I was talking to a guy one day who told me that jesus loves me. I was like really, who exactly is jesus? The guy told me that jesus is this great guy who can do cool stuff like turn water into wine (great talent for any guy hanging around me to have) and that he helps total strangers by making their spouses not be dead anymore and stuff. Also, he's not materialistic and likes to travel. And loves his mother. And has carpenter skills, which is nice because I need to redo my downstairs bathroom. Best of all his dad is a king or something. So eventually, if I got together with jesus, I could be a queen and get to wear a diamond tiara which would be so cool.
I was like so how do I get in touch with this guy? He said just pray to him and he'll answer you. So I prayed dear jesus why don't you meet me at cafe colores on thursday night and we'll have a glass of wine. From what I heard jesus wears sandals and looks kind of like a hippy. He doesn't have a job. So it's not like I expected him to take me to dell frisco's.
I waited and waited, but he never showed up. Then I met a woman at cafe colores who said that jesus loved her too. I was like hm, really? She said that jesus had saved her from cancer and bought her a new car. I was like are you fucking kidding me? He can't meet me for happy hour but he did all this shit for you? Frankly, she wasn't very good looking.
So I said I need to get in touch with him because he was supposed to do something for me and he didn't. Do you have his cell number or something? She said I talk to him all the time but she didn't have his cell number.
Such a typical guy. Claims he loves you and is not available. Stands you up, doesn't give you his email or phone number, and then you find out he's involved with other women. I did some research on him to find out if he was married, and, even though it turns out he's single, he hangs out with a prostitute.
I went back to the guy who originally told me that jesus loved me and said that I thought jesus sucked. The guy said that I was wrong about him, that he's the best guy ever. Then he said I guess jesus doesn't love you.
So, I've decided to swear off guys for a while.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
rental retards
I got into Dallas this afternoon and had to wait for 30 minutes to get my luggage, and then another 15 to get the shuttle bus to the rental cars because all of the buses that drove by were full. Annoying.
Then, I get to my car, which was a huge jeep (with 3 rows of seats). I was like fucking hell because I hate driving huge cars. I had to lift my 60 lb bag onto the back seat (I'm not a wimp but I hate doing shit like that while I'm smoking because I'm afraid I'll drop my cigarette - and, BTW, my bag was heavy because I had to bring a bunch of books, not because I overpacked).
I get to the checkout thing and the lady tells me I have the wrong car. I was like dude, it had my name hanging off the rearview, and it was in my stall. She said "no, you have to also check the license plate number". I was like I thought it was YOUR job to do that. Apparently not in Dallas. That has NEVER happened to me before.
So I back the monster up, take it back to my parking stall, and wander around for 5 minutes until I found my car. Which had a hertz employee sleeping in it. Which is why, I will assume, it was parked in the wrong place.
I woke the guy up, got my shit packed up again, and this time was able to leave the hertz parking garage. I then proceeded to get way lost because I was talking to my friend Trina who had just saved some guy's foot from being cut off, instead of reading my mapquest directions.
The good news about this little shit show of a trip is that I put a bottle of wine in my suitcase and, oddly, they don't sell wine here on Sunday. What the fuck is up with that? Oh yeah, I'm in Bush country.
Then, I get to my car, which was a huge jeep (with 3 rows of seats). I was like fucking hell because I hate driving huge cars. I had to lift my 60 lb bag onto the back seat (I'm not a wimp but I hate doing shit like that while I'm smoking because I'm afraid I'll drop my cigarette - and, BTW, my bag was heavy because I had to bring a bunch of books, not because I overpacked).
I get to the checkout thing and the lady tells me I have the wrong car. I was like dude, it had my name hanging off the rearview, and it was in my stall. She said "no, you have to also check the license plate number". I was like I thought it was YOUR job to do that. Apparently not in Dallas. That has NEVER happened to me before.
So I back the monster up, take it back to my parking stall, and wander around for 5 minutes until I found my car. Which had a hertz employee sleeping in it. Which is why, I will assume, it was parked in the wrong place.
I woke the guy up, got my shit packed up again, and this time was able to leave the hertz parking garage. I then proceeded to get way lost because I was talking to my friend Trina who had just saved some guy's foot from being cut off, instead of reading my mapquest directions.
The good news about this little shit show of a trip is that I put a bottle of wine in my suitcase and, oddly, they don't sell wine here on Sunday. What the fuck is up with that? Oh yeah, I'm in Bush country.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
skeleton
I picked up Jake the Snake today. I'm going to pretend that's his last name. My nickname for him is skeleton because he's so much lighter than Max.
I took him out for a 40 mile ride today. It was fun, and I'm definitely a lot faster on him most of the time, but I haven't figured out the gears yet. Sadly, I'm used to the visual I get when I shift Max so I'm not always sure where I'm at. And it seems to take more clicks to get the pedals loose (I like to ride with the pedals loose when my legs cramp or when I'm warming up).
Also, I'm not sure where to put my hands. I'm so used to Max's straight out handle bars that I feel like something's...missing. And skel's handle bars are flat on top, so that was kind of strange. I tried looking at another guy on a similar bike to see where he was putting his hands but he was not holding onto the handlebars at all because he was scratching his balls.
I also almost killed myself because I forgot I was on skel and I hopped off of a curb. Then I forgot the brakes are in a different place and almost ended up in oncoming traffic.
Which is kind of funny because when I picked skel up today I was looking at him smiling, and the guy who put him together said "why are you smiling like that?" and I said "because it's been a long time since I've seen a bike that hasn't had a wreck". And then he laughed and said "I was thinking the same thing!" He put skel on the trainer to adjust him and the owner of the store walked by and said "ape arms" so I said "fuck you". Then the mechanic hung these weights off of him to make sure everything was aligned, and then he said "something doesn't seem right here" hanging it over my right knee and I was like "dude, it's not the bike, it's my knee". I showed him my bone plug and he said "cool, you should get a tat on that".
Or, not.
He gave me a free portable bike pump, and a second set of pedals. I have to take skel in for a check up after 150 miles. Hopefully by then I'll learn how to shift him.
indie arsenal
Clo and I had the BEST time last night. We went to a networking event for a group called Indie Arsenal.
At first I was my usual socially retarded self, standing there playing with the zipper on my jacket because I was afraid to talk to anyone. Then a guy named Jason came up and started talking to me, and he reminded me of my friend Jamesy (in fact I showed him a pic because they looked alike down to the glasses though knowing Jamesy he has different glasses now - and, I told Jason the footprints on the dashboard story and he laughed so hard he spit out his beer - sorry Jamesy). I told him about my book idea and he said he really liked it.
Then these two women came up, sisters, Lynette and I forget her name, because they wanted to know what we were laughing about. I told them about my book and Lynette said "maybe next you should try horses" and gave me a card. Which was SO WEIRD because I just watched Australia (I will not speak badly about Baz, the movie was okay) and now I want to learn to jump horses. So Lynette sent me an email today with her friend's contact info and I'm going to go on a trail ride and see what happens from there.
Lynette is a vet technician so we talked about cats that have cancer for a while. Then Clo introduced me to this guy name Eric who is really tall. We talked about motorcycles for a while and he showed me his naked bike. But then, I think because I had a glass of wine, I accidentally started talking about the Higgs Boson particle and the particle accelerator. I wish I could have filmed the change in Eric's face as I started talking about this new theory that a physicist from Hopkins has about gravity (I just read the article and I don't know why but I found it really exciting). The thing was, Clo was excited too so we started talking about CERN and the particle accelerator. Eric had this look on his face like "me want to punch something" so I tried to gracefully end my point but Clo kept bringing up other interesting points. Afterward I said "I wish I hadn't brought up the particle accelerator" and Clo said "but it was interesting!" and I couldn't help but think, hm, maybe THAT'S why we're both single.
Clo won a hat in the raffle that has a place to put headphones. She wore it for a while but said it was itchy.
Then I met another writer. I was telling her that I'm working on 5 books at the same time and her husband started laughing. We decided that it's just the way writers are. I can't remember her name but she is published in real magazines. Impressive.
I am going to join this group, even though I'll miss a few meetings while I'm gone. It was really, really cool to talk to a group of people who are all artists and creative with interesting projects. I even talked to a guy about a children's book that I wrote (involving an alligator with bling on his spine, a kangaroo with oversized feet, and a giant man - the alligator and kangaroo get into trouble when they sneak into a potato chip truck, but then they go to Australia and give mittens to the great whites, which are subsequently stolen by an octopus, but then the giant man gets the mittens back by giving the octopus a scarf since he can't keep the mittens on his tentacles anyway) and he said maybe he could illustrate it for me. It was funny because he was asking about the spinal bling and I suddenly realized "I just told him this crazy story and rather than looking at me strangely he wants to draw the alligator".
Maybe I have found my people.
And we got invited to some cool music shows and Clo got invited to a barbecue. I even met a guy who was MOT, and he was talking in this crazy Arab voice because he works with a band called Air Dubai. He lives pretty close to me too. When I told him I eat pepperoni he said "You're going to hell! And you're going to stay there!"
Hee.
At first I was my usual socially retarded self, standing there playing with the zipper on my jacket because I was afraid to talk to anyone. Then a guy named Jason came up and started talking to me, and he reminded me of my friend Jamesy (in fact I showed him a pic because they looked alike down to the glasses though knowing Jamesy he has different glasses now - and, I told Jason the footprints on the dashboard story and he laughed so hard he spit out his beer - sorry Jamesy). I told him about my book idea and he said he really liked it.
Then these two women came up, sisters, Lynette and I forget her name, because they wanted to know what we were laughing about. I told them about my book and Lynette said "maybe next you should try horses" and gave me a card. Which was SO WEIRD because I just watched Australia (I will not speak badly about Baz, the movie was okay) and now I want to learn to jump horses. So Lynette sent me an email today with her friend's contact info and I'm going to go on a trail ride and see what happens from there.
Lynette is a vet technician so we talked about cats that have cancer for a while. Then Clo introduced me to this guy name Eric who is really tall. We talked about motorcycles for a while and he showed me his naked bike. But then, I think because I had a glass of wine, I accidentally started talking about the Higgs Boson particle and the particle accelerator. I wish I could have filmed the change in Eric's face as I started talking about this new theory that a physicist from Hopkins has about gravity (I just read the article and I don't know why but I found it really exciting). The thing was, Clo was excited too so we started talking about CERN and the particle accelerator. Eric had this look on his face like "me want to punch something" so I tried to gracefully end my point but Clo kept bringing up other interesting points. Afterward I said "I wish I hadn't brought up the particle accelerator" and Clo said "but it was interesting!" and I couldn't help but think, hm, maybe THAT'S why we're both single.
Clo won a hat in the raffle that has a place to put headphones. She wore it for a while but said it was itchy.
Then I met another writer. I was telling her that I'm working on 5 books at the same time and her husband started laughing. We decided that it's just the way writers are. I can't remember her name but she is published in real magazines. Impressive.
I am going to join this group, even though I'll miss a few meetings while I'm gone. It was really, really cool to talk to a group of people who are all artists and creative with interesting projects. I even talked to a guy about a children's book that I wrote (involving an alligator with bling on his spine, a kangaroo with oversized feet, and a giant man - the alligator and kangaroo get into trouble when they sneak into a potato chip truck, but then they go to Australia and give mittens to the great whites, which are subsequently stolen by an octopus, but then the giant man gets the mittens back by giving the octopus a scarf since he can't keep the mittens on his tentacles anyway) and he said maybe he could illustrate it for me. It was funny because he was asking about the spinal bling and I suddenly realized "I just told him this crazy story and rather than looking at me strangely he wants to draw the alligator".
Maybe I have found my people.
And we got invited to some cool music shows and Clo got invited to a barbecue. I even met a guy who was MOT, and he was talking in this crazy Arab voice because he works with a band called Air Dubai. He lives pretty close to me too. When I told him I eat pepperoni he said "You're going to hell! And you're going to stay there!"
Hee.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
no monkey money
Today the UPS man stopped by to drop off some packages of training material for a class I'm teaching next week. He likes me to open the packages while he's there in case I've ordered anything cool (usually I only get books and movies, which he sometimes borrows).
I showed him the monkey money while I was opening the packages. He was like "you idiot, you're supposed to scratch off the dollar bills". Oops. In my defense he had to take a coin and scratch them really hard to get all of the stuff off. Then it turns out I didn't win anything. He looked at the back of the ticket and said "Shit. You had a 1 in 4 chance of winning something, and you had two tickets, but you didn't win anything."
I was like "I guess I'm just unlucky." He looked at the boxes of training material, flipping through one of the books in case it was something he wanted to learn. It's software stuff, so he definitely didn't want to read it. I said "I wrote that" and he said "this is boring", tossing the training material material on my table.
I walked him to the door before he could look through my movies (sometimes it takes him a long time to return them) and he said "Girl, you suck today" and left.
Hmm. I'm going to order something that weighs 70 pounds and make him carry it into my house. Bastard. I'm just kidding. I like my UPS man.
I showed him the monkey money while I was opening the packages. He was like "you idiot, you're supposed to scratch off the dollar bills". Oops. In my defense he had to take a coin and scratch them really hard to get all of the stuff off. Then it turns out I didn't win anything. He looked at the back of the ticket and said "Shit. You had a 1 in 4 chance of winning something, and you had two tickets, but you didn't win anything."
I was like "I guess I'm just unlucky." He looked at the boxes of training material, flipping through one of the books in case it was something he wanted to learn. It's software stuff, so he definitely didn't want to read it. I said "I wrote that" and he said "this is boring", tossing the training material material on my table.
I walked him to the door before he could look through my movies (sometimes it takes him a long time to return them) and he said "Girl, you suck today" and left.
Hmm. I'm going to order something that weighs 70 pounds and make him carry it into my house. Bastard. I'm just kidding. I like my UPS man.
manic
This week I have, for some reason, been super productive. Maybe it's nervous energy from my impending departure to the middle east.
Today my favorite concrete guy, Austin, came out and looked a the hole under my patio. The bad news is that he has to cut the fucking thing up and then put in a new patio because the hole is likely caused by water leakage. I told him I didn't care as long as he fixed the hole before snakes made a burrow in there, gradually finding their way into my house. He said "Franki, I don't think there are many rattle snakes that would be living here in the city". I said "Exactly, so when they find a little home they're all going to move in". He scratched his head, but then ended up cutting the price of the job, promising "If we find any snakes under there we'll get rid of them".
Then my window guys came (getting new windows, hooray!). They put my job as a rush at the factory (which is in Loveland, local windows made for altitude). I might have them installed before I leave which would be cracktacular.
Single Track called and said they finished building Jake the Snake (not to be confused with the potential snakes under my patio). I go pick him up tomorrow. New bike!!!!!!!!!
And, last night I got an email from a work colleague who read the first two chapters of my book. I have to admit I haven't done shit on my book, and the idiot Aussies who read it in the UAE made some demoralizing comments, so I was having serious doubts about my idea. My colleague wrote:
"I'm embarrassed that it's taken me so long to get back to you. I read both chapters a few weeks after you sent them to me, and I was so blown away that I couldn't find any words to write back. Then time passed and I thought, "after all this time I have to come up with some spectacular feedback to justify how long I took looking at it." Then more time passed, and it started getting ridiculous.
But today I realized that it would be easy for you to interpret my silence as criticism, indifference, or dislike of your work, so I'm writing to set the record straight. The book is amazing: your writing is clean and personal, your story is compelling and interesting, and the combination of the writing and the story mesh beautifully so it reads as if I'm your best friend and we're catching up on the phone after being out of touch for a little while. Thank you for letting me read it."
That was some encouragement out of the blue, so last night and today I started working on my book proposal again. I mean, shit, I know at least 5 people who will buy it.
Finally, when I woke up at 6 am to sit on the most boring conference call ever, I decided to replace all of my ex-boyfriend photos. Well, I still have a photo of my ex-husband (standing in the shadows of a mosque door frame in Morocco so you can't really see him) and my ex Jonas (shooting a gun in Managua). But, as soon as I take some more pics those are gone too.
And there's a text from Clo. We're going to hang out at my house for an hour and then go to a networking event for geeks in downtown Denver. Software developers are easy for me to socialize with. Compared to them I'm a fucking social butterfly.
Today my favorite concrete guy, Austin, came out and looked a the hole under my patio. The bad news is that he has to cut the fucking thing up and then put in a new patio because the hole is likely caused by water leakage. I told him I didn't care as long as he fixed the hole before snakes made a burrow in there, gradually finding their way into my house. He said "Franki, I don't think there are many rattle snakes that would be living here in the city". I said "Exactly, so when they find a little home they're all going to move in". He scratched his head, but then ended up cutting the price of the job, promising "If we find any snakes under there we'll get rid of them".
Then my window guys came (getting new windows, hooray!). They put my job as a rush at the factory (which is in Loveland, local windows made for altitude). I might have them installed before I leave which would be cracktacular.
Single Track called and said they finished building Jake the Snake (not to be confused with the potential snakes under my patio). I go pick him up tomorrow. New bike!!!!!!!!!
And, last night I got an email from a work colleague who read the first two chapters of my book. I have to admit I haven't done shit on my book, and the idiot Aussies who read it in the UAE made some demoralizing comments, so I was having serious doubts about my idea. My colleague wrote:
"I'm embarrassed that it's taken me so long to get back to you. I read both chapters a few weeks after you sent them to me, and I was so blown away that I couldn't find any words to write back. Then time passed and I thought, "after all this time I have to come up with some spectacular feedback to justify how long I took looking at it." Then more time passed, and it started getting ridiculous.
But today I realized that it would be easy for you to interpret my silence as criticism, indifference, or dislike of your work, so I'm writing to set the record straight. The book is amazing: your writing is clean and personal, your story is compelling and interesting, and the combination of the writing and the story mesh beautifully so it reads as if I'm your best friend and we're catching up on the phone after being out of touch for a little while. Thank you for letting me read it."
