tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64857295415804267172024-03-16T00:08:40.429-07:00The Many Banes of My Existence by AlexisThey're coming to take me away, ha ha!AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.comBlogger1774125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-48938004111646273972021-12-15T21:17:00.000-08:002021-12-15T21:17:09.507-08:00Canadian Thanksgiving<div><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>The plan was for me to work all day today, as it's Canada's Thanksgiving Day today. Those of us working in my system who are not native Canadians typically work the exclusively Canadian holidays and then get our own holidays off in exchange. </span>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-22499265067871459502020-11-24T02:11:00.001-08:002020-11-24T02:11:11.063-08:00Hello Again<div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_5JaG79NDbv17JLRmRkqBSWu6syIb-pUnUarjNR68xSN8wL_UdnAi4LTe9fdRC8pr8Vp-b8j0KetDs3ghsr0lkpLvZ9Est6SmNndbYXT_bQ5K8RC1GFWCINIKWsNcI02PUulXNg1q9U/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1_5JaG79NDbv17JLRmRkqBSWu6syIb-pUnUarjNR68xSN8wL_UdnAi4LTe9fdRC8pr8Vp-b8j0KetDs3ghsr0lkpLvZ9Est6SmNndbYXT_bQ5K8RC1GFWCINIKWsNcI02PUulXNg1q9U/w360-h400/image.png" width="360" /></a></div><br /><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>I've been away for quite some time. Part of the time I've actually <i>been</i> away. The remainder of the time I've merely been locked out of my blog. Since then, I've at least regained access to the blog , so I have returned in some capacity. </span><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;">I'm presently completing a fellowship as I simultaneously fulfill a residency. In roughly thirty months I will have attained dual certification. Hours are sometimes very long, and the job ranges from humdrum to rather intense, but I am more or less surviving.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;">At the moment, work hours are <i>not</i> long. COVID has reared its ugly head. I actually contracted the dreaded virus in addition to bacterial pneumonia. My lungs have remained inflated, however, and I'm winning the war on both fronts (against COVID <i>and</i> pneumonia). Drugs usually prescribed here only to patients in hospitals are being given to me at home because hospital personnel who have already recovered from COVID are incurring the risks (we're not yet certain just how long anyone who has recovered from COVID retains immunity) necessary to oversee the administration of my IV drugs so that I may remain in the comfort of my own apartment.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;">I expect to return to work somewhere between one and two weeks from now. Meanwhile, I do <i>everything</i> my doctors tell me to do in order to hasten my recovery. In effort to spare others and to minimize the spread, I remain within the confines of my studio apartment. You would be doing the world a favor if you took as many precautions as are practical for you to take and, if you do contract the virus, you kept yourself at home until your healthcare practitioner told you it was OK to do otherwise. I have a comfortable apartment, just as most of you have comfortable homes. It's not such a great sacrifice to stay home for a few weeks if you do contract COVID. The life you save by doing so might very well be that of a worthless piece of slime, but then again, it might be the life of someone you, I, and many others would love to keep on the planet with us for as long as is possible.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;">Thanks!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Montserrat; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-53767325182974804932019-03-20T02:17:00.001-07:002019-03-20T02:57:26.555-07:00Zig for Great Justice*<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">This is not I, but it might just as well be.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've worked all the hours I can work for a time, and am on vacation as a result. It seems to me that I would learn more if I worked more twelve-hour shifts and fewer twenty-eight hour ones, but scheduling is not my decision, and it's not just about me. Regardless, I end up with ample time off this way. By the time I return to The Great White North, spring may even have sprung or at least started to spring. I am visiting California relatives briefly, after which I will visit my brother at his place of employment two-thirds of the way across the continent.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Work has been a mixed bag. You can't please everyone, and I haven't even come close to doing so. I have to be satisfied with the few crumbs that have been tossed in my direction. When I had to assist a pediatric surgeon in an abdominal surgery, he told me that I do very neat and precise work but that I suture about as efficiently as an eighty-nine-year-old woman at a quilting bee, and that my patients are all going to die on the table while waiting around for me to finish my beautiful handiwork. When I backed into one surgeon's car while driving a car belonging to another surgeon, damaging both cars in the process, the owner of the car I was driving told me I had more spine than he would have guessed I possessed because I didn't cry or pass out when the surgeon who owned the car into which I backed came looking for me, shouting obscenities all the way down the corridor. I also didn't cry five minutes later when an attending physician came to scold me over a medication order I had thoroughly screwed up, which fortunately was caught before the medication was administered to the patient, but unfortunately was caught by the only nurse to the best of my knowledge in the entire province who actively dislikes me, and who seemingly considered it her sworn duty to inform everyone within a thirty-kilometer radius of my incompetence and idiocy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">When the best I can do is work neatly and precisely but too slowly, remain conscious, and not cry, it would seem to be rather clear that I'm not exactly thriving. I was mildly concerned that I would not be invited to continue my employment here after this fiscal year, but an acquaintance who shall remain nameless and who has inside knowledge of such matters told me that I'm on neither the list of those whose fate has already been decided against them nor that of those who are still on the chopping block. This doesn't mean I couldn't possibly screw something up so congressionally as to be arsonized, but if I continue with my status quo quasi-mediocrity, my employers are too greatly in need of even minimally competent cheap labor to give me the grand DCM. (I should clarify at this point that it's only my level of competence that is lukewarm. I'm tired now, so I undoubtedly come across as apathetic at best, but I remain passionate as ever in regard to the prospect of saving every life and/or stitching up every boo boo that comes within my reach, if painstakingly and at a dead tortoise's pace.) All of this is contingent upon passage of Step 3 of the board exams, but that's the least of my worries. It's not that I'm not worried about it, but it's quite literally the least of my concerns at this point. I've been studying in what spare time I have, and I will commence with active worrying as exam time draws nearer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I wish I could share some of my more interesting stories, but, alas, I have these rather pesky addictions to food and a roof over my head, the satiation of both of which necessitate my continued employment. I'm keeping the stories in a journal, and someday I will disguise the location and everyone's identity enough that I can share them in some form. For now, though, I shall be professional.