OK. Which of you bitches snapped? Recently, a fellow bitter blogger, who shall remain nameless, but lives at the aforepasted link, posed a question. Basically, who is the more deserving recipient of a single bullet, with a choice of the Sham-Wow guy or the OxiClean Guy.
OxiClean Guy is dead. Coincidence? You tell me.
When the po-po comes, I'd like the record to reflect that my original comment was the one NOT condoning murder.
So this isn't so much a post, more like commentary to point you toward two others' posts.
Not long ago, I read a piece at PPR Scribe's place that shook me. The piece was about taking her two young daughters to the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.
PPR Scribe does these black and white photos on her site. They are always striking, but the photo of her daughters, in this place, taking this wicked history into their tender hearts, just wrenched my guts. I started to comment that it made me think of the Bohemian's trip to Ghana because ... but I couldn't make it mean what it means, so I deleted it and just said, "Thank you for sharing this" or some such lame nothingness.
Today, Scribe commented about the Bohemian, mentioning her own daughters, and the importance of role models. It got me thinking again about the histories that our daughters share. The Bohemian wrote quite a few posts about Ghana, but there were two that to this day make me feel like my insides are falling.
Yesterday we went to the River of the Last Bath. Basically, when the Europeans had marched their captives through Africa, they dunked them in this river so they'd be clean when they got to the coast, where all the buying was going on. A clean captive brings more money.
All the towns we passed through on the way had the the word "Assin" before the name of the town. In Twi, it means "passing", because the men and women the slave traders captured walked through there in chains. [snip]
I was afraid to go down there and look that in the face. I wished I could refuse to go. I wished that option was there. But of course it wasn't.
Whenever we pull up to these places I'm never ready. I'm like, could we come back and do this later? After my lunch has settled - after the air gets cooler - after I take some pictures of the harbor - just hold on a second. But we go in anyway and see the castle, and because of the river I handled it better than I thought I would, but it wasn't something you could look at every day and still be human.
The Bohemian is doing a Pride Profiles series on her blog. For those of you who somehow missed the incessant, shameless bragging about the Offspring up in this joint, The Radical Bohemian is my eldest daughter, just finished her junior year at Howard University and currently working as an intern for NPR. She's a music major, kickass on the piano and her own vocal pipes, an activist, organizer, professional protester, world traveler, non-revisionist history buff, an artist, a reader, a lover of puppies, and general all around badass.
Anyway, I'm really liking her series, and thought you all might too, even if you're not as biased as I am. Which is pretty blatantly biased.
Here are her first two profiles:
Last Wednesday I put Male Offspring on a plane to 0man. Took him about 18 hours and two layovers to get there. Before he even got off the ground, he was stopped by Seattle security, on account of he had two rolls bagged up in his pocket, courtesy of his friend who works in a bakery. "Hey Fred! Come take a look at this! This guy's carrying two big round things ... in his pocket!" The rolls were X-rayed and examined. Fred determined they were only rolls, after all. Homeland Security, working for America.
The Son called the next day, around noon.
Me: So, how hot is it over there?
Male Offspring: About 85F.
Me: Oh, that's not too hot, considering it's 0man in June.
MO: It's midnight here.
The Bohemian: Oh, you'll be all alone in the house ...
Me: Your sister comes home tomorrow night, so there's actually only one night overlap.
The Bohemian: Like I said, you'll be all alone in the house.
Episode VIII: Shiver Me Timbers
Thanks to those who thought to call the authorities. I am not rotting among the worms and beetles in the crawl space. It's been sunny here.
Enough said.
My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.
OK, so there's this planter box in my front yard, about 8'x8', framed by landscaping timbers. The timbers go on to form a retaining wall that runs the length of my driveway. The previous owner -- you all remember him -- the guy who made $100,000 profit from a scant 2 years' of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, that guy allowed grass to completely overtake the planter box. Since moving in, I've been showcasing an 8'x8' square of monster grass. Oh, and a Japanese Maple tree. It's in the box, too. I wonder if my neighbors were ever able to reconcile their envy?
Male Offspring, adjusting his iPod about halfway through the de-grassing.
Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.
De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?
Episode VII: Where's the Heat
It's been a while between TOMFH posts, in part because I apparently skipped the mother of all disasters. I realized this today, upon trying to figure out what episode I was on. (Had I known this was going to be a friggin' series, I'd have paid more attention to the numbering from the beginning.) Click the home.improvement tag for the big picture of my lovely abode.
