A little Seasonal Frustration. Again.

I had a little time to kill this morning before heading off to the club. Monday mornings are my day to make sure it is unlocked on time, as well as making sure chores are done... correctly. In addition, I had wire pieces I'd shaped that needed to go into the vibrator to either have the metal hardened, get a shine, or both. It was about a week's worth of work needing 20 minutes of attention per set, not done last week at the club because of the holiday and Fall Festival. Besides some of those pieces were still getting formed last night in front of the TV.

I have to open at 9:00. It's a 7 minute drive. Of course I woke up at 2:11. Just 'cause. Well, actualy just 'cause the dog had to go out, and by the time I get done with that, I'm usually unable to go back to sleep. I hatched a little must-do plan to kill some of the time. It must have decided to retaliate instead. Upon reflection, (part of the process of continuing to get fully awake), I noted each year this chore gets a little more frustrating.

And yet I love to do it. The chore is making the annual Holiday Card. I'd call it the Christmas card, but we've pretty much gotten away from Santa and the religious aspect, so I tend to look for themes like "Peace" or "Happy Holidays". I also love to show off pictures - or even just one - from the previous year.

This year, however, we wanted to show off a little more of what the year had been like - our favorite shots from previous  seasons, our grand vacation, or this year, even us on our grand vacation. Steve and I had some ideas. He even requested that I take a particular shot last year while the decorations were still up to go on this year's card. With those things in mind, I went through the 5,846 items in my photo library (yes, I winnowed it downthat far) and picked out 7. It wasn't as hard as it sounds, as I had a pretty good idea of where/when those pictures were. Once they were moved to my desktop, I still had an hour left before needing to get dressed and leave.

Time enough to go online and see what I liked. That usually means starting with Walmart. They let me sort by card size and theme, so that narrows things down a lot. I found one template I fell in love with. It took 6 photos, had a couple more vertical that fit what I wanted to put on and the rest more horizontal to adequately serve the rest. Those 6 made an outer border with "Happy Holidays" and "from the Smith family" showing on a black center with snowflakes patterns. It looked ideal.

As expected, every year the software changes. I fumbled my way through uploading my photos, found out I had to wait for the software to process them before they showed next to the card with instructions on placing them where wanted. I went through that three times before I had the pics in the locations I wanted, since I forgot to take into consideration a couple times that it wasn't ideal to place blue next to blue when it could have other colors in between. Once they were arranged to my satisfaction, there was one left over which immediately got discarded. The others were both more appropriate to the theme of the year and better photos.

Now it was time to replace "From the Smith Family" with "Steve and Heather". Eight tries later it still never happened. Three of them were before I had run out of time and left for the club. The other five were after I returned home and decided I must have missed something obvious, and hunted for some way, any possible way at all, to make the text replacement happen. First, the thing didn't offer me a choice of which text to replace. It decided to place our names - in 36 size font!!!! - immediately over the "Happy Holidays" and parts of the surrounding photos. It was placed toward the left so the pictures on the right of the card were untouched. But the Smiths, whoever they may be,  still reigned supreme on the card. Moreover the letters were in black, matching most of the background no matter how many times I picked white, and in 36 font no matter how many times I brought it down to single digits.

Just before I ran out of time, it highlighted a little green box over the Smith's greeting, indicating that I could have selected there to put my text. EVERY SINGLE NEXT KEYSTROKE completely reset my attempt to put in sensible text in a rational size, color and location back to what it had decided to do.

When I returned from the club, somewhat more patient having gotten done everything I wanted, I started in again. Still failing, I explored other photo card sites. Nobody had what I liked or wanted to have to afford. it was time to hit up Walmart in person. Now I would have downloaded my chosen photos, including the reject just in case, on a thumb drive. However, I took my spare thumb drive and loaded it with video files of Anna from a pair of previous visits onto that didn't fit on the big one I loaded all the photos I was giving Jordan so she could keep them. The smaller drive with the overflow I asked her to return to me so I could do what I wanted to do today, load a few pictures on and take to the printer. It's never been returned. (Hint-hint Sweetie.)

Walmart is a several mile drive from the house, so I did the only seemingly sensible thing and threw my laptop in the car, in sleep mode but able to reopen to my desktop with those selected files on it. I decided I should also take along one of  the little doggie blankets and cover it up while it was in the car when I wasn't. It kept the laptop from being seen/stolen, even during the long wait in line at the electronics department which was staffed by a single person at the time. I bought the cheapest thumbdrive, returned to the car, loaded the photos on it, returned to their photo kiosk, and ... Nothing. Oh sure they had a kiosk, but no place to sit, and upon a search, only 3 choices of cards that turned out to be no choice at all. So having no place to sit turned out to not be an impediment after all. I left for good in three minutes.

