Just one more reason I'd never venture down to KoP.
Ugh.
Aerial view of the site plans
Labels: bad news, bitching, local news, Philly burbs
In My HeadSaturday, November 03, 2007
So this is what's going to take the place of the now-defunct Valley Forge Country Club that is bordered by 422, North Gulph Road, and 202.
Just one more reason I'd never venture down to KoP.
Ugh.
Aerial view of the site plans
Just one more reason I'd never venture down to KoP.
Ugh.
Aerial view of the site plans
Posted by Lori at 11/03/2007 02:28:00 PM
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Friday, January 05, 2007
I got a fortune cookie on 12/19 whose fortune read: Be prepared to modify your plans.
Boy, was that right...I lost my job today.
Happy new year.
Boy, was that right...I lost my job today.
Happy new year.
Posted by Lori at 1/05/2007 03:15:00 PM
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Monday, September 11, 2006
I'll admit it: I was a few minutes late to work that morning. Walking across the parking lot to my office building, I stared up at the sky, which was bright blue, cloudless and still. It was a perfect late summer day. I wished I'd called out sick that day. It was just too beautiful to be cooped up inside.
I entered one of the elevators with another woman who had a cell phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. She was listening intently to whomever was on the other end of the line, occasionally inserting a gasp or a murmured "Oh my god." I rolled my eyes.
I had just sat down at my desk and taken my telephone off the auto-answer setting when it rang. The caller ID displayed my parents' phone number.
"Lori? Are you at work? Have you turned on the television?" My mother was so breathless I could hardly understand her.
I responded, "Of course I'm at work--you just called me here! Slow down. What are you talking about?"
"A plane hit the World Trade Center...I'm watching it now on Good Morning America...oh my god, it's terrible!" she babbled. I assumed she meant a small prop plane. Hmmm. There must have been some kind of awful accident, which was a shame...but hey, life goes on.
She kept me on the phone for over ten minutes, giving me a play-by-play of what was happening. I kept trying to log on to MSNBC or CNN to see it for myself, but those sites were totally locked up.
Finally, around 9 a.m., I told her that I'd call her back in a minute. Our friend Phil lived and worked in Manhattan, and I figured I'd call him to see what was up. But before I had a chance to even dial his number, I heard a scream from one of the sales rep's offices at the far end of our suite.
Another plane--a jet--had hit the second tower. Immediately, all business ceased in the office. We gathered around the radio of a senior sales rep and listened to the news broadcast. Two or three of my coworkers kept whispering the same word, over and over again: terrorism. It must be.
I glanced over at my friend Christina, who was pale and visibly shaken, moreso than the rest of us. I approached her and asked her if she was okay.
Her eyes were glassy as she answered, "My mother might be in one of the towers this morning."
"What? Does she work there?" I asked, grabbing her hand.
Christina nodded. "Kind of. My mother lives in New York. She has her own dry cleaning delivery service and she has a lot of clients at the World Trade Center. I know that she's supposed to be there this morning--she stops there every morning to pick up and drop off people's clothes."
"Have you been able to get a hold of her?"
"No," she whispered. "All the lines are busy. I just can't get through to her cell phone." Her lower lip trembled and a single tear wound its way down her cheek.
Closing my eyes, I tried desperately to envision Christina's mother, a woman I'd never met before, alive and well and safe. When I opened my eyes, Christina was back at her desk, crumpled over like a forlorn ragdoll.
I returned to my desk and decided to call Phil. Of course, the entire telephone system was down in New York. I thought about my best friend, who was scheduled to fly home from a business trip in Orlando that morning.
I spent the next thirty minutes watching live webcasts on MSNBC and CNN and talking to Brian on the phone. We'd just gotten engaged ten days ago. The entire situation seemed unreal. Then the latest breaking news appeared on my monitor: the Pentagon was on fire. The White House was being evacuated. The Washington Mall was on fire. The stock exchange was closed. Airports around the country were shutting down. This must be the end of the world, I thought.
My phone rang again. It was my friend who was in Orlando for a business trip. She told me that she and her coworkers were going to rent a car and drive home to Philadelphia, since the airports were shut down.
I trotted back to the sales rep's office to listen to KYW. By this point, speculation was flying around the room. Were we at war now? With whom? Was this another act of domestic terrorism, like the Oklahoma City bombing?
Shortly after that, we watched in horror as the first tower, and then the second tower, collapsed. The vice president of our office announced that we were free to go home for the remainder of the day and be with our families.
I looked over at Christina and my heart ached for her. She had no family to go home to--her father had died within the last year, and she still had not heard from her mother. I walked over to her desk and asked her what she planned to do. She replied that she was not going to leave the office until she got a hold of her mother.
"I'll stay with you," I volunteered. I couldn't leave her alone in an empty office, waiting to hear about her mother's fate. Everyone else left as Christina and I sat together at her desk, watching the chaos unfold on CNN's website. Another plane was reported down in a field in Pennsylvania. Other than Christina's occasional shaky breaths, we passed an hour in silence.
Shortly before noon, Christina's telephone rang. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to answer it. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the receiver and picked it up, not even daring to say hello.
I was greeted by a torrent of frantic, jumbled English and Greek. It was Christina's mother. She had been delivering dry cleaning to a client in the second tower when the first plane hit. She told me that everyone thought it was either a bomb or an earthquake. The floor that she was on began evacuating almost immediately, and it was a damn good thing. Ten minutes later, the second plane hit her building, and she would have been trapped on the floors above the plane had she not started down the stairs just then.
She passed many people in the stairwell who could not continue. She tried to encourage people to keep going, but they simply refused and sat down. They were too tired or too out of shape to do it. Sprinklers were spraying water all over the place, drenching everyone. Then the building lost power.
In all, she climbed down sixty-some flights of stairs, and spent over an hour getting out of the building and onto the street. Once outside, she watched as people began jumping out of windows from the ninetieth floor (or higher!) of the towers. She decided to head home on foot, and was standing mid-span on the Brooklyn Bridge when the first tower collapsed.
I handed the telephone to Christina, who spoke to her mother for a few minutes before being disconnected. I stayed with Christina for another half-hour, just to make sure she was okay to drive herself back to her apartment. Then I went home.