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">* zero wing dialect</span></div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-48885641710428486352019-02-10T01:53:00.001-08:002023-05-19T21:51:59.124-07:00R.I.P. Valerie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The case of Valerie Reyes, the 24-year-old woman from New Rochelle, New York, whose body was recently discovered in Greenwich, Connecticut, bound at the hands and feet and stuffed inside a suitcase, has me more than a little creeped out. Police haven't yet announced any suspects or leads in the case, but they often don't until they're either ready to make an arrest or need the public'shelp in locating specific person of interest in a case.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Young women making their way in today's working world often live alone, and sometimes in not the most secure of living situations. I really don't know much about Valerie Reyes' basement apartment -- whether it was the type of place into which an enterprising intruder could gain entry with a sturdy nail file, or whether it was more like the above-garage apartment I call home, which requires multiple keys and codes for one to gain access. From accounts I have read, though, it doesn't seem likely that Valerie was abducted from her apartment.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Valerie's last known contact was a phone call with her mother on the evening of Monday, January 28. She didn't report for work the next day. She was seen at the train station in New Rochelle on that morning. A private detective later located her as having been at a Chase Bank ATM near Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan. It was the last known sighting of a living Valerie. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Valerie was an artist who sang. She apparently battled anxiety and depression -- conditions not uncommon among the creative in our society -- though prior to her disappearance, she seemed, depressed and anxious or not, to have made it to work on a fairly regular basis. In her final phone conversation with her mother, she shared fears that she would be murdered -- fears that she associated largely with her basement apartment. This may have prompted her to leave the relative safety of the apartment for a more perilous situation. What actually prompted her to leave, and what ultimately led to her being found lifeless in a suitcase in Greenwich, Connecticut, are still unknown to the general public at this point.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It's natural at this point to compare one's own situation with that of a prominent crime victim whose circumstances in any way resemble one's own circumstances. Valerie was twenty-four, as I am. She was unmarried and living independent of her family, as I do. She appeared to be petite, as I am. On the other hand, I come from a more economically advantaged background than did Valerie. While I have completed an undergraduate education as well as medical school, she hoped to eventually put her artistic talents to use as a tattoo artist. Still, there's precious little in my life that offers any guarantee of not facing the same end as she did.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">There are no guarantees, anyway. I <i>have</i> lucked into a living situation that is optimal for a person of my age, gender, size, and level of un-bravery. I was a scaredy cat who heard noises outside and feared the boogeyman long before I suffered an unfortunate attack in high school. Since then, I've had trouble functioning at night by myself. Fortunately, I rarely <i>have to </i>function by myself at night in my present living situation. I lease a studio apartment above a garage, but the apartment is attached to a home owned by a widowed physician [with three children close to my age] who looks after me as though I were his own child. (If I were to scream loudly, someone would likely hear me and would respond.) I have full access to the home attached to the garage which sits under my apartment. One of the bedrooms in the main part of the house is designated as mine; I slept there last weekend when I was sick, on the insistence of my landlord. If I'm too bothered by noises in the night or by anything else, I'm more than welcome to sleep in that bedroom. I'm getting creeped out just enough that I'm probably going to relocate there for the night as soon as I finish typing. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A certain vague situation in my life has caused my parents and my employers to be mildly concerned for my safety. I don't see the situation as quite so real a threat as my parents, my bosses, or Doug, my landlord, see it, but I exercise caution nonetheless. I live in a secure dwelling. I don't enter or leave my place of work alone. For that matter, nor does any other female. Even the nurses here use the free valet parking service. My apartment is alarmed, as is the main house attached to the apartment in which I live. The alarms are activated now, as they always are at night, and are at anytime that I'm here alone even in broad daylight. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It's colder than @&*% here right now. The last time I checked, it was nineteen degrees below zero Fahrenheit, and the wind-chill factor is at almost forty below. It may be even colder tomorrow. I'm staying inside. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Rest in peace, Valerie. I'm saddened and angered by whatever led to your demise. It's a crime against humanity that you were robbed of life and that the world has been deprived of your gifts. </span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-41291873473441174582019-02-03T23:48:00.003-08:002021-03-18T22:27:33.086-07:00Back to the World of the Living for Now<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Readers shall be spared all the gruesome details, but I've been quite ill for the past few days. I'm returning to the world of the living, though I can only work a light schedule this week. Not being able to work at all would be a problem for me, but working a light schedule is akin to having the best of both worlds. