My Dad, on the other hand, is a New York Giants fan.  When he was a little boy, he would go to a friend’s house and watch football games, and his friend’s dad was a Giants fan. This was because it was so long ago, the Patriots didn’t exist yet.  The Giants were the closest thing that they had to a home team to root for.

Well, my Dad is nothing if not loyal, and when the Patriots came into existence, he did not even consider changing his allegiance.  Because the two teams are in different conferences, he is not often seen rooting against the Pats, but the Giants are “his” team.  All of his sports gear is NY Giants. A jacket, a hat (both of which he wears when he picks me up at Logan, amidst a sea of Red Sox and Patriots gear; he always stands defiantly proud), and a warm, fuzzy blanket that we all fight over. He is a subscriber to a publication called the “Giants Newsweekly”. He watches the games (when he can) as though he is the coach. If they win but don’t play well, he’s in a bad mood for days.  Because Giants games are often on at the same time as Pats games, the local stations will run the Pats games instead.  It is rare that he gets to watch a live Giants game in the regular season.  My mother is not a football fan, and she’s kind of cheap, so his decades-long plea for Direct TVs NFL Sunday Ticket has fallen on deaf ears (almost literally, her hearing is terrible).

I have always appreciated my Dad’s loyal fandom, and have done what I could to support it.  I remember when they won that Super Bowl back in the 90s – my Dad was watching by himself at home so I kept him company. He was so happy when they won, he picked me up and hugged me (he’s a big guy, so it was like he was tossing around a rag doll – but it was still kind of fun).  Once, when I was in high school, there was a game on the local TV station. He was thrilled but not able to watch it live, so he made a big deal of taping it on the VCR to watch later. Well, at one point later in that day, I walked through the living room and saw the word “STOP” on the VCR screen. I thought, “Oh no, Dad’s game!” And hit “Record,” proud of myself for saving the day. Or so I thought. Apparently the game had long since ended and my Dad had rewound the tape and had it at the very beginning of the game, so that all he had to do was hit “Play.”  I recorded over the whole thing.  He was beside himself and my Mom had me hide in my room for the rest of the day to stay out of his way. The man is a teddy bear, but that is pretty much the one unpardonable sin as far as he’s concerned.

A few years before I moved to LA, I found out that the Giants and Pats were playing each other in the regular season – a rarity.  Even better, they were playing in Foxboro. My Dad had never been to a Giants game, so I thought this would be the best possible birthday/Father’s Day present ever.  It was going to be from me, my sister and brother-in-law. So I started trolling for tickets.  This was in the Spring, for a game in the Fall, and everywhere I went, tickets were already sold out.  I was getting discouraged and mentioned my frustrations to my sister. Now, I adore my sister for being one of the sweetest, loveliest people on all of planet Earth; however, sometimes she is consumed by the details in front of her face and doesn’t always step back to see the big picture.  She’s a teacher, and would often mention Josh, one of the other teachers she worked with. When I told her my ticket troubles, she said, “I wonder if Josh could help.”  I said, “Why would Josh be able to help?” And she said, “Because he’s Josh Kraft.”  And I said, “AS IN BOB KRAFT’S SON?!?! YES, ASK HIM TO HELP!!!!”  So she did, and he got us tickets.  My Dad was so thrilled, and I had grand visions of me and my Dad, hanging out at Foxboro, cheering for opposing teams.  Then he took my brother-in-law to the game.  I tried not to be bitter. In the end, they ended up tailgating with a bunch of my Dad’s work buddies and had a great time, so I was happy that he was happy.  But I did really want to go to that game.

Back in 2008, during THAT Giants/Pats Super Bowl, my parents were invited to a party at the house of a woman my mother has worked with for years, Donna. Donna’s Dad was also a die hard Giants fan, but has long since passed.  Because my Dad was the only Giants fan there, they put a chair in the corner for him next to a picture of Donna’s dead dad, and gave him a box of popcorn to eat.  That was the extent of the Giants cheering section in that house.  I can only imagine his elation when they won and how much everyone else in the room wanted him to shut up.

My boyfriend, from New York, is also a Giants fan. I suspect this is why my Dad liked him immediately. They have taken to texting each other during the games, which is pretty cute. Sometimes I get in on it by accident, and my Dad will send me messages that assume I have a far greater understanding of the game than I actually do (to be fair, I would always watch games with him from the time I was little, so he probably assumes knowledge sunk in, but sometimes I would just nap next to him. He’s really cozy).  I try to keep my replies short so as not to disappoint him.

