Thursday, March 31, 2005
Whad'ya Think?
Terry Shiavo passed away today after 13 days without food or water. That's three days longer than any physically healthy human being is expected to live without any kind of hydration, which tells me she was much stronger than anyone thought. What's ironic is that just yesterday the Pope was put on the same type of feeding tube, unable to eat or drink any longer. You think any high court is going to step in and insist that it be removed? What if one of the Pope's relatives decides (since he's unable to speak for himself any longer) that he probably wouldn't want to live like this any longer? Think anyone will be pulling that tube out any time soon? I don't think so. I certainly don't think they should. But it does sadden me that since he is a religious leader, he will be spared because his life has more perceived value than Terry Schiavo's.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Parrot Head Reunion
My friend Melinda has invited me to come to Chicago over Labor Day weekend, when Jimmy Buffet makes his Parrot Head debut at Wrigley Field. Apparently this is ground breaking news, because no concerts have previously played there, and Buffet will be their inaugural show. I have to admit that the first time I saw Jimmy buffet, I was with my ex-husband and we did not know what to expect. We had no idea the kind of party we were driving into when we first entered the parking lot. As we sat on the hood of our car (NOT dressed like Parrot Heads, NO props, NO decorations), we stood out like a sore thumb against a backdrop of Hawaiian print shirts, leis and exotic drinks. Not to mention the dump truck that pulled in, dumped a truck full of sand into the parking lot and up sprang blow up palm trees, beach chairs and a portable bar, complete with generator operated blenders. There were several different groups with full sound systems and hundreds of people dancing or doing the limbo. Going into the concert was actually a little anti-climatic. The second time I went (or was it the third?), I was definitely not caught unaware. I went with my friend, Jennifer, and that night we became official Parrot Heads! I had just bought a little white Mercedes 190 about a week before and we were so excited to be out for our first night in the new ride. We decorated the car, took our own beach chairs, coolers, props, and gigantic parrot balloons, not to mention that we were decked out like a couple of little Hawaiian cuties. We were ready for a night of fun!
The night (or should I say day, since these things start around noon) started off innocently enough. We met some of our friends there, made some new friends, and managed to avoid all of the drink stations that said, "Shooters for Hooters" (pretty self-explanatory). We were off and running. The tailgate was a blast - I think I even limboed once or twice! Then came time to go into the concert. They pretty much clear out the parking lot, insisting that everyone with a ticket - go inside, and everyone without - go home. Jen and I had pretty good seats but our friends were on the lawn, so we decided to sit with them for awhile. Sit is a relative term, however, because although the crowd was in the mood for tropical weather, it had started to drizzle and no one was actually sitting on the lawn. After awhile of avoiding mud puddles and standing in way-too-long beverage lines on the lawn, we decided to find our seats and take our friends with us. On the way to our seats, I stopped to visit the ladies room while the lines were short. I had the cutest little Hawaiian purse with my cell phone, keys, ID, credit card and cash that I hung on the hook on the back of the bathroom stall door (isn't that what they're there for?). I walked out, washed my hands, realized that I left it in the stall, walked straight back and it was already gone. Someone had ripped off the cute little Hawaiian purse in 10 seconds flat. I was so bummed, walked out to tell my friends before deciding how to handle it, and started down the stairs to our seats. I was also wearing the cutest little slip on tennis shoes that were very much in style back then, but not great for muddy steps in drizzly weather. So down I go...Down an entire flight of steps, on my ass, cute little shoes flying everywhere. One friend helped me up while another retrieved my shoes and we tried to salvage what was left of the night. Within seconds, I managed to walk by a woman who had just been bumped terribly by a different passerby, but she thought it was me. She raised her 32 oz. $9.75 Bud Light and threw it in my face. Yup. My tallest friend had to jump between us while she tried to follow up the dousing with a catfight, and I just stood there saying, "Did that really just happen?" So there I was standing in the rain, the front of me covered in beer from the top of my head to my chest, the back of me covered in mud from the middle of my back to my cute little shoes, and a line from a book I read came to mind that says, "He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it." That was me that night. Because I was at a Jimmy Buffet concert, where it's very hard to have a bad time, I actually stayed until the end...beer, mud, and all!
But wait! The night was not quite over yet. As we made our way out to the parking lot, someone had turned up the sound system again and there was another party going on! We had to stay and dance for awhile, so by the time we got back to our cars, most of the parking lot had cleared out. I hadn't yet figured out how I was going to start my car, considering my keys and my cell phone had already been stolen, but it didn't matter...As I approached my cute little new white Mercedes, I got the sinking feeling that something was not how I left it. Just when I thought the night couldn't get any worse, my new car had been broken into while we were in the concert. Everything was stolen from the inside. They even broke into the trunk and stole our coolers and our Parrot Head props! Bastards.
