Tuesday, October 21, 2008
A walk in the woods
I got to put some things in the ground
Even with this season coming around
It's green's last gasp
And leaves brown
And autumn days are winding down
--Sara Hamer - Things to Forget
It's not because I'm going dotty. It has happened twice a year, every year, for many years. So, it's not a symptom of old age creeping near. No, really, it's merely a symptom of the changing seasons.
You see, every spring and every fall I experience a few brief moments when I'm not sure what season it is. It's a deja vu of sorts - when the weather mirrors where it was only a few months before. Are we moving from summer to fall? Or spring to summer?
Whatever it is, it signals my favorite times of year. Beginnings and endings, changing seasons, transition. Change. The air smells different. The breeze is clear. Nature is preparing - for hibernation, for awakening.
Since moving into my house nine years ago, I've witnessed what could be evidence of Brigadoon's annual descension - right outside my backyard. Or not.
It's a morning haze that tells me summer is over. Or winter. Sometimes I have to apply some thought to figure it out...
This past weekend, I went for a two and a half mile stroll in the woods with a friend. She called me up Sunday and said "You wanna go for a hike?" Without hesitation, I threw aside all plans (read: responsibilities) for the afternoon and said "Sure!"
We drove out to the local lake, plotted the "green" and "yellow" paths on the trail and set out. There was a light breeze through the trees, the temperature was perfect... About a quarter of the way down the trail was when I began to open up to the nature around me, lifting my eyes from the path before me.
There wasn't much in the way of wildlife - trail-bikers had ensured that the critters were probably well off the trail in hiding. But there were sounds - birds, crickets, the trees whispering on the wind.
Near the end of our walk, though, we were rewarded with a brief glimpse of one of nature's creatures - a deer who crossed our path, then disappeared into the woods.
As we wound around the trail, I thought of the conspicuous symbolism of the changing season as it relates to my changing life. As cliched as it is, it was inescapable. However, I didn't dwell on it. Instead I opted to just enjoy the walk and take it at face value.
And perhaps that's all I need to do, period. Lift my eyes from the path and just enjoy the walk.
Labels: Life
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Does Dan-Active Work for an Irregular Brain?
Wow. It's been a while, hasn't it?
I have to confess: I haven't written in so long because, well, I've been mentally constipated. Truly - with my life (and the times) doing a 180 in the last couple of months, I think the sphincter of my capacity for self expression contracted tighter than prairie dog's butt in a dust bowl (thank you, Dan Rather).
In what I hope turns out not to be a pathetic effort, I'm just gonna get rambling here to see what I can jog loose and, at the very least, get caught up on the doings in my little speck of the universe.
My Life and Welcome To It
I'm a week into what friends have dubbed The Transition. I've been unemployed now for two weeks and started school a week ago.
The day after my last day of work I felt a little discombobulated. It wasn't like a sick/mental health day or a day of annual leave or a holiday. It was a you-are-now permanently-off work day and it felt odd. Not bad, mind you. Just odd.
I haven't been unemployed since my late twenties. Oh, during my starving artist decade of my thirties, there was a smattering of no work here and there, but nothing extended and certainly no length of time that warranted collecting unemployment benefits - not that I could have collected at the time.
I have to pat myself on the back for impeccable timing. Who could have guessed that the collective mutiny at work would have landed us on the unemployment line right at one of the worst economic upheavals in modern times!
Setting the quickly evaporating hope of an actual retirement aside, though, this could end up being a positive thing. Oh, how, you ask, do tell.
Okay, I will.
For the next nine to twelve months, I'm on a fixed - and very tight - budget. I'm fortunate in that I had a nice soft financial cushion to fall back on. I'm relying on that to see me through for the next year while I regroup.
It's limited, though. There's X amount of dollars with nothing else coming in (aside from unemployment benefits which fizzle out sometime in March) which means I have to get frugal. This has forced me to scrutinize my spending and to begin to find ways to to stretch that dollar farther than a peasant on medieval torture rack.
I've mapped out a detailed budget (thank you Google docs - they've got some great templates just for that purpose) and identified areas that needed to cut - some easy, some not so easy.
My biggest area of wasted dollars is in food. I don't, or didn't, regularly cook for myself. I am a fast food and take-out junkie (Sonic burgers my drug of choice) which isn't good for the pocket book to say nothing of the habit's ill effect on one's health.
I've set a target for weekly food expense and am determined that the food I eat will be generated from my kitchen. Period. I've managed to log one full week without slippin' off the wagon - yay me.
One element that helps this effort along is the school I am attending is darn near out in the middle of nowhere, which makes lunch time treks near impossible. So, I bought a lunchbox and have been bringing my lunch every day which, by the way, has garnered some envious looks from other students who've lusted after my homemade chicken soup while they munched away at a box of microwaved, over-processed, and poor excuse for sustenance in the misguided belief that what they are eating is actually better than the fast food fare offered from the school cafeteria.
Speaking of lunchboxes, I'll soon be replacing the one I have with a Bento Box.
You may be thinking that that's not exactly frugal, and you might be right - but, my reasoning which lead me to the purchase had to do with efficiency.
justification of purchase/ The Bento Box stores hot food and keeps it hot along with un-hot food. It will allow me to heat up my lunch before leaving for school in the morning and thus avoid the line at the microwave at lunchtime, as well as avoid microwave line social faux pas, like removing someone else's meal before it's done even though the timer'd gone off and it's owner wasn't standing there waiting on it and how was I to know it wasn't finished yet?
With winter coming on, hot meals will be a comfort, plus I prefer to eat my main meal of the day at lunch. The Bento Box will hold more than will my little Target box. Plus, it's just way cool./ justification of purchase
So, unemployment, radical life shift and an uncertain future, in the long run, may just turn me into a kitchen queen and budget diva - not a negative, to be sure. And in the meantime, I'm gaining new skills that just might be in greater demand once this economic crisis subsides - anyone think they might be in need of a newly minted bookkeeper in about, oh, say, nine months?
He Said, She Said, They All Said
How about that economic crisis, huh? How about those presidential campaigns, huh?
I've purposely avoided tuning in to the TV pundits this fall. Their egregious and willful ignorance (to say nothing of their bias) does nothing to keep my blood pressure down. Instead I've been hitting the internets, reading everything I can - pro and con - about the campaigns, the economy, et al.
I am so weary of the partisan shenanigans. How does one party dare to point the finger at the other? No-one has a clean record here. No-one doesn't have a few bones rattling around in their respective closets.
And of course the tail-spinning economy is the Democrats fault. No, wait, it's the Republicans fault. Ooops, no it's Obama's fault for his tax plan (which hasn't been implemented yet because he hasn't been elected yet - surprise!). No, wait - it's McCain's fault because he was buds with Charles Keating.
You know what's really frightening? It's the voters who make up their minds based on a few sound-bites on the evening news. It's the noisome party die-hards who refuse to engage in intelligent and open minded discourse. It's the, excuse me, idiots who can't see past the propaganda and do nothing on their own to ferret out the facts.
Add to that the sorely misguided folks who opt not to vote at all, who do so out "protest" or to "send a message" or, even worse, just don't care.
I have a very good friend who is a political officer for the State Department. In a recent conversation, he stated that he may not vote at all because there were aspects of both candidates' platforms with which he strongly disagreed.
Well, I kinda lit into him. I was appalled that he would so blithely give up this most fundamental of rights. Especially given his position as a State Department employee!
I later got an email in which he stated my sermonizing had prompted him not to waste his vote after all. He found a party more in line with his views - the Green party - and he's voting.
Folks, not voting isn't the way to fix things. Not voting is saying "I don't care. Do whatever you want." Not voting inches the door closer to shut on our basic freedoms. Think about it. Think about the consequences if we all gave up that right.
Shudder.
Okay. Well, I think I've rambled on enough. I certainly hope I'll be back here more regular-ly in the future (pun intended). In the meantime, I'd be interested to know how the economic turmoil has affected you. Have you made budget changes? Lifestyle changes? Let me know in comments.
