 at the age of 84, and on his grave in Leominster, Massachusetts is a picture of a man with long, flowing beard and the words, “Persecuted for wearing the beard”. He was one of the most ridiculed and persecuted men of his time simply because he chose to stand up against the herd in support of his right to wear a beard. Not ten years before Palmer’s death, Abraham Lincoln would be the first president of the United States to wear a beard in office.

The next time you’re feeling like a freak and thinking about giving up your individuality for a spot in the herd, remember: resistance is not futile, and sometimes freaks are only freaks because they’re ahead of their time.

2005-2015: Ten Year Blog Anniversary!

Me, the month I started writing this blog

At the time, little did I know that 2005 would be such a pivotal year in my life.  A lot happened.  I mean A LOT happened.  During 2015, the launch of several 10-Year Anniversary markers will occur for me.

The first of which is that 10 years ago on April 11, 2005, I started this blog.  My first post was titled Kicking The Tires and it was about my trepidation at trying new things (some things never change) while comparing technology to my then dating life.  Blogging was still a fairly new endeavor for most people, including me.  I had initially built out a personal website, but my postings were pretty much just opinion pieces.  So BF#6 (the one just preceding Kevin) suggested I start writing a blog instead, which I did ... 2 week after he dumped me.

A similar situation occurred back in 1993 when BF#3 broke up with me after 2 years.  Only then, I actually wrote an entire book.  It was never published, but parts of it have shown up in this blog over the course of the last 10 years.  I was proud of that book and I am proud of this blog.

Look for more 10-Year Anniversary markers during 2015.  

Lincoln Assassination 150 Years Ago

One hundred and fifty years ago tonight, at about 10:20 PM (EST), Abraham Lincoln was shot in the back of the head by John Wilkes Booth during a performance of "Our American Cousin" at Ford's Theater in Washington, DC.  He will die the next morning at 7:22 AM (EST).  This event, as well as those leading up to and following, have fascinated me - and many others - for the past 40 years.

What began as a failed attempt at a kidnapping ended in the first assassination of a sitting U.S. President.  Lincoln certainly was not popular during his presidency, but his death made him a martyr and he has since been elevated to greatness because he fought for what was right.  In some ways, his life is an allegory of Christ:  born in modest and meager surroundings, lifelong student and teacher, champion of the downtrodden, leader of people, eschewed personal sacrifice for the greater good, put to death publicly for a cause in which he believed.  The more I continue to read about him, the more he guides my moral compass. His death is one of the more fascinating pieces of a life filled with adversity and challenge.

During the past 40 years, I've read about 30 books on the subject, visited Ford's Theater & Museum an uncountable number of times, visited Lincoln's home, office, grave site, and Presidential Museum in Springfield, IL, seen the gun with which he was shot as well as the chair in which he was sitting, the room in which he died, and even the bed in which he drew his last breath inside the Petersen House.

I've also visited both the boyhood home and eventual grave of Booth, as well as found the spot where Booth died, which is now a nondescript site in a median strip along Route 5 in Southern Maryland.  I've even seen the vertebrae removed from his neck during his autopsy, which is now  held in the National Museum of Health and Medicine in Silver Spring, MD.

I've ridden Booth and accomplice Davy Herold's escape route a few times including visiting the Surratt Tavern in Clinton, MD, and the home of co-conspirator, Dr. Samuel Mudd in Bryantown, MD.  And in December 2013, I visited Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas, the prison where 4 of the conspirators lived and died.  I've visited the graves of 6 of the 8 co-conspirators as well as a few of their homes.

I've done all of this to get as close to and learn as much about this event and this man as possible.  To say I am fanatical is fair, but what is cool is that those who know me well cannot hear the name Lincoln and not think of me, if even for a flash of a second.  My friends and family have showered me with books, magazine, pamphlets, movies, documentaries and many trinkets that I hold dear - all now prominently displayed in our new home.

So tonight at 9:20 PM (CST) I will pause to offer reverence for one of the greatest men to have occupied the Office of The Presidency; a man who changed the course of the country in his lifetime.  And I'll wonder, as we all should, what we might have become had the event on that night 150 years ago not taken place.

My Irish Heritage

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

While everyone is just a little bit Irish today, I pay tribute to my Mother's Irish lineage.

Mom's paternal 5xGreat-Grandparents, John and Jean Anderson, came to the United States from Ulster, Ireland (which is in northern Ireland)  in 1722 by way of Philadelphia and settled in Augusta, VA in 1735.

John acquired 747 acres of land on Middle River in Augusta County, VA by grant on June 3, 1738, and was also granted 270 acres of land on a branch of Catherys River, now called Anderson Branch.

