Childhood memories swept away

I totally realize that I look back at summer family vacations in Atlantic City and Margate, NJ through the rose-colored glasses of fond memories. When I think of the beach, I don't think about the more beautiful beaches I've been to as an adult, I think of the Jersey shore with all of its problems.

My father grew up in Philadelphia. Atlantic City was the summer play place for Philly residents when he was a kid (and the nearby towns remain so even now). He spent the majority of his summers in Atlantic City with his older brother and mother. They would rent rooms in a boarding house or a small apartment and spend the entire summer there. My grandfather, who worked 6 days each week selling and delivering furniture, would take the train down on Saturday after work, then back on Sunday night or Monday morning.My dad has a boatload of stories about his summers in "AC", including seeing parts of the boardwalk float down New Hampshire Avenue during the Great Atlantic Hurricane of 1944.

My mom, on the other hand, is from northern NJ. She didn't go to the shore each summer like my dad, and she certainly didn't have the vivid stories that my dad did. North Jerseyans didn't go all the way down to AC for summer vacations; they tend to go to Seaside Heights, Long Beach Island, and other slightly more norther NJ shore towns. That was true when I was a kid -- we were the only family from my town that would regularly go down the shore (never "to the beach") to AC instead of the closer shore towns. But Atlantic City had lures for my brother and me that no other Jersey shore town had -- our grandparents and our cousins. My cousins are close in age to me. Laura is 11 months older, Rob 4 months younger, and Rich 3 years younger. My brother was in the middle there (2 years younger than me). Five kids within 4 years of each other, a mix of boys and girls, a mix of squabbling, teasing, playing and love.

Until they became sick in the late 1990's, my father's parents summered in Atlantic City or Margate, NJ. Initially, they rented a small apartment at the "Biarritz", which sounds much, much more posh in name than it was in reality. It was an old building on Iowa Ave, on the second block from the beach, right near where the Tropicana is now. The elevator was ancient, and endlessly fascinating to two kids from the suburbs -- it had a gate that swung across, and a door that opened out. Not the sliding solid metal doors on every other elevator we'd been on. The place was very small, too small for my parents, brother, and me to stay. So, every summer until 1979, we'd spend 5-7 days at the Ascot motel. Even in the early 70's it was a bit of a fleabag, but it had some great points: it was less than a block from my grandparents' place, it was on the beach block, and it had a pool. A pool! I learned to dive at the Ascot (there are some old home movies somewhere to support this). I learned to play "Marco Polo" in the pool at the Ascot. I'm sure that I ran around the pool (NO RUNNING!!) and pushed my brother in, too.

The beach in Atlantic City was fabulous for kids back then: wide, sandy (duh), with crashing waves that weren't too big. We spent hours there with our cousins -- making sand castles and drip castles, playing in the shallows, "jumping the waves" with our fathers, having sand fights. I remember (vividly) being pinched by a crab on my foot (and crying) and another year seeing my cousin Rob get pinched on his butt by a crab.

Then there are my memories of the food on and off the beach. I remember waiting desperately for the ice cream man to come and getting to pick something out. My favorites were Italian ice (lemon) or frozen chocolate covered bananas. We had plenty of snack food (courtesy of my Jewish grandmother), most of which was unhealthy. The first time I ate Pringles was on the beach in AC (potato chips in a can -- I'd never seen such a thing!). I swear that Pringles were invented just for kids at the beach. My mother fought the losing battle to make us eat something good for us on the beach. I don't ever remember packing lunch to eat on the beach, though. At some point it would become obvious that we (my three cousins, brother and I) were hungry. So we would schlep up to the boardwalk and eat hot dogs or hamburgers and fries or other equally nutritious fare from a shop or stand. Then it was back to the beach for more play. At some point we'd trek back to the Ascot for pool time.

We ate at certain restaurants that each summer. Abe's Oyster House comes immediately to mind. It closed years ago, but I distinctly remember all of us standing and waiting for a table, watching the lobsters in the tank. The White House Sub Shop was a perennial favorite. If there is any food for which I'd go off the gluten free diet, it is a cheesesteak hoagie from The White House.

