A New Project

Our club does glass fusion, where you put two or more layers of glass together, pop them into a kiln, and take out a solid piece. It might be a dark background with a few bright shapes on it, say something geometric or abstract, or a flower, or wherever your imagination takes you. You can add frit, aka tiny pieces of glass, to fill in or accentuate your design, go for glass with swirls or patterns in it, even dichromatic glass for really interesting effects. Your final piece ma be lumpy or flat, can even have a clear layer  either top or bottom to keep everything together.

The prime rule, the thing you have to know before you start EVERY project, is whether your glass in 90 or 96. (No, don't ask me what those numbers mean. 90 what? 96 what?) What you have to remember is 90 glass only goes with 90 glass. 96 only goes with 96. If you mix, once they start to melt and then cool, they do so at different rates and your piece shatters. You wind up with shards of crap. Maybe a new hole in your skin. Even several.

Every once in a while, people donate their unused old glass to the club. Yes, we happily accept it. It saves us buying glass sheets and selling them to our members working in glass, though of course we do that too. Donated pieces are often used in workshops where different techniques are taught. The workshop still costs $3 per member taking it. That money goes for supplies, not a fee to the instructor because we're volunteers, and part of our club duties is putting in a certain numbers of hours per month. Teaching counts. But if we're not making a financial outlay for supplies, those funds garnered can go for other things for the club. Our profit margin increases in ways that help us.

With all that donated glass there is often a hitch. I bet you already know what it is. Glass comes in without the numbers marked on the pieces. Is it 90 or 96? Are they even all the same? Without that info, we can't combine them in a kiln. But we still find a way to use it. So long as it's one or the other,  not window glass or the kind of glass for a stained glass project but the kind which can go into a kiln, we can still use it. We just have to use each piece without letting it touch any other piece while in the kiln.

Our top instructors in glass put their heads together and came up with a project where we don't need to know which grade of glass we're working with. We make wind chimes!  We can cut all colors and designs of it in almost any size or shape, a small piece, a long rectangle, a triangle, a trapezoid, or however the glass breaks when you were trying for something else. Because that happens, particularly in workshops where we bring our untested skills and combine them with overused tools. (Once we decide we're serious, most of us go out and get new tools of our own.)

The trick with making glass wind chimes is knowing that a single piece of the right kind of glass, when in the kiln, tries to shrink back in from its sharp cut edges and grow a thicker, nicely round edge. In the process, with the right kiln setting, it gets harder as well. It may still shatter if you cool it too quickly, but you have to work at it.

The following day, once the glass has cooled back to room temperature and has the residue from the kiln paper removed (nasty in the lungs!), it can be drilled with special diamond bits in a dremel. Here's another trick to learn, doing it over a piece of wood in an ice water bath which covers a flat piece of wood, glass, and the tip of the drill bit, but not the dremel. You start at an angle, finger in a certain position holding it just right, and once the bit settles in and holds steady, you tilt the dremel to straight vertical and be patient until you're all the way through. It really has to be shown, then practiced. Once you get it, you can just whip through pieces of glass so long as the ice water doesn't make your fingers ache.

There are all kinds of varieties. Long thin pieces top-drilled only that hang close together about the same length and sway in the breeze are one example. A wire through the top of each vertical row of whatever you're hanging, and wrapped around your top bar which is something in a straight horizontal position, which itself hangs from whatever. Other designs combine various pieces drilled top and bottom, each linked by wire to a different piece individually, allowing motion in multiple ways of connecting. Other things can be combined with glass pieces in the vertical rows for variety, including terminal bells. Imagination is key, with just a little planning ahead of time. The bottom piece needs just one hole in the top so it swings clear. Those same drill bits also work on slices of stones, which I have a plethora of, flat and polished to some extent, and connect just as well by the same heavy copper wires. Even beads can be worked in. The sky's the limit - or at least the underside of your eaves, or a branch on a tree.

Fair warning to some of you who are heartily sick of getting jewelry for presents all the time. You might get something a bit noisier this year.

 

Pool-Walk Talk

Three of us regularly get together at the pool for anywhere from most of an hour's simultaneous walk to two hours.  We try to coordinate, but things happen. Sometimes I'm alone making my own way around, in the middle of semi-familiar faces, smiles in passing, and I'm content to just get in my exercise and before-bed cooldown. Occasionally it goes the other way and new people join in for several laps. Even more don't precisely join us but we can tell they're listening occasionally.

It's because we laugh so much while we walk. We laugh a lot. And we can get pretty bawdy. What's that funny? Well, life. Our aging bodies. Men. The recipes we exchange for those iresistible treats (toast with peanut butter and sweetened cocoa powder, things to put on popcorn or in a pot with chicken, ways to use _______). How well we follow our different routines to improve our health and shapes, especially following those discussions of forbidden treats. And sex, of course, depending on who all is listening.

"The girls" are a constant source of humor. Now I never referred to my own breasts that way, but I'm picking it up. The girls flop. They float. They never quite fit the preformed cups in our suits. They have to be re-positioned three times between donning the suit and actually getting into the water. But subtly? Right! Sure, we can do that - not. They defy expectations in the doctors' offices, whether for a mammogram or an EKG or... well, nevermind that one. It was much funnier sharing it in the pool anyway. Younger, particularly male, doctors, including the medical students some of the clinics work with for their residencies, can be quite confounded by them, embarrassed by needing to move them out of their way, apologizing for even seeing them when they're the 700th person to need to do so in that particular visit. They can be so careful not to leer - or perhaps recoil since we're not 18 any more - that they miss what they are supposed to be seeing and working with, like that particular vein or discoloration, a couple EKG electrode patches, or... well, you get the idea.

We compare scars, wrinkles, lumps, and all the idiocy that is supposed to comprise the perfect body/skin/shape/feet/whatever these days. We've lived in our bodies for all these decades and have had our share of partners with their varying degrees of judgments, and we've emerged with acceptance of who we are and how we got here. Fashion? Nonsense! Comfort reigns. Budgets constrain. Workarounds get shared - this thrift store has these, that other one is better for those, but if you must, that store....

We discuss how chlorine damages our suits, how and where they stretch, where our limits of decency are, what styles are preferred or even mandated by our limitations,  and when and where to replace them. One found several in her size from X thrift shop, another from Y catalog. We discuss being unable to locate them in stores where we can actually try them on, or who allows returns and how we can sew adjustments to accomplish what we need to tide us over until we find that next one.