Back home again, thumbdrive loaded, I tried yet more photo card sites. Their prices were 6 times what I would have had to spend at Walmart. I might have considered it anyway if they had anything, anything at all to suit my needs. I could maybe get 4 square photos on a card, but no. I was determined it was going to be 5 or 6. I could get all kinds of Christmas themes, new baby themes, graduation themes, here's-the-whole-damn-family themes, but nothing in a non religious holiday theme that would take more than one or two photos  Nope, not for me this year. Not now that the choices had been made.

I called CVS. I never go there, but I recall other drug stores that had photo kiosks in the past, and this was both fairly close and likely one of the least expensive around. Besides, I was going to need stamps for those cards, and it was already in the direction of the post office. I grabbed a couple bites of what was going to pass for lunch, and headed out with the thumb drive once their voicemail system finally provided me with a human who could confirm they did indeed have a photo kiosk.

Turns out it had a nice stool too. And hundreds of cards to pick from. I tried really hard to get the first card I'd fallen in love with out of my head. It wasn't going to be here! And it wasn't, but several others met my needs fairly well. Moreover, as I went through the process of dealing with the photos and text, everything was simple. After all those hours, once I selected a card my order was placed in about 5 minutes. After a quick run to the post office for stamps and McDonald's for an ice cream cone to soothe my soul, I was back to pick them up. I think they look better than I cold have hoped, almost as good as that first..... NO! NO! Don't do that Heather!

Deep breath.

They look just fine. Most of you who read this will be seeing yours in the mail... umm, this year. Depends on how badly DeJoy messes the mail up by then.

Notes On A Fall Festival

Today was the first of 2 days of the Sun City wide festival for all the crafts clubs to display and market their wares to a large crowd of people anxious to purchase  wonderful and interesting items at reasonable prices. We've had to wait two years for it because of covid. You might have guessed that this, being Arizona with masks being optional, had perhaps as many people as one in twenty present wearing masks. (Raises hand.)

The last two weeks were concentrated work in getting ready for it. Let me clarify that most of us prepare all year, learning skills and making jewelry for our on-site little store. But things ramped up. All the store jewelry had to be cleaned for showing. Silver tarnishes quickly here. Sulphur in the air is blamed. Choices need to be made as to which of your selections are going, unless you haven't yet made more than will fit on two trays for optimal display of each piece. Of course, we have "fake neck" stands for special necklaces, round bars on stands to hold bracelets, ring boxes, and 5 different rotating earring cases as well for the whole club, so every pair of earrings in the store got sent. A few mirrors are also strategically placed so customers can see how wonderful something looks on them. Or whatever it is they think they see in those things. We're hoping they see dollar signs.

Committees were set up for taking everything to the festival, and hauling back and putting away whatever was left. Tables and electric cords came with your club's space, along with publicity, announcers, parking, golf carts to shuttle customers to and from parking. Vendors were selected to sell foods and beverages outside the building, with only water allowed inside.  The clubs provide their own decorative table covers, plus sheets to cover the merchandise during closed hours when the building is locked. Excess of everything is stored under those tables behind their cloths, whether it is extra jewelry to fill in emptying trays, or boxes/bags for sold items, tools for emergency repairs, etc. Somebody even located a bandaid for a customer this morning! Inside the big rectangle of display tables are two small card tables, with space to walk around each. One holds the cash register which works on wi-fi plus whatever else in needed at that spot, the other table holds decorative boxes and bags for sold items, and a pair of boxes full of cards.

That's my preferred job, working with those cards. It is all done from a chair. 

When I say "cards", I refer to the large index type cards which each member fills out for each submitted piece of jewelry they wish to sell. Weeks or even years earlier a committee goes through those decide by a defined set of standards which have the quality to be sold in the club store. It's never about style; that's between the "artist" and the customer. Cards are all filed, first by the number each person is given by the Rec Center membership. Then they are filed in order of when they were made, starting with #001 and going as high as necessary. There is an annual limit, enforced by a limit of ten items twice a month. Some are in the 700s now. Each jewelry item has an attached tag with those two numbers and the sale price. Cards also give information on metals and stones used, what kind of item it is, and whatever else the seller needs to identify item 203 from 437 when they're made of the same materials and both are, say, necklaces.

As soon as a sale is completed, the number/price tag is removed. That tag goes to the other table to be matched with its proper card, the tag is taped onto the card, the card is dated and the sale price noted, and it goes into a large plastic envelope with a velcro fastening.

It's seldom that simple of course. Tags get ripped, writing gets blurred from a drop of water even if it was legible in the first place. No guarantees there either. As soon as they learn they can do it, the sales staff will bring a piece of jewelry to you asking what stone or metal is in it. Customers want to know if they should be impressed enough to buy it I guess. The card has to be pulled to get the answer. It can be educational finding out. One indeterminate stone this morning was a white jade with a wisp of purple floating through it. Another that looked very similar was declared by the maker to be some exotic kind of agate. Some I recognized, like malachite which is the only thing that looks like malachite. Sometimes it was even something I'd made - recently enough to be sure of what I'd used. And on a good day I can bring up the name promptly. I had "aquamarine" nailed!

