Thursday, May 22, 2008

How is a cat like an iceberg?

90% of her is below the surface.

Rio's new trick is to lay on the hole in the cat tree in just the
right position to leave her belly sticking out. She apparently thinks
this is a perfectly rational cat thing to do and I am not one to argue
with her. We've had fierce enough conflicts in the last few days, from
her jumping into the refrigerator to the catfight she picked with her
brother under our bed, what this cat wants this cat gets.

Which, come to think about it, would be a good catchphrase for when
I'm dressed in a suit wearing mirror shades.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Heart Model Recall

Since I'm supposed to be finishing a short story right now, I thought I would procrastinate by posting some of the notes I made about a month ago, during my brief stint as a heart model. My other incentive is Karen Maxwell, who reminded me during her visit last weekend that it looked like I was welshing on my promise to write about it. So, here it is, largely unedited bullet points from my halcyon days of cardiologists, ultrasound, and grainy images of my aorta:
  • We've got a total of six models for three scanning beds. The SOP is two hours on, two hours off.
  • The scanning techs don't mind if you fall asleep, although yesterday my tech Mark woke me up when it looked like some important people were wandering by. It took about ten minutes, but when they finally walked up, the grayest-headed among them said, "Aha! A model who is actually awake!" Score one for Mark and me.
  • Lying on a bed while people scan your heart would seem like the easiest job in the world, except for a few things. Laying on your side without moving very much can be a challenge. Also, spending any amount of time in a cold convention center can give you the sniffles. Now take your shirt off and cover half your chest with ultrasound goo. It gets cold. Sometimes they give you a blanket to keep yourself warm, but I didn't know that at first and toughed it out my first two hours. Consequently, my first two hours kind of sucked.
  • I spotted a couple of friends on the way in this morning, wearing red and white jumpsuits that read "bad" and "good," respectively. They were, apparently, cholesterol. Another heart model explained to me that they and their cohorts stood on escalators, sometimes getting in the conventioneers' way, sometimes helping them out. That's what cholesterol does! See how much your heart is like a bunch of medical professionals checking their Blackberries at a Chicago convention center?
  • Our booth has more square footage than our condo, and probably cost the company as much to rent for three days. They have several TVs (like our condo), a MacBook Pro (very like our condo) which is connected to a $50,000 base station used to process the imaging from ultrasound paddles attached to it (not at all like our condo). Because I was curious about other machines, I offered to rotate with other heart models, but I was met with apathy and in one case resistance because the guy said he'd bonded with his scanner. All right.
  • While hanging out waiting for direction today, another demonstrator started talking to me and another heart model about the necessity of getting female heart models in, since having topless women demonstrating machines would be a significantly bigger draw. We chuckled politely. Even though it was the first time I'd heard it, it didn't feel like a very original joke, and since I'm a couple decades past adolescence, it's lost a lot of its titillation. Then the guy started talking about how great it would be to get the female models lubed up with ultrasound goo, at which point I said, "Um, awkward." The other model left. The guy who made the comment started a new conversation, the "my machine is better than your machine" tack, with which I could not argue, since I didn't design my machine, I just sat under it.
  • One of the booth presenters this morning walked in with a cheese and ham croissant that she wasn't going to eat and offered it to us. Another heart model, Spike, whom I had helped yesterday by looking up CTA routes to McCormick Convention Center, had not eaten breakfast and took her up on the offer. He went back to the area they designated for us to stow our stuff and returned about three minutes later. "Did you eat that already?" I asked. "I was starving," he explained. We made jokes about their scanning his chest and discovering it, completely whole, lodged in his heart. That's what passes for humor in this place.
  • Convention food costs, as Spike observed, are "minibar prices." Other, smarter models brought their food. I am not smart, not in that way.
  • Yesterday, I made the mistake of buying a Starbucks "Skinny Vanilla Latte" in "Venti," which would mean "Large" if "Large" weren't the smallest Starbucks size. This drink, which was skim milk, sugar-free vanilla, and I guess espresso, messed me up almost the entire day. My stomach hurt a couple hours after drinking it. By the end of the day, it hurt to move my eyes. Even being allowed to lay back and sleep on the table kind of sucked when the pounding behind my eyes would not stop. When Brandi picked me up afterwards to go grocery shopping, I leaned heavily on my cart like someone four decades older. I can see how old people really love those walkers with wheels and seats, because my kludged version worked great.