We share other kinds of stories as well, war stories, whether family, jobs and coworkers, accidents, illnesses, losses.  We even - though the young may not credit this - share our future aspirations. What we wish to accomplish. How we'd wish to die, or get buried or where scattered. We discuss philosophies and religions but avoid politics mostly, though I suspect we core three are pretty similar there as well. We are remarkably the same and remarkably different. We come from various levels of affluence, education, abuse, even races. We bring different interests, have lived in different states and the same ones, drive different kind of vehicles, have traveled to different places, watch different TV shows and movies, exercise in different ways until we get in the pool again. There is always something to discuss.

If we take a short break from the topic of the moment, there is always a drowning bee or floating leaf to avoid or remove or swoosh to one the pool filters. We wondered for a couple days why the spa pool had yellow tape across the entrance, always coming back to some foul type of contamination and ready stories of how it may have happened. We can be quite imaginative, especially when it's fun.

As we leave, we do our best to plan the next time. We need to laugh, to share, to bond, and to walk away, hoping for the next pool walk. Just because we're old ladies, just because we are, just because the others are. Just because it's there.

"Magic Words" For Rose

Sunday evening was Rose's funeral. It was one of those which celebrated her life, rather than mourned her death. And it was in "one of those" churches. I hadn't directly experienced one of those before, though I have met people who did. They tended to flaunt it if and when they discussed their religious beliefs, in one particular case obnoxiously boasting about being among the very few to get into Heaven because they were the only ones who knew exactly the right words and had the exact understanding of their meaning which was the requirement to getting in.

First, understand that besides my impatience over their mindset, I never believed there was such a miserable petty trick to going to Heaven. Even if I believed in it, any God worth worshiping wouldn't make it so tricky, such a matter of luck as to happen upon the secret and become one of the few. I've always thought that - again, if there were a Heaven - a God who wants to be worshiped would make it possible for all the willing followers to do so. A missing piece of the formula wouldn't keep one out. It would be more a pattern of how one lived their life, how they treated others, how they respected whatever god(s) God and God's creations.

But of course I've been firmly agnostic for decades now. I have no expertise in designing any Heavens. (All of you can thank me any time.)

I went to this funeral to show respect for Rose, who she was and how she lived. I carpooled with two friends from the club who needed a ride for either avoiding night driving or not having a working vehicle. In all, 8 of us from the club who knew her showed up. The rest of those in attendance were church members, for whom Rose had had quite an impact. They were an integrated bunch, in the sense that many of them spoke Spanish, not English. This unique-to-me service was given in both languages. Interesting as this was, hearing a minute of the service in one, than repeated in the other, or songs sung in both languages simultaneously, these are not the magic words I'm referring to.

Attendance was fairly sparse. Rose's husband was already moved to Maryland to live with a son, since he needed around the clock care. Other relatives lived in clusters in distant states. They watched the funeral via video, a wonder of the modern (covid) age, and recorded words to say about Rose to be played for us during the service. Large bouquets decorated the front of the church. A screen behind the alter played a slide show of pictures of her at different ages, often cuddling a puppy or kitten, the photos ranging from Rose at age 1, to a fairly recent one of her and her husband in the church, showing the piano, chairs and guitars in the background. The presence of those guitars initially gave me hope of an interesting service. 

In a way, it was. Just not anything to do with, say, guitars. What really dragged my attention cringing into the message of the life of Rose was what the pastor said about her experience with religion. Rose had been "delighted" to be a born-again Christian many decades ago, and her welcoming of fellow parishioners into the church, and the time she joyfully spent with many of the children there, teaching them all the different kinds of crafts she knew how to do, or just visit and share friendship and laughter with the families seemed to show just how those teachings took effect.  However, the pastor kept using phrases like "she thought she was a Christian."

Truly weird.

He went on to say that three weeks earlier (just in the nick of time, a few days before she died, folks!!!) her husband wished to deepen his commitment to the church. The pastor came to their home, and while teaching about a particular verse in John, giving a detailed explanation of what it meant, Rose, who'd been listening fro across the room, came over close, marveled at the new understanding of the passage, and decided she needed the same ritual her husband was about to receive. Once that happened, the pastor informed us all that now she really was a Christian. That one passage was what did the "trick". (He didn't comment but I guess now her husband was now a "real" Christian too.)

Somehow, those very few magic words, that new explanation of them, made the different between Rose thinking she was a Christian all those years, and actually becoming one.

Ahhh, magic words.

Hogwash!

But how convenient for them that the pastor knew just those words with just that meaning at just the perfect right time to enable Rose to get to Heaven!

Makes me think it's a damn good thing I don't believe in Hell either. Gotta wonder, though, if there are magic words for getting  in there as well. Wouldn't that be something!

Following A Fire

At least I took pictures, lots of them, over lots of years. So I can go back over those while I wait and dread the damage. I'm planning a visit, likely for next fall, to see what remains, what doesn't. Since the fire's still far from under control, I have no idea yet if by fall the area will even be open for access. The fire should be out, but will the buildings be reopened? Even perhaps if necessary, rebuilt?

I'm talking about the Tunnel Fire, referred to in the news as being near Flagstaff, AZ. It's really north of Flag, from somewhere close to the base of the San Francisco Peaks, spreading out east - northeast to  Sunset Crater National Monument.  It crosses Hiway 89, the eastern route from I-40 up to the Grand Canyon. If it spreads a bit more northwards from Sunset Crater it will blow through Wupatki National Monument as well. The two are contiguous, one entry fee covering both, no signs declaring where you leave the one and enter the other. 

Wupatki is full of red sandstone ruins from previous occupation. One can get out of the car and walk/climb through them - respectfully of course - and even bend down to experience the earth breathing. This is at Wupatki proper, the biggest ruins site, not just habitation but a center of civilization. It contains a kiva, where religious ceremonies happened, and the kiva has a blowhole. Air moves in and out as the difference in temperatures above and below ground changes the pressure. 

There are other accessible ruins, my personal favorite being Wukoki, the most southeastern one with its own paved road and parking area for visitors. If you walk to it, climb up the steps since it was built on top of a large jutting hunk of stone, go through the rooms to the raised flat open space, and stand looking westward, you can clearly see the San Francisco Peaks in the distance. In the other direction the Painted Desert spreads out below you. While all this is beautiful, they are not the main reason this place is special to me. It's what happened to me on my very first visit, and never since.

