One Night Stand: 'Sacrifice'

This past weekend I was making my way up the stairs of an Upper East Side walk-up in New York. From the minute one entered the front door of the building, sound flooded the hall. At the top of the second flight, it became clear that someone was listening, at top volume on a very good sound system, to "Sacrifice" by Elton John.

And they were getting STONED doing it. In the middle of the day.

I don't know whether it was the secondhand weed or the quality of the stereo, but the song stuck with me for the rest of the weekend. I went from mocking the person behind that apartment door to wanting to shake his or her hand. What an amazing song to get stoned to. I've never been stoned, but I imagine the experience was awesome.

I tried to Blip "Sacrifice," because that site is where I've been satisfying my musical Tourette's lately, but all the versions there seemed to be live ones and it's essential that you hear the fully produced, 1989 recording in order to appreciate the song.

When I couldn't Blip it, I turned to my karaoke system. I was delighted to find that it was there, but the plinkity version of the song didn't really satisfy because it was missing the guitar accents that you get in the bridge and last chorus. Plus, I am no Elton. I tried to do my best Eltonesque pronunciation of the words in the song ("sack-a-ri-FAHce," "some thangs lookM bettAH"), but the Magic Sing only scored me at an 88 out of 100. Respectable, but lackluster.

And who knew that this song was about heterosexual infidelity? The last time I was captivated by a gay man singing about that topic was "Careless Whisper" by George Michael, and while Elton hardly beats that chestnut, this song has its own charm in how weirdly Zen and unemotional it is, and how the lyrics are slightly confusing ("No tears to damn you when jealousy burns"?).

Maybe the only way to experience "Sacrifice" is with good speakers and a blunt. But in that moment, I lived vicariously and tasted that freedom. And it was no sacrifice at all.

Music: "Sacrifice"

Please Stop Saying 'Learnings.'

Lately I've noticed that, especially in the workplace, people now say "learnings" when they want to talk about someone else screwing up. Usually, it occurs in meetings and post-mortems where the intent is to say, "Someone has really f***ed up here, and I'm going to let you all know that I know someone f***ed up, but will also try to be positive by focusing on how we can do better in the future."

But instead of saying that, they say something like "There were some good learnings that came out of last week's event," or "Over the past few months there have been some great learnings that we've seen as a company" or [after an awkward pause where someone's embarrassing error has been pointed out] "Well, good learnings."

I first heard it from a boss in San Francisco, and since then, instances of the usage have only increased. It reached a critical mass during a meeting I attended today, and I had to ask myself:

When did this become a word?

I checked the dictionary: Nope, nothing there. Perhaps this usage has evolved because there's no other word that really conveys the concept? Except whoops, there is such a word: lessons.

But perhaps the person who is in the hall monitor role feels uncomfortable talking about "lessons," because it makes him or her seem schoolmarmish. Saying "learnings" sounds a bit more guru-like, not to mention inventive, because you are taking creative liberties with the English language.

Either way, can we call agree that learnings is not a word and should not be uttered?

Thank you.

Points of Contention: Lando Calrissian.

Moving on from the obvious point of contention in the previous post, here's another one. A piece of copy at work labeling Lando Calrissian as a villain recently incited some debate among my coworkers.

"Lando Calrissian was not a villain!"

"Yes he was, he betrayed Han Solo."

"Yes, but he made up for it in the end."

"He was a Judas!"

And so on. What do you think? Personally, I'm on the fence because it's been too long for me and the details are foggy. But the basic question comes down to this: If you commit a serious transgression, does it brand you forever, even if you make amends? Let's say, for example, Osama bin Laden had a change of heart and helped the US avert a shoe bomber, or beat Kim Jong-il's ass. Also, what if he looked like Billy Dee Williams? Would he be a villain then?

On second thought, that comparison's not quite apt. Maybe Lando is more like a Bill Clinton or a Tiger Woods: He doesn't start out with bad intentions, but he's weak. And the Dark Side looked so good in that G-string. Then he finds himself appropriating the voice of his own dead father (or maybe Darth Vader, how awesome would that be) for a Nike commercial and doing what's necessary for posterity, but not really changing at his core. Is he a villain then?

Music: "The Imperial March"

New Business.

