...I shall be tempted to hurl something heavy at the TV. Target ran a series of these ads last year, featuring this extremely annoying lady, and they're back again this year...unfortunately. Actually, I saw the first one the day after Halloween. It's enough to make a grown woman scream and pull her hair out by the roots and yell obscenities at the television!
See what I mean? It's enough to make me rethink EVER shopping again at Target for the rest of my life.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Same Day I Landed In The Hospital...
...my niece, who lives near Columbus, had a bicycle accident on her way to work, and broke BOTH wrists and an elbow. Julie is a librarian, and likes to ride her bike to work when the weather is nice. That particular day, what I remember of it, was sunny and warm and, therefore, conducive for a nice, leisurely bike ride.
I guess the groundhog that ran out in front of her, thereby, causing her to wreck, was of the same inclination. You know, get out and enjoy the day and wreak a little havoc before beginning hibernation.
This is Julie when she was about two years old. These are, perhaps, my favorite pictures of her growing up. I am so grateful she posted them on her Facebook page.
Now that Julie is all "grown up," she prefers to be called "Julia," and the following photos were taken three days after the accident, then a week or so later (respectively). My sister-in-law, Marge, has been taking care of her. She said, especially in the beginning, it was like taking care of a baby all over again because she had to do "everything" for Julie.
Bless her heart.
I guess the groundhog that ran out in front of her, thereby, causing her to wreck, was of the same inclination. You know, get out and enjoy the day and wreak a little havoc before beginning hibernation.
This is Julie when she was about two years old. These are, perhaps, my favorite pictures of her growing up. I am so grateful she posted them on her Facebook page.
Now that Julie is all "grown up," she prefers to be called "Julia," and the following photos were taken three days after the accident, then a week or so later (respectively). My sister-in-law, Marge, has been taking care of her. She said, especially in the beginning, it was like taking care of a baby all over again because she had to do "everything" for Julie.
Bless her heart.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Nine Out Of Ten Hospital Patients Prefer Law & Order: CI
Well, that is what the lab tech - who was in my hospital room last Wednesday morning to draw blood - told me. I had the USA channel on, and "On Fire" was playing at the time. As she "sticks" me with the needle, she informed me that at least nine of the ten rooms she had been in that morning had the TV tuned to "that show." Now, I could have waxed on poetically for hours about the virtues of LOCI and, more specifically, one hunkified Detective Robert Goren, but the woman did have a job to do after all, so I did not detain her.
Now, what was I doing in the hospital, you may well ask. That little melodrama started to unfold in my office late Tuesday morning as I was sitting at my desk, working on a document for a meeting later in the week. I should warn you now that this is going to be a rather lengthy tale, so proceed at your own risk.
Anyway, I was working at my desk when, all of a sudden, and I mean it hit me like a ton of bricks, I felt extremely sleepy and found that I could not focus on the task at hand. I felt disoriented, not dizzy or anything like that, but I was enveloped with this overwhelming sense of need to sleep. I got up from my desk and walked around the office a bit, went to the restroom, got something cold to drink, hoping these activities might suffice to shake off this sudden bout of lethargy. It didn't.
Eventually, I decided to go out to my car...not to drive anywhere. I just wanted to sit back and close my eyes for a few minutes. No one saw me leave the office; everyone was either in a meeting or away from their desk as I passed by, so I couldn't tell anyone what was going on. So, I got in my car, reclined the seat a little, leaned back, and closed my eyes to relax for five or ten minutes...right?
Well, half an hour or so later, I was awakened by someone knocking on my window. It was Casey and Angie...two of my co-workers. They had been looking for me. Actually, they thought I had left for lunch, but Casey saw my car outside and came to investigate by herself. She had evidently tapped on the window, but when that failed to rouse me, she went in search of reinforcements; i.e., Angie. Again, their initial attempts to waken me failed, until Angie really pounded on the window, and that did the trick. I remember jerking awake and opening the door and hearing Angie remark that I hadn't even cracked the window open for ventilation. Obviously, I had not been thinking clearly.
For the next two or three hours, I would rally a bit and then grow lethargic again. They tell me that I would be talking to them, then simply fall asleep in mid-sentence. But even in my "haze," I was able to answer questions correctly and locate things...like my insurance card...in my purse for them. I was adamant that I didn't want them to call 9-1-1, but by this time, Mary (another co-worker) had become involved. She later told me that she had been sitting in the chair across from my desk, and had asked me point blank what I wanted to do. My answer: I wanted to go home, climb into my bed and "hug" my pillow. (I'm truly surprised - and thankful- that I didn't say I wanted to hug "Bobby" because - in my mind - when I'm hugging that pillow, I'm hugging Bobby.) LOL
Anyway, about this time, Angie confiscated my cell phone and called my brothers to alert them to the situation, and the decision was pretty much taken out of my hands at that point. Brother Tom told them to call EMS and let them evaluate me to determine if I needed to go to the emergency room. Brother Harold and sis-in-law, Patty, had just arrived at the Isle of Palms near Charleston, SC to begin their month long vacation at the beach and were ready to come back if needed.