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">This week I am beginning a pediatric rotation. I've enjoyed pediatric work in the past, and I expect the same will be true this time. I will be mostly hospital-based for this rotation, though I will spend some time in a clinical setting under the supervision of an attendting pediatrician, and this time without a supervising resident. While I harbor no particular ill will toward residents, I've thoroughly enjoyed and have found most productive the times in which I've worked directly under attending physicians without the interference of residents. The duties delegated to me in such situations are typically the most interesting and the best learning experiences. If a resident is involved, he or she often takes the more interesting cases himself or herself, leaving the more menial or unpleasant tasks for underlings.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I don't mean to complain about inheriting menial and/or less pleasant tasks. I try hard to cheerfully complete whatever assignments I'm given. Not long ago a resident assigned to me a manual extraction of fecal impaction. Fecal impaction is akin to constipation on steroids. It most frequently occurs when a patient unaccustomed to the constipating effect of opioids has been injured or has undergone surgery, and fails to take due heed to instructions regarding prevention of constipation. The patient is usually getting very little exercise at the time, further compounding the problem. There's a misconception that constipation will always right itself eventually. Such is obviously <i>not</i> always the case.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Fecal de-impaction or extraction is arguably one of the more dreaded tasks in medicine, but when it has to be done, it simply has to be done. A medical practitioner would do well to remember how much worse it is in every respect for the patient than it is for the medical personnel, with regard to the gross-out factor, the embarrassment, and the almost incomparable discomfort. </span><span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">It's rare that a physician has such an overt mode of offering a patient instant relief. If a practitioner is compassionate and humane throughout the patient's ordeal, most patients respond with extreme gratitude. It's really not all that difficult to to be compassionate and humane. A physician or other practitioner needs merely to put himself or herself in the situation of the patient, and to apply The Golden Rule.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">In any event, the patient with fecal impaction was, unbeknownst to me at the time, the husband of someone prominent in our community. If a physician is the sort of person who is professional in every situation and treats all patients with respect, often it's better <i>not</i> to know that a patient has particular wealth or influence. I might have been nervous had I been aware of his standing. As it was, I didn't know, yet treated his wife and him with the empathy I would have appreciated under similar circumstances. After the fact, the patient's wife wrote a letter commending the nursing staff and me. The resident who assigned the task to me was slightly chagrined with the way things worked out. Had she known the patient had connections, she probably would have taken the case herself. The problem with being a resident or intern is that we work so many hours that we spend little to no time in the community outside of the hospital. We have no clue as to whom the connected and socially prominent members of the community might be.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Yesterday my dad called when I was sick. He grabbed his guitar and played/sang a few of the songs I used to ask him to sing when I was very young. One song he sang was a song I hadn't head or even thought about in years -- "I'm Easy" by Keith Carradine. I've mentioned before that either my mom or dad sang to us every night when Matthew and I were little. We could each choose one song for whomever was singing to us that night. "I'm Easy" was one I requested several times. I think I liked the chord structure and Travis picking more than the actual song itself, but I remember my dad complaining to my mom that it was a rather strange song for a four-year-old to like. My mom responded to my dad that I was a rather strange child, and that I had inherited my strangeness from him.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">"I'm Easy," written and performed by Carradine, was from the movie <i>Nashville</i>. At the time I would not even have known of the existence of the movie <i>Nashville</i>, but I've since seen it. I'm not sure what its rating is on <i>Rotten Tomatoes </i>or any similar site, but I'd have to say that it might be among the worst movies ever made. Still, the scene with "I'm Easy" was rather cleverly directed. The character portrayed by Carradine was something of a player, and he performed the song, announcing that the person to whom it was dedicated might be in the audience. It was amusing to watch the expressions of all the women who thought the song had been written for them. Even occurring in such an abysmal movie, it was ingenious direction on the part of Robert Altman.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif" style="text-align: left;"> I do not own this video. I express my appreciation to the rightful owner for allowing me to use the video on my blog for however long the video is allowed to remain here.</span></div>