We’ve been joking with my Dad that if the Giants made the Super Bowl, we’d have to fly him to LA to watch with my boyfriend and another good friend of his who is also a fan.    During the NFC Championship game last Sunday, when it  was looking like the Giants would win, I sent him this message:  “Pats are in!! Re-match?! We would have to fly you out, for your own safety.”  His reply? “No way. I handled it once, I would love to do it again.”  This cracked me up, so I wrote back, “Haha – my dad, the badass,” to which he replied, “U betcha!!!!” (My Dad has embraced texting abbreviations; at least he’s stopped using all caps, which made me always feel like I was in trouble and he was yelling at me).  When I called my parents’ house the other night, he told me, “They’re already starting.” Meaning, Pats fans have already started running off their mouths in a way that is pissing him off. As he gets older, he gets more cantankerous, so I hope he doesn’t get himself in trouble anywhere.

So, come Super Bowl Sunday, assuming my Dad manages not to get beat up by crazy Pats fans prior to the game, we will be cheering on opposite sides. Although, I have to say, how can you grow up with a man like that and not cheer for his team, even just a little bit?  I will be thrilled if the Pats win – but I won’t be too sad if the Giants win.  And that’s for my Dad.

Her troubles started just over a year ago.  She had a urinary tract infection, the first of her life (how she’d managed to make it 30 years without one was a mystery to me).  She went to her doctor, who prescribed Sulfa, the standard antibiotic of choice for such infections.  No one knew that her Dad had an allergy to it, and that she also would have an allergic reaction so severe that it caused her bone marrow to go haywire – an autoimmune disease called Aplastic Anemia.  She went on the drug right before the holiday break. When she came back to work in January, she came in my office one day to show me that she was covered in petichiae – something I was familiar with from my ITP days.  And she knew this, too, because she was around for the last episode. She said, “I have these red spots and they reminded me of what you had before you went into the hospital.” I took one look and knew exactly what they were, but I didn’t want to panic her.  I casually said something like, “Yeah, it does look like that.  Can you see your doctor?”  She had an appointment  that same day and left work a few hours later to have her blood tested.

Apparently, her doctor was able to do this in his office and give her the results immediately.  I’ve never met the man, but I maintain that he must be some kind of moron because he essentially looked at the results, freaked out, and sent her to the hospital in a panic. She called both me and our boss Linda crying hysterically. I should also note that the poor girl had lost her mother to ovarian cancer just six months before. So she was terrified and still raw from the trauma of loss and disease.  Linda and I agreed that I should go to the hospital, so I packed myself up and went to sit with her in Admitting, and then in the room while they got her sorted with nurses and doctors.  She was crying the entire time. She couldn’t reach her boyfriend, whose cell phone was turned off, and that was  big source of stress. She was so scared. At one point, through her tears, she said, “I just want my Mom.” My heart just about broke in two.  I tried my best to be positive and cheerful, but coming up with the right thing to say was impossible and I was starting to annoy even myself.  In the mean time, my Dad called to let me know that my grandfather had suffered a massive stroke and would probably not recover.  So I was doing my best in Katherine’s room to be positive and supportive, and then would excuse myself to cry in the hallway.  Finally, a doctor who is part of my own Hematologist’s practice came in to see her. He completely talked her off the ledge, for which I almost threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.  He wasn’t worried, and they were going to get to the bottom of what was going on.  He had even joked that Aplastic Anemia was so rare, it couldn’t possibly be that because he’d just treated a patient with it a few weeks before. So what were the odds? Sadly, the odds were not in her favor.

That is indeed what she had. I don’t know as much about AA as I probably should at this point, but essentially every part of her blood was wrong. White blood cells, red blood cells, platelets, hemoglobin…nothing was working the right way. It made her exhausted, susceptible to infections, and a bleeding risk.  She went on disability and spent the next eight months between her apartment and the hospital, where she had many multi-week stints either due to infections or attempts at treatment.  Nothing was working, and the writing on wall eventually became clear. She would have to have a bone marrow transplant. She only had one sister, who was not a match, so they had to find her a match from the bone marrow registry. She went in for her transplant in September.  Details become foggy at that point, but following the transplant, she had a cerebral hemorrhage, at which point she had emergency brain surgery. It seemed every day there were new complications as her body fought against the bone marrow she’d received. A coma was induced. She had to be started on dialysis. Every part of her body was failing and in the end, she had a bleed in her GI tract. It was the final straw, and, because she’d had a DNR, the decision was made to take her off life support.