I held down that chair for 4 hours this morning. As tags went through, I noticed that the usual suspects were the ones doing the most selling. Two stood out. The first was a woman I've seen in the club for two years who never submitted anything. Until two weeks ago, when I'd commented that I thought her stuff would easily sell and encouraged her to submit some. Of her 9 items, 3 already sold in those 4 hours. I informed her when she showed up just before I left. I was tickled for her.

The other surprise was me. My numbers kept coming through. I had hopes of good sales this time, unlike other years, since I was now working in sterling, and making somewhat conservative items. The surprise was in what was selling - mostly stuff that had been unsold for the last 3 years! Lots of colored wires, an abundance of large seed beads, styles unique to me within the club. That included celtic braided wire bracelets and earrings, and the multi-level wire "flowers" that my color choices turned into either poinsettias or stars, whether for earings, pendants, or tree ornaments. Tis the season! As one woman said as she dropped off yet another of my tags (recognizing my style), apparently funky is back in this year. Styles had suddenly reversed. She was cheering me on, after several years of modest sales.

She is one of our premier jewelry designers, always sterling, and head of our selection committee. She worked for months to figure out how to turn a single piece of square wire into a coffee cup with steam rising from it, then hung on ear wires. Customers eagerly pay $35 for a pair of those! She freely admits they are paying for all those months of work and all the wire she had to throw away when it wasn't right. She has never taught it, nor do I expect she ever will. She's justifiably proud of it and keeps its secrets, other than saying the trick is finding exactly where you have to start - the only way it works. I had seen only a couple of her items come through, and tried not to feel sorry for her since she usually sells like crazy. Especially when she made a point of looking up my overflow items and filling display trays back up with them. 

I happen to be of the persuasion that once I figure out a new-to-me skill, I should pass it along by showing others. Even more so if it's something that made me lie awake nights trying to figure out how to put it together. It's how the club works. It's how I learned. My newest  technique will be done as a workshop in early December. I've gotten requests to show wire poinsettias again too, but will have to see how much else I need to get done as well, and how much I recall of the finer points after two years or more. I can practically do them in my sleep - some nights I think I do - but the teaching part is rusty. And we'll have to see about celtic wire braiding again. Haven't done that one for over two years either.

There were frustrations as well, aside from illegible numbers on some tags. I had made a point of going through those boxes of cards recently and making sure that they were in order. It took large parts of two days in the club, since besides organizing them, I notified members of irregularities in individual cards that they needed to come in and correct. I expect you now believe the cards were still in order? LOL. I had to pull whole sections out and reorganize them, full stop to everything else, because three different sets of cards were shuffled in with each other, all out of order internally to boot. Even mine were jumbled around. If we can't locate the proper card, matching the numbers we sort by, we have to make a duplicate. As well as we can with very little information, anyway. At the very least we write "duplicate" on a blank card, tape the tag to it, and send it through for the treasurer's headache on Sunday when she tries to figure out how big the checks are and going to whom.

There was also the lost tag. I had to locate it. Fortunately, I watched it fall from the cashier's fingers down onto the card file box on the left, landing somewhere in about a 4" wide section of cards, and vanish. After making sure it hadn't landed on the table or floor, I pulled out that entire section plus a batch in each direction, and flipped through them one at a time looking for a piece of folded paper about 1" by 1/2". It took about 15 minutes. We were already late enough in the morning that all the paper I was dealing with had drawn all the skin oils from my fingers and I had to use my fingernails to separate cards. (Guess what I had trimmed down in the car just before I got out this morning?) Between the mask and a clean forehead and nose, there was nothing to make my fingertips stickier. I certainly wasn't going to pull of the mask and lick my fingers! I mean, at home, sure. But here....

My relief was a brand new member, so I got to spend about 15 minutes training her in right on doing the job. We had several tags to go through, and I spent some extra time on how to deal with the unusual. Once done with that, I spend a few minutes doing my own festival shopping. Many years that meant kitchen towels or pot holders, since they get dirty so quick and I hate the big store offerings.  This year I found things for other people that weren't jewelry, and no, I'm not telling! Some of you read this! Or at least claim to.

Tomorrow I go back in to do it again. A shift is at least two hours, and the person assigned to follow me set her time up with mine so I could train her in. She also will be training in as club secretary for next year, incidentally. I'm not thinking I'm likely to shop afterwards this time, but probably will go around and see if more of my stuff (and others') needs to go on display. If we're still selling as well as this morning, we're going to have lots of spaces to fill. I'm particularly interested in seeing how one member's squash blossom necklaces are selling. She just missed the deadline for submission but they are so spectacular that we waived that particular rule and stayed late that day to "jury" her pieces. (Shhh! Don't tell. Other people will think they can get away with it too.)

Oh, BTW I'm not stepping down as secretary because I got tired of the job.  I still very much like the job. But officers have been hard to find the last couple of years, for obvious reasons since actual club members coming in to work also have been sparse. Burnout among officers is high. New volunteer officers are hard to find. We had one new person willing to step up, but only as secretary. Two current officers are keeping their same positions, and I'm one of two willing to take on a different one. So come January 1, I'll be president. It'll only be 6 times the work.

