Must tell you that when I was diagnosed, and diagnosed and diagnosed, with a million degenerative diseases and conditions, it was over time and it still takes all the time I have to try understanding it all. Nothing that I have will kill me--yay for me!--but on some days, because of what is going on in my neck, arms and hands, I could wish to be dead. (Just realized that I never do wish for death, only relief! and death is not the picture in my head when wishing. I'm so cool.)
The thing is, I got used to what I have and work around it, and after several years, with different things flaring and simmering back down, I still occasionally read all about the different things and what are the new treatments. Still talk to my docs about them. Still have to see the docs way more than regular folk.
But it's funny how friends, family and acquaintances view me and others with disabling conditions. Many of them know somebody who has what I have, or had what I have, and they want to tell me all about the treatment. Many have just read something on the subject and want to tell me all about it. These people are quite well meaning, but it gets very tiring after a while, refraining from saying, "Shut up! You have no idea and are only making me feel like you think I'm stupid. Not helpful."
I've done it myself, especially when meeting someone who has similar conditions to mine. But I try to get only to the point where we are finding common understanding because of shared pain. Ten people can have the same diagnoses and those ten people will be affected in ten dramatically different ways. It is the way it is. The same treatments affect them differently as well.
I've told you that to tell you this:
Something a woman once said has stayed with me. She wrote a column for the paper where I was the weekend editor and she came with me to a Reiki treatment I was getting at the time as she was writing a story about it. She walked with a cane as she had some neuropathy in her foot. She said, "People are always asking me if I've tried this and that. But after all this time, I don't know that I would change it if I could. It has become part of who I am."
It's been 7 years for me and I really understand that now.
I don't know that anyone will ever truly understand what I have, that movement brings me pain and that I cannot live without movement. Conditions keep evolving. But it's OK now if I'm never understood. And it's unbelievable to me what I can endure; it puts so many other things in their proper places of not-so-important. I am now this person because of the last seven years. Chronic pain? So what.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
It’s Not Too Much To Ask
Somebody needs to invent a virtual touring mechanism for when you're watching a movie online or at home. This guy is lying on a couch and for a brief moment the camera panned over the art on the wall above. I didn't want to rewind (how prehistoric is that!); I just wanted to click and scroll over his head while he was talking.
In the same vein, I’ve been saying since 1999—at least!—that somebody needs to invent emailing food. People are always emailing me about what they are cooking. TORTURE! Of course, if you could email food, you could email anything and where would the post office be then? Defunct. This is my notice to the USPS: Give it up now! You Are Doomed! UPS and Fedex are probably still OK as there will still be things too large to email that people will want to send one another, such as elephants and furniture, and who knows how long it will take to work out the kinks of losing things in cyberspace. Could be a whole new industry for those out-of-work postal employees: Cyberspace Lost and Found.
Another thing, I need to learn to astral travel right away. Practice makes perfect but I’m not at all sure I know the right way to start. Any reputable teachers around? I think it could be something like the holograms in Stars Wars, which are really only videos, only more life size and ethereal—kind of ghostlike. Or like beaming yourself up and down like Star Trek. If everybody would learn how then it likely could put airplanes, etc., out of business, but I don’t think everybody is going to be able to do it, never mind want to do it. Although I don’t know why not.
Wait, let’s astral travel into the dang movie—now THAT’S an idea.
In the same vein, I’ve been saying since 1999—at least!—that somebody needs to invent emailing food. People are always emailing me about what they are cooking. TORTURE! Of course, if you could email food, you could email anything and where would the post office be then? Defunct. This is my notice to the USPS: Give it up now! You Are Doomed! UPS and Fedex are probably still OK as there will still be things too large to email that people will want to send one another, such as elephants and furniture, and who knows how long it will take to work out the kinks of losing things in cyberspace. Could be a whole new industry for those out-of-work postal employees: Cyberspace Lost and Found.
Another thing, I need to learn to astral travel right away. Practice makes perfect but I’m not at all sure I know the right way to start. Any reputable teachers around? I think it could be something like the holograms in Stars Wars, which are really only videos, only more life size and ethereal—kind of ghostlike. Or like beaming yourself up and down like Star Trek. If everybody would learn how then it likely could put airplanes, etc., out of business, but I don’t think everybody is going to be able to do it, never mind want to do it. Although I don’t know why not.
Wait, let’s astral travel into the dang movie—now THAT’S an idea.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Youth In Asia (Killing Me Softly)
I have recently been investigating ways to kill myself painlessly. Just in case. Some of you may be a tad worried about that (no reason to, I assure you); some of you won’t read any further than this paragraph.
For those of you still here, this really is not about being depressed and unable to see the bright side of life. I have, so far, been unable to NOT see the bright side. But I am concerned about euthanasia, and have been off and on for at least the past 20 years. At least since Dr. Jack Kevorkian began making headlines.
