I love Burger King Whoppers, particularly when they don't add the mayo, and it never never never comes within 10 feet of a pickle. Extra onions are great. So is the 2-for-$6 deal they've been offering for a long time now. Technically, it's a mix and match special that includes chicken sandwiches as well, but for me, it's about the Whoppers.
I didn't realize quite how good the deal was until I ordered a single Whopper once. It came to about $5! How could that be? A quarter pound grilled beef with trimmings cost $5? When I can get two for just a buck more, take one home, pop it in the fridge, and have it, nearly as good, for another meal? I never order just the one anymore. I never even go if one is calling me but one is all I can eat in the next, say, 24 hours. That $1 Whopper is a steal! There will never again be a hamburger available with all the trimmings for that buck. I can't even make myself a $1 burger at home.
Once it came to me, it was obvious, but it took something like a year before it popped into my head. It's not about the sandwich. It's about the everything else. Whether I buy a single or double, it takes the same amount of time the grill has to be heated and the fridge and freezer to keep things fresh, The same for the lights and the restrooms and the price of the building itself. The employees do essentially the same amount of work for two as for one items per customer and their wages plus benefits (uh, they do have benefits, right?) are the same. The same bag holds both, there are usually three or four napkins for either order, I use the same space in the drive thru line, it's the same smile - or not - from whoever is at the window, the same time at their cash register.
So the $5 pays for the fact I stopped for a whatever. The extra for a buck more is the enticement to get me to stop by rather than pick any other option for my meal(s). That more directly reflects their cost for the ingredients, so not much if any loss for them. The only real loss to them is if I don't stop by. So it's not the meat, it's the overhead.
Duh!
Hmmm, one would be good right now.... And tomorrow....
Sunday, January 26, 2020
Saturday, January 25, 2020
Dreamscapes
The REM brain is a fascinating thing. It can tell us a lot about ourselves, while also being unable to perform what have become the most elementary of mental tasks. Theories abound about why we dream, who does or doesn't (we all do), why it's necessary, what it all means. ( FYI Freud was coo-coo!) I don't claim to be any kind of scientist or researcher on the subject. I do, however, happen to be one of those people who remembers a lot of my dreams.
I tend to wake up in the mornings directly out of a dreaming state. Researchers now tell us that this is the only way we can remember dreams, and that unless you make some kind of note of what they were, whether mentally or in, say, written form, those memories are fleeting.
Firstly, I can tell you I dream in color. I wonder at the people who claim they don't. Are they for real? Is this perhaps a form of color blindness, one of those things that we who don't have it find it hard to comprehend? Anyway, for me at least, this is one of the ways that dream experiences match real life.
One current theory on why we need to dream is that all the jumble of stuff that goes on while we are awake gets sorted out, organized, solved, remembered, and whatever else we do with it, while we sleep, and dreaming is an important part of that. I'll go with the problem solving bit of that. I frequently wake to find myself working on a problem of some kind, and often dive right back down into that dream to keep working on it until something that makes sense only in the dream world declared itself the solution. Occasionally, I wake up enough to realize that the problem is one that doesn't actually need solving and I don't need to hit the pillow again.
Take yesterday morning. I'm secretary for the club, and in the dream I was taking minutes of a meeting that was tasked with negotiating terms for some kind of deal. Whatever these were, they were to go and be presented to the larger group for approval. Nothing in a dream is ever that straightforward, of course. I had not been informed of either meeting, and was totally unprepared. My solution was to take minutes on the inside of a white plastic jar lid with a red pen. If that wasn't enough of an issue, the meeting was held in a large room that somebody was busy moving out of, dollies and hand carts busy and noisy all around. I couldn't hear much of what was being said. What I could hear, as soon as it was written, was immediately covered over in snow. In wiping out the snow, all the red ink ran, making it impossible to recover the data. I tried to recall what I could, but again, magical snow, vanishing words....
At that point I awoke. It was just enough that my more rational brain decided for me that this wasn't a problem that needed solving, allowing myself to finish waking up. And yes, the white and red were definitely colors in the dream. They had importance to its plot.
My dreams can tell me things about my sleeping body that I don't otherwise recognize. They recognize pain or marvel at the unexpected lack of it. They always manage to tell me when my bladder is in need of some TLC. It's not that I feel the pressure. Instead, the dream me starts looking for an acceptable toilet. I say acceptable, because in my dream I never find one. I might open the stall door and there's a hole in the floor where the toilet has been removed. It might be a series of toilets with no separations or doors for privacy, or the designated bathroom simply isn't one, or the guys are using it, or none is anywhere to be found in the building. Nor the next three I search through. When that kind of dream finally wakes me, it's time for a quick jaunt to a real bathroom. Dream mission accomplished.
I hadn't realized just how necessary that frustration was. I'd gotten tired of those recurring dreams. Having read somewhere that one can suggest to themself before going to sleep that dreams go in a certain direction, I tried it one night many years ago. The result was very effective. The dream changed, and I woke to a wet bed. Oops. The message got changed back immediately.
There are other frustrations, kinds of problems my dreams can't help me solve. I can never find where I parked my car. This is usually one of those work dreams, where I'm still a courier, telling myself or others that I was planning to retire real soon, or had but came back or.... Having delivered my package, I need to get back to the car for the next delivery. I wind up looking for the car blocks away from the drop, which makes absolutely no sense whatever since we always park as close to the door we go in as possible. These dreams always remind me that either my knees hurt or that they don't any longer. Whichever the dream picks, the knees are always an awareness while I hunt for that car.
This kind of work dream is much easier than the kind where I've gotten the package and I need to figure out where it goes. My REM brain can't read! I can't see an address, and have to ask dispatch as soon as I can get past the humiliation of not being able to read. Of course, I never quite get to that point. Apparently it doesn't recognize numbers either, which probably explains why I can never make a phone call that connects. On top of all that it also has completely lost its map skills. All the streets or towns are places I can't remember how to get to. I can puzzle over a package address for - the dream would have me believe - hours, and I'd be days late for a 1 hour service and still be unable to finish. These are the dreams most likely to drag me back down into a repeat. Apparently my REM brain is a much a task master as I am when awake.