So this September I'm trying it again. The memories of beer, mud and broken windows have since faded and I'm ready to get back on the horse, err...Back on the bird. I only hope Melinda knows what she's getting herself into!
The night (or should I say day, since these things start around noon) started off innocently enough. We met some of our friends there, made some new friends, and managed to avoid all of the drink stations that said, "Shooters for Hooters" (pretty self-explanatory). We were off and running. The tailgate was a blast - I think I even limboed once or twice! Then came time to go into the concert. They pretty much clear out the parking lot, insisting that everyone with a ticket - go inside, and everyone without - go home. Jen and I had pretty good seats but our friends were on the lawn, so we decided to sit with them for awhile. Sit is a relative term, however, because although the crowd was in the mood for tropical weather, it had started to drizzle and no one was actually sitting on the lawn. After awhile of avoiding mud puddles and standing in way-too-long beverage lines on the lawn, we decided to find our seats and take our friends with us. On the way to our seats, I stopped to visit the ladies room while the lines were short. I had the cutest little Hawaiian purse with my cell phone, keys, ID, credit card and cash that I hung on the hook on the back of the bathroom stall door (isn't that what they're there for?). I walked out, washed my hands, realized that I left it in the stall, walked straight back and it was already gone. Someone had ripped off the cute little Hawaiian purse in 10 seconds flat. I was so bummed, walked out to tell my friends before deciding how to handle it, and started down the stairs to our seats. I was also wearing the cutest little slip on tennis shoes that were very much in style back then, but not great for muddy steps in drizzly weather. So down I go...Down an entire flight of steps, on my ass, cute little shoes flying everywhere. One friend helped me up while another retrieved my shoes and we tried to salvage what was left of the night. Within seconds, I managed to walk by a woman who had just been bumped terribly by a different passerby, but she thought it was me. She raised her 32 oz. $9.75 Bud Light and threw it in my face. Yup. My tallest friend had to jump between us while she tried to follow up the dousing with a catfight, and I just stood there saying, "Did that really just happen?" So there I was standing in the rain, the front of me covered in beer from the top of my head to my chest, the back of me covered in mud from the middle of my back to my cute little shoes, and a line from a book I read came to mind that says, "He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it." That was me that night. Because I was at a Jimmy Buffet concert, where it's very hard to have a bad time, I actually stayed until the end...beer, mud, and all!
But wait! The night was not quite over yet. As we made our way out to the parking lot, someone had turned up the sound system again and there was another party going on! We had to stay and dance for awhile, so by the time we got back to our cars, most of the parking lot had cleared out. I hadn't yet figured out how I was going to start my car, considering my keys and my cell phone had already been stolen, but it didn't matter...As I approached my cute little new white Mercedes, I got the sinking feeling that something was not how I left it. Just when I thought the night couldn't get any worse, my new car had been broken into while we were in the concert. Everything was stolen from the inside. They even broke into the trunk and stole our coolers and our Parrot Head props! Bastards.
So this September I'm trying it again. The memories of beer, mud and broken windows have since faded and I'm ready to get back on the horse, err...Back on the bird. I only hope Melinda knows what she's getting herself into!
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
"...and gettin' caught in the rain..."
For my friends and family who love me, but probably realize that I don't always think things through...this is just for you...
I went to the grocery store after work the other night and when I came out it was pouring. Not just a little bit, but a total downpour where I could barely see cars a few feet in front of me. Seriously, it looked like something out of a movie. I had an umbrella in my purse, so it covered me but not the cart full of bags I had, and of course I had paper because the entire community of Pleasantville makes you feel guilty if you don't recycle with these paper bags. By the time I got to my car, my bags were soaked through, and there were 12 pack cans of lemonade under the cart that were wet, too. Since I couldn't hold the umbrella with one hand and put the groceries in the trunk quickly, I figured I was just going to have to get soaked, so I put the umbrella over the cart (in an attempt to keep the bags somewhat dry) while I opened my trunk. My trunk is the kind that opens out and you have to kind of push things into it, you can't just set them in like in a sedan. I bent down to get one of the twelve packs under the cart and by the time I got it to about my waist, it collapses and I'm left holding nothing but a small, wet piece of cardboard. The cans start rolling away in 12 different directions. I could really give a rip about twelve cans of lemonade, but I was a little worried that if I left them in the parking lot, people would think I was a litterbug, so I had to chase down twelve rolling cans of lemonade in the parking lot, in a downpour! I looked like SUCH an idiot! I threw the cans in the trunk and started on the rest of the bags. They were still covered with the umbrella, which was doing absolutely no good. I was so pissed, I threw the umbrella on the ground and started loading. Of course, the bags were tearing as soon as I touched them, so I just started picking them up and literally heaving them into my trunk like they were bowling balls. I didn't care what was in them, if it was breakable or would spill. I just did not care. By the time I was done, there was not an inch of me that was dry, my hair was soaking wet, all stringy and sticking to me, I looked like a drown rat. My makeup was streaking down my face, and my purse was filled with water. It was hysterical! I got in my car and just started cracking up at how hideous the whole thing was. Whatever visual you may get of how bad I looked, trust me, it was worse!
