My Cancer Story's Better than Your Cancer Story

I was thinking this morning, as I was out painstakingly MISTING the fancy "all the way from England" low-spreading thyme seeds I've planted between the stones on the porch.  I was thinking about how much, as kids, we hate those adults who don't want you on the grass, who are forever admonishing you to not pick that or step over there or sit on that.

I was the kid who broke branches off pussy willows and pinched shoots off chives on my way to school.  I was the girl who got shouted at by the guy with the apple trees.  You know, the ground is littered with rotten, unused apples, yet the guy comes out with a shotgun (seriously) and shouts at us to stay off his apples?

While I haven't made the leap to shotgun-toting apple tree owner, fact is there's been a sea change somewhere along the line.  I think it came right around the time I started putting my own flowers and plants in.  I remember the first time I found myself going completely nutty over a kid in my yard.  We had a family that used to come and do the yard work every week.  I worked full time, my husband worked full time, we were both full-time university students, and there just wasn't time.  One day, they showed up with their three year old girl.  Adorable, lovely child who, while her parents mowed the grass, tore up my pansies and marigolds one by one.  By the time I got home and found this, she was sitting in the middle of my garden, surrounded by a few dozen broken, torn up, desiccating plants.

I lost it.  We were poor, we didn't have a lot of money, and those flowers had been my birthday gift.  We couldn't afford to replace them, and my heart was broken.

I refused to pay them for the yard work that week.  The next week, they weed-whacked my rose bushes out back (girdled and killed them), and that was it.  We found someone else.

The next time I got freaky on a kid (well, I didn't get freaky on the toddler, but you know what I mean) for yard damage?  After my wonderful neighbor/mentor/surrogate father Frank died, the local kids took to playing in his back yard.  These kids' parents were somewhat close to Frank's daughter, so I didn't step in.  But then, one day, they came running out of the back yard with huge, snapped off branches/limbs from Frank's blooming snowball bush.  I went in the back yard, and they had destroyed this large, beautiful bush Frank had planted and nurtured.  Broken it right down to the ground.  I was devastated, I was SO upset, and I shouted at the kids over it.  Spoke to their parents, who spoke to them, and the kids stopped playing in Frank's yard.  I'm sure those kids hated me, and it was the first time I realized I was becoming the garden shouter.

And since we've moved away from the west?  Well, we moved into a place with a torn up, sparse, weed-infested lawn that's taken a LOT of work (and money) to bring into some sort of shape.  We had just done the first raking and reseeding of the back yard when those scary-freak rat children from across the street came over.  They went out in our back yard, and I looked out to see them kicking up the soil and seed mixture, like that's something fun or something.  I didn't yell, but I did come out back and say, "Hey, guys, I can't have you playing out here, we're trying to get the grass to come back so we've put down seed."

They looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.  Seeing their back yard later, I understand why--it's all weeds and dust.

A couple of months later, those same kids came to our front lawn (now on its second reseeding) and were jumping up and down and peeking in our windows while we were eating.  They tore the new grass to bits, killed it.  And this time I did yell.

Front yard when we moved in

Front yard now

So, am I that crazy lady who freaks out on the kids who get in her yard?  Or am I just a woman who wants her yard to look nice and only objects when kids (or adults, to be fair to myself) tear up my stuff?

And to a kid, is there a difference?

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So, someone on my Facebook friends list posted some snide, mean little meme about fat folks.  And, unbidden, the thought came into my mind, "I will never meet you.  If you come into town, I will have an excuse for why I can't meet you."  

I'm fat, you see.  I've been fighting it my whole life, since I was seven.  I've been terrifically thin (think a loose size one), and I've been incredibly large (can barely jam into an airplane seat large).  I've been each of these things more than once.  But being thin never scarred me, it never set me up for ridicule, it never broke my heart.  And so, in that broken heart, I am fat.  Regardless of my weight at the moment, I am forever fat, because being fat, and being mistreated because of my weight, are the things that made me who I am.  And if you post nasty memes, rotten pictures, cruel jokes, or otherwise use people who are heavy as humor points, you've lost me, because you've shown me what you think of me.

Yes.  ME.  That heavy woman in the stretch pants at Walmart?  She's ME.  That poor, sad woman on the park bench with her panniculus showing from under her skirt?  She's ME.  The NASCAR guy in the back of the truck with his belly hanging out?  He's ME.  The obese women in the bikinis being shared around Facebook because, ewww, isn't that awful?  All three of those women are ME.

In other words, when you share a photo of a heavy person for a laugh, when you point, stare, and say cruel or ugly things, you're doing those things to ME.  Which means there's no way I could ever be around you without knowing that I disgust you, I horrify you, you think I'm worthy of ridicule and abuse.  

Why would I want you in my house?  In my presence?  

Obviously, I wouldn't.  

