A Knock At The Door - Margaret Ajemian Ahnert

Growing up in Northeast Ohio gives you a unique placeholder on history in the last century.
For instance, hearing about the "Hunkys" was a common theme in my mom's upbringing, when the Hungarian revolution in 1956 led to hundreds and thousands of refugees to find shelter in the Rust Belt towns in Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York. Even by the time I born 20 years later, I knew what a Hunky was, and I surely know how to tell a Hungarian name with the properly placed sz.
It was before my mother's time, but the concept of Starving Armenians also survived her parents, her and made its way to me. This despite the fact I was in high school before I could actually point to Armenia on a map (the traditional homeland, akin to the Palestinians, is actually part of Turkey, what is now Armenia, Iraq and bits of Iran).
The historical fact, sadly, is in dispute. What is not is that as a Christian minority in a crumbling Islamic empire, Armenians suffered a 30-year pogrom by a succession of Ottoman and Turkish rulers. Many historians view the scapegoating of the Armenians - a religious minority with a knack for business and education - as the model for Hitler's Final Solution.
Too few people know of this history. But if you want a primer, down to a person, this historical memoir is a fine place to start. In it, Ajemian Ahnert tells the story of her mother, Ester, who as a teen was among those forced to walk in the death marches, surviving only to become a slave, rape victim and, ultimately, a refugee bound for America.
It is nasty, heart-rendering stuff. It's also illegal to read or discuss in Turkey, as that country still has not owned up its ethnic cleansing. And yet, Ester's tale is one of the hope - of finding humanity at the moments when it matters most and for triumphing with wit and inner courage instead of violence and fear.
The writing may be a bit workmanlike, but the story shines clear. I just wish more people would hear it.

A Journal for Jordan - Dana Canedy

Dana Canedy grew up an Army brat, determined for a different life. She found her way in journalism, working in Florida and Cleveland before vaulting to the New York Times. She had become what she wanted: independent, smart and world-savvy. And, alone.
Then, she has a chance meeting with an Army sergeant at her dad's still-military home. A love story begins to unfold, even as both cling to the lives they have reached on their own into middle-age.
By the time it's clear that Sgt. Charles King will deployed to Iraq, they have danced around the idea of marriage, decided to get pregnant and tentatively begun to fit their lives together.
Just before King leaves, Canedy-the-word-person gives him a blank journal. King begins writing immediately, adding entries in Texas, Kuwait and Iraq, all addressed to his unborn son.
The journal survives the war. King, felled by an IAD, does not. He meets his son on a two-week leave, when the baby is 6 months old, and dies just a month before he is to be discharged.
This book is Canedy's addition to that story, filling in the gaps of her life with Jordan's father and a life fractured by war. Her writing is deep and moving, and she is willing to showcase her own weaknesses to further honor the man she loved.
Still, though Canedy is the principal writer, she acts mostly as a guide for someone who could never have known Charles King. Readers, and his son someday, need this narrator to follow through what is basically a father-son conversation from a man who, rightly or wrongly, put duty above family.

I suspect -- ok, I pretty much know -- the blog and emails will be on hold for a bit.

That ache in my back and the dizziness and cough and struggling to catch my breath all add up to the bronchitis turning into pneumonia. This according to ScoopFriend MD and ScoopMom RN.

The plan, after meeting with the doc on Saturday, was to try at-home meds and return Monday with the hopes of seeing about 50 percent improvement. I

nstead, I've gone about 50 percent down. I'm getting a chest X-ray tomorrow, but I think it will just be protocol. I can't see a way he won't send me to the hospital.

So, I'm about to become one of those swine statistics you see in the CDC data: still contagious with the original flu and now felled by complications.

All positive cosmic whirlies most welcome that the lungs will win this fight against the complication: supine flu.

Book 53
Are You There Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea - Chelsea Handler
Crass, sarcastic and raunchy, Handler is less a stand-up comic than just a cranky storyteller who embellishes and offers tangents as she sees fit. She rarely makes you laugh out loud, but it can happen. I loved her analysis of why Angelina's son from Cambodia looks so pissed off in every photo (he didn't realize getting adopted by her meant constant visits to other third-world countries and would just have preferred to stay in the US) and her recounting of expanding her dating pool to redheads. But some of the other stories try to hard to be mean or cutting edge and just fall flat. It was unveven, at best.