The Tale of the Fish


Our dear friends the Maxwells visited this weekend, and we traipsed all around the city Saturday, showing them the Bean, the lions of the Art Institute, the Lego store, American Girl Place, and our Nintendo Wii, as dictated by the laws of hospitality. They left Sunday, hopefully as triumphantly exhausted as we felt, although they, too, had a full day ahead of them.

As dictated by Maxwell tradition, we all gathered on the sofa for the final group photo. I offered my tripod. Karen said that would be perfect, so I went inside the office to retrieve it. It was tangled up with my camera bag, per usual, so I freed it and hopped back to the chaos in the living room. Unbeknownst to me, the door to the office lay slightly ajar. We all scrunched together, dramatic Evelyn, squirmy Henry, Karen and me, with a hole for Dave who was setting up the timer. Dave finished up, squeezed in at the end of the sofa, and we all put on our best smiles.

Something splashed in the office. Distracted, I blinked, and saw the flash through the red of my eyelids. I realized two things simultaneously:
1) we would have to take the photo again
2) Margaret, the Betta fish Brandi took home from Publications International, was in mortal peril from avid fishercat Patrick.
Already, we could hear more splashing. We needed to act, and quickly. Brandi and I jumped up and ran into the office. Both cats had availed themselves of the forbidden space, Rio strolling underneath the desk, Patrick standing over... Margaret, out of her tank and clearly punctured behind her left gill. She lay very still.

Behind us, Evelyn started to cry. She didn't know exactly what happened, but sometimes feels overwhelmed when grownup display heightened emotions. Karen ushered her back into the living room. Brandi and I swept the cats out of the office, ignoring the body of the fish for the moment while we dealt with the photo op. Evelyn continued to cry, and we asked her why. She said she was afraid that Patrick was hurt because he had been bitten by a fish. Brandi assured her our cat was fine and un-bitten, delicately omitting the part of the story where Patrick did the reverse. Brandi smiled tightly and said, "Well, you were right," referring to our longstanding and slowly-simmering argument about whether or not one should take care to close the office doors. After all, what could happen? I asked her not to joke. The thought of playing accomplice to murder, even of something as small and flushable as a fish, made me feel guilty as sin. Dave set up the camera again, and we smiled, some of us falling back on our acting training. This time, everything came out fine, and the Maxwells prepared to head out to Cedar Point on what was turning out to be a decidedly crummy, rainy day. Wait, though, a new wrinkle: Karen still needed the weather report for Sandusky, Ohio. Would the roller coasters still run? Might the sun shine yet on the largest wooden roller coaster in the world? Brandi hinted that we needed to use a computer not in the office. Luckily, my laptop lay on the floor of our bedroom where I'd dropped it the night before, hoping for and, in the end, sleeping through the chance to get some homework done on a sketch writing show. We looked up the weather (lousy) and I helped take the last of the bags to the car, holding the big blue and yellow IKEA umbrella to keep raindrops the size of mothballs off the kids and Karen. Dave did the same with the second umbrella. Finally, waving in the archway of our building, I saw them off and went inside.

Brandi was in the process of cleaning up the office when I saw down heavily on our overstuffed living room couch. She had a paper towel which she was carrying to the bathroom for the traditional fish burial. Suddenly, she stopped. "I felt it twitch," she said. "What do I do?" I didn't know. She opened up the paper towel and saw that Margaret's gills were still moving. "How long can a fish live out of water?" Omce again, I had no idea, although later it would occur to me that Bettas, which in the wild inhabit tiny mud puddles they occasionally hop out of, might have evolved the ability to survive considerably longer than, say, a tuna. "I just don't want her to suffer."

