DOMA overturned! Oppressive women's health care laws denied! Corporate America Putting Its Money Where Its Mouth Is! Voters' Rights Acts...oh...wait a minute. I.D. laws... Immigration reform... *sigh*
It's been a week, hasn't it? We take such great strides, and manage to fall backwards at the same time. How do we do this?
I am thrilled about DOMA. I am. But it leaves so very much undone. There are still states where marriage equality doesn't exist, even now, under these new federal guidelines. And what about ENDA? What about the rights of transgendered men and women? What about the homelessness and violence and fear that stalk LGBTQ people every day that really make being able to be legally wed, in some states, seem not terribly important?
Wendy Davis is my new heroine. She should be everybody's new heroine. But she's not. Why was what she did necessary in the first place? And how fast is Rick Perry going to reconvene a special session to undo her remarkable feat?
As for our "post-racial society," I'd really like to see it. Because funny enough, we continue to look, sound, and legislate like a society that is pretty damn racial. On one hand, company after company has dropped their association with Paula Deen (and particular kudos to Food Network, for continuing to do the social justice thing the right way ~ subtly, quietly, as if it is simply a fact and the norm). On the other hand, that Voters Rights Act that got decimated? That i.d. law that got overturned? Those aren't about the white folks.
ARGH! I don't mean to be a downer. I don't intend to rain on anyone's parade. Again, some really exciting, really thrilling things happened this week. It just concerns me that we don't always see what's left over, what gets slipped in under the cover of the party. Or worse, what we ignore because the party is more important.
It's all important. The good, and yes, the bad.
It's been quite a week.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Turning Left, Turning Right
At some point in my kidhood, I heard somewhere that, if you ever wanted to solve a labyrinth, you should always turn left when forced to leave the main path. This stuck with me. For some reason, I expected the need to navigate terrifying mazes to be something I would have to do far more often than life has actually demanded of me. However! I was ready. I knew to turn left.
Then, for a while, we were told that, when given a choice between two lines, Americans would take the one on the right, so left lines tended to be shorter here in the US. Which took me to the left.
Finally, married to the SGM, he would complain bitterly about soldiers under his command who would wander aimlessly during trainings, making that much harder to ensure their safety. To which I would reply, "Well, then, if you're ever looking for me, I will have stayed straight until I couldn't any longer, then I'll turn left." Very much like the labyrinth, not being a Green Beret, this never came into play for me. But we had the leftward traveling plan.
As such, now, whenever I leave a building...a parking lot...a turnstile...just about anywhere, I turn left. Last night, however, was 2013's supermoon and wow, was I hoping to see it. So, when I walked out of my apartment, I turned... right.
Good lord! The movie set was gone. The movie set that had been there Sunday was now gone on Monday. This:
Had become, this:
I was astounded.
Then, for a while, we were told that, when given a choice between two lines, Americans would take the one on the right, so left lines tended to be shorter here in the US. Which took me to the left.
Finally, married to the SGM, he would complain bitterly about soldiers under his command who would wander aimlessly during trainings, making that much harder to ensure their safety. To which I would reply, "Well, then, if you're ever looking for me, I will have stayed straight until I couldn't any longer, then I'll turn left." Very much like the labyrinth, not being a Green Beret, this never came into play for me. But we had the leftward traveling plan.
As such, now, whenever I leave a building...a parking lot...a turnstile...just about anywhere, I turn left. Last night, however, was 2013's supermoon and wow, was I hoping to see it. So, when I walked out of my apartment, I turned... right.
Good lord! The movie set was gone. The movie set that had been there Sunday was now gone on Monday. This:
 |
| Movie Set |
 |
| No Movie Set |
I was astounded.
At this point, in order to get to the grocery store, which was my other reason for going out, I had to turn left again, and so I did. But good grief, even that was a new experience. New shadows. New groups of kids on the corners. Less light on the street, more light in office windows of people working late. Different stories to create, different characters to visit. Suddenly, the grocery became not just another place that was open, but the only place that was open. The haven shining into the surrounding darkness. It was mysterious and wicked and just a little naughty to be here, at this hour. All of one block up.
I like turning left. I know I will continue to do so. But I was reminded last night that turning left is only unique if, occasionally, you turn right, too.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
From One Southerner To Another
Dear Paula ~
I know I don't mention it often, but I am indeed a southerner. My heart has me from New England, but that is my heart. My heritage is all South.
I want to tell you I understand. That I get that the south is different. That it used to be even more different. That our culture is more resigned to racism and that, while we don't condone it, we also understand the difference between true racism and what you have been doing. I know these arguments. I have heard these arguments. I can quote them, chapter and verse. After all, I am a southerner.
Which is the issue here, Paula. I am a Southerner. I was raised by Southerners. While you are older than I, you are younger than my father, only a few years younger than my mother. You are barely the babysitter generation to me and my peers. And my parents never used the words you claim to have learned not to use. They never held the attitudes you say you have lost.
My parents were white and privileged, so I guarantee you they were not perfect. No more than I am. But I guarantee you, Paula, they didn't require a lawsuit to check that privilege. And they certainly didn't need one to check mine. I remember being 13 or 14, when I announced that I had come to learn there were black people and then there were n*****s and they were totally different. Those parents ~ those Southern parents who were not that much older than you are ~ shut that shit down. They shut that shit down hard.
I want to tell you I understand, Paula, because I have always liked your on air persona, and feel that perhaps it matches your real life one. You are funny and bubbly and kind and I liked what I knew of you. Plus, there's that Southern thing, that as much as I run from it, I do find comfortable and familiar.
I want to tell you I understand ~ but I can't. The arguments don't hold water. The explanations aren't true. You have no excuse.
You say you are learning. Good. I hope that's true. I will never begrudge someone a life lesson. They are always reason to celebrate. But I want to see you learn. I want to see you live it. I want to see you change your thoughts the same way you changed your diet. Otherwise, Paula, they are just words. Words I don't understand.