And then there was the boardwalk of old. Not the boardwalk of now or of last week. The boardwalk of the 1970s and 80s. Shops that sold t-shirts, frozen custard, and knick-knacks. James Salt Water Taffy, where we would always pick up a few boxes to take home (peanut and molasses were my favorite flavors; the licorice ones were avoided at all cost). Steel's Fudge, where simply entering and smelling was glorious. And then there were the arcades. Specifically FunSpot and Playcade, where we played skee-ball mostly, trying to rack up enough tickets to get a good prize, not a crappy one. We'd usually schlep to Ocean City (NJ, never MD) to go to one (or both) of the amusement parks one evening. Then we'd fall into bed completely worn out, only to wake the next morning for more of the same.

Eventually my uncle bought a little house in Margate, on the second beach block, and my grandparents summered there for a bunch of years. It was a house. A house a little over a block from the beach down the shore! We continued the tradition of a week or so prior to school starting with the family at the shore. Amazing how many people you can fit into a house at the shore -- my grandparents had their own room on the first floor. Upstairs were a full bathroom and two bedrooms, one big and one small. Laura and I shared the little bedroom. There was room for a double bed and a little dresser and that's about it. The other bedroom was much bigger and housed my uncle, cousins and brother. My parents got stuck with the couch in the living room. 10 people, 3 bedrooms and 2 full baths -- heaven in many ways, for the kids, at least. We found new restaurants in Margate but still went to the arcades and the White House. And Lucy lived in Margate. We would walk down the beach each summer and say hi. Eventually we grew up and stopped having family vacations down the shore.

TheHusband is from Ohio. He doesn't like the beach. He doesn't have memories of this kind of vacation to lure him to the Jersey Shore. His mental image of Atlantic City focuses on the casinos and the gambling. We've gone down the shore as a family once, when ThePinkThing was 18 months old. She had no cousins to play with. I had no cousins there to hang with. It rained 5 of the 7 days we were there. TheHusband has expressed no interest in going back again.

Now I'm not sure we can.

Migraines and medications and analgesic rebound

I've been taking narcotics chronically since October 2010, because of the residual back pain. I had taken them from Nov 2009 to May 2010, while I was on warfarin for the post-op DVT/PE. Because you are my adoring audience, you are well aware that I had a 2nd DVT (not yay) in Oct 2010, which required me to take rat poison forever (also not yay, but at least I didn't have another PE). NSAIDs (those lovely anti-inflammatory meds) also thin the blood and make bleeding ulcers and bleeding in worse places (like the brain. I'm fond of my brain as it is...) more likely when combined with warfarin. For this reason, my hematologist limited me to a total of 8 naproxen 220 mg tablets (Aleve) per month. I can't tolerate the majority of neuropathic pain meds (my brain is messed up enough and those meds make it even worse!), so they are out. Thus, I went back on narcotics to keep the chronic back pain under control.

I hate the idea of taking hydrocodone daily, so I keep it to the utter minimum -- one half of a 7.5 mg hydrocodone tablet daily, with some days requiring a whole one. It's a very small dose, and I haven't had to escalate the dose in the year and a half I've been taking it. Recently I've wondered if I could actually come off the daily hydrocodone. The back pain is tolerable though still present. I have no other ailments right now that require pain meds (hello, comminuted fracture of left wrist).

So I stopped taking the hydrocodone on Sunday. And I've had a migraine now for the past 2 days. The back pain has been manageable (!) but this headache is really annoying. I suspect that there is a component of analgesic rebound to this migraine, which is especially irritating.

Analgesic rebound headaches (ARH) are chronic headaches caused by overuse of short-acting pain meds (analgesics). They are notoriously tough to get through. They can take up to 2 weeks to resolve, and one has to be careful not to substitute another short acting analgesic medication for the offending one. I've supported many a patient through this process. I just would prefer not to have to go through it myself, to be honest. This morning, I was forced to use up one of my precious Aleves, as I woke with the same migraine I went to bed with (no, I'm not talking about TheHusband, you silly people). Aleve usually works for me to abort a migraine. Not today. I hate when I experience first-hand what I've treated patients for.

I will stop complaining and look on the bright side, now. Thanks for listening.

*************************************************
Update 5/11:

Migraine pretty much gone. The back pain is definitely worse, especially in the morning. I was hunched over quite a bit this morning, but moving better by the afternoon.

Santa is not my friend

I'm "straight but not narrow", as they say. I firmly support equal rights for gays and lesbians, in all spheres.

If two gay guys get married, my marriage will not disintegrate into a pile of dust or explode like a ton of dynamite.