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-87292392394660774442018-12-17T08:40:00.000-08:002018-12-17T09:06:06.161-08:00This Is the Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRS9RY2RcuDZTcvMIqDqoY9ntxOJVHO7el-EvHuOqH3GCdAclSAV0PJ6SjHTxy9U_KT-uR_hyphenhyphen5gk-jkwwv8Mnh6cZGvTUGF-GAeBu7itPBHbE5lTsYfa2GCfR_bXDe2Ck1iw2uTlhyphenhyphen_Y/s1600/D2C0A407-5174-4C99-A729-E06DF06AB5A9+%25283%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="810" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRS9RY2RcuDZTcvMIqDqoY9ntxOJVHO7el-EvHuOqH3GCdAclSAV0PJ6SjHTxy9U_KT-uR_hyphenhyphen5gk-jkwwv8Mnh6cZGvTUGF-GAeBu7itPBHbE5lTsYfa2GCfR_bXDe2Ck1iw2uTlhyphenhyphen_Y/s400/D2C0A407-5174-4C99-A729-E06DF06AB5A9+%25283%2529.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is the view from my bed. I turned the fireplace on when I woke up at 5:00.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's after 8:00 a.m. I am still in bed in a hotel room that is far too luxurious [and expensive] for me to occupy except that I am doing so on someone else's dime. The seminar I'm scheduled to attend doesn't even begin to check participants in until 10:00. In addition to starting late, it ends early. I'll wrap up my workday and head to the beach at around 3:00 p.m. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm not complaining.</span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-48610884369574268592018-12-08T18:00:00.002-08:002018-12-08T18:00:36.033-08:00detergent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Seventh generation</div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-59958379281239351852018-10-18T20:22:00.001-07:002018-10-19T00:10:22.141-07:00An Open Letter to the Principal Occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpVnZwsXJ6vcuLwA52cUXOPy1UY_-u1FdUyCESHfafHbCCOMy3UaTLWEZE6v6g225AtZC0TbfaHy6k-qnkZYc8LLH-vk5rjJWj0seuRD5s0DfufvosfgZfNFyH4z3REzTpK6N_q9EA-g/s1600/trump+tweet.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQpVnZwsXJ6vcuLwA52cUXOPy1UY_-u1FdUyCESHfafHbCCOMy3UaTLWEZE6v6g225AtZC0TbfaHy6k-qnkZYc8LLH-vk5rjJWj0seuRD5s0DfufvosfgZfNFyH4z3REzTpK6N_q9EA-g/s640/trump+tweet.png" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Dear Donald J. Trump,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Because the Democratic Party nominated Hillary Rodham Clinton, who was considered undesirable to a substantial margin of the voting public, as their candidate for the office of president in the 2016 election, and because a frighteningly large segment of the voting public was both woefully ignorant and willing to ignore any moral principles of which they may have been in possession, you were elected. A technical minority of voters in the election actually voted for you, but because of the antiquated Electoral College system, we are stuck with you in our nation's highest office until the next election at the very least [barring your resignation or impeachment, both of which seem unlikely]. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As greatly as it pains me to accept such a thing, you may very well be re-elected, as the stupidity of the voring public is apparently difficult to underestimate. If, however, what seems to me to be a most unacceptable contingency actually materializes and you are re-elected, please do not give credit to the educated women of the nation. Whether you win or lose, very few of us will have voted for you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sincerely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Alexis A. Rousseau</span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-59219456329740966912018-10-06T19:45:00.005-07:002021-03-21T10:34:32.631-07:00Back in the USA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I am dealing with an ailment and also have overtime that needs to be comped, so I'm back in the states for another ten days or so. My physical capacity is presently diminished, and I've been reduced to watching live coverage of the Kavanaugh confirmation fiasco. I'd rather be performing hemorrhoidectomies if I had a choice, but I don't have a choice.<br /><br />When I return to Canada, autumn should be in full force. I'm excited to experience a real Canadian winter. I spent almost a week there in winter a couple of years ago, and I caught a few spring storms when I did my visiting clerkships there, but spending a full winter is an exciting prospect to me.</span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-46384667011527652082018-09-14T12:02:00.001-07:002018-09-14T12:02:18.728-07:00THE KIDS GOT SPLIT UP<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rs1Ka8LGe3E" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-64079398162693185552018-09-14T12:01:00.001-07:002018-09-14T12:01:51.962-07:00THE KIDS GOT SPLIT UP<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rs1Ka8LGe3E" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-81759783173194666832018-09-11T11:05:00.001-07:002018-09-11T11:05:48.695-07:00YOUR COMMENTS SAVED OUR PET’S LIFE<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/v5ZrQDacQH0" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-52341941111160023482018-09-08T16:23:00.001-07:002018-09-08T16:23:03.272-07:00IT’S OK, YOUR PET WILL GO TO HEAVEN<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0GfxgGkREXE" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-81294931260230680182018-08-23T18:38:00.001-07:002018-08-23T23:39:06.499-07:00While Watching the AntiChrist<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7usUsvJNAg1EvLuPXDRo0Fe-bsyS0cckQkcz1bUC1u069iCNbileeucBcsELf9LaYzK_chrAMoPcqVf3hf1PJ-BO41Rlm8uQSGcK1v3IiL-8G7orOv275Ufa_X2RWndkjP9Yfzbb2Bc/s1600/Marlin+C.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc7usUsvJNAg1EvLuPXDRo0Fe-bsyS0cckQkcz1bUC1u069iCNbileeucBcsELf9LaYzK_chrAMoPcqVf3hf1PJ-BO41Rlm8uQSGcK1v3IiL-8G7orOv275Ufa_X2RWndkjP9Yfzbb2Bc/s400/Marlin+C.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is Marlin, but I couldn't find the guys he put in his TV ad.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm waiting around to catch a charter flight back to my new home. Against my better judgment, I allowed my friend to turn the TV to <i>Judge Judy</i>. local commercials for JJ and similar programming also feature local law firms, sometimes of the ambulance-chasing variety. The commercial I just saw was for Marlin Costello, Attorney of Law. The ad featured several men, presumably attorneys in a law firm, sitting around as very small table, discussing ways in which they could shuffle various cases, drag matters out, create new dealys, and so forth. When one of them picked up the file of a case for which the opposition was being represented by Marlin Costello, the consensus was that they should settle immediately -- that Marlin Costello was not an attorney with whom to trifle. Such may indeed be the case.<br /><br />Marlin Costello's credentials and skills nothwithstanding, the gentlemen hired to tportray the opposing attorneys look like they were recruited either from some sort of halfway house or perhaps from the new recruit line to an A.A. meeting, long before time to take any pledge (Do they <i>do</i> that at A.A.?) or learn a serenity prayer. Whatever is the lamest law school in the nation--probably something online -- I have the most grave of doubts that any of the men protraying the attorneys could have successfully completed the forms to enroll in the diploma mill, much less to have graduated from it, however lax the requirements might have been, and subsequently passing the CA bar exam. I don't run with an especially elite crowd, but with thirty minutes or so of notice, I could assemble a group of three or four men to portray lawyers in a TV commercial who at least didn't look as though they were just thrown out of a bar in Mendota or Hickman and were perhaps filmed before regaining temporary sobriety.