I don't remember ever actually "seeing" the EMS personnel who took care of me, but I do recall assuring them that I could walk out on my own steam. Angie tells me that they had me down the hall and out the door lickity-split, which is amazing considering how I limp a bit because of my left knee, but I was feeling no pain. I was not able to climb up into the ambulance, however, so they strapped me onto a gurney and lifted me in. Poor fellas. I know they were not looking forward to hoisting the big, fat girl into the vehicle, but they did it...God bless 'em.
I don't know how long it took them to make their assessment, but I do remember the young man asking me to which hospital I wanted to be taken, and I told them Jewish Hospital. (That is where I had my gall bladder removed in 2007 and they treated me well, so that is where I wished to be taken this time, too.) Evidently, all the office folks had gone back inside the building with the understanding that one of the EMTs was going to let them know if they were going to take me to the hospital, but the next thing they knew, the emergency dudes had closed the ambulance doors and started driving up the street, with Marsha (administrative assistant) running after them to find out where they were taking me.
The next thing I remember was waking up in the emergency room. Of course, the first thing they did was get me dressed in that most fashionable of garments: the hospital gown. Over the course of the next two or three hours, they drew some blood, took my blood pressure (frequently), had me pee in a cup, fitted me with a heart monitor, took an EKG, and then I got to have my very first ever Cat Scan.
By this time, Mary (from the office) and my niece, Cheri, had arrived to be with me. Luckily, Mary was able to fill them in on some of the details that eluded me since pretty much all I could tell them was that I had been sleepy and disoriented. Then my friend, Ralph, showed up. He had just finished with a meeting in Columbus when he got the call from Tom, telling him what was going on with me, so instead of heading southeast to Ironton, he drove down I-71 to Cincinnati to check on me.
Eventually, a doctor dropped by to tell me the results of my blood work...which was okay...and the CT Scan...also okay. There was no bleeding in my brain, etc., nothing that indicated I had suffered a stroke, which - I assume - was their primary concern. By this time, I was pretty much back to "normal," and was anxious to go home, but a nurse showed up about that time and, in this accusatory tone, said, "You didn't tell us you were slurring your speech." To which I replied, "I didn't tell them that because I had no memory of slurring my speech."
The long and the short of that conversation was, they decided I needed an MRI and needed to admit me to the hospital. Oh, goodie.
Now, I don't like people to make a fuss over me and I positively hate being the center of attention, so about this time, I start telling everyone they should go home; there is no need to hang around. Don't get me wrong, I was fully appreciative of everyone's concern and the fact they had given up their time to sit with me in the emergency room, which in and of itself can be a tediously arduous ordeal. Anyway, Mary and Cheri left, but Ralph said he was going to stay until I got situated in my room. Evidently, Cheri called her dad (my brother, Harold) and told him I was okay because I was telling everyone to go home. (Ralph later told my bother, Tom, the exact same thing when he called him with an update when he was leaving the hospital.) Like I said, I don't want people fussing over me, and I don't want to be a bother or a burden to anyone.
So, after the hospital staff got me settled in my room, and Ralph was sufficiently reassured that I was not going to expire anytime soon and I shooed him toward home, one of the more positive things that happened during my brief hospital sojourn occurred next. They weighed me.
Now, usually, I avoid scales like the plague, but there was no getting out of it this time, so I begrudgingly stepped onto that horrid mechanism of measurement that has haunted me throughout my entire life. As far as I can remember, the last time I allowed myself to be weighed was when I had gall bladder surgery in February 2007. I know what I weighed then, and I am completely certain that I had tacked on quite a few pounds over the past four years. So, when I stepped onto the scale and it registered my current weight, I am pretty sure the aide was a little taken aback by my elated response; I smiled and told her, "I know that is bad, but it is so much better than the last time I was weighed." According to the scales, since I started the low-carb diet on July 3rd, I have lost "at least" twenty-five pounds. (I know what you're thinking, and, yes, I told the nurses who cared for me and the two doctors who saw me during my "incarceration" that I had been on a low-carb diet for three months - in the event the diet could have contributed to my "condition," - and nary a word was said about discontinuing my dieting regimen.)
My apologies; I realize this is turning into a veritable "tome," but a lot of stuff happened in a relatively short amount of time, and I want to get it "recorded" somewhere in case I ever need to refer back to it for some reason.
Next on the agenda that evening was the dreaded MRI. I have always said I would never be able to endure that test; i.e., being shoved inside a tube, completely at the mercy of a technician in another room for freedom should I panic. But I was determined to give it the old college try. So, a very nice orderly (do they still call them orderlies) wheeled me down to the MRI room. The technician, Robin, asked me what kind of music I liked, and I requested Josh Groban because he has the most soothing/relaxing voice...even if I don't understand what he is singing most of the time. Yes, if anyone could help get me through this forthcoming ordeal, it was most assuredly Josh.
