So tired. Been up since 4 a.m. Loooong day, longer surgery than expected, apparently a few scary moments where my dad had some superduperhigh heartbeat, but he seems better and will have a consult in the morning. Will probably be there four days.
Dad was awake and looking much better than the last surgery. He was totally stoned on narcotics, and was making funny jokes and that was actually really soothing. Hopefully he gets some sleep tonight.
Back to the hospital tomorrow.
More later. Can barely type.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Reason To Vote
It's rarely, if ever, NICE in early November. It's the beginning of sleet, slush--not quite rain, not quite ice and snow--the leaves have fallen, and things are getting ugly. It's usually dark and dreary and generally, well, unhopeful, as we slide right into our winter months.
Yesterday morning, it was sunny and blue. The air smelled sweet, not anesthetized (as winter freezes everything over). It was nearly 70 degrees at 7:30 in the morning. I know it's just global warming, but it felt like an auspicious sign. I practically tra-la-la'ed to my polling place.
Inside, it was muggy and hot and felt nearly 90 degrees. People were lined up and down both sides of every hallway, and inside the voting room people were snaked around, attempting to get registered or to vote. I waited more than an hour to register--I've voted before but I have a new name and I finally officially changed my address on my ID--and then another half hour to vote.
There was a lot of small talk, chit-chat, and veiled references to hope and Obama as we stood in line. There were young and old, all races, all waiting to voice their opinion. Hot as I was, I was glad to see the turnout.
The man in front of me, a tall fortysomething African American in a sweatshirt emblazoned with the name of a local bar turns around. "Are you in a hurry?" He gestures with his hand to the empty space in front of him, where it's implied that I can cut if that's the case. "I'm not going anywhere." He smiles at me, and there's something about his affect that is a little off, but I don't think much of it.
"No," I say. "I'm fine right here, but thank you."
"Sure," he says.
A few minutes later, we finish registration and get in line to vote. There's only one election judge that seems to know what's going on and who should be where, and she's helping an elderly lady fill out her ballot, so we're not sure where to go. I just pick a spot and designate it my own line.
He lines up behind me.
"Excuse me," he says, holding out his pass to vote, "Do you think I am in the right line?"
"Are you voting?"
"Yep! And it's the first time in many years," he says, smiling somewhat shyly, and I can tell by "years" he means "elections."
"Well that's good," I say. "You're in the right line."
"I have a reason to vote this time," he says, and I gather that to mean that he feels Obama wants to hear his voice.
"That's good," I repeat, dumbly.
He smiles. "Thanks for helping me. I'm really drunk, you know, and I wasn't sure."
******************
When I related this story to some people, I got mixed reactions. I was so shocked when he said it—it was 7:30 am, after all, and I didn't get the sense he was drunk before that—strange maybe, but not drunk. Some felt it was sad, this poor guy, a career drunk. Some thought it was funny. Some had a mix of horror and laughter on their faces.
Maybe I'm really idealistic, but I'd like to think it's a story about hope. I felt good about America, in that moment, talking to this man. He was a disenfranchised voter for many years/elections, who didn't think anyone wanted to hear his voice. But he came yesterday, he registered, and he voted, despite his obvious issues (some said maybe he was a third-shifter just off happy hour, but I think maybe not.)
He came because someone let him know that his voice was important.
****************
Tomorrow I will be getting up at 4 a.m. to get ready to go to the hospital with my family. My dad is having hip replacement surgery and he has to be there at 5:30 am. I'm not entirely sure when the actual surgery starts. I feel like it's so unfair that he has another surgery, but it's necessary now.
It's about a two-hour surgery, and he'll probably be there for the weekend. It's the same hospital where he had his lung surgery, so I feel confident that his care will be great, but I'm also nervous about the flood of feelings I might have walking back in there. Surgeries are always nervewracking for me, so if you'd do a little positive thinking about my dad/family/me tomorrow morning, I'd be so appreciative.
I'll keep y'all posted.
Yesterday morning, it was sunny and blue. The air smelled sweet, not anesthetized (as winter freezes everything over). It was nearly 70 degrees at 7:30 in the morning. I know it's just global warming, but it felt like an auspicious sign. I practically tra-la-la'ed to my polling place.
