The International Herald Tribune (the global edition of the New York Times) reported yesterday that an 8 year old kid named Mickey Hicks is on the “No Fly” list and has been so almost since his birth, roughly a month before the 9/11 incident.
This is a prime example of the stupidity that continues to cause Americans to lose faith in the ability of government agencies.
I don’t mean that this kid with the same name as some supposed terrorist is on the list. Names are common, that shouldn’t be a problem – look at the name, the birthdate, figure that someone made a mistake and send the kid on through security.
I mean that after 9 years of being on notice of the need to use a little common sense, nobody’s thought to cross-reference the list to birthdates, photographs, social security or passport numbers.
The nonsensical nature of TSA’s reasoning is heightened by the fact that Mickey is a “Jr.” – his dad, Michael Hicks, has exactly the same name, but he passes through security without much of a problem. The Times reports that lots of people who’ve found they are on the “no fly” list end up using different names, or misspelling their names, or doing something else that would make TSA totally oblivious to them.
All it takes to get past airport security if you’re a bad guy is to change the spelling on your name?? C’mon, where’s the reasoning there! Clark Kent had a better disguise than that to keep Superman from being recognized, and that didn't really fool anyone, did it? Thinking like this is how we got a guy with explosives in his underwear on a jet on Christmas Day.
TSA, of course, roundly denies that any children are on the “no fly” list.
Never mind that Mikey’s mom is an international photojournalist (who’s been denied the opportunity to photograph her 8 year old being patted down) or all the stamps on his passport that confirm that he exists and is subject to this nonsense.
Don’t get me started about the fact that TSA is going to tell me that I can’t photograph my own kid, especially when his civil liberties are being violated. That’s another piece altogether.
Nope. According to a TSA spokesperson who has the audacity to stand up and tell the New York Times in front of overwhelming evidence otherwise, “Didn’t happen. It’s all bein’ made up.”
This is the same agency that, in 2008, got sued over the fact that they made a woman in Texas remove her nipple rings while going through a metal detector.
The jewelry didn’t set it off. TSA didn’t offer to do screening privately that would have confirmed that there wasn’t a problem. Instead, they gave her a pair of pliers (apparently they weren’t easily removed), made her take them out and go through the metal again.
While they stood there and giggled.
In the ensuing firestorm, the agency issued a statement saying that they had reviewed the policy, and that changes needed to be made.
Duh! There’s a news flash. And yet, here we are 18 months later, the lawsuit presumably settled very quietly for significant amounts of taxpayer dollars, and the travelling public continues to confront foolishness from the TSA.
It’s a huge bureaucracy, with scores of employees. Anyone who’s ever worked in any large organization knows that there are some idiots there, but most of them are probably decent folks who are trying to do their job. The problem is, nobody has taken the time to write out common-sense rules and then to test those to see what works and what doesn’t.
Let me also point out, lest anyone think that I’m blaming President Obama for the most recent fiasco, that I do not think the issues rest with him at all. Lord knows, the man has enough on his plate without worrying about this kind of stupidity. You’d think that one of the underlings could step up to the plate and deal with some of this, or at least create a plan for approval. That would have been a fair assumption, although, now that it’s been proven otherwise the boss does have to get involved and fix it.
George W. had several years to try to do something, instead choosing to appoint his friends and the party loyals into these important jobs, rather than qualified individuals who might actually be able to get something done. We saw how well that worked.
Hell of a job, Brownie!
That is not to say that Obama hasn’t had some of his own staff members who ought to be slapped up side the head. For Janet Napolitano, head of Homeland Security to try to say, in any way, shape, or form, that the system worked, is beyond stupid. She may get by with a bit of scar tissue this time, but obscenely inane statements like that should not be tolerated again. They ought to be met with a phone call from the President’s assistant that says, “Mr. Obama saw you on television. Don’t bother to come in to clean out your desk, we’ll have your stuff boxed and send it to you.”
Blunders such as hers provide no credibility for the administration as a whole and makes them all look like bumbling fools.
She should have been up there expressing outrage over the fiasco of the system, immediately have called in those in the next tier down to have a “come to Jesus” meeting with them, and then left them to administer their departments accordingly. Obama should have then called in the directors of each of the agencies involved (Homeland Security, FBI, CIA, etc) advised them that they WILL find a solution with a very short time frame – say 60 days – and WILL devise a workable plan to get over their turf wars and begin cooperating, or people WILL start being terminated down the chain of command until someone gets a bit of common sense.
