Okay, so, we spent Christmas this year at my sister's house, because she was great with child and not up to driving six hours to our house, and certainly not up to an airplane ride to our parents' house. She is due on New Year's Day.
She and her husband have a four year old, very verbal boy, who proclaimed as soon as the disbelief faded that the new baby shall be called Soonyouwah. We do not know why. We do not know what it is. We only know that It Shall Be Called.
So, on Christmas Eve, we're all kind of vegging out in front of the tube, watching the Saints whup up mightily upon the Giants, when during the first quarter my sister goes to the bathroom, and I hear a rather sharp "MIKE!" eminating therefrom.
Shortly thereafter, I join Mike in the kitchen, just in time to hear him tell the OB/GYN's answering service that his "water's wife broke." I did hear it, with my own ears, yea verily.
My sister comes out of the bathroom, amazingly calm (but not so amazing, since she knows at this point she's just along for the ride, in control of very little). She points out where Santa has left some gifts, and where the batteries are that should go into them, and asks me to make a couple of phone calls. She asks me if I can handle the 4 year old, then she slaps her head and says "You took a ten year old to France; keeping a four year old in his own house should be a breeze!"
Her idea of breeze and mine are different, you might guess.
That was at about 2:30 Sunday afternoon, and about 10:20 she called and said it was a boy, and they had no idea what his name was yet. I suggested Jesus, since it was Christmas Eve, and Jesus H. Moskowitz sounded like someone I'd want to get to know.
But alas, they didn't take my suggestion, and if you want to know what they named him, peek here.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Close Encounters with Dead Presidents
I am cold.
I just spent the last hour standing down at the corner of our street, watching the motorcade(s) bearing the body of Gerald Ford drive by.
They flew into Andrews Air Force Base, and since the Fords had lived in Alexandria for eighteen years, until he was President, the family requested the motorcade come up through Alexandria rather than go up the freeway into the city to the Capitol.
Lots of my neighbors came. We took the dogs, as did many others.
There were about thirty motorcycles total, two hearses (in case one broke down), police from the District, Alexandria, Pentagon Police, the uniformed branch of the Secret Service, Capitol Police, countless Secret Service SUVs, probably fifty limosines and Town Car-ish black cars, the ceremonial ambulance bringing up the rear.
It is easy to become jaded about this stuff when you live here, because it is relatively common. But there have only been 43 men ever to do this, and only a few of them are alive at any time.
Just a bit of history.
I just spent the last hour standing down at the corner of our street, watching the motorcade(s) bearing the body of Gerald Ford drive by.
They flew into Andrews Air Force Base, and since the Fords had lived in Alexandria for eighteen years, until he was President, the family requested the motorcade come up through Alexandria rather than go up the freeway into the city to the Capitol.
Lots of my neighbors came. We took the dogs, as did many others.
There were about thirty motorcycles total, two hearses (in case one broke down), police from the District, Alexandria, Pentagon Police, the uniformed branch of the Secret Service, Capitol Police, countless Secret Service SUVs, probably fifty limosines and Town Car-ish black cars, the ceremonial ambulance bringing up the rear.
It is easy to become jaded about this stuff when you live here, because it is relatively common. But there have only been 43 men ever to do this, and only a few of them are alive at any time.
Just a bit of history.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Christmas, Part Deux
This weekend, we had six parties.
On Friday night, my husband was invited to participate in the Aero Club of Washington's presentation of the Wright Brothers' Memorial Trophy to retired Secretary of Transportation Norman Y. Mineta.
The event was held in the Washington Hilton Where They Shot Reagan, or as known by others, the Hinckley Hilton. It was black tie, and I never know quite what to wear to such events. Besides, it's a week before Christmas, so do you dress like it's a Christmas party?
I pretty much hit the middle of the target range in the dress department. I wore a 15 year old black Dior-fabric silk jacket with a dark iridescent reddish-paisley velvet skirt and a black lace camisole, with silver pumps sporting rhinestone buckles.
Others there appeared to be being propelled out of their dresses, either from the top or from the bottom, squoze clean out. Still others went the easy route, with black velvet or gold satin pantsuits.
All the men wore tuxedos. Except Herb Kelleher, inventor of Southwest Airlines, who wore a business suit, and smoked. He allowed as how smoking was only a misdemeanor, and "hell, I have lots of those." He was a scream, but he always is. I didn't know that he and Norm were great buddies, but Deni Mineta said that the two of them together behaved like two six-year-olds.
We missed the dinner gathering to which we were invited earlier, and the party at the club H2O, which had been completely rented out by a business associate.
Saturday night was my office's staff party at the boss's house, which was lovely and low key, followed by a house party with some old neighbors in their new neighborhood, which lasted until about 1:30 am. VERY fun. Good conversation, getting all caught up on all sorts of gossip...
Sunday was a party in Maryland with some sailing pals. We carpooled over with some local friends, and met up with the others in their Aspen-lodge style house with a fire in the fireplace (despite the fact that it was in the 60's outside). Tons of great food and drink, good conversation.
I woke up with a cold this morning. Shook too many indiscriminate hands.
Soonyouwah's mother is showing signs of pre-eclamsia, so Soonyouwah may be coming Sooner than we thought...
On Friday night, my husband was invited to participate in the Aero Club of Washington's presentation of the Wright Brothers' Memorial Trophy to retired Secretary of Transportation Norman Y. Mineta.
The event was held in the Washington Hilton Where They Shot Reagan, or as known by others, the Hinckley Hilton. It was black tie, and I never know quite what to wear to such events. Besides, it's a week before Christmas, so do you dress like it's a Christmas party?
I pretty much hit the middle of the target range in the dress department. I wore a 15 year old black Dior-fabric silk jacket with a dark iridescent reddish-paisley velvet skirt and a black lace camisole, with silver pumps sporting rhinestone buckles.
Others there appeared to be being propelled out of their dresses, either from the top or from the bottom, squoze clean out. Still others went the easy route, with black velvet or gold satin pantsuits.
All the men wore tuxedos. Except Herb Kelleher, inventor of Southwest Airlines, who wore a business suit, and smoked. He allowed as how smoking was only a misdemeanor, and "hell, I have lots of those." He was a scream, but he always is. I didn't know that he and Norm were great buddies, but Deni Mineta said that the two of them together behaved like two six-year-olds.
We missed the dinner gathering to which we were invited earlier, and the party at the club H2O, which had been completely rented out by a business associate.
Saturday night was my office's staff party at the boss's house, which was lovely and low key, followed by a house party with some old neighbors in their new neighborhood, which lasted until about 1:30 am. VERY fun. Good conversation, getting all caught up on all sorts of gossip...
Sunday was a party in Maryland with some sailing pals. We carpooled over with some local friends, and met up with the others in their Aspen-lodge style house with a fire in the fireplace (despite the fact that it was in the 60's outside). Tons of great food and drink, good conversation.
I woke up with a cold this morning. Shook too many indiscriminate hands.
Soonyouwah's mother is showing signs of pre-eclamsia, so Soonyouwah may be coming Sooner than we thought...
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Christmas in Washington
It's really great.
Lots of free concerts and recitals, lights, parties, menus at restaurants. I've done two parties so far, and have another three next weekend. It's better than anywhere else I've done Christmas. Even better than Paris. Except in Paris Jessye Norman was singing at Notre Dame. I would have had tickets if she'd been here.
My discovery of Christmas in Paris was when we kept foreign students in Florida. We visited one of them for Christmas, and he lived in a small town just outside the Péripherique. On Christmas eve, we went to the local church's 5 pm family service, in which the children portrayed the Christmas story in lieu of homily. It was dreadful, as they all generally are, and as usual, the parents thought the performances were brilliant. They are entitled to their opinion.
During the Offertory, the kids came back and portrayed the story of the Good Samaritan. They were evidently running out of kids, because one of the robbers was also the innkeeper. He appeared to get everybody's money.