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It turns out there are "obese meme makers."  You know, they provide the pictures of the fat people, you provide the mean-spirited caption.  I was going to post a screen shot of one page (one page of many), but I just can't.  It's that awful.  

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Still no word from the landlord.  It's been a week.  Turns out his daugher is local, which adds to the fear--what if he's promised the place to her?  He has until July 8th to let us know he wants to end the lease.  And if he does that?

We are SO screwed.  We have NO place to go, NO way of scraping together 1st and last plus deposit, and a sadly awful credit score right now.  Yes, we pay our bills on time, but our "credit to debt ratio" is awful, and we've got a bunch of inquiries on our record because of the car.  

What a scary thing.  I can't even adequately describe how afraid I am right now.  It's almost my birthday, and all I can think about is the lease, the landlord, and how we can't possibly bail this if he tosses us.

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One last thing.  Melissa?  Ms. Etheridge?  Are you listening?

STFU. Seriously.  If you can't be empathetic, if you can't be supportive, if you can't be intelligent and reasonable and conversant in the science behind the BRCA gene mutations, if you can't be sympathetic to another woman facing cancer, a woman who lost her mother to this gene mutation, the least you can do is shut your woo-spewing, "Secret" spraying, "it comes from the INSIDE, not from genes" face and respect another human being's suffering.  Even if you don't like the devastating choice Ms. Jolie made, the very LEAST you can do is feel the pain and fear that went into it instead of barfing up your "that didn't take courage" crap.  You loud-mouthed, unkind person. Hush your face and spare us the "I'm a REAL survivor, she took the EASY way out" garbage. 

Bad Business, Bad Science, and Bad, Bad Teachers

Got a medical doohickey in the mail yesterday, from my insurance company.

That would be Carefirst, if anyone's wondering.

The practical upshot?  They say that NONE of the bill for my gynecology appointment last week is covered because my doctor is "not a plan provider."

Oh, for hell's sake.

Yes, she is.  She is, because I FOUND her through Carefirst's "Find a Provider" link.  She is because they've covered her in the past, her office says they take my insurance, AND I checked the "Find a Provider" page moments before I made the appointment, just to be sure she's still a "plan provider."

And when I got the bill?

I checked again.  Yeah, she's still there.  Yeah, I screen-shot it.

These people, I swear.  I can only assume that someone, somewhere mistyped something.  Or maybe, as hubby says, it's like throwing feces at the wall hoping some will stick--maybe the insurance company sends these letters out, knowing at least a few folks will crumple and cry and pay the bill themselves.

Speaking of paying the bill myself, almost EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS for a simple PAP SMEAR?  Are you SERIOUS?

Remember the "oncological gynecologist" who refused to see me because a letter from the Federal Government promising payment for my medical care wasn't enough for him?  The guy with the fancy car and the deep-sea fishing outfit and the pictures on his Facebook profile of him at the idiot Teabagger convergence in DC?  The first price he threw out for a consultation was 300 bucks.  When I balked, he said, "Well, insurance will only pay 150, so I'll settle for that."

It appears that's how medical professionals get around HMOs and PPOs reduced payments--they double-charge, knowing they'll only get half of it.

Goodness.

Anyway, so that's tomorrow's fun time--hassling with Carefirst.  The last time I had to hassle with them (over a follow-up mammogram), they screwed me hard.  See, the place that performed the initial mammogram was an "approved facility" and they covered it in full.  But the required follow-up at the SAME facility?  Sorry, "not a plan preferred provider."

And before anyone chimes in with something stupid like, "Welcome to 'Obamacare,'" know I've been dealing with crap like this for the past 16 years.  Insurance companies are money-grubbing vampires, period.  Never known one that wouldn't screw you at any opportunity.  If you ask me, insurance companies are predatory dinosaurs, and they need to go the way of the dodo.

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As you know, I run (inherited, really) a Facebook group dedicated to high school classmates who've died.  I scrounge around for obits and other snips and post them for everyone.  Occasionally, an obit for an old teacher or administrator comes across my desk (or an old teacher posts to the group).  It's always fascinating, seeing how certain teachers were revered by some, and despised by others.

Take Mr. Q, for instance.

Oh, talk about a guy who is held up as the epitome of science teaching!  A man revered for his wit, his humor (he was an amateur stand-up comic!), his deep caring for his students.  So many people absolutely adored this guy, had nothing but love and respect for him.

And then there were the kids like me.

Mr. Q despised me, and he made no secret of it.  Perhaps because he was a staunch Mormon who couldn't stand the stench of cigarettes on me.  Perhaps because he sensed in me another funny person--often, it's the clowns who can't stand the competition from fellow funny folk.  Whatever it was, this man was on me often and hard.  He never passed up an opportunity to poke at me, to hold me up as a point of ridicule, to corner me in front of the class and embarrass me with my lack of knowledge.