The dreams occasionally tell me things about how I'm feeling emotionally that I haven't recognized and still may not for a long time. I clearly recall waking up shocked by one where I was trying to murder my mother. Of course I never had those kind of feelings or thoughts about her! But a complicated relationship? You betcha. I finally let myself start figuring out not only that there were issues, but what they were, how they affected me, and in the process learned more about my mother as well. I learned, for example, that scolding and shaming, while well meant as an expression of love and one's hopes and dreams for that child, are not a particularly good way to express that. The message came across as, "I'm telling you that I love you and here's all the things that are wrong with you." It didn't do me a bit of good when it came to choosing my first husband, didn't help me recognize how toxic and abusive he was, didn't help me value myself enough to get out. That horrible dream started me on the path of working that all through.
The last kind of thing my REM brain tells me is that it's time to go to sleep again. It starts screwing up my thoughts or messing with what I'm reading. I'll suddenly realize that I've just followed the story off the page and into wholly new territory. It kinda makes sense but is nowhere what the author intended. Something being said on the TV starts me putting words and thoughts together in a meaningless disjointed jumble that seems to make sense only in dreams. Or as my head hits the pillow, my brain will present me with the shades of the previous dream, the one I woke from, no details, just the elusive sense of what it might have been about. That's when I know I can just drop straight off. Otherwise, I might be lying awake for hours, maybe even have to get up to blog about it!
That's why it's 1:38 AM.
I tend to wake up in the mornings directly out of a dreaming state. Researchers now tell us that this is the only way we can remember dreams, and that unless you make some kind of note of what they were, whether mentally or in, say, written form, those memories are fleeting.
Firstly, I can tell you I dream in color. I wonder at the people who claim they don't. Are they for real? Is this perhaps a form of color blindness, one of those things that we who don't have it find it hard to comprehend? Anyway, for me at least, this is one of the ways that dream experiences match real life.
One current theory on why we need to dream is that all the jumble of stuff that goes on while we are awake gets sorted out, organized, solved, remembered, and whatever else we do with it, while we sleep, and dreaming is an important part of that. I'll go with the problem solving bit of that. I frequently wake to find myself working on a problem of some kind, and often dive right back down into that dream to keep working on it until something that makes sense only in the dream world declared itself the solution. Occasionally, I wake up enough to realize that the problem is one that doesn't actually need solving and I don't need to hit the pillow again.
Take yesterday morning. I'm secretary for the club, and in the dream I was taking minutes of a meeting that was tasked with negotiating terms for some kind of deal. Whatever these were, they were to go and be presented to the larger group for approval. Nothing in a dream is ever that straightforward, of course. I had not been informed of either meeting, and was totally unprepared. My solution was to take minutes on the inside of a white plastic jar lid with a red pen. If that wasn't enough of an issue, the meeting was held in a large room that somebody was busy moving out of, dollies and hand carts busy and noisy all around. I couldn't hear much of what was being said. What I could hear, as soon as it was written, was immediately covered over in snow. In wiping out the snow, all the red ink ran, making it impossible to recover the data. I tried to recall what I could, but again, magical snow, vanishing words....
At that point I awoke. It was just enough that my more rational brain decided for me that this wasn't a problem that needed solving, allowing myself to finish waking up. And yes, the white and red were definitely colors in the dream. They had importance to its plot.
My dreams can tell me things about my sleeping body that I don't otherwise recognize. They recognize pain or marvel at the unexpected lack of it. They always manage to tell me when my bladder is in need of some TLC. It's not that I feel the pressure. Instead, the dream me starts looking for an acceptable toilet. I say acceptable, because in my dream I never find one. I might open the stall door and there's a hole in the floor where the toilet has been removed. It might be a series of toilets with no separations or doors for privacy, or the designated bathroom simply isn't one, or the guys are using it, or none is anywhere to be found in the building. Nor the next three I search through. When that kind of dream finally wakes me, it's time for a quick jaunt to a real bathroom. Dream mission accomplished.
I hadn't realized just how necessary that frustration was. I'd gotten tired of those recurring dreams. Having read somewhere that one can suggest to themself before going to sleep that dreams go in a certain direction, I tried it one night many years ago. The result was very effective. The dream changed, and I woke to a wet bed. Oops. The message got changed back immediately.
There are other frustrations, kinds of problems my dreams can't help me solve. I can never find where I parked my car. This is usually one of those work dreams, where I'm still a courier, telling myself or others that I was planning to retire real soon, or had but came back or.... Having delivered my package, I need to get back to the car for the next delivery. I wind up looking for the car blocks away from the drop, which makes absolutely no sense whatever since we always park as close to the door we go in as possible. These dreams always remind me that either my knees hurt or that they don't any longer. Whichever the dream picks, the knees are always an awareness while I hunt for that car.
This kind of work dream is much easier than the kind where I've gotten the package and I need to figure out where it goes. My REM brain can't read! I can't see an address, and have to ask dispatch as soon as I can get past the humiliation of not being able to read. Of course, I never quite get to that point. Apparently it doesn't recognize numbers either, which probably explains why I can never make a phone call that connects. On top of all that it also has completely lost its map skills. All the streets or towns are places I can't remember how to get to. I can puzzle over a package address for - the dream would have me believe - hours, and I'd be days late for a 1 hour service and still be unable to finish. These are the dreams most likely to drag me back down into a repeat. Apparently my REM brain is a much a task master as I am when awake.
The dreams occasionally tell me things about how I'm feeling emotionally that I haven't recognized and still may not for a long time. I clearly recall waking up shocked by one where I was trying to murder my mother. Of course I never had those kind of feelings or thoughts about her! But a complicated relationship? You betcha. I finally let myself start figuring out not only that there were issues, but what they were, how they affected me, and in the process learned more about my mother as well. I learned, for example, that scolding and shaming, while well meant as an expression of love and one's hopes and dreams for that child, are not a particularly good way to express that. The message came across as, "I'm telling you that I love you and here's all the things that are wrong with you." It didn't do me a bit of good when it came to choosing my first husband, didn't help me recognize how toxic and abusive he was, didn't help me value myself enough to get out. That horrible dream started me on the path of working that all through.
The last kind of thing my REM brain tells me is that it's time to go to sleep again. It starts screwing up my thoughts or messing with what I'm reading. I'll suddenly realize that I've just followed the story off the page and into wholly new territory. It kinda makes sense but is nowhere what the author intended. Something being said on the TV starts me putting words and thoughts together in a meaningless disjointed jumble that seems to make sense only in dreams. Or as my head hits the pillow, my brain will present me with the shades of the previous dream, the one I woke from, no details, just the elusive sense of what it might have been about. That's when I know I can just drop straight off. Otherwise, I might be lying awake for hours, maybe even have to get up to blog about it!
