The Emotionally Unavailable and the Perimenopausal

In the Baltimore Examiner, there's a column written called "Single in the City."

There's a guy who writes it named Dan Collins, and some female named Joan Something-or-other joins him, and they write about topics of importance to singletons.

Dan's little bio at the end of the column lists him as a "terminally single 40-something." Yeah, no joke.

Back when the first "Single" column was published, he was the sole writer. I could tell by about the third paragraph (and he wasn't listed as "terminally single", back then, either), that he was indeed the dreaded Emotionally Unavailable, or as I call it, EU.

How could I tell? His total lack of realism in what he was looking for in a mate. Fantasy is a happy, happy thing, and it's something that we all engage in, some of us more than others, but if you want a real-life partner, you've got to have a real-life attitude. He doesn't.

If only I'd known the phrase and its dreaded warning signs lo these many years.

I'd gone back into psychotherapy last May to figure out what I was doing wrong when it came to men. And my very first session, my therapist dropped the phrase "emotionally unavailable" on me. It was like she was Annie Sullivan to my Helen Keller. Once I did lots and lots and lots of research, I realized that yes, time after time, I was dealing with the EU in different forms, all male.

Once I began to put the pieces together, I was both fascinated and repulsed. How could I have been so stupid all this time? I kept trying and trying to make that proverbial silk purse out of a sow's ear, or in most cases, the sow's asshole, and of course, it didn't work. Why not? It all harkened back to the dreaded childhood issues, and realizing that both my parents were indeed emotionally unavailable themselves. And I did a fine job of making myself frazzled and wondering what was wrong with me. What was wrong with me was that I was trying to do the impossible. And I kept feeding into it, and the more I invested myself, the more I felt I needed to invest, so as not to prove myself wrong from the beginning. And of course, it had been doomed to failure from the giddy-up, even before, so how was I supposed to make something work that was bound for failure. I could have planned on climbing Mt. Everest in a bikini and had more luck.

I wasn't stupid at all, really, although I'm still working on forgiving both myself and the others involved for all I went through. I saw the warning signs way in advance in some cases, and I just soldiered on, all too eager to convince myself that the good outweighed the bad. It didn't.
And yes, hell, yes, did I contribute to the situations. I'm not so foolish to believe it was all them and not me. That's why I hastened back to Ye Olde Psychotherapy Shoppe last May--something had to give. There's so much I had to work on, and so much I'm still working on, but now I understand why, and that makes such a difference.

There was also the hormonal demon rearing its ugly head for the past few years: What I thought was digestive problems was really adrenal fatigue (extreme adrenal fatigue) due to perimenopause, which didn't help my energy, or my moods. Once I finally got a proper diagnosis, I began to understand how I was just compounding the fracture of an EU relationship. I don't know how long ago it had really begun (the adrenal fatigue/perimenopausal crap, that is), maybe as far back as 10 years ago. Perimenopause doesn't always begin right before menopause if the hormones are out of whack. And yes, mine were indeed. I began "getting" it once I went back to an acupuncturist, but it wasn't until a stroke of good luck had me see a book "Hormone Hell, Hormone Well" at the library. I don't know why, but I thought it would be an interesting skim-through one night. It was. The doctor wrote about a patient of his who was just about a 95% match for me and my symptoms. It was then that I began to once again be my own best doctor and order the things I needed to help get me started back to having energy again.

So now, I'm able to get a better grip on things, physically, mentally, and emotionally. There was no magic cure, and I'm not where I want to be in any of the three areas yet, but I'm seeing results in at least one of the areas every day, as are others. I've been working very hard on myself in all three of the areas. It's not been easy, and sometimes has been very painful, but it's gotta be done in order for me to be where I want to be. These emotional wounds run deep, but at least I'm able to recognize that they're there, and I'm not in denial. I work on my emotional history just about every day one way or the other, through reading and journaling and reading some more. I won't ever go through what I've put myself through again. Any man in my life, in whatever capacity he held, did his share, but ultimately, the responsibility to change lies within us, not within anyone else. If someone doesn't want to change, you can either stay or leave. I have to be willing to stay with myself, and understand what happened so it won't happen again.

The EU think that they just can't find "The One." Of course they can't. NO ONE is good enough to be "The One." EUs may even marry, or get themselves a steady boyfriend or girlfriend, but only because that steady is lacking in self-esteem, and is unable to leave because of a fear of aloneness and/or rejection or is unaware of what an EU person really is.

I get it now, I do. I get really sad when I think about all the time, energy and effort I put into the EU just because of my parents. But I'm based in reality.

As far as my physical health goes, I'm able to walk long distances more. Mornings are still worse than evenings when it comes to energy, but I'm on the way back. My reflexologist even commented on Thursday night when I saw her that my adrenals were much better than when I first saw her back in January. We're still working on my endocrine system, but it's getting better.

Why'd I decide to write about this today? Well, when I first began blogging earlier this month, I decided to title my blog "Around it or through it." And I'd been writing around it long enough. It was time to write through it.

And you'll never find me dating Dan Collins, or anyone like him ever again. I hope I'm able to meet someone who is really and truly available, and I want to be the same way if that time ever comes.

Tony, when I said lose your job, I didn't mean it like that

So I blog recently about how Tony Snow gets people to do the wave at an event where the Bozo in Chief is appearing, and how I am looking forward to seeing Tony wave his job goodbye.

And then there's the recurrence of the colon cancer, which has spread to his liver.