That was some encouragement out of the blue, so last night and today I started working on my book proposal again. I mean, shit, I know at least 5 people who will buy it.
Finally, when I woke up at 6 am to sit on the most boring conference call ever, I decided to replace all of my ex-boyfriend photos. Well, I still have a photo of my ex-husband (standing in the shadows of a mosque door frame in Morocco so you can't really see him) and my ex Jonas (shooting a gun in Managua). But, as soon as I take some more pics those are gone too.
And there's a text from Clo. We're going to hang out at my house for an hour and then go to a networking event for geeks in downtown Denver. Software developers are easy for me to socialize with. Compared to them I'm a fucking social butterfly.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
monkey money
Because today is my 2 year anniversary with my maid service they brought me an apple pie and two lottery tickets.
I'm not a person who celebrates anniversaries. In fact, I have a hard time remembering my birthday. But, it seemed like a nice gesture. Of course, the apple pie has honey in it, so I'll have to find someone else to give it to. And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with these fucking lottery tickets.
They have a monkey on the front of them because the funds for the ticket go to a conservation group. That's cool. There doesn't appear to be anything to scratch off of them. There are some numbers at the bottom of them. And then this bewildering statement: "Get 3 like amounts, win that amount. Get two like amounts and a "[picture of a stack of coins]" symbol, win DOUBLE that amount".
Amount of what? There are 6 yellow circles with dollar signs on the ticket but I don't know what they mean. And I looked on the back, which had even more confusing rules about registering for a second chance after the "game launch". How do I know when the game launch is?
I went out on the web site listed on the ticket and couldn't find any reference to these stupid tickets or any lottery game called "monkey money". Then I did a google search and all that came up was an announcement that someone had won a second chance sweepstakes thing and the announcement mentioned that $2 billion dollars had been donated to this conservation group that is being supported by monkey money.
So what am I supposed to do with these fucking tickets? I'm a bit embarrassed that homeless people know how to play the lottery and I don't. I've only had one other lottery ticket, that some guy at work bought me after I was diagnosed with cancer. I accidentally wrapped my gum in it. He asked me about it a few days later and I managed to pull it apart enough for him to see the number on it. I won $20 but when he took it to where ever you go to get your money they wouldn't take my ticket because of the gum. He was so mad that when he got back to the office he said that I owed him $10 because I should have split the ticket winnings since he bought it for me. I gave him the money and threw the ticket away, deciding that the lottery was too expensive to play.
And now I have more stupid tickets. I'll probably end up owing my maids money. I would throw them into the recycling bin but they have a coating and I'm not sure they can be recycled.
I guess I should go back to working...cause it's not like I'm going to win the lottery.
I'm not a person who celebrates anniversaries. In fact, I have a hard time remembering my birthday. But, it seemed like a nice gesture. Of course, the apple pie has honey in it, so I'll have to find someone else to give it to. And I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with these fucking lottery tickets.
They have a monkey on the front of them because the funds for the ticket go to a conservation group. That's cool. There doesn't appear to be anything to scratch off of them. There are some numbers at the bottom of them. And then this bewildering statement: "Get 3 like amounts, win that amount. Get two like amounts and a "[picture of a stack of coins]" symbol, win DOUBLE that amount".
Amount of what? There are 6 yellow circles with dollar signs on the ticket but I don't know what they mean. And I looked on the back, which had even more confusing rules about registering for a second chance after the "game launch". How do I know when the game launch is?
I went out on the web site listed on the ticket and couldn't find any reference to these stupid tickets or any lottery game called "monkey money". Then I did a google search and all that came up was an announcement that someone had won a second chance sweepstakes thing and the announcement mentioned that $2 billion dollars had been donated to this conservation group that is being supported by monkey money.
So what am I supposed to do with these fucking tickets? I'm a bit embarrassed that homeless people know how to play the lottery and I don't. I've only had one other lottery ticket, that some guy at work bought me after I was diagnosed with cancer. I accidentally wrapped my gum in it. He asked me about it a few days later and I managed to pull it apart enough for him to see the number on it. I won $20 but when he took it to where ever you go to get your money they wouldn't take my ticket because of the gum. He was so mad that when he got back to the office he said that I owed him $10 because I should have split the ticket winnings since he bought it for me. I gave him the money and threw the ticket away, deciding that the lottery was too expensive to play.
And now I have more stupid tickets. I'll probably end up owing my maids money. I would throw them into the recycling bin but they have a coating and I'm not sure they can be recycled.
I guess I should go back to working...cause it's not like I'm going to win the lottery.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
mountain madness
Last night my friend Clo and I went to this stupid mountaineering gala. Four mountaineers of note were being honored. We decided to go because it was a chance to dress up, and I wanted to buy a new pair of shoes.
Unusually for me, I arrived 15 minutes late. I felt bad. I felt worse when I saw Clo. In my stilettos I'm 6'2". Clo is 5 feet before adding heels. She took one look at me and said "I hate you. You're too tall."
I was thinking Clo was going to be a social butterfly because she's from Columbia, but she's as socially retarded as me. We were by far the best looking people there. Which is not saying much. Half the people were dressed in jeans with carabiners hanging from the belt loops. Gay. Then most of the crowd consisted of old ladies, like, over 60. We were like where are the hot guys????
We went over to what we thought were snacks before the dinner. The snacks were a bowl of green olives, a big dish of crab dip, and little slices of ham and cheese mushed together. There were also those little stale bread chips. We were getting hungry and finally Clo asked a waiter when dinner would be served. He looked at her strangely and said "that is dinner". Clo was like "are you fucking kidding me?" The only thing they had to drink was wine, water, and beer. Clo doesn't drink and she really wanted a coke. You would have thought she had asked the wait staff to build her the Taj Mahal. Finally a waiter snapped "if you can wait until 745 (it was 6 PM) we're serving coffee".
A local celebrity climber showed up who gets more and more obnoxious as the years go by. He knows Clo pretty well because she used to date a friend of his. I've met him at a number of events. He wanted us to come back to his friend's house for a hot tub and weed party. We were both like "NO" at the same time. Then we both said "whatever dude!" at the exact same time after he walked away.
There was a hot guy that finally showed up. But, he was wearing a burgundy shirt with a yellow tie and a black sport jacket. Yikes. I also found out a friend of mine, who is constantly hitting on me, has been married for the past 6 years and has a baby. One of Clo's friends went to the wedding. Odd, because I dated him briefly in 2006. I decided to never, ever date a mountaineer again. They are such pieces of shit for the most part.
We finally left, but not before the woman who was running the gala stopped us at the door and asked why we were leaving. I tried to be nice and say we were tired, but Clo was like "we're leaving because it's fucking boring!" I managed to not laugh until the woman walked away. Seriously, it's hard to turn a story about a dramatic ascent of K2 into a snooze fest (one guy caught the rest of his team as they were falling off of a cliff by planting his ax in the snow - it's one of the classic mountaineering stories). I was surprised how bad and boring the speaker, who wrote one of my favorite everest books, was.
We went to a noodle place in Boulder and talked for about 3 hours. We have so much in common that Clo finally said "I feel like you have lived my life, and I've lived yours, but in different places". It turns out we were born only 4 days apart even. She was married and divorced the exact same time I was. We both run into major guy issues all the time.
On relationships, Clo said "you know, some days you're going to be fat, and somedays you are going to be skinny, and guys don't seem to be able to accept that". She wasn't really talking about weight, but how men seem to trivialize our accomplishments down to just what we look like. She also works with a company that sponsor an event called "gimps on ice" for people who are amputees that want to learn to climb. She has dated a number of athletes, and she said that her measure of the man is to see if he has enough going on that if he loses a limb he will be able to keep going. I thought that was a really smart thing to think about.
I'm hoping to see Clo again this week before I leave for DC. She's coming to Denver to pick up a strait jacket to take a picture of this climber dude who looks crazy. She also has some pictures that are going to be published in People magazine. It's inspiring me to start working on my book again.
As we were leaving the restaurant she suggested that we collaborate together on a travel article. She'll take the pictures and I'll write the article. I'm pretty excited about the idea. I'm hoping she really does come visit me when I head back to the middle east.
I think it will be the best fucking travel article ever. The two of us are definitely capable of getting into a lot of interesting trouble.
Unusually for me, I arrived 15 minutes late. I felt bad. I felt worse when I saw Clo. In my stilettos I'm 6'2". Clo is 5 feet before adding heels. She took one look at me and said "I hate you. You're too tall."
I was thinking Clo was going to be a social butterfly because she's from Columbia, but she's as socially retarded as me. We were by far the best looking people there. Which is not saying much. Half the people were dressed in jeans with carabiners hanging from the belt loops. Gay. Then most of the crowd consisted of old ladies, like, over 60. We were like where are the hot guys????
We went over to what we thought were snacks before the dinner. The snacks were a bowl of green olives, a big dish of crab dip, and little slices of ham and cheese mushed together. There were also those little stale bread chips. We were getting hungry and finally Clo asked a waiter when dinner would be served. He looked at her strangely and said "that is dinner". Clo was like "are you fucking kidding me?" The only thing they had to drink was wine, water, and beer. Clo doesn't drink and she really wanted a coke. You would have thought she had asked the wait staff to build her the Taj Mahal. Finally a waiter snapped "if you can wait until 745 (it was 6 PM) we're serving coffee".
A local celebrity climber showed up who gets more and more obnoxious as the years go by. He knows Clo pretty well because she used to date a friend of his. I've met him at a number of events. He wanted us to come back to his friend's house for a hot tub and weed party. We were both like "NO" at the same time. Then we both said "whatever dude!" at the exact same time after he walked away.
There was a hot guy that finally showed up. But, he was wearing a burgundy shirt with a yellow tie and a black sport jacket. Yikes. I also found out a friend of mine, who is constantly hitting on me, has been married for the past 6 years and has a baby. One of Clo's friends went to the wedding. Odd, because I dated him briefly in 2006. I decided to never, ever date a mountaineer again. They are such pieces of shit for the most part.
We finally left, but not before the woman who was running the gala stopped us at the door and asked why we were leaving. I tried to be nice and say we were tired, but Clo was like "we're leaving because it's fucking boring!" I managed to not laugh until the woman walked away. Seriously, it's hard to turn a story about a dramatic ascent of K2 into a snooze fest (one guy caught the rest of his team as they were falling off of a cliff by planting his ax in the snow - it's one of the classic mountaineering stories). I was surprised how bad and boring the speaker, who wrote one of my favorite everest books, was.
We went to a noodle place in Boulder and talked for about 3 hours. We have so much in common that Clo finally said "I feel like you have lived my life, and I've lived yours, but in different places". It turns out we were born only 4 days apart even. She was married and divorced the exact same time I was. We both run into major guy issues all the time.
On relationships, Clo said "you know, some days you're going to be fat, and somedays you are going to be skinny, and guys don't seem to be able to accept that". She wasn't really talking about weight, but how men seem to trivialize our accomplishments down to just what we look like. She also works with a company that sponsor an event called "gimps on ice" for people who are amputees that want to learn to climb. She has dated a number of athletes, and she said that her measure of the man is to see if he has enough going on that if he loses a limb he will be able to keep going. I thought that was a really smart thing to think about.
I'm hoping to see Clo again this week before I leave for DC. She's coming to Denver to pick up a strait jacket to take a picture of this climber dude who looks crazy. She also has some pictures that are going to be published in People magazine. It's inspiring me to start working on my book again.
As we were leaving the restaurant she suggested that we collaborate together on a travel article. She'll take the pictures and I'll write the article. I'm pretty excited about the idea. I'm hoping she really does come visit me when I head back to the middle east.
I think it will be the best fucking travel article ever. The two of us are definitely capable of getting into a lot of interesting trouble.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Joe tries to kill me...again
I seem to be more likely to die trying to drive to an ice climb than actually ice climbing. On Friday I drove up to Montana to visit Joe. He said there was still some ice up at Pine Creek. We took his friend's truck and headed up there Saturday morning, even though it was snowing.
I had not forgotten how scary the Pine Creek road was since I had to drive it last year after a snow. But Joe thought we would be okay in the truck. We got halfway to the parking lot and the truck was pushing snow. We didn't have a place to turn around so we drove all the way to the parking lot. Scary. Then we decided to turn around because the snow conditions were getting worse and we were worried we would get stuck at the trail head. I started making this movie as the conditions got worse.
If I sound a little nervous that's because I was. Nice driving again this year Joe!
I had not forgotten how scary the Pine Creek road was since I had to drive it last year after a snow. But Joe thought we would be okay in the truck. We got halfway to the parking lot and the truck was pushing snow. We didn't have a place to turn around so we drove all the way to the parking lot. Scary. Then we decided to turn around because the snow conditions were getting worse and we were worried we would get stuck at the trail head. I started making this movie as the conditions got worse.
If I sound a little nervous that's because I was. Nice driving again this year Joe!
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
eight arms and guns
The other night I had a dream that I was in the galley of a small boat. We were in a war. I was briefing some octopi, there must have been 20 of them, on the war situation. I was standing at a white board drawing diagrams. The octopi were being bad. One would knock something off a shelf and I would run to put it back. As soon as I got to the white board to make more notes another octopus would throw something else on the floor. They kept giggling.
Then a general came into the galley and said "you're up". We all rushed out to the deck and had to duck under the side of the boat because someone was shooting at us. I was like fuck, we're really in a war. I yelled for the octopi to ready their guns. I looked over the side of the boat and a bullet went whizzing by my head. I was like fuck, these guys are serious.
I put my back against the side of the boat and started loading a 9 mm gun (I know, why bother) with bullets. I was giving orders to the octopi, who were being obedient. I thought maybe we'll be okay.
Then I looked to my left and saw the leader of the octopi slumped down against the side of the boat right next to me. He had a scared but determined expression on his face. He was wearing a naval captain's hat. I thought to myself, wow, I didn't know he was a captain. Then I realized how ridiculous he looked in that hat, holding a gun. I thought to myself what the fuck was I thinking trying to take a bunch of octopi to fight a war? I had a sense of dread that we were about to be killed.
Then I woke up.
Then a general came into the galley and said "you're up". We all rushed out to the deck and had to duck under the side of the boat because someone was shooting at us. I was like fuck, we're really in a war. I yelled for the octopi to ready their guns. I looked over the side of the boat and a bullet went whizzing by my head. I was like fuck, these guys are serious.
I put my back against the side of the boat and started loading a 9 mm gun (I know, why bother) with bullets. I was giving orders to the octopi, who were being obedient. I thought maybe we'll be okay.
Then I looked to my left and saw the leader of the octopi slumped down against the side of the boat right next to me. He had a scared but determined expression on his face. He was wearing a naval captain's hat. I thought to myself, wow, I didn't know he was a captain. Then I realized how ridiculous he looked in that hat, holding a gun. I thought to myself what the fuck was I thinking trying to take a bunch of octopi to fight a war? I had a sense of dread that we were about to be killed.
Then I woke up.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
jake the snake
After doing a 30 mile bike ride on Tuesday, crunched up on Max Crash, I started thinking maybe it was time for a change.
When I bought Max in 2003 I planned on only trail riding. I was between a medium and large frame and the saleswoman suggested going with the medium frame because it would be better for riding trails. Of course, she also sold me these time pedals that caused me to almost kill myself.
After dislocating my shoulder and taking all the skin off my arms and legs after falling into a ravine I never quite got my groove back for riding hard trails. And after fracturing both of my wrists two years ago I stopped riding trails altogether. I've just been using Max to go out for long rides, and he's not the most comfortable little machine for that. I was starting to think ragbrai might turn into the biggest suck ever.
Since I'm getting money back on my taxes my dad, who is the cheapest person on the planet, suggested I buy a new bike. Then someone sent me a picture of a cyclocross bike. A few hours later, after sitting in conference call hell all day, I decided to go to a store and see what was up with the cyclocrosses.
Apparently it's not the "season" for them. Like, what is that? It's a bike, not a bathing suit. But the guy assured me he could order me a bike. I decided to go with the Kona Major Tom since that was what was recommended to me. A flurry of activity then ensued. The sales guy whipped out a tape measure and started measuring me while the store owner did some calculations. They didn't have a bike in the store that they could size me to, and they were going to have to order Major Tom, and they wanted to make sure they got the right size bike. Or so the sales guy claimed as he was measuring my inseam.
"You're all legs, ha ha!" the owner said after commenting on the disparity between my torso and my legs. He got an even bigger laugh about the length of my arms. I'm very self conscious about my arms, and you will never see a picture of me with my arms hanging straight because they are totally disproportionate to my torso and I look like an ape. Just when it seemed I couldn't be humiliated any more they put me on a scale. I was like why would my weight matter for a bike and the owner said "I just wanted to see how much you weighed". Ha. Ha. Ha.
Unfortunately Kona did not have the Major Jake in stock in my size. They said it would be at least 8 weeks until they could deliver the bike. At that point I was already upset to not be taking a new bike home. They told me the only thing they had in my size was Jake the Snake, which is a lesser bike than Major Jake. I was disappointed until I saw that JSnake was almost the same color as Max Crash.
I texted my dad and said that I was about to buy a bike that is probably worth more than my car. He said "buy it!!!!!" I was like maybe I should think about it and he was like "buy it for fuck's sake!!!" I've been talking to him for at least 4 years about buying a road bike.
So I bought JSnake. The store owner listened patiently as I told him how much I dislike snakes. I asked if I would be able to run over snakes with Jake the Snake. He furrowed his brow in all seriousness and said "hmmm, I don't know". Then he said "but you're really going to love this bike!"
The brightest minds don't work in bike shops, I think.
So JSnake is supposed to arrive on Tuesday. My ticket has priority so JSnake is getting put together on arrival. I might have him by Wednesday. My dad called me a few minutes after I left the bike shop to find out what I bought. He's jealous. I wonder if he's going to buy a new bike before ragbrai.