How to describe Katherine…she had a big personality.  She was brilliantly smart, funny, and blunt. You always knew where you stood with her.  She had moved to LA to be an opera singer, something that always astounds me.  She was very talented. In high school, she did an exchange program and lived in Italy for a year, where she became fluent in Italian. After high school, she decided against traditional college and studied dramatic arts in various places, including Wales and New York City.  She was a long way from her roots in Columbus, OH, and always on her own, but she was adventurous and very brave, so she probably didn’t second guess any of those decisions.  I met her almost six years ago, when she started working in my department at the studio. At the time she was taking undergraduate courses at a local community college while working full time.  We weren’t close friends right away, but I did even at that time admire how smart she was.  Katherine always blew me away with her intellect, high-brow proclivities and thirst for knowledge.  She would find out something existed one afternoon, and be an expert on it by the following morning.  She was a member of the local museum and of an Italian Cultural Club affiliated with UCLA. She was an incredible athlete, participating in the Malibu triathalon a few years in a row, and most recently, joining the LA Derby Dolls, the local roller derby team.

She was a few years younger than me, and sometimes I felt that she almost looked up to me, the way I look up to my friends who are older than me, and seek their advice and opinions.  I’m not sure if she knew that I would even do the same with her, because she was so very smart, and her ability to read people and situations was so dead on.  We were always super friendly in our work group settings, but I think when she entered a special level of friend-dom for me was when I went through my divorce.  I lost a lot of friends during that time.  I tried to take the high road with my ex’s and my mutual friends and not put anyone in the middle, but the upshot was that I lost everyone in my life who I spent most of my time with.  I was very hurt, during what was already a painful and difficult time.  Katherine suggested we go out for dinner and drinks right after I moved into my new apartment.  Over drinks, as I was lamenting my situation, she said “I know you think those people were your friends. But they weren’t.  If they were, they’d still be here now.”  It seemed pent up, like something she’d been wanting to say to me for a while.  Something about her saying that snapped me out of my moping as I realized how right she was.  I was always grateful for that conversation.

Of the many things I will miss about her, a big thing is her witty way of turning a phrase, always clever and unique.  When I was moving out of the apartment I’d shared with my ex, I was trying to downsize the vast amounts of stuff I no longer needed. I had tons of things I was giving away, and she asked if she could come over and pick through to see if there was anything she needed.  I happily agreed and she came over after we went out to dinner one night. She walked into the place, which at that point was dark, half empty and half packed up, and said, “This place is like Sunday afternoon in the Winter.”  I’ve never heard anything more accurately described, and remembering it always makes me laugh. A kind of spooky side note:  among the things she took was some Thanksgiving-themed serveware.  Just this past weekend, another friend of ours from the office was at Katherine’s apartment with her family, going through possessions.  She said as she saw those pieces, she thought of me and that Katherine would want me to have them.  She had no idea I was the one to give them to Katherine in the first place. But I will gladly take them back.

Every time I’m in my apartment, I can’t help but think of her, because she helped me hang up my curtains. And let me clarify that “help me” means she hung up my curtains for me. I’d never done it before, and she was so independent and self sufficient, she’d done it many times without batting an eye. Another friend of mine had tried to help me hang them a few weeks before, but the drill she had brought was old and wouldn’t hold a charge long enough for us to make any progress. So we drank wine instead.  Before Katherine came over and I told her, “I have a drill we can use.” Well, the drill still wouldn’t hold a charge, making the task at hand impossible. Katherine seemed disgusted by the situation and said, “I’ll be back in thirty minutes,” during which time she went home, changed into her I’m-about-to-get-down-to-business clothes and grabbed her professional looking toolkit. She showed back up at my place with a toolbox like I’d never seen before – everything looked brand new and pretty high-tech. She rolled up her sleeves and hung up my curtains in no time.  I helplessly followed her around saying things like,  “Do you want me to hold the screws or something?”, and was essentially useless.  Then we drank cosmos. It still makes me chuckle to think of how seriously she took the job and how great she was at it. This was not a girl who waited for anyone to do anything for her – she was more than capable of doing it herself. And she was probably better at it than you, anyway.

