Some Days It's Worth It

My phone jangled insistently, interrupting me from a boring-ass spreadsheet. My personal extension flashed on the caller ID. Damn. It was someone who had had previous contact with me, whether it was a message I left on a machine or a business card sent imploringly through the mail, please call me back, I want to help you... I had requested that he or she contact me. I couldn't ignore whoever it was. Flipping my eyes heavenward, I picked up the phone. Yet another fruitless call on yet another fruitless day in which I will impact nothing and no one.

A North Shore blue-collar accent greeted me. "Yeah, you sent me a letter. I just moved, so that's probably why it took me so long to get it..." I dug for his file, feeling my heart sink. People with North Shore blue-collar accents who are this young (mid-40's) don't make changes. They don't do anything. They just bitch about their "bad genes" and keep smoking, drinking, eating crap, not exercising.

I told him a little bit about why I had called, what was going on, the program I worked for; bracing myself all the while for the imminent rejection. But it didn't come. Instead, David (I'll call him David because that's his name. And why change it?) interrupted to say "That sounds great! I'd love to do that! I want to do anything to help me get healthier, especially my heart." (Well, he said "hahhht", really. But I think that's the same thing as "heart".)

"Well, great!" I replied, pleasantly surprised. Delving into conversation with David, I found more pleasant surprises.

"Yeah," he said, "I go wit' my wife now to the maaahket to do the grocery shopping. My GOD! It takes FOHEVAH! Reading all those labels! I gotta say, I really respect my wife now for doin' that all those yeaahs for me and the kids."

I laughed and explained that it was a system, that it was hard at first but that they'd get it down pat and it'd be easier.

"Gawd, I hope so!" he replied.

When I asked about smoking, he said he had just quit. I responded with my general yay-for-you-you-are-so-awesome stuff, telling him how great it was that he had done that, what an accomplishment it was, all that jazz. "Well, I tell ya what, I wish I had never lit that first one, tell ya the truth. Now, whenever I get those cravings, I just remember when they used the defibrillator on me. They put those paddles right on me to restart my heart. And Christ, it feels like getting kicked in the chest by a mule, I tell you what. Whenever I want to light up, I just think of that feeling. I thought I was going to die for sure. But thank God, I didn't. Now, I wish that my 22-year-old would learn from what happened to me, and quit too."

The conversation went on. We talked about ways he could improve what he was already doing, how he should take the time off from work to attend cardiac rehab, how I would connect him with more resources to help him stay quit (smoking). He was bright and excited. His heart attack had made his life better--made him appreciate his wife more, made him quit smoking, made him eat better and exercise. He had a new lease on life.

We closed the (long) conversation with him fully enrolled in my program and swearing he would talk more to his doctor about attending cardiac rehab. When we got off the phone, I set down the headset and stared at it awhile. I thought, as I often do, about the inequities of life, the inequities of "the system". How this man, with his blue-collar background and lack of college education, was targeted by Big Tobacco. How they got ahold of him from a young age, teaching him that cigarettes were cool, were grand, were his best chance for escapism. I thought of his job that won't give him time off to attend cardiac rehab so he can learn how to best heal after a heart attack, and how to prevent a future one. I thought of his countless cigarette breaks at work, going for a beer with the guys afterwards. A culture of unhealthy habits. I thought of his son, who had been born when he was barely past his teens, who now didn't want to quit smoking. I thought of how the cycle repeats itself, what it really means to "Have a family history of heart trouble".

It means discrepancies. In care, in upbringing, in opportunities. It means being stunted from the start. It means having a fuckload further to fight before you reach your destination.

Fight the good fight, David. Keep at it. I will knock down any barrier I can to help you on your way. I will help you any way that I can. And one day, God help me, I will make it so someone else doesn't have to fight that fight.

Fuck you, Big Tobacco. You will lose. One day, you will fucking lose.

Tots.

After seeing Napolean Dynamite for the second time, I came in to work today and was greeted by a cafeteria selling tater tots.

Nice.

I'm eating them right now, all old-school style with a side of ranch dressing for dippin'.

Oh, how it takes me back to freshman year....

A Pepto Tale

One of Sean's many obsessions is with Pepto-Bismol. (Or, rather, Target Brand Pink Bismuth Liquid). If I happen to complain about some ailment, be it a stubbed toe or gangrene, he's lightning quick to suggest: "Why don't you take some Pepto? Take some Pepto, honey! It'll make you feel better! It's yummy!"

What Sean does not understand is that if one has a digestive system with any sort of sensitivity, one cannot, I repeat, NOT go around chugging Pink Death. To do so is to capitulate all thoughts of pooping for the next week, if not longer. And it is not, in any way, shape, or form, yummy. In fact, I would say that the opposite is true--that Pepto is, in fact, yucky.

