In a brief discussion with her mom about Fibromyalgia awareness products, Jenny Ryan complains that "other diseases TOOK all the good colors."
Maybe Fibromyalgia marketing people have to diversify into patterns or shapes. Autism took the puzzle-piece shape, which, perhaps not coincidentally, is also used as the logo for MS Office.
So what shape or pattern should Fibromyalgia be? I'd go with some combination of sharp angles, irregularly-spaced, fuzzy, amoeba-like blobs, and question marks.
The sharp angles would, of course, represent the pain. The irregularly-spaced, fuzzy, amoeba-like blobs would be the side effects from the meds, particularly the cognitive impairments. The question marks would symbolize the fact that medical science doesn't know how to diagnose it or cure it, or even what the fuck causes it.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Wednesday Weigh-In 20091111
A weight maintenance Haiku for you...
I'm blogging daily.
This leads to late night snacking.
Belly getting fat.
Waist = 37.5"
Height = 5' 9"
References:
I'm blogging daily.
This leads to late night snacking.
Belly getting fat.
Waist = 37.5"
Height = 5' 9"
References:
- Wikipedia BMI page
- Tanita Scale with Body Fat monitor
- Javascript must be enabled to view the data.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Feng Shui in my Childhood?
The annoying thing about parents is this: when you become one, they turn out to be just like you.
All our parents' familiar admonishments that we used to roll our eyes at -- we're using them, too! "No snacks before dinner." (Awww mom!) "Zipper your jacket!" (But I'm not cold!) "You're not allowed to watch that show until after you've done your homework." (WHAT?!? I never get to do anything anymore! Stomp stomp stomp BAM) I've pretty much come to accept all this.
But now I'm starting to wonder if my parents were so cool that they themselves were into Feng Shui, just like me!
Exhibit A -- the full length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door. This is a well-known method to prevent helpful chi from flowing into the bathroom and down the drains and toilet. But they didn't keep the bathroom door closed when it wasn't in use, so maybe they weren't following it too closely. On the other hand, they kept the toilet lid down.
Exhibit B -- orientation of beds to achieve a Purpose. My bed and the beds of my sister and brother all pointed North, which I believe helps ensure in children a calm sleep, submissiveness and a desire to mow the lawn. Just kidding about that last one.
Exhibit C -- actually there's no Exhibit C. But they say that good writers should list things in groups of threes. And I need all the help I can get.
If my parents actually did follow Feng Shui, they certainly broke the Number One Rule -- eliminate clutter. My mom especially went for second helpings when the Pack Rat Gene was being ladled out.
So were my parents really following Feng Shui, or did they just copy something they saw in a movie?
All our parents' familiar admonishments that we used to roll our eyes at -- we're using them, too! "No snacks before dinner." (Awww mom!) "Zipper your jacket!" (But I'm not cold!) "You're not allowed to watch that show until after you've done your homework." (WHAT?!? I never get to do anything anymore! Stomp stomp stomp BAM) I've pretty much come to accept all this.
But now I'm starting to wonder if my parents were so cool that they themselves were into Feng Shui, just like me!
Exhibit A -- the full length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door. This is a well-known method to prevent helpful chi from flowing into the bathroom and down the drains and toilet. But they didn't keep the bathroom door closed when it wasn't in use, so maybe they weren't following it too closely. On the other hand, they kept the toilet lid down.
Exhibit B -- orientation of beds to achieve a Purpose. My bed and the beds of my sister and brother all pointed North, which I believe helps ensure in children a calm sleep, submissiveness and a desire to mow the lawn. Just kidding about that last one.
Exhibit C -- actually there's no Exhibit C. But they say that good writers should list things in groups of threes. And I need all the help I can get.
If my parents actually did follow Feng Shui, they certainly broke the Number One Rule -- eliminate clutter. My mom especially went for second helpings when the Pack Rat Gene was being ladled out.
So were my parents really following Feng Shui, or did they just copy something they saw in a movie?
Monday, November 9, 2009
Get Some Perspective
"A terrible tragedy...," the news reporter began solemnly as soon as I turned on the radio. In the same second I heard those words, I visualized a natural disaster, an act of mass violence, a bridge or building collapse, each resulting in a dozen children dead or orphaned.
"...UConn quarterback Jasper Howard was killed in a stabbing..."
What!? Is this the terrible tragedy!? So what!? My anger flared. How many times have I heard on this radio station a news report about a murder? There were 31 murders in Hartford in 20071. Not one was delivered with any more emotion than a typical report on the DOW Jones Industrial average. But because this murder involved a local sports hero, the incident is given special treatment.
This stabbing happened three weeks ago, yet it still attracts front page attention.
