"I never thought almost 20 years of love and family could be disregarded in an instant," said Langbehn, a social worker who lives with her children in Lacey, Wash. -- South-Florida Sun-Sentinel
A woman and her partner arrive in Miami to take a cruise. A woman and her partner of 18-years. With their children. The woman has a brain aneurysm. After 18 hours she was pronounced dead.
18 hours where her partner and her children weren't allowed to see her.
At a Miami news conference, Langbehn, 39, broke down when she recalled the eight hours she and her three adopted children — now ages 11, 12 and 14 — sat in a hospital waiting room with little knowledge of Pond's condition. "As I sat there wracking my brain, I would go outside and scream into the Miami night," she said. "I felt like a failure for not being there holding her hand."
Langbehn said she was allowed in to see her partner only for about five minutes, as a priest gave Pond the last rites.
Langbehn is suing three Jackson Hospital personnel for approx $75,000.
But when Pond suffered a massive stroke onboard before the ship left port and was rushed to Jackson Memorial Hospital, administrators refused to let Langbehn into the Pond's hospital room. A social worker told them they were in an "anti-gay city and state."
$75,000 is a slap on the wrist. A reminder that their actions were morally wrong. However:
Linda Quick, president of the South Florida Hospital and Healthcare Association, said she did not think Jackson broke any laws or rules and chided the family for seeking money from a public hospital.
"Whether [Jackson] could have been more culturally sensitive, maybe. Do the [the family members] deserve an apology? Probably," Quick said. "But that's tax money they are trying to get."
Well, Ms Quick, I'm one of those taxpayers. That family deserves more than $75,000. I suggest the salaries for one year from each of those employees.
Pond, Langbehn and the children arrived in Miami for a Caribbean cruise with R Family Vacations, a company run by Rosie O'Donnell and her partner Kelli Carpenter that caters to gays.
Ms O'Donnell, may I suggest R Family moves their cruise port to a place that is not an "anti-gay city and state?"
Sometimes I feel like the guy sitting at the bar for an hour. No one says a word after "Wadda ya have"
Then Norm walks in and everyone greets him.
I've so little to say to the blogging community right now. I've stopped reading the "in" sites so long ago, I have no idea if they're in anymore.
I went from a feed of over 1000 blogs to 3. And even those I hardly ever read.
I tried making a comeback a few months ago, but it was forced. You could tell.
So, let's call it a night. No promises of return. Maybe I will. But don't keep checking. It depresses me to know I've let you down again.
Maybe someday I'll write another personal blog. If I do, I'll prove myself with a BlogSpot address for at least three months. If I stay solid, I'll come back here.
Jeny Lens wonders if she misheard the singer from the Mastercard commercial "My Favorite Things." The ad uses the first and last verses from the Sound of Music song. Though the opening is "raindrops on roses," Lens heard "Angels on roses."
My wife heard “Angels” the first time also, but it’s always been “raindrops” for me.
I’d like to know why as the singer starts to scuba she suddenly develops a Southern accent with the line "“these are a few of my favorite things.” Also, doesn’t it sound like she totally loses pitch for the final “so bad…”?
And since my wife and I like this other commercial, I link it here. Well, actually back there.
Update: And here it is....
(I had missed it because I spell the title's first word "favorite.")
But it would be good if the story was put to rest because it's always good when journalists report on what's really happening and not on their own prejudices and preconceptions about what they think we want to hear about ourselves. - Lance Mannion
Anyway, dear reader, I am sure you watched Pushing Daisies tonight. Well, because you also loved Wonderfalls and Dead Like Me.
No need for IMDB links. You have them bookmarked.
Did you notice the name of the town?
You saw it too? Couer d' Couers
Yes, that is wrong on two levels. First, spelled correctly it would be: Coeur de Coeurs
And we both know that final "s" isn't needed. That's not correct French grammar. The show translated an English idiom directly to French to make Heart of Hearts sound exotic.
Picture this. You're pumping gas. The sun is shining and all is right with your world.
You look at the next pump. The young driver has his hood up and is pumping gas into the carburetor.