My parents used to snowbird in the Phoenix area, actually across the street from Sun City's northern border. For years I would drive their car down while they flew, then drive it back while they flew back. Eventually they bought a second car and just flew me down and back to visit, help out, and chauffeur them around the state to places like the Apache Trail where they had absolutely no interest in driving themselves but still wanted to see. When I drove down, however, my now three-day trip was 4, and I had some extra time on my hands. I explored Sunset Crater and Wupatki National Monuments one of those times. 

That day was unique. There was little to no wind. No bugs. No birds calling. No jets leaving contrails in the clear blue sky. Best and rarest of all, no other people at Wukoki. Nobody even drove past out on the main road. It was silent! I was alone in (my) world, might have been the only person on the planet for that time. I spent about a half hour there, just soaking it all in, open to any and everything about the place, in awe imagining those who were there a thousand years before. Foot steps and camera clicks were the only things louder than my heartbeats and breaths.

As I finally returned to the world, the world started returning to Wukoki, a lone car turning in from the main road as I was pulling out. I wondered, with several people in it, if any of them would be able to experience and appreciate what I just had. I doubted it.

My first visit to Sunset Crater was not as isolated, a dozen or so other people there as well. I took the entire path around the bottom area, fascinated by the lava flows, the "newness" of the volcanic activity through the area, and the shapes and colors of the pines all around and starting to grow up its slopes. Again there were views of the San Francisco Peaks, and I took shot after shot - film back in those days - trying to capture the memories I was making. There was even an ice cave to visit, back before my knees kept me from even completing the tour, much less entering the cave. I drove around to the north side of the crater, a high observation point, the Mountain to the west, the Painted Desert to the northeast.

I've made it a point to return, taking others along, as well as whatever the camera of the day was. So yes, there are many many pictures. One of them was special enough that I turned it into a poster. The foreground has the dead remains of a juniper. Snow covers the ground and some horizontal parts of the tree, clumps of tan grasses poking up through. Behind it a ways a solid row of living junipers with their own snowy branches crossed the frame. Rising behind that are the snow-covered San Francisco Peaks. The top third of it is blue sky, with a poem in the upper left corner, the tallest of the dead juniper branches arching through the right.

"Only at the end of life
With all the trappings dropped away
Can strength and beauty stand forth true
And one see clearly to the soul.”

I titled it "In Memoriam", a tribute both to the solitary tree and to my late mother-in-law Lylah, recently deceased at that time and whom I'd come to respect much more in hindsight than while she lived. Now it seems painfully apt, even though that lone juniper has long since returned to nurture the soil which had nurtured it. I had hunted for it along that same spot several years back, now am at least consoled that this or any future fire will be unable to touch it.

Unfortunately, the news announced last night that the Tunnel Fire had completely burned the Sunset Crater area. It may well move northward and into Wupatki, depending on the winds. The trees will change from tall ponderosa and pinyon pines to the low bushier junipers of my poster, but they are still fuel for a voracious fire. Should the flames reach Wupatki and Wukoki they will find shrubs like saltbush and sage, along with grasses and flowers, but those also burn. After over 12 years of drought conditions from climate change (I've lost track of exactly how many by now), who knows where it will stop and when?

I only know I will have to return, later in the year if things are back open. The visitor's centers have the only plumbing in the area, a major consideration. But I will be there to see what remains, what doesn't, and mourn.

Swimsuit Follies

I suppose the biggest folly was wearing the old one as long as I did. I can't even tell you how old it was, having purchased it years (decades?) ago but not venturing into any appropriate bit of water in it. I dragged it out a couple years ago when I junked the previous one, predictably a victim of chlorine. This one was big enough to get into. Then a little bigger. Then much bigger, the fabric stretching out, wearing thin, and still somehow remaining almost decent.

I'd had to sew a tuck in the straps, taking up abut 3" so it would stay on me. The horizontal stretching wasn't much of a problem, until the last month or so, when the butt of it sagged way down. It had used that fabric to make horizontal ridges as its style.  Once it stopped clinging, it sagged. I stitched up a few inches in the crotch a couple of different times to keep it close enough to me to remain discrete, though by then the skirt had also stretched in all directions. As it was the skirt, width didn't matter much, unless I'd just gone from shallow water into deeper, making the skirt flare up around my waist. Since the hem now had gone from lower hip level to mid knee (!), it wasn't too embarrassing. Mostly. The fun (funny) part in all this came those rare times I hit the spa pool, sitting in front of one of the jets for a massage of my back or shoulders. The blasting water worked its way around the front until I had a "bust" jutting out and up, fighting for space with my chin!

I'd known last fall when I retired the suit for the season that it needed to be replaced. I'd already started looking. Actually, I started looking last spring. I used to shop for clothes in Walmart. Last year they decided they had a "better idea" than organizing clothing departments by sizes, but lumped all women's clothing of any particular type together. It works for, say, socks, or lingere.  Not so much for blouses, jackets, pants, or swimwear. No way I was going to hunt all the hell over half the store to find anything whatsoever I could wear.  Moreover the swimsuits I could locate were all designed for 15-year-old exhibitionists. Petite ones. The kind with long swaths of unblemished, unwrinkled skin, the kind you flaunt between ties, straps, and small strips of cloth that, if judged by price versus quantity, might have been made of precious metals.

I get mail order clothing catalogues. I've ordered from them for a few years now, and in the process learned that compared to retail stores, these brands run large. Mostly that's wonderful. Not so much in a swimsuit, however. What I had was already too large and baggy. That's why I needed to replace it. So I dithered for a long time about what style of suit to order, what size. I even went back to Walmart in hope they'd gotten sensible about how they stocked their clothing. LOL!  Joke's on me.

Finally the catalogue company had a half price swimsuit sale, start of this swim season. (Well, for "normal" people in mid spring. Here in AZ I could have chosen to be in the pool year round.) I knuckled down, poured repeatedly through the catalogue, and finally made a choice of style, then changed my mind, tried again. The reason that's difficult, of course, is having two bad rotator cuffs and needing to get in and out of the thing both comfortably and by myself. Of course I have Steve around, but stuff happens, even just the possibility that he's asleep when I want to change. 

