Blood and Honey

I gave blood last summer at my office. The Red Cross asked if I would consider inclusion in a long-term study they're doing. I didn't have to do anything but give blood. I agreed.

Now I'm in the system, and I get frequent postcards requesting my presence at blood drives in the area. I ignore them.

Then Wednesday night I got a call: "blood shortage, please donate, make an appointment." Sure, why not? I could give on my lunch hour Friday. If I were a little late getting back, no big deal. Half the office is off each Friday in the summer, so there's never much going on.

I showed up a few minutes before the appointed time. I went through the screening questions, finger prick, etc. Next I'm lying on the cot listening to "Sunday, Bloody Sunday." The blood drive was being sponsored by a radio station that was broadcasting live. The DJ thought it would be clever to count down the Top 10 songs related to blood. It wasn't.

The last thing I want to do while donating blood is think too much about it! Dwelling on the fact that blood is flowing out of me is a no-no. Also, I generally keep my eyes closed or at least look away from the phlebotomist so that I never see the needle. I don't mind the stick, it's seeing the needle (even though it's small) that makes me a little woozy.

Back to the phlebotomist, whom I will refer to as Flub. We do not get along. She is snippy and continues to call me Honey. I have a name, and Honey isn't it! I didn't say anything. I figured our interaction would be over soon enough.

After marking the vein in my left arm, Flub threateningly tells me not to move my arm or wrist. She was very rude about it. There is no reason to be rude when I haven't done anything yet! So I am not moving, but Flub is moving all around my arm to set up the tubes and bag. I keep waiting for her to bump me. She doesn't but continually implores me not to move. Geez!

Eventually she sticks me. As soon as she does, Flub says "Oh, I so sorry. I got blood on you." I figure she got blood on my arm. Why is she so concerned? That's bound to happen. No, Flub got blood on my shirt. Excuse me, but don't you do this process all day every day? How did you get blood on my clothes?

I begin filling the bag. Flub doesn't like the way I squeeze the hand cyclinder meant to pump the blood. "You don't have to kill it," she says. This does not make me want to squeeze more softly. I have had it with Flub.

Finally I am finished. When I sit up, I am a little light headed. Flub orders me to lie down again. She forces me to drink cranberry grape juice through a straw while lying down. This is not comfortable.

I try getting up again and make it off the cot. As I bend down to get my bag, I focus on the carpet. It has a very hypnotic lime green pattern that hurts my eyes. I look away. Flub takes this as a sign of weakness. Back on the cot I go. I have been called Honey 11 more times.

The rest of the experience wasn't any better. I had to stay for an hour or so because I didn't feel well. I still wasn't 100 percent when I left, so I decided to call it a day. However, I had to get back to the office first. I attempted to take the T but waiting for the train made me feel worse. So I took a cab five blocks.

I sure hope my blood goes to good use. It was a hell of a donation.

PS: When I took my bandage off, I noticed that Flub's pen marks and the stick marks didn't match up. For all her snipping about me not moving my arm, she didn't even use her marks!

I heart NY

Looking out their back door. Sandy Pond, NY


These represent about 1/9 of the fireworks.

Neighborhood Update

Pander Castle has remedied the situation. Too bad I didn't get a picture.

Across the street, there is no love at Love Bagel, Love Bread. A court order on the door sends you on your way. We are speculating bankrupcy. Spending a lot of money remodeling and decorating then rarely opening your doors during business hours is not a recipe for success.

While searching for more information about the shuttering, I came across this article from 1999. Apparently my "new" bagel place is old. It used to be in a different part of our town. The owner is "an Australian aborigine with a background in neurosurgery."

The idea for the heart-shaped bagels supposedly came to him in a dream after he nearly died. Also, the shop didn't sell the average bagel variety. Each flavor was supposed to affect your mind/health. One for better concetration, one for losing weight (not sure how eating a bagel could ever work for that) and, of course, one to improve your sex life.

Sexy bagels from an aborigine in a working class town outside Boston. You can't make this stuff up.

Citation Excitation

At work today I was reading a scholarly book that had internal documentation giving credit to various education researchers for their findings.

There was really no reason for me to look closely at these. Until I read this one:

There are many words in the English language (Stahl, 2004).

I didn't know I should be giving Dr. Stahl credit for my general knowledge about the number of English words.

Moreover, apparently his research didn't confirm the high word count until 2004.

I guess the greater meaning of the heft of the dictionary was lost on Stahl as a kid. He needed a formal study.

The Pond

The blogging hiatus was mostly due to a grand vacation around July 4. My aunt (dad's sister) and uncle own a place they call a camp (it's a house but it is basic) in upstate New York on an outlet of Lake Ontario, and we enjoyed a week of food, family and frolicking.

Pictures TK because my words won't do the landscape justice. Suffice it to say that there was lots of good sleeping, coffee, sunshine, water skiing and a county fair at which I saw many more hicks than I've ever seen in Texas. So there.

There was also a spectacular fireworks display on 7/4 orchestrated by my uncle. He and Brian spent nearly two days wiring fuses and nailing canisters to 2x4s. Brian was a trooper as my uncle is a little nuts. The pyrotechnics lasted just under two hours!

I returned to work so relaxed and refreshed that I felt as though I'd been away for month. My aunt teaches middle school in Pittsburgh and then lives at The Pond for the entire summer. What a way to recover from sixth-graders.