FOR RENT: 3BR/2BA, W/D, scrn prch, deck, det. garage, pets OK

It looks like we're going to go with renting the house. We won't make any money on it, but we'll be able take a killer tax deduction, so... Whatever. Jason needs to get out of here, and I'm ready to make a decision and have a timeline and all that. We'll keep it for sale simultaneously, so whatever works out first is what we'll do. Anyone looking to rent in Decatur?

Blee blah bloo

I haven't posted in awhile because there hasn't been much going on. The house is still on the market. We had some nibbles but they didn't pan out. We're considering renting the place for a year, instead, but that seems like such a colossal pain in the ass. The holidays are fast approaching and we've already got our travel plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas (Jason's going to Australia, I'm staying home), so it doesn't look like we'll be getting out of here until at least January or February. Meh.

On a happy note, I'm back in the (bike) saddle. Jason took me for my first-ever mountain bike ride, on actual trails with trees and rocks and shit. I was nervous about whether my shoulder would be up for it, but I was surprisingly pain free. It turned out to be my head that was the problem. I was so scared of crashing that I was overly hesitant, to the point that I was increasing my odds of crashing. But Jason gave me some helpful technical pointers, and I eventually got the hang of it and had a really great time. The hard part was shedding all of my road riding instincts, because it turns out that the techniques in mountain biking are polar opposites of those you use on the road. On the road, when I descend, I crouch down and lean forward to pick up speed, and when I climb, I pedal standing up. I learned the hard way that leaning back and standing on a trail climb produces a wheelie, and then a fall onto my butt. Luckily, I fell into a bush and didn't hurt myself at all (except for little matching bruises on each cheek). It was more startling than anything else. I also almost bit it when I followed Jason over a big rock, without realizing that it was going to send me airborne. So I ended up doing a bitchin' little hop, and somehow managed to stay upright. I felt very extreme, like the dudes in the X Games. We're going back on Saturday, weather-permitting.

Mental Health Day

When I was growing up, my parents let my brothers and me take one day per quarter (or maybe semester, I don't remember) to skip school as a mental health day. We weren't allowed to use it to get out of a test or anything like that, but if we just felt exhausted and like we needed a day off, we could take it.

I've decided to carry the tradition into my adult life (and to perpetuate it with my children, if we have some, god willing, *throws salt over shoulder*, ptooey ptooey ptooey), so yesterday I took a mental health day and stayed home from work. I am going through a terrible bout of insomnia. I maybe sleep for 2-3 hours a night, and even those are full of nightmares or anxiety dreams, and the rest of the time I'm either fully awake or in a semi-awake/dozing state that isn't restful at all. This has been going on for about 3 weeks, and I'm fried. Ambien, my old and true friend, has abandoned me. I guess I've built up a tolerance after all this time, and my body is finally saying, "yeah right, bitch, you can't fool me any more. You will not sleep!! Bwahahahaha." Or at least it feels that way. So yesterday, I slept all morning, got caught up on my TiVo'd shows, cleaned out my closet and all of my dresser drawers, took a couple of naps, exercised, and relaxed. It was lovely. I slept horribly again last night, but at least I'll always have October 12 (which is Addie Bowen's birthday -- happy birthday, sweetie!).

I recently read an article about the torture issue, or more specifically, whether "alternative" methods of questioning, such as sleep deprivation, constitute torture. Menachem Begin (former PM of Israel, and possibly a distant cousin of mine) was quoted in the article, talking about how he had been interrogated by the KGB using sleep deprivation, and that it unquestionably is torture. He states:

In the head of the interrogated prisoner, a haze begins to form. His spirit is wearied to death, his legs are unsteady, and he has one sole desire: to sleep... Anyone who has experienced this desire knows that not even hunger and thirst are comparable with it.