Book 54
Mentally Incontinent - Joe Peacock
Ever go to a party and meet a friend of a friend of a friend who has no filter to share a random story? You listed and think, hmm, mildly amusing. But the filter never kicks in, the guy keeps going and you end up thinking the guy is a total douche?
Gotham Books has given that guy a book. It's a collection of stories -- supposedly all true - from his "unlucky life" in and around Atlanta. Like that time - oh, no! total kneeslapper - an ex-girlfriend called him gay and so his mom thought he was!
Oh, and then, there was that one time he totally landed a corporate job but, like, didn't have anything to do once he set up the IT and web stuff, and he, like, met a stalker by calling a 1-800 number. I know! Hilarious!
Like I said, there are some bits that are really funny. But if Handler was uneven, Peacock is unstable. Does telling stories about when you were a douche not make you a douche because you're willing to share them? Um, no. How about a point beyond the, "oh, the crazy hijinks of my youth."
That said, there is some promise here. But the "social editing" experiment from his website may grab readers, but it doesn't make him a better writer.

Books 51 and 52
Chosen Prey - John Sandford
Hidden Prey - John Sandford

A friend in Florida was reading the books in the Prey series when I visited last spring, and I grabbed a few at a book sale for her to have. But now that I'm felled with the flu, I've read two of the ones I found.
Sandford - the pen name of Pulitzer-prize winning journalist John Camp - wrote the series in order. Chosen came out in 2001. Hidden is from 2004.
Both, like the rest, feature Lucas Davenport, a no-nonsense cop and character living in the Twin Cities who deals specifically with high-profile crime. Sometimes, as in Chosen, you learn who the killer is right from the start. In Hidden, you see the killer but don't know motive until much later in the book.
It's escapist reading for someone like me, who also likes Cold Case and Law & Order. But the books also have got plenty of wry humor and gentle subplots that keep things going nicely.

On Saturday, I would have told you that getting diagnosed with the swine flu was no big deal. It just felt like a nasty cold.

On Sunday, I would have said that yeah, it's a flu, because I was so fatigued. I slept all day.

On Monday, I would have figured the reports were overblown, because I felt much, much stronger. That barking cough I had did get worse, though, and ended up keeping me up all hours.

On Tuesday, I understood. The fever spiked. New symptoms appeared. I could barely make it to the bathroom and back. The coughing wouldn't go away. I desperately wished somebody could be there and desperately didn't want to infect anyone else with this wickedness.

Today, I have kept down breakfast (an improvement); kept down the medicine (an improvement) and am taking it easy. It's not hard, given I have to work up the energy to get back upstairs and into bed.

So that's why if you've been calling or emailing, you haven't heard from me. All positive cosmic whirlies welcome, however.

I was shocked in college to discover that everyone didn't have the same sort of public school education that I had.

We would, for instance, study Rodgers and Hammerstein in music class. Then, we would all go see "Pirates of Penzance" performed on stage.

We would take trips to Sea World in the off season, after a lesson on marine mammals or birds. The Natural History Museum was not a yearly chore. We went a few times every school year. Ditto for the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Center of Science and Industry in Columbus, NASA's Glenn Research Center and Stan Hywet Hall and Gardens.

I still can't imagine not learning about life this way, and I count myself lucky to have grown up in a place that valued the arts and culture as much as science and language.

So, for those who might not have had those opportunities, I share a video from one of my all-time favorites: the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo. Yes, these are the folks who just don't mow in the summer, then plop signs that say "African Tallgrass" in the Africa exhibits, while the same grass gets a "Praire grass" sign for the North American ones.

But, they also do stuff like this. Tell me someone at Cleveland Zoo isn't awesome when it comes to makin' videos.

This one is for Artboy.

Seems as if the fine folks of Southern Maine appreciated the irony of using Leviticus to rail against gays having the audacity to want to have legal rights. Yeah. They eat lobster. Hell, they probably even wear clothes of unnatural fibers.

But, if you look at the map, what's the excuse for the northern coast, inland and potato country folks?

www.scribd.com/doc/22197235/vote2009graphicfinal

It's not quite 5, and I have become that clock-watcher that everyone in the office hates.

It isn't because I don't have plenty of work to do. I do. And then some.

