I've been poked and prodded in the name of science pretty steadily since I was diagnosed with Parkinson's. And the general consensus among my many doctors is that I have fabulous innards. Truly. So why am I such a mess on the molecular level?
After my ultrasound to check for a possible aortic aneurism, the doctor told me, "You have a beautiful aorta. Don't tell anyone else I said so."
At a recent neurology appointment, my doctor cooed over my MRIs. Really. She cooed! She told me my spine looks perfect and that my brain is utterly symmetrical. She performed a nerve study on my hands to check for carpal tunnel and told me that my nerves are "fantabulous." My readings are off the charts. I have the best nerves she's ever seen.
My general practioner said my low blood pressure (which recently caused me to have to lie down on the floor under my desk at the office) was excellent. The American Heart Association said so! And by the way, my blood tests were great, my thyroid is delightful (okay, maybe he didn't exactly use the term "delightful") and aside from my low levels of Vitamin D, I'm fine!
Now about that shaky arm...
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
More on Paris
Hi everyone! I'm very sorry I haven't been posting, but I've been terribly busy with the air show. So here's a super-fast rundown of some of my activities:
1. I've taken on the persona of eccentric American by riding around the show on a bicycle. I appear at every press conference on the bike, chain it up outside the corporate chalet and then wave merrily (and ring my bell) when I leave.
2. The guards at the chalets are totally annoying. Talk about a power trip. So to combat their evil ways, I try to be cheeky as often as I can. This morning I rode up on my bike with my posse - two colleagues from Aviation Week - and parked in front of the Boeing chalet. The guard, who is bald, approached us and nastily sneered, "Can I help you?" I looked at him and his bald head and said, "We're going to leave the bikes out here while we pick up some press materials. We'll be out of your hair in just a minute." Hee!
3. So much for being a Member of the Tribe. I got into a shouting match with a guard at an Israeli industry chalet. I couldn't remember enough Hebrew to give him a tongue lashing (unless I wanted to unleash a stream of "Yes," "No," "Please," "Shalom" and the beginning of a random Yom Kippur prayer), so I put my finger right in his face and used good old fashioned Jewish guilt, "We're doing this for YOU! Not for me! For you!" He still made me walk all the way around to the front door of the chalet.
4. Dad has been driving me and two of my friends to the show in the mornings. The car is stopped every morning and we have to show I.D. before we're allowed to proceed to parking. On the first day, one guard did his circle around the car with his oversize dental mirror (they stick it under the vehicle to check for bombs) and the other one made us all step out of the car. The guard came around to my side of the car and with a big smile and heavy accent he said, "You don't have Bin Laden in there, do you?"
5. I went over to the Italians today to do an interview with a test pilot. He looked me up and down and said, "Why are you so white?" I said something about being half Irish. He replied, "Don't you tan?" All this while waving his arms around, greatly distressed at the pale color of my skin.
6. I found out that a big French company was having a ritzy party at the Louvre and I really wanted to go. The problem was that I was not invited. Not even slightly. My buddy and I walked past the Louvre, which was all lit up and gorgeous and I figured I would give it a shot. So I walked up to the line of guards and said "I believe someone left tickets here for us, is there someone I could speak with?" They pointed me to a desk that had a big sign reading "No Invitation." I told the girls at the desk the same thing about not having tickets, gave my name and then politely dropped the name of a colleague who WAS on the list. Bingo! We were in! Expensive champagne! The Louvre with no lines! And to top it all off, when we were leaving the party, we ran into the president of an American company waiting outside because they wouldn't let him in without an invitation.
That's the news for now!
1. I've taken on the persona of eccentric American by riding around the show on a bicycle. I appear at every press conference on the bike, chain it up outside the corporate chalet and then wave merrily (and ring my bell) when I leave.
2. The guards at the chalets are totally annoying. Talk about a power trip. So to combat their evil ways, I try to be cheeky as often as I can. This morning I rode up on my bike with my posse - two colleagues from Aviation Week - and parked in front of the Boeing chalet. The guard, who is bald, approached us and nastily sneered, "Can I help you?" I looked at him and his bald head and said, "We're going to leave the bikes out here while we pick up some press materials. We'll be out of your hair in just a minute." Hee!