I worry about Max Crash. I don't want him to be sad. Maybe I'll start trail riding again. He can't complain about not getting used though. That bike has a lot of miles on it. There was a time, after I finished school and before I started traveling all the time, when I would ride between 30 to 60 miles a day. I like riding. It makes me not think about anything because I have to watch out for snakes to run over. I've spent more time with Max than any boyfriend I've ever had.
And I've been thinking. The company I work for sucks. So maybe I'll try to find a job local that's close enough that I can ride JSnake there. Then take Max out for a spin when I get home. Then everyone would be happy, most of all me.
So Andy, if you're reading this, I might make the ALS ride this year. Wouldn't that be a shock.
When I bought Max in 2003 I planned on only trail riding. I was between a medium and large frame and the saleswoman suggested going with the medium frame because it would be better for riding trails. Of course, she also sold me these time pedals that caused me to almost kill myself.
After dislocating my shoulder and taking all the skin off my arms and legs after falling into a ravine I never quite got my groove back for riding hard trails. And after fracturing both of my wrists two years ago I stopped riding trails altogether. I've just been using Max to go out for long rides, and he's not the most comfortable little machine for that. I was starting to think ragbrai might turn into the biggest suck ever.
Since I'm getting money back on my taxes my dad, who is the cheapest person on the planet, suggested I buy a new bike. Then someone sent me a picture of a cyclocross bike. A few hours later, after sitting in conference call hell all day, I decided to go to a store and see what was up with the cyclocrosses.
Apparently it's not the "season" for them. Like, what is that? It's a bike, not a bathing suit. But the guy assured me he could order me a bike. I decided to go with the Kona Major Tom since that was what was recommended to me. A flurry of activity then ensued. The sales guy whipped out a tape measure and started measuring me while the store owner did some calculations. They didn't have a bike in the store that they could size me to, and they were going to have to order Major Tom, and they wanted to make sure they got the right size bike. Or so the sales guy claimed as he was measuring my inseam.
"You're all legs, ha ha!" the owner said after commenting on the disparity between my torso and my legs. He got an even bigger laugh about the length of my arms. I'm very self conscious about my arms, and you will never see a picture of me with my arms hanging straight because they are totally disproportionate to my torso and I look like an ape. Just when it seemed I couldn't be humiliated any more they put me on a scale. I was like why would my weight matter for a bike and the owner said "I just wanted to see how much you weighed". Ha. Ha. Ha.
Unfortunately Kona did not have the Major Jake in stock in my size. They said it would be at least 8 weeks until they could deliver the bike. At that point I was already upset to not be taking a new bike home. They told me the only thing they had in my size was Jake the Snake, which is a lesser bike than Major Jake. I was disappointed until I saw that JSnake was almost the same color as Max Crash.
I texted my dad and said that I was about to buy a bike that is probably worth more than my car. He said "buy it!!!!!" I was like maybe I should think about it and he was like "buy it for fuck's sake!!!" I've been talking to him for at least 4 years about buying a road bike.
So I bought JSnake. The store owner listened patiently as I told him how much I dislike snakes. I asked if I would be able to run over snakes with Jake the Snake. He furrowed his brow in all seriousness and said "hmmm, I don't know". Then he said "but you're really going to love this bike!"
The brightest minds don't work in bike shops, I think.
So JSnake is supposed to arrive on Tuesday. My ticket has priority so JSnake is getting put together on arrival. I might have him by Wednesday. My dad called me a few minutes after I left the bike shop to find out what I bought. He's jealous. I wonder if he's going to buy a new bike before ragbrai.
I worry about Max Crash. I don't want him to be sad. Maybe I'll start trail riding again. He can't complain about not getting used though. That bike has a lot of miles on it. There was a time, after I finished school and before I started traveling all the time, when I would ride between 30 to 60 miles a day. I like riding. It makes me not think about anything because I have to watch out for snakes to run over. I've spent more time with Max than any boyfriend I've ever had.
And I've been thinking. The company I work for sucks. So maybe I'll try to find a job local that's close enough that I can ride JSnake there. Then take Max out for a spin when I get home. Then everyone would be happy, most of all me.
So Andy, if you're reading this, I might make the ALS ride this year. Wouldn't that be a shock.
Friday, March 26, 2010
maybe I should let my cacti watch tv
I'm getting really worried about my cacti. Something seems to be wrong with them.
I got my first two cacti 3 years ago. My dad bought them for me because, he said, "even you can't kill them". Unfortunately, a year later, one of the cacti, Natski, died. But Michel lived on, and seemed to flourish. Except, I could tell he was lonely. So I bought him some friends.
Everything was fine for a while, but then, last spring, Michel, who was orange, started to take on a pink hue similar to the color Natski was. I wondered if he was still grieving about her. But he appeared happy with his friends. Then I gave my cacti to Joe while I was in the middle east. Shortly after Joe started bringing skanky bitches home (I'm just kidding, I'm sure they were nice girls even if they did work as strippers), Michel died.
I can't bring myself to throw him away. But then, after arriving home, some of the other cacti started to have problems. St. David Thornstein developed a serious posture problem. Is that normal? Could he have scoliosis? Maybe he needs a bigger pot? Or maybe he's sad because I put him next to a dead cactus. Though, he and Michel were good friends before Michel died.
(St. David Thornstein with Michel)
Just in case SDT was depressed about Michel, I moved him next to Tammy Faye Cactus and Ernie. Then, one of Ernie's um, branches? cactus arms? fell off, as did his flower. Foucault seems to be doing okay, and Tammy Faye appears as happy as ever. I just worry about the three guys. I'm experimenting with different configurations to see if it's just a group dynamics problem. And I put Ernie over by Side Show Bob (my aloe plant) so I could give the other cacti a pep talk and to make sure they knew it was NOT okay to make fun of Ernie since his arm fell off.
Maybe I should put Ernie and Pascal together. Pascal is a tough little cactus, but he's nicer than Foucault (not everyone is into homosexual sadism), and he believes in medical miracles as well as embracing his frivolous side. I think he may be a more positive influence although I don't know if putting Tammy Faye and Pascal together is a good idea. Ernie might end up being super religious. Then he'll fight with St. David Thornstein.
(Tammy Faye Cactus, Foucault, Pascal, and Ernie)
I read an article about a guy named Jonathon Keats who is actually being paid to create tv shows for plants that show the sky of different locations around the world. Among other reasons he thinks that's a good idea is because "plants can't travel". He previously created a video showing bees pollinating plants, and called it plant pornography. He is unsure if his videos are manipulating the plants or not.
I don't know if plant tv or plant pornography is the answer to my cacti problem. Maybe they're jealous that I had two cacti in the UAE, so I won't talk about those cacti anymore and I'm going to take their pictures off the refrigerator. And I should go back to playing John Coltrane during the day when I'm working.
I'm just not sure I want to expose my darling cacti to porn or tv. Which, really, is the same thing, isn't it?
I got my first two cacti 3 years ago. My dad bought them for me because, he said, "even you can't kill them". Unfortunately, a year later, one of the cacti, Natski, died. But Michel lived on, and seemed to flourish. Except, I could tell he was lonely. So I bought him some friends.
Everything was fine for a while, but then, last spring, Michel, who was orange, started to take on a pink hue similar to the color Natski was. I wondered if he was still grieving about her. But he appeared happy with his friends. Then I gave my cacti to Joe while I was in the middle east. Shortly after Joe started bringing skanky bitches home (I'm just kidding, I'm sure they were nice girls even if they did work as strippers), Michel died.
I can't bring myself to throw him away. But then, after arriving home, some of the other cacti started to have problems. St. David Thornstein developed a serious posture problem. Is that normal? Could he have scoliosis? Maybe he needs a bigger pot? Or maybe he's sad because I put him next to a dead cactus. Though, he and Michel were good friends before Michel died.
(St. David Thornstein with Michel)
Just in case SDT was depressed about Michel, I moved him next to Tammy Faye Cactus and Ernie. Then, one of Ernie's um, branches? cactus arms? fell off, as did his flower. Foucault seems to be doing okay, and Tammy Faye appears as happy as ever. I just worry about the three guys. I'm experimenting with different configurations to see if it's just a group dynamics problem. And I put Ernie over by Side Show Bob (my aloe plant) so I could give the other cacti a pep talk and to make sure they knew it was NOT okay to make fun of Ernie since his arm fell off.
Maybe I should put Ernie and Pascal together. Pascal is a tough little cactus, but he's nicer than Foucault (not everyone is into homosexual sadism), and he believes in medical miracles as well as embracing his frivolous side. I think he may be a more positive influence although I don't know if putting Tammy Faye and Pascal together is a good idea. Ernie might end up being super religious. Then he'll fight with St. David Thornstein.
(Tammy Faye Cactus, Foucault, Pascal, and Ernie)
I read an article about a guy named Jonathon Keats who is actually being paid to create tv shows for plants that show the sky of different locations around the world. Among other reasons he thinks that's a good idea is because "plants can't travel". He previously created a video showing bees pollinating plants, and called it plant pornography. He is unsure if his videos are manipulating the plants or not.
I don't know if plant tv or plant pornography is the answer to my cacti problem. Maybe they're jealous that I had two cacti in the UAE, so I won't talk about those cacti anymore and I'm going to take their pictures off the refrigerator. And I should go back to playing John Coltrane during the day when I'm working.
I'm just not sure I want to expose my darling cacti to porn or tv. Which, really, is the same thing, isn't it?
Thursday, March 25, 2010
love and genetics
The other week I was hanging out with some other consultants and we had a discussion about love and monogamy. I always start that discussion with any married person I know just because I like to see what people think about the topic.
Recently, based on some guy research and information, I decided that it's impossible for a guy to be in a monogamous relationship, and that women shouldn't take it personally when men cheat on them because men aren't capable of having the same emotional commitment to a relationship that women do, mostly because they will never have to push a person out of their vagina so they don't really get love. They don't understand the emotional implication of sleeping with someone else and that's why they do it.
But then I was talking to Texas, one of my favorite consultants. Well, my favorite now that my italian requirements partner has flown the coop. He got married when he was 19. He's still as in love with his wife as he was when he met her. You can tell by the way he talks about her. He's not one of those guys constantly on the phone or whatever with her or needing to talk to her for every decision (you know, the guy that you look at and are like "whipped, wimp, what are you a woman"). His wife was diagnosed with MS and he's doing everything he can to take care of her too, so it's not like she's totally perfect and therefore easy to love.
I asked him why his marriage has been so successful and how he is still in love with his wife after a billion years of marriage. He said "you have to stick together even when one of you doesn't like the other one, or when you both don't like each other". I asked him how did he do that. He looked at me like I was an idiot and he said "because you love each other and you want it to work out".
So I started wondering if it's the person that is willing to put in the effort to stick it out or is it the person that they are in a relationship with that makes them stick it out. For example, if I were married to NDGT would I stay with him because I'm that kind of person or because I think NDGT is the coolest guy ever? For the record, I think he's married, and I'm not trying to insult his wife. I've been watching my favorite universe again and I just love it when he talks about binary stars. I think NDGT is possibly one of the coolest people on the planet. Besides me, of course. I wish he would invite me over for dinner some night so we could have a conversation somewhere else besides in my head.
Um...where was I...
Oh yeah. So, if anyone knows the answer to my question, can you please post it as a comment. I'm curious.
I once dated a guy who was completely loyal to his wife even after he found out she was having an affair. Finally, though, he couldn't take it anymore and gave her an ultimatum: either dump the affair guy or he was going to leave. She refused to end the affair so he left. I wasn't sure about dating the guy, but everyone kept telling me how loyal and whatever he was.
But, within 3 months of our relationship, he slept with someone else. And sent me an email about it. Like I was supposed to be proud of him. Anyway, shortly afterward the relationship rolled off the proverbial cliff.
I've always wondered if he was an asshole or if he just didn't like me as much as he liked his ex-wife.
Recently, based on some guy research and information, I decided that it's impossible for a guy to be in a monogamous relationship, and that women shouldn't take it personally when men cheat on them because men aren't capable of having the same emotional commitment to a relationship that women do, mostly because they will never have to push a person out of their vagina so they don't really get love. They don't understand the emotional implication of sleeping with someone else and that's why they do it.
But then I was talking to Texas, one of my favorite consultants. Well, my favorite now that my italian requirements partner has flown the coop. He got married when he was 19. He's still as in love with his wife as he was when he met her. You can tell by the way he talks about her. He's not one of those guys constantly on the phone or whatever with her or needing to talk to her for every decision (you know, the guy that you look at and are like "whipped, wimp, what are you a woman"). His wife was diagnosed with MS and he's doing everything he can to take care of her too, so it's not like she's totally perfect and therefore easy to love.
I asked him why his marriage has been so successful and how he is still in love with his wife after a billion years of marriage. He said "you have to stick together even when one of you doesn't like the other one, or when you both don't like each other". I asked him how did he do that. He looked at me like I was an idiot and he said "because you love each other and you want it to work out".
So I started wondering if it's the person that is willing to put in the effort to stick it out or is it the person that they are in a relationship with that makes them stick it out. For example, if I were married to NDGT would I stay with him because I'm that kind of person or because I think NDGT is the coolest guy ever? For the record, I think he's married, and I'm not trying to insult his wife. I've been watching my favorite universe again and I just love it when he talks about binary stars. I think NDGT is possibly one of the coolest people on the planet. Besides me, of course. I wish he would invite me over for dinner some night so we could have a conversation somewhere else besides in my head.
Um...where was I...
Oh yeah. So, if anyone knows the answer to my question, can you please post it as a comment. I'm curious.
I once dated a guy who was completely loyal to his wife even after he found out she was having an affair. Finally, though, he couldn't take it anymore and gave her an ultimatum: either dump the affair guy or he was going to leave. She refused to end the affair so he left. I wasn't sure about dating the guy, but everyone kept telling me how loyal and whatever he was.
But, within 3 months of our relationship, he slept with someone else. And sent me an email about it. Like I was supposed to be proud of him. Anyway, shortly afterward the relationship rolled off the proverbial cliff.
I've always wondered if he was an asshole or if he just didn't like me as much as he liked his ex-wife.
trust issues
I'm still really pissed about something that happened with one of my colleagues. I wish I could beat him up, but I can't.
I was training him on my software, and he had the wrong version on his laptop. Since there is limited backwards compatibility, I had him work on an assignment on my computer. He started the assignment and I went outside to smoke a cigarette.
Ten minutes later I came back. The whole time I was smoking I had an uneasy feeling about leaving him on my computer unattended. But, I tend to trust people. I let some kid I barely knew live in my house for free. I let another kid I didn't know stay in my house while I was on vacation with my dad (he was a student in Denver for the DNC). I've only had a few problems. I want to trust people.
Anyway, I told him that I would give him a copy of the new software version so he could work on his own machine. He handed me a USB drive. Normally I just click on the file to be copied and say send it to the USB drive because I don't get into people's personal stuff, and wouldn't look at files on a USB drive. But this time I had to because there wasn't enough room on the USB drive for the software. I asked my colleague what I should do and he told me to delete the recycle bin.
Just out of habit I opened the recycle bin to make sure I wasn't permanently deleting files the customer gave to my colleague that I didn't have a copy of. Imagine my surprise when I found a bunch of MY files from a folder on my computer called "personal". The files included bank statements I had downloaded for my taxes as well as my W-2.
I was like I don't fucking believe this. I wiped out everything on the USB and copied the software. Then my colleague started talking about how he encrypts everything on his computer so no one can steal it. I thought that was strange. I made a comment about people stealing files and how it sucks that you can't trust anyone. I really wanted to confront him and then punch him in the face. The circumstances, not worth explaining here, prevented that.
Now I wonder what I should have done. How could someone do that, and worse, how could a supposed colleague of mine do that?
Some people really, really suck.
I was training him on my software, and he had the wrong version on his laptop. Since there is limited backwards compatibility, I had him work on an assignment on my computer. He started the assignment and I went outside to smoke a cigarette.
Ten minutes later I came back. The whole time I was smoking I had an uneasy feeling about leaving him on my computer unattended. But, I tend to trust people. I let some kid I barely knew live in my house for free. I let another kid I didn't know stay in my house while I was on vacation with my dad (he was a student in Denver for the DNC). I've only had a few problems. I want to trust people.
Anyway, I told him that I would give him a copy of the new software version so he could work on his own machine. He handed me a USB drive. Normally I just click on the file to be copied and say send it to the USB drive because I don't get into people's personal stuff, and wouldn't look at files on a USB drive. But this time I had to because there wasn't enough room on the USB drive for the software. I asked my colleague what I should do and he told me to delete the recycle bin.
Just out of habit I opened the recycle bin to make sure I wasn't permanently deleting files the customer gave to my colleague that I didn't have a copy of. Imagine my surprise when I found a bunch of MY files from a folder on my computer called "personal". The files included bank statements I had downloaded for my taxes as well as my W-2.
I was like I don't fucking believe this. I wiped out everything on the USB and copied the software. Then my colleague started talking about how he encrypts everything on his computer so no one can steal it. I thought that was strange. I made a comment about people stealing files and how it sucks that you can't trust anyone. I really wanted to confront him and then punch him in the face. The circumstances, not worth explaining here, prevented that.
Now I wonder what I should have done. How could someone do that, and worse, how could a supposed colleague of mine do that?
Some people really, really suck.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
stupid babies
Along with many other issues I have with Delta, I am tired of their moronic assignment of seats.
If an airline won't ban kids under 5 so that the rest of us don't have to listen to them screaming and crying during a long flight, at least they could put all the kids in one place on the plane, preferably as far away from me as possible. And all of us business travelers should get the front of the plane, because we don't take 5 minutes to pull our luggage out of the overhead bin once the plane door is open.