There is no earthly reason why gays and lesbians should not serve openly in the military.

Homosexuality is not a choice, not a disease, not a mental illness. It is in the wiring, so to speak. And so, discrimination based on sexual orientation really irks my liver, especially organized discrimination. So I choose to put my money where my beliefs are (or not put my money in this case).

(Scene: sidewalk outside local supermarket)

Salvation Army Santa (SAS): (rings bell) Donations for Salvation Army! Help the Poor this holiday season!
Neurondoc (attempts to walk by without making eye contact)
SAS: Care to make a donation?
ND (still no eye contact): No, thank you. (See, I started out polite!)
SAS: You're not going to make a donation?
ND: Nope. Sorry. (Still polite)
SAS: You don't want to help out poor people during the holiday season?
ND (now irked): I'm perfectly happy helping out poor people at any time of the year.
SAS: They why won't you give a donation? You won't miss a dollar or two. It goes to a good cause.
ND (now pissed off): It has nothing to do with me missing a dollar or two. I prefer not to donate money to Salvation Army.
SAS (looks completely shocked): What? Why not?
ND: Because I don't donate money to an organization that practices organized discrimination. Salvation Army discriminates against gay people. So my money goes elsewhere.
SAS (opens mouth, closes mouth, looks away, and rings bell)

Not much to say to that, is there?

I politely refused a Boy Scout (who came to my door in uniform) a couple of months ago. I have no idea what he was selling or wanting, but I wanted nothing to do with him. Call me a curmudgeon, but the BSA is on my shitlist, too.

9/10/11 is a cool number

Not only is it numerically cool, but it's my 11th anniversary today. Happy Anniversary to TheHusband! May we have many more! And stop snoring.




How did 11 years go by so quickly? I dunno, but they've been happy years.

QotD: Do you like your job?

This month I've decided to post every day. Since I don't have enough original things to write about (hence the desertish nature of my blog lately), I've decided to ask a new question every day this month and hope that I get answers. I have questions; you have answers.

Fine, I came up with another question, as I am sitting here at work waiting to go to a meeting with the Head Honcho. Actually, it is a series of related questions.

1) Do you like your job?
2) If so/not, why?
3) Is it the job you saw yourself doing 10 years ago?
4) What is your ideal job, if this one isn't it?

I'll answer my own questions:

1) Do you like your job?
Yes. I actually REALLY like my job. I've been at this job for only 3.5 years and never dread going into work (which I was doing at the end of my time at my last position).

2) If so/not, why?
This job allows (forces) me to learn something new everyday, I work with really smart and interesting people (even a few crazy-funny ones), and I feel that I am advantageously impacting the health of many people. Plus the job comes with really good benefits.

3) Is it the job you saw yourself doing 10 years ago?
No. If you told me I'd be doing what I'm doing and working where I'm working, I'd have laughed in your face. I would've said "I couldn't do that!" Surprisingly, I have been doing it, and doing it pretty well.

4) What is your ideal job, if this one isn't it?
I love books, my biggest vice. I've always had a desire to own a used bookstore. Maybe with an attached coffeeshop. Or be a librarian. Not that I am suited for either of those jobs, mind you. It's just that I lust after being paid to work in a bookish world...

QotD: Do you have a favorite season?

This month I've decided to post every day. Since I don't have enough original things to write about (hence the desertish nature of my blog lately), I've decided to ask a new question every day this month and hope that I get answers. I have questions; you have answers.

Do you have a favorite season of the year? I do -- it's fall, autumn, whatever you call it. I love the change from heat and humidity to crisp and cool. I like how trees that were monochromatically green suddenly become fiery red or sunnily yellow, then change again to brown. I love the sounds of dry leaves crackling underfoot. I like wearing sweaters (which makes my nice Jewish grandmother inherently happy).

I hate winter, though.

QotD: Is pink fleece fashionable?

This month I've decided to post every day. Please don't faint. Since I don't have enough original things to write about (hence the desertish nature of my blog lately), I've decided to ask a new question every day this month and hope that I get answers. I have questions; you have answers.

Question #1: Is pink fleece fashionable?

I love my pink fleecey zip-up jacket. Those of you who know me well know that, in general, I loathe pink. My bedroom when I was a kid was pepto-bismol pink (with pink and white shag carpeting -- it was the 1970's, whaddaya expect?), and I think that scarred me.

