I wish!
There is so much about this last year I'd like to wring out of existence, not to mention out of this next year. I won't deal with politics here since there is way too much to cover without writing a couple of books, and these postings tend to get long enough. Besides, I'd get too pissed off to hold on to any semblance of coherency. Or get to sleep tonight.
I'll stick to events closer to home. I'll likely still get pissed off, but with no chance of making a difference, the target of that anger becomes much more diffuse. Somehow that makes a difference in how much I fume myself into insomnia. No difference, don't be fooled, in how much I still care.
Let's start with justice. I personally know two people currently behind bars. One, simplifying the issues behind it, is for the crime of poverty. The original offense was enough to get into legal trouble, but that didn't lead to incarceration. What turned the key was the crime of poverty: if you can't afford the fine, behind bars you go. Another person has more than paid the debt to society by most any reasonable standard, but laws which could be more justly changed, not being popular issues, keep that door locked as well. Enough poverty to prevent hiring of a lawyer who actually is competent is a contributing factor there as well.
The other broad topic is poor health in people I care about. It's not that simple, however. I find myself furious and frustrated in the level and quality of healthcare available, even when it appears to be provided and mostly paid for.
Let's start with a "young" friend of mine. "Young" in this case means early 40's. She has been fighting MRSA for perhaps a dozen years by now. It has cost her two surgeries to remove pieces of a foot, has prevented her having a functional and pain-free ankle even after two bone graft surgeries, and has now invaded her jaw. They are beginning to discuss surgery options to her face now, with who knows what results. What makes me angriest is how antibiotics have (not so well) been administered. Her primary care doc has been the same over this period, so has no excuse for being unfamiliar with her MRSA history. Yet each time another infection got under way, it was treated with the typical 10-day program of mild broad spectrum antibiotics followed by a pause, and reassessment only after symptoms flared up again in a few days. Then followed a repeat of the same, finally followed by the good stuff, which managed to knock out the overt symptoms. Testing to identify the MRSA didn't occur until partway through the 2nd course, though her history alone should have made that a top-of-the-list suspect after the first time. The result of all this is that the MRSA found itself a spot in her body to tuck away until next time it got the opportunity to strike. Each recurrence seems to have produced a hardier strain to attack her, the logical result of chronic under-treatment.
I wonder what they can do this time with surgery, since they normally don't operate while a fever rages, but they need to remove infected bone to get rid of the most recent pocket of infection.
The other medical situation causing rage against a medical team revolves around Steve. Those who keep in touch are aware that his back has been plaguing him for weeks now. He has had problems in the lumbar region every few years, usually lasting a few days and fixable by lying on the floor in a certain position. We thought when this time started, it would follow the same pattern. It's been over a month now, gained him a higher strength prescription for pain medication and one for muscle relaxant. Despite medications he's dealing with intractable severe pain without relief. Sleep is scarce. Activity is limited to the point where he won't go out on his scooter because there are little bumps in the surface over which he travels. His card clubs, one of the main recreational/social parts of his life, simply don't happen. He is getting severe cabin fever, since his main travel is to the doctor about a mile away. He moves from his lift chair to bed and back, not to mark wake/sleep cycles, but just to change position enough so something else hurts, and hopefully not as much for a bit. On the 1 to 10 pain scale, 5 is a good hour, and 9 more constant.
So, the anger? It took about 2 weeks for an x-ray. Indeterminate. A shot into his hip yielded pain relief... for two days. Another two weeks wait yielded an MRI. One more week got an interpretation of it. Two lumbar vertebrae are growing, both together and into the cord. (Is it an improvement to get the affirmation that it's not just in your head?) One possible cause is rheumatoid arthritis, and a blood sample was drawn. Two referrals were to be made, one to follow up, if the blood test is positive, on treatment for what is an autoimmune condition. The other was to be with a spinal orthopedic expert, who might expertly administer pain injections into the spinal column, or perhaps offer a surgical option.
I talk about referrals needing to be made. That's about insurance rules. The specialists, or even the x-rays and MRIs, need to be ordered by the primary physician. They also need to be to one of the medical clinics that accept the insurance he carries. We left the office that day confident that those would be made.
That was over two weeks ago now. You know where this is leading. We were shocked about why. When the next Monday rolled around with nothing heard about his referrals, he called in to his Doc. Maybe a little reminder of how badly he needed to get treatment would push the right buttons. Instead, the answering service informed him that the entire office had closed for two weeks for their holiday break. Try the ER, good-bye. Nobody had bothered to mention this when we were in the office getting his test results and treatment plan options.
Steve opted not to hit the Er, but tough it out if at all possible. Rather than take medications only when the pain was at its absolute worst, not wanting to risk either habituation or addiction, he is dosing himself in the meantime with whatever either medication allows, alternating them rather than overlapping them. His body is still getting to the point where it can ignore either one of them.
Wednesday the clinic reopens. With no appointment, I've promised to drive Steve over so he can demand as much attention from the staff as needed to get those referrals then and there. I even offered to help, quite willing to let the other waiting patients know of the inadequate level of care offered there.
Enough is way too much. I'm almost looking forward to it. 2018 needs to be history.
Monday, December 31, 2018
Sunday, December 23, 2018
Dear Ashley...
Dear Ashley,
I've been thinking about something for several months now, and decided I wanted to share it with you, for a variety of reasons. First, of course, is that it is a response to an event where Steve and I were enjoying your family's generous hospitality, and I need to let you know, along with anybody you want to share this with, how much we value those occasions. Dinners around your family's table are lively ones, as well as loving ones, and those are good things.
We bring home with us the stories and laughter of those memories, and one night in particular is engraved in our memories. No, it's not the result of Steve throwing out the punch line of his story just as Ryan had taken a big swallow of his drink, with results one should expect. Rather, it is about a question you asked and what led from that. As I recall, the family had one shower out of service, awaiting some plumbing, leaving one for the entire family. You were trying to plan your activities so the timing of your shower would be optimal for you. One of the considerations concerned odors. Your question was an inquiry as to who would stink the worst, your dad or your uncle.
The best part of what followed, for the two of us, is remembering how red your dad's head got, all the way to the crown, visible through his short hair. Yes, we still remind each other. And laugh.
Of course, your parent's immediate response was reacting to their embarrassment by scolding you. Parents do that. I have another niece, when younger than you, who asked an embarrassing question in the presence of company. Her parents reacted the same way. A simple sentence would have answered her question, but she got scolded instead. That still bothers me, and the opportunity has long passed to revisit the incident. But your question was similar in its way, and when you got scolded, I felt the need to help you feel less embarrassed by answering with some actual information to help you understand the topic. I perhaps got a bit too didactic, but I hope you understand how the concept of "nose-blindness" works to answer that question for you.
So my next reason for this is to hope you don't let anybody discourage you from asking questions. It's how we learn, how we explore our world, how we gain tools to function and navigate through our lives. You might chose differently about when and to whom you ask your questions, but never stop asking.
My third reason goes back to my being didactic. I find myself wanting to answer your question more completely than two minutes at the dinner table would allow. So, with your permission, here is the bigger answer.
Brains adapt. They have / develop selective attention. What is important gets noticed. What's familiar and safe doesn't. It's part of our evolution. It's what keeps us alive, individually and as a species.
If you haven't yet, you soon will encounter the concept of the food chain. It's pictured as a vertical ranking, where the bottom species are the ones who get eaten, and the top ones do the eating. Usually the person telling you about the food chain will also tell you that human beings are at the top of it. We can kill and eat anything.
That appears to make sense, without much examination. It makes just as much sense as believing the sun revolves around this planet. It's what we see, lacking more information. But both are incomplete. Yes, we are in the food chain. We're just not only doing the eating. From the time we first evolved, there were a whole lot of other critters vying to eat us.
There were really really large hungry cats. The sabertooths may be gone now, but their smaller cousins would still find us a tasty meal, and even house cats will use their former owners as a source of food if they are trapped with the body as their only sustenance. (Yuck, right?) Wolves, the same way, on down through their domesticated cousins when the situation requires it. It's not just the big toothy things that want to eat us. Think, say, rats. Or insects. Bacteria and viruses. Point is, we smugly superior humans are smack dab in the middle of the food chain. And apparently yummy.
That's why we need brains that notice what's different. It might be that motion in the grass telling us something dangerous is trying to sneak up on us. It could be the whine of a mosquito, the grunt, howl or bark of an approaching predator. Perhaps the war cry of the neighboring tribe or the vibration of the herd of horses they are riding in on. In more modern society, it's that car suddenly entering the corner of our visual field, the smell of gas, the beep from our cell phone, the squeal of brakes. Something is different and that's when our brains pay attention.
For the same reasons, the familiar gets labeled as safe and gets ignored. We literally stop seeing the dirt in the house, at least until it's time we're told to clean or we want to impress visitors. Driving, we see the signs for where we need to turn and not those for all the other intersections we pass. When I first drove, I couldn't hold a conversation or even listen to the radio at the same time because everything was new. Now much of it gets done on automatic pilot, barring those changes which signal something needing my attention. Like, all those other idiots out there, or the local attack deer out to kill your car.
There was a perfume I absolutely adored from my first whiff. I wore it every day. Now my nose refuses to acknowledge it at all, a really big disappointment to me. Take your favorite foods, and notice how, with repeated bites, the flavor lessens until you find yourself eating it just because you know it's something you love rather than being able to taste that it is. That first lick off the ice cream cone is always sweeter than the last.
The way our brains work keep us safe, mostly. But there's more to the world. Let's just use that awareness and take a minute occasionally, pause, look around, and appreciate the beauty, the love, all the wonderful things our brains think we don't need to notice any more.
And keep asking questions!
Love,
Aunt Heather
I've been thinking about something for several months now, and decided I wanted to share it with you, for a variety of reasons. First, of course, is that it is a response to an event where Steve and I were enjoying your family's generous hospitality, and I need to let you know, along with anybody you want to share this with, how much we value those occasions. Dinners around your family's table are lively ones, as well as loving ones, and those are good things.
We bring home with us the stories and laughter of those memories, and one night in particular is engraved in our memories. No, it's not the result of Steve throwing out the punch line of his story just as Ryan had taken a big swallow of his drink, with results one should expect. Rather, it is about a question you asked and what led from that. As I recall, the family had one shower out of service, awaiting some plumbing, leaving one for the entire family. You were trying to plan your activities so the timing of your shower would be optimal for you. One of the considerations concerned odors. Your question was an inquiry as to who would stink the worst, your dad or your uncle.
The best part of what followed, for the two of us, is remembering how red your dad's head got, all the way to the crown, visible through his short hair. Yes, we still remind each other. And laugh.
Of course, your parent's immediate response was reacting to their embarrassment by scolding you. Parents do that. I have another niece, when younger than you, who asked an embarrassing question in the presence of company. Her parents reacted the same way. A simple sentence would have answered her question, but she got scolded instead. That still bothers me, and the opportunity has long passed to revisit the incident. But your question was similar in its way, and when you got scolded, I felt the need to help you feel less embarrassed by answering with some actual information to help you understand the topic. I perhaps got a bit too didactic, but I hope you understand how the concept of "nose-blindness" works to answer that question for you.
So my next reason for this is to hope you don't let anybody discourage you from asking questions. It's how we learn, how we explore our world, how we gain tools to function and navigate through our lives. You might chose differently about when and to whom you ask your questions, but never stop asking.
My third reason goes back to my being didactic. I find myself wanting to answer your question more completely than two minutes at the dinner table would allow. So, with your permission, here is the bigger answer.
Brains adapt. They have / develop selective attention. What is important gets noticed. What's familiar and safe doesn't. It's part of our evolution. It's what keeps us alive, individually and as a species.
If you haven't yet, you soon will encounter the concept of the food chain. It's pictured as a vertical ranking, where the bottom species are the ones who get eaten, and the top ones do the eating. Usually the person telling you about the food chain will also tell you that human beings are at the top of it. We can kill and eat anything.
That appears to make sense, without much examination. It makes just as much sense as believing the sun revolves around this planet. It's what we see, lacking more information. But both are incomplete. Yes, we are in the food chain. We're just not only doing the eating. From the time we first evolved, there were a whole lot of other critters vying to eat us.
There were really really large hungry cats. The sabertooths may be gone now, but their smaller cousins would still find us a tasty meal, and even house cats will use their former owners as a source of food if they are trapped with the body as their only sustenance. (Yuck, right?) Wolves, the same way, on down through their domesticated cousins when the situation requires it. It's not just the big toothy things that want to eat us. Think, say, rats. Or insects. Bacteria and viruses. Point is, we smugly superior humans are smack dab in the middle of the food chain. And apparently yummy.
That's why we need brains that notice what's different. It might be that motion in the grass telling us something dangerous is trying to sneak up on us. It could be the whine of a mosquito, the grunt, howl or bark of an approaching predator. Perhaps the war cry of the neighboring tribe or the vibration of the herd of horses they are riding in on. In more modern society, it's that car suddenly entering the corner of our visual field, the smell of gas, the beep from our cell phone, the squeal of brakes. Something is different and that's when our brains pay attention.
For the same reasons, the familiar gets labeled as safe and gets ignored. We literally stop seeing the dirt in the house, at least until it's time we're told to clean or we want to impress visitors. Driving, we see the signs for where we need to turn and not those for all the other intersections we pass. When I first drove, I couldn't hold a conversation or even listen to the radio at the same time because everything was new. Now much of it gets done on automatic pilot, barring those changes which signal something needing my attention. Like, all those other idiots out there, or the local attack deer out to kill your car.
There was a perfume I absolutely adored from my first whiff. I wore it every day. Now my nose refuses to acknowledge it at all, a really big disappointment to me. Take your favorite foods, and notice how, with repeated bites, the flavor lessens until you find yourself eating it just because you know it's something you love rather than being able to taste that it is. That first lick off the ice cream cone is always sweeter than the last.
The way our brains work keep us safe, mostly. But there's more to the world. Let's just use that awareness and take a minute occasionally, pause, look around, and appreciate the beauty, the love, all the wonderful things our brains think we don't need to notice any more.
And keep asking questions!
Love,
Aunt Heather
Friday, December 21, 2018
A Gift Of Family
A family member has begun a tradition for us, one we treasure more each year she does it. It's a calendar. Not only is it practical, with large enough spaces to write appointments and things like recycling reminders in for any given day, but it's a family treasure.
It's not just pictures of the two of them and their kids. It's everybody else in the family and their kids. She selects from not only her extended family, spreading out from Steve's heritage, but coordinates with mine to make it complete. It's pictures of Steve and me with grandkids, extended groups, individual people's photo treasures. Each month is a new selection of photos, a new spectrum of events. They are set in parks and living rooms, day cares, yards, even a sidewalk where Daddy walks his two youngest kids safely to their destination. They cover holidays, birthdays, parties, and just-because. They range from dressed up and posed to candid and goofy.
Each calendar is a treasure of who all of us were the previous year. And yes, we're collecting a stack of them to page through for future years. Not only can we see what each of our two lives were like that year, but peek in on the lives of those we were apart from as they grew each year. And each calendar is a gift of the thoughtfulness and time given to create this priceless archive, this archive of love.
Thank you, Krystal.
It's not just pictures of the two of them and their kids. It's everybody else in the family and their kids. She selects from not only her extended family, spreading out from Steve's heritage, but coordinates with mine to make it complete. It's pictures of Steve and me with grandkids, extended groups, individual people's photo treasures. Each month is a new selection of photos, a new spectrum of events. They are set in parks and living rooms, day cares, yards, even a sidewalk where Daddy walks his two youngest kids safely to their destination. They cover holidays, birthdays, parties, and just-because. They range from dressed up and posed to candid and goofy.
Each calendar is a treasure of who all of us were the previous year. And yes, we're collecting a stack of them to page through for future years. Not only can we see what each of our two lives were like that year, but peek in on the lives of those we were apart from as they grew each year. And each calendar is a gift of the thoughtfulness and time given to create this priceless archive, this archive of love.
Thank you, Krystal.
Saturday, December 15, 2018
'Tis The Season Of Smiles And Good Horns
Tis the season, folks. Just maybe not exactly how you thought.
Twice a month, on the 1st and 3rd Saturday mornings of the month, you'll find me at the SW corner of 99th and Bell, holding up a sign saying "Honk For Peace". There will be a group of us, many of whom have joined Grandmothers For Peace. A couple of us are in the Men's Auxiliary, that being less unwieldy than forming/joining a separate group called Grandfathers For Peace.
I tend not to talk about it. I know from experience it's not always well received. I've been challenged with "Why?" in a tone that suggests I might have just admitted robbing banks to support my retirement. (Note for the curious: I haven't. Robbed nor admitted.) Part of the answer is because I can. I was too young to demonstrate during the Civil Rights Protests, however much I supported them. For decades I was too busy or unwilling to join a host of others, and find I really hate trying to find parking in Phoenix proper where most current ones are held. And let's not forget my general ability to walk or stand for long periods expected of those who join in. This, however, I can do.
You can't miss us. Part of that might be the noise from honking vehicles that pass. Part of it is the group, spread along next to the sidewalk, mostly sitting in lawn chairs: we are grandparents after all. Signs are scattered all over our corner, and one regular member holds up on a pole a flag which has replaced the field of stars with a peace sign.
Yes, it's a legal US flag. That's one of the many things I've learned during the two years I've been one of the demonstrators.
I've also learned a bit about others in the group. One is a world-traveling concert pianist, able to join us only seldom. One brings bagpipes occasionally. One has to leave early for regularly scheduled mah jongg and has been unable to join us for brunch after demonstrating until recently when we adjusted our hours. One is bi-polar, another died during her return to her home state of Colorado last year, one is on chemo. Three have served on the management board of a non-profit, two work at a food shelf, one has held political office. Some stay year-round, others head to cooler parts come summer, same as I do. Stay or just winter here, some come from Sun City, some from Sun City West. We arrive in cars or golf carts. I'm even sorting out which names belong with which faces... sort of.
