When it rains, it pours.

Friday night I mention to my husband that my son's face looks weird, just an off-hand comment that maybe he's really tired or something.  Come Saturday morning I'm down here in my office.  He wakes up normal time, comes downstairs and immediately gets into a fight with his brother, status quo.  Well he ends up crying and comes running in here for Mommy and ... the right side of his face wasn't moving.  The left side was all scrunched up, crying like normal -- but the right side was a mask.

(Insert small nervous breakdown on Mommy's part.)

So I had an idea what this might be, but no freakin idea why.  There's a condition called Bell's Palsy, where one side of the face becomes paralyzed (in rare cases, the whole face).  It's actually inflammation of the 7th cranial nerve, which operates the facial muscles.  Usually tied to a virus like Mono, most people make a full recovery in about a month.  Most.  Start the phone calls.  I finally get the pediatrician on call who tells me to get him to the ER to make sure that's what's going on.

So I spend all Saturday afternoon at the hospital.  Bell's is rare in young children, so at first nobody was buying into it unless they saw it for themselves.  It can be a little frustrating, being on the receiving end of health care for a change.  Especially if they don't know you might have a clue of what you're talking about, or that you can understand what they're saying.  The doctor finally comes to see him and orders a CT scan.  I asked if they planned to sedate him, because that's a natural worry.  He says no, they'll try it without first.  I started laughing and he said, "Don't worry, I have one of my own."  I just looked at him and said, "Yes -- but do you call yours Satan?"

Needless to say a half hour and one toddler having a nervous breakdown later, we're back in the room.  The doctor comes back in and looks at me and I said, "Knock him out."  This process was reminiscent of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.  "While I stay safe on the  high savannah, my partner Jim will go in and dart the very angry little rhino."  Eventually one stressed Mommy and three nurses later they got the shot in his leg.  As soon as he was out they literally ran him over to the CT scanner, because the sedative was short acting.  Then came the waiting.

So I sat in the rocking chair, watching my sleeping son and playing through every worst case scenario.  If it's not Bell's, the thought of what was paralyzing his face terrified me.  If it wasn't a lurking brain injury (he's got a huge nugget and bumps all the time), then in toddlers with wierd presentations it usually means one thing -- a mass.  I swear I was my own worst enemy.  My husband got to the hospital right before they came and said the CT was completely negative.  Note to self: buy more candles to burn in thanksgiving.

The only thing left is to figure out what might be causing this, and whether or not it will go away.  The most likely suspect is Lyme's Disease.  My research even says that Bell's is actually a common presentation in children who have it lurking in their system and we're loaded with it out here.  They drew a titre, but I have to wait a couple of days for the result.  That and a follow up with a pediatric neurologist, not always an easy specialist to find.  The ER doctor did consult with one on the phone, who said she'd see him on Thursday.  She was supposed to call me today to set it up.

Of course by this afternoon the phone hadn't rung.  So I decided to start calling, because of my insurance.  Wouldn't you know it, her group doesn't take my insurance.  And his doctor's on vacation till the 13th.  The office lady tells me now I have to call a hospital in Philly (2 hours away) and get one of them to see him.  They have an office about an hour away from me, but they're only at that one a couple of times a month.  So first I call the original neurologist's office, they were very nice but couldn't help much.  Then I call this other group.  I explain what's going on and that my son needs a consultation and follow-up.  "We're not taking new patients until December, we can see him then."  I reply, "But that doesn't help me, my son's face is paralyzed now."  No luck, "Sorry, no new patients till December." (click)

So in between bouts of crying, I'm on the phone with the pediatrician's office and the insurance company, while frantically combing the internet.  I finally find a group an hour away in the other direction, in NJ.  Of course nobody answers the phone.  She finally calls me back at 10 to 5 and I go through the whole story again, sniffling.  They agreed to see him tomorrow afternoon (hooray!).  Then it was the last minute call to the office before closing to get the damn visits approved.  Four hours after the saga begins I have an approved appointment for my son.  I hate healthcare.