In 1742, John was a member of Captain John Smith's Company of Augusta County Militia, and in 1756 he belonged to Captain Christian's Company of Militia.  He was one of the first elders of Old Stone Church (near Staunton, VA) and on October 30, 1745, Governor William Gooch commissioned John one of the first magistrates in Augusta.

John and Jean had 10 children - 3 daughters born in Ireland, then 5 sons and a daughter born in Augusta.  The fourth son, William, born in 1750, is from whom my Mother's line descends.

March 4, 2014: The Toughest Day Of My Life

First off, this is a little long.  I've waited a year to get this off my chest, so bear with me.

Little was going the way it should, despite us doing everything we were supposed to do.  I'd notified the building that we were moving out three weeks in advance.  On February 12, 2014, I told them that I wanted to reserve the elevator for March 5th.  And since we lived on the 36th floor of the building, reserving the elevator was priority for getting all of our belongings down and into the moving truck.  The building concierge confirmed the date and time.  She said we could have the elevator reserved for all day March 5, 2014.

Experience told me that this seemed too simple.

This being Miami, I smartly decided to follow up.  If living here for the past year had taught me anything, it was that no one did what they said they were going to do.  I'd needed to constantly follow up with the post office, building management, utility companies, and building maintenance.  Even 128 of the 131 resumes I had sent over the past year had garnered no response.  Constant follow-up had become my way of life.

So the next day, February 13th, I stopped by the building front desk to confirm the reservation I had made the day before.  Not surprising, there was no record of it.  So when I resubmitted my request, I was told that I could not use the EAST elevator bank (located just outside our unit door which then opened near the loading dock downstairs), but would have to use one of the 4 elevators on the WEST side of the building instead.  It was as if I had sniffed glue.  All I could muster was a simple, "Um, what?"  Once the concierge repeated what she had said, I reminded her that in order for us to move our belongings out of our unit and down to the loading dock, we would need to pass through 3 sets of doors, a security gate, cross the outdoor pool deck area, dodge sunbathers while trying to avoid water damaging our belongings, pass through another security gate and another set of doors just to get to the west elevator bank on the other side of the building, ONLY TO THEN walk our items out the front lobby doors and around to the other side of the building to get to the loading dock where the van had to be parked.  To give you some idea, here is a diagram:

And here's another view:

I asked the concierge if she could see the absurdity in this. She just looked at me and said that's how it needed to be done.  I pointed out to her that this was not the way we had moved in to the building, so it would not be the way we move out of it.  Without excusing herself from the conversation, she walked into the "back office".  After I spoke with two more people, the building acquiesced and allowed us to use the east elevator bank instead, letting me know they were making an exception.

A week before our scheduled March 5th move out, the building management called to bump us up a day to March 4th.  When I asked why, they said others had scheduled to move in/out on the 5th.  My reminding them that I had already RESERVED the elevator and loading space for March 5th fell on deaf ears.  Luckily, Kevin was able to change his day off work at the last minute.

Three days before our now-scheduled March 4th move out, the building management called me again - this time to change our scheduled start time from 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. because they scheduled someone else to start at 8 a.m.  SOMEONE ELSE?  How could SOMEONE ELSE reserve the elevator when we apparently weren't supposed to use it in the first place???  So again, I reminded them that we had the elevator RESERVED for the entire day.  It was then that they told me that I couldn't do that - I could only have it for a 2-hour window.  On this, they were unyielding.

At this stage, I lost track of the number of times I said "What the f*ck?" to someone's face.

So finally our actual move date arrived and we picked up the rental truck.  While waiting patiently for our turn to use the elevator, of course the people ahead of us took longer than scheduled.  Add to that, that as soon as they finished, the elevator stopped functioning.  The elevator inspection company came to fix it, but then forgot to turn it back on until Kevin chased after them.  Once the elevator was functioning again and we asked the building concierge for the key to lock the elevator for use, we were told that because it was a public elevator we could not lock it for use and had to share it with the rest of the building.  All 36 floors of tenants.  This slowed the process immensely.

So to sum up at this point - every conversation in which I had involved the building management about our move out of the building ended up being a colossal waste of time.  "Welcome to Miami", indeed.

To our credit, Kevin and I were well-prepared for the move.  Everything was boxed and we had a packing plan.  It took many trips in the elevator, but once we were finally able to start moving at 1 p.m., we managed to get everything loaded in 2.5 hours and were done by 3:30.

This was when an already horrible day turned worse.

The plan was that I would drive 95% of our belongings back to Chicago and move back into our condo while Kevin remained in Miami for an additional 6 weeks to work out a notice at his job.  Neither of us were fans of being separated for 6 weeks, especially since we had come to rely on each other so much for the past year.  But I was starting a new job in Chicago soon and this seemed like the best plan.