But no. Delta does stupid shit like always putting me next to the mom carrying an infant on her lap. And then they put her in the middle seat. Like yesterday, when I was flying home from Montreal.
I was approaching my seat, which was towards the back of the plane, and could hear a baby crying. I was like why me god? There was the infant and mom, in the middle seat in my row. I don't exactly have a poker face so I'm sure the mom knew I was NOT happy. Meanwhile the rest of the plane had a lot of empty middle seats. So this mom could have had two seats, but instead they crammed her in with me and a fat woman who was at the window. I asked the steward to move me to a middle seat, but none of the fucks who had an empty seat between them would agree to let me sit there. I was like they didn't pay for that seat so why should they get to decide if I sit there, and the steward said "because those empty middle seats are not your assigned seat". Are you fucking kidding me?
I tried to put myself in a happy place as the plane was being de-iced. The kid was flailing around, dripping goo on me and grabbing my burberry scarf. I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn't there. The fat woman at the window said "If you need room you can put your baby's feet on my lap. I don't mind. I have 5 children of my own." The mom mumbled something, and the fat lady said "Well, some people don't have children, so they don't know how to act."
I was like FUCK YOU. This is a PLANE, NOT a nursery. I work long hours, and spend a lot of time on planes. I am NOT there to entertain a 10 month old for 5 hours. I am there to sleep because I'm tired.
Then the fat woman pointed out the baby had thrush, which is some kind of rash. She warned the mom to be careful touching the baby spit because it can spread. I was like great, since the baby had drooled all over my hand. Then the mom mentioned the baby was getting over a cough and earache. Like I can afford to get sick. If I was hit by a car my clients would still be calling me like "can you come over and fix our software even though you are immobilized from the neck down?"
I luckily just bought new noise canceling ear buds and was listening to my stop smoking CDs. Suddenly I realized my row smelled like a toilet. The mom, who was sitting half in my seat anyway, with the thrush covered baby's head resting on my leg, tapped me rather hard, and rudely, with her finger.
I took out my ear bud. She proceeded to ask me if I would stand up so she could change her baby's diaper on my seat. I said "there's changing rooms in the plane bathroom". She got pissed and called over the steward. He told her "we want you to do that in the bathroom". I think he felt sorry that he hadn't let me change seats.
I am absolutely disgusted by people who change their baby on a seat plane. How would they like it if I took a shit on their seat? It's a plane, not a trailer park. And you can get diseases from shit. For fuck's sake people.
She changed the baby 2 more times after that. I guess his cold had moved to his ass. She spilled a bottle of baby goo all over my coach purse. I wiped it off without saying anything. Then she sat the baby facing forward and propped a People magazine on his head and proceeded to read it as he reached over into my seat back and ripped up my new yorker. I had already read it, but she didn't know that. She didn't say a word. I was even more pissed. Yeah, I'm not helpful, but she's a great mom for using her kid's head as a book stand.
Our flight circled DEN for an extra hour because of the storm yesterday. I was ready to scream. No one would have noticed because the baby was screaming. Finally we landed and as soon as the seat belt sign was off I got up and into the aisle. I had been on planes for over 9 hours by that point. I wanted to go home.
I leaned over and asked the mom if I could get anything out of the overhead bin for her. I always do that when I have the aisle seat. The fat woman said "oh, now she's being helpful". I looked at her and said "I'm right here, so if you have something to say, say it to me." Everyone turned around to see what was going to happen. I was not the only person on the plane who had been annoyed by the baby crying.
The fat woman didn't say anything to me. Instead she turned to the mom and said "let me give you my phone number". Fucking freak.
For the record, I have helped many moms trying to get their luggage and kids to their cars or get their luggage off the baggage claim. I've carried their shit down the plane ramp and moved to a shit seat so all the parents and kids could sit together. I just don't understand why anyone would fly with a sick kid. And why anyone would fly with a kid and not get a fucking seat for aforementioned kid. I didn't volunteer to give up half my seat. She just took it. And assumed I'd be okay listening to her kid screaming. When you're a parent you get used to that shit. For everyone else, it's hard.
Please. Stop flying with your kids if you can't control them. Don't change your kids on the seat. And don't assume everyone else cares that junior is having a bad day. Believe me, people just want him to shut the fuck up.
Thus ends the tirade. I feel better now.
If an airline won't ban kids under 5 so that the rest of us don't have to listen to them screaming and crying during a long flight, at least they could put all the kids in one place on the plane, preferably as far away from me as possible. And all of us business travelers should get the front of the plane, because we don't take 5 minutes to pull our luggage out of the overhead bin once the plane door is open.
But no. Delta does stupid shit like always putting me next to the mom carrying an infant on her lap. And then they put her in the middle seat. Like yesterday, when I was flying home from Montreal.
I was approaching my seat, which was towards the back of the plane, and could hear a baby crying. I was like why me god? There was the infant and mom, in the middle seat in my row. I don't exactly have a poker face so I'm sure the mom knew I was NOT happy. Meanwhile the rest of the plane had a lot of empty middle seats. So this mom could have had two seats, but instead they crammed her in with me and a fat woman who was at the window. I asked the steward to move me to a middle seat, but none of the fucks who had an empty seat between them would agree to let me sit there. I was like they didn't pay for that seat so why should they get to decide if I sit there, and the steward said "because those empty middle seats are not your assigned seat". Are you fucking kidding me?
I tried to put myself in a happy place as the plane was being de-iced. The kid was flailing around, dripping goo on me and grabbing my burberry scarf. I closed my eyes and pretended I wasn't there. The fat woman at the window said "If you need room you can put your baby's feet on my lap. I don't mind. I have 5 children of my own." The mom mumbled something, and the fat lady said "Well, some people don't have children, so they don't know how to act."
I was like FUCK YOU. This is a PLANE, NOT a nursery. I work long hours, and spend a lot of time on planes. I am NOT there to entertain a 10 month old for 5 hours. I am there to sleep because I'm tired.
Then the fat woman pointed out the baby had thrush, which is some kind of rash. She warned the mom to be careful touching the baby spit because it can spread. I was like great, since the baby had drooled all over my hand. Then the mom mentioned the baby was getting over a cough and earache. Like I can afford to get sick. If I was hit by a car my clients would still be calling me like "can you come over and fix our software even though you are immobilized from the neck down?"
I luckily just bought new noise canceling ear buds and was listening to my stop smoking CDs. Suddenly I realized my row smelled like a toilet. The mom, who was sitting half in my seat anyway, with the thrush covered baby's head resting on my leg, tapped me rather hard, and rudely, with her finger.
I took out my ear bud. She proceeded to ask me if I would stand up so she could change her baby's diaper on my seat. I said "there's changing rooms in the plane bathroom". She got pissed and called over the steward. He told her "we want you to do that in the bathroom". I think he felt sorry that he hadn't let me change seats.
I am absolutely disgusted by people who change their baby on a seat plane. How would they like it if I took a shit on their seat? It's a plane, not a trailer park. And you can get diseases from shit. For fuck's sake people.
She changed the baby 2 more times after that. I guess his cold had moved to his ass. She spilled a bottle of baby goo all over my coach purse. I wiped it off without saying anything. Then she sat the baby facing forward and propped a People magazine on his head and proceeded to read it as he reached over into my seat back and ripped up my new yorker. I had already read it, but she didn't know that. She didn't say a word. I was even more pissed. Yeah, I'm not helpful, but she's a great mom for using her kid's head as a book stand.
Our flight circled DEN for an extra hour because of the storm yesterday. I was ready to scream. No one would have noticed because the baby was screaming. Finally we landed and as soon as the seat belt sign was off I got up and into the aisle. I had been on planes for over 9 hours by that point. I wanted to go home.
I leaned over and asked the mom if I could get anything out of the overhead bin for her. I always do that when I have the aisle seat. The fat woman said "oh, now she's being helpful". I looked at her and said "I'm right here, so if you have something to say, say it to me." Everyone turned around to see what was going to happen. I was not the only person on the plane who had been annoyed by the baby crying.
The fat woman didn't say anything to me. Instead she turned to the mom and said "let me give you my phone number". Fucking freak.
For the record, I have helped many moms trying to get their luggage and kids to their cars or get their luggage off the baggage claim. I've carried their shit down the plane ramp and moved to a shit seat so all the parents and kids could sit together. I just don't understand why anyone would fly with a sick kid. And why anyone would fly with a kid and not get a fucking seat for aforementioned kid. I didn't volunteer to give up half my seat. She just took it. And assumed I'd be okay listening to her kid screaming. When you're a parent you get used to that shit. For everyone else, it's hard.
Please. Stop flying with your kids if you can't control them. Don't change your kids on the seat. And don't assume everyone else cares that junior is having a bad day. Believe me, people just want him to shut the fuck up.
Thus ends the tirade. I feel better now.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
attack of the zombie cats
I had the worst dream last night.
In the dream I was walking through the village of Copacabana, on the shore of Lake Titicaca. I was looking for something, but I don't know what it was.
I went down a narrow street and was confronted by a growling cat that was bloody and disfigured. I threw a rock at it and it ran away. But suddenly there were more cats, all grotesque and with huge chunks of fur missing. They started biting me. I had to kick them and stomp on their heads to kill them. One of the cats wouldn't die so I stepped on its chest and the cat's body burst open and I could see its rib cage and still beating heart.
I looked at my legs and arms, which were covered in bite marks and blood. I started to worry that I was going to turn into a zombie because I was bitten by zombie cats. I wondered if I was going to die.
Then I woke up. I have no idea what that dream was supposed to mean.
In the dream I was walking through the village of Copacabana, on the shore of Lake Titicaca. I was looking for something, but I don't know what it was.
I went down a narrow street and was confronted by a growling cat that was bloody and disfigured. I threw a rock at it and it ran away. But suddenly there were more cats, all grotesque and with huge chunks of fur missing. They started biting me. I had to kick them and stomp on their heads to kill them. One of the cats wouldn't die so I stepped on its chest and the cat's body burst open and I could see its rib cage and still beating heart.
I looked at my legs and arms, which were covered in bite marks and blood. I started to worry that I was going to turn into a zombie because I was bitten by zombie cats. I wondered if I was going to die.
Then I woke up. I have no idea what that dream was supposed to mean.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
biodome and insects
Yesterday I went to the biodome (which was built for the olympics here, and took 20 years to pay off) and the insectarium, which is the largest collection in the world of insects.
The day started off rather challenging. I was going to walk to the biodome but was told it was too far and that I should take the metro. So I went to the metro and spent 10 minutes trying to read the directions in french for buying a ticket. I couldn't get the machine to work so I went to a kiosk. The woman sent me to another kiosk across the metro station. I walked over with my little subway map and said, to the woman in the kiosk, "I'm going to the Viau stop". She pointed to a stairway and said "it's down there". I was like "that's great, but how do I buy a ticket?" and she said "you buy it here".
We stared at each other for a few minutes, and then I said "well, where do I buy a ticket?" She got all excited and said "here, of course!" I was like why the fuck didn't you give me a ticket to begin with? I got an all day ticket, and it's a scratch off affair with the day, month, and year. Then I tried to put the ticket in the ticket slot at the turnstile. It didn't fit. So I went back to the kiosk and asked what I was supposed to do. The woman said "Show the ticket to me, and I open the turnstile." I stood there for a few minutes while she examined the exact same ticket she had issued me. She finally let me through.
I went to the biodome first. It was interesting but way too crowded. There were so many people with baby carriages that you couldn't get close to anything. I watched the penguins for a while. One pushed another one into the water. That was funny.
Then I set out to find the insectarium. Everyone said it was close to the biodome. Close, in relative terms. I had to walk through a park to get there. Then this woman yelled at me because I bypassed the ticket line (I already had a ticket). She stopped me and said "where are you going?" I was like "to see the insects". She said "do you see this line?" I said "the line of people to buy tickets?" and she said "yes". I said "if I have to wait in that line (which was really long) that defeats the purpose of buying a ticket in advance, doesn't it?" She said "I don't understand you" and waved me through. Everyone else was getting a stamp on their hand, but she didn't give me one.
Again, the insectarium was way too crowded. All the displays were set up for kids so I had to lean over to look at stuff, which was hard considering how many kids were there. My favorite thing was either the bug that looked like a branch or this orange and black tarantula. It was really bright orange.
Today I walked around old town Montreal. I went down there for dinner on Wednesday, and then a guy was shot the next day in front of the restaurant I went to. It was a mafia hit. The mafia is pretty active here, and everyone blames the US/New York.
Whatever.
I head home on Tuesday, and hope it has stopped snowing here by then. It's weird being in cold weather after the UAE.
The day started off rather challenging. I was going to walk to the biodome but was told it was too far and that I should take the metro. So I went to the metro and spent 10 minutes trying to read the directions in french for buying a ticket. I couldn't get the machine to work so I went to a kiosk. The woman sent me to another kiosk across the metro station. I walked over with my little subway map and said, to the woman in the kiosk, "I'm going to the Viau stop". She pointed to a stairway and said "it's down there". I was like "that's great, but how do I buy a ticket?" and she said "you buy it here".
We stared at each other for a few minutes, and then I said "well, where do I buy a ticket?" She got all excited and said "here, of course!" I was like why the fuck didn't you give me a ticket to begin with? I got an all day ticket, and it's a scratch off affair with the day, month, and year. Then I tried to put the ticket in the ticket slot at the turnstile. It didn't fit. So I went back to the kiosk and asked what I was supposed to do. The woman said "Show the ticket to me, and I open the turnstile." I stood there for a few minutes while she examined the exact same ticket she had issued me. She finally let me through.
I went to the biodome first. It was interesting but way too crowded. There were so many people with baby carriages that you couldn't get close to anything. I watched the penguins for a while. One pushed another one into the water. That was funny.
Then I set out to find the insectarium. Everyone said it was close to the biodome. Close, in relative terms. I had to walk through a park to get there. Then this woman yelled at me because I bypassed the ticket line (I already had a ticket). She stopped me and said "where are you going?" I was like "to see the insects". She said "do you see this line?" I said "the line of people to buy tickets?" and she said "yes". I said "if I have to wait in that line (which was really long) that defeats the purpose of buying a ticket in advance, doesn't it?" She said "I don't understand you" and waved me through. Everyone else was getting a stamp on their hand, but she didn't give me one.
Again, the insectarium was way too crowded. All the displays were set up for kids so I had to lean over to look at stuff, which was hard considering how many kids were there. My favorite thing was either the bug that looked like a branch or this orange and black tarantula. It was really bright orange.
Today I walked around old town Montreal. I went down there for dinner on Wednesday, and then a guy was shot the next day in front of the restaurant I went to. It was a mafia hit. The mafia is pretty active here, and everyone blames the US/New York.
Whatever.
I head home on Tuesday, and hope it has stopped snowing here by then. It's weird being in cold weather after the UAE.
Canada, what's up with that?
So, honey cigarettes? What's up with that? Why would anyone except a canadian put honey in a cigarette?
The queen? What's up with that? I bet you didn't even know Canada had a queen. She's the grand daughter of a slave. I'm not sure how she became queen, or what she does, but Canada has a queen.
Why do they have a queen, you may be asking. Because Canada, as it turns out, is still part of the british empire or some shit like that. Britain doesn't get to tell them what to do anymore, but their queen talks to Canada's queen. Crazy, I know. It explains the weird spellings of everything here.
The queen? What's up with that? I bet you didn't even know Canada had a queen. She's the grand daughter of a slave. I'm not sure how she became queen, or what she does, but Canada has a queen.
Why do they have a queen, you may be asking. Because Canada, as it turns out, is still part of the british empire or some shit like that. Britain doesn't get to tell them what to do anymore, but their queen talks to Canada's queen. Crazy, I know. It explains the weird spellings of everything here.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
brits, breaking the law again
In case you thought I was exaggerating about how strict things are in the UAE...
http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/reuters/100314/n_top_news/cnews_us_emirates_kissing
http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/reuters/100314/n_top_news/cnews_us_emirates_kissing
when your colleague is a menace
Something that really irritates me is when work colleagues invite me to hang out with their families.
I know that probably sounds bad. But seriously, I have to put up with unruly screaming kids at the airport and in hotels. Why would I voluntarily hang out with them?
I'm not exactly an extrovert. I'm pretty shy. It's very difficult for me to spend all day with a client that I've just met. I get some pretty hostile and hard to work with people on my engagements, and at the end of the day all I want to do is go back to the hotel and work out and then spend the evening reading or writing. The pressure is worse when I am not only working with a client but training someone to do my job because I have two people that need my time.
And after working with a colleague, I don't want to hang out with their family. Inevitably the wife is glaring at me all night, sure I'm having an affair with her husband even though he's always fat, bald and unattractive (seriously, if I worked with good looking men, I wouldn't be single, would I). I guess the kids sense the hostility and that causes them to behave badly. I'm supposed to sit there and smile while the kids either behave like total heathens or the parents scream and yell at them to behave.
Do I want to experience my work colleague physically or verbally abusing his kids? No. Do I want to have to make nice with his wife to assure her we have so much in common even though she's a stay at home mom who doesn't even watch the news? No. I don't have much in common with these women that my colleagues tend to marry. I don't give a flying fuck about their kids' soccer scores or what prestigious elementary school they got into. I don't want to see their fucking crayon drawings. I want to go home and have a glass of wine in a quiet room so I can get ready for the next day of client torture.
If I wanted kids, I would have them. I don't want them. I want to spend as little time around them as possible. I sometimes think these colleagues feel sorry for me and that's why they try to invite me for dinner. But I like traveling (most of the time). I like to be alone.
Or, maybe they want to torture me and force me to experience how much of a big suck it is to come home to a loud dirty house and not be able to have an intelligent conversation. But, if you chose that life, it's your tough shit. I don't want to waste MY time putting up with that kind of shit.