1. The Burberry Game

If you live in New York or Washington, or perhaps other cities in the United States, it's likely you witness (and perhaps wear) a profusion of Burberry items daily. In certain areas, the frequency of Burberry scarves approaches comic proportions, and no one ever seems concerned about the fact that everyone is wearing the exact same scarf. This led me to the idea of having a Burberry-spotting game, with a point system devised by a New York resident I know (who also took this photo).

The point system is as follows.

Scarf - 1
Hat - 5
Umbrella - 7
Wallet - 8
Handbag (up to personal bag) - 15
Bag (fits under the seat in front of you) - 20
Boots - 20
Jacket - 25
Luggage - 35
Trench (pattern on lining only) - 50
Baby product - 100
Pet carrier or clothing - 500

And then, of course, just when it seemed the game was taking shape with a solid framework, something came along to challenge our notion of just what's possible in the realm of Burberry achievement: the full-on plaid coat in the photo. Now we are wondering, how many points does this baby merit? Is it a 1,000-point score? Or is it more of a "bingo" sighting, one that doubles whatever your current total is?

Another slight flaw here is that, as spring approaches, scarves will wane. We need another ubiquitous, low-scoring item for the warmer months.

If you choose to participate in the Burberry game, please do share your results. I like to play over the course of an outing or a day, but imagine how many points you could tally in a whole week.

2. New office mug

Witnesses to my previous office mug will agree that this new one, a gift from a recent participant of SXSW, is a nice improvement. It meets my mug standards regarding interior color, capacity and heft; it's also appropriately meaningless and random in its message. No one, however, commented on my mug when I introduced it in meetings recently. I am not sure what to make of this, unless I infer that no one else cares about my stupid mug except me, which is obviously an inadmissible conclusion.

3. Spokeo

You don't need the tag line "Not your grandma's phonebook" to glean that Spokeo is unlike any phonebook you've seen yet, if by phonebook you mean powerful stalking tool. Simply look yourself up for proof. More unsettling than the amount of bizarre data on oneself (hobbies?) is the reckless inaccuracy. According to Spokeo, I still live with my parents and am still married. The good news is, I also own my parents' home.

4. Sign at a grocery store in suburban Virginia

Alright -- alright. Let's just settle down.

Here's the thing: There are rules to parking lots. The rules are that the spots for disabled people are in the very front and that you never park in them unless you have the proper credentials, that you park between the white lines, and that you may not hit any pedestrians even when they walk slowly through the middle of lanes meant for vehicles.

The grocery store in question throws a curveball to the status quo by designating special "parents only" parking spots, which lie tantalizingly close to the store but not quite as close as the wheelchair-sign spots. This means that on any given evening, an unsuspecting non-parent can be cruising through an aisle and think, "Oh cool, I'll park here," because it's a pretty close spot and there's no intuitive reason you wouldn't park there -- until you turn into the spot and encounter the pictured sign.

With all due respect to the parents I know, this is wrong. Being physically incapacitated by a disability or illness entitles someone to better parking than me. Being slightly encumbered by a less-mobile human -- one you created -- entitles you to the lifetime of inconvenience (and, of course, unspeakable joy) that you signed up for. That's just the way it is. Come on!

Finally, I salute you with one of my all-time favorite depictions of spring, taken at the venerable Duane Reade drugstore in New York City (RIP). I wish you a happy Easter, a happy Passover, and allergy-free warming trends.

Music: "Sometimes It Snows in April"

Contest.

A new and inscrutable (for me) piece of communication arrived from my apartment building's office a few weeks ago.

Though a building newsletter mysteriously came and went last year, there still seems to be no shortage of news to relay, including that of semi-regular contests wherein the participants have a chance to win money off the rent.

I'm all for money off my rent, but the contest terms always somehow prove to be too much for me to handle. One was an overwhelmingly diverse 24-item photo scavenger hunt. Another was called simply a "door contest," where we were told to "show what the holiday means to you." The grand prize was $500 -- a compelling sum, but the contest was worded so strangely that I actually had to have a chat with one of the office staff to make sure I understood it properly, and then I got too busy (read: lazy) to bother doing it.

Then came this:

"Spring Fever"
Snow, Snow and more snow! As we push
through the storm and holidays, we are happy
to see,

The sun is shining and snow is melting. As
March approaches let's see what this riddle
brings about,

Read carefully and slowly and please don't
trash me, for there are 3 prizes that await
those lucky to find a picture of the sun.