I am sorry to see him have to leave his job under these circumstances.

First of all, good for him for having his growth removed, even though the blood tests and an image he'd had taken of it came out normal. The earlier the better, as far as treatment goes. The liver is the only organ in the body that can regenerate itself, so he's lucky there, too. If he can shrink any tumors or at least keep them under control.

The woman who was my mom in many ways, although not legally, had cancer that had spread to other organs, and she beat hers. She worked in a building that was laden with asbestos, and I'm sure that contributed to her having cancer. She lived cancer-free until her death after beating it the first time.

I think it's quite possible for him to beat it again, considering his health, attitude, and that the cancer was found sooner rather than later. I sincerely hope he does.

Hell, Tony, if you make it back to work before your boss leaves office (impeachment, where for art thou?), I'll even do the wave for you, for god's sake. Get well soon.

Apologies, meaningless and otherwise

There's a big push on now to get the state of Maryland to apologize to blacks for slavery.

I find this utterly ludicrous.

First of all, how's 'bout an apology from the people who sold 'em in the first place. No seller, no buyer, right? Weren't those (or at least some of them) who sold slaves black? And African?

If this country, never mind any of the states, needs to apologize to anyone, then it needs to be our Native Americans. The ones we screwed over to get the land that we now call ours. The land that was once theirs.

Native Americans have been mistreated from the beginning. Of course, there are the reservations, but the unemployment rate is unbelievable there, and the last time I'd read any statistics, the alcoholism rate was about 50% or more.

What are we supposed to apologize to blacks for? How is that going to help anything?

All four of my grandparents wereborn to families of 12 to 13 children here in the U.S. My father's parents were so poor that they had their wedding reception outside on a pier because they couldn't afford to have one inside. Yet, all four of their children did well for themselves--going to college and working hard. No one stood on the docks as my great-grandparents arrived on U.S. soil to welcome them and hand them the keys to the city. You know how they got where they got? Hard work. Menial labor. More hard work. More menial labor. Did my father's ancestors blame anyone because the Irish were branded as lazy alcoholic across the board, and therefore not worthy of hiring? No. They worked hard and proved themselves. My German ancestors didn't even speak English, but they damn well straight learned. My mother's mother told me stories of being so poor that her underwear was made out of a potato sack (or was it a coffee sack?), yet I have heard blacks complain bitterly because they are forced to wear hand-me-downs because white society is holding them back. Oh, the trauma!

Blacks need to stop pointing fingers and placing blame. Black society holds itself back when it glorifies the gangsta, bling-bling lifestyle. If the party that got the white student from Johns Hopkins University suspended last year because it was "racist" had been hosted by blacks, it would have been just another "celebration of black culture." There were blacks at that party, too, and yes, they were some of the ones protesting after the party made news. Talk about hypocrisy.

I wonder how many blacks busy pointing fingers and placing blame bother to play Big Brother or Big Sister, or actually do something constructive instead of playing the victim.

It's old, stale, and needs to be put to rest.

Was slavery wrong? Yes. Is dwelling on it now right? No.

Elizabeth Edwards' Bone Cancer

So Elizabeth Edwards' cancer has returned, and it's spread to her bones.

How sad I am to read about that.

I'm even more sad to see that John Edwards says that his presidential race will continue.

If he loves her as much as he says he does, then it seems wrong that he would put her medical condition in the Less Important Than My Wants file.

She's not a weak woman, having been through as much as she's been through. That's obvious.

But, in times of crisis, you turn to the people you love most to help you through it. How is he going to help her if he's going to be on the road until at least next fall?

This announcement sure won't win him the pity vote. It's more likely to cost him votes because this makes him look so selfish.

Good luck Elizabeth. Hope that husband of yours wises up and stays closer to home soon.

Fountains of Wayne Private Showcase yesterday

The music gods were very good to me yesterday. I got in my car, the clock said 3:16, and I made it to the parking lot of the studio at 4:30, which included a pit-stop and going too far down the street and having to back up and turn around. Traffic was the best I've ever dealt with in the metro-DC area; things were moving at a good pace all around.

There were only about 3 dozen of us for the show--wouldja believe I won [I]twice[/I]--I'd gotten an email that I'd won for my online entry, as well. The music gods knew I was quite determined to go to this show, and reacted accordingly. There were only about 34 names on the winners' list. And some of the winners didn't even show, so that made it that much more intimate for those of us that did.

At 5:00, we were ushered into one of the studios. We had to sit on the floor--I thought we'd be standing, like in a club. It felt a lot like nursery school at the beginning, but shit, it was a small space, I'm short, so it worked out better for me.

One of the guys behind me was singing along to the new album, and I asked him how that was possible, and he mentioned he'd gotten the album from illegally downloading it. I told him I'd be arresting him in the parking lot after the show, but how did he like the new album? He said he loved it. I asked him if he liked it as much as "Welcome Interstate Managers," which was my "be all, end all" for a long time, and he said he actually liked it better.

Alex from WRNR came out, and introduced himself and then the band. Actually, it was only Chris and Adam, the two songwriters. At first, I was kind of disappointed, but as Adam sat down at the piano, I realized this would be a cool way to hear FoW songs done in a way we normally wouldn't.

I was right about that. Adam mentioned that he'd just figured out how to play "Hackensack" on the piano about 10 minutes before, and he did make a couple of booboos while playing, but the song still sounded really good. I'd been singing it all day without even having heard it recently, so it was a real thrill to hear it, and good for Adam to be willing to booboo it up in front of an audience.

