Adventures in Spanish Class

So I'm taking two classes this quarter, including Spanish. Given the work I'm doing with the school district and the commissioner position with the city, I figured I need to get off my ass and hablar. My German and Hungarian aren't doing me much good these days.

Please. Look at me, acting like I ever could ever actually speak Hungarian.

This is the first time I've tried to learn a language without living in a country where that language is spoken. Immersion is the way to go, folks. Also, having learned other languages is an advantage because concepts are familiar, but it's a disadvantage when the teacher calls on you, and you  pop out with something like, "Igen, tengo harom Kinderek," or some other fucked-up linguistic amalgam.

The instructor is excelente. He's a native Spanish speaker who doesn't baby you or move at a snail's pace. Thankgawd. My kids' high school Spanish teacher was this white lady with the absolute worst gringa accent ever. Like when you jam pencils in your ears to make it stop. School districts won't hire qualified native speakers but will hire less-proficient people to teach a language. The only native speaker in my district is the Chinese teacher, and I bet you $10 that's only because they couldn't find a non-Chinese person who speaks passable Chinese. Sounds kind of like affirmative action for white folks.

But I digress. So, my class. It's amazing, the comments that fall out of people's mouths. The instructor sometimes mutters under his breath that he only has X number of years before he can retire. He gives "cultural points" for extra credit. You have to write about one of his recommended books, films, restaurants or dance places.

I wish he'd never assigned that shit.

Classmate 1 (raising hand): So, for the cultural points ... does Azteca count?

No. Not even kidding. But that was fine compared to what came later.

Classmate 2 (to me): Well, for my cultural points, I had a coffee date with a Spanish man!

Me: (ohmyfuckinggod) I ... didn't realize you had a friend from Spain.

Classmate 2: Oh, he's not from Spain! I wish!

Me: (here we go) So, he's not Spanish.  He speaks Spanish.

Classmate 2: (blank stare) Um ...

Me: If he's not from Spain, he's not Spanish.

Classmate 2: Well, he's ... where is he from? Oh! Brazil! He's from Brazil.

Me: Brazil? And he speaks Spanish? That's interesting ...

Classmate 2: Well, not really, seeing as he's from Brazil!

Me: They speak Portuguese in Brazil.

Classmate 2: (blank stare) Well ... I don't know about all that, but a date with a Spanish man should work for cultural points! And, he was muy caliente!

Then there was the time she slipped me a note about our instructor that said, "He's such a Latin macho! But I like him!!" Yeah, I'm sure the professor will be thrilled that he meets with your approval in spite of his alleged machismo. The reason he has been pegged as such is that he insists on proper grammar and pronunciation, and doesn't do a lot of hand-holding.

 I'm thinking that makes him a "good instructor" rather than a "Latin macho", but what do I know.

So I go to this study group the other day. I was invited by a woman who speaks English fluently after only two and a half years in-country. Spanish will be her fourth language. I figure she knows how the hell to learn a language, I'm studying with her. Another woman in the group, a self-professed conservative Republican proceeded to trash President Obama, informing the younger students that the President is a socialist who's gotten the country into debt. Yeah, honey, I think the last eight years had something to do with that, actually. Anyway, she had these gems to offer:

Classmate 3: Well, my introduction to this culture was dating a Spanish man for five years. I was practically a member of his family! But I never learned the language.

Me: (Again with the Spanish man.) So ... he was from Spain?

Classmate 3: Well, he was half Mexican and half Apache on his father's side, so you know ... [waves hand, dismissively] but his mother, she was born in Spain, so ...

Me: So he was Mexican as well.

Classmate 3: Well ... anyway, you know how most Mexicans have, you know, Aztec or Maya background? Well, he had Apache, so he had the very defined cheekbones. He never cut his hair; his father told him never to cut it because he was a warrior, you know. I got in touch with him some time later, and asked if his hair was still long, and he was all [mimes annoyance] "Yeeesss...", and I was like, dude, you're 55 years old now!

Me: That's his culture, it doesn't have an expiration date.

Classmate 3: Oh, totally! I know! He was just beautiful! So exotic! Anyway, the reason I'm taking this class is so I can move somewhere and teach English as a Second Language. I want to get certified to teach Spanish too.

Another classmate: Really? Where?

