Archive for As I See It
Tears for Haiti
Posted by: | CommentsI am heartbroken over Haiti. I’m trying not to watch the news … too much. But I feel compelled to watch, to witness what is happening there. This is our human race, at our best and at our worst.
I have given money twice: first by texting HAITI to 90999, second by entering my credit card on the www.yele.com website. My $110 on its own won’t do much. I believe in giving unrestricted dollars that can be combined with gifts from others into pots of money that can do a lot.
It doesn’t seem like enough. I sit here, comfortably inside my house, on my couch, drinking a cup of coffee made with clean water watching millions of people suffer. I watch the footage of our soldiers, the vice president, the secretary of state and I think about what I would do. Would I be digging through the rubble with my bare hands? Would I be dishing food out to the hungry, rocking orphaned babies, holding the hands of the dying?
When Katrina struck, I thought long and hard about going to New Orleans to help, somehow. But I didn’t go. I have responsibilities here, my work, Lauren. I think the same thing now. I want to help, but my desire isn’t strong enough to motivate me to actually do anything besides give money. I feel hypocritical. I feel guilty, because I am safe and well-fed and have an excess of everything compared to the Haitians, who had little and now have nothing.
On Friday, I listened to NPR as I drove Lauren to school, and I started to cry. Lauren leaned forward from the back seat and patted my shoulder, telling me everything is going to be OK for those people. “Lots of people are helping, Momma. Don’t be sad.” She is so innocent.
I can’t tell her that my tears are a combination of grief for Haiti and projected grief over the prospect of losing her. Every time I drop her off at school or at her dad’s house could be the last time I see her, kiss her, hear her voice and her laugh. Those Haitian mothers kissed their children and sent them off to school on Tuesday, put them down for naps, sent them outside to play, and did not know they’d never see their children again. I cannot comprehend how you survive something that tragic. Haiti is a reminder to me of the fragility of life.
We reached her school. She got out of the car, and I got out of the car. I hugged her and kissed her and told her I love her, then stood beside my open door and watched her scurry into school. I tried to imprint my mind with the image of her face, upturned to receive my kisses. I won’t see her again until Tuesday night (she’s with her dad this week). And anything can happen between now and then.
This morning as I meditated, I created a bubble of safety around Lauren, and extended all of the healing in my heart to the people of Haiti … but especially to the mothers and the children. I believe in a universal consciousness, and I know my prayers are combining with those of people around the world in that realm of spirit.
Just in case of a zombie outbreak …
Posted by: | CommentsOne thing Steve and I have in common is a love of zombie movies. Our shared top pick: 28 Days Later, which scared the shit out of me and gave me nightmares for weeks. Last Sunday–as part of our mini-honeymoon–we made a rare appearance at the actual movie theater, and splurged on the extra $2 per person to see Zombieland on the big screen. The movie was scary (to me, but then I’m a total wimp when it comes to scary movies), gross and hilarious. I would see it again–likely will when it’s out on Netflix. Lord knows I’ve watched Shaun of the Dead at least 9 times on Comedy Central.
Every time we watch a zombie movie, we start talking about our survival plan in case of a zombie outbreak. This conversation will continue long after the drive home from the theater, or trip up the stairs to our bedroom. We’ll be driving along days or weeks later, and one of us will say, “Oh, and we need to make sure to stock up with seeds, because if we have natural light, we can grow food.” And the other will know exactly what’s going on.
In case of a zombie outbreak, here’s what we’re doing:
First, we need to win the lottery this year so we can buy land in the nearby mountains and build a compound. Yes, you read that right, a compound–an underground compound. Above, it will look like a normal cabin. However the walls will be steel-reinforced and fireproof. The windows and doors will have steel covers we can bolt on–or weld on if need be. Below the house will be a fully stocked home, with geothermal heat and solar electricity, a storeroom of food, a deep well for water, simulated natural lighting, and a full library of books and DVDs and and video games and board games, computers, paper and ink cartridges (because you can’t run to Home Depot when there are zombies out wandering around). And comfy bedrooms and some exercise equipment.
