I don't get Facebook. I didn't get My Space either, when it was all the rage. Oh I joined My Space at the insistence of some friends. Only problem was it repeatedly refused to let me sign in - to my account. Frustrated me no end so I abandoned it.
Then, Chris Hansen does all those exposes of predators who frequented My Space chat rooms and suddenly My Space lost cred. And along comes Facebook. I got a tip that someone I had been searching for might be found on that site, so I signed up. The only people I found were those who only shared their info with "friends". Since I had little interest in befriending these people, I closed the account. And after I did, I got an e-mail from the nice folks who run the place assuring me that I would change my mind, and when I did, they would welcome me back. Nice to know they're keeping my seat warm. But it seems to me that the only reason people want to be on Facebook is to see how many "friends" they can garner. Apparently it gives one a sense of achievement to get to say. "I have xxx number of friends. I'm so popular."
Now the thing that makes me crazy is the New Age of Advertising where companies ask me to join them on Facebook. They offer coupons, and contests, and information about the product. On Facebook. Any takers? Not I, sez I. May not mean much to the giants of industry, but I refuse to do business with a company whose only identity is how many "friends" they have. The point of being in business is to have customers. And the way to get customers is to have a good quality, reasonably priced, readily available product. Tell me about it on TV or in the newspaper. And give me a coupon to introduce it. My return purchases will tell you how friendly I am.
Like I said earlier, I don't get it. If you really think all of these "friends" are friends, tell 'em you're moving and need help. That's when you find out who your friends are.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Dance Recitals and Ugly People
My two youngest granddaughters are dance students. The little one takes ballet and tap, while her sister takes ballet and jazz. She did take tap for a couple of years but switched to jazz last year. I'm not a big fan of jazz, which in recent years has become more hip-hop and less Bob Fosse. Anyway, they had their dance recital(s) over the last two weekends and it's important to them that Grandma attend. I love to see them dance. The only drawback is that one must watch everyone else's kids dance and while the really little ones are cute, the rest of the evening(s) are very long. So, the first Friday, the little one appeared in two numbers - one being her ballet and the other being her tap. She did a good job and basked in the glow of floral tributes, compliments, and lots of hugs.
Saturday night, the older sister had her ballet recital as one of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz production. This is her first year as one of the "Big Girls" so she has to work her way up to a premiere role. Since she isn't yet nine years old, it will be three years before we see her on pointe. The young lady who danced the role of the Wicked Witch was a remarkable dancer, although she was a bit on the heavy side. So we got to hug Our Girl, and give her flowers, and tell her how wonderful she is, and then we got to go home.
The following weekend, the big girl had her jazz recital, on both Friday and Saturday evenings. For the first time, the dance school she attends had a young boy in the jazz class. The choreography of her routine called for the boy to lift her during the performance, and for her to cartwheel over him. They both did a nice job and the audience cheered and applauded as they took their simultaneous bow.
I attended the Saturday evening performance and was seated with my son, his wife, and his sister-in-law. In the row in front of us, a man, a woman, and a young boy were seated together. You may be sure that anyone at the recital has a very close relative or an extremely special friend's child. What follows is what was related to me several days after the show.
The jazz dancers were performing, and the girls were wearing pink and black striped shirts, under-leggings and long black shorts. The only boy was dressed in blue and black striped outfit and a ball cap. The woman in the row ahead remarked, "Is that a boy?" and her male companion said, "Yes". The woman responded with, "What is he? A faggot?" The man said, "Leave the kid alone".
The person who heard this exchange was too taken aback to say anything, but I'm afraid I would not have been so reticent. In the first place, why would an adult make that kind of remark about a kid? Within earshot of the kid who had accompanied her? In public? If this sorry excuse for a human could see how ugly she is, she would hide from the world.
As for the young dancer, at age nine he fears being labeled gay by his peers. He's a Little Leaguer with a crush on one of the fifth grade girls in the dance class.
He's taking dance for movement improvement so that when he plays sports, it will enhance his capability on the field.
Would it be poetic justice if this woman's own progeny turned out to practice an alternative lifestyle? I'm only sayin'.
Saturday night, the older sister had her ballet recital as one of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz production. This is her first year as one of the "Big Girls" so she has to work her way up to a premiere role. Since she isn't yet nine years old, it will be three years before we see her on pointe. The young lady who danced the role of the Wicked Witch was a remarkable dancer, although she was a bit on the heavy side. So we got to hug Our Girl, and give her flowers, and tell her how wonderful she is, and then we got to go home.