If that were to happen, someone would pick up on the problems and, if for no other reason than their own self interests, will see that they need to remain employed and working with other agencies regardless of their own personal feelings.
The American people have gotten what we deserved for not demanding more accountability from the Bush administration. Obama can’t be expected to fix everything at once, but it’s important to get on top of this kind of stuff now, to catch up for all the years of neglect.
We can only hope that Obama can get past the Republican obstructionists to insure that the political hacks are fired, qualified people are hired and a new plan is put into place to keep our country secure.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
A Fish Fiasco
The Charlotte Observer carried a story today about how tropical fish farmers in Florida (yeah, wrap your brain around that one!) are facing a crop loss because of the terribly cold temperatures. The area between Orlando and Tampa is apparently the only place in the US that you can farm tropical fish outdoors. It amounts to about 50% of the tropical fish sold in the US each year.
In another interesting thing, they grow them in big tanks that happen to be the same as -- well -- as concrete casket vaults.
It's nice to see there's a duality of purpose there.
At our house, though, the fish news is better. It’s a good day on 8th Avenue, because the fish are back.
For the first time since moving here in 1999, I had to put the heater in the fish pond last weekend. Something caused the waterfall to shift, meaning the pond was losing water faster than it should. Then with the 27 days of below freezing weather we’ve had, the pond froze over. Without time (or energy in the cold) to deal with the problem, my solution was to do what I should have done weeks ago – turn off the fountain and figure I’d deal with it in the springtime.
I hadn’t seen any fish in several weeks, though, and assumed that el Gato next door that keeps prowling our yard had eradicated them. I turned the fountain off because I couldn’t keep enough water in the pond to insure that the pump wouldn’t burn up.
Then I saw a fish in there, moving under the ice.
Here’s the thing about goldfish in a pond. Although they look “alive” from November to April, their brains are really turned off. They’re on auto-pilot and you don’t feed them – everything just flows through and makes a mess. They stay pretty good at hiding, though, but they do need just a little maintenance – mostly, not to get frozen into a block of ice.
Even that’s not necessarily a death penalty, though. They're very resiliant.
Amazingly enough, this heater (designed for a cattle tank initially, and to just keep the water barely above freezing) thawed a hole in the pond ice and sank to the bottom fairly quickly. Within 24 hours, the entire pond was thawed out and liquid again. I reoriented the fountain to it’s winter configuration like I should have done about Thanksgiving, so that it recirculates water but doesn’t flow over the rocks, and gave the little guy some oxygen.
Fortunately, he didn't need mouth to mouth. It's really hard to get rid of that taste afterwards.
Then something amazing happened. The water, steaming in the wicked cold spell we’ve been enduring, suddenly was populated with fish again. There’s at least 5 of them, all moving around with obvious and horrendous hangovers from the ice, but alive and mobile nonetheless.
They seem to be appreciating the heater, and they hover around not far from it, just in the shadows of where the waterfall would be if it were operating.
They still don’t have names, but my heart is gladdened that they’re alive.
It doesn’t take much to make some of us happy
I try not to show it, though – after all, they’re just goldfish.
In another interesting thing, they grow them in big tanks that happen to be the same as -- well -- as concrete casket vaults.
It's nice to see there's a duality of purpose there.
At our house, though, the fish news is better. It’s a good day on 8th Avenue, because the fish are back.
For the first time since moving here in 1999, I had to put the heater in the fish pond last weekend. Something caused the waterfall to shift, meaning the pond was losing water faster than it should. Then with the 27 days of below freezing weather we’ve had, the pond froze over. Without time (or energy in the cold) to deal with the problem, my solution was to do what I should have done weeks ago – turn off the fountain and figure I’d deal with it in the springtime.
I hadn’t seen any fish in several weeks, though, and assumed that el Gato next door that keeps prowling our yard had eradicated them. I turned the fountain off because I couldn’t keep enough water in the pond to insure that the pump wouldn’t burn up.
Then I saw a fish in there, moving under the ice.
Here’s the thing about goldfish in a pond. Although they look “alive” from November to April, their brains are really turned off. They’re on auto-pilot and you don’t feed them – everything just flows through and makes a mess. They stay pretty good at hiding, though, but they do need just a little maintenance – mostly, not to get frozen into a block of ice.
Even that’s not necessarily a death penalty, though. They're very resiliant.