I've learned which commercial vehicles will or won't generally honk, as well as just how painfully loud some of those horns can be. But hey, we asked. I also see how many more supporters we have who'll wave and smile, but are too shy to actually honk. Or maybe, this being Arizona after all, are reluctant for their neighbors to know they support our cause. Some just wait until the light changes before they honk as if nobody will then realize exactly who honked because they're too busy driving. Others are so enthusiastic that we worry about them as they smile, wave, honk and text all while passing by. We wish those all our best... including enough funds to pay their tickets should any cops be nearby.
Because I've also learned how many folks react negatively to our demonstrations. There are the ones who steal a glance our way from several cars back, then resolutely look straight ahead as they pass the intersection. Some go a step further, giving us a little scowl. Maybe even a big one. I have to wonder, while seeing them change from neutral observers of the world they pass, to active disapproval of us, just what it is they object to. And why? Do they think we don't support our military and by demonstrating are showing our disapproval of their glorious war service? Those folks almost never stop to ask us if we support our troops or not, and I doubt whether they can parse out the difference between supporting them but not supporting how they are misused. (Another whole posting for later.)
Some folks are more overt in their disapproval, using their short stop at the light to roll down their windows for commentary. A few do not hesitate to express their faith ... that we are going straight to hell. That Christ hates us. That they know one of a variety of ways to competently vocalize what awful people we are, especially when they can't discern that the ambient road noise as traffic starts up again effectively covers up every bit of what they are communicating except their tone of voice. Most of them are content to just wave as they pass by, not understanding that it takes more than a single raised finger to show their support and encouragement.
Really, though, who actually supports war over peace?
Who?
Regardless of their reactions, we smile and wave, some of us with full open hands, some with the two-finger "V" peace symbol, at everyone who passes. The talking among ourselves we save for the gaps in traffic, due to the noise levels. That makes for some interesting conversations.
If we ignore for a bit the occupants, and just note the vehicles, there is still plenty to learn. There are changing patterns in how busy traffic is, or who moves over for emergency vehicles, or who can't signal a turn or wait for a gap to pull into traffic. Some seasons there are various items attached to show support for sport teams. This season, the most popular decorations seem to be antlers arising from back windows. Having heretofore only seen those from the back, I thought they were cute but didn't give them much thought. Facing them head-on this morning, I got the full effect when I also spotted the little furry red "nose" attached to the hoods of the cars sporting antlers. Who knew there were so many Rudolphs hanging around the area? And why are the all grounded? Shouldn't they be working on their stamina right now?
On this last protest day before the big Holidays, the mood is much more friendly than usual. 'Tis truly the season of smiles and good horns!
Twice a month, on the 1st and 3rd Saturday mornings of the month, you'll find me at the SW corner of 99th and Bell, holding up a sign saying "Honk For Peace". There will be a group of us, many of whom have joined Grandmothers For Peace. A couple of us are in the Men's Auxiliary, that being less unwieldy than forming/joining a separate group called Grandfathers For Peace.
I tend not to talk about it. I know from experience it's not always well received. I've been challenged with "Why?" in a tone that suggests I might have just admitted robbing banks to support my retirement. (Note for the curious: I haven't. Robbed nor admitted.) Part of the answer is because I can. I was too young to demonstrate during the Civil Rights Protests, however much I supported them. For decades I was too busy or unwilling to join a host of others, and find I really hate trying to find parking in Phoenix proper where most current ones are held. And let's not forget my general ability to walk or stand for long periods expected of those who join in. This, however, I can do.
You can't miss us. Part of that might be the noise from honking vehicles that pass. Part of it is the group, spread along next to the sidewalk, mostly sitting in lawn chairs: we are grandparents after all. Signs are scattered all over our corner, and one regular member holds up on a pole a flag which has replaced the field of stars with a peace sign.
Yes, it's a legal US flag. That's one of the many things I've learned during the two years I've been one of the demonstrators.
I've also learned a bit about others in the group. One is a world-traveling concert pianist, able to join us only seldom. One brings bagpipes occasionally. One has to leave early for regularly scheduled mah jongg and has been unable to join us for brunch after demonstrating until recently when we adjusted our hours. One is bi-polar, another died during her return to her home state of Colorado last year, one is on chemo. Three have served on the management board of a non-profit, two work at a food shelf, one has held political office. Some stay year-round, others head to cooler parts come summer, same as I do. Stay or just winter here, some come from Sun City, some from Sun City West. We arrive in cars or golf carts. I'm even sorting out which names belong with which faces... sort of.
I've learned which commercial vehicles will or won't generally honk, as well as just how painfully loud some of those horns can be. But hey, we asked. I also see how many more supporters we have who'll wave and smile, but are too shy to actually honk. Or maybe, this being Arizona after all, are reluctant for their neighbors to know they support our cause. Some just wait until the light changes before they honk as if nobody will then realize exactly who honked because they're too busy driving. Others are so enthusiastic that we worry about them as they smile, wave, honk and text all while passing by. We wish those all our best... including enough funds to pay their tickets should any cops be nearby.
Because I've also learned how many folks react negatively to our demonstrations. There are the ones who steal a glance our way from several cars back, then resolutely look straight ahead as they pass the intersection. Some go a step further, giving us a little scowl. Maybe even a big one. I have to wonder, while seeing them change from neutral observers of the world they pass, to active disapproval of us, just what it is they object to. And why? Do they think we don't support our military and by demonstrating are showing our disapproval of their glorious war service? Those folks almost never stop to ask us if we support our troops or not, and I doubt whether they can parse out the difference between supporting them but not supporting how they are misused. (Another whole posting for later.)
Some folks are more overt in their disapproval, using their short stop at the light to roll down their windows for commentary. A few do not hesitate to express their faith ... that we are going straight to hell. That Christ hates us. That they know one of a variety of ways to competently vocalize what awful people we are, especially when they can't discern that the ambient road noise as traffic starts up again effectively covers up every bit of what they are communicating except their tone of voice. Most of them are content to just wave as they pass by, not understanding that it takes more than a single raised finger to show their support and encouragement.
Really, though, who actually supports war over peace?
Who?
Regardless of their reactions, we smile and wave, some of us with full open hands, some with the two-finger "V" peace symbol, at everyone who passes. The talking among ourselves we save for the gaps in traffic, due to the noise levels. That makes for some interesting conversations.
If we ignore for a bit the occupants, and just note the vehicles, there is still plenty to learn. There are changing patterns in how busy traffic is, or who moves over for emergency vehicles, or who can't signal a turn or wait for a gap to pull into traffic. Some seasons there are various items attached to show support for sport teams. This season, the most popular decorations seem to be antlers arising from back windows. Having heretofore only seen those from the back, I thought they were cute but didn't give them much thought. Facing them head-on this morning, I got the full effect when I also spotted the little furry red "nose" attached to the hoods of the cars sporting antlers. Who knew there were so many Rudolphs hanging around the area? And why are the all grounded? Shouldn't they be working on their stamina right now?
On this last protest day before the big Holidays, the mood is much more friendly than usual. 'Tis truly the season of smiles and good horns!
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Good Party, Except....
Last night was the annual club X-mas party. It's a chance to dress up, dance if you wish, share lots of food, chat with old friends and meet new ones. The food was great, the company interesting and friendly, a live band played.
So what was the problem? A live band played.
OK, that sounds like a plus, right? The standard seems to be an assumption that live is better than a DJ. I suppose they're right. At least when the live band is good, that is. Last night's band was excruciating to listen to, and the volume was turned up so loud they were unavoidable. Even shouting at the person sitting next to you didn't quite make conversation possible. Perhaps the band members a: were already deaf, b: thought we were deaf, or c: thought volume would hide the flaws in presentation rather than accentuate them.
The musical selections were decent. Starting off, there were several really old-time goodies, the kind of music most of us geezers still recognize, and Steve absolutely loves. Luckily for him, his back was hurting so much he sent me on without him. The selections morphed into X-mas classics, mostly secular with only one or two outright religious songs.
The members of the band were fairly personable. We didn't chat with them but they smiled frequently. One of the band members was also a club member, which aided in their choice for our party, since it was easy to tend to other details of the party without expending a lot of energy and time locating a suitable band.
The band also dressed well, in black with occasional trim in holiday reds and greens, or a fuzzy antler headpiece. The one exception needn't have been one, except for an unfortunate oversight. The woman in the front row who had a string of jingle bells wrapped around one foot so that shaking it also left her hands free to play something else simultaneously made two mistakes. Her skirt was a little short, not covering her knees even though she sat in the front row. By itself, not a problem. However, her enthusiasm for shaking the bells led to her legs spreading apart enough so that ... well, let's just say certain things can never be unseen.
My main complaint is the band's musicality. Or lack thereof. They needed a vocalist. Several members sang solo, but none really qualified. The lead singer had a range of about one octave, all very low. Where songs we all know rose in pitch, her voice went down. I'm not one who can really tell perfect pitch from relative pitch, but I recognize when someone has even more problems in that area than I do. One of the men had the second verse of a song for his showpiece. Unfortunately it took the rest of the band about two meters to figure out he was using a different tempo than they had been and adjust to match him. The harmonica soloist was never a member of a marching band. The rhythm was already unsteady, but accentuated by how she ended her musical phrases. Where the final note was to be held for 4 beats, she started the next phrase about the middle of the third beat.
Ouch. No really, ouch.
What was really interesting is how many compliments on the band's performance were offered in the club this morning while I was there.
I decided to keep my mouth shut.
So what was the problem? A live band played.
OK, that sounds like a plus, right? The standard seems to be an assumption that live is better than a DJ. I suppose they're right. At least when the live band is good, that is. Last night's band was excruciating to listen to, and the volume was turned up so loud they were unavoidable. Even shouting at the person sitting next to you didn't quite make conversation possible. Perhaps the band members a: were already deaf, b: thought we were deaf, or c: thought volume would hide the flaws in presentation rather than accentuate them.
The musical selections were decent. Starting off, there were several really old-time goodies, the kind of music most of us geezers still recognize, and Steve absolutely loves. Luckily for him, his back was hurting so much he sent me on without him. The selections morphed into X-mas classics, mostly secular with only one or two outright religious songs.
The members of the band were fairly personable. We didn't chat with them but they smiled frequently. One of the band members was also a club member, which aided in their choice for our party, since it was easy to tend to other details of the party without expending a lot of energy and time locating a suitable band.
The band also dressed well, in black with occasional trim in holiday reds and greens, or a fuzzy antler headpiece. The one exception needn't have been one, except for an unfortunate oversight. The woman in the front row who had a string of jingle bells wrapped around one foot so that shaking it also left her hands free to play something else simultaneously made two mistakes. Her skirt was a little short, not covering her knees even though she sat in the front row. By itself, not a problem. However, her enthusiasm for shaking the bells led to her legs spreading apart enough so that ... well, let's just say certain things can never be unseen.
My main complaint is the band's musicality. Or lack thereof. They needed a vocalist. Several members sang solo, but none really qualified. The lead singer had a range of about one octave, all very low. Where songs we all know rose in pitch, her voice went down. I'm not one who can really tell perfect pitch from relative pitch, but I recognize when someone has even more problems in that area than I do. One of the men had the second verse of a song for his showpiece. Unfortunately it took the rest of the band about two meters to figure out he was using a different tempo than they had been and adjust to match him. The harmonica soloist was never a member of a marching band. The rhythm was already unsteady, but accentuated by how she ended her musical phrases. Where the final note was to be held for 4 beats, she started the next phrase about the middle of the third beat.
Ouch. No really, ouch.
What was really interesting is how many compliments on the band's performance were offered in the club this morning while I was there.
I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Sunday, December 9, 2018
More Patience Needed
Yeah, assuming you go for the idea that all the things which annoy me these days are my fault or just beyond anybody's control, and patience will cure the problem. I posit the idea that neither applies, way too often. And hey, we're not even going to discuss President* "Cheetolini".
Let's start with my morning shopping trip to WalMart. It was a short list. I wanted to hit the photo section to make some more photo cards. I also needed a very few sundries. Steve had his own list, so we went our separate ways at the door.
Photo is along the back wall in the store. Time was when this would have been a problem in itself, but my knees are so much better that I hardly think about it. So this wasn't on the problems list. Now on the other hand, sitting before their machines - anybody's machines - to generate photo cards has always been filled with annoyances for me. The machines do not operate in ways that I think they should. Symbols don't translate the way I find logical, and options I firmly believe should be available to me somehow just aren't available. Let's add that these machines change every year, so each visit is a new learning curve, and almost never is there a person familiar with them to help out. All this is true of every visit, and not just WalMart's machines either. So add a level of frustration already built into the anticipation of the event.
However, I had just been there a week ago to generate this season's cards. I finally located another favorite picture thought long lost, and decided to take advantage of that recent experience to make another set of cards for next year while I remembered how. Alas. Sometime in the last few days they changed the software in the machines. Honest! After getting bogged down a couple times trying to work through the program, I backed out to start over. I remembered exactly where to find the card template I used this year, decided you all would forget what it looked like and I could use it again, and started hunting.
It wasn't there.
Not anywhere.
I tried several different ways to reach it, and failed. I tried a number of other cards I'd considered and rejected, but none of them were available either. And of course the young man who had been tending the photo counter when I arrived was now someplace else in the store. Nobody to ask for help now that I finally decided I needed to.
I pulled out my thumb drive and left. I'd had enough, and this wasn't a battle I needed to fight today. I figure any time in the next 370 days will do.
Next on my list was a dust mop. There is enough uncarpeted floor in this house that could use one's attention, and neither brooms nor vacuums quite do the job. Armed with memories of childhood, I headed over to the cleaning supplies section of the grocery department to hunt for one.
They had brooms. They had wet mops. They had chemicals galore. They had weirdly shaped replacement pads in microfibers (!?!) to fit handles I didn't own and they weren't selling. No. Plain. Ordinary. Dust. Mops.
I double checked.
Nada.
I even expanded my search area a bit. Another of my pet annoyances with WalMart is once you know where something is located, they move stuff around the store. It ranks right up there with them discontinuing whatever my favorite brand or variety within a brand is. Some idiot probably told them that if they can get the customers walking through more of the store while they search, said customers will buy more other stuff on their way to their goal.
Actually, I've taken a poll of fellow frustrated customers. Most of us just get angry, and some of us simply go away.
I just cut my shopping list to the two absolutely-must-get items on it, and walked out. My patience for shopping was kaput.
So if any of you wonder why so many of us do more and more of our shopping online....
Let's start with my morning shopping trip to WalMart. It was a short list. I wanted to hit the photo section to make some more photo cards. I also needed a very few sundries. Steve had his own list, so we went our separate ways at the door.
Photo is along the back wall in the store. Time was when this would have been a problem in itself, but my knees are so much better that I hardly think about it. So this wasn't on the problems list. Now on the other hand, sitting before their machines - anybody's machines - to generate photo cards has always been filled with annoyances for me. The machines do not operate in ways that I think they should. Symbols don't translate the way I find logical, and options I firmly believe should be available to me somehow just aren't available. Let's add that these machines change every year, so each visit is a new learning curve, and almost never is there a person familiar with them to help out. All this is true of every visit, and not just WalMart's machines either. So add a level of frustration already built into the anticipation of the event.
However, I had just been there a week ago to generate this season's cards. I finally located another favorite picture thought long lost, and decided to take advantage of that recent experience to make another set of cards for next year while I remembered how. Alas. Sometime in the last few days they changed the software in the machines. Honest! After getting bogged down a couple times trying to work through the program, I backed out to start over. I remembered exactly where to find the card template I used this year, decided you all would forget what it looked like and I could use it again, and started hunting.
It wasn't there.
Not anywhere.
I tried several different ways to reach it, and failed. I tried a number of other cards I'd considered and rejected, but none of them were available either. And of course the young man who had been tending the photo counter when I arrived was now someplace else in the store. Nobody to ask for help now that I finally decided I needed to.
I pulled out my thumb drive and left. I'd had enough, and this wasn't a battle I needed to fight today. I figure any time in the next 370 days will do.
Next on my list was a dust mop. There is enough uncarpeted floor in this house that could use one's attention, and neither brooms nor vacuums quite do the job. Armed with memories of childhood, I headed over to the cleaning supplies section of the grocery department to hunt for one.
They had brooms. They had wet mops. They had chemicals galore. They had weirdly shaped replacement pads in microfibers (!?!) to fit handles I didn't own and they weren't selling. No. Plain. Ordinary. Dust. Mops.
I double checked.
Nada.
I even expanded my search area a bit. Another of my pet annoyances with WalMart is once you know where something is located, they move stuff around the store. It ranks right up there with them discontinuing whatever my favorite brand or variety within a brand is. Some idiot probably told them that if they can get the customers walking through more of the store while they search, said customers will buy more other stuff on their way to their goal.
Actually, I've taken a poll of fellow frustrated customers. Most of us just get angry, and some of us simply go away.
I just cut my shopping list to the two absolutely-must-get items on it, and walked out. My patience for shopping was kaput.
So if any of you wonder why so many of us do more and more of our shopping online....
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
(1) Brain Fart Explained
If you're like me, when you're searching for a particular word, if something else pops into your mind it kicks aside all hope of finding the right word. You keep circling to the wrong one and can't get past it, not for hours, sometimes longer.
The older I get, the more common that is. Watching Jeopardy, for example, I know exactly what the answer (OK, question) is, I can see it in my head, but the word just isn't there. I would never consider trying to be on that show because everybody would have the correct answer first, and be three more questions down the road except for the fact that the real information would have been stated. It's a change. Twenty years ago, I was simply ignorant and couldn't have even imagined I knew the word. Now, especially after watching years of the program with Steve, I know the words are missing. Maybe just displaced.
Yesterday, in ordinary conversation - and don't ask me why the hell this was ordinary - I was searching for a word. It wasn't lost until I started hunting for it. I could describe why I needed that word. I knew exactly which one-and-only word I needed. It was the name of a disease and had only one name, no synonyms, no approximations. I could - and did - explain what it meant.
The disease is a blood disease, most common in children (because of poor survival rates?), and targets those of mostly African descent. It is thought to be the result of a genetic adaption that is beneficial in areas where malaria is endemic, increasing survival rates in those who contract it. Here, there appears to be no up-side, with no malaria to fight. It requires blood transfusions for the child's survival.