Anyway, while cleaning up the series numbering, I realized I'd never even blogged about replacing the gutter that fell down in front of my garage door, let alone replacing the roof. Yes, the roof. Last October I actually had to replace the entire roof. I'm sure you all can imagine the cost. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction to discovering the sound of steady dripping, one rainy night at 2am, as I crawled through the attic portal in my closet, juggling my flashlight, plastic buckets, and the wood planks that served as a makeshift crawlway to prevent me from falling between the rafters and crashing through my living room ceiling. Yes, it would've been one hell of a ranting, railing, TOMFH post, but apparently I was too traumatized to write about it.
So. Let's move on, shall we?
Today's episode. My water heater is having performance issues. As in, it's not working at all.
Yesterday I was home sick. That's another thing -- looking back over my TOMFH series, I realized these things often happen while I am sick. Just one more way this house sticks it to me.
Anyway, a sick day seemed an opportune time to address my maddeningly slow internet, so I called the cable guy. Then I realized he'd have to get behind the TV cabinet. Seeing as there was enough dog hair back there to build another dog, I got out the vacuum. And promptly blew a fuse.
So when Male Offspring said the water wasn't very hot for his shower, I figured I'd blown the water heater fuse too. No biggie. We flipped the breaker switch, figured we'd be back in hot water by morning.
You know where this is going. It wasn't the fuse. Of course it wasn't.
It won't surprise you to know that my water heater, like my furnace, is located under the house. Of course it is. I crawled into the dark maw this morning, but couldn't actually get to the damn thing, due to to the expert job Teen Demon and I had done wrapping it in its own special "water heater blanket". So the damn brokeass thing is warm and cozy, while I am reduced to scrubbing my goosebumps in a cold shower.
No, I am not yet that desperate. I stink. You all know how I am about the cold.
So I am now "troubleshooting". The son and I remembered that the water had seemed unusually hot the last couple of days. Best case scenario, it overheated, tripping its auto shutoff dealy thing, and I just need to reset it. Those of you who are longtime TOMFH readers know that this most certainly will not be the case. Mid-level scenario, I will need to replace the thermostats, or possibly the elements. As with the oven, I think I can do this myself, although draining the thing will be a bitch, seeing as how it's in the crawl space, below ground level. Worst case scenario, I will waste my money on replacement elements, and after much aggravation, end up buying a whole new water heater, paying some guy with plumber's crack $5000 an hour for installation, and crawling back under there to wrap the new heater in a new cozy insulation blanket. It's a given that no one will be available for install for at least 3 days, and I will freeze my ass off taking cold showers, because that's the way This Old Motherfucking House rolls.
If you don't hear from me, tell the authorities to look under the house.
Last August I wrote about the murder of Luis Ramirez. Today I read that his murderers, local football heroes in the small town of Shenandoah Pennsylvania, have been officially deemed not guilty of murder by an all-white jury. Apparently they are merely guilty of "simple assault".
I am sickened, but not surprised.
My original post was called Hate, Murder, and Small Town Football, because it was as much about the particular dynamic between small rural communities and their football heroes as it was about the brutal murder of Luis Ramirez. When I read the details last summer, my first thought was, these boys are going to walk.
Shenandoah is a small town of 5,000 in Pennsylvania. I went to high school in a town of about 6,000 in southern Ohio. When I read the quotes from local police, the histories of the accused boys, and the comments of some of the townspeople, it was familiar territory. Not the murder, but that certain feel within an insulated community of "born 'n raised" folks and the relationship they have with their football team. It's not something that can be found or understood in cities, or even the suburbs. It's not something easily explained. But it is real. Real enough that I knew - and I bet the people of Shenandoah knew - that in the end, these boys would walk.
What message does this verdict send, as our country becomes more and more polarized, the anti-immigration crowd becomes more strident, and Swine Flu is associated with a nationality, a skin color? What message? Will the next drunken mob of high school heroes, amped up on testosterone and hate, take heed from this verdict, or will they feel righteous and invincible?
Last August I hoped justice would win out in the end. I hoped I would be surprised by the verdict. In the end, those boys walked. And I am not surprised.
Photo: Joe Spring, New York Times, Sep-07
So I bought a new computer. Finally. There was a suitable mourning period for The Brick, longer than most, but considering that he served faithfully - if not always efficiently - for what, 9 years, it was the least I could do.
I hope he isn't looking down from eHeaven, betrayed that I moved on too quickly.
Anyway, my research into different brands, models, and options was all for naught, seeing as I suddenly developed what my Dad refers to as a hair up my ass. Mainly because I have to do a PowerPoint presentation for my advocacy group by the 16th, and I have to do my damned taxes. By the 15th, as you all know. Yes, I procrastinated the taxes again. So what. That shit is stressful.