Sincerely,
The Boston Pobble
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
I know I don't mention it often, but I am indeed a southerner. My heart has me from New England, but that is my heart. My heritage is all South.
I want to tell you I understand. That I get that the south is different. That it used to be even more different. That our culture is more resigned to racism and that, while we don't condone it, we also understand the difference between true racism and what you have been doing. I know these arguments. I have heard these arguments. I can quote them, chapter and verse. After all, I am a southerner.
Which is the issue here, Paula. I am a Southerner. I was raised by Southerners. While you are older than I, you are younger than my father, only a few years younger than my mother. You are barely the babysitter generation to me and my peers. And my parents never used the words you claim to have learned not to use. They never held the attitudes you say you have lost.
My parents were white and privileged, so I guarantee you they were not perfect. No more than I am. But I guarantee you, Paula, they didn't require a lawsuit to check that privilege. And they certainly didn't need one to check mine. I remember being 13 or 14, when I announced that I had come to learn there were black people and then there were n*****s and they were totally different. Those parents ~ those Southern parents who were not that much older than you are ~ shut that shit down. They shut that shit down hard.
I want to tell you I understand, Paula, because I have always liked your on air persona, and feel that perhaps it matches your real life one. You are funny and bubbly and kind and I liked what I knew of you. Plus, there's that Southern thing, that as much as I run from it, I do find comfortable and familiar.
I want to tell you I understand ~ but I can't. The arguments don't hold water. The explanations aren't true. You have no excuse.
You say you are learning. Good. I hope that's true. I will never begrudge someone a life lesson. They are always reason to celebrate. But I want to see you learn. I want to see you live it. I want to see you change your thoughts the same way you changed your diet. Otherwise, Paula, they are just words. Words I don't understand.
Sincerely,
The Boston Pobble
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Overheard In NOLA
I can fix your motor. Make it a hotrod. I'm just saying, not everything has to be about Jesus.
I can't argue the point.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
I can't argue the point.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
FREEDOM!
As of today, the Lovely Cats is divorced. Too many years, too many stories, too much abuse. And it's over. Welcome back, my friend.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Recovery
Is going so well, it's easy to forget I had surgery at all. At least until I drag the thing I am carrying ~ because I'm allowed to carry, again ~ down my hip and scrape it across the incision point. Other than that, and the very occasional twinge in the heart itself (to be expected, and not a source of concern), I am well, well, well. Even traipsing around NOLA with my mother, as proven by our trek down Bourbon Street.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
It Runs In The Family
When I was in secondary school, my maternal grandparents were in town frequently. Sometimes business, sometimes for alumni events, sometimes "just" to visit us. Regardless of why they were in town, my grandmother, Mama Bear, always made sure there was plenty of time with us. As adult, I realize I have no idea how old she was. 60s? 70s? I know it's a hell of a lot younger from my perspective now than it was then.
Anyway, I remember one trip when I was in middle school, she decided she wanted to take Crow and me for lunch. We had no idea where we should go with our grandmother for lunch. Somehow or other, and I truly don't remember how, it might've been her, the idea of pizza was floated. And oh good lord, she was up for it. At which point, I proclaimed her to be "a cool old broad."
The lunch date came and we headed out. My parents asked where we were going and I (or perhaps Crow, one of us) said "Pizza Inn." My grandmother never missed a beat, but looked up the stairs and said "Yeah, I'm a cool old broad." As it turns out, my mother wasn't the least bit surprised and already knew her stepmother to be a cool old broad. For me, though, it was delightful enough that I remember it some 30 years later.
Last night was Saturday night. In New Orleans. My 70 year old mother looks at me and says "I think I should at least see Bourbon Street on a Saturday night."
...
...
...
Well, okay then.
Yeah, it runs in the family.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Anyway, I remember one trip when I was in middle school, she decided she wanted to take Crow and me for lunch. We had no idea where we should go with our grandmother for lunch. Somehow or other, and I truly don't remember how, it might've been her, the idea of pizza was floated. And oh good lord, she was up for it. At which point, I proclaimed her to be "a cool old broad."
The lunch date came and we headed out. My parents asked where we were going and I (or perhaps Crow, one of us) said "Pizza Inn." My grandmother never missed a beat, but looked up the stairs and said "Yeah, I'm a cool old broad." As it turns out, my mother wasn't the least bit surprised and already knew her stepmother to be a cool old broad. For me, though, it was delightful enough that I remember it some 30 years later.
Last night was Saturday night. In New Orleans. My 70 year old mother looks at me and says "I think I should at least see Bourbon Street on a Saturday night."
...
...
...
Well, okay then.
Yeah, it runs in the family.
 |
| Complete with beads tossed from a balcony |
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Issues, Subscriptions - Vol. 43
I have issues. This is not something I try to hide or am remotely embarrassed about. I am nowhere close to perfect. We all have issues. Honestly, I handle my issues pretty damn well, and far better than many people. Self-esteem isn't one of them, never really has been. Ego isn't much of one. Notice I say "much." That's intentional, because I have realized I do have some ego.
I don't need credit for things often. Someone else's journey is certainly not anything I need ~ or want ~ to take credit for. Taking credit means I also have to be willing to take responsibility, and, potentially, blame. No thank you. If someone needs to learn something and they learn it from me, I'm flattered. But if I've been saying it for years and they are finally able to hear it from someone else, I'm just as good with that. It's not about me being the one who gets the message across.
Just recently, though, I've had the same thing occur several different times and have learned it makes me crazy. I have suggested something to someone and then, within a matter of hours, had that same someone tell me they were going to do what I had suggested, but say it in such a way that makes it sound as if I had never suggested it in the first place, but that it was solely their idea. Explain it to me ~ once, almost verbatim ~ and then wait for the praise that came with coming up with this great idea. But...but...It was just this afternoon! Believe me, I remember giving you this idea! You have thought of this because I told it to you!
