A saga worthy of the Forsytes

When will this be over? I MUST have something better to talk about than my neck.

Nope, not today.

I officially have whiplash. When you have whiplash (and are 36 years old) they do not give you a lollipop for being a good girl during the exam.

They give you muscle relaxants!

Whoopee!

OK, in reality they don't make me feel anything but tired and kind of dopey but that's OK, at least now I have an excuse.

Hey, I do have a funny story to tell after all.

I'm on the subway. It's morning. I've got the Pod cranked up and I'm reading the latest Harry Potter. I'm so trendy my jeans are practically sinking down to show my butt crack. I'm pretty much noticing nothing until I hear, "Mind your own business! Just mind your own DAMN business!"

And once you've heard the start of a...conversation you can't block it out anymore.

Apparently some white, overly shouldered broker type has taken offense to the musical stylings of a youngish black man with a boombox cradled lovingly in his arms. They argue.

Broker Boy thinks that Music Lover should turn down the music.

Music Lover thinks that Broker Boy should mind his own damn business.

Broker Boy, and incidentally a squeaky voiced young lady who piped up later, think that since the music is offending their tender ear drums that it is in fact their business.

It was all pretty run of the mill. I really just wanted them to shut the hell up, and was on the verge of screaming that at the top of my lungs until someone else did it for me. However, there came a turn in the events that made it into a blog entry.

Music Lover: "You wouldn't be all up in my grill if I was playin' some Burt Bacharach or some shit like that. You'd LIKE that!"

I just don't get it (#84756826139321759331B)

So, (I start that way a lot, don't I?) I was having a bit of an I Still Love NYC commute, despite the million degrees of temperature. The air in the stations was so thick it was hugging you and the subway cars were like meat lockers and I could see through to the next car and spy on people and when I got out and climbed the stairs the railings felt like they'd just been pulled out of a bun warmer. For some reason I loved all this, it felt familiar and fun and comfortable and right.

Many people will shake their heads and wonder at this. How do I understand the city and navigate it and continue to love it? I don't know. But I do.

You know what I don't understand? Health care. Just don't get it. Have no real experience with it. About 4 years I got health insurance, like the real shit with dental and everything instead of the fake major medical crap they give you when they don't want to feel bad if you lose a limb or something. They don't want to have to look at you with your hook everyday and feel like they have to offer you a Chantico to alleviate the bad feelings.

4 years and I still don't feel comfortable with the regular doctor's visits for just $10 measly dollars. Way don't get the whole "Hmm, I should ask a trained professional about that rash instead of getting some Benadryl and wearing boxers for a week."

I'm trying, though, I swear I am.

I'm not exactly feeling supported in this quest, people.

I told you about the whole Ann Taylor incident.

Well, I didn't feel so great. My head hurt. I hit it on the front but it hurt in the back.

Pony Express: "You know, I don't mean to alarm you, but that means you jostled your brain. You know the technical term for that? CONCUSSION. You should, be careful, like really careful, I mean, more careful than you think you should be, you know?"

And then she proceeded to tell me about an article she read about a woman who continued to accidentally re-concuss herself for TWO YEARS.

I was strong. I took a page from my mom's book. She's a firm believer that if you don't believe you're coming down with something then you're not. So I quietly chanted "I am not concussed, I am not concussed, I am not concussed" as I drifted off to sleep...hoping I'd wake up.

Next day my head still hurt. Then the pain started creeping down my neck and along one shoulder.

Papermoon: "Oh, honey, you gave yourself some whiplash (snicker). You need to take some Advil and do it every 4 to 6 hours. Do it on a schedule. If you wait until it hurts it's just going to be harder to get the pain under control and it won't do you any good. I'm so (snicker) sorry. Be good to yourself and it'll be OK in a bit. NO! No, I'm not laughing, tiny frog in my throat. (giggle, smirk)"

Long about the next day I just started feeling crappy. Not really nauseated but sort of sick to my stomach and icky after eating (yeah, redundant, I know, get over it, I hit my head). And really tired and not a ton of pain in the head but sort of low level warning pain most of the time. And then my face started to hurt. Then I had a bloody nose. (Stop me when this is too much info..oh right, passed that point about 6 entries ago.)