The following weekend, the big girl had her jazz recital, on both Friday and Saturday evenings. For the first time, the dance school she attends had a young boy in the jazz class. The choreography of her routine called for the boy to lift her during the performance, and for her to cartwheel over him. They both did a nice job and the audience cheered and applauded as they took their simultaneous bow.
I attended the Saturday evening performance and was seated with my son, his wife, and his sister-in-law. In the row in front of us, a man, a woman, and a young boy were seated together. You may be sure that anyone at the recital has a very close relative or an extremely special friend's child. What follows is what was related to me several days after the show.
The jazz dancers were performing, and the girls were wearing pink and black striped shirts, under-leggings and long black shorts. The only boy was dressed in blue and black striped outfit and a ball cap. The woman in the row ahead remarked, "Is that a boy?" and her male companion said, "Yes". The woman responded with, "What is he? A faggot?" The man said, "Leave the kid alone".
The person who heard this exchange was too taken aback to say anything, but I'm afraid I would not have been so reticent. In the first place, why would an adult make that kind of remark about a kid? Within earshot of the kid who had accompanied her? In public? If this sorry excuse for a human could see how ugly she is, she would hide from the world.
As for the young dancer, at age nine he fears being labeled gay by his peers. He's a Little Leaguer with a crush on one of the fifth grade girls in the dance class.
He's taking dance for movement improvement so that when he plays sports, it will enhance his capability on the field.
Would it be poetic justice if this woman's own progeny turned out to practice an alternative lifestyle? I'm only sayin'.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Heroes
Last evening, I attended the Jefferson Awards dinner and award ceremony at the Ramada, along with my youngest, Palmer and his wife, Stacey. The Jefferson honors local people with the spirit of volunteerism and selfless giving. Palmer was nominated because of his decades-long devotion to firefighting, both as a volunteer and career, and his helping hands whereever needed, from coaching soccer and Little League, and recording Coming Home to benefit the families of those deployed to the Middle East. Offering a helping hand to family, friends and people he didn't even know. Just because that's how he is.
The awards are sponsored by the Times Leader, and there was a cocktail hour followed by the usual banquet fare; slice o' melon, limp salad, chicken, rice, a tablespoon of vegetables (really. A tablespoon), and two tablespoons of chocolate mousse. But we weren't expecting much more. It wasn't about the dinner anyway.
We were seated with a woman who was a Nurse Practitioner who had instituted programs to provide health care for migrant workers and other needy people with no insurance, and an 18-year-old man who ran fund raisers in his high school to support a food pantry in the area, having raised almost $2,000. cash in addition to food contributions.
The presentation of the awards, an etched glass plaque, was accompanied by a voice-over reciting the achievements of the seventeen nominees. Seventeen remarkable people, from the 16-year-old young lady to the 89-year-old senior lady who does more in a week than I do in six months. It was inspirational, and humbling, and embarrassing to realize that I do nothing to enrich the lives of others. Hell, I don't even enrich my own life.
Five of these exceptional folks were chosen as finalists, and one overall winner of an expense-paid trip to Washington DC to represent NEPA at the national Jefferson Awards dinner.
At the end of the evening, Palmer told the organizer, Rachel Pugh, that I was the "What's in it for you?" lady. She was very excited and insisted I must be introduced to Richard (Connor). We chatted briefly. He now has the face to put to the e-mails I send when I agree with something he wrote.
It was an uplifting couple of hours. Makes me want to go out and adopt a kid. Well, maybe not. But something.
The awards are sponsored by the Times Leader, and there was a cocktail hour followed by the usual banquet fare; slice o' melon, limp salad, chicken, rice, a tablespoon of vegetables (really. A tablespoon), and two tablespoons of chocolate mousse. But we weren't expecting much more. It wasn't about the dinner anyway.
We were seated with a woman who was a Nurse Practitioner who had instituted programs to provide health care for migrant workers and other needy people with no insurance, and an 18-year-old man who ran fund raisers in his high school to support a food pantry in the area, having raised almost $2,000. cash in addition to food contributions.
The presentation of the awards, an etched glass plaque, was accompanied by a voice-over reciting the achievements of the seventeen nominees. Seventeen remarkable people, from the 16-year-old young lady to the 89-year-old senior lady who does more in a week than I do in six months. It was inspirational, and humbling, and embarrassing to realize that I do nothing to enrich the lives of others. Hell, I don't even enrich my own life.