And that's when I have to take a step back. That's when I have to remember that it is not about getting credit. It's not about being the source of the information. When I need to remember that, while this is not exactly the same thing, it is very close to not having ego around someone else's journey.
I am amused at myself. I am amazed at how very often it happens. And I am learning to shake my head and let it go. I'm nowhere close to perfect ~ especially on the shaking my head and letting it go, part ~ but I'm working on it. That's gotta count for something. Right?
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
I don't need credit for things often. Someone else's journey is certainly not anything I need ~ or want ~ to take credit for. Taking credit means I also have to be willing to take responsibility, and, potentially, blame. No thank you. If someone needs to learn something and they learn it from me, I'm flattered. But if I've been saying it for years and they are finally able to hear it from someone else, I'm just as good with that. It's not about me being the one who gets the message across.
Just recently, though, I've had the same thing occur several different times and have learned it makes me crazy. I have suggested something to someone and then, within a matter of hours, had that same someone tell me they were going to do what I had suggested, but say it in such a way that makes it sound as if I had never suggested it in the first place, but that it was solely their idea. Explain it to me ~ once, almost verbatim ~ and then wait for the praise that came with coming up with this great idea. But...but...It was just this afternoon! Believe me, I remember giving you this idea! You have thought of this because I told it to you!
And that's when I have to take a step back. That's when I have to remember that it is not about getting credit. It's not about being the source of the information. When I need to remember that, while this is not exactly the same thing, it is very close to not having ego around someone else's journey.
I am amused at myself. I am amazed at how very often it happens. And I am learning to shake my head and let it go. I'm nowhere close to perfect ~ especially on the shaking my head and letting it go, part ~ but I'm working on it. That's gotta count for something. Right?
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Muchness
Several years ago now, two koala bears survived horrific fires in Australia. They found each other and became mated at the animal rescue center where they were taken for rehabilitation. The vets in charge of their care said they had "a muchness between them."
I write about Lithus, often, but I don't write about him nearly as often as I could. For as open as I am, I am also known for being private. I hug and laugh and will talk about the things no one else wants to talk about. I believe in feeling whatever we are feeling in the moment and feeling it without shame. And still, there is a reservedness that I know I have.
That being said, sometimes, you have to say something. Sometimes, you are loved so big, and you love so big, and it is all so complete, that you have to say something.
We have a muchness between us. Or mutual weirdness. Probably both. And I am so grateful.
Those are truly blessed Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
I write about Lithus, often, but I don't write about him nearly as often as I could. For as open as I am, I am also known for being private. I hug and laugh and will talk about the things no one else wants to talk about. I believe in feeling whatever we are feeling in the moment and feeling it without shame. And still, there is a reservedness that I know I have.
That being said, sometimes, you have to say something. Sometimes, you are loved so big, and you love so big, and it is all so complete, that you have to say something.
We have a muchness between us. Or mutual weirdness. Probably both. And I am so grateful.
Those are truly blessed Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Early This Year
While I pride myself on being spontaneous, in some ways, I am remarkably predictable. Every holiday season, I write a PSA about giving. Every October, I write about National Domestic Violence Month. And usually sometime right around the 4th of July, I remind people of the definition of the word "evacuate." That last one isn't waiting until July this year. Thank you, Colorado.
Sadly, there are wildfires in Colorado already this fire season. Even more sadly, homes are being destroyed. The area in question was even under a mandatory evacuation order. Most people listened, and left. My sympathy for them knows no bounds.Then there were the people who stayed. Who are now asking for help. Kind of like for evacuation. Yeah...
Funniest thing about that one; I have no sympathy for them. None. Because you know who would've risked his life to save their homes so they didn't have to stay and try to save their homes themselves? Lithus, and the other pilots like him. You know, the love of my life and my friends.
Guess who are now having to risk their lives even more, because the fires are even closer, are hotter, are more dangerous? Guess who can't just say a building isn't worth risking their lives and stay safe, because it's not just a building any longer; it's people. Who didn't fucking evacuate. When they were ordered to do so.
So, people, it's fire season. Think about your homes, your belongings. Absolutely. But think about your lives first. And then, even before your damn house, think about the lives of the people who will come get you out of the conflagration when the shit really comes down. And move your fucking ass.
Thanks.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sadly, there are wildfires in Colorado already this fire season. Even more sadly, homes are being destroyed. The area in question was even under a mandatory evacuation order. Most people listened, and left. My sympathy for them knows no bounds.Then there were the people who stayed. Who are now asking for help. Kind of like for evacuation. Yeah...
Funniest thing about that one; I have no sympathy for them. None. Because you know who would've risked his life to save their homes so they didn't have to stay and try to save their homes themselves? Lithus, and the other pilots like him. You know, the love of my life and my friends.
Guess who are now having to risk their lives even more, because the fires are even closer, are hotter, are more dangerous? Guess who can't just say a building isn't worth risking their lives and stay safe, because it's not just a building any longer; it's people. Who didn't fucking evacuate. When they were ordered to do so.
So, people, it's fire season. Think about your homes, your belongings. Absolutely. But think about your lives first. And then, even before your damn house, think about the lives of the people who will come get you out of the conflagration when the shit really comes down. And move your fucking ass.
Thanks.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sunday, June 09, 2013
Fixed!
Heart surgery. Those are still weird words, and an even weirder concept. But I feel really good. And I'm fixed, which is amazing.
Starbuck had suggested I wear my stilettos into surgery. Sadly, that couldn't be arranged. However! Lithus ran with the idea, and I was at least able to be colorful.
Only in Louisiana can you have heart surgery on Day One and on Day Two be served sausage and biscuit for breakfast. I drank my coffee and had a banana.
For 24 years, I have been ignored and written off and condescended to around this issue. Then there was this man: Dr. Daniel. If you ever need anything done to the electrical system in your heart, contact me and I will give you his full name, because this is the guy you want. After 24 years, he found it, and fixed it, in thirty-seven days. With a bedside manner and grace that are hard to come by in specialist doctors. Plus, he got to NOLA from Boston, via Worcester. What's not to love?