Good thing much of my jewelry can be made at home in front of the TV!

Triggered: Getting A Suicide Note

Please note that this has also been just posted on Daily Kos. I am also putting it here. I believe it may be important.

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I would have said even yesterday that nobody close to me had ever attempted suicide, aside from one very troubled youth back when I was young myself. Sometimes I manage to forget about him for years at a time, even though he was successful and had reached out to me very clumsily beforehand. He had a major influence on my life, and as a result never quite leaves my awareness.

But that’s not the incident I got triggered about yesterday. Amend my awareness to “as an adult.” I have found over the years that my brain has an amazing capability to protect me from some of life’s worst realities, at least as they relate to me. They cease to exist, at least for some while.

Have you ever had it happen, where you’re watching something on TV and you only react to it at first in the context of the story being told with familiar characters? They are all safely fictionalized, after all. It’s rerun marathon time on lots of cable channels, what with covid stopping production at least for a while of many of our favorite dramas. This particular trigger was an episode of “Chicago Fire” from years ago, my husband’s current must-watch series, where Gabby Dawson returns from a getaway weekend to receive a call informing her that a fellow firefighter has just committed suicide. It’s not the call, nor even the fact of suicide that was my trigger. It was watching a previous scene where the woman wrote a note and set it on her table, allowing the camera a closeup of Dawson’s name.

It took a few minutes for that to sink in. I’d been “feeling” it as I thought Dawson must have been experiencing it, while anticipating plot twists and character reactions. Then it hit me: OMG! I’d gotten one of those!

Well, except for never actually having physically received the note. I just heard it had been addressed to me. The cops had it and weren’t going to turn it over. Besides, it was almost too bloody to read!

Imagine living with that for a few weeks, the time it took to find out the rest of the story. Why did she write to me? What had I done to her to make her try to end her life? My only image of a suicide note at that time was of one person telling another what they’d done to drive the first one to that point.

I hardly knew her. She was a member of a (non-12-step) support group I was to become very involved with for several years, but we’d never really connected, at least on my part. I had been in that group busy with resolving my own issues at that time, not reaching back out to the others who were supporting me like I was  able to in later years. My awareness of her was more of her being part of a couple, where it was common to refer to the two of them as a single identity, ___ -&- ____. Come on, don’t scold, it was decades ago and they’d been inseparable. Except they were breaking up, something I hadn’t been aware of. He was the one who called me with the news.

She had left the house they shared, crossed a highway, gone into a lightly wooded area where she was found hours later with a knife and a few good-bye notes. Mine was only one. That didn’t diminish my reaction, being one of the several she’d written to. It was all a jumble of mystery and horror and guilt.

The previous evening, after a meeting of that support group, a bunch of us had gone as usual to socialize and lighten our moods in what we referred to an an “afterglow.” There was always music, and with most of us being single, some dancing, a little drinking, and lots of talking and laughing.  ____-&-____ had attended, and he had been flirting with me. He flirted with a lot of the women. I told him flat out that I wasn’t interested, partly because he was already in a relationship, and partly because he reminded me physically of somebody I didn’t care for. I only informed him of that first part, being too polite to be harsh about it. A casual dance and conversation were OK, talking in group was OK, but that was it.

Part of my guilt after hearing the news was wondering if she’d been aware of his coming on to me the night before — how could she not? - and had she been blaming me for his actions — how could she not? It made no difference in my mind that I hadn’t encouraged his attentions. Since she was in the hospital for a couple weeks (how badly injured was she anyway?) and didn’t return to group for a couple more, I spent that time stewing about that note and what it might have said.

Eventually she reached out to me in person. Her note, to my total shock,  was about how much our friendship had meant to her and she was sorry to leave me behind or something — time has greatly diminished my exact memory. Especially as I was reeling from being on an entirely different planet than she was. How could that little interaction we had in group have been that significant? What had I said and done or not done? How responsible was I for what she’d been going through by being completely oblivious? While I was obsessing over what my fault in the matter might have been and whether I deserved the imagined scolding in her note, I was damn sure I’d done nothing to earn her great regard. And what on earth had she done to herself in trying to die that had made that note unreadable from all the blood? All those emotions had been bathed in blood for me, that note unseen still visualized in red.

The two of them finished breaking up, and her presence in group diminished greatly. I trusted she was getting the help she needed elsewhere, from professionals. Live moved on in all kinds of ways. That bloody note vanished from my thoughts. Until yesterday.

I’m bringing this up now not only because it’s back in my thoughts, but because the holidays are approaching, that time of what we are all told is supposed to be great and wonderful togetherness. Rejoice and be happy! Feast with all your loved ones!  Except too many people don’t have those loved ones to get together with, for all kinds of reasons besides a pandemic. The holidays just rub it in for too many by reminding them that they aren’t happy, don’t feel loved, don’t find reasons to continue on. It’s stereotypical suicide season.