Inside, it was muggy and hot and felt nearly 90 degrees. People were lined up and down both sides of every hallway, and inside the voting room people were snaked around, attempting to get registered or to vote. I waited more than an hour to register--I've voted before but I have a new name and I finally officially changed my address on my ID--and then another half hour to vote.
There was a lot of small talk, chit-chat, and veiled references to hope and Obama as we stood in line. There were young and old, all races, all waiting to voice their opinion. Hot as I was, I was glad to see the turnout.
The man in front of me, a tall fortysomething African American in a sweatshirt emblazoned with the name of a local bar turns around. "Are you in a hurry?" He gestures with his hand to the empty space in front of him, where it's implied that I can cut if that's the case. "I'm not going anywhere." He smiles at me, and there's something about his affect that is a little off, but I don't think much of it.
"No," I say. "I'm fine right here, but thank you."
"Sure," he says.
A few minutes later, we finish registration and get in line to vote. There's only one election judge that seems to know what's going on and who should be where, and she's helping an elderly lady fill out her ballot, so we're not sure where to go. I just pick a spot and designate it my own line.
He lines up behind me.
"Excuse me," he says, holding out his pass to vote, "Do you think I am in the right line?"
"Are you voting?"
"Yep! And it's the first time in many years," he says, smiling somewhat shyly, and I can tell by "years" he means "elections."
"Well that's good," I say. "You're in the right line."
"I have a reason to vote this time," he says, and I gather that to mean that he feels Obama wants to hear his voice.
"That's good," I repeat, dumbly.
He smiles. "Thanks for helping me. I'm really drunk, you know, and I wasn't sure."
******************
When I related this story to some people, I got mixed reactions. I was so shocked when he said it—it was 7:30 am, after all, and I didn't get the sense he was drunk before that—strange maybe, but not drunk. Some felt it was sad, this poor guy, a career drunk. Some thought it was funny. Some had a mix of horror and laughter on their faces.
Maybe I'm really idealistic, but I'd like to think it's a story about hope. I felt good about America, in that moment, talking to this man. He was a disenfranchised voter for many years/elections, who didn't think anyone wanted to hear his voice. But he came yesterday, he registered, and he voted, despite his obvious issues (some said maybe he was a third-shifter just off happy hour, but I think maybe not.)
He came because someone let him know that his voice was important.
****************
Tomorrow I will be getting up at 4 a.m. to get ready to go to the hospital with my family. My dad is having hip replacement surgery and he has to be there at 5:30 am. I'm not entirely sure when the actual surgery starts. I feel like it's so unfair that he has another surgery, but it's necessary now.
It's about a two-hour surgery, and he'll probably be there for the weekend. It's the same hospital where he had his lung surgery, so I feel confident that his care will be great, but I'm also nervous about the flood of feelings I might have walking back in there. Surgeries are always nervewracking for me, so if you'd do a little positive thinking about my dad/family/me tomorrow morning, I'd be so appreciative.
I'll keep y'all posted.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Celebrating the Blues
I hope I'm celebrating the blues tonight!!!!
Story about voting to come...busy night though, and it might get late, and wanted to make sure I posted for NaBloPoMo.
I just have to say that I'm thrilled to be a part of the process today. There is an energy today that hasn't been there for the last elections (that I was also thrilled to participate in those, too).
It's like Christmas!!!
Story about voting to come...busy night though, and it might get late, and wanted to make sure I posted for NaBloPoMo.
I just have to say that I'm thrilled to be a part of the process today. There is an energy today that hasn't been there for the last elections (that I was also thrilled to participate in those, too).
It's like Christmas!!!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Two, Two, Two Posts in One (Day)
PS. I am SO EXCITED to VOTE TOMORROW!!!! I am going right away in the morning. Because I wouldn't be able to sit still all day knowing I hadn't voted.
Dudes, I am NEVER excited about mornings. Ever. Ever. But tomorrow? Is going to be a DAMN GOOD MORNING.
I am shocked when people tell me they won't vote. Shocked. Even if you aren't fond of either candidate, don't you have an issue you care about? A party that seems to care more about your voice than another?
Voting is a BIG deal. Please vote tomorrow. Please. Even if you write yourself in. Go cast a vote.
I am sure you all know who my candidate of choice is, and I really, really hope tomorrow night they call it in his favor. I will be proud to have helped elect Obama.
