A Tale of Two Cobanzas

Every member of my family has berated MJ for her insistence on forwarding chain-letter emails to us. In pressing send, the burden of insta-death/un-requited love/unintentional assassination of cute puppies/eradication of sunshine safely clears off her conscious and forwards onto us. After several responses in ALL CAPS (the on-line equivalent to shouting), she has learned that we are unappreciative of her middle school surveys and emoticon-laden poems. Thus, MJ has an unsatiated appetite for random facts and data that are learned through the completion and forwarding of such spam. A clever girl, that MJ, she instead created a survey-based game to be played around the Christmas tree. With the possibility of competition and winning, we were all happy to forego our strict NO EMAIL SURVEY policy and engage MJ in her “Crazy Christmas Cobanza”.

Quite a different Crazy Cobanza took place the day after Christmas, a Crazy Cleaning Cobanza. My dad, with the muscles rapidly atrophying in non-weight bearing leg, turned into Hitler’s lost Third Reich Captain. Completely disregarding the fact that we were all on hands and knees washing and scrubbing, he barked commands at us as if we were obstinate Marine Privates that didn’t want to break a nail. Sister Dancing Queen complained that her initial job of cleaning up the Christmas tree left her smelling like decaying organic matter, otherwise referred to as “ass”. When DQ petitioned said militant father for a more posh, less smelly job he responded with a brusque, “KJD2 smells like ass too.” Such sensitivity would make Mussolini proud.

Two hours and too much grumpiness from our temporarily disabled elder later, the house was sparkling, without a sign of the preceding holiday to be found. The two middle sisters smelled of ass while MJ and I smelled of Clorox and my Nazi father returned to his normal, low-key self. And yet, despite the raging backache that resulted from two solid hours of bent-over-manual-labor, I would still take Crazy Clean-ups over chain letters of any kind.

Of Mice and (wo)Men

While I consider myself to be decent at a number of things, I can not claim to be an expert at anything. The closest I come to earning the 'expert' title would be in the realm of falling. I can fall and recover as deftly as a slap stick comedian. I chuckle at those in the street that trip over an unforeseen obstacle, such as a fallen branch, and reflexively glare at the inanimate object as if it had humanized itself and intentionally fell in the tripper's path. Me, I am so accustomed to daily stumbles, I hardly notice when I have to studder step to regain my equilibrium.

Last night I caught up with a former high school classmate. She is an expert in something (slightly) more impressive than falling- specifically, neurobiology. Our subsequent conversation regarding mice and potential remyelination of neurocells is a topic that I-surprisingly, to some- am incredibly interested in and know enough to ask pretty specific questions. She was haltingly excited to discuss her research and the potential outcomes. As I pried for information, it became clear that her hesitation was founded in a general disinterest expressed to her work by others that 'think it's cool but don't really understand.' In short order we were discussing individual mice and potential medicines that are evolving as a result of her, and other's, remyelination efforts.

As I reflected on our conversation, I realized that I, too, don't share my work and the intricacies of why I truly love and care about what I do with others. An unfortunate habit formed during the dark years of my adulthood is creative introvertedness regarding professional endeavors and passions. Like my High School friend, I assume that others are either not interested or can not relate and therefore do not care enough to engage. But that assumption is, frankly, kind of snobby and presumptive of me.

I feel that my quest for a New Years Resolution to which I can actually commit has ended; I'll make a conscious effort to trust others enough to believe that when they ask me about my job (which finally aligns with my passion), they want to hear the answer- and I'll give it to them. And I'll even try to not follow it up with a story about my most recent fall to relieve some of my own anxiety about taking myself seriously. No promises, though.

Winter Weirdland

I love the quiet that snow brings. The blanket of white ensorcels all, and makes us all go to bed. And I think it's pretty clear how I feel about sleep. The sedative effect of snow is one of the few things that I actually enjoy about this weather. The most recent storm, the first of the season, was hailed as the end of days; residents were urged to stay put and batten down the hatches. My work place was completely empty, save my colleagues of budget/policy nerddom. The lovely Christmas performances that have been filling the hallways of work were all canceled- lending an eerie, Armageddon-esque atmosphere to the entire place.