I know suicide ideation doesn’t really have a season. I had lots of long chats with a friend a month ago who was in crisis, and was shocked to find out she’d not been aware of suicide prevention hotlines. The next morning she informed  me she’d called them for a couple hours. She reached out to them again along with me and several of her other friends for a few days until she didn’t need to any more. Her issues aren’t gone but she now has that resource, along with others.

If you or anyone you care about, even in the slightest, need the resource of a suicide prevention hotline, there is a national one, international lists of them, specialized needs (kids, being gay, abused wives, etc.) hotlines, all at the other end of a phone call. Google can find them for you, starting with the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255. Use it, please! Share it.

Cooking's Done. Now The Cooling...

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving.  This means my once a year cooking marathon. Trust me on the "once a year" part. It takes parts of a week, most of a weekend. It's very work intensive, and the turkey itself doesn't count yet, not even touching the oven until Thursday. It will graduate to the fridge tomorrow, however.

This year was different. I did a double batch of my special stuffing muffins. We're having a friend over for the main meal, and she is gluten free. Since bread is the main ingredient, I did the first batch with gluten free bread (then reused the dishes with regular combined with the dab of leftover stuffing). She persuaded me that I could actually find decent (whatever that means) gluten free bread in the freezer section of the local store.

I was less than impressed as I pulled two loaves out. Apparently whoever froze them wasn't impressed either as they weren't put in the freezer with much care for the condition any of them would come out in. I decided not to care since they were going to be torn into bits as their next step in life, and hoped all the additions would make up for it. There's a lot of liquid in the recipe, between orange juice, melted butter, chicken stock and eggs. In case that's not enough to help the bread along - or worst case, help us ignore the bread - there's also cranberries, raisins, chopped onion and celery, and lots of chicken meat, not to mention oodles of spices.

Work started a few nights ago, tearing up the bread. All 4 loaves of it, or 5 pounds. Those crumbs go back in the bags they came from, then back into the fridge. I warn everybody not to shop too much so there's plenty of room there. At the same time I twisted Rich's arm into chopping two onions and two celery hearts. I did my best not to mind his running out of the kitchen every two minutes to give his eyes a rest from the onions. Or the language. I figure since he's not contributing financially, he can chop... and clean house later. Once the onion fumes cleared the kitchen, I soaked craisins in OJ along with a little orange zest. The regular bread crumb mix is part raisin bread, but gluten free doesn't seem to come that way yet, or at least not in the local store. I decided a pack of fresh raisins were moist enough and just sprinkled cinnamon into the main mix.

Yesterday was the last store visit for the event, which included a pair of roasted chickens. Right now they are a great deal, with two already cooked for $10. After a "little" nibbling on the meat (breakfast and supper), they got pieced up and plopped into a big soup pot to simmer for a couple hours, then cool enough to go into the fridge as it was now past bedtime. The pot came out again this morning to heat up on the stove again, just a short period this time, making up for the cooling. The broth got strained off, and the rest got picked through to salvage all the meat. And yes, all the scraps went immediately out into the garbage. (But somebody else gets to do the dishes!)

Since I was cooking anyway, I changed  my plan from doing the final stages tomorrow to doing it all today.  I got a little help from Steve, most notably that high reach to the top of top shelves to pull down the roaster pan which I use as a mixing bowl, being low and wide for easy access to mix every bit uniformly. I also didn't feel like beating the eggs, 6 at a time for each batch, since the only beating instrument in the house is a whisk.

I had the foresight to get two different kinds/colors of cupcake papers. The pretty blue ones now hold the gluten free batch, all three dozen. The all pink or yellow or blue ones hold the regular bread muffins, four dozen minus the ones Steve and I each had. Just a test, you know. Quality control after the fact. 

The last batch out has now cooled enough to remove from the pans, not quite enough yet for bagging and putting in the fridge and freezer. So I guess it's time to quite killing time by writing this. Many of each batch will be frozen for meals through the next several months. My gluten free friend will get some leftovers, while others will stay frozen till February when Steve and I spend a few days with some Minnesota friends who are coming down for the "warmth" of Sedona. We haven't been able to convince them that Phoenix is actually warm then while Sedona isn't yet. Last time we joined them there snow capped all the red rocks for the entire visit. But she is also gluten free, so we can grace their table with something she can enjoy with us. Or is it that we can enjoy them along with her?

Two Family Weddings

Steve and I missed both of these. But hey, we still get to send presents! As a bonus, we can send both to one address for proper distribution.

First was Angelique, one of the daughters of Steve's oldest son, Lance. The two of them (we still have to get his name!) had kind of an off again, on again relationship for a few years, and along their road, had a son. From the pictures he's adorable, but we've not met him. While we were in Minnesota, they were in North Dakota. After we came south, they did too, but to the other side of the country, Tennessee.

The second wedding was for Lance, father of the previously mentioned bride. This is another rocky road saga with a very happy ending.  Long time ago he fell in love with Katy, and they had a baby, Karen. Unfortunately, Katy's mother didn't think this suited her daughter and swooped in and took both of them away to Tennessee. (See a geographic theme here?) In the intervening years, Lance met and married another woman and help raise her three kids. He just wasn't happy, and our family knew it.