Miss Rebecca, Chili, Miss Julie, Teddy's Girl and Madam Sorta Happy, among others, all said I should get it checked out.

I slept pretty much all day on Saturday. Couldn't get motivated. Finally got up and went out for the evening and was in bed by midnight again and slept for 10 hours.

So, on Monday I finally give in and call my primary care physician for an appointment. I have to call twice, they don't return my message but I do finally get a human.

Me: I'd like an appointment with the Doc.

Her: August 8th.

Me: OK, um, well, here's the thing. I hit my head and I wanted to just make sure that I didn't do any permanent, you know, damage.

Her: Did you go to the emergency room?

Me: No.

Her: August 8th.

Me: I haven't felt like myself, though, and the back of my head hurts and I'm just kind of scar...

Her: Did you pass out?

Me: No.

Her: August 8th.

Me: So, August 8th, huh?

Her: Yup. 2:45.

This is what confuses me. I hit my head. My head with which I make my living in order to pay for my medical insurance and therefore my doctor...and his receptionist. Also, I didn't go to the emergency room, because it wasn't really a huge emergency, it wasn't call 911 and keep some pressure on that, give me a little ice over here and I think we can re-attach it. Given that it was not that sort of emergency I thought I was doing the right thing by not spending extra money going to an emergency facility and waiting for a thousand hours and keeping them from re-attaching something important to someone else. I figured the thing to do is to go to my PRIMARY CARE PHYSICIAN who should primarily take care of me...and my noggin, which makes the money with which...whatever.

When Chili starts to feel a little fuzzy she calls her doc and has an appointment, antibiotics and an oil change before dark...in winter...in New England. Dark comes early there then, people, short days, very short.

More advice. People thought I should go see a doctor.

More confusion. PRIMARY CARE PHYSICIAN. Isn't the whole point of that so that one trained professional is at the wheel of the ship of my bodily health?

Apparently not.

So, I have an appointment for the crack of dawn tomorrow with a physician's assistant for whom I have high hopes.

Why? Why, why why? Is it because I live in a small space with a ton of people? Is my doctor the Homecoming Queen of Primary Care Physicians, just too popular to be able to see everyone in a timely manner? Is it a summer thing?

Am I right about the whole emergency room thing or should I just have packed a lunch and a copy of War and Peace (both volumes) and spent my Sunday in the local skeevy hospital waiting for someone to spend 5 minutes whacking my knee with a mallet and charging my health insurance company a couple of grand?

Am I naive? This whole one person in charge of my physical health thing? I mean, I KNOW that I am the person who is technically in charge of that but aren't I supposed to have one person for professional guidance?

Sigh.

I hate to be sick.

Tips and suggestions

Don't watch a vaguely creepy Angelina Jolie movie right before you go to bed. You'll only wake up in the middle of the night wondering why she licked you like that and if you should get an AIDS test...and then you'll realize it was a dream.

Also, don't try to post a photo to your blogger blog if you're a layperson and using a Mac. "Safari has unexpectedly quit." Well, great.

Lucky

Lucky

I'm late, need to pay, but he's ahead of me,
ordering ice cream for his dog. No chocolate.
The waitress suggests vanilla with just a tiny bit of fudge.
No chocolate, he says again. The exchange goes on like this
for a long time. Finally they settle on strawberry.

Now he wants a coffee, one sugar, no milk so he'll have
something to drink while the dog's eating. The bill
comes to three dollars. He empties a pocket,
gliding quarter after quarter across the counter,
savoring the slow slide of each cool coin.

By now, I'm so late there's no chance I'll get to where
I thought I was supposed to be so I give up and ask
What kind of dog? He takes his time in turning
to answer, Pit Bull. A leashless pause.
And part Borzoi. A rescue. Her first trip downtown.

I wanted to get her something special so she'd know
it's safe among strangers. He's in his sixties
and handsome in the way that distant mountains
seem both beautiful and private. Now, late
is starting to feel like right on time. Grateful, I stop

outside to watch him drink, with such pleasure,
hot coffee in ninety degree weather. Gently,
he leans over to steady the paper cup of ice cream
for his dog, Lucky. Her tail's tucked between her legs
and I see in the way she looks up

that in her life before this there was never
the smallest pleasure without punishment.
She's afraid anyone, even the man holding the cup,
might start kicking her again. Except it all
tastes so rich and sweet and cool that she can't help

but give herself to the goodness of it with the almost
unbearable joy the abandoned feel when someone
kind finally turns to them, sees them,
really sees them and says, You. It's you
I have been waiting for all this time.

