Conversations

Christopher, Mom, and I sat in the waiting room at Mass General
Hospital on Thursday waiting to see Dad after the stint had
successfully been put in place.

Our conversation went all over; The Police in concert, people who
claim they can see angels, how stupid the celebrity magazines are even
though they are like a car accident we can't seem to look away from.
It was a cesspool of intellectual discussion.
Christopher explained domain names to Mom, adding that a lot of people
are naming their kids now according to available domain names. That
way, they can reserve a domain name for their kid if they ever want a
website. Sometimes the kids' names end-up being weird as a result.
I saw a father-to-be in my head, typing in options and finding a name
for his son. I blurted-out, "Aggamemnon-blueboy-rocketface.com is
available, honey! We've got our name!"

Christopher blurted out the family's next temporary inside-joke the
next morning when Mom called to tell him that, even though Dad hasn't
even been in the hospital for 24 hours, he has been released to come
home.
"Jesus," Christopher said, "It's like ordering take-out!"

This morning, Mom, Dad, and I, along with family friends, John and
Donna Loews were sitting on the deck at Scott's End in Cape Cod. While
enjoying a slow breakfast, Dad fiddled with a new toy, a handheld GPS
system.

"It's on central time" he said frowning slightly, "We have a serious problem."
"Dad," I said, "A heart condition is a serious problem, having your
GPS on central time is not."

Traveling is Super Fun!

Brace yourself, or move along, because this is a bitching blog entry.

If you asked me a few days ago what "embargo" meant, I couldn't tell
you. At least, not before cheating and googleing it. I might have
guessed (in my head because I know I would be wrong) "Um, is that
like, um, something that happened after the Boston Tea Party or
something?"

Now I know what it means.

In preparation for going home to Boston last-minute to be home for Dad
while he has his ticker checked-out, I scrambled to find a flight home
that was direct, and not at the peak of the day's heat. I was bringing
Ollie home with me and started making calls to reserve a space for
him.

I called Delta. Yes, there's space on the flight leaving Wednesday
evening. But, the Thursday afternoon back is booked. OK, I'll take the
one in the morning coming back then. OK, there's room for him on that
one. No problem.

So, I make an appointment with Ollie's vet to have him checked and
cleared for departure, as it were. I gasp and try not to cry when I am
billed $75 for a man to look into my dog's ear and give me a signed
piece of paper and claiming it's an official health certificate.

I pack-up and wrangle my friend Will into riding to the airport with
me and taking my car back to the paper and parking it there. He takes
one look at my abnormally large bag and teases me. I have issues - one
of them is not being a streamline packer. Well, I just don't know if
I'm going to want to wear these pant or those on any given day. I'll
admit it, it's a serious problem and a flaw for sure.

Curbside, a man takes Ollie's kennel and places it on his cart. My
abnormally large bag, my dog, and I are off. I approach the check-in
and the bitchy wench behind the counter barks, 'You have a dog with
you!? We have a dog embargo right now, he can't fly!" she struts out
from behind her counter to get closer, "Oh, that kennel is far too
small for him, he can't turn around in that at all, you can't fly with
that!".

Her tone infuriates me. Speaking to as though I'm not only a child,
but a child who abuses her (spoiled rotten) dog.

I explain to her that, gee, that's strange because I've flown with him
a few times before on her airline and there's never been a problem,
and oh, by the way, I reserved a spot for him on your plane just last
night with YOUR company.  (In my What If version of this situation, I
tell her to shove it right before I exaggerate my current situation by
telling her I am rushing home to be with my father before his
quadruple bypass surgery...NO NO! For his heart TRANSPLANT!  Yeah,
THAT's it!)

A second woman asks for my name to look me up in the system.

"I'm not checking in right now, I have to find someone to take my dog"
 I tell Dumb Lady number two. I'm confused as I watched her continue
to check me in, as though I'm going to hand my bags over and hop on to
the plane and leave my dog in a crate in front of HER stupid counter.
Like, oh, I'll just pick him up when I get back 'cause my priority is
definitely checking in my bags right now.

Will turns around and comes back to pick us up. My cell phone rings
and an automated message from Delta informs me that my flight is
delayed an hour and a half. Actually, that's annoying but at the
moment, helpful.

I don't want to burden my friends by asking them to come check on
Oliver three times a day at the apartment. He is super protective of
the house and basically is a giant pain in the ass on his own turf.