During my quest for information I contacted a pharmacist friend of mine and asked what the best thing to use was. He wondered only if I was having a bad day. I’d say that was a pretty bad day, but I was saddened only that he didn’t realize where I was coming from. And he never would say. That may have been part of a pharmacist’s oath or something but the guy I used to know would have gotten where I was coming from. Instead he was suspicious, I think.
Putting religious beliefs aside, if you can, I want to examine euthanasia with the view of it being a practical matter, and possibly being a great relief to ourselves and our family and friends. I know that we are not dogs and cats, but I think we can look at pet euthanasia and apply its principles to people. Why wait until someone’s body and/or mind is ravaged by disease, their finances drained so there is more burden brought upon those left behind? Bad enough they have to watch their loved one suffer for far too long as it is.
Part of the outcry against human euthanasia is that people will be killing off family members and themselves willy-nilly at the first sign of a sniffle so as to benefit from expected inheritances.
I believe fervently that people, as a general rule, aren’t going to do this very often or easily. (I think that about abortion as well but haven’t looked at the numbers.) Pet owners sometimes still wait far too long to euthanize their pets, believing against all hope that they aren’t really suffering or there’s a chance they’ll get better. I believe having the option—without the legal trouble—to off yourself or help someone close to you to do so will not be misused any more than other things are misused. There is always going to be stupidity, and that cannot be legislated, even though we all know it’s been tried repeatedly and those attempts likely will continue as long there are politicians and attorneys.
I'm adamant I'd like the option if I became unable to care for myself in any way. I don't want my daughters, granddaughters, friends and family to have to see me that way for an extended period of time because my body was still willing to produce enough oxygen to carry on. That's no way to live, for me or them.
If it became a legal option to end your life, we could then procure the knowledge and the means to do it compassionately and with as little pain to the dying as possible. We are already half way there, with hospice. I don't know anyone who isn't grateful for the compassionate care received there. Let’s go one step further and have the legal option before we become dessicated if we so choose.
For those of you still here, this really is not about being depressed and unable to see the bright side of life. I have, so far, been unable to NOT see the bright side. But I am concerned about euthanasia, and have been off and on for at least the past 20 years. At least since Dr. Jack Kevorkian began making headlines.
During my quest for information I contacted a pharmacist friend of mine and asked what the best thing to use was. He wondered only if I was having a bad day. I’d say that was a pretty bad day, but I was saddened only that he didn’t realize where I was coming from. And he never would say. That may have been part of a pharmacist’s oath or something but the guy I used to know would have gotten where I was coming from. Instead he was suspicious, I think.
Putting religious beliefs aside, if you can, I want to examine euthanasia with the view of it being a practical matter, and possibly being a great relief to ourselves and our family and friends. I know that we are not dogs and cats, but I think we can look at pet euthanasia and apply its principles to people. Why wait until someone’s body and/or mind is ravaged by disease, their finances drained so there is more burden brought upon those left behind? Bad enough they have to watch their loved one suffer for far too long as it is.
Part of the outcry against human euthanasia is that people will be killing off family members and themselves willy-nilly at the first sign of a sniffle so as to benefit from expected inheritances.
I believe fervently that people, as a general rule, aren’t going to do this very often or easily. (I think that about abortion as well but haven’t looked at the numbers.) Pet owners sometimes still wait far too long to euthanize their pets, believing against all hope that they aren’t really suffering or there’s a chance they’ll get better. I believe having the option—without the legal trouble—to off yourself or help someone close to you to do so will not be misused any more than other things are misused. There is always going to be stupidity, and that cannot be legislated, even though we all know it’s been tried repeatedly and those attempts likely will continue as long there are politicians and attorneys.
I'm adamant I'd like the option if I became unable to care for myself in any way. I don't want my daughters, granddaughters, friends and family to have to see me that way for an extended period of time because my body was still willing to produce enough oxygen to carry on. That's no way to live, for me or them.
If it became a legal option to end your life, we could then procure the knowledge and the means to do it compassionately and with as little pain to the dying as possible. We are already half way there, with hospice. I don't know anyone who isn't grateful for the compassionate care received there. Let’s go one step further and have the legal option before we become dessicated if we so choose.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Let's Not And Say We Did
I'd like to call these Pet Peeves, but I've never had a pet who irked me in this way, so I'm calling it People Peeves. Things friends and lovers say that peeve. Clearly I attach too much importance to words, tending to take every single alphabet grouping to heart. I don't think I can work it any other way, though.
“I’m taking up too much of your time.”
Why? If you believe what you're saying, then what the hell are you doing that for? That is clearly a manipulation, especially when I give you no indication that you are doing so. Don’t you know yet that if I want to hang up the phone, I have no problems saying so? That if I am ready for you to leave, I can tell you easily that it’s time for you to do so? If you are ready to go or hang up, just say so instead of putting it on me. How old are you?
“Sorry to bother you.”
Another manipulation. You want me to say, “It’s no bother,” to give you reassurance. Because we are friends or acquaintances, I’ll give you the reassurance the first couple of times, but if you continue to say it every time you call, I’m going to stop talking to you eventually, because you annoy the crap out of me.