Need I say that Lithus was brilliant? And continues to be so? He never left my side. He talked when I needed company and was quiet when I needed peace. Every time I reached my hand out, he was there. Some of the details are too personal, even for here. Some, can't be adequately described, even by me. This is not a pain-free procedure. It is not a mess-free procedure. And Lithus was there, through it all. See that window seat down there? That was his "bed" for the night. And he never complained.
And finally ~ finally ~ I got to go back outside. It was a beautiful day.
It's only day two and I'm already bored. Luckily, heavy rest is up after today. Then I spend a week still being easy, but at least more functional. It's all worth it, though. I'm fixed.
 |
| A pre-surgery pose |
Starbuck had suggested I wear my stilettos into surgery. Sadly, that couldn't be arranged. However! Lithus ran with the idea, and I was at least able to be colorful.
 |
| Electric pool blue toes |
Only in Louisiana can you have heart surgery on Day One and on Day Two be served sausage and biscuit for breakfast. I drank my coffee and had a banana.
 |
| The morning after |
 |
| Favorite doctor *ever* |
 |
| Favorite person *ever* |
 |
| Note: beautiful day |
It's only day two and I'm already bored. Luckily, heavy rest is up after today. Then I spend a week still being easy, but at least more functional. It's all worth it, though. I'm fixed.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Current Favorites
I often post commercials that make me happy, or piss me off, or give me pause, or whatever. It's that time again.
Kudos to Audi, for making black females their target audience. No great fanfare. No great flashing neon signs screaming LOOK AT ME! Just a mom and daughter, living their lives, coming off as intelligent, articulate, well-off, and happy. You know, just like real black families.
And this one, the infamous Cheerios commercial. That also dares to show a loving, united, nuclear family that recognizes the changing face of American families.
I'm a vote with my pocketbook type 'o gal, and would love to throw my support behind both of these. That's not gonna happen anytime soon, given that I'm a long way out from being able to afford an Audi. But there are Cheerios in my pantry, even as we speak.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Kudos to Audi, for making black females their target audience. No great fanfare. No great flashing neon signs screaming LOOK AT ME! Just a mom and daughter, living their lives, coming off as intelligent, articulate, well-off, and happy. You know, just like real black families.
And this one, the infamous Cheerios commercial. That also dares to show a loving, united, nuclear family that recognizes the changing face of American families.
I'm a vote with my pocketbook type 'o gal, and would love to throw my support behind both of these. That's not gonna happen anytime soon, given that I'm a long way out from being able to afford an Audi. But there are Cheerios in my pantry, even as we speak.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, June 01, 2013
Heart...Surgery?
On June 6th, I'm having heart surgery. It is a strange thought, and not at all comfortable. Heart surgery. Wow.
Now, before anyone worries, or warms up their best pep talk, everything will be fine. What we expect is happening (AVnRT) is the most common, and most easily remedied, of the tachycardia(s? ae?). I was going to link an explanation, but none of them are as easy to understand as the one I've come up with. It means this:
I have an extra electrical pathway in the right upper chamber of my heart. Normally, the electricity would flow from the right upper chamber to the right lower chamber, causing my heart to pump correctly. However, if we are correct and it is AVnRT, sometimes the electricity runs down the pathway and gets snagged by this other, spare, connected pathway, and it sends it back up into the right upper chamber instead of allowing the electricity to flow through the right lower chamber.
Which is all kinds of clinical and removed and not at all how I'm feeling about it. So, I'm trying not to think about it. Much anyway. Because, yes, I am scared. And, I'm okay. Both/And, you know?
My friend, Starbuck, even sent me googly eyes and stickers for the equipment that lives on my hip at all times. As I told her, if I have to live with this for the next 18 months, it might as well be a friend. So, she helped make that happen.
I'm ready for this. Lithus is going to be by my side every step of the way. My doctor is brilliant and I feel safe in his care. It's all good.
Now, before anyone worries, or warms up their best pep talk, everything will be fine. What we expect is happening (AVnRT) is the most common, and most easily remedied, of the tachycardia(s? ae?). I was going to link an explanation, but none of them are as easy to understand as the one I've come up with. It means this:
I have an extra electrical pathway in the right upper chamber of my heart. Normally, the electricity would flow from the right upper chamber to the right lower chamber, causing my heart to pump correctly. However, if we are correct and it is AVnRT, sometimes the electricity runs down the pathway and gets snagged by this other, spare, connected pathway, and it sends it back up into the right upper chamber instead of allowing the electricity to flow through the right lower chamber.
Which is all kinds of clinical and removed and not at all how I'm feeling about it. So, I'm trying not to think about it. Much anyway. Because, yes, I am scared. And, I'm okay. Both/And, you know?
My friend, Starbuck, even sent me googly eyes and stickers for the equipment that lives on my hip at all times. As I told her, if I have to live with this for the next 18 months, it might as well be a friend. So, she helped make that happen.
 |
| The first attempt at the case, but the stickers came off |
 |
| Successful googly eyes on the case |
 |
| And the activator itself, for when I have to take it out and use it |
I'm ready for this. Lithus is going to be by my side every step of the way. My doctor is brilliant and I feel safe in his care. It's all good.
Still, every now and then, it hits me: I am going to have heart surgery. Yeah. It's a little weird.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Sir Patrick Stewart: Yet Another Reason to Love Him
Offered without comment, because there is nothing I can add or say better. Except, thank you, Sir. Yes, it's seven plus minutes, but they fly by and they are worthwhile.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you so much more than coffee.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you so much more than coffee.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Too Much T.V.
I admit it; I've been watching a lot television recently. Movies and shows and the commercials that run in between them. While I'm not proud of it, it has at least, given me some interesting things to think about.