Thanks for stopping by - before you go, enjoy some pics taken (with the iPhone camera) on the campus where I am attending school. Not bad for a Vo-Tech, eh?
I have to confess: I haven't written in so long because, well, I've been mentally constipated. Truly - with my life (and the times) doing a 180 in the last couple of months, I think the sphincter of my capacity for self expression contracted tighter than prairie dog's butt in a dust bowl (thank you, Dan Rather).
In what I hope turns out not to be a pathetic effort, I'm just gonna get rambling here to see what I can jog loose and, at the very least, get caught up on the doings in my little speck of the universe.
My Life and Welcome To It
I'm a week into what friends have dubbed The Transition. I've been unemployed now for two weeks and started school a week ago.
The day after my last day of work I felt a little discombobulated. It wasn't like a sick/mental health day or a day of annual leave or a holiday. It was a you-are-now permanently-off work day and it felt odd. Not bad, mind you. Just odd.
I haven't been unemployed since my late twenties. Oh, during my starving artist decade of my thirties, there was a smattering of no work here and there, but nothing extended and certainly no length of time that warranted collecting unemployment benefits - not that I could have collected at the time.
I have to pat myself on the back for impeccable timing. Who could have guessed that the collective mutiny at work would have landed us on the unemployment line right at one of the worst economic upheavals in modern times!
Setting the quickly evaporating hope of an actual retirement aside, though, this could end up being a positive thing. Oh, how, you ask, do tell.
Okay, I will.
For the next nine to twelve months, I'm on a fixed - and very tight - budget. I'm fortunate in that I had a nice soft financial cushion to fall back on. I'm relying on that to see me through for the next year while I regroup.
It's limited, though. There's X amount of dollars with nothing else coming in (aside from unemployment benefits which fizzle out sometime in March) which means I have to get frugal. This has forced me to scrutinize my spending and to begin to find ways to to stretch that dollar farther than a peasant on medieval torture rack.
I've mapped out a detailed budget (thank you Google docs - they've got some great templates just for that purpose) and identified areas that needed to cut - some easy, some not so easy.
My biggest area of wasted dollars is in food. I don't, or didn't, regularly cook for myself. I am a fast food and take-out junkie (Sonic burgers my drug of choice) which isn't good for the pocket book to say nothing of the habit's ill effect on one's health.
I've set a target for weekly food expense and am determined that the food I eat will be generated from my kitchen. Period. I've managed to log one full week without slippin' off the wagon - yay me.
One element that helps this effort along is the school I am attending is darn near out in the middle of nowhere, which makes lunch time treks near impossible. So, I bought a lunchbox and have been bringing my lunch every day which, by the way, has garnered some envious looks from other students who've lusted after my homemade chicken soup while they munched away at a box of microwaved, over-processed, and poor excuse for sustenance in the misguided belief that what they are eating is actually better than the fast food fare offered from the school cafeteria.
Speaking of lunchboxes, I'll soon be replacing the one I have with a Bento Box.
You may be thinking that that's not exactly frugal, and you might be right - but, my reasoning which lead me to the purchase had to do with efficiency.justification of purchase/ The Bento Box stores hot food and keeps it hot along with un-hot food. It will allow me to heat up my lunch before leaving for school in the morning and thus avoid the line at the microwave at lunchtime, as well as avoid microwave line social faux pas, like removing someone else's meal before it's done even though the timer'd gone off and it's owner wasn't standing there waiting on it and how was I to know it wasn't finished yet?
With winter coming on, hot meals will be a comfort, plus I prefer to eat my main meal of the day at lunch. The Bento Box will hold more than will my little Target box. Plus, it's just way cool./ justification of purchase
So, unemployment, radical life shift and an uncertain future, in the long run, may just turn me into a kitchen queen and budget diva - not a negative, to be sure. And in the meantime, I'm gaining new skills that just might be in greater demand once this economic crisis subsides - anyone think they might be in need of a newly minted bookkeeper in about, oh, say, nine months?
He Said, She Said, They All Said
How about that economic crisis, huh? How about those presidential campaigns, huh?
I've purposely avoided tuning in to the TV pundits this fall. Their egregious and willful ignorance (to say nothing of their bias) does nothing to keep my blood pressure down. Instead I've been hitting the internets, reading everything I can - pro and con - about the campaigns, the economy, et al.
I am so weary of the partisan shenanigans. How does one party dare to point the finger at the other? No-one has a clean record here. No-one doesn't have a few bones rattling around in their respective closets.
And of course the tail-spinning economy is the Democrats fault. No, wait, it's the Republicans fault. Ooops, no it's Obama's fault for his tax plan (which hasn't been implemented yet because he hasn't been elected yet - surprise!). No, wait - it's McCain's fault because he was buds with Charles Keating.
You know what's really frightening? It's the voters who make up their minds based on a few sound-bites on the evening news. It's the noisome party die-hards who refuse to engage in intelligent and open minded discourse. It's the, excuse me, idiots who can't see past the propaganda and do nothing on their own to ferret out the facts.
Add to that the sorely misguided folks who opt not to vote at all, who do so out "protest" or to "send a message" or, even worse, just don't care.
I have a very good friend who is a political officer for the State Department. In a recent conversation, he stated that he may not vote at all because there were aspects of both candidates' platforms with which he strongly disagreed.
Well, I kinda lit into him. I was appalled that he would so blithely give up this most fundamental of rights. Especially given his position as a State Department employee!
I later got an email in which he stated my sermonizing had prompted him not to waste his vote after all. He found a party more in line with his views - the Green party - and he's voting.
Folks, not voting isn't the way to fix things. Not voting is saying "I don't care. Do whatever you want." Not voting inches the door closer to shut on our basic freedoms. Think about it. Think about the consequences if we all gave up that right.
Shudder.
Okay. Well, I think I've rambled on enough. I certainly hope I'll be back here more regular-ly in the future (pun intended). In the meantime, I'd be interested to know how the economic turmoil has affected you. Have you made budget changes? Lifestyle changes? Let me know in comments.
Thanks for stopping by - before you go, enjoy some pics taken (with the iPhone camera) on the campus where I am attending school. Not bad for a Vo-Tech, eh?
Labels: Current Events, Life, Politics
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Hard Day
I haven't forgotten I have a blog here. It's just that life has stepped and taken my attention elsewhere for a bit. My planned post was going to be about my life changes waiting around the corner. About all those things, ups and downs, one faces when at the edge of the diving board ready to jump off. In spite of the upheaval of my personal life events, my outlook is positive and optimistic. But today.... I can't write about those things... yet. Right now, my life's quirks and quakes just aren't important.
Today I was reminded how brutally fleeting life is. I was reminded how fragile we are. I was reminded that no opportunity to let someone know you care should ever be ignored. Today I am broken-hearted. Today I learned that, late Tuesday night, one of the kids in our youth program committed suicide.
He was bright, personable and disenfranchised. A victim of circumstances that left him faced with decisions and responsibilities no one so young should have to endure. An individual who carried a heavy burden of pain no-one close to him fathomed.
I'm doing my best to avoid the what if's. What if I'd stayed in touch more often. What if I'd gotten him to the workshop Tuesday... What if I'd.... Selfish sentiments, to be sure. The thing is, one can never do enough. One can only do what one can. The important thing is to do. Even the tiniest gesture may mean, quite seriously, the difference between life or death.
I will resist the urge to step up on a soap-box here. I will, instead, challenge you to perhaps to get involved in a young person's life. Be a mentor. Take your kid fishing. Get to every ball game. Read to kids at the library. Camp out in the back yard with your niece and nephew. Be honestly interested in their lives.
Listen to them.
Respect them.
Love them.
And let them know you love them at every opportunity.