The real tragedy is that society has become so distracted by sports and entertainment, it fails to notice what's going on in real life.
Get a grip. Get some perspective.
1Data provided by City-Data.
"...UConn quarterback Jasper Howard was killed in a stabbing..."
What!? Is this the terrible tragedy!? So what!? My anger flared. How many times have I heard on this radio station a news report about a murder? There were 31 murders in Hartford in 20071. Not one was delivered with any more emotion than a typical report on the DOW Jones Industrial average. But because this murder involved a local sports hero, the incident is given special treatment.
This stabbing happened three weeks ago, yet it still attracts front page attention.
The real tragedy is that society has become so distracted by sports and entertainment, it fails to notice what's going on in real life.
Get a grip. Get some perspective.
1Data provided by City-Data.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Dream: The Elevator Un-Ride
I'm walking in a modest city. It's a bright sunny day, a bit cool. I'm looking for some respite from the bustle, and I find myself in front of the office building that my wife's pain management doctor practices from. I go inside.
I'm in the lobby. There are chairs and sofas and natural lighting -- a nice place to sit for a while. But I see "Carol," the social worker who assists the pain management doctor. She appears to be looking for the next patient to usher into the practice. I don't want her to see me, so I decide to slink on through when her back is turned.
I walk on to the back where the elevators are located. I imagine to myself a fantasy scenario -- that Carol doesn't have another patient for an hour or more and that we'd go somewhere and have an affair. But I'm a little unsettled from that idea, and I'm glad I avoided her. It's not that she's unattractive. But she's unstable, one of those folks who studied psychology in an attempt to fix herself, unsuccessfully. I try to walk even more sneakily than before.
I pause at the elevator with my back to it, trying to think of where to go next. It might be cool to walk around, to explore. But first I do an inventory of coupons and advertisements I have tucked into my wallet. As I hold them up to eye level, the elevator door opens, and a hand reaches out over my shoulder and plucks out one of the coupons. "This is a ticket for a free elevator ride!" the hand announces with some drama.
I enter the elevator, dismayed that there's a human operator in it. I don't really know what floor I want to visit. I was thinking of choosing at random or getting off at a floor that others are getting off at. The attendant asks me what floor I want, so I say "four," "whatever" being an odd thing to say in response to that. It's the floor of the pain management practice, my home away from home.
The elevator is very cluttered and more resembles the counter of a small junk store. "Four?" asks the attendant. (Actually, there are two attendants.) "Yes, 'Four.' You know, it's got this horizontal bar like this," I begin, painting the number in the air with my hand, "and then there's this vertical bit coming down here off to the side a bit." I feel as though I'm in a Monty Python skit, and I try hard to resist adopting mannerisms like John Cleese. Or Arthur Dent as he attempts to describe tea to an alien. "Then there's this other angled bit that goes like this, although sometimes you see it vertical like this, almost like the uprights of a football goal post. Are you familiar at all with football?" I look for some printed material in this cluttered space. I see a calendar nearby. It's one of those complimentary calendars that businesses give out, and I find the number four in an address and point it out to him. But the font is very ornate, so instead of horizontal and vertical bars, there are stretched out lions forming the parts. I wonder if I should tell him not to look for a hidden camera.
There is a long pause followed by two more riders getting in. My attention drifts. From my vantage point, I have an image of a car windshield. I'm vaguely aware that the attendants are not operating the elevator, and that nothing is happening. But I don't care. Perhaps the two other people will complain about the lack of service. But they seem just a detached from reality as the rest of us.
After about five minutes of this, I announce that I have to go and then leave.
I'm in the lobby. There are chairs and sofas and natural lighting -- a nice place to sit for a while. But I see "Carol," the social worker who assists the pain management doctor. She appears to be looking for the next patient to usher into the practice. I don't want her to see me, so I decide to slink on through when her back is turned.
I walk on to the back where the elevators are located. I imagine to myself a fantasy scenario -- that Carol doesn't have another patient for an hour or more and that we'd go somewhere and have an affair. But I'm a little unsettled from that idea, and I'm glad I avoided her. It's not that she's unattractive. But she's unstable, one of those folks who studied psychology in an attempt to fix herself, unsuccessfully. I try to walk even more sneakily than before.
I pause at the elevator with my back to it, trying to think of where to go next. It might be cool to walk around, to explore. But first I do an inventory of coupons and advertisements I have tucked into my wallet. As I hold them up to eye level, the elevator door opens, and a hand reaches out over my shoulder and plucks out one of the coupons. "This is a ticket for a free elevator ride!" the hand announces with some drama.
I enter the elevator, dismayed that there's a human operator in it. I don't really know what floor I want to visit. I was thinking of choosing at random or getting off at a floor that others are getting off at. The attendant asks me what floor I want, so I say "four," "whatever" being an odd thing to say in response to that. It's the floor of the pain management practice, my home away from home.