All this knowledge, shared with Steve, while moderately interesting, brought no word forth from him either. My years-old information sources had been different from his. Or maybe I just wasn't describing it as well as I thought. I was certain, as soon as I ran across the right word I would recognize it instantly.
Searching for the name, my brain had gotten sidetracked. I know without a doubt that "cystic fibrosis" is wrong, but the brain stuck there, like a train going down the track in the wrong direction because the switch has been flipped, with nobody to switch it back. I couldn't come up with the right term by bedtime. When I woke up in the wee hours, the fitful sleep I had after that point and the dreams I had searching for the term were all unproductive. This happens more and more these days, and on the way to my computer, I spent some time musing about my aging brain and possible "old timers disease", as a late friend used to call it. I try not to let that scare me: I've been very "brain proud" most of my life. One aunt who lost her vocabulary had a terminal brain tumor when I was a child, and I give passing thought to that as well. I can list past chemical exposures and try to calculate their effects too, or remember my parents' last years, or ....
Not helpful! There was only one solution: Google. I spent a bit of time translating my descriptive paragraph to a few key words for the search: "blood disease African children". Since my idea of what are key words seldom match Google's, while I was typing those in, I was also working on plan B. There wasn't a plan B. This was either going to work or I was going to have to pester one or more of the medical professionals I have contact with for the name, with no reason relevant to why I was seeing them.
Fortunately, the first six answers to my search all came up with the right answer: sickle cell anemia. Of course it was! Not only did I have the missing name, I instantly knew why my vocabulary train derailed, this time It was the similarity of sound in the first syllables, sickle and cystic.
For some reason I find that reassuring.
The older I get, the more common that is. Watching Jeopardy, for example, I know exactly what the answer (OK, question) is, I can see it in my head, but the word just isn't there. I would never consider trying to be on that show because everybody would have the correct answer first, and be three more questions down the road except for the fact that the real information would have been stated. It's a change. Twenty years ago, I was simply ignorant and couldn't have even imagined I knew the word. Now, especially after watching years of the program with Steve, I know the words are missing. Maybe just displaced.
Yesterday, in ordinary conversation - and don't ask me why the hell this was ordinary - I was searching for a word. It wasn't lost until I started hunting for it. I could describe why I needed that word. I knew exactly which one-and-only word I needed. It was the name of a disease and had only one name, no synonyms, no approximations. I could - and did - explain what it meant.
The disease is a blood disease, most common in children (because of poor survival rates?), and targets those of mostly African descent. It is thought to be the result of a genetic adaption that is beneficial in areas where malaria is endemic, increasing survival rates in those who contract it. Here, there appears to be no up-side, with no malaria to fight. It requires blood transfusions for the child's survival.
All this knowledge, shared with Steve, while moderately interesting, brought no word forth from him either. My years-old information sources had been different from his. Or maybe I just wasn't describing it as well as I thought. I was certain, as soon as I ran across the right word I would recognize it instantly.
Searching for the name, my brain had gotten sidetracked. I know without a doubt that "cystic fibrosis" is wrong, but the brain stuck there, like a train going down the track in the wrong direction because the switch has been flipped, with nobody to switch it back. I couldn't come up with the right term by bedtime. When I woke up in the wee hours, the fitful sleep I had after that point and the dreams I had searching for the term were all unproductive. This happens more and more these days, and on the way to my computer, I spent some time musing about my aging brain and possible "old timers disease", as a late friend used to call it. I try not to let that scare me: I've been very "brain proud" most of my life. One aunt who lost her vocabulary had a terminal brain tumor when I was a child, and I give passing thought to that as well. I can list past chemical exposures and try to calculate their effects too, or remember my parents' last years, or ....
Not helpful! There was only one solution: Google. I spent a bit of time translating my descriptive paragraph to a few key words for the search: "blood disease African children". Since my idea of what are key words seldom match Google's, while I was typing those in, I was also working on plan B. There wasn't a plan B. This was either going to work or I was going to have to pester one or more of the medical professionals I have contact with for the name, with no reason relevant to why I was seeing them.
Fortunately, the first six answers to my search all came up with the right answer: sickle cell anemia. Of course it was! Not only did I have the missing name, I instantly knew why my vocabulary train derailed, this time It was the similarity of sound in the first syllables, sickle and cystic.
For some reason I find that reassuring.
Monday, November 19, 2018
Ask George Carlin Why....
Poo... poop... crap... frass... guano... coprolite... buffalo chips... horse biscuits... turd... cow pie... dung... feces... #2... doo-doo... BM... discharge... excrement... defecation... stool...feculence... waste... manure... droppings....
All these terms are OK for use on the public airwaves according to the FCC. So why oh why did somebody decide you can't say "shit" for shit?
All these terms are OK for use on the public airwaves according to the FCC. So why oh why did somebody decide you can't say "shit" for shit?
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
Medi-Go-Round
Finding just the right combination of just the right meds can be a challenge. There have been several adjustments in the 5 years plus since my A-Fib diagnosis. I was very lucky in my timing, having my first ER visit on my 65th birthday, just a few days after going from no insurance to Medicare.
First, there was the decision to take me off the diuretic that was controlling my BP, under the supposition that it was - after about 15 years - interfering with my electrolytes. It was replaced by a beta blocker, Metoprolol, which has the main effect of keeping my heartbeat slowed to between 50 and 60 bpm. Since the a-fib attacks boosted it to around 130 bpm, this was a logical choice. I'm still on that one.
It wasn't very good, however, at controlling my blood pressure. Add Lisinopril. Double the pill dose. Double the pill number. Add Amlodipine, with regular BP monitoring, in case the dose needed to boost from one daily to two, or drop back again.
The Metoprolol also wasn't good at regulating the cardiac rhythm. Irregularities progressed for a couple years until, while on vacation back in Minnesota, I required an ambulance ride during which I kept nearly passing out about once a minute. I've got some real interesting EKG tapes from that ride to take home to my Arizona cardiologist so he could see just what had been happening. You may have read here earlier that his response was, "Well, it's not flatline, but it's just as bad." It was enough to scare the crap out of me.
Luckily I had a relationship with a cardiologist in Minnesota that enabled me to slip in an appointment the very next day in their clinic office. They prescribed Amiodarone. It worked so well that after 6 months of no irregularity whatsoever - and I'm one of those who can tell it's happening - I was taken off the Warfarin, prescribed to prevent strokes. Stopping that was fine, since we never did get to the point of regulating what the proper dose for me was.
So now everything was stable, and for several years. End of story, right? Well, not exactly. My eye surgeon, the one who replace my cataract, in a regular follow-up visit, noted brown spots accumulating in the back of my eyes. It's a symptom of Amiodarone toxicity. There are other nasty effects when your body decided it's toxic. Last spring, before heading north again, I discussed with my cardiologist my desire to go off Amiodarone. Just, not until I was back for 9 months for medical supervision. The toxicity wasn't going to drastically change while on vacation.
A month ago, the process started. The plan was a half pill for 2 weeks, then cold turkey. The medication stays in the system for weeks anyway, so the effect would be a gradual tapering off.
Theories are great. Life doesn't always cooperate. Within just a few days I was getting episodes of arrhythmia, prompting a call to my cardiologist. Each day's episode was more extreme. She took me seriously, put me back on my Amiodarone, doubling the dose to make up for the tapering off, before settling back down to normal dose. That is what prompted my going back on Warfarin as well.
Fortunately I had the foresight to keep the medic alert bracelet I wore last time I was on Warfarin.
The rhythms are back to normal. INR levels not so much. Those are getting monitored twice weekly, as opposed to every two weeks or even less often for most other people. After two weeks, my numbers which should have been between 2 and 3, with one being unmedicated normal, were over 7. My blood's ability to clot was so low that the regular BP cuff was enough to raise a bruise. The lab tech who took that reading told me to start eating with a spoon because I didn't want to stab myself with a fork.
I confirmed that wasn't a joke.
Today we started Plan B for weaning me off Amiodarone. It involves replacing it immediately with Cardizem. It's expensive. However, it's also stronger than what I've been taking at lowering BP. So, I also quit the Amlodipine and cut the Lisinopril in half. Not that they get thrown out, but instead are kept around in case this doesn't exactly work out. All in all, the cost is close to a wash. Plus, the cardiologist and I had a long discussion on the desirable range of BP readings, now that too low is an actual possibility. So that will be checked twice daily, and the Lisinopril intake will be modified accordingly.
I'm just a work in progress.
First, there was the decision to take me off the diuretic that was controlling my BP, under the supposition that it was - after about 15 years - interfering with my electrolytes. It was replaced by a beta blocker, Metoprolol, which has the main effect of keeping my heartbeat slowed to between 50 and 60 bpm. Since the a-fib attacks boosted it to around 130 bpm, this was a logical choice. I'm still on that one.
It wasn't very good, however, at controlling my blood pressure. Add Lisinopril. Double the pill dose. Double the pill number. Add Amlodipine, with regular BP monitoring, in case the dose needed to boost from one daily to two, or drop back again.
The Metoprolol also wasn't good at regulating the cardiac rhythm. Irregularities progressed for a couple years until, while on vacation back in Minnesota, I required an ambulance ride during which I kept nearly passing out about once a minute. I've got some real interesting EKG tapes from that ride to take home to my Arizona cardiologist so he could see just what had been happening. You may have read here earlier that his response was, "Well, it's not flatline, but it's just as bad." It was enough to scare the crap out of me.
Luckily I had a relationship with a cardiologist in Minnesota that enabled me to slip in an appointment the very next day in their clinic office. They prescribed Amiodarone. It worked so well that after 6 months of no irregularity whatsoever - and I'm one of those who can tell it's happening - I was taken off the Warfarin, prescribed to prevent strokes. Stopping that was fine, since we never did get to the point of regulating what the proper dose for me was.
So now everything was stable, and for several years. End of story, right? Well, not exactly. My eye surgeon, the one who replace my cataract, in a regular follow-up visit, noted brown spots accumulating in the back of my eyes. It's a symptom of Amiodarone toxicity. There are other nasty effects when your body decided it's toxic. Last spring, before heading north again, I discussed with my cardiologist my desire to go off Amiodarone. Just, not until I was back for 9 months for medical supervision. The toxicity wasn't going to drastically change while on vacation.
A month ago, the process started. The plan was a half pill for 2 weeks, then cold turkey. The medication stays in the system for weeks anyway, so the effect would be a gradual tapering off.
Theories are great. Life doesn't always cooperate. Within just a few days I was getting episodes of arrhythmia, prompting a call to my cardiologist. Each day's episode was more extreme. She took me seriously, put me back on my Amiodarone, doubling the dose to make up for the tapering off, before settling back down to normal dose. That is what prompted my going back on Warfarin as well.
Fortunately I had the foresight to keep the medic alert bracelet I wore last time I was on Warfarin.
The rhythms are back to normal. INR levels not so much. Those are getting monitored twice weekly, as opposed to every two weeks or even less often for most other people. After two weeks, my numbers which should have been between 2 and 3, with one being unmedicated normal, were over 7. My blood's ability to clot was so low that the regular BP cuff was enough to raise a bruise. The lab tech who took that reading told me to start eating with a spoon because I didn't want to stab myself with a fork.
I confirmed that wasn't a joke.
Today we started Plan B for weaning me off Amiodarone. It involves replacing it immediately with Cardizem. It's expensive. However, it's also stronger than what I've been taking at lowering BP. So, I also quit the Amlodipine and cut the Lisinopril in half. Not that they get thrown out, but instead are kept around in case this doesn't exactly work out. All in all, the cost is close to a wash. Plus, the cardiologist and I had a long discussion on the desirable range of BP readings, now that too low is an actual possibility. So that will be checked twice daily, and the Lisinopril intake will be modified accordingly.
I'm just a work in progress.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Low-Info Voters: No Excuses
Public radio often has segments I find highly disturbing. Today, Nov. 6, Election Day, was no exception. The interviewer was speaking with a Millennial who was representing the viewpoint of others in his generation, explaining why so many of them did not vote.
After listing several "reasons" for not voting, one stood out. Too many of them were low-information voters. Not knowing everything about all the candidates, they were unwilling to vote for any of them.
There are so many ways that is wrong. And this time around, it is so very important. That is, unless you have no problems with a president* and a political party promoting racism, misogyny, fearmongering and violence, not to mention destroying the environment so the rich can get richer, incidentally the same principle behind the tax cut plan, and ignoring the Constitution.
It's not hard to get the facts, folks, as long as you pay a little bit of attention. If you don't have time for in depth research, check with somebody who's well-versed in the party platform from each major party, ask what they stand for, and decide which most closely matches your personal ideals. It is possible to vote the party line, as they are so far apart these days, and any representative of each is more likely to, well, represent. Don't let yourself be fooled into thinking somebody has to be a "purist" in following the party line, and if not, you can't vote for anything they stand for. The perfect should never be the enemy of the good, particularly when the choices are so stark.
I always ran into trouble once the ballot got to the point of voting for the judges. I'm not sure why they were ever put on the ballot. Politics should not be part of their process. Following the laws should be. Besides, they were never out there advertising themselves. I simply asked my attorney friend who lived in the same county whether anyone was way out there so far they weren't fulfilling their duties. And more often or not, candidates way down-ballot got no marks either way on my card. If I couldn't decide from ignorance, blank did seem to be the proper choice. So yes, I get that. We may not know everybody well enough to make all the choices wisely. But we should still know some race(s) that we have an opinion on, and get out and do our civic duty by VOTING.
It's a small price to pay for the privilege of living in this country.
Too soon we forget how recently so many of us weren't allowed to have a say in how our country was run. Minorities, the poor, women, those between age 18 and 21 - we've all had to fight for our places as additions to the rolls. And today, too many of the powerful are working to deny that right all over again. Let's not do that job for them by staying home.
After listing several "reasons" for not voting, one stood out. Too many of them were low-information voters. Not knowing everything about all the candidates, they were unwilling to vote for any of them.
There are so many ways that is wrong. And this time around, it is so very important. That is, unless you have no problems with a president* and a political party promoting racism, misogyny, fearmongering and violence, not to mention destroying the environment so the rich can get richer, incidentally the same principle behind the tax cut plan, and ignoring the Constitution.
It's not hard to get the facts, folks, as long as you pay a little bit of attention. If you don't have time for in depth research, check with somebody who's well-versed in the party platform from each major party, ask what they stand for, and decide which most closely matches your personal ideals. It is possible to vote the party line, as they are so far apart these days, and any representative of each is more likely to, well, represent. Don't let yourself be fooled into thinking somebody has to be a "purist" in following the party line, and if not, you can't vote for anything they stand for. The perfect should never be the enemy of the good, particularly when the choices are so stark.
I always ran into trouble once the ballot got to the point of voting for the judges. I'm not sure why they were ever put on the ballot. Politics should not be part of their process. Following the laws should be. Besides, they were never out there advertising themselves. I simply asked my attorney friend who lived in the same county whether anyone was way out there so far they weren't fulfilling their duties. And more often or not, candidates way down-ballot got no marks either way on my card. If I couldn't decide from ignorance, blank did seem to be the proper choice. So yes, I get that. We may not know everybody well enough to make all the choices wisely. But we should still know some race(s) that we have an opinion on, and get out and do our civic duty by VOTING.
It's a small price to pay for the privilege of living in this country.
Too soon we forget how recently so many of us weren't allowed to have a say in how our country was run. Minorities, the poor, women, those between age 18 and 21 - we've all had to fight for our places as additions to the rolls. And today, too many of the powerful are working to deny that right all over again. Let's not do that job for them by staying home.
Saturday, November 3, 2018
Insomnia Idiosyncrasies
I've decided I'm weird. Physiologically, that is. Since retirement I've been battling insomnia, and have taken to studying my own sleep patterns to aid in figuring how to amend the problem. I've done all the usual things that are advised. The blue light sources, TV and computer, are shut down in favor of incandescent lighting for reading before bed. Caffeine, including chocolate sources, are (mostly) cut off early in the day.
Well, at least when I remember. Sometimes the chocolate goes in before the brain engages.
I take melatonin, with mixed results. It may or may not work, but the results tend to be short lived. If I wake around 3 or 4 AM, that's often my body's cue to wake up fully, thus requiring a good nap during the day. The nap, in turn, means I'm fresh to stay up later, and around and around we go....
I try not to nap.
I can think I'm sleepy, head for bed, and start designing jewelry in my head. Combine a concept with a learned skill, and try to figure out how they combine for the desired results. Then start in on the variations, and I'm wide awake an hour later. The only help is getting up again, either to write down the concept in ways only I can understand, and hopefully still will in the morning, or actually start working with the materials to see how it goes and try to solve the kinks. Some literal. Only after that will the brain settle down.
This year's travel back from Minnesota seems to temporarily, at least, have set my sleep clock straight. Partly time zone changes, partly several days with lots of miles and little room for naps, I think. Anyway, I welcome the change. I'm starting to feel my normal morning-person self again.
Along the journey to a livable sleep schedule, I've discovered one other thing, quite paradoxical. At night, I sleep much better and deeper when the room, the bed, and I are all a bit cooler. I can aid that by opening my bedroom windows and stripping down to PJs about an hour before bed. Barefoot helps too. But during the day, getting warm and cozy is what makes me sleepy.
Don't ask me how that works. I just mark it off to being weird.
Well, at least when I remember. Sometimes the chocolate goes in before the brain engages.
I take melatonin, with mixed results. It may or may not work, but the results tend to be short lived. If I wake around 3 or 4 AM, that's often my body's cue to wake up fully, thus requiring a good nap during the day. The nap, in turn, means I'm fresh to stay up later, and around and around we go....
I try not to nap.
I can think I'm sleepy, head for bed, and start designing jewelry in my head. Combine a concept with a learned skill, and try to figure out how they combine for the desired results. Then start in on the variations, and I'm wide awake an hour later. The only help is getting up again, either to write down the concept in ways only I can understand, and hopefully still will in the morning, or actually start working with the materials to see how it goes and try to solve the kinks. Some literal. Only after that will the brain settle down.
This year's travel back from Minnesota seems to temporarily, at least, have set my sleep clock straight. Partly time zone changes, partly several days with lots of miles and little room for naps, I think. Anyway, I welcome the change. I'm starting to feel my normal morning-person self again.