Amazingly enough, this heater (designed for a cattle tank initially, and to just keep the water barely above freezing) thawed a hole in the pond ice and sank to the bottom fairly quickly. Within 24 hours, the entire pond was thawed out and liquid again. I reoriented the fountain to it’s winter configuration like I should have done about Thanksgiving, so that it recirculates water but doesn’t flow over the rocks, and gave the little guy some oxygen.
Fortunately, he didn't need mouth to mouth. It's really hard to get rid of that taste afterwards.
Then something amazing happened. The water, steaming in the wicked cold spell we’ve been enduring, suddenly was populated with fish again. There’s at least 5 of them, all moving around with obvious and horrendous hangovers from the ice, but alive and mobile nonetheless.
They seem to be appreciating the heater, and they hover around not far from it, just in the shadows of where the waterfall would be if it were operating.
They still don’t have names, but my heart is gladdened that they’re alive.
It doesn’t take much to make some of us happy
I try not to show it, though – after all, they’re just goldfish.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Murder at the Soup Kitchen
The bird feeders have been refilled, and all is once again right with the world.
Well, at least with our little corner of it, as far as the birds (and more than a couple of squirrels) are concerned. Especially since I got the pond heater working and the pond is thawed. The one remaining fish that's shown itself in the last couple of weeks seems greatful.
At least, he's as grateful as a goldfish can be. They tend to be pretty stoic, keeping their emotions close to the vest. Or fin.
During the cold weather, the feeders had run out or clogged up, the feedbag was empty and I just didn’t get around to refilling them. It was more than past time to bring in the hummingbird feeders and the “water cooler” that stays out to provide respite for the critters in the summer time.
It was also time to retire a couple of the “decorative” feeders. People who design these must be architects – the same ones that don’t ever have to live in homes they design, where outlets are 8 inches too far away, doors swing the wrong direction and light switches are inconveniently placed.
Several of the feeders (gifts, since I’m too much of a tightwad to buy anything but the most basic feeders myself) look very nice. Unfortunately, they either collect water so the contents get wet and mold over, making it useless, or they don’t “flow” so the birds can get to the food.
That’s got to be frustrating for the birds – you can see the food, right there behind the glass, but can’t reach it. They keep trying, like a toddler trying to reach into a gumball machine to grab the treasure, but it’s not any more effective.
A new thistle seed feeder acquired over Christmas and 40 pounds of songbird food has worked to remedy the situation, though, and once again the flock is fed.
Unfortunately, there seem to be some unintended consequences and I may have fed more of God’s chirrens than anticipated. The newspapers this morning had a fluttering of feathers blowing around them, curiously close to the feeder stand. The internet reports few instances of spontaneous molting by songbirds in January, so there is but one conclusion available.
I feel something like an errant TSA officer, screening for bottles of hand lotion and fingernail clippers while the feline terrorist slips claw and fang past the detector to reek havoc at the 8th Avenue Terminal. My intentions are good, but security measures are hampered by human error.
I suspect the same cat that has de-fished the pond has diversified her diet from seafood to fowl. I don’t like it, but it is the nature of things and I don’t sweat it too much. Goldfish are 88 cents each and remain unnamed, so no emotional bonds are formed. The feeders are responsibly placed, without overhanging branches or greenery that makes a feline ambush easier.
The critters have to take on some personal responsibility here.
I’m more protective over the chipmunks. I’ve been known to chase a cat who’s caught a member of one of the 4 or 5 families that live in the yard down the street in my bathrobe, a spectacle for the early commuters waiting on the traffic light.
But the birds are on their own, and they need to remember that even a meal at the Soup Kitchen has a price.
Well, at least with our little corner of it, as far as the birds (and more than a couple of squirrels) are concerned. Especially since I got the pond heater working and the pond is thawed. The one remaining fish that's shown itself in the last couple of weeks seems greatful.
At least, he's as grateful as a goldfish can be. They tend to be pretty stoic, keeping their emotions close to the vest. Or fin.
During the cold weather, the feeders had run out or clogged up, the feedbag was empty and I just didn’t get around to refilling them. It was more than past time to bring in the hummingbird feeders and the “water cooler” that stays out to provide respite for the critters in the summer time.
It was also time to retire a couple of the “decorative” feeders. People who design these must be architects – the same ones that don’t ever have to live in homes they design, where outlets are 8 inches too far away, doors swing the wrong direction and light switches are inconveniently placed.