I came across prisoners who signed what they were ordered to sign, only to get what the interrogator promised them. He did not promise them their liberty; he did not promise them food to sate themselves. He promised them - if they signed - uninterrupted sleep! And, having signed, there was nothing in the world that could move them to risk again such nights and such days.

Amen, brother. There are nights when I feel like I would give anything -- confess to any crime, perform any task -- simply to be able to sleep soundly.

Watch your language

I've been working on a case involving a state school for the deaf and blind, and the student in question is deaf. I spent last week working with teachers and staff from the school, many of whom were totally deaf or hard of hearing, so we had a sign language translator much of the time. Some of the folks could speak, others used signing to communicate but included some vocalizations, and others did not communicate orally at all. Being exposed to signing was fascinating, and really got me thinking about language and how it works.

One of the teachers I was interviewing -- I'll call her "Dianne" -- was talking (via a sign language interpreter) about a student in the school who might be a good witness in the case. We were talking about whether the student would need an interpreter to testify, and whether she would benefit from real time transcription (an accommodation in which a court reporter takes down the testimony and it appears on a monitor in real time in front of the witness and the lawyers). Dianne said that the student was smart and could sign very well and was also "good at English." I was taken aback by this statement, because I hadn't really considered that she and I had been communicating in anything but English.

But of course, we weren't. I was using English, and the interpreter was taking concepts I expressed and relaying them in American Sign Language (ASL). Sign language isn't a translation of English, but a conceptual language all its own. One of the things that I noticed in reviewing the documents in this case was how rudimentary the written English was of the students and even the teachers. The grammar and conjugation was way off, and sentences would be reduced to their most basic subject-verb-object forms. "Why did you say you would do that" becomes "why you say do that," or "I am concerned that Joe will hurt himself" became "I worry Joe hurt self." Dianne made me realize that when a deaf person can sign and read or write English (or any other language), they're actually bilingual. Maybe she reads the word "mother" and "translates" it by imagining the sign for mother,* the way I read the Spanish word "madre" and translate it to English in my head.

Yet, for purposes of litigation, language must be very precise. The biggest and most important part of any trial or hearing is the transcript, but if we were going through an interpreter who translates our very specific choice of words with conceptual signs, or if we're dealing with a hearing impaired person who doesn't sign very well but also doesn't hear all that well, how do we make sure that our questions are understood and answered properly? How can we make sure that the transcript reflects what the witnesses actually intend to say? It reminded me of George Orwell's 1984, in which the government limits language in order to limit thought.

Anyway, the whole process gave me a newfound respect for the teachers that we were working with, and I now can't stop thinking about how the language we use influences our perception of the world and everything in it. And of course, now I'm obsessed with learning sign language.


*Hold your right hand up to your face with your thumb at your chin and wiggle your fingers. See http://commtechlab.msu.edu/Sites/aslweb/browser.htm for video demonstrations of different ASL signs.

Quality time with the family

This past weekend Jason and I went up to New York to visit Sam and Erica. My parents were up there, too, so we got to kill two birds with one stone. Got in late Thursday night, walked around the city a little bit Friday morning, and then drove up to Sam & Erica's country house in Kerhonkson, NY, in the Hudson River Valley. It's been very pleasant but still pretty warm in Atlanta, so it was a bit of a shock to be up north where it is most definitely Fall. The leaves were changing colors, the air was crisp -- it was beautiful.


Above: Sam and Erica's adorable country house.

And the weekend with the family was predictably hilarious. First, Jason was delighted to discovery that Sam, for some reason, owns a bull costume. I don't know if he and Erica get their kicks playing matador or what. Anyway, Jason found it in the basement and put it on, and then surprised Erica and my mom when they got came in from outside.





















Then we went shopping to load up on groceries and other supplies. Since my mother and I are apparently genetically predisposed to spent at least $100 every time we walk into Target, we loaded up on candles, toilet paper, wine glasses, and of course, shoes. In fact, Erica and my mom and I each got a pair of adorable red suede flats, which we all wore out to dinner that night.