I wanted a fleece jacket a couple of years ago, but didn't want to pay full price. I already owned 3 other jackets, so I certainly didn't need it. LL Bean had fleece jackets on sale, but only pink. It was so much cheaper than the full price ones, I decided to branch out into pink. Bright pink. Really, really pink. But is a pink fleece jacket fashionable for a 40-mumble year-old neurologist? Or did I look like a dork walking into work this morning?

I can haz migraine?

Unfortunately, it seem that I can.

Some of my friends have been troubled with migraines recently. Much as I enjoy sharing things with you, I would prefer that YOU. KEEP. YOUR. MIGRAINES. TO. YOURSELVES.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Brainzz Management Services

10 on the 10th

Just like last year, I'd like to take the time to wish TheHusband a happy anniversary. Can you believe it's been 10 years?!?!

Right, me neither.



TheHusband says the tune for this song is from the William Tell Overture. Given my consistently tone-deaf state, I'm forced to agree with him by default (just like an obedient wife, I guess). Is he correct?

Bad patient

I've been a bad patient lately. I still haven't started physical therapy, a month after the neurosurgeon instructed me to. Work has been busy, and I never seem to remember to call during daylight hours. But I called today, and I'll be starting in about 10 days. I know that going back to work full-time in January set me back some -- I had no transition. I had been working 2 hours per day, then BLAM! I was working 8 hours. Given my current position, it has been hard to work a reduced schedule. Everyone wants something from me. And if they don't want it now, they want it tomorrow. It's nice to be popular, but there are limits.

But this isn't why I am a bad patient. I am about to willfully disregard the instructions from one of my doctors. If y'all remember, I had a deep vein thrombosis in my right leg, part of which migrated to my left lung (pulmonary embolus) as a bonus a week after the surgery. That blood clot bought me 6 months on rat poison ... er, I mean a blood thinner (Coumadin or warfarin). They want my level between 2.0 and 3.0. It's been 2.5 or 2.6 since early December, and I have forgotten my Coumadin dose only twice since I started taking the stuff. The hematologist put me on a crazy regimen -- 6 mg on Sun and Wed and 4 mg the rest of the days. But it clearly works, since my levels have been perfect. Today I had my blood checked, and the result was 2.8. I figured that he'd leave the dose alone. But I got a call from the nurse this afternoon instructing me to increase the dose to 6 mg alternating with 4 mg. I thought what the hell? but didn't say that out loud. I asked her if she was sure if that was correct, as my levels have been rock-solid on the other dose. She said that that is what she was instructed to tell me.

I have an appointment with the hematologist this upcoming Thursday, and I have decided to ignore his instruction. I am going to keep taking the Coumadin as I have been until I talk with him. I am not sure if I received instructions meant for a different patient, which would make sense. I have enough medical knowledge (duh) to make my own decisions, although I hate it when my own patients do that. We'll see what he says on Thursday.

Fighting over Fresca

I love Fresca. You know, that kinda tart, grapefruity soda that people either love or hate. I think more people than not hate it, but I've loved it since I was a kid. My mom would drink it sometimes, and I would snitch some from the bottle (I wonder if she ever figured that out...).

I am not a big soda drinker at all -- soda's fizziness annoys me and makes me burpy. But I do keep a 12 pack of Fresca in the house for those times when I want some soda. (aside -- TheHusband, OTOH, is a total soda-hound, with Pepsi being his libation of choice.) Funnily enough, it came out the year I was born, so we will both be 44 this year. Yay, us!

Prior to 2005, Fresca (at least in the US) came in only one flavor -- grapefruit. In 2005, black cherry/citrus and peach/citrus were added. I think that the black cherry version is an abomination (and I usually like black cherry stuff), but I adore the peach-flavored Fresca. If I had to rank the Fresca flavors, it would be 1st--peach/citrus, 2nd--citrus (original grapefruit), and a far distant 3rd is the cherry version (blech). Oddly, there are other flavors marketed in non-US markets, including a frightening-sounding "grapefruit mint". Grapefruit mint? WTF?

Anyway, there is a sort of point to this discourse on Fresca. It involves a fight over a single can of Fresca. About 4 years ago, I had the great pleasure to attend a real Hollywood premiere of a movie. I know the person who wrote and directed that movie very well and was honored (and totally juiced) to be invited. I flew out to LA from MD on a Tuesday evening, attended the premiere on Wednesday night, and flew back the next day. A whirlwind.