"Well," I said, "Did you keep the tank? Can we put her back in it?"

"I threw it away."

"I'll get a glass. Meet me in the kitchen."

I filled a glass and Brandi dropped Margaret in. We watched for a few seconds as she drifted somewhat lifelessly in the water, the puncture wound all-too clear. But then her gills started moving and her fins got in the act as well. While not exactly speeding through the water, she was clearly hanging on, and I decided it was worthwhile to see how long we could extend her tiny fish life. I pulled her bowl out of the garbage and filled it, and together we poured her from the glass into her old home. Again, she drifted for a few seconds, but this time we could see clearly that she wasn't bleeding into the water, and therefore might not be mortally wounded. So, once again, we set her up on the desk in the office and crossed our fingers. Brandi submitted a question to an online fish expert about where to go from here, and later that afternoon got the answer: droplets to dechlorinate the water and help Margaret restore her natural, fishy slime. Directions call for one teaspoon per ten gallons of water. We put two drops into her softball-sized bowl and called it a day.

Two days later, Margaret is still not floating on the top of the tank, and my guilt is starting to rest, even if my paranoia over open office doors is strong as ever.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Evil in the Friendly Confines

So, we're at the Cubs vs. San Diego whatevers (San Diegans? I don't
know; sports are complicated) and our team is just creaming those West
Coast softies. The score is 12 to 3 in the seventh inning, and I've
seen more home runs in the last hour than your average episode of Red
Shoe Diaries (what ho!). The Cubs finished two innings with five runs
per, and held the other team to just one run. So it's exciting as heck
in Wrigleyville tonight.

Adding to our excitement, we're not paying for any of this. Brandi's
work has a lounge at Wrigley Field, so we parked for free in the Brown
lot, walked a block and a half to the field, then enjoyed kosher dogs,
Caesar salad on a pita, chips, nuts, quesadillas and alcoholic
beverages. There was even a dessert cart just loaded up with carrot
cake, chocolate cake, Snickers pie, ice cream, gummy bears, M&Ms,
liqueurs in chocolate cups, chocolate-covered strawberries, cheesecake
and cookies of both the chocolate chip and Reeses Peanut Butter Cup
variety. My worst heartbreak this evening was thinking I would have to
choose just one. The nice cart lady let me have four (Snickers pie,
vanilla ice cream, raspberry syrup, and a chocolate cup filled with
Grand Marnier... Which, by the way, tastes like Deep Woods Off
mosquito repellant... in chocolate). My diet is toast.

You can tell from this blurry picture, because I seem to have gained a
lot of weight in my chin. I now have a passing resemblance to Tim
Curry in Ridley Scott's "Legend."

I'll trap your earth in snow forever unless Tom Cruise puts on some
pants. Now.

Wrigley Field at Run 12

Brandi and a very swarthy me at Wrigley Field, courtesy of Brandi's
work.

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Is your marathon half full or half empty?

I chose half full.

Unfortunately, my sister had prior obligations, including shuttling my nephews around to no less than three sporting events, as well as seeing my brother in law off to the airport, and could not spare the time to do the full marathon. So this is where we diverged in our running choices. I still think she did a great job and can't wait to see what her running future brings. Her friend Janis apparently finished just before me (how dare she?), so congratulations are in order all around.

Funny thing is, I remember coming to this point one year ago, when I did the Flying Pig half marathon, and wondering what it would feel like to take the other option, the Road Less Traveled. Now that I've taken it, I have zero regrets. The weather was as perfect this year as last, and I had only a few major twinges, like my left knee sending shooting pains through my body as though promising to secede from the rest of me and form its own Confederacy. Easing back on the throttle helped that a lot, and while I still feel it two days later, I don't think it's a permanent condition.