Mekeel McBride
UNH Professor of English
From Dog Star Delicatessen; New and Selected Poems
due out in 2006

I was going to write more but ... well, I'm not. Poem courtesy of Chili.

Gotta do what you gotta do

I wrote the bulk of this post a couple of days ago but kept coming up with reasons not to post it yet. Did I word it right? Had I said everything I wanted to say? Was I being too much of a downer too often? Turns out the universe wanted me to read a couple of other posts on the subject. Bitch PhD happens to have written twice in the past week on the subject of anonymyity in blogging and the rights and responsibilities therein. She makes good points, not all of them support me, but most of them do. You'd be well served to read her posts before you read the rest of mine.

Somehow I didn't think I would have to write this post. I've been reading blogs for a few years now and it seems as though everyone has to write this post. I don't know why I thought I'd be exempt. Perhaps I thought my friends were...different. Perhaps I thought my writing wouldn't be worthy. It doesn't matter. It's become necessary so here it is.

Short version:
This is my space, my thoughts, my feelings. You don't have to read them. If you're upset by something you read here, or you don't agree or you're just plain bored you can go elsewhere. They don't call it the WORLD WIDE Web for nothing. There's plenty of other amusing stuff out there, don't let me slow you down.

Long version:
My dad doesn't read this site. I told him about it. A couple of times actually, usually when there was something specific in it that I thought he'd enjoy. The last time we talked about it something made me add a warning. I told him, in a nicer, more roundabout way, that if he didn't like what he saw then he should keep quiet about it. A few weeks later when the blog came up he mentioned that he doesn't read because he's afraid (essentially) of what he'll read.

This is OK with me. We both know where we stand and that's fine. I don't feel the need to censor myself to protect him and he doesn't need to feel awkward.

I do, however, wish I'd phrased it in a way that was more...well, a way that suggested more of an open door policy. I don't want him to just sit down and shut up, and I'd hope that he might learn something about what I think and feel from reading the blog.

Because that's what this blog is, a place for an individual's opinions, ideas and feelings to be shared. One's own little corner of the interweb to say what's pertinent to one's own mind and heart.

Back in the day when JAMaster and I went to weddings together we had a mantra, "It's not about me, it's not about me, it's not about me." Things get tense at a wedding, it's just the way of the world, and if you're not the bride or groom then you just need to roll with the punches and remember, "It's not about me."

The wedding mantra can be easily transferred to the blogosphere. While it's not my intention to hurt anyone's feelings or to offend anyone's sensibilities or to out anyone's inner secrets if you think you see yourself here, even a part of yourself, or an account of an event you attended, whatever I'm saying about those things is not, at the core, about you.

Here's a little guideline you can use if you're still not clear about what I'm saying. If you're reading something that hurts or offends or unnerves you then ask yourself this question, "What does this tell me about how Kizz feels and thinks?" Because that's why it's here, that's what it's about, (say it with me) it's not about you.

I'll give you that there's a line to be walked. All I can promise is that I'm trying to walk it. I'm trying not to censor myself while respecting the boundaries and feelings of the people in my life. Sometimes I'm going to do it well and sometimes not so much. I'll try to preserve a certain amount of anonymity regardless.

The entry from a few days ago about my unnerving subway experience is a good example of what usually makes the cut here. Something happened to me that I couldn't get out of my head. Pre-blog it would have been stuck in my head and I'd have been waiting for an unsuspecting conversation with someone to bring it out. Now, with the blog, I can set it down, and feed it into the interweb and know that someone, at some point, will read it, it's not stuck inside me and it's not forced on anyone else. It is, for me, the perfect solution.

If it's not the perfect solution for you I can understand that. I certainly hope to foster dialogue but I can't turn myself into an Aesop's Fable (the one about the father, the son and the donkey where everyone knows what's best for them and they realize they have to make their own decision).

So, if you're down with the mantra (as the kids say) and you're enjoying yourself then welcome and thank you for reading. If you can't make peace with my point of view, either due to my writing or your reading, then it's best that you move along. I hope you find something that suits you better, thanks for trying 117 Hudson.