And an arsenal, with shotguns and handguns and rifles and, if we can find them, machine guns and all the ammunition we can get our hands on. Maybe a flame thrower too. And a few big-ass machete knives. We’ll have an indoor shooting range too for practicing. And, of course, upstairs we’ll have one kick-ass truck–maybe one of those ridiculous Ford Superduty Trucks that are about 15 feet tall. Or a Hummer. And every so often we’d go outside for fresh air and to make sure our land was clear of flesh-eaters.
“When the shit starts coming down, we won’t be one of those people hoping everything will be all right and waiting for the government to tell us what to do,” Steve says ominously. “We’ll get our guns and get the hell out of the city. If we have to kill some people along the way, so be it.”
I’ll retort: “We don’t have to kill people. We only have to kill zombies. The normal people, we’ll just stun or something. Unless they’ve been bitten, and in that case that motherfucker is dead. No waiting around until they turn before you blast them.”
We’re not gun freaks, but Steve’s ex-Army and I’ve been to the shooting range (twice). I think if there were a zombie outbreak, I’d want to be with him over pretty much anyone else, because the Army taught him to kill people with bayonets and bullets, (and he even went to French Commando school so I think he’s probably a badass) and even though he’s not in that mindset now, I can imagine a screaming zombie chasing me or one of the kids would trip that switch back on. Then it would be him and me and the kids alone at the end of the world … at least until all the zombies die of starvation.
Now if we don’t win the lottery this year (you can’t win if you don’t play!!) we’ve decided in the event of a zombie outbreak that we’d go live in a Wal-Mart. In the original Dawn of the Dead movie, the survivors go live in a mall, but today’s malls no longer have what you need (what, you’re going to fend off a zombie with that Prada bag you picked up for free at Neiman’s? Not!) Wal-Marts, however, have EVERYTHING you need: clothes, food, water, bathrooms, crossbows, guns, ammo, shovels, pruning shears, books, video games, TVs, soap, sleeping bags, lip balm, pharmaceuticals, cigarettes, condoms (but alas, no sex toys), microwaves and crockpots, and even Christmas trees and lights if you took it over between September and February. Eyeglasses, of course. No flame throwers, though. Best of all, Wal-Marts are almost entirely made of concrete, which makes them near impossible to claw through. Sure you’d have take over BEFORE the panic sets in so there are still supplies left, and then you’d have to block off the entry doors and the loading dock after clearing all the zombies out, but after that, you’d be set. A well-stocked regular Wal-Mart could probably support about a dozen people for six months if you were careful about rationing the food. A Super Wal-Mart, well hell, you could probably support a few dozen people, and maybe even their dogs (if they don’t turn into zombies–how come they never show what happens to the pets in those movies? Do ferrets get zombie fever?).
If Dec. 21, 2012 comes around and the world turns to zombies, I want to live to fight another day.
Pink hair
Posted by: | Comments
My hair is pink. Two weeks before my wedding. Hours before my wedding shower. Where pictures will be taken. Pink.
Yes, you read that correctly: pink. It can be fixed. It WILL be fixed. Too much lowlight and not enough base color. The wrong choice of lowlight, which has far too much magenta in it and not enough copper. I have now washed it 7 times with V05 clarifying shampoo, which I bought at Safeway for 99 cents. It’s pure sulfates. It could strip paint from a dresser. I watched the pink come out of my hair and swirl down the shower drain. Some of it, not all of it.
First, let me tell you that I love my hairstylist. I have, in the past, been a stylist-hopper. But Marie has been different. I met her at a salsa event five years ago–she’s also a dancer. She has cute hair, and I asked her who cuts it because I was hopping from salon to salon, hoping to stumble upon someone who is good at cutting super-straight hair. Turned out she’s a stylist. She’s been with me through bad boyfriends, through meeting Steve, through salsa dramas (yes, there are salsa dramas). She’s helped me grow my hair out to my shoulders, then helped me find the awesome style I have now. I love her.
I usually color my own hair. I use a level 7 copper-gold color with level 20 developer, and it fades out to a copper-gold shade after a few washes. Total cost: $8 plus an hour of my time. And occasionally a towel. Today’s bill: $150, including a trim.
Marie has colored my hair twice before, when I splurged on highlights and lowlights. The color was perfect–the first time chocolate lowlights and golden highlights mixed through my favorite copper base, the second a deep purple subbed in for the chocolate. When Marie does my color, it stays vibrant for months instead of weeks. I only wish I could afford to have her color it all the time.