Below: the girls in their matching shoes


And the dinner was amazing. Erica made reservations at this cool place called the Dupuy Canal House Restaurant. The restaurant is in an old wooden house, and it's very cozy and quiet. The food was delicious, and we feasted and drank wine, talking about history and books and gossip.

But, being the freaks that we are, we couldn't just have a civilized meal and leave it at that. First we had a contest to see who could balance a spoon on their nose (Jason won). And who could make musical tones with their wine glass. And Sam balanced his scotch glass on his head for at least a minute. And my father lost his shit, laughing hysterically at the fact that Sam had made up a story, tried to pass it as historical fact on Wikipedia, and then was pissed when the moderators had the audacity to remove it. To Sam, the real insult came not from the fact that a fictitious entry was rightly removed from a website that is meant to be an encyclopedia, but rather that the reason it was removed was not its lack of accuracy but its lack of noteworthiness. This was too much for my father, who was laughing so hard that he was gasping for air and yelling, "I'm having a heart attack." I think we scared away the other patrons in our little dining section.

The next day we went hiking around a quarry before breakfast, and then later that afternoon went to a wine-tasting. We had notions that it would be like a scene in Sideways, with a beautiful farm house next to a stream, with a big, spacious wine bar inside and quiet, knowledgeable patrons commenting on finishes and hints of blackberry and "this wine has some serious legs." In reality, not so much. We went to the Riverdell Winery in New Paltz, which didn't have a lovely farmhouse on a stream so much as a shack on steroids. Sam drove up the driveway, observed the multitude of Toyota Camrys and New York Women's Rugby tour buses, and said, "I'm not so sure about the demographics of this place. Where are the Beamers and Mercedeses?" Inside, the patrons were less gracious and sophisticated than loud and abrasive. There were even women rugby players making out in the corner (with each other). The somalier was a loud fat woman who, when we asked what she recommended, literally yelled at my father, as if she had been too close to the speakers at the Bon Jovi concert the night before, "IT DEPENDS ON WHETHER YOU LIKE RED OR WHITE." Uh, no shit, lady. And thanks for your help.

That night we cooked dinner at home. Grilled chicken and portobellos, salad, and the most unbelievable corn I have ever had in my life. Seriously, when we started eating, everybody took a bite of corn and then all you could hear was gasps of pleasure -- it was like the corn equivalent of crack. More wine, more joking around, and then Michigan football. I couldn't ask for a nicer day.

The next day we went back to the city and headed home, but not before taking a walk in the country, looking at trees and funny scarecrows and old barns. I'm on the road again tonight, traveling for work, but still feeling the afterglow of this weekend. I love my husband and I love my family and I love that they love each other. Life is good.

Old age, and why I'm perhaps suffering the effects already...

Yesterday was my Grandma Anne's 90th birthday. My brothers and I sent her one of those big gourmet gift baskets full of yummy goodies. I talked to her yesterday afternoon, and she was having a wonderful day. Everybody had called and she was feeling loved. We chatted about what it was like for her to be 90 and to look back on all of the things that have happened in her life. The world has changed so much in 90 years, it must be like recounting a dream to think back on World War II or the civil rights movement or the emergence of rock and roll.

My Grandpa Leo is also 90, and my Grandma Ruth will be 87 next week. I had four great-grandparents until I was in high school. I've got good longevity genes is what I'm saying. Time seems to pass so quickly -- Jason and I will celebrate our first anniversary in two months (yoiks!) -- but given my lifestyle and genetic makeup, I should have a long time left to go. I hope I do something worthwhile with it.

In other news, I had to shower at the Y this morning because we had no water. Last night Jason and I were doing the dishes after dinner when we noticed that the water pressure was really low and getting worse. We went and talked to our neighbor across the street, investigated the water meter, scratched our heads thinking that maybe there was a water main break somewhere in town. It was a big mystery. Perhaps someone was playing a practical joke on us?