I gave the machine a long, pensive look as I mentally prepared myself for the inevitable. The technician helped me get situated on the table/bed, put the headsets on, and gave me the "panic" button to push in the event I - you know - panicked. At this point, I was thinking I was going to be okay, and then the technician did something totally unexpected. She pulled a cage-like mask that they call a "halo," but what I irreverently dubbed a Hannibal Lecter mask, across my face and fastened it down. Once I heard that "click," that was all she wrote, and I "freaked-out" and told Robin I was not going to be able to do it.
So, back to my room they did take me, and the next morning - after the nurse had administered a shot of something to help me "relax," - we tried it again. This time, I was able to make it through the MRI...Hannibal Lecter mask and all. After I completed the MRI, they took me off for two more tests; i.e., an echocardiogram and a carotid artery ultrasound. After that, a nice, young orderly wheeled me back to my room and left me there to wait...and wait...and wait some more.
Sometime that afternoon, my nurse - Taryn - came in to check on me, and she happened to casually mention that they were going to start me on a cholesterol medication that night. Now, I have a younger friend who had a stroke recently and part of the regimen they started him on afterwards was a cholesterol medication. So, with that knowledge and from the nurse's comments, I "inferred" a couple of things. One, they planned to keep me another night, which seemed absurd to me because I felt GREAT! And, two, I must have had a mini-stroke...hence the new meds.
The problem was...no one had bothered to stop by my room and tell me anything. By this time, I was starting to grow a bit..."cranky." Harold called about this time to check on me, and I told him I was not giving them another drop of blood, or taking another pill, or submitting to another test until someone told me something. Later, when I said something to the nurse about going home, she asked me why I thought I was going to be released that day, and I told her because I was feeling fine and I had not seen a doctor yet that day to tell me otherwise. I mean, I was ready to check myself out...almost, but I did want to know the test results, so I continued to sit and simmer and...wait. Imagine that...having to wait for a doctor.
Around 4:00p.m., the doctor showed up...with the following news: the MRI was negative except for some inflammation around my sinus cavities - try living in Cincinnati and not have problems with your sinuses - (there was no indication of a stroke), the carotid artery test was negative (everything was clear there), they did not have the results back on the echocardiogram yet, but evidently the EKG was okay and I had been hooked up to a heart monitor for the duration, so the doctor left it that he would call me if a problem showed up on the echo. (So far, so good - no follow-up calls.) And, most importantly, I was free to go home.
I was back at work bright and early on Thursday morning, feeling fit as a fiddle.
Bottom line...after running thousands of dollars worth of tests...they were not able to determine what caused my little "episode" at work. Their best "guess" was that perhaps I have sleep apnea, and they suggested I might want to participate in a sleep study at some point in the near future. Yeah, right. I don't like strangers looking at me when I'm awake. Do you really
Now, what was I doing in the hospital, you may well ask. That little melodrama started to unfold in my office late Tuesday morning as I was sitting at my desk, working on a document for a meeting later in the week. I should warn you now that this is going to be a rather lengthy tale, so proceed at your own risk.
Anyway, I was working at my desk when, all of a sudden, and I mean it hit me like a ton of bricks, I felt extremely sleepy and found that I could not focus on the task at hand. I felt disoriented, not dizzy or anything like that, but I was enveloped with this overwhelming sense of need to sleep. I got up from my desk and walked around the office a bit, went to the restroom, got something cold to drink, hoping these activities might suffice to shake off this sudden bout of lethargy. It didn't.
Eventually, I decided to go out to my car...not to drive anywhere. I just wanted to sit back and close my eyes for a few minutes. No one saw me leave the office; everyone was either in a meeting or away from their desk as I passed by, so I couldn't tell anyone what was going on. So, I got in my car, reclined the seat a little, leaned back, and closed my eyes to relax for five or ten minutes...right?
Well, half an hour or so later, I was awakened by someone knocking on my window. It was Casey and Angie...two of my co-workers. They had been looking for me. Actually, they thought I had left for lunch, but Casey saw my car outside and came to investigate by herself. She had evidently tapped on the window, but when that failed to rouse me, she went in search of reinforcements; i.e., Angie. Again, their initial attempts to waken me failed, until Angie really pounded on the window, and that did the trick. I remember jerking awake and opening the door and hearing Angie remark that I hadn't even cracked the window open for ventilation. Obviously, I had not been thinking clearly.