But because it was now much later in the day than we had planned (we had originally planned to be done by 10:30 AM), I reached out to the building manager and asked permission to park our now completely loaded truck in a small, hardly-used, gated lot on the building property overnight so that I could start the drive to Chicago early the next morning.  I pointed out that due to the building's incompetence and constant rescheduling, it was too late to begin a road trip (especially starting in rush hour).  The rental truck was too tall to fit into any of the area parking garages and we were not keen on leaving the truck with everything we own sitting on the street overnight.  Without hesitating, she simply said, "no".

So with no other choice, and exhausted, I looked at Kevin and said, "well I guess I need to get going then".  Neither of us was prepared for this.  After so much disappointment the entire day, I now had to get into a truck and drive away from the man I love, leaving him in a city that I know he hated and perhaps not seeing him for 6 more weeks.  It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do.  We both tried to keep brave faces, but the pain was excruciating.  He walked out onto the street and stopped traffic to motion me out of the loading dock, I took one more look at him fighting back tears, mouthed "I love you", and then drove away.

I honestly don't know how I made it out of Miami.  For 20 minutes, I fought the urge to turn around.  Any chance I had to see our building from any street, I took it - thinking Kevin might have gone up to the pool deck to watch me go and I could see him - tiny him - just for a second.  I didn't want to miss that chance.  Miraculously, I didn't crash into anyone.  With a face full of tears, I cursed the city and yelled "I LOVE YOU BUN" probably a hundred times.

At some point, probably 20 miles into the drive, I accepted life as it was, took a deep breath, and just drove.  I didn't even turn on the radio.  I finally stopped for the night in Valdosta, GA, just over the Florida/Georgia line.  It took me 7 hours, but I wanted to just get the hell out of Florida.  The trip home took me three days.

The eventual bright spot in all of this, is that 7 weeks after this horrific day, Kevin proposed.  :-)

Vote For Me!

I entered a photo I took in a contest and am asking for your vote.  The contest is sponsored by DreamTown Real Estate in Chicago.  The contest is "Winter In Chicago".  Here is my photo.  I took it on an early morning flight into Chicago from Cincinnati in January:

Click here to vote for me!

Your vote is appreciated.  You can only vote once per browser, so use Internet Explorer, Google Chrome, Firefox, Safari, and Opera.  It's not cheating, it's just making sure your vote counts.

"Like You Used To"

Just over 1 year later and the posts about Carol Burnett on this blog are still being discovered - to the tune of about 150 people per week.

To date, more than 220,000 people have read the posts (including Ms. Burnett, herself!).  It went viral on Facebook.  Rosie O'Donnell tweeted the story out to her almost 800,000 @Rosie followers, calling me a "beautiful person" in the process.  Over 100 people have left comments on the blog postings.  And I've lost track of the number of emails I still receive from people all over the world, thanking me for sharing this story and talking about how Alzheimer's affects their lives and the lives of the ones they love.  In many instances, I find myself acting as a counselor and cheerleader to people who feel - quite simply - helpless.

This is both the farthest and furthest reaching achievement of my life.  Nothing else I've ever done has touched as many people as sharing this story.  I gave up on this blog a few years ago after a very successful run, then resurrected it during my time in Miami, just so I would have a creative outlet.  Surprisingly, the top 10 stories read on my blog all date back no further than August 2013; NOT surprising, the two posts about Ms. Burnett rank as #1 and #2.  I guess there is a message in here somewhere about success and second chances and all that.

My dad is doing well and seems to be living a comfortable life.  He doesn't walk anymore, pretty much confined to a wheelchair.  He has good days and great days and bad days.  And so does Mom.  Although for her, Dad's good days can sometimes translate into her bad days.  For on the days when he's doing well and is communicating openly, Mom feels guilt that he now lives in a nursing home, second-guessing if he should be back home instead.  And then on days when Dad is not doing well, I'm sure Mom feels some relief that he is where he needs to be, of course juxtaposing those emotions with concern for his well-being.  Perhaps Dad's good days are best for everyone.  Good is good enough.

I haven't been home since Christmas, but am eager to visit in two weeks.  I obviously see changes in him with each visit.  At the end of our Christmas trip, Kevin and I stopped by the nursing home to say good-bye to Dad.  When I told Dad we were leaving and I would see him soon, he just looked at me and looked away.  But when Kevin followed with a "see you later, John", Dad looked up at him and tears welled in his eyes.  Of course I joked with a "oh sure, YOU get tears!", but we can't help but wonder what it all means to him. And the ugly fact is that we will never know.

I've been asked to share something that inspires me at work's staff meeting next month.  I'll be sharing the story about Dad and Ms. Burnett because it's truly inspirational.  There is always hope.  And you never know from where inspiration will come.  And that a seemingly small act from one person can ripple around the world, touching thousands.