The storm of the year is a fitting exclamation point at the end of a few weeks of utter bizarreness in the political and financial worlds. In short, it's been a rough month for people with funny names. As America continues its accelerating spiral toward Crazy Town, names have evolved from Simpson, Craig and McGreevey to those that require a phonemic explanation: Gettlefinger (get-lil-finger), Madoff (MAD-off) and Blagojevich (blah-GOY-a-vich). Money and power has done crazy things to these men and, I'm sure, their surrogates.

The first sought to increase partisanship in order to rectify the dwindling reputation of unions in the American workforce. Ultimately, Mr. Get-lil-finger solidify a bailout from a President that is terrified to become the next Harry Truman.

The second, lied and manipulated his friends to build a grand illusion of security, financial prowess and infinite success. Mr. MAD-off, thrown under the regulatory bus by his sons, is ankle-braceletted in his midtown apartment until his inevitable conviction.

The third-perhaps the most shameless of the three- thought that he could auction off a Congressional and Senate seat while under intense federal scrutiny for suspected sketchiness. Blah-GOY-a-vich, in his supreme hubris, is operating as if nothing is wrong and that the clear evidence against him are fabrications of political enemies (Dear Gov, No one cares about you enough. Love, Blogger).

These Three Wise Men of this Christmas season serve as an expose of shameless greed among some of America's most prominent individuals. Every day, more and more news reports stream in, they chronicle escalating job loss and apprehensions about the future. Even as a super majority of Americans are hopeful regarding the new administration and its potential fiscal stimulus- we find ourselves driven to distraction by these men and their childlike avarice. It almost makes me long for vacuous reporting on holiday sales. Or maybe, I'll just watch the snow (there sure is a lot of it).

Constituent Services

From time to time, I've used this blog as a form of catharsis; a means to process life events or disclose personal eccentricities so as to normalize them via revelation.  Today's entry is going to be one of those.  

Toward the end of the work day today, I had a Very Upsetting Conversation with a constituent.  Said constituent, herein classified via the name ASS, is one of many in the past few months that called to lodge a complaint regarding the recent budget cuts.  What is to follow is a 3rd person narrative account of my conversation with ASS, as told from the omniscient point of view of blogger and blogger's inside voice (BIV, not to be confused with the middle guy from Bel Biv Devoe (now you know, yo slick...blow)).

ASS:  I am a concerned parent that has a budget question, could you help me with that?

Blogger:  You bet.  

ASS:  I'm concerned with the two budget line items that pertain to Gay and Lesbian youth funding.

B:  What's your concern?

ASS: They were not cut enough while other, important, meaningful, parent-supported programs were cut.

BIV: deep breath, he just needs to get it off his chest.  inhale, exhale.  repeat.

B:  The LGBT programs were cut, in concert with all the other cuts.  Nothing was held harmless.

ASS:  All I'm saying is that if you have to make more cuts you should cut both programs entirely.  Do  you know what they are teaching my kid at school?

BIV: Um, tolerance and multi-lateralism? Loving oneself just as you are?  Caring more about who a person is than his/her sexual orientation?

ASS:...They are teaching him about transgender rights!  My god,  (BIV: clearly NOT the same god as mine) it is just a dishonor to our children.

B:  Ok, sir.  I appreciate your interest in youth development. 

ASS:  Who makes the decisions about what gets cut?

B:  The governor has the final say, as per constitutional mandate.

ASS: Well, you know the governor, he's no use.  He's in with those people and needs them and all that but us normal parents, we would be very happy if all the funding were to be cut....

BIV: I want to reach through the phone and strangle your ignorant throat.  But then I will seem like an angry lesbian, of which I am neither, and we will get nowhere, so I will just sit this one out and let you go wallow in your hatred. 