Turns out, I'm just a forgetful dork and I forgot to pay the water bill, so somebody from the county came by yesterday and turned it off. I looked through the pile of mail that I'm really bad about paying attention to unless it's an issue of Entertainment Weekly or Sports Illustrated, and found a notice from Dekalb County informing me that I owed them $55 and that my water would be cut off if I didn't pay the bill by September 21. Oops. Luckily, we had some gallon jugs of water that I keep in the laundry room in the event of a natural disaster (Jason laughs at me about this -- who's laughing now, smart guy?), so we had water to drink and brush our teeth. But since there was no water for flushing the toilet, when I had to pee at 3 in the morning, I went outside and did it in the back yard. Seriously. Anyway, I paid the bill online and it should be back on today, but I guess I've learned that I need to look at my mail more than once every two weeks.

Yet another thing that my husband and I have in common...

He thinks he may have a hairline fracture in his right arm as a result of this fall. Welcome to the gimp club, honey!

Happy New Year, but if your New Year isn't actually happy, I disclaim all liability

My dad sent this lovely New Year's blessing (happy 5767, everyone!) out to offer good wishes for Rosh Ha'Shana. To my great amusement, it included the standard confidentiality disclaimer and tax warnings that accompany all emails out of his office. Leave it to a Jew to wish you a happy new year, but with disclaimers.

May this New Year bring to you and yours all the blessings of Peace, Health, Happiness and Prosperity.

L’Shanah Tovah!

This communication, along with any documents, files or attachments, is intended only for the use of the addressee and may contain legally privileged and confidential information. If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any dissemination, distribution or copying of any information contained in or attached to this communication is strictly prohibited. If you have received this message in error, please notify the sender immediately and destroy the original communication and its attachments without reading, printing or saving in any manner. Thank you.

Circular 230 Notice: Pursuant to regulations governing practice before the Internal Revenue Service, unless expressly stated otherwise, any tax advice contained herein or in any attachment hereto cannot be used, and is not intended to be used, by a taxpayer for (i) the purpose of avoiding tax penalties that may be imposed on the taxpayer under the Internal Revenue Code or (ii) the promotion or marketing of any tax-related matter or program.

The Chicken and the Egg

A friend of mine who is going through a significant traumatic event suggested that she is so shattered by it that she doesn't know if she will be the same kind of person when it is over. I haven't been able to stop thinking about that -- the notion that certain experiences are so profound that they change who we are as a person. I've been looking back over my life and trying to analyze how I've changed from point to point, and why.

About 8 years ago I had my first depressive "break." Clinical depression runs in my family (on my dad's side -- my mother is the most nauseatingly sane person in the world), and it hit me hard when I was about 28. I was in a serious relationship with a guy that I really loved, but was overwhelmed with feelings of despair and worthlessness. It took me months to accept that I needed help (and, it turned out, medication), but in the meantime I made my boyfriend so miserable with my own miserableness that he dumped me. He didn't handle the breakup well, and many of my wonderful friends are still ready to string him up because of the way they think he treated me, but it wasn't his fault. I was broken, and he couldn't fix me, and I subtly punished him for it, and he couldn't take it anymore. That's the truth.

The depression was very intense. I kind of felt like a marine in boot camp, where they're supposed to break you down to your barest elements as a person so they can rebuild you as a soldier. I felt like a raw, exposed nerve ending all the time, I had suicidal ideations (never could or would act on them -- don't worry), I felt worthless and despondent and beyond salvation. But then I went to therapy and went on medication and got better. I've had relapses, but the difference now is that I recognize what's happening immediately and get help. Mostly it's just chemical. I feel fine on the meds, and I cycle downwards fairly dramatically when I'm not on them. The only side effect that I can't get rid of is insomnia (I'm writing this at 3 in the morning). I haven't slept through the night without the assistance of ambien or something similar in 9 years, and I've resigned myself to the fact that I probably never will.

