Red Scarf Project

I'm not gonna mince words, here. For a lot of us this year (myself included) has more or less sucked balls. People lost jobs, loved ones. Shit happened. A lot of shit. And just when you thought you couldn't take one more ounce of crap--it poured buckets from the sky.

And yet, I had family and friends to bolster me, and vice versa. What it would be like not to have that scaffolding of love and acceptance, I do not want to know.

So, this holiday season, in the spirit of combating A Lot of Things Sucking Really, Really Bad, I am donating to this charity, The Red Scarf Project.

The charity benefits orphaned teens and young adults who have grown out of the foster care system, but still need support as they attend college or vocational school. What's not to like about it, eh?

You don't have to be a knitter to donate a red scarf (unisex please, if you do). You can donate money (duh), but also gift cards from major retail store, or call them up and ask them what they need.

If you do knit, and plan to donate that way, the deadline is December 15, 2009. I went out to my local yarn store (a tempting block away) and bought a skein of superwash and cast on right away in a seed stitch ribbing pattern I can do with my eyes closed.

I'm hoping, whether or not you donate your time and efforts to this particular charity, that you consider donating to one that has meaning for you. I don't mean to get all Preachy and Sanctimonious, or all Cloying "God Bless Us Everyone" Tiny Tim--really, I'm the last person to shove sunshine up anybody's ass, as most of my friends and family will heartily attest to.

I'm just saying, this year has sucked for a lot of the people I care the most about, and one of the more redeeming ways I'm choosing to deal with the Suckitude of Great Magnitude (aside from the usual bitching and spewing doomer magic eight ball predictions, of course) is by giving myself a laudable way to escape my dreaded knitting projects, aka Blanket of Blocking Hell and Man Ski Socks of a Colorless Blah Which Hath Rendered Me Blind... and oh yeah, maybe helping someone who isn't coding and whose ass I don't have to wipe if they make it.

Top Ten Signs You Might Be Living in the Tri-State Area

10. Someone named "Tattoo Tony" wants you iced.

9. You want someone named "Tattoo Tony" iced.

8. Everyone from New Haven pretends they're from Brooklyn.

7. Everyone from Brooklyn pretends they're from Manhattan.

6. Everyone, regardless of where they're actually from, really wants to be somewhere else.

5. The statement "Jesus! You look like crap, you sonuvabitch!" is actually considered a compliment.

4. It makes the evening news when Ziplock bags are used for the intended purpose of storing food, not crack-cocaine.

3. No one has a clue what you just ordered when you say, "I'll have the manicotti, please."

2. Re: #3, you get smacked in the face for saying "please" because the waitress assumes you're being a smart-ass, not polite.

1. "Gun control" means the Mayor doesn't wave around his own .38 Special during town council meetings.

screw that!

Tattoo, on penis of patient: Fuck this.

The Curious Incident of the Fake Wife In The Nighttime.

Scene: night shift, intensive care unit at a large county teaching hospital; surgical resident attempting to elicit information from haggard-looking woman at patient's bedside.

RESIDENT:
(with faked air of pleasantness)
So, you're his wife?

WOMAN:
Well, yeah... I mean, we've been together for six months!

RESIDENT:
(increasingly dubious)
Yes, but are you his legal spouse?

WOMAN:
Well, I sleep with him. We have sex. I'm as good as his wife.

RESIDENT:
(patience wearing thin)
I don't think you're understanding me. Did you get married? Do you have legal document saying you are his wife?

WOMAN:
(agitated, emphatically)
You don't understand! We've been together for six months. We have sex and stuff! He don't got nobody else! I'm his wife!

beginning, middle, end.

Beginnings are easy. Endings are, in some ways, even easier. But the middle? It's the hardest part.

Middles are murky, untidy, full of bluffs and blind alleys. Nobody can say, in the middle of something, what or when the End will be--it just is. The End might sideline you, it might knock the wind out of you, or it might be a gentle passing into nothing--but it's certain. But the Middle of Something? Impossible to say, how long it'll last, how far it's got to go, how much more you've got to endure.

After the fine, heady rush of a Beginning, with its newness and shiny glamour--the Middle comes as a bit of a nasty shock. It's the unexpected wrinkle in a clean linen tunic, the missed stitch in the knitting noticed three rows too late, the running-out-things-to-say on a first date, and the oh-fuck-I-just-said-too-much-and-too-loud of an argument in the calming lull after the first thunder of anger and passion, it's the bland, boring and scarily undefinable center of a Twinkie.