The catalogues never show the back of the suit. I need that information.  I finally googled some information and found out that athletic style means the straps join in the upper back and go down the center. That's great for speed, I guess, but not so much for slipping straps over the shoulders without effort. One search parameter figured out then for elimination. Eliminating another, I finally decided to go for two pieces, and furthermore that the bottoms should be "boy pants. "   They give a 5" inseam, providing much better modesty even when they get a bit baggy, important because of course they will get baggy. Looking around in the rec center pools, they and even longer pants have become quite popular, hiding scars, cellulite, jiggles, varicose veins, and whatever.  Some women even wear long sleeves, a preventative against skin cancer, chemical free. 

(Now if some of these men could just find suits that hung somewhere higher than 1/2" above their pubic bone.... Hey, guys, we women are actually laughing at you, strutting around pretending you have a long torso and slim waist. What we don't laugh at are the men who actually own their size and wear their suits on top of their hip bones, whether one can find them or not. Thinking one can hide a huge belly by showing it off boggles the mind.  And no, you cannot convince us you have pregnancy envy. ROTFLMAO! )

Once I narrowed my choices down that far, the remaining question was size. The current suit was no help. Even if it had any size tags left in it, it was a long way from that size now. I had no real idea what my size should be from this catalogue, so I decided to compromise. I'd order two sets. I'd aim for what I thought I was, and get one size smaller as well. They had a great exchange policy, so it seemed hard to lose.

Some people have a real and particular talent. Haven't you noticed? Mine seems to be in an invisible self image. Must come from years of avoiding mirrors. I kind of lucked out though. The smaller size would be perfect... except they sent the wrong design in the top. I ordered what should have been coordinating colors, in purple, pink and blue tops, and one each of pink and purple boy pants. Did you know they call purple "mirtilla" now? Never heard of it, though it seems to be a Crayon color. Mix or match, it should have netted me a coordinated combination that fits. Unfortunately the top that would have fitted best came in black, red and white, so starkly ugly I didn't even open the package. But the pants in that size were perfect, so I kept those. The top which worked with the colors was a bit big. So I kept it and began taking it in, a bit at a time. Alter, wear in pool, evaluate, make next alteration. There was no going back to the old suit. It, like Elvis, had left the building. 

So now the only decisions remaining were return? Exchange for a 2nd set in the right colors a size smaller for future use? I spent much of my time while recovering from surgery and being exiled from the pool to make up my mind. It helped that the package the suits came in also contained a plethora of catalogues, including a tiny one of only swimsuits. It included what I'd thought I'd just bought the second set of, so they were still in stock. Great. In the meantime, I both lacked trust that ordering the alternate design would actually gain me the design I wanted, and had fallen in love with the fabric of the suit I was wearing. That simplified it down to ordering a repeat of what I wore but smaller than what should have fit without alterations. Once this suit stretches out and/or I shrink further, I'll have the perfect replacement set. I'm guessing two or three years of pool walking before I have to go through swimsuit hunting again.

Decision made, it was time for the paperwork. They send their clothes out with return mailing labels and another form for the factory folk so you get actual credit for what you are returning. Except....

Of course there has to be a hitch, right? The form said I get store credit for anything but I pay shipping, or a refund but I have to pay for shipping the unwanted stuff back. I tried their website to see if that gave me any alternatives.  It offered a flat-out exchange (no shipping cost) but didn't explain how my return form fit their exchange requirements. Which of a bazillion scattered numbers was the one which was my original order number? It needed 11 digits, but nothing qualified. Why was I returning it? Explain on a one quarter inch long line. I could write "size" for the one, but how do you squeeze "while the numbers on the bag match the catalogue choice, the contents don't"  into a quarter inch? Time for the 800 number call.

It took 5 different ways of going through their voicemail system before I finally got the one which netted me not only an actual human but - AMAZINGLY! - one who spoke English as a first language. Some of the voicemail destinations started out sounding helpful, but then relayed "information" so quickly I couldn't keep up, like having to write down 8 or maybe ten- who could tell? - numbers to put on the form, rattled off like they were emerging from a semi-automatic at a mass shooting. No chance of a repeat, much less getting the repeat 6 times so I could try to catch each number eventually. Even the woman I finally reached was in a hurry to be done with me, totally indifferent to the issue that the wrong item was in the package and maybe somebody ought to know so they could fix it so it wouldn't keep coming back and/or losing them customers. (I try to be a helper, you know?) She suggested I just write "size" on both short lines, took my order for replacements, cautioned they won't get sent until the factory clears the return, and hung up on me in the middle of my trying to say "Thank you."

I suspect I'd absolutely hate working phones for that company! It's not like I was a crabby customer, as I wanted to be sure to tell her from the start that I was happy to have a real person who was helping me solve my issues and she was doing a good job. They must set deadlines for how long you can help somebody, one time size fits all problems.

Meanwhile the new suit has been in the pool three times. The adjustable straps have been hitched up twice. A dart has been tucked in the front center between the cups, though more will be needed there. Somebody on high has decided that everybody my size has need for Dolly Parton foam cups inside their swimsuit tops. At my age, my boobs simply try - out of embarrassment no doubt - to just slither under the cups instead of facing the reality that they just do not fill them. Since the straps are so far apart that they still slide off my shoulders, there's now a tuck in the back between where the straps attach, so at least the strap bottoms are closer together. More has to be done, but carefully so I can still get in and out of it on my own. 

Meanwhile I should get the replacement suit pieces in about a month. With luck, we'll still be here when the package arrives, so it doesn't have to try chasing me up north. Right now being here later seems more likely since Steve's pain doctor has been slow in giving appointments, and referrals for imaging. Steve finally got the imaging he needed, and gave up on waiting for the doc to follow through with an appointment, calling in to request one himself. But by now even the consult after reading the imaging results isn't scheduled for over a month, about a week before we planned to leave. It may be a short stay north and a high AC bill down here. At least I'll have a pool to cool off in and something to wear while doing it - and I do assure you, I am aware that is not helpful in the slightest for Steve, other than sticking around for whatever it takes. 

But we will.

Disillusioned. Again.

It wasn't enough to find out the Easter Bunny, Santa Clause, and the Tooth Fairy weren't real. That's kind of a rite of passage, right? Although one can make a case that the Tooth Fairy is real, it just works backwards: every tooth we lose means our dentist gets a bundle. Not sure about the pillow part, since I'm not that well acquainted with my dentist.  Totally by choice, folks. Totally.

But today I heard something that shattered my illusions in a very adult way. It concerns recycling.