And all because my Dad, a man who seems to have completely lost all his memories, said 4 little words to me that might have been lost on anyone else:  "like you used to".

I'm A Bear

Not that I am surprised by this, but I recently took an online Spirit Animal Quiz and found out learned confirmed that my spirit animal is a Bear.  To quote the website, in "the kingdom of spirit animals, the bear is emblematic of grounding forces and strength".  And when they put it that way, I'd say I would have to agree with their assessment.  I am nothing if not a stable, grounding force.  It's a gift.

A few other things the website mentions to make us "bears" feel more comfortable being associated with one of the laziest animals on the planet:

• The primary meaning of the bear spirit animal is strength and confidence
• Standing against adversity; taking action and leadership
• The spirit of the the bear indicates it’s time for healing or using healing abilities to help self or others
• The bear medicine emphasizes the importance of solitude, quiet time, rest

I basically knew that I would come out as a large, lumbering animal of some kind.  Anyone who knows me would not think of me as rabbit, eagle, ferret, or cheetah.  For a hot second, I thought I might come out as an elephant or rhino or, at the very least, an old dog that's ready to die.  But Bear, it is.  And I can live with that. 

Take the quiz yourself and see how you do:  http://www.spiritanimal.info/spirit-animal-quiz/

That Thing Above The 6

The other day, I was prompted at work to update my network access password.  Friends, I ask you: Is there a bigger First World headache than creating new passwords on a quarterly basis?  I tend to use the same 2 passwords in rotation, but now it seems that I'll need to come up with a few more since changing passwords needs to happen on a quarterly basis and they Can't. Be. Repeated.  And to make matters worse, the passwords need to have a capital letter, a number, and a symbol.  AND a symbol!  My online banking doesn't even have that kind of security.

At this point, I have more passwords than I do keys on my key ring.  Nevertheless, I undertook the challenge.  I started typing the usual noun and 4-digit combination, and then I looked at the keyboard to choose a symbol.  I suddenly realized I had no idea what that arrowhead thingy above the 6 is.  It looks like "^".  Every other symbol on the keyboard is familiar to me - most I use quite often.  The @ sign has experienced a renaissance thanks to email; a score ago, it was an unknown.  Even the folks on The TODAY Show had no idea what it was.  And the # seems to change names with every generation.  First, it was the number sign.  Then the telephone company decided it was the "pound sign".  Today it's called a hashtag.  It's actual name is the octothorp.  So I am very familiar with all of the symbols above the numbers except for the ^.  Aside from being cartoon curse words when combined, they each have daily, useful purposes.

When looking for a list of symbols on the internet, one needs to look far down on the list before any interest is generated in the ^.  Apparently, this little gizmo is called a circumflex or caret (not to be confused with carrot or carat), and it means "and".  It's a logical connective used as a conjunction.  I have a degree in English and this is the first time I am hearing this.  Shenandoah University, you've failed me.

Why is the caret the symbol equivalent of the proverbial red-headed step-child?  It's interesting how some symbols have come to mean different things as the years go by, but the caret seems to hold on to its obsoleteness (which Blogger tells me is not a word, but it is).  Perhaps because the caret is used in writing code, there's no way to change or build on its meaning without sending the world into a theoretical Y2K meltdown.  But still, there it is.

Perhaps some day, future generations will give the caret its due.  But until then, it's just going to sit there, mostly unused by a majority of keyboardists.  Just sitting there, like 6's dunce cap.

Land Of Lincoln, Literally

I'm not sure how, being me, that I have not seen this before.  But one night riding home on the L, I was looking at a map of Illinois in an advertisement and it jumped out at me.

Illinois has long claimed itself to be the "Land of Lincoln" - so much so that the phrase is written on our license plates for decades.  Illinois prides itself on being Abraham Lincoln's home, despite the fact that he was born in Kentucky and his family didn't even move into Illinois until Lincoln was 21.  Even so, there are countless businesses, schools, foundations, festivals, barbershop choruses, and even an honor flight using the Land of Lincoln moniker.  And based on what I noticed, they have every right to do so.

Here is a basic outline map of Illinois:

And here is my rendering of what I saw in the map - again for the first time - during my commute home:

( mic drop )

"That's My Wife!"

I visited with my family over Christmas and spent time with Dad.  He was able to be with the family almost all of Christmas Day.  My brother had signed Dad out of the nursing home for the day.  At times, he seemed to be engaged in what was happening around him.  Occasionally, I would catch him crying, which is the only real emotion he seems to have these days.  His tears are more like a welling-up of emotion and crying is his only way to release.  It's uncertain if the tears are of sadness or joy because Dad can't articulate how he feels.  Still, it was wonderful to have him with us.