Several of the feeders (gifts, since I’m too much of a tightwad to buy anything but the most basic feeders myself) look very nice. Unfortunately, they either collect water so the contents get wet and mold over, making it useless, or they don’t “flow” so the birds can get to the food.
That’s got to be frustrating for the birds – you can see the food, right there behind the glass, but can’t reach it. They keep trying, like a toddler trying to reach into a gumball machine to grab the treasure, but it’s not any more effective.
A new thistle seed feeder acquired over Christmas and 40 pounds of songbird food has worked to remedy the situation, though, and once again the flock is fed.
Unfortunately, there seem to be some unintended consequences and I may have fed more of God’s chirrens than anticipated. The newspapers this morning had a fluttering of feathers blowing around them, curiously close to the feeder stand. The internet reports few instances of spontaneous molting by songbirds in January, so there is but one conclusion available.
I feel something like an errant TSA officer, screening for bottles of hand lotion and fingernail clippers while the feline terrorist slips claw and fang past the detector to reek havoc at the 8th Avenue Terminal. My intentions are good, but security measures are hampered by human error.
I suspect the same cat that has de-fished the pond has diversified her diet from seafood to fowl. I don’t like it, but it is the nature of things and I don’t sweat it too much. Goldfish are 88 cents each and remain unnamed, so no emotional bonds are formed. The feeders are responsibly placed, without overhanging branches or greenery that makes a feline ambush easier.
The critters have to take on some personal responsibility here.
I’m more protective over the chipmunks. I’ve been known to chase a cat who’s caught a member of one of the 4 or 5 families that live in the yard down the street in my bathrobe, a spectacle for the early commuters waiting on the traffic light.
But the birds are on their own, and they need to remember that even a meal at the Soup Kitchen has a price.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Small Towns
New York is the largest small town in the world.
You can tell this because people talk about their neighbors, just like they do in Carnegie or Hickory or Woodward or Bugtussle.
The difference is that other people, out in the big world, know about these people, too, because some of them happen to be famous.
Over the New Year’s weekend we were in NYC visiting some of our friends. While there, we saw Susan Sarandon a block from his house, dragging a tired Christmas Tree out.
Well, she wasn’t actually doing the dragging herself – it was a very large tree – but she was directing the man who was doing the dragging, while she stood on the sidewalk and shivered. It was REALLY cold out and she was not dressed for the occasion!
I have to offer a disclaimer – although I recognized the name Susan Sarandon, I wouldn’t have recognized her without a movie marquis that told me who she was and what she played in. I didn’t get that gene, so I can’t rattle off all the movies someone was in, or all the songs they sang, or the awards they got. Only after she was pointed out and something about that auburn hair clicked did I recognize, “Oh, that’s who she is.”
It's why I can never be a contestant on a game show.
I still couldn’t tell you what she was in, but at least I recognized her as someone famous.
Our friend, who lives just a block from her 15th Street apartment, started talking about how that answered the questions of several people in the neighborhood.
Apparently, she’s recently gone through a breakup with long-term partner Tim Robbins and the buzz was about who got their apartment, or maybe whether it would become available. Cruising break-up notices in the paper seems to be similar to reading the obituaries to look for available property in a hot market.
In NYC, I surmise that custody of the apartment sometimes exceeds the battles over custody of children. Thinking back, though, I guess that also may be somewhat universal as well. I’ve been in some nasty disputes over possession of a single-wide trailer several times during my career.
The intricacies of this breakup had to be explained to me, of course, because the only time that I read People magazine is when trapped in the doctor’s office, already in the examining room and in a state of undress that makes returning to the lobby to find something with more redeeming value inappropriate.
It’s exactly the same as in a small town, though, because those conversations happen about people we know from work or church or Rotary or whatever. It’s just that the voyeuristic audience is much larger in New York City than in some sleepy little hamlet and we have the illusion of knowing these people because of the publicity they get.
Who gets the house, who gets the cars, who gets the dog? In this case, the issue of the kids is somewhat moot – after 23 years together, their sons are almost grown at 20 and 17.
That leads to another discussion, probably to be had over dark liquor and in hushed tones, about how a 63 year old woman manages to have a 17 year old son!
The point is, we’re all in each other’s business. Does it give us an excuse not to examine our own lives? Is it just human nature to be curious about others? Do we like a peephole into someone else’s life, so we can decide whether it’s better or worse than our own lot?