No, it's not me being hyper-sensitive.  Other kids in class used to ask me what I'd done to make him take after me like that.  I had no answer--as far as I knew, I'd done nothing.

It all came to a head one early morning in Anatomy.  Mr. Q had said something about hormones, and I leaned over and whispered a rather rank joke to my friend sitting next to me.  I was sixteen, what can I say?  Mr. Q was on me like stink on poop.  He demanded I come up before the class and share whatever it was I'd had to say.  Now, right off the bat, that's crappy teaching--teaching through bullying and ridicule and public shaming isn't teaching at all.  It's something meaner.  I very politely demurred;  Mr. Q became loudly and unpleasantly insistent.  I stood up and said, "Mr. Q, it was a vulgar joke and it's totally inappropriate.  I am sorry if I was disruptive."

Yes, at sixteen I already knew how to kiss behind.

He sneered, I swear--he bared his teeth and told me that, unless I wanted to rack up a suspension, I'd do as I was told and share with the class.  I again tried to sway him, even asked if I could just head to the office without "sharing."  He was adamant--I was to share with the class.

And so I did.  The class was impressed.  Mr. Q?

Not so much.

He took me by the arm and dragged me from the class, threw me into the hall, shouting about what a filthy animal I was and how I was never to set foot in his classroom again.

That's the Mr. Q *I* remember.

And Mr. A, our illustrious drama teacher/football coach?  His few star students remember him as being amazing, wonderful, an artiste!  The rest of us?  Remember a mean, self-aggrandizing bastard who would turn beet red when angry and hurl insults like candy from a parade float.  Make no mistake--yes, he engaged in a lot of scatter-shot generalizations (and chair throwing, yardstick tossing, and swearing) when enraged (which was pretty frequently), but the more deadly insults?  He was a crack shot.  For instance, he knew that crowing about my best friend's new braces would silence her (and it did--she spent the rest of the class period crying silently, and never came back).  He knew that referring to me as the "tubby, dense contingent" would get the desired effect, and it did--I walked out, and I never came back.

The little drama pets thought this abusiveness was indicative of a passionate soul, a man who cared so deeply for his "art" that he sometimes let his feelings get the best of him.

Hmmm.  Like a child abuser lets his fists get away from him, I suppose?  Whatever the "motivation," his tantruming and vicious pokes brought about the desired outcome--he had a dedicated flock of groupies, and everyone else was too afraid to cross him.  What a guy, huh?

And then our choir teacher, Mrs. Y.  I loved choir, I did.  And I had a lovely voice.  I couldn't read music, but I was a lethal quick study when it came to learning new songs, and I was GOOD.  My second year, Mrs. Y asked me to try out for Concert Choir--the "big kids" choir.  I said to her that I didn't think my grades were good enough.  She brushed that aside, said that this was about singing.  I was surprised, I admit--this woman had never made any real secret of her dislike for me (and any kid like me--the smokers, the back-parking lot dregs).  But she insisted I try out, and I admit, I was psyched.  I wanted to be in Concert Choir, I loved the idea.  I loved to sing.

I chose this as my piece (the soprano portion, that is):



Mrs. Y made me audition in front of the entire class.  She made me sing the entire piece.  And then she told me that, though my voice was lovely and I'd done a fine job with the piece, I wasn't really "Concert Choir material."  My grades, my personal proclivities--there was nothing about me that proclaimed "grade-A."  So sorry, but it's about more than just singing, you know!  Smile.

Again, she did this to me in front of an audience of forty other kids.  And she did this after I had tried to beg off because of my grades, because of her dislike for me.

There were a number of teachers like this.  Mr. Z, who was described in his obit as a wonderfully kind and upstanding church man who loved his family and always did right.  Hmm.  What the "girls like me" remember is a guy who touched too much and always had something a little dirty to say to us.  Miss F, who made kids like me feel stupid, small, and unworthy of her attention, who never smiled at us except when holding us up for ridicule.

It wasn't until recently, when discussing this with a friend who loved these teachers, that it became clear.  It was the non-Mormon kids.  The kids who weren't part of the predominant faith, the kids who weren't maybe the younger siblings of superstars or the children of fellow educators.  And don't think they didn't know--they'd ask, "What Ward are you in?"  It was blatant, and no one questioned it.

Not all the teachers were like this.  Mr. O and Coach D were terrific guys--Coach D was maybe not all that on the history teaching front, but he was actually open to learn things and would look things up if asked a question he didn't have an answer to.  And Mr. O?  Loved anyone and everyone who paid attention and took part, whether they shared his super-liberal ideas or not.  And Mr. CE?  Oh, what a superbly kind and funny  man, both on the driving range and in his history class.

