The Missing Piece of Tape

"A missing piece of tape?" you ask. As insignificant as that? Admittedly, the tape wasn't valuable. It was ordinary painters tape, that recognizable blue and easily removed from whichever surface it's adhered to. It's not the fact that it was tape, or that it became removed that this is about. I know how it became removed, and where, and when. It should have the simplest of things to locate the piece. Nobody or no thing was around to account for how it wasn't in the spot where it became removed. It's simply the why of how it was and still is missing that this is about.

First, of course, is the tale of how the piece of tape came to be used at all. Nobody was painting. It hadn't been taken from its roll to be used in another jewelry project, which is its main household use these days. It had become medical tape. And as always, there is more to the story than that.

If you're keeping up, you know that my Watchman had successfully sealed of that little chamber in the heart where blood might form clots, which might then become loose and travel to very nasty places and cause very nasty consequences. You also should know that the policy after success is to remove Warfarin from the meds list and replace it with Plavix, or generic equivalent. The doc knew that, the doc told me, the doc told my pharmacy and everything was set up to go.

What nobody had mentioned anywhere in the process was the timing of the transition, beyond "before" and "after". I was to continue warfarin on its usual schedule until the TEE test confirmed it wasn't needed. I specifically asked and was answered that it wasn't to be stopped until after the procedure confirmed it was OK.

So far, so good.

What nobody thought to inform me was that the Plavix should not be started until all the Warfarin had left my system. It was just, start it after the procedure. Turns out, as you might suspect by now, that it takes a few days to clear out the Warfarin. Before that, Plavix just doubles down. Oops.

The morning after the procedure, I apparently bumped a teeny tiny little scab off the back of my wrist in the shower. By the time I was fixing my hair, I noticed a little streak of blood, feeling wet where my sleeve rubbed over it with the arm motion. No biggie, bandaid attached, head on to the club for the morning.

A couple hours later, arm movement again felt a little wet, so I peeled back the sleeve and took a peek. Luckily the club has bandaids. Big ones, I suspect due to the dangers possible from the grinders and such. I replaced the original. An hour later, I did it again, this time adding a folding of paper towel to soak up whatever the pad wouldn't hold. And so throughout the day. Understand, there was nothing dramatic in this tiny seepage, beyond being relentless. I figured a salad, lots of greens with vitamin K, would make a good supper. And maybe hold off on a bedtime Plavix, eh?

With the wrist still oozing, and hours of sleep ahead where presumably nothing would rouse me enough to change the tape, I took a big cotton ball and wrapped the wrist three times around with -you guessed it - painters tape. Nothing tight, sticking to itself to stay put, lots of absorbancy. Seems foolproof. Right?

And it was, having curled back on itself only a few inches in the night. However, another teeny scab had gotten bumped just before bedtime, just barely starting to indicate it might do what the other had been, so I stretched about a foot long piece of the same tape around my calf before bed.

I tend to sleep on one side, at least until my shoulder complains loudly enough to wake me to roll over. I know when it happens because I also have to wake sufficiently to lift the sheet and blanket enough to avoid getting entangled in them. Then zonk out again. That night wasn't a restless one.

I had proof. I couldn't help noticing while in the bathroom that morning that there was a monster bruise on the top of the down-side thigh. Deep deep purple. Looking a bit more, there was more on the same side on my lower belly. Nothing anywhere else, at least not in that color range. Turned out, as the day progressed, that some part of me thought either my waistband was too tight or I was spending too much time reaching over tables in the club. Or something.  Little blue spots popped up in seemingly unbumped random places, all day.

And one tiny blue spot where the wrist had been wrapped overnight, finally successfully stopping that seep. This I noticed first thing in the bathroom, which reminded me to check out the piece of tape on my leg. It wasn't there. It hadn't fallen off on the several feet walk into the bathroom. It wasn't between the covers, either bottom or top sides. It wasn't on the floor on that side of the bed, nor did it have a chance to slip under the bed, since it's a platform bed.

Now  before you question my priorities here, tape vs. blood thinner overdose, I did the right things, once the doc's office opened, and got instructions from them. No more Plavix till Sunday night. (Or maybe I'll just wait till Monday, eh?) Everything is rainbowing, changing into greens and yellows, purples fading... well, you've all watched bruises fade. No further worries there. But the one thing I can't get out of my head is this: just what the heck happened to that other piece of tape?