Today I was reminded how brutally fleeting life is. I was reminded how fragile we are. I was reminded that no opportunity to let someone know you care should ever be ignored. Today I am broken-hearted. Today I learned that, late Tuesday night, one of the kids in our youth program committed suicide.
He was bright, personable and disenfranchised. A victim of circumstances that left him faced with decisions and responsibilities no one so young should have to endure. An individual who carried a heavy burden of pain no-one close to him fathomed.
I'm doing my best to avoid the what if's. What if I'd stayed in touch more often. What if I'd gotten him to the workshop Tuesday... What if I'd.... Selfish sentiments, to be sure. The thing is, one can never do enough. One can only do what one can. The important thing is to do. Even the tiniest gesture may mean, quite seriously, the difference between life or death.
I will resist the urge to step up on a soap-box here. I will, instead, challenge you to perhaps to get involved in a young person's life. Be a mentor. Take your kid fishing. Get to every ball game. Read to kids at the library. Camp out in the back yard with your niece and nephew. Be honestly interested in their lives.
Listen to them.
Respect them.
Love them.
And let them know you love them at every opportunity.
Labels: Life
Friday, June 27, 2008
Spinster for Hire
I've enjoyed a small variety of jobs in my working lifetime. I've been a liquor store cashier, a candy store attendant, a file clerk for a tuna company, a psychiatric attendant in a mental hospital, an assistant stage manager for a summer musical theatre company, a union election monitor, a customer service rep for the water department, an actor, artistic director, sandwich shop minion, waitress, employment counselor, performing arts center director and then employment counselor again - my current job.
Of course, the most satisfying and longest periods of employment were as an actor and then artistic director of the small acting company I'd help to create. Second to that was my ten years as director of the performing arts facility.
But as satisfying as those jobs were, well, this is Oklahoma - a career in the arts will barely keep your cupboards stocked with Ramen noodles, to say nothing of paying the bills. My roots are deep here and, rather than heading for more verdant artistic real estate, I opted to stay and entered the eight to five world of a steady paycheck and health insurance.
That's what I've been doing for the last eight and a half years. Collecting that steady paycheck and setting sights for a longed for retirement. It's what you do when you're my age - and those who don't are just work-a-holic nuts. Or just plain nuts.
I figured I had about three years before even considering jumping out of the airplane (figuratively and literally - I'm planning the sky dive for number sixty). Funny how fast the worm can turn - hell, it can break the sound barrier in it's speed. I'm standing at the hatch and about to be pushed into the great beyond like it or not.
As a Philly friend said this week - I hope my parachute will open. Strike that - I just hope I have a parachute.
So, what happened?
I work for an agency that is funded with federal money (administered by the State) to do what we do. The Feds, as we affectionately call them, decided that the States weren't spending the money given them, which is in turn allocated to entities and agencies - like the one that employs me - to do what they do within their respective state.
Ten million dollars was rescinded from my state. Three million of that was due to an error in a report our state submitted to the Feds. That translates to a deficit of over a hundred thousand dollars in the budget of the agency which employs me. Which leaves us enough green to stay in business until about, oh, December.
There it is - I'm losing my job and theincompetent jackass state official incompetent jackass who sent in the erroneous report gets to keep his. And don't even get me started on our theory of the real reason the Feds took the money back. Can you spell I-r-a-q?
I expect extreme apprehension and maybe a little panic to set in in a couple of weeks or so. Right now, though, I'm fairly calm and resigned. Kubler-Ross's first stage is denial, isn't it?
I will be doing my best to see this as an opportunity - but, truthfully, right now I haven't the foggiest of what I'm going to do.
Do I want to pursue another eight to five? Do I want to strike out on my own? Do I want my lottery tickets to hit?
Well, yeah on that last one.
Oddly coincidental, I'm an employment counselor (for a few minutes longer) working in an agency which is housed in the former veteran's ward of the mental hospital where I worked as a psychiatric attendant - my first job upon returning to Oklahoma. There's some irony in there somewhere....
Of course, the most satisfying and longest periods of employment were as an actor and then artistic director of the small acting company I'd help to create. Second to that was my ten years as director of the performing arts facility.
But as satisfying as those jobs were, well, this is Oklahoma - a career in the arts will barely keep your cupboards stocked with Ramen noodles, to say nothing of paying the bills. My roots are deep here and, rather than heading for more verdant artistic real estate, I opted to stay and entered the eight to five world of a steady paycheck and health insurance.
That's what I've been doing for the last eight and a half years. Collecting that steady paycheck and setting sights for a longed for retirement. It's what you do when you're my age - and those who don't are just work-a-holic nuts. Or just plain nuts.
I figured I had about three years before even considering jumping out of the airplane (figuratively and literally - I'm planning the sky dive for number sixty). Funny how fast the worm can turn - hell, it can break the sound barrier in it's speed. I'm standing at the hatch and about to be pushed into the great beyond like it or not.
As a Philly friend said this week - I hope my parachute will open. Strike that - I just hope I have a parachute.
So, what happened?
I work for an agency that is funded with federal money (administered by the State) to do what we do. The Feds, as we affectionately call them, decided that the States weren't spending the money given them, which is in turn allocated to entities and agencies - like the one that employs me - to do what they do within their respective state.
Ten million dollars was rescinded from my state. Three million of that was due to an error in a report our state submitted to the Feds. That translates to a deficit of over a hundred thousand dollars in the budget of the agency which employs me. Which leaves us enough green to stay in business until about, oh, December.
There it is - I'm losing my job and the
I expect extreme apprehension and maybe a little panic to set in in a couple of weeks or so. Right now, though, I'm fairly calm and resigned. Kubler-Ross's first stage is denial, isn't it?
I will be doing my best to see this as an opportunity - but, truthfully, right now I haven't the foggiest of what I'm going to do.
Do I want to pursue another eight to five? Do I want to strike out on my own? Do I want my lottery tickets to hit?
Well, yeah on that last one.
Oddly coincidental, I'm an employment counselor (for a few minutes longer) working in an agency which is housed in the former veteran's ward of the mental hospital where I worked as a psychiatric attendant - my first job upon returning to Oklahoma. There's some irony in there somewhere....
Labels: Life
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Of hiccups, zombies & mint chocolate chip
I took in my surroundings, although a bit difficult since my surroundings wouldn't stop spinning. The signs on the door admonished me to keep my cell phone off, keep the door closed, and to not dare leave before Nurse Ratchet gave her permission.
On my left was a wall chart depicting various stages of eye disease. Staring back at me was a line of progressively worsening red and festering eyeballs. I wondered what zombie volunteered for the photo shoot. That had to be a creepy casting call.
Classic rock boomed from the overhead. "Sugar (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) oooohh honey, honey (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) you are my candy girrrrl...." Archies. Nineteen and sixty nine.
I checked out the drawers in the exam table. Nothing but cotton gowns and towels. I leaned my head back against the hard wall, closed my eyes and waited.
Nurse Ratchet arrived. I was weighed and BP'd. I gave her the synopsis of why I was there - weird episode of dizziness, clammy and general malaise that took longer to subside than usual. Oh, yeah, and there was this heart skipping thing.
"Ok, the doctor'll be in in a minute." Ratchet closed the door. I was alone again. The minute turned into several. I leaned my head back once more, closed my eyes and commenced with the "what ifs..."
I thought back to the conversation at brunch. "You are all in my ICE list," I'd announced.
"Ice?" queried friend Mark. "In Case of Emergency list," Norman answered. "You're in my list, too." I pulled out my i-Phone and showed Mark how I'd organized the list to be at the top of the contact list.
The conversation progressed to who had wills, living wills, executor's or not. We thoroughly covered the topic with a healthy amount of humor - har, har, as if any of that's gonna be needed any time soon.
Then I got dizzy. Real dizzy. Dizzier even than what's appropriate for a blonde. And clammy. And there was that heart skipping thing. George Clooney was no where to be seen, so it was skipping for another, more sinister reason I was sure.