That said, Pepto does come in very handy when one is having issues of, shall we say, ass explosivity. It functions as the only nonsexual buttplug.

Now, I have been a bit under the weather this week. It began as a cold, but as things drifted south, I began to feel the first twinges of Upset Tummy-ness. Yep. It was one of Those Times. I was in need of some Pepto.

Except, there wasn't any. None. Nada. Ix-nay on the epto-pay.

Why is that?

Well, I'll tell you. That is because Sean chugs Pepto. He does shots of it the way some people shoot tequila. He drinks it as a beverage, likening it to strawberry milkshakes in consistency and flavor. He uses it in recipes as a substitute for milk, butter, or eggs. He finds any possible way to suck down as much pepto as is humanly possible.

And he will be very, very sorry for that When I Get Home.

Weekend

Friday evening we went out, my hair shiny-bright with a new dye job, to dinner and a movie with our friend Mike. We always seem to do the same thing with Mike--dinner and a movie, or a movie and dinner, or maybe dinner, a movie, and then a drink. I'm not sure if it's because we automatically think of Mike now when we're going to do these things, if it's just a habit we've gotten into and can't seem to break, or if it's just plain The Way Things Are. But an evening with Mike often means we'll be catching a movie at the Kendall and eating dinner at Cambridge Brewing Company. No slouch, that. I enjoyed a Pumpkin Ale with my Mediterranean pizza, while Sean and Mike opted for a burger and pecan-crusted catfish, respectively.

We saw a "special sneak preview" ofShaun of the Dead. Three words for you, folks--Kick. Ass. Flick. Over-the-top gore, a sicko sense of humor, and a smart, biting wit all wrapped up in one nice, neat package. I laughed my ass clean off.

Saturday, I worked as the rain came down in sheets, pounding against the windows and making me glad that I hadn't signed up for the Heart Walk (which was, incidentally, cancelled anyway...). When at last that was over and I was home, I found myself making moussaka. Making moussaka is always fun because Sean particularly likes to find new things to call it. This time his favorites seemed to be "Mufasa" and "Baked Montana". Either way, the important thing is that he ate the stuff even though I'm sure it pained him to do so.

That night, we headed back down south to Dorchester for the going-away party of my friend from work, Siobhan. I'm very bummed that she's leaving me, since I never tire of her stories of things like men taking Viagra and then trying to pick her up by saying "Hey, I just took a Viagra!". But alas, the greener pastures of fashion school in Milan were calling, and answer she must. Sean and I spent the evening drinking immense cocktails and complaining that the immense cocktails were not strong enough and too expensive. Oh wait, maybe that was just me.

After sleeping in the next morning, we arose and had a leisurely brekkie before heading north to join R-Dubs, Alayna, Paige, and Theron for some group apple-pickin'. It was my very first time, and it did not disappoint! I have numerous great shots of all involved that I may post one of these days. Beautiful day + apple pickin' = Yay! After we had picked our requisite bags of apples (we all favored the Honey Crisp variety), we headed back to Chez R-Dubs to gather round the Pats game and have some snackies.

So, that was my weekend. A slice of my life, if you will. Not too shabby, not to fancy.

The Way to Get the Poon-tang

I'm sure many of you are familiar with the new craze that is sweeping the nation (I love to say "sweeping the nation", It makes it sound like some entity is flying over cities and plains in a superhero-like fashion, wreaking havoc amongst mad thralls of people who are jumping up and down, desperate for WHATEVER IT IS!) freecycle.

Sean is a freecycle junkie. He spends a substantial portion of his day forwarding me descriptions of what can only be described as Crap That We Don't Need in Any Way, Shape, or Form. Sometimes, he even goes and retrieves said Crap from the offerer and hides it in the trunk of his car for weeks on end. Then, when I find the Crap in his trunk and say: "Where the fuck did this Crap come from?", he can safely reply: "Oh, that? I've had that for weeks!"

But, I digress. Although freecycle is a great resource for people both trying to get rid of Crap and people trying to obtain Crap, sometimes things that really piss me off get sent around. Some of the best examples are things like "My 4-year-old son would love some kittens to play with!",(That's kittenSSSSS. Plural. Because, you know, it's normal to get more than one pet at a time for your 4-year-old.) or "Does anyone have a puppy I can adopt? I went to the shelters, but the ones there are expensive--like $200--and I can't afford that!" (News for you, assfuck--if you can't afford to shell out the 2 big ones required to adopt the puppy, than you can't afford to own a puppy.), or the unending "Please adopt my kitten. She is 7 months old and no longer cute. Also, she still needs to be neutered. She hasn't gotten her shots yet, either. I only got her because she was cute. Now I have discovered that she is a lot of trouble and I wish someone else would take her now that she is not cute anymore!" (No further explanation required on that one.)