So be quick and be fast and come see us
real soon for these prizes will expire by the 7th
of March.

(Drop off your forms to the office on or before the 7th of March.)

I went over this page more times than I'd like to admit, and for the life me I couldn't glean what the contest entailed. It seemed that we'd been challenged to find a picture of the sun, but I don't know whether that means taking our own picture or finding one that had been hidden in the building. Furthermore, I had no idea what this has to do with dropping off a form to the office, as no form was distributed with the notice.

I also tried in vain to determine what poetic form this verse was. It seemed laid out so carefully, but no amount of scansion could slot this into any form I remember from my days as an English major. (Granted, I don't really remember that many poetic forms from my days as an English major, but still.) I guess it could be called free verse, and indeed, it is quite free with the commas and capitalization.

In any case, the deadline has passed, and I have been yet again either unwilling or unable (in this case unable) to compete in the latest contest.

Music: "Mystery"

Stuff I Know Is Ugly, but Keep Using Anyway.

Do you ever look at your [insert personal possession here] and think, "I know this thing looks bad, but I just can't deal"? You realize it degrades your image, if you will, but it's functional, and for whatever reason you keep using it, even though doing so means risking public embarrassment and/or internal deflation each time. If you really had it together, you'd go out and get something new or cool, but you don't really have it completely together, so here you are with your Ugly Item.

My office mug. This baby right here is what inspired this post. Every day I walk into a meeting holding this bit of ceramic shame and hoping that no one notices it. I use it every single day, realizing that it makes me look like a grandma, as I covet other people's modern, seemingly unattainable mugs.

Mine is the kind of mug that you can't imagine anyone actually acquiring on purpose. Indeed, I thoughtlessly plucked it from my parents' packed mug-cabinet one day when I'd first moved back and had just started my job, and it's stayed at my desk ever since. I'm sure that if you asked my parents where it came from, they'd say, "I have no idea. Did we own that?" It is probably a refugee from another cabinet -- it screams "regift."

If you hate your fake-countrified birdie mug so much, Christina, why don't you just get a new one, you say? Ironically, it's because I am very picky about my glassware. First of all, the mug needs to be very smooth and white on the inside. Mugs that are dark on the inside are very unsettling and I don't know why anyone purchases them. Being able to see the color of my beverage and any potential unwanted detritus therein is very important to me. Is my coffee too weak? Is my teabag present at the bottom of the cup? Is there anything extraneous in there? Who can answer these questions if the mug is a black cavern of mystery? I think I've made my point here.

Secondly, shopping for mugs is kind of tricky. How often do you find yourself facing a good array of reasonably priced mugs? Not that often. Target's selection is surprisingly poor, as is Crate and Barrel's. I guess people must think those gigantor teacup-ride mugs are fun, but I'd like something I can lift with one hand. Also, pastels and holiday themes seem to overwhelm a lot of mug selections. Pink, yellow, hearts, and holly leaves are just about as appealing as, well, little birdies when it comes to a visual accompaniment for my morning office beverage. I do not want my mug to evoke anything or be optimistic. If anything I want it to be cynical, or the ceramic equivalent of a blank stare.

One day I'll spot the perfect mug. I won't be looking for it. It will suddenly appear one day, and I'll just know it's right. Until then, the above monstrosity is my sad companion.

My work tote. I carry this bag from car to work and from work to home every day. It was given to me at an event for event planners as a sample tote that you could get made with your own logo in place of BAG MAKERS. The other side of it doesn't actually look that bad, and it would work well as a grocery tote that says, "I am surprising in that I am just like other grocery totes, but I don't have a store name on me and I look like a messenger bag."

As with the mug, I did not intend for this to become a daily accessory. It just happened that way. Because it only goes on short walks from car to building, I would estimate that it is only seen in public on my person about three minutes per day. Still, during that three minutes, I feel like a super shabby person. In addition, it sits on my desk all day long because I use it as my feed bag of snacks and candy. It also carries my lunch, sweater if applicable, various printouts, forgotten Post-It notes, and CDs that I bring for the commute even though I always end up listening to the car radio.

Surely there's a more attractive way to move these 80-percent unnecessary items around, but I just can't get my mind around it. For me, buying a purse is such an exhausting exercise that I have nothing left for other efforts, which brings me to my next item.