3. So much for being a Member of the Tribe. I got into a shouting match with a guard at an Israeli industry chalet. I couldn't remember enough Hebrew to give him a tongue lashing (unless I wanted to unleash a stream of "Yes," "No," "Please," "Shalom" and the beginning of a random Yom Kippur prayer), so I put my finger right in his face and used good old fashioned Jewish guilt, "We're doing this for YOU! Not for me! For you!" He still made me walk all the way around to the front door of the chalet.
4. Dad has been driving me and two of my friends to the show in the mornings. The car is stopped every morning and we have to show I.D. before we're allowed to proceed to parking. On the first day, one guard did his circle around the car with his oversize dental mirror (they stick it under the vehicle to check for bombs) and the other one made us all step out of the car. The guard came around to my side of the car and with a big smile and heavy accent he said, "You don't have Bin Laden in there, do you?"
5. I went over to the Italians today to do an interview with a test pilot. He looked me up and down and said, "Why are you so white?" I said something about being half Irish. He replied, "Don't you tan?" All this while waving his arms around, greatly distressed at the pale color of my skin.
6. I found out that a big French company was having a ritzy party at the Louvre and I really wanted to go. The problem was that I was not invited. Not even slightly. My buddy and I walked past the Louvre, which was all lit up and gorgeous and I figured I would give it a shot. So I walked up to the line of guards and said "I believe someone left tickets here for us, is there someone I could speak with?" They pointed me to a desk that had a big sign reading "No Invitation." I told the girls at the desk the same thing about not having tickets, gave my name and then politely dropped the name of a colleague who WAS on the list. Bingo! We were in! Expensive champagne! The Louvre with no lines! And to top it all off, when we were leaving the party, we ran into the president of an American company waiting outside because they wouldn't let him in without an invitation.
That's the news for now!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Les Grandes Aventures, Part Deux of Many
So today started out like any other. The sun came streaming through the windows of the apartment, I leapt out of bed and headed to market with my parents. Oh the lovely colors of the fruits and veggies! The local flavor! The baked goods! The uneven pavement!
Oops.
I caught an edge of the pavement and went down like a ton of bricks. I skinned my ankle in a couple of places and twisted it pretty good. As with any sudden fall and wave of pain, I just sat there and let the whole nauseating moment wash over me while my mom knelt down to find out why I was examining the table of canteloupe from the bottom.
And then my favorite moment of the morning. A French woman approached us with her basket of fruit and baguette in hand. She looked at me lying on the ground and said in a very annoyed tone of voice, "Well, what's she doing there?"
The afternoon was spent in more relaxed fashion. I visited Munkle, my dad's brother. (My mom's brother is Crunkle - for cranky uncle). Munkle stands for Manic Uncle. And manic he is indeed. We had a great lunch, wherein he proceeded to yell a lot about Israel and religion, read us dirty French limericks and puns he'd composed and eat and drink with enormous gusto.
This evening I had dinner with friends. I showed them "my" neighborhood, we took photos of Notre Dame at night and then I returned to my parents' place utterly exhausted. But sleep was not to be had. At least not immediately. Only in the past few minutes (it's about quarter past midnight) did the French dance party from hell (La Macarena, anybody?) stop blasting its horrid beats up through my open bedroom window.
Oh, and I'd show you photos of the trip, but my company's new encryption device has locked me out of my own computer. And the "Help" desk is closed on weekends. If I drank, it would be high time for a whiskey. Instead, I'm going to crawl into bed with a package of dark chocolate and hum myself to sleep to the fading strains of Buster Poindexter's "Hot, Hot, Hot."
Oops.
I caught an edge of the pavement and went down like a ton of bricks. I skinned my ankle in a couple of places and twisted it pretty good. As with any sudden fall and wave of pain, I just sat there and let the whole nauseating moment wash over me while my mom knelt down to find out why I was examining the table of canteloupe from the bottom.
And then my favorite moment of the morning. A French woman approached us with her basket of fruit and baguette in hand. She looked at me lying on the ground and said in a very annoyed tone of voice, "Well, what's she doing there?"
The afternoon was spent in more relaxed fashion. I visited Munkle, my dad's brother. (My mom's brother is Crunkle - for cranky uncle). Munkle stands for Manic Uncle. And manic he is indeed. We had a great lunch, wherein he proceeded to yell a lot about Israel and religion, read us dirty French limericks and puns he'd composed and eat and drink with enormous gusto.