That's why it's 1:38 AM.
Friday, January 24, 2020
Trying Out Those Legs
You know I've been pool walking for a bit. You likely don't know I stopped a couple months ago, for several reasons including recently having a cold I didn't wish to either share, or treat to a chilly drive home from the pool. At any rate, I'm not as active as I had been.
I wasn't sure how much of a detriment that may have been, Or what parts may have been fairly neutral. My balance was and seems to remain fairly secure, having been much improved by the pool, barring those times when the legs themselves go wobbly from overuse. My stride is back to what it used to be, most of the time. I have a much quicker stride than in the last couple years, back to normal if only for short periods. I get some walking in the club, especially when I have to assist in store sales and we get customers who want things out of several cases before making any decisions. All cases are locked until something is requested for a closer look or a sale, so I can spend some time on my feet these days. In that sense, I'm still improving without the pool walking.
I know there are still limitations. At the club holiday party I even got out on the floor with about a dozen other women and danced most of a couple numbers. This was "most of a couple numbers" more than any previous years of those parties. However, I had to leave the floor early because the legs started to wobble. Another minute and I would likely been down on the floor instead of dancing or walking off. Still, my normal activity load is done comfortably. But boy, was that fun!
Pool walking is different from regular walking, however, especially for somebody as buoyant as I am. I tell people I'm such a cork that as soon as the water level reaches 4 1/2 feet, I barely touch the pool floor and without traction can barely continue forward. They laugh, perhaps at how true that is. Even in shallower water, enough of me is supported that it is a particularly low stress activity, even at top walking speed. That's great for a developing bad ankle and arch, but not so much for muscle strength.
I decided I was ready for a real world test of my limitations. We had Minnesota company in town. The weather when they left to drive down here was awful, delaying their arrival and limiting our time together. This morning they were heading out to Lake Montezuma, the first leg of their trip back home. Steve and I decided to head up there as well, taking two cars, guys in one, women in the other, for long conversations on the way. The goal was Montezuma's Well.
I've been there. I've taken pictures. I wanted to go back, show them what I loved about the place, and take - you guessed it - more pictures. Turns out there was a lot more up and down than I remembered, some as sloped paved paths, but lots as stairs. The way up, at least, kept stairs to about three at a time, railings on both sides for support and security in case balance falters. I haven't done stairs for, well, I can't remember how long. For sure not since the knee replacements, and avoided as much as possible for years before that. Down here I navigate the curbs as the steepest steps around, and even that had taken a while to comfortable conquer. This was a challenge.
I wound up making it to the top by stopping at every other set of steps or so, holding on to the railing and panting for a bit, then continuing. For the record, Steve just looked at the route and decided his day was well served by sitting on the bench at the ranger shack and having conversations with his friend who also made the same decision, both of the rangers, and the occasional passer-by who wanted to contribute before starting the climb.
Upon reaching the top, I located a likely rock and plunked down on it. It had to be one high and flat enough that I could reasonably expect to get up off it again on my own power. There was a good one fitting those qualifications right in a great spot to get a few pictures. Then it started to get interesting. From that spot to the overlook railing was actually several steps down.
Sure.
If I don't do up well, I do down even worse. Add the complication that whichever genius planned the path managed to put rails along the upward path but none to assist with the downward steps. You know, where a loss of balance could result in a fall that would bring you right over to the lip. And from that lip, there's a whole lot of down. Sure, there might be water at the bottom, but who wants to try to see how much one can scrape off along the way, and just how deep that water is to gently stop your fall? Or not?
I readily took my friend Peggy up on her offer of reaching out a hand so I had something to assist any bitty insufficiency of balance. I didn't need support, just something to trust.
After enjoying the rim view, particularly watching the ducks weave trails through whatever that brown stuff on top of the water was that they appeared to be eating, we continued heading down around the outside of the Well to where the stream came out. Or at least that was the plan. The trip included a whole lot more stairs without any railings, so we stuck closely together for much of it.
I had recalled the ruins alongthe path that had sat there from enough hundreds of years ago that the stone walls were gone in places, and uneven where they had survived. Any roof had been gone so long that a tree had grown up in the middle, reached a venerable old age, and died. The dry climate still preserved it. Made a great picture, at least in my mind. I'll have to look at the several I took and see if reality makes a fool of me.
I shot fairly quickly and was again looking for somewhere to perch. While Peggy was taking her turn at taking in the ambiance of the ruins, I located a sitting rock where I waited. Those legs were starting to suggest the smoothest, flattest way back to the car was a good option. By the time I looked at the branching in the path leading down to the stream, all I noticed was steps heading down. far enough that there was no longer any "out" beyond them. Just "down." down. Oh, and railings? Maybe somebody in the National Park system thought those would mar the beauty of the place?
Peggy and I consulted. She would go on down and enjoy the heck out of what was there, which she says she did. Meanwhile I spied a bench another hundred feet or so beyond the branch in the path, aka the way back to the cars, where I could sit and stretch out for however long Peggy took. Which turned out to be maybe 20 minutes.
By no means was the time wasted, camera-wise or otherwise. This was a different angle on the ruins we'd passed, looking up at them instead of down, silhouetted against the sky, with scattered other trees around to add interest. There was a different sycamore than the one I'd shot from several lens lengths while at the ruins, and this one also had the lowering sun make the white bark gleam, a shout against the browns in the landscape and the deep Arizona blue sky.
Scattered groups of twos and threes passed by, all obviously having enjoyed their experiences. About the time it occurred to me to wonder how Peggy was doing, a hawk appeared, riding the thermals, circling in varied patterns over the trees and ruins. After watching it for about 5 minutes, it occurred to me that, while it was too tiny to make a still shot, it might show up in a video if I zoomed up on it a bit. Another thing to check out once I've downloaded the file. It hung around until about a minute after I finished the video shot, disappearing over the hill to look for that next so-far-elusive tasty morsel. Within seconds, Peggy returned up the hill. I suspect she found that beautiful, peaceful bit of a stream in the middle of a dessert to be as much of a spiritual experience as I had many years ago.
From there back to the car the path was all wheelchair accessible. The rest had given my legs the respite needed to make it without too much stress, but when I hit the car it was about all I could do to stand long enough to stow the camera and relocate a few other items needed for the drive back. That hundred miles was no problem at all. No aching. No quivering. No problem responding to the need for speed or braking.