So how did the depression and the breakup back in 1998 affect me? In a way, it made me determined to take control of my life to the extent I could, and not be a slave to my chemical makeup. I know I have tendencies to feel down, so I'm determined to not feel that way, to the extent I can control it. I feel like I have two choices: I can deal with whatever comes, and get on with my life, or not. "Not" is not an acceptable option. Life's too short to feel crappy about things, so a big part of my approach is to just not feel crappy.

Since 1998, my life has changed quite dramatically, and I did things I'm not sure I would have done before. I ran a half-marathon and then a marathon, though I had never been a runner. I bought a house and got a new job. I started playing bluegrass music in public. I made new friends. I joined tennis teams. I started a book club. Best of all, I married an Australian surfer that I met on vacation in Costa Rica.

Without the depression, I don't know that I would have ever done any of these things. On the other hand, maybe the outlook I have now was always in me, just waiting for an opportunity to emerge, like a butterfly in a cocoon. So the depression, in a way, provided me with the impetus to act. But the desire, the impulse to make a life, was there the whole time. And since then I've felt very strongly that I control not only my destiny but also how I'm going to feel about it and what I'm going to become. I'm relatively fearless about how my life is going to go. Marry an Aussie surfer/electrician? sure, I love him and he's fun and sweet and he makes me happy. Move to Hawaii? Why not, it's pretty and people will come visit. Have a kid soon? Hell, yeah. We're ready. Full steam ahead.

Yesterday my mother called me to tell me about an envelope of my old school records from when I was in first grade in Venezuela. The teachers loved me, I was cooperative, smart, eager to learn, a joy to have in class, blah blah blah. In the "needs improvement" section, the teacher said, "Wendy has a difficult time keeping her work space neat and organized." I would like to invite my teacher to my office to let her know that her observation would be as applicable now as then -- my desk looks like a filing cabinet was dumped out onto it, and it pretty much always looks that way. I try to clean it, but it doesn't really take. I guess that part of me has been encoded since the age of five, and it's never changed, and it's never going to.

I want my friend to know that her core as a person isn't something likely to be changed by anything. She's smart, principled, moral, ethical, and serious. I suspect that those qualifies may spur her to make some changes that she might not have otherwise made, or that she didn't realize she had the strength to make. But it will still be her. Some lessons learned, a little more circumspect, perhaps, but still wonderful her.

Depressing but true

My agent has tried calling the poop-stepper's agent, but no response. Not good. It's looking more and more like we may have to take the house off the market and try again in the spring. *sigh* I'm so bummed. We were so encouraged only a few days ago and now feel hopeless. On the plus side, we're going to the Falcons' home opener against the Bucs on Sunday (big grudge match), which should be really fun, especially because I scored good seats. And I've become addicted to Project Runway. So I've got that going for me.

**************************************


It's a couple of hours later and I just got a good pep talk from my real estate agent. She told me to keep the faith, so that's what I'm going to do. I figure we'll ride it out for about a month, and if it hasn't sold at that point, we'll figure something out at that point. So I'm feeling a little better.

You're shitting me, right?

This is so ridiculous I can't even believe it's true, but I swear I'm not making it up. The woman that expressed great interest in our house at the open house on Sunday came by to look at it again today. Which is great, except that apparently, for the first time since he was a puppy, Max took a dump in the house. Jason came home and found it, with a footprint across the middle of it, and then a series of shitty footprints leading across the carpet, through the laundry room, and out the back door. I'm praying that, as with getting hit by bird shit, having a prospective buyer step in dog shit while inspecting your house is good luck. Oy.

We have a nibble

I don't want to say too much about it because I'm afraid of jinxing it, but there's a person who's very interested in the house. Fingers and toes crossed.

Help me out, people.