For the rest of my life, I know that I will no longer be able to look at a perfect late summer/early autumn sky without thinking about all the death and the horror that took place that day.
I entered one of the elevators with another woman who had a cell phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. She was listening intently to whomever was on the other end of the line, occasionally inserting a gasp or a murmured "Oh my god." I rolled my eyes.
I had just sat down at my desk and taken my telephone off the auto-answer setting when it rang. The caller ID displayed my parents' phone number.
"Lori? Are you at work? Have you turned on the television?" My mother was so breathless I could hardly understand her.
I responded, "Of course I'm at work--you just called me here! Slow down. What are you talking about?"
"A plane hit the World Trade Center...I'm watching it now on Good Morning America...oh my god, it's terrible!" she babbled. I assumed she meant a small prop plane. Hmmm. There must have been some kind of awful accident, which was a shame...but hey, life goes on.
She kept me on the phone for over ten minutes, giving me a play-by-play of what was happening. I kept trying to log on to MSNBC or CNN to see it for myself, but those sites were totally locked up.
Finally, around 9 a.m., I told her that I'd call her back in a minute. Our friend Phil lived and worked in Manhattan, and I figured I'd call him to see what was up. But before I had a chance to even dial his number, I heard a scream from one of the sales rep's offices at the far end of our suite.
Another plane--a jet--had hit the second tower. Immediately, all business ceased in the office. We gathered around the radio of a senior sales rep and listened to the news broadcast. Two or three of my coworkers kept whispering the same word, over and over again: terrorism. It must be.
I glanced over at my friend Christina, who was pale and visibly shaken, moreso than the rest of us. I approached her and asked her if she was okay.
Her eyes were glassy as she answered, "My mother might be in one of the towers this morning."
"What? Does she work there?" I asked, grabbing her hand.
Christina nodded. "Kind of. My mother lives in New York. She has her own dry cleaning delivery service and she has a lot of clients at the World Trade Center. I know that she's supposed to be there this morning--she stops there every morning to pick up and drop off people's clothes."
"Have you been able to get a hold of her?"
"No," she whispered. "All the lines are busy. I just can't get through to her cell phone." Her lower lip trembled and a single tear wound its way down her cheek.
Closing my eyes, I tried desperately to envision Christina's mother, a woman I'd never met before, alive and well and safe. When I opened my eyes, Christina was back at her desk, crumpled over like a forlorn ragdoll.
I returned to my desk and decided to call Phil. Of course, the entire telephone system was down in New York. I thought about my best friend, who was scheduled to fly home from a business trip in Orlando that morning.
I spent the next thirty minutes watching live webcasts on MSNBC and CNN and talking to Brian on the phone. We'd just gotten engaged ten days ago. The entire situation seemed unreal. Then the latest breaking news appeared on my monitor: the Pentagon was on fire. The White House was being evacuated. The Washington Mall was on fire. The stock exchange was closed. Airports around the country were shutting down. This must be the end of the world, I thought.
My phone rang again. It was my friend who was in Orlando for a business trip. She told me that she and her coworkers were going to rent a car and drive home to Philadelphia, since the airports were shut down.
I trotted back to the sales rep's office to listen to KYW. By this point, speculation was flying around the room. Were we at war now? With whom? Was this another act of domestic terrorism, like the Oklahoma City bombing?
Shortly after that, we watched in horror as the first tower, and then the second tower, collapsed. The vice president of our office announced that we were free to go home for the remainder of the day and be with our families.
I looked over at Christina and my heart ached for her. She had no family to go home to--her father had died within the last year, and she still had not heard from her mother. I walked over to her desk and asked her what she planned to do. She replied that she was not going to leave the office until she got a hold of her mother.
"I'll stay with you," I volunteered. I couldn't leave her alone in an empty office, waiting to hear about her mother's fate. Everyone else left as Christina and I sat together at her desk, watching the chaos unfold on CNN's website. Another plane was reported down in a field in Pennsylvania. Other than Christina's occasional shaky breaths, we passed an hour in silence.
Shortly before noon, Christina's telephone rang. Her eyes widened, but she made no move to answer it. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the receiver and picked it up, not even daring to say hello.
I was greeted by a torrent of frantic, jumbled English and Greek. It was Christina's mother. She had been delivering dry cleaning to a client in the second tower when the first plane hit. She told me that everyone thought it was either a bomb or an earthquake. The floor that she was on began evacuating almost immediately, and it was a damn good thing. Ten minutes later, the second plane hit her building, and she would have been trapped on the floors above the plane had she not started down the stairs just then.
She passed many people in the stairwell who could not continue. She tried to encourage people to keep going, but they simply refused and sat down. They were too tired or too out of shape to do it. Sprinklers were spraying water all over the place, drenching everyone. Then the building lost power.
In all, she climbed down sixty-some flights of stairs, and spent over an hour getting out of the building and onto the street. Once outside, she watched as people began jumping out of windows from the ninetieth floor (or higher!) of the towers. She decided to head home on foot, and was standing mid-span on the Brooklyn Bridge when the first tower collapsed.
I handed the telephone to Christina, who spoke to her mother for a few minutes before being disconnected. I stayed with Christina for another half-hour, just to make sure she was okay to drive herself back to her apartment. Then I went home.
For the rest of my life, I know that I will no longer be able to look at a perfect late summer/early autumn sky without thinking about all the death and the horror that took place that day.
Labels: bad news, family, friends, life events, memories, scary, work, writing
Posted by Lori at 9/11/2006 11:10:00 AM
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Monday, September 04, 2006
Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin Killed by Stingray.
I am surprised by how upset I am to hear this.
I used to watch his show all the time, back in the day. Was convinced that he'd eventually be killed by a venomous snake.
I haven't seen the show in years. But I actually gasped and kinda clutched my chest when I saw this headline.
Man. That just sucks.
ETA: I really had no clue that one could be killed by a stingray. Wow. I've swum with wild stingrays several times (in Aruba and St. Augustine, FL). Danger, danger, indeed.
I am surprised by how upset I am to hear this.
I used to watch his show all the time, back in the day. Was convinced that he'd eventually be killed by a venomous snake.
I haven't seen the show in years. But I actually gasped and kinda clutched my chest when I saw this headline.