Anyway, my point?  That sometimes it's hard to sit back quietly and watch people contorting themselves in their attempts to outdo each other on the praise front for these teachers who were not just careless with, they were actively mean to certain "types" of kids.  Like Mrs. U, who refused to let me into AP English because, as she put it, I just wasn't a good "fit."  She actually said that my test scores were "almost certainly a fluke."  Again, she said this TO MY FACE.  In front of people!

When she asked me to join AP English the following year, using my most recent test scores as the reason, I took the suspension.

What suspension?

The one that came down when I told her to shove her damnable AP course up her ass.

No, not the smartest way to handle it, but you know what?

It felt good.

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There's a chain of furniture stores in the Western United States.  Hubby and I have an account with them, even though we now live 2,300 or so miles away from the location we frequented.  Our living room furniture, our lovely Bombay chest, our little mini-fridge all came from them.

So did the giant armoire.

The bombay chest was amazing, of course, but the armoire was a WIN.  See, it was marked down from just shy of a grand to 299.  Discontinued item, you know.  It was touted as entirely hardwood.  Not veneers, not crappy wood-grain wallpaper, but hardwood.  So I SNAPPED it up, They delivered it, set it up (it was fully put together save the top half had to be placed on the bottom and secured.  It weighed a TON, and the bottom, which wasn't wrapped, was gorgeous.  

The top?

Well, I didn't get to see that until after they left (and they left at a run) because it was wrapped in that opaque foam stuff.  We unwrapped it, and it was a disaster.

A disaster.

The doors were the plantation-type slatted wood, and the slats were covered with this gawdawful woodgrain wallpaper stuff, which was horribly warped and bubbled.  Oh, I was SO upset!  Much like something you'd expect out of a box at Walmart.  We dashed outside, but the truck was already gone.  I had already screen-shot and printed the order forms and such, so I called the furniture store to complain.  I spent ten minutes on hold.  And when someone finally deigned to speak to me?

I was told that the armoire was sold "as is," with no returns or refunds.  I KNEW this wasn't true, because I had printed out all the pertinent paperwork and screenshots (just in case there was a problem with the order).  I said, "That's not anywhere on the website, nowhere on the product page or the order form."  I was told I was mistaken.  I should "check that again."

I did, and there it was, bright red--"THIS ITEM IS SOLD 'AS IS.'  NO RETURNS OR REFUNDS."

I said, "That was NOT THERE, I have the original screen shots."  I was told that it was there before the item was delivered, and that's all that matters.  I checked the stated delivery time on the website.

20 minutes later than it had actually been.  

In other words, they delivered, realized it was damaged, called headquarters, who jumped in, changed the product listing to include the "as is" admonition, and then fudged the delivery time.  

I know, it sounds complicated, but there's no other explanation.  I didn't miss the bright red type, my screen shots didn't magically miss just that information.  It was not there in the hours before delivery.  They delivered a damaged, discontinued item, then fudged the information to prevent me from returning it.

Someday, I'll have the cash to have new slats made for it.  Real hardwood slats without bubbly wallpaper.  Until then?  

I keep the doors open so you can't see the warped, bubbly slats.  Because the rest of it IS solid hardwood, and it's very nice.

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Speaking of bad business practices, let me harken back to my first utility company.  Now, it's quite possible you've never seen the above logo.  It's from a company once called "Mountain Fuel Supply Company."  They're someone else now, but back in the early 80s, they were the suppliers of natural gas in Northern Utah.  I was reminded of them yesterday when my boy told me a story of how someone kept getting letters telling them that packages couldn't be shipped because their address didn't exist.  

Something much like that happened to me in the fall/winter of 1983.  See, I tried to have my heat/natural gas turned on, only to receive letter after letter telling me that Mountain Fuel couldn't turn on my heat because my ADDRESS DIDN'T EXIST.  

Yes, that's right, they MAILED me letters to an address they told me DIDN'T EXIST.  And, magically, they ARRIVED!

When I headed down to their office (no small feat--I had no car, there was no reliable mass transit in my area, and it I was working full-time), they told me it was something I would have to work out . . . somehow.  I said, "But you KNOW the address exists!  You sent me MAIL at that address!"  The response?

"Ma'am, what mail gets where isn't up to us--that's a USPS issue."

It took SIX WEEKS for them to get my heat turned on.  This was in Northern Utah in November and December.  Ever have to wash your hair in ice cold water, leaving your scalp muscles so spasmed your head hurts for hours?  Ever have to boil pan after pan of water to take a bath?  Ever have to sit with your feet in the oven, trying to warm up enough to be able to sleep?

I have.  Thanks, Mountain Fuel!

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A quick note on people who vomit up new-age, "raw for beauty," woo trash online.  Don't spray your stupid garbage across people's walls and newsfeeds, then cry "Google it!"

No, here's an idea--YOU Google it BEFORE you spray it!  You're like the slob who tosses garbage out the car window, then, when someone says, "Whoa!  That's crap!" you say, "Pick it up, then!"  