It doesn't seem to be bothering him, though he touches his face now and again.  His right eye gets irritated and tears a bit, but that's because he's not blinking as often on that side.  At least it isn't drooping, because then he'd need a patch to protect his eye and gods only know how I'd manage that with him.  But every time he laughs or talks his face just twists up to the left and I want to burst into tears, my beautiful little boy's face. :(

I really don't know how much more I can take.  Though then again it's not like I have much of a choice.

Miscellaneous Monday

In the wake of Mother's Day, I do have to gush a little. James made me a coloring book picture of a teddy bear today while in daycare at the gym. It's just a page ripped out of a book, with blue and brown marker scribbled on it -- but it's almost in the lines ... sorta. And he looked so happy with it that I just about melted. It now proudly resides on the fridge, when he's not carrying it around in his grimy little hands.

On the subject of moms, did everyone at least call their mother yesterday? I did, dreading as usual my dose of yearly angst but pushing forward nonetheless. My mother sent me a card for Mother's Day with an apology letter in it for her phone call of a few weeks ago. Well, it was mostly an apology letter ... though apologizing for something you have no recall of is pretty weak. Besides, the majority of the letter was just more of the same theme we've been reliving for the last decade. How I couldn't possibly understand or realize what she goes through, how worried she is about my brother (they're a matched set of alcoholics) etc. Though I will admit she reached a new level of guilting me. Apparently now she doesn't feel like I love her because , get this -- I've never forgiven her for divorcing my biological father and changing her life. Well, that would be pretty textbook save for the fact that I was only nine months old. I have no recall of him nor interest, anxiety or psychological baggage as a result. Perhaps some mild curiousity at his half of the DNA. I realize I'm stubborn but that would be one hell of a grudge. Anyway, we got through it with pleasant conversation and no real changes of course. There's always next year.

Last week was my husband's birthday, and as part of our night out we went and saw Van Helsing. First off, it's a fun movie. It's campy and not for purists and we had a good time. And Kate Beckinsale in that outfit alone is worth the price of admission. The theater we go to generally doesn't get overly crowded. Just as the movie was starting, this black family shows up -- guy, his fairly pregnant SO, and two children. A boy who looked about 12 or so and a little girl who couldn't have been more than 5 or 6. They slide into the seats right in front of us. The guy reeked of some heinous aftershave or something and would keep throwing himself back in the seats when amused. But the most upsetting part was the little girl. As soon as the movie started she started to cry, she was sincerely frightened and they were just awful to her about it. Saying things like, "I warned you. You should've listened to me when I said it would be scary. I'm never taking you with me to the movies again. Hush and go to sleep." etc etc. Even when she was sobbing, "But I think its real Mommy!" They completely blew her off about it. And THEN, so they wouldn't "disturb" the rest of the folks in the row, they would climb over the seats to an empty row behind us to get in and out ... multiple times. At one point the little girl got stuck trying to climb them and started crying and the woman was saying, "Look girl, I'm 6 months pregnant and I can do it now just climb over." I was so upset by all this. Who lets their five year old decide for them if she'll see a rated R movie or not??? Here's a clue people, the word is "No". Say it once in awhile, you'll find it's good for your kids. And who ignores their child sobbing in fear? Oh I was so angry I just wanted to kick them all in the head and take the little girl to go see something Disney.

And my work-related advice of the day: If you have a relative who's a dialysis patient with no feet and a myriad of other health problems, please do not let them live in the attic. It's a complete bitch trying to get them out of it when they keel over.

Now if you all will excuse me, I have some Evil Overlord tasks to attend to.

On a lighter note

I don't talk about work much, I really don't.  I may vent after a shift or whatever, but in general I'm not one to go off on a bunch of war stories -- especially when I am around non-EMS people.  Now, put a bunch of EMS people together and the stories will propagate endlessly.  I've had a pretty long career and have certainly forgotten more than I will ever remember, but there are always a few things that withstand the test of time.  If anyone is sincerely interested in the darker side of humanity perhaps I will write about it here.  In the meantime I thought that instead of headless pedestrians I might share one of my favorite stories from early on in my career.

While the show M*A*S*H did an excellent job of demonstrating "gallows humor", it can be hard to understand where it comes from -- especially when you see it in action.  It is not meant to be disrespectful or insulting, it is merely our way of distancing ourselves and placing it in a framework we can function in.