Party Minutes

I've just been installed as club Secretary for another year. This means, not only did I get to celebrate at the annual party last night where the ceremony for all incoming 2020 officers was held, I got to take the  minutes from it. Usually my minutes are terse. Cut out all the extra words so the report can be kept to a single printed page where possible, saving the club a few expenses. Notes were taken last night. Minutes were written after arriving home. But hey: PARTY! A different style was called for:


Fairway Sterling & Stones Membership Meeting
AKA Annual Christmas Party
Dec. 9, 2019

Festivities commenced at 6:00 PM. According to the sign up sheets, 87 people were in attendance, including Santa and Mrs. Claus. Attire ranged from shorts and jeans to an incredible variety of bling; upon reflection, not totally unexpected for a jewelry club.

President Mary Brown-Martilik called up the other 4 current club officers to the podium, presenting each with a “‘World’s Best (__office here__)” certificate. Mary has apparently been so busy with club activities that she forgot to print out the 5th one for herself. It may be, with her impending retirement, she’ll get some rest from her heavy workload of club duties soon. Not too much, however, as she has plans to continue teaching workshops in the club.

Incoming officers were called up for installation, Maggie Frey officiating. President - Becky Joy, 1st Vice President - Phil Townsend, 2nd Vice President - Sandra Larson, Secretary - Heather Rosa, Treasurer - Carol Fleury. Thanks were then given to outgoing President Mary Brown Martilik for her years of outstanding service, a bouquet was presented by Neva Schumaker, and a lengthy standing ovation followed. Really lengthy. Reports surfaced of certain hands reddening and swelling from repeated impacts.

Lifetime memberships were awarded to Vic Shorb, Linda and Colin Morely, and Richard Campbell.

Business being over, pot luck was announced, lines winding no more than 75 feet long at any given time, progressing steadily until plates were overfilled, followed by all available chairs, with more then brought in by RCSC staff, along with an extra table. It was commented that this was our largest crowd in years, and a special welcome went out to all our new members from Bell who joined while their facility had some improvements… uh, issues… uh well, it is expected to actually reopen. We will be delighted should they continue with us even given an alternative.

Raffle names were called in bunches, interspersed between segments of music provided by the DJ, Hank Tokarz. In contrast to the stereotype, Santa actually won a raffle prize, finally getting to know how it feels to receive and not just give. It is hoped this didn’t prove confusing, and he appreciated the change. One might think the shock of that accounted for Santa’s chronic wardrobe malfunction, had it not already been occurring throughout the evening. Having lost his real Santa belly this last year (according to Mrs. Santa) he decided to - ahem - fill his role by stuffing something in denim under his shirt in its stead. His struggles to maintain it in its place, by stuffing it upwards repeatedly from the bottom, provided some entertainment throughout the evening. Really, Santa, not necessary. After all, slimmer is the new black. Own it!

Lisa Borho announced that, considering the 4th Wednesday this year falls on Christmas Day, with most committee members having alternate expectations of how they spend that time, and the jewelry store currently being adequately filled, there will be only one jewelry selection this month, and items need to be in tomorrow night.

Much dancing ensued. By the end of the evening, a number of men actually joined in as well. Party officially ended at 8:00 PM. No information is available about any private parties continuing off premises.

Respectfully ( uh, OK, sure) submitted by Secretary Heather M. Rosa.

Off Blood Thinners!!

Short and sweet: today's TEE indicated that the Watchman has completed its job of persuading my body to cover it over. No more Warfarin! I'm going to need to earn my bruises in the future, so a lot less wondering where that weird bruise popped up from. I should actually have some idea. A bump. A pain. Something.

If you've missed previous discussions here, and want to know what the heck this new gizmo is, Google it -"Watchman", that is. Instead of 'splaining it all again, I'm heading down to where I stashed my rings from removing them for the procedure and putting them back on, and then I'm going to wait for my new medic alert bracelet to arrive. Because it needs updated information.

And yes, I feel fine, even if they won't let me drive again until tomorrow. Even better, I can gorge on all the salads I want to now.

