Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Spa Offers Bird Poop Facial
Have you heard about the new treatment for dull skin? It is bird poop!CNN is reporting that a New York City spa is offering bird poop facials, yes complete with video. Apparently the droppings of a Nightingale can be used to cleanse the skin. Japanese geishas and kabuki actors would use it to cleanse the face of heavy makeup. Today an Asian spa is using it as a skin treatment, and you can have it for only $200.
Don't take my word for it, watch the CNN video... Spa Offers Bird Poop Facial
Holy Crap
Labels: health, weird news
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Getting Back to Work
I was getting tired of the look of SunFyre. This template isn't much better, but at least it's fresh. I'm trying to get back in the mood for writing. Writing for me is usually a daily process, but I took over two weeks off. I was sick.
Things were just starting to go good for me, and I started to forget I am disabled. God needed to remind me, apparently. My kids had been coughing for two weeks, then they gave it to me.
Here's a long drawn out story.
Tuesday I ran a fever. Wednesday I felt like crap. Thursday morning I was on the road to recovery.
Then the power went out.
I thought it was typical stuff in my rural community. A car hits a telephone pole, and the power goes out for 45 minutes, then it returns. (Around here, they call electricity "power" or "lights". If you've lived here a long time, you say "The lights are auten.")
After 30 minutes, my battery backups from my computers start to fail. Around 40 minutes I am officially out of business until the "lights are back".
About 3 1/2 hours later I called the electric company to find out that it wasn't my entire neighborhood, it was just me. Apparently we were late with the electric bill, and the local electric company doesn't mess around in April. I paid the bill, $222.50, by telephone. They refused to reconnect the service for 24 hours. (By the way, during the winter my electric bill averages $600 per month.) Now I'm mad.
Partially, I am mad the electric company. Partially, I'm mad at my wife who decided in her infinite wisdom that she would only pay half the bill this month because we were expecting a large tax payment April 15.
Thursday afternoon I'm trying to get ahold of the Pennsylvania Utility Commission to file a complaint because the electric company didn't believe a shutoff notice on the premises, which is required by law.
That's when I noticed my cat was sick. Very sick.
She hides behind a little table in my office sometimes. There was a foul odor. Very foul.
I moved the little table and found my cat laying in her own urine and feces, laboring to breathe.
About that time my children arrived home, Jason with a temperature well over 100 and a cough that sounded like a coal miner who smokes too much.
Kristen came home and we rushed the cat to the vet, and my sister-in-law took Jason to the doctor.
Three hours later we are still sitting in the veterinarian's office, and I'm freezing. The air-conditioning was extremely low. My fever has returned and I'm sitting there shivering. I'm getting angry at the three fat women who worked in the vet's office. I'm sorry if it's rude to say that fat women require extra air-conditioning, but now I'm really angry, and they were really fat.
They ran about $500 worth of tests to find nothing wrong. Apparently, the cat had a fever too, and that's all they could identify. She was bad enough however that they wanted to hospitalize her. He gave her some antibiotics and I think the three fat ladies said a prayer. (Whatever they did, it worked and she's fine now.)
Now I'm sad, angry, freezing and sweating at the same time.
We picked up the kids. (They gave Jason an antibiotic and said some prayers. I'm not sure if the nurses were fat.) We took the kids home to our very dark and increasingly chilly house. I let the kids sleep in the living room because it was the only room that gets light from the street. Two 5-year-olds in zero night lights means a bedtime battle. I wasn't up for the fight, so we had a "campout". Ainsley was mad because we couldn't make s'mores. I was mad because all I had was warm tunafish. (My kids ate with their aunt.)
Friday morning we had to use a battery-powered alarm clock. I'm used to waking up with Drew's Crew on the radio. (He kind of sucks, but it's the only radio station for about 100 miles that isn't Country or Christian, or both.)
Instead, I wake up to something it sounds like a car alarm. It literally scares me so bad I inhale that disgusting phlegm that accumulates during the night in your mouth. It kind of tastes like my cat smelled yesterday.
Anyhow, that bacteria laden sputum shot directly into my left lung. I promptly coughed it out, the phlegm, not the lung. But apparently one sole bacterium decided to set up shop. Within a few hours, the electricity had returned, but I'm throwing globs of yellow gunk out with every third breath. By Saturday morning I'm on antibiotics and I'm beginning to smell.