It's interesting to see how Dad interacts with each person.  He appears to be intrigued by his great-grandson, Brennan.  Dad's eyes follow Brennan around a room until something else catches his attention.  When my sister, Kim, walked into the room and said hello to Dad, he mostly just looked at her and looked away, much in the same way a precocious house cat will look at you, blink, then look away.  However, when her son, John, walked into the room, Dad was quick to say, "Well, there's John-Boy", a nickname Dad has always called his namesake.  Kim lovingly shrugged it off.

Dad will call some of us by our names, but not all of us.  We've passed the point of asking Dad who people are.  When someone would come into Dad's room, Mom would quickly ask, "Who is this?" or "Do you know who this is?"  In the beginning, Dad would take a few seconds, look at my mother like she was insane, and then say our names.  Over time, Dad's response would become slower until it got to the point where Mom would ask "Who is this?" and Dad would either look at her as though he was annoyed or just completely ignore the question.  Dad got to the point where he was frustrated with all the questions Mom was asking him about who people are or who was in a photograph.  Trying to salvage his memory, Mom created a photobook of old and current photos, but Dad eventually pushed it away and no longer wanted to see it.  He either can't remember the names and faces, or perhaps doesn't want to try anymore.  It frustrates both he and Mom at the same time and for probably the same reasons.  Mom just wants to ensure Dad is not giving up.

While traveling for the holidays, I awoke from a dream that seemed so real, it took me a few minutes to realize where I was and what was happening.  In the dream, I was in a large room, like the waiting room in a train terminal like Union Station.  I was there to pick up Dad for some reason.  I found Dad in his wheelchair and we began to leave the station when a guy's tee shirt across the room caught my attention.  I ran across the terminal and grabbed the guy and told him he needed to come with me.  We walked back to where Dad was sitting and I looked at Dad and said, "Dad, look at his shirt.  Who is this?"  And Dad pointed at the color image on the yellow shirt, tears in his eyes, and very loudly said, "that's my wife!"  The image on the shirt was Mom's high school graduation photo.

"My wife" is how Dad refers to Mom now.  He doesn't speak her name anymore.  He always used to call her "Lo", short for Lois Ann.  But these days, when he doesn't see her, he may ask, "where's my wife?".  Or when prompted by therapists who the woman is sitting across the room, his response is "that's my wife", just like in my dream.

Mom may never hear Dad speak her name again.  Yet another thing Alzheimer's has taken from her.  It just keeps taking.  And taking.
.

Awake No More

Last week, Starbuck's made a change that has rocked my world.  Without consulting me, they changed their tea vendor.  Every store in the chain, all 21,160 of them, will now offer teas by Teavana instead of Tazo.  This changes everything for me.  Because just about every work morning in my career for the past 10+ years, I've stopped off at my local Starbuck's to purchase a Reduced-Fat Turkey Bacon Sandwich and a Venti Awake tea.  Being the creature of habit that I am, not to mention being brand loyal to a fault, not being able to do this any more completely upsets my morning routine.

This change in tea vendors is coming on the heels of another change Starbuck's made recently.  Sometime last year, they also changed their Turkey Bacon Sandwich.  This was upsetting not only to me, but to many other loyal customers.  The new version, in my opinion, is not nearly as good.  I tried to adapt to it, but just couldn't.  This change bothered me, but at least I still had my favorite beverage.  Until now.

Tazo's Awake tea is an English Breakfast blend.  Teavana also offers an English Breakfast blend.  They most likely taste similar, but that's not the point.  I have a history with Awake tea.  It's been a source of comfort and familiarity for me.  No matter where I was in the world, I could count on Starbuck's to make me feel at ease.  The taste would always be the same; there'd be no guesswork and no surprises.  And I think that's actually the point - it was something I didn't have to think about.  I could trust my own decision.

I have lovely memories and emotions walking around either alone or with friends while holding those 20 fl. oz of malty deliciousness;  chilly autumn days walking though DC, brisk walks to work in Chicago, endlessly job-searching in Miami, walking around Times Square, Pike Place Fish Market, Copley Square, Old City, Bourbon Street, Hollywood Boulevard, Chinatown . . . the list goes on and on.  And close friends will recall that time when an ignorant motorist had the unmitigated gall to blow a horn at me while I was in the crosswalk.  Yes, Awake has even defended me.

This Christmas, my in-laws bought me a box of Awake tea.  And I know I can order it online - it's not like I can never taste it again.  It's just that I've been doing this action for so long that I now need to change my routine.  Ordering a Venti Awake simply has a more melodic rhythm to it than ordering a Venti English Breakfast.

Starbuck's, you have disappointed me yet again - twice in the same year!  It's okay, though.  I'll be fine.  And so will my money as I seek out another breakfast vendor for my morning commute.