We then went home to a feast like I have never since or before seen the likes.
Escargot, Coquilles St. Jacques, foie gras, oysters on the halfshell. We ate until midnight then quit, long before we got to anything like salad or roast beef or cheese or dessert. We had those the next day.
Another Christmas in Florida, we had a student from Japan with us. One Saturday when she was out with her friends, we went out and got the biggest tree we could fit into our dining room, which had 13' cathedral ceilings. We decorated it and left the lights off in the dining room to emphasize the lights on the tree.
When she came home, we urged her to go see the Christmas Tree in the dining room. She said she would in a little while, and we forgot about it. In a few minutes we heard this distinctively Japanese "Ho-o-o-o-o-o-H!! coming from the dining room. Evidently in Japan, Christmas trees are about a foot tall and plastic. She'd never seen anything that big inside a house. Further, it took two or three days until she brushed against it for her to discover that it was a live tree! For the whole time we had it up, she would go into the darkened dining room, pull up a chair and just gaze upon the splendor of the tree.
We took her to midnight mass in the cathedral on Christmas eve, and arrived so late that we had to sit in the narthex. Here came the bishop and all the clergy in all their gold brocade, swinging the thurible full of incense, walking through the bunch of us in folding chairs, heading into the church. We heard another "Ho-o-o-o-o-o-h!" as she asked "And you do this every week??"
We told her we generally didn't sit in the lobby.
Still, when we see a particularly magnificent Christmas tree, one of us will emit a "Ho-o-o-o-o-o-h!"
Lots of free concerts and recitals, lights, parties, menus at restaurants. I've done two parties so far, and have another three next weekend. It's better than anywhere else I've done Christmas. Even better than Paris. Except in Paris Jessye Norman was singing at Notre Dame. I would have had tickets if she'd been here.
My discovery of Christmas in Paris was when we kept foreign students in Florida. We visited one of them for Christmas, and he lived in a small town just outside the Péripherique. On Christmas eve, we went to the local church's 5 pm family service, in which the children portrayed the Christmas story in lieu of homily. It was dreadful, as they all generally are, and as usual, the parents thought the performances were brilliant. They are entitled to their opinion.
During the Offertory, the kids came back and portrayed the story of the Good Samaritan. They were evidently running out of kids, because one of the robbers was also the innkeeper. He appeared to get everybody's money.
We then went home to a feast like I have never since or before seen the likes.
Escargot, Coquilles St. Jacques, foie gras, oysters on the halfshell. We ate until midnight then quit, long before we got to anything like salad or roast beef or cheese or dessert. We had those the next day.
Another Christmas in Florida, we had a student from Japan with us. One Saturday when she was out with her friends, we went out and got the biggest tree we could fit into our dining room, which had 13' cathedral ceilings. We decorated it and left the lights off in the dining room to emphasize the lights on the tree.
When she came home, we urged her to go see the Christmas Tree in the dining room. She said she would in a little while, and we forgot about it. In a few minutes we heard this distinctively Japanese "Ho-o-o-o-o-o-H!! coming from the dining room. Evidently in Japan, Christmas trees are about a foot tall and plastic. She'd never seen anything that big inside a house. Further, it took two or three days until she brushed against it for her to discover that it was a live tree! For the whole time we had it up, she would go into the darkened dining room, pull up a chair and just gaze upon the splendor of the tree.
We took her to midnight mass in the cathedral on Christmas eve, and arrived so late that we had to sit in the narthex. Here came the bishop and all the clergy in all their gold brocade, swinging the thurible full of incense, walking through the bunch of us in folding chairs, heading into the church. We heard another "Ho-o-o-o-o-o-h!" as she asked "And you do this every week??"
We told her we generally didn't sit in the lobby.
Still, when we see a particularly magnificent Christmas tree, one of us will emit a "Ho-o-o-o-o-o-h!"
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Thanks Giving
I am exceedingly grateful this year.
We spent Turkey Day at my sister's house. My brilliant four year old nephew was greatly entertaining. He is now addicted to NASCAR, and announced that at his preschool, he was the "speedist."
Thanksgiving dinner included us, my sister and her husband and their brilliant son (and their pending one, who the nephew has named "Soonyouwah" for no apparent reason), and my brother-in-law's youngest brother, mother and her fiance. We had a small turkey, a turducken, dressing, fresh sweet potatos baked in peach butter, and pumpkin pie, strawberry rhubarb pie, and a bread pudding made from Pascal's Manale's recipe. With whisky sauce. Made with Dr Jacques Daniel's formula.
My brother and his lovely wife and brilliant daughters stopped by Thursday morning on their way to her family gathering, and we joined them at a family home nearby for a re-hash on Friday evening.
Traveling with Pulmonary Hypertension is like having an extra person. I have one bag that's full of nothing but drugs and treatments, and the oxygen that goes with me most places. I really, really am feeling much better than I was last year, but it takes a lot of doing to maintain it. It's easy to lose things in the midst of it all...
We left to come home on Saturday, and I left my phone at my sister's house, and one of the cleaning baskets for my nebulizer.
Sunday we took the Jaguar to get a tune up so I could drive my husband's car while he was in Carmel by the Sea this week (did I mention that I hate him?). Monday morning after he was winging his way west, I discovered that he had the only key to the car in his pocket.
No car.
No phone.
Fortunately, even for a crip like myself, we have some good restaurants and little shops in walking distance, so I was not desperate.
I took a cab to the dealership to get a new key for his car. Key didn't work. His locks are too old and worn for a newly cut key.
I took a cab to the repair shop to get my car. Jaguar tuneups are in a class of their own expense-wise...
I've spent over $70 on cab rides so far this week.
The phone came in the mail today.
Phone. Car.
Life is good again. Or at least manageable.
We spent Turkey Day at my sister's house. My brilliant four year old nephew was greatly entertaining. He is now addicted to NASCAR, and announced that at his preschool, he was the "speedist."
Thanksgiving dinner included us, my sister and her husband and their brilliant son (and their pending one, who the nephew has named "Soonyouwah" for no apparent reason), and my brother-in-law's youngest brother, mother and her fiance. We had a small turkey, a turducken, dressing, fresh sweet potatos baked in peach butter, and pumpkin pie, strawberry rhubarb pie, and a bread pudding made from Pascal's Manale's recipe. With whisky sauce. Made with Dr Jacques Daniel's formula.
My brother and his lovely wife and brilliant daughters stopped by Thursday morning on their way to her family gathering, and we joined them at a family home nearby for a re-hash on Friday evening.
Traveling with Pulmonary Hypertension is like having an extra person. I have one bag that's full of nothing but drugs and treatments, and the oxygen that goes with me most places. I really, really am feeling much better than I was last year, but it takes a lot of doing to maintain it. It's easy to lose things in the midst of it all...
We left to come home on Saturday, and I left my phone at my sister's house, and one of the cleaning baskets for my nebulizer.
Sunday we took the Jaguar to get a tune up so I could drive my husband's car while he was in Carmel by the Sea this week (did I mention that I hate him?). Monday morning after he was winging his way west, I discovered that he had the only key to the car in his pocket.
No car.
No phone.
Fortunately, even for a crip like myself, we have some good restaurants and little shops in walking distance, so I was not desperate.
I took a cab to the dealership to get a new key for his car. Key didn't work. His locks are too old and worn for a newly cut key.
I took a cab to the repair shop to get my car. Jaguar tuneups are in a class of their own expense-wise...
I've spent over $70 on cab rides so far this week.
The phone came in the mail today.
Phone. Car.
Life is good again. Or at least manageable.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Mea Lazy
I'm lazy.
I should have added much information to this, but I have been negligent. Mea culpa.
We went to Philadelphia this weekend for a Pulmonary Hypertension symposium. Lots of docs and researchers talking about where treatment is going and what we can expect.