A little history.
Now it's 2008. I started thinking that maybe this was my next bout of once-per-decade pneumonia. I'm already a year overdue. Now, unfortunately, my schedule is far too filled to arrange a funeral for myself. I can die now, I have a mortgage. Again a different kind of spiritual healing, this one driven by a mountain of debt on a guy who can't get life insurance because some doctor told my parents I should've been dead 35 years ago.
So I decided to get better. I took time off work. I coughed when I needed to cough. I drank lots of hot tea and apple juice. I took my medicine. And I slept about 16 hours a day. By the end of the week I was better and my wife was ready to kill me.
I'm back to work now, and writing more. Last night we paid our bills, and the first check I wrote... to the gas company... $1113.95. The second check was to the mortgage company... $1417.95. There is something sick about utilities that cost more than your home per month.
Well, I'm feeling better. Thanks for enduring my long story.
Things were just starting to go good for me, and I started to forget I am disabled. God needed to remind me, apparently. My kids had been coughing for two weeks, then they gave it to me.
Here's a long drawn out story.
Tuesday I ran a fever. Wednesday I felt like crap. Thursday morning I was on the road to recovery.
Then the power went out.
I thought it was typical stuff in my rural community. A car hits a telephone pole, and the power goes out for 45 minutes, then it returns. (Around here, they call electricity "power" or "lights". If you've lived here a long time, you say "The lights are auten.")
After 30 minutes, my battery backups from my computers start to fail. Around 40 minutes I am officially out of business until the "lights are back".
About 3 1/2 hours later I called the electric company to find out that it wasn't my entire neighborhood, it was just me. Apparently we were late with the electric bill, and the local electric company doesn't mess around in April. I paid the bill, $222.50, by telephone. They refused to reconnect the service for 24 hours. (By the way, during the winter my electric bill averages $600 per month.) Now I'm mad.
Partially, I am mad the electric company. Partially, I'm mad at my wife who decided in her infinite wisdom that she would only pay half the bill this month because we were expecting a large tax payment April 15.
Thursday afternoon I'm trying to get ahold of the Pennsylvania Utility Commission to file a complaint because the electric company didn't believe a shutoff notice on the premises, which is required by law.
That's when I noticed my cat was sick. Very sick.
She hides behind a little table in my office sometimes. There was a foul odor. Very foul.
I moved the little table and found my cat laying in her own urine and feces, laboring to breathe.
About that time my children arrived home, Jason with a temperature well over 100 and a cough that sounded like a coal miner who smokes too much.
Kristen came home and we rushed the cat to the vet, and my sister-in-law took Jason to the doctor.
Three hours later we are still sitting in the veterinarian's office, and I'm freezing. The air-conditioning was extremely low. My fever has returned and I'm sitting there shivering. I'm getting angry at the three fat women who worked in the vet's office. I'm sorry if it's rude to say that fat women require extra air-conditioning, but now I'm really angry, and they were really fat.
They ran about $500 worth of tests to find nothing wrong. Apparently, the cat had a fever too, and that's all they could identify. She was bad enough however that they wanted to hospitalize her. He gave her some antibiotics and I think the three fat ladies said a prayer. (Whatever they did, it worked and she's fine now.)
Now I'm sad, angry, freezing and sweating at the same time.
We picked up the kids. (They gave Jason an antibiotic and said some prayers. I'm not sure if the nurses were fat.) We took the kids home to our very dark and increasingly chilly house. I let the kids sleep in the living room because it was the only room that gets light from the street. Two 5-year-olds in zero night lights means a bedtime battle. I wasn't up for the fight, so we had a "campout". Ainsley was mad because we couldn't make s'mores. I was mad because all I had was warm tunafish. (My kids ate with their aunt.)
Friday morning we had to use a battery-powered alarm clock. I'm used to waking up with Drew's Crew on the radio. (He kind of sucks, but it's the only radio station for about 100 miles that isn't Country or Christian, or both.)
Instead, I wake up to something it sounds like a car alarm. It literally scares me so bad I inhale that disgusting phlegm that accumulates during the night in your mouth. It kind of tastes like my cat smelled yesterday.