Also, PPS. Why is November NaBloPoMo? It's sliding into the holidays, etc. Seems like a terrible month to choose. Yet, here I am. Two, two, two posts in one!
Dudes, I am NEVER excited about mornings. Ever. Ever. But tomorrow? Is going to be a DAMN GOOD MORNING.
I am shocked when people tell me they won't vote. Shocked. Even if you aren't fond of either candidate, don't you have an issue you care about? A party that seems to care more about your voice than another?
Voting is a BIG deal. Please vote tomorrow. Please. Even if you write yourself in. Go cast a vote.
I am sure you all know who my candidate of choice is, and I really, really hope tomorrow night they call it in his favor. I will be proud to have helped elect Obama.
Also, PPS. Why is November NaBloPoMo? It's sliding into the holidays, etc. Seems like a terrible month to choose. Yet, here I am. Two, two, two posts in one!
Where's All My Mad Rappers At?
As with any blogger, I thrive on the comments I receive. It informs what I write about to some degree. And I see my blogging as a community—yes, it's an outlet and I get a lot of personal reflection time with it. But I also love the friends I have made here and love to have conversations with them.
So tell me! Me and Dre are asking, Where's all my mad rappers at? (Excluding you, WeeMo, my most faithful commenter.) I have noticed a gigantic drop-off in conversation. Are there things you'd rather read about? I know usually these questions are met with crickets, but I'm asking anyway.
I'm hoping NaBloPoMo reinvigorates my writing to some extent, too. And I still have some ideas in the hopper. It isn't so much that I'm interested in getting ideas as I am in improving my blog.
XOXO
So tell me! Me and Dre are asking, Where's all my mad rappers at? (Excluding you, WeeMo, my most faithful commenter.) I have noticed a gigantic drop-off in conversation. Are there things you'd rather read about? I know usually these questions are met with crickets, but I'm asking anyway.
I'm hoping NaBloPoMo reinvigorates my writing to some extent, too. And I still have some ideas in the hopper. It isn't so much that I'm interested in getting ideas as I am in improving my blog.
XOXO
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Making a Home
I love Sunday mornings. The newspaper, the Target ad, leisurely sipped coffee, and waffles made in our iron by William. This morning we had blueberry waffles and they were so good. Molly is extra snuggly and the light comes in the window and it feels like home.
It's always felt like my parents' house will feel like "home." Especially the first house--I only lived in their "new" house for a couple of years. And those homes still do sorta feel like "home" because it's comforting to be there, but it's been a slow progression towards making my own home.
Sunday mornings feel like home. Pajamas, waking up slowly, enjoying the morning like it's an indulgence. It's turning into a routing, a tradition, and I love every one of them.
It's always felt like my parents' house will feel like "home." Especially the first house--I only lived in their "new" house for a couple of years. And those homes still do sorta feel like "home" because it's comforting to be there, but it's been a slow progression towards making my own home.
Sunday mornings feel like home. Pajamas, waking up slowly, enjoying the morning like it's an indulgence. It's turning into a routing, a tradition, and I love every one of them.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Let's Dance
So...it's NaBloPoMo again, and I'm going to attempt a perfect record...We'll see how this goes!
As part of an ongoing improve-Kat program, and to help manage my symptoms of IBS, of course one of things I could improve or do to help myself that doesn't involve taking a pill is to exercise. I hate exercise. Seriously. It's very hard for me to get motivated. I have never been an athletic person. I am not flexible or even very coordinated. And the idea of running on a treadmill makes me only want to run far, far away from it. I hate playing team sports for the most part. (I am actually a decent tennis player.) I can't even really throw a ball that well when I play fetch with Molly (see: Incident Wherein I Tossed a Tennis Ball into My Wine Glass, which I Couldn't Have Done if I Tried.)
BUT. My sister and I had been talking about how we just aren't...metabolizing the way we used to. (We have been blessed with fairly slim genes, thank you God.) And we don't want to be unhealthy or not take care of ourselves. And you can be thin and still be out of shape or lack muscle tone completely (see exhibit A: Kat.)
So we decided on a lark to take some community education classes (ponying up for a gym membership? We are SO NOT THERE yet.) After a glass or two of wine, we ended up signing up for a yoga class and a belly-dancing class. (My mom also signed up for the yoga class.)