NO!  It's YOUR trash, YOU PICK IT UP!  If you're going to throw out idiotic, utterly woo, incredibly misleading and inaccurate crap, YOU do the research BEFORE you do it!  Come on, be a force for smart for a change, huh?  If the claims are extraordinary (the average person has THIRTY POUNDS OF TOXINS IN THEIR BODIES and LEMONS can DETOXIFY), the EVIDENCE also needs to be extraordinary.  Come on, kids--it's called SCIENCE!  USE it!

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And that's it for today, I think.  The back yard is pulling together really nicely.  Not much cash to work with, but I did get a couple of pretty phlox plants (one pink, one bluish) to add a little color.  Plus my daffodils and tulips are up.  Sad that I'm not seeing any evidence of my iron crosses or crocosmia.  I'll be sad if they don't come back.  On the bright side, my azaleas all seem alive, and they're about to blossom.  And the stinky Callery Pear?  Not so stinky this year.  

And still no Cicadas.  Yay!

If we shadows have offended . . .

Used to be a boy in my high school, in my grade, named Robert.  His dad was the coolest crossing guard ever, used to dress up as Santa each holiday season.  Solidly nice man.  And Robert seemed a nice enough kid, though there was an odd sort of edge to him, a . . . creepiness to his nice, if you know what I mean?  Ever see William Mapother play a creep?  You know, like "Ethan" from Lost or the pimp from Justified?  Like that.  Too nice, too patient, too . . . edgily weird with a smile.

Anyway, I didn't see Robert for a few years after graduation (or as close to graduation as I came).  Then, one night, my best friend and I were sitting in our usual restaurant, studying for midterms or finals (don't remember which) when suddenly Robert showed up.  My friend liked him (initially), and so his vaguely drunken cowboy self was invited to sit with us for a few.

A "few," which panned into a couple of hours.  We couldn't study, we couldn't quiz each other, we couldn't transcribe notes because Robert wouldn't let us.  In fact, Robert kept getting more and more creepy and "hey, let's party"-y until we finally made some excuse and beat a hasty retreat.

It was a few blocks away when we realized we were being followed, and pretty aggressively.  Whomever it was?  Wasn't looking to be sly.  This was big, obvious lane changes, swerving, flashing lights, etc.  As we were unaccustomed to being stalked by creeps, we actually didn't realize it was Robert until he RAN US OFF THE ROAD AND UP A CURB in his big red and white pick-up truck.  It was then we saw him behind the wheel and understood.  What did we do?

We raced for the cop-shop, which was only five blocks away.  This was, of course, in the days before cell phones, so getting to the police station was the only route we felt we had open to us.  He followed us right to the driveway, then peeled off and raced away.  In other words?

He knew exactly what he was doing.  If it had been anything less than creepy, he wouldn't have fled when he realized where we were headed.  Sadly, stupidly, we didn't report him.  We figured it was a bad move borne of booze (these days, I'd call the cops for the DUI as well as the stalking), and went on home.

The next time we saw Robert was, again, in our restaurant.  He was there specifically for us.  This time I told him to get the hell away from us.  He became belligerent and bullying, and I called the restaurant manager, who told him to leave or face the cops.  For weeks after, we had waiters and cooks walking us to our car each evening, just in case.  He followed us one more time, and then disappeared.

I was reading the paper this morning and spotted his mugshot.  He looks like a man who's done some major meth over the years--you know the look.  Those cute boy cheeks and bright eyes are gone, gone, gone.  And what's he in for?

Assault and protective order violations.

Gosh, didn't see that one coming.

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Reading about online yesterday, stumbled across THIS GEM.  Is it Kansas?  I've lived in Kansas, I don't remember it being quite this bad.  Of course, I was a kid, I lived on base, so maybe I was sheltered.  Or maybe times have changed.  Maybe people are stupider, or maybe they just feel safer and more comfortable openly splashing their idiocy about.  Or maybe it's not Kansas at all, maybe it's just this variety republican?  Whichever, whatever, you've got to ask yourself about the people who vote for creatures like this.  I mean, if you vote for a racist, doesn't that make YOU a racist, too?

I think it does.

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Well, since I'm on a roll, let's talk about gun control and the New York Daily News.  Their recent headline?

NY Daily News Cover

You know what?  I'm not usually a big fan of visual media histrionics, but I have to say, I agree.  It is all for nothing if we still have gun show loopholes, still allow private sales/transfers without background checks, and still allow high capacity clips and ARs.  It's ridiculous to even call that a real effort to change things.  How it is that Americans got to this state, I don't know.  It's like we're absolutely incapable of assessing risk, we fear the phantom home invader when, fact is, we're FAR more likely to be killed by an armed spouse or relative than by a stranger.  There are people who carry concealed, but don't put their kids in car seats and let them pilot ATVs at five years old.  We ban drop-sided cribs for killing 32 babies in TEN years, but ignore the fact that medically unnecessary routine infant circumcision kills 100+ baby boys a YEAR.  Do Americans just not know how to gauge risk?