To be fair, it's not always the kids and the wife that suck. Some times it's just the wife. But it's never a fun experience for me.
So, if you're ever contemplating inviting an out of town colleague out with your family, why not drop a hint that the invitation is there and let your colleague take the lead on whether or not to hang out with you. If the colleague doesn't say anything, or seems to be making excuses, fucking drop it. Don't hound your poor colleague every day to hang out with you because it will just annoy the fuck out of your colleague.
I should also mention that I'm not going to eat food you bring in just because you brought it. Stop trying to foist your stupid chocolate cakes and doughnuts on me. I don't eat them because I hate them. And stop trying to convert me to your religion. It's not going to happen.
Ech. Why do so many annoying people work as consultants?
I know that probably sounds bad. But seriously, I have to put up with unruly screaming kids at the airport and in hotels. Why would I voluntarily hang out with them?
I'm not exactly an extrovert. I'm pretty shy. It's very difficult for me to spend all day with a client that I've just met. I get some pretty hostile and hard to work with people on my engagements, and at the end of the day all I want to do is go back to the hotel and work out and then spend the evening reading or writing. The pressure is worse when I am not only working with a client but training someone to do my job because I have two people that need my time.
And after working with a colleague, I don't want to hang out with their family. Inevitably the wife is glaring at me all night, sure I'm having an affair with her husband even though he's always fat, bald and unattractive (seriously, if I worked with good looking men, I wouldn't be single, would I). I guess the kids sense the hostility and that causes them to behave badly. I'm supposed to sit there and smile while the kids either behave like total heathens or the parents scream and yell at them to behave.
Do I want to experience my work colleague physically or verbally abusing his kids? No. Do I want to have to make nice with his wife to assure her we have so much in common even though she's a stay at home mom who doesn't even watch the news? No. I don't have much in common with these women that my colleagues tend to marry. I don't give a flying fuck about their kids' soccer scores or what prestigious elementary school they got into. I don't want to see their fucking crayon drawings. I want to go home and have a glass of wine in a quiet room so I can get ready for the next day of client torture.
If I wanted kids, I would have them. I don't want them. I want to spend as little time around them as possible. I sometimes think these colleagues feel sorry for me and that's why they try to invite me for dinner. But I like traveling (most of the time). I like to be alone.
Or, maybe they want to torture me and force me to experience how much of a big suck it is to come home to a loud dirty house and not be able to have an intelligent conversation. But, if you chose that life, it's your tough shit. I don't want to waste MY time putting up with that kind of shit.
To be fair, it's not always the kids and the wife that suck. Some times it's just the wife. But it's never a fun experience for me.
So, if you're ever contemplating inviting an out of town colleague out with your family, why not drop a hint that the invitation is there and let your colleague take the lead on whether or not to hang out with you. If the colleague doesn't say anything, or seems to be making excuses, fucking drop it. Don't hound your poor colleague every day to hang out with you because it will just annoy the fuck out of your colleague.
I should also mention that I'm not going to eat food you bring in just because you brought it. Stop trying to foist your stupid chocolate cakes and doughnuts on me. I don't eat them because I hate them. And stop trying to convert me to your religion. It's not going to happen.
Ech. Why do so many annoying people work as consultants?
my dreams should be in a museum
On Friday night I had a really bad dream. I was on a flat roof in a city like new york city, but not quite. Everything was cartoon colors. I looked up in the sky and saw 7 planes (red and white) flying in formation. They looked like toys, and the sky was a turquoise blue. I suddenly realized they were robot planes and that they were going to kill me. Then the roof turned into a v shaped roof with tiles. I was grabbing the tiles as I slid off the roof but they kept breaking. I fell over the side of the roof.
I woke up laying on the sidewalk. I was paralyzed. Then I saw these two men walking towards me. I was really scared because I knew they were bad guys. One guy leaned over me. He had this crazy beard and his facial features were distorted and almost not human. I realized, as his face got closet to me, that he was evil, and that if his face touched me I would become evil as well. But I couldn't move away from him because I was paralyzed.
Then I woke up.
Oddly, on Saturday I went to the museum of modern art, and saw a piece of artwork made out of wire, metal, and toys. It was a toy plane diving towards a woman who was looking up at the plane. And, there was a movie that I watched, which was made to look like a 1920s silent movie. In the movie people kept coming in to a bar wearing these animal heads made of paper maiche. They would get into fights with each other. Then the movie would flash to a guy with distorted features who would shake his head from side to side. The movie was creepy (like something David Lynch would dream up) but the guy with the distorted features was almost like the guy in my dream.
Strange.
I woke up laying on the sidewalk. I was paralyzed. Then I saw these two men walking towards me. I was really scared because I knew they were bad guys. One guy leaned over me. He had this crazy beard and his facial features were distorted and almost not human. I realized, as his face got closet to me, that he was evil, and that if his face touched me I would become evil as well. But I couldn't move away from him because I was paralyzed.
Then I woke up.
Oddly, on Saturday I went to the museum of modern art, and saw a piece of artwork made out of wire, metal, and toys. It was a toy plane diving towards a woman who was looking up at the plane. And, there was a movie that I watched, which was made to look like a 1920s silent movie. In the movie people kept coming in to a bar wearing these animal heads made of paper maiche. They would get into fights with each other. Then the movie would flash to a guy with distorted features who would shake his head from side to side. The movie was creepy (like something David Lynch would dream up) but the guy with the distorted features was almost like the guy in my dream.
Strange.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
squid vs. ketchup potato chips
My friend Pete G. sent me this article this morning (thank you PG!!!!):
http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-shark7-2010mar07,0,5015116.story
While I agree with one of the comments that what is presented here as new information is actually old news, I liked the way this article portrayed great whites. And, going way back to Banff, it made me think again about why I like great whites. I guess it's in part because I'm like a great white (except I don't eat squid because I'm allergic).
-great whites migrate 1,600 miles to eat squid; I have been known to drive pretty far to eat sushi (one time driving from Estes Park to Baltimore straight so I could get to this sushi place because it was Friday when I left Estes Park and the sushi place was closed on Sunday, so I had to get there by Saturday)
-great whites are popular and inscrutable - sounds like me
-great whites are sharks that come to the coast, but don't live there - I fly to the coasts often (east and west) but wouldn't live in either place again (unless I was super rich)
-great whites are described in the article as "Nomads but not outlaws, they yearn for a home" - and I am a britishly anointed nomad, who would like a home, even though I have one, but it doesn't count because I'm never there - also, if it weren't too much to ask, I'd like a home that didn't need so many repairs
Also, I will take this moment to mention that I bought a bag of french canadian potato chips. I thought they were something else, because they had a tomato on the front of them (the title of the bag was "President's Choice" and then it said "Assaisonnees" and under that was a tomato - I was like hmmm, if the president eats this, maybe I should too - I thought it was going to be something exciting). It turns out they are ketchup flavored potato chips. That's right, ketchup.
For fuck's sake canada...what's wrong with you guys? That has to be one of the most disgusting things I've put in my mouth. Lately.
http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-shark7-2010mar07,0,5015116.story
While I agree with one of the comments that what is presented here as new information is actually old news, I liked the way this article portrayed great whites. And, going way back to Banff, it made me think again about why I like great whites. I guess it's in part because I'm like a great white (except I don't eat squid because I'm allergic).
-great whites migrate 1,600 miles to eat squid; I have been known to drive pretty far to eat sushi (one time driving from Estes Park to Baltimore straight so I could get to this sushi place because it was Friday when I left Estes Park and the sushi place was closed on Sunday, so I had to get there by Saturday)
-great whites are popular and inscrutable - sounds like me
-great whites are sharks that come to the coast, but don't live there - I fly to the coasts often (east and west) but wouldn't live in either place again (unless I was super rich)
-great whites are described in the article as "Nomads but not outlaws, they yearn for a home" - and I am a britishly anointed nomad, who would like a home, even though I have one, but it doesn't count because I'm never there - also, if it weren't too much to ask, I'd like a home that didn't need so many repairs
Also, I will take this moment to mention that I bought a bag of french canadian potato chips. I thought they were something else, because they had a tomato on the front of them (the title of the bag was "President's Choice" and then it said "Assaisonnees" and under that was a tomato - I was like hmmm, if the president eats this, maybe I should too - I thought it was going to be something exciting). It turns out they are ketchup flavored potato chips. That's right, ketchup.
For fuck's sake canada...what's wrong with you guys? That has to be one of the most disgusting things I've put in my mouth. Lately.
pardon my french
I'm dealing with a customer group right now that has decided to only speak french, even though I'm pretty sure everyone in the group speaks english. I will readily admit here that not speaking another language is a huge failing of mine. But, if you hire an english speaking consultant, what language do you THINK they are going to speak?
That made for an interesting day yesterday. I was creating models in french as they spelled words for me (I was like what fucking letter is "vu"?????). The day went slowly because the customer was being...shall we say...shy about sharing information.
So today I decided to speak french to them. No, I don't know french. I just made shit up. I was trying to capture a business function for training, so I called it "le traineur". I greeted them with "bon jer!" every time they came into the room. I said it when they were leaving too because I don't know how to say good bye.
Weirdly, that seemed to have a positive effect. In most countries where I've worked the locals look at me like "oh shut up" when I try to speak their language. These people look at me in equal parts confused about what I'm trying to say, horrified by my pronunciation, and yet amused at how much of an idiot I am. I think to them listening to me speak french is like watching a bunch of retards play soccer (that wasn't politically correct, but if that's what you're looking for you're reading the wrong blog). Also, they are speaking english to me now, I guess because they realize I'm not going to judge them on their skills (or lack thereof).
And somehow, chalk it up to 5 years of latin, I'm starting to learn french words. I can translate about 70% of the written content I'm using without having to ask what words mean.
Though, I can't understand a damn thing they are saying to me. It took me almost the entire afternoon to figure out "vu ase beh" is how they refer to a USB drive. Just say it really fast. Then tell me you could have figured it out more quickly.
That made for an interesting day yesterday. I was creating models in french as they spelled words for me (I was like what fucking letter is "vu"?????). The day went slowly because the customer was being...shall we say...shy about sharing information.
So today I decided to speak french to them. No, I don't know french. I just made shit up. I was trying to capture a business function for training, so I called it "le traineur". I greeted them with "bon jer!" every time they came into the room. I said it when they were leaving too because I don't know how to say good bye.
Weirdly, that seemed to have a positive effect. In most countries where I've worked the locals look at me like "oh shut up" when I try to speak their language. These people look at me in equal parts confused about what I'm trying to say, horrified by my pronunciation, and yet amused at how much of an idiot I am. I think to them listening to me speak french is like watching a bunch of retards play soccer (that wasn't politically correct, but if that's what you're looking for you're reading the wrong blog). Also, they are speaking english to me now, I guess because they realize I'm not going to judge them on their skills (or lack thereof).
And somehow, chalk it up to 5 years of latin, I'm starting to learn french words. I can translate about 70% of the written content I'm using without having to ask what words mean.
Though, I can't understand a damn thing they are saying to me. It took me almost the entire afternoon to figure out "vu ase beh" is how they refer to a USB drive. Just say it really fast. Then tell me you could have figured it out more quickly.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
crazy plane ladies
Even though I just got back from the UAE, I had to fly to Montreal today. I'll be here 3 weeks. I won't comment on the fact that OTHER consultants take a week off for just doing a three week engagement overseas, except to say I am obviously doing something wrong.
I had to fly Delta because my stupid company is cheap and they are our "preferred" airline. Why, I don't know. I've flown them 10 times in the past year and every time the trip turned into a shit show.
Today was no different. Back in the day, before my wonderful little company got bought out by a shitty large company, we always flew direct to our destination. But no. I had to fly through Detroit so my company could save $200 (less the $30 baggage fee that I wouldn't have had to pay taking the direct flight because it would have been with United, and shit, I spend so much time on their planes I think I have employee status). My flight out of Denver was delayed an hour and half and I arrived in Detroit 10 minutes before the flight to Montreal was taking off (remember the good old days when they would let you on as long as you were there before the flight's take off time?).
So I'm sitting on this plane full of aggro people who are missing their flights. And then, for some reason, it took like a billion years for them to open the door. I was in a window seat (HATE the window seat) and was tired from getting up at 4 in the morning and then listening to this shit of a 3 year old cry for the entire 2 1/2 hour flight (plus the hour we spent on the runway). I wanted off the plane, so I was trying to maneuver myself as close to the aisle as possible by hunching over the middle seat. I was wearing sunglasses.
Suddenly, this woman behind me goes "Oh my god...Drew Barrymore?" I start looking around the plane. Then I realize she's talking to me. Everyone behind her started shoving forward to see what was going on. I was like "Lady, if I were Drew Barrymore, do you really think I'd be flying on this shit plane?" She was like "but you look JUST LIKE Drew Barrymore" (which is totally false). Then the bitch grabbed a piece of my hair and pulled it. I was like dude what the fuck are you doing? and she was like "you are just so cute!". I was like get me off this fucking plane before I kill someone.
Then, on my rescheduled flight to Montreal I swear the stewardess was hitting on me. I was sitting on the aisle. I asked for some orange juice when it was drink time and when she handed it to me I thanked her. She was like "Oh, thank you for saying thank you. I really appreciate it." I was like um, okay. Then she leaned down and whispered in my ear "I can give you some extra pretzels as long as you don't tell any of the other passengers". I was like "thanks, but I don't want any pretzels" and then she says "Wow! You sounded just like a doctor when you said that!" Finding that comment completely random and insane, I responded "I am a doctor actually. I have a PhD in astrophysics." And then she said "That sounds so exciting! Maybe you can do my chart later!"
Ech. Then she winked at me when she was collecting up the used cups. I had to pretend to be comatose for the rest of the flight even though these two fucking kids behind me were being noisy and kicking the back of my seat (note to parents - do not bring your kids on a plane unless you've sedated them first). When I deplaned she shook my hand and said "It was a real pleasure having you on board".
No, really. The pleasure was all mine.
I had to fly Delta because my stupid company is cheap and they are our "preferred" airline. Why, I don't know. I've flown them 10 times in the past year and every time the trip turned into a shit show.
Today was no different. Back in the day, before my wonderful little company got bought out by a shitty large company, we always flew direct to our destination. But no. I had to fly through Detroit so my company could save $200 (less the $30 baggage fee that I wouldn't have had to pay taking the direct flight because it would have been with United, and shit, I spend so much time on their planes I think I have employee status). My flight out of Denver was delayed an hour and half and I arrived in Detroit 10 minutes before the flight to Montreal was taking off (remember the good old days when they would let you on as long as you were there before the flight's take off time?).
So I'm sitting on this plane full of aggro people who are missing their flights. And then, for some reason, it took like a billion years for them to open the door. I was in a window seat (HATE the window seat) and was tired from getting up at 4 in the morning and then listening to this shit of a 3 year old cry for the entire 2 1/2 hour flight (plus the hour we spent on the runway). I wanted off the plane, so I was trying to maneuver myself as close to the aisle as possible by hunching over the middle seat. I was wearing sunglasses.
Suddenly, this woman behind me goes "Oh my god...Drew Barrymore?" I start looking around the plane. Then I realize she's talking to me. Everyone behind her started shoving forward to see what was going on. I was like "Lady, if I were Drew Barrymore, do you really think I'd be flying on this shit plane?" She was like "but you look JUST LIKE Drew Barrymore" (which is totally false). Then the bitch grabbed a piece of my hair and pulled it. I was like dude what the fuck are you doing? and she was like "you are just so cute!". I was like get me off this fucking plane before I kill someone.
Then, on my rescheduled flight to Montreal I swear the stewardess was hitting on me. I was sitting on the aisle. I asked for some orange juice when it was drink time and when she handed it to me I thanked her. She was like "Oh, thank you for saying thank you. I really appreciate it." I was like um, okay. Then she leaned down and whispered in my ear "I can give you some extra pretzels as long as you don't tell any of the other passengers". I was like "thanks, but I don't want any pretzels" and then she says "Wow! You sounded just like a doctor when you said that!" Finding that comment completely random and insane, I responded "I am a doctor actually. I have a PhD in astrophysics." And then she said "That sounds so exciting! Maybe you can do my chart later!"
Ech. Then she winked at me when she was collecting up the used cups. I had to pretend to be comatose for the rest of the flight even though these two fucking kids behind me were being noisy and kicking the back of my seat (note to parents - do not bring your kids on a plane unless you've sedated them first). When I deplaned she shook my hand and said "It was a real pleasure having you on board".
No, really. The pleasure was all mine.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
prologue
Here's the first chapter of my book. It's long, I know. The rest of the book is funny. This chapter is just meant to explain why I started doing physically challenging activities (e.g. doing the swim from alcatraz to san fran, even though I didn't know how to swim).
Comments are welcome, even if they are negative. I need some motivation to start writing again...
It was 4 a.m. I hadn’t slept for three days. The only noise was the sound of the waves sliding into the rocks at the base of the cliff below my apartment, and the strange robotic purr of the CPM (continuous passive movement) machine to which my right leg was strapped.
I was sure that I was going to die.
*****
Eight years earlier, I had been in a motorcycle accident on my way to take an exam during my senior year in college. I broke my right arm, three ribs, and had a serious concussion. After the accident I waited for 2 weeks to go to the clinic on campus, when the pain in my arm had become almost intolerable. The doctor informed me that I had broken it, and that he would need x-rays to see how bad the damage was. He was going to re-break my arm and possibly would have to do a more serious surgery, depending on how bad the fracture was.
I had no medical insurance. As soon as the doctor left the examination room, I did too. Except for a slight deformity in shape my right arm got better and went back to normal. My head and ribs were fine a few weeks after the accident, and 6 weeks later I was running again, though my arm was still painful for a few months.