This evening I had dinner with friends. I showed them "my" neighborhood, we took photos of Notre Dame at night and then I returned to my parents' place utterly exhausted. But sleep was not to be had. At least not immediately. Only in the past few minutes (it's about quarter past midnight) did the French dance party from hell (La Macarena, anybody?) stop blasting its horrid beats up through my open bedroom window.
Oh, and I'd show you photos of the trip, but my company's new encryption device has locked me out of my own computer. And the "Help" desk is closed on weekends. If I drank, it would be high time for a whiskey. Instead, I'm going to crawl into bed with a package of dark chocolate and hum myself to sleep to the fading strains of Buster Poindexter's "Hot, Hot, Hot."
Friday, June 12, 2009
Bonjour monde!
Why am I posing with a flight attendant, you ask? Well, because she and I became good friends over the endless hours we spent together. Her name is Adrian, and she kept a big smile on her face despite the nightmare that was my trip to Paris. Let's start at the beginning....
My driver came to pick me up a few minutes early from my house and we zipped speedily toward the airport. He was a lovely gentleman, and spent much of the trip telling me about his kids. He also told me about what a tragedy it was about the Air France flight and that he and his brother were just talking the other night about what it must have felt like to die in an airplane. "What were those last minutes like? As the aircraft filled with water?"
Really? REALLY? He was driving me to THE AIRPORT.
I said snippily, "They didn't feel anything. They hit the water at 500 miles per hour and died instantly."
"But what about if the plane landed on the water and the cabin filled up? What was that like?" He was insistent. "It must have been terrible."
"It WASN'T terrible. They DIDN'T feel anything. THEY EXPLODED AND DIED INSTANTLY!"
He was quieter after that. I think he felt bad about the discussion because he sent me a text after he dropped me off telling me to have a nice flight.
I checked in early and headed to the gate, which slowly began to fill with children. Much as I imagine an aircraft cabin would fill with water if it were to land in the Atlantic in the middle of the night.
By the time we boarded, I was in the throes of an anxiety/claustrophobia attack. Luckily for me, I was sitting next to my buddy KDL and we had our awesome flight attendant Adrian taking care of us.
We pull away from the gate on time, all the little snotty kids safely crammed together a bunch of rows behind me and...
BANG!
KDL and I looked at each other. "Bang" is not a good sound when you're taxiing to take off. Oh, and after the bang, there was a roaring sound of air. Then the cabin got hot.
The pilot came on to tell us he thought something was wrong. Really? Thanks, Sherlock. Needless to say, we drove back to the gate and told we were getting new equipment. I'm just glad we hadn't gotten trapped in the aircraft on the tarmac for hours. KDL found a wine bar and a group of us settled in for drinks and appetizers.
About two hours later, we crammed on to another airplane. A smaller, older airplane with fewer seats than the last one. Good times! Luckily, KDL and I got our old seats back (and Adrian! Yay!) The kid across the aisle from us looked over and said, "Well, at least we're not breaking up into pieces over the Atlantic."
Ha ha! Yes! This is so funny! I LOVE aircraft crash humor before a flight. My anxiety at this point was akin to the slight case of nerves you might experience if you were being, say, buried alive.
We pull away from the gate, we wait a few moments on the taxiway while the pilot gets a new route around a bunch of thunderstorms and then we take off.
Yay! We're in the air! I'm ready to sleep! Except for the fact that I'm just a little anxious from the evening's events so far. And then the pilot comes on the intercom out of nowhere and says tersely, "Flight attendants, please sit down immediately. Flight attendants, PLEASE SIT DOWN."
Instead of screaming, running around the cabin like an insane person, tearing off my clothes and crying, I grabbed my handbag, chopped up enough Xanax to kill a team of Clydesdales and swallowed it with a big swig of water.
Next thing I knew - we were in Paris! Yay! France! And just think - this is only my first day! Stay tuned...
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Shhhhhhhhhhh...
Last night I was invited to attend the parade at the Marine Corps Barracks in Washington, D.C. The parade is a big deal. It's held after sunset on the grounds of the Barracks in the shadow of the Commandant's gorgeous house. The coolest part of the presentation is the Marine Corps Silent Drill Platoon. Check out what they do by clicking here.