Today was the big day: wedding cut and color. We went back and forth over the color book, choosing the right blend. Marie painstakingly applied the 3 different colors to my hair. She washed. She styled. I blanched at the color. Even in the dim salon lights it looked burgundy, not copper. “Wash it a few times and then call me,” she said. She strategized in her head what to do if the shampoo didn’t fade the burgundy: maybe add a bunch more highlights and tone them copper, or worst-case, strip the color and start over, trashing my hair in the process. I kept my chin up until I got home and looked at the color under my bright bathroom lights. The ones that simulate daylight, as in the light that will be shining on my head 14 days from now on my wedding day. And my hair? Pink.
I washed, and washed and washed some more. I got out of the shower, towel-dried, then got back in and washed it three more times. I stopped because my fingers were pruny. I styled it (L O V E the cut, with more squared off bangs this time). And I stood in the kitchen under the light and called Steve over. “It’s pink. My hair is pink,” I said, my lip quivering. He bit his lip, trying not to laugh at me. Which of course made me cry. It’s only hair, and it can be fixed, and I cried as I called Marie on her cell phone, leaving her a teary message about how my hair is pink and please, please call me because we have to fix it.
So now, I’ve gone on and on about my pink hair for over 600 words. If it weren’t my wedding coming up, I’d ride it out. Actually, I’d probably kind of like the pinkness of it, just as I loved the purple lowlights we did last summer, because I look pretty conservative when I’m not. It’s a twist, like my tattoos. Something surprising. Except not on my wedding day.
I’m almost laughing at the pinkness. I am not freaking out. Not yet.
****
UPDATE: Marie and I are meeting Monday night after work to fix it. And another 5 washings this morning have 20% more of the pink out. No more tears!
We should be grateful as we remember
Posted by: | CommentsFrom my office window, I see the enormous United States flag at half-staff today, in memory of the people who died 8 years ago in the terrorist attacks. Sept. 11, 2001 seems long ago, a memory, until I visit Facebook and read people’s status updates about where they were, and watch video compilations of the airplanes smashing through the World Trade Center Buildings. And in watching, I feel the horror and sadness all over again, the same sense of shock I felt on that morning as I innocently watched the Today Show while breast feeding Lauren.
I remember the eerie silent skies that afternoon. It’s amazing how much aircraft noise actually exists above my city, noticable only when it’s gone. I remember how my family gathered at my parents’ house. We aren’t close knit, but that day–the day of all days in my life–we needed to be together. We were scared, speculating that the attacks weren’t over. Who was next? Was Denver a target? We ate, and drank, and kept constant watch of the TV, too stunned to turn it off. And then we did. And we drove to a picnic spot up Highway 285 near Aspen Valley. We sat in nature, and we felt what we needed to feel, watching the South Platte River flow by as it has flowed by forever, and looking up at the pine trees that had grown there for a hundred years.
The next day we bought an American flag. We hung it just off of our garage. We weren’t the first on our block. We weren’t the last. By the end of the week, every single house displayed a flag. In those first days after 9/11, before politics took over, we were Americans first and foremost, and everything else second. It was a moment of opportunity, to heal old wounds, to grow together in our grief. But the Bush administration squandered the opportunity (go shopping! don’t mourn! and let’s go to war!), and as a result our country is now more divided than ever. The current health care debate shows the rifts among us run deep.
Today, as I watched the Twin Towers footage for the first time in years, as I once again saw the aftermath of ruined buildings there and at the Pentagon, I realized that as much as we should mourn those who were lost that day, as much as we should mourn our country’s loss of innocence, we also must feel a deep sense of gratitude for the fact that these attacks have happened only once in more than 200 years on our nation’s mainland. If I lived in Jerusalem, or Afghanistan, or Iraq, my life would be filled with blown-up buildings and the terrifying threat of more to come without warning. I would wonder, every day, if my house would be standing when I returned home, if Lauren’s school was safe, if I could go to the market for food and come back alive.