Man. That just sucks.
ETA: I really had no clue that one could be killed by a stingray. Wow. I've swum with wild stingrays several times (in Aruba and St. Augustine, FL). Danger, danger, indeed.
Labels: bad news, celebrities
Posted by Lori at 9/04/2006 02:48:00 AM
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Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Shine on.
Labels: bad news, celebrities, music
Posted by Lori at 7/11/2006 11:01:00 AM
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Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Posted by Lori at 5/10/2006 08:47:00 AM
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Tuesday, May 09, 2006
The homicide rate in the city of Philadelphia in 2006 has reached 125. That comes out to almost one murder for every day of the year so far. If you were to turn on any of the major local news networks at any given time in this area, the big story always concerns how to reduce the crime rate in the city.
What do I think is the first step in stopping the cycle of violence and crime in Philadelphia?
Birth control. Young, uneducated women must stop having babies; otherwise, the cycle of welfare, drugs, crime, and violence will never end.
Think about it. That's where it all begins. Most young girls who get pregnant either stop their education at high school graduation or drop out altogether to have babies. In doing this, they have generally rendered themselves unqualified to land a skilled job. Many young mothers are raising their children without financial, physical, or emotional help from the father. Instead, they depend on public assistance and/or profits from criminal activities. When a child is raised in this type of environment, how do you think that child will end up? The cycle will continue. Sure, there may be a few who escape that life relatively unscathed (I sure as hell hope so), but I think for the most part, the same story will play itself out over and over again.
Why are young women having babies in the first place? Because they think that a child will allow them to experience unconditional love. Probably because their own mothers were young and uneducated when they had them, too. Maybe they truly don't understand the concept of birth control, and they don't know that a baby is a result of inserting Tab A into Slot B. Perhaps it's peer pressure: that's what they think they should do, because all their girlfriends and sisters and cousins are doing it. Or maybe they're just being careless. As someone who understood from a very young age that having a kid as a teenager or without a serious and lasting commitment from my partner would screw up not only my own life, but the kid's life too, I honestly don't know why anyone would choose to make a baby when the odds are so obviously stacked again her.
Birth control is the clear starting point to reduce the murder rate. It will not be effective immediately, but in the long run, I can't help but think it would change life in Philadelphia for the better. People like my parents, who believe birth control and premarital sex are sins, should pull their heads out of the sand and take a whiff of the real world: these kids are having sex, and nothing will prevent them or stop them from doing it. Further, I would venture to say that most teenagers who are having babies aren't benefitting from secure parenting themselves, so they're not getting good information or learning good decision-making skills at home.
My fervent wish is that someday, in the very near future, the Philadelphia public school system will make condoms and other forms of birth control available to preteens and teenagers. Educate them about anatomy and sex. Give these kids access to healthcare professionals who will answer their questions honestly and without judgment.
I completely agree that abstinence is the only 100% guaranteed way to avoid pregnancy, but to most young people, that is just not an option. Period.
/rant
Labels: bad news, deep thoughts, health, local news, parenting, Philadelphia, scary, sex
Posted by Lori at 5/09/2006 01:39:00 PM
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Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Well, I haven't posted here in a week, and it feels like it's been a month, honestly.
My grandfather (mom's dad) had a massive double stroke last Wednesday and died on Friday night at the hospital. It has been a very exhausting week.
I think I'm still in a bit of shock. My grandpa had been pretty healthy and perfectly independent. He moved in with my aunt six years ago, but other than that, he still drove, still did his own laundry, and at age 82, was still mentally as sharp as a tack.
No one is quite sure how or exactly when the strokes happened. He was alone at home, doing laundry. My uncle came home from work around 5 p.m. and thought my grandfather was sleeping, because he was in his chair in front of the TV, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his belly, eyes closed, head upright. So my uncle quietly tiptoed around him, trying not to disturb him.
About ten minutes later, my aunt got home from her job and tried to wake him. He didn't respond, and it was only then that she noticed his hands had turned blue.
They called 911 and he was admitted to the ER, where he had a CAT scan of his brain that showed the double stroke. I got to the hospital at about 8:30 that night. He was moved to a private room around midnight. My cousins and I stayed until 2 a.m. in his room, holding his hand and talking to him, even though he never regained consciousness.
The next morning, the doctor called to tell my mother that Grandpa's breathing had become agonal, which typically means that death is imminent. We rushed to the hospital again and stayed for several hours, but his condition neither improved or worsened, so we all went home to get some food and sleep.
We went back to the hospital around 6 p.m. Everyone but me left at 8 p.m. I spend a few hours alone with him, for which I am ever so grateful. I sat next to his bed, held his icy-cold hand (he had no circulation in his left arm), and told him not to be afraid, that we loved him and believed that he loved us too, and to do whatever he needed to do and that we'd all be okay.
I went to work on Friday morning and got a call from my mom around noon. He had developed a high fever -- 104 degrees -- and the doctors believed that he was bleeding into his brain. I left work and went straight to the hospital. His breathing was not nearly as labored as it had been, but his face was beet-red from his temperature. The stroke had affected his hypothalamus, which is the organ that regulates body temp.
By 6 p.m., his fever was above 106 degrees, and his breathing was down to about ten breaths per minute, which is half the normal respiration rate. We knew he would die that night. And he did, at exactly 11:15 p.m., while I held his hand and my mom and uncles surrounded him.
His death was extremely peaceful. We watched his heart rate on the monitor slowly descend until it flatlined and saw him take his last breath. I am so, so glad that I was there for it. I needed to see it. And my mother needed me. Everyone else left shortly afterwards, but my mother and I waited for the house physician to stop by his room to officially pronounce him dead.
The weekend was a flurry of activity: picking out his burial outfit, making the funeral arrangements, writing his obituary, picking out readings for the Mass, booking the restaurant for the luncheon following the burial, and getting the word out to the extended family about his death.
I still can't believe it.
My grandfather (mom's dad) had a massive double stroke last Wednesday and died on Friday night at the hospital. It has been a very exhausting week.
I think I'm still in a bit of shock. My grandpa had been pretty healthy and perfectly independent. He moved in with my aunt six years ago, but other than that, he still drove, still did his own laundry, and at age 82, was still mentally as sharp as a tack.