Will wants my dog. I mean, he WANTS my dog. He says that instead of
spending the weekend in St. Pete, 3.5 hours away this weekend, he'll
just drive over and back in a day.

Um, no.

I call Libby and she is happy to take him. I scramble home to get a
bag together of crap for him. Bag of dog food, which he probably won't
eat? Check. Treats he will probably turn his nose up at? Check. Fuzzy
bed? Check. Mangled remains of the Boston lobster dog toy? Check.
Confused dog with benedryl in him because he's supposed to be chillin'
on a plane? Check.

I call mom, "I'm probably going to start crying but I'm ok" I preface.
Then, I tell her about the change in things and make fun of myself for
being so attached to my damn dog. As for the flight, we agree it's
best for me to take a cab from Boston home. No problem.

I am pushing it with the time at this point, so I pack the dog into
the car and head over to Libby's. Halfway there the needle on my gas
gage goes from an eighth to empty.

I step in gum as I stand next to the pump to fill in three gallons quickly.

Libby is not home but they've left a door open for me and when I leave
Ollie, I basically throw a treat and run to avoid any opportunity for
panic and sad last minute eye contact suggesting the feeling of utter
anxiety and acknowledgment of abandonment issues.

I am sad. My doggie's not with me.

My dad called. When I find out when I am arriving in Boston, call, he
tells me. He wants to pick me up. Cause that's what I need - my poor
dad to have a heart attack in late-night Boston traffic. I swing back
by the office to pick Will up and we experience a scene from Groundhog
Day by doing this routine all over again.

We pull up curbside and do a Chinese fire drill. He looks at my bag as
I grab an end and assist by car in giving birth to it. "Don't make fun
of my bag" I sneer at him.

I head inside and look at the Delta counter. There is no one on the
entire floor and there is no one behind the counter.

A cricket chirps.

I scamper over and see a man come out, "Oh, please tell me you can
check me in?"  He can. Gate C, he tells me.

I look at the directory, the gate's at the right at the end of the
airport. I book it. Oh, good, I think, as I approach security, there's
no line. I hand the woman my ticket and ID.

"Gate C" she says, "Other end".

Of course it is.   Fortunately, Palm Beach International Airport is
small, so I trek to the other end. I am again the only one in line. I
shed items, take my laptop out of my backpack, and hook my insulin
pump onto my shirt so I can hand over my belt. The security guy sees
the pump, "I'm gonna need a female assist!" he calls to a colleague.

Yes, my insulin pump administers insulin AND explosive fluid. I think
if I upgrade I can get one that will do my taxes, but I'm not sure.
I'll have to look into that.

I am frisked and then sent to where my backpack is now being violated.
Apparently there's a new search procedure which they do from time to
time. They take every...little...thing...out of you bag and run a
small cloth on the end of a wand across it. Each little cloth is put
into a machine.

"Did you buy a ticket last minute?" the guy asks me.

"Um, no, not really," I tell him, although I suppose getting a ticket
the night before can be considered last minute, "I'm just checking in
kind of late".

It is now 8:30 and my flight doesn't leave till nine, but as I watch
him painstakingly pull out every little thing and run his little
Harry Potter wand over it, I have to stifle my chuckling over the
day's events.

On the plane, I am relaxed as we take off. Once in the air, I pull out
my laptop to watch a movie. Then, I remember, my computer melted a few
weeks ago and I lost everything in the retrieval process. Including my
movies. I raise my fists to the sky and shake them above my head (in
my head, of course)  AAAaaarrrrrgh!

I am reminded of one of my favorite childhood books (the fact that
this crape-hanger of a book is one of my favorites is for a post of
some other day), "Alexander and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad
Day".

I think I'll go live in Australia.

No Conclusion

This post does not have any end result. I'm just typing.

Last night I was out with friends in downtown West Palm Beach.
Chillin' with some ice cream, we were approached by a guy who needed
money. He crouched-down next to our table and started in on the
why-I-need-money bit. At least, I think that's what he was talking
about, I couldn't actually hear him. I wasn't going to give him money.
Aside from the transvestite who cornered me in my car at the corner of
Tamarind and Palm Beach Lakes and threw me off with a "Care to offer a
blessing?" approach, I have rarely given money to people who approach
me and ask for it.

I don't know why this is. I do know that the recent Jimmy experience
has not helped my attitude about this topic.

But, Rachel's a nice person and she gave him some money. When he left,
she said something about how a person who has so little pride that
they will go to others for money deserves a hand. It was a very good
point. It's not like I have the slightest idea what it must be like to
not have.

