Judgment

I witnessed a car accident this morning. A woman in a Jeep cut off a man in a Ford truck. Rather than hitting the brakes, as you usually do when someone cuts you off, the truck sped up and plowed right into the Jeep. Whether the woman didn’t see the truck or was purposely cutting him off, I don’t know. Perhaps the man panicked when she cut him off and accelerated instead of braking. Whatever the case, the part that really struck me as horrible was the confrontation of both drivers.

They both pulled off to the side of the road (across the street from my bus stop). The man jumped out of his truck screaming “You stupid son of a b****, what the f*** were you thinking?” so on and so forth in this manner. He approached the Jeep and began banging on the windows. At this point, the woman swung her door open (hitting him in the face; to be fair, he shouldn’t have been banging on the windows) and began screaming just as aggressively as the man from the truck.

I kept my phone in my hand, ready to call 911 should this “conversation” come to blows. I watched with horror and disgust as these two people dressed in business attire screamed at each other on 1300 East at 7:00 AM.

First, I have been in two accidents and never realized how fortunate I was to be treated with such respect and sympathy. Both times, the driver of the other vehicle asked if I was ok. The conversation was civil both times and voices were never once raised. There was no blaming, no accusations. The situation was always treated as “Man, that sucks but let’s see if we can figure it out.”

Second, I was saddened by the state of the world if such a display of conflict management has become normal. To see this anger, hostility, and disrespect from two adults made me sick.

I watched as the police approached the scene and listened with perfect dignity as these two people were screaming at him and each other. He took notes and spoke calmly to both of them. At that point my bus pulled up.

I boarded my bus and watched the scene as we pulled away. My disgust soared to a new level when the woman opened the door to her back seat and pulled out two small, crying children.

Shame on those people for choosing to not think before they spoke and acted. Shame on them for forgetting that everyone makes mistakes and refusing to work together to solve the problem. Shame on them for not using self restraint in the presence of others.


But then again, how often do I have the same reaction in different situations? How often have I been guilty of the judgment I've just placed on them?

Lesson observed and internalized.

12 Days: a sad tale with a happy ending.

12 days ago- I opened the window of our bedroom (as I always do) to let Mort get some fresh air before bed. I finished my nighttime rituals, shut the window, and went to sleep. It was like any other night.

11 days ago- I woke up and realized Mort was not at my feet, not crying for me to turn on the faucet, and not asleep under the bed. I woke Andy up and we did a sweep of the house. I ended up coming home early from work to continue searching. Many tears shed. I was mortified when I realized he had jumped out of the window before I shut it the evening before. He had spent the whole night outside.

10 days ago- Andy and I did a full neighborhood sweep. We went down every alleyway and side street we could find. We (I) went so far as to ask another cat if he knew where Mort was hiding. More tears shed. Humane Society knew me by name at this point.

9 days ago- Another neighborhood sweep. I put out food in case Mort was hiding in the bushes around our house. Consequently, I became the neighbor’s cat’s best friend. Hysterical tears shed. Depression started.

8 days ago- I came home from work and walked around the neighborhood. In my depression, I didn’t clean, I didn’t cook; I just stared out the window and waited for Mort to come home.


7 days ago- I began to get really angry with people who tried their hardest to be upbeat and supportive. Every time I heard “I’m sure he’ll come home when he’s ready” I wanted to scream and throw things.

6 days ago- I painfully came to the realization that Mort was not going to magically reappear. Either someone had to find him or he was lost forever. Andy was very patient with me when I came to this understanding.

5 days ago – Andy and I talked about what more we could be doing. We decided that our cat, a Houdini of sorts, was not going to be found unless he wanted to be found. Therefore, posters were superfluous.

4 days ago- I caught a glimpse of a white cat that wasn’t my neighbor’s cat. I was convinced it was Mort and began laughing and crying and calling to him. Once I shined the light on the cat, I found out it wasn’t Mort. It was just another neighborhood cat. I went straight to bed.