I’m not sure. We never got to finish our discussion because about then we got to the block where Anderson Cooper walks his dog.
You can tell this because people talk about their neighbors, just like they do in Carnegie or Hickory or Woodward or Bugtussle.
The difference is that other people, out in the big world, know about these people, too, because some of them happen to be famous.
Over the New Year’s weekend we were in NYC visiting some of our friends. While there, we saw Susan Sarandon a block from his house, dragging a tired Christmas Tree out.
Well, she wasn’t actually doing the dragging herself – it was a very large tree – but she was directing the man who was doing the dragging, while she stood on the sidewalk and shivered. It was REALLY cold out and she was not dressed for the occasion!
I have to offer a disclaimer – although I recognized the name Susan Sarandon, I wouldn’t have recognized her without a movie marquis that told me who she was and what she played in. I didn’t get that gene, so I can’t rattle off all the movies someone was in, or all the songs they sang, or the awards they got. Only after she was pointed out and something about that auburn hair clicked did I recognize, “Oh, that’s who she is.”
It's why I can never be a contestant on a game show.
I still couldn’t tell you what she was in, but at least I recognized her as someone famous.
Our friend, who lives just a block from her 15th Street apartment, started talking about how that answered the questions of several people in the neighborhood.
Apparently, she’s recently gone through a breakup with long-term partner Tim Robbins and the buzz was about who got their apartment, or maybe whether it would become available. Cruising break-up notices in the paper seems to be similar to reading the obituaries to look for available property in a hot market.
In NYC, I surmise that custody of the apartment sometimes exceeds the battles over custody of children. Thinking back, though, I guess that also may be somewhat universal as well. I’ve been in some nasty disputes over possession of a single-wide trailer several times during my career.
The intricacies of this breakup had to be explained to me, of course, because the only time that I read People magazine is when trapped in the doctor’s office, already in the examining room and in a state of undress that makes returning to the lobby to find something with more redeeming value inappropriate.
It’s exactly the same as in a small town, though, because those conversations happen about people we know from work or church or Rotary or whatever. It’s just that the voyeuristic audience is much larger in New York City than in some sleepy little hamlet and we have the illusion of knowing these people because of the publicity they get.
Who gets the house, who gets the cars, who gets the dog? In this case, the issue of the kids is somewhat moot – after 23 years together, their sons are almost grown at 20 and 17.
That leads to another discussion, probably to be had over dark liquor and in hushed tones, about how a 63 year old woman manages to have a 17 year old son!
The point is, we’re all in each other’s business. Does it give us an excuse not to examine our own lives? Is it just human nature to be curious about others? Do we like a peephole into someone else’s life, so we can decide whether it’s better or worse than our own lot?
I’m not sure. We never got to finish our discussion because about then we got to the block where Anderson Cooper walks his dog.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
New York City over the Holidays
We spent the New Year’s holiday in New York City, as we’ve done for the past several years. There’s something about being there in the midst of all the excitement that makes the holiday – and a birthday that happens that same day – a bit more special.
There are a couple of things that we don’t do.
We don’t stay in a hotel any more. Instead, there are a couple of different sources (Craigslist being the primary one) from which to rent apartments. This has the advantage of being cheaper than a hotel, targeted to the neighborhood you want (usually Greenwich Village for us, since our friends are there) and having a bit more room and nicer amenities than a hotel.
The one we used this time we got through Village Flats NYC, and it was great. Joseph Harrington, the guy we dealt with, was responsive to our email inquires and easy to deal with.
Noise in this apartment wasn’t a problem at all. Aside from being a fairly quiet street, we were high enough that the traffic below wasn’t even noticed.
The apartment was great. The furniture and decor was very pleasant, and it was extremely spacious, especially by New York standards. As you walk into the living room there's a sofa that pulls out into the most comfortable sleeper I'd ever experienced. The bedroom had more then enough closet and drawer space available for you to spread your stuff out, and the kitchen had all the necessities -- a microwave, coffee pot and refrigerator being primary. There's a whole stove and pots and pans and stuff, but who's going to cook on vacation?
The bathroom is off the kitchen -- New York apartments have a penchant for sometimes putting things in unusual places. It's very "linear", in that you go in and to the left is the toilet and to the right is the lavatory sink (which is tiny - about the size of a mixing bowl) and a bathtub -- which is set long ways, so you enter from the rear.