Tom came over last weekend and turned half the garage into a game room for the girls, and I can't park in the other half until I get rid of all the old bikes and stuff like that this weekend, so I went home, parked in my driveway and went through the whole thing again to unload the groceries in these wet, torn bags! When I got in, two of my Jr High girls that come over every Tuesday were already there, so I re-enacted the whole thing for them and they were rolling! It was actually a great time. :)
I went to the grocery store after work the other night and when I came out it was pouring. Not just a little bit, but a total downpour where I could barely see cars a few feet in front of me. Seriously, it looked like something out of a movie. I had an umbrella in my purse, so it covered me but not the cart full of bags I had, and of course I had paper because the entire community of Pleasantville makes you feel guilty if you don't recycle with these paper bags. By the time I got to my car, my bags were soaked through, and there were 12 pack cans of lemonade under the cart that were wet, too. Since I couldn't hold the umbrella with one hand and put the groceries in the trunk quickly, I figured I was just going to have to get soaked, so I put the umbrella over the cart (in an attempt to keep the bags somewhat dry) while I opened my trunk. My trunk is the kind that opens out and you have to kind of push things into it, you can't just set them in like in a sedan. I bent down to get one of the twelve packs under the cart and by the time I got it to about my waist, it collapses and I'm left holding nothing but a small, wet piece of cardboard. The cans start rolling away in 12 different directions. I could really give a rip about twelve cans of lemonade, but I was a little worried that if I left them in the parking lot, people would think I was a litterbug, so I had to chase down twelve rolling cans of lemonade in the parking lot, in a downpour! I looked like SUCH an idiot! I threw the cans in the trunk and started on the rest of the bags. They were still covered with the umbrella, which was doing absolutely no good. I was so pissed, I threw the umbrella on the ground and started loading. Of course, the bags were tearing as soon as I touched them, so I just started picking them up and literally heaving them into my trunk like they were bowling balls. I didn't care what was in them, if it was breakable or would spill. I just did not care. By the time I was done, there was not an inch of me that was dry, my hair was soaking wet, all stringy and sticking to me, I looked like a drown rat. My makeup was streaking down my face, and my purse was filled with water. It was hysterical! I got in my car and just started cracking up at how hideous the whole thing was. Whatever visual you may get of how bad I looked, trust me, it was worse!
Tom came over last weekend and turned half the garage into a game room for the girls, and I can't park in the other half until I get rid of all the old bikes and stuff like that this weekend, so I went home, parked in my driveway and went through the whole thing again to unload the groceries in these wet, torn bags! When I got in, two of my Jr High girls that come over every Tuesday were already there, so I re-enacted the whole thing for them and they were rolling! It was actually a great time. :)
Ti Many Apple Martoonies...
During the summer between my third and fourth year of college, I worked at a slimy little Italian restaurant which had absolutely no redeeming value, except that it introduced me to my friend Stacey. We were both servers at this restaurant for one summer (until I got fired and she went away to school). To give you an idea of how long ago this was, Tracey Chapman was singing about fast cars and Steve Winwood (yup, Steve Winwood!) was telling you to "Roll with it, baby!" Stacey and I just had to pretty much call each other to start cracking up. Everything we did that summer was a blast, from hanging out at the beach all day to the parties at her parents house when they were, of course, out of town. Then I went back to school in San Diego and Stacey went to Santa Barbara, I got married and had children, Stacey moved up north, and for quite a few years we lost touch with each other. I had always held such incredibly fond memories of her and knew that when we saw each other again, we would have no problem picking up where we left off. We finally had the chance. We both ended up back in the town where we grew up and saw each other a couple of weeks ago, after a ten year seperation.