#starbuckssucks

A + B ≠ C

The time came for my mom to make the decision whether to bring my dad home from the rehabilitation center following his hospitalization, or to make him a permanent resident of the nursing facility.  Knowing her, I can't imagine the emotional turmoil she must have gone through during this process.  My mother is neither Catholic nor Jewish, so I have no idea where all her guilt comes from.  Most likely, she views not being able to care for my Dad more as a lack of duty.  In any case, I'm not certain how I would make that same decision.

I guess the fortunate thing is that the decision was, for the most part, made for her.  Both Dad and his physical therapist performed a home visit last week so that the therapist could see if Dad would be able to physically live in my parents' house again.  You see, Dad can't walk anymore.  Maybe a step here and there but he is mostly wheelchair-bound now.  And my parents' house is, shall we say, multilevel.

The house I grew up in was built about 100 years ago.  From what I can tell, it was originally just 4 rooms - two downstairs and two upstairs.  And then at some point, a kitchen and indoor bathroom were added on, making it three rooms across the first floor and three across the second.  I know this because when we renovated the kitchen many years ago, the plaster on one wall was covering up the original exterior of the house.  And the door sills to both the kitchen and upstairs bathroom don't exactly line up with their adjoining rooms.  Plus, indoor bathrooms - at least in that part of the State - were not a thing at the turn of the last century.  We'll call this section of the house Part A.

This was a pretty basic setup until, at some point, someone came along and literally added another house to the back of my parent's house, essentially doubling its size.  We'll call this section of the house Part B.  These two homes, while conjoined, were always meant to function as two separate living quarters.  When my parents bought the entire building in 1971 and knocked out a few walls to combine the two "units" into one, they found that the floor and ceiling levels in Part A did not line up with the floor and ceiling levels of Part B by several feet, in some rooms.  So this made the result of A+B, which I guess would equal C, to be one character-filled house.

I'll save further details about the inside of my folks' quirky house for another posting, but suffice is to say that Dad's therapist took one look at the inside of the house and did the straight white man version of, "Oh, HAYell no!".  And rightly so.  There is no way Dad would be able to subsist in this environment.  So it was pretty much a no-brainer that he'd permanently move to the nursing home, which was yet another decision being made that was out of Mom's control.

Mom seems to be rolling with the punches for the most part.  She has a deep faith that she depends on to get her through situations like this - situations in which she pretty much does not have a say despite the situations directly affecting her.  The last time she went through this type of process was probably when all her kids grew up and started making our own decisions - decisions that both directly and indirectly affected her, but that she had no real part in deciding, like when we broke up with girlfriends and boyfriends of whom she had become fond, or when we chose to move away from home, have kids, get married, etc.  And maybe, as a parent, you somehow prepare yourself for these types of eventualities.  But when it comes to your spouse, it seems downright unfair that the decision of where that person lives is pretty much taken out of your hands.

Mom will get used to it because she has to.  And she'll adapt because she knows Dad is being cared for and she DOES get to have a say in that.  Still, all in all, this has to suck.

Remembering Bobby

The last few nights, I've been thinking about my friend, Bobby Mellott.  Bobby sadly passed away in June, earlier this year.

Bobby and I were friends when I lived in DC.  We met September 30, 1995 at TRACKS.  I had only been living in DC for about two weeks at that point so I didn't know anyone yet.  We became instant friends when we both discovered we lived on Capitol Hill, which was considered Social Siberia in the 90's.  That sole fact is probably what brought us closer together.

Bobby remained a good friend for the 10 years I lived in DC, even during the few years in the middle where he lived in NYC.  He was caring and supportive and nauseatingly optimistic.  His enthusiasm and passion for what and who he loved was infectious.  To be in Bobby's company meant that you were the only two people in the world.  Ever complimentary, ever supportive, ever cheerful.

Bobby's eyes were a combination of "constant sparkle" and "mischievous glint".  His smile most likely got him in and out of trouble in equal measures.  He had more energy than any person I had met to that point.  I remember one afternoon sitting in the grass in Lincoln Park on Capitol Hill, having a 2-hour conversation with Bobby while he spun around on roller blades.  The entire time, he remained focused on me and engrossed in our conversation.

After I moved to Chicago in 2005, we lost touch.  And this is the point where I bless Facebook.  For all its banality and glitches and pains, it has allowed me to maintain, and in Bobby's case regain, those true friendships that stand the test of time.  The last time I saw him was the week before I moved to Chicago.  He had heard of my heart surgery and wanted to see for himself that I was okay.  I wish I could have spent more time in his company the last few years, because with him was a wonderful place to be.

Rest in peace, dear friend.

"Happy Holidays" vs "Merry Christmas". Sigh.