But not only did I get to go to this premiere, I got to go in the limo with writer/director, his family and other friends. One of the other people in the limo was my brother (of the bicycling-across-America fame). I think I've been in a limo only two other times in my life (other than the beaten up ones that take you to-and-from airports in NYC area). This was a king of limos -- a white, stretch Cadillac Escalade. The damn thing was as big as a Rose Bowl Parade float and had about the same turning radius. Only slightly worse than my Mazda station wagon, actually, but that's a separate issue. I needed a freaking stool to get into it, because I am short and it was HUGE.

There were about 10 people in the limo on the way to the premiere. We cracked open a bottle of champagne, but I, my brother, and the writer/director really don't drink alcohol. Not from any moral reasons on my part -- more because I just never really developed a taste besides get-drunk-on-it-while-in-college. Then we discovered a can of Fresca. And a fight ensued. Between me, my brother, and his friend Nina. Literally. Each of us wanted the Fresca. For our own. Grudgingly, we split the can amongst the three of us, while the rest of the passengers probably looked on with bemusement. "Fresca instead of good champagne? What the hell is wrong with them?" is probably what they were thinking. But, yes, Fresca over reasonably good champagne. And no regrets.

And I watched the movie with my eyes closed, because it was a scary movie, and I'm a wimp. The Fresca didn't fix that.

Recovery Stuff and the Lack of Blogging

Hello? Hello? Anybody there?

Yes, somebody's here. Just not blogging frequently. Or even occasionally. One other post in January does not count as "occasionally". But I will get back to it, I promise.

The recovery from the surgery has been much slower than I expected and than I like. I returned to work full-time on January 5th. I had been working only 2-3 hours/day from home in December, and then we had our Florida/cruise adventures. We returned to MD on Sunday January 3, I took a necessary recovery day on Jan 4, and then worked from home on January 5 and 6. January 7 was my first day back in the office. I had intended to ease back in, but that hasn't been the case. I've been back at full-time since then. Not really much of a transition, and it has definitely impacted the recovery. But I really do like my job, so that isn't that much of a burden.

I am to start physical therapy while I am still in the brace (which makes me look sort of like a weird Mutant Ninja Turtle). We'll see how that goes. I am still using a cane, which I HATE. But at least it isn't a walker, and I am trying to wean myself from it -- using it for longer distances and outside).

I am supposed to wear the brace for 3 months post-op, but the 3-month mark is next week (Feb 4). Can you believe that? SpineDoc will be receiving a phone call on Feb 4, as we aren't scheduled for a visit until the end of March. I want out of this thing, but only if it won't impede the damn fusion. The blood clot has not ever again been symptomatic, and I should only be on the blood thinner (aka rat poison) until early May. My levels have been beautifully consistent (2.5 or 2.6, with the target between 2 and 3) on my current dose.

Someday I will stop walking like a zombie. That was actually a topic of conversation I had with RehabDoc a couple of weeks ago. RehabDoc is handling my rehabilitation. He is a very formal but relaxed kinda guy. We address each other as "Doctor" at his request, even though we are about the same age and work in similar fields. He doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor.

The following is a reasonable transcript of the end of our recent visit:

RehabDoc: Well, it looks like everything is going along nicely. The symptoms related to the L2-3 compression have resolved. (It was probably even more Med-Speak-ish than that.)
NeuronDoc: The back still hurts. I am not really enjoying that.
RD: Give it time. You are only a little over 2 months post-op.
ND: Is this where I should be at this point?
RD (not really sighing, but close) Yes, you are recovering well. Give it time.
ND: Okay. But when am I going to stop walking like a zombie? This Frankenstein-gait is really annoying me.
RD (completely deadpan): Give that another 6-8 weeks. The scarring and fusion need to progress a bit before your gait will improve. Then you should stop walking like a zombie. However, I can't promise that you won't be attacked by a zombie in the future and then start shambling around like one again. That would be completely unrelated to the current issue.

That made me laugh for hours.