We laugh.  Alot.


Quite a few years ago now, my first medic partner Andy and I were working a city unit on a chill February day.  (For those of you who know me, yes I actually did work days for a time, the horror of it all.)  We got called down to the eastern end of the city, by the river, for a drowning.  Now when we pull up there's a frenzy of activity as the Fire Department is working to fish some man out of the river.  As we're waiting for the victim to be brought up the bank to us, we notice something definitely out of the ordinary -- a handful of men wearing windbreakers with pulldown ID flaps that read "US Treasury Agent" aka the Secret Service. 

Since we're not in the know at this point, we start inventing reasons for being there.  Andy and I decide that if the Secret Service is involved, then the guy must be a KGB agent of course.


So let me cut to the actual story.  The victim was travelling by train, and on him he was carrying counterfeit money plates.  The agents had been trailing him.  When he caught on to it, he ran from the train station.  They chased him on foot down to the river.  He threw the plates into the murky water and then jumped in and swam out aways.  (Where he thought he would end up I have no idea, the other bank is in the city too.)

The police got involved during the foot pursuit and now together they congregate on the bank and wait for one of the boats to come.  Meanwhile our friend the "KGB agent" has swum to a buoy and was hanging on.  So they figured they'd let him cool his heels till they could scoop him up.

For forty minutes.

Did I mention it was February?

Anyway, in true hypothermic fashion he goes unconscious and ends up drowning before the FD can fish him out of the water.  Thus enters our heroes (ta da!) and that's where we were at.  Now for Andy and I, this is straightforward stuff.  We do CPR and all our little advanced procedures and try our best to begin warming the body up -- because you can't be officially dead until you're warm and dead.  We take him to the hospital with little more than some jokes about sleeping with the fishes.  Then it gets interesting.

Now, if you've ever seen CPR, it's pretty unmistakeable.  One would think that a clerk in an ER like ours would be quite used to it.  Apparently that's not the case.  As we're rolling by the registration area, everyone's working on him and there's water running everywhere.  The clerk stops me and says, "What's his chief complaint?"

(Insert dumb German Shepard look and a few blinks on my part.)

My response is, "Can't swim." 

We take him in the back and are now transferring him over to the ER stretcher, calling out a report and answering whatever questions they're throwing at us.  We have one doc there who is particularly obnoxious.  Allegedly a very good surgeon he's a blustery and caustic individual.  He's demanding to know the full story.  So ... we give it to him.

Doc: "What was he doing in the river?"
Me: "Drowning." (insert kick from partner)

Finally we fill him in on everything we know, sans the total truth part.

Doc:  "So what you're telling me is ... A KGB agent, being chased by the Secret Service, jumped into the Passaic River and drowned."

Andy & I: (nodding) "Yep, that's what we're telling you."

Doc:  "What in the hell was he doing there?!?!?"

Me: (in bad Russian accent) "Don't be ridiculous!  He vas looking for stupid moose & squirrel!"

(insert red-faced surgeon and partner dragging me rapidly out of the ER)

We laugh.  Alot.  Don't ever take it personally, we do it to everyone.

Masters of the Obvious

There are a few things inherent to my line of work, two of them are the ability to make rapid decisions and the power of observation.  Now it never ceases to amaze me when other personnel (for example the police) overlook something particularly pertinent.  This is not a bash on any of my uniformed brethren -- there's just as many faux pas among our own.  But without further ado, I bring three of my favorite exchanges that caused me to cock my head and give them the "dumb German Shepard look."  Be advised there is some gore involved.


Scenario 1 (from last night):  We get called to a motor vehicle accident on a major highway around 3:30 am.  It's late, not too much traffic.  We arrive to see a very badly damaged vehicle with at least five Pakistani nationals drunk, bleeding and flailing inside.  Yelling is a good thing in triage, it means you're awake and breathing.  Since there wasn't much to do until the Rescue unit cut apart the minivan, I decide to survey the scene a little further. 