I'm no stranger to dizziness. My mother and I shared the affliction of BPV - benign positional vertigo. We were in good company. Mamie Eisenhower suffered from it and was even accused of being an alcoholic because of it.
When it strikes, I will have days where walking into walls isn't unusual or I will have very brief spells of intense dizziness.
But this episode was different. The longer it went on, the more difficult it became to convince myself it was nothing. Finally, the indecision was taken out of my hands.
"We're going to the urgent care clinic. Now."
The doc appeared at last. He was affable and informative. He peered into my ears and throat, listened to my heart and my arteries. Good news - no unusual sounds. He queried me on my malaise, general health, et al, then surmised that it was most likely an inner ear thing, buuuut because there was that heart skipping thing, an ECG would probably be a good idea along with a blood panel.
I was left alone, sitting on the edge of the exam table, to wait again. A large, bearded man came in and announced he was there to stick me. Oh boy. A phlebotomist who's a comedian.
I bared the good arm for him - the one with a nice bulging vein. This guy certainly wasn't new school. No pillow on which to rest my arm... didn't glove up... had a nasty nail-biting habit... sported a gaudy gold ring... and just before sticking me says:
"The pointy end goes down, right?"
Take my blood. Please.
Next came the ECG with Ratchet. No nonsense - strip, exam gown on open in front, lie back, get ten electrodes stuck to various body parts and areas.... ECG done, she removes the hookups and instructs me to remove the electrodes myself.
"There's ten of them." I do as instructed, dress, and wait again.
It occurs to me that in the between times, the time waiting for nurse, blood-sucker and physician, I could have died several times. Oh, well.
I started to wonder about hospitals. The part of the earlier "what-ifs" I avoided. I wondered if I'd be able to go home first. Shower. Change my underwear...
The doc returned, ECG printout in hand and begins to explain it. Good news, it wasn't a flat line. Not so good news, there was a hiccup. In one four count bar, my heart fired too early. Percussion was never my strong suit.
"Not unusual, blah, blah, blah, noise, words, not listening anymore... .... .... but you should follow up with your doctor next week for sure."
"Will do," I promised.
I paid the piper then greeted my friends who'd waited it out - about an hour or so - in the appropriately named waiting room. I informed them I wasn't dead yet and actually was feeling better. Which I was.
Mark said something about ice-cream which resulted in a caravan to Target for some cold-stone ice cream. I love my friends.
The really disturbing thing about my little episode, is now when I hear "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio, it conjures up images of puss-filled eyeballs bulging from a large hairy man with a fist full of hypodermic needles cracking bad jokes.
"You are my candy girrrl - and you got me wanting you... heh, heh, heh....."
Make it stop.
On my left was a wall chart depicting various stages of eye disease. Staring back at me was a line of progressively worsening red and festering eyeballs. I wondered what zombie volunteered for the photo shoot. That had to be a creepy casting call.
Classic rock boomed from the overhead. "Sugar (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) oooohh honey, honey (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) you are my candy girrrrl...." Archies. Nineteen and sixty nine.
I checked out the drawers in the exam table. Nothing but cotton gowns and towels. I leaned my head back against the hard wall, closed my eyes and waited.
Nurse Ratchet arrived. I was weighed and BP'd. I gave her the synopsis of why I was there - weird episode of dizziness, clammy and general malaise that took longer to subside than usual. Oh, yeah, and there was this heart skipping thing.
"Ok, the doctor'll be in in a minute." Ratchet closed the door. I was alone again. The minute turned into several. I leaned my head back once more, closed my eyes and commenced with the "what ifs..."
I thought back to the conversation at brunch. "You are all in my ICE list," I'd announced.
"Ice?" queried friend Mark. "In Case of Emergency list," Norman answered. "You're in my list, too." I pulled out my i-Phone and showed Mark how I'd organized the list to be at the top of the contact list.
The conversation progressed to who had wills, living wills, executor's or not. We thoroughly covered the topic with a healthy amount of humor - har, har, as if any of that's gonna be needed any time soon.
Then I got dizzy. Real dizzy. Dizzier even than what's appropriate for a blonde. And clammy. And there was that heart skipping thing. George Clooney was no where to be seen, so it was skipping for another, more sinister reason I was sure.
I'm no stranger to dizziness. My mother and I shared the affliction of BPV - benign positional vertigo. We were in good company. Mamie Eisenhower suffered from it and was even accused of being an alcoholic because of it.
When it strikes, I will have days where walking into walls isn't unusual or I will have very brief spells of intense dizziness.
But this episode was different. The longer it went on, the more difficult it became to convince myself it was nothing. Finally, the indecision was taken out of my hands.
"We're going to the urgent care clinic. Now."
The doc appeared at last. He was affable and informative. He peered into my ears and throat, listened to my heart and my arteries. Good news - no unusual sounds. He queried me on my malaise, general health, et al, then surmised that it was most likely an inner ear thing, buuuut because there was that heart skipping thing, an ECG would probably be a good idea along with a blood panel.
I was left alone, sitting on the edge of the exam table, to wait again. A large, bearded man came in and announced he was there to stick me. Oh boy. A phlebotomist who's a comedian.
I bared the good arm for him - the one with a nice bulging vein. This guy certainly wasn't new school. No pillow on which to rest my arm... didn't glove up... had a nasty nail-biting habit... sported a gaudy gold ring... and just before sticking me says:
"The pointy end goes down, right?"
Take my blood. Please.
Next came the ECG with Ratchet. No nonsense - strip, exam gown on open in front, lie back, get ten electrodes stuck to various body parts and areas.... ECG done, she removes the hookups and instructs me to remove the electrodes myself.
"There's ten of them." I do as instructed, dress, and wait again.
It occurs to me that in the between times, the time waiting for nurse, blood-sucker and physician, I could have died several times. Oh, well.
I started to wonder about hospitals. The part of the earlier "what-ifs" I avoided. I wondered if I'd be able to go home first. Shower. Change my underwear...
The doc returned, ECG printout in hand and begins to explain it. Good news, it wasn't a flat line. Not so good news, there was a hiccup. In one four count bar, my heart fired too early. Percussion was never my strong suit.
"Not unusual, blah, blah, blah, noise, words, not listening anymore... .... .... but you should follow up with your doctor next week for sure."
"Will do," I promised.
I paid the piper then greeted my friends who'd waited it out - about an hour or so - in the appropriately named waiting room. I informed them I wasn't dead yet and actually was feeling better. Which I was.
Mark said something about ice-cream which resulted in a caravan to Target for some cold-stone ice cream. I love my friends.
The really disturbing thing about my little episode, is now when I hear "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio, it conjures up images of puss-filled eyeballs bulging from a large hairy man with a fist full of hypodermic needles cracking bad jokes.
"You are my candy girrrl - and you got me wanting you... heh, heh, heh....."
Make it stop.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
How not to buy a Wii
It's been a rough few days in the land of Yesablog. I only thought I was kidding about the withdrawal thing. Last week was just a warm-up for the real thing this week. I will never - and I mean never - put myself willingly through anything like that again. I'm about 85% out of the woods. Thanks to a ten day prescription of Ambien, I was finally able to get some real sleep - 16 hours worth - (you read that right) after two and a half days of mind-fucking agony.
During the past three days, I gained $600 via the hobby that will not be named here, ordered a pizza and cheese sticks - but don't remember when - and scored a Wii. So some good came of it, however I don't recommend the method.
I expect to be up to 100% in the next few days and will return to report on all things Wii. Why? Because I'm already loving it. The first game I bought was Endless Ocean
and it is the perfect distraction for this shaky time - calm and relaxing.
In the meantime, I'd like to direct you to an internet neighbor's blog. Gene recently returned from a trip to Viet Nam. Take a few moments to read his trip reports. Fascinating and compelling.
During the past three days, I gained $600 via the hobby that will not be named here, ordered a pizza and cheese sticks - but don't remember when - and scored a Wii. So some good came of it, however I don't recommend the method.