No one is quite sure how or exactly when the strokes happened. He was alone at home, doing laundry. My uncle came home from work around 5 p.m. and thought my grandfather was sleeping, because he was in his chair in front of the TV, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded over his belly, eyes closed, head upright. So my uncle quietly tiptoed around him, trying not to disturb him.
About ten minutes later, my aunt got home from her job and tried to wake him. He didn't respond, and it was only then that she noticed his hands had turned blue.
They called 911 and he was admitted to the ER, where he had a CAT scan of his brain that showed the double stroke. I got to the hospital at about 8:30 that night. He was moved to a private room around midnight. My cousins and I stayed until 2 a.m. in his room, holding his hand and talking to him, even though he never regained consciousness.
The next morning, the doctor called to tell my mother that Grandpa's breathing had become agonal, which typically means that death is imminent. We rushed to the hospital again and stayed for several hours, but his condition neither improved or worsened, so we all went home to get some food and sleep.
We went back to the hospital around 6 p.m. Everyone but me left at 8 p.m. I spend a few hours alone with him, for which I am ever so grateful. I sat next to his bed, held his icy-cold hand (he had no circulation in his left arm), and told him not to be afraid, that we loved him and believed that he loved us too, and to do whatever he needed to do and that we'd all be okay.
I went to work on Friday morning and got a call from my mom around noon. He had developed a high fever -- 104 degrees -- and the doctors believed that he was bleeding into his brain. I left work and went straight to the hospital. His breathing was not nearly as labored as it had been, but his face was beet-red from his temperature. The stroke had affected his hypothalamus, which is the organ that regulates body temp.
By 6 p.m., his fever was above 106 degrees, and his breathing was down to about ten breaths per minute, which is half the normal respiration rate. We knew he would die that night. And he did, at exactly 11:15 p.m., while I held his hand and my mom and uncles surrounded him.
His death was extremely peaceful. We watched his heart rate on the monitor slowly descend until it flatlined and saw him take his last breath. I am so, so glad that I was there for it. I needed to see it. And my mother needed me. Everyone else left shortly afterwards, but my mother and I waited for the house physician to stop by his room to officially pronounce him dead.
The weekend was a flurry of activity: picking out his burial outfit, making the funeral arrangements, writing his obituary, picking out readings for the Mass, booking the restaurant for the luncheon following the burial, and getting the word out to the extended family about his death.
I still can't believe it.
Posted by Lori at 4/12/2006 11:30:00 AM
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Friday, February 17, 2006
Well, here I am, sick again. This winter has been horrendous.
Let's see: I came down with strep throat two days before New Year's eve, which sucked. Now I am fighting some kind of upper respiratory infection, with sinusitis (I suspect) along for the ride. I got a week's worth of Levaquin from my doctor yesterday and have been blowing some extremely nasty stuff out of my head ever since I started it last night.
However, this antibiotic is not without side effects, the most noticeable of which is insomnia. I took the first pill, along with 2 Aleve, last night around 8 p.m. I got into bed at 8:15, and had the lights out by 9 p.m. But I didn't fall asleep until well after 11 p.m. Then I kept waking up frequently, and it took seemingly forever to fall back asleep each time.
Finally, I awoke at 3:30 a.m. because my throat was so sore and sandpaper-dry. I was practically in tears from the pain. And Brian's snoring was working my last damn nerve. I slipped out of bed, headed down to the kitchen, and ate a few spoonfuls of applesauce, to coat my empty stomach a little bit. Then I took 2 extra-strength Tylenol, some Sudafed, and guaifenisin, which is an expectorant.
By this time, I was wide awake. I considered trying to stay awake until it was time to get ready for work, but knew that probably wasn't a good idea--I'd hit a major 3 p.m. slump if I tried it. So I got settled under a blanket on the sofa in our living room and turned on the TV. Wound up watching the Olympic men's figure skating event until close to 5 a.m. Finally, I felt tired enough to try to sleep again.
The next thing I knew, it was 6:45 and Brian was standing over me, tapping me and telling me to get up (note to potential future second husbands, i.e., Joaquin: NEVER tap me. Especially not on the head, and especially not when I'm sound asleep. You might end up with your ass in a sling.).
After a lovely, long, steaming hot shower (undoubtedly the best part of my day), I was putting in my contact lenses and the right lens ripped almost in half on my fingertip. Since I only had one pair of lenses, I had no choice but to wear my glasses. I HATE MY GLASSES.
Brian and I carpooled to work today, and on the ride, I discovered that I had lost my voice. Which didn't bother me much, since I can barely conduct any meaningful or enjoyable conversations before 10 a.m.
As I was working at my desk, I felt my nose begin to run. Annoyed, I grabbed a tissue and wiped it, and was horrified when I saw what appeared to be about a pint of bright red blood on the tissue. I never, ever get nosebleeds. Ever. But since this morning, I've had three episodes of profuse bleeding.
And finally, since the barometer is currently hovering just over 30 inches, I have a screaming sinus headache. More of a face-ache, really...it feels like someone in five-inch spiked heels is standing on my face, right over my cheekbones, and occasionally shifting to my browbones.
So, as you can see, I'm batting a thousand today.
I'm so pissed. Another weekend down the drain. I had a lot of stuff on the roster, too. Bummer.
Hope your Friday's better than mine.
Let's see: I came down with strep throat two days before New Year's eve, which sucked. Now I am fighting some kind of upper respiratory infection, with sinusitis (I suspect) along for the ride. I got a week's worth of Levaquin from my doctor yesterday and have been blowing some extremely nasty stuff out of my head ever since I started it last night.
However, this antibiotic is not without side effects, the most noticeable of which is insomnia. I took the first pill, along with 2 Aleve, last night around 8 p.m. I got into bed at 8:15, and had the lights out by 9 p.m. But I didn't fall asleep until well after 11 p.m. Then I kept waking up frequently, and it took seemingly forever to fall back asleep each time.
Finally, I awoke at 3:30 a.m. because my throat was so sore and sandpaper-dry. I was practically in tears from the pain. And Brian's snoring was working my last damn nerve. I slipped out of bed, headed down to the kitchen, and ate a few spoonfuls of applesauce, to coat my empty stomach a little bit. Then I took 2 extra-strength Tylenol, some Sudafed, and guaifenisin, which is an expectorant.