ASS:...and that gay and lesbian suicide prevention program?  That is just a poor use of money, so loosely defined...

BIV:  hmm.  Sounds pretty well defined to me

ASS: And I can tell you understand where I'm coming from...

BIV: huh?

B: Well sir, the governor is my boss and I serve at his pleasure.  I agree with his platform and can assure you...

ASS: OH. So you're one of them.  Well I guess he needs people like you to work for him, when no one else agrees with him.

B: Erm, ok. (BIV: You are the weakest link) Good bye.

And here I am, dear readers, more sad than irate.  Trying to understand why people are so afraid and angry about gay rights.  Hoping in this effort I can find some common ground in our humanity.  But I can't.  I am right and ASS and his other asshole parent friends are wrong; I only hope that they don't turn their children into little assholes.  

Counting Sheep

Sleep surpassed food as my Favorite Thing Ever many a bland peanut butter sandwich ago.  I crave it.  I worship it.  Sleep is my deity.  

It shouldn't be hard to imagine, then, my dismay when I realized the typically quiet and respectful gentleman who resides in the apartment above mine is prone to the worship of all things football.  His church is more southern Baptist to my Catholic; while mine values strict adherence to silent worship, his is a hooting, hollering good time.  Myself, I like a good football game, but even the best football game doesn't come close to a good night's sleep.  

Not one to encourage the prohibition of practicing one's faith, I sought solace.   Peace was found in a local Brookstone store, it came in the form of a white noise machine.  My nights have been filled with the same noise that ends Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album--sonic emptiness in the form of static white noise.  

Last night, after a lovely dinner and bit of comic entertainment, I meandered home through my typically quiet neighborhood and was a bit disturbed to see large trucks with enormous jackhammers going at my road like a mosquito on exposed skin.  Allow me to clarify- I was first confused by the Batman-paging lighting scheme that allowed for the construction crew to indiscriminately penetrate my residential neighborhood.   I quickly checked my own closet for a misplaced latex suit- lest I was the One sought (not to be confused with That One).  Upon finding nothing hanging but cotton and wool, I jacked up my white noise maker and attempted my nightly worship of down comforters and sweatpants.  

It is safe to say that while I was able to win the battle with my neighbor, aided by my secret white noise weapon, I lost the war with the City construction crew last night.  I reached a breaking point around 2:30 am; speaking aloud to myself I likened the glaring light to Gestapo interrogation techniques and considered a quick trip into the cold to reason with the drillers.  

Instead, I pumped my white noise machine so loudly that my footballing neighbor may have had an unlikely dream segue that every TV at Buffalo Wild Wings had switched from NFL coverage to static.  I fell into a troubled sleep and awoke unsatisfied.  Tonight, I shall do penance and hope to redeem my faith in horizontal worship.

The Attack of the Killer Sandwich

Perhaps it was in my youth when the constant refrain of my parents to a young, under-the-weather me was that I should just stick it out and go to school. Maybe its a result of having spent way to much time in doctors' offices for the past decade of my life. Or maybe I'm just like Paula's forbidden fruit, a Cold Hearted Snake. Regardless of the reason, I have little sympathy or tolerance for physical pain. Rather than dwell on injury or sickness, I simply pretend it's not there. In college, for example, I functioned at a decently high level with incredible pain in my hip. Turns out, oops!, my hip was broken- guess I probably shouldn't have 'toughed it out' during those painful jogs around the reservoir...

It should not come as a surprise that when my father-recently back in the house after the foot surgery- complained of a stomach ache and had me WebMD some remedies last night, I thought nothing of it. Just a little tummy ache. This morning, however, I arose to a phone call from said father who began the conversation with, "just want to let you know, everything's fine." That is code for something is definitely not right, something is quite wrong.