For the next two or three hours, I would rally a bit and then grow lethargic again. They tell me that I would be talking to them, then simply fall asleep in mid-sentence. But even in my "haze," I was able to answer questions correctly and locate things...like my insurance card...in my purse for them. I was adamant that I didn't want them to call 9-1-1, but by this time, Mary (another co-worker) had become involved. She later told me that she had been sitting in the chair across from my desk, and had asked me point blank what I wanted to do. My answer: I wanted to go home, climb into my bed and "hug" my pillow. (I'm truly surprised - and thankful- that I didn't say I wanted to hug "Bobby" because - in my mind - when I'm hugging that pillow, I'm hugging Bobby.) LOL
Anyway, about this time, Angie confiscated my cell phone and called my brothers to alert them to the situation, and the decision was pretty much taken out of my hands at that point. Brother Tom told them to call EMS and let them evaluate me to determine if I needed to go to the emergency room. Brother Harold and sis-in-law, Patty, had just arrived at the Isle of Palms near Charleston, SC to begin their month long vacation at the beach and were ready to come back if needed.
I don't remember ever actually "seeing" the EMS personnel who took care of me, but I do recall assuring them that I could walk out on my own steam. Angie tells me that they had me down the hall and out the door lickity-split, which is amazing considering how I limp a bit because of my left knee, but I was feeling no pain. I was not able to climb up into the ambulance, however, so they strapped me onto a gurney and lifted me in. Poor fellas. I know they were not looking forward to hoisting the big, fat girl into the vehicle, but they did it...God bless 'em.
I don't know how long it took them to make their assessment, but I do remember the young man asking me to which hospital I wanted to be taken, and I told them Jewish Hospital. (That is where I had my gall bladder removed in 2007 and they treated me well, so that is where I wished to be taken this time, too.) Evidently, all the office folks had gone back inside the building with the understanding that one of the EMTs was going to let them know if they were going to take me to the hospital, but the next thing they knew, the emergency dudes had closed the ambulance doors and started driving up the street, with Marsha (administrative assistant) running after them to find out where they were taking me.
The next thing I remember was waking up in the emergency room. Of course, the first thing they did was get me dressed in that most fashionable of garments: the hospital gown. Over the course of the next two or three hours, they drew some blood, took my blood pressure (frequently), had me pee in a cup, fitted me with a heart monitor, took an EKG, and then I got to have my very first ever Cat Scan.
By this time, Mary (from the office) and my niece, Cheri, had arrived to be with me. Luckily, Mary was able to fill them in on some of the details that eluded me since pretty much all I could tell them was that I had been sleepy and disoriented. Then my friend, Ralph, showed up. He had just finished with a meeting in Columbus when he got the call from Tom, telling him what was going on with me, so instead of heading southeast to Ironton, he drove down I-71 to Cincinnati to check on me.
Eventually, a doctor dropped by to tell me the results of my blood work...which was okay...and the CT Scan...also okay. There was no bleeding in my brain, etc., nothing that indicated I had suffered a stroke, which - I assume - was their primary concern. By this time, I was pretty much back to "normal," and was anxious to go home, but a nurse showed up about that time and, in this accusatory tone, said, "You didn't tell us you were slurring your speech." To which I replied, "I didn't tell them that because I had no memory of slurring my speech."
The long and the short of that conversation was, they decided I needed an MRI and needed to admit me to the hospital. Oh, goodie.
Now, I don't like people to make a fuss over me and I positively hate being the center of attention, so about this time, I start telling everyone they should go home; there is no need to hang around. Don't get me wrong, I was fully appreciative of everyone's concern and the fact they had given up their time to sit with me in the emergency room, which in and of itself can be a tediously arduous ordeal. Anyway, Mary and Cheri left, but Ralph said he was going to stay until I got situated in my room. Evidently, Cheri called her dad (my brother, Harold) and told him I was okay because I was telling everyone to go home. (Ralph later told my bother, Tom, the exact same thing when he called him with an update when he was leaving the hospital.) Like I said, I don't want people fussing over me, and I don't want to be a bother or a burden to anyone.
So, after the hospital staff got me settled in my room, and Ralph was sufficiently reassured that I was not going to expire anytime soon and I shooed him toward home, one of the more positive things that happened during my brief hospital sojourn occurred next. They weighed me.
Now, usually, I avoid scales like the plague, but there was no getting out of it this time, so I begrudgingly stepped onto that horrid mechanism of measurement that has haunted me throughout my entire life. As far as I can remember, the last time I allowed myself to be weighed was when I had gall bladder surgery in February 2007. I know what I weighed then, and I am completely certain that I had tacked on quite a few pounds over the past four years. So, when I stepped onto the scale and it registered my current weight, I am pretty sure the aide was a little taken aback by my elated response; I smiled and told her, "I know that is bad, but it is so much better than the last time I was weighed." According to the scales, since I started the low-carb diet on July 3rd, I have lost "at least" twenty-five pounds. (I know what you're thinking, and, yes, I told the nurses who cared for me and the two doctors who saw me during my "incarceration" that I had been on a low-carb diet for three months - in the event the diet could have contributed to my "condition," - and nary a word was said about discontinuing my dieting regimen.)
My apologies; I realize this is turning into a veritable "tome," but a lot of stuff happened in a relatively short amount of time, and I want to get it "recorded" somewhere in case I ever need to refer back to it for some reason.