And speaking of risk, I'm going to scream the next time someone says something stupid like, "Guns don't kill as many people as CARS, should we ban them, too?"  It's a dull-witted, disingenuous argument, almost as bad as "guns don't kill people, people kill people!"  A few things--one, we DO ban cars deemed unsafe (and regulate the living daylights out of the ones that are considered safe).  Two, cars, when used correctly and according to the manufacturer's directions and the attendant laws, aren't LETHAL.  Assault rifles are built to kill people.  When used as intended, they are lethal.  And three?

In an increasing number of states, guns DO kill more people than cars.  It won't be long, if we continue as we are, before guns kill more Americans every year than cars.  Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Gun Deaths Set to Outstrip Car Fatalities

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Wow, look at me go!

I keep getting these wowser woo things coming across my wall on Facebook (I know, who'da thunk?).  You know, this berry cures this and this powder cures that, and if you can just cut out sugar/increase your body's alkalinity/deep breathe/leave cut onions around/whatever, you'll be cured/healed/protected.

To quote the wonderful Tim Minchin,

A small crack appears
In my diplomacy-dike.
"By definition", I begin
"Alternative Medicine", I continue
"Has either not been proved to work,
Or been proved not to work.
You know what they call alternative medicine
That’s been proved to work?
Medicine."




Just recently, I got some greasy pile of dung going on and on about how our blood is "highly magnetic," powerfully so, because of all the IRON in it, and how magnets, therefore, manipulate this iron and effect magical woo cures . . .  oh, I can't.  I just can't.  Here's what I CAN say, though.

Ever spend 45 minutes in an MRI?  I have.  Three times now.  You know what happens to people with measurable magnetic metals in their body when they're in an MRI?

It ain't pretty.

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One last thing, in case I haven't pissed off enough people today?

No Body of Christ for the Gay-Lovers!

That's right!  If you support marriage equality, the Catholic Church doesn't want YOU partaking of the body or the blood of Jesus.  Because it's not enough to cough up tithe or continue to claim membership despite the church's deep misogyny and historic tolerance of rampant child molestation (and dogged defense of child molesters).  No, no, you must also be utterly intolerant and totally unwilling to support equality for people who aren't exactly like you.  And if you're not willing to go the hater route?

Well, it's gonna be a tough haul getting into heaven, huh?

So, in other words, if you're Catholic, you'd better not support the rights of non-Catholics to engage in behaviors your church abhors.  Any attempt to allow folks who are different the same rights and privileges you get?  BOOM, bye-bye body of Christ!

At least if the folks you're trying to help are gay.  Apparently, the handing out of said eucharist by altar-boy-groping priests is A-okay.  It must be, right?  After all, the church has spent decades--centuries, even--working to keep those priests on the job.

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And if none of THAT offended you, you must be my forever-friend and possibly platonic soul-mate.

So here, have some hideous home decor.  It's on the house . . . get it?  Get it?

Everybody Else's Woo is Fair Game, but Hands Off Mine!

Ohhh, this came across my wall today, and GOODNESS, the firestorm!

Why a firestorm?  Because, sometimes, even folks who embrace skepticism and research-based evidence have their own little bit of woo hanging out inside, and they don't like to see THEIR woo lumped in with everyone ELSE'S woo.  So I'm seeing posts like, "Of COURSE Scientology is total bollocks, but what do you MEAN the qi and body energy are BS?  Ask any TIBETAN MONK . . ."

Tibetan Monk. Yeah, exactly where I'm going to turn for evidence-based, valid, reliable research.

Shhhh.  Shhhhh.  It's okay.  Back slowly away from the internet meme and take a deep, cleansing, breath.  Take your ka and your qi and go home if you don't like this game--hurry, before my skepticism sullies your aura.

Remember how I talked about the movie Kumaré, about how there are people who seem absolutely compelled to believe in woo?  They ping-pong from one deeply "spiritual" thing to the next, embracing everything from magical runes to fairy circles, insisting that certain stones can heal, certain vibrations can cure, and the world is full of colors and spirits and wooooooo!

Wooooooooo!

Here's where it gets personal for me.  See, I tried.  I ran the gamut, from tarot cards and Ouija boards to calling quarters and wearing certain stones. I grew up Christian, tried Hindu (or actually the dippy, New Age, Western attempt at feel-good neo-Hindu), Buddhist, various "goddess-y" bits of paganism, etc.  Because I felt like . . . like I was supposed to?  People always ask, "But you believe in SOMETHING, right?"  It took me years to realize that there's no reason to believe in something.  That being able to flash your believer card to fit into some club isn't good or right or admirable.  Being proud of embracing this mythology or that?