So I'm strolling along the perimeter, humming, and come across two other police officers by the median.  We smile and exchange some pleasantries above the background clatter of the hydraulic tools.  During the course of the conversation I happen to ask, "So are there any other patients from any other vehicles while I'm out here?"  Now mind you, we've been here about ten minutes give or take, and I've been chatting with them for a couple.  They reply, "Just the guy in the van."  I say, "What guy?"  They point to a blue van I had walked past twice that I had not seen anyone in.  So I hotfoot it back over there to find "the guy in the van" -- face down on the floorboards between the front seats, taking his last few breaths.

After running back to the other guys and gathering some help, I say to them "Just when were you planning to tell us about him?"  They answer, "Oh we reached in and didn't feel a pulse so we just left him."  The gentleman died shortly after we dragged him out of the van -- did that delay make a difference?  Probably not at all, but still they could've mentioned it!  Yeesh.

Scenario 2 (a few months ago):  We get called for a pedestrian struck on a main thoroughfare late at night.  By the time we arrive there are plenty of other folks there, fire and police etc.  It's in front of a KFC.  The patient is laying on the sidewalk, as we position the vehicle our headlights are shining on him like a spotlight -- illuminating the man's main problem.  Where his head should be is a smear.  Literally.  No head ...just a big bloody smear with a bit of a debris radius involving skin, brain and skull fragments.  We're still about 20 feet away, but that's what we see, an intact body and this smear.

While we're admiring the unusual injury pattern on poor Icabod here and parking the vehicle, a detective walks up to the truck.  Just to be sure of what I'm seeing I ask, "Does that man have a head?"  Now the detective who's been here for awhile now looks right at the headless body and sincerely says, "I don't know."

Good thing he gets paid more than I to notice these things.

Scenario 3 (a few years ago):  I have the misfortune of being called to a 16 year old shot in the head.  Now if there's one thing you learn the hard way, it's that where I work -- shooting someone in the head does not kill them.  And even when it does, it's certainly not right away.  So in typical fashion, this young man with his egg severely scrambled has not gone into the light and is still breathing.  So we are working hard to do what we can for him, I will skip the gory particulars.  Anyway, while all this is going on the police keep mentioning about just being careful to preserve the scene as best we can.  "And don't touch the gun!"  Which causes me to notice the revolver on the floor next to my left knee.  So I look at it for a moment and look back at the officers.

me: "This is the gun?"
detective: "Yes, that's it, don't touch it."
me: "This gun right here?"
detective: "Yes."
me: "It has no trigger.  How did he get shot?"
detective: "No trigger?"
me: "No."
detective: "Oh."

Here's your sign. 

Postscript on scenario 3 -- The triggerless gun was actually the weapon involved.  His friend had found it in the trash and figured it was harmless because it was missing the mechanism.  Unfortunately he started pulling back on the hammer ... while standing behind his friend.

What's in a name, or a word?

He did it, my son the archdemon finally said "Mama"!

Yeah yeah, not quite so earthshattering I know -- save for the fact that he is over 2 and a half years old now and never says it, ever.

It's become quite the long standing joke around here, how his burgeoning vocabulary contains everything from "Jasmine" (one of the dogs) to "Ciao", but not "Mama". He even said "Bonjour" the other day. He can speak foreign languages, but not say "Mama."

I'm quite sure he does it deliberately, because he presses his lips together and grins when you ask him to say it. Even hint about Chris and it's a joyous "Dada!" But even hanging him upside down and feeding him to the dogs won't elicit a "Mama" out of him. (I know, I've tried.)

Until today, when Chris asked him to say it. He looked up, said "Mama" and immediately ran off to play in dirt.

The day is looking up.

What are the words?

So, while at work the night before last, we got called for a shooting. Not unexpected, especially the area mentioned, it's right on the border between our two gang factions. The short story is that a family's watching TV in the living room when they hear the first shots of a drive-by. The daughter runs for a closet, but a bullet comes through the window and pierces her left breast. What is a potentially lethal injury manages not to puncture lung and miss her heart, etc. However, bullets are notoriously erratic and this one decides to make it's route lower. It's path of destruction opts for the girl's spine, transsecting the spinal cord (T11) and paralyzing her from the waist down. So she'll have survived what should've been a fatal shot, but will be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. She's 12.