My luggage. You might be confused about why I am calling this luggage when it is obviously not. But this is what I've used anytime I travel for the last, oh, seven years or so.

For a long time, I could hardly look at this bag, because I received it as a holiday bonus one year in lieu of cash. Eventually I started using it out of necessity, because if there's anything more challenging than shopping for purses, totes or mugs, it's shopping for luggage.

I even convinced myself that I liked this bag, and it does have its pluses. It's roomy enough for a week-long trip, but small enough for a weekend. I liked breezing up escalators and down causeways with my backpack, passing people who were trying to get their rolling bags to cooperate with the journey. I decided that all rolling bags were ugly and that I didn't really want one, even if it meant looking like an exceptionally mature foreign student on a hosteling trip.

But the straps on the bag are starting to fray badly, as are my back muscles from supporting all my stuff while standing in train and Metro stations on increasingly frequent trips to New York. The straps also make it too hard to carry my laptop and purse at the same time. The emblem is for a business entity that no longer exists. And as for the ease of movement, what's so great about walking up the escalator anyway?

Still, I've resisted getting a new bag. As with furniture, I know that it makes sense to pay for quality in luggage, but I can't afford quality. Besides, it's hard to get psyched aesthetically about a rolling bag, no matter what it costs. So the whole purchase is a stressful one to contemplate.

A solution finally presented itself to my inbox yesterday, when I was just bored enough to entertain an online sale offer on "girl" Dakine bags. I ordered a seemingly nice plaid rolling carryon for under $100 and felt triumphant, even though I am half-afraid that the bag is labeled "girl" because it's actually sized for grade-schooler field trips.

One ugly thing down, many more to go (is there a way to replace my hair?). What are you carrying with shame?

Music: "New Position"

Imported Foods I'm Enjoying.

Not sure if you've heard much about it, but it's been snowing a lot in D.C. lately. In December we had Snowpocalypse, just last week we had Snowmageddon, and right now we are having Snowverkill or Snowverit. These are the accepted media monikers for the storms, I think, though I would prefer to lump them all together under Snowpocalypse, or perhaps SNOMG or Snowgasm, the latter two terms I saw written into the snow on parked cars over the weekend.

Though complaining is my forte, you will not hear me complain about the snow. I freaking love it. It's true that several factors allow me to love it (no driveway to shovel, no kids to entertain or bundle, a building with good heat, a spot in the city where I can walk to a grocery or the drugstore, no loss of power, a snowless stint in SF that made me appreciate it all the more), but in general I'm disposed to love it regardless. It's beautiful. It's the only weather you can play with. It enables skiing, snowball fights, igloos, snowmen, sledding, angel shapes on the ground, and whooping. It smells good. It brings out people's kindness and sense of humor.

Snow also brought me to Dean & Deluca last Sunday. I'd walked from Dupont Circle to Georgetown and all around the waterfront, and was ready for a break in a heated area with pretty food. I took my time walking through the aisles, inspecting all of the overpriced items and wishing (just for a moment) that I were coming here from my posh townhouse with not a financial care in the world.

I had read about Matiz seafood tins and was excited to spot them in the store. Dean & Deluca had two varieties: octopus and sardines. I chose the former, because if I was going to spend $10 on a little tin of fish, I was going to do something slightly unusual.

I expected it to be sort of like smooth calamari in olive oil, even though I don't have a lot of experience differentiating between squid and octopus. This was more like tuna than anything else, and definitely fishier than I expected, and a tad slimy. I still think it's worth trying at least once.

In my mind, the tin was a splurge, not only because of the price, but because it was being flown across continents and was therefore not environmentally defensible. Buying a pricey tin of Spanish seafood is far from eating local, which I try to do whenever I can.

But then I noticed the picture on my bread today. "Why is there a woman jogging on my bread?" I thought. "So weird. It must be from Europe." And sure enough, the provenance was German.

Fairly or not, I associate Germans with putting excessive photography of humans on its food products. To me, a photo of a woman jogging is not going to sell me on bread. Even if the bread is supposedly healthy, I would rather see a pic of a Buddhist temple or a blue sky with cirrhus clouds -- something suggesting freedom from earthly ties, rather than the penance required in order for me to enjoy a carbohydrate.

That said, Mestemacher bread is awesome. It's "healthy," it keeps for a long time, and it goes great with cream cheese and salmon.