I don't get it.  I don't get where the pride comes from.  I get believing--death's a scary thing, it's comforting to believe that this isn't it.  It IS it, but I get seeking the comfort.

I don't get making believe you believe.  I don't understand people who know better, but roll with it anyway.  Either they're deluding themselves or they're lying.  Neither of those is particularly healthy.

But what really floors me is the over-the-top PRIDE, the pushing woo like it's something admirable.  "I believe in talking animals and auras and baking soda cancer cures and magic stones and invisible beings and . . ."

And the hilarious part?  These same people will roll their eyes at OTHER PEOPLE'S WOO.  A Christian might laugh at a Mormon, a Mormon might scoff at a Scientologist, a Scientologist might ridicule a Wiccan, etc.

An atheist might laugh at 98% of the woo, then become righteously irate when someone downs his qi.

Hey, guys?  Embrace what you will, enjoy it, but until you understand what science is and offer up your woo for in depth, rigorous examination by the scientific community?  Shut up about how much better YOUR woo is than anyone else's.  Because from out here, it all looks the same.

And in case anyone's wondering?  Yeah, I have experienced things I can't explain. But I refuse to argue from ignorance, I will not say, "I can't explain this right now, so it must be some big, super-powerful, invisible being!"  No.  I stop at "I can't explain this right now."  Tossing it into the realm of super-duper-deity or ghosties?  That's terrifically unenlightened.  As a species, we did that for millenia, and it did not serve our best interests.  It quelled query, it oppressed thinking, and it held us up in myriad ways.  Whatever I've experienced that defied explanation?  Science will get to it eventually.  If we let it.

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Doctors appointments tomorrow.  I actually bought my own hospital/exam gown.  Last time I was at the gynecologist's (the only time for this office), they had no gowns, only these tiny, TINY little paper drapes, just barely big enough to cover from low down on the breasts to upper thigh.  I felt absolutely vulnerable and COLD and embarrassed.  I've seen paper drapes before, but this one was half the size they normally are.  Gynecology is rough enough on us, don't make us sit there clutching oversize napkins to our chests.  Plus, places that DO have gowns usually have small gowns.  Yeah, I can get them on and cover up, but they're tight in the arms and uncomfortable.  So I have my own.  I strongly recommend making that purchase if you're bigger or if your doc doesn't believe in gowns.  

Speaking of doctors, I'm getting nervous.  I jumped through a lot of hassle-y hoops to get my gynecology appointment at 9 am and my dermatology at 11 am.  Got a call yesterday confirming my 11 am (although it's been changed to 11:05, which is fine).  Got a call today confirming my 2 pm dermatology for day AFTER tomorrow?  Just got off the phone, cancelling that while stressing that TOMORROW'S appointment is still a goer.  But I've heard nothing from the gynecology office.  And her office staff tends toward the . . . dull.  Easily confused.  I'm scared to call and confirm for fear they'll screw up and cancel it instead (yes, I've had that happen at other places).  

Goodness.

*****Update***** I called, confirmed.  Woman seemed very shocked that I have an appointment tomorrow, but the appointment IS there and she did seem to grasp that I was calling to CONFIRM, not cancel.  Cross those lucky fingers, speaking of woo ;-)

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Armus was put down yesterday.  Very sad, she was a good, good dog.  The guilt at having left her may never abate.  Yes, I know that we had no choice, but she didn't know that.  I hope she didn't hang around, just waiting for her people to come home.

Dang.  

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Cancer Hoaxes, Guns, and the Ryan-Rand Budget

Came across a tragic story the other day--about a woman, a veterinarian, who was shot to death while driving with friends.  Apparently, while she was inside a convenience store, one of her friends vomited in the parking lot.  The tiniest little bit of puke splashed up on the car next to her.  A female passenger in that car became angry, and words were exchanged between the puking friend and the passenger girl.  Veterinarian came out of the store, passenger's boyfriend came out, and they all drove off..

That's where it should have ended.  In a sane country, that's where it WOULD have ended.  Instead, the angry passenger's boyfriend, upon hearing that a tiny fleck or two of puke had splashed up on his precious car, set off in pursuit.  Without warning, he pulled up next to the veterinarian and her friends and opened fire.

She took a bullet to the head.

Now, before anyone says anything like, "If the veterinarian had been carrying concealed . . .!" don't.  Seriously, get a grip, grow up, and don't.  If the veterinarian had been carrying, she'd still be dead because they didn't know they were being followed until the bullets started to fly.  Plus, her carrying might have, quite possibly, killed the girl in the other car, who was smack between the shooting driver and her.  Adding MORE guns to a situation is pretty much never the answer.