Next on the agenda that evening was the dreaded MRI. I have always said I would never be able to endure that test; i.e., being shoved inside a tube, completely at the mercy of a technician in another room for freedom should I panic. But I was determined to give it the old college try. So, a very nice orderly (do they still call them orderlies) wheeled me down to the MRI room. The technician, Robin, asked me what kind of music I liked, and I requested Josh Groban because he has the most soothing/relaxing voice...even if I don't understand what he is singing most of the time. Yes, if anyone could help get me through this forthcoming ordeal, it was most assuredly Josh.
I gave the machine a long, pensive look as I mentally prepared myself for the inevitable. The technician helped me get situated on the table/bed, put the headsets on, and gave me the "panic" button to push in the event I - you know - panicked. At this point, I was thinking I was going to be okay, and then the technician did something totally unexpected. She pulled a cage-like mask that they call a "halo," but what I irreverently dubbed a Hannibal Lecter mask, across my face and fastened it down. Once I heard that "click," that was all she wrote, and I "freaked-out" and told Robin I was not going to be able to do it.
So, back to my room they did take me, and the next morning - after the nurse had administered a shot of something to help me "relax," - we tried it again. This time, I was able to make it through the MRI...Hannibal Lecter mask and all. After I completed the MRI, they took me off for two more tests; i.e., an echocardiogram and a carotid artery ultrasound. After that, a nice, young orderly wheeled me back to my room and left me there to wait...and wait...and wait some more.
Sometime that afternoon, my nurse - Taryn - came in to check on me, and she happened to casually mention that they were going to start me on a cholesterol medication that night. Now, I have a younger friend who had a stroke recently and part of the regimen they started him on afterwards was a cholesterol medication. So, with that knowledge and from the nurse's comments, I "inferred" a couple of things. One, they planned to keep me another night, which seemed absurd to me because I felt GREAT! And, two, I must have had a mini-stroke...hence the new meds.
The problem was...no one had bothered to stop by my room and tell me anything. By this time, I was starting to grow a bit..."cranky." Harold called about this time to check on me, and I told him I was not giving them another drop of blood, or taking another pill, or submitting to another test until someone told me something. Later, when I said something to the nurse about going home, she asked me why I thought I was going to be released that day, and I told her because I was feeling fine and I had not seen a doctor yet that day to tell me otherwise. I mean, I was ready to check myself out...almost, but I did want to know the test results, so I continued to sit and simmer and...wait. Imagine that...having to wait for a doctor.
Around 4:00p.m., the doctor showed up...with the following news: the MRI was negative except for some inflammation around my sinus cavities - try living in Cincinnati and not have problems with your sinuses - (there was no indication of a stroke), the carotid artery test was negative (everything was clear there), they did not have the results back on the echocardiogram yet, but evidently the EKG was okay and I had been hooked up to a heart monitor for the duration, so the doctor left it that he would call me if a problem showed up on the echo. (So far, so good - no follow-up calls.) And, most importantly, I was free to go home.
I was back at work bright and early on Thursday morning, feeling fit as a fiddle.
Bottom line...after running thousands of dollars worth of tests...they were not able to determine what caused my little "episode" at work. Their best "guess" was that perhaps I have sleep apnea, and they suggested I might want to participate in a sleep study at some point in the near future. Yeah, right. I don't like strangers looking at me when I'm awake. Do you really
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Ten Years Ago Today
I am quite certain that most everyone knows what today is without finding a reminder of it here on my insignificant little blog, so I am not going to "dwell" on the fact that this is the ten year anniversary of another date in American and World History that will, in fact, live in infamy. Three years ago, I posted a rather lengthy narrative about my thoughts on 9-11 entitled We Will Never Forget (which you may read by clicking on the link, if you are thus inclined), so I am not going to repeat those thoughts today.
For the past week or more, a host of TV channels have been running myriad reminders of that awful, awful day...to the point that I have grown an almost unnatural aversion to any mention of today's anniversary. That is not to say that I have turned a cold heart toward remembrances of the events of that day; it's rather more like sensory overload. I don't need visual reminders of the planes flying into the World Trade Center, or watch those towering structures tumble to the ground like so much kindling, or see people jump/fall to their deaths...I see those images whenever I close my eyes and think upon that day.
But there is another poignant image that comes to my mind whenever I remember September 11, 2001, one that I did not mention in my post of three years ago, but one that I have never forgotten...nor am I likely to. During the days immediately following the attacks, like most people, I found myself glued to the television, watching... devouring...every tidbit of "breaking" news surrounding the events of that day. As one of the news shows was signing off for the evening; either NBC or ABC, they played the following video of Americans Outside Buckingham Palace...