I expect to be up to 100% in the next few days and will return to report on all things Wii. Why? Because I'm already loving it. The first game I bought was Endless Ocean
and it is the perfect distraction for this shaky time - calm and relaxing.In the meantime, I'd like to direct you to an internet neighbor's blog. Gene recently returned from a trip to Viet Nam. Take a few moments to read his trip reports. Fascinating and compelling.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Harlot's Dream*
Of the few folks who drift by this blog time to time, I know there's at least one person, maybe two, who understand why the above quote makes me positively cream...
The M3SC, like the former M36, features a 3-piece back, but with an added striking visual and tonal feature — the center wedge is Indian rosewood, with solid mahogany wings, and solid mahogany sides. The rosewood center wedge in the back adds warmth to an already crystalline mahogany tone. This spectacular mix is highlighted by C.F. Martin’s renowned hand-polished, nitro-cellulose gloss lacquer finish.
I returned to a familiar daydream today. One that brought back sounds, smells and sensations of a time long ago and which were intensified when I gave into temptation, fired up the browser and took a stroll.
Many, many years ago I fantasized about being the next rising star on the folk music horizon. My top heroes were the three "J-s" - Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Joni Mitchell. During my high school years, most of my non-school hour time was spent with a guitar in my hands - I was either practicing or paying a bit of dues in front of an audience in the local coffee-houses.I never gained proficiency on the guitar - picking patterns continually eluded me and were a source of great frustration - but, I never let it stop me from playing. I would spend long hours learning a tune, chord by chord, verse by verse. The song was ready for performance when I finally reached the moment when it would become organic. I didn't need to think about the chords or the words or the tune - it would all just flow together and out.
There was a commercial that ran a few years ago that had a father and a young child sitting on a hill, under a tree, watching the sunset. The sun slowly dips below the horizon and then the young, awestruck child whispers "Do it again, Daddy." It's that kind of intangible magic moment that, when I'd hit it with a song piece, made me want to sing it over and over and over. It's that intoxicating high that made me want to share it with an audience. I loved it.
College days and new interests kept the Gibson in its case for longer and longer periods as time went on. I finally sold it a couple of years after college when it came down to a choice between it or the camera and dark room equipment when I moved from Oregon back to Oklahoma. I couldn't fit both in the car. Eventually, the songs left my memory, the callouses healed and my hands lost their familiarity with the strings and the frets.
Right now there's a ton of good modern folk/accoustic music floating the airwaves and residing on a million iPods. Listening to it provoked me into buying a ninety dollar guitar from the local pawn shop a couple of years ago. I wanted to learn and play that music. I wanted to revive a part of me that had been in a deep sleep for a very long time.
The guitar was at home in my hands. The smell of it evoked remembrances of smoky coffeehouses and sitting alone on a stool on a tiny stage. My hands struggled through the first few chord progressions. Determination kept me at it while I attempted to learn a tune I'd craved to learn since first hearing it. My voice isn't the voice of the singer I once was, but croaking out what I could while stumbling through the chords launched a time machine, of sorts, that took me back to that time when dreams were still possible and magic still happened. It felt good.
Unfortunately, I didn't keep at it. Other distractions took my attention away and the guitar has remained a mere decorative item on its stand in the living room. Today, however, I felt the desire rise again after listening to a couple of great songs. The number of female artists is exponentially greater than it was in those coffehouse days and the songs they are singing are songs I want to play.
And it's what, today, prompted me to type the magic words into Google which lead me the mecca of guitarists all over the world - the Martin & Co. website. I've had the desire to own a Martin guitar ever since the first callous formed on the fingers of my left hand. I came close - my Dad considered getting one for me as a birthday present one year, but stopped short when he saw the price tag of five-hundred dollars.
To buy the Martin I want, today would cost about three to four times that five hundred of thirty some-odd years ago. But, I'm really considering doing it. I hesitate, though, because I fear it would end up occupying space in a closet, rarely to be seen. That's a lot of money to spend for something to toss the laundry on to. However, I'm lured by the tone, the look, the feel and the craving for the high of accomplishment I once felt so long ago.
Select abalone pearl inlays in the Style 45 rosette, and around the top and fingerboard extension, are highlighted by black and white fine line wood fiber borders. The Madagascar rosewood headplate on the square, tapered headstock provides the canvas for the rare Alternative Torch inlay...
I need a cigarette.
*Mortal lovers must not try to remain at the first step; for lasting passion is the dream of a harlot and from it we wake in despair.
-C S Lewis
Monday, February 18, 2008
Perchance to dream
If you're tired of my whining, stop reading now.
I'm a mess.
I cried in the doctor's office today. Why? Because I was awake? I am, therefore I cry. I don't know. I've been abnormally weepy of late. I had an appointment today in regard to my chronic neck muscle problems and I nearly walked out of there with anti-depressants. It didn't help that my blood pressure was through the roof prompting a set up of daily visits for the next month to monitor it.
I squeaked by as "mildly depressed" on the Depression Scale so the happy drugs were nixed in favor of the mild muscle relaxant to help me sleep and, we hope, to bring down the blood pressure.
Ah, sleep. Not something I do a lot of these days. I'm in a feed-back loop of self-torture. Emotional pain feeds the body pain feeds the emotional pain feeds the... ad infinitum. I've played a billion games of solitaire on my iPhone on into the wee hours of the morning. I've Twittered haiku to pass the time. I've watched a marathon of Discovery Channel episodes. Ask me anything about the universe or the ultimate destruction of mankind - I'm a font of information.
I'm pretty certain of what is feeding all this physical and emotional angst. I've been dusting my own brain for about six months now in an effort to get it under control. Unfortunately, it's not a single thing, but an "all of the above" on the multiple choice life quiz. Pick an issue - I can assure you it's on the list.
In about ten minutes I will take one of the mild muscle relaxants. I don't expect it to work immediately. I do expect to sleep a little better tonight, though, in light of the fact I didn't get to sleep last night until 4:00 am. Part insomnia and part wanting to stretch my three day weekend to as long as possible.
Like I said. I'm a mess.
I'm a mess.
I cried in the doctor's office today. Why? Because I was awake? I am, therefore I cry. I don't know. I've been abnormally weepy of late. I had an appointment today in regard to my chronic neck muscle problems and I nearly walked out of there with anti-depressants. It didn't help that my blood pressure was through the roof prompting a set up of daily visits for the next month to monitor it.
I squeaked by as "mildly depressed" on the Depression Scale so the happy drugs were nixed in favor of the mild muscle relaxant to help me sleep and, we hope, to bring down the blood pressure.
Ah, sleep. Not something I do a lot of these days. I'm in a feed-back loop of self-torture. Emotional pain feeds the body pain feeds the emotional pain feeds the... ad infinitum. I've played a billion games of solitaire on my iPhone on into the wee hours of the morning. I've Twittered haiku to pass the time. I've watched a marathon of Discovery Channel episodes. Ask me anything about the universe or the ultimate destruction of mankind - I'm a font of information.
I'm pretty certain of what is feeding all this physical and emotional angst. I've been dusting my own brain for about six months now in an effort to get it under control. Unfortunately, it's not a single thing, but an "all of the above" on the multiple choice life quiz. Pick an issue - I can assure you it's on the list.
In about ten minutes I will take one of the mild muscle relaxants. I don't expect it to work immediately. I do expect to sleep a little better tonight, though, in light of the fact I didn't get to sleep last night until 4:00 am. Part insomnia and part wanting to stretch my three day weekend to as long as possible.
Like I said. I'm a mess.
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Labels: Life
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
I am woman...
Sometimes I do things that can make me pretty darn proud of myself. Living a single life, I've had to learn how to be self-reliant over the years - which means bug extermination, spider elimination and all such squeamish chores are completely up to me. A scream of "ewwww! help!" would only elicit bland looks from the other two occupants of my abode before curling back up for a furry nap in the chair.