Anyhow, that bacteria laden sputum shot directly into my left lung. I promptly coughed it out, the phlegm, not the lung. But apparently one sole bacterium decided to set up shop. Within a few hours, the electricity had returned, but I'm throwing globs of yellow gunk out with every third breath. By Saturday morning I'm on antibiotics and I'm beginning to smell.
A little history.
In 1977 I got pneumonia for the first time. Pneumonia can be life-threatening to people with my disability. I was seven years old, and my parents figured it had probably overstayed my welcome already. Originally, doctors only told my parents to expect four or five years.
In 1987, I got pneumonia for the second time. I was hospitalized, but had the will to survive. It wasn't the will placed in me by God, it was the desire to complete high school, (I graduated that year) go to college and get laid. The healing power of the vagina was drawing me ever closer.
In 1997, engaged to Kristen, I got pneumonia for the third time. I'm laying there in the hospital feeling half dead. Kristen starts to explain to me how she'd already got a fantastic dress, and I wasn't allowed to screw this up for her! Again, the healing power of the vagina. Or maybe, it was just nagging. I'm always amazed at how much we can accomplish simply by being nagged by our wives.
Now it's 2008. I started thinking that maybe this was my next bout of once-per-decade pneumonia. I'm already a year overdue. Now, unfortunately, my schedule is far too filled to arrange a funeral for myself. I can die now, I have a mortgage. Again a different kind of spiritual healing, this one driven by a mountain of debt on a guy who can't get life insurance because some doctor told my parents I should've been dead 35 years ago.
So I decided to get better. I took time off work. I coughed when I needed to cough. I drank lots of hot tea and apple juice. I took my medicine. And I slept about 16 hours a day. By the end of the week I was better and my wife was ready to kill me.
I'm back to work now, and writing more. Last night we paid our bills, and the first check I wrote... to the gas company... $1113.95. The second check was to the mortgage company... $1417.95. There is something sick about utilities that cost more than your home per month.
Well, I'm feeling better. Thanks for enduring my long story.
Labels: health, marriage, pets
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Squeeze Some Breasts and Save a Life -- Breast Cancer Awareness
I like breasts. They are functional, fun, and aesthetically pleasing.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.
One of the most terrifying questions a woman will ask herself is "Is that a lump?"
If you're a man... and you like breasts... there are three things you should do.
First, donate.
There are several reputable charities that do research, treatment, recovery, support and prevention. Men, if you enjoy breasts as much as SunFyre, please donate.
I'm aware of three national charities that are very reputable. They are the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, National Breast Cancer Foundation, and the American Cancer Society.
Additionally, many communities have breast cancer treatment foundations and endowments. Contact your local hospital or United Way and ask them what charities would benefit from your donations locally.
Second... buy something pink.
If you're not secure enough in your sexuality to wear it, give it to a woman that you love. Every year women's clothing stores and a variety of other department stores support Breast Cancer by offering pink products and donating a portion of the proceeds to Breast Cancer charities. They usually contain a pink ribbon, the symbol for Breast Cancer support.
If you happened to be the owner of the store that men frequent, I urge you to create your own products. I think there should be a breast cancer first person shooter game, preferably one with zombies. Zombies are cool.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, squeeze some breasts.
Seriously. While annual doctor's visits are important, and breast self-examination is also important, many lumps are discovered by male partners. All breasts have a little fibrous tissue that can be felt. One indicator is changes in this tissue. Men often notice these changes, simply because they are typically paying attention when they manipulate a woman's breasts. A physician only sees a particular woman once a year, and can only notice problems if lumps are large, or if they show up on a mammogram. A husband can monitor the situation weekly, or perhaps daily, and the test is far less expensive!
One small warning... please make sure you have permission of the woman that you intend to examine. She may not find your willingness to save her life a comfort if she doesn't know it's coming. For example, as I've experienced myself, the large breasted woman in front of you at the checkout counter at the grocery store, while her life may be at risk, may also have a brick in her purse. Ouch!
All kidding aside, best wishes for women and their families affected by this disease.
Each October I usually write a blog post about how much we like them, and how men should be more involved in Breast Cancer awareness. This year it's a little more personal.