Store Math

We've heard of "new math." This presupposed there was an "old math." For me, of course, that's just plain math. Numbers are numbers, formulas are formulas, 3+5 will always =8. Etcetera. But today I discovered yet another kind: "store math."

I went to WallyWorld to get the annual photo greeting cards made. Those of you on my list have been -uhh- blessed with them for decades now. They show my photos, favorite/s from the year, of anything except people. Call it a character flaw, call it an ego trip, but who really wants to watch the wrinkles grow for their holiday greetings? I put on something else. Time was when I could put in my own message along with a photo, but they're all canned now unless you've got your own sophisticated set-up at home.

I don't.

So it starts with selecting which photos I want, then which message I can live with, and proceeding to fight with the machine to produce something which matches my internal vision. I'm beginning to get that last part down. Today's session in the photo department only took about 20 minutes, with  little help from the lady on the next stool, as no actual human employee inhabited that entire department. Considering, I felt pretty good about it.

There were some changes in printed text to personalize it, since my first choice was too long and certain punctuation was unavailable. I declined to check the box allowing a text to my phone announcing they were ready, hoping that failure to opt in equated opting out. Same with my email address. The computer didn't insist. The order was accepted.

But it's always at the end of the transaction where store math takes effect. My initial selections were a choice between one hour to wait for printing, or several days. I picked one hour. On the receipt that prints out at the end, the time stamp was 12:40.

At the bottom, I was informed it would be ready at 4:00. So apparently, 3 hours twenty minutes = 1 hour in "store math."

Makes me wonder how they figure the price!

The Tree is ... Up?

A couple years ago Steve and I agreed that putting up and taking down our (very nice) artificial X-mas tree was too much work. We sorted through our decorations and sent a couple of boxes to family members with little children who set up trees.

No regrets there. So far, so good.

This year there was an extra set of muscles in the house. Steve asked that the tree and accessories be dragged out, all three humongous totes' worth, and set up in the dining room corner of the living room. Someone wasn't in the best mood that morning, but the tree went up. Kinda.  The branches were stabbed into the slots where they belonged, but only after much grumbling about how complicated it was. It didn't seen to be the right exact time to point out that they were usually sorted out into the various color-coded markers for each level, branches fluffed out so the tree looked filled and there were multiple spots for lights and ornaments to hang, and then stabbed in place, one color/level at a time, starting from the bottom so we didn't have to get way down to find the slots.  Usually, I might add, it was done with much less vehemence. Also with enough attention to the slots each clicked down into to be secure against bumps or whatever.

OK, the tree got up. You can  probably guess how it looked. Steve and I decided to fix it a bit later. After all, our helper had done the heavy lifting. Literally. I'd categorize it under creative incompetence, however - the kind that is meant to persuade others that this task should never be assigned to them again. You know, like the person assigned to doing the dishes who leaves them streaked, greasy, and anything but clean. Maybe even a broken one here and there, just in case we hadn't noticed the job wasn't getting done.

The next day I returned from wherever I'd been to find that Steve had been taking branches out and fluffing them out. Most of the rows had been sorted and replaced on the tree. More specifically, three bottom rows had been filled in, while the top section and a few more rows graced the top. He'd run out of steam at that point and passed on the rest of the job to me.

I viewed the area and decided the floor needed vacuuming to remove all those little green "needles" before the tree was finished and the floor couldn't be reached, backed into the corner as the tree was. I made one mistake, however. I tried to move the tree in its stand a few inches to the side so the vacuum had room.

Several things happened in the next half minute. The stand is one with four legs that only splay out when flat on the floor. Once raised up, they all try - usually successfully - to gather into one single point under the center. Not exactly a support for anything. I had to turn off the vacuum (why exactly had I been multitasking at this point?), grab the tree from falling over, change my grip to catch the top which was now completely separated from the adjacent section of trunk, let the lower section of the tree drop because the top needed two hands to support it although it wound up tip down on the floor anyway. In all the shifting and grabbing and re-grabbing, over three rows of branches fell out from where they hadn't been completely clicked in place and the bottom was lying on its side trying to occupy the same space as the tipsy turvey top.

Several choice words ensued, branches were snatched up and tossed aside so the big parts could be relocated to where they were accessible for when the entire project got restarted. Then there was the resorting by colors, the reshaping of the branches so one could pretend no mishaps had happened, and the third assembly of the tree.