<br /><br />Perhaps I'm being picky, but I'm confident that you would agree if you saw the commercial. I tried to find a clip but couldn't. Sorry!</span></div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-26833445504324820692018-08-22T23:00:00.001-07:002018-08-22T23:00:15.304-07:00Back Home Ever So briefly<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZOR6Q6I0DbwhxUJ1jCHGvRCUVLQA6RC2vdkAkLK5y4QHLATtR6VlrhiwS-vXxuXs1W8BF-uh-LCJ3rYoEI9hZGUKaox1pUMQSmMonN7qlKZLzxtjxj5MnJ8dN83vs4eYf9kx-kDRCp8/s1600/house+and+wilson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="720" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZOR6Q6I0DbwhxUJ1jCHGvRCUVLQA6RC2vdkAkLK5y4QHLATtR6VlrhiwS-vXxuXs1W8BF-uh-LCJ3rYoEI9hZGUKaox1pUMQSmMonN7qlKZLzxtjxj5MnJ8dN83vs4eYf9kx-kDRCp8/s400/house+and+wilson.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This picture is random.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had overtime that needed to be comped, so I traveled with a friend to the Canadian Maritimes. I'm now in California because my aunt had invasive eye surgery, and I wanted to visit her. I also wanted to visit my new first-cousin-once-removed. i would share her picture but her parents and grandparetns are conspiracy theorists who think the child's identity will be stolen by publishing pictures of their neonatal infant.</span></div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-67030944798101177172018-08-10T21:21:00.001-07:002018-08-10T21:21:03.738-07:00GUESS WHAT OUR BABY DID?<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LoW8X9a7FOY" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-73154276832771588212018-07-31T08:47:00.001-07:002018-07-31T08:47:09.023-07:00IT'S FINALLY TIME TO CELEBRATE!<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/g0Si69U7rks" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-11980017259309887722018-07-21T01:27:00.001-07:002018-07-21T01:27:30.831-07:00THE BABY NEEDS TO COME OUT !!! DUE TO PREGNANCY COMPLICATIONS!<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-esNxiC-c30" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-37079514235221979252018-07-16T03:00:00.000-07:002018-07-16T03:00:12.572-07:00Wood Eyes and Hare Lips<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It wouldn't be one-hundred per cent honest to say that I haven't had time to author a blog post (I did re-post a link to a vlog just over a week ago) since the first day of June. It would be more correct to say that posting an update seemed an unwise use of the little time I have had between then and now. I traveled, then attended official ceremonies, followed by relocating and starting my new job. I probably should be sleeping now, but I slept this afternoon and am not sleepy at the moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I shall now share a rather random memory from my childhood for the purpose of illustrating just what a sensitive and odd child I was. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My father sometimes tells jokes to my brother and me that aren't politically correct. He did this even when we were very young. He told us a particular joke during a car trip duing the summer between first and second grades, when I was six years old. I shall retell the joke here, and I hope no one who reads it is offended. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once there was a young man who lost one of his eyes either to disease or injury. He wasn't a wealthy man, and so the prosthetic eye he used for cosmetic purposes was made of wood instead of the more modern acrylic. He had self-esteem issues related to his wooden prosthetic eye.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A friend of the man who wore the wooden prosthetic eye encouraged the man to accompany him to a dance one evening so that the man could meet and socialize with females. The man with the wooden prosthetic eye reluctantly agreed to go with his friend to the dance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Once the two men entered the hall where the dance was being held, the friend pointed out a woman with a cleft lip and suggested to the man with the wooden prosthetic eye that he should perhaps ask the woman with the cleft lip to dance with him; because she herself possessed a physical defect, she might be less put off by his wooden prosthetic eye and more likely to accept his invitation to dance with her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The young man with the wooden prosthetic eye approached the woman with the cleft lip. "Would you like to dance with me?" he asked her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The woman's face lit up. In excitement she exclaimed, "<i>Would</i> I!?! <i>Would</i> I!?!" (Imagine my father's best imitation of a the speech impediment of a person with a cleft lip.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"<i>Hare</i> lip! <i>Hare</i> lip!" he responded.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My brother and my dad laughed almost hysterically. My mother said, "John, that's tasteless." I burst into tears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Alexis, <i>whatever</i> is the matter?" my mother turned from her seat to ask me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"<i>Why</i> did he have to <i>say</i> that to her?" I cried. "She was just <i>happy</i> someone finally asked her to dance. She wasn't trying to <i>make fun</i> of him. Why did he have to be so <i>mean</i> to her?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I could see my father shaking his head as he probably simultaneously rolled his eyes. My mother sighed, then said, "Alexis, it was a <i>joke</i>. A <i>stupid</i> joke, but still a <i>joke</i>. You <i>don't</i> need to cry about it."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"But she just wanted to <i>dance</i> with him. And he hurt her<i> feelings</i>!" I wailed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It <i>never</i> <i>happened</i>, Alexis," my mom continued. "There was <i>no</i> man with a wooden eye. There was <i>no</i> lady with a cleft lip. And <i>because</i> there was no man with a woden eye and no lady with a cleft lip, he <i>couldn't </i>have asked her to dance. She couldn't have answered the way Daddy said she did. He couldn't <i>possibly</i> have called her a harelip! <i>It</i> <i>never</i> <i>happened</i>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Then why did Daddy <i>say</i> it happened?" I demanded.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"He didn't actually<i> say</i> it happened," my mom explained. "He told a <i>lame</i> joke that he probably heard at scout camp when he was about eleven."