“I didn’t mean to …”
This is a tricky one, as sometimes we do things that bring up “unintended” consequences. I have to say that if you say that a lot, you won’t say it a lot to me as I won’t be putting myself out to you for long. And I’ll know when you mean to apologize.
“You think you know me, but you don’t.”
Ahhh, the phrase that indicates your long-time partner is hiding something from you and wants you to be astute enough to figure it out instead of coming clean themselves. It’s not good news.
"You have no idea how much I love you."
Well, you know what? It’s because you are doing a damn poor job of showing me. So shut up.
“I’m taking up too much of your time.”
Why? If you believe what you're saying, then what the hell are you doing that for? That is clearly a manipulation, especially when I give you no indication that you are doing so. Don’t you know yet that if I want to hang up the phone, I have no problems saying so? That if I am ready for you to leave, I can tell you easily that it’s time for you to do so? If you are ready to go or hang up, just say so instead of putting it on me. How old are you?
“Sorry to bother you.”
Another manipulation. You want me to say, “It’s no bother,” to give you reassurance. Because we are friends or acquaintances, I’ll give you the reassurance the first couple of times, but if you continue to say it every time you call, I’m going to stop talking to you eventually, because you annoy the crap out of me.
“I didn’t mean to …”
This is a tricky one, as sometimes we do things that bring up “unintended” consequences. I have to say that if you say that a lot, you won’t say it a lot to me as I won’t be putting myself out to you for long. And I’ll know when you mean to apologize.
“You think you know me, but you don’t.”
Ahhh, the phrase that indicates your long-time partner is hiding something from you and wants you to be astute enough to figure it out instead of coming clean themselves. It’s not good news.
"You have no idea how much I love you."
Well, you know what? It’s because you are doing a damn poor job of showing me. So shut up.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Walk Like An Egyptian
I still remember the feel of the sheets I found in a department store in downtown Kerrville, Texas, (the one that’s gone now, Schreiner’s) that I wanted to buy with what was left of my going-away gift certificate from my coworkers. I stood there, in the linens department, for 20 minutes, feeling those sheets—Egyptian cotton, 400-thread count—my fingers shoved into the packaging, caressing the material like a big weirdo and daydreaming about how it would feel to sleep on them.
Twenty minutes! Really!
The set was on sale for $80 and I had the money for it but I also had Libby and Bella, two pooches, who would have ruined them immediately while not experiencing a single pang of guilt for doing so.
Oh, but I wanted those sheets in the worst way! It is one of those times that stand out clearly in my mind. The longing—they call it that because the feeling lasts a bit—then denial, acceptance and the walk-away.
I loved that store and the things it sold: always they had lovely home goods, my favorite section.
I sighed, put the package down, looked around to see if anyone was taking special notice of me and walked away slowly, hoping to prevent myself from being arrested for acting like a sheets pervert.
I don’t have any Egyptian cotton sheets still, nor do I have Libby and Bella any more, and I’m OK with all of it.
Twenty minutes! Really!
The set was on sale for $80 and I had the money for it but I also had Libby and Bella, two pooches, who would have ruined them immediately while not experiencing a single pang of guilt for doing so.
Oh, but I wanted those sheets in the worst way! It is one of those times that stand out clearly in my mind. The longing—they call it that because the feeling lasts a bit—then denial, acceptance and the walk-away.
I loved that store and the things it sold: always they had lovely home goods, my favorite section.
I sighed, put the package down, looked around to see if anyone was taking special notice of me and walked away slowly, hoping to prevent myself from being arrested for acting like a sheets pervert.
I don’t have any Egyptian cotton sheets still, nor do I have Libby and Bella any more, and I’m OK with all of it.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Headline Strikes Fear
As a newspaper editor, one of my favorite things to do was write headlines, and if I look at a newspaper nowadays, I swiftly scan Page One and judge each headline, subhead and cutline as if it were in a contest. Because, really, among those tasked with the job, I can say we are a competitive bunch, within and between newsrooms, and want to do our best.
While on deadline, I’d get the lead story and drop it in place, and prepare for my favorite part, writing the headline. I was lucky to have other editors and reporters who were key to inspiring pithy turns of phrase.
I’d yell out, “Marty! I need help with this headline.” Marty, being the quickest producer of good—and lengthy, when necessary—front page copy, never frazzled by deadline, would jump up and come over and we would start throwing out suggestions, beginning with the stupidest. Pretty soon the newsroom staff would be cracking up. It would spur others to throw in their craziness when somebody in the bunch, like Jane, would yell out something that made all of us say, “That’s it!” And we’d all turn back to what we were doing, assured that we were working together, turning out another great product, one that renewed every 24 hours.
Got a chuckle the other day while surfing: Being unable to avoid the strip of pictures and headlines that show up on Yahoo! News from catching my eye, I found it funny what stories are deemed interesting and how their placement may or may not be critical any more, given the short time a story is featured online before being pushed down in the queue.