Five of these exceptional folks were chosen as finalists, and one overall winner of an expense-paid trip to Washington DC to represent NEPA at the national Jefferson Awards dinner.
At the end of the evening, Palmer told the organizer, Rachel Pugh, that I was the "What's in it for you?" lady. She was very excited and insisted I must be introduced to Richard (Connor). We chatted briefly. He now has the face to put to the e-mails I send when I agree with something he wrote.
It was an uplifting couple of hours. Makes me want to go out and adopt a kid. Well, maybe not. But something.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Seeing Red!
About 10 days ago, I received a letter from the Northeast Regional Cancer Institute asking me to participate in a research project. Because of my cancer diagnosis of colon cancer, and the fact that my area has a 27% higher incidence of this cancer than the rest of the commonwealth. They are attempting to determine the reason for this increase so as to prevent it in the future. I immediately returned the signed consent form indicating that I agreed to participate. An appointment was scheduled for me to be interviewed, and meantime, I was asked to fill out a survey of my dietary habits in the year prior to my diagnosis. The survey was pretty heavy on low fat vs. full fat, sugars, carbs, red meats, salty snacks and all the other foods that really aren't optimally nutritious.
Yesterday, I went to the appointment as scheduled, and met with a delightful woman who questioned me on other aspects of my life that may or may not have contributed to my cancer. The appointment lasted about an hour, during which she took a sample of my DNA for genetic testing, which consisted of the scraping of the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, just like on TV.
In the course of the conversation, she told me that the institute was grateful to me for agreeing to participate in the study, since they had a difficult time getting people to do so. People who, like me, carried a diagnosis of colorectal cancer. Refusing to participate in a study to try to determine causative factors. Which might possibly help future generations if discovered. I am furious. I am so furious I could spit. How can anyone deny my children and my grandchildren and their children the possibility of seeing this scourge eradicated in their lifetime?
What could conceivably be reason enough to say, "No" to this endeavor? What would possess a person to forget the chill of hearing their diagnosis so to inflict that chill on those to come after?
For a lousy hour and a half (the food survey took about 30 minutes) it is possible to be the link in the chain that discovers the reason for the tumors that grow in the dark, unseen even as they erode the gut and spread to places where they can't be removed. God preserve us and protect us from such selfishness.
Yesterday, I went to the appointment as scheduled, and met with a delightful woman who questioned me on other aspects of my life that may or may not have contributed to my cancer. The appointment lasted about an hour, during which she took a sample of my DNA for genetic testing, which consisted of the scraping of the inside of the cheeks and the tongue, just like on TV.
In the course of the conversation, she told me that the institute was grateful to me for agreeing to participate in the study, since they had a difficult time getting people to do so. People who, like me, carried a diagnosis of colorectal cancer. Refusing to participate in a study to try to determine causative factors. Which might possibly help future generations if discovered. I am furious. I am so furious I could spit. How can anyone deny my children and my grandchildren and their children the possibility of seeing this scourge eradicated in their lifetime?
What could conceivably be reason enough to say, "No" to this endeavor? What would possess a person to forget the chill of hearing their diagnosis so to inflict that chill on those to come after?
For a lousy hour and a half (the food survey took about 30 minutes) it is possible to be the link in the chain that discovers the reason for the tumors that grow in the dark, unseen even as they erode the gut and spread to places where they can't be removed. God preserve us and protect us from such selfishness.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I Do So Have a Heart!
Yesterday, I had my six-month check-up with my cardiologist. I go to see him to make sure my aorta/pig valve is still oinking along. Apparently, it is, because he tells me it is. Not being an expert in the field, I take his word for it. And I don't have to go back for six months.
The other members of the health care team are all on a three month schedule and it seems like I should be able to stretch that out by now. If I had a rash, or some big old ugly festering sore that needed to be looked at and treated, I'd be happy to go as often as requested. But everything that I'm being checked for is on the inside and not visible to the naked eye. My office visits could pretty much be accomplished with a 'phone call.
"Joan? This is Dr. Whooziz. How are you feeling?"
"Doing well, Dr."
"Are you exercising regularly?"
"Well, not as regularly as you'd like, but I get around okay."
"Are you maintaining a healthy weight?"
"I've actually lost two pounds since we spoke last."