In the last few years I've decided that I'm a Martha Stewart in training (without the bitchy attitude or the prison record). There is nothing in a store or restaurant that I don't see or taste and think, "I can make that!" Stacey happened to catch me during my infused alcoholic beverages phase. I don't actually drink these things myself - they are very strong - but once I made my first batch of Limoncello and it got raves reviews, I was hooked. Everyone who knows me gets a bottle of my special blends for whatever they might be celebrating. I went from lemon to raspberry, blackberry, even mandarin orange. I am also on a quest for the perfect apple martini and I think if anyone can create that recipe, of course it's me. So Stacey happened to come over on a night when I was mixing all of my concoctions to send to a friend on the east coast. I was also baking oatmeal cookies that night to send with the alcohol, so we spent the whole night in the kitchen catching up, reminiscing about our former wild days, and of course testing the alcohol mixtures. I'm sure we mixed up a few of my famous apple martinis in there just for good measure.
I hate greasing pans or spraying them with stuff because they get all goopy and hard to wash, so I bought this kind of foil that says you don't have to do that - it's non-stick. So I put the cookies in the oven, and yeah we had consumed quite a bit of alcohol by then. I was also cooking something on top of the stove and when I was done I turned it off, but instead of turning the burner off, I turned the oven off. The dials aren't even close so I must have been pretty tipsy. The cookie timer went off after 10 minutes and I took the cookies out of the oven, but for some reason they were still doughy and gross (not to mention the burner was still on and turning bright red). Of course I was confused because they weren't cooked, so I threw them back in the oven and added five minutes to the timer. Five minutes later, they still weren't cooked, I was starting to get pissed and I, in all seriousness, start blaming it on my new non-stick foil. I added five more minutes to the timer and when they still were not cooked, Stacey walked over and very quietly turned my oven back on, after watching me trying to figure the problem out for the last fifteen minutes! It was hysterical. So she turned the oven back on, I forgot to set the timer again and in our drunken stupor we both forgot about the cookies completely until we smelled them burning.
I know the lesson here is that I shouldn't be using the oven or the stove when I've consumed more than my share of alcohol, but I'm still trying to blame it on the non-stick foil!
In the last few years I've decided that I'm a Martha Stewart in training (without the bitchy attitude or the prison record). There is nothing in a store or restaurant that I don't see or taste and think, "I can make that!" Stacey happened to catch me during my infused alcoholic beverages phase. I don't actually drink these things myself - they are very strong - but once I made my first batch of Limoncello and it got raves reviews, I was hooked. Everyone who knows me gets a bottle of my special blends for whatever they might be celebrating. I went from lemon to raspberry, blackberry, even mandarin orange. I am also on a quest for the perfect apple martini and I think if anyone can create that recipe, of course it's me. So Stacey happened to come over on a night when I was mixing all of my concoctions to send to a friend on the east coast. I was also baking oatmeal cookies that night to send with the alcohol, so we spent the whole night in the kitchen catching up, reminiscing about our former wild days, and of course testing the alcohol mixtures. I'm sure we mixed up a few of my famous apple martinis in there just for good measure.
I hate greasing pans or spraying them with stuff because they get all goopy and hard to wash, so I bought this kind of foil that says you don't have to do that - it's non-stick. So I put the cookies in the oven, and yeah we had consumed quite a bit of alcohol by then. I was also cooking something on top of the stove and when I was done I turned it off, but instead of turning the burner off, I turned the oven off. The dials aren't even close so I must have been pretty tipsy. The cookie timer went off after 10 minutes and I took the cookies out of the oven, but for some reason they were still doughy and gross (not to mention the burner was still on and turning bright red). Of course I was confused because they weren't cooked, so I threw them back in the oven and added five minutes to the timer. Five minutes later, they still weren't cooked, I was starting to get pissed and I, in all seriousness, start blaming it on my new non-stick foil. I added five more minutes to the timer and when they still were not cooked, Stacey walked over and very quietly turned my oven back on, after watching me trying to figure the problem out for the last fifteen minutes! It was hysterical. So she turned the oven back on, I forgot to set the timer again and in our drunken stupor we both forgot about the cookies completely until we smelled them burning.
I know the lesson here is that I shouldn't be using the oven or the stove when I've consumed more than my share of alcohol, but I'm still trying to blame it on the non-stick foil!
Terry Shiavo
I actually wrote this several days ago when Terry Schiavo was on day six of living without her feeding tube. As of today, she's on day eleven...