One thing I hate about some NYC apartments is the lack of windows -- that's not the case here. There were two in the living room (although one has an AC in part of it), and one each in the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom.
Another interesting thing is how little really has to be packed for a trip to NYC, even if you have to dress nicely to go to a party or something. Aside from the Fashionistas you see in the magazines and on television, real New Yorkers tend to look a bit rumpled much of the time.
My theory is that it’s because there’s no room for washing machines or ironing boards in their apartments. I know that if I were jettisoning things that simply wouldn’t fit in the living space, the iron and ironing board would be one of the first things to go.
The advantage for travelers, though, is that it significantly lowers the curve. Nobody can tell if the wrinkles are from your suitcase or simply because there’s only one tiny little closet in your apartment, and Americans, even in New York, tend to have more “stuff” than they need.
As a result, nobody really notices that we've stuffed everything we need for a weekend into a space the size of a woman's handbag and figured that a good shake was all that was needed to make it presentable. There is an ironing board and iron available for those who insist.
There are a couple of things that we don’t do.
We don’t stay in a hotel any more. Instead, there are a couple of different sources (Craigslist being the primary one) from which to rent apartments. This has the advantage of being cheaper than a hotel, targeted to the neighborhood you want (usually Greenwich Village for us, since our friends are there) and having a bit more room and nicer amenities than a hotel.
The one we used this time we got through Village Flats NYC, and it was great. Joseph Harrington, the guy we dealt with, was responsive to our email inquires and easy to deal with.
Noise in this apartment wasn’t a problem at all. Aside from being a fairly quiet street, we were high enough that the traffic below wasn’t even noticed.
The apartment was great. The furniture and decor was very pleasant, and it was extremely spacious, especially by New York standards. As you walk into the living room there's a sofa that pulls out into the most comfortable sleeper I'd ever experienced. The bedroom had more then enough closet and drawer space available for you to spread your stuff out, and the kitchen had all the necessities -- a microwave, coffee pot and refrigerator being primary. There's a whole stove and pots and pans and stuff, but who's going to cook on vacation?
The bathroom is off the kitchen -- New York apartments have a penchant for sometimes putting things in unusual places. It's very "linear", in that you go in and to the left is the toilet and to the right is the lavatory sink (which is tiny - about the size of a mixing bowl) and a bathtub -- which is set long ways, so you enter from the rear.
One thing I hate about some NYC apartments is the lack of windows -- that's not the case here. There were two in the living room (although one has an AC in part of it), and one each in the bedroom, kitchen and bathroom.
Another interesting thing is how little really has to be packed for a trip to NYC, even if you have to dress nicely to go to a party or something. Aside from the Fashionistas you see in the magazines and on television, real New Yorkers tend to look a bit rumpled much of the time.
My theory is that it’s because there’s no room for washing machines or ironing boards in their apartments. I know that if I were jettisoning things that simply wouldn’t fit in the living space, the iron and ironing board would be one of the first things to go.
The advantage for travelers, though, is that it significantly lowers the curve. Nobody can tell if the wrinkles are from your suitcase or simply because there’s only one tiny little closet in your apartment, and Americans, even in New York, tend to have more “stuff” than they need.
As a result, nobody really notices that we've stuffed everything we need for a weekend into a space the size of a woman's handbag and figured that a good shake was all that was needed to make it presentable. There is an ironing board and iron available for those who insist.
Pharmacy Stickers
Amazing how something as tiny as a germ can reduce a grown man to a quivering, sniffling blob.
I had something before Christmas. It started out as a tickle in my throat, then within 24 hours I was wrapped in my blankie and looking for relief.
At first I just figured it was seasonal allergies. After all, there are things in the air in North Carolina to which my Oklahoma upbringing never exposed me. Instead, it proved to be something that put me out of commission for two solid weeks and left me weak through the holidays.
Anyhow, after moving to my recliner during the night I find myself sifting through the “medicine tray” for something to provide a bit of relief. You can’t help but notice that our collection of bottles from the pharmacy seems to be increasing as we age.
It’s not that we’ve been any less healthy, but I think as the grey hair increases the need for medication does as well. Or maybe it’s that medication causes grey hair. I’m not sure. But something has led to an increase in the need for medication at our house.
When you take “maintenance meds” – something to correct a condition that you’ll likely be on for the rest of your life, rather than something to cure a particular malady – you tend to end up with a collection of bottles for the same medications.