On this, the 8th anniversary of our nation’s most profound loss–the loss of our sense of security, the loss of our innocence–I will be grateful that I am safe, and those I love are safe. I will be grateful that I can go about my business and worry that it will rain on my wedding day, or that my I’ll remember to set my TiVo to record my favorite TV show’s debut next week, or that Lauren’s feelings will get hurt by the mean girl in her class today. Because regardless of my politics or yours, regardless of what happened on this day eight years ago, we live safer than most other people in the world. And for that, we are blessed.
Dear god, thanks for all the rain but enough already
Posted by: | CommentsI’m sitting here, trapped at my desk. Trapped! I say. Because once again, the good lord has bestowed upon the high desert city of Denver a monsoon rainstorm.
I need to leave the building now. I need to get home to make dinner and change clothes and get back on the road to my salsa rehearsal at 7:30. Of course, I could leave had I remembered my umbrella, which is sitting on the back seat of my car. But I didn’t. So here I sit.
With maybe one or two exceptions, it’s rained in Denver every afternoon since early June. I’m not talking about a few sprinkles, but rather torrents of rain, buckets of rain being dropped down from on high, flooding rains. Two weeks ago, it took me almost an hour to get home because the main road I take had cars FLOATING on it. Floating I tell you.
Yes, it’s been nice not to have to water anything in my garden. And the extra humidity we’ve had lately has done wonders for my skin. I look five years younger already!
But god, if I wanted to worry about bringing my umbrella into work every day I’d move to Seattle. Or Portland. Denver is supposed to have 320+ days of sunshine, dry, dry sunshine a year. I want my climate back!
Now the thunder’s rolling, which means lightning and perhaps tornadoes. No hail yet, thank goodness. My garden won’t survive another pummeling.
I think I’ll swipe a new garbage bag out of my office kitchen and create a makeshift slicker. My car is parked two blocks away. I’ll surely be soaked by the time I get there. But rainwater’s supposed to be fabulous for the hair. So I think I’ll chance it, barefoot (because I’m taking no chances in the lovely black stilettos I chose this morning, not realizing a sprint was in my future.)
PS I may be getting my wish because Denver’s supposed to get into the high 90s for the rest of the week, maybe even 100. Not looking forward to that, either.
Wish me luck!
Michael Jackson, Farrah and my hosta
Posted by: | CommentsToday at work I was escorting a TV journalist to interview my cancer center’s expert on anal cancer when he told me that Michael Jackson had a heart attack. We happened to be hurrying through a heavy rainstorm, me holding my floral umbrella over his unprotected camera. This was the second storm of the day. The first included 70 mph winds that forced rainwater under the doors and flooded our research center. (the storm’s significance comes later in the post … patience!)
“Yeah, he had a heart attack. But it’s unconfirmed that he’s dead.”
I put it out of my mind as he interviewed our doctor about the disease that took Farrah’s life.
public service announcement
Anal cancer is rare, just 5,700 cases in the US each year, compared to about 150,000 cases of colorectal cancer. The good news is that 90% of people survive. However, anal cancer has such a stigma because, well, it happens in your anus–a taboo body part if there ever was one–and it’s becoming associated more and more with HPV, the virus better known for causing cervical cancer. That makes anal cancer a sexually transmitted disease, just like cervical cancer and — with growing likelihood — head and neck cancer. Epidemiologists estimate that about 80% of adults have a strain of HPV, which rarely has any symptoms and cannot be avoided by using condoms.
You can catch HPV from vaginal sex, anal sex, oral sex and possibly even kissing someone with an active oral infection. In my mind, that means it’s imperative that girls AND boys be vaccinated against this disease.
I could be Farrah next. Or you could. So watch for these symptoms: bleeding and a mass. Many people mistake a mass for a hemorrhoid. Be safe and see your doctor, because while it’s embarrasing to talk about your butthole, it’s better to be embarrassed than dead. As I said, if caught before it spreads, anal cancer is quite curable with chemotherapy and radiation therapy, and there are new clinical trials for targeted drugs that may be even more effective and with much fewer side effects.