They played two new songs besides the new single, one a country-tinged song, which I don't know the name of, and an achingly beautiful "I-95", which really made me remember why these two are currently the best songwriters of the "slice of life" group. They also did "Barbara H" off of the first CD, and talked with Alex in between songs, and that was it.

Very affable, the both of them, and they talked about why it takes them as long as it does to put out a new record. Alex asked them about show dates in our metro area, and they told him that they weren't at liberty to say anything yet, but they hoped to be playing some festivals. Alex told them we'd see them at Virgin Festival in August.

I'm sure they'll play club dates before then. I was just ecstatic to be able to see them in such an intimate atmosphere--I'm not a festival person--I'm there for the music more than the party, so this was more to my liking.

They'll be airing the show "Saturday morning at 9 or 10," according to Alex. They only did a half-hour, which went by all too quickly. I'm only sorry that Alex had to ask as many questions as he did, because the music was that good. A funny answer to one of Alex's questions from Adam: Alex asked them how they write their songs, and Adam said, "We write poetry, and then we send it off to this address in Nashville." Alex caught on right away and said, "Robbie Fulks."

The traffic home was good, too. I left at 5:30, and was in my house by 6:50. No problems at all going home--I've had much worse of a commute on the Baltimore beltway. I was expecting rush hour hell and had only a good experience.

I'm so anticipating April 3rd and the new CD. I'm also looking forward to hearing the full band in a club, hopefully in the next month or so, but it'll never erase the wonderful memory of yesterday's private showcase.

War Wounded and Real Estate

The Baltimore Examiner is a free paper that comes out every day but Sunday. It's a quick browse-through, but sometimes they actually have stories that are worth reading.

In today's paper, there is a story about how the Iraq war began four years ago today. There are short interviews with the families of the dead, the still serving, and with those who were wounded in combat.

The piece that caught my eye was the one about Michael Wolcott, who hurt his back and leg in 2004 while ducking for cover while under fire. He's home now, and unable to walk more than two blocks at a time without being in "excruciating" pain. He has two young sons, and can no longer play outside with them. What really threw me was how he's now pulling in a whopping $200-300/month in disability. He used to work as a corrections officer before serving, and now he's living off of his wife's income as a nurse.

So, that's what you're worth with a bad back and leg for serving your country--$200-$300/month. Talk about cheap labor. The man is pictured leaning heavily on a walking stick. He says he'd do it all again.

He shouldn't have had to do it a first time. They never, ever should have had to go over there to begin with. And the way they're treated when they come home--Walter Reed Medical Center was just one example. What about the men and women with PTSDs?

All those people dead for absolutely no reason. None. Our current president is religious, but I can't imagine any God who would forgive him for doing what he's done these past several years. I hope Bush is drinking lots and lots of ice water while he still can.

Every Friday, the Examiner has a special Real Estate section. There is always one "special" house featured--usually some country manse with all the trimmings. This Friday's was a house in Baltimore City's Roland Park section. The featured house was OK, but nowhere near as "special" as some of the houses they've featured before. Yet the description was dripping with superlatives--like Poe himself had lived there and written "The Murders of the Rue Morgue," or something.

After puzzling over the house for a minute, I moved on. Laura Vozzella of The Baltimore Sun didn't, though. She found out that this house was indeed owned by Michael Phelps, who was the Examiner's publisher until he got promoted and moved.

No wonder the house was featured. He was getting a little (make that a lot) of free publicity. And he's had to lower the price of the house, too. There's a contract out on the house, but hell, you never know--sometimes contracts fall through.

That explains why the house was indeed so "special." Its owner was trying to offload it. He's having to sell it for less than the price he paid for it--about $50,000 or so.

Serves him right for being such a toady to our ex-governor, Robert Ehrlich. The Examiner was nothing but an Ehrlich ass-kiss machine while the Helmet Haired One was still in office.

Too bad the "special" house wasn't located in Annapolis. That way Ehrlich could have bought it from him when he got kicked out of the governor's mansion in January.

Seeing Fountains of Wayne for free on 3/21/2007

I stayed in on Thursday night, although I'd planned on going out. It was raining out, and getting windy, so I decided I'd just stay in.

I occasionally listen to a radio station that has "private artists' showcases", meaning that the band or artist plays a special show for the station's listeners. You can't buy tickets; you have to win them by being the 10th caller.

I'd heard while station surfing a couple of weeks ago that Fountains of Wayne were going to be the next band featured, and to stay tuned to win tickets.

From then on, I made it my personal mission to win tickets. There was no way I wasn't gonna. Although I really only listen to the radio in my car, I decided--no, decreed--that I was going to win tickets to see this show.

There were a couple of times when I'd dialed in and got the dreaded busy signal. A bit frustrating, but I knew there were several more chances to win, and I also knew I'd be going somehow.

So, on Thursday night, I'd put the radio on when I came in. I was over by the phone--I can't even remember why--when the announcement came over the air to be the 10th caller. I began dialing--busy. I dialed again--busy. I dialed once again--ringing. No answer at first. I took this to be a good sign, as how long does it take to say, "Sorry, you're caller number seven," and move onto the next caller. The entire time I was saying, "I am caller number 10. I am caller number 10," as my mantra.