This video was uploaded to YouTube by Mikehooperz, and he posted the following narrative: "The day after 9/11. Stranded Americans congregate outside Buckingham Palace in London, England. They can't go home because a no-fly order is in operation. The Queen orders the Guards to play the Star Spangled Banner as a sign of the UK's sympathy for the USA. Even Prince Andrew can be seen stood to attention. An astonishing departure from tradition, Brits are also moved to tears when this clip is televised."
Well, make no mistake, Brits were not the only ones who were moved to tears by this clip. I recall quite clearly my reaction when I first watched this profoundly moving and touching gesture, and again yesterday when I tracked down this video to include with this post...uncontrollable weeping and sobbing. I don't know, I suppose it was in some small way comforting to know that a country "steeped in tradition" and known for keeping a "stiff upper lip" could break with convention for a few moments in deference to their "chums" across the pond, who were suffering the effects of a hellish maelstrom that would forever change them...and the world.
Good job, you!!
For the past week or more, a host of TV channels have been running myriad reminders of that awful, awful day...to the point that I have grown an almost unnatural aversion to any mention of today's anniversary. That is not to say that I have turned a cold heart toward remembrances of the events of that day; it's rather more like sensory overload. I don't need visual reminders of the planes flying into the World Trade Center, or watch those towering structures tumble to the ground like so much kindling, or see people jump/fall to their deaths...I see those images whenever I close my eyes and think upon that day.
But there is another poignant image that comes to my mind whenever I remember September 11, 2001, one that I did not mention in my post of three years ago, but one that I have never forgotten...nor am I likely to. During the days immediately following the attacks, like most people, I found myself glued to the television, watching... devouring...every tidbit of "breaking" news surrounding the events of that day. As one of the news shows was signing off for the evening; either NBC or ABC, they played the following video of Americans Outside Buckingham Palace...
This video was uploaded to YouTube by Mikehooperz, and he posted the following narrative: "The day after 9/11. Stranded Americans congregate outside Buckingham Palace in London, England. They can't go home because a no-fly order is in operation. The Queen orders the Guards to play the Star Spangled Banner as a sign of the UK's sympathy for the USA. Even Prince Andrew can be seen stood to attention. An astonishing departure from tradition, Brits are also moved to tears when this clip is televised."
Well, make no mistake, Brits were not the only ones who were moved to tears by this clip. I recall quite clearly my reaction when I first watched this profoundly moving and touching gesture, and again yesterday when I tracked down this video to include with this post...uncontrollable weeping and sobbing. I don't know, I suppose it was in some small way comforting to know that a country "steeped in tradition" and known for keeping a "stiff upper lip" could break with convention for a few moments in deference to their "chums" across the pond, who were suffering the effects of a hellish maelstrom that would forever change them...and the world.
Good job, you!!
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Bobby Turns 50 Today
I did not forget our intrepid detective's birthday is today, Scout's honor. I just have become the laziest person EVER when it comes to blogging these days. Anyway, I could not let the day go by without paying "homage" to the man (yes, I know full well that Bobby is a "fictional" character) who has meant so much to so many of us for the past 10 years.
I apologize ahead of time for the lack of new material utilized in the greeting card below; I have not screen capped many (if any) photos from Season 10. Mainly because my screen capping software has developed an aversion to capturing shots from downloaded video material, and partly because the passion has waned a bit. Not my "passion" for Bobby, I assure you...just the tedium of the overall capping process itself.
I likewise need to apologize for the fact that many of the photos are not "technically" of Detective Goren, but I like them, so I used them. And I do believe I need to give "credit" t0 Ruby for the next to last photo in the album; she saw VDO in Utah earlier this spring/summer, and this was posted -- pretty much -- everywhere. If Ruby happens to see this and wishes me to remove it, I shall gladly do so. Meanwhile, enjoy my small tribute to Bobby. I wonder what case he and Eames are solving now.
I apologize ahead of time for the lack of new material utilized in the greeting card below; I have not screen capped many (if any) photos from Season 10. Mainly because my screen capping software has developed an aversion to capturing shots from downloaded video material, and partly because the passion has waned a bit. Not my "passion" for Bobby, I assure you...just the tedium of the overall capping process itself.
I likewise need to apologize for the fact that many of the photos are not "technically" of Detective Goren, but I like them, so I used them. And I do believe I need to give "credit" t0 Ruby for the next to last photo in the album; she saw VDO in Utah earlier this spring/summer, and this was posted -- pretty much -- everywhere. If Ruby happens to see this and wishes me to remove it, I shall gladly do so. Meanwhile, enjoy my small tribute to Bobby. I wonder what case he and Eames are solving now.
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Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Success...FINALLY!!
I mentioned, a couple of posts back, that I had started the Atkins Diet a few weeks ago...July 3rd to be precise. Now, I have battled a serious weight problem "most" of my life. I have tried - virtually - every diet known to man...and then some...with varying degrees of success and/or failure - the ultimate result being...I eventually packed all the lost pounds back on...and then some. I'm not going to bore everyone with the details now. Suffice to say, I have "food" issues, okay?