My drug of choice for years has been Prilosec. Not that wimpy stuff they sell over the counter, but the full powered pills that require a prescription to keep one reflux free even after a dinner of red wine and pizza.
They come from the same place every month, a convenient mail order company we’re encouraged to use by our health insurance plan.
The bottles come through the mail, complete with brightly colored warning stickers. What I don’t understand, though, is why the stickers vary from month-to-month.
After all, it’s not like they’ve got any new information. Neither my healthcare provider nor I have sent any new information to them saying, “Hey, watch out, this guy is prone to dizziness.”
Yet of the four bottles in the tray, one has no stickers, two have 1 and one has three.
Before anyone starts to berate me for not taking meds as prescribed, I’d point out that three of the bottles are empty. We don’t save meds, although I do find the bottles useful for storing little parts in the basement; sometimes they don’t move that direction as quickly as they should, though.
There seems to be no consistency whatsoever. I mean, if it was likely to cause drowsiness last time (something which, incidentally, I have yet to experience with Priolsec), wouldn’t you think the same warning would be necessary this time? Or do they figure that I’ve taken it for so long, I’ve already read all the warnings and don’t need them any more? Maybe they’re checking to see if I’m paying attention.
After all, a sticker that said, “Not to be taken by Pregnant Women” would certainly get my attention, despite the fact that it’s completely irrelevant in our house.
I suspect that the stickers on them have something to do with the whims of the pharmacist tech who happens to be putting the labels on the bottle. I imagine her as some bleached blond valley girl who’s going through the list thinking, “A red one would be pretty with a purple one, and then next time we’ll put green with blue.”
In the meantime, I’m not going to worry too much about whether Prilosec now causes drowsiness, or dizziness, or should be taken with or without food. I do good to remember to take the darned thing every day.
I had something before Christmas. It started out as a tickle in my throat, then within 24 hours I was wrapped in my blankie and looking for relief.
At first I just figured it was seasonal allergies. After all, there are things in the air in North Carolina to which my Oklahoma upbringing never exposed me. Instead, it proved to be something that put me out of commission for two solid weeks and left me weak through the holidays.
Anyhow, after moving to my recliner during the night I find myself sifting through the “medicine tray” for something to provide a bit of relief. You can’t help but notice that our collection of bottles from the pharmacy seems to be increasing as we age.
It’s not that we’ve been any less healthy, but I think as the grey hair increases the need for medication does as well. Or maybe it’s that medication causes grey hair. I’m not sure. But something has led to an increase in the need for medication at our house.
When you take “maintenance meds” – something to correct a condition that you’ll likely be on for the rest of your life, rather than something to cure a particular malady – you tend to end up with a collection of bottles for the same medications.
My drug of choice for years has been Prilosec. Not that wimpy stuff they sell over the counter, but the full powered pills that require a prescription to keep one reflux free even after a dinner of red wine and pizza.
They come from the same place every month, a convenient mail order company we’re encouraged to use by our health insurance plan.
The bottles come through the mail, complete with brightly colored warning stickers. What I don’t understand, though, is why the stickers vary from month-to-month.
After all, it’s not like they’ve got any new information. Neither my healthcare provider nor I have sent any new information to them saying, “Hey, watch out, this guy is prone to dizziness.”
Yet of the four bottles in the tray, one has no stickers, two have 1 and one has three.
Before anyone starts to berate me for not taking meds as prescribed, I’d point out that three of the bottles are empty. We don’t save meds, although I do find the bottles useful for storing little parts in the basement; sometimes they don’t move that direction as quickly as they should, though.
There seems to be no consistency whatsoever. I mean, if it was likely to cause drowsiness last time (something which, incidentally, I have yet to experience with Priolsec), wouldn’t you think the same warning would be necessary this time? Or do they figure that I’ve taken it for so long, I’ve already read all the warnings and don’t need them any more? Maybe they’re checking to see if I’m paying attention.
After all, a sticker that said, “Not to be taken by Pregnant Women” would certainly get my attention, despite the fact that it’s completely irrelevant in our house.
I suspect that the stickers on them have something to do with the whims of the pharmacist tech who happens to be putting the labels on the bottle. I imagine her as some bleached blond valley girl who’s going through the list thinking, “A red one would be pretty with a purple one, and then next time we’ll put green with blue.”