Before the performance, however, there was a VIP reception hosted by a Congressman and the Commandant of the Barracks. I attended with my boyfriend, American Boy (his nom de blog), my colleague Jen and three people I'd never met - two of whom work on the Hill. One of the Capitol Hill people, I'll call her Janet, works for a pretty well known committee, so she's really used to schmoozing. I watched her work the room and then approach an older woman sitting in a wheelchair. Janet leaned closer to hear what the woman was saying. I guess she was gesturing across the crowded room for Janet to summon somebody.
Janet asks politely, "Oh, I see him. Did you want me to get your son?"
The woman in the wheelchair looked at her for a second and then said, "That's not my son, that's my husband!"
Janet almost fell over. Not only because she'd just stuck her foot right in her mouth, but because the son/husband was a one-star Marine General.
Oops.
Janet tried desperately to make nice while the rest of us dissolved into totally inappropriate fits of laughter.
Cut to my conversation with a Rear Admiral. He was a tall, totally deaf Navy chaplain. But it turns out he and his wife and daughter live in Glen Ridge, NJ, right near where I grew up in Verona, NJ. And his daughter attends a ritzy private high school called Williston-Northampton, right in the same town as my alma mater, Smith.
The Admiral said to me, "Smith?! Smith?! You went to Smith?!!"
I replied, "Yes, I did."
The Admiral then said (and please remember he's a chaplain at an official event), "Smith, huh? Then why are you with a guy?" He then laughed and gestured at American Boy, who laughed extra loudly to cover up the Awkward-Exchange-Among-Utter-Strangers moment. I waited until the laughter died down and then said sweetly, "Well, I am now."
Oh! What fun it is to make jokes with a perfect stranger, who just happens to be a Navy CHAPLAIN (a religious man!) about how maybe I'm a lesbian.
I wanted to ask him what wonderfully naughty trouble his daughter has gotten into to earn four years at a private boarding high school in Massachusetts. Especially when her mom let slip to me that her two siblings were in public school in New Jersey.
After that reception, the quiet, gun-tossing Marines were kind of boring.
Before the performance, however, there was a VIP reception hosted by a Congressman and the Commandant of the Barracks. I attended with my boyfriend, American Boy (his nom de blog), my colleague Jen and three people I'd never met - two of whom work on the Hill. One of the Capitol Hill people, I'll call her Janet, works for a pretty well known committee, so she's really used to schmoozing. I watched her work the room and then approach an older woman sitting in a wheelchair. Janet leaned closer to hear what the woman was saying. I guess she was gesturing across the crowded room for Janet to summon somebody.
Janet asks politely, "Oh, I see him. Did you want me to get your son?"
The woman in the wheelchair looked at her for a second and then said, "That's not my son, that's my husband!"
Janet almost fell over. Not only because she'd just stuck her foot right in her mouth, but because the son/husband was a one-star Marine General.
Oops.
Janet tried desperately to make nice while the rest of us dissolved into totally inappropriate fits of laughter.
Cut to my conversation with a Rear Admiral. He was a tall, totally deaf Navy chaplain. But it turns out he and his wife and daughter live in Glen Ridge, NJ, right near where I grew up in Verona, NJ. And his daughter attends a ritzy private high school called Williston-Northampton, right in the same town as my alma mater, Smith.
The Admiral said to me, "Smith?! Smith?! You went to Smith?!!"
I replied, "Yes, I did."
The Admiral then said (and please remember he's a chaplain at an official event), "Smith, huh? Then why are you with a guy?" He then laughed and gestured at American Boy, who laughed extra loudly to cover up the Awkward-Exchange-Among-Utter-Strangers moment. I waited until the laughter died down and then said sweetly, "Well, I am now."
Oh! What fun it is to make jokes with a perfect stranger, who just happens to be a Navy CHAPLAIN (a religious man!) about how maybe I'm a lesbian.
I wanted to ask him what wonderfully naughty trouble his daughter has gotten into to earn four years at a private boarding high school in Massachusetts. Especially when her mom let slip to me that her two siblings were in public school in New Jersey.
After that reception, the quiet, gun-tossing Marines were kind of boring.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Stupid is as stupid does
As I took a deep inhale of my delicious, warm morning brioche, topped liberally with powdered sugar, and proceeded to nearly choke to death, I began to ruminate on all the truly embarassing things I've done in my life. Here's my latest:
I was sent a video of a new unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) to post on the company blog, which is called Ares. So I did what I usually do, I loaded the video onto YouTube and then copied the web address and cut and pasted it into the Ares blog entry. Then I wrote a neat little intro to the clip and posted it.