Our club has a lot of records to keep, and we're required to keep them for 3 years. Since that's about all the room we have in our filing cabinets, they get purged about every year going back just past that 3rd year. It's a lot of paper. We had two full paper boxes of old files cluttering up an already cluttered office. They had to go. 

When we empty club boxes, such as the ones our supplies get delivered in, the procedure is to set the empty ones outside our doors and the cleanup crew will dispose of them overnight. We're told they go to recycling. We're good little citizens, you know, and are proud of our efforts. When we have plastics or glass to get rid of, there is a recycling bin near the rec center's front desk which takes them. So the advice I got was to take the two full boxes of old files and set them on a rolling cart to go down there for that.

Well, turns out, not so much.

We know our cleaning/facility crew by first names, Winston and Mike. Their office is across the hall from the club, and they often pop in just to say hi. We know where to go with any relevant problem. So when I got down to the front desk with two full boxes of paper files, they said our boxes did not in fact go there. Instead they go out to the dumpster in back. You know, where ALL the garbage goes. Where ALL our "recycling" has always gone. They just haven't told us. While they called Winston to take it out, I suggested I could just take it home and put it with our home recycling. Good citizen, right?

There was no need, I am informed. Whether it's garbage or recycling, community wide, it all goes to the landfill. Every scrap. Since our garbage/recycling company is the same one area wide, I concluded it's what happens to all our stuff we send out, however we sort it or don't. The company's problem is that people just don't sort it out, not to the standards needed for actual recycling. People don't clean out cans, remove tape and staples from paper or cardboard, withhold paper with food and grease on it, remove those metal jar lids with the glued in rubber ring. In short, we don't actually recycle, because the recycling company doesn't choose to sort to make up for our errors. It all goes into the same landfill.

We just THINK we're good citizens.

It might be time to see what actually happens in your community.

Next thing you know, somebody's going to start claiming elections aren't really accurate either.

Oh wait....

Better Living Through Chemistry

4/13/22

No, not the Dupont way. Not the Timothy Leary way either. Something new.

I had my annual eye exam today. My several years post- cataract surgery, post- stopping amiodarone exam,  checking for the eye flaws of my parents which might be inherited, for any signs of whatever else life throws at one, eye-dilation and puff test annual exam. (Eyeglasses prescription is a whole different exam. And more expensive! I have to pay for those.)

What's been creeping up on me recently, like in just the last  month, is a droopy eyelid. It usually starts to happen in the afternoons, like it's gotten tired. It occurs mostly after reading for a while, when the lids have already been pointing mostly down towards my lap. It happens in the same eye that was affected by the Bell's Palsy a dozen or so years ago, which may or may not be a factor. We had that discussion, but if it's a cause it doesn't matter.

They treatment for this used to be a stitch to hold the lid up a bit higher. It still may be resorted to. But this is better living through chemistry, right?  There is an eyedrop for this now. With luck it may even work, in which case I'll get a prescription, but for now, a free sample in order to test whether it works for me. It comes in a little sealed package with a dropper inside for a single dose per eye, then is discarded. The brand is Upneeq ( up - neek' ) but if you like sounding out chemical names, go for oxymetazoline hydrochloride opthalmic solution, 0.1%. I can put one drop in each eye daily. Or make it last longer and just dose the eye needing it.

Of course there's a hitch. The drops the doc put in my eyes to dilate them mean I get to wait till tomorrow to see if the stuff works. I guess that's why the free tiny samples. You can't tell while in the doc's office. Right now all I see with that eye is the white cloud over it caused by the dilation drops. That's gone from the other eye for some reason but not this one.  A look in the mirror shows my pupils are unequal. I informed Steve of that, noting that if I need an ambulance for any reason in the next few hours, the  people need to know I don't have a brain bleed to treat! Or so I hope. So since I can't actually read what I'm typing, it's bye for a bit, more info tomorrow.

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4/14/22

Drops results: Both eyes are a bit blurry for half an hour or so, but that goes away. Now the right lid - the droopy one - feels like it's got a muscle inside which has tightened up. It's not a cramp, just a pull. Painless but I'm definitely aware. Best part is it's not drooping several hours after use. Since I did the drops in the morning, we'll have to see how long it lasts.

I liked it enough to call my eye doc and ask for a prescription. Long pause.... Maybe I should call my regular pharmacist and see if they even carry it. It's brand new. (Oh, so I'm a guinea pig?) The eye doc does carry it, but try my pharmacist, see if they stock it and what it costs.  Long story short, they never heard of it. I spell it for them, both brand name and chemical one, but they have to Google it to be sure I know what I'm asking for. But even so, no, they don't have it. It's an hour round trip to the eye doc. Incidentally, my Rx insurance only pays at either of two national drugstore chains. The eye doc isn't it.

Let's see what my schedule is like next week. You know, after I can shower again, stuff like that. It's heating up outside again so I can't hide behind a sweatshirt any more while not wearing a bra. And I have to go half that way anyway to see the surgeon for my post-check. Besides by then I'll know for sure how long the drops last to see if it's really worth it out-of-pocket.

Right now it's time to go return an online swimsuit order. It's two pieces ordered separately, one wrong size, other wrong fabric design, absolutely unlike the description/photo in the catalogue I ordered from, even though the numbers on the tag match. Good thing I ordered a second set in a different size because they are perfect. I had to wait to check the size on the top till I'd healed enough to move that arm in and out of tight clothing - very carefully. The old suit went out in the garbage this morning! No second thoughts allowed.

No Privacy & Other Fun: Before & After Surgery

Like all planned surgeries, it started days before, with the lists of meds to put a hold on, plans for shifting duties including driving, getting a pre-procedure EKG, don't plan on getting in the pool for 10 days, no deodorant for that side armpit until the incision is healed.  (My apologies to all who need to be on that side of me and down wind.) One thing on the list got me giggling, though: on the day of, take a shower with disinfecting soap, lathering your body twice.

Why a giggle? I mean, makes perfect sense, right?  Wrong. Welcome to Real World Central, folks! Emerging from your super shower, the first thing is toweling off by a non-sterile bath towel. Then there's getting dressed in "clean" clothing that, even if laundered yesterday (it wasn't), got hung up on non-sterile hangers between other non-sterile items in the closet by hands which also weren't sterilized, and which clothes were laid on the non-sterile bed in a stack before going into the closet. Yeah, the bed. On the pillow I use when I toss in that direction in my sleep. Where the dog sleeps whenever she can worm into that spot. Which is pretty much anytime. 