While we're doing our thing and working to get her and us out of there, her father jumps in the back of the truck. He is frantic to know how she is before they remove him so we can work. And for the first time in a very long time, I found myself without the words to say to him.

Understand that I have the words for just about everything when it comes to my job. I can gently explain to you that your family member is beyond my help and has passed on. I can bluntly tell you that your family member is dying but that I'm doing everything I can. I can reassure you with confidence that your family member will recover, or that it will be alright -- it's not as bad as it looks. So when he looked to me for that, I turned and faced him out of years of practice ... and failed utterly. I didn't have the words.

How do I tell you that because of this random, violent act your daughter is now a paraplegic. That on the verge of her maturity she will never walk down an aisle under her own power. That her life (and yours) just became infinitely more complicated. Financial strain, emotional stress, everyday things will now be daunting challenges to surmount and overcome. What if she hadn't had stood up, what if she'd hit the floor instead, turned right instead of left -- where would the bullet have gone then? What if you'd moved to a safer area when you thought about it last year? Yes your daughter will live, but she will never walk again.

Some things you just cannot mend with words.

And how was your night?

Well, let's see ... it was dark and chilly.

Around 3:30 am we go to someone short of breath, we lug our 100 lbs of equipment up five flights of stairs to find a man having an asthma attack.  No big surprise there, this is the land of asthma & seizures.  Now, there are different grades of asthmatics, and he's one with a somewhat strong history -- meaning he should not screw around with it.  But of course "he ran out" of his medicines, all of them, at least a day or more ago.  So we start treating him and he pronounces that he will not be going to the hospital.  That he's fully aware that he could die and that he has other things to take care of first.  He just wanted a breathing treatment to tide him over till morning.  So now we change to playing mobile clinic.  Because he's an AMA (refusing against medical advice), now we have to get the tour supervisor involved and the doctor on the radio blah blah blah.  End result, we leave, he's still wheezing.  He might be dead by now.

So back down the five flights of stairs and out to our truck, put away the equipment, get ready to leave.  I glance down between the seats and notice my little cooler is flipped over, and Chris's is missing.  Simultaneously he notices my backpack is gone.  We're in an older truck, not all the doors auto-lock, so it's accessible.  Apparently, sitting there with it's lights on at 4am, some son of a bitch decided to reach in our truck and grab what he could and split.

I've worked in the inner city for a long time now, technically there wasn't that much of monetary value in that bag and surely nothing that couldn't be replaced.  The upshot is that they grabbed mine and not his, because his phone and such was in his.  We both know we'll never see our stuff again, but we do a search of the surrounding blocks hoping they tossed it when they realized there was nothing of resale value in it.  Police report won't help and the hospital doesn't give a shit unless it's their stuff that was taken.  Dejected and feeling victimized, we get back to quarters, only to have one of the freakin chiefs come down on us about the locks on the truck.  What an awful feeling, how nobody gives a shit.  Not your employer, your supervisor, the police, not even the fucking people who you bust your ass for trying to prolong their miserable existences.

If that bastard ran from stealing my shit and got nailed by a car, it'd be having to scrape him up.  I have to deal with that concept now and I hate that.  Again, it's nothing that can't be replaced technically.  It's only things like ...

• The Littmann Master Cardiology stethoscope I got when I first became a paramedic and is engraved with my certification number.
• A book on Scotland my husband got me for Christmas.
• My meager collection of make-up, which contained the tube of lipstick I wore for my wedding and small items from my honeymoon.
• My favorite hair brush.
• My ear muffs and decent cold weather gloves, so I can handle standing out on a blustery highway at O dark thirty.
• Oh yes, the worst part -- I decided to wear my contacts tonight, so they got my glasses as well.  Which I'm fairly dependent on.

So no, it's not earth shattering and heart breaking.  But just the thought of some skell rummaging through my personal items just to abuse them or throw them away turns my stomach.  I can replace it, but it will never take away the disgust and feeling of disrespect that I have.

And I have to go back there tonight and pretend like I give a shit.  This will take a little while to get over.