So when Katy arrived as a surprise this summer, shortly before we had to head south again, and wanted to reconnect with Lance, we all celebrated. Just seeing the two of them together was enough to persuade us that Katy was the right match for him. He returned south with her, found a job there, applied for a divorce which was quickly granted. He called Steve a few days ago and announced they had just gotten married.

While we couldn't manage a trip there after our major vacation trip this summer, we mentally marked our calendars for heading there next fall. We can take in fall colors Tennessee style, see them together, and as a bonus... wait for it... can attend their daughter Karen's planned wedding to her fiancee. We at least got to see the both of them this summer, since they came up to Minnesota with Katy.

Now, what to do with the dog for those few days?????

Much Ado About (Practically) Nothing

It was a lump. Maybe just over an inch in any direction.  It's been there for years, long enough I've lost count of how many. It started much smaller, then grew, and once it got to certain size, seemed to stop growing, just sat there. Not that I measured it to check, mind you. It was just there. 

Eventually though, odd lumps do impinge on one's awareness. I decided to bring it up on my last annual physical, particularly now that I have a primary who actually seems to care if I'm well and not just how often I show up. He decided it needed further evaluation. Since it was time for a mammogram, he sent me for both tests. It sits in an armpit, so he made a possible connection that it could be something which had spread into a lymph node.

It's now been nearly two months filled with tests - not constant, since they get delayed by availability of appointments. It's not just my schedule that's been busy. It seems that snowbirds are returning and anxious to get everything medical done before a new calendar year with deductibles starting all over again. And of course, once tests are done, it takes a few days for the results to get to my primary and for him to call me with results and a recommendation for whatever the next level is. In the case of the lump, there was an ultrasound. It was indeterminate, but suspicious enough that a biopsy was recommended. Oddly, that was also to be performed during ultrasound - I suppose to get the right kind of samples from the right spots. 

I decided not to mention the upcoming biopsy to Steve for a few days, This was when he was getting his cataracts removed. There didn't seem any point to add to the anxiety he was feeling before his first one since the biopsy was another few weeks down my road. And no, I wasn't anxious for myself, although the very word "biopsy" does give one pause.

During this wait, there was also a pair of referrals to other clinics. One was an oncology clinic. When they call you about setting up an appointment there is a full list of questions about your family health history they go through. Any parent have cancer? Sure. Start with both getting skin cancer. Back then nobody stayed out of the sun and there was no UVA and UVB protection cream. Both had small facial spots removed, neither scary. Daddy had a cancerous colon polyp removed. Again no follow up required. Then the $64,000 question: any breast cancer? Yep.

I always want to write that with an asterisk. Mom was about 85 at the time, and had a doctor who kept her on a dosage of hormone replacement therapy so strong that she was still having periods then! Or as I said to this interviewer, I believe her experience was manipulated. She though that was an interesting description, after she recovered from the shock of the level of HRT Mom received. Anyway, we set up an appointment for me there for next week, after today's biopsy was done and reviewed.

This was another one of those appointments where one is not allowed to use deodorants or powders ahead of time, since they were also planning on another mammogram. No biggie. The worst is the need for me to keep my arm lifted high for the duration, likely 10 minutes, without any aspirin or ibuprofin for several days ahead of time in case of bleeding. With my rotator cuffs, that's unremitting pain for the duration. I wasn't concerned about what they might find. Steve by now had been informed of the reason for this appointment, and asked whether he should be concerned. I told him I wasn't, except for the shoulder.

The odd thing as I walked in to the changing room was I was informed that there might not even be a biopsy today. They now were fairly sure this was no tumor but a sebaceous cyst, meaning a skin gland had backed up with skin oils which had turned fairly solid. If the second ultrasound verified that, there was no way they were going to puncture it. Those solid oils were not too solid to leak out from any hole into surrounding tissue and create mild havoc. Nothing really serious, nothing they'd have to treat, but it could cause discomfort - or not perhaps - but medically it just wasn't to be done, causing harm with no benefit.

But just in case... I listened to two minutes of what was going to happen if it wasn't a cyst, detail by detail by detail. One thing was they would also insert a pair of markers in the adjacent breast, each the size of a piece of glitter, which would show up in future imaging. Afterwards they would have to push on my breast for two to five minutes to prevent bleeding. Oooooooo kay.

As carefully and helpfully as they handled my shoulder during the ultrasound, it was just as unpleasant as I anticipated. The tech was taking extra images to try to prove I had a cyst. She commented she thought she had seen it once but couldn't duplicate it (it moved?), but eventually seemed satisfied. I had to ask her for assistance in bringing my arm back down by then. She also offered to provide me with a new face mask since the gel they use had coated one side of the one I wore in. I let her know I'd already worn that one dozens of times, which reinforced her determination to bring me a new one. 