These two were side by side: “Swimmer Dies In Open Water Race” and “Kate Hudson’s Style Misstep”
It was amusing to me that they were next to each other.
Clearly, one was far more important than the other.
While a swimmer dying during a race would have been lead worthy in a print version of the hometown paper, I was never going to click on that one, not being a swimmer and the story likely not local to me. And it was bad news, something I strive to avoid.
Instead, I found my curser hovering over the more important link, drawn to what could possibly be so bad as to warrant a story about what the lovely Kate Hudson was wearing. I was thinking that clicking on this story might bring me a laugh at best, and at the very least, there’d be a picture of Ms. Hudson, who has never been a disappointment to look at no matter what she does or doesn’t have on.
But I didn’t. Click on it.
It was fear I might find that somebody actually believed it was important. Which reminded me that all news is bad, thoroughly avoidable and completely unimportant.
Unless you're getting paid to write it.
While on deadline, I’d get the lead story and drop it in place, and prepare for my favorite part, writing the headline. I was lucky to have other editors and reporters who were key to inspiring pithy turns of phrase.
I’d yell out, “Marty! I need help with this headline.” Marty, being the quickest producer of good—and lengthy, when necessary—front page copy, never frazzled by deadline, would jump up and come over and we would start throwing out suggestions, beginning with the stupidest. Pretty soon the newsroom staff would be cracking up. It would spur others to throw in their craziness when somebody in the bunch, like Jane, would yell out something that made all of us say, “That’s it!” And we’d all turn back to what we were doing, assured that we were working together, turning out another great product, one that renewed every 24 hours.
Got a chuckle the other day while surfing: Being unable to avoid the strip of pictures and headlines that show up on Yahoo! News from catching my eye, I found it funny what stories are deemed interesting and how their placement may or may not be critical any more, given the short time a story is featured online before being pushed down in the queue.
These two were side by side: “Swimmer Dies In Open Water Race” and “Kate Hudson’s Style Misstep”
It was amusing to me that they were next to each other.
Clearly, one was far more important than the other.
While a swimmer dying during a race would have been lead worthy in a print version of the hometown paper, I was never going to click on that one, not being a swimmer and the story likely not local to me. And it was bad news, something I strive to avoid.
Instead, I found my curser hovering over the more important link, drawn to what could possibly be so bad as to warrant a story about what the lovely Kate Hudson was wearing. I was thinking that clicking on this story might bring me a laugh at best, and at the very least, there’d be a picture of Ms. Hudson, who has never been a disappointment to look at no matter what she does or doesn’t have on.
But I didn’t. Click on it.
It was fear I might find that somebody actually believed it was important. Which reminded me that all news is bad, thoroughly avoidable and completely unimportant.
Unless you're getting paid to write it.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Our Girls
Well, the time goes so quickly
It goes lickety splitly
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are in school
Life is full of clichés now
Of which many are true
And Aidenne and Joss
Well, they rule
They love everything going
Their smarts they are showing
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are no fools
In the show that’s unfolding
I’ve become quite unscolding
That Aidenne and Joss
Make me drool
I want to be near them
So I can see/hear them
Our Aidenne and Joss
Are so cool
It goes lickety splitly
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are in school
Life is full of clichés now
Of which many are true
And Aidenne and Joss
Well, they rule
They love everything going
Their smarts they are showing
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are no fools
In the show that’s unfolding
I’ve become quite unscolding
That Aidenne and Joss
Make me drool
I want to be near them
So I can see/hear them
Our Aidenne and Joss
Are so cool
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Song For Someone Else
Not Missing Loving You
Couldn’t be any harder
Couldn’t be what it was
What it was couldn’t be
Any harder to lose
I won't count the tears
I've faced my fears
And shed the pain of your deceit
It doesn't hurt much anymore
Except sometimes when we meet
Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you
Got nobody to kiss goodnight
Or worry about me
My phone won’t ring and you won’t say
“I’m on my way; let’s eat.”
Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you
I’m not sweating every evening
If you’re coming home or not
Or whether you’ll be driving
After drinking all you’ve got
Not walking around on eggshells
Wondering what will set you off
No more freezes, no more fights
That do not get resolved.
Not thinking about us any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what you’re doing now
Not missing loving you
©2010 Queen Greetings
Couldn’t be any harder
Couldn’t be what it was
What it was couldn’t be
Any harder to lose
I won't count the tears
I've faced my fears
And shed the pain of your deceit
It doesn't hurt much anymore
Except sometimes when we meet
Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you
Got nobody to kiss goodnight
Or worry about me
My phone won’t ring and you won’t say
“I’m on my way; let’s eat.”
Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you
I’m not sweating every evening
If you’re coming home or not
Or whether you’ll be driving
After drinking all you’ve got
Not walking around on eggshells
Wondering what will set you off
No more freezes, no more fights
That do not get resolved.