Once donned, the clothing is a barrier - though only in places since the weather is hot now and not all of me is covered - between me and the dog who jumps in my lap the second I sit down. Sometimes even a second before I sit down! Chaos! Toenails!!! Finally my clothing takes that trip with me in the also non-sterile car seat for the 25 minute drive to the hospital, gets included in a hug from Steve in his non-sterile attire, sits on me in the chairs in the non-sterile waiting room. No five second "rule" in any of that.

But hey, I soaped up twice before all that, honest!

 Once called back into the prep area, there is another self-inflicted sterile wipe-down, each towlette assigned one body area before being tossed. Talk about medical waste! The gown I don at least has a looped pair of strings at the neck to hold it on once I'm allegedly clean. Open at the back, with flaps waving in the breeze caused by my slightest motion, Even I with my shoulders can finally grab a section and pull it across for a pretense at privacy. Of course when I get up on the gurney/bed I spend the next hour on, it gets caught under me, doing a pretty great job of pinning me down to the bed. But I'm warm! Unheard of in the surgery area!

All the usual stuff gets done, the usual parade of staff members go through, and even Steve gets a visit. That is cut short both due not only to the uncomfortable chair they put him in, but its distance from me. With both of us in masks, and my head facing up instead of at him unless I muscle myself up, and all the noise around us, we just can't hear each other.

We can hear everybody else, however!

My bed is against the fabric curtain on one side. I clearly hear the irregular beeping of the next patient's heart monitor, mentally diagnosing it based on my own past history. I also hear the swearing, loud groans from pain, begging for food. Of course no food is coming. Finally some anesthesiologist comes in, looks at the EKG, and decides to put in a call for a cardiologist's opinion before embarking on what should be starting in a few minutes. Said cardiologist is naturally busy, so more delay, more grunts, more weird beeping. Once the cardiologist arrives, he puts a full stop to getting the surgery. I hear every word, HIPAA be damned. First the patient next "door" is a she. I can only tell from the pronoun used by staff in consultation, as her voice is in an intermediate range. I know she has diabetes, a recent surgery got infected, the removal of that nasty tissue is why she's back. The staffer describing that is emphatic surgery MUST proceed. The cardiologist pronounces within 5 seconds of looking at her monitor that she is in fact having a heart attack. He's puzzled why she had no chest pain, obviously forgetting that we women get wildly different symptoms from one, a reason they can so often be ignored. A third voice suggests that she needs  more antibiotics, and that she be watched for any progress. This being the agreed upon course, the three walk out. She is left alone, no pain management offered even now that it wouldn't conflict with surgery meds.

Lucky for my tender-hearted husband, he misses most of this, hearing just enough to get the gist.

It's time for my stabbing anyway, taking two people and 4 tries to insert my IV needle in the spot I suggested in the first place, that scar-ridden spot inside the elbow that professional phletbotomists all insist is my very best vein. Too many blood donations in my glory days, I guess. These days the needle wielder just has to push through it. Hard!

Documents get signed, explanations made, my medic alert bracelet removed and put in a case with my glasses, questions asked and answered, and away we roll to the OR.

The table I have to transfer myself onto is at least nicely padded! I still recall how cold the bare stainless table was when I got my tubes tied. I shivered even after I got home again from that one! This OR gets more brownie points for having that padding secured in place, so it doesn't move either with me or away from me as I slowly progress across it to where they want me. I get that weird chemical taste in my mouth...

...And wake up in the recovery room. Well, not awake exactly, but definitely aware again. My shoulder hurts, a deep ache I expected from having my arm hauled up straight for however long it took them to remove a sebaceous cyst from my armpit. It's why I demanded general anesthetic. I can also feel the incision site, but site pain level 2, shoulder 8.  At least they put my arm back down for me so I didn't have to try to do that for myself. 

My new nurse is busy at the computer, but when I say, "Hi", turns and asked me how I was doing and what my pain levels were. Prompt bit of Fentanyl. Shoulder down to 5. Another tiny dose, and it's battling with the incision site for a 2 for the next couple hours, finally fading away with lack of use. 

The rest of me was aware that I was not really all there. I felt like each cell in my body was vibrating. Perhaps twitching. Not pain, just weird. Distracting. I still chatted with my nurse off and on, got a couple spoons of ice, a nice warm blanket over my shoulders, and relaxed. Except for listening to the guy next "door", since of course the walls were curtains. Easier to clean properly, I'm sure, than grout and tile.

He was another diabetic patient, something I found out halfway through his crisis. He'd needed spine surgery. Now he couldn't move his legs, nor feel them except for the lightest dull sense of pressure. While he'd had some issues prior to surgery, both hands and feet, this was new. People came and went, asked questions of the caregiver who came with him as much as of him, poked, prodded , requested imaging, consulted, all taking longer than my full time in recovery. I never heard his outcome. The surgeon never showed while I was there. I have to settle for none-of-my-business and hope he has some improvement in his future.

Steve got rolled in via wheelchair, a match for the one I was getting out of there in. I got dressed, found two overlooked EKG sticky attachments when I pulled up my shorts (Yes, that low), convinced my nurse I could push my chair like a walker instead oh getting pushed in my chair to the bathroom before leaving. Steve signed paperwork for me. I am advised/required not to sign anything or make important decisions (like what's for supper? LOL) for 24 hours. No driving today, nor the usual 8 hours after any Percoset I may need in the next few days. I don't expect to need anything other than possibly something at bedtime since I sleep on my sides, putting pressure on those rotator cuffs. Should I choose that, it would have worn off before anything opened up enough tomorrow to be somewhere to drive to anyway. I got "the speech" for possible addiction to meds, and informed them of my history with them and lack of temptation. No pool walking for 10 days, but do shower. I'm super-glued back together, don't rub or pick at it, etc. 

I need to make followup appointments, one with my surgeon, a second with my primary to discuss lab results.

Now that last is a challenge. First, after getting an actual meal at 2:00, I fell asleep until 4:00. When I went through the documents, now alert enough to take up the challenge to read through and start making calls, everybody was already closed. It should have been just one call but one thing popped out like it was in size 20 font from the page: they listed the wrong primary physician for me. Nobody ever asked if he was still the one. Nobody. They asked about my cardiologist, of course. Steve wouldn't have noticed it was wrong, and they didn't give the paperwork to me when I woke up, legally non compos mentis. The reason it's important is they are having the cyst sent to pathology. Simple standard procedure. My doc won't get it. So most of those phone call attempts were about getting them sent to the right doctor. I finally got the hospital medical records department, voicemail insisting it was open till 8 PM, punch more number choices to get somewhere, ending at this-voicemail-box-is-full. Because of course it was. 