All in all, the test run (test walk?) was both discouraging and reassuring. It was difficult, I rejected doing the part I most had wanted to do, but I did manage to complete the most challenging walking I've done in way too long. Even with its limitations, I think it's time to get back in the pool. And maybe see if I can dig up some stairs to practice on. There must be some somewhere.
I wasn't sure how much of a detriment that may have been, Or what parts may have been fairly neutral. My balance was and seems to remain fairly secure, having been much improved by the pool, barring those times when the legs themselves go wobbly from overuse. My stride is back to what it used to be, most of the time. I have a much quicker stride than in the last couple years, back to normal if only for short periods. I get some walking in the club, especially when I have to assist in store sales and we get customers who want things out of several cases before making any decisions. All cases are locked until something is requested for a closer look or a sale, so I can spend some time on my feet these days. In that sense, I'm still improving without the pool walking.
I know there are still limitations. At the club holiday party I even got out on the floor with about a dozen other women and danced most of a couple numbers. This was "most of a couple numbers" more than any previous years of those parties. However, I had to leave the floor early because the legs started to wobble. Another minute and I would likely been down on the floor instead of dancing or walking off. Still, my normal activity load is done comfortably. But boy, was that fun!
Pool walking is different from regular walking, however, especially for somebody as buoyant as I am. I tell people I'm such a cork that as soon as the water level reaches 4 1/2 feet, I barely touch the pool floor and without traction can barely continue forward. They laugh, perhaps at how true that is. Even in shallower water, enough of me is supported that it is a particularly low stress activity, even at top walking speed. That's great for a developing bad ankle and arch, but not so much for muscle strength.
I decided I was ready for a real world test of my limitations. We had Minnesota company in town. The weather when they left to drive down here was awful, delaying their arrival and limiting our time together. This morning they were heading out to Lake Montezuma, the first leg of their trip back home. Steve and I decided to head up there as well, taking two cars, guys in one, women in the other, for long conversations on the way. The goal was Montezuma's Well.
I've been there. I've taken pictures. I wanted to go back, show them what I loved about the place, and take - you guessed it - more pictures. Turns out there was a lot more up and down than I remembered, some as sloped paved paths, but lots as stairs. The way up, at least, kept stairs to about three at a time, railings on both sides for support and security in case balance falters. I haven't done stairs for, well, I can't remember how long. For sure not since the knee replacements, and avoided as much as possible for years before that. Down here I navigate the curbs as the steepest steps around, and even that had taken a while to comfortable conquer. This was a challenge.
I wound up making it to the top by stopping at every other set of steps or so, holding on to the railing and panting for a bit, then continuing. For the record, Steve just looked at the route and decided his day was well served by sitting on the bench at the ranger shack and having conversations with his friend who also made the same decision, both of the rangers, and the occasional passer-by who wanted to contribute before starting the climb.
Upon reaching the top, I located a likely rock and plunked down on it. It had to be one high and flat enough that I could reasonably expect to get up off it again on my own power. There was a good one fitting those qualifications right in a great spot to get a few pictures. Then it started to get interesting. From that spot to the overlook railing was actually several steps down.
Sure.
If I don't do up well, I do down even worse. Add the complication that whichever genius planned the path managed to put rails along the upward path but none to assist with the downward steps. You know, where a loss of balance could result in a fall that would bring you right over to the lip. And from that lip, there's a whole lot of down. Sure, there might be water at the bottom, but who wants to try to see how much one can scrape off along the way, and just how deep that water is to gently stop your fall? Or not?
I readily took my friend Peggy up on her offer of reaching out a hand so I had something to assist any bitty insufficiency of balance. I didn't need support, just something to trust.
After enjoying the rim view, particularly watching the ducks weave trails through whatever that brown stuff on top of the water was that they appeared to be eating, we continued heading down around the outside of the Well to where the stream came out. Or at least that was the plan. The trip included a whole lot more stairs without any railings, so we stuck closely together for much of it.
I had recalled the ruins alongthe path that had sat there from enough hundreds of years ago that the stone walls were gone in places, and uneven where they had survived. Any roof had been gone so long that a tree had grown up in the middle, reached a venerable old age, and died. The dry climate still preserved it. Made a great picture, at least in my mind. I'll have to look at the several I took and see if reality makes a fool of me.
I shot fairly quickly and was again looking for somewhere to perch. While Peggy was taking her turn at taking in the ambiance of the ruins, I located a sitting rock where I waited. Those legs were starting to suggest the smoothest, flattest way back to the car was a good option. By the time I looked at the branching in the path leading down to the stream, all I noticed was steps heading down. far enough that there was no longer any "out" beyond them. Just "down." down. Oh, and railings? Maybe somebody in the National Park system thought those would mar the beauty of the place?
Peggy and I consulted. She would go on down and enjoy the heck out of what was there, which she says she did. Meanwhile I spied a bench another hundred feet or so beyond the branch in the path, aka the way back to the cars, where I could sit and stretch out for however long Peggy took. Which turned out to be maybe 20 minutes.
By no means was the time wasted, camera-wise or otherwise. This was a different angle on the ruins we'd passed, looking up at them instead of down, silhouetted against the sky, with scattered other trees around to add interest. There was a different sycamore than the one I'd shot from several lens lengths while at the ruins, and this one also had the lowering sun make the white bark gleam, a shout against the browns in the landscape and the deep Arizona blue sky.
Scattered groups of twos and threes passed by, all obviously having enjoyed their experiences. About the time it occurred to me to wonder how Peggy was doing, a hawk appeared, riding the thermals, circling in varied patterns over the trees and ruins. After watching it for about 5 minutes, it occurred to me that, while it was too tiny to make a still shot, it might show up in a video if I zoomed up on it a bit. Another thing to check out once I've downloaded the file. It hung around until about a minute after I finished the video shot, disappearing over the hill to look for that next so-far-elusive tasty morsel. Within seconds, Peggy returned up the hill. I suspect she found that beautiful, peaceful bit of a stream in the middle of a dessert to be as much of a spiritual experience as I had many years ago.
From there back to the car the path was all wheelchair accessible. The rest had given my legs the respite needed to make it without too much stress, but when I hit the car it was about all I could do to stand long enough to stow the camera and relocate a few other items needed for the drive back. That hundred miles was no problem at all. No aching. No quivering. No problem responding to the need for speed or braking.
