It's A Quirk

As I have written here before ~ when you have a blog for eight freaking years, there isn't a lot that gets missed ~ I have physical quirks. Low blood pressure. Bad ears. Vaso vegal response. And a weird heart thingy. See how medically sophisticated that one is? Yeah, there's a reason for that one. That's all I know it as: Pobble's Weird Heart Thingy.

When I was 19, I was in rehearsals for Music Man when suddenly, I thought I was having a heart attack. Being a the-show-must-go-on-stupid-19-year-old type o'gal, I sat down and didn't tell a damn soul until my heart calmed back down again. After all, I might've lost the role, and dammit, I wanted to play Zanita! *insert eye roll here* That was the first episode. For the past 24 years, I have had them off and on, to greater and lesser degrees. My heart begins to race, to pound very hard. My hands get tingly. Sometimes I can breathe it down. Sometimes I pass out. There's no way of knowing which type of episode it's going to be when it starts. The "fun" is riding it out. 

The problem is that they are short. A really long episode only lasts about 30-40 minutes. A short one can be a couple minutes. Which means by the time I am in an ER and hooked up to a machine, I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Embarrassingly fine. The other problem is that I might have two episodes in a week ~ or I might not have one for three or four months. Another way to make it difficult to capture and diagnose. YAY!

It's been diagnosed as a panic attack (which it's not), magnesium deficiency (which it's not) and "Pobble just being weird" (which I am, but it's not, and really had no business being in a medical chart anyway). I've carried around a holter monitor. I've been poked, prodded, pictured, and painted. Nothing.

SO! Wednesday, I am getting a doo-hicky (wow, all these really technical terms; are you keeping up?) implanted in my chest. It's an implantable loop recorder, looks a lot like a thumb drive, and it goes just under my skin, in the right of my breast. It's like having an EKG machine under my skin. It will record all "events of note" and we will finally get this shit figured out.

I'm excited. Yes, nervous, but mostly excited. Plus? I get to be bionic. As Nemeria and I were discussing, I get to have an EKG. Under. My skin. How cool is this????? And Lithus thinks scars are sexy, so I'm all good.

And yes, I'll keep you posted. :)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Let's Get A Few Things Cleared Up

1. Boston, Watertown, and the surrounding areas were not paralyzed. Were not cowering in fear. To suggest otherwise is disrespectful, but more, it is wrong. You don't do this kind of a thing to our city and get away with it. Period. So yes, they stayed home. They baked cookies (*waves*). They joked and laughed and kept their kids calm. Not out of fear of you, but in order to stop you. And to make other people think twice.

2. Anyone who uses these events as excuses to hurt, maim, bully, or torment another human being based on their (real or perceived) ethnicity or religion is no better than the bombers. You are not a true American. You are not the good guys. You are not extracting justice. Justice was done last night, in Watertown, by officers of the law. You are racist bigots. Don't use my town as an excuse for your hate.

3. I cannot celebrate life lost. Not the lives of the victims, be they at the race or in the week following. But I cannot celebrate the lives lost of the bombers, either. And yes, the 19 year old young man's life is lost, as much as his brother's, just differently. These are people. People who did horrible things, who deserve the justice they received. But I cannot lose sight of their humanity. I can ~ and I do ~ celebrate that they are off the streets, that they have been brought to justice. I cannot ~ I will not ~ celebrate their lives lost.

4. Everybody's learned the lesson now, right? Don't fuck with Boston.



Now, I think we can go back to "regular" blogging ~ whatever the hell that means. :)

Those are (Boston) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

'Nuff Said

Those are Boston Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Hey! Hey, You!

We were incorporated in 1630. We have the oldest school. The oldest library. The first subway system. We're the oldest, the original, the best.

You and your three measly bombs? Please. We're Boston. You're nothing.

Those are goddamn Boston Pobble Thoughts. And fuck you.

Screaming Liberal Post #7

Boys! Check it out! Be A Hero!

This is so cool. I would totally buy this for my nephews. Hell, I've got a couple of nieces I would buy this for! Maybe they've got one with Wonder Woman or Storm or Black Widow, in keeping with the Avengers theme.

Let's see what we have for girls...

...

...

...

Are You Fucking KIDDING ME????? What century are we LIVING IN?????