The German-bread revelation made me realize that I'm probably buying a lot more gas-guzzling food than I'd like to think about. Take, for example, the "Spanish Cocktail Mix" offered at Whole Foods. In general, snack mixes tend to be a crackolicious, salty mix of nuts and starches, and it's not as if America lacks for variety in this area. But only the Euro-peens would think to put frickin fava beans in a mix. This mix will make you forget Hannibal Lecter and see the bean in a whole new way!! Don't be put off by the exorbitant price, or by the label that somehow suggests a terrorist Web site or MySpace page. Just pick it up at the WF now and curse me later.

I got on a roll of inspecting other packages in my kitchen -- KIND fruit and nut bars, for example, come from Australia. It's not surprising to me that this brand's packaging is the coolest of the foreign products, because I think Australians are the coolest, for reasons that have nothing to do with actually visiting their country.

Other furrrn things popped up in my pantry when I inspected the labels (Green & Black hot chocolate, England; though my Near East couscous, as it turns out, originates in Massachusetts) surprised me. Up until now, I'd focused on produce, but not prepared foods, in terms of buying as local as possible. I can't say I'm going to stop buying all these things tomorrow, but at least I'll feel guiltier about it.

Music: "Sardines & Pork & Beans"

ER.

I'd never registered at an emergency room before Sunday night. Then again, I'd never had a leg clot, an immobilizing back injury, two consecutive tooth mishaps, or fibroid surgery before turning my current age last June. It just happens to be a half-year of new horizons for me.

The first thing I noticed at this particular D.C. emergency room lobby was that it possessed no atmosphere of emergency whatsoever. The chair at the front desk was empty when I arrived, and it stayed that way until a line of three people had formed and the security guard had to go find the attendant. It sort of reminded me of how CVS cashiers will say "I see three" over the loudspeaker to call for extra help when the line gets to three people or more. Finally, the woman strolled over and took our names. We took our places in the waiting room.

Like the relaxed desk attendant, none of the prospective patients in the room seemed to have a sense of urgency about anything. Most of them were busy watching the NFL playoff game or yelling at their children.

As for whether I was in a hurry, it was hard to say. On one hand, I had a leg clot (known in the business as DVT) and had gotten a new pain, some mild shortness of breath, and a racing pulse, signalling a possible pulmonary embolism, which can be fatal.

On the other hand, the shortness of breath had faded, my pain was very mild, and my clot was below the knee, making it a lower risk for embolism. My mood was somewhere between "Eh, this can wait" and "I'M A TICKING TIME BOMB!"

I had toyed with skipping this whole scenario, knowing it would be a rigamarole, but the alternative scenario of waking up at 3 a.m. with the clot in my lungs left me with little choice. If I'd known in advance about the 11 hours to come, though, I might have decided to risk it. That's another irony of emergency rooms: Assuming you're coming in on foot rather than via ambulance, the experience is likely to be a) longer than any doctor appointment you will ever have, despite the "emergency" factor and b) so torturous that you'll rethink getting treatment, even when things are serious.

After about 30 minutes, I saw an admissions nurse, who gave me an ID bracelet and told me to go back out to the waiting room. Now I'm on my way, I thought, looking at the locked ER doors expectantly and waiting to be ushered behind them. The hospital gods laughed above me.

Another half-hour or so went by and I saw a triage nurse, who asked many of the same questions as the admitting nurse. I returned to the lobby chairs and waited to be called again.

Foolishly, I'd come here without magazines. The only reading material in the vicinity was three copies of a publication called The Living Church, so I occupied myself by observing -- and, of course, judging -- the other people in the waiting room.

One man, whom I first encountered howling inexplicably just outside the ER doors, turned out to be with a very sprightly and mobile boy who had at least three adults ordering him around, none of whom was capable of getting him to behave. Another woman lumbered through the lobby swinging a baby carrier, letting it slam so hard against her large legs that I thought it must be empty. Nope, it contained a sleeping infant and future ER prospect. Another man sat reading so calmly and quietly for so long that I couldn't tell if he was waiting for someone, or just liked it there.