The things I do for you people

I've got another sort of downer of an entry saved as a draft and ready to post but I wanted to give you something a bit more light hearted in between. Last night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, (FINALLY) I thought of something that would work, something that happened to me and Pony Express a few years ago.

This morning all I can remember is that it was something that happened to me and Pony Express years ago.

So there has been wracking of the brain today to come up with something brief and hilarious to lift you up before I get all cerebral again.

I went out to get some lunch. I saw a sale at Ann Taylor. I waded through the sale racks and debated and did math and finally felt my blood sugar plummet and realized I had to go. So I wandered out still considering the purchase options while listening to a song of C-ann's that I might ask for permission to sing.

People? I walked into the glass door.

No, really, not like I got really close and pulled back, lightly grazing my knuckles on the handle. I whapped my head into that door like I was auditioning for the WWF. Almost cracked my glasses, and am spending the afternoon wondering if people are staring and if there's a lump rising quickly and blackening my forehead.

How's that for comedy?

And other days...

Usually I write I Love New York posts. It's for the benefit of those that question the intelligence of my living situation. But you know, sometimes even the one you love shows an ugly side.

I was riding the F train downtown this afternoon, headed to Carroll Gardens to buy the new Harry Potter. I sat down across from a hipster (straw fedora, peg leg pants, square toed ankle boots, tank top, messenger bag, two tone hair) who had to be asked 3 times by an older lady to change his posture and move his bag so she could sit in the seat next to him. I always have a moment of scoffing at people like that, even though I'm sure I've pissed off plenty of old ladies in my time, and yet still I scoff, especially when it's a hipster. Perpendicular to him, in a two seater was a father and son team. Possibly Hispanic, the kid was around 10 years old.

So we ride and I read and eventually I doze.

WHAP!

I sort of open my eyes in time to see the tail end of the kid getting smacked again.

WHAP!

The kid takes off running to the end of the car, and the father is yelling and drops his candy and his newpaper and takes off running after him. The train is pulling into a station and I think, "Get off the train, kid." I can't see if he does. The whole car is watching.

What kills me is, the kid knew what to do, he knew where his exits were and he knew he had to run. This has happened to him a lot. He's only 10. Up to then they'd seemed to be having a run of the mill conversation and eating Skittles. Bad dads don't buy you Skittles, do they?

Apparently they do.

I thought all this after the train had left that station. Do you know how you can tell? I didn't do anything. I didn't even think about going after them. The extent of my assistance was a hard thought, "Get off the train, kid." I honestly wanted him to run and run and get away (to where? who the hell knows) but I didn't help him do that.

That hipster, though? He threw his paper down and he walked toward their end of the car. When he saw them get off the train he got off the train. As we left the station he was speaking to the father and getting screamed at for his trouble. The kid was being held by the choking collar of his t-shirt and he was bawling and the father was pointing a finger in the hipster's face and screaming until he was as red faced as the kid.

And I sat on the train and headed toward Bergen Street to spend money on a book.

Now, there's child abuse everywhere, even in small towns. If you don't think there's abuse going on where you live then you might want to look into getting those rose colored lenses replaced and joining us in the real world. The difference is that in a small town you usually don't have to watch it. Sure, once in a while you'll see a swat or a shake in the grocery store or the mall but you can pretend that it's a long day of shopping and that it's just a case of everyone being tired. In a lot of cases that's probably true.

In a place with well used public transportation you see a lot of personal stuff. I can take the guy poping a zit on his calf, I can take the daily make up application on a crowded rush hour train, and, while I'd like to strangle the preachers, I'm used to them. But the abuse of kids, of spouses, of friends, it shames me.

Because I don't do anything.

Are you gonna eat that?

Papermoon is taking a naughty little weekend in the Berkshires.

We were IMing about it.

Keep in mind that we both work in offices with a very open plan and we both sit next to women who feel that our personal business is for public consumption. I know that my chick can't read very fast and Papermoon is lightening fast on the minimize button so this does not stop us from talking about poop, penises and parties.