Finally, the DJ answered the phone. "Am I caller number 10?" "No, you're caller number 11..."
"OHNOOOOOOO!!!!" "...but caller number 10 can't make it." "OHHHYESSSSSSSS!!!!" "The show's in Rockville." "I don't care if it's in fucking Canada, I'm going!" "Oh, I love you!"

The show is actually at a recording studio, not a club, on Wednesday, late afternoon. I'm hoping that means a more intimate atmosphere than a club, where they usually have them. Fountains of Wayne had played a free show in Annapolis a couple of Octobers back, but I was in Atlantic City that weekend and unable to go.

I am so thrilled out of my mind. One of my all-time favorite bands, and I get to hear them play live to a smaller-than-average crowd before their new CD is released.

A wonderful way to start off the real New Year.

The 7-Year-Old Versus the Rapper

So, they arrest a 7-year-old kid for sitting on a dirtbike yesterday on a sidewalk in Baltimore City:

http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=D8NTDAFO0&show_article=1

And then, they give a man who robbed two people at gunpoint community service:

http://www.examiner.com/a-622108~Diddy_apprentice__Chopper__gets__sweet_deal_.html

How's that for a fucked-up message? Hey, kids!!! If you rob people and become a rapper, you can get away with anything because that makes it OK. The man who is anxious to put what he did to two people at 16 behind him is obviously turning over a new leaf because he's unable to make his court date due to being in jail in Georgia over a domestic violence charge.

So, 7-year-olds are taught to hate and fear the cops because they'll get harassed and arrested, but it's OK to rob people at gunpoint because he was only 16 when it happened.Well, Chopper, enjoy your new Benz while you can, because you're probably headed back to jail for something more serious the next time around.

Of course, there are 7-year-olds who are ill-mannered little pieces of shit. You can be a thug at any age. Children need to be instilled with a sense of right and wrong from the get-go, which is something that a lot of parents don't do these days.

But there's nothing like overkill. If the boy was sitting in front of his house on the dirtbike (his mother had the key), what harm is that doing? How fucked up of the Baltimore police department to pursue children instead of the drug dealers and "people" like Chopper who lead good children into a lifestyle that isn't.

I had a psychology professor as an undergraduate who was pretty mellow, but when the subject of cops came up, she referred to them as "licensed thugs." The Baltimore police department is out of control.

Just like when they arrested the driver of a car who'd gotten lost in Cherry Hill, a well-known drug neighborhood, and left his girlfriend abandoned on the street with no ride back to Virginia. The young couple had come in to watch an Orioles game, and had gotten lost trying to find their way home. And the cop arrested the driver because he didn't leave the area quickly enough after she'd stopped him. They were trying to get their bearings, as the cop who stopped them refused to give them directions so that they could find their way home. Either she was trying to meet her arrest quota (yes, they have them--even cops admit it if the subject comes up), or she was just being a pig, or both. Either way, it shouldn't have happened. As I remember, both of the young woman's parents were cops, so it's not like she didn't have any respect for the profession. They're suing the city, as his car got vandalized after it was impounded. I hope they win every last cent they're entitled to and then some.

Mayor Sheila Dixon needs to put a kibosh on this abuse of power immediately. It sends the wrong message, and has been going on too long. It's a shame for the many really good cops who are out there doing their jobs the best they can.

I'm waiting to read about Chopper's next arrest, and see how "sweet" the deal he gets this time around.

It's a shame that black children learn to respect the bling-bling ho lifestyle, complete with guns and crime, of course, more than they do the law and being good citizens. This is one perfect example why.

Cursing at inanimate objects

I spend a lot of time walking into things or dropping them. I'm not particularly accident-prone, but all my life I've done a very fine job of walking into the corners of desks and tables, or open drawers--anything that can and does cause bruising. I sport some sort of bruise every day. Because I'm always getting them, I don't remember where they came from. "How'd ja get that?" "I can't remember."

I don't know if I drop things more often than anyone else, but I've noticed that I'm pretty good at dropping things that are a real pain in the ass to put back the way they were/should be after I'm done. I've got these two makeup trays that are always getting dropped on the bathroom floor as I'm trying to put them back into the cabinet.

When I do walk into something, or when something gets dropped, it gives me great satisfaction to curse at it, like it's that thing's fault that I just bruised myself on it, or just dropped it. I dropped a bottle of aromatherapy oil (the cap was tightly sealed, thankfully) on the floor the other day. It was a glass bottle, and fell right onto the tile of my bathroom floor. "Oh, you fucking piece of shit," I said. The bottle didn't say anything back--perhaps out of shock that I'd spoken to it so rudely.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Comic Books

So, my number one Girlpower Heroine, Buffy Summers, comes back today four years older and wiser, but in comic book form.

I love her madly, but I'm really torn as to whether or not I'm going to buy the comic book.

It's not that I don't like comic books. I've loved them ever since the days of Archie, Jughead, Betty and Veronica.

It's just that seeing Sarah Michelle Gellar reduced somehow to the printed page saddens me. I think that when the show ended, it did so exactly at the right time. Season Seven was really starting to bum me out, and the show had just lost its joy, at least for me.

Joss Whedon is writing the first three or four issue stories, and the review that I read today of the first issue was very positive. And I certainly can't blame him for going comic book after he wound up leaving "Wonder Woman" and the way "Firefly" was cancelled after only 11 episodes.

I just wish this first issue was the first full-length Buffy movie. If he could make "Serenity," I don't see why he couldn't do a Buffy movie. We Buffy geeks would be out there in our many thousands the first weekend.