It isn't because I get to leave at 5. My shift ends at 6.

It's because the sun is setting, and along with it, my brain's ability to process too much information.

At least, I think I'm going to blame the time change for the serious amount of sleeping I've been doing of late. It is also true I am very run down after all this medical drama and am now battling what appears to be an annoying, if not particularly threatening, cold.

Whatever the reason, I am drowsy. And it's still not 5 p.m.

If this keeps up, I could be in real trouble. If nothing else, I hear you can get bed sores if you don't move a bit more than I have of late.

... when roundtrip, your flight home for Thanksgiving and your birthday is $169.

To ferry the furry, it's another $138.

It appears that I am coming down with a cold. This, on top of lingering tooth owies, UTI woes and that  overall rundown feeling.

For some reason, though, it always seems to be the sore throat that throws me for the biggest loop. On the plus side, that means I'll crave more fluids than usual, all of which is good for the tooth, the kidneys and the cold.

So far today, I've had a huge glass of cranberry juice, two cups of coffee, a cup of tea and, just now, a regular Avena.

For those who don't typically have access to Latin American food, Avena is named after Avena Sativa, or oats. It's oats with milk, in a beverage form. I realize it sounds weird, but trust me, it's very tasty. And it helps with cholesterol while also giving you a fair amount of protein and vitamin A. See if your local grocer carries or can order it, and trust me, try if you find it. My favorite is the Aplina brand from Colombia, though Quaker makes a mix you can make at home.

Oh, and get the cinammon if you find the Alpina. It tastes a bit like holiday egg nog.

Now, if I could just find some Alpina Arequipe, I'd be a happy girl.

Too many bandits

pictures.todaysbigthing.com/2009/11/03

Book 50
Discover Your Inner Economist - Tyler Cowan

(One caveat: I have 10 more pages to finish this book, because I want to re-read. But rereading shouldn't count, so I'm not).

I was well out of college before I realized I would have really loved economics, had my professor for both my 101 and 102 courses been an avowed supply-sider who suspected that regulation was something akin to organized Satanism. His insistence of theories that explained the way things *should* be never quite jived with what actually was in my word.
So imagine my surprise, years later, when I geeked out and began reviewing the ideas behind incentives and markets. Freakonomics was a favorite, especially in showing real-life examples of how people do behave, not how they should.
I also recall quite fondly a Sunday morning in Germany, during my fellowship, when our two-hour lecturer was a noted economist. I still love the idea of road socialism.
This book, I hoped, would be more of the same: provocative ideas and narratives and new ways of looking at things.
Sadly, while there is much to like about this book, that lack of real innovation has me wondering if it was meant for only those truly new to the science of economics.
For instance, the subtitle talks of motivating your dentist. Given my recent experiences, this should be right up my alley, right? But his best advice is for the patient to appeal to the dentist's self-image as good as his/her job and playing into his/her personal narrative as such. Um, not really the "aha" moment I had hoped woudl appear.
Still, he has some interesting arguments about learning to be a "cultural billionaire" by understanding how to better appreciate art, fine food and music. And he clearly understands real-world incentives, considering often the motivation is not money.
He glosses over a bit too quickly those who are too motivated by money for my taste, but he would certainly accept that economics means you can't be all things to all people.
Besides, I just got a Paul Krugman book. I suspect I'll enjoy that one far, far more ...

I am heading to the endo again this morning. Sadly, the mouth has gotten increasingly sore and owie. I couldn't even eat dinner last night, which is not good on the tummy dealing with antibiotics.

So, please engage whirlies if you can. I think I'm gonna need 'em.

I really wish the people I encounter in life would just acknowledge I'm always right. I know I am. I just hate having to constantly prove it.

The latest case? Let's call it Scoopgirl's Month of Dental Woes.

It began on a Sunday night, when I bit into a piece of stale candy and chipped a cusp off my back molar. It didn't hurt. It did freak me out to have a chunk of tooth gone (ahem, swallowed). I headed straight to a prosthedontist the next day, who shaped the tooth for a crown. It took several hours, but it didn't hurt a bit.

The next day, though, sharp throbbing pain greeted me every time I chewed and sometimes when I didn't. The dentist tried to grind down the cusps, in case the bite was off. The next day, it was clear it was more than that.

