HIV and AIDS

In 1996 Mr Savage, my high school anatomy/physiology teacher...

who apparently does NOT age at all

... assigned his students a research project. Pick any disease, learn what you can about it, and submit a paper. As far as I recall, I earned a good grade and the honor of publication in our school district's annual Creative Writing book.

I chose to research and write about AIDS because my uncle had contracted it sometime in the '80s and throughout my teenage years I formed a meaningful friendship with him through regular phone calls and, luckily, a visit to his home in San Diego.

Uncle Richard passed away on August 9, 2014. From his memorial:

Richard lived his life 

with enthusiasm, a hearty laugh, 

and love for his family, friends, and rock and roll.*

* Not mentioned among his joys: Clinique face cream, white jeans, and Madonna. The man had GREAT taste.

_________________________________________________________________

Siobhan Reynolds

Grade 11

Homestead High School

As a teenager, I know that HIV stands for Human Immunodeficiency Virus, and that AIDS stands for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. I know that I am sick of hearing about how I can't get AIDS by shaking hands with an infected person, swimming with him, or even getting bitten by the same mosquito. I know that I can only get AIDS by sharing needles that haven't been sterilized, through unprotected sex, or by being born to a mother already infected with AIDS. I know as well as the next educated Joe that AIDS kills. There is no cure. Period.

As an observer and researcher of HIV and AIDS, I know that some of the symptoms are a fever that lasts for weeks; sudden, unexplained weight loss; swollen glands; diarrhea that lasts for a month or longer; excessive tiredness; night sweats; blah blah blah. I know that once AIDS has been contracted, there is no cure for these and other symptoms and I know the reality that AIDS kills. Period.

As a student who cannot escape the media and publications dealing with HIV and AIDS, I know that "Death from AIDS is 19 times higher for African American women than white women." I know that "People aged 20 to 29 are the fasted growing age group with AIDS. Many of these people were probably infected as teenagers." I know that I have read and reread cute little pamphlets titled "Caring For Someone With AIDS," "When a Friend has HIV," and one called "Caring for People Affected by AIDS."

As a kid watching my uncle waste away day after day, fighting a losing battle with AIDS, I know that all of these statistics are bogus. They numerically reflect numbers that are so large that they are inconceivable to ever reader. Does the number 126% mean anything to you? How about 5.5 times? No? Me neither. All I really know when it comes to the bottom line is that once you get AIDS, any way that you got it, you are stuck with it for the pitifully short life you have left.

When I call my uncle in California, it is a good day if he remembers my name, even though I have known him for sixteen years. It is a good day if he remembers what he has done so far that day. It is a good day if he remembers any of what he's done the way it actually happened. He is bedridden, yet sometimes when I talk to him, he tells me he went for a jog. Sadly, those good days are one our of ten. On a bad day, he loses track of what he meant to say three words into the thought. On a bad day, he forgets that he lives in California or even that it really is warm and sub where he is. Every day, though, my uncle focuses a day's worth of energy into a five minute conversation with me, his niece. He wants to impress me. He never wants me to see the way he really is, how torn his mind is between reality and the world he thinks he's living in. He doesn't want me to think that he is in pain today, or yesterday or ever, or how weak his body has grown. He is stronger than I will ever be, though. He has withstood the most relentless of all diseases; he has suffered through pains and an endless barrage of medications that won't make him better.

It is only when you experience this disease that you understand what that little pamphlet meant when it said, "Be there." Only when you hear their pain an see their mind disappear that you understand that all you can do is make them comfortable, whatever that is. Only after speaking to them, do you understand what it means to week without knowing exactly why. Only after you love a person who doesn't know how to love you anymore do you know what unconditional love us.... It lasts forever, even through AIDS.

haiku! bless you!

Admiring this view: 

A cold, snowy countryside.

Lovely place to work.*

* and when I say 'work' I mean 'be a customer here for training'

der beepenheimer

Hey there pre-Friday. Thought I'd participate in Throwback Thursday this week. Here's my sweet little niece baby, Helen -- you may know her as Beep -- on the morning of her second birthday in March 2012.

The sleepy eyes, her tiny spoon, fluffy hair pointing everywhichway. Every time I look at this picture, which is not infrequent, I get flooded with love for that little girl, and her mom and dad and baby brother.