Anyway, the only reason I decided to try dieting "one last time" is because of my knees...I've simply got to get some weight off of my knees. Then there are other potential health issues that are no doubt "looming" in the background, waiting to attack. The way I see it, I'm about one bacon-cheeseburger away from a heart attack or stroke, or one giant chocolate chip cookie away from testing positive for Diabetes; it runs in my family. But the main reason is my knees. I read somewhere that every pound a person loses translates into four pounds of pressure/stress off of the joints. I could get on board with that. Besides, it's just me...I'm all I've got here in Cincinnati, and I have to be able to take care of myself, and that is getting harder to do the older I get.
Anyway, I've been on this diet for five weeks now. I did not weigh myself before I started because...well, I don't own scales; I find them depressing. If I had scales, I would be weighing myself everyday...if not two or three times a day...and then be disappointed when I didn't drop a bunch of pounds overnight. (Not realistic, I know, but like I said, I've done this diet-thing once or twice now.) Then I would get discouraged, and it would be right back to the bacon cheeseburger and giant chocolate chip cookie. I decided to let my clothes be my gauge, or - better yet - when someone noticed I had dropped a few pounds and made a comment about it, then I would know.
I suppose I should mention that I told no one that I was starting a diet. I guess after years of trying and losing and gaining, and trying and losing and gaining some more influenced my decision. Of course, a couple of people have found out...mainly because they noticed I'm not pigging out on the leftover Danish and donuts in the break room, or that I'm ordering differently when we go out to lunch together. Like I said, if someone happens to notice I've dropped a few pounds and mentions it...that will be my reward.
So, here we are...five weeks later. I know I've lost weight; I can "feel" it. My clothes fit loser, parts of me don't "jiggle" quite as much as they did before. My knees still hurt, but I have noticed a slight improvement, and I am walking "better." But no one has said a word...no one has noticed...until today.
This afternoon, due to a minor mishap in the shower yesterday morning; i.e., I bent over to pick up the wash cloth I had dropped and threw out my lower back...AGAIN...for the upteenth time in the past 35 years, I had to schedule a trip to the chiropractor. Now, my chiropractor also happens to be my landlord who I have rented from since moving to Cincinnati 14 years ago. I had not seen her since May, so I figured this would be the "test" to see if I really am losing weight, or if it is merely wishful thinking on my part.
So, I am lying prostrate on one of the adjustment tables and Joyce lifts my sweater and adjusts the waistband on my jeans to "get at" the afflicted area. We're chitchatting amicably about this and that when all of a sudden, she says, "Have you lost weight? Because you sure look like you have." I tell ya, I could have kissed her, I was so overjoyed.
And the best part is, she commented on my weight loss "after" getting a good look at my big ol' butt, which - evidently - isn't quite as big as it used to be.
HAL-LE-LU-JAH!!
I can stop obsessing about that "first" comment and get back to focusing on losing more weight. Now, if I could only figure out a way to make the "food dreams" go away; I have one almost every night. And I have an uneasy feeling that all the food I "eat" in the midst of those ravenous dreams has an evil way of winding up as extra pounds on my thighs.
Anyway, the only reason I decided to try dieting "one last time" is because of my knees...I've simply got to get some weight off of my knees. Then there are other potential health issues that are no doubt "looming" in the background, waiting to attack. The way I see it, I'm about one bacon-cheeseburger away from a heart attack or stroke, or one giant chocolate chip cookie away from testing positive for Diabetes; it runs in my family. But the main reason is my knees. I read somewhere that every pound a person loses translates into four pounds of pressure/stress off of the joints. I could get on board with that. Besides, it's just me...I'm all I've got here in Cincinnati, and I have to be able to take care of myself, and that is getting harder to do the older I get.
Anyway, I've been on this diet for five weeks now. I did not weigh myself before I started because...well, I don't own scales; I find them depressing. If I had scales, I would be weighing myself everyday...if not two or three times a day...and then be disappointed when I didn't drop a bunch of pounds overnight. (Not realistic, I know, but like I said, I've done this diet-thing once or twice now.) Then I would get discouraged, and it would be right back to the bacon cheeseburger and giant chocolate chip cookie. I decided to let my clothes be my gauge, or - better yet - when someone noticed I had dropped a few pounds and made a comment about it, then I would know.
I suppose I should mention that I told no one that I was starting a diet. I guess after years of trying and losing and gaining, and trying and losing and gaining some more influenced my decision. Of course, a couple of people have found out...mainly because they noticed I'm not pigging out on the leftover Danish and donuts in the break room, or that I'm ordering differently when we go out to lunch together. Like I said, if someone happens to notice I've dropped a few pounds and mentions it...that will be my reward.
So, here we are...five weeks later. I know I've lost weight; I can "feel" it. My clothes fit loser, parts of me don't "jiggle" quite as much as they did before. My knees still hurt, but I have noticed a slight improvement, and I am walking "better." But no one has said a word...no one has noticed...until today.