I saw in the Baltimore Sun that a man in Brooklyn had a "Once More with Feeling" sing-along, a la the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" sing along. I'm sure Buffy geeks weren't throwing toast, or anything like that, but once again, as this hits the road, as it's supposed to do after its New York success, I'm pretty dubious about attending. Time will tell.

Downtown Baltimore, the addicts and the homeless

I had two business meetings downtown today.

I usually park at the exact same meter all the time--it's like that meter is waiting for me to show up. It's not exactly in the center of things, but I like walking, and it's not too far from where I need to go. Downtown Baltimore is pretty easy to make your way around on foot, especially if you're like me, and you enjoy walking.

So, I drove farther down the street where "my" parking space is usually waiting for me. A couple of blocks on down, I found one, and pulled right in. I got out of the car, armed with lots of quarters to feed the meter.

I hadn't even gotten to close the car door when I was approached by an obvious addict. "You all right, miss?" "Yes, I'm just fine." "That'll be $3.00." "Since when does paying you feed my meter?" "Oh, how much these meters cost?" "$2.00." "Oh."

At first, I wondered if I was going to be given the D.C. addict's line, of "I'll guard your car for you for $3.00." That's a common "hello" for people parking in lots and at meters in the parts of downtown where the addicts hang.

In Baltimore, the addicts hang everywhere. After I finished my first business meeting, I fed the meter again and went to the second one. This meeting was in a high-rise, on a high floor, with a nice view of the Inner Harbor.

We chatted for a few minutes about how nice it was outside (in the upper 60s, and mostly sunny), and what a nice day it was for walking around downtown.

"The homeless really hate this building, for some reason," he said. "How do you know that?" I asked, thinking that maybe they urinated on certain corners of it without fail during the night.
"Do you know that cooking grease, that they use in restaurants?" "Sure." "They take it in buckets and barrels, and put it in the grates around the building, and when it rains, the grease bubbles up from under the grates, making it really slippery outside. We have to be careful that we don't slip, because you can't see it."

Wow. I was impressed. There were a lot of restaurants in the area, so it must be pretty easy for them to go into dumpsters, or wherever the grease is being thrown out at night, grab an old bucket, and get a nice, big scoopful to spread around as they pleased. I could easily imagine my addict from earlier smiling away while dousing the grates, imagining professionals in their shined shoes and high heels having a whoopsie when the rain began and things got slick.

There's a season left of "The Wire." I wonder if David Simon and his other street-smart types will be able to use that bit of information. If I can get his ear, I'll pass it along, just in case he or any of the other writers can use it.

I wonder if they do that in other cities, or if it's a Baltimore thing, like painted screens.

A Night Out at the Creative Alliance

My friend Mike will be reading a seven-minute true story about his nemesis at the Creative Alliance in Baltimore on April 5th.

Six other people, including David Simon, will also be reading their stories, and three audience members will be invited to read a seven-minute story if they have one.

I'll be there. Sounds like a great time.

I admire Mike for his creative bent, but also for the way he lives his life. He's got a wife and a baby less than a year old, but he still makes the time to write. He's finished a novel that he's shopping around, and he's also writing short stories.

And, on top of that, he's also one of the most accurate psychics I've ever met. Going to see him is like a therapy session--he always helps me get my emotional mojo back on track, and there's no insurance involved.

I saw him last night, and I've been on an emotional upswing since then. Spending time with him helps me realize that if he can be that busy but still be creative, I can do it, too.

I'm grateful to him in more ways than one.

Tony Snow needs to wave his job goodbye

A virtual acquaintance of mine on a bulletin board mentioned today that yesterday he went to hear Dubya speak. He said he had to go for some kind of work-related thing. Poor man.

He said that Tony Snow, Dubya's press secretary, was trying to get people to do "the wave." VA then went onto say that he did it, because "you can't not do it if the boss is there, right?" WRONG!!!

I posted that his boss doesn't own his morals, and that if something feels "weird and creepy," or however VA described it, then don't do it.

It comes down to self-respect, and hell, I'd have given old Tony two middle fingers to watch as I sat there. Come to think of it, I'd probably have been ejected (with pride) while heckling our Buffoon in Chief.

What the hell was Tony doing? It's like he was Ed McMahon, trying to rev up the audience for Johnny Carson. Shit, at least Johnny was funny. This whole presidency has been more tragic than anything I can think of.

Come to think of it, Dubya has been funny, but in a "he's -so-stupid-it's-a-joke" way.

I can't wait until they're both packed up and out of the White House. Even another Republican would look good compared to that idiot we have now, and that's saying something.

Cell phones and driving while using them

I've grabbed my ringing cell phone at a traffic light and told the caller that I'm in the car; I'll call them back. A couple of the callers seemed surprised, like I should be able to drive and talk on the cell phone at the same time. Can I? Yes. Am I going to? No.

I can always tell who's driving while on the cell phone because those are the idiots who come over into my lane of traffic. It's amazing watching people going 65 mph on the beltway or trying to park or manuever their way around a crowded lot while talking on their phone.

What the hell can be so all-fired important that they need to endanger themselves, and more importantly, others?

I've gotten a couple of calls when someone has been driving on their cell phone, and they're utterly floored by my comment that I'm not going to talk to them while they're driving; they need to call me back when they're stationary. A couple of those callers sounded downright offended.