But now I was to wait on that table while the expert came in to read the latest images.  She was fully satisfied that my lump is a sebaceous cyst, and there would be no biopsy today. I might get a recommendation to follow it more frequently in case of changes, especially if my primary decided I should still follow through with the oncology appointment next week for a second opinion. He'll have the report later today, so call him Monday and ask.

I had learned one more interesting thing. While waiting for her to show up, I spent my time massaging my shoulder. So long as I kept it up, it eased the pain. By the time I was dressed and walking out, it felt almost as if the procedure hadn't happened. Saved me a run to the store to buy a new bottle of ibuprofin to replace the one that had just disappeared from my car this morning. I know because I'd looked for it before heading in to the appointment, figuring I could take it right then, it would be too early to interfere with any posible clotting but still take effect for the pain just when I really needed it.

Yeah, I would have done that.

Conversation With A Nephew

Actually, he called to talk to his uncle, who was currently sleeping after his 2nd eye surgery for cataracts this morning. So far he's doing well, but the bandages don't come off till tomorrow morning. So the nephew got to talk to me.

Lucky Guy! Or rather, I'm the lucky one who got to talk to him, eh? It's rare.

This nephew is young by our standards, but a man by society standards. He's employed by the FBI, checking out potential girl friends, living at home with his family because housing is impossible for a single young person starting out. He's unfailingly polite, always sincere, seeks out Steve's counsel on a regular basis. It's great to have a non-parent adult who cares about you to bounce stuff off of. Steve's surgery was a surprise to him so I filled him in on the details. Steve does a whole lot more listening than talking on those conversations.

But now the nephew got stuck with me. The topic of covid vaccinations came up. As a government employee, he's facing a deadline, vaccinate or bye-bye. He's still on the fence about that, hasn't gotten his first shot. All the rest of his family has, so it's not that kind of reason. But he's "waiting for more information." So we talked about that. Or rather, I, having been following this almost religiously for a year and a half, filled him in on the possible consequences of not vaxxing along with the fact that hundreds of millions of people around the globe have had their vaccines, the largest "test group" in history. The results are unambiguous. Vaccine works. 

We discussed "long covid", which he'd not heard of. (How on earth not? Really?) So I reminded him of what covid does in sprinkling the body with micro clots and the damage incurred from that. Or as I put it to him, those clots block blood, therefore O2, from reaching cells, so they die and rot in your body. Even if you don't die, you may never actually get well, or not for years. We still don't know that timeline.  It's too soon, even though this pandemic has been lasting forever. Almost.

We discussed being able to not have a clue you have covid and still be able to spread it to others. He threw in the fact that he could give his life or take a life in the line of duty if necessary. I get that (though I think he's naive about how he's going to feel afterwards). But what if he unknowingly spread covid to the sweet girl he's seeing right now and she got very sick or worse: could he forgive himself? 

We discussed side effects of the vaccine, how easy it is to walk into, say, any Walmart pharmacy, fill out a form, and get your shot. No reservations, just a short wait in line. Maybe feel tired or have a sore arm for a day.

By the time we got that far, he had to go. He was walking into a theater to see a movie with friends. Masked of course, he assured me. I wished him fun. I'll be sitting here hoping he's safe, and that he  decides his job is more important than his "lack of facts." 

I'm totally sure he would much rather have been talking with his uncle.

Fingerprinted Again

It's been along time since I've been fingerprinted. Not since I was 16, in fact. At that time I was applying for a job as a waitress at the soda bar in a Walgreens. I needed to pass an FBI check to be bonded. Not sure what they were worried about. Too much syrup in the sodas with the sparkling water? My parents weren't pleased about the fingerprinting, not that anybody had a reason to think I wouldn't qualify to get the job. After all the fuss, it was one of my least liked jobs, lots of hard work, very low tips, no redeeming value except being able to say for my next job that I'd already held one and not gotten fired.

It seems I was unknowingly short-sighted.That miniscule history with the FBI came into play less than a decade later, in another work situation. This time I was self-employed, so I really wasn't expecting it. I had no clue when it happened either, and when finally was told, was also sworn to secrecy, which I pretty much followed. It's been so many years now that I can't believe it matters any more.

I was doing licensed family day care, and one of my day care kids was at risk. Her mom filled me in just in case I noticed we were being followed while out on a field trip or something. This child had an uncle who held some kind of prominent position in the  CIA. In an attempt to bring pressure on the uncle, the child had already been abducted once. Now, when he was in town or in particularly sensitive situations, protection was provided for the child. In the interest of having as normal of a life as possible, I was never to be informed when it might be happening, and was assured that it should be low key enough that none of us would be aware of it happening. None of us should be in danger, but in case I noticed we were being followed, I shouldn't freak out.

You mean, like I was right then in hearing this information? Anyway, the mom was letting me know now because I'd just been investigated deeply by the FBI in order to be sure I wasn't a danger to the child, maybe tempted to make a quick buck on a betrayal or something. And by the way, I'd passed the check.