Over the last few years, there has been growing angst from a population in 'Merica (for example) who are just pissed because they can't wish anyone a "Merry Christmas" anymore.  They simply don't want to substitute "Happy Holidays" as a greeting because it takes Christ out of the holiday.  This rationale is puzzling to me for a few reasons.

First, basic grammar indicates that Happy Holidays is plural; Merry Christmas is singular. We don't say Merry Christmases, so it would imply that Happy Holidays is a greeting covering more than just one event.  Following that logic, one would need to be narrow-minded to think that Christians are the ONLY ones celebrating a holiday during what the retail industry has dubbed the holiday season.  This time frame typically begins with Thanksgiving and ends a few days after New Year's (which means it's actually longer than summer in Chicago). But most of all, get over yourself!  Someone is wishing you well.  If you are so hung up/uptight about the words being used that you fail or refuse to recognize and/or accept the sentiment, you should be green and living in a cave on top of Mt. Crumpit. 

I found the below chart online and it is, quite frankly, the perfect representation of how we should act when someone greets us during this holiday season, whether it’s Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Holidays, Have a Great Festivus, or whatever:

Aging Online

Now and then I post an actual photo of myself on here, but mostly my online presence (outside of Facebook) is the caricature that is connected to this blog.  I also use it for Google and LinkedIn.  It's a smaller part of a caricature originally created for me back in 2004 by my friend Dave.  Because I use this likeness so often, I recently asked Dave to "age" me since, after all, it'd been over 7 years since the caricature was last updated.  And since this is no Dorian Gray story, I've aged and my beard has noticeably whitened up a bit since.  Dave's final result is below on the right.

2007                                                           2014

By asking Dave to do this for me back in 2004, it helped launch him into a business where he was creating caricatures for people online.  I watched his skill develop and improve.  The 2007 version above is the second version he created for me.  The original can be found here and you can see the obvious difference and growth.

I loved this the day I originally received it and I love it still.  It's an awesome non-photo likeness of me. I'll most likely ask Dave to update it again in another 7 years.  It will be interesting to see how I, and my likeness, will change in the meantime.

Skin Cancer

Skin cancer is in the news again, thanks to Hugh Jackman who had his third basal cell carcinoma (BCC) removed within a one-year period.  The photo that Jackman posted along with his announcement convinced me of only one thing:  he's gorgeous even with skin cancer.  I, on the other hand, was not so Hollywood-ready.

"I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeFrankenstein."

Last October, while living in Miami, I went to a dermatologist for what I initially thought was either a pimple or an oil deposit due to my wearing reading glasses more frequently while on the computer.  The "pimple" turned out to be a BBC on the right side of my nose.

BCC is the most common form of skin cancer; an estimated 2.8 million are diagnosed annually in the U.S. alone.  BCCs are rarely fatal, but can be highly disfiguring if allowed to grow (do yourself a favor: do NOT look this up on the internet - it will horrify you).  One in five Americans will develop skin cancer in the course of a lifetime, and about 90% of non-melanoma skin cancers are associated with exposure to UV radiation from the sun.  Mine fell into that 90% group.  The tricky thing was that there was no way of telling how long it had been there.  Initially, the dermatologist said that it looked fairly recent and that I caught it in the early stage.  But as she was extracting the cells from my nose, she commented on how deep the roots were, which would suggest it had been there for a longer period of time.

Black dots circle the location.

Another tricky thing about BCCs (they are very tricky, after all) is that they appear, disappear, then reappear in much worse form.  Even between the time I made the initial appointment and met with the doctor, mine began to disappear.  When I went in for my consultation, the dermatologist marked on my nose where the BCC was located, then took a picture of it with my phone so that she would be able to find it again should it disappear completely before I went in for the removal.  It's this disappearing phase that erroneously convinces patients that what they have is more like a pimple and not cancer. During this phase, the cancer is spreading to more cells underneath the skin - growing to then show itself again in a larger and worse physical display.

Day 6 following surgery

Initially I was told by the doctor that as BCCs go, mine was placed in a great location.  She'd be able extract all of it without leaving too much of a scar, and that the little scar that would show would fall into an existing crease already in my nose to minimize it even being seen.  This sounded perfect, but was then hard to believe after I took one look at myself in the mirror.  It wasn't just the stitches, but the swelling and the asymmetry of my nose - more evident in the photo to the left.  I was convinced that my nose would be forever crooked with a big scar.

For a few months, it was all I concentrated on.  Perhaps because in most places in the country, people (friends and strangers alike) would politely ignore a facial deformity of any kind so as not to make you feel uncomfortable or insecure.  Not so Miami.  I was kinda proud of the fact that I went on with my daily life despite looking like Joe Frazier the morning following the "Thrilla in Manila".  Kevin and I went to a showing of Pilobolus two weeks after my surgery and met an acquaintance in the theatre lobby who was very quick to ask if I had run into a door.  After all, the "sexiest place on the planet" is all about being sensitive to people's feelings.