I don't give a rat's rotisseried rump. I'm not going to play enabler. If they were to cause an accident because they were on the phone with me at the time, I would never forgive myself.

I read online a couple of weeks ago, I think it was, that London now has a law where if you're caught driving while talking on your cell phone, they can impound your car. Works for me. Last week there was an article in the Baltimore Examiner that the "no cell phone while driving" law got shot down, because people didn't understand it.

What the hell is there to understand? Stay off the goddamned road if you're on your cell phone. You want to kill yourself, fine, have at it and have a nice time doing it. Don't take me or anyone I love with you.

And the same thing applies to those multi-tasking who think they can apply mascara (oh, there's an interesting way to put out an eye if you're forced to brake suddenly), read a map, or anything else while driving.

We did well enough without cell phones before they came along, so now all of a sudden we can't even drive without them? If your life is that goddamned busy that you have to talk on your cell while in your car, or most other public places where common sense and plain ol' decency tell you that you should wait until you're home or at least somewhere where others won't hear you, then you've obviously got way too much on your plate, and you need to figure out a way to simplify your life.

Cell phones are wonderful things to have, but no technology should rule our lives or endanger us, or others in our path because we don't know how to divvy up our time properly. Technology is here to serve us, and to make our lives better, not the other way around.

Everyday heroes, Part One

There's this woman of indeterminate age in my neighborhood. I think she has Down's syndrome; I'm not sure.

I see her out walking just about the same time every day, no matter what the weather. She is not a small-framed woman, but she's out there getting her walk on just the same. She wears a Walkman or a Discman, and from what I can tell, she's out walking for more than just a walk around the block. Either that, or she walks a certain area a few times a day before calling it quits.

I admire the hell out of her. No excuses--she's out there walking.

There's also this really old gentleman I see when I'm on the NCR trail. I'm not on the trail as much these days, but I bet he is. He's got to be at least 80 if he's a day, maybe even 85 or so, but damned if he isn't out there running like clockwork. He's not a fast runner, of course, but damned if he isn't a steady one. And, he's out there. He's not using his age as his excuse to sit around and play canasta in a retirement community. If he does play canasta, it's either before or after he's out there running.

I read an article some months ago in either the Baltimore Sun or the Washington Post where this 91-year-old man said, "I run to beat time." He began running during JFK's presidency, and he's still going at it. If memory serves correctly, he was going to do a half-marathon that month.

Shit. I'd be glad to walk a half-marathon, and I'm in good physical condition. I've gone about 10 miles in one day on the trail, and have been nice and wiped out for a day or two afterward.

Sometimes, when I'm tired and/or cranky or just being plain-old lazy, and I'm really not in the mood to walk or exercise and looking for a handy-dandy excuse to sit, I think of one of the three of them, or all of the three. And I get up off my ass and go exercise.

Communication breakdown

Yesterday my beloved four-year-old cell phone wouldn't get any bars from my house. I kept getting "No Service." It had five happy little bars just the day before. I finally got in my car and drove to where the phone would show a couple of bars.

I called the Cingular emergency number, what with it being the weekend, and got some asshole who told me that they no longer had antennas up supporting my phone. I have an AT&T phone from before the buyout. "You'll have to buy a new device," he told me. What the fuck is a new device? I kept my temper (barely), and told him I hadn't been told of this. "We've been sending you letters," he told me. My ass. I've gotten promos for phones that will play tennis with me and curse at people in Urdu, but I can't recall seeing any letters.

I called Cingular's regular customer service number this morning, from the neighborhood where the cell phone store was where I'd originally bought my phone. The nice young lady repeated that no, there were no longer any antennas for my phone in my area. I told her that I would be switching carriers, as Cingular had a horrible rep according to Consumer Reports, and asked her about my billing cycle, which was beginning today. She assured me that if I called today, they could credit my account.

The cell phone store's windows were papered over--no more one-stop phone shopping with sales guys who told you like it was, not what they wanted you to buy. I bought my AT&T account because the guy had gotten my same style phone for his mother. "Go down to the library and check out the latest Consumer Reports; you'll see they like the phone." I did, and he wasn't joking. So now I was without my honest salesman.

I walked down the street to the library to search the yellow pages for a new one-stop shop. All the work I had planned for today had been shot to hell, so I figured what the hell, I'm making a day of it anyway. I called a place with a generic-sounding name, and the woman told me to come in--she was within walking distance of the library, so I went over to her store and got myself signed up. I did get a free phone (doesn't play tennis or curse at people in Urdu), but I had to pay a $35 activation fee.

After I got home, I plugged my new phone in, set up my voicemail, and called Cingular one last time, to cancel my account and make sure my bill got credited. After a long, long wait, finally, a human. I explain to him what had happened, what the woman I'd spoken to earlier had told me, and that I'd switched carriers. "You were given misinformation; we still support your area. There must be a problem with one of the towers, but we're still supporting those old phones until February, 2008."

Great, then let me just switch back. I tell him I was told this morning that I could have my bill credited for the unused time, as it's the first day of my billing cycle. "That's at our discretion," he tells me. It was then I felt the dam beginning to burst. "It was also at the discretion of your fellow Cingular employees to give me 'misinformation,' as you put it. Had they not given me that misinformation, I'd be a Cingular customer until February, as I absolutely loved my old phone. Whose discretion was that, to tell me that the antennas in my area were turned off?"
Silence. Then, quietly, "I can understand your frustration. I'll fix your bill so that you should only get billed for today. Someone should call you to confirm this when this month's bill is going to come out. I apologize for any inconvenience."