3 days ago- Andy went to the Humane Society to see if someone had dropped Mort off and he was mistakenly not scanned (for his chip). Andy proceeded to come home and tell me how heartbreaking the cat situation was at the shelter (GO ADOPT A CAT and SPAY AND NEUTER ALL OF YOUR ANIMALS) which inspired more tears, sadness, and depression.

2 days ago- Andy and I began the conversation of how long we wait before we replace Mort. More tears and depression.

1 day ago- I received a phone call. An angel found Morty hiding in her basement and contacted the humane society with his tag numbers (who then contacted me). I was able to pick him up at 5 pm at which point Morty did not let me leave his sight. He was constantly head-butting me and telling me all about his adventures in the scary outdoors.

Today- I am so thankful to have my Morty back. I intend to help him gain the weight he has lost (he’s so skinny). I intend to never open the bedroom window again. I intend to snuggle him until he can’t stand it. The snuggling will commence after his bath, of course.

This picture was taken this morning. The pictures above were taken at an earlier date. He's very skinny and very dirty but I think he'll pull through. He's so happy to be home.

In defense of "My generation"

I work with a woman who drives me crazy. She is an angry child of the 60s who doesn't seem to like anyone. She calls me naïve and often puts me down. She refers to me as "Your Generation."

According to her, My generation:

- Doesn't know how to travel. She was appalled when I told her I'd rather fly than road trip. My argument: "six hours in a plane will get you to a much cooler place than six hours in a car." Her argument: "Your Generation is just too lazy to drive without destination. There's nothing like cruising the open road with a beer in your hand." Fair enough.

- Eats nothing but sugar. This statement came from me offering her a gummy worm. Interestingly enough, she refers to 2pm as "Chocolate time" when she chokes down a pound of chocolate covered pretzels every day. But I guess my generation is the "sugar generation".

- Stole music from a superior generation. As I listened to my 'Glee' channel on Pandora, the song "Let it be" came on. This woman began raving about how my generation can't make quality music of their own so we have to steal from her generation. "When I was a twenty-something I wouldn't have been caught dead listening to my parent's music." I guess this is true. I prefer the The Who over Backstreet Boys any day. Guilty.

- is a generation of posers. This piggy-backs on the last one. My generation can be considered a 'poser' generation because we bring back fashions "they" wore, listen to "their" music, and use slang that "they" invented. Also, she like to remind me that she was a vegan before it got trendy. Would we call practicing veganism trendy?

In the defense of my generation: we are a product of your generation. All of your complaints are your own doing. Leave generation Y alone, hippie.

My husband, the Rockstar

This morning we decided to ditch church and go to breakfast at a delightful restaurant called Finn's. We found our friend, Jamie, there and ordered our drinks, iced tea, hot tea, and diet coke.

As we were perusing the menu and deliberating about whether we should order breakfast or lunch, Andy jumped out of his seat and vacated the table. Before Jamie and I could figure out what was going on, Andy was at the front of the restaurant, assisting an elderly gentleman who had fallen. The man was on his back and very disoriented. Andy was asking questions and gathering information.

Jamie and I looked at each other and exchanged remarks about what a good guy Andy was.

I glanced back at Andy's progress and was slightly startled to see him on top of the man, doing chest compressions. The entire restaurant went into an awkward stupor and watched.

"Breathe," Andy kept shouting to the man who had dropped out of consciousness.

Considering how many people were around Andy asking if they could help, I decided to stay in my seat and simply gape at the spectacle, feeling terribly insulted when the head chef asked the table behind us if they were going to "stay for the end of the show?"

The CPR continued for what seemed like forever. Andy continued his compressions and just being overall fabulous. When the EMTs arrived, Andy turned his attention to the poor man's wife, asked her for her husband's medical history, and explained to her (in layman's terms) what was going on with her husband.

Andy stood by, watched over the EMTs, and stayed with the man until he was loaded into the ambulance.

So, here's to Andy: the serious stud muffin who reacts beautifully in dire situations. You are an inspiration and a lifesaver. I am so very proud.

To Andy!!