We stayed in a very nice little Hilton in a neighborhood with which I was not familiar, near St Joseph University. Nice restaurant, not grossly overpriced, nice paneled bar with overstuffed leather armchairs.
I had some friends who also attended. Some I had met in the flesh before, some only online. All were delightful, which is kind of a bonus because I have found that meeting folks with whom you have only corresponded is sometimes a, well, disappointment. They write better than they are.
Me, I write how I are.
One of the things that is increasing apparent about this disease is that there aren't any guarantees. I'm feeling great now, and taking as much advantage of that as I can, but the meds can quit working, or the disease can be accelerated by any number of things. My chances are better because the treatment is better. A woman died this weekend, five years after diagnosis, and her doctor had chosen to put her on only one medication, changing it too late for there to be much improvement. When she was diagnosed, there were only two treatments, both of them intravenous infusions. Now we have three pills and an inhaled treatment, in addition to the infusions.
Currently the most common treatment is a cocktail of several of the available treatments, adjusting the dosages to minimize the side effects, but jacking the dosage up as high as is tolerable to minimize the symptoms. They think that by this time next year, there may be as many as five new treatments. And in Canada, they're starting a stem cell infusion clinical trial this year.
The trick is staying alive long enough to get a cure...
I should have added much information to this, but I have been negligent. Mea culpa.
We went to Philadelphia this weekend for a Pulmonary Hypertension symposium. Lots of docs and researchers talking about where treatment is going and what we can expect.
We stayed in a very nice little Hilton in a neighborhood with which I was not familiar, near St Joseph University. Nice restaurant, not grossly overpriced, nice paneled bar with overstuffed leather armchairs.
I had some friends who also attended. Some I had met in the flesh before, some only online. All were delightful, which is kind of a bonus because I have found that meeting folks with whom you have only corresponded is sometimes a, well, disappointment. They write better than they are.
Me, I write how I are.
One of the things that is increasing apparent about this disease is that there aren't any guarantees. I'm feeling great now, and taking as much advantage of that as I can, but the meds can quit working, or the disease can be accelerated by any number of things. My chances are better because the treatment is better. A woman died this weekend, five years after diagnosis, and her doctor had chosen to put her on only one medication, changing it too late for there to be much improvement. When she was diagnosed, there were only two treatments, both of them intravenous infusions. Now we have three pills and an inhaled treatment, in addition to the infusions.
Currently the most common treatment is a cocktail of several of the available treatments, adjusting the dosages to minimize the side effects, but jacking the dosage up as high as is tolerable to minimize the symptoms. They think that by this time next year, there may be as many as five new treatments. And in Canada, they're starting a stem cell infusion clinical trial this year.
The trick is staying alive long enough to get a cure...
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Pink Shoes Redux
I wore my pink saddle oxfords with a brown knit dress and brown stockings today to church. I read the epistle lesson in pink saddle oxfords. I've never done that before.
I'm feeling nearly normal, and so I am experimenting with which drug I'm taking is doing what. The inhaled stuff is definitely keeping me from being short of breath. When I delay in a dose, I have a heavy feeling in my chest and when I check my oxygen saturation level, it's in the 80's. Not so good. So that one needs to stay at its current rate.
I'm feeling good enough that I'm considering joining the choir again at church. There's a tall loft where we sit, and I'm going to have to figure out how to get there, and how to lug the oxygen concentrator up there, and also how to walk and sing at the same time (I think I'll have to skip that part for a while).
We're planning to attend a symposium on pulmonary hypertension in a few weeks up near my mother-in-law's home, and we'lll visit her at the same time, but one nice night in a nice Hilton with nice surroundings will be, well, nice.
I'm feeling nearly normal, and so I am experimenting with which drug I'm taking is doing what. The inhaled stuff is definitely keeping me from being short of breath. When I delay in a dose, I have a heavy feeling in my chest and when I check my oxygen saturation level, it's in the 80's. Not so good. So that one needs to stay at its current rate.
I'm feeling good enough that I'm considering joining the choir again at church. There's a tall loft where we sit, and I'm going to have to figure out how to get there, and how to lug the oxygen concentrator up there, and also how to walk and sing at the same time (I think I'll have to skip that part for a while).
We're planning to attend a symposium on pulmonary hypertension in a few weeks up near my mother-in-law's home, and we'lll visit her at the same time, but one nice night in a nice Hilton with nice surroundings will be, well, nice.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
My Inner European is...
Your Inner European is Russian! |
 Mysterious and exotic. You've got a great balance of danger and allure. |
Friday, October 13, 2006
Memed by Pooks
Okay, that awefull woman in Dallas is doing it to me. I have to answer her questions. Then I have to tag some of you anonymous readers to answer them too.
One book that changed your life:
Or maybe anything by Faulkner. One sentence a day from him is enough to chew on for a long while.
4) One book that made you laugh:
One book that changed your life:
The Golden String by Bede Griffiths.
The first time I ever realized that truth could come with many faces, and by embracing another's truth, you could convey your own truth to them effectively.
If you don't know Bede Griffiths, he was a student of C.S. Lewis's and became a Christian at about the same time, but he became a Roman Catholic and joined a Cistercian monastery, then opened a Christian ashram in India, and lived in a hut and ate off banana leaves. An amazing fellow, and he writes a lot like Lewis, in that the first 75 pages are incomprehensible, then he gets into his groove and it's fabulous.
It's a tie. Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy I'll continue to read until I can read no more.
Okay, this is shallow and trite, but Semi-Tough by Dan Jenkins is the only book I have given away more than ten copies of. Dan Jenkins makes me laugh out loud in public places. And I have read it more than once, probably more than ten times. And Dead Solid Perfect. And Limo.
The other one I've given away multiple copies of (in two languages, no less) is A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. I never tire of Ignatius J. Reilly.3) One book you'd want on a deserted island:
Probably it would be a philosophical anthology with lots of Plato and almost no post-modernists. I'm a weirdo... I think philosophy is fun.Or maybe anything by Faulkner. One sentence a day from him is enough to chew on for a long while.
4) One book that made you laugh:
I was reading Little Green Men by Chris Buckley on the train going to New York one day, and I laughed out loud, disturbing all my trainmates to the point that I now no longer read on the train, preferring my cellular wireless connection to do aimless web browsing.
5) One book that made you cry:
Personal History by Katherine Graham. Now I have to tell a story.
I had read the book, but I also had the book on tape, which I listed to as I drove from DC to my brother and sister-in-law's house near Boston. Katherine read the book herself on the BOT, and she started to read about her husband's mental illness and eventual suicide as I was stuck in traffic on the George Washington Bridge in New York City. By the time he shot himself and she found him in the bathroom, I was stuck in traffic in Westchester County, weeping copiously while on-looking truckdrivers peered down curiously upon me. I must have been an odd looking attraction in the overall scheme of things...6) One book you wish you had written:
Thank You for Smoking by Chris Buckley. And I could have, had I thought of it.
7) One book you wish had never been written:
Oh, there are so many. I could start with anything by Jane Austen, but that would be too easy. But easily the most tedious book I have ever read was The Quark and the Jaguar by Murray Gell-Mann. He is absolute proof that being smart doesn't make you a good writer. This book has lots of facts, lots of ideas and no point.
8) One book you ’are currently reading:
The Booknotes books from C-SPAN (okay, I like philosophy and I'm a C-SPAN junkie. So sue me.) are great because they're all chopped up in little bite-sized portions and I don't have to stay awake long to get through one portion of it.
My dog ate one of them, so now I have one and a half copies of that one.9) One book you have been meaning to read:
Many books. Many Many Books. I have a whole pile of the post-Katrina books written by Times-Picayune staff and others in the New Orleans area. Probably the one that is calling loudest right now is 1 Dead in Attic by Chris Rose.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Cultural Icons
I am a beacon of good taste and High Culture. I demonstrated it tonight.