When I was reading her obituary a few days after she passed, I discovered that her cat Basil had been put to sleep. That’s “Basil” pronounced in the British way – Katherine and I both shared a love of British entertainment and culture, so the cat’s name always cracked me up. She’d had him for a very long time and I think he was sixteen or something. He’d been mostly blind for a while and would make his way around her apartment by use of his whiskers. It was actually very funny to watch, and she did a great imitation of it.  I can only imagine that her family made the decision to put him down while Katherine was in a coma – she would have been devastated.  She loved that cat.  When I found out that Katherine had died, I called my mother, crying.  She, like many people, was not that surprised.  She said, “I know you wanted her to get better. But she was so sick and there would have been no way to overcome it all.  At least now she can be with her Mother.”  It is somewhat comforting to think of Katherine, up there in the great beyond, with her Mom and Basil (who hopefully has had full eyesight restored in Heaven), healthy and happy again.  Of course, knowing Katherine, I know she  is totally pissed off that this happened in the first place, and for how it turned out, and for every piece of it that was out of her control.  She had so many things left to do in life and it was all taken from her – in a very slow and painful way.  But one thing that strikes me now is how much she had come to terms with her potential fate, even before the transplant.  I was thinking today about how she would talk about the possible complications or things that could go wrong – even death, and I would go totally Pollyanna on her and be sickeningly positive, like some sort of delusional cheerleader.  I realize now that that must have been my own stuff, my own way to deal with what was happening to her and what could potentially go wrong. And I think she knew that. And so she patiently  nodded as I spewed my happy rainbow thoughts, all the while knowing in her heart what the reality of her situation was.

I hate having regrets, and these are the situations that should remind us all – life is so ridiculously short. Sometimes you can’t even possibly guess what is around the corner.  Do what you love. Be with who you love. Don’t push people away out of spite, or anger, or fear.  If someone is important to you, let them know. One thing I can’t get out of my head is that I never told Katherine how great I thought she was, or what she meant to me as a friend.  My sister said, that’s ok, because where she is now, she knows.  I cling to that notion, and it’s what has been getting me through these past weeks.

Right before this past Christmas, I had an amazing dream.  In the dream, I was leaving the mall after a shopping trip, and walked to my car in the parking lot. When I got in the car, my grandparents were in the backseat (my grandfather passed away in January, and my grandmother died when I was in college).  I said, “Thank God you’re here. I’ve missed you so much.”  And my grandmother said, “We’re always here.”

I awoke with a peaceful feeling – it was very comforting. It’s also comforting to think of that now, with Katherine gone.   I will always miss my beautiful, smart, funny, strong, brave and talented friend Katherine, but I can find some solace in knowing that a part of her will always be here.

There is no city in the world more narcissistic than New York.  Every TV show has to be set there, every movie has to be set there.  Jeter is “the best shortstop ever” because he plays there whereas he would be “the most okay shortstop ever” if he was on the Brewers.  Yet you can’t piss on the sidewalk in New York without hitting some resident (also pissing on the sidewalk) assuring you that you are both pissing on the sidewalks of the “best city in the world!”.

Yes, New York is the best city in the world…provided you’ve never been to London.  Or Barcelona.  Or Dubai.  or San Francisco.  Or any number of other cities that are equal to or better than New York.  Besides, is this purely an American affliction?  The constant declaration of one land mass to be superior to another?  I mean, if one place is really cool eventually what made it cool get watered down with a bunch of posers showing up to bask in that reflected light (I’m looking at you, NYC.  Maybe you were cool in the ’70′s but now you’re just a bunch of dudes in Yankee hats who really wish they lived in Jersey).  It isn’t the capital of the world, it isn’t the capital of America and I’m pretty sure it’s not even the capital of New York state.

But I digress, my point is that this lobbying for statehood seems like something directly out of the New York City playbook.  ’Hey, we’re the best city in the world, we should be a state.  Red Sox suck!’ and I for one expect better of my midwestern states/cities.  I live on the East Coast, these types of things are expected of us.  We are the A-hole first born of the nation; entitled, lazy, declining in actual power.  But, Chicago, you are the capital of our middle siblings; reliable, steady and genuinely nice (I bet you say hi to Iowa every time you see them, right?), you are expected to just be decent and not rock the boat.  Or at least not rock the boat for an idea so foolish that New Yorkers haven’t even come up with it yet.

Just to finish the analogy, the West Coast is like the younger sibling that nobody really knows who is off “doing something with computers” who shows up for a family dinner last night with a spouse no one knew about and a million dollars that no one can account for.

Anyway, Chicago, surely you know that you are free to do what ever you want but proceed with the knowledge that should you pursue this is will be at the risk of losing the silent respect of anonymous blogger and ask yourself if you are willing to sacrifice that.

Besides, would the map then have Illinois, like wrapped around the state of Chicago?  Ridiculous!

Today I caught this article on the Huffington Post about similar accusations against a Syracuse University basketball coach.  This may seem contrary to what I just wrote, but it actually made me feel a bit concerned.  In the article, Jim Bonheim claims that the accusations against Bernie Fine were fully investigated back in 2005 when they were first made, and were determined to be “unfounded.”  Now, there are only a handful of people on earth who know what really, truly happened here.  But what if those claims were completely unfounded? And Fine didn’t do anything wrong? And the alleged victims, seeing an opportunity in the media, decided to bring this back up knowing it would get a lot of attention?