Witchy Woman

While cleaning up my old links, I came across this.  This is quite possibly one of the funniest digs on modern views of Wicca I've ever seen.  It's worth reading and doesn't even require commentary. 

Barbie The Hot Pagan Witch
It's the bimbo blond doll's latest Wicca-like incarnation, ready to "poison" young girls' minds.

Wednesday, October 29, 2003
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
 
Listen up, naughty girls.


Do you long to be an "ordinary schoolgirl" by day who "transforms at night" into some sort of scary pink-robed glittery giggly perky blond pseudo-witch "magical enchantress" thing, perusing your "book of spells" with its plethora of "mysterious compartments" that "hold your secrets," along with recipes for concocting real potions "you can actually drink?"

You do? Well Jesus with an orgasmic wolf howl and some heavy goth eyeliner, are you ever in luck.
Because just in time for Halloween and just in time to make a few thousand hyper-Christian parental brows furrow with consternation and spiritual constipation, and just in time to make any true Wiccan roll her eyes and flick this story away like so much bad juju, here comes Secret Spells Barbie.

That's right, it's Mattel's latest Wiccan-flavored mutation of the famous and famously obnoxious pneumatic blond dingbat, joining the likes of Barbie Loves Spongebob Squarepants and the Barbie Romance Novel Giftset and Princess of the Portuguese Empire Barbie and Spirit of the Earth Barbie (all genuine items, alas).

Not to mention the long-desired Manic Depressive PR Exec Divorcée Barbie and Resentful Proctologist Barbie and Bloated Don't-You-Freaking-Touch-Me PMS Barbie and Desperately Lonely National Security Advisor "Condi" Barbie, with bonus Spinning Head feature. All, presumably, coming soon.

Hey, witches are cool. Everyone knows witches are cool. Way, way cool. Willow from "Buffy" was cool, and the vaguely lesbian witchly threesome on "Charmed" are ostensibly cool (in a bitchy backstabbing black-mascara mall-hopping sort of way), and even "Sabrina the Teenage Witch" is passably cool if you're, like, 12, ditto the entire whack "Sailor Moon" anime universe, because anime is just way cool, just by default.

And of course Harry Potter, the king himself, is still despoiling millions of young minds with his blasphemous heathen wizard spells and preteen angst and secret burgeoning lust to discover what magic dazzling transformational enchanted wunderfrump lies beneath Hermione's knickers.

Yes, Secret Spells Barbie is a witch. Sort of. But not really. Even though she is. But Mattel would never dare call her that, of course. Barbie just, you know, dabbles. Plays around. Casts a "spell," then twirls her hair and pops her gum and giggles a lot and then goes shopping. This is what Barbie does.

Nothing seriously Wiccan here, nothing remotely intelligent or in depth or knowledgeable about true witchcraft or magick or Wiccan belief, of course, because were Mattel to venture too far and dare to actually educate or inspire young maidens to shun church and embrace nature and dye their hair black and change their name to Raven Wolfdancer and start holding slumber parties/yoni awakenings on the winter solstice, why, terrified Christians would almost certainly rise up and light torches and march on their local pseudo-Christian Wal-Marts, which would immediately stop carrying the demonic lesbian Wiccan dolls that only masquerade as oversequined sanitized blonds with the equivalent of 39-inch chests.

No, SS Barbie apparently takes witchcraft about as seriously as, say, a hair barrette. About as seriously as the caulking on the Dream House. About as seriously as Ken's deeply repressed desire for a Barbie-size strap-on and a serious S&M whipping.

And yet. Apparently there's a TV commercial for this new doll, one that instructs Secret Spells Barbie fans to gather "at a secret time, in a secret place" to enact these "secret spells."

And then it cuts to a shot of our fair witches-in-training "secreted" away at the library mixing "potions" and "doing spells" and one rogue girl perks up and asks whether the spells actually work, and sure enough right then a hunky teen boy appears and strolls right up to the girl who has the Secret Spells "kit," and she grins all knowingly and enchantingly and giggle titter wink ooh isn't this wacky witchcraft fun?