We went to see Randy Newman tonight. He was delightful. Did two and a half sets, all his good stuff, some new stuff, some not so good stuff that's still fine. I bet that he wouldn't sing "Rednecks," because it is simply too politically incorrect. I lost, to my delight. I cried through "Louisiana, 1927." I've always done that, but I do it more, now.
I have tinnitis, I think it's a familial thing, because several of my relatives and siblings have ear-ringing problems. I don't much notice mine until I go to a loud concert somewhere, then my ears ring for a week.
Randy played at the Birchmere, which is one of my favorite places because it's small and isn't too loud. The last time I was there, we went with a group of young kids (under jr hi age) from church went to see Riders in the Sky, which was fun for everyone because Ranger Doug and Woody Paul and Too Slim and Joey the CowPolka King are entirely more sophisticated than they let on.
Anyway, Randy talked a lot about being a geriatric rock 'n' roller. I never thought of him as a rock 'n' roller, more of a whorehouse balladeer. I mean, his technique is sort of Eric Satie meets Eubie Blake. Very sophisticated harmonies and melodies with a ragged stride bass line. An odd but very enjoyable combination. This show was just Randy and piano, with us as the backup singers (by invitation; evidently this has been true in other places as well). And tomorrow night he plays Carnegie Hall. And you can't order nachos or wings there during the show, I'll bet.
His connection to New Orleans is the Real Deal; he said watching the Katrina coverage, where three of his relatives lost their homes, he heard the Homeland Security chief say that after three days, "Louisiana was dysfunctional." "Duh," said Randy. "It took him that long to figure that out?" He said that in the best of circumstances you had to drive you broken radio, or broken anything, to Mississippi to get it fixed. And that was the best part of Louisiana.
He gets it.
We went to see Randy Newman tonight. He was delightful. Did two and a half sets, all his good stuff, some new stuff, some not so good stuff that's still fine. I bet that he wouldn't sing "Rednecks," because it is simply too politically incorrect. I lost, to my delight. I cried through "Louisiana, 1927." I've always done that, but I do it more, now.
I have tinnitis, I think it's a familial thing, because several of my relatives and siblings have ear-ringing problems. I don't much notice mine until I go to a loud concert somewhere, then my ears ring for a week.
Randy played at the Birchmere, which is one of my favorite places because it's small and isn't too loud. The last time I was there, we went with a group of young kids (under jr hi age) from church went to see Riders in the Sky, which was fun for everyone because Ranger Doug and Woody Paul and Too Slim and Joey the CowPolka King are entirely more sophisticated than they let on.
Anyway, Randy talked a lot about being a geriatric rock 'n' roller. I never thought of him as a rock 'n' roller, more of a whorehouse balladeer. I mean, his technique is sort of Eric Satie meets Eubie Blake. Very sophisticated harmonies and melodies with a ragged stride bass line. An odd but very enjoyable combination. This show was just Randy and piano, with us as the backup singers (by invitation; evidently this has been true in other places as well). And tomorrow night he plays Carnegie Hall. And you can't order nachos or wings there during the show, I'll bet.
His connection to New Orleans is the Real Deal; he said watching the Katrina coverage, where three of his relatives lost their homes, he heard the Homeland Security chief say that after three days, "Louisiana was dysfunctional." "Duh," said Randy. "It took him that long to figure that out?" He said that in the best of circumstances you had to drive you broken radio, or broken anything, to Mississippi to get it fixed. And that was the best part of Louisiana.
He gets it.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Boys and their toys
We went sailing today, in honor of the Admiral of the Ocean Sea.
Or because it was a pretty day and we didn't have to go to work.
There was a very gentle breeze, steady, easy for quiet sailing. There were few boats on the bay. Captain Bligh, my husband, decided to go below and take a nap, and leave me with the boat. He doesn't do that very often, because he'd much rather give orders.
I prefer he takes a nap, until it's time to pull on some rope really hard.
Anyway, so, I was holding a course with the wind about sixty degrees off the starboard bow, getting about three knots out of a wind that wasn't ever more than five. Along side me, about 200 yards off the starboard side, was another boat with several men in the cockpit. I say they were men; they could have been ugly women, but they were topless and hairy. I'm betting on men. They were friendly and waving, and I waved back, friendly-like.
When men are on their boats, they are racing, even if no one else knows it. But I know it. Because I've been sailing with men, and they all do it. This isn't even a stereotype. It is a fact.
I knew these turkey, I mean gentlemen, were going to have fun racing me. But I was going to have more fun.
Our boat is sort of the Chevy station wagon of the sailboat world. It isn't very sleek, or very sexy, but it is roomy and comfortable, and like Chevy station wagons, there are things that our boat will do better than any other. And one of those things is sail very well in very light air.
Now these ugly topless hairy women/men folk were in a 38-foot Hallberg-Rassy. H-Rs are Swedish built yachts, and the new ones the same size as our boat cost about a quarter of a million dollars. They are sleek and they are sexy. But they just don't do as well in light air as a plain old 34-foot Hunter that's twenty three years old.
Our Hunter has more than 500 square feet of sail area, and a very wide sweet spot, making the sailing very simple. I just held the course according to the wind, holding between 55 and 75 degrees to the wind, mostly with my hands in my pockets and guiding the boat with the occasional tap to the wheel with my foot. I sheeted in the headsail a couple of times, let it out a couple of others, and just sat there and watched my great big headsail sit there puffed out like a balloon, pulling us along at a steady 2-3 knots. The telltails on the headsail streamed straight back in a manner which, had the H-R boys been able to see them, would have simply pissed them off.
I also watched over my shoulder as the Hallberg-Rassy dudes' sails flapped and snapped and did not fill at all. Their heading was off about 5 degrees, and since they didn't have a broad sweet spot like my cheap boat, they couldn't get anywhere near me.
The other thing is, in my experience in these mid-sized boats, the more they spent on the boat, the less they spent on learning to sail it. I mean, in Washington, people like to say, "Oh, you must visit me at my yacht on the Chesapeake." When you actually ask them about sailing, they do very little sailing, and mostly ignore the boat except to mention it at cocktail parties.
The H-R boys could have adjusted the boom vang, let out the main and sheeted in the jib and made a go of it. But I don't think they knew how to do that.
The other possibility is that they had enjoyed too much fine imported ale from Sweden to sail their boat.
In any event, when I left them eating my wake, they turned around, started their engine, and put putted home.
They have no stomach for being beaten by a girl.
Or because it was a pretty day and we didn't have to go to work.
There was a very gentle breeze, steady, easy for quiet sailing. There were few boats on the bay. Captain Bligh, my husband, decided to go below and take a nap, and leave me with the boat. He doesn't do that very often, because he'd much rather give orders.
I prefer he takes a nap, until it's time to pull on some rope really hard.
Anyway, so, I was holding a course with the wind about sixty degrees off the starboard bow, getting about three knots out of a wind that wasn't ever more than five. Along side me, about 200 yards off the starboard side, was another boat with several men in the cockpit. I say they were men; they could have been ugly women, but they were topless and hairy. I'm betting on men. They were friendly and waving, and I waved back, friendly-like.
When men are on their boats, they are racing, even if no one else knows it. But I know it. Because I've been sailing with men, and they all do it. This isn't even a stereotype. It is a fact.
I knew these turkey, I mean gentlemen, were going to have fun racing me. But I was going to have more fun.
Our boat is sort of the Chevy station wagon of the sailboat world. It isn't very sleek, or very sexy, but it is roomy and comfortable, and like Chevy station wagons, there are things that our boat will do better than any other. And one of those things is sail very well in very light air.