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I sniffed, and my mom handed me a tissue. "Are you <i>sure</i>?" I asked her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"I'm absolutely sure," she answered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"But it's still sad," I sobbed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"<i>Lots</i> of things are sad," my dad chimed in. "<i>Life </i>is sad, Alexis. Get <i>over</i> it."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"<i>That</i>'ll certainly make her feel better, John," my mom muttered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It's <i>true</i>!" my dad defended himself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Even though it was only an hour or so before dinner time, my dad pulled into a roadside drive-in and let us order ice cream, which made my brother Matthew very happy. For roughly the next five years, if we were traveling by car for any length of time, Matthew would ask, "Dad, can you tell that joke bout the guy with a wooden eye and the lady with a hare lip again?" </span></div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-66782561188967701722018-07-07T01:32:00.001-07:002018-07-07T01:32:36.574-07:00WE CHOOSE OUR BABY’S NAME OUT OF A HAT<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/OO3WK5-XAMo" width="480"></iframe>AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-14232492305129506852018-06-01T02:00:00.003-07:002021-03-21T10:41:01.015-07:00A Rose by Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet. . . Or Would It?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My dad's sisters, for the most part, are not known for possessing exceptionally high levels of intelligence or for using especially good judgment. They seem to have passed these traits on to their own offspring. This is often evident in the naming of their children.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My cousin Lyman, who is the fourth son and sixth child of Aunt Marthalene and her sticky-fingered husband Mahonri, recently announced the birth of his fourth child and first son. He named the baby Sebastopol. For those of you who do not know, Sebastopol is the name of a tiny town near the the Russian River in northern California. My mom tells me that I've been there, though I have no memory whatsoever of the trip. I do remember passing through both Guerneville and Jenner (thank goodness Lyman didn't name the kid <i>Jenner</i>), but I'm drawing a complete blank when it comes to Sebastopol. My dad said the family ate really tasty pizza there on a trip through the wine country. The trip happened when I was four, and pizza had not yet made it onto my list of acceptable foods. According to my dad, I had croutons for dinner that night.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">The story I heard from my cousin Gina (the iconoclast who tainted the family's otherwise pure bloodline by marrying and coupling with a guy who is half Japanese) is that Lyman and Patience wanted to name the kid Sebastian, but Lyman's wife Patience's twin sister Harmony gave birth two days prior to Sebastopol's birth and named <i>her </i>baby Sebastian. In Patience's family, it's considered verboten to use first names or middle names by which one is called (Mormons are fond of calling kids by their middle names, often with a first initial preceding the name) that siblings have previously used for their children. If I were Patience, I would have ignored the rule and named the kid Sebastian anyway. Patience had told relatives during all four of her pregnancies that her first son was to be named Sebastian. Harmony had four sons prior to Sebastian's birth. Had Harmony truly liked the name <i>Sebastian</i> so freaking much, she presumably would have given the name Sebastian to one of the first four. The word on the street is that Harmony was just being her usual contentious self in stealing her sister's choice of names. </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Aunt Marthalene, Sebastopol's grandmother, has been quite vocal in her disapproval of her son's choice of a name for his first son. Neither Lyman nor his Patience have been to California, much less to Sebastopol. Marthalene sees no problem in saddling children with oddball names culled from The Book of Mormon (Moriancumr), from LDS history and family given names or surnames of her husband's ancestors, some of which qualify on both counts (Lyman, Reed, Boyd, Bradford, Porter, Joseph, Kinnard, Amasa, Kimball, Orson, Hyrum, and Parley), variations of her own name (Marthalette), and a rather outlandish combination of her own and her husband's first names (Rilene). She has grandsons named Abinadi, Helaman, Ether, Mathoni, and Zeniff, to name just a few. (Marthalene has thirteen sons and two daughters, seven of whom have already begun the reproduction process themselves.)</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">My mom thinks it's a simple case of the couple attempting to give their child a unique name, though their original choice of Sebastian, while not one the Top Twenty list at any time in the past century as far as I know, is at least not a made-up name. If being unique truly was their aim, they succeeded. My dad thinks my cousin Lyman carries latent anger at having gone through childhood with the name of Lyman. (My mom says their used to be a commercial for Sprite featuring a mythical fruit called a <i>limon</i> [pronounced like <i>Lyman</i>) that was half lemon and half lime.) Regardless, I'd probably prefer to be stuck with Sebastopol as a name over more than half of the names Marthalene and Mahonri glued on their own kids. I'm not quite sure why Marthalene thinks she has any grounds at all for moaning about it. Hell, I'd rather be named Blitzen Manx or Antarctica Meringue (the names of my Aunt Cristelle's first two children) than any of the names Marthalene used for her children. </span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-32791998825027624522018-05-31T06:15:00.002-07:002018-05-31T06:23:20.824-07:00Sooner Than You Think: A Prophetic Guide to the End Times (NOT by Sid Roth, though)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am adjusting to my temporary surroundings at least to a degree. My room is still too small and in too remote a location, but there is a cute little restaurant attached to the hotel, open from 11:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m., that serves sandwiches on deliciously fresh made-down-the-block sourdough bread and brioche. The restaurant is basically a crab restaurant, and I would not eat crab unless it was the only option other than Tamsen Donner steak. (That would make crab not technically <i>on</i> my Donner Party List, as only those food items I would reject in favor of death or the