Today on my drive home, I was stopped at a light behind a big truck,
again at the corner of oh-so-safe Tamarind and Palm Beach Lakes. A man
with a bucket approached the truck driver and began chatting with him.
He offered his services to clean his windshield quickly while he
waited for the light to change. The man declined, but gave him some
change.

Now, I don't ask out of rudeness, but rather, just out of curiosity -
why doesn't the man who has the energy to lug around a bucket full of
cleaning supplies walk across the street and ask for a job at the car
wash? I know, there are reasons.

It's just interesting the way some people live. I just wonder if they
choose it whether or not they realize it.

Eeeyore

I'm sitting RIGHT here! In front of you!
Tonight I was watching Matt Lauer's William and Harry interview with
my friend and neighbor Kat. Why? They're cute, 'nough said. I had
finished my chicken potpie and placed the plate on the table in front
of me. I happened to look away from the TV to catch Mr. Smooth
stretching forward and running his tongue along a small pool of gravy
left behind by my meal, "What!?" I said to him, shocked as this is
something he very rarely does, "Are you KIDDIING me!?"

He froze mid-lick and pulled his head back above his neck where it
belongs, blinked at me,  "Um, no" his eyes said back.

"That's not for you! We don't lick plates here! Go lie down!" I punish
him while in my head giggling at him. Who can blame him, I am slowly
reintroducing a new kibble for him - fishmeal and potatoes. I'd be
licking plates too.

"Fine then." he looked at me, Eeyore-ing off,  "I'm gonna go eat worms."

Airport Stuff

I was just reading Shannon's blog about frustrations with trying to
get to Dublin for her beloved Bloomsday event. It got me thinking
about a funny thing I remember happening during one of my flights home
to MA from Ohio when I was in college.
    Waiting at my gate the travel agent behind the counter, somewhere
in my terminal, comes over the P.A. system, "Attention ladies and
gentlemen, Delta flight 1777 to Baltimore will be leaving from gate
B10, not B3 as originally planned."
Then, a few minutes later, "Ladies and gentlemen, flight 1777 to
Baltimore will, in fact,  be leaving from B10, we're sorry for the
inconvenience."
Then, again, a few minutes later, "OK, we swear this is the last time.
Ladies and gentlemen, flight 1777 to Baltimore will be leaving from
gate B3. We're sorry for the inconvenience and Delta would like to
thank you for participating in our exercise program today."
Awesome.

Then, there was the time I lost my license in the airport. I didn't
even realize it was missing until I heard someone over the PA system,
"Cydney Scott, could you please come to gate B8. Cydney Scott to B8."

The man had clearly called the phone number on my license because when
he handed it to me he said, "Your dad says you're a dufus."

Nice.

Oh! I just thought of another one. I'm in Arizona as a middle schooler
on a trip with Mom. Just as we get off the plane, I take a seat while
Mom goes to the bathroom. I watch all the people getting off the
plane. One of the last people, a man dressed in a nice suit, walks out
into the terminal and slows-down, looking around him. Briefcase in
hand he stops and asks a crewmember who is also getting off the plane,
"Where am I?"
"You're in Tucson!" she says. Then, "Bu-bye now!" (just kidding, I
added that part).
(I didn't add this part though) The guy responds, "TUSCON !!?"  He's
panicked, "I'm in TUSCON?!"
Clearly he got on a plane that took him to a city that was NOT the one
he wanted to go to.

Now that's some funny shit.

Winch You Just Know It

On Monday, I headed out early (my shift starts at 7) to find something
to photograph for the paper. Generally, we try to get something in
fairly early to feed to The Post web page.

I went to a dock not far from where I live where I found four
squirrel-ly men preparing their fishing boat to head out for a long
day at sea. When I arrived, their boat was still on the trailer of the
truck and they were getting ready to back it into the water.
The boat was backed in far enough for a few of the men to hop on and
do what they needed to ready to boat to be backed all the way in. I
shot away in the nice early light while these guys did their thing. I
brought my camera down and watched for a bit. It was then that the
truck backed-up very slightly, as though it was put into park and
moved as a result. In a quick moment, the boat hit the ground floor
beneath the water and the winch, which holds the boat on the trailer,
came loose. It spun out of control with all the weight of the boat
pulling it. On it's first spin, it smacked the knee of Ken, the man in
the yellow shirt, who was standing just behind the winch.