Now these ugly topless hairy women/men folk were in a 38-foot Hallberg-Rassy. H-Rs are Swedish built yachts, and the new ones the same size as our boat cost about a quarter of a million dollars. They are sleek and they are sexy. But they just don't do as well in light air as a plain old 34-foot Hunter that's twenty three years old.
Our Hunter has more than 500 square feet of sail area, and a very wide sweet spot, making the sailing very simple. I just held the course according to the wind, holding between 55 and 75 degrees to the wind, mostly with my hands in my pockets and guiding the boat with the occasional tap to the wheel with my foot. I sheeted in the headsail a couple of times, let it out a couple of others, and just sat there and watched my great big headsail sit there puffed out like a balloon, pulling us along at a steady 2-3 knots. The telltails on the headsail streamed straight back in a manner which, had the H-R boys been able to see them, would have simply pissed them off.
I also watched over my shoulder as the Hallberg-Rassy dudes' sails flapped and snapped and did not fill at all. Their heading was off about 5 degrees, and since they didn't have a broad sweet spot like my cheap boat, they couldn't get anywhere near me.
The other thing is, in my experience in these mid-sized boats, the more they spent on the boat, the less they spent on learning to sail it. I mean, in Washington, people like to say, "Oh, you must visit me at my yacht on the Chesapeake." When you actually ask them about sailing, they do very little sailing, and mostly ignore the boat except to mention it at cocktail parties.
The H-R boys could have adjusted the boom vang, let out the main and sheeted in the jib and made a go of it. But I don't think they knew how to do that.
The other possibility is that they had enjoyed too much fine imported ale from Sweden to sail their boat.
In any event, when I left them eating my wake, they turned around, started their engine, and put putted home.
They have no stomach for being beaten by a girl.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Susan Strother Clarke
My heart is broken today.
I just learned last night that my old friend Susan Strother Clarke has died.
Susan and I went through the Master of Liberal Studies program at Rollins College together. We sat at the back of the classroom, passing notes and whispering like, well, schoolgirls, and we were both well over thirty at the time. We soon discovered that we shared a certain perverse sense of humor, the Episcopal church, journalism and other things... I repaired her computer on a number of occasions, in her little house near downtown Orlando.
She had this funky old Volvo sedan with a broken passenger seat that induced lumbar spasms in the best of us. I remember racing more than one person for the back seat if Susan was driving.
Susan found the love of her life, and married Ken in 2000, after we'd moved to Washington. I got e-mails describing their romance (in good taste, of course) and it was fun to see this side of Susan grow.
Susan was open to whatever life brought her, and she lived more intensely in her few years than many folks lived in twice the time.
I miss her.
Friday, September 29, 2006
More good news...
Don't think if I have bad news that I won't post it...
But I went in for another echocardiogram Wednesday and the tech says that my pericardial effusion is down to one centimeter, the smallest it has been since I have know that it existed. Probably in years.
Woo Hoo!
What this means is that I can start lowering the prednisone dose, which means I can also start getting off the insulin, and stop having bruises that make me look like I've been beaten about the thighs from the needle sticks.
This may mean the Cellcept is the next step in the tango. The theory is that the effusion is resulting from inflammation caused by autoimmune disease. If they can reduce the autoimmune inflammation by suppressing the entire immune system, then the effusion will stay gone, without the side effects of prednisone. However, that means that I'm going to catch every bug that comes around. But that's a possibility with the prednisone as well, so it doesn't seem that this switch will impact my need for Purell.
In other news, I think my next door neighbor is possessed of the Devil. No, not George Bush, either. More at 11.
But I went in for another echocardiogram Wednesday and the tech says that my pericardial effusion is down to one centimeter, the smallest it has been since I have know that it existed. Probably in years.
Woo Hoo!
What this means is that I can start lowering the prednisone dose, which means I can also start getting off the insulin, and stop having bruises that make me look like I've been beaten about the thighs from the needle sticks.
This may mean the Cellcept is the next step in the tango. The theory is that the effusion is resulting from inflammation caused by autoimmune disease. If they can reduce the autoimmune inflammation by suppressing the entire immune system, then the effusion will stay gone, without the side effects of prednisone. However, that means that I'm going to catch every bug that comes around. But that's a possibility with the prednisone as well, so it doesn't seem that this switch will impact my need for Purell.
In other news, I think my next door neighbor is possessed of the Devil. No, not George Bush, either. More at 11.
Friday, September 22, 2006
September in Washington
I'm going back into The District tonight, after my self-imposed Exile of The Summer.
Fall begins here promptly on Labor Day. It is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. Of course, this is the furthest north I've ever lived, so perhaps it is this way in most of the civilized world. It is now cool and breezy, and the leaves have begun to change, even some in the last weeks of August. And I can go into The District and find Parking Places, because the Wandering Hoards of Schoolchildren and Tourists have gone home.
August in Florida and Oklahoma is always a foretaste of Hell.
We have tickets to the Kennedy Center tonight, to see Asleep at the Wheel in "A Ride with Bob," about Our Hero, Bob Wills. I am wearing my boots. My esteemed spouse threatens to wear his Resistol.
I like going to the Kennedy Center. It's only a few minutes from the house, and there's parking underneath so you don't have to go for a five mile hike in three-inch heels. It's not a big venue, so things are easily visible and audible from every seat. Actually, I should say that they are not big venues, since the Opera House, the Eisenhower Theater, the Concert Hall, the Terrace Theater and the Theater Lab are all separate venues. And it's not usually expensive. And they have a nice rooftop restaurant for an aftershow nosh.
I have loved Bob Wills, and Asleep at the Wheel, since I was a sophomore at the Universidad de Oklahoma, and AATW played at a bar in front of my apartment. They were so different from the bulk of 70's music, and so alive, that I discovered the joys of Western Big Band music then.
My phone rings "Take Me Back to Tulsa, I'm Too Young to Marry" when my husband calls.
We introduced a Belgian big-band brass player to the joys of Bob and AATW when we were in Bordeaux last year. He was blown away. I think we should get titles, like "Minister Plenipotentiary and Extraordinary for Western Swing."
Anyway, I'm looking forward to my Big Night in the Big Town.
Take it away, Leon...
PS: It was better than I imagined it could be.
No Resistol was worn, however, had it been, it would not have been the only one.
There seemed to be a significant Kinky contingent, however, I don't know if these are voting Texans.
Miz Laura Bush and her momma Miz Jenna Welch sat underneath us.
We chop in tall cotton around here, boys.
Fall begins here promptly on Labor Day. It is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. Of course, this is the furthest north I've ever lived, so perhaps it is this way in most of the civilized world. It is now cool and breezy, and the leaves have begun to change, even some in the last weeks of August. And I can go into The District and find Parking Places, because the Wandering Hoards of Schoolchildren and Tourists have gone home.
August in Florida and Oklahoma is always a foretaste of Hell.
We have tickets to the Kennedy Center tonight, to see Asleep at the Wheel in "A Ride with Bob," about Our Hero, Bob Wills. I am wearing my boots. My esteemed spouse threatens to wear his Resistol.
I like going to the Kennedy Center. It's only a few minutes from the house, and there's parking underneath so you don't have to go for a five mile hike in three-inch heels. It's not a big venue, so things are easily visible and audible from every seat. Actually, I should say that they are not big venues, since the Opera House, the Eisenhower Theater, the Concert Hall, the Terrace Theater and the Theater Lab are all separate venues. And it's not usually expensive. And they have a nice rooftop restaurant for an aftershow nosh.
I have loved Bob Wills, and Asleep at the Wheel, since I was a sophomore at the Universidad de Oklahoma, and AATW played at a bar in front of my apartment. They were so different from the bulk of 70's music, and so alive, that I discovered the joys of Western Big Band music then.
My phone rings "Take Me Back to Tulsa, I'm Too Young to Marry" when my husband calls.