Kizz: Where is the place?
Papermoon: Lennox Mass www.blantyre.com
K: but remember what happened to Miranda on her honeymoon. Mucklucks and a coat and a nighty with one bar on her cell phone in the woods
P: Oh this place is not like that...
K: Good to hear it
P: check it out
K: I'm looking now, it looks beautiful
P: OMG that was a GREAT episode!

(Yeah, well, linear? Not really our bag.)

K: Oh it's near Tanglewood!
K: OK for fun I'm reading the wedding section BWA HA HA HA I can only IMAGINE what this must cost
P: NO shit! I love that they TELL YOU how THEY are going to do it
K: OK, but now I'm reading the menu and salivating.
K: This, however is probably the silliest food ever made: Squab Liver Parfait on Toasted Brioche with Crispy Shallots
P: You know... I thought the same thing!!!!
P: Squab liver?????
P: SQUAB LIVER???
P: how many squabs perished to make that liver parfait?
K: I mean, I love a pate or a parfait of most anything because it's all liverwurst to me. Mushed up pigeon guts on toast with onions
P: yeah.. exactly!
K: LOIN of Rabbit? You're serving me rabbit genitalia?! At my wedding?!?
K: I don't know what Tuile is. I thought it was fabric. But apparently it comes in parmesan
P: I was going to say fabric too...Have no idea what that is..Loin.. think of it as upper thigh..
K: Uh huh RABBIT PENIS!
P: No! tender part of upper thigh.. not necessarily genitalia
P: you think that a rabbit has a big enough penis to serve on a plate??
K: These are canapes, it doesn't have to be big. Although you'd have to make a whole Vienna Boys Choir of rabbits to feed an entire wedding

(Right here Papermoon crosses her legs, almost ruins her desk chair and chokes just a little bit while swallowing her laughter. I am unreasonably and possibly cruelly proud that I can make her do this.)

P: ok, ok so maybe the rabbit penis is PERFECT for the canapes.. I am STILL thinking THIGH!!!
K: I'm sure that you're right but the whole LOIN thing sounds suspicious to me
P: kinda like squab???

(Here Papermoon gets a phone call. A business call. She tells me that she's got a phone call. I continue to type with no regard for her well being.)

K: Mango Passion Fruit Financiers
K: So what now, they're dipping brokers in fruit and serving them for dessert?
P: STOP IT
K: It's not me it's the damn menu people
P: I am on the phone
P: I can't crack up
K: Marie Puffs filled with White Chocolate Mousse
K: This sounds like a nun farted and they filled it with pudding
P: STOP IT!!!
K: OK, I'm probably done now.
K: Probably. I haven't gotten to the wedding cake suggestions yet
K: Apparently you can get the Financiers plain too. Which, as we well know, is how they come.
K: So to speak

(And here, right here, is where Papermoon signed off in order to save her job.)

Hee. I'm the devil. And I'm serving pigeon liverwurst at my wedding.

Today I Turn One

One what?

No, the blog, it turns one year old today.

I thought a bit about what to write but in the end New York City offered me content. And I didn't get New York Anything on her birthday.

New York gave me this to give to you: A recommendation for possibly the nicest free bathroom in the city now that the Plaza is turning into condos.

Ladies and gentlemen I give you...The Four Seasons.

I'm not sure how I've lived here 18 years and not been there before. I never even realized that's what that facade was on 57th street between Park and Madison. Turns out it's the Four Seasons Hotel with the Four Seasons Spa deep in the basement.

I went there today to pick up a gift that my boss had purchased. He let me in on this errand early this morning. So let's review my outfit:

Pants: Target
Shirt: Target
Shoes: Aerosoles
Socks: None
Makeup: None
Hair: Humidified

Fortunately the Four Seasons is old school, like Tiffany's. It doesn't matter what you're wearing or how out of place you may think you look you will get good, pleasant service.

There's no doorman at the....

Yeah, and this is where the celebration of the blogoversary really begins.

I finished this great post, I was in the middle of adding hip, edgy, funny links to everything I could think to make a link, it was great, no really, you would have loved it.

"The application 'Safari' has unexpectedly quit"

Completely irretrievable. The "Recover Post" button on Blogger is no help with that.

Right here is where I agree wholeheartedly with all my Mac friends. Oh god yes, I'm so glad that I started using Safari and cut Internet Explorer out of my life. Safari is endlessly better with its wide margins and no lists to go back with and the whole QUITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF MY BLOGOVERSARY POST! Yup, so much better than the evil inventions of Mr. Gates and his winged monkeys.