By this time, I was wide awake. I considered trying to stay awake until it was time to get ready for work, but knew that probably wasn't a good idea--I'd hit a major 3 p.m. slump if I tried it. So I got settled under a blanket on the sofa in our living room and turned on the TV. Wound up watching the Olympic men's figure skating event until close to 5 a.m. Finally, I felt tired enough to try to sleep again.
The next thing I knew, it was 6:45 and Brian was standing over me, tapping me and telling me to get up (note to potential future second husbands, i.e., Joaquin: NEVER tap me. Especially not on the head, and especially not when I'm sound asleep. You might end up with your ass in a sling.).
After a lovely, long, steaming hot shower (undoubtedly the best part of my day), I was putting in my contact lenses and the right lens ripped almost in half on my fingertip. Since I only had one pair of lenses, I had no choice but to wear my glasses. I HATE MY GLASSES.
Brian and I carpooled to work today, and on the ride, I discovered that I had lost my voice. Which didn't bother me much, since I can barely conduct any meaningful or enjoyable conversations before 10 a.m.
As I was working at my desk, I felt my nose begin to run. Annoyed, I grabbed a tissue and wiped it, and was horrified when I saw what appeared to be about a pint of bright red blood on the tissue. I never, ever get nosebleeds. Ever. But since this morning, I've had three episodes of profuse bleeding.
And finally, since the barometer is currently hovering just over 30 inches, I have a screaming sinus headache. More of a face-ache, really...it feels like someone in five-inch spiked heels is standing on my face, right over my cheekbones, and occasionally shifting to my browbones.
So, as you can see, I'm batting a thousand today.
I'm so pissed. Another weekend down the drain. I had a lot of stuff on the roster, too. Bummer.
Hope your Friday's better than mine.
Posted by Lori at 2/17/2006 03:20:00 PM
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Friday, January 13, 2006
As you probably know, this is the book du jour. So many people I know have read it and raved about it. Between hearing my friends' reviews and blogging, I have a general idea of its storyline. Basically, the author was a severe alcoholic and crack addict at age 23, and this book is about his experience in an inpatient rehab (although it just came out this week that most of the story is pure fiction, which has outraged a whole bunch of readers).
I was at Target last night and happened to pass by a display that featured the book. Curiosity overtook me, so I stopped in the aisle, picked it up, and started flipping through the pages. I read several parts of it for about ten minutes. Then I had to put it down and walk away. I seriously thought I was going to be sick, or maybe even pass out, right in the middle of Target.
From mid-1997 until early 2000, I was in a relationship with an alcoholic/crack addict. He was a functioning addict, meaning he didn't live on the street and that, most of the time, he held down a good job. He worked as a dialysis technician and was quite serious about it. He really cared about his patients, and often worked overtime -- not just for the extra cash, but because he loved his job so much. In fact, unless you were part of his inner circle, it was nearly impossible to detect the extent and severity of his problem. He was likeable. Smart. Funny. Good-looking enough to be a model, or so many people said. And charming, which is a trait shared by most addicts. His charm was one of the things that kept me around for three years. I was wildly and blindly in love with him.
Strangely enough, we had known each other as children. We were in the same class from kindergarten through fourth grade, until I moved out of Upper Darby to Broomall. When we met as adults, I had no idea that he had a drug problem of any kind. I guess I was just naive, but he hid it so well. I learned later that he seemed to follow a pattern in his addiction: he would go through periods of extreme self-denial, followed by a brief, intense drug/booze binge. Lather, rinse, and repeat.
We were dating for several months when one night, I went over to his house to go out to dinner, and he was nowhere to be found. Cell phones were still a novelty back then, so I beeped him several times but he never called me back. I waited for about an hour, making conversation with his mother and sister, but he never showed up. So I went home, infuriated. Two days later, he called me, strangely unapologetic for his behavior. When I'd asked him what happened, he didn't offer any explanations, just told me he had been "out and about." This phrase came to signify his periods of using.
Silly, stupid me. I overlooked it and decided to forgive him. Our relationship continued.
I could probably pen my very own novel about my experiences with him. While we were together, he was jailed twice for drunk driving (and the second trip resulted in a tattoo of my name on his lower leg), rehabbed once, and job-hopped from one dialysis clinic to another (with a brief stint working for a tree service in between). He didn't always smoke crack. It seemed that he only got the urge to use after he'd had a few drinks. So as long as he wasn't drinking, he wasn't using. But when he did drink, he'd literally disappear like smoke, only to resurface two or three days later...wallet empty, eyes bloodshot, fingertips burnt from clutching a crackpipe, lips singed from sucking on it, his skin sallow and ashy. He'd sleep for nearly a full 24 hours after he returned from bingeing. He stole various items from his family to sell for drugs. I missed family functions, college classes, and double-dates with my friends because I would sit on the side of his bed, at once both angry and despairing, watching him as he slept off his binge.
He was so beautiful, though. I couldn't walk away. When things were good with him and with us, they were great...beyond any expectation I ever had. We were kindred spirits, really. It was amazing to reminisce about early elementary school with him, because he knew and could remember almost all of the same things that I did. Of course, it didn't hurt that the sex we had was out of this world...almost like a religious experience every single time.
I thought that if I loved him enough, and was a good influence on him, he would stop. I didn't realize back then that addicts don't stop unless they're ready. Hitting bottom, and all that jazz. I knew that, despite going through rehab and losing jobs, he wasn't really ready to quit, because whenever I tried to get him to talk about his addiction, he'd clam up. He refused to talk about it. The closest he ever came was while we were watching Jungle Fever, during the scene that vividly shows Samuel L. Jackson's charcacter getting high on crack. I turned to look at David, and he was silently weeping, shoulders hitching. He told me that crack produced the sweetest, most magical high ever...better than sex, better than hitting the lottery, better than anything I could ever conjure up in my imagination, he told me. He said it smelled sickeningly sweet as it burned away, almost cloying. That he didn't care about anything when he was using, even though part of him knew it was wrong. But then he fell silent. He never mentioned it again.