Whew! In a minor bout of paranoia, I racked my brain for any kind of activity I might have engaged in which may have disqualified me from passing, but life was pretty boring in that area. I wasn't political, and had just become old enough to vote in the next election since they hadn't lowered the age to18 yet. I'd finally passed my driver's test and was now fully legal behind the wheel.  I hadn't even gotten a ticket yet.

Of course if I hadn't passed the FBI check, the child would be in a different setting, not still in my care, and I never would have heard about any of it. I mostly succeeded in forgetting any of this information had ever come my way. This child had enough challenges in the "real world" to deal with, and was just one of 5 at the time to keep me thoroughly busy, including my own.

Fast forward fifty-some years. It's fingerprinting time again, this time by my choice. My life in crime in the meantime has still been boring. I have accumulated a very minor history of parking and speeding tickets, though nothing that would disqualify me for a career in driving for a very profile-conscious company. I have no concerns about passing, especially since this is based on fingerprints. I do after all know of at least two other people with my name, though different middle initials, but have no idea of their history, not having bothered to ever find out. It's just one of the reasons I use my initial any time I sign something.

This time the fingerprinting is the second step - first is paying money of course - towards getting my concealed carry permit. No, I'm not turning into a gun nut. Perhaps my using that term should give you a clue to that. It's part of my response to an ongoing credible threat. He has to enter our "castle" - house or yard - and actually threaten us in person before I'm legal to use a gun on him, but having learned even more about what he does and how he's still stalking, this seems sensible, and I want to deter him in a manner both justified and legal. It's his 1st move. The actual fingerprinting is simple, and there is a huge jug of some orange cleaner with grit in it, plus paper towels on the counter so there's no ink left on my hands.

The third step, the actual 4-hour class, is quite interesting. I learn as much about not using a gun as I do about using one, what is justified or not, even what is technically legal but which I better be sure I can live with before using a gun. The difference in legal versus civil consequences for anything that happens involving your gun were starkly laid out. You're likely to be sued for any and every thing, even if it's somebody else using your gun - or even just showing (brandishing) it. You startle somebody, they trip while backing away, fall and break a bone, there's a suit for loss of work time/income, medical, pain and suffering, nightmares and bedwetting, whatever their attorney can dream up.

One example used as an illustration of not using your gun was the Gabby Giffords shooting in Tucson a few years back. Several people in the crowd were carrying, but nobody took a shot except the nutjob who shot Gabby and others. When police asked those with guns why they hadn't drawn, their reasons were their bullet would have gone through the grocery store where they couldn't see what's on the other side of flyer-covered windows, too many people running around there in a state of total chaos, what appeared to be a day care center next door with the possibility of kids coming outside to play. That particular moral was about knowing your surroundings before you shoot.

Something else that got drilled into us is that if you are involved in a shooting incident, shut your mouth. Be polite but give no statement to the police. Let them know you will only talk to them with your court appointed attorney present. Sure, you're likely to be taken to jail and go through all their processing, get "interesting" cell mates who get to watch you pee and vice versa, but just like on TV, the cops are allowed to lie to you. Our instructor used to be one of them, and he gave us an example of the tactics he used. Only talk to the attorney they provide you, and then let that person talk to the court for you. Anything you say while you are in the emotions of the moment or while being interrogated can be twisted and misused. What the attorney presents in your defense will go with the police report to the county prosecutor. Since they are elected, they will generally only charge cases they think they can win. If your attorney can present a good case of why what happened was justified, you are not likely to be charged.

There are forms and more forms. Two fingerprinting cards get filled out, and only in all caps. The machine that reads the information needs all caps, and other things only exactly just so. For example, country of origin is US, not USA, United States or even America. Height might be 510 rather than 5 ' 10." A human would understand all equally, but somebody programmed the machine to be stupid. Plenty of extra cards were handed out for those mistakes. I asked why we needed two fingerprint cards but nobody knew. There's a questionnaire about your criminal history. The company giving the class wants your evaluation. You're given a certificate that you've taken the class, and advised that because their copier isn't working today we are on our own in getting a copy, but it's a very good idea. Stuff happens, forms get lost. Maybe use your smart phone for a photo, just like you'll do of your CCW card, drivers license, fishing/hunting license in case any of those get lost. (We do? Good to know.) 

Once our envelope is filled with everything to be sent in, we have to go get a certified bank check or a money order to pay for it. Using a credit card requires an in-person visit in downtown Phoenix, something discontinued with covid. So I guess it's the post office on Monday for a money order plus whatever proper postage is for the whole package.

At the end of class they pass out a "cheat sheet," a concise summary of what you've just been taught, in case you later don't quite recall. Another sheet informs us of every state's status with regard to accepting Arizona's concealed carry permit or not. Turns out if I want to take it to Minnesota, I'm good all the way until their border. May as well leave it home. But since home's the only place where I think there might be a reason to use it....

It can typically take 45 days right now to get the permit card back in the mail. It's to go right in back of my drivers license for easy access when needed. After that photo gets taken of course.