Some household chores and tasks present tricky challenges from time to time. Furniture moving in particular. I've got a somewhat reliable system which involves scooching, tugging, pushing, and shoving, usually on my butt and with my legs. It may take me longer than what could normally be expected, but I get it done. Most times.
Over the past few months I've been gradually moving my office, such as it is, to the upstairs loft. It's a largish room that overlooks the front entrance and a part of the living room and kitchen area (I have one of those "open" floor plans). The most difficult task was a set of bookshelves for my stash of paper backs and other books that were collecting dust and becoming a mountain for the kitties to play on. It was time to shelve them properly.
The difficulty with getting furniture and such upstairs lies in a rather awkward spiral staircase. A type of staircase that my builder vowed he would never again ever install in a house ever again. Ever. I managed to get the bookshelves up the staircase, unassembled, one box at a time, literally dragging them up and then assembling them upon arrival. Who needs a gym?
Today I attacked the problem of getting the office chair up. I came upon the solution in a round about way. Of course it was the logical and easiest solution, however I'm notorious for going at things ass-backward. I've dulled many a blade in Occam's razor, believe me.
...out of that room...
I know most of you have already figured out how to do it in the simplest, most efficient manner. I ultimately figured it out, too. But first, I had to ponder it for a few weeks. Why? I was stuck on the notion that I would have to get a hoist to lift it up over the partial wall overlooking the living room.
While I was trying to figure out how to get it out of the room downstairs in a manner that would not require moving another piece of furniture out of the way in the little hall way, I had that annoying light bulb moment. Annoying because that's when I saw that I'd been trying to make this a lot harder (typical) than it needed to be.
A quick scan of the chair told me what I needed. I made a trip to Lowes, purchased the tools I would need and after the required stroll around the flooring, kitchen cabinetry and appliances (a girl never stops dreaming about appliances...) I returned home to attack the task.
Of course the solution was to dismantle the chair, haul each piece up the stairs and reassemble it. Duh.
So now I'm in my comfy office chair up in the loft thoroughly amazed at my awesomeness - clumsy awesomeness, but awesomeness none-the-less. And I've filed this solution away for future use:
Some household chores and tasks present tricky challenges from time to time. Furniture moving in particular. I've got a somewhat reliable system which involves scooching, tugging, pushing, and shoving, usually on my butt and with my legs. It may take me longer than what could normally be expected, but I get it done. Most times.
Over the past few months I've been gradually moving my office, such as it is, to the upstairs loft. It's a largish room that overlooks the front entrance and a part of the living room and kitchen area (I have one of those "open" floor plans). The most difficult task was a set of bookshelves for my stash of paper backs and other books that were collecting dust and becoming a mountain for the kitties to play on. It was time to shelve them properly.
The difficulty with getting furniture and such upstairs lies in a rather awkward spiral staircase. A type of staircase that my builder vowed he would never again ever install in a house ever again. Ever. I managed to get the bookshelves up the staircase, unassembled, one box at a time, literally dragging them up and then assembling them upon arrival. Who needs a gym?
Today I attacked the problem of getting the office chair up. I came upon the solution in a round about way. Of course it was the logical and easiest solution, however I'm notorious for going at things ass-backward. I've dulled many a blade in Occam's razor, believe me.
So I needed to get this chair... 
...out of that room......and up these stairs: 
I know most of you have already figured out how to do it in the simplest, most efficient manner. I ultimately figured it out, too. But first, I had to ponder it for a few weeks. Why? I was stuck on the notion that I would have to get a hoist to lift it up over the partial wall overlooking the living room.
While I was trying to figure out how to get it out of the room downstairs in a manner that would not require moving another piece of furniture out of the way in the little hall way, I had that annoying light bulb moment. Annoying because that's when I saw that I'd been trying to make this a lot harder (typical) than it needed to be.
A quick scan of the chair told me what I needed. I made a trip to Lowes, purchased the tools I would need and after the required stroll around the flooring, kitchen cabinetry and appliances (a girl never stops dreaming about appliances...) I returned home to attack the task.
Of course the solution was to dismantle the chair, haul each piece up the stairs and reassemble it. Duh.
So now I'm in my comfy office chair up in the loft thoroughly amazed at my awesomeness - clumsy awesomeness, but awesomeness none-the-less. And I've filed this solution away for future use:
When in doubt, take it apart, dumb-ass.
Labels: home, Life, living single
Friday, July 27, 2007
I diddent mean to do it
I don't know when it happened. I only know it had to have been when I was distracted, or in the dark of night. Any other time, I'm certain I would have seen the peril and avoided its guesome consequences. It was an accident, I swear.
I'm guilty of birdiecide.
I discovered the horror when I left for work this morning. I was cursing my municipality for not picking up all of my trash bags on Thursday. One bag topped the container, not allowing it to close all the way. I'd committed a mortal trash sin which will give you seven days of pennance with the rotting garbage in your garage. That's the aroma I thought was overwhelming my nostrils this morning.
It wasn't. Out of the corner my eye, as I was shuffling trash bags, I spied the source of death's perfume. The little carcas was flat as a pancake right where my garage door meets the floor of the garage. Smashed birdie.
I stood there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. Then I saw movement... I will spare you the details.
I got in my car, backed out of the driveway and hit the button on the garage door opener in the side pocket of the car door. A routine so automatic, I sometimes do a u-turn before leaving the neighborhood to be sure I've, indeed, closed the garage door.
In the street, as I shifted into drive, I realized what I'd just done. Birdie carcascide.
When I returned home this evening, I washed away the evidence. Oh, I know, even a pale imitation of Gil Grissom would have no difficulty in gathering enough DNA, microscopic feathers and fat maggots to incriminate me. But all that pales in light of what I faced when I stepped inside and looked out my kitchen window.
He stood there, staring at me with condemning eyes that said, "I know it was you. How could you? How? How could you?" Oh, horror, horror!
I'm guilty of birdiecide.
I discovered the horror when I left for work this morning. I was cursing my municipality for not picking up all of my trash bags on Thursday. One bag topped the container, not allowing it to close all the way. I'd committed a mortal trash sin which will give you seven days of pennance with the rotting garbage in your garage. That's the aroma I thought was overwhelming my nostrils this morning.
It wasn't. Out of the corner my eye, as I was shuffling trash bags, I spied the source of death's perfume. The little carcas was flat as a pancake right where my garage door meets the floor of the garage. Smashed birdie.
I stood there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. Then I saw movement... I will spare you the details.
I got in my car, backed out of the driveway and hit the button on the garage door opener in the side pocket of the car door. A routine so automatic, I sometimes do a u-turn before leaving the neighborhood to be sure I've, indeed, closed the garage door.
In the street, as I shifted into drive, I realized what I'd just done. Birdie carcascide.
When I returned home this evening, I washed away the evidence. Oh, I know, even a pale imitation of Gil Grissom would have no difficulty in gathering enough DNA, microscopic feathers and fat maggots to incriminate me. But all that pales in light of what I faced when I stepped inside and looked out my kitchen window.
He stood there, staring at me with condemning eyes that said, "I know it was you. How could you? How? How could you?" Oh, horror, horror!
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Busy, busy, busy
That kid to the left there has just completed 56 years on this planet. It's one of those "nondescript" birthdays - not a decade or decade and a half milestone, but it feels kinda like it ought to be a major one.That's because it's got me thinking about sex. Yes, sex.
Or, more precisely, the last time I engaged in that bit of pleasure with another person. And I'm a little worried. Not so much because it's been a shocking* while, but because the memory of the last time isn't that great.
The guy was an internet acquaintance who'd e-mailed me because I had listed quantum physics as an interest in my AOL profile. After engaging in several e-mails and a few AOL chats we got the nerve to exchange a phone call or two and then decided we needed to meet.