Anyway, by early summer 2000, I'd had had enough. Being in a relationship with an addict is emotionally and physically exhausting. I came to the realization that nothing I did could help him, so I ended it, with all the drama and tears you might imagine. Shortly thereafter, I met my husband.
Though our relationship was over, David and I still spoke occasionally by phone. It's always been hard for me to completely cut ties with someone with whom I had such a history. Even after what he put me through, I don't hold a grudge.That's just me. After I got married, our conversations became less frequent. The last time I spoke to him was on his birthday -- August 24. I called him to say hello. He wasn't working at the time, and was kind of sketchy about what he'd been up to lately, so I suspect that he had gone back to using. It breaks my heart but there's nothing I can do about it. I just tried contacting him during the holidays, and his cell phone had been shut off.
He's either dead or in jail. I can't be sure. He would probably prefer the former. I remember him telling me that day we watched Jungle Fever how, during one of his binges, he wanted to smoke enough crack so that his heart would just explode, and he would be put out of his misery, and his family would not have to worry about him anymore.
So this is one book that I don't think I'll be reading anytime soon.
I was at Target last night and happened to pass by a display that featured the book. Curiosity overtook me, so I stopped in the aisle, picked it up, and started flipping through the pages. I read several parts of it for about ten minutes. Then I had to put it down and walk away. I seriously thought I was going to be sick, or maybe even pass out, right in the middle of Target.
From mid-1997 until early 2000, I was in a relationship with an alcoholic/crack addict. He was a functioning addict, meaning he didn't live on the street and that, most of the time, he held down a good job. He worked as a dialysis technician and was quite serious about it. He really cared about his patients, and often worked overtime -- not just for the extra cash, but because he loved his job so much. In fact, unless you were part of his inner circle, it was nearly impossible to detect the extent and severity of his problem. He was likeable. Smart. Funny. Good-looking enough to be a model, or so many people said. And charming, which is a trait shared by most addicts. His charm was one of the things that kept me around for three years. I was wildly and blindly in love with him.
Strangely enough, we had known each other as children. We were in the same class from kindergarten through fourth grade, until I moved out of Upper Darby to Broomall. When we met as adults, I had no idea that he had a drug problem of any kind. I guess I was just naive, but he hid it so well. I learned later that he seemed to follow a pattern in his addiction: he would go through periods of extreme self-denial, followed by a brief, intense drug/booze binge. Lather, rinse, and repeat.
We were dating for several months when one night, I went over to his house to go out to dinner, and he was nowhere to be found. Cell phones were still a novelty back then, so I beeped him several times but he never called me back. I waited for about an hour, making conversation with his mother and sister, but he never showed up. So I went home, infuriated. Two days later, he called me, strangely unapologetic for his behavior. When I'd asked him what happened, he didn't offer any explanations, just told me he had been "out and about." This phrase came to signify his periods of using.
Silly, stupid me. I overlooked it and decided to forgive him. Our relationship continued.
I could probably pen my very own novel about my experiences with him. While we were together, he was jailed twice for drunk driving (and the second trip resulted in a tattoo of my name on his lower leg), rehabbed once, and job-hopped from one dialysis clinic to another (with a brief stint working for a tree service in between). He didn't always smoke crack. It seemed that he only got the urge to use after he'd had a few drinks. So as long as he wasn't drinking, he wasn't using. But when he did drink, he'd literally disappear like smoke, only to resurface two or three days later...wallet empty, eyes bloodshot, fingertips burnt from clutching a crackpipe, lips singed from sucking on it, his skin sallow and ashy. He'd sleep for nearly a full 24 hours after he returned from bingeing. He stole various items from his family to sell for drugs. I missed family functions, college classes, and double-dates with my friends because I would sit on the side of his bed, at once both angry and despairing, watching him as he slept off his binge.
He was so beautiful, though. I couldn't walk away. When things were good with him and with us, they were great...beyond any expectation I ever had. We were kindred spirits, really. It was amazing to reminisce about early elementary school with him, because he knew and could remember almost all of the same things that I did. Of course, it didn't hurt that the sex we had was out of this world...almost like a religious experience every single time.
I thought that if I loved him enough, and was a good influence on him, he would stop. I didn't realize back then that addicts don't stop unless they're ready. Hitting bottom, and all that jazz. I knew that, despite going through rehab and losing jobs, he wasn't really ready to quit, because whenever I tried to get him to talk about his addiction, he'd clam up. He refused to talk about it. The closest he ever came was while we were watching Jungle Fever, during the scene that vividly shows Samuel L. Jackson's charcacter getting high on crack. I turned to look at David, and he was silently weeping, shoulders hitching. He told me that crack produced the sweetest, most magical high ever...better than sex, better than hitting the lottery, better than anything I could ever conjure up in my imagination, he told me. He said it smelled sickeningly sweet as it burned away, almost cloying. That he didn't care about anything when he was using, even though part of him knew it was wrong. But then he fell silent. He never mentioned it again.
Anyway, by early summer 2000, I'd had had enough. Being in a relationship with an addict is emotionally and physically exhausting. I came to the realization that nothing I did could help him, so I ended it, with all the drama and tears you might imagine. Shortly thereafter, I met my husband.
Though our relationship was over, David and I still spoke occasionally by phone. It's always been hard for me to completely cut ties with someone with whom I had such a history. Even after what he put me through, I don't hold a grudge.That's just me. After I got married, our conversations became less frequent. The last time I spoke to him was on his birthday -- August 24. I called him to say hello. He wasn't working at the time, and was kind of sketchy about what he'd been up to lately, so I suspect that he had gone back to using. It breaks my heart but there's nothing I can do about it. I just tried contacting him during the holidays, and his cell phone had been shut off.
He's either dead or in jail. I can't be sure. He would probably prefer the former. I remember him telling me that day we watched Jungle Fever how, during one of his binges, he wanted to smoke enough crack so that his heart would just explode, and he would be put out of his misery, and his family would not have to worry about him anymore.
So this is one book that I don't think I'll be reading anytime soon.
Labels: bad news, books, deep thoughts, friends, memories, sex
Posted by Lori at 1/13/2006 03:05:00 PM
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Wednesday, January 04, 2006
This post is not recommended for the easily grossed-out. Read at your own risk. And don't say I didn't warn ya!