So I'll start again tomorrow.

I am to check out the incision site to look for any weeping or infection indicated by redness or puss. Oh, you weren't eating were you? So before supper I went into the bathroom, and after opening the window to exchange some high 80s air for cooler before bedtime, I disrobed enough to check the incision. Or so I thought. I still had enough pain meds in me to allow me to raise the arm. What I discovered was first, a tangled array of black marker arrows pointing at the site from before surgery, which I knew about, but also a longer black line apparently where she planned her exact initial cut. That's the problem. It's thick enough ink and wide enough to let me know where to look. It's also impossible to see through. So much for that instruction.

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My apologies to all who find the dozens of typos and bad grammar in this post. I started rereading it after posting, and correcting. Just remember, I'm legally non compos mentis! Those 24 hours ain't up yet.

Rest In Peace, Rose

Dang it!

Just... Dang it!

This time it's personal, and equally unexpected. I opened an email this morning letting me know that a mutual friend had died of a heart attack. The person letting me know, Mary, is a former club president, two presidents ago, has a mutual friend with Rose who informed her of Rose's death, and knew what I hadn't needed to know yet, our club traditions when one of our members dies. So I've just returned from sitting at the club computer, sending a club-wide email letting everybody know and promising to inform them when we hear abut a service or have a card at the front desk for people to sign.

Fortunately the club was empty while I was there. I didn't want to face anybody in person about it yet.

Rose Nash was a regular presence in the club, her history there going back before mine, and even before former president Mary's start with the club. In fact it was Rose who introduced Mary to the club back in 2012, something we are all grateful for, whether we knew about it or not. Not only was Mary a several-term president, but also as a former school teacher, very happy to hold workshops teaching simple introductory skills with wire, sheet metals, and glass to any member who got their name among the first 8 on the sign-up sheet for that workshop.

Rose did a couple workshops, but was more known for teaching chain making, from simple to complicated, even branching out into many patterns of chain mail. Elaborate chain bracelets of her making, in copper, brass, bronze, or sterling, got sold in the store. She was always willing to help anybody with a question, whether she'd taught you before or not. (Teaching classes was her version of employment, getting paid for them as an economic necessity, and the club helped by declaring that to be her fiefdom, nobody else formally teaching.) 

When I delved into chain mail back before covid shut the clubs totally down for a while, she'd noticed the book of patterns I was working through, joined me in poring over patterns, and offered her samples of one's she'd done for a good, hands-on look/feel, as well as some tips for making mine better. "Make it (pointing at a particular bit of the pattern) smaller!" She was right of course, but tiny jump rings are hard to make, harder to work with. I started out large and slowly brought them down, partly due to increasing skill, mostly because eyes and hands needed the large size just to get the concept down.

Rose was always friendly and welcoming, never grumpy, never turning her back. Just listening to her voice was a joy, though I hadn't thought about it until I knew I wasn't going to be hearing it again. It had a lilt to it, a special quality that let you know she was just happy to simply be. Even when she was expressing her frustration with recent memory issues, there was no anger,  just steady Rose being Rose. We had a couple conversations on what our respective doctors are doing - or not - to help in that area, and effects for good, or not-so-much, of different medications.

My last memory of her isn't actually of her. One of her students was struggling with a pattern Rose taught her reently, one I knew backwards and forwards. Rose wasn't in that day, so I was asked if I knew where this student was going wrong. Of course! I just had to pick it back a couple rings to get oriented before heading forward. So of course, not having touched that pattern for about 4 years, I flubbed it worse than it had already been! I apologized, but was thanked for trying anyway. She'd wait for Rose to be there again, however, to set her straight. That was about 8 weeks ago. I certainly hope they connected. I could get back to that point again if needed, but Rose wouldn't have had to do more than look and point to the exact ring.

I've heard about several deaths in our club. They range from faces across the room to people I've worked alongside on the board. I've attended funerals, signed cards, expressed condolences, given hugs. This is the first time I've had to stop and wipe my eyes several times at the news, had to keep carrying on to pass the news along, and let the sadness flood over me again.

Rest in Peace, Rose Nash. Your friendly, helpful presence, your lilting voice, all will be missed. There will be no more memories you need to worry about losing. Now, we will all hold you in ours.

Rest In Peace, Eric Boehlert

I was "introduced" to him around 16 years ago. By introduced, I mean he became a regular voice on the Stephanie Miller radio show. It had just come across the Twin City airwaves, and I do limit it to that area since it was an AM radio show. I was spoiled by having MPR to listen to, all FM, and many stations spread throughout the state. One of my favorite radio hosts there was Catherine Lanfer, but she was leaving to join Al Franken on the new Air America Radio. I followed her, and Stephanie's show was adjacent, which is how it all started for me.

Stephanie's show continued after Al Franken left to pursue a Senate career, and I stayed to listen to her whenever I wasn't either in the heart of either downtown or out in the country, neither of which got reception. In those days it was described as a little fart joke show with politics. Jim Ward was the "voice monkey" who could imitate almost anybody or anything, possessed a truly wicked sense of humor, and often had me needing to take special care of my driving while laughing uncontrollably. He'd do a Darth Vader voice as Dick Cheney, particularly after reports came out of a peculiar sulphurous smell in the West Wing, which got "attributed" to a portal to hell opening up in Cheney's office. His most memorable one for me was as the voice of a sheep defending the (actual news story) required marriage to a shepherd for a certain kind of misbehavior on the shepherd's part. According to Ward, the sheep liked it, but it was done in a way that kept me in giggles, even in repeats. There were also phony PSAs about all kinds of things, like the ridiculous alleged effects of too much tequila, including a long list of disclaimers like the ones done at the tail end of certain drug ads, very fast so you don't really catch the side effects. Two I did catch were scabies and rabies, memorable not just for their improbability but for the rhyme. Jim left the show due to medical issues after several years, an unfortunate loss.