It is just so cute. And it is just so sad. Because you could argue that Secret Spells Barbie signifies the ultimate saccharine dumbed-down heavily bleached mainstreaming of witchcraft and Wicca, sucking poor little Harry Potter dry and embarrassing even Sabrina and deflating all the joy and sexiness and funky chthonic wonder out of witchcraft and magic, and for this Mattel can rightfully be jeered at and besotted with night sweats and made to wear the Cursed Necklace of Dhzarzebub. Or something.

And, furthermore, you could say that Witch Wanna-Be Barbie exemplifies a deep and rather obnoxious insult to true Wiccans everywhere, the equivalent of Mattel launching some sort of perky bare-thighed Islamic Fundamentalist Barbie or maybe Frigid Catholic Nun Barbie or Wide-Eyed Rosicrucianist Barbie or even Creepy Cult of Scientology Barbie with Deluxe Tinfoil Hat and Fanatical Grin.

You could say that. But it's not really worth it. Because more than anything else, you just have to say that this incarnation of the world's best-selling virgin, this premolded hunk of insidious white plastic that inflicts the initial lashings of the American beauty myth on millions of young girls, is utterly, shamelessly useless.
Secret Spells Barbie is, despite her potential and much like every one of the 150,000 weird sub-subniche Barbies on the market, entirely pointless and disposable and, unless the girls who end up with her somehow tap into their inner badass witchiness and suddenly get inspired by some divine funky moonscream to rip off Barbie's arms and paint her hair bright red and tattoo her nipples with a Magic Marker and impale her on a red-hot hair pin and suspend her upside down from a dreamcatcher, well, she does nothing to further the cause of funky gorgeous goddess-thick witchness and nothing to further the cause of earthly luscious pagan interconnectedness or divine feminine power.

Not that she claims to. Not that this was ever Mattel's point, or Barbie's raison d'etre, really. And I suppose it's sort of wildly unfair to hope that Barbie might actually inspire girls beyond the hair-twirling saccharine fetishism of shopping and friends and cars and boys and shopping and money and dye jobs and shopping and fake careerism and shopping.

But in Secret Spells Barbie, there was a glimpse. There was a glimmer of hope that underneath her massive drapery of blond follicles and beneath that massive melon chest and beneath that huge pink cheap sequined magic robe beat the raw red heart of a latent pagan priestess, just dying to bust out of that whitebread virgin faux-Christian Botox world and get it on with the divine, even a little. Alas, it's not to be.


Oh, Barbie. When, oh when, will you strip down and writhe in the woods and howl at the moon?

Cherry Blossoms

The city where I work has one of the largest collection of cherry blossom trees in the US outside of Washington D.C. For a few weeks every spring there's this riotous display of every shade of pink, an oasis of beauty in the middle of a sprawling urban wasteland. As magnificent as it is, it is a brief as a proverbial shooting star. Within days the petals float to the ground and the park sheds it's glorious plumage for another year. Terribly symbolic for that whole circle of life thing. ;)

While I was away, I had a very vivid dream. Someone handed me my father's wallet, referring to him in the past tense. A large billfold, I knew it was his from the little packet of photos in it. The first was a school photo of mine from kindergarten. It's a very ... distinct picture, for some reason my mother felt that bowl bangs and a head full of ringlets would be just the thing. Anyway, each of the photos were ones I knew of and have seen before. Until the last one. The colors in it were exceptionally bright, and as I looked at it it became larger, until I was holding at least an 8x10 in my hand.

It was a cherry blossom tree in full bloom on a gorgeous sunny day. Next to the tree stood my mother as she is now. She was holding my son in her arms, and had the most beautiful look on her face -- I cannot even describe the expression. As I was studying it, the picture animated. A gust of wind kicked up and all those beautiful petals began to fall, a shower of pink and white swirling around my mother and my son. It was so incredibly poignant that I woke up sobbing. As Chris pointed out, there's not much interpretation needed for it, but it has stuck with me for days.

Last night while I was working on an event, an old friend contacted me. He told me that one of my mentors had died yesterday morning after her very long fight with lung cancer. MW was an amazing woman, tough as nails with a sincere laugh and great sense of humor. Straightforward, she didn't hold back what she was thinking. Nor did she care if it made you angry, so long as you understood the point. She was instrumental in my aspiring to be a strong instructor and animated speaker. She never failed to give feedback for good or for ill, and always let you know that she was on your side.