The elevator is very cluttered and more resembles the counter of a small junk store. "Four?" asks the attendant. (Actually, there are two attendants.) "Yes, 'Four.' You know, it's got this horizontal bar like this," I begin, painting the number in the air with my hand, "and then there's this vertical bit coming down here off to the side a bit." I feel as though I'm in a Monty Python skit, and I try hard to resist adopting mannerisms like John Cleese. Or Arthur Dent as he attempts to describe tea to an alien. "Then there's this other angled bit that goes like this, although sometimes you see it vertical like this, almost like the uprights of a football goal post. Are you familiar at all with football?" I look for some printed material in this cluttered space. I see a calendar nearby. It's one of those complimentary calendars that businesses give out, and I find the number four in an address and point it out to him. But the font is very ornate, so instead of horizontal and vertical bars, there are stretched out lions forming the parts. I wonder if I should tell him not to look for a hidden camera.
There is a long pause followed by two more riders getting in. My attention drifts. From my vantage point, I have an image of a car windshield. I'm vaguely aware that the attendants are not operating the elevator, and that nothing is happening. But I don't care. Perhaps the two other people will complain about the lack of service. But they seem just a detached from reality as the rest of us.
After about five minutes of this, I announce that I have to go and then leave.
Friday, November 6, 2009
The Hearing Test
I described before how the school nurse tested me for color blindness. She'd do a few other tests on me during the time I spent in elementary school. She did the bend-over-to-see-if-your-spine-is-curved test for scoliosis on all the students in the gymnasium one day. And she'd weigh me and take my temperature if I visited for any ailment. But the most dubious test I ever received was the hearing test.
The hearing test is very straight forward. It involves a Tester with a machine that makes beeps at various pitches and volume levels. And it involves the person being tested, the Subject. Usually, the subject wears headphones that are designed to fit over the ears to block out ambient noise. Nevertheless, the test should be conducted in a quiet environment.
The subject's role is to raise a hand whenever he or she hears the beep. It is assumed that the subject will not raise a hand periodically even if there's no beep. But just in case, the tester will cause the beeps to come out at random intervals.
So there I was, sitting in the school nurse's office, wearing headphones, listening to the very distant sounds of an occasional clatter of typewriters, the squeak and groan of a chair, the slamming of a file cabinet drawer and other office noises. (The school nurse's office was adjacent to the main office.)
And then the beeps began. There were deep-sounding bassoon-like beeps, medium flute-like beeps, and tweeting-little piccolo peeps. They were all fairly easy to hear, and I raised my hand as each one came and went at fairly regular intervals.
But very soon, the beeps got to be quieter and quieter, and the office noise seemed to get louder and louder. My hand-raising became more tentative. But I noticed something interesting. The beeps seemed to be accompanied by a faint hiss. So at some point, I would raise my hand whenever I heard the hiss, regardless of any beep.
The nurse soon terminated the test even though I had still indicated I could hear the beeps. I suppose she just wanted to verify that my hearing was at least normal. Apparently, she was uninterested in my supersonic, vampire-like hearing, and was content to let me congregate with the mere mortals in my class.
The hearing test is very straight forward. It involves a Tester with a machine that makes beeps at various pitches and volume levels. And it involves the person being tested, the Subject. Usually, the subject wears headphones that are designed to fit over the ears to block out ambient noise. Nevertheless, the test should be conducted in a quiet environment.
The subject's role is to raise a hand whenever he or she hears the beep. It is assumed that the subject will not raise a hand periodically even if there's no beep. But just in case, the tester will cause the beeps to come out at random intervals.
So there I was, sitting in the school nurse's office, wearing headphones, listening to the very distant sounds of an occasional clatter of typewriters, the squeak and groan of a chair, the slamming of a file cabinet drawer and other office noises. (The school nurse's office was adjacent to the main office.)
And then the beeps began. There were deep-sounding bassoon-like beeps, medium flute-like beeps, and tweeting-little piccolo peeps. They were all fairly easy to hear, and I raised my hand as each one came and went at fairly regular intervals.
But very soon, the beeps got to be quieter and quieter, and the office noise seemed to get louder and louder. My hand-raising became more tentative. But I noticed something interesting. The beeps seemed to be accompanied by a faint hiss. So at some point, I would raise my hand whenever I heard the hiss, regardless of any beep.
The nurse soon terminated the test even though I had still indicated I could hear the beeps. I suppose she just wanted to verify that my hearing was at least normal. Apparently, she was uninterested in my supersonic, vampire-like hearing, and was content to let me congregate with the mere mortals in my class.
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