Camp 18

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Yay me

A couple of weeks ago, a discerning woman tagged me as a Rockin' girl blogger. How cool is that? I guess I'm supposed to pick five others, but the truth is, all the girls rock. Here are some of them:

• Kung Fu Kitten
• Clumsy girl
• Dottie
• Beetlegirl
• Fox in the Snow
• And who can forget the chattering magpie?

There are lots of others, I just have to get back to work now!

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Sneaking and slinking, past tense

From Dictionary.com:

"Snuck is relatively new, an Americanism introduced in the late 19th century. The opposite has occurred to the past form of slink. Slunk was long the standard form, but then slinked appeared and is encroaching on slunk."

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Binary solos kick ass

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Honk! Wendy

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Mismatch

It's hard to match up the picture ingrained in my head with the headline, found on page four of Wednesday's Metro section of The Oregonian: Falling machinery hits, kills worker. The road crew looking lost, the blood on the pavement, the large chunk of metal that had fallen off a larger piece of equipment, clearly ceasing its work of jackhammering up the street... those aren't in the story. The somber faces of those who witnessed the event are unrecorded.

Falling machinery hits, kills worker. When I asked, hopefully, "Is everyone okay?" of someone who looked like a bike cop, he replied, "There was an accident; the condition of the injured people isn't known." I asked if there was more than one injured person, and he said, "No. Just one."

"Falling machinery hits, kills worker" is how the guys in the elevator think of it. The guy who said, "Oh, a construction worker died," like he was disposable. "Boy, it sure is hot today," he added.

But me, the only picture I have of this unnamed worker is a pool of blood on the pavement, a discarded hard hat, and I'm certain that he was more than that. I think of his family, of the guy operating the machine and how he must feel, of a car or truck sitting in a parking lot at the end of a long, hot day. Empty. Unattended. I think of the guy who gave him CPR until the ambulance arrived and think that it's strange that this guy, the one crushed by a chunk of metal while improving the bus mall downtown wound up on page four of the Metro section, while a man killed by a falling tree was on the front page of the newspaper today with a photo of his family. (I'm not saying their deaths don't compare or that one is worse than the other; just that the newspaper coverage is quite as random as the way they died).

Of course, it calls into question the big things: Life, Meaning, Death, Meaninglessness. All so random and at the whim of coincidence, but inextricably linked in the context of a single human. And once again it seems so trivial, all of this... everything. Oh, I'm not saying I've lost my zest for life or my sense of humor, but you see a man's blood on the pavement and it makes you think, wonder, aren't we all basically disposable when it comes right down to it? And what (if anything) will be the headline when you shuffle off? Because for people who read page four of the Metro section, that's how this guy lived and died. There's not even a name. For people who don't, and didn't know him, he didn't exist. For those who did know him, I wish them peace.

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Headache report

Since Dottie asked... my headaches are gone. It took six weeks, fourteen barrels of ibuprofen and one of whiskey, two weeks of physical therapy, ten sock monkeys and a fall down some stairs to make it go away. (I may be lying about the number of barrels, the involvement of sock monkeys, and the tumble down stairs.)

According to my physical therapist, the muscles and tendons in my neck and shoulders are discombobulated. What it basically comes down to is that I am a poorly-constructed human. I stand wrong, sit wrong, and sleep wrong. My right leg is significantly longer than my left leg (which I already knew and yes, I know your legs are different lengths too, but mine are differenter (is too a word) than normal and no I'm not getting specially-made shoes or lifts because that's a pain in the ass and, I suppose, there's some vanity involved, but mostly it's the pain in the ass thing), and my joints are loose. I am "hyper-mobile" and I need more core strength. I am wimpy. My hip hurts when I move my chin, I think my bellybutton's caving in... &c.

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Crackle, crackle, boom

As we wandered tipsily home, the sounds of revelry were apparent throughout the various neighborhoods. It was July 3, and for most of us, it directly preceded that most highly prized event: a Day Off. A block or two ahead, a green glow lit the street and overhanging trees as the sounds of whistling and crackling gave way to the unfettered glee of two boys, approximately 10 years of age. Their words weren't clear at that distance, but their tone gave off the unmistakable impression of elation.

As we walked by the house, the boys were gathering up more fireworks for their next round.

"That was pretty awesome, guys," I said.

One of the boys had almost exploded himself with the excitement. I saw only his silhouette, his fists full of firecrackers backlit by the porch light. He replied, "I lit it and there was a blue flame and it was close to my face and I lit it and the blue flame was so close to my face and I almost lit my grandpa on fire!"

"Uh oh. Don't light your grandpa on fire!" I suggested.

From the porch came an amused, "It's okay... I'm old."

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Stretch your armpits

One of the more amusing tidbits I picked up from physical therapy is that stretching your armpits is supposed to help ward off depression. According to this article, it's not just raising your arms above your head that does it. But I prefer to think that raising your arms up, and perhaps waggling your fingers a bit, is the cure for what ails ya. It's cuter that way.

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