Yesterday I had a bit of a stomach bug and there wasn't much going on at the office, so I went home early. I had some unwatched Netflix movies, including Midnight Cowboy, which starred Jon Voigt and Dustin Hoffman and won the Best Picture Oscar(TM) in 1969 and is supposed to be this incredible classic. I had rented it because it was one of those venerated, hip movies that I had never gotten around to seeing. To my surprise and dismay, I found it to be boring, plodding and pointless, and was utterly unmoved by the characters or the acting. Now, I consider myself to be a relatively sophisticated consumer of culture, so I'm a bit unnerved by my reaction (though I also thought Crash sucked major ass and cannot for the life of me figure out why anyone liked that movie, so maybe I'm just out of touch and not as sophisticated as I think I am). Anyway, if someone can explain to me what it is about Midnight Cowboy that is so great, I would most appreciate it.

Hanging in there.

The house sale is officially frustrating as hell. The market completely sucks right now, to the point that every major news magazine/organization has a cover story about how shitty it is and how everyone trying to sell right now is going to lose their shirt. We just lowered the price -- again -- so maybe that will help the process along. I know that houses in my neighborhood and price range are selling, if somewhat more slowly, so I'm hoping it's just a matter of time. I keep having the same conversation with everyone I know.

"How's the sale of the house going? Any nibbles?"

"Not yet. We're still getting a fair amount of traffic through it, so we're encouraged, but you know how it is. The market is screwy right now."

"Yeah, I've heard that. Well, hang in there! It'll sell."

"I know. We're trying to be patient."

So, we're hanging in there. Not that we have a choice, but whatever.

As for what else is going on, we had a lovely Labor Day weekend. Friday night we had dinner with Kathleen and Addie and Lula, and after dinner Jason and I had the honor of taking Addie for ice cream by ourselves while Kathleen took Lula home to put her to bed. Good babysitting practice for when we have our own bambini.

What else? The rest of the weekend, I spent much time on the couch, watching tennis and napping. We were shocked by the freakish death of Steve Irwin. Jason took Max for a walk late Sunday night and lost him for 45 minutes when he let him run around off the leash for a few minutes. The poor dog is almost completely blind, especially at night, so he must have wandered away (bumping into things the whole time) and couldn't find his way back. Jason found him a half mile down the street, sitting in front of a car under a street light. Saturday night we went to the drive-in movie, which was very fun in an old school, kitschy kind of way. We saw a gloriously awful movie about hip-hop and street basketball called Crossover. It's the first movie I've ever seen that got a 0% -- yes, you read that right --rating on Rottentomatoes.com. Not a single positive review. We loved it, so screw you, critic bitches. It was a beautiful, breezy night, and we sat in our little camp chairs drinking Australian shiraz and eating Fritos and Fiddle Faddle and had a grand time. We watched another bitchin movie on Sunday called Roll Bounce, an awesome 70s teen roller-skating movie. Interestingly (at least, it's interesting to me), both movies starred Wayne Brady (who I love) and some new kid named Wesley Jonathan, who can't act for shit but is quite cute and charismatic on-screen nonetheless. Anyway, as soon as my arm gets better, we're totally going roller skating.

Speaking of which, my arm is getting better. I have so much more range of motion than I did even just a few days ago, and I don't ever wear my sling or have to take heavy-duty pain meds (which is good, since I went through all 30 of the pills I had in a week). I figure I'll be back at full strength in another 2 weeks or so, so I'll have to find another triathlon to compete in, because I need the training. I'm feeling a little pudgy.

The Bestest Get Well Card in the World

Last night when I got home from work, there was a large envelope waiting for me in the mailbox. It was from my brother and sister-in-law, Sam and Erica. Erica has a jewelry business, so I figured it was something related to that, perhaps a new catalog that she had put together and wanted me to see. Instead, what I found was the most awesome get-well card ever.

Apparently, Erica gets catalogs from supply companies, including a fine establishment called Fine Mountain Gems. They have their astonishingly unphotogenic employees model jewelry designs. Erica had the idea to use the catalog to make an inspirational card. Sam helped her take it to the next level.