Along the journey to a livable sleep schedule, I've discovered one other thing, quite paradoxical. At night, I sleep much better and deeper when the room, the bed, and I are all a bit cooler. I can aid that by opening my bedroom windows and stripping down to PJs about an hour before bed. Barefoot helps too. But during the day, getting warm and cozy is what makes me sleepy.
Don't ask me how that works. I just mark it off to being weird.
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
Hail !!!!
There's a hurricane passing way south of us: Willa. We thought it might mean a chance of rain here, but odds dropped as it stayed south. A check of the sky today showed clouds building in all the usual spots, i.e., not here, and radar showed small spots of rain by later afternoon. Again, not here, and aimed away. As the sky darkened, radar still showed it well away from here.
Sigh.
But then there were a few drops hitting the steel awning over the front sidewalk along the house. They were the kind that evaporate seconds after hitting the ground. A check also showed they were hitting the front yard, not the back. Typical, being just on the sharp edge of moisture.
Sigh. No wonder we're called Sun City.
Then it started to show it meant business. We could actually hear, as levels increased, the edge of the rain moving across our roof into the back yard. Quickly, it was pouring. Then hailing!
Cool! No, really, we could turn off the AC as the temperature rapidly dropped from upper 80s to mid 60s.
While only dime sized, mostly, it was pounding us for over 20 minutes. Hail is so rare here that we decided to head out to the patio and watch something more entertaining than the TV. Despite lack of wind, the hail was hitting so hard it was bouncing off the ground and into the covered patio. Some even made it as far as the door.
Camera time!
I set it on video: stills just wouldn't tell the story. Besides bouncing in, hail was coming down so fast it continued to show a white yard even though it was melting rapidly. Puddles collected all over the back yard, and as they grew into small ponds the splashing kicked up the water over 3" in some cases. Under the steel patio roof it was so loud I could barely tell Steve was yelling. If I had to guess, I would have said it was just a series of whoops like one might yell early in a roller coaster ride. If it was important, he would have needed to do something drastic to get my attention. I was busy filming.
When the hail finally quit, it was still pouring, though now the decibel level dropped enough that we could tell there was continuous thunder. There was so much standing water that the birds flew in and took advantage of their rare communal birdbath, including the 1st red-winged blackbird I've seen down here.
Once the hail ended, it was just another thunderstorm. No more filming. There was already an inch of rain in the gauge, with more pounding us for a while. There were cushions and a wood table to rescue outside, windows to open for fresh cool air, and more radar checks to make.
There was also the fun of watching the runoff in the street. This area is so flat only a good rain really indicates up and down. Yes, the streets are crowned, eventually the only place showing above running water. Watching one car coming "down" our street, I watched the driver hitting its brakes about three houses down. The whole street was flooded there, better than half a block from the next intersection. It wasn't enough to stop for, at least as far as I could still follow the car's path.
Tomorrow I'll know how much rain we got. Last time I looked it was 1 1/2 inches, but it was still coming down. Suppertime news showed streets in Sun City from helicopter views after sunset where cars had stalled out after driving into the water, one totally submerged but with its headlights still shining. They also showed the idiots, of course, who loved wading through flowing water up to the hips. We're not sure, from shots where the only landmarks were palm trees in the middle of a temporary lake, just how high the standing water would be in intersections right around here, but Steve wisely decided to skip cards tonight. His scooter has about a 3" clearance.
* * * * *
FYI: 2 1/2 inches in the gauge, in just over an hour.
Sigh.
But then there were a few drops hitting the steel awning over the front sidewalk along the house. They were the kind that evaporate seconds after hitting the ground. A check also showed they were hitting the front yard, not the back. Typical, being just on the sharp edge of moisture.
Sigh. No wonder we're called Sun City.
Then it started to show it meant business. We could actually hear, as levels increased, the edge of the rain moving across our roof into the back yard. Quickly, it was pouring. Then hailing!
Cool! No, really, we could turn off the AC as the temperature rapidly dropped from upper 80s to mid 60s.
While only dime sized, mostly, it was pounding us for over 20 minutes. Hail is so rare here that we decided to head out to the patio and watch something more entertaining than the TV. Despite lack of wind, the hail was hitting so hard it was bouncing off the ground and into the covered patio. Some even made it as far as the door.
Camera time!
I set it on video: stills just wouldn't tell the story. Besides bouncing in, hail was coming down so fast it continued to show a white yard even though it was melting rapidly. Puddles collected all over the back yard, and as they grew into small ponds the splashing kicked up the water over 3" in some cases. Under the steel patio roof it was so loud I could barely tell Steve was yelling. If I had to guess, I would have said it was just a series of whoops like one might yell early in a roller coaster ride. If it was important, he would have needed to do something drastic to get my attention. I was busy filming.
When the hail finally quit, it was still pouring, though now the decibel level dropped enough that we could tell there was continuous thunder. There was so much standing water that the birds flew in and took advantage of their rare communal birdbath, including the 1st red-winged blackbird I've seen down here.
Once the hail ended, it was just another thunderstorm. No more filming. There was already an inch of rain in the gauge, with more pounding us for a while. There were cushions and a wood table to rescue outside, windows to open for fresh cool air, and more radar checks to make.
There was also the fun of watching the runoff in the street. This area is so flat only a good rain really indicates up and down. Yes, the streets are crowned, eventually the only place showing above running water. Watching one car coming "down" our street, I watched the driver hitting its brakes about three houses down. The whole street was flooded there, better than half a block from the next intersection. It wasn't enough to stop for, at least as far as I could still follow the car's path.
Tomorrow I'll know how much rain we got. Last time I looked it was 1 1/2 inches, but it was still coming down. Suppertime news showed streets in Sun City from helicopter views after sunset where cars had stalled out after driving into the water, one totally submerged but with its headlights still shining. They also showed the idiots, of course, who loved wading through flowing water up to the hips. We're not sure, from shots where the only landmarks were palm trees in the middle of a temporary lake, just how high the standing water would be in intersections right around here, but Steve wisely decided to skip cards tonight. His scooter has about a 3" clearance.
* * * * *
FYI: 2 1/2 inches in the gauge, in just over an hour.
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Voted!
The decisions are made and the envelope is in the mailbox. Now it's the waiting. And hoping you all don't forget to take your turn. Turnout is vital this time. There has never been a more important election, at least in my lifetime. Possibly in the US's lifetime.
While I won't say whom I voted for, I'll share a little of my process. This year is one of those where it's straight party line, all the way. Those of you who know me, or even those who just regularly read this, can figure out which party that is. Back when I first started voting, there were a lot of ballots where that wasn't the case. A few from this party, several from the next, some independents.... Party wasn't the priority, not like today.
When that's not the guiding force, I have several other ways of choosing who's getting my vote. Perhaps there's a particular issue, especially in the minor local elections, where I look for matching values. That information is not always available. Heck, when I first ran for the city council, I had no real idea what the questions were, nevermind the answers. I'm amazed I got elected.
I don't decide by the barrage of ads, though I'm getting more informed on what the dog whistles are. Mostly, though, the DVR allows us to skip them. Our senate race must be costing an astronomical amount. Both candidates run opposing ads back-to-back in every commercial break on virtually every channel, even obscure networks. It's gotten so I can spot a frame in an ad as I flash through them all and know who the candidate is, despite not watching them. The brain must somehow piece them together anyway. Or maybe the thumb just gets so worn out pushing "skip forward" on the remote that I'm no longer as fast as I think I am. When those pictures no longer show, I know we're back into real programming. Gotta wonder who thinks those are still actually influencing anybody after this inundation. Other than refusing to watch any programming in live time.
I pay attention when one of those independent fact checkers offers information on somebody's position, particularly when candidates are shown to be - yes, I'll say it - liars. In nonpartisan races, all other things being equal, I'm likely to vote for a female candidate if one is running. We need more women's points of view. More need to be encouraged to run. If none get votes, why should any try?
Judges have always been tricky for me. I don't know any. Once I asked an attorney friend which ones on the ballot might be good or not. He approved of all incumbents. I'm not sure if that was helpful. Since I'm unaccustomed to any running opposed, it probably didn't matter. Besides, any judge with enough power to make a real difference is likely appointed by a high ranking politician. I don't get a direct say.
Arizona likes propositions on its ballots. Fortunately, the state also sends out pretty good information booklets covering the text of them, the consequences if they pass or don't, and a variety of opinion pieces per each one from both the proponents and opponents. It's good that we are retired, because that's a lot of reading to wade through. One was so detailed and lengthy that I was still confused as to what it was actually about. I called a friend who's politically savvy, and she spelled it out in a few words. It proposes to take funds from the already meager public schools budget to pay for vouchers to send students to private schools. I instantly knew what my vote was.
From those experiences and others, I have come to value networking to get facts and opinions on my ballot choices. Discussing issues in relation to my choices, making lists of who I do or don't want to choose, all prove helpful. As long, that is, as I consider the source. If I know the source holds opposing views to mine, I'll return the favor with an opposing vote to their choices.
One thing I really appreciate about Arizona elections is how easy it is to have your ballot mailed to you. There's even a Permanent Early Voter status where you always get your ballot mailed out. No standing in long lines, which can be hours long here. And there's time (weeks) to ask questions and research people and propositions you know nothing about, instead of making split decisions during your minute and a half in the voting booth. It helps me make better choices.
I feel good about something else I've done in this election. After listening to the stories of voter suppression in many states, I've found a way to help in the fight for the right to vote. In particular, there's the situation in North Dakota where the rules have been changed since the primary as to what makes a legitimate voter ID. Having a P.O. box address disqualifies you.
Perhaps you already understand this issue, but if you don't, I'll give you the short tour. This is designed to drastically cut turnout in two ("blue") counties where the population is majority Native American. Historically, these reservations don't use street addresses. The tribal members use PO boxes. The tribes say that is good enough, and historically it has been. Now, there is a very short window of time to 1: invent street addresses for all the members, and 2: produce voter IDs for all the members. People are willing to help, and one organization which is fundraising for political issues has organized the effort to raise the estimated $100,000 needed to complete the task.
Tired of being irate at all the voter suppression stories from around the country and not being in a position to do anything to help, I took advantage of the opportunity to act. They have my contribution too.
While I won't say whom I voted for, I'll share a little of my process. This year is one of those where it's straight party line, all the way. Those of you who know me, or even those who just regularly read this, can figure out which party that is. Back when I first started voting, there were a lot of ballots where that wasn't the case. A few from this party, several from the next, some independents.... Party wasn't the priority, not like today.
When that's not the guiding force, I have several other ways of choosing who's getting my vote. Perhaps there's a particular issue, especially in the minor local elections, where I look for matching values. That information is not always available. Heck, when I first ran for the city council, I had no real idea what the questions were, nevermind the answers. I'm amazed I got elected.
I don't decide by the barrage of ads, though I'm getting more informed on what the dog whistles are. Mostly, though, the DVR allows us to skip them. Our senate race must be costing an astronomical amount. Both candidates run opposing ads back-to-back in every commercial break on virtually every channel, even obscure networks. It's gotten so I can spot a frame in an ad as I flash through them all and know who the candidate is, despite not watching them. The brain must somehow piece them together anyway. Or maybe the thumb just gets so worn out pushing "skip forward" on the remote that I'm no longer as fast as I think I am. When those pictures no longer show, I know we're back into real programming. Gotta wonder who thinks those are still actually influencing anybody after this inundation. Other than refusing to watch any programming in live time.
I pay attention when one of those independent fact checkers offers information on somebody's position, particularly when candidates are shown to be - yes, I'll say it - liars. In nonpartisan races, all other things being equal, I'm likely to vote for a female candidate if one is running. We need more women's points of view. More need to be encouraged to run. If none get votes, why should any try?
Judges have always been tricky for me. I don't know any. Once I asked an attorney friend which ones on the ballot might be good or not. He approved of all incumbents. I'm not sure if that was helpful. Since I'm unaccustomed to any running opposed, it probably didn't matter. Besides, any judge with enough power to make a real difference is likely appointed by a high ranking politician. I don't get a direct say.
Arizona likes propositions on its ballots. Fortunately, the state also sends out pretty good information booklets covering the text of them, the consequences if they pass or don't, and a variety of opinion pieces per each one from both the proponents and opponents. It's good that we are retired, because that's a lot of reading to wade through. One was so detailed and lengthy that I was still confused as to what it was actually about. I called a friend who's politically savvy, and she spelled it out in a few words. It proposes to take funds from the already meager public schools budget to pay for vouchers to send students to private schools. I instantly knew what my vote was.
From those experiences and others, I have come to value networking to get facts and opinions on my ballot choices. Discussing issues in relation to my choices, making lists of who I do or don't want to choose, all prove helpful. As long, that is, as I consider the source. If I know the source holds opposing views to mine, I'll return the favor with an opposing vote to their choices.
One thing I really appreciate about Arizona elections is how easy it is to have your ballot mailed to you. There's even a Permanent Early Voter status where you always get your ballot mailed out. No standing in long lines, which can be hours long here. And there's time (weeks) to ask questions and research people and propositions you know nothing about, instead of making split decisions during your minute and a half in the voting booth. It helps me make better choices.
I feel good about something else I've done in this election. After listening to the stories of voter suppression in many states, I've found a way to help in the fight for the right to vote. In particular, there's the situation in North Dakota where the rules have been changed since the primary as to what makes a legitimate voter ID. Having a P.O. box address disqualifies you.
Perhaps you already understand this issue, but if you don't, I'll give you the short tour. This is designed to drastically cut turnout in two ("blue") counties where the population is majority Native American. Historically, these reservations don't use street addresses. The tribal members use PO boxes. The tribes say that is good enough, and historically it has been. Now, there is a very short window of time to 1: invent street addresses for all the members, and 2: produce voter IDs for all the members. People are willing to help, and one organization which is fundraising for political issues has organized the effort to raise the estimated $100,000 needed to complete the task.
Tired of being irate at all the voter suppression stories from around the country and not being in a position to do anything to help, I took advantage of the opportunity to act. They have my contribution too.
Friday, October 19, 2018
FYI: I Didn't Choke
It started with a coupon. A local burger chain had a discount of some new menu items and Steve and I had talked about checking them out next time we wanted take-out burgers instead of our usual choice of Burger King since this sale matched BK's prices. Yesterday, about 1:30 PM, we did.
You note I didn't mention the chain's name. And the burgers were fine enough, at the discounted price. Neither of those things is what this post is about. I'm tempted to think what happened is political, but assholes have been assholes forever, and today's political climate fighting against civility isn't necessarily the driving force behind this.
To my surprise, having thought that 1:30 was late enough to avoid the worst of the lunch crowd, the place was packed. The drive through was slow, and I had to wait behind three other vehicles just to turn in to its lane. Customers come at that lane from 2 different directions, and I waited with my blinker on to signal my intentions. Yes, traffic was blocked, but the two cars behind me on our side waited patiently. It was finally my turn to turn into the lane, just as soon as the tail-end car in it pulled forward a little more.
There was half a car length available, when another car came from the other direction. Rather than driving through to park next to the building, as that lane was unobstructed, it stopped, then moved just a bit as if it were going to cut in next. I was hungry, and had been patiently waiting for a while, but at that point, I wasn't having any of it. I simply pulled across in front of the other car and halfway into the drive through lane. I do admit I was sticking out a bit into the other lane, but for about ten seconds only before the way forward cleared.
Meanwhile, the driver of the other car started honking. With both our cars having their windows down, we could clearly hear loud, ugly swearing from the other vehicle. I just ignored them, but Steve had a clear view of the full flock of birds they were flipping our way, and offered one back.
Mind you, this only took about ten seconds. Traffic moved, their way was cleared, life went on.
You'd think this was the end of the story, right?
They chose to pull past at this point, despite their earlier slight angling towards the drive through lane. The first big sign in the drive through blocked our views of each other. Silly me, I assumed it was over. But the man charged over from where they parked to right outside my window, yelling at full volume (I presume: it was louder than I can manage) and flipping more birds. I ignored him, but spent about 5 more seconds working to keep Steve from gesturing in kind.
The line moved a few feet more ahead, us with it. Now the woman appeared from behind the other side of the sign, though not advancing further forward. Safety? Quick exit? Who knows? One decibel down from a full scream, she yelled to me, "I hope you choke on your sandwich!"
I just ignored her, heading forward again with the line. I had lots of thoughts about what might constitute a reply, but was in no hurry to escalate their activity. Would it have helped to reply how Christian this was of her? Among other thoughts, there were no indications of what her religious views might be. I thought back to my time of living in Georgia, and maybe offering a deep south response of, "Well bless your little pea-picking heart!" In case any of you don't speak deep south, any version of "bless your heart" is not a blessing but an insult, indicating just how badly you think the other person need a blessing because they're totally unable to assist themselves and need divine assistance. Stupid, lazy, major character flaws, it's an all-purpose insult. It didn't seem likely to be of benefit to the situation either, so I stayed with just thinking it.
I did share with Steve my wonder at their stopping to take so much time venting at us, since presumably they were in a hurry to eat, explaining their anger over a short wait, and they were now much more delayed in placing their order.
And no, I didn't choke on my sandwich. Not one little bite of it.
You note I didn't mention the chain's name. And the burgers were fine enough, at the discounted price. Neither of those things is what this post is about. I'm tempted to think what happened is political, but assholes have been assholes forever, and today's political climate fighting against civility isn't necessarily the driving force behind this.
To my surprise, having thought that 1:30 was late enough to avoid the worst of the lunch crowd, the place was packed. The drive through was slow, and I had to wait behind three other vehicles just to turn in to its lane. Customers come at that lane from 2 different directions, and I waited with my blinker on to signal my intentions. Yes, traffic was blocked, but the two cars behind me on our side waited patiently. It was finally my turn to turn into the lane, just as soon as the tail-end car in it pulled forward a little more.
There was half a car length available, when another car came from the other direction. Rather than driving through to park next to the building, as that lane was unobstructed, it stopped, then moved just a bit as if it were going to cut in next. I was hungry, and had been patiently waiting for a while, but at that point, I wasn't having any of it. I simply pulled across in front of the other car and halfway into the drive through lane. I do admit I was sticking out a bit into the other lane, but for about ten seconds only before the way forward cleared.