    "Take me to the hospital" Ken suddenly said. There was a pause
between Ken getting hit in the knee and him reacting, so I wasn't
quite sure how badly he'd been hurt until he said something. He was so
calm about it, too. When he said he'd hurt himself, I thought for sure
he must have damaged his kneecap from the handle of the winch hitting
him.

He climbed down from the boat and that's when I saw how bad it was.

    The man was holding his skin together between his thumb and
fingers! It was as though a giant mouth had suddenly appeared just
above his knee. The shear force of the handle swinging around and
hitting him split the skin straight open. I'd never seen anything like
it. (This is when the What If scenario comes in and I bend down and
say to the mouth above his knee "Would you like a piece of candy?")
I'm completely impressed with how calm he is about it. I ask him if
he's light-headed. He says, "Oh, no, I'm fine!"

    At this point, some dude from a nearby boat comes up to us, "Hey
are you guys sellin' any tools? 'Cause somethin's wrong with my
truck."

I tell him they have their own problem to deal with at the moment.
"Oh," he says, very airily, "Hey, are you a professional photographer
or somethin'?"

"Uh-huh" I say in the most

I'm-not-remotely-interested-in-talking-to-you-at-the-moment tone.
"Cool," he says, "Did he fall or somethin'?"

Shut it, dude, go play with your big Tonka truck.

    I tell Ken and his friend where the nearest hospital is and
they're on their way.  I leave my business card with one of the
remaining men. But, as I leave, I begin to question myself. Should I
have taken pictures of that? It's not necessarily newsworthy, I tell
myself. But, it is slice-of-life, in a weird way, I continue my mental
conversation. With all the accuracy issues going out there, I was
suddenly a bit torn. And paranoid.  Will I get chewed-out for
wondering to myself if I had a towel in my car with which to make a
tourniquet instead of taking pictures? Um, am I supposed to mention
this incident in my cutline? I mean, do I say they went fishing when I
know they never actually made it out on the water?

I call my editor sheepishly and he teases me, "What are you trying to
kill the guy?! And why are you asking me about this? You figure it
out!"

OK, that's very fair, but I'm running on less  sleep than usual and
I'm concerned that if I go with my own judgment, well, I'll end up not
even handing the picture in because I just won't be able to decide
what to do (Cut me some slack, I'm on the early shift this month and
it's hard to get the synapses firing).

He tells me to just leave it out, then later in the day, he asks me if
I tried to kill anyone else today by distracting them while shooting.

Ha. Ha.

Nice Modeling Job

This is my little tribute to Oliver who, as some of you know, has been
undergoing quite a struggle with his allergies. He is now on all this
crap...

I will look beyond the fact that I hate my dog have lots of meds in
him and try to remember that rather than digging incessantly at his
sensitive belly skin, or jamming his face into my bedroom rug for
optimum itch-relieving friction, or licking various spots until he has
little crusty collections of hair standing out form his paws and arms,
that he is now sleeping soundly with his little head hanging over the
end of his doggie bed.

Thank you, person who invented Prednisone, wherever you are.

This morning, after I gave him his 27 medications,  I rubbed his lips
with some crazy, anti-itch wipe the vet gave me. He stood patiently,
his little lips pursed and his eyes shut, while I swiped his mouth.
Then, he stood patiently again while I forced his eye open in order to
put in some eye goop to help with his inflammation - which had
completely disappeared last week after the vet gave him a magic
injection of something.

After all this, I brought him outside and had him do a little
modeling. With hopes of selling my dog collars, I took some pictures
of him in the yard, wearing one. I asked him to sit, and stay. I took
a picture from the side, and something across the yard moved. But, I'd
asked him to stay, so he stood patiently with his little ears perked
and his eyes focused. I took some detail shots, his little paws
wiggling slightly at the exciting prospect of chasing that squirrel. I
stood in front of him for a few pictures and he moved slightly,
wanting to keep his eye on the prize.

When I was done, I said "Go ahead!" and he took off like a shot across
the yard. It was so nice to see him romp, excited to be pursuing
something other than a nagging itch somewhere on his body.

He was nowhere near getting the squirrel though.

Ethics in Shooting

Editor extraordinaire, Mark Edelson, sent this link out the staff a
few days ago. Interesting. Annie Leibovitz, as we all know, is
fantastic, but I'm not so keen on the concept.