About a week later, I got in to an endo who did a root canal through the temporary crown. He even commented how tiny my mouth is (no comments from the peanut gallery) and the teensy little canals. But he assured me all was well.

It wasn't. I kept saying I felt pain, a new pain. Instead of throbbing, it ached and ached. It occasionally was sharp and jagged and it ran up my jawline to my ear.

This was in September.

I have since been back to each dentist twice. The end result: the prostho assured me the endo should know what's what and that I "shouldn't" be in much pain. The endo said there was no way I *was* in pain, insisting that he had removed the nerves that would allow that.

Ahem. Bullshit.

My patience ran out this weekend, when colitis became a full-blown Crohns' flare and I began also  --- TMI alert --- peeing blood. Turns out I have a raging UTI that has spread to the kidneys and the colitis/Crohns - all triggered from the megadose of antiobiotics they put me on for the tooth.

I spent the last three hours or so with my old periodondist's wife, an endo herself. It all started with an X-ray and her commenting, "It looks like he started a root canal but didn't finish."

Then she popped off the temporary crown - which he had never done - and found an entire canal that still had a live and very, very angry nerve in it.

Between not going to the bottom of the canals he started, and missing one entirely, the tooth was wildly inflammed and angry. The nerve jumped around for her -- proof that the pain I was feeling was in fact real.

She spent a good two hours scrubbing out the tooth. She used a microscope to make sure each canal was clear. She used a machine that let her get right up to the root nerve for the removal/cleaning. ATL's endo did none of this.

Even all numbed up, I could feel major pain when she plucked at the one shallow canal and the one that had been left. She saw it and commented on it.

So, end result is, she thinks she fixed the offending problem. Except of course that all that inflammation is going to get worse with the work she did today. Much worse. And I can't take any NSAIDs while I'm on cipro for the UTI.

This means a few very unpleasant days. But I can deal, assuming it means it starts to actually get better instead of worse. I go back Thursday and, with luck, get a signal that improvement is at hand.

My prostho, her husband, came in and peered over her shoulder a few times. He kept muttering, "You can see the inflammation. Why would they say it's asymptomatic? You can see it."

Interestingly, the endo here wouldn't bash the endo there too much -- professional courtesy mehtinks. She did say that he'd done the best he could "probably," given that he was older and clearly afraid of the technology that makes the procedure easier. Yeah. Afraid. Or too damn cheap to buy the stuff that makes it easier on his patients.

(Sidenote: The money spent on this so far is unreal. My vacation this year: dental offices of the Southeast. oooh! ahhh!)

But I think the prostho said it best, as I was finishing up.

"You were right. And you were right to keep saying that. They should really have listened to you."

Hmpf. Yeah.

I may be one of the only people out there who takes a sick day - being actually sick - in a different state.

Long, long story. But it began with a tooth, involves two dentists insisting I am not in pain, and after a month of being patient, has me traveling by air to old doctors who have agreed that, based on the symptoms, the pain is real and there are two likely culprits that must be ruled out.

Oh, and along the way, the antibiotic the dentists said would eliminate the pain has killed so much good bacteria, I now have a raging UTI and have triggered a Crohn's flare.

From a tooth.

I think this is what becomes of us when we move to the southern states. But I'm assured that, should the offending tooth need to be removed and a dental implant there instead, CG will buy me some spoons. You know, to join in a band. I think I'd rather a washboard or jug, but really, it's prolly all the same.

Kissing the Witch - Emma Donoghue

I probably shouldn't be a member of a book club. I get bored with some of the silly things people say. I tend to loathe what other people rave about. And I like things on a level that most people never reach.
Which brings us to this collection of 13 stories by a favorite author. The book club opinion can be summed as "eh." I'm more of the "wow" category.
The interconnected stories are her twist on well-known fairy tales, all about the female leads. Some are admittedly hard to get into. But once you realize all the stories link -- which took me about four stories -- they suddenly start to make better sense.
And, I didn't have the heart to get into it with my book club, but the rhythm Donoghue achieves by the end is nothing short of masterful. Her writing, as always, shines.
It won't be my favorite Donoghue book. But the woman is damn brilliant. That's my take, anyway, on a book that makes you think about each piece long after you have closed it.

I love editorial cartoons ...

Oct. 21 cartoon

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