Not thinking about us any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what you’re doing now
Not missing loving you
©2010 Queen Greetings
Friday, June 25, 2010
PTSD: Worse Than Death
But Does It Have To Be?
This is in response to a blog that is emailed to me. I will email it to you upon request.
Yes, it is nothing short of tragic the mental and emotional horrors that can consume one after experiencing war. The additional tragedy is that men, mostly, turn to alcohol or drugs to cope with their inability to speak about what happened, thus beginning the personal slide into a life that likely leads to crime of some kind or another, affecting so many others, whether they become criminals or not.
At its best, their lives are spent trying to live every day with the experiences locked inside them, cutting them off emotionally from their families and friends, possibly for fear of what will happen if they let it out. Families cope with the dramatic changes in their son, husband, father by seeking to help, only to be castigated by the one whom they seek to help. "You don't understand" and "You don't want to know" is the refrain. When families suggest seeking counseling, they are told to mind their own business. Men shut down more and more as time passes.
At its worst, resentment builds at home with terrible consequences. Violence against loved ones occurs repeatedly, emotionally, physically, as men are unable to cope with normal living. Seeing their family's hurt faces is a reminder that they aren't doing what they should, but they are at the point of feeling only anger then. Families split with deep, long-lasting societal consequences.
It is a sad commentary on our society when most men feel it useless or humiliating, even unmanly, to seek help for emotional and mental crises. They get instant relief by becoming drunk or high, but it's only a short-lived fix as evidenced by the increased need for more of their escape of choice. While they are getting this fix, family and friends are first filled with concern, worry and sometimes fear.
Society does send mixed messages, as does the military. There are trained people in all walks of life who can help with post traumatic stress disorder, but there is still a stigma attached somehow—or the perception of—and the fear of losing their jobs or respect of their peers if it's found out they are seeing a psychiatrist.
The military and civilian worlds need to help reduce this stigma. TV shows like "Army Wives" (Lifetime) and "The Unit" (CBS) are helpful but I'm not sure men make up much of their audiences. Even with the best-laid marketing plans, it's going to take a long time, with a lot more casualties piling up at home.
Why is it so hard to ask for help?
This is in response to a blog that is emailed to me. I will email it to you upon request.
Yes, it is nothing short of tragic the mental and emotional horrors that can consume one after experiencing war. The additional tragedy is that men, mostly, turn to alcohol or drugs to cope with their inability to speak about what happened, thus beginning the personal slide into a life that likely leads to crime of some kind or another, affecting so many others, whether they become criminals or not.
At its best, their lives are spent trying to live every day with the experiences locked inside them, cutting them off emotionally from their families and friends, possibly for fear of what will happen if they let it out. Families cope with the dramatic changes in their son, husband, father by seeking to help, only to be castigated by the one whom they seek to help. "You don't understand" and "You don't want to know" is the refrain. When families suggest seeking counseling, they are told to mind their own business. Men shut down more and more as time passes.
At its worst, resentment builds at home with terrible consequences. Violence against loved ones occurs repeatedly, emotionally, physically, as men are unable to cope with normal living. Seeing their family's hurt faces is a reminder that they aren't doing what they should, but they are at the point of feeling only anger then. Families split with deep, long-lasting societal consequences.
It is a sad commentary on our society when most men feel it useless or humiliating, even unmanly, to seek help for emotional and mental crises. They get instant relief by becoming drunk or high, but it's only a short-lived fix as evidenced by the increased need for more of their escape of choice. While they are getting this fix, family and friends are first filled with concern, worry and sometimes fear.
Society does send mixed messages, as does the military. There are trained people in all walks of life who can help with post traumatic stress disorder, but there is still a stigma attached somehow—or the perception of—and the fear of losing their jobs or respect of their peers if it's found out they are seeing a psychiatrist.
The military and civilian worlds need to help reduce this stigma. TV shows like "Army Wives" (Lifetime) and "The Unit" (CBS) are helpful but I'm not sure men make up much of their audiences. Even with the best-laid marketing plans, it's going to take a long time, with a lot more casualties piling up at home.
Why is it so hard to ask for help?
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
White. American. Cheese:
Sliced Thin, But Not Too Thin
My daughter told me that her friends always offered cookies or chips for a snack when she was at their house. I said I offered cheese when I was living at home.
She thought that was funny, and probably thought it typical.
Not that my friends were in the house, because they weren’t. My parents both commuted to work every day so were gone from about 6:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and we were not allowed to have friends in the house when no parents were home.
That didn’t stop me from being hungry, even when we were outside. And my friends in the neighborhood all wanted some when I offered, so I’d go inside and get the cheese (always white American cheese) and peel off slices and hand them out. D2 thinks it hilarious that I
(1) would offer cheese; and
(2) that my friends would want some.
What she doesn’t know is that we could be completely on the other side of the neighborhood or up at The Big Tree (really on the other side) and if I wanted cheese, we would all go to my house and hang out in the driveway, eating cheese.