I'm not re-creating the post. It's not meant to be. It's just one of those things that says, "Yup, this is what we're celebrating, you know, along with the good stuff. How do you like me now?"

I still like it. I like blogging and I'm hoping that people are starting to like me. Yeah, it's been a year and I've probably provided you with 2 good belly laughs, one solidly serious post and a little bit of sex. It's a start. Stick around, you really never know what I'm going to do next.

Coming up we'll get very funny with questions about catered food in the Berkshires and then we'll bring it down and get serious about people realizing that this is my space and I get to write what's relevant to me even if it makes them uncomfortable.

I hope you'll join us.

Like rabbits

One of the off buttons on my Rabbit is broken. Better than the on button but still, a bit of a sensory shocker.

(That link? Not so much safe for work.)

London Name Calling

This evening on my way home from work the light started to change and I picked up the pace to a jog to beat it. Immediately I thought, what if you jog and that gets you on "the train"? And on the heels of that I thought, how many people jogged and caught the bus right BEFORE "the bus"? It's a cycle I get a lot these days. As a matter of fact it's the cycle that got my ass on a train this morning when there was less information and I was more scared.

The office had CNN on all day. Inevitably the conversation turned to the London bombings and some quality quotes were to be had. The one that made my teeth itch was this:

"I think we should go back to what we did in World War II, just send 'em all back to where they came from until this is all sorted out."

Well, heaven's to Betsy, of course. That's exactly what we should do, it's much nicer than "Shoot 'em all and let God sort 'em out" and it follows exactly the principles of segregation, exclusivity and xenophobia on which this country was founded.

Oh wait, that's not it.

Melting pot. Look it up.

On the way home on the ferry tonight check out "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free." you short sighted goon.

So, now how exactly is it OK to ship people back to the homeland for having a certain heritage? I guess you'd have been fine with it back in the Industrial Age when the Irish (of whose heritage you're so proud) were being treated like crap and riots started in the mills. It would have been OK with you to just send everyone back to Ireland despite a lack of food or shelter or you know air to breathe back on the Emerald Isle.

Also, "until this is all sorted out".

OK, sure, a sort of global time out, that's totally possible. My people came in on the Mayflower. We then proceeded to spend a leisurely few hundred years devaluing, demoralizing and fatally infecting the actual Americans we found here. If anyone needed a global time out it was the lily white Pilgrim descendants, I'm thinking.

Great, let's assume that after the Trail of Tears enough Native Americans are still able to get together and say, "All right, that's not OK, you need to go home until we get this sorted out. Back you go, sure, take a few ears of corn, I mean Maize, and be on your way. Don't call us, we'll call you."

The 5 nations take a few years to let the land recover, see the buffalo herds back to full strength and take a nice rest. Then they have a summit, which I'm thinking takes a few more years because I can't imagine that "sorting out" genocide is a short term job. But let's just say they DO come up with a resolution are they then actually going to say, "OK, what have you learned? Good, now promise not to do it again." and bring all their tormentors back?

I think not.

What an ignorant bitch.

I don't know why the guy who patronizingly suggested that the terrorists should be careful not to wake the sleeping giant of the US by continuing to blow shit up because if they kept doing this EVERYONE would sign up to kill them despite the service's inability to provide them with Kevlar or bullets or training didn't piss me off as much. But he didn't.

However, if I think about it much longer he will.

A Classy Guy

20 years ago a sweet, young, midwestern man, 2 weeks before his wedding, was interviewing for a job. This was his fly by interview with the founder of the company:

Her: Do you really want to work here?

Him: Yes, yes I do.

Tonight, 2 decades later at his farewell party he summed up his approach to the job as this (I'm paraphrasing but only slightly): "Find justice, love kindness and walk humbly."

If I were to search for a better way to describe the man I'm sure I would never find one.

Update

In case you didn't get the memo:

I suck.

Also, I'm very cool and talented.

By the way I'm really not the best person I could be.

And yet, I'm better than some.

Just the end to another trip home.

I'm back, I'm going to return the rental car now and then I'll be addressing the odd smell in my couch.

Fun times.