/public service announcement
So here I am, talking about anal cancer and thinking about how beautiful Farrah was, how much fun she seemed to be when I was a kid. Of course, I was a HUGE Charlie’s Angels fan. My friend Linda and I played Charlies Angels for hours every weekend. I was always Sabrina, though. We had this binder full of photos of clothes cut from the JC Penny catalog, and we’d each choose an outfit for the day. We made very clever spy devices using gum erasers, sewing pins and thumbtacks. Our fathers cursed us repeatedly because we’d throw these tiny weapons like make-believe bombs, and they’d eventually run them over with the lawn mower or their car. I know for sure I gave my dad at least one flat tire. (Sorry Dad)
I also remember that iconic Farrah poster, which my friend Vivian had up in her room. I remember giggling because you could see her nipples!!!! And also spending hours on Vivian’s sister Michelle’s hair, rolling it in curlers to try to achieve that fabulous Farrah look on a 4-year-old.
I was thinking about how much Ryan O’Neal obviously loved her. I caught a tiny preview of his interview with Barbara Walters, and I thought, I hope that Steve loves me that much, because that is one devoted man, and that’s what every woman wants.
I was driving through the roundabouts in Lowry, a neighborhood just north of my house.And I turned on the radio to hear that Michael Jackson was confirmed dead. And so was the Farrah Fawcett death story. Because while Farrah was an icon, MJ was THE Icon.
The DJ played Beat It. And I started to cry.
I cried because Michael Jackson was so sad, and so damaged, and because he thought he was so ugly and unlovable, as my friend Meara just posted on Facebook. He was among the most successful people ever to walk this earth, was so loved and adored (and eventually vilified) by everyone but the most important person–himself. And I cried because he was Daddy to three kids: Michael Joseph Jackson, Jr., Paris Michael Katherine Jackson and Prince “Blanket” Michael Jackson II. Those poor children. I can’t even imagine what they will go through.
I was such a huge fan growing up. I played my Thriller album (my first album) hundreds of times, maybe thousands. I got in trouble in homeroom in 8th grade for singing PYT with other girls, because it was “too sexy for 8th graders to sing.” Yeah, I know, he was creepy in the end, and likely a child molester.
But as Elvis was to my parent’s generation, MJ was to mine.
He is on the shortlist of muscians who set the soundtrack for my adolescence: MJ, U2, Depeche Mode, Prince, the Cure, Howard Jones, Def Leppard. I can’t think of my freshman year of high school and the pom pon squad without thinking of our Beat It routine, one of the first pieces I ever helped choreograph. I saw MJ in concert at the old McNichols Arena in 1988, and the crowd booed because he didn’t play Man in the Mirror.
And I kept crying–not sobbing, but crying nonetheless, until I realized that traffic was being rerouted. Turns out the main street I live off is flooded with about 3 feet of water.
I took a circuitous way home and happily found that my basement is NOT flooded. However, I have about 3 inches of hail in my little garden and my hostas, my hibiscus and my hydrangeas (yes, my garden is sponsored by the letter H) are trashed. Trashed I tell you.
Today sucks.
So I’m sitting here, listening to the fourth major storm of the day thunder its way through Denver, drinking wine, listening to Thriller and mourning.
Raise a glass with me, wherever you are. To icons. (and to Mother Nature, and the Universe, operating in its infinite wisdom). I leave you with the lyrics to my favorite Michael Jackson Song. Sing it with me!
P.Y.T
Where Did You Come From Lady
And Ooh Won’t You Take Me There
Right Away Won’t You Baby
Tendoroni You’ve Got To Be
Spark My Nature
Sugar Fly With Me
Don’t You Know Now
Is The Perfect Time
We Can Make It Right
Hit The City Lights
Then Tonight Ease The Lovin’ Pain
Let Me Take You To The Max
[Chorus]
I Want To Love You (P.Y.T.)
Pretty Young Thing
You Need Some Lovin’ (T.L.C.)
Tender Lovin’ Care
And I’ll Take You There
I Want To Love You (P.Y.T.)
Pretty Young Thing
You Need Some Lovin’ (T.L.C.)
Tender Lovin’ Care
I’ll Shake You There
[Background]
Anywhere You Wanna Go
[2nd Verse]
Nothin’ Can Stop This Burnin’
Desire To Be With You
Gotta Get To You Baby
Won’t You Come, It’s Emergency
Cool My Fire Yearnin’
Honey, Come Set Me Free
Don’t You Know Now Is The Perfect Time
We Can Dim The Lights
Just To Make It Right
In The Night
Hit The Lovin’ Spot
I’ll Give You All That I’ve Got
[Chorus]
I Want To Love You (P.Y.T.)