My mother actually was thankful that I only asked for more cheese when she went grocery shopping, having known in my soul that cookies, cakes, soda, sugary snackage of any kind, just wouldn’t ever make it onto the list.
I used to sneak sugar in my water sometimes, just to drink something that wasn’t plain water. Guess we didn’t have Kool-Aid either, because when I got married, I always had Kool-Aid and potato chips and dip in the house, until we learned about the horrors of too much sugar and FD&C Red No. 3.
Then there’s the other cheese story. I’m amused that I have at least two cheese stories.
Don’t ask how this started because I don’t remember, but as a young teen I used to like to have a cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar, and then rip off pieces from a couple of slices of (white American) cheese and hold them in the hot tea, just until they melted enough but didn’t rip off and fall into the cup. I liked melty cheese. I’ve done this as long as I can remember.
So my other daughter, D1, told me she had some friends over one time—this was at D1’s place—and they were drinking tea and she got out some cheese and started dunking it and her friends started freaking out. D1 had no idea that the whole world didn’t do this! It was one of those “aha!” moments. I think she was a little embarrassed—I don’t really remember—I do remember she called me about it!
She thought that was funny, and probably thought it typical.
Not that my friends were in the house, because they weren’t. My parents both commuted to work every day so were gone from about 6:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and we were not allowed to have friends in the house when no parents were home.
That didn’t stop me from being hungry, even when we were outside. And my friends in the neighborhood all wanted some when I offered, so I’d go inside and get the cheese (always white American cheese) and peel off slices and hand them out. D2 thinks it hilarious that I
(1) would offer cheese; and
(2) that my friends would want some.
What she doesn’t know is that we could be completely on the other side of the neighborhood or up at The Big Tree (really on the other side) and if I wanted cheese, we would all go to my house and hang out in the driveway, eating cheese.
My mother actually was thankful that I only asked for more cheese when she went grocery shopping, having known in my soul that cookies, cakes, soda, sugary snackage of any kind, just wouldn’t ever make it onto the list.
I used to sneak sugar in my water sometimes, just to drink something that wasn’t plain water. Guess we didn’t have Kool-Aid either, because when I got married, I always had Kool-Aid and potato chips and dip in the house, until we learned about the horrors of too much sugar and FD&C Red No. 3.
Then there’s the other cheese story. I’m amused that I have at least two cheese stories.
Don’t ask how this started because I don’t remember, but as a young teen I used to like to have a cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar, and then rip off pieces from a couple of slices of (white American) cheese and hold them in the hot tea, just until they melted enough but didn’t rip off and fall into the cup. I liked melty cheese. I’ve done this as long as I can remember.
So my other daughter, D1, told me she had some friends over one time—this was at D1’s place—and they were drinking tea and she got out some cheese and started dunking it and her friends started freaking out. D1 had no idea that the whole world didn’t do this! It was one of those “aha!” moments. I think she was a little embarrassed—I don’t really remember—I do remember she called me about it!
Saturday, May 8, 2010
That Hotel Was Haunted
Earlier this year I was happily earning free Southwest Airline coupons by deferring my flight home. I wanted to do that for more than a decade, and finally had the opportunity and made a new friend as well (another story, another day.)
The airline put us in a lovely airport hotel for the night, separate rooms, of course, having diverted us there to get us home the next day. I like nice hotels and usually feel like I'm on vacation when I'm in one. This one was lovely, two king beds, and the bathroom had a freestanding sink on a beautiful piece of furniture with a granite top. Quite lovely, with a bay of mirrors, and I could see all sides of my face while washing up.
There was also a door that had a full-length mirror on the outside. The door opened into the bathroom and when opened, the mirror was opposite the three lovely mirrors behind the sink.
I didn't know it was a trap.
Next morning I got up and headed straight to the shower, which had one of those newer bowed rods so the curtain didn't blow back in. I left the door open so the bathroom wouldn't get fogged up. After my shower I was toweling off in front of the sink, when I saw my bum in the mirror behind me, FULL ON, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ABOUT 20 YEARS. I tried to scream. My mouth was open and my jaw was moving, but no sound came out. I tried to breathe, but no air was getting in.
That bum of mine was whiter than white, flat, wide, doughy, dimply and about two feet lower than the last time I saw it.
It was horrible! (And still is ...)
There was no getting around it, gravity caught me unaware.
After a moment, shock turned to laughter and bouts of hysteria overtook me off and on during the next several days. I promised myself never to scare me like that again.
I recommend, if you're the least bit squeamish, never put yourself in that position. You might not be able to look back on anything ever again.
The airline put us in a lovely airport hotel for the night, separate rooms, of course, having diverted us there to get us home the next day. I like nice hotels and usually feel like I'm on vacation when I'm in one. This one was lovely, two king beds, and the bathroom had a freestanding sink on a beautiful piece of furniture with a granite top. Quite lovely, with a bay of mirrors, and I could see all sides of my face while washing up.
There was also a door that had a full-length mirror on the outside. The door opened into the bathroom and when opened, the mirror was opposite the three lovely mirrors behind the sink.