This afternoon, due to a minor mishap in the shower yesterday morning; i.e., I bent over to pick up the wash cloth I had dropped and threw out my lower back...AGAIN...for the upteenth time in the past 35 years, I had to schedule a trip to the chiropractor. Now, my chiropractor also happens to be my landlord who I have rented from since moving to Cincinnati 14 years ago. I had not seen her since May, so I figured this would be the "test" to see if I really am losing weight, or if it is merely wishful thinking on my part.
So, I am lying prostrate on one of the adjustment tables and Joyce lifts my sweater and adjusts the waistband on my jeans to "get at" the afflicted area. We're chitchatting amicably about this and that when all of a sudden, she says, "Have you lost weight? Because you sure look like you have." I tell ya, I could have kissed her, I was so overjoyed.
And the best part is, she commented on my weight loss "after" getting a good look at my big ol' butt, which - evidently - isn't quite as big as it used to be.
HAL-LE-LU-JAH!!
I can stop obsessing about that "first" comment and get back to focusing on losing more weight. Now, if I could only figure out a way to make the "food dreams" go away; I have one almost every night. And I have an uneasy feeling that all the food I "eat" in the midst of those ravenous dreams has an evil way of winding up as extra pounds on my thighs.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
An Insulting Sort Of Week
In the space of less than a week, I have been called "unfortunate" and "not pretty," and aspersions have been cast on the rural section of Ohio from which I hail. Ah, a proverbial insult "trifecta."
Here is how it came about.
A week ago Saturday, I was returning from a trip to a local farmer's market when my downstairs neighbor, Julius, met me as I was falteringly making my way up the front steps. (I have crotchety knees and a cranky lower back, making it a "struggle" for me to walk in the "normal" way...and it shows.) Anyway, Julius offered to carry my parcel up to my apartment for me, commenting that he knows how "unfortunate" I am.
Now, Julius is from Hungary originally, so his English - while quite good -- still leaves a bit to be desired. In fact, when he speaks, his "accent" reminds me of Wolfgang Puck. So, to my way of thinking, perhaps...unfortunate...was not the precise word for which he was searching, but that is the word he latched onto and thus I am labeled...unfortunate.
Here is how it came about.
A week ago Saturday, I was returning from a trip to a local farmer's market when my downstairs neighbor, Julius, met me as I was falteringly making my way up the front steps. (I have crotchety knees and a cranky lower back, making it a "struggle" for me to walk in the "normal" way...and it shows.) Anyway, Julius offered to carry my parcel up to my apartment for me, commenting that he knows how "unfortunate" I am.
Now, Julius is from Hungary originally, so his English - while quite good -- still leaves a bit to be desired. In fact, when he speaks, his "accent" reminds me of Wolfgang Puck. So, to my way of thinking, perhaps...unfortunate...was not the precise word for which he was searching, but that is the word he latched onto and thus I am labeled...unfortunate.
Then a few days later, I am having a conversation with Mary at work. Mary is about six years older than I, and is very unhappy in her job. I'm okay with mine...for the most part. It's a job after all, and every now and then it has its moments. I know that Mary "feels" that the powers that be are trying to encourage her to retire. So, I told her that Dave (our boss) had asked me twice recently about my retirement plans. Keep in mind that Dave is three or four years older than I am and says he doesn't plan to retire until he's 70, so why he's hot to know my plans I'd like to know.
So, I said to Mary, "I wonder why Dave doesn't pester Andy or Chris about their retirement plans?" And she said testily, "It's because we're women, and we're NOT PRETTY." She said some other stuff after that, but -- truth be told -- the remainder of her discourse fell on rather deaf ears. I mean, I am the very first one to say that I think I'm ugly, but to have it flung full force in my face by someone else...well, I have to admit...it "stung" just a little.
And finally, last Thursday before our quarterly Board meeting, one of the members I have known since my previous job walked up to say good morning. Then he asked me how many years it had been since I came to work in Cincinnati, and I replied that I was in my 14th year. He made some offhand comment in response to that and then asked, "Now, what county were you from?" "Lawrence," I answered. "And the county seat?" he continued. "Ironton," I said, and awaited the response I knew this would bring. Unfortunately, he did not disappoint me. He sort of half-snickered and half-laughed and said, "No wonder you moved here."
"Pompous ass," is what I wanted to say, but I just smiled to myself and thought it instead. Trust me, it is not the first time I have run up against this "city-superior" attitude. Many times I have been forced to bite back the ugliest things that pop into my head when confronted with these imbecilic comments. When I finally realized a few years back that the biggest mistake I EVER made in my life was moving to this hateful, despicable, God-forsaken town I pretty much stopped giving a rat's ass about what other's thought of my humble, country background. But I digress.
So there you have it. Three people, whose opinions don't truly hold much water with me, think me to be a wretched, ugly, country-bumpkin. Well, you know what...screw them.
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