I graduated from college and began working a stressful job. I deal with stress by exercising, and so was logging many miles before and after work. I would go through a cycle of knee pain, visits to a doctor, and various diagnoses. The pain was hard to describe to the doctors, and the best analogy I could give them was that it felt like there was a broken bottle somewhere inside my knee.
The doctors weren’t sure what that meant, but they all provided similar diagnoses. The most popular was over training. The second was tendon problems common in women runners. I would ease up on training, take aspirin, and things would get better. For a while.
Then in 1999 I decided to run a marathon. Though I’d run longer distances, I had never done an official race. I jumped into an ambitious training schedule and that’s when things went really wrong.
This time, the pain in my knee didn’t go away when I eased up on running. Then my leg started to collapse, the most memorable time at work, while I was walking by a table full of my peers with a lunch tray full of food that went flying.
I went to see a doctor who told me I was too old to run competitively. I later found out his specialty was in knee injuries caused by golf. I’m not sure how you can injure your knee playing golf, unless you get drunk and fall off the cart. He told me to stop running, and that things would improve.
They didn’t. My leg was collapsing more frequently. My partner went from being amused every time I fell over, to being annoyed. My personal trainer suggested I see a friend of his, a physical therapist named Chris Kuhn. Chris said he could help me, but wanted an x-ray of my knee first.
I went back to my doctor, and asked for an x-ray. He refused my request, saying the problem was in my tendons and that an x-ray would not provide any useful information. Chris was astounded when I told him this. He wrote a note to my doctor stating that he couldn’t treat me without the x-ray.
Grumbling under his breath, my doctor sent me over to the x-ray department, where they took shots of both my knees at all kinds of angles. A half hour later, I was escorted into an examination room, and my doctor turned on the white light board on the wall to display the x-rays. He pulled the films out of the envelope and began slapping them on the board.
“You see?” he would say, giving me only a second to look before he pulled each film off the board and tossed it carelessly on the counter. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
Then he got to the x-ray that showed both my knees from the front. I’m not an expert in reading films, but even I knew something was not right with the lateral side of my right femur. The bottom part of the distinctive knuckle at the end of the femur was…missing.
The doctor paused for a minute, staring intently at the film. He said “Excuse me,” and walked out of the office. I never saw him again.
A new doctor came in a few minutes later. He rubbed his chin and stared at the film. “We need to operate as soon as possible on this,” he said, pointing at the x-ray of my right leg before pulling a calendar out of the pocket of his white coat.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Your leg is broken!” He paused, perhaps taking in my surprise at this announcement. “How long ago did this happen?”
I thought for a few minutes. “I don’t know,” I finally said.
“How could you BREAK YOUR LEG and not KNOW?”
“I fell on some steps two years ago, maybe it happened then?” I asked. The stair incident occurred in Athens after I had attended a wedding ceremony with endless toasts of ouzo. I had slipped on a marble staircase while stumbling into my apartment building at 5 in the morning, in the dark. In my inebriated state I had been unable to find the light switch for the hallway.
“This could NOT have been caused by a fall on steps. This is a MAJOR injury. You had to have had a traumatic accident. Surely you can remember breaking your leg!”
“Hm.” Another minute went by. The doctor stared at me in exasperation, while I tried to think of something. Then a picture flashed in my head of the side of my right leg covered in a disgusting purple bruise that took weeks to go away.
“Well, I was in a motorcycle accident.” I started to show him my twisted arm, but he was intent on writing the first useful piece of information I had provided in my patient file.
“Okay, how long ago was that?”
“Eight years ago.”
The doctor stopped writing, carefully placed his pen on my file, and turned to look at me.
“Did you say…eight years?”
“Um, yeah.”
“So. You have had a broken leg for…eight years?”
“I guess. Uh. I did go see a doctor. I’ve seen a few doctors over the years when I’ve had pain from running. But they all said my knee was fine.”
“Running? You’ve been running?” He asked, in the same tone he might have used if I had told him I had been eating small children as an afternoon snack.
“Well. The doctors said I could run.”
He rubbed his forehead and took up his pen. “How much do you run?”
“Not that much.” He gave me a skeptical look. “Um, maybe six miles.”
“A week?”
“A day.” I decided not to mention that I went for much longer runs on the weekend.
He rubbed his hand across his face. He looked like a man whose brand new Mercedes has just been rear ended by an uninsured motorist. He quickly scoured the counter that held my patient file, and, once located, ripped open his calendar as if it were a candy bar.
“Look. We need to get you into surgery immediately! I have an opening on Thursday. Hopefully your insurance company will be able to authorize the operation in 48 hours. I’ll tell them it’s an emergency.”
While I was adjusting to the idea of having knee surgery in three days, on pizza Thursday, when I would walk down to Pizza My Heart after work and eat slices of pizza until I was about to explode, the doctor stood at the white board talking about shaving bone off of my knee cap, making a plug to fill in the missing bone, and cleaning up any bone spurs. It all sounded so easy. I figured I would be back in the gym in a week, cycling until my knee had healed enough to go back to running. I figured I might even make pizza Thursday if I scheduled the surgery early in the morning.
*****
But as I was slowly coming to consciousness in the recovery room after surgery, my doctor’s face loomed over me. The news was not good.
“It was a mess,” he said. “There was nothing I could do. Your meniscus was detached. Your ACL, PCL, and LCL are shot. I did the best that I could. You need to go see a specialist.” Before I could ask what he meant by “specialist”, since I assumed HE was a specialist, he was gone.
I arrived for my post op appointment a week later, hoping for some good news. Instead, my doctor told me that he had spoken to some knee specialists about my case and they all said it was futile. The size of the bone plug that I needed to replace my missing femur tip was one problem. My removed meniscus could not be replaced. My tibia was also damaged due to my broken femur smashing into it after my meniscus, the coward, rolled itself up and out of the way.
“Alright, so what am I going to do?” I asked, interrupting his jargon laced tirade. There was no point in him continuing as I had no idea what he was saying to me. Because I had had to go into surgery so quickly, and had been busy at work after missing a day for surgery, I had not even had a chance to find out what a meniscus was. And, at the time, it didn’t sound that important.
“Your only option is a rod.”
“Rod?” I asked. All I could picture was a skinny piece of metal with a star at one end like a magic wand. I imagined waving it over my knee, fixing the mess.
“The rod is inserted between your tibia and your femur. It will provide protection for your bones until you can get a mechanical knee.”
“Well, when will that be?” I had always been under the impression that a knee replacement was easy. They just pop the mechanism in and you resume life as if you didn’t have a bionic joint.
“We don’t put them in people under 45.”
“Forty five?” I thought for a second, trying to remember how old I was. “That’s fifteen years from now!”
“People who are active will wear a mechanical knee out in 18 months. Every time you replace the knee, you lose more bone, so your right leg will get shorter and shorter. We will not do a knee replacement in someone your age.”
“What’s active?” I asked, thinking maybe I would curtail my running, avoid the rod, and go straight for the fake knee.
“People who walk more than 2 miles a day are considered active.” I thought about my office complex, and how I routinely walked that distance in a day going to meetings. That would leave no leftover mileage for walking on the beach, or even to Pizza My Heart, a mere 87 steps down the cliff from my apartment. My heart sank.
Denial seemed like a possible recourse. “What if I do nothing?”
“If we don’t put the rod in now you won’t have enough bone left to get a mechanical knee when you’re 45. Your leg will deteriorate until it can’t support your weight anymore. You won’t be able to walk.”
“So, how much will I be able to bend my knee with the rod in?” I asked, picturing now a kind of flexible, slinky like contraption slid over the ends of my bones, like a spring. I wondered if it would make a noise when I walked. I imagined a sound like a didgeridoo every time I took a step, and smiled. The software engineers I worked with would be so jealous.
The doctor didn’t say anything for a minute. He picked up my chart, carefully flipping the previous pages over the page he had been writing on, and closed the folder. He stood up.
“You won’t have a knee. We take it out. The rod will prevent you from being able to bend your leg at all.” He told me to schedule another appointment to see him, and then disappeared with my chart.
I sat on the exam table until the nurse came in to clean the room for the next patient. She seemed surprised that I was still there. I was running the pads of my fingers over the edge of the white paper pulled across the table. It hurt my fingers, but I couldn’t stop.
*****
The next few months signaled the end of my relatively easy and happy existence. The insurance company mailed me a brochure that was titled “A Change of Life”, written for people who have to adjust to physical handicaps. I tore it into little pieces, threw the pieces on my kitchen table, and then hammered them with my fist until they all fell on the floor.
The constant sharp pain in my knee failed to improve even as the surgery scars healed. Because I have an allergy to most pain medication, the only thing I could do was ice my knee and down aspirin, one week consuming 200 of them. This caused me to vomit blood any time I ate spicy food or didn’t eat for a few hours. I was moved off of my project at work, and was forced into a program management role that didn’t require any physical exertion beyond typing.
My partner tried to be supportive, but as time went on, the situation became harder for him to deal with. He was traveling a lot for business and often unable to help. Since I was not able to drive, I would end up stranded at home, missing work and doctor appointments. The only mechanism I had to deal with stress was running, and I didn’t know what to do instead. My hair started falling out.
The next communiqué from my insurance company informed me that my doctor had made a mistake taking my meniscus out. They wanted to know if I was going to sue him for malpractice. Lawyers from my insurance company began calling day and night. After a number of conference calls, I convinced them that I didn’t want lawsuit money, I wanted my knee fixed, and that they had to help me find a doctor who could do that.
I was lucky to be living in San Francisco, where there is a high concentration of very talented and famous orthopedic surgeons. I spent three months going from surgeon to surgeon. Most of them agreed to see me because they were forced by my insurance company. I would go through a series of range of motion exercises with these doctors, they would look at my surgery report and x-rays, and then they would say they couldn’t help me.
One doctor prepared for my visit by stripping the flesh off of a sheep’s leg. When I got to his office he showed me exactly how the knee worked. I watched the tendons flexing as he bent the sheep’s knee, following his technical explanation of what was going on because by then I had done hours of research on knees. After seeing his demonstration I had a much better understanding of why my problem was so difficult to solve. I felt a glimmer of hope as the doctor told me about the experimental surgeries he had been doing on sheep (they have a similar knee to humans). But the meeting ended with the same phrase I heard from all the doctors before.
“I can’t help you,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying not to cry as I collected my x-rays, surgery report and patient file.
Suddenly he said, “It’s a long shot, and your insurance probably won’t cover a visit, but I know a doctor who has done some meniscal replacements. There are only two doctors in the US that are doing them. One is in Atlanta. But the other one is here.”
And that is how I ended up in Dr. Douglas Blatz’s office.
*****
My first meeting with Dr. Blatz went really well, until the end, when he said “The surgery is considered experimental. Your insurance company won’t cover it. It’s expensive. And very risky. You’re older than other patients I’ve done the replacement for. There’s a high rate of rejection of the meniscus, it’s 60%, and if you reject, you have to get the rod put in so the surgery will have been for nothing. I’m also concerned about your inability to take pain medication. You’re going to need something to manage the pain, and you will have chronic pain for the rest of your life, and may have to walk with a cane and wear a brace on your leg.” He stared at my patient file, I suspected because he didn’t want to look at me. “I really don’t think I can help you.” As he said that, he seemed to be physically bracing himself for an onslaught.
“Well, can you cut my leg off?” I blurted, having spent the past month trying to come up with a solution that didn’t involve my leg bones being fused together with a titanium rod. Amputation was the only solution I had been able to come up with that would still allow me to do sports and walk somewhat normally.
He stared at me, incredulous. “I am not going to cut off your leg.”
“Fine.” I spoke to him dismissively, in a “thanks for wasting my time” tone, as all the doctors before had done to me. “Can you recommend a doctor that will?” I put the tip of my pen on the notepad I carried with me to every appointment, ready to write down yet another name.
“There is no doctor in the US that would cut off a healthy limb.” He looked at me, perturbed.
This final rejection, after months of trying to not lose hope that something could be done, caused me to snap. “I’ll go to Mexico then.” I said, and then I started crying, and couldn’t stop. Joe, Dr. Blatz’s assistant, handed me a fistful of Kleenex, most of which fell on the floor. I put on my shoes, embarrassed that I was behaving like a two year old throwing a tantrum. Dr. Blatz stared at me.
“Would you really go to Mexico?”
“Yes!” I bawled, trying to wipe the snot off my face because I thought it was making me look less angry and serious.
He said “I believe you.”
Then he said “Okay. I’ll do the surgery.”
****
It seemed that everything would fall into place after the decision was made to do the surgery, but the complications were just beginning. Like a car with a broken transmission, I needed replacement parts. Dr. Blatz had to find a cadaver meniscus, tendons, and bone plug that matched my physical profile. That meant I had to wait around for someone to die.
I was sent to have an x ray where a metal disk was placed on my knee. By comparing it against my knee they determined how big the replacement meniscus needed to be so they could put in an order at the organ donation bank. As an engineer I was surprised there wasn’t a more scientific way to do the measurement, but was starting to realize how brute force orthopedic medicine is.
Though it’s common today, in 2000, when I had this surgery, putting a cadaver meniscus into someone’s knee was a big deal. The tissue has no blood flow, and putting dead tissue that came from one body into another body is risky. Even if you make it past the first 6 months without being one of the unlucky 60% who reject the dead tissue, there is still a risk for the rest of your life that the tissue will go bad. Any infection in the rest of your body, strep is a common culprit, can spread to this dead tissue, because it’s vulnerable. Once it’s contaminated, it has to be taken out because it can kill you in a very short period of time.
These things weighed heavy on my mind as the months continued. I carried a pager around with me at all times because once the donation meniscus came in, Dr. Blatz would have insert it within 24 hours. Not knowing when I might get called in I quit drinking completely and tried to eat only small meals in case I had to get to surgery.
At work my manager was giving me jobs that were way beneath my skill set because he was worried I would have to leave for surgery in the middle of a big software release. Work was as important to me as running, and I was failing there too.
Things were falling apart in my relationship as well. My partner had never had a serious illness, and the worst medical experience he had was when the US Army removed his four wisdom teeth. Instead of cutting me some slack, he made me feel worse, commenting that it was my fault my knee was destroyed so I should stop sulking about it.
One afternoon I got the call. They had found a meniscus and a bone plug. I later found out from a doctor who attended my surgery that the bone plug had come from a guy shot in New York City. The meniscus was from a 17 year old girl who was killed in a car accident in Miami.
That night my partner and I went to a restaurant in San Francisco called Top of the Mark. It was one of our favorite places to go, and we knew the members of the jazz band that played there. I requested a few happy Sarah Vaughn songs and picked at my dinner. When the plates had been cleared, my partner took my hand. I was hoping for some words of encouragement and support. Instead he said “Look, I didn’t sign up for this program.”
I don’t fault him for this as he had personal goals different from mine and those differences were magnified by my medical disaster. He was working sometimes 20 hours a day trying to prepare his start up company for an initial public offering. Having yet one more thing to deal with on top of the pressure at work was hard for him. Further, he just didn’t understand physically what I was going through.
I made the situation worse. Instead of trying to talk about my pain and anxiety, I pretended I was fine. I didn’t give him a chance to help. I shut him out and decided I would handle things without him.
The bright spot in my life was my personal trainer, Tom Mendell, and my physical therapist, Chris Kuhn. Both of them created a plan to help me train for my surgery. It’s surprising to me that most doctors don’t recommend physical therapy before surgery. I recuperated much faster than my doctor expected because I went into surgery in great physical shape.
Tom trained me for free, as my medical bills were piling up and I didn’t have a lot of spare cash. He also acted as my shrink, and friend. He would leave notes of encouragement on my desk at work (the gym where he worked was owned by my company) and would do little things like bring me goldfish crackers when I was having a bad day. Chris Kuhn also did many, many hours of free physical therapy for me, and I always left his clinic feeling more confident that I could face the challenges that were ahead. Though Chris worked really long hours, he would always take the time to answer my emails and phone calls, no matter how trivial.
Throughout my training I was motivated by the thought that, in a few months after the surgery, I would be able to run again. Dr. Blatz was gently tried to disabuse me of that notion, and mentioned frequently that I would have to wear a brace for the rest of my life to protect my knee any time I did any kind of physical activity. He recommended I take up swimming as soon as I was able to be active again, but swimming seemed boring and I continued to visualize myself running. I was certain that with Chris and Tom’s help I would be back to normal a short time after the surgery.
I invited both Chris and Tom to my surgery, but the hospital wouldn’t let Tom attend since he didn’t have a medical degree. Chris was present, and said he would never again watch a surgery performed on someone he knew. At one point Dr. Blatz was inserting titanium screws into my femur to hold the bone plug in place. He was up on the operating table, cranking on a screw, when it snapped. Based on Chris’ explanation, I had a picture in my mind of trying to put together some piece of furniture from IKEA. It sounded funny to me, but Chris said it was horrifying.
The surgery, scheduled for 3 hours, had taken 6 and a half. I had asked Joe and Dr. Blatz to not say anything negative to me in the recovery room while I was not quite conscious, because that had a detrimental impact after the first surgery. I woke up with Dr. Blatz’s assistant Joe standing over me. He looked exhausted. I was afraid.
Then Joe smiled at me. He said “I think you’re going to be okay kid.”
****
I got up to my room, where I was supposed to stay for the next three days. Dr. Blatz had decided to insert a local of morphine in my knee, even though I’m allergic, because he was afraid that the pain would be too overwhelming. And after bugging them for 4 hours, I got the nurses to bring me two Tylenol, for which the hospital charged me $8.
My partner came to see me that evening. I was uncomfortable, and vomiting from the morphine. He put his head down on my bed, exhausted from work. Finally he said “If you aren’t going to talk to me, I’m going home.” He left.
That night was one of the worst of my life. The nurses had failed to fill the ice machine for my knee. About 5 hours after the surgery I was in excruciating pain. I had to share a room with 3 other women, and one of them cried the whole night because she had just had a mastectomy.