He was pretty brave and made the trip to Oklahoma from Iowa, opting for a hotel. But he only stayed there one night. There was a bit of a physical spark and we pursued our impulses upon returning from an afternoon at the zoo. There weren't exactly any fireworks, per se, but there was quite a loud siren. A tornado warning siren, to be precise. Timed perfectly to... well, you can guess.
About a month later, over the fourth of July holiday, I trekked to Iowa to visit him. There were no fireworks then, either. Both literally and figuratively. Somehow we managed to miss Independence Day fireworks. We did have a moon, though. Which was bright and vivid as viewed each night from his tree house... The sex, though, was perfunctory. We weren't exactly clicking on other levels either, so when I left Iowa, we knew that was it.
I'm not keen on having that as my last memory of sex if it is to be my fate never to roll naked with another person for the rest of my life... or if I were to be hit by a bus next week. I am able to reach back a little farther, though, to a time when there was some damn fine sex going on - you know that scene on the train when Diane Lane is thinking about the illicit sex she's just had in Unfaithful?- it was that good. But doesn't long term memory get shakier with age?
See my problem here?
Now one might suggest I go for a grab and bag, but that's not how I roll. At least... not now. I am fascinated by the evolution of the casual sex my generation propagated, though. I hear terms today like "friend-sex," "fuck buddy," "cuddle pal" and such. Even anonymous sex. It can certainly fuel some intriguing fantasies. However, my generation ultimately discovered, I believe, that casual sex is an oxymoron. There's nothing casual about it.
So that is what I'm pondering on on this, the 29th of April 2007, the day of my 56th birthday, and perhaps pining for a special, er, um kind of package to come knocking on my door?
Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to be happy with a fresh set of double A batteries and....
Sigh.
------
*I'm not going to say how long - each person has their own measure of "shockingly" long - for some it's a week, others months... or a couple of years... or a decade... or whatever... so, I'm not going to say and don't ask.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Countdown
I decided to treat myself to a Panera savory and a latte this morning. I threw in an orange juice, too, just 'cause.
I found a table in the back corner near a table of three people who were engaged in a robust conversation. It wasn't hard to listen in - but what I heard, I'm not so sure I wanted to hear.
The young man at the table was quoting a study that had followed retirees and compared the age at retirement to how long they lived. He said, "For every year you work past age 56, you're trading two years of your life."
There may be some merit in that. My Dad essentially retired at 55-56. He recently turned 90 years of age.
The retirement wasn't planned. In fact, I think Dad's lack of work after they made the move to Oregon was a point of contention between my parents for a while. But an inheritance and wise investments ended up fueling a very nice retirement in the long run.
A poor example to set for the kids, though. I've been aiming for the same thing since I began the 8 to 5 in my youth. It doesn't look like I'm going to make it, heh, as of today, I have 20 days to keep the aging clock at bay, if that young man's information is correct.
I'll be winging to the Northwest coast in a few days to see my Dad. It will be bittersweet. My Dad recently underwent chemo-therapy for a cancer that's eating away at him, but it failed.
I'm trying to prepare myself. This will be a goodbye and I know Dad knows that. Our family is pragmatic about such things. It is what it is.
My family is it's own jumble of familial disfunction - close on some levels, not close on most. I forgave my parents years ago for not being perfect parents and I hope I was forgiven for not being the perfect child.
There will be sadness and difficulty in this next week, but it will be tempered by seeing my family together - my niece and her kids - and spending time with them.
Well. I didn't intend this to turn into a maudlin refelction of emotional angst... I better end this before the folks at the next table begin to wonder why that woman in the corner is shedding tears all over her lap-top!
Big breath. We go on.
I found a table in the back corner near a table of three people who were engaged in a robust conversation. It wasn't hard to listen in - but what I heard, I'm not so sure I wanted to hear.
The young man at the table was quoting a study that had followed retirees and compared the age at retirement to how long they lived. He said, "For every year you work past age 56, you're trading two years of your life."
There may be some merit in that. My Dad essentially retired at 55-56. He recently turned 90 years of age.
The retirement wasn't planned. In fact, I think Dad's lack of work after they made the move to Oregon was a point of contention between my parents for a while. But an inheritance and wise investments ended up fueling a very nice retirement in the long run.
A poor example to set for the kids, though. I've been aiming for the same thing since I began the 8 to 5 in my youth. It doesn't look like I'm going to make it, heh, as of today, I have 20 days to keep the aging clock at bay, if that young man's information is correct.
I'll be winging to the Northwest coast in a few days to see my Dad. It will be bittersweet. My Dad recently underwent chemo-therapy for a cancer that's eating away at him, but it failed.
I'm trying to prepare myself. This will be a goodbye and I know Dad knows that. Our family is pragmatic about such things. It is what it is.
My family is it's own jumble of familial disfunction - close on some levels, not close on most. I forgave my parents years ago for not being perfect parents and I hope I was forgiven for not being the perfect child.
There will be sadness and difficulty in this next week, but it will be tempered by seeing my family together - my niece and her kids - and spending time with them.
Well. I didn't intend this to turn into a maudlin refelction of emotional angst... I better end this before the folks at the next table begin to wonder why that woman in the corner is shedding tears all over her lap-top!
Big breath. We go on.
Labels: Life
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Set my ladies free!
A few months ago I underwent a transformation of sorts. I'd been o-d-ing on TLCs What Not To Wear and felt compelled to launch a minor makeover on myself.
Looking back on it now, I can't help but wonder if I hadn't been temporarily possessed by aliens. It was so out of character.
But in all actuality, it more likely had to do with a bit of "aging crisis" that had begun to niggle away at me. I am such a cliche.
At any rate, this compulsion spurred me to actually get a pedicure for the first time in my life, my third manicure ever, girly make-up on my face and the purchase of
bras.
That last item there is what really makes me feel I should plead insanity. You see, I gleefully abandoned the boob straitjackets and liberated my girls a hundred years ago when we women liberated ourselves back in the late 60s. NINETEEN-sixties, mind you.
I eschewed all efforts of Playtex to convince me to lift and separate for nigh on to thirty years. Now, granted, having been what my Dad referred to as Oklahoma's answer to Twiggy, my little buds really didn't need the support. But, somewhere in my fourth decade I bloomed.
No problem, though - I got really clever at clothing myself in a way that didn't make it so noticeble that I was going commando, boastful that "I don't own a bra" and incredulous at other women who avowed they woudn't be caught dead without their bra on.
Then a few months ago, after a trip to one of my favorite playlands, I saw a picture of myself and I wasn't happy with what I saw. There was a frumpy woman grinning back at me. Eek.
This was followed by a near revelatory experience with Stacy and Clinton reaching out to me from the glowing tube in front of me showing me a shining path out of Frumpiness into Hot.
Before I could fully comprehend what had happened, I was sitting on a bar-stool in Las Vegas with painted fingers and toes, mascara, waxed brows, and wearing a Victoria's Secret Very Sexy bra 'neath a form fitting red shirt.
And someone said, "You look hot!"
Yeah - that felt pretty damn good.
I kept up with a bit of the transformation - mainly in my wardrobe, not so much in the make-up and manicure department - until today.
Today I could no longer tolerate the discomfort and restriction of the contraption cinching me in underneath my blouse. In a fit of angst, I unhooked and released my girls from their incarceration.
Nothing feels better than that first second of liberation.
Looking hot at the cost of my comfort will have to take a back seat for a while. I know I have inner hot, heh, and the world will just have to be satisfied with that.
Now I just have to figure out how to transport the bra home inconspicuously...
[[UPDATE]] I walked out the office without my bra - it's sitting on top of my computer's CPU underneath my desk. The cleaning folk will just have to deal.....
Looking back on it now, I can't help but wonder if I hadn't been temporarily possessed by aliens. It was so out of character.
But in all actuality, it more likely had to do with a bit of "aging crisis" that had begun to niggle away at me. I am such a cliche.