You are correct. That is not the normal procedure.
He then puts the hose into his tank and props it to pump gas.
If you are familiar with the fact that gas in the carburator can help a car start you know why he put gas in the carb.
You would also know that just a spritz of gas is required. Not the healthy squeeze you saw applied.
You would also know that placing gas on the carb is not recommended as many a car fire starts that way.
And with only a spritz. Not a squeeze.
You, in an effort to spare your young child, would decide you no longer need to fill your tank. The couple of gallons you've pumped will be enough. You will, in less time than it takes to read this sentence, stop pumping gas, close the tank, start your car and leave the gas station.
Expecting a fireball the likes of which are reserved for cheesy police procedurals of the 1970s.
You will be relieved not to see, hear, or feel such fireball. But will nonetheless drive away in what would best be described as "lickity-split."
Chuck is a nickname for Charles. I bet you have a grandfather or know some old guy with that name.
But I doubt you know a kid in the first grade with that name. You see, Charles was once one of the top ten names for boys. But starting in the 1960s the name began to slip. It's not even in the top 50 anymore.
I bring this up, because I have deduced there is a secret cabal in Hollywood dedicated to killing the name completely.
That headline describes 30 minutes in the life of my phone.
After riding my bike I reached into my pack to find my phone missing. If this happened to you, you might assume you lost it.
I didn't. Many times I think I have the darn thing with me, but I've forgotten it on a table, or in a couch, or a pair of pants, or a potted plant (don't ask).
So, I calmly went into the house and called my cell. I do that to hear the ring from the hamper, the couch, my desk, or the refrigerator (don't ask).
No answer. I walk outside with the cordless and call again. After all, it could be in the grass, under a bush, on the driveway, or in the compost (don't ask).
No strains of "Strawberry Letter 23" (My ringtone. Don't ask.)
But someone answers my phone! "Hello?" Relieved, I say, "Great. You found my phone! Could you..."
Click.
I call back. I hear street noise. I hear "Hello." I say, "Hi, you've found my..."
Click.
I call back. Same result.
I had only ridden my bike in a 5 mile loop. I could find that street sound. I call my wife. Explain I've lost my phone. She understands immediately she needs to call it. (Don't ask.)
I interrupt to explain the new twist.
I ask her to call it over and over as I retrace my steps. Someone would be walking the street listening to "Smooth." (My wife gets a special ringtone.)
I search the streets. No luck.
I stop and call my wife. Another twist!
My wife explains after a few similar hang ups, a woman called her to explain that her daughter had found my phone. I could go to their home and retrieve it. That makes sense. My path took me by an elementary school.
The retrieval deserves a post of its own, but some things are best left unwritten.
I go home and check out my phone.
That elementary school child who found my phone? Well, she took a picture of herself. She looks 20. I guess I had that wrong.
Plus, some calls had been made to numbers I don't recognize.
You need to know a couple of things about me. My number is always blocked. I call from my cell and it doesn't show up on any residential caller ID. Also, I have no method to check my cell number from the phone. So, if you find my phone, there's no way to give the number out so you can use it.
There is no moral to this story. Except, while writing this I realized my phone isn't on the stand by the door. I'm afraid to call the number.
I have dilemma. I have a wonderful young daughter, but I write little about her daily life on here. This isn't a parenting blog.
I have a fear. I don't write about my job. There already has been one Dooce.
I have a concern. You don't really know me. No, seriously, I'm not him. I'm the other one. Who sounds like him. And if I write too much you might find out who I am. And then what would be the point of having a blog?
I have a problem. Really, there should be quotes around problem. I've got good days and bad. The good days I'm uninteresting, and on the bad, I worry people.
I have a dream. No, different than his. I'd love a blog written by a group of people. Each one using "I" and all signing the entries Me. No names. No identifying information. I don't know who'd read it. Well, I would.
Welcome. All web sites are temples to their creators. Temple of Me will reflect what interests me, Domoni. I am a husband, father (twice), American, and liberal. I live in a "Red state" in the South. I am nearsighted, ambidextrous and over 30. Actually, I'm 153.33% of thirty.