She was beautiful, and all too brief.

The other shoe (boot) falls...

Well they're finally going to do it.

After five years of working together, apparently now the fact that we're married is an issue. We got an e-mail saying that they're going to split us up and make us work seperate units because we're married.

Allegedly they're having problems with a couple of other married staff members, so in typical knee-jerk fashion now they will bring the hammer down on all of us.

I know we're the exception to the rule, being able to work together without killing one another -- but when have we ever been normal?

This is nerve-wracking, we're entering into a fight I never wanted. I like our new coordinator and now we're going to have to go head to head on this as an unfair practice. Working together is one of the reasons we still manage to stay sane at work, and now that's going to be gone.

Bahston & the Breakfast Nazi

After stressing about James for the better part of last week, we managed to pry ourselves away and drive north. We got to our friend's house in Somerville by dinnertime. While relaxing over the meal, we hear Doug scream from the back room. He had suddenly noticed that he'd misread the concert tickets, and that the show starts at 6pm, not 8pm like he'd thought (It was around 7:30 at this point.). So after some mass hysterics over his discomfiture, we piled into the car and headed for the show. Luckily they had two bands go on before their set, so it worked out well -- we arrived just at the beginning of their set. The show was at the Avalon Ballroom, across from Fenway Park. Having never seen either before that was pretty neat.

The DropKick Murphys fall into the punk category, or Celtic/Irish rock I guess. If you like Flogging Mollies, Black 47, the Pogues etc, then this is right up your alley. Their latest CD, "Blackout" is known by heart by everyone in the house, it's fantastic. If you ever get the chance to see them perform, I highly recommend going. The atmosphere in the show is controlled chaos, folks get rowdy but not out of hand. Everyone of all ages seems to know all the words to every song, they belt them out along with the band and are encouraged to sing along and even with the bandmembers. There's no fancy costumes or stagesets, and they seem to be exactly what they portray -- a bunch of Irish brawlers who are having a good time. It was a blast. They're playing on the Jimmy Kimmel show on St. Patrick's Day.

Saturday morning (well afternoon really ) Doug insisted on taking us to breakfast at this place called SoundBites. He had us read a menu before we left because he said they're ... kind of funny about wasting time there. We get to this tiny hole in the wall to find a line waiting to get in that goes all the way up the block. Everyone seemed to take it in stride, sipping hot coffee, reading the paper and chatting. Never mind the fact that there was a huge diner not a half a block away. Doug (who eats there several times a week) tells us that it's run by some Moroccan brothers and that they're famous for their breakfast, but that they have some quirks to keep it all running smoothly. Get your own coffee, but don't make a mess, waste, or use more than you need each time. Know what you want when they come. Be prepared to leave as soon as you're done. All I could think of was Seinfeld's "Soup Nazi."

It must work for them, since we moved through the line in about twenty minutes and were seated at a table in the cramped quarters. The staff all knew Doug and were very friendly, even bringing us a fresh fruit bowl. All I can say is OMG -- the food was unbelievable. Chris had french toast made on thick challah bread, that was stuffed with cream cheese & fig preserves. I had a version of Eggs Benedict with real Hollandaise sauce and smoked salmon . We got to watch a few shocked patrons get informed that there will be no cell phones during other people's meals (hooray!). In short it was fabulous and quirky and a kick. But boy, as SOON as my fork was down on the empty plate, the table was cleared and the check on hand. It gave a new twist to fast food. If you're ever in the Somerville area of Boston, bring your appetite but leave your cell phone in the car or "No eggs for you!"

Saturday night we went to The Sunset Grill for dinner, they have an astounding array of beers. The highlight was one called Samichlaus. Brewed in Austria, it's considered one of the rarest beers in the world. They only brew it one day a year -- December 6th. It's one of the strongest lagers in the world, averaging 14% alcohol content. It was syrupy and damn, really good. And I am far from an afficionado. We then went to a pub called Burn's for some traditional Irish music before calling it a night.

Now that I've thoroughly bored everyone to tears, all I can say is I NEEDED THE REST. ;)