Classmate 3: Well, I lived in Arizona for years, but never even crossed the border, because you know, [dismissive wave] Mexico, I just didn't care. But Spain or Argentina ... I'd love to go there! Yep, much more interested in Spain or South America than Central America or Mexico. But I wouldn't say that to my friend!

Everyone else: ...

Classmate 3: In fact, another friend -- he's a very wealthy Argentinian -- actually said to me [mimes snootyassedness] "You're speaking with a Mexican accent!"  But I wouldn't say that to my friend, the one I was telling you about!

Me: What friend? (wondering how this chick is picking up a Mexican accent when our instructor is Puerto Rican)

Classmate 3: Oh, my friend who helps me with my assignments. She checks all my homework for me. She's Mexican.

Are you fucking kidding me? So ... your friend is good enough to check your homework, work on your assignments with you, and basically help you get an A in the class, but you don't want to pick up her accent or visit her country? In fact, you want to learn her language in order to move to one of the countries with a higher population of what you consider white people, and get paid to teach -- probably in a position where your friend, the native speaker who helped your ass pass this class, wouldn't be hired.

 What the hell, people?

Needless to say, she clammed up when I started up about how great it is that our instructor is a native speaker, because some schools pass over the native speakers to hire gringos, and then you don't get good instruction, because they're, you know, [dismissive wave] not as qualified.

I'm going to go off before I hit Spanish III, I just know it.

Help! I'm Being Held Hostage by Facebook!

I'm still alive. I've even been online. Just ... not here. Okay, let's just get this over with. I'm a Facebooker. I know. I know! Resistance was futile.

I only did it as a way to connect with a group of kids who went through this year's Freedom School. But it kind of sucks you in. Like the Borg. I was all, "I'm only going to friend the Freedom School kids. Oh ... and the adult community organizers, I guess they have to be on there, too." But then, I realized I can't not accept my kids' friend requests. And then these requests started coming in from real-life friends who were already Facebooking. So it was like, okay, but only these friends; it will be a great way to stay in touch, since I suck ass at that kind of thing. Then my uncle, aunt, cousins and sister were on, and then folks I used to hang with in Hungary, and then ... yeah.

Snowballed.

It's kind of chapping the ass of my comfort zone though. You can't be anonymous on FB. Blogging, yeah, anybody can see your blog, but they don't know it's you. Unless you tell them. And with a pseudonym, no one can search for you. It's safe. Like you have control. You don't have to worry about pissing off the mayor or your coworkers or your mom with your "crazy Left Coast notions". You may piss off strangers, but who the hell cares?

I found myself wanting a compartmentalized Facebook experience. Like, one FB window for my ultra-liberal homies, another FB for family who just want to know what the kids are up to but don't want to hear about universal health care, another FB for the official city/county people I do work with, another FB for the old crew, another FB for the youth we're mentoring ... you know, like that.

But no. That's not the way Facebook works. Oh, no. It's one big old cyberfest. La-di-da-di, everybody. It brings all your circles of contacts crashing into each other like a giant cyberpileup. So the atheist uncle is BAM, right there with your conservative Republican relations. Your antiracist friends? BAM! Right there with that guy you knew in the 90s who says "Heil Reagan!" Your kids, right there with the folks you used to hang with in that little bar with the ... well, you get the picture.

So I'm adjusting. It's completely different from blogging. And I've missed being here with you bastards. I feel relieved to be back in my Cowbell world, actually. But FB has it's own place, and ... I guess it's cooler than I thought it would be.

Holy hell, people, I'm a facebooker.

History

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.

If you want to understand why people "can't just let it go", read about the River of the Last Bath.

After that, if you want to know why history still hurts, why it's not all-over-now-anyway, read about Elmina Castle, that splendid structure where the Portuguese, Dutch, and British processed enslaved Africans for their passage to the New World. The photo above is from Elmina.

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.

I don't know how anyone can read the rest of those posts without having a perspective shift, without having the air sucked out of them, but reading the words from my daughter ... holy hell, people. That hurts. More so knowing that I can't even understand it. Not really. She is my child, of my body, but as a white person, I can never know the pain she felt. Not really. I'll never be able to shield her from it or take it from her. It was her history, her experience, not mine -- she had to walk there without me, get gutpunched without me, internalize it, mourn it, fight it, and (try to) heal from it without me. She walked with her friends, her sisters, who carried that horrible heaviness with her. I can imagine it, I can think I understand it, but I can not. Not really.

