quick story

Totally crap runs

Sure, I could blame the lingering effects of the tunamush sandwich, but it's been happening for a long time now. And yesterday was no different.

It's a rare run that doesn't involve, well, the runs. I'm no doctor (altho I am a fiiinnne medical editor) but a person shouldn't be overcome by a mutiny of the bowel on a simple jog, especially when  the bowels have been purged just prior to the run. In response, I've developed ways of coping, including identifying public rest stops along the way that won't turn away a runner in distress, and I plan my routes around them. I hear that this is a somewhat common occurance amongst runners, but no one ever really discusses it, let alone offers solutions that can prevent this crap in the first place. Yes, I mentioned it to my doctor once, but he went flying off in the wrong direction and faster than rat-a-tat fart he had me undergo a sigmoidoscopy. Now there's an unpleasant experience.      

So I manage as best I can. And yesterday, I managed to wedge myself in a stall in the bathroom at the public school on Bellevue Ave--Sam's school. I like to meet Sam when school lets out. She only contorts ever-so-slightly with mortification when she sees my smiling Mom face and the rest of me dressed in multi-layers of running-gear and looking kind of like a hobo.

She's doing pretty good at the school, fitting in in her own way, although she did report a small mistep. The school administration placed her in Computer Basics, and she made no friends when she compulsively answered every one of the teacher's questions to the class--   
Teacher: "OK class, what is this called?" *holds up a keyboard*
Sam: *happily blurting* "A keyboard!!"
Teacher: "And what is this?" *points to the monitor*
Sam: "It's the monitor you dork. Oops, sorry."
Teacher: *shoots Sam a look* "Now who can tell me what this device is called?" *swings a mouse on its cord*
Sam: *lets forehead fall down on desk* a muffled "The mouse" escapes.
So Sam was removed from that class, but other than that, she's doing well!

But I was telling you how I got stuck in the school bathroom. I arrived at her school a bit early, as planned, and asked the security guard who let me in the locked door if it was OK for me to use the bathroom. I slipped quickly through the scarred wooden door with the frosted panes and into the ladies room and was taken aback by the size of the bathroom fixtures--but only for the briefest moment, because I had urgent school business to take care of. So I slid sideways into a stall that was only about a foot wide and lowered myself, and lowered myself, and lowered myself some more, carefully putting my arm on top of the toilet paper dispenser to avoid wedging my shoulders in the cramped stall, until I finally made contact with a tiiiinnny toilet that stood about half a foot off the floor.

Needless to say, I needed this to be fast. For one thing, I was afraid I was going to break that toy toilet and for another, I wanted to avoid an encounter with some poor unsuspecting student. I finished up and just as I was turned around backward to flush, there was a knock on the door. OK, I'm a grown-up people, and I had every right to be in that bathroom doing bathroomly duties, but can I just say I experienced an intense panic at the sound of that knock?

Me: *nervously blurting* "I'll be right out!"
Muffled male voice: "Wa wa-wa wa waa."
And in an instant, my leg was stuck between that teeny toilet and the stall wall, and with my leg stuck like that I couldn't open the stall door more than a few inches because the door opened inward, and I was in a goddamned Lilliputian bathroom, a 1:16 scale model of a real bathroom.   

Another knock followed shortly, and again I piped out in a shakey voice "I'll be right there!!" as I fought like hell with the door, my stuck leg, and the toilet until I was hit with the solution to this weird puzzle--with my free leg I stood up on the toilet seat and shook free the trapped leg, and once I was out of the way on top of the toilet, I could easily open the door. Just in time for the Vice Principal to walk in and see me standing on top of the school's toilet, head and shoulders above the stalls.

Hello! Did I mention I'm a grown-up? Mortification knows no boundaries.       

Missed diagnosis

There's a reason I’m the medical editor and not the practitioner. I witnessed a medical emergency the other day while I was in Boston. It was at the 8 am opening session. I got there a few minutes late, and it was a full house, but I found a singleton seat about 5 rows from the back of the grand ballroom.

I was paying attention, kind of, and then the noise started up. I scanned the back of the room, and I could only see him over the heads of the audience seated around me--a sea of maybe 1000 health care clinicians.  An old guy, sorta overweight, grey suit and hair, was lurching/hopping/shuffling across the back row in the room while making a sound that I had previously not heard from a human being—a sort of high-pitched barking and wheezing that you might expect from a seal with croup. So, not being interested in the opening didactic, my attention stayed on the back of the room. The guy hopped and honked and HEEEZED! his way along the back row while those around me politely focused on the speaker.