About half an hour later, I get an email from a colleague of mine, GW. He says politely, "Um, I think the video you posted on Ares is incorrect." Hmmm. I wonder what I posted instead? I pulled up the blog post and saw a still image of a big fat guy. That, I thought to myself, is NOT a UAV. Without looking at the incorrect video, I took it down quickly and switched it for the proper video.
A few moments later, I get an email from another colleague - an industry colleague, not a person I work with at my publication. That email says, "Hey, I think you have the wrong video up on the site." Okay, well I'd fixed that part. And then he writes:
"Let me say that I have never seen so much male genitalia on an aerospace blog before."
Uh. Oh.
Turns out, the video with the fat guy in it (the video I didn't look at), was a short documentary about museum sculptures. Male nude sculptures in particular. With numerous close-ups of genitalia. Fantastic!
I thanked both of my friends for getting in touch with me so quickly so that I could fix my error. My industry colleague wrote back and said, "No problem. I feel culturally enriched."
That's one way of looking at it.
(Also a lesson you should learn from this post - NEVER breathe deeply when you're eating a food item covered in powdered sugar.)
I was sent a video of a new unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) to post on the company blog, which is called Ares. So I did what I usually do, I loaded the video onto YouTube and then copied the web address and cut and pasted it into the Ares blog entry. Then I wrote a neat little intro to the clip and posted it.
About half an hour later, I get an email from a colleague of mine, GW. He says politely, "Um, I think the video you posted on Ares is incorrect." Hmmm. I wonder what I posted instead? I pulled up the blog post and saw a still image of a big fat guy. That, I thought to myself, is NOT a UAV. Without looking at the incorrect video, I took it down quickly and switched it for the proper video.
A few moments later, I get an email from another colleague - an industry colleague, not a person I work with at my publication. That email says, "Hey, I think you have the wrong video up on the site." Okay, well I'd fixed that part. And then he writes:
"Let me say that I have never seen so much male genitalia on an aerospace blog before."
Uh. Oh.
Turns out, the video with the fat guy in it (the video I didn't look at), was a short documentary about museum sculptures. Male nude sculptures in particular. With numerous close-ups of genitalia. Fantastic!
I thanked both of my friends for getting in touch with me so quickly so that I could fix my error. My industry colleague wrote back and said, "No problem. I feel culturally enriched."
That's one way of looking at it.
(Also a lesson you should learn from this post - NEVER breathe deeply when you're eating a food item covered in powdered sugar.)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Hotel California
Remember that song? "You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave." Ummm.....kind of like that at the Gaylord. I couldn't resist snapping this photo of the disclaimer on the window of the hotel room. Lest there be contamination from nature, no windows shall open. Actually, I think it's to keep guests from leaping out in utter despair. Let's just say I made it home safely from my Disney-fied adventure and I am very happy to be back in the thick of things in D.C.
I attended a luncheon for some electronics association late last week. See? It's not all guns and bombs for me. I write about other, more peaceful things, like radar jamming and computer hacking to bring down rogue governments. And stuff. At any rate, I plopped myself down at a random table, my green PRESS pass might just as well have read PARIAH on it. People shrink like the Wicked Witch near a bucket of water. Sometimes I want to lean over and whisper, "It's okay, I'm not going to quote you on the record. You're not very interesting anyway."
Just before the featured speaker appeared, we were served lunch. I had a plate of spinach sprinkled with cheese put in front of me. That translates into a plate of death. I'm allergic to cheese and spinach makes my tongue feel hairy. Anyway, I just let the salad sit until they came to take it away. Across the table from me, a man I have never met says loudly, "I would have eaten that salad!"
Okay. I'm all for sharing food, but not with someone I don't know. So I shrugged and said something useless and turned away. Next came the chicken-like substance, which I poked at. After about five minutes, the same guy says, "Are you going to eat your potato?" I looked at him a bit strangely because I couldn't identify which item on my plate even remotely resembled a potato. So I said, "No."
So he proceeded to lift his own plate into the air, shove in front of the guy next to me and say, "I'll take it." I was frozen for a second. Really? This guy was going to eat my potato? Again, I have NEVER MET THIS PERSON IN MY LIFE.
So I just waved him off and handed him my entire plate.
And he ate my potato!
When it came time for dessert, I just pushed my brownie at him without even looking. Next time I'm bringing my own snacks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