We live in a society that is generally sympathetic toward the underdog or the victim.  That makes sense on a lot of levels, but I think we get carried away sometimes with people who claim to be victims – and the media doesn’t help this.  These stories have a very obvious “bad guy,” someone to root against. In the case of Penn State, it becomes even more sensationalized because of Joe Paterno’s fame and the supposed conspiracy of a large organization covering up something terrible. The notion of “innocent until proven guilty” goes out the window when we’re talking about a crime this egregious.  And, while the visual that comes to mind when I hear about Sandusky raping a 10-year old boy in the shower makes me, literally, sick to my stomach, I fear that emotions get the better of people until a certain hysteria takes hold, and then all of a sudden any coach who has ever slapped someone on the back is getting accused of inappropriate touching.  I have no interest or desire in defending a pedophile, but I strongly feel that,  accusations of this magnitude should be weighed and taken very seriously, with a grain of salt if necessary.  Unfortunately, in the world we live in today, nothing can be taken at face value.

I say all of this because, when I was in college, several oft the guys in my circle of friends played on the hockey team. We were the champions of our division (D3, but it meant a lot to us), so the players were a bit of the jock-celebrities on campus.  One night, in one of their dorm apartments, they partied with a girl who lived near them. Debauchery ensued, and the next day, she went to the police and claimed that five of the players had raped her.  Cue a media firestorm and lots of court time for our friends.  It was awful.  We were outraged, because we were all good friends with these guys – and some of us had actually dated a few of them.  We found it hard to believe that any of this was true. The alleged victim was a recovering alcoholic who had claimed she had been raped several times before. However, her rights were fully protected, so none of that ever came out in the news.  From what we could gather, she got completely wasted with them, put on some sort of strip show, and then had sex with one of the guys.    It was our belief at the time that she pointed her remorse outward and put the blame on others.  However, there were only a small group of us at the school who were abreast of all of these details.  The local media (and even CNN) reported the story and made these guys look like monsters. They further sensationalized it by constantly referring to them as “championship hockey players,” so their supposed fall from grace seemed even more pathetic.    I can’t count the number of emails or phone calls I got from friends and family asking, “You don’t know those guys, do you?”  It was so upsetting that someone so ill-intentioned could have such a negative and lasting effect on people who were innocent of any wrongdoing.    Ultimately, the case was dismissed for a ridiculous lack of evidence.  The media never ran that follow up.   One of the guys left school after that.  In one fell swoop, this woman ruined peoples’ lives.  No one ever even knew her name.

With all of these awful events and epic media coverage, I would always encourage people to read between the lines and discern fact from hysteria. It’s easy to get carried away in the tidal wave of outrage, but things are not always what they seem, and they are certainly not always fairly portrayed in the news.

There is so much to say about that man.  He was amazing and inspirational – and, I maintain that you could not have had a more perfect grandfather if you had gone to the Grandparents Store and invented him yourself with equal parts, love, compassion, humor, sage advice, and awesome hugs.  He was just the best.  Needless to say, it was a huge blow to the entire family to lose him. He was my Mom’s father, and she had an especially hard time dealing.  I made it my job, from the moment I landed at Logan, to try to distract her and help take care of her and do any of the logistical things I could to help take some of the planning off her plate.  Really, I just didn’t know what else to do. Words are so meaningless at that point, and I had my own grief to deal with, so maybe I needed the distraction as well.  He passed away in January, so it was freezing in Boston and we were in the midst of massive snow storms every few days. We actually waited longer than the traditional 3 days to have the wake and funeral so that we could get on the other side of a big blizzard, so that my grandfather’s relatives who live south of the city could make it up.  When I first arrived, my mother was in a bit of a fog trying to sort out details, and I didn’t have any appropriate winter funeral wear, so we had to go to the mall.  I think this probably helped keep her busy, but at one point, I could tell she was about to get weepy on me.  She is the youngest of five, and was especially close with her parents (my grandmother passed away when I was in college) and older sister (who died a few years ago).  So when I said (duh) “What’s wrong?” I was almost sort of prepared for this response: “It sucks being the youngest because everyone dies before you and then you’re all alone!”  Imagine this, coming from a woman who is almost 60, said with the fervor of a child pissed that they can’t have more cookies.  I disparage, but I felt her pain.  Being the smart ass that I am, the only thing I could think to say was, “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky and die before Uncle Johnny.”  She shot me a dirty look and said, “I knew you would say something like that.” But, I considered it a successful conversation because she didn’t end up crying in the middle of the mall.  Yay!