Love will hold us together

Nothing makes me happier than being able to share my most embarrassing moments with my faithful readers (of whom there are a few). Allow me to share my latest and greatest:

Acting purely on impulse, last night I dragged Andy to the nearest Barnes and Noble to go on my semi-annual literary shopping spree. After a large meal we decided that we needed the walk anyway. With our new house (pictures will come, I promise) we are within easy walking distance to the book store. During the last few hours at work, the bus ride home, and the making and devouring of the meal, I had this song stuck in my head (yay Christian music). The song persistently stayed with me through the walk. Usually I use my “Asia” trick, but not with songs that I like. I allow them to be stuck in my head…because I’m sick.

Upon entering B&N, I headed directly to restroom (several glasses of water…you get the idea). I opened the door to the deserted bathroom and began singing the song out loud. On some level, I knew I was singing in a public place and I probably shouldn’t, but I continued to sing to the empty stalls.


About halfway through the song I heard:

“Ahem. You should probably know that someone else is in here.”

Yikes. I immediately flush, wash my hands, and leave.

Guess what, the song was no longer stuck in my head.

I guess I'm bored

Things I love:
Paul McCartney in concert—wow.
Russian literature…who knew?
Purchasing plane tickets to visit April in New York for Pioneer Day!
Massages
A sleepy kitty with a warm belly passed out on my lap
Rain
Stories told by an elder generation
Successfully cooking something
Pixar—all of pixar
Feeling productive
Friends…and wine
The miniature Wall-E that sits next to my computer in case I need some cheering up during the day (thanks, Andy)
Climbing under the covers, any time of the day
Dancing


Things I don’t love:
Grumpy people
Doors that won’t open (my car’s passenger door, patio door, etc)
Working on Saturdays
Dexter and Big Love (get over it)
NPR
Family losses
Spiders
Missing the bus
4:08—too late to get anything done but too early to leave

The Temp

Like most people, the dentist evokes feelings of dread and fear in me. I go to my appointment with the expectation that the dentist will discover at least 15 cavities. This is an irrational expectation, but one that I come to terms with every six months.

At my latest appointment, the hygienist pulls me into a room, introduces herself as ‘Tammy’ and tells me that I will need to be patient with her because she is a temp. One of the many reasons I go to my current dental office is because a cleaning is about 15 minutes long which provides me ample time to get to work. So, from the start, I know that this will not be an ordinary cleaning.

Tammy spends a solid five minutes searching for gloves and a mask. She rummages through every drawer, ever cupboard, and every cubby, twice. Finally, she takes her leave from me to go “in search of a hygienist who normally works at this place.” She comes back fully gloved and masked and dives right into my chompers. She introduces a new tool of torture that measures the gum depth (used to detect gingivitis). She begins dragging this metal rope across my gums and makes disapproving noises.

“Wow,” sighs Tammy. “You have quite a bit of gingivitis! This is a problem!” Automatically, I start panicking.
How is it possible that I have developed “quite a bit of gingivitis” when just six months ago I had a clean bill of health? She pulls the tool of torture away and leaves my gums a bleeding mess. “Ah,” continues Tammy regarding my meaty gums. “I see you also don’t use the correct method of flossing.”

The cleaning continues in this manner. During the course of the 55 minute cleaning, Tammy was good enough to observe that not only was I lousy with gingivitis, I have receding gums that will need to be fixed soon, at least five cavities (or teeth that “bothered” her), and that I needed to relearn all of my known and practiced dental hygiene.

At this point, I didn’t want the dentist to come in. I dreaded hearing him reiterate all that was acutely wrong in my mouth. I feared the hours of dental work that would result from my horrible, horrible teeth. I could practically feel the Novocain and hear the squeal of the drill. Tammy patted me on the shoulder and told me she was going to grab the doctor.

I thought about my options. I look to my left where the door stood friendly and inviting. I could make a break for it. I look to my right and realized that this is exactly why I was here. I might as well wait it out and take it like a man.
The doctor walks in. He gently looks around, shakes my hand, and tells me that he’ll see me in six months. “Do you have any questions?” asks the savior of a dentist.

“Yeah. What about my receding gums, five bothersome teeth, and my “quite a bit of gingivitis”?”

The dentist looks directly at me and shrugs his shoulders. “Meh. She’s a temp.”