A Small Ode

Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward were married 50 years.

Joanne and Paul were married on January 29, 1958 in Las Vegas at the Hotel El Rancho Vegas. Paul's wedding gift to Joanne was a silver cup that he had inscribed with the words, "So you wound up with Apollo/If he's sometimes hard to swallow/Use this." -About.com

No, I don't know what it means. But I know what 50 years married means. It means awesome.

Recognize.

My Hat In The Rink

Okay, so this could be a butchering of the facts--a hatchet job of a series of out of context sound bytes cobbled together to make this man look bad. But if even one of this segments is true, you have to know it.

Perhaps Obama has had his slip ups and contradictory speeches, and so I'll expect a similar hatchet job to show up on him if it exists. But if one does exist, do you think it will look as bad as McCain's? Give me someone vital, rather than McCain. Give me someone who can ably address the world in global courts. Give me someone to inspire confidence in a nation again, from without and within. And for a fringe benefit, give me a guy who'll improve the chances for kids of my skin color to grow up in a better country, with better chances to be regarded as a US citizen than I did and my father before me, and his father before him.

Tidbits and Offerings

First of all, check it out.

Can you believe it? This is Edison New Jersey, TODAY, 9/29/08. I'm here this morning as a course of my daytime employment. It's the job I want to leave only because I want to ditch my car. But gas prices like these gives me hope that car retention might stay possible.

These gas pirates. Tell me that whoever sells gas to this guy in Edison is selling it for less than they sell it to all the others. Prrrrrrobably not. Probably this gas station owner pays less rent for his station, okay, but also probably, this gas station owner is taking less profit and passing the savings on to the consumer. Hello?! Not a bad idea, right?

But OH no. We Americans have to be RICH. We got to have MORE than YOU. Viva la Capitalism! So lets all give Wall St.

Seven.

HUNDRED.

BILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLION DOLLARS!!!

to insure that our lifestyle continues as was. The big failure of these resolute companies, and the insolvancy of banks like Walk-Over-Ya ... i mean, Wachovia ... and WaMooooo! is in no way at all an indication that the system doesn't work and is basically corrupt at its core because people are greedy and lazy and elitist and found a way to make fast and an amorally LOT of money in their twenties without the emotional maturity to use it for the betterment of society as a whole. No no no. It's just fine the way it was.

So lets all pay for it with our taxes. After all, what would we be without an Overclass to provide us with the pervasive sense of dissatisfaction and personal failure?

"Life. Don't talk to me about life." -Marvin the Robot

"Ohhhh Long piaaaaaaaaaano!" -Talking Cat on AFV

Good News!!

Fringes and Q are having a baby!!

A woman I work with has baby pictures of the baby that she had last month, as well. She's back to work after her maternity leave. I remember when I just learned she was pregnant. The baby that her assistant had last year is already walking.

Nothing like watching new humans enter the world and become people, right around the time of your impending birthday, to make you feel eight-thousand years old. Good thing I've got the love of a good woman to keep me warm at nights, and the appreciation of my own kids ...










...oh, wait.









Okay, enough about me!
Congratulations you two!!

Instant Gratification

My first meeting of the dayis to take place in a site close to a certain bakery that I discovered (whatever did they do without me?). When I realized this, I had only one goal today. Get slice of cake from this place. The alternative is a cupcake if the cake slices are not available. The ultimate goal is to get that buttercream icing into my face.

One slice down and one to go.

Yes, I know I'm dieting. I can't right now. I lost my midsection and there's nothing on the horizon just now and I'm unhappy again and I want buttercream.

It's a confluence that I didn't want to avoid. I'll blame no one and nothing except myself.

But what else is new.

The deed is done.
I. REGRET. NOTHING!!!!

The Difference A Day Makes

Yesterday I played hooky and almost paid for it with my life.