Well-considered medical editor em diagnosis? epileptic fit.  Any minute I expected someone from this overflowing sea of clinicians to step up and give the man a fat shot of Depakote or something. It's my professional opinion that a fat shot of something good can be a big help in most any unpleasant situation.

He humpty-danced himself my way and then pulled upright not far from me, and there I saw a woman clutched below him, and he seemed to be riding her like a cowboy.

How odd. But odder still, no one appeared to be paying any attention to this strange tableau, except me of course, bored em.

Heimlich maneuver successfully accomplished, the patient smiled and hugged the man.

These people are way too calm. Wonder if they're on anything.

Crash bang run

Squirrels and mutts and the occasional drug dealer I can handle. Measly annoyances. Gargantuan Lexus sedans? No.

Running, Saturday morning, as usual. I went up around the north end of the Island, stopped to have a word with the neighborhood beat cop who was parked on the side-street in the shade reading the newspaper--
"You catch the perp who burgled my house yet?"
"Nope."
"Argh. Well, nice day, eh?"
"Yes indeed."
Scurried across the highway to circle through Glen Afton, the rich-folk neighborhood, and stopped to have a word with one of the locals over there who used to own the house next door to me (yes, I will stop for anything). As I chugged up to him I noticed that he was sort of dragging his leg and holding his arm funny, like maybe he'd had a stroke or something--
"Say, they're selling your old house again."
"Yeah?"
"Yup."
"Well..."
But the screeching tires and sounds of car on car on roadside objects interrupted my runner's tranquility, and my finely-tuned runner's leg muscles took over and ran me up into his yard and around the back of the nearest tree.

OK, yes, it was 20 yards away, but I swear it sounded like a train wreck, coming right at me. I sheepishly looked out from behind my tree-barricade at the handicapped guy down by the highway, and we made our way over to the drivers. The weirdest damn things happen to me when I'm running.

animal lover

the Trenton cop and i chased that little white Schnoodle dog all the way down the hill at Hilvista blvd--i took the left flank and he took the right--and then up the other side of that steep hill where it turns into Sullivan Way. But the damn thing would squirt through our outstretched leg and arm barricades just when we got close and go scurrying off in another direction, in heavy traffic.

i was outfitted for the event, as i was on my Sat morning run and all warmed up to give chase, but the Trenton cop was in his cold-weather uniform and oxford shoes, and carrying 30 or 40 lb of hardware around his waist. i easily beat him to the dog (score!), but the dog was faster than both of us, and when it reversed direction and ran back up the hill on Hilvista Blvd, i offered to wing the animal in his leg with the gun, but the officer politely declined and got back in his cruiser to continue the chase with lights and sirens. stupid dog.

it was a big day for animal adventures. As i finished my run, i chugged along my street and, just as i was looking up at them, 2 squirrels fell out of a big pine tree along with a good-sized pine cone, which made for a surprisingly loud tha-thump when they all hit the pavement.  As Len Burman says, "Nobody was hurt!" The squirrels picked themselves up and ran off in separate directions. They knew they better run too, because they looked an awful lot like the squirrels who used the Christmas lights last year to swing over to the birdfeeder before i moved them. They had the last laugh that time--they chewed all my lights down--but who's laughing now, eh? stupid squirrels.

and just to provide a bookend to a weird day of animal encounters, Jah's little commando mutt rushed me yet again and bit me hard on the foot and then did that furious head-shake with my foot still in his jaws. stupid mutt.

 

Rumble in the jungle

Ladies and gentlemen, temper, temper! Yes, he borrowed your car and didn't return it, and he's sleeping with all the women in the apt building, but calling the entire building out to settle the dispute was most unwise.

I shooed my kids to the other side of the house while you and your girlfriend danced and popped off rapid-fire left jabs into the air around your adversaries, but language, language! I am not at all inexperienced in that dept, yet you managed to shock me with the sheer volume and brutality of your verbal blows. So I shut the windows downstairs and went upstairs to watch the battle below while standing in the bathtub and looking out of the bathroom window. 

Suggestion #1: When planning on grappling with women in the same super-heavyweight class, wear close-fitting clothing and running bras.  Those shirts tore off in seconds, and the flimsy bras were no help whatsoever in containing your enormous freewheeling mam-tankers.