We introduced a Belgian big-band brass player to the joys of Bob and AATW when we were in Bordeaux last year. He was blown away. I think we should get titles, like "Minister Plenipotentiary and Extraordinary for Western Swing."
Anyway, I'm looking forward to my Big Night in the Big Town.
Take it away, Leon...
PS: It was better than I imagined it could be.
No Resistol was worn, however, had it been, it would not have been the only one.
There seemed to be a significant Kinky contingent, however, I don't know if these are voting Texans.
Miz Laura Bush and her momma Miz Jenna Welch sat underneath us.
We chop in tall cotton around here, boys.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Only Organ Practice
I'm doing better, really. I hardly use the oxygen at all except when I'm walking long distances (like I think more than .2 of a mile... that's the measure of walking from the boat to the end of the parking area at the marina). My pulmonary pressure remains good, the pericardial effusion is lessening, my steroid dosage is smaller.
My rheumy wants to take me off the prednisone and put me on something called Cellcept, which is an immune suppressor they give to transplant patients. She says it has less dramatic side effects than the steroids. We shall see how that goes in the next month or so...
But...
The real news is revealed (like Handel says: ree-VEE-led) here.
Here's a hint: this is a photo I took while underneath the Chesapeake Bay Bridge near Annapolis...
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Impractical Living
I am nothing if not practical.
I don't have anything on the boat that doesn't have at least two uses. The glass that goes into the door when we close up the boat also serves as the backsplash for the sink. My biggest cooking pot has a vented lid that serves as the colander for the boat.
I dress in dull colors because they're interchangeable. Or did.
I just bought a pair of pink saddle oxfords. Pink. Leather. And the saddle is a dark brown crocodile. They're quite handsome.
Last year, I'd have never bought pink saddle oxfords. But my time is short(er). I mean, it is shorter because I'm a year older, but also, this illness has made me more acutely aware of my mortality.
I bought a pink coat. And when I saw the pink saddle oxfords, I just had no choice.
I'd not had a coat that wasn't black or brown or gray or navy blue, I think never. Having a pink coat is liberating.
I have a tan this summer. It looks good with pink blouses. (It's actually probably a function of the prednisone making me very sun-sensitive, despite using SPF-45 protection).
I've dropped about ten pounds with the prednisone, due to improved heart function, which is HIGHLY unusual; most folks gain large amounts of weight while taking steroids. I have lots more energy, and I had an echocardiogram yesterday that the tech said showed the pericardial effusion shrinking, normal pulmonary artery pressures and no signs of right heart enlargement, which was indicated in January.
Pink shoes are a good thing.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Another Toccata in the Organ Recital
I went to the cardiologist a few weeks ago for a 6 month checkup, and he said the fluid was back in my pericardium, not as much as before, but he thought that it was due to connective tissue disease causing chronic inflammation.
He sent the results of his exam to my rheumatologist, who concurred with his thought that it's a (yet to be named) connective tissue disorder. The rheumy has decided that I should do a short course (6-8 weeks) of steroids to reduce the inflammation and fluids.
Ewww.
The other item on that stead is that the steroids spike blood sugar, so for the next 6-8 weeks I'll also be doing insulin. The cool part about that is that when I went to see my endocrinologist (how many doctors do I have to buy boats for??) , he gave me an insulin pen with which you don't have to measure the dose... just turn a dial until your number comes up. It doesn't have to be refrigerated, and I don't have to measure blood sugar before and after meals... just shoot twice a day and it's long acting stuff.
So now I don't have to figure out how to do this while I'm sailing across the Bay at a 20 degree heel...
I like technology.
So the next week I went to the pulmonary clinic, which I have been doing monthly since my diagnosis in January.
One of the things I do each time is walk for six minutes and see how far I can go. Often in the past, I have either had to walk with supplemental oxygen, or end the walk early because of oxygen desaturation. In May, I had to stop after two and a half minutes because my saturation had dropped below 80%.
In July, however, I walked more than 460 meters in six minutes and my oxygen level, on room air, never dropped below 87%. Boys and girls, that is four and a half football fields. Last Christmas, my husband followed me through Target and said I stopped every fifteen paces to catch my breath.
The prednisone is going well. I have not grown a beard, retained fluids, had an urge to wax the car at 3 am, or shot anyone. My heart rate is down ten points in five days, indicating that the pericardial effusion is lessening. In fact, I've lost four pounds from the fluid thrown off from the increased cardiac output. I have bones in my ankles and feet, instead of marshmallow-looking appendages...
The insulin is still a little tricky, but my fasting glucose was 113 this morning, which is completely normal for me. This long-acting stuff is much gentler than your grandma's insulin.
He sent the results of his exam to my rheumatologist, who concurred with his thought that it's a (yet to be named) connective tissue disorder. The rheumy has decided that I should do a short course (6-8 weeks) of steroids to reduce the inflammation and fluids.
Ewww.
The other item on that stead is that the steroids spike blood sugar, so for the next 6-8 weeks I'll also be doing insulin. The cool part about that is that when I went to see my endocrinologist (how many doctors do I have to buy boats for??) , he gave me an insulin pen with which you don't have to measure the dose... just turn a dial until your number comes up. It doesn't have to be refrigerated, and I don't have to measure blood sugar before and after meals... just shoot twice a day and it's long acting stuff.
So now I don't have to figure out how to do this while I'm sailing across the Bay at a 20 degree heel...
I like technology.
So the next week I went to the pulmonary clinic, which I have been doing monthly since my diagnosis in January.
One of the things I do each time is walk for six minutes and see how far I can go. Often in the past, I have either had to walk with supplemental oxygen, or end the walk early because of oxygen desaturation. In May, I had to stop after two and a half minutes because my saturation had dropped below 80%.
In July, however, I walked more than 460 meters in six minutes and my oxygen level, on room air, never dropped below 87%. Boys and girls, that is four and a half football fields. Last Christmas, my husband followed me through Target and said I stopped every fifteen paces to catch my breath.
The prednisone is going well. I have not grown a beard, retained fluids, had an urge to wax the car at 3 am, or shot anyone. My heart rate is down ten points in five days, indicating that the pericardial effusion is lessening. In fact, I've lost four pounds from the fluid thrown off from the increased cardiac output. I have bones in my ankles and feet, instead of marshmallow-looking appendages...
The insulin is still a little tricky, but my fasting glucose was 113 this morning, which is completely normal for me. This long-acting stuff is much gentler than your grandma's insulin.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Washington in the Summertime
I try not to go into the District during the summer.
There is no parking, because it is all taken up by tourists.
Now, I think every American should visit their nation's capital (and capitol) at least once. It's a lovely place (okay, parts of it are lovely), and there is much historic, free stuff to do.
Having said that, I wish they wouldn't come in summer.
Yes, I know that it's school vacation, and traditional, and all those things. It's also the nastiest time of the year in the District. The weather is generally horrid, steamy and sweltering. Not as bad as Florida, where I spent twelve long years; people going to Florida in summer should be institutionalized, in my opinion. But in Florida, no one expects you to walk, and everything (including the outdoors at Disney's Ratville) is air conditioned.
Washington is a city designed to be walked in. Sidewalks abound, and the mall in downtown stretches for a couple of miles just begging to be walked. In springtime, the cherry trees bloom near the Tidal Basin, and some of the landscaping in bloom is simply magnificent. Walking through the blossoms is sublime. In summer, however, it is torturous to walk further than a block. Either it's like walking in a sauna, or if you're really unlucky, during the downpours that replenish the humidity, walking a block is grounds for punishment under the Geneva Conventions (if they apply here...).
Nobody expects you to actually walk anywhere during the summer in Dallas or Orlando or Phoenix or Oklahoma City. And Washington has that added non-benefit of having endless strings of tour buses rife with wandering schoolchildren and families all dressed in the same-color-t-shirts, Japanese tourists, groups of Hungarian Freemasons lurking about, Chinese government bureaucrats, all the world shows up in a big ugly bus. Buses that take up much than their fair share of parking space.