This is where it got interesting. (What? Now? It wasn't already?) The bottom three rows of branches had pretty much remained attached to the trunk. Also, once the top was up, it turned out that several upper rows had at least one or two branches in place. I completed the vacuuming, and returned to making sense of the tree assembly. This involved filling in the middle once incomplete rows were filled in.

Hey, it was that or taking even more of the tree apart. At one point it looked so ridiculous that I got the camera out and took a shot. I'm tempted to put it on the X-mas card this year, maybe getting one of those set up for two photos, since I'd already planned the 1st photo since last year. This shot should fit right in, as the other is pretty bizarre - uh, unique in a southwestern desert sort of way - anyway.

Eventually all the branches got put in their proper spots. It was extra fun because the trunk pole is decorated with a long coil the the branch material, invariable hiding all the holes from view. 

The tree sat for two more days.

Today while I was gone to the club for 6 hours, including teaching a workshop, Steve got into the lights. The string(s) of miniatures are spread around the tree. The strings of bubblers, the must haves for any X-mas tree, aren't on yet. They didn't have the right plugs to attach to the regular ones, nor the right ones for the two-pronged wall hookup. I know there's another 2 prong / 3 prong adapter in the house somewhere, since other plugins in the house - not all, just some - are also 2 prongers. Wherever the adapter is, it's probably in use. We need to buy a new one or five, since this issue keeps recurring. Once we have that, the surge protector can plug into the wall outlet, the bubblers can chain into that, and the miniatures can chain either into the bubblers or down to the surge protector.

Do I hear "shopping trip tomorrow" anybody? I mean, Steve's gone back to bed, I'm wiped after finding out how many ways my students can misinterpret instructions for their project, and an early nap seems to be calling my name as well. Besides, it's time for the TV evening news followed by some thought given to a supper selection.

But the tree is up. Fingers crossed. Ho Ho H.......umbug!

Musing On Funerals

I've been musing on funerals lately, perhaps because I've been to an increasingly frequent amount of them. Hey, retirement central: what can you expect?

I hadn't been to one  until I was a teenager in junior high. I was in shock the whole time, unable to pay attention to the funeral for the death itself. He was a friend of sorts, a grade behind me in school but active in our church youth group and religion classes. His name was Greg, but better known as Mouse, a nickname we were too insensitive to realize he hated and found demeaning. For some unknown reason he'd picked me out as a friend, a situation rare in itself. He also confused me by how he talked, enough to send me to his aunt, who was also our Sunday school teacher, to try to express my confusion. I didn't realize he was calling out for help.

One morning everybody was gathered outside the church in groups. The night before Greg had taken the family's rifle and shot both his younger brothers, then killed himself. One brother survived. What we kids hadn't known was that his father had divorced his mom and left the family. In the early 60s this was still a scandal, and there weren't things in place to help children deal with  it, especially as it was mostly hidden. It was said - I think from the surviving brother - that Greg thought he was sending all three of the boys to a better place.  He assumed they felt as tormented as he was.

His actions changed my life. I decided to major in psychology, hoping to find the answers so I could keep it from happening again, or at least recognize a call for help. Turns out psych didn't have the answers, while each branch/philosophy loudly proclaimed it possessed the only one. (I hope it's evolved since them.)

Years after Greg there were family funerals, both grandmothers, both pretty much a matter of form to attend and pay our respects. I knew so little of them, living a couple hundred miles away, that there was nothing to miss and mourn. There was the traditional embalmed body in a casket looking nothing like anybody I remembered, imparting an unreality to the whole thing. It was about seeing relatives we also lived hundreds of miles apart from, so pretty unemotional gatherings from my perspective.

Decades passed. Funerals gradually became personal, the loss of somebody I actually knew something about: in-laws, parents, friends. The next one to strike hard was the death of the teenage daughter of a friend. It was particularly ugly, evidence showing she was trapped in a fire that also killed others. It started with a cigarette, presumably where she had been sleeping, but she roused enough to try to get up the stairway to waken the rest of the family. That's where she died, fully aware of what was happening. No peaceful smoke inhalation in her sleep. I wrapped myself in the horror of that for months.