Adventures in Cooking 1

As I noted in my previous post, it is Rosh Hashanah, or the Jewish new year. It is the start of the High Holidays for observant, and even not-so-observant, Jews. I grew up in a somewhat observant household. We weren't kosher in or out of the house (mmmm, shrimp; mmmm, cheeseburgers), and we did not keep Shabbat. We celebrated the holidays that most Reformed Jewish households celebrated -- the High Holidays, Passover, and Hanukkah. As kids we were dragged ... er, um, I mean went to temple on the High Holidays (specifically Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur -- evening and daytiome services.). But really for us the holidays all revolved around family and food.

I grew up in the same town as my close-in-age cousins and about 20 minutes away from my maternal grandparents. My other cousins on my maternal side lived in VT until I was in college, so their presence at the holidays was not constant (but always pleasing). We alsways had dinner at my grandparents apartment on Rosh Hashanah. Baked chicken, brisket, mashed potatoes baked in chicken fat (beyond amazing, but too scary to eat nowadays due to the instant cholesterol deposition that occurs), kasha varnishkes, my mom's jello mold, nut cake at Passover (drool, drool), chocolate chip cookies, chopped liver... Not all at once, but eaten over a few hours. Sometimes we all ate at the dining room table with it opened all the way. Sometimes there was a separate kids table. Was my grandmother the best cook ever? No, but in my memory, the food was fabulous in every respect.

As I have said before, I find cooking to be scary. I never learned the basics (e.g., to brown meat before cooking it in a liquid so that the juices stay in). I am nervous in the kitchen and tend to follow recipes slavishly. Except that I never plan ahead and have the correct ingredients. So then I have to improvise, making me even more nervous. When I get home at the end of the day, I am not often in the mood to cook -- I am too tired. I swear that TPT thought all cooking was done in the microwave for the first 2 years of her life. But I want to cook. If I cook for us, we will inevitably eat healthier foods, less processed, less salty, less fatty. So I am determined to learn to cook some basic foods and make them well.

Last night I made chicken. All three of us prefer dark meat, so I tend to buy chicken thighs. I had about 3 lbs of chicken thighs to cook, and I wanted it to be extra good (Happy New Year and all that). So I incorporated what I had observed my aunt do when she visited, and also what Claudia did with chicken. While it was a totally simple meal, it came out great!

Basically I browned the chicken on all sides in my wok, then I poured in about 1.5 cups of water and the appropriate amount of bouillon, covered and let it simmer for about 15 minutes. I then made my own gravy for the first time ever. I listened to Claudia and made sure to mix the flour in cold water before mixing it with the drippings. Then I served the chicken and the gravy with noodles. Sliced cucumbers were the vegetable, eaten by TPT and me. Not a fancy meal, and probably not impressive for those of you who cook regularly and well, but an accomplishment for me.

Tonight I am having a coworker over to dinner, and I will be serving pot roast, egg noodles, and broccoli. What's for dessert you ask? Brainzzzzzz, of course. (It is actually peach jello made in a brain jello mold, but that's good enough for me.) I'll tell you how it all came out tomorrow.

Arcades, Skee-ball, and Air Hockey

While were staying at Great Wolf Lodge, we dropped some money in the arcade, because we all like arcades. TH loves arcade games, and he spent many hours in arcades when he should have been in school. I loved playing skee-ball (and spent many an hour doing that in one of two arcades on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City [Fun-Spot and Playcade]), so TPT comes by her love of arcades honestly.

Skee-ball has changed quite a bit since my misspent youth of the early 70's. Skee-ball, for those of you who don't know, is a game similar to bowling, but the lane is much shorter, on an upward incline, and the point is to get the baseball-sized ball into a hole rather than knock down pins. It was one of the only arcade games I was good at when I was younger, and I still do well at it.

Great Wolf Lodge has a new-fangled skee-ball game with an alien. The point of alien skee-ball is to nail the swinging pendulum and drop the alien down. Of course, while you're trying to nail the alien, it taunts you. TPT found that part hilarious. I nailed the alien twice in one game and won about 30 tickets. Good for me.

But in the back of the arcade at Great Wolf Lodge was my favoritest arcade game -- air hockey. The game I can't resist. I'll play it even if my back is killing me, and I play hard. Air hockey! You know, the game where the table blows up air from teeny tiny holes, suspending a plastic puck on a somewhat frictionless surface. This allows the players to smack the crap out of the puck using plastic handles. I LOVE this game, and I play viciously (except against little kids -- I will cut them a break). TheHusband also likes air hockey and is not averse to a good hard game.