The night of the wake was a busy one. We got there at 4 PM and it didn’t end until after 8. I think. It was a blur.  The room was filled with pretty much anyone I’ve ever known in my life.  It is such a sad reason to see them all, but so comforting to have them all there.  Still, by the end, we were exhausted, hungry, and in need of a stiff drink.  I was kicking around with my Mom and Dad, so we went to a nearby restaurant for some food.  We each ordered a cocktail – not wine or beer, but the hard stuff.  Then we had another. Then our food came and my Mom’s drink was empty and she said, “I think I need a third.” So, in an effort to be helpful, I said, “Let’s all get thirds!”  The upshot of this was that by the time we got home, I was kind of drunk.

The next morning was the funeral. My Mom was on serious edge and I could tell that any little thing would have caused her to freak out. So I was treading carefully. Despite my evil hangover, I pulled it together to get ready as quickly as possible, because I could only imagine that if was even 30 seconds late, she would have gone postal. My Dad had the same strategy, although we never communicated about it. Fleeting eye contact as we silently passed each other in the kitchen told me we were on the same page.  I panicked at one point as I got dressed and put on my new funeral dress and tights. The tights were defective and had a massive hole on the back of one of my legs, under my ass.  It was covered by my dress, but definitely was in danger of spreading. I went downstairs and showed my mom, and she whipped out some hairspray to stop it from running more, and then a hair dryer to dry the hairspray on my ass.  The entire scene was pretty comical, so I said, “Hey, when you feel really sad at any point today, you should just try to remember this morning when you had to blow dry my ass!”  It got a chuckle, but she was still pretty tense.

We left for the funeral home early, just about the time that parents are dropping their children off at school. We’d just had another snow storm the day before, and with the massive amount of snow that winter, all of the side roads were totally narrowed by snow banks. On many streets, only one car could travel at a time, and you’d have to pull over to let opposing traffic pass.  Since we were going from one suburban town to another, taking surface roads, this was not an ideal situation. Every time we turned a corner, we’d be at a dead stop, battling to move with school buses and minivans. From the back seat, I could see my mother’s shoulders up around her ears from the tension of it all.  My Dad, as he usually does, had on the local AM news radio station, which no one was really listening to except me because I needed a distraction from the inevitable volcanic eruption that was about to come out of the front seat every time my dad would say, “Wait, I’ll go this way!” in an effort to get around traffic, only to turn a corner and get even more stuck than we were before.  My Mom reminded me of a cartoon tea kettle about to blow.  On the radio station was one of those ridiculous, hardly-newsworthy local interest stories. The newscaster’s lead in was something like, “Bostonians deal with the fall out of even more snow!”, which was followed by a quote from the interview they did for the subsequent story. The interview was with some kid in Southie who was shoveling for cash (presumably the only fool they could find outside to interview). He was probably no more than 13, but for some reason his voice was that of an old woman, and he had the worst Boston accent I’ve ever heard. So the lead in came, “Bostonians deal with the fall out of even more snow!”, followed by this gem: “My aaahms kinda hurt.”  It was amazing and hilariously funny.  Clearly, the producers of the segment also thought the quote was funny, because they played it about 15 times.  I wanted more than anything to burst out laughing, but just looking at the back of my parents’ heads told me that would be a bad idea.  So, I kept it in.  The more tense it got in that car, the more they played that quote, and the more I wanted to laugh.

I think the whole experience left me with some sort of PTSD, rolled into the fact that I never did get a chance to truly, properly grieve because I was so worried about my mother. When I think about my grandfather, I still feel horrifically sad that he’s not here anymore. And still, to this day, I will think of that morning and hear that weird kid’s voice in my head and want to burst out laughing no matter where I am.  My grandfather would totally appreciate that.

I hate reality television.  The most I can stand is a competition show, every once in a blue moon. Watching the drama (or worse – mundane details) of other people’s lives holds no entertainment value for me.  If my TV accidentally ends up on a Kardashian show, I immediately change the channel as a matter of principal. I would have lit myself on fire before I would have watched Kim’s wedding to Kris Humphries.

Maybe it’s because I’ve gone through the shame of a divorce myself that I actually feel very sympathetic towards her right now. Granted, she invited the mass public scrutiny by having her wedding be such a public spectacle in the first place. But, having been married for just over four years, I remember the shame and embarrassment of having to tell my family and friends that it didn’t work out.  Just about everyone supported me and validated my decision.  I’m sure Kim’s close family and friends are supporting her as best they can, but I can’t even begin to imagine the humiliation of having the world media point a finger at you for having something fail so spectacularly in such a short amount of time.  Again, when you make your living as a “reality star”, you sort of open yourself up the world to judge every minor move that you make, so she’s probably not surprised at the amount of attention this is getting (the fame-whore part of her probably even likes it).  I’m just saying that, having gone through a divorce, it’s hard enough to not feel like a loser and failure without everyone making fun of you and judging you.  She’s probably just trying to show a brave face by keeping up her public persona and appearances these past few days, but I just want for her to go into hiding for a few weeks.