Following our conversation I was transformed into a 20th century switchboard operator/press secretary regarding my dad's health. As soon as I got a trinket of information i was charged with calling and no less than ten individuals who would relay his gastric-intestinal issues to the next chink on the phone chain.

The game of telephone does not need to go through too many connections to become badly garbled. Below are some of the highlights of the many MANY conversations I've had with various family members and neighbors:

- Icka-itis? Is that what you said?
- I have some good contacts at the middle school. Do you want me to see if I can get MJ on the phone? (Blogger is actually still laughing about this one)
- His head got stuck?
- Apparently our neighbor was yelling at the EMTs for bringing the ritual small town parade of all available emergency vehicles (of which there are many at 3:30 am) after being expressly told to only bring the ambulance. They were slightly forgiven after they noted to said neighbor that at least they didn't turn on the sirens.
- Yellow skin?

Turns out, the real evil-doer in this whole situation is (drum roll) a tuna sandwich. After a few hours of painless feet yesterday, my dad indulged in a delicious treat from the sea that did not sit well with the meds and vulnerable immune system. Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with the tuna. That is the secret to this mystery, and I have to get through the standard ten follow-up phone calls without laughing while relaying it.

Horse Pills

Overheard among co-workers today:
#1: How's your grandmother doing?
#2: Still not dead!

My activities today have been health care focused. This is not an unusual phenomenon, as I deal in HC policy and the myriad twists and turns of Health Care Reform in MA, but it seemed more striking today than usual. My father got his toes welded together yesterday. While this sounds like a mythical accident metal lab teachers use to scare their students, it actually occurred at an expensive and prominent hospital.

His roommate at said hospital was unlike anyone I've ever seen before, yet have spoke of many a time in meetings regarding Health Care cost containment and the like. According to what my dad could piece together through his morphine soaked haze, this man- let's go ahead and call him Bob, for ease of story telling- was poisoned by his girlfriend via his meal (sounds like a stable relationship). Said girlfriend then pushed Bob down the stairs breaking his feet (which is why, presumably, he landed in Ortho recovery) then stole all of his furniture(...?...). My dad joined Bob, uninsured and literally without a chair to sit on, in room 610 on his 13th day in arguably the most expensive hospital in the nation. It was, however, the first time within those nearly 2 weeks that he agreed to take a shower- during which he flooded the shared room, as well as the one next to it (always a plus for people waddling around in attempt to recover from knee or foot surgery).

It is in my father's roommate that I find the paradox of health care and my greatest dilemma in negotiating my liberal soul with my pragmatic approach to policy. Clearly, this man needed and deserved care. Yet, 13 days of constant attention screams of abuse of the system. The fine line of medical care is both clear to the naked eye, as well as, so indiscernible that brilliant economists and their financial wizard colleagues can't put a fine point upon it. I struggle to resolve my 'stance' on health care goals as neither an expert in many of its nuances nor an impartial party to the nature of health care as a basic human right.

We are bleeding money to the health care industry, yet any cut means real pain for real, hard working people. We long to promote primary care as an alternative to expensive hospitalization, yet do not dedicate enough resources toward education for those for whom there has never been any option but the ER for medical care. We get angry about the Bob's but don't adequately address the nature of the problem that got him to his comfortable bed (far superior to his new lack-o-bed awaiting him at home) and allowed him to stay in it for too long on the taxpayer's dime. For these, and so SO many more constant and daunting issues within our medical system, I have no answers- and working among some of the smartest people I've met as only revealed the depth of the complexities inherent in any efforts to find 'solutions'.

BUT

In light of the recent holiday, I am thankful for the care that my dad and many other important people I love have received and wouldn't want it denied in any circumstance. That's the thing- once you have a name and a face, nothing seems like too much. And so I continue plugging, half angry at agencies that can not dig deep and find some waste to be cut just as I celebrate the incredible accomplishments of medicine and its reach to the masses in my old/new state. Sometimes it feels like life is one big, massive confusing contradiction.

At least I still have all of my furniture.