All in all, the test run (test walk?) was both discouraging and reassuring. It was difficult, I rejected doing the part I most had wanted to do, but I did manage to complete the most challenging walking I've done in way too long. Even with its limitations, I think it's time to get back in the pool. And maybe see if I can dig up some stairs to practice on. There must be some somewhere.
Wednesday, January 15, 2020
The Meaning Of Life
That does seem to be THE question, doesn't it? Why am I here? What is my purpose? What am I supposed to do with my life?
Philosophers - really, all of us to the extent that each of us is a philosopher - have been noodling over those questions from back before time has real meaning for us. We are a fairly short-sighted species, we humans. Heck, teenagers even think they have discovered sex, generation after generation. Don't belittle that, since they have, for themselves. For a while they believe that sex is the meaning of life, since it leads to new life.
Some of us, of course, never give much thought to it. We muddle along, surviving as best we can, in our spare time stirring ourselves to hoping for something better to come along, or certainly no worse than what we already have. A theologian would frame that in terms of, say, heaven and hell, the terminology depending on which brand of theology they pushed. From a different theology, the terms for something better would be nirvana, or nothingness, and the something worse would be reincarnation, being forced to do all this over and over again until somehow in our bumbling way we managed to get it "right." For many of us, somebody telling us what life is all about is all we need, so we can go back to simply living. For others, it's not so simple.
If we look past our selves, perhaps we try to peer backwards to find meaning in how we arose from the primordial ooze. Some choose to believe that the fact we originated there and progressed to here means life is inevitable because it happened, and no further exploration of its meaning is needed. Others see the unanswered questions and, choosing to place the metaphysical stamp of the divine upon them, continue searching.
Some choose to look ahead instead of back, either narrowly toward our families, our children and descendants, or more widely, encompassing our tribe, our nation, or for a real stretch, our planet. If even that isn't enough, we look skyward on a dark evening and find out how really small and insignificant we are.
As time passes, we are exposed to a wide variety of ideas about why we are here. Is it to accomplish certain deeds? To accumulate things? To help somebody? To control others? To lead? To follow? To join? To separate? To change? To maintain? To learn? To teach? To explore? To discover? To reveal? To love? To think? To hide? To find or create beauty? To dance? To make music? To strive? To accept? To suffer? To heal? To kill? To worship? Despite ourselves, as we go along we begin to make judgments on which of all those possible goals we value and which we scorn, perhaps not even realizing we've gotten a step further to working on the question of what the meaning of life may be.
Some of us will pick one or more ideas and settle on them, deciding the search for meaning is over, complete. Others will struggle all their lives and never be satisfied that what they've found is an answer, nevermind the answer. We'll write books, we'll read books, we'll pontificate, we'll listen, we'll accept or tune out. And if there's time, as we die, we'll revisit the question yet again and wonder whether we ever got it right, and what comes next.
It all seems such a struggle, doesn't it? But what if it's really more simple, more basic that we let it be? What if it's right under our noses all the time and we just can't see it because we're insisting that something so overwhelmingly important makes it also something unfathomable? We design our God(s) to be omnipotent, omniscient, and unknowable in the fear that to know God(s) is to diminish God(s). If we lowly humans can actually understand God(s), then God(s) are no better than we, and that is untenable. We claim to be made in the image of God(s), though likely we make God(s) in our image instead, from our limited minds, fully understanding our minds are not up to the job. What if that is what is blocking us? Have we simply set ourselves an impossible task?
But....
What if the meaning of life is just as simple as that we're here to look for the meaning of life?
And what if it's not?
Philosophers - really, all of us to the extent that each of us is a philosopher - have been noodling over those questions from back before time has real meaning for us. We are a fairly short-sighted species, we humans. Heck, teenagers even think they have discovered sex, generation after generation. Don't belittle that, since they have, for themselves. For a while they believe that sex is the meaning of life, since it leads to new life.
Some of us, of course, never give much thought to it. We muddle along, surviving as best we can, in our spare time stirring ourselves to hoping for something better to come along, or certainly no worse than what we already have. A theologian would frame that in terms of, say, heaven and hell, the terminology depending on which brand of theology they pushed. From a different theology, the terms for something better would be nirvana, or nothingness, and the something worse would be reincarnation, being forced to do all this over and over again until somehow in our bumbling way we managed to get it "right." For many of us, somebody telling us what life is all about is all we need, so we can go back to simply living. For others, it's not so simple.
If we look past our selves, perhaps we try to peer backwards to find meaning in how we arose from the primordial ooze. Some choose to believe that the fact we originated there and progressed to here means life is inevitable because it happened, and no further exploration of its meaning is needed. Others see the unanswered questions and, choosing to place the metaphysical stamp of the divine upon them, continue searching.
Some choose to look ahead instead of back, either narrowly toward our families, our children and descendants, or more widely, encompassing our tribe, our nation, or for a real stretch, our planet. If even that isn't enough, we look skyward on a dark evening and find out how really small and insignificant we are.
As time passes, we are exposed to a wide variety of ideas about why we are here. Is it to accomplish certain deeds? To accumulate things? To help somebody? To control others? To lead? To follow? To join? To separate? To change? To maintain? To learn? To teach? To explore? To discover? To reveal? To love? To think? To hide? To find or create beauty? To dance? To make music? To strive? To accept? To suffer? To heal? To kill? To worship? Despite ourselves, as we go along we begin to make judgments on which of all those possible goals we value and which we scorn, perhaps not even realizing we've gotten a step further to working on the question of what the meaning of life may be.
Some of us will pick one or more ideas and settle on them, deciding the search for meaning is over, complete. Others will struggle all their lives and never be satisfied that what they've found is an answer, nevermind the answer. We'll write books, we'll read books, we'll pontificate, we'll listen, we'll accept or tune out. And if there's time, as we die, we'll revisit the question yet again and wonder whether we ever got it right, and what comes next.
It all seems such a struggle, doesn't it? But what if it's really more simple, more basic that we let it be? What if it's right under our noses all the time and we just can't see it because we're insisting that something so overwhelmingly important makes it also something unfathomable? We design our God(s) to be omnipotent, omniscient, and unknowable in the fear that to know God(s) is to diminish God(s). If we lowly humans can actually understand God(s), then God(s) are no better than we, and that is untenable. We claim to be made in the image of God(s), though likely we make God(s) in our image instead, from our limited minds, fully understanding our minds are not up to the job. What if that is what is blocking us? Have we simply set ourselves an impossible task?