consumption of human flesh can be considered to be on the list. Crab is merely a close second to items <i>actually</i> on the list.) I had a most tasty grilled tomato and cheese sandwich on sourdough from the crab restaurant for lunch. (It sounds gross, but the tomato slices were incredibly thin, and the sandwich was actually quite good.) I told the waiter I was allergic to crab, which is a total lie, to ensure that no one would sneak any crab into my sandwich. There's also a very nice bakery, on the same block and same side of the street as the hotel, that serves both baked goods (Duh!) and breakfast and lunch fare. I'll grab something there for lunch tomorrow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have my phone back. The valets are not low-life thieves. My faith in humanity, Donald Trump excluded, has been restored. Then again, perhaps Trump is sub-human and therefore needs no exclusion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Speaking of Trump, I watched Tom Arnold's suprisingly lucid appearance on <i>AC360</i>. I had mistakenly believed that he is an idiot. He had interesting insight concerning the relationship between his ex-wife Roseanne and Donald Trump; he attributed her downfall in part to her having bought hook, line, and sinker into Trump's bizarre conspiracy theories He also said Trump has spoken quite disparagingly of her in the past and was feigning affinity with her solely as an opportunistic measure. I can believe that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was texting a relative today, and I mentioned in the text that most of the people who work at this hotel bear uncanny resemblances to one or another of the Kardashians or their hangers-on. I left the<i> h</i> out of <i>Kardashian</i>. My freaking phone offered an automatic correction for <i>Kardashian</i>. Can you fucking believe it? My phone doesn't even recognize the alternate spelling of <i>theatre</i> for <i>theater, </i>yet it apparently knows who the Kardashians are and how their surname is spelled. If we previously lacked evidence that the world is circling the drain of the universe (though I couldn't say as to whether if it is circling in a clockwise or counter-clockwise direction), we now have all the evidence we need in the knowledge that my phone's text-messaging apparatus apparently knows who the Kardashians are. </span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-49085971491147853132018-05-30T00:15:00.000-07:002018-05-30T00:15:02.895-07:00Earning Money So That I Can Almost Immediately Spend It<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I finished a week of filling in for a calculus teacher in a high school. In order to be able to pay anyone who was capable of teaching calculus enough to entice the person to take the brief job, I had to be designated as a consultant rather than as a substitute teacher. I was initially a bit intimidated regarding spending a full week teaching high school students, but they wanted to score well on the final exam. They were not out to harass me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In just a few days I shall take what I would consider to be a major vacation. I'll be gone for roughly two weeks. I will talk about it after I return.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">At the moment I am at a rather swanky "boutique" hotel, though the particular room I was given is less impressive than a room at the local Holiday Inn would have been. The university at which my mom is teaching is hosting numerous students from a university in St. Petersburg (Russia, not Florida). A few faculty members including my mom are hosting the overflow of students. The dorms could accommodate only so many. My bedroom is being occupied by someone else. No one told me until after I drove here. My dad went on Hotwire and got a room here for me. He took one of those "Secret Deals." Next time I shall book my own hotel room.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I would take a picture of the hotel room to underscore just how unimpressive it is except that I mistakenly left my phone in the car. I'm too cheap to tip a valet to retrieve it for me in the valet-only parking garage but not quite crass enough to ask someone to get it for me without tipping. I'll have to get through the night without it. (I hope the valet didn't have figuratively sticky fingers.) I'm not nearly so attached to my phone as are many of my contemporaries, but still I feel a bit lost without it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will survive.</span><br />
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AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-47485923625174087592018-05-28T04:23:00.002-07:002022-07-26T19:35:02.526-07:00The Hypotheses of Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I watched several episodes of <i>The Facts of Life</i> this evening. I'm certain that anyone reading this is seriously impressed by the cerebral TV fare with which I amuse myself. Beginning in July, I will have little to no time for frivolity. I'm making up for it now with a vengeance.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">A question arose concerning the character "Blair Warner," played by Lisa Whelchel. I get that the character is totally vain. Are we, the viewers, however, supposed to consider her to be a total bombshell, or is the joke supposed to be on her in that regard?</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Also, I'm curious about her hair coloring. In most episodes, her roots were conspicuously darker than the rest of her hair. It didn't look like a weave. Instead, it appeared to be a grossly overdue touch-up. The character was quite wealthy. She presumably could afford a hair-coloring job whenever she needed or wanted one. Was sporting noticeably dark roots considered fashionable during the time interval (very late 70's through most of the 80's) in which this show experienced its original run? </span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">I'm not meaning to take shots at Lisa Whelchel with either question. The scheduling and manner of her hair coloring treatments while on the show was presumably not her personal prerogative. Furthermore, I understand that she took a bit of abuse from the show's production staff over her very normal late-adolescent weight gain. It happens with a whole lot of girls. If TV production staffs cannot accept it, perhaps they shouldn't work with adolescent females. I certainly have no desire to add to Lisa Whelchel's grief even decades after the fact. I'm asking both questions in all sincerity.</span><br />