2006 will also be the year in which I completely alleviate all my sinus problems.
For the past several months, I have been doing an incredible amount of research on how to stop my suffering of what I believe is chronic sinusitis. I have never been formally diagnosed, but I have a very strong intuition, and I feel confident that chronic sinusitis is my main health problem.
As a smoker, I had had breathing problems for years. My main problem was my permanent stuffiness of the nose as well totally debilitating headaches caused by sinus pressure. When I got these headaches, my life literally came screeching to a halt. I could not tolerate any kind of bright light or loud noise. I felt dizzy, nauseated and exhausted. The only way I knew to stop it was to lie down in a quiet, dark room and go to sleep with the hope that perhaps it would be over upon my awakening.
My former primary care physician diagnosed me with migraines, but after years of taking migraine medication and getting no relief, I started paying more attention to my body. I learned that I am especially vulnerable to headaches from a drop in barometric pressure, which happens frequently before any kind of precipitation: snow, sleet, or rain. My family thinks I am the human Doppler for weather forecasts, because I can accurately predict a storm before it comes...even if it's presently sunny with no clouds in sight. So by the time the barometer dips below 30, I am usually in agony. Also, I felt stuffy ALL the time. I'd blow my nose repeatedly and nothing would come out. So frustrating. It was quite difficult to breathe through my nose at all, really. I quit smoking in July 2001, but my sinus problems continued.
In November 2004, I decided that I'd had enough. I went to an ear/nose/throat surgeon and consulted with him. He tested me for allergies (and I have none, surprisingly) and he recommended endoscopic sinus surgery. I thought about it for....ohhh...about a minute, then consented. During the procedure, he removed several nasal polyps and corrected my deviated septum. He told me afterwards that I should have an easier time breathing through my nose, and that my headaches would be less frequent, or at least less agonizing.
For a while after my surgery, things were better. But then, my headaches returned and were not any less painful than before. Since then, I have been researching sinusitis and ways to treat and prevent it. I believe that I had a sinus infection at some point after my surgery when I came down with a cold, but never treated it, so it decided to settle in and stay.
I am currently taking an OTC nasal decongestant (Sudafed) once or twice a day. I recently began taking Mucinex, which thins out the gunk, and I have found it extremely helpful. I set up an ultrasonic warm mist humidifier in our bedroom to run all night while I sleep. And lastly, just a few days ago, I began performing a sinus lavage (irrigation) using a Neti pot and an isotonic saline mixture.
The Neti pot is what I think (hope!) will make the biggest difference. The Neti pot has been used for centuries by Indian yogi to cleanse the nose and sinuses. They're available at health food stores, but I bought the SinuCleanse system at my local CVS drugstore for about $12. It's all-natural and has no side effects or risk of dependency. It can be used as frequently as once every two or three hours, or as little as needed.
The Neti pot resembles Aladdin's lamp. I fill it with lukewarm water and mix in the saline powder until dissolved. The next part is where things get kind of gross: standing over my bathroom sink, I insert the long nozzle (where the genie would come out if it were a magic lamp) into my right nostril, until it forms a seal. Then I bend my head down to look directly at the sink under me. Finally, I tilt my head to the left, still bent, so that my left ear is almost touching my shoulder, and my right ear is directly above it. This is where things start to get a little nasty: gravity then moves the saline solution from the Neti pot into my right nostril, and it all comes gushing out of my left nostril, into the sink.
After the Neti pot is completely emptied, I bring my head back up, remove the nozzle from my right nostril, and gently blow my nose. Then I repeat the procedure in my left nostril. The amount of gunk that comes out amazes me. My nose runs intermittently for a good ten or fifteen minutes after the lavage, and afterwards I feel great! The first time I used it, I admit it felt totally bizarre. I got the sense that I was about to drown! The most important thing is to remember to keep breathing slowly and deeply through the mouth so that you don't choke on the saline solution. It is relaxing once you get the hang of it, though.
ANOTHER GROSS ALERT: The other good thing is that I've been on Levaquin, an antibiotic, to treat my strep throat for the past week. The first couple of days I took it, there was quite a bit of nasty, dark yellow, pudding-like gunk coming out of my nose. In fact, I called my friend PJ, who also knows all too well the agony of sinus issues, and exclaimed, "I had no idea there was enough room in my head for all this crap! Where is it all coming from?" (Aside: I love PJ. I can talk about any health issue and she's never grossed out). So I'm thinking that the antibiotic was also a major player in helping my battle against my chronic sinusitis.
I am going to follow this program once a day for a couple of weeks to see if it makes a difference. At this point, I am willing to try anything.
Kisses!
2006 will also be the year in which I completely alleviate all my sinus problems.
For the past several months, I have been doing an incredible amount of research on how to stop my suffering of what I believe is chronic sinusitis. I have never been formally diagnosed, but I have a very strong intuition, and I feel confident that chronic sinusitis is my main health problem.
As a smoker, I had had breathing problems for years. My main problem was my permanent stuffiness of the nose as well totally debilitating headaches caused by sinus pressure. When I got these headaches, my life literally came screeching to a halt. I could not tolerate any kind of bright light or loud noise. I felt dizzy, nauseated and exhausted. The only way I knew to stop it was to lie down in a quiet, dark room and go to sleep with the hope that perhaps it would be over upon my awakening.
My former primary care physician diagnosed me with migraines, but after years of taking migraine medication and getting no relief, I started paying more attention to my body. I learned that I am especially vulnerable to headaches from a drop in barometric pressure, which happens frequently before any kind of precipitation: snow, sleet, or rain. My family thinks I am the human Doppler for weather forecasts, because I can accurately predict a storm before it comes...even if it's presently sunny with no clouds in sight. So by the time the barometer dips below 30, I am usually in agony. Also, I felt stuffy ALL the time. I'd blow my nose repeatedly and nothing would come out. So frustrating. It was quite difficult to breathe through my nose at all, really. I quit smoking in July 2001, but my sinus problems continued.