But....
What if the meaning of life is just as simple as that we're here to look for the meaning of life?
And what if it's not?
Monday, January 13, 2020
Lucky
I've decided I'm lucky. No, no big lottery wins, not that kind of lucky. But I can look around at the people I know and have heard about, and find ways I'm luckier than they are. Or have been, in some cases. I'm still kicking.
I have lost track of those who, over the years, have contracted cancer. Some are still fighting, but too many have lost that last battle. The list includes about every kind of cancer you can think of.
I've never needed an organ replacement, nor died from rejection after ten long slow years. I've never broken a bone bigger than a nose or wrist, and if one is a bit crooked, oh well. It still breathes.
Of the several - I won't say "many" because I'm the one who gets to define the terms here, folks - fender benders I've had, the worst I've been injured was a minor neck sprain, even though that one involved getting rear-ended by a school bus. When those accidents totaled my car, like a memorable incident or three with Attack Bambis, there was always a way to procure that next vehicle, including a loan from the president of the company I drove for. May he rest in peace. Another cancer casualty.
I've never been homeless. Never gone hungry. (You can tell, can't you?) Never lost a sibling, child, grandchild. Never been widowed. I wasn't an orphan until in my 60's. I've never been in a tornado, flood, volcano, or earthquake, never known somebody to drown, never had a home burn, never battled addiction - so long as chocolate doesn't count. I've never been touched closely by violence, nor since junior high, known somebody who has.
I've never had cause for PTSD though that previously mentioned school bus succeeded in making me leery of driving on winter ice. Fortunately I was already working on relocating to warmer climes.
I'm dearly loved by somebody I dearly love, and fully cognizant of just how lucky that is.
The list can go on. But what brings it all to mind is a call today from a friend who's been anything but lucky. For her it's been a long list of things, one after the next after the next. When I met her and became her friend back when she was about 35, she'd been dealing with MRSA in one foot. Having insurance that paid for... well, not the best of health care, and not the best of doctors, she's gone through repeatedly being under-diagnosed for her infections, under-prescribed for proper antibiotics, all by the same doctor who might have paid more attention to her chronic history and might have figured another MRSA infection wasn't was zebra but a horse, well before she required IVs to treat them. There were toe amputations. The other foot had a heel that had MRSA, then weakened bone which wouldn't heal after being broken, and still not healed after two bone grafts. Now, maybe it finally has.
But...
There was the shin bone on the other leg from that ankle, the same leg as the earlier amputations, which recently broke, was casted, and a follow-up x-ray that was misread as showing it had healed. As soon as the cast was removed and the leg bore weight, that bone was more of a "v" than a straight line. A new doctor figured it out, a new cast is on, and she is confined to a wheelchair for the duration. Her hip is giving her problems - the usual normal stuff that requires surgery though not so likely in someone now only 44, but won't be dealt with until that shin bone heals.
However...
During the last couple years or more, she has been bounced from primary physician, to orthopedic clinic, to U of M hospital in Minneapolis. A little head scratching was going on at the U, since the doc doing the heel bone graft took bone from the other leg. You guessed it: the one that broke. And since that break wasn't healing, a few tests were run. A problem was found.
You're expecting that by now, right? I mean, this whole thing has been going on for maybe 10 years now. So there's a new diagnosis. She has a bacterial bone infection - not the possible cancer she was freaking out about - and while it is slow growing, it is also rare and drug resistant. And did I mention it's in both legs? Makes the head scratching over taking bone from one leg for the other even more significant.
The doc giving her the test results didn't pull any punches with her today. The most likely treatment will be amputation. Since it's in both legs, well, you can figure it out. Given a choice of returning to the U, or trying a new set of docs at the Mayo Clinic, she's picking Mayo, even though Rochester is about an 80 mile longer drive each way from her home than the U. The way she heard today's doc's comment agreeing with her choice, it sounds like there may be solid grounds for a malpractice suit.
I bet you knew that one was coming too.
So with all my whining and complaining, the lists of procedures and symptoms and after effects, maybe you can understand why I feel lucky. And why I just couldn't get to sleep until getting this down. And why I ache from being 1800 miles away from being able to give my friend a long hug.
Well, along with that little ache from.... Never mind.
I have lost track of those who, over the years, have contracted cancer. Some are still fighting, but too many have lost that last battle. The list includes about every kind of cancer you can think of.
I've never needed an organ replacement, nor died from rejection after ten long slow years. I've never broken a bone bigger than a nose or wrist, and if one is a bit crooked, oh well. It still breathes.
Of the several - I won't say "many" because I'm the one who gets to define the terms here, folks - fender benders I've had, the worst I've been injured was a minor neck sprain, even though that one involved getting rear-ended by a school bus. When those accidents totaled my car, like a memorable incident or three with Attack Bambis, there was always a way to procure that next vehicle, including a loan from the president of the company I drove for. May he rest in peace. Another cancer casualty.
I've never been homeless. Never gone hungry. (You can tell, can't you?) Never lost a sibling, child, grandchild. Never been widowed. I wasn't an orphan until in my 60's. I've never been in a tornado, flood, volcano, or earthquake, never known somebody to drown, never had a home burn, never battled addiction - so long as chocolate doesn't count. I've never been touched closely by violence, nor since junior high, known somebody who has.
I've never had cause for PTSD though that previously mentioned school bus succeeded in making me leery of driving on winter ice. Fortunately I was already working on relocating to warmer climes.
I'm dearly loved by somebody I dearly love, and fully cognizant of just how lucky that is.
The list can go on. But what brings it all to mind is a call today from a friend who's been anything but lucky. For her it's been a long list of things, one after the next after the next. When I met her and became her friend back when she was about 35, she'd been dealing with MRSA in one foot. Having insurance that paid for... well, not the best of health care, and not the best of doctors, she's gone through repeatedly being under-diagnosed for her infections, under-prescribed for proper antibiotics, all by the same doctor who might have paid more attention to her chronic history and might have figured another MRSA infection wasn't was zebra but a horse, well before she required IVs to treat them. There were toe amputations. The other foot had a heel that had MRSA, then weakened bone which wouldn't heal after being broken, and still not healed after two bone grafts. Now, maybe it finally has.
But...