October 4, 2014

It wasn't until I was looking at photos from our wedding that it struck me, and not even immediately.  Almost a month after the fact, that I realized that the scar actually did heal very well and no longer shows up in photos.  Almost one year to the day, the scarring has completely healed and my nose symmetry is right back where it started.  I seriously doubted it would all heal.  But Dr. Barba did a good job, despite my initial fears.  I was a fairly verbal patient and frequently complained about my healing process, despite everyone telling me how good she was and that I was in "great hands".  And while I will never be Hugh Jackman or any other Hollywood-type, I think I look pretty good, all things considered.

All of this is, of course, to tout the importance of sun protection - be it sunscreens, clothing, hats, and even time-monitoring.  Just being aware is the first step.  I can preach it now because I am more cautious about it now.  I sunscreen every day, wear ball caps when necessary, and stand in the shade when possible.  It took some time, but I finally crossed that line between wanting to look healthy vs wanting to be healthy.  There is a difference.  And while there still might be more BCCs that pop up in my future (and Hugh's too), I will be more confident that the process will work, with patience.

My Precious!

Just over a week into married life and I can tell you that it does actually feel different - at least to me.  Nothing about our relationship has changed at all, but it almost feels as though the world takes me more seriously.  I equate the feeling to the difference between how adults treat you when you are a teen vs. how they treat you once you are an adult.  Of course, this all might just be in my head.  Actually, it most likely is.  But I find myself flashing my left hand more than I used to: holding the railing on the bus with my left hand, reaching for purchases with my left hand.  All just so I can show the ring and silently say, "look at me, I'm maaaaarried!"

I'm not typically a jewelry-wearer (neither is Kevin).  The last ring I wore was my high school class which I stopped wearing in 1985.  I don't even wear a watch.  Last time I wore any kind of adornment was back in 2005  and we all know how THAT turned out.  But I think I have adjusted to the new ring quite well.  I am in a weird stage where, at the same time, I both forget I'm wearing it yet am keenly aware that I have it on.  I both forget about it yet am hyper-sensitive to it.  The ring! The ring!  "MY PRECIOUS!"

So far, the only thing I don't like doing is washing my hands while wearing my ring because the ring scrapes the soap.  Plus, the soap makes the ring very easy to slide off.  I met a woman at a wedding (not ours) last weekend who admits she always puts her ring in her mouth when she washes her hands.  This is both sweet and disgusting at the same time.  I wince at taking the ring off in public because I fear dropping it or losing it.  Of course, it's easily replaceable, but at least for THIS ring, there is some sentimental attachment to it that subsequent rings won't have (and let's be real here, there will be subsequent rings 'cause I just know I am going to lose this one at some point down the road).  I guess I'll need to find a work-around and am open to suggestions.

It's all so new and wonderful.  I had never really spent time imagining what my wedding would look or feel like.  But standing in the middle of the reception and looking around that night, I thought to myself, "This.  This is exactly what I would have wanted it be."

I'm Getting Married Tomorrow

So here I am on the eve of my wedding, both at a time and place I never thought I'd be.  Never, because I never thought it would be something I was legally able to do, for one.  Never, because I never thought I'd agree to allow myself to be the center of attention for an entire night.  And mostly never, because I never thought I would ever meet a person I can't imagine living without.  But here we are, 9 years after we met about to stand in front of our closest friends and family and vow to do what we had already silently decided to do years ago.

I met Kevin about two months after I started this blog.  I was recently single and with a lot of time on my hands.  And blogs were what people were doing back then.  I didn't realize until recently, that this blog has essentially been the chronicle of my life with Kevin.  Over the years, he's popped up now and then in posts, sometimes as an innocent bystander and sometimes as the subject himself.  I've posted about originally meeting him, and when he officially became "The BF", and our first New Year's Eve together.  I even posted about the moment I realized who he really was for me and how it all happened.

And through it all, both on the blog and in real life, Kevin's ever-patient demeanor has been the compliment to my ever-present outrage.  We've never had a serious argument.  Never stopped speaking to each other.  Never went to bed mad or upset with the other.  Our relationship has been based on and infused with laughter, understanding, respect, compromise, and support.  It actually took us living in Miami for me to realize how much we rely on each other and how difficult it would be for us to live apart from each other, at least for an indefinite period of time.  There are times when I just need to see his face or hear his voice or even touch his hand in order to feel reassured that life is okay.  He makes everything better without even trying.

And tomorrow, I get to marry him and celebrate it with the people I love.  My life is so good!.