My other photo, for this post at least, comes from early in the run when we turned back into downtown Cincinnati after briefly foraying into Lexington, KY. I noticed last year and this that one of the bridges bounces a bit alarmingly as you run across it. For a few moments, it felt like gravity wanted to play tricks on me, as the ground fell away from me and then rushed up to greet my not-yet-sore legs. Then lessons from twelfth grade Calculus-Physics class came back to me, specifically the image of the Tacoma Narrows bridge as winds tore it to shreds, and I just prayed the bridge would hold together long enough to get all of us runners across it. The bridge held.

I have a different view of this shot than when I first took it. I blame my sunglasses for making me think I could shoot into the sun and get decent photos. Now, I think the photo looks like Postapocalyptic Zombie Run, a competition where the first undead runner to cross the finish line gets the first bite of the only remaining human. Sure, the race planners hold stops along the way, but they just serve parts of the carcass. It's better when they beg.

I should probably have never seen "28 Days Later."

Monday, May 05, 2008

View from the Flying Pig

I finished a marathon yesterday, my fourth one and fastest (by nine
minutes, at a still-slow 4:40). The weather was positively glorious,
starting off in the forties and rising to just shy of the sixties, but
without a breeze or a cloud in the sky. 22,000 people ran, all told,
including half marathoners and relay racers, who raced in quarter-
segments and whom I cursed for their freshness as my fatigue started
to set in. I sneaked my iPhone onto the course, despite the ban on
electronics on the raceway, as well as a bag of steroids for those
really steep hills. I kid.

I took what shots I could as I ran and will be posting those later.
The quality ranges from poor to atrocious, probably thanks to my shaky
hands, sunglasses, and my bad idea to always shoot into the sun. What
can I say? My brain was on marathon. I'm happy I could even slur my
words when my mom called me to tell me where she was waiting along the
course. (She played support crew for me, my sister and my sister's
friend, gathering jackets at the six mile mark and cheering us on.
She's great and I love her.)

More pics and commentary to follow.

Friday, May 02, 2008

In case you forgot...

Chicago after a rainstorm can be just heartbreaking in its beauty.
Sunset under the clouds reminds you that sometimes, and very, very
rarely, God doesn't need a goat sacrifice to smile down on Wrigleyville.

Missives from Mexico, Part the Third: Silly Fun at the Temple of the Warriors in Chichen Itza


There's a lot of conjecture about the functions of the various structures in Chichen Itza, home to the Castillo, the great step pyramid of the Mayans and one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. We don't know a lot about it because Mayan culture went through a cycle of growth and dieback probably related to their use/misuse of land and maize production (although this, too, is conjectural), and the site was only lightly occupied by the time the Spanish arrived to conquer the crap out of everyone. When you visit it today, you see labels everywhere describing the sacred symbols and what they might mean with, unfortunately, a lot less critical thought than I would have hoped for.

Case in point: the ball court, which has stone hoops about twenty feet off the ground through which the Mayan ball court players would shoot their natural latex balls by bouncing them off their abdomens. We've since revised this estimate because physics says it ain't going to happen. You just can't get the height. So the stone hoops' function remains a mystery, although archaeologists still claim the game had a religious function. Maybe. The Coliseum in Rome had a religious function, too, AFTER the Christians took it over. Before that, it was mostly theatre with real blood effects. My point is that it drives people crazy to say, "I don't know," but you've got to bite the bullet before you put out a common sense solution that isn't very sensible.

At any rate, Brandi and I had a lot of fun clowning around in the Temple of the Warriors, and given that we're not entirely sure what went on in the Temple of the Warriors, or even if it had a secular function, we hope to spare the wrath of Kukulkan (Mayan Quetzcoatl) for another day. Who knows, really? Maybe hamming it up for the camera and tripod was EXACTLY why the Mayans built the temple.

Please don't eat my heart, feathered snake god.