Meanwhile, the driver of the other car started honking. With both our cars having their windows down, we could clearly hear loud, ugly swearing from the other vehicle. I just ignored them, but Steve had a clear view of the full flock of birds they were flipping our way, and offered one back.
Mind you, this only took about ten seconds. Traffic moved, their way was cleared, life went on.
You'd think this was the end of the story, right?
They chose to pull past at this point, despite their earlier slight angling towards the drive through lane. The first big sign in the drive through blocked our views of each other. Silly me, I assumed it was over. But the man charged over from where they parked to right outside my window, yelling at full volume (I presume: it was louder than I can manage) and flipping more birds. I ignored him, but spent about 5 more seconds working to keep Steve from gesturing in kind.
The line moved a few feet more ahead, us with it. Now the woman appeared from behind the other side of the sign, though not advancing further forward. Safety? Quick exit? Who knows? One decibel down from a full scream, she yelled to me, "I hope you choke on your sandwich!"
I just ignored her, heading forward again with the line. I had lots of thoughts about what might constitute a reply, but was in no hurry to escalate their activity. Would it have helped to reply how Christian this was of her? Among other thoughts, there were no indications of what her religious views might be. I thought back to my time of living in Georgia, and maybe offering a deep south response of, "Well bless your little pea-picking heart!" In case any of you don't speak deep south, any version of "bless your heart" is not a blessing but an insult, indicating just how badly you think the other person need a blessing because they're totally unable to assist themselves and need divine assistance. Stupid, lazy, major character flaws, it's an all-purpose insult. It didn't seem likely to be of benefit to the situation either, so I stayed with just thinking it.
I did share with Steve my wonder at their stopping to take so much time venting at us, since presumably they were in a hurry to eat, explaining their anger over a short wait, and they were now much more delayed in placing their order.
And no, I didn't choke on my sandwich. Not one little bite of it.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
So-o-o-o Crunched
It started with what is a fairly routine request in this household: "Will you call my phone?" One or the other of us will occasionally have left their cell phone in a non-obvious place. Since they are black, and easily hide, and since we frequently have mobility issues, when one can't be found, its ringing will point us at least to the right room for the search. Once there, we can hone in quickly on its location.
That's how it usually goes. Today when I called Steve's phone, it went straight to voicemail. Not helpful. A few questions produced ambiguous clues. Was it off while sitting on the charger? Unknown. Had it run out of battery and not been charged? Where was it last used and what had happened since then? All of these are the usual questions and of course the usual starting questions that already had led nowhere, but we're either optimistic or pessimistic enough to hope going through them now might produce results.
Nada.
He'd had one of his late nights with little sleep, so his lift chair was the obvious place to start the search together. Not between the cushion and arms or back, as far as we could reach. It often ends up there when Steve wears something without a belt. The very secure case for his phone is then substituted for pockets, which we've found on numerous occasions do not adequately secure a phone. Hey, women's pockets are even worse! I've often gotten up from sitting and the phone hasn't joined me.
After hunting from the top, we hunted from the bottom of his chair. Nothing on the floor, nothing showing hanging lower than we could reach from the top. It really helps to tilt the chair forward for a good inspection, since everything is black, shadowed, and otherwise unreachable. While it was thus tilted, we used the electric control to move the chair in case something might fall out. Still nothing.
We set the chair back in its usable position for a round of head scratching. And because it had worked so well before, we again tilted the chair forward and searched under it a second time. The chair had moved relative to its location on the rug, and suddenly there was a black cell-phone shape on the rug.
Ahah!
Uhhh, not so fast with the celebration, folks. It turned out to be just the plastic backing of the phone. At least we now knew where to concentrate our hunt. Still seeing nothing, however, despite poking and prodding in hopes of moving the rest of the phone into a visible position, we decided a rest was in order. The chair was set up again, and Steve, now both frustrated and worn out, stretched it back into recliner position. As it moved, I listened for any odd sounds that might indicate it dropping the phone from its hiding spot.
What I heard instead was the crackling of breaking glass. It repeated as the chair rose to sitting position.
We'd already come to expect it was broken when we'd found the phone's back. It wasn't just that it had been removed from the phone, but its condition as well. Now I still make a point of bragging that my cheap little flip phone had gotten crunched in that chair, with dents to show for it, but still worked perfectly. I tried to cheer Steve up with that possibility for his phone. Neither of us actually believed it in this case. But Steve had hopes we could retrieve the phone in good enough condition that he could remove the SIM card, place it in the spare phone in his room, and again have a working phone with his data in it.
When we were ready to work some more, over we tilted it and continued looking and feeling around the bottom/side of the chair. It's possible that in crunching the front of the phone, it had also been shifted slightly. Steve found it almost immediately. Unfortunately it had become wedged between two steel bars which normally have no distance between them. They were therefore gripping this thing so tightly we couldn't budge it.
I went for a pliers. Woefully inadequate. Steve fetched a hammer and flat blade screwdriver. A little pounding made for about 1/16inch of motion. We had to try to push it upwards in terms of the chair's usual position, both because it had fallen down into that spot, and below that those two bars was the bolt which held them together. About 8 whacks finally produced movement, and another 5 minutes of work finally freed the (remains of) the phone.
Whatever glass they use to make those screens, as much abuse as this one had endured, no splinters came loose. Our fingers were safe. So, once Steve worked on his phone, was its SIM card intact. The rest was trashed, and the spare phone placed on the charger for the first time in nearly a year. While waiting for it to show signs of life, there was much cleanup to do.
It was a good thing that we hadn't decided to sit around first. I saw a funny looking black thing on the floor, hiding in the area right where the chair leg reached the floor. Picking it up, I held a plastic coated thin rectangle, once flat but now both highly bent and of uneven thickness. My suspicion was verified by the words "lithium battery" among a host of other small white letters. Since I was already holding it, I could feel there were no hot spots. Still, enough of them have made the news that I immediately took it outside and dropped it in the garbage can, both metal and underground. If something had to burn, it wouldn't be the house.
Latest status is the spare phone is charged, the SIM card in place, and the screen informs Steve he has to call his phone company tomorrow to switch his service over to it.
Not the worst outcome.
That's how it usually goes. Today when I called Steve's phone, it went straight to voicemail. Not helpful. A few questions produced ambiguous clues. Was it off while sitting on the charger? Unknown. Had it run out of battery and not been charged? Where was it last used and what had happened since then? All of these are the usual questions and of course the usual starting questions that already had led nowhere, but we're either optimistic or pessimistic enough to hope going through them now might produce results.
Nada.
He'd had one of his late nights with little sleep, so his lift chair was the obvious place to start the search together. Not between the cushion and arms or back, as far as we could reach. It often ends up there when Steve wears something without a belt. The very secure case for his phone is then substituted for pockets, which we've found on numerous occasions do not adequately secure a phone. Hey, women's pockets are even worse! I've often gotten up from sitting and the phone hasn't joined me.
After hunting from the top, we hunted from the bottom of his chair. Nothing on the floor, nothing showing hanging lower than we could reach from the top. It really helps to tilt the chair forward for a good inspection, since everything is black, shadowed, and otherwise unreachable. While it was thus tilted, we used the electric control to move the chair in case something might fall out. Still nothing.
We set the chair back in its usable position for a round of head scratching. And because it had worked so well before, we again tilted the chair forward and searched under it a second time. The chair had moved relative to its location on the rug, and suddenly there was a black cell-phone shape on the rug.
Ahah!
Uhhh, not so fast with the celebration, folks. It turned out to be just the plastic backing of the phone. At least we now knew where to concentrate our hunt. Still seeing nothing, however, despite poking and prodding in hopes of moving the rest of the phone into a visible position, we decided a rest was in order. The chair was set up again, and Steve, now both frustrated and worn out, stretched it back into recliner position. As it moved, I listened for any odd sounds that might indicate it dropping the phone from its hiding spot.
What I heard instead was the crackling of breaking glass. It repeated as the chair rose to sitting position.
We'd already come to expect it was broken when we'd found the phone's back. It wasn't just that it had been removed from the phone, but its condition as well. Now I still make a point of bragging that my cheap little flip phone had gotten crunched in that chair, with dents to show for it, but still worked perfectly. I tried to cheer Steve up with that possibility for his phone. Neither of us actually believed it in this case. But Steve had hopes we could retrieve the phone in good enough condition that he could remove the SIM card, place it in the spare phone in his room, and again have a working phone with his data in it.
When we were ready to work some more, over we tilted it and continued looking and feeling around the bottom/side of the chair. It's possible that in crunching the front of the phone, it had also been shifted slightly. Steve found it almost immediately. Unfortunately it had become wedged between two steel bars which normally have no distance between them. They were therefore gripping this thing so tightly we couldn't budge it.
I went for a pliers. Woefully inadequate. Steve fetched a hammer and flat blade screwdriver. A little pounding made for about 1/16inch of motion. We had to try to push it upwards in terms of the chair's usual position, both because it had fallen down into that spot, and below that those two bars was the bolt which held them together. About 8 whacks finally produced movement, and another 5 minutes of work finally freed the (remains of) the phone.
Whatever glass they use to make those screens, as much abuse as this one had endured, no splinters came loose. Our fingers were safe. So, once Steve worked on his phone, was its SIM card intact. The rest was trashed, and the spare phone placed on the charger for the first time in nearly a year. While waiting for it to show signs of life, there was much cleanup to do.
It was a good thing that we hadn't decided to sit around first. I saw a funny looking black thing on the floor, hiding in the area right where the chair leg reached the floor. Picking it up, I held a plastic coated thin rectangle, once flat but now both highly bent and of uneven thickness. My suspicion was verified by the words "lithium battery" among a host of other small white letters. Since I was already holding it, I could feel there were no hot spots. Still, enough of them have made the news that I immediately took it outside and dropped it in the garbage can, both metal and underground. If something had to burn, it wouldn't be the house.
Latest status is the spare phone is charged, the SIM card in place, and the screen informs Steve he has to call his phone company tomorrow to switch his service over to it.
Not the worst outcome.
Saturday, October 6, 2018
Why I Really Left The Republican Party #MeToo
Count me too. Count me among those who have buried memories surfacing now among the bombardment of news and debate surrounding the Kavanaugh nomination. A few days ago I found it intellectually possible for that kind of memory to be recalled years later. I thought it possible to have gaps in those memories without negating their veracity. It was what I would label an intellectual exercise, somewhere along the lines of open-mindedness. Them. Not me.
Then Ford made one comment. Memory returned.
It's in bits and pieces. Some are missing. Date? I can narrow it down to two years, those being while I attended Hamline University. Event? A political convention, aimed at Young Republicans. Location? Some local high class motel, a place where individual topics and networking happened in scattered rooms. The people? Not sure I ever knew. I sure don't now, 60 years later. Except for a passing desire to kick a few sets of nuts, I don't care.
I grew up Republican. It was Ike's party, and our family was proud of my dad's service in WWII, in the European theater, under his leadership. Back then, this was all we needed to know. We were loyal Republicans. It was all one.
I'd never been politically active. As voting age hadn't changed yet, until the uproar over Viet Nam pushed lowering it from 21 to 18 ("We can get drafted and killed but we can't vote!"), I still couldn't even vote. Whatever was going on, it was somebody else's problem. Going to a political convention wasn't on my radar. I was simply a student, doing student things, just getting away from home for longer than a week-long summer church camp for the first time. In today's terms, I wasn't yet woke.
When I got invited to the convention, my first reaction was to reject the idea. After all, what could I contribute? How did I qualify? I didn't even have the justification of being attracted to the young man pushing me to go. But after his insistence that my presence there was appropriate, I let myself finally be persuaded by his assurance that I could learn stuff and "It'll be fun."
Politically, my memories were of being bored, uninformed, watching a lot of glad-handing, and still feeling out of place. I wasn't one of these people, but just observing from some outer ring. Big social gatherings have never been my idea of a good time. My hopes of interesting policy discussions did not seem to be on anybody else's agenda, despite the alleged point of the whole event. So, not fun after all.
From my perspective, the one good point was the availability of snacks pretty much everywhere. Those who know me will not be surprised.
There was also alcohol.
Having grown up in an essentially teetotaling family, I'd had perhaps a single sip of beer before leaving home. Mom used it in making batter for deep-frying fish and onion rings. There was always about an ounce left in the can, usually going to Daddy. I was allowed to try it once. I hadn't been impressed. Still aren't. Now away from home, I was discovering things never offered by my parents. Things like new ideas, mushrooms not in a Campbells soup can, seafood, beef not cooked to death, meals that didn't include boiled potatoes for every supper. And alcohol.
Someone, somewhere had introduced me to the concept that there were other, better flavored varieties of the stuff. I was gingerly experimenting. Most of it was still crap, as far as I was concerned, but I was still optimistic enough to try a sip or two of this or that. Not liking the flavor, I can confidently assure you I wasn't drunk, or even barely to the point of tipsy. But I probably had a few swallows.
They were offered to my by a guy, of course. In one of those rooms -where else? - which had quickly cleared out except for the two of us after whatever excuse for an event had finished. I was still way too naive to figure out what might have meant to the guy. Just not on my radar. Did I mention I was naive?
Suddenly I was lying on the bed, my companion on top of me, doing something that years later I came to understand was dry humping. It had just barely started, leaving me no time to push the bastard off me, before he was interrupted by a couple of his cohorts reentering the room, taking in his activity in a glance, and laughingly congratulating him on his supposed "scoring".
He didn't say anything to disabuse them of their notions with voicing any facts, just basked in their praise. So far as I was concerned, nothing remotely close to sex had occurred, and I was offended by his letting them think it had. It was just rude. I left the room, and the convention, immediately. If this was what young Republicans were, I wasn't nor ever would be one of them. I can only presume they joined the hordes of males now running the party. (I interject: does this mean their party platform has a mattress on it?)
By now you may be wondering why this memory resurfaced as a result of listening to the Kavanaugh hearings. What exactly triggered it? My details aren't her details, after all.
It was hearing Dr. Ford describing the indelible memory of the boys laughing together while assualting her, having a good time at her expense.
I too heard that laughter.
Then Ford made one comment. Memory returned.
It's in bits and pieces. Some are missing. Date? I can narrow it down to two years, those being while I attended Hamline University. Event? A political convention, aimed at Young Republicans. Location? Some local high class motel, a place where individual topics and networking happened in scattered rooms. The people? Not sure I ever knew. I sure don't now, 60 years later. Except for a passing desire to kick a few sets of nuts, I don't care.
I grew up Republican. It was Ike's party, and our family was proud of my dad's service in WWII, in the European theater, under his leadership. Back then, this was all we needed to know. We were loyal Republicans. It was all one.
I'd never been politically active. As voting age hadn't changed yet, until the uproar over Viet Nam pushed lowering it from 21 to 18 ("We can get drafted and killed but we can't vote!"), I still couldn't even vote. Whatever was going on, it was somebody else's problem. Going to a political convention wasn't on my radar. I was simply a student, doing student things, just getting away from home for longer than a week-long summer church camp for the first time. In today's terms, I wasn't yet woke.
When I got invited to the convention, my first reaction was to reject the idea. After all, what could I contribute? How did I qualify? I didn't even have the justification of being attracted to the young man pushing me to go. But after his insistence that my presence there was appropriate, I let myself finally be persuaded by his assurance that I could learn stuff and "It'll be fun."
Politically, my memories were of being bored, uninformed, watching a lot of glad-handing, and still feeling out of place. I wasn't one of these people, but just observing from some outer ring. Big social gatherings have never been my idea of a good time. My hopes of interesting policy discussions did not seem to be on anybody else's agenda, despite the alleged point of the whole event. So, not fun after all.
From my perspective, the one good point was the availability of snacks pretty much everywhere. Those who know me will not be surprised.
There was also alcohol.
Having grown up in an essentially teetotaling family, I'd had perhaps a single sip of beer before leaving home. Mom used it in making batter for deep-frying fish and onion rings. There was always about an ounce left in the can, usually going to Daddy. I was allowed to try it once. I hadn't been impressed. Still aren't. Now away from home, I was discovering things never offered by my parents. Things like new ideas, mushrooms not in a Campbells soup can, seafood, beef not cooked to death, meals that didn't include boiled potatoes for every supper. And alcohol.
Someone, somewhere had introduced me to the concept that there were other, better flavored varieties of the stuff. I was gingerly experimenting. Most of it was still crap, as far as I was concerned, but I was still optimistic enough to try a sip or two of this or that. Not liking the flavor, I can confidently assure you I wasn't drunk, or even barely to the point of tipsy. But I probably had a few swallows.
They were offered to my by a guy, of course. In one of those rooms -where else? - which had quickly cleared out except for the two of us after whatever excuse for an event had finished. I was still way too naive to figure out what might have meant to the guy. Just not on my radar. Did I mention I was naive?
Suddenly I was lying on the bed, my companion on top of me, doing something that years later I came to understand was dry humping. It had just barely started, leaving me no time to push the bastard off me, before he was interrupted by a couple of his cohorts reentering the room, taking in his activity in a glance, and laughingly congratulating him on his supposed "scoring".
He didn't say anything to disabuse them of their notions with voicing any facts, just basked in their praise. So far as I was concerned, nothing remotely close to sex had occurred, and I was offended by his letting them think it had. It was just rude. I left the room, and the convention, immediately. If this was what young Republicans were, I wasn't nor ever would be one of them. I can only presume they joined the hordes of males now running the party. (I interject: does this mean their party platform has a mattress on it?)
By now you may be wondering why this memory resurfaced as a result of listening to the Kavanaugh hearings. What exactly triggered it? My details aren't her details, after all.
It was hearing Dr. Ford describing the indelible memory of the boys laughing together while assualting her, having a good time at her expense.
I too heard that laughter.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
The President's* Call
Oh, no, not that!
OK, they clarified: Not that. Not exactly...
Steve's phone got the message. I was sitting right next to him at the time.