I do have a problem with the implication that each of the pair were
shot together at the same time. But, considering portraiture can be a
bit illustration-y, and the fact that it's Vanity Fair magazine, which
is more artsy than newsy, it doesn't irk me as much as say...this guy.

As for as the photos go, I think the portraits are beautiful
individually, but I don't really feel like pairs work together. Maybe
that's because I knew they weren't shot at the same time prior to
looking at the pics?  I just feel like they aren't really connected
despite the fact that they were joined together.
June 9
The Adult Equivalent of Childhood Prank-Calling
What is there to do but watch, thoroughly enjoy, and offer reviews for
 Free To Be You and Me ?!

"Alarmingly freakish yet delightfully entertaining just the same."
reviewed Allergic Hound magazine managing editor Cydney S, "As good as
Clash of the Titans. Bravo! "

"A scary animated romp through the feel-good phantasmagoria that was
the '70s!" exclaimed WBOG-TV meteorologist Rachel S., with two
enthusiastic thumbs-up, adding that she wondered where her clogs were
and wanted to stop the movie to talk about her feelings.

Jim Henson exclaims, "Thanks for making me look awesome "Free to Be" folks!"

Hump Day

Today was a downer.

Stopping home for lunch today I looked at Oliver and was taken aback.
It looked as though the white of his eye was swelling slightly out of
his socket and over his pupil. Needless to say, I was completely
panicked. I called my vet and dropped Oliver off to be looked at once
Dr. Garcia was done with his ACL surgery.

I later called for an update. No biggie. It's allergies again. Dr.G
suspects he ate something and had a reaction to it. Since I started
giving him garlic pills this morning and spraying his body from the
neck back with lemon water - both in an effort to get rid of fleas -
it could be either one. Now, it's just a matter of figuring-out which
one.

Ah, the sleuthing never ends.

A friend had joked to me about getting health insurance for him and I
bawlked at it at the time.

I am balking no more.
Now, I am signing him up.

When I picked Ollie up and was chatting with the girl behind the
counter, he suddenly started making this horrid sound. A cross between
coughing-up a loogie (sp?) and gasping for air. And it was all done
loudly. 'Scared the crap out of me. I'd never heard him do it before,
but the vet tech assured me that it was just a sneeze, "Dogs sneeze
internally" he told me.

Weird. And not very productive, I might add.

On our way home, he started doing it again. But, he would start by
heaving as though he wanted to vomit but was holding it in out of
courtesy for my Honda interiors. Then, the hacking thing would start.
His rib cage is contracting and expanding in a desperate kind of way.
All the while, it does not seem that he is taking in air. At all.

As he has never done this in the past and he's suddenly doing it more
than just a few times in a half hour, I decide to take him, with his
slightly neurotic mother, back to the vet.

Dr. Garcia assures me, it's just a sneeze.
"But, he sounds like he's dying" I tell him.
Dr. Garcia agrees and tells me he thought the same thing the first
time he heard a dog do it while he was in vet school.

No death today. Melodrama and high vet bills?, yes. Death? No.

Sounds like a hump day.

What If Scenarios

I was talking with friends, Libby, Rachel and Gwen last night at
dinner talking about "What If Scenarios". What If Scenarios are when
you have an experience - a moment, conversation, see something happen
- and in your head you visualize a reaction that you would never have
the brass kahunas to actually do in reality.

My recent "What If" happened a few days ago when I was entering Publix
for ice cream and passed a man who looked just like actor (and my
secret hot-and-steamy-though-a-bit-on-the-skinny-side BF)  Ryan
Gosling. We locked eyes very briefly and I think I gulped audibly
(smooth). I obviously kept right on going, passing right by him - I
was on an ice cream mission, after all - but my "What If" came next
when I blurted out (in my head - thus making it What IF), "I'll have
your babies!"

Now, there are times when What If's should be used but thanks to poor
mental filtering, the What If is no longer - it actually becomes
reality. Like the time when I was walking along Flagler Dr. with
Shannon and we passed a woman with a baby in a stroller and after
looking at the baby I blurted-out  (not loudly but audibly) "Big
head!"

This is when a What If is far more appropriate.

Then there was the time (oh, yes, there's more) when I was at lunch
with Shannon. We were hungry, and in my head I thought "wouldn't it be
nice to have some bread?"  A server passed by and the word "Bread"
blurted out of my mouth. Seriously, it was like I just burped with no
warning. I heard it, but almost didn't realize it had come from me.

Again, another time when a What If would have been a bit better.