There was the shin bone on the other leg from that ankle, the same leg as the earlier amputations, which recently broke, was casted, and a follow-up x-ray that was misread as showing it had healed. As soon as the cast was removed and the leg bore weight, that bone was more of a "v" than a straight line. A new doctor figured it out, a new cast is on, and she is confined to a wheelchair for the duration. Her hip is giving her problems - the usual normal stuff that requires surgery though not so likely in someone now only 44, but won't be dealt with until that shin bone heals.
However...
During the last couple years or more, she has been bounced from primary physician, to orthopedic clinic, to U of M hospital in Minneapolis. A little head scratching was going on at the U, since the doc doing the heel bone graft took bone from the other leg. You guessed it: the one that broke. And since that break wasn't healing, a few tests were run. A problem was found.
You're expecting that by now, right? I mean, this whole thing has been going on for maybe 10 years now. So there's a new diagnosis. She has a bacterial bone infection - not the possible cancer she was freaking out about - and while it is slow growing, it is also rare and drug resistant. And did I mention it's in both legs? Makes the head scratching over taking bone from one leg for the other even more significant.
The doc giving her the test results didn't pull any punches with her today. The most likely treatment will be amputation. Since it's in both legs, well, you can figure it out. Given a choice of returning to the U, or trying a new set of docs at the Mayo Clinic, she's picking Mayo, even though Rochester is about an 80 mile longer drive each way from her home than the U. The way she heard today's doc's comment agreeing with her choice, it sounds like there may be solid grounds for a malpractice suit.
I bet you knew that one was coming too.
So with all my whining and complaining, the lists of procedures and symptoms and after effects, maybe you can understand why I feel lucky. And why I just couldn't get to sleep until getting this down. And why I ache from being 1800 miles away from being able to give my friend a long hug.
Well, along with that little ache from.... Never mind.
Friday, January 10, 2020
Another Cold While Getting Older
You haven't heard from me for a bit. There's a reason.
I must say I remember worse colds. For me, anyway. Little of the gag-worthy accumulations I recall waking up to for a week of mornings in previous years. Coughing that produces nothing but a reduction in the urge to keep coughing - I guess that's beneficial, right? Drippy nose but not enough to overcome a pocketful of tissues, that might be better also, unless I'm just not remembering right. After all, there was that time earlier this week when I blew my nose and suddenly could smell again. I'd forgotten that part of a cold.
This time however, another effect has shown up that has become all too familiar: shortness of breath and exhaustion during brief bouts of activity. Yesterday I had my 4-hour stint in the club on Thursday mornings. Each officer "gets" a day to babysit the club, answer questions, help out when a volunteer is missing. My morning involved making a pot of coffee, turning on lights, plugging in things needing it, and a brief walk-though to check on how the closing crew from Wednesday had done what they were supposed.
A list was put on the office table. Some cleaning was missed and a water level needed on a grinder had dropped too far. Oh, and the coffee filter still held soggy used grounds. Nothing major, no big exertions. But there was some pausing between tasks.
Since the person assigned for the morning to handle the jewelry store hadn't shown nor called, I got to handle that. We had three sales involving about a total of 20 minutes standing, unlocking and relocking cases, and ringing up the sales. It's been worse on several occasions, getting a series of customers who had to examining items in multiple cases, each taking twenty minutes or more of keeping me running around and trying both to serve everyone and keep security and paperwork straight. And have I ever mentioned the fun of fighting with a ring of over a dozed color coded keys when two could be considered green and five make you choose between identifying them as red, pink, or purple? Somebody helpfully wrote "pink" on one red key but handling has mostly erased those letters. Turns out the key for the lock requiring the red one is actually one of the black keys. It had a red rubber ring around it last year but that disintegrated.
Yes, I know, not so bad over all, but while recovering from whatever health issues, discouragingly difficult to sustain. This cold, on top of dealing with blood thinner overdosing early last month, have kept me out of the walking pool for several weeks now, and I'm feeling it. I'm not so sick as to feel sick, but there's little extra reserves built up. So while my day was a couple hours just sitting and working with wires or socializing, the scattered bits of activity left me sweating and puffing. I'd hoped I was beyond that.
But hey, if that's all this cold causes, I'm happy enough. I'm still coping. Last night I (grudgingly) spent a couple hours in the kitchen making chicken soup. There were all these things in the fridge demanding immediate use, finally, or disposal. (There are four more bags in the garbage this morning, just saying.) But the soup is tasty enough - and I think the taste buds are back to about half functional so I can tell. And the soup was just as good for breakfast today.
This cold got shared by Steve, who was several days ahead of me getting it. He's also in way worse shape. Wednesday I drove him to both his primary doc and an imaging clinic, to see if he really has cracked a rib from coughing. The stupid part is we won't get results until next Friday when he goes back to his primary. His doc said he had good breath sounds in the upper third of his lungs.
Only.
The doc also told Steve he liked the new term Steve came up with for what ails him: pneucolflu. Said it suits most of his patients lately.
We've both had our flu shots and pneumonia shots, so we're not too paranoid about either of those things. But with this cold, whenever Steve coughs or sneezes, it is immediately followed by, " OW! OW! F... F... F... OW!!" That is not his usual. And of course, when nothing is happening, he will poke and prod a bit to see if it hurts from pushing on the outside. (OK, I would too.)
And it does. Thankfully the last couple days I'm hearing more "OWs" and fewer "F...s."
On the plus side, his appetite has decreased, and his doc says he's lost a bit of weight. And he's passed the point of needing to be horizontal practically all day. In fact, I got up this morning to find nearly all of the major kitchen mess I made last night cleaned up and dishes put away. A few dishes are left, but it's a big improvement from 3 counters and a stove top. I hope that means we're both beginning to recover.
I'll be much more confident once Steve returns to his cards clubs. Or to Ninos for their Thursday special.
I must say I remember worse colds. For me, anyway. Little of the gag-worthy accumulations I recall waking up to for a week of mornings in previous years. Coughing that produces nothing but a reduction in the urge to keep coughing - I guess that's beneficial, right? Drippy nose but not enough to overcome a pocketful of tissues, that might be better also, unless I'm just not remembering right. After all, there was that time earlier this week when I blew my nose and suddenly could smell again. I'd forgotten that part of a cold.
This time however, another effect has shown up that has become all too familiar: shortness of breath and exhaustion during brief bouts of activity. Yesterday I had my 4-hour stint in the club on Thursday mornings. Each officer "gets" a day to babysit the club, answer questions, help out when a volunteer is missing. My morning involved making a pot of coffee, turning on lights, plugging in things needing it, and a brief walk-though to check on how the closing crew from Wednesday had done what they were supposed.