Most deaths after that were more prosaic, old age or illness such as cancer, where one could tell oneself it was the relief after a long painful road. One didn't have to believe in any particular religious theology to find a modicum of comfort in that kind of ending.

The style of funerals was changing. There was more personal information on the deceased's life, including picture collages and slide shows. In one family, where nobody had financial resources, a cremation was followed by a small family potluck, after which everybody went around the circle and shared a favorite memory. A few remaining "treasures" were passed on to those attending as reminders of her life. It was as loving as any big showy display could try to be.

I found out more about people I thought I'd known than I realized had been part of their lives, especially when the person had the chance to plan the rituals themselves. Having family and friends invited to stand up and share memories brought the deceased back to life for a while. More formal funerals tended to erase the humanity of the departed, at least from my non-religious perspective.

The most recent one I attended was a case in point of both ends of that spectrum. Realize that I hadn't known the deceased. I was there to support his widow. On the "this was a real, unique human being" side, there was a slide show with scenes throughout his life, showing family, friends, travels, and his great sense of humor. My favorite of all time - heck, my favorite wedding photo of all time - was the formal shot of bride and groom with him kicking up his heels in the air. That's celebrating your marriage!

Well, that's youth too.

The other end of the spectrum, same funeral, was the minister spending 20 minutes offering to lead any of us nonbelievers into the true faith so we'd have the comfort of knowing (properly) exactly how death wasn't death. It wasn't a statement of his faith. It was the offer of conversion of us to it.

But hey, the food was OK. And what I gave was the comfort to the widow that I cared about her loss. And somehow I think that was the important thing. It's why we gather. Believe however you do or don't. There is a loss for the people left behind. And they can still feel our hugs.

Bacon - Gasp! - Ain't For Everything!

Every year I adapt my stuffing muffins recipe a little bit, depending on whims and availability, nevermind how well my brain is functioning. This year we may have made a mistake. To be fair, not everybody dislikes it. I don't actually hate it, but it won't be repeated.

There's a part where the chopped onion and celery get sauteed before being added to the bread crumbs. Usually that's in butter. This year we'd accumulated an oversupply of bacon fat, collected from frequent cooking of strips for Steve's favorite sandwich, BATs. AKA, bacon, avocado and tomato. It's just like you'd do a BLT, but switching lettuce for mashed avocado, and it's totally yummy. Just a little Miracle Whip on the toast and it's a bite of heaven. Avocados tend to be cheap down here, so we take advantage.

BATs are a good use of bacon. Turns out, turkey stuffing, not so much. It's not awful. It's just not my stuffing. On the plus side, there is one less container taking up refrigerator space.

Since I've gotten complaints that my way of making the stuffing "isn't replicable", I've been working on writing it down. Of course, it still offers a range of the amounts of the ingredients, since so much of it is "to taste." If dill isn't your thing, smuggled in to the mix in mini doses, your taste will tend toward the lesser amount. If you're a garlic fiend (this isn't perjorative: I'm one myself) then you'd add on the high end of the range, or maybe even top it. If no chicken or turkey drippings are available from a previously cooked bird - yes, we save them too, forget making gravy! - then chicken broth in a can is a (poor) substitute.

Other things were learned with this year's first batch. More muffin tins are needed. We had some pretty foil cupcake papers for the stuffing to bake in. With more stuffing than available tins, and no desire to leave the oven on longer than absolutely necessary, I decided to pry them out as soon as they came out of the oven so the tin could be refilled. Unfortunately, while they're fresh hot, foil bits stick to the aluminum muffin tin. Meaning, of course, that several muffins had uncovered bottoms, not the most appealing way to serve them for a pot luck. Those are the ones we ate. It also turns out that as soon as they cool a bit, say 15 minutes, they can be removed with absolutely no sticking and no fuss. Go figure.

But hey, shopping trip!

There's more bacon fat in the fridge. Time to make pancakes or something. There are also frozen bananas and blueberries taking up space. But it's turkey dinner day today, and that's enough cooking for me for now. Next batch of stuffing muffins comes Thursday or later, and these stay here for us! Not only will they have turkey drippings, we'll pop in chopped turkey meat, and they'll be frozen for a ready mini meal. I think they theoretically can last for about 6 months. I've never ignored them long enough to have proof.