I'm not sure if this guy turned to Jesus for sodomy, or to sodomy for relief. Syntax, Sammy, syntax.

I think Chinless Lady is my favorite.

Apparently, youth is wasted on me, too

Last night my friend Andrea called from San Francisco to firm up plans for this weekend (she's coming to Atlanta for Labor Day). It was 8:47 p.m. when she called, and I had to get up and out of bed and turn the lights on to answer the phone. Another 10 minutes and she would have missed me, because I would have already been asleep.

At least Jason has an excuse. He's working crazy hours this week and is out of the house by 5 a.m., so he has to get up at 4:30. I get up with him to make him his lunch and coffee and get him out the door, because he is so not a morning person, it's scary. But then I go back to bed and sleep until 7. So I'm not sure why I'm ready to climb into bed and go to sleep before the sun is even down in the evening.

I think much of it is the injury. I've been trying to keep my arm out of the sling during the day, so by the time I'm done with work, I'm hurting. Most of the time I'm able to hold my arm in a way that doesn't tax my shoulder too much, but I frequently jostle it or try to pick up something a little too heavy, or I just get tired. So all I want to do when I get home is prop my arm on a pillow, take a couple of Lortabs, and veg out.

I am also quite a source of amusement to Jason, who finds nothing more hilarious than me, whining and feeling sorry for myself. Last night I was trying to change out of my work clothes and simply could not get my bra and shirt off, to the point that my bra was still hooked over my left shoulder but hanging out of the neck of my shirt, and I'm trying with one arm to lift my shirt over my head but can't quite reach, so I'm flailing around like a total spaz (and please, no emails about how insensitive that term is to the disabled -- it's funny, OK? Plus I work for the benefit of disabled kids, so I'm allowed to be an asshole from time to time). I'm hanging my head in frustration, and my lower lip is pushing further and further out as I commence pouting. Jason takes one look at me and starts laughing his ass off, the kind where he's laughing so hard he's not even making any noise, just silently wheezing. I was afraid he was going to bust something. (He did the same thing the last time we went to the movies, when one of those fake movie ads came on where there's this big action sequence and then you hear a baby start to cry and the words "silence is golden" come on the screen. I was totally faked out by it, and said, loudly, "Oh, come on," in an exasperated tone, thinking that some bonehead had brought an infant to see Talladega Nights. Jason was so hysterical with laughter he had tears in his eyes. Anyway.)

I finally managed to get my pajamas on and got into bed. We were lying there watching Whose Line is it Anyway? when I had a premonition that we would be doing the exact same thing -- having trouble dressing ourselves, watching corny tv shows, going to bed when the sun was still up -- when we're 80. That made me smile, because I'd like to still be with Jason, having fun and giggling about everything, when I'm 80. But I'm not quite ready to be 80 yet. So come on, shoulder. Heal!

File under "Curb, Kick His Ass To The"

I am all about giving love a chance. I really am. I'm the poster child for it, as anyone who knows anything about my relationship with Jason knows. If you've got that loving feeling, don't give up, etc. Blah blah. But there are limits. So this entry is a shout-out to my good friend E, who is hurting after giving The Boy a fourth chance, only to have him fuck it up again.

Girlfriend, it's time to move on. You're a beautiful, smart, engaging, talented, funny woman, and The Boy just isn't capable. He doesn't have it. I will say nothing disparaging about him because a) I like him and I don't think he's a bad guy, and b) it's not helpful, but he can't make you happy. I know you've had periods of happiness with him, but he always ends up kicking you in the gut (figuratively speaking, of course). You've given this relationship every chance to succeed, but, to use ER/Grey's Anatomy/House-speak, it's time to call it. "Time of death: August 2006."

Now let's go out and get drunk. I'll buy.