Counteracting cabin fever with warm-fuzzies. Suck it, winter.

criminal behavior

Hard to know where to start or how to tell it. Just kidding, no it's not. I sat on this article for a couple months because... I don't know why. To protect his privacy? To protect my own privacy? To prove something to myself?

I have a rule about my Internet identity: Don't put anything out there that you wouldn't tell Matt Lauer.

wait. not THIS matt lauer

THIS matt lauer

This isn't about outing my ex's bad behavior (I'll only share enough to provide context), or eliciting sympathy (because that doesn't really move us forward in life, does it?). The only laundry I'll air is my own.

This is about a pivotal period in my life, including the moments leading up to it. The things I learned and felt. This is my story to tell.

In November, I learned that my live-in boyfriend of nearly two years had been cheating on me for the duration of our relationship with a married woman.

In an effort to get to know the one person he called a friend, I met her, had been out for cocktails and karaoke, dog-walking and giggles with this woman.

He had one friend, and that friend was a woman whose marriage was, by her own account, troubled. Even my red flags had red flags.

storm's a-comin'

I don't know what compelled me to check his phone that morning. I snooped. It's what people do sometimes. Found what I feared. He fessed up to a little bit, so I assume it was a lot worse than he'd ever admit.

mmm hm. suuuuure. yeahnope.

And in the end, it doesn't matter how bad it was. I would never again believe anything he said. I would never again trust him with anything in my universe.

It's not that he had a relationship with two women at once, and that one of them was me. The unforgivable act was that he broke our agreement.

Because I project-manage, um, everything, over the course of the two years he and I had several conversations specifically defining the terms of our relationship. The amount and quality of our together-time. Our future. How we defined fidelity.

Relationship crimes fall into three categories: misdemeanors, felonies, and capital offenses. Every couple can apply their own definitions to what constitutes criminal offenses. For some, infidelity is less of an offense than, say, overspending.

Here's how I defined ours: Misdemeanors might take a couple hours or days to get over, but eventually it goes away altogether. The record is purged.

these are the turnstile-jumper-level offenses. nbd

Felonies. Oh boy. Weeks or more. But the problem never goes away. Not altogether. It'll never be funny to recount to your friends at a cocktail party about that time that your partner, say, lost $10,000 in a bad poker game.

Capital offenses. The relationship is over. Immediately.

just stick your ability to trust riiiiight in there. this won't take but a second

Perhaps even the definition of crimes evolves over time. When a couple is dating, sending someone to voicemail might be a misdemeanor. Once they've been married and have a couple kids, however, a misdemeanor probably looks a lot different. Like forgetting your 13th wedding anniversary. Or something.

His crime was clearly, unquestionably a capital offense. In that respect, breaking up with him was a very simple decision. Black and white.

There's the continent of our agreement and here's him:

Hey, look. It's not like I'm Polly Perfect. I made my fair share of mistakes. Even committed misdemeanor offenses. But here's the difference. Mine were committed in the course of trying to be the best person and best partner I could possibly be, working as hard as I could to uphold my end of our bargain. Rarely through acts of selfishness, and never through unkindness.

So what's the lesson here?

1. Spend time contemplating what constitutes various levels of criminal offenses. Be specific.
2. Evolve. Our priorities shift and grow as our lives change. I used to prioritize manicures pretty high up on the budget. Now I invest in really good food for my dogs. But make it a conscious choice to evolve, and do so prior to the catastrophe. It's evaluating your possessions and reexamining your homeowners' insurance policy BEFORE the house is on fire. If the place is already ablaze, you will grab at anything to save something and you might make the altogether wrong decision, choosing to save a bag full of socks instead of a cherished photo album.
3. Be rigid. Make decisions with your heart AND your head. When the decision is made, let both your heart and head act accordingly, and uncompromisingly. Which isn't to say "don't compromise" - maybe that's exactly what's been decided in your heart and head. The point is to follow through. You made the decision while clear-headed and rational, so even if those doe-eyes are staring back at you telling you how sorry they are, the act has been committed so respond accordingly.

And, finally and perhaps most importantly, move forward. In my dating history, the common denominator isn't the failed relationships behind me, but the fact that because of all these trials-and-errors I am both resilient and eager to love. 