Thing the First: The person who is set up, learns something impossible, has their world turned upside down, is suddenly on the run. Inevitably, the character has something unbelievable they need someone to believe. They've been abducted by aliens. They aren't really insane. No one else remembers they exist. No one else remembers something has happened. They need someone to listen, believe them, and not call the police, the psychiatrist, the government, depending on the situation. Sometimes the confidant rises to the occasion. Other times, they assure the character they will listen and then they make the call while the character is finally getting a must needed rest, shower, or meal. So sad.
Which made me wonder ~ who would I call on if I needed someone to believe me when no one else would, needed someone to believe the unbelievable. Lithus, first and foremost. Because of particularly bitter exes, we had to agree a long time ago that we would believe what came out of each other's mouths over anything else. No, it's not to the degree I've mentioned above, but the concept is the same. He will believe me and help. If he doesn't believe me, he will still help. Our vows even included having the others' back. Second, the Lovely Cats. Yeah, she has her issues, but if I need her ~ really need her ~ she'd be there. Even if it means sneaking me across the border, paying off the aliens, hiding me from the people who are trying to set me up, or any of the other plots that have popped up recently.
Thing the Second: Also includes Lithus but not in the same way. There is a hero. He is doing something dangerous. His girlfriend/wife/fiance is in the control room when the government, ambiguously-good guys, people in charge decide they don't trust him to complete the plan and have to do something for the greater good that will end up killing our hero. At which point, the girlfriend/wife/fiance starts to cry and beg. That's all she does. She knows these people are about to kill the hero, whom she loves, and she cries and begs.
Dude. If the ambiguously-good guy goes to kill Lithus, greater good be damned, they will have to knock my ass out in order to accomplish their goal. I will be clawing and punching and screaming and pushing buttons and pulling levers and generally being a mad woman in order to keep them from doing whatever they feel they need to do. I get that they feel they need to do it. They are wrong. Why do these women just stand there and cry?
Thing the Third: Product placement has entered the realm of commercials. Really? And not something that makes some kind of sense like the fast food commercial includes a plug for the cola they serve with their combo meals. No, this is about a car commercial that includes an ad for windows 8. Or a clothing store commercial that includes a movie trailer. Are our attention spans so short that we can't even pay attention to our hot cocoa commercials without needing them to be ads for something else as well? *sigh* I guess the answer to that is evident, if I like it or not.
Thing the Fourth: It happened the other day. The first documentary dealing with something that is going to occur beyond my lifetime has shown up on my television. And I don't mean things that are going to happen beyond everyone's lifetime, or even beyond the lifetimes of everyone alive right now. I was watching a show and it talked about being concerned with things that were going to happen in 2050. And there it is. I will be 90. Lithus will be 99. Yes, technically, we could still be around to be impacted by the event, but really? The kids in my world will have to deal with this one without me. Until now, it's been "oh, I'll be in my 60s" or "...my 70s" and I plan on still being pretty damn vibrant. But 90s? Hmmm...
What about you? Who would call if they had to believe the unbelievable?
Those are random Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thing the First: The person who is set up, learns something impossible, has their world turned upside down, is suddenly on the run. Inevitably, the character has something unbelievable they need someone to believe. They've been abducted by aliens. They aren't really insane. No one else remembers they exist. No one else remembers something has happened. They need someone to listen, believe them, and not call the police, the psychiatrist, the government, depending on the situation. Sometimes the confidant rises to the occasion. Other times, they assure the character they will listen and then they make the call while the character is finally getting a must needed rest, shower, or meal. So sad.
Which made me wonder ~ who would I call on if I needed someone to believe me when no one else would, needed someone to believe the unbelievable. Lithus, first and foremost. Because of particularly bitter exes, we had to agree a long time ago that we would believe what came out of each other's mouths over anything else. No, it's not to the degree I've mentioned above, but the concept is the same. He will believe me and help. If he doesn't believe me, he will still help. Our vows even included having the others' back. Second, the Lovely Cats. Yeah, she has her issues, but if I need her ~ really need her ~ she'd be there. Even if it means sneaking me across the border, paying off the aliens, hiding me from the people who are trying to set me up, or any of the other plots that have popped up recently.
Thing the Second: Also includes Lithus but not in the same way. There is a hero. He is doing something dangerous. His girlfriend/wife/fiance is in the control room when the government, ambiguously-good guys, people in charge decide they don't trust him to complete the plan and have to do something for the greater good that will end up killing our hero. At which point, the girlfriend/wife/fiance starts to cry and beg. That's all she does. She knows these people are about to kill the hero, whom she loves, and she cries and begs.
Dude. If the ambiguously-good guy goes to kill Lithus, greater good be damned, they will have to knock my ass out in order to accomplish their goal. I will be clawing and punching and screaming and pushing buttons and pulling levers and generally being a mad woman in order to keep them from doing whatever they feel they need to do. I get that they feel they need to do it. They are wrong. Why do these women just stand there and cry?
Thing the Third: Product placement has entered the realm of commercials. Really? And not something that makes some kind of sense like the fast food commercial includes a plug for the cola they serve with their combo meals. No, this is about a car commercial that includes an ad for windows 8. Or a clothing store commercial that includes a movie trailer. Are our attention spans so short that we can't even pay attention to our hot cocoa commercials without needing them to be ads for something else as well? *sigh* I guess the answer to that is evident, if I like it or not.
Thing the Fourth: It happened the other day. The first documentary dealing with something that is going to occur beyond my lifetime has shown up on my television. And I don't mean things that are going to happen beyond everyone's lifetime, or even beyond the lifetimes of everyone alive right now. I was watching a show and it talked about being concerned with things that were going to happen in 2050. And there it is. I will be 90. Lithus will be 99. Yes, technically, we could still be around to be impacted by the event, but really? The kids in my world will have to deal with this one without me. Until now, it's been "oh, I'll be in my 60s" or "...my 70s" and I plan on still being pretty damn vibrant. But 90s? Hmmm...
What about you? Who would call if they had to believe the unbelievable?