Suggestion #2: Don't wear hair extensions or weaves. They were too easy to grab, and the repeated yanking with the left hand toward the flying fist on the right was painful to watch and hear.

Suggestion #3: Don't swing your camera on its cord at the head of your opponent. That's an illegal move.

Suggestion #4: When the police arrive, don't immediately start yelling that Hector smokes crack and is selling it from his apt. That's dangerous.

Suggestion #5: Don't let your children stand on the steps and cheer each blow, like it was some kind of cartoon. That's just crap.      

Joey vs The Coach

Coach walked Joey across the field, hand on shoulder, stood him in his position at left halfback, and faced him upfield--toward the action.

And there he stayed, feet planted sturdily, while the game swirled and rumbled around him. Cunningly, he didn't take a single step in any direction, even with a great herd of 5 and 6-year-olds--basically, everyone on both teams--bearing down on him in a thick dust cloud of kids. During one such end-run, I flinched as the herd rumbled straight at the fence post that was Joey, but it veered off at the last second. Disappointed somehow, he looked over at me and scowled, "That was a gyp." 

At halftime, Coach reassigned Joey to a safer spot to hang out, goalie. Bored at first, he would periodically glare over at me and pound is chubby little hand into his chubby little fist and say, "I'm through with this." But then he discovered the fullbacks, Emily and Emily. Relocating to stand between these 2 tiny blond defenders, he finally stopped demanding to be taken home. Katie, apparently able to read lips, explained to me that Joey was making the Emilys laugh with his talk of farts.

And only 3 goals were scored during this defensive-squad bonding experience.   

A NYC sideshow

I was most pleased to accompany 2 renown bloggers to New York City this past weekend (with a kid or 2 belonging to me). We strolled around Greenwich Village for a bit and then relocated for a longer meander around the Times Square district. I showed off my shopping skills by unnecessarily causing us all to go through every sporting goods store along the way in search of softball uniform socks and slide pads.

Soon, ice cream was required, and following a 10-block search for an ice cream shop that suited Katie, we settled on Ice Cream Dee-Lite. And following 15 minutes of careful consideration and several samples in tiny paper jiggers, we all had our favorite flavor in hand.

Outside, Barbarella demonstrated her finely-tuned juggling skills by lofting her mango gelato into the air and bopping it from hand to hand several times. It was when she sought to include me in the game that the double scoop of ice cream landed tragically on the sidewalk. Hey! I wasn't ready! We worked on our act again at dinnertime that night, when a cheeseburger was shot from its Kaiser roll. We're still perfecting that one too... 

Just a bit of mop up

I'm trying hard not to burble and babble on and on endlessly about this flood thing, but just a couple of quick stories. I will return to my regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

1. Access to the neighborhood was restricted for several days, even well after the flood waters had receded, and nobody was allowed to go home to check out the damage let alone begin cleaning up, which let me tell you made for restive refugees; it was also the source of much mayor-heckling. The Trenton Police Department had every point of access covered and blanketed the neighborhood with mounted patrols and squad cars. I got in on Tuesday. It was easy.  Good thing I'm not a looter. Or am I? I did end up with a suspiciously abundant amount of firewood. . . . 

2.  I've begun replacing lost items in the basement. Had to replace the furnace, which was installed in 1955. This furnace was the size of a Volkswagen. The new furnace, which is the size of a carry-on suitcase, is alarmingly clean and sparkly. New washer/dryer came today--yay! I've got 2 tons of dirty laundry. I"ll get to it later. . .   

3. My employer is generous when it comes to travel, so we stay in 5-star hotels. In Orlando, where I was during the evacuation and most of the actual flooding, I stayed at The Peabody, a deluxe hotel that is known for its ducks--every day at midday the concierge rolls out a red carpet, and 4 ducks waddle across the main lobby and into the lobby fountain, where they splash about until, on cue,  they waddle back down the red carpet and return to their personal suite.  The rooms are spacious and well-appointed--in fact, I somehow ended up with a large suite that included a living room and wet bar; also a TV in the bathroom, so you can watch soaps while soaping up--nice. When I got back to Trenton and realized that we would not be able to go home, we rented hotel rooms. Cheap hotel rooms. Hey, I'm happy to be extravagant with accommodations, when it's not my money. So we stayed at a series of totally crap discount chains. The rooms were nasty and dingy. And there was no mini bar. :-( Joey however *loved* being in these hotels. As we checked out one morning, I was mushing everyone to hurry up and get your personal belongings together, and Joey asked. "Where are we going?" We're checking out Joey, "What!? and leave this paradise?!!" He was totally serious.