So yesterday I woke up late. After Friday and Saturday of roleplaying games, I was supposed to get up early Sunday AM, get to the mid-Jersey site by 8ish or 9ish, and join them in a walk-a-thon. But on Saturday a confluence of events happened; mostly Grim Jester did the pool thing again for the girl host of our Saturday get-togethers, which means he was in swim trunks before I got there, but when I did arrive, he was in her shower. They like to have me jump to conclusions, but this time I didn't take the bait. Either they are or aren't. So what if Grim is hot. On my laconic way driving up to Westchester, I had eaten three cupcakes piled high with buttercream icing. I had already lost my trim midsection gained a few weeks ago. And I was never going to get laid. So what if Grim is bumping his manlies with out host? So what? Then later on either all the buttercream, or the dicey dim sum we ordered from the Chinese restaurant, forced me to admit to my peers later in the night that I was entering a battle vs. explosive Hershey(TM) squirts. Then, that night (morning, really), when I finally got home, I had to park West of Broadway. Which meant I'd have to go on a safari the next morning to retrieve the car.

So when I woke up late for Sunday work, I had no inclination to limp into the day. Not when the day had promised to be so incredibly beautiful. It was Sunday, dammit! I needed my space!

So I put on my gym togs and packed a change of clothes for after the gym when my Friday night DnD pal (through which I could have pursued Irish Girl) texted me and invited me out to Central Park again for another afternoon of frolic and fun. Would Irish Girl be there? Maybe! But I decided not to ask him, lest I convince myself not to go.

So I copied Day One of a stunning muscle-building routine from the first (okay, second) muscle mag that I've bought in five years (such ridiculously attractive men in those effing things that it's crazy) and took it to the gym. I successfully fulfilled the routine and felt hella good afterwards. I had eaten the right breakfast and was planning the correct after-workout meal as I left the gym. My DnD buddy texted to say he and his fiancee were running late (she's not that big of a gamer, by the way--so yeah, I see her as Yoko) and as I'm texting him back I look up to see there's a Suburban backing up laterally along the sidewalk towards me. Apparently, someone blocked him in, or blocked off an available parking space by double-parking in the street, so Suburban Man decided to ride the sidewalk to get where he wanted to go. Well, he was going slow enough for me to step back against the wall, leaving some belly room for him to pass.

Which he does, until the passenger-side rear view mirror reaches me. At that point he decides to angle his drivers' side rear to the street, which physics being what they are, turned his passengers' side front towards me. The rearview mirror missed my head, but the truck and tire didn't miss my body. The vehicle, now angling, presses into me and pushed me up against the wall. And while I'm thinking "What?!" the passengers' side front tire mounts my left foot, ever so gently, having somehow missed my right foot. At that point the man stopped--not because he was crushing me, but because he was still looking over his shoulder to see what to do with this truck and how to get it back into the street (where it belongs, btw).

Before he accelerated again, completing my grisly death, I slammed his hood with my free hand (not the one holding my phone mid-texting) and finally getting his attention, I jerked my thumb into the direction he should drive to save my life rather than end it. Fortunately, he didn't panic, and shifted into forward, and rolled off me.

In retrospect, I was in shock. Because I finished my text message to my DnD buddy and walked up the block to get my protein shake from Starbucks, testing out the flattened foot & toe. (Ironic I have to talk about these bodyparts of mine now, isn't it?) There was no pain. I didn't want to look, but there was no pain. There was sensation--not a nerve-destroyed numbness. I had been aware of the pressure of the tire on my foot, and the fact that it had rolled on me enough to prevent me from jerking my foot loose, but there had been no pain. So after I got my drink and headed back up the block towards to Park to the rendevous.

And there was the Suburban and the driver, completing his parking job into the street from the sidewalk.

And suddenly I realized--that parking spot wasn't worth my life. This man needed to answer to that. So I stood there waiting for him to finish his parking and just watched him.

When he finally stopped, he rolls his window down, recognizing me, and begins to sputter apologies. They are, of course, not enough. The man could have killed me. Slowly. Painfully. Crushed the life out of me in a true gory "Final Destination" way. Blood pooling out of my mouth as the Suburban compacted my vertebrae into my lungs and heart against the brick wall. But God damn this cursed world, I wanted his apology. I stepped to him and asked him if he did that as a regular course of action--just run people over? His apologies devolved into self-debasing, ill-worded assurances that he was a good guy and he never did anything like that and how scared he was. (Didn't stop him from getting the parking spot he wanted, though, I should like to add.)