There was a full moon eclipse on Saturday night, Baltimore time. Full moon eclipses mean endings. I knew something in my world would come to a close, but I didn't think it would be the relationship with my beloved cell phone. I loved that damn thing. My new phone is all pretty colors and beeps and boops when I hit the buttons, but I was perfectly happy with my old AT&T phone. I knew this day would come for a while now, but I didn't expect it to come as abruptly as it did.

I can't bring myself to throw the phone away, or even to recycle it. Not yet, at least. For now, it's packed in the box my new phone came in, along with its trusty recharger.

The new moon eclipse on the 18th means the start of something. I'm interested in seeing what that brings into my life.

In the meantime, I'll be writing long, passionate letters to the powers that be of Cingular, letting them know how and why they lost a customer.

Oh, and to add insult to injury--I tried logging into my account on cingular.com today to pay my phone bill from last month, and it wouldn't let me do it. I'm glad I switched carriers.

Spring-like weather

It was fairly warm out yesterday, at least for early March, with temperatures in the lower 50s. It felt really great, although the wind did pick up and it clouded over as the afternoon went along. Still, the promise of spring was easily believed.

I went into a Super Fresh to pick up some garlic and mushrooms in a neighborhood heavily populated by college students. And as many years as I've been shopping there, it never ceases to amaze me how quick they are to break out the shorts, flip-flops and leave the jackets behind whenever the temperature makes it above, oh, 'bout 45 degrees Fahrenheit.

I never understood it back when I was that age, and I still don't get it. Part of me admires them--I'm always cold--see me when it gets to be another 30 degrees warmer before I leave the house in shorts, thanks--but part of me wonders if it's some kind of non-verbal braggadocio.

How many of them are sneezing and sniffling today, I wonder. It's back to being winter again--windy and cold, and it feels colder today than it has been at this temperature because we were treated to the warmth of yesterday. I doubt many of them, if indeed any of them, are out in their summer gear today.

Give me another 10-12 weeks and I'll get there, but for now, it's thermals and sweaters.

For once, I'm actually thanking Congress

I don't know who it was that back in 2005 introduced the bill to begin Daylight Savings Time on the second Sunday in March and have it last through the first Sunday in November, but I am grateful as shit to them.

There's a direct correlation between my mood and the weather outside. Sunshine just makes me feel better.

I wonder, though, what all the sunscreen that we're slathering on these days is doing to our absorption of Vitamin D. We're supposed to get 15 minutes per day on our faces, arms and hands, at least, to be able to absorb and synthesize our Vitamin D. I wonder if the sunscreen negates the good things that the Sun sends our way now that we've fucked up the ozone layer to where we're all at the risk of skin cancer by walking out the door into the sunlight.

My reflexologist was telling me a few weeks ago about how she heard that women in Afghanistan have a lot of problems with rickets because they'd been under burkas for so long that their skin hadn't absorbed any Vitamin D. It made me wonder how many children these days are at risk. Back in my day, she said, feeling like an octogenarian, we all played outside and got sunburned at worst. A little Coppertone was all you needed--I think the stuff I wore was 8SPF, if that. Now, I've seen stuff that's 64SPF. Damn.

There was an interesting article several weeks ago in the Baltimore Sun about how a researcher at Johns Hopkins believes that the common cold is linked to a deficiency in Vitamin D. During the colder months, we're not outside, getting that sunny D, and therefore we're more susceptible to colds. Makes sense to me.

All I know for sure is that for me as long as there's sunshine, it's a better day. I'll take as much of it as I can possibly get, and I vow to spend less time inside on the computer when we change our clocks and more time outside.

Please, Trent, tell me I'll like the album better

It's a good thing I can compose something ahead of time somewhere else and then import it here and publish it when I have a few free minutes. I'm still trying to find the time to throw in some links, but in the meantime, here goes:

My beloved Nine Inch Nails have a new DVD out as of this past Tuesday. I've not had the time to get it, but I'll be picking it up and playing it incessantly as of tomorrow. It's live footage of their tour supporting "With Teeth." I saw them live last June at Nissan Pavilion, and I'm hoping to relive that fabulous night by buying this concert DVD. I've been counting off the weeks until its release.

NIN has a new album, "Year Zero," out on April 17th. There's a new single, "Survivalism," being played on the radio now, and boy, does it suck a hard large one. The first time I heard it, I was trying to convince myself that I would like it better the second time, but the second time made me wince just as much as the first listen. Am I still gonna buy the album? You betcha. Will I see them on tour in support of it? You can bet big bucks and believe the answer is yes. But wow, do I hate that song.

On a brighter note, a band I've loved since the giddy-up, Fountains of Wayne, have a new single out which is on form for them. "Someone to Love" is full of the usual hooks, harmonies, lyrics and situations that make them one of the best bands this country has ever produced. "Traffic and Weather" comes out on April 3rd, so at least if the NIN album sucks as hard as the single, I'll have "Traffic and Weather" to pull me through. A friend of mine has an advance copy of "T and W," and he loves it, so I'm already waiting for the day they start touring. I've got a few friends who'll be making a religious pilgrimage to watch them play at the 9:30 Club in D.C., if they don't wind up playing someplace bigger. Their last album, "Welcome Interstate Managers," is one of my all-time Top Ten favorites. It's been a few years since "WIM" came out, but I'd rather wait a long time between albums and have the wait be worth it than have quantity and no quality. Please, please, please, Chris and Adam, don't let me down. You've got to pick up the slack from Trent.