The next morning, at 7 am, I told the nurse I wanted to be discharged because the hospital was just adding to my misery. Joe had just been in to see me, and was furious that the nurses had failed to keep my knee iced. It had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe. I was strapped into the CPM machine because I had gotten tendon replacements, and you have to keep bending your knee, otherwise the tendons don’t stay supple and you lose range of motion. That was another major complication of the surgery. With a bone plug, you aren’t supposed to weight the bone or move it, but if I wasn’t in the CPM the tendons would lose flexibility. Dr. Blatz had cautioned me that it was going to hurt, but I could not have imagined what that meant until I experienced it.
I went home the day after surgery, even though my partner had already made plans to leave for a business trip. He was feeling bad because I was in pain and there was nothing he could do.
My knee was a bloody, disgusting mess. Pus leaked out of the surgery scar and it looked like someone had dumped a bottle of baby shampoo down my leg. My upper thigh had a huge hematoma where my leg had been clamped down to the operating table. If that wasn’t bad enough, I held Tupperware bowl full of vomit at all times because I had no control over when my stomach would suddenly decide it needed to egress.
I had a soft cast that went from my ankle to my hip, and was unable to get up the narrow stairs in the apartment that went to the bedroom on the second floor. So my partner brought a bed downstairs for me, and set it up next to the back wall of the apartment, which was all glass, with a view of Monterey Bay. I could see the local otter playing with the surfers in the ocean outside the window in an area called “the punch bowl” as I lay in bed, strapped into the CPM.
The downstairs bathroom had no shower, so I couldn’t take a bath when I got home from the hospital, and I couldn’t close the door all the way because my straightened leg was too long to fit in the bathroom.
In some ways it was a relief that he was leaving, as I didn’t think there was anything else I could do to make myself less attractive.
*****
The days after my partner left were a blur of sleeplessness and pain. My body felt like it was turning to stone because every muscle was tensed in response to the thudding discomfort. It felt as if someone was jack hammering my knee. My femur coursed with an electrical sensation that ran through the bone into my thigh. There was a sickening crunch every time the CPM forced my knee to bend 20 degrees. A rash had spread from my scalp to my face, neck and stomach from the allergic reaction to the localized morphine. I wanted to take some benedryll but was unable to get to the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet.
At night I would lay in the dark, because the only downstairs light had a switch on the floor that I couldn’t reach. The ice had run out in my ice machine the day after my partner left and I realized I had forgotten to ask him to buy more. As the dark descended over the room faces would seem to appear from behind the furniture, or I would hear noises from upstairs. Awash in paranoia, I constantly worried at night that someone was in the apartment with me.
I had a feral cat named Prickly Pete, and during my first day home she hid somewhere upstairs, terrified of me, the CPM, and a large balloon arrangement my team from work had sent. By the early morning hours of my second day home, she was emboldened enough to sneak down stairs and assess the situation. Sensing the balloons, which were drooping from helium loss, were sleeping, she snuck up on the kitchen counter and then dived into the middle of the arrangement, popping the balloons. I huddled under my comforter, certain someone was shooting at me.
The first two days home by myself I was focused on getting through the next hour, and that kept me going. By the third day, I couldn’t focus anymore. I was exhausted, the pain seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and the isolation was filling me with despair. I had my surgery during Thanksgiving week, so the few people that I knew in the area were away or with family. In my impaired state I was convinced there was no one I could call to help me.
****
3 a.m., day 3.
This is all your fault, I thought to myself. If you hadn’t had a motorcycle. If you had insurance. If you hadn’t been so fucking proud of yourself running through the pain. If you had pushed your doctors instead of accepting their diagnoses because that’s what you wanted to hear.
Now everything is gone. Your career is going to go to shit and you’ll never be able to pay your medical bills. You won’t be able to leave your job because you’ll never get insurance again. Your partner is going to leave you. The only thing you’ve always succeeded in, running? Well, that’s gone too. You’ll never walk like a normal person. You’re going to reject the meniscus, and this will have all been for nothing. The pain is never going to go away.
It will never be morning.
*****
In military strategy it is advisable to attack your adversary in the early hours of the morning because that’s when people are the most vulnerable. This strategy is borne out by scientific studies that show as the night gets darker, before the sun rises, people are slower to respond to the world around them, and their decision making abilities deteriorate.
At 3 a.m. on day 3 I decided I was going to kill myself. The thought of enduring even 10 more minutes of the pain was unbearable, and I knew I had lost or fucked up everything that mattered to me. The only way to stop the pain was to stop everything.
I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around the room. How was I going to do it? I glanced over at the ocean, 40 feet below the cliff where my apartment building sat. At the bottom of the cliff were many large rocks.
In the short time I had lived in that apartment at least one tourist had died on the cliff, walking too close to the edge. The grass appeared solid but, underneath, was unstable. I’ll jump off the cliff, I decided, and began the slow process of un-strapping my leg from the CPM.
I got myself to the side of the bed, reached for my crutches, and then realized something. I couldn’t get to the cliff. My apartment was on the second story of the apartment building, and I couldn’t negotiate the steps down to the cliff with the soft cast. There was a service elevator, which I had taken up after my surgery, but it required a key that was kept in the manager’s office. On the first floor.
Cursing, I looked around the room again. In the dark I could see the balloon arrangement, now decimated by Prickley. The thin ribbons tied to the balloons would not be strong enough to strangle myself with, I determined. I had 20 Tylenol, but given the amount of them I was taking a day, I knew that would do nothing. I thought about the kitchen. I didn’t have any sharp knives or small electrical appliances to electrocute myself with because neither my partner nor I knew how to cook. I thought for a moment that I could electrocute myself with the CPM, but it was too big to carry and too big to fit into the kitchen sink, the only receptacle I could get to that could be filled with water. I didn’t have poison, razors, or even a lighter.
I had nothing.
I started to cry. Through my tears I could see the waves picking up in the ocean. It was now 4 am. In another hour the surfers would be showing up at the punch bowl. I was filled with hatred for them, walking leisurely down the beach with their boards, floating out in the water, and then having breakfast on the boardwalk at Zelda’s before carrying on with their lives. They would be driving cars, working, going to the gym, eating pizza at Pizza My Heart, hanging out in the evening with their partners, talking and laughing. I would be sitting alone, doing nothing, unable to leave the confines of the bottom floor of my apartment.
Then I noticed something. Just a few feet off shore, a school of dolphins was swimming in the surf. There were at least 30 of them, maybe more, fins bobbing in and out of the water as they played in the rolling waves. At that moment the sun appeared, a faint yellow line on the edge of the ocean, gradually rising and making the dolphin fins glow.
That’s what I’ll do, I thought to myself.
I’ll swim.
Comments are welcome, even if they are negative. I need some motivation to start writing again...
It was 4 a.m. I hadn’t slept for three days. The only noise was the sound of the waves sliding into the rocks at the base of the cliff below my apartment, and the strange robotic purr of the CPM (continuous passive movement) machine to which my right leg was strapped.I was sure that I was going to die.
*****
Eight years earlier, I had been in a motorcycle accident on my way to take an exam during my senior year in college. I broke my right arm, three ribs, and had a serious concussion. After the accident I waited for 2 weeks to go to the clinic on campus, when the pain in my arm had become almost intolerable. The doctor informed me that I had broken it, and that he would need x-rays to see how bad the damage was. He was going to re-break my arm and possibly would have to do a more serious surgery, depending on how bad the fracture was.
I had no medical insurance. As soon as the doctor left the examination room, I did too. Except for a slight deformity in shape my right arm got better and went back to normal. My head and ribs were fine a few weeks after the accident, and 6 weeks later I was running again, though my arm was still painful for a few months.
I graduated from college and began working a stressful job. I deal with stress by exercising, and so was logging many miles before and after work. I would go through a cycle of knee pain, visits to a doctor, and various diagnoses. The pain was hard to describe to the doctors, and the best analogy I could give them was that it felt like there was a broken bottle somewhere inside my knee.
The doctors weren’t sure what that meant, but they all provided similar diagnoses. The most popular was over training. The second was tendon problems common in women runners. I would ease up on training, take aspirin, and things would get better. For a while.
Then in 1999 I decided to run a marathon. Though I’d run longer distances, I had never done an official race. I jumped into an ambitious training schedule and that’s when things went really wrong.
This time, the pain in my knee didn’t go away when I eased up on running. Then my leg started to collapse, the most memorable time at work, while I was walking by a table full of my peers with a lunch tray full of food that went flying.
I went to see a doctor who told me I was too old to run competitively. I later found out his specialty was in knee injuries caused by golf. I’m not sure how you can injure your knee playing golf, unless you get drunk and fall off the cart. He told me to stop running, and that things would improve.
They didn’t. My leg was collapsing more frequently. My partner went from being amused every time I fell over, to being annoyed. My personal trainer suggested I see a friend of his, a physical therapist named Chris Kuhn. Chris said he could help me, but wanted an x-ray of my knee first.
I went back to my doctor, and asked for an x-ray. He refused my request, saying the problem was in my tendons and that an x-ray would not provide any useful information. Chris was astounded when I told him this. He wrote a note to my doctor stating that he couldn’t treat me without the x-ray.
Grumbling under his breath, my doctor sent me over to the x-ray department, where they took shots of both my knees at all kinds of angles. A half hour later, I was escorted into an examination room, and my doctor turned on the white light board on the wall to display the x-rays. He pulled the films out of the envelope and began slapping them on the board.
“You see?” he would say, giving me only a second to look before he pulled each film off the board and tossed it carelessly on the counter. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”
Then he got to the x-ray that showed both my knees from the front. I’m not an expert in reading films, but even I knew something was not right with the lateral side of my right femur. The bottom part of the distinctive knuckle at the end of the femur was…missing.
The doctor paused for a minute, staring intently at the film. He said “Excuse me,” and walked out of the office. I never saw him again.
A new doctor came in a few minutes later. He rubbed his chin and stared at the film. “We need to operate as soon as possible on this,” he said, pointing at the x-ray of my right leg before pulling a calendar out of the pocket of his white coat.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I was an idiot. “Your leg is broken!” He paused, perhaps taking in my surprise at this announcement. “How long ago did this happen?”
I thought for a few minutes. “I don’t know,” I finally said.
“How could you BREAK YOUR LEG and not KNOW?”
“I fell on some steps two years ago, maybe it happened then?” I asked. The stair incident occurred in Athens after I had attended a wedding ceremony with endless toasts of ouzo. I had slipped on a marble staircase while stumbling into my apartment building at 5 in the morning, in the dark. In my inebriated state I had been unable to find the light switch for the hallway.
“This could NOT have been caused by a fall on steps. This is a MAJOR injury. You had to have had a traumatic accident. Surely you can remember breaking your leg!”
“Hm.” Another minute went by. The doctor stared at me in exasperation, while I tried to think of something. Then a picture flashed in my head of the side of my right leg covered in a disgusting purple bruise that took weeks to go away.
“Well, I was in a motorcycle accident.” I started to show him my twisted arm, but he was intent on writing the first useful piece of information I had provided in my patient file.
“Okay, how long ago was that?”
“Eight years ago.”
The doctor stopped writing, carefully placed his pen on my file, and turned to look at me.
“Did you say…eight years?”
“Um, yeah.”
“So. You have had a broken leg for…eight years?”
“I guess. Uh. I did go see a doctor. I’ve seen a few doctors over the years when I’ve had pain from running. But they all said my knee was fine.”
“Running? You’ve been running?” He asked, in the same tone he might have used if I had told him I had been eating small children as an afternoon snack.
“Well. The doctors said I could run.”
He rubbed his forehead and took up his pen. “How much do you run?”
“Not that much.” He gave me a skeptical look. “Um, maybe six miles.”
“A week?”
“A day.” I decided not to mention that I went for much longer runs on the weekend.
He rubbed his hand across his face. He looked like a man whose brand new Mercedes has just been rear ended by an uninsured motorist. He quickly scoured the counter that held my patient file, and, once located, ripped open his calendar as if it were a candy bar.
“Look. We need to get you into surgery immediately! I have an opening on Thursday. Hopefully your insurance company will be able to authorize the operation in 48 hours. I’ll tell them it’s an emergency.”
While I was adjusting to the idea of having knee surgery in three days, on pizza Thursday, when I would walk down to Pizza My Heart after work and eat slices of pizza until I was about to explode, the doctor stood at the white board talking about shaving bone off of my knee cap, making a plug to fill in the missing bone, and cleaning up any bone spurs. It all sounded so easy. I figured I would be back in the gym in a week, cycling until my knee had healed enough to go back to running. I figured I might even make pizza Thursday if I scheduled the surgery early in the morning.
*****
But as I was slowly coming to consciousness in the recovery room after surgery, my doctor’s face loomed over me. The news was not good.
“It was a mess,” he said. “There was nothing I could do. Your meniscus was detached. Your ACL, PCL, and LCL are shot. I did the best that I could. You need to go see a specialist.” Before I could ask what he meant by “specialist”, since I assumed HE was a specialist, he was gone.
I arrived for my post op appointment a week later, hoping for some good news. Instead, my doctor told me that he had spoken to some knee specialists about my case and they all said it was futile. The size of the bone plug that I needed to replace my missing femur tip was one problem. My removed meniscus could not be replaced. My tibia was also damaged due to my broken femur smashing into it after my meniscus, the coward, rolled itself up and out of the way.
“Alright, so what am I going to do?” I asked, interrupting his jargon laced tirade. There was no point in him continuing as I had no idea what he was saying to me. Because I had had to go into surgery so quickly, and had been busy at work after missing a day for surgery, I had not even had a chance to find out what a meniscus was. And, at the time, it didn’t sound that important.
“Your only option is a rod.”
“Rod?” I asked. All I could picture was a skinny piece of metal with a star at one end like a magic wand. I imagined waving it over my knee, fixing the mess.
“The rod is inserted between your tibia and your femur. It will provide protection for your bones until you can get a mechanical knee.”
“Well, when will that be?” I had always been under the impression that a knee replacement was easy. They just pop the mechanism in and you resume life as if you didn’t have a bionic joint.
“We don’t put them in people under 45.”
“Forty five?” I thought for a second, trying to remember how old I was. “That’s fifteen years from now!”
“People who are active will wear a mechanical knee out in 18 months. Every time you replace the knee, you lose more bone, so your right leg will get shorter and shorter. We will not do a knee replacement in someone your age.”
“What’s active?” I asked, thinking maybe I would curtail my running, avoid the rod, and go straight for the fake knee.
“People who walk more than 2 miles a day are considered active.” I thought about my office complex, and how I routinely walked that distance in a day going to meetings. That would leave no leftover mileage for walking on the beach, or even to Pizza My Heart, a mere 87 steps down the cliff from my apartment. My heart sank.
Denial seemed like a possible recourse. “What if I do nothing?”
“If we don’t put the rod in now you won’t have enough bone left to get a mechanical knee when you’re 45. Your leg will deteriorate until it can’t support your weight anymore. You won’t be able to walk.”
“So, how much will I be able to bend my knee with the rod in?” I asked, picturing now a kind of flexible, slinky like contraption slid over the ends of my bones, like a spring. I wondered if it would make a noise when I walked. I imagined a sound like a didgeridoo every time I took a step, and smiled. The software engineers I worked with would be so jealous.
The doctor didn’t say anything for a minute. He picked up my chart, carefully flipping the previous pages over the page he had been writing on, and closed the folder. He stood up.
“You won’t have a knee. We take it out. The rod will prevent you from being able to bend your leg at all.” He told me to schedule another appointment to see him, and then disappeared with my chart.
I sat on the exam table until the nurse came in to clean the room for the next patient. She seemed surprised that I was still there. I was running the pads of my fingers over the edge of the white paper pulled across the table. It hurt my fingers, but I couldn’t stop.
*****
The next few months signaled the end of my relatively easy and happy existence. The insurance company mailed me a brochure that was titled “A Change of Life”, written for people who have to adjust to physical handicaps. I tore it into little pieces, threw the pieces on my kitchen table, and then hammered them with my fist until they all fell on the floor.
The constant sharp pain in my knee failed to improve even as the surgery scars healed. Because I have an allergy to most pain medication, the only thing I could do was ice my knee and down aspirin, one week consuming 200 of them. This caused me to vomit blood any time I ate spicy food or didn’t eat for a few hours. I was moved off of my project at work, and was forced into a program management role that didn’t require any physical exertion beyond typing.
My partner tried to be supportive, but as time went on, the situation became harder for him to deal with. He was traveling a lot for business and often unable to help. Since I was not able to drive, I would end up stranded at home, missing work and doctor appointments. The only mechanism I had to deal with stress was running, and I didn’t know what to do instead. My hair started falling out.
The next communiqué from my insurance company informed me that my doctor had made a mistake taking my meniscus out. They wanted to know if I was going to sue him for malpractice. Lawyers from my insurance company began calling day and night. After a number of conference calls, I convinced them that I didn’t want lawsuit money, I wanted my knee fixed, and that they had to help me find a doctor who could do that.
I was lucky to be living in San Francisco, where there is a high concentration of very talented and famous orthopedic surgeons. I spent three months going from surgeon to surgeon. Most of them agreed to see me because they were forced by my insurance company. I would go through a series of range of motion exercises with these doctors, they would look at my surgery report and x-rays, and then they would say they couldn’t help me.
One doctor prepared for my visit by stripping the flesh off of a sheep’s leg. When I got to his office he showed me exactly how the knee worked. I watched the tendons flexing as he bent the sheep’s knee, following his technical explanation of what was going on because by then I had done hours of research on knees. After seeing his demonstration I had a much better understanding of why my problem was so difficult to solve. I felt a glimmer of hope as the doctor told me about the experimental surgeries he had been doing on sheep (they have a similar knee to humans). But the meeting ended with the same phrase I heard from all the doctors before.