At any rate, this compulsion spurred me to actually get a pedicure for the first time in my life, my third manicure ever, girly make-up on my face and the purchase of
bras.
That last item there is what really makes me feel I should plead insanity. You see, I gleefully abandoned the boob straitjackets and liberated my girls a hundred years ago when we women liberated ourselves back in the late 60s. NINETEEN-sixties, mind you.
I eschewed all efforts of Playtex to convince me to lift and separate for nigh on to thirty years. Now, granted, having been what my Dad referred to as Oklahoma's answer to Twiggy, my little buds really didn't need the support. But, somewhere in my fourth decade I bloomed.No problem, though - I got really clever at clothing myself in a way that didn't make it so noticeble that I was going commando, boastful that "I don't own a bra" and incredulous at other women who avowed they woudn't be caught dead without their bra on.
Then a few months ago, after a trip to one of my favorite playlands, I saw a picture of myself and I wasn't happy with what I saw. There was a frumpy woman grinning back at me. Eek.
This was followed by a near revelatory experience with Stacy and Clinton reaching out to me from the glowing tube in front of me showing me a shining path out of Frumpiness into Hot.
Before I could fully comprehend what had happened, I was sitting on a bar-stool in Las Vegas with painted fingers and toes, mascara, waxed brows, and wearing a Victoria's Secret Very Sexy bra 'neath a form fitting red shirt.
And someone said, "You look hot!"
Yeah - that felt pretty damn good.
I kept up with a bit of the transformation - mainly in my wardrobe, not so much in the make-up and manicure department - until today.
Today I could no longer tolerate the discomfort and restriction of the contraption cinching me in underneath my blouse. In a fit of angst, I unhooked and released my girls from their incarceration.
Nothing feels better than that first second of liberation.
Looking hot at the cost of my comfort will have to take a back seat for a while. I know I have inner hot, heh, and the world will just have to be satisfied with that.
Now I just have to figure out how to transport the bra home inconspicuously...
[[UPDATE]] I walked out the office without my bra - it's sitting on top of my computer's CPU underneath my desk. The cleaning folk will just have to deal.....
Labels: Life
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Passages
So. Here I am on a beautiful Sunday sitting in one of my town's local Starbuck's and I'm kinda pissed. My original destination had been our town's local Panera because it has free wi-fi. I was hungry for a bacon-spinach egg soufflé and a cup of java. However, my timing was off - the church crowd had descended so there was not a parking space to be found.
Undaunted, and with a back-up plan, I headed to the west-side Starbuck's. No church crowd and Willie Nelson crooning "Blue Eyes Cryin'" on the Starbuck's radio, I ordered my tall latte and a wildflower honey almond bar. I'd settled into a comfy chair, whipped out the lap-top, and when I attempted to access the wi-fi - I was greeted with the home page of Starbucks - T-mobile - no free wi-fi....
WTF??
Oh, well. Just a wee setback in my inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness.
I have a birthday coming up at the end of this month. I step over the ridge and complete my 56th year of life. The cliche is inescapable - time is moving way too fast.
I attended a fund-raiser on Friday. I got embroiled in a conversation with an acquaintance that had me inwardly screaming "stop, stop now!" but, outwardly, I was helpless to change the conversation's course. We went from menopause to hysterectomies to hormone replacement therapy to osteoporosis to arthritis to our various chronic aches and pains. It was old people's talk and I wanted to run screaming into the night.
The next day a friend and I strolled around our town's campus shop area. It's Parents Weekend this weekend so there were many students and parents strolling around, too. In one kitchy shop, mother's and daughters were pawing through some of the latest fashions - all retro late 60's early 70's styles.
I over heard one mother talking about how she'd wished she'd hung on to the wardrobe of her college years "It's all back in style." I whined to my friend that the popular fashion today is what my 95 lb. 20 year old self would've been wearing, but would look ridiculous on this nearly 56 year old 145 lb frumpy frame.
Is she feeling sorry for herself? Oh, well, yeah. She is, a little. But I think really what's happening is that I'm more nostalgic, really, for the youth that I once was. I love that kid.
When I see folks my age who seem to have become resigned to their age and who have lost touch with that youth they once were, I get a little scared that I could become one of them. They've disengaged and seem older than their years would indicate.
I guess that's what happens when someone hits a "mid-life" crisis, huh? O lder men seek out younger women and older women pay a visit to the plastic surgeon... We're wanting to recapture that youth we once were.
I'm not about to visit a plastic surgeon, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about it for a second or two (ok, "You Make Me Feel So Young" is now playing on the Starbucks radio... who ordered up this soundtrack for my day, huh?)....
While I'm currently navigating some twists and turns of life in the elder lane, at the end of the day I'm pretty happy with how I've turned out. I love that I have friends who span a wide range of ages and I'm certainly determined to not go gently into that good night, if you will forgive another cliche. . .
This birthday will pass just as the 55 that have come before it. The dings and dents of aging are what they are - a part of life to be dealt with, but the young girl who occasionally winks at me in my mirror will continue to encourage me and inspire me live young, keep learning and stay engaged.
I'm convinced that's the path to the fountain of youth, so let that be my birthday gift to you, dear reader. May you have as many as I have and many, many more...
Undaunted, and with a back-up plan, I headed to the west-side Starbuck's. No church crowd and Willie Nelson crooning "Blue Eyes Cryin'" on the Starbuck's radio, I ordered my tall latte and a wildflower honey almond bar. I'd settled into a comfy chair, whipped out the lap-top, and when I attempted to access the wi-fi - I was greeted with the home page of Starbucks - T-mobile - no free wi-fi....
WTF??
Oh, well. Just a wee setback in my inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness.
I have a birthday coming up at the end of this month. I step over the ridge and complete my 56th year of life. The cliche is inescapable - time is moving way too fast.
I attended a fund-raiser on Friday. I got embroiled in a conversation with an acquaintance that had me inwardly screaming "stop, stop now!" but, outwardly, I was helpless to change the conversation's course. We went from menopause to hysterectomies to hormone replacement therapy to osteoporosis to arthritis to our various chronic aches and pains. It was old people's talk and I wanted to run screaming into the night.
The next day a friend and I strolled around our town's campus shop area. It's Parents Weekend this weekend so there were many students and parents strolling around, too. In one kitchy shop, mother's and daughters were pawing through some of the latest fashions - all retro late 60's early 70's styles.
I over heard one mother talking about how she'd wished she'd hung on to the wardrobe of her college years "It's all back in style." I whined to my friend that the popular fashion today is what my 95 lb. 20 year old self would've been wearing, but would look ridiculous on this nearly 56 year old 145 lb frumpy frame.
Is she feeling sorry for herself? Oh, well, yeah. She is, a little. But I think really what's happening is that I'm more nostalgic, really, for the youth that I once was. I love that kid.
When I see folks my age who seem to have become resigned to their age and who have lost touch with that youth they once were, I get a little scared that I could become one of them. They've disengaged and seem older than their years would indicate.
I guess that's what happens when someone hits a "mid-life" crisis, huh? O lder men seek out younger women and older women pay a visit to the plastic surgeon... We're wanting to recapture that youth we once were.
I'm not about to visit a plastic surgeon, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about it for a second or two (ok, "You Make Me Feel So Young" is now playing on the Starbucks radio... who ordered up this soundtrack for my day, huh?)....
While I'm currently navigating some twists and turns of life in the elder lane, at the end of the day I'm pretty happy with how I've turned out. I love that I have friends who span a wide range of ages and I'm certainly determined to not go gently into that good night, if you will forgive another cliche. . .
This birthday will pass just as the 55 that have come before it. The dings and dents of aging are what they are - a part of life to be dealt with, but the young girl who occasionally winks at me in my mirror will continue to encourage me and inspire me live young, keep learning and stay engaged.
I'm convinced that's the path to the fountain of youth, so let that be my birthday gift to you, dear reader. May you have as many as I have and many, many more...
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Labels: Life