So, with the proverbial hair chapping my ass, I got off work Friday afternoon, rushed to Costco before they closed, and just picked one. While Costco has great prices and customer support, they do not have a lot of choices. I think there were maybe 9 computers, total. The huge $1150 top of the line and the tiny netbook were out of the question. Two others were Acers, which the Costco guy said were actually more dependable than HP in his experience, but I just couldn't imagine crowing, yeah baby, bought me an Acer! So that left roughly 4 HP models and 1 Dell.
If my IT buddies from my old job had seen me choosing this computer, they would've called me a girl. And not in a good way. Bastards. Of course I looked at specs first. Both the Dell and one of the HPs had roughly the same specs. So what was the final hand wringing about? Important stuff, that's what. The so-called girl stuff.
The HP, while smaller, had these very cool and funky graphic designs on the outer lid and below the keyboard, where your wrists rest. The Dell looked plain and clunky, but had a backlit keyboard. Ooh, handy for typing in the dark. Also a bigger monitor screen, but let's not lie - the real issue was backlit keyboard v. cool designs. Also, the HP touch pad was that shiny glossy silver. Fingerprints and grubby smudges all over it. Gross! You could practically see Little Johnny's booger trails overlaying the evidence of Uncle Frankie's earwax exploration. Nasty! The Dell's touchpad was silver too, but slightly textured, more matte, kind of a slick Teflon feel. No fingerprints, no greasy trails of Costco customer nastiness.
In the end, I went for the Dell Studio 1537. Intel Core2Duo, 2GHz processor, 500GB drive, 4GB RAM, wireless N, 64bitOS (yes, Vista, dammit, but I was at the point of ohfuckit. I'll upgrade to 7 next year).
I was pissed off, however, to later find that this particular model comes in colors. Granted, it's not the funky graphic designs of that cute little HP, but still, I can handle clunky a lot better if it's lime green clunky. Or orange. Or red. Yes, I could've gotten colors at Best Bitch, but that's a shopping experience for those who 1) walk in knowing exactly what they want, or 2) are willing to put up with sales bullshit from some teenager who's working part time for weed money. Oh, and 3) are willing to pay out the ass for the same model that Costco sells for cheaper. That too.
So here I am on my plain, black, no-nonsense new Dell. Clunky, as opposed to funky. Like a sleeker, lighter, powerhouse version of The Brick. (Gentlemen, we can rebuild him, we have the technology. Better than he was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.) Maybe it was some weird subconscious way of holding on to The Brick. You know, like when people pick boyfriends who are really like their fathers?
I know some say Dell sucks ass, but The Brick did last over 9 years. He was the Methuselah of laptops. I know people who've had 4 or 5 computers over the course of The Brick's lifespan. Of course, The Bohemian also had a Dell, and it gave her the blue screen of death in it's 3rd year or so, but that happened immediately after she lent it to a friend who is not above surfing spammy porny sites. You figure it out.
Anyway, it's got decent enough specs to last me a good while, I can blog, I can do my PowerPoint, and I can do my goddamn fucking sonofabitching taxes.
But ... I am really pissed off that the backlit keyboard turned out to be white. WTF, Dell? Everybody knows you use blue for some shit like that! At least red, damn. Anyway, this could be a major issue. Good thing Costco has that 90 return policy.
I have Frozen Shoulder. Again. I had a it a few years ago, before I started blogging. Never heard of it? Neither had I. It's officially called Adhesive Capsulitis. See, your tissues freak the hell out and form bands of tight, inflamed adhesions throughout the capsule surrounding your glenohumeral joint. The scarred and inflamed capsule constricts the joint, locking it into its own private hell. Range of motion is severely restricted, pain is basically comparable to having your shin broken with an axe, and duration can range from a few months to 2 years or more.
This shit hurts, people. It has 3 stages:
So yeah, I had this 3 or 4 years back. Took over a year and a half to run its course. I remember when I was diagnosed. I thought Frozen Shoulder sounded stupid. Like some wimp-ass diagnosis for big crybabies or hypochondriacs. Adhesive Capsulitis sounded better, but still. Didn't sound like a "real" condition, like a torn rotator cuff, or bone spur, or something badass like that. I soon found out different.
Frozen Shoulder is not for pussies, people.
Put it this way, I had 3 babies with no drugs. The offspring weighed between 8lb 10oz, to 9lb 1oz. No drugs. I made it through shin splints in Basic Training with only Ben-Gay for relief. I had two wisdom teeth pulled with only local anesthetic. I can do pain. I'm a woman. But dealing with that Frozen Shoulder wore me down. It was rough. And it's back.
The other night my shoulder suddenly seized up in a cramp. (This would be the aforementioned "acute pain".) I screamed like a girl and cried. Literally. Screamed and cried. Male Offspring was about to take me to the emergency room. Of course, he probably just wanted to drive, but still. He gave me what he called Hug Therapy afterward. This is from a teenage boy, folks. If I had to deal with that pain for the length of a labor ... I couldn't do it. I'd be screaming for the drugs in 5 minutes.