It's now been six weeks of exercise, twice a week, for an hour and hour-and-a-half, respectively.
I'm feeling better. I enjoy going to class. I laugh at my foolish attempts to look flexible and coordinated and centered. One class is right after work, so I'm already out and about, so I don't dread going. The other is in the morning on Saturdays, but not so dreadfully early that I can't get out of bed. After both classes, I feel better. I feel less stressed out. I am in a better mood overall. I like learning the new skills.
I have seen improvement—more muscle tone in my core muscles, and some slightly more flexibility. I can almost touch the floor when I'm bending over in half. I have never even come remotely close to that before. I can do more without getting tired in class. I'm standing up a little straighter (I have TERRIBLE posture). I feel like my body is something useful. I get to spend some time with my sister and my mom. I get a kick out of the look on people's faces when I tell them I'm belly dancing.
It's one way in which I'm trying to take my stomach parts, which keep revolting against my body's permission, and make them behave. Letting my body know that I do care about it.
I guess maybe I took some of the best advice out there: find something you enjoy that also happens to make your heart beat a little faster and your muscles work a little harder. The class, and paying for it, motivates me to go every week, especially since I know people will be counting on me to be there. And maybe, just maybe, I'll exercise once more on my own during the week, moving it up to every other day.
Hm. I might get somewhat fit after all. I didn't want to jinx myself by writing about my plan, but now that I survived the first session, it's time to give myself a little pat on the back—and keep going.
Tonight: off to a belly-dancing performance at the famed Cassandra school, complete with champagne and snacks!
As part of an ongoing improve-Kat program, and to help manage my symptoms of IBS, of course one of things I could improve or do to help myself that doesn't involve taking a pill is to exercise. I hate exercise. Seriously. It's very hard for me to get motivated. I have never been an athletic person. I am not flexible or even very coordinated. And the idea of running on a treadmill makes me only want to run far, far away from it. I hate playing team sports for the most part. (I am actually a decent tennis player.) I can't even really throw a ball that well when I play fetch with Molly (see: Incident Wherein I Tossed a Tennis Ball into My Wine Glass, which I Couldn't Have Done if I Tried.)
BUT. My sister and I had been talking about how we just aren't...metabolizing the way we used to. (We have been blessed with fairly slim genes, thank you God.) And we don't want to be unhealthy or not take care of ourselves. And you can be thin and still be out of shape or lack muscle tone completely (see exhibit A: Kat.)
So we decided on a lark to take some community education classes (ponying up for a gym membership? We are SO NOT THERE yet.) After a glass or two of wine, we ended up signing up for a yoga class and a belly-dancing class. (My mom also signed up for the yoga class.)
It's now been six weeks of exercise, twice a week, for an hour and hour-and-a-half, respectively.
I'm feeling better. I enjoy going to class. I laugh at my foolish attempts to look flexible and coordinated and centered. One class is right after work, so I'm already out and about, so I don't dread going. The other is in the morning on Saturdays, but not so dreadfully early that I can't get out of bed. After both classes, I feel better. I feel less stressed out. I am in a better mood overall. I like learning the new skills.
I have seen improvement—more muscle tone in my core muscles, and some slightly more flexibility. I can almost touch the floor when I'm bending over in half. I have never even come remotely close to that before. I can do more without getting tired in class. I'm standing up a little straighter (I have TERRIBLE posture). I feel like my body is something useful. I get to spend some time with my sister and my mom. I get a kick out of the look on people's faces when I tell them I'm belly dancing.
It's one way in which I'm trying to take my stomach parts, which keep revolting against my body's permission, and make them behave. Letting my body know that I do care about it.
I guess maybe I took some of the best advice out there: find something you enjoy that also happens to make your heart beat a little faster and your muscles work a little harder. The class, and paying for it, motivates me to go every week, especially since I know people will be counting on me to be there. And maybe, just maybe, I'll exercise once more on my own during the week, moving it up to every other day.
Hm. I might get somewhat fit after all. I didn't want to jinx myself by writing about my plan, but now that I survived the first session, it's time to give myself a little pat on the back—and keep going.
Tonight: off to a belly-dancing performance at the famed Cassandra school, complete with champagne and snacks!
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