After the seven millionth of those hit the list, Sean took action. He pretty much spammed the entire freecycle community with the suggestion that pets can be found easily on Petfinder or in the shelters, and that it was not appropriate to treat them like they were an old bookcase or table. He also provided a link to the Saddest Craigslist Post Ever, one that made me tear up for weeks after whenever I thought about it. It's so sad, in fact, that I think everyone should read it so that they too can spend a few days stumbling around muttering "good dog or good cat!" and bursting into tears.

Well, the response was pretty overwhelming, to say the least. For a while, Sean forwarded me the nice responses he was receiving from the freecycle community.

So, what does this have to do with The Poon-tang?

Well, all, I mean EVERY SINGLE ONE of the responses he received were from women. And some kept responding, sending more and more personal information in each email. I am still patiently waiting for the "Great post--here is a crotch shot!" or "Very well said. Would you like to put my boobie in your mouth?" or "Enough about pets. When can we fuck?" emails to arrive.

That Sean, he is one helluva chick magnet.

And Just Like That, I Got "Old"

Last Saturday, I was at a party for Someone's adorable 1-year-old's first birthday. (I say "Someone" because I don't like to mention people's names on my blog without their Ok. Except for people I have known for years and years and therefore own the rights to by default, like Brandy or Fady or Sarah...you guys I'll talk all kinds of smack about, ha ha!)

So, anyway, we were at Someone's house for Son of Someone's first birthday. It was, in all honesty, one of my very first Non-family Child's Birthday Celebrations. (My friends aren't much into the reproducin'.) Being that it was a family kind of celebration, there were kids of various age and descrip about. Some were youngish, some were old enough that if I really faced reality, I'd realize that they were spending their weekends at sleepovers discussing blowjobs and how they weren't sure if they wanted to do them one day or not. Really. But really, that is very odd to me--to think that I'm talking to peeople who have kids who are old enough to discuss blowjobs at sleepovers and it's not in the form of "So, how are you doing in school this year, young lady?".

I guess I still think of myself as young, or youngish. Or at least Not Older Yet.

It was a delightful party, catered superbly by Mother of Someone. Everyone seemed to have a good time celebrating Son of Someone's birthday, and Someone had had a great idea--she left out a Polaroid (yes, they still have those) camera and a memory book, so all party attendees could take their picture and leave a message for Son of Someone! Isn't that just the cutest?

Sean and I were hanging out in the room with the aforementioned memory book (and, not coincidentally, the food) when one of the youngish kids of the Old Enough to Talk about Blowjobs at Slumber Parties variety (Not to imply that she would ever do such a thing--oh, no. Just that she is of the age to do so. Oh, yes.) began flipping around a wet-with-newness Polaroid and singing "Shake it! Shake it! Shake it like a Polaroid Pictuah!"

Watching this transpire, I couldn't help but remember back to last year, when Hey Ya was at its heydey and a radio DJ called Polaroid to ask if it was, indeed, appropriate to "shake" a poloroid picture. "Oh, no!" the Polaroid representative had explained in mild horror, "Shaking a Polaroid can cause the colors to run and the picture to develop improperly. You should never shake a Polaroid picture."

So, with this knowledge in mind, I felt it was only fair to warn her that her actions could very well jeopardize the very picture she was clutching. "Hey," I began, "I wes listening to the radio one time, and the DJ called Polaroid, and--"

"It's a song!" Youngish interjected laughingly. "It's called Hey Ya!"

I got ready to interrupt and explain that I knew it was a song, that I was just trying to pass on some information about Proper Polaroid Procedure, but one look at her laughing face and I knew. I knew. It was futile.

Nevermind that I've been an OutKast fan since before Miss Jackson hit the airwaves almost 4 years ago, that I remember singing it on the way down to New Orleans for a spring break roadtrip. I was old. Grown-up old. Far too old to know anything about anything, obviously. At least, to a twelve-year-old.

Just like that.

Sean laughed at me. "You're old!"

"You're old, too." I replied dryly.

And so, it begins.

Sickening

Let me explain something, as quickly and easily as possible.

If you have deep religious beliefs, or deep beliefs of any kind, that conflict with the requirements of a specific position and/or career choice; You have no goddamn right to be in that position.

Are you a vegetarian? Don't get a job in a slaughterhouse and then say that your morals are being compromised by your position. Do you go into epilectic seizures every time you see a Nintendo game? Don't apply for a job at Nintendo as a game tester. You don't believe in a woman's right to choose? Don't become a pharmacist, a doctor, a nurse, or any other health worker who works with women and the choices they make. (You know, like buying birth control?)

I have the utmost respect for anyone's right to his or her own beliefs. It stops at beliefs. Using your position (especially that of a trusted medical professional) to force your beliefs upon others is not acceptable under any circumstances.

What's next? A Christian Scientist ER doc who refuses to treat anyone walking through the door?