One way I think you can keep yourself young is with music, and to keep tabs on what the kids are listening to.  I don’t much like Top 40 radio, but within the genres I do like, I try to keep up with what is new and up and coming.  I also try to listen the radio in general (even though stations in LA mostly suck) so I’m aware of what’s popular.

The inevitability of my advancing years is rearing its ugly head, however, no matter how much I try to ignore it.  Last week while getting ready for work, I was listening to KROQ (rock/alternative rock) and they were playing  a song by 30 Seconds to Mars.  This is the band fronted by Jared Leto, who played the alterna-heart throb Jordan Catalano on My So Called Life. I’m generally not that excited about men who embrace guy-liner, but most of the time, I find this band’s songs to be decent – or I at least don’t feel compelled to change the station when they come on.  But last week I noticed that Jared Leto screams in the middle of the new song (I forget the name). And then it occurred to me that he screams in pretty much all of their songs. This seems entirely unnecessary to me because his voice is actually pretty good, so he doesn’t need to overdo the theatrics by screaming.  Last week was also when I realized that I was completely turned off by someone screaming in a song. I felt like my father for a minute, which was pretty depressing (why wouldn’t it make me feel like my mother? Perhaps best explored in an entirely different post…or therapy).  I could just hear in my head, the voice of the older, crotchety generation, who just doesn’t “get it” anymore…”What is he screaming for?”  But really, I just don’t understand what he’s screaming for. Maybe old people have a point 99.9% of the time, but just need better delivery and better PR.

The other thing I noticed as a new pet peeve is music that is too loud in public venues.  I was out to dinner with a friend a few weeks ago, and we were in a restaurant where the music was so loud, we couldn’t hear our own conversation.  Unable to deal, we mentioned it to the hostess, whose response was, “It’s just because they all like this song (presumably referring to the staff).  They’ll turn it down when the song is over.”  I found this to be a really  unacceptable response, for multiple reasons.  But, she was young and very matter of fact about it, which made me wonder if I am just getting older and clueless about what passes for socially acceptable in the world today.  Similarly, a week or so later, I was out shopping and went into an H&M, which is kind of an overwhelming experience to begin with because your eyes are assaulted by legions of cheap, bright clothing. But the music was so loud you would have to shout to be heard over it.  I was very happy to leave and may never go back there, ever.

So, it seems my method of keeping older age at bay – which is just about equal parts denial and delusion – will crack under the strain of reality in no time. It’s difficult to maintain the pretense that you’re young and “with it” when you’re shaking your fist and yelling at people to turn down the music.

A few months ago I got a new office neighbor.  From day one, I did not like her. I’ve gone with my instincts on this, and without being too self-fulfilling, I maintain my original stance that she’s kind of a jerk.

She is not part of my department, and was supposed to be in an office on the other side of the building. Apparently, it was not good enough for her, and she made a stink until they moved her some place better.  She spent a long time working at Disney before coming here and – full disclosure – having worked at Disney myself for a brief period of time, I really don’t like those people. They are very “corporate” considering that they work at a studio, and there is a certain level of business snobbery from them that I’ve never encountered before in my life – and I used to work at Harvard!   Below is a my list of grievances with this lady, in no particular order:

* The whole office thing that brought her into my world in the first place.

* She is on the phone ALL the time and the walls here are paper thin, so I hear her voice all day long.  Most of her calls seem to be personal (not trying to eavesdrop, but again, thin walls, not my fault).

* To the point above, she is a Bluetooth Person.  You know, the people that always have a Bluetooth device in their ear, even if they’re not talking on it.  And, when they are talking on it, they talk at full volume, as though the person they’re on the phone with is right in front of them. I caught her doing this one morning in the breakfast line (as an aside, most of us hate people who are on the phone in the food line, since they slow down the entire process). The guy behind her was clearly not impressed.  The sight of it annoyed me, but I can’t say I was surprised to discover that she is “that” person.  Up in her office a few minutes later, I heard her part of the phone conversation, which involved her telling her conversation partner everything she had just picked up in the food line, in detail, while she ate.  Two things I can’t stand:  1) people who need to constantly be on the phone and tell others the inane details of their day; and 2) people who eat while on the phone. Gross.