Those are random Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Memorial Day
The truth is it is far easier to understand, to accept, to forgive, when you are loved and supported than it is to do all those things when you are making it under your own steam. And let's be totally honest, a substantial passage of time helps a lot, too. It doesn't, however, take the place of love and support.
Thanks to social media and an internet that connects us all ~ and tells us when we've been checked out ~ I have learned that my ex, the SGM, is now the Command Sergeant Major (CSGM) of a damn cool company. It appears he was even handpicked, which shouldn't surprise anyone who has ever known him. And I find I am happy for him.
And so I thank him, for the first time here on Pobble Thoughts, for his service. For his patriotism. For his loyalty to his unit and his men. I thank him with a freer heart than I ever imagined possible. And I hope he's happy.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thanks to social media and an internet that connects us all ~ and tells us when we've been checked out ~ I have learned that my ex, the SGM, is now the Command Sergeant Major (CSGM) of a damn cool company. It appears he was even handpicked, which shouldn't surprise anyone who has ever known him. And I find I am happy for him.
And so I thank him, for the first time here on Pobble Thoughts, for his service. For his patriotism. For his loyalty to his unit and his men. I thank him with a freer heart than I ever imagined possible. And I hope he's happy.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Grandmothers
Ian, Mr. Write On over at And I Still Think So, posted on grandmothers today, which is noteworthy because my own grandmothers have been in my thoughts a lot recently. First, I wrote about two of them here not too long ago (and yes, during both Cam and Mrs. Pike's visit and Dr. B's visit, I went barefoot. Family v. company, I guess. Digressing, Pobble...). But also, I have had occasion to tell stories about them recently, too.
My second maternal grandmother (technically, she was a step, but we never thought of each other that way) was a rancher woman who married a fancy city lawyer (my grandfather) and brought her sense of propriety and pragmatism with her when she moved from the plains of west Texas into the suburbs of Dallas. My first house had hardwood floors, so I wrote her ~ the most proper woman I knew (with no apologies to my mother, who was, is, and always will be far too free spirited to worry too much about being proper) ~ asking how to care for them. Her response? Oh, honey, I have no idea. My hardwoods were walked on all day, every day, by dirty ranch hands. I was just grateful if they took their boots off before tramping through the living room. Yet this same woman could host a formal dinner party for the partners at the most exclusive supper club in the city, without batting an eye.
My paternal grandmother was sweet, plain and simple. Her greatest pride her whole life was being Mrs. Papa Pobble. She helped minister to my grandfather's congregations in a way I can only now, as an adult, even begin to comprehend. When my grandfather went to war in WWII, she went and bought a red hat, because preachers' wives couldn't wear red hats, but soldiers' wives could. I swear, it was the most daring thing she ever did. To this day, she is the most gentle soul I have ever encountered.
My first (biological) maternal grandmother died when my own mother was 16, so I never knew her, but I have always felt amazingly connected to her. I remember wanting to hear stories about her from her friends, her sisters, my mother. As a child, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about her, but then, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about anything, which is an opportunity I greatly miss.
Now, I am a grandmother. It's not a title I wear often, but my daughter (step, technically, but since she doesn't use the "step" part, I don't either; she's my kid) gets great joy in using the title when referring to me, so I guess I am one. My daughter and I met when she was pregnant with her first child and I explained that I would love that baby, that I would spoil that baby, that I would visit that baby ~ but that I wouldn't, under any circumstances, hold that baby. I don't hold babies, I don't care whose they are. When Lithus and I walked into the hospital room, my daughter's other mother was holding the baby. She and I had never met before but we grinned at each other, as grandmothers. As is wont to happen, she asked if I wanted to hold the baby and went to pass him to me ~ when my darling daughter, still exhausted from delivery sits up, announces "Pobble doesn't hold babies!" and flopped back down again.
Now, I have two grandchildren. Honestly, I am expecting a third before too much longer, because my girl is finally married to a man who adores her and treats her well and who deserves to be the father of her children (and who doesn't use the prefix "step" any more than anyone else in this post ever did). So, yeah, I'm expecting a third one of these days.
Circumstances and personality keep me from ever being the grandmother my grandmothers were, and I'm okay with that. But I think about my grandchildren. And I think about my grandmothers. And I realize I am part of a long line of pretty amazing women and, even though I never expected to be here, I'm okay with that, too.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
My second maternal grandmother (technically, she was a step, but we never thought of each other that way) was a rancher woman who married a fancy city lawyer (my grandfather) and brought her sense of propriety and pragmatism with her when she moved from the plains of west Texas into the suburbs of Dallas. My first house had hardwood floors, so I wrote her ~ the most proper woman I knew (with no apologies to my mother, who was, is, and always will be far too free spirited to worry too much about being proper) ~ asking how to care for them. Her response? Oh, honey, I have no idea. My hardwoods were walked on all day, every day, by dirty ranch hands. I was just grateful if they took their boots off before tramping through the living room. Yet this same woman could host a formal dinner party for the partners at the most exclusive supper club in the city, without batting an eye.
My paternal grandmother was sweet, plain and simple. Her greatest pride her whole life was being Mrs. Papa Pobble. She helped minister to my grandfather's congregations in a way I can only now, as an adult, even begin to comprehend. When my grandfather went to war in WWII, she went and bought a red hat, because preachers' wives couldn't wear red hats, but soldiers' wives could. I swear, it was the most daring thing she ever did. To this day, she is the most gentle soul I have ever encountered.
My first (biological) maternal grandmother died when my own mother was 16, so I never knew her, but I have always felt amazingly connected to her. I remember wanting to hear stories about her from her friends, her sisters, my mother. As a child, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about her, but then, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about anything, which is an opportunity I greatly miss.