Also, the universe does my dirty work. More on that in an upcoming article.

what happened to Courteney Cox's face?

the Monica we all know and love

this isn't Janice Dickinson

I rest my case.

we are them

For my friend Tulsen and her friends

We all have a lot of work to do, and lists to make, and commuting to hate... but I needed to a teensy little Life Pause to talk about this.

You and I are the "anti-government protestors" in Istanbul. They are us.

You and I, along with our friends, live in a first-world, democratic, constitutional republic with an elected president.

We peacefully and lawfully gathered at a lovely neighborhood park asking our elected officials to overturn a decision to let developers tear it up. It's important to us because it's one of the few precious remaining greenspaces in our crowded city, and it doesn't make sense to us to replace it with more of what we already have.

Istanbul, Turkey.
See that teensy spot of green in the midst of a huge megalopolis? That's our park.

On May Day, the government suppressed a peaceful march being conducted by another group of us. So, when the peaceful and lawful (downright quiet, or even BORING) Gezi Park sit-in commenced, police officers were already agitated.

Police overreacted to the sit-in by using water cannons and tear gas bombs. Countless people and animals sustain injuries. Today the deputy Prime Minister issued an apology. That's a tough apology to accept.

there we are, trying to help our dogs, who got caught in the cross-fire

This is basically like us being punished today for something we did a month ago when what we did wasn't even wrong in the first place.

And it's at this point that we and our friends go from being called PROTESTORS to ANTI-GOVERNMENT PROTESTORS by the international news.

I just want it to be really, really clear to all my lovely and law-abiding first-world American friends that if we use our voice, and our government reacts, we could be called ANTI-GOVERNMENT PROTESTORS by our own press.

Anti-government protestors aren't radical unwashed political junkies. They are us. They took a day off work to use their voices. No big deal.

They do what they think is right and fair, and they abide by the law, and then they are given a title which makes you think of this guy...

... when it really should make you think of this girl.

the only thing I'm currently plotting is what to have for dinner

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

PS. I bet The Man is watching me now. Hey, The Man, you're gonna see me do a lot of really mundane things like buy groceries. Jerk.

Read more about it 
BBC news Gezi Park Q&A
BBC Turkish Govt Officials issue apology
USA Today uses "anti-government" terminology

diana ross* that fruit

Here's my sweet little technique for supreming (* get it?!?) various types of citrus fruit so you can eat it like a civilized human.

Buy an orange. Bring it home. Rinse off the germs of all the people who man-handled it before you. 

so far, so good

Using a paring knife, cut the orange in half along its north-south pole.

or, as Carissa says, "from nipple to nipple"

Admire your handiwork and quickly realize your orange has a parasitic twin. Spend fewer than 20 seconds looking at Google images of parasitic twins (EEEWWW!) before resuming the process.

Set aside one half of the orange. With the one in front of you, rest the blade of your knife just outside the spongy center membrane thingy. This part is not good eats so you'll cut it away.

Cut yourself two or three soccer-game-half-time wedges like this. The width of each slice should be no more than 1" when measured across the rind. Narrower wedges make for more fruit harvesting since you're going to be cutting on along the inner curve of the rind.

Still working on just the first half of your orange here. You should be left with one wedge that has the spongy center membrane thingy still attached. Lay it flat on your cutting board and slice it off. Discard the spongy center membrane thingy.

Again, admire your work.

it's like a pretty little list of orange wedges all lined up

Set the wedge rind-side-down on the cutting board. As with all kitchen cutting, it's safest to work with food that will lay relatively flat on the cutting board.

Cut carefully between the fruit and the pith (the spongy white  stuff, which is bitter and inedible).

When you're done cutting, you will end up with a delicious and completely edible and pretty orange segment separated entirely from the rind and pith.

... and, in this case, the remnants of my orange's parasitic twin

These supreme oranges are perfect for a salad. Just toss with lettuce, your favorite veggies, salt & pepper, and a little red wine vinegar.

I won't tell you how many times I tried to spell 'vinegar'

Finally, upon creating and enjoying the delicate and perfect little orange supremes, don't be afraid to eat an orange wedge. Make sure you don't realize you selected the one with the grocery store sticker on it till after taking a self-portrait.

*ting*