In November 2004, I decided that I'd had enough. I went to an ear/nose/throat surgeon and consulted with him. He tested me for allergies (and I have none, surprisingly) and he recommended endoscopic sinus surgery. I thought about it for....ohhh...about a minute, then consented. During the procedure, he removed several nasal polyps and corrected my deviated septum. He told me afterwards that I should have an easier time breathing through my nose, and that my headaches would be less frequent, or at least less agonizing.
For a while after my surgery, things were better. But then, my headaches returned and were not any less painful than before. Since then, I have been researching sinusitis and ways to treat and prevent it. I believe that I had a sinus infection at some point after my surgery when I came down with a cold, but never treated it, so it decided to settle in and stay.
I am currently taking an OTC nasal decongestant (Sudafed) once or twice a day. I recently began taking Mucinex, which thins out the gunk, and I have found it extremely helpful. I set up an ultrasonic warm mist humidifier in our bedroom to run all night while I sleep. And lastly, just a few days ago, I began performing a sinus lavage (irrigation) using a Neti pot and an isotonic saline mixture.
The Neti pot is what I think (hope!) will make the biggest difference. The Neti pot has been used for centuries by Indian yogi to cleanse the nose and sinuses. They're available at health food stores, but I bought the SinuCleanse system at my local CVS drugstore for about $12. It's all-natural and has no side effects or risk of dependency. It can be used as frequently as once every two or three hours, or as little as needed.
The Neti pot resembles Aladdin's lamp. I fill it with lukewarm water and mix in the saline powder until dissolved. The next part is where things get kind of gross: standing over my bathroom sink, I insert the long nozzle (where the genie would come out if it were a magic lamp) into my right nostril, until it forms a seal. Then I bend my head down to look directly at the sink under me. Finally, I tilt my head to the left, still bent, so that my left ear is almost touching my shoulder, and my right ear is directly above it. This is where things start to get a little nasty: gravity then moves the saline solution from the Neti pot into my right nostril, and it all comes gushing out of my left nostril, into the sink.
After the Neti pot is completely emptied, I bring my head back up, remove the nozzle from my right nostril, and gently blow my nose. Then I repeat the procedure in my left nostril. The amount of gunk that comes out amazes me. My nose runs intermittently for a good ten or fifteen minutes after the lavage, and afterwards I feel great! The first time I used it, I admit it felt totally bizarre. I got the sense that I was about to drown! The most important thing is to remember to keep breathing slowly and deeply through the mouth so that you don't choke on the saline solution. It is relaxing once you get the hang of it, though.
ANOTHER GROSS ALERT: The other good thing is that I've been on Levaquin, an antibiotic, to treat my strep throat for the past week. The first couple of days I took it, there was quite a bit of nasty, dark yellow, pudding-like gunk coming out of my nose. In fact, I called my friend PJ, who also knows all too well the agony of sinus issues, and exclaimed, "I had no idea there was enough room in my head for all this crap! Where is it all coming from?" (Aside: I love PJ. I can talk about any health issue and she's never grossed out). So I'm thinking that the antibiotic was also a major player in helping my battle against my chronic sinusitis.
I am going to follow this program once a day for a couple of weeks to see if it makes a difference. At this point, I am willing to try anything.
Kisses!
Posted by Lori at 1/04/2006 10:17:00 AM
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Wednesday, November 16, 2005
I usually don't talk much about local, national, or international news or issues here, but I am compelled to write about the double homicide that occurred this past Sunday morning in a quiet suburb of Lancaster, PA -- which is just a little over 30 minutes' drive from my house. I have been thinking about it almost every other minute since it happened.
I was en route to the supermarket on Sunday afternoon when an Amber Alert interrupted the broadcast of the radio station I was listening to in the car. A 14 year-old was reported abducted from her home following the murder of her parents. The Amber Alert did not give any other details at the time, except for the suspect's vehicle description and license number. I remember being a little shocked about it...the area where this all happened is almost bucolic, right in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country.
Apparently, this 14 year-old (Kara Borden) was secretly seeing 18 year-old David Ludwig, despite her parents' disapproval. Both kids hailed from very Christian families, and both were home-schooled. It appears that they had a physical relationship. From the accounts I've been following online, it appears that she told her parents that she was sleeping over a girlfriend's house on Saturday night, but was actually with him instead.
He dropped her off at her home on Sunday morning at 6 a.m. and left. Then her parents found out she was truly with David, not her girlfriend, so they called him and told him to come back to the house to discuss their relationship. Sometime between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m., David Ludwig shot Mr. and Mrs. Borden each once in the head, grabbed Kara, and took off.
Was it premeditated? I don't know. From his Xanga blog, it appears he was an avid deer hunter. But why would he have brought a firearm into the home of his secret girlfriend's parents?
Did she participate in the killings, or is she a victim of the situation? Who knows. I was reading her Xanga blog yesterday (it has since been shut down) and it appears she was like any other girl in her early teens. From her posts, it seemed that she loved her family, though she alluded to some troubles she'd been going through several times. She also mentioned she'd been grounded once or twice.
I just wish I could figure out what was going through that kid's head when he made the decision to kill her parents. The first thing that popped into my mind upon hearing the news was that this was like a Romeo/Juliet thing, except instead of suicide, Romeo killed the Capulets (I know I'm weird).
Then I started thinking that maybe she is/was pregnant with his child. There was a conversation posted in her MySpace blog between her and an older (18) girlfriend that makes me think something deeper than just a covert relationship was going on between Kara and David.
Of course, all this led me to reminisce about my own teenage years. I myself was having sex at age 14 -- but my boyfriend was also 14, not 18. I don't regret anything I've done, but it strikes me that I could've potentially found myself in the same situation. I used to sneak some of my boyfriends into my bedroom in the middle of the night. I used to lie about my age so that I could talk to older guys. To me, this is all just typical teenage behavior.
Is it realistic to expect teenagers to abstain from sex? I don't think so, though I realize many people feel differently about it. If Kara felt that she didn't have to hide this relationship from her parents, would this tragedy still have happened? I'm not sure. From all accounts, David Ludwig has been painted as a nice, polite, normal 18 year-old kid. What switch was flipped inside his head to cause him to do this?
Maybe we'll never know.
So tragic.
Labels: bad news, deep thoughts, local news, scary, weird
Posted by Lori at 11/16/2005 03:25:00 PM
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