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<span face=""verdana" , sans-serif">Please respond if you have answers to either or both of my questions.</span></div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6485729541580426717.post-106718514189701782018-05-05T01:58:00.001-07:002018-05-05T02:11:18.197-07:00The Repugnant Donald Trump<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnNZoTkmfMjTCjQAMTlQdNtW5sETyx0nxKOx0DVbYL7Ky9g6pg2VMrQWhdgYntpaa_uio12uCkamAPHDjc8O6hSvmdm-3GtCx0FFD_MBhXxfsfTL4yFCWL_sFO2tIKbEL6sV8trpVYmw/s1600/trump+pout+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJnNZoTkmfMjTCjQAMTlQdNtW5sETyx0nxKOx0DVbYL7Ky9g6pg2VMrQWhdgYntpaa_uio12uCkamAPHDjc8O6hSvmdm-3GtCx0FFD_MBhXxfsfTL4yFCWL_sFO2tIKbEL6sV8trpVYmw/s400/trump+pout+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">the famous Trump pout</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am most </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">un</i><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">-fond of the political posts of others, yet I am exercising my first amendment right to post one of my own. In a way, though, the nature of the post isn't especially political. My utter disgust for Donald Trump is every bit as much personal as it is political, if not more so. Virtually nothing about the man is acceptable to me. I grasp the concept that I have no say whatsoever in determining the worthiness of anyone to walk upon the Earth and to breathe the same atmospheric air as the rest of us, but I don't have to like it. With each succeeding item or anecdote I read about him, I am less amenable to the idea that Donald Trump is entitled to a place on this planet or even in this universe. My utter abhorrence for him is such that it cannot be characterized in a single blog entry. I could type all night and still not convey the essence of my feelings about this most deplorable individual a substantial minority of the voters in our nation saw fit to place in the role of chief executive of the United States of America.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I recognize that <i>not </i>every vote cast in favor of Trump was, in actuality, a vote <i>for</i> Donald Trump. Hillary Clinton was, to some voters, every bit as deplorable a candidate for our nation's highest office as Trump was to me. At the same time, I cannot comprehend how anything short of, for the sake of argument, gassing six million Jews or perhaps having every child under the age of two slaughtered, could render Clinton less fit for the presidency than is the barely human creature who poked fun at individuals with disabilities or makes references to a female TV journalist with ". . . blood coming out of her <i>whatever . . </i>."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm unsure as to the feelings of others in this regard, but to an extent I don't have a great deal of concern what the U.S. president does in his or her private life. If the person is molesting children or doing something similarly nefarious, I could not condone having the person serving as president, but regarding a whole lot of other behavior, I'm not tremendously concerned. I am concerned, however, about what the person says in his or her official capacity. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We knew who this idiot was <i>before</i> the election. It's not as though he lived his life in anonymity until campaigning for the presidency, and then we were hit with who he really is <i>after</i> the election. We've known all along, yet enough fools voted for him anyway to give him in excess of the minimum of two-hundred-seventy electoral votes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I'm also cognizant of the premise that Vice-President Pence's political stance is possibly to the right of that of the late Barry Goldwater, but I'm willing to deal with the fallout from having Pence elevated to the presidency. If a decent percentage of the eligible voters goes to the polls in the midterm election and votes wisely, Pence could be stripped of much of his power. Yes, I'm concerned about the fitness [for the presidency] of anyone who would agree to appear on a presidential ticket with Trump, but it's highly unlikely that Pence could be quite so purely evil as is Trump himself..</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Trump has boasted, when he was in second grade, having punched a music teacher in his school and having blackened the man's eye. No one else who would have been present when this alleged assault happened seems to remember it having happened; the account is almost surely a lie. Still, it speaks of Trump's long-standing disrespect both for teachers and for lawful conduct. We already knew that Trump had low regard for teachers, having described them in a deposition as being "very stupid."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I take offense to Trump's statement that teachers are stupid. My mother was a public school teacher for two years while she was in the process of completing her graduate education. I know what her IQ is. I do not know what Trump's IQ is, but I would wager that my mother's IQ is 1.5 times higher than is his <i>at the bare minimum</i>. If teachers in general are stupid, as Mr. Trump has asserted, he is, himself, <i>far</i> more lacking in intelligence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In addition to what I allege is Trump's deplorable lack of intelligence, he is overwhelmingly morally bankrupt. He quite possibly has major sanity challenges as well. Please, get this cretin out of the White House and out of our lives ASAP. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzIDtsTaVrJZQSRmTM2n_9TM8ev4o43hls_-pYugsyBi_Nj3Vr_9oxz7JY92-sgH6J2rw92fAPWlDWDN3hYGbNi2QavP9rvGzDP96yta3hnWaQKJRWEn6D4vCl22HxyIzPBRKHST0nGM/s1600/trump+pout+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzIDtsTaVrJZQSRmTM2n_9TM8ev4o43hls_-pYugsyBi_Nj3Vr_9oxz7JY92-sgH6J2rw92fAPWlDWDN3hYGbNi2QavP9rvGzDP96yta3hnWaQKJRWEn6D4vCl22HxyIzPBRKHST0nGM/s1600/trump+pout+2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I don't have photographers following me everywhere and capturing my every expression, but one would assume Trump has to be accustomed to being photographed on a regular basis by now. He frequently has <i>this </i>expression on his face in photographs. I found dozens of shots with his mouth in this formation from which to choose. Does he know that this look is not attractive? (If not, someone <i>please</i> advise him of it.) Why does he not look in the mirror as he makes this pout-like formation of his lips, then make a mental not of what it feels like as he makes this expression, then avoid making this face? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In all seriousness, Trump's appearance should be the very least of any of our concerns, yet still, this obnoxious pout-like mannerism is most vexing to me.</span></div>
AlexisARhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09797016673203467911noreply@blogger.com7