Now, I am a grandmother. It's not a title I wear often, but my daughter (step, technically, but since she doesn't use the "step" part, I don't either; she's my kid) gets great joy in using the title when referring to me, so I guess I am one. My daughter and I met when she was pregnant with her first child and I explained that I would love that baby, that I would spoil that baby, that I would visit that baby ~ but that I wouldn't, under any circumstances, hold that baby. I don't hold babies, I don't care whose they are. When Lithus and I walked into the hospital room, my daughter's other mother was holding the baby. She and I had never met before but we grinned at each other, as grandmothers. As is wont to happen, she asked if I wanted to hold the baby and went to pass him to me ~ when my darling daughter, still exhausted from delivery sits up, announces "Pobble doesn't hold babies!" and flopped back down again.
Now, I have two grandchildren. Honestly, I am expecting a third before too much longer, because my girl is finally married to a man who adores her and treats her well and who deserves to be the father of her children (and who doesn't use the prefix "step" any more than anyone else in this post ever did). So, yeah, I'm expecting a third one of these days.
Circumstances and personality keep me from ever being the grandmother my grandmothers were, and I'm okay with that. But I think about my grandchildren. And I think about my grandmothers. And I realize I am part of a long line of pretty amazing women and, even though I never expected to be here, I'm okay with that, too.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Loaded Question
"Do you remember the spreader bar story?"
Huh. Let's break that down for a moment.
First, that implies the person being asked the question knows there is a spreader bar. Second, that person knows there is a story to go along with said spreader bar. And third, that person actually knows the spreader bar story.
Regardless of what the story is, where there is a spreader bar, or even why there is a spreader bar, that's a good friend. When the answer is a nearly-doubled-over-with-laughter oh my god, yes, and then the two of you go on to talk about the latest thing that somehow manages to actually and for real tie into the spreader bar story, well, that's a damn good friend.
That's Dr. B.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Huh. Let's break that down for a moment.
First, that implies the person being asked the question knows there is a spreader bar. Second, that person knows there is a story to go along with said spreader bar. And third, that person actually knows the spreader bar story.
Regardless of what the story is, where there is a spreader bar, or even why there is a spreader bar, that's a good friend. When the answer is a nearly-doubled-over-with-laughter oh my god, yes, and then the two of you go on to talk about the latest thing that somehow manages to actually and for real tie into the spreader bar story, well, that's a damn good friend.
That's Dr. B.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Well, That'll Learn Me
Recently, I was contacted by two friends. One, I've known since college. We were in each others' weddings. We've stayed in touch through her work struggles, my divorce. Issues with our families. We're those kinds of friends. About three years ago, she fell off the radar. This was during the time that Lithus and I were going to Malaysia ~ and then weren't. Had great jobs ~ and then didn't. Were on the top of the world ~ and then weren't. Being my friend was tiring, to say the least. There was always drama. Honestly, I figured she was tired of it. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.
The other started out as a blogging buddy, but quickly transitioned into real life. But we met when he didn't have much of a support system and then, miraculously, beautifully, he did. Having better support, a happier life, not having to hide any longer, it was good. His blogging slowed down. He got busy. He dropped off. I figured, while we would always be buds, he didn't need me as much any longer and had moved on. Truth be told, this happens to me a lot. People are drawn to me because I handle the not-so-happy times well. Then, when the happy times return, I am often a reminder of the not-so-happy times and get left behind for the new world, new life, new friends. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.
As much as I hate to admit it, I got it so much and to such a degree that I didn't work too hard to check in with them, make sure all was well, see beyond the surface. Because being my friend had gotten tiring. Because he didn't need me the same way he once had. So yeah, I sent a few emails, a couple cards, but when met with silence, I let them go. Figured it was about me. There had already been enough drama. I didn't want to be that friend who has drama, and is needy and insecure, too.
Then, they both got back in touch. *sigh*
They hadn't dropped off for happy reasons. They hadn't dropped off because of me. Life had gotten shitty and I'd made assumptions. Yes, it made sense for me not ask if everything was okay. Again, on their surfaces, both of these wonderful people were okay. But wow, not so much.
So, you've all been warned. From here on out, I am going to risk coming off as the friend who doesn't get it, who can't take the hint. From here on out, you are going to have to say "Pobble, I'm fine; it's you." Okay, maybe not that, exactly, but you get the idea. Because my friends ~ and if you are reading this, you count, if I know you're there or not ~ are worth a little digging, a little nagging, a little reminding that you aren't in it alone, any more than you've ever let me be in it alone. Face it; you're stuck with me.
And to those two friends, I'm sorry. I love you. Thanks for reaching out again. You're stuck with me, too. :)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The other started out as a blogging buddy, but quickly transitioned into real life. But we met when he didn't have much of a support system and then, miraculously, beautifully, he did. Having better support, a happier life, not having to hide any longer, it was good. His blogging slowed down. He got busy. He dropped off. I figured, while we would always be buds, he didn't need me as much any longer and had moved on. Truth be told, this happens to me a lot. People are drawn to me because I handle the not-so-happy times well. Then, when the happy times return, I am often a reminder of the not-so-happy times and get left behind for the new world, new life, new friends. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.
As much as I hate to admit it, I got it so much and to such a degree that I didn't work too hard to check in with them, make sure all was well, see beyond the surface. Because being my friend had gotten tiring. Because he didn't need me the same way he once had. So yeah, I sent a few emails, a couple cards, but when met with silence, I let them go. Figured it was about me. There had already been enough drama. I didn't want to be that friend who has drama, and is needy and insecure, too.
Then, they both got back in touch. *sigh*
They hadn't dropped off for happy reasons. They hadn't dropped off because of me. Life had gotten shitty and I'd made assumptions. Yes, it made sense for me not ask if everything was okay. Again, on their surfaces, both of these wonderful people were okay. But wow, not so much.
So, you've all been warned. From here on out, I am going to risk coming off as the friend who doesn't get it, who can't take the hint. From here on out, you are going to have to say "Pobble, I'm fine; it's you." Okay, maybe not that, exactly, but you get the idea. Because my friends ~ and if you are reading this, you count, if I know you're there or not ~ are worth a little digging, a little nagging, a little reminding that you aren't in it alone, any more than you've ever let me be in it alone. Face it; you're stuck with me.