Eventually my name was called again, this time to be admitted to the hospital. The woman behind the desk looked so familiar... where had I seen her? "Do you work for Holy Cross?" I asked. She laughed. "Yes, I work at three hospitals," she said. I told her she'd admitted me for my surgery last fall. "Yeah, I get to Holy Cross at 5 in the morning, stay until 1:45 p.m., and then come work here from 3 to 11."

I watched her in awe. Not only was she able to put together my paperwork quickly and accurately, she was able to converse pleasantly -- two things, among several, I'd never be able to do on that little sleep. I didn't want to think about how many people behind the ER doors were in her same boat.

She completed my registration and I thanked her. "Maybe next time, I'll see you at the mall," she said. I laughed and said I hoped so. I'm at the mall regularly too, after all.

About three and a half hours after walking in, I finally gained access to the ER and was taken to a cubicle with a curtain (not sure what you call those: gurney station? treatment bay? Perimeter of Tribulation?) and given a gown. The first doctor came in and asked me some questions, then called in another doctor. "Dr. M____, can you come here for a second?"

The second doctor pushed back the curtain. He appeared to be approximately age 15, his blond hair styled into a sort of half-mohawk. "Well met!" he said upon introduction. It was like I'd entered a high-school Shakespeare production.

I told him my story: had a diagnosed leg clot, was told to come to ER if symptoms changed, noticed some slight pain in upper thigh, had some shortness of breath and racing pulse, freaked out and came in. He examined me. "How old are you?"

I told him my age. "Really?" he said. "Really. Because I would have guessed you are about 10 years younger. You could be 25, even. Seriously, you don't look your age at all. You look great." I couldn't tell if he was saying this just to flatter me, or because next to the average person he sees on the overnight ER shift, I really do look 25. Either way, I was so absorbed in the fantasy of looking younger than 30 that I didn't manage to return the compliment and tell him that he also didn't look his age either, assuming his age was over 21.

They decided to order an ultrasound and see where my clot was. I waited some more. In the next bay, a man moaned. From what I could hear, he had a sore on his backside that had gotten infected, and it was bad. Dr. Boy Wonder was called in to help as they dressed the wound. "Oh my GOD," he said to the other medical staff when he saw the situation. There was a pause. "I mean, you described it but..." The patient was either barely conscious, or they didn't care if he heard how much his sore appalled them. "I know," the other person said, quietly affirming the young doctor's horror. Boy Wonder emerged from the curtain amd looked at me, shaking his head. "You're the picture of health," he said.

My ultrasound results came back, showing that the clot remained in my calf and hadn't gone anywhere. Still, they wanted to do a CT scan to make sure none of it had gone to my lungs. At this point, it was 2 a.m. and I was breathing freely. Was this really necessary? I felt bad pushing back with Dr. BW, because he seemed to be a very smart and kind doctor even though he looked like he should be playing Xbox.

He politely offered to send in a supervising doctor to talk with me. The supervising doctor said because I had a clot and because I'd had shortness of breath, they had to do the scan. "At this point I'm thinking my shortness of breath must have been a panic attack," I said. (I'd never had a panic attack before, but cf. the first paragraph above.) "If you were a family member of mine, I would order the scan," he said, unmoved. His reasoning seemed iron-clad -- plus, he was a close-talker and I was outnumbered. I consented.

Meanwhile, there was more action behind my neighbor's curtain. Another doctor walked in with three or four staffers. "Mr. Adams, we need to turn you over so that we can take care of your wound, OK?" Mr. Adams refused, in a weak but definitive voice. "No. No no no no no," he said.

"But Mr. Adams, we really need you off that wound so we can look at it, OK? It won't last long. We can give you painkillers," the doctor pleaded wearily. The arguing went on for a few minutes. No amount of reason could convince Mr. Adams it was a good idea to let anybody touch that thing back there. "I'll call the police," Mr. Adams declared, a threat as sad and amusing as it was empty. The doctors proceeded, and Mr. Adams wailed. "Noooo! No don't! Po-lice! Po-leeeese!"

Where was that CT scan technician? I needed a break from the woebegone Mr. Adams, even if it meant facing a potentially dangerous dose of radiation and the prospect of scary errors.

CT man finally arrived and took me to the machine. "Now, I'm going to give you a contrast dye that will make you feel very warm as it goes into your bloodstream. Some women say it makes you feel like you're peeing, but you're not." At this point, I probably wouldn't have cared either way. I went into the machine, veins afire and bladder obedient.