And then I let it go. I was fine. I told him so. (No, I'm not interested in trying to sue him for any money that I won't see until WAY AFTER I've already met my own financial goals anyway. This litigious society can kiss my ass.) But I insisted to him that he try to have a better day, and implicit in my tone was every bit of "and try not to run anyone else down today, you utter and complete asshole," because that's what I was feeling and I let it soak my voice. But there was no need to say it aloud. Because he was remorseful enough.

But I guarantee you. And this I coldly know, just as I know I am moderately intelligent and possess some writing skill--if that man had not apologized to me yesterday, I would have been in my first physical fight since 7th grade. Because you are not just going to run over me, you stupid son of a bitch. F*ck YOU.

Okay. Got that off my chest, like I did the Suburban. (Don't think for a second that I didn't entertain the possibility that I was like Bruce Willis in "Unbreakable". Why didn't that Suburban do more damage to me? I'm not even sore today. No foot pain or damaged big toe. Take THAT!)

Anyway, the outing was great with my DnD friend and his pals and his fiancee. Like with DnD'ers, I love hanging out with people who give good verb. Language is a joy to hear when its done right, and these folks had good food and lyric.

And Sheep's Meadow is a total meat market. And so, I share my pics with you in celebration of life. In addition, I'm back on my diet. I'm going to go topless with pride by next summer. (If you can, click on the pics and hopefully you'll see some of the detail that I saw. Hubba hubba. It was like a beach for models, only with no ocean.)

Back To Default

So. I've been in MidJersey practically all week because remember the co-worker with brain cancer slowly dying? Well her decline is noticeable and her work performance is compromised and my boss has me down here to make up for the widening gap in psychological quality of care. That means I'm meeting psychiatrists that I've never met before, advocating for clients that I know nothing about, and forming relationships with parents who I hope never to meet again. Meanwhile my ailing co-worker keeps trucking on, losing more and more of her objectivity, discretion, and patience. She's liable to cuss out a visiting state caseworker if she isn't reigned in. (Which is something we sometimes would all like to do until we realize that we're all on the same side.)

Well this morning, in addition to this, the program director calls me on my hour-long commute here to tell me he's not coming in, he has an injury, and he wants me to chair the meeting today that we'll have for a new admit. Sure! No pressure!

Meanwhile, I'm back to eating the pain-reducing sweets that I love/need to get through a day, Mr. Morning Guy dissappeared somewhere from inside of me last month and I'm arriving late to work again, I'm feeling a glimmer of the old ennui that haunted me before I redefined myself with Ned's help, and I'm suspecting that I need another increase in my meds.

(The client has arrived, so game paused on account of profession. I'll be back...)

Okay. So the meeting went, and it went well. I chaired the thing, and I found myself mysteriously on point. I guess processing it here in writing got me ready to take it on, and I took it on.

*exhale*

I guess it's like life. Stress comes, you process it, and then you deal. And of course, what I'd really like is to call up Scott or Ned or Tera or Grizz or Dawn or preferably all of them, and say "Where we havin' lunch at?!" and we'd all do a "Sex and the City" roundtable at the pizzeria or Chinese Buffet and decompress in our wonderful, several, witty ways before going back and finishing our day.

*sigh* I would love that.

But here we do have the internet. It may be a lot like all of us being-- [CUT!!]
Short story alert!! I'm going to cut what I just wrote and paste it somewhere else, because I think it's a dynamite idea for a story and I will write it.

Anyway, when I started this post, I was ready to moan about some setbacks I'm experiencing. But right now, not so much. A well done task at a job you like is miraculously therapeutic. Even my brain cancer'd co-worker did well. She only needed redirection once.

I'm telling you...Ally McBeal, anyone? I just know it. We're going to lose this co-worker like Ally lost Billy (oops, spoilers). One day, this co-worker is just going to plop down on the floor, and then lay down and die. That may be Worst-Case Scenario Man's torturous, sonorous tones, but I just know it. I mean--I did tell you that my Mom died of the same stuff that this co-worker is experiencing, right? So why wouldn't my mind go there? But dammit, I'm ready. I'm ready. If I'm here when that happens, we're all going to be okay, and my co-worker gets her release. I've done this before. I'm ready.

Anyway.

I love you guys.

I'm a little lonely. A little moody. A little fat again. A little unhappy. A little proud. A little okay.

Meh.

Plehp.

Fhltt.