And to those two friends, I'm sorry. I love you. Thanks for reaching out again. You're stuck with me, too. :)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, May 13, 2013
And Introducing...
...Cam and Mrs. Pike!
Who came to visit us this past weekend. Cam pointed out that he and I will have been together ten years this October. On the one hand, that is reasonable. We've been friends a long time. On the other, how is it possible that he walked into my party ten freaking years ago???? And on yet the third hand that I keep close by just for situations like this, I can't really get my head around the fact that there was a time I didn't know him, and ten years seems mighty short.
As for Mrs. Cam, she came along not too much later. Cam told me about this woman he'd met and asked me to meet her. I agreed, because he was Cam and I'd been through a heartbreak with him and damned if I was going to watch him go through another one. Mrs. Pike and I met at a coffee shop ~ and I walked in with a huge chip on my shoulder. There was no way this lady was going to win me over in a couple of hours and a cup of coffee. Two hours later, I walked out, went home, and emailed Cam: Don't screw this one up. If you do, I'm keeping her. When I ended up a bridesmaid in their wedding, it was because of the relationship she and I had built, not because of the one I had with him.
We ate and laughed and walked and braved the weather and ate some more. There were three bars on Bourbon Street. Two dance clubs. An upscale bar. A dive bar. Two different tours. A movie set. And a gecko.
My two favorite things I learned ~
Thing the First: The area just beyond Rampart Street used to be Storyville, the bordello/red light district. The working girls would wear jasmine perfume and dance to the music that was playing. It is believed that the word "jazz" was derived from the jasmine perfume they wore while dancing.
Thing the Second: Mrs. Pike and Lithus cut quite a rug. And they both play the spoons. Who would've guessed?
Statues. Parks. Narrow streets. People watching. And talking until I was hoarse.
It was a whirlwind 72-hours that made me very happy.
Who came to visit us this past weekend. Cam pointed out that he and I will have been together ten years this October. On the one hand, that is reasonable. We've been friends a long time. On the other, how is it possible that he walked into my party ten freaking years ago???? And on yet the third hand that I keep close by just for situations like this, I can't really get my head around the fact that there was a time I didn't know him, and ten years seems mighty short.
As for Mrs. Cam, she came along not too much later. Cam told me about this woman he'd met and asked me to meet her. I agreed, because he was Cam and I'd been through a heartbreak with him and damned if I was going to watch him go through another one. Mrs. Pike and I met at a coffee shop ~ and I walked in with a huge chip on my shoulder. There was no way this lady was going to win me over in a couple of hours and a cup of coffee. Two hours later, I walked out, went home, and emailed Cam: Don't screw this one up. If you do, I'm keeping her. When I ended up a bridesmaid in their wedding, it was because of the relationship she and I had built, not because of the one I had with him.
We ate and laughed and walked and braved the weather and ate some more. There were three bars on Bourbon Street. Two dance clubs. An upscale bar. A dive bar. Two different tours. A movie set. And a gecko.
 |
| The movie set |
 |
| Not the movie set |
Thing the First: The area just beyond Rampart Street used to be Storyville, the bordello/red light district. The working girls would wear jasmine perfume and dance to the music that was playing. It is believed that the word "jazz" was derived from the jasmine perfume they wore while dancing.
Thing the Second: Mrs. Pike and Lithus cut quite a rug. And they both play the spoons. Who would've guessed?
 |
| Not pictured: Spoons |
Statues. Parks. Narrow streets. People watching. And talking until I was hoarse.
It was a whirlwind 72-hours that made me very happy.
 |
| Me, very happy |
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, but good friends are priceless.
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
Still Wearing Stilettos
It's been a while since I've traveled, so it's been a while since I updated my travel blog, Stilettos in the Outback. However! Even though I haven't traveled in a few months, I live in New Orleans, so there's always an update if I think about it. I thought about it: French Quarter Fest. Especially good if you like pictures. :)
Those are stiletto-wearing Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a nice, quiet coffee.
Those are stiletto-wearing Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a nice, quiet coffee.
Monday, May 06, 2013
Impatient Patient
Oh, I have been bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored. Nothing hurt badly enough to make me grateful to stay put, but if I moved too much, the incision pulled and it hurt. So, I've been sitting. Impatiently.
The sad part is not only have I been bored, but I've been boring.
Still, three people in three different ways, over three different venues, informed me today that I have been gone too long and the worry is beginning, in spite of my protestations against worrying. Which is fair. After all, you can only disappear for so long after a "don't worry" event and expect to still not worry. But Lord, I have nothing to write about.
Instead, have a few pictures. And know that I am back to (almost) full range of motion and will have things to write about again, soon. :)
Thank you for your concern, dear friends. One-armed hugs to you all.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The sad part is not only have I been bored, but I've been boring.
Still, three people in three different ways, over three different venues, informed me today that I have been gone too long and the worry is beginning, in spite of my protestations against worrying. Which is fair. After all, you can only disappear for so long after a "don't worry" event and expect to still not worry. But Lord, I have nothing to write about.
Instead, have a few pictures. And know that I am back to (almost) full range of motion and will have things to write about again, soon. :)
 |
| The I.V. spot |
 |
| The healing nicely, thank you very much, incision |
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| Because we don't fuck around with beer and wine licenses down here in NOLA |
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| The movie set being built on our corner |
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| A gorgeous day in Louis Armstrong Park |
Thank you for your concern, dear friends. One-armed hugs to you all.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, May 02, 2013
I'm Here
Yesterday went well. Today, I feel as if I've been hit in the chest with a medicine ball, and have almost no range of motion without pain, so I'm not moving much. Sill, I'm doing far better than expected. More when I'm not typing one-handed. And yes, Ian, pictures, too ~ although I won't vouch for the level of adorableness. Thanks for all the good wishes!
Those are Pobble Thoughts, That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Those are Pobble Thoughts, That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, April 29, 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
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.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Monday, April 15, 2013
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, April 07, 2013
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.
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