"That's good. No chest pain? No palpitations? S.O.B.?"
(No, he didn't call me a bad name, that means shortness of breath)
"No, none of the above Dr. Things are fine, I think."
"Okay, Joan. If you have any questions, save them for our next chat."
Now, I'd have pretty much the same conversation(s) with Dr. Whatzis and Dr. CutUp.
Of course, there remains the matter of the fee - or no fee. No office visit means no $$. So, I go to the office every three months, and we have basically the same conversation. The only difference is they get to bill my insurance, and I write out a check for my co-pay.
Oh, yeah, and I don't get to lie about losing two pounds.
The other members of the health care team are all on a three month schedule and it seems like I should be able to stretch that out by now. If I had a rash, or some big old ugly festering sore that needed to be looked at and treated, I'd be happy to go as often as requested. But everything that I'm being checked for is on the inside and not visible to the naked eye. My office visits could pretty much be accomplished with a 'phone call.
"Joan? This is Dr. Whooziz. How are you feeling?"
"Doing well, Dr."
"Are you exercising regularly?"
"Well, not as regularly as you'd like, but I get around okay."
"Are you maintaining a healthy weight?"
"I've actually lost two pounds since we spoke last."
"That's good. No chest pain? No palpitations? S.O.B.?"
(No, he didn't call me a bad name, that means shortness of breath)
"No, none of the above Dr. Things are fine, I think."
"Okay, Joan. If you have any questions, save them for our next chat."
Now, I'd have pretty much the same conversation(s) with Dr. Whatzis and Dr. CutUp.
Of course, there remains the matter of the fee - or no fee. No office visit means no $$. So, I go to the office every three months, and we have basically the same conversation. The only difference is they get to bill my insurance, and I write out a check for my co-pay.
Oh, yeah, and I don't get to lie about losing two pounds.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Good for Another 3,000 Miles
It's been well-documented that I had cancer. I had surgery to get it out. I had chemo to keep it out. And now we have the follow-up stuff to make sure it stays out.
So on Wednesday, I finally got around to having the colonoscopy that I was supposed to have on the 17th. of Feb., except I got sick and couldn't have it. I did blog about it if you really want to know the sordid details. Suffice it to say here, I had the same reaction to the Bisacodyl that ocurred during the previous prep. The headache, the nausea. Undaunted, I refused to puke and I struggled the liquid down,
(yuk) and did what I had to do. I was not going to postpone this again.
Showed up at the Endoscopy Center as scheduled, checked in, had the scope with no complications, and when I woke up, the nice lady gave me a nice cup of coffee and two nice cookies, and I felt lots better.
Learned that there was a polyp which was removed and sent to pathology. Also, there was a hemorrhoid! I thought Dr Saeed got them all in January. He's not getting this one!
Had a nice breakfast, went to Fifth St. and hung out with the kids. Came home to a really good night's sleep.
On Friday, I got a call that the pathology was back and the polyp was benign. Until I heard the word, I wasn't ready to admit that I was apprehensive about the results. Funny. I really felt that the veil lifted. After a year of uncertainty.
But my sense of well-being was not to last very long. Because this is the week-end of the time change. Anyone who knows me knows my feelings about this bi-annual lunacy. Take daylight off the front of the day and put it on the back of the day. For nine months. Who decides these things? So now, the kid next door leaves for school in the dark. Maybe only for a few weeks, but what the hell? Why should he have to? When this was an agrarian society, it was nice that the farmers still had a little daylight at the end of his work day. Of course, most days, he was too tired to stay awake to enjoy it. So now, people can continue the frenetic pace late in the day. For what?
It is a tradition which has out-lived any usefulness. And I'm not sure it should even matter to me. The polyp was benign.
So on Wednesday, I finally got around to having the colonoscopy that I was supposed to have on the 17th. of Feb., except I got sick and couldn't have it. I did blog about it if you really want to know the sordid details. Suffice it to say here, I had the same reaction to the Bisacodyl that ocurred during the previous prep. The headache, the nausea. Undaunted, I refused to puke and I struggled the liquid down,
(yuk) and did what I had to do. I was not going to postpone this again.
Showed up at the Endoscopy Center as scheduled, checked in, had the scope with no complications, and when I woke up, the nice lady gave me a nice cup of coffee and two nice cookies, and I felt lots better.
Learned that there was a polyp which was removed and sent to pathology. Also, there was a hemorrhoid! I thought Dr Saeed got them all in January. He's not getting this one!