The Middle: it drags on. It doesn't know what to make of itself--is it the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end? The Middle questions its every choice, its every move. It squints into the future, blinded by sunspots of brilliant dreams yet tangled in the kudzu of fate. It is a lazy day dream, distracted by what might have been and what will be.

The Middle second and triple and quadruple guesses itself. It fucks up, makes the wrong the decisions. It fucks up some more. Sometimes, it rights itself--more often, it stays off-balance, like some pathetic leaning tower of Pisa. It is caught in the cat's cradle between hope and despair.

I am good at beginnings--those require only a bit of arrogance and the mad assumption whatever I'm doing might be The Right Thing, at long last. And I am very, very good at endings: a needle full of dull numbness and the thing--whatever it is or was--is done.

But the Middle... ah, the Middle. It confounds, it buffets, it lulls, and then it dares belligerently to take it--to take you--to the edge of the end and throw it--and you-- off the cliff.

And I absolutely suck at it.

a day late and a loonie short

What happens in Canada, doesn't, apparently, stay in Canada.

And yes, it's knitted. Ca c'est l'amour, non?

Happy Canada Day, people, albeit a day late.

Big T's Resume and Cover Letter Service.

There comes a time in every working stiff's joyless, overtaxed burden of an existence where one gives in to the sublime temptation of writing a cover letter detailing exactly how they feel about supplicating for another lousy job.

And thus, the moment has come, dear friends and readers, to unveil to the cover letter everybody has fantasized about writing (and sending!) at least once in their career:

Objective: Get a Job. Make $. Pay my fucking bills.

Dear Sir/Madam:

I think your institution is lame and all I've ever heard from my colleagues and the community at large is how sucky it is to work there, but frankly, I'm desperate to pay my bills. Sure, I'll take a job at your crap facility if it means I can make rent for another month. And sure, I'll even pretend this letter is about caring, and furthering my job skills, but we both know that's a joke. You need someone to wipe and kiss ass and take the fall when a big lawsuit happens, I need to pay off my student loans and eat ramen for the rest of my life.

So, let's make a deal: you pretend to give me a real job that treats me like a sentient human being, and I'll pretend to work and give a shit about your company values. You pretend to give me money for the job, and I'll pretend I can actually make a living with your sucky wages. Capeche? If I don't hear from you, well, let's just say Big T's Resume Service has a sister company called Big T's Wrecking Service. (And we don't wreck cars, if you catch my drift).

Sincerely,

Your future disgruntled employee

cc: Big T.'s Resume Service.

shit never dies.

At its best, critical care is a heroic illusion, at its worst, it is an empty promise. And all too often, it is one and the same.

This Is Your Brain: An Illustrated Guide For Trauma Patients and Their Family Members

Welcome to the ICU. We understand this is a scary, stressful time for you. There are many different machines and lots of different equipment that may look overwhelming. Doctors and nurses may speak in medical terms you do not understand. In order to facilitate your understanding of what is really happening in plain language, we've created a little guide to help you process things you may see or hear on the unit.

We hope this is useful and encourage your family members to resist the urge to annoy the medical team and nurse with many redundant, repetitive and inane questions about your care, and instead, please sit down, shut up, and refer to the handy guide, as per below.

(Note: Because you are no doubt intubated, restrained, and in a chemically induced coma, the staff here will share this sensitive booklet with your loved ones so they, too, can understand exactly how fucked up you are.)

Thank you, and have a wonderful day!

--The Staff In The ICU

This is your brain.
This is your brain splattered all over a King County highway.

This is your brain.
This is your brain with a bolt in it.

This is your leg.
This is your leg ripped off and in a cooler for transport.

This is your other leg.
This is your other leg amputated at the knee.

This your arm.
This is your arm in yet another cooler for transport.

This is your other arm.
This is your other arm with a couple of digits missing which, alas, were not retrievable at the scene.

This is your pelvis.
This is your pelvis in an ex-fix.

This is your airway.
This is your airway with a tube shoved in it.

This is your nose.
This is your nose with a tube shoved in it.

This is your dick.
This is your dick with a tube shoved in it.

This is your ass.
This is your ass with a tube shoved in it.

Any questions?