The fading of Maria

My dear friend Maria lives on Maryland's Eastern Shore. She's a wonderful person--warm, smart, sweet, lively, generous--and stressed out.



I'd been to stay one weekend last March when her husband was on business for two weeks in China (they tried to serve him dog at one restaurant--he abstained), and we had a nice weekend.



Her father had just died at the end of January, so I spent time sitting in her kitchen while she cooked us dinner and lunch the next day talking about him. I asked to see pictures of the two of them together, and she pulled out old cardboard boxes of her family, and she picked through them and told me about her dad (she was the favorite), her parents' marriage, and how her mom was coping now that her father had finally died. She felt better talking about him, and I was glad to listen to her. She's always been so generous with me that I almost hated to go shopping with her, because she had to buy me something I'd admire but put back on the shelf.

When I hugged her goodbye that Sunday, she said, "The next time you come, we'll go for massages!" I wondered if she'd felt the tension in my back or was just being generous, as usual.

I drove home and emailed her my thanks, and she wrote back right away, telling me how glad she was that I came to stay, and that she was looking forward to doing it again, soon.

Not too long after that, the emails from her came to a halt. We didn't always exchange life-story emails; much of the time it was just stupid stuff that we knew would make each other laugh. I'm always up for a good hoot, and Maria had a lot of jokes in her email queue that weekend she was showing me and forwarding me so I could pass them along to my other friends.

I kept sending her stuff I knew she'd like, expecting her to just pick up where she'd left off when she could. I knew she was coming up to a six-week trip at work and might only be home for weekends, but this just wasn't like her. My friend Jane and I kept emailing each other: "Have you heard from Maria?" The answer was always no.

After a while, I began sending her emails saying, "I hope you're OK. I know you've been busy, but I want to let you know how much I miss you and am thinking about you. Please get in touch when you can, if only to let me know how you are doing." Nothing.

So, I decided to just let things go for a while. She called me from work one day to let me know something job-related (mine, not hers), and she was the same old bubbly Maria. "I've just been so busy, you have no idea!" I told her I was glad to hear from her, to please write when she could, and to send funny stuff if she didn't have the time to write. She said she was looking forward to having me come stay again, and "couldn't wait" to have lunch with Jane and myself. "Has it already been six months since the three of us got together?" Yes, it was.

I guess I should have known by this point that nothing would come of it. Back to no communication from her. I'd emailed Jane breathlessly with "I've finally heard from Maria!" in the subject line of my triumphant email. A short-lived victory, indeed.

I called her a couple of months later and left a voicemail on her cell phone, saying that I was hoping to actually talk to her, and could she get in touch by phone. Silence. So, I decided to just think about her with love, and let the rest be up to her. I told Jane that I was through trying to contact her, and that she was probably going through a lot with her family and work, and she would just have to contact us when she was ready.

For her birthday a month ago, I sent her a Hallmark e-card, and wrote her a brief message saying I hope she was well, and told her a few things about me, keeping things light and upbeat. I heard from her a couple of days later: "Hey! So glad to hear from you! I'll write more this weekend. 2006 was so long and so short at the same time. Can't wait to hear more from you." I haven't heard a word since.

Alice, Her Dad's Death, and the Charm City Roller Girls

I was all set to have my first post be a spew about an idiot headhunter who had my resume from way back when and called me about a dumb job two hours from here that he thought I'd be willing to commute to.

But, I got word today that my friend Alice's dad died on Saturday. He had progressive supranuclear palsy, and had been in hospice care, so it's not like it was unexpected. He died the same day that Alice was going to try out for the Charm City Roller Girls, which is Baltimore's very own roller derby team.

The ladies were going to participate in a bout this Sunday at home against the Long Island something-or-others, and I was all psyched up about watching her first bout and screaming her onto victory.

I'd sent Alice a message asking her if she'd made the team; I'd seen her practice, and to me, her making the cut was a given. And then I hear that her dad had died, and that his sister had died a few days after that. So no tryout for Alice.

Damn. It hurt like hell to have to read her message. She's from a very close-knit family, and I know it must be ripping her apart to have him finally die.

And it kicked my ass to have her not be able to tryout for the team. She lives an hour away from the rink, and had been travelling up faithfully to practice. She'd bought new skates especially for the purpose of joining the team--good skates--the ones any serious roller derby girl would need.

I was, and am, so proud of her. She's a really sweet person. Used to be a Montessori school teacher, and is the mother of a four-year-old and now has an office job. And a great boyfriend, which helps. And talk about Girl Power!!! How cool can you get, participating in roller derby.

I wrote her back and told her how sorry I was, and I'm teary-eyed writing this post just as I was when I wrote to her. I also told her that I'm sure that if she asks, the team will let her have her tryout whenever she's ready. I'm sure women will be dropping out for whatever reason, or maybe they'll just need more people than they already got. Alice would be an asset to them.

Alice told me to go to the bout anyway, but I told her that it wouldn't be the same. I want to have a reason to cheer and scream. If she's not on the team, then I'd like to have her there with me cheering them on with the same passion I like to show when I'm rooting on the home team.
I want to see Alice in her new, upscale skates out there in her helmet and pads slamming away for the joy and glory of it all.

I can't wait to root her on for the fun, the glory, and the Girl Power of it all.