It appears to be what they claim it is. All those paranoid conspiracy theorists out there will likely put some other spin on it, particularly considering its association with this President*. Add to that the "warning" that you can't turn it off or in some manner disable some part of your phone to keep your phone from receiving whatever gets sent. What an invitation to paranoia!
Of course, your phone's location can already be tracked. It is generally assumed that the phone's location is also the owner's location. So thanks to GPS, THEY already know where you are. It tends to be helpful when you place a 911 call. Think of it as a trade, safety for privacy.
Don't want to be seen? You can always put a little piece of opaque tape across that teeny lens that faces you to keep your face from appearing to somebody you chat with when just texting isn't enough, because who knows what secret agency is really turning that on to track you and spy on your actions. (Tape works on laptops too.)
Your phone can be cloned, tapped, or hacked, so all your information can already be out there for the plucking. Security cameras in stores can show who bought supposedly untraceable phones as well. So much for any secrecy.
Depending on which TV shows you watch, and how it affects their plot's needs, you see that they may or may not be able to forcibly turn your phone back on after you've turned it off. Which side do you believe?
If paranoia is your thing, whatever it's about, it's already being done through your phone if somebody really wants to do it to you. So if you think about it, the only thing upping the ante on this call is that it's referred to as the President's* call. It doesn't take paranoia to imagine the myriad of ways Cheetolini can misuse a national communication system. Look what he's done to Twitter. At least there you have to actively participate in the process to view his latest spewings.
Funny thing with yesterday's call is, I didn't get it. As I said at the beginning, I was sitting right next to Steve when he did, so it wasn't my location. Maybe it's my phone company. The news reports stated many of the people who were missed by the call had T-Mobile. That's who I have, and with various takeovers and mergers, who I've had for over 20 years now. It's served me well, and if it was a company failure, I don't find that a detraction.
Maybe it's my stubborn refusal to "update" away from my old flip phone, which has survived all kinds of use and abuse including getting scrunched in the mechanism of Steve's lift chair (ask to see the dents some time) and replace it with a "smart" phone.
But sh-h-h-h-h! Don't let it get around. Somebody might find out that it's actually effective in blocking those President's* calls and either fix something on their end or do something to force me to upgrade. I don't want a phone that is smarter than I am, butt-dials everybody, and won't fit in my pocket.
Not to mention the price!
OK, they clarified: Not that. Not exactly...
Steve's phone got the message. I was sitting right next to him at the time.
It appears to be what they claim it is. All those paranoid conspiracy theorists out there will likely put some other spin on it, particularly considering its association with this President*. Add to that the "warning" that you can't turn it off or in some manner disable some part of your phone to keep your phone from receiving whatever gets sent. What an invitation to paranoia!
Of course, your phone's location can already be tracked. It is generally assumed that the phone's location is also the owner's location. So thanks to GPS, THEY already know where you are. It tends to be helpful when you place a 911 call. Think of it as a trade, safety for privacy.
Don't want to be seen? You can always put a little piece of opaque tape across that teeny lens that faces you to keep your face from appearing to somebody you chat with when just texting isn't enough, because who knows what secret agency is really turning that on to track you and spy on your actions. (Tape works on laptops too.)
Your phone can be cloned, tapped, or hacked, so all your information can already be out there for the plucking. Security cameras in stores can show who bought supposedly untraceable phones as well. So much for any secrecy.
Depending on which TV shows you watch, and how it affects their plot's needs, you see that they may or may not be able to forcibly turn your phone back on after you've turned it off. Which side do you believe?
If paranoia is your thing, whatever it's about, it's already being done through your phone if somebody really wants to do it to you. So if you think about it, the only thing upping the ante on this call is that it's referred to as the President's* call. It doesn't take paranoia to imagine the myriad of ways Cheetolini can misuse a national communication system. Look what he's done to Twitter. At least there you have to actively participate in the process to view his latest spewings.
Funny thing with yesterday's call is, I didn't get it. As I said at the beginning, I was sitting right next to Steve when he did, so it wasn't my location. Maybe it's my phone company. The news reports stated many of the people who were missed by the call had T-Mobile. That's who I have, and with various takeovers and mergers, who I've had for over 20 years now. It's served me well, and if it was a company failure, I don't find that a detraction.
Maybe it's my stubborn refusal to "update" away from my old flip phone, which has survived all kinds of use and abuse including getting scrunched in the mechanism of Steve's lift chair (ask to see the dents some time) and replace it with a "smart" phone.
But sh-h-h-h-h! Don't let it get around. Somebody might find out that it's actually effective in blocking those President's* calls and either fix something on their end or do something to force me to upgrade. I don't want a phone that is smarter than I am, butt-dials everybody, and won't fit in my pocket.
Not to mention the price!
Thursday, September 27, 2018
Raising Stupidity To A "Fine" Art
I have an opinion about what is being claimed to have happened. You have an opinion as well. What we don't have, and aren't being allowed to have unless something swiftly and radically changes, is evidence.
Yes, of course I'm talking about the Kavanaugh hearing and the charges of the women coming forward to accuse him of sexual improprieties from years ago. Even the term "sexual improprieties" is prejudicial. It's all just a prank, is how it comes across. Boys will be idiots. No real harm done. It's not like it's being investigated as rape, violence, drugging, repeat offenses. Maybe it was just a harmless lifting of a skirt in passing, eh? A leer and a crude comment? (Let's discuss how "harmless" those are another time.)
There are things that tilt our opinions one way or another. Politics seem to be the top one. Beyond that, the number of accusers tilt the scales for some of us, though even the 60 accusers of Bill Cosby still haven't convinced some that he did anything wrong. Maybe Kavanaugh didn't write "rape party" in his school calendar, so that means nothing ever happened, right, because, hey, wouldn't he have been honest in everything he wrote down?
Seriously, who really believes somebody would self-report the worst parts of their behavior in writing, and failure to do so is proof of anything other than a smidgin of self protection? Well, maybe except for those idiots who post pics of themselves throwing up in the party punch bowl and otherwise being completely stupid where the whole world including current or prospective employers can review them. They might believe it. Even once they sober up.
Then there are the lists of folks who "attest" to Kavanaugh's good character. He was never obnoxious to me. He never raped me, or spiked my drink. Therefore he never did and doesn't/didn't make a practice of doing so. Try that one on in court: "Your Honor, here's a list of 65 people I never robbed, so I'm innocent." Jeffery Dahmer didn't eat everybody he came across, right? The 9/11 bombers didn't destroy the whole country, did they? And all the neighbors scratch their heads and avow their local mass murderer was such a nice, polite, quiet person.
He says, she says. Whom do you believe? How about looking where the evidence leads? Oh wait, what evidence? Rather than follow the usual procedure in cases like these, bringing the FBI in to finish their background investigation in light of new information/allegations, and reporting back with their findings, something which typically takes a very few days and could be done by now, they've actually been forbidden to investigate and make a report.
Although I'm personally highly sceptical, I doubt their report would exonerate Kavanaugh. However, there is a slight chance it would. Absent such a report, should Kavanaugh be placed on the Supreme Court by Mitch McConnnel's runaway train, there would always be an asterisk next to his name. Any time he would be the 5th and deciding vote on any case before the court, that case would be suspect, that decision argued over. Unsettled law.
Is that what we want to do to our country?
Yes, of course I'm talking about the Kavanaugh hearing and the charges of the women coming forward to accuse him of sexual improprieties from years ago. Even the term "sexual improprieties" is prejudicial. It's all just a prank, is how it comes across. Boys will be idiots. No real harm done. It's not like it's being investigated as rape, violence, drugging, repeat offenses. Maybe it was just a harmless lifting of a skirt in passing, eh? A leer and a crude comment? (Let's discuss how "harmless" those are another time.)
There are things that tilt our opinions one way or another. Politics seem to be the top one. Beyond that, the number of accusers tilt the scales for some of us, though even the 60 accusers of Bill Cosby still haven't convinced some that he did anything wrong. Maybe Kavanaugh didn't write "rape party" in his school calendar, so that means nothing ever happened, right, because, hey, wouldn't he have been honest in everything he wrote down?
Seriously, who really believes somebody would self-report the worst parts of their behavior in writing, and failure to do so is proof of anything other than a smidgin of self protection? Well, maybe except for those idiots who post pics of themselves throwing up in the party punch bowl and otherwise being completely stupid where the whole world including current or prospective employers can review them. They might believe it. Even once they sober up.
Then there are the lists of folks who "attest" to Kavanaugh's good character. He was never obnoxious to me. He never raped me, or spiked my drink. Therefore he never did and doesn't/didn't make a practice of doing so. Try that one on in court: "Your Honor, here's a list of 65 people I never robbed, so I'm innocent." Jeffery Dahmer didn't eat everybody he came across, right? The 9/11 bombers didn't destroy the whole country, did they? And all the neighbors scratch their heads and avow their local mass murderer was such a nice, polite, quiet person.
He says, she says. Whom do you believe? How about looking where the evidence leads? Oh wait, what evidence? Rather than follow the usual procedure in cases like these, bringing the FBI in to finish their background investigation in light of new information/allegations, and reporting back with their findings, something which typically takes a very few days and could be done by now, they've actually been forbidden to investigate and make a report.
Although I'm personally highly sceptical, I doubt their report would exonerate Kavanaugh. However, there is a slight chance it would. Absent such a report, should Kavanaugh be placed on the Supreme Court by Mitch McConnnel's runaway train, there would always be an asterisk next to his name. Any time he would be the 5th and deciding vote on any case before the court, that case would be suspect, that decision argued over. Unsettled law.
Is that what we want to do to our country?
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
Inconsiderate, Incompetent Buffoon
That's the nice way I'd put it. This time I'm not even speaking of Trump*. But it just goes to show there isn't just one of those in the government. This time, however, it's local.
Understand that I know to expect our property tax bill down here to have to be paid in October and March. So far the amount hasn't been a major problem, since I budget ahead for it. It's how they send it out that I find egregious. It arrived in the mail today. That's September 26th.
It's payable October 1st.
If you're calendar impaired, since the mail arrives late in the afternoon, that gives us four days in which to pay it. It would be five, but one of those is a Sunday. And just in case some homeowner hadn't planned ahead for the proper amount, since this is our first notice of the exact amount, you might also notice than not one of those four days is one where any kind of paycheck is expected. As retirees, we rely on the calendar of Social Security, which for neither of us falls within that deadline.
I called the state treasurer's office to offer a piece of my mind, having a few left to share. I was informed that the state guarantees that all property tax bills will be posted by the 26th. So some folks will have to wait a couple more days for the post office to deliver their bills, allowing them even a smaller window of reaction time. I should consider myself lucky?
I like to pay those important bills on time. These days, I like to pay all of them on time, and do my best to maintain a balance accordingly, as well as regularly check my finances online, going in both directions. Having the funds will not be an issue for me.
Not everybody is so fortunate as to be able to plan ahead enough to cope with a four day billing period. Granted, there is a small grace period before interest and penalties kick in, small enough it seems like a guaranteed moneymaker for the state. That's likely to fall even more unfairly on the less than wealthy.
Oh, the ongoing joys of having the Republicons run the government.
Inconsiderate.
Incompetent.
Buffoons, or worse.
Understand that I know to expect our property tax bill down here to have to be paid in October and March. So far the amount hasn't been a major problem, since I budget ahead for it. It's how they send it out that I find egregious. It arrived in the mail today. That's September 26th.
It's payable October 1st.
If you're calendar impaired, since the mail arrives late in the afternoon, that gives us four days in which to pay it. It would be five, but one of those is a Sunday. And just in case some homeowner hadn't planned ahead for the proper amount, since this is our first notice of the exact amount, you might also notice than not one of those four days is one where any kind of paycheck is expected. As retirees, we rely on the calendar of Social Security, which for neither of us falls within that deadline.
I called the state treasurer's office to offer a piece of my mind, having a few left to share. I was informed that the state guarantees that all property tax bills will be posted by the 26th. So some folks will have to wait a couple more days for the post office to deliver their bills, allowing them even a smaller window of reaction time. I should consider myself lucky?
I like to pay those important bills on time. These days, I like to pay all of them on time, and do my best to maintain a balance accordingly, as well as regularly check my finances online, going in both directions. Having the funds will not be an issue for me.
Not everybody is so fortunate as to be able to plan ahead enough to cope with a four day billing period. Granted, there is a small grace period before interest and penalties kick in, small enough it seems like a guaranteed moneymaker for the state. That's likely to fall even more unfairly on the less than wealthy.
Oh, the ongoing joys of having the Republicons run the government.
Inconsiderate.
Incompetent.
Buffoons, or worse.
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Rocks In His Head!
At last, we have definitive proof. A Doctor even says so: Steve has rocks in his head!
As you will all recall, Steve has been trying to get his dizziness diagnosed and cured for close to a year now. Doctor after doctor has put their two cents - plus $30.00 co-pay - in, with no improvement. His ear infection was cured and massive amounts of ear wax removed. The Epley maneuver was performed. That was just the first doctor visit. This, that, and the other was investigated and/or performed. It wasn't a tumor. It wasn't Menhirs disease. It wasn't... well, the list grew.
Small consolation, as there was still no change. Appointments were set up with new doctors for after we returned from summer vacation and his insurance kicked in again, since it covers only emergencies during vacation traveling.
Meanwhile, the dizzy spells were relentless. He might go a few days without a major one, then have several in a row. His continuing experience with them allowed him to get better at dealing with them, or just letting him know that bed was the only answer. But whenever one struck even there, he was clinging on for dear life just to prevent falling out of a perfectly flat, still surface. Occasionally I was still needed to hold onto him and guide him down the hall. Due to their lack of any forewarning, driving was forbidden, of course. He got a pill so he wouldn't throw up when the world went crazy, but lack of driving was the worst part to him.
His relatives knew of somebody or another who had the same problem after a minor spinal injury. We could track the start of this problem to shortly after Steve's breaking his tailbone last fall. Since the folks "everybody knew" this had happened to had none of them recovered from their dizziness for the remainder of their lives, this was a bit of a worry. We resolved to add a spinal specialist to the list of possibilities, without much optimism.
Today was another one of those appointments, this time with an ENT specialist. He agreed with Steve's assessment that this might be related to the fall which broke Steve's tailbone. He had a slightly better explanation, however: rocks in his head! The fall had knocked them loose and they had never gone back where they belonged.
Sounded to me exactly like the explanation for vertigo, only my doc referred to mine as "floaters". OK, so vertigo on steroids, then. The good news was that he ran Steve through a series of moves which, as Steve described them, sounded like Epley's on steroids. When Steve finally sat up afterwards, no dizziness.
Best news of all: in two days, so long as he's careful in moving his head slowly and the dizziness doesn't come back, Steve can drive again!!!
And I get to tell him he has rocks in his head!
As you will all recall, Steve has been trying to get his dizziness diagnosed and cured for close to a year now. Doctor after doctor has put their two cents - plus $30.00 co-pay - in, with no improvement. His ear infection was cured and massive amounts of ear wax removed. The Epley maneuver was performed. That was just the first doctor visit. This, that, and the other was investigated and/or performed. It wasn't a tumor. It wasn't Menhirs disease. It wasn't... well, the list grew.
Small consolation, as there was still no change. Appointments were set up with new doctors for after we returned from summer vacation and his insurance kicked in again, since it covers only emergencies during vacation traveling.
Meanwhile, the dizzy spells were relentless. He might go a few days without a major one, then have several in a row. His continuing experience with them allowed him to get better at dealing with them, or just letting him know that bed was the only answer. But whenever one struck even there, he was clinging on for dear life just to prevent falling out of a perfectly flat, still surface. Occasionally I was still needed to hold onto him and guide him down the hall. Due to their lack of any forewarning, driving was forbidden, of course. He got a pill so he wouldn't throw up when the world went crazy, but lack of driving was the worst part to him.
His relatives knew of somebody or another who had the same problem after a minor spinal injury. We could track the start of this problem to shortly after Steve's breaking his tailbone last fall. Since the folks "everybody knew" this had happened to had none of them recovered from their dizziness for the remainder of their lives, this was a bit of a worry. We resolved to add a spinal specialist to the list of possibilities, without much optimism.
Today was another one of those appointments, this time with an ENT specialist. He agreed with Steve's assessment that this might be related to the fall which broke Steve's tailbone. He had a slightly better explanation, however: rocks in his head! The fall had knocked them loose and they had never gone back where they belonged.
Sounded to me exactly like the explanation for vertigo, only my doc referred to mine as "floaters". OK, so vertigo on steroids, then. The good news was that he ran Steve through a series of moves which, as Steve described them, sounded like Epley's on steroids. When Steve finally sat up afterwards, no dizziness.
Best news of all: in two days, so long as he's careful in moving his head slowly and the dizziness doesn't come back, Steve can drive again!!!
And I get to tell him he has rocks in his head!
Saturday, September 22, 2018
Ready To Scream!
Face it, relocating twice a year has its downs. (Sure, ups too or why bother?) With everything possible shut down in Arizona to save money on utility bills, there's a transition phase that is often a royal pain. Sometimes it's a smooth process but simply having to dig out all those numbers and making those contact calls just adds to the general hassle.
Easiest is turning the water back on. We literally rotate a valve a quarter turn. Of course, this is the one where we pay a minimum bill every month whether or not a single drop flows. The company still comes out to read the meter year around. For us, it's two seconds when we leave, then two seconds on arrival followed by turning on faucets and flushing toilets to remove air.
Next one we do for ourselves is the electricity. Nearly everything gets turned off. Midway through the first summer after solar was installed, we were informed, contrary to what I wrote down word for word with drawings during the install, that we couldn't just flip the main breaker. Each house breaker got turned off individually, leaving the main and solar breakers on. OK, no real biggie, and we gave the verbal OK for their employee to enter our back yard and set it right. The hardest part is the spring-loaded lever on the bottom of the cover. That spring seems to have grown stronger than our hands with each use. It's easy enough to use a tool to force it to the side, but however it's done, the technique also has to control it far enough out on its tip so that while it's moved the lid can also drop down. Both of us together manage on about the fifth try to accomplish both simultaneously. I could claim our language wilts the flora within a 20 foot radius, but secretly I bet that's the result of summer in the desert.