What the doctor said

I went to the Emory Orthopedic Clinic this morning to have them tell me the dealio with my shoulder. Nothing looks terribly out of place on the x-rays, which means it's a low-level sprain, nothing too awful. I might have a little bump on my shoulder when it heals, but I might not. The doc did a bunch of range-of-motion tests and asked me a bunch of questions, and then basically told me that it's going to hurt until it doesn't anymore. It should take about 3-4 weeks to heal (much better than the 6-8 I was originally told), and I should do what's comfortable, take whatever will ease the pain (and he gave me some primo shit ;)), do some exercises, don't do some exercises, wear the sling, don't wear the sling -- it really doesn't make a difference. Time will heal this wound, and there is really nothing I can do to speed the process up. Knowing that makes me feel much better, somehow.

In related news, my boss let me hire a temp to help me during my period of gimpiness. He's a champ. So for the first time in my life, I have a personal secretary. It rocks.

Everybody knows everything about everything

I am, I freely admit, a know-it-all. But I also freely acknowledge that I am frequently full of shit and often don't know the answers to things. I try not to correct errors that are irrelevant to the story or to embarass people. And I am discovering how utterly annoying it is when everybody else has all the answers to all of your problems.

Take my shoulder, for instance. All of a sudden, huge numbers of people I know have suffered the same injury, or know someone who has, and they all have something to say about it.

"Keep your arm in the sling, or the ligaments won't heal."

"I dislocated my shoulder when I was 20 and it hasn't been the same since. It's going to bother you for the rest of your life."

"If you keep your arm in the sling the whole time, you'll lose your range of motion and develop arthritis."

"Make sure you do exercises where you bend and unbend your elbow, or it will permanently stiffen."

"Treat it with ice."

"Don't treat it with ice. Treat it with heat."

"Take tylenol."

"Take advil."

"Don't take anything."

I want to congratulate everyone on the medical degrees they apparently went out and got when I wasn't looking. And in response to whatever it is you suggested, you're right, and I'll do exactly as you say. Now stop talking. And I promise to do the same when the urge strikes me to comment on something I know nothing about.

P.S. I recognize how bitchy this sounds, and that's not my intention. I so appreciate how sweet and concerned and supportive everyone has been. It's just that the constant unsolicited (and often conflicting) medical advice doesn't help -- it increases my agitation.

And just like that, no bike....

I'm such a dumbass. After going on and on about how much I'm into riding my bike and zen and blah blee bloo, I started to ride to work yesterday on my brand spankin' new bike, crashed 2 miles into it, and separated my shoulder. It was totally my fault. I didn't feel like waiting for the line of cars to get through a particular turn, so I tried to jump the curb to get on the dirt path next to the road, didn't angle my front wheel properly, and fell onto my right side. As soon as I fell, I felt and heard a *pop* in my right shoulder, and when I sat up and couldn't move my arm, I knew I was in trouble. Luckily, a bunch of people stopped and helped me out. My friend Karen came and picked me up (along with my bike,which is fine) and took me to the ER. Jason left work and met me there, and then took me home and took care of me the rest of the day.

To put it in the bluntest term possible, it hurt like a motherfucker. I was triaged in the ER and had to wait because of a couple of cases that were more serious than mine, so I sat holding my arm to my side for two hours before I got a sling or any pain medication. I'm not complaining about the medical treatment -- the other people needed to go first-- but it hurt so much. I tried to do Lamaze type breathing to get through the pain, but it didn't help much. Even after 2 shots of morphine, I was in serious discomfort. I took 5 percocets before the day was through, and never got rid of the pain altogether.

So now I'm out of commission for 6 weeks, at least. I can't do the triathlon, can't swim, can't hold a pen, can't put on a shirt (unless it's sleeveless) by myself. Because I was too impatient to wait for the cars to start moving, I've sidelined myself and I feel like a moron. I really need to learn to have more regard for my own physical safety. And, as Jason pointed out, to work on my bike-handling skills.