In the meantime, I’m not going to worry too much about whether Prilosec now causes drowsiness, or dizziness, or should be taken with or without food. I do good to remember to take the darned thing every day.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Infants on Airplanes
I love babies and toddlers. I get this from my Dad, who is a sweet and gentle man that children instinctively flock to.
The wee ones are so sweet when they want to climb up on your lap, they don’t insist on controlling the television remote, and they’ll laugh at about anything, even when other adults roll their eyes at you for making "that noise."
They’re especially great in those terrycloth sleepers, because they are so tactile and wonderful to hold when they snuggle up next to you.
Toddlers and small children are great, too, because they are so ready to give and receive love. They’ll share about anything from their toys to their cookie with anyone who makes eye contact and seems to want to interact. They’re adorable and draw me in like a magnet.
The allure starts to wear off about the time that they learn that with control of the remote you can watch “The Little Mermaid” umpty-gazillion times in a row, regardless of the impact that may have on the sanity of any adult in the house.
Not so for the toddler in the next seat on an airplane.
In fact, about the only time I don’t like babies is on airplanes. I suspect I’m like many other adults in this regard. Nobody wants to be next to a toddler on a cross-country flight, no matter how much they like children.
Planes are the only place that people who love babies silently pray, “Not by me, not by me, not by me!” It’d be a toss-up as to which was worse – being trapped in the middle between two 400 pound guys who went to the gym before coming to the airport and decided they didn’t have time to shower or being on the window seat next to an exhausted mother and a teething infant on a New York to San Francisco flight.
You should get time out of Purgatory for either, and it’s a toss-up as to which is worth more points.
We did some travelling around the holidays, and there were a LOT of little kids on their way to or from Grandma’s house.
The smart parents had them out of those car seats encouraging them to run up around the waiting area.
That’s the ticket, tire those little buggers out BEFORE they’re trapped in a tin can with 300 other folks who don’t think their every action is entirely adorable.
The parents lacking foresight were letting the kids gnaw on an unlimited stash of Christmas candy and cookies while drinking out of a sippy cup full of caffeinated, fully sugared soda.
They are the ones getting dirty looks from the older adults – those who have been down that road before.
We were lucky in our travels this time. Babies were all at the other end of the plane, no toddlers with sticky hands in the next seat, no crying babies nearby.
Miraculously, once we arrived at our destination, the kiddies started being adorable again.
The wee ones are so sweet when they want to climb up on your lap, they don’t insist on controlling the television remote, and they’ll laugh at about anything, even when other adults roll their eyes at you for making "that noise."
They’re especially great in those terrycloth sleepers, because they are so tactile and wonderful to hold when they snuggle up next to you.
Toddlers and small children are great, too, because they are so ready to give and receive love. They’ll share about anything from their toys to their cookie with anyone who makes eye contact and seems to want to interact. They’re adorable and draw me in like a magnet.
The allure starts to wear off about the time that they learn that with control of the remote you can watch “The Little Mermaid” umpty-gazillion times in a row, regardless of the impact that may have on the sanity of any adult in the house.
Not so for the toddler in the next seat on an airplane.
In fact, about the only time I don’t like babies is on airplanes. I suspect I’m like many other adults in this regard. Nobody wants to be next to a toddler on a cross-country flight, no matter how much they like children.
Planes are the only place that people who love babies silently pray, “Not by me, not by me, not by me!” It’d be a toss-up as to which was worse – being trapped in the middle between two 400 pound guys who went to the gym before coming to the airport and decided they didn’t have time to shower or being on the window seat next to an exhausted mother and a teething infant on a New York to San Francisco flight.
You should get time out of Purgatory for either, and it’s a toss-up as to which is worth more points.
We did some travelling around the holidays, and there were a LOT of little kids on their way to or from Grandma’s house.
The smart parents had them out of those car seats encouraging them to run up around the waiting area.
That’s the ticket, tire those little buggers out BEFORE they’re trapped in a tin can with 300 other folks who don’t think their every action is entirely adorable.
The parents lacking foresight were letting the kids gnaw on an unlimited stash of Christmas candy and cookies while drinking out of a sippy cup full of caffeinated, fully sugared soda.
They are the ones getting dirty looks from the older adults – those who have been down that road before.
We were lucky in our travels this time. Babies were all at the other end of the plane, no toddlers with sticky hands in the next seat, no crying babies nearby.
Miraculously, once we arrived at our destination, the kiddies started being adorable again.
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