We might not fight so hard with it, tired as we are from our last day driving, but it's the only way to restart the AC for a house easily above 100 degrees.
The phone calls start either just before or on the way down. Gas should be the first, since we have to make an appointment for somebody to come out to the house, and the closer to the time the snowbirds return en masse, the more booked ahead they are. During this call we have to promise an adult will be on the premises during a 4-hour window while they do the job, so we need to allow for possible vehicle problems delaying us. In addition to turning on the gas, of course, they check out every item where it is used, making sure nothing leaks. We pay for that service, but it's cheaper than a monthly minimum while we're gone, as well as much safer than just leaving it on for months in an empty house.
The things which should be the simplest are always the most frustration: wi-fi and TV satellite service. A simple phone call and somebody switches them off at their office, usually at 12:01 AM the day we leave, leaving us no access to news or weather as we start off. But our costs drop to insignificant levels and the DVR doesn't fill up with an overwhelming load to sort through upon our return.
Ahhh, but if only it were that simple!
We started by checking the TV. There were things we wanted to set new timers for, a couple very time sensitive. Everything was supposed to be started up the day before our arrival. First phone call after determining that we had a glitch resulted in multiple trips between Steve's chair and the DVR control box, pushing buttons either on the remote or at the box. Second call, as well as third call, finally achieved getting the guide up and running... mostly. Let's take a minute to remind you how frustrating it can be when the person on the other end of the line has a nearly impenetrable accent and no understanding of American idioms. The guide finally started its setup, and Steve had instructions to give the system a couple hours to finish replacing all the "no information" entries with, well, information. That ended up requiring call #4, now requiring a full shutdown of the system for twenty minutes. At last it was fixed, and we were glad to have arrived early enough in the day to actually watch/record the desired evening programs. We also set to putting timers on shows which weren't on last year.
Now the real fun began. We had wi-fi the first night. Not the next morning. This one is also Steve's purview, so he got to exercise his level of patience, somewhat better than mine under these circumstances. Since this again was where I heard one side of the conversation, my role was to write down codes as he repeated them back to me so we'd both have a record and could accurately set up our laptops. Other than the usual clarifications between b, p, d, t, and everything else that rhymed, that part was fairly simple. We managed to make it work.
It wasn't until the next day we found out our Kindles weren't connected. No explanation of how that could happen when they were perfectly connected last spring. Not only that, they recognized 9 wi-fi signals within receiving range, none of them ours. I tried setting my Kindle up, having kept the data. I kept getting an error message informing me I needed to be on wi-fi in order to complete the task of getting on wi-fi.
Huh?
Nothing worked, and with our old Kindles, any instructions we could find via laptop referred to a model called the Kindle White. Apparently it has buttons across the top. I promise you, ours don't.
Next phone call.... The "helper"on the other end of the line was incapable of listening to anything that varied from her script. Frequent comments gave instructions we had no idea how to follow, not having taken our classes in jargon for a while. When asked how to do whatever she had just told us to do, the instruction was simply repeated. "Go to ____" is meaningless when one has no idea how to get there, if we can even translate what is being talked about. She finally gave up and connected us to a video showing the process. Again, wrong kind of Kindle. Also, too fast, information missing, and completely useless.
I had already figured out how to go through settings to find out what was what in available wi-fi signals. I'd even found the place for adding a new one. I'd tried about 8 different versions of how it might be entered. Did the company name go with the number or not? If it did, what might be capitalized? Any spaces between company and account code? I'd tried every variation I could think of with no results, other than getting screen freeze, requiring complete shutdown and reboot, then finding my way back into the wi-fi settings page, via any of the three ways I'd located so far. I JUST WANTED TO KNOW HOW TO ENTER THE INFO!
Steve was also reaching the very end of his considerable patience. He heard two bizarre things. I mean beyond the usual crap I've already described. First, we somehow had two accounts with this company. No explanation. I'm also waiting to find out if they think we owe them on two bills. The second was that they only hooked up our laptops, and if we wanted to add our Kindles to the account it would cost us another $10/month! Each!
Bullshit!
We declined their generous offer, of course.
After hanging up and both of us calming down somewhat, we discussed the issue and decided to head to the local library. First, they were very hands-on helpful. Steve had used them last year to access library books. We figured after hooking up to their system, a weekly visit to upload our newest books and send read books to our archives, all for free, was the way to go. The person who helped Steve the most worked Fridays, so we'd wait till the end of the week. There was still unpacking, grocery shopping, and all that stuff to do in the meantime.
Next morning two things happened. Our Kindles were hooked up on wi-fi, no action needed on our part. An unrelated search through old archived email showed the account number (different) and password (same) for how it had been set up last year. Since whatever was done by whomever works for us, we've calmed back down for now. We're still waiting to see the upcoming bill.
The last bit of finalizing our return, the trip to the post office, was relatively effortless. Something had to be.
Easiest is turning the water back on. We literally rotate a valve a quarter turn. Of course, this is the one where we pay a minimum bill every month whether or not a single drop flows. The company still comes out to read the meter year around. For us, it's two seconds when we leave, then two seconds on arrival followed by turning on faucets and flushing toilets to remove air.
Next one we do for ourselves is the electricity. Nearly everything gets turned off. Midway through the first summer after solar was installed, we were informed, contrary to what I wrote down word for word with drawings during the install, that we couldn't just flip the main breaker. Each house breaker got turned off individually, leaving the main and solar breakers on. OK, no real biggie, and we gave the verbal OK for their employee to enter our back yard and set it right. The hardest part is the spring-loaded lever on the bottom of the cover. That spring seems to have grown stronger than our hands with each use. It's easy enough to use a tool to force it to the side, but however it's done, the technique also has to control it far enough out on its tip so that while it's moved the lid can also drop down. Both of us together manage on about the fifth try to accomplish both simultaneously. I could claim our language wilts the flora within a 20 foot radius, but secretly I bet that's the result of summer in the desert.
We might not fight so hard with it, tired as we are from our last day driving, but it's the only way to restart the AC for a house easily above 100 degrees.
The phone calls start either just before or on the way down. Gas should be the first, since we have to make an appointment for somebody to come out to the house, and the closer to the time the snowbirds return en masse, the more booked ahead they are. During this call we have to promise an adult will be on the premises during a 4-hour window while they do the job, so we need to allow for possible vehicle problems delaying us. In addition to turning on the gas, of course, they check out every item where it is used, making sure nothing leaks. We pay for that service, but it's cheaper than a monthly minimum while we're gone, as well as much safer than just leaving it on for months in an empty house.
The things which should be the simplest are always the most frustration: wi-fi and TV satellite service. A simple phone call and somebody switches them off at their office, usually at 12:01 AM the day we leave, leaving us no access to news or weather as we start off. But our costs drop to insignificant levels and the DVR doesn't fill up with an overwhelming load to sort through upon our return.
Ahhh, but if only it were that simple!
We started by checking the TV. There were things we wanted to set new timers for, a couple very time sensitive. Everything was supposed to be started up the day before our arrival. First phone call after determining that we had a glitch resulted in multiple trips between Steve's chair and the DVR control box, pushing buttons either on the remote or at the box. Second call, as well as third call, finally achieved getting the guide up and running... mostly. Let's take a minute to remind you how frustrating it can be when the person on the other end of the line has a nearly impenetrable accent and no understanding of American idioms. The guide finally started its setup, and Steve had instructions to give the system a couple hours to finish replacing all the "no information" entries with, well, information. That ended up requiring call #4, now requiring a full shutdown of the system for twenty minutes. At last it was fixed, and we were glad to have arrived early enough in the day to actually watch/record the desired evening programs. We also set to putting timers on shows which weren't on last year.
Now the real fun began. We had wi-fi the first night. Not the next morning. This one is also Steve's purview, so he got to exercise his level of patience, somewhat better than mine under these circumstances. Since this again was where I heard one side of the conversation, my role was to write down codes as he repeated them back to me so we'd both have a record and could accurately set up our laptops. Other than the usual clarifications between b, p, d, t, and everything else that rhymed, that part was fairly simple. We managed to make it work.
It wasn't until the next day we found out our Kindles weren't connected. No explanation of how that could happen when they were perfectly connected last spring. Not only that, they recognized 9 wi-fi signals within receiving range, none of them ours. I tried setting my Kindle up, having kept the data. I kept getting an error message informing me I needed to be on wi-fi in order to complete the task of getting on wi-fi.
Huh?
Nothing worked, and with our old Kindles, any instructions we could find via laptop referred to a model called the Kindle White. Apparently it has buttons across the top. I promise you, ours don't.
Next phone call.... The "helper"on the other end of the line was incapable of listening to anything that varied from her script. Frequent comments gave instructions we had no idea how to follow, not having taken our classes in jargon for a while. When asked how to do whatever she had just told us to do, the instruction was simply repeated. "Go to ____" is meaningless when one has no idea how to get there, if we can even translate what is being talked about. She finally gave up and connected us to a video showing the process. Again, wrong kind of Kindle. Also, too fast, information missing, and completely useless.
I had already figured out how to go through settings to find out what was what in available wi-fi signals. I'd even found the place for adding a new one. I'd tried about 8 different versions of how it might be entered. Did the company name go with the number or not? If it did, what might be capitalized? Any spaces between company and account code? I'd tried every variation I could think of with no results, other than getting screen freeze, requiring complete shutdown and reboot, then finding my way back into the wi-fi settings page, via any of the three ways I'd located so far. I JUST WANTED TO KNOW HOW TO ENTER THE INFO!
Steve was also reaching the very end of his considerable patience. He heard two bizarre things. I mean beyond the usual crap I've already described. First, we somehow had two accounts with this company. No explanation. I'm also waiting to find out if they think we owe them on two bills. The second was that they only hooked up our laptops, and if we wanted to add our Kindles to the account it would cost us another $10/month! Each!
Bullshit!
We declined their generous offer, of course.
After hanging up and both of us calming down somewhat, we discussed the issue and decided to head to the local library. First, they were very hands-on helpful. Steve had used them last year to access library books. We figured after hooking up to their system, a weekly visit to upload our newest books and send read books to our archives, all for free, was the way to go. The person who helped Steve the most worked Fridays, so we'd wait till the end of the week. There was still unpacking, grocery shopping, and all that stuff to do in the meantime.
Next morning two things happened. Our Kindles were hooked up on wi-fi, no action needed on our part. An unrelated search through old archived email showed the account number (different) and password (same) for how it had been set up last year. Since whatever was done by whomever works for us, we've calmed back down for now. We're still waiting to see the upcoming bill.
The last bit of finalizing our return, the trip to the post office, was relatively effortless. Something had to be.
Tuesday, September 18, 2018
No Trail Ridge, But 500 Pronghorns & A Forest Fire
We're back from vacation, and the trip itself had its highs and lows. Would it be too weird to say the highest high was a low?
I love Trail Ridge in RMNP. It's a mere 12,000+ feet up, with your reward being a lovely store with all sorts of clothes and souvenirs. That's in the unlikely case that you weren't already rewarded by spectacular views of valleys below, peaks above, fall aspen colors, and critters. Let's start at the lower elevations with male elk and mule deer, peacefully doing their thing alongside the road while waiting for the rut to start. Higher up is a variety of birds not found in either Minnesota or Arizona, at least as far as I have seen. Around 10,000 feet is a huge turn-out, generally overrun with tourists with cameras. Steve obligingly shot a family's picture with their own camera while a hungry spoiled chipmunk bit the mom who let her fingers rest on the rock ledge.
They said they liked the picture, though.
I decided that would be a lengthy stop. My lungs (yep, still there from last summer) needed a chance to adjust to the altitude, and there was a nice restroom facility there, as far as waterless accommodations go. This one was particularly interesting since the cold breeze comes straight up the mountain, into whatever openings it finds in the building, and out the seats you're sitting on.
Feeling able to breathe normally again, we proceeded up the trail. Steve kept telling me we didn't have to reach the very top, but I stubbornly persisted until the point where I started wondering if the next things I was going to see were black spots before my eyes. I turned around. Up on the tundra one can see traffic a long way away, handy when there are few "real" spots for turnarounds. As a consolation for missing the store, we hit the big tourist store right outside the Falls River entrance. Even better, they had shirts in our sizes, and I found one of the most beautiful mugs I've ever seen: a Stellers Jay on a snowy branch. It made the trip home nicely, thank you.
We spent most of the rest of our time in the area visiting Steve's relatives. Knowing political viewpoints tend to differ from ours, a whole lot of other topics were covered and great food was had.
Heading south from Pueblo the morning we left, over the prairie which covers much of the land before you hit more wooded terrain, we started noticing pronghorn antelope, one of my favorite western critters. Too bad we were on the freeway with no place to legally or safely stop for pictures, since many of the herds were close to the road. And herds they were. For a while they were less than a road mile apart, mostly a dozen or more in each herd. By the time we ran out of their habitat, they were done with their morning feed and were laying down, with one or two per herd standing guard. Steve insists we passed a thousand of them in that hour or so. I couldn't swear to that, though as driver I was too occupied to try to count. I'm very comfortable with claiming at least 500, however.
One more thing stood out on this otherwise familiar route. Coming across I-40, by the time we hit Winslow we can generally get a good view of the San Francisco Peaks. So far we had only noticed a band of smog or some kind of dirty air stretching as far across the horizon as we could see, south to north. No mountains. Jokingly we wondered if it was pollution blowing up from Phoenix. Our blue sky got browner as we drove, and the smell of wood smoke invaded the car. The longer it lasted the more varied our guesses as to its origin. Finally I asked Steve to check whether I-17 was even still open, or closed due to some fire which we, being away, hadn't heard about. Out here a detour could mean a hundred extra miles or more. It was open, but meanwhile we had driven almost to Walnut Canyon before we finally could see Flagstaff's mountains, even longer before a band of blue appeared on our horizon. The smoke lasted until we'd turned south and made it past Mund's Park.
Once home and online again, I tried to research the source of the fire. My sources were filled with fires from the last few years, no matter what words I searched under. The only thing that came even close to what we'd seen/smelled and where was a reference to a controlled burn to get rid of brush covering the ground. In burning off detritus, a "real" forest fire would be a much smaller thing, and the area has snowy owls to protect.
With the miles and miles of smoke and poor visibility, there seemed very little control about what we'd passed. But hey, all the news is Florence and flooding these days, so I wonder what it would take to mention if a fire had stayed under control, or maybe not so much.
ADDENDUM:
The local news finally reported a tragedy that may well be the cause of the fire. Nevermind that it took them several days after the fact to consider it news. Several days back, up in the Coconino Forest, a truck carrying 4 high school young men went off a 400 foot cliff while enjoying riding the trails. One has been identified, but the resulting wildfire has made it difficult to identify the others. Considering the extent of the smoke, I can understand the difficulty reaching the area and identifying the cause.
I love Trail Ridge in RMNP. It's a mere 12,000+ feet up, with your reward being a lovely store with all sorts of clothes and souvenirs. That's in the unlikely case that you weren't already rewarded by spectacular views of valleys below, peaks above, fall aspen colors, and critters. Let's start at the lower elevations with male elk and mule deer, peacefully doing their thing alongside the road while waiting for the rut to start. Higher up is a variety of birds not found in either Minnesota or Arizona, at least as far as I have seen. Around 10,000 feet is a huge turn-out, generally overrun with tourists with cameras. Steve obligingly shot a family's picture with their own camera while a hungry spoiled chipmunk bit the mom who let her fingers rest on the rock ledge.
They said they liked the picture, though.
I decided that would be a lengthy stop. My lungs (yep, still there from last summer) needed a chance to adjust to the altitude, and there was a nice restroom facility there, as far as waterless accommodations go. This one was particularly interesting since the cold breeze comes straight up the mountain, into whatever openings it finds in the building, and out the seats you're sitting on.
Feeling able to breathe normally again, we proceeded up the trail. Steve kept telling me we didn't have to reach the very top, but I stubbornly persisted until the point where I started wondering if the next things I was going to see were black spots before my eyes. I turned around. Up on the tundra one can see traffic a long way away, handy when there are few "real" spots for turnarounds. As a consolation for missing the store, we hit the big tourist store right outside the Falls River entrance. Even better, they had shirts in our sizes, and I found one of the most beautiful mugs I've ever seen: a Stellers Jay on a snowy branch. It made the trip home nicely, thank you.
We spent most of the rest of our time in the area visiting Steve's relatives. Knowing political viewpoints tend to differ from ours, a whole lot of other topics were covered and great food was had.
Heading south from Pueblo the morning we left, over the prairie which covers much of the land before you hit more wooded terrain, we started noticing pronghorn antelope, one of my favorite western critters. Too bad we were on the freeway with no place to legally or safely stop for pictures, since many of the herds were close to the road. And herds they were. For a while they were less than a road mile apart, mostly a dozen or more in each herd. By the time we ran out of their habitat, they were done with their morning feed and were laying down, with one or two per herd standing guard. Steve insists we passed a thousand of them in that hour or so. I couldn't swear to that, though as driver I was too occupied to try to count. I'm very comfortable with claiming at least 500, however.
One more thing stood out on this otherwise familiar route. Coming across I-40, by the time we hit Winslow we can generally get a good view of the San Francisco Peaks. So far we had only noticed a band of smog or some kind of dirty air stretching as far across the horizon as we could see, south to north. No mountains. Jokingly we wondered if it was pollution blowing up from Phoenix. Our blue sky got browner as we drove, and the smell of wood smoke invaded the car. The longer it lasted the more varied our guesses as to its origin. Finally I asked Steve to check whether I-17 was even still open, or closed due to some fire which we, being away, hadn't heard about. Out here a detour could mean a hundred extra miles or more. It was open, but meanwhile we had driven almost to Walnut Canyon before we finally could see Flagstaff's mountains, even longer before a band of blue appeared on our horizon. The smoke lasted until we'd turned south and made it past Mund's Park.
Once home and online again, I tried to research the source of the fire. My sources were filled with fires from the last few years, no matter what words I searched under. The only thing that came even close to what we'd seen/smelled and where was a reference to a controlled burn to get rid of brush covering the ground. In burning off detritus, a "real" forest fire would be a much smaller thing, and the area has snowy owls to protect.