A list was put on the office table. Some cleaning was missed and a water level needed on a grinder had dropped too far. Oh, and the coffee filter still held soggy used grounds. Nothing major, no big exertions. But there was some pausing between tasks.
Since the person assigned for the morning to handle the jewelry store hadn't shown nor called, I got to handle that. We had three sales involving about a total of 20 minutes standing, unlocking and relocking cases, and ringing up the sales. It's been worse on several occasions, getting a series of customers who had to examining items in multiple cases, each taking twenty minutes or more of keeping me running around and trying both to serve everyone and keep security and paperwork straight. And have I ever mentioned the fun of fighting with a ring of over a dozed color coded keys when two could be considered green and five make you choose between identifying them as red, pink, or purple? Somebody helpfully wrote "pink" on one red key but handling has mostly erased those letters. Turns out the key for the lock requiring the red one is actually one of the black keys. It had a red rubber ring around it last year but that disintegrated.
Yes, I know, not so bad over all, but while recovering from whatever health issues, discouragingly difficult to sustain. This cold, on top of dealing with blood thinner overdosing early last month, have kept me out of the walking pool for several weeks now, and I'm feeling it. I'm not so sick as to feel sick, but there's little extra reserves built up. So while my day was a couple hours just sitting and working with wires or socializing, the scattered bits of activity left me sweating and puffing. I'd hoped I was beyond that.
But hey, if that's all this cold causes, I'm happy enough. I'm still coping. Last night I (grudgingly) spent a couple hours in the kitchen making chicken soup. There were all these things in the fridge demanding immediate use, finally, or disposal. (There are four more bags in the garbage this morning, just saying.) But the soup is tasty enough - and I think the taste buds are back to about half functional so I can tell. And the soup was just as good for breakfast today.
This cold got shared by Steve, who was several days ahead of me getting it. He's also in way worse shape. Wednesday I drove him to both his primary doc and an imaging clinic, to see if he really has cracked a rib from coughing. The stupid part is we won't get results until next Friday when he goes back to his primary. His doc said he had good breath sounds in the upper third of his lungs.
Only.
The doc also told Steve he liked the new term Steve came up with for what ails him: pneucolflu. Said it suits most of his patients lately.
We've both had our flu shots and pneumonia shots, so we're not too paranoid about either of those things. But with this cold, whenever Steve coughs or sneezes, it is immediately followed by, " OW! OW! F... F... F... OW!!" That is not his usual. And of course, when nothing is happening, he will poke and prod a bit to see if it hurts from pushing on the outside. (OK, I would too.)
And it does. Thankfully the last couple days I'm hearing more "OWs" and fewer "F...s."
On the plus side, his appetite has decreased, and his doc says he's lost a bit of weight. And he's passed the point of needing to be horizontal practically all day. In fact, I got up this morning to find nearly all of the major kitchen mess I made last night cleaned up and dishes put away. A few dishes are left, but it's a big improvement from 3 counters and a stove top. I hope that means we're both beginning to recover.
I'll be much more confident once Steve returns to his cards clubs. Or to Ninos for their Thursday special.
Saturday, January 4, 2020
"He Wasn't An Angel"
Another black guy gets murdered by a cop for a minor traffic stop. Again. And again. It happens so often now that it's impossible to keep track of the whens and wheres, and that in itself is almost more of a tragedy than the unnecessary loss of life. Not only dead, but anonymous among the hoard.
There's all the usual reporting, how it supposedly happened, how it was mishandled, all the both-sides stuff you hear about incidents like these when everybody's pissed off, either about the shooting or about the outrage over the shooting, and nobody reporting on it seems willing or capable of taking any kind of ethical stand. Ratings, don'cha know. Get everybody mad at somebody else. Never risk their being pissed off at you.
There's this little zinger at the end of the story this time, however. It seems to be offered as a defense, for the cop's actions, against the outrage, or for ignoring the way a lot of this country is so screwed up and blinded by prejudice. "He wasn't an angel."
I'm sorry, say what? What the shit you talking there? He wasn't an angel? This is the "justification" given for why he was shot? For why it wasn't such a crime? For why it doesn't really matter? This murdered man was not an angel?
I got news for you. I'm not an angel. Neither are you, nor you, nor even you. We are none of us angels. By this "reasoning," all of us have pre-earned capitol punishment by whichever cop feels like it for whatever reason they come up with, for any cowardice on their part making them feel threatened by - well, frankly, anything, for appeasing any need they might have for exercising their superior power in the world to make up for the worms they truly are.
Oh wait, worms have a genuine purpose on this planet. I shouldn't malign them. Sorry, worms.
Neither do I malign the honest, hardworking, careful, brave and just cops out there. They also have a genuine purpose on this planet. I've been helped many times by them.
But then I'm white. And that should never be where the line is drawn.
Never.
There's all the usual reporting, how it supposedly happened, how it was mishandled, all the both-sides stuff you hear about incidents like these when everybody's pissed off, either about the shooting or about the outrage over the shooting, and nobody reporting on it seems willing or capable of taking any kind of ethical stand. Ratings, don'cha know. Get everybody mad at somebody else. Never risk their being pissed off at you.
There's this little zinger at the end of the story this time, however. It seems to be offered as a defense, for the cop's actions, against the outrage, or for ignoring the way a lot of this country is so screwed up and blinded by prejudice. "He wasn't an angel."
I'm sorry, say what? What the shit you talking there? He wasn't an angel? This is the "justification" given for why he was shot? For why it wasn't such a crime? For why it doesn't really matter? This murdered man was not an angel?
I got news for you. I'm not an angel. Neither are you, nor you, nor even you. We are none of us angels. By this "reasoning," all of us have pre-earned capitol punishment by whichever cop feels like it for whatever reason they come up with, for any cowardice on their part making them feel threatened by - well, frankly, anything, for appeasing any need they might have for exercising their superior power in the world to make up for the worms they truly are.
Oh wait, worms have a genuine purpose on this planet. I shouldn't malign them. Sorry, worms.
Neither do I malign the honest, hardworking, careful, brave and just cops out there. They also have a genuine purpose on this planet. I've been helped many times by them.
But then I'm white. And that should never be where the line is drawn.
Never.
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