Pretty Young Thing
You Need Some Lovin’ (T.L.C.)
Tender Lovin’ Care
And I’ll Take You There
I Want To Love You (P.Y.T.)
Pretty Young Thing
You Need Some Lovin’ (T.L.C.)
Tender Lovin’ Care
I’ll Take You There
Breakdown
Pretty Young Things, Repeat After Me
[Michael] I Said Na Na Na
[P.Y.T.'S] Na Na Na
[Michael] Na Na Na Na
[P.Y.T.'S] Na Na Na Na
[Michael] Na Na Na
[P.Y.T.'S] Na Na Na
[Michael] I Said Na Na Na Na Na
[P.Y.T.'S] Na Na Na Na Na
[Michael] I’ll Take You There
[Chorus]
I Want To Love You (P.Y.T.)
Pretty Young Thing
You Need Some Lovin’ (T.L.C.)
Tender Lovin’ Care
And I’ll Take You There
I Want To Love You (P.Y.T.)
Pretty Young Thing
You Need Some Lovin’ (T.L.C.)
Tender Lovin’ Care
I’ll Take You There
[Repeat Chorus - Ad-Lib/Fade-Out]
RIP MJ, Farrah, and hosta. You will be missed.
Heroic glowing monkeys and the greater good
Posted by: | CommentsThis morning on NPR, I heard a story about Japanese researchers who successfully created a transgenic monkey that has an extra gene that makes it glow, and its progeny also have the gene. This transgenic research is quite an accomplishment, because the technique can be used to create families of monkeys with genes for human diseases.
I get a squeamish stomach thinking about research animals, especially when they are something other than mice. However, since I work in a major research center, I know that we would not have medications for any diseases at all if it weren’t for research animals. In the PR world we call them “animal models” so that the animal rights people don’t picket us or run terrorist activities against our labs.
I wish there were a better model. But there is not. Research animals allow us to have headlines like this one from last night:
US cancer deaths continue to drop: report
WASHINGTON (AFP) — The number of cancer deaths have steadily declined in the United States over the past 15 years, saving a possible 650,000 lives over that period, the American Cancer Society said Wednesday.
But 1.48 million cases will be diagnosed this year and over 562,000 people will die from cancer this year, ACS said in its annual cancer statistics report.
The cancer death rate fell by 19.2 percent for men between 1990 and 2005, mostly due to declines in deaths from lung, prostate and colorectal cancer, the group said.
Deaths from cancer, the second-biggest killer in the United States after heart disease, decreased by 11.4 percent for women over the same period, in large part due to decreases in breast and colorectal cancer.
I believe in the concept of the greater good. Research animals lead to a greater good for humans. Yep, still a bit queasy writing that, but when I dig down, I know it’s what I really believe.
I work with very bright cancer scientists who have contributed to this decline in cancer deaths because they have used animals to understand how cancer works biologically, metabolically and genomically. They have created and tested new cancer treatments, including targeted drugs that have better outcomes and fewer side effects than traditional chemo and radiation, on these animals to make sure there is some effectiveness and little toxicity before trying them out on people.
(In other words, better to kill off some mice with a new treatment than a bunch of people.)
I’ve been to our vivarium, and those little nude mice are cute. They’re very well cared for. It’s sad to see them sacrificing their lives for ours. In their own little ways, they are heroic. I would not have survived melanoma without the help of mice way back in the day.
I don’t believe that cosmetics and household products should be tested on animals. I don’t believe that animals should be treated cruelly. I have a hard time thinking of companion animals being used for any kind of research, but the truth of the matter is that heart transplantation is possible because dogs were sacrificed.
Every year on my campus, the medical school holds a ceremony for people who have donated their bodies to science and medical education. I’d love to see some kind of ceremony for all the mice who do the same thing. As non-sentient beings (despite what Disney tells us), I recognize that they don’t have a choice in the matter. In fact, they’re bred and born to be research subjects. However, as life forces, we should honor them in some way.
Just as we need to honor the glowing monkeys in Japan, and those that follow, as heroes of human medicine.
Here’s a prayer for all creatures who play a such a critical role in solving human illnesses.