When I read Scribe's post, read about her daughters' tears, about looking out the windows across the Ohio, another River, it hurt my heart to think of all the little girls and boys who have to face this history, reconcile it. Other little girls and boys get to choose whether or not to face it - and their part in it. But it made my heart glad to read about a parent who is teaching her daughters, who is there to walk with them, to share the weight of it. To arm them.

It must've been hard for PPR Scribe and the Bohemian to write these things down, to share them. I hope you take the time to read their posts. And teach your children. Thank you, ladies.

Pride Profiles, Bohemian Style

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:

Gladys Bentley

Dr. Sara Josephine Baker

Click, learn, enjoy.

Empty Nest. Sort of.

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.

Oh.

Yes, I am jealous, thanks for asking.

So he'll be there at least until the end of the month. He may stay longer, but hasn't decided yet. The Ex has some fun stuff planned for him, like getting him certified for scuba diving, riding ATVs in the desert, and the like. Very cool stuff for a kid. They may even visit the Rich Man's Paradise of Dubai, where they can indoor ski and visit man made islands.

So, of course, a day or two after Male Offspring's arrival, Somali pirates conducted their first ever attack on a ship in 0mani waters. Wonderful. What are the odds? I just hope the kid wasn't scuba diving in the vicinity.

The Bohemian won't be home much this summer, seeing as how she got a paid internship with NPR and is currently kicking ass doing all sorts of web stuff at her new J-O-B. She is also preparing for her senior recital (!!!) in the fall and hanging out with her significant other. She called me the day her brother left.

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.

Teen Demon is home for the summer. So to speak. Can she already have finished her first year of college? Kids, a little consideration, please -- you're making Mommy feel old. Not cool. So the Demon has a summer job as a cake decorator, making use of her awesome cake decorating skillz. She brought home a buttload of stuff, spent a day in cleaning mode getting her old room back in order, which included hanging a giant shoe holder and a Tupac poster up on her pink walls. Then she left to go camping and fishing.

My ass has been too damn busy to feel lonely though. Besides, the dogs are still here with me. Never underestimate the value of a captive audience.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VIII

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.

My time in the sun, while incrementally addressing my Vitamin D deficiency, ultimately pulled me into yet another episode of housing woes.

There's a 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 two years of home ownership? The guy who sold me This Old Motherfucking House about a week before the housing slump was announced? Yeah, well, he let grass 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.

Male Offspring dug out all the grass for me, on account of my lameass frozen shoulder that can't operate a simple manual shovel. Grass roots run deep, people. Deep. Good thing the boy's got first class tickets to the gun show. We found Hens & Chicks (the plants, not the animals) buried in the grass. I rescued them, and replanted them. Took forever. Anyway, my yard was finally going to look nice! I bought plants. Perennials. Forget that annual shit. Go with the ones that come back every year. I also got mulch and peat moss and gardening gloves. Cute ones. The plants are still babies, but by midsummer that box will be bursting with bloomage.

Yeah baby, time for a little respect from the neighbors. That's right.

Right: rescued, replanted Hens & Chicks, plus other formerly buried plants.
Left: monster grass.

Anyway, everything was going fine, until I noticed the retaining wall was falling out toward the driveway at the point where it's supposed to connect to the planter box. Shit. Also the timbers at the front of the planter box were looking dicey. We took out a few pieces to assess the extent of damage, and found some serious rot going on.

Holy hell. I just wanted to plant some friggin' plants and lay some mulch. But that's not how This Old Motherfucking House rolls.

So I spent about $60 on galvanized steel brackets, a drill bit as long as my forearm, and some bigass galvanized screws. The plan was to remove enough dirt that we could pull the retaining wall back in place, reattach everything with the brackets, and call it a day.

Long story short, it didn't work. Apparently, a wood retaining wall is supposed to have vertical support posts sunk in concrete OR these things called "tie backs" -- pieces of wood attached to the wall's backside, buried in the ground, anchoring the wall in place. My retaining wall, of course, had neither.

Who chooses wood in this never-ending rainhole anyway? CheapAss former owners who make a quick profit and leave you with a fucked up house, that's who.

De-grassed dirt and rotting timbers exposed. See the wall falling out toward the driveway?

So we're going with the interlocking concrete block option. The DIY ones that don't need mortar. Yep. Time all is said and done, probably about another $500 dropped on This Old Motherfucking House. At least they won't rot before I sell this joint.