The CT man wheeled me back. "Are you here alone? No husband or boyfriend?" he said. Again, I couldn't tell if I looked exceptionally alluring in my hospital gown, or if the interest was just what happens to any man who spends too much time among the Mr. Adamses of the world. I assured him that I was in touch with my boyfriend, who wasn't in town. "That's good. You shouldn't be alone. My wife and I are separated -- we have been for five years -- but when she had to have an appendectomy, she called and I came with her to the hospital. It's just nice to have somebody there with you."

He took me back to my Perimeter of Tribulation, which now felt a little lonelier than when I'd left. Mr. Adams was quiet, except for an occasional faint "Oohhhh..." It was about 5:00 a.m.

More waiting. The doctors affirmed that my lungs were clear and I could go. I was told to step up from the aspirin I'd been previously advised to take and go on blood thinners, which I would need to inject into myself. I'm not usually squeamish about needles, but the idea of using one on myself is just a bridge too far for me. I told them I wanted to hold out and see if the aspirin would work first. This must be one of many things within the perimeter of tribulations for a doctor: jackasses who don't follow your instructions.

Outside, it was still dark and pouring rain. I waited about half an hour for a cab home. In that period of time, about 10 minutes apart, two homeless people exited the lobby, shouting and hurling insults at the staff. "You're sending SICK people out into the STREET!" one woman raved.

I thought of what Boy Wonder had said to me as I waved to him on the way out, and redirected it to those people trudging out into the rain.

"Godspeed."

Fail.

At work today, this story came up and we discussed replicating the language of its headline on our site.

I didn't really get why HuffPo wrote "Funniest Parking Fails" instead of "Funniest Parking Failures," but didn't spend too much time thinking about it. I figured it was either a quirk of their presentation or a writer with really bad grammar (assumed the former).

Someone else wanted to use fail as a noun in our headline. "I didn't get that when I read it," I said. "Is that just something I hadn't heard of?" Everyone in the room was silent. No one else seemed to need an explanation.

"Yeah, my mother wouldn't get it but..." someone else said, her voice trailing off. The "either" at the end was left unspoken.

Her mother!!

After I got out of the meeting I consulted someone else.

me (5:18:58 PM): have you heard of "fail" as a noun?
me (5:19:02 PM): as in, funniest parking fails?
other person (5:19:50 PM): ya
other person (5:19:56 PM): they use that a lot on the twitter
other person (5:20:00 PM): it comes from the fail whale
other person (5:20:08 PM): which is the landing page when twitter isn't working
other person (5:20:11 PM): it's an image of a whale
other person (5:20:16 PM): it occured so much
other person (5:20:21 PM): they called it the fail whale
me (5:20:25 PM): haha
me (5:20:29 PM): ok, guess I'm out of touch
other person (5:20:36 PM): :-)

I mean -- is this how it starts? First a word, then a TV show or song, and then whole devices and modes of transportation leave you completely befuddled? Will I even be able to understand basic conversations in 20 years?

Not only have I never heard of "fail" as a noun, I don't like it. It's just poor grammar, another assault on the English language. And yet I have embraced "word" as a (now ironic) exclamation, along with who knows how many other grammatically debateable slang words and phrases.

Is this how it starts? You just start refusing to go with the flow? Well, I've been refusing to go with the flow since 1974. I should say, do you just start refusing to adapt to new things? Certainly, I have refused Twitter.

I don't know what's sadder -- the fact that I'm so out of it or the fact that something this small bothers me so deeply.

Music: "LOL Smiley Face"

Overheard.

Then he texts, "fa sho." How do I respond to that? -- Teen girl talking to fellow teen girl at the gym

That was not an accident. You did that on circus. -- Toddler to her mother in Target

I wanted to round this out with a third instance, but once you're looking for good soundbites, you won't hear them, even if you happen to be visiting the Motor Vehicle Administration and you're No. 139 and they're serving No. 109 when you sit down on the hard metal bench, surrounded by annoying conversations, and you try in vain to hear something worth repeating before you finally step up to the window and get a long overdue state-appropriate driver's license with a photo that is actually less flattering than you expected, even though what you expected was pretty bad, but you do manage to pass the eye test, which has you feeling good because you know your days of being able to skate around without glasses or contacts are numbered at this point.

Music: "Moving Clocks Run Slow"