4. The boy has his own way of doing things. I called to him from the yard, "Joey, come outside and get some fresh air! C'mon and get your sneaks on and get outside!" Eventually, he came outside, but instead of sneakers, he put a pair of yellow rubber gloves on his feet.

Oh concierge, where's my red carpet?         

Next up--2 fun facts: Barbarella is an expert juggler, and Greavsie does not appear to have an I've-been-in-way-too-may-boutiques!! boiling point. :-)

I said I was sorry!

Had another parenting misstep this weekend, and only a little blood was spilled. The guilt card, however, remains in play and will remain so for some time to come.

On Saturday, Katie and I took in a little exercise--she was on Rollerblades and I was on sneakers. We chugged across the West Ward (well, I chugged, she glided, but despite the fact that she was on wheels, I still ended up circling and waiting for her at every little rise, but that's another story) and then through Cadwallader Park, unscathed, and swung by the bodega at the end to get some pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwiches--this small detour being the only way I can get her to come with me.

As we paid for our freshly cooked sandwiches and drinks, Papi put the sandwiches in a bag, but when he got out a separate bag for Katie's ice tea I said, "that's ok, we don't need a bag," because really, who needs a bag for one drink? That's just wasteful. Katie said, "but I need a bag for my drink."

"No you don't. Just hold it."

"But I'm skating. What if I fall?"

"Pffft, You're not going to fall." She never falls.

Of course she fell. Normally as sure on her wheels as a cat on a branch, I watched her suddenly lean back and pinwheel her arms as we headed down Lee Ave. . . and recover. But just as she was saying, "I bet you thought I was going to go d-. . ." she went down. Well, first she went up--her feet quickly exited out from under her body and she was jettisoned into the air . . . and then she landed in the middle of an arc of ice tea and broken glass.

A bit stunned and in pain from the impact, I picked her up and tried to brush off the mud and glass, and we headed home. I knew she broke her fall in part with her hands, but now they were buried in the sleeves of her jacket, and honestly, I didn't want to uncover them at that particular moment--let's just examine that later (my motto). But I guess they started to sting, so she pulled up her sleeves and . . . large amounts of dripping blood. We made our way home, tho, and she was just fine, apart from some embedded glass, small cuts, and bruises. Standard stuff.

But can I tell you just how many times I heard her tell various friends this story? Many. Funny thing is how it's developing--she went from, "Naomi! I fell with a bottle of ice tea in my hand!" to "Then Mom snatched that bag out of Papi's hand with fire in her eyes and told him 'don't you give her a bag! She can not have one!' And she knew I was going to fall!! "

Yup, another blogger on the way.  :-) 

Amusingly self-deprecating or low self-esteem?

They pop out of my mouth unbidden--jokey remarks tweaking my own foibles, knuckleheaded maneuvers, and clumsy pratfalls.

One faction in the personal em advisory cabinet declares repeatedly that I need to stop any and all non-self-reinforcing talk. It sets a tone.  And as it turns out, certain junior elements in the professional em editorial support crew have become skillful in anticipating my self-referential teasing and *beat me to the punch.* So instead of me turning a humorous phrase on my own forgetfulness, I get scooped while assistant #4 cracks wise, "em, memory banks filled up with more important trivia?" ha ha haaaaa. so funny. BOING! Uh oh, the shark ears again.

I guess assistant #4 is on to me. I forget reams and reams of things. Important things. Assistant #4 really has no idea just how much I have forgotten. *wags finger* In fact, I've forgotten more than assistant #4 will ever know! Yeah right. Assistant #4 knows better. In fact, assistant #4 probably knows that I keep forgetting to go to my mother's house to change the light bulbs in her kitchen. And that she has to get her dinner by the light of the open fridge door. That is just pathetic. Assistant #4 also probably knows that I left a gas burner in the 'on' position all day today while I was at work, so that when I got home tonight, the house was filled with the heavy/sweet stink/taste of natural gas fumes. That is bad. Really bad. So bad that it should have killed the parrot, Rummy, but somehow, it did not. Assistant #4 probably also knows that I . . .

Ah crap. I've got so many competing whacks to take at myself right now, I just don't know where to start/stop.