So, yesterday, I had to visit a government agency in their offices in the Ronald Reagan International Trade Center. The Reagan building is evidently on Osama's top ten list, because every time you park there, they open all your doors, your trunk (your tailgate if you're in a station wagon) and walk around your car with a mirror so they can see under your car's petticoats. And they charge you fifteen bucks for the privilege. When our company has deliveries there, our truck must go to a facility across town, be x-rayed, sealed with a lead seal, and then driven back across town into the Reagan building parking garage. That's the only way to get a truck into the building. It costs us approximately fifty bucks every time we deliver something there, just from the time and gas.
In deference to better judgment, I decided to go to one of the agency's outlying offices in Arlington and ride their shuttlebus back into the District. It's cheaper to pay for parking in Arlington than in the District, less stress, and more adventure.
Our shuttle driver had evidently taken driver's education in Nairobi before he left to seek his fortune. His throttle had only two positions; full open or completely closed, and he varied between those two positions at a shocking pace. He nearly took out a couple of cars attempting to parallel park, then rushed onto the freeway, changing lanes with abandon.
When we came across the 14th Street Bridge, and headed north toward the Reagan building, he felt the obligation to blow his horn at the cars ahead of us for no obvious reason. I'm believing that this is a discipline taught in The Nigerian Driving Academy. As we stopped at the corner of 14th and Constitution Avenue, I noticed a throng of sweaty, well dressed people standing near the entrance into the Washington Monument. I didn't see many buses around the neighborhood. We proceeded up 14th Street to Pennsylvania Avenue, and across the street from the Washington city hall, the entire generous median strip (truly it's twenty or thirty feet wide) was packed with more well-dressed, sweaty people.
It occurred to me then that the only good explanation was that these were escapees from the Reagan building. And indeed, as we pulled up on the east side of the building at the bus stop, we were met by personnel of a variety of agencies, all escaping the fire alarm bells we could hear in the distance.
We began walking slowly toward the building through the courtyard at Woodrow Wilson Plaza, and the ringing stopped, just in time for us to get in line for the ubiquitous security check. With photo ID in hand, I marched boldly forward, defying them to try and x-ray my oxygen concentrator. Fortunately, the concentrator looks pretty intimidating, so they generally leave it alone. (If you want to smuggle something into one of these buildings, make it look like medical equipment... they generally leave that stuff alone.)
I took care of my business in record time, and made the next shuttle in a half-hour's time. The driver this time was a graduate of the Lycee de Driving de DC, and while aggressive, he was much more comfortable than our Nairobi pilot. I got out of the District, away from the hoards of backpacking teenagers, and back into the civilization of suburban Virginia safely and swiftly.
I do not plan to re-enter the District before September, if that's at all possible...
There is no parking, because it is all taken up by tourists.
Now, I think every American should visit their nation's capital (and capitol) at least once. It's a lovely place (okay, parts of it are lovely), and there is much historic, free stuff to do.
Having said that, I wish they wouldn't come in summer.
Yes, I know that it's school vacation, and traditional, and all those things. It's also the nastiest time of the year in the District. The weather is generally horrid, steamy and sweltering. Not as bad as Florida, where I spent twelve long years; people going to Florida in summer should be institutionalized, in my opinion. But in Florida, no one expects you to walk, and everything (including the outdoors at Disney's Ratville) is air conditioned.
Washington is a city designed to be walked in. Sidewalks abound, and the mall in downtown stretches for a couple of miles just begging to be walked. In springtime, the cherry trees bloom near the Tidal Basin, and some of the landscaping in bloom is simply magnificent. Walking through the blossoms is sublime. In summer, however, it is torturous to walk further than a block. Either it's like walking in a sauna, or if you're really unlucky, during the downpours that replenish the humidity, walking a block is grounds for punishment under the Geneva Conventions (if they apply here...).
Nobody expects you to actually walk anywhere during the summer in Dallas or Orlando or Phoenix or Oklahoma City. And Washington has that added non-benefit of having endless strings of tour buses rife with wandering schoolchildren and families all dressed in the same-color-t-shirts, Japanese tourists, groups of Hungarian Freemasons lurking about, Chinese government bureaucrats, all the world shows up in a big ugly bus. Buses that take up much than their fair share of parking space.
So, yesterday, I had to visit a government agency in their offices in the Ronald Reagan International Trade Center. The Reagan building is evidently on Osama's top ten list, because every time you park there, they open all your doors, your trunk (your tailgate if you're in a station wagon) and walk around your car with a mirror so they can see under your car's petticoats. And they charge you fifteen bucks for the privilege. When our company has deliveries there, our truck must go to a facility across town, be x-rayed, sealed with a lead seal, and then driven back across town into the Reagan building parking garage. That's the only way to get a truck into the building. It costs us approximately fifty bucks every time we deliver something there, just from the time and gas.
In deference to better judgment, I decided to go to one of the agency's outlying offices in Arlington and ride their shuttlebus back into the District. It's cheaper to pay for parking in Arlington than in the District, less stress, and more adventure.
Our shuttle driver had evidently taken driver's education in Nairobi before he left to seek his fortune. His throttle had only two positions; full open or completely closed, and he varied between those two positions at a shocking pace. He nearly took out a couple of cars attempting to parallel park, then rushed onto the freeway, changing lanes with abandon.
When we came across the 14th Street Bridge, and headed north toward the Reagan building, he felt the obligation to blow his horn at the cars ahead of us for no obvious reason. I'm believing that this is a discipline taught in The Nigerian Driving Academy. As we stopped at the corner of 14th and Constitution Avenue, I noticed a throng of sweaty, well dressed people standing near the entrance into the Washington Monument. I didn't see many buses around the neighborhood. We proceeded up 14th Street to Pennsylvania Avenue, and across the street from the Washington city hall, the entire generous median strip (truly it's twenty or thirty feet wide) was packed with more well-dressed, sweaty people.
It occurred to me then that the only good explanation was that these were escapees from the Reagan building. And indeed, as we pulled up on the east side of the building at the bus stop, we were met by personnel of a variety of agencies, all escaping the fire alarm bells we could hear in the distance.
We began walking slowly toward the building through the courtyard at Woodrow Wilson Plaza, and the ringing stopped, just in time for us to get in line for the ubiquitous security check. With photo ID in hand, I marched boldly forward, defying them to try and x-ray my oxygen concentrator. Fortunately, the concentrator looks pretty intimidating, so they generally leave it alone. (If you want to smuggle something into one of these buildings, make it look like medical equipment... they generally leave that stuff alone.)
I took care of my business in record time, and made the next shuttle in a half-hour's time. The driver this time was a graduate of the Lycee de Driving de DC, and while aggressive, he was much more comfortable than our Nairobi pilot. I got out of the District, away from the hoards of backpacking teenagers, and back into the civilization of suburban Virginia safely and swiftly.
I do not plan to re-enter the District before September, if that's at all possible...
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I look good.
For the first time in my life, I have a car which I bought not because its predecessor was dead.
I have never owned a new car. I do not believe, philosophically, that I ever will.
My first car was a 1965 Chevy Impala, four door sedan with a 327 automatic. It was white, and boat-like in its handling. It was traded to my parents for a 1972 Chevy station wagon, because they wanted to sell it, and it wouldn't sell, but my car sold quickly.
The station wagon was on its last legs when my father found a 1974 Pinto. It was charming, in that Pinto sort of fashion, with a starter that would vibrate off from time to time, and at one point had one yellow door on its basically brown body due to a spin-out into a pole at the side of the road during a downpour. I sold the dying Pinto (soon after it actually launched one of the spark plugs out of its socket), and got a late '70's Chevy Monza.