Our first game of air hockey took place in California -- we found an air hockey table at a mini-golf/arcade place and had ourselves a "nice" game after a round of miniature golf. I bet TH something (I can't remember what) that I would whip his ass. He immediately took me up on the bet. Why shouldn't he? After all, I am short, dumpy, non-athletic, and a bit spastic. He's more than a foot taller than I am and much more coordinated. Easy meat, I suspect he thought. He played easy on me for the first minute or two, but then he realized that was a bad idea. I promptly beat his ass by a score of 7 - 1. Ka-ching!

As it happened, I had never passed along a crucial bit of information. We had an arcade-sized air hockey table in my house when I was a kid. My parents finally donated it to the local Y when my brother and I were in college. But we played it. A lot. So I had lots of practice. I regularly beat my cousins and other boys my age, and I haven't really lost my touch. I did confess after I won that first game, and he vowed never to show me any mercy ever again (at air hockey, at least).

We have an ongoing contest -- we play every time we find a full-sized table. I am the West Coast champ. I think he's the tropical champ (Florida). We found a table at the place where his 20th high school reunion was held and played best 2 out of 3 games. To his great annoyance, I won that match, so I am definitely the Ohio champ. I am now the Virginia champ as well. TPT's eyes were big as saucers watching us whale on the puck, hitting it as hard as we could. Her mom and dad were really trying to beat the other one, no holds barred. She was actively rooting for me, and she jumped up and down when I won (7 - 4). Take that, Husband!

Scary Times, End Times?

For the past 10 or so years I have been uneasy about the world I live in. Not bothered by a specific action, situation, or person. I just have had fairly constant and general feelings of unease. I can't blame it on ThePinkThing, although I have definitely become much more of a worrywart since she arrived on this planet. An only child provides for much fodder in the worrying business when her (or his) mother is inclined that way. Nothing in particular is bothering me about TheHusband (although I wish he would remember to clean his dirty dishes off the coffee table). It's not my job. I changed that a couple of years ago and really like my current position (I am probably in the minority in that I actually like my job). TheHusband's business seems to be weathering the recession or depression or whatever it is, so far.

I am uneasy about the general climate of my country. I am not overtly patriotic in that do-or-die, One-Nation-under-God kinda way. I love my country, but in an abstract sort of way, like you love a favorite uncle -- you love to spend time with him but you don't think about him constantly or even on a daily basis. Not like you love your parents, siblings, or children (if you are lucky enough to love them). Or your best friend. I am grateful that I was born, raised and live here. I am grateful for the opportunities that I have had and still have.

But I feel like my country is slowly and (not so?) silently becoming something else. Not mine. Not a place in which I am comfortable. A place in which people of substance and regular Joes cannot have a discussion about difficult topics from opposing sides. A place where emotions overwhelm rational thought and reason. A place where a dance teacher who proselytizes to young Jewish girls in her class sees nothing wrong with that and literally can't understand why the parents find it objectionable. A place where my father said to me (shortly after the election) "Now we'll see what Barack Obama does to this country; this man who people like you voted into office." People like me? People like me? What was he thinking I am, a Martian? A bogeyman? A dirty tree-hugging Liberal? This was my father, fergoshsakes, someone whom I love, saying crap like that to me, outlining the unbridgeable divide between someone like him and someone like me. A place where compromise and consensus are evil words, not goals to work toward. A place where it's all about winning and getting your way, even at the expense of other people and other ideas. A place where people use fear tactics to bolster their agendas, to separate their group from the "others", to convince their adherents that what they believe is right/good/better/God's will/whatever. A place where things like McCarthyism, fascism, and a Holocaust could occur and/or flourish.

When did this happen? Why is it happening? Am I being overreactive and paranoid? Perhaps. I don't know. I would like to be wrong. But if this is the case, how can we fight it? How do you make someone (or really boatloads of someones) see that this is where the country is heading. People who think that they are Right. And if they are right, you must be Wrong. How do you have a meaningful conversation with people who are uninterested in reasonable discourse and rational discussion?

I just don't have any answers, although I am still uneasy.

HB2Me

Aren't I cute??? Actually one of these is me, and one is TPT. We're both cute, right? Right? Thought you'd agree.

Anyway -- happy birthday to me!

Neurology 101 -- Find the abnormality

At least it explains the back pain.