I didn't know it was a trap.
Next morning I got up and headed straight to the shower, which had one of those newer bowed rods so the curtain didn't blow back in. I left the door open so the bathroom wouldn't get fogged up. After my shower I was toweling off in front of the sink, when I saw my bum in the mirror behind me, FULL ON, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ABOUT 20 YEARS. I tried to scream. My mouth was open and my jaw was moving, but no sound came out. I tried to breathe, but no air was getting in.
That bum of mine was whiter than white, flat, wide, doughy, dimply and about two feet lower than the last time I saw it.
It was horrible! (And still is ...)
There was no getting around it, gravity caught me unaware.
After a moment, shock turned to laughter and bouts of hysteria overtook me off and on during the next several days. I promised myself never to scare me like that again.
I recommend, if you're the least bit squeamish, never put yourself in that position. You might not be able to look back on anything ever again.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Word Up
(Queen Gran's note: I wrote this as a response to a blog I receive by email.)
As a former newspaper editor, I can attest firsthand that investigative journalism is as good as dead and buried. Local newspapers cater to their biggest advertisers, and the big city boys are politically motivated.
You cannot get a factual newscast on television any more. News anchors don’t report the news. They decide how you should feel about it. “Their” opinions are rampant throughout what should have stayed a report of the complete facts.
Journalists are heavily censored in every newsroom in this country. The only fun newspapers are your weekly community papers: that’s how you find out about a town. They are not considered “important” by the powers, apparently, and are usually left alone. Read its weekly or biweekly newspaper a few times and you will find the community’s heart.
They have little budget and their journalists might also be selling its advertising and their editors doubling as classifieds cold callers; but with those multi-hats comes an investment from the heart. Nobody there is getting paid much of anything, but they all are invested in its success. Personal pride is big in those tiny newsrooms, and it’s what is sorely lacking elsewhere.
As an editor, I also know what I, and fellow editors, do to other people’s words. And while editing newspapers is a lot different from editing books, journals, magazines, etc., editors change things. I like to think I don’t mess with a writer’s tone or style, and I get writers to answer questions raised in their stories that I want an answer to when I read it; but I know other editors who prefer to put their stamp on a story.
I imagine it’s the same with translators. Nothing can be translated word for word. I mean nothing. And for one person, or even a group of people (nothing like a committee!), to decide what was meant by a word, phrase or sentence, means original intent has likely been skewed. Writings have been translated over and over, and having the language “updated” can impact the original document in countless ways , with some never even close to resembling the original.
Americans have let themselves be talked down to, believing things that are said on TV and that are printed in newspapers.
“Why, they wouldn’t print it if it weren’t true, would they?”
Jeesh. “Sheep” is right. We have been lazy and let ourselves be led astray.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Beam it into my house, Scotty!
I have been spending a lot of time trying to connect one of the best Christmas gifts ever, my Sirius radio. I have the Plug and Play Boombox and a subscription that includes the Best of XM, assuring me all the Major League Baseball games I can stand, along with great music and talk stations. And don’t forget the comedy!
So far, the boombox plays on my porch, in a certain spot. It’s lovely – sounds like what I think a Bose radio would sound like. I’m even mastering the remote.
My problem is I can’t get the radio to play inside the house. I would love to have it work inside and I have done all the things I’ve been asked to do to get it to work: put it by a north facing window (due to my zone location), put the antenna outside, put a full-length mirror on the porch to “bounce” the signal inside to the radio. Nothing works.
I live in a doublewide trailer, what the residents and the office workers prefer to call manufactured housing, on my own lot on a golf course. And I gotta say, being surrounded by metal, aluminum or whatever, seems to be OK for other electronics, just not my Sirius boombox.
It works great about a foot outside the overhang. There is no overhang on the back but the radio still doesn’t work in the back bedrooms, despite sitting on the sill of a bay window with no outside overhang. I don’t know why.
The curious thing, to me, is how my other electronics work inside. How does my cell phone work so well? (By the way, when I am driving and get to a “dead” spot, where I cannot place or receive phone calls, how come I can send and receive text messages?)
How does my WiFi work so well inside and out? I can sit outside and be connected to the Internet with no problem. Doesn’t seem to be any metal interference.
And certain things on the boombox work, such as the part of the Sirius radio that shows me the exact time. How does that show up, including whatever station number I happen to be tuned to, but the actual station signal doesn’t get through?
If it were up to me to know how these things work, these wondrous things would never have been invented. My good friend and neighbor and I are still marveling over how transistor radios work. And black and white TV versus color. We are still astounded by our “outmoded” electronics.
I have now purchased a 50-foot extension antenna to connect to the boombox and run outside. I’m trying to figure out how to actually do it but so far haven’t been able to figure out how and where. I do know why: I’d like it to work indoors! But that’s about all I know. Did I tell you the radio works fine in the car? Thanks to my daughter’s namesake, we got the parts properly installed in the car and I have been enjoying it there ever since.