The Monza died an interesting death. I was driving to work on the freeway one morning, and as I shifted from third to fourth gear, the clutch cable broke. I got the car to the right side of the road, but by the time I got stopped, I was actually on the painted safety area between the roadway and an entrance ramp. I got out of the car and began walking up the hill alongside the ramp (the days before cellphones, don't you know) when I heard a large BANG! and I knew precisely then that the Monza had met its end. Some genius was pulling onto the freeway and looking backward over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, and moseyed over onto the safety area and creamed hell out of my car. When I went to look at the remains, the vanity mirror that had been on the shade of the driver's side was in the back seat. Had I been sitting there, I assume it would have gone through my parietal lobes to get to its ultimate resting place.
The Monza was replaced by a '73 Monte Carlo. I loved that car for a couple of reasons, the best being that it was the only two-door car I'd ever had with swivel bucket seats, which made entering and exiting a much more pleasant experience.
The Monte Carlo went to my brother, and I had a VW bug, year indeterminate since they all looked the same. The distinguishing characteristic of this one was that the heater not only didn't work, but wasn't hooked up, so one had to dress for survival. The other distinguishing characteristic was that, from time to time, the left headlight would fall out, crashing dramatically to the pavement.
The Bug was replaced by The Benz. The Benz was more than 20 years old when we bought it, and we put another 125k miles on it before it ate its own timing gear. (Not to digress, but I'm becoming aware that I have had a rather large number of brown cars. Not that I like brown. Maybe they're just cheaper than other colors.)
The Benz was replaced by a Ford Taurus, and a more dreadful car I have never had. It compared poorly against the Pinto.
I would like to add parenthetically here, however, that during this period, I acquired a husband with a different automotive philosophy than my own. I am a utilitarian, believing that automobiles are a form of transportation. He believes that his autos are an expression of himself, and thereby has chosen to drive such things as a half-ton Dodge Ram (the two actions necessary to drive successfully in Florida), a Triumph Spitfire (in which he looked a great deal like Fred Flintstone), and a Fiat Spyder. In fact, he has owned two Fiats, not reflecting well on his judgement, in my opinion.
The Taurus was replaced by a Chevy Corsica, which had its own issues, having had the head re-ground and the head gasket replaced three times in the first thirty thousand miles. We gave up on it and gave it to Public Radio, where Click and Clack could use it as a bad design diorama.
After the Corsica, we became an all-Volvo household. I had a 91 740 Wagon, and he (still) has a 92 960 Sedan. They are very dependable, solid automobiles. They are not sexy.
I decided a little while back that if I was going to have to have a dread disease, I was going to look cool while doing it. So, I have a very cute Vera Bradley knockoff backpack strapped to my oxygen cart, with a matching shoulder bag in a bright yellow and blue Provençal print. And last Saturday, I picked up a 1994 Jaguar XJ6, champagne-colored, with 57,000 actual old-lady driven miles on her.
She is lovely.
And I look FABULOUS in her.
Perhaps my husband's automotive philosophy is rubbing off on me.
I have never owned a new car. I do not believe, philosophically, that I ever will.
My first car was a 1965 Chevy Impala, four door sedan with a 327 automatic. It was white, and boat-like in its handling. It was traded to my parents for a 1972 Chevy station wagon, because they wanted to sell it, and it wouldn't sell, but my car sold quickly.
The station wagon was on its last legs when my father found a 1974 Pinto. It was charming, in that Pinto sort of fashion, with a starter that would vibrate off from time to time, and at one point had one yellow door on its basically brown body due to a spin-out into a pole at the side of the road during a downpour. I sold the dying Pinto (soon after it actually launched one of the spark plugs out of its socket), and got a late '70's Chevy Monza.
The Monza died an interesting death. I was driving to work on the freeway one morning, and as I shifted from third to fourth gear, the clutch cable broke. I got the car to the right side of the road, but by the time I got stopped, I was actually on the painted safety area between the roadway and an entrance ramp. I got out of the car and began walking up the hill alongside the ramp (the days before cellphones, don't you know) when I heard a large BANG! and I knew precisely then that the Monza had met its end. Some genius was pulling onto the freeway and looking backward over his shoulder for oncoming traffic, and moseyed over onto the safety area and creamed hell out of my car. When I went to look at the remains, the vanity mirror that had been on the shade of the driver's side was in the back seat. Had I been sitting there, I assume it would have gone through my parietal lobes to get to its ultimate resting place.
The Monza was replaced by a '73 Monte Carlo. I loved that car for a couple of reasons, the best being that it was the only two-door car I'd ever had with swivel bucket seats, which made entering and exiting a much more pleasant experience.
The Monte Carlo went to my brother, and I had a VW bug, year indeterminate since they all looked the same. The distinguishing characteristic of this one was that the heater not only didn't work, but wasn't hooked up, so one had to dress for survival. The other distinguishing characteristic was that, from time to time, the left headlight would fall out, crashing dramatically to the pavement.
The Bug was replaced by The Benz. The Benz was more than 20 years old when we bought it, and we put another 125k miles on it before it ate its own timing gear. (Not to digress, but I'm becoming aware that I have had a rather large number of brown cars. Not that I like brown. Maybe they're just cheaper than other colors.)
The Benz was replaced by a Ford Taurus, and a more dreadful car I have never had. It compared poorly against the Pinto.
I would like to add parenthetically here, however, that during this period, I acquired a husband with a different automotive philosophy than my own. I am a utilitarian, believing that automobiles are a form of transportation. He believes that his autos are an expression of himself, and thereby has chosen to drive such things as a half-ton Dodge Ram (the two actions necessary to drive successfully in Florida), a Triumph Spitfire (in which he looked a great deal like Fred Flintstone), and a Fiat Spyder. In fact, he has owned two Fiats, not reflecting well on his judgement, in my opinion.
The Taurus was replaced by a Chevy Corsica, which had its own issues, having had the head re-ground and the head gasket replaced three times in the first thirty thousand miles. We gave up on it and gave it to Public Radio, where Click and Clack could use it as a bad design diorama.
After the Corsica, we became an all-Volvo household. I had a 91 740 Wagon, and he (still) has a 92 960 Sedan. They are very dependable, solid automobiles. They are not sexy.
I decided a little while back that if I was going to have to have a dread disease, I was going to look cool while doing it. So, I have a very cute Vera Bradley knockoff backpack strapped to my oxygen cart, with a matching shoulder bag in a bright yellow and blue Provençal print. And last Saturday, I picked up a 1994 Jaguar XJ6, champagne-colored, with 57,000 actual old-lady driven miles on her.
She is lovely.
And I look FABULOUS in her.
Perhaps my husband's automotive philosophy is rubbing off on me.
Monday, April 17, 2006
The Latest Movement of the Organ Recital
Well, I got the results of some tests last week, and they look better. My original pulmonary artery pressure in January was 125, whence the normal range is closer to 18. I had an recent echocardiogram, which is not the most accurate measure of pulmonary pressure, but a good one nonetheless, and my pressures appear to be nearer 25, which is very good.
I'm now on three grossly expensive medications, but, after all, it's only money.
I also now have my own collection of meters. I have a blood pressure cuff for my wrist, a blood sugar meter, a pulse oxymeter, and a thermometer. One of my co-workers followed me in with my little oxygen cart, and said "Are you opening your own mobile hospital any time soon?"
I do not plan to do this, but it's an idea, and if I can charge rates anything like big immobile hospitals, I'll be a mill-yon-air.
I'm now on three grossly expensive medications, but, after all, it's only money.
I also now have my own collection of meters. I have a blood pressure cuff for my wrist, a blood sugar meter, a pulse oxymeter, and a thermometer. One of my co-workers followed me in with my little oxygen cart, and said "Are you opening your own mobile hospital any time soon?"
I do not plan to do this, but it's an idea, and if I can charge rates anything like big immobile hospitals, I'll be a mill-yon-air.
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