Had a nice breakfast, went to Fifth St. and hung out with the kids. Came home to a really good night's sleep.
On Friday, I got a call that the pathology was back and the polyp was benign. Until I heard the word, I wasn't ready to admit that I was apprehensive about the results. Funny. I really felt that the veil lifted. After a year of uncertainty.
But my sense of well-being was not to last very long. Because this is the week-end of the time change. Anyone who knows me knows my feelings about this bi-annual lunacy. Take daylight off the front of the day and put it on the back of the day. For nine months. Who decides these things? So now, the kid next door leaves for school in the dark. Maybe only for a few weeks, but what the hell? Why should he have to? When this was an agrarian society, it was nice that the farmers still had a little daylight at the end of his work day. Of course, most days, he was too tired to stay awake to enjoy it. So now, people can continue the frenetic pace late in the day. For what?
It is a tradition which has out-lived any usefulness. And I'm not sure it should even matter to me. The polyp was benign.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Snowday(s)
Last week, a snowicane, (I never heard of it, either), was predicted. A really big snow storm accompanied by high winds. In my day, this was called a blizzard. But then, I'm an old fogey. Some young upstart believes that newer is better. Since I've survived a few Honest-to-God blizzards in my day, I say, "Let's see what you've got".
I listened intently when my youngest son called to invite me to pack a few things and come to his house to spend the storm with his family. I politely declined, opting to spend the time at my home, where I have plenty of food, medication, and good neighbors who see to my shoveling.
Watched as much as I could stand of the news reports of panicked citizens storming the grocery stores to stock up on bread, milk and eggs. Me? If I'm going to head out to stock up on anything, it will be brownies and wine. But I digress. A routine interview will be with the snowplow driver/salt truck operator who informs us that the trucks will be running 'round the clock, and you can just hear the "ka-ching" sounding in his head as he speaks sadly about the time he'll spend away from his family.
"Stay off the roads and let the plows do their job".
"The Governor has closed the interstates".
"Here's a shot of the Turnpike, showing traffic moving well in the one open lane".
It doesn't really matter how much snow is predicted, the news reports will always be the same. PEOPLE! PLEASE! Snow should not be the lead story. This is Winter. This is the Northeast. It will snow. These are all facts. Let's face them and move on.
If I'm looking out my window at a frigid white landscape, I'd rather not watch more of it on my TV. How about dragging out the shots of the kids diving into the local pool in mid-July? Or the folks enjoying the rides and the food concessions at an amusement park? Can you find the interview you did with The Good Humor Man as he made his rounds on the hottest day of the year?
Do you think you can be a little innovative? Go ahead and shoot the shot of the mounds of snow the plow guy piled up. And the snow-covered interstates. And the frosted tree branches. Put 'em in the archives. I'd enjoy looking at them when the temperature hits 97F. in August.
I listened intently when my youngest son called to invite me to pack a few things and come to his house to spend the storm with his family. I politely declined, opting to spend the time at my home, where I have plenty of food, medication, and good neighbors who see to my shoveling.
Watched as much as I could stand of the news reports of panicked citizens storming the grocery stores to stock up on bread, milk and eggs. Me? If I'm going to head out to stock up on anything, it will be brownies and wine. But I digress. A routine interview will be with the snowplow driver/salt truck operator who informs us that the trucks will be running 'round the clock, and you can just hear the "ka-ching" sounding in his head as he speaks sadly about the time he'll spend away from his family.
"Stay off the roads and let the plows do their job".
"The Governor has closed the interstates".
"Here's a shot of the Turnpike, showing traffic moving well in the one open lane".
It doesn't really matter how much snow is predicted, the news reports will always be the same. PEOPLE! PLEASE! Snow should not be the lead story. This is Winter. This is the Northeast. It will snow. These are all facts. Let's face them and move on.
If I'm looking out my window at a frigid white landscape, I'd rather not watch more of it on my TV. How about dragging out the shots of the kids diving into the local pool in mid-July? Or the folks enjoying the rides and the food concessions at an amusement park? Can you find the interview you did with The Good Humor Man as he made his rounds on the hottest day of the year?
Do you think you can be a little innovative? Go ahead and shoot the shot of the mounds of snow the plow guy piled up. And the snow-covered interstates. And the frosted tree branches. Put 'em in the archives. I'd enjoy looking at them when the temperature hits 97F. in August.
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