One more puzzle: Picture the radio, sitting in view on the porch, with me sitting inside in my recliner, holding the Sirius remote. I am able to adjust the volume of the radio on the porch with no problem. But when the beep-beep comes, letting me know a favorite artist or song is playing on another station, the button I push to switch over to that song doesn’t work at all. I don’t get it.
OK, one more: I can be in the back room, use the remote key to my car and lock the doors and set the alarm. The car is out front. I'm not complaining. I just want to understand why it works.
So far, the boombox plays on my porch, in a certain spot. It’s lovely – sounds like what I think a Bose radio would sound like. I’m even mastering the remote.
My problem is I can’t get the radio to play inside the house. I would love to have it work inside and I have done all the things I’ve been asked to do to get it to work: put it by a north facing window (due to my zone location), put the antenna outside, put a full-length mirror on the porch to “bounce” the signal inside to the radio. Nothing works.
I live in a doublewide trailer, what the residents and the office workers prefer to call manufactured housing, on my own lot on a golf course. And I gotta say, being surrounded by metal, aluminum or whatever, seems to be OK for other electronics, just not my Sirius boombox.
It works great about a foot outside the overhang. There is no overhang on the back but the radio still doesn’t work in the back bedrooms, despite sitting on the sill of a bay window with no outside overhang. I don’t know why.
The curious thing, to me, is how my other electronics work inside. How does my cell phone work so well? (By the way, when I am driving and get to a “dead” spot, where I cannot place or receive phone calls, how come I can send and receive text messages?)
How does my WiFi work so well inside and out? I can sit outside and be connected to the Internet with no problem. Doesn’t seem to be any metal interference.
And certain things on the boombox work, such as the part of the Sirius radio that shows me the exact time. How does that show up, including whatever station number I happen to be tuned to, but the actual station signal doesn’t get through?
If it were up to me to know how these things work, these wondrous things would never have been invented. My good friend and neighbor and I are still marveling over how transistor radios work. And black and white TV versus color. We are still astounded by our “outmoded” electronics.
I have now purchased a 50-foot extension antenna to connect to the boombox and run outside. I’m trying to figure out how to actually do it but so far haven’t been able to figure out how and where. I do know why: I’d like it to work indoors! But that’s about all I know. Did I tell you the radio works fine in the car? Thanks to my daughter’s namesake, we got the parts properly installed in the car and I have been enjoying it there ever since.
One more puzzle: Picture the radio, sitting in view on the porch, with me sitting inside in my recliner, holding the Sirius remote. I am able to adjust the volume of the radio on the porch with no problem. But when the beep-beep comes, letting me know a favorite artist or song is playing on another station, the button I push to switch over to that song doesn’t work at all. I don’t get it.
OK, one more: I can be in the back room, use the remote key to my car and lock the doors and set the alarm. The car is out front. I'm not complaining. I just want to understand why it works.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Topless: A Poem About Economics
It was a dark
and stormy day
Nobody went out to play
The wind stood up
and flew about
Your roof unfurled and
you ran out
“What luck,” you cried,
as the peak rolled by.
“I’m fully insured,”
and wiped a tear from your eye.
and stormy day
Nobody went out to play
The wind stood up
and flew about
Your roof unfurled and
you ran out
“What luck,” you cried,
as the peak rolled by.
“I’m fully insured,”
and wiped a tear from your eye.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Shaky Ground: Online TV Advertising
Is it just me?
Reebok Easytone
“Tones key leg muscles by using balance pods in the shoes to create natural instability with every step.”
Instability? Really? I picture people looking like those clowns we used to love knocking over as kids. And Weebles. They wobble. No wonder your leg muscles and bum start looking toned; you’re trying to keep from falling over without anybody seeing.
Chase Sapphire
The wife shows off a new dress; husband smiles but wants to say, “What a piece of crap dress you bought, why don’t you just take it off?” Then he finds out she spent all their credit card points on this ugly dress without even consulting him, when clearly he was thinking, “Vacation!” I’m with the husband. Shut up, thoughtless woman, and take off the damn dress.
Dove Nutrium Essentials Nutrients Body Wash
Does the name sound like the ingredients have a whole lot to do with rats to anybody besides me?
Reebok Easytone
“Tones key leg muscles by using balance pods in the shoes to create natural instability with every step.”
Instability? Really? I picture people looking like those clowns we used to love knocking over as kids. And Weebles. They wobble. No wonder your leg muscles and bum start looking toned; you’re trying to keep from falling over without anybody seeing.
Chase Sapphire
The wife shows off a new dress; husband smiles but wants to say, “What a piece of crap dress you bought, why don’t you just take it off?” Then he finds out she spent all their credit card points on this ugly dress without even consulting him, when clearly he was thinking, “Vacation!” I’m with the husband. Shut up, thoughtless woman, and take off the damn dress.
Dove Nutrium Essentials Nutrients Body Wash
Does the name sound like the ingredients have a whole lot to do with rats to anybody besides me?
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