“I can’t help you,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying not to cry as I collected my x-rays, surgery report and patient file.
Suddenly he said, “It’s a long shot, and your insurance probably won’t cover a visit, but I know a doctor who has done some meniscal replacements. There are only two doctors in the US that are doing them. One is in Atlanta. But the other one is here.”
And that is how I ended up in Dr. Douglas Blatz’s office.
*****
My first meeting with Dr. Blatz went really well, until the end, when he said “The surgery is considered experimental. Your insurance company won’t cover it. It’s expensive. And very risky. You’re older than other patients I’ve done the replacement for. There’s a high rate of rejection of the meniscus, it’s 60%, and if you reject, you have to get the rod put in so the surgery will have been for nothing. I’m also concerned about your inability to take pain medication. You’re going to need something to manage the pain, and you will have chronic pain for the rest of your life, and may have to walk with a cane and wear a brace on your leg.” He stared at my patient file, I suspected because he didn’t want to look at me. “I really don’t think I can help you.” As he said that, he seemed to be physically bracing himself for an onslaught.
“Well, can you cut my leg off?” I blurted, having spent the past month trying to come up with a solution that didn’t involve my leg bones being fused together with a titanium rod. Amputation was the only solution I had been able to come up with that would still allow me to do sports and walk somewhat normally.
He stared at me, incredulous. “I am not going to cut off your leg.”
“Fine.” I spoke to him dismissively, in a “thanks for wasting my time” tone, as all the doctors before had done to me. “Can you recommend a doctor that will?” I put the tip of my pen on the notepad I carried with me to every appointment, ready to write down yet another name.
“There is no doctor in the US that would cut off a healthy limb.” He looked at me, perturbed.
This final rejection, after months of trying to not lose hope that something could be done, caused me to snap. “I’ll go to Mexico then.” I said, and then I started crying, and couldn’t stop. Joe, Dr. Blatz’s assistant, handed me a fistful of Kleenex, most of which fell on the floor. I put on my shoes, embarrassed that I was behaving like a two year old throwing a tantrum. Dr. Blatz stared at me.
“Would you really go to Mexico?”
“Yes!” I bawled, trying to wipe the snot off my face because I thought it was making me look less angry and serious.
He said “I believe you.”
Then he said “Okay. I’ll do the surgery.”
****
It seemed that everything would fall into place after the decision was made to do the surgery, but the complications were just beginning. Like a car with a broken transmission, I needed replacement parts. Dr. Blatz had to find a cadaver meniscus, tendons, and bone plug that matched my physical profile. That meant I had to wait around for someone to die.
I was sent to have an x ray where a metal disk was placed on my knee. By comparing it against my knee they determined how big the replacement meniscus needed to be so they could put in an order at the organ donation bank. As an engineer I was surprised there wasn’t a more scientific way to do the measurement, but was starting to realize how brute force orthopedic medicine is.
Though it’s common today, in 2000, when I had this surgery, putting a cadaver meniscus into someone’s knee was a big deal. The tissue has no blood flow, and putting dead tissue that came from one body into another body is risky. Even if you make it past the first 6 months without being one of the unlucky 60% who reject the dead tissue, there is still a risk for the rest of your life that the tissue will go bad. Any infection in the rest of your body, strep is a common culprit, can spread to this dead tissue, because it’s vulnerable. Once it’s contaminated, it has to be taken out because it can kill you in a very short period of time.
These things weighed heavy on my mind as the months continued. I carried a pager around with me at all times because once the donation meniscus came in, Dr. Blatz would have insert it within 24 hours. Not knowing when I might get called in I quit drinking completely and tried to eat only small meals in case I had to get to surgery.
At work my manager was giving me jobs that were way beneath my skill set because he was worried I would have to leave for surgery in the middle of a big software release. Work was as important to me as running, and I was failing there too.
Things were falling apart in my relationship as well. My partner had never had a serious illness, and the worst medical experience he had was when the US Army removed his four wisdom teeth. Instead of cutting me some slack, he made me feel worse, commenting that it was my fault my knee was destroyed so I should stop sulking about it.
One afternoon I got the call. They had found a meniscus and a bone plug. I later found out from a doctor who attended my surgery that the bone plug had come from a guy shot in New York City. The meniscus was from a 17 year old girl who was killed in a car accident in Miami.
That night my partner and I went to a restaurant in San Francisco called Top of the Mark. It was one of our favorite places to go, and we knew the members of the jazz band that played there. I requested a few happy Sarah Vaughn songs and picked at my dinner. When the plates had been cleared, my partner took my hand. I was hoping for some words of encouragement and support. Instead he said “Look, I didn’t sign up for this program.”
I don’t fault him for this as he had personal goals different from mine and those differences were magnified by my medical disaster. He was working sometimes 20 hours a day trying to prepare his start up company for an initial public offering. Having yet one more thing to deal with on top of the pressure at work was hard for him. Further, he just didn’t understand physically what I was going through.
I made the situation worse. Instead of trying to talk about my pain and anxiety, I pretended I was fine. I didn’t give him a chance to help. I shut him out and decided I would handle things without him.
The bright spot in my life was my personal trainer, Tom Mendell, and my physical therapist, Chris Kuhn. Both of them created a plan to help me train for my surgery. It’s surprising to me that most doctors don’t recommend physical therapy before surgery. I recuperated much faster than my doctor expected because I went into surgery in great physical shape.
Tom trained me for free, as my medical bills were piling up and I didn’t have a lot of spare cash. He also acted as my shrink, and friend. He would leave notes of encouragement on my desk at work (the gym where he worked was owned by my company) and would do little things like bring me goldfish crackers when I was having a bad day. Chris Kuhn also did many, many hours of free physical therapy for me, and I always left his clinic feeling more confident that I could face the challenges that were ahead. Though Chris worked really long hours, he would always take the time to answer my emails and phone calls, no matter how trivial.
Throughout my training I was motivated by the thought that, in a few months after the surgery, I would be able to run again. Dr. Blatz was gently tried to disabuse me of that notion, and mentioned frequently that I would have to wear a brace for the rest of my life to protect my knee any time I did any kind of physical activity. He recommended I take up swimming as soon as I was able to be active again, but swimming seemed boring and I continued to visualize myself running. I was certain that with Chris and Tom’s help I would be back to normal a short time after the surgery.
I invited both Chris and Tom to my surgery, but the hospital wouldn’t let Tom attend since he didn’t have a medical degree. Chris was present, and said he would never again watch a surgery performed on someone he knew. At one point Dr. Blatz was inserting titanium screws into my femur to hold the bone plug in place. He was up on the operating table, cranking on a screw, when it snapped. Based on Chris’ explanation, I had a picture in my mind of trying to put together some piece of furniture from IKEA. It sounded funny to me, but Chris said it was horrifying.
The surgery, scheduled for 3 hours, had taken 6 and a half. I had asked Joe and Dr. Blatz to not say anything negative to me in the recovery room while I was not quite conscious, because that had a detrimental impact after the first surgery. I woke up with Dr. Blatz’s assistant Joe standing over me. He looked exhausted. I was afraid.
Then Joe smiled at me. He said “I think you’re going to be okay kid.”
****
I got up to my room, where I was supposed to stay for the next three days. Dr. Blatz had decided to insert a local of morphine in my knee, even though I’m allergic, because he was afraid that the pain would be too overwhelming. And after bugging them for 4 hours, I got the nurses to bring me two Tylenol, for which the hospital charged me $8.
My partner came to see me that evening. I was uncomfortable, and vomiting from the morphine. He put his head down on my bed, exhausted from work. Finally he said “If you aren’t going to talk to me, I’m going home.” He left.
That night was one of the worst of my life. The nurses had failed to fill the ice machine for my knee. About 5 hours after the surgery I was in excruciating pain. I had to share a room with 3 other women, and one of them cried the whole night because she had just had a mastectomy.
The next morning, at 7 am, I told the nurse I wanted to be discharged because the hospital was just adding to my misery. Joe had just been in to see me, and was furious that the nurses had failed to keep my knee iced. It had swollen up to the size of a cantaloupe. I was strapped into the CPM machine because I had gotten tendon replacements, and you have to keep bending your knee, otherwise the tendons don’t stay supple and you lose range of motion. That was another major complication of the surgery. With a bone plug, you aren’t supposed to weight the bone or move it, but if I wasn’t in the CPM the tendons would lose flexibility. Dr. Blatz had cautioned me that it was going to hurt, but I could not have imagined what that meant until I experienced it.
I went home the day after surgery, even though my partner had already made plans to leave for a business trip. He was feeling bad because I was in pain and there was nothing he could do.
My knee was a bloody, disgusting mess. Pus leaked out of the surgery scar and it looked like someone had dumped a bottle of baby shampoo down my leg. My upper thigh had a huge hematoma where my leg had been clamped down to the operating table. If that wasn’t bad enough, I held Tupperware bowl full of vomit at all times because I had no control over when my stomach would suddenly decide it needed to egress.
I had a soft cast that went from my ankle to my hip, and was unable to get up the narrow stairs in the apartment that went to the bedroom on the second floor. So my partner brought a bed downstairs for me, and set it up next to the back wall of the apartment, which was all glass, with a view of Monterey Bay. I could see the local otter playing with the surfers in the ocean outside the window in an area called “the punch bowl” as I lay in bed, strapped into the CPM.
The downstairs bathroom had no shower, so I couldn’t take a bath when I got home from the hospital, and I couldn’t close the door all the way because my straightened leg was too long to fit in the bathroom.
In some ways it was a relief that he was leaving, as I didn’t think there was anything else I could do to make myself less attractive.
*****
The days after my partner left were a blur of sleeplessness and pain. My body felt like it was turning to stone because every muscle was tensed in response to the thudding discomfort. It felt as if someone was jack hammering my knee. My femur coursed with an electrical sensation that ran through the bone into my thigh. There was a sickening crunch every time the CPM forced my knee to bend 20 degrees. A rash had spread from my scalp to my face, neck and stomach from the allergic reaction to the localized morphine. I wanted to take some benedryll but was unable to get to the upstairs bathroom medicine cabinet.
At night I would lay in the dark, because the only downstairs light had a switch on the floor that I couldn’t reach. The ice had run out in my ice machine the day after my partner left and I realized I had forgotten to ask him to buy more. As the dark descended over the room faces would seem to appear from behind the furniture, or I would hear noises from upstairs. Awash in paranoia, I constantly worried at night that someone was in the apartment with me.
I had a feral cat named Prickly Pete, and during my first day home she hid somewhere upstairs, terrified of me, the CPM, and a large balloon arrangement my team from work had sent. By the early morning hours of my second day home, she was emboldened enough to sneak down stairs and assess the situation. Sensing the balloons, which were drooping from helium loss, were sleeping, she snuck up on the kitchen counter and then dived into the middle of the arrangement, popping the balloons. I huddled under my comforter, certain someone was shooting at me.
The first two days home by myself I was focused on getting through the next hour, and that kept me going. By the third day, I couldn’t focus anymore. I was exhausted, the pain seemed to be getting worse instead of better, and the isolation was filling me with despair. I had my surgery during Thanksgiving week, so the few people that I knew in the area were away or with family. In my impaired state I was convinced there was no one I could call to help me.
****
3 a.m., day 3.
This is all your fault, I thought to myself. If you hadn’t had a motorcycle. If you had insurance. If you hadn’t been so fucking proud of yourself running through the pain. If you had pushed your doctors instead of accepting their diagnoses because that’s what you wanted to hear.
Now everything is gone. Your career is going to go to shit and you’ll never be able to pay your medical bills. You won’t be able to leave your job because you’ll never get insurance again. Your partner is going to leave you. The only thing you’ve always succeeded in, running? Well, that’s gone too. You’ll never walk like a normal person. You’re going to reject the meniscus, and this will have all been for nothing. The pain is never going to go away.
It will never be morning.
*****
In military strategy it is advisable to attack your adversary in the early hours of the morning because that’s when people are the most vulnerable. This strategy is borne out by scientific studies that show as the night gets darker, before the sun rises, people are slower to respond to the world around them, and their decision making abilities deteriorate.
At 3 a.m. on day 3 I decided I was going to kill myself. The thought of enduring even 10 more minutes of the pain was unbearable, and I knew I had lost or fucked up everything that mattered to me. The only way to stop the pain was to stop everything.
I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around the room. How was I going to do it? I glanced over at the ocean, 40 feet below the cliff where my apartment building sat. At the bottom of the cliff were many large rocks.
In the short time I had lived in that apartment at least one tourist had died on the cliff, walking too close to the edge. The grass appeared solid but, underneath, was unstable. I’ll jump off the cliff, I decided, and began the slow process of un-strapping my leg from the CPM.
I got myself to the side of the bed, reached for my crutches, and then realized something. I couldn’t get to the cliff. My apartment was on the second story of the apartment building, and I couldn’t negotiate the steps down to the cliff with the soft cast. There was a service elevator, which I had taken up after my surgery, but it required a key that was kept in the manager’s office. On the first floor.
Cursing, I looked around the room again. In the dark I could see the balloon arrangement, now decimated by Prickley. The thin ribbons tied to the balloons would not be strong enough to strangle myself with, I determined. I had 20 Tylenol, but given the amount of them I was taking a day, I knew that would do nothing. I thought about the kitchen. I didn’t have any sharp knives or small electrical appliances to electrocute myself with because neither my partner nor I knew how to cook. I thought for a moment that I could electrocute myself with the CPM, but it was too big to carry and too big to fit into the kitchen sink, the only receptacle I could get to that could be filled with water. I didn’t have poison, razors, or even a lighter.
I had nothing.
I started to cry. Through my tears I could see the waves picking up in the ocean. It was now 4 am. In another hour the surfers would be showing up at the punch bowl. I was filled with hatred for them, walking leisurely down the beach with their boards, floating out in the water, and then having breakfast on the boardwalk at Zelda’s before carrying on with their lives. They would be driving cars, working, going to the gym, eating pizza at Pizza My Heart, hanging out in the evening with their partners, talking and laughing. I would be sitting alone, doing nothing, unable to leave the confines of the bottom floor of my apartment.
Then I noticed something. Just a few feet off shore, a school of dolphins was swimming in the surf. There were at least 30 of them, maybe more, fins bobbing in and out of the water as they played in the rolling waves. At that moment the sun appeared, a faint yellow line on the edge of the ocean, gradually rising and making the dolphin fins glow.
That’s what I’ll do, I thought to myself.
I’ll swim.
anonymous
I don't mean to be critical, but frankly I'm a little disappointed at the lack of creativity of some people who post comments to my blog.
Anonymous is so boring. Really. If you could be anyone you wanted, and have any name you wanted, would you seriously pick "anonymous"? Even something lame like "nemo" is better than that.
There are some web sites you can check out if you have a hard time thinking up a fake name. For example, there's a web site where you can find your pirate name (mine is Iron Grace Kid).
Or, send me three facts about yourself and I'll make up a name for you.
Or just keep posting things as "anonymous". Be boring. It's okay. Not everyone can be as exciting as me.
Anonymous is so boring. Really. If you could be anyone you wanted, and have any name you wanted, would you seriously pick "anonymous"? Even something lame like "nemo" is better than that.
There are some web sites you can check out if you have a hard time thinking up a fake name. For example, there's a web site where you can find your pirate name (mine is Iron Grace Kid).
Or, send me three facts about yourself and I'll make up a name for you.
Or just keep posting things as "anonymous". Be boring. It's okay. Not everyone can be as exciting as me.
Ragbrai
Blame it on the jet lag (can't believe I'm still jet lagged a week after my flight - I guess staying up for 40 hours straight and then not getting any sleep my first few days back was a bad idea). I've somehow let my dad talk me into doing a ride called Ragbrai.
The ride is across the state of Iowa. Okay, that's a lot flatter than where I usually ride here in Colorado. But. Given my travel schedule I don't know how much time I'll have to train on a real bike. And, I hate hate hate riding a bike in the gym. What's the point? You can't run anything over and there's no traffic to dodge. Boring.
Also, I only have a mountain bike. His name is max crash. Since I bought him in 2003 I have wrecked him countless times and suffered the following injuries:
-dislocated left shoulder
-fractured right wrist (twice)
-fractured left wrist (at the same time that I fractured the right wrist - that wasn't fun)
-broken toe, right foot (stupid ground hog ran in front of me)
-broken hand (it was healing from a previous break, I guess I shouldn't have been riding in the snow with a broken hand)
-road rash, right side of my body (fell into a ravine)
-bruise on my ass from the bike seat (should have lowered it before I went down a steep hill - my ass cheek looked like an eye with a big pupil in the center)
-other minor cuts and scrapes
Anyway, riding 70 to 100 miles a day on a mountain bike for a week should be interesting.
My ass hurts already.
The ride is across the state of Iowa. Okay, that's a lot flatter than where I usually ride here in Colorado. But. Given my travel schedule I don't know how much time I'll have to train on a real bike. And, I hate hate hate riding a bike in the gym. What's the point? You can't run anything over and there's no traffic to dodge. Boring.
Also, I only have a mountain bike. His name is max crash. Since I bought him in 2003 I have wrecked him countless times and suffered the following injuries:
-dislocated left shoulder
-fractured right wrist (twice)
-fractured left wrist (at the same time that I fractured the right wrist - that wasn't fun)
-broken toe, right foot (stupid ground hog ran in front of me)
-broken hand (it was healing from a previous break, I guess I shouldn't have been riding in the snow with a broken hand)
-road rash, right side of my body (fell into a ravine)
-bruise on my ass from the bike seat (should have lowered it before I went down a steep hill - my ass cheek looked like an eye with a big pupil in the center)
-other minor cuts and scrapes
Anyway, riding 70 to 100 miles a day on a mountain bike for a week should be interesting.
My ass hurts already.
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