And the scary thing?  The scary-er thing?  You know this guy with the gun was trying to show off, was trying to be cool for his girlfriend,  and probably thinks he's not a bad guy.  Yes, he probably IS  a bad guy by most folks' estimation, but he probably doesn't see himself that way. But the sad fact is, we have this stupid idea that there is a clear delineation, that the bad guys are over here and the good guys over there, and we can tell the difference at a glance.  But take a look at how many shootings happen "heat-of-the-moment," how many involve spouses and friends.  All it takes to make a "good guy" a "bad guy" is a fit of temper and the presence of a firearm.  A gun in the mix ALWAYS makes ANY confrontation potentially deadly.

And ladies?  Please remember that having a gun in your purse or your bedstand doesn't make you any less likely to be killed by a random stranger, but it makes you dramatically more likely to be killed at the hands of a male family member or friend.  Seriously, look it up.  It's scary.

Enough of that.

We live in a windy place.  Windy enough that our recycling habits are becoming something of a pain in the backside.  See, we have two standard-sized recycling bins, but we make more recyclables than that.  In fact, we put out about twice that much in recyclables (and almost no garbage).  Since we only own two bins but put out four bins' worth of recyclables, we use a big Rubbermaid 64 gallon garbage can for recyclables.  Problem is, it doesn't have a lid, and it blows over frequently.  Most pick-up days find me outside, chasing down our recyclables.  Today?

Today I couldn't chase them down because I couldn't tell which belonged to whom--the wind blew so hard it even upended the little curbside bins.  So I just picked up recyclables at random until I had our can filled again.  Let's see if it stands up long enough for the guys to come by and gather it.

It's time for a new can.  One with a lid.

So, I'm about to go wildly political here.  If you're not in the mood, skip down, it'll only take a minute.

I came across Washington Post piece today.  I find myself losing hope, you know?  It used to be that the right would introduce its crazy garbage KNOWING it was garbage, but wanting to start from an extreme position as a way to bargain and compromise toward the center.  But now?  Now these scary freaks start at the extreme and STAY there.  They don't want to compromise, they want to stand firm in nutland and shout that the left should come to THEM.  Problem is, the left has come to them so many times that left is now center and compromise always brings us even closer to the insane side.

And "Obamacare?"  Thirty-Three attempts to repeal "Obamacare!"  These fools have forgotten they have a JOB to do, that they're supposed to be representing AMERICANS, not their own out-there ideology and their corporate masters.  They're so busy trying to undo anything our President accomplishes that they're willing let us sink, slash our social programs, gut education, let our government shut down, and tank our economy AGAIN just for the chance at maybe, finally succeeding in denying folks health care.  Sick.  Utterly sick.

And Mr. Ryan?  We already voted on your budget proposals and scary ideas for Ayn Rand-esque social engineering last November.  YOU LOST.

And that's the end of the politics.

Mostly, anyway.

I came across a quote the other day in French (it came across my wall, actually, from Dany Brillant's page).    Here it is:

"Les grands hommes de demain sont des femmes?"

In a nutshell?  

"The great men of tomorrow are women."  

On the one hand, I like the sentiment, I understand and enjoy the feeling behind the words.  But at the same time?  

At the same time, I don't really want women's success or greatness measured against the yardstick of manly accomplishment.  I know, it sounds odd or prickly, and I'm not even sure of my own feelings here.  But I have this part of me that clenches down when I think that women will forever have their greatness assigned in terms of how it compares to men's.  I hope for a future where that's not the case.

Oh, in case you're unfamiliar with Dany Brillant?  Give this guy a shot, even if (like me) you don't speak a whole lot of French.  He's amazing!  Here are two of my favorites:

One quick note before I give it up for the day (or at least for the moment)?  Quack cancer cures.  Considering my own history, considering my own risks, and considering my family's history, this one's near and dear.  This came sliding across my Facebook feed the other day and it was all I could do to not scream.  Oh, my HELL!  Seriously?  Cancer's a "fungus" and ingesting mass quantities of BAKING SODA will cure it?  Like all the awful, BS, money-grubbing woo-woo "cures," this one hasn't got a scrap of reliable scientific evidence to back it up.  And like most woo-woo solutions, that lack of evidence is some sort of twisted, dim-witted BADGE, like the lack of research and the condemnation coming in from the scientific community is somehow PROOF of a hoax's "truth."  I will never, ever understand how it is that people can allow themselves to be so taken.  I know, it's about hope, it's about fear, but to turn a lack of evidence into a grand conspiracy (there's no evidence because BIG PHARMA [one of the catchphrases] doesn't want you to know!) is insipid.  

Not to mention manipulative.

Me?  I'll look to some more reliable sources, like the American Cancer Society.  I absolutely avoid woo sites like NaturalNews and that ilk. Science means something, and the woo-woo conspiracy folks don't have much of a grasp on it, so they read a little, misinterpret a lot, and then throw it out there for folks who, sadly, assume they know what they're talking about.  The saddest part?  They are killing people with misinformation.  

Especially in the world of cancer, things that seem too easy, too good to be true?  Are.

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