When my shoulder started hurting a few months back, I figured I had wrenched it somehow, you know, with my active lifestyle and all, and didn't think much of it. But as time went on, I had to face the fact that I was having a relapse. According to the literature, relapses are extremely rare. Surprise, I'm one of the lucky few who get to experience that rare treat.
Whee.
This time is worse, in a way. Worse because I know what I'm in for. The first time, I could trick myself. You know, say things like, "Maybe I'll be one of those people who heal in a few months." or "The physical therapy will speed up the process." Complete bullshit, but it had a psychological placebo effect. This time, I know what's up.
I don't think I can do this again, people. It's like getting scared of childbirth once you're already pregnant. Ain't no getting out of it now - you're in it for the duration. And my neck's not long enough to gnaw my arm off.
I can't tuck in a shirt, let alone reach in a back pocket. I can't hook my bra. I can't reach across to wash my other shoulder. Shaving under that arm is a joke. Deodorant, too. Taking a coat off sucks.
Washing, drying, and styling my hair mostly one-handed is frustrating, painful, and makes me mad at hell. It also renders me unable to let go of my anger and resentment toward Laura, the bitch who butchered my hair. Every day I hate her more, and I'm not generally into hate, except for George Bush. I'm telling you, every day it festers, and that shit's not healthy. Catching her in an alley while armed with a pair of pinking shears has replaced winning the Lottery as my main fantasy.
Showering has become a dreaded ordeal and leaves me feeling like a big crybaby. I've considered going to work in pajamas rather than face getting dressed. And my pajamas aren't pretty, people. Sleep is difficult. That's an understatement. I'm ODing on Valerian and Unisom. I don't want to go on prescription pain relievers or sleep aids, because of the length of time involved with this thing. I mean, popping hard drugs for a couple of weeks or even a month is one thing, but when you're talking upwards of a year, that's something else. Who wants to end up like Rush Limbaugh?
The worst is making involuntary movements - like if you stumble and try to catch yourself, or automatically reach out to catch something, or if something startles you and makes you jump. Agony. There's a fraction of a second between the time you make the movement, and the time that agony slams you like a rabid water buffalo on crystal meth, when you realize what you've done. That's the fraction of a second you consider bashing your head on concrete to knock yourself out. But there's not enough time.
To add to the fun, it's my right shoulder, and I'm right-handed. I already mouse left-handed at work, so that's ok, but I'm starting to do other things left-handed. I'll be ambidextrous by the time this shit's over.
I've heard of some people who get bilateral FS. That's right, both arms at once! How do those guys wipe their asses? Or drive? Or eat? Or do anything? Holy hell. If that happens, you'd better hope you have a partner or a live-in aide, because I don't see how you'd manage. It sucks having FS as a single person, even with only one arm affected. Basically, I can reach forward, to a certain height, with no problem. Any other direction is a definite no-go. At least I can type. Good thing -- that's pretty important for my job, hello. Like anyone needs a reason to stand out in this economy.
There is a surgical treatment option, but my HMO wouldn't go for it. Likewise the cortisone injections I've heard some patients get. Cheapass bastards. The only treatment my HMO approves is physical therapy. Last time, they did a few initial sessions with me, but basically handed me some papers with instructions and cartoon illustrations and told me to go home and do it on my own. Then they collected their co-pay. But hey, we've got to guard against the evils of "socialized medicine", because American medical care is the best in the world!
Actually, maybe I was better off doing it at home. Check out this poor bastard. I can't even imagine being able to move my arm up that high, so he must be coming along nicely. Pay no attention to the screams. It's all about progress in physical therapy. No pain, no gain.
Brutal. My former drill sergeant is probably a physical therapist now. The one who got kicked out for trainee abuse. Anyway, this whole thing is making me really pissy.
I mean more than usual.
Speaking of soccer ...
The Bohemian is back from China. Yes, she went to China, and no, that has absolutely nothing to do with soccer. Don't rush me, I'm getting there, ok? So the Bohemian went to China with a small group of singers from her University choir, sponsored by the State Department. Ten cities. That child has been more well-traveled than I am for about 8 years now. She was in Ghana over the summer, and now China. She's also been to Venice, Belgium, and Toronto without her dear mother. I'm hoping she'll move to Costa Rica one day and buy a house with an extra bedroom, but hey, that's just me.
Anyway, she and the rest of her singing crew were such a hit that they bagged an invitation to sing at another venue.
South Africa, 2010.
Yes, the World Cup, people - the friggin' World Cup.
The Bohemian is beside herself. Naturally.