Last November I lost one of my closest family friends to breast cancer. Diane and my mother met while they were both pregnant. My mother gave birth to me and Diane gave birth to a little girl named Dawn 10 days later. Diane was a nurse and my mother was a substitute teacher; at that time both low-paying jobs. They would babysit for each other because neither could afford child care. Dawn and I became lifelong friends, and "Aunt Diane" as I called her became like a second mother. Diane Sandstedt died last November; she was 57.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.
One of the most terrifying questions a woman will ask herself is "Is that a lump?"
If you're a man... and you like breasts... there are three things you should do.
First, donate. There are several reputable charities that do research, treatment, recovery, support and prevention. Men, if you enjoy breasts as much as SunFyre, please donate.
I'm aware of three national charities that are very reputable. They are the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, National Breast Cancer Foundation, and the American Cancer Society.
Additionally, many communities have breast cancer treatment foundations and endowments. Contact your local hospital or United Way and ask them what charities would benefit from your donations locally.
Second... buy something pink.
If you're not secure enough in your sexuality to wear it, give it to a woman that you love. Every year women's clothing stores and a variety of other department stores support Breast Cancer by offering pink products and donating a portion of the proceeds to Breast Cancer charities. They usually contain a pink ribbon, the symbol for Breast Cancer support.
If you happened to be the owner of the store that men frequent, I urge you to create your own products. I think there should be a breast cancer first person shooter game, preferably one with zombies. Zombies are cool.
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, squeeze some breasts.
Seriously. While annual doctor's visits are important, and breast self-examination is also important, many lumps are discovered by male partners. All breasts have a little fibrous tissue that can be felt. One indicator is changes in this tissue. Men often notice these changes, simply because they are typically paying attention when they manipulate a woman's breasts. A physician only sees a particular woman once a year, and can only notice problems if lumps are large, or if they show up on a mammogram. A husband can monitor the situation weekly, or perhaps daily, and the test is far less expensive!
One small warning... please make sure you have permission of the woman that you intend to examine. She may not find your willingness to save her life a comfort if she doesn't know it's coming. For example, as I've experienced myself, the large breasted woman in front of you at the checkout counter at the grocery store, while her life may be at risk, may also have a brick in her purse. Ouch!
All kidding aside, best wishes for women and their families affected by this disease.
Each October I usually write a blog post about how much we like them, and how men should be more involved in Breast Cancer awareness. This year it's a little more personal.
Last November I lost one of my closest family friends to breast cancer. Diane and my mother met while they were both pregnant. My mother gave birth to me and Diane gave birth to a little girl named Dawn 10 days later. Diane was a nurse and my mother was a substitute teacher; at that time both low-paying jobs. They would babysit for each other because neither could afford child care. Dawn and I became lifelong friends, and "Aunt Diane" as I called her became like a second mother. Diane Sandstedt died last November; she was 57.
Labels: boobies, breast cancer, charity, health
Friday, March 09, 2007
The List: The Most Walkable Cities in America
Prevention magazine published a list of the Most Walkable Cities in America. Factors contributing to the ranking were air quality, the percentage of people who walk to work, access to parks, number of athletic shoes sold, and weather.
Here's the list:
I'm surprised that none of the Boardwalk Beach towns made the list. Atlantic City may be the only town big enough for their lists, and I can understand why that didn't make the top 10. Still, some of the other little Atlantic Beach towns deserved consideration.
Is your city walkable? It's probably a strange question coming from a guy in a wheelchair, but let's hear your comments.
Here's the list:
- Madison, Wisconsin
- Austin, Texas
- San Francisco, California
- Charlotte, North Carolina
- Seattle, Washington
- Henderson, Nevada
- San Diego, California
- San Jose, California
- Chandler, Arizona
- Virginia Beach, Virginia
I'm surprised that none of the Boardwalk Beach towns made the list. Atlantic City may be the only town big enough for their lists, and I can understand why that didn't make the top 10. Still, some of the other little Atlantic Beach towns deserved consideration.
Is your city walkable? It's probably a strange question coming from a guy in a wheelchair, but let's hear your comments.
Labels: Cities, exercise, health
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