* Having worked here about 6 years, I’m in my (at least) 9th office. They move us around a lot. As a result, you become friendly with the man from Facilities who is in charge of  the movers on moving day.  Our guy is Manny, who is one of my favorite people. He moves peoples’ personal stuff as a side business, so I hired him when I moved into my current apartment. Since that time, he has treated me like a member of his family. He is sweet and hard working and an all-around lovely man. So, when I hear people talk to him like he’s their man servant, I get pissed off on his behalf.  As my new neighbor was getting settled into her new digs, I heard her being difficult with Manny as he hung her paintings and other wall stuff.  I might help Manny mount a rebellion against all the people who are ungrateful towards him.  She’s at the top of the list.

* I tried to give her a shot during her first or second week here by walking into her office and introducing myself and explaining what my job is. She looked at me like I had just walked into her office and farted.  A few days later, she introduced herself to me. Now, I’ve mentioned before, I usually go out of my way to be nice to people, even if they don’t deserve it.  But, my patience was already gone with her, so I returned her disdainful look of a few days previous and replied with, “I know, we’ve already met.”  I think she felt stupid after that, which made me feel a little better.

* This is the most egregious offense of all – she is an INCESSANT throat-clearer.  All. Day. Long.  It drives me mad.  I’m not sure what to do about it.  Maybe she has some genetic mucus issue. Maybe it’s a nervous tic.  Either way, it seems like it fits into that category of “physical things about someone that you can’t complain about in the work place.”

So, there it is.  The most immature outburst I’ve had in a while. Now the question becomes, will this suffice in venting my frustrations and will I feel better towards her?  Or did I just fuel my own fire and now I will like her even less?  Time will tell. In the mean time, I’ll try to avoid childish pranks and outright hostility.

All of this internet surfing has led to some great discoveries, such as happyplace.com, which might be the most brilliant collection of ridiculousness ever gathered in one spot.

I’m also really up on my news and current events. Today was a bummer of a day in the news. Giulana Rancic was diagnosed with breast cancer. I do not know her, so I have no idea why this has been so upsetting to me.  To top it off,  some two-year old girl in China was run over by a car, then a second car. Not only did neither of the drivers of the cars even stop, at least 18 people walked by and ignored this little girl in the street.

Three people in Pennsylvania were found to have four mentally disabled adults chained up in their basement. Authorities think the alleged kidnappers did it for the victims’ social security money.

When a day of news is as depressing as today was, I cling to the hopeful fluff stories. This one really got me, not least of all because this guy could be the Indian, marathon-running version of my grandfather, with his “always be happy” mantra.

It might be the equivalent of sticking my head in the sand, but this last story is what I will try to remember about today.  My grandfather and the Indian guy would want it that way.

Even though now my main method of transportation is to drive myself around in my car, the personal space thing is still a big deal to me in two main areas: the gym and public restrooms.

First, the gym. There are actually two infractions that occur here. Number one: if I’m on a treadmill in the row of treadmills, and the majority of them are empty, please do not get on the treadmill directly next to me.  There is truly no need for it. Number two: the cleaning people need to settle down.  There are two at my gym, and I feel a little bad disparaging of them. They work very hard and are at the gym when I get there at 6:30 in the morning, already very busy wiping down all of the cardio equipment.  My problem is with one guy in particular, who will wipe down the piece of equipment that you are currently using.  I’m sure he’s trying to be unobtrusive, but I’ve almost yelled at him a few times because, when I’m in my groove, it is very disconcerting to me to all of a sudden have a man at my feet. My balance is awful, and more than once the surprise of it all has almost caused me to bite it on the treadmill (incidentally, I’ve fallen off a treadmill before, and there is absolutely nothing graceful about it…and it hurts a lot).  I’ve contemplated complaining about it, but he seems like a nice man who’s just trying to do his job, so I don’t want to get him in trouble.

My second personal space issue is in public restrooms. When you are in a restroom that has a row of stalls, and almost all of the stalls are unoccupied, I feel like it’s rude and weird to go into the stall immediately next to one that is occupied.  Especially if there is pooping involved.  Now, admittedly, I tend to be a bit more on the anal retentive side of the public restroom thing, but this just seems like a no-brainer and common courtesy. I acknowledge, that yes, everyone has to go, and it’s a bathroom, which is the most preferable choice of location to relieve oneself.  But still, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having a little modesty about the situation and tending to your business as far away from other people as possible.

As with many of my quirks, I accept that this train of thought is likely unique to me, so I try to get over myself.  Otherwise I may turn into the lunatic who yells at people in a public restroom or a neighboring treadmill, or at the poor guy who is just trying to get his job done before the sun is even up.  However, if you agree with any of this, it would make me feel like less of a crazy jerk to know that I’m not alone.