I am not politically driven, nor am I particularly well-read when it comes to politically charged issues. My reading of the LA Times on Sunday is usually limited to the inserts and the Calendar section (if I don't just throw the whole thing away after pulling all the coupons out), and my daily dose of current events comes from the LATimes.com and the NYTimes.com while sitting at my desk each day. I have been following this case, however, for a couple of years. I'm talking about the case of Terry Shiavo in Florida, the woman whose husband is successfully fighting to have her life-sustaining feeding tube removed, allowing her to die within days. It is not in my nature to agree with George Bush, of whom I am NOT a fan. But in probably the most intelligent statement he has made in the last five years, the president suggests that we err on the side of life, and I must agree. In this case, we have one side led by Terry Shiavo's husband (!) removing her feeding tube and letting her die by starvation. On the other side, her parents, who for obvious reasons will do anything they can to keep their daughter alive. These are the people who have cared for her for the last 15 years since she's been in this condition and although they are not her legal guardians, I believe they have a sincere and vested interest in keeping her alive. Mind you, this is not a woman on any kind of life support - no breathing machine, nothing to keep her heart pumping - she IS NOT brain dead. There are doctor's who will argue that she is in a "persistent vegetative state," while others argue that she is not. A group of doctors who have recently examined her for the Florida courts have labeled her "irredeemably brain damaged" (Excuse me?), while Jeb Bush has recently brought forth a neurologist who claims that Terry has been misdiagnosed. The LA Times reports today that the neurologist from the Mayo clinic, who previously thought her to be in a "persistent vegetative state" has changed his diagnosis, saying that she's capable of feeling and responding to emotions and pain. The lawyer for Terry's parents has filed an affidavit saying that it is "no longer equitable for her to be starved to death." No longer equitable? In legal-ese, "equitable" means that justice has been served. Does anyone mistakingly think that justice has ever been served here? Does it not make sense to all of the courts who have heard this case that we JUST DON'T KNOW? We just don't know how cognizant she is, if she can understand what is going on around her, if she wishes to die. We just don't know if she feels physical or emotional pain. We just don't know how the physical fatigue of being starved and dehydrated is affecting her after six long days. I'm disgusted by the fact that Jeb Bush has the authority to stay the execution of serial killers, an authority which he has exercised, but does not have the authority to keep Terry Shiavo's feeding tube in place. Clinton had the authority to pardon Patty Hearst, whose innocence is doubtful, but Bush cannot step in to fight for an innocent and helpless Terry Shiavo.
I am not politically driven, nor am I particularly well-read when it comes to politically charged issues. My reading of the LA Times on Sunday is usually limited to the inserts and the Calendar section (if I don't just throw the whole thing away after pulling all the coupons out), and my daily dose of current events comes from the LATimes.com and the NYTimes.com while sitting at my desk each day. I have been following this case, however, for a couple of years. I'm talking about the case of Terry Shiavo in Florida, the woman whose husband is successfully fighting to have her life-sustaining feeding tube removed, allowing her to die within days. It is not in my nature to agree with George Bush, of whom I am NOT a fan. But in probably the most intelligent statement he has made in the last five years, the president suggests that we err on the side of life, and I must agree. In this case, we have one side led by Terry Shiavo's husband (!) removing her feeding tube and letting her die by starvation. On the other side, her parents, who for obvious reasons will do anything they can to keep their daughter alive. These are the people who have cared for her for the last 15 years since she's been in this condition and although they are not her legal guardians, I believe they have a sincere and vested interest in keeping her alive. Mind you, this is not a woman on any kind of life support - no breathing machine, nothing to keep her heart pumping - she IS NOT brain dead. There are doctor's who will argue that she is in a "persistent vegetative state," while others argue that she is not. A group of doctors who have recently examined her for the Florida courts have labeled her "irredeemably brain damaged" (Excuse me?), while Jeb Bush has recently brought forth a neurologist who claims that Terry has been misdiagnosed. The LA Times reports today that the neurologist from the Mayo clinic, who previously thought her to be in a "persistent vegetative state" has changed his diagnosis, saying that she's capable of feeling and responding to emotions and pain. The lawyer for Terry's parents has filed an affidavit saying that it is "no longer equitable for her to be starved to death." No longer equitable? In legal-ese, "equitable" means that justice has been served. Does anyone mistakingly think that justice has ever been served here? Does it not make sense to all of the courts who have heard this case that we JUST DON'T KNOW? We just don't know how cognizant she is, if she can understand what is going on around her, if she wishes to die. We just don't know if she feels physical or emotional pain. We just don't know how the physical fatigue of being starved and dehydrated is affecting her after six long days. I'm disgusted by the fact that Jeb Bush has the authority to stay the execution of serial killers, an authority which he has exercised, but does not have the authority to keep Terry Shiavo's feeding tube in place. Clinton had the authority to pardon Patty Hearst, whose innocence is doubtful, but Bush cannot step in to fight for an innocent and helpless Terry Shiavo.
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