This shit was not even on my summer project list! Here's what was on my summer project list:

1. Re-tile moldyass shower tiles (this is going to be a bitch of a job).
2. Replace 80s wood vanity, fixtures, and cracked bathroom sink.
3. Replace linoleum floor with tile, and paint bathroom walls.
4. Install window blinds.
5. Replace rotting front deck.

Yes, CheapAss Former Owner used 1/2" thick untreated boards to build the front porch. In the Pacific Northwest. Bastard. New lumber and a nail gun or drill that can handle wood screws is going to be several hundred right there. I did not need another outdoor project, people!

Other possible items for the summer project list included:

6. Refinish wood floors formerly covered by urine-spotted burgundy carpet (another bitch of a job)
7. Replace fucked up, mismatched tiles of fireplace hearth.
8. Paint over uglyass dining room paneling
9. Paint TeenDemon's pink and orange walls. This requires some kind textured paint skills, since her walls were spackled by a blindfolded drunk at some point in TOMFH's history.
10. Install closet organization systems.
11. Replace 1980s ceiling fan in dining room.

None of this even touches my 1950s kitchen with its ancient wood cabinets shellacked in Paint Coats of Many Colors, and its olive green and brown laminate counter.

Seriously, I did not need this retaining wall bullshit. And it's got to be scheduled when Male Offspring is home, but he's working overtime on homework and finals so he can leave school early to go visit his dad in friggin' Oman until sometime in July.

Really, Son? You chose world travel, diving certification, and adventure over building a retaining wall?

For now, the front of my de-grassed, soon-to-be-beautiful planter box is not filled with gorgeous trailing plants. Rather, it is being shored up with big bags of mulch, so as to keep the remaining dirt and new baby plants from being washed into the street. Hello, Tackmeister? Nice yard.


I guess I'll have to wait a while for that respect from the neighbors. At least my new roof looks good.

This Old Motherfucking House: Episode VII

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 mentioned 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. Moving on.

Today's episode. The water heater stopped working.

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 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 $5,000 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 three 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.

Luis Ramirez's Murderers Walk

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

The Brick on Bionics

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, nine 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 because 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 nine 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 four 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. 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: smaller, but with funky graphic designs on the lid and where your wrists rest.
The Dell: plain and clunky, but with a backlit keyboard. Bigger screen.

Okay, size matters, but let's not lie - the real issue was backlit keyboard vs. cool designs. Also, the HP touch pad was that shiny glossy silver. Fingerprints and grubby smudges all over it. Nasty! You could practically see Little Johnny's booger trails overlaying the evidence of Uncle Frankie's earwax exploration. Gross! The Dell's touchpad was 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 nine years. He was the Methuselah of laptops. I know people who've had four or five 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 its third year, but that happened immediately after she lent it to a friend who is not above surfing spammy porny sites. You figure it out.

Anyway, decent enough specs to last me a good while: I can blog, I can PowerPoint, and I can do my goddamn, motherfucking, 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.

The Hell That is Frozen Shoulder

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. This 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 two years or more.

This shit hurts, people. It has three stages:

• FREEZING: this is when you're basically wracked in pain. All the fucking time. Two kinds of pain, actually: chronic pain that is worse at night, and acute just-kill-me-now pain when you accidentally move past your ever-decreasing range of motion. This is where I am now.
• FROZEN: this is when the pain supposedly starts to fade, but the capsule has basically locked your arm into a very limited range. Good luck wiping your ass. This is the time to introduce excruciating physical therapy, in order to try and coax your shoulder into moving again.
• THAWING: this is where your motion is supposed to gradually come back. It's not very common to regain your full range of motion. The agonizing PT is continued through this phase.

So yeah, I had this three or four 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 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 three babies with no drugs. Two of the offspring were just under nine pounds, one was just over nine pounds. No drugs. I made it through shin splints in basic training with only Ben-Gay for relief. Hell, I made it through basic training, period.  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 five 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. 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? Please. Deodorant is spotty at best. Taking a coat off sucks.

Washing, drying, and styling my hair mostly one-handed is frustrating, painful, and makes me mad as hell. It also renders me unable to let go of my anger and resentment toward Laura, the heifer 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. I'm right-handed. I already mouse left-handed at work, so that's okay, 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 the hell 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. The only treatment my HMO approves is physical therapy. Cheapass bastards. 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 do it on my own at home. Then they collected their copay. But hey, we've got to guard against the evils of "socialized medicine" because US 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.