It wasn't all silliness. She'd interview politicians, pundits, medical experts. Eric Boehlert came on as a media critic, from his website Media Matters, later also from PressRun.media. He spent our time describing what the beltway press, the most flagrant violator, was saying about whatever was going on, pointing out how they got it wrong and what was actually right, criticizing them for slanting or even omitting important parts of the truth. The last few years he particularly stressed "both-siderism", the bogus narrative that both sides did whatever the Republicans (FOX "News", etc.,) were reporting as immoral, untruthful, corrupt, which in fact was usually projection because certain Republicans were the ones actually doing it, while their own bad behavior was simply ignored. He pointed out the false birtherism claims against Obama, Trump's endless lies, his appointees' grift, the "nothing there there" of  "Benghazi!" and Hillary's emails,  the claims of Biden's alleged senility, even Trump's recent claim that it was he himself who killed Bin Laden. The list was endless. 

I listened to him every Monday, top of the second hour of the show, unless I was, while still working, out of radio range. My retirement followed quickly after Free Speech TV turned that little fart joke radio show into a 3 hour televised (plus radio) show. FYI both Dish and Direct carry it, and since both of those come with DVRs, the show was always recorded and watched, except for commercials of course, regularly and in full. I got to see what everybody looked like, what went on behind the scenes because there was no more "behind" - unless you count the bust of Stephanie's rear end which is proudly displayed on the set. (Yes, it has panty lines.)

The news came out after yesterday's show closed. I first herd about it from a headline on Daily Kos, which merely mentioned he was in a bike accident. It was only in the text one learned he was killed. Only much later the news mentioned he was hit by a train. One of the comments gave a link to things he contributed several years ago to Daily Kos, still there in archives. 

I did of course turn into Stephanie's show this morning, and it very understandably started with tears. I haven't had the time yet to finish, with several necessary errands demanding my attention, but the show so far has been a wake. A tribute. A few clips from previous broadcasts were played, reminiscences aired.

While Media Matters and PressRun.media are still there, so far they have no postings on his death. I have no idea if somebody else will pick up the reins, as it were, or if they will just sit there as an archive which stopped growing when his bicycle was hit by a train. There is much commentary that he has no equal in what he did, that he is irreplaceable. But there is a void that needs to be filled. I hope his legacy is that more journalists can see that need and start filling it, each individually, rather than just following the herd in blindly, non-critically, printing what everybody else is, however untrue or misrepresentative it is. There are not two truths. There is only one set of facts, not to be mistaken for opinions which range wildly all over the place on anything and everything. Media matters. Truth matters. Eric Boehlert mattered, one of the very few in journalism who really did.

Rest in peace, Eric Boehlert. You will be sorely missed.

Covering a Lie

Literally. That's how I knew for sure what I suspected. I was brought up to be very careful before calling somebody a liar.

Over three weeks ago I ordered a whirlygig for the yard. The motion in the ad was hypnotizing, all these little pieces turning themselves inside out and back around again. The budget said OK. Of course the photography let you believe it was much taller and larger than it is, but the fine print corrected that... if you read it closely. But it was always shot looking up between trees or with just sky in the background. Considering I never get on the ground these days, it doesn't occur to me that others easily can and do.

Another selling point was the ad very specifically stating it was made in America. The business started in their garage, and now expanded to several large factories in three different US cities. All in all, it seemed like a good choice.

Several days later, I got a tracking number for it. Cool, already? I clicked on the number and got a nearly blank page stating it was having trouble locating that whatever-it-is. I waited another couple days. Same result. So I contacted the company. In a couple more days I actually got a response letting me know I needed to not check it for a couple more days. So I waited again. Clicked again. A total of 8 days after placing the order I got what looked like a shipping label. Unfortunately, I couldn't read what it said. It was all in Chinese characters.

Hmmmmmm. Interesting.

Several tries and  more days later, a line with some actual English popped up. My order had finally been received. PayPal had forked over the funds. Oh, that's reassuring. Was it sent by carrier pigeon? Did the wi-fi break?

For the next three days it had a new line stating the same thing. Eventually it was "at international airport." That went on for 5 entries, then it was leaving international airport, then it finally actually left international airport. Whew! That's a lot of work for one little box to accomplish, doncha think?

Two more entries informed me it was going to destination airport. Two more let me know it had arrived, and the destination airport was Los Angeles. One more let me know it had left the airport, then one said it was accepted at at Network Distribution Center, still in L.A. Another entry stated it had arrived at said facility. Apparently they accept these things before they arrive! Amazing. I always like to know I'll be accepted before I arrive somewhere too, but I usually don't get written confirmation of the fact. It also  now bore the information. however, that the distribution center was a part of USPS. Hurray, it's in the mail! The next three entries insisted it was leaving the distribution center. That process took so long I actually now do believe in snail mail.

I do wonder where they find snails big enough to handle a box however. Maybe DeJoy knows. Perhaps he even enjoys the used ones with butter and garlic!

Without letting me know that it had finally actually left, or was about to arrive, it just announced it existed in Phoenix. Then it left Phoenix. It arrived in our post office. Today's announcement informs anybody with enough energy left to actually inquire about my package that it is out for delivery, expected to be delivered over an hour ago, or just about bedtime. Nobody bothered to change its status to make note that it arrived over 5 hours ago. But our carrier was running very late this afternoon. Maybe those snails had  gone on strike? Did somebody explain to them the bit about butter and garlic? Don't you know that's just plain cruel to tell them? I'd go on strike too!

I have it. It's opened, assembled, installed, uninstalled, disassembled, adjusted, reassembled, reinstalled, and still waiting for enough breeze to come through to get its whirlies gigging. The palm leaves we see across the street have been bowing and bobbing. My toy just kind of sits there. Tomorrow I'm looking for a new location where more breeze might reach it. Rich actually saw it go around once. I'm not completely discouraged. Yet.

But I have to call them on their big lie. American made? Shipped from China? I made a point of looking at the label when I picked up the box. It's a by-gum American USPS barcoded shipping label all right. Glued pretty well straight over the Chinese label underneath. I was very careful about peeling the USPS label off once I got the box out of the bag which bore the labels. Just to be sure.

 I still can't read the Chinese characters. They all look like tiny square boxes with a variety of lines and squiggles inside.  It's a fault in my personal education, I'm sure. All the languages I learned use the same kinds of characters I'm writing with right now. I'll have to ask these guys just which part of China is now claimed as American territory. I'm sure China will be very interested. Come to think of it, I bet we will be too. Do you think anybody will get in trouble?