With the miles and miles of smoke and poor visibility, there seemed very little control about what we'd passed. But hey, all the news is Florence and flooding these days, so I wonder what it would take to mention if a fire had stayed under control, or maybe not so much.
ADDENDUM:
The local news finally reported a tragedy that may well be the cause of the fire. Nevermind that it took them several days after the fact to consider it news. Several days back, up in the Coconino Forest, a truck carrying 4 high school young men went off a 400 foot cliff while enjoying riding the trails. One has been identified, but the resulting wildfire has made it difficult to identify the others. Considering the extent of the smoke, I can understand the difficulty reaching the area and identifying the cause.
Monday, September 3, 2018
Keeping My Mouth Shut
I'm not known for this. But there have been a couple times recently when judgement overcame impulse.
The first was during a shopping trip to the local WalMart. The store was doing its periodic revamp, something that annoys the hell out of me. It's not just that everything's in a new place, making my chore take twice as long after years of shopping with painful feet, knees, or whatever. It's also that this is the time the store relishes in ceasing to stock a number of my favorite items. Forever. The combination tends to make me, yes me, somewhat bitchy.
You're shocked, I know.
This particular trip, I was hunting for supplies in the pharmacy area. I'm especially fussy about which exact products I use, and with most of them small items and harder to locate, I was not the happiest of campers. Add to that the need in virtually every aisle to dodge at least one store employee with a big rack of supplies, or at least wait for them to move, I was pretty ripe for trouble.
The store-wide PA system came on with somebody's complaint that there were no people (i.e., employees, I supposed, but not what the speaker said) in any of the aisles. Of course not. Pharmacy had three times the number of a full store's compliment of employees in it. I found the complaint ludicrous: whoever made it should be so lucky! But then my mind made a left turn, banishing my bad mood. What I wanted to yell out, but refrained from doing, was, "Hey, it's the rapture, guys, and you weren't chosen! Deal with it!"
The second time was just last night. It just needs a little background. I grew up knowing how to build a sustainable bonfire. There is A WAY to do it. You start with teeny stuff on the center bottom, them build up a teepee shape of progressively larger pieces of wood until you have the really big ones on top. If you must burn damp or green wood, don't add it until there's a rip snorting fire going over a good bed of coals, and even then, add burnables with it and leave gaps for air to circulate. If you've done it right, a single match should start it and it will keep going without the dangerous assistance of lighter fluid or anything else that arson investigators would call accelerants.
Friends had a bonfire last night. It was a party and the fire was not just entertainment, it had the stated purpose of roasting marshmallows for s'mores. Here's how it went.
It had rained that morning. Nobody found time to clean out the 6 inches or so of wet ashes from the fire pit. The family had just moved into the house and had spent several busy weeks making it liveable. The kids started the fire while Daddy was still busy with other hosting duties. First they put in a stack of dry newspapers. You know, still stacked. Not crumpled, scattered, or anything else that would have let air in. At least they were dry. Other than a few discarded moving boxes, they were all that was dry.
As soon as a small flame was spotted, brush was piled on. This had been sitting outside for several days, being cut down as weeds after they showed the first signs of reacting to the weedkiller sprayed on them. Limp, yes. But still mostly green. Any parts that had dried to brown had happily soaked up the morning rain. Loaded on as they were in thick clumps, they did a great job of extinguishing whatever tiny flame had still been in existence.
Daddy now discovered he was needed. He shooed the kids back a bit, kept them from waving around any branches with flaming leaves, piled a few cardboard boxes on top of the stack, and squirted multiple doses of charcoal lighter on the boxes. For several seconds the flames reached nearly to the branches of the spruce tree overhanging the fire pit. Then, of course, the cardboard boxes had burned, so this had to be repeated several times. More brushy weeds were dumped on top of what now had a single tiny flame struggling to survive, followed by more fluid.
This would have provided just enough flames to burn a couple of marshmallows, but it was quickly discovered that the two cut roasting sticks had accidentally found their way into the fire, and more had to be cut. Of course, the source for these was more of the brushy weeds still dying from their dose of weed spray the week before.
Ultimately, each of the 4 boys achieved one s'more, with more help from lighter fluid providing just enough flame to light each marshmallow on fire to thoroughly char. The entire process killed a good hour. I kept my phone close in case 911 was needed, and other than contributing to the adult conversation as it ebbed and flowed, managed not to comment whatsoever on the progress of the bonfire.
I'm almost proud of myself. Not enough, however, to stop me from posting this.
The first was during a shopping trip to the local WalMart. The store was doing its periodic revamp, something that annoys the hell out of me. It's not just that everything's in a new place, making my chore take twice as long after years of shopping with painful feet, knees, or whatever. It's also that this is the time the store relishes in ceasing to stock a number of my favorite items. Forever. The combination tends to make me, yes me, somewhat bitchy.
You're shocked, I know.
This particular trip, I was hunting for supplies in the pharmacy area. I'm especially fussy about which exact products I use, and with most of them small items and harder to locate, I was not the happiest of campers. Add to that the need in virtually every aisle to dodge at least one store employee with a big rack of supplies, or at least wait for them to move, I was pretty ripe for trouble.
The store-wide PA system came on with somebody's complaint that there were no people (i.e., employees, I supposed, but not what the speaker said) in any of the aisles. Of course not. Pharmacy had three times the number of a full store's compliment of employees in it. I found the complaint ludicrous: whoever made it should be so lucky! But then my mind made a left turn, banishing my bad mood. What I wanted to yell out, but refrained from doing, was, "Hey, it's the rapture, guys, and you weren't chosen! Deal with it!"
The second time was just last night. It just needs a little background. I grew up knowing how to build a sustainable bonfire. There is A WAY to do it. You start with teeny stuff on the center bottom, them build up a teepee shape of progressively larger pieces of wood until you have the really big ones on top. If you must burn damp or green wood, don't add it until there's a rip snorting fire going over a good bed of coals, and even then, add burnables with it and leave gaps for air to circulate. If you've done it right, a single match should start it and it will keep going without the dangerous assistance of lighter fluid or anything else that arson investigators would call accelerants.
Friends had a bonfire last night. It was a party and the fire was not just entertainment, it had the stated purpose of roasting marshmallows for s'mores. Here's how it went.
It had rained that morning. Nobody found time to clean out the 6 inches or so of wet ashes from the fire pit. The family had just moved into the house and had spent several busy weeks making it liveable. The kids started the fire while Daddy was still busy with other hosting duties. First they put in a stack of dry newspapers. You know, still stacked. Not crumpled, scattered, or anything else that would have let air in. At least they were dry. Other than a few discarded moving boxes, they were all that was dry.
As soon as a small flame was spotted, brush was piled on. This had been sitting outside for several days, being cut down as weeds after they showed the first signs of reacting to the weedkiller sprayed on them. Limp, yes. But still mostly green. Any parts that had dried to brown had happily soaked up the morning rain. Loaded on as they were in thick clumps, they did a great job of extinguishing whatever tiny flame had still been in existence.
Daddy now discovered he was needed. He shooed the kids back a bit, kept them from waving around any branches with flaming leaves, piled a few cardboard boxes on top of the stack, and squirted multiple doses of charcoal lighter on the boxes. For several seconds the flames reached nearly to the branches of the spruce tree overhanging the fire pit. Then, of course, the cardboard boxes had burned, so this had to be repeated several times. More brushy weeds were dumped on top of what now had a single tiny flame struggling to survive, followed by more fluid.
This would have provided just enough flames to burn a couple of marshmallows, but it was quickly discovered that the two cut roasting sticks had accidentally found their way into the fire, and more had to be cut. Of course, the source for these was more of the brushy weeds still dying from their dose of weed spray the week before.
Ultimately, each of the 4 boys achieved one s'more, with more help from lighter fluid providing just enough flame to light each marshmallow on fire to thoroughly char. The entire process killed a good hour. I kept my phone close in case 911 was needed, and other than contributing to the adult conversation as it ebbed and flowed, managed not to comment whatsoever on the progress of the bonfire.
I'm almost proud of myself. Not enough, however, to stop me from posting this.
Monday, August 27, 2018
Wrapping It Up: Vacation Retrospective
Things done, things undone. Positives and negatives. I'm still working on figuring out if this has been a plus or a minus, on the whole. There have been times I've thought both. Some of those were the same times.
Weather has been one of things beyond control... as always. Usually by early August this area has started drying up, mosquito populations are dropping, firewood is actually usable, and the sandbar at Steve's favorite boat launch on the St. Croix River has grown with dropping river levels to the point where Steve has plenty of room to set up a chair and his gear for fishing without a conflict with boaters for space.
One of those above has happened. Fortunately, it's been the fishing. Steve used a couple of other public access sites that have docks, but his intermittent bouts of dizziness leave him leery of sitting up on a narrow platform above the water when a fall is possible. Using the river site gives room for me to drop him off with all his gear, then either shop locally or sit in the car reading/napping until he calls me ready to head home.
We usually have several backyard bonfires during the summer, flames to enjoy along with our food, and that wonderful campfire smell without having to leave home. Brats and fixings, roasted ears of corn, s'mores or simple marshmallows for dessert to share with good company. We're still waiting for our first bonfire. The thunderstorms have actually been picking up, and with 2 weekends left for that bonfire, I'm pessimistic. Since I'm hoping to use the occasion to celebrate my 70th with a yardful of people, I've been trying to get the inside of the house into shape to hold everybody as the backup plan.
Please note that I've said "I". Not "we". Add two extra people to - shall we say a "casually" maintained house, with all having a tendency to do more cluttering than straightening, and you may understand why the prospect seems daunting. There have been many weeks where both the garbage and recycling bins, each 60+ gallons capacity, have been rolled curbside, not merely full but overflowing. I still see no progress.
If anybody sees Dobby the house elf, please send him this way. I've been feeling like a very incompetent version. While the knees are fine, strength and stamina are still dropping, the lungs are not keeping up, and a light depression has settled in. I'm told the latter is an expected side effect of the medication that is finally successful at keeping my blood pressure where it needs to be. I suspect the lungs are reacting to the excess mold from a very wet summer, although I wonder if the perpetual cough this summer shouldn't be a wet cough rather than a dry one if that were the entire case. I have managed to push ahead that pulmonologist appointment to just after we get back. I'd love to walk more than a block without puffing and panting. That's kind of another impediment to getting the house ready for company. I've given up on doing the basement stairs either for cleaning up or free laundry. Steve and I willingly pay the local laundromat.
One the plus side, I've decided to quit fighting the insomnia so hard, just catching up during the day instead. Either way, it's enough sleep that the A-fib hasn't popped up again. Driving home across two time zones will set my internal clock more where I want it anyway. Steve and I have managed to see everybody we've wanted to at least once this summer, though with family and friends spreading out that's getting to be more of a challenge. Steve has gotten to see grandchildren who've been unavailable for years, so that's been a real treat. We took Rich to see his granddaughter (that's weird: my kid's a grandpa!) who's also my great-granddaughter for a nice visit not long ago. All three of us were armed with cameras and caught bunches of still and videos, since the trip is a challenge. Of course, within two weeks her Mom posted Facebook video of the baby taking her first bunches of steps.
I packed three boxes of jewelry-making supplies to bring up here. Mostly they sit on the table. Just lately, however, I've gotten in three classes on how to do stuff up here that the club in AZ doesn't teach. Not only is it fun, helping abolish the depression for a bit, but I'm now laying in bed not sleeping while I plan on how to work on these new things back down there. In other words, another version of why I can't sleep when the head hits the pillow.
Topping it off, I've offered to teach the woman who's been giving me classes how to do her own chaining. We both benefit. Not only that, but I'll be using - for instructional purposes only - the 20 gauge wire jump rings I make when I first started out, before I decided they were too flimsy to do anything with. I couldn't bring myself to throw them out, and now they'll have a use. She knows she'll be making pattern samples only, and not to expect wearable jewelry at the end of the class. She, like I do, can stay awake nights imagining all kinds of ways to make adaptations. Different metals or colored wires, different size links, interrupted patterns with a bigger ring to connect them or hang things from like pendants or charms, mixing colors....
No, I'm not deliberately trying to give somebody else insomnia. I really like her. But it might be a side effect.
The annual Crex Meadows photography contest is being held later than usual this year. I have 3 photos entered, and just enough of a window to haul Steve up there before we leave so my pictures get at least two votes each for best in their category. Hey, it's not cheating! I'm sure some entrants come backed by large families of voters. There's no other way I can explain how one or two each year manage to win, especially when there are three nearly identical shots in some categories and how the heck to you choose except by reading the name of the entrant below each one?
While I was up there, I managed to wander familiar roads with my camera, shooting everything that was half-worth the effort. Which is exactly what they were: half-worth the effort. But I have a pair picked out to decide between for next year's contest. Or maybe the X-mas card.
On the still-to-do list: plan and do packing, schedule visits with Steve's Colorado family members, reserve motels. Plus that party, of course. Paul wanted me to go around the yard with him and mark how trees should be pruned, but that's not happened. At least the packing list is saved on the laptop so I can compare it with what was brought up.There will be lots of adjustments, of course. We brought stuff to leave here, and acquired stuff to take down.
All in all, we're both ready to head home. And maybe rethink the plan for next summer.
Weather has been one of things beyond control... as always. Usually by early August this area has started drying up, mosquito populations are dropping, firewood is actually usable, and the sandbar at Steve's favorite boat launch on the St. Croix River has grown with dropping river levels to the point where Steve has plenty of room to set up a chair and his gear for fishing without a conflict with boaters for space.
One of those above has happened. Fortunately, it's been the fishing. Steve used a couple of other public access sites that have docks, but his intermittent bouts of dizziness leave him leery of sitting up on a narrow platform above the water when a fall is possible. Using the river site gives room for me to drop him off with all his gear, then either shop locally or sit in the car reading/napping until he calls me ready to head home.
We usually have several backyard bonfires during the summer, flames to enjoy along with our food, and that wonderful campfire smell without having to leave home. Brats and fixings, roasted ears of corn, s'mores or simple marshmallows for dessert to share with good company. We're still waiting for our first bonfire. The thunderstorms have actually been picking up, and with 2 weekends left for that bonfire, I'm pessimistic. Since I'm hoping to use the occasion to celebrate my 70th with a yardful of people, I've been trying to get the inside of the house into shape to hold everybody as the backup plan.
Please note that I've said "I". Not "we". Add two extra people to - shall we say a "casually" maintained house, with all having a tendency to do more cluttering than straightening, and you may understand why the prospect seems daunting. There have been many weeks where both the garbage and recycling bins, each 60+ gallons capacity, have been rolled curbside, not merely full but overflowing. I still see no progress.
If anybody sees Dobby the house elf, please send him this way. I've been feeling like a very incompetent version. While the knees are fine, strength and stamina are still dropping, the lungs are not keeping up, and a light depression has settled in. I'm told the latter is an expected side effect of the medication that is finally successful at keeping my blood pressure where it needs to be. I suspect the lungs are reacting to the excess mold from a very wet summer, although I wonder if the perpetual cough this summer shouldn't be a wet cough rather than a dry one if that were the entire case. I have managed to push ahead that pulmonologist appointment to just after we get back. I'd love to walk more than a block without puffing and panting. That's kind of another impediment to getting the house ready for company. I've given up on doing the basement stairs either for cleaning up or free laundry. Steve and I willingly pay the local laundromat.
One the plus side, I've decided to quit fighting the insomnia so hard, just catching up during the day instead. Either way, it's enough sleep that the A-fib hasn't popped up again. Driving home across two time zones will set my internal clock more where I want it anyway. Steve and I have managed to see everybody we've wanted to at least once this summer, though with family and friends spreading out that's getting to be more of a challenge. Steve has gotten to see grandchildren who've been unavailable for years, so that's been a real treat. We took Rich to see his granddaughter (that's weird: my kid's a grandpa!) who's also my great-granddaughter for a nice visit not long ago. All three of us were armed with cameras and caught bunches of still and videos, since the trip is a challenge. Of course, within two weeks her Mom posted Facebook video of the baby taking her first bunches of steps.
I packed three boxes of jewelry-making supplies to bring up here. Mostly they sit on the table. Just lately, however, I've gotten in three classes on how to do stuff up here that the club in AZ doesn't teach. Not only is it fun, helping abolish the depression for a bit, but I'm now laying in bed not sleeping while I plan on how to work on these new things back down there. In other words, another version of why I can't sleep when the head hits the pillow.
Topping it off, I've offered to teach the woman who's been giving me classes how to do her own chaining. We both benefit. Not only that, but I'll be using - for instructional purposes only - the 20 gauge wire jump rings I make when I first started out, before I decided they were too flimsy to do anything with. I couldn't bring myself to throw them out, and now they'll have a use. She knows she'll be making pattern samples only, and not to expect wearable jewelry at the end of the class. She, like I do, can stay awake nights imagining all kinds of ways to make adaptations. Different metals or colored wires, different size links, interrupted patterns with a bigger ring to connect them or hang things from like pendants or charms, mixing colors....
No, I'm not deliberately trying to give somebody else insomnia. I really like her. But it might be a side effect.
The annual Crex Meadows photography contest is being held later than usual this year. I have 3 photos entered, and just enough of a window to haul Steve up there before we leave so my pictures get at least two votes each for best in their category. Hey, it's not cheating! I'm sure some entrants come backed by large families of voters. There's no other way I can explain how one or two each year manage to win, especially when there are three nearly identical shots in some categories and how the heck to you choose except by reading the name of the entrant below each one?
While I was up there, I managed to wander familiar roads with my camera, shooting everything that was half-worth the effort. Which is exactly what they were: half-worth the effort. But I have a pair picked out to decide between for next year's contest. Or maybe the X-mas card.
On the still-to-do list: plan and do packing, schedule visits with Steve's Colorado family members, reserve motels. Plus that party, of course. Paul wanted me to go around the yard with him and mark how trees should be pruned, but that's not happened. At least the packing list is saved on the laptop so I can compare it with what was brought up.There will be lots of adjustments, of course. We brought stuff to leave here, and acquired stuff to take down.
All in all, we're both ready to head home. And maybe rethink the plan for next summer.
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