Those are Pobble Thoughts. Incoherent, enraged Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

And Then There Was My Ego

I had a second interview for a job. From the beginning of this process, I have wanted this job. It is a family support position, and that is my favorite office gig. I mean, I love family support. You know what I don't love? Kids. They are messy and sticky and smell. They are loud and demanding and needy. But, that being said, I am a really good support/advocate for parents with messy, sticky, smelly, loud, demanding, and needy kids. So I have wanted this job. I have fought for this job.

Until ...

Until I spent an hour actually doing the job. Wow. It took about ten minutes to go from isn't that sweet; the kids love her to holy shit, I'd be expected to do this and dear god, will this interview never end? I just want to go home. And then I sat with the women who are providing the support to the kids themselves.

They challenged me appropriately, and even a bit inappropriately but from a place of loyalty to the kids. They wanted to know what I brought to the table. They were clear that they did not think I had any business being there. They weren't even listening to my answers; they just wanted more than whatever I was giving them. They want an early childhood development specialist. Their bosses are interviewing a family support specialist. Those are two very different jobs.

And that's when my ego kicked in. That's when I (mentally) went to fuck you, I'll show you I can do this job. By the time I left, I had even convinced myself I still wanted this job. My immediate reaction was that it would really come down to hiring who the bosses want, or hiring who the children support women want. Sat with that until I got home. 

After a nap, and some coffee, I found myself remembering...the boogy nose; the chicken in the chocolate milk ~ and the drinking of the concoction; the dirty hands; the mess. The overwhelming kidness of the whole thing.

Nope. I don't want this job. My ego will just have to deal with that. Will just have to deal with the fact that, if I can do this job or not, I am not the best person for it. The best person for this job isn't a family support specialist. She's an early childhood development specialist who loves kids, who doesn't see the stickiness or smell the smell. Pitching in to help the other providers will be a highlight of her day. And yes, she'll be able to give the families assistance, but her love will be the children. In all their messy, sticky, smelly, loud, demanding, needy glory.

Should they call and offer me the job, I will turn it down. Should they call to tell me they have gone in another direction, I will tell them they made the right decision. Either way, my ego can just sit the hell down and deal. I don't need to spend three months miserable and then finally quit in an explosion of angst and misery. Let's save us all from that, shall we, ego?

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Proper v. Ladylike

In my profile, I say I am a quivering mass of contradictions. It's oh so true. 

Last night, Lithus and I split a porterhouse. By mutual agreement, he ended up with the bone. At the end of the meal, he was eyeing it wistfully and I said "oh good grief, pick it up!" That's all it took. With a childlike smile, he grabbed that thing up and started gnawing. I told him I was almost offended that he had hesitated at all, instead of digging right in. He shrugged, as if to say "there are limits..." 

But we weren't in public. We weren't out at a multi-starred restaurant. We didn't even have guests over (as opposed to family, who wouldn't have cared any more than I do). It was just the two of us, in our own home. Hell, the curtains were even closed. If you can't pick up a steak bone and start gnawing then, when can you?

That being said...We've had a friend staying here the last month, or so. We're all easy with each other and respectful of small space, so it has been more pleasant than three, unrelated people in a one bedroom apartment really has any right to be. At the same time, I haven't gone barefoot since he got here. Going out, I take my slippers off and put on my shoes. Coming home, I kick my shoes off and go directly into my slippers ~ which I have left by the door, so that I can put them on as soon as my shoes come off.

Wha...?

I love being barefoot. And we have floors that feel really good on bare feet. It just hasn't felt...proper. In thinking about it, I don't believe I ever saw my grandmothers' bare feet. One of them lived where there was a pool, and I cannot believe she never took us there ~ but I cannot remember it, for certain. Shoes, certainly. House slippers, yes. Bare feet? I have no memory at all of that. It wasn't proper. Now that I have a long-term house guest, my feet have been shod. 

I've sat at the table with our friend, gotten drunk on brown liquor, and told off-color jokes, mind you. I just haven't been barefoot. Don't much care about being ladylike; apparently care a great deal about being proper. Maybe it's what makes me a lady, instead of just ladylike. Or maybe, I'm just a quivering mass of contradictions. That's always an option.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.